Scions of Nexus

by Gregory Mattix

  Taren grinned at the memory of Yethri, her hair bouncing around her face as they danced, and the dimples in her cheeks when she smiled.

  “Hold up a moment, Taren. That damned ale’s going through me like a sieve.” Elyas stepped off the road a couple paces to relieve himself.

  Taren continued a short distance, slowing his pace. While he waited for his cousin to finish his lengthy piss, he idly shifted to his second sight. The warmth of the earth magic glowed softly in his vision, and he extended his senses, wondering how Hetsatsa’s words could ever come to pass. The gods knew he couldn’t even conjure a spark to light a candle in the darkness, let alone wield power to shake the world.

  Perhaps a long bowshot off, the amber glow of a man on the road gave Taren pause. His form was indistinct, but he could have been wearing a hooded cloak, unusual for a warm summer night. His aura was unremarkable, but he held something in one hand that gave off a bright light like a miniature star shining—a magical emanation, the same as Taren had seen with some of the magical items Gradnik occasionally stocked in his store.

  “I’d like to meet the horse that could match that piss.” Elyas staggered up to Taren then furrowed his brow at seeing the look of concern on his face. “What is it?”

  “There’s someone on the road behind us. A man carrying a magic item.”

  Elyas shrugged. “Lots of folk went to the festival. Strange that he’s got magic, though… Mayhap he bought some trinket from a merchant.”

  “I think I saw him at the festival, wearing a hooded cloak. Strange on such a warm night as this. He was watching me earlier when I was with Yethri.”

  “Probably admiring your lass same as you were. Come on.” They began walking again.

  After a few minutes, they reached a crossroad. To the east and west lay a number of farmsteads along a rutted dirt road. Straight ahead was only the path that led to Wyat’s farm half a mile away.

  “What should we do?” Taren asked.

  “Pass out on my bed and hope my head won’t explode, come morning.”

  “No, I mean about that traveler. I think he’s following us.”

  “You sure about this?” Elyas scowled into the darkness behind them.

  “Let’s hide in that copse over there and watch what he does.” Taren pointed to a knot of trees about twenty paces east of the road.

  They hid within the stand of trees and waited. Taren watched with his second sight as the figure continued in the direction they’d been heading, magic item in hand and glancing at it occasionally. After a few minutes, the individual came into view, and Taren could see him in the moonlight, covered in a hooded cloak as the man at the festival had been. The figure walked past their hiding spot then paused at the center of the crossroad. He glanced at the item in his hand and slowly turned to face their direction, then began walking down the eastern path. Taren held his breath as the man passed near their hiding spot. What appeared to be a smooth, flat stone rested in his palm, and Taren could have sworn he saw runes flicker on it, glowing softly in the darkness.

  “Just a traveler,” Elyas whispered.

  Taren was about to reluctantly agree when the man stopped once again. He slowly turned until he was facing their hiding place. The cowl rose, and a chill ran down Taren’s spine, for the stranger was staring directly at him. He reached for his belt, but of course he hadn’t worn his daggers to the festival. Seeing a good-sized rock on the ground, he picked it up, glad for the reassuring heft in his hand.

  Elyas grunted. “I’ll see what this fool is about.” He rose, steadying himself against the bole of a tree, then walked forward. “Ho there! You lost on the road?”

  The figure regarded him silently.

  “I asked you a question!” Elyas’s fists clenched, and he drew nearer the man.

  “Careful,” Taren warned. He followed a few paces behind Elyas.

  The cowl shifted slightly, staring directly at Taren. A rune on the stone’s surface nearest him was glowing a faint orange that brightened when the man shifted his hand.

  “Oi! Something wrong with your hearing, man?” Elyas swatted at the man’s extended hand, seeking to knock the stone away.

  The man recoiled, smoothly slipping the stone into a pocket. A dagger appeared in his other hand, and he slashed Elyas across the forearm. The big man yelped and reeled backward. His pain swiftly turned to rage, and he charged the smaller man, seeking to tackle him.

  The stranger dodged nimbly and stabbed at Elyas’s back. His drunkenness likely saved his life, for Elyas stumbled and fell, the point of the knife nicking his tunic but not drawing blood.

  Taren hefted the rock and threw it. It smacked the man between the shoulder blades with a meaty thump. He grunted a curse and stumbled forward. Elyas rolled over and kicked out, striking the man in a shin and knocking his feet out from under him. Elyas tried to pin his opponent down, but the man was as slippery as a weasel. He squirmed away, slashing with the knife at Elyas’s grasping hands.

  Taren looked around for another stone or a stout tree branch or some other makeshift weapon, but he didn’t see anything of use. The man was scrambling away from the drunk and angry Elyas, intent on evading him and regaining his feet, momentarily losing sight of Taren.

  Seeing his opportunity, Taren stepped up and kicked the stranger in the back of the head. The man grunted and fell onto his back, going still for a moment, apparently stunned. Taren stomped on his wrist, and the knife tumbled from his grasp. Elyas seized the man’s leg, dragging his smaller opponent closer, and rained blows down on his stomach and chest while the man ineffectively sought to protect himself. In the scuffle, the man’s cowl fell back, revealing the sharp features of a Nebaran—black hair and beard with dark eyes and a hooked nose, his skin deeply suntanned. One of Elyas’s wild punches clipped the Nebaran on the jaw, and his head rocked back, then he lay still.

  “Elyas? Are you all right?” Taren warily circled the still Nebaran.

  “Bastard cut me.”

  Elyas held up his wounded arm, and they both could see the forearm gash was fairly deep. Blood had soaked the sleeve of his tunic. A shallower cut was bleeding from the back of his hand. Taren gripped Elyas’s wrist and helped him to his feet.

  Elyas scowled down at the man lying motionless in the dirt. “Nebaran whoreson—a spy, I reckon.”

  “What should we do about him? There aren’t any militia patrols in this area.”

  “Cut his throat, and leave him for the scavengers.” Elyas spat on the ground.

  “Are you serious? He was defending himself.” He knew from experience that Elyas could be intimidating when angry, especially so when fueled with ale.

  “And following us, or have you forgotten that?”

  “We could question him.”

  “And if he doesn’t talk?”

  “Your da will know what to do with him.” Taren shrugged. He had no idea what to do about the man now that they’d subdued him. “Let’s bandage up your arm.”

  At that moment, the fallen Nebaran lashed out, sweeping Elyas’s leg out from under him and sending him crashing to his backside with a curse. The man, who’d recovered his knife, rolled to his feet and stabbed at Taren. He backpedaled, dodging the strike. Eyes wide, he readied himself to run, knowing he had not the skill, unarmed, to disarm or fight the man off.

  Instead, the Nebaran turned and ran off into the night, pelting down the eastward road. Within moments, he was lost to sight.

  “Did he cut you?” Elyas climbed back to his feet.

  Taren shook his head. He switched to his second sight and watched the man become lost in the distance, running hard to the east. “Let’s hope he doesn’t have any companions with him. We’d better get home and tell your da about this.” He noticed something gleaming on the ground nearby although its luminescence had faded significantly since he’d seen it but a few moments earlier.

  Taren leaned down and picked up the magical stone the Nebaran had lost during the struggle. It was warm to the touch,
about the diameter of a hen’s egg, and round but flat. The stone glowed a warm yellowish orange in his hand, the magical aura flaring brightly once more. It must be activated when you touch it. Fascinated, he yearned to examine it further, but they had no time for that. Elyas’s injuries needed tending to, and he knew they shouldn’t remain out on the open road. He slipped the stone into his pocket to examine further.

  He bound Elyas’s wounds with a strip of cloth torn from the big man’s sleeve, which had already been soiled with blood. They made it back to the farmhouse a few minutes later.

  Wyat was in bed but roused when he heard them come in. They rapidly told the story of what had occurred on the road, at times talking over each other in their excitement. Wyat had to calm them down to get the whole story out.

  “And you think that person followed you all the way from the festival, Taren?” he asked.

  “I remember a hooded figure in the square during the pyrotechnic show. Who else would wear a cloak in such warm weather? I’m sure it must be the same man.”

  “Who indeed?” Wyat’s brow was furrowed. “This concerns me. This man obviously picked you two out for some reason and followed you back here.”

  “A Nebaran spy,” Elyas said.

  “Sounds that way. But I wonder why he singled you two out. How could he know anything of your heritage, Taren? If that’s the reason for his interest, and we’d best assume it is.” Wyat scratched at his beard thoughtfully for a moment. “How does that stone work?”

  Taren felt a chill at Wyat’s words, but he withdrew the stone from his pocket and handed it over. An arrowhead-shaped glyph carved in the stone glowed, more evident when it was held farther away. Wyat walked around the room, and it swiveled to point directly and unerringly at Taren.

  “I’ll be damned,” Wyat said. “Some type of locator stone.”

  “How is it attuned to me?” Taren felt a twinge of fear. The more he thought about the encounter with the spy, the more uneasy he became. “Wait…” He dug into his pockets, finding Gradnik’s wand, a few coppers, the package of remaining roasted almonds, and an unfamiliar stone that had sunk to the bottom. The stone was the same type and shape as the one Wyat held, but it had a smooth hole bored through the center. He couldn’t see any other markings on it.

  The locator stone in Wyat’s hand flared brighter when Taren held the second stone up. Wyat approached and touched the stones together. Once he did, the glow faded and went out.

  “They’re attuned to each other,” Wyat said thoughtfully.

  Taren knew his uncle was correct. A fine line of magic seemed to tether the two together, barely visible in his second sight since they’d gone inactive, but clearly there.

  “That Nebaran must have slipped this other stone into my pocket during the festival. Wouldn’t be too hard among the jostling crowds.”

  “Why you?” Elyas demanded. “What led this bastard to you?” He looked angry and a little scared since he’d had some time to start sobering up.

  “I don’t know.” Even before the words left his mouth, though, he was thinking of his experience with Hetsatsa and the strange ransacking of the wagon during the fortunetelling. Could that have been my magic after all? “There was something odd that happened…” He briefly described to the best of his ability what had occurred with the seeress.

  “That spy must have either witnessed what happened or eavesdropped. Or he may be able to sense magic somehow, perhaps with another trinket of his.” Wyat thought a long moment. “You’d best remain around here for the time being. It’s too dangerous to return to Swanford.”

  “But I’ve got to meet Yethri on the morrow!” he protested.

  “Yethri?” Wyat asked.

  “A lass Taren met,” Elyas supplied.

  “Yes. I… I really like her. She’s leaving with her grandmother. Tomorrow is her last day in town.”

  Wyat sighed heavily, sorrow on his face. “Taren… I’m sorry, but it’s too dangerous to go back into town right now.” He held up a hand to stave off Taren’s objection. “I’d like nothing more than let you go back to talk to this lass, believe me. But I gave my word long ago to your mother and Arron to keep you safe until you are of age.”

  “But I am of age—or nearly so in a few months!”

  “I know, lad. How much do you really know of this lass and her grandmother? Strange, don’t you think, how she sought you out in the crowds and took you to the old woman for a fortunetelling? And how is it that whatever she did could’ve made your power manifest itself?”

  Taren didn’t want to believe that, but since the excitement and effects of the alcohol had worn off, his mind examined the facts logically, and he realized Wyat had a good point. But the chemistry… It was mutual, was it not? It had certainly seemed so, but he was tired and afraid and angry and starting to doubt his own memories.

  Wyat saw his shoulders slump and put a hand on his shoulder. “If I could guarantee your safety, I’d even escort you to town myself, but this could just be a portent of dark events to come. War is brewing, judging from the rumors. I fear soon enough we will all be thrust into events beyond our control. But this is too soon.”

  Taren’s eyes met those of Elyas, who sat there in a chair at the kitchen table, bandages soaked with blood, and he realized he had no right to jeopardize the others so he could selfishly go and meet a girl he barely knew.

  “You’re right, Uncle. It would be foolish to return without knowing what I might have stirred up.”

  In the end, Taren went to bed, deciding to remain home the next day. Wyat tended to his son’s wounds by lamplight, the deep gash on his forearm needing to be stitched up. Taren placed the two magical stones beside his bed and lay there for a long time, his thoughts a jumble about Yethri, the man on the road, and what everything could mean. Sleep was a long time in coming, and when it did, it brought troubled dreams with it.

  Chapter 13

  Creel reached Ammon Nor in the late afternoon after three days of hard riding, following his rescue of the witch Abigale. The woman had refused to leave her home and go into hiding after being bullied by some “Nebaran thugs,” a sentiment Creel respected.

  He had remained at the village of Oostberg to ensure the remaining soldiers didn’t decide to take vengeance on the innocents in that town, but he needn’t have worried. Creel had whittled down their numbers substantially, and when the others discovered what had befallen their commander and fellow troops, and spurred on by a falsehood Creel voiced of a Ketanian patrol approaching the village, the remainder of the advance party had swiftly ridden back south, likely to regroup with the inquisitors or wait for the vanguard of the army if a full-scale invasion was coming. His travel had been uneventful after leaving Oostberg.

  Ammon Nor was a midsized city of several thousand people, lying at the ford of the Black Channel, and was an important trading hub for southern Ketania. Creel arrived to find the population had nearly doubled in size with the swelling Ketanian army garrison. The commanders, at least, must have had the sense to begin filling the ranks in the event of war. If the Nebarans launched a full assault into Ketania and the defenders failed to hold them at the ford, the whole midlands of the kingdom would lie open before them. Preventing the enemy from crossing the river at such a strategic point would force the Nebarans to take several weeks to march to the east or west to find another suitable passage by which they could invade the kingdom’s heartland. Whoever controlled Ammon Nor controlled access to the rest of the kingdom.

  The day turned out to be as rainy and gray as the day before it, and Creel was soaked through and spattered with mud from head to toe upon arrival. A city of tents stretched out from the eastern edge of the city along the northern bank of the Black Channel, hundreds of them lost to sight through the curtain of rain.

  His horse had developed a limp on the road earlier that afternoon. Creel had removed a sharp stone from one hoof, but he’d taken to walking the past few hours to spare the animal greater injury.

 
Creel hailed one of the sentries at the edge of camp. “Where’s your commander? I bear urgent news from the south.”

  “Captain Palam’s in town to meet with the locals. Lieutenant Mons should be in the command tent.”

  Creel nodded and led his horse through the camp, which looked as sodden and miserable as he felt. He wanted nothing more than to get a warm meal in his belly, some fiery spirits to warm the chill in his bones, and a hot bath and soft bed.

  He spied larger and more brightly colored tents, those of the officers, and headed toward them until he reached the large command pavilion, striped in the blue and white colors of the king’s army. The red falcon pennant hung limp and wet in the rain above the large tent.

  “What’s your business?” a guard demanded as soon as he approached the tent. The man looked as if he’d rather be anywhere besides standing out in the rain.

  “I bear urgent news of an attack to the south. I’d speak with your commanding officer.”

  “The lieutenant is the only one around right now. Wait here.” The guard pushed inside the tent and spoke to someone within. After a moment, he came back out. “Go on in.” He held the tent flap aside but made no move to follow.

  The command pavilion was warm and dry, heated by several braziers around the perimeter. A young man wearing officer garb, along with a couple grizzled veterans, sat at a table heaped high with maps and missives.

  “Palam should be dealing with this… All he does is drink and…” Lieutenant Mons trailed off at the sight of Creel.

  The two veterans looked up disinterestedly.

  “And you are…?” the lieutenant asked.

  “Dakarai Creel. I’ve ridden directly from the village of Oostberg to the south. A Nebaran scouting party rode into the village, searching for magic users. They tried to hang a local witch there but were unsuccessful. East of there, they murdered and torched a merchant caravan on the road to hide their presence, trying to make it look like bandits.” He upended the purse he’d taken off the Nebaran officer and let the foreign coins spill onto the table, revealing the aristocratic face of Emperor Ignatius the Third staring up at them. “The officer leading the party claimed the vanguard of the army was only a few days behind them.”