Scions of Nexus

by Gregory Mattix

  With his second sight, Taren had little difficulty navigating his way across the open yard between the stable and the inn. Unfamiliar with the city or the surrounding area, he decided the best choice would be to wait out the chaos until the local forces regained control, rather than blundering around in the fog with an overwhelming number of foes around. He was liable to walk right into a patrol out there.

  Taren slipped through the inn’s back door. He reached the common room at the end of a short hallway, only to discover a group of people had been rounded up at sword point. The floor creaked and thumped overhead as the heavy boots of soldiers moved about upstairs, dragging people from their rooms and herding them down to the common room.

  The tables had been shoved aside, many overturned, and the folks staying at the inn were seated in a group huddled together on the floor. He recognized the kindly barmaid, Enna, and the old barkeep, who he assumed was the owner. Also with them were about a dozen guests, some of them only half dressed.

  One of the soldiers spotted Taren in the hallway. “You there, boy! Come out here!”

  Taren turned to run back outside, but at that moment, a group of people were forced down the stairs and clogged the hallway. He was jostled aside by a stocky older man who was bleary-eyed and smelled like a wine cask. After a chaotic moment of getting shoved around, an iron grip seized Taren’s cloak and dragged him backward, nearly pulling him off his feet. The Nebaran soldier clouted him on the side of the head with his mailed fist, and he fell to his hands and knees, dazed beside the frightened barmaid. She steadied him with a hand on his shoulder when he nearly collapsed on her.

  “That’s the last of ’em,” one of the soldiers announced after roughly shoving a middle-aged husband and wife to the floor.

  “Good.” The man in charge, probably a sergeant, sat on a table near the door. He had a hard, no-nonsense look to him—a veteran. His eyes slid across the group of captives until they landed on Enna.

  “Oi, wench. Fetch me some ale.”

  Enna obeyed with only a moment’s hesitation.

  “What is the meaning of this?” the barkeep asked. “Your fight should be with the army. They’re over there in the camp, not here.”

  The sergeant spat on the floor and regarded the barkeep coldly. “You’d best worry about yourself, old-timer. Keep your mouth shut, and do as I say, and you might live to see another day.” With a curt nod, he took the tankard of ale Enna offered him and downed half of it in one gulp.

  Taren counted a dozen Nebarans, most of whom had the seasoned look of veteran soldiers. He still felt a bit tired after his illness and long journey yet much better than he had for days. He considered his chances.

  Even if I can summon the magic and shape it how I want, these people might get hurt in the process. He frowned at the memory of the townsfolk in Ryedale getting swept aside like chaff. Best to wait this out and see what happens.

  They waited in tense silence for about ten or fifteen anxious minutes before the front door opened and an officer entered with a pair of soldiers on his heels. Taren froze in recognition. Lieutenant Riquier stood just inside the doorway, speaking with the sergeant. He hurriedly looked away, shifting his body so his back was toward the lieutenant and hunching over so his face wasn’t visible. His anger flared at the sight of one of Wyat’s killers.

  “They said what?” the sergeant barked, voice loud in the room’s tense silence. “That’s madness—these are ordinary folk.”

  “I’m just relaying the orders, Sergeant,” Riquier said harshly. “They want to put on a spectacle with the utmost bloodshed. Make it happen.”

  “Aye, sir.” Clearly unhappy with the orders, the sergeant stood up with a sigh as Taren watched from the corner of his eye. He spat on the floor and drew his sword. “New orders, men. Put these people down, and then we move out to the eastern edge of town.”

  Several of the soldiers balked, none too happy about slaughtering civilians, but enough of them were quick to obey. A middle-aged woman cried out as a young soldier with a hungry look in his eyes dragged her backward by the hair. He brutally cut her throat with a quick slash of his dagger. The woman’s husband sat there in shock, her blood spattered across his face. The young Nebaran opened his throat as well before he could even react.

  Enna shrieked as the barkeep was knocked prone by a harsh kick to the head. A soldier stood with his sword poised above the man’s chest.

  Taren felt sick to his stomach, picturing first Wyat’s anguished face in the moments before he and Elyas fled, then later, the scene at Halstead as Tellast and his ogre tortured the alderman. Finally, Yethri burning at the stake filled his mind, and rage surged up in him so powerfully that he thought it would boil over.

  I’m the one these whoresons want—all this senseless killing must end.

  “Hold!” Taren shouted. “Lieutenant Riquier!” He surged to his feet, and the man with the sword to the barkeep’s chest paused, as did several others.

  All eyes went to Taren as everyone momentarily froze.

  The lieutenant studied him from the doorway with a cruel glint in his eyes. “Do I know you, boy?” He waved to his men, who halted their actions, and walked closer, squinting.

  “You should, you bastard, you killed my uncle and torched our home then chased us through the woods.”

  “Yes… I’d recognize those eyes anywhere.” A predatory smile spread across his thin lips. He waved to his two cronies waiting by the door. “Seize this boy and take him back to the camp—he’s wanted for questioning by the Inquisition. The rest of you—carry on.”

  The moment of brief calm passed. Someone cried out as they were cut down. Riquier’s minions crossed the tavern floor, eyes warily focused on Taren.

  Taren took a deep breath and felt the magic around him, pulsing in the surrounding people in the form of their vitality, as well as the earth magic in the ground. The image of Yethri being consumed by flames roared into his mind. He gritted his teeth, ready to make Riquier pay, along with all the others. A cautioning voice in the back of his mind urged him to draw only from the earth magic, not the ready vitality of the people.

  Then the magic was there, rushing into him and fueling a blazing jet of flame coursing over his clenched fists. He unleashed a stream of fire at the lieutenant.

  Riquier ducked behind his two men, but not before Taren seared the side of his face. He screamed and reeled backward. The two soldiers leaped at him, and he turned the full force of the fire on them. Their charge was arrested, held up as if they were fighting against a powerful current, flames washing over them. One man’s mouth opened wide, and flames poured down his throat, cutting off his scream and burning away his innards. Surcoats peeled away as flakes of ash, then skin and hair. The two men fell to the floor, charred and smoking corpses, fat sizzling and mail glowing molten orange. The greasy smoke and stench of burned meat was thick and overpowering in the room.

  He maintained a steady draw on the earth magic although he was afraid he might lose consciousness again if he tried to wield too much. Enna stared at him, brown eyes wide, a mix of fear and awe on her face. The other captives’ faces mirrored Enna’s.

  The Nebaran sergeant and his men regarded Taren warily, fanning out to surround him but clearly hesitant to rush in and meet the same fate as Riquier’s men. The lieutenant lay on his side near the bar, hands clutching his burned face, moaning softly and staring at Taren though his spread fingers.

  The gloves of fire crackled over Taren’s hands, and he knew his eyes were glowing from the magic. They must think me some fiend. He nearly laughed. I’ll put the fear of the gods in these murdering bastards.

  Before he could, the front door burst open and a man in torn, bloodstained clothes entered, a sword in hand. His blade and tunic both bore fresh blood. His cold blue eyes took in the scene with a quick calculation.

  Behind him, a smaller, cloaked figure squeezed past him. Taren recognized the young girl for whom he’d bought the cup of wine the past evening.
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  The Nebarans eyed the new arrivals uneasily, shifting so their backs weren’t exposed.

  “Take that boy down, you bloody cowards!” Riquier screamed.

  More than one soldier’s eyes went from the pair of charred corpses to the fire crackling around Taren’s hands. He could tell they wanted no part of him, but they were even more afraid of their masters, apparently.

  Everything happened at once. Soldiers rushed Taren. The blue-eyed man surged forward, sword lashing out as swiftly as a viper. Some of the captives scrambled away and tried to bolt. Bodies collided, and screams and curses filled the room as it turned to chaos.

  ***

  Creel paused just inside the Disarmed Bandit, surprised by the sight of a young man with flaming hands and burning eyes in a standoff with enemy soldiers. From the charred corpses still sizzling on the floor, what had happened was clear. He thought of the witch Abigale the Nebarans had tried to hang, and he knew the lad had signed his death writ by revealing his powers. However, judging from the bloody swords and fresh corpses bleeding out on the floor, the lad had done the honorable thing and tried to save some lives.

  The officer on the floor screamed at his men to take the boy.

  “Please help him,” Ferret urged Creel, touching his elbow.

  Creel sprang into motion, his quick reflexes besting the others. His Nebaran sword took a man’s head to his right with a quick sweep of the blade. He turned and ran another soldier through to his left.

  A shroud of flames surrounded the lad as a trio of soldiers rushed at him. They stabbed at him then flinched away as the flames billowed out and engulfed them.

  Creel spotted Enna and Gehrt huddled on the floor. Other captives were panicked, scrambling to get away. He shouldered aside a couple of terrified people to reach Enna. He helped her rise, then Gehrt. Ferret took Enna’s hand, and the three ran for cover behind the bar.

  Someone barged into Creel then stumbled away. A stocky, half-dressed drunk recovered his balance and lurched toward the door.

  A pair of swordsmen were hacking at the crowd indiscriminately. Creel seized the wrist of a soldier whose blade was poised to cut down a young mother clutching a child. He ran the man through then shoved him aside and hamstrung the second killer. The man fell back, and Creel stabbed him through the heart.

  He turned in search of another opponent, but the room was empty save for the young mage, a handful of cowering civilians, and the dead. Heavy boots drummed on the floor as a group of Nebarans fled out the back door.

  The young mage’s fire flickered and went out. He stood there, unburned by the conflagration, face ashen and unsteady on his feet. He fingered a bloody gash on his thigh in confusion, then he stumbled and went down in a heap.

  Creel was relieved to find Ferret, Enna, and Gehrt all well. They stood up from behind the bar when he called out to them.

  “We’d best get out of here,” Creel warned. A pair of curtains had caught fire, and flames were crawling up the wall and across a rafter. A decorative pennant burst into flame and fluttered loose of the rafter overhead, stirred by a draft of heat.

  Gehrt cried out and rushed over to a burning curtain, beating at the flames with a broomstick.

  “I’ll put them out,” the young mage muttered. He tried to sit up but didn’t have the strength.

  Ferret darted over and knelt beside him, gripping his arm and helping him sit up. He thanked her then frowned, reaching out toward the flames. They abruptly snuffed out as if all the oxygen left the room.

  “Just… need to rest a bit.” The young mage’s eyes rolled back, and he passed out.

  Everyone exchanged uneasy glances, unsure what to do.

  “Let’s get this door barricaded.” Creel shoved one table against the front door, then another. He noticed that the burned officer who’d been shouting orders must have fled during the battle.

  Ferret and Enna helped him block the door by stacking chairs atop the tables. Gehrt pulled out a key ring and locked the door although they all knew it wouldn’t stand up to determined troops kicking it down. The barkeep went to secure the back door also.

  “Gods. What do we do?” Enna’s face was pale from shock. “Is it like this everywhere?”

  “Aye,” Ferret replied. “There’s a whole damned army butchering people in their homes out there.”

  “Enna, do you still have my gear?” Creel asked.

  The barmaid blinked in confusion a moment then nodded. “Aye, I took good care of it, Master Creel.”

  “Thank you. Your husband is fortunate to have such a good woman. We’ve got to get out of Ammon Nor. Now that the Nebarans have a foothold across the Black Channel, they won’t abandon it so easily. It’ll be some bloody work for the king’s troops to drive them out of here, and we don’t want to get caught between armies.”

  “Where will we go?” Enna asked. “This is my home… My husband, may the gods protect him, is out there fighting somewhere…” She looked on the verge of breaking down.

  “The commanders won’t be foolish enough to stay there and get slaughtered. More than likely, they’ll try to link up with the king’s forces to the northeast. Failing that, they’ll retreat into the Downs. Once they regroup, they’ll try to retake the city. In the meantime, it will be a battlefield here in Ammon Nor.”

  Gehrt shook his head. “I ain’t leaving. I been runnin’ the Bandit for half a century. Nowhere else to go anyhow.”

  Enna looked between Gehrt and Creel. She sighed and nodded. “Aye, you’ve the right of it, Master Creel. There won’t be much of Ammon Nor left when they’re through with it, Gehrt.”

  The barkeep shrugged but stubbornly crossed his arms over his chest. “If you all can’t make it out, you’re welcome to ride it out in here.”

  “Where’s my gear?” Creel interrupted.

  They didn’t have time to argue and try to convince the old barkeep. If he wanted to stay, that was his right.

  Enna went down to the cellar to fetch his equipment.

  Ferret nervously paced between the kitchen and the comatose mage. “What about him?” She regarded the mage with a mixture of concern and awe.

  Creel peered through the front window. The fog was still thick, but for the moment, he saw no sign of more enemy troops. That officer will return with reinforcements if he wants the mage badly enough. And I suspect he does after he and his men got torched.

  “If the lad can move on his own, he can come with us. If not, leave him.”

  Ferret frowned as if she’d argue but then shrugged. “I’ll help him get along. What about your wounds?”

  “I’ll be fine,” Creel replied. His chest was still aching from the sword through the ribs, but the wound was mending, and he was no longer hacking up blood. All the other cuts and scratches were minor. “Gehrt, can we take some supplies? We might be on the run for a time.”

  “Aye, you saved our lives just now. As did the lad. Take as much as you can carry.”

  Creel put Ferret to work filling a couple of sacks with food. Enna returned with his gear, and he was relieved to find Final Strike, his armor, and his satchel of reagents all intact. Unconcerned with modesty, he stripped off his tunic and breeches, which were little more than soiled rags, and donned a fresh set of clothes.

  Enna blushed and turned away, deciding to help Ferret collect food and fill water skins. The practical barmaid had changed into a long wool dress with sturdy shoes and donned a travel cloak.

  Creel buckled on his old suit of leather armor while the women finished gathering supplies. He smiled, amused at Ferret’s enthusiasm as she eagerly sought to help him with his armor, as if he were some champion knight girding up to ride out to battle and she his squire.

  Once he was armored up and had Final Strike hanging from his hip as it was meant to, they were ready. He offered Ferret and Enna the swords and daggers from the slain Nebarans. Enna grimaced but reluctantly accepted a dagger. Ferret took a short sword and buckled it around her slim waist. He wondered briefly if
she would be able to handle the blade competently.

  Their time was up. He had thought to leave behind the young mage, who was still unconscious, but Ferret and Enna kept looking over at him in concern.

  I saved Abigale… might as well this lad as well.

  He retrieved a small vial of salt of hartshorn from his reagents. Uncorking the pungent substance, he held it under the mage’s nose. He started awake almost instantly, coughing and rubbing at his nose. Creel corked the vial and stuffed it back in his pouch.

  “You’re coming with us, aren’t you?” Ferret asked the lad. “We’re getting out of here—come on!”

  He nodded and managed to get to his feet after taking the girl’s offered hand.

  “I’m Ferret. That’s Dak… uh, Creel, and Enna.”

  “Taren,” the mage replied.

  Creel looked his motley group over and decided they were as ready as they’d ever be. “Right, then. We go out the back, break for the west edge of town, and make it to the forest. We’re better off sticking together. After we’re free of the town, then we can decide to go our separate ways.”

  They said their farewells to Gehrt, Enna hugging the man and wiping a couple tears away. Then Creel threw open the door, and they ran out into the fog and mayhem.

  Chapter 34

  Lieutenant Riquier fled the tavern, his head feeling as if it were still on fire. The fog was cool and refreshing as he raced through it, quickly obscuring him from sight. He could feel the welts along his head where the hair had been burned away, and his face felt as if the skin were stretched too tight across it. His favored goatee and eyebrows were singed away. All from that damned mageling.

  Despite his injuries, he was hopeful. After the failure that had dogged him for weeks after the boy eluded his search, now he had fallen right into Riquier’s hands, seemingly as if by the gods’ will.