Sorcery's Child (The Mindbender's Rise Book 2)

by D J Salisbury

  If he could help it, he’d never spend another Alignment within ten miles of the ocean. After days of bailing seawater, he was so exhausted he could barely stand upright.

  Unfortunately, his muscles hurt too much too sleep. So did his brain. He hadn’t had time to read in four lightning-blasted days. His mind was turning into mush!

  Viper sat up and studied the other bed. Under the dim lamplight shining around the door curtain, Lorel’s face seemed completely relaxed. The turybird could sleep through anything. Usually.

  If she complained, he’d put the light back. He crept around the curtain, borrowed the lamp, and snuck it to the crate beside his bed.

  One corner of the grimoire stuck out of his pack. Had he left it there? He was too tired to remember. Besides, who else could read Old Tongue? Maybe someone had peeked at it and given up on it.

  He snuggled close to the cool stone wall and laid the book in his lap. The handwriting was even worse than he remembered. No wonder it was taking him so long to read it. Maybe he should sneak out and borrow one of Emil’s books?

  No, he was too tired to bother. He’d work on this one until it put him back to sleep.

  The pages on manifestations gave him the willies by discussing the best ways to make one last longer, even make one permanent. The spider he’d accidentally created had lasted so long, it still scared him. Were manifestations supposed to take on minds of their own? His acted like it was trying to eat him. He’d heard rumors that it had eaten a soldier before the others chopped it into dust.

  Manifestations were a subject he’d rather avoid.

  The next section was about scrying with the Obsidian Mirror. That one made him feel worse than manifestations did. It was his fault Trevor had tried making the mirror. No, the old man didn’t try, he succeeded. And it killed him.

  He’d killed him. Trevor’s death was all his fault.

  He turned to the next section and skimmed for words he could easily translate. Ghosts? He shivered, but suspected Lorel would like a story about anything dead.

  “Ghosts not possess life if disturbed by fierce living.”

  That couldn’t be right. Of course ghosts didn’t possess life. His translation must be off. It was nothing he could tell Lorel. She’d want a full-blown story.

  The next sections were worse. Pull water out of air? That made no sense. Track a moving object? Why bother? Shields. Blast. He’d better study shielding whether it made sense or not.

  Lightning blast it, how many kinds of shields were there? The list went on forever. Veils, vortexes, fire, water, physical, mental, metaphysical, metamental. What on Menajr was metamental? He must have translated it wrong.

  Somewhere in this mess there ought to be an overview of shielding. He’d skim through the section again until he found it.

  His eyelids drooped. He had the oddest sensation that something was reading over his shoulder, trying to point something out to him. Trevor? But why would Trevor care about pulling water out of the air?

  “Wake up,” Emil shouted.

  He startled upright, and discovered the grimoire lying closed in his lap.

  “Both of you, get up. The temple-burnt tides are worse than they were yesterday. If we don’t man the seawall, we’ll all drown. Move your lazy bones!”

  Lorel groaned.

  Viper stuffed the book back into his pack, rolled off his bed, and crawled into his salt-encrusted clothing. The past four days had been gruesome, and the next three promised more of the same. Who had convinced him that traveling would be fun? He should have stayed at home.

  At home, with Trevor. Who’d been dead for one lunar, as of today. A whole lunar. It seemed more like a decade. Oh, Thunderer, how much he missed that crazy old man. He’d have had more sense than to sit in a drowning city with an undersized seawall. How had these people lasted all these years?

  “Come on, kid!” Lorel shouted.

  “I’m ready. Don’t we get any breakfast?”

  “Maybe it’s at the seawall.” She pointed into the silent kitchen. “Ain’t nothing for us here. They left already.”

  He sighed and followed her down the hall and up the nearest stairwell.

  “Hey, kid?” Lorel glanced around and muttered over her shoulder, “When we gonna go see Erlan again?”

  “As soon as we can get away without being noticed. I’m working on it. But the Alignment is not the time.”

  “I hear you.” Lorel snorted and climbed out of the little entry hut. “Weaver crush the Loom, it’s still full dark.”

  The night sky glowed with one of the most spectacular displays Viper had ever seen. The Monitor stood in its accustomed place, a great golden orb, and the Miner and the Elder peeked out from behind it, smaller and dimmer, like shy children with their beautiful mother. The little rosy Sleeper lay just beneath the Monitor, and, as usual, the Hostage was nowhere in sight, although Viper could feel its presence, even as he had the night he ate the mandrake root. The bright, lemony Coward crept toward the Monitor from the west, trying to beat the brighter, white Racer as it dashed in from the east.

  The sight was extraordinarily beautiful, and the combined moonlight illuminated the huge, sparkling wave as it washed over the top of the seawall.

  “We better get busy, kid. Grab a bucket.”

  “I’m going to join the empty bucket line again. I don’t have enough muscles left to last long at hauling full ones.” His shoulder still ached from their adventure in Erlan, too, but he’d die before he mentioned it.

  Lorel trotted across the sandy dockyard to the seaward line. Bucket after wooden bucket filled with salty overflow was tossed at her, and just as quickly, she passed it along. Within moments she was soaked from the sloshing pails. People at the top of the seawall heaved water back into the ocean and lobbed the empty bucket down to waiting hands.

  Viper joined the line of people who sent the empty buckets back to the battle line. He wasn’t that much smaller than the people around him, but he felt like everyone was watching him. Measuring him. Hadn’t he held up for the past four days? What made them think he’d give in now?

  A huge wave swept over the top of the seawall and knocked him off his feet.

  Brine stung his eyes. Sand coated his lips. He sighed and scrambled upright. At least he wasn’t the only one knocked over this time. He helped a puckered, gray-haired woman to her feet.

  “Thank you, grandson.” She brushed sand off her batik skirt and smiled at him. “Kindly go chase down the buckets that washed away.”

  He could handle that. It was better than standing in one place all day. But usually the little kids were sent after escaped pails. Was that an insult?

  No children roamed the dark dockyard. They actually needed his help. He pushed soggy hair out of his face and ran after the errant buckets.

  Too soon, he was back in line, tossing heavy empty buckets toward the people lifting the full ones. Griffith and Lorel worked side by side, scooping up pails of seawater and hoisting them upward. He didn’t know any of the others laboring on his section of the pathetic seawall.

  He swore he’d be more diligent in collecting skull-sized rocks, even if garnets and turquoise were more fun.

  Another wave swept over the seawall. Two workers near the top were knocked off, and those below tried to break their fall.

  He was lucky this time, and managed to stay on his feet. His bucket was full, though, so he hauled it to the nearest person on the seaward line.

  A three-foot-long flatfish washed over the wall. It flapped on the stony ground as if it were trying to crawl back to the ocean. Its eyes stared accusingly at him. Did it think it was his fault it was on dry land? Well, damp sand.

  “Dinner!” Lorel scooped up the flatfish and held it over her head.

  The crowd laughed and applauded. Emil trotted away from the empty-bucket line and confiscated the fish. “Everybody’s dinner,” she shouted.

  Lorel shrugged and grabbed another bucket. No argument? The turybird must be tired, or she w
ouldn’t give it up so easily.

  The sun rose above the edge of the seawall. Steamy mist formed at the outer edges of the flooded areas. Viper sighed, recognizing the pattern after four grim days. Soon it would be too hot and humid to breathe.

  He passed another empty bucket to the scooping crew and prayed for sea spray. Not a wave, please, just enough mist to cool him down.

  When the waves stopped, they could go back to bed. Another day or two, Emil said. He thought she was fibbing, but he could last one more day.

  Another wave splashed over the seawall. And another.

  Someone screamed.

  Now what was wrong? Yesterday a little girl had squealed because a gull pooped on her dress. Right now he was too tired to worry about it.

  A long, fat tentacle snaked over the seawall.

  Everyone started screaming. People dashed away from the ocean like coneys fleeing hyenas. Frantic bottlenecks formed at each of the stairwell huts.

  What on Menajr was that thing? It didn’t match any of the drawings of sea creatures in Trevor’s books.

  Turybird Lorel stood her ground. What was the girl thinking? Where it crossed the top of the seawall, the tentacle was as big around as her waist.

  A second purple tentacle slithered over the seawall.

  He didn’t like the look of that. Viper eased backward. “Lorel, get away from there.”

  The turybird picked up a bucket and whacked the first tentacle. Wet wood thudded like a funeral drum.

  “Come on, noodle brain.” Hadn’t she noticed the second one? Some warrior she was. “Retreat, bahtdor bait!” Or monster bait, in this case. “Retreat!”

  She raised the wooden bucket and smacked the tentacle again.

  A third tentacle shot over the wall and wrapped around her hips.

  She screeched and swung the pail wildly.

  The tentacle dragged her up the seawall, thumping her head against the rocks on the way up.

  “Bitter blood,” Lorel shouted. She twisted and pounded the pail on purple flesh.

  Something huge, shaped like a domed clock-tower bell but far bigger, rode to the top of the seawall on the next wave. Its aura flared from scarlet to brick red, reminding him of ruthless hunger and sullen fury. How could a sea monster feel anything like that?

  Glassy eyes as big as his whole head stared down at him. Another tentacle slid over the seawall and anchored onto the rocks. A foot-long, scimitar-like beak yawned and clacked with enough strength to decapitate a bahtdor.

  A kraken. A lightning-blasted kraken. He’d honestly believed the creatures were mythical.

  The monster lifted Lorel higher. Toward its beak.

  She wedged the bucket between the tentacle and the seawall, and curled her body around it. Her upward journey halted.

  That would only stop the creature for a few seconds. He had to do something. But what?

  The only useful magic he could remember was the “Stir the Soup” chant. He improvised some changes, but his confidence faltered. He couldn’t remember the Old Tongue word for tentacle.

  The kraken tried to yank Lorel higher. She shrieked and pounded on it with her fists. The pain must be horrible to force her to make a sound. She never cried out during sword practice.

  No more time to hesitate. He substituted ‘hand’ for ‘tentacle’ and prayed that was close enough. He pointed at a driftwood pole holding up the porch of the nearest hut.

  “Stirie, palus, stirie,

  “Daunce roond abutan.

  “Sklapp tha krakus, eand

  “Smite tha manus,

  “Til Lorel frijaz beon.”

  Driftwood whirled across the dockyard and attacked the tentacle clutching Lorel. It hammered against purple muscle like his mother’s cleated mallet when she tried to soften abuelo snake meat.

  The kraken didn’t seem to notice. It slimed another tentacle over the seawall. That made five. If he didn’t do something soon, the whole monster would be on this side with them.

  He pointed to new pole and chanted. It ripped free of the hut and hurtled at the kraken, hitting the monster so hard it broke in two. Both pieces continued to wallop the creature.

  The kraken shifted around until he could see its belly and all its tentacles. Yuck. It was nothing but an eight-tailed snake.

  Two more legs snaked over the seawall. Ten legs? What kind of creature had ten legs?

  Whatever it was, it intended to have Lorel for lunch. He had to stop the thing. What was vulnerable about it? It didn’t seem to care about the sticks battering the tentacles. How about the beak?

  He wiped sweat out of his eyes and pointed at another driftwood pole.

  “Stirie, palus, stirie, Daunce roond abutan.

  “Sklapp tha krakus, eand Smite tha beccus,

  “Til Lorel frijaz beon.”

  The pole flew upward and smacked against the monster’s beak.

  The kraken bit it in half.

  Both chunks of driftwood beat at the scimitar beak. The kraken gnashed at them, breaking them into smaller and smaller pieces.

  That had to be distracting it. Time to take a risk.

  He dashed across the dockyard, clambered halfway up the seawall, leapt outward, and snatched Lorel’s ankles. For a moment, he just dangled there.

  Suddenly she popped free like the cork from an over-fermented beer bottle. Before he had time to move, she crashed to the ground. On top of him.

  Air gushed out of his lungs. His chest felt mashed into turnip soup. Thunderer, please don’t let him break his ribs again. He didn’t have time for that.

  Lorel bounced to her feet and yanked him up to his. “Run,” she shouted.

  He sucked in a shard-filled breath and spun around to flee to the nearest hut.

  A purple tentacle curled around in front of them.

  He backed away from it. Blast. Where had that come from? Where else, noodle brain. The monster wasn’t as distracted as he’d hoped.

  It was moving slowly, though. Maybe he could–

  Vault right over it. He dashed forward, jumped over the purple flesh, and prepared to land in the wet sand.

  A second tentacle flitted in and scooped him out of the air.

  Lightning blast it! He tried to wiggle free.

  Thousands of squirming muscles tightened around him. Suckers the size of his palm dug into his clothing and scraped his skin.

  “Lorel, help!” Where was she? Had it gotten her, too?

  Poles whirled around him, thumping the kraken and barely missing him. Buckets thudded against the tentacle squeezing him. One hit him in the head, stunning him. Where had that come from?

  Lorel hurled another bucket. Tears ran down her face in rivers.

  If she thought he was in trouble, he was up to his ears down a bahtdor’s gullet.

  He tried to wiggle an arm loose, but the suckers dug deeper into his skin. How had he ever pulled Lorel free?

  The kraken lifted him higher. Its pink tongue waggled inside its beak. He swore the thing was drooling.

  What was vulnerable on this monster? Not its beak, or tongue, or tentacles. That only left its eyes.

  Viper twisted around until he could see a hut’s driftwood porch. It seemed to be a mile away. Could his magic reach that far? But he refused to give up now. He chanted at a pole.

  “Sklapp tha kraken, eand Smite tha eyen,

  “Til Viper frijaz beon.”

  The pole wavered, broke free of the hut, but didn’t fly toward the kraken. What was wrong? The only thing he’d changed was the target. And his name.

  Viper wasn’t his real name. He didn’t have any name, at all, much less a real name. He was Outcast. Nameless.

  But not beaten. He’d show that monster. He’d control the magic. He could. He would. He was the one in command. He visualized another pole and shouted:

  “Smite tha eyen, Til this one frijaz beon.”

  A dozen driftwood poles shot across the dockyard and buried themselves deep into the kraken’s eyes.

  Eyebal
l goop splattered across the seawall. Burgundy-colored blood dribbled down the purple skin.

  The monstrous tentacle clutching him spasmed. Breath hurtled out of his lungs. Yesterday’s meager dinner tried to follow. Bright summer sun dimmed to underground darkness.

  Had he killed himself with his own spell?

  Lorel climbed up the tentacle and grabbed one of the poles beating on it. “Make it stop, kid.”

  Make what stop? He tried to ask, but only a gagging sound came out.

  “Right. Never mind.” She shoved the pole into the tentacle’s coils and used it as a lever. “Move, kid.”

  Pressure eased. Light strengthened. He couldn’t move, but maybe he could breath. A wimpy breath wheezed into his lungs.

  “Right.” Lorel sat on the tentacle and pushed with both her feet. “Now move.”

  Moving sounded like a good idea. Lying still sounded even better, but the turybird would torment him until he did what she demanded. He wiggled until he got his chest free. Only his hips were loosely trapped.

  The tentacle sagged into utter limpness and dropped to the ground.

  He slumped over it.

  Lorel spilled backwards into the wet sand. She jumped up and tugged him free of the kraken’s lifeless grip. “Time to go, kid.”

  Go? Where? He lifted his aching head and scanned the area. Sand. Seawall. Dead monster. No people.

  Praise the Thunderer. No witnesses. The locals didn’t need to know he could do a little magic. Though how else they’d explain the driftwood in its eyes, he couldn’t guess. No sorcerers lived in Kresh.

  No sorcerers, no wizards, not even a magician to protect them. No wonder the locals went deep into hiding when a kraken attacked them.

  Lorel grabbed his arm and dragged him toward the nearest hut. “I ain’t taking the blame for this mess. Let’s go find a hole to hide in.”

  “Brilliant idea.” He glanced down at his tattered shirt and at her torn trousers. “What do we tell them about our clothes?”

  “Nothing.” She snorted. “People got dirty minds. Let them think what they want.”

  The gossips would come up with some interesting stories to explain the circular tears in their clothing.

  “Hurry up. Ain’t nobody gonna be on these stairs yet.”

  Viper limped toward the wrecked hut and started planning ways to inquire about the rumors without openly asking. Bribing children to collect stories might work. He could write a book on modern folk tales.