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

by D J Salisbury

  Brackish gunk covered the floor as far as he could see. It slurched in the flickering torchlight after each hesitant step. Rotted weeds and fish stung his eyes. Snot dribbled from his nose.

  “Come on, slow poke.”

  He sighed and sloshed down the hallway to her side. It stank like a dead hyena, but at least the crud was only ankle deep. Nothing big could live in water that shallow.

  Lorel raised her torch, and he looked up from his study of the mire.

  They were standing at the entrance of a huge grotto, a cavern far larger than any they’d explored. Torchlight reflected far into the distance on the stinking, scowling water. Enormous shapes loomed on both sides of them, blocking the reflections, but directly before them the light went on forever.

  Crusty orange stalactites hung from the invisible ceiling, their needle tips silhouetted against the murky light. Stalagmites shaped like columns of bahtdor teeth rose to meet them.

  Lorel pointed at a lime-encrusted form. “I want to know what them things are.” She splashed toward it.

  He squished along behind her. “Did you have to pick such a smelly, nasty, gooey place? Don’t touch it, Thunderer protect us.”

  She jerked back her hand. “Why not?”

  “It might be an ensorcelled troll, for all we know.” He crossed his arms over his chest. Was it possible to teach her caution? “Look at a few before you do anything stupid.”

  She sighed and walked between the stalagmites. Each measured at least eight paces around, and he guessed them to be over sixteen paces high. They also seemed to be roughly rectangular.

  “I’m tired of looking.” Lorel scratched at one of the oblong forms. Nothing happened. She tapped the crust with her knuckles. “Hold my torch, would you?” She pulled out her knife. The Dedicated knife he’d carved out of a hard-won bahtdor bone.

  She’d use her honor knife to break rock? Well, she didn’t realize it was an honor knife, but she did know how hard he’d worked on it. She needed to learn some respect. Right now.

  He took the torch from her hand and closed his eyes in concentration.

  Lorel raised the knife over her head, ready to crack the crust with the hilt.

  Soulless black eyes opened and peered at her. A misshapen face rose out of the stone. Stone lips parted, and a long orange tongue licked its pointed nose. It blinked slowly, and winked one watery eye at her.

  She screeched and leaped back several paces.

  The distorted face closed its eyes and vanished.

  “What in the Weaver’s chamberpot?” Lorel glanced at him, obviously surprised that he’d held his ground. She caught him laughing silently.

  “I told you there might be a troll,” he cackled.

  “You speck of Loom lint! If you pull another trick like that, I’ll turn you over my knee and spank you. You got some nerve, kid.” Her expression cleared and she chuckled. “Not a bad-looking troll, though. Now stay back and don’t mess me up.”

  She struck the crust with the hilt of her knife. Once, twice.

  Viper waited for the third blow. If she broke that knife he’d have to kill her. How, he didn’t know, but he’d do something awful to her. Empty the chamberpot over her bed, maybe.

  When it finally fell, the blow was accompanied by a sharp crack. She’d done it. She’d broken her honor knife. A full chamberpot was too easy a punishment. He’d have to push her into the cesspool.

  “Look at this, kid. Ain’t it queer?” Lorel held up a piece of lime crust, but tossed it away. “Look here.”

  Praise the Thunderer, her knife was still whole. Dunking her in the cesspool was too light a punishment, anyway.

  Metal glittered where she’d broken the crust. He thrust both torches close to it, but still couldn’t see anything useful. He handed one to Lorel. He wanted to touch–

  Lorel brushed his hand away. “Mind your own advice, kid. Be careful. Something weird is inside.”

  She might have a point. He eased one finger up to the metal patch.

  Pain zinged up his arm and down his spine. He snatched his hand away. “It bit me!” He hissed and stuck his finger in his mouth. “It stabbed a needle clear to my tail bone.”

  Lorel giggled. “You sure look funny sucking on your finger, kid.”

  He hid his hand behind his back. “Ogre.”

  She laughed harder.

  “Let’s move,” he grumbled. He squeezed his aching finger against his chest. How could a little shiny metal cause so much pain? “Stop smirking.”

  Lorel chuckled and splashed down the aisle between the columns. She changed direction occasionally and acted as though she knew exactly where she was going.

  Muck squished between his toes. Slime wrapped around his ankles. Who’s idea was this adventure, anyway?

  It still bothered him that she’d use her Dedicated knife as a prying tool. His own fault, though. He should have explained to her ages ago. Well, he’d tried before, but she always squirmed away before he made her understand. “About your knife–”

  “You still mad about that? I didn’t break it.” She held her torch up higher, apparently looking for something. Or trying to avoid him again.

  He’d put off this conversation too long. He had to make her listen this time. “It’s Dedicated to you and the Thunderer.”

  “I don’t none believe in your Thunderer.”

  “That’s not the point. It’s an honor knife. It’s your link between you and your swords.”

  “Fraying magic stuff.”

  “It’s not magic.” At least, he didn’t think it was. After studying with Trevor, he wasn’t so sure. “Oh, all right. Maybe it has some magic. But you’re supposed to use it to defend yourself, not to chip at rocks. It’s for important times, like when it’s better to die than to live in dishonor.”

  She frowned at him. “So it’s a suicide knife.”

  Blast. He’d have sworn she never heard the word ‘suicide’ in her life, the way she charged into every dangerous situation as if it were a game. “Not exactly. But under certain circumstances it can be. You need to treat it with more respect.”

  She shrugged. “I ain’t using no suicide knife.” Water sloshed around her ankles as she picked up the pace.

  That conversation didn’t go the way he’d hoped. He’d try again later, when she was calmer.

  Eventually they found a wall, and they followed it to the right.

  Lorel began to mumble to herself.

  Talking to oneself was his job. He’d never heard her try it before. Too bad he couldn’t understand the words. Maybe they’d help him understand her.

  He raised his torch higher. “What’s wrong?”

  “There should be a staircase here. But it ain’t wh– Weaver’s blood!”

  She plunged straight down, suddenly up to her thighs in muck. She toppled forward and whirled her arms. If she was trying to catch her balance, her turybird dance wasn’t helping.

  Her torch spun into the water and sputtered into darkness.

  How deep was the pool here? Could she drown? Viper dashed forward and grabbed her belt. Holding his torch high, he planted his heels in the mud and leaned back.

  Lorel wheeled her arms and fought her way upright.

  He pulled harder. Were his efforts helping at all? He couldn’t tell, but she didn’t tell him to back off.

  She wrenched one foot out of the mud and yanked it up to floor level.

  Viper tried to steady her without falling in – or singeing her with his torch.

  With one hand on his shoulder, she dragged her other foot free of the muck and staggered backwards.

  “What happened? You never lose your balance.”

  “The staircase is right there.” She pointed, but quickly tucked her shaking hand under her armpit. “It just goes down instead of up.” She jerked another torch from her pack and lit it from his.

  The slimy, rancid pool wasn’t invisible, now that he knew what to look for, a slight darkening of the ooze, a more watery, shifty aspect th
an the rest of the mire. It reached out to him with loving arms of muck and perfume of decay. It called to him with an endless song of dripping water and sonnets of death. In some ways, it entranced him.

  It also disgusted him. What was he thinking? What made him turn poet at a moment like this?

  A small head popped out of the murky pool. A snake!

  Viper screamed. Lorel shrieked in harmony.

  Another scaly head broke through the water, followed quickly by several more. Tiny reptilian eyes glared in the torchlight.

  He threw his torch at the heads, whirled, and fled.

  Lorel ran close on his heels, laughing hysterically.

  He splashed forward wildly, heedless of direction. He slipped, tumbled into the muck, and plunged into a shallow pool. His pack of torches slipped off his back. He reached out to grab them, but missed.

  Lorel scooped him out of the water and tossed him over her shoulder.

  He pounded on her back, unsure if he was urging her forward or demanding she put him down.

  Apparently, she didn’t notice or care. She galloped until her torch sputtered dangerously.

  “Hold on, kid.” She put him down in the muck, careful to set him on his feet. “I gotta get this thing lit or you’ll really be unhappy.” Smoke sparked and hissed while she coaxed the damp torch into burning.

  Viper caught his breath in ragged, little gasps. “I feel stupid, running like a cockroach from a bunch of lizards.” Even if he’d been sure it was a snake at first, he should have been calmer. More observant. Snakes didn’t pop out of the water like that.

  He tried to brush rancid mud off his clothing, with no success.

  Lorel tossed the dead torch into the darkness. “That makes two of us. Caught me by surprise, they did.”

  He wrapped his arms around his waist. Stinky slime squished between his fingers. “Where are we?”

  “Only the Weaver knows. I don’t think your Thunderer can see this deep.”

  “He only watches the open plains.” He inspected the area and shrugged. “So, plan one. We go straight until we find a wall. Then we walk along the wall until we find the stairs.”

  “Sounds good. What’s plan two?”

  “I haven’t thought of it yet.” He slapped a muddy hand against his forehead. “Thunderer, I’m bahtdor bait. I dropped all my torches.”

  “I know, kid. Start walking. We need a wall, and we better find it soon.”

  It took an eternity to locate a wall, but knowing it had to be there, they walked until they found it.

  They crept along the wall looking for a staircase. Any upwards staircase. But it proved a more elusive beast.

  Viper searched for patches of glowing wall, but where the stalagmites didn’t grow, the fungus flourished. He found nothing but the waiting dark.

  Twice they had to skirt murky pools. Each time tiny reptilian heads popped out of the water. At the second pool, Viper stopped to study the creatures.

  “I think they’re attracted to the light.”

  “That’s nice.” Lorel hawked and spat into the pool. “So am I. Move it.”

  They splashed along the endless wall. He furtively watched the light. There were only two torches left.

  Jagged darkness loomed ahead. “A staircase!”

  “It’s clogged, kid.”

  He pointed ahead. “That looks like another one, over there.”

  “Where?” She squished into a trot. “Yeah, you’re right.” She held the torch higher. “It ain’t the one we came down, but it’ll work.” She splashed to the steps and trudged upward.

  With a heartfelt sigh of relief, Viper put his foot on the lowest slippery step.

  And the torch sputtered out.

  Rancid smoke surrounded them. Crushing black blindness swallowed him. No up, no down, only dizzy darkness.

  “No!” he howled.

  “Loom-forgotten torch!” Lorel bellowed. “No warning at all. We’re doomed.”

  “Why?” He reached into the dark, grabbed the hem of her shirt. “Don’t you have any more matches?”

  “They’re all wet. From when I fell.” Her voice sounded dead. “I didn’t wanna worry you.”

  He sat on the slick stone and buried his face in his hands.

  Hiding from the dark. Hiding from despair. From the hopeless, endless, abuelo den darkness.

  He’d die in this nasty hole. Trevor had convinced him to give up believing in the soul-sucking ghosts of the deep, and they were going to get him, anyway. He’d rot and fade into a specter and haunt this place.

  He thought Trevor was a ghoulie ghost once, the first time he climbed past the Lab’s guardian spell. How that dark shaft terrified him. Trevor thought he was hilarious. Dear old Trevor.

  “What would you do in my place, teacher?” he whispered. “Isn’t there something I can do?”

  “What are you mumbling about?” Lorel’s voice sounded muffled, distant.

  “I’m not mumbling,” he said dreamily. “I’m talking to Trevor’s ghost.”

  She gasped and leaned towards him, brushing his shoulder in the dark. “Did he answer?”

  “In his own way. Hand me a torch and be quiet.” He took the torch from Lorel’s shaking hand and felt along its length. One end was sticky with some­thing that felt like wax and pine pitch, but smelled of rotting fish. It would do.

  I could not start a fire whilst you lived, Master Trevor. Please help me now.

  Following the directions in the book he’d borrowed lunars ago, he concentrated all of his will on the stinky pitch. He poured his will into it for several long minutes. Nothing happened.

  He never could do it that way. He had to try something else.

  A chant. Surely a chant would help. All they did was channel the will, and his will obviously needed direction. Now, which kind? He didn’t know one to light a torch. He’d never even gotten a candlewick to catch fire.

  Well, he’d make one up. Why not?

  “Geweorthe leoht,

  “For Ih moste see

  “Min wei to freodem,

  “Glow fore me.”

  Close. Close, but no fire. He felt the magic hovering just out of reach. He could try it again. Sometimes repetition worked.

  No. It needed a second verse.

  “Geweorthe leoht,

  “Ane glowynge balle.

  “Ane wel lyht torche

  “Moste grasce halle.”

  The torch flared high. Yellow light glowed several feet up the staircase and illuminated Lorel’s astounded face.

  “Weaver speed the Shuttle,” she shouted. “You’re one Loom-warping sorcerer, kid. Let’s get out of here before that one goes out.”

  Several staircases later, and three corridors’ worth of wandering, found them back in territory he recognized.

  Lorel stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s light the other torch. This one’s been burning an awful long time, and I don’t want it to die, too.” She slid the last unused torch from her pack and held it to the flame.

  Nothing happened.

  Viper stomped his foot. “Now what’s wrong?”

  She looked both torches over carefully, and tried again.

  The new torch refused to catch fire.

  “Something’s weird here.” Lorel tossed the unused torch to him and studied the burning pitch. She thrust her hand into the flame.

  And laughed.

  He cringed. “What is it?”

  “It ain’t hot!” Tears of mirth ran down her muddy face. “There ain’t no fire. You made up the fire out of your head, just like the troll.”

  “I made an illusion of fire instead of a real fire.” He knocked his head against the wall until sparks glittered against his eyelids. “And I thought I’d finally done it right. Oh, Thunderer pee and flashflood the whole sandblasted business.”

  Lorel collapsed to the floor and laughed until he feared her heart would burst.

  Viper slouched beside her. He tossed a handful of sand at the wall. He scowled
up at his radiant torch.

  Would he ever learn to make his spells behave?

  Chapter 18.

  The next night, Lorel led the silly kid back across the desert to Erlan.

  Emil hadn’t hardly scolded them for the stinky mess they’d made of their clothes. Of course, the kid found a pool of not-too muddy water, so they’d cleaned up some, but she’d expected to get grounded. Weaver bless old Griffith for reminding Emil that she ain’t their mother. The old woman finally gave it up, especially once she’d seen all the rocks they’d collected.

  Who’d’ve guessed the kid had a good eye for collecting pricy rocks?

  She shifted the nearly-empty pack higher on her shoulder. Later, she’d fill it with the kid’s rocks. Right now it held their dinner. Kraken sandwiches.

  Just the thought of them things gagged her. Everything she’d eaten for days had kraken meat in it. Kraken soup, kraken steaks, kraken and seaweed casserole. Every time she looked at the stuff, she saw Kraken’s limp body. His broken neck. His glazed eyes. How was she supposed to eat the crap?

  The kid never even noticed. Or didn’t care. Put a book in one hand and a bowl in the other, and he’d never be able to tell you what he’d eaten.

  She wasn’t picky, but chewing on kraken was fraying her thread clear off the Loom.

  But for now she’d forget the rotten kraken. The evening air was still warm, and the broiling heat of the summer day was gone. Erlan was a sweet pile of rocks in the distance. Just its shadow promised adventure.

  She’d hold her nose and eat monster sandwiches if that was the price to explore a wonderful place like Erlan.

  The kid danced across the sand, joyfully waving the torch they’d brought along for show. “We don’t need a stinky flame tonight.,” he sang. Out of tune, as usual. He’d scare off the scaly critters if he sang to them. “My will-light will shine throughout Erlan.”

  She hadn’t seen the little guy so happy since Trevor’s death. Maybe finding Trevor’s ghost cheered him up.

  She shifted the pack to her other shoulder. “This Loom-tangling bag’s heavy already. I’m gonna leave it outside somewhere.” And she’d leave it half open. Maybe a bobcat would come along and eat the fraying kraken sandwiches. “Don’t want to lose it in Little Scaly’s pool.”