And he laughed. The miswoven slaver laughed while he killed her.
No, he wouldn’t kill her, not if he’d get a chest of gold selling her. He’d just choke her unconscious.
She’d never be a slave. Never.
She forced her right hand to slide downward. Blackness oozed over her mind. Hurry, hurry.
Her hand felt along her belt until she felt the hilt of her suicide knife. She’d kill herself before she let him chain her.
She drew the knife and pointed the tip toward her gut.
Tsai’dona shouted, Cowardly wailed, the slaves screamed.
Over all their racket, she thought she heard the kid calling her name.
If she died, the slaver would go after him next.
The kid never abandoned her. He always supported her, even when he thought she’d fallen off the Shuttle. He believed in her honor.
Why on the Loom was she trying to kill herself? The kid called it an honor knife, not a suicide knife.
She twisted the blade around and thrust it into the slaver’s gut. Hot blood gushed over her hand. She yanked the knife sideways until it met bone.
Pickles screamed and pushed her away. His hands pawed at his belly, trying to stuff bloody guts back where they belonged
Lorel wheezed in a breath of cool, humid air. The stench of shit and fresh blood flooded over her. Light returned as she gasped again. Her throat burned as if the slaver had branded her from the inside out. Her head swam, but she could see, more or less, through the murky water inside her mind.
Where was her knife? Still in her hand. She stabbed it into Pickles’ neck.
His screams stopped.
She stabbed him again. Just to be sure.
After a few more breaths, she wobbled to her feet.
The slaves stared at her in wide-eyed terror. Like the gang had stared at her after she’d killed Kraken. Everybody was gonna be scared of her forever. She was just another miswoven killer.
She started to turn away.
Tsai’dona fluttered her fingers. “You’re going to have bog-deep bruises.”
Was she ever. Her fingers drifted to her throat. “Glad I ain’t got a mirror.” The words came out hoarser than a crow’s croak.
At least somebody wasn’t scared of her. Tsai’dona understood. Maybe all warriors understood.
Cowardly keened, but didn’t try to get up. She musta hit him in the kidney. Poor miswoven guy didn’t deserve to spend hours dying.
She staggered in his direction.
“Keys?” Tsai’dona jangled her chains again.
“Soon. Gotta make sure.” More words couldn’t squeeze their way out.
Tsai’dona nodded.
Lorel staggered across the clearing and knelt beside Cowardly. She patted his back, lifted his head by the hair, and slit his throat. She wiped her bloody knife on her trousers leg. Another execution. It didn’t seem right. She’d have to talk about this ‘making sure’ stuff with the kid.
Her head snapped up. The kid!
She staggered back to Pickles, yanked off his belt, and tossed it to Tsai’dona. She pointed west. “Village that way,” she croaked. “Keys?”
“Got them. Go help your friend.” Tsai’dona yanked the belt closer.
Lorel scooped up her long sword, hastily wiped off the blood, and sheathed it. She needed precious seconds to pry her short sword out of the tall slaver’s cudgel, but she got it loose and mostly cleaned of blood.
Her head spun. Both her shoulders hurt like demons danced barefoot inside them. She didn’t have time to worry about none of it.
She sucked in a deep breath and headed for the forest.
Tsai’dona waved one unchained hand. “We’ll meet you in the village. Looks like you need a healer, Gyrfalcon.”
Lorel waved back, and nearly stumbled over her own feet. Gyrfalcon? “I’m not … I didn’t … They kicked me out.”
“Then they’re stupider than snakes snoozing in the bread oven.” Tsai’dona flicked her fingers toward the trail. “Focus, my friend. You’re not done yet.”
Right. The kid needed her.
She just hoped she could stay upright long enough to rescue him.
Chapter 35.
Viper hobbled away from the trail, toward the mournful burble of a small creek. Dry oak leaves covered the ground, creating a firm, warm, brown carpet. Bracken ferns grew in abundance in the shade. Rot from the distant swamp wafted in on a breeze, but the clearing smelled of clean soil and fresh growth.
Rot and growth symbolized his relationship with Lorel, but he wasn’t sure which of them was which. Had he been unfair to her?
What had happened to the old, carefree Lorel? Had the sword school murdered her? It had murdered something inside him. He’d never dreamed he might order her away.
He’d never dreamed she might actually leave him.
But he was in the right. He could take care of himself. He’d build camp here and go back to Chiisai-Kei in the morning. He’d go back immediately if his stump didn’t hurt so much.
For now, he’d cook dinner. He’d gather greens and mushrooms to pour over rice to quiet his growling belly.
Blast. Lorel had the cook pots. And the rice. And his inventory. And most of his books. She’d better come back and return the gems and his books, at least. He’d split the gold with her. She’d need it.
The turybird had to come back. She didn’t know where she was going. He had all the maps.
Leaves rustled in the brush behind him. Twigs popped and crackled. Eyes watched him from the woods. A deer, maybe. Birds, certainly, though they were unusually quiet this afternoon.
No large carnivores were supposed to live in this area, if Wildlife of Northern Dureme-Lor was correct. Nothing around here was big enough to hurt him.
So why was he nervous?
Because he was alone for the first time since he’d left Trevor’s home. That was all. He was accustomed to the bustle of the city and the cheerful racket of the boathouse, and lately, of Lorel looming over him. Setting up camp would settle his nerves.
Dusk crept over the clearing. While there was still daylight, he gathered a pile of dry fern fronds for his bed. Lorel could sleep wherever she wanted to. She could blasted-well sleep with the gnats tonight. She deserved their company.
Books were better company than she was, but she’d taken most of them. If only he had a new book to read. That would cure his uneasiness.
He’d work at reading the grimoire again, instead. It contained whole chapters he hadn’t deciphered.
He gathered a pile of dead branches, scooped out a shallow hole to contain his cook fire, and started the fire with a match from his little hoard. Someday he had to learn to light a will-fire. His matches would run out soon at this rate.
After digging through the soft soil with a sharp stick, he found three tubers to toast on the flames. He wouldn’t go hungry tonight. There was even enough to share, if she showed up.
While his dinner cooked, he pulled the grimoire out of his pack and opened it. The chapter on Atmospheric Liquefaction still puzzled him. What was the point of pulling water out of the air? And why write about spells that often killed the user, like fire shields? He wouldn’t touch that spell, ever. Burning to death from the inside out sounded like the worst possible way to die.
RedAdder must have been a gutsy, audacious wizard. Somebody who planned to have apprentices.
“Too bad you aren’t here.” Viper patted the grimoire the way Trevor had sometimes patted his back. “I wish I had someone like you to teach me.”
The tubers were dry, a little mealy, and extremely boring, but he ate them all. From now on he’d keep the salt and spices in his own pack. If she ever brought it back.
The sun disappeared behind the leafy canopy, leaving the clearing in dim moonlight. Crickets chirped their love songs all around the camp, and frogs crooned in the distance. Why couldn’t he join them? It was too dark to read. Besides, there was no one here to complain about his lack of skill.<
br />
He laid the grimoire aside, took his mandolin out of its battered case, and settled his back against an oak. He tuned the instrument carefully. Maybe too carefully. How odd to tinker with it without Lorel’s fingers twitching, or her suspiciously-neutral face cringing.
How far she would go before she decided to come looking for him? She probably wouldn’t tramp around in the dark. But if she did, he’d hear her crunching through the dry leaves.
He plucked at the strings, softly at first, but soon his music soared and sighed, danced and chimed. He played of sunshine and rain, wild things and hope, thunderstorms and love. He strummed his joy, his ecstasy for life, and the magic of wild music thrilled in his bones.
And yet–
He had the feeling that something was listening. That someone leaned over his left shoulder.
Lorel? Not likely. She’d have complained by now.
A ghost? Kraken’s ghost?
Viper laid his hand on the strings to still the music. He glanced over his shoulder, and all around the clearing. Nothing.
But he felt exactly as he had back in Zedista, when he’d caught Kraken watching him. He closed his eyes to concentrate.
The crickets were silent.
Not a good sign. Unless Lorel was sneaking back. She’d terrify anything.
Damp fingers caressed his neck.
A squeak escaped him. He scooted forward and scanned the area.
It must have been an insect. It couldn’t have been fingers. Ghosts didn’t manifest body parts. Or only really strong spirits did.
Kraken might be that strong.
He clutched the mandolin to his chest, hobbled upright, and limped away from the oak. His stump complained at bearing his weight, even through the padding of his boot, but he could bear the ache for a few steps.
Tree trunks flickered in the firelight. Mist curdled at the edges of the clearing, carrying swamp rot across his camp.
Little hairs on the back of his neck stood upright. He didn’t know why he was so certain that someone was out there, but the silence frightened him.
What could he do to drive off a ghost? None of his books had covered the subject. Wizard Monsoon’s books implied only a necromancer had that power.
He wasn’t a necromancer. Didn’t want to become a necromancer.
His back shivered as if someone had drawn a feather up his spine. He wiped his damp palms on his tunic. He felt it watching him, standing behind him, just out of sight.
Could he spot the prowler’s aura?
He laid the mandolin on his mattress of ferns and backed away from the fire. He edged to the right, farther into the clearing. He hopped to the left.
Nothing.
His heart pounded. He took another step to the right and peered into the darkness.
Nothing. Not even Lorel’s muddy aura.
Something light and fluttery settled on his left shoulder. A moth, probably. He turned his head and tried to blow the insect away–
And an intruder entered his mind through his open mouth.
‘Mine,’ it whispered.
“No!” He clutched at his hair with the vague notion of pulling the thing out of his head. “Go away!”
Clinging, wintry hands slid up his body. How could it be inside his head and outside at the same time?
‘Mine.’ The hoarse voice didn’t sound at all like Kraken’s. It almost sounded female, like a woman who’d screamed her voice to rags. ‘My slave.’
His stomach lurched. “I’m not a nameless slave!” What was this thing? Some sort of sprite? Why was it attacking him? “Why me?”
‘You summoned me.’
“I did not.” He didn’t even know any summoning spells.
‘You and your master summoned me. My master desired him. He escaped me. You shall not.”
They’d summoned it? How? With the scrying spell?
The obsidian mirror that Trevor used to scry out the murderer had killed him. Had the spell been a trap?
This thing had killed Trevor. And it had followed him all the way from Zedista? How much power would that take? Why bother with an apprentice? How could he get rid of it? “Leave me alone!”
Dank breath tickled his neck. A cold tongue licked the inside of his skull. ‘Come to me.’
“I won’t.” He reeled around the empty clearing, hoping to shake the thing off. His padded boot scraped against his stump. That knee threatened to buckle. “Get out of my head. Lorel!”
‘Your protector is gone.’ Clammy fingers squeezed his mind. ‘The master desires you. I shall deliver you. Dead or alive, it matters not. You are my slave.’ The fingers probing his mind stiffened into gouging claws.
Both of his knees collapsed. “I’m not a slave,” he whispered. “What are you? Who are you?”
‘I was RedAdder. Now I am the master’s slave. As you are.’ Icy fog enshrouded him. ‘Come to me.’
RedAdder. A dead wizard. Enslaved? What could dominate a wizard?
Not him. He couldn’t even catch his breath. The world around him dimmed, turned gray. “Lorel! Help me!” What was he thinking? Lorel couldn’t save him from a ghost.
‘You are mine.’ Cold lips sipped at his will. ‘The protector cannot save you.’
Nothing could save him from a wizard’s ghost. He was dead, even if his body didn’t know it yet. He clamped his fingers over his eyes.
No. Hiding wouldn’t solve anything. Why hadn’t he fought back? Just because he didn’t pass second level didn’t make him helpless.
He’d read all about shields, but he’d never practiced them. Why hadn’t he found a sorcerer to teach him? He didn’t know what he was doing.
That didn’t matter. He had to do something.
He turned his palms outward and pushed. He shoved with hands and mind, and tried to thrust the intruder away.
His sense of the trespasser slid back. But not very far.
How could he fight something he couldn’t see? He searched for its aura, but found nothing, not even field mice. The spirit had frightened all the wildlife away. Thunderer’s dice, he’d run away if there was the slightest chance he could escape the monster.
If he couldn’t see its aura, could he see the specter the way he’d seen the ghost of his own foot? He concentrated on sensing the spirit of the dead.
Dim red light glowed against the silhouette of an old oak. A woman’s figure misted into view, but she seemed to have only a single leg. No, not a leg. Her body ended in a snake’s tail. How disgusting. Was that RedAdder’s true form?
Her head tilted to one side. ‘You would oppose me?’
Something he’d done had worked. She sounded annoyed. He cast up another barrier inside his head, a simple dome shield.
A misty hand reached out and flicked his shields aside. ‘Enough. Come to me. Or die.’
The thing teased him the way Frujeur had. The way Kraken had when that monster chased him down and tortured him. He’d backed down too many times. He’d help it kill him before he let it enslave him. Even being a dead cripple was better than becoming enslaved by a ghost.
He willed another shield to form around him. Light surrounded him like a captive sphere of summer morning. Surely bright light would scare a monster of darkness away.
The specter swatted the shield aside with its scaly tail. ‘Do not fight me. The master calls you.’ Sharp teeth rasped at his sanity.
The thing was chewing on his soul. He nearly peed himself.
He flung up another layer of protection. Power blossomed around him, but it felt frail, as brittle as glass.
Broken glass made an excellent weapon, if he could avoid cutting himself. He pushed more power into the spell. At the last second he twisted the magic into a vortex shield.
Energy whirled around him like a tornado bristling with glass knives. Leaves spun off the ground, only to be chopped into dust by the vortex’s blades. Wind whistled in circles, knocking moss out of the trees.
Crooked fingers brushed his defenses away like dead l
eaves swept off a gravestone. ‘Come home, my sweet slave.’
“I’m not a slave.” He reached out and grabbed at his dying shield. The wave of magic slid out of his grasp. He snatched at it, captured a wisp.
Lost it.
Laughter echoed through his mind.
“Don’t you laugh at me!” He lurched upright and balanced on his foot. Red stars pulsed all around him. “Don’t. You. Laugh. At. Me!”
It couldn’t enslave him. He wouldn’t let it. No matter what. If he had to die, he’d go out in a bonfire and take this monster with him.
But he didn’t know how to make fire. The best he could manage was a will-light.
Light hadn’t slowed it down. A ghost couldn’t be hurt with fire.
He didn’t need real fire. Or real light. A fire shield couldn’t burn anything outside of him.
He had to burn himself.
He grabbed his power with his all of his being, wrapped it around him like a blanket, and set the shield aflame with the bright, clear light of the sun.
Agony poured over his spirit. Flames encircled him, singeing him without touching him.
The voice in his head squeaked.
Sweat poured down his face, down his chest, along his spine. But sweat didn’t put out the fire circling inside his mind.
He forced more power into the spell.
Pain blazed through him. His own fire shield was going to kill him if he didn’t stop now.
But the ghost clutched at his inner being. Claws dug deeper into his mind. Into his soul.
He couldn’t quit until it cut him loose.
He pulled the flaming shield closer, deeper, through his outer self, into his inner self. His shield engulfed the intruder.
Icy fists battered at the fiery shield. ‘Don’t fight me! Obey me, slave!’
“I am not a slave. I’ll die first.” He gathered his will and torched the core of his own mind.
Blisters seared him from the inside out. His mind scorched, the way his bleeding stump had. Agony poured through him.
The specter covered his flames with ice. His fire shield dimmed.
He was sinking. Losing strength. Losing the fight.
This monster had followed him, chased him from his home. Had it summoned the kraken that snaked over Kresh’s seawall? Had it forced the scorpion to sting him? He’d seen a woman’s ghost just before the swamp snake fell from the tree and bit him. How many times had it tried to kill him?
Sorcery's Child (The Mindbender's Rise Book 2) Page 34
