by Louis Emery
Sitting back down, she opened a second larger drawer. A series of daggers lined the inside. Each blade had been enchanted by spells Sho performed long ago. She found the one she sought and set it on top of volumes written in Statinge, the elder language of the Warlockian Order. She’d learned it when she was young, encouraged by her parents who always thought sorcery could do more good than harm. A debatable stance, Sho would come to learn. For better or worse, she became a gifted sorceress while attending the Elemental Academy in Em Regis. Each year a small percentage were chosen to attend after a series of difficult written and oral exams. Sho had a talent and was chosen as one of the lucky few. She came to learn the life her parents encouraged, the life she desired, coincided with struggle and its own particular pain.
She lit two candles to better see in the dimly lit room. Turning over her left palm, she examined the scars of her spells. So many had been cast over the years. Near the base of her thumb showed the one cast to expose a rival student before the eyes of her advisors at the Academy. At the center sat the two-inch line she cut to hurl six members of the Thrasher Gang that had surrounded her on the streets of Em Regis, after having their ringmaster thrown in prison for raiding King Greenvale’s armory. Closer to her ring finger marked the puncture made to kill the assassin meant to garotte her for exposing a corrupt baron. A myriad of smaller, minor scars spread around the larger ones. That was the price a sorceress paid.
A spell was cast from blood of the palm. Spells cast from other wounds on the body were rare, weak, and arcane. The sorcery associated with them muddled in ancient lore. The texts she and her colleagues studied in old Statinge consisted of incantations, enchantments, spells, hexes, curses, and sundry powers that stemmed from the cutting of the palm, followed by the vocalized spell with raised index finger. If these steps were not followed, the spells fell flat, and showed either weakness, inexperience or charlatanism.
The Backlands were bolstered by the use of sorcerers, helping the kingdom solidify its powerful influence across Western Retha. One of its very flags, clenched red fist with raised index finger, symbolized the rituals of its spellcasters. Sure, other kingdoms had sorcerers of their own, magic not being exclusive to one. But when it came to prestige in her line of work, Em Regis boasted the best recruits in service to their kingdom, though in the past decade many legendary Backland spellcasters had either retired or passed away from old age.
Sho rubbed her hand, feeling the old scars and wincing at two fresh ones she’d created in attempt to uncover senses that would point her toward the killer of the lords before Raskin. She’d been to their crime scenes as well, but they weren’t as revealing as today’s. The perpetrator had done well to cover his or her tracks, and the magic she’d used did not give her any reliable clues. She hoped today would change that.
She unsheathed the knife from its small scabbard. Etched on the handle an owl stared with beady eyes, as if it possessed secrets.
In old Statinge she recited the words of the spell: “In the spirit of our ancient Founder, I call to thee and seek answers. Above all, I wish to see who, what, and why… Show me the designs from blood spilt.”
Placing the blade’s edge toward the bottom of her palm, she sliced an inch and blood flowed freely. A silvery shadow emanated from the knife. She set the blade down, beneath her dripping hand while squeezing her fist together, increasing the red droplets that spilled onto the table. She groaned at the sting of the wound, then went for the remaining blood residue of the crime scene that she had set aside. Her right hand pinched the small speck of dried crimson. Lowering her head and closing her eyes, she said, “Show me… anything you can give…”
A flash jolted her mind, a sudden pang that immediately made her head throb—the tell-tale sign of darker magic, shrouded in enchantments meant to mask its purpose and the person or persons performing it. It wasn’t what she expected. Those who practice the dark arts were few and inveterate practitioners, willing to risk trauma or death when first learning its power. She further clenched her eyelids and bit her lip at the sharp pain at the back of her head. She took a deep breath and furthered her own spell saying, “Show me… let… me … see.”
Images flashed through her mind. She knew she wouldn’t get much from spells that were protecting visions. The glimpses she saw were of pages from the black texts of Marver the Blighted, ancient forbidden volumes she’d seen only once years ago in the locked library at the Academy. She glimpsed black blades slicing a scarred palm and she heard a rasping voice, but couldn’t make out its words.
“Let me hear,” she said.
The words became clearer as she squeezed her left hand, feeling the wetness of more blood.
A sinister voice echoed in the back of her mind, each syllable raising the hackles on her neck and arms. The more it repeated its phrasings, the more they became coherent. Now she knew what they were, each word feeling like a deeper slice into her palm, causing the fresh wound to sting at each utterance.
Kill them all… They belong to us… Ours for the taking.
As if some macabre melody played on repeat, the words echoed in the blurred images. Dark alleys, dark rooms, and dark nights. Hazy bodies of victims flashed. Screams of surprise, agony, and despair rose steadily. The bangs and crashes of violence reverberated, followed by cries of mercy and pain. They brought her back to the black books and black blades and the warning, Stay away.
“What’s your purpose?” She said, clenching her palm tighter. “Tell me more.”
Her efforts gave her the recurring theme.
Kill them all… They belong to us… Ours for the taking.
The headache she had at the beginning when first touching the blood residue now ringed in her head with double the intensity. She cried out in pain, realizing she wasn’t going to get any further.
“I have seen what I want for now.” After making the statement, she uncurled her left fist, and the pain in her head dwindled. She reached for the small vial and scraped the remaining fragments back inside.
Relieved the pain subsided, she leaned back in her chair and stretched her neck. With a water-dabbed cloth, she wiped the blood from her palm and then looked down at the owl on the hilt of the knife, with its perpetual, unreadable gaze.
13
He didn’t know where they were. They’d been on their feet for hours trying to get away. The Ballardian forces had cut Malcolm and Artemis—along with their new captive—off from the rest of their retreating forces. Another battalion had entered the southeast end of the forest, catching many of his men unawares, and Malcolm could hear the clash of steel echo from afar.
Some of his Backland comrades would’ve made it out of the forest, but many would have been killed or taken prisoner. The best thing he and Artemis could do was go further into the expanse of wilderness.
By now, he was getting restless. He’d been carrying Lady Leora over his shoulder for hours, switching off with Artemis. At first, she’d been crying in pain, and Malcolm was forced to cover her mouth when Ballardian scouting parties passed by their hideout amongst a few boulders. As they continued their escape, Lady Leora lost consciousness, which ceased the burden of keeping her whimpers at bay.
By the time it had gotten dark, at which point Malcolm and Artemis were about to faint from exhaustion, they found a spot far enough from the enemy to make camp. Moonlight shone through the dense treetops, and the howls of wolves could be heard in the distance. Artemis laid Lady Leora down while Malcolm chopped branches for firewood.
As he lit the flames with his sword and flint, Artemis said, “She’s wakening. Her head is bruised and her leg gash deep. I shall go find some roots and herbs to ease her pain.”
Malcolm nodded to his companion and moved closer to the captive. She groaned softly, eyes fluttering. From the firelight, Malcolm made out the bump on her head, which began to turn dark purple.
“Wa …Water,” the lady knight said.
Malcolm removed the deerskin water-pouch from his belt and handed it to her.
She looked at him questioningly for a second, took it, and began to drink.
“Not too much,” Malcolm said. “We’re to make that last.”
She took big gulps and began wheezing and coughing up the excess water. She tried to steady herself and cried out, grabbing her wounded leg.
“It’s a deep cut, but you’re lucky. It’ll heal, though walking will be difficult for a while.” Malcolm took the deerskin back.
“You stole something from me,” she said feebly.
“It appears I’ve stolen you.”
Leora scowled at him. “That necklace and sword were given to me by a wizard. I will not part with them. My father will pay a ransom, for my life and belongings. Take me to him, and I swear you won’t be harmed. You will receive more wealth than you could ever acquire in the Kingsguard, Ser Malcolm.”
Malcolm’s eyes shot at her. “You know who I am. I don’t believe I introduced myself—”
“Of course I do. What sort of general do you take me for? You think I don’t know who I’m up against, Longstride?” She drew out his name as if purging herself of rot food. “For a favorite of Greenvale’s, he sure doesn’t think twice of having you on the front lines. Then again, why would he? This must make a hundred battles for you. Or maybe it’s a thousand. Whatever the case, it hasn’t made you any richer. My father, King Kieran, can make you lord, and give you gold enough to buy out a few baronies.”
Malcolm tossed a few twigs on the fire, ruminating. “As my captive, I don’t think it’s wise to tell me what my options are.”
Leora shifted and winced, feeling the knot on her temple. “Just as I figured, loyal to the core. The great Ser Malcolm, ever the sworn Kingsguard. I hope Greenvale appreciates you as much as you deserve.”
Malcolm flashed a look. “He has a title—I bid you refer to him properly.”
“I’m sure he does … and he also has a habit of holding to lands that aren’t his and charging taxes that aren’t his right to demand.”
“He has every right. Alorens belongs to the Backlands. Hence Ballardia pays to trade, just like every other trader that enters our domains.”
“Alorens belonged to House Reed long before Greenvale, you, and his army took them over.”
Malcolm snapped a stick. “This region has always overflowed with Backlanders who cater to their fellow citizens. Tell me how House Reed of Ballardia claims its people have a right to it?”
“You think it’s all Backlanders that have lived here? Twenty years ago, it was mostly Westers, Duguls, and Craggs who inhabited the region. Your people shoved them out and imposed tariffs when they tried to stay connected in trade.”
“If I recall correctly, a guild of Ballardian merchants brought their petty grievances to your father, and he decided to go to war for a second time over a territory he couldn’t hold because it wasn’t his to begin with.”
Leora raised her voice, “We would’ve won that war—”
“Shhh. Talk quiet, or I’ll muzzle you.”
Leora adjusted, “That war would’ve been a Ballardian victory if we hadn’t been combatting Gothveesi invaders on our northern borders.”
“Well, Kieran should’ve focused on one or the other,” Malcolm said, taking a swig from the deerskin. He hoped this captive of his wouldn’t talk all night.
Leora puffed her agitation.
Malcolm heard footsteps close by. He stood and began unsheathing his sword until he made out his sergeant’s silhouette.
“This is Artemis Poe,” Malcolm said as his friend approached.
Lady Leora sat straighter, eyeing the man suspiciously.
Artemis took something out of the pouch on his belt and knelt down beside her.
“What are you doing?” she said.
“Here to assist.”
She started to drag herself away. “And why should I trust you?” She looked to the calm-faced man before her and then to Malcolm as if asking them both.
“You’d do right by trusting us,” Malcolm said. “You think I’d carry you over my shoulder this far if I wanted to kill you?”
Lady Leora looked at them both, considering the validity of this statement. For a moment, the only sound was the soft crackle of fire.
Artemis broke the silence, “This will help your wounds.”
Leora swallowed and nodded. Artemis used the herbs and roots from his pouch, pressing them on her head and leg wound. Leora at first shuddered in pain, but after a few moments she relaxed and leaned back on the large log behind her. Artemis tore a piece of fabric from his jerkin and began tying it over the leg wound.
Malcolm leaned against the broken stump he used as support and gazed at the night sky. Thousands of stars twinkled in different shades, illuminating smears of color in the heavens. Subtle cadres of yellows, blues, and purples composed the canvas, some closer and larger clusters. Others, distant galaxies emanating from afar.
The border to this painting that Malcolm always made time for were forest treetops. In this part of the Southwoods, they began to show their growth potential. At camp, the pines were twice the size than those outside the village they’d fought at this morning. Malcolm thought of how the trees struck awe into those who traveled further north. There, the redwoods grew, and as one continued, the trees rose to the height of castles. In Redwoodia, he’d seen those that rivaled foothills and heard rumors of woods climbing as tall as small mountains, their roots as deep as the forest would allow.
When Artemis was done bandaging Leora’s wound, he went over to the rabbits he’d dropped near the fire. Using one of his knives, he began skinning their dinner as if he’d done it for centuries.
“Resourceful, aren’t you?” Leora said, eyeing her wrapped wound.
Artemis ignored her and continued his work next to the firelight.
Leora turned her attention back to Malcolm. “You know, my father will call his liege lords into the fray to get me back. This will turn into a war for more than just Alorens. It might behoove you to let me go free.”
“For someone who’s in your position, I’m surprised you’re so eager to return to your army,” Malcolm said.
“Why do you say that?”
Artemis looked up from his rabbits to Leora then over at him. The puzzled look he wore echoed Malcolm’s own.
Malcolm scratched his head. “It may not have occurred to you, but the reason for that bruise on your head and cut on your leg is your own men.”
Leora looked at both of them, her brow furrowed. “You’re saying it wasn’t Backlanders who interfered our fight? That it was my troops betraying me?”
“Either yours or your cousin’s.”
Her eyes narrowed, and she paused before speaking. “Varick and I have been slashing through your forces, succeeding in our campaign. There is no reason for him to betray me.”
“Really, no reason at all?” Malcolm couldn’t believe Leora hadn’t noticed the knights who attacked her. Yet it was feasible, for her back was to them, and she’d focused on her opponent. Surely there were reasons Ballardians would betray this woman general. A power-hungry captain, perhaps?
“I know what you’re doing. The both of you. You’re trying to create a lie, to have me believe my own blood would stick a knife in my back so you can distract my father and me. Infighting amongst the enemy sounds so much better to you than war to reclaim land that isn’t yours!”
Malcolm picked up another log and threw it hard on the fire. A cloud of cinders puffed up landing near Leora, and she shifted away. Artemis shielded himself and began skewering the skinned rabbits on a sharpened branch.
“You should be grateful,” Malcolm said, still standing.
“Oh? Why on earth should I be?”
“We saved your life.”
Leora laughed so loudly it echoed amongst the trees. “You mean, saved me from your already beaten soldiers. It appears they saved you, Longstride. After all, I believe it was I who had the advantage. You were getting tired. The great Ser Malcolm Longstride, Kingsguard, capt
ain, favorite of the king—beaten by a woman.”
“Let’s see you without that necklace,” Malcolm folded his arms, “and see how you fight on your own. No powers, no glowing sword. Just you.”
“I’d still best you any day. Come snow, come rain, come tornado. I’d still block the swings of those long, clumsy arms of yours and thrust my blade through that Gray Keep on your plate and into your abnormally large heart. Then I’d look into your eyes to see the recognition in them that you’ve been bested.”
“Well, there’ll be plenty of time for that later,” Malcolm said, sitting back down. “In the meantime, I’ll be holding on to your sparkly sword and amulet.” He padded the pouch attached to his belt.
“Where are you taking me, then?”
“Where else? Back to the king. Not your father I’m afraid. My king.”
The rabbits began to crisp on their skewers over the flame. Artemis grabbed one and handed it to Leora. Malcolm wanted to deny her dinner out of spite, but the last thing he needed was an injured, hunger-fainting woman on his back tomorrow. His back was already sore enough.
Leora ate ravenously, chomping big bites and opening her mouth to let small puffs of heat escape, a dragon in their midst. Artemis handed Malcolm his own and Malcolm said, “Thanks for this, and helping care for her.”
“It’s nothing.” Artemis bit into his dinner. “Woods are full of these.” He raised his skewer.
“A shame these parts are dangerous and distant,” Malcolm said. “There’d be plenty of game to feed his majesty’s armies.”
“That there would,” his friend looked into the fire, thinking, “but too many outlaws and tribes … and bickering kingdoms.”
Malcolm grunted agreement. An owl hooted nearby and tall pines swayed in the night winds.
Leora broke the silence. “What way do you plan on taking, as you drag me back to your Backlands?”
“That’s none of your concern,” Malcolm said.
“What if you run into trouble?”
“Well, maybe I’ll just try out this magical sword of yours and put on the pretty necklace.”
