“One thing, before I go,” Void added. “I notice the protective spell I gave you was torn to shreds.”
“It was,” Emily confirmed.
She sighed. Void had called it The Secret That Cannot Be Spoken, a protective spell that shielded her from truth spells and compulsions that would otherwise make her talk. But the spell hadn’t stood up to Robin’s attack, even though it had saved her from becoming his slave. She’d had to weed the last remnants of the spell out of her mind, once she’d returned to the present day. It would have been dangerous to leave them in place.
A thought struck her. “How did you know?”
“It’s clearly visible if you know what to look for,” Void said, vaguely. “Do you want me to cast the spell again?”
Emily hesitated. Lady Barb had warned her that relying on a single spell to maintain her defenses was dangerous. A skilled or knowledgeable sorcerer might find a chink in her armor and use it to break her mind. Robin had been neither skilled nor knowledgeable, but the spell the demon had given him had managed to crack through her defenses. She would have to be more careful in the future.
“I think I’ll rely on other spells,” she said. She’d have to see if Sergeant Miles was willing to help her test her defenses. Lady Barb would have been preferable, but Emily had no idea where she was. Or when she’d be free to assist. “Thanks, but no thanks.”
Void looked approving, just for a second. “Very good,” he said. “But make sure you layer your protective spells carefully.”
He rose. “And make sure you learn as much as you can from the sergeant,” he added, as Emily stood. “He’s a good teacher.”
His face twisted in dark amusement. “And also quite low in the pecking order. A smart officer will listen to his sergeants, but he won’t consider them his equals.”
Emily frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“You will,” Void said.
He opened the door. A gust of cold air blew in, carrying snowflakes. Emily looked up at the dark sky and shivered. They would either be riding in the snow, which struck her as insanely dangerous, or remain trapped in the cabin until the snow stopped falling. And if the snow kept falling, they might be snowbound.
But we could use magic to teleport or simply blast our way out, she thought. We wouldn’t be trapped permanently.
Void stepped out into the cold air. Sergeant Miles was standing next to the horses, smoking a long pipe. He raised a hand as Void nodded to him before teleporting away. Emily felt another twinge of sadness — he hadn’t even said goodbye — as she walked over to the sergeant. The horses were munching contentedly from feedbags.
“Put out the fire, then clean up the cabin,” Sergeant Miles ordered. “We’re leaving in ten minutes.”
Emily looked up at the sky. The snow was falling harder now, hiding their tracks. She looked over towards the pond, watching the water ripple as snowflakes touched the surface and vanished. Something was lurking there, just below the surface. She had a nasty feeling she didn’t want to find out what it was. But if they were going to be riding in the snow ...
She swallowed. Was this an order she was supposed to question? Or was she meant to do as she was told?
“The snow’s getting heavier,” she said, finally. “Shouldn’t we stay here?”
“It isn’t long until our next stop,” Sergeant Miles said. “Go clean up the cabin.”
Emily sighed and did as she was told, putting out the fire, washing up the cups they’d used and wiping the floor. Sergeant Miles checked everything carefully as soon as she had finished, then motioned for her to pick up her bag and follow him outside. The horses were waiting, looking cold. Emily had to struggle to climb onto her horse when the beast’s fur was wet and cold. The warming spell she cast as soon as she was seated didn’t seem to help. Sergeant Miles led her down the path as soon as he’d mounted his horse.
It was a terrifying experience. Alassa would probably have loved it, but Emily couldn’t help feeling as though the horse was going to slip and fall over at any moment. They picked their way onwards as the snow kept falling around them, the horses picking their way through the slush. She clung to the reins with grim desperation, hoping — praying — that they reached their next destination before they froze to death. Maybe there was something supernatural in the snow, she reasoned. She’d cast the warming spell twice, but the cold still seeped into her bones.
This is utter madness, she thought, as the horse slipped. Just for a moment, she was certain the horse was going to throw her. We should have stayed in the cabin.
The trees parted suddenly, revealing a cluster of small buildings. Emily forced herself to sit upright, admiring the wooden houses. A small gully ran through the village, tiny fragile-looking bridges connecting the houses to the streets. In summer, she realized, the gully would be a stream, providing water for the occupants. Warm light spilled out of windows, welcoming them to the village. Sergeant Miles led her down what she assumed was a street — the snow made it hard to tell — and up to a large inn. A grim-faced person was standing outside, wrapped in so many furs that Emily couldn’t tell if she was looking at a man or a woman.
Sergeant Miles slipped off his horse and landed neatly on the ground. “Take the horses back to Whitehall, once the snow has melted,” he said, passing the reins and a silver coin to the figure. “They’ll tip you once the horses are returned.”
He beckoned for Emily to join him. “Have you been here before?”
Emily shook her head as the horses were led off towards the stables. If the inn was like the others she’d seen, there would be room for a dozen horses at the rear. There was probably a horse-trader somewhere within the village too, always looking to sell or barter his wares. A courier might exchange a tired horse for a fresh one too. But in winter, business would be slow. The innkeeper would probably be very relieved to see them.
“This is a free community on the King’s Road,” Sergeant Miles said. He led the way across the tiny bridge — Emily could barely make out the snow-filled gully — and pushed open the door. A gust of warm air struck them as they entered. She leant into the warmth, gratefully. “Most of the people here are farmers or woodsmen, but there’re a couple of magicians who harvest potions’ ingredients from the forest. They’re good people.”
Emily looked around as Sergeant Miles removed his coat. The inn was cleaner than most, she had to admit, but it still looked dingy. A number of patrons, mainly young men, eyed her curiously, not bothering to hide their interest. There were only two women in the room, both old enough to be her grandmother. She forced herself to stare back at the young men as she removed her coat, allowing them to see the crest on her outfit. They looked away hastily as soon as they realized she was a magician.
The innkeeper materialized in front of them, moving with surprising stealth for a man of his immense bulk. “Welcome to the Belching Hydra, My Lord,” he said, bowing low to Sergeant Miles. His eyes flickered across Emily before returning to Sergeant Miles. “Can I fetch you a drink?”
“A flagon of mulled ale,” Sergeant Miles said. He glanced at Emily. “And for you?”
“Kava, if you have it,” Emily said. She wouldn’t touch alcohol, not after watching her mother steadily drink herself to death. There were spells to remove the alcohol, but she’d always considered them somewhat risky. “If not, warm milk.”
“Of course, My Lady,” the innkeeper said. He bowed, again. His belly scraped against the floor. “It’ll be right with you.”
“There’s a toilet over there if you have to answer the call of nature,” Sergeant Miles said, jabbing a finger towards the rear of the inn. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
Emily watched him go, then looked down at the table. People were looking at her. She could feel them. And yet ... she forced herself to ignore them. Her fingers felt frozen, as if the cold had turned her bones to ice. She knew it was her imagination, but the impression refused to leave her. She felt as though she would never be warm again.
The innkeeper returned, placing a large mug of warm milk in front of her. Emily took a sip, silently appreciating the creamy liquid. Kava would have been better, but the inn might not keep it in stock.
Which it should do, she thought, as Sergeant Miles returned. We can’t be the only magicians who visit.
“We’ll be leaving soon,” Sergeant Miles said. He drank his ale quickly, gulping it down as if it were water. Emily couldn’t help feeling worried, even though she knew he wouldn’t take the risk of getting drunk. “I suggest you use the toilet. There won’t be another chance for a while.”
Emily nodded. “Are you going to order fresh horses?”
“We’ll be teleporting,” Sergeant Miles said. “There’s no need to ride the rest of the way.”
“Good,” Emily said, with feeling.
Sergeant Miles smiled. “I thought all girls loved horses.”
“I think they love the idea of horses,” Emily said, sourly. Maybe she would have wanted a pony, as a little girl. But real horses were dirty and smelly and needed to be mucked out every day. Spoiled rich brats could afford horses and men to do the hard work, but she hadn’t had a hope in hell of even looking at a horse. “The real animal is different.”
She touched the snake-bracelet on her wrist. The Death Viper was an easy pet, even though it was incredibly dangerous to everyone else. All she had to do, when the snake was in its natural form, was feed it or let it hunt. A dead rat could keep the snake going for days. And all she had to do was maintain mental contact to make sure it didn’t go after a human victim.
“But important,” Sergeant Miles pointed out. “Owning a horse makes a man a gentleman.”
Emily shrugged. Alassa might love horses — Frieda and Imaiqah liked horses — but it wasn’t something she shared. It still surprised her that Alassa actually took care of her own horse, although she’d met the woman who taught Alassa how to ride. She wouldn’t have allowed anyone, even a princess, near her stables unless they were willing to help take care of the animals.
She finished her milk, answered the call of nature and then picked up her bag and followed Sergeant Miles into another room. It was large enough to hold several dozen people, but it was completely empty. She puzzled over the empty space for a moment, then reasoned it was probably used for dances and weddings. There wasn’t much else to do in such a small village.
Sergeant Miles took her arm and closed his eyes, preparing to cast the spell. “Wait,” Emily said. “What about our coats?”
“They’ll be sent back to Whitehall with the horses,” Sergeant Miles told her. He didn’t open his eyes. “Unless you left something valuable in the pockets ...?”
“I didn’t,” Emily assured him. “I just wanted to make sure.”
“Good,” Sergeant Miles said. He shifted, rebalancing himself. “Then let’s be off. Time is pressing.”
Emily sucked in her breath, then closed her eyes as she felt the magic build up. The world shifted beneath her feet as the spell engaged, causing a surge of white light that seemed to burn through her eyelids ...
... And then they were somewhere else.
Chapter Seven
IT WAS HOT, ALMOST SCORCHING.
Emily opened her eyes, taking a deep breath. The air was dry, as if they were standing on the edge of a desert. She looked down, half-expecting to see sand under her feet, and glanced around. The sun was high overhead ... it looked to be just after noon, local time. They’d crossed several thousand miles in the blink of an eye. She adjusted her tunic as she tried to adjust to the sudden change in temperature, her eyes taking in her surroundings. It looked, very much, like a tropical country.
Insects buzzed through the palm trees, the sound of their passage blurring into background noise. Strange pineapple-like fruits hung from the other trees, some shivering as though they were on the verge of falling. The ground felt odd, like a strange mix of sand and soil; the air smelled faintly of something exotic, something she couldn’t quite place. She could hear men shouting in the distance, their voices echoing through the air. Sweat started to trickle down her back as the heat rose further, mocking her. She suddenly felt extremely overdressed.
“This way,” Sergeant Miles said.
Emily glanced at him as they started to walk down a dusty road. It was hard to be sure, but it looked as though hundreds of horses and thousands of men had marched down it in the last few days. The surface had been completely torn up, rendering the road nearly useless for horses and carts. A couple of young children, so thin she couldn’t tell if they were male or female, were scooping up horse dung and carrying it away from the road. It made good fertilizer, if she recalled correctly. The locals had to consider it a windfall from the gods.
But there’s also an invading army bearing down on them, she thought, as she caught sight of their hovels. The shacks were tiny, so ramshackle that she couldn’t help feeling that a single gust of wind would blow them over. Beyond them, the fields looked yellow, as if they were already dying. Scraping an existence from the soil, so close to the Desert of Death, would be almost impossible. These people are too poor to flee.
“The camp should be over there,” Sergeant Miles said, as they walked through another patch of trees. Spiders scrambled through the branches. Emily eyed them warily before giving them a wide berth. “Try to keep your hands in sight.”
She smelled the camp a long time before it came into view. The scent of too many humans in too close proximity ... she shuddered, reminding herself to breathe through her mouth until she grew accustomed to the smell. Hygiene on the Nameless World was a hit-or-miss affair — she’d been in cities that smelt like sewers — but the camp was particularly unpleasant, the stench of sweat, piss, and shit blurring into one obnoxious odor. The wind shifted, blowing the scent in their direction. She had to swallow hard to resist the urge to be sick.
And yet ... it was smaller than she’d expected.
“This is the tip of the spear,” Sergeant Miles told her, when she asked. “Other forces are gathering to the north, preparing for war. More troops ... more sorcerers ... everything we can scrape up in a hurry. We ... may be charged with slowing the enemy down until the main body is ready to take the field.”
Emily shivered, helplessly.
The camp slowly revealed itself. An outer layer of makeshift tents ... she blinked in astonishment as she saw the women and children surrounding the wooden walls. They looked out of place, didn’t they? Dogs and cats ran around, looking surprisingly well-fed; she shuddered as she caught sight of a rat climbing on a wooden box. It didn’t look scared of humans — or of the cats. But then, it was large enough to give a good account of itself even against a cat.
A long line of men waited outside one of the tents, laughing and jeering and calling out lewd suggestions ... it was a brothel, she realized numbly. She’d expected, at some level, men wearing military uniforms, but the soldiers — the common soldiers — looked more like rough laborers. Their clothes seemed to follow no rhyme or reason. One of them was shirtless, his back covered in nasty scars. Emily felt sick. Someone had flogged him so hard that they’d literally taken the skin off his back.
She glanced around. A trio of women were bent over a tub, washing clothes. Others were flirting with the men or trying to sell them stuff. A handful of men were doing the same, hawking their wares to anyone who looked interested. One of them was bellowing out an advert for protective charms, but Emily couldn’t sense any magic surrounding him. They had to be fakes ...
A drunkard rolled up in front of them. “Hey, man,” he slurred. He leered at Emily. “How about a kiss?”
Sergeant Miles knocked him down with a single punch and kept walking towards the gates, seemingly unbothered. Emily glanced at the drunkard, who had been knocked out, then followed him. The guards, thankfully, looked more professional, wearing leather that would turn a blade, if they were lucky. She’d expected plate armor. But then, she considered, anyone wearing heavy armor under the sun would probably die of h
eatstroke within minutes.
“Inform General Pollack that we have arrived,” Sergeant Miles ordered. “He will wish to see us.”
The guards were professional, Emily noted. They summoned a messenger and dispatched him rather than going themselves. She quietly reached out with her senses and tested the magic surrounding the camp, noticing the network of protective wards. It was crude, compared to Whitehall’s protections, but she suspected they’d be effective. The guards, too, had protective charms layered over them. Maybe not enough to stop a necromancer — no, it wouldn’t be enough to stop a necromancer — but it would delay any lesser threat.
Sergeant Miles leaned over to whisper in her ear. “Look confident,” he muttered. “You are a noblewoman — and a sorceress. You must not show weakness.”
Emily nodded, reluctantly. Lady Barb had tried to teach her how to behave, but projecting strength wasn’t her forte. It was easier to be polite to everyone rather than boss them around, whatever her status. She rather suspected that the noblemen in the camp were desperately trying to work out the pecking order, if only so they could suck up to their betters while sneering at everyone below them.
She heard a man shouting and turned her head, just in time to see a line of young men jogging past. The sergeant following them — she assumed he was a sergeant — was bellowing out encouragement and insults, while helping a couple of laggards along with kicks to the rear. Two more groups followed, each carrying heavy rucksacks as they ran around the camp. It would make them stronger, she knew, if they survived. Several of the young men looked as though they were on the verge of collapse.
A young man appeared, wearing a fancy uniform. “Sergeant,” he said, addressing Sergeant Miles. His tone hovered on the brink of rudeness. “General Pollack would be pleased to see you in his tent.”
He turned and strode away, without waiting for a response. Emily remembered Void’s warning as Sergeant Miles followed him, clenching her fists at the blatant disrespect. The messenger had to genuinely believe he spoke for General Pollack or he would never have risked insulting a combat sorcerer. She’d met some of King Randor’s messengers, who believed they spoke for their king. Thankfully, they’d had the sense to be polite to his daughter and heir.
11- The Sergeant's Apprentice Page 7
