Operation Arcana

by John Joseph Adams

  The plant wanted to grow. It was desperate to live in spite of the frigid pall settling across it. Twig bent his magic toward that desire, coaxing the leaves to stretch themselves, the stalk to lengthen, to push free and rear its head above the frost. He fought to make every part of himself still, to be conscious only of himself and the song of the earth below him.

  The wind picked up, gusting hard against his side, pushing up his shirt and pricking at his gut, now rimed with frigid broth. He shuddered, his jaw locking and his teeth grinding together. The song receded, the spadeleaf deaf to his entreaties, fighting on for survival on its own.

  Twig knew he couldn’t blame the wind. Even on a perfect high-sun day his magic was Soft, good only to make him aware of the talents of others—real Sorcerers who could affect the world. He cursed, biting his lip.

  “I know what you’re doing,” Hatchet whispered across to him. “You just see what it gets you. What it gets all of us.”

  Twig wanted to scream, wanted to leap to his feet and knock Hatchet senseless, but all he could do was sink deeper into the pit of exhaustion. He had nothing left.

  “It doesn’t work anyway,” Hatchet finished. That, Twig couldn’t argue with.

  Perhaps to spite Hatchet, or the guard, or the frost or even the wind, Twig kept it up for another torch-span. If it wasn’t the wind, it was the hunger gnawing at his belly, or the angry burning of his frost-chapped backside. He could not find stillness in the midst of all this.

  But it was no use. He let Blackfly’s sniffling bring him back into the present. She curled against White-Ears, burrowing her head into his armpit, pressing so close it seemed she would crawl inside him. White-Ears bore it all stoically, despite the pressure it must be putting on his wound.

  “There, there,” Twig said, gathering Blackfly to him, but not so close that she would be forced to release the hem of the Sorcerer’s robe. “Leave grandfather be for a moment.”

  She pulled away at first, but finally relented and gave herself into his embrace, one hand loosely clutching the hem while he stroked her hair. The smell of that hair comforted him. Even the filth that covered all of them couldn’t mask the smell that all children have, the scent of fresh newness, of potentiality. Silent, sniveling Blackfly. Damned if she didn’t smell like hope.

  Twig found himself singing a herding song his father had taught him to pass the time on long marches, when the kine were moved from pasture to pasture:

  Here are the hooves, two by two

  Pairs of tails flicking

  Eyes, ears, horns pricking

  The kine in pairs

  And paired with us, walking through.

  The girl went quiet, snuggling against him, her breathing slowing, White-Ears’s hem trailing loosely now from one finger. Twig breathed deeply of her hair as he finished the song, losing himself in the memory of the sun on his shoulders and his father’s patient smile.

  And there, unbidden this time, was the song again. The earth sang it now, the spadeleaf beside him, the grass beneath him, all thrilled to the calm wonder of the music. He felt the flow of his magic interlocking with it, his tide and the tide of the world around him matching course. He sat upright, jolting Blackfly as he thrust his current forward toward the spadeleaf, trying to make it grow. The song drew away, the tenor of it changing back to the constant melody he normally heard, all trace of his touch on it gone.

  Blackfly began to cry again, scrambling out of his lap and returning to White-Ears’s side. She pressed against the old Sorcerer, and he stirred, groaning and pushing himself upright.

  Twig helped him. “My apologies, grandfather. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  White-Ears leaned close, his eyes reflecting what little starlight penetrated the thick cover of clouds above. His voice was clear, lucid.

  “I could feel you,” he said. “That was very well done. All you need now is to be still, and you will have it.”

  The anger surged in Twig, moving his lips before he could still them. “How can I be still? We’re freezing, starving. Blackfly is just a baby. Clover is pregnant, and she can’t calve without a proper windbreak or the calf will freeze. Killing us slowly is still killing us. And Hatchet . . .”

  “The Gibberer has to keep us alive,” White-Ears said, unperturbed by Twig’s rudeness. “He wants us to rear the kine.”

  “The Gibberer is crazy. Who knows what he wants?” Twig answered.

  “Stillness,” White-Ears said again. “Stillness in all things. Then you will have your answers.”

  But Twig had no stillness in him. He was quiet, and sat shivering, sleep a cruel stranger even as the sun lifted above the horizon, casting a pale and watery light over them, revealing a cruel landscape.

  And it brought no warmth at all.

  Clover brought him to his senses. She snorted and walked off, removing their bulwark against the biting wind. They pitched backward into the frost as she paced, lowing. As Twig watched, she lay in the frost, her tail lashing, then stood again, continuing her pacing in a tight circle.

  A village goblin might not know what he was seeing, but Twig was a Black-Horn, born on the plain and walking with the herds since before his naming-day.

  The calf was near.

  It would emerge wet and weak. Without shelter, without food, without the thick coat the adults grew over years. Without the heat that the Flame and Wind Sorcerers of his tribe would normally provide, it would be dead within minutes.

  Twig had seen fifteen winters, the calving coming at the cusp of each one. The Black-Horns had always stood by their sacred duty. They had never lost a calf. Never.

  As if to remind him, the wind howled, boring between his shoulder blades.

  Clover lowed again, heaving over onto her side and looking up at him. She looked scrawny, the bloodsuckers on her side had multiplied during the night, spreading up her neck. The rest of the kine fared no better. They couldn’t resist the killing cold, the slow whittling of their reserves by the bloodsuckers. They needed strength. That came from good forage.

  “Come,” Twig gestured to Stump. Hatchet came with him, unbidden, his eyes narrowing. White-Ears didn’t move, huddling on his backside, arms wrapped around a shivering Blackfly.

  Twig pointed to Clover. “The Three-Foots must want the kine. Else they’d have killed us long ago.”

  Stump nodded, his wounded hands wedged into his armpits. He looked exhausted, the tip of his nose unnaturally dark, frost clinging to it, unnoticed. “The horn fetches much in trade,” he observed.

  Twig nodded. “Clover and her calf are both doomed if we don’t move.”

  “We cannot get far enough for good forage now,” Hatchet said.

  “No, we cannot,” Twig agreed, “but we can find somewhere that will keep the wind off. And where there’s rock, there’s knife’s-edge. It grows year round.”

  “Knife’s-edge makes poor forage,” Stump said.

  “But it is forage, at least,” Twig replied, “and with a boulder or two to block the wind? We can get the calf standing, at least.”

  “And then what?” Stump growled. “The calf dies standing, and us with her.”

  “You set your eyes on the horizon, and stumble on the stone before you.” Twig used the age-old Black-Horns saying.

  “Watch for winter,” Stump replied with another, just as old. “Lest it catch you unawares.”

  “We cannot move.” Hatchet hung his head. “The Gibberer will not permit it.”

  “That is because he is a warband goblin. He is no herder. We must tell him.”

  Stump looked up at him. “Your head has frozen. He will kill us.”

  “We are dead already. I will not go to the well-spring and join the flow wondering if Clover and her calf could have been saved.”

  They were all silent at that, shivering in the chilly dawn.

  “I will go,” Hatchet said at last. “He . . . perhaps he will hear me.”

  Stump bared his teeth. “You . . . ? You will . . . Why don’t you jus
t go stroke The Gibberer’s—”

  “Hatchet will go,” White-Ears’s voice cut through the wind.

  Stump bowed and tapped his eyelids. “Yes, grandfather.”

  “What?” White-Ears said, his eyes suddenly losing focus. “I’m cold. Where is my bonded?”

  Stump only looked sad now, his shoulders slumping as White-Ears began to mutter to himself, resting his pointed chin on top of Blackfly’s head.

  Twig began to feel a foreign magical current, growing stronger as it closed on them. “You do not have to go,” he said to Hatchet. “The Gibberer is coming.”

  The Flesh Sorcerer appeared out of the freezing mist a moment later, two more Three-Foots warriors with him, all bundled in thick furs. One held a spear, the other, one of the human’s barking weapons, their “Emm-For” fire-bows that killed goblins from across the plain. It was made for a human warrior, one of their green clad “soldiers” who rode in the belly of their giant iron insects. Twig had seen them flying over the herd once when he was a boy, buzzing angrily, their round wings spinning like a child’s top. The fire-bow looked huge and clumsy in goblin hands, but the warrior was absurdly proud to carry it, his finger resting gently on the trigger that made the thing belch death. The soldiers’ magic was weak, but their weapons more than made up for it.

  Hatchet went to The Gibberer, moving as far from them as his chain would allow. The monster stopped as he approached, the misshapen eyes regarding him thoughtfully as he spoke in low tones. The Gibberer sprouted an exaggerated ear, the long top wrapping around Hatchet’s shoulders as he listened. Hatchet kept his voice even, but couldn’t suppress an involuntary shudder.

  At last The Gibberer grunted, then casually extended a heavily muscled arm and swatted Hatchet aside. He stomped a few more paces toward the rest of the Black-Horns before barking, “No. Not time to move.”

  Twig could bear it no longer. Rage gave him courage, and he felt his magical flow surge, batting against The Gibberer’s. “We will die here,” he seethed. “She will die here, and her calf with her.” He pointed a shaking finger at Clover, who had stood and begun pacing again, snorting in short bursts.

  The Gibberer gave a shrug that could lift a tree trunk. “Then you die. Queen coming. We join her army.” He pointed at the kine. “Food for army. They die, you die.”

  “We are all going to die, you fool! We need to find shelter and forage!”

  The Gibberer’s bigger eye narrowed, and Twig waited for the blow, or the focus in the magical current that would twist his head off. Instead, The Gibberer’s eyes arched. His huge jaw came up, chewing thoughtfully on nothing. At last the little eye came back to him. “Tell me where your tribe went. We move there.”

  Twig froze. His bowels turned to water, shocked to find he had not yet plumbed the limit of desperation. Did The Gibberer know about the star maps? How the Black-Horns found one another by following it? If the Three-Foots fell on the rest of the tribe unawares, and in force . . . Twig’s gorge rose just thinking of it.

  “Tell me,” The Gibberer said again. He looked at Hatchet, just beginning to rise. Hatchet opened his mouth, saw Twig’s glare, closed it. Stump reached him in three steps and made a great show of helping him to his feet, but Twig saw the force in his grip, and the reminder it brought.

  “We don’t know,” Twig said. “We were lost when you captured us.”

  But The Gibberer ignored him, his eyes locked on Hatchet’s.

  “We don’t know,” the scrawny goblin echoed, but Twig could read the lie on his face as easily as The Gibberer could.

  “Eh,” The Gibberer said. “Rats.” His arm stretched, and Hatchet flew out of Stump’s arms, skidding across the frost until the manacle brought him up short, digging sharply into his ankle. The Gibberer kicked him in his gut, sending him rolling, the chain clinking in the grass. Hatchet whimpered.

  “Scrawny rat,” the Gibberer said. “I like you. You can live.”

  “Thank you,” Hatchet mewled, cringing. “Thank you.”

  There had been a lie in his voice when he denied knowing where to find the rest of his tribe. There was no lie now.

  As he slipped further into weakness and hunger, the line between sleeping and waking blurred and Twig found he had lost the ability to control which side of it he stood on. As darkness fell again and the Black-Horns were chained up for the night, he stood beside Clover, trying to soothe the huge animal, rubbing her flanks and singing to her as she paced and lowed.

  The next thing he knew, he was lying in the frost, a strange warmth settling over him. He smiled, nestling in the cold grass. Sleep beckoned, and with it, peace from the trials of this captivity.

  “Twig.” Stump’s voice. His friend chucking his shoulder. Twig ignored him, reaching deeper into the drowsy warmth. Perhaps if he ignored the goblin, he’d go away.

  “Twig!” Stump said again, shaking him. “Get up.”

  “G’away,” Twig muttered, burying his face in the grass.

  He whined as Stump grabbed his shoulders and hauled him upright, slapping his face. “Wake up, Twig!”

  The warmth fled, taking the blessed cloak of sleep with it. Without its protection, Twig was back in the freezing hell, shivering again, his body suddenly reminded of every ache and wind-burned patch. He pushed Stump back, no more than a weak slap. “Damn you! Let me be!”

  Then his eyes widened.

  In one hand, Stump held a badly-notched spearhead. In the other, he held a broken length of chain. The manacle was still fastened around his ankle, but only a few iron links dangled from it.

  “Eyeflower,” Stump said. “Found a tiny bit yesterday, stuck to Rose’s arse. Put it in my broth before that dung eater took it from me.” He pointed to where the guard sprawled, unconscious across the stump, the broken shaft of his spear beside him. Stump planted the spearhead in between the links of Twig’s chain, bent to pick up a rock. “Let me get this off.”

  “What are you doing!? This won’t work!” he whispered.

  Stump swatted Twig’s hands away and set back to work. “It will. We will find the others. It is the only way we can live through this.”

  “It will not!” He fumbled against Stump’s hands. “They’ll run us down!”

  “We can find them! We know how to find them! If we can get to them, they will defend us!”

  “We won’t reach them in time! And they won’t be ready! We’ll just lead the Three-Foots right to them!”

  Hatchet roused at the sound of their arguing, limped over, dragging his chain. His face contorted when he saw Stump raising the rock to hammer the spearhead down. “You are a dead fool, Stump. I’ll have no part of this.” He turned and returned to his stake, gathering the chain into a coil and standing over it protectively.

  Stump shoved Twig away, sending him tumbling. Twig lay on his back, too weak to resist, and felt a pressure lift from his leg as Stump parted his chain, then moved on to White-Ears and did the same. The old goblin looked up, perplexed, as Stump stalked toward Hatchet, spearhead in hand.

  “Stay away from me!” Hatchet snarled. “I’ll not die for your foolishness!”

  “You will,” Stump replied. He hefted the spearhead. “This goes in your chain or in your eye. Make your choice.”

  Hatchet was silent, glaring as Stump struck him loose.

  Stump returned to White-Ears’s side, helping the ancient to his feet. Twig joined him. The chains were broken now, and there was nothing he could do to set it right. When The Gibberer saw, he would heed no explanation. They may as well run now.

  He hefted White-Ears’s arm over his shoulders, amazed at how heavy the old Sorcerer seemed. He turned to Hatchet, who crouched by his stake, staring at his broken chain, horrified.

  “Come now!” Twig said. “There is no choice any longer. We have to go!”

  Short coughing barks sounded from the darkness.

  The Gibberer’s laughter. “Go? Run? With old cripple and a baby? Stupid rats.”

  Twig felt the Sorcerer’s ma
gical tide as he appeared beside the stump, his smaller eye regarding the guard. His torso sprouted a spindly leg that settled on the guard’s head, shoving him experimentally. The guard gave a loud snore, but didn’t move. “Good. Smart rats.”

  He came forward, his flow intensifying. “You want to run? Run,” The Gibberer said.

  Twig began to back away, White-Ears stumbling with them. The Gibberer reached out, snatched up Blackfly, her head disappearing inside his giant hand. He lifted her slowly, almost delicately to his mouth, his big eye closing, the little one half-lidded in concentration.

  Then the giant jaw lashed out, snatching up Blackfly’s tiny foot before slamming shut with a wet slap. The little goblin didn’t cry out, but her eyes shot wide before rolling back in her head. She went limp, unconscious from the pain as The Gibberer tossed her back on the ground, her foot gone, leaking out her life’s blood in a slowly spreading stain, black under the wan starlight.

  “Go,” The Gibberer said again, throwing the sleeping guard over his shoulder and returning to his camp. “Run.”

  Twig and Stump cried out, setting White-Ears down and racing to Blackfly. The girl’s forehead was slick with sweat, and she moaned as Twig stripped off his ragged shirt and bound it around the stump of her ankle. He motioned for the spearhead, thrust it through the cloth, twisting it tighter and tighter until Blackfly screamed. She wept and howled, beating against his shoulder with her little fists.

  But the dark stain in the frost stopped spreading.

  “Stump! Get White-Ears and—”

  Behind them, Clover gave a great bellow and froze. There was a wet splatter as her water broke, steam rising from the ground beneath her. She mooed again, and the kine gathered around her, lowing back in sympathy.

  The calf was coming.

  The wind shrieked across the exposed plain, howling loud enough to blot out both Blackfly and Clover’s cries. It swept chilly wet kisses across Twig’s brow that trickled down his bare back, a deeper cold than he’d ever known.