Hidden Magic

by Melinda Kucsera

  The beasts were exhausted, or dead and many of the pilgrims just the same. Still, the number of raiders had dwindled drastically; he knew at least nine of them lay broken or worse at his hands, and his wife had seen to more than that. But the network of fresh wounds crawling his body was bleeding his strength and making his nerves itch with pain. Urk spat, and it tasted like it held all the acid in his burning muscles. “I don’t have much left,” he admitted to his wife.

  Al’rashal’s chest heaved as sweat poured down her face. “We just need a little more. I think we can break them if we get the leader.”

  He nodded as he looked about. He preferred his armor and best weapons, but they were in the ruins of the wagon, almost a mile behind. Grasping the damaged side of a wagon, he pulled, and broke off a section almost as broad as his chest. He inhaled deeply, tasting the threads of magic in his lungs and following them to the caster. “He’s at the center of it now, like the eye of a storm. If he moves, he’ll lose the spell.”

  “You sure?”

  “As I can be without knowing who taught him or how. But that’s what it tastes like.”

  “Fine, you lead, I’ll follow.”

  “I don’t know if I’ll make it.”

  “The more reason I should come with you.”

  “I may die out there, Al.”

  She was quiet a moment. “Then we die together, Urk.”

  He kissed her, or she him; honestly Urk neither knew nor cared which of them moved to the other first. When their lips parted, Urk noticed the child, Eihn, looking at them with something like wonder in his eyes. “Have faith, boy.” With one last squeeze of his wife’s hand, and he lumbered forward.

  The winds picked up, becoming a shrieking gale as Urk strode forward. Though it might have slowed a grown human it was little more than an inconvenience for the minotaur. The spellcaster spun the tool faster, and the winds picked up with a rising pitch. The sands lifted into the air to stab at his eyes and catch in his throat, but the thick fur coating his body protected him from the worst of it, and he didn’t need his eyes to know where the spellcaster was. The warble rose in pitch again, and now the winds were enough to give him a moment’s pause. Head down, body low, he trudged on. Urk could almost see the spellcaster now and the man’s arm faltered, the spin slowing and the winds’ pressure easing.

  The raider next to the spellcaster pointed in alarm at Urk, no doubt demanding the spellcaster to do something. The spellcaster said something in return, and though Urk was too far away to hear, he well understood the ire that came from the spellcaster. He understood, as well, the orders that were given next. “Brace,” he told his wife.

  The wind dropped, not abating completely but reducing and the raiders alongside the spellcaster drew bows and let fly a rain of arrows. Urk held up the plank of wood before him and stretched to his full height to act as a wall for his wife. Even with the wind reduced, most of the arrows flew wide, with many more stabbing into the minotaurs’ makeshift shield. Three arrows cut shallow lines along his arms, and a fourth sunk into his thigh just beneath the pleated skirt.

  Even through the volley he didn’t stop moving steadily closer. The spellcaster was barking orders, words Urk was almost close enough to discern. The raiders about the spellcaster dismounted, but the tool was spun faster, the wind picked up, and all was obscured by a cloud of sand before he could see what else was happening. No matter, Urk didn’t need eyes or even ears to know where the spellcaster was. He could taste the threads of magic on his tongue and could track the source of the spell for miles if he wanted. The wind died, dropping away with such suddenness that it sent him stumbling forward and onto the thrusting tip of a spear.

  The swirling sands had hidden the approach of the raiders and now Urk was close enough to hear the spellcaster to hear him laughing. Urk grasped the spear in his side so the raider couldn’t pull it out and struck him with the back of his fist. The man’s neck snapped like a twig. The Wayfarers would be upset, but Urk didn’t care. He pulled the spear from his side and launched it like a javelin at the spellcaster. Almost too late the spellcaster spun his tool, creating a wall of wind that sent the spear off course and mere inches from impaling him. Urk would have thrown something else, but the surrounding raiders were no longer transfixed by his rage and moved to attack him and his wife.

  A cry of pain sailed through the air as Al sent a man flying backward with a kick. Al tore into the raiders with long sweeps of her man-catcher, sending men retreating in fear or tumbling to the sand. Urk smiled and hurled the plank of wood he’d been using as a shield into the knot of men to his left, sending several crashing to the ground and more diving for cover.

  With his opposite hand, he swung the pole, to the satisfying sound of broken legs. The warble of the spellcaster’s tool picked up again, long, broad swings emitting a low-pitched tone that brought the faint echo of thunder from the clouds overhead. A blade skittered off his pleated skirt as a dagger was lodged in his side. Urk kicked a man in the chest, probably fracturing ribs, as the first drops of cold rain fell.

  His wife was driving a man back into his fellows with her man-catcher as Urk fended off the thrust of a pair of spears with his pole. The rains grew stronger and turned the sand about his feet into a thin mud. Someone wrapped himself about his left arm, trying to slow the minotaur’s swing with his sheer weight. Urk turned the man into a club as he beat him against his compatriots.

  “You’re wasting time!” shouted Al, her voice struggling to be heard over the mounting gale. “Don’t let them tar-pit us!”

  Urk nodded as he stumbled in the thinning sand, his leg sinking almost to mid-calf now. He pushed forward, marching through the deepening sludge toward the low dune the spellcaster waited on. Two men grasped his pole, dragging it down as a third slashed at him dragging a line of blood along his side. He shook the two men off and snatched at the man who slashed him, just barely missing him as he too found it more difficult to move in the slick sands. A cry from Al pulled Urk’s eyes backward.

  One of the raiders was on Al’s back, wrestling with her arms and grasping her mane as another tried to hold onto one of her forelimbs. Urk turned back, trudging toward his wife, but she waved him off as she punched another man in the jaw, no doubt shattering it as he went down. “Go! Go! Go!” she shouted. Even as she was borne to the ground.

  Urk roared as he turned about and tried to charge uphill. His legs sunk past the knee now and the difficult footing brought him down onto his hands. One of the raiders leapt onto his back and drove a dagger into his shoulder. Another drove a sword into his chest. The minotaur spat blood and gored the man with the sword skewering the raider’s face with his horn before grasping the man on his back and slamming him into the wet sands. He stomped on the sinking man, ensuring he would not rise again, even as he felt the ground beneath his hooves fall further away.

  “Enough!” cried one of the raiders, the quicksand past his hips now. “Deep enough!”

  “No,” replied the spellcaster, as more rain fell sending a wave of slick sand down the dune to wash several raiders into Urk and sending him sliding backward.

  The minotaur could no longer feel the ground beneath his hooves as the sands pulled him down. The raiders cried out in desperation, to the mounting laughter of their leader. Urk threw his pole like a missile at the spellcaster. Too close to change the spin of his tool, the raider jerked his horse aside at the last minute, and the pole turned the horse’s head into an explosion of blood and meat. Horse and rider crashed to the ground, but the raider rose, sneering. The warble picked up again, and the rain poured on harder. Two of the raiders near Urk were submerged to their chests and struggling to reach the edge of the pool. The minotaur grasped them about the shoulders and pushed them under. It was the only act of defiance he had left, probably the last act of defiance he would ever make.

  “Urkjorman!” cried Al’rashal, throwing off one of the raiders pinning her to the sand and kicking another in the leg so hard he heard the
bone snap over the wind. But they had her thoroughly pinned now. Even from here, he could see the pain and love at war on his wife’s face.

  “Al’rashal!” he cried as the sands reached his chest. “This life or the next, I will always love you!”

  She might have responded with something other than an anguished cry, but his ears were already submerged and a moment later he sank into darkness.

  Chapter Seven

  Karden

  Eihn couldn’t tell if it was misery or exhaustion that kept his head bowed, but the hours they spent trudging across sand-swept stone seemed as wearying as all the days of travel before it combined. The raiders had only taken two of their carts, piling what they could lift or desired onto them and had left the rest to bleach on the sands. Their draft animals, those that still lived, were led by raiders at the rear, while the pilgrims had been forced to walk, two abreast between the lines of riders. The raiders spoke to each other in a light, sibilant tongue too genteel for people of such fierce character. Though they also spoke the Tongue of Kings, which they used to jeer and threaten their captives. At the lead of the pilgrims was Master Muraheim almost carried between his daughter, Iilna and Seedan. Before them was Al’rashal.

  The centaur had been stripped of her leathers, leaving her nearly nude above the hips, exposing her tan skin and the fresh cuts and abrasions to the merciless rays of the sun and the biting winds. Her arms were bound at the wrists by ropes that writhed like snakes and were held by a man walking beside her, while another wriggled about her throat and was held by a man riding to her right. Her rich ebony mane spilled from her scalp in an unkempt mess, and the men leading her kept trying to drag her this way or that to molest her spirits. However, despite the pain, humiliation, and fresh wounds, the woman remained straight-backed and resolute. Eihn heard some of the raiders promise to toy with her, and he feared for their foolish lives if they did.

  “Why so glum?” roared the leader, before releasing a mocking burst of laughter. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”

  Silence and fury were the pilgrims’ only response.

  “You’ve made it, at long last,” pressed the leader before sweeping his hand behind him. “Welcome to Karden!”

  He knew he should have expected a ruin. Eihn had seen what remained of the other towns across the desert. He knew they were going to an abandoned shrine in an abandoned city. So, he knew he should not have expected some gleaming edifice rising from the sands. But he had hoped and dreamed such things, despite himself, and to see the truth now before him was almost as painful a thing as seeing his friends lost on the sands.

  Some echo of Karden’s grandeur remained. The stone that rose from the sands was white, not sand brown like the blocks in other places. Here and there Eihn could see indents in the architecture where copper gilding had been before it was removed by theft or time. Trees, though few in number, rose in defiance of the sands, and somewhere the winds turned the remains of some great chime to cast a single stuttering note of welcome into the air. Yes, an echo of grandeur, but only an echo.

  “Keep moving.” The raider beside Eihn jabbed the butt of his spear into his back. The boy bit back the curse rising in his throat and complied. His anger had already earned him a few new bruises. Instead, he cursed fate and moved on, shuffling with the rest and snatching glances at the empty buildings about them. Here and there he saw the evidence of life. New litter in the streets, horse droppings swept down alleyways, and small desert lizards fighting over the discarded scraps of old meals. The raiders had likely been here for some time. An abandoned city that attracted pilgrims would be an ideal place for scavengers, thieves, and slavers.

  “P-please,” croaked Muraheim with a voice withered by exhaustion and thirst.

  “What?” snarled the leader of the raiders, the spellcaster.

  “Please,” begged the old gnome, managing the strength to take the few steps toward the leader and bow. “Please let us see Se’aræles, the statue please.”

  The leader spat into the sands with a derisive snort and thrust his boot into the old gnome’s brow, sending him to the earth. A ring of laughter rose from the raiders as cries of alarm rose from the pilgrims. Muraheim lay still for what felt a long while and then dragged himself back to his feet. Once again, he approached the leader of the raiders and pleaded. “It is all we have. It is why we came so far, to be so close, please!”

  The leader kicked the gnome over again and followed the strike by spitting on him. “Have that for your fool faith!”

  Once more the old gnome rose and approached the leader. “Strike me, spit on me, do anything you want to me, but please, let us see it.”

  The leader’s boot lifted again but did not fall. “You’re not going to stop begging, are you?”

  “I beg only this of you.”

  The leader released a weary sigh. “Fine, it’s close to where we’ll be locking you up. It will please me to sell you away in the shadow of your god.”

  “My blessings and thanks.”

  “I want neither! And you’ll have less!”

  Muraheim fell silent. The leader responded with a withering glower and gestured to one of the others. “Take them. You two with me. We’ll pen the centaur.”

  The raider’s good humor seemed to return as he imagined some ill fate for Al’rashal. “Yes, you’ll fetch quite the prize on the market once we break you. Best we treat you with care.”

  Eihn watched as Al was led away, head unbowed and anger seeming to ripple from her body like heat, but she was soon gone from his sight as they were led in different directions, deeper into the remains of Karden. The street here grew wider, the buildings sparser, and soon they passed statuary of every sort or the remains thereof. Though battered by sand and time, what remained of the statuary seemed quite elegant, but even the relatively intact statues paled in comparison to Se’aræles.

  The statue—though perhaps monument would have been a more fitting descriptor—was more incredible than Eihn had expected. Cast from brass, the sculpture gleamed in the sun and seemed untouched by time, save for the drifts of sand accumulating at its base. The wide ovoid base was made to look like the bridge between land and sea, tilting slightly up at the land side.

  On the “shore” was Mehrindai depicted, as she usually was, as a gnome mid-stride as she raced away from her pursuer. Even cast of solid bronze, her dress and hair seemed to be rippling in the wind. Behind her, rising from the sea on a current of water, was Kurgen’Kahl. He was depicted as a human sailor, as was often the case, with long rope-like tendrils reaching from the waters behind and about. One hand was outstretched toward Mehrindai as if directing the tentacles to ensnare her. The statue possessed such lifelike realism Eihn swore the crafter must have seen the gods personally. Most astounding of all was the emotion that shone through the construct. Eihn could almost hear Mehrindai’s laughter, could almost feel the mirth of Kurgen’Kahl. True or not, the crafter of the Se’aræles saw the two as lovers and here they had cast a moment to that love.

  Eihn had grown, silent and it took him a moment to realize they had all grown silent, awed by the beauty and artistry before them. Even their captors remained silent or whispered in low, deferential tones. Muraheim did it first, not asking, simply moving forward as though possessed. One of the raiders called after him, but Eihn doubted if even Urkjorman could have barred the old gnome’s path, were the minotaur still alive. He was followed by one, then another, then Eihn, and soon they all walked forward. Each rested their hands upon the base of the monument, pressed their head to the warm metal that should have been burning hot in the desert sun, and offered a prayer of thanks. Though weary, injured, and dehydrated Eihn felt almost at peace from doing so.

  “Alright, got what ya wanted,” growled one of the raiders as he began pulling them from the monument. “Now go!”

  It was almost painful to be pulled away, and Eihn understood why pilgrims still came to such places to pledge or renew their devotion. Like livestock, they were herded
down the street and into the remains of some large building whose purpose was now lost to time but would serve as their pen. Strewn on the floor were straw mats, an uneven layer of hay, and pots for waste or food. It was obvious the raiders routinely made slaves of the faithful and the curious, and they were just the latest in a long line of victims.

  Chapter Eight

  Bound And Unbroken

  The ropes are weird. It was an odd thought to have, but it nagged at Al’rashal like sand in her feathers. Some part of her understood she was fixating on her bindings to take her mind off what happened to Urkjorman, but the larger part of her psyche told that part to shut up. She wasn’t ready to deal with that yet; she might never be ready to deal with that. She shook her head to cast the thought aside and focused on the matters at hand. The rope around her neck still slithered in a discomforting fashion. It had been released from her captor and tied to a post near the east wall. It never went slack; instead, when she drew near the pillar, it seemed to shrink and lengthen as she drew away. It tightened when she was about fifty feet away and she reasoned it would strangle her if she went much further. The rope around her arms seemed to be shorter, or more was used to wrap her arms and wrists. This was tied to the guard, wrapped around his left arm, much to his dismay. He’d cursed the leader, and then her, when he got saddled with guard duty, making sure to say that last bit in the Tongue of Human Kings so she would understand it, instead of the local dialect they spoke to each other.

  They’d stuck her in the stables, of course, though not the ones with their own horses and beasts. However, the looming smell of excrement and the splotches of dried blood indicated it was used intermittently likely to pen whatever animals they stole from others or captured out on the sands if the damage to the walls and doors was any clue.

  The whole pen was in disrepair, but the raiders likely didn’t care to fix it. They had a whole abandoned city of buildings to choose from, so why spend time fixing any of it? Still, she was certain a good kick would shatter the pillar she was leashed to. Idly she sniffed at the ropes writhing around her arms. They smelled like hemp, and she could bite through hemp rope, but did the magic animating them protect it?