Hidden Magic

by Melinda Kucsera

  “Now?” asked Al’rashal as she walked in his shadow.

  “Not yet, let the armor do its job,” he answered. The rain of arrows was thinner than he’d expected; likely they’d seen what he was wearing and reasoned, wisely, that breaching it with their short arrows was unlikely. Save his helmet, the armor was composed of a supple leather hide that had strips of oak riveted to it more than an inch thick. It covered his chest, arms, and lower legs with the metal-plated skirt protecting his crotch. He wore a bronze helmet that hung from his horns and strapped to his left arm was an elliptical plank of wood over three inches thick and more than five feet across. The thickness of the plates meant there were gaps at the joints, but the easy, lumbering gait he maintained kept them covered. Someone would have had to be in close to exploit them.

  With the next rain of arrows, he at last moved his shield, using it more to cover Al than himself. Arrows lodged into the thick oak plates or bounced off harmlessly. One stuck in the gap between his left shoulder and collar, biting deep enough to be felt, but there was no blood.

  “Now?”

  Urk waited a heartbeat. He could just make out the raiders shouting to each other, just as they had before each previous volley. He didn’t know the words they used, but he had come to understand their meaning. “Sasl!” shouted someone from the walls.

  “Now!” roared Urk, lifting his shield and standing aside.

  Al bolted forward, sand exploding in her wake as the arrows rose into the air. She barreled forward like a comet, her golden armor shining in the fading light of the sun. Hastily the archers drew and fired, sporadic, disorganized shots crashing to the sand or deflecting off Al’s gleaming plate. Desperately several raiders rushed into her path, and she hit the disorganized mob like a thunderbolt. Men were trampled or cast aside, with some unlucky bastard getting her lance through his skull. His wife didn’t wait; she couldn’t, she was less a person and more a ballista bolt that tore through the ranks in silent rage.

  Urkjorman, however, was not silent. The stunned mob shook in terror as he roared, having almost forgotten him in the wake of his wife’s passing. It was the last mistake he would allow. With a sweep of his left arm, he crushed a pair of men against the wall to the sound of breaking bones. With his right he swept the heavy iron ax through three others. “Stand and die!”

  The man before Urk threw up his arms and voided his bowels in fear. The minotaur kicked him with such force that it shattered the slaver’s ribs and sent the corpse crashing into one of the men fleeing into the nearest building. The minotaur dropped his ax, cleaving the corpse in two and making a new one beneath it. Several others escaped into a near building and threw the doors shut. Through the door Urk could hear cries of alarm and the scraping of wood on stone, no doubt to barricade it. Three spikes of pain blossomed in his upper back as arrows sunk into his armor. A gentle warmth spread over his shoulder blade; at least one had sunk deep enough to draw blood. He could no longer afford to stay outside and risk one of the archers lodging a bolt into his eye or his throat.

  It was time to teach the raiders that doors were no protection against minotaurs.

  Urk burst into the building amid a shower of wood and the room filled with cries of fear. He swept his left arm aside; the shield battering two men to the ground and swept his ax in a wide arc that cut one man in two before burying itself in another. A raider much braver than the rest used the moment to drive his spear forward, breaching the oaken plates protecting the minotaur’s torso and plunging several inches of steel into his flesh. Pain sheared through his side as the man tried to work the weapon deeper, but it was caught between wooden plates. Urk kicked the man in the head, snapping his neck as the head jerked backward at an obscene angle. With a roar, he pulled the spear free and snapped it over his knee. The other three men in the room fled, scrambling through holes in the wall to escape his wrath.

  So terrified were the fleeing men, that they did not notice Al’rashal and were trampled or impaled as they sought the safety of the street.

  Urk tore down a section of wall as he stomped into the street and bellowed in the Tongue of Kings, “You have nowhere to hide! Run or die!”

  A high-pitched whine sailed through the air, the only warning Urk had before a powerful wind gust almost took him from his feet. Slamming his ax to the earth, he managed to steady himself. Eyes narrowing, he saw the spellcaster. “You,” snarled the minotaur.

  The stone buildings on either side acted as a wind tunnel, funneling the gusts into a hammering gale that threatened to pull the helmet from his skull and the ax from his hand. But he was ready for it now. Crouching to bring his center of gravity low, he slowly came forward, step by careful step. The spellcaster spun his tool slow then fast, the winds receding only to sweep back with enough force to overturn carts and pull loose stones from the road. It was like head-butting one of his older brothers, each blast a full body ram that sent his feet sliding. But for every pace he was pushed back he made two forward.

  The spellcaster changed to long, sweeping swings now, and with it came the rain and thunder just as before. Urk smiled; the streets were paved stone. There would be no quicksand for the spellcaster to use this time. The rain was coming down in thicker and thicker sheets that felt ice cold and left a thin fog along the ground as the desert sun warred with the unnatural deluge. But it mattered little to Urk. The wind relented, and the spellcaster was close enough to charge.

  Now Urk could clearly see the tool the leader used, a meteor-hammer. It was a length of chain with a sphere at one end. However, this one was different than others Urk had seen because the head had openings in it permitting the passage of air through it to generate sound. The minotaur rushed forward; shield held before him like a wedge to sweep aside any raiders that got in his way. Almost atop the leader now, the spellcaster pulled the weapon in close to his body, so it spun in a tight circle barely three feet wide that caused the pitch to raise to a near earsplitting tone. The leader swung the meteor-hammer at Urk, and the minotaur lifted his shield to block.

  Thunder filled the air as the hammer struck and the top of his shield exploded. Fragments lacerated Urkjorman’s face, knocked his helmet clear and sent pain surging through his arm. The minotaur still had the presence of mind to swing with his ax, but the chop was awkwardly aimed, and the explosion of wind had sent him off balance. The spellcaster easily spun aside and lashed out with his hammer again. The crack of thunder wasn’t as powerful this time, but it was still quite painful and almost took Urk off his feet as the explosion landed in the back of his knee. The minotaur swept out again, a long-reaching sweep of his ax that forced the spellcaster to tumble away. The fog about their feet rose, and so did they.

  The spellcaster was spinning the meteor-hammer in long loops that brought more rain as it hissed something through laughter in its sibilant tongue.

  Urk rotated his shoulders and wrists, letting the feeling return to his left leg and wincing as he put weight on it. It would hold, but not if he got hit like that again.

  “You offer,” said the spellcaster in the Tongue of Kings. “Death or flee? Ha! I offer you, monster. I can sell you as slave or as meat!”

  “I have but one master, and it will never be you.”

  “Meat it is!” He laughed. Pulling the meteor closer into a tight spin, he raced forward, keeping low so that he was barely perceptible through the rising mist.

  The sound of the spiraling hammer gave Urk a good idea of where he was, but it wouldn’t tell him where the attack would come from. His only hope was to pressure the spellcaster so he couldn’t choose his strikes with care. The minotaur charged the high-pitched whine and lifted what remained of his shield the second the pitch changed. His shield ruptured, fragments surrounding his skull as another third of it turned into tinder.

  This time the minotaur had been prepared for it, and though he was certain the bones in his forearm were fractured, he swung at where the leader should be. He felt his ax connect with something. The sound o
f rent leathers lifted into the air, and the edge of his blade had a thin smear of blood, but not enough to have been a telling strike. Urk lifted his right leg, wincing at the pain of his left as he heard the hammer come around again.

  Pain blossomed along his back, driving Urk onto his bad knee as large fractures spread through his armor. The minotaur had guessed wrong that time. He lifted his right arm, warding his face with his ax, and was rewarded with the sound of steel on steel as an explosion of sound sent reverberations through his arm. He swept his ax to the left, even as his arm still quivered from the explosion, and heard the spellcaster’s feet leave the earth. The leader’s head rose above the mist for only a moment, but it was enough time for Urk to throw his shield. The sound of feet splashing to the earth was followed by a cry of pain as the mangled wooden disk collided with something fleshy.

  Urk chased the sound of the falling body and brought his ax down, the force of his blow parting mist and stone.

  He’d missed by a hand’s breadth. The spellcaster kicked at the minotaur’s arm to tumble away and set Urk off balance long enough to get to his feet. The minotaur lashed out with his left hand, catching the ragged edge of the leader’s clothes and dragged him to the stones with the sound of cracking ribs.

  His ax came down, and so did the hammer, the screaming weapon colliding with his head. Urk could feel the fractures spread through his skull and knew blood must have erupted from his face. For a moment, he saw only blackness; then sight returned to one eye. Blood rich, red, and not his own painted the blade of his ax, and a severed arm lay upon the earth. Once his ears stopped ringing, the minotaur could hear the sounds of swearing and pain. “Blood for blood, pain for pain!”

  Urk stalked forward, using his ears more than eyes to edge toward the spellcaster. It would be harder for the leader to pull the meteor-hammer in tight or pull it back after a miss with only one arm so he would have to make each strike count. The pitch of the weapon lifted, and a blast of wind carved through the mists. The blow rocked Urk back a step and lowered his left arm just a bit. The hammer came in, just as he knew it would, aimed for his skull. Urk rose, reaching out with his left hand. If he could grasp the chain, he could haul the leader in and end it, but the chain writhed like a snake, pulling away from his fingertips at the last moment and slamming the head of the hammer into his left shoulder like the sting of a scorpion.

  The pauldron shattered, falling away as something in his shoulder cracked. The explosion drove him to his weak knee, and the pain of that sent him to the ground. He planted his ax in the earth to rise, but it was too late, the hammer collided with his left side, destroying the plate and sending blood washing the stones. The minotaur got one foot underneath him as the weapon’s pitch rose and a blast of air pushed him over and sliding along the stones.

  The leader laughed and hissed a long string of words in his native tongue. Urk spat blood. “What?” If these were the final words spoken of him, he would know them.

  “Die at feet of your god, Wayfarer!” spat the leader.

  Urk looked up, first at the thunderheads above and the lightning clawing the sky, then the brass sculpture of Kurgen’kahl and Mehrindai. He placed his fist on it, using the base of the statue for support. The world seemed to quiet. “You are twice the fool,” spat Urkjorman as the fur covering his body rose in defiance of the rain. “One: I am no Wayfarer.”

  The leader didn’t seem to understand but sensed the danger. He began spinning the meteor-hammer faster and faster, tighter and tighter, the pitch climbing into ranges humans probably could not hear.

  “Two: no matter how they come, storms …” continued Urk.

  The leader threw his hammer forward, the weapon screaming like a banshee.

  The world slowed. Urkjorman could see each drop of rain, as he lifted his arm, each grain of sand on the wind as he planted his feet. He could see each link of the chain spooling from the spellcaster’s hand and the lightning flowing out of the sky like a river downhill. “… belong to …”

  The hammer was half the distance to him as his ax reached the apex of his swing and caught the torrent of lightning coming out of the sky.

  “Kurgen’Kahl!” he roared as the ax connected with the head of the meteor in an explosion of light and power. Lightning sundered the head, chain, and spellcaster all at once.

  Time resumed its normal flow, allowing Urkjorman to hear the agonized scream of the spellcaster as his body exploded. The borrowed radiance of his god was bleeding away rapidly, so he marshaled what he had left and seized the storm overhead as he raised his ax once again, and with the voice of thunder, he roared.

  Chapter Ten

  Riddles And Reconciliation

  Eihn couldn’t tell if the minotaur spoke like thunder or if the thunder roared like Urkjorman, but the effect was the same. The roar quaked meat, bone, and stone with equal ferocity and almost knocked the boy to the ground. Silence blanketed the field for a long moment, and soon the raiders pulled away, some edging backward with weapons drawn, others casting blades to the ground and racing between buildings.

  The archers were the only ones who withdrew with anything like dignity, simply pulling out of sight. When there was nothing left of the slavers’ presence but corpses, the minotaur collapsed against the statue, a heap of rent armor, broken meat, and blood. Al’rashal was at his side a moment later, helping him to unsteady feet and showering Urk with kisses once she’d cast her helmet aside.

  “Take me to them,” insisted Muraheim.

  Eihn looked to his master, who himself was covered in fresh injuries. As Al’rashal had expected, the slavers took out their frustrations on the gnome and without the radiance of Mehrindai lending him vigor as it had before, the toll was quite telling. So Eihn half-lead half-lifted the old gnome as they approached their guardians.

  “You look awful,” remarked Urk.

  Muraheim was silent as he looked up at the mass of rent flesh that was the minotaur before seizing with laughter. The gnome was reduced to hacking gasps between gulps of laughter and eventually regained control. “I assure you; I look better than you, Urkjorman.”

  The minotaur responded with a thin smile.

  “Of course, I always did.”

  This time it was the minotaur that responded with a snort of laughter. “My wife disagrees.”

  “Very much so,” added Al with mock anger.

  They all laughed.

  Slowly the mirth faded, and a solemn silence settled upon them all.

  “How many died?” asked Al.

  “Nine already, and two who will likely not survive the night. Eight more badly harmed, but they will recover in time, with Mehrindai’s blessings.”

  Al nodded, and Urk sucked his teeth in consternation.

  “Still, I must thank you,” continued Muraheim. “Our fates would have been much worse were it not for you. The Baron of Wings was wise to assign you to us.”

  “We’re happy things turned out …” began Al but she paused as Muraheim pulled himself from Eihn’s support.

  The old gnome knelt to the earth and prostrated himself to the two. “Urkjorman, Al’rashal I have been unwelcoming and unkind to you. You treated me with honor, and I treated you with venom. All my apologies upon thee.”

  There was a weighty thud as Urkjorman lowered to one knee and lifted the old gnome to his feet. “There has been generations of bad blood between my people and your own, so I do not fault your ignorance. I do celebrate your understanding now. Let there be no bad blood between us.”

  The old gnome took the offered hand, and the two shook.

  “I’m surprised you were able to do that,” remarked Al.

  “Forgive Muraheim?”

  “No, that too, but no. Draw on the lightning; you’ve never done that before.”

  “It was the monument; its power poured into me.”

  Al looked as shocked as he was, so Eihn turned to Muraheim. “Master, I thought it was a monument to Mehrindai?”

  Muraheim looked
to the shrine with eyes narrowed in thought. “Maybe not, I think. Maybe it’s not a monument to Mehrindai?”

  “Really Master?” All eyes fell on the old gnome.

  “No,” said Muraheim with the edge of certainty. “I think it is a shrine to her marriage.”

  All eyes fell to the monument now, which seemed to ebb with a gentle warmth.

  Muraheim moved forward and knelt before it. Placing his hands to it, he offered a prayer. He seemed invigorated once again.

  “Come on,” called the gnome to Eihn. “We have much to see to.”

  Eihn nodded, took a few steps to follow his master, and then turned to look up at Urk. “I figured out the riddle. I think I figured it out before, but now I know I did.”

  “Oh?” asked the minotaur. “What is it?”

  “You,” said Eihn. “Both of you, your marriage, your love. The riddle is about your love.”

  Urkjorman smiled and reached forward with one massive hand to tussle Eihn’s hair. “You’re right, boy. Good job. Now go on and help Muraheim. He’ll need it.”

  Eihn nodded before following after his master.

  Chapter Eleven

  Epilogue

  Al’rashal leaned against her husband, snuggling into the heat that radiated from him as one of his massive arms held her tightly. “Now what?”

  “After dedication we bring them home.”

  “But they’re staying. Trying to set up a mission, so our job is done?”

  “Technically. We served as asked and may return to ask our next service.”