Ink Mage

by Victor Gischler

  So, the horse, yes. The sword, no.

  Alem packed the saddlebag with oats, fed a handful to the gelding.

  He went quickly to the stable door, opened it a crack and peeked through. If they were still occupied, he could lead the horse back to the path and—

  Two lines of torches beyond the lodge, coming along the same tree line from which Alem and Rina had emerged earlier. They marched in straight lines, the torches evenly spaced. Army.

  One guess which army.

  Alem muttered an oath so vile, his grandmother Breen would have washed his mouth out with soap.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “I assumed you were hiding out here because of what happened in the city,” Rina said.

  Brasley chuckled, refilled his brandy again. He was putting it away fast.

  “I am hiding out,” he said. “There seems to be a misunderstanding with a few of Klaar’s more prominent gambling dens. They suffer under the misapprehension I’m unable to pay—which is of course ridiculous.”

  “Of course.”

  He lifted the silver pitcher. “Pour you one? It’s quite good.”

  “Maybe later.”

  He shrugged, topped off his own goblet. “I told them I had to send for my funds, but they’re uncouth and impatient.”

  Rina grinned. A braggart and spoiled brat but always amusing. She couldn’t quite bring herself to dislike the handsome devil. Then her grin faded. “The gambling lords of Klaar might have bigger worries than you right now, Brasley.”

  “No matter. They aren’t here, are they?” Brasley moved toward her, trailed a finger down her arm. “It’s just us. And a warm fire.” He toasted her with the goblet. “And some good brandy.”

  She didn’t flinch from his touch, but she did stare daggers straight into his eyes. “You’re drunk.”

  “I suppose. But not too drunk … if you understand me.” His hand slipped around her waist to the small of her back, drew her close to him.

  Rina went rigid, lifted her chin as Mother had taught her. Mother always said a girl needed to know how to look aloof, regal. How to freeze underlings with a stare. How to make heads of state give pause. It started with narrowing the eyes, lifting the chin.

  “Let go of me, Brasley.”

  He laughed. “I don’t think you really want me to.”

  She put as much steel into her voice as she could muster. “I am Duchess Rina Veraiin of Klaar. You will show me the appropriate respect.”

  “Duchess? Getting ahead of ourselves, aren’t we?” He pulled her closer, leaned in for a kiss.

  Looks like we’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way.

  Rina punched him in the stomach, didn’t hold back.

  He bent, stumbled back, grunting, and dropped the goblet, which clanged on the floor, contents spilling. He teetered a moment then went to one knee, hunched over and vomited, half digested brandy splashing acidly in front of him.

  “W-well …” He panted. “T-There goes a lot of good brandy w-wasted.”

  Rina bent to talk into his ear through clenched teeth. “Mother and Father are dead. I am Duchess of Klaar. And you owe me your fealty.”

  A glimmer of understanding in his eyes. Her words had penetrated his booze-addled brain. “Dead?”

  “The city is overrun with Perranese invaders,” Rina said.

  “That’s … impossible.”

  “While you’ve been wallowing in drink and hiding in your uncle’s lodge, the world has changed under your nose,” Rina told him. “I came here for weapons and valuables. I’ll leave the brandy for you.”

  “Valuables?” Brasley still rubbed his gut where he’d taken the punch. “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m fleeing Klaar,” Rina said. “I need to fund my journey. I have places to go.”

  A cruel grin spread across her face, no mirth touching her eyes. The look of a dune cat about to sink its fangs into a desert antelope. “But I plan on coming back.”

  Brasley was still trying to digest what she’d said. “The Perranese … but … they haven’t … in years …”

  “They have now,” Rina said. “And I plan to be gone before sunrise. Before—”

  The windows around her filled with the orange glow of flickering torchlight.

  Rina’s eyes grew wide. “Oh, no.”

  “What is it?” Brasley lurched to his feet.

  She paused, listened, heard the muffled scuffling of boots outside on the front porch.

  “Brasley,” she whispered.

  “Yes?”

  “Pick up your weapon.”

  * * *

  Captain Tchi Go’Frin approached the lodge, waved a dozen men around back and the other dozen toward the large front double doors. The men made only nominal efforts to maneuver quietly. They weren’t expecting trouble.

  The information Tchi had been given was that the lodge would be empty. Maybe a few servants, perhaps even a lord or two who’d fled the city. Certainly nothing to give two dozen men any trouble, and anyway, the rest of the column—eighty men—was a half hour behind him with the supply wagons and confiscated livestock.

  Tchi’s mission was simple: scour the countryside for provisions to bring within the city walls. They would need everything they could get to last the harsh winter in this frigid, forsaken place, and it might be months before the Empire sent supply ships.

  He’d been told, with some urgency, to keep his eye out especially for horses. Scuttlebutt through the ranks indicated this had been a particularly weak area of the advanced scouting information provided by Perranese spies. Klaar had no cavalry and few horses, and none had been brought across the sea by the Perranese.

  A gentle interrogation of the noodle-spined Klaarian nobility had convinced more than a few of them to mark on a map the various country estates and holiday homes where horses might be found. This lodge was the hunting retreat of—Tchi checked the map—a noble named Hammish. He planned to secure the horses, spend the night in comfort and then move on in the morning.

  But the sight of dim candlelight in the windows suggested there might be sword work to do first. Nobles would be captured, servants slain as a matter of course—unless they happened to be pretty young women.

  The soldiers standing on either side of the double door looked back at Tchi, waiting for his signal. They crouched, weapons in hand, ready to rush inside the lodge. Tchi raised his hand. When he lowered it, they would go, and at the sound of the commotion, the others would enter through the back. Both squads together would clear the lodge in a matter of seconds, and then—

  The front doors flew open, and two figures rushed out, cloaks flapping in the wind. Steel glinted in torchlight, the ting of blade on blade reaching him across the wind. In two seconds, three of his men tumbled down the front steps clutching bloody wounds.

  Tchi drew his own sword, ran toward the fray even as he watched another of his men fall.

  “To the front!” He screamed. “Fighting in the front of the lodge. To me!”

  A man and a woman. His men crowded in to get at them, but the porch was too small. The man seemed mostly to be on the defensive.

  The woman was something else.

  Her swordplay was a blur, a thin blade moving with precision as she spun from one opponent to the other, stabbing, slicing, searching out exposed skin, weak points in the armor.

  Another of Tchi’s men screamed death, clutching at his throat, stumbling away as blood sprayed through his fingers.

  Tchi had reached the bottom of the steps, sword held high to attack. Then a moment of distraction, a noisy galloping behind—

  Something slammed into his back, sent him skidding through the snow, the world a tumble of moonlight, torchlight, snow, bells ringing in his ears. He tried to get up, couldn’t. He’d had the wind knocked out of him.

  Tchi turned his head. Three horses. That’s what had happened. One of the horses had slammed into him. A third man stood tall in the saddle, beckoning to the other two. They leapt onto the o
ther horses, and a second later all three were riding away fast to the south.

  Strong hands lifted him. “Captain!”

  Tchi sucked air, felt along his ribs and back. Nothing broken.

  “Check the stable for more horses,” he ordered. “Hurry!”

  * * *

  Alem kept looking back for any sign of pursuit. So far they were safe.

  He glanced sideways at Rina. The woman he’d glimpsed on the porch of the hunting lodge, the spinning demon delivering cold death with her steel, was gone. In her place was a tired girl, sagging in the saddle, shoulders slumped.

  Alem trotted along beside her, grabbed the reins of her horse, stopped in an open, moonlit clearing.

  Brasley slowed to a halt next to them. “Are you crazy? They could be coming after us any minute.”

  Alem scowled at him but turned back to Rina. “Are you okay?’

  She turned her head, eyes focusing on him with effort. “I’m … fine.”

  “While I’m all in favor of running away from the foreigners trying to kill us with swords,” Brasley said, “just exactly where are we going?”

  Alem ignored him, still looking at Rina. He pitched his voice low. “Are you sure?”

  “I said I’m fine.” She closed her eyes, rubbed them.

  “What you did back there—I’ve never seen—”

  “Forget it.” She said quickly, strength returning to her voice. She turned to Brasley. “I’m heading for the Nomad Lands, if you must know.”

  “What? That’s weeks away! Look, I have friends around the mountain in Colson Wells,” Brasley said. “We can hide there until—”

  “The time for hiding is past,” Rina said. “At this very moment, I am Duchess of approximately nothing. I’m going to change that. And to do it I must journey to the Nomad Lands. I could use some help, but come or stay as you wish.”

  She turned the horse, left at a trot.

  “You’re mad!” Brasley called after her. “The three of us? That’s not much of an army!”

  “It’s a start,” she said without turning.

  Brasley looked at Alem, the expression plain on his face. Is she out of her mind?

  Alem smiled crookedly and shrugged as if to say, Well, that’s a duchess for you. What can you do?

  He spurred the gelding to gallop after Rina, didn’t bother looking back to see if Brasley followed.

  Hoped, in fact, he wouldn’t.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Giffen spread his hands grandly as he addressed the people in the courtyard below. He stood on the balcony of the Duke’s personal office where the Duke himself had addressed holiday crowds so many times, cheering Klaarians who’d packed the courtyard, crowds spilling into the street beyond.

  The huddled group of a hundred citizens below was paltry by comparison. The Perranese had rounded them up specifically to hear Giffen’s words. They were obedient if not exactly enthusiastic. They would be enough, Giffen thought. Word of his speech would spread through the taverns and markets, often enhanced by Giffen’s own agents, and by the end of the week would be hailed as a speech of hope and Klaarian perseverance by one of Helva’s most gifted orators.

  “And when the Duke himself—with his dying breath—asked me to watch over his people … well … how could I refuse?” He paused, pretended to wipe away a tear. “With all of the diplomatic skills I possess, I have managed to convince the Perranese that the Klaarian people must be ruled by a Klaarian. We can hold our heads up and know that our way of life will continue. I am here for you! Thank you, my people. And Dumo bless you!”

  Giffen’s shills in the crowd led a ragged cheer as Giffen waved and backed into the office behind him. He shut the doors and wiped the sweat from the top of his head with a handkerchief.

  General Chen sat at the Duke’s desk, a bored expression on his face. “Let us hope your address had the desired effect.”

  “If you want a docile populace, then leave everything to me, General Chen.” Giffen’s eyes shifted to the officer standing at attention over Chen’s shoulder. “And who is this? Does he have something to report?”

  Chen made an offhand gesture. “Tell Giffen what you told me, Captain Tchi.”

  “Two nights ago, a woman single-handedly killed a dozen of my men.” The captain leaned past Chen to take a small framed portrait from the Duke’s desk. He turned it around to show Giffen. “It was this woman. I’m sure of it.”

  Giffen blinked at the painting. He remembered when Rina Veraiin had sat for the portrait last year. One of Klaar’s better artists had captured her likeness well.

  Giffen shook his head. “It can’t be.”

  “She’s still missing, yes?” Chen asked.

  “My men scour the city for her even now,” Giffen said.

  “She is no longer in the city,” Tchi said. “I sent two riders after her. One returned to report in which direction she fled. The other continues to pursue and keep track of her. He will leave signs for the trackers. We have much experience with this. I can find her again, but I need men to take her.”

  “Bah!” Giffen backhanded the air, a gesture of annoyance. “She’s no warrior. There is some mistake.”

  Tchi stood rigid, chin up, but didn’t dispute Giffen’s words.

  “What about the slain men in the great hall?” Chen asked. “She left a slaughter in her wake when she escaped.”

  “I told you. That was her dark-skinned savage. The bodyguard is more than capable of such bloodshed.” Giffen’s attention shifted back to Tchi. “There were others with her?”

  “Two men.”

  “You see?” Giffen said. “One was obviously that Fyrian giant of hers. He killed your men. It would have been easy for him.”

  “There was no giant,” Tchi said. “I know what I saw.”

  Giffen opened his mouth to argue, but shut it again when Chen waved him to silence.

  The general sighed, massaged his temples. “It doesn’t matter. She must be dealt with. If she returns to the city, she will undermine Giffen’s ruse. If she flees to her kin in the west, she could alert them to our presence before we consolidate our defenses. How many horses do we have?”

  “Seventy-four,” Tchi said.

  Chen tsked. “So few? Very well. Take twenty horses. You and your tracker and eighteen of the elite guard will pursue our errant duchess. Kill any who see you. Kill those who ride with her. Move swiftly.”

  Tchi bowed. “Yes, general.”

  Chen said, “And I know it is best for you to travel light. Bringing back just her head should suffice.”

  EPISODE FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Tosh wiped the sweat from his brow, tossed another log into the iron stove and kicked the door closed. It had taken him three weeks working in the kitchen to learn how to maintain the coals at the exact level he needed. He moved fast, slapped down the skillet, dumped in the diced potatoes, garlic, salt. Another deep pan next to it. Sausages.

  He paused to drink water. It was hot work. He wore only boots, apron and breeches. He’d lost eleven pounds in three weeks. For years he’d marched and drilled with the army yet always maintained a soft layer around his middle. It took laboring in the kitchen of the Wounded Bird to finally burn it off.

  “Smells good, don’t it?” Bune’s voice came from behind him. The big man tried to squeeze past Tosh, a meaty hand reaching for one of the sizzling sausages.

  Tosh smacked the back of Bune’s hand with a spatula, cracking a knuckle with a metallic clang.

  Bune jerked his hand back, eyes shooting wide. “Oi!”

  “That’s for paying customers,” Tosh said.

  Tosh elbowed the big man out of the way, sort of like trying to elbow a mountain, but Bune stepped back and allowed Tosh to get at the huge cooking pot hanging in the kitchen hearth. He removed the lid, sniffed at the lamb stew inside. By the time the late evening crowd rolled in, it would go perfect with fresh-baked bread.

  “Dumo knows where Mama found lamb what
with all the shortages,” Tosh said. “You’ve got to hand it to her.”

  Bune grunted.

  “Is there a reason you’re in my kitchen, you enormous lump?”

  “Table two wants food”

  “I cook,” Tosh said. “The girls come in and fetch the food.”

  Bune shrugged. “Tenni said.”

  “Tenni said, huh?” Tosh had learned the blonde with the little girl was named Tenni. “They must be pretty busy out there.”

  “No empty seats.”

  “Right.” He took his shirt from the peg on the wall, slipped it over his head. He’d been told that hairy, sweaty, shirtless men were not an aid to the appetite.

  He filled a plate with sausage, fried potatoes, a chunk of dark bread, and took it out front.

  Tosh scanned the crowd, spotted table two. Ah. Him again.

  He set the plate in front of the grinning Perranese warrior. “Welcome back, Corporal.”

  The corporal grinned wider, gap-toothed, nodding is thanks. “The potatoes … they are the best. In my land, we have only rice and steamed fish and seaweed. Very healthy but tastes like … like ass.” He greedily scooped a spoonful of potatoes into his mouth.

  “Only ass we serve here is upstairs.” Tosh winked.

  The corporal paused in mid-chew. It took him a moment to get the joke. “Oh! Very good! Very funny!”

  “You’ve been in here every day,” Tosh said.

  The corporal pointed at Tosh with his spoon. “You master potato chef. Master!”

  Tosh smiled. He never gave officers much credit, but he had to admit whoever the Perranese general was, the man was a genius. Opening the Wounded Bird allowed the Perranese warriors to blow off steam in the usual way. But it was more than that. It also gave the people of Klaar a chance to get used to the foreigners. Tosh looked around the common room, saw locals sitting at tables next to Perranese. The scene was being repeated at taverns throughout the city. How long before both sat at the same table together? How long before all this actually seemed normal?