Ink Mage

by Victor Gischler

  Thankfully Lord Giffen had been put in charge of Klaar. Tosh would hate to think what life in the city would be like directly under the iron thumb of the invading general.

  They day passed quickly. Tosh worked hard, cleaning his kitchen between meal prep. If he ever returned to the army, maybe he’d put in for cooking duty.

  Eventually the Wounded Bird grew quiet and empty, only a few straggling customers in the upstairs rooms getting their final kicks with the ladies. Tosh scrubbed the last pot, set it in the rack to dry. The final thing he did before calling it a night was to consult his supply list. They were dangerously low on salt and bacon and flour. He decided to take the list up to Mama’s office. The woman was a miracle worker, seemed to have some direct connection with the black market. And never failed to come up with the needed supplies.

  Tosh folded the list and headed upstairs.

  He passed the second floor, paused when he heard the scream.

  Tosh had learned early in the going that one heard a variety of screams inside the Wounded Bird, and few of them called for the bouncers. Passion and enthusiasm were often the culprits.

  Another scream, panicked, afraid. The smack of flesh on flesh followed by the thud of overturned furniture.

  That’s not passion.

  Tosh ran down the hall. More screams. He stopped in front of Tenni’s room, banged on the door with a fist. “Tenni!”

  The sounds coming from Tenni’s room were more masculine now, ragged harsh grunts, the sound of pain. Shuffling feet, movement, a struggle. Tosh threw his shoulder against the door, rattling the lock.

  “Bune!” Just when you actually need one of the big bastards …

  Tosh threw his shoulder against the door again, heard something crack. The third time did the trick, wood splintering as the door flew inward. Tosh rushed into the room, fists up, ready for anything.

  Tenni was covered in bright blood.

  Not her blood.

  She stood over a naked Perranese warrior, flailing awkwardly at him with his own sword, holding it tightly and clumsily in her slender hands. The warrior was slick with his own blood, back against the bed as he writhed on the floor, one arm up uselessly fending off Tenni’s frantic blows. He was covered with a dozen random slashes already.

  “Get away from me! Get away!” Tenni screamed, slashing at the man again, a length of flesh coming away from his forearm, blood splattering. “I’ll kill you!”

  Tosh grabbed her from behind. “Tenni!”

  She screamed again, struggled violently, but Tosh held on.

  When she saw it was Tosh she dropped the sword with a clatter, and Tosh let her go. She backed against the wall, shaking her head. “H-he hurt me. Just k-kept hurting me and w-wouldn’t s-stop. He was s-so drunk and c-cruel …”

  “It’s okay,” Tosh said. “It’s okay now.”

  She started crying, slid down the wall into a sitting position, putting her face in her bloody hands, shoulders bobbing as she sobbed.

  Tosh drew his dagger, approached the bloody, writhing figure on the floor. The warrior had been hacked all over, a number of the cuts messy and shallow. Tosh saw at least two wounds that were more lethal, bleeding freely. The warrior twitched, more blood foaming from his mouth as he silently opened and closed it, maybe trying to say something.

  Tosh tried not to slip in the blood as he got closer with the dagger. A quick stab in the throat would finish him.

  Tosh looked into the warrior’s eyes. It was the corporal he’d served potatoes to earlier that morning.

  Oh, no. You bastard. You stupid fucking asshole bastard.

  Tosh stabbed him in the throat.

  * * *

  Tosh sat hunched over his mug. The Wounded Bird’s common room was deserted and dark save for the light of a single candle. He felt exhausted, but couldn’t sleep. He’d become fond of the foul brew Lubin and Bune had introduced him to that first morning in the cave. Not quite wine, not quite brandy, it went down harsh but warmed the body quickly. He took another sip.

  Lubin and Bune had shown up to dispose of the body. Tenni’s room had been cleaned. No evidence remained of what had happened. It would be daylight soon.

  When you’re the cook at the Wounded Bird, you’re not just the cook. He hoped there would not be many nights like this one.

  He heard something, looked up.

  Tenni sat across the table from him.

  She’d cleaned up. Pretty. Thin face, high cheekbones. Golden hair pulled back into a ponytail. He face looked blank, maybe a little haunted around the eyes.

  Tosh asked, “You okay?”

  She nodded.

  “Good.”

  “I guess I made a real mess up there,” she said.

  Tosh shrugged. “A man can take a lot of abuse before he goes down. It can get ugly. A sword can kill with a single blow, but you have to know how to use one. It takes training.”

  “You were in the army,” she said. “You’ve had training.”

  “Yes.”

  Tenni pulled the Perranese sword out from under the table. It had been cleaned up and had found its way back into its scabbard. It was a long single-edged weapon with a slight curve.

  She placed it on the table between them. “Teach me.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Tapping into the spirit didn’t give Rina superpowers—the exception being the bull tattoo, which gave her the strength—but it did let her exploit her senses to the fullest.

  Hearing, for example. It was no keener than before, but tapping into the spirit allowed Rina to more closely examine what she was hearing, categorize it, separate one sound from another.

  She sat with her back against a giant fir tree, cross-legged, eyes closed, the long, two-handed sword across her knees. She listened.

  The crunch of footsteps, still distant, a hundred yards away at least. Five men, heavy steps implying armor and weapons although they were doing a good job of keeping their metal from clanking. Other sounds … the wind, birds, a babbling brook a half mile away. No snowfall to dull the sounds on the wind. It was still cold, but since they’d come out of the mountains and kept south, there had been no new snow. Just what was already on the ground in patches here and there.

  Rina formed a mental picture: the five men spread out among the trees, coming through the forest slowly, weapons drawn. They suspected she was close. Not sure how close. Not sure where the camp was.

  It was two hundred yards ahead in a small clearing at the bottom of a shallow dell. Brasley stayed to watch the horses. They’d left the campfire lit. The smell would lead them on.

  Part of her brain monitored the sounds of the forest. Another part mused that she did not enjoy camping. She missed her room and her bed and hot meals in the castle. She missed everything.

  When Rina had remembered the sapphires braided into her hair, they’d veered toward Kern, the closest city of any size where they could sell the fine gems. The proceeds had not only allowed them to properly outfit for the journey, but it had also funded two gloriously warm and comfortable nights in a reasonably clean inn.

  And clothes. She wore a pair of black leather pants, good travel boots and a simple but clean white shirt. She’d had Kork’s cloak cleaned and hemmed for her shorter stature. It was still her warmest garment.

  Sleeping on the ground was not warm. Every night she wrapped herself tightly in her bedroll and the cloak and slept as close to the fire as she dared without risking catching herself on—

  She titled her head, refocused her attention on a new sound. Footsteps, but quicker and lighter than the others, a rustling of cloth. A child or a woman, Rina thought. Not armored.

  Out here?

  Rina pressed herself flat against the tree, twisted, peeked around the wide trunk.

  A second later, the girl came running through the undergrowth, long, garishly colored purple and yellow skirt scooped up in one arm to let her legs run. A heavy wool shirt that almost concealed a full figure. She was striking. Pale glowing sk
in and deep red hair, full and wind-blown. Rina thought her older at first, but she looked scared and young. Maybe sixteen.

  The girl paused, looked back anxiously.

  She’s afraid. And she’s stumbled right into the middle of what’s about to happen. Rina gripped her sword hilt firmly, readied herself.

  The girl was about to turn and continue running when an armored warrior erupted from the foliage behind her. She screamed, tried to dart away, but the Perranese warrior latched onto her wrist. The girl screamed again, tried to twist free.

  Rina had already leapt to her feet, sword in hand, sprinting toward the two of them.

  As always when she tapped into the spirit, the world unfolded before her in slow motion. Dashing toward her from the left were two more armored warriors. She understood that normally these men would be assaulting her at blinding speed, swords prone to strike, grim and lethal professionals.

  The first one lunged at her middle. She slapped the blade past her, stepped in to strike backhanded on the return swing at the neck of the second one. The blade bit deeply, an arc of blood trailing on the follow-through. The warrior’s head flopped on his ruined neck. He hit the ground hard, writhing and quivering, some parts of his body still not accepting death.

  Rina brought the follow-though around in a complete circle to swipe at the one now behind her. Swords clanged in the cold air. She pressed the attack. He defended well three times before she found her way past his guard. The armor over his chest might as well have been parchment, the thick blade pierced his chest so easily. He grunted, wilted, slid off the blade and hit the ground with a thud.

  Rina glanced quickly at the girl, who still struggled in the grasp of her attacker. The warrior backhanded her, spinning her head around.

  But Rina couldn’t go to her. Two more warriors ran at her, swords raised.

  She dropped under a wide sword swing and kicked out, the heel of her boot connecting with a warrior’s knee. The knee was well armored, but Rina drew on the bull strength flowing within her. There was a crunch crack as the armor caved in, the kneecap shattering.

  The warrior screamed, titled and went down.

  No time to finish him.

  She rolled away as a sword struck the ground where she’d been a split second before. She lay on the ground and thrust her sword back and over her head, the point piercing the warrior’s ankle.

  He screamed, staggered back, sword held up defensively to hold her off.

  She’d already scrambled to her feet, absently stabbing the one with the crushed knee through the throat.

  The one with the wounded ankle looked side to side, hoping for a way out. He knew he couldn’t run, not with the ankle.

  He was still thinking about it when Rina moved in quickly, batting his sword aside, slicing hard and two-handed at his belly. Guts and blood spilled from of the rent in the armor. He went down, shock and panic on his face, his hands trying to stuff his steaming guts back inside the rip in his belly even as death took him.

  Rina realized she was too late to save the girl.

  She ran toward her, but the warrior had already drawn and raised his dagger to finish her.

  There was a metal tunk as the crossbow bolt pieced the warrior’s armor.

  The warrior went stiff, fell over backward, but kept his grip on the girl’s wrist, pulling her on top of him. She screamed again.

  Alem was there in an instant, setting aside the crossbow. He pried the warrior’s dead fingers from the girl’s wrist, grabbed her shoulder and turned her over.

  “Are you okay?”

  She blinked, looked up into his eyes, the expression on her face as if she were waking from a dream. “Who … Who are you?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The girl glanced over her shoulder at Rina, Alem and Brasley who followed her along the narrow, winding trail on foot, leading the horses. “This way,” she said. “Almost there.”

  She’d told them her name was Maurizan and that her people would welcome them.

  “Her people?” Rina whispered to Brasley who walked beside her.

  “Her clothes make her look gypsy,” he whispered back. “But I’ve never seen a red-haired gypsy. A pretty little thing, isn’t she?”

  Rina frowned, sped her pace to walk ahead of him.

  Brasley had stayed back in camp with the horses, and they’d gone to fetch him after the ambush. The camp wouldn’t be safe. The rest of the Perranese would come eventually although they didn’t know how many or how far behind they were. It had been cat-and-mouse since leaving Kern.

  Maurizan had told them her people were camped somewhere safe and hidden.

  They hiked another half hour, down into a lush gorge, a vine-covered wall of natural rock rising up on one side of them. Maurizan stopped abruptly, sweeping aside a curtain of low-hanging vines to reveal an opening in the stone wall, a narrow passage with bright sunlight beyond.

  “I would have ridden right past this,” Brasley said.

  “You have to know what you’re looking for,” Maurizan said. “It’s unlikely anyone would find it by accident.”

  “No, but we left a trail,” Alem said, glancing behind them. “Especially the horses.”

  She put a hand on his arm, smiled warmly at him. “It will be taken care of.” She looked up into one of the trees.

  They followed her gaze. Several men with bows slung across their backs squatted on thick branches high up in the canopy. They wore garish clothes similar to Maurizan’s but had dark complexions and black hair. Their expressions were frowning and dour.

  “They will obscure the trail after we enter. Come.” She brushed aside the vines and entered without looking to see if the others followed.

  Rina looked at Alem who shrugged. They followed Maurizan.

  The passage was just wide enough for people and horses to walk single file. It opened into a high arch almost immediately on the other side, and a green valley spread out before them, a shallow river running through it and a camp of maybe a hundred brightly painted wagons on either side. There were numerous cook fires, lines of drying laundry like bright pennants strung between the wagons, children and adults going about various activities, all dressed in the same style of billowing bright clothing.

  “They’re gypsies, all right,” Brasley whispered at Rina’s elbow. “Keep your hand on your coin purse.”

  A trio of men broke off from the main camp and were coming up the trail fast to meet them.

  “Why doesn’t that seem like a welcoming committee?” Rina said.

  The men stopped within ten feet, hands resting on long daggers tucked into wide leather belts.

  The man in the middle stepped forward. He wore a bright red shirt with a tight yellow flower pattern. A thin, dark moustache traced his upper lip. A gold hoop in one earlobe. Black hair, glossy in the sunlight. “What is this, Maurizan?”

  “These are friends,” she said.

  Rina thought the girl sounded tentative. This was a mistake. We should have gone our own way. She tensed. It was an effort to keep her hand off the rapier hanging from her waist.

  “We don’t bring strangers to our camp. You know this.”

  Maurizan glanced back at Alem, looked apologetic then turned to the man in front of her again. “Don’t embarrass me, Gino. They saved my life. And I think Mother will want to talk to them.”

  “Your mother’s position does not mean you can break our rules,” Gino said.

  “Well, it’s done now, isn’t it? Take me to Mother.”

  The one called Gino looked furious. He pointed at Rina, Alem and Brasley. “You stay here. Wait. You understand?”

  “We understand,” Rina said.

  Gino turned and led Maurizan back toward the camp. The other two gypsies paused halfway down the trail to keep watch on the strangers.

  Alem, Brasley and Rina gathered in a small circle, each still holding the reins of their horses.

  “I don’t like this,” Brasley said.

  “Exactly what h
ave you liked since we’ve left Klaar,” Alem asked.

  “You might be used to sleeping with the horses, stable boy, but I could do with a bit of comfort. I don’t see why we ever left Kern.”

  “Gentlemen, enough. We’ve already been through this,” Rina said.

  Brasley had wanted to present himself and Rina to the Baron of Kern, loudly declaring their noble status and asking for sanctuary. Under other circumstances it would have been a perfectly reasonable course of action. Kern was one of Klaar’s closest neighbors to the south. Rina’s father had met with the man numerous times. The Baron had even sent a few lesser sons of marrying age to Klaar to sniff around Rina. Thankfully nothing had come of it. The Baron would want to know the Perranese had invaded. In fact, Rina did feel a pang of obligation to raise the alarm.

  But not yet.

  Presenting herself to the Baron of Kern would set off a diplomatic chain reaction that would trap her in a dress as she met with the ranks of nobility, all eager to talk and talk and not do anything. Rina would likely be passed up the political chain of command all the way to the King of Helva, who would express sympathy that foreign invaders had seized Klaar and then maybe do something about it. Or maybe not.

  And in the meantime, weeks would be wasted, and Rina had other plans.

  No argument Brasley would make could dissuade Rina from seeking out the wizard Talbun who dwelt somewhere on the border of the Nomad Lands. How she would convince the man, a complete stranger, to help her was a problem she decided to think about later.

  So Rina had doggedly stuck to her plan, Brasley complaining loudly and often every step of the way. She’d told him a dozen times that he could take off on his own anytime he liked. He’d usually answer with something like, “Oh, please, you’d both be dead in an hour without my supervision.” Rina suspected it was really the fact he was broke and had nowhere else to go that kept him riding along.

  Alem had been the exact opposite sort of traveling companion, relentlessly upbeat and helpful. Not once had she ever suggested to Alem he’d be better off going his own way. The long miles would be unpleasant without him, and she felt a bit guilty and selfish about it. Would she really drag the poor boy all the way to the Nomad Lands?