Ink Mage

by Victor Gischler

  She winced, but the old priest held her hand steady.

  He dragged the nail across her palm, and blood welled hotly.

  Except it wasn’t blood. Instead, white hot light poured from the wounds. He continued sketching her flesh until her hand was burning agony. Rina refused to cry out, refused to look away.

  At last he sat back, nodded his satisfaction.

  Rina examined her palm. The glowing outline of a skeletal hand, finger and thumb bones.

  “Behold The Hand of Death,” the priest said proudly. “May you wear it well.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  The gates shattered inward just as Rina emerged from the temple.

  She tapped into the spirit and ran.

  The first wave of Perranese pushed into the compound. A few died on the spears of a line of temple guards, but they went down quickly as more soldiers pushed through.

  Rina swept past her horse and drew the two-handed sword without pausing.

  She’d killed five before they even saw her.

  The two-handed blade severed a head from a neck. Sliced a gaping rent into a Perranese belly on the backswing, hot intestines spilling to the ground. They crowded to get at her. A slice on her arm. One along her ribs. She ignored the pain, the wounds healing almost immediately.

  She swung the sword and advanced, driving the Perranese troops back beyond the gate. Everywhere she swung the huge blade became a panicked, writhing scene of blood and screams and severed limbs.

  She was aware of the frenetic activity behind her, ox carts and other random debris being pulled into the gap as a makeshift barricade. She risked a quick glance and saw Brasley fighting with the temple guards.

  The Perranese regrouped and charged. They seemed perplexed and infuriated that a lone woman stood in their way. Several came in for a direct attack as others surged around to get on all sides of her.

  Rina spun, swinging the two-handed sword twice in a complete circle, the blade biting deeply. The blood of her foes dripped from her face. Her hands were slick with it.

  She had to give them credit. They were game for it, kept pressing in close, swords raised, even as their comrades died screaming around them. Kork would not have been impressed with her defense. Some blades she batted aside, parried or blocked. Others she ignored, taking the wound and letting the healing rune do its work. Rina’s only desire was to attack and to kill.

  She stood in a circle of bodies, ankle deep in blood and gore and the filth of bowels loosened in the throes of death.

  And still they came.

  Rina felt the strain, the tattoos reaching the bottom of her spirit well. She was running out. Using it so fast—the bull tattoo for strength, the healing rune. It was time to test the new tattoo. Now or never.

  When the next soldier thrust at her, she blocked the blade and stepped in to grab the man’s face. He went rigid, eyes bulging, mouth working in a wordless scream. She felt his spirit flow into her, both thrilling and appalling her.

  She cut down three more men then grabbed the fourth, draining him as well. He went gray in front of her, his body becoming a lifeless husk. She released him and spun, slicing another attacker almost in half.

  She drained three more men, leaving the dried corpses in her wake.

  And now the Perranese turned and fled.

  Some from her flashing blade. Others from The Hand of Death.

  They threw down weapons and jumped on horses, fleeing as fast as their mounts would carry them. Rina gave chase, running them down like lightning and hacking them from the saddle. Bodies littered the countryside, horses galloping away in random directions without riders.

  She returned to the ruined gates and climbed over the barricade. The temple guards backed away from her. She held the head of a Perranese soldier by the hair.

  Rina turned to Brasley. The look on his face was so terrified that Rina looked behind her quickly, expecting to see more charging soldiers

  No. It’s me. He’s afraid of me.

  She was covered head to foot in blood. The blood of a hundred men who’d never had a chance.

  Rina Veraiin had become a monster.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  Dawn was still a few hours off and the night was bitterly cold. Tosh stole toward the back wall. He looked huge and misshapen in the moonlight, wearing multiple layers of travel furs. They made him sweat, but in an hour when the cold seeped in, he’d be glad for them. Still, there was no guarantee. Plenty had died out in the wilderness in the deep winter temperatures despite being similarly clad.

  It didn’t matter. Tosh had decided to leave. He was all done second-guessing himself.

  Or was he? Even now he paused. Could he really leave Tenni like this? He told himself he’d come back for her. He’d get set up somewhere safe and come get her then. And anyway, if he remained to participate in Mother’s madness he’d certainly get himself killed.

  He found himself in the same spot where he’d killed the Perranese soldier so many weeks ago. He’d checked to confirm that the Backgate garrison had moved their latrine, but the leftover tang of urine still hit his nose hard.

  He looked up at the wall, planned how he’d do it, came up with the same ideas he’d had the first time: crawl up the side of one of the abandoned buildings. He could reach the top of the wall from there. He hoisted his pack over his shoulder and made a start.

  Climbing proved awkward in the thick furs but he finally made it to the roof of the first ruined building. The stonework of the adjacent building provided good finger- and toe-holds, and in a minute he was on the roof of that building, too, five feet below the top of the city wall.

  So, could he climb? The city walls were smoother than the stonework he’d climbed earlier. Maybe he could jump, and grab the edge then pull himself—

  A lumpy animal appeared on top of the wall, and Tosh’s eyes went big.

  No. Not an animal. A leg.

  Somebody was coming over the wall, and he was wearing the same heavy travel furs as Tosh.

  The man heaved himself completely to the top of the wall, grunted then fell—

  —onto Tosh.

  They went down hard and rolled off the roof to the next roof below, slid and hit the ground hard. Tosh suspected he would have broken bones if he and the mysterious stranger hadn’t both been wrapped in so many furs.

  Tosh got to one knee, back and ribs aching. “Son of a bitch.”

  The other man lay on his back, pawing at the air, trying to get his breath back.

  Tosh crawled to him, pushed back the hood of his travel furs. When he saw the man’s face he gasped. “I know you.”

  “P-please,” Alem said weakly. “Please help me.”

  * * *

  She told Brasley to follow as fast as he could, but she couldn’t wait. She needed to leave without him. He nodded, still shocked and numb from the massacre at the temple gates. He waved her goodbye.

  And Rina ran, the power of the spirit humming through every limb. She carried the two-handed sword, sheathed, under one arm.

  She sent the falcon out over and over again to find Alem. Nothing. So Rina ran on faith, hoping that Alem had made it safely back to Klaar, that he would carry out her instructions.

  If not, all of this would be for nothing.

  The world became a blur of white winter. The weather turned colder, the snow deeper with every step she took toward Klaar. She stopped only long enough to rest and replenish her spirit.

  She felt no emotion when she crossed the border into Klaar, her homeland. No stir of patriotism. The snow was knee deep. Rina ran and ran and finally arrived at the place where, so long ago, she and Kork had emerged from the dank tunnels beneath the city.

  She stood, searching with her eyes, a stiff cold wind lifting her hair and the edge of her cloak. If they weren’t here … if they’d failed to come or if Maurizan hadn’t delivered the message …

  A mound of snow ten feet to her left shifted and startled her. The man in the travel furs stood, snow
falling off his back. “Hello again, Duchess Veraiin. We saw you coming in the distance and hid ourselves until we could make sure who it was.” He turned, put his fingers in his mouth and whistled high and shrill.

  More mounds of snow all around her shifted as men stood up from their hiding places.

  “I almost didn’t recognize you, Gino,” Rina said. The thick brown furs were a far cry from the garish outfits the gypsies generally wore, but she did spot the end of a bright purple scarf peeking out from a fold in the furs.

  “Klarissa sends her warmest regards,” Gino said.

  “I hope I can thank her in person some day,” Rina said. “And Maurizan, for delivering the message.”

  Maurizan stepped out from behind Gino and pushed her hood back. Her eyes were as cold as the wind that tugged at Rina’s hair. “Don’t thank me. I’m not here for you. I’m here to fight alongside my brothers.”

  Rina met the gypsy girl’s gaze and nodded once. Okay. Have it your way.

  “How many?” she asked Gino.

  “Forty,” he said. “That’s all that could come on short notice.”

  Forty men. It wasn’t enough. “That’s fine. Follow me. You won’t find the tunnels so pleasant, I’m afraid. It’s where the castle sewers drain.”

  Gino grinned. “I don’t care about the smell. I just hope it’s warmer.”

  * * *

  Tosh entered Mother’s office.

  She looked up. “How’s our guest?”

  “Tenni’s getting some broth into him,” Tosh said. “We thought he might have some frostbite, but he’s okay.”

  “Uh-huh.” She shuffled papers on her desk—monthly bills, invoices, the ongoing banalities of running a brothel.

  “Mother?”

  “What is it, Tosh?”

  “Remember, how you said you were waiting? For an opportunity?”

  “An opportunity?” She looked up, taking a moment to understand his meaning. “Oh. For revenge, you mean.”

  Tosh nodded. “I think the opportunity has arrived.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  Alem knew the back door to the kitchens as well as anyone. He and Tosh pressed their backs against the stone wall, peeking around the corner and watching Prinn approach the door. Alem looked at the half-dozen women with them from the Wounded Bird. They hid swords under their cloaks.

  “And you assassinated the Perranese chamberlain why again?” Alem whispered to Tosh.

  “Because one of Prinn’s customers is the chamberlain’s replacement,” Tosh replied. “She has a password to get in whenever she wants. Once the door is open, we rush inside.”

  “And then what?”

  Tosh shrugged. “Get killed, probably.”

  I was afraid he’d say that. “I wish we could have brought more of your girls with us.”

  “Darshia is leading the rest of them in a raid across town,” Tosh said. “If they can free the soldiers on the labor gangs, they’ve got a cache of swords hidden away. If those men have any fight left in them, it might make all the difference.”

  “What about those two big fellows? They’d be good in a fight.”

  “I sent Bune and Lubin with Darshia,” Tosh said.

  Alem was starting to wish he’d gone with Darshia.

  He was about to say something else, when the kitchen door creaked open.

  “Now!” ordered Tosh.

  They rushed the door, pushing it open and rushing inside past Prinn, swords drawn, ready for whatever might be within.

  A matronly woman in an apron saw them, opened her mouth and drew breath to scream.

  Alem clapped a hand over her mouth. “Bruny, it’s me!”

  Slow recognition in her eyes. Alem took his hand away.

  “Alem?”

  She looked thinner and more haggard than he remembered her. He took her by the shoulders. “Bruny, there’s going to be fighting. Get to your room. Don’t come out until it’s over.”

  “But …” She looked at the women with their swords. “Okay.” She hurried away.

  “Where now?” Tosh asked.

  “Down.” Rina’s directions had been explicit. “To the dungeons.”

  The door to the kitchen swung open, and all heads turned.

  A Perranese soldier stood there, munching a carrot. He looked at everyone in the kitchen, his mind slow to process what he was seeing. Abruptly, his eyes went wide. He dropped the carrot and went for his sword.

  Alem fumbled for his own sword, one they’d given him at the Wounded Bird.

  Prinn and one of the other women—Tosh called her Tenni, Alem remembered—surged past him, one going high, the other low. Prinn thrust, catching the soldier under the arm. Tenni going for the groin. The soldier grunted and stepped back, blood splashing down his side. The women pressed the attack, riding him down, slashing again with the swords.

  Prinn cut his throat.

  “Hide that body,” Tosh commanded.

  Prinn dragged the dead soldier into the pantry.

  “Listen to me,” Tosh told the women. “There aren’t enough of us to fight the whole castle. We kill anyone who sees us, but other than that keep it tight and keep it quiet. Am I clear?”

  Each woman nodded, grim-faced and resolute.

  Alem had not realized prostitutes were so dangerous.

  * * *

  They waited in the darkness.

  “How much longer?” Gino asked.

  “I don’t know,” Rina said. And stop asking me, damn you.

  Forty of them plus Rina. All fidgeting nervously in the dark and smelling like sewage. She had to remind herself they hadn’t been waiting that long. It always seemed longer when sitting idle and anxious.

  Her fear was that at some point she’d have to call it off, turn and tell these people they’d made the trip for nothing. If Alem had been captured or killed—

  The grinding sound of stone on stone was followed by a flood of dim torchlight as the small door slid to the side. A silhouette appeared. “Sorry I’m late.” Alem’s voice.

  “Alem!”

  “Yeah, sorry. I hope you haven’t been waiting too long. I had a devil of a time getting over the wall and—”

  Rina rushed in, mashed her lips against his, a slim hand going behind his head to pull him against her. She finally pulled back and said, “Okay, now get out of the way. I’ve got gypsies with me.”

  They poured into the little jailer’s room and spilled out into the corridor where Rina found a dead Perranese soldier lying in a pool of his own blood.

  Rina turned to look at them all, and they fell silent, expectant.

  She closed her eyes, tapped into the spirit and saw through the eyes of the falcon. The bird glided low over the city’s front gates. Everything seemed calm, and as far as she could tell no alarm had been raised. That wouldn’t last long.

  She told the falcon to fly out over the Long Bridge, confirming the presence of the barracks that the Perranese had erected for reasons she couldn’t guess. The bulk of the army was still being housed outside of the city. It was a baffling blunder that Rina planned to take advantage of.

  If she lived.

  She released the spirit and looked up. Every eye was on her. She looked at them. The gypsy men—and Maurizan—favored the two-handed dagger fighting style, quick stinging strikes. The women who’d come with Alem carried the curved, single-edged swords they’d obviously stolen from the Perranese. A strange blend of peoples, and not much of an army. But each of them looked ready to spit death in the eye.

  She cleared her throat. “We have to get out of the castle as fast as we can. We have to run for the city gates and close them. If we don’t, if we allow the army camped outside back into the city, we don’t have a chance. Do you understand?”

  The crowd murmured that they did.

  Rina drew the two-handed sword, tossed the sheath aside. “Then follow me.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  Giffen gulped the remainder of his wine and then set aside the goblet,
unlacing his robe as he approached his bed.

  Sarin lay back in the pillows, grinning at him. The thin, silken shift hid none of her fabulous attributes. Giffen climbed onto the bed, crawled toward her, purring like a cat. She giggled. He reached for a breast, cupped it, and she cooed.

  A scream.

  Giffen paused. He shook his head, deciding to ignore it. He pulled down the top of her shift, and one of Sarin’s heavy breasts popped out. He ran a thumb over the nipple, licked his lips, anticipating all the various things he would do to her.

  Another scream, muffled and distant but clear. The clashing sound of metal on metal.

  He sat up and turned toward the door. Possibly this was something he should look into.

  Giffen turned back to Sarin. “Did you just hear—”

  Sarin came at him, thrusting the little knife, the grin on her face twisted to an expression of animal rage.

  The knife would have pieced his heart if he hadn’t turned at the last second. Instead, the knife plunged into his side, and Giffen went rigid, mouth dropping open, eyes popping. She pulled the blade out of him, blood splattering across her shift and face, and lifted the knife to strike again.

  He caught her wrist and they tumbled over together, tangled in the sheets and rolling off the bed. He landed on top of her. She tried to bring the knife up, but Giffen banged her hand hard against the floor until her hand opened and the blade clattered away.

  She brought her knee up into his balls.

  He grunted, going red. His hands went around her throat.

  At first Sarin tried to pry his fingers away. Then she went red too, thrashed and bucked beneath him, pounded his shoulders with her fists. He squeezed harder.

  Then she went stiff. Then she went slack.

  He rolled off her, panting and dizzy, looked down, saw the life leaking red out of him.

  Giffen tried to stand; his legs went weak and he flopped down again. He closed his eyes. He felt cold.

  * * *

  At the first sound of trouble, Chen drew his sword and rushed into the hall, cocked an ear and tried to determine from which direction the disturbance came. He thought about returning to his room and donning his armor, but whatever the disturbance might be, it could be over by the time he strapped on a chest plate and shin guards.