“I'll walk,” Devin grumbled, squaring his shoulders.
The guard brought Devin to a bright room at the end of the hall even more antiseptic than the others. Everything looked so primitive. A white-washed table made from wood instead of welded metal with sturdy leather ties dominated the center of the room in lieu of chains. A cheerful fire crackled in the corner instead of a steam engine. Two large simple tools relaxed under the mantle, glowed bright yellow with hints of russet orange at the tips, soaking up warmth from split logs. The fire didn't even use coal!
As they walked towards the table, the sound of grating gears echoed through the confines of the small room. The mechanized knight did not belong here, Devin realized. They had stepped back into the past where civilization was a dream and machines did not exist. The room was too plain, too barbarous.
Then the barbarian spoke, and Devin turned to see a man bent over a small tray fondling a set of tiny, simple tools. Like the rest of the room, they were clean and sharp and glistened in the firelight. He reached toward Devin's face. “I can't wait to flay that soft, delicate skin. But I can't decide which of my favorite toys to use first. Won't you help me, boy?” He held up two of the gruesome implements for the youth to inspect. “Tell me, would you prefer a serrated edge or a nice, sharp blade?”
The youth screamed and twisted in his captor's grasp. His arms burned as the iron scraped against the raw cuts and bruises. The guard sighed and turned alongside Devin, matching his movements. “Be still and face what comes, lad.”
Devin turned away, removing the instruments of torture from his sight, and nodded. He had but to remember he was an artificer, one of the metal artisan mechanics who kept the greasy, steel wheels–the foundation of the empire–turning, and a bit of that steel slipped back into his spine.
But you're not a metal pounder anymore, the mage whispered, and facing that loss of identity scraped Devin's soul deeper than mere shackles could ever reach. He turned inwards, begging a comforting word from the artificer, but the voice was silent and brooding. Hot tears started etching the dirt on the youth's cheeks.
The leering man in the corner wore a fresh pressed white apron, a jaunty white cap, and an easy smile with sparkling, white teeth. He doesn't look like a barbarian. He looks like a butcher. And I'm . . . I'm the . . . His thoughts scurried into darkness.
Jemmy coughed and shook his head. “You won't be needing those, sir,” he said curtly, nodding towards the tray.
“Oh?” the Butcher asked, rolling a little spiked wheel across the tray with terse, little pings. “The boy is a convicted mage is he not? A traitor? I may have missed the final verdict prepping for his nullification procedure, but his guilt was much in evidence and undeniable after the first day.”
“And yet, the trial continued,” Jemmy said softly.
“Damn all artificers and their meddlesome ways.”
“I believe the old man would agree with you, sir.”
“And yet . . .” the Butcher sighed, placing his spiked wheel down among the others. “There's something more. Something insidious. I can see it in your gleeful, little eyes and I think I know what.” He gripped the tray with quivering, white knuckles and the little tools rattled.
Jemmy nudged his prisoner forward. Devin stared at the floor, hardly listening. “This mage is to be treated differently. Amputation of one leg only.”
Devin flinched and looked up as the tools leaped off the tray and scattered across the floor.
“That's absurd,” the Butcher said, scowling as he gestured towards the ceiling and the distant courtroom. “Does that man have any idea the damage he has wrought this day? The trial was bad enough, but to show leniency towards mages? Insanity!”
“He gave his judgment from the bench, sir. He has spoken with the emperor's voice.” Jemmy shrugged. “Who are we to question his decision? What do a pair of grunts compare to the Magistrate of the Western Province?”
“You forget yourself, Sergeant,” the Butcher growled, but his face relaxed as though biding his anger for a more worthy target.
“Forgive me, Captain.” Jemmy bowed as he flicked his cigar into the fireplace. “I did not mean to imply . . . ”
The Butcher ignored the cigar and dismissed the apology with a brusque wave. Then he focused on Devin. “Forgive me. I have been rude. I am Captain Armand Delacourt Vice. I will be taking care of you today along with Jemmy here. Let's skip to the sword and the saw in the fire over there, shall we? Hot metal cauterizes as it cuts. No muss, no fuss. I prefer the blade, myself. Nice quick, precise cuts. What's your pleasure, lad? Jemmy,” the man turned to the guard. “Prepare the rawhide, won't you?”
“What's my pleasure?” Devin asked, swallowing his gorge as the man in white strapped him to the table. The youth squeezed his eyes shut as the last strap constricted his chest. His breaths became short and shallow.
Jemmy squeezed the youth's shoulder. “Deep breaths. Take big gulps, lad. Through the mouth. Out the nose.”
“Open your eyes, boy. I want you to see this.” Vice slapped Devin lightly across the cheek until two tear-stained eyes blinked at him. He rolled up the youth's trouser, resting the heel of his palm above one slender ankle, mid calf. “Saw?” the Butcher asked, pulling his hand slowly back and forth, “or sword?” He tenderly chopped the leg. “You seem confused. Let's table that decision, shall we? Here, start with something simpler. What would you like to eat?”
“For my last meal?” Devin's voice quavered.
“No, stupid child, for your rawhide.” Vice waved a piece of leathery, twisted animal skin under the youth's nose. “This keeps you from biting your tongue. I've been experimenting with a variety of flavors. It's a little hobby of mine. Some of them are quite tasty. Would you like peppermint or lemon or licorice? It won't even cost you an arm and a leg. Just this.” The man patted his prisoner's foot.
“Peppermint,” Devin whispered. My last meal is peppermint.
“What?” the man in white asked the guard. “What did he say?”
“He wants the peppermint, sir,” Jemmy said.
“Excellent choice,” the Butcher cried, slapping Devin's calf. “Oh my, your flesh bruises so easily. Shall I remove that blemish for you? No, no, I've burdened you with too many choices already.”
“Bite down hard as you like,” Jemmy whispered, sliding a sweet, leathery stick between the youth's teeth.
Devin drowned in peppermint. The guard's voice hushed as they drifted apart on green candy waves. Devin opened his mouth to welcome the waves and let the frothy tides carry him away.
“Pick the sword, kid,” Jemmy whispered. “Vice lied. The bastard loves that bone saw. Took forever lingering over the last guy who didn't choose. Wretch swallowed his tongue just to end it. You still got a tongue. I can see it. Damn it, why won't you just pick the sword?”
The peppermint chew lost its flavor. The sweet sea drained, replaced by black, sour bile. Devin whimpered.
Jemmy fumbled strapping a belt around the youth's leg. “He wants the sword, sir.”
“Does he?” The Butcher tested the blade's edge on the belt, singeing the leather. “Peppermint and the sword. Auspicious choices all around. Stop whimpering, boy. The court was merciful. Hail the Empire!” As Jemmy turned away, Vice leaned down and nibbled Devin's ear. “Don't think you've escaped,” he hissed. “No matter where you run, little mage, we shall hunt you down and mete the final punishment you deserve. Justice will not be denied her tasty, little prize. Do enjoy the mint.”
Devin gagged on the spent rawhide. His pride shattered. May the five gods have mercy upon me. The Butcher raised his glowing sword. Metal hissed as sweat dripped off the man's brow. May the five gods have mercy upon me. The man brought his arm down. Pain bloomed from the youth's leg, but terror had already branded his mind. May the five gods . . .
3. DEVIN, YEAR 492
Neither the five gods nor the empire granted Devin mercy. Balking at the capricious whims of the five gods wasn't worth the lingering guilt such impious th
oughts created. He felt no such restraint grousing against the state and the dull, iron peg they had strapped to his butchered leg. The Butcher's promise lingered in the back of his mind and Devin took refuge from those thoughts by focusing on his iron limb.
To give an artificer such a primitive, clunky, metal foot is a disgrace. No doubt this mockery is all a part of my punishment.
Devin stamped the peg, stifling a curse as raw agony stabbed below his knee. The heavy, cast iron peg clutched the youth's stump like a circlet of sharp fingers digging into his leg as his stump rested in a crude, metal cup recessed into the peg. His mind thought of dozens of minor improvements such as a system of springs on the cup to cushion the leg or a feedback mechanism in the peg. Clearly, comfort was not a priority of the thing's design. Rough leather straps cinched around his calf and affixed the metal weight to his leg. The court mandated penalty for magic was heavy and bulky. The little prongs stabbed the youth's tender flesh. Every painful, thudding step became another tiny torture, courtesy of the Iron Empire.
The youth held up his hands. Bandaging his bloody wrists after torturing him had been a deft touch as though chopping off his foot had been a happy little accident. Hugs and friendship and antiseptic salve all around! Devin tightened the bandages as the guard Jemmy smiled down at him and gestured to the table.
The youth focused on his pile of books with everything that made him who he was spread across the table: a delicate body of parched, leather skin, brittle, paper bones, and bitter, black ink coursing through his veins. Devin shivered, remembering a different body on a different table. He cocked his head to take comfort in what familiar tomes he could see from that angle. Their warm, silver titles pressed into cozy leather spines twinkled in the dim light of the basement and greeted him like old friends.
He glanced at the worn collection of fairy tales from his childhood. The terrible reality of sorcery bore as much resemblance to those fables as a tiger to a tabby cat. In the books, wizards were always kindly old men who recited mystical incantations. But in these modern times, mages were psychotic criminals and magic . . . just happened. None of the supposed spells actually worked. He had tried tossing the magic books, but couldn't bring himself to part with them. One was a gift from his mother and as for the others . . . well, all the books were special. He glanced over a few select titles.
Tools of the Trade: The Artificer's Handbook
Magic and Fairy Tales for a Modern Age
Professor Cornelius's Guide to Fantastique Magick Creatures
Principles of Gear Mechanics
40 Recipes for Drinks, Inks, and Oils
Devin glared at his metal foot as he counted the books. Such a horrible, crude device. Hmmm, bits of my paper body seems to be missing, too. Some scoundrel stole my history of magic books. Wait, which of those rotten bastards took my . . . The youth's frantic eyes darted over the pile. Several of his books had vanished. Burnt in the fires of anti mage hysteria, no doubt. But it's not just the magic history books gone missing. His shoulders tensed. What motherless son would burn the sacred codex of the gods? Devin relaxed when he saw the familiar white tome nestled at the bottom of the pile: Blessings of the Five.
A tome so often buried beneath the other books, Devin mused, running his finger over the rough, alabaster calf leather. Often missed, but never opened. By the blessings of the five gods, when was the last time I didn't just walk past a temple, but ventured inside?
Jemmy swept the accumulated wealth of years of knowledge and lore across the table into a satchel with no more care than a drudge sweeping scraps into a dustbin. The guard tossed the satchel to Devin after dropping a small parcel on top of the books and a bundle of fabric. “You lost so much already. So I thought you should have those back. So many different books. And all of them yours? Never seen such a library of magic tomes in all my days. Careful, lad. Books like that will get you whipped or worse.”
Whipped? Is that all? the youth thought. And what's in the parcel? “Thank you. These books are a part of me,” Devin said, cradling the satchel with one hand and rummaging through it with the other. Ah, rations. And what's in this can? He held up the greasy tin and shook it.
“That's a salve for your quarter-sized stump,” Jemmy said. “Rub it on twice a day to ease the pain and help with the healing. We're not all monsters, kid.”
“Thank you,” Devin sighed. Where was this mysterious streak of compassion when that butcher was slicing off my foot?
Jemmy removed his gauntlet to clasp the youth's hands with scarred, calloused fingers. “You can thank me by taking all those books far, far away. Can't leave contraband propaganda like that lying around the barracks. Might corrupt my men. Give them crazy thoughts. Magic users deserving trials. Magic users being real people. Magic users having rights. Dangerous thoughts.” Jemmy shook his head and snapped the gauntlet back into place. The guard wrapped Devin's big, red cloak with the gold buttons around the youth's shoulders. They had let him keep some of his clothes as well as the books. Devin was surprised the gold buttons hadn't gone missing. The sergeant's influence, no doubt. “Get gone to Corel. Stay warm. Stay safe. There are dragons lurking in the mountains. Maybe having those magic tomes will protect you, eh?”
Get gone to Corel. Devin tasted the strange, rustic words in his mind. His mother had always promised to take him and his sister on a quaint, rural holiday to Corel. Now the government was sending him off like a vagabond to live in that squalid wilderness. What use was an artificer in the land of wizards and dragons? Have they even discovered fire in Corel?
Devin imagined a rough map in his mind. The Iron Empire stretched around the Kingdom of Corel like jewel-scaled dragon paw whose claws reached east to latch onto the back of a mangy, shaggy goat. A mountain range curved around the common border of the kingdom and the empire: the goat's arching backbone. Little rivers of blood ran down the western slopes between the dragon's claws, flowing around the hilly bumps on the back of the dragon's paw and into the sea. Only the southernmost river penetrated into the kingdom by bending around the southern tip of the mountains. And the empire was banishing him to that backwater.
I suppose that's all a part of my punishment, too, Devin thought. The youth hitched the satchel over his shoulders and waved goodbye to Sergeant Jemmy as two low-ranked Black Guards emerged from the building to escort him to the border. Their attire was a stripped down, utilitarian version of Jemmy's full plate mechanical armor. Each Black Guard also wore a plain, wide-brimmed hat in lieu of the customary helmet.
One of the guards was carrying a brace of dried fish, their wide, flat bodies strung across his back. He eyed Devin from peg to parted hair, eyes widening at the youth's black, leather mid calf boot, dark, silk slacks, ruffled silk shirt, and fine, red cloak with gold buttons. “Well, by the gods' sparkling eyes. Looks like we've got a dandy this time, eh? The wool cloak's a good start, but you'll freeze halfway to the mountains if you don't have any warmer clothes in that pack.”
The second guard said nothing, but reached for the satchel on Devin's back as if to riffle through it. The youth stepped back and almost tripped on the iron peg. Fresh pain curled around his stump and flared up his leg.
“I've got a few,” Devin winced, finding a distraction in the salt-crusted slabs of fins and scales slung over the guard's shoulder. They smelled like someone had stuffed and mounted the sea. The bottom of each fish was slit from anus to gills, and each flaky cavity had deformed as it dried to create a bit of a chamber. Devin stared with macabre fascination as the guard shook the dried fish. They clacked like a set of clam shell chimes. Both eyes were set on the same sides of their small, puckered heads and every sunken pupil was peering at Devin.
The artificer was used to seeing his fish filleted, deboned, and steaming hot on the plate with a pat of butter and asparagus, not mummified and engaged in a sick staring contest. He blinked. Best to let the fish think they've won.
The Loud Guard passed the dried fish to the Silent Guard, who grunted as he
accepted the parcel. Devin turned away, but could still hear the fish clacking again as the second guard grunted and hefted his pack.
“You've just met your supper for the next half season,” the Loud Guard sighed. “Think we'll be staying at all the finest inns? Soaking in a hot bath every night to soothe those aching muscles? Not for the likes of us. Better spare those savory travel rations the sergeant gave you. Damn things need to last.” He raised his arm and saluted the Black Guards standing at the gates. “Onward to Corel. See you in the spring, lads!”
Onward to Corel. The travel food Jemmy had stacked on top of the other contents was a loose scale on a dragon next to the books. They said things like that in Corel. Devin preferred his scales with springs and metal weights attached to them. He lowered his head so he wouldn't have to see the people staring as the small group began their long journey. Through the corner of his eye, Devin saw a man glancing at a poster vilifying mages and then back to the traitor with the iron peg. Walking was still slow and torturous and Devin stared until the man turned away.
Were you expecting horns? Dragon scales? Do I disappoint you? The artificer spat at the man in his thoughts. A small mercy they weren't throwing rotten vegetables. The good citizens of the empire were probably afraid he'd curse them or rain down lightening or whatever evils lurked in the dark recesses of their minds that they eagerly attributed to . . . gasp . . . mages. He focused on the soothing, familiar sound of waves crashing on the rocky shore. Before long, they crested the hill overlooking the city. That short distance had already muffled the sea, but the wind was blowing from the west and he could still smell it. Soon, that too would fade.
Devin filled his nostrils with the sharp, salty tang and admired the urban metropolis spread below him. The delicate glass and iron skyline sparkled in the early morning sun, stretching across the valley cove like a glittering tiara. It had an ancient grandeur worthy of the capitol of an imperial province and it twinkled like something from a dream. So now the dream ends, he thought as he bid farewell to the city by the sea. The two guards looked at each other and chivvied the youth along with their elbows. Devin sighed. He gingerly lifted his peg and spun on his heel, wiping away a tear.
The Artifice Mage Saga Boxed Set: Books 1-3 Page 17
