by Jason Denzel
Jank sneered. “He’s lying. He had that book, Zicon. And he attacked me.”
The large man, Zicon, grunted and studied Sim. “I don’t really care what you were doing. But you’re going to have to stay awhile. Can’t have you running off and talking about us.”
“I won’t say anything to anybody. I’ll just go home.”
Zicon sneered a laugh. “It’s not that easy.” He nodded to Jank. “Keep him tied up. Make sure he gets food and water twice a day. Keep him quiet.”
“You’re just going to leave me tied?” Sim snarled. “You jagged culk!” He’d show this man some backbone. Sim’s stomach churned in fear, but he’d be spiked if he let it show.
The bearded man loomed in Sim’s face. His breath stank in Sim’s nose. “What’d you just call me?”
“Culk,” Sim repeated, holding his eye and saying it nice and slow. “A jagged culk.”
“I’ll cut him up for you, Zicon,” Jank said, sounding eager.
Zicon fumed silently for a moment before leaning close. “You’re with the Black Claws now. An’ you know what I think? I think you’re just a stupid, skivering brat. But I can’t bleed ya, and I can’t let ya go.” He turned away, then twisted back and slammed a massive fist into Sim’s stomach. It took a moment for Sim to realize he was on the ground, curled up and coughing. “But I can make your maggoty life miserable,” Zicon said over him. “Don’t ever call me a culk again or I’ll set Jank loose on ya.”
They filed out of the tent, Jank sneering as he passed. Trying not to vomit, Sim dragged himself to his feet, his chains clanking.
“Put me to work, Zicon,” he said. His guts ached.
Zicon stopped. “What?”
“I can sit here and eat your food twice a day, or you can put me to work for the camp. I’m a blacksmith apprentice.”
Zicon glared at him. “And why would you offer that?”
Sim wondered that himself. Maybe the punch had shaken the sense out of his bones, but the thought of remaining chained up terrified him. If they took the chains off, he might find an opportunity to escape. He’d also have a better chance of discovering what they planned to do with Pomella. Working in the camp would help him more than sitting in a dark tent.
Zicon burst out laughing. Jank and Hormin joined him. The woman remained silent and unmoving.
“You’ve got less smarts than the corn you grow in Oakville if you think I’ll let you walk about free in my camp.”
“Let him.”
The voice stopped the laughter cold. A chill sense of dread ran up Sim’s spine. Hearing that voice, Sim thought of a knife being sharpened. A thin man stepped through the tent doorway. He wore rust-colored robes, trimmed in black, with the hood pulled up. It obscured most of his face, but a long red and gray beard jutted out. The man clutched a tall iron staff.
Jank, Hormin, and the woman bowed immediately, while Zicon barely dipped his head.
A Mystic. Only one of them could carry such a staff and command such respect. It had been years since Sim had actually seen one. The natural urge to bow tugged at Sim, but he remained tall. It was a small defiance, but he held on to it. He did, however, lower his eyes. Some habits were just too hard to drop.
“Tell it again, boy,” the Mystic said in an unmistakable Mothic accent. “Are you a ’prentice smith? Speak true. I will know if you lie.”
Sim swallowed. “Yah, I am.”
“He’ll just run away,” Zicon grumbled to the man.
“Then put a guard on him,” said the Mystic, unfazed. “Surely you can spare one of your otherwise useless mercenaries for the job.”
Zicon sneered. “You’ll watch your tongue, Mystic, or—”
He stopped as the Mystic pulled back his hood, and turned his full gaze upon Zicon. The tent seemed to grow colder, more dim. Sim slunk back before he realized it.
The Mystic had familiar Mothic features: red hair laced with gray, green eyes, and light skin. Scars laced his face, and Sim could see blackened teeth as he spoke. But the strangest part of the man was the curved plate of iron fused into the dome of his head, like a cap stitched onto him. Raw edges of flesh, black with dry blood, lay exposed along the seams of metal. Now that he noticed it, Sim glimpsed bits of metal sewn into other parts of the man’s body, along his hands and jaw.
“You will not threaten me,” the Mystic whispered.
Zicon swallowed. “I’m not afraid of—”
Zicon’s eyes widened, and Sim wondered why he stopped talking. A small trickle of blood oozed from Zicon’s nose. He touched it and his hand began to tremble.
“And you will remember your place, commoner,” said the Mystic. “This filthy band may follow you, but you are mine.”
Zicon’s eyes bulged as both nostrils began to bleed. His hands went to his throat.
“I’ve traveled too far,” said the Mystic, stepping closer to Zicon, “and come too far for you to challenge me. I have plans for this island. Fall into line, like an obedient dog. Do you know what my name means?”
Zicon shook his head, frantic.
The Mystic peered into his face. Jank and the other mercenaries kept their eyes on the ground. “The language of the lagharts is nuanced, and beyond comprehension for your maggoty mind. They have a word that means ‘pain.’ But also ‘love.’ Passion for something so deep that you would accept any risk, or go to any length for it.”
Zicon crashed to his knees, trembling, “Stop! Please!”
“Speak the word,” the Mystic said. “My name.”
“Ohzem!” Zicon managed. Sim shuddered at the harsh, almost hacking-like sound of the name.
The Mystic, Ohzem, replaced his hood. Zicon stopped his thrashing and steadied himself on a table before glaring hatred at the man.
A quiet shiver tingled over Sim’s body as the Mystic stepped toward him. An icy resonance drifted off him. Ohzem reached into a large pocket within his robes and pulled out Pomella’s book. He turned it over in the dim candlelight.
“I believe this is yours,” Ohzem said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Sim swallowed. “Y-yah.”
“It may be wiser to let it collect dust on your mhathir’s bookshelf. Commoners cannot become Mystics, you see.”
Holding Sim’s gaze, he handed the book over. Sim took it with trembling hands. He hated that the Mystic put so much fear into him.
“I have need of this boy, Zicon,” Ohzem said. “You will let him work the forge. You will not make him bleed. We are short on time and resources. His skilled labor is of use to our task. The Myst delivers in our time of need.”
“As you wish,” Zicon growled, standing up. “But if he ruins anything, he’ll be back here in twice as many chains. Jank, you’re in charge of watching him. Don’t scowl at me; just do it.”
He turned his angry blue eyes onto Sim. “And as for you, if you so much as look toward home without permission, I’ll let Mags have her way with ya. Understand?”
Sim glanced past Zicon at the heavy woman. She crossed her arms across her large bosom and stared at him with calm, muted hatred. He suppressed a shiver and nodded. “Yah. I got it.”
“Get him some food and get him working in the morning, Jank. Tonight, he sleeps in the rain.”
* * *
It did indeed rain. Sim woke a few hours before dawn, shivering. He’d slept beneath the smaller of the camp’s two wagons under some thin blankets. At least, he’d tried to sleep. The freezing rain and miserable wind kept him awake, his teeth and bones chattering. Jank had chained the manacles to the wagon’s axle, so Sim had no choice other than to wait until somebody came to rouse him.
“You might have Zicon and the Mystic fooled,” Jank said after the sun rose, unlocking his wrist chains. “But I know you’re more than just a village brat. You’re up to something.”
Sim stood and tested his ankle manacles. He noticed Jank wearing a familiar sword on his hip. His sword, the one Fathir had forged. Jank grinned, following Sim’s gaze. Mags stood a short dist
ance away, glaring silently at Sim. Sim wondered if she even had the ability to speak.
“Thanks for holding my sword, Jank,” Sim said. “I always wanted my own squire.”
Jank sneered up at him. “I’ll skewer you someday, scrit. Just give me a reason.”
He unlocked the ankle chains from the wagon and shoved Sim forward. With Mags following behind, he led Sim toward the other, larger wagon. Now that it was daylight and he wasn’t blindfolded, Sim could clearly see the entirety of the small camp. Besides the wagons, two large tents, similar to the ones used in the Summeryarn field festivals, rested in the clearing. One of them, the smaller one, was where they’d dragged him after he was captured. The other, he suspected, was where Zicon slept.
Sim wondered where the Mystic slept. Or if he did at all.
Three brown geldings and a large black stallion stood tied to nearby trees. The stallion stomped his feet, restless. Hormin moved among them, brushing them down and feeding them.
They arrived at the larger wagon, whose extra wooden bulk was supplemented by thick metal bands. The wheels and axles were made of iron, and part of the bed as well. Sim recognized several familiar tools used for blacksmithing, including an actual anvil bolted directly to the center of the wagon. A man he hadn’t seen before lifted a crate and slid it onto the wagon bed. He was heavyset and bald except for a shaggy, graying beard hanging from his chin.
“Hormin!” he barked, wiping a dirty hand on the blacksmithing apron he wore. “I need those horses ready!”
“Dox,” Jank said.
The heavy man looked up. “Aye, what’d ya need?”
“Have a prisoner here for you. This scrit says he’s a ’prentice smith. Zicon an’ the Mystic says to put him to work.”
Dox lumbered over to them. Sweat beaded across his forehead. “He’s big enough to swing a hammer, at least. You any good, scrit?”
“Put me to work and find out,” Sim replied. “And I’m not a scrit. My name’s Sim.”
Dox laughed, wiping his brow. “I like you. Grab an apron and let’s see what you’ve got. One of those horses bent a shoe. Need it reshaped before we move out this morning. Make it match the other one over there. The forge should still be hot, but it’ll need some pumping. Get going.”
With a final glare, Jank left, Mags following behind. Sim found an apron and began working the bellows. Dox watched him without comment. Although smaller than what he used back home, the wagon cleverly contained everything that was necessary to run a portable forge.
As he worked, the others broke down the camp and prepared to travel. Zicon didn’t talk to Sim, but the mercenary leader kept an eye on him while he ordered everyone else around. Ohzem was nowhere to be found.
Once the forge was glowing hot, Sim rummaged through the wagon, looking for tools. An unusually large, iron-wrought chest sat in a corner, strapped tightly to the wagon. He pulled at the lid and found it locked.
“Hands off that one,” Dox said, checking the coals. “Get what you need over here.”
“What’s in there?” Sim asked.
“Not your concern. Let it be.”
Sim frowned but left the chest alone.
“That shoe’s for Zicon’s stallion,” Dox warned. “You mess it up and he’ll be spitting.”
Sim set to work as Dox left to handle other tasks. It felt good to lose himself in labor. He’d forged or fixed many shoes over the last few years, so this one came easily to him. The iron heated quickly, and the hammer dropped hard. By the time the sun lifted above the horizon, he’d worked up a good sweat, the familiar muscles burning.
Dox returned and climbed onto the wagon. He looked over Sim’s shoulder and grunted in approval. “Not bad. Did you check it against that beast’s hoof?”
Sim nodded. “Yah.”
Dox grunted in approval. Then, pausing as if deciding whether he should continue, Dox murmured, “Why’re you a prisoner?”
Sim shrugged and wiped his brow. “I heard you working the anvil yesterday and came to see what was happening. Jank assumed I was a spy, but I was just heading home. Zicon says I can’t leave, so I offered to help.”
“Yeah? Why’s that?”
“Because going home isn’t really an option, and it beats sitting in chains all day.”
Dox grunted again as he peered at the shoe. “How’d you learn smithing?”
“My fathir.”
The blacksmith nodded. “It’s good enough. I’ll give you more to do this evening when we stop again. Clean this wagon up and have it ready to travel in five minutes. The coals can remain where they are.”
“Where are we going?” Sim asked.
Dox slid off the wagon. “Deeper into the forest. Just do your job and do what you’re told.” Dox had the same accent as Jank and the other Black Claws, but Sim couldn’t place its origin.
When the camp was packed, and Dox had reshod Zicon’s horse, they moved on. The company followed the road south through the forest, meeting nobody. Zicon rode at the head, while Ohzem sat on the smaller wagon pulled by two of the geldings. The Mystic’s hood covered his eyes, and Sim wondered if he was sleeping.
They found a suitable place to stop early in the evening, and set up camp. Dox put Sim back to work immediately, heating the coals and repairing a broken tent clasp. Sim didn’t complain. It was a simple enough task for him. The villagers of Oakspring always had need for small metalwork, and Lathwin AnClure was more than glad to pass that work onto his son when he could. Sim paused only to wolf down a sizable bowl of hearty vegetable stew that Hormin brought. He noticed Zicon eyeing him on occasion, and once he even felt Ohzem’s cold gaze linger on him.
When Dox finally told him to stop for the evening, Jank came and chained him back to the wagon axle. Not even the hard ground could keep him from sleeping off his exhaustion.
The next morning before they broke camp, as Sim worked on a broken buckle for Zicon’s saddle, a commotion broke out on the far side of the camp.
Jank and Mags shoved a writhing prisoner along in front of them. It was a tall woman, dressed in padded armor bearing green and white markings that seemed to help her blend into her surroundings. Her hands were bound behind her back. The same canvas sack they’d used to blind Sim was pulled over her head. A leering smile filled Jank’s pinched face.
Zicon and Ohzem emerged from the main tent and met the scouting party in the middle of the camp. Mags kicked the prisoner’s knee out, and the woman fell to the ground. Sim tried to look busy, but positioned himself behind the horses so that he could be close enough to overhear.
“Caught this ranger!” Jank boasted, not bothering to keep his voice low. “Sneaking from tree to tree, trying to get closer to us.”
Ohzem stepped forward, his face lost in his deep cowl. “Let me see her,” he said in his rasping voice.
Mags ripped the hood off, and Sim nearly gasped. The woman had brown skin, darker than Pomella’s, striped with thick lines of jet black that were outlined in white. She was probably in her late thirties. Her violet eyes rose to meet Ohzem’s.
“A virga!” Zicon blurted. “Haven’t seen many of you in my life. Meinrad’s Menagerie back home will pay handsomely.”
The striped woman held her head high. “Whoever you are, you are unauthorized to be here.”
Jank and Zicon laughed. Sim had heard of the Striped People in stories, but had never actually seen one. Like the lagharts, they came from a far distant land, though the virgas were human. Only their eye color and unique skin patterns differentiated them in any way.
“How did you find us?” Ohzem asked her.
“We know everything that happens in the Mystwood,” she said, her voice hard.
Ohzem scoffed. “Arrogant as always, ranger. I see your lies as plainly as your stripes. Yarina does not know of us. She cannot know anything besides that her precious forest is slowly being poisoned by my presence.”
The virga woman held the Mystic’s eye, not wavering. “Nothing can move through these land
s without the High Mystic knowing it.”
Ohzem stepped closer to the prisoner. He pulled back his hood. The iron plate doming his head did not reflect the morning light. Straining to listen, Sim heard him say, “You will answer my questions truthfully.”
“You are demented. I will not—”
The prisoner screamed. She fell onto the dirt, writhing. Her eyes rolled back in her head as she convulsed, spittle flying from her mouth.
Sim found himself clutching the hammer hard, his knuckles white. This was wrong. He had to earn the Black Claws’ trust until he could help Pomella somehow, but he couldn’t stand still while they tortured prisoners. He stepped forward to help, but a meaty hand clasped his shoulder.
“Nothing you can do,” murmured Dox. “The Mystic does whatever he wants. Zicon fears him, whatever he says, and we all know it.”
Sim shrugged Dox’s hand away, but remained where he was. The prisoner had stopped screaming, and had pushed herself up to her hands and knees. Ohzem spoke again, but too softly for Sim to hear.
“What are they—we—doing out here?” Sim asked the blacksmith.
Dox eyed him. “I don’t know the details, and even if I did, I couldn’t tell you. But Zicon is feverish about this job. He’s paying the others triple. Which he damned well better. We’re a long way from home.”
“Paying the others? What about you?”
Dox grunted. “I got my own reasons for being here.”
The prisoner lunged at the Mystic, but Ohzem stepped easily out of the way. He leaned against his iron staff almost casually, and she screamed again, writhing in the dirt.
Sim forced himself to take a calming breath. He couldn’t watch anymore. He wished he could block out her screaming. Would they do this to Pomella if they caught her? “Now will you tell me where you’re from?” he said to Dox.
Dox sighed. “The Baronies of Rardaria.”
Sim clenched his jaw. The Baronies were from the Continent. It might as well have been a world away. He looked at Dox. The older man reminded Sim of his fathir, and not just because they were both blacksmiths. Maybe Dox would help him. Sim proceeded carefully. “You’re a long way from home. Whatever your reasons are, I hope they’re worth it.”
