Clio’s hair was set alight by a burning piece of debris. Egg and Sean both leaped to her rescue. Since they both used handfuls of mud to douse the flames, she was less than grateful.
An impossibly thin shard of ice struck Egg in the shoulder as he ran, sending a needle-sharp burst of pain through his body. It took all his strength to keep himself upright and moving.
A much larger shard of ice would have carved Kassa in two, but Singespitter saw it coming and shoved her roughly aside.
A fiery breeze ripped the sleeves and collar of Lord Sinistre’s leather coat, robbing him of the last vestiges of his dignity.
They made it to the nearest of the tents without losing any actual limbs or companions. They all crowded inside, half-collapsing on the fur-strewn floor. “Egg, Clio,” Kassa gasped, leaning on Singespitter for support. “I’m going to require an essay about this one. A really long essay.”
“And what have we here?” boomed a solid, female voice.
***
Aragon had not given any thought to who — or what — might reside within the tents which were so strangely impervious to the ice shards, flaming missiles and occasional boulders that poured down upon Mocklore.
There was a surfeit of leather within this tent, in varying shades of natural brown. Even the tent itself was constructed from scraped animal hides, neatly sewn together. This was not what immediately captured the attention of the refugees. It was hard for anything else to capture your attention with such an astounding female presence in the room.
She was very tall and very wide. She wore leather in layers, sculpted to her buxom body. A large axe hung around her neck, and several more were woven into her floor-length braids. She wore a wooden helmet with several horns attached to it, including one rather large horn in the centre from which a pale piece of gauze fluttered prettily. In one hand, she held a glaive, a sharp blade set on a pole taller than anyone in the room.
Beside her stood a handsome, well-muscled man built from polished, golden metal. His chest was draped in fur, and the whirring sound of clockwork could be heard whenever he moved any of his limbs.
Fur hung from everywhere in the tent that was not covered in leather, and these were not the elegant, preened furs that aristocratic ladies wore around their shoulders but stiff, mangy hunting furs, occasionally with a few bits of dead animal (paws, teeth, bone) still attached.
The leather-clad lady and her clockwork companion were surrounded on all sides by several similarly leather and fur-clad men, but there was no doubt that she was in charge. For a start, her boots were blocked up so that she was taller than any of them.
Aragon reacted first, his diplomatic Chamberlain skills coming to the fore. “You must be our host. Jarl Svenhilda of Axgaard, I presume?”
“Baron Svenhilda,” corrected the impressive female in a hard, but equally polite, voice. “I am trying to bring the people of Axgaard into the modern world, and accepting generic Mocklore titles is part of this.”
Several of the leather-clad Axgaardian men growled threateningly at this speech, but Baron Svenhilda’s metal consort cleared his throat politely, and they all fell silent.
Aragon bowed low in true courtier-style. “Baron Svenhilda, I am Aragon Silversword, twice former Champion of the Empire and current Chamberlain of Drak. May I introduce my companions?”
“You may, ex-Sir Silversword,” said the Lordling of Axgaard, sounding amused.
Aragon grabbed Lord Sinistre and pushed him to the front of the party. With any luck, the two Lordlings would keep each other occupied while the rest of them just got on with things. “I present Lord Sinistre, ruling Lord of the new city of Drak.”
Svenhilda inclined her head, still keeping a firm hold on her glaive. “So nice to meet you.”
“And you, most gracious lady of Axgaard,” said Sinistre, recovering a little of his aristocratic poise. “I am honoured to meet a fellow ruling Lord.” By the end of that small speech, he had managed to recapture his trademark seductive purr of a voice. Aragon did not feel this was an improvement.
“May I also present Mistress Kassa Daggersharp, Professor of Cluft,” Aragon continued smoothly. “And Master Singespitter, the, er…” The word ‘mercenary’ was on the tip of his tongue, since this human version of Singespitter had belonged to the Hidden Army of Mercenaries when their paths had first crossed. Since mercenaries were just about the only banned profession in the Empire, it would be less than tactful to refer to that.
“Tutor,” Singespitter said in an undertone.
“Of course,” said Aragon with some relief. “Master Singespitter the tutor, also of Cluft. And some of Mistress Daggersharp’s students, Clio Wagstaff-Lamont…”
“Egfried Friefriedsson and Seanicus McHagrty,” Kassa said briskly. She stepped forward and held a hand out to Baron Svenhilda. “Nice to meet your Ladyship.”
Svenhilda returned the gesture, grasping Kassa’s hand like a comrade. “Nice to meet you too, Mistress Daggersharp. Always interesting to meet a legend.”
“Must be more fun than being one,” said Kassa. “We need to talk.”
“Hospitality first,” said Svenhilda, handing her glaive to her metal companion and stepping off her blocked-up shoes to take Kassa’s arm. They were now about the same height. “Have any of you had breakfast?”
“No, your ladyship,” said the Chamberlain of Drak. “None of us have breakfasted.”
And why is that relevant? demanded the inner Aragon.
It is our job to ensure everyone is taken care of, sniffed the Chamberlain. We take pride in our job.
Your job, not mine. Damn, you’re insidious.
***
The Axgaard tents, each constructed from the same sturdy leather, were connected together by a series of equally sturdy and leathery corridors. The dining tent was huge, furnished with giant tables and benches which had been hewn from whole trees. “This is a temporary camp?” Kassa said in astonishment.
“We like to be comfortable,” said Svenhilda.
While everyone else sat at the tables to be served with large bowls of meaty stew — the traditional Axgaardian breakfast, apparently — Egg concealed himself in a corner. His shoulder was still killing him, and he had an idea of how to stop it.
Concentrating, he summoned up the magic that he had only recently discovered inside himself. Carefully, he formed a tiny ball of the magic near his shoulder and nudged at the splinter of ice which had lodged there during their flight from the storm.
Pain burned his whole arm for a moment. Egg gritted his teeth, and pressed the ball of magic more firmly against the splinter, bringing it upwards. The splinter flew out of his shoulder at great speed, lodging in the saggy leather ceiling. The sharp pain vanished. Egg relaxed, quite pleased with himself.
A moment later, he felt a different pain because Kassa — who had seen exactly what he was doing from her seat at the dining table — had come over to smack him on the back of the head. “Since when have you been able to do that sort of thing?” she demanded.
Egg rubbed the back of his head. “Are you allowed to hit students?”
“You’re family, sweetie, I can smack you as much as I like. How long?”
“I accidentally boosted the anti-stabbing spell you gave us for Aragon,” he admitted. “That’s when I found out I had more power than before. I think Drak started it, though. The last set of warlock robes it gave me made me feel all tingly and … well, magical.”
Kassa dropped to the floor beside him, rocking on her heels. “And you thought the best way to test this newfound power of yours was to heal a hurt inflicted on you by a magical storm? A storm which, incidentally, was created by warlocks trying to fight magic with magic?”
“I removed the splinter,” Egg protested. “I didn’t heal anything.”
“That would explain why you’re bleeding.”
Egg stared at his shoulder. Warm, sticky blood oozed quite steadily from the tiny wound. “How do I fix it?”
Kassa sl
apped a handful of gauzy cotton into his hand. “With a bandage, dingbat.”
***
After the meal, Baron Svenhilda beckoned for Egg to join her. He came to the table shyly, squeezing in between Clio and the Lordling of Axgaard. Clio was having her hair combed and braided by two of Svenhilda’s buxom ladies-in-waiting, who squabbled about whether she should have daggers or spiked leather as accessories.
“Egfried Friefriedsson,” said Svenhilda, making it almost sound like a question.
Egg’s shoulder had begun hurting again, a dull throb this time, which he was certain was caused by the tightness of the bandage Kassa had wrapped around his wound. “Hi, Aunty,” he said dismally.
Svenhilda grinned. “I noticed your father didn’t come to my coronation ceremony — or have the manners to bring my nephew to visit me?”
“I think he was a bit worried that the people of Axgaard might want him to be Jarl,” said Egg. “He was the eldest son before … you know, all the scandal and stuff.”
“My people are not what he needed to worry about,” Svenhilda said grimly. “I would have put him on the damn throne myself. Egfried, dear, I’d like you to meet my husband, Doc. I suppose he would be your uncle.”
The clockwork man inclined his head politely towards Egg. “Nice to meet you, young Egfried,” he said conversationally. “And how is school?”
“Um,” said Egg. “It’s under attack by a vicious elemental storm at the moment. But I got an A in my first Social Studies of Heroes and Villains test. So that’s good.”
“You know,” said Svenhilda. “Having a husband who is made out of clockwork makes it quite difficult for me to provide an heir for Axgaard. I suppose I will have to look elsewhere in the family.” She smiled sweetly at Egg. “I hope you’re taking plenty of Ruling Aristocracy classes.”
He gazed at her in panic.
“Perhaps now would be a good moment to have that meeting, your ladyship?” said Kassa, coming to Egg’s rescue. “The one about Mocklore’s impending doom?”
“Of course,” said Svenhilda. “Other matters can be discussed later.” She gave Egg a meaningful look.
A bearded and braided Axgaard warrior entered the dining hall, shaking his axe above his head in what seemed to be a form of salute. “More visitors, Jarl!”
“Baron,” Svenhilda corrected coldly.
“More visitors, Baron,” said the warrior. “From Cluft, requesting shelter from the storm. Can we set fire to them?”
“No,” said Svenhilda, getting to her feet. “I’ve told you before, Harridanfried. Setting fire to people is now restricted to special feast days. No exceptions. Mistress Daggersharp, would you like to join me to greet your fellow Cluftians?”
Kassa, already at the mouth of the leather corridor, hung back reluctantly to wait for the Baron. “Thank you, your ladyship,” she said, tapping her foot impatiently. “I would be glad to.”
The dining table was momentarily silenced after they had left.
“So,” Clio said brightly to Egg. “A warlock and heir to the Jarl of Axgaard? You’re turning out to be quite a catch.”
“I have a headache,” he muttered.
***
“Interesting set up you have here,” Kassa said as she and Baron Svenhilda walked along one of the leather corridors. It was killing Kassa to walk slowly, but for the sake of politeness she kept pace with the Lordling of Axgaard, who was in no hurry.
Svenhilda tapped the leather walls with some pride. “Chandelak hide,” she said cheerfully. “Have you ever seen a Chandelak?”
Kassa, who had seen just about every horrible hairy (or slimy, or scaled) monster that Mocklore had to offer, shook her head.
“They live underground, in caves beneath the Skullcap mountains. They have become quite resilient to magic over the years.” Svenhilda frowned at a drip that was forming in the corner of one of the corridor’s seams. “It lets the rain in, but no magic can penetrate these walls.”
Something heavy and boulder-shaped made a thumping dent in the ceiling. Kassa winced, but Svenhilda shrugged and kept walking. “As soon as some of my best warriors started wandering away from Axgaard and muttering about the lure of the velvety darkness, or possibly the dark velvetiness, I sensed something was wrong. Thought I’d come and see if I could do anything to get my people back. Good hunter-gatherers are hard to find, you know.”
They came to the tent which served as Svenhilda’s entrance hall. Two cloaked figures and several dripping Axgaard warriors waited there. The warriors looked quite shamefaced as Svenhilda approached and glared at them.
“Not interested in velvet any more?” she said sarcastically. “Lost the taste for black satin trousers and strangely seductive demon-cities? Go, get something to eat. I’ll deal with you later.”
The warriors shuffled their feet and started heading for the dining tent.
“It’s not their fault the city brainwashed them,” Kassa couldn’t help saying. “The draklight was incredibly powerful.”
“Brainwashed,” Svenhilda said, her tone heavy with disgust. “They’re warriors, their brains shouldn’t come into it.”
“An interesting topic, hmm?” said a voice. “Is it more embarrassing to have your mind enslaved if you are an intelligent, educated person?”
Kassa grinned. “Bertie!”
Vice-Chancellor Bertie was unwrapping himself from a huge, wet cloak with many pockets in it. “Bit of a storm out there, what?” he said cheerfully. “How are you doing, Mistress Sharpe?”
“Managing quite well, under the circumstances. It is good to see you.”
“I should think so, too. And look here!” He produced several cracked pieces of wood from his many pockets. “I saved the Great Reversing Barrel! Just a few nails and it will be as right as rain.”
Kassa felt the smile fade from her face. “You think it will be useful, do you?”
“Oh, yes,” said Bertie. “And look who else I found!”
The second cloak shimmered and fell away, revealing the mousy figure of Mavis, the goddess of Cluft.
“You?” said Kassa. “I thought you abandoned us to our fate. I thought the cosmos was too fragile for you gods to be able to make a difference. I thought the most constructive thing you were willing to do was disappear?”
“Things have changed,” said Mavis.
Kassa eyed the tent flap, through which she could see the chaotic storm of wild magic and bright, burning rain. “You could say that.”
“We need to talk,” said the goddess.
“Are you helping us now?”
“Not exactly.” Mavis smiled, peering over her spectacles at Kassa. “But I may be able to point you in the direction of the right god.”
***
Kassa and Svenhilda swept into the dining hall like two stately galleons. Vice-Chancellor Bertie and Mavis the goddess followed behind them. “Time for a conference!” Kassa announced. “Where is everybody?”
The warriors who had recently escaped the lure of Drak did not even look up from their stew bowls.
Egg and Doc were playing an Axgaard board game in which your pieces not only captured your opponent’s pieces when you jumped over them, but smashed them into little pieces and then ate them, singing about the glories of battle. Singespitter was snoozing in a corner of the tent, his sheepskin coat tucked around his curled-up body. Sean McHagrty was attempting to chat up several of Svenhilda’s ladies-in-waiting, who were alternately fluttering their eyelashes at this charming stranger and threatening him with their hair-axes.
Aragon Silversword, Lord Sinistre and Clio were nowhere to be seen.
“Right,” said Kassa. “Egg, find Aragon and get him here now. Sean, find the Lordling. We’ll need his input. If either of you see Clio, grab her too. We don’t want people wandering around and getting lost.”
Doc produced an umbrella made of the same leather as the tents. He smiled at Egg. “I believe ex-Sir Silversword went for a walk outside.”
“Brilliant,” E
gg grumbled.
Sean grinned at him, pleased to be getting the better end of the bargain, and headed down one of the other leather corridors in search of Lord Sinistre.
***
The storm was getting worse. The wind howled painfully around the tent-tops. The rain was colder than before, and wetter if that were possible. The rain still had that eerie brightness about it that suggested it was not natural … although such terms were difficult to define in Mocklore. Nothing large and pointy had fallen out of the sky in a while, which had to be a good thing. Egg huddled under the large leather umbrella, and set out in search of Aragon Silversword.
Who in their right mind would go for a random walk in the middle of a chaotic magical weather disaster?
A large icicle embedded itself in the mud at Egg’s feet, making him swear and jump. It was hard to see in any direction. For one horrible moment he wondered what was happening to Cluft, to all the people he knew there. The storm had obliterated at least one of Drak’s towers quite effortlessly. How would Cluft be holding up under such conditions?
Having taken his mind off the search for Aragon, Egg immediately found him. The Chamberlain of Drak and ex-Champion of two Emperors of Mocklore was sitting on a large white boulder, which may or may not recently have fallen from the sky as part of the elemental storm. He was not even wearing a coat. His shirt was wet to the skin. He stared ahead at a fixed point in space.
White flame zigzagged from the bright sky, almost incinerating Aragon’s left foot. He did not move.
Egg hurried forward, and finally saw what strange vision had Aragon Silversword so mesmerised that he didn’t notice the danger or the mad, magical chaos that surrounded him.
It was Dahla. So much had happened since Egg last saw the ghostly girl, he had almost forgotten about her. The bright rain poured through her translucent body and pale coppery hair, lighting her up from within. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but she seemed happier. Egg gave her a little wave, and Dahla responded with a very sweet smile before vanishing.
Another small fireball crashed nearby. Egg held the leather umbrella so that it covered Aragon as well as himself. “You’ve met my ghost, then.”
Ink Black Magic Page 24
