by Sever Bronny
“Not to worry, Leland, not to worry.” Mr. Goss fed him some soup before taking him by the hand. “Come, my boy, let us see to poor Mrs. Stone.”
“It’s to your right there, Mr. Goss,” Bridget said when he started down the path that led to the barn.
“Ah, indeed.” He switched direction, one hand holding Leland, the other pawing the air before him.
The trio silently looked on.
Bridget sighed. “I fear for their safety.”
Augum refrained from saying he feared for all their safety. After last night, he worried about the Pendersons the most right now—they were unpredictable. Even when he was young, he learned to sense their volatile moods, making himself as invisible as possible and spending as little time in their company as he could get away with. Yet it had hardly helped. The more time he spent here, in fact, the more those memories surfaced, memories he had long forced into some dark recess of his mind.
The door to the house opened and out strode Buck, adjusting his ragged ponytail. “What are you looking at?” he said on his way to the river.
Augum’s eyes narrowed while Leera made a gagging sound.
Mrs. Penderson, Wyza in hand, exited the house soon after. The trio turned away.
“She’s our age and she still holds her mother’s hand,” Leera whispered.
Bridget put a finger to her lips. “Shh!”
“If any of you disgusting vermin were any good you’d work that there mill,” Mrs. Penderson said as she strolled by. Wyza stuck out her tongue as they walked to the river to join Buck.
“She reminds me of someone,” Augum said, tapping his forehead. “Can’t possibly think of who.”
Leera chortled. “Erika was crazier.”
“And being a warlock, more dangerous too,” Bridget added.
He smiled to himself.
Leera pushed her deboned fish onto a plank. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing, just … this, all of this, it’s … funny.”
The trio looked at each other, at the fire, and at these strange snow-skinned people. Augum noticed the rooster perched on the roof of the barn, only steps from a Henawa youth glued to the eyepiece of their spyglass. As if on cue, the rooster crowed, as if it did not approve of the interloper in its presence.
Augum was the first to start laughing, quickly followed by the girls. It was the kind of unrepentant laugh from deep within, healing wounds, bringing light to darkness. When he at last recovered, he found the chief standing nearby, staring at them.
“Maniye nuliwi,” the big bear-skinned man said, shaking his head and waddling off. “Maniye nuliwi …”
Neither the nasty comments nor the dirty looks from the Pendersons as they made their way back from the river had much effect on the smiling trio. Their breakfast was slow and sumptuous, one they shared with Mr. Goss, Leland and Mrs. Stone. For that brief time, they forgot about her condition, about the lost spell books they needed to advance their degree, about the missing pearl, about Mr. Goss’ lost spectacles, about the ancient castle they had to find, and about everyone that had died. For the span of a meal, they simply enjoyed each other’s company, and eating fish they’d caught with their own hands.
Suddenly a distant cry pierced the stillness, immediately answered by more within the camp.
The trio shot to their feet.
“Rogan …” Augum said.
Sure enough, a column of riders plowed through the chest-high snow, their milky faces proud and stern. The camp gathered—the women sent up shrill cries; the children shouted and hooted; the Pendersons spilled out of the house.
The riders circled, raising axes, swords and spears into the air, shouting triumphant cries. Rogan and his warriors were covered in blood. His face was a mask of ferocity and victory. He nodded at everyone who looked his way, raising his arm and squawking a sharp “HO!”
The final three horsemen that made it into camp dragged three bloody figures on a rope. One of them wore a tattered black robe, the other two the shining black armor of the Legion.
“Oh no,” Bridget said, unconsciously squeezing Augum’s elbow with both hands. “No, no, no …”
“The entire army is going to come down on us,” Augum said.
“Please, sir, did they have a commander?” Leera shouted to him.
Augum immediately understood what she was getting at. The Legion commanders possessed orbs of seeing, allowing them to communicate with each other and the Lord of the Legion. If this column had a commander, he was sure to pass news of the attack on.
Rogan was too busy to reply. He swam through the adulating crowd with the ease of a fish in water. He kicked the captured men over one by one, until their bloody faces were visible.
Wyza suddenly cried out as if pierced by an arrow. She sprinted over to one of the men, sobbing the whole way, squeezing past Rogan the Conqueror.
“Father—!”
Suala Chi
Augum, heart pounding like a Henawa drum, instantly recognized that bloody face, a face he forever associated with the stench of strong wine, a face permanently twisted with maniacal hatred.
In no time at all Mrs. Penderson was sheltering her husband’s limp form, wailing and shouting, “He’s dying! You done killed him! You done murdered my good husband!” Buck came rushing over, face aflame. The three Pendersons covered the man as if afraid of further attack.
Rogan the Conqueror watched with mild interest before yanking the robed one to his feet. He was an older man, maybe around sixty years of age. His back was bent, face lined with wrinkles and splattered with blood. A tuft of silver hair stuck to his wispy scalp. He wore black studded leather armor underneath a simple black robe emblazoned with the burning sword of the Legion. A woven rope snaked firmly around his chest, digging into the leather.
“Burners,” muttered some in the crowd. “Burners!” The Henawa spat at the three figures. The Pendersons swatted at the ones that ventured too close.
Meanwhile, Rogan dragged the warlock over. “Shaman.” He cut the rope, handing it to Augum.
Augum looked up at the old man stupidly, not knowing what to say.
“What’ve you savages done!” Wyza cried next to her mother. “What’ve you done!” Her shoulders heaved with sobs. “Pappa’s hurt … Pappa’s hurt real bad.”
Rogan smacked the warlock as if he was nothing more than livestock for trade. “Trade. He make old woman well. You teach magic.”
“Are you a healer, sir?” Augum finally managed to ask.
The man only nodded. His eyes told Augum they had seen far too much. They were full of pain and … remorse.
“What’s your name, sir?” Leera asked.
“Sam Ordrid, young lady,” the old man gurgled, coughing blood. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
“I … I was forced into the Legion … I never—”
“It’s all right,” Augum said, handing over the end of the rope to the old man. Mr. Ordrid stared at the frayed end dazedly.
Some of the nearby Henawa started talking in low voices. Augum ignored them. He looked over at the Pendersons. Wyza was wild with fear. Buck and his mother swatted and spat at the Henawa like rabid wolves. And Mr. Penderson stared straight at Augum.
He recalled a particular moment back in Willowbrook when he had come home to Sir Westwood, clothes torn from a fight with Dap, swearing to the old knight that he hated that boy and everyone in that stupid village.
“Hate is like stones in your heart,” Sir Westwood had replied. “They only slow you down and clutter your spirit. When the opportunity comes, leave them behind, for the road of life is long and hard enough already.”
Maybe this was an opportunity for him to leave a stone behind.
“Please help us with my great-grandmother, Mr. Ordrid. But before you do so …” He nodded at Mr. Penderson. “Can you heal that man first?”
Leera grabbed his arm. “Aug, you sure—?”
Bridget placed a gentle hand on Leera’s shoulder, her eyes on Augum. Th
ere was a hint of a smile on her lips. “He is.”
Leera hesitated but eventually let go.
Suddenly Rogan the Conqueror yanked the third man, a hapless young soldier, to his feet. He started chanting to the crowd in Henawa, the crowd throwing up shouts of either anger or victory when he paused for breath.
“Ettan, what’s he saying?” Bridget asked, snagging the boy as he shouted along with the crowd.
“He say, ‘This for Burner slaughter. For loved ones’ spirits. For glory of Henawa’.”
She blanched and looked to Mr. Ordrid.
“An entire company hit the Henawa further north. It was, it was—”
“—a slaughter,” Augum said quietly.
Rogan suddenly threw the young soldier into the crowd. They hoisted him over their shoulders like a coffin. His limbs flailed as they carried him to the fire.
“Stop it!” Bridget called, glancing around feverishly. “Stop it—! Somebody do something!”
Augum wanted to shout for them to stop, to tell them it wouldn’t bring back their loved ones, but all his mind saw was the fires that consumed Willowbrook and Sparrow’s Perch, and the fire that consumed Mya.
Leera, who stood right beside him, seemed mesmerized. Was she seeing her family’s feet dangling midair? The sky orange from the flames?
“I can’t watch this horror,” Bridget said, hand over her mouth. She ran back to the house, sobbing.
“Look away, young ones,” Mr. Ordrid said. “Please, for the love of the Unnameables, look away now. Only I deserve to watch what is about to happen.”
Augum and Leera turned away, the pair breathing in unison. Time slowed to a crawl. He was barely conscious of his hand finding hers and squeezing.
They watched as shadows played on the snow, shadows of hands rising in jubilation and revenge. They felt the heat on their backs and heard the celebratory cries, the lone scream, and the agonized weeping of the Pendersons.
When the celebration reached its peak, Augum retched. Leera was right beside him, heaving onto the snow. He had never been that sick, never. It took almost all the fight out of him, as if he’d been kicked in the stomach.
The tumult died down and Rogan made a new speech. The moment he finished, there was movement and the Pendersons began shrieking hysterically. The crowd roared as Rogan the Conqueror stabbed at the air with a curved blade while yanking Mr. Penderson to his feet, while his family struggled in the arms of Henawa warriors.
Mr. Penderson somehow found Augum in the crowd. His eyes lit up with that familiar malignant hatred. For a moment, Augum thought he smelled rank wine.
Stones in your heart, Augum. Stones in your heart …
He knew what he had to do. He summoned every ounce of courage and strength and made a fierce whipping gesture, a gesture infused with old frustration, tired suffering, and faint hope.
“GRAU!”
The sound of crashing thunder tore the air, startling men and horses, children and women alike. It was the loudest thing he had ever heard, shaking the earth, forcing almost everyone to duck and cover their ears.
There was a ringing silence as Augum scrambled to his feet, trying to hold his stomach in check. “NO!” he shouted in the clearest voice he could, marching up to Rogan the Conqueror, placing himself between the warrior and Mr. Penderson. “It won’t bring them back! It won’t bring your loved ones back!”
Rogan stared down at Augum as if he was a fly to be smushed. “Child know nothing of suffering.”
There was no hesitation. Augum practically tore the robe from his upper torso along with his linen undershirt, revealing a naked back ridged with scars. He slowly turned in a circle for all to see. “But I do, I do know!”
Stones were dropping by the moment. He could feel himself growing lighter.
He pointed at Mr. Penderson. “This man did this to me. This man here! And I do not wish him dead.” There had been enough death, enough sorrow, enough stones. “The Burners razed two villages before my eyes.” He envisioned a woman running through a field, child in her arms. “They murdered my mother …” Sir Westwood, straw dangling from his mouth. “My old mentor … and … and my friends.” A tear, Mya in saltwater form, trickled down his cheek. “Revenge won’t bring them back …”
Rogan had been translating in a calm voice. When he finished, the crowd stared in total silence.
“Suala Chi,” someone finally said.
“Suala Chi,” repeated another. Soon everyone in the crowd was saying “Suala Chi,” and nodding, before dispersing.
“Suala Chi,” Rogan the Conqueror echoed quietly.
Augum dressed. “Suala Chi …?”
“It is your name. It means Brave Soul,” and handed him the rope tied to Mr. Penderson.
Vortex
“I don’t know what just happened,” Leera said when Augum returned to her side, “but I don’t think I’ll ever see something like that again.” She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. “Why do you have to be so damn brave?”
Before he could reply, she drew him into a tight embrace, her hand gently stroking his back. “I … I didn’t know,” she mumbled. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all right. Those stones are gone now.” His spirit had never felt so … light.
She let go. “Stones?”
He smiled. “Never mind.” The pair looked on as Mr. Ordrid healed Mr. Penderson, his family huddled around.
Augum glanced skyward. Lumpy gray clouds filled the sky. A light wind had sprung up.
“I feel older,” Leera blurted.
He snorted a laugh. “Me too …”
The two friends exchanged smiles.
He scrunched his face in concentration and reached for her raven hair. “Come to think of it, is that gray hair—”
She swatted his hand away, flashing a scandalized look. “That’s frost, Augum Stone.”
He gave her a wry grin and shrugged. “I know.”
Bridget finally came out of the house, face red. “What happened? Why are you two smiling?”
“I can’t even … I’ll explain later.” Leera nodded at the healer attending to Mr. Penderson. “But look.”
Mr. Penderson’s family brought him to his feet and a round of hugs ensued. Mr. Ordrid left them to it and returned to Augum. “Son, if you ever raise an army, you let me know. I would be proud to take up your banner.”
“I’m only fourteen—”
“For now, but history is riddled with stories of boys like you. Boys that grew to become fine men. Fine men who became great leaders. Great leaders who became legends.”
Leera punched him on the shoulder. “Look at that, a legend in the making. Besides, you’re almost fifteen, and I’d follow you too.” There was a softness in her eyes that made his ears burn. She stabbed at his chest with a finger. “Just don’t let it go to your head.”
“Now where is this great-grandmother I am to help?”
“Right. This way, Mr. Ordrid, this way.” Augum led them into the house.
“What’s going on?” Bridget sputtered, standing with a befuddled look on her face. “How did …” before hurrying to catch up.
“Sir,” Leera began as they walked, “why didn’t you just teleport away when they captured you?”
“The Henawa are masters at surprise. My arcane energies were spent trying to save the fallen. Truth be known, part of me felt I deserved to be captured and hauled away like nothing more than a log. I have seen too much, and I did nothing to stop it. They would be right to burn me in the fire.”
“Then you’d be no help to anyone. At least you can save lives still, make up for it.” Augum said it casually, but the man stopped. His lip quivered as if he wanted to speak but could not.
Augum gestured to the servant room. “In here, sir.”
Mr. Ordrid nodded, patted Augum on the shoulder, and entered.
Mr. Goss hurriedly stood.
“It’s all right, Mr. Goss,” Leera said. “He’s here to help.”
Mr. Ordrid made his way over to Mrs. Stone’s side and gasped. “It cannot be, it simply cannot be …” He kneeled by the bed. “This is … no, but my eyes deceive me … this is Anna Atticus Stone.”
“Yes,” Augum replied.
“Headmistress …”
The trio exchanged looks.
Mr. Ordrid put a hand to his wispy scalp. “But that means …” he glanced Augum’s way. “That means you’re his son.”
Augum nodded slowly.
“You’re the one they’re looking for.” Mr. Ordrid glanced at them all anew. “All of you. Mighty Unnameables, you are in great danger—” He stood up, eyes frantic. “You must leave here at once. The commander has already informed the rest of the company. The Henawa only came across a small detachment. They have no idea what kind of force they are up against.”
Bridget paled. “The speaking orbs …”
“Precisely.”
“Then we must move quickly,” Augum said, gaze falling onto Mrs. Stone. “Please, can you help her? She said something about ‘arcane fever’.”
“Yes, I know about arcane fever—it happens when one seriously overdraws one’s arcane talents. It means she pushed herself to the very edge of arcane knowledge. Warlocks die from going over that cliff, but some feel out the edge, walk that line and come back. The fever of seeing the abyss is …” He swallowed. “No, she is Anna Atticus Stone, she must survive.”
Everyone glanced at Mrs. Stone, ancient lined face pale, breath slow and labored.
“She fought my father,” Augum said. “That’s what made her sick.”
“The Battle at Hangman’s Rock,” Mr. Ordrid said quietly. “I have heard.” He turned to them. “She is the greatest warlock alive. A living legend. I will do everything in my power to save her. I just hope it is enough. Now let us get to work, we have very little time. The process of curing arcane fever requires a mix of traditional and arcane healing. This is what I’m going to need from you …”
