by Dave Skinner
from Blood and Magic
from Blood and Magic
By Dave Skinner
Wizard’s Spawn Book 1
Copyright © Dave Skinner, 2019
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
Published by Dave Skinner 0-9918966
Haliburton, ON.
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. This version has been produced with digital rights disabled allowing the purchaser to save a copy to another device for safe keeping. Please do not share this book with people outside of your immediate family. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Edited by Lottie Clemens (of Reedsy)
Map by Xanworx Studio
http://xanworx.com/
Cover art by Laurie O’Reilly
www.brushandpen.ca
Cover design by Laurie O’Reilly
Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 9780991896691 (eBook)
ISBN: 9781707894376 (Paperback)
Other books by Dave Skinner
My Father’s Swords
Travellers
Confluence of Swords
Mystery at Whitetop (A Lee and Bray Novella)
Prologue
Andoo Toran let the magic flow into Micka's body even though he knew it was pointless. She had smiled for the last time. For a while, the baby lay on her chest. Micka had wanted to hold him, but her strength was gone. So Andoo held her hand and fed magic to her. It was all he could do, and it made him ache with frustration. Despite all his magic, all his knowledge, he had not been able to help his niece. The Wizards’ Covenant was clear on what could be done during a birth to help the mother. Nothing invasive was allowed, even pain relief was forbidden. A birth had to be completely natural to honour the Mother. They permitted strength spells, and Andoo had fed strength to Micka through a trickle of magic, but it could not save her. The child was too large. As soon as she entered the house, Andoo sensed the magic she had used to create the babe. What she had done, creating a child using Nailmoe’s blood and her magic, was against the Covenant, but he understood her need. She had loved Nailmoe too deeply to accept his loss.
A frantic cry from the midwife pulled Andoo from his thoughts. The baby was screaming. That was to be expected, but the midwife’s cry was not. She actually sounded frightened. Andoo stopped the flow of magic and released Micka’s hand before pulling the sheet over her face. The midwife cried again from the other room, and he rose to investigate.
He found her standing outside the door to the parlor with a hand to her mouth. If he had more energy, Andoo would have asked her what was happening, but the effort was too much. He just walked up behind her and followed her wide-eyed gaze. The room’s contents were spinning through the air, filling the space between floor and ceiling, before smashing into walls, furniture or each other. The poker from the fireplace was sticking out of one wall, another was stained with wine and his favourite decanter lay smashed below it. The baby was screaming from where it lay on the floor in the centre of the room. Andoo could feel the magic diminish and then swell again each time the child ran out of breath, took another and started anew. He reached out with a sleep spell, and the baby’s screams stopped as its eyes closed. Flying objects instantly crashed to the floor; thankfully none landed on the babe. The midwife gave him a withering look.
“Sorry,” he said. “I failed to think that through. What happened?”
“You saw. The baby started crying as soon as the mother died. I brought him in here and tried to calm him, but he just got worse, and then everything started moving around. I ducked down, put the baby on the floor and tried to protect us. But then I felt myself starting to float and I managed to crawl out here. Is the child a demon?”
“No, that is impossible,” Andoo told her. He searched through his exhausted mind for an excuse the midwife would find reasonable. “Micka must have used a spell to help her get here or to keep the birth from happening until she arrived. Magic cannot manifest in a baby. It won’t happen again.” The midwife accepted it. She re-entered the room and picked up the sleeping child.
“I am sorry about your niece, but there was nothing I could do. This is the largest baby I have ever seen. He’s as big as a small child who has seen two name-days. Her body just couldn’t handle it. You will have to hire a wet-nurse. I can give you the names of two I recommend.”
“I would appreciate that. I will have my man see them as soon as the sun is up.”
“The sun has been up for a while, Wizard Toran.”
Andoo shook his head in an attempt to clear away the fog that filled it. He needed time to prepare a spell to dampen the magic in the child. A spell was the only way to contain it. He only required a moment to cast it, but he had to be alone to get it ready. The midwife was a gossip, he knew that. She would tell everyone about what happened here, if she saw him placing another spell on the child, that would not do. He yawned, casting a small spell. It had the desired effect on the midwife and she yawned also.
“It has been a rough night,” Andoo said. He walked over to her and took the babe into his arms. “We all need some rest. I will make sure little Nails has a good sleep, you can return to your home, and I will send my man later today with your payment. Give him the names of the wet nurses. Thank you for everything.” Mumbling goodbye he led her to the door.
When she was gone, Andoo took the babe to his laboratory. Before the sand had run through a small glass, he had the spell prepared. It would have to be renewed every so often, but it would temporarily hold back the powerful magic he felt in the child. He would figure out a permanent solution later. He had to; otherwise this baby would turn into a dangerous man, a very dangerous man with wild magic the likes of which he had never seen before.
Chapter 1
Nails felt Susin’s warm body stir beside him. He had eased his arm from under the blanket, his first step in slipping out of bed, but some part of his movement had disturbed her sleep. He stopped and waited until her breathing told him she was sleeping deeply again. Then he eased one leg from under the blanket and lowered his foot slowly onto the rug beside the bed. Susin snorted lightly but continued to sleep. Carefully, with slow, small movements, Nails eased his body out and stood erect, padded barefoot across the floor and slipped out the door. Out in the hall, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Once, some time ago, he overslept and, not waiting for his vision to return, had stumbled over a drunken customer passed out on the floor. The man had reacted noisily, cursing and blustering, which woke most of the girls. He wanted to avoid a scene like that again, so he stood and waited until he could see before walking to his own door.
Although Nails’ room was right beside Susin’s, it was nowhere near as large as hers. In fact it was little more than a closet. Her room was large enough for a full bed, a wardrobe, a vanity and a padded chair. Part of Nails’ job was to clean all the girls’ rooms, so he knew that Susin’s room was one of the nicest and once, long before they were close, he had asked her about it.
“I make lots of money for the house,” was her answer.
Nails didn’t know how much money “lots” was, but it must be a large amount because Susin always had money to spend on treats—clothes for her and sweets for him. Thinking of sweets made his stomach rumble. Judging by the light through Susin’s window, he had to hurry if he wanted something to eat b
efore he started cleaning in the barn. He picked up a pair of pants and pulled them on, carefully tying the drawstring that kept them up. Susin had taught him how to do that like she had taught him almost everything he knew. He had been told often enough that he was a dummy. In fact, until Susin took him under her care, he had thought Dummy was his name.
Nails pulled his shirt over his bald head, slipped quietly out of his closet, along the hall and down the stairs. The smell of fresh bread made his stomach complain again as he made his way into the common room. His first job was to clean up the common room before customers arrived. Nails glanced around the room. It looked good compared to some mornings. Two drunks were sleeping it off at different tables. He grabbed the closest one by the back of his shirt and dragged him across the floor to the second table. Picking up the next drunk, he dragged both men towards the front door. Sometimes the drunks woke up when he dragged them, so he watched them carefully, but these two showed no signs of regaining their senses. Dropping the bodies by the door, he unbarred it and pushed it open. Fresh air wafted in through the opening, and one of the drunks awoke enough to mumble something before he settled back down. Nails grabbed one and pulled him out the door before going back for the other. Then he relocked it and headed for the kitchen.
Cook had the back door open, and sunlight was streaming in. He had set four water pails by the door ready for Nails, who gathered up all four by their handles and headed to the well. Filling two, he brought them back in and left them beside the fireplace. Cook didn’t let him pour the water because he had spilled a pail on the fire some time before. Nails returned to the well and filled the last two pails. Leaving one for Cook, he took the other out to the common room and started scrubbing tables. When the tables were clean, he swept the dirt floor and spread fresh rushes on it. Barret, the manager of the house, arrived just as he finished, and Nails stood quietly while Barret looked the room over. Finally, he nodded his head.
“It looks good, Nails. Open the front door, and then get something to eat. Do you remember what your next job is?”
“Clean the stables,” Nails told him after a pause.
“Good man. Away you go.”
In the kitchen, Cook had a plate of eggs and ham waiting for him. He dug into it hungrily after ripping a hunk of fresh bread from a loaf. The food was gone too soon, but he knew that asking for more would only get him angry words about how much he ate. At least they fed him regularly. That was more than Toto and Brunt had done while he was with them looking for treasure on the islands. Nails felt a rare frown cross his face at the memory of Toto and Brunt. He hadn’t thought of them for a long time, ever since they sold him to the Bentmen of Delvingford. Nails’ thoughts were interrupted by a sharp smack on his head.
“There are no seconds, Dummy. Best get back to work,” Cook told him.
The chickens were pecking and scratching about the garden when Nails exited through the kitchen door. His walking scattered two that were in his path, but the rest paid him no heed. When he first started living at the pleasure house two summers ago, the chickens had scared him, which Cook found endlessly funny.
“Don’t act like a baby, you dummy,” he had said. “You’re a grown man. Behave like one.” Nails didn’t understand why he said it, but Susin had explained it to him one night. He would always remember that night because it was the first time she held him.
“You must be mistaken, Nails,” she had said. “A person with only eight summers is still a child. You are a man. Young yes, I can see that in your face, but you are bigger than Cook and he is a large man. Do you know how to count?”
“I can count all my fingers,” he had told her. “I have been big for as long as I can remember. We moved from Waysley in my fourth summer. I was as tall as you are by then.”
Susin had looked at him strangely and then told him to count for her. He counted to thirteen. That was as high as he could go back then. Susin had been teaching him more numbers ever since, she also taught him to read the common language. Susin loved to read. After all her customers were gone for the night, she would wake him by banging on the wall. Then they would snuggle up in her bed and she would read him stories. Susin was the best, and only, mother Nails had ever had. At first, he thought she was wasting her time trying to teach him to read.
“Nonsense,” she had huffed. “You are not slow. People only think that because you are so much bigger than your age.”
“I think you wrong,” he had said.
“I think you’re wrong,” she had corrected him. She always did that. But she had been right. He could read now, not as well as she could, but he could make it through a shopping list. Even so, he still preferred to listen to her read while they were snuggling in bed. It was his best part of the day.
***
There was a Traveller’s wagon at the back door to the stables. Sometimes, Scripter, the stable hand, made extra silver by working on wagons that did not belong to the Inn’s guests. The boss said it was all right as long as he attended to the Inn’s work first. It looked like Scripter and the Traveller were fixing a wheel so Nails didn’t bother them. He found a pitchfork and set about mucking out the stalls. By the time he had three stalls cleaned out, the mucking cart was full, so he wheeled it out the back door. After dumping it, he started back to the barn just as Scripter suddenly cried out.
“Get it up. Get it up.” Somehow, Scripter had got his hand stuck beneath the wheel as they were replacing it on the axle. Nails dropped the cart and rushed over to help the Traveller who was trying to lift the wagon. He grabbed the front corner and pulled up. At first, nothing happened so Nails squatted a little and put his back into the lift like Brunt had taught him. As the wagon moved and his hand slipped free, Scripter stopped cursing.
“Get the block back under it,” Nails heard him tell the Traveller through gritted teeth. “Hold it Nails. Good man, now let it down.” He eased the wagon down. “Thanks Nails,” Scripter mumbled. He was concentrating on working the pain out of his hand, so Nails returned to the mucking cart.
As he righted it and headed back into the barn, he heard the Traveller comment, “That is a strong man.”
“Yes, but dumber than my anvil.”
Nails had heard comments like that all his life. If they weren’t about his stupidity, they were about his size, his bald head or his skin. He wished his thick scaly skin could protect him from the pain they caused, but that was not to be. If anything, it made him a bigger target. His skin became covered in scales whenever it felt like it. He had little, if any, control over it, and he hated it. Back in Waysley, when he was young, the other children teased him terribly when it happened. That and the fact that he was three or four times bigger than anyone else his age had kept him friendless and isolated. When his uncle Andoo sold his house in Waysley and moved to the Delta, Nails and Magga, his caregiver, had relocated to a small cottage on the coast by a fishing village. Nails had liked it there. He loved exploring the beach and playing in the water. He taught himself to swim and had learned to control his scales better, but the first time they appeared while he was swimming, he had almost drowned. Stone-like scales are not good in the water.
Nails put his memories away and concentrated on his work. By the time he had the stalls mucked out and fresh hay thrown down, had fed the chickens and the pigs, swept the porch and stairs, his stomach told him it was time for the midday meal.
He went to the kitchen to find that Cook needed all the water pails filled again. The house girls were beginning to appear. They all liked a hot drink when they broke their fasts. After filling the pails, he heaped his plate high with beans and bread, snagged a couple of pieces of bacon when Cook wasn’t watching and headed for the common room. Susin was seated at her usual table with the two new girls. They were deep in conversation, so he sat at an empty table and ate his meal. He was mopping his plate with the last of the bread when a hand fell on his shoulder.
“Wagons are here,” Scripter told him. “I need
you to help me instead of cleaning the girls’ rooms, and you will have to do all the heavy work. My hand is killing me.” Nails left his plate for the barmaid and followed Scripter back to the barn. Two wagons had been pulled into it. Nails closed the barn doors, front and back, while Scripter tugged the canvas off the loads and then opened the special stall. Nails liked the special stall. It was never used for animals and therefore never had to be mucked out. At the back, a concealed door opened into a storage space that ran all the way down the side of the barn. Nails had asked about it the first time he saw it.
“It’s none of your concern,” Scripter had told him. “Just don’t mention it to anybody. It is Bentmen business.”
He asked Susin about it once and she said it was part of the boss’s smuggling operation. Nails had no idea what a “smuggling operation” was.
“The Bentmen keep goods in there that they don’t want the city guards to know about,” she had explained.
“Who are the Bentmen?” he had asked.
“The Bentmen are an association of criminals. They exist in all the cities around the lake and perform the tasks that good people don’t talk about—thieves, crooks, assassins and gamblers.”
“So Scripter is a Bentman?” Nails asked.
“Scripter is, and so is Jacko, our esteemed owner.” Susin talked like that sometimes. Nails was starting to understand her words more often than he did when he first arrived. “Jacko is the head Bentman around here. The Baker was the headman for a long time, but he got killed in the Demon War. A few people tried for the headman position after the war. Jacko survived longest. I heard that the others all disappeared mysteriously. Don’t ever cross him, Nails. He’s a killer.”
By the time Nails left the barn after unloading and storing all the crates and barrels, shadows were crawling down the walls. He went back to the kitchen but Cook told him to go clean up for dinner. Nails returned to his closet to get clean clothes before walking down to the harbour. He watched the ships being unloaded, and then went to his favourite beach for a swim. Nails liked the water. When he and Magga had first moved to the fishing village after leaving Waysley, the water had terrified him, but after watching the other children play in it, he decided that his fear was stupid. If he ever wanted to make friends, he would have to learn to swim. After many failures he finally succeeded, but friendship with the other children never happened.
