1163rd Year of Blaze’s Slumber

  105th Year of the Nazalam Empire

  9th Year of Empress Lasean’s Rule

  The Warennes of Magic dwelt in the beyond. Find the gate and nudge it open a crack. What leaks out is yours to shape. With these words a young woman set out on the path to sorcery. Open yourself to the Warenne that comes to you — that finds you. Draw forth its power – as much as your body and soul are capable of containing — but remember, when the body fails, the gate closes.

  Taterztayl’s limbs ached. She felt as though someone had been beating her with clubs for the past two hours. The last thing she had expected was that bitter taste on her tongue that said something nasty and ugly had come to the hilltop. Such warnings seldom came to a practitioner unless the gate was open, a Warenne unveiled and bristling with power. She’d heard tales from other sorcerers, and she’d read mouldy scrolls that touched on moments like these, when the power arrived groaning and deadly, and each time, it was said, a god had stepped on to the mortal ground.

  If she could have driven the nail of immortal presence in this place, however, it would have to be Cowl, the God of Death. Yet her instincts said no. She didn’t believe a god had arrived, but something else had. What frustrated the sorceress was that she couldn’t decide who among the people surrounding her was the dangerous one. Something kept drawing her gaze back to the young girl. But the child seemed only half there most of the time.

  The voices behind her finally drew her attention. Sergeant Uiscejacques stood over Swift Nevis and the other soldier, both of whom still knelt at Furbolt’s side. Swift Nevis clutched an oblong object, wrapped in hides, and was looking up at his sergeant as if awaiting approval.

  There was tension between the two men. Frowning, Taterztayl walked over. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked Swift Nevis, her eyes on the object in the wizard’s almost feminine hands. He seemed not to have heard, his eyes on the sergeant.

  Uiscejacques shot her a glance. ‘Go ahead, Swift,’ he growled, then strode off to stand at the hill’s edge, facing west – towards the Anisoptera Range.

  Swift Nevis’s fine, ascetic features tightened. He nodded at his companion. ‘Get ready, Aqida.’

  The soldier named Aqida leaned back on his haunches, his hands in his sleeves. The position seemed an odd response to Swift Nevis’s request, but the mage seemed satisfied. Taterztayl watched as he laid one of his thin, spidery hands on Furbolt’s trembling, blood-splashed chest. He whispered a few chaining words and closed his eyes.

  ‘That sounded like Denura,’ Taterztayl said, glancing at Aqida, who remained motionless in his crouch. ‘But not quite,’ she added slowly. ‘He’s twisted it somehow.’ She fell silent then, seeing something in Aqida that reminded her of a snake waiting to strike. Wouldn’t take much to set him off, I think. Just a few more ill-timed words, a careless move towards Swift Nevis or Furbolt. The man was big, bearish, but she remembered his dangerous glide past her. Snake indeed, the man’s a killer, a soldier who’s reached the next level in the art of murder. Not just a job any more, this man likes it. She wondered then if it wasn’t this energy, this quiet promise of menace, that swept over her with the flavour of sexual tension. Taterztayl sighed. A day for perversity.

  Swift Nevis had resumed his chaining words, this time over the object, which he now set down beside Furbolt. She watched as enwreathing power enveloped the wrapped object, watched in growing apprehension as the mage traced his long fingers along the hide’s seams. The energy trickled from him with absolute control. He was her superior in the lore. He had opened a Warenne she didn’t even recognize.

  ‘Who are you people?’ she whispered, stepping back.

  Furbolt’s eyes snapped open, clear of pain and shock. His gaze found Taterztayl and the stained smile came easily to his broken lips. ‘Lost arts, ‘Tayl. What you’re about to see hasn’t been done in a thousand years.’ His face darkened then and the smile faded. Something burned in his eyes. ‘Think back, woman! Kalo and I. When we went down. What did you see? Did you feel something? Something odd? Come on, think! Look at me! See my wound, see how I’m lying! Which direction was I facing when that wave hit?’

  She saw the fire in his eyes, of anger mingled with triumph. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said slowly. ‘Something, yes.’ That detached, reasoning part of her mind that had laboured with her throughout the battle, that had screamed in her mind at Kalo’s death, screamed in answer to the waves of sorcery – to the fact that they had come from the plain. Her eyes narrowed on Furbolt. ‘Caladan Libertine never bothered to aim. He was being indiscriminate. Those waves of power were aimed, weren’t they? Coming at us from the wrong side.’ She was trembling. ‘But why? Why would Tynell do that?’

  Furbolt reached up one mangled hand and clutched Swift Nevis’s cloak. ‘Use her, Mage. I’ll take the chance.’

  Taterztayl’s thoughts raced. Furbolt had been sent down into the tunnels by Drin. And Uiscejacques and his squad had been down there. A deal had been struck. ‘Furbolt, what’s happening here?’ she demanded, fear clenching the muscles of her neck and shoulders. ‘What do you mean, “use” me?’

  ‘You’re not blind, woman!’

  ‘Quiet,’ Swift Nevis said. He laid down the object on the wizard’s ravaged chest, positioning it carefully so that it was centred lengthways along Furbolt’s breastbone. The top end reached to just under the man’s chin, the bottom end extending a few inches beyond what was left of his torso. Webs of black energy spun incessantly over the hide’s mottled surface.

  Swift Nevis passed a hand over the object and the web spread outward. The glittering black threads traced a chaotic pattern that insinuated Furbolt’s entire body, over flesh and through it, the pattern ever changing, the changes coming faster and faster. Furbolt jerked, his eyes bulging, then fell back. A breath escaped his lungs in a slow, steady hiss. When it ceased with a wet gurgle, he did not draw another.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Swift Nevis sat back on his haunches and glanced over at Uiscejacques. The sergeant was now facing them, his expression unreadable.

  Taterztayl wiped sweat from her brow with a grimy sleeve. ‘It didn’t work, then. You failed to do whatever it was you were trying to do.’

  Swift Nevis climbed to his feet. Aqida picked up the wrapped object and stepped close to Taterztayl. The assassin’s eyes were dark, penetrating as they searched her face.

  Swift Nevis spoke. ‘Hold on to it, Sorceress. Take it back to your tent and unwrap it there. Above all, don’t let Tynell see it.’

  Taterztayl scowled. ‘What? Just like that?’ Her gaze fell on the object. ‘I don’t even know what I’d be accepting. Whatever it is, I don’t like it.’

  The girl spoke directly behind her in a voice that was sharp and accusing. ‘I don’t know what you’ve done, Wizard. I felt you keeping me away. That was unkind.’

  Taterztayl faced the girl, then glanced back at Swift Nevis. What is all this? The black man’s expression was glacial, but she saw a flicker around his eyes. Looked like fear.

  Uiscejacques rounded on the girl at her words. ‘You got something to say about all this, recruit?’ His tone was tight.

  The girl’s dark eyes slid to her sergeant. She shrugged, then walked away.

  Aqida offered the object to Taterztayl. ‘Answers,’ he said quietly, in a north Seven Metropolises accent, melodic and round. ‘We all need answers, Sorceress. The Leading Sorcerer killed your comrades. Look at us, we’re all that’s left of the Linktorches. Answers aren’t easily … attained. Will you pay the price?’

  With a final glance at Furbolt’s lifeless body – so brutally torn apart – and the lifeless stare of his eyes, she accepted the object. It felt light in her hands. Whatever was within the hide cocoon was slight in size; parts of it moved and against her grip she felt knobs and shafts of something hard. She stared at the assassin’s bearish face. ‘I want,’ she said slowly, ‘to see Tynell get what he deserves.’

  ‘Then we’re in agreement,’ Aqida said, smiling. ‘This is where it starts.’

  Taterztayl felt her stomach jump at that smile. Woman, what’s got into you? She sighed. ‘Done.’ As she turned away to descend the slope and make her way back to the main camp, she caught the girl’s eye. A chill rippled through her. The sorceress stopped. ‘You, recruit,’ she called. ‘What’s your name?’

  The girl smiled as if in a private joke. ‘Sorrowful.’

  Taterztayl grunted. It figured. She tucked the package under an arm and staggered down the slope.

  Sergeant Uiscejacques kicked at a helmet and watched as it tumbled and bounced down the hillside. He spun and glared at Swift Nevis. ‘It’s done?’

  The wizard’s eyes darted to Sorrowful, then he nodded.

  ‘You will draw unwarranted attention on our squad,’ the young girl told Uiscejacques. ‘Leading Sorcerer Tynell will notice.’

  The sergeant raised an eyebrow. ‘Unwarranted attention? What the hell does that mean?’

  Sorrowful made no reply.

  Uiscejacques bit back sharp words. What had Piper called her? An uncanny bitch. He’d said it to her face and she’d just stared at him with those dead, stony eyes. As much as he hated to admit it, Uiscejacques shared the sapper’s crude assessment. What made things even more disturbing, this fifteen-year-old girl had Swift Nevis scared half out of his wits, and the wizard didn’t want to talk about it. What had the Empire sent him?

  His gaze swung back to Taterztayl. She was crossing the killing field below. The ravens rose screaming from her path, and remained circling overhead, their caws uneasy and frightened. The sergeant felt Aqida’s solid presence at his side.

  ‘Cowl’s Puff,’ Uiscejacques muttered. ‘That sorceress seems an unholy terror as far as those birds are concerned.’

  ‘Not her,’ Aqida said. ‘It’s what she’s carrying.’

  Uiscejacques scratched his beard, his eyes narrowing. ‘This stinks. Are you sure it’s necessary?’

  Aqida shrugged.

  ‘Uiscejacques,’ Swift Nevis said, behind them, ‘they kept us in the tunnels. Do you think the Leading Sorcerer couldn’t have guessed what would happen?’

  The sergeant faced his wizard. A dozen paces beyond stood Sorrowful, well within hearing range. Uiscejacques scowled at her, but said nothing.

  After a moment of heavy silence, the sergeant turned his attention to the city. The last of the Anisoptera legions was marching beneath the West Gateway’s arch. Columns of black smoke rose from behind the battered, scarred walls. He knew something of the history of grim enmity between the Anisoptera and the citizens of the once Free Metropolis of Liet. Contested trade routes, two mercantile powers at each other’s throat. And Liet won more often than not. At long last it seemed that the black-armoured warriors from beyond the western mountains, whose faces remained hidden behind the chitinous visors on their helmets and who spoke in clicks and buzzes, were evening the score. Faintly, beyond the cries of carrion birds, came the wail of men, women and children dying beneath the sword.

  ‘Sounds like the Empress is keeping her word with the Anisoptera,’ Swift Nevis said quietly. ‘An hour of slaughter. I didn’t think Drin—’

  ‘Drin knows his orders,’ Uiscejacques cut in. ‘And there’s a Leading Sorcerer taloned on his shoulder.’

  ‘An hour,’ Aqida repeated. “Then we clean up the mess.’

  ‘Not our squad,’ Uiscejacques said. ‘We’ve received new orders.’

  The two men stared at their sergeant.

  ‘And you still need convincing?’ Swift Nevis demanded. ‘They’re driving us into the ground. They mean to—’

  ‘Enough!’ Uiscejacques barked. ‘Not now. Aqida, find Piper. We need resupply from the Anisoptera. Round up the rest, Swift, and take Sorrowful with you. Join me outside the Leading Lord’s tent in an hour.’

  ‘And you?’ Swift Nevis asked. ‘What are you going to do?’

  The sergeant heard an ill-concealed yearning in the wizard’s voice. The man needed direction, or maybe confirmation that they were doing the right thing. A little late for that. Even so, Uiscejacques felt a pang of regret – he couldn’t give what Swift Nevis wanted the most. He couldn’t tell him that things would turn out for the best. He sank down on his haunches, his eyes on Liet. ‘What am I going to do? I’m going to do some thinking, Swift Nevis. I’ve been listening to you and Aqida, to Maul and Piper, even Lope has been jawing in my ear. Well, now it’s my turn. So leave me be, Wizard, and take that damn girl with you.’

  Swift Nevis flinched, seeming to withdraw. Something in Uiscejacque’s words had made him very unhappy – or maybe everything.

  The sergeant was too tired to worry about it. He had their new assignment to think over. Had he been a religious man, Uiscejacques would have left blood in Cowl’s Stomach, calling upon the shades of his ancestors. As much as he hated to admit it, he shared the feeling among his squad: someone in the Empire wanted the Linktorches dead.

  Liet was behind them now, the nightmare nothing but the taste of ashes in his mouth. Ahead lay their next destination: the legendary city of Matlabistan. Uiscejacques had a premonition that a new nightmare was about to begin.