Dark Legion (20 page)

I dashed across the street, and leaned against the wall within the shadows of the building. I stood there, looking this way and that, but no one came to see what the commotion was about. The sense of relief I felt, with Malakai's task completed, was palpable. While I intended to remain hidden for a while, the sudden release of tension had an unwelcome side effect. Or perhaps it was just the drink, as I suddenly needed to piss. I relieved myself, and steam rose from the puddle against the wall. What a noble knight I made.

I shook some piss from my boot, and a thought occurred to me. If Neysa was the only one to escape, she would be considered guilty. If the Dark Legion had their way, they were both dead anyway. But… I rummaged through my satchel as I walked back up the alley.

“What have you got there, girl?” I heard Adair ask. His cell was to the right of hers. Neysa was mumbling or humming in the background. I found a lock pick in my satchel and tossed it through the bars of Adair's cell.

“What?” Adair asked. I heard the scrape of metal on stone as he picked it up. “A pick? Who's there!” he yelled as I exited the alley. That all-too-familiar cold sensation trickled down my spine, and I spun around, just in time to be blinded by a flash of light.

“By the Beloved… Where did she go?” Adair asked in a quiet voice. “She's gone…”

 

The flash of light drew attention where her screaming had not. I darted from the alley and dived into what turned out to be a thorn bush. People swarmed past me and gathered in loose groups, unsure of where to look. A low rumble of conversation filled the street, but it was clear that they didn't have a clue as to what had caused the flash or where it had originated. I just wanted them to piss off so I could get out of the thorns.

In the meantime, I did not dare move. An explanation of exactly why I chose to sit among the thorns would have been hard to come up with, and besides, the barest movement caused me pain.

The conversation ceased in the span of a second, and the groups clustered together. I had seen animals assume this defensive formation, but never people. I tried to swivel my head to get a view of what caused it, but several thorns were hooked into the back of my ear.

A cackling laugh made its way down the street, drawing ever closer. The cackling turned into a blurry shape, or perhaps several, which sat right at the edge of my vision. The thorns were dug in deep, and I could not turn my head any further.

“Magic!” the voice yelled, somehow laughing on through the words. I had a bad feeling about it. “Magic happened here. Who amongtht you did thith?” His laughter died for a moment as he waited to hear if anyone spoke up. No one did, and the laughter grew once more. It turned my bones to water, that laugh, and I knew what it came from, even before he moved closer to those in the street. A sorcerer. “I felt thith magic uthed… who did thith thing? Woth it you?” he said, dashing at a big man who held a woman close. They flinched as he approached. “No… woth it you?” He ran to another group.

Two more red-robed figures stepped into sight. The minders. “Brother, this is but a herd of meek sheep. The heretic hides elsewhere.”

“Theep delithiouth,” he said, and smacked his lips. His mouth was like a dark cave, with not a tooth in sight. “Where ith thith heretic, then?” He looked up, and took several deep breaths through his nose as if to sniff out his heretic. Then laughter spilled from his mouth like a festering tumor, and he lowered his head, looking in my direction. He slowly raised his hand, and a single accusing finger pointed at my bush of thorns.

It would have been nice if I could say I'd stayed in that bush willingly. Perhaps due to bravery, or confidence in my concealment. But the truth of it was that the thorns had their hold on me, and I could not move. I tried, though, and the thorns dug at my flesh. The sorcerer lifted his other hand and touched the tattoos on his outstretched arm. A ball of flame shot from it, followed by another and another. I shut my eyes.

Heat washed over me, and competed with the cold running down my spine. The fire won out and burned my back, but not like when I was hit in the dungeon. It was more like the uncomfortable heat from sitting too close to a campfire. Which was it, exactly. The wall behind me crackled as it burned, and the flames lit the street. The crowd scattered, and some screamed as they ran.

A door somewhere to my side slammed open, and I heard the sound of feet on cobblestone. An older man in his nightclothes ran past me. The sorcerer laughed so hard he came close to choking. When the man was some distance down the street, he stopped mid-run. The sorcerer held a single finger down on his arm. I recognized the man then. He was the preacher from the dinghy. The sorcerer must have sensed him somehow. Or perhaps he'd sensed me, and assumed it came from the house. The preacher looked over his shoulder, and while his legs no longer responded, his lungs worked fine. He started singing the name of things as the sorcerer and his minders walked to him. He did his clever trick with the vines, which shot from the ground and wrapped their legs. As they did, my bush died and withered away. It became a brittle thing, and I started to break my way out.

The sorcerer's laughter died, and a far more unsettling sound replaced it when he screamed. Spit flew from his mouth, glistening in the firelight. His hands started to move across his arms, and the cold surged down my spine. His fingers tapped away, as if he was playing an organ of destruction. I could not see what effect it had, but I felt the power surge.

I finally broke free and dashed away. I took a last look over my shoulder, and wished I hadn't. The preacher was ripped in half, and the two pieces of his body flew in opposite directions to collide with buildings in a wet thwack.

I kept running.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Apprentice

 

I did not sleep easy that night. When awake, I kept thinking I heard the sorcerer's cackling; when asleep, a disturbing dream plagued me. I dreamed I was a lion, stalking through the desert at night, trailing a slave caravan until I came to a place where the path was narrow and the grass grew tall. The lion, that was me, waited, watching the first wagon roll by, seeing it filled with slaves, all with the face of Marcus. When the second wagon came past, I leapt from the grass, and crushed the white-robed slaver to the ground. The slaver spun, wearing my own face and drawing a dagger. At the same instant, my viewpoint shifted, and I leapt at myself, collided with myself, dying twice.

 

I woke to Hobart's enthusiastic chatter at some Gods-forsaken hour in the morning. It was a good hour before dawn and marked the first time in my life that I'd had to be woken for anything. It was thoroughly unpleasant, especially with the hangover and my experience in the thorn bush. I felt like boiled shit.

 

We suffered under his tutelage for the entire day, which was how long it took to brew a single batch. I won't bore you with the details, but will tell you this much: it was damn hard work. I was no stranger to work, but my muscles ached by the end of it. The bags of malted barley we lugged to the giant kettle were heavy, and it took most of an hour to fill the thing with water, one bucket at a time. And the waiting… there was so much waiting. Waiting for water to heat, for malt to do whatever it did, for water to boil, and finally for the sugar water, called wort, to cool. And don't think for a second that we got to sit and relax during all this waiting. No, that was when the cleaning was done.

Marcus and I were thoroughly disillusioned with the brewing of ale by the end of it. Yet, that would be our job for a year. I just hoped I would remember half of what he taught us.

 

By the time evening approached, we were finally done and sat in the barrel room with Hobart. The barrel room easily took up half the area of the brewhouse, and it was there that we sampled a large portion of his previous batches. I very much enjoyed his ale, and it somewhat compensated for the day's work. The ale went to my head. I wouldn't say I was drunk, but certainly well on my way.

Hobart was another story. His speech was slurred as he regaled us with stories of Sagemont, complained about his father-in-law, and spoke of his dreams for the future. At the close of the night, Hobart placed woolen blankets over the freshly filled barrels and kissed them goodnight. He told us that they needed the extra warmth in winter to help them ferment.

As I walked through the barrel room, the other two close behind, Hobart stumbled and knocked into me. I tripped, and fell against a barrel, knocking it off its stand. “Seven hells,” I swore as I rubbed at my shins. The barrel rolled a few meters before coming to rest, leaking all the way. Marcus found the bung that was knocked out and replaced it. Hobart came stumbling over, pointing at the spilled ale. “Wot ish thus!” he slurred. “Waschted producd… a mesch!” He stood looking down at the puddle while swaying on his feet. “Shctupid apprentish…”

“Do not call me an apprentice,” I muttered, standing to my feet.

“Uselesh apprentash you—”

I moved with great speed and slammed Hobart into the wall, a dagger materializing in my hand, and I held it to Hobart's throat.

“Easy, Saul,” Marcus said from behind. “Don't do this thing. Calm down and think about what you are doing. He's not Angus, he's just a drunk tavern keeper.”

Hobart was shaking visibly, and the shaking caused him to get nicked. A trickle of blood ran down his neck. I breathed heavily. “I am not your apprentice!” I shouted, and shoved Hobart hard into the wall before letting go. Hobart slumped to the ground, cowering.

I stormed out into the night and the cold hit me with force. My anger fled nearly as quickly as it had flared up. It had been a tough day, and the incident with Hobart took even more from me. I walked to the side of the lake and onto the small pier behind the tavern. I sat down on the edge, dangling my feet over the water. The pier had a small fishing boat attached to it, and water pooled within it. It seemed that all small boats had puddles. An icy breeze blew from across the lake, creating ripples on the water. I could not help but calm down, looking out across the lake with moonlight reflecting from its surface.

I regretted what happened with Hobart. Was I going to attack anyone that reminded me of my past? No, that would not do. But it was the very recent past, and I reckoned I'd get better at controlling some of the feelings I'd kept bottled up for so long.

It was freezing out there, but I wasn't ready to return to the brewhouse just yet. I had no idea what I would say to Hobart. That I was sorry? Sure, that would be a start. But it wouldn't go halfway to making amends for holding a dagger to the man's throat.

 

An hour later, I found myself standing in front of the brewhouse door, one hand on the door handle, but not wanting to open it. Whispers from around the corner drew my attention. Moving quietly, I peeked around it. Three men stood in the middle of the street, hunched around an object. Creeping closer, I saw that it was an oil canister. What were these men doing? Nothing good, of that I was sure.

“Excuse me. Can I help you?” I asked.

They spun to face me, and two of them leveled short crossbows at me. I held up my hands and backed away. I recognized the one in the middle. He was the bald man who had thrown fish at the tavern when we'd first arrived.

“Look who it is, boys,” the man said in a whisper. “It's the friend of that big fellow who had you mop the elf-lover's floors. Nice of him to join us,” he said laughing quietly. The malice of the man's words sounded odd spoken so softly. “Tie him to the porch. He can watch the tavern burn from up close.” The two hooded men slowly made their way toward me, crossbows kept at the level.

I almost groaned when the cold sensation crept down my spine. Magic… again. There was a bright flash, which blinded me, and I was dropped on my arse by a force of energy that rushed past me. My eyes stung, and I wiped them with my sleeve to clear the dust and tears.

When my vision returned, green afterglow followed wherever I looked, but I made out three flames on the road. I did not need to wonder at what they were. The smell of burning flesh was quite familiar to me. Unfortunately, the smell was not too dissimilar from roasting meat and made me realize my hunger.

I wondered at my magical savior. I searched the nearby alleys and looked around the corners of the surrounding buildings. The beach was empty, too. When I returned to the street, the burning bodies were nothing but ash. I kicked softly at one of the piles, sending a cloud of fine ash into the air which took long seconds to settle back to the ground. What would do such a thing? What could turn a body into ash within a minute and leave nothing, not even bones or teeth? Stranger still, the canister of lamp oil lay on the street untouched by fire. Magic, clearly, but who or what?

 

I soon gave up my search and returned to the tavern. I doubted anyone would return to finish the job those men had planned. I picked up the canister, undid the lid, poured it out onto the road, and tossed the empty canister. I was retrieving my new key when something caught my eye. A hand stuck out from beneath the bench on the porch. I approached it carefully, and peered underneath. Neysa lay there.

“Hey,” I whispered, but she did not respond. “Neysa,” I said, nudging her gently. She did not stir, and I worried for the girl. I went on my knees and dragged her out as gently as I could. Her chest slowly rose and fell, but I could not wake her. Even smelling salts had no effect. I unlocked the tavern door, then carried her inside. It felt wrong to touch her, but I couldn't exactly leave her out there. But I could not help but notice her smell, nor could I stop myself enjoying it. She didn't smell of perfume, exactly. She smelled of fresh air and grass. Or was it just… her? I decided she smelt like home, whatever that was. I stood with her in my arms in the dark kitchen. I had no idea where to put her and ended up carrying her to my bed. I tucked her in and brushed her hair from her face. She did not look like much of a savior. Such a slight girl, and delicate. But there was no one else around to claim the title, and I knew it had to be her that had roasted the men. How she had done that when all she could do a few days before was light a candle? That I did not know, but it had clearly cost her. “Sleep well,” I said and left the room.