The Prodigal Mage: Fisherman’s Children Book One (74 page)

He was weeping, he could feel it. He didn’t care that Arlin could see.
Hating
Arlin, for being Arlin, for being right, he tried to smile at his best friend.

I’ve got to do it. I’ve got to use him. Or I’m not my father’s son.

“I know you’re frighted, Goose-egg,” he whispered. “I know you want to go home. And I’ll send you home. I will. My word on it, man to man. Just… help us a little bit, and then I’ll send you home.”

“Get him inside,” said Arlin. “He might bolt, out here.”

Tentative, he risked reaching out to Goose again. This time his friend didn’t whimper or pull back. Instead, flinching like a bear cruelly tamed to do tricks, he let himself be led into their tumbledown shelter. ’Cause a part of him remembered? Or ’cause he was so addled and worn out he had no fight left? He didn’t know. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was this time, Goose listened.

Arlin followed them inside, picking up the discarded sword first, then tugging the glimlight behind him with one snap of his fingers. Propped the sword in one corner and stood beside it, arms folded, closely watching. What, did he think Goose might suddenly attack?

Bastard. Poxy bastard. I don’t care if he’s right
.
Before this is over I want him broken and weeping.

Rafel dropped to a crouch on his groundsheet. “Here, Goose. Sit here.”

Oh, and it nearly killed him, to see Goose stranded there, uncertain, barely able to understand such simple words. His best friend the gold medal–winning brewer, sure to be his guild’s meister one day, just like his da. Funny and wise and amiable and loyal. Goose, who loved Deenie. Goose, who loved him.

Goose. Goose, I’m sorry. Forgive me
.

He glowered at Arlin. “He’s all right. He won’t run. He knows me, Arlin. He knows he’s safe.”

“Really?” With another finger-snap, Arlin dimmed the ball of glimfire almost to darkness. Enough light to see by, barely. Enough darkness to sleep. “Then he knows more than I do, Rafel.
I
don’t think any one of us is safe.”

But that didn’t stop the poxy shit falling back to sleep. Soon after, Goose slept too, huddled against the stone wall. And then, though he tried to stay awake, just in case of danger, exhaustion claimed him… and he was plagued by terrible dreams.

Screams. Howling. Violent, bestial faces. Blood. So much blood. Flames and agony and feasting carrion crows. Wolves creeping out of the shadows, devouring corpses and the wounded and babies starving to death.

He woke at the first weak touch of sunlight, aching and sick. Full of misery and dread. Woke to see Arlin up and watching him, his expression disdainful, his eyes without warmth.

“We might need your friend, Rafel, but he’s your problem. Not mine. You can feed him, water him and wipe his arse, for I won’t. And make sure he walks downwind of me. He stinks.”

Rafel nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

Broken and weeping, Lord Garrick. Broken and weeping.

Goose stirred awake then, so frighted, so lost. Soothing Goose, trying to ease his fears, wiped Arlin Garrick from his mind completely.

Helping Goose, he couldn’t keep the tears at bay.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. This is all my fault, Goose.

Eventually, their bellies teased with miserly mouthfuls of food and water, they left the desolate village behind. Took the overgrown road leading away from the ruined buildings, trusting—hoping—that soon they’d stumble upon a larger, living village, or Baden and Pintte, or both. Goose still hadn’t spoken, but he was calmer, and seemed content to follow them like a dog.

Rafel kept him close by. A dog. A bear. And his nickname was Goose.
Is that what he is now? Just a beast? No more a man?
The thought was enough to start him weeping afresh.

If he wasn’t careful, he would weep himself to death.

They walked and they walked, athwart the rising sun, and saw no sign of Fernel Pintte or Sarle Baden or any member of their expedition. Saw no sign of any man or woman, or any hint that one had passed this way in days or even weeks. Perhaps longer. Rafel asked his friend again and again,
“Where’s that Fernel bloody Pintte got to? D’you remember where you left him, Goose?”
But Goose only looked at him, mouth slackly open, eyes dull. No-one home.

They did come across rabbits, though. A sign of life, at last. Rafel, his mother’s hunting son, killed six. They broiled them over a fire, devouring the stringy, poorly skinned carcasses like starving men… which they were. Goose tried to eat the bones as well, and cried when Rafel stopped him. Then they found an odorish, sluggish stream—and drank from it anyway. Filled their waterskins with the brownish sludge and trusted it wouldn’t kill them.

When night fell, they slept. In the morning they woke, ate cold rabbit, drank foul water and started walking again, in silence. There was almost nothing to say. Rafel waited for Arlin to mention Durm’s magic. Demand again to see the spells. Curse and rail against interfering Olken. But Arlin never did.
Perhaps he doesn’t care anymore. I know I don’t. All I care about is Goose. Show me the spell to fix him and then I’ll get excited. Then I’ll care.

Their journey continued through barren wastelands, through shallow rivers, into gnarled copses and out the other side. Three more villages they came to, all of them deserted. All of them dead. They caught enough game that they didn’t perish from hunger. Found enough wood to burn that they didn’t freeze to death. They walked for nine days seeing no-one. Learning nothing. No sign of Pintte’s expedition. No sign of any life but the animals they killed to survive. And the tainted earth tormented them, gifting them with bad dreams.

Then on the tenth day… it all changed.

“Hold up!” said Arlin, his clenched fist lifting. “Do you smell that? Wood smoke… and roasting meat.”

Sunk into a mind-numbing stupor, barely aware of his body, its pains, his thoughts drifting homewards—
Are you still alive, Da? Please don’t be dead
—Rafel staggered to a halt. Shambling Goose halted beside him, anxious, a whimper building in his throat. They were deep within another straggled copse, the afternoon sky criss-crossed with unhealthy branches, its light fractured and mean, their ankles held captive by brambles and blackweed and sickly foxfoot. Odd, to recognise such foliage so far away from Lur.

“Aye,” he mumbled. “I smell it. Arlin—best be careful. We don’t know if that’s Sarle and—”

Arlin bit off an impatient curse. “Stay here if you’re afraid. With your witless friend. I’ve no fear of strangers. They’ll do well to fear me.”

So bludgeoned was he by nine unrelenting days of the blight soaking these lands like old, rotten blood, Rafel had no strength to argue. To caution arrogant Lord Garrick that he might not be the only bloody mage in these parts.

Arlin started towards the strong smell of wood smoke, and out of exhausted habit he followed. Goose stumbled along with him. He was beginning to wonder if it wasn’t a cruelty to keep his sick friend here. He was beginning to fear that if he left it much longer, they’d be too far from Dorana City for him to send Goose home. For all he knew they were already too far. And if they were, and he tried Durm’s conjuring spell, Goose would die for sure.

Tomorrow. I’ll decide tomorrow. I will.

Up ahead, the crackle of woodfire. A horse’s whinny, cut short. Voices, low and carrying. The copse thinned to a clearing. Without hesitation Arlin strode out of the shadows. Stinking and filthy, weeks and weeks unshaven, still he stamped about the place as though he owned it.
Poxy, arrogant little shit.

Slowing, almost halting, one arm out to bar Goose’s way, Rafel took in the scene.

Three horses, ungroomed, common-bred and ribby, tied in a line. A fat-sputtered fire, with spitted venison roasting above it. Twelve men on their knees, rope halters round their necks, yoked together and staring at the damp, leafy ground. An open fronted tent, tattered, but opulent once. A long time ago, surely. A man on a rickety chair alone in that tent, clothed in mothworn red velvet and a tarnished tin crown. He had silvery-blond hair…

“Sarle!” cried Arlin, striding towards the seated man. “Sarle Baden!”

Blinking, Rafel stepped a few paces closer.
Sarle Baden?
But—but—Instinct stirred, a sluggish warning. Something was wrong here. Dreadfully wrong.

The blond man raised a hand in greeting and laughed. “Yes. Yes, I am Sarle. I was Sarle. I might be Sarle again. And you are Arlin Gar-rick, my dear friend Rodyn’s son. You’ve found us! Excellent. We were coming to find you. As soon as we felt you, we turned back.
Welcome,
Arlin. Welcome to my court!”

The yoked, kneeling men jerked up their heads. Rafel felt himself stagger, seeing their faces. Felt the dark sickness, his constant companion, rise up in bile and disbelief to his throat. ’Cause there was Fernel Pintte, and the other Olken as travelled with him and Goose and Sarle Baden. No sign of the Doranen. The men yoked with them had red hair. He’d never seen a man with red hair before. But why were they yoked like that? What was going on?

Tugging at Goose’s sleeve, he took another step closer. But Goose wouldn’t budge. Turning, Rafel saw his friend was shaking like a wind-blown leaf, tears running from his terror-haunted eyes. Then Goose’s knees gave way, and he dropped limbs akimbo to the patchy grass.

Goose, Goose, I can’t stay here. I’ve got to see.

So he left Goose behind, praying his friend would be safe, and crept a little further out of the trees. But the closer he got to Sarle Baden the more his belly churned. The more his blood bubbled, burning. Couldn’t Arlin
feel
it? Why wasn’t he
running?
And then he had to bend over, retching, ’cause he knew what this was. He’d nearly choked on it in Westwailing. Crossing the mountains. Crossing this land. The foul stench of Morg’s blight, grown so thick now that if he had a knife he could cut it…

Arlin was staring down his nose at his fellow Doranen. “Sarle,” he said, his tone so dismissive. So
arrogant
. So bloody typically Arlin Garrick. “What do you mean,
your court?
What—”

Sarle Baden came out of his shabby tent, walking towards Arlin with both arms outstretched, a wide, welcoming smile warming his thin Doranen face.

Something was terribly wrong with his eyes.

Arlin fisted his hands on his hips. “
Sarle
. I won’t ask you again. What is the meaning of these ridiculous theatrics? The General Council—”

“Has no power in my court,” Sarle said gently, and rested his hand on Arlin’s travel-stained shoulder. “But as I say,
you
are welcome. Sarle has been… a disappointment. Competent but not brilliant. Makeshift, you might say. One does what one can. And now
you
are come, Arlin. Oh, I
am
pleased. It’s not a moment too soon.”

Closer now, Rafel could see that Pintte and the other men weren’t just yoked, they were hobbled and gagged with wooden balls in their mouths. Their eyes were wide with terror and most of them were weeping.
Fernel Pintte
was weeping.

For the first time in his life, Rafel felt sorry for the bastard.

Arlin shrugged off Sarle Baden’s hand. “Lord Baden, clearly you’re unwell. Too unwell to continue. You should return to Lur immediately. I will continue the search for Lost Dorana. I will—”

“Ah… Dorana…” breathed Baden. “A name to pierce this exile’s heart. But I cannot go home. I am sundered, Arlin. I am forgotten of myself. The pain—it is unbearable. I am—I am—” The Doranen mage’s face twisted. “I am Sarle Baden. I was Sarle Baden. I—I—” He let out an animal howl, half agony, half madness. “I am burning out this inferior creature. Oh, the depths to which my people are
fallen
. Arlin—”

Rafel swallowed.
I have to. I have to
. “Arlin, best you get away from him,” he said, soft as he could. “I don’t—I reckon he ain’t safe.”

Irritated, Arlin turned his head. “Shut up, you fool. He’s sick, that’s all.”

“Yes, yes, I am sick,” crooned Baden. His hand stroked Arlin’s filthy hair. “But you can heal me, you beautiful boy. You’re strong. I can feel it. Perhaps you’re the one I’ve been searching for…”

“Arlin!”
Rafel said again, making his voice snap. On the grass behind him, Goose whimpered and moaned. “Are you bloody blind? Look at his eyes! Barl’s tits, you fool, he ain’t—”

“Barl?” whispered Sarle Baden. “The bitch, the slut, the treacherous whore.” His hand shifted from Arlin’s shoulder to the back of his neck, fingers curving. His teeth bared in a smile. “Yes. Yes. No more Sarle. I shall be Arlin. And Arlin Garrick shall take me home.”

“No!” Rafel shouted, as waves of blighting blackness boiled around Rodyn Garrick’s arrogant son. “Arlin—get away from him—”

With the last of his strength he reached deep inside himself for the magic that wasn’t Olken. That had burst from him in Westwailing. That had helped collapse waterspouts and hold a whirlpool at bay and sent three good, suffering men safely home.

Sarle Baden gasped. His hand fell away from Arlin. Shoving the younger mage aside he took a step forward. Another. His terrible eyes were wide with wonder. With rage. Head tipped to one side, he stepped closer again.

“Do I
know
you, boy?” he whispered. “Little mage, have we met?”