Tinkermage (Book 2) (29 page)

Stena nodded. “Very well.”

There was some rustling and bumping on the deck. The elf helping Linsey shouted, and two of his kind lay down their spears and went to the extendo-rung to help. Burlap sacks of various sizes and weights were lowered to the ground by ropes, untied, and lined up between Stena and the elf queen. They were stained and gave off a pungent, sour odor.

It was quite clear they were corpses, and this made the elf queen even more curious. She eyed the sacks with a hint of revulsion.

When all seven were down, Lins was allowed to descend the rungs and join them. The first mate seemed okay. “Strong folk. The fellow helping me lifted two at a time on his shoulders and took them to the rail. He said something to me, but I couldn’t have told you what it was.”

And now came the part Stena dreaded. She would have asked Lins and Bert to open the sacks but thought it might be a better idea to do it herself. The elf queen joined Stena near the first sack, taking those long, graceful strides of hers. Standing just feet apart, Stena found it difficult to take her eyes off the elf queen’s savage beauty. These elves ran hot, especially this one. Like a steam driver pressed so hard it could overheat and explode any moment.

Stena knelt in the moss and untied the first sack, pulling the burlap down over the head and shoulders of the first corpse, exposing the dead gnome, probably a Southland farmer, and the thing, the amorph, still attached to the poor fellow’s head. Spells of keeping had been placed on the corpses to slow down their decay and keep the stench at a tolerable level, and it helped that Stena had transported them in the lower cargo hold, the coldest part of the ship. Still, that sour smell nearly caused her to wretch, which would not have fared well in front of the elf queen.

Stena pointed at the amorph. “Amorph,” she said.

The queen nodded.

“Tell her a host of these creatures infected the farmlands surrounding Hightower.”

Bertrand relayed the information, stumbling over certain words, but doing what appeared to be a passing job. Other than a narrowing of the eyes, nothing in Salthisma’s face changed; still a mask of stoic fury. Stena moved to the next corpse: a strange, furry creature with big blue eyes that nearly took up its entire face. One of the ultraworlders. Two humans next and on down the line, Bertrand explaining the battle of Dowelville and Swicki Hill as they went until they came to the last one.

The elf queen said something in Giyipcias.

“Captain, she asks what this all means to her? Or to them, the elves.”

Stena opened the last sack, revealing an olive-skinned Giyipcias warrior, his dull eyes gone from green to white in death. “Tell her this one was involved in the attack on our lands and that the ultraworlders caused this. Tell her there’s an army at Goad’s Pocket, more ultraworlders, likely marching on Hightower as we speak. An army near enough to attack her own lands.”

Bertrand started to relay Stena’s words, but the elf queen had gone pale with fury. She erupted in a tirade of what appeared to be curses formed by hisses and spittle, accentuated by pacing back and forth and clenching her fists. She appeared about to leap at Stena and claw the captain’s eyes out with her own fingers.

“She’s not thrilled, Captain.”

Stena touched the hilt of her blade—probably not the wisest move—but she no longer cared. If the queen would be so ignorant as to attack them, she’d find this messenger had a nippy little bite.

But she did not attack. Her fury puttered out, and when she looked upon the dead swamp elf again, her head fell low. Tears streamed down her face. She motioned to someone in the back of her ranks to come forward. A warrior did, holding something in his hands. Horrible to behold, it was the severed head of a swamp elf gripped by the appendages of a long-dead amorph.

Stena straightened. “Well… it appears we have the same problem. That’s a start.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

Nikselpik sat at the ‘war table’ in his very own great room, drumming his fingers on the wooden surface, waiting for the afternoon report to come in from that
other
seat. It was brutal, sitting here doing absolutely nothing, stuffing himself on eggs and grote while the ghosts of his addiction itched under his skin.

He could think of no way to make things right with Fara, and he wondered why he was even considering it at all. He was who he was, not to be molded: not his heart, mind, nor body. Unless he did it to himself, of course.

He had completed nearly all of his books on necromancy:
Concentration Re-Animation; Five Habits of the Highly Effective Necromancer,
as well as
Putrefaction Refluxation
, which he found to be a fascinating look at the anatomy of a necromancer’s wellspring. Certainly, it was an ebb and flow sort of magick unlike the steady out-stream of standard wizardry. Necromancy was the more intellectual of the two crafts, and he could see why so many clever fellows graduated to it. Necromancy was also dangerous, a craft where one mistake could leave a caster addled or dead. He could almost see why it was banned in Hightower. Almost.

He itched to do
something
besides sit here.
What are you waiting for then? A brilliant idea?
“Yes, actually,” he mumbled.

“What was that, Nik? Did you say something?” Toz had been nodding off across the table from him but awakened at his utterance. The strange fellow had taken to sleeping in his casting mitts. Comprised of chain steel atop leather, the gloves were formidable tools to amplify spells if used correctly. Nikselpik had never much liked them himself, preferring gems and artifacts that deepened his wellspring pool.

“Nothing. Just talking to myself.” He got up and went to his huge front window, looked out at the snowy lanes of his neighborhood. A storm was moving in. He could tell by the churning gusts of white dust across the cobbles. On many fluent West End streets, folk might be starting up their
snow blasters
to clear the streets. Here, they did not.

A pony bearing the blue jacket of a messenger pulled into the yard and up to his stoop. The rider leaped out of the saddle and pounded up the stairs. Nikselpik started to go for the front door, but he knew Tenzic would already be there. The fellow had damned near psychic ability when it came to messengers.

As if on cue, everyone assembled in the great room, this time with Jancy in attendance, the ducking below the archway between rooms. Luckily, his old home boasted lofty ceilings or Jancy would have to be perpetually stooped.

It must drive her mad to live amongst us gnomes.

And what about the strange scar—no, the
stain
—running from the top of her right temple, along her hairline, and down to her chin? Maybe not a stain but some sort of elegant marking that hadn’t been caused by Raulnock’s fire. A long curve with curlicues and tight, swirling offshoots. It certainly wasn’t a burn. Perhaps it revealed something of Jancy’s origins, as if Raulnock’s magick mixed with the crud had burned some sort of glamour away.

Tenzic had only occasionally taken his wiznapper off to wash, and his longish hair was matted where it stuck out from the heavy helm. The scryer’s face blanched as he looked over the message once and then started to re-read the first part. He looked up, eyes lighting across the entire group. “Dale’s had an engagement in the Southern Reaches.”

Quite suddenly, it was all very real. The war. The threat. The room tensed. Madesa gasped. Nikselpik’s heart pounded in his chest. His gut reaction was to abandon all this immediately and go to Dale’s side, slinging his
newfound
magick and bringing the enemy to its knees.

Again with the pride, Nik. What’s gotten into you? Maybe you do feel a sense of responsibility to your kin. Maybe there’s hope for you after all.

“It was a small engagement. Dale describes the foe as two species. Stags standing two hands higher than the tallest of our ponies. Some bearing armored ‘ape-like’ creatures, larger than kobolds but not as large as your average orc. Extremely vicious but not especially cunning, he says here.

“Our precisors retreated to the forest, unwilling to engage directly but instead relying on flanking maneuvers under cover of magickal fog. They picked at the foe, who outnumbered them two to one.”

“How many did Dale bring?” Boovash said.

Tenzic scanned to the top. “Twenty.”

The wizard shook his head. “Bad odds, those.”

“Go on, Tenzy.”

“When it was clear the enemy would not break, Dale held the rear with eleven while Justin rode for Clara’s Peak. What ensued was the roughest part of the fighting. All the gnomes were veterans from Swicki Hill and Harwood Lake. Dale used a cycling charge strategy while the enemy was kept at bay by our wizard with volleys of wind and fire.”

“Wind and fire? Who was the wizard?”

“Smeeve. Also a veteran from Harwood Lake. Thought burned alive originally. Was nearly the truth of it, but he pulled through.”

While Nikselpik had never heard of this Smeeve before, rumors of the fight at Harwood Lake had circulated many times over. If Smeeve had survived that hellish fight, he must be tough as nails.

“They lost three precisors.”

“Still, they underestimated Dale and his riders.”

“Yes. But whether that will work again remains to be seen, sir,” Tenzic said. “In any case, Dale is calling for short lances to the front.”

“Next time, he’ll charge them directly. Smart.”

Toz said, “Until we know exactly what we’re dealing with, it’s best to remain unpredictable.”

That’s exactly what I’ve been thinking.

Tenzic started to hand the message to him. “There’s a direct message from Dale to you. Thought you might want to read it privately.”

Nikselpik
pshawed
and waved his hand. “Hells, Tenzy. We’re all family here. Go ahead. Out with it.”

“Very well, sir.” Tenzic held up the message and cleared his throat. “The message reads, ‘Dear Nik, please quit dawdling with that lunatic, Raulnock, and get your arse to the field. Sincerely, Dale.’“

Snickers flitted around the room, grins buried with the knowledge that Nikselpik wanted to do just that and, in fact, had been chomping at the bit this entire time.

“Anything else, Tenzy?”

The gnome shuffled another paper forward. “Yes, seems a train carrying swords and armor was attacked this morning on the way to Rad’s. Our smiths had just finished the forging, and the weapons were being transported to replace some of the pieces lost during the recent fights at Swicki Hill and Harwood Lake. Everything was melted clean together. The unfortunate guards were burned. The scryer, too. The two wizards assigned to the train managed to get off a volley but were mostly ineffective, but they survived. According to them, they were taken completely by surprise.”

“Why couldn’t the scryer sense the assault?”

“They’re only initiates, most of them.”

“So you’re saying you have the best long-range chance of detecting the former First Bastard?”

“With the A7704, I can smell him halfway across the city. In fact…”

“You’ve been sensing him the entire time, haven’t you?”

“Yes, sir. Well, likely before any of the others. Even at this range. Although the First…
Bastard
… is quite good at masking himself. If he doesn’t use his wellspring until the very last second, well… that makes it more difficult. But I suspect I can do it far more efficiently than the initiates. I’ve been specially attuned to Raulnock, having been working on his wellspring pattern for weeks.”

“And the initiates are probably blindsided more often than not.”

“Likely an accurate assessment, sir. But as you’ve said, this is something we’ve never seen before: ultraworlder magick combined with Raulnock’s own power.”

Wheels turned in Nikselpik’s mind. True, they were dealing with something they didn’t fully understand, and that would continue to be at a disadvantage until they could find a way to understand it.
We must remain unpredictable.

Nikselpik reached out and gave Tenzic a solid pat on the shoulder. “Lad, you have to know when to buck authority and when not to. That’s to say, it’s always good to buck authority most of the time. When in doubt, buck it. That’s what I always say.” He let go of his scryer and addressed the entire group. “We’re going hunting, if you will. Ready the ponies, don the armaments, or whatever the Hells you need to do for an excursion.”

Tenzic re-adjusted his spectacles. “We just need to get on the ponies and leave, sir. I guess it would be good to know where we’re going so we can let the other seat know.”

“To Hightower Municipal Jail.”

“The jail, sir? Can you tell us why?”

“No. But if any of you can draw, would you be so kind as to make a sketch of the First Bastard for me?”

#

The winds had picked up a great deal over the past hour. Nikselpik rode at the forefront despite protests that he should ride in the middle. Toz, Boovash, and Tenzic followed after, and the brother and sister precisor team of Elkian and Losizza brought up the rear. Jancy had ridden off, content to scout ahead and around. She preferred to approach a fight from any other direction but the front, and that was fine by him.

They slowly made their way through large snowflakes up Longtowner Lane, proposing to pass through the Eye before reaching the jail.

On the heels of Dale’s missive, it was also clear that a decree had been issued throughout Hightower. The city, at the behest of Mayor Boslem, was slowly realizing there may very well be a dangerous enemy on their doorstep. On a day when most gnomes would be indoors doing various things (gnomes were naturally inclined to be indoors, after all) there were many out and about braving the snow.

Old, abandoned factories and warehouses were being re-opened and retrofitted, inventories checked, supplies moved north, away from any potential fighting. Gnomes and gnomestresses looked up as they passed, their faces bundled but their squinting eyes reflecting worry as they pushed through the wind at little more than a snail’s pace in the cold. While it was far from a panicked situation, tensions in Hightower were on the rise.

Snowflakes assaulted Nikselpik’s face, and he tried to sink deeper into his robe. He led them right along the inner edge of the Eye, passing Hightower Lane and on around north toward the jail, at which time they turned up a street guarded by a few snow-dusted precisors.

Tenzic presented their credentials while Nikselpik glanced about. An armed escort moved across the center of the Eye, spearmen on ponies escorting a wagon. He wondered who was inside, what were they doing, and who had approved the use of valuable soldiers and materials.

He shook his head. Surely, there would be many strange things to see in the upcoming days, most of a completely legitimate nature, but he couldn’t help but wonder who would already be making plans to leave the city during a snowstorm.

Tenzic got them cleared, and they moved on down the alley. Nikselpik caught up to the young scryer, who leaned over and said, “They asked the nature of our business.”

“And you told them…?”

“To avoid being arrested I told them we were on official business to speak to prisoners.”

“Well… that’s about right, Tenzy.”

“Well, sir, assuming we’re going to speak with ultraworld prisoners, and considering the problem that none of them speak common tongue, I’m surprised we weren’t arrested.”

Nikselpik grinned. “Let them try it. I’m through with formalities. We’re going to do things my way. Gods help anyone who thinks otherwise.”

“I see, sir. So how are we going to speak to them? Not the guards but the ultraworlders…”

“There are many ways to communicate, Tenzy. We just need to find one that knows something.”

They went up the street to a heavily guarded three-story structure. A pair of precisors greeted them, decked out in boiled leather armor called
cuir bouilli
. Thick, wide pieces that spanned the entire chest, layered all the way to the waist, tapering into leather skirting to protect the legs. The guard captains were in full plate covered only by powder blue cloaks with the white cog on the back. Despite their decidedly imposing appearance, Nikselpik ignored their questions and dismounted, heading directly for the main guardroom. He left Tenzic and the others to handle the precisors.

Based on the recounting of what happened during Niksabella’s escape, Jontuk had done some significant damage to the building, much of which was still under repair. He could see the corner nearest him, the southeast corner, having collapsed several feet lower than the rest of the wall. It was held together by steel bands that had been hammered into the rest of the supporting structure. No doubt it would all have to come down soon.

Precisors flanked the primary gate, which sat askew in its tracks. Before they could offer any sort of challenge, Nikselpik held up his head to stymie them and said, “I’m the First Wizard, and I’m here on official business. Elwray’s orders. I need to speak to the prisoners.”