Tinkermage (Book 2) (33 page)

Because they couldn’t take all the dead, they decided none should go. Instead, they moved those gnomes’ bodies around the fallen niner, for what purpose Niksabella did not know. She only tried not to dwell on her part in this tragedy.

A hand clasped her shoulder. It was Flay. Niksabella blinked. He’d not removed the ax blade from his left shoulder. Rather, someone had bound it even tighter with an oil-stained cloth.

“I’m afraid to pull it out. Don’t want to make things worse.” He caught her worried expression. “Saved the good bindings for these other lads. Mine will have to keep until we reach Thrasperville.”

“Is it bad?”

“We have many terribly wounded. We can bind them up and quell some of their pain, but it won’t be enough. We’ll lose more by nightfall, I fear.”

“Where’s Anderly?”

Flay shook his head. “She was in the middle niner.”

Niksabella felt shame rise to her face. “Yes, I found her still alive beneath it. I pulled her out, but I couldn’t save her.”

Flay gave her a rough pat. “Not much anyone could have done about that one. That orc shaman had a one in three chance of hitting our most vital spot, and the bitch got it right.”

“Is there anything more we can do?”

“Not unless you’ve got a close and personal relationship with Evana.”

Niksabella shook her head.
No, not with
that
goddess… but another one, it seemed.

“Did you try your magick?” It was Fritzy.

“What?”

“Your magick, Nika.”

I don’t know a thing about healing,” she sputtered, stepping backward, her boots making wet noises where she walked. She looked down. It was a puddle of red slush. Her skirt was ringed with it.

“No…” Fritzy matched her step for step. She had that look in her eye, the one that said she was going to get her way. Just like when she’d talked Niksabella into working the Tinkerman’s Festival. “I saw what you did to those orcs. You said it yourself; the magick might be in your blood. Maybe you can help.”

“But I’ve never prayed. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

“Not every holy person prays.” Flay winced and put his good hand to his wound. Every move must be sheer agony for the warrior. “Anderly was a brilliant healer, but she had her doubts sometimes. She once told me she couldn’t believe she could heal a single soul. Said her goddess hated her. Seemed she had a row with Evana twice a week. ‘Course, might have been the ale talking.” Flay grinned, his eyes lighting briefly before sparking out. The warrior turned away quickly, as if recalling good memories so soon was a blasphemy with Anderly’s corpse yet unburied.

Nika watched him go, certain he knew his sacrifice would likely mean his death. Her heart wanted to ache for him, yet it was still iced over with shame and hurt.

“What should I do, Fritzy?”

“If you can heal them, you have to try.”

“Oh, futtering Hells,” Niksabella murmured.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

If she thought too hard about it, she might never get it done, so Niksabella marched straight over to the line of wounded and knelt in the snow next to a young lad on the end of the row. Propped up by someone’s shield and coat, he lay motionless, arms clutching his stomach. His blue eyes were distant, half-lidded, dreaming of some place much better than here, she hoped. The sound of his uneven breath was a wheezing sound that made Niksabella sick with dread.

Does he even want to come back?

She almost envied him.

Niksabella looked down the line of a dozen or more injured. Some moaned, a few cursed, but most were still, clutching their wounds. Most of their licks had been taken above the waist. Arms and legs and faces were bundled up and held together by whatever they could find. None of it was a pretty sight.

A gnomestress scooted down the line on her knees, attending and re-attending the injured with fast-handed efficiency. Niksabella blinked. It was Jess, acting as company healer.

“You’re not dead?”

Jess caught Niksabella’s gaze, ignored her question, and nodded to the blue-eyed lad. “That one’s got a crushed chest.”

Niksabella lowered her hand as if to investigate, but had no idea where to start. “How can you tell?”

“Check beneath his shirt.”

Niksabella tentatively lifted the thick leather, which had been cut down the side for easier access, and gasped. Behind her, Fritzy hissed. Indeed, his torso was one large, horrible bruise. She edged forward and placed her hands firmly on his chest. His skin was swollen but soft, his right side was likely crushed into several pieces.
Soft, like a rotten fruit.

“Do it, Nika,” Fritzy cheered her on, albeit beneath her breath.

Niksabella swallowed her nausea, swallowed her fear, and closed her eyes. Remarkably, her wellspring was still strong, though in a pained, pounded sort of way. She pretended she was working on some sort of metal, imbuing the properties to make it stronger or weaker, to fall inside the materials and see their binding properties as a beautiful mosaic that could be manipulated through words and magick.

She’d never done it on another gnome before. Nor did she think it was possible. Some old professor had told her there was too much organic movement, too much
life
, to properly imbue a living being.

Still, she must try. She
owed
it to them.

At first, nothing came, only darkness behind her eyelids. She imagined herself working on a slab of tulec, taking flexible, rubbery properties and willing those bonds to separate and bond again. Separate and bond. She lifted her hands slightly as if to give the organics space to breathe, allowing her wellspring to seep over and around the poor lad’s broken body.

She felt the first stirring of movement beneath her fingers. A flash of light behind her lids and the slow pulse of it. Faint. Weak. She realized it was the injured lad’s heartbeat.

Her heart paced itself with her growing excitement.

The sheer insight of what she was seeing: the fibrous muscle; those bones; the strange, rubbery tissue that connected it all together; and the purple and blue of his veins. Like a pictograph with the layers of skin peeled away. And the blood coursing through it all. Some places blocked now, yes, pooling into hideous bruises. More oozed out from tiny ruptures. It was impossible to tell where it was coming from.

She was filled with wonder and horrified at the same time. What could she do but stare at the mystery of it all? She knew nothing about how any of this worked. But if she looked at this logically and
quickly
, this poor fellow might have a chance.

He’s losing blood. So, okay, we have to stop that.

Her focus intensified. She felt his flesh, dove into it with her spirit, wove between muscle and sinew and bone, guided by her wellspring. And then it was there, a beautiful mosaic of color: reds and blues and violets. Blood rushing down vast corridors, the sound pounding in her head. She saw it all not so much with her eyes but as the recognition by her own physiology of another physical form, bonding on some metaphysical level she didn’t even understand. Yet, she
saw
it all. No magilenses, no Fairway lenses, and without the divine assistance of the goddess Evana.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she was sure the Prophetess laughed, coy and knowing. It made Niksabella’s stomach churn to think it, but she didn’t have time to ponder what it meant. She found the largest of the torn arteries and bound the living material together. It wasn’t as difficult as she’d suspected it would be—easier, in fact, than ordinary material. This flesh
wanted
to be bound. It wanted to be healed. She lifted and fused pieces of bone that had been pressed against the lad’s lungs, but that only exposed more damage, and for each wound she closed, another opened. The shifting pressure caused bleeding elsewhere. His life blood slipped through her magickal senses like water through her fingers.

It all went so fast that she hardly had time to think. She scrambled to fix it all even as his heart came to a shuddering halt. The great rush of blood in her head stopped.

“Nika…” A hand on her arm pulled her away, gently at first, and then with more force. “
Nika…”

Niksabella opened her eyes. The world snapped into place with surprising detail, everything bright and painful. Too much. “I saw,” she whispered. “I saw inside him. I could have…”

Fritzy was the one who’d pulled her away. Her face held a terrified look. “He’s gone, Nika.”

“I know. I… I felt him…
stop
.” Something inside her was not just upset but annoyed, cheated, exhausted from the shock of so much magick flowing through her system in such a short amount of time.

“Oh.” Her friend glanced down at the lad, biting her lip with regret.

Jess was suddenly there, kneeling in the bloody slush to pick up the lad’s feet as another Thrasperville gnome put his hands beneath the dead gnome’s arms and lifted. Jess fixed her with those lockdown eyes of hers. “You couldn’t save that one. But maybe this one?”

Four gnomes trundled up, grunting as they struggled to carry a huge load between them, clutching one limb a piece. They set their soot-covered burden on the ground and propped him up with three backpacks. Accoutrements jingled on the dirty leathers. A low moan emanated from the prone form. The smell of sickness wafted up and stung Niksabella’s nose. Another victim of the foul orcish poison.

The gnome wheezed, coughed, and sputtered, but didn’t have the strength to wipe the trail of snot running from his nose. Fritzy took what passed for a clean cloth and dabbed away the pale green mucus.

Uncle Britt’s wavering eyes recognized Niksabella. He tried to smile but failed with his quivering lips. “Hello… dear Nika.” He coughed. “I would stand and offer a proper bow, but… I seem to be predisposed.” Each word he uttered verged on loosing another lung-rattling fit.

Niksabella pursed her lips and took Britt’s hand in her own. “You were the one who thrashed those orcs in the trees. You stopped the orc shaman before she could cast another spell.”

Uncle Britt nodded. “Just a friendly little… tiff.”

“I had no idea you were a wizard, Uncle Britt. I mean, a
real
one.”
I could have learned so much from you.

“Just… a dabbler.” He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. Jade-colored tears leaked from the corners. “Enough to be… dangerous.”

“I don’t think he has much time, Nika,” Fritzy urged, panic edging her voice.

Niksabella nodded. She started the same way as before, allowing her wellspring to flow through her into Britt’s wracked form. She fell into it much faster this time, “seeing” right away the poison coursing through his system. She gasped. In her mind’s eye, the poison was like a dark shadow in his system, leaching his lifeblood and sucking at his bones. It was a natural disease, its aggressiveness and tenacity enhanced by a spell, powerful and wicked magick she’d never experienced before.

Britt had no other injuries, so clearing the poison should be a much easier task than healing broken bones and busted veins.
Should
.

Still, Niksabella had doubts. She’d failed once already. What if she killed Uncle Britt?

What if she had help?

She closed her eyes and opened herself up to the Prophetess. The
Goddess
. Her mother? No, she’d not call her “Mother.”
Not even if it were true. Not after what she’d done to Nikselpik. Not after everything.

Inwardly, Niksabella spoke. “
I know you’re there. You’ve
always
been there. I don’t trust you, but perhaps we can make a deal. I know some of this power is mine. Yet I’m untrained, and without you…”

A sense of smug satisfaction reached Niksabella’s mind. “
Are you sure? These are things not meant for mortal minds. The knowledge could drive you mad. Are you prepared for the cost?”

“What is the cost?”

“Time will tell,”
came the coy reply.
A pause.
“Are you prepared, child?”

“Yes. Yes… but don’t call me child.”

A soft laugh, and then:
“Very well.”

Niksabella felt the Prophetess uncoil as boldly as she pleased from a dark place in her mind. A place she’d overlooked her entire life. A blind spot in her head. A spike of fear lit up her spine. Could this presence simply take her over completely? While the thought horrified Niksabella, it infuriated her too, and she used her anger to push the Prophetess back toward that dark place. The Prophetess was surprised, and then amused. There was a dangerous air about the goddess or whatever she was. Given half a chance, her “mother” would likely shove Niksabella down into her own special, dark place, never to be heard from again.

Is this part of the cost?

Balance restored, for now, the two of them looked into Uncle Britt’s failing body. Niksabella stowed her resentment and tried to focus. “So this is some kind of magick-based disease?”

“Not exactly. You can see the aggressive nature of the poison. I’ve seen this kind of magick on a hundred different worlds.”

“What kind is it?”

“Natural magick. Drawing from the natural world, your surroundings. This sickness, my dear, is like a weed growing through his body. And what do you do with a weed?

“You grasp it as close to the root as you can and pull it out.”

“That’s right, dear.”
The Prophetess’ voice in her mind was so smug sounding that she wanted to slap it. But she had to think of Uncle Britt.

“Where is the root? Where can I find it? I don’t know how.”

“You are a hand, Nika. Open yourself and hold your friend in your palm.”

Niksabella tried, using her mind’s eye to envision a tiny Uncle Britt in her hand. Or maybe it was her giant hand. “Okay.”

“Now, close your hand. Carefully. Focus on the darkness coursing through his blood and bones. Wrap up that weed growing inside him.”

Niksabella squeezed her hand slowly, holding onto the dark tracings wherever they touched her skin. It reminded her of pulling kelp from the sea, the slime-darkened sea foliage was difficult but not impossible to grasp. There was resistance near Uncle Brit’s belly. The disease had taken hold there. “What now?”

“Now you are a fist.”

“I’m a fist.”

“
Pull. You are a fist.”

Niksabella pulled. She was, indeed, a fist.