Tythonnia’s eyes flew to the rag doll that Ladonna had kicked away from the corpse. It was still resting where it lay. She looked to find the other doll near the burned child, but it was no longer inches from her fingers. It was several feet away, closer to Tythonnia and Par-Salian.
The blood froze in Tythonnia’s veins, exposing her stomach and chest to an ice-water chill. She looked around and saw another rag doll and another. All lay in the mud, all near bodies or in the ruins of buildings, yet somehow untouched.
Tythonnia stared from doll to doll and from shadow to shadow, and while she saw none of them move, each seemed somehow closer than the last time, their limbs in different positions.
“Par-Salian,” Tythonnia said, trying to keep track of the rag dolls. She counted six … then seven. “The dolls!”
“What?”
Ten dolls rested in places Tythonnia knew there hadn’t been any dolls before. And they were edging closer.
“The dolls!” Ladonna shouted as she rose from the mud. Her fingers were scrambling for her reagents pouch. “The dolls murdered everyone! They’re alive!”
No longer bound by pretense, the heads of the dolls snapped upward in unison. There was a greenish glow to their wood-button eyes, and their stitched mouths strained open, tearing the burlap fabric. There was malice in their expressions and rage for anything living.
The dolls scrambled forward in the mud like a pack of dogs. There were more than a dozen, and they moved with frightening speed. They emerged from the burned buildings and crawled out from puddles, from beneath the mud and under the bodies.
Tythonnia had never seen such terrifying venom in their expressions. Par-Salian tried to cast a spell, but the creatures upset the horses. Tythonnia struggled to control her Dairly, and Par-Salian flipped over backward as his Qwermish reared up on its hind legs. The only one in a position to fight was Ladonna.
“Sihir anak!” she shouted, and four darts of light flew out in different directions from her finger. Each found its target with unerring accuracy, and blasted four dolls backward. Without pause, however, the slightly blackened and damaged dolls were back on their feet, racing to overtake the three wizards.
Par-Salian cried out, and Tythonnia regained control of her mare in time to see one doll on his back, biting his shoulder. There was no blood to be seen, but Par-Salian was in agony. He tore at the doll, but it would not let go, and more were advancing on him.
Tythonnia kicked her horse into motion and bore down on Par-Salian. He’d just managed to pull the doll from his back and throw it to the ground, but five others were mere feet away. With the reins quickly looped around her wrists, her fingers danced together as Tythonnia called, “Khalayan perubahan!”
As with all illusion spells, Tythonnia concentrated on the glamour and its intention, on the effect that would unfold. The magic found its mouth through her fingertips, and her eyes felt hot as it surged through and out of her. Arcane threads briefly manifested in the air and shot into Par-Salian. He vanished and instantly reappeared two feet away.
He appeared startled, as did the dolls. They hesitated a moment before shifting direction and charging toward Par-Salian. The dolls leaped at him and passed right through him. Tythonnia was grateful that the illusion worked, but it was a brief reprieve at best. The dolls were already looking around, trying to find the wizard.
Par-Salian, however, was ready for them. Because it was her spell Tythonnia could see him clearly. He hadn’t budged; her magic had merely displaced his image. Par-Salian’s fingers and mouth were already moving, ambient flickers of magic coruscating around his body. Palms directed downward, he whispered and the air hissed as a sphere of flame unfurled beneath his hands. The ball of fire crackled and steamed with the downpour, but it was not quenched. Par-Salian pointed at the dolls and the ball rolled through the air toward them. It caught one doll then another. It danced and burned at the behest of Par-Salian’s outstretched hand, tumbling this way and that, sweeping through the dolls, dousing them in fire.
Tythonnia pulled on the reins and forced her mare to trample the dolls coming toward her, but they were quick underfoot and dodged the mad, panicked dance of hooves.
Ladonna lost none of her grace. She stood her ground as a half dozen dolls scrambled to overtake her. Suddenly, one of the gaudy ring stones on her finger flickered, and as her arms swept the ground around her, a curtain of fire erupted from the earth. The wall steamed under the rain and caught a handful of dolls in its heat. The others turned and scampered back into the buildings’ dark ruins.
Tythonnia’s horse bucked and she cursed herself for getting so distracted. Several dolls were already at its hooves, trying to leap onto its legs. One managed to clamp on and bite, and again, its soft mouth seemed to draw no blood. But the Dairly whinnied in pain and reared back. Tythonnia lost her balance and fell into the mud.
The fall drove the wind from her lungs and knocked her senseless. Something in her mind screamed at her to get up and fight, but her thoughts were muddled. Dancing dangerously close to her, the horse bucked and kicked, trying to knock the dolls loose. Only a couple attacked the horse, however. Four, or perhaps more, had turned on Tythonnia. She screamed in pain as the first doll bit into her calf.
The bite itself wasn’t very deep, but the doll’s mouth seemed laced with something that burned her skin with an unholy pain, a lancing agony that impaled her leg and sucked her strength through the wound. She felt weakened even as her blood pushed her heart faster.
“No, no!” she cried, fighting to pull the doll from her leg, as another doll bit into her forearm. Strength faded and she thought she might pass out.
“Discipline through pain,” a voice said. It echoed somewhere deep inside her thoughts. Tythonnia dimly recognized the voice. It belonged to a trainer, a veteran taskmaster named Segarius. Her teacher, Amma Batros, had asked Segarius to put Tythonnia through her paces in preparation for the test.
“Use the pain to provide focus. Focus is clarity and clarity is magic.”
“I can’t think! Stop! Please!”
“The test is merciless, so why should I be any different? Don’t think! Act!”
A third doll bit into her arm and overwhelmed her in pain. It rode the senses; she was suddenly bereft of the right words, the correct motions to unlock the magic spells stored in her head. She felt a sudden void where the knowledge was supposed to be; the bizarre dolls were sapping her strength and her ability to think, to react.
Save me, she thought, hoping the others would somehow hear her, but they were caught up in their struggles, and her horse was racing away with two dolls latched onto it. Through tear-swollen eyes, she could see more dolls running toward her. And still the magic refused to come. Tythonnia could recall nothing beyond that moment of pain.
She couldn’t remember the magic, but there was once a time when she could feel it. Long before Amma Batros taught her to read arcane script and unlock the power hidden in reagents, long before the High Sorcery wizard found her on her father’s farm, there was the crone Desmora. Desmora could whisper to the world and have it heed her words. Desmora taught her how to bend the elements to her whim without words or dancing fingers, just using naked will to harness magic.
Tythonnia felt raw energy surge along her body and down the channel of her arm. She thrilled at it. From her outstretched hand, Wyldling magic curled and popped between her fingertips, and she grabbed the first doll. It jerked in her grip, and the stray ends of straw that poked out from the lining of its burlap skin caught fire. A hissing shriek escaped its lips before the glow of its button eyes dimmed and it went limp.