‘What-’ he began, and then his right leg fell away just above the knee in a gush of blood. He toppled over.
Brodar Kayne walked over to the squirming Augmentor. ‘You ought to have listened to me and taken them boots off,’ he said. ‘Your legs might move like the wind, but the rest of you ain’t no quicker than anyone else.’
He raised his greatsword. ‘That’s the problem with magic. It warps a man’s measure of himself, makes him lazy. The only place where speed really counts is in here.’ He tapped the side of his head with a finger.
Then he brought his greatsword down, plunging it through the Augmentor’s chest and driving it deep into his heart.
He released the hilt. The blade stood there, quivering. He stumbled a few steps, looked down at the steel protruding from his own body. He felt weak suddenly. There was movement behind him, but he was too tired to care. He just wanted to lie down and rest. He was allowed that much, wasn’t he? I’m too old for this sh-
This time the world turned black.
Friends in High Places
Eremul wiped sweat from his brow and attempted to dry his hands on his filthy robes. He succeeded only in smearing mud, sweat and other assorted scum further over his palms and fouled garments. With a muttered curse, he squinted down the hill that overlooked the harbour, attempting to catch sight of the utter bastard who had upended his chair and scampered off with a handful of coins he had spectacularly failed to earn.
The White Lady’s agents will be positively awed to make my acquaintance. Filthy, bruised and stinking of mud and shit. Perfect.
Of course, the lout Eremul had hired couldn’t have guessed the pitiful cripple he was pushing uphill was a mage. If he had, there wasn’t a chance in hell he would have tipped him unceremoniously onto his arse and run off back down the hill.
He had come within a whisker of evoking a powerful wind to sweep the treacherous son of a bitch from the bluff and send him hurtling towards a messy death on the rocks far below. Perhaps the only reason he hadn’t was the sudden shock at finding his useless body flopping around on the muddy ground. It had taken all of his strength to right his chair and somehow pull himself back on again.
Damn it, Isaac. Where are you?
The small band of rebels had not returned to Dorminia and Eremul was beginning to worry. Isaac was loyal and usually competent when it really mattered, despite his frequent buffoonery. The fellow he had hired to manoeuvre him to the top of Raven’s Bluff, on the other hand, was typical of the lowlifes he had no choice but to tolerate on a daily basis. Only a select handful of Dorminians knew he was a mage and therefore treated him with a modicum of respect. The rest saw a scrawny, bookish cripple who was known to be irascible and hence the perfect target for all manner of cruel japes.
About the only use they have for books is to fuel their hearths during winter’s coldest months — or else wipe their arses with in the case of an emergency.
He had considered moving to a more affluent part of the city, but that would entail swapping honest ignorance for conceited superiority and insufferable pomposity. Frankly, that wasn’t a trade he was willing to make. Besides, the unassuming nature of the locals suited his purposes. The more distance between himself and his masters in the Noble Quarter, the better.
The ruined lighthouse loomed ahead, illuminated by the crescent moon in the clear midnight sky above. The tower here at Raven’s Bluff had once overlooked the point where the harbour opened up into Deadman’s Channel. As Dorminia had grown the harbour had expanded. New lighthouses had been constructed further along the coast, leaving this old building obsolete.
The Halfmage squinted at the tower, searching for any sign of his mysterious contacts within. He could see nothing except darkness. The structure soared before him like some giant skeletal finger stuck in the ground, as dead and silent as a corpse.
The thought made him uneasy. Thelassa’s enigmatic Magelord was said to practise strange magic and maintained a strict isolationist policy. Merchants required a special permit to trade and visitors were strictly monitored.
Those who had spent time in the City of Towers reported it to be a wondrous place, as beautiful as Dorminia was ugly, where fairness and equality were there to be had by all. More disturbing accounts made reference to queer things such as apparitions that materialized and then disappeared just as suddenly, pale women who seemed normal apart from their eyes, which were as dead as those of a corpse, and last but not least mass orgies in the streets, so licentious that the white marble of the city itself seemed to pulse with pleasure.
The White Lady was potentially a very useful ally — but Eremul didn’t approach anything without a healthy dose of scepticism. Expect the worst and you can’t be disappointed. Optimism is the luxury of the young, the foolish and the dullard.
His arms shaking from exertion, the Halfmage wheeled his chair up to the rotting old door at the foot of the tower. It was overhung with a thick mass of cobwebs that had not been disturbed in many a moon. He sagged.
They aren’t here. Have they been discovered? Dorminia and Thelassa are technically at peace, but any fool can see war is imminent. The White Lady’s agents could be protesting their innocence in the dungeons of the Obelisk at this very moment.
Without warning, the door suddenly creaked open. Husks of long-dead spiders and ancient, clinging cobwebs showered him, torn away from the wall above the door by a sudden breeze. He cursed and shook his head violently, brushing his hands carefully over his robes. He hated spiders.
Yet another layer of finery to add to my glorious attire. Sweat, dirt, shit, and dead arachnids and half-eaten insects. At least I haven’t pissed myself. Yet.
‘Enter,’ commanded a feminine voice from within. Eremul plucked away a spindly leg dangling from one eyebrow and pushed his chair into the building. The interior was a damp and filthy ruin. A trio of thick candles on a table in the centre of the circular chamber provided the only light. There was a stairwell on the other side of the chamber, and the draught from that black maw caused the flames to dance as they illuminated the women around the table.
There were three of them. Each of the women was slender and pale and wore a plain white robe down to her ankles. They watched him expectantly. Something about their eyes seemed strange, he thought. And there was something else-
Eremul stared in shock. None of the women cast a shadow.
The tallest bowed slightly. ‘We appreciate you coming here,’ she said in a voice that was soft, controlled and completely devoid of emotion. ‘You may refer to me as First Voice. I speak with the authority of the White Lady. These are Second Voice and Third Voice.’ She gestured to the women to either side of her.
Eremul raised an eyebrow. So it’s going to be like this. ‘You can call me Halfmage,’ he replied. ‘I would bow in return and kiss each of your hands, but you would surely grow tired of lifting me off the floor. In any case, I find formality overrated.’
First Voice nodded, unperturbed by his poor attempt at humour. ‘You are known to us, Eremul Kaldrian. You are far more than you appear.’
He shrugged. ‘Not a particularly impressive feat, it must be said.’
‘We uncovered one of your agents in Thelassa,’ replied Second Voice. ‘He was most forthcoming.’
Eremul nodded. He had expected as much. ‘Is he unharmed?’ he asked, almost fearing the answer.
‘He is. When it became apparent that our interests were similarly aligned, we had no reason to use more… creative means of coercion.’