A Shattered Empire Read online

  The old man faltered forward a pace. “I am Gazija,” he said, voice wavering. “I’m the head of the Five Oceans Mercantile Concern, and some among my people call me the First Deliverer. I don’t care for it much, but it’s as good a title as any.”

  Devenish bowed. A touch too low, giving his deference a tinge of mockery. “I’m Devenish. They call me the First Warlock . . . and it’s as good a title as any.”

  The warlocks around him chuckled, Thenna’s false laugh the loudest of them all.

  Sycophants. Caldan wondered if Devenish deserved their obsequiousness, or just received it because he was in the emperor’s favor.

  Either way, it soured his stomach.

  “Your shields won’t be as effective against the vormag as you think,” Gazija said softly.

  Devenish laughed, a surprisingly high-pitched sound. “You profess to know much, elder. How is it you came by such information?”

  Gazija waved a hand, dismissing the question as unimportant. “We can swap stories later.” He gestured across the terrain littered with bodies and smoke. “I can see we arrived just in time. What of the jukari forces? With my mercenaries helping, did you manage to hold against them? They must have taken significant losses for—”

  “Enough, old man!” barked Devenish. “Many died here today, and not from the jukari.”

  The thin man, Quiss, leaned forward and whispered in Gazija’s ear. Gazija listened and then nodded.

  “Sorcery, then,” said Gazija. “The stench of it reached us on the river. You fought against the vormag?”

  “No. A rogue sorcerer, one of the Indryallans. Tell me what you want, First Deliverer.” Devenish spat the title. “Then get out of our way before your ashes are scattered on the river.” Devenish’s face had gone a few shades redder in anger.

  Probably won’t take much to send him over the edge.

  Gazija apparently thought the same thing and frowned. “That is . . . unexpected. I’m here because I imagined my mercenaries would be of some use against the jukari. But I don’t suppose you need to imagine, do you, seeing how they supported the emperor’s forces during the last battle? Lucky for you, too—those monsters were an unexpected complication, I’d wager.”

  Devenish’s mouth worked as he came to terms with what Gazija said. “Five companies of mercenaries, at the opportune time we’d need them . . . A suspicious mind would worry at such events transpiring so happily.”

  Gazija grinned, showing missing teeth. “Suspicious minds jump at shadows and eventually go insane. Our appearance is fortuitous, and you’d be a fool to refuse our help.” Gazija fixed Devenish with a challenging stare. “And you don’t strike me as a fool.”

  The old man was clearly up to something. He wasn’t just here to help. But Caldan couldn’t figure out what his game was . . . yet.

  Devenish hesitated for a few moments. “On behalf of the emperor, I accept your offer. Bring their captains to me so I can brief them. And you’ll need to hand over their signed contracts, of course.”

  “You mistake me, First Warlock. I didn’t offer to hand them over to you. The contracts and command of the mercenaries will stay with me,” Gazija said firmly. “And I’ll be at every briefing to ensure they’re used wisely.”

  “This isn’t a negotiation, old man. We’ll take your gift and do as we see fit. You’ll not be able to stop us.”

  Gazija’s eyes flashed with anger, and he drew himself up. “You have no idea what I’m capable of.” An almost overpowering odor of lemons filled the air.

  Caldan gasped and drew as much as he could from his well to bolster his shield. Melker glanced at him quizzically, as if he couldn’t sense the sorcery.

  Which, Caldan realized, the warlock couldn’t.

  “Beware!” he shouted. “Sorcery!”

  Caldan’s feet grew cold, and he looked down. Ice crystals were forming on his boots. Faint cracklings sounded as they grew before his eyes. He lifted his gaze to see shields surround the three denser-men. Shields as dark as night, similar in nature to the impressive dome Bells had crafted, and the shield Amerdan used when he’d fled.

  A sheet of ice solidified outward over the water. Rending snaps split the air as fractures crackled through rapidly freezing water. Growing swiftly, it froze the ships moored around them in place. Icicles formed on the masts and ropes. Steam billowed from the warlocks’ and Caldan’s shields as the temperature of the air around them plummeted.

  Devenish and his warlocks struck back. Caldan sensed them somehow send the power of their wells toward Devenish, who gathered the force and fired a single glowing orange strand straight at Gazija.

  Which the First Deliverer’s shield absorbed without a trace.

  Devenish’s jaw dropped in surprise, and Thenna cried out in dismay.

  The shield around Gazija winked out, as if the old man could handle whatever the warlocks threw at him without it. He took another step forward.

  “Now that foolishness is out of the way,” he said, breath steaming, “perhaps—”

  Lemons again warned Caldan.

  Devenish’s face screwed up in concentration, but nothing was happening, so far as Caldan could see.

  Gazija passed a hand over his face and shook his head, as if wearied by the foolishness of a child . . . and no more inconvenienced.

  “Coercive sorcery isn’t something to be trifled with,” the old man said. “Especially as inept at it as you are.”

  Impressive, thought Caldan. Shrugging off Devenish like he’s nothing. The denser-men were strange, but perhaps that was part of what they were, a stain of their particular brand of sorcery.

  Devenish and Gazija locked gazes. For a moment, everything was quiet. Blood suffused Devenish’s face, and beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. He snarled, hands clenching into fists until his knuckles turned white.

  Then suddenly he relaxed, shaking his head. He uttered a low laugh.

  “So be it,” he said. “Bring the mercenary captains to my tent in one hour, where we can introduce them to the other commanders. I’ll leave someone here to show them the way. And you can . . . join them. I’ll inform the emperor of our good fortune.”

  Gazija nodded. “You are most kind,” he said, words tinged with sarcasm.

  Caldan realized he was holding his breath and forced himself to breathe.

  Devenish turned his back on the old man. He motioned to the others around him. “Come. We still have much to do.” He strode back along the wharf, ice crunching underfoot.

  Gorton and Melker watched him pass, then gestured for Caldan to follow behind his group.

  With a last fleeting glance at Quiss, Caldan turned his thoughts to coercive sorcery and Miranda. Having hired five mercenary companies, and as head of the Five Oceans Mercantile Concern, Gazija was unlikely to want ducats in exchange for his help. Which meant Caldan had to come up with something else the man wanted if he approached him. But what?

  CHAPTER 3

  Well, well. That was mighty interesting,” remarked Melker. He licked his lips and looked back over his shoulder at the frost-rimed wharves.

  To Caldan’s right, Gorton bent down and picked a blade of grass. He put the end in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. They were a few dozen paces from Devenish’s tent, the warlock having told Caldan’s escort to keep him with them.

  From their position, Caldan could see the front line between the emperor’s forces and the jukari horde. The occasional volley of arrows punctuated the sky, but this time they mostly broke up in midflight, their shafts falling aimlessly to the ground trailing smoke.

  The vormag.

  At this distance, Caldan couldn’t sense anything, try as he might. But the lull in fighting, combined with Melker’s and Gorton’s comments about the warlocks joining the fight, led him to believe there was another battle being waged mostly unnoticed while the armies faced each other.

  Sorcery.

  And while the warlocks tested the vormag and kept them occupied, too busy to direct t
he jukari, the emperor’s forces had time to recover. Heavy cavalry scattered across the field slowly formed once more into a cohesive force; Quivers, both foot soldiers and archers, took much-needed rest and nourishment. And all the while, more sprightly leather-armored cavalry harassed the jukari’s flanks—peppering them with arrows and cutting down the creatures that broke from their lines with flashing sabers.

  Melker sent some soldiers to fetch stools and firewood, and he set up their own campfire a dozen paces from the tent’s entrance. Caldan almost jumped when the wood erupted into flame, as Melker and Gorton were testing the wind and positioning their stools away from the direction smoke would blow. It had been a tightly controlled burst, and too quick for Caldan to discern much, but an instant before it happened, a line in the air between Melker and the fire turned hazy.

  It confirmed what he’d deduced from the warlocks’ use of destructive sorcery when they had tried to kill Bells. And now that there had been such a display of devastation that no one could have missed for miles, what restraints the warlocks had on its use were fading. The long-held secret of destructive sorcery had been let out of the bag.

  Caldan wasn’t sure the world would be better off for it. He felt the Protectors went too far in restricting it, but the warlocks went too far in its use.

  The two warlocks set themselves down, as if for a long wait. Gorton took his boots off and warmed his yellow-nailed feet by the fire. It seemed he’d resigned himself to missing the fighting with his fellow warlocks. Melker started picking up bits of stick and grass and threw them into the flames one by one.

  “Cold down there on the docks,” commented Gorton.

  Melker nodded slowly, then groaned as he stretched. “Must be seasonal.”

  Gorton and Melker both chuckled, but Caldan could sense they were disturbed. He couldn’t reason out how Gazija had sucked the heat from the very air, and it seemed the warlocks didn’t know, either.

  Caldan picked up a third stool and was about to move it out of the smoke when his knees wobbled. He breathed deeply and leaned on the stool to steady himself. There was a knifing pain in his legs, and a prickling beneath his skin. He swallowed and sucked in air, trying not to throw up.

  “You all right there, Caldan?” asked Melker.

  Caldan nodded as best he could, not sure what was wrong. He managed to stagger out of the smoke and slumped on his stool, head between his knees. Cold. He felt so cold; but his skin was slimy with sweat.

  A hand grasped his shoulder.

  “He doesn’t look well . . .” said Gorton.

  “Fetch some water, will you?” said Melker.

  Caldan heard Gorton pulling on his boots and cursing under his breath. Melker’s hand squeezed in reassurance.

  “You’ll be fine this time. It can take a day or more, from what I understand, for the full effects to manifest.”

  “What can? I think . . . maybe it’s a reaction . . . to the stress of the last few days.”

  “Don’t worry. Devenish told us what you were, and Kristof is probably on his way.”

  Melker could mean only one thing. They already knew he was a sorcerer, so he meant being Touched. “Who’s Kristof?”

  “He’s one of you. Most others look to him. Most.”

  Caldan’s mind was fuzzy, but hadn’t Melker said something about full effects? “You know why I’m sick.”

  “Aye. Wait till you speak to Kristof. I don’t have any answers.”

  “You do, you’re just not telling me.”

  “That’s right. It’s not for me to say.”

  Caldan heard the finality in Melker’s tone. He wouldn’t say more on the subject. Gingerly, Caldan raised his head and breathed in lungfuls of air.

  Gorton arrived with a jug of water, which Caldan took from his hands and sipped at. After a few swallows, he felt his nausea subside, and he drank deeply. He placed the jug next to his stool and sat up straight.

  Gorton was eyeing him warily, but Melker offered him a smile.

  “Feeling better?” Melker asked.

  “Yes. A little.”

  “Maybe we can talk shop, take your mind off it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You knew he was about to use sorcery, that Gazija. How?”

  Caldan paused. Why should I just dole out information to them for nothing in return? “I’ll answer any questions you have,” he replied, “but in return, you have to answer some of mine. Fair?”

  Gorton grunted and looked to Melker.

  The pale, freckled warlock was regarding Caldan warily, plainly thinking his proposal through. “We won’t be able to answer all your questions,” Melker said eventually. “Some answers are not ours to divulge. Others . . . well, you’re new here, and we have to determine where your loyalties lie.”

  “In other words, you don’t trust me yet.”

  “I’m sure you feel the same way about us. But in time, you’ll realize where your best interests lie.”

  “So I guess we’ll just sit here quietly, if we can’t trust each other.”

  Melker shrugged. “If you like. But we might find trust, you know. Not all of us are cut from the same cloth as Devenish and Thenna. Warlocks come from all walks of life, from the poor to the nobles. In time, we learn to trust each other about most things. It’s just that some of us react to situations differently.”

  “But in the meantime,” Caldan said, “we’ve determined neither of us will be totally forthcoming with the other. I’d rather not have a conversation where I can’t trust anything the other person says.”

  “Then let’s talk about something else. Your shield, for instance. Where did you get the crafting for it? And how did you learn to split your well into so many strings?”

  A couple of fairly innocuous questions. Caldan couldn’t see any harm in answering. “I smith-crafted the shield medallion.” He noted Gorton’s eyes widen. “Based on one an Indryallan sorcerer had. As for the strings, when I was in Anasoma, I worked out how to split my well. And since the city was invaded and we had to flee, I’ve been stretching myself as much as I can.”

  “How many strings can you manage?” Melker asked curiously.

  Despite his casual question, Caldan sensed an intentness to him, as if the number of strings he could manage was important somehow. And it was, realized Caldan. For complex sorcery required controlling many strings, and this was an easy way to size up his strength. No, he thought, nothing for free, Melker.

  “Four,” lied Caldan, settling on that number because it was the minimum needed for the shield he’d shown them. “But it’s a stretch. The fourth one is hard, and it’s unstable.”

  Even as he said it, though, he thought back to his fight against the jukari with cel Rau. There, he’d pushed himself to control both his beetle and his shield . . . and his breath caught in his throat as a realization hit him: in the heat of battle, with no time to think, he’d forced himself to manage ten strings at once.

  Ten.

  The thought of doing that now, even in a quiet place with no distractions, made him feel ill. But he knew he could do it. He had done it before, which meant he could do it again . . . and maybe he could do even more.

  Caldan’s thoughts turned to Mahsonn’s crafting, which he’d sensed required thirteen strings. He’d guessed that the medallion was what made Mahsonn invisible, but what if this was also the crafting that allowed him to control hundreds of destructive needles in mere instants? If Mahsonn’s trickle of a well could use it to kill with such effectiveness, then what would Caldan be capable of if he could maintain thirteen strings? The idea was both terrifying and seductive. He wouldn’t have anything to fear from most of the warlocks, that was certain.

  “Four isn’t bad, for a sorcerer. Warlocks have . . . more stringent criteria, shall we say. The strength of your well isn’t that important, if you have other talents. Gorton here doesn’t have the well to sustain a four-string shield, but he can do a few other things.”

  Caldan looked at Gorto
n. “Such as?”

  Gorton chuckled, a sound with a slightly dangerous undertone. “I can burst a man’s heart, if he stays still long enough to give me a fix on its location. Even through a shield, four strings or no.”

  Caldan shifted uncomfortably on his stool under Gorton’s gaze. Despite the weakness he still felt, he stood up and began pacing along one side of the fire.

  Both Melker and Gorton burst out laughing when he did so, and Caldan felt heat rise to his face. Were they joking with him? Or was their mirth to hide the truth just spoken?

  “One of Gorton’s talents,” said Melker. “Many of which are very rare, the reason why he is valued highly.” Gorton tilted his head in Melker’s direction at this. “As for me, I don’t have any rare talents. But I have a potent well and can handle quite a few strings. Is there anything you’ve noticed you can do better than other sorcerers?”

  Caldan shook his head. “Not that I’ve noticed. I have a project I’ve been working on for a few years, but I wouldn’t call it a talent. It’s more a curiosity of mine.” He would keep his abilities close to his chest. The warlocks might find out eventually, but under his terms.

  “Don’t be shy,” Melker said. “What is it? Gorton’s been trying to craft a rock that gives out heat so he’s kept warm at night. I keep telling him there are better ways to stave off the night’s chill.” He winked at Caldan.

  “I’ll get it to work,” said Gorton. “If we can then tie off the feedback loop like—” He cut off as Melker gave him a sharp look. “It’ll benefit a lot of people someday.”

  “Indeed,” replied Melker. “So, young Caldan, what’s this ‘project’ of yours?”

  Caldan swallowed. It really was just something he’d tinkered with, albeit with what he thought great success. But was this a talent like the ones the warlocks alluded to? He remembered that Mold and the other two masters hadn’t been impressed with his automaton, though, and that made him think it was okay—in this instance—to be truthful. The fewer lies he told, the better—in order to keep track of them, if anything.

  He reached into his pocket and drew out his rune-covered metal beetle, but hesitated. The construct required three strings for movement, hearing, and sight, and one more each for its shield and wings—and he had said he only had four strings. Oh well—I’ll just have to stick with four and choose which to use.