Blood of Innocents (Book Two of the Sorcery Ascendant Sequence) (20 page)

Three silver bells lay in the palms of his hands, cupped in front of him. He sat in front of Bells again, where for the last few hours she had been instructing him on techniques in splitting strings from his well.

“You’re getting stronger,” Bells remarked.

Caldan frowned. “I don’t want to get stronger. I want to be able to heal Miranda.”

“That won’t happen if you’re weak. You have potential, but you need proper training. This isn’t simple sorcery. There are basics you have to be proficient in before learning more complex, intricate
crafting
.”

With a sigh, Caldan closed his hands over the crafted bells. “It’s not going to happen tonight, is it?”

“Of course not!” exclaimed Bells. She pursed her lips and leaned forward. “You managed to hold onto five separate strings; not many fully-fledged sorcerers can do that.”

“For a moment only,” protested Caldan.

“A moment now, a few moments tomorrow, longer the day after. That’s how it works. Practice combined with ability. You’re getting proficient, more adept. One day soon, it will be second nature to you.”

“Just not tonight.”

Bells hesitated. “There may be something I can show you.”

“Now you come clean.”

“You weren’t ready before.”

“So you say.”

“You know it’s the truth. Coercive sorcery isn’t for beginners, or the faint-hearted. Two more strings makes seven, the minimum required for coercive sorcery.”

“I’m not sure I want to learn coercive sorcery.”

Bells snorted. “If you want to heal Miranda, then of course you do. You can’t do it any other way.”

“I know. It’s just…” He shook his head. “That’s a path I would prefer not to go down.”

“Don’t worry about your precious Protectors; you don’t have to tell them.”

“Of course I do.”

“No, you don’t. They aren’t your friends. They suppress knowledge.”

“Dangerous knowledge, for a good reason.”

“Do you really think they eschew the use of destructive and coercive sorcery?”

“Yes… I mean, I’ve seen them use destructive sorcery, but only in the cause of good.”

“In their eyes. So, who determines what’s good? And if they use destructive sorcery, after telling you it’s evil, then how can you be sure they don’t use coercive sorcery?”

Caldan found himself nodding at her words and stopped. “Because they wouldn’t do that. I’m sure of it.” He trailed off, sounding anything but sure.

“Only a fool would abandon a tool they could use. And if, as you say, the stakes are so high, do you take the Protectors for fools?”

“No. Far from it. But I take them as more trustworthy than you.”

“You hardly know me.”

“I know enough,” retorted Caldan.

“Then you know it wasn’t my fault Miranda was hurt. That it was an accident when…” Bells swallowed a lump in her throat. “An accident. And you can see I am doing all I can in the time we have to help you.”

“Perhaps. I can’t decide.”

“Then let me help you decide.” Bells shifted her weight and looked him in the eye. “I can teach you something now, a small sorcery. One I am sure will help you decide.”

“Show me, then,” said Caldan, unimpressed.

“I’ll need one of my bells.”

Caldan raised his eyebrows.

“For you,” responded Bells. “I wouldn’t think you’d let me touch one.”

Thoughts racing, Caldan took a few moments to follow the possibilities. He couldn’t see how she could hurt him in any way if he was the one using the crafted bell, and there was no way she could escape.

Bells described which of her
crafting
s he needed, and within moments Caldan returned with the object. It was as unassuming as the rest, though exquisitely crafted. His inexperienced eye couldn’t tell what most of the runes on its surface signified or could be used for. This one had small, semi-precious stones embedded inside the bell, a streaky orange form of jasper, if he wasn’t mistaken.

“Why inside the bell?” he asked.

Bells flashed him a grin. “Nothing to do with the
crafting
itself. To hide the fact they are there. Really, all those stones are useful for is this basic coercive sorcery.” She settled down, face becoming calm. “What can you sense from the bell?”

Caldan’s mind touched his well, not to open it, but to connect with it. He extended his senses toward the bell, slowly, gently.

It vibrated at his contact, and a faint scent of lemons reached him. He sniffed.

In front of him, Bells stiffened for an instant then relaxed. She blinked. “Do you smell something?”

“No.” He wasn’t going to let this sorcerer know any more than she had to.

“Tell me, what do you sense?” Her voice became intense. “What can you see, Caldan?”

“Nothing.”

“Open yourself to the
crafting
. Go on, it won’t hurt you.”

He opened his well and connected to the bell’s anchor.

Around him, the colors of the night drained away. Already muted, their camp looked as if a veil had been drawn across it, washing away any tint of life.

Except for Miranda.

It was as if her head were a jumble of colors, shifting and conflicting, like iridescent snakes writhing in a pile, or a ball of yarn tangled into an impenetrable mess. Colors roiled incessantly, making his stomach churn.

He hissed, as if in pain, and closed his well. Sweat seeped from every pore. He wiped his brow and exhaled long and slow.

“I see now.”

Bells nodded. “If she were under the influence of coercive sorcery, the colors wouldn’t be chaotic, they would have form and structure. And when it comes to untangling that mess, one wrong thread cut would mean disaster.”

Caldan cursed under his breath.

A faint smile played across Bells’ mouth.

He clenched the crafted bell in one hand and stood, leaving Bells to watch him depart in silence.

Chapter Eleven

Felice watched as the last of her resistance fighters disappeared into a small house two streets from the wall of Anasoma, which still blazed with bright blue fire. With such an imposing barrier, the Indryallans didn’t even bother patrolling the walls, apart from a few men keeping watch and guarding siege engines.

Such an unassuming house to be able to sop up a few dozen of her people.

Beside her, Avigdor levered himself up onto a rain barrel, and scratched a note on a piece of paper resting on his knee. A decidedly peculiar sight, considering his bulk.

“That’s it,” he remarked.

She nodded. It was three hours past midnight, and they had spent the majority of the sunless hours organizing groups and making sure everyone was in position. It had been a struggle to avoid the Indryallan soldiers patrolling the streets, but with her forces split into small groups supported by scouts, there had been no mishaps.

The last few days had started with a flurry of thought, heated discussions with Avigdor, and finally agreement and a plan. Neither of them liked the idea, but their meeting with Rebecci had altered their thoughts on Anasoma and the Indryallans, and more importantly, what their ultimate goal should be.

Rebecci. Curse the woman. Felice would have a few choice words with her when they next met, but she had spoken sense. Since the invasion, the Indryallan ships had regularly sailed into the harbor. Laden to the brim, they departed empty after disgorging soldiers and supplies that left already busy streets clogged for hours.

Her people couldn’t hope to fight a confrontational war inside a barricaded city, a conclusion, though painfully obvious, they had debated for many hours. Small groups of skirmishers wouldn’t be effective, either, as their resources were stretched thin.

Joining forces with others remained their only option, though Rebecci’s vagueness had given them pause. Her people would be on their own until she caught up with them tomorrow.

“Shall we go?”

Avigdor’s question broke her reverie.

“Yes. We had better.”

Together, they sidled down an alley, keeping to one wall, both to remain as unnoticed as possible, and to avoid the inevitable unsavory muck that accumulated in the back lanes. One never quite became immune to the stench.

“The wagon should be ready,” remarked Avigdor.

“It better be. We don’t have much of a window of opportunity.”

He drew out a brass watch and squinted at the dials in the faint light.

“There’s plenty of time to prepare. We can even have a hot meal and a sleep before we need to be in position.”

“Sounds good to me.” Her words were hollow. Though she wasn’t hungry; she hadn’t been eating well since the invasion. She knew, however, Avigdor hadn’t lost his appetite.

An hour later, they entered a warehouse on the south side of the docks. Avigdor, a man of surprising talents, picked the lock on a side door, and they let themselves inside. They were followed by two burly men who had volunteered for their mission, the twins Nilas and Nolar. Another couple of volunteers were scouting their destination for the morning, with a further two making sure their route tonight was free of patrols.

Alchemical smells washed over them, acidic, bitter, and eye-watering. No wonder these warehouses were well ventilated during the day. They moved as quickly and quietly as they could through the offices and into the warehouse proper. Barrels, chests, and sacks were piled up in rows, some stacked twice their height.

Avigdor coughed into a kerchief and produced another piece of paper from a pocket. There was barely enough light to see by, so he moved until he was next to a window.

“Row six, fifteenth stack.”

Without a word, Nilas and Nolar made their way to the location, which turned out to be in a corner of the warehouse. A small area was sealed off using a makeshift fence of empty crates. Inside sat square chests, a yard to each side.

“We need ten,” said Avigdor, and the twins stepped up to obey, each reaching for a different chest.

“One at a time,” hissed Felice, “and don’t drop them, if you value your life.” Their alchemical contents were volatile, and though transporting them shouldn’t pose a problem, if one was dropped…

The twins shrugged and lifted a single chest between them, using iron handles on the sides. Soon, the last was deposited in their wagon, and they covered the cargo with a canvas sheet.

So far, all had gone according to plan, though the next part was crucial. Moving their stolen goods through the streets in the middle of the night was fraught with danger. They couldn’t risk getting caught. Felice’s men were under strict instructions to run at the first indication they were discovered. The three teams of two only knew part of the overall plan, so if one was captured, her scheme wouldn’t be revealed.

Their horses required constant and quiet urging on. They eventually stopped behind another house, this one deserted, though available for rent. They would only be residents for one night so hadn’t bothered the owner. Ideally suited to their needs, the house had enough room for the eight of them to be comfortable for the rest of the night. After tomorrow, they had no intention of remaining in the city.

The house was located a few hundred yards from the last of the stone piers jutting into the harbor. It was the pier previously designated for the emperor’s own ships, now occupied by Indryallan ships. More specifically, their biggest and best, the ships reserved for their commanders.

Both Felice and Avigdor assisted with unloading the cargo.

With their ill-gotten goods stowed inside the house, they shut and barred themselves inside.

Felice supervised a spread of cold foods for her men, lavish in its selection and quantity. They consumed the meal quietly, no fire or light to give them away. Conversations were carried out in whispers, subdued yet elated. Her men knew she had something cooked up.

Snores from Avigdor brought a smile to her lips. He had lounged across a couch after their meal and soon drifted off. Tomorrow’s plan ran through her mind as she examined it in detail for the umpteenth time, tearing it apart, looking for flaws. But the truth was, it wasn’t a complicated plan. Her main concern was not getting caught before they could act.

The Indryallan God-Emperor was arriving, and this had the invaders shitting themselves and scrambling over each other with preparations. Further digging by Felice narrowed the date of arrival to tomorrow, sometime after dawn.

She took a swig from a mostly empty bottle of liquor. Her men had left her some after she gave them a bottle to share. Nilas was finishing cleaning up after their meal; he looked around, apparently satisfied with his work. Catching her staring, he gave her a polite tilt of the head and a brief smile.

Good men, all of them.

•

The walls of Anasoma were vast structures peppered with towers and siege engines. It had long been held that any weakness the city had was embodied by the harbor, both its lifeblood of trade and disadvantage.

Centuries ago, the emperor, in his wisdom, ordered his appointed rulers of the city to build numerous platforms close to the docks and on the cliffs overlooking the harbor. They were raised stone platforms of a size to accommodate siege engines from ballista to trebuchets, all positioned in order to provide defense in case of invasion from the sea. Subsequent rulers had maintained the structures and updated to siege engines with the latest designs. A city of Anasoma’s wealth didn’t scrimp on its duty to the Mahruse Empire.

During the Indryallan invasion, the weapons remained suspiciously silent, crews of soldiers absent or drugged into a stupor, while some had been outright slaughtered.

Felice gazed to the east, where the sun peeked over the horizon, squinting against the glare. She couldn’t see any ships, but that could change at any moment. They needed to be ready.

From her position on the back of the wagon, she gestured to her men.

At her signal, four drew long knives, and one turned a key, which unlocked the gate into a walled area. They entered, then sprinted up stone steps toward a large trebuchet. Another two men carried buckets behind them.

Two Indryallan soldiers guarding the device fell under multiple blows, blood leaking onto the stones. Both corpses were pitched off the platform into the walled area surrounding the structure.