In Pain and Blood (Spellster Series Book 1) Read online

  The horse reared, throwing its rider.

  The man staggered to his feet. He glared at his mount as the horse thundered into the forest. “You little shit,” he snarled. A cloud of dust kicked up as the man flung his hands forward.

  Dylan braced himself, barely having the strength to shield the blast running through the air. It hit low, almost knocking him off his feet. He righted his balance with far more difficulty than it should’ve taken and altered the barrier from a sphere to a bell-like shape. “Get back!” he ordered Katarina. The last thing he wanted was to have the hedgewitch in the radius of the man’s attack should the shield fail.

  There was no reply. He could only hope she’d heard him and obeyed.

  A figure marched through the dust, too tall to be an elf. Dylan flexed his fingers, holding back only because he wasn’t certain if it was the dwarf.

  The man halted none too far away. “Why won’t you have the good sense to go down, you backwater-bred cretin?” he sneered.

  How Dylan wished he’d the energy to pound the smarmy bastard into the ground. For now, he had to wait and see what else the man would throw at him. Hopefully, the attacks would reveal a weakness he could exploit. “Are dust clouds and talk all you have to offer, Udynean?”

  The man’s lips twisted smugly.

  Dylan barely caught the man’s hands twitch before another blast rocked his shield. He swung the full force of his barrier to the fore as a barrage of iridescent specks hit, constructs much like the spear back in the arena. As small as a wasp’s sting, they hissed as they struck and fizzled against his barrier.

  “You’re no match for a properly trained spellster,” the man snarled, closing the gap between them with each word until he was but a few paces away.

  Dylan peered at the area directly around the man, eventually spotting the faint translucent shimmer of a shield. No telling how strong it was. Likely stronger than he could penetrate in his current state.

  “Just come quietly,” the man continued, seemingly oblivious to Dylan’s scrutiny. “I’d rather not have to report you joined these pathetic fools in death.” He swept his arm wide, indicating the entire camp. “I might even ask my lord to let me keep you, if you cooperate.”

  Dylan’s gaze slid to the corpses behind the Udynean. Red blazed across his mind, the searing heat of fury reborn. So many left broken and burnt by men like this one. Had those monsters stood with the same smile as they took all these lives? For what? A few leashed slaves?

  Dylan wordlessly wrapped his own barrier around the man, maintaining the finest of balances in keeping it invisible. In a snap of thought, he tightened the shield, forsaking translucency for density. “You take pleasure in burning them alive?” he hissed. “Let’s see how you like roasting.”

  Focusing on the air trapped inside, Dylan allowed a trickle of magic, a small puff of heat from an unformed fireball, to bloom. It should’ve been harmless, naught but a mild concentration of warm air. But trapped inside, with the flicker of heat he’d set off feeding on itself and growing hotter with each second?

  All he had to do was keep the barrier in place.

  Sneering, the man pushed out with his shield, but Dylan was ready for him and the barrier held firm. The man’s skin, originally a pale olive tone, turned red. His eyes bulged. He put more force behind his actions.

  Dylan gritted his teeth and rammed the remaining scrap of his magic into the hazy heat blazing away inside the shimmering ball of his shield.

  A scream Dylan couldn’t hear tightened the man’s throat as he collapsed to his knees. The air had become too hot for his lungs, scorching the soft tissue just as it blistered the man’s face and hands.

  It was surreal, watching as the man died by his actions. It wouldn’t be long now. A few more minutes and he could be certain that this Udynean would never harm anyone ever again. Should he not feel gratified in knowing that?

  Behind him, he caught Katarina cry out in pain.

  The other two soldiers. They’d wounded her. Fatally?

  Dylan jerked his head to one side, a part of him pulled by the call. But he couldn’t dare shift his full attention from the Udynean spellster lest the man managed to slip free at the last second.

  Could he send a pulse through the earth like he’d done in the arena? Did he have the strength? After he’d finished with this man, perhaps. Without knowing what Katarina faced, any action could work against the hedgewitch far too easily. He’d just have to hope she was able to stand her ground for a little bit more.

  “Watch out!” Katarina screamed.

  Something hit the back of his head and the world turned black for but a moment. He staggered forward. Lights danced across his vision, dizzying him. Intense heat blasted at his face. The barrier had fallen.

  Pain lanced his side. The searing agony of lightning haphazardly channelled. Instinct lifted his hand and had him throw everything behind the flames that sprang from his fingers.

  The brief wail of a victim hit his ears. He sorely hoped it’d been the right target. Dylan lowered his hand and stood there, his chest heaving. The wound on his side was healing, sluggishly. He shook his head, trying to clear his eyesight. That proved to be the wrong action as his legs gave, dumping him face-first onto the ground.

  The world was grey and black. Charred. Ash drifted across the endless plain, kicked up by the bitter wind. He covered his mouth with a sleeve. His eyes watered as the powdery grit blew over him, but he refused to let them close.

  Was this the afterlife? He took a few shambling steps. Where was the river of judgement? The Seven Sisters? The priests said there would be a boat to carry him to paradise. He spun about, searching. There wasn’t even a trickle of water.

  What if the boat didn’t appear? What if the lieutenant was right and his magic left him tainted? He’d be stuck wandering through this lifeless mockery for all eternity.

  There was a cave in the distance, naught but a suggestion of darkness amongst the hillside. How far, he didn’t know, but it seemed to be his best chance. Pulling his sleeve tighter around his face, he began trudging in that direction.

  He’d barely taken a dozen steps when the ground heaved.

  The scorched dirt beneath his feet splintered, flinging clumps of crumbling rock in all directions and tossing him about. He scrambled for solid land, raking at the earth. His fingers found a tree root, thin and strong. He clung to it with one hand, pawing at the ground around him for a second handhold.

  Bony hands clawed through the cracks. They grasped his robe, hauling him deeper into the sinkhole. Their weight on his clothes grew heavier with each second. Stitching groaned, threatening to break. Already, his boots were gone, swallowed by the churning ground.

  The root he clung to so ferociously bent. He dug into the sod surrounding it, seeking to unearth more. His fingers carved out great trenches, but there was nothing to be had.

  “Join us,” dusty voices echoed from the very air.

  Faces broke through the earth. Black and bleeding. Melted. They stared at him with empty, weeping sockets. “You belong here,” their fleshless jaws creaked. “Down amongst the dead. Embrace the earth. Join us in the ashes of your failure.”

  The clammy coldness of the earth greeted his legs. He was torn from the side of the hole. Bony arms wrapped around his chest, chilling his heart.

  “He has joined us,” a jawless face hissed into his ear.

  All around, the walls began to cave in. Mud, thick and slimy, covered his torso. Much of the grasping hands had fallen away, only the corpse on his back remained.

  Above, the sky stretched out in an endless sea of grey clouds. He raised a hand in supplication, but the mud continued to pour in. It was at his neck now and climbing. He fought to keep his head above the ever-rising sludge, spluttering as watery gloop filled his mouth.

  This couldn’t be it. It just couldn’t. He wasn’t ready to go. Not like this. There was still so much he needed to see, so many things he hadn’t experienced.

&nb
sp; Muddy water trickled down his throat, clogging his nose. He gagged. Clumps of dirt caked his eyelids, sealing him into darkness.

  Dylan became aware of being elsewhere with a jerking start. Darkness surrounded him. He was still beneath the earth, yet—

  No. His eyelids might feel a little too heavy to open right now, but he could distinguish the flickering of light beyond them. Was he dead? Truly dead?

  He lay on his back. His heart hammered unmercifully. That didn’t seem like the act of a dead man. His breath came swiftly and, whilst it shuddered through his chest, the act was unobstructed. There appeared to be the warmth of a body cradling his head rather than the clammy coldness of mud.

  Thighs. He was lying down with his head pillowed on someone’s thighs.

  A hand slid over his scalp, stroking his hair. That didn’t seem like the act of an enemy. Or rather more importantly, not like someone intent on his death right now.

  There was the dull clang of metal.

  Dylan groaned and rolled his head to one side. His eyes fluttered open. He stared blankly at the scene before him, trying to make sense of the world. Katarina stood near a campfire, stirring a little pot suspended over the embers. His nose caught the scent of heavily overcooked grain. It smelt divine.

  “He’s awake.”

  That voice. So close. The elven warrior, Authril. Her lap beneath his head. They’d all survived. Or were they now prisoners?

  He sat up and the world spun.

  “Careful,” Katarina cautioned.

  When his head stopped messing with his eyesight, he took in their surroundings. It was dark beyond the light of the fire, but he could see enough to know they were alone and that this wasn’t the army camp. Trees hemmed them on all sides, their outlines against the sky dark and imposing.

  He licked his lips. His tongue had a distinctly papery-tasting film on it. How long had he been unconscious? A few hours? A day? No, they couldn’t have gone far after the attack. “Where are we?” he croaked.

  “Just a little ways into the forest,” Authril replied. “It’s good to see you’re awake, I was beginning to think I’d have to carry your arse all the way to Toptower after all.” Her gaze kept flicking to the top of his head as she talked. Was there something wrong with it? “Are you all right?”

  Dylan gingerly felt his hair. A section at the back was clumped together by a tepid congealed substance. He didn’t want to dwell on what it could be. His gaze dropped to the thickly-woven fabric draped over his lap. He didn’t recall either woman packing a blanket. “What happened?”

  “You took the pommel of a sword to the skull,” Katarina said. She laid out the three mismatched and battered bowls he also didn’t remember anyone adding to their packs and filled them with some sort of brown gloop.

  He eyed the steaming bowls, his stomach growling as if he’d swallowed some sort of beast. When was the last time he’d eaten? Had it really been several days?

  “And you bled everywhere,” Authril helpfully added, drawing him back to what the women were saying. “Head wounds do that, of course, but I thought we’d lost you for sure. Yet you seemed to knit yourself back together quick enough.”

  Dylan frowned. He recalled fighting the soldiers before everything went red. He’d vague memories of being struck on the back of the head and then…

  He felt along his side. His skin was unmarked, not even a hint of a scar. The same couldn’t be said for his clothing. Both his robe and undertunic were scorched and torn where the bolt had struck. He’d have to find a way to patch the fabric before the holes got any bigger. “And what became of the Udyneans?”

  “Gone,” the elf replied. “For the most part.”

  So they hadn’t all died. Did that mean he’d failed in his attempt to take the enemy spellster’s life? He licked his parched lips and braced himself for the answer as he asked, “Did their spellster make it?”

  Authril shook her head. “He’s dead.”

  “Are you sure?” He thought the man had been beyond any sort of retaliation when the shield fell, yet he’d been struck.

  Her lips flattened into a grim smile. “Unless the sod can grow a new head, then yes. I wasn’t about to leave the possibility of him reviving to chance. Here.” She handed him a waterskin. It didn’t look like the soot-stained one they’d pulled from the tent remains. “You sound terrible.”

  He took a swig from the waterskin. The coolness soothed his throat and washed away the sourness in his mouth. It tasted strangely familiar. Cleaner than what he’d grown accustomed to on his journey down here and reminiscent of home. He took several more long swallows before handing it back to the elf. “What happened to the rest of the men?”

  “Well,” Katarina said, offering one of the full bowls to the other woman. “After you killed their spellster and Authril dispatched the woman responsible for your head wound, the remaining two fled.”

  “Like roaches,” Authril muttered before shovelling in a spoonful of food. “Cowards wouldn’t even offer themselves up for a decent death. But at least we saw to it that one less blasted spellster isn’t going home.”

  An uneasiness bubbled in his stomach. He tried to convince himself it was only because he hadn’t eaten in several days, but the way she spoke that word. Spellster. An echo of the derision of the other soldiers. One less of them. It wouldn’t bring anyone back, but it was a start in keeping more Demarn soldiers from joining the dead.

  The dwarf cleared her throat. “The Udyneans have a rather different outlook on what constitutes as a good death.” She crouched before him and offered up the remaining bowl. “Sorry.” Her wide mouth twisted into a grimace. “I’m not much of a cook. If it’s any consolation, it tastes better than it looks.”

  Dylan barely gave a glance to what he’d been given before shovelling great spoonfuls into his mouth. His tongue said it was porridge, if a little on the burnt side, his stomach didn’t care enough to comment.

  He was a third of the way into the bowl when another question surfaced through the mindless slog of his movements. “Where did we get oats?” There’d been nothing in the way of salvageable food when they’d scoured the camp remains.

  “The scouts,” Katarina replied as she turned to her own meal. “They’d other travel rations as well, perhaps enough to get us to Toptower.”

  “It’s a bugger the horse ran off,” Authril muttered into her bowl.

  The hedgewitch nodded. “We certainly could’ve carried a great deal more of their gear if it’d stayed, the saddlebags might’ve even held a tent, but we should be able to make do just curling up in blankets providing the weather holds. And if we supplement the travel rations with a little foraging, we won’t have to buy quite as much food for the journey to this tower.”

  Dylan absently returned to the porridge. The concept of money was a murky one. He wasn’t a stranger to exchanging one thing for another—bartering ran rife through the tower’s spellsters—but he failed to see how a disc of metal carried any worth beyond the alchemical, especially when it came to provisions.

  Food had always been something that was just there. A part of him knew that wasn’t how it worked beyond the tower walls, but knowing a meal came only through work or money had long been another man’s concern. Now? He wasn’t sure how to hunt, but he knew a little about foraging from his forays into the garden with Henrie. Perhaps the forest held a few of the non-toxic plants he remembered from his childhood teachings.

  Authril watched him eat. She’d scraped her own bowl clean swiftly enough, but didn’t seem to be looking to procure a portion of his food like his elven friends back in the tower. “Have you ever been in a fight before today?”

  “Of course,” he replied around his spoon. “I’ve been training for most of my life to be in the army.” Against wooden men who stood there whilst he blasted them, and people who could shield themselves from his attack. Not like this. Not even the brawl could’ve prepared him for this. “It’s what I’m out here for.”

  She stre
tched out her hand, offering the empty bowl to the hedgewitch who managed to find a few more spoonfuls to refill it. “But you’ve never actually fought to the death.”

  Had it been that obvious? Dylan shrugged, trying to maintain a nonchalant demeanour. “I never got the chance. I arrived six days ago. The day we were ambushed was my first time with the scouts.”

  The elf grunted. “You were fortunate,” she mumbled.

  He recalled the screams of those dying. Of the heat, the scent of burning flesh coming from beneath his collar as he desperately sought for a way to defend the scouting party. Dylan lowered the bowl. The food was starting to sit less easily in his stomach. “No, I wasn’t.”

  The warrior had resumed picking at the small pieces left in her bowl. He couldn’t see how she could do so and still talk about the death of her comrades. “I meant for you to be away when they attacked the main camp,” she said between chews.

  Dylan shook his head, the Udynean spellster’s words sticking sharp in his mind. “They took them.” Was that why he had survived when his company hadn’t? But why not capture him when he was unconscious? The ambush should’ve left him slain or enslaved.

  He ran his finger along his throat. The too-smooth patch of skin hadn’t changed over the last few days. He hadn’t scarred since gaining adept status amongst the tower healers. The wound on his side had healed perfectly, why not this?

  The collar must’ve been the cause. How? Recalling what had happened when he removed the metal band rather eluded him. Not much came to mind beyond heat and pain. And light. Great arcs of it stinging his skin. That had to be what caused this scarring, forever branding him as once being leashed.

  Perhaps the only reason he wasn’t with the other spellsters on his way to the Udynean slave market was because his attackers thought he’d died.

  Hearing a strange rustling sound pulled him from his musing. The hedgewitch had retrieved the map and was tilting the face towards the firelight in an attempt to read it.