Majutsu-shi no Chikara loosely translates to "Sorcerer's Power"
CHAPTER FIVE: Spring Flood
"How long do we have, Nabid?" Esmeray Saran climbed stiffly from her bed, her crotch still ablaze after the Beast's treatment of her. She shuddered at the thought of having to mend more serious injuries, had he not stopped when he did.
"Midnight in two hours, if the bells are true." Nabid sneered at her, spindly limbs bending awkwardly while pacing atop her now-misshapen mattress. "Everything you bade me prepare is in motion."
"Good..." Emseray frowned thoughtfully.
"And you remember none of it." Nabid crossed thin arms over a slender, boneless chest and hateful red eyes narrowed at the Wizard.
"Nothing." Esmeray admitted, drawing a healing pattern in the air and catching the sound of it near the middle of her mouth and spitting it delicately through her teeth. The searing ache became a dull throb before fading into a recent memory. "What am I missing?"
"Depends what you remember last..."
"Telling you the day I remember last will only slow us down -- give me highlights of my decision to leave the Tower." the Wizard stretched, enjoying the warmth coursing through her mended flesh as she did so. "We'll have time to catch up on the road."
"Right." the imp's chest puffed-up importantly as the pacing stopped, clasping those jagged claws behind narrow, sexless hips. "The Guild decided that the Elemental's fumbling magic and failing mind must be dealt-with, nigh eighteen days ago. Death, as you would expect of any rogue or mad Wizard... but the Tower put it to vote, and you opposed. The Beast, too, for what it matters."
Esmeray nodded thoughtfully, trying to recall this information -- no scrap of memory forthcoming.
"So, your contingencies are in motion; arrangements to move your assets from the Tower and the Guild. Most of it will be moving today... you were vague as to
where
we are moving and haven't told me your reasoning, so there's that -- but you knew this was going to be a one-way trip. You went up to the Tower, this morning, knowing that you would either be an exile or a corpse."
"Or both?" Esmeray's glittering emerald eyes met the opal-black pits of the imp's eyes.
"Yes, most likely both. Whatever curses you carry will kill you, if you are not able to satisfy them."
"Sooner than later, where the Elemental is concerned." Emseray looked at the floor and took a deep, cleansing breath. She swept her brilliant white robes up from the floor and pulled them over her shoulders.
"Tricky, that..." Nabid's head cocked to one side. "Do you still have the dreamcasting?"
"Enlighten me." Esmeray set about arranging her traveling belongings inside a folding satchel with arcane engravings.
"Acolyte Mowbray brought it to you, this morning." Nabid gestured toward her, but made no other movement. "You knew the attack in South-wold had happened, and that Billsby -- the assassin -- was likely dead, but you coaxed from Mowbray that Billsby didn't die in the attack, and you would likely be implicated by someone else within the Guild or the Tower. I assume that's why all this nonsense of selling-off artwork and mobilizing your laboratories."
She turned her thoughts inward, searching for a mnemonic spell still clinging to her. There were dozens. The longer she focused, the more she became aware-of.
"Twenty-three years?" Esmeray's eyes widened in disbelief.
"Shock later, thinky-bits now." Nabid grumbled at her and moving close to jab at her leg with a tiny claw. With a resigned sigh, Emseray nodded.
"Did I send anyone to investigate South-wold or these orks?" Esmeray's mind was devouring information from the expanding archives of her mental library. Missing memories became replaced by careful recordings, like stories told in another voice or from a long-lost journal of childhood.
"No and yes." Nabid gestured with each claw, responding to each portion of her query. "You don't have many agents loyal solely to you, since joining the Guild -- so the one asset you have: you sent to check out this Sidero tribe. She should be able to meet with you by the time you're in or near South-wold."
"Tell me about this asset." Emseray scooped her satchel onto her shoulder and made a final tour of her now-barren apartments.
...
Thikkit kept low in the grass, her scaled skin blending seamlessly into the long greening grass and yellowed seedpods of wild grain outside the Sidero camp. Her speckled yellow-green eyes, polished stone orbs with vertical slashes of black from top to bottom, stared unblinking through the tall grass -- lost in the shadows of late afternoon.
The raiding party had returned with captives that morning, and her day had passed in quiet observation of the camp. The orks did what orks do -- drink, fight, fuck, eat, and make a foul mess of everything they touch. Thikkit noted that the chieftain's yurt, a creature whose name carried for this tribe as much fear as worship, was the cleanest place in the whole of their camp. It was too large, for the size of the tribe, by more than double what was needed. Scores of tents, which could have each held two-dozen mules or lower-ranking orks and their seed slaves, sat empty... a deterrent perhaps, to smaller scavenger parties of kobolds, goblins, or other orks -- but Thikkit saw the trouble they must go through to maintain such appearances. Hours spent, each day, for a dozen mules to tend, arrange, and repair each square tent. Thikkit estimated their total number to be less than seven score... or ten score... she wasn't especially good with counting, and so many of these orks were the mush-shaped mules that all seemed to look like mongrels, half-breeds -- swaddled in stinking furs or coarse hair arranged in tangled patches unevenly about their bodies like long-haired dog pelts -- only to shed those skins and reveal the swollen limbs and twisted cages of bony ribs possessed by such warm-bloods... and put more mismatched pieces of other dead skin and fur on themselves, uglier than before - if such a thing were possible.
They lacked the simple beauty and sophistication of bone or shell, and the more luxurious trappings of what civilized races called textiles... hemp, cotton, and silk, for example. Thikkit hissed softly to herself, daydreaming of wearing silk again when she returned to the Wizard's side.
How Ser had known about the attack wasn't made clear to Thikkit, and the scaly spy knew better than to ask. What mattered was: Thikkit had arrived the morning the war party had left. She had seen where they stowed the bulk of their stolen spoils, and where they had put their human captives. Thikkit did not understand the ork use of breeding slaves; her own experience taught her that living meat did not spoil as quickly as dead -- and humans were indeed a tasty meat.
She ventured closer, hidden in the shadows of grass and tents as the sun slanted over the horizon and left all in twilight. With the stabbing glare of the sun over her shoulder, she did not fear the night-eyes of orks catching sight of her as she crawled into their perimeter and under the flap of an abandoned tent.
Three sleeping pallets, little more than a few thick hides of unidentifiable beasts with shaggy winter fur, were scattered in the tent... less than half the space occupied, and no orks within, as Thikkit had witnessed. Even their stink was diminished. By the salted stench of their sweat and fluids, she guessed this was a secluded retreat for rutting mules during the day's labors -- shielded from winter wind and summer sun.
Thikkit hissed softly, her scales rippling restlessly over her flesh as she settled into a shaded corner and drifted into a half-sleep. Every few minutes, when orks passed near or belched their rotten laughter, shouted their guttural curses at one another, Thikkit roused to alertness and watched the entrance to the tent-shack with slow intensity. Her tail tucked just under the border of the tent, ready for her to scramble backward into the darkness beyond. Here, she was totally concealed from anything outside -- but the tent could conceal a hasty retreat, as well. Thikkit savored the cooler air of the tent, shifting against the hard-beaten soil to loosen the gravel and sand into a fine silt. At length, she lay half-buried inside the tent, contented to pass much of the night in sightless observation of the ork camp from this much closer vantage.
When the chill of night seeped into the soil around her, Thikkit stirred sluggishly and shifted herself out of the dust bed, shivering against the night air. This part of her job she did not enjoy -- the cold of night. Not until high summer would the nights be favorable, and the nights of winter were often spent in deep caverns or warrens, surrounded by tribe-mates huddle near fires to keep the cold at bay. While not truly cold-blooded as reptilian animals like snakes and lizards, kobolds of the plains and deserts often suffered a susceptibility to the cold. Thikkit could boast few things; not an immunity to that reptilian sensitivity.
Shaking herself vigorously, she managed a bit of heat within her muscles to creep about the interior of the tent to look out the entry flap -- seeking a warmer vantage point deeper in the camp.
Now, night yielding to day and her scales basking in the warmth of the sun, Thikkit watched as the prisoners were hauled from their tent and into the yurt. She needed to be closer, for she could not hear anything. The humans were foreign to her, but Ser had instructed Thikkit to learn what she could as quickly as possible and report to the edges of South-wold.
Keeping her wits, Thikkit planned her escape -- back to the woods just to the north, in case she was spotted. South-wold was a two-day walk north by north-east, through the eastern edge of the Willow Wood. Two days on kobold legs... a human could cover the distance in a day, at a forced march. Orks, with their wolf-like running, could easily cross the distance in half a day. Strange, then, that this war band had not attacked earlier. Stranger still, the hideous, shaggy hides that adorned much of their camp, and the curling, tail-like bones Thikkit recognized to be akin to teeth (yet far too long and curved) that decorated several of the more prominent mule huts.
Tusks.
Thikkit at last recalled the word, like a tooth or a horn turned outward from the mouth. That was how she recognized the massive ivory spears, some longer than an ork in height... their narrowest points capped with iron spikes as long as Thikkit's arm; perhaps a cubit or so. How the orks could use such things in battle, Thikkit dared not guess. Anyway, they were being used as tent poles and canopy braces and never ready to hand of any ork walking through the camp.
The thundering of the ork horns and drums filled her head with buzzing and made her eyes hurt, but Thikkit stole deeper into the camp to observe the orks yet more closer still.
As she sheltered in the water tent, sipping delicately from the mouth of a clay jug, Thikkit went stiff to the clamorous silence of the drums -- and the shouting voices of orks.
"Who carried the pale-haired human with painted limbs?" a voice of command was met by mewling, placating answers from a dozen mules.
Then, screaming. Thikkit just caught sight of a mule being torn limb from limb by several pure-blood females.
"Pray no more of our seed slaves prove as useless." came the venomous warning, and then the drums continued.
From the water tent, Thikkit could only just see the entrance to the yurt -- but there were too many orks standing in the way... beating massive drums or stamping their feet and howling in what passed for ork romance. As the doors were closed and barred, Thikkit crept into the storage tent to peruse the valuables. Amid sacks of roots or grains; crates or barrels of unidentifiable tools; Thikkit found several neat piles of weapons and armor. One suit in particular still had fresh blood drying on it, and she took that to be from one of the new captives from South-wold. His blade, unquestionably enchanted, was alongside. The scroll work on the cross guard and pommel matched several features in the breastplate and shoulder guards of the armor. A thin, forked, black tongue traced over Thikkit's thin lips as she studied the weapon and armor.
Perhaps not the most expensive magical armor or weapon she'd seen -- but certainly the
nearest
