Majutsu-shi no Chikara loosely translates to "Sorcerer's Power"
CHAPTER NINETEEN: Frozen Harvest
...
Rinum went about tidying his shopfront. Stoking the slab-iron stove and adjusting the louvres on a secondary vent to divert heat into the small steam boiler that sluggishly pumped an alchemical fluid through pipes surrounding the front of his shop just below the counter space where he hawked his cheapest trinkets. Opening the heavy iron-banded wooden shutters and Rinum chained them up to form awnings sheltering against rain, snow, or sun. Night frost melted, dripping intently on four spots below the corners of the two wide shutters, making puddles of water on the counter that began to steam gently with the heat rising below the counter top. A sturdy broom made quick work of dust and nettles his clerk had missed the night before -- a pleasant-enough lout, as louts go, but had no head for keeping things tidy. Even elbows-deep in entrails, Rinum took care to keep himself clean for his more important work as a hedge-wizard. The details -- half artful pretense and half meticulous routines to cement the magic he needed within his mind -- were
everything
to Rinum.
The details kept Rinum employed by the third-largest slaving concern in Varnais proper: a gang called the Blood Scythes. Beyond his employment, the details -- those little things that he fussed and fidgeted-over, adjusting and re-adjusting until everything was just
so
-- were what afforded him the extra resources to pursue his craft as often and far as he could. That was precious little, as his skill had long outstripped his potential, and he was ever looking for new ways to amplify his meagre power to new heights -- if only for a few moments. Such moments had become painfully scarce in the last few years, which drove Rinum from his shadowy lair in the slums of Baymouth, out of the sprawling city of Jotun Harbor -- the rough and gaudy capital of Varnais -- and into the surrounding villages to take a more direct role among the Blood Scythes. Rinum's limited auguries scored him a few more momentary highs of magic, and what few scruples he might have known before realizing he was a mage were quickly eschewed as he chased the drug that was as much his master as either Doru or Mashi. The twins, affable as they were bloodthirsty, were the brains of the Blood Scythes -- though neither lacked for brawn. Rinum had a good head for figures, and could manage his little shop in East Rill easily enough... but the success of the Blood Scythes lay squarely at the feet of the twins. They were the savage, cunning, and connected brokers who made the enterprise a rising star in Varnais -- already threatening to challenge the second-largest slaving concern for territory and market share. It was a small wonder that the Varna House -- the largest slaving concern, and house of the ruling Marquis -- hadn't taken steps to dampen their ascent. Perhaps the Marquis didn't see the lesser competition, even growing, as a significant hindrance.
Rinum grumbled wordless, daubing sweat from his brow with an ashen-brown kerchief before setting aside his broom and fixing the intricate plaits down either side of his face. He looked a nervous fellow, with thin, dexterous hands far stronger than they seemed. Sharp-faced, thin-whiskered, with a full head of graying hair once black as jet, Rinum could have claimed lineage to the Marquis -- not that he wanted to -- and few would have thought to gainsay him.
...
The knocking at the rear of his shop told Rinum his late-morning meal had been brought to him -- never to the front of the shop, for he refused to take food or eat in the sight of his clientele -- on-time, smelling of fermented seaweed, boiled fish heads, clams, scallops, and mussels with fresh-baked barley bread to sop it. Rinum's stomach grumbled eagerly as he tutted and shuffled through his shop, tapping his fingers on furniture, utensils, counters -- each thing carefully in its place -- before reaching the rear door of his shop and opened it in a brisk, business-like manner.
"Just there." He'd meant to say, gesturing to the small table and its lone chair in the back of his shop, nestled against the inner wall where the heat from the shopfront kept the space more comfortable against the unseasonable early-autumn chill.
Rinum had meant to say "Just there" and move aside, letting the delivery boy in as was habit. Something amiss had happened, though, and
nothing
was in its proper place.
The delivery boy was bone-white, shaking despite his warm clothes. His escort, typically a squat, red-nosed and mangy fellow called "Skinner" had been replaced by an especially pot-bellied ork in hides and a deep-hooded cloak. More alarming still, on the opposite side and pushing his way into the small room and driving Rinum back toward the wall without so much as a word...
The eye
. Rinum's mind skittered away in fright, his precious routines and careful systems cracking to splinters.
He remembered the horror of the
thing
seeking him -- it
finding
him. It had appeared to him, bright as the sun at midnight, while he'd been working in his shop. It had
appeared
to him,
marking
him with dread knowing. An eye, made from burning coals and glass, oozing and bleeding -- a haze of viscera drawn beneath the sclera making it look almost like some macabre window. The energy rippling around it waves of heat and light that hurt Rinum to gaze upon, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from that unblinking orb. At the center, rib bones arrayed around a mighty fang -- the phalanges and carpals of hands making wings of a charnel dragonfly that served as the slitted iris of the apparition. It
knew
him. He could
feel
it. His instinct had been to summon his breath to scream terror and flee with every ounce of sinew he possessed -- but the vision had disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.
Before he could reason what had happened, the momentum it had created reversed. Erasing itself, or its importance at least, before leaving him with a vague worry that something had been grievously out of place only moments ago.
Now, it stood before him in the flesh. It couldn't be much older than twenty, but carried itself as though everything about it was bursting at the seams and the space surrounding was two sizes too small to hold its enormity. Red-brown skin and long black hair spilling from beneath a dull ashen hood. The left side of its face was a maze of magical scarring, some of which looked to spread into the left eye...
It grabbed Rinum's hidden dagger without hesitation, pulling the blade before the hedge-wizard could muster his wits to grab it himself, and plunged the blade between the bones of Rinum's forearm. Pinning the mage to the wall. Rinum screamed, but a heavy hand of greenish, brownish ork muscle clamped his jaw shut and smothered his cry into a muffled, high-pitched moan.
The delivery boy was a loose heap just inside the door, his neck broken. The soup was a scattered mess on the freshly-swept floor, and part of Rinum's mind scrabbled feverishly to demand it be set to rights before they continue. Until
it
spoke to him.
"Who did you tell about me, Rinum?" It asked. Its voice was soft, urgent. The clumsy accent was smoothed with magical intensity, augmented by the very insistent peripheral communication of a knife through Rinum's arm and bone-crushing strength threatening him from the hand holding his mouth shut.
"...wha...what are you?" Rinum squeaked when the ork's paw eased its bruising grip on his face.
"I'm a farmer." The dark brown orbs stared through him, the raw magical energy coursing off him in barely-contained waves that made Rinum feel small and feeble. "
Who
did you tell about
me
?"
"Doru and Mashi." Rinum replied, his eyes squeezing shut to try and escape the oppressive presence in front of him -- but he couldn't get away. "They told me to have Rikurt find the jotun-blooded ork... they're worth so much more... so I told Rikurt and his men."
