I grimaced. “I don’t understand.” “You never did.”
Flesh and metal began to coalesce into a semblance of human form, her bare skull growing a long mane of gold hair and shining metal orbs for eyes, steel wire and pulsing veins writhing through the jawbone to form cheeks and a tongue. A smooth steel face bubbled into place showing a likeness of Shadea as she might have looked in her younger days, as her self-image evidently still was. She floated naked and metallic a foot off the floor.
“What have you done this time, you foolish boy?” she said, her voice only a little more human.
“What I had to,” I gasped. “Can’t have another Nathair disaster can we? Had to have somebody trustworthy this time around, even if it’s you. Or would you rather it was me?” The unseen force let go and I dropped to the floor to sit gasping, my Gift blinded by the god being born before my eyes.
Her metal orbs scrutinised me. “You go to war and could not leave the seed unguarded. I understand and approve of your logic. Arise magus.”
Invisible hands lifted me back onto my feet and dusted me off with meticulous care. She waved at the defensive barriers blocking us in and they disappeared. The gaggle of magi on the other side were shrouded in power and ready to strike – they did not see Shadea, just a magus twisted by the Gift into something monstrous. Fire and lightning and stone spikes blasted toward us. Magic itself twisted as Shadea countered, dissolving and dissipating their attacks.
“Yes, yes,” she said. “You are all very scary and powerful.” The force that had previously held me in place now picked them up and pinned them to the walls of her quarters, carefully positioned to avoid any damage to her specimen jars. “I do apologise but I cannot afford the time to teach you properly.”
She drifted down the corridor towards the stairs up into the Collegiate and I reluctantly scrambled after her. The terrifying thing about Shadea was that she didn’t need any godly power to beat us all down. Elder magi like her made me want to run and hide, but there wasn’t any other way out and being behind her was far better than being in her way.
Somebody stepped into the doorway and a wall of hissing energy blocked her progress, giving even whatever Shadea was becoming pause. Krandus, the Archmagus himself, had come running. I probably should have given them some sort of warning beforehand, but honestly, how could you tell people you were about to make a god without pointed and painful questions being asked. Ones I had no intention of answering.
“Shadea?” he gasped. “I have no time to explain, Archmagus. Only a short time remains to me here.”
“A tower is lit!” Cillian shouted as she pounded down the stairs. “A god has retur…”
Shadea inclined her head.
Cillian blinked. “Oh.” Then her gaze snapped to me and her eyes narrowed. I shrugged guiltily.
Krandus understood immediately and got straight to it. “Welcome back, now how can you help us?”
Shadea grimaced in pain, flesh and steel sparking. “There are things you need to know. I must speak to the Inner Circle while I still can. I have called them to attend us.”
“Clear this floor,” Krandus ordered.
The magi were released from the walls and swiftly fled the room. I made to follow them, back burning under the stares of Krandus and Cillian. Shadea offered me a deadly parting shot, “Give my regards to Angharad.”
I left, bile rising and heart pounding. How? How did she know
that damned name? My scars itched as I pounded up the stairs. Was she mocking me?
Chattering, frightened magi thronged the halls and many turned, questions half-formed on their lips as I emerged from Shadea’s quarters.
“The Iron Crone is back,” I said, taking some satisfaction in the knowledge that the unfortunate but fitting nickname would stick. I shoved through and lost myself in the crowd.
I needed to gather my coterie and get out of this place while I still could. Many in the Arcanum had heard I’d had a hand in killing a god during Black Autumn, but most didn’t believe it, not really. Now, things were very different. Worse than killing a god: I’d been seen making a god, and that meant the hated tyrant really did possess knowledge that others would kill for. I was stronger than ever – more than I had any right to be – but I was still a pale shadow of an elder magus. I was vulnerable, and that stuck in my craw. Amidst the chaos and morass of spreading rumour I made my escape before anybody could think of stopping me.
I wound my way through byways and thieves’ lanes to the tavern where I’d left my coterie. If I could lie low for one more night then I would be able to avoid all those awkward questions and invasive tests. They wouldn’t dare hold up the campaign against the Skallgrim just to interrogate one stubborn bastard. My right hand was another matter. I couldn’t allow them to see the blackness spreading through the flesh – they would never suffer a corrupted tyrant to lead an army under any circumstances. No matter the cost to the war, or to the world.
Chapter 8
The thing that hobbles the Arcanum the most when it comes to dealing with people in the less reputable areas of the city is that they love to keep their secrets strapped so tight under their robes that it cuts off their own blood supply. They never trust ‘simple-minded’ wardens with the truth, and their… our members overwhelmingly come from the noble Houses, which also means they have no sodding clue about where to begin looking for miscreants holed up in Docklands. No, they rely on the wardens for that – those very same soldiers they habitually withhold information from. Which meant the fools wouldn’t even tell the wardens why they wanted me.
On the eve of them marching to war and death, the wardens didn’t care a whit about trawling the arse-end of Docklands hunting a single magus on vague reasons and unknown purpose. Understandably, they wanted to spend that precious time with their loved ones. Jovian still knew a few of the wardens, indeed he had trained some of their best, and a bag of coin donated by the late Alvarda Kernas helped them support their families in their absence. It left us free to stuff our faces with the last decent food and booze we’d see this side of the war, and after lingering in prison my coterie needed a damn good feed.
Vaughn still had plans to flee into the night and when I went to drain my bladder he made his move, or tried to. For some reason he couldn’t seem to find the door, running round and round the room futilely pushing and pounding on the walls.
When I returned the others were all laughing at the big, stupid brute. One by one their laughter died as they realised he wasn’t that drunk and he really couldn’t see the door. Then they turned to regard me nervously and I raised a jack of ale in salute. They didn’t seem to want to meet my gaze after that.
As the night wore on I slipped into each of their alcoholmudded minds and twisted their thoughts and feelings to make sure they could never betray me, even Jovian, especially Jovian. He was changeable as the wind, that one, despite his Esbanian sense of personal honour. None of them would ever have any idea of what I’d done, or why they were developing this grudging loyalty to me. Their loyal service for a single season and a little mental manipulation was a fair trade for freedom in my opinion, which was the only one that mattered.
As my last night of calm and comfort drew to a close I had time to sit and think. I nursed the dregs of my ale and pondered the morality of bending these vicious killers to my will. How did I feel about that? Once I would have felt bad. It was certainly a sensible precaution but “because they are scum” was more justification than I needed right now. I didn’t need any at all in truth. They were just tools to me, things to be used and tossed aside when I was done. That’s bloody cold, Walker, too cold. Was it due to my growing power as a magus? Or was that simply being an efficient commander? Or did I just not give a shite about folk I didn’t know and like? I was growing cold and callous and that made me uncomfortable when I preferred to think of myself as a man of the people that cared for my own.