Paul Kemp - The Hammer and the Blade

The energy in Rakon's hands solidified into a wriggling worm of power. Still chanting, he took the worm in his hands and crouched over the prone priest.

Baras drew a dagger and stuck its tip into Egil's mouth, scraping teeth, forcing the priest's jaws apart. The moment it was open, Rakon loosed the spellworm headfirst into Egil's mouth.

The priest gagged as the worm wriggled down his throat. Egil thrashed his head from side to side, nicking his cheek on Baras's dagger, a froth of spit and blood foaming his mouth. The spellworm squirmed in further, finally disappeared down his throat.

Egil went still, his eyes wide. The men holding him looked at one another, nodded, and released him. Egil only lay flat on the ground, chest heaving, staring up at the rafters.

"Whoresons!" Nix said, straining against his bonds. "Fakking whoresons!"

Rakon turned to Nix, his expression fixed and hard.

"Get him ready," the lord Adjunct said, and began to incant anew.

Nix's mouth went dry; sweat poured down his back. The three guards left off Egil and seized Nix by the arms and around the legs. He could barely move. He might as well have been in a vise. Baras brought his dagger toward Nix's cheek.

"Not necessary," Nix said. "But I meant it sincerely when I called you whoresons."

"Let me," said Jyme, brandishing a dagger of his own.

"Shut up, Jyme," said Baras, then to Nix, "Sorry it went this way."

Rakon moved toward Nix, incanting, a second spellworm forming in the air between his gesturing hands.

Nix took a deep breath and ignored the chant and focused his mind inward. He had to preserve a mental refuge within himself, isolate a bit of him from the magic of the compulsion.

I am Nix Fall of Dur Follin, he told himself, attempting to counter Rakon's chant with a chant of his own. He pictured the Heap, the cawing gulls, the layer of shite. I am Nix Fall of Dur Follin. Nix Fall of Dur Follin.

The spellworm solidified in Rakon's hands.

Baras tapped Nix's cheek with his blade. "Make it easy, eh?"

Nix closed his eyes and opened his mouth.

The spellworm slipped into his mouth, as slick as a string of mucus. It slithered down his throat and wriggled into his guts. He gagged, spat, and heaved, but the worm went deeper, sinking into his guts and diffusing through his body, sorcerous tendrils wrapping themselves around his will, rooting in his mind. He resisted, teeth gritted, but still it expanded in him, trying to fill him up, conquer his mind.

I am Nix Fall of Dur Follin.

He thought of Mamabird, the smell of her onion stew. He thought of the mask he wore to cover the frightened boy at his core, the pith of him a secret even from Egil.

I'm Nix Fall of Dur Follin. Of Dur Follin.

The muscles in his body, head to toe, seized all at once. He bit his tongue again and blood filled his mouth. The men lowered him to the ground while spit and blood ran down his cheeks. He lay there, staring up at the ceiling, breathing, breathing, as sorcery stole his will.

Nix Fall of…

"Sit them up," Rakon said after a time, and rough hands sat Nix up. His head lolled on his neck, a marionette without strings. His eyes wouldn't focus. Rakon was a blur before him.

Nix Fall. Nix Fall.

It seemed insufficient. Rakon's spell bent him, twisted his will, made it the sorcerer's own, and when Rakon spoke, his voice, redolent with power, echoed in Nix's braincase like the words of a god.

"Nix Fall and Egil of Ebenor, you will travel with me and my men to the tomb of Abn Thuset, enter it when I say, take the Horn of Alyyk from within, return, and give it to me. Do you understand?"

The words pulled a response from Nix the way a fisherman pulled a hooked fish from the Meander. Egil echoed him.

"I understand."

Rakon crossed his arms over his chest, satisfied. "Bring them, Baras. We leave with the dawn."

"Yes, my lord," Baras said. "But…"

"But?"

"I think they may have helped without use of a spell. Is this the best way to secure their aid? I wonder if this was necessary."

Rakon stared at him. "You wonder, do you?"

Baras lowered his head. "I'm sorry, my lord."

"Do you think they wouldn't have run the moment opportunity presented itself?"

Baras looked from Nix to Egil, back to Rakon. "I… don't know. Probably."

"Almost certainly. Now that's no longer a risk. I can't take a chance with my sisters' lives, Baras. The compulsion is a distasteful necessity."

That convinced Baras. "Yes, my lord."

Jyme pulled Nix to his feet. Nix wobbled. Jyme's breath was hot against Nix's ear.

"Say again who's got the luck, now?"

Jyme's tone sounded far less prickish than his words. The sorcery had unnerved him, too.

Nix shook off Jyme's grip, stood on shaky legs, and adjusted his shirt. He licked his lips and said, "The spellworm in my gut doesn't stop me from sticking a blade in your belly, Jyme. You remember that when smart words knock against your crooked teeth, wanting out."

The words came out partly slurred, but he'd made his point.

Jyme frowned, swallowed, and backed off.

"Jyme, you will accompany us, of course," Rakon said. "To Afirion."

"What? Afirion? No, my lord. I just wanted to see these two get what they had coming. And even then I didn't know they'd get this or…"

He caught himself and stopped talking.

"Jyme, you will accompany us," Rakon said. "That's an order."

"My lord?"

"Whatever business you may have, it'll keep," Baras said.

"This wasn't the deal," Jyme said to Baras. "You didn't say anything about this."

"You didn't ask," Baras said with a shrug. "You wanted in. Now you're in."

"Or if that's not enough to convince you," Rakon said, "perhaps another compulsion is in order?"

Jyme held up his hands. "Not necessary, my lord. I'm happy to come to… Afirion. But I have no kit. I'd need-"

"We have everything you'll need. The supply wagon and carriage are already loaded. You're not to leave Baras's sight. If you attempt to, my men are authorized to use force. I am understood, I trust?"

Jyme swallowed his anger. He looked at Nix, back at Baras, to Rakon. "You are, my lord."

Rakon pointed at Egil and Nix. "The compulsion is a blade at your throat. Do other than I've instructed and it will kill you." He sneered at Nix. "But maybe you already knew that from your year at the Conclave?"

Egil swayed on his thick legs, his clenched fists held clumsily before his face. Even the eye of Ebenor on his head looked disconcerted. He spoke in a voice more slurred than Nix's.

"I'm going to kill you, all of you. I'm looking at dead men."

No sooner had he uttered the words than he puked all over the ground.

"Bring their weapons," Rakon said, eyeing the vomit with a pinched expression. "And the small one's bag of tricks. They'll need them when we reach the Wastes."

"The Wastes?" Nix said. "What?"

He must have misheard.

"Yes, my lord," Baras answered. "Awake or not?"

Rakon eyed Nix and Egil. "I don't care. Just don't kill them."

"Understood, my lord."

"Shite," Nix said, a moment before the painful blow of a sword pommel sent him once more into oblivion.

Nix awakened with a groan, flat on his back, thrown once more into the back of a cart. He blinked, staring up at the canvas-covered ribs of the wagon. The gray light of dawn trickled in through the loose flap at the back. Rain tapped lightly on the canvas, and even that soft drumbeat made Nix wince. His head hurt worse than his worst hangover, and his tongue tasted like he had taken a lascivious lick of Shoddy Way.

At least he was no longer bound. He ran a hand over his skull, felt the tender, painful lumps under his hair. He seemed to be collecting them. He massaged the pink furrows the rope had left on his wrists. He was disarmed and his satchel was gone. He tried to sit up but dizziness and a flash of nausea put him back down.