Jonathan Strahan - Swords & Dark Magic - The New Sword and Sorcery

They tried. But about then some of the looting mercs spotted them and dropped what they were carrying on the spot. One drew a sword, clearly not even trying to explain what they were doing. Jindus was dead. Jindus was alive but his authority was in shambles. And that was trouble the mercs now wanted to solve at sword’s point.

They needed Osric’s army. They needed to see Osric’s army coming through that gate.

And Willem did. He saw it. The men on the other side of the courtyard were Osric’s men, all in shining armor and with the king’s dragon on their coats…

He pointed. Even Tewk had stopped dead, sword in hand, looking in that direction. And a couple of the mercs that had been stalking them cast a half-glance over their shoulders and then turned that way, frozen in a moment’s confusion.

The others turned that way, and charged what they saw—startled men, who drew their swords. A battle broke out, one band against the other.

We’re mercs, Willem thought. We’re just mercs, standing here.

Tewk shook the illusion, grabbing him by the arm, hard. It hurt, and he almost lost all of it, except there were more mercs charging into the yard with the racket going up. They were Osric’s men, too. Willem had no idea what Osric’s men looked like but he knew it was a green banner and a gold dragon, and he put good armor and red hair on all of them.

“Got to get to the tower!” Tewk shouted at him. “Come on!”

Mercs and Osric’s men were dropping wherever the fighting went on. Dead ones just looked like mercs. And he had enough to do just keeping the illusion hopping from one group to the next—whoever won became Osric’s men.

But he couldn’t keep dicing the groups finer and finer forever, with Tewk pulling at him and insisting he get moving. He couldn’t do both. He couldn’t go with Tewk to light the signal and keep the whole lot of mercs in the courtyard from running out of Osric’s men and coming after them. It was the fastest, quickest-changing illusion he’d ever cast, and he was sweating, running out of breath, and Tewk jerked him loose from it and yelled:

“The fire, damn it! They’re getting out the gate—they’ll be sacking the town, next!”

Then he thought: I want that fire burning. The fire’s burning up there.

And all of a sudden Tewk stopped pulling at him. Tewk was looking up, and there was a fire, a huge fire, for everybody to see. It was the biggest illusion he’d ever cast, and he just stood there, as Tewk stood there, both of them being themselves, while the fire roared away on the height of the tower and sent up black smoke to the heavens.

Could Osric’s men see it? Willem wondered. Could it carry that far?

Sword rang against sword. Thunked into flesh, and a dying man fell at Willem’s feet. Tewk flung an arm around him and shoved him into motion, running, running, while Tewk turned and hacked another man down.

If he were Master…if he were even Almore , he would have a chance. But he didn’t know where a torch was. He didn’t know what he was going to do. He reached the steps. He climbed for all he was worth, and Tewk stayed behind him, but attackers were trying to come up after them and Tewk stopped to hew away at the men on the steps.

On hands and knees, Willem made it over the crest, made it as far as the top of the wall, and he could see into the signal tower, where wood was piled, and oil jars, but it wasn’t lit, and there was a merc there, the same they’d told to lay the fire. That man drew his sword, and Willem’s mind went momentarily blank. No fire. No torch. No way to light it.

He wanted it. Or everybody in the town was going to be dead and King Osric was going to be outside the walls and the mercs in charge of the town, and Master, and Almore, and Jezzy—

He dodged a sword blow. The man saw Tewk as the threat: it was Tewk he was going for, right past him.

Which left him the stack of wood in the stone fire-pit. And the oil, which was still in the jars.

And fire didn’t obey illusion magic. Heat wouldn’t come.

He heard swords meet behind him. Twice. Blows like a blacksmith’s hammer.

Sparks flying. Little sparks.

Be! he thought.

And the fire came.

The fire took the wood. It blazed up. It broke the jars, which spread fire along the wall, and the great fire roared like a living thing.

Heat flared out. He wasn’t thinking it. It was .

A master wizard—a real master wizard—

Hadn’t Master taught Almore? And taught him?

He felt that piece of paper he had tucked in his shirt. The one that Master had written, naming him master.

He stood there with the smoke going up to the sky, and the heat baking his front and calling up more sweat, and then a hand landed on his shoulder, and squeezed.

“Good job,” Tewk panted. “ Good job, boy.”

“Master Willem,” he said, not prideful, not arrogant, just numb. Down below the wall he could see mercs running for it, some with loot, some not, and doors pouring out men who headed for the open courtyard gate. They weren’t slowing down.

“ Master Willem,” Tewk said, and squeezed a second time. “There’s still work to do, for you and me. Your Talent can hound those bastards all the way to the gates. I’ll mop up any that get behind us. All right? Got the strength for it?”

“People won’t get killed,” he said, remembering Master’s injunction. He hadn’t killed anybody. He hadn’t tried to kill anybody. If their own inclinations were to kill people—he hadn’t stopped it, but he hadn’t made them do anything they wouldn’t like to do. He turned, a little wobbly, and a little dizzied by the downward view of the steep and narrow stairs, and Tewk kept a firm grip on him. “I’ll do it.”

“Until you can magic yourself wings,” Tewk said, “I’m keeping hold of you. Not losing you, no.”

“Thanks,” he said, and started down the steps, with Tewk’s hand firmly clenching his collar, all the way down.

King Osric was holding court uptown. Master was packing, down here in the Alley. Master was going back to his house higher on the hill, and Master was going to work for Tewk’s cousin, twice removed, who was going to be the new duke in Wiscezan.

“He’s a little lazy,” Tewk said about his cousin. “You’ll notice he sat safe in Korianth. But he’s a scholar, not a fighter. You’ll like him,” he said to Master, and Master nodded.

Almore and Jezzy were already packed, since Master said they would have real beds, and each their own room, and six changes of clothes, and servants.

Willem supposed he would have a room, too. He had new clothes—his old ones he didn’t even want to remember. He’d had a bath at the Ox, he’d changed into clothes all the same color—gray—with new boots from the boot-seller, and a gray cloak he liked just to stroke, because it felt as smooth and soft as one of Jezzy’s cats.

But he didn’t know, now that Master and everybody called him Master Willem, exactly where he would be. He didn’t have anything to pack, either, except an old knife he liked, and a few pages Master had given him, which he was going to bind into the start of a book. So he had those lying on the table, and Master and Tewk talked for a while.

King Osric had gotten into the town and into the fortress without even a fight: and it wasn’t as bad as a sack, but Wiggy’s place had lost furniture and tankards—and was getting new ones: King Osric had ordered damages paid, so Wiggy and his daughter were happy, and feeling rich.

Most every damage had gotten fixed. Master had fixed a few. Master was feeling a lot better now that the demon was out of town, and was getting visibly a little younger, which was not an illusion; Willem was fairly sure of it.