NAMELESS BOY

Clop, clop, clop.

There weren't many horses in the horde. They were usually eaten, I thought, after the horde got their hands on them.

I looked down at the horse's mane and the bulging eyes on its head, wondering if that was right. My horse didn’t look that tasty.

We had been riding for over a week. The paintdrink was still in my system. I didn't think the people who offered me freedom—Beardman, Threedot Lady, and the others—knew about it.

I wondered if I should tell them..

The paintdrink would go bad soon. It had happened before, and it wasn't good. I needed it purged from my body.

Clop, clop, clop.

I should tell them.

I turned my head, searching for Threedot or Beardman. Instead, I saw Sadeyes, the woman who had cleaned and fed me the night before. I also saw Barely-Repressed-Anger, whose fists clenched every time he looked at me. I turned back, gestured at Does-Not-Move-Often who was riding behind me, holding the reins loosely, and touched my forehead three times to indicate who I wanted to talk to. She nodded and spoke in Perdish, a language I didn't understand. She forgot I spoke the True Tongue. She guided the horse and it began moving sideways. I took this as a good sign.

Threedot was with Beardman and another man. I dubbed him Plainman. The three of them briefly spoke in Perdish before switching to the True Tongue.

"You asked to see me?" Threedot asked hesitantly.

My handtalk flickered. "The shamankas gave me paintdrink. I need it purged from my body before it goes bad."

Threedot frowned. "What does this mean?" she asked, making a gesture for "shamanka."

I blinked. I hadn't needed to teach a word before. After a moment of thought while they spoke softly in their tongue again, I tried my best to explain.

"They are women of the old ways," I signed, my hands moving slowly at first before finding their rhythm. "Always women. They sing their magic, the magic of daughter, mother, and grandmother. They paint." I gestured to my broken tattoos and where my paint normally sat. "They tattoo. They grind things that smell bitter and taste bad. They make the paintdrink before battle."

I stopped my handtalk and looked to see if they understood.

Threedot slowly translated what I said for the benefit of the others. Confusion filled their faces before Does-Not-Move-Often spoke, "Witches?" which sparked a flurry of Perdish babble.

"Have you seen these witches often?" Threedot asked urgently. "How many were there? Have you ever seen the Priestess Neymere? Do they often travel with the hordes?"

I blinked, overwhelmed by the rapid-fire questions.

"Are shamankas what you mean when you say..." My hands trailed off, unable to sign "witches."

She understood my meaning anyway. "This is the Perdish sign for 'witches,'" she said aloud for the benefit of the others, steepling her hands. I copied the sign. "What does this mean to you?" she asked, flashing the sign for "shamanka." "Can you spell it out for me?"

I could.

"Shamanka," Threedot sounded out after a moment.

She turned and looked at the confused faces around her. Threedot returned to me. "Do they call themselves Shamanka?" she asked curiously.

I simply nodded, then tried to steer the conversation back to my original need. "The shamnkas gave me paintdrink before battle. It's still in me. I need help purging it. It will rot," I signed slowly, trying to convey the urgency.

"They gave you wine?" Threedot said in a confused voice. "Wine will pass normally through your system." She coughed a little embarrassed as she continued, "When you relieve yourself, anything like that will make its way through your body." She stopped her explanation as I shook my head in frustration.

"Not wine," I signed, making the sign for wine big and exaggerated. "Paintdrink." I felt a surge of anger at the constant struggle to communicate. My handtalk was good, and I could communicate quickly if someone spoke it fluently, but so few people understood it. It had never been this difficult before.

A flash of hot pain pierced my chest, an echo of a memory. If only the Godking hadn't taken my voice.

"You're going to have to explain it further," Threedot said in an overly patient voice. We went back and forth, her brows furrowing as she tried to grasp my meaning while I painstakingly spelled out the word with handtalk. The blank faces around us only added to my frustration.

The conversation continued as the horses started moving again. As the four questioned me incessantly, attempting to understand what the paintdrink was and its effects, other riders noticed and joined, adding their voices to the mix.

"But what does it do? We understand you need it out, but we need to know what it is first. We want to help you, but we might do more harm than good if we don't understand," Threedot finally said, sounding exasperated.

The sun beat down mercilessly, and the oppressive heat radiated from the red wasteland around us. Sweat beaded on our skin and evaporated instantly. At least we had water. I drank deeply, trying to think.

"It takes everything from me, except good," I signed in forceful motions. "They give it to me every time I am unchained. They use magic to activate it. Pain? Gone. Tiredness? Gone. Hunger? Gone. Sad? Angry? Unwilling? It all goes away. Only pleasure remains."

Threedot translated my words to the group as I signed, and a heavy silence descended. Eyes shifted away from me and settled on the horizon. I heard hushed voices buzzing in Perdish, a mix of anger and concern emanating from both men and women.

"A drug," Threedot finally stated, her voice shaking. "A drug activated through the magic of witches," she continued, shaking her head in disbelief. "How do they normally purge it from you?" she asked desperately.

"Another drink," I signed back, then quickly added, anticipating their reaction, "It won't come up normally. It's too heavy. It sits there," I pointed at my stomach.

They continued conversing in Perdish as we rode on, the sun reaching its zenith and beginning its descent. The heat became slightly less oppressive. We were entering a canyon, its high walls of red earth streaked with shades of amber, yellow, and brown. The path narrowed as we delved deeper.

As the pace slowed and the group started setting up camp at the mouth of the canyon before it became too cramped, they brought Youth-and-Water and the Herbwoman to me. Youth-and-Water pressed his fingers against my stomach, sloshing water from a bowl onto my exposed skin each time he pressed down, his face etched with concentration. My stomach churned in response, the bitter taste of sour herbs filling my mouth with each prod.

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The Herbwoman prepared a concoction, grinding dried stalks and fresh plants together in a stone bowl. Threedot and Beardman remained by my side, their faces etched with worry as they spoke in hushed tones.

"There's a lot of liquid in your stomach," Beardman said in a deep voice. "Elise here is going to make a tonic to bring it up, and Sammael is going to try to move the drug up and out at the same time. It won't be pleasant." Their names faded quickly from my mind.

I simply shrugged and nodded, bracing myself for the ordeal.

It didn't work. Oh, I vomited profusely, expelling water, bile, and parts of my rations, but the paintdrink remained stubbornly lodged in my gut. I could feel it roiling, its potency nearing its end, and its transformation into a toxic substance imminent. The last time they had forgotten to purge it, I had been incapacitated for months while the shamanka responsible for the purging tonic endured excruciating torture throughout my recovery.

I watched as everyone turned away, babbling again in Perdish. I watched the lingering eyes briefly fall from me and in one swift, practised motion, I snatched the Herbwoman's knife from its sheath on her belt. Everyone flinched, their faces contorted in shock. Ah, how little they trust me. I offered a weak apologetic shrug before plunging the blade into my stomach, drawing it horizontally across my gut.

Drip, drip, drip.

A sickeningly familiar pain erupted, accompanied by the unexpected feeling of pleasure that I usually got while in battle, an echo of the paindrinks' purpose. My face contorted into a rictus grin.

Shock, horror, and blood. It was always like this.

The camp was frozen in a tableau of horror. Beardman, however, reacted first. He grabbed Youth-and-Water and pulled him closer to me. He paused, gesturing for the knife. I spun the blade lazily in my hand, and offered it to him, pommel first.

Blood, viscera, and a thick white substance oozed from the wound, the paintdrink refusing to mix with the crimson tide. It lay there, pristine and horrifying.

Drip, drip, drip.

Youth-and-Water, his face pale as death, used his magic to draw the rest of the drug from my body. A range of emotions played across the faces of the onlookers as they witnessed the seemingly endless stream of the white substance leaving my body: shock, disgust, horror, even a flicker of morbid curiosity in some.

Exhausted, Youth-and-Water finished and started pulling water to my chest, attempting to mend the gaping wound. I shook my head away, reaching for my own power to heal, but the memory of the Godking's punishment slammed into me, chilling me to the bone.

"NEVER WITHOUT PERMISSION BOY," the voice roared in my mind, followed by the sonic crack of a whip and the searing pain of my skin splitting open. Each subsequent word punctuated by another whip crack and agonising pain.

I flinched, retreating from my power, the phantom pain on my back a stark reminder of the consequences of disobedience.

Dripping from the wound, my lifeblood mixed with the remains of the paintdrink, staining the red earth. I could feel my own magic, a vast ocean of potential, coursing through my veins. Useless to me. Dripping, endlessly.

I let Youth-and-Water heal me.

Night settled, the camp settling into a quiet lull punctuated by the distant, mournful howl of the Furies from the wastes we had just left. For me it was the sound of home, a chilling melody of anger, pain, and an unrelenting, insatiable want. The magic within the howl extinguished the campfires, sending shivers down spines and prompting the guards to nervously clutch their weapons. The sound echoed through the canyon, the familiar sound a lullaby as I lay down to sleep.

It was one of the most peaceful days I could remember.

ARIC FALLEN

A FEW HOURS LATER

I allowed the soldiers who could sleep after the chilling howl of the Furies to rest for a while, knowing I'd need to wake them soon. Escaping the fort and battling through the horde had been a horrific spectacle. Witnessing the devastation the boy had unleashed on his own people had shaken me to my core. I vowed then and there to never unleash his power again. To that end, I took away his weapons, the instruments of his destruction.

The Emperor's orders were to retreat from the front, rendezvous with Brenna's forces, secure a strong escort, and deliver the boy to the capital. I frowned upon receiving the message. My recommendation to take him to a rehabilitation sanctuary wasn't even acknowledged, and my promise to the boy disregarded. He'd been conditioned and drugged to fight. I worried endlessly about his mental state, unsure if a simple word or phrase or event could trigger him again. This concern extended not only to him but also to the legion of men and women under my command.

He was so young. Dark, roughly shorn hair framed his tanned face, his body made of wiry muscle. His eyes were black, and empty. I'd only seen them truly alive a few times since Ayasha freed him from his shackles and he agreed to join us: during combat, when discussing the strange drug with us while riding, and when he cut himself open so easily.

A blood mage. A void damned bloodmage, a lineage, a mageline, thought extinct for centuries. They were the stuff of legends, tales whispered to frighten children. No longer. One existed now, void, I hoped it was only one. And he was a child soldier, a child slave. A cruel fate.

I had asked him his name several times, but he never reacted as if he even heard the question. Did he even have one? Or could I offer him one? Everyone deserves a name.

Our destination: Braysharl Canyon, a winding path that would lead us out of the wastes and onto a better trajectory to meet Brenna. It stood quiet, the red ochre of the earth just looking brown in the moonlight.

I harnessed my power. It always surprised people to learn that my power reached its peak during the day. The clear sky and twinkling starlight provided what I needed, light dappling on camp tents creating it. Shadow.

My shadows flowed like inky liquid, amorphous and ever-shifting. With focused concentration, I pushed them down the path, onto the canyon walls, and along the ledges and shelves. Countless ambush points lurked within the narrow passage.

Despite extending my power as far as possible, I found nothing ahead. Our outriders were out of reach of my senses. It didn't help that my focus kept getting disrupted by pinpricks of magic like bright lights stabbing my mind. Trackers and seekers, their magic attempting to locate us. My power typically countered theirs, making it difficult for them to lock on. But whoever was pursuing us was far more skilled than I anticipated.

I had two sets of outriders flanking the path, one scouting ahead and the other guarding the rear against the Godking's forces. The first alert came from the western scouts. They galloped back, their horses foaming at the mouth, exhaustion etched on their faces.

Blake, the lead scout, dismounted as soon as his horse came to a halt and rushed towards me. After downing a generous swig from my waterskin, he spoke, his voice hoarse. "Commander," he coughed, "we spotted nearly a hundred men, just a bell or two away."

I frowned, contemplating the information. They brought a full legion against mine. Normally those odds were not manageable, but our position, with the canyon mouth at our backs, meant they would have to come to us. We had a strong contingent of battlemages across the spectrum of magekind, capable of inflicting heavy damage.

If we retreated instead into the canyon, being harassed and pressured constantly from our rear would be far more detrimental. It would be better to fight now and get it over with.

"Commander," Blake spoke again, snapping me back to the conversation. "They looked different from the usual horde. They wore armour, gold-coloured, and bore unfamiliar heraldry—a black hand breaking out of a white circle."

The Godking's horde rarely wore armour, preferring to fight bare-chested in leathers and cloaks, sweating and bleeding into the sand.

I summoned my advisors, Ayasha and Isaac, who arrived promptly, the boy trailing behind them. His black eyes, usually vacant, now held a sharp glint.

Blake relayed the information again, but this time, the boy responded first. His tan hands flashed in the aggressive, brutal signs of wasteland handtalk. Ayasha, her face illuminated by the flickering starlight, translated slowly, occasionally stopping for him to elaborate on unfamiliar signs.

"He says that the description of the approaching forces names them, they are the Sin of Greed, elite Furies of the Godking," she finally explained. I inhaled sharply. I had heard of the Sins, the Godking's special forces, only in intelligence reports however. I did not overly wish to meet them on the field.

"The Sin of Greed has come to reclaim him," Ayasha continued, her voice tight with concern. "The boy believes we are insufficient to protect him, and he asks if you intend to use him again. If so, he requests immediate release to prepare for battle."

I shook my head vehemently before she finished translating. "Absolutely not," I growled, the memory of my vow heavy on my conscience. I wouldn't subject him to further trauma.

My gaze drifted towards the looming entrance of Braysharl Canyon, a plan forming in my mind as I surveyed the narrow passage and the elevated shelves that lined its walls.

"We'll enter the canyon," I declared, my voice firm. "Isaac, assemble the camp and gather the earthmages. Ayasha, find Gael and have her ready the boy on her horse. We leave immediately."

The camp buzzed with activity as soldiers roused themselves from slumber, packing tents and readying weary mounts. My mind raced, planning the trap we could set within the canyon's embrace, and the canyon proper.

I heard a noise. The eastern outriders returned, bearing urgent news. "Enemy forces are setting up camp within the canyon," they reported, breathlessly.

We were surrounded.