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Ludgera - two hours ago

Finally, after two hours of searching for Agnark’s one particular friend– apparently he’s switched printing shops a couple of times after getting a promotion, we arrive at the correct store, only to be disappointed.

“Why not?!” Agnark asks indignantly. “I got you this job, Vulnark, can’t you even repay the favor?”

“This would cost you way more than a favor, brat, depending on this here paper’s response, I could be killed! Executed! Head. Gone!” The young man makes a slicing motion across his throat and spits out his tongue, a crude imitation of a dead person. “You get me?” He asks, staring down at us.

Agnark stares back stubbornly. “Yes it’s dangerous, Mr. Pottakin,” He says icily, reverting to formality after being called a brat. “But I thought the press was in the business of telling people things. Especially true things. Especially especially true things that sell.”

“But even more importantly, true things that don’t get you killed.” The man says. “Look, I’m not some dumb sixteen year-old desperate for a job with no resume but big dreams. And you’re no longer the naive eight year old who thought he could fix all the problems in the world with his dad’s influence. My dreams have settled, your naivete has gone down. But apparently it’s not low enough if you expect me to publish this– this treason just because I owe you a favor.”

“You’re not doing it just because you owe me a favor. You’re doing it because it’s the right thing.” Agnark said.

“Years ago, when I didn’t have the experience I do now, I would have agreed with you. Sure, printing this could be called ‘doing the right thing’ if it’s true, and ‘doing the right thing’ is certainly good in almost every scenario. But things have changed since I’ve started out. I have bigger things to worry about than global right or wrong. I have a family right here in this city that depends on me. If I print this, I’ll die, nothing will change, and they will starve.” He says bluntly. Agnark looks like he’s about to protest again, but he’s interrupted.

“BIG NEWS!!” Someone shouts from inside the shop. “THE BLOOD QUILL IS WRITING SOMETHIN’!!”

Vulnark’s head twists around, almost a whole one-eighty, “LE’MME SEE THAT!” He shouts, running into the shop and abandoning us and our flyers in the street. After exchanging a curious glance with Agnark, I push open the shop door, ignoring the bell’s tinkle like everyone else so I can squeeze into the crowd next to a tiny device.

It’s a quill, floating in the air, detached from any hands or strings, slowly, ponderously writing down something on a formerly blank sheet of paper.

Breathlessly, we watch the red liquid scrawl from it, instantly hardening into a crusty brown as it hits the page. “Sorcery?” I whisper to Agnark.

He nods. “The quickest way for minor city outposts like these to get news from inside the castle. Someone is spilling three times that much blood in realtime to cast it.”

“The King has openly accused the Prince of treason, insinuating that he has rescued the Elves that arrived months ago on a diplomatic mission, were quickly imprisoned, and just as quickly escaped the prison.” Vulnark reads, following the Quills work. “A Diplomatic Mission? What sorta Diplomatic mission?! When did that happen? Why did we hear nothin’ about it?!” He asks the room as a whole, and his subordinates shush him as the quill continues.

It Also accuses Him of being “Behind all the Chaos” that has been taking place, which presumably includes: The Fighting of Unidentified Forces Within the Castle that took place Shortly Before the Prince stopped appearing for many major Meetings. The Flashing Light over Abahak last Night that Blinded the Sky. And the Fact that the High Priest has been Reportedly Absent from all Duties this Morning and No One can Find him.

“What the absolute fishhooks.” Somebody mutters.

“How did we hear about practically none a’ this?!” Vulnark asks, infuriated. “And furthermore, where’s the evidence?! Surely he needs evidence before he can convict his own son of treason!”

The quill however, is apparently done writing the message, and settles back into its holder at the top of the paper.

“If I may.” I break in. “Doesn’t this change the battlefield a little? He has no evidence, just paranoia. This would reveal that to everyone. His own announcements already support a conclusion like this.”

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

Vulnark looks at me, actually looks at me for the first time since Agnark and I have arrived. And he hesitates, I can see the twist in his eyes, the urge to agree. But then it fades, and he looks at his companions.

“You always surround yourself with strange companions, my young friend.” He says, patting Agnark on the shoulder. Agnark frowns at him, clearly displaying his disapproval both of the action and the slight towards me.

“She is far more than strange. She is brave, honest, and bright. I treasure her like I would my other half.” His voice contains a slight threat that I don’t miss, and I roll my eyes. I doubt Vulnark has realized who I am, and, even if he did, he wouldn’t release us to the gossip columns. He may be belittling and a jaded jerk, but he knows that he owes Agnark something. Even if it’s not worth risking his life for. Even if that risk has gotten significantly smaller with the King’s most recent behavior.

“Come on.” I tell Agnark. “We need a new plan, we’re just wasting our time here.”

Agnark stares at the ‘Blood Quill’ as the reporters here had called the strange device. “I’ve got one, but you might not like it. I’ll tell you about it on our way back.”

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“Are you sure about this, Agnark?” I ask, “I don’t like it. Sorcery just feels so– so wrong.”

“It’s our natural talent. Besides, it will only hurt me, so you don’t have to worry too much.” Agnark says. “My father wasted a lot of money bribing a priest to teach me outside of the church, so I may as well use that investment for something. Besides, we need this. It’s the only way we’ll be able to make things right before it’s too late. We have to act now. Capitalize on the chaos that the King’s announcement has surely caused to spread our own version of the events.”

Agnark stares at the ink lines he’s drawn on paper. Runes that will supposedly multiply and teleport copies of our flyer hundreds of feet above the city, including inside the castle’s boundary. “We should have just asked to use Vulnark’s press to print more copies. That would nearly halve the blood cost of this thing.” He sighs, “but that would have cost more time, dammit. It’s already nearly noon.”

“If blood runes take so long to draw and have to be perfectly stable, why would anyone want to use them in battle?” I ask, morbidly curious. “It seems like a terrible risk.”

“Yeah, it would be.” Agnark chuckles a little “But true sorcerers don’t need runes. They use proper spells. Mostly verbal and mental components, along with the blood cost of course. As I said, my dad wasted a lot of money bribing that priest, who only taught me the least useful parts of sorcery. Honestly, a lot of the runes he taught me didn’t even work. They just exploded in my face. But since he taught me the basics of creating runes, I made a few adjustments to these boys, added some dampeners to the magic, and they worked okay. Well, they did at smaller scales. I’ve never tried anything this large, obviously.” He laughs again. Rambling and nervous laughter? He’s terrified, but trying to not let me see it.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to–” I start.

“No, it’s not okay.” He shuts me down. “I have to do this, to make up for my mistake, to help save your brother, to help save us, to help save this kingdom.” He grabs his dagger and doesn’t hesitate as he slashes his palms in a violent X motion, “Remember,” He says, “whatever happens, don’t interrupt the spell.” and then presses his hands down on the matching center of the rune. The blood seeps into the paper beneath, and speeds across the design, following the twisting and curving lines all the way out to the border.

The whole rune flashes a blinding purple, and the singular copy of the flyer we put inside the rune catches fire, eerie black flames consuming it and the upper part of Agnark’s fingers. He howls. He jerks his hand, as if instinctively trying to get it away from those–those Wrong flames. But his hand won’t move, like it’s melded to the papers.

Another flash, this time green, and I realize that all the papers have in fact molded together into one giant parchment. The flyer is completely consumed by now, and the black flames are edging towards Agnark’s palm, which is still bleeding hot and fresh blood into the glowing lines of the runes edge. Some of those lines deviate from the original design, making their way to the individual words written into the rune and causing them to light up and catch fire as well.

My eyes flick between the rune and Agnark. The black flames have completely surrounded his palm now, and are licking towards his elbow. He’s stopped yelling but his eyes are still wild with pain and he’s hissing through gritted teeth. He said strange things might happen, especially since he’s never tried combining two runes like this before, but this is more than strange. This is outright dangerous!

I can’t wait any longer. I step forward, ready to grab him and pull, until he’s completely separated from this spell. But as soon as my foot hits the ground behind him he shouts “DON’T!” eye’s flaring even wider. “IF YOU TOUCH ME, IT WILL SUCK YOU IN AS WELL!”

I freeze. “YOU CAN’T DO THIS MUCH LONGER!” I shout back.

“IT SHOULD BE NEARLY DONE!” He hollers, and then the whole rune catches fire– real flames not the creepy black stuff, and he falls over backwards, passing out.

“M’lady!” Kat bursts in through the locked bedroom door, “The sky! It’s raining paper!” She freezes, seeing the fire, seeing me desperately trying to drag Agnark out of the flames, and dives in to help out.

But the fire suddenly extinguishes, the blood source that was powering it gone, leaving only the scorched papers, the floor, Agnark’s clothes, and all our memories.

As we drag Agnark’s unconscious but seemingly completely and bewilderingly unscathed body– well, besides his still bleeding cut–towards the bed, Kat says, “You have a lot of explaining to do, Mi’lady.”