----------------------------------------
Carina Goldstone and Cortland Finiron, Champions of Infinzel
Those they have met so far…
…and those they will meet soon
----------------------------------------
30 Frett, 61 AW
The pyramidal city of Infinzel, North Continent
150 days until the next Granting
The gods watched Infinzel. And they waited for their moment.
----------------------------------------
The spy felt the wind shift northward, which turned the fires in the opposite direction. She stood in front of the wagon-sized double doors that fed into the warehouse she had purchased a year ago using a false identity and breathed out lightly. Three more clumps of ramshackle dwellings were all that separated months and months of cautious work from being uncovered by the careless blaze started by these gods damned dust-poisoned idiots. The spy watched a pair of men sprint down the street toward the river, arms loaded with empty buckets. She sneered and edged backwards.
Rolling up her sleeve, the spy brushed the gold cuff wrapped around her delicate wrist. It was shaped into the scales of Penchenne—the same symbol hidden beneath the spy’s scarves—with two cloudy gems mounted where the pans should be. One gem pulsed with the spy’s heartbeat; the other with her mistress’s.
“We are safe,” the spy whispered. “The fire will not reach us.”
The spy needed to say the words aloud. The gem connected the champion to her sponsor, allowed the exile queen to hear through the spy’s ears, but did not give her sponsor access to the spy’s thoughts. The spy appreciated that small bit of privacy. She would not have wanted the exile queen to know how eagerly she anticipated the end of this year—the fifth and final of her required service.
“Good.” Deidre said in reply, the words a whisper in the spy’s ear. “Check the men. If any have cold feet, kill them. I can send others.”
Nodding, the spy slipped back inside, bolting the doors behind her. Officially, this warehouse belonged to a federation of farmers doing business out of the villages between Penchenne and Cruxton. They had enough sacks of oats to pass a cursory inspection.
Further back, though, beyond the piles of burlap and the carts arranged in an obscuring blockade—there was the pit.
They had been digging for months now. Slowly, steadily, careful about the noise. No magic, ever. They used machines created by the Gadgeteers that were originally meant for excavating out in the Gen’bi desert. A great corkscrew that loosened the earth, a massive crank-powered scooper that cleared the debris, and then tired arms and shovels and pickaxes.
The pit went deeper every day, and still the spy knew they were months away from breaking through. That was as expected. Timing was imperative and they were on track.
But the fire had spooked some of the men. A few had gathered weapons and others loudly contemplated fleeing. There were six working for the spy—she’d selected all of them personally. These were men who didn’t mind hard labor, men who could dabble in engineering should one of the machines need repairs, men who could endure boredom if a fat payout waited at the end. Most importantly, they were men who no one would come looking for.
They weren’t allowed to leave the warehouse except on the rare occasions the spy allowed it, when she sensed they might start going stir crazy otherwise. She let them blow off steam, but always under her unwavering supervision. Special care needed to be taken that no one notice their Ink and begin asking questions.
As she returned inside, the spy was relieved to find five of her men had returned to their endless card game. They must have reached the same conclusion about the fire as she had, or else they understood that cooler heads would stay attached.
Only the youngest of her team was absent from the game. The spy never enjoyed working with young men—they always thought they had so much to prove. She had only hired this one because he was an adept little monkey when it came to machinery. But, as it turned out, Gadgeteer devices were well made and needed few repairs after proper assembly.
The spy found him pacing by the edge of the pit, staring down into the darkness. He smiled shakily when he saw her, his eyes glassy.
“We should blow it tonight,” he said. “It’s got to be deep enough, right?”
“You knew the schedule when you took the job,” the spy replied. “We stick to it.”
“But think about it.” He snapped his fingers excitedly. “This fire gives us a perfect cover. They’re already at each other. We can make things even worse and get away clean.”
The spy came closer and put on a smile. Her face had often been described as flat and affectless. It was a good face for her work. Her smile looked like the kind of thing painted on a doll. She put her hand on the younger man’s shoulder.
“My friend, wouldn’t you rather go play cards?” she asked him.
She heard him swallow. The spy let him feel the weight of her hand. She let him see how her shadow moved—independent from her—flanking the young man so that there were only two directions available to him. The card table or the pit.
“Of course, ma’am, cards,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Only excited.”
The spy nodded and let him go join the others. She stepped forward to peek into the dark gash they had dug into the earth, wondering if the creatures buried down there could yet smell the smoke.
“You’re merciful,” Deidre said in her ear.
The spy snorted.
“Keep an eye on that one.”
“Of course,” the spy whispered.
Only the gods had more eyes in Infinzel than the spy of Penchenne.
----------------------------------------
One silver lining, at least, was that the assassin wishing pool had not been rebuilt in Guydemion's courtyard. Cortland let himself enjoy that small victory for a moment. Then, he turned his attention to the dozens of faces staring at him and the king.
Men and women were assembled in loose ranks on either side of the path leading toward the tavern's entrance. Some of them were old—in their eighties or nineties—and showed the wear of hard living. These elders were allowed to sit on benches closest to the path while the hardier stood behind them, though Cortland saw few faces younger than his own. All of them wore uniforms that Cortland had rarely seen—antique things, gray trimmed with green, cut looser than a Garrison uniform to allow for horseback riding.
These were the uniforms of Infinzel's ranging army. A force that hadn't existed in some sixty years.
“Good evening,” King Cizco said.
Cortland had sensed the king release the spell that disguised them as soon as they brushed through the threadbare flags that hid the courtyard’s entrance. His hand twitched toward his hammer, but he resisted the urge. The battalion of old timers sized up him and the king and, as a group, maintained a stoic silence. It was quiet enough that Cortland could hear shouting in the distance.
“Well,” the king said after a moment. “You’re all dressed up. When does the war start?”
The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
No one laughed. But, mercifully, a woman did step forward. Unlike the others, she wore a dress somewhat befitting a royal reception—albeit more like something a school teacher might choose for the first day of classes. She afforded the king the briefest of bows.
“The veterans of Guydemion's host and their living ancestors have come to greet you, my king,” she said.
“Greet me?” Cizco glanced at Cortland. “Have I gone deaf, Finiron?”
Cortland grunted. “No.”
The woman smirked. “They have come out to see you, anyway,” she said, then stepped aside and gestured for the king and his hammer master to come forward. “The general awaits.”
“Yes, it grows late, let us not keep him awake,” Cizco murmured.
The king drew himself up and Cortland thought he made a bit of a flourish with his cloak. Cortland knew the pains the king took to come off as an everyman, but the cold reception from the veterans of Soldier’s Rest pulled the noble imperiousness to the surface. He sauntered through their ranks to the door. Cortland followed a few steps behind, and the woman fell in next to him.
“Well met, hammer master,” she said quietly. “I'm Hellie Opensky. My husband speaks highly of you.”
Cortland kept his eyes on the king's back. He didn’t recognize the name—except that it was one of the pretend-noble surnames adopted in the outer districts by those who wished not to be known by their parents’ callings.
“Husband?”
“Watts Stonework. He claims your intervention saved him a worse fate with the Secondson.”
Cortland winced. If he'd knocked Vitt on his ass sooner, perhaps Guydemion's man would still have his eye, and they wouldn't even be here. “I don't know about that.”
She touched his arm gently. “My husband would rather lose a fight than have one broken up prematurely.”
While Cortland considered that, they stepped inside. Hellie closed the wooden door behind them.
Cortland hadn’t known what to expect from Guydemion’s and so found himself oddly disappointed by its ordinariness. It was a tavern like any other, albeit one especially well-maintained. A polished bar with an impressive selection, tables and chairs, a wide hearth with a guttering fire, and a stage for entertaining. Flags hung from the rafters. Cortland recognized the broken wall symbol they had adopted in Soldier’s Rest and the skull-headed riders charging out from the pyramid that represented Infinzel’s old ranging army. There were other tattered banners amongst those—prizes collected at battles won by Guydemion’s host—including the black-and-white flag of old Orvesis and the red-on-brown smoking volcano of Endpass.
Next to the hearth, someone had made a circle of half-finished bottles of wine and dried flower garlands. Almost like an offering, Cortland thought. He tried to catch Hellie’s eye to ask her about that, but she had already moved across the room to stand behind the general.
“Cizco Firstson,” Bel Guydemion said. “You come to me at last.”
Guydemion’s voice was soft, high-pitched, with a delicate lisp. There were stories about the savage injuries that he had suffered during his campaign in the Final War—wounds that kept him from continuing his noble line upon his return to Infinzel. Cortland supposed they must be true. The old general looked to Cortland like a pale caterpillar trying to push his way out of a cocoon of blankets. Bel Guydemion was shrunken, nearly hairless, and pudgy. His brown-spotted jowls resembled rotten fruit. In short, he looked every day of his ninety years. None of the hardiness of legend remained in the fleshy geezer nestled in his wheeled-chair. And yet, Cortland detected a sharpness in the old general’s eyes, which combined with a pouting mouth that seem poised for mockery.
“King Cizco,” Cortland said brusquely.
“Of course. Forgive an old man his lapses in memory,” Guydemion said in his whispery voice. “I swore my oaths to King Hectore so many decades ago. A day I somehow remember clearly. And yet, I cannot remember the day of his passing. Remind me, when was that, King Cizco?”
The king’s silence and hesitation surprised Cortland. Cizco stared at the lumpen Guydemion as if a creature from his nightmares had come crawling into the waking world. The man was Cizco’s age and Cortland wondered if the king now contemplated what he would look like if he actually suffered the ravages of time. After an uncomfortable few seconds, Cizco shook his head as if to clear his mind, and plastered on a beatific smile.
“As you well know, my brother died a death of the spirit long ago,” Cizco said. He approached the table, setting his smooth hands on the back of the single chair across from Guydemion. “Have you brought me here to litigate the past, Bel? Are we to clean our dirty laundry together?” He glanced over his shoulder, toward the courtyard. “I had forgotten your colors. They once symbolized heroism and perseverance. Although, that changed once your host returned, did it not? After the rapes and murders?”
“Ugly days,” Guydemion said. “We agree on that.”
Cizco yanked out his chair and sat. Cortland stood over his right shoulder, with Hellie Opensky mirroring his position behind the general.
“And shall we return to them now?” Cizco asked. “Is that what you want for your legacy after all these years?”
“Legacy is for historians,” Guydemion replied. “I only care about fair treatment for my people.”
“Have I not treated you fairly?” Cizco made an exaggerated look around the room. “You seem to be doing fi—”
The king’s head snapped around in the other direction with enough force that Cortland reached for his hammer. Across the table, Hellie took a step backward and Guydemion stirred beneath his blankets. It was as if someone had shouted for Cizco’s attention, yet the room was quiet. While he appeared to be staring at the far wall, Cizco’s gaze was unmistakably aimed back at the pyramid.
“Cizco?” Cortland asked. “What is it?”
The king shook his head, slowly turning his attention back to Guydemion. “Something is… amiss.”
----------------------------------------
Carina had come to him on the night of the Open Gate. A little drunk, vibrating from the violence she had seen done to Watts Stonework, and angry with him for his little sermon rallying the folks of Soldier's Rest. But Traveon Twiceblack knew how Carina's anger worked. He knew that she enjoyed being frustrated by him. She had always resented the freedom he operated with—his dumb luck, she called it—the way he improvised his way through situations that for her would require months of careful planning. A delightful contrast in styles, Traveon always thought. That was why they made such a formidable pairing. Some friction was inevitable.
And oh, how there had been friction that night of the Open Gate. First, she yelled at him. Then, she shoved him into bed. How could he deny one of Infinzel's brave champions? They restarted what had begun when they were teenagers. A heat between them that felt like making up for lost time. Or, Traveon thought, less charitably, perhaps Carina’s was a spark first ignited by someone else. But here he was, the safer, more logistical option. Whatever—such romantic distinctions made little difference to him. Traveon knew better than to ask questions of an exotic bird when one came to perch upon his branch.
He also knew better than to pursue Carina. She wasn't one who liked to be chased. Everything had to be her idea, or at least feel that way. And yet, scaling the walls of the pyramidal city for his visits to uncooperative merchants had put Traveon back in mind of their teenage years. Secret passages and dark recesses, ripping each other's clothes off in the glow of wards Carina wished to study. The city felt like their playground then. Now, it felt like the whole place teetered on the brink of a drop.
He would pop by to see here. Just this once.
Traveon understood his bad timing as soon as Carina turned to face him. He expected, at worst, outrage and irritation for his trespass, to be yelled at and shoved out a window. Instead, he saw a rare thing on Carina's face.
True fear.
“Water, alcohol, towels!” She shouted at him, gesturing wildly at the basin and shelves near her dining area. “I need to clean this off!”
Traveon did not quite understand what this was. The urgency in her voice killed any quip he might have prepared at the half-dressed state of her. She had painted a symbol on her ribs—not quite finished, he thought—in crimson. A symbol nestled against the rest of her Ink, but one that didn’t exactly fit. He leapt the rest of the way into her room and scrambled toward the items she requested.
For a moment, Carina stood there with a paintbrush poised in one hand, as if she might still make adjustments to the symbol.
Then, she screamed. “Look out!”
At first, Traveon thought he’d knocked into something. Stupidly, he glanced down at his feet, expecting to have disturbed some ritualistic chalk drawings or other such Carina-colored madness. He didn’t realize that Carina’s words hadn’t been a reprimand but a warning—not until the nightstalker’s claws turned the flesh on his back into bloody ribbons.
----------------------------------------
There was a natural interaction between [Alert] and [Detect Magic]. The two symbols were meant to be joined by a complicated latticework of overlapping lines. Carina knew she had botched that when Traveon surprised her. Given enough time, she could’ve fixed it.
But then Vitt’s pet nightstalker leapt through her window and set about mauling poor Traveon.
In the seconds before, her [Alert] triggered. And, in response, the liar’s ink caught fire.
Carina began to scream as the flames rose up from her chest, puckering and crisping her skin, not so different from the fate that had befallen Arris Stonetender. At the same time, her own Ink seemed to be repulsed by the misfiring chanic, her dark tattoo squeezing and pinching her flesh, peeling backward, until her skin ripped open and fresh blood sizzled down into the growing flames.
These pains were merely the beginning.
[Detect Magic] worked. It worked too well. The entirety of Infinzel’s layered system of arcane artistry glowed in her mind. She could see through the walls and the floor. Her eyes felt forced open as blinding stratum of enchantment seared across her perception. She was reminded of the pain of Cortland’s hammer crashing down on her skull, but that at least ended with welcoming darkness. As she tried to turn from this knowledge, her eyelids dried into brittle fragments like fingernails and broke off her face. The skin around her eyes peeled backward, exposing bone.
She had seen this coming, hadn’t she? The more it hurt, the more she would learn.
Carina willed herself to focus. To understand something—anything—through this mind-bending agony. She managed to recover her wits—for a minute? A few seconds? Time was washed away in the pain. All that mattered was that Carina saw the lines, just as Samus Bind had described. Cords of power attached to a hundred points throughout Infinzel, feeding arcane energy into a central location.
Why were the lines stretched across the city? Why did this power coalesce somewhere in the outer districts?
Carina wasn’t sure when he arrived, but Vitt Secondson-Salvado stood before her. He looked horrified, afraid to come near her. One of the lines of energy was attached to him. She could see how his lungs flexed and struggled, suppressing a cough even now. Always coughing, never healing—and always the line of energy, draining, flowing away, away, away…
“Oh, Vitt, he uses you.” Carina’s words tasted like copper and ash. She couldn’t suppress the cackle that ripped loose from her. “He uses all you children.”
----------------------------------------