Chapter 53 – A Gambit of Wills

The Deck of Wills contains more secrets than mere bonded cards and borrowed parlor tricks. A well-rounded and creative Soul Seeker who counts the deck as an extension of himself is undoubtedly one of the most versatile and deadly of all arcanists.

-Lancaster’s Manual of Wills

I called the two of knaves back to my hand and formed an image in my mind. Not of a blade, per se, but a chain of cards. A lash. I sent my will into the card, and the deck rearranged itself, surprisingly eager to comply with my wishes and reform into a living magic weapon. It seemed I had the deck’s full attention, and for once, every card pulled in the same direction. A dark, oily sheen spread over the length of the formation. I snapped it in the air between us, and the orc flinched back at the loud crack. It was like the entire thing acted as one single entity.

The mongrel touched his hand to his nose and looked down at the red stain on his fingertips. “Now, that’s more like it,” he said. He spun his cudgel and pushed in again. This time, I had something that could threaten his advance. I spun the chain of cards overhead and brought it slashing down, cutting off his attempt to press in. He twisted to the side, off balance, and I moved in with the knife. A quick slash left a bloody smear across his arm above the buckler, but he countered with a swing from his cudgel.

By instinct alone, I reformed the cards into a disc, and charged them with the two of towers. A silvery sheen replaced the black one, and the cudgel smashed against my improvised shield. This was fighting like a mage. Before he could withdraw, I reached through my own shield and grabbed the head of the cudgel, yanking it toward me. The half-orc, caught off-guard with his balance already forward, stumbled a step he hadn’t intended. That was all I needed.

As soon as his hand was through the gap in the suspended cards, I switched back to the two of knaves and pushed the cudgel down with as much strength as I could muster. At the same time, I willed the inside ring of cards to begin spinning, as fast as I could compel them.

Blood sprayed into my face. The half-orc screamed in pain and rage as his hand separated from his wrist and fell to the mud, still holding the cudgel. He tucked the stump of his arm against his chest, pulling back, with the first sign of fear in his eyes.

“W-wait!” he said, stepping back. Now it was my turn to advance. The spinning blade took too much concentration to maintain, so I called the cards back to their deadly chain and whipped it forward. The mongrel barely managed to turn the attack with his buckler. Unlike him, I had no interest in taunting or gloating. I was deep inside enemy territory, and I had a mission. I dropped the two of knaves and switched yet again, to the three of dragons, this time. I let my anger and desperation flood into the chain, along with my strength and stamina. The deck glowed, even as my own spirit flagged.

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I whipped the chain again. This time, when the orc turned it with his shield, the chain wrapped around and left a smoldering welt across his arm. He yelped and jumped back. A second swing split the blood-stained leather of his shirt and left a burn across his chest. By the time I pulled the cards around for a third swing, the mongrel practically stumbled over himself to get away. His boots dug in the mud, and he slipped, catching himself with his stump. He began to howl in pain.

His suffering wasn’t long. I slipped forward, close enough for knifework, now, and tilted his head to slit his throat. His howl turned to sputters and wet rasps, and I dropped him to the muck. That had not been quiet.

I stepped over the dying half-orc, toward the back of their hideout. I stopped for only a moment, to look at the three bodies in the back lot. I’d done that. How? The boy who’d been laid flat by an elf kit with the suit of lances was leaving a literal trail of bodies in his wake.

Who was this new person climbing out of my soul?

I’m not sure I wanted to know. I ducked in through the window the orcs had come charging out of and made my way past the half-eaten slop they had once called dinner. I wished I had my cravat just to wrap it around my nose and mouth. The flies were thick and biting. I waved my way through them and pushed on.

The filthy hovel was certainly empty now. If any more half-orcs had been within, the noise would have surely drawn them out. Still, that was no reason to eschew caution. I kept my ears open to any noise. Whatever else happened, at least another Mother Mayaz wasn’t going to pop out. Orcs were brutes, but lacked mages, and I doubted they had any nasty surprises waiting for me.

I cleared the first floor. Nothing but dirty rooms, soiled beds, and orc graffiti. Finding nothing of note and certainly no menders, I opened up the door to the cellar and descended through another cloud of flies, trying to wave clear a path through the black, buzzing bugs. Filthy fucking mongrels. When I got to the bottom, I stopped, staring. I opened my mouth, as if to say something, before feeling it twist into a grimace.

The mender’s brother? He’d been that half-eaten dinner. What remained of his butchered carcass was spread over a wood slab, still staring with sightless eyes. Strips of his flesh had been hung up to dry. The orc boss’ boys got a touch famished on guard duty, it seemed. Or, more likely, Foe Skull Crusher never intended to return him. Dragons above, I’ll bet she planned to kill the mender after the fight, win or lose.

You always know in the back of your mind what half-orcs are capable of. But you still never expect to see it, not even in a place like Dragonmaw. I mean, it’s the city that swallows all, but not, you know, literally. This was pure savagery—Callous, casual cruelty that marked the Teeth as something less than even half human. They had to go. This town was my home. And they’d turned it into a human abattoir.

Waving blood flies out of my way, I moved up to what was left of the brother. On my way in, I hadn’t hated the half-orcs or particularly wanted them dead. They’d been obstacles to overcome. Now I wished I could kill them again. A knife in the neck was too quick for these bastards. When I came for Kindledown, I was coming for every last one of them. It wasn’t out of nobility or heroism. They simply couldn’t exist in my city. I’d excise this rot. The knaves in my deck agreed.

The carcass smelled even worse, up close. Flies clouded the surface, but I still spotted a mason guild patch with the name Carthus stitched in small script. I tore it off and shoved it in my pocket. The dragons in my deck raged at the insult of his murder. The towers simply seemed dejected at the loss.

I couldn’t be out of that hell-hole fast enough.