Majutsu-shi no Chikara Ch. 11

Majutsu-shi no Chikara loosely translates to "Sorcerer's Power"

*** THIS VERSION IS TRUNCATED. Approximately 35% has been redacted from the original. I'm sure there are those who will find this more agreeable.***

CHAPTER ELEVEN: Fireflies and Lightning Bugs

Two-score orks, hunched in the dark and moving under the shadow of clouds blocking the waning crescent, followed a newly-beaten trail from a picked-clean campsite to a much smaller camp. There, orks they did not know stood sentry over a larger gathering. They bore no tribal markings, wore little clothing against the night's chill, and no armor to speak of. These orks at watch were larger and more lean than the shaggy hide-and-steel clad marauders sneaking into their perimeter.

Leading the raiding party, Orenda's scout -- the she-ork called Tebri -- licked her tusks in anticipation of the bloodshed she was about to unleash. She signaled her warriors to fan wide, approaching with a wider face against the sleeping or unaware foreigners. Her archers nocked arrows, leveling their bows at two sentries who would soon be sprouting black-feathered shafts from their stupidly unarmored flesh.

Favorable wind brought the camp's scent to Tebri's broad nostrils, and she inhaled slowly to gather the smell of these foreigners. An odd sameness wafted from them, but it was not the sameness of litter-mates nor seed-mates. It was a sameness Tebri could not place, though she could place the things she knew it not to be. Then, another smell rose from the nearby wood -- the heady scent of orks rutting (or recently so). She considered following this new trail toward the woods, perhaps to slit a few throats in silence before setting upon the smooth-skinned outsiders taking residence in the north-most reaches of Orenda's territory.

A break in the clouds, and a stray shaft of thin moonlight glanced off the barbed broad-head of a single arrow. Tebri was not ready -- they were not close enough for the arrows to strike sure, killing blows. The sentry howled, eyes seeming to gather the sparse moonlight as the he-ork focused attention on the one archer he could see.

"SIDERO!" his voice split the relative quiet, and Tebri cursed and signaled her attack.

Howling. The answering cry of wolves -- orks mimicking the call of wolves. As if springing from the darkness itself, a dozen howling orks erupted from the nearby grass as smoke over a campfire. The sentry vanished below the grass, and Tebri's archers loosed too soon; arrows finding no visible target.

"Withdraw!" Tebri snapped, sparking a wick with the striker at her belt and hurling a clay flask just ahead of the oncoming orks at her flank. "Fire and steel!"

The apple-sized pot cracked against the ground and the oily contents scattered. The wick flashed from smoldering sparks to flame and firelight surged outward between Tebri and the rushing Sidero. A handful of similar devices spread their burning contents in the grass, lighting the night and casting smoke about. Arrows sang from bowstrings into the naked, howling orks.

Inkar's wolves, the orks most seasoned in fighting and having a constant hunger for bloodshed, descended through the smoke and wave of arrows with terrifying speed. Arrows bit into flesh, but the wolves crashed through the smoke and into Tebri's raiding party. Using their axes, swords, and spears, Tebri's troop felled the first of Inkar's wolves as they pulled back the way they came... but the Sidero were already driving at them from the camp, and the remaining wolves of Inkar were tearing through Tebri's comrades like straw dolls.

One hulking she-ork managed to grip Tebri about the neck and proceeded to wield her as a club against the Orenda. The crunching, tearing pain of being slammed against another ork, weapons and all, was dulled only when Tebri's neck snapped in the monstrous hand of the ork using her as a flail. With nothing left but suffocation and death, Tebri dizzily witnessed the horrible carnage of Uduak hewing through Orenda's scouts before the greenish-brown she-ork discarded one improvised weapon for another.

"Prisoners!" Tebri heard, as her mind faded into oblivion. "Bring me prisoners!"

...

"Inkar-Chief." Muna and Uduak flanked her as they watched the remainder of Orenda's raiding party lope south into the grasslands -- many carrying wounded or bracing each other upright. "Letting them live is dangerous."

"Better to carve-up their scouts and raiding parties as they come." Uduak added.

"No." Inkar shook her head, grimly satisfied with the mewling weeping from the victim of her anger. "We are two fewer. Orenda's scouts have seen our numbers, and will report them back. Orenda is not a name the Betrayer spoke of -- theirs is a newer bloodline. Orenda will be cautious of this mercy, for is tastes of weakness and speaks with fangs."

"And the scouts that follow?" Muna grumbled, planting her fists to her hips. "They will see we do not have the numbers to overwhelm or drive-off their entire horde."

"Why does Orenda keep seed-mates in different camps?" Inkar tilted an eyebrow at Muna, then glanced over to Uduak. "Is his tribe so disloyal?"

"Is your tribe so loyal, Inkar-Chief?" Uduak nudged Inkar with an elbow, upsetting Inkar's balance slightly.

"We all suffered the same chains." Inkar snarled. "Let them ask for this tribe, and I shall let them cut their teeth as chieftain."

"No, Inkar-Chief." Muna shook her head vigorously. "Your mind is strongest."

"What about their shaman?" Uduak frowned thoughtfully. "Or if they have trolls... we don't have a troll."

"I'm thinking on that." Inkar shrugged. "We arrived here only a few moons ago -- and they were not raiding until South-wold burned. No, they are not so strong as they want us to see. Many, yes... not strong. I think we have many weapons they cannot see."

Damn you, human. Inkar frowned again in thought, turning her gaze to the sunrise over the mountains as light spilled over the camp at last.

With a sigh, Inkar turned her attention to the Orenda she had kept in retaliation for the deaths of her own tribe-mates. Already, Nahia had carved their new names into their chests and was packing the wounds with hot ash.

"Ten'Ibo, and Ten'Small-Hands." Inkar scowled over them where they lay, their wounds crudely bound and seeping. "You understand why I have kept you?"

"Yes, Sidero-Chief." the newly named Ten'Ibo answered, though it was plain to Inkar that he did not clearly grasp this change. "We are Sidero's slaves."

"Stupid Orenda thinking." Inkar snorted, turning her chin up in scorn. "We will burn away your weakness, Ten'Ibo, until you earn Ibo's place among us. And you, Ten'Small-Hands. Two of ours have fallen. You will take their place, or you will die on the road to it."

Both of the former Orenda's jaws sagged open at this, unable to fathom such position as captives of an enemy tribe. The spark of awe in their eyes was proof enough to Inkar that she would win them over. And if they betrayed her? Her wolves would tear out their necks and all of Sidero would feast on their flesh, as was proper. Inkar smiled her toothy triumph at them, glad that the lessons of northern tribes had not reached so far south.

"When your flesh is mended, you will learn to fight." Inkar scoffed again, her teeth clacking together angrily as she growled. "You fight no better than pups."

"Yes, Sidero-Chief." they answered in stumbling unison.

"Inkar-Chief?" now was Thato interjecting on her thoughts.

"Speak." Inkar nodded, turning her attention to the slightly larger, and brownest of her sisters.

"Chief, I will need half our tribe to do as you say." Thato snarled and barked, explaining the reason for such a feat.

"Take them... and these two." Inkar pointed at the two wounded shadows of her slain kin. "See their healing is not sick with waiting."

"Yes, Chief." Thato tilted her head and spun on the wounded orks below her. "Up, you dogs!"

...

"Ser Wizard Saran, as I live and breathe!" Jachmina bowed low before the obsidian-skinned, white-haired sorceress. "It's truly an honor."

Jachmina was a rounded woman, with vigorous blush in her olive cheeks that could have been pigment or illusion. Her frame was sturdy and wide, though not so wide as most dwarf-kind whose blood she seemed to share as she stood more than a head shorter than Esmeray. Tights curls of black hair were forced into neat plaits over her jewel-laden ears, and the rest fell wild down her back. The beaded corset binding her middle and aiding a slimming illusion was fashioned of fine ivory or bone that Saran did not bother to give further study. Jachmina's fashionable dress was, as with many Wizards (in and outside the Guild) "tastefully garish". Gold accents, gemstones, and vivid colours gave the impression of mystery coupled with opulence -- a trend that Esmeray had eschewed more than a decade before entering the ranks of the Guild.

The gold-laden merchant, Remfry, stood just behind and to the left of his wife, bristling with trinkets and festooned with ornaments to puff-up his position as an accomplished man of the bazaar. Near a head shorter than Jachmina, he was at least as round. His bright-colored cap of slouching material bunched over his left ear, and the many jewels and piercings hanging from his ears, lip, and nose contrasted dazzlingly with the oiled red walnut tones of his skin and the black pigment accentuating his lips and eyes. It seemed Jachmina's esteem of Saran had impressed her husband, as well.

Esmeray Saran's traditional white robes were heavily stained from her travel, and conspicuously absent any adornment or valuable trinkets. Her skin was unusual enough, and her mastery of such enchantment marked her as a great Wizard in a land of aspiring conjurers. She gave only a curt nod, then dispensed with much formality to cut directly to what she needed. Already, the unquenchable thirst of the nymph's poison was building within her.

"I seek essence infernum. All you have." She stated flatly, letting the barest haze of sweat rise on her brow and allude a secret fear. "In exchange, I have adequate coin... and information."

"Not for an homunculus army... why wouldst you consort with a daemon?" Jachmina fidgeted her fingers absently, but was careful to make no motion with actual intent -- lest Saran should feel the need to retaliate in self-defense.

"How much? Then, I shall slake your appetite." Esmeray drooped the lids of her eyes just enough that the younger sorceress took enough meaning to stop wasting time.

"Three hundred." Jachmina could not withhold a petulant pout of her lips, but confident that she could at least secure half that, which was still more than half again what the volume was worth. "We've just 12 grain, which should be suited to what you need."

Jachmina's light brown eyes watched the almost featureless obsidian face for any tell, any sign of Esmeray's reaction. The Wizard's eyes gave nothing, and Esmeray paused long enough that Jachmina was certain she would haggle down to a razor's breadth of the merchant's own cost of six sovereigns per grain.

"They couldn't cost you more than five to distill, Ser." Esmeray steeled her nerves, then pulled a sizable pouch from the sideways space around her -- dragging a heavy coin purse back onto the material plane to slap onto the small counting table between them. "I'll have the lot."

Remfry fainted dead away while Jachmina struggled to keep her composure at the blatant display of wealth and power, realizing that whatever Esmeray was planning could only be of immense urgency to not even bother with the price. The deft hands of inky midnight were counting stacked dozens of shining and dull golden coins, as Jachmina knelt to rouse her husband from his swoon. Other merchants, hawking and barking their wares within a dozen paces had grown silent and began to stare. The flow of traffic in the open bazaar outside Renks Cairn shuddered and balked before trundling creakily back on its path, already whispering new gossip of the Wizard buying at a ransom. Remfry found his feet, his hands tight against the small square table to keep himself upright. Esmeray had half the coins stacked before him when he at last had his senses enough to fetch his scales.

Jachmina was fretting inwardly, a drop of sweat curling out and down the nape of her neck as she kept poise before the Wizard of the Tower. There had to be a deeper reason for Saran's haste, to forego the staples of trade and tradition in the market. Anything that could spur such a being must be terrible indeed. Terrible and outside the purview of the Tower itself. Jachmina licked her lips in anticipation of what delightful morsel of information Esmeray would offer in addition to the mountains of coin stacking on the table.

"May we speak, Ser Wizard?" Jachmina whispered just above the clink and jingle of coins through Remfry's fingers and merchant scales.

"I'll allow it." Esmeray nodded, now finished stacking much of the contents of her purse.

The Wizard Saran put forward a simple charm; an enchantment to share words silently between two people. Oft touted in academies as a whisper or message spell, Jachmina reined her thoughts that she would not share more than absolutely necessary for lack of discipline.

What tender delicacies do you offer for my silence? Jachmina asked, her eyes fixed to the glittering green shards glowing two paces away from her.

The Tower will be holding conclave to name my successor. Esmeray admitted as flatly as the spell would allow, the jagged edges of her irritation plain. Yours is one of the few who stand to gain little from any of the prospective candidates.

Jachmina flinched at this, for it was as much the truth as an insult -- but there was nothing for her to gain by it, unless she backed one candidate or another. Throwing her support to a Wizard who newly ascended to the Tower would elevate her own position within the Guild, and could confound the efforts of some of her rivals within the city. Esmeray Saran's fate, whatever it must be, had precipitated this, but Jachmina had been busy mustering her own resources (material and immaterial) to continue climbing the hierarchy of the Guild. Her current skill was nowhere near that of the Tower's Wizards -- but her studies were stagnating in the pool of the lower Guild ranks.

How does this help me? Jachmina frowned at Saran, Remfry still busily weighing and counting coins.

Back whomever you like -- but not Bashemath d'Mara. Esmeray made a gesture to indicate warning, leaving Jachmina to decide whether it would be wise to involve herself at all. More than that will cost you.

You believe he will be chosen to replace you? The brown-haired enchantress couldn't help but be intrigued by the evidence against d'Mara that Esmeray must hold, to warrant enticing her to support someone other than a winning candidate. What are you wanting in return?

I want you to take the next place at the Council, after Bashemath's ascension is concluded. Esmeray gave only mere inclination of her head to Jachmina. And I have a grimoire that will further that endeavor.

You would part with a copy of any of your work? Jachmina's suspicion clouded forward and stalled their interaction, as Remfry finished counting.

"Ah, Ser Wizard." Remfry bowed his head, the slouch cap flopping precariously forward before he propped it backward as he straightened. "There may be a miscalculation in my accounting of it; would you permit me to reweigh your purchase?"

"That won't be necessary, my heart." Jachmina cradled a stack of coins from those arranged around Remfry's scales. "I believe Ser Saran did overpay us, in her haste."

Placing the coins as near to Esmeray on the small square table as possible without upsetting the remaining stacks, Jachmina's sparkling smile faded on her lips as she again met gazes with the former member of the Tower. It was a hesitancy Esmeray expected, as her offer could prove more poisonous than any mercantile arrangement -- such was the trade of Wizards within the Guild. Knowing any effort to allay suspicion would likely only enhance Jachmina's reticence, Esmeray had little choice but to offer more information whose revelations would entrench Jachmina in the plot. Once the junior wizard was introduced to such details, she'd be compelled to calculate and act on them -- if only in her own survival interest.

For her part, Jachmina at last proffered a small circular box -- unadorned and no larger than a quarter of her palm. It looked, at a glance, to be an unassuming snuff box, less than a finger's thickness in height, with a dull polish to its wooden surface. As Esmeray delicately hefted the little disk between the fingers of her left hand, the weight of it spoke of the wafer lining of lead inside. A quick twist and pull of the lid, Esmeray focused only a moment on the spiked, glittering red granules within nestled into the hollow of the box before clapping the lid back and re-seating it firmly. The sharp sting of sulfur ash and hot metal singed her nostrils, and she quickly swept the box into her robe -- tucking the parcel close to her breast in a pocket specially designed to conceal such a thing. Saran then slapped her hand down on the coins refunded to her, pocketing them forgetfully.

"I have some notes you might enjoy." Esmeray retrieved another item from the other-space around her, feeling the familiar wooden spine and leather binding that wrapped a book in which she had stored copious notes.

Jachmina's eager fingers made clawing motions, but the junior wizard kept both hands at her sides to keep from snatching at the thing in earnest. It was unclear whether this was the grimoire, and only a fool readily took what was offered.

"And this?" Jachmina propped an eyebrow at the book as Saran laid the edge of it against the table. "You would permit me to explore its provenance?"

"Of course." near unseen, Esmeray shivered as with sudden chill -- though Jachmina could not identify its source, she noted it just the same.

The book scraped along the table's surface as Esmeray laid it open before Jachmina. Remfry busying himself with stowing the coins in a small strongbox that looked too small to serve the task. Jachmina cautiously wove the spell that would allow her to review the book's individual history (rather than its contents) to ascertain Saran's intent with the item. The resulting blur of pseudo-memories gave her the impression of near-paranoid focus and dark secrets surrounding the making of the book, and the penning of the words within. Satisfied -- as much as Jachmina could be satisfied -- that the tome was not a trap, she nodded thoughtfully and looked up from the table to regard Esmeray again.

"What are you hoping to buy with this?" She gingerly closed the book without looking at any of the words on the page -- lest there be some more subtle trick lurking within the ink -- and slipped it beneath a fold in her dress.

"I need the skills of a powerful Enchanter." Esmeray stared at her unblinking, her breath getting noticeably more rapid and shallow as their conversation dragged.

Jachmina scowled, feeling the slap of insult: "You'll do" was the nearest approximation of what Saran had implied -- for had she asked directly for Jachmina's help? No. This was an admission of near desperation and derision at once. That was cold comfort to a wizard of the Guild looking to climb toward a place at the Tower.

"So, what mnemonic spell would you use on me that I could achieve this task for you?" She let Esmeray know she felt the sting, and was smart enough to see through to the heart of the statement just the same.