EPIC: Fourteen Books of Fantasy (11 page)

A moment later: “Maybe not.”

“Sara!” was the only thing she heard before the sound of him falling over with the crate on top of him came to her ears.

But it wasn’t Sara who saved Ezekiel from falling. She came around the mule’s front to see Ezekiel balanced inches above the ground with the crate atop his chest. There was a wind tunnel beneath his back holding him up. It had stopped the crate from shattering on the ground, but by doing so it had also done something far worse. The wind tunnel was forcing Ezekiel to bear the weight of the crate on his chest and the tip of his throat. He couldn’t move out from under the weight or from atop the funnels of wind beneath him.

His face was turning blue.
 

“Cormar, stop! He can’t breathe!” she frantically shouted.

Sara saw Cormar light a cigar out of the corner of her eye. “He should have thought of that before he almost destroyed my new artifacts.”

She growled in frustration and rushed forward. Quickly she stuck her knife in her belt, not her sheath as she grabbed the edge of the crate and pulled with all of her might. It came off of Ezekiel’s throat and his airway opened up. He began gasping for breath frantically. She kept tugging. She needed to get it off his chest, and Ezekiel was worse than useless as he lay like a crab stuck on its back with legs flailing in the air.

Flailing is good,
she thought to herself.
If he wasn’t moving, I’d be worried he was already dead.

With a harsh yank and grunt, she took the full weight of the crate from atop Ezekiel by bracing her feet harshly on the ground and tapping into her battle magic. This time she was boosting her strength, just as she would if she was whirling a mace above her head or throwing an opponent to the ground. It worked.

Staggering back as the load grew lighter in her arms, Sara stood up straight and carried the crate, which was twice her size, a short distance away. Setting it down on the floor as if it was as light as a feather, she stood and glared at Cormar.

He stared at her with fascination in his eyes as he puffed rings of smoke into the air. “Well done, Fairchild, well done.”

He’d been testing her, she realized. He had to have known the crate weighed more than a grown man. Cormar wanted to see what his new watcher was made of. She couldn’t fault him for his logic or his actions, but by the gods, she wanted to rip out Cormar’s throat. The man just rubbed her the wrong way. She knew part of that was her instinctual need to kill when she dipped into her gifts, but she didn’t think her instincts about his persona were wrong. There was something
off
about the fishery manager turned collector. He ignored the hate in her eyes and turned to Ezekiel. As Cormar let his wind tunnel dissipate as if it was never there, Ezekiel fell to the ground again. This time he just laid there coughing.

Sara didn’t move. Not because she wasn’t interested in Ezekiel’s well-being, but because she wasn’t certain she could keep herself from strangling him for taking on such a larger load than he could handle. If she had known it was that heavy in the beginning, they would have found another way.

Finally Ezekiel rose to his knees and stood. Wainwright waited next to the second mule’s head.

Cormar said, “I do believe you have one more load to carry.”

Ezekiel turned to look at the second mule with something akin to despair on his face.

“I’ll get it,” said Sara.

She came forward and grabbed her knife from her belt. As she passed Ezekiel, she gave it to him. “Here, cut the ropes on the other side and try not to stab yourself while you’re doing it.”

Ezekiel said nothing. He just did as she asked. She hoped it wasn’t so heavy this time. She was already letting her hold on her battle magic diminish. She knew the power was affecting her mood and she was getting dangerously agitated. She might snap at Ezekiel now, but if it got too much worse she could end up taking off his head.
 

She bore the brunt of the lighter crate with a slight grunt and smoothly set it down.

“Not so hard, right?” said Cormar as he walked out the door.

Ezekiel and Sara just watched him with dark eyes.

Wainwright grabbed the first mule’s lead without a word and followed his boss into the evening air.

Chapter IX

S
ARA
AND
E
ZEKIEL
LOOKED
AT
each other and then back down at the crates on the floor. Ezekiel grabbed a crowbar leaning against the wall without a word. As he got to work trying to pry open the crates, she watched. After a few minutes, she came forward. “Here, let me help.”

“No thanks, I got it,” he grunted.
 

She stepped back.

After a second time where he nearly fell on his bum, she snapped, “Really? Because it looks like you’re failing.”

He turned and said, “Well, not all of us are super humans.”
 

The crowbar was clutched tightly in his hand as he breathed heavily.

“Do we have a problem?”

“No, no problem,” he said with a caustic laugh.

“I think we do,” she insisted.

He gave her a glare. “Don’t worry. I’ll still get your mercenary file for you. There’s no need to take pity on me now.”

“Pity on you?” she said, genuinely confused.

He dropped the crowbar with a
thud
. “It’s obvious you think I’m weak and incompetent and…”

“Hold up,” she said, raising a hand. “Is this about what happened with Cormar?”

He shrugged. “You handled yourself well and hated that I didn’t.”

She was still lost. “Hated that you didn’t? Because I didn’t come to help you up?”

“No!” he shouted. “Well…yeah.”

She stared at him in astonishment.

His face went blank. “Never mind.”

His back turned away and hers stiffened. She didn’t want to do this. Not now. But silly as it seemed she felt that she owed him an explanation.

“Look, Ezekiel,” she said quietly, “I didn’t come because I was afraid.”

He laughed while still facing away from her. “
Afraid
? Of Cormar?”

“Not of Cormar. Of myself,” she said.

He turned around. “What?”

She twisted her lips and looked off in the distance. With a sigh she focused back on him. “How much do you know about battle mages?”

“That they’re badasses that take no shit from anyone.”

She shrugged. “Yeah, that’s true. But that’s not all of it.”

He shifted on his feet and crossed his arms as he asked uneasily, “What else is there?”

“A lot,” she said with a rueful laugh.

Then a pounding knock on the door interrupted their conversation. Ezekiel nearly jumped out of his skin. She quickly strode forward and snatched the knife from where he had left it atop the other crate.

“Stay there,” she said when she passed him.

“Wouldn’t dream of moving anywhere else,” he said. She didn’t miss the sarcasm in his voice.

A second knock echoed through the door.
 

“Who is it?” she called, wary of another intruder.

“The messenger,” she heard shouted back at her. The voice was coming from a young male who had just hit puberty. She could tell by the crack in his voice that hadn’t adjusted yet.

She yanked the door open and stared into the face of the boy she’d sent off hours ago.

With the glare of a drowned rat, he thrust out the sheathed sword that he carried impatiently.

“What took you so long?” she said, exasperated.

The urchin glared at her. “You had people in and out of here like a doxy doing tricks all day. I had to wait until that last man left. I ain’t about to mess with Cormar and his men.”
Sara grimaced. He had a fair point.

“Did you speak with my mother?”

“Yeah.”

“And?” she said. Getting words out of urchins was like trying to pull teeth. She pushed out of her mind how similar she was at that age, or still was.

“She said ‘don’t get into no trouble and bring home raspberries,’” he said.

Sara felt some relief. Raspberries was the code word between her and her mother that all was fine at home. It worked because neither of them could afford to buy such a rich fruit from the market themselves and therefore would never bring it up in casual conversation.

“Here’s two more coins in payment and a third for your trouble,” she said, handing him the bronze shillings.

He nodded. “Good doing business with you.”

“Yeah,” she said.

As he turned to leave, she asked, “Hey, kid, if I need you again, whom do I ask for?”

He yelled back without stopping, “Rascal near the fourth garrison.”

She rocked back on her heels and shut the door.

“So where were we?” she said as she quickly checked the condition of the sword and its sheath. All was well.

“You were about to tell me everything you know about being a battle mage,” said Ezekiel as he sat down on top of the crate with his legs crossed.

She buckled her sword in place on her back and for the first time that day, she felt
right
. Having it rest along her spine was the most comforting feeling to her. As a fighter, she knew that she was ready to take on all opponents now.

She sighed.
But I’m not sure I’m ready to take
this
on
. Telling someone about her gifts and what they meant was the hardest part. Because they never understood. Not really. Looking over at Ezekiel, she hoped he would be the first person to at least try.

“Battle mages have innate gifts that work with our natural skills,” she said. “Our powers enhance our body and to some extent our weapons, rather than the area around us. Unlike a weather mage who can call on the elements like wind and rain, or a fire mage who can call heat and flame, our gifts aren’t really outwardly focusing.”

She paused and looked at him. “You with me so far?”

He nodded. “You have intrinsic gifts—they enhance your already formidable body and skills rather than something else.”

“Yes,” she said with a quick nod. “We can make ourselves stronger, faster, and even harder to kill through our powers. But that’s just the tip of the iceberg, so to speak.”

“One point,” he said, interrupting.

She raised an eyebrow.

Nervously, he said, “Don’t take this the wrong way. But you’re essentially
cheating
in any fight or duel you commit to, then.”

“Offense not taken,” she said dryly, “and any battle mage will tell you you’re dead wrong.”

“If you’re enhancing your body and your skills with your power, I’d say I’m right,” he objected. “It’s like a runner in the coliseum games taking valierum to enhance their speed. It’s a plant that when crushed and chewed pushes up their adrenaline to allow them to out race their…”

She cut him off with a frown. “I know what valierum is. If you’d let me finish I’d tell you
why
you’re wrong.”

He shrugged. “By all means, do.”

She snorted. “Well, any battle mage would tell you that we
could
use our gifts to defeat any opponents we come across in every fight. But we don’t. Why? Because the battle mage who does that will die a very early death.”

His attention perked up. She could tell he didn’t like being wrong, but he probably liked learning new information even more. “What do you mean?”

“Battle mages who tap into too much power on a continuous basis are overrun by an overwhelming urge to kill. It’s what makes us such effective fighters. Even in the small fights I’ve had in Sandrin, I get a
high
from defeating an opponent. The feeling of euphoria is greater still when I kill that person. When I use my gifts in conjunction with my fighting skill, the euphoria becomes overwhelming,” she explained.

His eyes were wide. “Your own gift is drugging you in order to make you use more of the power? That’s really cool. Like a fight or flight instinct but set permanently to fight!”

“It’s worse than that,” she said. “Eventually battle mages reach a point when they use so much power at once that their mental state permanently changes. They become berserk
and are forever known as berserkers from there on out.”

“That’s what you were afraid of?” he said softly while leaning forward. “You were afraid you were going to become one of those berserkers?”

“I was afraid I was getting close,” she said. “Every berserker’s turning point is different. Mine could be as simple as fighting three goons in a row on the same day. I don’t know what it will be, but I know the turning point can vary based on who you are. If you’ve lived your whole life as a fighting slave, then of course it would take more to tip you over into that state.”

“They would have a higher tolerance point,” he said.

“Right. My father certainly did,” she said. “His whole life he used his gifts in the gladiator arena. He fought men every day. But he didn’t go berserk.”

“Maybe you inherited his resistance.”

She shrugged. “I don’t know about that, but then again there’s no one else to ask. Berserkers don’t live long, and they’re not very communicative once they’ve reached that state anyway.”

He raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Berserkers fight without ceasing from the moment they change over,” she said. “I’ve never heard of one living more than a few days after they go into that state.”

“Wouldn’t they be invincible, though?” he said.

“Against another battle mage, no,” she said. “But even against a regular human, a berserker can be brought down by a normal weapon. The problem is that it would take an extraordinary human to do so.”

“Then how?” He left the question hanging.

She answered. “The ones I’ve heard of turning always changed in the middle of war, surrounded on all sides by the enemy. There’s power in numbers.”

He nodded. “If they killed dozens, then…”

“There would still be dozens more to face,” she finished. “Do you understand now?”

He swallowed loudly. “Yeah, I do. That’s an immense weight to live with.”

She nodded. “One more reason I want to know how my father died and if possible to get back my family’s journals.”

“What journals?”

“My father and his father both wrote down their exploits. My father carried both wherever he went. They were never returned to my mother, and I intend to find out why. The shame of desertion is one thing. But to keep this from us is outright cruel.”