Mystic (16 page)

 

NINE

THE BLACK CLAWS

The spear pushed against Sim's chest. He lifted his hands and slowly eyed its wielder. A short man in dusty clothes with a ratlike face glared at him. Behind him, another man emerged from a bush holding a drawn bow. Even in the dim, early-evening light, Sim could see the sharp tip of the arrow pointed his way.

“You're snooping where you shouldn't,” said the spear holder in an unfamiliar accent. Sim estimated the man was ten years older than he was. Greasy hair hung past his ears, and a patchy beard attempted to grow on his chin. “What ya doing here?”

Sim swallowed. “Going home.”

“Oh, yeah? Where's that?”

Sim narrowed his eyes. He could tell from the man's expression that nothing he said would help him. This was trouble no matter how the metal cooled. “I escorted a friend to Sentry. Now I'm going back to Oakspring.”

“Ya hear that, Hormin?” the spear holder said. “The scrit says he's from the same Oaktown as the girl.”

Sim's guts clenched. “What do you mean?”

“Careful, Jank,” said Hormin. “He might be a ranger.” The bowman was maybe a year or two younger than Sim, barely old enough to shave. Hormin's sharp eyes pierced Sim from behind the ready bowstring.

“Don't be an idiot,” Jank sneered, keeping his spear aimed at Sim. “Does he look like a blowing ranger to you? He's dressed like a commoner.”

“With a sword,” Hormin pointed out.

“Besides,” Jank continued. “Look at him. He's all worked up on the girl. You know her, scrit?”

Sim forced himself to unclench his fist. “I'm just passing through,” he said. They had to be talking about Pomella. What other girl from Oakspring could they possibly care about?

Jank shook his head. “Then why were ya spying on us, huh? Sorry, scrit, now that you've seen our camp, you can't go anywhere. You might go talking to the wrong people.” His spear dropped as he turned to face Hormin. “Zicon wants—”

Sim knocked the spear aside and lunged at him. He easily overpowered the smaller man, slamming him to the ground. Somewhere in his mind, a voice told him this probably wasn't the wisest of ideas. He ignored the voice and plunged his fist into Jank's jaw.

The force of the punch and resulting pain in his hand knocked Sim off balance. He struggled to regain his position. By the Saints, did all punches hurt the attacker, too? The hilt of his sheathed sword jabbed into his ribs. The jagged thing was more of a hindrance than a benefit!

He pushed himself off Jank and ran. The back of Sim's head tingled as he imagined Hormin aiming an arrow at him. He ripped to his right, hoping his skittering movements would prevent an arrow from lodging in his back.

“Get him!” Jank roared.

Sim angled around an oak tree. He looked back to find Jank. In the dim evening light he couldn't see—

A thick club slammed into him, sending his feet skyward. He hit the ground hard, the last of his breath knocked away.

When the world resolved back into focus, a thick man stood over him. Sim blinked a few times before he managed to find his senses and some air. The large man looming above him was actually a woman with wispy blond hair pulled tight into a short braid. The club she'd hit him with had just been her arm.

Jank strode over to stand beside the large woman. He rubbed his jaw and glared at Sim. “If it weren't for our orders, your blood would be on the ground,” he said. He kicked Sim in the stomach twice. Sim rolled in agony as Jank snatched his sword and canvas sack from him.

The rat-faced man rummaged through the sack and pulled out Pomella's book. His expression darkened as he examined the cover. “Bag him,” the man said.

Sim's heart skipped a beat as the woman hauled him to his feet before throwing a sack over his head and tying his hands behind his back. They spun him around and shoved him toward the camp.

*   *   *

The sound of the blacksmith's hammering returned as the three bandits led him forward. Beneath the patchy sack, Sim managed to see only a few vague shadows.

“Get Zicon,” Jank muttered to one of the others.

The large woman's thick hands shoved Sim, then ducked his head into one of the tents. He heard the clank of heavy iron, and moments later found himself bound at the wrists and ankles.

“Cause any trouble,” Jank breathed beside Sim's head, “and I'll gut you.”

Fear charged through Sim. But alongside that fear ran a surge of anger. He heard Jank leave the tent, and sensed he was alone. He took a steadying breath, and tried not to imagine what they were going to do with him. Tugging his wrists, he tested the manacles, but found no yield. They were solid iron, and nothing was going to break that.

Long minutes passed, and Sim realized all he could do was wait. Finally, he heard the tent flap open again, and several footsteps thumped in.

Somebody yanked the canvas sack off his head. Sim blinked. A large man with a black beard and blue eyes stood in front of him. He was taller than Sim, which was uncommon. Atop a black shirt he wore layered leather armor dotted with small studs. A braided cord hung around his neck, its end tucked beneath his shirt. Behind him, Jank and Sim's other captors—Hormin and the tall, meaty woman—stood glaring at him.

The bearded man stared at Sim, weighing him as he scratched his chin. Finally, he turned to Jank and spoke with the same cutting accent as Sim's other captors. “What's this scat you dragged in?”

Jank shifted his feet. “He was spying on us.”

“This lumbering grunt? He's not old enough to have hair in his pits.”

“I was walking home,” Sim replied. “I heard the blacksmith. I came to see—”

“Nobody asked you, boy,” snarled the large man.

Jank sneered. “He's lying. He had that book, Zicon. And he attacked me.”

The large man, Zicon, grunted and studied Sim. “I don't really care what you were doing. But you're going to have to stay awhile. Can't have you running off and talking about us.”

“I won't say anything to anybody. I'll just go home.”

Zicon sneered a laugh. “It's not that easy.” He nodded to Jank. “Keep him tied up. Make sure he gets food and water twice a day. Keep him quiet.”

“You're just going to leave me tied?” Sim snarled. “You jagged culk!” He'd show this man some backbone. Sim's stomach churned in fear, but he'd be spiked if he let it show.

The bearded man loomed in Sim's face. His breath stank in Sim's nose. “What'd you just call me?”

“Culk,” Sim repeated, holding his eye and saying it nice and slow. “A jagged
culk
.”

“I'll cut him up for you, Zicon,” Jank said, sounding eager.

Zicon fumed silently for a moment before leaning close. “You're with the Black Claws now. An' you know what I think? I think you're just a stupid, skivering brat. But I can't bleed ya, and I can't let ya go.” He turned away, then twisted back and slammed a massive fist into Sim's stomach. It took a moment for Sim to realize he was on the ground, curled up and coughing. “But I
can
make your maggoty life miserable,” Zicon said over him. “Don't
ever
call me a culk again or I'll set Jank loose on ya.”

They filed out of the tent, Jank sneering as he passed. Trying not to vomit, Sim dragged himself to his feet, his chains clanking.

“Put me to work, Zicon,” he said. His guts ached.

Zicon stopped. “What?”

“I can sit here and eat your food twice a day, or you can put me to work for the camp. I'm a blacksmith apprentice.”

Zicon glared at him. “And why would you offer that?”

Sim wondered that himself. Maybe the punch had shaken the sense out of his bones, but the thought of remaining chained up terrified him. If they took the chains off, he might find an opportunity to escape. He'd also have a better chance of discovering what they planned to do with Pomella. Working in the camp would help him more than sitting in a dark tent.

Zicon burst out laughing. Jank and Hormin joined him. The woman remained silent and unmoving.

“You've got less smarts than the corn you grow in Oakville if you think I'll let you walk about free in my camp.”

“Let him.”

The voice stopped the laughter cold. A chill sense of dread ran up Sim's spine. Hearing that voice, Sim thought of a knife being sharpened. A thin man stepped through the tent doorway. He wore rust-colored robes, trimmed in black, with the hood pulled up. It obscured most of his face, but a long red and gray beard jutted out. The man clutched a tall iron staff.

Jank, Hormin, and the woman bowed immediately, while Zicon barely dipped his head.

A Mystic. Only one of them could carry such a staff and command such respect. It had been years since Sim had actually seen one. The natural urge to bow tugged at Sim, but he remained tall. It was a small defiance, but he held on to it. He did, however, lower his eyes. Some habits were just too hard to drop.

“Tell it again, boy,” the Mystic said in an unmistakable Mothic accent. “Are you a 'prentice smith? Speak true. I will know if you lie.”

Sim swallowed. “Yah, I am.”

“He'll just run away,” Zicon grumbled to the man.

“Then put a guard on him,” said the Mystic, unfazed. “Surely you can spare one of your otherwise useless mercenaries for the job.”

Zicon sneered. “You'll watch your tongue, Mystic, or—”

He stopped as the Mystic pulled back his hood, and turned his full gaze upon Zicon. The tent seemed to grow colder, more dim. Sim slunk back before he realized it.

The Mystic had familiar Mothic features: red hair laced with gray, green eyes, and light skin. Scars laced his face, and Sim could see blackened teeth as he spoke. But the strangest part of the man was the curved plate of iron fused into the dome of his head, like a cap stitched onto him. Raw edges of flesh, black with dry blood, lay exposed along the seams of metal. Now that he noticed it, Sim glimpsed bits of metal sewn into other parts of the man's body, along his hands and jaw.

“You will not threaten me,” the Mystic whispered.

Zicon swallowed. “I'm not afraid of—”

Zicon's eyes widened, and Sim wondered why he stopped talking. A small trickle of blood oozed from Zicon's nose. He touched it and his hand began to tremble.

“And you will remember your place, commoner,” said the Mystic. “This filthy band may follow you, but you are mine.”

Zicon's eyes bulged as both nostrils began to bleed. His hands went to his throat.

“I've traveled too far,” said the Mystic, stepping closer to Zicon, “and come too far for you to challenge me. I have plans for this island. Fall into line, like an obedient dog. Do you know what my name means?”

Zicon shook his head, frantic.

The Mystic peered into his face. Jank and the other mercenaries kept their eyes on the ground. “The language of the lagharts is nuanced, and beyond comprehension for your maggoty mind. They have a word that means ‘pain.' But also ‘love.' Passion for something so deep that you would accept any risk, or go to any length for it.”

Zicon crashed to his knees, trembling, “Stop! Please!”

“Speak the word,” the Mystic said. “My name.”

“Ohzem!” Zicon managed. Sim shuddered at the harsh, almost hacking-like sound of the name.

The Mystic, Ohzem, replaced his hood. Zicon stopped his thrashing and steadied himself on a table before glaring hatred at the man.

A quiet shiver tingled over Sim's body as the Mystic stepped toward him. An icy resonance drifted off him. Ohzem reached into a large pocket within his robes and pulled out Pomella's book. He turned it over in the dim candlelight.

“I believe this is yours,” Ohzem said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Sim swallowed. “Y-yah.”

“It may be wiser to let it collect dust on your mhathir's bookshelf. Commoners cannot become Mystics, you see.”

Holding Sim's gaze, he handed the book over. Sim took it with trembling hands. He hated that the Mystic put so much fear into him.

“I have need of this boy, Zicon,” Ohzem said. “You will let him work the forge. You will not make him bleed. We are short on time and resources. His skilled labor is of use to our task. The Myst delivers in our time of need.”

“As you wish,” Zicon growled, standing up. “But if he ruins anything, he'll be back here in twice as many chains. Jank, you're in charge of watching him. Don't scowl at me; just do it.”

He turned his angry blue eyes onto Sim. “And as for you, if you so much as look toward home without permission, I'll let Mags have her way with ya. Understand?”

Sim glanced past Zicon at the heavy woman. She crossed her arms across her large bosom and stared at him with calm, muted hatred. He suppressed a shiver and nodded. “Yah. I got it.”

“Get him some food and get him working in the morning, Jank. Tonight, he sleeps in the rain.”