A Plague of Swords by Miles Cameron
Administrator Talean was present, too, of course, his blue cloak drawn tightly around his shoulders against the cold. He nodded to the boys in silent acknowledgment, looking grim. Davian nodded back, even after three years still vaguely surprised to see that the Administrator was taking no pleasure in these proceedings. It was sometimes hard to remember that Talean truly didn’t hate the Gifted, unlike so many of his counterparts around Andarra.
Last of all, secured to a chair in the center of the room, was Leehim.
The boy was only one year behind Davian at fifteen, but the vulnerability of his position made him look much younger. Leehim’s dark brown hair hung limply over his eyes, and his head was bowed and motionless. At first Davian thought he must be unconscious.
Then he noticed Leehim’s hands. Even tied firmly behind his back, they were trembling.
Talean sighed as the door clicked shut. “It seems we’re ready, then,” he said quietly. He exchanged glances with Elder Olin, then stepped in front of Leehim so that the boy could see him.
Everyone silently turned their attention to Leehim; the boy’s gaze was now focused on Talean and though he was doing his best to hide it, Davian could see the abject fear in his eyes.
The Administrator took a deep breath.
“Leehim Perethar. Three nights ago you left the school without a Shackle and unbound by the Fourth Tenet. You violated the Treaty.” He said the words formally, but there was compassion in his tone. “As a result, before these witnesses here, you are to be lawfully stripped of your ability to use Essence. After tonight you will not be welcome among the Gifted in Andarra—here, or anywhere else—without special dispensation from one of the Tols. Do you understand?”
Leehim nodded, and for a split second Davian thought this might go more easily than it usually did.
Then Leehim spoke, as everyone in his position did eventually.
“Please,” he said, his gaze sweeping around the room, eyes pleading. “Please, don’t do this. Don’t make me a Shadow. I made a mistake. It won’t happen again.”
Elder Olin looked at him sadly as he stepped forward, a small black disk in his hand. “It’s too late, lad.”
Leehim stared at him for a moment as if not comprehending, then shook his head. “No. Wait. Just wait.” The tears began to trickle down his cheeks, and he bucked helplessly at his restraints. Davian looked away as he continued imploringly. “Please. Elder Olin. I won’t survive as a Shadow. Elder Seandra. Just wait. I—”
From the corner of his eye, Davian saw Elder Olin reach down and press the black disk against the skin on Leehim’s neck.
He forced himself to turn back and watch as the boy stopped in midsentence. Only Leehim’s eyes moved now; everything else was motionless. Paralyzed.
Elder Olin let go of the disk for a moment; it stuck to Leehim’s neck as if affixed with glue. The Elder straightened, then looked over to Talean, who reluctantly nodded his confirmation.
The Elder leaned down again, this time touching a single finger to the disk.
“I’m sorry, Leehim,” he murmured, closing his eyes.
A nimbus of light coalesced around Elder Olin’s hand; after a moment the glow started inching along his extended finger and draining into the disk.
Leehim’s entire body began to shake.
It was just a little at first, barely noticeable, but then suddenly became violent as his muscles started to spasm. Talean gently put his hand on Leehim’s shoulder, steadying the boy so his chair didn’t topple.
Elder Olin removed his finger from the disk after a few more seconds, but Leehim continued to convulse. Bile rose in Davian’s throat as dark lines began to creep outward from Leehim’s eyes, ugly black veins crawling across his face and leaching the colour from his skin. A disfigurement that would be with Leehim for the rest of his life.
Then the boy went limp, and it was over.
Talean made sure Leehim was breathing, then helped Elder Olin untie him. “Poor lad probably won’t even remember getting caught,” he said softly. He hesitated, then glanced over at Elder Seandra, who was still staring hollowly at Leehim’s slumped form. “I’m sorry it came to this—I know you liked the lad. When he wakes up I’ll give him some food and a few coins before I send him on his way.”
Seandra was silent for a moment, then nodded. “Thank you, Administrator,” she said quietly. “I appreciate that.”
Davian looked up as Elder Olin finished what he was doing and came to stand in front of the boys.
“Are you all right?” he asked, the question clearly aimed at Davian more than Wirr.
Davian swallowed, emotions churning, but nodded. “Yes,” he lied.
The Elder gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Thank you for being here tonight. I know it can’t have been easy.” He nodded to the door. “Now. Both of you should go and get some rest.”
Davian and Wirr inclined their heads in assent, giving Leehim’s limp form one last glance before exiting the Administrator’s office.
Wirr rubbed his forehead tiredly as they walked. “Want some company for a few minutes? There’s no chance I’m going straight to sleep after that.”
Davian nodded. “You and me both.”
They made their way back to the North Tower in thoughtful, troubled silence.
Once back in Davian’s room both boys sat, neither speaking for a time.
Finally Wirr stirred, expression sympathetic as he looked across at his friend. “Are you really all right?”
Davian hesitated for a moment, still trying to sort through the maelstrom of emotions he’d been struggling with for the past several minutes. Eventually he just shrugged.
“At least I know what I have to look forward to,” he said wryly, doing his best not to let his voice shake.
Wirr grimaced, then gave him a hard look. “Don’t say that, Dav. There’s still time.”
“Still time?” Normally Davian would have forced a smile and taken the encouragement, but tonight it rang too false for him to let it go. “The Festival of Ravens is in three weeks, Wirr. Three weeks until the Trials, and if I can’t use Essence before then, I end up the same way as Leehim. A Shadow.” He shook his head, despair thick in his voice. “It’s been three years since I got the El-cursed Mark, and I haven’t been able to do so much as touch Essence since then. I’m not sure there’s even anything left for me to try.”
“That doesn’t mean you should just give up,” observed Wirr.
Davian hesitated, then looked at his friend in frustration. “Can you honestly tell me that you think I’m going to pass the Trials?”
Wirr stiffened. “Dav, that’s hardly fair.”
“Then you don’t think I will?” pressed Davian.
Wirr scowled. “Fine.” He composed himself, leaning forward and looking Davian in the eye. “I think you’re going to pass the Trials.”
His tone was full of conviction, but it didn’t stop Davian from seeing the dark, smokelike tendrils escaping Wirr’s mouth.
“Told you,” Davian said quietly.
Wirr glared at him, then sighed. “Fates, I hate that ability of yours sometimes,” he said, shaking his head. “Look—I do believe there’s a chance. And while there’s a chance, you’d be foolish not to try everything you can. You know that.”
Wirr wasn’t lying this time, and Davian felt a stab of guilt at having put his friend in such an awkward position. He rubbed his forehead, exhaling heavily.
“Sorry. You’re right. That wasn’t fair,” he admitted, taking a deep breath and forcing his swirling emotions to settle a little. “I know you’re only trying to help. And I’m not giving up… I’m just running out of ideas. I’ve read every book on the Gift that we have, tried every mental technique. The Elders all say my academic understanding is flawless. I don’t know what else I can do.”
Wirr inclined his head. “Nothing to be sorry for, Dav. We’ll think of something.”
There was silence for a few moments, and Davian hesitated. “I know
Wirr considered the statement for a few seconds, then shook his head. “It’s not different enough. Not to the Elders, and certainly not to Administration if they ever found out.” He stared at his friend sympathetically. “Fates know I don’t want to see you become a Shadow, Dav, but that’s nothing compared to what would happen if anyone heard even a whisper of what you can do. If it even crosses their minds that you can Read someone, they’ll call you an Augur—and the Treaty’s pretty clear on what happens next. The Elders may love you, but in that scenario, they’d still turn you in to Administration in a heartbeat.”
Davian scowled, but eventually nodded. They’d had this conversation many times, and it always ended the same way. Wirr was right, and they both knew it.
“Back to studying, then, I suppose,” said Davian, glancing over at the jumble of books on his desk.
Wirr frowned as he followed Davian’s gaze. “Did it ever occur to you that you’re just pushing yourself too hard, Dav? I know you’re worried, but exhaustion isn’t going to help.”
“I need to make use of what time I have,” Davian observed, his tone dry.
“But if you ever want to use Essence, you need to sleep more than an hour or two each night, too. It’s no wonder you can’t do so much as light a candle; you’re probably draining your Reserve just by staying awake for so long.”
Davian gestured tiredly. He’d heard this theory from plenty of concerned people over the past few weeks, but it was the first time Wirr had brought it up. The trouble was, he knew it was true—when a Gifted pushed their body past its limits they instinctively drew Essence from their Reserve, using it to fuel their body in place of sleep. And if he was draining his Reserve to stay awake, his efforts to access the Essence contained within were doomed to failure.
Still, three years of keeping sensible hours had done nothing to solve his problem. Whatever prevented him from using the Gift, it ran deeper than a lack of sleep.
Wirr watched him for a few moments, then sighed, getting slowly to his feet. “Anyway—regardless of whether you plan to sleep, I certainly do. Elder Caen expects me to be able to identify the major motivations of at least half the Assembly, and I have a session with her tomorrow.” He glanced out the window. “In a few hours, actually.”
“You don’t sleep during those extra lessons on politics? I just assumed that was why you took them.” Davian summoned a weary smile to show he was joking. “You’re right, though. Thanks for the company, Wirr. I’ll see you at lunch.”
Davian waited until Wirr had left, then reluctantly considered the title of the next book he had laid aside for study. Principles of Draw and Regeneration. He’d read it a few weeks earlier, but maybe he’d missed something. There had to be some reason he couldn’t access Essence, something he hadn’t understood.
The Elders thought it was a block, that he was subconsciously resisting his power because of his first experience with it, the day he’d received his scar. Davian was doubtful, though; that pain had long since faded. And he knew that if he really was an Augur, that fact in itself could well be causing the issue… but information on Andarra’s former leaders was so hard to find, nowadays, that there was little point even thinking about the possibility.
Besides—perhaps it was simply technique. Perhaps if he read enough about the nature of the Gift, he could still gain sufficient insight to overcome the problem.
Despite his resolve, now that he was alone again he found the words on the cover blurring in front of him, and his jaws cracking open unbidden for a yawn. Perhaps Wirr was right about one thing. Exhaustion wasn’t going to help.
Reluctantly he stood up, leaned over, and extinguished the lamp.
He settled into his bed, staring up into the darkness. His mind still churned. Despite his tiredness, despite the late hour, it was some time before he slept.
introducing
If you enjoyed
THE PLAGUE OF SWORDS,
look out for
BATTLEMAGE
Age of Darkness
by Stephen Aryan
Balfruss is a battlemage, sworn to fight and die for a country that fears and despises his kind.
Vargus is a common soldier—while mages shoot lightning from the walls of the city, he’s down in the front lines getting blood on his blade.
Talandra is a princess and spymaster, but the war may force her to risk everything and make the greatest sacrifice of all.
Chapter 1
Another light snow shower fell from the bleak grey sky. Winter should have been over, yet ice crunched underfoot and the mud was hard as stone. Frost clung to almost everything, and a thick, choking fog lay low on the ground. Only those desperate or greedy travelled in such conditions.
Two nights of sleeping outdoors had leached all the warmth from Vargus’s bones. The tips of his fingers were numb and he couldn’t feel his toes any more. He hoped they were still attached when he took off his boots; he’d seen it happen to others in the cold. Whole toes had come off and turned black without them noticing, rolling around like marbles in the bottom of their boots.
Vargus led his horse by the reins. It would be suicide for them both to ride in this fog.
Up ahead something orange flickered amid the grey and white. The promise of a fire gave Vargus a boost of energy and he stamped his feet harder than necessary. Although the fog muffled the sound, it would carry to the sentry up ahead on his left.
The bowman must have been sitting in the same position for hours as the grey blanket over his head was almost completely white.
As Vargus drew closer his horse snorted, picking up the scent of other animals, men and cooking meat. Vargus pretended he hadn’t seen the man and tried very hard not to stare at his longbow. After stringing the bow with one quick flex the sentry readied an arrow, but in order to loose it he would have to stand up.
“That’s far enough.”
That came from another sentry on Vargus’s right who stepped out from between the skeletons of two shattered trees. He was a burly man dressed in dirty furs and mismatched leathers. Although chipped and worn the long sword he carried looked sharp.
“You a King’s man?”
Vargus snorted. “No, not me.”
“What do you want?”
He shrugged. “A spot by your fire is all I’m after.”
Despite the fog the sound of their voices must have carried as two others came towards them from the camp. The newcomers were much like the others, desperate men with scarred faces and mean eyes.
“You got any coin?” asked one of the newcomers, a bald and bearded man in old-fashioned leather armour.
Vargus shook his head. “Not much, but I got this.” Moving slowly he pulled two wine skins down from his saddle. “Shael rice wine.”
The first sentry approached. Vargus could still feel the other pointing an arrow at his back. With almost military precision the man went through his saddlebags, but his eyes nervously flicked towards Vargus from time to time. A deserter then, afraid someone had been sent after him.
“What we got, Lin?” called Baldy.
“A bit of food. Some silver. Not much else,” the sentry answered.
“Let him pass.”
Lin didn’t step back. “Are you sure, boss?”
The others were still on edge. They were right to be nervous if they were who Vargus suspected. The boss came forward and keenly looked Vargus up and down. He knew what the boss was seeing. A man past fifty summers, battle scarred and grizzled with liver spots on the back of his big hands. A man with plenty of grey mixed in with the black stubble on his face and head.
“You going to give us any trouble with that?” asked Baldy, pointing at the
“I don’t want no trouble. Just a spot by the fire and I’ll share the wine.”
“Good enough for me. I’m Korr. These are my boys.”
“Vargus.”
He gestured for Vargus to follow him and the others eased hands away from weapons. “Cold enough for you?”
“Reminds me of a winter, must be twenty years ago, up north. Can’t remember where.”
“Travelled much?”
Vargus grunted. “All over. Too much.”
“So, where’s home?” asked Korr. The questions were asked casually, but Vargus had no doubt about it being an interrogation.
“Right now, here.”
They passed through a line of trees where seven horses were tethered. Vargus tied his horse up with the others and walked into camp. It was a good sheltered spot, surrounded by trees on three sides and a hill with a wide cave mouth on the other. A large roaring fire crackled in the middle of camp and two men were busy cooking beside it. One was cutting up a hare and dropping pieces into a bubbling pot, while the other prodded some blackened potatoes next to the blaze. All of the men were armed and they carried an assortment of weapons that looked well used.
As Vargus approached the fire a massive figure stood up and came around from the other side. It was over six and a half feet tall, dressed in a bear skin and wide as two normal men. The man’s face was severely deformed with a protruding forehead, small brown eyes that were almost black, and a jutting bottom jaw with jagged teeth.
“Easy Rak,” said Korr. The giant relaxed the grip on his sword and Vargus let out a sigh of relief. “He brought us something to drink.”
Rak’s mouth widened, revealing a whole row of crooked yellow teeth. It took Vargus a few seconds to realise the big man was smiling. Rak moved back to the far side of the fire and sat down again. Only then did Vargus move his hand away from the dagger on his belt.
He settled close to the fire next to Korr and for a time no one spoke, which suited him fine. He closed his eyes and soaked up some of the warmth, wiggling his toes inside his boots. The heat began to take the chill from his hands and his fingers started to tingle.