Decimus Fate and the Talisman of Dreams Page 2

  The youths on the ground began to writhe and choke as if their limbs were frozen and they could not breathe, and the leader smiled. He had stolen the sphere from his master’s workshop and he was glad to see that it had been worth the risk.

  The stranger seemed to stagger and the leader smiled, but then a magical light sprang up beneath the stranger’s doublet as if the skin of his chest was glowing. The light was fierce, like fire, and the green smoke began to dissipate.

  The leader stared in disbelief as the stranger stepped clear of the smoke and walked towards him. The magical fumes in the sphere were strong enough to fell a draught horse, but the black man in the dark clothes seemed unaffected and now he stood there as calm and intimidating as ever.

  The leader looked down at the stranger’s chest where the neck of his black doublet had been pulled open to reveal the edge of a tattoo that glowed faintly in the man’s dark flesh. The leader’s eyes widened as he recognised the tattoo of a demon hunter. Originally formed to combat demons that broke through into the human world, this elite unit of warriors had become a weapon to be used against those who opposed the emperor. For a moment the apprentice mage paused in fear then, with a snarl of frustration, he turned to run still cradling the merchant’s chest in his arms.

  Still holding the knife he had taken from one of his attackers, the stranger drew back his arm and threw it. The leader was barely twenty paces away when the knife took him in the back of the leg. With a cry he fell forward and the chest went skidding from his grasp. With the knife still sticking out of his leg he tried to get to his feet as the stranger advanced towards him.

  The magical green smoke had now lifted from the other youths and with much groaning and choking they picked themselves up from the ground. The stranger walked past the injured leader to retrieve the chest from the street before looking down at the young man.

  ‘You were foolish to ignore Veleno’s decree on the merchant guild,’ he said. ‘But I will keep my silence if you promise to leave the city.’

  ‘Silence!’ spat the leader of the gang. ‘It should be you asking me to keep silent.’ With a grunt he pulled the knife from his leg and staggered to his feet. ‘I know what you are,’ he said, pointing a finger at the stranger’s chest. ‘I know why the magic didn’t harm you.’

  He paused, wincing with pain.

  ‘You’re a deserter, and I think Master Veleno will be very interested to know that one of your sort is holed up in the city.’ Even though he was pale and sweating, the young apprentice mage smiled. ‘In fact I’m sure he would pay handsomely for such information.’

  The stranger’s blue eyes suddenly hardened.

  ‘Silence would be the wiser course.’

  ‘Silence be damned,’ said the leader. ‘Maybe this night will prove worthwhile after all.’ With that he jerked his chin at the members of the gang and together they limped away into the night.

  The stranger watched them go then he gave a heavy sigh and turned back to the merchant who was still standing beside his mule. The merchant drew a shuddering breath and watched as the stranger returned the chest to his saddlebag.

  ‘I’ll see you home,’ said the stranger. ‘But next time don’t ignore the advice of one of the wisest people in the city.’

  The merchant was still in shock, but he gave a nervous nod. He now remembered seeing the stranger in the Fool’s Hope Inn, but the merchant did not move in magical circles and so he had not heard the story of the dark-skinned man with blue eyes and a tattoo on his chest that protected him from magical harm. Had he heard such stories he would know that the young apprentice mage was right…

  The stranger had once been a demon hunter in the service of the emperor. That was before he rebelled against his oath and paid a terrible price for his disobedience. Now he lived the quiet life of a hired sword, taking on whatever protection work he could find.

  His name was Alexander Teuton, but the patrons of the Fool’s Hope knew him only as the Tutor.

  2

  The Sage of Blackfell House

  It was almost midnight in a more affluent part of the city where three people were engaged in a desperate battle to save a young girl’s life. There was the lawyer, his wife, and a tall man in charcoal grey robes.

  The bedroom was bathed in candlelight as the girl’s choking breaths filled the air. Her head was strained backwards, her neck bulged and the tracery of veins beneath her skin shone with a sickly purple light. The furnishings in the room spoke of wealth, but no amount of money could help the girl, and the lawyer’s hands were slippery with sweat as he held his daughter down.

  ‘Hold her tight!’ said the man in the charcoal grey robes as he strode to one side of the room and used a slender dagger to scratch an arcane symbol into the wall.

  Similar marks were now scrawled upon numerous items in the room. The man had used soot to write on curtains and used his dagger to carve symbols in the dressing table and floor boards. He had even cut his arm so he could use his own blood to paint mysterious characters on the window. Every time he wrote something down the girl’s suffering seemed to increase as wisps of purple smoke emerged from her mouth and tendrils of magical energy radiated from her body. The glowing tendrils passed through the lawyer’s clothes and burned his skin and he gritted his teeth as he tried to maintain his hold.

  The magical strands also sought out the man in the charcoal grey robes, but he seemed oblivious to the searing pain. His attention was focussed entirely on containing the curse that had been cast upon the girl. If he got it wrong the curse would re-establish itself more strongly than ever and the girl was not strong enough to endure a second attempt to free her.

  Standing at the foot of the bed, the lawyer’s wife was deathly pale as she clutched her hands to her throat.

  ‘You must be ready to comfort her,’ the man in the charcoal robes had told her. ‘You must be calm and strong. No matter how you feel you must make her believe that she is safe and loved. If she doubts you, she will die.’

  Terrified but resolute, the woman could only nod.

  And so it had come to this. The lawyer and his wife were beyond themselves with worry, but this was their last hope. They had tried everything but no one had been able to help them until a local healer suggested they try the man in the charcoal robes, the man known to some as the Sage of Blackfell House.

  Exhausted and sick with anguish, the lawyer snatched a glance at the man who had come to help them. Tall and slim, with broad shoulders and shoulder length hair, he struck an imposing figure. His features were strong, almost hawkish, with prominent cheekbones and a full mouth that was now clamped tight with concentration. But it was his eyes that gave one pause. Those eyes were so dark as to be almost black and yet they glittered with flecks of gold. Such gold flecked eyes were the mark of a feral mage and yet the man in the charcoal robes insisted that he did not use magic.

  ‘How can you save her if you don’t use magic?’ the lawyer had asked.

  ‘Curses like this can be broken with certain symbols and patterns,’ said the Sage. ‘Magic would make it easier but the correct placement of the symbols should suffice.’ He paused. ‘But the process puts great strain on the body. Your daughter may well die in the attempt.’

  ‘She is dying already,’ the lawyer had said.

  ‘Then we shall try.’

  That was two hours ago and the girl did indeed look close to death. Her eyes had rolled back in her head and her body convulsed each time the robed man added a new set of symbols.

  ‘We’re close,’ he said. ‘But this curse was designed to resist interference. The more I constrain it the more dangerous the energy will become.’

  Dropping to his knees he scratched a series of characters in the corner of the girl’s bedside table before stepping back to survey all the marks he had made. The lawyer and his wife glanced at each other then tensed as their daughter’s body was caught in a spasm of magical force.

  ‘Esme!’ cried the mother and the lawyer groa
ned as glowing skeins of magic engulfed his arms, but the man in the charcoal robes merely frowned.

  Magical energy had begun to surround the girl’s body in a writhing nimbus of light that was slowly expanding outwards. Each time it encountered one of the marks it shrank back as if it were probing for weakness and the Sage gave a snarl of frustration. The arcane symbols might contain the curse, but without actual magic they were not strong enough to break it. His only hope was to focus the malicious force in one location. Turning to the mother he barked out a demand.

  ‘I need something to write on,’ he snapped. ‘Something hard but easily broken.’

  The magical force had found a gap in the confining circle and was now growing in strength as if it could breathe through it, but still the terrified woman just looked at him.

  ‘Quickly!’ said the man.

  His harsh tone brought the woman to her senses and her eyes swept around the room.

  ‘Here,’ said the mother, passing him a comb from the girl’s dressing table.

  The man turned it over in his hands. The comb was made from bone and the spine was flat and smooth. If he kept the characters small it should do. Holding his dagger by the blade he began to write. He needed to get the characters just right or it would not work. Within a matter of seconds he had finished and he placed the comb in the gap between two of his previous marks.

  Immediately the glowing energy began to probe this new inscription and to the mother’s horror it seemed to grow in strength. The marks on the comb started to glow while those scratched into the floor boards on either side began to dissolve as if they were formed from nothing more than dust. In a matter of moments all the Sage’s work would be undone.

  The mother glanced at the tall man who was now focussed entirely on the comb. For a moment she thought he had failed, but then his expression took on a distinct note of satisfaction and the gold flecks in his eyes seemed to glow.

  ‘Yes!’ he cried, and with a suddenness that made her start, the man fell to his knees, took the magic-infused comb in his hands and snapped it.

  A burst of magical light exploded around his hands and the comb was reduced to dust. For the first time, the man cried out in pain and his fingers curled into claws as the burning energy surged through his flesh.

  The woman might have gone to help him, but the sound of her daughter’s cry captured her attention. Turning round, she saw her husband release his grip as their daughter began to weep. She was no longer straining from the torment of the curse, she was simply frightened and confused. Slowly they helped her to sit up and some of the fear seemed to fade from her eyes.

  ‘I had the most terrible dream,’ she said, her voice hoarse and quiet.

  ‘I know,’ said the mother. ‘But it’s over now. You’re safe.’

  With that she drew her daughter into her arms and held her close.

  Still holding his hands out in front of him, the man in the charcoal robes got to his feet. For a moment he watched the family come together on the bed. Raising his left arm, he adjusted a charm bracelet on his wrist until a tiny pewter wren hung down. For a moment he watched the charm as if he were waiting for it to give him some sign then, seemingly satisfied, he relaxed his arm. Finally, he reached out with his senses, but no trace of the curse remained. It was done.

  Without a word, he walked quietly away and slipped out through the bedroom door. At the stairs, he reached for the banister and winced. His hands still burned with incredible pain, but that would pass with time. Slowly he made his way down to the ground floor of the house. He had just opened the front door when he heard the lawyer’s voice.

  ‘Sir!’ said the lawyer. ‘Sir! Please wait!’

  The man in the charcoal robes turned, his hawkish face illuminated by the oil lamp that burned in the porch.

  ‘My friend,’ said the lawyer, ‘How can we ever thank you?’

  ‘No thanks are necessary,’ said the man.

  ‘Surely…,’ began the lawyer, but the man in the charcoal robes raised a hand to cut him off.

  ‘I take it you know the person responsible for the curse.’

  The lawyer’s expression darkened. ‘I have my suspicions.’

  ‘And I take it they are still at large.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the lawyer and the man in the charcoal robes gave a sigh. A curse like this used to be quite rare, but in recent years they were becoming more common.

  ‘Maybe it’s time for you and your family to leave Guile,’ said the man. ‘You might want to try the mage city of Confluence. The council there still exerts a degree of control and the use of such malicious magic is frowned upon.’

  ‘I will consider it,’ said the lawyer. ‘But for now, please allow me to…’

  ‘Goodnight,’ said the man and before the lawyer could finish he swept out of the door and off into the night. He wanted no payment and he did not deserve their thanks. The spell that had tormented this family was a painful reminder of the curses he had cast when he lived under the thrall of magic. He had not cared if the target was worthy of such punishment, only that he got paid. And unlike the spell cast on the lawyer’s daughter, his curses had not been so easily broken.

  The man walked on through the empty streets of Guile, but every shadowed alleyway seemed to be filled with the ghosts of his past. There had been a time when he lived for magic and power; a time when his very name struck fear into the richest and most powerful people in the land. Now only a handful of people in the city knew his true identity and he was happy to be forgotten.

  He was no longer a notorious sorcerer, no longer the man who slew the Demon of the Vale . He now used his knowledge of the arcane arts to help people where he could.

  He was the man in charcoal grey robes.

  The Sage of Blackfell House.

  And his name was Decimus Fate.

  3

  The Fool’s Hope

  Even as Fate and the Tutor headed for home, two monks entered the river city of Guile. One was male and the other female and both had the dark hair and bronze skin of the Shīku people. Dressed in golden yellow robes, they provided a splash of colour in the dark streets of the city. The man was of medium height with a lean build that spoke of discipline and physical fitness. By contrast, the woman was small and slender. Her long hair was gathered into a knot and held in place by a pin of polished cherry wood. The man’s gaze was hard and alert, while the woman looked about her with an air of curious serenity.

  As they passed through the northwest gate, they were approached by several people offering them a place to stay for the night. The woman met these offers with a smile, while the man dismissed them with a stern wave of the hand.

  Moving beyond the disgruntled faces they approached a group of grubby children gathered against the wall. They were squatting round a small pot filled with burning embers and each of them held a crude lantern tied to the end of a stick. They watched the strangers approach then jumped to their feet as the male monk held up a coin.

  ‘We are seeking a particular inn.’

  ‘I’ll take you anywhere in the city for two coins,’ said one boy of about ten.

  ‘I’ll do it for one,’ said a girl of similar age.

  The male monk held the coin as if he were considering his options until a slightly older boy stepped forward.

  ‘I’ll do it for a blessing,’ he said and the twinkle in his eye made the female monk smile.

  ‘What is your name, my son?’ she asked, her voice surprisingly deep and melodic.

  ‘They call me Weasel.’

  ‘Is that because you’re good at getting out of trouble?’

  ‘No,’ said the boy. ‘It’s because I can take down prey more than twice my size.’ He gave a little laugh at his own cleverness and the female monk’s smile grew a shade warmer.

  ‘Very well, Weasel… Convey us safely and the blessings of the Inja will be yours.’

  The other children looked on sourly, but Weasel simply grinned and crouched down to light his la
ntern from the embers in the pot.

  ‘So where’s it to be?’ he asked.

  ‘The Fool’s Hope Inn,’ said the male monk.

  ‘The Fool’s Hope it is,’ said the boy and with that he led them off into the twisting streets of Guile.

  *

  It was after midnight when the Tutor finally returned to the Fool’s Hope Inn, a large two-storey building of plaster, brick and timber. The sign over the door depicted two hands, one reaching down to the other in an act of kindness.

  Many of the patrons had long since left for home, but the Tutor could still see candles shining through the dimpled windows and he could hear the low murmur of late night conversation. The Fool’s Hope was not your typical bawdy drinking house. There was a limit to the kind of behaviour that Madam Carletta would allow in her establishment. Those who overstepped the mark were ‘asked to leave’ by Victor, Madam Carletta’s massive doorman, or the Guillotto sisters, who might be a good deal smaller, but were no less scary when it came to a fight.

  Dressed like men, in leather trousers and quilted doublets, the two sisters were standing in the recessed doorway of the inn. Gizelda was the older of the two with green eyes, short auburn hair and an athletic build. Her younger sister, Megan, was very similar in appearance, except that she wore her long hair in a braid. Neither woman was known for their small talk so the Tutor merely dipped his head in acknowledgement.

  ‘Was Madam Carletta right about the merchant?’ asked Gizelda as he reached for the door.

  The Tutor paused and gave a wry sniff of amusement. When was the landlady of the Fool’s Hope not right?

  ‘So who attacked him?’ asked Megan.

  ‘Ferryman thugs,’ said the Tutor. ‘Just youngsters, really.’

  ‘Idiots,’ said Gizelda. ‘Veleno’ll have their hides.’

  The Tutor could only nod in agreement.

  ‘Safe home, though,’ said Megan and the Tutor smiled.