Through Bloody Gritted Teeth
By Jon Chan
Seek hardship. Seek blood. Seek pain.
The patrons of the Rusty Dragon cleared the first floor to watch the fight from the balcony on the second. Judging by how orderly this exodus was, Vasser surmised these denizens were used to this — craved it. He, too, craved it. The Tempering required hardship.
“Seven silvers on the big one!”
“—Nah, the Wandering Blade has it.”
“Onassians are tough as shit.”
Vasser drew his disc mace — an ironwood club topped with jade — and his steel buckler. He stood bare-chested and covered in blue tattoos. The Wandering Blade, on the other hand, wore a brigandine under his cloak, and wielded a long, slender sword. Dark goggles covered his eyes and a silk cloth wrapped his face.
“You’re big like an ox,” said the Wandering Blade. “Are you dumb like one, too?”
Vasser stayed silent. The jewels studding the Blade’s hilt, the fancy armor, and the haughty stance, all screamed arrogance at Vasser. And if the Wandering Blade thought he lacked intelligence, he’d not dispel that notion.
Vasser’s opponent started the duel by lobbing a pouch at him. A swat from his buckler prevented it from hitting him, but that was a mistake. The parry caused the bag to come apart at the seams. A reddish cloud filled the air. Vasser coughed uncontrollably, as tears obscured his vision.
The swordsman capitalized. All Vasser could do was stumble backward and hold his buckler out. He heard the floorboards groan under the Wandering Blade’s shifting and feinting footwork. The slender blade followed with a feinted lunge, dipped around Vasser’s defense, and dug into his bicep. The Onassian snarled and counterattacked, but his opponent had already moved off-line and deftly avoided the blow.
Squinting through his tears, Vasser saw that the Wandering Blade was between him and the bar. The bigger man walked the smaller one down, all the while keeping up the pressure with flickering attacks of his mace. But the Wandering Blade sensed the trap. Vasser lunged before his opponent could decide which way to feint. The swordsman simultaneously blocked while stepping with the force of the blow.
With their weapons bound, the swordsman twisted his blade and slid it along the shaft of Vasser’s mace. The big man yanked his hand back, but not before getting nicked on the knuckle.
Vasser let out a feral roar. He threw his mace at the Wandering Blade. It hit nothing but the tavern bar, as his opponent spun out of the way, his robes swishing in a graceful flourish like he was Camberian dancer.
But that was not Vasser’s intention. It was just a distraction so he could pick up a nearby table and toss that. He timed it well. Flipping end-over-end, it was much harder to dodge. The table clipped the Wandering Blade in the leg.
Vasser pounced. He charged, grabbed the swordsman by the waist, and slammed him into the ground.
“I yield,” said the Wandering Blade, his voice muffled by the ale-glaze floor.
“You’ll pay up then?” asked Vasser.
“Yes, six pennies.”
Vasser let his opponent up, much to the chagrin of the crowd. People often expected Onassians to be bloodthirsty berserkers, but they forgot that the pacifist Green Path was started by Vasser’s people.
With six pennies in hand, Vasser asked one of the tavern employees if he owed anything for the broken table, but it was considered the cost of running such an establishment.
The news flooded Vasser’s heart with joy. He hadn’t eaten that day and now he had enough coin to fill his belly.
“You there,” shouted a man’s voice. “I saw what you did in the tavern. I have a job you might be interested in.”
Vasser heard the man over the din of the market square, but he paid it no mind. The merchant selling grilled fish interested him more. Charred black on the outside and flakey white on the inside, the smell of the cooking seafood made his mouth water. Vasser subconsciously ran his fingers over the coins in his pocket. Six pennies translated to meals.
“Hey,” said the man.
Vasser turned to face the man. He was a full head shorter, covered in stark-white linen and glistening with sweat.
“You look like a strong fellow.” He pointed at Vasser’s dark blue markings. “Onassian, yes?”
“What of it?” asked Vasser.
“My name is Hajin, and my employer bid me find extraordinary warriors and adventurers. You fit the bill.”
“I have no desire to stand guard over a perfumed noble or go extort taxes on their behalf.”
“You’re on your —” Hajin snapped his fingers. “— Your Tempering, yes? The task is dangerous and honorable, a worthy challenge.”
Vasser shrugged. He had been on his Tempering for only a month. So far, little had posed a challenge. He encountered a few feral goblins, but three blows of his mace sent the horde fleeing into the savannah. Perhaps, now the Way was presenting itself.
“Alright, but you got to buy me lunch first, then I’ll hear what you have to say.”
While feasting upon a trout on a stick, Hajin led Vasser to a tea house. The citizens of Lasada constructed the city out of red sandstone mined from the nearby mountains and desert that surrounded it. To escape the heat, they drank a cooling herbal tea and smoked Saint’s leaf. The cost of such establishments prevented the Onassian from indulging more than once. The man gestured for Vasser to enter, making it clear he would not follow.
The temperature dropped dramatically when he crossed the threshold. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw the establishment was tiny. Woven mats made of colorful straw lined the walls and floors. A beaded curtain hung over a door on the far wall that led to what Vasser assumed was a backroom.
A male gnome in blue overalls and a human woman sat at the table that dominated the room, along with a dark-feathered chicken.
“What’s with the mutant?” asked a feminine voice.
Vasser frowned. The lips of neither the woman nor the gnome moved.
“Don’t worry, kid, I’m just joking,” said the voice again. “I’m not a hypocrite. I’m a mutant too, of sorts.”
It was then that Vasser realized that voice came from the chicken.
“You can talk,” gasped Vasser, getting down on one knee to be eye-to-eye with the creature.
“It’s good to know you're not deaf. I’m Hen by the way. And that’s Sivs.”
She jerked her beak towards the gnome, who raised a hand in a wave.
“Well met, I am Vasser of Tecambre.”
He looked to the human woman. She was in her forties. She wore a serious expression and sturdy, well-made pioneer clothing. “And your name, lady?”
“Medicas Quinn.” The woman eyed Vasser up and down. “The chicken said you were a mutant. What is the nature of your mutation?”
“I have a name you know,” said Hen.
“I am Onassian,” said Vasser. “Long ago my people discovered a mutagen made by a woman known only as the Rye Mother. It allows me to heal from injuries that would kill other men, and become stronger for it.”
Quinn’s eyes lit up. “An adaptive. How does it manifest? Did you take it when you were a child or as an adult?”
Before Vasser could answer, his peripheral vision caught movement. Another woman stepped through the beaded curtain. Her silk tunic and tasteful silver earrings irradiated wealth and class.
“My apologies for keeping you waiting. Please, everyone, take a seat.”
Vasser obeyed. He was eager to hear what the patron had to say. Meeting a talking chicken alone made the trip worth it. Anything else that was interesting would be icing on the cake.
“I am Messa Londava. My employee, Messer Hajin, brought you here because he saw, in you, unique skills. And as Hajin says, there is a thirty-silver sign-up bonus with an additional forty five should you succeed, plus a possible bonus.”
Quinn crossed her arms. “You’re layering on the honey. Now, give us the vinegar.”
If Quinn’s impatience flustered Londava, it didn’t show. “I work for the Dyer’s Guild. Three days ago, mercenaries hired by a rival syndicate in Amshara broke into our warehouse and stole our entire supply of Tyrian purple — eight barrels of it.”
Siv let out a low whistle.
“It might be because I don’t wear clothes, but I don’t get it,” said Hen.
“That much Tyrian purple required the extract of thousands of a special breed of snails,” said Londava.
“And you wish for us to retrieve your stolen property?” asked Vasser.
“If possible. Destroy it if necessary. My guild will pay one gold trade chit for every barrel you successfully return to us.”
That made everyone perk up. A gold trade chit could be exchanged at any Seneca bank for a thousand pieces of silver. An even split meant easy living for the next few years at least. If Vasser returned home with two gold chits in his pocket, there was no doubt in his mind that his Tempering would be declared a success.
“I’m still waiting on that vinegar,” said Quinn.
“You are not wrong to be suspicious,” said Londava. “The caravan that’s currently making its way to Amshara is protected by two maker magicians — one thread and one paper.”
“I’m in,” said Vasser.
And one by one, the same agreement went around the table.
The Dyers’ Guild provided mounts and directions. By their estimates, they could overtake the slow-moving caravan traveling over rough terrain as the crow flies in three days. However, it’d mean sleeping rough as they’d have to move through forest, then savannah.
They took on sure-footed mules as soon as the packs of supplies could be purchased.
For the past several miles, they rode in silence. Vasser enjoyed it. Quiet harmonized with the environment. The thick canopy overhead diffused the summer sun. The songs of the birds and streams were a far cry from the marshlands back home.
Vasser snuck a glance at the mount of his right. Hen and Siv shared a mule and it was quite the sight. Even atop a saddle designed for the Small Folk, Vasser wondered how the gnome could steer his mule. Yet, he did it expertly — a far sight better than Vasser.
The Onassian looked away out of politeness. His Tempering took him far from his homeland, to places where people stared and pointed at him. He knew the feeling was uncomfortable.
“Our employer said we all have unique skills,” said Quinn, breaking the silence. “We should discuss that.”
“Do you wish to study us like species in a jar, doctor?” asked Hen.
“Medicas. I earned that title studying in the Pillar Cities. You would do well to remember that.”
“So I take it you’re a healer, then?” asked Siv. “Hopefully, we will not require your services.”
“Perhaps I will use them on those we hunt.”
“You would aid the enemy?” asked Vasser.
“If needed, pray that I do,” said Quinn. “The reputation of the Maker Magicians gains its merits not only from their craft, but also through fear of retaliation. If a Maker is robbed, they send agents to seek justice. If one is killed, whole villages have been known to burn.”
“You seem to know much about them, my lady,” said Siv.
“Medicas. And yes, that’s two reasons I was chosen.”
“Well, I’ve got nature magic,” said Siv. “Control plants, talk to animals, that kind of thing.”
“Is the bird of your creation as well?”
“No,” answered Hen. “And I can speak for myself. I don’t know who created me, so don’t ask. I sneak up on people and I got obsidian razors I can clip on my feet. No one ever suspects the chicken.”
“And you, Onassian?” asked Quinn.
“I hit things — with my mace.”
The day started to wane. Twilight saw them seeking out a suitable campsite. Amongst the tree roots, they found a flat area large enough to unfurl three bedrolls and make a small fire with a cooking pot atop it.
Siv fished a waterskin from his pack. Using its contents, he made a circle around the camp ten yards out. The gnome then plunged his fist into the soil. A soft green light emanated from his body and snaked down his arms into the ground. Vines sprouted from the earth. To Vasser’s surprise, they did not look healthy with their brown stems and withered-looking leaves.
“Now, we’ll be able to hear anyone trying to sneak up on us,” said Siv.
“Ingenious,” said Vasser.
“Should we set up a watch?” asked Hen.
The chicken sat atop a nest that she dug into the soft earth.
“I’m a light sleeper,” said Vasser. “I’ve journeyed through these woods before and saw no danger.”
“I expect no trouble,” said Quinn.
Hen stood up, revealing an egg. Siv grabbed it and cracked it over the stew that was brewing in the cooking pot. Vasser winced when Siv broke the shell and the dropped yolk into the pot. He couldn’t quite put his finger on why the idea of eating one of Hen’s eggs bothered him so much. But he had always been taught to explore the feelings that made him uncomfortable.
“Does it not bother you to give up your eggs?” asked Vasser.
“They’re not fertilized,” said Hen. “It’d be like you giving up your fingernails.”
“How many eggs do you lay a day?” asked Quinn.
The medicas grabbed the communal ladle and served herself some stew.
“One a day, like a normal chicken,” answered Hen. “As far as I can tell, I’m just a normal chicken, probably possessed by a spirit of intellect.”
“Very interesting,” said Quinn. “Perhaps when this job is done you will consent to me examining you?”
“I think not,” said Hen. “Now excuse me, I must go find something to eat.”
Hen wandered off into the intensifying dark to scrounge for insects and worms.
Vasser settled down for the evening. His stomach got the better of him and he helped himself to a serving of stew as well. The first bite sent a warming sensation down his throat. It was spicy. Normally, this level of heat would make his eyes water — no tears flowed this time. Vasser turned his gaze skyward and blinked several times. He felt, literally before his eyes, the mutation kicking in. A membrane was forming over his eyes, a response to the pepper bomb the Wandering Blade threw at him earlier. Plus, sinuses were no doubt getting stronger.
Siv played a tune on a lute while Hen half flew and half clawed her way up to a low branch. Vasser unfurled his bedroll and lay down. He recognized that he wasn’t exactly following in the footsteps of Fen Rinna. Her Tempering required her to sleep on rocks and in ditches during her search for salvation. As Vasser drifted off to sleep, he wondered if the Venerable Fen felt cheated, having endured so much suffering before receiving the first mutagen.
Vasser’s eyes snapped open. Siv’s alarmed work. The Onassian remained lying down, trying to take in as much information as possible. The vines crackled under dozens of footfalls, but they were small, like the pitter-patter of children.
Goblins. It’s just like them to attack under the cover of darkness.
Blinking away sleep, Vasser took mental stock of where his weapons were and tried to estimate which side had more enemies. He prepared his muscles to spring to action.
Roll to the left, grab my gear, and then turn to the left to face the brunt of the horde.
An ear-splitting screech interrupted Vasser’s plan. Hen dove down from her perch. There was a pause. Then the night was filled with horrid shrieking and clucking.
Vasser scrambled to his feet. He nearly slammed into Quinn groping in the dark for his weapons.
“Watch your eyes,” she hissed.
The medicas tossed a handful of green powder into the campfire’s dying embers. An eruption of flames burst forth, turning night to day. The goblins let out cries of pain, shielding their eyes with their spindle-like fingers. But it did not stop their advance. All around, the three-foot-tall creatures approached.
The sudden increase in light illuminated a stone-tipped spear flying through the air, straight for Quinn’s back. Vasser shot his arm out, past Quinn’s head. The stone point shattered on his buckler.
Quinn gave him a knowing nod. She reached into her satchel and pulled out a wishbone-shaped object made of metal with a strap strung across its prongs.
“Stand clear,” said Quinn.
Quinn reached into her satchel again and pulled out a glass orb. She placed it in the strap, pulled it back, and fired it at a pack of approaching goblins. The orb hit none of them, but found its mark in the ground. It shattered and tendrils of purple smoke emerged. The goblins that inhaled the smoke slowly sunk to the ground and did nothing, not even breathe.
A trio of waist-high goblins charged Vasser wielding stone knives. Vasser threw all his weight behind a low sweep. The blow shattered the ribcage of the first one and sent the other two stumbling away. He started to go after them to finish them off, but Quinn fired another round — this one lit the goblins with acid.
“Strange thing for a healer to be carrying,” said Vasser.
“I’m not a healer,” said Quinn, winking. “I’m a medicas.”
Soon all the remaining goblins retreated. Siv and Hen emerged from the woods covered in viscera.
“What was that all about?” asked Siv.
“I think that may have been my fault,” said Vasser, scratching the back of his head. “I drove off a horde of goblins a while back, but I guess not far enough.”
“Well, they gave up easily enough,” said Hen.
“They might not have retreated,” said Quinn, peering into the forest. “It might have been a tactical withdrawal.”
“What do you mean?” asked Vasser.
As if to answer him, twigs and branches snapped in the darkness. A creature came forward into the light. The torso made Vasser think it was a hobgoblin — an abnormally large variant of its waist-high cousins. But its legs, or lack thereof, told him otherwise. Dozens and dozens of wriggling tentacles moved the creature toward the party. Instead of a gaunt and tusked face of an oversized goblin, a bloated lion’s head sat above the neck.
“Nature’s Grace has no eyes here,” said Siv under his breath.
“Quinn,” said Vasser.
“Yes,” said Quinn, her voice distant.
“Do you have any more of that green powder?”
“Yes.”
“Kill that thing with fire.”
“I am wont to agree,” said Quinn.
She withdrew a pouch from her satchel and knelt in front of the fire. “Everyone, get back!”
When Quinn released the drawstring on her weapon, the pouch passed through the flames, catching ablaze as it went. It struck the creature square in the chest.
The creature tilted its head back and let out a howl of pain that sounded like it came from multiple throats.
But it did not stop its advance.
Vasser charged. He slammed his buckler into the still-burning creature’s stomach. The steel rang as he stopped his quarry in its tracks. Without skipping a beat, he started swinging his mace wildly. The jade disc dug into the creature’s face, breaking the dam of its orbital bone, and forcing an eye to start popping out.
If the creature cared, it showed no sign. It responded by raking its claws across Vasser’s arms.
The Onassian’s heart pounded in his chest. It drowned out everything but the monster in front of him. Something primal sang in his blood and it told him that he had to win or die.
He failed to notice Siv and Hen coming to his aid. Siv ran up and rammed a spear made from a sharpened branch into the creature’s side, twisting it about as it went in.
Hen climbed up its back, pecking and scratching as she went. At the neck, she found what she was looking for — a thread. She clamped down on the thread in her beak and started tugging at it like an early-morning worm.
When the tread came loose, the creature let out a whimper akin to air escaping an inflated wineskin. Then it fell still and silent.
Vasser let his arms drop to his side. The tide of his adrenaline receded, replaced by fatigue and soreness. The whole battle lasted less than ten minutes and yet it wiped out all of Vasser’s strength. On the bright side, he found hardship, pain, and blood tonight — and it didn’t kill him.
“How did you know?” Vasser asked Hen.
“Quinn figured it out.”
Quinn checked on the mules. Then came forward after donning a pair of thick leather gloves. She pointed at the gashes on Vasser’s arms. “I can tend to those cuts if you wish.”
“Best for me if you don’t,” said Vasser. “No worries, they’re not deep.”
But they sting like all hell.
Quinn nodded and then gestured toward the chicken. Hen passed her the thread, which she examined by the light of the fire.
“I noticed that this is a Maker’s chimera — multiple creatures sewed together. The head of a Makhet Lion, the body of a hobgoblin, and the legs of a land squid.”
So this is the true power of Maker magic.
“But why these creatures?” asked Siv. “None of them are native to this land.”
“Neither are we,” said Hen.
“Tough people, all of them,” said Siv. “Fought with a Mahket during the War of Four Winters.”
Vasser’s eyes darted from Hen to Siv to Quinn. Finally, they rested on his own arm.
“Just like us,” said Vasser.
“I mean, that is another way of putting it,” said Hen.
“Quinn, do you have a scalpel?” Vasser asked, tapping his knuckles against the abdomen of the creature.
Catching his meaning, Quinn fetched her surgical kit. She cut into the area that Vasser was inspecting. Black ooze came out of the incision. After Quinn pulled back the newly made flaps, a stream of coins followed the ooze.
“Are those what I think they are?” asked Siv.
Quinn picked one up. “If you are thinking that they are trade coins, then yes.”
“But why are they in this creature?” asked Hen.
“Because we are not the first mercenary band Messa Londava sent after these people,” said Vasser.
The group decided to break camp and attempt a night ride. Dawn was a few hours away, but a setting gibbous moon lit the way.
“What do you know of Thread Makers?” Vasser asked Quinn.
“When I was studying in the Pillar Cities, the Academy invited a Maker Magician to teach us about the anatomy of various races. The Maker inserted a thread into the cadavers of gnomes, lycans, and goblins. The threads conducted electricity to make the bodies move.”
“I know of no gnomes that would allow their bodies to be subjected to such horror,” said Siv. “That is not our way.”
“They had little choice,” said Quinn. “All cadavers used in the medicas school belonged to debt-slaves.”
“I was always under the impression that the Pillar Cities were a land of great freedom,” said Vasser. “A place with no kings or chieftains.”
“Freedom has a high cost,” spat Quinn. “The city leaders just replaced chains with debt and now people thank them for it. But every day is a struggle to keep your head above water.”
“There are people trying to drown you, too?” asked Hen. “The Pillar Cities sound most uncivilized.”
“Keeping your head above water is an idiom,” said Quinn. “It means to be able to keep paying off your debt. Though I suppose if you fall too far behind, the Coin Guard might actually drown you.”
“And how did you keep the debt collectors away, waiting tables, digging ditches, singing?” chided Vasser. “Though I have a hard time imagining you as a busker.”
Quinn stiffened up in her saddle. “I sold, for gold, things I can never get back.”
Silence settled over the group. An awkwardness grew inside Vasser. He wanted to say something, but couldn’t think of anything insightful and sympathetic. Every turn of phrase he mulled over sounded patronizing.
“I’m sorry,” he finally said.
“Don’t worry, what I bought with that gold, no one can ever take away from me.”
“Gold,” spat Siv. “Steel incites violence and money invites greed. Gnome society tries to exorcise these things.”
Vasser arched an eyebrow. “Not even a plow?”
“One of the earliest spells a kinder learns is a pulse of small roots that loosens the soil.”
“And the no-money part?” asked Quinn.
“Each gnome upon their 17th birthday is given a tanen — about a half acre of land to farm.”
“But you can’t thrive on what can be grown on half an acre.”
“We trade. With other gnomes and the other Small Folk. Trade useful things for useful things. Using nature’s magic in nature and trading with one another is why gnome society is so peaceful.”
“But the War of Four Winters,” pointed out Vasser.
“The Icemen came down from the mountains, questioning our right to the land and I answered. Our way of life was worth fighting for.”
“Sounds so idyllic,” said Quinn. “And yet you are here.”
“Quinn, don’t,” said Hen.
“It’s alright,” said Siv. “I had trouble putting the war behind me, so I was exiled.”
“After fighting for your homeland, they kicked you out?” asked Quinn. “That’s horseshit.”
“A way of life worth fighting for is also worth suffering for.”
Vasser nodded. “To suffer for one’s cause, is the highest virtue. You have my respect, Siv.”
Silence fell on the group as the sun started to peak over the horizon. After another hour of riding, they crossed another clearing in the woods. The old-growth trees had thinned out into saplings with harsh saw grass growing in between.
Vasser caught the scent and sight of an old campfire. “Someone has been here recently.”
Hen hopped down from her mount and scurried forward, half-running and half-flying. She kept her head low to the ground to inspect the area.
“It’s the campsite of the other mercenaries,” she called out. “They were ambushed here.”
Vasser’s hands went to his mace and buckler. His eyes scanned the tall grass, looking for any signs of movement.
“What do you see?” called Quinn, staying on her horse, hands tight on the reins.
“I see many footprints, scattered and without order. Bits of armor, not damaged, as if it was not knocked off, but left off.”
“But how could the Maker magicians have known they were being followed, much less ambush them in this huge forest?” asked Quinn.
Hen lifted her head into the air. Her beak agape, her tongue flicked in and out of her mouth. Obsidian-clad talons dug into the trunk of a young ash tree, allowing Hen to shimmy up to a fork in the branches.
“What do you have there?” asked Siv. “I sense magic.”
“Careful,” said Quinn. “It could be a trap.”
“It’s only a residual amount,” said Siv, taking a thing from Hen’s beak.
It was a butterfly cut out of dark blue paper. An intricate, flowing script covered its wings. Siv squinted at the writing.
“Command words. Based on what I can understand, it creates a connection to the wordsmith when a certain condition is met.”
“What kind of condition?” asked Vasser.
“Best guess: spotting the heat of a campfire.”
“I found the rest of them,” said Hen.
Siv, Vasser, and Quinn dismounted and followed Hen into the tall grass. Siv’s hands glowed as the stalks of saw grass bent away from them. Vasser smelled the remains before he set eyes on them.
The ground was muddy with blood. Vasser reckoned that most of the blood came from the carcass of the land squid. It was a mass of scaly tentacles around a stone beak.
“The lion’s share of this viscera is from the land squid,” concurred Quinn.
“Ironic, considering there’s a lion over there,” said Hen.
Quinn began picking through the corpses. The wet noise forced Vasser to close his eyes.
“Mastery over thread and paper did this?” asked Siv.
“You know,” said Quinn. “We’ve collected sixty silver each already — a princely sum.”
“Abandoning the quest would be dishonorable,” said Vasser.
“If I chickened out of this mission, I’d never live it down,” said Hen.
“A warrior can only die once,” said Siv. “But I guess it’d be bad for future business if we back out now.”
Quinn sighed. “I guess I’m outvoted.”
Vasser clenched his jaw. His eyes darted back and forth between the corpses of the mercenaries that came before. Land squids, Mahket lions, and hobgoblins were all known for their strength. And they tried and failed.
A memory of his childhood bubbled to the surface. When he was a child, one of his favorite games was keep-away. Strength alone did not win that game. It required guile.
“I have a plan,” said Vasser. “But none of you are going to like it.”
They unburdened all the mounts of their supplies and hung the package up in the trees. They’d pick them up on the return journey — if they succeeded. But what mattered now was speed. Being the fastest rider, Siv and Hen set out first, followed by Quinn. Vasser went another way.
The plan played to their strengths. Hen would serve as the scout — even if she was spotted, no one would suspect the chicken. She could spot which wagon in the caravan contained the dye. Siv would head off the train and use his plow spell to loosen the earth, causing the lead to break an axle. Then Quinn would get to work.
Vasser wondered how the others were fairing. It was all he could do to keep his mind off the heat. Even though nightfall made the temperature plunge, being surrounded by five campfires more than made up for it.
“If you wanted to draw our ire, you succeeded,” said a male voice.
Vasser squinted through the light of the flames. A figure draped in flowing robes approached. They were jet black, but that belied the swirls of color when it caught the light. The man held what looked like a deck of cards in his right hand. He was short in stature compared to Vasser, but the warrior could feel dangerous, feral energy coming off the man.
“Are you all alone?” asked a feminine voice.
Vasser turned to find a woman dressed in similar robes approaching from the opposite direction. She was slender. Her delicate features made Vasser uneasy. This was the woman who played with the corpses of her prey.
Clearly, they were toying with him, but Vasser knew he needed to play the dumb brute. It was hard to see at night, but as she approached the light, he spotted the glint of threads floating around her body.
“Give back what was stolen,” said Vasser. “And there won’t be any more trouble.”
“He’s braver than most,” said the Thread Maker.
The Paper Maker flicked his finger. A card whizzed past Vasser’s face. “But he bleeds like the rest.”
It took a moment before Vasser felt the warm drip flowing down the side of his cheek. The Paper Maker continued to advance, another card held behind his fingers.
“Do you know what beats paper?” asked Vasser.
“If you say scissors, I’m going to cut you from ear to ear.”
“Nah. Pocket spice!”
Vasser tossed a fist full of spices from Siv’s stew at the Paper Maker. He followed up with a buckler smash to the face. The Maker stumbled backward, clutching his face. His hand went to draw his mace. Threads wrapped around his arm. They dug into his skin. He could not believe how something so insubstantial looking was so strong.
“I guess you don’t bleed as easy,” said the Thread Maker.
Vasser knew he’d lose this tug of war, so he launched himself toward the woman. She released him at once and sidestepped his charge. To counterattack, she pointed two fingers at a nearby fallen sapling. Her threads coiled together to form a thick serpent. It flung the tree at Vasser. The Onassian threw out his arm just in time to block it. But the force was so great that his arm gave out. His buckler hit him in the face, splitting his lip open. Stars dominated his vision as he tripped and fell over his own two feet.
The Thread Maker wasted no time capitalizing on Vasser’s loss of poise. The serpent coiled around his neck and lifted him off the ground.
“You broke my nose, you little shit,” said the Paper Maker.
He stabbed one of his cards into Vasser’s gut and twisted.
“Wait, Lasso,” said the Thread Maker. “Look.”
The Paper Maker turned around and saw an orange glow in the night sky.
“What is the meaning of this?” snarled the Paper Maker.
“My friends have burned the wagon with the purple dye.”
Vasser did his best to take a deep breath. This was the gambit. If he failed, they would surely cut off his head.
“It’s over,” said Vasser through bloody gritted teeth. “You can gain nothing but the possibility of retribution if you kill me now.”
And that was the gamble. Betting that people believed that their way of thinking about the world was the correct one. The Makers believed in exacting revenge. Deep within their heart of hearts, they’d expect the same be done to them.
“We should cut his head off as a consolation prize,” said the Paper Maker.
The Thread Maker released Vasser. He fell to his knees, gasping.
“We need to report back to the guild and inform them of our failure.”
“But he’s right here. On his knees.”
The Thread Maker held her companion’s face in her hands. “We were played, my love. And now we must own up to it.”
The Paper Maker relented. “Until next time, boy.”
The two Maker Magicians disappeared into the night.
Vasser rolled onto his back and stared up at the night sky. There was nothing to do now but wait. Hopefully, his companions would find him by the light of the fires that were burning down. He found hardship. There was lots of blood. And the wound in his side certainly was painful.
Jon Chan is a writer of all sorts. His work has appeared in everything from USA Today to Poetry Quarterly. Also, he demands that you have a nice day.