He realised he could no longer run or spring with the same
nimbleness and speed as before. Mama Solveig evidently recognised it, too,
because she judged she’d have time for a second spell before he closed with her.
Backing away, but slowly, so as not to hamper her conjuring, she recited and
swirled her hands through mystic passes.
Dieter almost laughed. She was casting the shadow binding,
the spell that he now knew how to turn against the caster. Thanks to her
previous attack, he was limping already, and now he exaggerated it, slowing down
and making sure she had time to finish.
She whirled a twisting length of darkness from her hand. He
spoke to it as he’d spoken when Adolph sought to snare him with the same effect.
Or rather, he tried. It was the first time he’d attempted to
talk since his transformation, and now he discovered that reshaping his jaws and
tongue had cost him the ability to articulate without care or effort. The word
came out too sibilant and slurred.
So, naturally, the binding didn’t heed it. It whirled around
him and snapped tight, stinging him and tying his legs together. He toppled to
the ground amid the shards of a broken wine bottle.
Doing his best to ignore the hot, stabbing pain of his bonds,
he tried twice more to speak the word of command, and still couldn’t manage it
correctly. Meanwhile, Mama Solveig chanted. Luminous cracks zigzagged and forked
through the stone walls and ceiling as the repeated evocations of Chaotic forces
hammered at the structure of reality.
The old woman cast another barrage of darts. Dieter rolled,
jabbing and grinding pieces of broken glass into his body. He dodged some of the
missiles, but two more pierced him, and he bucked in agony.
Such attacks weren’t like spear thrusts. They didn’t leave
open, bleeding, tangible wounds. But they could kill nonetheless, and surely
would, if he had to endure many more of them.
In desperation, he began the counter spell his masters at the
Celestial College had taught him. It was comprised of a number of words, any of
which his deformed mouth might conceivably mispronounce. But he’d cast it
successfully hundreds of times, during his apprenticeship and after. Perhaps all
that practice would offset his handicap.
At the same time, Mama Solveig rummaged in her basket. He
wondered if, deeming him helpless, she thought it safe to come close and employ
a blade or some toxic agent to finish him off.
He whispered the final word of his incantation. His bonds
frayed into nothingness. He scrambled to his feet and lunged at Mama Solveig.
Her eyes opened as wide as they could go, but surprise didn’t
paralyse her. Magenta glow oozing on her hunched, skinny form, she slashed her
hand through the air and screamed a single word.
Already cracked and weakened, a portion of the ceiling
shattered, and chunks of stone dropped. Dieter leaped to get out from under
them, but some of them caught him anyway, bashing him back down onto the ground.
Mama Solveig had never taught him that spell. Maybe it was a
secret weapon she’d kept from everyone, or maybe she hadn’t known it herself
until now. Perhaps it was knowledge that had insinuated itself into her
unconscious mind as she studied dark lore, to reveal itself at the moment she
needed it most.
Dieter struggled to shrug off the weight of the rubble. Maybe
this show of resilience made Mama Solveig fear he was unstoppable, because,
whirling and running like a woman forty years younger, she fled back out into
the night. In a moment, she was lost to sight.
Dieter floundered up from the broken stone, and, his whole
body throbbing and aching, staggered out of the passage. He cast about and
spotted a smear of purplish glimmer vanishing around a corner. Thanks to his new
eye, he hadn’t lost the trail.
He dashed after Mama Solveig as fast as his abused and
battered body could go. Maybe he should try to hammer her with a blast of wind
or a shout infused with thunder as soon as she came back into view. He’d thought
to rend her with his claws and avoid using magic that anyone might associate
with Celestial wizards in general or himself in particular. But now, after all
the punishment he’d absorbed, he just wanted to make the kill as expeditiously
as possible.
He rounded the corner and was pleased to see she wasn’t as
far ahead as he’d expected. Even if her usual appearance of feebleness was only
a mask, her exertions were apparently taking a toll. He halted, drew a deep
breath, and raised his hands.
It was then that half a dozen soldiers, a watch patrol,
judging from the lantern on a pole the first one carried, emerged from a side
street several paces ahead of Mama Solveig. At once she resumed her hobble and
became a perfect picture of fragile senescence once again.
“Help!” she gasped. “Mutant! Chasing me!” She peered back
down the street, then pointed. “There it is!”
The soldier with the lantern peered, cursed, set the light on
the ground, and drew his sword. His comrades readied their own weapons, and they
all trotted forwards.
Dieter had no desire to hurt them, nor did he want to give
them a chance to hurt him. But, limping as he was, he doubted he could escape
them even if he tried, which meant he had to fight. It was either that or be cut
down from behind.
Enunciating carefully, he spoke to the sky, and knives of
light flashed from his outstretched hand. The missiles pierced two of the
soldiers, and they dropped.
Their comrades baulked. Backing away, Dieter whispered
another charm. Hoping that he’d begun to master the trick of pronouncing his
words properly even with a reptilian mouth and tongue, he risked speaking more
quickly.
One word came out slightly garbled, but the heavens saw fit
to help him anyway. Blue light outlined his limbs. Layered on top of his scales,
the mystical protection might suffice to protect him from the soldiers’ blades.
He gave them a level stare. “You see how it is,” he said.
“I’m a sorcerer. If you make it necessary, I can strike every one of you dead.
So don’t. I have nothing against you, and the old woman isn’t what she seems.
Just walk away—”
One soldier howled a battle cry, and then they all charged.
Dieter struggled to stave off panic and think. It seemed obvious that they’d
try to surround him, and that he needed to prevent it if he could. He faked a
step backwards, then sprang at them instead.
The sudden pounce took them by surprise. Even so, the soldier directly in
front of him did a fair job of swinging his sword into line, but the armour of
light deflected it, and the point glanced off Dieter’s shoulder.
The soldier managed to block with his round steel shield as well. Dieter
crashed into it, and his momentum slammed the obstruction back into the
soldier’s body and knocked him staggering. A backhand swipe of Dieter’s claws
slashed horizontal cuts across his face.
Dieter felt both savage satisfaction and revulsion, and knew
he had no time for either. He whirled to find out what the other soldiers were
doing.
They’d already turned to threaten him anew. Fortunately, stumbling about,
helpless with shock, pain, or, conceivably, the loss of his eyes, the soldier
Dieter had clawed was in their way. Dieter grabbed him and shoved him into one
of his fellows, and the pair fell to the ground together.
For the moment, that left two soldiers to menace Dieter. Hoping that simple
tricks and fierce aggression would continue to serve him well, he faked a grab
at one man, then pivoted and lunged at the other.
His target warded himself with a deft shift of his shield
that was virtually an attack in its own right. Dieter slammed into the
rock-solid barrier with bruising, stunning force, rebounded and reeled
off-balance.
His momentary loss of equilibrium gave the soldiers time to
flank him. He retreated, bounded this way and that, trying to get out from in
between them, but they matched him step for step.
Meanwhile, their swords leaped at him. He dodged some
strokes, and so far, the others were only slicing shallow cuts. He knew that
luck couldn’t hold. His defences notwithstanding, it wouldn’t be long before one
of his adversaries struck hard and true enough to kill him.
He, of course, struck back at those infrequent moments when
the pressure of their onslaught abated sufficiently to allow it. His new body
was strong and quick—or at least it had been before enduring so much abuse—and seemed equipped with a feral instinct for physical combat that the human
Dieter could never have matched. Unfortunately, that wasn’t enough to offset the
soldiers’ advantages of training, teamwork, and the longer reach their swords
afforded them. Nor could he cast a spell with the blades flashing at him so
relentlessly.
The soldier he’d merely knocked down clambered to his feet
and came running to assist his comrades, and that surely meant the end of the
fight was at hand. Dieter was about to die.
Or so he assumed until he glimpsed motion from the corner of
his eye. He glanced and spied Mama Solveig lashing her hands through the passes
required for the binding spell. It had held him once, for a few heartbeats
anyway, and she evidently assumed it would do so long enough for the soldiers to
dispatch him.
It was a considerable miscalculation from someone who was
generally so shrewd. Even though they weren’t looking at her, she was running a
risk using magic in the soldiers’ presence, and they certainly didn’t need her
aid to kill him. She should have been able to tell that, but evidently his
monstrous appearance and dogged pursuit had so rattled her that she couldn’t.
Or perhaps Tzeentch had clouded her judgement because he had
plans for Dieter, just as the priest had claimed.
Dieter thrust that ghastly notion out of his mind. He
couldn’t afford to think about that or anything but dodging, blocking and
keeping the soldiers’ blades out of his vitals for a few more tortured breaths.
A coil of darkness spun from Mama Solveig’s hand. He spoke to
it, and this time pronounced the word of usurpation clearly. Two of the soldiers
were standing close enough together for the length of shadow to entangle them
both, and it spun around their upper bodies and smashed them together. They
lurched off-balance and fell with a clash of shields and armour.
Dieter pivoted towards his remaining opponent to find the
soldier’s sword streaking in a horizontal arc at his neck. He barely managed to
duck beneath the cut, then grabbed the other man’s fighting arm before he could
recover. He gave it a vicious yank and twist, his claws shearing muscle and his
strength popping it out of the socket. The soldier’s face turned white, and the
hilt of his weapon slipped from his fingers.
Now that his foe was helpless, Dieter wanted to kill him,
wanted to butcher all the soldiers who were still alive. Why not? They’d done
their utmost to slaughter him. But the ashen, wide-eyed face beneath the helmet
looked very young, a boy’s visage, not a man’s, and perhaps that was what made
him hesitate. He reminded himself Mama Solveig was the real enemy, and these
wretches, merely her dupes, and it gave him the strength to throw the lad to the
ground and pivot in her direction.
She fled, and he sprinted after her. His wounded leg throbbed
every time his foot impacted the street, but he was too furious for the pain to
baulk him.
At the last moment, she tried to turn and face him, but she
was too slow. He leaped onto her shoulders and carried her down beneath him.
He hooked his claws in the sides of her neck and pulled,
shearing flesh. Blood spurted from severed arteries. He knew that was
sufficient, she’d be dead in a moment or two if she wasn’t already, but he was
too excited to let it end so quickly. He flipped her over onto her back and
ripped at her face and torso.
It wasn’t until he’d obliterated every trace of her features
that he started to calm down, and then he noticed the shreds of raw, gory meat
caught on his talons. It occurred to him that the old woman could give him one
last meal, and the notion made him smirk. He raised his right hand to his
mouth.
Like a good many of the dolts who patronised the Axe and
Fingers, Niklas the pawnbroker erroneously fancied himself a wit. Leering, he
served up the same lewd plays on words Jarla heard at least once a night, that
she had, in fact, heard a dozen times from him. She giggled and replied in kind,
leaned over as she served him his beer so he could see down her bodice, and
eventually breathed an invitation in his ear.
Eager as she’d expected, he stood up so quickly he nearly
overturned his chair, and inwardly, she winced. It was strange. Dieter never
sneered at her for being a whore, and yet, now that he was her lover, selling
her favours seemed more difficult and unpleasant than it ever had when she was
with Adolph.
At least Niklas always finished quickly. She’d close her eyes
and imagine herself elsewhere while he poked away at her, and maybe it wouldn’t
be too bad. The pawnbroker produced a purse from within his jerkin, loosened the
drawstring, and then, as if Jarla’s thoughts had summoned him, Dieter limped in
the tavern door.
She gasped at his cuts, bruises and scrapes, torn clothing
and dazed, sick expression. If he felt as wretched as he looked, it was lucky he
still possessed the wit to hold his third eye closed.
She started towards him, and a hand grabbed her forearm from
behind. “I’m first,” Niklas said.
She pivoted, wrenching herself free. “Not now,” she snapped.
Niklas opened his mouth, presumably to object. “Leave me alone!” The pawnbroker
flinched, then snorted and turned away.
Jarla rushed to Dieter. Up close, his clothing and breath
smelled of vomit. “What happened?” she asked. He shook his head to indicate that
he wasn’t up to explaining yet, or that he couldn’t do it in public.