Dark apprentice, p.30
Dark Apprentice, page 30
“Who are you? What are you?”
“A god of old, one whose people have long since died out.”
Just some mangy spirit creature then. “I was expecting someone else.”
“No doubt. However, you seemed to have grabbed the attention of another. I’d put out those candles if I were you.”
“I’m not finished yet. I still haven’t spoken with—”
The light dimmed. Birds rose squawking from the trees and the fox-thing vanished. Spirits, always so dramatic. He didn’t recall much from Medea’s lecture on spirits and the fae, but he did remember that. Their power came from impressing enough humans to part with their souls. It wouldn’t work on him.
He paced around the mattress. Clearly, he needed more of Thomas to make this work—more information, more physical connections. Who knew how many apprentices had slept on the bed between Thomas and himself? No wonder it hadn’t worked, with so many physical ties to others.
He picked up the candles one by one and began to blow them out.
Creeping Darkness was a spell he had a passing familiarity with. He’d come across it in one of his textbooks, and the name had piqued his interest, but he’d turned the book aside in disgust when he realized it was only an illusion spell.
Illusion spells didn’t actually do anything; they simply convinced people that something significant was happening—parlor tricks for lesser wizards. When the jungle disappeared from sight, and the pyramid too, he recognized the illusion for what it was.
Did the spirit really think it could scare him? He held up the last candle. The flame only managed to illuminate a tiny area near his hand. Darkness pushed steadily against it. Soon, even it would be obscured.
“Ah, yes, terrifying.” He nudged his foot around until it found the straw mattress. He bent to pick it up and shoved it back into his pouch.
There went the candle. He left it. No point in getting turned around in the dark looking for something replaceable.
He conjured a small light in his hand, but it didn’t extend far enough to get his bearings. Great. He’d have to fumble around until he chanced upon the gateway. A wrong step would send him falling over the side of the pyramid. He edged forward a step at a time in what he thought was the right direction.
The light in his hand winked out. A chill shot up his leg and dashed toward his heart, ice pumping through his veins.
Something clutched his ankle. He couldn’t see his own hands, let alone his leg. He reached toward the thing that grasped him.
Whatever it was, some of it was soft and yielding. The moist substance parted before his fingers, until they struck something solid. Bone? A hand?
He straightened up and kicked at it. An inhuman shriek erupted from the ground at his feet, then something scrabbled up his chest, clawing as it went.
Warm, hot breath hit his face. The stench of it was like rotting flesh. He pushed and something bit into his hand.
Whatever it was, it must not reach his face. Teeth clacked near his cheek. He feigned yielding, then ducked below it and pushed out with his magic in every direction.
A scream flew back and landed with a sickening wet slap not far away. He conjured a full-body shield and a small light, making it as bright as he could. The light took more mana than it should to fight back the darkness, but he needed to see what he faced.
Something slammed into his shield, scratching and howling. Nikolai fell and rolled dangerously close to the edge of the pyramid. He reached out to halt his progress, grabbing at vines and rock.
The thing pushing him was rotting flesh on a skeletal frame. Not quite a wraith; not quite a ghoul. Something in between. Solid, yet semi-ethereal. It wore the tattered remains of wizard training garb. A medallion hung from its neck—some sort of Celtic symbol—which meant it wasn’t Thomas. Still, any of Medea’s previous apprentices would do.
“Hey! Heeeeeey!” He waved his hand in front of the creature’s face, trying to gain its attention. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about Medea’s training.” The creature roared and bit at his shield.
“It doesn’t have enough of a mind left to answer you.” There was the fox-spirit again. It waltzed out of the darkness, illuminated by its own light, and sat on its haunches nearby. “Souls aren’t meant to come back. Most can’t hold themselves together after death. This”—it indicated the creature—“is just a walking mass of bitterness and loathing. You pissed it off. That’s the only reason it’s here.”
Nikolai studied the dead-eyed creature in front of him. “Any tips on how to get rid of it?”
The fox-spirit grinned, tongue lolling. “A smart wizard would have learned a banishing spell before trying to summon the dead.”
Useless spirit. He ignored it and focused on his shield. In a blink, it shrank from bubble to disk. He tilted it up, sending the creature sliding over the edge of the pyramid. The darkness went with it. He stood and brushed himself off. “Fat lot of help you are, spirit.”
Its grin widened.
A scream emanated from below. The creature was back, flying through the air, howling like a banshee.
“Fuck it.” He retrieved his wand from his belt pouch. Medea wasn’t here to complain. “Flamma! Apscido!” A fireball shot from his wand and hit the creature square in the chest. All four of its limbs were severed from its body, which fell to the ground.
Nikolai twirled his wand with a smirk and holstered it. God he loved being a Magi. It was good to feel competent at something besides telepathy again. Medea made him feel like a child groping after concepts far beyond his comprehension. Pretentious—that’s what she was. Why neglect wands and incantations when they were direct and effective?
“It’s coming back, you know,” chirped the fox-spirit.
Sure enough, the flames had extinguished. Limbs rose and reattached to the body. Not only that, the damn thing was now casting at him.
He flung himself sideways as a black bolt landed inches from his feet, corroding the stone. He reconjured his shield and returned in kind. “Fulmen! Lancea!” Lightning forked from his wand, singeing the creature’s robes, as the lance spell scored its chest. It took no notice of either.
“Sanguino!”
“Bleed?” The fox-spirit cackled. “You really expect to kill something made of pure magic and will with Bleed?”
“Then how do I kill it?” he yelled, sending a few more spells winging toward the creature. None seemed to have any lasting effect.
“You don’t,” the fox-spirit replied cheerily.
The undead creature maneuvered itself in front of the gateway and fired several green bolts. One hit his shield, cracking it. He repaired the damage and considered his options.
His training pouch with all his potions was at home—it’s not like he’d anticipated a battle—and he hadn’t thought to throw any in the wide-mouthed bag. At this rate, he would rapidly deplete his mana and then he would be defenseless.
“I can give you a hint,” said the fox-spirit, “if you do something for me.”
“I’m not giving you my soul!”
A spiraling green light slammed into his shield and began to drill through it. He dispelled the shield and ran, flinging broken branches at the creature as it flew after him. Maybe if he ran all the way around the top of the pyramid, he could make it back to the gateway before the creature caught up with him.
He turned a corner and slammed into a wall, staggering back and rubbing his nose. The stone had crumbled and fallen long ago, blocking his path forward. Time to levitate.
The creature bore down on him just as he cleared the stone. It grasped his boot and once again the icy chill of death spread through him. He kicked the creature in the face and tugged himself free.
There were loose stones here—chunks of the old temple that had weathered down over the years. He used telekinesis to fling them at the creature, knocking it backward, and ran on.
The fox-spirit ran beside him, leaping deftly from stone to stone. “Not your soul. Take me with you when you leave.”
“And why would I do that?”
“Because it’s dull here, and you seem to lead an interesting life.” It grinned at him.
A spell flew past his left shoulder, exploding rock and spraying his face with debris. It cost nothing to bring the spirit to Medea’s island, though it might betray what he’d been doing here. Were spirits bound by their word? He vaguely remembered something like that.
“Give me your oath you won’t betray me to my master, or tell her anything of what went on here, then give me your advice. If it helps me defeat the creature, I’ll take you with me.”
“I, Yoxtl, do swear not to betray you to your master, nor speak aught of what happened here.”
Nikolai willed a huge swath of rocks and stone to fly at the creature. Still, it kept coming.
“What’s your advice?” He conjured his shield anew, keeping careful watch for the drilling spell that had threatened it before.
“First of all, stop doing that. You’re using all your mana moving this stuff around. Just hold still and keep your shield up.”
“How am I supposed to kill it if I just stand here?”
“It’s dead. You can’t kill it. Banish it, sure, but you would’ve done that if you knew how. Souls get more powerful the longer they’re alive, especially if they belong to a mage, but they can’t regenerate mana after they die. Every spell it casts whittles away what it has left. Even maintaining a corporeal form costs it. All you have to do is wait it out.”
“So when it runs out of mana it will just disappear?”
“Yup.”
Nikolai stopped running. He stood, chest heaving, as the undead mage sent spell after spell at his shield. How long could this thing keep going? Was the spirit trying to trick him into giving up? “I’m getting low on mana. I don’t think I can outlast it.”
“Then get it to cast some really big stuff so it drains itself faster. Try making it mad.”
That definitely sounded like a trick, but it beat standing around doing nothing. If he couldn’t cast spells, words would do.
The undead mage wore a Celtic medallion, making him Irish or Scottish. All he had to do was insinuate the guy was British. He took a deep breath and hollered at the creature.
“Hey! Yah Tommy! Yah Tan! You—”
A force flung Nikolai high. He crashed into a boulder, head rattling against the inside of his shield before it winked out. Fuck. He hadn’t even gotten going yet. Magi usually had far less national pride. That was a Mundane-level response.
He stood, wobbling, and conjured his shield again, now thin and brittle. He couldn’t take another hit like that.
“So? Why’d she kill you anyway? Got tired of yet another necromancer? Did she curse you too? Drain your body to keep herself young? Just think back to all those times she beat you in a duel. How long did you last, when you challenged her? Five minutes?”
The creature screamed, unnaturally high pitched, and wind buffeted Nikolai. The scream and rushing wind merged into a crescendo to form a whirling vortex in front of the deceased mage. Dust and rocks rose into the air, tearing away the last vestiges of his shield.
He didn’t wait for the tornado to pick up steam. Magic crackled in the air around him as he tore down the side of the pyramid.
Still the creature screamed, but the sound stabilized—it hadn’t followed him. He couldn’t say the same for the rushing wind. Already the trees swayed with the force of it.
He dove into the jungle, heedless of where he headed. The muddy ground sucked greedily at his boots. It gave way suddenly and he sank to his knees in dark brown sludge. He hauled himself out, pushed along by biting wind.
Plants blocked him at every turn, but he lacked the mana to cut through them. Branches snapped behind him. One struck the back of his head, momentarily stunning him as debris whirled past his shoulders. Unable to escape the rushing wind, he curled up behind a great tree and covered his head. An eternity later, the gale stopped.
Nikolai stood. Twigs and leaves plastered his coat. He tried to take it off and pain shot through his arm. A stick, thick as a broom handle, jutted from his bicep. He yanked it out with a roar.
Damned spirit. Just wait it out, it said. Taunt it some more, it said. Some help it turned out to be.
He followed the path of destruction, which increased the closer he got to the pyramid. Stripped leaves and small branches turned to limbs as thick as his thighs. By the time he reached the stone steps, many of the trees had been upended or snapped in half.
He conjured a weak shield and crept toward the gateway, unsure if the mage was still around. The top of the pyramid appeared to be empty. He ducked into the arch for the gateway and found the fox-spirit lounging on the floor.
“There you are!” it said brightly. “I half thought you dead.”
“I almost was, no thanks to you.”
“What do you mean, ‘no thanks to me’? My advice worked, didn’t it?”
“I didn’t have the mana to withstand an attack like that and you knew it!”
“Pfft. You seemed to do fine.” It grinned.
“Fine. After you.” He gestured to the gateway. After seeing what Medea’s wards did to a mortal, he was curious to see their effects on a spirit.
“You think I’m stupid enough to fall for that? It’s warded to hell and back. You’ll have to carry me through.”
He made to move around the spirit, but it scrambled in front of him.
“We had a deal,” it said.
“I don’t like your idea of help.”
“And I don’t like mortals who renege on their word. Leave me here and you’ll be twice cursed.”
The phrasing caught him off guard. He peered curiously at the spirit. “What do you mean, twice cursed?”
“I mean you’re already cursed, and I would add another. One plus one is two. I know mortals are dim, but I thought they knew basic arithmetic.”
So he was right. It was a curse. Damn Medea! “You can see it?”
The smile that broke out on the spirit’s face was far too eager. “And you can’t. Pity that. It’s quite impressive. You must have pissed off someone really powerful.”
He crouched next to the spirit. “Can you see what it does? Tell me how to remove it?”
“Why should I help you?” it said haughtily. “You didn’t seem to like my advice last time.”
“Please.” He cast around for something he could offer the spirit. What did spirits want apart from souls? He wouldn’t give it that. “What do you want?”
“For now, I want you to remain true to our bargain. We can discuss your curse later.”
Not a bad idea. It was best to enter negotiations knowing more than your opponent. Medea’s library was bound to have information on spirits, and it didn’t appear to be a topic she was opposed to discussing.
He lifted the spirit into his arms. It was light and amazingly soft. On closer inspection, its body put him more in mind of a cat than a canid. Warmth radiated from it like an ethereal purr. A trick, no doubt, to get mortals to care about it. He was immune to that nonsense.
The spirit looked up at him and smirked as they passed through the gateway to Medea’s beach.
28
SPIRITS
“WHERE IS THE INTRUDER?!” Medea barreled down the path to the beach.
The spirit gazed at her with the longing of a starved man suddenly presented with a buffet. “Oh, look at that soul!” it muttered.
Medea lurched to a halt in front of them. She looked from the spirit to Nikolai and back. When they said nothing, she demanded, “Well?”
“Nice to see you too,” Nikolai said acidly. “I heard you like spirits, so I brought you one.” He dumped the fox-spirit unceremoniously at her feet.
She looked down at it with distaste, then back at him, finally taking in his roughened appearance. “What happened to you?”
“Nothing I want to talk about.”
“You, trickster!” She snapped a finger at the spirit. “I don’t tolerate shenanigans on my island. Spirits who stay must abide by my rules.”
“Certainly!” It beamed at her.
“What’s your name?”
“Yoxtl.”
The spirit squawked and went rigid. Medea intoned, “I bind thee, Yoxtl, to obey my rules regarding my island. You will not interfere with the training of my apprentice, Nikolai.”
Yoxtl relaxed and stood panting. “Did you just geas me?!” It looked aghast.
“Yes.”
“You shouldn’t be able to do that!” it said with horrified wonder.
“I hear that a lot.”
“What’s a geas?” asked Nikolai.
Medea opened her mouth to give what would no doubt have been a tedious lecture, but Yoxtl interrupted, bouncing up and down like an annoying puppy.
“It binds the soul!” it yipped. “You have to do what the geas says, or it tears the very fabric of your soul apart!” The spirit stopped and looked up at Medea. “I don’t have a soul. How’d you do it to me?”
“Would you like me to demonstrate again?” she said coolly. “I can always add more conditions to your stay.”
“No, no. I . . . wow. I can see why you don’t want to make her angry.” It looked at Nikolai, and Medea shot him a glare.
Great, just great. If the spirit caused any trouble, he was sure to be blamed. “I’m off to bed,” Nikolai announced.
“No, first you need to deposit that thing in the forest. Then you may do as you like. And next time, ask me before you bring home any strays.” Medea marched up the path to the hovel.
Yoxtl stared after her longingly.
Nikolai nudged the wistful spirit with his foot. “What’s with you?”
“Her soul. It’s incredible.”
“Didn’t you say souls got more powerful with age? Medea is—I don’t know how old exactly. A thousand?”
“It doesn’t explain that. The magic—it’s . . . she’s . . . there’s more raw power there than most spirits have these days! I wish you could see it. It’s beautiful.”
