(Continued from here)
‘Energizing’ was an odd word. According to Agnis, it meant two opposites: both ‘add flesh’ and ‘take flesh away.’ Jinyel had always thought those two actions deserved their own names, so in his mind, he called this ‘sinking.’ The small removal of flesh to great effect.
It was easy enough to read the man’s enervations, and to see pain blooming up his legs like heat on a Cylus night. Jinyel was tired, and he hurt everywhere, and he really, really didn’t want to carve up legs right now. He knew the human hamstring not as a doctor, but as a butcher. Humans had all the same parts as a deer, just at different lengths and proportions, so there was no great difference in cutting up one over the other.
The bandit’s fingers curled into the dirt as Jinyel worked, but the battle was over. There was little the slaver could do, especially as the slaves got free and began to wander through camp. The ‘sinking’ process was a slow one, and one of the freed slaves was on the approach by the time Jinyel’s ether found purchase in the man’s leg.
“You,” said the man with an iron poker.
“Wait,” Jinyel replied.
The freed slave waited. Perhaps he was afraid. Perhaps he was grateful. Jinyel couldn’t afford distractions until he felt the hamstrings split under his fingertips.
With a sigh, Jinyel leaned back from his experiment. The bandit let out an irritated grunt. Since there was no cutting involved, the process didn’t seem particularly painful for him. Jinyel wondered if the man even realized he’d just lost the ability to walk.
“You’re a mage,” said the slave with the poker. “What are you doing to them?”
Jinyel took three deep breaths to center himself. His hands tingled from magic. It left a strange emptiness behind, not quite tiredness and not quite hunger, but the sense he had spent something.
“Yes. Mage.” Jinyel rose to his knees. “Making sure they―”
Pain bloomed in his ribs, and he sucked in an agonized breath. He was frozen halfway to his feet, spots swimming in front of his eyes, but he heard the escaped slave’s voice.
“Easy, man, they thrashed you black and blue.” A hand caught Jinyel’s arm. “Don’t fall over or we won’t get any answers.”
“An… swers,” Jinyel wheezed as his vision cleared.
Morning was well underway, and the escaped slaves picked through the camp in a daze. The braver ones poked the corpses. The less brave ones stared at Jinyel with wide eyes. On top of the wagon perched the girl who’d cooked the stew, her knees pulled protectively up to her chest. She stared at Jinyel, less fearful, more discerning. Old Doyen’s girl, probably.
“Stay down,” growled the escaped slave, pointing his poker at the prone bandit captain.
“Or what?” snapped the captain. “Go on and kill me, if you have the nerve. Bet you don’t.”
“Ignore him,” Jinyel cut in. “He can’t walk anymore.”
“What do you mean?” both slave and bandit asked.
“If you think a little flesh wound is going to keep me down―” The bandit tried to stand. He posted up onto his hands, got a foot on the ground, but it wouldn’t hold weight. He shook, fell, and stared open-mouthed at Jinyel.
“What did you do to me?” he breathed.
“Crippled you,” Jinyel answered matter-of-factly.
“Get off me!” another bandit screamed from inside a tent. “What did you do to me?”
“Don’t worry about that,” Jinyel said before anyone could ask. “He can’t walk, either.”
The freed slaves darted away from the tent, paused, and then observed it curiously as no threat emerged. After a moment, the other surviving bandit crawled out the flap and shouted, “Captain! They’re free, I can’t…!”
He trailed off as he surveyed the scene. He spotted the captain across camp, also brought down to his hands and knees, and both of them decided to stay quiet after that.
Jinyel adjusted his shirt, then walked toward the pile of supplies. Or perhaps ‘lurched’ would be more accurate. “Hard part’s done. Don’t kill them, they know where the other camps are. Maybe where the other slaves were taken. And if they don’t, killing them is easy. Not like they can run away now.”
A cold silence followed him. Even the man with the poker didn’t seem to know what to say. The other escapees skirted away from Jinyel as he staggered. The only one willing to stay within ten yards of him was the girl, perched atop the supplies with her head tilted. She watched him like a hawk as he eased down to sit on a crate.
“Hurt,” she observed.
Yes, he answered in sign language.
For a moment, he just breathed. It was a painful task. Agnis would surely know what was wrong with him, and he knew without doubt that she would scold him, pace in circles, and then lament how a parent and child couldn’t heal one another and so he really should have known better than to get in this sort of trouble. Not “parent and child sparks,” because she rarely made a verbal distinction between the two.
He wasn’t looking forward to that conversation.
Wood shifted as the girl clambered toward him. He looked up, and she held out a waterskin.
“Here,” she said.
He took it with the sign for Gratitude, although she hadn’t shown any understanding of sign language so far. He choked a bit to discover that the skin was filled with wine instead of water, but liquid was liquid. The sweetness offset his pain somewhat.
“You said my grandfather sent you,” she murmured.
So she was Old Doyen’s girl, after all.
“Yes.” He handed the wineskin back.
“Why did you leave any of them alive?” Her tone held an accusation.
“Captain. Knows where others were taken.” Jinyel nodded toward the fallen bandit. “That one stays alive. For now.”
The girl had nothing to say about this. Jinyel took stock of the bandit supplies. Food. Weapons. Chains. Animals, too, no doubt stolen from farmsteads along with the slaves. A few horses, some donkeys, a few goats and piglets. Although the escaped captives had been picking through the pile, they skirted around now that Jinyel had sat down on the supplies.
Now, with words exchanged between Jinyel and the girl, the escapee with the iron poker risked an approach.
“Why did you come here?” he asked. “You didn’t come for slaves. Supplies? Wealth?”
“He came from the village by the runwaters,” answered the girl. “My grandfather sent him.”
“The runwaters, eh?” The man peered at Jinyel. “Only a fraction of these supplies came from the runwaters. Are you taking it all there?”
Don’t care, Jinyel signed, emphasized by a shrug. “Need a donkey to take him―” He pointed at the captain, “―with me. To tell where other bandits and captives are.”
“Other villages will want to know.”
“Why I crippled three bandits. I just want that one.”
“Hmm.” The man looked over his shoulder, surveying the camp. “You’re not taking the pigs? Goats? Horses?”
“Don’t need them.”
“Good. I’m glad I don’t have to fight you for them.”
Jinyel was also glad for that, considering he would probably lose any fight he got into in this state.
“And weapons,” Jinyel added. “Bow. Arrows. Knife. Axe. A pot and a pan. One of the tents and bedrolls. Lost my horse and supplies to other bandits a few days ago.”
“No one’s safe these days,” the man murmured. “They kept their weapons in their tents. We don’t need the cookware. Take a jar of preserves, too, if both of you are headed back to the runwaters. I won’t fight you over food when you’ve gotten us free.”
Jinyel nodded, then glanced at the girl. She was eyeing the crippled captain in distrust.
“He can’t walk,” Jinyel told her. “Took out his legs. Tie him on a donkey and he can’t run. Can’t hurt.”
“You don’t know what he can do,” she growled. “Don’t know what he did.”
“Yes.” With a pained breath, Jinyel rolled up his sleeves. On his wrists were old, pale scars to match the open wounds on her own wrists. “I know.”
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “You do know.”
Something in her body unlocked. Her knees loosened, and she straightened in her seat. She wasn’t relaxed, not by a longshot, but Jinyel had been in her place before. He knew what a show of trust looked like.
“Got to move.” Jinyel hauled himself onto aching feet. “Once I get―”
“Easy.” The man reached out as Jinyel swayed. “If you can’t stand up, forget the damned slaver and take the donkey for yourself.”
Jinyel batted the hand away. I’m fine. “Don’t need it. Need to get the supplies.”
“I’ll get the supplies.” The girl stood, posture straighter than it had ever been in chains. “I’ll get them and carry them, and look after the donkey as long as you let me beat that bastard however much I want.”
Jinyel shrugged. “Don’t kill him. No head injuries. Other than that, I don’t care what you do.”
A bitter smile cracked her lips. “Deal.”
‘Energizing’ was an odd word. According to Agnis, it meant two opposites: both ‘add flesh’ and ‘take flesh away.’ Jinyel had always thought those two actions deserved their own names, so in his mind, he called this ‘sinking.’ The small removal of flesh to great effect.
It was easy enough to read the man’s enervations, and to see pain blooming up his legs like heat on a Cylus night. Jinyel was tired, and he hurt everywhere, and he really, really didn’t want to carve up legs right now. He knew the human hamstring not as a doctor, but as a butcher. Humans had all the same parts as a deer, just at different lengths and proportions, so there was no great difference in cutting up one over the other.
The bandit’s fingers curled into the dirt as Jinyel worked, but the battle was over. There was little the slaver could do, especially as the slaves got free and began to wander through camp. The ‘sinking’ process was a slow one, and one of the freed slaves was on the approach by the time Jinyel’s ether found purchase in the man’s leg.
“You,” said the man with an iron poker.
“Wait,” Jinyel replied.
The freed slave waited. Perhaps he was afraid. Perhaps he was grateful. Jinyel couldn’t afford distractions until he felt the hamstrings split under his fingertips.
With a sigh, Jinyel leaned back from his experiment. The bandit let out an irritated grunt. Since there was no cutting involved, the process didn’t seem particularly painful for him. Jinyel wondered if the man even realized he’d just lost the ability to walk.
“You’re a mage,” said the slave with the poker. “What are you doing to them?”
Jinyel took three deep breaths to center himself. His hands tingled from magic. It left a strange emptiness behind, not quite tiredness and not quite hunger, but the sense he had spent something.
“Yes. Mage.” Jinyel rose to his knees. “Making sure they―”
Pain bloomed in his ribs, and he sucked in an agonized breath. He was frozen halfway to his feet, spots swimming in front of his eyes, but he heard the escaped slave’s voice.
“Easy, man, they thrashed you black and blue.” A hand caught Jinyel’s arm. “Don’t fall over or we won’t get any answers.”
“An… swers,” Jinyel wheezed as his vision cleared.
Morning was well underway, and the escaped slaves picked through the camp in a daze. The braver ones poked the corpses. The less brave ones stared at Jinyel with wide eyes. On top of the wagon perched the girl who’d cooked the stew, her knees pulled protectively up to her chest. She stared at Jinyel, less fearful, more discerning. Old Doyen’s girl, probably.
“Stay down,” growled the escaped slave, pointing his poker at the prone bandit captain.
“Or what?” snapped the captain. “Go on and kill me, if you have the nerve. Bet you don’t.”
“Ignore him,” Jinyel cut in. “He can’t walk anymore.”
“What do you mean?” both slave and bandit asked.
“If you think a little flesh wound is going to keep me down―” The bandit tried to stand. He posted up onto his hands, got a foot on the ground, but it wouldn’t hold weight. He shook, fell, and stared open-mouthed at Jinyel.
“What did you do to me?” he breathed.
“Crippled you,” Jinyel answered matter-of-factly.
“Get off me!” another bandit screamed from inside a tent. “What did you do to me?”
“Don’t worry about that,” Jinyel said before anyone could ask. “He can’t walk, either.”
The freed slaves darted away from the tent, paused, and then observed it curiously as no threat emerged. After a moment, the other surviving bandit crawled out the flap and shouted, “Captain! They’re free, I can’t…!”
He trailed off as he surveyed the scene. He spotted the captain across camp, also brought down to his hands and knees, and both of them decided to stay quiet after that.
Jinyel adjusted his shirt, then walked toward the pile of supplies. Or perhaps ‘lurched’ would be more accurate. “Hard part’s done. Don’t kill them, they know where the other camps are. Maybe where the other slaves were taken. And if they don’t, killing them is easy. Not like they can run away now.”
A cold silence followed him. Even the man with the poker didn’t seem to know what to say. The other escapees skirted away from Jinyel as he staggered. The only one willing to stay within ten yards of him was the girl, perched atop the supplies with her head tilted. She watched him like a hawk as he eased down to sit on a crate.
“Hurt,” she observed.
Yes, he answered in sign language.
For a moment, he just breathed. It was a painful task. Agnis would surely know what was wrong with him, and he knew without doubt that she would scold him, pace in circles, and then lament how a parent and child couldn’t heal one another and so he really should have known better than to get in this sort of trouble. Not “parent and child sparks,” because she rarely made a verbal distinction between the two.
He wasn’t looking forward to that conversation.
Wood shifted as the girl clambered toward him. He looked up, and she held out a waterskin.
“Here,” she said.
He took it with the sign for Gratitude, although she hadn’t shown any understanding of sign language so far. He choked a bit to discover that the skin was filled with wine instead of water, but liquid was liquid. The sweetness offset his pain somewhat.
“You said my grandfather sent you,” she murmured.
So she was Old Doyen’s girl, after all.
“Yes.” He handed the wineskin back.
“Why did you leave any of them alive?” Her tone held an accusation.
“Captain. Knows where others were taken.” Jinyel nodded toward the fallen bandit. “That one stays alive. For now.”
The girl had nothing to say about this. Jinyel took stock of the bandit supplies. Food. Weapons. Chains. Animals, too, no doubt stolen from farmsteads along with the slaves. A few horses, some donkeys, a few goats and piglets. Although the escaped captives had been picking through the pile, they skirted around now that Jinyel had sat down on the supplies.
Now, with words exchanged between Jinyel and the girl, the escapee with the iron poker risked an approach.
“Why did you come here?” he asked. “You didn’t come for slaves. Supplies? Wealth?”
“He came from the village by the runwaters,” answered the girl. “My grandfather sent him.”
“The runwaters, eh?” The man peered at Jinyel. “Only a fraction of these supplies came from the runwaters. Are you taking it all there?”
Don’t care, Jinyel signed, emphasized by a shrug. “Need a donkey to take him―” He pointed at the captain, “―with me. To tell where other bandits and captives are.”
“Other villages will want to know.”
“Why I crippled three bandits. I just want that one.”
“Hmm.” The man looked over his shoulder, surveying the camp. “You’re not taking the pigs? Goats? Horses?”
“Don’t need them.”
“Good. I’m glad I don’t have to fight you for them.”
Jinyel was also glad for that, considering he would probably lose any fight he got into in this state.
“And weapons,” Jinyel added. “Bow. Arrows. Knife. Axe. A pot and a pan. One of the tents and bedrolls. Lost my horse and supplies to other bandits a few days ago.”
“No one’s safe these days,” the man murmured. “They kept their weapons in their tents. We don’t need the cookware. Take a jar of preserves, too, if both of you are headed back to the runwaters. I won’t fight you over food when you’ve gotten us free.”
Jinyel nodded, then glanced at the girl. She was eyeing the crippled captain in distrust.
“He can’t walk,” Jinyel told her. “Took out his legs. Tie him on a donkey and he can’t run. Can’t hurt.”
“You don’t know what he can do,” she growled. “Don’t know what he did.”
“Yes.” With a pained breath, Jinyel rolled up his sleeves. On his wrists were old, pale scars to match the open wounds on her own wrists. “I know.”
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “You do know.”
Something in her body unlocked. Her knees loosened, and she straightened in her seat. She wasn’t relaxed, not by a longshot, but Jinyel had been in her place before. He knew what a show of trust looked like.
“Got to move.” Jinyel hauled himself onto aching feet. “Once I get―”
“Easy.” The man reached out as Jinyel swayed. “If you can’t stand up, forget the damned slaver and take the donkey for yourself.”
Jinyel batted the hand away. I’m fine. “Don’t need it. Need to get the supplies.”
“I’ll get the supplies.” The girl stood, posture straighter than it had ever been in chains. “I’ll get them and carry them, and look after the donkey as long as you let me beat that bastard however much I want.”
Jinyel shrugged. “Don’t kill him. No head injuries. Other than that, I don’t care what you do.”
A bitter smile cracked her lips. “Deal.”
