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  INK MAGE

  INK MAGE

  by

  Victor Gischler

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2013 Victor Gischler

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by 47North, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and 47North are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  eISBN: 9781477899304

  Cover Illustrated by Chase Stone

  Cover design by Sam Dawson

  FOR JACKIE

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  MAP 1

  MAP 2

  EPISODE ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  EPISODE TWO

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FORTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  EPISODE THREE

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  EPISODE FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  EPISODE FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  EPISODE SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  EPISODE SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  EPISODE EIGHT

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  KINDLE SERIALS

  Tazio Bettin

  Tazio Bettin

  EPISODE ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  The fortified watchtower overlooking the Eastern Sea was officially called Ferrigan’s Tower for the engineer who’d built it, but to the miserable soldiers stationed there, the post was known as the Snow Devil’s Asshole. The tower sat on a narrow peninsula of rock that jutted out to sea like an open palm, the rocks around it battered constantly by the tossing, foamy sea. When the wind howled, it drowned out the crashing waves.

  And the wind always howled.

  This night, small, stinging snowflakes rode the wind, coming in sideways. Tosh and the other four soldiers huddled around the fire pit atop the tower. They were “keeping watch,” which meant that about once an hour they’d take turns grudgingly rising from the fire to walk to the parapet and glance at the empty sea.

  It was a dull, cold, unhappy posting, generally reserved for soldiers who’d messed up in some way.

  Tosh had gotten drunk on his night off and had vomited into the carriage of a minor nobleman. The next day, he found himself with his pack slung over his shoulder, marching with the rest of the replacement garrison to the Snow Devil’s Asshole with the rest of the screw-ups.

  “I’d fuck Berrig’s wife.” Tosh had to raise his voice to be heard over the wind. “I don’t mind a big fat ass.”

  The others laughed, including Berrig.

  Berrig said, “If you’re daydreaming about my Luwilla, it just proves you’ve been up here too long in this frozen shithole.”

  They laughed again.

  And that’s how they passed the bleak months until they were relieved—telling soldiers’ jokes, trying to keep warm, and keeping careful watch on a rocky stretch of desolate shoreline that hadn’t needed watching in thirty years. When Tosh had first arrived, he’d taken some comfort in the salt smell of the sea, which he enjoyed. But that small enjoyment had waned quickly as the tedious weeks dragged on. He held tightly to one small ray of hope. In four days, his tour of the Snow Devil’s Asshole would be up. The relief garrison would arrive and he could go home. And he could get a woman. Even one as fat as Luwilla would do.

  Twenty men, three horses, one tower. All grinding time slowly and eventually into dust to be blown away by the howling wind. All twenty men thought the same thing every day: Get the hell out of here and don’t screw up again. Don’t get sent back.

  But not yet. Four more days. And it was Tosh’s turn to go glance at the ocean.

  He heaved himself up and staggered away from the fire. The cold had settled into his bones. It was an easy thing to happen if you didn’t move, didn’t keep the blood circulating. He briefly stomped in a circle before finding his way to the parapet. The feeling came slowly back into his feet. He yawned and looked out to sea.

  Nothing.

  Well, not entirely nothing. He did note with mild surprise that a thick fog had descended. Visibility came to a sudden halt a quarter mile out to sea. After that it was all pea soup. These weather conditions were not unheard of at the Snow Devil’s Asshole, but they were unusual. Above, the clouds moved away from the moon which beamed brightly down upon …

  Tosh blinked.

  Something in the sudden moonlight, a shape in the mist. He squinted, leaned forward.

  The prow of a ship coming through the mist.

  Tosh opened his mouth to raise the alarm, hesitated, not sure if he saw what he thought he saw. He was wrong. It wasn’t a ship.

  It was two.

  No, three—five—a dozen …

  He stopped counting. There were far too many. He froze, utter disbelief. At the same moment, another part of his brain reached back, groped for stories the old timers told at the tavern about Perranese raiders who’d hit the coast, loot and plunder and then flee back across the ocean. These ships had the same low, lean look and strange square sails he’d heard in the stories, with accordion folds so they could be raised and lowered like expensive window blinds. But this wasn’t a raiding party.

  It was an invasion.

  Tosh drew a lungful of air, turned back toward his comrades and yelled, “Alarm! Alarm!”

  They turned, gawked at Tosh. What?

  “Ring
the fucking bell!” Tosh screamed at them.

  One ran for the bell and immediately began ringing it, the crisp, clear sound cutting through the noise of the wind. They’d hear it downstairs and saddle the horses. Berrig and the others joined Tosh at the parapet, bringing torches. They looked with bewilderment and terror at the approaching armada.

  “Dumo, save us,” breathed Berrig. He leaned out, looked over the side of the parapet.

  Tosh wasn’t very religious, but he’d gladly go to temple if Dumo appeared now and blasted the invaders with divine fire.

  Berrig said, “Wait, is that—?”

  Something flashed silver in the moonlight and buried itself into Berrig’s left eye. Berrig screamed and twitched.

  “Berrig!” Tosh moved toward the man.

  A large metallic star with four, six-inch points. Tosh had never seen such a weapon. One of the six-inch blades had struck deep into Berrig’s eye, reaching his brain. Berrig twitched once, opened his mouth as if attempting to say something, then collapsed dead at Tosh’s feet.

  Tosh grabbed a torch from one of the other soldiers. He leaned out with the torch, looked down along the side of the stone tower.

  A Perranese warrior scaled the wall not ten feet below him. He wore a strange wide helm that flared out from his head and armor of overlapping black, metal discs like the scales of some dark sea creature. The warrior’s head came up suddenly, locked eyes with Tosh.

  Tosh screamed—rage, fear, anger—and hurled the torch at the warrior. It hit him square in the face with a sizzle, dislodged him. He tumbled silently back down to the rocks below. As the torch fell, it illuminated a dozen more Perranese warriors clinging to the tower wall, doggedly making their ascent.

  Tosh turned to his comrades. “They’re coming!”

  The others drew broad-bladed short swords. They looked scared. “Get below, Tosh,” one of them said.

  Tosh offered a blank look in reply.

  “You’ve got saddle duty. Go!”

  Of course! Tosh ran to the trap door, flung it open and nearly fell down the ladder to the floor below. He took the twisting stone stairs three at a time until he hit the bottom floor, a combination of barracks, kitchen, stable. The place was in an uproar—men hastily putting on cheap leather armor, fetching crossbow bolts, making ready to be destroyed. A barely controlled feeling of panic pulsed through the place.

  He felt somebody grab his shoulder. “Move your ass. The gray one is already saddled!” He was pushed roughly toward the section that had been blocked off for a stable.

  The Captain. He had never liked the man, but suddenly felt sorry for the officer stuck with being in charge of this mess. The man had already turned to shout orders at the others.

  Tosh ran for the horses. He was the last to arrive; the other two horses already had riders.

  He briefly thanked military discipline, something he’d never done before. In this desolate outpost it would have been easy to let things slip. But they kept up the saddle rotation, drilled, maintained the watch. And Tosh was on saddle rotation. Dumb luck. He would ride away while the others died defending the tower. A stab of guilt vanished rapidly. He wasn’t a hero and didn’t have a death wish.

  He mounted, looked at the other two riders. They nodded to each other.

  The two soldiers at the thick wooden double doors waved at the riders. “As soon as we lift the bar and open these doors, you men ride like the Snow Devil himself is on your ass, you hear?”

  They nodded again. Somehow it had become difficult to speak.

  The soldiers lifted the bar and swung the doors open. Snow and bone-freezing wind hit them immediately.

  The three riders shot out of the tower. Tosh found himself in the lead, dug his heels in, mentally willed the horse to fly. Flickering points of firelight streamed toward the narrow road from both sides. Torches! Warriors closing fast. The bastards must have landed ships farther up the coast to send troops to secure the tower before the armada arrived. Tosh wasn’t a military strategist, just a grunt. But that’s what he would have done.

  No matter. He only had one thing to worry about now: ride fast!

  He heard the hiss of an arrow followed by the thud of a body hitting the ground. They’d hit one of the riders behind him. More arrows cut through the air, one so close to his ear he felt the fletching tickle his lobe.

  A scream. Tosh risked a look back over his shoulder. He was the only rider left. He hunkered down low and spurred the horse again, snow stinging his face.

  He rounded the bend and headed toward the low mountain pass. Tosh looked back again. No sign of torches. He was going to make it. The only one to make it. Berrig and two others dead so far. How long would the others last? Or maybe the Perranese would surround the Tower, take then men inside prisoner. But the tales he’d heard about the Perranese didn’t make them seem very merciful.

  Never mind.

  Tosh’s adrenalin rush began to ebb. The cold seeped in. He realized that in leaving in such a rush he’d forgotten to don the heavy traveling furs. But Klaar was a small duchy. He’d be through the pass quickly and then ride down the other side maybe a dozen miles to the fur trapping village there. There was an outpost behind a palisade where he could change horses and get furs for the rest of the journey. Then another eighty miles of hard riding to the city.

  To warn the Duke that war was upon the land.

  CHAPTER TWO

  High atop a castle wall, a giant stood next to a duchess. They watched the approaching army.

  The giant was not technically a giant, not like the shaggy mountain giants that lived high in the mountains or the tree-climbing forest giants in the west. Rather, he was a giant among men, a fraction under seven feet tall, broad shoulders, rippling muscles. Powerful legs with thick thighs and calves. His name was Kork, short for some longer foreign name that nobody in Klaar used anymore. He had dark, olive skin and black coarse hair like all the desert people of Fyria in the far southwest, worn in rows of tight braids close to his scalp. What had brought him across Helva to the frozen reaches of Klaar was a story few knew and even fewer considered important. His beard was braided and forked, clamped at the ends in brass.

  Kork had been born into the warriors’ caste in Fyria, had held a sword before he could speak. His armor was traditional: bracers of metal bands affixed with thick leather, a fitted breastplate and a skirt of overlapping metal rectangles. In such climes as Klaar, he wore a heavy, fur-lined cloak which could be cast aside quickly should he need to leap into combat.

  His sole reason for existence was to teach and protect the young woman standing next to him.

  “That’s more soldiers in one place at one time than I’ve ever seen before,” Rina said coolly. “A pity for them it won’t matter.”

  They’d come to the top of the wall to get a look at the enemy camp. Neat rows of round, crimson tents, banners flying in the wind. They completely covered the flat ground beyond the Long Bridge.

  Kork grunted, a low guttural sound that could have meant he agreed, disagreed or didn’t care.

  Rina smiled. “Thanks for keeping up your end of the conversation, Kork.”

  Kork grunted again.

  Just as the Fyrian was not technically a giant, Rina was not technically a duchess. Her father, Arlus Veraiin, was Duke of Klaar, and someday Rina would be duchess, but not yet. But in the private family wing of the castle, Arlus still referred to his daughter as “my little duchess,” a habit left over from her childhood.

  Rina Veraiin had just turned nineteen, a year from legal adulthood in Klaar and indeed most of Helva. She put the long, tightly rolled chuma stick into her mouth, inhaled, held it, then blew the gray smoke into the wind, watched it float away over the city wall.

  “You smoke too much,” Kork said.

  She puffed again. Chuma was a habit she’d picked up recently. The low, broad-leafed plant grew in the river valleys of the lush flatlands. It was expensive to transport all the way to Klaar, but, really, what was the po
int of being the Duke’s daughter if she could not enjoy expensive things?

  “I had planned to shop in the town today,” Rina said. “I suppose I’ll just watch the war instead.” She took another long, lazy draw on the chuma stick.