Tattered Pawns - (Endmage, Book 1)
Chapter 3
The morning sun, cheeky bastard that it was, beamed down out of cloudless sky. I rose, the last afterimages of whatever nightmare had chosen to haunt me that night already dissolving in a wash of inputs from the waking world. In seconds, all that remained was a half-remembered glimpse of dark eyes, rimmed in violet.
Those always stayed, after all the rest had faded.
I blinked and shook my head, rubbing my face and willing myself awake, though every muscle protested that course of action.
After my panicked run through the night, I had stumbled into an inn across town and been promptly ejected again. I don’t think the proprietors were even sure why, but it wasn’t unheard of; just being around an endmage was enough to put people off. In hindsight, I suppose it was understandable—I had burst in from the storm, out of breath, covered in mud, shivering, in desperate need of a roof and a fire, so…no, on balance, screw those guys. I’d make it a point to sneak back there and wreak some kind of mayhem on them, if I had the time.
I rolled out of the meager shelter I’d managed to construct in an alleyway and stretched. It had been a miserable night, but I’d survived worse. A wicked grin spread across my face as I popped my spine back into alignment.
It was an excellent day for a bit of burglary.
I wandered to the nearest market, a ramshackle affair of questionable legitimacy. But some of the carts had food, so that was a win in my view.
The fruit peddler flinched as I handed him a few copper rods for my breakfast. I doubt he had any idea I was the cause of his discomfort—endmages are so rare that anyone without an academy education has probably never heard the term. He might have started to associate my presence with unpleasantness if I lingered, though, so I thanked him and moved off with my meal as fast as I could.
I munched on an apple as I hurried down the street, avoiding any crowds that looked too dense. A single street merchant would dismiss the moment of weirdness he experienced standing next to me, but if I walked through a larger group of people and they all recoiled at once, someone was going to notice. And too much of that led to torches and pitchforks.
Pitchforks suck.
This worthless heap of a countship, aligned through some convoluted family history to the much larger Cardinal Kingdom of Eastlund, wasn’t much to look at; mostly low buildings ringing a single large hill for a few miles in every direction, getting more ramshackle as they fell farther from the peak. Posh stone and marble structures squatted around the hilltop, but were a rarity here in the outskirts, replaced with wood, plaster, and thatched roofs in disrepair. The main avenues were cobbled, but the majority of the side streets were just muck and filth kept soggy and stinking by the region’s relentless rain.
I listened as I walked. You can learn a surprising amount about a place through slices and snippets of passing conversations. News, moods, rumors; all sorts of things that might guide the next steps of a professional nomad like myself. The fall of the Magus was the talk of the town that morning. Most people were still spreading gossip and outright falsehoods—though, those could be fun too.
I rolled the strange gem around in my pocket like a worry stone, contemplating it as I went. It was a mystery, but that was more than I’d had a few days before. The local arcanium wasn’t going to be of any use to me now; the scholars there weren’t likely to fart without the Count’s express approval. I wouldn’t even make it in the door. Not that I’d had high expectations as to their competence to begin with—not in a backwater like this.
As I dodged around another gaggle of city-folk, I made a critical mistake. I wandered near an old woman who was using some minor magic to help her sweep the entrance to her home. I took one step too close, and the two brooms that had been operating themselves clattered lifelessly to the ground. Frowning, she muttered something and gestured at them.
Nothing happened.
Alarmed, she repeated the incantation and gesture.
Still nothing.
Panic was written prominent on her face now. She tried again and again, but I couldn’t slip through the crowd fast enough to get away from her. At that distance a more powerful caster wouldn’t have noticed any impact on their capabilities. But this little old lady had probably never managed anything more spectacular than lighting a cooking fire, and such a tenuous connection to the Ether was completely annihilated in my presence.
She cried out in confusion and terror, drawing the attention of several passersby, who began to gather around us. Fantastic.
"Blackened furies," I cursed, seeking an escape. There was nowhere I could go that wouldn’t bring me closer to another cluster of people, and it was only getting worse as more stopped to investigate the commotion. And then they were going to start having problems, and it was going to be a real mess.
"Screw it," I muttered, and bolted, ramming my way through the thinnest part of the crowd I could see. Annoyed exclamations of rudeness turned into gasps and sobs wherever I came too close. I’ve been told that, if someone is actively using a spell when they come under my influence, it’s akin to having a limb abruptly disappear.
I’m in no position to validate the claim, having never lost a limb or cast even the smallest spell myself, but I’ve seen enough outrageous reactions to know it isn’t pleasant. I doubted this crowd was working anything impressive, but it wouldn’t have surprised me if several were holding onto a small effort for warmth against the damp. Enough that a brush with me would have knocked their world off-kilter for a moment.
I ran to the nearest corner and turned down another street. I took the next corner at random, and the next, before I slowed to a walk again, trying to look as innocent and uninteresting as possible. The crowd was thinner there, and people passing by unconsciously kept their distance from me, which I was content with.
I pulled my water skin from my pack and took a deep swig. By necessity, I’m a strong runner, but it never failed to leave me parched.
A glint of marble white caught my eye, bright in the morning sun. Count Grendesian’s manor was visible in the distance, squatting atop the hill this wretched little city was built around.
I put the skin in my bag and started walking. I pushed all the big questions I had to the back of my mind—tonight, there was only one task at hand. I have a strict policy about contract fulfillment: you give me what I’m owed, or I come and take it.
Sometimes, it even works.
Those always stayed, after all the rest had faded.
I blinked and shook my head, rubbing my face and willing myself awake, though every muscle protested that course of action.
After my panicked run through the night, I had stumbled into an inn across town and been promptly ejected again. I don’t think the proprietors were even sure why, but it wasn’t unheard of; just being around an endmage was enough to put people off. In hindsight, I suppose it was understandable—I had burst in from the storm, out of breath, covered in mud, shivering, in desperate need of a roof and a fire, so…no, on balance, screw those guys. I’d make it a point to sneak back there and wreak some kind of mayhem on them, if I had the time.
I rolled out of the meager shelter I’d managed to construct in an alleyway and stretched. It had been a miserable night, but I’d survived worse. A wicked grin spread across my face as I popped my spine back into alignment.
It was an excellent day for a bit of burglary.
I wandered to the nearest market, a ramshackle affair of questionable legitimacy. But some of the carts had food, so that was a win in my view.
The fruit peddler flinched as I handed him a few copper rods for my breakfast. I doubt he had any idea I was the cause of his discomfort—endmages are so rare that anyone without an academy education has probably never heard the term. He might have started to associate my presence with unpleasantness if I lingered, though, so I thanked him and moved off with my meal as fast as I could.
I munched on an apple as I hurried down the street, avoiding any crowds that looked too dense. A single street merchant would dismiss the moment of weirdness he experienced standing next to me, but if I walked through a larger group of people and they all recoiled at once, someone was going to notice. And too much of that led to torches and pitchforks.
Pitchforks suck.
This worthless heap of a countship, aligned through some convoluted family history to the much larger Cardinal Kingdom of Eastlund, wasn’t much to look at; mostly low buildings ringing a single large hill for a few miles in every direction, getting more ramshackle as they fell farther from the peak. Posh stone and marble structures squatted around the hilltop, but were a rarity here in the outskirts, replaced with wood, plaster, and thatched roofs in disrepair. The main avenues were cobbled, but the majority of the side streets were just muck and filth kept soggy and stinking by the region’s relentless rain.
I listened as I walked. You can learn a surprising amount about a place through slices and snippets of passing conversations. News, moods, rumors; all sorts of things that might guide the next steps of a professional nomad like myself. The fall of the Magus was the talk of the town that morning. Most people were still spreading gossip and outright falsehoods—though, those could be fun too.
I rolled the strange gem around in my pocket like a worry stone, contemplating it as I went. It was a mystery, but that was more than I’d had a few days before. The local arcanium wasn’t going to be of any use to me now; the scholars there weren’t likely to fart without the Count’s express approval. I wouldn’t even make it in the door. Not that I’d had high expectations as to their competence to begin with—not in a backwater like this.
As I dodged around another gaggle of city-folk, I made a critical mistake. I wandered near an old woman who was using some minor magic to help her sweep the entrance to her home. I took one step too close, and the two brooms that had been operating themselves clattered lifelessly to the ground. Frowning, she muttered something and gestured at them.
Nothing happened.
Alarmed, she repeated the incantation and gesture.
Still nothing.
Panic was written prominent on her face now. She tried again and again, but I couldn’t slip through the crowd fast enough to get away from her. At that distance a more powerful caster wouldn’t have noticed any impact on their capabilities. But this little old lady had probably never managed anything more spectacular than lighting a cooking fire, and such a tenuous connection to the Ether was completely annihilated in my presence.
She cried out in confusion and terror, drawing the attention of several passersby, who began to gather around us. Fantastic.
"Blackened furies," I cursed, seeking an escape. There was nowhere I could go that wouldn’t bring me closer to another cluster of people, and it was only getting worse as more stopped to investigate the commotion. And then they were going to start having problems, and it was going to be a real mess.
"Screw it," I muttered, and bolted, ramming my way through the thinnest part of the crowd I could see. Annoyed exclamations of rudeness turned into gasps and sobs wherever I came too close. I’ve been told that, if someone is actively using a spell when they come under my influence, it’s akin to having a limb abruptly disappear.
I’m in no position to validate the claim, having never lost a limb or cast even the smallest spell myself, but I’ve seen enough outrageous reactions to know it isn’t pleasant. I doubted this crowd was working anything impressive, but it wouldn’t have surprised me if several were holding onto a small effort for warmth against the damp. Enough that a brush with me would have knocked their world off-kilter for a moment.
I ran to the nearest corner and turned down another street. I took the next corner at random, and the next, before I slowed to a walk again, trying to look as innocent and uninteresting as possible. The crowd was thinner there, and people passing by unconsciously kept their distance from me, which I was content with.
I pulled my water skin from my pack and took a deep swig. By necessity, I’m a strong runner, but it never failed to leave me parched.
A glint of marble white caught my eye, bright in the morning sun. Count Grendesian’s manor was visible in the distance, squatting atop the hill this wretched little city was built around.
I put the skin in my bag and started walking. I pushed all the big questions I had to the back of my mind—tonight, there was only one task at hand. I have a strict policy about contract fulfillment: you give me what I’m owed, or I come and take it.
Sometimes, it even works.
Tattered Pawns releases Oct 1, 2022 and is available for pre-order RIGHT NOW!
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Copyright © 2022 Christopher D. Corrigan
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The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
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.
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
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.