The muscles in his body, head to toe, seized all at once. He bit his tongue again and blood filled his mouth. The men lowered him to the ground while spit and blood ran down his cheeks. He lay there, staring up at the ceiling, breathing, breathing, as sorcery stole his will.
Nix Fall of…
'Sit them up,' Rakon said after a time, and rough hands sat Nix up. His head lolled on his neck, a marionette without strings. His eyes wouldn't focus. Rakon was a blur before him.
Nix Fall. Nix Fall.
It seemed insufficient. Rakon's spell bent him, twisted his will, made it the sorcerer's own, and when Rakon spoke, his voice, redolent with power, echoed in Nix's braincase like the words of a god.
'Nix Fall and Egil of Ebenor, you will travel with me and my men to the tomb of Abn Thuset, enter it when I say, take the Horn of Alyyk from within, return, and give it to me. Do you understand?'
The words pulled a response from Nix the way a fisherman pulled a hooked fish from the Meander. Egil echoed him.
'I understand.'
Rakon crossed his arms over his chest, satisfied. 'Bring them, Baras. We leave with the dawn.'
'Yes, my lord,' Baras said. 'But…'
'But?'
'I think they may have helped without use of a spell. Is this the best way to secure their aid? I wonder if this was necessary.'
Rakon stared at him. 'You wonder, do you?'
Baras lowered his head. 'I'm sorry, my lord.'
'Do you think they wouldn't have run the moment opportunity presented itself?'
Baras looked from Nix to Egil, back to Rakon. 'I… don't know. Probably.'
'Almost certainly. Now that's no longer a risk. I can't take a chance with my sisters' lives, Baras. The compulsion is a distasteful necessity.'
That convinced Baras. 'Yes, my lord.'
Jyme pulled Nix to his feet. Nix wobbled. Jyme's breath was hot against Nix's ear.
'Say again who's got the luck, now?'
Jyme's tone sounded far less prickish than his words. The sorcery had unnerved him, too.
Nix shook off Jyme's grip, stood on shaky legs, and adjusted his shirt. He licked his lips and said, 'The spellworm in my gut doesn't stop me from sticking a blade in your belly, Jyme. You remember that when smart words knock against your crooked teeth, wanting out.'
The words came out partly slurred, but he'd made his point.
Jyme frowned, swallowed, and backed off.
'Jyme, you will accompany us, of course,' Rakon said. 'To Afirion.'
'What? Afirion? No, my lord. I just wanted to see these two get what they had coming. And even then I didn't know they'd get this or…'
He caught himself and stopped talking.
'Jyme, you will accompany us,' Rakon said. 'That's an order.'
'My lord?'
'Whatever business you may have, it'll keep,' Baras said.
'This wasn't the deal,' Jyme said to Baras. 'You didn't say anything about this.'
'You didn't ask,' Baras said with a shrug. 'You wanted in. Now you're in.'
'Or if that's not enough to convince you,' Rakon said, 'perhaps another compulsion is in order?'
Jyme held up his hands. 'Not necessary, my lord. I'm happy to come to… Afirion. But I have no kit. I'd need-'
'We have everything you'll need. The supply wagon and carriage are already loaded. You're not to leave Baras's sight. If you attempt to, my men are authorized to use force. I am understood, I trust?'
Jyme swallowed his anger. He looked at Nix, back at Baras, to Rakon. 'You are, my lord.'
Rakon pointed at Egil and Nix. 'The compulsion is a blade at your throat. Do other than I've instructed and it will kill you.' He sneered at Nix. 'But maybe you already knew that from your year at the Conclave?'
Egil swayed on his thick legs, his clenched fists held clumsily before his face. Even the eye of Ebenor on his head looked disconcerted. He spoke in a voice more slurred than Nix's.
'I'm going to kill you, all of you. I'm looking at dead men.'
No sooner had he uttered the words than he puked all over the ground.
'Bring their weapons,' Rakon said, eyeing the vomit with a pinched expression. 'And the small one's bag of tricks. They'll need them when we reach the Wastes.'
'The Wastes?' Nix said. 'What?'
He must have misheard.
'Yes, my lord,' Baras answered. 'Awake or not?'
Rakon eyed Nix and Egil. 'I don't care. Just don't kill them.'
'Understood, my lord.'
'Shite,' Nix said, a moment before the painful blow of a sword pommel sent him once more into oblivion.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Nix awakened with a groan, flat on his back, thrown once more into the back of a cart. He blinked, staring up at the canvas-covered ribs of the wagon. The gray light of dawn trickled in through the loose flap at the back. Rain tapped lightly on the canvas, and even that soft drumbeat made Nix wince. His head hurt worse than his worst hangover, and his tongue tasted like he had taken a lascivious lick of Shoddy Way.
At least he was no longer bound. He ran a hand over his skull, felt the tender, painful lumps under his hair. He seemed to be collecting them. He massaged the pink furrows the rope had left on his wrists. He was disarmed and his satchel was gone. He tried to sit up but dizziness and a flash of nausea put him back down.
Egil lay on his side beside him, still unconscious, snoring, drool collecting in his beard. The priest had a discolored lump as large as a gull's egg on the top of his head, the tattooed Eye of Ebenor with an eyeshine.
Nix swallowed down his dry throat, found it as coarse as sand. He flashed on the spellworm, Rakon's manic gaze, the slippery, squirming thing wriggling down his throat, expanding in him, stealing his will.
He thought of the mental space within himself that he'd tried to reserve. If he'd done as he intended, he could use that mental space as a starting point from which to try to slip the compulsion.
'I am Nix Fall,' he said tentatively, the words little more than a harsh mumble. But even that small bit of resistance caused him a bout of nausea as the worm squirmed. The magic had rooted deeply.
He left off, in no condition at the moment to try to slip a compulsion. Instead, he sat up on an elbow and looked around.
Supplies filled the wagon: barrels of beer and skins of water, wheels of cheese, salted meat, sacks leaking onions and potatoes, rolled tents, straw and oats for draft animals, even a few stacks of firewood bound in cord. The abundance of supplies put him in mind of Rakon's mention of the Wastes. He'd hoped he'd misheard.
'Shite,' he said.
Beside him, Egil groaned.
'Egil,' Nix said softly, and shook the priest by the shoulder. 'Egil.'
The priest opened a bloodshot eye, blinked blearily, squinted at Nix, finally cocked an eyebrow.
'Nix?'
'Yeah. You all right?'
The priest lifted himself up, groaning and wobbly, and sat cross-legged. 'Muzzy, but all right. You?'
'As well as I might.' He touched the lumps on his head. 'A bit tired of getting knocked unconscious, though. Let's avoid that in the future, yeah?'
'Agreed,' Egil said, rubbing his head, the back of his neck. 'Where are we?'
