Page 39 of War Mage

What can I do? I am no elfborn, I have no healing magic. I suppose I could do nothing; Urim is no friend to me, barely an ally. Mostly he’s a prick that I’ve been intimate with a couple times, but I can’t help but have my sympathy roused by his plight. I eye the brand and cautiously reach over to hold my hand over the wound. I can still feel the heat from the fire that was used to create the brand. It still burns inside him, deep in his skin. Could I draw out the heat, like venom from a snake bite? If I can use my magic, might that negate the power of the brand? I listen to the tortured breathing of the orc for a moment longer before deciding that I need to try.

Pulling the bits of wire out of my braid, I begin trying to pick the lock on my ankle again. I won’t be able to use my magic if the iron is still on my ankle, touching my skin. I try to remember Urim’s instruction and insert the l-shaped wire in the bottom of the lock and then insert the second, fiddling with it this way and that, trying to catch on the tumblers within so that I can move the inner workings and open the lock. It’s not easy and my hands are trembling as my actions are punctuated by Urim’s pained gasps. Finally, after far too long, I hear a click and the cuff falls off of my ankle. I almost shout in excited triumph, but I am no fool and I just grin instead.

Pushing the cuff away from me so that I can cast, I reach deep within me, pulling my mana to the surface. It is eager to reply now that it’s free from the iron barrier. My breathing slows and steadies as I bring my fires crackling under the surface of my skin, ready to obey my whim. Tentatively reaching out, I put my hand over the brand on Urim’s chest. My fires respond to the heat still burning in his chest and I can feel the fire trapped in his skin respond to my mastery of it. With as much delicacy as I can muster, I call to it, coaxing it from the wound. The air heats between us as I do, the burning brand lightening and the raw, dark, burned flesh smoothing over as it begins to heal as it no longer has the flame inside to keep burning the skin.

Encouraged that it’s working, I pull harder, trying to completely heal it, when a heavy, large hand closes over my wrist, startling me.

“Vargan!” I exclaim, still using his false name. “Are you well?”

“I am better,” he whispers. “But you must stop. You can’t completely heal this brand.”

“What?” I ask, confounded. “Why?”

“He’ll notice,” Urim says simply. “Zadicus will wonder how I’m healing his brand so quickly and he’ll just give me another. It is his wish to keep me in as much pain as possible.”

“But you were practically catatonic!” I argue. “I couldn’t just do nothing.”

“You must,” he replies firmly. “Next time, you must. We cannot risk them finding out about your true Affinity. That is our most closely guarded secret. We have to assume that Grazrath knows about his own weakness to soulfire and if he finds out that there is a fire mage close, who knows what he’ll do? At the very least he’d have you killed and all this would be for nothing.”

“Then what can I do next time?” I ask stubbornly. “I can’t just leave you to suffer, even if you are a stupid, pigheaded orc who deserves it.”

I’m stunned when Urim’s lips quirk a little at my grouchy barb. It’s a small smile and dies almost immediately, but with a steady, emotionless orc like Urim that might as well have been a belly laugh. He must be very weakened by the pain of the brand if his emotionless exterior cracked for a moment.

“Don’t worry about me,” Urim says. “Think of yourself. Do whatever you must to not attract notice and get to Evernight. If I don’t make it, then I don’t make it.”

“You sound almost like you want to die,” I accuse, frustrated at his attitude. We should be doing something to escape this godsforsaken caravan and come up with a new plan, not just wait around while he’s tortured to death and I’m delivered to an arch-demon.

“I don’t want to die, Adara,” he replies easily. “But I’m not afraid of it, especially in pursuit of a noble cause. The worst fate is to die and have your death mean nothing, to be just a senseless injustice. But if I die getting you to Evernight, that is not without meaning. Even just the attempt of what we are doing has honor in it.”

Strangely, his words make me think back to my assassination attempt in Undrian Forest. I was willing to die on my path to get revenge, a far less noble pursuit than saving the world. I suppose I understand not fearing death when one’s motivations are powerful. Still, watching a sentient being endure such senseless cruelty at the hands of a sadistic creature feels wrong to me, even if I have no other choice.

“Vargan,” I begin, but then his hands come up to my lips again, stilling my speech.

I’m about to be angry at such a high-handed action, when he whispers, “Shh. Someone’s coming. Put your cuff under your skirt.”

I hasten to do as he suggested, pulling the open shackle under my skirts so that they won’t be able to see that it is undone. I wait with bated breath until I too, even with my weak human ears, can hear the crunch of gravel under a boot coming this way. The canvas flaps open on the wagon, letting in the early rays of sunrise, as a hooded and cloaked figure brings two steaming bowls to the back.

“Meal time, slaves,” the vampire guard announces. “Eat up. You need to replenish your health if you want to be a good bloodbag.”

He laughs cruelly at his own words, as if what he’s said is the wittiest thing, and then places the bowls on the wagon bed before leaving. My stomach growls at this point and I eagerly scurry across the wagon to reach over Urim and grab the bowls. It’s some kind of purple mash, the smell of beets prevalent. There are some chunks of meat and herb in it as well and some sort of tuber vegetable. I would guess a potato, but it’s hard to tell with everything mashed together. There’s no spoon, but I gingerly scoop some of the hot meal into my mouth with my fingers and nearly moan at the sensation of nutrients hitting my bloodstream after over a day without them. It’s not that the food is good; there’s no salt or spices, the vampires obviously not wanting to waste expensive resources on blood slaves, but itisfood and it’s edible and warm, my body craving it.

Still, I’m careful not to eat too quickly. I don’t want my stomach cramping or any nausea. If I get sick, I doubt anyone will care for me, and like Urim said, I don’t want to attract any attention, especially while my cuff is off. So I deliberately and slowly eat the mash, savoring every bite. When I’m done, I take the other bowl and scoot back to Urim, handing him the dish.

With great effort, Urim sits up, obviously still shaken from his ordeal, but he accepts the bowl. He considers the food thoughtfully and then begins to eat, using his fingers like I did.

“It seems that they do care for their blood slaves somewhat,” he remarks between bites. “More than current evidence would suggest.”

“What makes you say that?” I challenge. “You were just tortured and fed on. I wouldn’t call that ‘care.’”

“Yes, butthatwas expected,” he replies evenly. “But this food seems designed to replenish blood. I recognize the beets and meat from orcish medicine as a way to encourage a body to recover after blood loss. I wouldn’t be surprised if the herb in it wasn’t swamp mallow, another treatment for excessive bleeding. That is a surprising amount of thought from the vampires.”

“So they want their blood slaves to not die of blood loss so that they can feed on them longer,” I say caustically. “Alert the gods, there are angels in our midst.”

Urim surprises me again by letting out a little snort. Again, a big reaction from someone as stoic as him. He says, “You are right that their motives aren’t altruistic. But at least it gives us more of a chance at survival if they aren’t going to starve us or withhold nutrients. We are going to need all our strength if we are to get through this.”

I feel mildly guilty about snapping at him when he's just thinking of the mission, as usual, especially after his ordeal. I let him finish his meal in silence, and watch him polish off the bowl, running his finger around the edges to get every morsel. He sighs as he finishes, a rueful sound.

“What?” I ask.

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