1st Draft Fridays - A Fistful of Deception: Book #4, Chronicles of Marsdenfel

Year 253 of the Bynding - Pardyam - Harvestime, part III

We both wobble too much to take anything but the streets and alleys down to Zeke’s. I lament the direct travel, but even if we are followed, at least his security’s good enough that even a haunt can’t breach it.

It has to be. Otherwise, he would’ve been hunted down years ago.

A few times, some hoodlums or kids mistake us for easy marks. They promptly learn otherwise, but after the last attack, Aldrik stumbles and lands hard on his hands and knees. He stays there, panting hard in the orange glow of sunset.

Magic poisoning.

Arms shaking, he fumbles with the sheath for his sword, manages to get it off his belt. “Take it,” he insists in kintård. He even has the burr of a native speaker. “Don’t let me hurt you.”

I accept the sword—nearly falling and throwing up, myself, thanks to the morning sickness. “Why would you hurt me?”

He grimaces. “Losing hold of my magic.” That’s why magic poisoning’s so dangerous. “Everything’s about to hit me at once.”

Every…

He’s been using his water magic to affect the liquid in his body, to slow the processing of the drugs and alcohol? No wonder he’s been so functional. But between the goldreem and the magic poisoning…

I grimace and glance around. “Can you hold on another stone? We’re nearly there.”

And Zeke has anti-magic wards in his cellar. We’ll need those to stop the leaching.

Aldrik lowers his head, body quaking, and takes several slow breaths. After several seconds of silence, he croaks, “I can’t promise that.”

I stare at him, at his lack of functionality, and he manages to lift his head to meet my gaze. Once he starts hallucinating from the haunt stings, I won’t be able to get him in Zeke’s. Not with the slyberry Zeke burns constantly.

There are passersby on the street, a few vendors, some children playing—witnesses, all of them. I’m not in the best shape, either, but Sylvair’s already aware I’m Tuelzi.

I release my breath in a hard sigh as I send an uppercut at Aldrik’s jaw. He collapses on the ground, unconscious, and I carefully crouch and get him over my shoulders.

Nausea kicks me in the stomach, doubtless from my magic leaching out to help me. I manage to keep from vomiting, but sweat chills my face. My arms tremble with strain. If someone decides to attack me now, the results won’t be pretty. I’m too strained to restrain myself from reverting to my childhood training, when my father still thought he could use me as an assassin.

Almost to Zeke’s. Just a few more minutes.

Just a few.

The next stone isn’t the longest I’ve ever experienced, but it ranks among the worst—and remembering the worst makes me struggle to remember I’m in Pardyam, carrying an ally, not newly stripped of my elven magic, beaten half to death, and in the process of being buried under six feet of earth.

I stumble and nearly drop Aldrik. I can’t afford that. With the flashback biting at my mind, I won’t be able to pick him back up. Not anytime soon.

We somehow reach Zeke’s without being molested by anyone. I stumble in, jostling both the door chime and the first over-full shelf.

A hookah slips from the shelf and shatters on the floorboards. I manage to keep my footing, barely, stare at the shards of hookah and wonder if the burgundy innards are goldreem or quillkill. The tart musk of the slyberry incense keeps me from smelling anything else.