Firebrand

The Broken Blades

Martel could not see, speak, or move. He felt the bandits carry him around before ungently dropping his body down again. The rumbling of wheels told him he lay in a cart, being transported somewhere. All the while, the leather string with golden coins tied to it choked his throat. Worse than his difficulty in breathing was the suffocation of his magic. As he had never been without his gift before, he had never known how its loss would feel. A chill had sunk into his bones. When he tried to reach out with his power, nothing happened, like trying to move an amputated limb. It felt like being bereft of yet another of his senses, blind twice over.

~

Martel did not know for how long he rode in the cart; being bound and sightless made it hard to tell time. His heart racing did not help either, nor did the smell; the bag over his head had been used to carry fish, evidently. Finally, the cart stopped. Once more, his captors moved him around, and he heard a door being slammed. Other sounds followed. The creaking of a chair as someone sat down. Someone flushing drink down their throat and letting out a satisfied sigh. Iron striking flint to start a fire with crackling flames. Had he not been inhibited, Martel would instantly have known the location of that fire in relation to himself; now, the sounds only reminded him of how he had been declawed.

"I can't wait to get some hot grub! Waiting hours in the cold for that Nether-born bastard to appear," grumbled one of the bandits.

"I can't believe we went through all this trouble. We should have just cut his throat and be done with it."

Underneath his hood, Martel shivered. He could not recall ever feeling so powerless before.

"Can't we ransom him? Lad with rare skill like his, someone must want him back."

There was the sound of someone hitting another. "Don't be daft! Who would pay? That fancy school of his? Yeah, let's tell all these mages who can kill with a single look that we took one of their own."

"Then what do we want him alive for?"

"He's worth a lot to the right people. You know what the Khivans might pay? If anyone hates Asterian mages, it's them."

"Yeah, or we take him to Cathai. I hear they know how to break down mages and make them into useful pets."

Martel wondered if that would be a worse fate than becoming reagents for some Sindhian alchemist.

"Whatever can be done the fastest. It creeps me out, having him over there in the corner like some ragdoll, except he can shoot lightning from his eyes."

"Don't soil your pants." Raucous laughter followed. "With that pretty necklace on, he is harmless."

"We sure he's still alive? Marcus tied that string tight."

"I'm not so dumb I'd accidentally strangle him to death," came the offended reply.

A moment of silence followed. "Check on the boy," spoke the raspy voice that Martel figured belonged to the leader.

A rough hand pulled the hood of Martel's head. At least he was freed from the stench of fish. Blinking as his eyes adjusted to the wavering light of the kitchen fire, he looked around.

"Yeah, he's fine. For now, anyway." More laughter ensued.

"Maybe we should cut a few pieces off? Just to show around, so everyone knows not to mess with the Broken Blades."

Martel tried to get a sense of his surroundings and his company without being obvious about it. Besides the four who jumped him, he noticed others. At least half of them wore the short sword that Martel knew was part of the equipment in the legions, and as he got a better look, he noticed something else. One of them was missing several fingers, another the entire hand. Their leader had half his nose gone, and a fourth man limped as he crossed the room.

As for the location, it looked entirely ordinary. The whole floor was one large room with a kitchen fire in the middle for warmth and cooking, along with a table, chairs, and bed rolls along the walls. It could be any of the houses that filled the southern districts, from the slums in the west to the harbour or the Khivan quarter in the east.

The thug with only three fingers on his one hand showed that he could still easily hold a knife with it. Grabbing Martel's hair with his whole hand to lift up his head, he pressed the blade against the boy's cheek, just under his eye. The sudden threat disrupted Martel's observations, and he felt his panic returned to the fore.

"How about it, boy? You mind if I scoop out one of those eyeballs and pass it around the neighbourhood?"

Through his gag, Martel tried to protest, while at the same time, he focused on keeping his head entirely still; the knife felt cold against his cheek.

"Let the boy be. Don't ruin the merchandise," the raspy leader commanded. "Those street rats will spread the word for us. Nobody else will try to muscle in on our territory."

The half-handed man pulled his blade away, and Martel felt a quick sting of relief that only lasted until he remembered his situation.

"Mages." The leader basically spat the word out. "I saw so many of your kind in the legions. Always looking down on us ordinary soldiers, always thinking you're better." He emptied his cup and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "But sooner or later, that Khivan bullet finds you, and you're just as dead as any other man."

"Unlike us who made it back home alive! So who's the smart one now?" Marcus crowed.

"Yeah, made it back with scars and limbs missing, left to starve because the legions can't use you anymore, and you can't get work here either with all the Khivans everywhere," another said bitterly.

"That's why we stick together," said the raspy chief. "That's why in the Broken Blades, we take care of each other. Because nobody else will. And that's why when someone tries to make a move against us, we take them out." He leaned back in his chair and refilled his cup from a pitcher on the table.

Deafening noise shattered the air as the front door exploded into a cloud of splinters and dust. In walked Maximilian, weapons in hand.