power raged free from the wand, shot outward….
Giorge dropped to the floor and rolled backward.
Angus’s eyes widened as he was lifted from his chair and flung backward, his screech barely beginning as he crashed violently into the wall….
The Banner of the Wounded Hand
1
Breathe.
It was important.
Why was it important?
It doesn’t matter.
Just breathe.
Think later.
2
Pain.
A lot of pain.
The back of his head consumed his attention. Something was eating it.
No, it was under siege from the relentless pelting of tiny catapults lofting barrels full of flaming oil.
An army of ants crawled along his back, their feet fitted with tiny iron spikes, driving them into his spine.
Why were the ants attacking him?
Breathe. Don’t think.
Where were his shoulders?
Had the ants eaten them?
Was the war over?
Did he win?
Breathe.
3
Voltari must be angry.
4
He was breathing.
It was difficult; his chest was impaled on the sentinel’s poleax.
It was a big poleax.
The hole hurt.
But he could breathe.
Barely.
Why did he go outside?
He never went outside.
Voltari wouldn’t let him go outside alone.
Breathe.
Sharp, stabbing pain.
He should be crying, why wasn’t he?
He shrugged, but nothing happened. His shoulders….
Ants.
No, that couldn’t be it. It had to be something else.
Hungry ants?
Breathe.
Why am I thinking about breathing? It’s boring.
It is important. Stop breathing, and—
Death.
Voltari knows death magic.
Is he angry at me?
He wanted desperately to shrug, but he couldn’t. Voltari had taken his shoulders and given them away.
Again.
Long, slow, exhale.
It was easier to breathe lightly. The poleax didn’t move. Much.
No, not the poleax. Too small.
He frowned.
It turned into a wince as the skin of his cheeks tightened and pulled against the back of his head.
Fire ants with catapults. What did he do to them? Why were they so angry? He was always kind to ants; he never, ever, held the glass over them to burn them. Why had they burned him?
No, not ants. Something else. Something—
BREATHE.
It was important….
5
Fingertips.
They were gentle, probing.
He was lying on his stomach.
He didn’t like lying on his stomach; he always slept on his back.
The poleax was sharp and angry. It didn’t like him being on his stomach, either.
Don’t think.
Breathe.
It is important.
More fingertips kneading the soreness from his tired shoulders.
He had shoulders? Voltari—
He tried to scream, but there was no sound.
The fingertips probed his skull, the bones shifting….
Damned those ants! What did he ever do to them?
Breathe.
6
Soft breathing, short, shallow gasps. Panting? A dog?
No. His chest shuddered with each little hiccup.
“Angus?” A kind voice. Feminine. Gentle, probing, like the fingers. “Try not to move.”
He frowned. Voltari didn’t have gentle fingers. Delicate ones, certainly; all wizards have delicate fingers. But not gentle. When he probed….
He shifted his weight, but only enough to learn he was on his back. It hurt, but not the sharp, agonizing torture of the fire-breathing ants. It had the dull ache of a heavy burden recently lifted but not entirely gone.
“It will be over soon.” Whose voice was that? To the left, five feet away, not far from his head. I know that voice!
The gentle fingers touched the poleax, sending sharp, unremitting pain through his chest.
His mouth opened. A scream—soft, distant, little more than a plaintive whimper.
“Stop moving!”
Her command must be obeyed. There was power behind that voice….
The poleax shifted. Bones crunched, snapping against each other like dry bread crumbling to powder.
Breathe.
The pain subsided, and his breathing eased.
He frowned. What?
“Lay still, Angus,” the familiar voice again. Who was he? The compassionate, remorseful tone was all wrong. That voice should be laughing, dancing.
“Giorge,” he muttered, and his body settled into place on the soft platform on which he had been laid.
“Lay still, Angus,” Giorge said, a spark of energy igniting his tone. “The healer will finish soon.”
“If you know the mantra,” the woman said as she leaned over him. “Use it now.”
Mantra? Angus wondered. Mantra. Mantra. Mantra. Oh, yes—
Still the body.
She rested her palms on his chest as if they had just enjoyed each other’s company. “It will facilitate the repairs.”
Repairs? What repairs? Why—
Still the mind.
There will be time for thinking later.
Still the body.
Breathe.
Breathe.
Breathe.
He was more acutely aware of his body now, the minor pain of his broken arm, the stiffness of his neck, the strange newness of the bones of his skull....
Still the mind.
She had eaten recently, something sweet—or was it perfume? Giorge was not the only one there; there were others. They breathed heavily, like Hobart, but they weren’t Hobart. Or Ortis. Or Voltari. They were different.
Still the body.
Why was his body broken? What had happened to him? He had been in his room, studying….
Still the mind.
He didn’t know the strangers. Were they important?
No.
Breathing was important.
Still the body.
He let himself drift into the trancelike state, and hovered there for a long time before finally falling asleep….
7
Breathe.
No, don’t.
The stench is horrendous.
Feces, mold, decay, urine—a range of noxious fumes assaulted him, driving him from his slumber more swiftly than would a cold bucket of water or a ringing slap to his cheek.
His bed was harsh stone that someone had tried to cushion with the long, round stalks of grass, their brittleness jabbing uncomfortably into his sensitive back.
He sat up and opened his eyes.
It was dark. But it was not the darkness of a moonless night in the wilderness; it was the darkness of a cave lit by a dim candle too far away to provide much light.
There were lots of shadows, and one of them moved.
“Alive, then?” the shadow said, huddling up against the metal grate keeping them apart.
I’m in a dungeon! Angus thought, his heart simmering in his chest, his breath tangled up in his throat. Why?!
“I’m Bug-Eyed Jake,” the shadow said.
“Where am I?” Angus asked.
“Hellsbreath’s hellhole,” he easily replied.
Hellsbreath’s hellhole? No wonder it’s so stifling. We must be under the city, near the forge tubes. “Why am I here?”
“No idea,” Bug-Eyed Jake said. “But it must have been pretty bad, judging by how they’ve treated you so far.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well,” Bug-Eyed Jake said, “they just dumped you in here two days
ago and haven’t come back to check on you once.” He paused and said, “Or me, for that matter.”
“How do you know it’s been two days?” Angus asked, looking around the gloom.
“Oh, they change the candle once a day,” he said. “If they have that swill they call food, they bring it then. Otherwise, they just leave us here to rot a bit longer. They don’t go so far as to let us die, mind you, but they aren’t exactly kind to criminals like us. It’s better not to get caught.”
“I’m not a criminal,” Angus denied—and then wondered whether or not it was true. Had he done something that violated the rules Hobart had told him about? Was he a criminal?
“Ha!” Bug-Eyed Jake said. “I know you, Typhus.”
“My name is Angus,” Angus absently corrected as he ran through the list of prohibited activities Hobart had recited as they crossed the valley to Hellsbreath. “What did I do?” he muttered, dismissing one after another of the things Hobart had said not to do.
“Now Typhus,” Bug-Eyed Jake pouted, his voice mild and friendly, “there’s no need to pretend with me. We’ve known each other too long for that.”
Angus glanced at the shadow, met the huge, pale-white orbs reflecting the distant flickering of the candle. It was difficult to see details of his face; he was covered in so much grime that it concealed most of his appearance, and the shadows distorted the rest. But those bulbous, bug-like eyes….
“How long have you been down here?” Angus asked, standing up and brushing the grass stalks from his robe. His left hand slowed, and he pinched the fine cloth between his finger and thumb. Why didn’t they take this from me? He began checking the pockets, quickly finding them all to be empty—including the concealed ones. They were thorough, he thought. The garnets are gone.
“Too long,” Bug-Eyed Jake said. “But I don’t mind. The longer I am down here, the longer I keep my other hand.” He held up his right arm and wiggled his fingers in the dim light, as if he were making shadow puppets.
“Your other hand?” Angus asked.
Bug-Eyed Jake grinned, a toothy grin that broadcasted his lack of dental hygiene, and lifted his left arm. It ended in a fist-like stub. “They took that last year,” he said. “I think that’s why they’ve been waiting. It’s one thing to take the hand of a thief who has two of them; it’s another to take the second one. But they’ll get around to it eventually, unless….” He shifted his position and peered more closely at Angus but didn’t finish the sentence.
“Sorry to hear about your troubles,” Angus said,