Spellwright

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

On his way up the stairwell, Nicodemus found the Drum Tower silent. He burst into the common room. A chair tried to bite his hip and was knocked flat for its trouble. “John!” he called. “John, wake up! We need to leave.”

He rushed into his chamber and threw open the chest at the foot of his bed. With focused urgency, he pulled his winter cloak around his shoulders and then spread a blanket on the floor. On top of it he put the Index, the coin purse Shannon had given him, and a few spare clothes.

His belt-purse lay on the foot of his sleeping cot. When he grabbed it, his fingers began to tingle. He frowned at first but then remembered the druidic artifact-the wooden sphere encircled by a root-that Deirdre had given him.

The Seed of Finding. He put the druidic artifact on the blanket. He might need that.

After scooping up the blanket and twisting it into a makeshift satchel, he ran into the common room.

“Simple John?” Simple John asked from his doorway. The big man’s candle filled the room with flickering light and long shadows.

“Everything’s all right, John,” Nicodemus said. “But I need your help gathering all our boys. Has Devin come back from her night-time janitorial?”

“No,” the big man said, eyes wide. “No!”

“John, look at me. Something bad has happened. You and I must take all the Drum Tower boys up to the compluvium. We’ll be safe there. And if we’re not, there’s a way we can leave Starhaven altogether.”

The other man shook his head. “No!”

Nicodemus cursed himself. “John, I didn’t mean to upset you. Everything’s going to be fine. But we must go quickly. Get anything you might need out of your room. Warm clothes especially.” Nicodemus moved for the door. “I’ll wake the boys.”

John stepped in front of him. “No!” he again declared, his bulky frame blocking the door.

“John, we have to do this. It’s not safe to stay.” John shook his head. When Nicodemus tried to move past him, John pushed him back with enough force to make him stumble.

“John, listen to me!” Nicodemus said, setting down his makeshift satchel. “We must get the boys to safety.”

This set the big man’s head shaking again.

Nicodemus began to write common language sentences along each of his fingers. Against a normal spellwright, Nicodemus’s disability would have rendered him helpless. But now, facing another cacographer, he could use sentences simple enough for him to avoid misspelling. Simple John wouldn’t be able to edit or disspell them.

“I’m sorry I have to do this,” he said, flicking his hands open and casting glowing white sentences to wrap around John’s arms and legs.

The big man’s candle fell to the floor and winked out. Fortunately, the white glow from Nicodemus’s spells and the moonlight pouring through the windows provided sufficient light.

In an attempt to edit the spells binding his arms, John cast a green sentence from his chin. Nicodemus caught and destroyed it with a disspell. John tried twice more, spitting out the spells like angry words. Even so, he was too slow. Nicodemus censored each sentence with a finger-flicked disspell.

Seeming to realize that he could not compete with Nicodemus magically, John began to flex his massive arms. Two of the binding spells snapped. But even as the big man broke a third line, Nicodemus sent ten more glowing-white sentences, and then ten more.

John made one last, heroic tug, which made him start to fall over. Nicodemus rushed over and grabbed the big man’s arm in time to set him down gently.

John stopped struggling. He was bound as surely as if he were in chains.

“I’m sorry to do this, John,” Nicodemus said. “I’ll untie you when you’re calmer. But you must understand that we are in danger. Unless we take the Drum Tower boys away, they may be hurt.”

John was desperately shaking his head.

“I’m going to wake the boys now,” Nicodemus said. “I’ll come back, and we’ll get you ready to go too. All right?” He moved for the door.

Simple John made a sound then, a faint rumbling, as if a beehive were humming in his expansive chest. “Nnnn… no… nnn,” he growled. “Nnnn… nnn… Nico no.”

“John, you said something different!”

“Nnnnn… Nnnnico not go.”

Nicodemus shook his head. “I need to step out quickly. I’ll be right back. Don’t worry.”

John flinched. “Sstsss… strange man tells Simple John not let Nico go.”

Nicodemus frowned. “Have you been talking to the foreign spellwrights?”

“No! Long before Simple John comes to… comes to here, Typhon tells Simple John not to let Nico go.”

“Typhon?” Nicodemus asked. “Do you mean typhoon? A storm talked to you?”

John had to work his lips to speak. “Typhon… Typhoneus, red hair, shiny black skin… old, old, old.”

Nicodemus studied John. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I don’t know how it is you can say all these different things now. But John, we must hurry!”

Tears ran down the big man’s face and caught on his throat’s stubble. “Yes!” he suddenly said. “I will help. But I need… need to get the big parchments.”

“If I release you, you’ll gather your belongings so we can go? You won’t keep me from waking the boys?”

“Won’t,” John said, “block door.”

Satisfied, Nicodemus pulled his spells into his hands. He could always cast them out again.

John struggled to his feet and lumbered into his room. Meanwhile, Nicodemus retrieved his bedsheet-turned-satchel.

A moment later, the large man reappeared holding two parchments.

“John, how can you say all these things when no one has heard you say anything but your name, ‘no,’ and ‘splattering splud’?”

“Splattering splud,” John echoed forlornly. “Long before, Simple John was the son of a tailor in Trilli… Trillinon. But John was stupid so father says get out. Simple John lived on streets for years before Typhon comes. Typhon says he make Simple John unstupid. He can fix all brokenpeople. But says that depends on… Nico. He says Simple John must look after Nico and make sure he doesn’t leave south place… here. Typhon brings Simple John here. Tells me to say only three things. Typhon teaches me big alphabets and tells me to watch Nico. Typhon comes back with emerald every four years to visit Nico when he’s sleeping. And he says to use these”-he held up the parchments-”if Nico tries to go.”

“Emerald?” Nicodemus exclaimed. “John, what are you talking about? You know that someone came to watch me sleep? Did he steal my ability to spell?”

Rather than answer, John reached into his parchment and pulled out a spell that Nicodemus had heard about but never seen.

Written in silvery Magnus, its pumpkin-sized, two-part body resembled that of a spider, but its hundred multi-jointed legs were nothing like the relative tameness of arachnid appendages. These horrific limbs were twice as long as a man was tall and covered with sharp stony barbs. They rasped their tarsals across the floor.

It was a spell, Nicodemus knew, that had been written during the Dialect Wars, when the Numinous Order had entangled itself in the fall of the Neosolar Empire. It was a time when wizard fought wizard, when new magical languages and societies formed, when deceit and bloodspells killed thousands. And on the day the fighting ceased and the new magical societies agreed never to make war again, the aracknus spell-one of which John now held-was forbidden.

Judging from his eyes, Simple John had had no idea what he was about to pull from the parchment. When the bloodspell bloomed in the big man’s hand, he cried out and dropped the construct. With a whirl of legs, the bloodspell shot toward Nicodemus faster than an uncoiling snake.

Nicodemus dropped his satchel and instinctively cast the white spells he had previous used to bind Simple John. But a long leg flicked out and snapped the sentences like threads. And then the bloodspell was on him, gripping him with tens of its horrific legs, lifting him up. A sticky Magnus rope emerged from its abdomen.

Like a spider wrapping its victim in silk, the aracknus spell spun Nicodemus around with its claws. Within moments, all but his head and left arm were enclosed in a cocoon.

The bloodspell scampered up the wall onto the ceiling. After reaching down, it hoisted Nicodemus into the air and, with a second length of sticky rope, bound the cocoon to a rafter.

Then the bloodspell spread itself out, its hundred legs securing its grip: a nightmare on the ceiling. Below, Nicodemus swung helplessly imprisoned.

All the while Simple John yelled: “Uh’AAaaa, Uh’AAaaaaa.” Tears returned to his eyes and he shifted his large feet. “Uh’Aaaaa.” But when he saw Nicodemus hanging upside down and unhurt, he calmed.

Nicodemus was shocked to find himself still alive. “John, what have you done?” he asked with as much calm as he could muster. “Where did you get this construct? This is dangerous. Call the spell back into its parchment.”

John shook his head. “Typhon said Nico no go. Said use parchments to stop Nico until Typhon comes or until Typhon sends Fellwroth. Fellwroth is red-eyes-man. Typhon visit with emerald to watch Nico sleep every four autumns. This should be an autumn when Typhon comes to watch Nico sleep. And Typhon promised he’d come when I used big parchments. And if Typhon can’t come, he send Fellwroth of the red eyes.”

“John, you’re not making sense.”

John shook his head. “Typhon said Nico no go. He needs to watch Nico sleep every four years. Touches the scar with the emerald. Typhon said he would come, but there must be something stopping him. It’s Fellwroth red-eyes-man that’s coming, then. Typhon says use parchments to stop Nico until Fellwroth comes.”

“John,” Nicodemus cried, “you don’t know what you’re talking about! John, help me!”

The big man shook his head. “Red beard, black shiny skin, that’s Typhoneus… says also put this”-he held up the other parchment-“until he sends Fellwroth of the red eyes. He says he fix us; he makes Nico not go.” With that John reached into the second parchment and pulled out a spell.

At first, only golden Numinous runes could be seen, but then the spell congealed into a brown and green construct. The thing was as large as a man’s head. Its fat, mucus-covered body resembled a toad with its stomach torn out. Its bulging eyes shone with animal greed. A foot-long tongue flopped from its toothless mouth. Nicodemus yelled in wordless terror.

John was yelling too, but he did not let go of the spell. “Nico not cry. Simple John has to.” He grabbed Nicodemus’s free arm to stop him from struggling and held out the slimy text. Like an infant searching for a nipple, the construct reached for Nicodemus’s head.

Nicodemus jerked and twisted his neck, but to no avail. The creature slid its cold hind legs around his throat and dug the tiny claws of its forelegs into his scalp. The spell’s soft underbelly spread itself across his head like a gruesome hat.

“John!” Nicodemus exclaimed hoarsely. “This is a censorship spell! Get it off me! John, please!”

With a gurgling burp, the toadlike text converted its tongue back into Numinous runes and plunged it into Nicodemus’s head, censoring two common language sentences he had been writing. The glowing white runes stiffened and fell from his shoulder to shatter on the floor. “John! Get it off me!” Nicodemus shouted, struggling to free his arm from the big man’s grip. “Get it off me!”

“Shhhhh,” Simple John pleaded. He patted Nicodemus’s arm. “No cry, Nico. Man will fix brokenpeople. Typhon said bad men and monsters will try to get to us. But Simple John protect. Typhon teach John spell for throwing.” In his right hand John held a leadshot spell. It was a simple attack spell-a dense ball of common language that weighed no more than a cork when cast, but once free of the caster’s body it took on the mass of a large lead shot. “Nico not cry,” John cooed, and squeezed his arm.

Suddenly the creaking of door hinges filled the room.

John jumped up and cast the leadshot with a powerful overhand throw and a cry of “Bad men!”

Somewhere something heavy smacked into flesh. A body collapsed and John yelled triumphantly.

With his free arm Nicodemus pulled at the censorship spell, but the construct strengthened its grip around his neck.

Frantically looking for anything that could help him, he caught sight of his bed-sheet satchel lying open on the floor. On the white cloth sat the wooden sphere with the root growing around it, Deirdre’s Seed of Finding! He stretched out his hand, but the artifact lay just an inch beyond his reach. He threw his arm back and forth to swing the cocoon.

A few steps away, John lumbered out of Nicodemus’s view while making confused “ah… ah…” sounds. When the cocoon swung toward his satchel, Nicodemus managed to touch the Seed of Finding with the tip of his middle finger. But he could not grasp it and swung away.

As if sensing danger, the censorship tightened its grip on his scalp.

When the cocoon swung back, Nicodemus put his every effort into reaching for the druidic artifact; he would have willed his arm to disjoint from his shoulder if it meant he could reach the artifact.

But there was no need: he caught the wooden sphere between his index and middle fingers. Careful not to drop it, he maneuvered the ball so that his thumb and index finger pressed on either side of the artifact. By pinching hard, he broke the root.

The wooden sphere fell onto the bed sheet and began to change shape. Part of the artifact melted into a puddle of liquefied wood.

Simple John made a monotone wail. “Uh’Aaaaa… Uh’Aaaaa!” It was a cry that sounded out not only his great suffering and humanity but also his retardation. “Uh’Aaaaa!”

Nicodemus was so intent upon retrieving the Seed that he barely heard the cries. The magical artifact now lay on the bed sheet even farther away than it had been. He flung his arm back and forth to swing the cocoon, but the Seed was too far away.

Simple John’s wail subsided to a moan. When Nicodemus swung in the right direction, he grabbed a corner of the bed sheet. As the cocoon swung away, he dragged the sheet with him. Judging from the footfalls, Simple John was walking toward him. The cocoon swung back, and just as John grabbed his arm, Nicodemus snatched the Seed.

The instant Nicodemus’s fingers touched the artifact, the puddle of what seemed to be liquid wood leaped up to cover the back of his hand with a barklike skin.

The large man was still moaning, but between breaths he muttered to himself. Nicodemus made out snatches of lucid speech: “Typhon said bad men and monsters… stop bad men… wrong, wrong… Simple John was stupid and got it wrong… but not again… until red-eyes-man comes to fix… Fellwroth… Fellwroth of the red eyes… and monsters.” He squatted next to Nicodemus.

“John,” Nicodemus croaked, “you need to remove this censorship. It will censor magic out of my mind forever.”

But Simple John was not listening. He was rocking back and forth, repeating the words “bad men and monsters.” Nicodemus tried twice more to get the big man’s attention, but it was no use.

Worse, Nicodemus was having difficulty thinking clearly with the censorship spell locked around his mind. His eyelids became heavy. He fought to stay awake. His life depended on holding on to the Seed of Finding. Time passed; Nicodemus couldn’t tell how much.

Then a door crashed open. Light spilled in from the stairwell. “Bad men and monsters!” John yelled, and hurled a leadshot spell toward the door. In doing so, his thigh hit the cocoon and sent Nicodemus swinging.

A shrill voice rang out. For a moment, everything was spinning blackness. Then Nicodemus glimpsed Deirdre brandishing a greatsword above her head. Bellowing, Simple John charged at her. But then the cocoon swung away and Nicodemus saw only darkness.

When he swung back, Nicodemus beheld something that made him think he was hallucinating. A brown bear with glowing white claws and green eyes stood before Deirdre. John lunged at the animal. But the bear swatted the man aside with a paw swipe.

Nicodemus’s view swung up to the ceiling. He cried out.

The aracknus spell was descending like a nightmare.

Nicodemus turned away into darkness. The bear bellowed as the bloodspell’s razor legs rasped across the stone.

Nicodemus swung back and saw the bear slashing its claws at the bloodspell’s legs. There was a flash. Something unseen knocked the aracknus into a shadow.

There came a sickening crunch and then endless seconds with only heavy footsteps sounding in the dark. Abruptly, Nicodemus’s world stopped swinging. The bear’s tremendous muzzle probed his face, periodically sucking in voluminous sniffs.

Something about the animal was wrong, but Nicodemus couldn’t tell what it was for long, confusing moments. Then he realized that the bear’s face was made not of flesh and fur, but of wood.

Its black nose was a carved nub of jet; its snout, oak panels engraved with shifting runes. Its glowing eyes were lacquered green buttons, and its spiky brown fur was a thick coat of splinters.

“Will disspelling the construct on your head harm you?” The gruff male voice seemed to come from everywhere at once.

Nicodemus croaked, “No.”

The bear’s gleaming claws flashed before his face, and the censorship spell fell to the floor with a gurgling scream.

Nicodemus gasped. It was as if someone had opened the top of his head and poured in a bucket of ice water. His mind could breathe again.

Suddenly Nicodemus was on his back, looking up at Deirdre and her companion, Kyran.

The male druid had unbuttoned his white sleeves, but Deirdre had not. The cocoon and bear had disappeared.

“Are you all right?” Kyran asked.

Nicodemus tried to speak but everything hurt.

Kyran spoke. “Did the construct poison you?”

When he could not answer, Kyran reached down and laid a hand on his throat. Heat flushed across Nicodemus’s body. Suddenly his every inch sang with vitality.

Kyran removed his hand and the warmth subsided. “He’ll be fine.” He pulled Nicodemus to his feet. Deirdre grabbed his arm to hold him steady. An ancient greatsword, nearly as tall as she, was strapped to her back.

Dazed, Nicodemus looked around. “I can’t… I don’t understand…” He tried to take a step toward his bedroom but the floorboards felt pliable, as if his boots were sinking into them.

Deirdre tightened her grip on his arm. “Nicodemus, forgive us,” she whispered. “We thought the sentinels were guarding you. So we slept. We came as fast as we could.”

“So the giant was a conspirator?” Kyran said from behind them. “I didn’t expect that.”

The words hit Nicodemus like a hammer. John! With a few lurching steps, he turned around to see Kyran looking down on his friend’s body. “Dead?” was all he could say.

“No,” Kyran said. “I’ve a stun spell around his head. It’s a dangerous text, might damage his ability to spellwrite. And it’s odd; some kind of spell was already around the man’s mind. It was written in a strange language. Now my stun spell seems to have removed it.”

Nicodemus exhaled in relief. “Someone took advantage of him. Someone he kept calling Typhon or Fellwroth. The spell you dislodged must have been cast by Typhon or Fellwroth. John wasn’t a conspirator. He didn’t mean to endanger me.”

Kyran’s expression softened. “I wasn’t talking about what he did to you. I didn’t see you until after I disspelled the spider.”

“Then…” Nicodemus asked, “what…” He saw the other body.

Deirdre tried to turn him away. “This,” she whispered, “is an evil night.”

As she moved, Deirdre drew her moonshadow away from the second body. Nicodemus could now clearly see the side of Devin’s face that had not been crushed by Simple John’s spell.