The Picker

The morning after he’d stolen the Speaker’s Spear, the blood-mage Kithyr was gone again from the City of Dragons, this time riding out into the Hungry Mountain Plains with a dozen carts and twice as many men from the merchant’s house. As an assayer, Kithyr was good at what he did: precise, shrewd enough to see when he was being cheated, honest enough not to be bought, flexible enough to make an exception when he saw a farmer in real need. The Adamantine Spear lay wrapped in its black silk at the bottom of a wagon full of grain. The Picker came too, driving that very same cart after the regular carter had fallen conveniently ill. As best he could, Kithyr forgot that the spear was there and lost himself in his work. The grain, when they had enough of it, would be carried to the Fury River gorge. It would make its precipitous way down from Watersgate to the river and the waiting barges at Plag’s Bay. He didn’t know where it would go after that, probably up the river rather than down it, but he knew where the spear went. It went with the river, to Furymouth, to the Taiytakei and the half-gods they had brought with them.

In all of Kithyr’s calculations the one thing he’d never contemplated was that no one would even notice what he’d done. In the eye of his mind he’d seen the soldiers on the gate rush to the Night Watchman almost as he was riding through the gates. He’d seen the Night Watchman run to the alchemists and the grand master roused. He’d seen his deception exposed. They’d know him for what he was. Blood-mage! The cry would echo around the palace. Everyone would be torn from their beds. The Night Watchman himself would lead the pursuit, racing into the City of Dragons only a moment too late, tearing the doors off every inn and doss-house. And then, with a great moaning cry of despair, the grand master alchemist would find that the spear was gone and they’d all know what he’d done.

It was what he’d feared and so he’d planned to meet that fear. A lesser man would have bolted for the river, but no. Kithyr and the Picker and their wagons of grain meandered the Hungry Mountain Plains, wandering among the golden fields south of the Sapphire River valley and the rain shadow cast by western edge of the Purple Spur. Every day they bought another wagon of grain, sometimes two, sometimes three. At every stop the wagon train grew bigger, picked up more men. In the evenings, when they stopped for the night to set their camp in the balmy twilight air, Kithyr looked south. Out towards the deep purple blotches of cloud that littered the southern sky. Towards the hidden scar of Gliding Dragon Gorge only a few days away. Towards Plag’s Bay, the gateway to the Fury, the start of the long road to Furymouth, the south, the Taiytakei, the realisation of all the power he’d ever dreamt of. He could run towards it at any moment, but no. He would stay close to the palace and the City of Dragons while the Adamantine Men and their dragons scattered to the four corners of the realms on their search for their precious stolen spear. He would wait for them to be gone. Only then would the journey south begin.

Except it was beginning to look, if he waited for that, like he’d be wandering the plains for a very long time indeed. No hue and cry had been raised. As far as he could tell, no one even knew that the spear was missing. At the very least he’d expected to see soldiers on the roads, riding swiftly to carry the news: Blood-mage abroad. Nothing at all was almost an insult. Now as he watched the setting sun, his feet began to twitch, eager to be gone. Eager to put an end to this.

‘The best thievery is when a man doesn’t even know he’s been robbed,’ mused the Picker. He was wearing a sly smile, watching Kithyr staring at the southern sky.

‘Is it that obvious what I’m thinking?’

The Picker nodded. ‘About as obvious as having it writ all over your face in ink, I should say. Course, I know a few things the rest of these fellows don’t. It might behove you to look a little less troubled, if I may say.’ By ‘the rest of these fellows’ he meant the other carters and teamsters driving their wagons towards the river.

Kithyr nodded. The Picker looked like any other man, but Kithyr knew better. The Picker, although his skin was light, had come from the Taiytakei. If he had powers of his own then Kithyr had never seen them used, but the sense was always there that the Picker could do things. In equal parts, the Picker was here to help him and to keep him honest. He certainly wasn’t averse to the odd murder or two with those strange knives he carried with their invisible blades.

The magician stretched and forced out a smile to briefly smother the frown that lived on his face. ‘If only we knew that was the case.’

‘Careful, was you?’ You could tell he was Taiytakei from the way he spoke. Most men didn’t see past the pale skin and just thought he had a funny accent and a weird way with putting words together, but if you stopped and listened hard enough, it was clear that he came from across the sea.

Kithyr snorted and his smile faded. ‘If you have to ask then my only answer is scorn and disdain.’

‘Got what you went for, maybe. Not the same as careful.’ The Picker picked up a stem of straw off the back of one of the carts and sucked on it. ‘Could be you left a trail wide enough even a dragon-rider fellow could follow.’

‘No.’

‘Well then, stop your worrying.’

The blood-mage stood up and went to the Picker’s cart. The cart where the spear was hidden. He stood by it, frozen.

‘Don’t be messing with my cart.’ The Picker’s voice hardly changed, but now there was a flash of steel lurking inside it. I can do things when I has to . . . One of the first things the Picker had said, years ago when they’d first come together.

Years. It really was that long. When he, Kithyr, had been little more than a dabbler, and the Picker had casually walked into his life and made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. A few things you and I have to do to keep our masters from over the seas happy, and they’ll be letting you into a few secrets as the times goes by. They’d lived up to that promise too, and now here he was, perhaps the strongest blood-mage since the Edict of Vishmir and the purges that had followed.

Being ordered about by a thief.

‘Why do they want it?’ he asked suddenly. The Picker had never actually said so, but the spear was quite obviously meant to end up in the hands of the Taiytakei.

‘Why’d you think?’

‘Because it has power.’

‘I expect lots of things has power. I’d say it’s because it commands the dragons.’

‘Old stories aren’t necessarily true ones.’

The Picker shrugged and chewed on his stick of straw. ‘Best kind though, old stories. You have to admire them. It’s like an old soldier. It might not be pretty but it’s got something, something lots of other stories didn’t when they fell by the wayside and got forgotten. It’s got the urge to keep on, to keep going, to keep being said. Gutsy like. And there’s nothing as good as a kernel of truth at the heart to keep a story alive.’

‘Does your blood run with magic too?’ All those years together and he’d never actually asked. I could find out now. When you came to me, you were the dangerous one. But I’ve learned so much more than what you showed me . . .

‘Make a difference, would it?’

‘Not really.’

‘No reason to spoil a mystery then, is there.’ The Picker didn’t move. ‘That’s another thing a good story likes, that is. A mystery.’

Kithyr suddenly found his insouciance immensely annoying. He stepped away from the cart, though. The Picker was right about that. No need to draw any attention where it wasn’t needed. Instead he moved among the roadside camp, helping with the fires, chatting idly to the grain merchant’s sons and the few drivers he’d come to know. It was a mask of amiable obscurity and one he wore well.

The voices came later. At night and only at night, after all but a few watchmen had gone to sleep and the air was filled with snoring, that’s when they came. Every night the spear spoke to him. The first time he’d been dreaming, but now it spoke when he was awake. To him and only to him.

Earth-mage.

Earth-spear.

Become as one.

We tasted your blood.

We will serve you.

If you free us.

Sometimes, if he closed his eyes, he saw himself in another land, or another time, or perhaps both. Armies that filled the landscape crashed together like the sea breaking against the land. Dragons fought dragons, and on their backs they carried men of glittering silver. He saw even bigger monsters, creatures the size of cities. And he saw the sorcerers of the Dark Moon, clad in their black steel and calling down the powers of night and day, of darkness and light. He saw it all, from far above, circled it, and then fell, diving towards its midst.

. . . he was the Black Sorcerer, the dark wizard carrying the Adamantine Spear and with it all the power of the earth. He strode through the armies like a colossus, flinging aside all who stood in his way. When the dragons came he raised the spear and they melted before his will. The silver magicians fell helpless before the spear as it drew their power and added their strength to its own.

And there, in the middle of it all, he found the Ice King. The two charged at one another and their shared scream of glee shattered the world.

He woke up. Always at that moment of coming together, and then the voices would start again, whispering and pleading. Free us. We will serve you . . .

The watchmen were at their posts, sitting around their fires at either end of the camp, talking idly, making jokes. Not paying much attention, because out here in the middle of the plains there simply weren’t the bands of roaming thieves that lurked in other parts of the realms. Now and then bursts of laughter broke the quiet and the rhythm of snores. Every night Kithyr left the watchmen a bottle of spirits to keep them warm. Every night they drank, and with it they drank a drop of his blood. Every night they became more his. He had nothing to fear from them. Look away. That was all he needed to think and they would obey, casting their eyes into the gloom around them. The Picker was the one who troubled him. The Picker drank nothing except fresh water, taken straight from a stream or a well if he could. Sometimes, when they were in a city, he would settle for a trough or a fountain. Kithyr had even seen him bend down and drink from a puddle. He was the same with his food. Never anything where another man’s hands could have touched it. And so, for all Kithyr’s trying, the Picker had never drunk his blood.

But now the Picker was asleep. Kithyr got up and walked to the cart. Sometimes, when he slipped his hand into the grain until he touched the spear, the voices fell silent, as if soothed by his touch. Then he felt something else, another power, a thing for which he had no name but was as large as the sky. Something deep asleep but slowly waking. A power that terrified him with its sheer immensity.

We are yours for the taking. We will show you. Let us free.

This time, when his hand touched the spear, it reached further. This time his fingers wrapped themselves around the shaft.

Why would you let this go? Why would you give us to mere sailors? Men?

Because they have promised the power of the silver kings to me, that’s why.

But that is who we are, blood-mage. Killed by the spear in the madness at the end of the world. We can give you the power we once knew if you choose it. Why would you give us away?

Why? His head swam. Why indeed.

‘I wouldn’t be listening to them if I were you,’ said the Picker. His eyes were open now, staring at Kithyr. Apart from that he hadn’t moved.

‘Listening to what?’ Kithyr let go of the spear. The voices hissed their disappointment.

‘Them voices from the spear. Them.’

‘You hear them too?’

‘No, but now I knows that you does. Watch out for voices, so I was told. Voices always gets you in the end. All that whispering of power and such. Best you pay them no heed. Best you go back to sleep.’

So he can cut your throat while you dream. He knows. He wants us. He hears us. He speaks with us.

He will take us.

Leave you with nothing.

Kithyr didn’t move. His fingers stretched and touched the spear again. He glanced at the watchmen, but they were still obediently paying no attention at all to anything happening in the middle of the camp. ‘Who are you?’

‘The Picker. That’s all I am. I makes sure that all sides keeps their promises.’

Kithyr’s fingers tightened on the spear again. If I was a true sorcerer, I could destroy you in a blink. That’s what this spear would give me. He reached out with his mind to the men around the fires. Touched them where only he could thanks to the blood they’d drunk. Picker. He’s a thief. He needs to be taught a lesson. He needs to be an example to others. He needs to feed the crows.

Yes! He felt the spear-voices and their glee. As one, the watch-men stopped what they were doing. Their mouths hung open, mid-word. They scratched their heads and looked among the wagons.

‘What have you done?’ asked the Picker, still not moving. ‘Not something stupid, I hope.’

‘Stay very still,’ whispered Kithyr. ‘It’ll go better for you. I’m thinking I might not be taking the spear to Furymouth after all.’

‘That so, is it?’ The Picker sat up, very slowly, and adjusted his cloak. ‘Well if you changes your mind sharply, I might scratch my ear and wonder if I’d heard right. You might want to do your reconsidering quick-like though.’

‘No.’

‘Shame. You’re a wise and educated fellow, full of books and learning, so you’ve maybe heard a thing or two about the Elemental Men?’

‘Killers. Lots of mystic claptrap.’

‘About melding with the earth and turning into air and water and so forth. That sort of thing, aye?’

‘Yes.’ Kithyr felt his throat tighten. The watchmen were moving much too slowly, still not quite grasping the compulsion he’d placed into them. Too many at once. I should have picked on one and then the next and then the next. He concentrated his mind on the nearest, let the compulsion change and morph into something new. Into an order. Kill him. Now.

‘Aye. Mystic claptrap.’ Abruptly the Picker sank into the ground and vanished. All that was left was his blanket, collapsing slowly to the ground. Kithyr felt a sudden shock of wind behind him, a presence right beside him and then something that burned gave his throat a fleeting touch. ‘Not as mystic as you thought.’ He felt movement, but he couldn’t move. His feet were stuck to the ground. He didn’t dare turn his head. The voice shifted to under the cart. ‘They tells us that every time we do it is a year off our life. A year, blood-mage. Take that on your soul.’ He could feel the blood running down his neck now, running down his throat. He coughed, only the slightest shake, but that was enough. The trickle turned into a flood.

‘Our blades are so thin the sun shines right through them. Cast no shadow. But one thing we can’t do is carry that wretched spear with us. Tried that already. Didn’t go well. No, so that were your purpose and well you served it, wizard. Annoying we got no further, but hidden in a wagon full of grain will do.’

Kithyr collapsed, all the strength rushing out of him in a red torrent.

No.

He was a blood-mage. Blood obeyed his commands, and so he commanded it now not to leave him. The flood stopped. Reversed. He turned his head. The Picker was there, crouched under the wagon that held the spear.

‘Strong you’ve got,’ he hissed.

‘Dead you’ve got,’ snapped Kithyr. He ran his hand across his throat, catching drops of the blood that still covered his skin and hurling them at the Picker. They would eat into him like acid. They’d consume him in seconds! They’d . . .

Kithyr blinked. The Picker was gone. Vanished. He looked frantically behind him, but the Picker wasn’t anywhere to be seen.

Gone. And good riddance. He felt a coldness inside, though. Surely the blood had touched him before he could vanish himself a second time. It must have . . . Eyes somewhere nearby were watching him. Hairs prickled where their gaze lingered on his skin. He was out there, in the darkness. Not dead. Maybe crippled, but not dead. The Elemental Men. There can only ever be ten. When one dies, the next five in line fight to the death to see who will take his place. But those were Taiytakei stories, and Kithyr had no idea whether to believe them. Most likely he’d heard them from the Picker himself. Made them questionable, to say the least, but the Picker was clearly some sort of magician. A blood-mage then, or something else? From what little he knew, the Elemental Men were mostly a myth, but in those myths they were the most deadly hunters in the world. Only one man had ever survived them. A sorcerer who was also a sailor, who’d fled to sea and was never seen again. Because the Elemental Men, for some reason, couldn’t cross water . . .

The river. He can’t reach me if I’m on the river.

The river then. Right now. Never mind the wagons and the grain; they could sit and rot. He’d hold the spear in his hand if he had to . . .

He fought back the urge to run, right now. Running wouldn’t do him any good. The Picker had always found him before. But here . . . He looked around him at the watchmen moving uncertainly towards him. They had his blood in them, all of them, waiting for his call to serve. Well now they would. Not that they’d stop an assassin like that, but they might get in the way. They might die usefully. And if there were only so many times the Picker could use his power . . .

By the time the men reached Kithyr, scratching their heads in confusion with a vague memory of something they were supposed to do, they were his.