Obsidian

by Sarah J. Daley

Genres: Fantasy action & adventure; Occult & Supernatural

Synopsis

Shade Nox is the only witch in a land of wizards – a fiend, a rogue, a wanted criminal.

Defying those who think her an abomination, Shade wears her tattoos openly and carries obsidian blades at her hips. For years, she has protected the outcast clans who wander the blighted Wastes, but the land is growing more unstable and her blades are no longer enough.

To save her people, Shade vows to raise a Veil of protection – a feat not accomplished in over a hundred years. But the magical Veils are said to belong to the Brotherhood church; if she succeeds in raising one, it will expose their lies. They swear to see her obliterated first.

Treading a dangerous path where allies can be as deceitful as enemies, and where demons lurk in the shadows, Shade chases a vision which could lead to her people’s salvation… or her own destruction.

File Under: Fantasy [ Tattoos At Dawn | Underestimated Women | Old Jealousies | The End of Whose World ]

Release date: January 25, 2022

Publisher: Angry Robot

Print pages: 400

Sample

CHAPTER ONE

The thin, balding Harbormaster slurped oysters from the halfshell while he perused Raiden’s orders, his eyes pinched with concentration. Slimy mollusks disappeared down his gullet one after the other, the empty shells discarded with a staccato clattering onto the massive desk which took up half the stonewalled tower room. Raiden held on to his patience by his fingertips. So far, this tower was all he’d seen of the city of Sicaria, but for a glimpse of bright, pastel-colored buildings marching up the hillsides behind a high, crenelated seawall. A narrow window behind the harbormaster looked out over the bustling docks and caught the occasional waft of salt-air and dead fish. The sun was shining, bright and hot, but the sky held a strange, rose-colored haze.

Not haze. Raiden adjusted the strap of his heavy satchel, peering at the narrow aspect of sky. It is a Veil.

From the sea, Sicaria had seemed an ordinary city, but for the strange, translucent dome sheltering her. It had stretched beyond the dense cluster of buildings atop two high hills, obscuring the coast to the north and south like a shimmering bank of fog. But it wasn’t fog, it wasn’t haze; it was a powerful shield created by magic no one outside this island nation could comprehend, much less replicate. The Veils of Malavita protected its people from the broken, twisted magic which had – eons ago – laid waste to a once golden, fertile land. And the Brotherhood church which had raised and maintained the Veils for centuries were loath to share their secrets with their newest overlords, the Bhaskar Empire. Which was rather inconvenient as most of Malavita was a deadly wasteland unfit for human habitation.

As he watched a drop of brine land on the Imperial seal, Raiden touched the hilt of his sword and contemplated lopping off the man’s hand. It might speed things along. He was an Imperial emissary with diplomatic protection. What’s the worst they could do? Charge him a fine?

Finally, the man tossed the last of the oyster shells on a plate and wiped his fingers on a linen napkin. His thin lips pursed beneath an even thinner mustache. “It does not say who you are here to meet, just lists a ‘city-prince’. Why hasn’t this

day an emissary from the Empire arrives on our shores. And where are your guards? Where is your retinue?” He frowned at him. “How am I to believe you are who you say you are?”

Raiden bristled at his tone. No one spoke to the Commander of the Imperial Guard in such a rude manner. Not if they wanted to live. Almost immediately, he checked his ire. He was the former Commander of the Imperial Guard, and this troublesome little colony was his exile.

Still.

“The order is marked with the Emperor’s own seal, and it states very clearly who I am,” he snapped. “Captain Raiden Mad, Imperial Emissary to an honorable city-prince of Sicaria. I am here on a diplomatic mission which requires some discretion. Who I am meeting is irrelevant as I have Imperial permission to enter your city, and how I travel is my own concern, sir.”

The thin man shrugged. He wore a rich, brocade vest embroidered with tiny gemstones and it sparkled with the movement. “What do I know of seals? Or diplomatic missions? I am a simple agent placed in charge of this port. I can’t let just anyone into Sicaria. We have rules here, boy.”

“Captain.”

The man blinked. “What?”

“I am not a ‘boy’, I am a captain in the Imperial army, and you will address me by my proper rank.”

Another infuriating shrug. “What do I know of rank?”

“Apparently you don’t know much of anything.” Raiden leaned down and jabbed a finger at the creamy paper in the man’s hand. “There is my name in clear letters. In your language, I might add. Can you not read? The gods know we’ve conquered many illiterate people. I just didn’t realize Malavita was counted among such barbarians.”

“Conquered?” He chuckled. “No one has ‘conquered’ Malavita. Empires trade us like a pretty bauble. They come, they go, we stay eternal.” He waved a hand. “Yours is the same as all the others.”

Nostrils flaring, Raiden gripped the hilt of his sword and decided taking the man’s head would be far more satisfying

lawless land, but he was an agent of the Bhaskar Empire. He was here to fulfill his duty. He would not be goaded by a casual insult. Reluctantly, he eased his grip.

“And I can read, captain,” the Harbormaster added. He tossed Raiden’s paperwork on his desk as casually as he’d discarded his oyster shells and leaned back in his chair, fingers laced over his chest. A smile spread across his face as he eyed the satchel resting against Raiden’s hip. “And if you desire discretion… well, I’m sure we can come to some arrangement.”

An hour later, his properly authorized documents worn and begrimed from the myriad hands through which they had passed, been inspected, scrutinized, and once refused, Raiden entered the gates of Sicaria. Sweat soaked his crimson uniform jacket. He’d undone the top few buttons of his single-breasted coat, unwilling to open it all the way, though the air was thick, and the sun weighed on his head.

Shoulders back like a proper soldier, he made his way through streets clogged with people, wagons, carts, and noisy animals of every sort, including a camel or two among the more pedestrian donkeys and goats. Horses were rare. By the amount of manure clogging the gutters, he expected street sweepers were just as rare. The cobblestones were marble, stained and mottled with age and use, and the warren of buildings to either side – shops, homes, warehouses – were built from bright, decoratively carved limestone, or plastered in a myriad of pale pastels. Cascades of roses and geraniums fell from nearly every window and balcony.

In his crimson and gold uniform jacket, snug tan trousers and tall, shiny black boots, Raiden drew looks. There was an air of hostility which followed him like a bad smell. Though they had taken Malavita peacefully, the Bhaskar Empire was still a foreign ruler. Despite a land rich with precious gems, she’d been more trouble than she’d been worth to many of the Empire’s predecessors. The Emperor hoped to change all that with the royal charter Raiden carried in his satchel, the first step in a new venture.

A few Imperial Polizia wandered through the packed streets, a small badge of crimson emblazoned with a golden sunburst on their dun-colored jackets. He caught a few rude

gestures aimed at their backs. Recruited from the locals, the polizia were rife with corruption. He kept clear of them.

Ahead of him, a disturbance ruffled the throng. The crowd parted for a group of men swaggering down the street shoulder-to-shoulder. These men weren’t wearing the simple tunics and trousers of their fellows. They were bare-chested, and wore short, wraparound skirts of pale linen covered by strips of armored leather pteruges, leaving their legs bare but for sandals laced up to their knees. Finely-tooled leather knife belts spanned their narrow waists, long, thin blades resting at their hips. Broad-brimmed hats shaded their hard eyes.

But their dress, strange as it was, wasn’t what set them apart. Even the knives at their hips weren’t as impressive as the tattoos covering nearly every inch of their bare flesh. Like peacocks among a flock of pigeons, the men shone. The tattoos were full of color and movement – striking snakes, raptors, dragons, tigers, and other predatory animals, or raging flames and lightning bolts. The elaborate ink radiated power.

His hackles rising, Raiden slipped into the shade of a storefront awning. He recognized these men by description. The Empire had entire books devoted to the Bloodwizards of Malavita, those tattooed magicwielders who used gemstone blades to shed their own blood for power, but these men were not common bloodwizards. They were the famous – no, infamous – Corsaro. Marked by their attire, and their swagger, these particular bloodwizards served powerful warlords calling themselves Capomaji. They held this land in thrall, extorting and intimidating people, especially in the more isolated Veils in the interior. They were a dangerous nuisance.

Raiden laid a hand on his sword hilt, watching the Corsaro strut down the street, the people scattering before them like mice before cats. It would be interesting to test them. How would their vile magic hold up against steel? But he eased his grip once the Corsaro had passed. The citizens of Sicaria seemed to release a collective sigh before going on with their business and he left the shelter of the awning. It was growing late, and he was due to meet Safire’s representatives soon.

A few inquiries pointed him in the proper direction, and after a dozen turns down the twisting streets he emerged onto a quiet avenue with shuttered storefronts and a taverna with a

black rooster on its shingle. A red and white-striped awning shaded a few tables on a stone patio and wide-open doors led into the dim interior. Raiden stepped into the shade, grateful for the respite. He waved to the comely young woman serving a table of four and took a small table for himself. He could hear patrons inside the building laughing and talking, but he and the group at the other table were the only ones seated outside.

His gaze swept them, wondering if they were the representatives he was supposed to meet. Three of them wore loose, flowing silk shirts tucked into snug trousers, soft leather boots wrapped to their knees, and knife belts with only a single blade each. Blades made of quartz. The Brotherhood church, who created and distributed the gemstone blades, didn’t bother working with quartz. Most lesser blades were homemade. Crude and simple and nowhere near as strong as the “blessed” blades. Still, it meant these men could wield bloodmagic.

Their shirts were brightly colored, the oldest in red and the two younger men in blue and green. The shirtsleeves were bloused at the elbows with ribbons, leaving their tattooed forearms bare. Long, wild hair framed their narrow, swarthy faces, and long mustaches drooped around their mouths. Tattoos peaked from beneath their open collars. Not Corsaro, certainly, but bloodwizards nevertheless.

The fourth was a youth. Tall and slim, and dressed like a Sicarian in long trousers, sandals and a long-sleeved jacket, he had neither mustache nor loose, wild hair. His long, dirty-blond hair was contained in a braid, and he wore a broad-brimmed hat pulled low over his eyes.

A person going to the trouble to hide his eyes was usually up to no good. Suspicious, Raiden adjusted the sword tucked into his sash. The youth gave him a slow nod, as if he knew why he had shifted. Raiden looked aside. Cheeky brat.

Immediately, he dismissed the four. They couldn’t possibly be the representatives of a Malavitan city-prince. Especially one who’d served a year in the Imperial Army and distinguished himself during the Vulcaro Campaign. He had never met Dante Safire personally, but he knew him by reputation as a man of honor and integrity. It was why the Emperor was willing to grant the man a boon – once Raiden determined the feasibility of Dante’s request, of course. He wanted an Imperial charter granting him land and rights to raise a new Veil, which, while beneficial to the Empire, was a doubtful proposition. Malavita’s ruling class, the so-called “First Families”, were as beholden to the Brotherhood as the rest of the people. Strong in magic and the nominal lords of the Veils, nevertheless, they had no choice but to pay the Brotherhood their crippling taxes. Without the Brotherhood and their cryptic magic, the Veils would fail. And without the Veils, life was not possible in Malavita.

It was a frustrating situation for the Empire as vast tracts of Malavita’s interior – the blighted Wastes – could be reclaimed by new Veils, yet the Brotherhood was as parsimonious with their Veils as they were with their gemstones. They hadn’t raised a new Veil in over a hundred years, and the priests refused to impart their secrets to any bloodwizards outside of their organization. They kept the knowledge as close as their blades.

But when he’d appealed to the Empire for the charter, D

ante Safire claimed he had the knowledge and the strength to raise his own Veil, a Veil for the Empire. It sounded too good to be true to Raiden, and he was prepared to refuse the charter. They had been burned before with ill-conceived charters. Not long ago, the Empire had granted charters to some of their own nobility and trading companies in an attempt to establish royal colonies within existing Veils – they’d learned the hard way that the Wastes were uninhabitable, at least by Imperial citizens – but even those attempts inside Veils had ended in disaster. Pit mines had failed to yield any quality gems, crops had fallen to blight, grapes had withered on the vine, and herds of hearty Imperial cattle had wandered into the Wastes to be transformed into twisted beasts. The locals had sniggered and mocked the foreign invaders until they had all fled. Without bloodmagic, the Imperials were at a disadvantage in this land.

Yet, if Dante truly could raise a Veil free of Brotherhood control and dominance, then the Empire would at last have access to their own gem mines. Cutting out the Brotherhood from the lucrative gem trade would be a profitable venture.

When the serving girl approached, Raiden ordered wine. The first glass of the cool, golden liquid soothed his throat and

slaked his thirst. The second softened his muscles and eased the tension between his shoulder blades. He stretched his legs beneath the small, wrought iron table and slumped low in his chair, relaxing for the first time in what seemed like weeks.

The journey across the Trincarian sea had been long and dull. Losing himself in the practice of the Thousand Forms had been impossible on the cramped ship, and all he’d been able to do was think. His thoughts had circled around only one thing: the shame of his dishonor. He was – he’d been – a shield, born and raised to protect the Imperial family. Born and raised to kill any enemy who threatened them. Even as a boy, barely into his tenth year, he could pick an assassin from the crowd and kill them before they came near a royal family member. He’d always expected to sacrifice his life for his family, but he’d never expected to have to fall on a figurative sword. Death was preferrable to this – this exile.

The strain of the day beat against the back of his eyes, and thoughts of his homeland made him weary beyond measure. He closed them. Just for a moment…

A sudden shout of pain jarred his eyes open. He jerked upright, cracking a knee against the table and toppling his empty wine glass. It shattered against the paving stones. The noise made him wince, but no one else took notice. All eyes were on the man groveling on the patio, the innkeeper by his humble garb and snow-white apron. The pretty serving maid crouched beside him, her arms around him, weeping. Blood dripped from the innkeeper’s nose, and his hands were raised in supplication. A tattooed man stood over them, bare-chested in a skirt of armored leather strips.

Raiden hissed in a breath. Corsaro.

The tattooed man held a long, slim blade against his own forearm. The blade was of a pale green stone and parallel cuts stood out against his painted flesh.

“The tribute was due today, Alonzo,” he said. “Not tomorrow, not next week. Today!”

“Please, Vito. Please, I beg you! Business has been so bad this season, and the tribute has increased so much. I have nothing to spare!”

“Nothing? You have nothing for the man who keeps you safe? The man who protects your daughter from rapists and scoundrels?”

With a sob, the girl hid her face against her father’s shoulder. The innkeeper paled.

The man, Vito, shook his head. “This is no good. No good.” He applied pressure to the green blade. “I already gave you an extra week and still you give me nothing. Do you think my Capo will be gentle with me if I am gentle with you?”

“Please, good sir. Spare me–”

Snarling, the Corsaro man slashed his arm with his jewel blade. Blood ran black against his tattooed flesh. The pale green blade gleamed.

Raiden gasped. It was beautiful.

The Corsaro soldier bared his teeth and his eyes closed to slits.

A wave of force burst from the tattooed man, hot as a summer breeze before a thunderstorm. Raiden felt it, but he remained untouched. The innkeeper, however, ignited. The girl shrieked and recoiled. But she was a quick one and doused him with the contents of her blue ceramic pitcher. The flames vanished, leaving the innkeeper moaning and writhing on the flagstones. His skin was shiny and red through his charred clothing. The tattooed man laughed as if it were the funniest thing he’d seen in days. The four souls seated at the other table beyond the innkeeper watched the tableau in grim indifference.

It was too much.

Raiden stood, knocking his chair over with a loud clatter. The bloodwizard, still chuckling, turned on him. His eyes lit with pleasure. “Ah! Good! A man with a spine. What a novelty. And a foreigner, too. How lucky for me. I hope you have gold in your purse, sir. You’ll need to pay for the lesson you’re about to receive.”

“Is that what you are, you gem-bladed wizards? You so-called Corsaro? Thieves and bullies?” Raiden stepped clear of his table and turned sideways, his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Teach me that lesson, scoundrel.”

The man snatched a second blade from his knife belt and stepped around the poor soul writhing at his feet. The world slowed, and Raiden drew his long, slim sword. The man’s

blade rose, and when it began to fall Raiden’s sword flickered. It laid open the man’s forearm, severing skin and tendons with surgical precision. Vito shrieked and his pale green blade clattered to the ground.

The bloodwizard whirled away, clutching his injured arm to his chest, cursing. Raiden took two steps toward the innkeeper and his daughter, intending to shield them if the man attempted another attack. It would have been an easy thing to run the tattooed man through, but Raiden chose restraint. He was a diplomat, after all.

His hesitation cost him. The man should have been incapacitated by his wound, but another wave of power burst from him. It wasn’t as focused as his first attack. Not fire this time, but wind.

Caught off guard, the table of four were scattered like leaves along with the heavy wrought iron chairs and table. The innkeeper and his daughter crouched beneath the violent gust, pelted by sand and grit. The wind pushed Raiden into the

street but didn’t knock him down as it had the others. Raiden held his sword at the ready as, wild-eyed and blood-stained, the wizard Vito advanced on him, slashing across his bare chest with his remaining pale green blade. Fresh blood slid down his skin, gleaming with light. The tattoos adorning the Corsaro glowed and rippled, closing the cut almost as fast as Vito made it.

And suddenly, the oppressive heat of the day returned with a vengeance. Raiden’s sword hilt seemed to gather the heat within its core, burning his palms like a brand. Raiden cried out, his hands springing open instinctively. His sword fell. Grinning, the wizard cut his own chest again, drawing a new line beneath the first, spilling fresh blood.

The air shimmered in front of Raiden’s eyes like the distortion around a raging forge. Invisible flames beat against his face and he staggered back. His gaze flickered to the other men who’d been caught up in Vito’s attack. They stood together, watching, the long-haired men gathered behind the youth like an odd set of guards. Raiden blinked sweat from his eyes. He’d get no help from them.

“Why don’t you burn?” Vito said, his voice raw and ragged. Vito’s knife flashed again, drawing blood from his tattooed thigh just beneath his armored pteruges.

The heat became suffocating. The air burned away in this unseen fire. Raiden gasped, and searing agony greeted his efforts.

With sudden clarity, he knew he was going to die. He couldn’t fight this man’s magic. His legs collapsed beneath him. He crashed to his knees on the hard cobblestones and lifted his face to the heavens. Bright, the sky was so bright. Even the buildings shone with an inner radiance. The whole world was alight.

Death did not frighten him. He’d delivered death to more men than he could count. Now, it was his turn. All he felt was relief.

The wizard loomed over him, a triumphant look on his face. Then, suddenly, behind the Corsaro arose another figure,

this one slim and crowned with radiant hair, an angel come to earth. In the clear sight brought by imminent death, details leapt at Raiden: a wry smile on perfect, pink lips, eyes the color of green agate, the proud tilt of a dimpled chin. A slash of late afternoon sun found and illuminated a figure that was unmistakably female beneath snug trousers and a tight-fitting vest. Raiden knew he had never and would never see anything or anyone so incredibly beautiful.

“Enough!”

Her voice rang like a bell. There was a flash of movement, a blackness in the light, and suddenly Raiden felt a flush of cold wash over him. The terrible burning vanished, the relief so abrupt and wonderful, he nearly passed out. His vision grew white, then dark. Then slowly, the world returned.

The bloodwizard Vito had turned away from him to face the interloper. The brightness had faded, leaving a dust-colored scene: the woman – no angel, he realized now that she was no longer wreathed in light – stood with her legs wide, and two black blades in her fists. Her embroidered vest left her arms, shoulders and midriff bare, revealing elaborate tattoos stenciled on her skin.

Another bloodwizard? A woman bloodwizard? As far as he knew, there was only one in all of Malavita, and she came with a warning: “Beware the witch who wields obsidian, for she is a fiend and a scoundrel. A wanted murderer in league with demons.”

It couldn’t be her, but the black blades put the lie to his thought. She carried obsidian…

Her hair was a dirty blonde, and he recognized the long braid. She was the youth who’d been sitting with the three long-haired men. Not a youth, obviously, now that she’d lost the loose jacket and concealing hat. A look of predatory glee stole some of the beauty from her heart-shaped face. Raiden shook his head. He could breathe, but his lungs felt raw.

“Puttana!” spat Vito. He made no move to wield his remaining blade but had hunched in on himself like a dog waiting for a kick.

The woman made a scornful noise. “Now, now. No calling me names. You wouldn’t want to upset me.”

Her three companions stood behind her, the oldest a step apart from the two younger men. Humor danced in the gray eyes of the young ones, but the elder’s gaze held a smoldering rage. His hand grasped the hilt of his single quartz blade. Only the woman had blades drawn, though.

“I am not afraid of you, or the Golondrina scum who lick your boots!” Vito stood straighter, gesturing with his blade. His injured arm was clutched to his belly. “Nor do I fear your black blades, witch. They are glass! Not true gemstone blades.”

The woman narrowed her eyes. “Do you wish to test them, Beryl Wizard? Have you so much confidence in your Three Faces against the Four and the Hidden?”

Vito flushed, scowling. His blade hovered above his arm. He spared a glance to where his other blade lay on the cobblestones and seemed to weigh his odds. Suddenly, he relaxed and slowly slipped his blade back into its sheath. With a jerk of his chin toward the burnt innkeeper, he said sullenly, “He still owes my Capo. I can’t go back empty-handed, or it will be my skin.”

The woman’s lips thinned. “How much does he owe?”

“Ten gold. Two weeks’ worth of protection.”

“Protection,” she scoffed. “He only needs protection from the likes of you and your Capo.”

“He owes us!”

“Very well, but let this be the end of it. You can tell Capo Valentine this place doesn’t need his protection anymore. Cyril. Pay the man.”

The eldest of the three men, dark-eyed and swarthy with a handsome mane of black, curly hair touched with silver, reluctantly dug into his belt pouch. With a flick of his fingers he tossed a small leather bag at Vito. The Corsaro man caught it, opened it and turned the contents onto his palm. Three bright blue gems the size of almonds glittered in the sun. Vito frowned as if he’d been struck a bad bargain.

“They are worth more than ten gold, thief,” the man called Cyril said in a low, gruff voice.

Wisely, Vito didn’t argue, and swiftly tucked the treasure into his own belt pouch – the arm Raiden had slashed at the beginning of the unfortunate encounter had stopped bleeding and looked as well as the other. Raiden gritted his teeth. Strange magic.

Smirking, Vito retrieved his fallen blade and sheathed it, moving leisurely. “I’ll be telling my Capo about this, witch.”

“Oh, please do,” she said.

Whistling, Vito sauntered down the street. Only when he was gone from sight did the woman take her eyes off him. Her gaze settled on Raiden as she slipped her blades into sheaths along her forearms.

“Petra,” she said quietly. “Tend to the innkeeper, will you?”

One of the younger men nodded; his hair was nearly as red as his companion’s colorful shirt. He flashed Raiden a grin before turning to help the innkeeper.

“Let’s get them inside,” the one called Cyril said in his gravelly voice, his eyes on Raiden, evaluating. Raiden felt like he was coming up short in the man’s estimation, and he lifted a brow. Cyril turned away and the three carried the injured man into the interior of the taverna, the serving maid following, wringing her hands. She gave the woman a few nervous glances as she left the patio.

The woman was watching him, though, her head tilted. Her green agate eyes took him in with a quick up-and-down glance. And just as quickly dismissed him. Raiden scowled. Few men had dared look at him with such disdain. How had he mistaken this creature for an angel?

“You are brave, if a bit foolish,” she said finally. “You can’t fight a bloodwizard with steel. But I was expecting a diplomat, not a soldier. It’s a pleasant surprise. Welcome to Malavita, Captain Mad. Dante Safire sends his regards.”

“Dante Safire?” Raiden blinked, thrown off guard. “You work for the prince?”

She smiled as if he’d made a clever joke. “Not quite. I am Shade Nox. I’m–”

“You are the Black Witch!” he burst out. “And in the name of the Bhaskar Empire, you are under arrest!”