Instead of dodging again, Annev leapt forward. Axe and shortsword held high, he slid the haft and blade of his weapons along the wallowpike’s shaft then pulled with both weapons, creating a new fulcrum for the heavy polearm and dragging its wedge in a wide arc. With Sodar’s momentum redirected, Annev closed the distance between them, leaving the priest no room to regain his advantage.
But Sodar was quick to adapt. Rather than fighting Annev, he used his strength to swing the weapon harder and lifted the head of the polearm up over his shoulder. As the pole rotated in his hands, Sodar snapped the butt-end between Annev’s advancing legs.
Once again, Annev rolled with the pike. He fell back this time, taking a painful slap across his inner thigh, and hit the ground. In a blink, he flipped himself back onto his feet, weapons poised for another attack.
But Sodar was too quick for him.
In the half-second it took Annev to rise, Sodar had swung the weapon in a full circle, around the fulcrum of his hands and shoulder, then brought the wedge back up and into Annev.
Annev came forward, arms out, anticipating a blow from above, and was surprised when the wooden wedge raced upward instead. The blunted wedge smashed into Annev’s leading left arm, flinging both the boy and his axe across the room.
Sodar dropped his weapon, puffing with exertion. ‘Are you all right, boy?’
Annev groaned, dropped his sword, and cradled his injured arm to his chest. When he looked down and saw an enormous purple bruise forming beneath the skin, he swore. Then he saw half of the injury was streaked with threads of silver, and a metallic sheen was spreading across the skin. Shocked, he clutched his arm and burst into tears.
‘Annev?’ Sodar laid a hand on his shoulder.
Annev stared at the bruise, watching as more of the skin assumed its natural silvery colour. Sodar gingerly lifted the injured arm and surveyed the damage.
‘Oh. That’s unfortunate.’
‘Unfortunate? You broke my arm, Sodar! The masters and ancients will see it – they’ll know. I can’t take the Test of Judgement now. I can’t even risk entering the Academy!’
Annev watched as his left forearm down to his fingertips transitioned from fleshy pink to a bright metallic silver. He flexed his fingers, stretching his bruised forearm, and watched as blood from the reddening bruise swirled into the magic prosthetic he wore on his left arm. Copper veins drank in the dark blood, pulsing and spreading beneath a thin sheath of silver-scaled skin.
All thoughts of Sodar’s dishonesty flew from Annev’s mind. Instead, he sat transfixed by the singular, undeniable truth before him.
The magic of the artificial limb, which he had hidden and which had kept him safe for years, had finally failed.
Chapter Nineteen
Annev clenched his metallic fist, unable to look away from the reality of his now revealed magic arm.
Sodar frowned at the silver appendage, the colouring of his cheeks betraying the anxiety he clearly felt. ‘Try taking it off before you despair, Annev.’ His tone remained hopeful, though Annev sensed an edge of panic to it. ‘Take it off and see how bad it is.’
Annev roughly wiped his tears away and looked up at his mentor. Just take it off. Could it be that easy? He felt a glimmer of hope as he touched the artificial limb with his right hand. The silver scales felt warm and glossy beneath his fingertips – not the soft texture of skin, but something more alien. Annev ignored that thought and grasped the base of the prosthetic.
He rarely removed the artificial limb – being caught without it would be fatal – but he had done so on three or four occasions in the past. Even so, it had been several years since he had last removed it, and Annev felt a thrill of panic that the magic might not work this time. He pushed the fears down. He’d been using it for years; it wasn’t like a magic wand or a bottomless sack.
He simply needed to let go.
As if sensing his need, the prosthetic emitted a near-inaudible thhhh. A heartbeat later, the limb fell to the ground.
Sodar squeezed his shoulder, nodding. ‘I should have foreseen this. I’m sorry. The artifact is old and much of its magic has faded. You’ve been using it since you were a baby.’
Annev picked up the limb, examining it for any rents or cracks, but saw only the purple-and-copper bruise at its base. As he held it, though, the magic arm began to heal itself: threads of copper absorbed the purple bruise, causing it to fade, and then the copper spun itself into strands of silver and gold. The sheath of silver encasing the limb’s internal workings turned opaque, and the arm appeared whole again.
‘I thought only spells lost their magic. Artifacts are supposed to last for ever.’
Sodar shrugged. ‘Some do. Most don’t. Only the best can retain their powers despite the ravages of time and wear.’ He reached out and touched the prosthetic, concentrating for a moment. ‘But I sense there is still a great deal of magic left in that arm. Perhaps it couldn’t mask its true nature and heal itself at the same time. Now that it has recovered it should be able to camouflage itself again.’ He looked more closely at Annev’s hand. ‘Speaking of camouflage … where is your Glove of Illusion?’
‘Fyn and his friends destroyed it,’ Annev said, ashamed. ‘I kept the pieces, but …’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out the tattered, filthy remains of his former garment. Sodar took them.
‘I see.’
The priest had stolen the Cloth of Illusion from the Academy’s Vault almost two decades ago – a fruitful trip that had also yielded Annev’s magic prosthetic and the bottomless bag Sodar was so fond of – but that supply had come to an end. The only pieces of the cloth that remained were the tattered gloves Annev had worn as a child and the scraps Sodar had saved after stitching those.
Annev could see similar thoughts on the old man’s face as he pocketed the remains of the shredded glove, but Sodar said nothing else about the incident, choosing to let the silence speak for him. He combed the long hairs of his beard and moustache, grey eyes brooding.
Annev studied his left arm, which ended in a smooth stump in the middle of his forearm. He’d spent precious little time looking at the disfigured limb, for every time he had removed his hand, he had felt an unreasonable panic rise up in the back of his throat, threatening to choke him.
This deformity – this curse – was the reason his friends, peers and teachers would unquestioningly stone him to death. He’d spent so much of his life with it hidden that it seemed absurd its existence could control his fate. He hated it, which was strange, seeing as it rarely caused any problems. But the chance for catastrophe was always there, a looming threat. He felt the bile rising in his throat again and turned his eyes away.
Annev rose to his feet. After taking a deep breath, he cradled the mended prosthetic to his stunted arm and willed the magic to take effect. A familiar tingle ran up his arm as the two limbs joined and the prosthetic’s silvery skin smoothly shifted to match the colour and tone of his own. Moments later he was flexing his surrogate fingers again, and he looked up to see Sodar standing in front of him, smiling from ear to ear.