Chapter 1

There are times when I hate my job.

The actual fighting, I can take or leave. I’m good at it. Better than good, if you’ll excuse a smidge of ego on my part. I’ve fought demons, humans, elves, even the occasional dragon. I even fought off a Great Wyrm once, if you can believe it. Damn near killed me, but “damn near” and “lived to tell the tale” are as close as anyone can hope to come against one of those great scaly bastards.

So, yeah. It’s safe to say I know what I’m doing, and I take a certain amount of pride in that. I don’t enjoy killing, though. It’s necessary, sometimes, especially when a vicious enemy refuses to do the smart thing and surrender.

General Sagar didn’t look like she wanted to surrender. Her staff was broken, she was bleeding from a half a dozen gashes, and she could barely stand, but stand she did.

She raised her chin in defiance, refusing to back down from my gaze. But, her body was broken and her back to the town’s mana wellspring, a bottomless chasm from which the essence of life and magic flowed like water. I wished I could read her expression behind her veil. Her golden eyes showed only resolve.

“You don’t have to do this, General,” I said.

“I rather think I do.”

Her voice shook, lips trembling as she spoke. How anyone in that much pain managed to stand at all was a testament to her sheer force of will. I guess you don’t become a general in Lady Flir’s service by being a pushover.

“There’s nowhere for you to run. You’re in no shape to keep fighting. That little idiot- sorry, I meant Hero Plajin, and his merry band of murderers are busy slicing up your army. No one’s coming to help. I’m all you’ve got.”

She tried to draw a hidden dagger from her sleeve. It was her ultimate trump card. Whatever poison coated that blade was instant death to anything with a human’s body mass. The poison was very much like her: efficient, pitiless, and utterly devoid of the cruelty favored by so many of Lady Flir’s puppets.

Alas, fingers don’t work very well after the tendons of the wrist are severed. Word to the wise: if you ever fight a knife witch, shoot the wrist.

“You? Help me? Impossible. Your little friend would never-”

“First of all, he’s not my friend,” I said. “I didn’t ask for his party to follow me around like a bunch of lost kittens. I want Flir’s head, period. If patching you up so you can tell me where she is before you bleed out is what it takes, so be it.”

There it was. For a tiny, almost imperceptible moment, the mask cracked. She wanted to believe me. She very nearly did. And then the sound of heeled boots on cobblestones reached my battered ears. Ignimancy has its perks. Hearing one’s enemies coming is not one of them.

The General’s expression hardened. She might be willing to believe me. Plajin was another matter altogether.

“Ah, good. I see you caught the witch. Well done, Ignus Nock.”

Even the General winced at the insult.

My branch of magic doesn’t have formal ranks. There are too few of us, for starters. It takes a peculiar soul to gravitate towards ignimancy. Unlike the more conventional pyromancers, we’re uninterested in naked flame. Fire is but a stop on the way to our far more explosive ends.

To call one of us Ignus is, technically, correct. Without formalized ranks or progression, the Magus Guild simply calls us all Ignus.

No one who ever served on the battlefield with an ignimancer would dare, not if they valued their extremities. I wield a musket. If you want to be formal and keep your fingers and toes attached, Sclopetarius is the more appropriate term. It isn’t a formal rank, but it’s earned all the same.

“General Sagar has surrendered to me, personally,” I said. “My prisoner, my problem.”

A lie? Technically. It was the only play I had. Hero or no, the law was on my side. If Sagar surrendered to me, Plajin couldn’t touch her.

“Really? The General doesn’t look surrendered. Are you sure you don’t need a hand?”

I didn’t dare turn around. I could hear the sneer in his voice. I didn’t need to see it plastered across his absurdly handsome face. If ever there was proof that the gods had a sense of humor, it was in their choice of heroes.

“We were discussing terms,” she said stiffly. “A discussion I am not required to continue in your presence. Sclopetarius Nock wishes to know the location of Lady Flir’s camp. I wish for assurances. Your own laws forbid you-”

“SILENCE! I am a hero, witch. The gods chose me to slay craven beasts like you. The laws say whatever I want them to. If you want assurances, then I assure you of this: tell me where Lady Flir is, and your death will be swift and painless. Or, I can call my healer, and we can have some fun peeling the answer out of you.”

She looked me in the eye, one last time, and toppled over backwards into the pit.

For a moment, I considered killing the spoiled brat where he stood. Only for a moment, though.

Reason took hold and reminded me that, as a Sclopetarius, I was ill suited for close quarters combat with a paladin. With the right powder and the right charge, I could pierce Plajin’s armor. I had neither on me at the moment. It took nearly everything I had to corner Sagar. And, my musket was hopelessly fouled. Alchemized powder burns hot and clean. It also reeks to high heaven for anyone with an ounce of mana sensitivity.

Against a knife witch, I had to rely on good old fashioned saltpeter, charcoal, and sulfur. After nearly a hundred shots, it was a wonder any spark made it through the flash hole. I couldn’t rely on it, and Plajin wouldn’t give me a chance to ream the hole before he took my head off.

“Nothing to say, Ignus?”

I ignored him and leaned over the wellspring. There was always a chance Sagar was alive down there. As heavily as we depleted it during the battle, it would take weeks before the wellspring restored itself. A fully charged wellspring would “drown” anyone who reached the bottom, assuming they survived the fall. Only, in this case, drowning looked a whole lot more like spontaneous combustion.

There was no way to know how deep the wellspring went, but I couldn’t see any sign of flame, or sense any sparks. It might be worth fishing her out.

No sooner had the thought crossed my mind than a heeled boot collided with my backside.

“If you’re so worried about your precious witch, why don’t you join her?”

There was no arresting my fall after that. Exhausted, off balance, and half-delirious off the fumes of my own powder, I might’ve gone over even without the help of the hero.

Even so, my body moved of its own accord, twisting round in the air until I was facing up. Muscle memory socketed the butt of my musket in the pocket of my shoulder, the sights lining themselves up before my eyes as my thumb cocked the hammer. Less than ten feet separated us, and the blessed fool had the visor up on his helmet. One twitch of my finger, and I could end him.

The hero’s eyes grew wide with terror as he realized his mistake. Never try to kill a Sclopetarius if they’ve got their musket in their hands. You might pull it off, but you’ll pay for the privilege.

There was a flash, and then…nothing. I was right. The flash hole was fouled, the spark refusing to cross the gap into the chamber.

Ah well. It was worth a shot.

That was my last conscious thought as darkness enveloped me.