Page 61 of Salt Magic, Skin Magic
“Stop your men, Dalton, or I’ll stop them for you,” John called. “I can help you. But you will leave Lord Thornby alone.”
“Fool. You can’t help me. You’re all the same, you bloody magicians. So damn sure of yourselves.”
“You’re wrong. I know what’s on you.”
But Dalton wasn’t listening. “Warren, if Mr Blake throws any more of those darts—shoot him. Prout, Farrell, we’ll take my son back to the Hall.”
“John! Throw it!” Soren shouted. Prout and Farrell were closing on him.
John could feel the pelt thrumming with urgency. Perhaps, once it hit the ground, Soren would find the strength to get it, even if it fell short. And then what would happen? Would it confer power, or simply allow Soren to leave the estate? Perhaps Soren sensed something John didn’t—it was Soren’s pelt after all. John wasn’t especially afraid of Warren’s fowling piece—the ward stone would protect him, once he’d found a moment to charge it. He grabbed another pin, wrapped the pelt around it as best he could, and threw it hard towards Soren.
“There! Get that!” Dalton shouted.
Pin and pelt fell ten paces short of the boundary. Soren and Warren both went for it at a run, but Soren hunched, as if in pain, and stopped, swaying. Prout and Farrell caught up with him and grabbed him from behind. John pulled out another pin. He’d have thrown it at Prout or Farrell, but they were now grappling with Soren, twisting and turning. He’d have to get down and stick it in Prout like a dagger. Fine.
Instead, he threw it at Warren, who’d nearly reached the pelt. It hit Warren’s right hand—a neat crucifixion. He yelped and dropped the gun. But Abbott, coatless, blood reddening his arm, had staggered over to help. Abbott snatched the gun in his burnt hand, flinched, and fired.
The shot cracked a slate next to John’s head, and slivers of stone flew up, cutting his cheek. Shouts came from below—Dalton’s voice booming out, “Getthat, you damned fool! Forget your hand. Use the other. Get that bloody skin!”
John half-charged the ward stone. No time to do it properly. He must free his foot. The blood was pounding in his ears, everything imploring him to hurry, hurry,hurry. But that was not the way. He must simply keep going, unpicking the spell with all the methodical care of a lady at her tatting. He was nearly done. He glanced up.
Soren, Prout, and Farrell were still grappling on the mausoleum side of the fence. Soren had to be desperate to get back to the estate or to reach the pelt, and maybe that was feeding his fury, because John had never seen such a vicious fight. There were no gentlemen’s rules here; Soren punched and rucked, gouged and bit and throttled. He was taller than Prout and using his long reach to good effect, but Prout was stronger, and Farrell was heavier, if a good deal slower. Soren had blood all over his face, and seemed not to be using his left hand. Soren landed a kick dead on Farrell’s nose, and as the fellow reeled back, John threw another pin. It pierced Farrell’s thigh and he dropped, shrieking.
The fowling piece cracked again and something hit John’s chest, just below the throat. If not for the ward it would have done for him. As it was, it burnt like a branding iron and bounced off. Warren was up, the pelt in his uninjured hand. Abbott was reloading. John pulled out another pin. He had four left, and he wouldn’t miss. First Prout—to stop him hurting Soren. Then Abbott, then Warren. He’d pick them off like flies. Farrell had crawled away; he was out of the fight. There’d be one pin left for nailing Lord Dalton right in the fucking face.
The unbinding was complete. He kicked his foot free and slid down the roof, rolling as he landed, reaching for another pin. Another shot rang out. Not even close. He began to run to where Prout and Soren struggled, a pin in his hand.
But he’d taken only a few steps when a blast of foul air and salty water hit him out of nowhere. It knocked him sideways onto the grass, blinded and choking. It stank of rotting fish and shit and blood, as if the curse that haunted Dalton had been magnified a thousand times and thrown at John with all the might of a hurricane. What thefuck? He struggled up, wiping his eyes. Magic, but who—?
He looked over his shoulder.
Dalton had a pelt draped over the pommel of his saddle. Another one. A larger one. It must have belonged to Soren’s mother. Dalton had kept her here too; mother and son, both bound to him by their skins, for as long as he chose. Dalton had a pocket knife in his hand. He cut a small piece from the pelt and threw it at John.
It was only a bit of skin and hair. It had no weight, no heft. It left Dalton’s hand and traced a gentle arc to the grass in front of his horse’s hooves.
And yet, John was thrown to the ground again by a gust of foulness so strong it made him retch. Needles of salty water stung his face and hands. Then it slackened. The wind still blew, but the fury was gone from it. John shook his head, blinking brine out of his eyes. He’d dropped the pin. He groped for it and threw it at Warren, who had nearly reached Dalton with the pelt.
He had no idea if it found a mark, because another foul spell-wind hit him, blinding him. Soren screamed, a wordless cry of fury and pain. Something screamed back—a chilling echo. Not human. Dalton must have Soren’s pelt, too.
The pins were no good against this wind. John fumbled out a handful of salt. He was on rough grass, no chance of making a sigil here, yet make one he must. He had a vague idea of getting his jacket off and making the sigil on that, when he felt the salt trickling out of his grasp, but not from the bottom of his fist, from the top. It was trying to make a line in the air.
He sketched the sigil that came into his mind. It was one he knew well; Amalthea’s Mark, for increase. How could that help? But he made the lines anyway, running on instinct, trusting the salt. He had only to add the final trinity of dots when he ran out of salt.
His pocket was empty. Perhaps he could take a pinch or two from the lines he’d already made.
Prout had dragged Soren back to the estate. But even as John glanced up, Soren twisted out of Prout’s grip and tried to jab him in the eye with a thumb. Warren was running to help Prout. Abbott was bent over, probably loading the fowling piece again.
Another of those blasts of foul wind and water hit John. He hunched over the floating sigil, protecting it with his body, but some of the salt was blown away anyway. The lines were now so thin they were only just visible. Would it still work? There could be no taking any for the three dots now. How could he get salt? The Petit Clé was too far away.
Salt.
Salt water; his clothes were drenched with it from the spell wind.
He’d never used his clothes for magic, but the suit he was wearing had been absorbing it for months. He’d noticed, without really noticing, that his older suits stayed cleaner than his newer ones. Was that magic? Perhaps.
He asked the suit to give him the salt and held out his hand, palm open. The suit trembled, rippled, vibrated. It was like wearing a swarm of bees. And a small grey drop of sludge dripped from his cuff and into his hand. Behind him, he could hear dull thuds as blows fell, the grunts and gasps of men in pain and mortal effort. Another shot hit him in the back. He hissed with pain, but didn’t stop working. The first drop was joined by another. There wasn’t much: a pinch, and not dry. He made the trinity—they were tiny grey smudges, hardly dots at all. Then someone grabbed the scruff of his jacket and jabbed the muzzle of a pistol into his neck.
“Stop that or I’ll shoot you like a dog,” Dalton snarled.
