Return of the Paladin

by Layton Green

  She didn’t know what to call them at the time, as these were the first majitsu Mala had ever encountered.

  The other four warrior-mages were powerful, easily strong enough to overcome the gypsy fighters, but the Despiser was another thing entirely. A force of nature who seemed to be twice, three times the strength of the others. Not only that, but he enjoyed his work. A cruel smile lit his features as he made his way through the ranks of Mala’s people, breaking bones and smashing skulls, flipping over wagons with his bare hands. Her father and mother were the last two standing, the leaders and most skilled sword hands of the Kalev clan. Mala watched, covered in filth from the latrine hole her father had dug underneath the supply wagon, as the Despiser snapped her mother’s spine. He took his time killing her father, twisting his arms and legs into unnatural angles before Mala turned away, losing the contents of her stomach.

  She shuddered at the memory, so alive after all these years. She had loved her parents more than life itself. Dreamers they were, fighters and poets and lovers and seekers. They had come to Albion from the Old World to help the remaining gypsies escape the death squads.

  Yes, dreamers they were—and it had gotten them killed.

  Mala never forgot the lesson.

  Orphaned on the streets of Londyn, she turned to thievery to survive. She excelled so much that her handler sold her for good coin, at the tender age of eleven, to a guild master seeking youth for a traveling carnival that stole twice as much as it charged for entry. The carnival toured the continent, from the gateway city of Myzantium in the east, full of learned mages and soaring minarets, to the great city of Scythia in the frozen north. Along the way, she became an expert acrobat, horsewoman, archer, actress, and sleight of hand artist. Due to her athletic ability and a natural feel for the blade, as well as a rage at the world burning inside her, the guild master created an act just for her, in which Mala fought grown men with her hands or wooden blades. She rarely lost, and became the carnival’s highest earner.

  She loathed her status as a virtual slave, and her plans to escape were accelerated when the guild master tried to force himself on her. Pretending to give in, Mala let him undress her to her boots and climb on top of her, then sprung a hidden knife out of her heel and stabbed him in the back. She silenced his scream with a slice across the jugular.

  Mala fled into the night. Soon after, realizing how dangerous it was to travel alone as a teenage girl, she used her savings to board a ship bound for New Victoria, a place of fabled wealth and promise.

  A new world, a new beginning.

  Like all dreams that are realized, the reality was a far cry from what the stories and her imagination had led her to believe. New Victoria was indeed a wondrous place, but it was no less dangerous than most of the other places she had traveled, especially for a gypsy. The racism was palpable. Still, she wanted a home base to explore the promise and mystery of the lands beyond the Western Ocean, and joined the New Victoria Thieves Guild.

  Trained at the feet of the best rogues and cutpurses in the land, a favorite of the masters from the start, Mala’s skills increased tenfold. Her wanderlust blossomed, and she struck out on her own, this time with a reputation that preceded her, an adventuress who would undertake difficult tasks in faraway places, often of a dubious nature. As soon as she acquired enough funds, she decided to specialize in the retrieval of magical items. This took her around the world, acquiring items for a client list that included wealthy collectors, generals, wizards, criminals, and even a few museums.

  Her specialization served another purpose. Mala had never forgotten the man who had put her on the streets in the first place, the one whose red beard had split with a wide grin as he tortured and killed her parents. By this time, Mala knew his identity. He was a towering majitsu, Kjeld Anarsson, who had risen through the ranks of his order to become First Don, the supreme majitsu in all the Realm. He sat on the War Council and had the ear of Lord Alistair himself.

  Even without the protections of his position, such a man could never be bested by Mala alone. Knowing that cold hard fact, she had searched and searched for the weapon, scroll, or potion that would allow her a chance to prevail against this monster of a human being. Despite her achievements, Mala had seen firsthand what a majitsu could do, and her knees turned watery at the thought of confronting him.

  Yes, the great Mala herself, adventuress supreme and explorer without equal, was nothing but a little girl cowering in a hole, arms hugging her knees, when faced with the prospect of avenging her own parents.

  As the wagon rumbled past a swath of wildflowers, her fingers again found purchase on the contours of her sash. Reinforced with strong and pliable wire, weighted at both ends with tiny balls of iron, the sapphire band could entangle the limbs of a foe or crush a man’s face from afar. Yet she knew the sash—and all her weapons—would fall short against Kjeld. In all her travels, she had never found an item she thought would give her a chance of victory.

  Until Magelasher.

  Long ago, she heard rumor that an Alazashin expedition had carried the fabled weapon into the tomb of the sorcerer king. A cat o’ nine tails with eight magically hardened azantite tips, a mockery of an octopus in defiance of the Congregation, Magelasher had been designed by a gypsy mage to attack majitsu from all sides and overcome their defenses.

  Even when she had embarked on the expedition with Will and the others, she had not fully thought about the consequence of her success.

  What it would mean to hold Magelasher in her hands and feel its power and make a conscious decision to pursue Kjeld.

  She was truly terrified of this man. The weapon would give her a sliver of a chance, nothing more. Yet her fear drove her. She would let no man have such power over her. Live or die, she would face him at last and gain her freedom.

  The feeling of incompleteness that had never gone away—this was what drove Mala. The knowledge that this man, this murderer of her family and thief of her childhood, still owned a part of her.

  Another day in the valley came and went. Meals prepared, wagons circled, stories swapped. As the sun descended and the dances around the campfire began, time-honored twirls of patchwork skirts and booted gypsy heels beneath the moonlight, Mala observed the festivities alone, from atop the observation wagon. She liked to dance, and perhaps she would join them the next night, if she felt secure. She even allowed herself a few thimbles of grog, enough to relax the mind but preserve her reflexes.

  As the festivities wound down, she slumped lower in her chair, ceasing all movement so she could hear the sounds the wind carried. Nothing stirred except for a lonely cricket and the gurgle of a nearby stream, and no movement disturbed the night until she saw the red eyes of a hyena wolf creep out of the darkness and slink towards the caravan.

  She sat up at once. Uncommon but not unheard of in those parts, a hyena wolf was a dangerous adversary, especially if traveling in a pack.

  It squatted on its front paws, supporting the weight of its huge neck and shoulders, the ridge of its coarse gray mane raised like arrow fletching along its back. The creature raised its head to peer at Mala and then loped back the way it had come.

  What strange behavior! It caused Mala to think the creature was either unwell or under the aegis of a mage. A hyena wolf that did not howl or travel with its pack? Drawing so close to a group of armed humans?

  Bizarre.

  Yet it was not until she recalled a sighting earlier in the day, a lone raven alighting from a tree, that she realized who was following them, and what they were truly facing.

  No, she corrected silently. Their pursuer was not following the entire caravan; he was following her. It was not Kjeld, but someone almost as dangerous.

  The sudden knowledge of her adversary, swift and sure, brought a stab of fear like an ice pick to the back of the neck. So much so that Mala sounded a horn and released a nightflare, spraying red and gold light into the darkness.

  As the caravan’s archers and a bevy of swordsmen g
athered outside the wagons, she called Danior to her side. She knew of only one dhampyr who assumed the form of a hyena wolf.

  The grizzled warrior rushed up the ladder of the observation wagon and joined her as she peered into the belly of the night. “What happened? Why the outcry?”

  Mala debated how much to tell him, deciding for the safety of the caravan that he should know the truth. Or at least some of the truth.

  “I noticed a lone hyena wolf observing the caravan. Slinking towards one of the wagons.”

  “Here? Perhaps it smelled one of the chickens. Though why didn’t the horses catch the scent? A steady wind has blown all night.”

  “Because this was no normal hyena wolf. Do you remember the raven we saw earlier? By the stream?”

  Danior squinted as he thought. “Yes, I believe so.”

  “I believe a were-creature is following us.”

  “What sort of creature assumes the shape of both raven and wolf—”

  Danior cut himself off, a look of fear spasming his hardened features. “Surely you don’t imply a dhampyr?”

  “Aye,” Mala said. “Though each dhampyr can only shift to one form, the appearance nearby of other avatars of their kind, ravens and bats, often signal their presence.”

  “Dhampyrs exist?” he said rhetorically, as if dazed. “Here, on the plains of the Barrier Coast?”

  Mala turned back to the spyglass. A dhampyr was the Romani name for a half-human, half-vampire hybrid who could walk in sunlight and assume the full powers of a vampire at night. An extraordinarily rare and potent foe who possessed the strengths of both races. Belonging fully to neither the world of the living or the undead, dhampyr were often embittered by their isolation.

  She did not believe this was a random sighting, though her suspicions as to the identity of this particular dhampyr was a tale she was unwilling to tell.

  “What do we do?” Danior continued. “Have you faced such a creature before?”

  “Aye.”

  His eyes widened, awaiting an explanation that never came.

  “Ready the horses and put every sword on guard,” she said. “Give everyone a torch as well. Non-magical weapons will do little damage, but a dhampyr fears fire. We will travel through the night and pray it does not attack.”

  “And if it does?”

  “Then some of us will die. It would be bold, however, for one dhampyr to attack a caravan en masse, when we are on guard.”

  “You refer to him as a male. Do you know this pursuer?”

  “For whatever reason, most dhampyr are male,” she said, avoiding the question. “And all are sterile.”

  Danior gave a sober nod of acceptance. “When the morning dawns? What do we do?”

  “Is there a town within reach?”

  “Talintock is a walled village half a day’s journey. ’Tis on the way, but deeper into the valley.”

  “That should suffice.” Mala returned to scanning the ground around the caravan with the spyglass, dismissing Danior with a wave. “Go. Spread the warning. We will reconsider our options, Queen willing, within the walls of Talintock.”

  -8-

  As he awaited instruction from Lord Alistair, Val faced the arched doorway of mercurial silver, a portal that existed in a state of matter he did not understand.

  Magic, he thought. That’s the state of matter it’s in.

  He could feel the eyes of the others on his back, especially Braden Shankstone.

  “When we step into the doorway,” Lord Alistair said, “we’re entering a fixed portal inside the realm of spirit. We will be neither here nor there, yet can be seen and heard in both places. As I said, you’re accompanying me merely to observe.”

  “Understood,” Val replied. “When we open the portal, it flows both ways, doesn’t it? That’s why the others are here. In case someone comes through.”

  Lord Alistair nodded in satisfaction. “Yes, but also to observe. In addition, I wanted you to experience the magic of the portal when we enter. It was built by spirit mages and designed for our use.”

  Again, Val could feel the jealousy radiating out from the non-spirit mages in the room.

  “Come behind me, please.” The Chief Thaumaturge stepped right into the portal and disappeared. Val followed suit, realizing the silver doorway was not substantial at all, since he passed through without any physical resistance. Or perhaps it had been ensorcelled to dispel sensation.

  For the briefest of instants, Val passed into a shadow land of dull gray hues, like a ghost passing through an odorless steel vault, and then he materialized beside Lord Alistair in front of an iron throne occupied by a man clad in loose black silks. The man was so old the skin of his brown face and hands resembled pieces of chewed leather, spider-webbed with wrinkles and stained by liver spots. A beard of coarse white hair, scraggly with age, came to a sharp point beneath his chin. In an alcove behind the throne, there was a replica of the silver doorway through which they had just passed, a companion portal. Val could tell the magic was linked in some way.

  Feeling eyes on his back, he turned to find a pair of leather-clad assassins standing right behind him, swords poised in midair as if awaiting a command to strike. It took all of his self-control not to flinch. Behind the two Alazashin, in an egg-shaped cavern the size of a small auditorium, lurked dozens more cutthroats, both human and non-human, male and female, bristling with weapons and quiet menace, gathered into groups or slinking into position along the walls. Archers in the wings had arrows trained on Val and Lord Alistair. The silhouettes of more bodies lurked in the shadowy passages leading out of the cavern.

  Expecting a grand hall full of riches, as the wealth of the Alazashin was legendary, Val was surprised to find a fortress of rock and iron. He gaped at the plates of azantite worked into the natural rock floor and walls for reinforcement, the largest quantity of the priceless substance he had ever seen in one place. Iron pillars buttressed the ceiling, flames leapt out of tall braziers lining the walls, and a grid-marked steel grate formed the floor. He peered through the latticed iron and saw nothing but blackness, wondering what lay below.

  The old man’s eyes gave a flicker of surprise at the sudden appearance of Val and Lord Alistair, then tightened in anger. From the left side of the throne hung a gauntlet of azantite and a curved dagger with a black tip. The Grandfather of Alazashin Mountain slipped on the gauntlet as he addressed Lord Alistair. His thickly accented voice was hard and brittle, like the unsheathing of a blade. “What is the meaning of this? Unscheduled visits are strictly prohibited by the accords.”

  Val looked closer and realized the entire throne was made of interlocking daggers of azantite and iron. Protection against attacks both magical and physical.

  The Alazashin, it appeared, was not an order softened by the fruits of its success.

  “The Congregation,” Lord Alistair replied, “does not take well to the assassination of our students.”

  “I am sure you do not,” the old man said coldly. “Yet that is the way it is, how it has always been. You have used our services yourself, and know we take no political position. We are tools for hire, nothing more and nothing less. To act otherwise would be to break our code. Our reputation is everything to our clients. The wellspring of our power. And if we are killed in the line of duty, then so be it. No repercussions are sought.”

  Val kept waiting for the Grandfather to lower his hand and call off the legion of assassins standing behind them. It made Val afraid to move, though when he tried to clasp his hands behind him and felt nothing but air, he realized their physical presence was merely an illusion. In fact, tuning his senses to the world of spirit, he realized he could feel the silver doorway in his mind, invisible and waiting.

  Lord Alistair spoke with quiet menace. “Political assassinations are one thing, untrained students another. Did you know that my own daughter was a member of the targeted class?”

  The old man’s expression softened a fraction. “I am sorry to hear that.”


  He might be sorry, but he didn’t say it was a mistake. The tension between the two powerful men was like syrup in the air.

  “I’m afraid that an apology,” the Chief Thaumaturge said, “is not sufficient.”

  In the ensuing silence, Val saw movement at the edges of his vision, and heard shuffling in the darkness beneath them. While Adaira claimed the Alazashin did not allow mages among their ranks, they had amassed some of the most powerful artifacts on Urfe, and surely had ways to combat spells. He resisted the urge to whip around or raise a Wizard Shield, trusting in Lord Alistair’s control of the situation.

  “Do you threaten us,” the old man asked, his gauntleted hand twitching, “in our own home?”

  “It has been far too long since our two nations have negotiated an accord,” Lord Alistair said, ignoring the question.

  “The Alazashin negotiate price,” the old man rasped, “and nothing more. To change our accord with one party would weaken our reputation in the eyes of all.”

  Lord Alistair gave a cold smile. “You’re correct, and I misspoke. I am not here to negotiate. I am here to make a demand.”

  More silence from the old man, his face a stoic mask. Val knew he was in the presence of two masters of the political game.

  “Speak,” the Grandfather said finally, “and we shall see where we stand.”

  “I wish to know,” Lord Alistair said, clasping his hands in front of him, causing Val to realize he could control the illusion, “where the Coffer of Devla now rests.”

  “No one knows the location of this artifact. It has been lost for millennia.”

  Lord Alistair stared into the old man’s eyes as if trying to pry loose his secrets. “It is lost no longer, as you well know. It was recovered from the tomb of the Sorcerer King Yiknoom Uk’ab K’ahk, then stolen by someone I believe to be your agent.”

  “Even if this were true, you know I will never break our silence. Not for any price.”

  Lord Alistair seemed to grow taller, his brow darkening. “I am not offering you payment.”