by Cebelius
The rod remained dead in his gloved hands, and he looked at Mila curiously as she frowned at him, her ears twisting backward as she waved at the gloves.
"You cannot use a magical staff with your hands covered. You know this."
"This thing really doesn't like me," he protested. "It makes me feel like I'm on fire whenever I touch it."
"Yes, well, how do you intend to fix that if you refuse to commune with it? You wish to be a theurge, yes? I can teach you very little of your chosen craft, but I can teach you how to wield a staff effectively. Lose the gloves."
Well fuck, he thought, steeling himself for the pain as he set the staff in the green grass at his feet and took the gloves off again. As he did so, Mila spoke to Shy.
"And you. This talk is long overdue for you as well. We had very little time in Florence. You can cast lightning from the staff, for that is obviously what it wants. Can you use it to do anything else yet?"
Shy frowned. She had shed her bark armor in favor of fall foliage that resembled a halter top and abbreviated shorts. Terry caught himself staring and brought his eyes back up as Shy said, "No. I tried to use it for some of the simple spells I learned from students at the college, but the staff just laughs at me."
"Ah," Mila said. In that simple sound she managed to convey both patience and disappointment. "You lack the willpower to compel the Rod of Arcs obey you, and do not yet have the rod's willing compliance. We will work on that. Do not let it bother you; I will teach you."
Turning back to Terry, she looked pointedly down at the staff still laying in the grass.
Now that the moment had come, Terry chose not to put it off any longer. He picked up the Rod of the Heart, and the ruby flared and began to pulse as the voice of the staff sounded in his mind.
"Slayer. Murderer."
As the words played across his thoughts, fire ignited inside his body. At least, that's what it felt like. The closest thing in his experience was the lactic burn that comes at the end of a twenty-rep set of squats, but it was literally everywhere, from the tops of his ears to the soles of his feet. It took a supreme effort of will not to drop the staff and curl into a fetal position.
"I could shield you from this, Master," Prada said inside his mind, "But I believe that would be counter-productive."
Oh, you're so fuckin' good to me, he thought, but didn't say. He knew Prada could stop the pain. She'd done it once before, or at least, shielded him from some of the pain's effects. She was right though, now wasn't the time.
Gritting his teeth, he waited, staring pointedly at Mila as the staff murmured over and over in his mind, "Murderer. MURDERER."
Mila watched him for a long moment, eyes wide. Her tail had gone still, and her ears were focused on him as she said, "Oh."
He glanced at Shy and saw her gaping at him.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," he snapped as the burning pain coursed through him, throbbing with the beat of his heart. "WHAT?"
"You are, magnificent!" Shy breathed. "You look, perfected. Tee, I—"
She cut herself off, biting her lip. Terry blinked as he realized the look she was giving him was one of unmistakable lust.
"Terry," Mila said, drawing his attention. Her voice was hushed, and awe remained in her posture as she said, "What does the staff tell you?"
"It's calling me a murderer," he said. "Over and over again. 'Slayer. Murderer.' That's it."
Mila nodded and said, "That is not uncommon for someone who slew the previous owner."
"I didn't though. Euryale is the one who—"
He trailed off as Mila shook her head and said, "No, the Rod knows. It knows everything you do. You know that you are responsible for Volai Hart's death. You blame yourself, and so it blames you as well."
She took in another breath and let it out slowly, then said, "Terry, please. Put it down."
"Gladly."
He set the hateful thing on the grass and jerked away from it. The pain faded, but it did so slowly, as though reluctant to ease its hold on him.
Shy slumped down into the grass, her legs kinked to either side as she sat staring at him.
He gave her his very best 'Are you serious?' look and said, "Knock it off, Shy. You're messing with me."
She shook her head, eyes widening. "No. Never. Tee, listen to me. In that moment, you were a god."
"Being a god sucks then," he said, rolling his shoulders in an effort to ease the residual burn as he turned back to Mila and asked, "Why doesn't your staff do that to you?"
"You mean, why does my staff not make me look ... amazing? Because that is generally not something a staff does," Mila said, coming back to herself much more quickly than Shy. "What just happened ... I have never seen anything like that before."
Shy blinked, then looked at her staff. It had been crackling with electricity since she took hold of it, but the glow of the power centered in the ball intensified, arcing toward but not quite reaching Terry.
"Wait! I get it! Now I understand," Shy said. "That's why the Rod of Arcs wants you so badly!"
"What?"
Terry and Mila asked the question at once, both turning to look at the still stricken dryad, who nodded toward Terry as she said, "He's the one who killed the Locutor. The last owner of the Rod of Arcs. It wants him because it thinks he's a murderer! The difference is, it loves murdering people. That's all it ever wants to do."
"I didn't mean to ... I mean I," Terry shut his mouth, frustrated. He'd tried to convince himself he hadn't meant to kill the Locutor, but the truth was, he'd done it without any hesitation. He'd slain her and her second without thinking. It had been the first time he'd killed anyone, and it had only taken a few heartbeats. He'd done it with a brutal efficiency that even now left him reeling with implications he refused to deal with. Now, he was forced to consider them openly.
Am I a murderer? Is that really what I am, deep down?
He looked down at his hands. Since coming to Celestine he'd killed a lot of people. Volai, the Locutor and her second, countless orcs and goblins. All lives he'd cut short. That didn't even begin to count the other deaths that could easily be laid at his feet. Ephe, Shu, who knew how many ordinary citizens of Florence. All of those lives, hopes, dreams ...
Is that all I'm good for now?
Prada's voice sounded in his thoughts. 'You're not a murderer, Master. At least, not as I understand it. Raise your head. You need not be ashamed of what you have done.'
He shut his eyes and took a deep breath. He reached inside himself and found his center. Be like water. Flow. Adjust.
Nodding more to himself than anyone else, he looked up again and asked, "Okay, so what next? How do I deal with this stupid thing?"
Mila was giving him a speculative look, but she said, "Well, now that you have taken control of it, you must begin to work with it. Both of you. In order to do this, you must have strength of will. Mystic staves have personalities based upon the people who wield them. The longer a wielder controls a staff, the more firmly that personality is established. But the key to controlling a magical staff is to understand that it does not have a mind. It has no life of its own, no soul. The only thing it keeps are memories. The essence of its personality is, therefore, what it remembers."
She glanced from Terry to Shy. She met and held the dryad's eyes as she said, "It uses your mind to think, and your emotions to feel. It only focuses what you already have inside you. Once you put it down, there is no mind. There is no thought."
"So ... it's just a memory stick?" Terry asked.
Mila blinked at him, then smiled and chuckled softly as she said, "Essentially, yes. As time goes on, those memories get replaced. Memories of past masters become memories of you. Treat the staff well, love it, and it will eventually come to love you. Treat it poorly, and it will only resent you more as time goes on and its fond memories are replaced with darker ones. How much it respects or loves you determines how efficiently the staff works for you, and how many spells you can store within it. The lightnin
g spell is essential to the Rod of Arcs, but until you master it, that is the only spell you will be able to cast with it, Shy. As for the Rod of the Heart ... I do not know if it has any essential spells. It is a greater staff, and I have never worked with one of those. The nature of the staff is as I explained though, you may rely on that at least."
Terry nodded, thinking back to his one computer science class during senior year in high school. He had never been big on computers, and the one at home had been barely enough to surf the web with, but he knew the basics. Practically everyone born in the first world knew how a thumb drive worked.
"If it's a memory stick," he said, thinking aloud, "then I can format it."
'Interesting. Your world truly does have wondrous items,' Prada said, speaking inside his mind. 'Your idea may have merit.'
"So you think it can be done, Prada?" he asked, speaking aloud.
'All things are possible. It needs only a will to make it so. You can do anything you set your mind to, Master.'
He laughed bitterly at that, his cynicism brought to the fore as he shook his head. "You've seen inside my head, Prada. You know I don't buy that 'anything you set your mind to' bullshit. I never did."
Prada gave no answer, but he felt her recoil inside his mind as though he'd slapped her.
"Tee?"
He glanced at Shy and said, "Sorry. Prada and I were talking."
"What did your familiar say?" Mila asked.
"Nothing. Well, she thinks my idea is possible, that's all."
Shy opened her mouth to speak, but was cut off by Yuri's roar.
"Mila! Everyone! Get over here NOW!"
5
Plea Bargain
Terry grabbed the Rod from the ground with no clear understanding why. He gritted his teeth against the fire that flooded through his body but didn't drop the staff. Adrenaline gave him the kick he needed as he practically flew back toward the camp in response to Yuri's call.
He gave no thought to Mila and Shy. He knew they'd catch up, but he wanted to get there first. If there was something so wrong that Yuri needed them to help deal with it, it was bad.
Rounding a low hill to bring the camp into sight, he immediately saw the problem. It came in the form of a red and cream-scaled draconian woman with curling, black, ram-like horns and wild red hair. She held a sword longer than she was tall casually in one hand, as though it were a toy instead of a six and a half foot long, three-quarters of a foot wide slab of sharpened steel. Her other hand was up, palm out, and a pale blue radiance shown from it in the shape of a demi-globe obviously serving as a shield.
Marcus had his tower shield out and faced her squarely with about six feet between them. He'd obviously replaced the mace lost in the caverns of Sub-Cel with another, and he held it low and away from his body, ready to strike. On his left, Yuri stood with his own two-handed sword drawn despite the fact it looked inadequate next to Asturial's blade. The tiger man was slowly side-stepping to flank the dragon woman. A few feet to Marcus' left, Laina Lowe gripped the Ax of the Plains in both hands and was crouched as though ready to charge. Euryale stood in the back of the wagon, silver bow gleaming as she sighted on her target, ready to launch death at a whim.
"Murderer."
The staff's accusation seemed almost casual, but it was the spark that triggered a primal scream from Terry as he ran straight at Asturial.
He had resented her before the fight. To then find out that she had cheated him, that she couldn't keep her promise and had put him through it for nothing ... yet he had spared her. Now here she was again, after he'd let her live. After he'd asked that she be shown mercy.
It was too much. With the Rod in his hand his anger was magnified, and all at once he was consumed by a towering rage.
"YOU! Again?! Just what is your major malfunction!? I have HAD it with you!"
The dragon turned to face him as she said, "I want—"
She got no further as he hoisted the staff up and slammed it down ruby first against the blue nimbus of her shield, snarling, "I give NO SHITS what you want!"
The Rod sparked, and Terry felt the blow send a shock through his arms. The point of impact sprayed blue and red energy as though he were holding a buzz saw to steel, then the shield shattered into motes of pale blue light. Before the surprised dragon could do more than gape in amazement he pulled the staff down and in, then slammed it forward, ramming the rough-cut ruby at its head into her gut.
The power of the blow staggered and doubled her over. She dropped her negligently held sword, and he gave her no time to recover as he jerked the staff back and swung the butt of it up in a vicious uppercut stroke that caught her on the chin and launched her into the air.
THAT caught Terry's attention, and his rage flickered like a torch in high wind as he watched the dragon woman who — despite her being essentially his height, weighed easily between three hundred fifty and four hundred pounds — achieve enough height and hang time to impress even a die-hard Michael Jordan fan.
She landed on her back with a brutal sounding crunch directly on her tail, which had folded underneath her. Given the sound, it had snapped in at least two places — perhaps more.
Asturial screamed in agony, and that scream resolved itself into a single word.
"MERCY!"
'Murderer.'
The staff's whisper in his mind and the fire in his veins fanned the flames of his rage and he snarled as he walked to stand by her side, lifting the staff and pointing the butt of the weapon at Asturial's throat. In that moment, he had every intention of crushing the life from her.
Her lips were bleeding and there were lacerations across her stomach where he'd struck her with the ruby. Her golden, slitted eyes grew wide with terror and she held her hands in front of her face and cried piteously, "Please! Mercy, I beg you!"
"Why?!" he snarled.
"I surrender!" she said, practically bawling. "By Tiamat, please! I swear I mean no harm!"
'Murder her.'
Terry's lips curled and he lifted his weapon, muscles bunching to slam it down and end her life as he growled, "Liars don't get to surrender. Your word is worth nothing to me!"
An iron bar slipped around both him and the staff. Strong tanned hands took it from both sides and yanked him back and away from the fallen dragon before he could strike. His back slammed into a hard body, but for his head, which was pillowed in extravagant softness as Laina's hard-edged words cut into his towering rage.
"That's ENOUGH. You beat her. She's done, and so are you. Calm down. I know you don't want to kill her. I know you. Please, Boss. Calm down."
He shivered, glaring down at the now openly crying Asturial. Whether she sobbed from relief at getting to live or pain he couldn't tell, and at just that moment he didn't care.
"What have you EVER done to deserve mercy from ANYONE!?" he yelled. "Lie to me, take from me, and chase me down? Threaten my friends? My family? FUCK you!"
"There's a lot more 'me' in there than I'm used to hearing from you, Boss," Laina said, still speaking with calm authority. He was straining against her, and though he could tell that a sudden burst of effort might be enough to break her hold, he felt her strength. Her forearms were corded as she hauled back on the haft of her ax, locking his body against hers.
"Calm down."
'Murderer.'
'Calm down, Master. The staff is feeding your rage back to you. It is false. Your feeling is not pure. Let it go.'
Prada's soothing voice slipped through the cracks in his mind, soothing the lactic burn of the power in his body, divorcing him from it and giving him room to think.
"I'll kill her for you! Can I? Please?"
Euryale's chirpy singsong voice, its tone so drastically at odds with the content of her speech, effectively shut down his rage. Simmering coals of anger remained, ready to flare up at any moment, but he relaxed in Laina's grip, muscles easing as his posture straightened and he said, "No, love. Not now anyway."
Euryale slipped into his vi
ew and looked at him with a sultry smile, cold blue eyes glimmering as she leaned up and kissed him. "I've never seen you burn for revenge like this, Master. Your rage is god-like. Makes me hot."
As Laina let him go, the first thing he did was fling the staff to the ground and clench his hands. The burn started to fade from his body, but the shame he expected to feel never came. As he looked at Asturial, all he felt was hate, and the desire to destroy.
You sure it was the staff, Prada? Cause I'm not holding it now and I still want to kill this bitch in the worst way.
'The staff is like a megaphone for your emotions, Master. Trust Laina. You might not regret it if you killed Asturial now, but it would change who you are. Killing for revenge is one of those 'no refunds, no exchanges' sort of deals. It stays with you forever like luggage ... or the herp.'
Terry's laugh got stuck in his throat and wound up as a strangled sound. He shook his head and turned away, chuckling darkly as he said, "Fine. Let her say her piece, then she can leave. Whatever it is though, I don't want to hear it. I've had enough. Laina? You deal with her. I trust your decision."
The minotress nodded gravely. "I will, Boss. Go cool off."
He walked away, struggling to sort out his feelings as he rubbed his face with a hand. Now that his anger had faded, he felt hollow. He had thought that he could at least leave Florence behind if not forget it, but he should have known better. It would always follow him. He just hadn't expected it to follow him so quickly.
He leaned against the back of the wagon, lost in thought, and didn't notice Marcus until the towering minotaur's shadow blocked out the setting sun. He looked up at the big man and said, "Hey."
"You okay?" Marcus asked.
"Think so," Terry said, frowning. "Just so tired of ... that." He waved toward where the rest of the group were still clustered around the fallen dragon. As he watched, he saw Laina hand over a bottle, and scowled at the sight.
Bitch doesn't deserve that.
"Only berserkers fight angry," Marcus rumbled. "It gets a thinking man killed."
"Yeah, I guess. I just ... saw red, you know?"