by James Beamon
But leaving Savashbahar alone to fight this guy with only a dagger was condemning her to die.
Mike felt a hand yank him off his feet. Runt pulled him out of harm’s way as a boulder crashed through the wall where his back had just been.
“Can’t keep this up,” the mage yelled out from the expanses. He was hidden, invisible in The Sprawl. “All this running is just making more rocks for me to fling at you. And I got a lot of rocks.”
Mike had an idea. “Savvy, I need you to run some circles. Get the mage hot on your trail. Then meet us back at the caravan, hooah?”
Savashbahar nodded. “This I can do. How much time is a hooah?”
Mike smiled. He’d give her Army training later. “Twenty minutes. Stay a stone’s throw away from this clown. Keep him talking.”
Savashbahar darted, disappearing into The Sprawl. She turned long enough to see Mike, Ruki and Runt crouch run in the opposite direction.
The Hollower responded to their split party tactic with a hail of boulders for Savashbahar. She had to run and dodge as a rain of giant rocks threatened to crush her.
“You have chosen a beautiful place to die, Hollower!” Savashbahar yelled out. “The silence here will make your screams sound deafening.”
“And who’s going to make me scream?” the Hollower asked. “You, with your magic sticks? I already had you running scared at the Hierophane and Ardenspar.”
He stopped talking long enough to launch some more massive boulders at her. Then his voice hit her ears again.
“Think your friends’ll stop me? They can’t get close without me picking up their scent. If they know what’s good for them, they’ve already left you to die here.”
Savashbahar darted from cover and the Hollower was there on her left. He raised his hands.
“Tashbana chek!” the Hollower cried.
A thousand small stones and rocks behind Savashbahar flew towards the mage. She had no time to escape. She covered her head and braced herself.
The rocks felt like punches. They hit her without mercy as the mage called them toward him. Her body twisted and turned as the stones pushed and pummeled to get past her. She fell to the ground as the wave passed.
The Hollower didn’t stop with calling the rocks toward him. He waved his hands and spoke and the small rocks melded together, forming a giant stone wall.
He pushed out and the wall careened towards Savashbahar.
She scrambled and dove for cover as the wall shot past to crash into the ruins behind her.
Bruised and battered, Savashbahar fought the instinct to lay there. She got to her feet and tried to put some more cover and distance between her and the Hollower.
“There’s no chimney to scurry up this time,” the Hollower called. “Nothing to come between our game of cat and mouse, my little hex rat.”
“I still stand, the hex rat with a dagger in her teeth,” Savashbahar called as she ran through a clearing to a broken wall. “How easy will it be for me to chew through you, a cat without claws, purring his empty threats and yowling fake fear.”
That got his ire. He sent his chains smashing through the walls to get to her. She dodged his questing chains easily, her years as Hexenarii making her supremely agile. His anger made her smile with smug satisfaction.
Savashbahar finally made her way back to the caravan. The Hollower’s rock assault had crushed the back wagon. Neon blue pools of water and mounds of rice littered the ground.
No one was there.
She turned and found herself facing the Hollower. He grinned at her, malice dancing in her eyes.
“Friends left you, eh?” the Hollower asked as he walked toward her. “I don’t blame them. You’re a death sentence.”
She didn’t blame them either. This was her fight. She brandished her dagger, fought down her manufactured fear of him. Not enough to completely dispel the terror, but enough for one final strike.
The Hollower’s boots splashed in the water as he stood, reveling in his moment of victory.
“Time to scream, hex rat.”
His chains shot out toward her.
She couldn’t help her fear. She closed her eyes to it, the way of cowards.
Nothing came. She opened her eyes. The Hollower was shaking in place. Smoke came from him, the sound of his body frying.
He collapsed in the puddle of water. Savashbahar noticed a trail of neon blue going from the puddle. Her eyes followed the line to where it ended.
Several yards away, cleverly hidden in the rubble, were Ruki, Mike and Runt. Mike and Ruki were huddled over the water trail, smoke coming from their lightning gloves.
They hurried to her. The Hollower was coughing, trying to gather his wits. Mike kicked him in the stomach.
“Not so tough when you get set to extra crispy, are you?”
“Please,” the Hollower coughed.
Mike gave him another kick in response.
“C’mon, man!” the Hollower cried. “This isn’t how this is supposed to end,” he said as he looked down the sights of Mike’s diskbow.
“This is supposed to be fun,” the Hollower continued. “A game, for Christ sake.”
Mike raised an eyebrow. “Where are you from?” he asked.
“Chicago,” the Hollower answered.
“The Windy City,” Mike said.
“Yeah,” he said. The Hollower’s body wracked from a coughing fit. He spit blood and looked at Mike. “You?”
“I’m from Philly. Or at least was from Philly.”
“The City of Brotherly Love,” the Hollower responded.
The Hollower laughed and looked at Savashbahar. “You want to kill all the Hollowers, start with your little purple friend here.”
The Hollower pointed at Mike, his wicked grin returning. “He’s one of us.”
Mike kicked him again and again.
“That’s where you wrong, dude,” Mike said. “There is no us. I ain’t nothing like you.”
The Hollower’s laugh turned into a cough. He wiped the blood from his mouth. “Yeah, that’s right, you’re playing as the good guy. Well, here’s where you let the defeated enemy go, good guy.”
Mike shook his head. “I ain’t the good guy. I’m the dude you tried to kill. There’s real world consequences for that kind of shit, even in fantasy land.”
He squeezed the trigger.
Chapter 26
In Mages Hands
Melvin made his way back to the Temple of Houses. He could always check out more of Nasreddin, but the city had lost its appeal. Now it was just a crowded, noisy, annoying place. He couldn’t wait to leave.
The temple was considerably more tranquil. No heavy foot traffic or carts groaning or people yelling, just the sound of water cascading down rocks and birds chirping. He found his room, home of the ugly pink bed.
Melvin collapsed on the bed and found no comfort. He was restless, unable to nap.
There was always the High Fane. Melvin left his room and began to explore the new and undiscovered areas of the fortress temple. He found one room that resembled a church, with rows of wooden benches and an altar at the front.
This must be where they talk about how great it is to detain travelers.
He found another room that looked like an art gallery. Many of the pictures were of the gods in epic poses. Nadi the cat was bounding from one tree to another in the jungle. Menanderus the squid was underwater, battling a giant shark with a two pronged spear. Yol was below ground, holding a collapsing tunnel up with his ant strength.
Melvin paused at one picture. The aian in the picture had no discernible animal traits. Instead, the aian was being eaten away by maggots, his body falling apart to rot. The sun was eclipsed behind him, the eerie light playing against a crumbling temple in the backdrop.
“The Fall of Onus,” a voice said behind Melvin. He turned to see Mors approaching. Mors stood beside him and looked at the picture as he talked.
“A powerful reminder of what it means to succumb to corru
ption,” he said. His neck scales gleamed in the hazy light of the afternoon sun.
“What happened with this guy?” Melvin asked.
“Onus wasn’t honest with himself or the others when he ascended,” Mors said. “He didn’t want to save aiankind—he wanted power. And someone who hungers for power will always stay hungry.
“Onus got the power he craved, but the corruption cost him. He is bodiless now, an evil force that feeds off his followers. The more followers he can add to his broken house, the more powerful he grows. That is why we are ever watchful of his influence.”
Melvin looked at the picture of Onus. His face was tortured. Sickening dead flesh prevailed in the spaces where maggots were absent.
“Who’d want to follow him?” he asked.
“You’d be surprised,” Mors replied. “Onus seduces with promises of power. He perverts the marks of the other houses, making them more potent but also more cruel.”
Mors took his eyes off the painting to look at Melvin. “That’s why Cephrin’s arrival in Nasreddin is so important,” he said. “The prophecy talks of one without a house, who will rise to reclaim the Twelfth House as his own and restore the broken pantheon.”
Again with the prophecy. Melvin was tired of this layover in Nasreddin because of some pie-in-the-sky soothsaying.
“I wish they’d hurry up and make a decision already,” Melvin said.
“They have made the decision,” Mors said. “It is no accident I found you here. I came to escort you to Indur, who would like to tell you the decree himself.”
They made their way to the audience chamber. Melvin’s instincts told him not to expect confetti and a big brass parade for Jason’s benefit.
When they arrived Indur looked like he was having a bad day. But he always looked mean because of that ridged reptilian forehead.
“We cannot substantiate whether or not Cephrin is truly the one of prophecy,” Indur said. “So we will execute him tomorrow morning.”
“What?!” Melvin cried. “How does that make any sense?”
“If we could verify his origins and appearance through the words of the prophecy, we would be able to welcome him and the new era he promises. But we cannot, because he claims lost memory, which means he could very likely be an agent of Onus. We cannot afford to take that chance.”
“But what if he is the one of prophecy?” Melvin asked. “You just can’t execute him!”
“You’re right,” Indur replied. “If he is the one of prophecy, we’ll be unable to execute him. He will be heralded as the Chosen One. But if he does die, then he was clearly sent by the Corrupter to deceive us.”
Melvin couldn’t believe what he was hearing. If Jason died, which tends to happen at an execution, then he was evil. If he somehow miraculously survived being intentionally killed, then he was clearly prophetically chosen. “What kind of test is that?” he asked.
Indur looked implacable, as mean and cold as ever. “The only valid test we have.”
REW MAJORA SAT ON RICH’S bed, enjoying the closeness sharing a book invited. Half the volume was on her leg, the other half on his. They read poetic passages aloud together, their fingers tracing the ancient language as they read.
“I would endure any hardship,” Rich said, reading the modern language. “Ben herang mushkul tahammul edibilirim,” he said, switching to the old tongue.
He looked up at Rew, amazement in his eyes.
“This is crazy! Every passage, with the old words and translations. Where’d you find it?”
“It was no small task,” she said. “If you notice, it’s not a book of magic. I had to thoroughly search the dustiest library shelves to uncover it.”
Rich looked back down to the book. He stumbled through the old language of the next line before saying the translation.
“These hardships would be my badge of love,” he said. He looked at Rew. “What kind of book is it?”
“It’s called ‘The Song of Ardor Swain’. It’s one of our oldest written tales, about a youth whose betrothed is kidnapped by a water spirit. He travels the world’s seas and rivers in pursuit of the water spirit to rescue his one true love.”
Rew closed the book and handed it to him. “Take good care of this, Rich,” she said. “There are a few copies in the old tongue and countless copies in modern language, but this was the only one I’ve found written during the Transition. It’s extremely rare.”
Rich took the book. “Thank you, Rew. Who doesn’t enjoy a good romance novel?” he asked smiling wryly.
He set the book down and grabbed her hand. “And thank you for showing me Nasreddin,” he said, his eyes dancing as he looked at her. “I had a great time with you.”
Rew returned his look and nodded. The thrill of this moment made her heart beat faster. Her blood raced with excitement.
Rich leaned forward, slowly closing the already short distance between them.
The door behind Rew burst open and shut with violent haste. It stole Rich’s attention, making him jerk back and look up with alarm.
Rew turned to find the warrior girl, ashen faced and panic-stricken.
“They’re gonna kill Jason,” she said.
“What?!” both Rich and Rew said in unison, alarm in their voices.
The warrior girl went into detail about her conversation with the Elevated of Sen. She spoke only to Rich, as if Rew was invisible.
“Can’t you do something?” Rich asked Rew. “Tell the High Fane he’s on official mage business?”
“I hold no sway here,” Rew said. “The Temple of Houses has always seen the Onesource differently from Seat Esotera. They see it as an entity, a god to worship. We see it as a force, like the wind, to be used for man’s betterment. These differing views have caused a rift that makes dialogue between the two towers less than ideal. A human mage of any status hasn’t a chance of telling the Council of Thrones what to do with an aian citizen.”
“We gotta do something,” the warrior girl said. “We can’t just let them kill him.”
Rew stood up. She drew the hood over her head and brought the folds of the robe up over her nose and mouth.
“I am here as a brown robe, a novice caster. I am no threat as it would appear. We have the element of surprise. Two highly skilled mages should be able to free Jason.”
“I’m not exactly a kickball team reject,” the warrior girl said, indignation on her face. She pulled out her sword. “I have this, you know.”
“My dear, your skills are our last resort,” Rew said. “Spilling blood in the Temple of Houses is one of their highest blasphemies. The Hierophane can apologize for a rogue gray robe and his novice accomplice, but bodies strewn through the High Fane would be nothing short of an act of war. Your edged weapon would only hurt our cause.”
Rew looked at the girl. The sword trembled slightly in her hands as she returned it to its scabbard. She was still so far from her true potential.
“Besides,” Rew said, “you are far from ready, girl. I see the fear of upcoming battle in your eyes.”
The warrior girl glared at Rew. “I’m not,” she said, gritting her teeth all the while, “a girl.”
There was no time for this. “And I am not here to discuss your nature or preferences, dear. Now, hurry to your room and pack your things,” Rew said.
She looked at Rich. “You too. As much as I delight in your new look, I think it’s best if you don the robe again. It is a primary tool for a mage in the heat of combat.”
Rich nodded. He had a focused determination in his eyes as he set his jaw. It was the look of a man ready for battle.
He unbuttoned his shirt and turned around to gather his robe. When he took the shirt off, he displayed the chiseled back muscles of a man half his age. A feminine gasp, barely audible, hit Rew’s ears.
She turned to the warrior girl. She was still as a doll, her eyes locked on Rich’s body.
“I told you to pack,” Rew said.
The girl dry swallowed, nodded, and fled
the room. Rew stayed and helped Rich gather his things. When his bag was packed, she looked over his robe, adjusting it in places.
“Remember, Rich, bend the robe. Alter it. It is an extension of you, a primary material for you to exercise your will over.”
“I remember. A highly effective battlemage bends and alters.”
Behind Rich, the glowlights had come on and the waterfall garden carried the gloom of night quickly approaching.
She touched his face. “Stay safe. Now let’s save your friend.”
Rew opened the door. Without warning, she bent her robes. The sleeves shot out, smashing the two guards in the back of the head. She used the sleeves to pull the unconscious guards into the room.
Rich led the way to Melvin’s room. When they got there, Rich bent his robes, making the sleeves smack the guards in the face. The force smashed the backs of their heads into the wall. They crumpled to the floor.
“Be prepared,” Rew said as Rich and the warrior girl stowed the unconscious bodies. “It will not be this easy where we’re headed. No doubt they have Jason quartered in the Overwatch. We’d need the full force of the Hierophane to go against the guard directly. We must rely on subterfuge where we can.”
Rich and the warrior girl were fairly adept at keeping noiseless footfalls, making it easier to navigate around the roving patrols. Moving through the temple bred a high caliber of danger. The chameleon followers of Sen could blend to look like part of a deserted hallway. One look from a follower of Yol and their unauthorized presence would be broadcasted through the hive mind.
They took every new corridor and hallway with care. Rew didn’t know how long she had before either the unconscious guards came to or the roving patrols raised the alarm because the guards were missing from their posts. Either way, she knew time was growing ever shorter.
She peeked around the latest corner and her hopes for a smooth rescue dwindled. Five armsguards watched the ramp leading up to the Overwatch.
“House of Yol, three of them,” Rew said. “We can’t take the chance of them alerting the hive.”
Rich looked for himself. “I think I have something that’ll work. Get ready to go around opposite of my direction.”