Manx

by Greg Curtis

  “No. He fought alone. They went toe to toe and your Smythe assassin fell before him. Even crippled and weak, Manx is more than a match for your assassins. But then none of you are very strong.”

  “Filth!” The woman suddenly hurled herself against the bars and reached through them trying to grab Sorsha. But of course she was too far back for her to reach.

  “Now is that any way to treat your only visitor?” Sorsha mocked her, untroubled by the attack. She'd been through this before and she knew the bars would hold. “I might not come back any more. And then you'll be all alone for the rest of your miserable life!”

  “Die!” Jayla shrilled at her, her face wrinkled up with fury. “Die like the bitch you are!”

  “Not today.” Sorsha replied calmly. “Not any time soon. I've got to help my people destroy the last of yours. Though that's not hard. At the rate we're going in another month or two the last of the Silver Order will be either dead or in here with you. Growing old and decrepit behind bars.”

  “Enjoy your days in your box. I may not bother coming again tomorrow.” That last, though it didn't sound like it, was a threat. The woman had no one else to talk to. Those who brought her her food and water, never spoke. That was a part of the system they were using to break her. To leave her completely alone with only the walls for company. Then maybe in time, when she was absolutely desperate to speak to someone, she would talk. And she would reveal things she didn't intend to when she did.

  Sorsha wasn't very hopeful that she would. The Silver Order's leader was so filled with hatred and anger, that she might never be able to break through it. But it was all they had. Jayla Marshendale had spells woven into her very flesh to stop magic from breaking into her thoughts. Surprisingly good ones. She would literally die before she broke. Unless of course, she chose to talk.

  But even if she didn't break, there were others. Sorsha hadn't mentioned it – she wanted the woman to believe that she was truly alone – but several other members of the order had been captured and were now making other prisons their homes. Each of them going through the same process of having their will ground down.

  “Don't come back then!” Jayla screamed at her.

  “Fine.” Sorsha shrugged. “I have better things to do.” And with that she turned and headed back the way she'd come leaving the woman behind, suddenly realising that she was all alone again. And with the growing fear that that might be her future.

  But as she walked away, Sorsha found herself with an unexpected question on her mind. What did the woman mean that Manx had help? It troubled her. And she didn't know why.

  Chapter Twenty Three

  It was a good evening. Sitting out on a porch, watching another city go about its business as it closed down for the day – with another thousand or two new inhabitants among its numbers. But for the moment the people, most of them anyway, didn't know about them. The army of volunteers who were already in the city awaiting their release were dealing with them. Which left him on the porch outside his lodgings for the night, simply watching the day go by as he waited for his dinner.

  Summerbridge seemed a happy sort of city, Manx thought. Which seemed odd when it had been particularly hard hit during the battle. Like most of the other cities he'd visited, druids had been the first to return here. That was simply because druids were the most common of the spell-casters. Which was also why there were wild animals everywhere. But also a pair of crakes had returned here, and between them the storm that they had created as they had flown overhead, had been immense. Everywhere he looked he could see buildings that had burnt out and others that had actually crumbled under the assault of the storm. Even amongst those that still stood, there was scarcely a window left intact. In fact there were hardly any in the entire city.

  And yet the city had survived, the creatures seemed to be under control, and the people scarcely gave the odd looking strangers in their midst a second glance. Or a heavily scarred man and his cat for that matter.

  Whitey was beside him lapping at the saucer of cream Manx had given her and occasionally making happy noises. Sometimes she even praised him. Of course for her even a compliment was an insult, though he suspected she didn't understand that he didn't like being told he was a capable servant. But he didn't care. He only cared that another couple of dimensional prisons had been cleared out over the previous days and now he had an evening of peace ahead of him. Relative peace that was.

  No one was coming to kill him as far as he knew. It was probably too late to stop the release anyway. There were so many spell-casters now out in the world, that the tide couldn't be held back. Even if they killed him, others would take his place in due course – though they might have to pay them. The Silver Order were all but destroyed. According to what he had read in the papers, the battles in each new city were growing shorter and less intense. That could only be because the spell-casters were facing less opposition. And more importantly the King had agreed to meet with them. To strike a deal of some sort. Clearly he no longer had any faith that either his Royal army or the Silver Order could stop them. It seemed they had forestalled the war.

  The tale of the Silver Order's treachery had also reached the papers. Obviously some of the freed prisoners had given their stories to the reporters. Manx wasn't sure that that would help. But at least the truth was there for all to see.

  But all of that paled compared to his improvement. His scars were definitely starting to soften. He hadn't had one crack and bleed in a week, and his movements didn't hurt as they once had. But more than that, he could see the colour starting to fade. The angry red was paling after all these years.

  And he had magic now. Strange, odd magic. The magic not just of what he'd been able to do before, but now the shadow. He could draw it to him, use it to hide him, and move with it, somehow even slow time all around him as he did so. Manx didn't understand that exactly. Nor whether he was truly slowing time around him or speeding up his own time. But it constantly amazed him. Finally he had true magic. When he'd never thought such a thing was possible.

  There was only one thing about it he didn't understand. If the Smythe's had had their magic constrained by some sort of blood curse that run right through the family as he'd been told, how had the assassin had his? Unless of course the Silver Order had long ago released a few of them from the curse to carry out their bidding. But why would they want the services of assassins? They were a military order. They could kill people for themselves. In fact from everything he'd been told, they were quite good at it.

  It must be good to be a cat he thought, as he stared at Whitey finishing off the last of her cream. She didn't have any questions. She just dealt with things as they happened, and forgot everything else. And despite her hard words, he sometimes imagined she did care about things. She spoke sometimes about her girl, Ella. Never in the most flattering terms of course. Whitey could never do that. Never consider people as anything more than monkeys put in the world to serve her. But still there were moments when she seemed almost fond of the missing girl. Maybe when this was all over he'd seek out the girl and return her cat to her.

  “What are you staring at monkey face?!” Whitey looked up at him and started licking her lips.

  Manx sighed and turned his gaze back to the street and the people walking up and down it. If only people knew what cats were truly like! Then they'd get dogs and the world would be a better place. Unless of course dogs could also talk, and were just as bad.

  “He's staring at me of course!” A new voice entered the conversation unexpectedly.

  Manx turned around to see a full tabby cat with a black tipped tail sunning herself on the porch a few yards away. When had she arrived, he wondered? He hadn't noticed her. Not that he'd been looking.

  “And why would anyone stare at you dog breath?” Whitey turned on the newcomer. “Except to laugh at you of course!”

  “Because they're tired of staring at your ugly face!”

  “Look who's talking!” Whitey retorted wi
th a hiss. “And you smell!”

  Manx smiled to himself. It was good to know that the damned cat was as mean to other cats as she was to him. But Whitey wouldn't like him saying that. So he turned his attention back to the street where another creature of the world had decided to appear. This time it was a boar who was trotting down the street as if he owned it. Why was it that in every city he went to, there were wild boars? Except of course that they weren't that wild any more. They seemed to have decided that people weren't much of a threat and now just ignored them.

  He shook his head sadly. This world was never going to return to how it had been. He wondered if they too had a hippo problem here.

  “You wretched creature!”

  Manx turned around to see that Larissa had joined them. And she looked distinctly angry – though not he guessed, with him.

  “Me?” Whitey looked up at the shaman innocently. But she was anything except innocent.

  “You pissed in my boots!” Larissa accused the cat, loudly.

  “Never!” The cat denied it. But anyone could see she was lying. “Why would I do such a thing? Even after I was so sorely provoked?”

  “Provoked?!” The shaman's voice rose more than a little. “I'll show you provoked!”

  “You told the girl to put less food on my plate! And milk instead of cream! You said I was getting plump!”

  “Fat! Not plump! I said fat! And you are getting fat! You're starting to look like a pig's belly!”

  “How dare you!”

  After that war was declared and the two of them simply stood there and yelled at one another, while he sat on the edge of the porch and did his best not to laugh. The two of them would never be friends. But he had to admit he had been curious as to why the shaman was barefoot.

  The war didn't end until both of them ran out of steam, and by then Manx was half deaf. He was glad it was over. But he soon discovered that it wasn't over. Whitey still had another foe to put in her place, and she quickly started into the other cat. Obviously this was not one of the cat's better days. Maybe hunger was affecting her.

  “May I?” The shaman asked while the cats hissed and screamed at one another behind them.

  He nodded, and she quickly found herself a spot on the porch to sit down beside him. Meanwhile the two cats continued their slanging match completely untroubled by who else was around to hear them.

  “So more cat troubles?” Larissa asked. “You're not thinking of getting another one?!”

  “Gods no! Ones enough! All cats are trouble,” he replied.

  “I heard that!” Whitey yelled at him.

  “You were meant to!” he called back. “And before you even think about touching my boots, just remember who feeds you!”

  That seemed to shut the cat up. Or at least she forgot about him and turned her attention back to the tabby.

  Then while they continued their argument, Manx turned his attention to his unexpected company. He had to wonder what the shaman wanted. She hadn't bothered him a lot lately. In fact he had had very little to do with the others on the journey with him. He just kept to himself. Mostly it was Adern he spoke to, and even that was limited. It was just so hard to look at a man with three eyes. You never knew where to look. But despite that the young man could be good company. And Adern didn't seem to care about his family of thieves.

  “I wanted to check on you,” Larissa told him, ignoring the bickering cats. “You've been quiet lately.”

  “I'm fine. The uguent's helping. I can keep going with the journey. See it through.” He had to. He knew that now. If there was one thing that being attacked by an assassin had taught him it was that.

  “You feeling stronger?” Manx returned her question. It must be awful to have had your very life drained. Maybe even worse than what he'd endured. Though probably not as painful he expected. Still to one day just wake up and find yourself old, even when you didn't look any different – it had to be horrifying.

  “A little. The disenchantments are helping. And the sorcerers say they may have some other things that will help. The sages are working on it.”

  “I'm sorry. I would help if I could.” That was actually true. At the start he would have preferred to run as far away from these people as he could. Especially the shaman. But now that he was used to them, he was starting to see them as people instead of freaks.

  “Actually I believe you would. You are an odd man for a Smythe.” She looked quizzically at him. “Were you adopted?!”

  “I wouldn't know. I'm a librarian!” He smiled at her, suddenly knowing a trace of warmth for the cranky school matron as he thought of her. “But I did have one thought, that might be of some use.” And it was an odd thought. One that he'd been musing on for days even though he'd kept it to himself. He didn't want to be called a madman after all. He was already a thief by birth after all. But maybe it was time to share it. Because he was sure he was right. And it might help.

  “Hmm?” She stared at him with a question in her eye.

  “It was after I fought the assassin. When I discovered this strange new magic I had. And ever since I've been playing with it. Enjoying it. Wanting to know more about it.”

  “And?” She looked puzzled.

  “And it suddenly occurred to me. What if four hundred years ago it was the same for the Silver Order?” And that could have been the genesis of the entire disaster. He suspected it was magic that had ruined the lives of the Smythes. Had they always been thieves? He suspected not. The magic had made them what they had become. Not because it had forced them to steal. But because being able to hide in plain sight, open locks and vanish, made stealing so easy. Not everyone stole. But a lot of people kept themselves from stealing simply because they feared being caught. So what happened when they didn't need to fear that?

  “What?”

  “Think about it. These ice blue eyed half sorcerers had only a trace of magic. Minor enchantments at most. So little that they were scarcely even regarded as spell-casters. They didn't even have a name like the rest of you. They weren't shamans or druids or walkers. They were nobody. Which also meant that they couldn't have created all these dimensional prisons and sent you to them. All of you agree on that. But then somehow they did, and they did it overnight. So fast that none of you even knew what was happening.” That much he knew. He might not get involved in a lot of the conversations the others had, but he listened.

  “You think they discovered a new gift within themselves?” The shaman looked confused.

  “Yes.” Manx nodded. “In a manner of speaking. I think they always had that gift, but they weren't aware of it. Or they were, but they kept it hidden. And I don't think it's the gift you imagine … exactly.”

  Larissa stared at him wide eyed. “Then what was it?”

  “Another thing occurred to me,” Manx answered her in a round about way. “It struck me when I first saw Lady Marshendale. That she was beautiful. Ice cold, but beautiful. And young. And when the others were talking about Sorsha Hooper and her battle with another of them when she first escaped, they said it was the same. The man was beautiful, and young. He even made a pretty corpse.”

  “That keeps being said. The others you've battled. All the Silver Order. All the same. Young and beautiful.”

  “Your point?” The shaman started to look a little frustrated as she wasn't hearing the answer she wanted.

  Manx took a deep breath. “That none of them are old and infirm.”

  “You and the others have kept saying that they've stolen your magic. And that magic is life. They've taken your life and enchanted it into weapons and everything else. And maybe they have. That seemed strange to me but I don't understand a lot about magic. But then it occurred to me that, yes, magic may be life. But do you know what else is life?” he asked.

  The shaman shook her head thoughtfully.

  “Life is life, of course.” He almost blurted it out, because it was the key to everything. And it was so obvious – at least to him.

  “Wh
at if four hundred years ago these ice blue eyed people suddenly discovered that they did have a new gift. Possibly because they were coming together in numbers. But it wasn't the ability to throw spell-casters in other dimensions and steal their life from them to enchant things. What if instead it was something far more simple. That they simply found that they could eat life. That they aren't distant descendants of sorcerers after all. That in truth they're something else entirely. Vampyres.”

  Manx hated that word, because it was if nothing else a complete myth. There were no vampyres. No ghouls prowling the night sucking the blood of the innocent. But it was still the right word for what he suspected the Silver Order were.

  “What? There's no such thing!” Larissa objected.

  “Funny thing that. Because I used to think that there was no such thing as people with pointed ears or three eyes.” Manx pointed out the obvious.

  “But I don't mean blood sucking ghouls like the legends,” he continued. “I think these vampyres literally steal life itself. And they use it to stay young and beautiful. Some of it they shape into enchantments. But most is purely for them.”