by Aleks Canard
He gave the elemental army the finger with his free hand.
The author disappeared into the portal. It shut. The elemental army froze. Returned to their original positions after a few seconds, though evidence of the confrontation remained. Shattered crystals littered the floor. Scorch marks decorated the walls. Water pooled in crevices.
The intruders were gone. They knew not where.
Reflections
1
Another hallway stretched into the unknown realm.
This one was smaller. Its ceiling not as high. Eldritch chandeliers were suspended in the air. Doors with complex, raised metal patterns continued as far as Trix could see. None of them were marked. The machina saw a crossroad at the edge of her vision. This place was a maze.
Valentine deactivated his visor. He vomited a mixture of blood, bile, and miscellaneous chunks. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Stood up. He looked back on where the portal had been. Revulsion shook his bones. Never had he felt filthier than this moment. And Valentine had been in some questionable situations, physically, morally, and hygienically.
Altayr struggled to his feet. He was still Van Eldric the Red for now. Much more dark magic and he wouldn’t be. He extended his hand. Though his staff didn’t soar into his waiting palm. He scrutinised the chandeliers, his blurred vision focusing slower than an old film camera.
‘Haxabyr,’ he said, his voice carrying the roughness of seven consecutive nights on the town with none of the merriment.
Haxabyr was a rare metal in that it actively inhibited magical abilities. All magic dampening cuffs contained slight amounts in their lining, though for the most part, they were charmed by mages to block magic power. Unlike silver which only affected monsters, or mithril and iridium, which held enchantments better than any other metal, haxabyr made magic stop working.
And the chandeliers were pure haxabyr. So was the raised metalwork on the vault doors, the rest of which were adamant.
‘I thought you said that the vault was protected by enchantments,’ Trix said. ‘This is the exact opposite.’
‘Perhaps magic only exists inside each individual vault,’ said Altayr. With all the haxabyr around, his staff was no more than a fanciful walking stick. At least it was still good for that. The sorcerer was barely up to standing. ‘Though this explains why opening a portal was so difficult.’
‘I’m of the staunch opinion that we should stop debating the intricacies of this infernal place and find what we came to steal,’ Valentine said.
‘Sif, can you scan these halls at all?’ Trix said.
‘My range is limited without the Fox. From what I’m able to ascertain, the halls just keep going.’
‘Perfect.’
‘I don’t know where the mirror might be,’ Altayr said. ‘Nadira Vega’s led us to our deaths.’
Valentine: ‘And do you know what to do, sorcerer, when someone leads you to your death? You keep walking. For someone who has such a vast understanding of the galaxy, you’re alacritous to presume the worst. Have a little courage.’
‘Only a little?’
‘Mmm, too much will get you killed. It tends to make people incredibly stupid.’
Trix didn’t listen to the sorcerer, or the author. She could smell something. A scent of lavender, fresh. And something else too. Mulberries. Two aromas she wouldn’t have expected to find in a secret vault, hidden, by her best estimates, deep underground in a natural stone deposit.
Trix: ‘Quiet. We’re not alone in here.’
‘You think that Faedra still walks these halls?’ Valentine said.
‘And whoever else she’s with. Both of you follow me.’
Altayr stood behind Trix, to her right. Valentine was on the left. Strife Squad made their way down the halls. Past vault doors of all different shapes, each with unique patterns. Runes decorated their edges. Altayr inspected them as they passed. None of the runes gave clues as to what the vaults contained.
Altayr discerned what the runes were saying after passing several crossroads. Each set listed the name of a mage, and the date, pertaining to the zirean calendar. Although Altayr had an Earthen name, the one given to him by his parents, all mages — and those who became closely associated with any of their lodges, guilds, or chapters — were given an ancient zirean name.
Altayr’s ancient zirean name was Vyrnoch naey Flaeyn, Red Monk, Child of the Elders. This was because his zirean tutors believed his family bloodline to be one of the few that ever-possessed magic on Earth.
Trix had an ancient zirean name as well. Hers was Gwyrlaeth naeyn Faenyd, White Death, Child of the Precursors.
The sorcerer pored over each rune carving as Trix led the trio deeper into the maze. He recognised a couple names from the history books. Many of them had long since passed. Whatever was behind the doors had to have been found on Xardiassant and moved to Drion when it was discovered by the zireans.
But that was part of what was aggravating Altayr. The mirror had been found on Drion. An Uldarian artefact, crafted by magic, yet Drion possessed no humanoid life. There were no Arnums of which to speak, either. They were only native to Zilvia. However, there were dragons, lesser ones, mind you, but dragons nonetheless. They lived in seaside caves and mountain lairs. Never straying near large cities. It was possible the mirror was dragon made. That would explain how they populated nearly every liveable planet.
Altayr ceased his senseless rambling. It didn’t matter who made the mirror. What mattered was that they found it. He searched his mind for the name of the mage who’d discovered it, who had secreted it away. He had been alive when it had been found. Approaching his hundredth year. Not yet a sorcerer. Right on the cusp. When you wanted to be a jack-of-all-trades, advancing from “wizard” was a slower journey.
Erresa Srethla, a zirean enchantress. That was it. Altayr was certain. She’d been one of the Conclave’s founding members, only to leave shortly after its formation. She had envisioned the Conclave as a way to preserve magic’s future. Instead, it became a political cabal, interested only in the power of governments and kings. Research had taken a backseat during the Conclave’s early days. Now, more time was allotted for scholarly pursuits, and was considered a necessity for entry.
What was her ancient name? Altayr wondered. He had lost track of how long they’d been walking. Trix whispered something to Valentine about the scent growing stronger. He ignored it. Just because Faedra de Morland was ahead of them didn’t mean she knew what to look for. That was a joke. Of course she did. Faedra was one of the most accomplished sorceresses to grace the Milky Way. And her father literally wrote the grimoire — several actually, spanning dozens of volumes — on necromancy, ancient zirean wording that specifically related to the dead, and more. It was from his work Altayr learned the art of necromancy, without the Conclave’s knowledge.
Faedra’s mother, Ifriegha Sromme, an altaeif enchantress had been no pushover either. She attained The Black rank faster than any other mage in recorded history, in a little less than 200 years. She was said to have a demon manservant, called forth from the nether who obeyed her every command.
If you believed such things.
Both Ifriegha and Magnus were infertile, though, through eldritch rituals, it was said that Magnus impregnated Ifriegha, his one true love. The ritual bore them a daughter, yes, but the dark lovers paid the price.
Xirablodyn naeyn Caewyr, Altayr thought. That was Erresa Srethla’s ancient name. The Sun’s Flower, Child of the Sky. Her beauty was almost as famed as her enchantment skills. With his new target in mind, Altayr scanned the passing vault doors with greater clarity.
He still had no idea how he was going to open the vault door once he found it. Hopefully Trix would think of something. She had a talent for wanton destruction whether she liked it or not.
Trix held her fist up. All stop. She turned to her companions.
Valentine reengaged his helmet. Countless military combat situations had conditioned him to having his HUD on at all times. Its soft glo
w calmed his nerves. And unlike machinas, having a helmet on was generally advised for more “breakable” lifeforms.
Trix: ‘Voices ahead. And that smell’s stronger down the next hallway.
Valentine looked back at where they’d come from. He’d be damned if he remembered how to reach the front door. Then again, if he’d learned anything about machinas, Trix specifically, after spending so much time with her, it was that you never left the same way you came in.
‘What’s the plan?’
‘Figuring out a way to flank them would take too long. It’s a wonder they’re still here. We’ll have to go front on.’
‘That’s not wise,’ Altayr said.
‘War isn’t wise, sorcerer, yet we march to it all the same,’ said Valentine. He made a move to draw his guns.
‘Leave them holstered.’
‘Trix, you might be planning to slash your way out of this situation, but I’d rather shoot my way out of it.’
‘There’s a chance they won’t attack. Besides, how are they going to hurt us? They can’t cast magic in here.’ Trix’s smile was deathly. Cunning like a battle-hardened fox.
‘Even I carry a gun,’ Altayr reminded her.
‘That thing is a peashooter compared to what we’re packing. I dare say its “wallop” would be akin to a slap on the wrist,’ said Valentine.
‘What is it you say, Altayr? All sorcerers are foremost gentlemen. By extension, all sorceresses must be ladies.’
Trix thought about her numerous confrontations with Vaende Ithli. He’d been an insufferable snob with dreams of grandeur stoked by an archaic family feud, and even he had some sense of decency, warped though it may have been.
Altayr couldn’t argue with that. Dark mages weren’t evil. They were only skewed that way because the Conclave believed them to be. Dabbling in necromancy was deemed an ill-fitting pursuit, and not at all helpful for magic’s advancement.
To which dark mages would always reply with one of their oldest sayings: truth only exists in death.
For the most part, dark mages didn’t stir up trouble, didn’t massacre anyone. They simply existed to pursue arcane arts that the Conclave had outlawed. The problem with the Bastion’s Mage’s Conclave was that there was a far greater number of mages that existed outside of it. Only nine members made up the Conclave’s ranks. And there were thousands of mages.
The Guild, of which Jorge spoke about earlier, only contained six members. Six and Nine were important numbers in zirean culture. Vitliaeth was the earliest recorded being to be heralded as God on Xardiassant. A golden dragon that was luck personified (or dragonified, rather). In ancient tales, he was said to have chosen nine zireans and bequeathed magic unto them by bathing them in fire. This was also known as the first blessing.
Nine was therefore believed to be a lucky number.
However, other stories spoke of others being blessed by Vitliaeth’s demonic brother, Difrauleth. Historians argued this way and that about which version was correct, if any of them were. Some had gotten so far as estimating which royal bloodlines were present at the first blessing.
The Ithlis and the Vialles, were thought to be among the nine
Altayr’s reasoning told him that it would be foolish to assume Faedra would outright murder them. Despite what had befallen Northfall, she’d never been murderous in the past.
‘Let us hope the element of luck is on our side,’ said Altayr, nodding. He was ready to go through with Trix’s plan.
‘After that last confrontation, I’d thank you to not use that word in the near future,’ Valentine said.
Trix rounded the corner. Walked up the hallway. Valentine was beside her. So was Altayr. A machina would’ve heard them approaching. Trix’s breathing was subtle, but Valentine’s was more ragged. Still nothing like Yvach Aodun. He breathed so loud Trix could’ve shot him with her eyes closed.
The end of the hallway was a cul-de-sac which terminated at a vault door. It was the first hallway Trix had seen the end of since entering the maze. Altayr read the runes around the door. They bore Erresa’s name. This was the vault. Unless, Erresa had contributed more than one item to this cathedral of illegal artefacts.
Two mages stood in front of a door. Four thugs were with them. They were carrying heavy explosives. The discussion centred around whether it would be suitable to detonate them.
The mages would be able to see Strife Squad approaching. Trix was wary that they hadn’t stopped their conversation. She walked until they were only ten metres away from the group, who were six metres away from the door.
Now they took notice. More accurately, the sorceress did.
She wore a lavish gown with a high collar. Everything was black with purple accents that were reminiscent of zirean plum wine. Her hair was loose, flowing around her like a perfect tempest. Pointed ears were gilded with onyx. A mithril amulet hung around her neck, stopping just above her cleavage which was framed by an obsidian bustier, no doubt strengthened by magic.
‘Vyrnoch, what brings you here? Conclave business, I assume?’ the sorceress said. Like Altayr, her diction was perfect.
‘I was alerted to a breach and sent to investigate.’
‘Strange help the Conclave chooses these days. A mercenary and a machina. Could it be? Gwyrlaeth? Well, this is a surprise. Due to your public exploits, I feel as though I know you as intimately as myself.’
‘You must be Faedra,’ Trix said. ‘Forgive me, I don’t know your ancient name.’ The mood was in flux. Not tense. Not calm. It was somewhere between. Conversation would decide which path it took. It always did.
‘Not many do, and I like to keep it that way. Though I would love to hear more about yours, for it was not mages who christened you, was it, Gwyrlaeth?’
‘I’m not interested in talking about names.’
‘By all accounts, talking seems to bore you to death, though never your own,’ Faedra said. She looked mostly altaeif. Her ears were exactly as you’d expect a pureblood’s to be. But her face was slightly different. She had doe eyes. They were deceitful. ‘And why should we not talk of names? You have so many, titles too. I think you’ll find that one will save your life quite soon.’
There was something different about this section of the hallway. Trix found it difficult to concentrate. Faedra was alluring. Her scent of lavender and mulberry more intoxicating than a fifth of vodka.
‘Shall we dispense with the maunder, Faedra? We know you’re here to relieve the mirror from the Conclave’s possession,’ Altayr said.
‘You wouldn’t believe I was on a stroll and lost my way?’
‘No.’
‘Then I shan’t believe you are here on Conclave business. I sensed you tearing open the dark magic left at the vault’s entrance. A crude act that would not have been required if you knew how to gain access to this place. As Gwyrlaeth is leading your group, it would be safe for me to assume that you are accompanying her, and not the other way around. Since you are a huntress, Gwyrlaeth, you can’t be on a contract. Your appearance here is most curious. After all, this is supposed to be the galaxy’s most secretive place.’
‘Yet here we stand,’ Valentine said, retracting his helmet. ‘I know you must want this mirror rapaciously, judging from the bloodlust in Northfall, but your insouciant manner suggests otherwise. If you’ve lost interest since making your way through this maze, then all the better for us.’
‘Your face looks familiar, soldier,’ Faedra said. Her irises were so dark they were nearly indistinguishable from her pupils. Thin rings of tyrian purple outlined them. A similar shade coloured her lips which were plump, almost stuck in a pout that suggested erotic fantasies.
‘As does yours, sorceress. Didn’t I see you on a Thyrian street corner, late one night?’
‘Enough witticisms and childish banter,’ Altayr said. The sorcerer with Faedra was facing the door. Altayr suspected he was mentally uttering an incantation. Something about him seemed familiar.
Altayr looked Faedra’s b
ody up and down, searching for weapons. He was disgusted to admit that she truly was a beauty. From what Altayr could see, she was hiding no guns. Knives were still a possibility. The thugs — who wore similar, non-descript armour to those in Northfall — had their weapons drawn, though they were aimed at the floor.
‘Faedra, you are here against the Conclave’s will, which means you are subject to Bastion law. If you don’t surrender yourself, then we shall have to use force.’
‘I do hope I’m not as serious as you when I’m your age, Vyrnoch. And you are conveniently forgetting that you are not allowed in this vault either, which means you are also in violation of the aforementioned laws you cited. This vault holds so many treasures that could help advance the galaxy, yet nine members of an elitist group control them all. That seems like a misappropriation of power to me.’
‘Is this because I filled the last Conclave position, not you?’
‘Hardly. I only sought to join your rabble so I could change how you operated. I realised soon thereafter that change is best enacted from outside an object. Pressure may turn coal into diamonds, bullets may turn a person into a corpse, but you follow my gist. Take this mirror, for example. It may hold the secrets to unlocking teleportation of solid matter between planets, even galaxies. And you would have it gather dust within a gothic, underground lair that’s decorum is so dismal a prison would be comparatively joyous.’
‘Your mordancy is wearisome, Faedra. Step aside and I will personally see that the Conclave resumes the research that Erresa started upon her discovery.’
‘You lie, Vyrnoch. Your tainted soul is incapable of truth.’
Trix: ‘We’ve come to retrieve the mirror. Our goal was always to return it to the Conclave’s headquarters. Your intrusion was a coincidence.’
Faedra’s eyes turned to slits. They bore into Trix. The machina held her gaze without quivering in the slightest. Faedra didn’t scare her. Pretty sorceresses seldom did.
Little one, why do roses have thorns? Susan Marigold said to Trix one day. The machina couldn’t remember the exact time. She must’ve only been ten or so. So their beauty remains untouched.