by Aleks Canard
It was those words that forced Trix to be cautious of all foes, regardless of how dainty they appeared.
‘You have come to retrieve the mirror, though not for the Conclave. You serve another. You always do. I’m familiar with your stories, Gwyrlaeth. They are the essence of legends, matter of myths, and sustenance of stories. Your name is not always attributed to them, but as I said before, you have so many. And how many allude to death?’
Trix’s mouth twitched into a snarl. Alright, this bitch wanted to go? Mistake. Nadira Vega’s words crashed around in her head, knocking common sense loose, sending it to the depths. The Demon of Duskmere. Anger had cost her dearly that day. And not a day went by when regret didn’t make itself known in the recollection of a distant memory, or far off scream.
‘You gave the order to kill those people in Northfall. I’d rend you from cunt to mouth for half the deaths you caused.’
Valentine swallowed so hard his spit nearly broke through his arse. When most people thought they’d seen Trix of Zilvia pissed off, they were mistaken. Probably witnessing nothing more than a minor annoyance, like whenever she was shot or stabbed. True enough, Trix swore like any other soldier. Meteor Brigade’s members were bluer than sailors with frostbite in the heat of battle. Right until the end.
But when Trix swore like she did just now. When her words spat with enough venom to poison an army, then you knew she was going to tear something apart with unrivalled ferocity. Valentine couldn’t see her irises. He was willing to bet they were flaring gold, like a sun going supernova.
‘Ah, Gwyrlaeth, truly deserving of your name. And how often do you preach in the stories that you detest involvement, that you proclaim your neutrality to galactic events as though you lived elsewhere? You care too much. Worry about varying degrees of evil. Who is monstrous and who is not. I warrant that your anger comes from seeing your reflection in my eyes, and in your anger, you have confused those reflections for the stars in the sky, machina.’
‘Your magic doesn’t work here. Neither does mine. But my gun has 18 bullets, and all of them are for you.’
Altayr gripped his staff hard enough to turn his olive skin white. He’d been so concentrated on finding Erresa’s vault that he’d failed to realise how much better he was feeling. Faedra was younger than him, but her blood was super-saturated with magic. That wasn’t an exaggeration, but a veritable truth. While the term originated in science, it was used in magic as well.
Faedra was half his age, though her wholly eldritch blood granted her stupid amounts of power. Still, she had given herself over to dark magic. Altayr was able to use more spells. Light would serve him well in a battle against Faedra de Morland, the Black.
Valentine was anxious. His heart thumped in his chest causing his ribs to beg for mercy. Normally Trix would’ve made a move by now. What was stopping her? There was something about Faedra that was entrancing. More than once Valentine had to check his fantasies about the sorceress. Her looks were bewitching. And he typically didn’t go for altaeifs. They were too slender.
‘I think you’ll find, Gwyrlaeth,’ Faedra’s face began oozing sexiness. Her perfume was thick enough to choke on. ‘That my magic works fine.’
A staff materialised in Faedra’s hand. It was solid obsidian. A polished onyx orb hovered in its tip’s centre which was adorned with a spearhead.
Everything happened in slow motion. Trix realised why she’d been feeling off. There were no haxabyr chandeliers in this hallway. Faedra must have found a way to dispose of them, probably using explosives.
Altayr’s voice boomed in the stone corridor. A light magic barrier came between Strife Squad and Faedra’s thugs. Valentine saw that the vault door was open. A smooth oval of Uldarian metal lay beyond. It sat atop an Uldarian pedestal.
The two mages traded spells. Faedra stopped casting. So did Altayr. They charged at each other. Their staffs clashed. The thugs fired. Trix was quicker. Almost laughably so. She used magic to slam the thug in front of her into the ground. Her pistol split in two. Her titanium studded combat boot met the fallen thug’s head. His neck snapped. The thug next to him levelled a shotgun. Trix went low. Under the barrel. Pushed up. Increased her density. Broke the thug’s pelvis with her knee. Disarmed him. Pumped the shotgun into his chest.
Valentine used his thrusters to launch at the thug before him at the same time. A bullet hit the poet’s arm plating. Valentine shoved his pistol into the man’s abdomen. Fired. The slug ripped right through him. Broke against the other’s shields. The author let his trajectory carry him to the floor then swept with his legs.
His assailant fell. Trix skewered him through the ribs before Valentine had a chance to kill him. Instead of just pulling her sword out, Trix brought it upwards, tearing open the thug’s guts. Entrails spilled onto the floor, dirtying the author’s already filthy combat boots. He sprung to his feet.
Trix looked at Altayr. Faedra was pushing him backwards. Her sorcerer friend was inspecting the mirror. He must’ve dispelled whatever magic existed inside. But how were they going to remove it? Trix didn’t think teleportation was possible within the vault. Although, she supposed anything could happen now that the enchantments were nullified.
Altayr traded blows with Faedra. She moved like she was floating on a storm cloud and struck with lightning force. The Black versus The Red. Raw Talent versus Learned Experience. Despite Faedra’s immense power, her skill with a staff was lacking. Altayr had partaken in some warlock training in his younger days. The entry levels didn’t involve any magic. Just handling a staff. He’d gotten bored and stopped there. Now he was glad for the edge it provided him.
The sorcerer unleashed holy spells against Faedra. She swatted them away, albeit, with increasing difficulty. Altayr reached out for magic. Found it within the vaults. He recognised some of the Conclave’s enchanting signatures. They provided him with a slight power boost.
Trix decided Altayr didn’t need her help. She looked at Valentine. He spun his guns. They ran into the vault. Faedra wasn’t going to escape this place with the mirror if they could help it.
The author and the machina fired on the unknown sorcerer. He was human, though something about him seemed otherworldly. Trix watched with dismay as her bullets were stopped by a barrier. Yet the sorcerer didn’t attack. He kept pondering the mirror. Alright, so bullets didn’t work. How about a sword?’
Trix swapped weapons. Jumped. Her sword hit the barrier. She was knocked back into the wall then fell to the floor in a heap. Yeah, that one hurt.
Come on, she thought, walk it off. Trix rose to her feet. Valentine kept a steady barrage of plasma hitting the barrier, although it didn’t appear to be weakening. Trix retracted her helmet so she could spit blood.
‘Valentine,’ she said, putting her hand on his shoulder. It was eerily quiet inside the vault. Even with the door open, Altayr and Faedra’s battle seemed far away.
‘What?’
Trix noticed something happening on the stones behind the mirror. Runes were being carved into them. She looked at the sorcerer closer. He wasn’t moving. She approached slowly, partly because that last shockwave had really done a number on her.
As she drew closer, she noticed that her ring finger was heating up. The sorcerer was an illusion. But that meant…
She fired at the space above the self-drawing runes. Reality flickered. The frozen sorcerer disappeared. His true form phased in and out of being. Trix saw that he was writing the runes. She was no expert, but her memory verged on infallible. They were the same runes that were in the pub’s secret room.
Valentine redirected his fire. The sorcerer waved his hand. A portal the size of a saucer appeared in front of his face. Bullets and plasma entered. Trix saw a second portal open right above Valentine’s head. She used her magic to pull him forwards. One of his slugs nearly ripped his arm off.
Then the sorcerer turned to Trix. No, it couldn’t be. This wasn’t possible. Balthioul, the Lord of the Wood, was right behind the sor
cerer. And he was hungry for Trix’s flesh.
That was when Altayr and Faedra careened into the vault. Van Eldric’s poncho had a tear running its length. Faedra’s immaculate dress had been singed. Blood ran from Altayr’s arm. His eyes blazed with magic. He caught a glimpse of the sorcerer behind the Uldarian mirror. The man’s name escaped him, for no one was sure of his real identity. He was a figure mentioned in countless tales, always by a different name, but always with the same face.
Altayr could only remember the man’s titles. The Maestro of Mirrors. Ruler of Reflections. Imperator of Illusions. Tsar of Terrors. What was he doing in league with Faedra de Morland? More likely than not, Faedra was a pawn in a game she did not understand. Rumours pertaining to Faedra’s birth roared inside Altayr’s head. Legends and reality clashed.
Faedra landed a hit on Altayr. His mithril-mail protected him from puncture wounds. Though he could already feel the swelling. Faedra cast a spell Altayr knew as Asteria’s Shower. A tear opened in the air above him. Small stars like hot coals spewed forth. Altayr countered with Theia’s Radiance. The two spells collided. The mages were knocked back. Altayr was drained. But by the looks of it, so was Faedra. They charged again.
Across the vault, Balthioul attacked Trix. She evaded.
‘Trix, what’re you doing?’ Valentine said. The soldier was out of his league. He’d taken countless anghenfil strongholds. Dropped from orbit more times than he could remember. But all this magic. He was at a loss. Valentine was used to spec-ops and pub brawls. These eldritch happenings were beyond him, despite hours of research for novels. Seeing it in person was like stepping into hell.
However, that didn’t stop him from noticing that Trix of Zilvia appeared to be fighting thin air. He ran to her. For all he knew, she might’ve been possessed.
‘No,’ Valentine said. He nearly collapsed to his knees and cried. The bodies of all his friends, of Meteor Brigade, were lying before him. Being eaten alive by anghenfilic acid. That couldn’t be right. They were dead. They’d died on Noccril. This wasn’t real. The images began fading with that thought. His mind itched. He wanted to yank it from his skull and scratch it until blood stuck under his fingernails.
Maybe it was his latent nihilism that made him sceptical of the gory mess that had unfolded before him. Maybe it was his distaste for mages and their often haughty vernacular that served only to make people feel small. But Valentine wasn’t buying into the horrors laid out before him. Fuck them and the mage they rode in on.
Valentine stepped over his dying friends as they screamed for him to help. He imagined Serena’s face, and with it, love. Reached Trix. She nearly took his head off with her sword. Valentine would’ve been dead if she hadn’t faltered.
It wasn’t the first time Trix had almost killed someone she cared about. And the shock of nearly repeating that mistake wrenched her from her nightmare.
‘What happened to me?’
‘I don’t know, but I bet that son of a bitch can tell us,’ Valentine said, pointing to the otherworldly sorcerer who was still drawing runes.
Runic carving was a fine art, for the intricacies of ancient zirean language were many. Aside from one rune having as many as five variations, each line had to be drawn in the correct order, especially when being used for magic.
Trix felt dazed. The world was skipping frames. She saw Altayr struggling against Faedra as the otherworldly sorcerer continued carving runes.
That was when the portal opened. Faedra breathed a cloud of black gas over Altayr, blinding him. She made for the portal. Faedra grabbed the mirror. Stepped through. Her accomplice followed. Trix ran after them with Valentine. The portal was closing. Altayr’s eyes burned. He tried a number of spells. One of them made the darkness abate. He launched himself for the portal just as it was about to close.
Altayr entered. The vault was emptied.
To enter an unknown portal is to place your head in Difrauleth’s jaws.
Maerlyn Orddeith, The High Cardinal, Urddyn Drithio, Grimoire of Novice Teleportation vol. 2
2
The portal was like going through hyperspace.
Darkness surrounded Strife Squad on all sides, yet it possessed no unpleasantness. It bore a similar sensation to flying with the serenity of being underwater. Altayr recognised it as a near perfect portal. You wouldn’t be able to teleport across planets like this, but you could certainly skip across continents.
Then there was light.
Trix and Valentine fell out first. Sun jarred their eyeballs. Fresh air smacked them about like a scorned lover. Altayr exited next. They were in the sky. From what Trix could see of the geography, she estimated that they were about 8,000 feet above the Serpent’s Eye. A ship was fleeing their position. It had almost disappeared against the horizon. Was climbing towards space. Trix reckoned it was Faedra and her mysterious companion.
‘Sif, bring the Fox to our position.’
‘Already on it, but we’re not going to make it in time.’
Strife Squad fell rapidly towards the river. Blood droplets streamed from Altayr’s body. He was working on staying conscious. Trix used her glide-suit to reach Valentine. They joined hands and splayed themselves wide.
Altayr saw what they were doing. Bound his staff to his back. He didn’t have the energy to vanish it. Growing fainter by the second, the sorcerer re-joined Trix and Valentine. They held hands in a circle. Trix could no longer see the other ship. It was pointless. She knew it was. Unfortunately for her, the Fox wasn’t going to reach them before they hit the river. It had been circling around the other side of the planet when they emerged from the portal. The Fox wouldn’t make it in time. Even at ultrasonic speeds.
Altayr uttered a spell just before they hit the water. Strife Squad’s movement was arrested inches above the Serpent’s Pupil. They hovered for a moment before falling into the water. It was refreshing, though it didn’t wash away the failure.
The mirror was lost. And they had no way of tracking Faedra. They swam to the riverbanks. Valentine retracted his helmet. Lay on his back. Altayr stripped off, leaving only his trousers on. He wanted to see the full extent of the damage Faedra had done.
Trix walked to the nearest tree. Punched it relentlessly. One final jab split the trunk in two with a surge of density magic. Seething, she sat. Waited for the Fox to arrive.
Nine minutes later, the Fox’s auto-pilot brought it low over the banks. Strife Squad walked aboard. Altayr had begun mending himself. He’d also dried his clothes. Valentine’s too. The author detached his bionic legs to check for damage when he was inside. Nothing appeared to be seriously wrong, so he snapped them back on.
Sif was almost frightened to ask Trix for a heading, so she flew back to low orbit. The Valkyrie didn’t change out of her armour, didn’t clean her weapons, she just sat in the living quarters’ armchair with a grim look on her face.
Valentine broke the silence as he picked a bullet out of his armour.
‘You spoke of Faedra and her powers, Altayr. How grand they are. How impossible she is. Clearly those traits didn’t extend to her thuggish company, but the sorcerer accompanying her… he showed me my worst nightmare as though it was real. Like he had teleported me backwards through time to witness it again. I think,’ Valentine looked at the machina, ‘he did the same thing to Trix.’
Altayr waited for Trix to comment. She didn’t. Either she was deep in thought or had lulled herself into a meditative state. He wasn’t sure. He could skim her mind to a point, but he didn’t want to intrude.
‘You’re a man of stories, poet, so you must have heard of the Woeful Wanderer?’
Valentine lit one of his cigarillos. Altay’s magic had dried them too.
‘That old ghost story,’ said Valentine. His throat itched for a drink, but he couldn’t be bothered to get up. ‘The man of many names. Yes, I’ve heard of him. Everyone has. The psygotas call him Kugango Maotu, the walking man. Corrachs hail him as Argachoid, trouble. Though I don’t know why I’m
telling you this. Surely you know his names already.’
‘Those are some of his titles, poet, and not even his most impressive ones. Among mages he has many more.’
‘Are you telling me that the sorcerer in the vault was the Woeful Wanderer himself?’
‘Magic scholars who reside in Xardiassant’s Ddraeyg Mountains have discerned that he takes eerily similar humanoid forms in all his appearances. I was convinced of his identity when I saw his face in the vault.’
‘Why research a ghost story?’
‘The Ddraeyg scholars specialise in areas of magic that are largely viewed as theoretical. Their job is to cross-reference fables, legends, and strange phenomenon to look for overlap, and any underlying truths that may advance magic as a whole. Of the group who were tasked with searching for the woeful wanderer, none survived. They went mad. Said their nightmares had leapt from their minds to prowl the shadows.’
‘Sounds like they created their own fairy tale.’
‘For once, I agree with you. What they did discover unsettles the bones, and agitates the heart. Apparently, the wanderer, in addition to taking human form, also uses human naming conventions. One name that has occurred several times is…’ Altayr looked around the Fox. He felt like someone was listening. Someone who was not kind.
‘What’s grabbed a hold of your tongue, sorcerer?’
‘It is said to be bad luck to say the name aloud, for any utterance will draw him close.’
Trix: ‘Then speak, Altayr. Bring him here so I can kill him.’
‘Gauthier Haunt Nadim,’ Altayr said. He found that he barely had enough moisture to get the words out.
Sif ran an analysis for name meanings. ‘Gauthier: Army Ruler. Haunt: To inhabit, visit or appear in the form of a ghost or other supernatural being. Nadim: friend. An eclectic mix, though for all his powers, I wonder if he knows “Haunt” is not a name?’
Altayr wiped his brow. Found that he was sweating. By the crossroads, what had he gotten himself into? Faedra verged on infernal, but she was no more than an extremely talented magical half-breed. Gauthier, however, he was an unknown. In monster classification terms, he was a Reliquia.