by Steve Vera
The long, hooded cloak draped to his shoulders moved as if there were a wind.
“By Kalavan’s cock, they’re Magi!” Mesothos murmured fiercely. There was movement in his ranks, nervous shifting and low mutters, as if they expected the very air to open up around them to release a Wizard.
“Silence,” Markus ordered and with the crispness of his command, they settled down. “And your friends?” Markus asked the knight.
“Sur Tarsidion Kul Longshadow, Knight of the Shard, First Rune,” the giant plainsman said in a low baritone from his left and repeated the gesture that Sur Stavengre had, glimmering similar markings in his monstrous hand.
“And I am Sir Taksony, Captain of the Guard of his Majesty King Makabru’s Royal Cavalry,” the man in archaic, gleaming green armor from Stavengre’s right said with a thick accent. At his declaration a gentle wind kicked up and stirred the faded, tattered flag at the end of his pennant, fluttering for all to see. “And heir to the Southern March.”
This time Markus did react. His eyebrows shot down and met over the bridge of his nose. There was another clamor of murmurs from behind. He leaned toward Mesothos and asked the obvious with his eyes. His second in command looked up and studied the sun and swords against the field of faded green blowing in the sudden wind then shrugged with a nod. Markus leaned back into his saddle and rubbed the beard at his chin.
“You would have me believe,” Markus began, “that children’s tales have come to life and now stand before me, claiming dominion over the lands of Vambrace?”
“Yes,” Sur Stavengre said and then pointed at the carnage surrounding the Red Beacon. “And that, Decanus, is no children’s tale. That is what will befall the world if we are detained.”
Another whiff of death reaffirmed that something had happened here. Something had wiped out an entire Vambracian outpost, a feat that Decanus Markus Arkeides had never even heard before.
“By what power did they die? Any who touch a Knight or Wizard of Vambrace are condemned to death, as are their families.”
Stavengre turned back to Markus with eyes as deep as wells. A bitter smile of irony twisted his lips. “Let’s hope so. Asmodeous the Pale has returned.”
Another stirring by his men but this time Markus didn’t stop it. It was too unbelievable. What this man was claiming to be was a walking legend, a story he’d read often as a child. Now Markus remembered the Tale of the Seven Apprentices of Valis. How could he have forgotten?
Because that tale has been outlawed for the past hundred years, Markus.
Any person simply uttering it lost their tongue. Any person owning such an account in written form was burned alive. There was no hatred in all the lands than that of a Wizard toward a Magi. The slightest challenge to their power was met with brutal violence and annihilation and there was no power in the world that could challenge them.
Until now. Markus wiped the corners of his mouth and then rubbed his fingers together. An epiphany was unfurling in his mind, a revelation so simple and clear that he almost smiled in spite of the pall of death rolling around him. “If I am to understand you clearly, Sur Stavengre, Knight of the Shard,” Markus said, “you have returned to Theia after more than a hundred and thirty years of death in the company of another dead legend, the Sir Taksony of the Tale of Makabru’s Last March into the Pass of Almitra, bearing tidings that Asmodeous the Pale, Lord of the Underworld has returned to wage another war on the world. Would that be correct, Sur Stavengre?”
“Aye,” Stavengre said with a nod. “That would be an accurate summation.”
Markus could feel a smile tickling the corners of his mouth but he suppressed it. This was hardly the news one smiled to. Still, it solved one problem...
“Then you must be heard by the Caesar himself, the senators and the counsels. You must be brought to Nu’rome immediately.”
Sur Stavengre’s eyes were unreadable, dark and penetrating. “Aye, Decanus,” he said. “We must get to Nu’rome.”
Markus smacked his lips after he licked them. “I shall bring you there.”
Maybe he wouldn’t miss the Games after all.
Chapter 33
Soldiers were soldiers, and barracks were barracks; it didn’t matter which world they came from. Gruff and weathered, Skip could feel their stares and hear their whispers as they gathered in loose knots around the horseshoe bench of the main hall. Did you hear? The Shardyn have returned, they killed that Wizard and those knights...look at the size of that Plainsman...I’d like to get her out of that armor...what strange clothing...Red Beacon...Vambrace will be coming...
Their new Roman-inspired companion Mr. Decanus Markus Arkeides had led them to his home barracks about six miles north. Fifteen feet away from him, through a closed wooden door, Skip could hear Gavin’s voice rise and fall, even if he couldn’t pick out the words. They’d been in there for twenty minutes.
Skip wasn’t worried. He liked these Nu’romian guys. They were kind of a blend of Greek, Roman and Theian (whatever that meant) and were clearly professional warriors. Steely eyes, muscled bodies, immaculate mess hall. He started picking out the differences between their armored uniforms, the Legionnaires and the Alerai, or horsemen as Skip had learned. Infantry and cavalry. He tried to get a sense of what a day and the life was like here, which didn’t seem very exciting to him. He was guessing of course, but something told him that this was as much action as they’d seen in a while.
Although Amanda, Cirena and Noah certainly got the most attention, there was plenty to go around. Skip heard a couple of jokes about the length of Serjeant Arnaut’s hauberk—evidently it was too long and out of fashion—some curious stares at Skip’s never-before-seen jeans and ripped but still very cool varsity-style green napa leather Philadelphia Eagles jacket, Amanda’s new fancy bad-ass crossbow, the armor of the Shardyn, the hilts of their Quaranai, Tarsidion’s enormousness, and of course creepy-ass Donovan in his black military fatigues, red Aviators and slung German sniper system, sitting apart from everyone else, lurking as usual in a corner.
Skip interlaced his fingers in front of his mouth and studied Donovan. Donovan sensed his attention and met his stare. He might be the hardest person Skip had ever met to read, but Skip knew this much...he was up to something. Waiting.
The outpost was small, maybe twenty men to the whole place, but to Skip’s amusement, there was an undeniable familiarity about it—the mess hall, the precision of the barracks, even the smells were similar, like a gym locker, though with the added layers of metallic armor, smoke, leather and horse shit. He loved it.
“Skip, would you come in here, please?” Gavin asked, opening the door to the commander’s room. He could see the others inside with him, Sir Taksony and the escort guy from the plains, Decanus Markus Arkeides (no relation to Cirena) as well as the commander of the whole joint, and a man in white robes that were distinctly toga-like.
“Sure,” he said and stood. All were watching. He walked up two steps onto a floor that changed from rough, unpolished brownstone to a smooth, lacquered white marble that led to a room on the right. Gavin gave him a quick, reassuring nod and held the door open for him, which was then closed by the two stern-looking sentries standing guard on the outside. Legionnaires.
Even though nobody was talking inside, the air was thick with conversation. Standing behind a wooden table with a map and replica of what had to be this outpost and the surrounding areas was a small, muscular man with the dark-circled eyes and the red-splotched nose of a heavy drinker. I already know this guy.
“I am told that you are an enforcer of the law of your realm,” the man said in the universal tone of an officer to one of lower rank—formal and commanding.
“That’s right.” Skip stood at parade rest, legs shoulder-width, thumbs interlocked above his tailbone.
“I should like to see your crest or emblem that g
rants you this authority.”
“I don’t have it anymore. I gave my badge to a friend.”
The commander blinked his eyes very slowly, exaggeratedly. “Why would you do such a thing?”
“It felt like the right thing to do at the time.” A flash of Asmodeous’s jaws closing in on Jack’s face blasted through Skip’s mind. Just like that, he was sweating.
“He’s speaking of Sur Juekovelin Nyx,” Gavin said in elaboration. “Sur Juekovelin gave his life while saving mine and the others. He died with honor.”
“I see,” Mr. Officer said, and Skip could see him struggling with the right response. He finally settled for, “I am sorry to hear that. I should have liked to have met him.”
“I do, however, have this.” Skip opened up his jacket and revealed the nickel-plating of his Python in its holster. Both he and the white-robed man behind him looked closer.
“What is it?” White-robes asked.
“I’d be delighted to share it with you but before I do that, maybe we should be introduced.” Skip gave his shoulders a little roll. “I like to know who I’m talking to.”
“You have a strange manner, enforcer of laws, but I will give you this courtesy since you clearly are...unaware of our customs. I am Centurion Balvados, commander of the Southern Outpost and the last vestige of the Eternal City Nu’rome before the Wilds. Where the road ends.”
“An honor,” Skip said with a formal nod. “I’m Chief of Police, Skip Walkins, Rolling Creek, Montana, United States of America...Earth.” He could feel Gavin’s slight smile.
Balvados mirror-nodded and quickly returned his attention to the grip of Skip’s revolver that was poking out of its holster. Satisfied, Skip took out his Python, opened the cylinder and dropped the rounds into his hand, closed it, spun the cylinder and then handed it to Balvados, grip first.
“Please keep your fingers away from the trigger.”
“What is this device?” he breathed, the formerly superior cast in his eyes replaced by curiosity and wonder. “It is heavy,” he said, lifting it up and down. The white-robed wizard also came over to look at it, neck forward, eyes slightly squinted, nostrils working. “How does it work? What does it do?” Balvados rested the cylinder by his ear and listened.
“It is the weapon of all law enforcers of my, er, realm. This particular one is known as the three-fifty-seven magnum Python and it blows holes into thi—No-no-no, don’t put the barrel to your eye.”
Balvados frowned mightily at Skip’s tone.
“That’s the business end,” Skip quickly explained, but when all he got was a baffled frown, Gavin stepped in.
“The barrel of a gun is the blade of the sword, Centurion Balvados. He meant no disrespect. His concern is for your safety only. Chief Walkins, would you please apologize to the Centurion and then show him your souvenir?”
“Uh, yeah. You got it. My apologies, Centurion Balvados, no disrespect intended. It’s, uh, against customs to put one’s eye to the barrel of a gun. Check this out.”
Before Balvados could respond, Skip took off his new white-gold necklace, gift of Almitra’s treasure room, which now held the broken spur of Asmodeous the Pale as the adornment. At seeing it dangling at the end of his fingers, the white-robed wizard gasped, even going so far as to putting a hand with three thick, different-colored rings up to his mouth.
“I know what that is,” he breathed.
“Then out with it, Sorcerer,” Balvados snapped, eyes fixated.
“Here. You can hold it.”
The sorcerer accepted the necklace and eagerly devoured it with his eyes. His face went whiter than the robes he was wearing. “This is the spur of a...Drynn. The most powerful I’ve ever seen.” He swallowed with lips so devoid of moisture they stuck together between each word.
“How would you know of it?” Balvados asked.
“I know of it,” the sorcerer said, flashing his superior an irritated glance, “because such a thing is a very rare component for the most powerful of spells.” He looked up at Skip and failed to conceal the hunger in his eyes. “It is priceless. A Wizard would joyfully kill you and all of your bloodline to possess it.”
“Good to know,” Skip said, looking to Gavin for confirmation. Gavin sort of half-nodded, half-shrugged. It fits their M.O., it seemed to say.
Balvados studied the broken spur, the revolver, Skip and his attire, Gavin and his attire, Sir Taksony and his attire, and then shook his head. “I need a drink,” he said and with a gesture summoned a Legionnaire. The Nu’romian soldier promptly opened a cabinet door, removed a flask and three small pewter glasses.
“What would you have me do, Sur Stavengre?” Balvados said, setting the three glasses down on his desk. He uncapped the flask and poured to the top a thick, clear spirit that Skip got a whiff of right away. Whatever it was, it was strong.
Gavin’s eyes, which had been relatively neutral and friendly, suddenly darkened. He took a step forward and immediately the sorcerer was alert as was Centurion Balvados himself. His fingers strayed to the pommel of his gladius, drink forgotten. “You’ve heard my tidings,” Gavin began. “You’ve seen my runes, you’ve heard the words of the champion of another world, have seen proof of the enemy. Your duty is to protect your homeland at all costs, is it not?” It was a side of Gavin Skip wasn’t used to seeing but he dug it; it made Gavin look bad-ass and dangerous, especially in that armor and cloak. “Nu’rome must know what will befall them, what will befall the whole world should the Overlord of the Drynn reach the Pale Gate. Even as we speak the Lord of the Underworld flies.” Gavin leaned in even closer. Mr. Officer’s hand gripped into a fist. “If he makes it and opens a doorway to the Underworld...everybody dies. It is as simple as that. I don’t know what history teaches these days, but we came this close—” Gavin pinched his fingers a centimeter apart, “—from losing it all. You’ve heard what happened to an entire garrison of Vambrace. Imagine if he releases hundreds of thousands of his minions. I need horses. I need aid and urgency.”
The circles under Balvados’s eyes seemed to have gotten more purple during Gavin’s answer. “The Pale Gate was destroyed at the end of the Drynnian war and its ruins are ever-guarded by a chimera,” the centurion said.
“There is no creature on this world that can stand before the Lord of the Underworld, Centurion Balvados, not even a chimera, not anything. Furthermore, if Deos built one gate before, does it not stand to reason that he could do it again?”
Balvados wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “How many horses do you need?”
“Eleven,” Gavin said.
“Eleven?” the Centurion said. “I only have twenty-five for the whole garrison. I could spare four, five horses at the most.”
Gavin reached under his cloak to his belt and pulled out a grapefruit-sized satchel bursting with coins. He tossed it at Balvados, who caught it easily.
“Platinum?” the centurion asked with eyes that seemed to pop out of his head. Even Mr. Whiterobes was starstruck. He poured some of the coins onto the table and fingered them as if he didn’t believe they were real.
“From the Pass of Almitra,” Gavin said. “There’s enough there to buy you fifty chargers, fully saddled and equipped. Replace what you need and keep the rest for yourself.”
Skip rather enjoyed seeing the officer speechless.
“These coins are very old, more valuable even than the platinum that makes them,” he said in a daze.
“Indeed. If you would be so gracious, I would like Decanus Arkeides to accompany us on our journey to the Eternal City. It has been more than a century since we’ve set foot in these lands and he is as excellent as a guide as he is an Eques.”
The Centurion flicked his tongue over lips that had gone dry and swallowed. “Decanus Arkeides, I charge you with the safe conduct of Sur Stavengre and his companions to Nu�
��rome. Report immediately to Centurion Moragea of the Seventh Legion of the Parthenon.”
Markus Arkeides snapped to attention like a good enlisted man, his heels together and speared out his arm in salute, parallel to the ground, palm down and then snapped it back to his chest. “Hail to the Caesar.”
“Excellent. And now a drink—”
Just then there was a frantic pounding at the door. “Come!” Balvados boomed.
The door opened and in popped the nervous face of a guard from outside. “Centurion Balvados.” The guard swallowed. “There’s a Wizard coming.”
* * *
He was alone. A solitaire figure making his way through the tall grass of the Southern Sea with a staff in his hand and the unmistakable pointed hat of all Wizards.
“Stavengre,” Noah said in an uncharacteristically tight voice. “He’s a Collector.”
“I see that.”
Of all the Wizards of Vambrace, none were more reviled and feared by Magi than the Collectors. The Collectors were a different breed of Wizard. Trained from childhood by the best in the world, it was the sole duty of all Collectors to find and kill any Magi unfortunate enough to be born.
Just a single Magi found hiding in a village would spell death not only for the ones concealing him—immediate family, children, pets—but often the extended family, acquaintances, anyone the Collector deemed a collaborator. It was customary for concealers to be brought out to the town center for all to see, skinned alive and encrusted in salt before being burned to ashes.
It was a Collector who had killed Gavin’s father. The memory, even after twenty-six years and two worlds later, was as clear and vivid as if it had happened yesterday.
Gavin felt Noah’s fingers around his arm.
“It’s a test,” she whispered. “If we kill him we doom the world.”
A high-pitched ringing was going off in his right ear, so loud it flashed pain in his temples.
“I wonder, how many of our kin has he killed?” Tarsidion rumbled.