by Ron Collins
He stepped from the alley to find an audience had grown in the streets, an audience that peered at him with eyes full of fear. He recognized the old gambler who stood on the hard-packed dirt of the street, shaking now with terror.
“I hope you got your ten copper’s worth,” Garrick said.
“I’m sorry,” the man whimpered. “I didn’t know.”
“I said, move!” a beer-hardened voice cried from somewhere in the crowd.
Movement came.
People parted, and a large figure pushed its way through.
It was Hersha Padiglio, viceroy of Caledena, complete with a pair of bodyguards behind him. He cradled a bowl of stew in one hand, and his other arm was looped around a frail young woman’s waist.
“What’s going on?” Padiglio said.
Then he gazed at the dead mages, and at the scorch marks on both walls, truth dawning. Finally, he looked at Garrick and raised his bowl in acknowledgement.
“You’re hired,” he said.
Chapter 6
Garrick didn’t notice that his foot had healed over until well after he disappeared into darkness, and until he had walked for considerable time through Caledena’s twisted alleyways.
He was anxious.
His energy was agitated, and it took him considerable effort to keep it under control. As he paced through shadowed streets, his thoughts collided.
Garrick once thought he knew everything that could be known about being alone, but he had never felt like this before. It was not just that he was afraid. It was that he was truly afraid of himself. He had lost control of his spell work twice now. The first time had cost a village its existence, and the second time had resulted in two human beings being literally dissolved from the face of the plane.
He had not planned either.
They had just happened.
He had no idea how to stop this strange magic when it got its head.
To make matters worse, Garrick felt another truth during this last casting. He had felt the end of this cycle coming. Sjesko’s life force, while seemingly endless now, would eventually be drained. He felt it. He knew it. And when Sjesko’s life force was gone, the dark hunger—that cold and irrefutable need to take—would return.
Garrick didn’t want to think about what he was capable of when this life force was gone.
To this he added the fact that he now had two firm examples of the orders working together. So it seemed clear that whatever else was going on, he was now in the middle of a full-fledged Torean mage hunt.
It was all very confusing.
The only thing he knew for certain as he walked the shadow-draped alleys of Caledena was that he wanted more time to think about things, more time to work out how to use this mixture of magics he carried within himself.
And time was not something he was sure he would get, even if Hersha Padiglio’s offer turned out to be genuine.
Chapter 7
Morning dawned overcast and gray as Garrick approached the viceroy’s manor. He wore a pair of riding breeches and a new, blue tunic he bartered from a stand in the maze of alleys.
News of his nighttime display travelled fast, and he smirked as the city parted before him.
Their acquiescence made him feel strong. He had a job to do, a mission to undertake. And the idea that people might actually fear him, well, it was all very new, but admittedly he could get used to it.
The viceroy’s guards brought him to the stables.
“Good morning,” Hersha Padiglio said.
The viceroy sat on a bench, black robes settling around him like a tent. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair still unkempt. A playful smile rested on his lips.
“I hope you’re rested,” he said. “I understand you had a late night.”
“I don’t need much sleep at times,” Garrick replied
The viceroy motioned to a pair of horses standing in the yard, one of which carried a man who was hunched down and attending to his stirrups, his back to Garrick.
“Let me introduce you to Darien J’ravi.”
The man straightened.
It was Mustache, his adversary from the day prior. The young man wore riding clothes of brown and dull russet. A sword was attached to his riding harness.
Darien proffered an open hand.
“When Hersha told me he had hired a mage last night, I thought it might be you. You created quite a stir.”
Garrick took Darien’s hand, though he did not wish to.
“You’ve met!” the viceroy said.
“Yes,” Garrick replied. “We’ve met.”
Darien gave an impish smile. “The dragongriff table was good to us.”
“Excellent! Friends make the best traveling teams.”
“I don’t need a partner.” Garrick said.
“The creed of a true Torean,” Padiglio replied. “But this job’s too risky to send just one man. Besides, with the orders looking for wizards of your kind, you might appreciate an extra midnight sentry.”
“I won’t need an extra sentry.”
Darien chimed in. “What the viceroy is trying to say, my new friend, is that he has an investment to protect, and he’s sending us both to ensure the other doesn’t pull the old double-cross and run off with the package. Don’t make him actually say it or you might just lose the deal.”
Hersha gave a deep laugh. “You should listen to your partner in these matters, Garrick. His politics may be a bit transparent, but he’s sharper than he looks.”
Garrick grimaced at the way Darien’s scraggly mustache curled upward. That grin would fade if he knew what happened when Garrick’s power took over.
“I can’t travel with anyone,” Garrick said.
“Then you don’t go.”
Garrick paused. Last night’s brooding had convinced him of only two things—he needed to get away so he could get rid of this curse, and he still needed the fee that would come with this job to make that happen. He touched Sjesko’s life force as he glanced at Darien. Was there enough to make it there and back?
“Fine,” Garrick said. “I’ll need twice the gold, though.”
The viceroy’s gaze filled with sardonic humor.
“Two hundred?”
“That’s right.”
“Each,” Darien said.
“One-fifty,” the viceroy replied, his voice suddenly jovial.
“Each?” Darien replied.
“Of course.”
Both Garrick and Darien nodded.
“Done,” Hersha replied with gusto. “Your hard bargaining has already made my day.”
Garrick pointed to the second horse. “Is that my mount?”
“Assuming he meets your needs.”
Garrick inspected the animal.
He loved horses. Galloping on a strong horse was like being atop the world.
This was a young animal with firm muscles and a sleek form. Its coat could shine a bit more, but its teeth and gums were good, its eyes clear, and its hooves unmarked and sound. It was saddled, and a bedroll and provisions were already attached.
“Disposition?”
A boy spoke up, entering the clearing from the stables.
“He’ll keep you out of trouble.”
The kid was maybe ten or eleven years old with a shock of ratty hair. He was covered with stable grit, and his eyes were big and round. Garrick guessed the boy had been responsible for the horse. His own years of working in the stables of barons and other men of business gave him an instant kinship. Perhaps it was this kinship that helped him understand the expression on the boy’s face was one of deepest concern for the animal.
“Was this your horse to stable?” Garrick asked.
“Yes, sir.”
Garrick knelt so his eyes were level with the boy’s, or actually a bit lower. It was a thing he had done with Bryce and little Jonathan hundreds of times before, but until now it had merely been instinctive.
“What’s your name?”
“Will, sir.”
; “And the horse’s name?”
“Kalomar, sir,”
“Well, Will. If you say this horse is reliable, I believe it, and I promise you I’ll keep him safe to the best of my ability. Is that all right?”
The boy nodded.
Garrick stood up and tousled Will’s hair as he had often done with his brother apprentices.
Will shied away, but grinned.
“Enough discussion, then,” Hersha called.
Garrick mounted up, and felt Kalomar take to him as if they had been together their whole lives.
The viceroy motioned an attendant over.
The man gave Garrick a small pouch. Inside was a wooden box the size of a clenched fist.
“What is this?” Garrick said.
“A container for the pet Takril will be giving you.”
Garrick nodded and looped the drawstring around his belt.
“Are we ready?” he asked.
Darien nodded.
“Just a final warning,” the viceroy said. “A village south of here was razed two nights ago. One of my people said the destruction suggests a band of thirty men or more took it apart hut by hut. You’re lucky you didn’t run into them on your way here.”
Garrick felt magic move through his veins, and realized Hersha was talking about Sjesko.
He merely nodded.
“Be careful with my pet. Don’t want it falling into the hands of brigands.”
Darien smiled. “We’ll be on our guard.”
“Yes,” Garrick agreed. “We will.”
Garrick and Darien spurred their horses onto a path that would take them west to the Blue Mist Mountains, then north to a pass Darien said would lead to the desert, and eventually to Arderveer.
Garrick looked at Darien, knowing his partner had no idea what he was getting into. Perhaps, he thought, nothing bad would happen on their travels together. But later, as they made their way through the outskirts of the city, Garrick found himself thinking about Padiglio’s report.
Thirty men.
He had done the damage of thirty men.
Or more.
Chapter 8
“I don’t recall ever seeing a pheasant this far south before. Have you?” Darien said, pointing to a bird in the distant field.
Garrick stroked Kalomar’s neck. The horse twitched its ears. Like most animals, it had a feel for weather and right now it seemed to be worried about a sky that looked loaded for a storm.
“I really could care less.” Garrick replied.
Darien closed his mouth with a hurt silence. “If you don’t want me to talk, maybe you could tell me what you think every now and again.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be spiteful,” Garrick said, though in truth that’s exactly what he had meant to be.
“What do you think of that village?” Darien asked.
Garrick cast him a questioning glance.
“You know,” Darien added. “Sjesko? The village they say was blazed?”
“It’s a small place, I’m surprised you’ve heard of it.”
“I’m full of useless information,” Darien said. “And you’re ignoring the question. What do you think of it?”
“I don’t know.”
It was not a lie.
“I haven’t seen a band as large as thirty men since Carver’s gang used to roam the north lands,” Darien said, continuing on as if Garrick hadn’t said anything. His partner was apparently not against the hearing of his own voice.
“I’m not much of a traveler,” Garrick replied.
They were silent for several beats before Darien’s next question came. It went like that all day. Darien never stopped talking, Garrick was never very responsive.
Garrick came to see Darien’s constant chatter as simple noise—like the wind, or the rasp of leaves, or the steady clop of their horses’ hooves on hard dirt. If he just let Darien talk, he could spend time attending to the energy inside him. It was manageable today—or at least more so than he remembered. Perhaps that was because after casting such a torrent of magic in the alley there was less of it to deal with. Or maybe it was because he was growing more familiar with it and his reactions were getting better.
By evening the clouds grew heavy with rain, and a swirling wind rippled the fields of saw grass. Sporadic forks of lightning cast silver flares across the sky and gave an electric taste to the aroma of the spruce and pine trees that lined their path.
Garrick could hear Alistair’s warning. It’s goin ta be one of those spring thunderheads, Alistair would have said. Comin ta cleanse the ground of its winter.
“Big storm coming,” Garrick finally said. “We best find someplace dry.”
“Sounds good. I’m getting hungry anyway.”
Garrick pointed up the hillside. “See that rocky ledge?”
“Good eyes. Let’s have at it.”
The rain started as they spurred their horses.
It fell at first with slow, splattering drops that then gathered together to become a hard rain before eventually turning into a gale that came in sudden sheets and pulsing waves, complete with claps of thunder that rolled over the sky.
They took cover under a slab of rock that protruded from the ground at an angle. Blue spruce surrounded the opening, giving it a cave-like solitude.
“This will do nicely,” Darien said. He went to start a fire.
Garrick curried the horses.
His muscles were not accustomed to long stints in the saddle, and he was admittedly grumpy from holding his tongue all day. But Sjesko’s life force was warm inside him and it was hard to be angry while he was caring for the animals.
An hour’s hard rain gave way to a drizzle that looked like it would continue all night.
Darien chewed dried meat, and warmed his hands and feet over the fire. Garrick wasn’t hungry, but he ate anyway merely to avoid questions that refusing food would bring.
He stared into the darkness as he chewed.
The sensations came upon him so slowly that Garrick didn’t notice them until the horses whinnied. But he felt them then, he felt them moving against his life force like a spider might feel its dinner trapped inside its web.
Something was out there.
Essences.
Life forms.
His magic wanted to reach out to it, but Garrick held it back. He smiled at himself then, taking enjoyment over this one small mastery over the planewalker’s magic.
He peered into the nighttime, but saw nothing.
One of Garrick’s roles under Alistair had been that of the greeter. As such, Alistair had taught him to read auras, and how to give his superior a proper briefing even when in a stranger’s company. It struck him to wonder if he could see anything in that spectrum now, so he gave a hand movement and a precise phrasing, then reached for his link to the plane of magic.
Magestuff flowed easily.
The flavor of standard spell work seemed almost pedestrian, now. He twisted his thoughts and brought the flow through his gates. His vision shifted between spectrums and he saw putrid globs of green and indigo blue hanging from the trees. A rotting, sulfurous odor bubbled from the ground, and he saw a rolling pool of black ooze slithering toward them.
One of the horses shied.
“Is something wrong?” Darien asked, also standing. He drew his sword with the slick sound of leather on steel.
Darien’s meddling was the last thing Garrick needed.
“Just stay back,” he said.
Darien stepped forward with a soldier’s efficiency. “What is it?” he said.
“I said to stay back!”
A thick-limbed form rose up in Garrick’s vision, black and featureless, its legs disappearing into the oily mass below its mid-calf. Eerie light glistened from its body as it stood empty and cold before Garrick, arms outstretched, and drawing on his life force like an ocean tide draws upon a beach.
We need. The monster spoke.
“We?” Garrick said aloud.
“W
hat do you see?” Darien said, definitely not staying back. “Is something out there?”
More beings rose from the blackness. Rain glistened off their slick skins. They kept coming until Garrick lost track of their count. Five to the left, two immediately before him, two in the trees, four behind the first, a half dozen by the outcropping. They smelled of sulfur. He nearly gagged as their odor grew caustic and stifling.
The closest creature flashed a cold tentacle toward Darien.
“Ah!” Darien yelled as he fell to one knee, slashing blindly at whatever had hurt him.
By chance his blade caught black flesh, and the monster withdrew, giving an ethereal scream. The rest of the pack sluiced closer together, pinning them against the stone cliff.
Blood ran down Darien’s shoulder and over his arm. His weapon gleamed with a lavender shade of purple.
Angry, Garrick pulled sorcery from his link and placed a simple barrier around them—the only defensive spell Alistair had taught him. A spine-tingling screech rose as the creatures fell upon the dome. Black ooze sizzled with a smoky odor. Garrick spoke an arcane river of words to maintain the translucent barrier, then pushed on it to give himself room.
“What is it?” Darien said, holding his shoulder.
“Get out of my way,” Garrick yelled, grunting under the strain, and managing to push Darien back with one hand.
“Who are you?” he said to the creatures.
A thousand voices wailed in discordant unison.
Shariaen. We are Shariaen.
Darien regained his feet and held his sword in his good hand as he peered through the barrier and into the darkness.
“Stay back,” Garrick said, his exasperation clear. “They can’t touch you while the barrier stands.”
Wonder of wonders, Darien actually stood back.
The Shariaen pushed forward, but Garrick fortified the spell with more magestuff and they backed away. He had never sustained sorcery for this long before, though, and he knew he would fatigue rapidly.
Shariaen … Shariaen … Shariaen …
The voices clamored inside his head until he thought he may be going insane.
“I don’t understand,” Garrick yelled at them as he held the shield. “What are the Shariaen?”