by OJ Lowe
“You’re back,” she said, even managing a smile. “It’s good to see you. The place hasn’t been the same without you.”
He didn’t say anything, just placed the case on the table in front of her. He smelled of travel, stale sweat and aeroship peanuts. She studied his face. He couldn’t be that old, she couldn’t tell. He never proffered her anything personal about him. He looked of indeterminate age, she’d had him employed for years, had known him since he was a child. If Meredith was her official daughter, she regarded him very much as her unofficial son. He looked like he could be anywhere between twenty and fifty.
Either way, he was a dangerous man. He moved like a living weapon, slow and deliberate most of the time but able to flip like a switch, from cumbersome to carnage in the blink of an eye. He was larger than some shacks she’d seen while in Vazara last year, his body covered in hard muscle that would have been the envy of all men. And yet, she got that urge that he wanted to hug her.
She offered him her hand. He took it, leaned down and clumsily kissed it. His lips were rough, almost as harsh as his stubble. It felt strangely out of place. Like he’d seen it somewhere and was aping it. Either way, it was nice to have that attention.
“Did it all go to plan?” she asked keeping the smile on. “You weren’t seen?”
“McKenna will never talk,” he said. He couldn’t hold her eyes, not for more than a few seconds. Of all the things a man like him had chosen to love and fear in this world, she was them both and that sent a bursting feeling rippling through her chest. It made her happier than she’d ever want to admit “Scared him royal. Had to rough him up a bit to remind him that.” He looked pleased. His capacity for violence when required was one of his more endearing traits.
“Thank you, my friend. Anything you need.” It wasn’t a question. It was permission.
When she looked up from examining the case, he was gone. She wouldn’t see him again for the rest of the night. Yet always he’d be there when she woke up. Her own personal guardian angel.
It was in her own private sanctuary she placed it down on the table and flipped the catches. It was an old model, the best kind. More recent transport cases could be cracked into easily. Ironically as technology improved, security became that little bit laxer. Simple ten key combination spin-dial, ten possible choices for each dial. Inside it was lined with lead to prevent x-ray examination, the outside lined with a durable steel to stop it being ripped open. She took security very seriously. In the hands of her most loyal servant, it’d have been nigh on impossible to steal. He’d have broken anyone who tried to take it.
The interior was simple but soft violet velvet. Somehow it made the treasure within stand out that little bit more. The bronze tigress, Melarius in her pomp… Just another trinket for her collection. She took in the tigress’ long tail (to keep the world spinning, if you believed it) and the gold bands intricately detailed about her legs (wedding gift. Started the tradition of exchanging wedding rings. That one was more believable.) The Queen of the Divines. She didn’t know why she’d made so much of an effort to get it. She’d seen nicer pieces; she’d seen nicer pieces given away from her collection. But something about this had drawn her to it.
Why, she didn’t know. But there was something about it, something not quite explainable.
What was the point of power and wealth if you didn’t make it work for you? If you constrained yourselves to the laws of man? Many times, she’d asked herself that question and each time she’d found herself bound to the same answer.
Not a thing.
There was something reassuring about that realisation, she realised, smiling coolly to herself as she removed the statue from the case and gave it pride of place next to the tablet and the key. Something very reassuring indeed.
She didn’t know how or why yet, but she had a very strong feeling that the future was a little closer to her with this acquisition.
Chapter Three. Light in the Trees
Stzorn, Stzorn, shining hot in the night
Thunder bringer, storm slayer, avenger.
What we fear, but what we need.
You’re the last of a dying breed.
From the poem, Stzorn: Divine of Thunder by B.M Brent.
The eighth day of Summerdawn.
Long roads made good, if lonely companions, the sort that never changes on you no matter the circumstance. Sometimes walking them offers perspective not found elsewhere. And Theobald Jameson had been walking this road for the best part of a while. Lonely didn’t cover it. Not a ride in sight. The only one hovering by had seen him and sped up. Clearly, they didn’t like the look of him. That single thought was enough to bring a scowl to his face. How dare they! It was just… rude. Not that he wasn’t enjoying the long walk but no novelty lasts forever. Sometimes you have places to be. And Theo’s place was a lot more important than most. A lot more vital that he be there than those who had sped past.
Maybe it was something about his demeanour that meant they’d ignored him. Life on the road between towns didn’t exactly leave much room for a good impression. Last two nights, he’d slept rough under a hedge to avoid the rains. It had been considerably longer than that since his last haircut, his hair wild, almost shoulder length. He knew he looked wild but that couldn’t be helped. He wouldn’t be the first spirit caller to wander into town looking unkempt after days in the wilderness, as much as he hated the idea of lowering himself to comparison with others.
Soon as he reached Carcaradis Island, he was going to get it sorted. It was that sort of tournament that awaited him in the next few weeks. It went out around the five kingdoms to an audience of literally billions. And they were going to see him give absolutely everything in his quest to win it. He needed to do it. He wanted to rub it all in the face of a world that wasn’t going to give him any sort of respect. He wasn’t going to give it any back. Respect no man or beast, his dad had taught him that much. Not much of what that bastard had stuck, but that had. And the ICCC was no different in this respect. It was there to be won. Plenty of tough callers sure, he had to get past them. But it was doable. Nobody was unbeatable. It was just a matter of finding the way.
You didn’t go if you didn’t intend to win. He’d never gotten the point of people doing that. Some went without the intention to win, some feeble assholes who were all about taking part and enjoying the whole experience. There was no point. He had been there before, at the last one. He’d crashed and burned in the early rounds. It was still a sore point. Critics might have pointed out a tough draw; he didn’t want to use that as the excuse to say he’d not been good enough. All his efforts since then had been building up to this moment.
This time, he hadn’t been a wild card entrant, he’d earned his participation in the whole thing. He’d built up all his strength, he’d qualified with time to spare and he’d been out in the wilds working in private. Sometimes you needed to do what you needed to do. He didn’t enjoy human contact if he could help it. Sometimes they could be a distraction. Most of the time they were a distraction. The job would be a whole lot better if it didn’t involve dealing with other people. That would suit him down to the ground. Overall, he’d decided that humans were a bunch of idiots given half a chance to parade their idiotic brand of idiocy before another bunch of idiots.
It was a cold night; he tugged his coat around him. It was a good coat, grubby with the stresses of travel but warm. Very warm. Rather have it than not. You sleep with something long enough, you become attached to it. At least it wasn’t raining. That had been most of his experiences of Canterage in the months he’d been here. He missed the warm nights of Premesoir. Not enough to go back anytime soon though. Maybe he wouldn’t be taking the coat with him. Not to Vazara and Carcaradis Island. Too damn hot there. He’d roast in it and well, it was too big to carry around with him just on the off chance that he’d end up in colder climes at some point soon. Or maybe he’d keep it. Complementary hotels on the island meant there was somewhere he could keep it.<
br />
Technically he was homeless now but he never thought of it that way, no more than any other caller probably felt it at this point in their careers. He thought of it more as not being tied down. Transience wasn’t uncommon amongst callers in their early careers, not until they made it. Then champion positions became available in the big cities and with recognition came a need for stability that he’d never quite felt so far in his life. He’d walked out his parents’ house the first chance he could and never looked back. Had never truthfully bothered him, if he was being honest.
It started to rain, the cool drizzle sweeping across his face. He contorted his lip in disgust, kicked listlessly at a root in his path. Quickened his pace. He didn’t want to sleep out here in this. Not tonight. Last thing he wanted to happen was appear at the Quin-C with a cold. That’d mess up his chances. He suffered badly with colds when they struck him, terrible at times and it messed him up something awful. No way was he going to let that happen. Prevention was better than the cure. The quick cure for colds wasn’t pleasant, it’d put him out of action for twenty-four hours of sickening nausea. It wasn’t nice but sometimes it was necessary.
He picked up his pace, almost broke into a jog. All the walking had left him incredibly fit. Some callers did find other ways to get around. They rode the mag-rails and hired speeders and bought tickets for the aeroships and sometimes that was what you had to do. Not Theo. He wasn’t going to do that unless he had to. Wasn’t going to waste the credits, he had perfectly good legs and he intended to use them. He smirked morosely and continued to pound the path, his summoner bouncing against his chest. Maybe he should bite the bullet and fly to the next town. He could summon out a spirit, mount it and ride it. The winds were up but he knew he could make it. Failing to do anything else would be disastrous. He just wouldn’t accept that. Maybe he should.
He took one look at the dark sky and reconsidered it. Storms were coming and he didn’t want to be caught by a freak lightning strike. It could get bad around here sometimes. Nature was one of the things you couldn’t fight against. At least this wasn’t one of those places where the locals were too superstitious. Sure, everyone had their beliefs in the gods to some extent, everyone knew of them but some places were worse than others. He’d heard it was bad in Vazara and Burykia, even some places in Serran and Premesoir with their Divine-bothering and their zent-parading. He didn’t have much time for the zents and what they preached. The impossible for the gullible. Canterage was probably the best of the five kingdoms for avoiding all that damn fervour, maybe that’s why he liked it here. Least you didn’t have to hear about some storm and how the god of storms was pissed off with you and punishing for you for being a bad ‘un from some bug-eyed doomsayer just crying out for attention.
Still Stzorn, the deity of thunder and energy to appear right here and now… That’d be something. Theo couldn’t help but laugh at that thought. He saw that, he’d make a point of going to church every single day. That was his own private promise. Break it and he’d never trust himself ever again. No point committing to a lie. No matter the end. He’d never felt the need to lie. Go with the truth always and burn the consequences. If he didn’t like someone, he told them. If they argued it, he argued right back, sticking to his original thought no matter how much counter argument was put in front of him.
And if they fought him…
A single lonely howl punctured the air, followed quickly by a crescendo of more, the sounds eerily haunting in the dark trees that flanked the road on both sides. He froze up for a second and then let loose an angry curse onto the winds. That was all he needed right now. Wherever those burning beasts were, they were stalking him. Chances were that they already had his scent. They could run him down without even getting tired. And the wolves around here, they were the top of the predator chain. Everything else bowed before them. He’d had a run in with one of the packs a few days earlier, they’d come across him while he was eating. Seeing them off had been easy enough. He’d had enough warning to formulate a counter strategy and it had worked. Since then he hadn’t been bothered by them.
Not until now, anyway. It looked like it was going to be one of those nights.
He quickened his pace, not running but walking noticeably faster, one hand in his pocket, one hand on his summoner and a couldn’t-care-less look plastered across his face. Theo was ready. They’d tipped their hand and he was ready for them. Let them come, he’d happily educate them in the perils of attacking strangers on the road. Bastard beasts. He’d heard that there’d been a big hoohah about reintroducing wolves into the wild of this part of Canterage and once the deed had been done, it had promptly become a massive problem for the locals. They didn’t fear humans and they were vicious. Alpha predators in a new environment. Not many people lived out here now. He hadn’t seen a house for what had to be miles now. They could smell fear allegedly. Good thing he wasn’t scared, just wary.
It might have been the wind. It might have been his imagination. Either way, he thought he could hear something, some rustling the fauna. Theo glanced left, he glanced right, blinked. Had he just… Couldn’t be. Shadows in the trees. Trick of the light. Flash on the eye. Mind playing tricks on him, it had to be. He gulped, swallowed and stopped. He really didn’t want to meet something that moved like that.
“Okay come on then,” he muttered. His voice sounded rougher than pine bark. “If we’re going to do this, let’s get on with it.” He glanced back and forth, hoping that they’d hear him and take him up on it. He wasn’t expecting them to though. People said wolves were intelligent. Probably more than bloody dogs. But he doubted they were going to take him up on that challenge. “I haven’t got all night. Stop wasting my time.”
He took another step. Another swallow. His mouth had gone dry, even though his skin was turning wet and clammy. He pulled his coat around him tighter, cursed the broken zip. All around him, the forest was still. Even the wind had died down and he could hear nothing.
That was worrying, right?
Back and forth. Maybe he was being paranoid. He took another step forward, removed his hand from his pocket. He had a crystal in his summoner. He had two loaded in spare. They attack, they’d be in for a nasty surprise. One he was looking immensely forward to dealing to them. Work a little perspective training into his spirits, always work on keeping awareness from all sides. He stopped, heard the rustle up ahead of him. No point marching on. He held his face neutral. No fear. They could smell it.
The first wolf wandered out in front of him, fangs bared and eyes glowing in the half dark. Breath hammered out of its muzzle. He tried to keep his breathing level. His heart was hammering in his chest. Couldn’t help that. Not fear, adrenaline.
“I’m not afraid of you,” he said. “And I know you can’t understand me.” He shifted, glanced around. He could see the eyes all around him, luminous orbs amid leaves and trees and wind and darkness. “But I will put you down if you don’t let me be. Last chance.”
Nothing. He hadn’t expected there to be. Reason wasn’t going to work. And if that fails, use force. Extreme force. Get retaliation in early. He counted fourteen, sixteen, eighteen eyes… Wait, nineteen. Really? Nineteen eyes. He reached into his pocket, pushed the button on his summoner.
One charged, he didn’t flinch. Not as something large and bulky, covered in ugly black hair dropped down in front of him, an eerie hiss ringing out followed by a snap and a sound too sickening to identify. One dead wolf bleeding out, puncture wounds torn into its spine. Its blood… He forced himself to look. Theo felt his stomach churn at the sight and he mentally rebuked himself for it. Weakness. Pah!
He couldn’t show it at this point. He needed to be strong. Impassable. The man without fear. No emotion. They could sense it, he’d heard and he wasn’t giving them the satisfaction. He wouldn’t bend before these bastards. Even if they killed him, he’d make sure they choked on him. Die the way he wanted to live his life. Fighting hard. Making himself the most awkward customer he coul
d ever be. Choke on that, wolfie.
Either way, Eight Eyes had done the job well. Even though if he was honest, he was a little disappointed the presence of his spirit hadn’t done more to cow a reaction out of the wolves. When an eight-foot spider drops down into the middle of a crowd, you expect something a lot more than what he’d gotten. Blood stained the giant fanged mandibles, those eight eyes trying to look in every direction at once. The spider looked hungry. Each leg was the thickness of a street light, covered in thick yet malleable armour. He should know, he’d come up with the design. The result of feeding an abundance of artificial growth hormone to a larger than normal Burykian mountain spider. Normally they were the size of a house cat absolute maximum on their own without help, they were disturbing enough at that size. He’d created something that he’d thought had a uniqueness about it, something he’d set out to make downright unsettling. Add in the armour…
One wolf skipped in, snapping at the two legs closest to it, a testing of the water. Barely a second later, the liquid hit it square in the face. Already the fur was dissolving, the skin bubbling hideously before it even had the chance to realise Eight Eyes had counter-attacked.
… and the ability to spit that lethal acid and he had created one cornerstone of his power base as a spirit caller. Usually he led with it in professional bouts, at least in the early stages. Nobody expected to see that. If his opponent was a woman, he went with it for sure. Seeing them cringe at the sight, it gave him a little surge of amusement. If they were cringing, they weren’t on their game and he was there with the advantage. Always a little disappointing when it didn’t get the reaction he was hoping for.
Even as his attention went back to the surrounding wolves, he heard the sizzle and pop as the stricken wolf’s eyes melted in their sockets, the pained howls and whimpers fading slowly into nothing. It had been dead the minute it had attacked. It just hadn’t realised it until it was too late.