Power Mage 3

by Hondo Jinx

  He wished he could have spoken, which would have magnified the authority of his message. But speech was impossible so he thought his message instead, beaming new truth into the world.

  You have mistaken my identity, Brawley insisted. The real power mage isn’t here yet, but he is coming. Release me and run before it’s too late.

  Brawley felt his Seeker missile fizzle and fade before it could impact the man overpowering him.

  “Are you trying to harm me, power mage?” Uno said. “Don’t bother. I have taken special care with you.”

  Uno pulled a strange little creature from his pocket. For a second, the beast was balled up like a tiny armadillo. Then it unfolded, dropped to the floor, and tottered toward Brawley, clicking excitedly.

  “It is a tracking demon,” Uno explained. “The Deposed Lord sent it to me in the gun shop, and from that point forward, my job got much easier. I went to where you parked in Marathon. Then to the trailer park. That was the real break. The tracker caught a strong sense of you in the home of the Bender woman.

  Tammy, Brawley realized but rapidly discarded the thought. Inside, he scrambled to think of some way to fight back.

  But Uno was shielded somehow, and nothing Brawley launched could break through.

  How then? How could he fight?

  He focused on that single question and released a powerful blast of Seeker energy.

  The response, which rose in him as an iron-clad certainty, was disheartening.

  Uno was safe behind the invisible shields of living armor, a cloaking miasma of microscopic creatures summoned from another dimension.

  The assassin was presently invulnerable to all psionic attacks.

  Presently? Brawley wondered.

  Yes, his Seeker senses confirmed, presently.

  All he could do was wait and draw power.

  But even as this notion occurred to Brawley, his Seeker senses shot it down.

  Drawing power would not be enough. To have any chance whatsoever of defeating Uno, Brawley needed to splice.

  But how?

  “Maypole did not know what you learned through him,” Uno said, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. “But I packed his eyes and ears and mouth with sensory leeches, and they sucked out the things your friend had seen and heard and said. That’s how I learned of the key. Then I rendered Maypole and his woman to the Deposed Lord who rewarded me with more power, which I used to enhance the prescience of my little friend.”

  As if on cue, the tracker demon sniffed and clicked.

  “The tracker showed me this place, this ingenious little sanctuary beyond the world. If I had attempted to enter from the wastelands outside, I would have failed because I did not have the key. But since I knew the location, a wormhole solved my problems easily. Then it was simply a matter of waiting. Waiting and watching my creatures weaken you.”

  Uno chuckled without smiling. “I thought perhaps the winged creatures would finish you and render your power unto me.” He shrugged. “But it was fun to watch you reunite with old friends here.”

  Brawley had heard enough.

  He had one more bull to cover.

  Brawley descended into himself, relieved to find his internal self still had freedom of movement. He set immediately to work.

  First, he seized the red strand and pulled a length from his mind. Dropping this at his feet, he pulled a long portion of the pink strand.

  Taking them up, he wound them round and round, twisting the longest braid he’d ever pulled.

  What the hell was he thinking? How could this succeed when his attempts with less powerful braids had already failed time and time again?

  Oh well. No time for half-stepping now. This wasn’t training. This was do or die. He had to succeed.

  Rather than simply yanking the braid and bringing it to life, he considered his options.

  The pattern was firmly established. He could ride the damn thing until it spun into tornado mode, but when it snapped to an abrupt stop, the force broke his grip and threw him into the darkness.

  He needed a bull rope.

  But there was nothing.

  Nothing, he thought, staring at the wavering yellow strand that was supercharging his thinking, except…

  But that was an insane idea. Suicidal, even. Like a mutton-busting toddler falling off a sheep and figuring he should climb onto Aftershock.

  But the idea persisted, wrapped within his commitment to double down.

  Only he’d been doubling down all along, trying his damndest to splice.

  Guess it’s time to triple down then, he thought.

  Brawley strode forward, grabbed hold of the Seeker strand, and hauled a generous length of buzzing yellow cable from the depths of his mind.

  He straddled the dormant braid, looped the yellow strand around it, gathered the excess in his riding hand, and hauled back on the whole thing as hard as he could.

  The spliced braids blasted off like a rocket. Brawley gripped the yellow strand in both hands and concentrated on his balance.

  The braid shook violently, trying to throw him. Then rushed downward, and Brawley braced himself for what he figured was coming next.

  The braid snapped hard to one side then rushed back in the other direction and slammed to a stop. Brawley held tight to the thrumming yellow strand.

  It was awesome, having something to grip.

  The braid reared back like a bullwhip.

  Brawley held the yellow strand but gave it some slack and slid down the braid, which lashed forward.

  Brawley cinched the yellow strand just in time. The braid slammed to a stop, jarring him, but he held on.

  Then the braid dropped into a coil, smashing Brawley’s boots into the pediment, then exploded once more into the air.

  Brawley clamped his knees, rolled his hips back, and gripped the yellow strand in both hands, knowing what was coming.

  The supercharged braid whirled round and round, spinning faster than ever.

  Brawley grinned. He couldn’t help it. This was crazy. The ride of a lifetime. Such tremendous forces at play. Such audacious bullshit.

  He roared with laughter.

  If he was going to die, he wouldn’t go out frozen to some asshole’s skinny little finger.

  He would swagger to the end, go out like a cowboy, and ride this damn beast all the way to hell.

  As if calling his bluff, the braid whirled faster.

  Come on, you son of a bitch, Brawley thought, bearing down on the yellow strand. Come on and try. I’m Brawley Peckinpah Hayes, world fucking champion, and you can’t throw me!

  The braid slammed to a halt.

  Brawley snapped out straight as an arrow, his boots pointing out into darkness and oblivion. He bellowed like a savage, gripping his makeshift bull rope of crackling yellow force with every ounce of his strength and willpower.

  His grip did not break.

  The braid froze there, stunned as a broken bull.

  Brawley swung his body back around, wrapped his legs around the thrumming pillar of power, and gave a victorious whoop. As his joyous holler faded into the darkness, the braid began pulsing.

  But the fight was over. Brawley had dominated the braid and mastered its power. Its energy rushed into him.

  He had gambled everything on splicing and won. But splicing had provided a chance not a guarantee.

  He needed to act decisively and intelligently. There would be no margin for error.

  The burgeoning power within him demanded a conduit. Otherwise, it would explode like an overheated boiler.

  He had to choose a strand.

  What would be his best weapon against Uno, his best shot at breaking free?

  With supercharged Carnal strength, he might literally break free then smash Uno’s skull.

  With that much Seeker juice, he might punch a whole straight through everything the Cosmic believed and replace it with enough goodwill to make the bastard hold nice and still while Brawley put a bullet through his brain.
/>   But ultimately, Brawley believed in force. Raw, explosive power.

  So he poured the bulk of his power straight into his red strand, which rushed upward, towering high up into the cavern of his inner world, dispelling the near darkness with its bright crimson aura.

  Yes, Brawley thought. The tiny reservoir of force he’d left in his Seeker strand reported his telekinetic strength.

  397.

  He laughed aloud but wondered if it would be enough.

  No, his Seeker strand replied. It is not enough to smash Uno’s shield, not enough to strike him.

  Brawley wrestled with this knowledge. There had to be a way.

  Yes, his intuition responded. Yes, there is a way. But not yet…

  Then his Seeker force petered out, the strand utterly depleted.

  From here on out, Brawley was on his own. There was only one thing to do. Luckily, it was a thing for which his life of hunting, training, and hard work had prepared him.

  Brawley knew how to wait.

  25

  Rising back into the paralyzed reality of his external self, Brawley realized that Uno had finally come to life. In fact, the little fucker had worked himself into a pretty good lather.

  “You see?” Uno said. “Valdez thought I worked for him, but I didn’t. Dutchman thought I worked for him, but I didn’t. I did their errands, but I never served them. I have only ever had one master, the master I serve to this day, this glorious day when I will at last set my master free.

  “The others abandoned the Deposed Lord during his moment of need. But not Uno. I stayed loyal because I had faith. I knew he had not been destroyed as the Order claimed. I knew that my master was somewhere beyond this world, gathering strength and that someday, he would return to reward his loyal servants and destroy those who had betrayed him.

  “From the day of his exile, I kept the War of the Wizards alive, searching for my master. When I found him in the plane of Ever Dusk, he was reduced to a whispering shadow. But I nursed him back to health, feeding him power until he was strong enough to open a special gate that I used to deliver rendered power and he used to send me gifts.

  “For decades, I have served him faithfully, waiting for this day. Now, with your capture, our great moment is upon us. I will render you and your woman and pass your power through the gate to the Deposed Lord, returning him to full strength and finally breaking him free of his long exile. Master Blackthorne will rise again, and I will rise at his side!”

  Master Blackthorne, Brawley thought. Eleazar Blackthorne, the Cosmic who had battled the Order.

  Uno started mumbling arcane phrases again.

  Brawley felt a strange sensation, a crumbling in his chest, as if his insides were turning to dust.

  His survival instincts demanded that he blast the Cosmic, but Brawley stuck to the game plan. He had no Seeker force to query, but the fact of the matter was that nothing had changed. Nothing suggested that Uno was vulnerable in some way that he hadn’t been earlier.

  Brawley waited and forced himself to remain calm, even as the crumbling feeling within him strengthened and his heart fluttered not from emotion but from whatever Uno was doing to him.

  “Prepare for glory, power mage,” Uno said. “Behold the Deposed Lord, Master Blackthorne.”

  Muttering an incantation, Uno unbuttoned his baggy shirt and slowly parted its halves.

  If Brawley hadn’t been paralyzed, he would have jerked away with atavistic loathing.

  Beneath the baggy bowling shirt, Uno had been concealing an abomination. A cavernous hole gaped at the center of his big belly. Within, Brawley could see another strange and shadowy world.

  A dark figure with a skull-like face sat upon a dark throne carved into the side of a mountain.

  Eleazar Blackthorne, Brawley thought.

  Above the emaciated wizard’s leering rictus, red eyes burned with fiery hunger.

  One skeletal hand clutched an arm of the black throne. The other grasped a black scepter tipped with a glowing gemstone of bright fluorescent green.

  “Yessss,” Blackthorne hissed, his dry voice lifting to Brawley, borne up out of that other world upon a frigid wind that roared through the open gate. “Give me the power mage.”

  And then Brawley understood why his intuition had advised him to wait.

  Uno remained safe, walled off behind a living shield. His armor had only one opening. The gate in his gut. Otherwise, force and matter could not pass between Uno and Blackthorne.

  In a sense, Uno’s master, despite being on a different plane of existence, was closer to Brawley than Uno. Or at least, more accessible.

  Within his chest, Brawley felt his life force unknitting, its fibers unbundling and stretching toward the open gate to feed the evil fucker staring greedily up at him from that black throne down there.

  Brawley stared back at Blackthorne, thinking, You want to taste my power, asshole? Try this.

  And he launched a 377-point blast.

  His mind spasmed as the telekinetic howitzer round shot through the gate.

  There was no visible projectile. No sizzling red lightning bolt. No truck-sized tracer round burning bright as it raced into that land of shadows.

  “Yesss!” Eleazar Blackthorne cackled upon the throne.

  Then the invisible bolt struck him center mass. And the cackling, interdimensional asshole was gone.

  Blackthorne, along with his scepter, throne, and even the mountainside into which the throne room was carved all disappeared in a massive explosion of dust and debris.

  “No!” Uno cried, gasping as the gate slammed shut. He staggered backward, clutching his wobbling belly. “No!”

  And suddenly, Brawley was free.

  The crumbling feeling at his center vanished, and into its place rushed the fierce strength of a raging beast that, having at last snapped its shackles, rushes forward to destroy its tormentor.

  “What have you done?” Uno shrieked, suddenly divested of power and lacking the strength and character to summon courage.

  Into that weakness Brawley strode, marching straight at the bewildered man.

  Uno fumbled at his waistline, drawing a pistol.

  Brawley lashed out and batted the gun away.

  “Wait!” Uno said. “No!” And in a last-ditch attempt, he started hissing some garbled Cosmic bullshit.

  Brawley grabbed the little fucker by his lapels, jerked him forward, and releasing a fraction of his remaining Carnal juice, drove his own head forward in a powerful headbutt. His forehead slammed like a bull’s horn boss into the stupid little hat. Uno’s skull crumpled with a satisfying crunch. His body gave one powerful jerk and went loose.

  Brawley dropped him to the floor and just stood there for a second, watching everything that Uno had ever thought or seen or dreamed leak in a spreading pool from his misshapen head.

  The rush hit him then. All the fatigue and pain and imbalance the Cosmic had wreaked upon him vanished in a rush of euphoric vigor that electrified his body and mind, cranking his psi score to a whopping 202 points.

  Brawley turned to Remi, who smiled weakly from where she lay upon the floor. “Nice headbutt, babe,” she said, her voice a faint whisper. “That was hot.”

  He crossed the room and crouched down as she sat up.

  “You okay, Remi?”

  She nodded, rubbing her chest. “Son of a bitch really fucked me up, but I’m okay, I think. For a second there, it felt like I was…”

  “Crumbling?” he guessed.

  She nodded. “Help me up, handsome.”

  He reached down and she took his hand and he pulled her to her feet.

  “How do we get out of here?” Remi said.

  “Good question, darlin.”

  “If I had little red slippers, I’d click the heels, but…” she glanced down at her gore-spattered motorcycle boots.

  Brawley scanned the floor and spotted what he was after: the key.

  It had to be the key.

  And sure enough, turning i
t in his hand, he saw that the inscription had changed.

  Be brave, Son, and come back soon.

  The first etching had transported them here. This one would take them home.

  Brawley didn’t make the mistake of reading the inscription aloud.

  “Reload that shotgun, darlin.”

  Remi cracked the double-barrel open and got busy plugging in fresh cartridges.

  Brawley loaded a fresh mag into his XDS, studying the room his parents had created for him.

  Red Haven.

  The mysterious, robed woman had said he was supposed to study the book here. The Tome of Seven Strands, she’d called it. And based on that name, Brawley reckoned Sage had been right. The thing held magic usable only by power mages.

  An idea seized him then. He pulled the book from his back pocket and opened to a random page.

  The text remained indecipherable but with one major difference. It had stopped moving.

  Brawley grinned and tucked it back into his pocket.

  Progress.

  Then he noticed the corpses. Their torn flesh was no longer snow white and their blood was red again.

  With a pang of guilt, he noticed a shred of bathrobe material. A terrycloth belt lay twisted like a dead snake.

  I’m sorry, Maypole, he thought, and his eyes found the crumpled paper sack Maypole’s wife had carried through and beyond life. I’m sorry to you, too, Ma’am.

  His eyes went to the remains of the friendly PBR fan.

  I’m sorry, man. Truly.

  It was a pitiful eulogy and lame-ass apology, but it was all he could do.

  For the moment, anyway.

  The weight of their deaths bore down heavily upon him, but Brawley straightened and pushed his guilt aside. Yes, he’d gotten those people killed, but that had not been his intention.

  Beating himself up over it now would only weaken him, and he couldn’t afford weakness. Now, more than ever, he needed strength. Because the best thing he could do for these people was to make sure they hadn’t died in vain.

  Perhaps he would eventually muse on their deaths, but first he had four strands to crack and a shit ton of assholes to kill.

  He grabbed Remi’s hand and opened the door. Seeing no threats, they raced to the Harley.

  “Hold tight, darlin,” Brawley said. “We’re going home.”