Giantfall

by F. A. Bentley

  Lis once told me that old wily beasts were always the most dangerous. Not just because of the wisdom they’ve amassed in old age, but because of the overconfidence of youthful hunters. I narrowed my eyes and offered a nod and a strained smile.

  Rurik returned the gesture. “Heidi, if Mr. Hunter wishes to hunt then who am I to deny him? I have a little business to take care of. Please, show him around as a faithful hunting hound would.”

  “It would be my pleasure,” Heidi said, bowing low and courteous.

  With a nod we parted ways, Heidi clinging to my arm. Her nails were long, and her nose was sharp. She looked like the kind of girl that would cooked dinner in high heels.

  “Second floor, Mr. Hunter,” she said.

  It didn’t take an eye for detail to figure out what Heidi was playing at.

  “I doubt the view will get any better than it already is,” I said.

  The Vetti flushed, biting her lower lip. As we reached the top of the stairs, we looked over the balcony and down towards the rest of the party. Or rather, I looked. Heidi had her eyes glued to me.

  “The way you’re looking at me makes me wonder who is predator and who is prey, Miss Heidi.”

  She let out a soft, mirthful laugh before flicking a bang back over her ear.

  “Why don’t we skip the word play and go somewhere a little more quiet, Mr. Hunter?”

  The tone of her voice was more than just amicable. It was lusty. When I turned to look at her, she had an ornate room key pressed between her lips, her hand gently pressed against the top of her cleavage. Cloudy eyes beckoned me to take her.

  I leveled a deadly serious stare at her and whispered, “Let’s cut to the chase then.”

  Chapter 6

  The key led to lush ‘resting room’ that screamed three words at me.

  Hot. Posh. Sex.

  I sat down on the lavish bed and watched the Vettir woman close and lock the door shut behind her.

  “Ready?” I asked, keeping my tone playful.

  “Ready,” she purred.

  In a flash of movement, I found myself staring down the barrel of a gun. Heidi’s eyes hardened and her lips pressed into a grimace, staring down at me with weapon in hand.

  I raised my hands up over my head, a wry grin spreading over my lips. “That’s a shame. I thought you’d be less direct in trying to kill me. Some poison, or at least a dagger halfway through the act. Nice act, by the way.”

  Heidi shrugged, “Like dangling a turkey leg from a string--”

  The mistake was in the shrug. With the gun barrel tilted ever so slightly off course, I leaped to my feet and took advantage of that careless instant. I grabbed her gun from behind and deftly swiped it out of her grip and sent it sailing through the air. Before she had time to gasp I had her by her shoulder, pressing the length of my right arm across her chest and pinning her to the wall.

  “Unless, of course,” I said, panting lightly, “This is exactly where I wanted you in the first place.

  The shock in her eyes was replaced with defiance as she dug her fingers into my arm in an iron grip. Before she could struggle though, I pressed the tip of my wand, clasped in my free hand, against her nose.

  “I think a double entendre about my wand being in your face would be a low hanging fruit at this point. Why don’t we play nice instead and enjoy a game of twenty questions?” I asked ever so politely.

  “A wizard,” she said.

  “Warlock.”

  “Irrelevant. You’re here for Rurik.”

  “What makes you think that I’m anything but a suspiciously well armed and dangerous guest?”

  When the Vetti replied, her tone was totally different from the vague vapidness of earlier. “Too many coincidences all at once,” Heidi mumbled before clearing her throat, “Gold and silver is fine, but do you do any work in Meteoric Iron?”

  Normally I am good at keeping a poker face. Despite what Lis might say. However, the code words being spoken by Heidi must have put a crack in my mask. Enough of one to tip her off at least.

  The beauty frowned. “I knew it. They said there’d be a Nine Towers agent skulking about town, but to think you’d go sniffing right into the wolf’s den. Are you an idiot?”

  “Of course not. I just have an underdeveloped sense of self preservation,” I couldn’t help but joke. “You seem to know about me, but who exactly are you, ‘Heidi’?”

  “Brigitte Helmsdottr,” The Vetti said, tracing a stray finger through the air in a distinct pattern before pressing her finger to her shining gemstone necklace.

  Shining rubies became iron baubles, and in the middle of the centerpiece I could see three eyes engraved on a stone disc, each one staring at the next in a circle of eternal surveillance.

  “Well hell,” I said, heaving a forlorn sigh, “To think I was this close to getting lucky with someone from NORN. Charles Locke, by the way. Charmed.”

  “You should have had your superiors contact mine. I almost killed you out of hand. You can’t just barge in here like a drunken Giant desperate for a date.”

  “If it makes you feel better, it was you that almost got killed. And I’ve been all out of patience after that spot of trouble back at the museum. I don’t have time to play nice with the bureaucrats.”

  “The museum?” Brigitte asked.

  One thing that most of the supernaturals have in common is a deep seated need for observation. Their methods of waging war might remain outright antiquated, but trickery, espionage and paranoia have always been the strong point of every mythology, circle of sorcerers, and two bit bogeyman the world over. NORN was one of precious few organizations that was on speaking terms with the ones holding my leash at Nine Towers.

  So I told her what happened.

  By the time I’d finished, Brigitte’s face had hardened, and her eyes stared off into the distance. “This means that things are moving along far faster than we thought. If it really is those disgusting little rats at the heart of this then--”

  “That’s not a very nice way to refer to your fellow Vettir,” I said.

  Brigitte shot me a glare before heaving a sigh and standing up from her seat on the bed. “It never seems to make it into the stories, does it? I bet you think Jotun are all big dumb drunken Norsemen.”

  “Jotun?” I asked, perking an eyebrow.

  Brigitte snapped her fingers as if on cue, and her glamour vanished without a trace. Four and a half feet became eight and a half, flashy hair disappeared into a tight pragmatic ponytail, and sickly green skin became pink with just a shade of blue.

  “...Ah,” I managed, the height of eloquence.

  This is what Lis must have meant when she said Brigitte wasn’t what she seemed to be. Goblin arm candy turned Goblin seductress turned Goblin assassin, turned pale, slender Giantess.

  “I hope you’re satisfied,” Brigitte muttered, before snapping her fingers and returning back to the form of the plump bombshell Vettir.

  It was enchantment. Powerful enchantment at that. There was an element of specialized items enhancing an already superb skill. No other way she could pull off such a extensive illusion so quickly.

  “I’m nowhere near satisfied,” I said. “Rurik. Tell me.”

  “NORN had me shadowing him for months, but I’m here in an informant capacity only,” Brigitte said. “He’s certainly got ties with the Vetti, but beyond that? We don’t know anything about him. Where he came from. Who he’s working for...”

  “You’re sure of it? That old geezer is our man?” I asked.

  Brigitte nodded. “Probably a lieutenant.”

  “Where can I get him alone for a little head to head?” I asked.

  Brigitte averted her gaze. I frowned.

  “Neither of us has time for this. If the Jotun lose another Locus of power that means a lot of your enchantments, magic, hell, even raw power will be gone right along with it. Balance shattered, heavens in peril. Now help me do my job and give me a chance to put that geezer’s head on a god damn sp
ike.”

  Patience is a virtue. And in case being on a first name basis with a capital A Adversary like Lis wasn’t enough of a hint, then I’ll make it perfectly clear: I am not a terribly virtuous person.

  The NORN agent hesitated a moment longer before withdrawing a flat runestone from in between her ample breasts. It was red rune on a flat, black volcanic rock, and it looked savage and amateur compared to Lodri’s trinket. I tried to ignore the cozy warmth upon its surface as I clenched the stone in my hand.

  Brigitte brushed a stray bang behind her ear. “Rurik is going to be holding an after party up in the penthouse suite. It’s all hush so I can’t say anything else for sure. This lockstone should deactivate the wards he has placed on it and grant you entrance.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. “I’d expect nothing less from a crafty woman like you. You should clear out by then though, I’d rather not attend any more funerals than I need to, Ms. Helmsdottr.”

  Brigitte snorted. “Not a chance. I have to go act beautiful for at least a little while longer--”

  I was already halfway through the door and onto the inner balcony when I hesitated and turned, “Brigitte, if you want to be beautiful all you have to do is take that glamour off again.”

  The enchantress huffed up, unable to hide the red in her cheeks as I shut the door behind me and dug into my tuxedo pocket for my thin cellular phone.

  “Lodri,” I spoke into it.

  A groan, and then, “Yes?”

  “I’ve got a sudden itch to go wall climbing. Any gear recommendations for an eager amateur?”

  Chapter 7

  I actually don’t do well with heights. I always get a little dizzy whenever looking down from atop a bungalow roof, or the top of a tree fort as a kid, or say, the fifty eighth floor of the building rising up out of the Meadhouse.

  I had my good infiltration gear on. A tight black jacket, a sharp pair of utilitarian pants and a hefty belt to make sure that the climbing line Lodri dropped off doesn’t have any excuses for suddenly giving.

  When infiltrating an insurgent strong point at the top of a sky scraper it’s important to always put safety first.

  Locking an elbow over the balcony leading to the floor just below the penthouse, I pushed myself over top of it with a grunt. Terra firma. Now all that was left was the espionage.

  I made my way through the benighted room, unlocked the door and I let myself out of the abandoned office suite and into a dimly lit stairwell. Hustling up the last of the stairs, I stood before the penthouse entrance.

  Withdrawing Brigitte’s lockstone, I tapped it against the penthouse threshold. The reaction was instantaneous. Noiselessly, the locket quivered by an unseen force. After five seconds of tingling, the lockstone’s color brightened a shade. The door’s color dulled.

  Magical traps were only as scary as the mage that cast them. Paralysis spells were common. Same went for basic explosion spells. However, creative wizards might make their traps teleport your arms and legs six inches forward, leaving you completely limbless. Or alchemically transmute a victim’s blood into mercury. Or even worse.

  I couldn’t hear a damn thing when I pressed my ear to the door. The whole floor was quiet as a mouse. When I tried the knob, the door wasn’t even locked. It limply swung open to reveal a well lit modern living room.

  Early to the party? Impossible.

  That’s when I noticed it. All along the floor, visible from the front entrance, was a long crimson line painted onto the floor with a slapdash upside down triangle symbol. I gritted my teeth.

  Any warlock worth his brimstone knows what a ritual circle looks like. They were magical force multipliers and operated much the same way with magic as magnifying glasses worked with eye sight.

  Most were done in chalk, but this one?

  I took a cautious step into the abandoned penthouse and dipped a gloved finger into the red line. One sniff confirmed it.

  Blood. Party Hard.

  The hairs prickling on the back of my head was all the warning I had. I instinctively jumped to the side before several rifles emptied their clips into where I’d stood a split second before.

  I ducked into a roll, landing in what might have been a very cozy depression in the center of the penthouse’s living room. Authentic bear skin rugs adorned the center and lavish couches lined the circular depression.

  “Excellent. I was afraid this wasn’t going to be a trap,” I said, as three pairs of metal tipped boots thumped into the pit with me.

  Vetti warriors armed with axes and round shields leveled glares at me, and more shuffled around above. The clack of reloading Kalashnikov’s rung in my ears.

  With a gargled roar, the largest of the Vettir, almost as tall as me, charged with ax swinging.

  I planted a boot into the big goblin’s gut, ducked beneath a second attacker’s ax and aimed my wand at the third before rattling off my incantation. A slender violet blade flashed into existence from the tip, pierced the Vettir’s shield, nose, and stuck out the back of his head.

  The largest among them, recovered from his gut shot, tackled me bodily to the floor and screamed, “Now!”

  Gunfire erupted from above. The trail of bullets reached me before I could so much as twitch and kept on hard and fast. Splinters of hard wood floor, blood, fumes, and dust were flung high into the air until all was silent but the clack of triggers tapping empty cartridges.

  “And that’s... How you kill a mage, brothers,” chuckled a Goblin with a scar running up the side of his face.

  The last living Vettir in the pit raised his ax high in triumph, and was just about to say something terribly heroic before I sunk my blade of hardened arcana right into his throat. He gurgled, toppled over like a drunken bull, and drew the horrified gazes of the Vetti up above.

  I rose from the blood bath below with Lodri’s runestone in hand, the etching glowed lava red as a barely perceivable paling fell from me.

  “Thank you very much, Lodri. You damn Dwarf bastard,” I said, before leveling a lethal smile at the scarred Vettir.

  Chapter 8

  “Fire at will!” cried the scarred Goblin as I rushed to close the distance.

  I cut the first Vetti down in a smooth slice, and another through the chest before I felt a sudden weight strike my thigh and leave a searing numbness.

  A rusty ax was embedded firmly in my leg. If the Vettir hadn’t been the smallest of the bunch it might even have been enough to down me. As he drew back to swing again, I thrust my wand toward him point first, piercing him cleanly through the neck.

  After that, it all blurred together. Don’t listen to Hollywood movies. They’d have you believe you can mow down a small military complex if you have enough muscles or a cute enough little girl to rescue on the other side of the villains.

  Real fights cost things like stamina and focus. If I’d had more stamina I might have had the strength to shrug off the butt of the AK-47 that struck the back of my head like a freight train. If I’d had enough focus I might have seen it coming and killed the bastard wielding it, instead of letting him knock the wand and runestone out of my grasp and get on top of me.

  Straddling me, Scar face the Goblin bruiser tried to hammer my head into a fine red mist with his AK turned tribal club for a solid twenty seconds.

  Tiring him, I managed to hook his crooked nose just as his last Vettir flunky finished reloading and opened fire. Whoever taught them how to use guns had clearly forgotten to teach them thing likes ‘short controlled bursts help’, ‘hip fire is inaccurate’, and ‘friendly fire is bad’. Scar face went down with a bubbling groan, and I managed to slip behind one of the lush couches before any of the bullets could so much as graze me.

  Normally, it would be easy to end it from here. Desperate inaccurate gunmen take little more than a well aimed double tap to keep down. However, I was reminded of a terrible universal fact as I reached down to my empty holster: Lis lives to make my life a living hell.

  How could I forget I’d
given her everything but my wand in exchange for her info?

  “Goddammit!” I roared over the gun fire. “Fine. I’ll do it the old fashioned way.”

  I turned my gaze inward, touched the tip of my fingers together and after mumbling a stilted chant, I rose up from my cover.

  Magic without the use of focusing devices is hard. Especially for those with less than a lick of magical talent. However, with enough bits of your soul sold to various sundry entities residing in the Infernal realms, you can learn a few neat tricks to cheat with once in a blue moon.

  I aimed my fingers like a gun and shot the bolt of arcane force towards the last Vettir standing. With a weak ‘pthow’ the bolt flew straight and true. You’d have to be an arch mage to start tossing fire balls willy nilly sans focus, but my luck held true. For once.

  The arcane bolt struck the Vettir right in the forehead. He wobbled weakly, trying to steady himself, before collapsing into a pile of worm food.

  I breathed a sigh of relief. Game set and match.

  I got my wand and rune stone back in hand, and found something very fortunate.

  Scar face was still quite alive, despite the blood pooling beneath him. I turned him over and cleared my throat.

  “My win. Where’s Rurik?” I asked.

  The Goblin shook his head. “Wrong, Human. Your loss.”

  Faster than my tired limbs could react, Scar face drew a pistol and shot himself in the head.

  I cursed underneath my breath. My lead just dried up. The bad guys knew I was coming now, and...

  And my ears began picking up a distant hum, growing louder and louder. Craning my head around, I saw the ritual circle glowing maliciously, dull blood red turning to bright gore.

  “My loss,” I echoed.

  The suite was a trap in more than one way it seemed. The ritual wasn’t meant to be powered by innocents but by the ambushers themselves should they fail. Clever pricks. In seconds the ritual would activate, powered by the Vetti thugs I ever so diligently sacrificed in its vicinity, and turn me inside out, or melt me like chocolate in a microwave, or worse.