“Papa? You look funny. Your eyes are all wrong.” Ran’s shoulder passed through Papa’s chest when he bumped it.
Papa screamed and collapsed clutching his head. When Papa hit the ground, he vanished. Their cave materialized around Ran, darker than before. The two orange lumir sticks lay on the table by Uncle Miren, but their glow was weak in comparison to Papa’s brilliance.
“Who’re you talking to? Your father isn’t here,” Uncle Miren said without looking up from his homework.
“He was just here.”
“No, he wasn’t. You were talking to shadows.”
Ran shook his head. Where had Papa gone?
“Papa come back!”
Threads of magic drifted in the musty air, and Ran twined his little fingers in that glowing gossamer. He walked backward, wrapping them around his body. Ran ignored his uncle’s continued demands since his uncle had ignored him for the last two bells.
Giving the remnants of Papa’s magic a good tug, Ran smiled. He had a line on his missing Papa. Clutching those shimmering cords, Ran curled up with Bear. He pulled on the promise binding them, reminding Papa he was waiting. Bear’s button eyes approved.
After a few minutes of asking questions Ran ignored, his uncle threw his hands up in disgust. Muttering something about ungrateful brats, Uncle Miren slammed his book on the table.
Score one for Team Bear. Ran hid a grin in Bear’s furry belly and maybe a giggle or two at getting a rise out of his uncle. A stray tear or two might have snuck down his cheek and dripped onto Bear’s soft nap. But Bear would never tell a soul about them, especially not Uncle Miren.
A roach scuttled across the mattress. It shared Uncle Miren’s bad attitude. Concentric rings of red winked in and out of sight around the bug until Bear swatted it away.
“It was a bad thing,” Ran said.
Bear nodded.
Antennas explored a pile of clothes tangled in the remnants of Papa’s magic.
“Come back, Papa,” Ran begged, as he felt a tug on the tie binding them. Something bad gnawed at it. Papa must return before it broke, or he wouldn't be able to.
“Wake up boy.”
A hand slapped Sarn jarring him out of sleep. He stared straight into the eyes of his personal torturer.
“You’re dead.”
Hadrovel smirked and faded out. A branch sliced through the spot the Orphan Master had occupied then withdrew as the enchanted oaks bending over him lashed out, blocking another attack.
Shaken, Sarn lay there wincing at the pain throbbing in his brow. Tentative probing revealed no external cause for the pressure squeezing his head.
Did I imagine Hadrovel? Or is his ghost haunting me too?
When Sarn tried to sit up, his map tackled him, knocking him flat. He gritted his teeth as the map zoomed out to display a twenty-mile swath of the River Nirthal Valley. A fixed star pointed out his son, and it flickered demanding his attention. So did a half-dozen unrecognizable icons converging on his position. Likely they were possessed trees or mud men or both.
Damn Gregori and his tests, how could he do this to me and get away with it? And why’d he picked today of all days? Gregori, you selfish prick—Sarn punched the ground, and last year’s leaves muffled the thud it made.
He shoved the map aside, so he could rise without banging into any of the branches slashing at things outside their cordon. His map refused to minimize or become translucent. Instead, it obscured one eye forcing Sarn into a half-blinded stumble along the River Nirthal's bank while he fumbled for an All-Fruit. Of course, Mount Eredren would lie on the opposite shore.
Pain still tapped hot spikes into his head, but its vise loosened a little more with every bite of the All-Fruit. Sarn stopped when the tide rolled over his boots soaking them.
No, screamed his magic, recoiling.
Yes, said a new voice in his head—perhaps that other magic? Sarn shuddered. On his map, his son’s star icon brightened, calling to him. I’m coming, son.
Eam’meye erator.
That fell voice cut across the conflict raging behind the line of trees, silencing it. As Sarn pivoted, dropping the All-Fruit core, the sun dropped behind a cliff plunging the shore into shadows. Black mud oozed between the enchanted trees in quivering, man-shaped lumps. The ghost boy shot past those fell creatures, dodging their still-forming arms and slammed into Sarn, knocking him backward into the river.
Water dragged Sarn under. Its frigid touch quenched the fire burning behind his eyes, snuffing out their glow. Green magic retreated deep into his body away from its enemy. In its wake, another power roused sensing a vacuum. But Sarn shoved it down too and kicked for the surface.
Clawing at the water, he fought the tide and surfaced. What’s stirring inside me? I only have one type of magic.
Blinking to clear his eyes, Sarn caught glimpses of the world without the magic’s green filter, and it was a little too magenta for his liking. The forest on the north bank beckoned to him as he spat out a mouthful of water.
A black pyramid squatted a half mile down on the mud-creature infested shore he’d just left. They ignored the obsidian monstrosity fashioned long ago by Litherian hands and stared right at him as they dove into the riverbed. Why are those things after me?
A mountain overshadowed that ziggurat, and its lopsided cone was familiar. What’s twenty miles east of Mount Eredren? Is it Racine? Sarn cursed. Of course, it is. What test would be complete without the risk of discovery? Damn Gregori to the coldest pit of hell for this.
A white shape swam by startling Sarn. It was just the ghost boy, and it was trying to gaze-lock him.
“No!” Sarn closed his eyes, and the tide pushed him toward Racine and discovery.
Cold hands plucked at his clothes. They tugged his cloak as he swam on fighting the river. Sarn checked the mud creatures’ progress. They pushed on a tree close to the riverbank intent on toppling it, but its neighbors were fighting back. There was still no sign of the mud creatures who’d merged with the river’s three-mile wide bed.
They might beat me to the opposite shore. And there was nothing he could do about that except be ready to face a hostile welcoming party—fan-fricking-tastic. He cursed.
The last few hours’ insanity must be related to the events of last night, but he just couldn't see the connection. Then he was underwater again, shoved there by the ghost boy pushing on his shoulders. Why me?
A few powerful strokes pushed his head above the water line again. When the ghost shoved again, he didn't sink. But this whole episode reminded Sarn of one of his son's favorite games.
Does the ghost want to play with me? His mind rejected such reasoning, but his heart accepted it. A couple of days ago, the ghost had been a living child. And children like to play. Ran can turn anything into a game. Why would a ghost child be any different?
“We can play later. I must reach the other shore.”
Ignoring his plea, the ghost ploughed into Sarn, and something grazed his ankle. Is it one of those mud men? Did they find a way to manifest underwater?
“Is there a monster in the river?”
The ghost boy nodded and waved Sarn to hurry. They’d almost reached the northern shore.
Dripping and cold, Sarn clambered onto the riverbank, and his magic swept the rocky beach. No corrupted trees or mud men jumped out to slash him. But for a moment, a face grinned at him from the depths before the waves washed it away. Sarn hurled a rock at Hadrovel’s hated visage then shook his head.
Lack of sleep is making me hallucinate. Hadrovel is dead. He can't be part of this.
And standing around losing my mind isn't an option. I have four hours until my shift begins, and someone notices my absence. The wind cut through his wet garments making Sarn shiver. Gregori will pay for this.
Magic pulsed under the earth, clean and welcoming. Come run with me; it whispered, vibrating his bones.
And why shouldn’t I use the magic no one wants me to use? It might get me back to my son faster than
running alone.
But the old fear uncoiled and asked the one question he feared above all: what will that do to you? Your mother was a whore. You don't know where your magic came from.
That was true. Sarn rubbed at the pain in his chest and fought down that fear with a more pressing truth. I don’t have any other choices. It’s too far to run without help. And his magic offered that help.
His son's absence was an ache that wouldn’t be soothed until he held the boy close to his heart. I must do this for my son.
Sarn shucked his boots, knotted the laces together and draped them over his shoulder. He dug his toes into the earth before the fear could return. Magic seeped into his soles warming his feet as his connection to the earth sent energy tingling up his calves, doubling and tripling the power he could call upon, and that felt right.
More magic in the earth meant more enchanted trees and other flora weaving an impassable mess and likely, more corrupted things to dodge. I don't have time to deal with any of that right now.
“Papa?” Ran’s voice faded as it reverberated.
Small hands tugged on Sarn’s heart, jerking him toward his son. The world faded to gray. Purpose crystallized into a lens focusing his magic as emerald fire arced out connecting his goal to his destination. That old fear spiked, whispering all the self-limiting things that had convinced him in the past to bottle his magic up and leave it alone.
But Ran needs me and his need will keep me anchored so I'm not lost in the magic's thrall. Sarn let go, and magic spilled out hot and electric sweeping away his sanity.
“Papa come back—” Ran’s fearful voice trailed off.
“I’m coming. Hold on son.” Sarn gave the enchanted tangle before him a baleful glare.
The trees refused to budge. Green lightning crackled along his arms as Sarn threw them wide. Magic cascaded out of his hands forming a sparkling green wedge that slammed into the trees blocking him.
“Get out of my way.”
The ground quaked as the forest parted creating a straight path to Mount Eredren, twenty miles distant. Magic pushed up through the soles of his feet catapulting Sarn ten times further than his usual stride through a tunnel of trees. Hold on, son. I’m coming.
Chapter 10
Gregori squared his shoulders and followed Jerlo. If the commander wanted an admission of guilt or regret, he had a long wait. Once the Kid shows up, they’ll know I’m right.
“You’re awfully smug,” Jerlo said as he passed his office without sparing it a glance.
“Self-satisfied at a job well done yes, but not smug.” Gregori smiled. The commander's earned at least one ‘I told you so,’ and I can’t wait to deliver it.
“What do you hope to gain by this?”
“What I said on the beach. The Kid’s got problems, but he’s not fragile. He won’t break if you push him, and we must push him. He’s got something inside him none of us understands. And we won’t if we don’t test him and discover his limits.”
Gregori tapped his pocket where a list of further tests rested.
Jerlo didn’t comment, giving no sign of whether he agreed or not. The commander hid his thoughts behind an expressionless façade as they turned down a corridor with little to recommend it.
The air grew musty, and the click of the two Rangers’ soles sounded ominous in the quiet. A helmed statue glared a challenge at them as they passed it.
“Where’re we going, sir?”
Jerlo answered by knocking on a door. Captain of the Guard was stenciled on that iron-banded affair. From within, someone shouted, and Jerlo pushed the door open revealing two desks covered in papers. Nice to know the commander had company in his endless war against paperwork.
Unlike Jerlo’s office, this one had almost no décor at all, but it made up for that lack with weaponry. Racked against each wall were all kinds of edged playthings. Spears, staves, axes, pikes—they all had a place here. Since plate armor belonged to the Knights, the Guards wore boiled leather or mail tunics. Piles of both occupied opposite corners of the room ready to square off at a moment’s notice. And a depiction of the Queen of All Trees hung amid all the trappings of war as if she belonged there. Gregori shook off her eyeless stare.
“What can I do for you?” asked a Guardsman in his late twenties rising from behind one of the desks.
He adjusted his rumpled uniform of dark blue tunic and trousers drawing Gregori’s eyes to the insignia stitched on the fellow’s right pec. Two black spears crossed over a white barbute marking the man as part of the Guards.
Real barbutes rested on each of the desks so their Y-shaped slits faced Gregori. How could anyone wear such a close-fitting metal helmet? One good bop on its metal dome would give the unfortunate wearer a headache.
Glad the Rangers employed lighter armor, Gregori dismissed the helm. A Ranger wearing yonder steel helmet would incite the metal-hating enchanted forest to murder.
“Actually, I came to offer you some help.” Jerlo leaned over the other desk and picked up a file. He flashed it to the Guard. “May I?”
“You came to look at the cold case file?”
Jerlo nodded as he flipped through the pages. “One, in particular, vexes me.”
“Only one?”
The Guard’s brows rose in surprise. If you stuck him in a crowd, he’d blend right into it. This guard must be a secretary.
Jerlo shrugged. “If I had a heart, they’d all tug on it, but since rumor claims I lack that organ, I’m spared such pain.” Jerlo gestured to the file and waved it at the nameless Guardsman perched on the edge of the opposite desk. “Nulthir and I meet weekly to discuss things. We keep each other appraised of developing situations and odd cases.”
The commander gave Gregori a hard stare inviting him to make the obvious leap in logic.
Gregori nodded, catching onto what Jerlo left unsaid. The two men met to talk so the commander could control what the Guards knew about Sarn. Since the Guards policed the Indentured, they likely glimpsed the Kid coming and going. Sarn was a secret all the Rangers kept from the populace at large. Or they tried to when the stupid Kid cooperated.
Jerlo pulled a quarter-inch stack of pages from the file with a flourish.
“Here they are. You recall these?”
He passed the pages in question to Nulthir who scanned them then handed them back with a sad nod. Jerlo shoved them at Gregori.
“Look at these and tell me what you think.”
Each of the twenty-seven pages in his hand represented a kid who had vanished in the last five years. All the missing were males between the ages of sixteen and twenty.
The snatched teens were from the working class, judging by the addresses. The average height of male Shayarins topped out at five-foot-ten, but all the missing boys were over six-feet tall. Now that was a curious detail.
Shayari had a long history of immigration before Kaydran Ironwood closed the border and programmed it to keep everyone out. Thanks to immigration, Shayarins came in a variety of skin tones from corpse pale to jet black and every shade in between. The kidnapper had plenty of potential victims to choose from since Mount Eredren had a lot of young people, yet he or she had snatched light-skinned boys. This is getting more and more interesting by the moment.
Gregori flipped back to the beginning and cursed as a profile built in his head. It matched Sarn’s vital stats in every way save one. He had radiant green eyes, and no one knew he existed except the Rangers and the noble fool who owned him. Is the Kid in danger? Of course, he is. This is Sarn. He drags trouble around in his wake.
Five years ago, Vic Number One went missing three days after Sarn turned sixteen. Then five unlucky boys of the same age and description vanished in the following eleven months. The pattern repeated each year. What did the perpetrator do with these boys? And why’s there an eight-week gap between the disappearances?
Gregori shook his head. So far this year, only three boys had gone missing, and they were all twenty just like a certain green-eyed p
ain in his neck. After a quick check, he tallied up the months and nodded. If the pattern held true, the fourth boy would disappear sometime in July, the fifth in September and the sixth in November.
The perpetrator must know about Sarn. The pattern indicates he does, but what about the Guards?
Gregori met Jerlo’s gaze, but again, his boss gave nothing away. Perhaps guilt colored his perceptions because Gregori dropped his gaze to the page in front of him and started at a sketch of a boy with a familiar facial scar. His gut clenched. Someone’s definitely searching for Sarn and leaving missing boys in his wake.
“It’s a chilling pattern, isn’t it?” Jerlo said, taking the prize for understatement of the century.
“Hell yeah, I’ve got nephews in this age range.”
Thanks to Ranispara’s sisters and their fecundity.
“I know. For their sake, I brought this to your attention.” Jerlo’s hard stare approved the subterfuge. Perhaps the Guards weren’t aware of the connection between the missing boys and the Rangers’ indentured servant.
“Is there more?” Gregori looked to Nulthir who nodded and got up from his perch. Flipping open a chest, he riffled through it and pulled out a thicker file.
Handing it across to Gregori, he grimaced. “If you know anything about what the hell is going on, I urge you to tell me at once.”
Gregori nodded. “Twenty-seven is a lot. A couple of boys going missing is one thing. But this—” Gregori brandished the file, “—is a definite pattern pointing to something nefarious. You’ve got whatever help I can give.”
“We Rangers can’t operate inside the mountain,” Jerlo warned. “But a little information gathering never hurt anyone, now did it?”
The commander had addressed his closing remarks to Nulthir, who nodded.
“I don’t see how it could as long as we’re copied on everything. This is our investigation.” Nulthir sighed, “and I have to deal with the grieving relatives.”
Curse Breaker: Books 1-4 Page 12