Gatecrash: The Secretist, Part Two

by Doug Beyer

  So they used different names for their two heads. Jace thought of them as brothers, in a way, but he supposed that wasn’t accurate. They were the same being from the necks down.

  “Both of you, then,” said Jace. “I come to ask for your help. Since you worked for me, you’ve been traveling around the district in a certain way. Following a route. Visiting gates.”

  “How you know this?” asked Ruric.

  “Are you following a pattern of some kind? Some new information that you might have picked up at our last meeting? I think I may have left something in your mind, and I need it back.”

  Thar chuckled, a sound that echoed in the ogre’s chest like a barrel. “Can’t, little mage. Ours now.”

  “I’m afraid I need it, and I’m afraid it has to be now. It’s vitally important.”

  “Answer’s no,” said Ruric, waving the arm that terminated in a large axe. “Now go. We have crook-priests to smash.”

  “I’ll do whatever you want,” said Jace.

  The Gruul warriors looked at each other, as did the Ruric head and the Thar head.

  “All right, then,” said Thar. “You want it, you must take it. Take out your sword.”

  Jace spread his palms. “I—what? I have no sword.”

  Ruric and Thar nodded understandingly. “Axe, then.”

  “What I mean is, I don’t carry weapons.”

  “You must have weapon. You are challenger. Challenger has the honor of first hit. Oszika, give him your sword.”

  “Isn’t there another way to do this?”

  Ruric shook his head. “This is Gruul way.”

  A tall female troll presented Jace with the hilt of an enormous, wide-bladed sword. Jace took it, recoiling from the weight of it. He tried to heft the tip of it, and barely managed to pull up the point.

  “Swing it,” said Thar.

  Jace knew he was far beyond the bounds of his expertise, but he gave the sword a test swing. It was so heavy that he had to use gravity to swing the end of it around, which gave it so much momentum that it nearly spun him around. It took all his body weight to absorb the trajectory of the sword and end his swing.

  Ruric spat on the ground in disgust. The Gruul warriors laughed.

  “While I’m flattered you want to duel,” said Jace, “I am not going to strike you. I only need a moment to plumb your mind, and I can be on my way.”

  The war party laughed again. “Just try it!” one of the warriors shouted.

  Thar had the left hand on his chin. “You do spells.”

  “Yes,” said Jace. “Spells. Just one spell to scan you two, and I’ll leave you alone.”

  “Then spells will have to do.” Ruric Thar took the sword back and handed it back to its owner. He squared up opposite Jace and braced for impact. He was empty-handed, but not unarmed: one of his forearms ended at the elbow, and had been fitted with a huge axe.

  “As we said, first hit goes to you,” Ruric said. “No death magic, no summoned creatures, no rotting spell. Fire, lightning okay. Hit us.”

  This is barbaric, Jace thought. He wasn’t going to attack this ogre with magic, not while he just stood there. That would only invite a counterattack, and would just start a fight, which Jace suspected was exactly what the Gruul ogre wanted. Jace would be agreeing to a fight he couldn’t win. He just wanted to explain himself, but it didn’t look as though things were heading toward a diplomatic resolution.

  Plus, there was an even more pressing problem. “I don’t typically use spells that … hit people,” he said.

  “Ah,” said Thar, nodding. “Grow claws, slash my face?”

  “No, I can’t do that, either.”

  “Call down blast of searing light?”

  “No.”

  “Lift and hurl heavy boulders at great speed?”

  “No.”

  “Unleash flurry of jagged blades?”

  “No …”

  “Turn yourself into giant? Shred me with serrated vines and leaves? Sonic scream of rage? What?”

  “Listen, Ruric, Thar. I’m not a warrior. I’m not a battlemage. I can’t do any of those things.”

  This set the warriors to murmuring.

  “What’s your magic do?” asked Ruric, finally.

  “You already know that. I’m a mind mage. I alter the mind.”

  Ruric and Thar laughed heartily. “A wizard of daydreams. Yes. So you are. So, no hitting. No hitting, no duel. No duel, no prize.”

  Jace had no recourse. He had to have what was in the ogre’s mind. If Ruric Thar wanted a blast of Jace’s magic, he would have it. “All right. I will try.”

  The ogre nodded doubly, and once again positioned himself to absorb an impact, the faintest smile on both the ogre’s faces. Jace summoned up all his mental strength, and formed his mind into a projectile, firing a blast of mental force at Ruric and Thar simultaneously, hoping to knock the Gruul warrior down in one psychic blow.

  The backlash was immediate and blindingly painful. The force he sent at both of the ogre’s minds reflected back on him, and he was hit with the full brunt of his own spell. It knocked him down with a nauseating wave of crushing agony, and he lay there, trying to hold the sides of his head in. The Gruul warriors apparently thought that was the funniest thing they had seen all day.

  Savage echoes of pain reverberated through Jace’s skull. It didn’t feel like a protective enchantment or some other kind of reflective spell that had sent back his psychic blast—the ogre hadn’t had to react at all. Ruric Thar’s very nature had rejected the magic somehow.

  “Was that your hit?” asked Thar.

  “We’ll give you another try if you want,” said Ruric.

  “Just a minute,” muttered Jace. “Let me finish throbbing.”

  The ogre had something in his nature that absorbed magic and sent it back at its caster, or focused it. It explained why the ogre had been able to smash his way through a series of guild-controlled gates almost singlehandedly. Jace tried to imagine legions of guildmages trying to slow down the rampaging ogre. They probably ended up with more than bad headaches.

  When he felt like he wasn’t seeing four heads instead of two, Jace stood and brushed off his cloak. “I can’t beat you with mind magic,” he said slowly, his cranium still pounding. “But I still need what’s in your mind.”

  “Have to beat us somehow,” said Ruric.

  “Or we can just kill you,” offered Thar.

  “Neither of you is ‘the nice head,’ I take it,” said Jace. “There’s nothing I can offer you? Some way to convince you to let me poke around in there?”

  “Fight or die, mage. Decide.”

  CHANGES OF HEART

  Emmara approached the sacred grove where Calomir had an audience with their guildmaster, Trostani. She told herself she wasn’t sneaking up on them—she simply hadn’t announced herself, and her gait was naturally quiet. She couldn’t bend minds or wrap herself in illusions as Jace could, but she had an elf’s subtle step and a good read of body language, and she knew she was not detected. And it wasn’t her intention to eavesdrop, exactly. She would stride into the grove without hiding, as any other audience with Trostani. But she put the slightest delay in her step, because she had the sense that Calomir did not share her desire for peace and unity between the guilds, and wanted to hear how their discussion was going, and how he was advising their guild leader.

  It was worse than she feared.

  “I recommend we send all available ranks of soldiers, at least thirty cavalry, and a contingent of woodshapers and guildmages,” Calomir was saying. “And if we can call some greater elementals, we should do that too.”

  “You believe that that is the proper reaction?” asked the three dryads of Trostani. “Ever since the end of the Guildpact, we have tried to achieve a peace with the Rakdos, and our response to this incident may well determine our relationship for years to come.”

  “Exactly. We have tried to achieve a peace. And how well has it worked? Our response to this in
cident is exactly what is at issue. We must strike back, to prove our mettle to the other guilds. We must demonstrate that we are not willing to sit by while our dignitaries suffer brazen abductions in the middle of the historic Tenth District.”

  Emmara stepped into the grove. “Or we can send a dignitary out to meet them,” she said. Calomir and Trostani turned to her. “We send the very same abductee, to show them how deep our commitment to peace goes, and to impress upon this district that the Conclave represents allegiance to unity. We send a symbol of our goodwill. We send me.”

  “That’s foolish and you know it,” said Calomir.

  “Foolish is the Conclave marching through the streets wielding steel and spell,” she said, “surrendering our argument for peace while the other guilds are already rattling sabers over the Izzet.”

  Trostani reared up to her full height, the three dryads addressing Emmara. “We have great hopes for you as an emissary of our guild’s message, Emmara. But Calomir has convinced us that no peace can be brokered with those who would destroy for destruction’s sake.”

  Calomir puffed out his chest and crossed his arms.

  “That’s not true,” said Emmara. “We haven’t given it a chance, not really, not since the Guildpact. We haven’t let Jace try to reach them …”

  “You’ve tried to persuade the mind mage to help in this effort, but as Captain Calomir has said, his loyalties are anything but clear. He will not be part of our response. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, guildmaster,” said Emmara.

  “On the other hand, we will require you.” The dryads reached their arms out to Emmara. “Your skill with the nature elementals is now required. You will call to them. You will awaken them, to help Captain Calomir assemble the force he needs.”

  “No. I won’t. I won’t be party to this. I won’t call a being of nature to an errand of war.”

  “The guild is agreed,” said Trostani. “The Conclave has declared it so.”

  Emmara started to object, but the words caught in her throat. Her shoulders fell.

  “It is the will of all. Are you suggesting that your lone, individual voice should trump those of all the masses?”

  “No, Guildmaster. But—”

  “Good, then. Proceed. Captain Calomir shall direct your efforts as he sees fit.”

  Emmara bowed to her guildmaster. When she turned to Calomir, her teeth were clamped together, as if she were biting words.

  “Come with me, Miss Tandris,” said Calomir, offering his hand.

  Jace tried to remember the last time he had a relaxing, tranquil day, a day at the end of which he could stretch out, knit his fingers behind his head, and sigh contentedly. Having to best a Gruul ogre warlord in single combat was dire enough, but Jace somehow had to accomplish this feat without the use of spells. If he attacked the ogre’s mind in any way, he would suffer the backlash himself. Jace wasn’t sure he even knew how to sigh contentedly.

  Compared to Ruric Thar’s muscle and size, Jace had only wit on his side. He had a keen mind, and he was slow to anger. He would have to turn that into victory.

  “All right, then,” Jace couldn’t believe he was saying. “We fight.”

  The Gruul warriors roared in a bloodthirsty cheer.

  Ruric Thar slashed overhand down at Jace with the axe arm. Jace dodged out of the way, narrowly enough to feel the wind of the cutting blade by his cheek. Ruric Thar immediately followed up with a crushing left fist, impacting with the broad side of Jace’s face. It wasn’t enough to break bone, but it sent Jace rolling across the trimmed grass of the city park.

  Jace’s vision was blurred. He climbed to his knees and spat something red onto the grass. He tried to feel that he expected a blow like that, to remember that the ogre would inevitably be able to outdo him in raw strength. He felt like letting fly a torrent of the foulest curses he knew in multiple planar languages; this brawl was plainly insane. But his patient mind took over. He took a breath and blew out his anger. The circumstances were unfair, but he had to abide by the rules at hand, and win within them.

  He couldn’t assail the mind—minds—of Ruric Thar, but he could observe the minds of the other Gruul warriors. He could almost read them already. They watched him intently, fists clenched in empathy. The Gruul were the underdogs of Ravnica—they felt for him.

  He opened himself to it. He let their thoughts and passions flow through his consciousness, to try to study how they thought. Maybe understanding them could give him an edge against Ruric Thar.

  Stop analyzing and react, one of the warriors thought.

  Don’t think, you damned fool, thought another. Civilization taught you wrong. Let go of it all! Just hit him!

  Their thoughts roared in his mind. They were barely even thoughts. Jace felt overrun by a stampede of unstrategic, impulsive, carnivorous instincts. He needed to understand that, to dissect the secret behind it, and use it.

  Jace rushed at Ruric Thar. The ogre swung his axe-arm, but the angle was sloppy, and the blade only glanced off of Jace’s shoulder and tore his cloak. Jace’s knuckles slammed into his target, a sensitive spot in the underarm, and then he aimed for the kidney twice. The ogre reacted with an elbow, sending Jace careening.

  Jace sat on the park grass again, his wounds thudding.

  Stop holding yourself back, thought one of the warriors. Let the roar come out!

  Thinking is getting your face mashed in, thought another. Feel! Uncage yourself!

  Jace let it all in, combining the minds of all the warriors into a ring of fury with him as its center. His ribcage pounded and his lungs burned. He could hear the urgings of the warriors in his mind. They thought that in order to beat a Gruul warrior, he needed to think like one—or not think like one. They wanted him to surrender his mind, to let the rage wash over him and overwhelm his logic.

  But he had a better idea.

  Jace focused on the imagery in the minds of the spectators around him. They weren’t just radiating raw fury and bloodlust—they were imagining how they would attack Ruric Thar if they were in Jace’s place. They were a barrage of combat ideas. Jace let the punches and rolls and throws swirl around him, choreographing an attack plan.

  Jace somersaulted at Ruric Thar and grabbed at a leg, clamping onto it. The ogre tried to shake him off, but he bit the thin-skinned area behind the knee, ripping tissue with his teeth. Ruric and Thar roared and kicked Jace off their leg.

  More of the Gruul’s battle imagery poured into Jace. He darted back and forth, relying on the warriors’ split-second assessments of the fight to guide him. Ruric Thar swung intermittently with fist and axe, but Jace sensed the impulses of the warriors, and used their unintended warnings to dodge out of the way in time. Ruric Thar was not fighting just Jace, but all of his war party at once. Jace was letting the warriors beat the ogre for him.

  When the ogre overcommitted to a lunge, a desperate move flashed in one of the warrior’s minds, and Jace executed what he saw. He leapt onto the ogre’s bowed shoulder and, using a huge tusk for leverage, clambered up onto his back. Jace’s cloak came loose, so he threw the hood over the head of Ruric, the side with the axe. Then, hanging onto Ruric’s head, he beat his fist onto Thar’s cheekbone, as the Gruul’s minds urged—once, twice, three times.

  The ogre’s axe flailed, apparently controlled by the head that couldn’t see. The free arm grabbed Jace by the hair, and pulled. But Jace hung on, focused on pummeling Thar’s increasingly bruised and puffy face.

  When the axe blade came arcing toward Jace, he didn’t see it, but he felt it through the reactions of the Gruul onlookers. He leapt off of Ruric Thar, landing on his face, but in one piece, on the park lawn.

  Jace heard a truncated yelp. Jace recovered and turned back to see the ogre’s own axe blade embedded a few cringe-inducing inches into the top of Thar’s bald head. The ogre held his breath, frozen in uncertainty, both sets of eyes looking up at the axe-arm that had missed Jace and hit Thar.

  Thar began to hyperventila
te through his teeth.

  “You win,” said Ruric, pulling Jace’s cloak away and wincing.

  Jace collapsed with relief. The Gruul warriors cheered.

  Ruric Thar pulled gingerly with his axe arm, and the blade came free from the left head with a sickening wet sound. He clapped his hand on the wound and slumped heavily to the ground. Both of the ogre’s faces winced as blood trickled out from between his thick fingers, and his breathing was heavy.

  Jace broke his connection to the minds of the other Gruul warriors. Their current of battle-obsessed thoughts began to ebb from his mind.

  One of the Gruul compatriots, an extensively tattooed man with hair and beard that resembled coarse beaver fur, approached Ruric Thar and began murmuring a shamanic spell. The shaman’s outstretched hands trembled like windblown leaves, and pale light issued from his forearms and swirled around Ruric’s wound. The ogre kept his hand pressed on his head wound, but the bleeding stopped.

  “You have some Gruul in you,” said Thar, between heavy breaths.

  “Not as much as you might think,” said Jace. “So now, you’ll let your guard down, so I can find what I came for?”

  “As you wish,” said Thar.

  The ogre took a deep lungful of air, and let it out, closing their eyes. They nodded slightly.

  Jace carefully cast his mind out to the ogre, letting his thoughts seep in slowly. He chose Thar first. As his mental senses began to perceive Thar’s thoughts, Jace felt no backlash, so he moved in deeper.

  The ogre’s mind was like a museum of prizefights. Thar remembered triumph after triumph in battle, how his axe cleaved through this Gruul upstart or how he wrung the neck of that Orzhov cartel boss. It was an emotional landscape rather than a deliberative one, built on fervor and violence and laughing in the faces of the defeated. This was to be expected, but it made it harder for Jace to locate information about the maze.

  He found nothing. Thar had no recollection of anything that Jace might have been researching at the time he lost his memories. Maybe this was all a mistake, a hunch that went nowhere.