by Matt Gilbert
Logrus nodded. He pulled the book from his pocket and opened it. A black stylus, depending from a silver chain, fell from the pages and hung in the air, waiting, as pained, whispering voices filled his ears with names. Logrus took the stylus and wrote:
“It is necessary that Jerado Arvina die for his crimes.”
Aiul, fairly drunk, nearly fell over as he gaped in shock at Logrus’s tale. “Mei!” he slurred, catching himself. “Did you kill him?”
Logrus nodded. “Ate his food, too,” he said with a slight smile.
Aiul shook his head and chuckled, then grew somber. “I would never have guessed you had such depth,” he said. “Did you hunt down the man who killed your mother?”
“I tried,” Logrus told him. “But he had fled town the night before.” Logrus sighed as he contemplated what was clearly a long-standing source of frustration. “I have tracked him off and on over the years, but there is always something that comes up.”
“Elgar?” Aiul asked. “He blocks you? To keep you in his service?”
Logrus shook his head. “There are…so many,” he sighed. “They can’t act for themselves. So I must. My vengeance seems less important. I take theirs while I can. Mine will come when there is more time.”
“A dark avenger,” Aiul marveled. “Elgar is much maligned.”
Logrus’s eyes narrowed as he regarded Aiul. “Perhaps,” he said. He reached into his pocket, produced a book, and tossed it to Aiul. “I am tired,” he said. “The rest of the story is there.” Logrus flattened himself on the ground and closed his eyes.
“Good night to you, too,” Aiul muttered as he turned the book over in his hands. It was just as Logrus had described, but it seemed too small to hold the rest of Logrus’s story. He flipped through the pages in growing amazement as he realized that there were far more in the book than he would have guessed. It seemed to grow more pages as he neared the end, and absorb earlier pages, never changing size.
As Logrus began to snore, Aiul read with growing fascination and horror. There were twenty years worth of bloodshed recorded on its pages in Logrus’s spiky, clipped penmanship. The writing was stilted, matter of fact, and dry, but for all that, it was meticulous. Aiul was transfixed by his companion’s attention to detail, his relentless pursuit of his quarry. For every entry declaring that it was necessary for some villain to die, there was a series detailing the hunt, sometimes covering years of dogged pursuit. And for every entry, there was a final description of how the villain had met his end at Logrus’s hand. Apparently, they had all died in screaming horror. They seemed to see Logrus as something from a nightmare. Logrus had dutifully recorded their last words. Aiul was uncertain, but it appeared that each final entry was written not in ink, but in blood. He counted over a hundred deaths before he closed the book with a shudder, unable to continue.
Drunk as he was, sleep was a long time coming, and when it did, he was plagued by dreams where Logrus, Kariana, and Southlanders struggled against one another as Nihlos burned.
Chapter 12: Cyanide and Cheap Theatrics
Sadrik had rarely visited Maklin Yorn, and certainly never out of fondness. The young sorcerer could have composed a list of fifty or so unpleasant things about Maklin without breaking a sweat, not the least of which was that he had an peculiar smell. Nevertheless, that and his other myriad eccentricities would have to be borne.
One of Maklin’s slaves answered Sadrik’s insistent knock. He was a large man, broad of shoulder, and bald. He was not quite as tall as Sadrik, but he looked up at him with a scowl that said such things did not matter. “It’s very late,” the slave observed.
Sadrik raised an eyebrow at the man’s tone. “So it is. Be that as it may, inform your master that Sadrik of House Tasinal must speak with him at once.”
The slave made no move to do anything other than bar Sadrik’s entry. “The master needs his rest. He is old.”
“I assure you, he will continue to be old for quite some time. Must I grow so as well before you fetch him?”
The slave’s eyes narrowed, and he reached to grab a handful of Sadrik’s shirt. “You don’t understand— ” He cut himself short with a rather girlish cry of pain, and withdrew his hand quickly. Smoke and the scent of singed hair wafted through the air.
“No, my friend. I think you’re the one who doesn’t understand, hmm?”
The slave offered a series of nods in quick succession, considerably less belligerent. “I do now. You’re one of the master’s special friends. You’re usually older, though.”
“I suppose I’m something of a prodigy, at that.”
“I’ll fetch him at once.”
Shortly, Sadrik found himself ushered into what seemed best described as a mad scientist’s laboratory. Books and beakers, mortars and pestles, wrenches, and a thousand other random items were scattered about various shelves and tables in an almost but not completely random manner. There was an order to it, but that order was only something one fellow could actually understand.
That individual sat at the heart of the chaotic mess, eating a sandwich and glaring at his unwelcome guest. “Sadrik! I should have expected it would be you roughing up my people!”
“Oh, please. I barely singed him.”
Maklin picked a hair from his sandwich and examined it, decided it belonged to him, and ran a hand through the tangle of white hair covering his head, trying, unsuccessfully, to corral it. He took another bite of the sandwich and muttered around the mouthful, “Jonas is a good boy. He brought me this!” He waved the sandwich at Sadrik in accusation.
“It’s not quite the remarkable feat you make it out to be,” Sadrik groused. “You know, some of us actually manage our own affairs instead of having slaves do everything for us.”
Maklin waved the notion aside. “Some of you are idiots.”
“Hmm, well, then I suppose I can’t possibly have anything of worth to tell you. I’ll be on my way then.”
“Oh, you needn’t be such a baby about it! Fine, fine, what was it, then?”
Sadrik waited a moment, smirking, enjoying the old man's growing impatience. “Oh, nothing too important. Just that my cousin mentioned, in passing you understand, that the piece of the Eye of the Lion she keeps is missing.”
Maklin began to choke on his sandwich. From a dark corner of the room, a young woman shrieked, ran across to the old sorcerer, and began pounding him on the back. Maklin, wide eyed, took the beating for a few moments before hacking up the offending matter. He breathed a sigh of relief, then promptly resumed a demeanor more befitting the end of the world.
“Mei! Impossible,” he wheezed. The young slave looked on worriedly.
For some reason, Sadrik found this extremely annoying. “Do you really have slaves standing by in the event you might choke?”
Maklin looked at Sadrik in confusion for a moment, then shook his head in dismissal. “Me? No, they do it themselves.”
The slave looked at the old man with something akin to worship in her eyes. “The master tends to forget himself. We keep him safe.”
Maklin showed some annoyance at this, but tolerated it. “Yes, yes, that’s fine, Mara.” He scowled at Sadrik. “They want me to produce an heir, you know. As if I have the time!
Mara, busy checking Maklin for any signs of injury, commented softly, “I’d be glad to help you with that, master.”
Maklin had had enough. He shook himself free from Mara and slapped at the air around him, making it difficult for her to approach without being hit. After a few moments of deft attempts, she stepped back and gave him a stern look, hands on her hips in exasperation.
“Now see here, Mara,” Maklin told her. “I appreciate your care, but this is private business. Out you go!”
Sadrik gazed in wonder as the slave, with a hurt expression on her face, slipped quietly out of the lab. “I’m not exactly certain who is the slave here.”
“Nor am I! Now, what is this idiocy you come here spouting? It’s absolutely impossible. No one c
an even access it without keys from House Tasinal, House Amrath, and House Yorn. She couldn’t even know it was missing!”
Sadrik sighed. “Apparently, there are ways to access it, assuming one is capable of punching through several inches of steel with a bare hand.”
Maklin was growing angry now. “Several inches of steel protected against sorcery! What game are you trying to play, boy? Get me to open it and have a go at stealing it? Prodigy or no, I will squash you like a bug if you test me, make no mistake”
Sadrik ground his teeth. “It was not a Meite, and, no, I am not testing you, old man. It was, apparently, Elgar who took it.”
Maklin’s jaw fell open, and he very nearly fell from his stool. “What?” he gasped, eyes wide in shock.
Sadrik started to respond with something acid, but the realization struck him that Maklin was truly dumbfounded. “They didn’t tell you, either.”
The old man recovered quickly. “Who didn’t tell me what?”
“Maranath, Ariano, and Prandil. They’ve had my cousin under very close observation since Aiul’s escape.”
“And what does that have to do with Elgar?”
“Everyone is convinced that it was Elgar.”
Maklin leapt to his feet. To Sadrik’s discomfort, any number of items about the room began to move and gather together into vaguely humanoid forms: twenty books floating together struck a menacing pose, alongside fifty beakers. Maklin was no longer a silly old man. He asked Sadrik, in a very calm voice: “How long have you known about this?”
Sadrik took a deep breath and let it out slowly as he raised his hands in surrender. This could prove disastrous. The elders were not merely powerful, but quite volatile as well. It was certainly possible he could beat the old man, but no one would have given any odds in that direction. Truth was far and away the better option. It wasn’t as if he had come here to deceive anyone.
“I've known about the Elgar connection for weeks, ever since Aiul escaped. I thought it was common knowledge. As for the Eye, they didn’t tell me, either. I only know because Kariana told me this very night, and I came straight to you.”
Maklin’s gaze held Sadrik’s for several long, very tense moments. At last, apparently satisfied, Maklin gave him a nod, and the menacing constructs retreated back to their normal positions. “We must go to the vault at once.”
Maklin wasted no time with talking. Instead, he simply grabbed Sadrik by the collar and shot toward the ceiling. Sadrik looked up in dismay, cringing at an impact which never came. Cunningly disguised doors opened as they approached, and the pair shot into the night sky.
Sadrik shivered as Maklin swept them high above Nihlos, partly from the cold, and partly from real fear. He had the sense that all that stood between him and a drop was the thin cloth of his shirt, though in fact it wasn't under any pressure at all. It felt as if he, too, were simply flying, but he was all too aware of Maklin's hand grasping his garment. If he were to let go, would I fall? Or is that just his way of showing me the leash?
Even so, it was truly a marvelous, wonderful thing, an experience beyond anything he had ever known. Nihlos lay spread below him, small and toy-like. It was the proper position for a sorcerer to view the city, but so far, Sadrik had yet to master flight.
It was damnably difficult, even being a gifted student of an art that involved convincing himself of contradictory notions. It was easy to believe objects were on fire, that temperatures were malleable, and many other variants. But Sadrik had never been able to accept that if he walked off a ledge, he would not simply plummet to the ground. He had no idea how the elders managed it.
Maklin said nothing during the trip. Sadrik couldn’t discern the exact cause for his silence. Perhaps flight required focus? Or maybe he was simply so furious about the Eye and the associated chicanery that he had no words. Did it really matter? In either case, pursuing it at the moment could very well end in a precipitous drop. Sadrik decided to keep quiet.
Maklin set them down in a discrete alley near the palace grounds. Sadrik noted with relief that the old man hadn’t completely abandoned decorum. It would have been awkward if he had dropped them right on the doorstep, what with sorcery being illegal. Not that Maklin would have had any real problem dealing with it, or many regrets, for that matter, but Nihlos was already running low on guardsmen. It was rumored to be a dead end job.
The guards at the entrance seemed to debate whether or not to challenge the pair of sorcerers. Of course, they had no idea that this was the case, but certainly Maklin was well known as a Patriarch, and had an aura about him of seriousness that gave them pause. The sergeant in charge opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, and Maklin simply walked past him, Sadrik at his heels. No one objected.
The elders were not people to be trifled with.
Kariana lay curled like a cat on her bed, eyes sleepy and drooping. Caelwen stood at the foot of the bed, blathering on about something or another. Did it matter? She had the important part: he was leaving the city to capture Aiul, and during his absence, she would likely be assassinated if she stepped out of her quarters for even an instant. She couldn’t help but titter at his feigned concern.
Caelwen gave her a suspicious look. “Have you heard a word I’ve said?”
Kariana's eyes widened as she struggled to feign attention. “Oh, yes, of course.”
“What’s so amusing about it, then?”
Kariana wiped the smile off her face and assumed a pose of rapt attention. “I hear nothing but your voice, Captain.”
Caelwen’s nose wrinkled in annoyance. “Don’t call me that.”
“Is it not your title?” she mocked.
“You make it sound like—” He trailed off as she smiled at him in smug satisfaction, his jaw bulging. “Fine. As you will.”
“You were saying?”
Caelwen nodded and rolled his shoulders a bit, his face still lined with annoyance. He had just opened his mouth to speak when the door to the room burst open as if it had been kicked. Maklin Yorn, looking as if his tangled, white hair was on fire, stood in the door frame, Sadrik leering over his shoulder like a buzzard waiting for a predator to finish with its kill.
“Kariana Tasinal!” the old sorcerer shouted. “What have you done?”
Caelwen and Kariana, both momentarily stunned by the interruption, blinked at the two sorcerers in confusion. Sadrik was doing something with his hands. Oh, really, was he actually trying to communicate that this wasn’t his fault? Kariana waved a hand of dismissal at him, a subtle betrayal, but one that Maklin recognized. Kariana could barely suppress jumping up and down with glee as the old sorcerer turned quickly and caught Sadrik mid-denial. Maklin scowled at Sadrik for a moment before turning his glare back to Kariana. “Well?”
Caelwen recovered first. He cast Kariana a baleful glance. “What could it be this time?”
Maklin gave Caelwen a suspicious glare. “She’s hardly the only one in the shit house!”
Caelwen raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Are you insinuating I’ve done something, old man? Why not come out and say it outright?” Oh, bravo! Perhaps there will be a fight!
Maklin chuckled at this. “Fine, boy, I will. You’ve failed miserably and let some miscreant be off with a piece of the Eye of the Lion!”
Caelwen’s eyebrow stayed in its raised position. “What, pray tell, is an ‘Eye of the Lion’?”
“Never you mind that! What’s important is that the two of you have lost it, and I am here to get it back!”
Caelwen’s face grew dark as he made the connection. “I’d like to have seen you do better!”
Maklin poked a finger into Caelwen’s chest. “Oh, I will, sonny. Watch and see.”
Kariana watched them both for a moment, hoping for more, but it seemed played out. No fight, not for the moment. She shot Sadrik a sour look. “I thought I could trust you!”
Sadrik shrugged in response and put on his ‘I am terribly wise’ face. “You can, cousin. This was the proper course o
f action. He’s just more excited about it than I expected.”
Maklin scowled and stepped to Kariana’s bed. “Let’s see the vault. Then we’ll talk.” He stood, glaring down at Kariana while she smiled back at him. “Do you prefer to move yourself, or do you want me to do it?”
Kariana giggled as she slipped from the bed, amused. What would the old man do?
As it turned out, he waved a hand and the entire bed vaulted on edge and slammed into the wall, smashing her lovely collection of intoxicants. Mei! Some of those were older than I am! Kariana felt near tears. “Really?” she shouted. “That was unnecessary!”
Maklin looked her up and down, and not in the way she preferred. It was as if he were searching for someone worth talking to, looking for brain rather than boobs, and, finding none, was confused. It was distinctly uncomfortable and insulting. “I’ll decide what’s necessary,” he muttered, and turned back to the wall.
Maklin reached to pull the tapestry aside and recoiled at the scene. “People actually do these sorts of things?”
Caelwen grunted. “Some people.”
Maklin looked as if he were about to be ill. “How revolting.” He reached for the tapestry again but paused. Was the old man squeamish about sex?
“It’s no wonder you don’t have an heir,” Kariana spat.
Maklin turned back to her, annoyed. “Now see here – ” he began, then, with a look of surprise, asked, “Do you smell smoke?”
Kariana not only smelled it, but could see the source. Her beautiful tapestry was burning! She let out a wail of misery as Caelwen rushed forward to beat at the flames.