by Ted Blasche
Part of him, the part that had seen more blood than he cared to remember, wondered why a ghost would breathe, or make that heavy thud when she landed. Farrell frowned and nudged her gently with his foot. No response.
His first instinct was to walk away, pretend he had not seen her. But his conscience was not having any of that. The woman could be hurt. He had not seen her like before, such straight black hair and that warm brown skin, so different from the pale people of these lands.
For an awful moment, Farrell thought he must have conjured her by mistake, instead of the coins. But how could that be? He had not been thinking of this woman, or any other. The only woman who haunted his thoughts had flame red hair and eyes like summer grass.
No, if this woman was not a ghost, then she must be a witch. How else would she have appeared from nowhere, wearing such strange clothes? No ordinary woman would wear britches, especially not as tight as those, and definitely not red. Red was a man’s colour. Even ladies of high birth did not dare to wear red. He glanced up through the broken roof, expecting see the broomstick she fell from, but there was nothing in the sky except the winter sun.
Farrell crouched before her and reached out a tentative hand to squeeze her shoulder. She did not respond. The red fabric of her tunic was shiny, smooth under his fingers. Patterned in black with tiny abstract images, it matched the britches.
“Milady?” He shook her gently, and then snatched his hand away when she groaned. Eyes of dark amber flickered open, fixing on him.
“Ziaxis.” She struggled upright, rubbing the back of her head.
Farrell scrambled backwards. “Beg pardon, milady?” He looked around for a place to run.
“The yalway scrooptha ziaxis.” Her eyes narrowed and she drew an object from a pocket in her tunic, pointing it straight at Farrell. Instinct made him duck to avoid the beam of blue light that erupted from the flat, white oblong.
“Confounded witches.” He threw himself to the floor as she aimed the thing at him again. “Damned if you aid ‘em, damned if you don’t.” He did not wait for another blast from her magic stick. He was on his feet and out of the barn in a moment, zig-zagging across the field to avoid further beams.
**
“Those morons at Central Command always screw up the Z axis.” Naria stuffed the Eris scanner back in her pocket and darted after the afflicted. Her left wrist smarted, as did both her knees, and a dull ache at the back of her skull suggested a possible concussion. When she returned, the portal techs had better look out. If they could lock the portal right on the Eris particle, regardless of the afflicted’s movements, they should damned well be able to place her at ground level.
The red-headed man sprinted across the field, probably heading for the woods on the other side. Naria sighed and gave chase, keeping her pace even. They always ran, even before they found out what she wanted. Not that she could blame them. She had run, too, once.
“It’s no use,” she called after him. The man did not turn around. “I’ll find you, no matter where you go. You may as well stop.”
He glanced back but kept running. Judging by the state of him, he would not be able to keep that pace up for long. Malnourishment meant low endurance. She was no athlete but in far better shape than her quarry.
By the time she reached the edge of the woods, the man was nowhere in sight. Slowing to a walk, Naria pulled the Eris scanner back out of her pocket and flicked it on. A red blip appeared on the tiny screen, moving northwest. She increased her pace, weaving in and out of the trees.
It was an old forest, the trees so close that the winter sun shone even paler. The rough bark of aged trunks grew thick with velvety moss, and bright fungus in red and orange hues sprouted amongst gnarled roots.
Naria stopped and listened. No sound reached her ears, except for the scrape of branches against each other in the breeze. Eyes focused on the scanner, she waited. The blip remained in the same position. The Eris particle had stopped moving.
She inched forward, her steps soft, cautious. A twig cracked underfoot and she tensed, waiting for him to run again, but all remained quiet. According to the scanner, she should be right on top of the particle but still could not see the afflicted. A creak sounded above and she tilted her head. There, propped between two branches, sat the red-headed man.
“Come down from there,” she said. “Let’s talk.”
“Lifmi allonwich.” The man panted, his voice hoarse. “Gitawee frummy.”
Naria frowned. “I don’t . . .” Of course. In her haste to be after him, she had forgotten to launch the translation module. She pressed a finger to her left temple. A list of options appeared, and she scrolled down until she found the one she needed. With a blink, she activated the application.
Before she could test it on him, the small hairs on the back of her neck bristled, and static crackled in her clothing. Naria stiffened.
The particle. “No!”
Too late. His hands glowed blue and the air shimmered. Something soft and heavy enveloped her. The rope net pulled her to the ground. “You’re kidding me?” She wrestled with the ropes, trying to disentangle herself.
Her quarry shimmied down the tree and took off running again. “You’ll never catch me, witch,” he cackled.
Naria sighed. At least the translation program worked.
**
Farrell sprinted, legs pumping. He did not know why the witch wanted him, but his gut told him her pursuit had everything to do with his newfound magic. Perhaps she wanted it for herself. The net would not hold her long, but it was all he could bring to mind when he saw her under the tree, and he had no wish to bring her harm.
His foot caught in a tree root and almost took him down, but he stumbled and kept going. Every breath came sharp, painful, and his head spun. Worse, the pie lay heavy in his belly, as if he had swallowed a rock. Such a grand pie needed a nap to digest, not a headlong dash through the woods. Bile rose, bitter, at the back of his throat. If he ran much longer the pie would come back up.
When he reached the northern edge of the woods, Farrell dared himself to look back. There was no sign of the witch, but that meant little. His head-start earlier had done him no good, either. He had kept silent as night up that tree, and she had still found him with her cursed magic stick. Slowing his pace, he looked for somewhere to hide before he collapsed. To the north-east lay Balport. He could double back and lose her in the city.
The air was heavy with moisture, but no rain-clouds haunted the pale winter sky. He must be near the river, judging by the wet, icy scent. He could follow the river back to the city, maybe even find a boat someone left on the bank. A grin spread across his face. He would magic himself a boat. Farrell jogged onward, picturing all kinds of river craft in his mind. One in particular caught his imagination, with red sails and a black hull carved like the body of a dragon. A memory from his travels in the southern lands.
The river’s thunder reached his ears before he found the bank. Dismay stole away his grin and leadened his step. When the bank finally came into view, he stopped and let out a heavy groan. Black as midnight, flecked with white foam and roiling through a maze of jagged rocks, the river Bal raged towards the sea.
Farrell shook his head. No boat could survive that. Not even a dragon boat. He glanced back at the tree-line. Still no sign of the witch. Maybe he had lost her after all.
He faced the direction of the city wall and trudged on. What he really wanted was to get off his aching feet and lie down. Maybe take a nap. Thoughts of an inn room came back to him and Farrell stopped again. Coin. He needed coin. And he deserved an ale or three after all his troubles.
He held out his hands and closed his eyes, bringing the soft leather purse to mind once more. Ten silver coins, he counted, and twenty copper, all bearing the Regent’s head. He imagined the weight of them, the jingle, the cool touch of the metal on his fingers, then warming in his palm. Nothing happened. Farrell opened his eyes.
“Why won’t it work?” His should
ers sank. Did it only bring food?
“It can only bring you things which exist there.” A warm voice spoke close to his ear.
Farrell spun but saw no one. It had to be the witch. “Where are you?” The air before him shimmered, blurring momentarily. Then she appeared, her stance wary, one fine black eyebrow raised. Farrell gaped. “How did you do that?”
“Cloaking device.” She held up a small silver egg, which she stowed inside her tunic.
“A magic cloak. I’ve heard tell of those.” The corners of his mouth pulled downwards. The witch must be very powerful to know the spell for a magic cloak. And here he was, not even able to produce a small bag of coins. He sighed. No point in trying to run any further. “I suppose you’re here to take my magic away.”
The witch stuck out her chin. A flicker of something akin to sympathy passed across her face before she locked it away behind a cold stare. “I’m afraid so. It’s not really magic, you see, just a residue of the Eris Drive after they blew it up. The particle inside you is the last free one; it’s taken Central Command more than a hundred years to gather them all.”
Farrell sank to his knees. “I don’t pretend to know what all that means, but please, milady, have mercy. I had nothing before the magic came.”
She pressed her lips together in a thin line, and pushed a lock of straight black hair behind her ear. “It’s not magic. Everything you think you’re conjuring comes from another world. That pie you ate belonged to the most powerful man on that world. As you might imagine, that did not make him very happy. I’m sorry. I have no choice. You can either come with me, or—”
“Or what? You’ll kill me?” Farrell swallowed as her expression hardened. He rose, ready to run again, but the witch whipped out her magic stick, pointing it straight at him. A blue flash erupted, and Farrell found himself caged within a framework of lines made from pulsating light. He tried to grasp one of them, and yelped as a surge of energy knocked him off his feet. The witch was powerful, indeed.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s for your own good. If you put up a fight, I have to use whatever force is necessary. But killing you will only set the particle free to seek out another host, and I want my life back. It’s in both our best interests for you to be cooperative.”
Farrell stayed on the ground, sitting with his knees pulled up against his chest. Neither of those choices appealed to him, dying least of all. His chance of escape from the cage was low, but that did not mean he must give up. He would just have to wait until her guard was down. The gods had sent him a gift, and no witch was about to take it from him.
The woman pressed a finger against her temple and her eyes unfocused, as if she had gone off into a daydream. “Come in Central Command. I have the afflicted in custody; homing beacon is active, please send a portal.”
Nothing happened. The woman stood there, her lips pursed. She jabbed a finger against her temple again, and cried out. Her whole body juddered and twitched in some strange demonic fit before she fell to the ground.
**
Naria gasped for breath, lying on her back in the grass as the convulsions eased off. Something was wrong with the electronics. Something critical. When she had tried to contact Central Command, the system overloaded. A buzzing vibration had started in her skull and all the applications went crazy, before shutting down completely.
“Arya arrimilay dee?” The redheaded man knelt over her. How had he managed to get out of the cage? The field must have shorted out with the power surge.
Naria sighed. “Wait a moment, I can’t understand you.” She pressed her index finger to her temple to reboot the system, shoulders tensed as it cycled through the boot sequence. When it loaded, she reactivated the translation application. “There, that’s better. Now, what did you say?”
“I asked if you were all right, milady.”
Naria dropped her gaze. What was wrong with him? She had offered him a choice between death or subjugation, and he was concerned enough about her welfare to hang around instead of going on the run.
“I’m fine,” she said. “Just a malfunction.”
The delicate wiring must have been damaged when she hit the ground. So why did some programs work and not others? She scrolled through the options until she reached the communications link and blinked, holding her breath. Nothing happened. The program did not even try to load. Then a message appeared in her line of vision: transmitter failed to initialize.
A cold sensation tightened Naria’s gut. The transmitter must have been damaged in the fall. Without it, she was trapped on this world. Central Command would not send another agent, at least not unless it became clear that she had failed the mission.
Kodi would be worried if she failed to return within a day or two. She had never left him alone for longer than that. Naria’s chest tightened. If Central Command did not figure out something was wrong and come after her, she might never see him again. The lump in her throat grew painful, and she tried to swallow it back, but could not stop her lip from trembling. She closed her eyes.
“Why so sad?” The red-headed man’s voice, soft and full of concern, made her look up at him again. His expression was earnest, sorrowful. “Look, if you want my magic, you can have it. I’d probably mess it up somehow anyway.”
Naria spoke through the ache in her throat. “Little good that does me when I’m stuck here.”
He frowned. “Stuck here?”
“I come from another world,” she said. “The same world you stole the pie from, well I do now, anyway.”
“I didn’t steal it.” He shook his head. “I conjured it. I can do magic.”
The look of pride on his face almost made her wish it was magic. Was that how she had looked when she made the same discovery? “That’s the thing.” She rose and brushed dirt and grass from her leggings. “You didn’t conjure anything. Whatever you imagine has to exist on the world I came from. For instance, what were you trying to do when I caught you, when you asked why it didn’t work?”
“I wanted coin, to rent an inn room, have a bath.”
“Well, there you go. They haven’t used coin in centuries. Everyone has a chip embedded in their wrist and whenever we want to buy something we just swipe it across a scanner and the amount is instantly deducted from our bank balance.”
“I didn’t understand any of that.” He shrugged. “A chip in your wrist? A chip of what? Granite? Diamond? And what’s a bank balance? Is it something to do with the river?”
Naria smiled. “It would take far too long to explain. For the purpose of what I’m telling you, all you need to know is that we don’t use coin anymore. Therefore, you couldn’t conjure any. Whenever you do your magic, the Eris particle within you transfers the object you imagine from another world.”
The man frowned. “So the mutton pie?”
“Came from the table of the Imperator of the most powerful nation on that world. He was not a happy man.” Naria frowned. Imperator Mankus was rarely a happy man. “See my clothes? These little pictographs all over them?” She pointed to one of the tiny emblems covering her tunic and leggings.
The afflicted nodded. “I wondered about those when you fell from the sky.”
“They are all slightly different, thousands of them on every piece of clothing we own.”
“Why?”
“Because without them, every time an Eris particle activated, someone would lose a piece of clothing. Once, an Emperor lost a whole suit of new clothes in the middle of an opera performance. Everyone pretended they hadn’t noticed anything unusual, until some kid spilled the beans. I’m sure you’ve learned that in order to make something appear, you have to imagine it clearly.”
He nodded. “Yes.”
“From what I understand, you have to identify what makes it unique, so that the particle can distinguish it from other, similar things. By designing our clothes this way, we give them too many similarities for the particle to pick one, and so it cannot pick any.”
“But why go
to all that trouble for clothes?” he asked.
Naria smiled. “It prevents anyone being embarrassed by sudden loss of garments. Imagine being in the middle of a city and your trousers vanish.”
He laughed at that. It changed his whole face; his green eyes crinkled, all suspicion gone for a moment, and his cheeks lost their hollow look as his mouth widened into a broad grin.
“Exactly,” she said. “So, given the possibilities, the people of that world don’t want you using your newly found gift. Which is where I come in. I’m supposed to convince you to let me put this on you.” She brought out the neutralizer collar. “And then I have to take you back. Only that’s not going to happen. At least not yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because I broke something when I fell. And I can’t contact my world to tell them to send a portal.” She paused, trying to swallow the lump that returned to her throat. “And I don’t know when I’m going to see my son again.”
**
Farrell glowered at his feet. Why did she have to go and mention having a son? One moment he had been feigning sympathy, looking for a weakness to help him escape whatever she had been using to track him down, and the next he was remembering his own son.
Aric would have been a man, now. Tall, broad-shouldered, and handsome like his father. Or at least, the way Farrell was before the pain of their deaths broke him. Still, the drink had served him well enough. It had been years since he last allowed the memories to surface.
“What’s wrong with you?” Her eyes narrowed, as though she thought he mocked her.
“Nothing.” He pressed his lips together. “Everything. I had a son, too. He was killed. Him and his mother.”
“I’m sorry.”
Farrell clenched his fists. “Me too. But it was a long time ago. Tell me, this world of yours, do they have strong drink? You know, the kind that helps you forget?”
She shook her head. “If you mean alcohol, then no. Well, yes, but it’s restricted to the ruling classes. And it’s not my world. I just live there. What’s your name?”