Drifter Mage

by PMF Johnson

  He lay down, wrapped himself in his bedroll and in moments was asleep.

  Deeb was dubious about that -- the imp's presence in this world was minimal -- even he himself would probably not feel it touch just his blankets, but he quietly gave the instructions to Lok, then he and Mara settled down as well. Deeb tried listening to the noises of the night, to get used to them, but he was more tired than he realized, and fell asleep.

  A cool touch woke him, and he opened his eyes to see Lok already drifting away, over to Arch's blankets. The drifter mage was up and moving before the imp even reached him, his staff already in hand. He was that close to a wild creature, sensitive even to a spirit's approach, Deeb thought.

  The moon was not yet up. Deeb listened, but whatever had bothered the imp was beyond his hearing. Perhaps nothing was wrong? He saw Arch's horse, ears up, staring out into the darkness beyond the creek. They were out there, he judged.

  He woke Galle, then Mara, by touching his hand to their shoulders, indicating for them to be quiet and rise. He took his bow, and nocked an arrow as he moved beyond the wagon, hunting a good place for a shooting stand at the brim of the hollow. A shooting stand? Was he like his brothers, then -- so ready to kill? But he found no hesitation in himself -- this was his family he was defending. He murmured a command for Lok to return to him.

  Mara sat up, putting on her boots -- she had not undressed otherwise. She looked around, realizing Galle had disappeared somewhere already. But where? All was silent. She was alone, with no weapon. She remembered the wand her father had given her, but it was safely packed away in the wagon, with no power stored in it. What in the world had she been thinking?

  That lack of preparation must never happen again.

  She considered what she might use for a weapon, then slipped over to the wagon and pulled forth her cast iron skillet. She crouched there, her back to the wagon, keeping as still as she could, listening.

  She heard a whisper in the grass around the wagon to her left.

  Was this real? She did not want it to be real. Her fingers tightened around the handle, and she drew it slowly back over her shoulder. Another rustle, then a presence was beside her -- a orcen man, by his size and thickness, with the foul odor of someone long unwashed. No one she knew. He was after her family, to hurt them.

  Any moment now, he would sense her presence.

  She swung two-handed, with all her might. The pan struck his face and rang with a clear hum. The man swore and stumbled back. She hit him again, on the side of the head.

  Desperate, he reached out and his fist closed on her arm. She kicked at him in a panic, and her boot connected with soft flesh. He screeched, let go of her and stumbled back.

  Lok appeared, a furious presence that rushed past her and enfolded the man in a cold fog, thickening, thickening...

  A flash of light, a clap of thunder, and Lok was thrown back, releasing the man. Blinded, Mara threw her arm up over her eyes, blinking, frantic to see. Lok backed up to hover before her, protecting her. Through his pale body, she saw the strange man stumble off into the night.

  She was breathing in huge gulps, her senses on alert, ready for another attack. A dirty red light flared in the darkness, and another, as thumps sounded. Fireballs. Then all was darkness again.

  A new smell, of prairie phlox and leather. Arch Compher was there. "You hurt?"

  "A stranger was here. An orcen. One of the ruffians. I used this." She hefted the pan, then lowered it, suddenly sick with reaction. But proud, too. "Smacked him upside the head."

  "You done right good, ma'am. But you'll be wanting to clean that pan before cooking with it -- clean off the blood."

  Blood?

  She looked at the skillet, astonished, then dropped it in reaction. Was she becoming a wild woman now, beating men bloody? A crazy, dangerous feeling welled up, then her usual, more maternal self returned.

  "Where's Galle? Where's my son?"

  "He's over with the horses -- he went to secure them, held them all through the fight. That's a fine son you got there, ma'am." He eased off into the night to listen.

  Deeb reappeared. "Mara?" He took her in his arms. "Are you all right?"

  "I'm fine," she said, as they released each other. But she hauled her blankets over next to the wagon, wanting more protection suddenly, aware of the huge night around them, of all that lay unknown out there.

  Deeb set Lok to watching again. When Galle came in, he drew his own blankets under the wagon to sleep. She understood that. She felt a fierce gladness her son was there, was alive.

  "Deeb," she whispered. "How are you?"

  "I'm unhurt," he assured her. "I never saw a thing." He looked out into the night, in the direction Arch had gone.

  "Thank goodness he's with us," she said.

  He didn't answer right away, and she worried she had hurt his feelings, that he thought she didn't believe in him. Their situation was complicated by her telling him so many times in the past he must be different from his brothers, he must be peaceful. What a fool she had been -- well, no, that was not fair. In that place and time he had needed to avoid the violence, the cruelty for the sake of power. Out here, though...

  "It IS good he's here," Deeb admitted, honestly.

  Lying in her blankets later, in the dark, she knew a moment of astonishment and delight, thinking about how well she had protected herself, bashing that man. She liked the idea of being a little uncivilized, more like the girl she had been growing up, taking care of herself by whatever means necessary.

  Certainly her own father had believed in self-defense through strength. She stuck the wand he gave her in the ground near her blankets to gather its needed energy from the land -- the ground had power out here, it would not take long. She had remembered the spell that began the recharging process. She would not make the mistake of forgetting it again.

  She awoke in the grey dawn to discover she had slept well, despite all. Her wand was ready -- with power enough to cast a pair of small fireballs. It was not much.

  She looked about. Deeb was checking the load in the wagon and Arch had a fire going, with the coffeepot on.

  "Do we know where those ruffians are? Are we done with them?"

  "Ma'am, you're too pretty for them to give over that easily, and you're close to the edge of the Magic yet. The farther you go into the Magic, the more likely they’ll quit. It gets strange out there."

  His calm, matter-of-fact words raised a quiver of unease in her. "Strange in what way?"

  He shrugged. "Could be just illusions, images, visions of creatures and places that can't be. Could be you'll find yourself actually in one of those places, or facing some of those creatures. Time might get stretched out, or pinched in. No way to tell beforehand."

  "But some people get through, surely."

  "Folks do, yes."

  "You don't ask what makes us so desperate."

  "None of my business," he said. "Either you'll make it or you won't." He finished the last of his coffee. "One thing. Keep an eye on them whirligigs. Don't let them get too close. They're acting hungrier than I've seen in some time. Been a while since there's been a storm through here, delivering magic. That's what they prefer to feed on."

  "How do we prevent them from being too close?" Deeb asked.

  "Smack at 'em. They'll test you, but they give up if you stay alert. Not the worst thing out here, unless you get them mad."

  After a quick breakfast, they were back on the road. Arch rode on ahead as vanguard. Trudging along beside the wagon, Deeb watched him go. "Insufferable man."

  "He thinks a great deal of himself," Mara agreed mildly.

  "But he's survived out here a long time, and we can study how he does so." Deeb always tried to be honest.

  "He thought you did fine facing down those ruffians yesterday morning. He said so."

  "I'm surprised to hear that." Deeb looked pleased at hearing the compliment.

  Deeb kept Lok moving along a perimeter two hundred paces out from their wa
gon, on the alert for trouble. He would not rely on the drifter mage where he could help it. Folks had to look out for themselves in this country.

  At this distance the imp was invisible, passing through the air above the waist-high grass. He was surprised when Mara described how the imp had interfered with that thug. Lok had never been able to affect mortals much -- an imp's influence in this world related directly to the strength of its master, and Deeb was by no means a powerful conjuror. For much of his life Lok's abilities were limited to a slight brush, the ability to shove someone off balance maybe, nothing like the strength of an imp of a great conjuror. Some could even spin up a whirlwind.

  Was his imp getting stronger because of the Magic? Or was this whole journey making Deeb himself a little stronger of will? Watching the imp, Deeb had a thought.

  "Galle," Deeb called his son to him. "It's time I started showing you how to manage Lok."

  "Really?" Galle's eyes shone.

  "But there are things you need to understand right away. This is a big responsibility. If we lose Lok, we're in a great deal of trouble out here. So your mother and I are depending on you. And running an imp is work. Hard work, until you get used to it."

  "When do I get to give Lok orders?"

  "It will be a while." But it could not be long. Already the boy was near Deeb's age when he learned from his own father.

  "Learning to manage an imp is more about learning to manage yourself, your emotions and thoughts. Those are what Lok will respond to, and if yours go out of control, you lose control of him. Then Lok will ignore any command. Like a horse, any imp, even Lok, must always understand who is in charge. We'll start with exercises you can do as you walk..."

  After the lesson was finished, they were trudging along when Deeb noticed something white off to the west side, hidden by the grass. Curious and cautious, he headed out to see what it was.

  Bones. In a huge pile stretching out of sight, covered by the grass.

  "Wow," said Galle, coming up beside his father. "How'd they all die? What were they?"

  "Some sort of animal. Buse, maybe. I don't know how they died, but see the knife marks on the bones, son? They were butchered afterwards." The thought made Deeb nervous -- how many natives had been involved in this? Where were they now?

  Mara came up as well, but when she saw what it was, she quickly turned back, without saying anything.

  However, for a long time after they passed the bone pile Mara thought of it uneasily. Just so, they could perish out here themselves and no one would ever know. She could feel her own doubts in herself -- she had clambered up from nothing, trying to make something of herself. Maybe this journey was the Gods' way of proving she really still amounted to nothing.

  At the thought, determination furrowed her brow. Even were that true, it did not matter. She would be the best she could be. She marched on.

  Suddenly, the world before them seemed to buckle and fall away forward. Mara gasped in spite of herself. The mules began to bray and kick in their traces.

  Only slowly did her mind grasp what they were seeing -- they had paused at the edge of a massive decline -- the world ahead sank into a valley that stretched to the edge of the universe, seemingly. As though her perception had just shifted and she saw something hidden to her before, she looked around, seeing the small details of distance -- the wind blowing the grass in spots far ahead and to each side, spots of shadow where wisps of cloud ran before the sun, distant birds in the sky: vultures.

  She wasn't sure if she suffered from a hallucination, or some effect of the magic in the land. Or maybe this bowl was natural. But the hairs on her arms had risen, and she felt cold for a moment, despite the sun. They had moved into another place, she knew it instinctively.

  "Are those buse?" Galle asked, pointing at specks in the valley below.

  "I can't tell," Deeb answered.

  The drifter mage was far, far ahead of them, examining something in the grass.

  "It's terrifying," Mara said, drawing closer to her husband. "Is it real?"

  "I believe so," he answered soberly. "We've a long ways to reach the mountains on the other side. I couldn't picture the distance before this, not really."

  "It looks unconquerable."

  He shook his head. "People will come and settle even this land, eventually. Even here, people will find a way to make a home, make their dreams come true. Some will perish, more will come. It's always been that way."

  "Nor are we alone," Mara said. "We have Arch with us."

  "We do," he agreed quietly.

  As she watched, patches of the sky slowly changed color, as though she peered through an infinite kaleidoscope. Blue to green to grey. She was staring into the Magic. A sense of profound purpose encompassed her -- this place was meant to be, somehow. But were they supposed to be a part of it? If so, what would playing a part in this world demand of them?

  Far ahead, Arch turned his horse and began to ride back.

  Chapter Four

  A few pole buildings, one collapsed, an ancient stable of planks and a few abandoned dugouts formed the village. Having a roof, the stable had been converted to a saloon. It stood on slightly higher ground than the other buildings, above any potential flooding from the river.

  The saloon's floor was dirt. A few broke-back chairs and two tables supplied the furniture. Stalls from its previous existence as a stable stood in two corners.

  The Preacher drained the rot whiskey from his battered metal cup in one long draught. He was orcen, wearing torn, greasy clothes and having a hole in his hat. His tail was fat, but lopsided, and his nose hooked like a beckoning finger. He smacked his cup on the table with a clang. "They got another mage along. We was watching the man, and no snot-nosed kid killed my cousin Tarn Re."

  "T, t. My imp scouted where they crossed the river," answered Dunshil, the goblen. She was brown, waist-high on the others, and as a member of the goblen race, despite being mortal, she bore an uncanny resemblance to a cockroach, standing on four legs with her highest two limbs serving as arms. "There were three of them then."

  She was the only woman among them, though nothing about her appearance indicated her gender, and she was as cold and hard as any. She had broad mandibles that, as she spoke, clattered in a complex code none of the others could interpret.

  But she was not wealthy. Her trousers had a rip in the knee, and her blouse had been mended. "Ttt. Man, woman, child, those were all the tracks my imp found. The woman or little one must have killed Tarn Re. T."

  "Her? You think she kilt my cousin?" The Preacher sputtered. "I'll gut her. I'll--"

  "The woman belongs to me." Rock Gul spread his wings wide, crowding the others.

  Everyone fell silent. Rock Gul was elven, taller than any orcen, his broad wings half-unfurled in a dominant posture. His skin was pale but his feathers were dark. Although the elven bore feathers, they otherwise resembled humans, although they were taller and more slender than any human or orcen.

  For all the Preacher acted as their leader, providing food and ideas, no one crossed Rock. He had killed too many men.

  "Anyway, tracks for three don't necessarily mean just three," the Preacher said, finally. "Someone might have been hiding in that wagon. It was awful heavy. Those tracks cut thick in the turf."

  "You know what's heavy?" Ulf Menesketh spoke from his chair facing the corner. The human mage didn't bother to look around at the rest of them when he spoke, but continued flicking flames from his staff to torment a cornered rat. He was skinny, with long greasy hair that might have been blonde after a good cleansing, and a narrow, sneaky-looking face.

  The Preacher, bored, had summoned the rat with a spell -- he was a cleric of Kerun, God of the Hunt, and was always summoning nasty little creatures -- snakes, scorpions, any sort of little predator. His fat tail would quiver with pleasure when he got a particularly nasty beast to respond. He used a prayer to call the rat close for some purpose -- or maybe none -- but when Ulf saw the rat he immediately began s
hooting little spouts of flame at it from his staff, using them to corner and harass the creature -- effectively taking it away from the Preacher.

  The Preacher quickly turned away, pretending not to notice, even starting a different conversation, his tail curling between his legs a little. People were careful around Ulf. The man didn't say much, but he went crazy, sometimes.

  Ulf's use of elemental magic in the confined space was subtly changing the emotions of everyone in the room -- making them colder, more arrogant. Every kind of magic altered emotions in one way or another. Maybe the elemental magic even affected the rat, because finally, tormented beyond breaking, the rat leapt through the magical flame straight at Ulf.

  The mage kicked back with an oath, knocking the rat aside. He loosed a flare that burst around the rat, crisping it, but set the corner of the saloon afire. Ulf looked down at the smoking corpse of the rat with satisfaction, paying no attention to the tongues of flame running up the wall. His left eye twitched repeatedly, as it always did when he was killing things.

  The Preacher looked almost sick, scared Ulf might think he had spurred the rat to attack.

  Shef Menesketh gestured with his own staff, and the flames sank away into curls of smoke and a stench of burnt wood. Shef was the only one who could safely intervene. Ulf and he were brothers, human, having the same mother but different fathers. They were both too thin, their faces gaunt, but Shef's hair was almost black, and he kept it short and as neat as he could in their rough circumstances.

  "Magic's heavy," Ulf went on. "That's what's heavy."

  His left eye stopped twitching. The Preacher looked a little less nervous after that.

  "T, t? You think they're carrying raw magic?" Dunshil asked, interested. Raw magic was more valuable than gold -- mages could use it to power spells, even fashion magic tools and items. But it was rare and dangerous -- having to be carried in lead-lined containers. And when you used it, you used it up. So folks were always seeking more.