Biomancy

by Desdemona Gunn

  “Yes. I threatened to stab him, he wouldn’t tell me how to leave, I guess he didn’t really know, but eh, fuck it. I killed him, then left to find guards. They got me, put me in a room, and a posh man talked to me.”

  “You know ‘posh’ and you don’t know ‘threatened,’ Mauve almighty. All right.”

  “Yes, posh. Like you.”

  “I’m not posh!”

  “You are posh. I know the word because you are it.”

  “No! I’m refined. There’s a difference.”

  “Which is?”

  “Your face. Anyway?”

  “Well he didn’t hurt me, but acted like he would. He couldn’t threaten me, too weak. I laughed. He did not know I was the Bloodletter. He just put me here for killing Torbanson.”

  Liam’s face quickly found its way to his palms as his elbows hit his knees, the rest of him falling backwards onto his bed to a sit. “Oh gods, no. Fucking no. You’re fucking with me, Osa. You’re fucking fucking with me.”

  “No fucking is here. Why do you—”

  “You have no fucking idea what you’re doing, do you? You can’t just tell them you’re a guild member! Now they’ll be investigated, scrutinized— You just put them in deep shit, and, dear gods, possibly me. Look, do you know why Pretorius set you up?”

  Conversation halted, leaving a cold silence in the hallway between them. After a painful quiet, she broke it. “No one knows yet.”

  “Oh fuck, yes we do. It all leads to it. But seriously, why would he set you up? You know why he set me up.”

  “Not this. Look, I was doing my job, Albreight. I didn’t know he was going to do what he did.”

  “Why did he take me out?”

  “Albreight—”

  “Why, Osa? Fucking why?” His words echoed down the hallway, letting every prisoner in their complex know he had a legitimate question. Another time passed before she could answer him.

  “You were becoming a problem. You had no respect for the upper-ups, a big mouth with the right company, and enough skill to back up both and scare the upper-ups, thinking you might try to take over.”

  “Yes. Now then, why might they have taken you out?”

  “Because...” the word lingered in the air. “I had enough skill to scare them into—”

  “Did it ever fucking occur to you, Osa, that the guild might have gotten tired of cleaning up your messes?”

  “I... I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Oh fuck you, you don’t. You’re a bloody pain, literally and expletively. You get the job done and do it well, but you do it so publicly, obviously, and with enough disregard for literally anything or anyone around that the guild spent way, way too many cents and gold coins cleaning up after you. Do you have any idea how many visits I personally made to the guard captain to fucking bribe her?”

  Osa sat coiled awkwardly half on her bed, half on the floor as she tended to in her space, face pointed down at her hands. “You don’t, do you? You have no fucking idea. You’re a mess, Viaxy. A fucking mess. You’re a goddamn liability. Oh, wait. You don’t fucking know what liability means.” The words exploded from his mouth with venom.

  “Don’t you fucking drag my words into this.”

  “What words? What education? You have no—”

  “And that’s my fault? Fuck you, Albreight. Fuck you. You’re a fucking bastard, and I hope you rot in whatever hell fits you worst. You insult my ability, my job, and you insult my words? My brain? That that isn’t my fault? Fuck you.”

  An audible sigh fell from the cell opposite hers. “You’re right. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “It’s ‘cause you’re posh. Posh people look down on not posh people.”

  “I,” he started, but cut himself off. “Yeah, you’re right. Look, I’m sorry.”

  “Did you mean it?”

  “Wha, what do you mean?”

  “The cleaning messes, bribing guard captain. Is it true?”

  An awkward silence akin to the countless previous in this discussion sat placidly before the word “yes” finally broke it.

  “Why did you not tell me? Of all the people, why didn’t you? My partner. I trusted you, Albreight.”

  “Exactly. I couldn’t. Not only would Pretorius have killed me, but I... I couldn’t do that to you.”

  “You knew. You knew and let the... the... the fake-ness keep on. I just can’t believe you.”

  “It was uncalled for.”

  “Just stop. I... I’ll talk when I’m ready.” Liam opened his mouth, but closed it before lying down and staring at his ceiling. Osa stared at nothing in particular, lost in her own mind before finally succumbing to a pained, hungry sleep.

  Chapter 28: Enter the Chief

  The City of Obla Grada, Southern Milakria

  Arcane tendrils appeared in the center of an empty house. As they unwrapped, Ani found herself in a living room devoid of people. There was a table and chairs, all done up to show someone was here recently, but cleaned up after themselves. She quickly moved to the door to let herself out. Nice house, random student. Thanks for the memory, I guess.

  The temperature was the first thing to hit her. She expected an ungodly heat, but was met with a surprising cold. Granted, it was warmer than Bargatha with much less wind, but the cold still caught her off guard. It’s been night for a week and a half, Ani. Why would it be hot? Deserts get cold too.

  All the buildings surrounding her were remarkably well built for what she was expecting. While Obla Grada was the capitol of the Atroks, as she well knew, the fact just now came back to her that it was also the city the Constructs called home. Feeling like an idiot, as she came to the city to find a Construct, she wandered out into the streets.

  She passed by stone building after stone building, the majority of which were reinforced with metalwork, something even most buildings in the Antrian capitol hadn’t yet done. The majority of people she passed were the towering four-armed lion men she had only read about, though upon reaching the city center more Constructs began to show appear.

  The high majority of the golems simply appeared as mobile plate armor with wood where skin should be showing. As well, most seemed to be built in the image of the Atroks that created them. Some seemed more experimental, mimicking Milarics, Rilarians, or even Northmen. There were a few built smaller, skinnier, and some built even more massive (both in height, width, and muscle) than the already large lion-men they were modeled after.

  Most fit a typical genderless plate-mail archetype, though some were built specifically to show off masculine or feminine traits. Mostly, their faces intrigued her. The various helms helped tell them apart, as some had more organically-modeled heads, some simply opted for a traditional bucket-helm, some went for more ornate helms, while others stayed basic and had either painted or carved runes. Despite all the wild differences, however, every Atrok and Construct she passed stared down at her confusedly, as if appalled at the thought of a Northman in this city.

  Soon enough, she found herself entering a building labeled “The Phalanx: Obla Grada’s Premier Dojo.” The inside of the building proved to outdo any training ground she had previously entered. There were doors leading out of the main room in every direction, but the building itself consisted mostly of the room she was looking into. The room, in which she could fit five or six of her own house, had a flat wooden floor with Cancaten symbols painted all over it, one in particular in the center stretched for a good seven meters.

  Four wooden pillars shot from floor to a cathedral ceiling, solid dark wood and probably one and a half meters thick, each positioned in the dead center of four non-delineated quarters. Inside, there were Atroks and Constructs fighting with fists and/or weapons all across the floor. Two in the dead center caught her eye.

  Two
Constructs faced each other in the middle of the room, one at least two and a half meters tall with hulking muscles on each of his four arms. His head was a helm forged to imitate the face of a true lion, while small green fires burned and flickered in place of his eyes.

  The opponent he faced was modeled after a Milaric male, noticeably taller than Anixemeter sitting around two meters with a body of blackened metal coated in spikes. Black horns curved out of his head, arcing backward then around in a loop ending in a point, similar to a high-altitude ram. His legs were also modeled after a hooved mammal, though more like a horse, and he remained bipedal. His helm was a mask, looking almost like a Milaric’s skull made of at least what appeared to be black iron. Small, calm violet flames burned inside each of the skull’s four eyeholes. Ani approached the center and opted to lean on a pillar as she watched the two.

  The larger one spoke to the smaller, leaner one in a thick Gorenyan accent. “You are tiny, little bot. You have but two arms and have horns neither man or woman possess, and yet still, you hope to best me? You know who I am, little man?”

  Surprisingly, the smaller one responded in an accent Ani could not entirely place, though if she had to guess, she would have presumed Hamash, implying this one had spent time on the sky pillar with the birdfolk. Her mailman, a Sheduvian from Hamash, had a subtle blend of this accent with a typical Antrian. What caught her, though, was the calm in his voice. It carried, but it was soft and delicate. “One would presume correctly.”

  “One? You do not speak to ‘one,’ tiny one. You speak to The Warden of the South!”

  “The Warden of the South would presume correctly, then.”

  The bigger one laughed. “For such a tiny, poorly-built Construct, you have courage.”

  “The Warden of the South may say.”

  “You wish to fight me? Fight me.”

  The shorter one whipped a comically large claymore off his back as he sprung and took a battle pose, waiting for The Warden to attack. His opponent obliged him. The larger one rushed forward, fists ready to pound, to which the unnamed Construct leaped at him, springing off of his horse-like legs, planting a hoof on the back of his opponent’s head, then shooting off again with it. His sword slashed against The Warden’s back leaving a sizable gash.

  Angered, The Warden swung around and charged again. The black Construct took a defensive pose and began to duck and weave around the larger one’s attacks, throwing in a slice of his sword when he found the chance.

  The battle waged for a good few minutes, mostly consisting of the smaller one ducking, weaving, leaping and slicing occasionally until finally, The Warden collapsed onto one knee, the black Construct’s sword at the back of his neck.

  “How? How does a puny Construct like you best The Warden of the South?”

  “The Warden of the South is reckless. The Warden of the South attacks without thinking. This style is appropriate for most opponents, but The Chief is no such opponent.”

  The Warden got up and walked out as the smaller one, who when not compared to his opponent was actually quite sizable, approached Ani. His eyes burned as four small purple flames deep in his helm, boring into her as he approached. “A woman watches fights in a strange land. Northmen are not found in Obla Grada often. What brings her to this dojo?”

  “Sir… Sir?”

  “Yes, one may refer to me with male terminology.”

  “Sir, my name is Anixemeter Incubore, and I wish to speak with you.”

  “The Chief will oblige. Speak.”

  “I seek to hire you... Chief.” Chief? Warden of the South? Where do they get these names?

  “The Chief has not acted as bodyguard in many moons, Anixemeter Incubore.”

  “Please, Ani will suffice. Anixemeter, if you prefer.”

  “Anixemeter it is. The Chief does not trifle with caravans in the modern days. He has been trained properly since the old times of guarding.”

  “This is not a simple guarding job. For one, I have to confirm something. You are the owner of this Dojo, correct?”

  The golem laughed. “Without social or physical cues, Anixemeter has discovered the Chief’s true identity. May the Chief inquire as to how?”

  “I’ve done my research. I came in search of a Construct well trained in combat and engineering. The only descriptors I could find were his distinctive horns and his body, described as ‘a racial amalgamation.’”

  “It is true; the Chief was designed with many species in mind.”

  “A— Yes, an amalgamation of species, sorry.”

  “A common mistake. Is Anixemeter here to inquire correct grammar?”

  “No, Anixe— I am here to hire you, assuming what I’ve heard is true.”

  “What have you heard?”

  “Precisely what I just said. Well trained in combat, excellent engineering skill, intelligent, and runs a dojo.”

  “The latter is obviously true, and the third is being confirmed the longer the Chief speaks. The second would be more complex to show, as speech does little to assuage trepidation to one’s skill. However, if one wishes to test the first, let us.”

  “You... You want to fight me?”

  “Does Anixemeter not? Is Anixemeter afraid of the might of The Chief with a Soul of Obsidian Who Gambles in the Mansion of Desire?”

  “Tze above, is that your full name?”

  “Indeed, it is the Chief’s full name and title.”

  “Okay, so wait. Why are we fighting?”

  “A fight has not yet begun, but combat was suggested to assuage Anixemeter’s fear that the Chief was not properly effective in a combat scenario.”

  “I saw you fight; I don’t need you to show me.”

  “Tell the Chief, for what reason does Anixemeter provide for the Chief to join her on a mission of whatever parameters have been kept out of conversation as of yet?”

  Is this man capable of speaking clearly? Gods. “We will pay you well, but more importantly, you’ll have a hand in the birth of a world-changing practice and ideology.”

  “Many men have approached the Chief with world changing ideologies. Religions have fallen to the wayside in the Chief’s past. Do not approach with ideological ramblings, Anixemeter.”

  “Is the money not enough?”

  “It has been many moons since The Chief took a job for ‘the money.’ Who is involved in this mission?”

  “My sister, a brilliant spellcaster and mind, a sorcerer from Bargatha more skilled in his magics than any other wizard to date, and me, the head of a special operations unit in Octavian’s Rebellion.”

  “Anixemeter is a fellow fighter.”

  “Was. I’m not a soldier anymore.”

  “Then what use is Anixemeter in this mission?”

  Ani stared at the Construct with confusion and disbelief. “Say again?”

  “She is no longer a soldier. She does not fight. Why does she join?”

  “Because... Now hey, I can still fight.”

  “Did Anixemeter not say she does not?”

  “I don’t fight for the queen anymore.”

  “Then what use was telling the Chief that Anixemeter does not fight?”

  “I didn’t say that!”

  “The words spoken were the Chief asking if Anixemeter was a fellow fighter, to which Anixemeter responded that she was not, implying that she does not fight.”

  “I misspoke. Why are you trying to rile me?”

  “The Chief wants a straight answer.”

  “Yes, I can fight.”

  “Better than The Chief?”

  “Damn straight!”

  “Show him.” The massive suit of armor flew at Anixemeter, ridiculously large sword in hands before Ani even knew what she had just said.

  She narrowly
rolled out of the attack and shouted, “I have no sword, I can’t fight!”

  “Obtain one!” Without hesitation, the Construct whirled around and attempted a swift decapitation, which Anixemeter narrowly avoided. She sprinted across the room at full speed towards a weapon rack, which, blessedly, contained a warhammer. The hammer was in her hands as a lucky duck and weave avoided a blade swinging through where her torso shortly was just before.

  Ani righted herself and proceeded to parry blows, attempt shots in, all while slowly moving towards the center ring. After what seemed an eternity of blow-for-blow sparring, what must have been minutes, Ani realized not only had neither of them been hit, but each and every move the Chief was making was hardwired into Ani’s brain to avoid.

  “You’re testing me!”

  “This is obvious.”

  “No, you’re literally testing me. You have yet to make a move that wasn’t taught in boot camp to parry.”

  “Anixemeter claimed to be of military background. The Chief wished to confirm.”

  “Do you wanna fight?”

  “Have we not been?” A sword was in her face before a retort could be uttered, the blade stopped short just before carving a smile into her cheeks. “If Anixemeter wishes to fight, the Chief shall fight.”

  The two took their stances and attacked. Ani was promptly dropped three spars in a row. No matter the attack, the Chief always had a way around her hammer, leaving bruises littering her body from the flat of his blade. By the third drop, the Chief offered his hand. “Anixemeter fights well. The Chief accepts.”

  As she rose, she suddenly stopped and stared into the empty helm and his four burning eyes. “Wait, what?”

  “Anixemeter’s training was effective. The Chief will accept Anixemeter’s terms.”

  “You... You just dropped me thrice in a row.”

  “The matches just held lasted longer than most. To stay standing and parry as many blows as Anixemeter did is a feat against the Chief. He does not hold it against Anixemeter, however, that she could not best the Chief. None can.”