The Hidden Illusionist

by Deck Davis

  There was no choice. Otherwise, it wouldn’t stop for him or Dullzewn.

  Ethan strode across the dorm, anger vibrating inside him. Recruits stopped their card games to watch him pass. They whispered to each other. They all knew what had happened to Ethan, but none of them would stand up for him. He was still a thief to them, and besides, most were happy Yart wasn’t picking on them. Yart’s position in the guild put him above the recruits, and none of them wanted to provoke him.

  Yart faced Ethan. “Well, if it isn’t-”

  Ethan shoved him so hard he fell to the ground.

  Is this a good idea?

  No going back now. He had to end it. He needed something final, to do something that would scare Yart for good.

  As Yart tried to get to his feet, Ethan kicked him in the ribs. Yart wheezed. He hit the floor nose-first.

  Two meaty hands gripped Ethan. He could barely react before Bunk’s forehead blew at him, and the force of the headbutt knocked him back. He staggered, then caught hold of a bedframe. He forced himself to stay on his feet despite the stinging pain in his nose.

  Fury wrought deep lines on Bunk’s face. Ethan was struck with a sudden moment of clarity, a bolt of inspiration that seemed like the most sensible thought he’d ever had; only a lunatic would get into a fight with a pissed-off gigas.

  “Blast him, Yart,” Bunk said. “Blast the fucker.”

  Yart didn’t move.

  “What’s wrong? You said Lillian taught you a fire spell, didn’t ya?”

  The dorm was silent. One recruit lost hold of his beer bottle, and it tinkled across the floor.

  Yart rubbed his face. “Yeah, I uh…”

  Lies. He doesn’t know a damn fire spell. Need to finish this for good.

  As Ethan approached Yart, Bunk stepped in front of him, so large he blocked Yart from view.

  He pushed Ethan’s chest. It was a tap, but he almost sent him sprawling. Doubts trickled through his mind; was this a good idea, or had he gone crazy? Had Yart’s incessant barbs, all the grueling hours of training Reck put him through, and never-ending worry about Dantis finally toppled him into the chasm of insanity?

  Better end it now, or it never will. Not for me, not for Dullzewn, not for any of the other recruits Yart takes a disliking to.

  “Let’s settle this fairly,” said Ethan.

  Bunk grinned. “Is you proposing a fight?”

  “Are you proposing a fight,” corrected Yart. “Sheesh, Bunk. Sometimes you embarrass me.”

  Bunk glared at his friend. Yart gave nervous smile. “I mean…pulverize him, Bunk, pal.”

  Ethan nodded. “Me and you. Now. We’ll close the dorm doors and settle this quietly.”

  Through listening to the older recruits in the common room, Ethan had heard of Settlements. This was the name recruits gave to their peculiar method of handling disputes, one that seemed a million miles away from what he expected to see in a guild.

  It might have been the testosterone from years without seeing a girl, or the adrenaline that surged through them after hours in the training yard, but when recruits took issue with one another, they settled it in one way; a bare-knuckle fight.

  “No blows to the face,” said Ethan, “I’d hate to ruin your good looks. Don’t break any bones, and remember,” this time, he addressed the other teens in the dorm who watched with rapt attention, “never, ever rat on us for this.”

  Murmurs of assent spread through the room. Recruits leaned forward on their beds. Some grinned, and others turned away as if they didn’t want to see violence between guild members.

  Truth be told, Ethan didn’t want to, either. But they’d driven him to this. Unless he ended it, Yart and Bunk would never leave any of them alone.

  Bunk stretched his arms out and cracked his knuckles. His biceps pressed against his shirt. Ethan felt his own muscles. He was puny compared to this lunk of a teenager, so what was he doing?

  He had to set an example. Nobody would stand up to Yart and Bunk. But, it only took someone to lead the way for the others to join.

  “Let’s do this. Whatever happens, it’s settled after this. Agreed?”

  Bunk grunted. Yart grinned. Dullzewn leaned back on his pillow as if he was relaxing on a carefree afternoon. Ethan clenched his fists. Hope I’ve still got it.

  Bunk held his giant fists at his side, and a grin spread across his face. His hulking shoulders looked tougher than blocks of rock. “Remember, rat. Fair fight.”

  Yart gave a nod. Hands grabbed Ethan’s shoulders. He turned his head to see another recruit, a lanky teen named Olly Boxall, gripping him. Olly wasn’t strong enough to hold him, and one elbow to the stomach sent him wheezing back.

  Those few seconds made all the different, for the wrong reasons. When Ethan turned back to Bunk, a fist flew at him. Lights flashed in his eyes. It felt like his nose had been ripped clean off. Hot, wet blood trickled onto his lips, and agony sung cruel words in his skull.

  He tried to move, but he couldn’t. This wasn’t pain or shock; a force held him in place. Faint wisps of spent mana teased into his nose. It was the same aroma that clung to Dantis when he tried, unsuccessfully, to practice his illusion spells without Ethan knowing.

  Was it Yart? Had he cast a spell? Impossible. The scribe studied under Lillian, but there was no way he’d advanced that far.

  The feeling lessened, the grip on his limbs eased. When it did, the room spun. Groans met with jeers. A hand touched his shoulder; it was Dullzewn.

  “You okay buddy?”

  Bunk strode forward. He wasn’t done, not in the slightest.

  Ethan shrugged Dullzewn off. Call this a fair fight? He’d show Bunk what fighting dirty meant.

  Bunk swung another hammer-like gigas fist at him. This time, when Ethan moved, he felt different. It wasn’t that he moved, as such, but more that the room seemed to bend to his will, reshaping until he was next to Bunk without even realizing he’d gotten there.

  What the hell? Dullzewn stared at him, open-mouthed. “Ethan…you…”

  A fist crashed into his head. His temples rang, and the blow blew his sense of balance. His legs turned to jelly.

  Bunk repositioned for another blow.

  Ethan ducked, feeling the room spin and shape, wrapping to the way he wanted it to move so that he could avoid another head-snapping fist.

  There was no time to wonder what the hell was happening. He darted to the left, next to Dullzewn’s bed. He reached to the hole in the floor, where Dullzewn kept the rocks and debris he dug out from his wall, and he grabbed a handful of dust.

  “Having second thoughts?” said Yart.

  Ethan straightened up. His vision still wobbled, and he backpedaled to put space between him and Bunk.

  As Bunk moved in for round two, Ethan threw the dust in his face. It caught him unaware, and Bunk put his hands to his eyes, covering them, trying to get the dust out.

  If you want to end a fight, end it irrevocably. That was what the streets had taught him. Show a man mercy, and he’ll come back again and again.

  He kicked Bunk’s groin as hard as he could. The big man dropped to a knee. Ethan punched him in the cheek, then fought back the pain in his knuckles. Was his face made of iron?

  Bunk tried to open his eyes and groaned in pain. He blinked furiously. Ethan punched him again, knocking him onto his back.

  Recruits cheered behind him. The dorm grew wild, and soon their volume would attract senior recruits to check on them. Ethan had to end this.

  He stood above Bunk and kicked him in the stomach. Each time Bunk wheezed, Ethan kicked him harder, until groans punctuated his raspy breaths.

  Silence settled on the dorm. Wind whistled through the cavities, and the breeze blew on Ethan’s nose, inviting fresh flares of pain.

  Bunk was curled on the floor, sobbing. His shirt was torn, and his eyes flamed red from the dust. A brief flicker of guilt hit Ethan, but it was easy to get rid of. Bunk and Yart had started it. He had no pity for them.


  Question flooded his mind; would anyone tell the guild master? Would he be cast out of the guild? One question rose above the surface of the rest; how had Bunk paralyzed him?

  As he looked at him, he noticed jewelry on Bunk’s finger. It was a gold signet ring. An emblem was carved on the surface; a red eye with a blood tear in the corner. It was the same as the shape on Lillian’s necklace.

  He tugged the ring off Bunk’s finger. It glowed against his palm, and his questions multiplied. Had Lillian given Bunk the ring? Had the ring paralyzed him when Bunk punched him? Had Lillian put him up to this?

  “Where did you get this?”

  Bunk groaned. He tried to speak, but when he did, Ethan realized his jaw hung slightly loose. The sight sickened him. I broke his damn jaw.

  Dullzewn patted his back. “Bastard deserved it,” he said. Then, he addressed the rest of the recruits. “Quite a nasty slip Bunk had, wasn’t it?”

  The recruits stared at him, puzzled.

  “I said, our big lug here tripped up, didn’t he?”

  They caught on. Some nodded, while others turned back to their card games, carrying on as if nothing had happened.

  Yart backed away from Ethan. His sneer disappeared, replaced by a fear that made Ethan glow inside. “I’ll tell Bander,” he said. “And Lillian. And Reck.”

  “Will you?” said Ethan. “Maybe we better talk in private, you, me, and Dullzewn here.”

  He grabbed Yart’s collar. Instead of trying to fight, the scribe gave up, shuddering every time Ethan moved his fist.

  Volcanic anger channeled through him now. Was it all directed at Yart? Maybe not. Maybe it was at everyone; at the guild, at Bander, at Lillian, at the Brotherhood of Fire. Above everything else, he was furious at himself.

  Remember the old man in Wolfpine.

  Beating Bunk wouldn’t be the end of it. Yart’s eyes confirmed as much. As soon as he got the chance, he’d tell Bander or Lillian about what Ethan had done. And if he didn’t, he’d do something worse. He’d find someone tougher than Bunk and use his father’s money to persuade them to come after Ethan. No, he had to end this unequivocally.

  “Go make sure the halls are clear,” he told Dullzewn.

  He was sure they would be. After their evening feast, the guild master and his instructors loved to gather in their staff den, where they’d drink and discuss plans for the guild. They put senior recruits on hallway duty, but even they didn’t want the job. They’d skive their duty as much as they could allow.

  “All clear,” said Dullzewn, at the end of the dorm.

  Ethan led Yart out of the dorm and into the halls, where portraits of past heroes stared back at them, and soft mana torches cast glows. This was the guild’s concession to decoration. In the rest of the rooms and hallways, aesthetics gave way to cold, hard stone.

  “Where are we going?” said Yart.

  Ethan clamped his hand over Yart’s mouth. “You’ll see. You’ll know this place well.”

  He led him around the hallway and up a twisting flight of stone steps. Wind groaned through cracks in the stone, and cobwebs fluttered against the walls. Nobody came to this part of the guild, because there was nothing here. But Ethan had been here before. He’d never forget it.

  At the top of the staircase, they came to a window. Ethan opened it and pushed Yart against the window frame.

  “Remember this place?” he said. “See the eagle’s nest over there? Maybe you better take a closer look.”

  The ropes that Yart and Bunk had used to tie Ethan lay on the floor. Seeing them, Ethan touched the scratched skin on his wrist.

  Yart trembled. “Come on, rat…I mean, Ethan. My arm. I can’t…”

  Dullzewn shoved him half out of the window, holding onto his collar. “Should have thought about that.”

  “Wait,” said Yart. “I’m sorry. I know what I’m like. But my father, when he learned I couldn’t use a sword anymore, he…”

  “He what?” said Ethan.

  “He barely spoke to me after the guards took you from my house. He was ashamed of me, that you beat me.”

  Ethan relaxed something that he’d forgotten, all this time; that at the end of it all, Yart was a victim here. He’d been so used to thief life, so used to taking things from people, that he’d forgotten that one, vital thing. Yart’s father was a piece of shit, but in Yart’s mind, Ethan had broken into his home.

  And then he remembered the window, and the plummet, and the darkness after he hit the ground. Yart had tried to kill him.

  Ethan coiled the rope in his hand. He watched Yart squirm, listened to him mutter in fear.

  His pangs of guilt resurfaced, spreading through him like ice. This isn’t how heroes behave. Is this the way I want to go? He pulled Yart away for the window.

  “Ethan,” panted Yart. “Thank you. I promise-”

  Ethan punched him in the gut, relishing the feeling of his knuckles meeting soft flesh. “Get the hell out of here,” he said, pushing him toward the stairs. “I got to you once, and I can do it again. Remember that. And remember something else, you rich little bitch.”

  Yart said nothing; he just stared.

  Ethan held up the signet ring. “This is Lillian’s, isn’t it? Only one person could have stolen it from him. Breathe a word to anyone about this, and I’ll make sure they know how Bunk got it.”

  “I didn’t know he had it.”

  It was strange, but Ethan believed him. It was his eyes; liars could mask their words, but they couldn’t hide the look behind their eyes.

  “I don’t think Lillian will see it that way,” said Ethan. “Remember what I said. I got you once, and I can do it again. Get the hell out of my sight.”

  Yart scampered down the stairs. When his footsteps grew silent, Ethan slunk on the floor, leaning against the wall. Dullzewn joined him, sitting close to him. A smile curled on his lips, and he laughed.

  Hearing this, laughter stirred in Ethan too, starting in his belly and rising until he couldn’t help but let it out. He held his hand toward Dullzewn, who shook it. “Thanks,” he said.

  Dullzewn shrugged. “We’re even now.”

  “Actually, Dullzewn, I think you still owe me one.””

  Dullzewn laughed. “Call me Zewn. I always hated the Dull part of my name. Dad’s from the Gold Canyons, and Dull means something better over there.”

  “Is that why you have the tribe marks?” asked Ethan.

  “Yeah. You’ve heard of the canyons, then?”

  “Only that you guys are always fighting each other.”

  “A dozen tribes,” said Zewn, “Each one pettier than the last. My parents got sick of it, and they didn’t want me to grow up there only to be sent to fight. But it took my sister being murdered for them to finally leave. She was a hunter, and she went too far into the forests hunting a boar, and another tribe were…”

  Zewn stopped talking now. Ethan put his arm around his shoulder. “Let’s talk about something else,” said Zewn.

  “Why were you trying to dig out of your wall? It’s not as if they won’t notice before you get it big enough.”

  “It makes me feel better. Like I’m doing something,” said Zewn. “Like I’m not helpless.”

  “This isn’t a prison. If we adapt, we can earn day passes. Get promoted. Travel places.”

  “It still feels like a prison to me.”

  “Look, Zewn. This is going to make me sound crazy,” he said. “But a few nights ago…do you remember something happening to me?”

  “You mean, when you died?”

  A shock of ice hit Ethan and spread over his skin. “Do you do remember?”

  “I do. And then I woke up in the woods, with Reck standing over me, talking about how he’d caught me trying to escape. They stuck me in the echo cell.”

  Ethan grimaced. The echo cell was an outbuilding behind the guildhouse, near the caves where punished recruits were made to mine the green crystals. In the echo cell, the walls were made to echo the slightest sound.
There were no windows, no light. The recruits were eft for hours with just their heartbeats echoing back at them.

  According the other recruits, almost nobody got taken there, not even people who tried to leave the mountain. So why had they thrown Zewn into the cell?

  Maybe Zewn was right. The heroes guild wasn’t a prison, exactly, but he couldn’t see a way out.