by Jak Koke
Ormpetarr drew all races and all professions. It was a magnet for adventurers, danger seekers, and those on the extreme edge of reason. Dwarves and elves worked side by side with humans, halflings, and genasi. Order was intermittently enforced, and yet everyone seemed to operate under similar basic understandings. Still, there wasn’t enough of a social contract for Slanya’s comfort. In the monastery they learned about the interdependence of the different parts of society. Kaylinn required all her clerics and monks to acknowledge this interdependence and make explicit their agreement to maintain the order.
The rules of commerce and social convention in Ormpetarr were more haphazard and arbitrary than Slanya was comfortable with. For all her helpfulness, Tyrangal wielded her Copper Guard like a weapon, and the only group powerful enough to thwart their influence was the Order of Blue Fire.
Slanya didn’t know all the ins and outs of the city’s power struggles. This absence of the rule of law was certainly unfair to the newcomer pilgrim, who could easily get fleeced by predatory swindlers and street vendors.
The Jewel was in an older wooden structure in the center of the town, across from the main inn and down the street from the Order of Blue Fire’s headquarters. Slanya entered through the swinging doors and stood alert and ready.
“Welcome to the Jewel,” came a deep voice from the darkness to her right. “I’m guessing you’re not here for a drink, and you don’t look like you’ll be buying our usual services … although we are discreet if that’s what you’re looking for.” The voice held an amused edge. Slanya’s eyes had adjusted enough to the dim light in the room to see the voice’s owner, a large half-orc wearing an apron and tending the bar.
“Or maybe you’re here for a job?” Slanya glanced left toward this new voice. Leaning against a post was a middle-aged dwarf woman wearing makeup and brightly colored, fancy clothes. “You’re a mite threatening,” the dwarf continued, “but not unattractive … and the bald, tattooed-scalp look would attract a whole new clientele!”
The bartender laughed. Other than the two who had greeted her, the Jewel was predominately empty. A small group of halflings and humans spoke in hushed tones in one corner, and there was an elf in scarred black leather standing at the bar.
Slanya felt her face start to redden, but she concentrated to make it not show. “I’m here looking for a human named Duvan,” she said. “It’s important.”
“Duvan is here,” said the bartender. “But he’s, ah … indisposed, if you know what I mean. Knowing Duvan and Moirah, he will be here all day, and maybe all night as well.”
The dwarf woman spoke. “You’d best come back tomorrow, girl. Unless you fancy a drink, a rattle and roll, or a turn in one of our comfy beds. I guarantee they’re more comfortable than the burlap and straw you’re used to.”
Slanya took a slow breath to avoid the anger she felt rising. Anger was the enemy of self-control. All of her identity and abilities required control of her body and mind. “Not that I don’t appreciate the offer and the advice, but I need to find Duvan now. I can’t wait until tomorrow.”
“It’s your funeral,” said the bartender.
“All life is,” Slanya said. Stepping into the hall, she started opening doors.
A knock sounded on the chamber door.
Commander Accordant Vraith rolled over and went back to sleep in her darkened bedroom on the top story of the Changing House. Her wide bed was luxuriously appointed with down-stuffed pillows and silk bed linens.
Such comfort befitted a person of her stature, and she wasn’t about to relinquish her privileges just because the Order had assigned her to this pit. Working at the very edge of the Plaguewrought Land was supposed to be the highest honor, but Vraith hated it.
She was only here to make her chances of rapture-of absorption into the sharn-more likely. Once she’d followed through on its prophecy and had completed the rituals then she would be truly transcendent. She could escape this grubby mortality completely.
Ever since the spellplague had appeared to her on thirteenth birthday, hovering like a ghost of blue fire in her dormitory room at the wizard academy, she had wanted to merge with it. Ever since the spellplague had touched her, blossoming a spellscar in her chest, Vraith had pursued a singular agenda.
She would learn and work, manipulate and coerce, struggle and create to achieve her goal. Whatever it took, Vraith would do it. Her passion was unmatched, her dedication unparalleled.
Vraith was convinced that when her ritual expansion of the Plaguewrought Land succeeded, the sharn-creatures of pure chaos and power-would see the benefit of her contribution and welcome her into their immortal essence.
Only when she had become part of that godly communal consciousness would her rapture be complete. Only then could she escape this dingy backwater.
The knock sounded again, more insistent.
What could the perpetrator be thinking? she wondered. She had a reputation for quick anger and decisive justice for those who disobeyed her commands. And one of the reasons she had cultivated that reputation was so that her sleep would not be interrupted.
Vraith slipped out of the silk sheets. “This had better be important” she said, standing in the cool dark.
“My apologies, Mistress Vraith,” came the muffled reply. “I have urgent news.”
Vraith had trouble placing the voice at first, primarily because she was expecting Renfod or one of his lackeys. Standing naked in the darkened chamber, Vraith’s small body gathered energy. Wrath was a great source of power, and Vraith knew how to use it.
She walked to the door and opened the small viewing square in the top of it. “What is so important that it justifies waking me?” she snapped.
“I am sorry.” Beaugrat cowered on his knees outside the door. “I needed to speak with you right away.”
Vraith’s spellscar seemed to burn in her gut. Looking down on her nakedness, Vraith watched her spellscar, which formed a jagged, deep black line from her sternum to her crotch. Her abdomen glowed slightly red with the scar’s activation, and suddenly she could see Beaugrat’s soul, the spirit energy of his life force.
Red tendrils wisped out from her spellscar and intertwined through the door with the threads of Beaugrat’s soul. She probed his being and understood the weave of his life energy. One magical tug and he would be dead.
“Go on,” she said. “Explain.”
“Tyrangal’s pet. Duvan.” Beaugrat’s speech came haltingly. “He seems to be immune to the Blue Fire.”
That got Vraith’s attention. Such a power could be devastating to the Order and to her plans. “How do you know?”
“Our team went with him as instructed,” Beaugrat said. “We lost the sorcerer, but Seerah and I tried to take the items that Tyrangal had sent him to get.”
“You failed to get the items?”
“Yes. The rogue is very resourceful; he killed Seerah, and when I tried to kill him by summoning the Blue Fire …” Beaugrat gestured at his shoulder spellscar. “It had no effect.”
Questions swirled around Vraith’s consciousness. Was this true immunity or just resistance? Was it an active power that needed to be invoked, or an innate aspect of this person? Did it require components? Speech or motion? Did it come from a spellscar?
Too many questions and not enough answers.
“We need to capture this person, Beaugrat. For now, I will overlook your failure to acquire the items. Your new task: assemble a team and bring Duvan to me. We need to discover the extent of this ability.”
Beaugrat bowed his head. “Thank you for your lenience, Commander. I will capture him today.”
“Use whatever means necessary. This is important, but I do not have time to deal with it myself.”
“Of course, Commander. May the Blue Fire burn inside you.”
Vraith closed the view window and latched it. Her scar throbbed below her sternum, and she sank to the cool floor. She needed rest to prepare for the next stage of the ritual; she couldn’
t allow anything to get in the way, certainly not some no-account rogue.
Soon she put it out of her head and slipped back into her bed. It was possible that he didn’t even know what he could do. Tyrangal might know, and that was some cause for concern. But the boy himself was no threat. Soon this wrinkle would be ironed out. If this Duvan proved a threat, he would be eliminated. Simple.
CHAPTER FOUR
In the small room at the Jewel, Moirah danced with Duvan. Their choreography started with playful gestures, discreet and calculated steps. He wanted her, but she dictated the tempo. She gave the instructions, and he obeyed. She took care of him-a tease of the tongue here, a tender caress there. And he played because he knew the game was rigged; she would give him what he wanted in the end.
The deliberate progression of their flirting into passionate embrace allowed Duvan to lose himself. Moirah freed him from his worries, letting him unleash the wild animal inside him as he rolled with her, as he pressed her into the bed beneath him. Her magic urged him to lose himself. Nothing else mattered and he took her as she wanted him to, as she begged him to, as she willed him to.
Her spellscar magic controlled him and set him free. Free from making decisions. Free from his nightmares. Free from his thoughts of remorse, regret, and anger. And, ultimately, free to rest in peaceful bliss.
Moirah made all the decisions and held him safe, and he loved her for it. In that instant, he loved her. In that isolated moment, she was all that mattered. All that made sense.
“Now,” she commanded.
And with her permission explicitly granted, he lost the last vestige of control. His body and mind were one in feral heat. Primal, animal sex washed away all his cares and concerns.
The perfect moment stretched on and on …
Interrupted by a knock on the door.
What in the Nine Hells is that? Duvan thought. He’d clearly said no interruptions. He felt the ecstasy drain away, leaving a void for anger to fill. This was the not the freedom he craved, the rest he so desperately needed.
“Ignore it,” Moirah breathed. “I’m sure it’s just a mistake. Whoever it is will go away.”
Duvan turned back to her, so calm and beautiful beneath him. In the silence that followed, he drifted slowly back into her embrace. He relaxed into her arms and felt the anger start to give way to contentment.
Abruptly, the bedroom door opened. “I apologize for the intrusion,” came a woman’s stiff voice. “But I need to speak to Duvan about a matter of some urgency.”
His hope for peaceful rest vanished as he glanced over at the offender. Tall and lithe, wearing light combat leather, the woman’s proud nose and thin lips reminded him of his old lover from Wildhome-Rhiazzshar. Same arrogance. Same condescending voice.
Rhiazzshar had broken his heart and had manipulated him. She had used him, and he hated her. He could not allow Rhiazzshar to capture him. He would fight her.
Rage flooded back into him and took control. He’d get rid of this intruder, this enemy. Duvan sprang from the bed and rushed at the offender. Unconcerned about his nakedness, he shouted at her as he ran across the room, “Get out!”
If she was surprised or startled, she showed no sign. Her face was unreadable, and her expression did not change. She stepped very deliberately to the side to avoid his rush. There was a weapon in her hand, he suddenly registered-a wooden staff or stick of some sort. But she didn’t use it.
“I come to enlist your service, Duvan,” she said. “Not to fight you.”
“Just get out!”
The infuriating intruder was now farther from the door, her movements light and calculated. “We need to leave today,” she said. “I’m prepared-”
Duvan had closed in on her, pinning her between himself and the wall. This intruder would pay for her interruption. Then he could rest, finally.
Duvan punched the woman, aiming first for the face, then the gut. With a rapid movement of her head, she dodged his fist. His punch to her gut went wide as her staff came down hard on his forearm, deflecting his blow.
He missed! Duvan could hardly believe it. He rarely missed.
Rage pushed him into a flurry of blows, each one dodged or blocked or deflected. Every strike landed on the wall or her staff. He had her cornered, but he couldn’t hit her.
Some logic filtered past his rage. She was fast, he granted her that. He prided himself on being fast, but she might be faster. Yet perhaps she was just better trained.
Other details registered. This wasn’t the Rhiazzshar he remembered from Wildhome. This intruder was human and not elf. Her tunic sported a different clerical symbol-a skeletal hand holding scales. Not Sylvanus. Instead of long mahoghany hair, her head was shaved save for a shoulder-length blonde sidelock, carefully wrapped with strip of white leather.
His rage lessened.
Watching her dodge his attacks, Duvan realized that her senses were attuned, focused on his body and his eyes. She knew what to look for and how to react. Her response was logical and predictable … which meant that she could be defeated.
“I thought I knew you,” he said. “I thought you were someone who’s done me great harm.”
“We’ve never met.”
“I realize that now,” he said. “Still, I’m not going with you.” He started a punch to her gut, but changed it at the last second to strike her neck.
She started to block the attack, and he saw surprise in her face when she realized that it wasn’t going to work. At the last instant, she managed to shift her position and take the brunt of the blow on her shoulder instead.
She used the momentum of her movement to dive left and gain some distance from him. The close call with the last blow must’ve fazed her. Still, she did not return his attacks.
Duvan pressed forward. If she wouldn’t leave, he might have to take her down. Then he could pin her, tie her up, and drag her out of the room.
“I’m tired of this, but I’m not leaving,” the woman said. “My matter is urgent, and you are the only one who can help.”
Duvan found himself falling as she swept his legs out from under him. Then her weapon was arcing toward him.
“But I am tired of this fight,” she said.
His head exploded in pain from at least two blows in rapid succession, and then inky blackness seeped in from the edges of his vision and the fight was over.
Slanya bounced to her feet, still at the ready in case the other person-the woman-came after her. The woman, however, appeared to be no threat. Huddled in a ball up against the headboard, the petite young human had covered herself in pillows.
Slanya saw that the woman was shivering. Afraid.
Slanya gave the woman the warmest smile she could muster, considering the incredible awkwardness of the situation. At Slanya’s feet, Duvan’s naked body lay slumped, unmoving for once. Their initial exchange had not gone as she’d hoped.
Slanya loosened the ties to a pocket sewn into her pants and pulled out a gold piece. “Apologies for the interruption.” She tossed the coin to the woman. “Here is for your trouble. It should be enough to cover whatever he owed you for your services.”
Black curls shook as the woman emerged from the pile of pillows to catch the gold. Her shivering seemed to have vanished. She gave Slanya a flirty smile. “Yes, this’ll do.”
“You’ll be so kind as to leave me alone with him for a while,” Slanya said.
“He’ll be angry when he wakes,” said the woman, slipping into a silk robe and gliding across to the door.
“No doubt, but I can handle him.”
The woman nodded. “I’ll leave you two alone then.”
“Thank you.”
The woman closed the door behind her.
Duvan stirred slightly as Slanya lifted him to the bed. The room smelled a stifling and pungent mix of odors that Slanya found distracting. She used the bed linens to secure Duvan’s wrists and ankles to the bed posts.
He was thin and wiry with compact muscles. She could
admire his fitness while at the same time marvel at how poorly he seemed to treat himself. The numerous scars that traced light strokes on his chest, arms, and legs told of a hard life. Slanya made a quick count as she appraised his dark skin: twelve that she could see, and she guessed there were more on his back.
Duvan’s dark, unbraided hair grew straight and long, and his face bore only the faintest hint of the scars on the remainder of his body. He had no tattoos that she could see, nor any piercings. And no visible spellscar either. Slanya was surprised to find that as long as he was lying unconscious and quiet, he was handsome, in a rugged, unshaven way.
Slanya sighed. She’d prefer an ugly but polite guide any day.
Duvan came fully awake a few minutes later, his forehead wrinkling from the pain in his head. Slanya watched as he took careful stock of his situation. His demeanor was wary, and she was glad that she’d restrained him. This was a much more dangerous man than the anger-driven brute earlier.
“I will release you after we have spoken,” she said. “After you have listened to my proposal.”
She could see him weighing the options. He could undoubtedly escape from the bonds she’d tied. He’d likely done that sort of thing numerous times. But he was trying to figure out if he could do it before she knocked him out again.
“It’s not worth it,” she said. “You are quite vulnerable, as you can see.” She gestured at his exposed privates with her staff.
Duvan grimaced, then nodded.
“One of the leaders of the monastery of Ormpetarr has developed an elixir that prevents people who are exposed to the spellplague from dying.”
“Sure he has,” Duvan said with a snicker.
“But,” Slanya continued, “he has run out of a crucial component. And he needs more, much more, before the Festival of Blue Fire begins.”
“So?”
“He has given me the task of heading into the Plague-wrought Land and bringing some back.”