The Archimage Wars: Wizard of Abal

by Philip Blood

  The woman screamed as her husband's body came to rest nearby. She crawled out toward him and the killer dispassionately shot her with a short burst from the Uzi. When his attention returned to me I saw the first sign of emotion from his face, he smiled and spoke with a satisfied grin, “Now we are alone at last.”

  There I stood, not knowing where to run... exposed, defenseless. Maybe I should have tried to charge him again and gone down like a man, but truth be told I froze in my tracks. I stared at the dark opening of the gun barrel; it looked like some vicious snake ready to strike. Strewn around me were twisted bodies which had been living breathing people seconds before, but were now just slaughtered corpses, soaking the old stones with new blood.

  Anger at the wasted lives gave me sudden courage, and I snarled, “Well, asshole?”

  Surprisingly he just smiled again and tossed the UZI in the corner of the room next to the bodies of the elderly couple. “My name is Stewart Hentan, Second. Whom do I have the pleasure of ending today?”

  I played for time. “Why should I tell you?” I asked.

  He frowned at my question. “Fine, Sivaeral, if you wish to go to your end nameless, that is your affair, but it won’t stop me from severing your line. I do prefer my trophies to have a full name... so if you don’t mind? After all, I have been polite enough to tell you my name and lineage.”

  So, was Sivaeral my last name? I had no time to ponder that, so I replied, “You call this murder polite!” I gestured to the poor dead tourists around us.

  “Mundanes… they mean nothing and you know it. Now for the last time, do you wish to end with some honor and dignity or just be slaughtered like these sheep?”

  “Screw you and the horse you rode in on, Jack,” I answered. I was eyeing the UZI with my peripheral vision; it was nearly as close to me as it was to this Stewart Hentan.

  The killer scowled, but pulled out a knife with a nasty curved blade of about twelve inches, the gleaming blade polished to a bright gleam. “So be it, die nameless. I will mount your head on a placard at my estate to show until one of us recognizes you. Then I’ll make your House the laughing stock of the Ten Worlds.”

  I feinted left then dove right... toward the UZI. I figured he would race me for it, but he just shifted his footing and swiveled to face me as I came up with the wicked machine gun leveled at his chest.

  “Now who’s laughing, you ugly bastard,” I said with a wicked grin.

  “You would dare insult ME?” he said, thunderclouds brewing as his eyebrows came down until they nearly met in the middle of his face.

  “You think that was an insult, you sniveling excuse for chicken droppings? I’ve met road kill which looked better than your face, you rat nosed, murdering coward!”

  “I shall erase your line from history!” he snarled.

  I shrugged, “Whatever, Barf breath, now back away, or I’ll stitch you a new seam with this UZI.”

  He shook his head sadly. “I don’t know who you are, but your education has been lax. Your brethren should have taught you better than to threaten a Second, especially after insulting them.”

  He took a step toward me lifting his shining blade a little higher.

  I had a brief moment of fear as I realized the UZI must be empty! He must have known this when he tossed it aside, what a fool I had been! I pulled the trigger anyway just to make sure.

  The report of the automatic firing shocked the hell out of me. It climbed to the left with the natural pull of the gun firing on full automatic, but I compensated, sending the main stream of bullets into his chest. I realized somewhere in the past I had learned to use automatics.

  I stopped firing, knowing short controlled bursts to be more accurate.

  Damn it to hell, Stewart was still approaching without so much as a scratch on his big chest. A bullet proof vest? But no, his clothes were also untouched by the bullets. I must have missed.

  I aimed more carefully and stepped back, then I fired another burst. This time, I knew I did not miss, yet he was unperturbed, maybe these were blanks? But this made no sense; I’d seen him mow down a lot of tourists with this gun.

  He kept coming and his knife looked very wide and very lethal.

  I considered panicking as my next option.

  I looked past his shoulder for an avenue of escape and saw the blocked opening, the way was open above the fallen statue, but you would have to scramble over first.

  Unfortunately, it was too far to jump. I considered launching off the head of Amun-Ra, but it looked like an impossible distance to leap. On the other hand, I reasoned, what did I have to lose?

  I shifted my aim to his face and let fly with the UZI, aiming for his eyes. I figured if it worked, he would be dead, if somehow he still did not get hit by the bullets, maybe it would mess up his vision somehow. I fired and ran past him; at the last second, he seemed to see me and lunged with the knife. As I flew by I felt a ripping of cloth go in along my side and then slice down across my ribs.

  I took a running bound to the top of the statue’s head, and a second step up onto his shoulder, and then leaped for the high top of the arched opening of the exit from the chamber. Incredibly, my leap took me all the way up to the opening and I managed to land, and then drop down on the other side.

  I heard a bellow from the room behind me. “Coward, you run from a fight! I will hunt you down no matter where you hide.”

  I dropped to the floor and ran for the outer courtyard full of pillars; I figured my assailant might try the same leap and come after me.

  I heard the sounds of someone scrambling over the stones back in the chamber, so I tried for even more speed out of my legs.

  There was blood soaking into the material of my flowery shirt from the long, but thankfully, shallow cut running across my ribs. I ran through hall after hall and finally found the exit. Outside I saw a tourist bus waiting nearby. Oblivious to my surroundings, I just wanted out of here, so I ran onto the bus and found the driver lounging in one of the seats.

  “Quickly, there are terrorists killing everyone inside! We have to get to the police. They’re coming to take the bus next!” I yelled in Egyptian.

  The man saw the blood soaking the side of my tourist clothes and after gaping for a moment he leaped to his feet. The driver looked out the window toward the ruins just in time to see Stewart Hentan come running out, still clutching the large wicked looking knife in his hand.

  The bus driver cursed something about some deity’s hairy balls then leaped into the driver’s seat and dropped the bus into gear. We lurched away leaving a billowing cloud of dust trailing behind.

  I looked back as Stewart stopped and watched us depart, and then I finally noticed the great Egyptian Temple of Karnak, lit up against the dark sky behind him.

  Chapter Two

  Little old lady got mutilated late last night.

  Werewolves of London again.

  -Warren Zevon

  Now that I had time to contemplate the impossibilities and madness I had just witnessed I started seriously considering my sanity. To put it plainly, it is quite possible I am bonkers. After a few more minutes to think, which is not easy when your head is pounding like a pile driver, I decided I would withhold judgment of my sanity until later. Why? Easy, no one wants to think they are one sandwich short of a full picnic.

  This left me with the decision of what to do next. I reached in my pocket for the piece of paper the puny pigmy had given me. Upon opening the paper, I discovered a hotel room key taped to the reservation slip. All right, since I did not have any other pressing dates, I decided to head for the hotel. I checked the other pockets of my ugly shorts and discovered a wad of cash, 350 pounds.

  First things first, though, I would have to ditch this bus driver before I became mired up with the Egyptian police. They would ask me many questions which I did not have any answers to, and then probably lock me up for a few months to see if that helped me remember.

  I waited until we had entered the busy portion of
the city, then suddenly pointed into a thick group of people at a marketplace. “Stop the bus! There are the police!”

  He laid on the brakes as if there were a mother and baby carriage in front of the bus and I nearly pitched out the front windshield. Luckily I managed to grab one of the seats and hold on, though it hurt my wounded side.

  He popped open the door and started to get up, but I gestured for him to stay in his seat. “I’ll get them; you mind the bus.”

  The panicky driver nodded with wide eyes and gripped his steering wheel tighter. I jumped out and moved back into the blind spot in his side mirrors, then quickly faded into the crowd. I wondered how long he would wait, but there was no telling.

  I stopped in a shop and bought a new shirt and some soft cloth. They had a changing booth so I went in and took off my old shirt and used it to wipe off some of the blood from around the wound. It was in better shape than I expected; the initial pain had made it seem worse. I used the cloth I had bought as a kind of blotter against my side and put the new shirt on over it to hold the cloth in place. This left a bit of a bulge on my side, but on the other hand, at least I was not walking around like a bloody mess anymore. I stuffed the old shirt in their waste basket and went out to pay. I happily tossed the ugly tourist hat and camera into the garbage can.

  Outside the shop, I navigated through a couple alleyways to another street and hailed a Taxi. As a diversionary tactic I asked him to drive me to the bus station; this way if the police checked with the cab drivers who had taken fares in the area they would think I went there instead of to a hotel. I paid the taxi driver from the dwindling cash in my pocket, then once he was out of sight I took another cab, and this time asked for the Novotel Luxor Hotel.

  I found my room on the 4th floor and entered cautiously, but I was alone. There was no sign of Pox. I checked the closet and found clothes which seemed tailor-made for me. There were suits, casual ensembles, even a tuxedo. In the drawers were all the other amenities. Some cautious side of me located the suitcase at the bottom of the closet and I found myself packing everything. In the drawer next to the bed I found a leather satchel, with shoulder strap. Inside I found a passport, American, a wallet with credit cards and cash, this time quite a sum. All were in the name of Nick Sivaeral. Interestingly, there were pictures of me on the driver’s license and on the passport. Both showed me with a sly smile, dark eyes peering out with that look of someone who knows more than you do, and revels in it. I wish I was half as cocky looking as the guy in those photos. I must have known what the hell was going on in the world when those pictures were taken.

  I went to the mirror and gasped. I had one of those colored Glyph tattoos on my left cheek, though mine was a kind of shelled creature. I thought about it, and came up with a word, it was like a nautilus shell. I looked back at my face in comparison to the photos, but there were no glyphs there. I figured I must have gotten the mark after these pictures were taken. The pictures were definitely of me, and I did not seem to have aged any since these were taken, I still looked around thirty or so. According to the passport, I was thirty-three.

  I decided to take a quick shower and clean my wounded side. Before removing my shirt, I called the Bell Captain and had him send up a boy. I negotiated with him and he went off on his errand to buy some first aid supplies for me so I could bandage myself properly after my shower. I removed my shirt and under the dried blood I could see the long slice mark already healed to a puckered looking scar. I only had a scar two hours after being wounded? I knew of no one who healed this quickly. Then I noticed the ring on my left hand, ring finger. It was mainly gold, but there was also some copper and silver color. The shape was a simple circle, without a stone, but it had an intricately designed set of small rectangles going all the way around, each one silver, copper or gold colored, like a little wall of metal bricks. I didn’t remember putting it on when Pox gave me my clothes, so I had to assume it actually belonged to me. I left it on.

  After my shower, I put on a pair of black slacks, a dark blue shirt and socks and shoes. Dressed, though perhaps not ready for anything, I looked toward the closed Hotel room door wondering if Pox had been something I imagined or if he would show up soon. Then I remembered he’d said something about ‘summoning’ him. I wondered if he meant by phone, but I didn’t have a clue of what number to call. Then I muttered, “Damn it, Pox, what am I supposed to do, wish you here?"

  I leaped about a foot off the floor in surprise when I heard his voice speak from behind me.

  “Greetings Master!” Pox said in a gravelly voice.

  I spun around, looking a little foolish I am sure, and exclaimed, “Pox!”

  “The same,” he answered with another patented toothy grin.

  “How did you... never mind. I need some answers and I need them now! Some insane murderer killed over twenty people and then tried to kill me for some trophy! Then I shot the bastard and he didn’t die! His goddamned clothes weren’t even damaged! What in the hell is going on here!”

  “You cannot attack one of sufficient Power from afar. Reality is theirs in direct proportion to proximity unless guided by stronger reality,” Pox explained as if his statement made perfect sense.

  My headache, nearly down to a manageable throb, returned to pounding agony in seconds. “That makes about as much sense to me as this knife wound which has healed to a scar in two hours!”

  “You have great Power, great Élan vital. You must remember how to use it! She will help you!” Pox promised.

  I looked at my left hand and saw the ring.

  “Is this mine?” I asked holding up my hand to show the ring to Pox.

  “Oh, yes, Master, never take it off. The ring was given to you by your mother, long ago, Master.”

  I had a sudden thought, and asked, “What’s in this for you? Who are you? And why do you call me 'Master'?” I asked, suspicious of the helpful little Troll.

  He wrung his meaty looking hands together and attempted another reassuring smile. “I have always been your servant, Master, further back than memory. And now you hold the strings to my soul.”

  I scowled at his confusing statement.

  “Master, if I might suggest something?” he asked plaintively, giving a quarter bow of his squat body.

  Still aiming my scowling brows at him I answered in nearly a growl. “All right, as long as you don’t say anything to confuse me further.”

  “You have many enemies, many who are jealous of your station. You need to reach a place of safety soon where you can regain your skills, then become the hunter instead of the hunted!”

  I did like the sound of that. I needed time to figure out this whole mess and regain my lost memory without having to dodge UZI and knife-wielding killers.

  “Where do you suggest I go?”

  “England, there you have friends, who know much of the Power and can instruct you where I cannot. ‘She’ is there.”

  “All right, friends, you say? How do I get to these friends?”

  “Do you remember how to Five Point travel?” Pox asked with a beady-eyed hopeful look.

  I shook my head; he might as well have asked me to do the Chinese polka.

  He shrugged his thick shoulders. “Then it seems you must take mundane means of travel; perhaps an airplane would be best. Your credit cards are all good; has she not taken good care of you while you rested!”

  “She, who is this ‘she’ you keep mentioning?” I demanded.

  Then he grinned a smile which showed very pointy teeth, “Fiona, a Second of House Albus, a friend, and the one who has helped you while you healed. Had she not, you would likely have fallen to a Hunter on the Ascension Quest.”

  By Thor’s silly hammer, I wish I could understand just ONE thing this little goblin spouted out with such gusto.

  But this was just one more question in about a million, so I picked a different thing to ask, “How long have I been, ‘resting’?”

  “Since the battle?” he asked while he pondered a mom
ent, “Twenty-four Earth years.”

  My mouth dropped open. “I’ve been ASLEEP for twenty-four years!”

  He nodded a definite nod. “Go to Camington Castle, in the Wiltshire county of South West England. The castle is near Salisbury. Once you get close, just follow your feelings. Fiona Albus will be expecting you.”

  My mouth was still hanging askew from the surprise of knowing I had been in a coma, or something, for 24 years, so I missed the part about ‘follow your feelings’. There was a knock on the door behind me.

  Pox spun surprisingly fast for his squat shape, and then hissed at me in an urgent whisper, “Are you expecting someone?”

  I suddenly remembered the bell boy, and said, “Don’t worry, it’s only room service. I ordered some first aid supplies to bind my cut.” I started toward the door.

  “WAIT, Master!” he hissed again. “They are looking for you, and if they know you were wounded, perhaps...” he trailed off as I nodded catching his drift.

  I looked around the hotel room like a trapped animal, as another knock came from the door.

  “The balcony!” Pox suggested, pointing a long talon tipped finger.

  I grabbed my packed suitcase and quickly went to the sliding glass door and opened it. Outside I found a small balcony with a substantial drop to the ground, which did not look healthy. I checked to my left and right and saw that the balconies from the rooms next to me were accessible if I was willing to leap about a six-foot gap, which I was.

  I tossed the suitcase over first, then jumped up and balanced on the wall for a moment before leaping. I landed in a crouch just as I heard the crash of a door breaking open from the direction of my old room. Having only seconds before whoever was after me found the balcony, I quickly tossed my suitcase to the next balcony. I turned and kicked in the sliding glass door with the hard heel of my shoe. There was a woman’s scream from the room, but I did not stick around to admire her pitch. In one bound I hit the top of the wall and leaped across to the next balcony. I landed in a crouch and quickly pulled my suitcase to me, then scrambled backward until I felt the cool cement of the wall pressed against my back. I was now hidden from anyone looking from either of the two balconies I had recently occupied, I listened for my hunter.