Onslaught mtg-1

by J. Robert King

  Hands dropping to his sides, Kamahl walked with silent patience toward the desolation. The water-roots rapped gently against one leg and the makeshift whip against the other. His boots pressed deep prints among the saw grass, and then he was out onto the sand. Already, the air felt different around him-dry and unforgiving. With each step, his forest home drew farther back, and solitude sank more strongly over Kamahl.

  The chuff of his feet in the grit became a bleak rhythm. Somehow, the desert seemed louder than the forest. Kamahl struggled to find his quiet center, the ideal forest within. His consciousness descended past the sound of night breezes, beneath the argument of thought, and down to that perfect place. A sigh escaped him as his soul settled in.

  Something jabbed his foot-hard-and he fell facedown in the sand. Kamahl rolled to his feet, snatched the whip from his belt, and sent it lashing out in an arc where he had passed. The vine snapped angrily in thin air. No one stood nearby. Whistling through its arc, the whip circled back around and landed limply in the sand.

  Something had tripped him. Kamahl retraced his steps. A small knob jutted up from the sand. It looked to be a white stone cracked in half, with a flower inside. Kamahl knelt, pulled the shell from his belt, and began to dig. Another small stone appeared, and another-they turned out to be the tough husks of a desert plant. More digging uncovered a whole cluster of the flower pods, and beneath them a thick, stout staff.

  Kamahl smiled. It was a century plant-a desert agave that bloomed once every hundred years. It stored up its life essence for a whole century, produced a long, straight shaft, and topped it with a profusion of seed-bearing flowers. The plant had been buried by sandstorms, yet it reached out of them. There could be no more vital weapon for Kamahl.

  Bowing his head in thanks, Kamahl reached down into the hole, grasped the pod, and yanked. With agonizing slowness, the shaft eased from the sand. Kamahl had cleared only a foot of it before he had to stop and pant. He grinned through the grit.

  What did time matter to him?

  The stars appeared and scratched across the sky to midnight. At last, the shaft came clear. Kamahl lifted the sandy thing high-straight, stout, and strong. It would be perfect. Only one final act remained.

  Kamahl whirled the shaft, watching as the seeds of the doomed plant leaped away among the stars to plant their life anew.

  CHAPTER THREE: UTTER DEFEAT

  Ixidor worked feverishly, but not at his table. His quills and ink sat quiet beside sketches for the next battle-plenty of illusions to keep any foe jumping. Ixidor had put aside paper disks for metal disks-a different sort of image magic.

  Crouching beside the fireplace, Ixidor fed three more wax-soaked logs into the blaze. With blackened fingers, he closed his jury-rigged furnace and pumped the bellows. Each breath of air stoked the heat. It radiated through the metal plates and made the river-stone chimney crackle. Ixidor watched in delight as the thin pewter wire resting atop the grate melted away.

  He clapped his hands and rubbed them excitedly together. Donning a thick glove, he picked up an iron skillet filled with more pewter-shavings and shards from a cup he had owned-and gingerly slid the skillet into the upper compartment.

  "What are you doing?" came a voice behind him.

  He pivoted, nearly falling, and set his knee down. "Nivea. I didn't know you'd come in."

  She stood above him in their small apartment, her arms folded over her chest and one eyebrow lifted. She looked beautiful, as always, but also a little severe as she stared at the smelting process. "I know we're short on coin, but you're not melting down my jewelry again, are you?"

  Ixidor spread one hand innocently on his chest and left a black handprint "You wound me, my dear. I would not rob you of your jewels, though even finest gems look shabby next to your eyes."

  Her skepticism only deepened. "What are you up to?"

  "Art," he said brusquely, and he turned back to the fireplace.

  Nivea dropped her arms from her chest and approached, irritation replaced by curiosity. "Really, what are you doing?"

  Still wearing the thick glove, Ixidor drew the hot skillet from its slot in the front grate. The pewter had melted into a thin, smooth pool of metal. Ixidor carried the skillet to his table, where thick pads waited. He set down the molten metal, doffed the glove, and picked up a slender pair of tongs. With them, he plucked a gold coin from the table top and lowered it to rest flat upon the pewter.

  "I'm making money. It's a sort of sculpture, really "You're counterfeiting? Here, in Aphetto? Why don't you just cut your throat?"

  "Don't be so dramatic," muttered Ixidor. He set another gold coin into the hot metal, this time turning its obverse side downward. "I'm not going to be actually spending the money. It's just security."

  "What security is money you can't spend?" asked Nivea.

  Ixidor positioned a third coin, and a fourth. "Security for a bet. I'm going to turn ten gold coins into a thousand-lead ones, at any rate, with golden pigment. With solid bets, I'll turn a thousand into a hundred thousand."

  Nivea circled around to stare him in the eye. "Why are you doing this?"

  Only then did he pause. "How else will we make enough money to quit the pits? How else will we be able to travel to our undreamed land?"

  Nivea seemed to stare beyond him, as if over the horizon. Her eyes were haunted. "What happens if the Cabal finds out?"

  'They won't find out unless we lose."

  "What happens if we lose?"

  Ixidor did not answer, only setting another coin into the hardening metal.

  *****

  It was a match day like any other. Beasts and warriors fought across blood-stained sand. Crowds gawked in avid rings up to the heavens. Bookmakers laid odds. Bets coursed in tortured channels.

  Ixidor had placed five different high-stakes wagers, each of which would pay off only if he and Nivea won the match in a certain amount of time or in a certain fashion. Between the prize purse and any single payoff, Ixidor and Nivea would be able to retire from the pits. If they won every bet, they would be set for life.

  The partners waited together in the prep pen. Ixidor worked a final fidgety adjustment to his stack of disks. Nivea mentally prepared aven and Order warriors for summoning.

  It was a match day like any other, except this time Ixidor and Nivea weren't laughing.

  "Make sure we have enough fliers," Ixidor said as he flipped through the disks. "A flier saved us last time."

  Nivea's eyes remained on distant places. "A flier that I brought…"

  "You almost didn't have any avens."

  Nivea's focus shifted to her partner. "Don't worry about the warriors. They'll be there. Worry about your illusions. You can't fool everybody."

  Ixidor scowled, and his chin jutted irritably. "If you're talking about the fake coins, you won't be so critical when we win a fortune."

  "I'm not talking about the coins," began Nivea slowly. She started to pace, nibbing her thumbs across gnawed fingernails. "Not about the coins. I'm talking about everything. Nothing is real to you, not warriors, not coins, not spells. You make fun of me because I dream about escaping to some faraway place, but you're the one living in a false place, surrounded by illusions. You call it art, but it's just lies."

  Ixidor stopped flipping though the images before him. Nivea had struck the truth. She always did. Under her blazing glare, he was defenseless. The bloodthirsty cheers of the crowd gave him an out. "This isn't the time to talk-"

  "When is the time?" She gestured over her shoulder at a minotaur warrior crouching beneath a rain of blows. "This may be the only time we have."

  "All right Let's talk. You're so keen on truth. The truth is that you are the reason we're fighting in the pit. If it weren't for you and the fall of your self-righteous people, I'd still be telling fortunes with these cards-"

  "Don't turn this on me-"

  "You're the reason I'm trying so hard to get us out of the pit "This isn't about me. This is about lies and deceptions "My lie
s. My deceptions. All right. You knew that when you met me. I was an unabashed charlatan. I read your fortune just to meet you. Now I'm an artist."

  "What's the difference?"

  "You. You're the difference." He stowed the disks in his jacket pocket and took her hands. "I never liked the world as it was. I never wished to live in reality. I made up worlds that were truer and more beautiful. You are the only real thing I ever cared for. Everything else is a lie, but you aren't."

  She pulled her hands free and turned away.

  The crowd roared.

  "The false gold is meant to buy you a real paradise. The false spells are meant to bring about real magic. The lies that I call art are the only way I know to change what is into what should be."

  "I know," she said quietly.

  "Once we win, I'll give it all up-the illusions, the lies. This is our last deception. If we win, we won't have to lie again."

  She glanced over her shoulder, and a weak smile formed on her lips. "Once we win."

  The minotaur in the arena went down. The pit thundered with delight.

  Ixidor took Nivea in his arms. They could not go into battle this way, divided and shaken. He had to wipe this all away, somehow. "Let's just think of the coins as practice."

  "Practice?" She stared, red-eyed, at him.

  He nodded deeply. "Yes. Once we have our paradise, we'll need to mint our own coins. I'm thinking your face should grace the coins."

  She smiled wryly. "Knowing you, you'll carve one part of me for 'heads' and another part for 'tails.' "

  He laughed, and she joined him.

  "I thought the reverse side should hold my own profile," Ixidor said grandly, "but perhaps that would make the coins too valuable to spend."

  'Too valuable?" she asked, slapping him lightly. "Yes, it would take a lot of gold to depict that chin."

  They both laughed and wrapped each other in an embrace. The death bell tolled. They were one again, and only just in time.

  The gate to the prep pen swung open. Vermin scuttled across the pit, gulping down small pieces of minotaur and dragging larger scraps away. Other beasts kicked sand over blood trails. The victor, an aged gigantapithicus on a massive chain, exulted in the crowd's ovation. Some of the younger spectators threw tomatoes-sanguine signs of approval-which bathed the beast in red juice and pulp.

  Ixidor studied the gory figure. "Are you ready for this?"

  Nivea peered at his face as if to memorize it. "What choice do I have?" He turned toward her, and she added, "Yes, I'm ready."

  Hand in hand, the undefeated partners strode out the prep pen and into the loud ovation of the crowd. Ixidor held their hands high and gave a brilliant grin. Nivea smiled broadly as well, though the look was forced. It did not seem to matter. The spectators greeted them with redoubled excitement. Here were two winners, two showstoppers.

  As Ixidor turned them, gesturing grandly, he felt the old thrill pounding in his heart. This was where they belonged, here before the roaring throng.

  The adulation suddenly hushed as the prep pen on the opposite side of the arena slowly opened. Massive hinges voiced their lament, and the gates swung wide. Darkness filled the prep pen, and something moved within. The crowd strained to see.

  "Whatever it is," Ixidor said through his stage smile, "it's the last thing we'll have to fight, ever."

  Nivea winced slightly as his hand wrung hers.

  The thing emerged-a woman, thin, lean, tall, and young. She wore a body-suit of black silk marked across the stomach with a jagged red line. She carried no visible weapons. Her hair was short and spiked, the same color as the suit, and her face, throat, and hands were pale.

  The crowd burst into laughter. In their awful silence, they had expected something more ferocious and imposing-an angry bear, a squad of lancers, a necromantic legion-but a single, unarmed, unarmored woman? They jeered her. Who was she to challenge the undefeated duo of Ixidor and Nivea? Who had even heard of this woman, this Phage, before?

  Ixidor grinned eagerly. "This may well prove easier than we thought."

  Nivea was grim. "Can't we quit now? Can't we be done and walk away paupers?"

  He drew her to his side and kissed her. "Come, my love. One last fight and we are done."

  The starting bell tolled and laughter died to silence.

  Ixidor and Nivea assumed their ready stances. Ixidor drew the disks from his jacket pocket and held them poised before him. Nivea withdrew into her mind and pulled upon the lines of magic she had secured to her warriors. She started her spell, and brave beings slid through the ether toward her.

  For her part, the adversary, Phage, stood still, one foot slightly ahead of the other.

  "Bring them in. Let's get to this!" Ixidor said.

  Nivea shuddered. Her hands flung wide, and she took a step backward. White energy leaped from arms and spine, forming a nexus before her.

  Ixidor lifted his first disk and hurled it at the focal point of energy. The disk struck. The nexus broke open, its corners peeling back. Through the extradimensional space charged a contingent of Order warriors. They emerged at a run, their war cries sounding muffled within the breach but welling to full force. Pikes glinted in the charge, arrowing toward the black-silk breast of Phage.

  Still she stood, no weapons drawn, no spells forming. She seemed not even to see the charging warriors. Her eyes were as black as a shark's.

  Ten warriors emerged, and into their backs Ixidor sent more disks. Each struck, flashed, and sent a scintillating barrier of armor around the fighter. Ixidor hissed to himself, "It'll be a massacre."

  Phage seemed unprepared to meet them. Her hands remained at her sides.

  The crowd roared their delight.

  The first warrior charged in, pike ramming into Phage's belly. The blade sliced into the silk suit, transfixed her spine, and jutted out her back. Phage did not stagger or scream but only stood as the shaft followed the head right through her body. The warrior continued the charge, his hands ramming through the wound as well and ripping out her back. He kept running beyond her as two more pikes tore into her body.

  Still, Phage stood unmoving.

  "She sees through the illusion," Ixidor hissed to Nivea.

  "How?"

  "I don't know. Call off the charge!"

  "It's too late!"

  Phage's arms, once so still, swept suddenly outward. The charging warriors dissolved into thin air. Phage's hands came down, one to either side, and struck where nothing was. Her fists rose, gripping air and wrenching. Pikes appeared in her grasp. She hurled them-one, two-in rapid succession directly toward Ixidor and Nivea. Even as the shafts flew, trembling with the force of the throw, Phage grasped empty air again. This time, men appeared-the two pikemen whose spears she had taken. Her touch had stripped away their cloaking illusion, and she hurled them before her to the sand.

  That was all Ixidor and Nivea had time to see. They fell to their faces, the two pikes whirring by just overhead. Side by side the heavy spears embedded in the wall behind them, their shafts quivering.

  "Get up! Here come two more!" Ixidor shouted. He grabbed Nivea's arm, shoved her to her feet, and scrambled after.

  A pair of pikes sliced through the air. Their erstwhile wielders spilled on the ground beside the first pikemen, who writhed as if with broken bones. One blade skimmed Nivea's arm, scribing a long red line. The other would have taken Ixidor's head if he hadn't ducked.

  The clamor of the crowd was nearly deafening.

  Phage dispassionately ripped two more weapons from the air and sent them tearing toward the running pair. She hurled pikemen onto the writhing pile. Only then did Ixidor see that the men did not suffer broken limbs but missing ones. Each had lost an arm. They rolled, gripping their gory shoulders in their remaining hands.

  The tableau had distracted Ixidor. He glanced up too late.

  A pike angled in to split his head. He hadn't time to dive away. Steel flashed and struck. Ixidor winced. The pike toppled, and its haft sma
cked against his arm. The weapon dropped to the sand.

  Nivea stood smiling. She held another pike. Its blade was notched where it had deflected its mate. "I made a good grab."

  "A very good grab." Ixidor snatched up the fallen pike. "Now we've got something to fight with."

  "Side by side." The partners advanced, pikes leveled.

  Phage did not spare them a glance. Instead, she finished off the remaining warriors, each relinquishing his pike, then his illusory cloak, then his arm. Phage worked with the deadly agility of a black widow. She hurled spear after spear, the blades shrieking as they split the air. The crowd shrieked as well.

  Ixidor set his teeth. His pike leaped outward and batted the first spear down into the sand. Nivea's weapon simultaneously downed the next. They struck together for the third and fourth, creating an impenetrable wall of steel. Pikes clanged away from them.

  The ovation shook the pit to its core.

  "More illusions?" Nivea asked.

  "What's the point? She can see through them," answered Ixidor. "More warriors?"

  "We've already lost ten friends in this fight. I'll not toss more on the mound."

  "You don't need to. We can defeat her, you and I. Together, no one can stand against us," Ixidor said.

  Nivea muttered, "What if we must kill her?"

  "We'll never have to fight again," Ixidor replied, "and she deserves it. Just look at our friends."

  Nivea nodded grimly. The partners advanced.

  Phage had stepped away from the mound of dying pikemen but made no move to engage her opponents. She stood, hands at her sides, shark eyes staring beyond them.

  "I'll strike first," Ixidor said.

  "No, together."

  "You've already saved my life," Ixidor insisted. "Let me repay my debt."

  Without waiting for her response, he lunged, swinging the pike as if it were a long axe. The head surged down toward Phage with speed enough to split her from skull to navel.