by Andy Boot
He knew he should feel flattered at being chosen. Yet there was something nagging at him, saying that he was supposed to feel this way because that was exactly how someone wanted him to feel.
He drifted into an uneasy sleep.
Bolt awake. Sitting up, eyes wide, brain lagging a fraction of a moment behind. Not good. Better reflexes.
Out of bed, blaster in hand. Still dark, faint light of the moons through the window. Enough to see. Cloudless.
Softly, careful tread. In faint light, doors are still closed. Ramus-Bey asleep, muttering. Turning over.
Can't feel anyone else. Hold breath. Hear the blood pounding in her ears.
Blink for the first time since coming upright. Breathe again, soft and even.
For the first time since rising, can actually feel limbs. Not moving on automatic.
Not good enough. If someone was here, probably be a heap on the floor by now, blood-soaked and beyond caring.
But if the sound isn't in here, then where...
Simeon blinked hard, looked down at the blaster in his hand, and shifted the balance, so that the butt of it sat more comfortably in his palm. The boards beneath his feet felt cold. Why was that? Oh - bare feet. Not the best way to face an intruder. He'd have to think about that, as he didn't feel too good about sleeping in his boots.
No matter: right now, everything was under control. The room was peaceful, the silence in here broken only by the murmurings of a dreaming old man.
Outside, though: that was another matter. Somewhere down the corridor there was a commotion. He could hear shouting: a mix of harsh, barking tones that he took to be the Mages - at least if they all sounded like his charge - and louder, gruffer tones, speaking more than one language. Something had bugged the hell out of everyone on this corridor, and if his surmise was right he wasn't the only guard who had been assigned as soon as the treaty was signed.
Simeon moved over to his Mage, and gently tapped the old man's shoulder. There was no response beyond the irritated twitching of the offended shoulder, and an increased level of muttering.
"Ramus... Ramus-Bey," Simeon hissed, with the kind of loud whisper used only by those who want to simultaneously shout and not shout.
The old man came awake with a yell, sitting upright for just a moment before sinking back into the blankets, clutching them to him and shaking, wide-eyed.
This terrified old man was the ultimate threat? Gods help them if all the Mages were this way and this was how they planned to keep the peace...
"It's alright, don't be alarmed," Simeon soothed. He followed the line of the old man's eyes, and could see they were focused on the blaster. Simeon holstered it. "Don't worry," he continued. "I heard a noise, thought it was in here. That was just a precaution. There's nothing here."
"Then why are trying to scare me into a premature meeting with my other selves?" Ramus snapped, his earlier, peevish tones returning.
"There is some commotion outside," he explained. "Whatever's going on, I want you awake and aware. We need to be prepared."
"For what?"
"I don't know. That's why we need to be prepared."
It was Ramus-Bey's turn to be perplexed. He, however, was not one to let it pass. "How can I prepare if I have no notion of which preparations to make?" he began.
Simeon cut him short. "Any other time, but now... I need to check this out. We're secure in here. I want you go to that corner," he continued, indicating an alcove furthest from the door. "Hunker down there, and use your blankets."
"Why..."
"It's the least accessible point from the corridor, the deepest in shadow and the blankets will help obscure your form in that darkness. It won't save you if I'm taken out, but it'll keep you out of sight while I deal with whatever. Now do it! I'm not going to waste time explaining myself to you."
His tone was calm, firm: it had the desired effect. Without question, the Mage obeyed. When he was in position Simeon nodded his approval and approached the door.
The noises had not grown in volume. Whatever was happening, it hadn't moved closer.
With care, Simeon opened the door, standing behind and away from it as he did so: not in line of any fire, and not close enough to be hit if the door was forced. As the heavy door swung on its hinge, a line of soft light from the corridor beyond appeared down the hinged edge. It was enough for him to see that there was no-one immediately outside.
The sound increased. Simeon had a rough working knowledge of most of the tongues spoken on Inan, both in language and area dialect. Pausing behind the door to take stock, he could make out enough of the scrambled dialogue to figure that an attempt had been made on one of the Mages.
Where in the name of the Gods had the Praal warrior security been while this was happening? Had they decided that it was every man for himself now that individual guards had been appointed? Or was there something more insidious: what was it that could beat Praalian magic-powered security?
He needed to check this out. It could be a diversion, yet if he took his Mage with him, he was leaving him open to attack. He turned back to the room, closing the door briefly.
He beckoned to the Mage. "Listen to me, can you cast an invisibility charm?"
"You dare to impugn my power at a time like this..." an outraged Ramus-Bey began, his voice rising with his indignation.
Simeon clamped a hand over his mouth. "It was a simple question. Am I always going to have to explain myself? I need to leave you here while I check this out. I want you hidden away. Call it covering all my options."
The Mage bristled: "You think that I cannot protect myself, that I need a charm to hide, that any attempt at a magical..."
Simeon cut him short: "I don't care. This isn't about you. It's about me. I've got a job to do and I don't know all your strengths. I'm just covering bases. I leave you here as you are right now and they can just blast you, for the Gods' sakes!"
Ramus squeaked behind Simeon's hand. Partly from fear, partly because Simeon had dragged him into the ante-room and was in no mood to be gentle for the sake of propriety.
"Get under the bed," Simeon said abruptly, releasing the Mage. "Cast the charm, and for the sake of your life, keep your mouth shut. Just this once."
Ramus-Bey shot him a look that was part outrage and part anger, but obeyed the injunction to silence. The old man got down on the floor and slithered under the bed.
"Good. Stay there 'til I return. I promise you I won't be long," he added, a qualm of guilt nagging him about leaving the old man. There had been something pathetic about the sight of him on his belly that stirred the warrior's conscience.
But better he be undignified than dead. For there was one other thing that was nagging at Simeon as he made his way back to the door. Any kind of attack that got past Praal security had to be magical. And it had to be strong magic to counter their undoubted skills. Which meant, that unless there were levels of skill that he wasn't aware of amongst the other warriors, politicians and diplomats gathered at the castle, then the only conclusion could be that another Mage was responsible.
He knew it wasn't his charge. But no-one else would know that, and anyone could be reaching the same conclusions right now. So even if Ramus-Bey wasn't the direct target, he - like all the others - could be under threat from a number of sources.
Great. First day on the job too.
He cracked the door carefully and made his way into the corridor. To defer any immediate attack, he kept his weapon holstered, but his hand hovered ready as he walked with a measured pace towards the sounds of conflagration.
He relaxed as he turned into the corridor. It had been scant moments since the uproar had started, even though time had seemed to slow immeasurably as he took precautions, and already it appeared that panic had given way to belligerence.
The corridor was filled with warriors. There were several Praalian guards attempting to find out what was occurring. Not a loud race by inclination, they were easily drowned out by the three Mage guards,
and several other warriors of different races who had responded to the alarm as only a warrior could. There were three Kyas warriors, four from Varn and three also from Turith. Simeon could see only two black tunics of Bethel in the throng, gathered tight in a corridor not constructed for such activity. It seemed somehow significant to him that one of these belonged to Daliel.
As Simeon neared he heard a clear, fluting voice cut over the general noise, addressing him in a supercilious tone.
"Ah, a man of Bethel. Last on the scene, as ever."
It had the speaker's desired effect. The noise ceased, and all the warriors in the corridor turned to face him.
Simeon looked to see who had spoken. One of the Mages had dared to open his door, and the sardonic smile and icy, glittering eyes of Vixel, the Varnian Mage, met his.
"Shouldn't you be under cover? Your man's not doing a very good job, is he?" Simeon countered.
"Oh, if words could wound, I'd perhaps have a scratch. I can see I'd have nothing to fear from you."
One of the Varn warriors cut across the Mage's withering sarcasm. "Our guard cannot defend his charge. He's dead."
"How?" Simeon asked.
"It was a magic attack. There's not much of him left." The flatness of his tone belied the expression on his face. "Whoever's responsible can't be far from here. There is only a limited range for such power. We're going after him. Whoever attacks one attacks all!"
Simeon shook his head slowly and chose his words with care. "No... some of us have a greater responsibility now."
A Turith man, whose red face almost matched his scarlet jerkin and told of too long spent in taverns, flared up at the Bethel bodyguard. "These old men can take better care of themselves than we can. I am a bodyguard, but I put my fellow warriors first. If we no longer have to fight each other by command, then we are bound by the codes that kept us together with our fellows in time of war. Only a coward would say otherwise."
Inflammatory words, but Simeon kept his temper. "You have your view, I have mine." He could see Daliel nod, almost imperceptibly, in agreement.
Spitting on the floor in disgust, the Turith warrior turned away. The men began to discuss their course of action and Simeon returned to his charge, feeling the mocking gaze of Vixel follow him. The Varn Mage didn't seem that concerned.
Another thing: someone who had the power to almost obliterate a warrior so there 'wasn't much left' would not necessarily need to be in close range.
It was with a sense of unease that Simeon secured the chamber, beckoned Ramus-Bey and settled the old man, letting him run off at the mouth about having his rest disturbed. As his grumbling resolved into muttering sleep, Simeon stayed awake. He listened to the warriors blundering about the grounds. An attack on a Mage was no longer just a crime of war, it was an international crime under Inan global laws defined in the treaty. The warriors combing the grounds were an international force.
He could see why the man from Turith had spat: in one way, it seemed as though he were opting out of the fight. Yet, what could men of material force do against a magical intrusion? He also felt ill-at-ease with the manner in which Daliel had acknowledged his decision. He felt as though he were on the calm surface of the sea, only a touch away from the treacherous currents running beneath.
He sat in the old man's room, watching from the window as the night drew on. The blundering of the warriors grew less and less as they found nothing, dying down finally to one or two distant shouts before settling to silence. Even though he had been proved correct, there was still a part of him that felt as though he should have been with them. He looked over to the sleeping old man. He seemed so frail like that, his mortal shell so vulnerable.
It was while he was lost in such thoughts that he felt it. Not saw, or heard, but felt. The sparse hair on his head and down to the nape of his neck seemed to stand on end, his scalp tingling as though shocked.
He looked out of the window, straining his eyes. Nothing... except... it was the faintest flickering. A shape. Not any animal he recognised; seemingly not even fixed. Blurred at the edges, perhaps because of the poor light. But perhaps not...
No. Not that. It was moving swiftly across the land before the castle wall, and leaving no trail on the dusty earth.
Simeon rose slowly. It was coming again. A thought creature, shaped only by the aim of whoever created and controlled it. Maybe it wasn't coming for Ramus-Bey, in which case it was someone else's problem. But if it was, then meeting it head on may give him more of a chance. No... be honest: he wanted to atone for not going on the hunt earlier, even if no-one but he would know.
He turned to rouse Ramus: the Mage would be less than pleased to be dragged from his bed a second time, but... to his surprise he found the old man sitting up, watching him.
"I know. I can feel it," the Mage said simply. "And I know what you feel you must do, with your ridiculous pride. I shall crawl under that dusty bed, cursing the lazy servant who does not sweep there. Now go - but take care, I can feel great power."
Simeon assented without a word and followed the Mage into the ante-room: this time he would remember to pull on his boots. It would be stupid to loose a match because he was distracted by a stone in his foot.
He did not wish to arouse any suspicions or to wake any other warriors. Not until he had scoped the territory and observed the thought creature up close. So the corridor was a no-go. He hung his head out of the large window in the Mage's chamber: straight up and down, but plenty of hand and footholds if he could cope with the numbing cold of the stone. About eight to ten storeys down. A long way to fall. But at least the Praal surveillance wouldn't be expecting to monitor anyone going down.
Pulling on thin cured-hide gloves to give him a measure of protection from the cold whilst still allowing a sureness of feel, he took one last look to place the thought creature and heaved himself out.
The breeze around the sheer walls was almost as icy as the surface of the stone. Sooner he was down the better: feeling for protrusions with his right foot, he began to descend. The cold bit through the hide, but at least his fingers were aching rather than numb and it took his mind off falling. He reached the ground without once looking down or round, so focused had he become. He was breathing hard as he looked around to locate the shadowy, indistinct figure of the thought creature. He could only hope that he hadn't been spotted, or that Praal security were still wondering why someone was breaking out rather than in.
It was there. Over to the left, visible only as a darkening in a clump of bushes. There was no cover in-between himself and the creature. Had it seen him? Could it - or whoever had control over it - 'see'?
There was only one way to find out. He moved slowly, but with purpose, towards it.
It hovered, seemingly waiting for him.
Simeon drew his blaster, though he had no idea if it would have much effect. Thought creatures were energy based, and though large pulse-cannon could disrupt them, a hand blaster may not be enough.
He drew closer, sweat prickling in the small of his back. The thought creature lurked with what seemed like malevolence, though he knew it to have little sentience.
A rush of heat enveloped him, picking him off his feet and slamming him back into the dust. The hard-packed earth jarred his spine, driving the air from his lungs. He discharged his blaster, knowing the creature enveloped him. The very air crackled and sparked. A scream pierced his brain.
He could breathe again. Pulling himself up, fear overcoming pain and fighting for breath, he could see the indistinct shape a short way off, hovering. It was smaller. With luck he had dissipated some of its energy field.
It came for him again. Once more he fired into it as he was driven backwards. He felt muscles tear as his torso was wrenched sideways; his black tunic ripped as sharp energy like claws scored his flesh.
Again he heard the unearthly scream. He fired again, and felt the weight lift from him as the air lit up with an energy charge.
Gasping for breath, achi
ng all over, he saw the thought creature draw back. He tried to rise, but could not support his own weight. With a sickening plunge, blackness descended.
His last thought was of failure.
Simeon awoke with a jolt, then wished he hadn't as pain wracked him. He was in his bed, with Ramus-Bey watching over him.
"Brave... but pretty foolish. You took enough of its energy to force it to retreat, too weak for its task. I had to act pretty quickly, too, to get you up here before you were discovered. After all, I don't want to have to break in a new bodyguard already. People will talk. But really, you'll have to learn to do a lot better."
Ramus-Bey turned away, leaving Simeon to his agony. In as much pain as he was, Simeon couldn't help but notice that the old man's tone, mocking though it was, held something new. Something like respect?
Perhaps. But there were other things that as yet only nagged at the very edges of his consciousness. He had repelled a magical attack. That was not his job. He was employed to fight other flesh and blood creatures, not demons of the mind and magic. Why hadn't the Mage stepped in?
Maybe he was scared: for all his bravado and bluster, back in the bed chamber he had been a small, terrified old man. Frozen in fear.
If this was the case, then it was going to be a far greater task than Simeon had initially envisaged.
CHAPTER FOUR
Year Zero - Period Three
The sea beneath them was still flecked by white breakers, but the colour now became a pinkish grey as the sun began to rise. The pale beginnings of a new day caused Simeon to squint as he gazed at the sky.