by Alan Bayman
As I drifted towards the river bottom, I caught the silhouette of a great winged shape, moving towards Alula’s house. It held a struggling figure in its right arm as it disappeared from my sight.
It took me four days to crawl back to my room. My body was not healing the way it should. I was continuously leaking Miasma, and I knew that if I ran out, I would be destroyed. It had taken all my reserve potions from my Travelers Bag just to get home.
It was past midnight when I stumbled through the back door, calling out for Tina. I looked around. Her bed had not been slept in and her cloak was gone.
I drank another vial of Miasma and tried to think of what to do. I could not go looking for Tina in my condition. I might be able to survive revealing what I was to Adan, but then what? I doubted his skill in alchemy was anywhere near proficient enough to cure my condition. The only person I knew who could quickly find the Shaman was Shan-Lo, and the Gargoyle had her.
Miasma continued to seep out of the holes in my flesh. Part of me just wanted to give up and rest. I was partly dead already, would going the rest of the way be much different?
Then I thought of the Gargoyle, winning. Winning like the Councilman’s son won all those years ago. Destroying me and all I hold dear. Getting away with it.
That was not going to happen, not this time. The Gargoyle had made deals to increase his power beyond what I knew was possible. Two could play at that game.
I opened my bag and pulled out two items: The Cursed Luckstone and The Book of Names. I held the stone aloft, making sure it was attuned to me, and then shattered it against the floor. Immediately, before the released luck dissipated I opened the book to a random page.
Some pages stuck together as I slid my fingers across them. I let them go, trusting the magic from the stone to guide me. I opened the page to a summoning. It was not elaborate. It required no chanting or sacrifices. Simply a series of words in a language I could not understand but could easily pronounce. As one proficient in languages in general and a former scribe to mages, I got the impression that the whole two pages to be read aloud were simply saying the creatures name.
It took me three minutes. I spoke slowly, making sure to get every syllable correct. I will not write the words or actions of the ritual here. Saying or acting even part of the ritual would risk calling attention to oneself, and not necessarily from that which I summoned. Do not follow my path, lest ye walk among fools.
I finished the ritual and waited. Nothing happened. Five minutes passed. Then ten. I started moving to put the book away and fetch one of my last bottles of Miasma when I heard a soft tapping sound from a nearby shelf.
The doll I saved had popped open its box and was now sitting on the edge of the shelf, looking at me. The tapping noise was it drumming its fingers on the shelfs edge. It still looked tiny and lifeless, and yet it moved its fingers as its empty eyes seemed to follow me when I sat up.
We stared at one another for a time as I tried to think of what to say. The doll seemed to be content in the silence, but I really couldn’t tell. Finally, I ventured, “What should I call you by?”
The doll chuckled in a voice deeper than its size would imply.
“You have my name, you spoke it to call me here. But if you must address me in a way that is short and quick, you can call me Barnabe.”
“Okay Barnabe, I want-”
“I know why I am here,” Barnabe cut in. “I know what you want from me. I know what you need. It’s why I came.”
I was disturbed by the implications of what he was saying, but I was already committed. The Gargoyle would not win.
“Then name your price,” I said.
“Not quite so fast,” the doll chuckled. “There are rules to follow. Three for three. Three things for you, and three things for me.”
“First,” it gestured at itself, “you have given me a vessel to be here by. I will repay you by repairing yours.”
The doll began to sing. Various items within my lab began to melt into a liquid. They pooled at my feet, and then began to flow up my body into and out of my wounds. I felt a slight tugging in the Miasma within me, and then it suddenly stopped leaking. My wounds closed quickly after that, though I was ravenously hungry. I quickly drank a vial of Miasma.
“Done,” Barnabe said. The liquid metal had hardened into a solid puddle on the floor.
“Second,” it continued, “the gift of vengeance. I will give you the means to bring your enemies down before you. How you use it is up to you. Of course, as you use it, it will use you.”
The pool of steel at my feet melted and coalesced into the shape of a mask identical to the one the doll was wearing before hardening once more. It had changed from a shiny steel to eggshell white.
I picked it up. It felt as thin as glass, yet harder than iron.
“What must I do for this,” I asked. “And what does it do?”
“Oh, it does many things. It will hide you from the Council, in plain sight, if you are clever. It will show you how to make other masks. These masks will help you be the right person you need to be when you get your revenge. Or for other things.
“But be careful,” the doll chuckled, “the masks we wear often shape who we are.”
As I thought about what he said, he continued.
“What you must do for me is, make me a mask. A very special one. It will take you years to complete, but that is fine. When it is done, you will take it and the Book of Names to a very special place and leave them there. The mask I made you will guide you to the location, when the time is right.”
I nodded. All the requests so far seemed reasonable. Tenable even. I wondered where this special place I was supposed to take the mask was, though. Perhaps Barnabe wanted me to take it somewhere in the Abyss or across the Shroud into the land of the dead.
Or maybe the third command was where he was going to screw me over.
“My last gift,” the doll said. “To protect those, you care for. So many passions bottled up. Trapped within you, yes. I will give you the gift of song. I name you, Nepherine.”
It made no sense. The word meant “bard” in Old Cyrian. Though the way he said it sounded a lot like “Nephreie” which meant “world song” in Old Uben.
“I don’t understand,” I said. “What good would making me a Bard do?”
“Bard,” Barnabe scoffed. “Your words will do more than sell pretty verses to send maidens’ hearts aflutter. Everything, even magic itself, has a sound. You will sing it. Only Dragons and Gods have greater power.”
Instantly I knew what he meant. When magic gets powerful enough, instead of warping the world to suit your desire, it breaks it. You get your desired effect but unless you really know what you are doing (like a Dragon or a God) side effects can happen. Reality doesn’t fit back together the way it should. Any sort of change is possible. Use it enough and you make holes. Holes in reality that things like Barnabe can slip though.
“Why would I ever dare use such a gift?”
“You needn’t,” Barnabe replied, swaying his tiny hands back and forth, as though listening to a song. “I would never force you to. It is simply there for you to use, if you never need it.”
“And in return,” I asked, uneasy. “What must I do for this?”
“After the third time you use it, you must change the name you are using. Never again will you go by Jorm.”
I had never told him my name.
“I have to go now,” he said. “There are other things I must be doing. Keep this doll in the box. I will be back. I wouldn’t recommend intentionally letting harm come to it. After all, if you revoke my gift, I will revoke yours.”
And with that, the puppet slumped down on the shelf, as though invisible strings animating it had been cut.
There had been no fanfare, no display of power in making me a Nepherine. I briefly wondered if it was some sort of prank or deception and decided that the only way I could find out was if I tried to sing, which I didn’t dare to.
Curiously, it calmed the smoldering emotions within. I no longer felt helpless. If I could sing, I would always have a last move to make, even if it could destroy me. That is, if it wasn’t Barnabes way of making a joke.
I wanted to ask why I should change my name, but I was weary of the price I would have to pay in him answering. I had read about when dealing with such creatures and nothing was for free. I had already asked it why I should use the gift it gave me and suspected even as small a question as that had some sort of price.
The doll was slumped down, leaning against the open box like a drunkard losing consciousness. Its eyes were once again lifeless. I picked it up and carefully placed it back in the box. It was warm, but cooling, like a body whose life had just left it.
I spent a few minutes mulling over our conversation. I went back and forth over everything that happened, yet I reaffirmed my decision.
Then I put the mask on.
The world around me changed. New sensations came roaring into my head. The taste of the air. The song of the earth. Scintillating ripples of colors laced over everything. It was like the very ceiling opened and the light of the heavens poured down into me and upon everything I beheld.
I think if I was alive, I would have lost consciousness. Instead I lay there, staring up at the ceiling, watching the grains of weed ripple with lights of green and blue while the stones sang underneath me.
Eventually, I overcame my awe and began to think. What was I looking at? What was I sensing?
It was the essence of things, I realized. Like Miasma was the essence of death, I was sensing the essence of the air, wood, stone, and a few other things I could not yet define.
The mask helped me sense other currents. With it I could see things that were unseen, magic or otherwise. The Gargoyle would not catch me unawares this time. This time I would be getting the drop on him.
24.
It was late evening. I left a note for Tina, telling her I was okay and not to worry, and went out to rent a boat. Hindsight bringing clarity, I should have checked in on her. I could have simply found Adan and asked, but I did not.
The East Gate guards were now familiar with me, and readily accepted my bribe for passage.
This time, with the mask on, I could clearly see Alula’s domain as I approached it, like a great white dome of mist, the size of a small mountain.
I could also sense the Gargoyle’s early warning system, like a song rippling through the surface of the water. To avoid it I tied the boat off to a tree and to the river bottom. The spell only triggered on the water’s surface, so I walked in underneath it.
As I approached her house I began to walk around it, looking for the Gargoyle. If it wasn’t for the mask I would not have seen him. A stone island covered in foliage near the house was the Gargoyle, with its wings carefully wrapped around the base of a tree. It was the size of a small wagon. Its wings bent oddly to mimic rock almost perfectly, and apart from its eyes, it was perfectly still. Its gaze swept around Alula’s house constantly in search of trespassers. Had I approached her house first, I would have been noticed immediately.
Its perch was surrounded by a variety of wards and magic traps. I looked over them carefully. Most of them I could not identify. The wans that affected necromancy I recognized immediately.
Still underwater, I pulled out my last three bottles of Distilled Miasma. I wanted this to be overkill. Sitting cross legged on the river bottom, I carefully began to cast a spell. I had placed myself a ways away from him, so that the water obscured my sight of him, but I could still sense where he was through the mask.
The name for the spell I was casting is called Through the Veil. That’s is the nicest name it has. It has a few other names; Nulls Breath, Deathwind, Ollithorns Rending of Souls. All these other names have slight variations on the spells effect, Deathwind being the most drastic and potent, it is infamous in its use. Ollithorns method is the cruelest, adapting the spell into an instrument of torture.
During the spell, the Necromancer must place themselves on the Veils boundary, that point right between life and death. Easily done for the undead. Then one creates a conduit from the realm of the dead to this one, in such a way that contact with a living soul rips it from the body and hurls it into the Realm of the Dead, like a tree in a hurricane.
It takes a lot of time and power to cast. But only a master’s wards can stand against it, and I doubted the Gargoyle was that skilled.
In half an hour’s time, it was ready. I hesitated for one moment, making sure the currents of Miasma were correctly aligned so that there was no way it could not hit the creature, and then I released the spell.
The area the Gargoyle was in took on a greenish purple hue as the wards around it exploded. I swam to the surface, readying my wand to take up the Gargoyle’s soul.
The tree it was wrapped around was completely destroyed. It thrashed around the remaining stump, giving off a high pitch keening shriek that shattered the night. I could see its soul still loosely tethered to its body, writhing around in mimicry of its earthly pains. Or perhaps it was the other way around.
I climbed ashore on a nearby piece of floating dry land. In its convulsions it had destroyed most of the other wards around it, but I did not know if any of my blades could pierce its flesh, as some rumors spoke of Gargoyle being harder than dwarven steel. So, I began casting another spell, one that only weakened a soul’s connection to its body, but in the Gargoyle’s condition I was sure it would kill it.
“Stop!”
A woman’s voice called out from nearby. Alula’s voice. I should not have stopped. I should have completed my spell and then turned.
But I did, and as soon as I turned to Alula, looking angry and frightened on the shores of her home, the Gargoyle was on me. It would have taken a phenomenal act of will to overcome such a pain, yet it hurled into me, its soul still writhing in agony, as it bore down, crushing my bones and shattering my legs. Its face was a cracked and chiseled facsimile of some reptilian beast. It ground its teeth together like a millstone, still in pain, as it hissed. “NOT, HAVE, HER. Take you with me…,” it brought a hand down to crush my head. I caught it. I was strong, but it was bigger and stronger. Its hand began to continue towards me as the bone in my arm began to crack.
My heart began to hammer in my chest as I dimly heard Alula shouting something. Then I felt it. The song of earth magic. She was going to heal the Gargoyle.
From within me I drew a shuddering breath and gave out a low angry growl. My heart was awake, and I was angry. That anger was expressed as a sound. Like a song.
Nepherine.
My voice shattered up his hand and blew his arm off at the shoulder. Still growling, as I could not and did not want to stop, I sat up, grabbed his face and snarled. His head came apart like ash in wind. Alula screamed.
“Shut up!” I snapped, my fury still running free with me. She fell to her knees, silent, frozen with a look of terror on her face. I could sense the hum of my words wrapped around her throat. Her soul was bound as well, a puppet to dance on the strings of my words.
I suddenly resented and desired her, with her flirtations and her charms, only to turn against me and defend her pet Gargoyle. She didn’t want men, she wanted pets. I wanted to make her my pet, to turn the tables on her and bind her to me instead.
All this went through my head as I called across the water to her. My voice brought us together, pulling the floating island I was on to her shore. I stepped over to her and she met me half way. Confusion, rage, and desire all warred with her as she brought her hands up to my face.
And touched the mask.
I had forgotten that I as wearing it. She did not recognize me. She only saw a man killing her Gargoyle and subduing her.
“It’s me,” I said, pulling the mask from my face, and for a moment, my world shattered.
I was kissing her. Then I was killing her. Then she was breaking free and killing me. Then I walked away from her. Then we were laughing together. Then I
was holding her as she sobbed. Then we were standing together again, as though we hadn’t moved, and nothing had happened.
Her eyes were wide in anger and confusion. She was trying to speak, but no words were coming out.
I let out a sigh, and that released her. She staggered back, her hands curling into fists.
“Why!?” she shouted. “Why!?”
“He killed your son and took Shan-Lo. I need to know where he hides things. She might still be alive.”
“He told me Elgin was captured by the Council again, along with you.” She looked at the mask I held. “I thought you were the Council. When I saw you. With that, thing on,” she grabbed her head. “What did you do to me?”
“I’ll explain later, right now I need to find Shan-Lo.”
Alula shook her head.
“She is in my house. He,” she looked at the Gargoyles crumbled remains, “said the Council hurt her. She has been in a slumber ever since. I have not been able to wake her. Some kind of spirit was trying to eat her memories, but I got rid of it.”
“A thought eater? Those things are dangerous. How did you get rid of it?”
“No, it wasn’t a thought eater. I would have needed help dealing with something like that.”
She was seeming to come back to herself as we stood there. Part of me was still lingering on the sensation of her lips on mine, as well as the knife hidden in her bodice a moment later that was plunged into my chest. No, my heart.
But I had calmed enough to stay in control. I just couldn’t speak with emotion. It was dangerous.
“I would like to see her still. Then I will tell you what happened.”
She led me into the house. Shan-Lo laid naked on Alula’s bed. Runes had been drawn all over her skin, like the ones on Alula’s table. She looked beautiful in the dim candle light. My heart felt like it wanted to burst from my chest, and involuntarily, I gasped.
The sound echoed through the room. The candle light grew brighter, brighter than daylight. Traces of golden light began to trace the runes on her body. After a moment Shan-Lo’s eyes shot open, and she arched her back, gasping.