by Mark Eller
“And the hook?” Get’s feet did an agitated dance on the chipped cobbles.
“Gone,” Mira said. “Izza Van Wess took it with him…for study. He thinks himself an accomplished mage.”
Get’s dancing feet stopped moving. His brows furrowed, and his mouth opened to speak. Fubar’s hand on his shoulder stopped him.
“Thank you, lady,” Fubar said. His golden eyes swirled contempt.
“Welcome,” Mira lied again, and she continued on her way, hoping they believed her, fearing they did not.
She found Vale’s city square to be a pretense at culture. Like with Grand Boulevard, its cobbled walkways were painted gold. Unlike Grand’s, this paint was fresher, cleaner, and it would have contrasted nicely with the square’s marble statues except the statues were covered with several years of bird droppings. About her, an early winter had come to Yernden. Lifeless branches on miniature trees blew about in the cold breeze, waiting for spring to fill them with fuzzy buds and vibrant green leaves. The ground was covered with patches of brittle, brown grass which crunched under foot while a sluggish manmade stream burbled over crushed limestone. Around the square’s edges were the gaudily painted half-rotting planks of wood-sided buildings. The smell of mold lay heavy in the air.
And there, in the center of the square, a young man wearing a long powder-blue cloak tied closed with a yellow sash belt stood upon a raised mound, beating upon a triangle with an iron bar. Both triangle and bar were fastened to a post by thin chains. Of the twenty or more people standing nearby, only a handful showed him the least mind. Surprising, since the man was tall and fair and owned a clean-shaven face which sought to draw Mira in with its allure.
“Monsters are among us,” the young man called out. “Not more than fifty or a hundred miles away, for well over a hundred and fifty years, a vampire has lived among us humans, drinking our blood with impunity. Because of examples like hers, Athos’s creatures now walk our streets and laugh at our pain. Our children are murdered or become changelings. Our neighbors become food. Each year the monsters grow bolder. Each year Athos and Zorce gain a greater foothold upon the mortal world. There is a war, my people. There is a war and Hell is winning. The virtuous gods retreat, and some say the neutral gods have never existed.”
Pausing, he studied the small group watching. To Mira’s eyes, none were impressed. Then again, though the speaker’s face and body emitted more than their share of charisma, she did not find him engaging. He delivered his diatribe by rote, almost without inflection. It was, she thought, almost as if he merely tested the waters.
“We hear,” he continued, “that our king set aside his worship of Anothosia. We hear he accepted Zorce as his personal god. Worse, we hear he has ordered us, his loyal subjects, to do the same. If this comes to pass, Hell will rule in Yernden. If we accept this new order, we will become nothing more than the slaves of devils and demons.”
One woman broke off a conversation with a friend. “What do you expect us to do about it? We have no armies. We have nothing but our lives, and those are easily forfeit.”
The young man fastened his eyes on her. “Madam, we have our strength, our numbers, and our will. Most of all, we have Flinstar’s Prophesy of the Savior. The Savior has been born. We need only to find him and then—”
Mira lost interest because the man was not only a fool, he was also correct. The Savior had been born— more than one hundred and ten years in the past. Priests and soothsayers announced the portents, and then they started a long search. Less than seven years later two stars collided in the night sky. The stars burst into a huge ball of light, turning night into day. An hour later the light abruptly died. The next day the search ended.
Mira remembered priests of the virtuous gods crying in the streets because their Savior was dead. Other priests, those of war and death, rejoiced. It seemed Zorce or Athos had found the child first.
Old history. Old grief. Forgotten by most, and likely just another invented story made nearly real at the time by frequent repetition.
Leaving the speaker to his fantasies, Mira approached an old man who stood near a small stand of apple trees. Made curious by her unexpected interest, she watched him prune the dead branches from a tree for a few moments. His movements were spare, and he seemed to take an unusually long time before deciding which branch to snip free.
“Excuse me.”
The man paused, looked up, and smiled, displaying a weatherworn face, lined, and tan. His smile showed toothless gaps, but his expression was warm and friendly. A blue vein pulsed in his neck, making Mira thirst.
“I’ll excuse you all you like,” he said, “but if you’re looking for a date you’re out of luck. I’m many years married and not about to start running around on the missus now. Mind you, you‘re a fine set-up woman, but no woman is fine enough to tempt me from my sweetie.”
Mira smiled. “Damn. I really hoped you’d be in the mood for a fling. Look, since you’re unavailable, could you direct me to somebody else. I’m looking for a spiritualist and a healer, preferably all wrapped up inside the same body. I’ve a sick friend who needs tending.”
The old man frowned. “That leaves you only one choice, and I’m not sure it’s a good one.” He looked thoughtful for a moment before pointing toward the speaker on the mound. “Aldric is the only fellow in this city who fits your description. Most folks don’t think much of him. The lad talks a fine line but makes people uncomfortable.”
Disappointed, Mira turned her gaze to study the speaker. As she had noted before, Aldric was young and clean and had an infectious grin when he chose to use it. Still, something about him set her on edge. His voice, maybe, or the content of his speech. After all, he desired to do away with the monsters, something she still partly was and a description Jolson fit completely.
The old man snipped a branch off the tree, studied the results, and carefully trimmed off one more.
“I sometimes think a particular tree is useless for bearing fruit,” he said, “but then it turns out that, with a little pruning and a touch of care, the tree becomes the best bearer of them all.” He shook his head. “It’s funny how things work out sometimes. You better go talk to your man, Mira. He won’t wait around forever.”
* * * *
It didn’t take long before Aldric’s small audience grew bored and left. He banged on the triangle in an attempt to pull more people in, but his efforts were in vain. Looking less than dejected, he frowned at Mira. Taking the frown as an invitation, Mira approached. He watched her as she drew near, his gray eyes lingering on places she would have resented him looking at if she had been a hundred years younger.
“Your body is fair,” he said when she stopped before him, “but your spirit smells of death.” His hand rested on the hilt of a knife shoved into his sash. A slightly contemptuous smile curled the corner of his lips. Mira noted that he did not appear tense or frightened. His spare body looked— ready— or perhaps eager. “Are you here to kill me?”
“No,” Mira answered with a small smile. “I’m here to recruit you. I have an ill friend, and I’m told you’re the only person in Vale who is both a spiritualist and a healer.”
“That’s true,” he said, obviously still wary, “Your time searching me out was wasted. I don’t deal with monsters.”
Edging closer, Mira gently set her hand on top of his knife gripping one. She felt no trembling so he wasn’t frightened or nervous. Instead, his eyes held steady, challenging, and he did not step back.
“I am warm,” Mira said.
“You are still a monster,” he replied. “I recognize vampire.”
“I was dead,” Mira admitted. “I was a vampire, but three months ago my companion gave me life. He changed a monster into human. Considering your prejudices, you might find somebody like him interesting. If he can change me, how many others can he affect?”
Aldric’s narrowed eyes focused on her with an unnatural intensity. Something intangible reached out from him. It seeped into he
r head, rummaged around inside her thoughts, and sent curious tendrils throughout her body. Slowly, too slowly, the tendrils withdrew. When they were gone Aldric’s smile grew larger, warmer, and welcoming.
“Amazing,” he said. “You are almost fully alive. Tell me where you stowed this miracle worker?”
Sagging with relief, Mira removed her hand from his. “Jolson is a few miles south of town.” She shrugged. “I know. It isn’t convenient, but he grew too weak for me to bring him any closer.” Movement in the corner of her eye caught her attention. She turned her head slightly and saw the two demons, Get and Fubar, watching from a distance. Off to the side, the gardener who somehow knew her name, leaned against a tree, watching.
“Demons,” Aldric said contemptuously, following her gaze. “Don’t worry about those two. I’ve tried to kill them twice. I might not have succeeded, but they learned to fear me. Lead me to this wonder worker of yours. He sounds like someone I’ve been searching for.”
“I have no money,” Mira admitted. “I don’t know how I can pay.”
“I didn’t ask for money,” he said. “Take me to Jolson.”
Mira removed her hand from the top of his. She looked once more toward the demons. Light and dark, they watched her with golden eyes that did not waver. When she gave them a scowl, Get scowled back. Fubar mouthed something which looked like ‘liar’, and then they were gone. Still leaning against a tree, the old man watched with knowing eyes. He straightened, gave the tree’s trunk an affectionate pat, and threw her a small wave. A brief flicker of light washed over him, and then he disappeared.
Mira looked to Aldric. “The old man, the one who cares for the apple trees? Who is he?”
Aldric shook his head. “I don’t know who you’re talking about. Nobody takes care of anything around here.”
* * * *
Jolson looked like hell.
His damp face was flushed with fever and he visibly shook as he sat with his back propped against the rough, moss spattered bark of an old oak tree. Clothes which once fit him like they were tailor made now hung loose.
Aldric pushed past Mira. Kneeling beside Jolson, he studied the sick man with hands, with eyes and, Mira hoped, with the talents of a spiritualist’s mind. After running his fingertips across Jolson’s face, he stared deep into fevered eyes. The searching fingers trailed down Jolson’s arm and paused when they reached his wrist. An inch away from those fingers, Jolson’s normally green hook, now shaded black and gray, pulsed in time with the slow beat of his heart. The junction where the hook merged with flesh oozed pus smelling of rot and Hell’s corruption.
“I’m dying,” Jolson sadly explained. He looked at Mira with fevered, angry eyes, but his voice stayed calm.
After a few moments, Aldric straightened. He nodded. “You are,” he agreed. “It’s obvious your flesh is at least partly spawn, thus something created in Hell. It needs Hell’s miasma to survive since spawn are the weakest of all Athos’s creatures. To be honest, I’m surprised you didn’t die during the first days of your freedom.”
Unbelieving, Mira watched Aldric closely but saw no sign of hope. If anything, Aldric appeared pleased that one of Hell’s monsters would soon be gone.
“How much longer will I live?” Jolson asked. His eyes remained steady, but deep within them Mira saw dark fear.
“Days,” Aldric answered cheerfully. “Perhaps a bit longer than a week. Your temperature will continue to rise until it matches the heat of Hell in which your body was created. Your flesh will cook, and I’m pleased to say you will feel every moment until the time comes when you instantly flash into ash and your spirit is pulled back into Athos’s realm.” He spread his hands slightly apart. “If Athos bothers giving you another body I’m sure he will see to it you don’t stray again.”
“You aren’t helping,” Mira snapped, wishing she could reach behind Jolson’s fevered face to touch the true person within his mind, but that type of reaching had never been within her powers, not even when she was dead. It hurt to know the spiritualist already understood her friend better than she ever would.
“There is nothing I can do,” Aldric said. “I wouldn’t help him even if I could.” He touched the knife in his sash. “I can do this much. This knife is a soul splitter. If Jolson agrees, I will take his life and destroy his soul so Athos will never own him again.”
“No!” Mira shouted.
“Yes,” Jolson whispered. Mira glared at him, and then froze when the two demons stepped into view, seeming to appear from nowhere. Mira started, and then swallowed hard. These beings were obviously more than she thought. Although she had never tried it herself, she had heard traveling by portal was no easy matter.
Stilling, the two demons watched them with hard eyes.
“I knew you lied,” Get finally said. “We have come for Jolson.”
“You can’t have him.” Mira’s voice dripped cold conviction. “I won’t allow him to go back to Athos. His time of slavery is finished” She took two steps to the side so she stood between them and Jolson. She might no longer be a vampire, but Mira still retained strength and speed greater than human. Jolson had given her life. If needed, she would repay the debt with death.
Aldric chuckled, a cruel and dark sound. “And thus the two of you prove you are both tiring and not very bright. I told you the next time we met I’d kill you.”
“And we,” said Fubar, “said you would not.”
Both demons blurred, flowed, and were past Mira before she had a chance to react. Spinning around, she saw Get and Fubar standing between Jolson and her, between Jolson and Aldric, their backs to her sick friend. All four of their hands had become sharp edged chitin blades.
Aldric no longer chuckled. “Begone,” he demanded, waving a long bladed knife that was suddenly in his hand, “or die. Jolson will be dead soon enough without your help.”
Moving to the side and closer to Jolson, Mira caught sight of Aldric’s eyes. They appeared flint hard, and his face was set.
“Except he is not dying,” said the white skinned Fubar, “as well you know. Jolson cannot die while he wears Athos’s Hook. Not even piercing his chest will kill him, for he does not have a heart.”
“Then why is he so sick,” Mira burst out, confused by just about everything. She no longer had any idea what was going on.
“Jolson has become partly spawn and mostly human,” Get whispered. “His nature has changed so greatly it can no longer accept Athos’s Hook. His body rejects its evil.”
Although his whisper was small, Mira sensed satisfaction from the small being.
Groaning, Jolson struggled to his feet. Once there, he wavered while raising his hook hand to point it at the demons. Dark pus dripped free from his putrid wrist and fell to the ground. “I know you,” he said weakly. “In Hell. Always far away but always there.”
“You were too frightened for us to draw near,” Get explained.
Aldric laughed and pointed a steady finger at the demons. “Oh this is too funny. Okay fellows, I’m giving you one last chance to leave, and then I’m going to kill you. In Athos’s name, I order you— Begone!”
Aldric’s face, his entire body, flowed and shifted. Metallic scales formed over his skin. Against her will, trembling, Mira sank to her knees. The psychic pressure was excruciating. The pain exquisite, and her skin crawled with revulsion. Aldric exuded power beyond anything she had ever felt before. More than within the creature who turned her. More even, than she had sensed within Jolson’s hook. Aldric’s presence suddenly cowed her, awed her, and made her fear. The knife he had held, she now saw, was not a knife at all. Instead, it was the first of four ebony talons he bore on each hand. No preacher he. No spiritualist. Aldric was a devil from Hell, and not a minor one.
“Athos has no more hold over us than do you, devil,” Fubar sneered. He pointed to Jolson. “We answer only to him.”
“Then you will die for him,” Aldric snarled.
Jolson stepped past the demons. His arm lashed out
. The pulsing hook’s point jabbed into the back of the devil’s neck, scraped against scales, and was deflected away. Staggering backward, he wore a surprised look on his face.
Aldric laughed. “Did you think Athos would leave me unprotected while I hunted his prey?”
Knees sagging, Jolson moved forward once more. The demons blurred into motion but were too slow. Leaping forward, Aldric’s right arm lashed out, and Mira screamed when black talons sliced Jolson open from sternum to groin. Jolson’s eyes grew large with shock. His hook raised high.
And then Fubar’s blade sliced through Jolson’s left arm. Jolson’s forearm fell free, tumbled, until a swipe of Fubar’s other blade rang against the metal hook. The hook bled colors of sick green and putrid gray as both hook and arm sailed through the air.
Belly gaping, Jolson screamed and fell. Cackling, Aldric twisted to strike Fubar down. He then cracked the demon’s skull open with his devil’s hand as Get stabbed at the devil again and again with his blades. The motion was so fast it was only a blur to Mira’s eyes, but none of the blows so much as scratched the devil’s scales. Aldric swung out with a careless arm that slammed into Get’s side. The sound of breaking ribs crackled through the day’s still air. Tumbling away, Get’s knives turned back into hands as the demon groaned.
Laughing, Aldric looked down at Jolson, and then he scowled.
Desperate. Frightened, Mira scrabbled across the ground to pick up Jolson’s severed forearm, feeling its evil sear into her hands as she did so. Gathering her will to fight against Aldric’s influence, to fight against his psychic pain and the hook’s evil, she struggled to her feet and stumbled toward the devil. Her flesh wanted to cringe away from the hook, wanted her to flee from the devil, but her courage forced her forward until she was almost upon it— and then she stopped, stunned, because Jolson lay spread eagle on the ground…and he did not bleed.