Third Power

by Robert Childs

  Azinon did not even look at the man as he grabbed him by the face and lifted him from the ground. All watched as he threw the man backwards into a crowd of onlookers. “Enough talk!” he bellowed. He looked to the side and in response to his will another stone table near him ripped free of its bolts. It hung there, suspended in the air, until the sorcerer turned his gaze on the wizard and it sailed across the expanse of the club with frightening speed.

  From nowhere a staff appeared in Haldorum’s hands and from it issued a bolt of fiery blue light. It struck the table in midair over the dance floor, exploding on contact and sending a thousand fragments in all directions. The people below scattered under the rain of pelting pebbles and a cloud of dust. Some clambered up the stairs in a rush, anything to get off the dance floor, while still others jumped to the guardrail and pulled themselves over. In less than a minute the floor was clear.

  The crowd nearest Azinon already kept a cautious distance from the sorcerer, but cleared an even wider area with a startled murmur as he drew a sword from the folds of his coat. They watched seemingly mesmerized as he descended the staircase to the dance floor.

  “Let me,” Haze whispered in the wizard’s ear.

  Haldorum shook his head, gripping his staff firmly in both hands. “No. This is not a battle that can be won by steel alone.”

  “Haldorum,” Lurin pressed, his tone suggesting he knew very well what was running through the wizard’s mind. “What foolishness are you contemplating?”

  The blue-robed wizard watched the sorcerer steely-eyed. “I can end this,” he said. “Even if it cost me my own life, I can save a world here and now.”

  “And if he kills you?” Lurin said to his back.

  Haldorum did not answer; only descended the stairs to the sunken dance floor.

  Young onlookers from all over pressed in at the railing above the two combatants; some muttering excitedly, some clearly frightened. The mass of bodies crowded against the rail and jostled for the best view.

  Azinon and Haldorum advanced toward the center of the dance floor, each holding his weapon at the ready: the sorcerer with his slender blade in his right hand, its ornately shaped guard gleaming in the light; the wizard with his staff before him, the metal at both ends glinting ominously.

  The crowd of young people above watched as the dark-haired opponent with the pony tail smiled confidently, circling his adversary who remained steadfast and solemn.

  Azinon moved first with a low swing toward the abdomen, a move to disembowel, but Haldorum blocked the blade well outside his body. A loud clash issued from the contact and a brilliant explosion of sparks startled the crowd: blue from the staff, red from the sword.

  Haldorum pressed the attack then, swinging three times with alternate ends of his staff. Azinon gave ground as he parried each of these expertly, and the echoes of the magically charged weapons filled the club.

  “You’re slow, old man,” Azinon said with a sneer. He pressed the attack with a combination of strikes and then it was the wizard’s turn to retreat. The icy cold of the sorcerer’s blade ducked inside Haldorum’s defense on the third attack and cut cleanly across the shoulder.

  Haldorum staggered back with a painful hiss and clutched at the wound with one hand. Tiny flecks of red light danced around the edges of the cut.

  “Come now,” Azinon said, “why so surprised? You didn’t seriously believe yourself my equal? You are old, wizard; hardly a match for a man both younger and more powerful.”

  From both the front entrance and the rear, police swarmed in and pushed their way through the throngs of club patrons. Two dozen police stopped all along the surrounding rail and halfway down the stairwells with guns drawn and pointed down toward the spectacular battle that continued to rage before them. Light danced between the two combatants, sometimes coursing jaggedly across the floor, scorching the glossed wood as it went while every clash of their weapons wracked their eardrums.

  The senior-ranking detective managed to regain his composure then and shouted, “Drop your weapons!”

  The two combatants stopped abruptly then. They backed cautiously away one step, but did not look away, one from the other. Haldorum panted heavily while Azinon, in the black three-quarter length coat, seemed only slightly winded.

  “Drop your weapons and step away with your hands behind your head!”

  Lurin and Haze leaped the railing and landed by Haldorum’s side. There was a brilliant pillar of light and then all were gone. Police and patrons alike looked all around but the three were nowhere to be seen. The police detective then looked across the floor to where the dark stranger stood but he too was gone.

  “Spread out and cover the exits!” a sergeant shouted. “Nobody leaves!”

  Chapter VII

  Sonya opened her eyes slowly. She looked up wearily at the face of the full moon and a sky full of stars and frowned her confusion. She started to sit up but gasped at the ache in her side and apparently decided remaining still on the ground was a much better plan. So she lay there motionless in the cool grass, listening dreamily to the night sounds around her and soon drifted off to sleep.

  She awakened again beneath a mid-morning sun. She turned her head and Steve was sitting beside her, looking down on her sleepy face from a sitting position, his legs bent and forearms resting on his knees.

  “Morning,” he greeted with an embarrassed half smile.

  Sonya groaned as she brought herself up on her elbows.

  “Are you okay?” Steve asked.

  “I took a kick to the ribs last night, but it’s better.” She laughed weakly, wincing as she put her hand to her side. “At least I know how that happened. Steve, your eyes were…”

  He nodded and looked away. “Yeah, I know.” He then shrugged and added, “But I seem to be back to my old self now.”

  Sonya looked loathe to ask but, “And what happened to that new self?”

  “This world,” Steve said glancing upward. “I’m still trying to sort it all out, but something about this world…the magic here. I felt it.”

  Sonya looked around them as she blinked the sleep from her eyes. They had no way of knowing just how long they had been lying on the hillside—but Steve guessed it had been several hours, at least. From their vantage point they could see outlying farm fields a short way off surrounding a small town in its center. Several roads cut through the farmland and allowed easy passage from any one of several directions.

  “Any idea where we are?”

  Steve looked around them briefly, taking note of the mountains in the west. The location was new but this was unmistakably—“Mithal,” he finished aloud.

  Sonya cocked an eyebrow. “Say again?”

  Steve inhaled slowly and his cheeks puffed out on the exhale. “Looks like it’s time for that conversation you wanted. I hope you’re in for a long story.” Going all the way back to Mr. Jacobs’ will, Steve recounted everything from the moment he was given the crystal, his accidental use of magic, his meeting with Azinon, all the way up to when Sonya herself had entered the picture at The Oz.

  When he had finished Sonya just looked at him for long moments. After a while, “You do realize just how fantastic all of that sounds, right?”

  Steve’s smile was rueful. “Only too well,” he replied, “but look where we are; look what you’ve seen.”

  Sonya tilted her head at the point made. “This is a lot to take in,” she said finally.

  The two of them sat in silence for a time, thinking quietly to themselves. The truth of the matter was neither really knew what to do next. After a while, Steve climbed to his feet and dusting off the back of his khaki cargo pants, resolved that going anywhere was better than nowhere. “Well, unless you have a better idea, I say we try and mingle with the natives. Maybe somebody down there can tell us just where Haldorum zapped us to.”

  Sonya inhaled and exhaled deeply, then nodded. “Why not?”

  Steve took her hand and helped her to her feet, then together they walk
ed side-by-side toward town. They reached one of the dirt roads leading through the cultivated fields in a short time and followed it. The farther they travelled the more field hands they passed; lean but strong workers dressed in homespun breaches and tunics, trudging solemnly about their daily routines. These people said nothing but Steve and Sonya both caught them quickly averting their eyes whenever they looked in their direction. Sonya stuck close to Steve’s side, clearly uncomfortable under the suspicious looks of these country folk. Steve himself remained wary. It was uncomfortable being the center of attention for so many people, and their dubious stares when they thought he wasn’t looking was a little too Deliverance for his liking. The best thing for now, he reasoned, was just to keep walking and pretend not to notice.

  “You there!”

  Steve and Sonya both turned around and, before them, standing half in the field and half in the road, a large man dressed in the same home spun and rough-hewn shoes addressed them. He held a shovel in tough calloused hands and an ugly scowl on his unshaven face. “What’s your business here?” he demanded.

  Steve stepped between Sonya and this potential threat cautiously and said, “I don’t think that has anything to do with you.”

  The man’s scowl deepened at that.

  Another man approached the first from the field and then stopped at the edge of the road. Smaller than his fellow, but dressed in the same manner, he addressed the other farm hand with fear in his voice. “Gerr,” he said imploringly. “Look at his tunic. The symbol!”

  The larger man spied the sigil on the stranger’s shirt and then his confidence seemed to drain from him then like a deflating balloon. Seeing this, Steve played a bluff. “Yes, Gerr,” he said coldly, “perhaps there is something else you’d like to say to me.”

  The big man quickly removed his straw hat and lowered his head. “Please forgive me, my lord. I did not recognize you. I only sought to guard against intruders – for the sake of Lord Borathis.”

  Steve said nothing; only turned and walked away, urging Sonya along with him.

  “What happened?” Sonya asked.

  “What do you mean what happened?” Steve whispered. “You were standing right there – you heard him.”

  “A lot of good that does me when neither of you speak English,” she retorted.

  Steve stopped short and faced her. “What?”

  Sonya jabbed a thumb back in the direction they came. “That guy back there shouted something, and then you answered him in…whatever language that was. All I know is that it wasn’t English.”

  Steve tilted his head at her. “Sonya, if you’re screwing with me this is a really bad time for jokes.” She folded her arms across her chest and gave him a pert look. “Okay, okay,” Steve said surrendering under her icy stare. “But I don’t get it. How is that even possible?”

  “I’m not the person you should be asking. You’re the magic man, remember?”

  Steve stood there a moment, running the conversation back through his mind, and suddenly realized to his great surprise Sonya was right. He had simply changed languages without a thought, as though it had been nothing at all. To test the ability he spoke again. It felt normal—natural even, as though he had been speaking it since birth. The words flowed from his mouth with a smooth and beautiful rhythm, almost like music.

  “Well, it looks as if you’re going to be translating for the rest of our stay here,” Sonya said poking him in the side to get him walking again.

  Steve continued to ramble on to himself in the strange tongue as he went.

  As the two approached the first permanent structures of the settlement ahead, they heard the buzzing drone of a crowd from the market square situated on the edge of town. People moved about from one stand to another, some more sturdy in appearance than others, in their attempt to get the most for their coin, while those who were there strictly to sell their wares shouted bargains that changed from one minute to the next in an attempt to best their competition and draw in the crowd.

  Steve listened actively to everything around him, now acutely aware of the foreign tongue and fascinated by his comprehension, seemingly oblivious to how people went out of their way to clear a path before the young man with the embroidered red knot work on his shirt.

  Sonya stopped and turned when something tugged at the back of her jeans. The child, no more than seven years of age, held his hand out to her, his eyes wide and pleading. In the next moment, Steve was by her side asking, “What’s up?”

  “It’s this little boy,” Sonya replied. “Look at him – he’s so cute! Ask him what he wants.” Steve did so and the boy replied.

  “He’s begging for money,” Steve said, pulling out a quarter. He then realized regretfully his money would hold no value here. The little boy’s eyes, however, brightened with excitement when he saw the shiny coin. “You want this?” he asked. Steve shrugged and placed the quarter in the boy’s eager hand. As though fearing someone would snatch it from him, he tucked it quickly away inside his dirty rags. “Wait,” Steve said to the lad, careful to speak in this new tongue. The boy hesitated in his retreat and waited as Steve withdrew the last of his change: two dimes, three nickels and a penny. The boy’s eyes seemed ready to pop from their sockets as Steve gave the coins over to him.

  The little boy stood there a moment, open-mouthed as he regarded the coins. His fingers closed around them, and then he wrapped his arms around Steve’s waist, hugging him with all the strength his thin arms could muster. Just as quickly, he turned and disappeared into the crowd.

  Steve was a little bewildered, and he looked over then and saw Sonya was smiling at him. “That was very sweet,” she said. “I only wish I’d had a camera.”

  He smiled back with a shrug. “What can I say? He’s a cute kid.”

  “And so are you.” Sonya laughed when she saw his cheeks redden at the remark.

  Steve cleared his throat uneasily. “We should probably keep going.”

  Sonya made a show of trying to keep a straight face and said, “Sure. But you might want to clean up a bit first.” She raised a finger to her chin to indicate where Steve had a smudge on his face.

  Steve wiped at his chin but only succeeded in smearing the dirt even further. He looked at the smudge on his hand, “I guess he wanted to leave me with something, too.”

  Sonya smiled. “Here, let me get it.” She touched her finger to her tongue and wiped at his chin.

  “—best deal!”

  Sonya spun around.

  “Something wrong?” Steve asked.

  “I thought I heard…no, nothing. Never mind.” She turned and wiped at his chin again.

  “—fresh bread here!”

  She whirled again. “I know I heard it that time. Steve, I understood him!”

  “What?” he asked puzzled. “How could you?”

  “I don’t know,” she replied, looking puzzled and excited at the same time. “I heard him the first time, but then I…wait a minute.” She reached out and clamped her hand over Steve’s mouth.

  “It’s a steal, I tell you! Two coppers!”

  Sonya gasped. “Steve, it’s you! I touch you and I can understand them!” Steve mumbled something and Sonya removed her hand. “What?”

  “I said can you speak?” he asked.

  She took his hand in her own. “There’s one way --,” she began in English, “—to find out,” she finished in the same melodious language of Mithal. Her eyes grew even wider. “I can!”

  “Hold on a second,” Steve said still confused. “How does this make any sense? Haldorum had to cast a spell. I’m not doing anything.”

  “I don’t know, and I don’t care,” she breathed excitedly. “But I love it!”

  For the next two hours, Sonya led him by the hand through the marketplace, stopping to talk with the merchants in Mithalian. Steve knew she had no intention to buy, as they held no native currency, but only wanted to exercise her ability in the language. Steve noted their mere presence made the locals im
mediately uncomfortable, and the merchants themselves were nervously polite in the extreme, but he shrugged it aside. Judging from the way the farm hand on the road had reacted at the mere thought of him working for Borathis—whomever he was—he could hardly blame them. Whomever this Borathis was to these people, he clearly was one to avoid.

  Crude looking wagons moved up and down streets separate from the market square, drawn by old and overworked horses, many of which looked as though they might expire right where they stood. Other streets appeared designated only for pedestrians. The most salient and consistent feature of the day, however, was the people themselves: impoverished, dispirited, almost downtrodden. Borathis, Steve thought, must be a very harsh master.

  Sonya’s urge to speak with every person she met, to Steve’s great relief, finally began to subside sometime before noon, by which time they found themselves located on a street, although centrally located and easily accessible, sparsely traveled. The buildings here stood as single storied wood and brick structures, like the rest in town, but the windows had been boarded up—and hastily by the look of it. Horizontally placed planks, hammered in place with nails more often than not bent over rather than pounded in straight, barred the shutters.

  “That’s weird,” Sonya commented. “Are they condemned? Off-limits for some reason?”

  “Yeah,” Steve agreed. “Except the doors aren’t boarded up.” He pointed to several such doorways and Sonya could only shake her head and wonder.

  A wagon came to a stop outside one such doorway and the driver, who wore a cloth tied about his face, hopped down and hurriedly placed a large basket of food just outside the door. Without further delay, he climbed back up to the wooden bench seat and spurred the horse forward as though the devil himself were at his heels.

  “Okaaaaay,” Sonya said as she digested the strange occurrence. “That was odd.”

  “Look,” Steve said pointing.