by Colt, K. J.
There was a bang, then a heavy force as a thick form collided with him at the threshold. Arythan grappled with it, felt cloth and flesh beneath his fingers. It resisted him, then struck at him. A blow against the ribs, then another to his head. They had been clumsily aimed, and he fought back with his own fists. The next sound he heard was a pained grunt and quick, heavy breathing. His opponent slipped away from his grasp, and Arythan heard him scramble into the hall.
Quick in pursuit, the mage lunged at the smoke ahead of him. He imagined he grazed a leg or an arm, but then it was gone. He chased after the sounds, the footfalls as they pounded down the stairs. If his opponent left the confines of the building, it would be infinitely more difficult to catch him. He reached the stairs and started down them.
A burst of green flame flared before him, and he fell back. Almost instantly the fire shrank again until nothing but thick smoke added to what was already present. So you’re a wizard, was his fleeting thought as he got back on his feet and flew to the bottom of the steps. He heard the clattering of chairs and tables as the perpetrator made his escape.
Arythan followed his course, nearly tripping over the toppled furniture in the way. He clambered toward the door and reached it just in time to see a man’s silhouette vanish in the smoke. Sieqa. He took a deep breath and ran blindly after him. Without a chance to clear the air, the smoke burned in his lungs and halved his endurance. There was nothing to follow. Not a sight, not a sound. He was not even sure what was happening, who it was he was chasing or why.
He suspected this wizard was behind the fire-less fire, but why all the smoke? Why draw attention to— Draw attention. Draw attention from, not to. It’s a diversion, but from what?
Arythan stopped to catch his breath. Could this be relevant to Garriker’s meeting? And where was Garriker? Would he leave the protection of his elite?
As much as he hated to cease his blind pursuit, he needed more answers. He needed to talk to the B.E.S.T..
Spider sat with his head in his hand and a lit jack between his lips. His surrounding comrades shared the same stone-faced expressions, and none of them spoke a word. So it had been for the past hour or so since they had been detained. No one but he, however, seemed to notice the little black bat that zipped down the vacant stairwell to slide into the chair next to his. The jack nearly fell from his mouth.
“Medoriate Crow,” he whispered in disbelief, “how by Jedinom’s grace and glory are you here?”
Arythan was nearly beneath the table, so low was he in the chair. “’Ow did y’ lose the king?” he whispered back.
“Hm. How indeed.”
By now the other members of the B.E.S.T. had noticed the intruder, and they purposely positioned themselves in front of the table to hide him.
“What ‘appened?” Arythan pressed.
“There was a meeting with the Merchants’ Guild. The room filled with smoke, and the prince and the king disappeared. No trace.”
“That them? The Guild?” Arythan asked, nodding across the room to where the other occupants waited, oblivious to the disruption.
“Yes. Their leader has also vanished,” Spider said.
“Then there’s a third party,” Arythan said.
“Yes, but whom, Medoriate?”
“Y’ave enemies?”
“That would be everyone. We wait only to see if this is a murder or a ransom.”
“Unless I find them first,” Arythan said.
“I hope that you do,” Spider returned grimly, but already the chair was empty; the bat had flown.
What am I doing? Arythan wondered, scaling his way down the outside of the building. I’m all smoke and no fire. How am I going to find anyone? Without a lead or a plan, he had nowhere to start. The best he could do was to return to the scene of the fire and take a closer look. For him to clear the smoke, however, would mean his exposure. And if the fire was merely a distraction, Garriker and his son could be anywhere else.
But they would have to be close. Smoke or no smoke, how far could one drag a person without being noticed? He dropped lightly to his feet, only to feel a hand fall upon his shoulder.
He swore and froze where he stood.
“Arythan Crow,” a familiar voice said, “it would seem you are on a mission.”
The mage turned to look up at the face of Othenis Strix.
“I think I might be able to help you.”
“What do y’ know of this?” Arythan asked, immediately suspicious.
“Three men have disappeared. They must be found before the integrity of this conference is jeopardized.” He motioned for Arythan to follow. “Quickly, now.”
As they walked, Othenis spoke to him. “I saw you before—emerging from the smoke. What did you find?”
“Someone. A wizard.”
Othenis nodded. “I had wondered. The fire was too strange. Too convenient.”
“I lost ‘im,” Arythan said.
“Let us see what we can find, then.”
Already some of the smoke had dissipated, but still Arythan could not imagine they would be able to stumble across anything new.
“You said this person was a wizard,” Othenis said. “How did you know?” They stepped into the tavern where Arythan had encountered the perpetrator.
“Other than the green flames ‘e tossed at me?” Arythan asked. “I could feel it in the fire. ‘E didn’t command it. ’Twas only a reaction.”
“How do wizards make fire?”
It’s like I’m back at school in Mystland, the mage thought wryly. “Cantalere—an object.”
“Did you see him carrying anything?” Othenis asked. “When he cast the flames at you, did he say some special spell?”
Arythan shook his head and approached the stairs. He summoned his own flames upon his fingers and lowered his hand toward the stairs for a better look. “’Ere,” he said with a nod. “Wizard’s Sand.” He watched as Othenis rubbed the grainy residue between his fingers.
“Maybe he left more behind.”
Arythan trailed him as he walked hunched toward the ground. Sure enough, there were traces of sand here and there—larger patches where the furniture had tripped him. He and Othenis locked gazes and hurried outside. The lighting was slightly better with the sun on the rise, and though the trail was broken, it was there for them to follow. They did not have to trace it far before the sand trail ended several yards before two adjacent, smoky buildings.
“What do your instincts tell you?” Othenis asked. “Which one?”
Arythan shook his head.
“We can cover more ground if we split up,” he suggested. “I’ll search the inn on the left.”
They headed in opposite directions, and Arythan found himself ill-at-ease. He watched Othenis disappear into the inn before he cautiously pushed open the door in front of him. Whatever this structure was, it had not been completed. The floor and some of the walls were left unfinished, and there was debris everywhere from the patchy ceiling. If there was any sand to be found, it was lost amidst the dirt and dust scattered upon the ground. What propelled him forward, however, were the footprints. More than one set.
He had half a mind to go back and find Othenis, but if more than one person was involved in the king’s disappearance, both buildings were suspect. He spied a stairwell leading to the second floor with only the bottom stairs completed. So much for that.
Arythan pressed further into the room, finding a dark doorway that led into a darker hall. He nearly tripped on his way through the hazy passage, for the hall made a sharp descent before it broadened in front of three doors. The air had grown noticeably cooler, and the crude walls had been roughly hewn from stone. This part of the building was old—very old. He felt as though he was entering a tomb.
He drew forth a tiny cobalt flame in hopes that he could discover some sign that any of the doors had been used recently. The one furthest right—no dust graced the handle. But should he burst in? Open it slowly? Would someone be waiting? He had no choic
e but to open it if he was to find the missing trio.
Arythan reached for the handle when he felt the presence of someone behind him. His flesh prickled at the growing presence of powerful magic. His breath caught in his throat as he began to turn.
Something solid was shoved against his chest, and he was consumed by blinding, burning light. His eyes must have burst, for he saw nothing as the pain seized his heart—a massive fist of fire constricting against every beat. The rhythmic pulse that echoed in his head sputtered and strained until, at last, it failed, falling silent.
What’s it like to die? A whisper of thought crossed the growing abyss of his unconsciousness. To end….
He was under the water again, the black sea pulling him downward, in a void bereft of sound and light. So very quiet.
Something cold pressed against him. Cold but living. The darkness began to relent, as did the pressure above him. He was rising. It’s you, he thought, feeling her hand over his. You saved me twice before. The mermaid glanced at him with those black, black eyes as she continued to pull him to the surface.
He broke through the water and gasped.
Arythan snapped open his eyes and clutched at his heart. The door, the stone walls, all of it materialized before him as he lay there, trying to breathe. Life was pain; everything was pain. How? he marveled. How?
Then his fingers felt greasy and wet as they pried at the sharp, hard fragments imbedded in his chest. His eyes widened, and the blood fled from his face. No. Please, no!
He drew his hand before his eyes and gaped in horror. It was not the sight of his own smeared blood but the piece of black obsidian stone in his fingers that nearly stopped his heart a second time. The knife was broken, shattered, and the Shadow within was gone.
Trembling, Arythan rolled to his side and tore away his shirt. Blood and stone. He tore at his hair in grief and agony, and his eyes clouded with rare tears. Gone.
Somehow the voices surfaced through his emotions, and he lifted his head. Through the open doorway he could see the king, the prince, and another, bound, blindfolded, and gagged. In their midst stood Cyrul Frostmeyer, a radiant smile upon his face.
Arythan watched as Cyrul began to liberate the Merchants’ Guild leader, removing the gag and blindfold. He could hear them speak, but their words made no sense in his mind. He was unaware how long he watched them, unaware of even his own pain as he lay there, clutching the place where the knife had once rested.
Then there was another knife—one that appeared in Cyrul Frostmeyer’s hand. He saw the wizard move toward the king, and he gripped the frame of the door with as much strength as he could muster to pull himself upright.
Time slowed with the labored breaths he took. The blade was lifted, and in that sliver of time before the would-be regicide, Arythan drew together enough energy for an act of desperation.
Cyrul gave a cry and spun to bat at the blue flames that had ignited his robes. His yellow-green eyes caught sight of the mage’s and widened in surprise. At that moment Arythan knew it was not enough, but he had nothing more to give. He slumped against the doorframe and looked on helplessly as the wizard reclaimed his weapon.
There was not even a sound as the blade met its mark. It was not the king who fell, but Cyrul Frostmeyer. The wizard collapsed to the ground, a short handle jutting from his back.
Arythan saw a dark and burly shape step over him. The man in black said something to him, then headed for the wizard. It was done now. Over. He closed his eyes.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
WHAT REMAINED
WHEN ARYTHAN AWOKE, he was in a bed in a small room lit by candles and a modest fire in the hearth. The door was slightly ajar, and outside it he could hear a multitude of familiar voices. For the moment, however, he was grateful for his solitude. He shifted slightly and winced—pain serving as the lingering reminder of his latest adventure. Feeling constricted, he lifted the blanket to see his chest had been wrapped in linen bandages, but dark stains already spotted the material. There were always more scars to bear, but these were the final souvenir to all that his life had been.
He remembered everything that had happened, though he questioned how much of it he truly understood. He knew that the knife had saved him. Somehow it had absorbed the force of Cyrul’s attack, and then it had shattered. The blade had belonged to Jaice, and then the mermaid had given it to him. It was special to him then, but never so much as after the Larini had stashed a part of him inside it. Where his Shadow was now, he did not know, but it was gone, lost.
And here I am, for better or for worse, he thought.
“Crow! You’re awake,” came Michael’s bright voice. He hastened to Arythan’s side, followed by the king and Tigress, who kept their distance. “How do you fare?” he asked, frowning at the bandages.
“I’m alive,” Arythan said, wishing he was not so exposed.
“And so are my father and I,” the prince said. “Thanks to you.”
“’Twas Dagger ‘oo—”
Michael stopped him with a wave of his hand. “I have already heard accounts of the entire story. You went searching for us even though you had chosen to walk away.”
Arythan’s thoughts turned to Othenis. “Was there anyone else y’ found?”
“What do you mean?” Michael asked, perplexed.
The mage shrugged. “Never mind.” It was likely Othenis did not want to be found, and Arythan was certain the man played a far bigger role in this plot than he could question. “What ‘appened to y’?”
Michael’s smile faded slightly. “I wish I knew. We were abducted from our meeting, but by whom, I cannot say. We saw nothing in the smoke, and then we were blindfolded.”
“Warriors of the Sword?” Arythan asked.
Michael shook his head. “I do not believe so, for it was a strange sort of threat our captors imparted. ‘Abandon the Enhancement, lest it be death that you unearth. We will be watching.’ Then we were abandoned. It was a wonder that you found us, Crow.”
Arythan frowned. “Cyrul followed me.”
“Think nothing of him, for his treachery has been paid in full. It is only regrettable that he took with him his knowledge of the Ice.” He paused as a woman’s voice sounded from the doorway. The prince bent lower to speak into the mage’s ear. “If you are questioned, speak nothing of this.”
Arythan nodded just as Michael pulled away, and Captain Xiuss entered the room, followed by a red-skinned, heavyset man dressed in plain robes. His fleshy face was framed by a full, short white beard, and what little remained of the white hair upon his head had retreated to the region around his ears. The staff he bore—rather, the staff that bore him—confirmed it: Arythan knew him. The Markanturian was heavier and there were the slight changes about his face, but this was the same man who had caught him years ago as the White Demon. The same man who had traveled with his brother. Now what was his name?
The Markanturian bowed to the king and prince, and then his dark eyes fell upon Arythan. “You are the young man who discovered our abducted guests,” he said in a rich baritone. He extended his hand. “I am Arcturus Prentishun, Ambassador of Markanturos and representative of this conference.”
Arythan’s hand was engulfed by Arcturus’s beefy fingers, but his only response was a nod. There was a pause where the Markanturian waited expectantly, but then he continued. “You must be….”
“He is Arythan Crow, my medoriate,” the king said.
“You said you were unaffiliated,” Captain Xiuss voiced in her shrill tone, glaring at the mage.
“He has recently been promoted,” Garriker said easily.
Arythan caught Tigress watching him from behind her masque, as if expecting a reaction from him.
“I have reason to believe he is a spy,” the captain insisted, folding her arms. “First I find him in the company of the Warriors of the Sword. Then he appears at the scene of the fire, when I had specifically instructed him to remain in my office.”
“A spy for whom, C
aptain Xiuss?” Arcturus said, a trace of weariness in his voice. “If His Majesty of Cerborath claims him as one of his own, then I have no reason to dispute him.”
“There is much I have yet to investigate,” the woman said. “We still do not know who is responsible for the fire, let alone the abduction.”
“The wizard who made the attempt on our lives bore the mark of the Warriors of the Sword,” Michael said. “And he is dead.”
“Do you mean to say that you are satisfied with this insubstantial resolution?” Captain Xiuss asked, incredulous.
“By Jedinom’s good graces we have our lives,” Garriker said. “I see no point in hounding answers that cannot be obtained.”
Arcturus rubbed his chin in thought. “So much stands to jeopardize this conference if we continue to stoke the flames. I, too, would sooner preserve the peace and let matters rest. I feel the danger has passed, though we will double our security for the duration of the meetings.” He seemed to purposely turn away from the captain’s sour regard, keeping his attention upon the Cerborathians. “If you no longer fear for your safety, then I ask that we keep this matter confidential.”
“Of course,” Garriker said with a wave of his hand.
Arcturus turned to Arythan one last time. “Thank you, Medoriate Crow, for your assistance.” His eyes lingered upon the mage a moment, as if they had caught something familiar about him. But then he turned away and left, Captain Xiuss grudgingly following behind him.
Once they had gone, Garriker moved in. “We are indebted to you, Medoriate, but there is one last matter to address. The title is yours, if you will have it.”
Arythan’s gaze fell to where the knife once rested upon his chest. All ties severed. There is nothing left, only what’s ahead. His eyes met Garriker’s. “I accept.”
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