The Artifact of Foex

by James L. Wolf

  She didn’t waste words. Clementina simply began shooting with the rifle. Chet crammed his fingers into his ringing ears, shocked at her lack of honor and chivalry. Except she was right: a pure frontal assault was more practical than warning her foe in advance. Fenimore wasn’t a moving target, though. He stood, looking smug, as Clementina fired shot after shot. Chet could even see the streaks of light as bullets rebounded off the... yes, that had to be the infamous shield.

  Fenimore faked a yawn, patting his mouth. “You seem familiar, madam. Have we met? Ah, yes. The frumpy strumpet from the ship.”

  Chet watched the rope from the tunnel, holding fast as bullets flew. The end of the rope disappeared in the middle of the muddy torrent. How could Journey breathe in there? Lucid mud, he thought grimly, is a preservative. Journey didn’t need to breathe. She would hold onto the rope because she’d been ordered to by the Raptus’s master. Fenimore had definitely planned this.

  “You can’t keep it up forever,” Clementina growled through gritted teeth, loosening three more rounds in quick succession. “The Raptus was created thousands of years before bullets.”

  Fen touched the duffle bag at his side. “Abandon this arsenal and walk into the lucid mud, madam.”

  “I don’t think so, LaDaven.” Clementina threw down her rifle and unslung her pistols.

  The rope wasn’t fairing well under this new barrage—it unraveled as bullets grazed it. The fibers parted and Fenimore was left holding a short, slack rope as the other end slithered along the bank, headed downstream.

  Swearing, Chet broke from the safety of the tunnel and ran for the trailing end of the rope. His pace turned into an all-out sprint as the rope slid into the mud. He dove and caught it, spattering mud down his front in the process. Chet began reeling in the rope hand over hand. It was hard. The current was something fierce.

  The gunshots had ceased, at least. Behind him, he heard the unmistakable sounds of a struggle, and he looked over his shoulder to see Fenimore fighting with a half-visible Rory. She had him in a headlock, her legs wrapped around his torso. Why hadn’t she grabbed the bag as planned? Fenimore must have prevented it while Chet was pursuing the rope. Fen was cursing—maybe from the electric-like shocks in her half visible state—and had his knife out. He was trying to stab Rory without injuring himself.

  Clementina advanced grimly while sheathing her handguns. She attempted to grab at his knife-wielding hand. The women were calling directions to one another, trying to work in concert.

  It was almost over, Chet reassured himself as he pulled the straining rope.

  Moments later there was a wild yell. He glanced back in time to see Fenimore bowing in a fight move, effectively flipping Rory into Clementina like bowling pins. He grabbed at Clementina’s bracelet and twisted. She cried out in pain as it parted from her wrist.

  Fen threw the bracelet away; it clanged as it hit a rock wall. “Fling yourself into the lucid mud, woman, fast as you can. Now, where did your Shadow Dancer friend go?”

  Rory had grown invisible again, effectively disentangling herself from the scene. With nothing to impede her, Clementina turned and raced toward the lucid mud. She splashed through the shallows, then belly flopped into the churning river. Not even bubbles marked her passing. Clementina was gone.

  Chet swallowed. Clementina was the first to go, but was she the last?

  Chapter 27

  Loopholes

  Chet needed to get Journey out now so he could help Rory. Since Fenimore had figured out the bracelets, it was only a matter of time before Rory would go the same way Clementina had. At least his efforts were panning out: he could see Journey’s hand as it surfaced, still clinging to the rope. He pulled harder, bracing himself.

  “Chet,” Fenimore called. “What are you doing? Saving Journey? What a romantic gesture, cream puff.”

  “Shut up, Fen.”

  “By all means, oblige me and keep my meat fresh while I figure out where your little friend has—”

  Fenimore yelped as Rory engaged him again. Rory was up against Fen on her own. She needed his help! Journey was close enough that Chet thought he could—yes. He grabbed hold of her be-slimed clothing and pulled her in. She coughed and wheezed, her eyes closed. Frantic, Chet abandoned her and raced up the tunnel to where Fenimore and Rory were grappling.

  Rory could fight. Chet could see she was far better than himself—no surprise considering he was a scholar above all—but she was also better than Fenimore. He had his knife, while all she had were her hands and feet, yet she used them well. Plus she kept turning translucent when he got close enough with the blade.

  Chet hovered at the edge of their battle, uncertain how to be of assistance. His toe hit something—one of Clementina’s flash bangs. He bent to pick it up... there was a blow to his face, then another on back of his neck. Chet collapsed, gasping. Fear flooded his body as he was lifted by the hair. Fenimore’s blade was cold at his throat. Something was dripping from his nose—blood? He didn’t know what Rory was doing, but she certainly wasn’t attacking. Fen had traded one hostage for another.

  Would Fen keep him as a hostage, though? The answer was immediate; Fenimore reached over and plucked the bracelet from his wrist. “There. Chet, walk into the lucid mud and let it take you.”

  “Don’t do it, Chet!” It was Rory’s voice. She’d turned invisible again.

  Mind-clouding fog descended, a very familiar feeling. Chet regained his feet and began making for the mud river. He could move slower than Clementina—Fenimore hadn’t specified a speed—though he echoed her course with the same results to come. Abyss, his face hurt, his nose bleeding freely. Would the pain still be with him when he woke from lucid mud?

  Behind him, he could hear Fenimore yelling to Journey, ordering her to return at once. Somewhere in the back of his mind Chet had hoped that Journey had made her way out. Given Fen’s exasperation, she may have been running the other way, farther down the cave. It might have worked if Fenimore hadn’t had the Raptus.

  The Raptus. The very thing that was about to deposit him in lucid mud. His feet had almost reached the bank. Chet was about to be preserved for decades... centuries... millennia... a curiosity for future generations. Canned archeologist.

  There was something was in his hand. The flash bang, he realized, gazing down at it. A corner of his mouth turned up. Fenimore had only told him to walk into the mud, but he hadn’t issued any other orders. Such as, “Don’t fight me," perhaps? The trick with magic, Chet remembered, was loopholes.

  Chet turned to face Fenimore, his feet still walking backwards into the mud, now up to his ankles. Fenimore was holding onto the duffle bag with both hands, gazing about with an alert expression, a livid mark on his cheek. Rory had marked him up, and still might, Chet realized. She was loose in the cave, awaiting her chance. Journey was slowly striding through the cavern, too, headed toward Fenimore, her expression grim. He wished there was some way to warn her in advance. Ah, well.

  “Hey, Rory,” Chet called out. “Now.”

  He pulled the pin and tossed the flash bang to Fenimore’s right. Fen followed the movement, his expression quizzical. “Hah. Chet, you doedicu, you miss—”

  An unbearable sound filled the cavern, accompanied by the brightest flash Chet had ever seen. He threw up his arms to protect himself, then lowered them, blinking to clear his vision. He couldn't hear anything except ringing in his ears. When Chet’s eyes were working again, he saw both Rory and Journey were fighting Fenimore. A desperate, knock-down struggle.

  Even as Chet watched, he realized the mud was well above his knees, almost to his hips. It was churning, the undertow fantastic. The fog still upon him, and Chet knew he would surrender to it. He had to let the river take him.

  A triumphant cry resonated through the cavern, breaking through the ringing in Chet’s ears. Rory held the bag in her hands, leaping away from the fray. Fenimore socked Journey—her head snapped back as she collapsed—and threw his knife, stabbing Rory in the ba
ck.

  She gasped, her face ashen. Chet cried out her name, his hands flung out, helpless as she fell...

  He lost his feet. The lucid-mud river swept him away.

  The sensation of lucid mud was astonishing. Chet was pulled under. He had a single lungful of air. He’d let the lucid mud take him, as ordered, but he didn’t have to breathe out yet. Loopholes, loopholes.

  Unbidden, a verse filled his brain:

  “Will, I hail thee

  Lend me the strength

  To see this twisted bough into a house...”

  It was the same stanza that had saved him in the ocean after dumping Aureate’s body. Chet scrunched his face at the memory. Who had written the line? It hardly mattered. There was no fighting the urge to sleep. His last breath had been a futile gesture. The mud had him securely in its swirling grasp; he didn’t even know which was way up.

  “Yea, lend me the strength

  To throw open gates to the lost city of El

  Rendering god barrier to splinters of light...”

  The Magician Zang had written it. No, he thought wildly, grasping the truth as if it were a slippery fish in his hands. I wrote it. He was the right Magician after all. With his last ounce of strength, he mumbled into the mud,

  “Will, I hail thee

  Lend me the strength

  To rise through the lucid mud

  And breathe fresh air once more.”

  Chet’s feet kicked of their own volition. He had nothing left in his lungs. He blindly trusted the imperfect, fragile sense of gravity within his head, heading up. Breaking through the surface of the churning river, Chet gasped air.

  The others were nowhere in sight. Chet must have been moving down the lucid-mud river with the current. The shoreline was relatively close, and it looked like the same cave. The mud wasn’t nearly as turbulent here; he could swim if it let him. If it didn’t hold him back. The mud was all around him, sucking him down with surprisingly strength.

  “Will, I hail thee

  Lend me the strength

  To swim to shore

  And cease the bloodshed

  Of the Raptus upon Mother Earth.”

  He swam. As he did so, he considered the situation. Chet found solid, if muddy, ground and sloshed out of the river. He took measure of himself: he was slathered in mud, just like Journey. Blood still dripped down his face. Despite this, he felt remarkably in control. Aureate had complained that she didn’t want to kill someone to figure out what made the Raptus tick, but Chet—the Magician Zang—didn’t need to kill anyone. He already knew everything he needed to know to defeat Fenimore. This little bit of blood would be enough for what he had in mind. Chet smiled and began walking back upriver.

  Chet could hear them long before he could see them. Grunting, repetitive sounds that made his groin tighten even before his brain realized what was going on. Chet peeked around the corner, heart contracting.

  Rory was crumpled off to one side. He couldn’t tell whether she was breathing, but he could see blood on her fawn-colored jacket. The knife was gone, though, probably back in Fen’s sheath. Fenimore had his back turned to Chet, pants around his ankles. He was lying directly atop a muddy figure that had to be Journey. Her legs were parted and Fen was... Chet licked his muddy lips, tasting dirt and iron-heavy minerals. His cock was visible as he pumped, and Chet could see every detail at this angle. Journey was making little noises as Fenimore slapped her tits with his free hand. He reached up and slapped her face, then his hand slipped around her neck. Journey grew abruptly silent.

  “That’s right, doxy, I can strangle you while my dick takes you for all you’re worth.”

  Chet couldn’t see his face from his vantage point, but he could hear Fen’s grin. It was the tone of a predator thoroughly enjoying his prey. Chet closed his eyes, nauseous. Fenimore was certainly a man of his word. Chet knew Fenimore was the Magician Tene, and the knowledge didn’t make anything better. Just different.

  All his life, Chet had thought that if he could only know why he felt this way, things would be wonderful. Now he knew, yet he was still covered with mud and blood, two friends dead and another being raped only yards away. There were no miraculous turnabouts here. Not without direct intervention anyway.

  Well, if direct intervention was what was needed, Chet would make it happen.

  Chet strode forward, angling his approach so Fenimore couldn’t see him. Fen was again wearing the duffle bag slung on his back, and both of his hands were occupied with Journey. Journey seemed to see Chet, though; just a quick glance before she looked away. Tear marks trailed down her muddy face to her ears, but at least her expression was alert.

  It was the easiest thing in the world. Chet unzipped the bag, reached in and drew out the Raptus. He gaped, blinking. The Raptus was glowing green, its doedicu-like spikes shiny like stained glass, the light gently pulsing. Almost completely unlocked.

  Chet drew back even as Fenimore muttered, “Hey!” One of his hands patted the bag while he attempted to look over his shoulder.

  Journey’s legs, which had been flung open in helpless supplication, wrapped around Fen’s torso, her feet locking together to secure him. She grabbed his wrists. “Oh, Fen, don’t go. Stay here with me.”

  Chet grinned and set down the Raptus a short distance away, then leaned over Fenimore. “I could fuck you in the ass, you know,” he whispered. Though he couldn’t bring himself to hump Fenimore and drive home his point, he did nibble on Fen’s ear and squeeze a nipple through his shirt.

  Distraction, misdirection. Fenimore twisted to look him in the face even as Chet slipped the curved blade out of Fen’s sheath and retreated, taking the knife with him. It joined the Raptus on the ground. Chet had no need of the blade, just as he didn’t require the Raptus. He never had.

  “Chet!” Fenimore said. “But—but I ordered—oh, Pantheon. I could have sworn you didn’t know...”

  “I can’t hold him long, Chet,” Journey called out, her voice ragged.

  “Don’t let go, yet. Can you get him on his back?”

  Journey grunted as she rolled, taking Fenimore down while simultaneously straddling him. She pinned his arms at his sides with her knees, apparently squeezing hard. “Whatever you’re going to do, do it quick,” she said. Fenimore was struggling, helplessly encompassed.

  Chet settled at Fenimore’s head so he was looking at Fen upside down. There was just enough congealing blood left from his nose to make this work, but it didn’t take much, really. Just a dab or two.

  Fenimore flinched as Chet wrote ancient letters upon his forehead in blood. “What are you doing?” he whispered, eyes wide. Fenimore looked like a child now. He’d always been so deceptive that way.

  “Fenimore LaDaven, I lay a geas upon you, binding you by every name you have ever known. You are restricted from touching or using the Raptus from this time forward. To you, the Raptus is a locked door without key or keyhole. Any usage will mean the instant death of this body or any future body reincarnation might bring you. In laying this geas upon you, I bind myself to your soul again, as, indeed, we already seem to be bound.” Chet cleared his throat and admonished himself to focus. “In addition to the Raptus, you are henceforth restricted from holding or using weapons of any sort for the duration of this lifetime. This includes any object that you might use with the intent of inflicting physical harm upon another living being. Again, the usage or even the touch of a weapon will mean your instant death. This geas is binding from now until the end of Uos.” Chet cleared his throat and sang the correct hymn in the ancient Eicha language used by Magicians. He was off key and his voice wavered, but it was still binding. At least he remembered the words. His memory had always been good for things like that.

  “Wow, Chet,” Journey murmured, staring.

  “You can let him up.” Chet sighed and sat back. Now that Fenimore was no longer a threat, Chet turned to Rory—except she wasn’t there. The body was gone.

  What? Was Rory still alive? Had she tu
rned invisible, choosing to die in non-corporeal form?

  Fenimore threw Journey off, and she shuddered as she rose. Chet helped her as best he could, a supportive hand under her arm. She stumbled away a few feet and vomited onto the cave floor.

  Still bent over, she mumbled, “Chet, find my pants. He tore my underwear in half, but my pants should be fine.”

  As Chet searched for mud-slathered fabric on the cave floor, Fenimore regarded him closely. “You think you’re clever, don’t you?” Chet expected him to look enraged, but Fenimore had his pleasant face on, again.

  “I am myself,” Chet said shortly, locating Journey’s pants.

  “You swam out of the lucid mud, yet my orders were to let it take you.”

  He was trolling for information, meaning—what? Chet didn’t trust this apparent mood swing. But Journey, skinning into her pants, gave Chet a puzzled look. “How did you do it, Chet?”

  “I...” How could he explain?

  “Wait, I know. You found a loophole in my command, Zang.” Fenimore smiled sunnily.

  “How did you know?”

  “I’ve known since we were bound by the Raptus. Why else would it choose a little nothing like you?”

  Chet frowned at him. “That makes very little sense. None at all, actually.”

  Fenimore remained silent. Journey turned to Chet, her expression obstinate as Abyss. “Chet, you know something. You need to tell me what’s going on. Please. Knife and Aureate have been murdered along with your professor. And your other friend, that young Shadow Dan—” she turned, apparently to look at Rory, and froze.

  “By all the grace and goodness of the Pantheon, where did she go?” Fenimore’s pleasant face had slipped into a more anxious expression. His tone sounded oddly frantic.

  “What does it matter to you?” Chet scowled at him.

  “Shadow Dancers can’t become invisible if they’re badly injured. At least, not on their own,” Journey explained in a low voice. “I don’t know why not.”