Black Warrior

by Jolie Jaquinta

  Chapter 5 – Deeds of Darkness

  Something scratched on the door of Jack's sanctum. His brow furrowed and he looked up from his desk. This was his office, buried deep in the bowels of the high city. It was within the magical confines of the Royal Palace, and he had his own protections, magical and mundane in place. The fact that none of his alarms had gone off meant it could only be one thing. “Come on in, Makda”, he said tiredly.

  The door creaked slowly open. There was nothing but darkness on the other side. In the middle an eye opened, the light from the room glinting off of it. Then another and another until there were eight. Out of the darkness squirmed a hairy, jointed leg. It was followed by another and another until there were eight. They pulled at the door and the darkness squeezed through the door and into the room.

  “Oh thank you, thank you!” hissed Makda in sibilant joy. The creature scuttled from floor to table to ceiling and then down onto Jack's desk, coming up within inches of his face. “Saahabneta is so kind to see poor, pitiful Makda. And Makda is thankful, oh yes I am! Yes I am thankful every day that the powerful Romitu did not obliterate poor, pitiful me into the night like Saahabneta and all the other gods. I try so hard, Makda does, to be helpful and useful.”

  The self-effacement went on for some time. Jack had heard it all before. What Makda lacked in originality it made up for in enthusiasm. Or at least affected enthusiasm. It was the god of deceit, intrigue and darkness, after all. You could never trust it too far.

  “Thank you”, said Jack, when it paused for breath. “Your devotion is quite satisfactory.” It had seemed a good thing, at the time. In abject horror after the obliteration of its previous patron and every other major god, Jack made his pitch. It was a perfect opportunity to gain a foothold amongst the new gods. Although much more accessible and cooperative now, he couldn't image the gods liked Romitu much, and had their own intrigues and plots that he would have difficulty tracking. What better than to have the god of spies on his payroll?

  Makda had backed off a bit and was oozing in and out of the corners of the room, all the time keeping up its fawning dialog. He had to admit that it had skills. Very few people could get past his outer perimeter like that. His inner security was a few notches higher, and he hoped that it wasn't also compromised. He was afraid to test it. The real problem with Makda was directing those skills. Normally you just had to find the right reward. Not being obliterated appeared to be Makda's main aim, so it was a little hard to deliver that in nuances.

  “Did you find any more information out on Mackheath?” Jack asked when it looked like Makda was winding down.

  “Oh!” it cried in joy, scuttling back up to within inches of Jack's face. “I know what Saahabneta seeks! I know, I do. I have sought it too. Nothing would make me happier than making you happy, and I know nothing would make you as happy as catching the sneaky Mackheath and smashing it into tiny, tiny, silver splinters.” The last pronouncement was accompanied by a frantic jumping up and down motion that although vigorous, did not disturb anything on Jack's desk.

  “Yes, and is today the day you will make me happy?” asked Jack, trying not to lose patience. Makda writhed and moaned piteously, pirouetting circles on the floor in abjection. Jack took that as a 'no'.

  Mackheath was a sword. A particularly evil sword. Whatever spirit was bound within it was the embodiment of the perfect assassin. They didn't know precisely because they hadn't suspected it when they had it, and once they suspected it, they no longer had it. Some speculated that that it was a paragon demon, representing the commensurate expert on a given subject. But a sword on its own couldn't do much. So, it attracted a host to possess.

  Jack had once been possessed by that sword. He wasn't sure what he had been before that. His memories of the time were quite disjointed. The sword worked by overriding his Will with its own. Whenever the sword needed Jack to do something, he 'remembered' doing it before and just did it based on this 'knowledge'. That fact that these 'memories' were from a different height, and his race or gender was different when he caught a reflection never bothered him. Any time it might have, the sword just willed him to think of something else. When the sword was done with him, it dislocated his Will, and left him a helpless wreck. Normally this would have been fatal, in time. But he was already working for Scioni and, with the new magic; it was a simple matter to reconnect his Will.

  It was quite a different matter to put himself back together. No longer being willed to just not think about the discontinuities of his memories, it became apparent his life was a completely jumbled mess of mismatched experiences. They called him 'the patchwork man'. He could still function, but he had no idea what were 'his' memories and which were just recalled memories that bled over into his own consciousness.

  Worse, upon departing, the sword had made off with a copy of the Six Books of Magic. This was the main thing that gave Scioni's faction an edge. Misuse of it had spawned the first cataclysm, and they feared that it would cause a second. And now there was one copy unaccounted for. And it was because of their chief of security.

  Jack had been desolate. His own advice had been to kill him, and do everything in their power to prevent anyone from bringing him back. The chances were too great that the sword could exert control over him again at some critical point in the future. Just about everyone else agreed with him.

  Scioni took a different view. Based on the magical analysis he concluded that Jack had not actually been responsible for his own actions, and should not be treated as such. Retrieving the books was of the highest priority. And, the best person suited for the job was Jack. The risk of him being turned renegade was there, but it could be managed magically.

  No one liked that. Least of all Jack. Because Scioni was right. Jack worked himself to the bone trying to track down Mackheath, and retrieve the books. Unfortunately that had proven extremely difficult to do.

  Initially the sword went back to its usual pattern. Rumors of Mackheath would appear in a town. Interested parties would make contact, and a contract established. The fiction maintained by whoever the sword was possessing was that all of his memories would be diverted into the water contained in a magical gourd. When the job was completed to the person's satisfaction, the gourd would be emptied and all the evidence destroyed, even from Mackheath himself. This gave them something to go on. But, after a few near misses, the sword changed tactics. Contracts were no longer done 'in person'. Instead he would work through intermediaries. This kept him chasing his tail for years.

  He had hoped that Makda had contacts and an approach that would create a breakthrough. And it did provide interesting information that Jack hadn't been able to acquire otherwise. Apparently the sword had been created as a devotion to a minor assassin god a hundred or so years ago. It had been a sacrifice, and act of piety, commissioned by a life-long devotee in his final years. Jack had raked the god over the coals, but there had been no direct involvement. In fact, the sword was now more widely known than that god. He was back to square one, with Makda forever promising more and better information.

  “You do, indeed, have marvelous skills”, interrupted Jack, as Makda continued his self-promoting monologue. Before he could launch into his obsequious praise speech he continued. “Lady Gwendolyn said that Aeron, later the god Grave Keeper, was the craftiest of them. He revealed at the last that he had kept detailed notes as protection against the memory loss all the old gods had.”

  “Ah!” said Makda. “Silly old gods with the amnesia. Not so the new gods. We remember all. Especially our friends!”

  “Yes”, said Jack. “I would be very, very interested in seeing those notes.”

  “A challenge! Yes!” said Makda. “A very worthy challenge. To break into the crypt of Grave Keeper? To rob from the tomb of the god who punishes tomb robbers? Yes, yes. Saahabneta has given a great challenge to poor pitiful Makda. So great it might dash me asunder.”

  “If you don't think you're up to it...” started Jack.

 
Makda shuddered and pulsed and his limbs all but separated and skittered over walls, ceiling and floor. “Great deeds take great effort. And great effort takes great time. Let you down I will not. Never in a thousand nights. But such must be done carefully and with great planning.”

  “I know you will not rest until it is done”, said Jack, hoping he kept concealed that this was his fervent wish.

  “I shall sleep with no more than half my eyes!” promised Makda. “But, if Saahabneta would be so generous, so kind to poor pitiful Makda, you could help me plan if there was some particular part of these notes you wanted”, said Makda hesitantly. “It may be easier to steal some at a time, if not all are in the same place, or if I have to exchange a decoy for some of the manuscripts.”

  “That's a fair point”, said Jack, considering. He thought for a while. The conversation with Lilly came back to him. One thing he lacked was any background on where Winter's father had come from. “There were once gods to the far north, and a people who worshiped them. In ancient times they were called Norslanders. I don't know what they called themselves in later times. Only that their chief god was Othr. Do you know of these?”

  “I am so sorry to confess that this is something I do not know about”, said Makda, piteously. “I am a new god and although my memories are pure, they do not stretch back far.”

  “Understandable”, said Jack. “The people and their gods were wiped out in something called the 'Great Betrayal'. It has something to do with the 'Black Hole'.”

  “Oh!” said Makda. “Of that I know, it borders my land. Dark and evil those lands are. They protect their secrets well. Many of my worshipers have sought to prove themselves there but always The Forsaken have taken them.”

  “Good”, said Jack. “Then this will benefit both of us. See if the Grave Keeper has any notes about this 'Great Betrayal' or the origin of 'The Forsaken'.”

  “The Grave Keeper is a formidable enemy, I'm not sure if, in death, he will be any less of a challenge than in life. But Makda will do the best.”

  “Thank you”, said Jack. He stood up and bowed formally. Thankfully Makda began to shrink away into the back recesses it had come from.