Livid Steel

by Jordan Baugher

  Chapter 10

  Risma carries a torch down a winding stone staircase. Twenty levels below ground, the explosions and screaming from above are barely audible. She licks her finger and holds it in front of her, letting the magical aura of the target of her search guide her like a mystic breeze. She walks past rows of thick wooden doors, stopping in front of one with a rusty doorknob.

  As soon as her fingers clutch the dull iron, she shrieks and draws her hand back.

  “Another barrier? Well, I guess their paranoia is justified...”

  She places both hands on the door and focuses. It opens on its own and she steps through, locking it behind her. Inside is an empty chamber, a bare room of stone walls. Risma takes a deep breath and exhales, the air around her suddenly glowing green. In the center of the room is a shaft of green luminescence. Floating in the light, at chest level, is a small stuffed doll.

  The doll is a crude man-shaped figure, black cloth filled with something sandy.

 

  “I just don’t understand why we had to walk down all those stairs,” Zanther says, “and through three solid blocks of guerilla combat. Couldn’t we just use the orb thingy to zap ourselves right here?”

  “First of all, we’re twenty floors below ground, and the Globotransmitrix is only configured for surface travel,” Novanostrum says, “and, secondly, it’s only as accurate as the idiot who uses it.”

  “Hey, I never said you were an idiot. Now you’re just putting words in my mouth.”

  They stop in front of a door. Novanostrum tries the knob, but it won’t budge. Frustrated, he gives it a kick. As expected, the door absorbs the force of the kick without opening.

  “I find it ironic that with all the freaky voodoo they did to protect this place, it’s a simple locked door that’s keeping us out,” Zanther says.

  Novanostrum shoots Zanther an angry look.

  “You’re a wizard,” Zanther observes, “don’t you have a key?”

  “Yes, just because I’m a wizard they gave me a key to one of the most protected objects in all of Arcania. That’s the dumbest thing I ever...”

  Novanostrum feels the small weight of something in his sleeve, then thinks back to his strange encounter back in the jail in Zweissergrund. He digs around in his sleeve, pulls out the key, and tries it in the lock.

  It fits.

  Novanostrum counter’s Zanther’s smug grin with another glare.

 

  Risma holds the doll to her forehead and focuses her energy upon it. Nothing happens. She shakes it. She sniffs it. She tosses it into the air and catches it.

  “The transfer of power requires a ritual,” says a voice from behind her. She turns to find Novanostrum and Zanther standing in the doorway.

  Risma smiles. “Like the ritual I used to transfer your power into me?”

  Novanostrum gives an innocent cough. “I don’t think the doll would enjoy it as much.”

  Zanther sizes her up, thinking back to the first time he met her. “Back in that house in the swamp, those daemons we rescued you from, they weren’t really a danger for you, were they?”

  Risma shrugs. “If you live as long as I have, you might find yourself trying to spice things up a little, too. I planned on dispatching the daemons after I had a little fun with them, but your wizard friend here wanted to play hero.”

  Novanostrum cringes at the thought of Risma with the four daemons. “So...you never really liked me at all, did you?”

  She smiles. “Never liked you? Did you notice all the death and destruction outside? You don’t find it odd that you and your silly friends are all still alive? Even that spoony bard? Even though the two of you are here to kill me?”

  “Well, at least we can dispense with this silly banter,” Zanther says as he draws his wooden longknife.

  Novanostrum puts a hand on Zanther’s arm. “I have to be the one do this.”

  Novanostrum draws his newly-acquired longknife, genuine steel, and takes measured steps as he approaches Risma. He raises the blade over his head, preparing to strike. Risma doesn’t make a move; she just stands there holding the doll, her eyes wide and watery. Novanostrum hesitates, and she wraps an arm around him and pulls him close, planting a passionate kiss on his mouth.

  “I know you feel that I betrayed you, but would you do this to your own child?”

  As Novanostrum ponders this, Zanther charges toward the two of them, poised to strike Risma down. In that instant, Novanostrum reflexively pulls the knob on his wristwatch, slowing time. He takes a run at Zanther as the scene around them turns black-and-white, save for the blue blood in Zanther’s veins. As Novanostrum swings his longknife downward over his head with both hands, Zanther raises his own wooden longknife to shield his face, with one hand gripping the hilt and one hand gripping the blade. The longknives crash together with a violent thwack and the pace and hue of reality regain their equilibrium.

  Novanostrum blinks at his own blade wedged halfway into Zanther’s wooden longknife. “I...just did magic. And the spell didn’t affect you. What the High Hell?”

  Zanther separates the blades and hands the metallic one back to Novanostrum without being burned by the feel of steel. “Prismarissa here must have undone her curses. As for my ‘breaking your spell’, you should realize by now that it’s never worked on me.”

  Risma turns her head to an angle and looks at Zanther. “What did you call me?”

  “Prismarissa.”

  She laughs. “Prismarissa was my mother.”

  Novanostrum and Zanther exchange surprised looks. Novanostrum puzzles it out for a moment and then stares into Risma’s eyes. “So the apocalyptic child is...you?”

  She gives him a peck on the cheek as she walks toward the doorway. “Um...yes? Have you been outside today?”

  Neither Zanther nor Novanostrum make a move to stop her as she steps into the hall and out of their sight.