Manx

by Greg Curtis

  “What it seems he was destined to bring us.” The shaman shook her head sadly. “And he has no idea.”

  “He has some idea,” Sorsha replied. “If what I've been told about his battle with the rest of his family is true.” She'd only heard about that two nights before, but it had stuck with her. The Smythes were incomplete? They simply hadn't accepted their finished form that came with their magic? It made sense. But how did Manx know it? Obviously someone had told him. Someone not of this mundane world. And maybe that was why he was so much more powerful than his peers. But she didn't trust that. When the gods meddled the world trembled. She didn't trust that at all.

  “True,” Larissa agreed. “But I doubt it's more than an idea or two.” She looked around. “Come, I'll show you the camp.”

  “I've seen the camp,” Sorsha told her. “Tell me about this necklace.”

  “It'll protect you. We're making them as fast as we can.”

  “From the spiders?”

  “Yes. But not the way you mean. It'll be no use in a battle against them. But it will help you recover.”

  “From being old?” Sorsha knew that that was what she had to mean. But how was it that they could do that? And why had no one told her? “How can you recover from being old?”

  “That's the thing. You're not old. Though until the Fredans got their window back and fitted it into the abbey, no one realised that. You're not old. You've just been drained of all your vitality.”

  “And this can replace it?” She didn't feel any different. But she did notice as they started walking into the camp itself that everyone else was wearing the necklaces. And there was an air in the camp of something she hadn't felt the last time she'd been here – hope. Maybe even a touch of vitality. These people walked with a spring in their step.

  “No. But given time you can replace it yourself. You can recover.”

  “Recover?!” Sorsha stopped dead in her tracks and stared at the shaman. Because that was the very thing they'd dreamed of. Prayed for. And now that it was here, it didn't seem possible. Not after having been told for so long that their life was gone. Consumed.

  “In a way.” She took a deep breath. “Here's what we think happened.”

  “Five hundred or so years ago, there was a people with ice blue eyes. Minor enchanters. Minor vampyres for want of a better term. By staying close to those with magic they could forestall the effects of ageing and maybe even learn a little of their nature. Maybe they even learned that like the Smythes, they were an incomplete form. An unfinished spell-caster. We don't know.”

  “What we do know is that they had been around for a long time. Unseen and unnoticed. Hiding in the undergrowth. And probably that was where things should have remained. Until one day, one of them was bitten by a little green spider.”

  “When that happened, he – or she – discovered something amazing. His power grew. He could draw more vitality from the spell-casters around him. His enchantments became more powerful. And most of all, he discovered that he liked it.”

  “But the effect was temporary. So the vampyre probably spent years studying the spiders. Learning to extract the venom. To use it. And slowly becoming more powerful. And he spread that knowledge among those like him.”

  “That was their downfall.”

  It didn't seem like their downfall to Sorsha as she walked with the shaman into the heart of the encampment. In fact it seemed like the point at which everything had begun to go wrong for the rest of the spell-casters. But instead of interrupting and pointing that out, she nodded at the people they passed by, all of whom were busy doing something, and listened.

  “Before they'd started using the venom, no one noticed them,” Larissa carried on. “The effects they had on those around them were minor and short lived. Maybe some of the spell-casters felt a little tired and weak. Febrile from time to time. But no one thought it was important. Nothing more than a summer cold that passed. And no one would ever have considered it had anything to do with the enchanters with the ice blue eyes. But from then on, they walked a tightrope. They weren't hiding any longer. They were out in the open – their enchantments stronger. And the effects of their gift were far more draining. People would notice.”

  “They had to hide better.”

  “Then King Julian formed his Silver Order, and they enlisted in droves. Who would suspect a lawful spell-caster in the King's service of nefarious activities? It also let them hide the evidence when things went too far. Get rid of anyone who suspected the truth. And it gave them access to all the secrets of enchanting that they so desperately wanted.”

  “They used the Smythes to do all their dirty work for them. The things they couldn't be associated with. Paying them in coin and gold when that was enough. And later with promises of respectability and high station in the realm when it wasn't.”

  “And all the while they made their plans. They needed to be able to get rid of all the spell-casters from the realm at once. It couldn't be one at a time or they'd be caught. But they had to be able to still draw their vitality from them wherever they were. Potentially forever. With their new found power they kidnapped some walkers to show them how to do that.”

  “Then when the time was right, they struck. All of them walking all the streets of all the towns and cities of Redmond, with their enchanted devices, striking without warning at the same time.”

  “It was perfectly executed. And it was a disaster. The vital essence they pulled across the dimensions burnt them. They could use it to sustain themselves – but only at a cost. For a start they couldn't have children. All of the Silver Order, are at least four hundred years old. And of course the older they became, the more vital energy they had to steal to maintain their youth.”

  “But there was more. The people kept asking what had become of the spell-casters, and they had to lie. Slowly erase us from history. Make us into frauds, myths and legends. Little by little make the world believe we'd never really existed.”

  “The Smythes who they'd made their deals with, were untrustworthy. They made more deals with others. They threatened to expose them. And they had their own reasons for doing what they did. Ones the Silver Order never knew about. So the Silver Order had to silence them. They bound their magic, but saved a few from their blood curse to do their bidding as assassins.”

  “But worst of all, the spiders were drawing most of the vital essence from the Silver Order and growing. Small green spiders that would walk across your hand were becoming larger and more powerful with every generation. They were growing in numbers too. Extracting the venom they needed was becoming harder. Dangerous. The thousands of ice blue eyed vampyres that there were when they had begun this plan, had become hundreds by the time we returned.”

  “Like a juggler with two many balls in the air, they were running out of hands. Everything had to come crashing down. And eventually it did.

  “I know all that,” Sorsha interrupted the shaman. “More or less. Get to the part about why this necklace restores my life.” That was after all what truly mattered.

  “Because they steal vital energy, not years of life. They can still kill you that way – but they can't make you any older.”

  “My white hair begs to argue.”

  “Hair is sensitive. So is skin. But it's only surface. The deep down vital nature of your being, hasn't changed. It's just the vitality that's been drained – and keeps being drained.”

  “Think of it like running a race. A long, hard, running race carrying a heavy load. It leaves you exhausted. Struggling for breath. Your joints ache. Your muscles are cramped. You feel weak. Maybe even flushed with fever. And all you want to do is rest. You feel old. Still you know you'll recover.”

  “But what if that race doesn't end? If you never get a chance to recover? And every ounce of vitality your body regains is stolen again? That's what the Silver Order have been doing. Draining away all your strength continually. Leaving you exhausted and broken. Feeling and even looking old. And because they
have continued stealing your vitality, you haven't been able to recover.”

  “Only most of what they've stolen has gone to the spiders for four hundred years. And now, it's all of it. We've returned to the world, the Silver Order are mostly gone, and the link between them and the spiders has been fairly much shattered. It was always a contest. But at the start the Silver Order were far stronger than the spiders. Now it's the other way around. The Silver Order are so few and so weak that they can't withstand the pull of the spiders. They've surrendered to them. And the spiders have now stolen their very essence from them, and are using it to steal our vitality from us directly.”

  “The spiders are now vampyres?!” Sorsha asked incredulously. She shook her head in disbelief. This was becoming stranger by the second.

  “No. Maybe. They've just absorbed the essence of the vampyres, which is why the surviving members of the Silver Order are ageing. They're no longer receiving the vital energy they need to stave off the effects of their true age. And they're all over four hundred years old.”

  “And the necklaces?”

  “They break the connection. They stop the spiders feeding off us. And without that, we can recover. Unfortunately it will take time. Months at least.”

  Sorsha wanted to believe the shaman. She desperately wanted to believe her. But she couldn't. It seemed too hopeful. Too easy. And everything the healers had told them said otherwise. Eventually she told her as much.

  “And the one thing the healers kept saying over and over again was that they didn't understand. Everything they did to undo the effects of ageing, to restore a little strength to us, failed. And of course it did. Every ounce of strength they returned to us was stolen away again.”

  The two of them finally reached the tent in the middle of the camp and Larissa raised the flap to let her go in.

  “This will work. Freda has told her shamans as much. Ao has informed us as well. But it leaves us with a new problem.” She gestured at the people inside the tent gathered around a table covered in maps.

  “The spiders are growing hungry.”

  “Oh shite!” Suddenly Sorsha realised why everyone in the camp was busy. Why people had seemed to be in a hurry. And why these people were gathered around a table. There was no longer any doubt about it. The spiders were coming! Not because some spider queen had commanded them to. And not because the Silver Order had commanded the attack. Because they were running out of food!

  Chapter Thirty Nine

  Things were going smoothly once more. Even with two new members of the team the three of them had formed into a steady rhythm, and every day they arrived in a new town or city and emptied out another prison. Ten more now since he had fought with his family.

  They hadn't returned. Not them nor any other Smythes. Probably they were still licking their wounds. But maybe they were planning their revenge. He couldn't say. But as he sat in the dining hall of the Waterview Lodging House and waited for his breakfast, he wasn't worried. A little surprised that Waterview should be called that when there was no water as far as the eye could see. And that being such a small town it should have a dimensional gaol. But he gathered that the town had once been much larger.

  Meanwhile Styl and Whitey were at a small table across the room, still telling each other how much they adored them, while he was seated with the ever taciturn Brand. A man who now that he had said his full half hour of prayers to Temperance for the morning, was deep in meditative contemplation of the doorway. What he thought was interesting about the doorway to the main hall, Manx couldn't begin to guess. As travelling companions went, he was surely the most boring. Which was why Manx was left to contemplate the walls. And to wonder how much longer this infernal journey would continue. They had to be over half way through it, he thought.

  He was also wondering what the completed form of the Smythe's would be. So far he hadn't noticed anything except some itching in unfortunate places. A lot of itching. He had to keep wriggling around in his seat every so often, as indecorous as that was. But other than that everything seemed normal. And his scars were almost flat now. They hadn't cracked or split in weeks. The unguent was a wonder.

  The heavy wooden door in the entrance hall suddenly opened, and Manx was treated to the sight of a young druid bursting through it with a sack on his back. The necklaces had arrived. Now every day before they began work on the next gaol, they received a shipment of necklaces for those they freed. It looked silly. But the damned things cut whatever the connection was between the spell-casters and the Silver Order and the spiders, and that seemed to be helping. All of the party except him, wore them. And they all reported feeling stronger.

  Hopefully Adern and Larissa were the same.

  Manx missed them, though he kept that to himself. His new companions might not appreciate the thought. He missed Adern's endless cheer, and even the disapproving comments of Larissa. They were like the family he'd never had. The annoying little brother and the overly critical maiden aunt!

  “You've got one for me this time?!” Whitey yelled out as the druid made his way into the dining hall. “You haven't forgotten it again have you?”

  “You don't need one,” Styl told her. “You weren't in the other realm.”

  “But I deserve one!” the cat complained to her. “Don't I? I mean I saved your lives!” She lay down on the table. “It's like you monkey faces don't even care!”

  “We care,” the shaman told her, then started petting her, calming her down. While all around the other diners stared at the two of them. Most of them of course, couldn't hear what the cat had said. As far as they were concerned the animal was just mewling as cats did. Which meant that to them the woman with the funny ears was speaking nonsense to an animal that probably shouldn't be in the room let alone on the table.

  Manx did his best not to smile too noticeably. But he was still noticed.

  “As the Goddess tells us, it does a man no credit to take pleasure in the difficulties of others,” Brand commented pointedly. He knew what was going through Manx' head.

  “Tell your Goddess, that I'm doing my best. But I'm only human. With an itchy arse!” He squirmed around in his seat a little more.

  Brand didn't reply. He just returned to his meditations on whatever, and Manx was left to squirm on his own. But eventually the breakfast arrived and he was able to put his problems aside as he tucked into his scrambled eggs. One thing about this misnamed town and its over large boarding house, the food was good.

  But then just as he was in the middle of his breakfast the door burst open again, and he watched as three of the town's guards rushed inside, then headed to the dining hall.

  “You! Funny people!” The leader of the little group addressed them in a loud, somewhat worried tone of voice. “There's funny things happening at the gaol!”

  “Funny things?” Manx asked before anyone else could. This, whatever it was, sounded important. Or at least more important than staring at a silent monk.

  “Doors won't open. People are getting bit. And there's a bad smell. It's something to do with your lot.”

  “People are being bitten by something?” The rest didn't seem so important to Manx. The doors were metal and metal rusted. And a bad smell could be anything. “By what?”

  “They don't know.” The man turned to him. “But they're sick.” Then he stared at him a little. “You one of the funny people?”

  “That I am,” Manx agreed easily enough. For some reason he didn't mind being referred to as one of the funny people. He'd been living among them for too long to care any more. Then he took a last bite of his eggs, stood up, and prepared to leave the comfort of the lodging house behind. “Can you show me please.”

  “You don't look like 'em.” The man told him.

  Manx could only shrug in reply. Then he let the guards lead him out to the local prison and the rest of the party followed curiously.

  Outside it was cold and the streets were empty. But not for once, because the town had been half destroyed
in a battle and wild animals now ruled them. Mostly because it was early morning and no one was out and about yet. Though he did spot some wild boars rooting around in the gardens and plenty of big strangely coloured chickens running loose.

  Thankfully the prison wasn't far. The chill wind seemed to cut right through to his bones. But as they approached he actually started to feel colder. The town gaol was a fairly typical structure, much as he'd seen elsewhere. Much the same as the one he'd busted Walken out of. But he felt something different about it as he laid eyes on it. Something disturbing.

  “How many prisoners were in it?” he asked.

  “Just the two Silver Order. The other prisoners we put in gangs.”

  “I see.” Manx nodded. In truth that was much as he'd expected. In the wake of everything that had happened most of the prisoners in most of the gaols had been released. Those that the various guards had held on to had ended up in work gangs. Chained together and cleaning up fallen buildings, building bridges and repairing roads during the day. Spending their nights in barns. But two members of the Silver Order? In such a small prison? That set the hairs on the back of his neck on edge.