by Andrew Lynch
‘Where is Softie Steve?’ Khleb asked, unprompted by anyone else. ‘Is he off scandaling again?’
‘Yeah. He’s at the Cock Inn,’ said Deadly Ted, who was as unnerving as ever, digging his dagger into the brickwork.
The Cock Inn was a rundown scandal house - although the name “scandal house” didn’t mean much since the Imperial war. There were no longer any royal family to cause a scandal with the women, but everyone liked the name “scandal girls” so kept it. This lot of undesirables liked it as the women were cheap, and the ale more so.
‘When will he learn? We didn’t call him Softie Steve as a joke.’
Khleb had to admit that he wasn’t hanging around with the sharpest knives in the sheath, but friends were friends. Apart from Deadly Ted. Khleb kept his back to a wall around him. Didn’t leave a drink unguarded around him either.
‘This is kind of boring,’ Scraggy said.
‘Yeah.’ Deadly Ted agreed. ‘If we wanted boring, reliable work we’d have joined the Rebel Alliance. They do an honest day’s terrorising, you know?’
Khleb was always on the lookout for new ways to fill his commerce breaks. ‘Do they pay well?’
Everyone shrugged. Khleb should have guessed no one knew after the phrase “honest day” was mentioned.
‘Talking of employment, are you still set on this new line of work?’’ Scraggy asked.
This Efraz guy was taking ages. Khleb had already had to make some legitimate illegal transactions with upstanding citizens. He just wanted to get to the hostage taking already.
‘It’s not new,’ Khleb said. ‘I’ve been doing it for years. I work for a Heraldry company. We… herald... stuff.’
‘Can it really be better than this though?’
‘Scraggy, I’m sweating so much under this cloak, a pig wouldn’t come near me. And you are sat in a large pool of—’
The rest of the group shouted until Khleb stopped talking. ‘You know the rules,’ Scraggy admonished. ‘No one even thinks about what this is.’
‘Sorry. Been on the road a while.’
‘Is the money good?’ Scraggy continued.
‘It’s not bad. I get to travel. Meet interesting people.’ To be fair, maybe not quite as interesting as the ones that surrounded him now. ‘Plenty of adventure. I still steal things.’
‘Sounds the same as this to me.’
‘I suppose I get a sense of… meaning from it,’ Khleb said.
‘Oh, like when Mad Marky started working for some guy?’ said Scraggy. ‘He always said he felt… what was it? Oh yeah, a sense of purpose! Until he disappeared mysteriously one day.’
‘Firstly, Mad Marky wasn’t called Mad Marky because he was a rational person,’ Khleb argued. ‘Secondly, I’m pretty sure he joined a cult and went up north.’
‘I get a sense of meaning from this,’ Fibrosis Fred said, and then began coughing so hard, everyone turned to face him to see if he’d make it through. After a minute, he continued as if nothing had happened. ‘I mean, just yesterday I stole a loaf of bread, and that meant I could eat.’
‘He’s got a point,’ Scraggy said.
Khleb was on the verge of seriously considering that comment, when a man wearing what could only really be called a dress, turned into the alley.
Efraz Mulhom.
* * * *
Darrius deflected the sword blow with a smooth parry and riposted, stabbing into the stomach of his opponent. The little boy giggled.
‘Good try, David. Keep at it and you’ll get there,’ Darrius congratulated the child.
He put his wooden sword back in the barrel and shouted to be heard over the clanging of sticks all around him. ‘Okay everyone, great job today, but this finishes your month’s course!’
There was a chorus of complaints from the kids, who wanted to keep practicing on such a beautiful sunny day, but Darrius just laughed. ‘Don’t worry! I hope to see you all again as soon as I’m back next time!’
A round of cheers, and like a swarm of locusts covering a field, they threw their wooden swords in the barrels and ran away - Darrius hoped to their homes - shouting goodbyes and goodlucks as they went.
Two small children stayed behind looking expectantly at Darrius. They were twins, finest in the class at only... four years old? He should probably double check that. His wife would never let him live it down if he forgot his children’s ages.
‘And what do you two want?’
‘Why’s this the last one?’ his daughter Sarah said.
‘Daddy’s got to go off on his adventure again.’
‘Can we come this time?’
‘Not this time, but maybe next, okay?’
Sarah took a long time to consider this proposal before allowing that she could make it fit into her plans.
‘Ready to go?’ Darrius prompted them.
They both nodded enthusiastically, but his son Nigel said, ‘We talked and we want to hold your hand on the way home.’
‘Goodness! Well I don’t know about that,’ Darrius said in mock seriousness just to see their faces twist in horror at the thought of being denied. He quickly added before it became too real for them, ‘Of course you can. Come on!’
The short trip home was filled with laughter, everyone enjoying their time together during this, unfortunately too short, month.
They arrived at their home on a quiet street behind Main Road. It was filled with neat terraced houses and flowered balconies. His children were most insistent on not letting go of his hand, but equally so of trying to trip each other up. Even Darrius started to find it a bit annoying when he was the one almost falling over for the fifth time in as many minutes.
He finally released them when they were close enough to run to the goddess standing in the garden of his house. The children were reluctant to let go, but when they did, they ran forwards like maddened Orcish berserkers attacking a fair maiden - with less of a bloody splatter left behind once their terror had been wrought. They ran inside shouting about which of them were the best at sword fighting, and how daddy would have to get better.
‘Hello, my love,’ said Darrius.
‘Your nose is almost healed,’ she said, smiling.
‘Well, I guess there are no excuses now then,’ he said, and kissed her.
‘I wasn’t thinking of a kiss there.’
‘Oh, you’ll be a lucky one.’
‘Yes. I will.’ A statement that brooked no argument.
‘The kids are in, and Gar’s coming round tonight.’ He wasn’t entirely sure why he was fighting this.
‘Kids!’ Darrius' ears rung from the commanding boom his wife usually saved for running the business. ‘Go down the street and play with friends!’
Darrius sighed. ‘I guess the rapscallions won’t save me from this fate.’
The children ran past, half skipping while holding hands, half attacking each other.
‘So, darling, we've got hours before Gar arrives, and no one from work needs me today. I haven’t gotten to see the Incubus side of you all month.’
Darrius cringed. He never should have told her that his colleagues called him that.
‘I can’t wait,’ Darrius said, the cringe changing to a grin spreading across his face. ‘Just, try not to break my nose again.’
‘You know I don’t make promises I can’t keep. Now get upstairs!’
‘As you wish.’
* * * *
Jezithel was helping her father, Lord Tharadian, create his mantle. He’d been crafting a new one for several decades, and it was a project they had bonded over. It helped focus her abilities, and allowed them some quality time together.
She enjoyed spending time in the estate’s workshop. A squat, round, concrete building, workshops were always very different to the rest of the architecture found in Elvish lands. More Human. Of course Human structures were the epitome of ugly, however the Elvish skill with glass and curvature allowed the room to be filled with bright sunlight, and changed the aesthetics to somet
hing far more pleasing.
Lord Tharadian was a prominent council member in the Elvish city, which lay on the outskirts of the Empire, just before the Soulless Wastes. His previous mantle had been destroyed after his blood brother had fallen in battle in the Imperial war a century ago. He had only felt ready to begin a new mantle in the past thirty years. Jezithel had jumped at the chance to see a mantle being created, a rare sight in this time of peace among Elves.
‘I understand the concept, father, but I can’t do it,’ Jezithel complained.
‘Understanding it is half the battle, daughter. Keep trying and you’ll get it.’
Jezithel was trying to infuse one of the sapphires with a protective shield. She had never mastered shields. Not that she’d mastered anything in the pressure of battle, but out of battle she was rather competent. Apart from shields. She had been focusing for several days solid now on this one jewel and finally decided she needed to eat and rest. She stood up, and as she stood a cup fell and shattered beside her.
‘Father!’ she cried.
Lord Tharadian laughed, ‘I’m sorry, daughter, but these opportunities won’t be endless for me.’
‘Stop balancing things on me when I’m in a trance!’
‘Ahh, you won’t be eighty cycles and inexperienced with magic for long. I couldn’t stop myself.’ He went to put a hand around her shoulder.
Jezithel moved out of range and smoothed her now wrinkled robe. ‘I’m not a child any more. Stop treating me like one.’
‘Oh dear. I knew that being around Humans would give you these ideas. I suppose you think you should have been out living on your own at sixteen cycles now?’
‘Don’t be foolish, father.’
‘A common problem among us council members, yes.’ Jezithel knew her father was only teasing, but it was very annoying coming back home to be treated like a child.
‘As I’ve said, your mother and I both did what you do now. Working for the Company is an excellent training ground for your skills. You’re gaining cycles of experience with every field mission you go on.’
‘I’m telling you, I’ve outgrown it.’
‘So I should trust these sapphires with my life?’
‘Shielding isn’t my speciality, but yes! I’ve done one already.’ Jezithel pointed to the one that she had already socketed into the mantle.
Lord Tharadian inspected it briefly, and picked up a small hammer lying on the table. He gave the sapphire a solid whack. There was a brief discharge of magic, and the stone cracked.
‘Ahh yes. Quite a talent, and to be honest I’m not sure I could do this myself.’
Jezithel stared frostily at her father.
‘Not enough magic to block any physical threat, but just enough to shatter the stone,’ he said.
‘Shields. Are not. My thing,’ Jezithel said through gritted teeth.
‘Haven’t grown out of the Tharadian temper your mother gave you yet, I see.’ He gave a small sigh. ‘Very well, no more shields. Hit me with your best shot.’
‘No. It wouldn’t be fair to you.’ Even Jezithel knew this was nothing but bluster. Any council member could decimate a throng of magus apprentices with little trouble. She knew that her father was powerful enough to be one of the great heroes had he so wished.
‘Very well, attack or be attacked!’
Jezithel felt the pull of magic as her father drew it to him, like wind rushing past her. She knew she was in no real danger, so stood still, arms crossed, trying her best to ignore his bluff. That rushing of magic made her heart beat faster though, and she felt it tug at something deep inside her.
With an exaggerated pull back of his arm he threw a lumbering ball of flame at her. She didn’t believe he’d actually do it! She only just managed to jump to the side at the last second. The edges of her robe caught fire.
‘Father!’ she screamed.
He moved around the table that she’d dived behind and set another fireball in his hand. He ignored the flames now engulfing the wooden racks at his side.
Jezithel knew this could only be a lesson. She’d never seen a fireball move so slowly.
She flicked out a hand but her own fireball sputtered and died.
Lord Tharadian released a second fireball and Jezithel rolled to avoid it. Flames licked the stone floor where she had been as she scrambled to her feet.
She thrust her hand out in front of her and sent everything she had into it. It was harder without her focus staff for aid, and all she got was a small light-show a metre in front of her.
Lord Tharadian seemed to notice the flames growing out of control on the wooden shelves he had hit, and changed tack. He held his hand out in front of him, palm up, and slowly began to close his fingers.
The air rushed to meet his hand as he sucked it from the room to starve the fire. He was also starving his daughter’s lungs.
‘What now?’ he asked. ‘You can’t cast magic under stress, so you’re powerless against a simple air spell.’
Jezithel started gasping for air. She had never had such a harsh lesson and didn’t know how far he’d go.
Surely he wouldn’t actually kill her, would he?
She began to feel light headed. With one final effort, she threw a blast of flame in the general direction of her father, and slipped out of consciousness.
When she came to, she was in her father’s arms, no trace of breathlessness remaining.
‘I fell?’
‘Indeed, daughter. I caught you. I would never actually hurt you,’ he said truthfully. ‘Then who would make my mantle for me?’ He smiled, amused at his own joke.
‘What happened to your face?’ Jezithel asked.
‘It has been known for generations that after your magical gifts have manifested, that’s it. Like flipping a lever, it’s either on or it’s off. You are as powerful on the day of manifestation as after a thousand years of practice. It’s only your conscious mind that stops you from unleashing your power. Well, as you passed out, the tail end of your spell got a bit of that unrestrained energy.’
Jezithel looked at the singed hair on her father’s head and felt guilty. ‘Well you should have had your shields up, father.’ Getting past her father’s guard rarely happened, so she enjoyed turning the tables.
‘They were.’
Chapter 4
Lucian had just arrived at the Hero’s Lodge - the official headquarters of Moxar Lightshield’s entourage - lugging the big shield for Gar. Moxar had been resting since the last Quest, which the Company had titled “Crumbling Bones”. Apparently the tours and souvenirs had sold rather well and everyone was happy - apart from the several villages that the necromancer had turned into his skeleton army. This did worry Lucian, but he put it from his mind for the moment. Moxar had regained his youth shortly after the necromancer’s death, but the effects of such a powerful enfeeblement spell had taken a long time to shake off.
He was finally ready for the next Quest - coincidentally, just as the commerce break ended.
It was Lucian’s first time in Moxar’s lodge, and as expected for one of the Trio Heroes, it was a magnificent, custom structure. Each trophy rack held a memento of a past victory, and the dark wood panelling was made with trees from his home village, engraved with the tales he grew up hearing. The roaring firepit cast great shadows as Moxar’s loyal followers met on the eve of his departure. Lucian was sure it would be an all nighter for his group.
He saw the four of them, sat companionably at a round table. Khleb sat as far away from Jess as possible, Darrius rubbing shoulders with Gar.
As he approached he overheard Khleb say, ‘Manure! Can you believe it? Apparently the stuff gets imported from the West, and it’s all paid for over there too. Not a copper in the entire warehouse!’
Lucian greeted them all, and got the responses he expected. A haughty glance of acknowledgement, a tip of the imaginary cap along with an enthusiastic, ‘Hello'. A thickly accented, hardly recognisable, ‘Welcome', and a grunt of acknowledgemen
t along with a crotch grab. He couldn’t be sure if that was intentional and directed at him, or not.
Lucian took his seat and was about to ask them about their breaks and hand over Gar’s present, when he remembered about Moxar’s Inspiring Presence.
‘All right everyone, try and keep your wits about you,’ Lucian said. ‘We’ve all been to one of these before, so let’s not lose our heads.’
‘Or spill our beer,’ Darrius said.
No one was quite sure if it was the natural inspiring presence of a Hero, or a spell cast by an unseen magus, but the speech from a Hero before a Quest had been known to cause the Company big problems. It usually ended up costing a lot of money as they had to pay tax for unscheduled rioting.
He was about to marvel at the trophy cases, when he noticed something seemed wrong.
‘Didn’t your nose have time to heal?’
Before Darrius had a chance to respond, a murmur swept through the crowd and Moxar strode on to the stage - a slightly raised floor. Of course it wasn’t really a “stage”, and certainly no one would ever imply to Moxar that a stage existed. That would cause havoc.
* * * *
I finished putting on my ceremonial furs. sha’Laria, my love, had been stolen from me by the last moon, leaving in the night. Her lord had summoned her, as he always did. I had sworn to her on a day long past that when the world wasn’t in peril I'd buy her slave mark, gifting it to her. She wasn’t protected by the Empire, living out of its borders as she did.
It was a day we both longed for, but for now, my heart had filled the well of her disappearance with sorrow.
I wouldn’t allow it to consume me any longer. I pushed my feelings deep down and focused on the task at hand. My followers had gathered at my word. They would help me forget my pain. They kept me strong, honest.
Yet I knew it was my blade that must be lifted to help save the world. During my recovery from the necromancer’s curse, I’d had plenty of time to think of what went wrong. Too many friends had been lost. Ultimately, this was my job and my job alone.
