The Dragons of Styx

by John E. Siers

  “Most of the Shooters at Arcane Arts—in fact, all of them here at Western Region Wizardry—are basic licensees, but they also have a special ‘magic’ license. That’s one of the reasons they’re so arrogant, but even beyond that, they consider themselves superior to ordinary mortals. They even have their own Wizardry Guild, and they get upset if they think anybody who isn’t ‘Guild-accredited’ is using magic.

  “But what you don’t know—what even most of the people at Arcane Arts don’t know—is there’s another level of magic user. There are wizards, sorcerers, whatever you call them, who are far more skilled and more powerful. They’re known as gatandi, and they can access kaval without any sort of spell, wand, or talisman—with mental concentration alone. Like the others, their skills are usually specialized, but they make use of them naturally, and some of those skills are extremely powerful.

  “I don’t know how many of these people exist or where they are, but supposedly they call themselves Trashmen, and they get the nastiest, dirtiest assignments—especially the ones that involve a magic-using target, like maybe a gatandi who doesn’t work for LEI.”

  She paused, and there was a moment of silence before Martelli spoke up.

  “How the hell do you know all this? I’m your boss, I work for SAD, and I didn’t know a fraction of what you just told me—other than as what Jay called ‘shit-house rumors’ that aren’t near as detailed as what you’ve just described.”

  “I’m an investigator,” she responded with a sigh. “LEI hired me because I could sniff out paranormal stuff, but it appears my talent goes farther than that. Who knows, maybe I’m even using kaval to do what I do. Maybe I should be working for Arcane Arts—not that I’d want to. Truth is, you’re a good boss, and I like working for you. You also don’t bullshit me—ever—and that’s the point.

  “When people speak to me, I can tell whether they’re telling me the truth. Even if they believe it’s the truth, I’ll know if it’s not—something in my head just tells me. And most of the time—not always—I know what the truth is, even when they don’t give me any details to work with.

  “I can’t read minds,” she said with a shrug. “This is something different. People have to be communicating—actually speaking—for it to work. But they don’t have to be speaking to me directly, nor do they have to be speaking English. They can be talking to each other in some language I’ve never heard before, and I’ll know what they’re saying—or at least, the truth of what they’re saying. If it’s not a language I know, I can’t answer them. It’s not like I have a gift of tongues or anything.

  “But when the wizards over at Western Region told me dragons don’t exist, I knew they were wrong, even though they believed what they were saying. That’s why I kept going.

  “Anyway, they let me use their library for research, but I learned as much about them as I learned about dragons. They have their own rumor mill, but I could hear a rumor and know the truth behind it. I never knew how strong my talent was until then, and I’ve never talked to anybody about it until now.

  “Unfortunately,” she said with another sigh, “it seems my talent comes with Cassandra’s Curse. You know, from the Iliad, ‘beware of Greeks bearing gifts.’ Cassandra’s prophecies were always right, but somewhere along the line, she pissed of one of the gods, who put a curse on her so that nobody would ever believe her.”

  “We believe you, Sparkle,” Lisa said, gently.

  “I know…and you’ve never lied to me, either. I’m sure there are lots of things you haven’t told me, but you’ve never tried to bullshit me. I guess that’s why I don’t want to screw up our friendship.

  “You asked me what a dragon is: a dragon is a human being—at least I think it’s always a human being—who has a natural, instinctive connection to that reservoir of magic, that mystical force, the kaval. It’s somebody who, when he or she goes into dragon mode, doesn’t need to cast a spell or wave a magic wand. Even those Trashmen need to concentrate their focus to do their magic, but dragons don’t.

  “They can teleport anywhere just by thinking about where they want to go…”

  “That’s not possible!”

  “Yes it is, but maybe I made it sound too easy. They’ve got to have been there before, otherwise it’s dicey. They could materialize half in, half out of a boulder, for example.”

  “Ouch, that’d leave a mark. Still, if they’ve been there…”

  “It’s not a hundred percent, even then, but it’s a lot safer, and one helluva handy way to get out of trouble when you need it. They can also hit you with a lightning bolt or a ball of fire just by…well, like Mark said, by deciding you’re a problem that needs to be dealt with.

  “Keep in mind that a lot of my research involved lore and legends from a thousand years ago, plus stuff I got from the Arcane Arts library. I’ll admit, some of it is pure hypothesis, but it’s built on a lot of data. The Chinese and Japanese have some amazing stuff going back that far, if you know where to look.

  “Anyway…as far as I can tell, dragons are not invulnerable, not immortal. They can be killed or injured if somebody applies enough firepower—and I mean a lot. I’m not a military expert, but I think you would have to start with anti-tank weapons and go upward from there. And I don’t know what happens if a dragon dies—whether it reverts to human form or not.

  “As for fire, forget it. Hitting a dragon with a firebomb would probably be like hitting you or me with a water balloon—just annoying, and annoying a dragon is probably not a smart thing to do. Legends say they draw energy from fire.

  “Don’t know what would happen if a dragon went against a Trashman, but I’ll bet it wouldn’t be pretty for either side. One thing I know for sure…if those ‘magic-licensed’ Arcane Arts people tried to use their brand of magic against a dragon, they would get schooled in a hurry. To borrow a quote from one of the Shooters, they’d be bringing a knife to a gun fight.”

  Martelli winced. And that’s exactly the gun fight I’m trying to avoid.

  Martelli caught up to Morgan in the hallway outside the bathroom. Glancing both ways to make sure they weren’t overheard, he spoke in a quiet voice.

  “The drone, what aren’t you telling me?”

  Morgan pressed his lips together and then shook his head. “Nothing, there’s nothing to tell…except, I’ve heard things, rumors—”

  “Rumors? Since when do you pay attention to rumors?”

  “I don’t know what to tell you, but something’s going on. The big bosses know it, at least that’s what I hear, and there’ve been other incidents. Whatever’s happening, though, it feels like a long play. I don’t think we’re going to find out more for a while.”

  “Great,” Martelli said, “some kind of spooky mystery, like our business isn’t weird enough already.”

  Chapter Three: Loki

  Kasib Khoury had been born in Rome and, except for six years of service in the Escercito Italiano’s 8th Alpine Regiment, had lived in the Eternal City all his life. He boasted that he knew every street, alley, and piazza and could easily find his way to any address. Despite his Arabic heritage, he considered himself to be an Italian—and more specifically a Roman—in every way.

  “KK”—as he was known to his associates—was a bit less comfortable with his present assignment, however. This was his first job after receiving his LEI Shooter’s badge—his real badge, which marked him as having completed the probationary period and now able to carry out missions on his own, without a handler watching his every move.

  He had no problem with conducting the hit. His marksmanship with the Beretta PX4 tucked under his jacket was nothing short of expert, and he had already proven himself capable of pulling the trigger when needed. What troubled him about this one was the lack of information on the target. For one thing, he didn’t even know the real name of his intended victim, only the code name—“Loki”—by which he was known to LEI.

  The file had given him plenty of information for an ID, including
pictures of a muscular, heavy-set man in his mid-40s, with bared arms completely covered by intricate and colorful tattoos. Since the subject apparently went with arms bared in all weather, the ink would be good for a positive ID. He also had the subject’s current residence—with a cautionary note in the file that Loki moved frequently, rarely staying in the same place for more than a couple of months.

  Loki, he thought with amusement. What’s an ancient Norse god doing in Italy? The file had given him no information about the target’s nationality, age, or early life. And of course, there was no information about who wanted him dead, or why. If he were a First-Class franchisee, he would have gotten more, but LEI Corporate had long ago decided that such details were of no concern to a regular Shooter.

  He had established his shooting position down the street from Loki’s current residence on Via Vincenza, not far from the rail station. He had spotted Loki at a nearby restaurant but didn’t want to do the hit in such a public location—too much chance for interference by a chance bystander, and too much risk of collateral damage.

  It was late in the evening, and the target would no doubt be returning home soon. When he did, Kasib would be just another pedestrian walking toward him on the street. He would walk by him, then turn around and put a round in the back of Loki’s head.

  Simple…but of course it was never that simple. He was prepared to improvise if something went wrong.

  “Do you really think this is the best approach?”

  Pierre LaLonde shifted uncomfortably in his chair. By contrast, Gino Magnini looked quite cheerful as he leaned back in his own chair behind the desk.

  “I think,” he replied, “that it is the one approach Loki will not expect. He thinks we will be coming after him on his own terms—trying to use kaval against him, as he has used it against others. He won’t be looking for an ordinary Shooter with a conventional weapon.”

  “But he has significant power at his disposal—and we haven’t warned the Shooter about that. He’s just been told that Loki is dangerous and should be taken out without warning.”

  “Yes,” Magnini admitted, “and that troubles me a bit. But the Shooter they picked isn’t part of SAD and hasn’t been cleared to know. Besides, if he did know—assuming he even believed in magic—he might behave differently, might do something that would alert Loki to his intentions.”

  “True.” LaLonde nodded slowly. “If we know nothing else, we know Loki is intelligent, wary, and dangerous. But I am also concerned that this man Khoury is relatively new to the game. He looks qualified on paper, but good ratings from a handler are no substitute for experience.”

  “We asked for help, and he’s the one they sent.” Magnini shrugged. “We’ll know shortly whether he was a good choice, but it’s out of our hands.”

  He’s coming…

  Khoury spotted the target headed his way, far down the street. Loki was a large man, broad in the shoulders, and—true to his habit—wearing a sleeveless leather vest that left his muscular arms bare. As he passed under a streetlamp, Khoury could see the tattoos.

  Target identity confirmed…

  He stepped out of the doorway and walked up the street toward Loki. He walked with purpose, not in a hurry, but not simply strolling at leisure, either. He made no attempt at stealth, simply trying to look like a man with a destination in mind and intent on reaching it soon.

  He remembered his Shooter training: If you try not to be noticed, the subject is sure to notice you. Far better to allow the subject to notice you and dismiss you as a non-threat.

  At 50 meters, he looked directly at Loki—pretending to notice him for the first time. Again, his training reminded him not to be too casual. It would be out of character to be walking down a street at night and not notice that someone else was coming toward you—especially since the sidewalk was otherwise devoid of pedestrian traffic.

  Apparently he had timed it well, because Loki appeared to notice him at the same time but continued to walk toward him without hesitation. At 20 meters, Khoury moved to the right slightly, as if to give Loki more room to pass—and was rewarded by a similar move from his intended target.

  At 10 meters, he gave Loki a casual nod—a simple acknowledgment of two strangers passing in the night. Loki returned the nod, but with a fierce and angry scowl. All the same, his step didn’t waver, and Khoury was certain he had succeeded—had been dismissed as harmless.

  He had timed his approach so they passed each other under a streetlight. The street wasn’t particularly dark, but he wanted his target fully illuminated. He took four more steps, then turned around, drawing the Beretta from under his coat…

  …and was shocked to find that Loki had turned around as well, had stopped, and was staring at him with that same angry scowl. His left hand held what appeared to be a police baton, while his right brandished a stiletto—the true Italian variety, with a long, wicked fixed blade rather than an American-style switchblade.

  A flash of humor penetrated Khoury’s shock. Don’t bring a knife to a gunfight…

  He had drawn the Beretta but hadn’t engaged the target—surprising, since he normally did so in one smooth motion. He tried to bring the gun up…but his arm refused to obey the command. He tried to step backward, but his feet seemed to be stuck to the ground. Loki stood there, just three meters away, muttering something Khoury could not hear clearly. Then, his angry gaze still fixed on Khoury’s face, he straightened and began to walk forward.

  By then, Khoury had realized that he could not move at all—could not even blink his eyes. He could breathe, but only with difficulty. He could not even move his eyes or turn his head as Loki walked around behind him…

  …and drove the point of the stiletto upward into the back of his neck, angling under the base of his skull, through the medulla, and into his brain.

  Leaving the body of the would-be assassin behind, Loki continued on his way as if nothing had happened. He noted the surveillance camera on the wall of the building across the street without concern. The polizia would not bother him…not since the Red Nail had approached him with an offer to join their organization.

  He had not accepted yet. It was a dangerous game, but he was confident they would increase their offer rather than threaten him. He had powers they would find useful, but they had not yet seen those powers fully displayed. Perhaps they were waiting to see how he fared against LifeEnders.

  In a way, he was disappointed. LEI had sent an ordinary Shooter against him, not one gifted with talents in the use of kaval. He had dispatched the man with ease, had identified him on sight as a threat, and neutralized him with little effort. Perhaps now they would send a more worthy adversary.

  He didn’t intend to make it easy for them. He would return home only to gather the few things he considered essential. By morning, he would have a new residence—one of several he had pre-arranged, not wanting to stay too long in one place.

  It would take them a while to find him again, but that would only give him more time to prepare, to sharpen his skills and build his powers. Soon, they would have no one that could match him…and then he could name his price and expect the Red Nail to pay it.

  Chapter Four: War Council

  When Waters finished her Dragons 101 lecture, Lisa suggested they break for lunch—a variety buffet she had thoughtfully ordered from a local deli. Mark declared there should be no further talk of dragons until everyone had a chance to relax and digest what they’d heard, as well as their lunch.

  Of course, that made for little conversation. After what they’d heard, nobody really wanted to talk about anything but dragons. Martelli seemed particularly anxious to get going again, and Mark wondered what was bothering him.

  The “no dragon discussion” rule lasted a whole 10 minutes, but it was Jay Morgan—not Martelli—who finally broke the silence with a question to Waters.

  “Do you have any idea what triggers the change? I’ve seen this guy in some tough situations,” he waved at Mark, “places where ma
ybe we could have used a dragon….”

  “Like Kandahar…” Mark grimaced. “Yeah…we could have. I don’t know, Jay…I don’t know what triggered it this time, for that matter.”

  “I think…” Waters hesitated, “dragons don’t…emerge until a certain point in a person’s life. Maybe it happens at a certain age—call it ‘dragon puberty’—but Mark and Lisa were both already past that point when I met them, otherwise I wouldn’t have felt it—wouldn’t have known what they were.

  “As for what triggers them, I don’t know…I just don’t know.” she looked thoroughly miserable. “I don’t even know all the questions, let alone the answers.”

  “It’s OK, Sparkle.” Lisa smiled at her. “At the moment, you’re the world’s leading authority on the subject. Besides, now you’ve got a couple of live ones to study.”

  “I hate to rain on anyone’s parade,” Martelli said, “but the research project will have to wait. We’ve got a serious problem that needs to be addressed—the real reason I wanted this meeting to begin with.”

  “And that is…?” Mark prompted.

  “At the warehouse last night, when we saw the results of your rescue operation, it was pretty obvious that some sort of magic was at play. I called Arcane Arts—as I’m supposed to do in cases like that—and they sent their standby response team. They took one look at the place and accused me of having a rogue magic-user on my team—that would be you, Sparkling Waters.”

  “Me?” she squeaked. “I don’t…I can’t…”

  “I tried to tell them that, but they aren’t inclined to pay much attention to the feeble protests of us lesser beings—and they get really upset if they think one of us is using magic without their approval, permission, and duly-issued license.”

  “What convinced them was the manner in which you ‘left the scene of the crime,’ as they put it. They said leaving clothing behind was a typical mistake made by an unschooled wizard, particularly when ‘trying to evade capture.’”