The Stone Wizard

by Wade Ebeling

  The creature quickly stepped back into the light, astonishingly unharmed by the point-blank shot. The monster sneered at Charles, pure hatred showing in its glowing eyes. For some reason, the beast spun a short length of cord over its head as it walked forward. The drug told Charles that it was obviously a sling. Frozen in place, he did not know what to do with the information.

  Once it had an angle on the stairwell, the emerald green creature snapped its wrist to point at the now exposed stairwell. Something very small and hard slammed painfully into Charles’ chest, the force of the blow spinning him around. Tripping on the unseen stairs, he started to fall at a curiously slow rate. Before striking his unprotected face against the unforgiving wood, the world went black.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Nearly an hour later, Charles awoke on his back. His face and chest felt like a horse had trampled them. A sticky moistness could be felt on his breast, presumably it was where the projectile had struck. Trying to bring a hand up to evaluate the damage, Charles found that he could not move his arms. Bucking against the restraints, he quickly realized that his feet were spread and immobilized as well. Even worse than this, a thick leather strap held his head down. The terror of being completely vulnerable moved rapidly outward from a suddenly pounding heart, causing him to thrash about wildly in an effort to free himself. It was no use.

  Moving onto the assessment stage of the fear, turning his head as far as he could manage, Charles quickly realized the true level of his predicament. He was lashed to the Doctor’s table by the purpose-built belts and buckles. Try as he might, the thick leather used to immobilize the deranged and wounded would not budge. There would be no escape.

  “Are you done?” a male voice asked calmly.

  “Who are you? What do you want?” Charles asked in high-pitched fright.

  “I just want a few answers,” the man replied smoothly.

  The man was lying, of this Charles was certain. It was something that he would say to someone about to be tortured. It was a sick form of control. The fear doubled. Adrenaline and paregoric fought against the restraints. He cursed and wriggled about haplessly for a few minutes. Winded, Charles had no choice but to take a different tactic. Perhaps this creature could be reasoned with, maybe even bribed. Somewhere deep inside, despite the drug showing him falsehoods, Charles knew he had absolutely nothing to barter with.

  “Are you done?” the voice asked again.

  “What do you want? Tell me!” Charles shouted.

  “I just want a few answers from you.”

  Beginning to sob, Charles begged, “Please, … I will tell you anything you want. Just don’t kill me!”

  “Who shot … My apologies. Let me start over. Who shot the woman? And, how could you possibly know where we were going? I mean, how in the world did you know to come this way?”

  “I … I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Charles lied.

  A heavy medical instrument smashed into Charles’ kneecap. He writhed in pain for some time, cursing the unseen assailant amid extended howls.

  “Are you done?” the voice asked calmly.

  “Yes … Please, God, yes.” Charles answered honestly.

  “First things first, how did you … bloody crosses … know where to find us?”

  Not having the will to protest any further and hoping the man would free him for being honest, Charles said plainly, “The stable master. He told us … told us where you were going.”

  “The stable master? Ahh … I see. But, how did you come to be there?”

  “We … that is, a Deacon saw you take the boat … told us you were heading north on the river,” Charles said almost cheerfully. Used to playing all the angles, being kind felt like the proper thing to do given the situation. If he could just get this monster who talked like a man to empathize with him, there might come a chance to survive this.

  “Very good. Very good,” the man said, approving of Charles’ sudden helpfulness. “So, where are the rest of you? Hiding around here? Spaced around town hoping to catch us?”

  “They are all dead. Crushed.” Charles laughed at the memory. “I’m assuming it was you who brought that building down?”

  “It was. After you attacked us, I might remind you.” The voice said, less calmly.

  “Those idiots nearly got me killed as well! I wanted to capture you. Right? Never wanted to hurt anyone! I swear!” Charles needed this man to feel sorry for him. Playing patsy seemed the best ploy to reach this goal.

  “What would happen then, genius? What do you think would come to pass when the Church got its hands on the two of us? Any idea? We would be violated in every possible way then hanged at their earliest convenience. That’s what, you … you absolute fool!”

  “I was just following orders! I swear it … They dragged me up from Boston … I never even should have been there!” Charles did some most convincing crying after that. He even believed for a moment that this might work out in his favor.

  “Are you done?” the voice asked coolly, moving to where Charles could see his face, which was quite handsome and not at all like that of a serpent. “Just one last thing. Depending upon your answer, you just might … might, mind you, make it out of this alive.”

  “Anything. Anything for you,” Charles sobbed, horrified by the fact that he must have been hallucinating horribly to have seen this man as some sort of beast and to have imagined his crossbow bolt hitting him dead on.

  “Good, good. Now then, think carefully. Who shot the woman?” the man asked, failing to hide the anger behind the question.

  There was no way on earth that Charles was going to tell this monster that he knew Tabitha, or that he was the one who shot her. “I … I don’t know! Honestly! It wasn’t me … that’s for sure. I mean, I never even got a shot off! I swear it!” Charles whined, desperately wanting this paltry lie to be sufficient.

  “You mean other than tonight?” the man asked derisively.

  It was then that Charles knew his fate was sealed. There was to be no escaping the intentions of this cruel creature. He twisted and pulled, kicked and spun. Almost mockingly, the bonds held him fast. When the thrashing did not work, he pleaded for his life. “Gold! They will pay you gold for sparing me! I am quite important to them, you see? My name is Charles Thomlinson. You will come to see what I mean, if you would but contact …”

  “Well, well, it is most certainly an honor to meet you Charles. My name is Marcus Prathorn. I, no doubt, am but a lowly commoner when compared to the likes of you. But, I should inform you, this bit might be quite unfortunate, at least when viewed from your perspective, I have taken a blood oath to kill every one of your kind,” Marcus said matter-of-factly.

  “Please, you do not understand! I am not just a lowly Deacon! Even I would agree that most of those dogs deserve whatever befalls them. Marcus, you say your name is? Please, Marcus, hear what I say. Have some compassion! I try to keep their lot under some semblance of control. You see where I stand? I am more on your side than you realize! Utter chaos would befall the Bastion without me. We cannot let those maniacs have their way, can we? I am the only Vicar Forane in all the colonies! Without me, things will surely only get more … How should I say? Visceral? Again, they will reward you … Ransom me, if you must. Release me and I promise to keep it our secret! Just, please … please …”

  “Are you done?” Marcus asked once again, a small measure of glee showing in his tenor. He had heard the man’s fork-tongued words, but it took a moment for them to sink in. “Wait, what did you just say?”

  “I am an important fellow, I said. The Camaraderie will want me back, Marcus. You must understand what I am saying. Are you there, kind sir? We could end this … I am in a position that could help end this silly conflict. And, like I said already, I am certain that they will pay a sizable reward for your compassion,” Charles said silkily, believing that his innate charm was starting to have an effect.

  “Not that, you jackanapes,” Marcus seethed. “Before that
, Charles, you said that you are the only Vicar … Forame?” He intentionally mispronounced the title to get the conceited man talking again.

  “Forane. Vicar Forane. Yes, I am. A most prestigious posting, if I do say. Sent all the way over from England to supervise certain … matters within the new world, as it were,” Charles answered chummily. “Who better to have on your side? Eh, Marcus?”

  “Ah, I see … Vital matters, no doubt,” Marcus replied, equally as friendly.

  “Yes. Good lad! Now, if you would be so kind as to release me … Well, I could just leave, or perhaps you wish to return to the coast. I would gladly accompany you … as your captive, if you want,” Charles laughed. “You must see by now that I am not your enemy. We are but pawns, Marcus. Perhaps together we could affect some much-needed change. You said earlier that … the woman you travel with had been injured. Shot by one of those dogs, ya? I can personally attest to the capabilities of our physicians. Best in the new world, I would dare attest. If she needs aid, there would be no place better to take her, my friend.”

  “I will tell you this, friend,” Marcus drawled hatefully. “I think you knew she was injured before I even mentioned it, or you would not be here waiting. Am I right, Charles? I think it was you who shot her. Nothing to say? Well, I also think you killed that poor man and woman upstairs so that Cath … er, she … could not receive proper treatment. I believe you know exactly who it is that you are pursuing. Moreover, now that I can see the look on your face, I know why you are so vehemently trying to kill her. How am I doing so far, my friend? Pretty close?”

  “What … what are you talking about? I understood us to have an agreement going here. I … I … I don’t know you … or her. It’s … it’s laughable to even imply it, Marcus.” Charles managed to stutter out.

  “Then why are you not laughing?” Marcus ask coldly. “I have seen your work, Charles Thomlinson, mighty Vicar Forane of the thrice-damned Camaraderie. You know of what I speak? The scars sullying her back? Oh, yes … Now, I know for certain. The guilt of your actions is written plainly upon your face. What I said is the truth, is it not?”

  After a slow, full-fledged test of the straps, a panting Charles began to laugh manically. He tried to make witty aspersions that would enrage Marcus, which would make him feel better. The fear in him cared not about his intentions, allowing only the laughter to come out.

  “You will now pay for all you have done, bastard! I pray that there is a God, for I want you to face him. Keep going! Laugh your way right into hell!” Unable to stomach the man’s smirk any longer, Marcus reached into the leather pouch on his hip. “Do you know what this is? What I am holding? After all, it is the simplest representation I can think of for why your kind fear us. Look, damn you!”

  Charles focused on the hand hovering before him.

  In Marcus’ palm was a small polished stone about the size of an acorn. Cherishing the puzzled look that it brought to his captive, Marcus slapped Charles across the face to maintain his full attention.

  The crisp flash of pain made Charles stop laughing. With emotions already in turmoil, the prospect of his own demise suddenly overwhelmed them. Charles began to cry breathlessly, sobbing and struggling to take each new lungful of air like an overwrought infant.

  Smiling at his captive’s fright, Marcus said wickedly, “Oh, how I wish I had more time to spend with you. Alas, Charles, I have wasted enough time. I need you to watch this closely. C’mon, I’m certain you’ll want to see.”

  The stone that Marcus held started to vibrate. Tiny puffs of steam shot out when all captured moisture was forcibly expelled. Charles could feel the heat that began to radiate outward on his skin. Hotter and hotter, until the stone began to shoot small sparks. It soon glowed red hot, like it might melt into liquid right then and there. Wincing from the bright light in the darkened room, Charles watched in horror as Marcus turned his hand over and placed the ember on the right side of his exposed stomach. The nearly molten rock hissed and squelched as it burned through Charles’ clothing and flesh.

  “You hear that? That is your liver boiling,” Marcus said in a matter of fact tone.

  After the stone had channeled its way completely through the torso and into the wooden table, Marcus made another stone appear in his hand. When this one was glowing red hot, despite the constant screams and pleas for mercy, he dropped it onto the doomed man’s chest, where the heart beat forcibly in alarm.

  The last moments of Charles Thomlinson’s life were spent in excruciating agony.

  CHAPTER 8

  ~ The Length of Love ~

  Catherine Halsworth opened her eyes. It was warm, almost unbearably so. The acrid scent of burnt pipe tobacco and charred elements hung in the air. The space she found herself in was cramped with a low ceiling. There was a cluttered work bench along the adjacent wall, where a familiar orange light with emerald-green tinges cast odd shadows. Identified by just their silhouetted forms, she could make out scales, a calcinator, an alembic and various sized vials and containers. The heat was obviously coming from the light source in the middle of the table, which was so bright that it threatened to blind her for attempting to look at it directly.

  By propping elbows by her side, Catherine managed to sit up. A slight pang reminded her of the crossbow bolt. Marcus sat slumped at the end of her bed, his slow, rhythmic snores assuring her that he was alive. Taking stock of her surroundings, now that she was able to look around fully, Catherine saw that they were sealed inside a small rectangular space. Placing her hand on the wall beside the bed, she understood the material to be a thick granite block. The only break in the pattern was an archway, its opening filled with what looked to be mortared chunks of quarried limestone.

  Pulling aside the coats that were covering her, Catherine gingerly opened her stained petticoat, noting that it was fully unbuttoned. Bracing for the worst, what she saw surprised her, to say the least. Instead of a seeping puncture wound, there was nothing but a small pucker in her skin that was pinker than its surroundings. The spot looked like the flesh found underneath a newly removed scab, before the air and sun got to it. She tentatively poked and prodded around the area but felt no pain, so she pushed at it, harder and harder, stunned into disbelief over the fact that the wound seemed to have healed completely. Other than a dull aching of her muscles, she seemed to be in perfect order. Feeling around her body, Catherine could not comprehend how her branded arm was now nothing more than faded scar tissue or how the raised lash marks on her back could no longer be felt.

  “Marcus,” Catherine whispered, throat dry and raspy.

  Marcus did not answer. Instead, he slumped further into his uncomfortable position on the stone cot. She pulled her feet away from his weight and he slowly toppled over onto the bed once the impediment was removed. The snoring stopped shortly thereafter, but he still did not wake.

  “Marcus, where are we?” She shook him lightly, trying to rouse him. He snorted once before rolling over, sleep uninterrupted.

  Completely parched, Catherine stood to look for some water. The light on the table was partially blinding her, keeping much of the floor hidden in deep shadow. Shuffling her bare feet forward, afraid of unseen pitfalls, she ringed the alembic and a few stoneware bowls in front of the exposed flame. Most appreciatively, the blazing heat lessened immediately due to the impromptu barricade.

  Blinking to properly take in her surroundings, Catherine marveled at what she saw. Sitting above the intense flame, which was in a glowing marble dish surrounded by short columns, was a dome-shaped forge that had a yellow sulfurous residue caked on its interior. Beside this contraption was a small crucible that had a series of tubes connected to a metal heatsink near the flame to efficiently use its power. A clear crystalline substance lined the walls of the crucible, glinting like a vein of quartz. What all the other apparatus scattered about had been used for, she had no idea. Scales and calipers sat next to unlabeled measuring spoons and cups with no discernible order.

  Marcus
’ journal sat open near an inkwell while other various documents and drawings lay strewn about haphazardly. Some of these papers looked like hand-written alchemical timetables, while others looked like the optimization processes that they learned how to do in school, the tell-tale sign being that some of the lines were scratched off and others circled to highlight them. All the items and clues before her hinted to Marcus trying to solve a very complex riddle. Even during their years spent in mutual classes, Catherine had never seen this amount of work required for a single project. Whatever it was that he had been working on, it had obviously kept him very busy. Given how exhausted he appeared to be, Catherine wondered how long she had been unconscious for.

  Off to the side of the work table was a basin half-full of slushy water. Testing the cold liquid with the tip of her finger, Catherine deduced that the trough, raised and conjured from the marble flooring, was filled with melting snow or ice. Either way, after licking dripped digits, her palate told her that it was water, cold and pure. At first, she tried to cup her hand and dip small amounts out. This proved to be far too painful. Warmed nearly to the point of overheating, her fingers were far too sensitive to undergo the sudden decrease in temperature. Dehydrated and unabashed, Catherine got down on her knees to slurp and lap at the precious fluid until fully sated.

  From this position, she marveled at all the stonework Marcus had accomplished. The basin, the table drawn from the wall, the spindly-legged cot that she had been sleeping on, the containers of all sizes and shapes and the forge and crucible, powered by what appeared to be an eternal flame, were all marks of a master. How Marcus had accomplished these wonderous things alone, at such a young age, spoke to the greatness of his ability. While most Builders were content with just being able to refine a stone’s original shape or work in cooperation with others, combining powers to perform larger tasks, very few, those mostly talked about in legends, had the ability to turn the hardened material malleable, forming and bending it to their will. Marcus had always been more skilled than the other students, but the level of craftmanship shown here was beyond even that of what Master Grenaldt could do on his best day.