Chased By War

by Michael Wolff

Plucking a set of needle-bladed claws from within his cloak, Raptor fitted his hands and knees with them, then bent halfway through the door, spiking into the wall. He scrambled to the ceiling, and then the world flipped upside-down. Cautiously but speedy did the young thief make his way, until he was poised directly above...

  A leather satchel.

  Raptor scrubbed his eyes of tiredness. It was still there. A plain, ordinary satchel. This is it? This is what’s so important? Still, a job was a job.

  Next was simple observation. The artifact was upon a pressure plate. Pluck the prize from such a device, and the plate would rise, alarms would call, or any of a dozen different traps that would get the thief killed. Raptor knew the way to evade such traps, had done it a thousand times. Doing it while hanging upon a wall was a new wrinkle in the process.

  For long seconds, he stared at the artifact, guessing its girth. Then he crawled back upon the ceiling, set his knee-claws into the marble and let his hands go. He looked rather like a trapeze artist; truth to tell he had learned the technique from an acrobat when he was younger. He fished out several small bags, each one filled to the brim with various escape items. Taking a larger bag—a thief had to be prepared would he live to enjoy his bounty—Raptor emptied it until it had a feather’s weight. Then Raptor snaked a rope about the bag’s end, thrust both bag and hand outward. The hand and bag swung within inches of the other. He forced them still. Relax man. Don’t think. Just do it.

  The artifact was lifted not a hairsbreadth before the sack touched the plate. There was a slight creaking sound, but that was all. No traps, no arrows, no anything. Good. Tucking the artifact within one of his cloak pockets Raptor made his way back to the entrance.

  But he knew. Nothing could come this easily.

  Light flared into being, and suddenly there were five spear-men where a breath before there had only been shadow. Raptor had no time to play. His knives wove through the spear-men’s defensives like they had their own minds, cutting and wetting jerkins dark as blood. Within moments the guards was crumpled upon the ground, moaning at the wounds that seemed to appear from the very air.

  Raptor was running before the last of them slumped to his knees. The scruff of leather on stone held him rooted within the shadows, or turned him aside for a new path. It seemed not a turn could be taken without facing the soldiers’ advent. Idly Raptor wondered how many this small merchant could afford the guards, for the walls were bursting with them.

  I need a plan, thought Raptor, bringing the mental map to the forefront. Three entrances, two exits. One was on the upper level. The other was on the ground floor. There were windows on each level, but climbing through the lower level’s windows seemed like a waste of effort. Then alarms began wailing. Screw it. Raptor exploded from the window, jagged glass tears falling about him. Landing in a roll Raptor came to one knee and sprang into full-tilt running. Shouts and boots quickly faded as the night enveloped him.

  The fat man was waiting for Raptor.

  “Excellent, excellent. Your skills do shine as bright as gossip says.”

  Bastard. He fingered the satchel as though it was his own flesh and blood. Before Raptor could voice anything, a pair of huge sentinels stepped at Raptor’s sides. There were questions Raptor needed answering, and yet the sentinels’ presence saw any slip of the tongue as an offense. Putting on his best face Raptor let himself be led into the darkness. Somehow, he knew that this was merely the threshold of what dangers awaited him on this journey. If it didn’t kill him first.

  “Excellent work, Grodin.”

  “Milord. I didn’t see you there.”

  “I have been here all along. You simply did not wish to see me.”

  “Of course, master. My thanks. As you can see, the boy knows nothing.”

  “It was a stroke of luck that he accepted the charge. He is nimbler than you leveraged.”

  “Perhaps. But the task is done regardless. Now...May I have my family back?”

  “No.”

  “No? But...But you promised!”

  “I lied.”

  And then the fat man’s skin was melting off. Death was a long time coming.

  LVIII

  Things, Lazarus thought, could be worse. Much worse.

  Agon Ather was a flyspeck of a village. Poised on the edge of Amden maps, the fishermen and woodcutters and farmers lived out their lives working the rituals given to them by their fathers, the rites they would eventually pass on to their children. No ships sailed to their port, no tax-collector came to collect royal bounties, and no priests came to bless the town with divine fortune. Agon Ather was completely cut off from the rest of the world, and that was how its residents liked it.

  So, it stood to reason when a lone canoe pulled into a long-discarded harbor, the whole village was abuzz with curiosity. The children saw it first; one of the younger ran away, wailing his fear into the town square. Adults roused from his cries, soothing visions of confusion. Then a second child came in, echoing the first. And then another, and another. Eventually the children guided the adults, holding their hands as though they needed comfort. The whole town clustered at the harbor’s edge, stiff with shock.

  Lazarus docked his canoe at the least-damaged port and strode the stairs. It had been nine days since his voyage with the lizardmen. Three days into the week some idiot boatswain accidentally dumped the major portion of the meat into the ocean, and thus he was the first one to be skinned, cooked and devoured. The days passed, and the lizardmen kept hacking arm, leg, foot. Lazarus was no novice in survival; he killed all that sought his meat, until the last was dead two days gone. It was luck that he found the canoe; he’d been paddling ever since.

  Halfway up the stairs Lazarus caught the gazes of the town, saw the awe, the suspicion, the fear. Aside from opening his hands – it would be better if they thought he had no weapons – the old Khatari did not move. For long minutes they stared at each other, breathless fear choking the silence. Then Lazarus tired of the farce and continued his advent. The cluster parted to let him pass, eyes still locked upon him. A few steps into the square made him sigh. Everybody had collected to see him. Even as isolated as this place was, the Khatari did not expect everyone to succumb to curiosity. He turned to face the people; every eye swung to the motion as a hawk to the mouse. Only they were the mice, and he, a hawk desperately tired of foolish wonder.

  “I’m not here to kill you. Stop staring. You’re men, not brainless sheep.” Slowly the awe melted away. Children cast aside their parents’ grasp and edged toward the Khatari; at their smiles, the adults followed suit. The largest of them pumped his hand. “That’s enough.” The man wilted for a second, then the smile was back.

  “You don’t know how long it is since we’ve had a visitor, my lord. Your accommodations are set, and your chambers untouched. We followed your instructions to the letter, sir. No one has been in the chamber for eighty years.”

  Lazarus froze as the words took hold. “How is it you know me?” The answer he feared he already knew.

  “You are the mentor of Lord Sutyr, Lazarus.”

  The old Khatari took stock of the crowd, this time finding what he had not seen. Puncture marks all along the arms. Needles. Needles for blood. He was in a living human farm.

  Lazarus let himself be carried along by the villagers, nodding or grunting to every question that spilled from their mouths. Knowledge burned his blood. Sutyr. It was clear now that the damned fool experimented with magic deadly to the victims, deadlier to the one casting the spell. Eighty years. Lazarus was willing to bet Sutyr had founded this outpost long before that. That was the problem with Sutyr. He let his obsessions rule him.

  Lazarus perked at the mention of Sutyr’s chambers, agreeing that y
es, he would like a visit. The leader could only point the way to the chamber; spells denied access to all save for the master. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. The corridors of the palace were molded into the shape of a spell. The entire structure was keyed to amplify power to any sorcery. It made the palace a tinderbox waiting to explode, but Lazarus doubted Sutyr cared for the well-being of his mortal servants. He had countless scores of peasants, faceless tools to be discarded at the slightest whim.

  Lazarus did not have to walk very far. The room was a maze of tables, and upon every table there was a maze of items. Vials of powder that would serve for binding a demon to one’s will. Skeletal heads, arms, fingers; perfectly preserved in jars of milky liquid. Scores more than he could count, and many of them the Khatari knew not at a first glance. They were not important. Crystals. Where does the bastard keep them? Minutes spent in frenzy, tearing the room apart. In the end, when the room had the cast of being hacked to pieces, Lazarus did not find any crystals.

  He found something better.

  A set of five stones; four clear and one red. Lazarus smiled. This might be the opportunity he had waited for. Quickly he set the stones in the proper position. Four stones made a diamond, and the red one set in the middle. Lazarus fed a flame into the red stone. The fire sank into the stone, then burst free with dazzling brilliance, filling the diamond tip to tip. An arcane gesture made the Fire-diamond rise and flip upright. A Riftgate without the frame. So he’s gone this far. Dangerous, both to the people and Sutyr. But then again his former apprentice thought himself beyond death. Lazarus took a breath, and then stepped into the portal.

  Lazarus stepped into a completely different room. Good. A tall man forged of obsidian ore stopped him, then babbled apologies when the old Khatari showed him the invitation Esmeralda had given him. The Banquet. Pray that I’m not too late.

  For a moment he just stood there, drinking in the details. People gossiped over wine glasses, ladies of highborn blood laughed gaily at the things they were supposed to laugh gaily about. Men decked in satin and lace paid pleasantries to people they would sooner throw in the gutter back home. Benevolence had its price, it seemed. Yes, this was exactly as Lazarus remembered; exactly the party that the blueblood would throw for one reason or another. Except for one detail.

  They were not human.

  The chamber was a kaleidoscope of mythical creatures. Slender, long-eared Elves chatted with stocky, thick-bearded Dwarves. A pair of Minotaurs were in a ramming contest; the one who fell first was the loser, and quite possibly dead. But the Minotaurs whelped faster than they died, and the Minotaurs were long-lived anyway. Lazarus left them and continued to scan the chamber.

  A dusk-skinned Arachne gave Lazarus a smoldering glance over a wine cup. Lazarus chuckled. She was beautiful, with her myriad of black-pebble eyes, but he drew the line at the arms. It was never good to lay with a woman who had six more arms than you. Even if they were smooth and sleek as satin.

  There were other...interesting people. A Doubloon chatted with an ice-pale Isara. Or rather, the Doubloon’s first half did the chatting. The Doubloon’s second half, bonded to the first’s back, amused himself by downing every drink the waiters gave him. That was an amusement by itself, for the Doubloon’s first half could not help but belch wine bubbles every other word. A roiling inferno in human form nodded to Lazarus as it glided past. Lazarus nodded back. The flames that made its frame were the deep dark of bonfire smoke. So, the enshou was a least one millennia old. Lazarus smiled. The Banquet always attracted the rare and the myths. It had been too long since his last appearance. Far too long.

  Another guardsman stepped in his path, but this one had a legitimate reason: weapons were not allowed. For the benefit of all.

  Lazarus nodded. He knew well the rules of this engagement. The Banquet, meant to be a sanctuary for mystical beings. The deadliest of enemies, the fiercest of rivals, were bound by the gala’s law to trade pleasantries. Under the Banquet’s doctrine no hand could be laid upon another, no weapon wielded to take a life. Under any circumstances.

  Once the servant was done with his check he asked what name he would like to be introduced. “Lazarus.”

  The servant became pale-white in shock. “La-La-La...”

  “Lazarus.”

  “La-La-Lazarus, of the Greatwolf!”

  Every head turned to meet his gaze. A fire juggler was so shocked by the news that his flaming batons clattered to the floor, forgotten. Indeed, the whole room seemed pulled to him. Lazarus ignored the gazes; instead he plucked a glass of wine from a waiter about to lose his weight in sweat. “To the Banquet,” he called, raising the glass to the air.

  “The Banquet,” came the chorus of echoes. The party resumed as normal, though there were more than a few glances cast Lazarus’ way; smoky from the women and glares from the men. Lazarus nodded when necessary, spared a greeting when his path was blocked by young stupid fools who thought themselves worldly, and otherwise drifted through the rooms. He passed a great many people in his wandering: tumblers, strongmen, duelists, dancers, singers, wrestlers.

  And the women. The women were especially dangerous.

  “Forgive me, kind sir. Would you be Lazarus? The famous Lazarus?”

  It took a moment for Lazarus to remember. He had seen her clearly in the chamber when was announced. She knew damn well who he was. It was a ploy for conversation, just as the conversation was a ploy in a much larger scheme. The woman shivered at his gaze, though the pursuing of lips spoke not of cold or chill. “I am.”

  The woman laughed in delight so genuine that a fool would not hear its practiced ease. She was beautiful, of a sort. The green that dominated flesh and clothes; the latter, Lazarus saw, was woven green leaves, named her a jord. She chattered on for a moment, talking vapid dialogue that hid the true hooks and barbs of her curiosity. Lazarus nodded when needed, grunted a yes and no when appropriate, then finally left with the excuse of seeing an old friend in the crowd.

  The excuse did not last long. It never did.

  “Oh, my lord Lazarus. Surely you remember me? Lady Ghell, of the Ghell Winery? You were a fine hand with the flute. Do you have it with you?”

  “Lord Lazarus. I have heard a great deal about you. I’d be much obliged to know how many stories are true.”

  “Lord Lazarus, they say you spend your time among the mortals. Does that not sicken you?”

  There were beautiful women, and women who only thought they were beautiful. There were small women, tall women, hulking women. Women with towers of hair, women with hair to her knees, women who wore their hair cut short like a boy’s. Women draped in rubies, sapphires and emeralds. Young women who in their trust of their beauty strode to the Khatari, certain their youth would finally pry the secrets of this half-legendary hero. Old women, their beauty tapered only by years of experience, was certain the enigmatic noble preferred a more mature taste. Exotic alien women made offers with the flare of hips or the shift of bosoms beneath tight silk. Women. An infinity of them. All of them would use him and discard him once his secrets were theirs. The typical trade of fortunes for such galas. In the end, everyone was just meat for everyone else.

  “Excuse me.” In all honesty Lazarus would have drove them back with the stabbing glares he was known for, but irritating a lady of the elemental court meant irritating the lady’s family. It took years of isolation and solitude to win back his freedom from that world, and he’d rather not start again. He played the mystery card, walking from room to room, always balancing a wine-glass.

  A play about Sefiros Cayokite was being performed in one room, with a Draconian in its leading role. Lazarus paused, squinted his eyes to get a better look. “It can’t be...”

  The Draconian saw Lazarus at the same time the Khatari saw him. “L
azarus!” The Draconian leapt from the stage; cracking the wood under his weight. A wyvern, he was, with scales of bronze-and-orange, without wings but the shape and function of a man. Lazarus saw a familiar glint in the man’s golden eyes, but he was too late. Scaled arms the size of tree trunks wrapped about the old man and crushed him to his chest. “Damn you, old dog. How long has it been?”

  “A-air...”

  “What? Oh damn, man. I’m sorry.” Lazarus stooped, sucking in air in huge gasps. “I guess I don’t know my own strength.”

  “You never do, Zhan.”

  “True, true. How long has it been?”

  “Too long,” Lazarus said hurriedly. He would have to travel eventually, and Lazarus would rather not leave with more gossip about him than necessary. “How are the children?”

  “Fine, fine. Most of them are parents themselves. I’m a great-great-great grandfather, you know.”

  “Congratulations, my friend.” From the crowd, he spotted a familiar face. “Excuse me Zhan. I have people to speak to.”

  “Of course! When you’re done we’ll take a spot of brandy. They’re serving dragonblood this time. Dragonblood, Lazarus. Dragonblood!”

  Lazarus smiled. Zhan never changed. Despite his girth he was a lightweight in drinking ale. Two cups, three at most, and the room would be graced with the orchestra of his snoring. It would be a grand sight, indeed.

  The person he spotted sat at a crystal table, drinking rich red ale from a blow-glass flagon. His eyes did not bulge or start, merely following the Khatari to the seat. “Strata.”

  “Lazarus.”

  “You reek of destruction, of fire. Was your home burned?”

  “If I say yes, will you be satisfied? What cause have you to speak of hometowns and its’ events? If memory serves it was you who abandoned us.”

  “I did not abandon the town. I was summoned –”