Rift Between Lands (The Trida Series Book 1)

by J. Gertori

  “Could you be any more vague?”

  “That scrawny fucker Mack brought along, with the real intense stare and whatnot. Sold him one of my newer models, but he also wanted my wand—can you believe that? I had a shitty feeling about him, so I declined. It’s ballsy of you to do a pick-up for Mack since scrutors and mages are nabbing wand slingers left and right.”

  The man brushed his long black hair away from his eyes as he checked the backyard, making sure they were alone. “Mack never got this from me, you hear? This exchange never happened. I’m a damn ghost, far as anyone’s concerned.” Arco took a step forward and locked eyes with Sam. “What curse did that asshole cast to make him lose his magic?”

  Sam bopped Arco on the nose. “What do you mean?”

  “C’mon, keep up. The unwritten rule: if you use a curse, you lose your magic. At least I assume that’s how he lost it.”

  “No, Mack just ate some bad sushi,” Sam belched, his dizziness came and went.

  “For serious? See, fuck that. That’s why I don’t eat anything raw. Except for jellyprawns—got an affinity for those sea eggs.” Arco ripped open his coat, revealing rows of odd-shaped wands on both sides. “Mack say what he wants to be able to do?”

  “Just strong enough for a fleshling to use.”

  “He got it that bad, huh? Smart of him to buy now, I gotta say.” His voiced became nothing more than a whisper. “I heard from a troth fairy that we got an Artifec on our side. The days of free magic are upon us, my friend. And I’m looking at a nice payday.”

  “Who, Sir Gaspare?”

  “Shhhh!” Arco placed his coarse finger onto Sam’s lip. He unlatched a bony, maroon wand on the bottom row. “This’ll do. No need to recite any incantations and check this out—” With force on the pointed end, the wand folded. “Damn near the real thing. Working on getting them all to fold like this.”

  “What spells can it do?”

  “The standard for my line of wands: everything the registered wands can do, and any spells banned within the last decade. Arco wands are quality.”

  Sam held the compact tool and traced its many corners. “These are damn nice splinters and bravo on the loose hinge. You’ve got a great eye for emaciated sticks.”

  “You want it or not, jerk-off?” Arco ripped his jacket shut. “If I could get my hands on bloomed Fiora flowers, I’d go legit, and sell my shit to the Wand Emporium. I wouldn’t be making do with aged Fiora buds and arn feathers.” His finger shot in the air. “But don’t get me wrong. You won’t find better rogue wands anywhere else on Chalker, and I guarantee a slower burn. You—are—fucking—welcome.”

  Sam waved the weightless wand and slipped it into his pocket.

  Arco grabbed the fleshling’s wrist. “Yeah, not so fast. That’s three-hundred quins. Quite a deal considering my prices will skyrocket soon.”

  “Fair price for such expert craftsmanship. You know you really are selling yourself short. My wallet is bursting with quin, but I left it at the bar.”

  Sam opened the door, and a cloud of flowery smoke flew past his shoulders. His gaze darted to the front as the haze cleared; Gibb remained seated, but his group had grown.

  “Shit! You tricked me!” yelled Arco. He fumbled for his wand and hollered, “Mage scum!” The slinger rifted in a snap of air.

  As the mages shoved the patrons aside, Sam released the door, waving with his free hand. He sprinted toward the nearby wall and aimed the wand. Open, he thought. A flash of light burned its tip, but Sam flew backward, slamming into a wooden bench.

  “So close,” he grunted, coming to his feet. “Second time’s a charm.”

  The door burst open, and a mage stumbled into the yard. “Stop!”

  Sam ran to the wall and punched his wand at the ground, targeting the space between his feet. A second mage fired a bolt that zoomed past Sam’s ear, but he was airborne, coasting through the night in massive leaps, while the bar, and all its smokers, shrank.

  TWELVE

  The Tall Friend

  Sam awoke in a weightless sprawl with the scent of fresh air hovering like a thick veil of cologne. Had it not been for the birds surrounding him like flies to a carcass, and the realization he was in a tree, Sam would’ve had the decent morning.

  “Grab the bird, you dunce,” yelled a boy below.

  A curly-haired kid wearing a red cardigan leapt onto the ground. “Got it!”

  After assessing the integrity of the branches, Sam counted his limbs: all were intact.

  The tallest of the three kids crouched beside a fallen tree. “Bring it here.”

  “What are the ropes for?” said a round boy.

  Their leader erupted. “Don’t you ever listen? Without the ropes, they’ll run off when I morph them. Stop pissin’ around and make sure it’s tight around the waist.”

  “Maybe I can just keep mine; it’s got cool colors. We’ll watch from here,” said the curly-haired kid, in a quiet tone.

  “Now you’re wussin’ out? I can’t believe you two. Have we not planned this for weeks?”

  “Was fun and all, when it was just a joke. But my Finance class starts soon.”

  “Y-yeah, I can’t be late to Priorities again; Professor Hora will call my aunt. Plus, my bird doesn’t like the rope,” said the curly-haired boy, treading backward.

  The leader towered over the two. “I don’t care if it does or not. Bring them here.” The boys didn’t budge. “If you’re gonna be so stiff about it, I have counter tonic in my bag. Okay?”

  The timid kids stared at one another as they inched toward the fallen log. The squawks escalated into shrieks, and the birds in the trees rallied.

  “It’s getting loud, Keeth. Someone’s gonna hear.”

  “Just shut-up and hold it still. Nobody comes this way anymore.” In small flurries, the birds dove from the trees. They swooped inches above the kids.

  “I-I’m serious—this is a horrible idea!”

  “Shut-up, I said!” Keeth’s voice wavered, even he ducked when the swarms dove. The round kid jumped to his feet and released his captive, which flew into the tree beside Sam. He opened his dark brown wand and pointed at Keeth.

  “You must be joking. Verne, get this idiot in line,” said Keeth.

  “Griff, let’s just go,” said Verne.

  Keeth snarled at the both of them. “What are you gonna do? You missed half the school season. Your wand positioning isn’t even right, you fat fu—”

  “Gutta!” shouted Griff.

  A white flare burst on Keeth’s hand. “Ow!” The blue bird fell to the ground where it hobbled under the log. “You’re gonna pay for that!”

  A rumbling growl shook the trees and sent the birds flying into the air.

  “It’s the giants!” screamed Verne. He sprinted away, embracing his rope-less bird.

  “Giants are nocturnal, you idiot! Get back here!” shouted Keeth. He returned his attention to Griff. “Do something or let me go. I got a bird to transform.”

  Griff shoved his wand and said, “Trudo.” Keeth tumbled behind the fallen tree. Before he could retaliate, Griff had grabbed his red cardigan and sprinted away.

  Sam rustled to see the troublemaker, but the branches bearing his weight were snapping.

  “You better run!” screamed Keeth. His voice more hoarse, expelling every last breath in his lungs. “Everyone will know Verne Dixon, and fat shit, Griffin Hastings, are gutless wimps!”

  He got on all fours and shimmied into the crawl space. The captured bird’s cries filled the air once more. Keeth sprung for his bag and paraded a silver flask. “Let’s see what kind of human you’d be,” he said, laughing.

  A booming roar vibrated through the trees, and the birds took to the sky. Keeth leapt over the log and backpedaled. The noise came again, strong enough to rattle the leaves on the ground.

  Sam lifted his chest from the grayish twigs, but it collapsed under the pressure. He volleyed into the scrawny branches below; the rapid snaps made a roar of their ow
n. Through the rush of dizzying leaves, Sam saw a maroon object lodged between a twist of branches—his rogue wand.

  At this height, the falling sensation mimicked a rickety roller coaster. Sam grabbed the tool, wailing as he aimed toward the ground. The speeding momentum came to a halt, whiplashing him a foot above the soil. He hovered inside the debris like a monster jellyfish made of leaves and jagged branches.

  Keeth emitted a heart-pounding scream. He dropped the bird and fumbled out of sight.

  As soon as Sam relaxed his grip, he, along with the floating mass, plummeted to the moist soil. His heavy breathing cleared the dirt around his crooked mouth. Only the blue bird’s pleasant tune kept his temper in check.

  Gray circles wrapped around the bird’s eyes, and it glared at Sam as if it waited for instruction. Sam lurched forward, but another quake threw him off balance. The bird trotted away, but as Sam fell to his chest, he noticed the rope wrapped around the helpless animal. Perhaps a shot of his wand could untangle the cord. It might also turn the bird’s wings into shoelaces—fair to say he didn’t trust the thing.

  “Wait!” screamed Sam, half-hoping Trida’s animals were smarter than others.

  The bird careened past stumps, streaked by overgrown bushes, and glided between rubbed branches. For minutes, Sam tagged along, huffing and begging the animal to stop. They turned into a gap of thick brush, where Sam watched in horror as the bird plummeted to the ground. Sliding, Sam swatted the nearby grass—no bird or any hint of blue among the orange leaves and faded weeds. A soft breeze lifted the dirt into a whirlwind, revealing a pattern of square holes. Sam leaned forward to inspect the ground.

  Suddenly, the floor folded. The fleshling tumbled forward on the leafy slant, gaining speed as the decline steepened. He collided at the bottom after what seemed like ten seconds of falling. His knees smashed on hard pavement, tossing him into a painful roll. Each of his groans echoed as he gazed at the enormous cavern surrounding him. Powerful gusts seeped into the hole above; it was much colder underground.

  The floors were intricate tiles, each wide enough to fit two people. Plant growth culminated on an ebony statue of a man seated on a carved throne—except this was no statue. The giant man rose from his chair with the help of his rigid cane. He stood taller than the men who blocked the doors outside Meek’s bar; in fact, this giant was easily nine feet tall.

  Sam sprinted for the hill, but it swallowed each of his steps like quicksand. He made a break for the farthest wall, covered in vines; they snapped with each yank. A severe tremble rushed through him, and he cowered in the corner. The giant took long strides forward before reaching for the fleshling. Just then, the blue bird reemerged. In acrobatic twists, it soared around the giant’s hand and settled atop his finger.

  Sam squinted and covered his face. With the behemoth distracted, he saw an opportunity. He yanked the rogue wand from his pocket and snapped it straight. A flame singed the stick’s end, releasing a bright light and small embers. Then the bird flailed above the giant’s finger. As intended, the black rope came undone.

  The giant spun his square head toward Sam. All movement within the cave came to a halt, except for the birds returning to his shoulders. His grunts stirred a hailstorm of dust.

  “I just wanted to take the rope off,” said Sam. His gulps were audible, and he spoke to himself to fight his intense fear. “Here lies Sam, savior of birds, died in the belly of a cave king.”

  The giant’s growls subsided, and he retracted his hand to admire the freed bird. He spat a phrase, not English or any dialect familiar to Sam. With no response from the cowering fleshling, the giant bellowed another string of words. The end of his staff smoldered, and like deja vu, a rainbow-tinted ripple fluttered toward Sam.

  “How did you find this place,” said the giant, in a slow, coherent voice.

  Sam knelt upright. He kept his eyes glued to the dirt-covered tiles and pointed at the blue bird. “Please don’t kill me.”

  “I have no desire to hurt you,” said the giant, filling the silence with his intimidating puffs. “Wizards and Giants have lived in harmony for centuries.” Despite the reassurance, Sam thought it best to keep his distance. “I am old but also perceptive. Are you are not a wizard?”

  “N-no.”

  “Then yours is the kind assist who wizards for pay. Remind me what they call you.”

  “Pact.”

  “And the wizards allow pacts to carry wands?”

  “It’s not mine. Getting the rope off the bird was beginner’s luck. I don’t have a clue about how to get these to work.”

  The blue bird bounced on the giant’s arm, making its way to the flock near his neck. He wore a plain shirt devoid of visible seams, dusty-brown pants, and floppy black boots. “I have not had a visitor in these caverns in ages, aside from giants. What are you called?”

  Sam thought to himself: what if the giant heard my name from a mage? And: no way he would recognize me, he doesn’t even know pacts are called pacts. The conflicting thoughts collided in Sam’s mind. “I’m . . . uh . . . Sam . . . McQueen. Yeah, Sam . . . McQueen.”

  The large man’s welcome glare morphed into a worried grimace. The stifled ceilings looked ordinary when the giant stood and pointed toward a dark cavern. “Go.”

  Sam sped into the darkness as commanded. For every few steps he took, the giant needed just one. The swarm of gray birds peeled off before the oncoming darkness of the shrinking caverns. Sam reached in front of himself. The walls were so widely spaced that he instead used his outstretched arms to balance.

  “Stop,” grunted the giant. His voice echoed much louder.

  Resorting to his other senses, Sam caught the scent of a garden, and the tickle of bugs flying nearby. This, of course, sent him swatting at the air. A white glow appeared beside him, trapped inside a glass bulb. Sam realized the giant held the light, which illuminated another like a chain reaction. One by one, the glow blazed across the cave until it had brightened tenfold. These bulbs grew from tall, spike-less cactuses, which circled the cavern on platforms.

  Iridescent insects fluttered onto thin green tubes below, and a stream reflected onto the cavern’s topography. At the center stood a dark fountain with vibrant, royal blue liquid. But the architecture sprouting from the walls delighted Sam most.

  “Water from the Elder Garden will help you remember who you are,” said the giant. “When stories become fading thoughts, we drink from this fountain. It rejuvenates the mind.”

  “But I know who I am—really.”

  Sam’s plea didn’t convince the giant, who jabbed his chin toward the bright blue liquid. The flurry of bugs scattered as Sam made his approach. He stared into the water and found a shell the size of his head.

  “I’m gonna have radiation poisoning when this trip’s over,” whispered Sam. He scooped the drink and sighed before ingesting. His vision went hazy.

  A woman appeared through the silhouette of darkness. She stood beside a pan, which she clanked atop a weak stove. Her back aligned straight as a ruler, yet her head drooped. The sizzling food could not mask her sniffles. Tears collected at her chin, missing the pan as they detached. What the woman cooked was a mystery, for the view stayed no higher than her thighs. A boy emerged, peeking from the corner. Before the woman could notice, the boy sped off.

  The rushing imagery followed him into a room. He slid onto the floor and pulled open a drawer at the base of a small bed. As he dug through the folded clothes, a toy tray, like a cash register, came into view. Without hesitation, the boy clutched the stray bills and sprinted out the door. The images reappeared, and the woman’s strong stance had deteriorated to a deep hunch. She lowered to the boy’s outstretched arms as he happily offered the money.

  Sam ripped his eyes open, gasping and dabbing away the wetness below his eyes. He hardly noticed the giant’s nudging, although intense nausea engulfed him. The garden now had a sticky air, like waking from a nap on a hot summer day.

  “Our memories can be agonizing
,” said the giant. His brows raised as he lowered to his knees.

  Sam swatted at the humid air. “Don’t know what you mean. I got a memory of my neighbor crashing her bike on the sidewalk—hilarious, hence the tears.” His voice trembled. “If you could help me out of here, I promise I’ll leave you alon—”

  “My fellow giants say I have walked this land for centuries. As such, my recollection is fleeting. I come to here and drink from the fountain every weekend. It allows me to relive my stories and reacquaint myself with my past—as painful as it may be.”

  Behind the gentle splashes of the stream, Sam could hear quiet chirping. He inched toward the army of cactuses, hoping to slip past, but he paused as the giant’s head slumped, and his braided beard hit the ground.

  Sam cleared his throat. “Where are the other giants?”

  “Around,” mumbled the behemoth. “In neighborhoods across the caverns of Lekly.”

  “Got a name?”

  “Why?”

  “Your name is ‘Why’? Interesting. Short and to the point. I pegged you as a ‘Fred.’”

  “Simon,” the giant blurted, shooting upright.

  “Great! Simon it is!” said Sam, exploring the vast grotto. The cold walls looked moist but left no residue on his curious touch.

  “What is your trade on Trida?” said Simon.

  Sam crouched beside the peaceful stream, which drained out of sight. “I work for a hudger: simple chores, and the occasional piggy-back ride to and from places.”

  “Hmm,” Simon grunted. “Hudgers are a dependable kind. Meticulous and hard working.” He swept a cluster of the straw-like grass and, to Sam’s shock, chomped on their ends. His frown softened, supplanted by a smile.

  Sam plucked a single blade of grass and gnawed on its rounded edge. Soon his bewildered frown melded away, and his mouth filled with the sweet and sour burst of the treat. He chewed the rest of the candied grass, slurping it like a string of pasta. “This is . . . just . . . mmm,” he mumbled, crouching to collect more.