Rift Between Lands (The Trida Series Book 1)

by J. Gertori

  Mavis translated Sam’s message onto the notepad:

  Meet at the docks in Fulvus, southwest corner, under Fizzawick’s Bazaar.

  By the time Dara, Rowen, and Sam reached the docks, the sky had settled into a dark wash of purplish-blues. They had abandoned the mage boat a mile east of this hideout. With a draft that almost sent Rowen splashing into the Pacific, Ellis appeared. He straddled a funny-looking bicycle that looked an engine and some heft shy of being a motorcycle.

  “Did someone order a background check with extra juiciness?” Ellis said. A look of disgust adorned his face as if he caught wind of a putrid odor. “Not my best entrance—my apologies. Let me try again.”

  Another gust careened toward the trio. The mini tornado whirled them about, pushing Rowen to the absolute edge of the dock. Through the settling debris, Ellis resurfaced.

  “Tonight’s agenda: capture these bastards and make it home for quesadilla night. And I’m not afraid to miss quesadilla night.”

  A spark tumbled Ellis off his bike. He shrieked as his jacket morphed into thick spider webs.

  “Leave the catchphrases to yer pen,” said Rowen.

  Sam wanted to applaud the hudger but opted to help the reporter out of the silky cocoon.

  “That’s the last of my wand,” Rowen said, dropping its ashes. “Couldn’t have asked fer a better send-off.”

  Ellis vaulted to his feet, huffing and puffing. “I’ll remember to write you out of the soon-to-be most-read article on Trida. Speaking of which, where’s Mavis and Cliff.”

  The pen and notepad flew from behind Sam and circled the reporter before settling on his chest. The inflections in Ellis’ voice proved he’d missed the two a great deal.

  “Right—where were we?” he said, snapping back. “Ah, I believe congrats are in store for you, Ms. Dara Avabelle. Word around the press is the lingering pacts have made it home.”

  Dara hid her smile. She eyed Sam when she said, “Had some help. My gadgets came through when it counted.” Sam fell into a petty stare. “I’m kidding! Sam, without your ingenious distraction, I wouldn’t have been able to process those pacts. The mages would’ve held them at least a couple more hours.”

  “Oh, about that distraction—thanks for the heads-up,” grunted Ellis as he rolled his eyes. “You know how embarrassing it is to read of your rain cloud stunt on a rival newspaper?”

  “Wait, you two think I did that? Said Sam.

  “What’s this ’bout rain clouds?” Rowen said.

  Before either of them received an explanation, another booming breeze rattled the group. Having learned from Rowen’s near fall, they had moved away from the water. Still, the powerful wind sent Sam and Rowen floundering into a stack of crates and entangling Dara along the way.

  “Ellis—what the fuck?” grunted Sam, trying to lift his leg off the hudger. But as he moved the mangled crates aside, he saw that Ellis, too, had felt the gust.

  “Dara!” said a voice shrouded in the dissipating fog. Crissa emerged from the haze holding the memo meant for Ellis, but she was not alone. To her left were the scrutors that aided in the staged speech in Kerek Village: Evie Lux, and Gerik Pike. And to Crissa’s right stood her boss, Devon Ward. Sam hadn’t seen her since the night he arrived on Trida.

  “Sam with the sly tongue,” said Ms. Ward. Her shadowy eyes targeted the fleshling, who felt quite ordinary in the circle of Tridans. “I pegged you as one of Dara’s attackers. I sent scrutors after you and Mr. Olimpi. Once I heard that Crissa—whom I had taken off the case—knew of your whereabouts, I retracted those scrutors. Idiocy on my part. I thought Crissa would bring you in, given her outstanding devotion. But she didn’t. Somehow you’ve won over my star pupil. Now I’m second guessing her story.”

  Crissa glared at Sam as Dara joined her side. The trio formed a line where Ms. Ward, with her confident stature and dark coils, could’ve passed as a third sibling.

  “You’ve got one minute to win me over. Make me believe you have nothing to do with any of this,” Ms. Ward said.

  It may have been from the night’s sticky humidity, or everyone’s eyes glued to him, but Sam became aware of his tongue. He froze, not knowing what to say, or how to say it. Sam submitted to the awkward silence, despite the music blaring in the nearby marketplace.

  The events of the week had transpired in a flash. How could Ms. Ward expect him to answer when he couldn’t make sense of it himself? All he knew is that he’d better start, somewhere, anywhere. Ms. Ward’s arms clasped in a pressuring facade, and her toe tapped on the ground with enough fury to rile Simon.

  “Sam been doin’ a better job than the lotta ya!” blurted Rowen, making Sam flinch. “Without him, we wouldn’t have the connection between Stricken Stin’ray and Dara’s curse. He learned it frem my dad.”

  “He led us to Ellis Tattersall of Tattersall Press,” said Dara. She pointed at the smiling reporter and his floating allies. “Without that link and Sam’s help at the manor, those angry pacts might still be around. Tension would’ve boiled over, and that’s not an assumption.”

  Ms. Ward stopped tapping her pointed shoe.

  “About that, Dee. The mages aren’t too happy about what you did. But we’ll smooth it over,” muttered Crissa. She twisted to face her boss. “That event at Kerek Village I told you about: Sam was pivotal in drawing out the real attacker and cleared Sir Molting of any involvement.”

  A wave of jitters rushed through Sam, and a joyous swell climbed to his cheeks, where he fought back a nervous smile.

  “And this leaves us where?” said Ms. Ward. “This fleshling has jerked my scrutors around, and what do we have to show for it? He withheld information and derailed this case. I’ve already allocated the nearby scrutors to other incidents, and we’re not any closer to finding this killer.”

  “Ahem,” grunted Ellis, in dramatic fashion. “Sam gave us a person of interest: Willem, the assistant to the Artifec liaison. As further snooping would reveal—Willem Krane, age sixteen.” Ellis strolled before them like a seasoned lawyer delivering a closing argument. “But that name isn’t in the manor’s Wizard Archives—”

  “Wait, how did you get access to our—”

  “Silence,” Ellis blurted over Evie’s cry. “Why wouldn’t a wizard be in the archives, you ask? I had to promise I’d write a feature article on Gleeson Yi’s talking ear infection, but I got the answer. It’s—not—his—real—surname.” He paused and threw his hands forward as if he expected gasps.

  “You sure are an ungrateful lot. I don’t have his real surname if that’s what you’re hoping. But since we’re blowing smoke up Sam’s ass—he scared Sir Molting into helping us. Sir Molting enchanted some chubs to track Willem. If he stays anywhere for more than ten minutes, I’ll have his location on my map.” Ellis took a bow.

  “Krane? Why does that name sound familiar?” Dara asked.

  “That crossed my mind as well. I, like all of my peers, reported on the debacle between the Octavius student and Lady Abifa. Ten points to the person who remembers his name.”

  “Luvoy Krane!” yelped Pike, shooting his finger in the air.

  “Winner, winner, wizard for dinner! By the way, verifying this cost me a lunch date with a Siamese fairy at Sterny Library. Luvoy is Willem’s older brother.”

  Sam whispered to Rowen, “Wasn’t that the jerk from Trixie’s?”

  “Explain to me why we’re looking at Willem in the first place?” Ms. Ward said.

  “Alice put Willem in charge of filing the Artifec’s spellbooks, which have old hexes. He could’ve passed the books to Mack, who used them to learn the stingray curse he placed on Dara,” Sam said.

  Dara sprang in front of her sister. “He’s not in the Wizard Archive, meaning he can’t get a registered wand. Cris—Willem could be Mr. Mack’s killer and your attacker at Kerek.”

  No longer did an air of animosity linger between Ms. Ward and Sam; in fact, the scrutors now engaged in a quiet conversation.

  “Ellis, ye
r map!” shouted Rowen.

  A red icon, like a three-dimensional word bubble, appeared on Ellis’ paper. He flipped the map open, but the bubble pointed at a general quadrant of a northern forest. With no physical address, the enchantment might’ve been insufficient.

  “Zoom in,” said Sam, coming to Ellis’ side. To his glee, the map complied. When the topography had settled, Sam recognized the strange assortment of shapes. “Fuck me. That’s the abandoned park.”

  “Why would Willem be at a park?” Asked Evie.

  “It’s secluded. Whatever he’s planning, he’d have complete privacy,” said Sam.

  “Then, do you know it’s exact position?”

  “It’s not necessary. We should be able to navigate on our speeders,” said Pike.

  Crissa said, “But that terrain is trouble. Willem could make a run for it if he spotted us.”

  “Sam, if you can give us a location, I can have the mages of nearby cities circle the area,” said Ms. Ward.

  With a frazzled look on his sweaty face, Sam tried to recall any other details. “There’s caves beneath.”

  “There are caves under forty percent of Lekly. You’ll need to be more specific.”

  “Manrake Park and Greenstone Park,” Rowen said, halting the tension. “Those are Lekly’s abandoned parks. Read it in Mysterious Corners: Volume Seven. Did it have slides that looked like huge insects and trampolines in the sand?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then it’s Greenstone.”

  Thrilled with Rowen, Sam thought of squeezing him until the book nerd fought back.

  “And you’re sure about this?” said Ms. Ward.

  Rowen gave her a blank stare, but Dara interrupted: “He reads more than I do, and that’s saying a lot. He knows his shit.”

  Rowen gave Dara a nod of gratitude. “So, we either ambush Willem and his brother or waste precious time waitin’ fer him to kill again.”

  “We? Mr. Olimpi, your home is right here in Fulvus; your house is just beyond that ridge. You’re not going to be a part of this bust,” said Ms. Ward.

  “Like hell I’m not. I’ve been in a fight before—a little one. Scared Mom half to death, but I held my own, don’t worry ’bout—”

  “We strike now before word spreads that we’re on to them,” said Crissa, with a sharp tone.

  “Agreed,” said Sam. “The longer we wait, the worse the situation will be.”

  Evie and Pike continued to murmur, but they didn’t seem against the idea of an immediate strike. They dressed in the same olive coats as Crissa and Ms. Ward, though Crissa had swapped her interior garb for a sweater and black pants. The scrutors as a unit were pristine, and as such, they checked their wands in unison.

  Ms. Ward’s booming voice commanded everyone’s attention. “Pike—send a request to the cities nearest to Greenstone Park. I want the forest blocked in a four-mile radius and mages at key entry and exit points. Have them bring rogue suppressors in case he decides to rift away.”

  Ellis retreated to his speeder. He conferred with Mavis and Cliff, who hadn’t stopped writing since the scrutors arrived.

  Sam unified the team once more. “You’ve got four bikes, and Ellis’ makes five. But what if I can get us there in the blink of an eye and still maintain the element of surprise?”

  “. . . Cancel that, Pike. If those cities have mages who are giants, request they meet us in the caves,” Ms. Ward said. She glared at the single, bright-blue matchstick in Sam’s hand.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Mage Giants

  Revealing the rogue matches to the scrutors was either desperate, mindless, or brilliant. Ms. Ward, Evie, and Pike seemed to brush through each of those thoughts; however, under the urging of the group, they submitted to the idea. It was the quickest way to get into the caves beneath Greenstone Park. Ms. Ward gave the team further background on the stolen paraphernalia.

  This matchbox—known in the rogue market as Flash Lights—were one of thirteen. But only two boxes survived a disastrous fire. They belonged to a band of women who hit seven banks across Trida within thirty-minutes. Most important, the blue-tipped match didn’t need complete darkness to work.

  “Here goes nothing,” mumbled Sam. In a circle, they held onto one another. He, a fleshling, stood between hard-nosed scrutors, an inventive wizard, the dynamic duo of a pen and notepad, their pact boss, and a hudger with a sweet-tooth for adventurous schemes. Sam’s entourage had grown since arriving with Raske. So, too, did his thirst to stay on Trida—that is, if he lasted through the night.

  Sam ripped the match head on the harsh side of the box. An engulfing burn reverberated before them. There were no lights. Not from the matchstick, or the glare of the bazaar, or even from the hazy reflections of the fleeting day. The blue-headed match had absorbed every glow, and the ten of them were in utter blackness.

  Sam lurched forward, hands outstretched. With his shin, he nudged a heavy object that mumbled a funny tune of profanities; Rowen had survived the trip. As Sam paused to listen, the gentle trickle of the fountain, the rushing stream, and the vibrating wings of the insects, reassured him that they’d arrived at the Elder Garden.

  “Dara?” shouted Crissa.

  “I’m here—relax.”

  A single bulb, from the farthest cactus, turned white and inspired the others to follow. The cavern ignited, displaying the Elder Garden’s cracks and discolorations.

  “W-what is this place?” uttered Pike, fumbling to the fountain.

  “Draw, Mavis,” mumbled Ellis. “You magnificent pen—draw!”

  The rest of the crew seemed at a loss for words. Their heads bounced side to side as if their necks were on springs. Rather than take in the environment a second time, Sam watched their expressions. But had he done so, he might’ve noticed the spraying sounds beyond the entrance.

  “Pike, with me. Evie, take the right. Avabelle, cover the rear,” whispered Ms. Ward. She sunk into a slouched stance; each intentional step made nothing more than a hushed beat. The scrutors drew their wands. With a cue from Ms. Ward, they straightened them together so that a single click echoed through the garden.

  Sam, Rowen, and Dara crept beside Crissa. Beyond the entranceway, a potted flower hid in the hall’s darkness. Recalling his first visit, Sam didn’t recognize this plant. He might’ve mistaken it for a sunflower if it weren’t for its fire red petals and orangish mist.

  “What is that?” whispered Dara. Sam inched forward to gain a closer look. Ahead of them, Ms. Ward strolled to the plant’s front and smelled its petals. She’d sensed it to be harmless, perhaps. The tension within the group appeared to taper a bit.

  “Quit movin’!” grunted the hudger, using Sam’s leg as a shield. “Wait a minute—get away frem that flower!” Rowen’s voice grew to a roar within the echoing chamber. As Ms. Ward relinquished her attention from the plant, the orange mist concentrated. The smoke engulfed her in an instant, and it rushed into the hall where Evie and Pike disappeared in its haze.

  “Mask!” screamed Crissa. She didn’t aim her wand at herself. Instead, the translucent mask projected onto Dara.

  “Mask!” Dara yelled. She pushed her wand at her sister, bouncing Crissa’s head backward with a mask of her own.

  Rowen rushed toward Ellis, who looked oblivious to the cloud of flower excrement.

  “Masks—masks—” Sam yelled, pantomiming his plea.

  Crissa and Dara, who still had their wands aimed at each other, also retreated. Soon after, Ms. Ward, Evie, and Pike tumbled out of the smoke and collapsed into the garden. “Evie!” screamed Crissa. She nearly sprinted to her partner’s aid, but Rowen begged her to stay put.

  “What’ve you guys gotten into?” Ellis said, swatting Cliff away.

  “That flower,” Rowen said, between huffs, “is a Flora Furiosi. Also known as the Maddening Herb. Recognize it frem its red petals.” The affected scrutors and their boss let out a flurry of vicious coughs. “It’s in their systems. Let the fumes fade, or it’ll get into yer
s, too.”

  “What’ll happen to them?” said Dara, holding her sister.

  “Don’t remember how lon’ they’ve got, but the spores will fill ’em with rage. We won’t be able to reason with ’em. We’ll need the proper cure to remove the effects.”

  “Hurry—what’s the elixir?” cried Crissa.

  “C-can’t remember.”

  “Try!”

  As if the sudden idea rendered his tongue useless, Sam sped away from the group without so much as a peep. He slid beside the dazzling fountain and used the hanging shell to scoop a small amount of its magical tonic.

  “Drink this. It’ll help you remember. But only think of the flower and the cure. Drown out everything else,” said Sam. He turned to the reporter. “Ellis, we need masks.”

  “But I can only conjure one mask at a tim—”

  “We don’t have the time for this shit! I know you’re a pact,” blurted Sam. “If that’s a rogue wand, then those rules go out the door.” A blank stare covered Ellis’ face. He had succeeded in presenting himself as a wizard, but Sam knew this was neither the time nor the place to fan the flames of his fabricated identity. Dara withdrew the mask spell she put on her sister, and Crissa followed suit. Together with Sam, they stood before the wavering reporter.

  Rowen collapsed to a knee and trembled. Having experienced the fountain’s side-effects, Sam reassured the group. They gave Rowen room to fight through the tonic.

  “Snarlfruit,” Rowen grunted while dry heaving. “The juices in snarlfruit neutralize the rage.”

  “Good man,” said Sam, patting the hudger’s back.

  Crissa lifted her wand and said, “Grand Station—scrutor three-seven-seven. Send all available units to the caves beneath Greenstone Park. Bring healing elixirs and snarlfruit—repeat, bring snarlfruit.”