by R. L. King
The thing was big. As big as a large wolf, at least. Though it did have canine characteristics—four legs, pointed ears, a thick tail that switched back and forth behind it—it was clear it wasn’t a dog, or a wolf. At least not a normal one. Something about it suggested wrongness, though in the faded dawn light Stone couldn’t put his finger on exactly why. It might have been the way it moved: shuffling and uncertain, instead of graceful. It might have been the shaggy patchiness of its rain-soaked, black-furred hide, or the way its gaze locked on Stone and then wandered away as if something had distracted it.
As he watched, heart pounding and the chill of renewed fear seeping through him to join the physical cold already there, the thing took a few steps forward. When it opened its jaws, Stone’s breath caught.
Something in its mouth was glowing.
A sickly orange light shone around its large, pointed teeth, appearing to originate someplace at the back of the thing’s throat.
It growled again, and as it did, the glow intensified. After a moment, an answering growl came from Stone’s left.
Afraid to take his attention from the first one longer than a second or two, Stone quickly turned his head to look in that direction. As he suspected, a second creature had appeared. This one stood farther back, wary, almost as if waiting to see what its counterpart would do.
When Stone looked back at the first one, it was closer.
It stood only ten feet from him now, giving him an even closer look. Aside from the panting tongue lolling from its gaping jaws, it stood still as if carved from rock. Its eyes, fixed on him now, glowed a faint red.
Bloody hell…
A fresh jolt of adrenaline at the sight of the thing drove the encroaching gray fog back again. Stone stared at the creature in horror, unable to move.
Whatever this thing was—wolf, dog, or something else entirely—there was clearly something wrong with it.
Now that it was closer, more of its features came into focus: the scaly, bald patches where its fur had fallen out; the running sores on its legs; the bloated roundness of its belly; the runnels of drool suspended from both sides of its jaw. Though its eyes continued to glow a flickering red, they were only half-open. If Stone didn’t know better—and he didn’t—the thing looked to him like some kind of mutant creature suffering from radiation sickness.
None of that was the worst of it, though: that honor was claimed by the small, vestigial second head that hung at a crazy angle from the left side of the creature’s neck. Only a quarter of the size of the thing’s proper head, its jaws gaped to emit a thick, glutinous strand of shimmering drool. It had only one eye, non-glowing but open and staring off at nothing.
Stone’s heart pounded faster. Whatever the hell this freakish thing was, he needed to get away from it. Perhaps if he moved slowly enough, he could—
He tried to fumble at the pavement again, to dig his fingers into the cracks, to propel himself away from the thing. If it attacked him in the middle of the street, he’d be defenseless. If he could just—
But he couldn’t move.
He focused his will and tried to reach out with his unbroken arm, to grip the next handhold, to shove himself forward an inch or two with his feet as he’d been doing before, but his body simply refused to cooperate.
The thing lunged, leaping toward him with a loud howl, jaws stretched wide.
Almost as if it knew its prey wouldn’t move.
Almost as if it had done something to immobilize him.
Stone, unable to do anything to defend himself no matter how hard he tried and left with no other choice, at last gave in to the inevitable. He closed his eyes and waited for the creature’s teeth to sink into his flesh.
A loud crack split the air, followed by a yell, and then an animal yelp of pain.
Stone quickly opened his eyes to a shocking sight: the mutant wolf-creature was retreating, running far faster than he thought possible on its sore-crusted legs. The second one was nowhere to be seen.
He realized he could move again. Wildly, he looked around for the source of the crack and the yell—whatever had driven the creatures off might be as dangerous, if not more so.
A figure was approaching him from between two of the abandoned vehicles. As it entered the street it picked up speed, striding over to crouch next to him.
“Gods,” it breathed. “What’s happened to you?”
Stone blinked blood and rainwater from his eyes. The figure resolved into a dark-skinned man dressed in rough work clothes. He had short dark hair, a wide, unshaven face, and a crooked nose. His expression as he gaped down at Stone was full of horror and concern.
Stone tried to answer, but he couldn’t make his voice work. The gray fog was coming back again, and this time he didn’t think he’d be able to drive it off. “I—” he whispered, and tried to raise his hand. But then the pain rose again; his thoughts whirled, and his vision spiraled off into nothingness.
6
The first thing Stone noticed, even before he opened his eyes, was the sharp odor of antiseptic.
He didn’t open them yet; his thoughts floated as if down a lazy river, but refused to settle on anything long enough to give him useful information. He was alive—maybe. He couldn’t even be sure of that. Maybe this was some kind of weird afterlife where the air smelled like medicine and the backdrop consisted of a constant muddy hubbub of voices, too far away and indistinct to make out.
Oddly, there wasn’t enough pain. Still some, certainly—an all-over ache that reached down into his bones and gripped hard—but nowhere near what he remembered feeling before. Had that all been a dream? Perhaps that was it. He’d dreamed those men had beaten him up, and those other men had dropped him like unwanted trash in a blasted-out wasteland populated by mutant two-headed wolf-things. This was one of those dreams he had sometimes when he was apprehensive about some magical technique, or reluctant to try it. The wolves were new, but the sense of powerlessness was not. Perhaps he’d never even stepped through that portal at all. Perhaps instead he’d gone out and gotten roaring drunk at some pub, and he’d now awakened in his own bed with a world-class hangover.
But if that were true, why did it smell like medicine? And what were the voices?
He cracked open his eyes as his heartbeat increased.
He didn’t know much yet, but even the quick glance told him one thing for certain:
This was not his bedroom back in Palo Alto.
He blinked a few times, trying to clear his vision enough to get a good look around. Still he had trouble concentrating—the pulsing pain in his head felt like a giant’s fist was in there, rhythmically squeezing his brain—but he forced himself to push past it. He had to know where he was.
He lay in a bed in what appeared to be a large, open room. The lights were dim enough that he couldn’t make out any details, but as his vision came back into focus he saw another bed to his left, a third to his right, and two more across a wide aisle down the middle. The shades on the two windows opposite him were both pulled down, but enough light seeped in to reveal that it must be daytime. Everywhere he looked, the furnishings and décor were old-fashioned, utilitarian, basic: the chipped white metal frame at the foot of his own bed was the type you saw in old movies, the blanket thin and beige, the walls painted pale gray.
Was he in a hospital, or a prison?
He tried to push himself up before remembering that his arm was broken, and probably his shoulder too. He braced for the pain—but it didn’t come. Certainly not as bad as before, at least.
He looked down at himself. Someone had tucked the thin blanket around him, leaving his arms and shoulders uncovered. His shirt was gone, and to his surprise he saw no sign of a cast or bandage on his injured arm and shoulder, though a few smaller bandages covered parts of his chest and arms. What—?
Tentatively he lifted his arm, once again preparing for a shot of pain, but once again nothing happened beyond the general achiness. That, and an all-over rush of fatigue that instantly dropped hi
s shaking arm back to the bedcovers.
“How do you feel?” a female voice asked.
Footsteps approached, and a woman appeared in his field of vision. She looked to be in her thirties, tanned and solidly built, with pulled-back blonde hair. She wore a rumpled white coat.
“I—where is this?” His voice came out croaky, as if it hadn’t been used in a while.
“You’re in the hospital.” She took something from her pocket, shook it, and briskly popped it into his mouth. After a few moments she removed it and examined it.
An old-style thermometer? Stone hadn’t seen one like that in many years. “Er…” he tried again. “Hospital?”
“You’re very lucky. You were badly hurt when you were brought in. If Rylan hadn’t found you in the street when he did, you’d probably have died. Even so, we nearly lost you. It was a good thing Tanissa was making her rounds in the area.” She moved to the foot of his bed and picked up a chart on a clipboard. “What’s your name?”
Stone studied her for a moment before answering. Something about her question seemed wary. “How long have I been here?” With use his voice took on more strength, but he still sounded exhausted.
“Nearly five days. Can you tell me your name, please, so I can put it on your chart? They found no identification on you.”
Five days? He’d been in this place nearly a full week? He struggled to remember anything about being here, but got nothing beyond the grotesque wolf-things stalking him as he lay bleeding in the dark, rainy street. “Alastair Stone.”
There was no mistaking it this time: her gaze sharpened. When she spoke again, her tone hovered between tension and a kind of forced respect. “Are you one of the Talented?” she asked with care.
He blinked. “What?”
“It’s a simple question.”
“Er—” His memory went back to what the three young men who’d attacked him had said. They’d called themselves the same thing. You could be executed for impersonating the Talented. “I…don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so?” Her expression changed again as she narrowed her eyes. “You either are or you aren’t.”
Stone wished the fuzzy fog in his brain would lift more; she was looking at him like she thought he was mentally slow, and right now she wasn’t entirely wrong. “I’m sorry—I’m…unfamiliar with your customs. I’m not from this part of the world.”
Another figure approached—a man this time. He had dark skin, dark hair, and wore a white coat similar to the woman’s, though of a different style. “Is he awake? Did you get anything out of him?” he asked, glancing at Stone but not greeting him.
“He just woke up,” she said. “Still under the pain medication and sedatives. I hope that’s all it is—he might have hit his head.”
“Could be all the worse.” The man’s expression was hard, resolute, and not at all kind. “We need to get him out of here before they send someone after him. He can’t be found here.”
“I told you, Milas—we’re not releasing him until he’s well enough to survive on his own.”
“He’s one of them,” Milas protested, cutting a glare at Stone. “Do you honestly think he’d have done the same for one of us?”
“I honestly think,” she said sharply, “that we’re a hospital—such as we are—and he’s an injured man. That means we’re going to treat him. If they come after him, perhaps they’ll be grateful that we saved him from being eaten by scavengers.”
Milas snorted. “Sure they will. And I’ll be moving into my mansion in the clouds next week.” He glared at Stone again. “We’ll be lucky if they don’t take the place apart, just for spite. Just—patch him up and send him on his way before they find out he’s been here.” He spun and stalked off.
The woman watched him go, then sighed and turned back to Stone. “Sorry you had to hear that.”
Stone tried to sit up, and to his surprise it didn’t hurt nearly as much as he expected it to. “I’m sorry…” he said. “As I said, I’m not familiar with the way things work here. How did you—”
“How did we what?”
He indicated himself. “I don’t remember anything about what happened after I passed out, but…I was dying. I know I was. If it’s only been five days, how have you—”
“Ah.” She nodded once, understanding. “We aren’t without our resources, even here. I’m sure you’re aware that some of your people live among us, and help us with their healing magic. As I said, you were lucky Tanissa was nearby when you were brought in. She’s a gift from the gods. Even still, though, she couldn’t heal everything. It will be a few days yet before you’ll be ready to leave. Unless…”
“Unless…?” Stone’s mind whirled. Your people? What was she talking about?
“Unless your people come after you and take you back to Temolan.”
He closed his eyes, frustrated. “Listen,” he said, trying to sound reasonable. “I haven’t any idea what you’re talking about. I don’t have ‘people.’ I’m not from…this area. I was—visiting, and I guess I blundered into the wrong part of town.”
“Can you tell me what happened to you? How were you injured?”
“Three men attacked me. And then someone else—I’m not sure who they were, but I heard the others call them ‘the guard’—dropped me where you lot found me.”
She tensed. “The Guard? Dropped you?”
“That’s what I said.” He pulled himself up a bit more. “Listen—I’m grateful for your help. More than grateful—as you said, if your people hadn’t found me and sorted me out, I’d probably be dead. But I haven’t got a bloody idea what’s going on here. I came here looking for a man named Harrison, but I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere. Do you know him? Do you know how I could get in touch with him? I’m sure he can clear this all up.” The effort of the long speech drained his meager reserves, and he sank back into his pillow, puffing.
She was staring at him. “Why would the Guard drop you here? Did you commit some kind of crime? But that doesn’t make sense. The Talented handle their own affairs. They certainly don’t involve us in them.”
Stone let his breath out. “Can you explain this ‘Talented’ term you keep tossing around?” Once again, he remembered the three men who’d attacked him. “Are they the ones who can do magic?”
“Of course.” She looked at him even more as if she thought him a slow child. “Aren’t you one of them?”
That was an interesting question. Stone focused on her face, trying to summon a shred of magic power and examine her aura. If he’d been unconscious for five days and the process worked as it had when he’d used Harrison’s magic, perhaps it had recharged by now.
But no—nothing happened. No bright aura shimmered around her, or around his own hand when he held it up. He changed his focus to the chart at the end of the bed, trying to levitate it. Nothing.
So, for whatever reason, temporarily or permanently, he was mundane here. He forced himself not to think about the implications of that—about how if he couldn’t do magic and couldn’t find Harrison, he’d never get home—and instead settled on his current reality.
“No,” he said. “I’m not one of them. I’m not—Talented.” And if those three who beat me up are any example of what mages are like here, I’m not sure I’d want to be. He entertained a brief but satisfying fantasy of showing the three entitled young bullies some real magic, but quickly dropped it. That wouldn’t help him at all.
She gave him a sideways look. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Why is that?”
“Because of your name, for one thing. If that is truly your name.”
“You’re the second person who’s said that to me. One of the men who attacked me did, too. What’s wrong with my name?”
“Are you sure you didn’t hit your head?” She lowered herself into a metal chair next to the bed. “We didn’t find any evidence of concussion or bleeding in your brain, but—”
“I didn’t hit my bloody h
ead,” he said, impatient now. “Listen—why don’t you just treat me like a foreigner on holiday who doesn’t know the any of the customs here. It might make things easier.”
She studied him for several seconds through narrowed eyes, as if trying to gauge ulterior motives. Finally she sighed. “I’ve got other patients to look after—I can’t stay much longer. But I’ll humor you for now, since you’re still recovering from your injuries. The answer is, there’s nothing wrong with your name—if you’re one of the Talented. But you claim not to be.”
“So the Talented have different types of names?”
“Of course. Our names are short and simple: a syllable or two. That’s all we need. The Talented’s names are more elaborate. Like everything else they do,” she added. Contempt crept into her tone, but then she cast him a sharp, fearful glance.
Stone blinked. She was acting as if she expected him to punish her for her words. “So ‘Alastair’ is a Talented name?” Again, his mind went back to the scene of his attack. He couldn’t remember the names of all three of the young men, but one had been something like ‘Kethias.’
“It’s not one I’ve ever heard, but the style is correct.”
“I suppose the customs are different where I’m from, then. Because I certainly don’t have any magic talent.” Not now, anyway, he thought. “If I did, do you think I’d have let myself be dumped half-dead in the street like last week’s rubbish?”
She tilted her head. “You didn’t have a house identifier on you, which is odd,” she admitted. “And your clothes—what was left of them—were all wrong. But…”
“But—?”
“But none of us knew what to make of this.” She reached out and pulled his blanket down, uncovering his chest.
For a moment he didn’t know what she was talking about, but then it dawned. Back home, he’d gotten into the habit of magically concealing the small but elaborate tattoo on the left side, over his heart—the one that helped him channel magical energy more efficiently, so he wouldn’t have to take it from others as often. But now, without powers, he couldn’t hide it. And no doubt about it—the thing would look magical, or at least unusual, to even the most ignorant of mundanes.
