Max Quick: The Bane of the Bondsman (Max Quick Series Book 3)

by Mark Jeffrey

  With a cry and a roar of savage pain, Ian made a decision. He turned away from Sasha, Enki and Max — intentionally left them behind — and tore through the crowd towards Casey.

  He reached her just as she fell — still wielding her guns — and scooped her up. He extended the bloodmetal armor around her — at great pain to himself, as the suit sucked savagely on his own beating heart as it did so. At the same time, he became a whirling dervish of barbed wire whips, slashing and gnashing out at the crowd, driving them back. Whenever the whips connected, blood was sucked in rivulets from his enemies into the depths of the devilish iron. Although Ian regretted this, blood gave his suit badly-needed renewed strength — and crowd was not giving him much choice.

  Empowered thus, Ian leapt — and whooshed, slamming through bodies with the force of a locomotive. He carried Casey up and over the wall of the colosseum and away into the desert night.

  MEANWHILE, MAX QUICK had managed to whoosh offstage and into the crowd. But he was delirious and losing blood fast.

  Yet unlike Sasha, Casey, Ian and Enki, the crowd did not attack Max. After all, Max had just saved the Bondsman’s life. He had taken the proverbial bullet for their beloved and be-feared Master. Everyone had witnessed it on the giant screen that loomed above the stage.

  But no one knew what to make of him. They backed away fearfully, as if he were a holy relic. He met several of their gazes squarely as he staggered forward, holding his spurting chest together with his arms.

  “Listen to me,” he choked out. “Your Bondsman is a lie. But it’s my fault he happened to you.”

  Again, nothing more than wide-eyed staring returned to him. A hush fell over the crowd. Most of them wondered what Max had just said.

  “But you saved him!” a woman holding a baby nearby shouted. “You saved our lord and Bondsman!”

  “Yes!” Max rasped. “Because … because shooting him wasn’t the answer. That would only make all this worse.”

  “You’re a hero!” someone else yelled. The crowd murmured in agreement.

  “No!” Max cut them off. “I’m Max Quick. And your world is sick. Sick beyond words. I’m here to change that.”

  At the name Max Quick, a ripple of suspicion rolled through the crowd. And then anger.

  “It’s him! I saw him on TV!”

  The people nearby seethed forward.

  But before they could do anything, Max detonated. Pure fury powered him now, a gale of power that turned him into a column of white fire. He stood there, able to remain erect and conscious only by his power, enveloped in a tornado of argent stars that skirled up the sky.

  Then with a shriek and a clap of thunder, he leapt away — up and over the crowd and out of the top of the stadium — like a comet streaking across the sky.

  The white vortex that was Max Quick ran through the parking lot and then out into the open desert.

  Immediately, the circling Sky Chambers gave pursuit. Shafts of heavy, fierce purple, yellow and green light cut the night, stabbed down at the dervish of agent, tracking him.

  But Max was fast — fast as they could be. They fired at him with energy bursts like gouts of lava; he shrugged off their attack and vaporized anything that came near him.

  He sped away with blinding speed, whooshing faster than he ever had before in his life. The raging meteor that was Max left a black scar on the desert floor as he passed, and twin rising shafts of dust in his wake.

  Time meant nothing. He had no idea how much of it had passed. But when he had gone as far as he could go, and he had no other choice, he turned. He raised his fists, and blasted ragged, burning suns at one Sky Chamber and then another. One by one, they dropped from the heavens, wounded and bleeding argent from their bellies, and buried themselves in craters of sand and dirt.

  When they were all gone, and the skies were dark, Max fled again, feeling at last that even his power would not be able to sustain him.

  His whoosh-blur dropped to a mere mortal run, then a jog, then a stagger.

  The tornado of white light that had enveloped him went out like a blown candle.

  And just a young man again, Max Quick, bleeding, holding his rib cage together with two arms, collapsed. Red spread in the white sand around where he lay.

  Only moments later, a White Cadillac left the thin strip of paved road that snaked through the desert like a long black tar tongue and sped across the raw dirt and scrub, bouncing like a mad thing, raising a smeared dust trail high into the night air behind it.

  It stopped abruptly, headlights beaming down onto Max.

  Dimly, as though a tunnel, Max heard the car door open, and the beep-beep-beep sound of the keys being left in the ignition. Running steps crunched in the sand and headed towards him, and that was the last thing he recalled as the void swallowed him.

  Thirteen: And Introducing Johnny Siren

  THE JOURNEY BACK to accursed isle was far more daunting than Appius had guessed.

  Even with the use of Giovanni’s astrolabe and his deep knowledge of the stars and the maps that only he had — secret maps, that most of the world had lost, but which Giovanni held still in his private collection — even then, the way was arduous.

  The wind was either still and they sat for days on an ocean of glass … or it was wicked, and cold enough to bite the soul in its deepest roots.

  The small ship they sailed was a modern merchant ship, far advanced from the Roman craft Appius was used to. Giovanni had purchased it in a nearby town. Nevertheless, Appius was a hearty seaman; he learned its ropes and tacks quickly.

  Below deck, Ragazzo lay chained to his hammock pole, spending his weary days seasick.

  Every once in awhile Appius brought him on deck for sunshine and fresh air — but only because he feared the boy might become truly ill and die on the journey. But when he saw that Ragazzo was immune to true illness as always, he forced him to work the lines and clean the deck of the muck of the frothy sea that washed over the railings with alarming regularity.

  And then it grew cold.

  Not cold like in the furthest reaches of the North. It was not winter. But there was a sharp bite on the air now, like the crisp snap of an apple.

  The sea rolled in slow, giant mounds all around, lifting their ship up gently to a dizzying, frightening height — and then bringing them back down with a stomach-dropping plummet that nevertheless appeared to likewise happen very slowly. This was under a clear sky, with sharp stars and not even a hint of moisture on the air.

  The sea was toying with them.

  “Have you ever seen anything like this?” Giovanni asked Appius. The master of Cyranus appeared green with nausea.

  “No,” Appius said. “Never. But the way to the isle is surely filled with such accursedness, so I am encouraged that our path lies true.”

  Giovanni nodded. “I have kept us steadily on the heading you gave me.”

  “Then we will arrive when we will arrive. You will know it, when the sun kisses the moon, as I have said.”

  “Appius … One thing only troubles me. This island is on no map that I have ever seen. It does not seem to lie within the ken of mortals. Perhaps you came to it on an accident, a combination of variables that cannot be repeated. Mere direction may not be enough.”

  “I have thought of that as well,” Appius said. “When we left the island, we sailed true for the eastern reaches of the Empire … we should have crossed a brief channel and been there, were mere direction and distance the only forces at play. But we did not: we landed on your shores. There is no compassing how that came to pass.

  “But I have a notion that the boy of the faery folk we hold as cargo will serve as coin enough to grant us passage back. Whether he wills it, or no: he will be the lodestone the moves the stars to swirl and swirl until we rest upon that distant shore once again.”

  “He may need some motivation,” Giovanni said. “We have to be harsher with him than before.”

  Appius didn’t look so certain. “He held up under som
e rigorous torments, Giovanni. Not many a criminal in Rome could even withstand what he did — and I promise, my men and I are masters at extracting information from enemies of the Empire. And he is no stranger to pain: you beheld how scarred he was when we removed his shirt to flog him. His bones are strong, as though mended from many breaks. While he may not age, the rigors of living have not been spared him. And those rigors have turned his flesh to a kind of iron that briefer beings such as we cannot achieve with our shorter span of days.”

  Giovanni barely kept himself from vomiting at that — whether it was from the rising and falling of the sea or his hatred of Ragazzo, Appius could not tell.

  The frigid, frothy oceans all around were a deep bitter blue. And it was viscous, like oil, or lava. The slow motion of the rolling, tall waves was torture of a sort. Mountains of water that rose, rose, rose and fell away.

  WHEN APPIUS WENT below deck that morning to feed Ragazzo (for Giovanni was unable to bring himself even to look at the boy), he was gone.

  His chain lay by the bed, unbroken.

  Somehow, he had slipped the bracelet.

  Appius gaped for an instant. Impossible! Then, he mastered himself and tore through the cabin, overturning every box and stick of furniture.

  They were on a ship at sea, by Jupiter! There was nowhere he could go!

  When he had satisfied himself that Ragazzo could not possibly be in his quarters, or anywhere else below deck, he ran to his own room and flung it into piles as well.

  Then he ran to the deck.

  At once, Giovanni saw the look of alarm on his face. “What is it? Speak!”

  “He’s gone! Ragazzo is gone, I know not how!”

  A rage frightening to behold moiled across Giovanni’s face. Even Appius was taken aback by his demonic countenance. But then Giovanni stamped across the deck, his head snapping this way and that, pushing over barrels and looking inside the coiled lines and folded sails —

  “He is not below deck, Giovanni. I swear it by the Eagle of Rome.”

  Giovanni spun on a heel. “Then where? Where else —?” Giovanni’s heart stopped as he knew in an instant where he had gone. “He’s overboard! He jumped into the water! Quickly! Turn the ship around!”

  Appius did not comprehend at first. But then, he snapped into motion and spun the wheel, eyes on the planet-sized waves rolling around them, searching for a head or an arm bobbing somewhere …

  After half an hour of this back-tracking, Appius called out to Giovanni (whose gaze was likewise fixated everywhere and nowhere at once, searching, searching …).

  “He must be dead! He must have drowned! He could not swim this long in these waves, not even him —“

  “He is immortal!” Giovanni cried out, bereft and filled with grief at the loss of his prize. “He is immortal and cannot die! He may have sank to the bottoms, leagues below. And he may simply walk to shore, dining on fish and crabs as he does so.”

  Appius shook his head. “No, Giovanni. No. He cannot drink of the sea. And even he must breathe! Perhaps he cannot die, but he cannot remain conscious beneath the waves either. When he was among us, did he not need sleep? Did he not need food and fresh water and air, as we do?”

  Giovanni gripped the railing as though he might tear it off. Madness gripped his features. Then, he sagged. “Yes. Yes he did.”

  “Then he is here. Somewhere aboard this ship. He must be,” Appius concluded.

  GIOVANNI AND APPIUS tore apart every nook and hold of their vessel. Appius had to take breaks now and then to make certain their course remained steady, as they had resumed their trek to the isle on the assumption that Ragazzo was indeed aboard. But over a day and a night, they made search that not even the stowaway rats feeding on their supply of grain could escape.

  The waves that plagued them for days receded at last. Not even a breath of wind stirred. The sea became a plate of mirror that reflected the azure sky, two perfect slates of blue that touched only on the horizon that encircled them.

  “He is not here,” Appius conceded at last. “And yet … he must be.”

  “Unless he killed himself. Unless he threw himself overboard,” Giovanni said.

  “No,” Appius said. “I have seen men who wish to end their own lives. He is not that sort. He would bide his time, seek escape — especially on that isle, where his own kind are. He would try to call out to them, to seek their attention, await another opportunity to turn things in his favor.”

  Giovanni nodded. “I agree. He clever and wily and wise beyond imagining. That imp of a boy! He does not seem the type to simply give up his life — especially enduring all that he has and can endure, as you have said.

  “Yet the riddle remains. The sea is certain death. So he is not there. He must be here.”

  “He is aboard the ship,” Appius agreed. “In what manner he is aboard the ship is another question — the riddle we must answer.”

  A WHIRLPOOL APPEARED off the starboard bow without any warning whatsoever.

  The glassy-calm sea suddenly plunged, as though a hole had opened in world. The water turned round and round it, great arms of salty froth and sea, like a great galaxy of ocean.

  The merchant ship lay in its outmost reaches, but it would not be long before it was pulled into the center.

  Giovanni saw that his lodestone spun like a mad thing, whizzing and whirring in the plate of water as though pushed by a tiny demon seeking escape from the small spike of iron filing.

  “Appius! What is this?”

  “I know not!” Appius cried frantically, bounding across the deck to take the wheel. “I shall try to pull us free!”

  A great roaring sound was all around them. Even the clouds above seemed to pull down and bend in from the sky towards the great black hole in the middle of the whirlpool.

  Then came a tick-tick-tick sound like a line pulled too taught.

  A whale jumped from the water, likewise surprised by the whirlpool and trying to escape his fate.

  The merchant ship picked up speed at a startling pace, nearly knocking Appius overboard. She veered towards the center of the maelstrom, the dark heart, the tunnel and hole that led to oblivion below.

  “Turn her!” Giovanni howled in horror.

  Appius grappled with the wheel. But it was like he was wrestling for control of it with a leviathan. Human thew and muscle was not enough for this task. He was flung from the wheel, where it spun again, and the vessel plunged deeper into the center and picked up speed again — and dropped to only several more revolutions from the core.

  Snarling, Appius got up and pounced on the wheel again. His muscles buckled and rippled at the task. A study of human anatomy, Giovanni watched and marveled that his arms were not already torn from their sockets.

  Appius seemed, impossibly, to be gaining ground. He held his own for a sharp intake of breath. And then his invisible opponent seemingly let go, leaving the wheel free for Appius to spin as he wished.

  Giovanni cheered. But then, he felt dismay as the ship bucked wildly and he saw the look of despair on Appius’ face — and understood what had happened.

  The rudder had snapped. They had no way to steer the ship now.

  “Ragazzo!” Giovanni snarled. “He is doing this! Somehow — he is behind this!”

  But Giovanni’s gaze was caught then by the sky, for strange portents and signs were therein. The sun had jumped from its proper place and was moving, tearing in a terrible, unnatural way. It wobbled for a moment, seeming to spin or dance, and then got a bead on a course, which it raced towards in a straight line, directly overhead …

  … And now the moon also rose in the opposite horizon. Pale, pearl and ghostly against the slate sky, it seemed almost insubstantial at first, and then hardened into sharp ivory relief as it raced towards the sun, on a collision course.

  The night sky came out as they met and fused. The stars wobbled in the sky, jittered, like wraiths of flame doing a dance. There was a piercing wail, like the voice of the sky screaming — o
r singing — or both.

  It was unbearable to mortal flesh, Giovanni thought, his eyes would melt, his ears would slough off from the sides of his head …

  And then a thunderclap, or a concatenation of some sort that gave short jab of fierce wind — and it was over.

  The whirlpool was gone.

  And an island stood before them.

  The gentle waves pushed them, spinning slowly still like a top winding down, towards the shore.

  The spires of rock ripping upwards from the heart of the earth and jutting towards the sky were ever familiar to Appius.

  He sighed a sigh of terror that came from somewhere deep in his bones. There was no mistake: they were here.

  THE ECLIPSE IN THE SKY was perpetual. The disc of the moon covered the sun perfectly and did not budge. There was no diamond ring, as there sometimes was with such a celestial event: only a steady corona of burning yellow around a hole of sheer midnight.

  Giovanni knew it was blindness to stare at it, so he looked only once for a fraction of a second. He had lost too much already: blindness on top of it all would be unbearable — for one reason alone: it would preclude his revenge, his gaining at last the knowledge to bring his beloved daughters back to life …

  And perhaps even his wife. Did he dare hope? Yes. Yes, he did. The knowledge of the gods was within his grasp. The key was on this island.

  And Ragazzo was still on this ship, he felt even more certain of that now.

  It was not long before the ship beached itself on a sandbar not far from the land’s edge. Appius dropped anchor, and set about wordless inspecting the vessel.

  Nothing was damaged, save the rudder. And that was repairable, Appius knew that. He could do it using the tools he knew were on this island already.

  Meanwhile, Giovanni retreated to his cabin to think.