by RW Krpoun
“So?” Shad shrugged.
“So why did he set Mister Samuels to watching for us so early?”
“Failsafe?” Jeff didn’t sound like he believed his own suggestion.
“Because the truth was in front of us even without the use of our skills,” Derek said quietly. “Cecil couldn’t be sure we wouldn’t figure it out while on the trip to Wellring and then double back.”
“What truth?” Shad said uneasily.
“Cecil isn’t the foremost authority on the Undead with a yen to see another sphere,” Fred said somberly, staring at the ceiling. “We had it backwards: he’s the Death Lord’s man in the Realm. He’s not interested in going to another sphere, he’s following orders.”
“You’re saying he’s a necromancer?” Jeff frowned.
“No, worse: he’s a mole,” Derek rubbed his face. “An intelligence asset. A cats-paw.”
“So the Death Lords recruit him years ago,” Shad said slowly. “They need someone in Human society to do something for them. He becomes the leading authority on Undead because he’s got a direct line to the Death Lords; that access puts him on the fast track to academic glory.”
“Leaving him plenty of time to focus on the arcane arts,” Derek nodded. “And serves as a perfect cover in case someone becomes suspicious: an expert on Undead, or budding expert, would spend a lot of time in shady places.”
“So he looks like a devoted academic with a smattering of arcane skills when in fact he’s a heavy hitter of a spellcaster on the Death Lord payroll,” Jeff said slowly. “And being very smart and having an exaggerated or incomplete understanding of our reputation Cecil figures we’re smart, too. So he covers his back the instant we leave town”
“Which makes you wonder why he summoned us instead of other groups,” Fred pointed out.
“I think it has to do with our endgame in the Prison,” Derek drummed his fingers on the table. “That made our departure unique. Unique counts for a lot in the arcane arts.”
“So he credits us with being smarter than we are,” Shad said, brow furrowed in thought. “Instead we buy his cover story a lot longer than we should, but we use leveling up to expand our knowledge base to the point where we can suss out the mechanics of his plan without uncovering his true role or the real purpose.”
“Trust us to take the long way around,” Jeff observed gloomily. “He would have been better off not leaving Mister Samuels in place.”
“You know what this means?” Derek grinned.
“Tell us?”
“It means that the final piece, the where, when, and why, can be found in Bloodseep with simple legwork. Otherwise even if we had been brighter about this whole business we would still have to level up to get the requisite skills.”
“No way,” Shad shook his head. “Mister Samuels has been here two months. If the details were here, the book, file, or brain holding it would have been terminated weeks ago.”
“Why would Cecil go through the complex business of framing us when he could simply erase the data?” Derek persisted. “He’s not worried about keeping us alive; what he is worried about is trying to kill us and failing.”
“He should be,” Fred noted from the bed.
“So how could the answer be here? What format could there be that Mister Samuels couldn’t eliminate it?”
“The three little pigs,” Jeff snapped his fingers.
“What?” Derek and Shad said as if a chorus.
“Things which are ingrained into a culture like the story of the three little pigs and the big bad wolf. Or Goldilocks, or Red Riding Hood. Or you could go with Star Wars, or the Headless Horsemen, or books like Moby Dick,” the shop teacher grinned triumphantly. “Things that are so widely known that it is impossible to eradicate the knowledge.”
“Folklore, popular culture, children’s tales, classic literature,” Shad mused. “Stuff most people know at least a little about.”
“Makes sense,” Derek nodded.
“A starting point, anyway,” Jeff nodded.
“Let’s back up a step,” Shad suggested. “Why did the Death Lords want with a Human plant, and why is he trying to get to the Isle?”
“Who says he is?” Derek asked. “We’ve assumed that Cecil wants to go, but that is just a guess. Maybe he wants to send something or someone to the Isle.”
“You know, I’m beginning to see why he chose us,” Shad shook his head. “We’re hell in a fight, but we’re not the head of the class in the thinking department.”
“We’re not the brightest,” Jeff agreed. “Nothing new there.”
“So we look for a prophecy or tale that involves travel to other worlds, Undead, or outlanders,” Fred steered the conversation back to the topic.
“OK, we’re cooking,” Shad rubbed his hands together. “Besides the usual charms and hex sheets, Derek will work out the time and area as planned. Jeff, you work up a list of Tek pyramids that have been knocked out by the Death Lords. Fred and I will investigate legends and folk tales, especially grim end-of-world ones. If Fred is right the Death Lords have been setting up this play for years, so its not just a routine operation.”
“So the time of hookers and beer has ended,” Jeff sighed.
“Mostly,” the Shootist nodded. “We’ll try to get a little recreation in, but the background music at this point is Europe playing ‘The Final Countdown’.”
“Good song,” the Jinxman nodded.
“Great, now it is stuck in my head,” Derek moaned.
The Black Talons slept until noon, and after a quick lunch Shad and Derek loaded up all the loot onto Durbin and began the process of converting it to cash. It was mostly jewelry and weapons taken from Tek and Hobgoblins, but it sold readily enough, particularly if the seller was willing to lug the items to several potential buyers. Since Durbin was doing the lugging that was no imposition on the two Talons.
Shad was leaning on a lamppost feeding strips of freshly-baked flatbread to the mule while Derek haggled with a pawn shop owner; a grimy young boy of around ten approached him, a sheaf of papers under his arm. “Copy of the Standard, sir?”
“Sure. What’s the tariff?”
“Five reales, sir.”
Shad sifted through his pocket change. “This is for the paper, and this quarter-duro is for a question: do you know of a slender man in his forties who goes by Mister Samuels? He’s not from Bloodseep.”
The boy accepted the coins and handed over a copy of the newspaper. “I don’t, sir.”
“Tell your friends that the Black Talons will pay five duro for news of this man, fresh or old. And a thorough thrashing for lies. We’re at the Dancing Drover.”
The boy tipped his straw hat. “I’ll ask around.”
Shad was pacing angrily when Derek emerged from the pawn shop hitching his money belt into position. “What’s up?”
“Not in the street,” the Shootist snapped. “Let’s get this stuff sold.”
“OK,” Derek checked his notes. “We’re almost done.”
Fred was cleaning his guns and Jeff was polishing his boots when Shad burst into the loft, Derek hard on his heels.
“We’re idiots,” the Shootist slammed a newspaper down on the table.
“That’s not news,” Jeff shrugged. “How are we going to work out hiring girls? I’m not into public displays.”
“Shut up.” Shad lifted the newspaper and slapped it down again. “How come none of us paid attention to the fact that there is a paper in this town?”
“You already answered that,” Fred peered down the Sharp’s bore. “What is in the newspaper?”
“A couple things. One is that the burglary of some landmark museum in the capitol remains unsolved, and the second is a list of the items taken. One of those happens to be the Staff of Worlds.”
“That sounds interesting,” Derek observed from where he was sitting on his bed counting money.
“It’s very interesting. The Staff was part of a display of rare Tek items seldom o
n public display; it is described as being made from the primary wing strut of a greater wyrm, or Dragon, with various rare or unique accouterments attached.”
“There are no dragons in the Realm,” Jeff interrupted.
“No shit, Sherlock. The Tek believe that the Staff was part of the effort that created the Realm; it was captured from them forty years ago during the famous campaign blah-blah-blah. It was on display as part of the forty-year celebration.”
“Crud,” Derek tossed a heavy coin from hand to hand. “Forty years fits-if the Death Lords wanted it, a respected academic with an unusual amount of arcane skill would be a major asset in securing it.”
“Especially if the extent of his arcane skill wasn’t known,” Fred agreed. “How long has Cecil been around?”
“He graduated about thirty years ago,” Derek said. “Give or take a couple, I don’t remember exactly.”
“Close enough,” Jeff nodded. “They probably recruited him just after he started attending the University, like the Soviets did with the spies they packed into British Intelligence. With their help he becomes a major academic while having plenty of time to devote to magic-use on the sly. When he’s ready, the next time the Staff comes out of the vault it gets grabbed.”
“Are we sure that the Staff is right item?” Fred asked.
“It was the showpiece of the display, described as the most precious artifact the Tek possess,” Shad shrugged. “And it is made from a beast that isn’t found in the Realm. And get this: the theft occurred while we were heading out with the Expedition.”
“After Cecil had his power-draw from our return,” Jeff nodded. “Why is it still in the paper?”
“They run regular updates on the story, it’s like the Great Train Robbery or Paris Hilton going to jail.”
“That’s why he couldn’t leave us alone in Bloodseep: sooner or later we would hear people talking about it,” Derek shook his head “Or we would notice the newspaper.”
“The good news is that there is a hefty reward for the items and the identity of the thieves,” the Shootist dropped the paper onto the table again and sat down. “Which means it would not look odd that four men such as ourselves would be asking a few questions about the matter. Now Fred and I check into the Staff and the other stolen items, Derek gets us the date, and Jeff the place.”
“Mister Samuel will try to stop us,” Derek warned.
“Yeah, but next time it’ll have to be brute force because we’re not leaving him other options,” Shad shrugged. “That’s more our strong suit.”
Chapter Fifteen
Two days later the Black Talons held a council of war after their evening meal.
“OK, Fred and I have confirmed it, the Staff is Cecil’s ticket. Its credited as having been created by one of the original banished magicians, which means the Old Powers we heard so much about in the Prison. The Tek believe it was the keystone of their ancestor’s breakout attempt, and it was their most prized possession.”
“So how did the Protectorate get it?” Jeff asked.
“Get this: the Death Lords hit the Tek hard, knocked out several pyramids. The Tek ground the Death Lords down, but they had to move the Staff to a more central location. Along the way they run headlong into Protectorate troops.”
“Cecil might not be the Death Lords’ only player on the score card,” Derek observed.
“Exactly,” Shad nodded. “I don’t know what the Death Lords want with the Staff, but you can bet it will be very bad.”
“My money is on some sort of interaction with the Rift,” Fred said, stroking his goatee.
“Well, it’s moot because we’re going to grab the damned thing, kill Cecil, collect the reward, and live like kings until spring,” Shad grinned. “Then we pop three Death Lords and go home in time for breakfast, brunch at the latest.”
“I’ve never had brunch,” Jeff said thoughtfully.
“So: Derek, what’s the date?”
“The window opens in forty-six days, and stays open for forty-odd hours.”
“Jeff, the location?”
“There’s only one empty pyramid that fits,” Jeff tapped a map. “Depending on the route it’s a little less than four hundred miles. Figure twenty days’ easy travel, less if we suffer.”
“What about the Death Lords?” Fred asked. “They’ve been working on this project for decades; won’t they have every self-propelled set of bones stacked shoulder to shoulder around the pyramid?”
“That’s the beauty of it,” Jeff grinned. “Once the Flame goes out there’s a…well, call it an arcane meltdown. Any Undead within a couple miles is fried, and the area of effect only withdraws as the core cools off, which takes years.”
“Which explains why the Death Lords haven’t knocked out the entire Tek nation,” Fred nodded. “They lose their whole army at each pyramid and have to rebuild.”
“Which is another reason why they needed Cecil to be handy with arcane mojo,” Derek explained. “To summon us, and to do the deed at the pyramid where their powers are largely useless.”
“Its fitting together nicely,” Shad nodded. “Of course, nothing stops Cecil from hiring mercs.”
“We can count on that,” Jeff agreed. “And no doubt there will be Death Lords and their entourages running interference along likely avenues of approach.”
“OK, now Derek and Jeff focus on hex sheets and charms, you need to be completely prepared before we ride. Fred, you study the maps and pick the best route to take to the target; I would be willing to sacrifice time for safety, within reason. How much time will you guys need?”
“Five days,” Derek said. “We’re still in pretty good shape because we haven’t used many hex sheets or charms since the down time with the Roman Nose people, and we both cranked out a few on the trip home.”
“You guys are the experts. I’ll upgrade all our ammo to silver-cored and do the shopping, so make up lists of what you’ll need. What about the placets?”
“I worked up six out of the stuff we captured.”
“OK, one apiece and roll for the other two.”
Shad won one of the extras, allowing him to proof his shotgun and last Colt from anti-ammunition hexes. Fred won the other extra and put two damage bonus increases to his Yellowboy, one specific to Undead. Jeff put a damage bonus to his Winchester and Derek added one to his Le Mat.
“I wish we could level up before we do the boss level,” Derek sighed as he prepared to derive the placets.
“We’re as tough or tougher than we were when pulled the final op in the Prison,” Fred pointed out.
“Yeah, and look how that turned out,” Jeff shook his head.
Shad was in the market buying saddle soap and gun oil while Fred looked for a new pair of boots. Noticing a group of Sivlic setting up a display of handcrafted artwork, bundles of herbs, and similar trade goods, he spotted Jedant, Uttle’s aunt and walked over.
She seemed pleased to see him when he greeted her. “Black Talon! Is very good seeing you!”
“And you, Jedant. May I speak to you a moment?”
“Of course. You are…friend of the Sivlic.”
“My friends and I are heading north, past the Agram Hills and beyond the Eldiston Mountains. We were wondering if your people travel that far north?”
“Yes, but not…many times often.” She called over a male who appeared to be in this thirties, a surprisingly tough-looking specimen. “This is Weehawk, he is a…travels often. He speaks better than I.”
“Hello, I’m Shad,” the Shootist offered his hand, which the Sivlic took for a quick shake after a long hesitation. “My friends and I are going north, up past the Eldiston Mountains, and we were hoping for information on the area to be crossed, the peoples there, that sort of thing.” He glanced around. “And we would appreciate it if none of you mentioned what we are asking about. There are bad men who are hunting us.”
“I understand,” Weehawk spoke the language with much more confidence. “There are many bad
men in that direction. Are they the same bad men?”
Shad was surprised. “They could very well be-I don’t know anything about the conditions up there.”
“There are bad men loading many things onto flatboats and pushing them downriver on the Danel River through the gap in the Agram Hills and the pass in the Eldiston Mountains. They chain the butra boatmen to the boats.”
“What sort of things are they shipping?”
“Many supplies and trade goods, but they are not traders.”
“Huh,” Shad rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Do they always load the supplies at the same place?”
“Yes, and the empty boats come back and wait there; it is a butra village, but they hold the butra like slaves. Why would the boats come back empty? Not far beyond the mountains is the sea, and there are many things to bring back to sell from the villages there.”
“They are not traders,” Shad glanced around to ensure Fred was still trying on boots. “They are supplying men who are doing a bad thing on the other side of the mountains.”
Weehawk nodded thoughtfully. “You plan to stop these bad men?”
“If we can; we are but four men. Are there any Celts near the mountains who might help oppose bad men?”
“No. But the Bloody Sash Celts who live in the mountains will keep a bargain, and they would kill their own mothers for rifles.”
“Could it be that they might be helping the bad men already?
“No, Long Sun Celts have been seen on the flatboats, and the Bloody Sash hate the Long Sun.”
Shad pulled out his journal. “I will gladly pay you for the location where the boats wait, and for how one deals with the Bloody Sash.” A thought struck him. “Would any of your young males who travel be interested in earning some money? Nothing violent, of course.”
“So that is our plan?” Jeff sounded dubious. The Black Talons were gathered in their loft on the evening of the fifth day after the council of war. “What about Mister Samuels?”
