Mightiest of Swords (The Inkwell Trilogy Book 1)

by Aaron Buchanan

  “There are a few stories that have made the rounds, but the simple explanation is: there was some serious shit going on back in his day. Sources disagree, but it had to do with Francis Bacon—who was, allegedly, an arithmancer.”

  “Interesting. Hadn’t heard that.” Gavin took the lead as we dodged tombstones and came to the center monument. We ducked behind some of them as we went in case any bullets started to fly.

  Once at the monument, I tore a piece of paper out of the notepad I carried and began writing out a spell I hoped would be mistake-free and therefore function as intended. “One day, maybe I can tell you the story. But the condensed version is that Shakespeare and Bacon saved England. And probably the whole world from the way my dad always told the story. Problem is,” I squinted, concentrating on what was being written and channeling my will into the spell, “Nobody agrees on who they saved it from.” I finished the spell and waited for something to happen. When it didn’t I assumed I did fudge the spell and tore out a fresh piece from the notepad and tried again. I waited until I finished before I spoke again. “The Seedy Underbelly of the World doesn’t get much press, so it’s not a story that’s nailed down, really. I have my own theories. Maybe if I get to tell you, you’ll have your own too.”

  “Any chance we’ll ever find out the complete and accurate version?” he asked innocently.

  “Probably. The real story is probably written down somewhere and stored in a vault like mine.” I only knew the parts as it dealt with Shakespeare and his quill. It was forged in much the same manner a sword is forged. The feather from which it was made did not match any bird I had ever seen or heard of. Its magic is untraceable and it makes any spell exponentially more potent. Furthermore, there are some spells that can only be written with Shakespeare’s quill because the magic used falls outside the realm of logomancy and taps one of the lost crafts.

  “Speaking of your vault, what’s the story on that?” I heard the question, but found myself attempting the same spell to divine the location of Joy’s body for a third time.

  “They took her.” It was a wispy voice that managed to sound both close and eerily distant. I scanned around and thought it came from the side of the monument, but saw no details of anyone standing there.

  Gavin and I immediately stood up and shifted to look to the right of the obelisk’s base. Gavin placed one of his sunglasses pairs in my hand. I replaced them with the pair I wore and saw the figure standing before us.

  She was definitely feminine. She was outlined in the purples of the magical spectrum. The entire area around her was engulfed in hues of purples to fuschia. When I looked over the frames of the sunglasses, I still could see her, though she remained bathed in a purple light. She was a creature born of magic.

  “Who..?” Any attempts at hiding how taken aback I was was futile.

  “There is not much time. Once you used your magic here, it is possible they were alerted.” It took me a moment to determine what they she spoke of, but thought of our assailant sleeping in the tree notifying his employer. “I am Mania…”

  “Mother of the Lares. Rome’s guardian spirits,” I found myself saying. Yes, I was that kid in school. I was also saying it for Gavin’s benefit and for mine. I thought by saying it aloud, it would help me swallow the reality of her presence. “But…how are you here? You’re a long way from Rome…” The Mater Larum—the mother of Ancient Rome’s minor deities, the lares, was not a spirit to cross in any of the written accounts I had read. I played at being obsequious, but all I could think about were old, obscure stories that hinted at human sacrifice and dalliances with the Underworld.

  “I am the last of my kind. I live here now due to this stone,” her purple-imbued arm gestured toward the obelisk. “Beneath this stone is the milestone tied to all of my children. They are gone. So, now it is tied to me alone.” Mania head shifted from stone to the ground, sullen. I noticed for the first time that I could fully see details in her face—even the monument and ground me. “They are gone now, my children. This place preserves me.”

  “So the Italians who came a hundred years ago brought the stone?” Gavin was not privy to the story Athena relayed to me.

  “Yes. I still had some followers then.” Mania looked to Gavin, then to me in an apparent sizing-up. “Quickly—you are running out of time.”

  “For what? And what do you know about all of this?” I implored. It sounded more like begging.

  “You are the Well-Keeper,” she breathed. “I heard them speaking of you. Your apprentice is alive. They took her.”

  “But she was shot! She died!” I exclaimed, ignoring the Well-Keeper declaration.

  “Not fatally. Yet. They found her pulse and staunched her bleeding. They took her away. I will help you find her.” Mania’s aura shifted from her violet to a fiery indigo.

  I was suddenly overcome by her news and by gratitude. Gavin seemed skeptical, but did not interrupt. “If I write the words, will you augment the spell?”

  “The spell will be augmented by this place. These humans mean to wreak everlasting damage to my kind—and yours. If they could have killed me, they would have. Though it pains me to confess it, I hid for they spoke of killing gods!”

  This meant two things: the pyramid-spike was currently elsewhere, and it was further being used to murder deities.

  “I know. I’m going to stop them.” After a second, I corrected myself: “We’re going to stop them. Let me find Joy and we will end this.” I left out the part that there was a good possibility that these same people were also likely responsible for murdering Professor Hansen and my dad. Saving the gods was not, necessarily foremost in my mind, but however I felt about them, I recognized that helping Athena was what I needed to do. Vengeance was a tacit concern toward the top of my list, no matter what all the books I’d read said about it: the croaking raven doth bellow for revenge.

  “Though I am bound to this stone as both prison and savior, I will help you in any way I am able—bring your apprentice back here immediately when you find her,” Mania directed. “Work your enchantments, Well-keeper, though I think you will need some help.”

  I poured my concentration into the incantation for finding Joy. If I had something of Joy’s this would work instantly. This must be where Mania could render some aid. Almost as if on cue, Mania tore a piece of cloth from her gown, put it in her mouth, and after chewing it like a cud for several moments, set it in the middle of the triangle. “I wiped her blood from this monument and have added some of my own essence.”

  The cloth began to inch to one corner of the triangular pattern I wrote, working like a compass needle. “Got her!” I grabbed the sheet of paper and moved to leave the trivium.

  “Hurry, whoever comes now will be armed. And they…” Mania was interrupted by an ear-deafening boom.

  A gunshot filled the air. I took off the pair of magic-sensing glasses and felt blinded by the sunlight. I shuffled around for the pair of non-bound glasses and replaced them on my head, looking around as I ducked behind a gravestone.

  “Take cover!” Gavin shouted, but by the time he said the words, I was already crouched behind the marker.

  Boom. Boom. Boom.

  Three shots rang in the distance, echoing preternaturally through the trivium. The bullets ricocheted off nearby tombstones. The shots misses lacked the precision of a sniper—these were the haphazard shots of a gunman closing in on us.

  Chapter 9

  We only had moments, so I reached into my pocket and pulled out a Sharpie and a piece of the motel stationery I had folded and put into my back pocket. Time was short, so I relied upon the potency of the trivium and wrote three words for protect in English, German, and Latin.

  I jumped in front of Gavin, holding the single sheet of five-inch-by-seven-inch paper like the world’s most ridiculously inadequate shield. The inherent weakness of logomancy—and, apparently, arithmancy—was an inability to conjure offensive magic. Defense would work for the moment. I glanced around, find
ing no sign of Mania.

  A man in a stocking cap and camouflage clothing—the sniper’s relief, I guessed—evaded the gravestones, running and firing a pistol. He snarled and grunted as he neared us, realizing his bullets were passing to the sides and over us.

  As his clip emptied, he took a step forward, reaching for his next clip. From behind me, Gavin yelled, “Catch!” and three a wad of paper at the man. Though it bounced off him, it landed at his feet. He immediately slumped to the ground; asleep.

  Never in my career have I felt inefficient at my craft. I did then. I was going to have to work on a way to deliver offensive spells. I had long relied on defense, planning, and savvy to defeat the monsters of The SUB. Three days ago, that strategy revealed itself to be woefully obsolete.

  “Quick thinking,” I congratulated him. “I figure you were just going to have to tackle the guy.”

  “Of course you did.” Gavin sounded sarcastic, but also apprehensive. As if he didn’t know what he was going to do until he did it. “Now, where did Mania run off to?”

  A car sped up as it neared the trivium, and I felt a rush of fear that it was more danger headed our way. The car slowed to turn and drove past us.

  “I am shielding us from wandering eyes. We do not need any other entanglements.” It was Mania’s voice from behind me. I turned to face her and saw her kneeling down to the man in the camo, sinking an insubstantial hand into his chest. She bent further over him and put her head over his. The magic-sensing sunglasses were still, somehow, in my jacket pocket, so switched them out with my current pair. The man emitted a greenish hue, but slowly ebbing out of him and into Mania. Seeing her work this brand of magic confirmed some of the old stories the Romans told. The gunman convulsed, but stopped as soon as Mania removed her face from over his. He was dead and I was glad she was on our side. Hopefully, she stayed there.

  I went over to the body and felt around in the man’s pockets. I found another full clip of rounds, a set of car keys, and a cell phone. I picked up the handgun lying next to his body.

  I held the keys and cell phone out for Gavin to take.

  “Looks cheap.” Gavin turned the phone over in his hands. “I think it’s reasonable to assume it’s a burner phone.” He stuffed the keys and then the phone into his pockets. “Got a plan for that?” He looked down toward me, but stared intently at the firearm.

  “I have some ideas. But mostly that there might be more of these guys where they’re holding Joy.” I wondered if I should take a shot at the sniper in the tree, but getting revenge for Joy now was irrelevant. She was alive and we were going to find her. Furthermore, the one who probably shot her was probably the one Mania just made a meal of since he was likely the sniper on the nightshift. Unless there were a third guard back with Joy. Gavin let the matter rest, having allayed his concerns that I would be bent on revenge.

  “Mania, thank you.” The last thing I checked for was a wallet in his back pocket to identify him, but there was nothing.

  “Go now, Well-Keeper.” Her gazed turned from me to the body of the assassin at my feet. The ground began to converge over the man and slowly consume him. I supposed there might be bodies buried at the trivium after all.

  Gavin and I jogged over to where his car was parked. I held the paper with Joy’s search triangle gingerly as I did so. Thankfully, Mania’s saliva and the binding itself made the spell resilient enough for transport. Plus, it pointed to the northeast and away from the town of Trivium. The piece of Mania’s gown moved over the triangle of the incantation slowly—mimicking a slug. I was typically aloof, a fault I willingly acknowledged, but I could not contain my composure at finding Joy alive. As Gavin sped in the direction the spell pointed and I fidgeted mercilessly.

  “You can stop that, please.” Gavin’s irritation rankled me. Surely, he could excuse my excitement?

  “Sorry. She’s my best friend. Only friend, really.” I wasn’t sure if that kind of sentiment would be easy for Gavin to understand, but she wasn’t just a friend, she was my new apprentice and if she were dead, I had no idea what the prospects were for continued logomancy would be if I were to have an untimely demise. Joy was going to make her apprenticeship fairly easy on me. It would be difficult for her, but I would never find such a willing and capable student.

  Not only did I want my apprentice back—I wanted my friend back.

  The cloth-and-triangle led us to an Indian casino some 20 minutes away and off I-88. To Gavin’s credit, he drove like a bat out of hell, shortening a trip that would have taken us several minutes longer. Near the casino, there was a small cluster of hotels surrounding it. The cloth from Mania’s gown pointed to the two hotels on the left. Gavin drove slowly down a service road until we found ourselves in front of a Super 8.

  We entered casually, not taking the time to be discreet. With Gavin following, I turned down the corridor to our left and followed the Joy-compass. Gavin was much more cautious, having stowed the 9mm I looted in his trousers. He also carried the same plastic bag from the gas station that carried paper, markers, and pens. Walking to the end, I took note of how ridiculous he looked and filed away my desire to by an attache case or something. Maybe a brief case in those old Peter Cushing-Christopher Lee Dracula movies that I used to watch with Dad. Instead of a vampire-slaying kit, I’d have stacks of Post-Its, Sharpies, an assortment of inkwells, and a place for Bill’s Quill and an assortment of stationery.

  I stopped in front of room 116. This was it. Gavin, still looking backward, forward, and around us, bumped into me as I stopped. “Hold on.” I put my hand on his arm, reaching for the plastic bag. I pulled out a pen and paper. I wrote the spell, and since we had no adhesive, I licked the back of the paper and stuck it onto the doorknob. As I was licking the paper, the middle-aged occupant of the closest room came out, saw me lick, and promptly re-entered her room.

  I turned the doorknob, but thought better of it. I grabbed a second sheet of paper and scrabbled down a protection spell in my three ancient go-to languages, and held it out in front of me as I prepared to enter the darkened room. The neighbor resumed her exit, took one look at us, especially me, and returned to her room once more. This time, I heard the door-chain slide into place.

  I turned on the lights. I steeled myself for what I was going to see, but wall I saw was Joy unconscious on the bed. Her legs and arms were bound together with duct tape. The right side of her head was swollen, but bandaged. There was still blood emanating from the wound.

  “Do you have a pocket knife?” I whispered, even though Gavin checked the bathroom and ensured there was not a third assassin.

  “No.” Gavin buttressed the door with a chair. I swore I saw that he bought one at the gas station earlier, but if he did, it was not with him. I would add blades to my proposed logomancer-kit.

  I moved to Joy’s side and began to unwind the bandage. Gavin stepped closer and held her head to keep it from bouncing. Joy did not stir in the least. While was not the most astute medical observer, I thought she might be comatose and had been since the bullet grazed her skull. It might also indicate that her brain was swelling and her grasp on this side of life was tenuous. This was why Mania told us to hurry.

  “She’s unconscious. We have to get her back to the trivium.” Gavin had reached the same conclusion. It was possible he even had medical training and recognized her condition.

  “Agreed. Grab her in a second. I have to do something in the short-term. Even moving her right now is too big a risk.” I grabbed my Sharpie and found a clear patch of skin to write a healing incantation. The spell would work through to our arrival at the trivium and once augmented, hasten the healing. I also removed a ballpoint from the bag and wrote on her wrist to cloak her. “Take her,” I ordered.

  About to head back out, I noticed my inkwell on the dresser next to the television. It was out of ink, but at least I had it back.

  Gavin paid little heed to local speed limits going back to the trivium. When we arrived, Mania was waiting for us. />
  “Lay her down, arithmancer.” Mania sounded more substantial now. When she first appeared to us, her voice sounded distant, or, at least, thrown to other locations like a parlor trick. Meanwhile, Gavin did as instructed.

  I began to fish through the same gas station plastic bag and brought out Shakespeare’s quill. The coffee cup placed inside had broken and I found myself wiping ink on the grass next to me. I took the cup with what little ink I could savage by scraping the bag and turned to face Joy.

  Mania was leaning over Joy, performing the same maneuver she performed on the gunman an hour before.

  “NO!” I screamed, stampeding toward her. Gavin grabbed me and held me fast. “What are you doing”

  “Just wait.” His grip loosened, but was still vise-like. “Mania said to trust her. I think it’s, like, magical resuscitation.”

  I did not have ready access to the etched magic-sensing glasses to verify, but I hoped what was happening was a reverse of what I saw her do to the gunman, breathing some of that green-hued life essence into Joy.

  Joy came to a moment later, confirming Gavin’s faith in Mania. He released me and I rushed to her side. Later on, I’d tell her how her would-be murderer’s life was used to save hers.

  As Joy coughed, she used my arm to steady herself and sit up. I cursed myself for not grabbing a bottle of water at some point. While she sat wide-eyed and silent, I took her forearm and used the ink and quill to write a restoration spell.

  Seeing the spellcraft was taking hold I posed the question that nagged at the back of my mind since first hearing it: “Why do you continue to address me as Well-keeper?”

  “22 years ago, your father called upon me here. It was he who first told me that he was the Keeper of the Well, and that those of your lineage are meant to guard and maintain it.” Mania’s voice, I noticed, had a sing-song quality to it. I wondered if that was how she would lure in victims in her distant past.