by Garon Whited
I made it?
This case of mistaken identity is going a bit far. I wish to heaven I could meet this joker who looked like me. Or I look like. Whatever. I wonder how I would know the difference between him and a mirror. Wittier conversation, perhaps.
I left Firebrand on the table and moved to lie down on the bed, still thinking. Hands behind my head, I looked at the ceiling and thought about it for a while. Presently, I fell asleep.
It was the same night when I awoke. I had a headache roughly the size of New York. Maybe Los Angeles. Large enough to be a whole new state. I groaned and put my arm over my eyes; something clanked as I did so.
“Aha!” came a voice. “It’s awake.”
I muttered something about it being open for debate. Then, as my head started to decrease in size, I realized I was on the floor—a cold stone floor, not the wooden floor of my room, and I wasn’t wearing anything. As sense slowly slipped into its rather roomy spot inside my skull, I realized my regeneration was working—ergo, something had hit me in the head. Judging by the diminishing points of agony, mainly along the sides and behind the ears. Quite possibly a collection of bludgeoning wounds.
I opened my eyes and sat up carefully. Nothing fell off, but parts of my head felt like they were trying to.
I was in the center of a very large room with a bunch of dark-robed figures; it might have been a meeting hall at one point, or a throne room. There were candles along the walls—not bright and cheery candles, either. Fat, dribbly candles with odd, but not entirely unpleasant odors. They were set up high on the walls, in fresh brickwork; apparently, someone had sealed the narrow windows just recently.
In between and below the candles, there were other prisoners—a bunch of old guys, shackled to the walls. These older fellows watched with varying degrees of interest and terror, but the robed figures had all my attention.
There wasn’t a staff to be seen in the bunch. Nor my sword. But there were a lot of ornate daggers at belts and some very nice rings on various fingers.
I got up. I found I was chained at the wrists, as well as naked. I’m getting annoyed at being undressed by strangers. The chains were set into the floor itself, with enough slack to let me stand with my arms down and to either side, but not enough to move around much. I was also standing in the center of a complicated magic circle, chalked on the floor.
I knew I should have studied the blasted things in more detail.
“Well, you seem to have recovered nicely,” one of the figures commented. I made a rude noise in response while getting a good look at him; the hood of his robe was meant to conceal features in shadow, but that wasn’t doing much to stop my vision. He was a little on the short side and a bit plump. I couldn’t see his hair because of the hood, and he was clean-shaven. His eyes were brown. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him.
I did a quick count of the others and got a depressingly large number—thirteen. Mostly male, with a trio of women, but they were all dressed alike.
“Come, come,” he continued, smiling. “Surely you didn’t expect to wander to and fro over the face of the world without attracting some attention?” His voice sounded somewhat familiar, too, but my skull was still setting itself to rights.
“If I’d wandered faster, it wouldn’t have mattered,” I replied. “So how did you find me, anyhow? I thought I had magical detection pretty much whipped.”
He chuckled. “Indeed! We are all quite anxious to learn your technique; it is quite effective. But while you are relatively immune to magical detection, you can still be seen.”
“So you put out an APB on me?”
“Beg pardon?” he asked.
“You sent out a lot of spies?”
“After a fashion. Birds, mostly. You’re quite a devil to keep in sight, you know.”
I shrugged. “I blame my horse.”
He smirked. “That is part of it, I’m sure.”
“Speaking of which, where is my horse?”
“That golem you ride is still in Eastgate, as far as I know; we did not even attempt to capture it.”
Great. That meant we weren’t in Eastgate.
“And my sword?” I asked.
“Still on the table, I believe. You are the subject of our interest.”
I sighed and sat down; there was plenty of room to stretch out, if I wanted. “Which brings us to business, I suppose. What do you want?” My skull was still bothering me, but it was down to a deep-bone itching as it finished knitting back together.
He chuckled outright. “Why, your blood, naturally.”
I felt very cold. I doubt it had anything to do with the temperature.
“My blood?” I asked, and I didn’t like the squeak in my voice. Well, I was naked and chained in a magic circle at some unknown place with a coven of magic-workers who wanted my blood. I think I can be excused for a little anxiety.
“Not all of it,” he pointed out. “Just samples.”
“Dare I ask what for?”
He lifted a hand and stroked his chin for a second. “You are immortal,” he stated.
“After a fashion,” I agreed, cautiously. “Proof against age, I’m sure, but I can still be killed.”
“We are interested in becoming immortal.”
“It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”
“You do not wish to be?” he asked, looking startled.
“It’s okay. All things considered, I guess I have to say it’s been a positive experience. But I don’t recommend it.”
“Well, we will try to avoid the vampiric portions of your immortality. We hope to make an elixir of youth, or at least an elixir that will stop or slow aging.”
I thought about it. That didn’t sound so bad. At least it wasn’t like handing over thirteen magician-vampires into the world… which, all things considered, wasn’t necessarily a bad thing around here. It would certainly give the Church a baker’s dozen headaches. Which gave me an idea. If I could find people of suitable temperament to turn into vampires, it might work out. Later. When I was loose again. If I ever was loose again.
But if these bright lads did manage to make a potion of age halting… well, it had better be permanent, or they’d need a steady supply of vampire blood to keep making more. Hmm.
“How much blood do you want?” I finally asked.
He looked momentarily vexed. “I do not know,” he admitted. “Enough to perfect our formula.”
I had a nasty, sneaking, evil suspicion. “You mean to keep me as a supply of vampire blood until you have your potion all worked out, don’t you?”
There was some shuffling and muttering among the others, but the leader nodded.
“You’ll pardon me if I say I find that incredibly offensive?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“You’ll also understand I’m already a trifle upset about being kidnapped and bound here.”
“Naturally. We had no choice, however.”
I bristled. “No choice? Whatever happened to a nice, polite request? Did you try that?”
“You might have said ‘no,’” he answered, reasonably, “and would undoubtedly have wanted to know why. It would have revealed too much of us, and we cannot afford to be revealed.”
Lights came on in my head. “Experimenting with vampire blood can’t be sanctioned by the Church; I doubt fiddling with your lifespans is looked on with great favor, either. And if you’re already worried about being found out, then I bet you’re all probably wanted, dead or alive,” I guessed. From their reactions, I could tell they didn’t like my guess. The leader accepted my guess with good grace.
“True enough,” the leader admitted, unruffled, “although there are none who know of these offenses. We extend our lives by using the time allotted to others.”
The fact he was willing to tell me that did not bode well for my future freedom.
“But the Church—especially the Hand—would be all over you if they knew.”
He nodded.
“Then
we are natural allies,” I went on. “I propose this: I need more magical training and some other assistance in my goals. You need blood. We can trade,” I suggested.
He looked thoughtful for a long minute, then he and his buddies went into a huddle. I could hear them perfectly, but it didn’t seem wise to say so. They discussed the possibility and likelihood I was lying to get loose. In the end…
“I am sorry,” said the leader, when the huddle broke. “While your offer is tempting, it is more likely a gambit to regain your freedom. I am sorry,” he said again. “No.”
Without bothering to get up from the floor, I let my tendrils uncoil around me. Several of my captors jerked back from the edges of the circle. The leader stood his ground, but he paled. I’m pretty sure they’ve never seen an actual vampire before. At least, not one at close range and pissed off.
And understand this: I was, indeed, pissed off. A faint throbbing in my blood warned me not to let it get out of hand.
I lashed at the magical confines of the circle. I whipped and beat and tore at it in an invisible cyclone of psychic violence, but it was like using a hose against a wall of glass. My tendrils slid along the inside of the circle like the inside of a bell jar. The floor was immune to my probing, and the containment arched up and over, sealing me into a bullet-shaped area.
I switched tactics; I stood and gathered magical energy. This I blazed as a stream of fire at the leader; the fires fanned out when they reached the edge of the circle, as though striking a force field, and I felt the backwash of heat. A kick at the edge of the circle met the same unyielding force. I was well and truly pent.
I glared. It didn’t have any magic behind it, but it didn’t need to. It was a damn fine glare. I took a slow breath, trying to calm down and quiet the fury inside.
“Now,” I hissed, “I really am upset. You go make a mistake. Just one. Go ahead. And your quest for immortality will be over.”
I think I rattled them. That made me feel a lot better; they weren’t completely confident in their plans, and that gave me a trace of hope. They didn’t say anything, but sidled out through a heavy, brass-bound door. I heard a key scrape and a pair of bars thud into place. I looked around the room again.
“Okay, you guys,” I said, addressing the other prisoners. They were on short chains, each attached to a manacle at the ankle, and I doubted any of them could reach my circle even if they lay down and stretched; the room was sizable. “Anybody got a good way to get me out of here?”
“What’s in it for us?” asked one old geezer. He had to be ninety if he as a day, quite a feat for the local level of healthcare. Most of them were eyeing me with a high degree of fear and mistrust. No terror, but then I hadn’t done much that was visible, aside from the fire; my little cyclone of magical, whipping tentacles of darkness was only visible to people with wizard-sight. And we vampires look just like everyone else—mostly. Predators that blend in with the prey. No wonder people don’t believe in us—and then get utterly terrified when they have to.
“I’ll bust your shackles before I bust that door,” I offered. “You can follow me out.”
“Ehh, I’d rather take a few years off the bastards what done this to me!” he replied. “Can you give me that? If y’can, I’ll figger out a way to get y’out!”
“I plan to kill them. Does that count?”
“Will it get me m’years back?” he asked. Others perked up as we spoke, taking an interest.
“Your years?” I asked, stupidly.
“M’only seventeen!” he replied. “They tooks m’years t’keep theirselves young!”
I stared at him. I couldn’t imagine him at seventeen. I had a hard time imagining that someone could steal the years right out of another person, even though I’d been told as much. I didn’t see, offhand, how it could be done. Nor did I see how to undo it and give him back stolen years.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “If I kill them, your years might just come back, but I doubt it. I just don’t know. I don’t know what they did to you—or, rather, how.”
“Leary?” asked another man. My conversationalist turned to the other fellow.
“Yah?”
“’E’s honest.”
“S’right. Point. Well, we’ll be thinkin’ about it, me and the lads. You’re a magician, then?”
“I’m a wizard,” I corrected.
“Wizard, sorcerer, magician—doesn’t mean much t’me. Y’make magic, right?”
“Well… yes.”
“So what’ll it take t’get y’out? Chantin’ and handwavin’?”
I regarded the circle. It was a fairly complicated double circle; the inner edge kept me contained. Between the inner and outer tracks were a number of symbols. The whole thing was done in white chalk on the smooth stone. It had an air of hasty improvisation, although the symbols were carefully drawn. If they had the time, I’m sure they would have carved them into the floor and poured in metal; chalk could be marred too easily.
“Well,” I replied, “unless one of you is a wizard’s apprentice—anyone?” There were no takers. “Then I suppose the easiest thing to do is to rub out part of the design. Can anybody reach?”
The two nearest fellows laid out, belly-down, and stretched for it; the taller one came within a foot of touching the outer line with an outflung hand.
“I’m open to suggestions,” I offered as the two returned to their positions by the walls.
“If I were a younger man, I might piss on it,” one offered, “but me bladder ain’t what it used t’be.”
I had a momentary vision of someone throwing a chamber pot to my rescue. But no, there were small holes in the floor near each man’s station for a toilet.
I sat back down, torn between laughter and despair. I tried to run a hand through my hair and was brought up short by the chain on that wrist. For some reason, that goaded my temper. I responded by twisting my wrist around so I could grab the links of the chain and pull.
It creaked and thrummed as it went tight, but didn’t break. I stretched it slightly, though.
The fact it didn’t give just made me all the more furious. The throbbing in my blood was back and sounded like a drum in my ears. I grabbed the other chain as well and rose to my feet, hauling against each of them. The links popped against each other under the stress and stretched slightly, but they held.
Back and forth, up and down, pulling steadily and then yanking viciously. I let the throbbing, pulsing anger have a little leash, threw it a bone. I fought with the chains for upwards of a minute before I finally started to calm down. I didn’t feel quite so wound up; it was good to let off a little steam.
I sat down again, leaned over to one side, and ran a hand through my hair; I had a good three inches more reach than before, and that made me feel a lot better.
Everyone was staring at me.
“Mite upset?” one asked, softly.
“Was,” I answered. “Still am, down deep. Looks like I’m stuck here for a while.”
“Yeah, I can see that. Looked like you were ’bout loose, though.”
I shrugged. “Only from the chains. They’re good ones. It’s the circle that’s the real problem.”
“So yer a nightlord, then?”
“Yep,” I replied, brightly. “You’re sharp. Boo. Cower and tremble in fear and awe and all that sort of thing. How’d you guess?”
Someone snickered. The man speaking smiled a little and said, “I heared ’em talking ’bout your blood and bein’ immortal. I guess you could be part elf, but yer ears ain’t pointy. Thought about the tales I heard as a lad and figgered y’might be a nightlord…”
I grinned—showing fangs—and added, “Not the bogeyman you were expecting?”
“Dunno what I was expecting,” he said, and shrugged. “Ain’t seen a nightlord afore. Never had cause t’believe in ya, either.”
“Fair enough. Fair enough. I’ve never been locked in a magic circle before, either, so we’ve all got something new to learn he
re.”
“Y’been dead long?” he asked, conversationally.
“Nope. You been old for long?”
“Comin’ up on a year, I think. Dunno why they’re keepin’ us alive an’ old.”
“Hmmm,” I replied. “Could be they’re just… well… switching ages with you, spreading out the total years, I guess. If you die, everybody probably gets those extra years handed to them… I’d have to poke around, magically, and see what I can find out. Hard to do in here, though.”
I had everyone’s attention.
“So y’think we could get out from under all this age?” another asked.
“Could be. I can’t tell until I look into it. But if I can, I’ll try and undo it.”
“Fairly spoken; I’m your man. Verg is my name.”
“Thank you, Verg. I am—“ and I paused for an instant, recalling my new title, “—Sir Halar. Everybody know everybody else?” I asked. “We might as well get acquainted.”
So we did. The original speaker had been Leary. I also met Tibal, Jubal, Eddon, Farqh, Theb, Nivan, Dannor, Echa, Sorn, Geisel, and Plud. Most of them had atrocious accents, which reflected a distinct lack of formal education combined with strong regional influences. Farqh and Theb had distinctly foreign accents—foreign to Rethven, anyway. I think they were from Kamshasa—I didn’t ask at the time; I had other things on my mind. I also found out my fellow-prisoners fit into two categories.
The first category was Mercenary, subheading: Lied To. After all, why bother spending a lot of money to buy a slave? Hire a mercenary. You get your victim and you get your money back.
The second category was Inquisitive Dolt. When a smart mercenary decides to check up on the offer of employment, he goes to the employer and asks questions. Or when one goes looking for a missing friend or relative, one asks the would-be employer. Either way, evil, youth-stealing cabals of magicians rarely like answering questions for nosey would-be victims.
“So you’re all mercenaries?”
“Manner o’ speaking, manner o’ speaking,” Leary answered. “A couple is new at it, free lances, fought in a battle or two and determined ne’er t’go back t’the farm.” Jubal and Nivan nodded. “Others is hire-swords for any with the money. Geisel, there, he’s a ratfink if e’er there was one; poison and backstabbin’ is his game or I’m a milkmaid.” Geisel glared through rheumy eyes, but said nothing. “But most of us is just in it for adventure,” Leary finished.
