The Case of the Pitcher's Pendant

by Tee Morris

  A locking charm in a Chicago courthouse, and now a protection spell at the Jefferson Hotel. Who was this third party casting these spells?

  Thrum-thrum-thrum, my fingers drummed against My World Book’s cover. Maybe an afternoon or two of watching the crowds heading in and out of the courthouse was in order. Teleportation portals were tricky to pull off and a lot higher in the realm of difficulty, so I was going to make an educated guess that this drawer-locker and protection-passer—whoever he was—was still using conventional methods like the L and good old fashioned sole-and-heel to get around Chicago. The book cracked lightly as it opened. I took a moment to remember where I had my pudgy nose buried in it last, back when I was tracking the Sword of Arannahs. Finding those familiar, overly-flowery Dwarven runes took me back to my old life, back to that life in Acryonis that I’d not given a lot of thought about until Julia Lesinger had hired me under false pretenses.

  Yeah, she played me finer than a bard’s mandolin, but it wasn’t all bad. I had some fun before things turned black.

  The grin melted off my face when my eyes fell on the script. Apparently, this portion of text had been handed over to one of the Elvish scribes. Lovely. This was not going to be the piece of pudding that I thought it would be. Maybe Miranda was right. I needed rest, and trying to work through Elvish was going to be anything but restful. I would probably be able to pull the basics of their grammar out of my backside, but as far as making sense of it, I might as well have been trying to solve the Riddles of Archeledya.

  “Hey, Billi,” came a groggy voice from the couch. I was so engrossed in the book across my lap that I hadn’t noticed Miranda stirring. She was now sitting up, running fingers through her long, curly hair, taking deep breaths to clear her head. She blinked. “What time is it?”

  I looked over to the clock. I must have been getting better, since I could turn my head to one side and not feel an invisible mace aerating my skull. “It’s eight o’clock, sweetie.” The slur in my voice reminded me that I was still not in the best of shape. “How about you get yourself home?”

  “Nice try, Billi,” she scoffed. “I’m going to make sure you stay in bed. Doc Roberts gave me the directions on what you should be taking and how much of it to mix in your food. You hungry?”

  My stomach spoke for me. I returned my eyes to Miranda, who was already on her feet.

  “I’m going to take that as a ‘yes’, and it just so happens I’ve got Mick’s special in the icebox. I’ll heat it up on the stove and get something in that stomach of yours.”

  True Guardians, Mick and Miranda, I thought as I listened to the clicking of the stove and the crumpling of paper bags. With the clatter of utensils and pots, the rumblings in my belly chimed in with their anticipation of the heated up lunch (or was it dinner?). This was definitely out of character for my girl, but so was me looking and feeling like a wad of chew-leaf ground into the sole of a combat boot. Don’t get used to this royal life, chided that little voice inside my head.

  So, back to My World Book…

  The headache growing in my noggin started to subside as I concentrated on the Elvish script. Maybe it was just a trade-off of one headache for another. The words, grammar, and conjugations of this overly-complex language were finally starting to fall into place by the time the chili was heading my way.

  Talk about lousy timing—either enjoy the realm’s greatest chili, or save the world from a talisman of dark magic. Decisions, decisions…

  Another protest from my stomach sealed the deal. The world could wait while I tried to eat. If anything would motivate me through the pain, it would be Mick’s Chili of Supreme Healing.

  More proof that the rest I’d gotten between Doc’s visit and this warmed-up meal was already helping. Opening my mouth didn’t hurt as much as it had before, and I could chew without too much pain. Miranda finally started breathing again when my spoon struck the side of the bowl. I wasn’t sure what Doc Roberts told her, but I’ve…

  Have I been worse? Maybe I’ve been in worse situations, but this kind of a beating was hard to call. That friendly protection charm, I won’t argue, could not have happened at a better time. Another few slugs from whoever was clobbering me would have done me in.

  With the empty bowl heading for the sink, I returned to My World Book. It was a line of script using the words “speed” and “strength” that had caught my attention, and now I needed to crack the rest of the passage. A headache was lingering in the back of my skull, but it was hardly an issue by the time I had the stanza figured out.

  Lo, for ‘twas upon the twilight of the Solstice that the Pendant of Coe was cast. While modest in its fashion, yet still bestowing reverence to the Nine, the Pendant of Coe grants unto those who wear it a strength and agility (Okay, so I thought “speed” and I was wrong. I told you my Elvish was a bit rough around the edges!) beyond that of those not born of The Touched.

  The Touched. Yikes, did that bring up some bad memories and a few old grudges.

  Elves called themselves Children of The Touched. Being born of The Touched meant that you were born of Elven blood. Pure blood. It also meant that you possessed spellcasting abilities. For the longest time, the Elves thought they were the only ones who could possess and control such power.

  Yeah, you could say they carried a bit of the hinktyass air about them.

  Then it was discovered that a few of the Dwarves, Humans, and even some among the not-so-cordial races were also born with spellcasting abilities. Suddenly, the Elves had some explaining to do to themselves. After all, they were The Touched. Granted, the entire Elven race was born with magic in them, while among the other races, it was only a select few. Elves took a few generations to reconcile this, and finally they settled on calling these rare spellcasters in other races The Beloved of the First.

  Cute, but it was going to come back to bite them in their perfectly-formed asses.

  These “Beloved” were invited to study at Elven academies, a gesture of respect and reverence. It seemed at first like a really nice mixing of cultures, but soon enough it was more than just the cultures that were mixing.

  In pleasant company, Elves referred to these impure offspring as Outcast of The First. Between themselves, they came up with the slur “Crossblood”.

  Nice. Especially when The Touched discovered that quite a few Crossbloods possessed some seriously powerful magic.

  Touché.

  The Pendant of Coe knows no boundaries to what it blesses upon its bearer, so long as the desire is strong and no doubt lingers within. So shall the brothers and sisters within the bearer’s reach—physical and spiritual—also rejoice in its power. It can, provided the confidence is true, also conceal those who possess it from adversaries. How’ere, those of The Touched shall see through the veil to the bearer’s own nature true.

  Speed and strength. Completely limitless. Not only to the wearer, but to those around them. And if the wearer was particularly savvy with the Pendant of Coe, he could disguise himself from the world.

  Could the Pendant of Coe be the lucky charm for the Baltimore Mariners? It was high-level magic, not raw talent, that kept them in the Sports headlines. That much was a given.

  The Pendant of Coe could also be what was keeping Trouble living high on the hog.

  “Kid, if you got a problem with how I’m running the show, then maybe you should think about hanging it all up, you know? The game, the lifestyle, the dames…”

  “Running the show? You? Yeah, tell me another one.”

  Scooter’s unexpected display of balls made me smile again. I heard in his voice that same mantra the blákora (Dwarven word for greenhorns) would mutter for a full day before a charge. Work up that courage, and then let it fly at the call of the horn.

  I was still nowhere closer to figuring out who was sponsoring the little outings by this troublesome quint—excuse me, quartet. That murder was a real question mark, too.

  “What happened to Bill was—”

  “A hard le
sson learned on Bill’s part.”

  “That was a warning! A warning to all of us!”

  A warning? Or maybe a reminder of who was in charge? The headlines were showing a sudden shift from bank jobs—which, in this day and age, were truly a hit or miss—to high profile heists. Museums. Galleries. Jewelry stores. And the latter weren’t random hits. Trouble, it seemed, were after particular items.

  I grunted as I shifted in bed again. The chili had hit the spot, and my body was starting to settle in for the night, but I didn’t want to go to sleep just yet.

  “And don’t ever—don’t ever—think I’m not calling the shots around here, ‘cause I am. He’s not the only one with connections. You follow?”

  Sammy had connections, did he? Connections big enough and tough enough that he had some sway over a killer, a killer not in the least bit disturbed over shaking up the sure thing that Trouble and the Baltimore Mariners were delivering. Whatever these dinks were into, possession of that pendant would make them unstoppable.

  The Pendant of Coe knows no boundaries to what it blesses upon its bearer, so long as the desire is strong and no doubt lingers within.

  Unstoppable.

  Someone else was calling the shots. In fact, I was starting to see a web rivaling a Hurrenheim mountain spider’s in artistry. Sure, Sammy was the lead Ogre, but Sammy didn’t strike me as a purveyor of fine art. The silent party that they’d been speaking of, would be someone who understood art, or at least understood it well enough to know which pieces were valuable. This unseen partner would also be someone who understood criminals, or at least understood them well enough to be able to handle crooks like Sammy, Joe and Scooter. Then there was the control over these crimes. One score per city. No crime sprees or anything like that. Just the one big job, and then onward to the next stop on the game schedule. With that much power to tap into, why not enjoy it for everything it was worth? Why stop at one job?

  Fighting the sleep was starting to hurt now, and I think Miranda could see it on my face.

  “That’s enough, Billi,” she gently chided, removing My World Book from my lap.

  I had forgotten she was there. The radio was playing, a single light was on by the couch, and the marker I had noticed earlier tucked in between her book’s pages now rested on top of its closed cover.

  “So, you finished it, huh?” I smiled, lifting my chin up ever so slightly. “Told you he was good.”

  “A role model for you, obviously,” she scoffed while adjusting the pillows. “I’ll be on the couch if you need anything. Okay, boss?”

  “Miranda, you don’t have t—”

  “Yeah, I do,” she said. “I have to because it’s the right thing to do. So, get some sleep. This case isn’t going away tomorrow. It’ll be here when you wake up.”

  The Baltimore Mariners had one more game at Wrigley, postponed for now; but that sand was quickly filling the bottom chamber of the hourglass. Once the game was done, it was back on the road for the team. I was heading into the bottom of the eighth. I needed to get my pitching under control, or Trouble would send my next pitch out of the park.

  And me along with it.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Dream a Little Dream

  There’s not a lot of difference between the perfect swing of a bat and the perfect strike of an axe. Slicing through armor can, if your swing is off, send you a pretty nasty shock. If the head of the weapon comes in at just the right angle, the impact is distributed evenly and you feel nothing. The poor sap on the other end, though, feels quite a bit. At least, for a moment.

  A good hit against a fastball is the same thing, too. The crack of the bat sounds like the snap of a whip. You might feel the slightest tingle in the grip, but the sensation doesn’t jar you. It’s a bit like jumping into a lake early in the morning. You’re invigorated. Reborn. Alive.

  Then there are other kinds of base hits when you catch the “sour” spot of a Louisville Slugger. Folks love talking about the sweet spots of a bat, but rarely do you hear people talk about the sour ones. Those are the points where the ball connects and deals a bit of payback by sending a shock through the wood, the kind of shock that stays with you as you’re hustling to First Base. No matter how tightly you ball your fists, the tremor is still in your hands, under your skin. Your legs are fine and all, but that shock can tap you somehow.

  There’s the real mastery in swinging an axe, just like swinging a bat: avoid the bad angles and you avoid the sour spots.

  That was the real joy of brandishing an enchanted battle axe. There was no sour spot, no bad angle. The axe head just kept on cutting down opponents like the sharpened scythe of Old Man Death. Conventional battle axes were better against leather armor, but to go through anything metal required a solid swing and a lot of power behind it. Cast an enchantment, and the only way to avoid that blade was to not be in its path.

  At least, that was the way it was supposed to be. Magic had a lot of rules around it, and things were just supposed to work without fuss provided you followed said rules. I was finding out that even if you followed the laws of sorcery to the final character of the spell, those rules had rules, too. It was one of those conditions that wizards and mages would tell you about just as the dragon shit was striking the chandelier. “Oh yes, the blade will never need sharpening, but there will be those times when a spell corrupts itself. And that can happen at any time.” Are there any warning signs to this sudden corruption? “Sadly, no. It’s just something that happens.”

  And people in my world wondered why I didn’t trust magic.

  In this battle, that whole “corrupt spell” kept crossing my mind as I cut through armor of all types. By the tenth kill, my hands were in some serious pain. I wish I could say they were numb from all the shock coming through the axe grip. No such luck. The shock was creeping up my forearms, and if it reached my shoulders I was going to be in a lot more than just severe discomfort. Still, when you and your boys are facing off with a line of Goblins, you have to fight through the pain. Otherwise, the Goblins will fight through you. Pretty strong motivator, if you ask me.

  My teeth clenched so hard that I swore they were on the verge of shattering in my mouth like a fragile vase dropped from waist height. The shock was past my elbows now, the pain working under my skin and around my muscles with unseen tendrils that continued to contract. It was getting harder and harder to breathe. Just keep swinging, I thought as I knocked two more Goblins back. Keep swinging!

  The pox-marked, wart-decorated face of the enemy rose up in front of me, screaming its fool head off. Like that was supposed to intimidate me or something? My axe came around and connected hard with the vermin’s gut. If the enchantment had been working properly, it should have cut him in half. It did lift him off the ground, sure; and the blow got him out of my way.

  What made no sense to me was how this Goblin was getting up.

  Before I could see how it was keeping its entrails inside its body, I heard another one creeping up on my left. I delivered what should have been an effortless backhand, but that tingle of pain crept higher up my bicep. The Goblin fell, but his damn head was still attached.

  Okay, now I was in trouble.

  I twirled the bat in my hands and stepped—

  Wait a minute. Why the hell was there a Louisville Slugger in my hands? This was the Battle of Shri-Mela Plains, and I was defending the home turf against a Goblin horde.

  I heard the crunching of bone against bone, sickening snaps that were accompanied by the gurgling of blood and saliva as the Goblin I’d just clocked brought his lower jaw back into place.

  “You haven’t figured it out yet, Billi?” it asked me.

  The bat, now apparently my only weapon in this fight, came up over my head.

  Then the other Goblin held its mitts up, his armor not even sporting a dent from my earlier strike.

  “Billi, look at what you’re wearing,” this one said with an incredulous shrug.

  Armed or not, looking down at what
you’re wearing when you’ve got two Goblins within reach of you is pretty high on the “So Stupid You Should Die” List; and I’m an advocate for cleansing the particularly thick from the Waters of Life. There was something in the vermin’s eyes, though—black as they may have been—that told me they weren’t really going to take me down or even impolitely nudge me off my feet.

  With instincts screaming against it, I looked down.

  I should have looked up. I should have looked around me and asked why. I should have done something more than just stare at my uniform like a complete and utter mook. Even upside-down I knew that stylized “C” right away. The pinstripes stood out in sharp contrast to the stark white of the jersey and breeches. Sunlight breaking through the cloud cover above us struck the cleats laced snug around my feet, and even with the blood and grime all around me, the shoes were spotless.

  The sunlight grew brighter, and brighter still, so bright that it managed to glare off the reflective surfaces of mud and murky rain puddles. I squinted for a moment, but a quick adjustment of my cap remedied the glare.

  When my head came up, Shri-Mela was gone. Instead of metal against metal, I heard the quick snap of canvas against soft leather, the soft crack of bats sending out pop flies, and the occasional sounds of ball players shouting out encouragement or taunts to one another. Littering the outfield were dead Humans in thick furs, Goblins struggling to breathe with arrows protruding from their chests, and my own kinsmen limping off towards the visiting team’s dugout.

  I finally remembered the two Goblins and returned my attention to them. They were dressed as Baltimore Mariners.

  The one with the loose jaw snorted. “Goddamn, Billi, you really must have been taken to the cleaners. You’re hallucinating.”

  My bat started for it, but I stopped in mid-swing when the Goblin flinched.