by Layton Green
She stalked towards the majitsu with the amulet grasped in her hand. Hazir said, “You promised, gypsy. You promised to take me with you.”
“Yes,” Mala said, “and so I shall.”
With a flick of her wrist, she stabbed him through the heart, twisting the blade of her short sword as Hazir’s eyes dimmed and then closed. Wary of some majitsu trick of which she was unaware, she decapitated him to be sure he was dead.
As mortal as I am, she murmured.
She freed the rest of the imprisoned magical creatures. Without further delay, not wanting to spend another second in that creepy gray world, she depressed and rotated the amulet while holding onto the head of the dead majitsu, keeping her promise to the last.
-40-
The members of Val’s coterie spent the weekend searching for information on the winged assassin. Val and Adaira scoured the Wizard’s Library, a beautiful, curvaceous building of colored glass and mosaic tile near the Sanctum. Dida paid a visit to the staff of the Bestiary, and Gowan made inquiries at the New Victoria museums.
No one at the Bestiary had heard of such a creature, and Gowan’s search came up empty. The closest mention Val and Adaira could find in the library was an ink drawing of an eagle-man reputed to have been created by a menagerist. Even if real, the wings of the eagle-man were separate from the body, and Val was sure the wings he saw were membranous, attached to the arms and clawed hands.
Though Val had already checked the Wizard’s Library for information on the Planewalk, he searched again while he was inquiring about the winged creature. While he was at it, he kept a lookout for information on his father.
No luck on any of the fronts. Val was growing frustrated.
“Perhaps someone in the Goblin Market might have knowledge of the winged creature?” Dida offered, as they gathered before class.
“Maybe,” Adaira said, “but I’ve got a better idea. If there’s someone in New Victoria who has encountered one of these creatures somewhere around the world, and lived to tell about it, then they’re likely a member of the Adventurer’s Guild. After Londyn, New Victoria has the largest chapter in the Realm.”
“Are non-members allowed access?” Val asked.
“No,” she said, “and since our mission is discreet, we can’t get a special dispensation from the Council. But there is a pub near the Adventurer’s Emporium—a popular outfitter for their Guild—infamous for the exploits of its patrons. The pub is called The Gryphon’s Beak.”
“Yes,” Gowan said, “I’ve heard of this place. It’s frequented by some of the most well-traveled adventurers in New Albion.”
“Wednesday is Myrddin Day,” Adaira said, “and I’ve functions to attend every night this week. Gowan, I assume your family does as well?”
The pyromancer nodded, and Adaira gave Val and Dida an apologetic expression. “The longer we wait, the more victims there will be. Would the two of you be able to take a night off from your studies?”
Before Val could protest, Dida said, “I’d be delighted. I haven’t explored the city enough during my stay.”
“I can spare an evening,” Val said, annoyed at the prospect of another wasted night, but not wanting to alienate the group.
“Excellent,” Adaira said, her turquoise gaze lingering on his.
The week’s History and Governance sessions expanded on the timeline presented during the first week, drilling down into the minute details of the Age of Sorrows and the Pagan Wars. Terrible atrocities had been committed against the wizard families: inquisitions, torture, burnings, slaughters of entire clans and wizard outposts.
Val finally got the Relics class he had been waiting for, the one dedicated to major artifacts. It was more of a history class, discussing how certain artifacts had helped shape the course of events. While traditional armies and methods of war existed, the trump factor was the strength of the wizards and artifacts each country or kingdom brought to bear.
Disappointingly, they spent most of the class discussing only two artifacts: the Eye of Yidni, an orb whose function Val gathered was similar to a magical, three-dimensional GPS map, providing invaluable information on advancing troops; and the legendary Coffer of Devla, a type of Pandora’s Box for armies that could reputedly sway the entire course of wars. Devlan mystics, of course, claimed the power of the Coffer stemmed from their deity, while Val’s professor scoffed at the notion and claimed that, if it existed at all, it had been constructed by an ancient wizard of unknown origin.
Just before class ended, Val raised a hand. “Have you heard of a sword that can cut through magic?”
Val thought the professor would chuckle or dismiss his question, but instead he said, “You must be referring to Zariduke. ‘Devourer of magic,’ in the native gypsy tongue. Also called Spiritscourge or Spiritwell. Yes, I would certainly place this item in the category of major relics, though its existence has never been confirmed. The Coffer of Devla, for instance, appears in numerous ancient texts.”
Val tried not to splutter his next few questions. “Who made the sword? What was its purpose?”
“Most scholars attribute the crafting of the sword to Salomon the Lost—” the Professor made a wry face—“though of course the details of his existence are up for debate. As the legend goes—and I do not consider the Gypsy Canticles historical texts—that after the astral wind stole Salomon’s son, he decided to journey to the furthest reaches of the multiverse, searching for the source of magic itself—Devla, in gypsy vernacular—to demand his son’s return. To aid his journey, Salomon locked himself in his tower and forged a weapon of pure magic, one that could cleave through spirit itself. Legend holds that he spent a hundred years crafting Zariduke.”
“What,” Val swallowed, “does the legend say happened to it?”
“According to the Canticles, when Salomon failed to find his son after a thousand years of searching—hyperbole and rounding off years are of course common mythological themes—the arch spirit mage became so distraught he tossed the sword into the Place Between Worlds, leaving its fate to the astral wind. I’m curious; where did you hear of the legend?”
Val swallowed. “Just something I read.”
On Thursday night, Gus left Val and Dida on a cobblestone street fronting a row of brick buildings in the commercial district, near the edge of the Guild Quarter. The Gryphon’s Beak was wedged between an apothecary and Lareck’s Alchemical Supplies, just down from the Adventurer’s Emporium.
Val was exhausted from his studies and decided to make the best of it, hoping for a good meal and a fine ale. He always enjoyed the company of the good-natured bibliomancer.
Opening the pub’s heavy oak door released the smell of wood smoke and worn leather. The Gryphon’s Beak was a cavernous establishment with groups of men and women standing with beer steins at high tables spread throughout the room. A huge inset grill, laden with roasting meats, filled half of the rear wall, and a square wraparound bar dominated the center of the establishment. Above the bar hung a slew of pennants, flags, and coats of arms.
The patrons represented a variety of races, and looked the part of adventurers: riding boots and breeches, capes and cloaks, vests and tunics. Everyone had one or two weapons by his side. Val felt an edgy aura emanating from the crowd of swashbucklers: these were people who traveled the Realm for adventure and profit, who lived and died by the sword.
Dida tripped over the doorstep, drawing a few raucous laughs. Val caught him. “Way to make an entrance.”
“Pardon me,” Dida said, blushing. “I am rather clumsy at times.”
“I’ve never noticed.”
“No?” Dida said, then caught Val’s sardonic grin and laughed. “Yes.”
They waded to the far side of the bar, squeezing past a boisterous group of lizard men and a table of heavily armed dwarves with hard stares. Val found a pair of empty stools in between a muscular brunette with a longbow strapped to her back, and a well-dressed, slender man with a goatee. He looked more merchant than r
ogue.
The slender man stuck his hand out to Val. “Wynsom Kilnor,” he said, with a mellifluent British accent. “ ’Tis a pleasure.”
“Best check your purse,” the brunette said to Val, grinning. “Wynsom might have already snatched it. As you can see, I prefer at least two bar stools ’tween us.”
“Tsk tsk, Carmena,” Wynsom said. “A lady shouldn’t exaggerate.”
“I’m exaggerating, all right. In the other direction.”
Val and Dida ordered mugs of house ale and introduced themselves as students at the Abbey, drawing the interest of the other patrons.
“Budding wizards, is it?” Wynsom said. “Good show, that. Could use a wizard on my next outing. I’m after the gold in the Blackdown Hills, just across the border with the Ninth.”
“Wizards have better things to do than chase rumors of gold with a cutpurse dandy,” Carmena said.
Wynsom cocked an eyebrow. “Do they? Why don’t we ask them? The Gryphon’s not a wizard pub, so what’s your game, gents?”
“We’re looking for some information,” Val said, pausing to imply they were willing to pay for it. He described the winged creature, and asked if they’d ever seen or heard of anything similar.
“That’s a strange one,” Wynsom said. “Can’t say that I have.”
Carmena bit into a turkey leg, tearing off a piece of gristle. Her wrists were as thick as Dida’s biceps. “Neither me.”
The word spread around the bar. After another few rounds and a string of interesting but fruitless conversations, and a delicious platter of fire-crisped antelope, Val was ready to call it a night when the bartender, a swarthy bald man covered in red tribal tattoos, sidled up to Val.
“Never heard of such a creature meself,” he said, with an Australian accent. “But the man you want to talk to,” he pointed at a burly, one-armed, older man sitting alone near the fire, “is there.” The bartender smirked. “If you live to use the information, that is.”
Val noticed the older man’s beer mug was half-empty. “What’s he drinking? I’ll take one. And two more for us.”
The bartender poured three ales, two golden and one red. He slid them across the bar, and Val left a generous tip.
“Obliged,” the barkeep said. “His name’s Rucker. I’d advise against making any sudden movements.”
“Thanks,” Val murmured.
With Dida a step behind him, Val approached the grizzled adventurer’s table, noticing the corner was devoid of patrons in a wide radius. Stuffed animal heads and knick knacks from around the world covered the mahogany wall behind him.
Rucker’s face was so scarred and weathered it looked like a piece of chewed meat. His gray hair was tied in a ponytail, and he wore a battle-notched, black leather breastplate with a grey sleeve. A shorter sleeve covered his stump. Two weapons hung from his hip: a serrated hunting knife and a wide sword curved on one side, like a flattened meat cleaver.
Val set Rucker’s beer on the table. The gnarled warrior looked up, eyes flashing, and caught Val’s wrist in a bear paw of a hand. “I don’t know ye.”
“I’m Val, and this is Dida. We’re—”
“Students at the Abbey.”
Val started. “How did you know that?”
Rucker snorted. “Everything about ye screams wizard whelps.” He was looking at Dida, and his eyes narrowed as he studied Val’s face and clothes.
Val pressed forward, unnerved by Rucker’s piercing stare. “We have a question. The bartender said you’re the most knowledgeable adventurer in the bar.”
Rucker grunted. “In the tavern? Try all of New Victoria. Which sort?”
“Sorry?” Val asked. Rucker still had his wrist pinned to the table. The man had to be at least sixty, but his grip felt like a bear trap.
“Which sort of wizard pups are ye? What discipline?”
“I’m studying spiritmancy, and Dida’s a visiting bibliomancer from—”
“The Kingdom of Great Zimbabwe,” Rucker finished.
Dida’s eyebrows lifted. “How did you know?”
“Do ye look Zulu? Ghanaian? No, that curved nose of yers is pure Shona. A biblio, eh? Useful skill, if ye ever manage to leave the library.”
“You know about bibliomancy?” Dida asked, even more amazed.
Rucker gave him a bored look, then turned to Val. “Yer either brave or foolish, trying for spiritmancy. Ye must have some talent, though.”
“Could I have my wrist back?” Val asked.
“Not till ye tell me where yer from, outsider. And who sent ye.”
“I’m from a village in the North. I doubt you’ve heard of it.”
“Try me.”
“Talinmar, just outside the Protectorate.”
“Surname?”
“Kenefick.”
The old warrior leaned forward as he pulled on Val’s wrist, jerking him halfway across the table. Rucker smelled like beer and a worn saddle. “Lie to me again,” he said with a snarl, “and we’ll both ’ave one arm.”
Val’s shoulder felt like it was about to slip out of the socket. He tried to keep his cool, but his mind was spinning. Clearly the man had been around the world, and from the look of it, he would carry out his threat if Val gave another false answer.
He decided he had no choice but to tell the truth. “Another world,” Val muttered.
“I know that already,” Rucker said. “Which one?”
“You’ve never heard of it.”
“Which one?”
“Earth.”
Rucker ran his tongue across his teeth. “Who sent ye?”
“No one. I don’t even know how I got here. That’s the truth.”
Sort of, Val thought.
“And yer a wizard on yer own world, and think spiritmancy might get ye back?”
Val nodded.
Rucker let him go, looking him over as if judging his intent. “Never heard of this world of yers,” he said, “but there’s plenty of ’em out there.”
Val rubbed his wrist and took a long swig of beer. Dida was looking at him with eyes like dinner plates. Val would have to figure out something to tell him.
Rucker downed his beer, then started on the one Val had brought. “Well? What do ye want? I don’t join parties anymore.”
Val placed a stack of five gold coins on the table, then folded his arms. Quick as a rattlesnake, Rucker smacked the coins off the table. They clattered to the floor near a group of bearded Vikings, who noticed where they had come from and then pretended not to.
Rucker snarled again. “Don’t insult me, boy! I’ve got more gold than ye’ll ever see, and I work for no man.”
During the course of his law career, Val had rubbed shoulders with CEOs and politicians, and he was now studying magic with people who could summon spirit fire and lay villages to ruin.
Not many people unnerved him—but the man in front of him did.
He forced a measure of calm into his voice. “I was going to offer to pay you for information. Nothing more. I apologize if I’ve offended you.”
Rucker’s face relaxed, and he returned to his beer. “At least ye have the stones to stand there.”
“We’re attempting,” Dida said, “to identify a creature.”
“A creature, eh? What sort?”
Val described what he had seen, and Rucker gave him a long look. “Were the wings flapping?”
“No. It looked like it was drifting downward on an air current.”
“And the body, was it long and slender like a man, or squat like a delver?”
Val had no idea what a delver was. “Definitely similar to a man. With limbs attached to the wings, and clawed hands.”
“Wings black, with grayish underside?”
“Yes.”
“Tipped with claws? Not the hands, but the wings?”
“I didn’t notice.”
“Pronounced ears?”
“Yes.”
Rucker leaned back, looking at Dida and then Val. “Boys,” he said,
“ye’ve seen a werebat.” He shook his head. “Don’t know what one’s doing on the continent—I’ve only seen one in all my years, in Kalingaland.” He leaned forward. “I suggest you do everything in yer power to avoid it.”
“A werebat—a man that can turn into a bat, and back again?”
“That’s what a were-creature is, ain’t it? Killing machines, they are. The instincts of a bat, with the size and intelligence of a man. Ye’ve got a real problem on yer hands, if a werebat’s got yer scent.”
“What do you suggest?” Val said.
He chuckled. “Leaving town.”
Dida put his hand on his chin. “Is it a true lycanthrope,” he asked, “or the creation of a menagerist?”
Rucker wiped his mouth as he considered the question. “Impossible to be sure, and besides, they say the first lycanthropes were menagerist creations, from the ancient temples. Then there’s the lycamancers, rare as black azantite. Who knows? All ye need to know is what they’re capable of.”
“Which is?” Val asked.
“Flying predators with the speed and skill of a hawk, hearing better than the Queen’s best hunting dogs, fangs and talons that can shred a man in seconds.”
“And what if,” Val said, “they were also one of the Alazashin?”
Rucker leaned back, regarded Val with a disbelieving stare, and then slapped the table and brayed, spraying flecks of beer in their faces. “Then boy, like I said, ye’ve got yerself a real problem. Ye might want to go right on back to this Earth.”
Val put his palms on the table. “Could you kill it for us?”
“Could I? Perhaps, with the right gear and team and planning. Would I?” he asked rhetorically, grasping the hilt of his sword with an easy grace that made Val take an involuntary step back. “As I said, I’m not for sale. And it ain’t my fight.”
