by Adam Dreece
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
My Love of Serials
episode one
episode two
episode three
episode four
episode five
episode six
episode seven
episode eight
episode nine
episode ten
episode eleven
episode twelve
episode thirteen
episode fourteen
episode fifteen
episode sixteen
episode seventeen
episode eighteen
episode nineteen
episode twenty
Thank You
About the Author
Playlist
The Yellow Hoods Series
The Man of Cloud 9
by
Adam Dreece
ADZO Publishing Inc.
Calgary, Canada
Copyright © 2016 by Adam Dreece.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at [email protected].
ADZO Publishing Inc.
Calgary, Alberta, Canada
www.adzopublishing.com
Printed in Canada
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Dreece, Adam, 1972-, author
The wizard killer (season #1) / Adam Dreece.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-0-9948184-5-4 (paperback).--ISBN 978-0-9948184-6-1
(mobi)
I. Title.
PS8607.R39W59 2016 C813'.6 C2016-902303-6
C2016-902304-4
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 5/23/16 28,527
DEDICATION
To my wife,
who has either become a firm believer in me as an author, or has completely lost her marbles. Either way, the journey’s fun,
To my daughter,
who surprised me by loving this tale and asked me when the next one would be ready,
And to my friend Evan,
whose amazing support and encouragement helped me to keep going in those moments when I wasn’t sure.
my love of serials
A long, long time ago I used to write 1960s style bubble-gum super-hero serials with some friends. I was a HUGE comic book fan (I still have 1500 comics, bagged and boarded, in my basement). Writing episodes was a fun, mind-bending challenge. Each episode needed to be gripping on its own, but all of them together had to weave a coherent tale that looked like I’d written them all together. Some things never change.
When I was writing my first science fiction book, The Man of Cloud 9, I decided to give myself a ludicrous stretch goal. On top of writing that book, doing book signings, giving talks, taking care of my 3 kids, blogging, and so on, why not commit myself to writing and posting meaty episodes each and every week. Sure, not a problem. I don’t need to sleep, right?
It was scary, posting raw works like that. I kept expecting to find an excuse why I would stop, but I didn’t.
At first, I figured no one was going to read it, but boy was I wrong. The Wizard Killer had a wildly diverse group of fans. Some would run to my website within minutes of new episodes being posted, and wanted more, NOW!
So for 20 weeks, I brought readers along with me on an amazing and intense adventure. While sometimes I’d sketch on paper where things might go ahead of time, until I was happy with the words on the screen, I didn’t know where things would really end up.
While this version’s been tweaked and professionally edited, it’s still very much exactly what we all went through, only you don’t have to wait a week between episodes. So welcome to a very different side of me, the side of me that’s the story-teller who stares at the camp-fire with a hot cup of tea in his hands, and spins you a tale.
- Adam
episode one
Raw, stabbing pain rouses me from my dreamless sleep. I try opening my eyes, but they protest. I compromise and stare out the thinnest of slits at the obnoxiously bright, summer day and its blue sky.
I know my heart’s pounding furiously, though I can hardly feel anything. My thoughts are a jumbled mess, but one keeps rising to the top of the heap: use every second. I don’t know why.
With a focusing breath, I realize I’ve got intense pain coming from my lower body somewhere. I attempt to get up, but can’t. Something’s holding me down. I force my head up and see the hilt of my short sword, sticking out of my abdomen, and pinning me.
Closing my eyes, I struggle to remember what happened. My memories feel like someone threw them all on the floor, threw some fake ones on top, and then stomped on them until nothing made sense anymore. I think I was seeking revenge, and was reckless. The heat of the emotions are still warm inside. I didn’t care who knew what I was up to, or what type of mess I created for myself, as long as the person died. Who the yig was I trying to kill? Did they turn the tables on me or did someone else kill me? It doesn’t matter. I’m thankful that whoever did me in used my short sword, otherwise I’d be dead-dead.
The sick feeling in the pit of my stomach tells me that the world’s magic has failed again, but I know it won’t last. No time to wonder how many opportunities I’ve missed to come back, I’ve got to take this one. My sword’s suspend-life enchantment is going to kick back in, and then I’ll be stuck here until either its mana runs out and I die, or… Stop thinking about it and get moving.
Dropping my head and gratefully allowing my eyes to close again, I fumble about with my numb hands until I find the simple hilt of the sword. I push up against the hilt of the sword with everything I’ve got, kicking with my legs until finally it breaks free of the ground’s grip. It comes out of me and goes flying, clattering on stone somewhere.
Yig, the pain’s intense. I put a hand on my abdomen, pressing as hard as I can to slow the bleeding. “Now all I need is for magic to come back…” A nervous chuckle escapes. “Come on… don’t tell me I’ve been out long enough that magic fails for days now. I’m not interested in dying today, though I appreciate the scenery,” I mutter, distracting myself.
Grimacing and groaning, I roll myself onto my side and crawl over to my short sword. Its common appearance has fooled many. “Waiting’s always fun…” I say through gritted teeth. Scanning about, I confirm that I’m in the same forested mountain clearing where I was killed last time. Funny how history repeats itself. Breathing deeply to focus, I rest my head and mutter to myself, trying to stay awake. Every now and then, I try to remember anything about what happened or my past, but I can’t get a single clear memory to come forward. “This didn’t happen last time.”
The pain kicks up another notch. “Gah! Mother of Mercy… Come on, is that the best you can do? I can take it.” I wish desperately for something, some sound to keep me company, to engage with me.
Finally, I feel a twist in my stomach. Magic’s back. I wearily pick up my short sword and lay it on my chest, surprised by how tremendously heavy it is. With a shallow breath, I fight against my eyes closing. “Not now, come on… cowards.” I feel for the base of the blade and run my thumb along the etched markings. A wave of warmth rushes through my body, and I sigh as my wounds close, the pain drifts away, and energy rushes in. “Once again we go from nemesis to friend, don’t we?” I say dropping the sword to my side.
Staring up at the sky, I laugh. “Are you listening right now, Old Man? You were right, twice now. Bring the weapon of your own demise for your enemy will relish in using it, you said.” I sit up and scratch my heavily bearded face. “It’s like you knew or something. Maybe having…” There’s nothing there, no memory or instinct.
Shaking it off, I feel my head, surprised to find my hair comes down to my shoulders. Pulling it front of my eyes, I’m relieved to see that it’s still black, mostly. I tap the sword on the flat boulder I’ve been laying on as a goodbye, and stand up. Scratching my thick, scruffy beard, I notice a piece of vine wrapped around my wrist. Touching it, it instantly disintegrates, almost making me doubt it was even there. I recall that it’s one of the Old Man’s tricks for keeping track of time, but the details escape me. “Does that mean days or weeks?”
The screech of a bird overhead gets my attention and reminds me to get on with it. I smile. This time, I’m not going to be reckless and go after revenge at any cost. This time, I’m not going to get caught.
episode two
Scratching the back of my neck, I figure I should get moving, though to where, I haven’t a clue. I try to sheath my short sword and find that I have neither a belt loop nor scabbard. All I’m wearing is my bloody shirt, with a conspicuous hole, and a pair of plain, brown pants. My rough leather shoes are within an inch of useless.
I search the clearing, certain that I left a cache of supplies, decent clothing… maybe weapons? It feels like the type of thing I’d do, but there’s nothing. Was I killed unexpectedly? I find that hard to believe. Same place as last time, and I left nothing. Who else would have known to come here, of all places?
Pacing about, I glance at my wrist and wonder. Maybe I’ve been dead long enough that someone just happened upon my stuff. Biting my lip, I decide best to give up and move on. No telling if anyone’s going to come through here soon.
Walking over to a boulder, I climb up to get a good look around. The clearing area is smooth, glacially-scrubbed stone. As though there would be a storybook giant buried under it. A few determined plants are eking out an existence in the sparse soil, but life doesn’t seem to really start until the edges, a hundred yards away. To the west begins the forest of leafy trees, and to the east is the mountain. To the north and south are just rocky plains.
I glance up at the sky, and give myself a mental push to head west. I suspect I won’t have to traipse through the forest for long before I come to a road. Giddy joy breaks out on my leathery face. The thought of gritty, noisy civilization never seemed so wonderful.
About an hour or two down the road, something comes into view. Not feeling particularly brazen, I decide to move along the tree line rather than stay on the road. Though the trees aren’t packed in tightly, some cover is better than none at all.
As I approach carefully from the sides, I see it’s a charred carriage of some kind. On its back is a metal tank that’s partially intact. Closing my eyes for a second, I nod as something breaks through the inner fog. “Levi-cars… right.” I’d forgotten about the levitating carriages and other luxuries of life. What I wouldn’t give for a working one now.
Scanning about first, I approach to investigate. Clearly there had been bandits or some form of attack once upon a time. Given the look of the levi, it looks like it happened a while ago.
It’s an elongated levi-car, its chassis entirely made of metal. It looks like something punched right through the roof, and a quick examination shows the insides are charred. Whatever decorated the interior is burned, fused or melted. It’s like some wizard or acolyte managed to set off a fireball from within it. That would have taken some serious skill, not to mention a brazen disregard for self-preservation. I can’t see any signs of bodies or remains, though it’s possible they’re part of what’s fused to the metal.
Rubbing my hand along the inside, I can still sense mana residue, which confounds me. This can’t be that old, then. Maybe a few weeks at most.
Curious, I put my blade down and give the metal carcass a shove. Double checking that I don’t have any unexpected admirers, I give the carriage a more serious push. It moans but doesn’t roll. Refusing to give in, I put everything I’ve got into it and laugh as it finally tips over in a puff of road dust. There is a classic panic-box underneath. It seems that someone else is just as paranoid as I am when they travel.
The lock gives way with a sharp hit from the end of my sword. “Hello my beauty,” I say, carefully lifting a sleek pistol out and marveling at it. A dark blue engraved line runs along the edge of its long barrel to the end of the handle. It fits like a glove in my hand. I point it at a tree, staring down its barrel, appreciating the perfect weight. The design looks familiar, even the feel. I wonder how common these are. Judging by the craftsmanship, I’d say it cost a small fortune.
I laugh, a man with a sword in one hand and a pistol in the other, a man of two eras. I wish I had a way to strap them securely to me, I can already feel my hands starting to cramp. “Wait…” I stare at my arms, holding them outstretched. “Where the yig are my tattoos?”
episode three
Like an idiot, I stand there in the middle of the dirt road, turning my forearms back and forth, as if my tattoos will suddenly reappear.
My head keeps shaking and my mouth keeps saying no, as my mind contemplates whether or not there’s more than a foggy memory at play. Shooting a quick glance at the sky, I’m annoyed that there’s nothing but wispy clouds, but I have no idea what I’m looking for.
Turning back to the road ahead, I notice some kind of scratches along the ground that lead to the wreckage. The jagged grooves aren’t anything I recognize, nor is the spacing between them. It looks like something moved side to side as it advanced and then stopped ten feet before the levi.
I attempt to follow the grooves but quickly lose them, so I return to the wreckage and try again. I fail a second time. Crouching down, I run my fingers through the grooves, expecting them to tell me something, but there’s nothing. Glancing about, I realize I’ve got no instinct or intuition giving me a hint. It’s like I can’t track anymore. Chewing on my lip, I stand. “What the yig can this body do?” I ask myself.
Snapping twigs draw my attention to three figures moving slowly in the underbrush on the north side. I shoot a quick glance to the south. It looks like I only have company on one front.
I try pulling the hammer back on the pistol, but it won’t move. I turn it over, wondering where the bullets go. The only thing I see is a little switch, moving it back and forth doesn’t open it up or anything. I could kick myself for not having checked it out properly as soon as I found it. The yigging thing could just be ornamental, put there to screw with the poor idiot who was ambushed and went for it.
With a steadying breath, I figure I might as well bluff. My new friends shouldn’t be any the wiser, at least at first. Along with the short sword, I feel the odds are still in my favor.
I watch and wait as they slowly advance. It dawns on me that the three shambling, shadowy mounds in front of me are too close together, almost like they want me to step forward and focus on them. I quickly glance over my shoulder and see a much bigger one making its way towards me at a steady clip. Swiftly, I move south so that I can see them all at once. The big one immediately slows down.
Inexplicably, I start feeling pressure in my chest. I break into a sweat, my heart starts pounding. My breathing speeds up and I’m feeling jumpy. Is this excitement all it takes to make me fall a
part? Nothing’s happened yet! I’ve dealt with much worse than this, haven’t I? I start yelling at them, more to distract myself from endless questions than anything else. “Come on, let’s get going. I don’t have all day.”
They gradually get close enough for me to see that they’re covered in ratty, brown blankets. Bits of worn boots or clothing peek out as they move. A smaller one trips on a hole in the road, and its covers fall off. Yig, it’s a kid. Can’t be more than ten, and probably hasn't ever seen a bath. What the yig is this, a family trying to rob me in slow motion?
Immediately, I point my pistol at the little guy and catch a glimpse of the medium-sized one flinching. “Hello mommy,” I say with a sneer. They don't react. Something's wrong. The kid just puts his blanket back on, and they keep inching forward. I notice that there’s a hole in the blanket near their faces, and its darkly stained below it.
As they close in, I hear them muttering to each other in a bizarre, guttural language of slurping and smacking sounds.
Suddenly, my chest feels like something is swelling in it. Yig, it’s hard to breath. I flex my fingers, while trying not to lose my grip on the pistol. My head’s bobbing with every sharp intake of breath. “Stop advancing or I’m going to start shooting.”
“No,” says the big one, with a voice so deep that he sounds like a mountain moving. He straightens up, his huge arms now visible. He is enormous and broad. Yig, he must have been nearly doubled over as he approached. In one hand is a well-worn hand-axe, looking like child’s toy. The other hand is a huge clenched fist. In a slurred voice, and dragging out each word, he says, “Give... things.”
