by Cory Barclay
Pua Kila nodded firmly. “I will rouse my Nawao kinsmen. You have supported us during this tumultuous time, so we will support you during yours.”
“Thank you.”
Fuscia said, “I, too, will help. My battle is with the ones who did this to poor Charles. But it will not be enough to strike against the Council. You should know that.”
“I do,” Constantin said. “Which is why I must seek allies elsewhere. I am new to the Council and have no guarantee any of them will help me. I need to search for other allies . . . perhaps from the Vagrant Kinsmen.”
“You believe they’re still intact after the death of their leader?” Pua Kila asked. She had been at the wedding when Geddon had killed Tetsuo.
“In some fractured form, yes, I do.” Constantin sighed and turned away from his dead son. He stared through the rippling waterfall at the mouth of the cave.
Pua Kila said, “I know two who might aid your cause, my lord.”
Constantin said nothing, lost in thought, staring through the mesmerizing waterfall.
Annbael said, “Who?”
“Geddon and Selestria. They are the two most powerful candidates of the Kinship now.”
“The Brethren captured them following the wedding,” Constantin said. “I had a meeting with the Council recently. Overseer Malachite informed us they were prisoners and being interrogated.”
“Why?” Annabel asked.
“For the same reason we now need them—to find the bulk of the Kinship’s whereabouts.”
“Damn,” Annabel said.
Constantin put a hand on his daughter’s shoulder, showing that rare flash of empathy. He took one last look at his son, then said, “Come, I’d like to bring my son home before dawn. On our way back, we will discuss how we can aid Geddon and Selestria.”
GEDDON STRUGGLED TO rise after being knocked down for the third time. His head felt sluggish against the hardwood floor. Blood trickled down his chin where he’d been kicked in the jaw.
He knelt in the same room as the night before, when Overseer Malachite had warned him to give up his allies or else he’d kill Selestria. Unfortunately, Selestria was not in the room with him now, which made things harder and easier. On one hand, he was taking more of a beating than he would have in front of Selestria. Malachite was not holding back. On the other hand, without Selestria in the room, he didn’t feel the shame of speaking about his allies.
Geddon wasn’t sure he still had allies, but knew he would lose the love of his life if he didn’t give Malachite something.
“Well?” Malachite asked, taking a seat. He leaned forward, ready to pounce on Geddon again.
“You promise Selestria will be safe?” Geddon asked for the third or fourth time.
The Overseer rolled his eyes. “I will not repeat myself again, boy.”
Geddon bristled at being called “boy.” He said, “We were not lying about Selestria’s abilities. She cannot help you find the people you’re looking for.”
“I am aware,” Malachite said. “I have my own Myth Hunter, you see, and she has told me as much.” At that moment, a cat jumped into the lighted part of the room and pounced on Malachite’s chair.
Geddon frowned. “Misty,” he muttered. The Cat-Sith spy. The cat he thought had been so harmless—an honorary member of the Vagrants—had betrayed him atop the Bayfog Cliffs. She was responsible for getting Kaiko killed and luring the blackguards to Geddon’s hideaway. She was responsible for Ulu Koa’s death, too. Misty was much more of a menace and threat than her cute feline face appeared.
Malachite said, “It’s nothing personal, but I must use every avenue against your kind. You should be flattered: I’m calling you clever.”
“You’re a twisted bastard,” Geddon replied.
Malachite’s grin faded. He stood from his chair angrily, knocking it aside. Geddon flinched as the Overseer lunged toward him. Malachite stopped within five inches of the man.
“I’ve heard enough talk, Geddon. I know your position in the Kinship, so tell me where your allies are.”
Geddon’s mouth turned into a firm, straight line.
“If you don’t speak now, Selestria will die in the next room. No, in fact, I’ll bring her in here so you can watch her suffer.”
Geddon bared his teeth and growled like a beast. He said, “Whom do you wish to know about?”
“Let’s start with my son.”
Geddon jerked his head back. “What?”
Malachite smiled. “I know you are his Myth Maker, Geddon. And I know, after he went through the Parallel Reflector, that he is still Bound to you. Tell me where the Reflector led him.”
After a moment’s pause, Geddon opened his mouth to speak. He closed it, shook his head. “Do you wish to see your son dead?”
“My intention with my son is of no concern to you,” Malachite said with a scoff.
Geddon took a deep breath, then closed his eyes. He started to sweat and could feel a power raging inside him. Seconds later, his eyes shot open. He wobbled and almost fell sideways. “Your son is in Terrus. Safe.”
“Where in Terrus?”
“Downtown, San Diego.”
“Interesting,” Malachite said. “And is he on the move?”
Geddon screwed up his face in confusion. “Why would he be? He has nothing there. He has no way of getting back here, because, as you said, I am still Bound to him. Another Myth Maker cannot bring him here.”
“But he is already on Terrus, without your help. Are you saying you can bring him back here?”
“Yes,” Geddon said, shrugging. “The moment I interact with him, as his Maker, he will be Seared back to Mythicus. Until I sever our Bond, in which case he would return to Terrus.”
Malachite rubbed his chin for a moment, contemplating. “Interesting, Geddon. How do you know this?”
“Because I know the history of the Parallel Reflector, which has been around much longer than you have. I’ve heard the tales and know the history of Mythics and humans returning to Mythicus without its help.”
Overseer Malachite nodded thoughtfully. He said, “You may have just saved your own life.”
Geddon said, “What else do you want?”
“Your allies, Geddon. Your Kinship allies . . .”
KRIK RATTLED OFF A list of names to his colleagues. He followed with a series of questions.
“Bilboo, you’ve been on the case of the adulteress harpy for weeks. What have you discovered? Did she cheat on her husband or not?”
The little imp, Bilboo, stood on his chair, so he was taller than the other imps in the room. His skinny legs rattled and his knees bumped together. He did not fair well publicly speaking, but he had to. “She did, sir. I have proof of the harpy’s infidelity. The case will wrap up within the week. I will inform her husband.”
“Good, good,” Krik said. He too was an imp, but he wore a little hat that designated his leadership over the others in the room. Krik was the proprietor and executive officer of Krik’s Investigative Services. It was a private investigation firm known throughout Northern Soreltris for doing quick work and getting exemplary results.
The imp detective sat at the head of a small room and looked out at the sea of green, devilish faces. Imps got a bad rap for their mischievous ways, but when they put their talents to good use, they were quite a benefit to society.
He put the paper aside and picked up another one. “Zeta, you’re in charge of Lobek the dwarf’s claim against his partners, for embezzlement. How is the situation going?”
Zeta, a female investigator, stood on her chair, drawing a few whistles from the other imps. She had the stringy black hair that made male imps swoon and she knew how to work a crowd. She pushed out her small hips. “Sir, I believe Lobek is being disingenuous with his returns and statements. He wants me to accuse his partners of misappropriating funds, but he doesn’t allow me to search his records. I will dig a bit deeper, but he’s being quite uncooperative.”
Krik sighed as he watched
Zeta sit. His blood boiled a bit, but he quickly calmed down. “That’s a shame, Zeta, because Lobek’s is a valuable account. Perhaps it is because you are a woman that he doesn’t divulge the information you need.”
Zeta frowned. “No need for sexism, sir,” she said. She was never afraid to speak her mind.
Krik shrugged. “If you can’t find something on his partners within the week, I will have to pass the torch to another investigator.”
Zeta groaned. “As long as it isn’t Pigmar.”
Pigmar, an imp who had recently taken to bodybuilding, and looked swollen and furious, jumped from his chair. “What did I do?”
A few chuckles rose from the other ten or so diminutive investigators in the room.
“You know what you did!” Zeta cried out, pointing an accusing finger at the muscled imp.
The door to the log cabin flew open and knocked against the wall with a bang, silencing the crowd.
Three men in black cloaks and black armor barreled into the room. Black helmets covered their faces.
“What is this?” Krik cried out in protest as the blackguards marched through the aisle in the center of the room. “We’re closed for business, sirs!”
The blackguards spread out like a V at the front of the group of imps, surrounding Krik’s table. Sweat beaded Krik’s forehead as his bulging eyes surveyed the blackguards before him. Their demeanor was calm and indifferent, which was even more frightening than them being angry.
Just then, a fourth person waltzed into the overcrowded room. A few gasps escaped the lips of the imp investigators.
Lord Obsidian was a stern dwarf who wore brown and red armor, even though it was the middle of the night. Everyone was frightened of Obsidian, who wasn’t much taller than an imp, but much wider and scarier. A large hammer slung across his back clinked against his armor as he walked toward Krik’s table.
“L-Lord Obsidian, what are you doing here at such a late hour?” Krik asked, his voice cracking as he spoke.
“What are you doing in the middle of the night in such a congregation, Detective Krik?”
Krik shrugged, trying to get control of his fear. “These are our standard operating hours, my lord. We discuss our cases before the morning arrives and we get to work.”
Lord Obsidian ran a hand through his long, orange beard. “I see. Well, tell your employees they may be excused.”
Krik heard a few people shuffling in their seats, but no one moved. “I’ll do no such thing, my lord,” he said, frightened but unbending. This was his business, after all. Even if Lord Obsidian was the protector of the region, he had no right! This was bad for business. “I’ll have to ask you to leave, my lord—”
“Very well,” Obsidian said, ignoring the imp’s complaint. “Krik, you have been accused of aiding and abetting the Vagrant Kinship cause, as a commander in their rebellion.”
More gasps erupted from the room, even though half the investigators there were Kinship members. Krik appreciated their display of dramatics. But his relief was short-lived. “I’ve done no such thing!”
Lord Obsidian ignored the imp again. “As such, I have been commanded by Overseer Malachite to—”
Krik rose to his feet, on the other side of the table from Obsidian, trying to show his courage and anger.
Lord Obsidian reached behind him. He gripped the handle of his hammer and in one fluid motion swung the blunt, iron object across his body. The head of the hammer struck Krik across the face with a dull, metallic thud. Krik’s cheek and jaw flattened, his eye exploded, and his skull cracked as he was flung from his chair. He landed on the ground with a sickening plop.
There was a moment of absolute silence as Lord Obsidian slung his hammer back over his shoulder. The dwarf cleared his throat and said, matter-of-factly, “Overseer Malachite ordered me to carry out his judgment on the matter.”
The dwarf took one look at the dead imp in front of him. He turned on his heels and marched toward the door, his blackguards in tow.
“Murder!” the usually frightened Bilboo shouted as Lord Obsidian passed. It raised an uproar, all the imps yelling out in unison.
“Where’s the proof of his guilt?!” Zeta cried out.
Lord Obsidian stopped at the door. “Krik has been judged by the Brethren Council,” he said. “His guilt is irrelevant.” He turned to Zeta. “You can thank Geddon for that.”
Then he left.
While the imps were in a state of pandemonium, one man stayed calm. His sad eyes looked out over his colleagues. “Geddon has betrayed us, like he betrayed Tetsuo!” Pigmar said, tears falling from his cheeks.
Zeta turned to the muscled imp. “Well, I hear Lobek the dwarf is Lord Obsidian’s cousin. Maybe he didn’t want us delving any deeper into the case?”
Bilboo clenched his tiny fists. “Death to Geddon! Death to Lord Obsidian!”
One imp jumped on top of him, trying to shut him up before he got the rest of the detectives in the room slaughtered.
IT WAS A HOT EVENING in Central Soreltris. That didn’t stop Dakathiel Swiftfoot from practicing his archery. It was a nightly routine, rain or shine. He was one of the best elven marksmen in Soreltris, but he was always trying to get better. He had a competition coming up and he hoped to win the substantial reward. It would help his family tremendously.
Dakathiel stared down the lane at the target, thirty yards away. It was a sheet of paper in the form of a blackguard. He grinned at the paper as he pulled back on the bowstring.
He released the arrow and it whistled down the clear path. It tore through the paper and thumped the tree trunk behind it. With his expert vision—even in dim lighting—he could tell it had hit the blackguard’s forehead.
He had invited two friends to come along to the woods with him, but they had declined, instead opting to go drinking. His friends were undisciplined elves. He had an inkling they were involved in an affair with one another. Their respective spouses would not appreciate that, but Dakathiel was no informant.
Dakathiel’s long ear twitched as he heard a rustling in the bushes behind him, some thirty feet away. He squinted and immediately crouched, shortening his tall frame in a second. He scuttled over behind a tree, then reached into his quiver for an arrow. To his dismay, he found there was only one arrow left. He glanced down the lane: the other five arrows were stuck in the blackguard practice target.
Sighing, he nocked his arrow on his recurve bow. He grinned—if this was Tormil or Lithoniel trying to sneak up on him, they would be in for a nasty surprise.
“Show yourself!” he called out.
He peeked his head out. An arrow smacked into the tree trunk, inches from his face.
Dakathiel’s eyes widened. His adrenaline started pumping. His friends wouldn’t have tried to shoot him, no matter how angry with him they were—even if they knew he’d discovered their romantic fling. That much he knew.
In the distance, Dakathiel could see a shape hiding behind two trees. The figure wasn’t protected in the middle, where the trees didn’t overlap.
He closed one eye, stuck his head out from the tree trunk, and loosed his arrow, aiming for the small window of open space.
A moment later, he heard a grunt. The black figure slumped behind the trees.
Dakathiel took a deep breath. He glanced behind him, at the empty lane leading to the practice target. He needed those arrows. He’d have no cover if he made a run for it . . .
“Screw it,” he said to himself. He’d never met a person who could outrun him in a sprint. “They’ll see why they call me Swiftfoot.”
Feeling appropriately arrogant and charged by the action, he took off down the lane, racing like a cheetah.
He zigged and zagged as he ran, his long, blond hair floating and whipping in the breeze.
When he reached the target, he’d realized no arrows had come close to touching him, and he smiled. Maybe there had been only one assailant? But who was he? He took two of the arrows in one hand and pulled hard, extricating them
from the tree trunk. He spun around and nocked one of the arrows.
As he turned, he felt the wind go out of his lungs. He looked down and saw the feathered end of an arrow protruding from his chest. It became hard to breathe. He wheezed. Stuttering to himself, he fell to one knee.
Another arrow took him in the shoulder, striking through him and pinning him to the tree trunk.
Dakathiel cried out in anger and pain. He felt himself losing blood, but the adrenaline was enough to keep him conscious.
He looked up and saw a blurry figure casually strolling down the lane toward him. He tried to raise his bow, but as he did it was shot from his hands and tumbled into the grass.
Dakathiel groaned. “W-Who are you?”
The figure approached and stopped less than ten feet away.
“You know me, Dakathiel,” the man said. He was tall—as tall as Dakathiel, maybe taller. He held himself with poise and grace. “I bested you at the last archery competition.”
Dakathiel’s mouth fell open. “L-Lord Sunstone?” He couldn’t believe it: a fellow elf, one of the most powerful people in Soreltris, was standing in front of him. “But why?” Dakathiel asked. He couldn’t find any reason why Lord Sunstone would be angry toward him, or jealous. He felt his lifeforce leaving him, his energy fading as the adrenaline wore off.
“Overseer Malachite’s orders, my friend. I had no idea you were an ally of Geddon’s and a leader of the Vagrant Kinship.”
“G-Geddon is no ally of mine,” Dakathiel said.
A flash of confusion passed over Lord Sunstone’s face—a momentary chink in his perfect armor. Then, he shrugged. “It’s no matter. This was his fault, you see. Maybe he saw you as a rival and wanted to get rid of you? If so, the bastard’s more clever than I gave him credit for.”
“W-Wait, my lord,” Dakathiel croaked, raising his hand, trying to keep his thoughts in order. “What did Geddon say?”
Lord Sunstone lifted his bow and put one more arrow into Dakathiel, between the eyes. The elf’s head knocked back against the tree and he fell over, the arrow in his shoulder keeping him pinned.
