The Way of the Black Beast

by Stuart Jaffe

  Fawbry's eyes darkened. "She's ambitious. I tried to be, too, but you know what? Nolan was right. Some parts of us can't be changed. I don't have the ruthless instinct required. By Kryssta, I couldn't even keep a gang of griffles together."

  Neither spoke for a while. At length, Malja left to retrieve the horses. When she returned, she said, "So what about the machines? Is it true? Cole Watts is making machines."

  Fawbry swung up onto his horse. "Probably."

  * * * *

  The ride was short. The afternoon sun barely began its descent. Fawbry pointed to the last hill, and when they crossed over, Malja saw the cabin.

  The base had been built of gray and white stone. The rest used wood and a flimsy metal not often found this far from a city — Cole Watts would have had to carry it in on horseback. A gated, metal fence formed a perimeter. One floor, a porch, some windows, even a chimney. In a town or countryside, a cabin like this would be enviable even with the rust, the dirt, and the dents. Out here, such a thing was unfathomable. If Malja had not seen it, she would never have believed it.

  They walked the horses a short way back and tied them to a tree out of eyesight. Then they approached on foot. Malja had Viper out and ready. She heard the wind, saw the shadow of a little creature darting under a rock, smelled the Freelands' usual odors of mold and decay. A patch of tilled soil made a rough square in front of the home, but nothing grew and nothing rotted. Just empty soil.

  "Don't touch the fence," Fawbry said as they approached the gate. He picked up a rock and tossed it at the fence. The entire gate brightened as if reflecting the sun. A second later, when it had returned to normal, only a pile of dust remained of the rock.

  "She's a magician," Malja grumbled.

  "No. But she's always been fascinated by magic, and she's always tried to find ways for regular people to make use of it."

  "So how do we get in?"

  "As long as the password's the same, that'll be no problem." Fawbry winked as he pulled out his small copy of the Book of Kryssta. He searched for the correct page, leaned towards a meshed, circular object next to the gate, and said, "Password start —

  We are fragile —

  Without wonder, we languish —

  Without knowledge, we suffer —

  Without purpose, we perish."

  The gate clicked open. Fawbry flashed a smile and led the way onward. They walked the yard without incident, but the fence and gate had heightened Malja's alertness. She would have pounced upon a bird if it had flown near her.

  As they stepped on to the creaking porch, Malja listened for any signal of attack. She stopped at the front door and motioned for Fawbry to stay still. She listened. She scanned. She sniffed.

  "I don't think anyone's here," she said.

  "Of course not. That would've let me out of this mess." Fawbry banged on the door. "Cole? You in there?"

  Malja shoved Fawbry to the side. "Just 'cause nobody's here doesn't mean you can't be heard."

  "I'm going to assume you're referring to either hungry animals or Kryssta himself, both of which don't matter in this case. Let's just try the door."

  The door opened without trouble, and after feigning shock, Fawbry entered. Malja scanned the outside one last time before following.

  Inside, the cabin was sparse but tasteful. It reminded Malja a little bit of the shack she had lived in with Gregor. Though far more roomy, the place felt comfortable like a true home. It also felt wrong — the comfort did not exist for them. They were trespassers.

  "This is Cole Watts's place?"

  "I know it doesn't seem like it, but this is it." Fawbry pointed to a torn, yellow couch. "I slept there for almost three months. And that fireplace hated me — it always sent sparks flying in my direction. I swear it used magic. Didn't matter where I stood in here, a spark always found its way to me."

  "How sweet. Where's Cole Watts?"

  "Not here, apparently."

  "I can see that much. Where would she go?"

  "Could be anywhere."

  Malja heard a clicking — a steady sound like a bird repeatedly poking between rocks in search of food. Click. Click. Click. Slow and silent, Malja edged around the room listening for the source. Click. Click. Fawbry heard it, too. He moved just behind Malja as she neared a closet door. Making as little noise as possible, she tried to lift the door latch. It popped up with surprising ease.

  As she opened the door, the clicking grew louder. Old wood-plank stairs led into a dark basement. "We'll need torches, if we're going down there," she said.

  Fawbry peeked over her shoulder. "Then let's not go down there."

  "Just get some wood."

  "Wait. She probably has something rigged for light." Taking tentative steps, Fawbry climbed down the stairs, all the while feeling along the walls with his hands. "Here we are." He pushed a button and the basement flooded with the pale light of magical electricity.

  Malja went downstairs. The basement reminded her of being in Barris's mind — stark white room, stark white couch, stark white tables. This was no office, though. The tables overflowed with metal parts, colored wires, and strange equipment. All showed various levels of decay — some just tarnished, some rusting away. The air was cooler than above and smelled oily.

  From a back corner, Fawbry called out. "Found that noise."

  Malja walked over, careful not to disturb any of the metal contraptions. At Fawbry's feet Malja saw what looked like a metal arm ending in a sphere, the whole thing mounted on a wide, flat stand. The clicking noise appeared to correspond with the arm moving in a circle.

  "What is that?" Malja asked.

  "Don't know. Just another of Cole's machines."

  "I'm glad Tumus isn't here. She'd think this is the end of everything."

  Fawbry chuckled.

  Browsing amongst the tables, Malja came across a doll's head. Wires poured from the neck and connected to a metal box with several buttons. Like water raging over a levee, a memory of Jarik and Callib splashed into her.

  She had thought it no more than a toy. At seven-years-old she couldn't be expected to understand. Besides, her fathers presented it as such.

  "See here, little Malja? See this button? This brings the machine to life," Jarik said, pushing a green button, and indeed, the machine sprang into motion.

  It looked like a stick man with a doll's head on top. Over the coming years, she would learn its true purpose. It stood firm on its platform, but it could thrust attack, side parry, and weave its torso with amazing agility.

  "Every day," Callib said, standing at her doorway, "you are to practice with this machine. This is in addition to the rest of your training."

  "Cole Watts," Malja said, and Fawbry looked up. "She made all this?"

  "She's very bright. But she thinks she can save the world. Bring us back to before the Devastation. I told her that there aren't enough people anymore. Cities like those of before — they need people to operate them. Lots of people. I doubt we have enough left in the world to man even one city."

  "Is that why you left her?"

  "She started trying to contact Jarik and Callib. Said she worked for them before, that they understood her, that they would help her change everything. It was pretty clear she didn't need me anymore."

  "Doesn't look like she's been gone long."

  "She might've gone to stock up on supplies. Maybe we should wait. See if she returns."

  "Maybe," Malja said, wondering first if the doll head would sound like the one she practiced on long ago, and then if she wanted to hear that sound ever again.

  "Look at this." Fawbry lifted a rusty frame from a pile of rusty frames.

  "Looks like scrap."

  "That's why it isn't. Cole likes to hide her work in plain sight. The shiny, impressive machines usually do the least. Something like this, though — it could be great. Maybe some super weapon for you."

  "Or maybe just a frame for a painting."

  "Who paints anymore?"

  "Som
ebody must, otherwise, where do the paintings come from?"

  "Very true. But in this case, very wrong. See here? There's a button on this frame."

  "Don't —"

  Too late. Fawbry pushed it. A high-pitched whine emitted from the frame. Fawbry placed it on the table like a father handling his baby and backed away. A clipped beeping began.

  "That doesn't sound good," Fawbry said. The beeping quickened. "I think maybe we should —"

  "Run!"

  They raced up the stairs. As they reached the top, a loud whomp reverberated the floor and hot air pressed against their backs. Fawbry fell hard while Malja stumbled but regained her footing. Dust filled the air. Crackling like a healthy campfire seeped up through the floorboards along with thick smoke and intense heat.

  Malja helped Fawbry to his feet and shoved him towards the door. He pushed back in the opposite direction. The smoke thickened fast. She saw only a hazy outline of the cabin. She tried to turn Fawbry around, but he swatted her hands away. He tried to speak and merely coughed into a hacking fit. But even as he coughed, he managed to point and Malja finally understood. She had been the one going in the wrong direction.

  As they staggered outside, flames climbed the walls. She forced Fawbry to keep walking until she thought they had reached a safe distance, several feet beyond the fence. There they both collapsed — coughing, gasping, wheezing, and eventually breathing.

  Fawbry sat up first. Malja watched as his face broke into the smile of someone relieved to be alive. She had seen that look many times; probably had it cross her own face, too. Often, the next expression became serious — either a heartfelt gratitude or a sober recognition of mortality. Neither came to Fawbry's face, though. Instead, he looked into the distance with dismay. And he raised his hands.

  She knew it was too late but instinct propelled her to her feet. Five Bluesmen covered them with three handguns, a shotgun, and a guitar.

  "Care for a song?" the guitarist said.

  Chapter 14

  They rode in on horseback. Malja and Fawbry's hands tied behind their backs. The shotgun-wielding Bluesman towed them along, holding both of their horses' reins in one hand. Their captors made no effort to hide their destination. That troubled Malja more than anything.

  From afar, the place appeared like an oasis — an extra-large farmhouse surrounded by acres of working farmland nestled amongst barren mountains. Two men handled livestock in a small but sufficient pasture. Farm hands tilled land, harvested food, fixed fences. A well-maintained stable stood near a wide barn. In every direction beyond — gray rocks, straining trees, dust and death.

  The closer they came the more Malja smelled the fragrant farm aromas — most pleasant, a few rank. Even as she noted numbers of men and women, exit windows and doors, easy to climb terrain and dangerous spots to avoid, the smells lifted memories of Gregor into her mind. He knew a farmer nearby and would trade for manure to fertilize their garden. He would take their food scraps and dump them around their apple tree. If she wrinkled her nose at the odor, Gregor would look askance and say, "Just wait 'til you taste an apple from here. You'll want to toss everything onto the pile." Gregor said he had picked the spot for the shack because of the tree. Wide and gnarled, wrinkled with age, unlike any apple tree Malja had ever seen. And he had been right. It created the most delicious fruit.

  One outbuilding they passed harbored three men working amongst a mountain of sawdust. Guitars in various stages of construction hung from every available wall, post, and rafter. Next, a row of well-kept but cheaply-made buildings lined the way. Each appeared to be packed with people sleeping.

  They rounded a corner and approached the stables. One squat building on the right Malja took for an outhouse, but when she peeked inside, she saw a man in a black suit standing on a stool before a cracked and smudged mirror. Another man circled his legs, making marks on his clothes with a white stone while nearby two women used needles and thread on some cut cloth. Malja had seen Gregor mend his shirts and pants before, but never had she seen such fine threads and delicate work.

  Three stable boys hurried forward and walked all seven horses away, leaving Malja and Fawbry heading with the men toward the house. A chubby fellow rocked on a wooden chair and smoked a pipe. His pale skin stood out amongst all his darker brethren.

  "Get out of my chair, Suzu," the guitarist said.

  Suzu bounced out and lowered his head. "Sorry, Willie."

  Willie took his seat and strummed a few chords. "Go tell her we're back. Tell her I got two birds. Ask her what she wants with them."

  "You got it, Willie. I'll be right back." Suzu hurried inside while the group listened to Willie play — nothing fancy, but a pleasant tune with a steady rhythm like a trotting horse.

  A sweating laborer walked by with a basket of potatoes on his shoulder. "Hey, Willie," he said with a booming voice.

  "Hey, Rev. We gonna have a feast tonight?"

  "You know it. Might even gut a knonol in honor of our guests."

  "Oh, that'd be great. I love what Cook can do with a knonol."

  "That's the truth."

  The men laughed, and Rev rounded the house with a joyous step. Malja had seen towns filled with people who found peace and happiness in a special harmony they built between each other and working the land — rare but she had seen them. She had also seen towns ruled by madmen and followers who thrived on abducting the unfortunate and carving up their bodies and souls for survival. But never had she seen both co-exist. How Willie could be an assassin, a Bluesman, and also carry on with Rev like a happy farmer baffled her.

  Suzu returned with a glass of some gold-brown drink. Little clear cubes bobbed in the glass, making odd chiming clinks. He leaned his bulk over and whispered to Willie. Eyeing Malja with both fascination and trepidation, Suzu went back inside.

  With a nod at Shotgun, Willie said, "She wants them locked up. Don't take any guff, but keep them alive."

  Malja didn't know the word guff, but she got the idea. She stayed silent and Fawbry only grunted as they were roughly handled. Shotgun guided them to the stables — ten stalls, five on each side, and a wide path down the middle. Shotgun opened a stall and tied them to the barred door. As he backed out, he tipped his head with a contrite but firm expression. He pulled a stool over and lowered with a relieved exhale.

  "I don't play guitar as good as Willie, but if you want, I'll play awhile for you."

  Malja turned away. She had worried that Fawbry's cowardly streak would cause her trouble, but looking at him, she saw rage. She nodded at him — I feel the same.

  "I hate you," he said. Her surprise must have shown because he continued. "I may not have been doing great, but my life was a lot better before I met you."

  "I didn't ask for you to come along here. I wanted to leave you at Dead Lake."

  "Well, don't worry. When we get out of here, I'm leaving you and all your stupidity."

  "I'm not the one who blew up that house."

  Fawbry rattled the gate and kicked at the hay floor. "Hey, can I be put in another stall? Please. I can't stand to be with her."

  Shotgun raised his hands and shrugged.

  With another kick at the door, Fawbry said to Malja, "Y'know, if you would just let this all go, so many people would be alive right now. Death is all over you like perfume, and you don't care. Poor, little Malja is mad at her daddies so everybody must suffer. Have you ever stopped long enough to think about what a mess you've made of all this?" While he barked out all his frustration, Malja wanted to defend herself but felt as if Gregor, not Fawbry, criticized her actions. She stood like a scolded schoolgirl. She could see his disapproving frown and wanted to hug him. This is for you, Uncle Gregor. I do this for what they did to you. But as the figure before her pounded the stable door, she saw Fawbry once again.

  His voice rose as he continued his rant. "Jarik and Callib — clearly they don't want you finding them. They don't love you. And for most of us scattered around the world, Jarik and Callib do
n't matter. They're just names."

  "You're wrong 'bout that," Shotgun said. "Those magicians are nothing good, but they're far more than just names."

  "Great. Thanks. Now I can't even argue without somebody interfering."

  Malja took a sharp look at Shotgun. "What do you know about Jarik and Callib?"

  "Kryssta help me," Fawbry said. "Have you heard nothing I've said? Let it go or we'll all be killed. You want Tommy dead?"

  Malja shoved Fawbry aside. Swiping her hair away from her eyes, she returned to Shotgun. "You were going to say something about the magicians."

  "Me? I got nothing to say." Shotgun stood and scratched his chin. He sauntered out of view for a moment, every step infused with a cockiness that under different circumstances Malja would find attractive. When he returned, he held Viper. He practiced a few swipes, inspected the blade, and even ran his thumb on the edge. "This is a fine weapon."

  "I know," she said, gritting her teeth.

  "Lots of chinks in it, though. Must've tasted a lot of action."

  "Keep playing with it, and I'll see it gets a taste of you."

  His confidence faltered, but he brought it back quickly. He did place Viper gently on the ground, though. Refusing to meet Malja's eyes, he settled on his stool and crossed his arms. Malja called to him and banged the gate, but he refused to answer. He cast his gaze outside.

  I couldn't have scared him that much. But something had shifted. Fawbry crouched as far from her as his bonds would allow. Malja leaned back against the gate. Wait, listen, and observe. The more information she had about her opponents, the more chances she'll have at success — Gregor taught her that.

  Hours later, after the sun had set, Suzu appeared. He whispered to Shotgun, who stretched his legs. "Time to go," he said. As Fawbry rose, Shotgun shook his head. "Just her. You stay with me for now."

  "Of course," Fawbry said and slumped down.

  Suzu led Malja along the dirt path to the house. Little bags with candles lined the path. Two armed men guarded the porch. Even from halfway down, Malja could hear the party. Giddy yelps, explosive laughter, shouted names — all riding the crest of a thundering music wave.