by Ben Hale
She fell silent, and when she resumed talking her voice had gained a hitch. "Billy does his homework every day, and says he wants to be just like you. I think he knows you aren't coming home because he stopped asking. Sometimes I catch him staring at your picture."
Riveted and overcome by what he was hearing, the Swordsman eased closer.
"I miss you, Aaron. I don't know if I can do this without you. You were always the strong one . . ."
Her words tapered off as she began to cry, quietly and restrained, as if she didn't want to wake her children. Her shoulders quivered as she held the picture of her dead husband, the man the Swordsman had slain.
Never had he seen such depth of emotion. Like falling in arctic water, it shocked him to the core. He'd witnessed the impact of his work before—but never like this. In their hearts, families knew when they lived with someone evil. As much as they mourned the dead, there had always been a note of relief. Aaron's wife displayed no such emotion. Even after four months, she grieved with an omnipresent agony.
The sight pierced the Swordsman's soul. He made to withdraw but another picture on the wall caught his eye. Risking the light, he stepped into the hall and peered at the image. It was of a wedding. His target stood smiling with his family and had an arm around the groom—a man the Swordsman recognized.
He was the one from the park, the same man that had exchanged cash for a package with his target. Their relaxed demeanor in such a setting suggested a familiarity that went beyond the norm. If that wasn't enough, the note on the picture revealed the truth.
I couldn't have surprised her without you. Thanks Aaron, for always being a true friend.
The Swordsman retreated to the children's bedroom. For a long moment he watched the little girl sleep. His tumultuous emotions raged inside of him—but with each passing second the guilt hardened into cold fury. The Harbingers had led him to see the exchange, and used it to prove he was a traitor. The Swordsman may have carried out the contract, but he was merely the weapon. The Harbingers had wielded it.
He strode to the window and departed to the roof. Activating his board, he leapt into the air and sped away. Wind snapped at his clothing as he reached top speed. Then he withdrew a large gold coin and traced the rune on its back. The coin morphed into a skull, and of its own accord turned to face south. As he curved his board in that direction it changed back to its former shape.
He flew until the first rays of dawn graced the horizon, then he dipped his board to the water. Fueled by a tornado charm, the air board had reached the southern tip of Florida in less than three hours. He activated the skull once more to locate his destination, and soon after passed through an invisible barrier. A tiny island burst into view.
The aurens called the area the Bermuda Triangle, and told stories of the strange things that had occurred here. In truth the unexplainable events could all be traced to the floating village of Kulldye Dreg.
Infamous among the mages for its disreputable merchants, it had once been a part of Europe. Now it floated around the world in order to avoid the mage government. Only those with a token could find it, especially when it hid among the many islands of the Bahamas.
Sunlight failed to penetrate the protective barrier, causing the grimy town to fall perpetually into shadow. Thieves and assassins found it hospitable, or more likely, profitable. Illegal artifacts, animals, and enchantments could be found aplenty in the winding streets. If the underbelly of the mage world had a home, this was it.
The Swordsman landed next to one of the newer gateways and activated the condensing charm on his board. It shrank down to the size of key chain, allowing him to pocket it. Then he flashed the token to the gatekeeper. It morphed into a skull again, preventing the statue of an armored battlemage from tearing him to shreds.
At one time he'd found the statue humorous. The battlemage corps would give anything to find the Dreg. To have a statue of one of their own guarding it mocked the mage government for their inability to find it. This time the Swordsman didn't spare it a glance. He stalked into the winding streets with a single thought on his mind.
Revenge.
Chapter 3: Kulldye Dreg
Shops lined the throughway, their banned wares on prominent display. An animary displayed a collection of exotic creatures. A foxvine curled its limbs around the bars and lifted its innocent wooden face to the Swordsman. Known for the poisonous barbs on its vines and its brutal, carnivorous nature, it nevertheless was prized for its bark.
Beside it, a tiyanak cried in its cell. Similar to the foxvine, its initial appearance did not match its true nature. It could have passed for an auren baby, but once picked up it would revert to a savage beast and devour its prey.
An encantado swam in its tank, and shifted to human form when she caught the Swordsman's eye. Beside her, an enormous silver reaver slept in a reinforced cage, the original having been flattened into an unrecognizable heap next to him. A pair of fury cats stared at the Swordsman without blinking, their manes spitting fire.
Across from the animary stood Quill to Kill. Ancient scrolls of forgotten spells were available for a price, but the Swordsman didn't care for the proprietor. It was rumored that he occasionally sold spells that killed the wielder. The obese figure peered down at a scroll and did not look up as the Swordsman passed.
The next structure could have been mistaken for abandoned. Shuttered windows and a darkened interior welcomed those who dared to enter. The dark apothecary contained everything from powdered dragonbone to distilled aconite. The only mark that it was open was a tattered sign out front.
Flesh eating cockroaches, two for one.
Accidental deaths on the premises forfeit their corpse.
Winding alleys twisted away into darkness, inviting only to those comfortable with danger. Corpses commonly appeared in the streets of the Kulldye Dreg and were routinely disposed of by a trained manticore. Whenever a drought of murders occurred, citizens tended to disappear to its hunger.
Rusted signs hung from bent glowlamps, their inscriptions long since worn away. Cobblestone paths extended into blacktrunk oak trees, an ideal place for quiet exchanges. By nightfall a handful of buyers would take to the streets in search of enchanted items. Their thirst to rob, cheat, or kill was matched by the merchants’.
The Swordsman came to Wessel's Flyers and shouldered his way inside. The locked hatch snapped off, unable to withstand his enhanced strength. The subsequent gravity well hex would have flattened an elephant, but he gritted his way through.
The shop contained several banned air boards, each with unique enchantments. He strode past them and leapt the counter to the rear door. Leaning into the kick, he sent the wooden frame shattering into splinters, revealing a small office. Wessel's head snapped up. A known early riser, he had been sitting at a desk reading a thick tomb.
"Swordsman!" His tone rose with anger. "What do you think—"
The Swordsman closed the gap in a single step. Grabbing Wessel’s throat, he threw him across the room. The man cried out as he slammed into a bookshelf. Papers and floating objects scattered when it fell with crash. Wessel staggered to his feet and launched a blast of gravity.
The Swordsman drew his sword and sunk it into the floor. Clenching the handle, he used it as leverage and leapt free of the hex. Rebounding off a wall, he crushed his fist into Wessel's cheek, knocking him brutally to the floor. The man wobbled as he rose to his knees, but the Swordsman caught the side of his head and smashed it down. Then he put a knee into his neck.
"Look at my sword, Weasel," the Swordsman growled.
Wessel spit blood. "Don't call me that—"
The Swordsman lifted Wessel’s head and again slammed it into the floor. "Look at my sword, Weasel." All the fury he'd felt at seeing Jenkins’ wife poured into his words.
The scrawny man seemed to finally understand his predicament. His eyes widened and flicked to the chipped blade.
"Who did that?"
"My target," the Swordsman se
ethed. "The one you claimed was a blight on mankind."
"He is—"
"Then why didn't he kill me?" the Swordsman hissed into his ear. "Why not strike me down for my impudent attempt on his life? Do you even know who he is?"
"It was a Harbinger contract," Wessel said through bloody teeth. "They told me he was a traitor."
"I know," the Swordsman said. The sudden calm in his voice seemed to frighten Wessel more than his anger. "Fortunately for you, I know you're just a miserable pawn. I want to know where I can find them."
"You can't stop them," Wessel insisted. "No one can stop them."
"I don't mean to stop them," the Swordsman said. "I mean to kill them."
—a creak of wood sounded behind the Swordsman. Casting speed on himself, he whipped his crossbow free and pointed it down the dark hallway. As it coalesced into shape he fired, and the bolt streaked away. There was a squeak of pain, and then quiet. The anti-magic spell the assailant had been crafting evaporated. The darkness lessened, revealing a woman groaning on the floor.
"What did you do to my wife?" Wessel shouted.
The Swordsman dismissed the crossbow and sheathed the stock. Then he drew a tiny dagger. Slapping it flat on the ground, he said, "She'll die in two minutes without help. This knife will pierce your eye in one."
The tip of the knife lifted off the ground and aimed for Wessel's eye. Then it slid forward. The grinding of its hilt across the floor sounded harsh over Wessel’s desperate breathing.
"I can't." Wessel's voice had gone up an octave. "They'll kill me, and my wife. You can't imagine how much power they have gathered."
"Fifty seconds," the Swordsman said coldly.
"They will know I told you," he pleaded. "They will come for me."
"Not if you are dead."
Wessel began to curse and struggle, but the Swordsman cast strength and kept him pinned. Blood from several shallow cuts trickled down Wessel's cheeks, but he continued to strain. The entire desk lifted off the ground and flew toward the Swordsman. The Swordsman released Wessel, caught the desk, and then redirected it down the hall. It shattered over the struggling form of Wessel’s wife. He caught Wessel by his hair and smashed him back down. Throughout it all the knife continued to slide toward his eye.
"Please," Wessel fell to begging. "My wife is dying."
"She's as sleazy as you are. I'd be doing you a favor."
"I can't."
"Then you will die."
Wessel’s face began to purple with rage and fear, but the Swordsman did not relent. The knife rasped closer, until less than a finger separated it from his iris. Tears of anger seeped from Wessel's eyes, and he snarled against his helplessness.
"Alright!" he bellowed. "Sometimes they come in dressed in winter clothing. I think they have a base in the Arctic!"
"Where?"
Panicked now, Wessel shouted, "Due north of Moscow!"
The knife stopped a hairsbreadth from piercing his eye. The Swordsman leaned down, and spoke in a deathly growl. "What happens if you are lying?"
With the dagger’s tip filling his vision, Wessel had no trouble with the answer. "You come back for me."
"And your witch of a wife," the Swordsman finished.
Snatching the knife up, he retrieved his sword and stood. Wessel scrambled to a still-intact shelf and pulled a pink vial. Then he rushed down the hall. The Swordsman turned to leave, but came to a stop when he saw a pair of sleek, manticore hide boots. The tag identified them as containing an air board in the soles. He shrugged and pulled his own board from its pouch. Dropping it onto the same shelf, he picked up the boots.
"Any problem if I trade boards." The Swordsman made it sound like a statement.
Wessel muttered an epitaph but didn't argue. Taking that as assent, the Swordsman departed. Stepping over the broken door, he strode from the shop and exited into the street. He rounded the corner and then donned the new boots. Discarding his own, he activated the new magic. The board burst from the soles and lifted him into the air, causing him to flash a smile.
"Thanks Weasel."
The Swordsman flew to an exit and left Kulldye Dreg behind. As he soared away he considered what he'd learned. Wessel's resistance in telling the truth demonstrated an abnormal fear of the Harbingers. That alone was sufficient for the Swordsman to be cautious—but for once his patience crumbled.
His habits called for him to stalk his new prey, to visit their haunts and learn their habits. This time was different. The image of Aaron's wife and children was too fresh. Ignoring the impulse to wait, he accelerated toward Russia. He had been manipulated into killing a good man—possibly more than one. Nothing would remove that stain.
Except the death of those responsible.
Chapter 4: The Icy Lair
The Swordsman flew through the day and into the night. His new board was not as fast as his old, but it flew like a dream. That and its inherent secrecy would be an asset. He ate distilled food while in the sky, unwilling to pause and use magic to create a hot meal.
The Atlantic Ocean eventually gave way to Europe. Risking being spotted, he stuck to the edge of clouds but pressed on. He flew until his legs ached and his eyes began to droop. Even buoyed by his magic he could not continue forever.
He reached Russia as dawn broke, and finally his fatigue got the best of him. Sinking into the city, he glided to a rooftop stash he'd placed years ago. The faded concrete wall opened at his touch, revealing a tiny room. Closing the secret door behind him, he collapsed onto the bed and was out in seconds.
Nine hours later his eyes snapped open, his first thought one of vengeance. The sleep had done nothing to diminish his rage, and it drove him outside. Stretching his sore muscles, he breathed in the frigid winter air. Sunset had fallen, spilling waning light across the city of Moscow.
Much of the architecture in this neighborhood could be described in two words—faded concrete. The buildings, the sidewalks, even the roads conveyed a sense of drab emptiness. Gritty slush lined the roads, while ice and snow clung to any horizontal surface. Old vehicles spit forth clouds of exhaust as they maneuvered their way home.
The Swordsman returned to his hide and changed into warmer clothing. Then he ate a quick meal from his stash. Last he reached for a spare sword, but hesitated. Drawing his marred blade, he checked it for signs of weakness.
Chips and gouges scarred the sleek, black weapon. He'd used the blade on dozens of missions, and never once scratched its surface. A single encounter with Hawk had left it scarred. But in spite of its appearance, the material remained sound.
Satisfied, he sheathed the sword and left his hide. Gliding into the night, he turned due north and picked up the pace. Soon the lights and sounds of the city faded. Silent, snow-covered tundra took their place. Stunted trees somehow found purchase in the frozen soil, their clawed hands bending in the icy wind.
One hour became two, and then three. The Swordsman wrapped his cloak tighter around his shoulders and pressed on, annoyed that one elbow refused to warm. He reached the Arctic Circle and passed it. Without his cloak he would have frozen to death hours ago, but even with the enchanted cloth he felt the chill. It seeped into his skin, muscles, and tendons, reaching for his bones.
Then he saw it.
Angled beams of ice rose from the tundra and fused, forming a squat A-frame structure. Clouded and opaque, the ice glistened like a giant diamond in the snow. Wisps of snow fluttered off the summit as the wind gusted, curving into complicated patterns before dissipating.
Snow blanketed the ground around it, pristine white for miles. Unbroken by footprint or track, the snow glittered in the moonlight. Six conspicuous boulders lined the exterior at strategic intervals. Drifts of snow had piled against them, but the Swordsman knew what they were.
Sentries.
Caution surpassed anger, causing him to circle the Harbinger base. Soaring high in the night, he glided around the building and shifted to his magesight. Countless hexes undoubtedly protected the
exterior, but the Swordsman could only see the types of energy he had a talent for. He saw no sign of human form, but he doubted his vision could penetrate the ice. Then he scanned with his secondary ability.
Blots of purple light dotted the summit and surrounding area, indicating techno charms or hexes. Most would be monitoring motes, dots of magic that acted like auren security cameras. Not for the first time the Swordsman felt a spark of gratitude that his techno ability was only a secondary.
As a rule, techno mages behaved like agitated squirrels, or catatonic sloths. The ability to see every live signal in the air proved a constant distraction. Auren television, internet, radio, and satellite signals bombarded them constantly. Mage communication tended to be even more compelling. In the Swordsman's case, he could only see where techno magic had been used, not what it was. It was an ability that he had never spoken of to anyone, making it a tremendous asset.
The Swordsman slid to a halt where he'd first spotted the structure. The overlapping nature of the monitoring motes betrayed either a paranoid or thorough caster. Given time he might have been able to find a point of egress, but he didn't care to wait.
He dipped his board and dropped from the sky. Reaching the snow, he banked toward the fortress. Flurries of white filled his wake as he sped toward the first sentry. When he'd closed to fifty feet it began to change.
Rising and straightening, the water entity reached its full stature of ten feet. Shedding snow and ice, it spread its arms and released a throaty growl through lion-like jaws. Then its legs powered into a sprint.
The Swordsman jinked to the side and dismissed the board, dropping under the swing of the frost arm and sliding past its legs. Drawing his sword, he activated its enchantment and sliced through its ankle. The chipped edge glowed red, sheering the foot clean off. The entity emitted a shriek and tumbled into a drift, sending a puff of snow into the air.
The Swordsman reactivated his board and arced back to the rising giant. Water flowed through its form, re-growing the lost limb at the expense of the snow around it. The Swordsman flew across its flank, his sword slicing across its midsection. Steam erupted from the gaping wound and the entity collapsed again. Stomping on the rear of the board, the Swordsman swung back and removed its head.
