The Silver Portal (Weapons of Power Book 1)

by David J Normoyle

  Her right foot slipped. She sucked in a breath and allowed her hands to fall farther down the drainpipe. Her left foot found a firm grip, slowing her fall, then the right foot regained position, and she came to a stop, dangling off the wall, dozens of paces above street level. She took several quick breaths.

  She had descended like that hundreds of times over the years. It had become almost routine. Her only major mishap had been when a drainpipe had broken clean off the wall and she’d broken her arm. After recovering, Twig hadn’t been held back by the memory of the fall. Death could come at any time and in so many different ways that worrying about every little thing that could go wrong didn’t make sense.

  This little downward jerk felt different from other similar incidents. Have I arrived at a point where I have something to lose? If I become a sheltered person like Bareth wanted, will I lose my fearlessness?

  She shook her head, clearing her mind of doubts. Her left foot shifted downward and found a lower crevice. Then the right foot did the same. Her hands slipped down the gutter, keeping pace with her legs, avoiding the brackets. She sped up until she was quickly shinnying down as she always did. Sometimes, thinking gets in the way.

  Upon reaching the street, she looked both ways to make sure no one was watching then reached over her right shoulder to grip the hilt of the sword. She then darted at superhuman speed into the alleyway Feldman had entered. The rush of speed was exhilarating. She then reluctantly released the hilt. She didn’t want to blunder into anyone, and using the sword too much drained her energy.

  She sniffed but smelled nothing strange. Keeping her senses sharp, she crept forward, drifting her fingers against the near wall. If Feldman had moved quickly, she might have lost him.

  Metal rattled, then something slammed, and she moved toward the source of the noise. She heard low voices then the squashy thud of someone getting hit.

  A shimmer of light illuminated the end of the alleyway, and Twig could finally see more than shadows. Feldman, his lit pipe burning red in front of his teeth, stood over a prone figure with his fist raised.

  “Don’t lie,” Feldman said. “If Krawl was here, you’d find something for him. Well, guess what, I’m the new Krawl.” His fist descended with another squashy thud.

  “I’ve got nothing,” came the slurred reply.

  Twig recognized the voice, a rain woman called Guzzling Gerta who was drunk more often than sober. Twig knew to stay out of her way when Gerta was drunk, or she had when she was a mouse.

  “You were able to get something to drink, weren’t you?” Feldman sounded exasperated more than angry, as if he was dealing with a troublesome child. He didn’t seem as vicious as Krawl, but he had usurped the role of taking from the weakest in society.

  There are two types of people, Krawl had said, but he was a dumb oaf. True, Twig had been a Giver, and Krawl was a Taker. But there were more than two types. Bareth gave to Givers. He’d helped her when she was at her lowest. She still found it difficult to understand, but a whole religion of people like him existed. So that was another type of person—not just a Giver or a Taker. And what about those who took from Takers? Isn’t that another type?

  Twig reached over her shoulder and drew her sword, the blade swishing against the leather of the scabbard. Feldman spun, his pipe falling from his mouth.

  “Who’s there?” He gestured at the red light of his pipe on the ground. “Look what you made me do. Get out of here.”

  Twig stepped into the light, her sword in front of her.

  Feldman drew his sword. “This doesn’t concern you. You’ll stay out of it if you know what’s good for you.” The aggression in his voice took on a note of fear as Twig continued to approach.

  “Things have changed,” Twig told him. “You can’t just take what you want.”

  Upon hearing her voice, he snorted a laugh. “I thought you looked small. You are just a girl.”

  “That’s what Krawl thought.”

  “That was you? Look, I don’t want no—” He stepped forward and slashed at her head.

  Twig took several superfast steps sideways and was somewhere else by the time Feldman’s stroke finished. “Over here,” she said.

  Feldman jerked around to face her. “That’s not possible. How did you do that?” He didn’t wait for an answer, launching himself at her with his sword outstretched.

  Twig shifted back again. “No, over here, silly.” Who is the mouse now?

  Feldman stumbled upon missing Twig. When he recovered his balance, he lunged again, and Twig sped back out of his reach. That was a feint, though, and instead of following through on the attack, Feldman dived toward Guzzling Gerta. He dragged her to her feet and held his sword against her throat.

  “I don’t know who or what you are,” he said. “But I know you are here to protect her. Drop your sword and leave, or all your friend will drink for the rest of her life is her own blood.

  Twig silently cursed herself. I should have killed him the first chance I got. Still, he had her wrong if he thought she cared about protecting Guzzling Gerta, who had never exactly been Twig’s favorite person in the world. Twig had come to take out the Takers. Helping the Givers was for Zeeists like Bareth. Still, perhaps she could kill him before he had a chance to carry out his threat.

  She took five fast steps to the right, then seven steps to the left, as fast as she could, then back, then again.

  Feldman turned one way, then the other. “What are you doing, demon? I’m not bluffing. I swear it, I’ll kill her.”

  Twig faded into the shadows, sure that Feldman had completely lost where she was. She then sped up behind him and simultaneously gripped the wrist that held his sword and jammed her sword up through Feldman’s side and into his chest. Feldman exhaled in a rasp, and his body went rigid. Then he collapsed to the ground. As he fell, Twig held onto his wrist to make sure the sword didn’t injure Gerta.

  Guzzling Gerta wailed down at Feldman’s corpse.

  “Are you all right?” Twig asked her.

  A babbling series of words accompanied the wail. The only word that Twig could make out was “demon.”

  She was clearly terrified. Twig decided to ignore her, knowing that, as the demon in question, she was unlikely to be able to ease the woman’s fears. Not that Twig could imagine herself comforting Guzzling Gerta in any scenario.

  Twig knelt down by Feldman’s body and felt around inside the pockets, taking the purse and loose shards she found. Her hands came away sticky with blood, and she wiped them on Feldman’s cloak as she stood. Gerta’s wailing was cutting through her like a winter wind by then, so she used the power of the sword to dash away.

  At the bottom of the drainpipe, she resheathed her sword. As her fingers gripped the back of the gutter pipe and her feet scrambled for footholds, energy surged through Twig’s body.

  With the sword, she was a whole new person. She would bring fear to those who took from the weakest.

  Chapter 15

  The bad emotions were the best, Mortlebee had learned. He recalled how Lackma had made him feel, and summoning the same hate and anger, he drew back on the golden string and released. He was aiming at the valley across the way, but inaccurate as always, the arrow-shaped energy bolt hit a gnarled old tree fifty paces away.

  The tree burst into fire. No matching explosion of triumph swelled in Mortlebee’s breast. Rather, each successful use of the bow left him emptier. The tip of the bow dragged through the ground behind him as he walked toward the burning tree. Through experimentation, he had discovered the secrets of using the bow. The stronger the emotion, the more powerful the arrow. That was why it had seemed not to work when he’d first practiced with it.

  Happiness and joy, good emotions, hadn’t worked as well as hate and anger. Mortlebee wondered if the bow was a temptation and a test. If he’d been pure of heart, perhaps the bow would not have worked for him. He stopped in front of the burning tree, close enough to feel the heat on his skin. The tree grew from a crev
ice at the top of a rocky cliff face. The trunk was narrow, and its branches were few, but Mortlebee could tell it was old. For decades the tree had crept upward, drawing nourishment from the most meager of resources, creating life where none should be possible. And in an instant of hate and anger, Mortlebee had destroyed it.

  Father had been right. Mortlebee’s heart was rotten, irredeemable. He had been exiled before he could corrupt others like Kataya and Hessina or his friend, Dell. It had to be done.

  A wave of weakness passed through him, and Mortlebee dropped to one knee. Using the bow sucked energy from him. He hadn’t fallen unconscious except that first time after killing Lackma, but he’d always had to deal with a spell of weakness after using it. He allowed himself to fall into a sitting position. The flames crackled, hungrily eating the gnarled old tree. With a pop, one of the bigger branches fell off and disappeared over the side of the cliff.

  Mortlebee looked behind himself, back up at the higher slopes. Only a few days before, he had been there, living with his family, but that life seemed impossibly distant. He’d thought he’d been unhappy with his situation—what an idiot he had been. Better to have a few beans every day for dinner with a loving family than eat a banquet in exile.

  Will I ever be able to return? The burning tree said no. The parable of the penitent man said... maybe. He lifted the bow. Even though he’d used it roughly as a walking stick, it showed no evidence of wear or even of dirt. Why did it come to me? It couldn’t have been just a test to allow him to prove himself pure by not being able to use it. It contained rare and powerful magic.

  But violent magic—not something for a follower of Kale. Mortlebee forced himself to his feet. Despite a tremble in his leg muscles, he managed to support himself. He wobbled closer to the cliff face upon which the tree grew and stared down into the valley hundreds of paces below.

  Down there, the foliage was different from what he was used to, greener, lusher. Only hardy plants grew in the mountains, but down there, growing was easier. Mortlebee would be out of the mountains before long. What was to happen after that, he had no idea. Mortlebee knew nothing of the rest of the world.

  He knew he would have to figure out a way to survive, but more importantly he had to heal his heart so he could return. He had contemplated the first step for a while, but he was finally ready to do it. Discarding something so obviously valuable felt wrong, but that was the only thing to do. It was an object of hate and anger, the very things he needed to rid from his heart.

  He stretched his arm back and threw the bow forward with all his might. His legs were still unsteady, and he slipped. For a scary moment, he thought he was going to follow the bow off the cliff, but he threw himself onto the ground and clung to a flat boulder.

  Once he’d steadied himself, he turned to watch the bow spiral through the air, getting ever smaller until it disappeared into the foliage.

  He immediately felt better, freer. It would be a long journey before he could return to his home in Bluegrass, but he had taken the first step.

  Chapter 16

  “Should we leave the ring behind?”

  Flechir grunted a grunt that meant, “Stop talking gibberish, you bloody fool.” The old man’s grunts were as eloquent as his thoughts. Only with speech did he lack communication abilities.

  “We wouldn’t have to travel as hard if we weren’t afraid about the redbirds tracking us.” Lukin had told Flechir about the blue crystal and the Lord Protector and the goblet. The old man hadn’t said much—no surprise there—though dark thoughts and even darker stares let Lukin know how much of a fool he was.

  They were three days out from Soirbuz. Flechir had led Lukin generally eastward with several changes in direction to avoid making their final destination obvious to those who tracked them. They only slept four hours at night, with two shorter stops during the day.

  From the way the old man slumped in his saddle, Lukin wasn’t sure if he was fully aware.

  “We can’t go on like this,” Lukin said.

  Flechir repeated his earlier grunt.

  “No, seriously.”

  “You a healer, boy?” Flechir turned toward Lukin, his eye sockets gaunt and pain filled.

  Lukin shook this head.

  “Then we keep on.” What’s stopping going to accomplish? he thought.

  “You need to rest.”

  Soldiers rest when they die. Not before.

  A cold shiver flowed through Lukin’s body. He didn’t know how to respond to that. Flechir always identified himself as a soldier even though he hadn’t fought as one as long as Lukin had known him, and Lukin’s earliest memory was being warned away from the campfire by Flechir as a two-year-old.

  Halos of light glimmered in the canopy of leaves overhead. The birdsong and the chattering of monkeys, although loud, had faded into background noise. Lukin allowed his horse to fall behind Flechir’s as the trail narrowed. The horses carried their heads low, their steps slow. Flechir and Lukin hadn’t ridden them faster than walking pace since shortly after leaving Soirbuz, so though tired, the animals probably wouldn’t be giving up on them any time soon.

  Although his thighs and backside had quickly reaccustomed themselves to riding all day, Lukin felt stretched thin, and not just from the hard riding and lack of sleep. Flechir had recognized the names of the eagle-crests whom the Lord Protector had set on their tail. Ull Rohaim was a portal-mage and Zubrios’s chief adviser. Ull Dreidnan was the most powerful energy-mage in Mageles, and Ull Axilium had both strength-mage and speed-mage powers.

  With those three in a possession of a tracking crystal, will I ever be able to feel safe again?

  Worse than that, much worse, was Flechir’s condition. Lukin had to get help for the old man. He didn’t know how he would manage without him. As much as Lukin complained about him, Flechir was the only family Lukin had ever known.

  When the trail widened again, Lukin urged his horse alongside Flechir’s. “You never did tell me about my real family.”

  Lukin received no reply, not even a grunt or a thought. Flechir was hunched over even more than usual.

  “Are you okay?” Lukin leaned across to touch Flechir’s shoulder—no reaction. Lukin shook the shoulder. “Hey, old man.”

  Flechir shifted away, then to Lukin’s horror, he slid off the other side of his horse, hitting the ground with a loud thump.

  “Flechir.” Lukin jumped down and ran over, lifting the old man and leaning him against a tree stump.

  Flechir’s eyelids drooped.

  “I’m going to check out that wound.”

  Lukin unbuttoned Flechir’s jacket and lifted his shirt. Underneath was the spare shirt that Flechir had used as a bandage, blood soaking through it. Lukin pulled it away then leaned back sharply as its stench hit him. A mass of congealed blood threaded with fetid yellow pus covered Flechir’s whole side.

  “You said it was just a flesh wound. Why didn’t you let me know it was this bad?”

  Flechir’s head lolled back, but his eyes were still aware. What does the boy think he would have done if he’d known? I’ve been dead since Stg spitted me. No one recovers from a blade to the guts.

  “You have to get better.”

  Couldn’t stop running away from me while I tried to instruct him, but now he needs me.

  “It wasn’t like that,” Lukin protested.

  Flechir coughed weakly. Lying to me to the end. Lying to himself.

  “We could have thrown away the ring, let the clerics find it, taken you to a village somewhere, found a healer.”

  The boy needs the ring now. He needs a new protector. My duty comes to an end. Flechir grabbed Lukin’s forearm. “You can’t stay here.” He nodded down at the sword at his waist. The boy knows what needs doing.

  As quickly as it had arrived, strength left Flechir’s body. His fingers fell from Lukin’s arm, and his head fell to the side.

  “No.” Lukin shook his head, shadowy fingers clutching at his heart. “No, I won’t do that.�
��

  I knew the boy wouldn’t have the strength. I had to handle it myself and ride myself to death. It’ll be quick now.

  “What are you saying?”

  My duty was to protect the boy. My duty wasn’t to teach him to become a man, but I tried all the same. Tried and failed.

  “You didn’t fail. I am a man.” I’m just not you. Why did Flechir think about duty so much? “What was your duty to me?”

  The boy grows, but he never grows up. He hasn’t learned that life isn’t a joke, a game for him to play at. I don’t have to worry anymore. I’m free.

  The shadow fingers dug their nails into Lukin’s heart. “Is that all I am to you? A duty from which you are now free?”

  A soldier’s life is duty and loyalty.

  “Loyalty to whom?”

  Loyalty and duty. Flechir’s eyes drifted closed.

  Lukin threw his arms around Flechir’s neck, leaning the old man’s head against his chest, and wept hot tears down onto the old man’s shoulder. “I won’t let you die. Your duty to me is not over.”

  But it was. When Lukin finally released Flechir, his breathing had stopped. His body fell back then slipped to one side, scraping bark off the stump and releasing the sharp, sweet smell of fungus underneath.

  A soldier’s duty ends at his death.

  Chapter 17

  The cloaked phantom ducked behind a chimney, being more careful than usual. Twig was used to hunting on the blackest of nights, and with a fat, bloated moon spilling light across the black stones, it felt closer to day than night. Cloudless nights were a rarity in Blackstone.

  “The cloaked phantom,” she mouthed the words, tasting them on her tongue like spring rain. That was what some had started to call her. She wasn’t sure, but she thought she liked the name.

  Down below, a waddling merchant was also fat and bloated. He should not have been on the streets late into the night, certainly not in that part of town. He knew it, too. Every few paces, he glanced around nervously, clearly hoping to be lucky enough to avoid trouble. He wasn’t going to avoid thieves—Twig had spotted where they waited—he would, however, be lucky enough to avoid being robbed. The phantom was watching over him.