by Stuart Jaffe
An unsettling thought grabbed hold of her gut and twisted it hard. Perhaps the Artisoll altered her perceptions as had happened to Fawbry. Malja discounted the idea — she knew she would have walked the perimeter and checked security issues at any location such as this one — especially when in charge of the protection of an individual. Plus, she had her do-kha. Surely it could prevent the Artisoll’s magic influences.
Unless the Artisoll’s magic made Malja think this way.
No. She knew herself, knew her mind, knew that her thoughts were normal for her. But if the Artisoll’s magic behaved as Stray had suggested, then it could be using her normal behavior as a way to guarantee its safety. Except if she would behave the same anyway, then why would this magic attempt to control her?
“I can’t think like this.” The sound of her voice, the feel of it in her throat — these things reminded her that she was real, that she had strength, that she had a job to do.
When she completed her tour of the surroundings, she entered the old house. The front door opened into a room large enough to hold a formal ball. Most of the space was empty save for an enormous staircase that wound up the left side of the room and finished in a long balcony that ran deeper into the second floor. Two oversized doors could be found in the center of the east and west walls. Bits of wood and trash littered the floor — perhaps others had stayed here in the past.
Everybody had dispersed to one room or another, so Malja decided to continue her security check. No doubt Stray had already inspected the interior, but she wanted to do it anyway. She hoped it would help refocus her thoughts.
Walking through the house felt like a dream. The warped wood floor absorbed sounds oddly, creating weird creaks and odd echoes. Some of the room remained fully furnished, caked in dust, and falling apart. Other rooms had been picked clean.
The size of the house spoke plenty about its fate. Malja had counted ten rooms in the first section of the first wing alone. No wonder when farming shifted into the air this place fell apart. The owners had poorly managed their business, overspending on a home and never preparing for disruptions to the way they made their living.
At length, she climbed to the second floor and continued her survey of the house. Passing by one open door, she looked in to find Tommy and the Artisoll on the floor with their hands held palm against palm. All their attention had been absorbed by each other. Malja suspected she could have been battling a grachu in the hall and neither would have noticed.
She squashed the urge to leap in and break them apart. The look on Tommy’s face stopped her a little, but it was the Artisoll that really struck her. The young woman gazed upon Tommy with an expression of equal adoration. As far as Malja could tell, the Artisoll felt something strong for Tommy, too.
Walking further on, Malja passed Fawbry’s room. She could hear him pacing and muttering. Though she couldn’t make out his words, he sounded upset and nervous. When this current state of trouble eased, she would have to talk with him, make sure he was okay. Perhaps the loss of his Sheriff position had hit harder than he led on. Or it could all be because of the Artisoll.
By Kryssta, how was she supposed to make a plan of action if she couldn’t trust that her people’s thoughts and behaviors belonged to them and not to some unchecked magical energy?
Two doors down, Malja caught sight of Lynoya crying while Hirasa consoled her. That much, at least, she could trust as authentic. Odd that neither woman seemed caught under the Artisoll’s power. Could it be that it only worked on males? If so, Malja could trust her own thoughts completely. Since Stray had picked a room on the end, she figured now would be a perfect time to ask him.
When she entered his room, he had one scimitar clenched between his knees while he rolled a gritty rock along its edges. Malja knocked on the wall. “I’ve never seen a sword sharpened like that before.”
Stray continued his work with graceful, practiced motions. “How else would it be done?”
“With a whetstone and a less dangerous way of holding the blade.”
“What’s a whetstone?”
“I’ll show you sometime. I’ve a question — Does the Artisoll’s magic affect women or just men?”
“It’s magic. I assume it touches all in some way. Perhaps not the same way, though. Are you feeling that she is causing you trouble?”
Malja waved off the question. “I’m going outside one more time.”
“Nothing has changed.”
“I’m not tired, so I might as well be useful.”
Leaving no room for further discussion, Malja went downstairs and embraced the cooling night air. She walked two circuits around the house without incident — not even a small animal searching for food. Sniffing the air for signs of an enemy campfire brought nothing. Standing motionless and listening keenly for the slightest wrong noise also bore no fruit.
As she searched for any hint of danger, she couldn’t help but wonder if her actions had been manipulated by the Artisoll. After all, she had spent countless nights holed up in one abandoned building or another. Over the last several years, Fawbry and Tommy had done the same alongside her. She could certainly confirm for herself that during those times, she would always check the security of the place — mostly always. But even when doing so, she never had done it so diligently as she did for the Artisoll.
Stomping away from the house, Malja kicked a stone and huffed.
After a few minutes, she looked back. Because the acreage around the house had been cultivated once, little in the way of trees or Carsite rock protrusions blocked the view. An assassin would have no trouble spying on them from afar. If they were going to stay here long — and she didn’t see why they wouldn’t be for now — they would have to build some fortifications. Everything about the place lacked defense.
That became most evident with the small but horrible sound that struck Malja’s ears. Even so far from the house, she knew Fawbry’s cry for help. One second later, she launched back to the house. She sprinted with all the strength she could muster after such a long day. She ignored the pain burning in her thigh as she whipped Viper into a ready position.
Bursting through the front door, she found Fawbry bleeding on the staircase, his feet pointed upward, his head lolling by the banister. Skipping steps, she reached him fast. The blood came from a shallow cut across his chest.
“Another one of those trang-gaul from your party,” he said as he tried to right himself.
“Same one, I think. Did it have a white streak painted on its head?”
Fawbry nodded, and Malja tore up the stairs. At the top, she saw Lynoya running her way. Blood streamed down her face and she cradled her arm. The young woman cried with the gusto of a hungry baby.
“Downstairs,” Malja commanded. “Fawbry’ll help you.”
The hallway was empty now, but the sounds of fighting filled the space. She heard the clang of Stray’s scimitars and the grunts of punches connecting with stomachs. Keeping her body low and ready to strike, she moved with swift grace toward the Artisoll’s room.
From the far end of the hall, something large banged against the closed door — Stray’s door. With the house so large, sounds bounced around with ease. Could the fight be happening down there? She listened at the Artisoll’s door, but before she could determine where to expect the threat, Stray’s door smashed into pieces.
Stray threw out a dark carapace covered in blood like a sailor tossing away chum. He rotated and removed both scimitars from another trang-gaul. Neither one was White Streak.
Malja shifted her feet as she turned her attention on the Artisoll’s door. Apparently, White Streak had more than one team of assassins at its disposal. It had waited until Malja checked the landscape, then put the small team against Stray, leaving plenty of time for it to attack the Artisoll unimpeded. As far as the others — White Streak thought little of them.
A malicious grin raised on Malja’s lips. Fawbry and Hirasa both could be good fighters as a team, but not one-on-one,
and Lynoya had proven White Streak’s appraisal. But the creature had completely failed when it came to the most dangerous one — Tommy.
Stray rushed over but Malja put out her arm to stop him from barreling into the room. Though she still approached with caution, most of her senses eased back. She pushed the door open.
The Artisoll sat rigid on her bed, her eyes mesmerized by the sight in front of her. Tommy had positioned himself in front of her, legs crossed, all of his attention on his left forearm where a tattoo glowed bright orange. His right arm stuck straight upward. An orange light emanated from his hand like a roaring campfire. Above the hand, pinned to the ceiling, White Streak strained for enough air to scream.
Stray went down on one knee by the Artisoll’s side. Malja stayed in the doorway and watched Tommy.
“All clear out here,” she said.
He snapped his head up, and Malja crouched, ready to strike when White Streak fell. But instead, Tommy closed his right hand. Smokey shadows filled in the orange light. An awful crackling sound rolled out from White Streak as its limbs folded inward in ways they had never been meant to do. The creature’s eyes widened as did its foul-smelling mouth. With a twist of his hand, Tommy finished the spell, and White Streak imploded.
What fell to the floor reminded Malja of cold coals in a dead camp. She had no doubt that should she nudge any part of White Streak, what remained would crumble into dust. Stray proved her thoughts by poking a piece with his scimitar.
The Artisoll leaned forward and wrapped her arms around Tommy, resting her head on his back. Tommy stroked her arm and they sighed. The glow from his tattoo dimmed, and Malja thought she saw the image of a screaming face in the fading lines.
“This is foolish,” Stray said as he slid his scimitar back inside its scabbard. “We left our world to escape from the warring countries, but we’ve been pursued by them anyway. Our time here has been unwelcome by the local people and the Artisoll has never stopped being in danger. I should never have agreed to step through that hole in the sky, that portal, your friend created.”
“Harskill is not a friend.” Malja crossed her arms tight, not out of defiance or anger or anything to do with Stray’s statement. Rather, she did so to hold back her hand from reaching out to Tommy. When he was younger, if he had cast magic to kill, she would console him afterward. She would talk and help him make sense of it all. But the Artisoll appeared to be giving him the warmth he needed.
Stray leveled a cold, paternal glare at Tommy. “It’s time to return.”
“Return?”
“This land is no more secure than Reo-Koll. At least back home, I know the world well. I can predict my enemies and I can plan my security with a greater chance of success. Here — nothing here works well for us. I thank you for you attempt to help, but we will deal with our problems ourselves. Please, take us back at once.”
“You don’t understand. We never go back.”
Stray’s hands instinctively went to his scimitars, but he halted short of pulling them out. “We must go back. If we don’t, that little street fight you interrupted will become all of Reo-Koll. The entire world will drown in the blood of war, and the darkest of ages will begin. All will be lost. We must go back.”
Chapter 10
They all convened in one of the seven downstairs living rooms. This particular room had three enormous couches and two overstuffed chairs. All of the furniture suffered from neglect — mostly torn fabric and some mold — but they offered comfort far better than the floor. A fireplace occupied one wall, its blackened stone reaching close to the ceiling and wide enough to house two strong fires — though they only built a small one and it had quickly reduced to glowing embers.
Fawbry stretched out on one couch with his head resting on Hirasa’s lap. Lynoya curled up on one of the chairs. Tommy and the Artisoll shared another couch, while Malja took the remaining chair.
Stray stood before the fire, his hands clasped before his mouth as if locked in prayer. “I thought you understood,” he said, his hands bumping against his mustache. “I thought that was why you were trying to help us. Now, I don’t see the logic of your actions.”
“Helping others doesn’t always have a logic behind it.”
“I don’t agree.”
“Perhaps you should explain what it is that I don’t understand.”
“Of course. Sorry.” He paused, gathered his thoughts once more, and nodded to himself. “Every generation gives birth to an Artisoll — a female child that holds all the magic our world can create. The old man that saved me from the life of a street thug was one of the Holy Men — they’re a group tasked with traveling the world to find the Artisoll. Once they locate her, men like me are assigned to protect her, to make sure she lives to reach the day of her Rising. Traditionally, when the Artisoll is of age, she reveals to the Queen which country she will reside in and is taken to the Temple of that country. There, she goes through a ceremony that unlocks all this magic. She becomes the Queen.”
“And the country that has her gains all of that power.”
“Exactly. Over the decades, corruption grew in our countries. Those with wealth, like Dovell, did all they could to transfer the Artisoll to their lands by the time of the Rising. In fact, between Dovell, Ro, and Bechstollan, they have held control over the Queen for nearly a century. Long ago there were great battles for her, but the people of Ro are very smart and they developed a system to peacefully transfer control of the Artisoll between the three countries.”
Hirasa asked, “So, what’s different now?”
“The Queen died. That shouldn’t happen until the Rising. At the Temple, the Queen sacrifices herself, letting loose her final blast of magical energies and that magic is what opens the Artisoll to becoming the next Queen. I suppose, technically speaking, the Artisoll holds most — but not all — of the magic in the world, yet it’s certainly all the magic that will be in the world when she becomes Queen.”
“But the Queen died. Does that mean the Artisoll can’t go through this Rising ceremony?”
Stray’s body slumped a little. “I don’t know. We were taking the Artisoll to see the Holy Men in the Temple at Castle Dovell to ask them precisely that, but then the street battle began.”
Malja frowned. “The one I took you from?”
“Yes. It appears Ro’s peaceful system has now been ignored.”
“The leaders of your rich countries want the rule to themselves. They’re hoping this is the opportunity.”
“Do you understand, then?”
Malja saw it like she saw any battlefield — despite all the variables and possibilities, the way through presented itself clearly. “You need to take the Artisoll back to Reo-Koll and get her to this Rising ceremony. Then, you’re hoping that somehow, even without the Queen, the magic will happen as it always has. Otherwise, your world will fall apart as every country and every group and every hopeful leader will fight ruthlessly until one becomes the bloody dictator. Does that sound like I understand?”
“All too well.”
Fawbry chuckled. “Only Malja could save one little girl and have it lead to the possible downfall of an entire world.” Hirasa playfully smacked his head turning his chuckle into a light groan.
Tommy motioned the creation of a portal, made an angry face, and then shook his head.
“What’s that mean?” Stray asked.
Malja said, “He’s suggesting that this means Harskill is not our enemy this time. That may be inferring too much, but I agree that Harskill is not involved in the way I thought.”
Fawbry leaned on his elbow. “I would think this is exactly what he would do. Remove the source of all magic from Reo-Koll. Wouldn’t that make the place ripe for him to take over?”
“The difference here is that Reo-Koll already has a Gate watching over it — Abrazkia. She and Harskill have a long history, all the way back to their childhoods, but even if that weren’t true, Gate don’t mess with other Gate’s worlds. There’s no reaso
n to do so. Not with all the countless worlds out there.”
“Then why did he get you to take the Artisoll off that world?”
Malja tapped her chin with her fist as she thought. “Abrazkia is a traditional Gate — as far as I can tell what a traditional Gate is. But from the little I saw of her, she certainly follows the same beliefs and goals that I understand Gate to observe. So, her aim is to keep Reo-Koll from developing further. Particularly when it comes to magic. She wants to make sure that the people of that world never figure out how to create portals.”
Fawbry tried to sit up but Hirasa guided him back to her lap. She stroked his hair and said, “I believe Fawbry was about to point out that Harskill likes to create chaos wherever he goes. That was what happened to us.”
Without moving, Lynoya said, “He also likes pretending he’s a god.”
Malja sat forward. “Let’s assume that Harskill’s interest in Reo-Koll has to do with some sort of fight with Abrazkia. If that’s so, then Harskill is counting on us returning. Abrazkia benefits right now from the removal of the Artisoll.”
“How?” Stray asked. “The world is going to war.”
“She doesn’t care about that. In fact, years of war would slow progress in many areas. Especially the more brutal and bloody the war becomes. Her only goal is to prevent you from gaining the ability to create portals. If the Artisoll has all the magic in the world, and she is gone, then your world has no magic. Without magic, no portals. Abrazkia’s job is a success. Harskill’s counter to this would be to keep the Artisoll in play. Because of my actions, his plans got messed up. He was forced to send us all here to protect the world’s magic until things settled down. It’s a gamble because if we never return, then Abrazkia wins. But my guess is that he plans to come back for us himself at some point.”
“Except we saw him taken away as we went through the portal.”
