The Last Great Hero
Book 2:
A
History of Magic
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All characters and events portrayed
in this book are fictional,
and any resemblance to real people
or incidents is coincidental
(and, let’s face it, unlikely).
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A History
of Magic
Wensday
Rawk, the last of the great Heroes, wondered how long he should wait.
He’d been standing under the tree for at least half an hour, a rock amidst the surge and swirl of the market but, after having met with Maris twice previously, he was starting to get the impression that she was always late. So he stayed where he was, eating a long curl of sticky pastry he’d bought from a cock-eyed hawker, and gazed around. There were noticeably less people than there had been a while ago. The serious morning shoppers were done for the day and the more casual lunch crowd had not yet materialized.
Licking his fingers a few minutes later, he was surprised that nobody had yet come to talk to him, requesting a story, or just looking for a story they could tell their friends later on. They did it often enough, complete strangers acting as if his fame somehow made it all right to bother him and make demands of his time. Not so long ago he was happy with the arrangement, but it seemed that recently he was seeking out more moments to call his own. Perhaps standing in the market was not the best location to find one of those, but still...
Eventually he turned to a hawker and paid for another of the pastries. While he waited for the man to stash the money he turned to look up at Theron Tower. The clock at the top said that it was almost fifteen minutes past ten. Though it was the oldest in the city, and notoriously unreliable, he decided that if he waited much longer even the late breakfasts would be over and it would be lunchtime. Just as he was really starting to wonder if Maris had changed her mind, she came into view, strolling along one of the alleyways between stalls. Once she made it into the relatively clear space under the tree, she paused and looked around, brushing hair from her eyes. She smiled when she saw him and, for a moment, Rawk thought it was a smile of relief, as if she thought he might not be there.
He took a couple of steps towards her, favoring his injured knee.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said. “Were you waiting long?”
“No. I was a bit late myself.”
“Oh, that’s good. I had trouble finding my earrings.”
The items in question seemed to be ivory hoops carved with intricate patterns. Rawk wasn’t sure if they were worth the effort; they were a bit gaudy for his taste.
“They’re nice,” he said. “I was doing my hair.” He rubbed his hand over his bald scalp.
Maris laughed softly.
“Here ya go, Rawk,” the hawker said, appearing suddenly at his elbow. He looked at both Rawk with one eye and Maris with the other. “I think three may be a record for anyone.”
Rawk took the pastry. The third one he’d had; so much for having just arrived. But if Maris noticed the inconsistencies in his story, she didn’t say anything.
A scream ended the chance for any further conversation. Then another scream, louder than the first, and people were running everywhere, streaming along between the stalls, pushing and shoving. They were like a drift of flowers caught in a wild, surging stream. Noisy, rude flowers. But it seemed that most didn’t know what they were running from. Or where they were running to.
The noise of shouting and mass movement grew like an approaching storm.
Trying to get his bearings, Rawk headed for where the craziness was at its most intense. He pushed against the tide, shouldering people aside, stalking between the stalls. He paused at a corner. The smell of a candle maker’s tent, heavy with spices and perfumes, assaulted him. He kept going, and the smell trailed him almost all the way to the far side.
The crowd was thinning now. Everyone had decided where they were going and had gone. Rawk kept walking straight ahead, past a pickler and into the fresh food section of the market. And in the farthest corner he found an exot.
The creature looked a lot like a watermelon with six crab-legs and a tuft of yellow hair. It might almost have been funny, except its long teeth were obviously made for tearing and it had the growl of a cornered bear. A starving, injured, late-for-work, cornered bear. It also had two short, muscular arms. In one hand it had a ‘sword’, no bigger than a dagger for a human, and in the other was a club. The sword was much used; it had a bent tip and a notch taken out of the edge.
And beyond it was a dark geometric delta of blood on the street, following the cobbles as it spread away from a dead washerwoman.
Rawk wanted to finish his pastry. It was very good, but now half of it was a squashed mess in his hand and the other half was back behind him somewhere. Or he could just go to a cafe like he and Maris had planned and have breakfast. Or lunch. Or whatever it was. He thought that, or something similar, every time he came against an exot these days. Perhaps his stomach was trying to tell him something. He looked around and saw that quite a crowd had gathered, moving in behind him when they realized who he was. They were too close. They wouldn’t all be able to get away if the thing decided they looked like a better target than Rawk. Perhaps they couldn’t see the dead woman. They obviously thought Rawk would win, because he always did. Except one day he wouldn’t.
Rawk swore under his breath. He dropped the pastry and wiped his hand on his breeches. He drew his sword with sticky fingers and raised it above his head so the crowd could cheer. Then stayed where he was as he tried to think. Not long ago he would have charged, but he was starting to realize that could be a terrible idea. He wasn’t as young as he had once been and the sudden increase in exots coming to Katamood— he’d killed at least a dozen in the last week— had been exhausting.
“If you aren’t going to kill it, old man, I will.” A tall, slim woman was standing at the edge of the crowd. She had her sword drawn and was wearing dented black armor like she knew how to use it.
It took Rawk a moment to recognize her. “Josey? Is that you? It’s been years.”
The woman nodded. “You’re getting old.”
“That didn’t concern you last time.”
“You weren’t so old then.”
Rawk couldn’t argue with that. “What are you doing here?”
“I was drawn here.”
“Was I really that good?”
She smiled but said, “Everyone is being drawn here, Rawk. Katamood is the center of the world again.”
“Well, I don’t need any help.” He could see at least three other Heroes in the crowd as well, all waiting for the opportunity to jump in. One of them was inching slowly forward.
Josey raised an eyebrow. “Really? Then go and make the claim before I do. Manners will only hold me so long.”
For a moment, Rawk considered letting her take the claim, but apparently he still wasn’t ready to go that far, not with a crowd watching anyway. So he started slowly forward as the creature came to meet him on scuttling legs. It clattered across the cobbles, slashing at his leg with the sword. Rawk blocked but almost had his kneecap shattered by the club. He took the blow in his shin, hobbling back a step, as he knocked as
ide another attack.
Rawk reassessed and held his ground, using his longer reach to keep the creature away. Keeping it away from his legs was relatively easy once he had its measure. Until the exot leapt up to head height and almost took out an eye with a quick, vicious jab. And that moment when Rawk almost died gave him the chance to finish the fight. He swung Dabaneera upwards, anticipated the block, twisted.
And the creature disappeared with the sound of breaking glass and a faint whiff of... rosemary.
There was a moment of silence, then the crowd started to cheer. Rawk looked at his sword. He cleared his throat and turned to look at Josey. She raised her eyebrows.
Rawk took a deep breath. And the breath was knocked out of him as Maris dashed from amongst the stalls and threw herself into his arms.
“That was amazing,” she said in his ear. He could barely hear her over the cheering. “Don’t do it again. Ever.”
“I’m Rawk; I have to.” He turned to the crowd to acknowledge the cheers.
At that moment there was a pop and a bright flash of light. The crowd didn’t seem to notice, or at least they didn’t care, but Josey had dropped to a fighting crouch.
“What was that?” Rawk pushed Maris aside and readied Dabaneera. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, trying to see. “Did you see who it was, Josey? Was it magic?”
The woman shook her head as she straightened. “It was a dwarf, I think.”
“Are you sure?”
“Does the phrase ‘I think’ lead you to believe I am sure?” She looked around. “Nobody else seems to be worried.”
Dwarves could not do magic, so Rawk started to relax as well. He cleared his throat and rubbed his eyes some more.
Maris was looking a bit offended. “What was it?”
“Didn’t you see it? Or hear it?”
She shook her head.
Josey motioned towards the crowd. “Well, the little bugger has gone now, anyway,” she said walking slowly to Rawk’s side as she sheathed her blade. “And speaking of magic...”
Rawk didn’t reply. He examined his blade instead.
“Is that a magical sword? It doesn’t look all that special.”
“It’s just a sword,” Rawk muttered.
“You didn’t hit the thing, did you?”
“Didn’t get close, really.”
“That’s what I thought. I won’t say anything, but people might get a bit suspicious if it comes back.”
“There could be lots of them.”
“Perhaps. I know one thing, there’s lots of magic going on around here, even if neither you nor that dwarf are the ones doing it.”
“Why do you say that?”
“All the exots appearing around here haven’t been hiding under people’s back porches. They’re coming from somewhere else.”
“The forest maybe,” Rawk said. They weren’t coming from the forest; they were appearing all over the city, not just to the west; but even if they were, magic was probably still involved.
Josey shook her head. “Well, you go look in the forest. I’ll just stay here and get my claims without all the walking.” She patted Rawk on the shoulder and sauntered away.
“What do you mean you didn’t hit it?” Maris asked.
Rawk cleared his throat and looked at his sword again. “The creature disappeared when the sword was about two inches away from it.”
“Oh. So it isn’t dead?” She looked around as if the creature might suddenly reappear.
Rawk knew of no reason why it couldn’t reappear. “I have no idea.” There was no evidence to suggest where it had gone. The only thing he really saw was the dead washerwoman, though her hood covered her face. Was she screaming when she died or had she been surprised? Rawk couldn’t see any wounds. The flow of blood across the cobbles had stopped
Blinking, he looked around. The crowd was still clapping and cheering. Some of them were talking amongst themselves, as if they had just watched a particularly good piece of theatre. None of them seemed to take any notice of the dead woman, even when the City Guard turned up and started to organize for the body to be taken away. Waydin arrived with a pair of dwarves pulling the cleaning wagon. The soldier took a moment to talk to Rawk.
“Did you get the claim, Rawk?”
He nodded.
“Was it big?”
“No. Just an animated watermelon.”
“Well, you can let Weaver know at lunch.”
“Today? Really?”
Waydin smiled and gave him the name of the tavern and the alias Weaver would be using.
“But I haven’t even had breakfast yet.”
The soldier shrugged. “Then you’d better hurry up.” He went to make sure nobody disturbed the dwarves at their work
Rawk watched for a few minutes as the woman’s body was carefully placed in the wagon and the pavers were scrubbed. The crowd was still there, watching the final act. “Let’s go and get something to eat before someone starts throwing walnuts.”
“What?”
“Come on.”
“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll be sticking close to you.”
The crowd cheered as they started to shuffle back out of the way.
“Path bless you, Rawk,” someone shouted. The little woman held up two fingers in the sign of the god.
“Thank you.” But he didn’t care about Path; Path had let the woman die. He made his way through the crowd, trying not to hobble. He just wanted to sit down and have something to eat.
Maris directed him to a cafe back the way they had come. There were tables and chairs set up on the sidewalk outside the small building with flowers on the table to drown out the smell of the river.
A waiter rushed out as soon as they sat down.
“I’ll have an ale, please,” Rawk said. It was going to taste horrible but he needed something. “And a...”
“I imagine Maris will have a cherry wine.” The waiter smiled at her and she nodded.
Then he scurried away, collecting dirty crockery from as table as he went.
“So, you come here a lot?” Rawk said in the lengthening silence. The place didn’t seem all that special.
“Yes. The manager is a friend.”
“It’s nice. I’ve never been here before.”
The cafe was just fifty yards from Dragon Bridge. The sound of sailors and wharf hands competed with the din of the market, which was just starting to find its rhythm again.
Maris nodded. “I like it. No matter what’s going on, it always seems to be quiet here. I feel calmer when I sit down.”
Calm? Rawk cleared his throat. Calm would have been nice. He was nervous every time he saw Maris. He didn’t know what to say or do so he bumbled along, feeling like a fool. Feeling like a boy again. He had seen her twice since first taking her for a late night sugar-stick and he still wasn’t quite sure how to act. He’d never been in that situation before. Normally he saw a woman once, slept with her, then didn’t see her again, or spent considerable effort avoiding her. Occasionally he saw her a second time, but that usually involved sex as well. But the topic of sex had not come up with Maris, and Rawk found that he didn’t mind at all.
The waiter returned and set the drinks on the table. “Are you ready to order?”
Maris gave a small nod then looked at Rawk. “I know what I want. The gasa is excellent.” But he felt her hand on his leg under the table and came to the conclusion that she wasn’t interested in breakfast at all. Or lunch.
Rawk cleared his throat. He fumbled with the menu, pulling it from amidst the flower arrangement. When he spun it around, it took a moment for his eyes to focus. He coughed as Maris started to rub his leg. “I don’t like gasa all that much, I think it’s the sultanas. Have you just got some type of stew?”
“We have lamb casserole with Makavian spices and mashed potato.”
That sounded a bit fancy; Weaver would be horrified. “That sounds perfect.”
Maris smiled. “You seem like a man who stands by his convicti
ons.”
“Well, I can’t understand why you would want to ruin a perfectly good grape.”
“I suppose you prefer them squashed and fermented.”
Rawk smiled. “Something like that.” Though he didn’t like wine all that much more than he liked ale. He just liked eating grapes. And as he took his bone handled knife and fork from the pouch on his belt he wondered why he hadn’t just said that. He was still playing the part of the Hero, being the person that was expected. “I actually—”
“The food is all cooked fresh, here. It may take a while for it to arrive.” She moved her hand away from his leg and took his hand instead.
-O-
Rawk smiled to himself as he watched Maris make her way up the steps into the Veterans’ Club. And when she was gone he stayed there a while longer to contemplate the trudge around the side of the hill to the Rusted Hammer. It wasn’t actually all that far at all, but knowing that didn’t help at all. He couldn’t stand there all day; there was a team of dwarves working on the sewers just down the hill and by the end of they day they’d probably be telling stories about him moping around like a love struck youth. So, with a sigh that probably suited the dwarves’ narrative, he started to walk.
As usual it was a slow journey with people stopping to shake his hand and wish him well. Three people waved the Y symbol of the Great Path at him and a group of children followed him for a block before asking for a story. And he actually didn’t mind at all because it was all a good excuse for his slow pace. By the time he made it to the front of the Hammer the last of the morning had slipped away.
Prince Weaver was sitting on the front porch of the tavern, feet up on the rail, ale in hand. “Halloo, friend Rawk. It hath been a long time since I saw you last.”
Rawk sighed again. “Gavin? Is that you?” Gavin was one of the prince’s favorite disguises. He’d used it several times before.
“Course it is. Who else would it be?” The accent was still as terrible as ever.
Rawk climbed up the stairs and sat down by Weaver’s side. He looked around and saw several guards trying to look inconspicuous.
A History of Magic Page 1
