And then Detective Abrams called, with a break in my case.
“Just this way please, sir…” The detective was leading him through the foyer where half a dozen other people sat in a very clinical waiting area, whilst the rest of the room was dominated by a glassed-over counter, and a corridor. It was down here that Abrams led his victim, through a set of magnetized doors and into the deeper warrens of the police fortress. Interview rooms with metal doors with little hatches for people to look into on one side, offices with barred and wire-grate windows on the other. It was into one of these that Winters was led, hobbling, to be shown to a desk in a busy room filled with other plain-clothes cops.
“Excuse the mess…” Abrams picked up a stack of files from the battered chair beside his own, rearranging the mess on his table under the window blinds so that he could move the clunky-looking laptop for Dean’s view. “Please, take a seat.” Abrams indicated. “Coffee?”
“Just water, thanks,” Dean said, feeling small and weak in this place with its aura of stern justice. At the other desks were much-harried looking men and women, on the phone or clicking through reports, sighing and looking annoyed. No one looked happy in a police station, Dean saw – and wasn’t sure if he was comforted or terrified by the fact.
“I don’t blame you, some of the guys have been trying to get the brass to put in a proper espresso machine – but all we get is cheap instant stuff.” The detective rolled his eyes, before clicking on the laptop to pull up grainy black and white images.
“Okay, so, I’ve brought you in today, Mr. Winters, because I believe that we’ve had a breakthrough in your case,” Abrams said, before adding, “potentially.”
“That’s great news! Have you caught them?” Dean spluttered over his water. This would mean everything to him.
“Not exactly…” the detective said. “But our investigation is making progress. I believe that the individuals who attacked you might have perpetrated another crime, although not entirely similar. If we can get a positive I.D. on those criminals, then we can tie them to your case as well, and so…” Abrams knocked the deck with his knuckles, like a magician completing a conjuring trick. “Tah-Dah. Two birds with one stone, so to speak.”
“Oh. Alright.” Dan felt a little taken aback. But what if they’re not the right ones? he thought.
“I’m going to show you footage of a different crime, featuring a group of armed, masked men that match your description.” Abrams started clicking on the computer screen.
Well, seeing as my description was only ‘armed and masked’ then it wasn’t that hard, was it? Dean thought sourly, as Abrams muttered and scowled.
“Here we go… This happened in Los Angeles a few days ago,” he said, clicking playgray. “Unfortunately, there’s no sound, but the picture’s good.”
It is? Dean wondered. Compared to Aldaron, what he was watching was like a child’s drawing of real life. In fact, real life had a pretty terrible resolution next to Aldaron, as well.
In front of his eyes, he saw a split screen of two black and white movies, one angled down over a glass door of some kind, and another shooting out from above and behind what must be the counter of a … boutique? Dean thought. The shelves were stacked with high-end decorative book-stops, lamps, novelty toasters, vases, and picture frames. The shop floor itself held curio tables and unique, artisanal chairs.
It’s not a jeweler’s, that’s for sure, Dean thought, as a movement eclipsed the outer screen. A dark-clad figure with a hood drawn up over their face, and some kind of scarf over their nose, mouth, and chin had gone up to the window, and was peering in.
Oh no. Dean felt a snake’s rattle of fear shoot down the center of his spine and he sat upright in shock.
“I don’t know if it’s them, I don’t know…” he was saying, as the figure motioned to another behind and brought down what looked like a tire iron against the window.
Three of them, all wearing dark, heavy clothes, smashed their way into the boutique and started smashing up the nearby goods. They were tall, Dean thought, tall and thinner than his attackers maybe.
“They’re youths,” he said, aware of how old he sounded. “Hoodlums, they’re not…”
That was when the lower camera that pointed out across the store showed a different figure running to the smashed window – a civilian, a small man with balding pate, shirt, and cargo pants. He was shouting at the vandals in the store, clearly furious, and the three criminals turned.
Dean felt his stomach churn in sick apprehension, and a headache spiked in his temples as a premonition of one of his panic attacks. But it was too late now; he could no more open his mouth to say anything than he could tear his morbid gaze away. He was locked into the scene, as his hands started to shake.
The attackers jumped the concerned citizen, throwing vases at him, but this man was brave enough to not run away. One of them picked up a lamp stand and started to use it as a cudgel, another settled for just his sneakers in savage, stamping kicks as they attacked the man, driving him to the ground. The effect on Dean – even though he was sure that these attackers weren’t the same ones – couldn’t have been more pronounced. He lost control over his limbs just as the good Samaritan on the image lost control of the situation. Dean started to shake, and even his jaw clattered as a sensation like pure adrenaline rushed through him, bringing with it chills, sudden heat flushes, and headaches.
They’re going to kill him. They’re going to kill him. They’re going to kill me. Dean’s thoughts narrowed to a single pinprick focus of terror as he felt bile rise in his throat and the world start to spin around him.
“Oh crap…” he heard Abrams say, as Dean swung himself around, pain shooting up his leg, and managed to vomit mostly into the detective’s waste paper basket, before hunching over and hugging his knees protectively.
“I can’t … breathe,” he gasped, even as he coughed into the basket. He knew that this was an illusion. That was what Marcy said. What he was experiencing was an illusion, as unreal as Aldaron was – but it still didn’t matter as his body refused to believe him all the same.
“Okay. Don’t worry, Mr. Winters. I am a fully-qualified first-aider…” he heard the distant voice of the detective say, but the words were far away, and meanwhile he was still struggling for breath.
What was it Marcy said? Just breathe. Concentrate on breathing in and out. Short breath in, long breath out the part of Dean’s mind that wasn’t fighting off teams of masked men tried to tell him.
“Is he alright? Should I call the Desk Sergeant?” Dean could hear other detectives in the room now taking notice of his situation.
Normal breath in. Long breath out…
Finally, slowly, Dean’s heart rate returned to somewhere near normal, and the black edges around his world receded to leave him feeling scraped and raw, as if he had just recovered from a terrible illness. His body felt weak and achy, and he drank plastic tumbler after tumbler of water that was pushed into his hands.
“Can someone get cleaning in here to fix this mess?” Abrams was saying roughly, before leaning down to look in Dean’s eyes – and he was smiling, Dean saw with a degree of horror. “So, by your reaction can I take that as a positive identification?” Abrams said, as close to eager as Dean had ever seen him.
God. Dean squinted his eyes closed, before blinking them again, trying to gather his thoughts. The three men. The ones who had attacked that poor guy in Los Angeles. He felt the bubble of fear rise as his mind went closer to the awful memories, but no – they were nothing like the men who had attacked him. They had been stocky, solid, and there had been more of them. Five? Six?
“Balaclavas,” Dean said. “They wore balaclavas.”
“Well, maybe they changed their disguise…” Abrams pushed, his voice not entirely sympathetic.
Maybe they did. Maybe they could have been, but – Dean just couldn’t be sure. Those criminals he had just seen hadn’t looked like his one
s, but even on the distant chance that they were, he couldn’t stand up in court and claim so. And if Abrams charges the wrong ones, then that means that MY criminals are still out there – and that they might come back… Dean tried to not panic one more time.
“No. I can’t be sure, I’m sorry, officer.” Dean hung his head in shame.
“Detective,” Abrams muttered angrily, straightening up and leaving the other, slightly more compassionate officers to deal with him.
Dean couldn’t feel much more pathetic if he tried.
Chapter 11: The Jodo Canyons
The sun was high, glaring even, but it wasn’t hot as Dean trudged by the side of the pack mule that carried his mentor, Master Grum. A breeze played through the trees, scraping branches against each other, and further into the canyon a covey of dark-winged birds scared up.
“Hmph-arrum-bad-dum! Strike, strike, strike! went the hammer…” Master Grum was singing, or that was what Dean thought the dwarf was doing, although the series of unintelligible sounds followed by discordant choruses could have been anything, really. They had left King’s City earlier that morning, heading out with just Grum’s aging mule, Alphonse, edging around the great bay and heading east inland, where the region around them had quickly become hilly and forested.
“The High King only rules over the towns really – things are that bad in Aldaron at the moment,” Grum sighed. “Word is, that he has to employ the Freebooters as road patrols, running them up and down the highways to keep them free of bandits and monsters … not that I would trust them at all to not be the bandits themselves!” Grum said derisively.
Great Dean thought, clutching his quarterstaff a tad tighter in his hands. He really didn’t want to get set upon by a band of Freebooters – not when they seemed to have it in for him!
But despite the dwarf’s somewhat dire warnings, their journey passed pretty much without incident for the most part, at least until they had come to the fork in the road that was signposted towards the Jodo Canyons. Ahead of them the ground humped on either side of the deeply rutted dirt track, with twisted trees clutching to the broken hills thickly – and the track itself dove straight through the middle.
“Er … Master Grum? How safe are these canyons again?” Dean said as the edges of the cliffs rose on either side of them, and the glaring sun became a high, narrow brightness over their heads.
“Ha! How safe is anywhere in these lands?” Grum said, going back to his singing.
Dean didn’t like it. The walls weren’t close, but they were festooned with trees and half-shattered rocks. Perfect hiding places. He started to feel that electric burr in the back of his teeth similar to his panic attacks, until he reminded himself — Breathe. Just keep on breathing in and out.
“What’s so special about this ore, anyway?” Dean said to distract himself from the creepy sound of scratches and rustles between the trees.
“Aha!” Grum stopped singing, suddenly enthused. “There you see, that’s what you should be worrying about. Most other miners think that the Jodo Canyons are empty, but I heard from a friend of a friend – a fellow dwarf, you see — who says that the old maps show a good, untapped seam of dragon iron running through it, but it was hidden by the last dwarves to come here.”
“Why didn’t they come back for it?” Dean said.
“Harrumoph-pha-bumph….” Grum was either muttering or singing, Dean once again couldn’t be sure. “I never had the chance to get at it before now, had to wait until I got me an apprentice!” Grum interjected between his bouts of happy gargling, leaving Dean to turn back to watching his surroundings warily.
“Hff!” They had barely rounded a corner in the canyons when Alphonse suddenly reared, almost throwing Grum from his back as he snorted fearfully.
“What is it, old boy? What is it?” Grum was saying, patting his side, before looking up. “Winters? Go check out what’s up ahead.”
“Me?” Dean murmured, shaking his head and clutching his cloak closer around him as he stalked forward.
The canyon trail snaked around the rocky walls and boulders the size of Grum’s house, sometimes with the cliff walls leering overhead, and then receding further back. Dean carefully picked his way forward, pausing by the nearest boulder, before moving onward…
“Hand it over!” snarled a voice up ahead, and Dean froze, thinking that it had been speaking to him. But a second later, the first voice was answered by a second.
“Shan’t! It’s mine!”
The voices were guttural and snarling, the same sort of sound that a bull might make if it could talk. Dean started to rise from his crouch, peering down to where the trail widened into a wide space, littered with rock fragments and chippings. The walls were riddled with holes – some large enough to drive a cart down, and others barely big enough for even Grum to fit through. In the center of this natural amphitheater were two creatures, huddled over a third form.
Kobolds? Dean immediately thought, before he realized that no, that was not what these creatures were – although they were similar.
The two forms were almost as large as Dean was himself, but they hulked, leaning over with crooked spines and bent knees. Their skin was of a greenish-gray and blotched with speckles of blue like spilt ink on the parts of their flesh that was exposed. They had no hair to speak of, but they did have tufted ears, and large lower jaws with tusks protruding from between their lips. Small, dark eyes and armor that looked partly stolen from a host of different factions, races, and styles. Heavy gloves and wrapped leather bandaging, round breastplates (one of which Dean was sure was actually a shield strapped to the thing’s head), leg greaves and leather skirts like a gladiator. They also carried large, serrated weapons.
“Orcs!” whispered a voice beside Dean, making him flinch. It was Grum, shuffling forward on his elbows to see what the problem was. The Artificer glared, and his face started to change color to almost match the red of his beard. “I hate Orcs…” he started to hiss and tremble with almost apoplectic rage.
“Wait!” Dean put a restraining hand over his master’s shoulder beside him, looking at what the two Orcs were arguing over. It was clearly another person, and the Orcs must have bene arguing for some time, as they had seemed to try to set up some kind of a camp here in the heart of the canyon. A blackened circle of ash and wood had been their fire, and a scrap of ragged tarpaulin strung between two boulders must have been their tent.
“What is that…” Dean peered at the bundle of rags, trying to get a better look, before suddenly one of the Orcs prodded it with a foot, making it roll over, and hair like blowing sea mist spilled across the rocks, platinum white in the center, fading to blue near the edges. The edge of a pale, almost albino face.
“Is that an elf?” Dean said.
“Well … maybe we should let the Orcs have her then, seeing as she’s a pointy…” Grum muttered unkindly.
“No!” Dean hissed back, casting a look at where the second Orc had pushed the first, with a bellow of, “Get your hands off ‘er!”
“We can’t leave her there to die! What’s wrong with you, Grum?” Dean bickered, as behind him the Orcs did as well. The thought of anyone being helpless before those brutes made Dean want to be sick – and not just with rage, but with panic as well.
Just like I was helpless before those muggers, he couldn’t stop himself from thinking, even though he knew that all of this was just a game. She’s probably not even real, just an NPC… he thought to himself, before he felt another wave of shame and disgust at himself. I can’t leave her – I couldn’t leave anyone to that fate.
Like he had been left. Like he had waited to die—
“We’re going to rescue her, now!” Dean said, before adding, “Somehow.”
The dwarf ground his teeth, flushed, and then nodded. “Never has an apprentice been so rude to me –and stayed standing for it.”
“We’re both lying down,” Dean pointed out unhelpfully.
“Hrgh. Don’t push it, Winters. But I suppose that this means I get to indulge in my third favorite pastime…” Grum said, reaching behind him for the heavy hammer that was strapped to his back.
“You’re about to say ‘killing orcs,’ aren’t you?” Dean said, wondering when things were ever going to be easy.
Not any time soon, he thought, as Grum jumped to his feet, and roared a challenge at the orcs. “Prepare to Die, hellspawn!”
*
Level One Battle Spells…
Shield
Bless
Light
Bolt
*
“Bolt!” Dean shouted, leaping from his position to throw the glowing ball of bluish light that he held in his hand at the creatures. Why don’t I have more powers yet!? he thought in alarm, watching as Grum was already halfway across the space between them, raising his hammer high in the air.
“Urk!” The bolt engulfed one of the creatures’ breastplates in an explosion of eldritch light, knocking it back.
3 Damage!
“Take that!” Grum ducked under the swipe of the next Orc’s scimitar, swinging his hammer low to impact the creature’s shin. It howled in pain and staggered back – but it was only lightly injured, not down.
And neither was the first Orc, shaking off the remnants of blue fire as it drew its own cleaver, and made to join the fight against Grum.
No! The only thing worse than being attacked by far stronger and more ruthless enemies, Dean realized, was seeing your friends attacked. Just like that poor guy in the video. There hadn’t been anything that he could do watching the other end of a CCTV screen – but here, and now, there was.
“Shield!” Dean flung out his hand towards Grum, and there appeared, glittering over the side of his body, a circular blue-white forcefield, inscribed with arcane runes. The second orc brought his cleaver down against it and white-blue sparks flew everywhere, but Dean’s magical shield held.
Tales of the Gemsmith Page 9
