Alexa Drey- the Gates of Striker Bay

by Ember Lane

A crooked smile wormed its way onto my lips.

  I conjured my glowsphere, moving my manas in and out of it. Bright white one moment, an eerie, glowing black the next—like holding an eclipse. The mana flowed, filled, ebbed, and left, replaced by its darker counterpart.

  Focusing on a small grout line between two stone blocks, I imagined the thinnest laser, blinding white, and issued it from my finger. It shot out, instantly chiseling away at the ancient mortar. Changing it, I withdrew the mana and blackened my laser, filling it with shadowmana. This time the mortar crumbled, spat, disintegrated. I snapped my magic back in, blowing the tip of my finger. “Cool.”

  Where was I?

  I had a fair idea of my new attack possibilities, though limited potential to use it in my tight cell. I drew a wall over the door, a shimmering sheet of gray, the two manas exactly mixing as if they were interpreting my needs and finding the correct solution. I held it there, marveling at its beauty, wondering at its power.

  Now stripped of my stats, I realized how much I’d relied on them. My arcane shield had power—it had (52,78,0,100) power, and it had been growing. It had been half as powerful as it could be—yet not powerful enough to protect me in the City of Spokes.

  But I still missed that fifty-two. I missed that one hundred. This shield shimmered, its power unknown.

  So I launched another laser at the wall.

  This one with some punch.

  Stone exploded, shattering, spraying me and leaving a gaping hole, a portal through to another cell.

  Wow!

  I crawled toward it, looking through and seeing an empty room. I stripped my defensive shield from the door and drew all my mana within me, draining what little there was in the cell itself. Sitting opposite the hole, I blasted it, increasing my force, the thickness of my magic, chiseling away until I was sure I could fit through it.

  When done, I crawled through, waiting, holding my breath and calming.

  Just the drip—that single, metronomic drip sounded out.

  I blasted my cell’s door, pouring my combined manas into it, demolishing it into a thousand splinters. I dove through into the cell, rolling, crouching, springing through the gaping doorway, landing in a stone corridor. It led away, vanishing—a turn. I sprinted up it, holding at its edge, controlling my breath.

  That drip again. Damn thing was following me.

  I chanced a glance—a single soldier but hardly a soldier at all—a fat, middle-aged man with rosy cheeks and a ruddy nose, piggy eyes, rusting chain mail, and snoring. I marched up that corridor, pulling him out of his seat, pinning him against the wall behind.

  He woke as his sweating head smacked against stone.

  “You’ve got two options. Tell me where I am or die.”

  His eyes filled with fear. Slobber ran from his quivering lips as the smell of urine filled the tight corridor.

  “Castle. Horn’s Isle.”

  I swung my fist, snapping his head around—one punch, one knockout, and I dropped him like a stone, discarding him. Horn’s Isle—it meant nothing to me, but I doubted he’d know anything else of any use.

  The corridor ended at a square chamber, another corridor at right angles to it, spiral steps in front and leading up. I took them two at a time, soon coming to an arched doorway, the steps continuing to wind upward. A door sat slightly ajar at their top, leading to an inner bailey—straw-covered rock that breached a gap to the main building. Rain lashed down in unforgiving sheets, eroding the aged keep.

  I chose up, needing to scope, to get some foundation, an idea of where I was. Midway, I paused at an arrow slit. A sea spread away, raging, khaki-brushed white, vast swells undulating, buffeting the mists like it was some enormous storm wall. Continuing up, I reached the turret’s top, pausing, looking along the crumbling, crenelated walkway that was supposed to be this castle’s first line of defense—ignoring the turbulent sea, of course.

  I darted out from my cover, crouching by a clump of reed grass that clung to the eroded stone. Two more soldiers patrolled, in no better condition than the walls or the keep. Their livery was black. I wished I’d asked Mezzerain the colors Valkyrie flew. Then I saw a frayed standard, flapping strong on the inland wind, defiant in the face of the relentless rain.

  Black again, but with a wolf’s head in its center, and I’d seen its likeness before.

  Over the bailey, the time-ravaged keep had been stitched together with fresh mortar. Wood scaffold still clad its sides. Its timber roof was pocked with holes, charred flashes scarring it. It was then I heard her call, her pull—a subtle tug, gentle and familiar. I’d felt similar before, from Pog, from Grandma Lumin, Marista Fenwalker. My guild tabs were still grayed out, yet that was exactly the sensation. It came from the keep.

  Checking the bailey, a small troop moved along it, ragtag, hardly in formation. Jumping down the steps, I paused for mere seconds before darting across the smoothed rock, sliding to a stop against the keep’s wall, loping along under the scaffold. I pulled myself up a ladder, scampering to the roof, crouching, resting, trying to pick up that fleeting feeling once more.

  It was a whisper, a hint, fighting to be heard against the wind and rain. A picture of a crone came to me, her curling, yellow nails racking the chest of a sleeping soldier—of Mezzerain—kissing the bloodied line then binding him to a rope before sliding his body under a tranquil sea. Crone? Why did I get the feeling that was just one persona?

  I clambered onto the scarred roof, tufts of moss breaking free as I strove for its pitched peak. Her call was like a curling wind, blustering around me, drawing me on until it felt like I was dead over it, above her. I sat against a stone flue, its warmth permeating my sodden clothes, its peat smoke heady. I sank my thoughts under and caught the essence of the room, its coldness, the fire’s futile battle against it.

  The castle was dead—no flames would save it apart from the last.

  The pocked and charred roof offered little resistance. A mere blink of magic saw me through, dropping, trusting my instinct, and landing on a rug-covered floor.

  The crone sat by the fire, a blanket over her bony legs. She twisted around.

  “Your friends are on their way to Kyrie.”

  My heart leaped. “A boy, two men?”

  She cackled. “If you mean the stone bearer, Mezzerain of Kyrie, and the other, then yes—them.”

  I sensed a catch. “And?”

  She shrugged. “And they’ll hang when they get there. Mezzerain is long outlawed here. They think the boy’s his son, and the other, well, he doesn’t matter.”

  “How do I get there?” My anger exploded.

  “There’s one road off this island; it forks; take the right. It’ll take you there.”

  I turned for the door.

  “You’re two days behind them.”

  “How?”

  “They came from the mists two days before you. And the black you see everywhere, that’s Ruse.”

  “Then I’ll blast my way through.”

  The crone eased herself up. “What plans after that?”

  “Speaker’s Isle.”

  “Rouse the crones,” said the crone. “So war is finally upon us. Mandrake appears to agree with Mezzerain; something has changed within him. Tell me, have you ever encountered the magic of the combinium?”

  “Once.”

  “Then you’ll know it is strong, communal. It will take more than just anger to beat them.”

  “I’m ready.”

  “Good…” The crone shimmered, age falling away from her, her bent and broken figure straightening, filling out. Dry, gray hair morphed to rich autumn, sallow cheeks to full and blush. Suddenly power radiated from her; youth filled her. “Then let’s go rescue them.”

  “Melinka?”

  “One and the same.” She lent me a saucy smile and winked. “They always underestimate a crone.”

  She moved to the room’s doorway and let out a piercing, haggard scream. The door immediately burst open, two black-clad soldiers spi
lling in. They checked, spotting Melinka and then me, then dithered. Melinka muttered some unheard words, her hand darting out like a pianist striking his first notes. A fan of steel gray shot from her, severing the guard’s legs at the knees, crimson pumping, pooling, as shock set rigid on their faces, and they toppled over.

  Melinka darted forward, hurdling the bloody mess, pirouetting, and then dashing off to the right like a thief stealing in the night. I followed, skidding out onto a stone balcony overlooking a courtyard. More silver magic sprayed from Melinka, raining down onto the cobbles, picking out anything dressed in black.

  I called for my magic, peppering two with silver bullets as if my new magic was already attuned to my imagination. The bullets ripped through them, exploding. Their innards sprayed out.

  “The steps!” Melinka screamed, aiming another magical fan at the onrushing guards.

  We dove along the balcony, raining merry hell on Ruse’s soldiers, bounding over the dying and ending the living. Soon in the turret, we hurtled down its curling steps.

  Then the stone itself began vibrating, my mind immediately lanced by a powerful probe. Melinka checked in front of me, shimmered, and became cloaked in a ruby shroud—a magical bodysuit. I tried to conjure my arcane shield, but that spell was lost to me for now. The piercing probes continued. I grabbed them, shoving them away with all my force, my anger traveling up that lance, seeking its source.

  “No!” Melinka shouted. “Don’t let them know you!”

  Snapping my magic back, I imagined a protection like hers, saw myself shrouded in a lattice of magic like a shell. I immediately understood it was the name I’d used. I had to forget the old and invent the new.

  We spilled from the turret into a chaotic courtyard. My protection snapped into place. Melinka’s magic cracked, upending the enemy like she’d pulled a giant rug from under them. I shot my bullets out, imagining one of Sedge’s plasma guns, not even sure if they existed anymore.

  It was then I saw him.

  He stood at the other end of the keep’s courtyard, dressed in a black cloak, his sallow face pointing toward me. Like a striking snake, his staff shot out, aiming straight for me. Scarlet forks cracked across the air, smacking into my gut and sending me crashing back against the turret’s stone.

  “You cannot resist the combinium.”

  I growled, a feral growl of consummate anger, jumping up, both hands spread in front of me. Through gritted teeth, I called for his death, and pure black magic streamed from me: pulsing, smashing into him, and sending him flying backward, cutting him in two. His stunned expression was his last.

  Our minds met in his death, and I saw them—his companions, priests, all in a ring, looking into a glowing fire—white hot with rage. They all stepped back, aghast, wondering how their channeled magic had been overcome. I tossed his last thoughts back at them, sent them in a stream.

  And I knew they’d seen me, soaked in blood, shrouded in black like an avenging widow. I knew they’d seen his last vision.

  “I’m coming for you,” I growled as Melinka drew beside me upon a piebald mount, and she pulled me up, and we galloped from Horn’s Castle, across its causeway, firing mayhem as we went.

  “What part of ‘Don’t let them know you,’ didn’t you understand?”

  Chapter Three

  Harvesting

  We rode hard for an hour before slowing to a walk in case we drove our horse to an early grave. Melinka took a narrow fork in the road, its slim path winding down and eventually coming to a hamlet that clustered around a broad river crossing.

  “They’ll be looking along the main routes now,” she told me grimly. “They’ve built their dire towers right along Kyrie’s eastern coast. Some say they use ravens to spy on our comings and goings.”

  Melinka hugged the forest’s spilling canopy, constantly glancing upward. “And what do you think?” I asked.

  “I think it’s a web. The towers are its nodes, the roads its filaments, and if we cause too much vibration, they will know our way.”

  “Let them,” I challenged. “The first didn’t fare so good.”

  Melinka jumped off our exhausted horse. I dismounted too. We came to the first of the place’s wooden cabins, drawing furtive glances.

  “That was just one tower,” she told me. “There are hundreds here. The slaughter at Horn’s Isle will do little to humor them. Many will pay our price.”

  “Our price?”

  “The Dancer's men will exact retribution, such is the way of Kyrie under Ruse’s occupation.”

  “Then what are we supposed to do?”

  She pursed her lips. “Kyrie has to pay the price; there is no other way. We cannot fight with our hands tied behind our backs. We rest here for a while.”

  “No!” I blurted. “We need to get after the others.”

  Melinka scoffed, “You are their prize. Why do you think they tolerated me at Horn’s Isle? Sooner or later, the thief had to breach the mists, and Ruse knew you’d follow.”

  “What?” I exclaimed, but before Melinka could answer, she tied our horse to a hitching rail that lined a small stoop.

  “This is about the size of a tavern around here.”

  Inside, it was just a single room, a couple of tables, and chairs dotted around, a small counter in one corner, and a door behind. A woman poked her head around it, appraised us, and pushed her sleeves up to reveal her ample forearms. “Well, don’t you two look a bucketful of trouble?”

  Melinka held up a silver piece.

  The woman settled her elbows on the counter. “The dead can’t spend coin.”

  “No one will die if tongues don’t wag. We need a room, another horse, and a woodsman to show us the old road.”

  “The first two I can do: the second doesn’t exist.”

  “So you pay Ruse’s taxes. Joss the Nine isn’t as crafty as he used to be.”

  “Joss the Nine had his throat cut. Ruse doesn’t favor the crafty.”

  “We’ll take the other two while you consider the third.”

  The woman huffed, “As you wish.” She held out her hand. “Name for my ledger.”

  “Ledger? I find that hard to believe.”

  “No name, you can have the barn out back. No name, no lodging under my roof.”

  Melinka smiled. “The barn is fine. I will give you one name, though. A name that might shift your favor.”

  The woman drew two mugs of ale, pushing them toward us. “What name?”

  “Mezzerain.”

  She straightened, her skin blanching. “Not dead?”

  “Very much alive.”

  “Then there is hope. Saul!”

  A small boy scampered out a door across from the counter. “What?”

  “Don’t 'what' me! Stable the horse. Get another—a rider.” She looked me up and down. “Not the beast, the other. Make them ready.” The boy shot out. “Now,” she said, “the pair of you best wash up. You look like slaughterhouse hands.”

  Our wash consisted of the river, but after the trials of…well, since Sutech Charm’s ship, it seemed like the first time I’d stopped in a while. We sat while my clothes dried.

  “You don’t appear comfortable with your magic,” Melinka said, stretching back, and raising her face to the afternoon sun.

  “It’s new. My old magic got stripped from me.”

  She scoffed at that. “No, your new magic was removed, replaced with an older, much more powerful system, one hardly taught anymore.”

  “How do you know that?”

  She sent me a look—that look—like really? “Mandrake isn’t the center of this world; if anything, it’s a backwater. They tried a new system. It was good but not effective anywhere else, plus you had an affinity for the dark—it is like you can turn either way. Embrace it, Alexa. Embrace it.”

  “I’m trying.” The water flowed on. “It’s the measure of the power that I’m finding difficulty with.”

  “Measure?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “The power you h
ave? That is only tempered by your mana reserves. How much can you store?”

  “Three thousand and something.”

  Name: Alexa Drey. Race: Human. Type: Chancer.

  Age: 24. Alignment: The House of Mandrake. XP: 86,564.

  Level: 22. Profession: Chooser. Un/Al pts: 0. Reputation: Known.

  Health Points: 550/550 Energy: 510/510 Mana: 10,000/10,000 Shadow Mana: 10,000/10,000

  HP Regen: 55/Min EN Regen: 51/Min MA Regen: N/A SMA Regen: NA

  Attributes: (Level, Bonuses)

  Vitality: (12, 38), Stamina: (12, 5)*3, Intelligence: (98, 0)*4

  Charisma: (6, 6), Wisdom: (23, 8)*3, Luck: (7, 5)

  Humility: (2, 0), Compassion: (3, 0), Strength: (3, 20), Agility: (19, 0)

  “No, I… It’s all changed. I have ten thousand of each, but no regen—”

  I saw my XP had risen. I guessed, from the castle fight.

  Melinka reached out, placing her hand on my arm. “That’s because both your manas are now in harmony—you can use one or the other.”

  “But to refill?”

  “You must learn to draw it in from all around, to replenish it as you fight.”

  My mind was mush. “But where will I find it?”

  Melinka looked around. “Everywhere. The light is in the light. The dark lurks in the shadows. You must accept it. Allow the land to refill you; encourage it. It is the old way, a much harder way.”

  “Then why?”

  She laughed. “Because the benefits are infinite—with you.”

  “Will you teach me?”

  She jumped up. “Of course. It’s why I waited for you. After all, I was just an old crone who refused to leave a derelict, old room.”

  “Can I do that?”

  “What?”

  “The disguise thing.”

  I so wanted to be able to.

  Offering me a hand, she pulled me up, tossing me my tunic. “I’ll do you a deal. You learn to harvest your manas, and I’ll teach you how to do this.” She morphed into a goblin, switching back in the blink of an eye.

  “Mana harvesting,” I said eagerly. “I’m on it. When do we start?”