Gods of Shadow and Flame

by M. H. Johnson

  Malek did his best to ignore Anja's growing distress as he took in the scent of Jacey's clothing. Little more than scraps, really. Those of a somewhat undernourished child of perhaps half a score years at most.

  “I am catching her scent.” He answered her unspoken question. She sagged in relief. Not a sick predator after all. Just an odd Delver with twisted talents, as they were all rumored to have. The truth, of course, was far darker. He didn’t just catch her scent, but the taste of her very soul. How he knew this was beyond him, he only knew that it was so. He did his best to put his self-consciousness aside, all too acutely aware of how he must look, armed with a massive blade strapped upon his back, his scabbard even at that moment gouging a furrow upon the wooden slats as he adjusted his squat. A wild looking man taking a deep long inhalation of a child’s clothing.

  He scolded his own embarrassment. When all was said and done, image meant nothing. It was results that mattered. It was finding and bringing young Jacey home to a mother that loved her. He spent some moments imprinting every nuance of the girl’s scent, afraid that when all was said and done, that would be the ultimate key to solving the puzzle of her fate.

  Young Lucile gazed hopefully at Malek from the bosom of her mother. “Are you going to find Jacey now?”

  Malek gave a slow nod. “I will do everything in my power to, Lucile. I promise you that.” At which point, blinking back painful pricks stinging his eyes, he gently unwound his belt purse securely kept under his cloak into Lucile’s small hand. She gazed up at him in wonder. “My gift to you. Whatever happens, I want a day to come where I can visit you and see you smiling in a beautiful new cloak, warm and content in your mother’s arms.”

  “My lord!” Anja’s voice caught in her throat as she gazed at Malek, dumbstruck.

  He smiled, gently kissing her forehead. “You don’t have to open it. Not until I bring Jacey to you, hale and whole. But it is my gift to you. Tell no one of it, so no one knows you have aught worth taking. May it bring you just a little bit of ease against life’s cold cruelties.” With that and a gentle smile for Lucile, he bade the still speechless Anja farewell, closing the door softly behind him as he made his way down the creaky steps, feeling a fierce exultation as his nose caught a newly familiar scent.

  Breathing deep of the frigid night air, he quickly removed the colorful sock upon the hilt of his blade. The last of daylight had left the darkened streets, and he no longer felt the need to hide who and what he was, lowering the hood and loosening the brooch upon his cloak as well. He exulted in the thrill of the hunt even as his heart hammered with anxiety, knowing that so many of the forking paths of fate would lead a ten year old missing in the dead of winter to unspeakable tragedy. He bent down only to tighten the thick cords securing his boots before allowing his stride to quicken to a loping, effortless run.

  Faintly he could almost see the shimmering essence of the young girl's trail as he made his way down what must have been familiar paths for the child into the heart of the market. He followed the trail with single-minded purpose, doing his best to ignore the startled gasps and wide-eyed stares as people caught sight of him, near stumbling in their haste to get out of his way. It was disconcerting how sharply he could smell their fear.

  And there it was, the strongest trace yet of little Jacey's scent in that near-empty market. She had indeed stopped by Enressa's rather large and well-appointed stall, near a standing shop of its own, for all that it was strangely stark and empty looking with its owner and her clientele away for the night.

  Malek bent down, taking a deep breath, heart pounding with tightly clamped excitement, slowly honing in on his prey.

  He then caught a certain acrid whiff of steel, sweat, and fear that immediately put him on alert, reflexively spinning about, leaping back for distance, unsheathing his massive Zornhau blade with frightening speed even as he tore off his cloak, blade snapping forward in a variant of Ochs suitable for massive swords such as his own.

  His eyes immediately took in the two town guardsman gazing at him in slack-jawed awe even as they stumbled back, desperately raising their halberds in defensive stances as if in sudden terror of him. Malek's alarm turned to near instant relief, even as his well-trained eye instantly noted all the flaws in their technique. He did his best to hold back the contempt he felt for the flatfooted men stumbling back, holding their polearms in defensive positions so off-balance that Eloquin himself could have stabbed or disarmed the pair of them effortlessly before they so much as blinked twice.

  “Halt! Who the hell are you? Put down that blade at once, and surrender to the guard!” one man demanded in a voice that cracked and warbled.

  Malek's smile was cold. "No matter how well you perform in mock combat upon the training field, you will only know the true worth of your skills when your heart is pounding with the terror and fury that is battle." His spared them a single contemptuous gaze. "And neither of you would last more than a handful of seconds, if war were well and truly declared. Your terror leaves you both off-balance. Now quit shaking and brace your back foot an eighth circle left of your front foot, just like your master taught you. Good. Now relax your shoulders. Feel the center balance of your weapons. Now, show me your middle guard!"

  His voice snapped like a commander's, and the pair found themselves shifting their stances to mirror his orders. Malek gave them a careful once-over, nodding in grudging approval as he lowered his own blade. "Very good. And my commendations as well on patrolling the market. You need to trust your instincts, proceed with caution, and never, ever let fear get the best of you. Is that understood, men?"

  The leftmost one blinked in mild confusion even as the right one nodded before catching himself.

  “Wait a minute. Who are you again?”

  Malek grinned, causing the men to instinctively step back for some reason. “The name’s Malek. And as for what I’m doing here,” he paused, taking a deep whiff of the night air, desperately trying to catch the almost completely faded scent he sought so desperately to find. “I am trying to find a missing child.” He gave the two carefully considering guardsmen a measuring gaze. “I don’t suppose either of you are familiar with a girl named Jacey? About ten, perhaps. Dark haired, as are most people in these parts, sometimes works for Enressa?”

  Immediately the younger guard grinned, nodding his head in recognition. “Ah, that would be little Jacey. Anja’s girl, yes?” His smile turned near instantly into a worried frown. “Are you saying she’s missing? I thought I saw her mother earlier today looking preoccupied as she always does, her man having left her with two children and all, but she said not a word, did she Mik?”

  The other guardsman still gazed at Malek suspiciously, though Malek could sense his fright inspired animosity fading. “You are a Delver I take it?” He shook his head. “Delvers and their toys. Please be so good as to resheathe that thing. If your intentions are honorable, you’ll get no quarrel from us.”

  Malek gave a slow nod, taking the time needed to unfasten his custom made sheath and re-secure his blade as the bemused duo looked on. “I can draw it far quicker than you’d think, but putting it away again is a bit of a hassle,” he admitted.

  “So I saw firsthand,” said the guard named Mik, whose grim little smile soon turned brooding. “Saints above, now Jacey is missing. Not the first child either, though normally it’s only the urchins or children from the poorest families that suffer that fate.” He sighed. “That Riskordian apprentice drive is the best thing to have happened here in some time. I know a number of families smiling a bit brighter for silver in their pocket and hope for their children. Still, not every child is chosen. Only a couple handfuls from our town, and children begging for scraps for their families to make it through this hard winter are still vulnerable.”

  Malek gave an appreciative nod. “You pair seem a good sort, unlike the guards we spoke to earlier, and you seem to know Anja. I’m surprised she didn’t come to you.”

  At that the younger man flushed.
"We're just guards, sir. We just protect the merchandise of property owners and keep the market or whatever area we're guarding safe. We'll break up a brawl as quick as any man, but we don't do investigations like Crown Agents, or anything like that."

  Mik, the older guard, grimaced. “Town council made it damn clear that our job is to protect property owners and their merchandise. Not go running errands for people too poor to hire layabouts to ask questions on their behalf. Barlton doesn’t have the coin for that, they said.”

  The other guard snorted. "Meanwhile they ride gilded carriages, wear clothing as fancy as any lord, begging your pardon sir, and gods above know how fancy their own houses are."

  Mik shook his head. "If Anja had spoken to us, yes, we might have stuck our necks out to ask a question or two, the same as any man, but we don't have the men or resources to do anything more than that. And we'd best not trouble anyone of true importance, lest we find ourselves struggling through the winter without a job to put food on our own tables."

  Malek grimaced. “Sounds to me like the town council is led by a bunch of jackasses. Would be far better, I think, if town guardsmen like yourself were there to add a little common sense to the mix.”

  This earned a chuckle from Mik. "Well said, my lord." Malek forbore to tell him the difference between Delvers and lords. It was becoming increasingly apparent that as far as the average freeman was concerned, they were one and the same.

  Mik exchanged a look with his younger companion. “Tell you what, my lord. I think my partner and I will get back to our rounds, and if those rounds just happen to include asking for the whereabouts of a certain child, we shall say it was on Guild business, if anyone asks.”

  His partner gave a solemn nod at that. “Not even the most arrogant merchant on the council wants to interfere with Guild affairs.”

  Malek dipped his head. “Thank you. Thank you both. I appreciate it. And if anyone gives you trouble or threatens your jobs? I will take great pleasure in discussing the matter with them. Personally.” He flashed an evil grin, the guards smiling back, an odd mix of gratitude and fear.

  Mik shook his head. "It is we who thank you, my lord, for taking an interest in one of our own." With that the two guardsmen went their own way, obviously intimately familiar with both the layout of the market as well as Jacey's habits. Perhaps they would find clues of one sort or another. Malek could only hope.

  Stronger than ever, Jacey's scent lit upon his nostrils. An odor of magics ancient and profound. The stuff of life itself. Boldly Malek strode forward, trusting in the odd path he found himself taking, praying that he wasn't leading himself in circles, deluded by his own desperate hope.

  Increasingly he lost himself to the hunt, allowing his body to move in time to the bloodmagics guiding him down strange paths of understanding, trails of scent that he knew he would lose instantly if he dared to think too deeply upon what he was doing. And even as he hurried through the cold winter night along streets and alleys increasingly unkempt and outside the main thoroughfares, poor Jacey's fate somehow became entwined with the girl in his dream, trapped in pain and darkness, exhausted eyes pleading into his own.

  Malek found himself racing down back alleys at a madman's pace, desperately trying to hone in on the child's scent. There! An odd thrill of vindication and sharpest anxiety, Malek finding himself at the back alley door of a great stone building before him. He unsheathed his blade, but not before slashing cheek with dagger in much the same ritual his shieldsister used, crimson drops dripping upon a pair of orbs glowing an odd silvery sheen that soon took on a rich crimson hue. They begin to whine of their own accord and spin about him, a surge of his power and passion given substance and form to their animation, linked to him by dint of a gift far rarer than the arts of an elementalist, for all that his crimson taint had forever crippled his mastery of air and storm.

  He heard a scream, then. High pitched. Shrill. A child’s voice.

  For a moment he could not be sure if it was the desperate child in his dream or one of flesh and blood that cried out.

  The child’s raw terror pierced his soul, awakening something long dormant, and he gave vent to a fierce howl that seemed to echo endlessly in the labyrinthine warrens he found himself in, buildings worn and dilapidated rattling with the potency of his voice that seemed to resonate and echo endlessly with a wolf's cry.

  He shattered the door of the building before him, ready for anything. The vast warehouse appeared utterly abandoned, for all that he caught the scents of unwashed bodies, sewage, and fear. Malek tore through the building, shattering through the front entrance, racing ahead on pure instinct as he threaded the winding alleyways before emerging from between two vast warehouses upon the port edge, the sound of lapping water reaching his ears from the great river that eventually kissed the sea, his nose leading him onward as he raced out to the docks, eyes instantly registering several burly men shuffling along much smaller figures, arms bound to their sides as they were roughly shoved up a plank upon a sleek looking craft, sails already snapping in the wind, looking to be held in place only by the mooring lines.

  The crimson trail he followed led directly to that ship.

  33

  A deathly howl tore through the night. The burly men flinched and cursed, peering out into the darkness. Malek's heightened senses took it all in, the limited moonlight near clear as day to his eyes. He caught the sound of children whimpering, roughly thrown into the vessel before the three men turned about, drawing free cutlasses sheathed on their hips. Hands too nervous to untie the mooring lines, two began hacking them.

  “Hurry it the hell up! We are already late, and the captain is in a foul mood,” hissed one, peering out into the darkness.

  “Moorle, I told you we should have left sooner!” Cried one of the panicked men sawing frantically at the mooring lines. “That damned Delver was questioning my man at the market, looking for one of the girls we caught. And now I hear his wolves howling!” The man cursed with fright.

  “You’re a damn fool, Velin,” said the largest of the three, gazing at his cohort with contempt.

  Malek could smell their sweat mixing with the odor of the brackish water as he closed, silent as death.

  The slaver turned to whisper a scathing retort before his sudden cry was cut off with a horrid, wet shriek that died off to a sigh and a thump, Malek's terrible blade cleaving effortlessly through the man named Velin.

  Howling with furious delight, Malek felt the man's life-force roar and surge through his body, even as the remaining pair of men stumbled back in speechless horror, bodies splattered with their former partner's blood, Velin's body already shriveling into a desiccated corpse by Malek's feet.

  His gaze was as cold as death, even as his body trembled with furious energy. He smiled cruelly as he slowly raised his massive blade, allowing his foes to glimpse the horror of their own demise, fruitlessly holding their blades up to parry, one more slaver's desperate face exploding in a spray of blood and bone before a single cry for quarter could be uttered, mangled cutlass flying off into the water even as Malek's howled with dark glory, drinking in his fallen enemy's power as he stepped past the shriveling corpse.

  Screams from the third man, whose name Malek neither knew nor cared to. "Please! Take the children, I don't care. Please, just don't kill me!" The man blubbered in futile horror. Malek gave not a single tell, his face devoid of inflection such that the man held out the faintest flicker of hope, grimacing in panic as he turned to flee, his awareness leaving in a hot bloody flash as Malek's dread blade blasted through the man's body with such terrible force that the plank was splattered in gore, quickly boiling to ash at Malek's feet.

  "Bloody Hells! By gods, Moorle, cut the lines and let's be off! What's the holdup?" Instantly Malek looked up, catching sight of a blustering figure upon the ship wearing exotic hat, silken sash, and fine cotton jacket, no doubt the master of their little operation. The man paled and swallowed upon catching sight of the Delver approaching
the plank.

  “Kidnapper! Slaver!”

  Malek's voice roared with his pent up fury, and the man stumbled back, tripping over one of his tied up victims even then huddling with the others, a child's high-pitched whimper hanging in the air. Placatingly, the captain held up his hands, even as over half a dozen men from the ship approached, some wielding cutlasses, two holding crossbows. "Now, sir. Calm yourself. There is no need for violence. We are but traders picking up agreed upon goods, that is all. We are not the factors who purchased, nor the ones who sold. We are merely the intermediaries!”

  Malek blinked at the baldfaced absurdity of the declaration.

  "Shoot the damn fool!" the captain suddenly screamed, his crossbowmen doing just that, even as the men armed with cutlasses charged forward with a yell.

  Malek gave vent to a furious roar as both quarrels shattered against his madly spinning orbs, charging into the cutlass-wielding men who sought to surround him and bring him down. In this ancient dance like no other, he excelled. His sword screamed silently in the ether, men paling and flinching as they tried to stumble back. Effortlessly Malek shattered parrying cutlass, sending the first man's head flying through the air as fast as thought, Malek feeling only the slightest resistance as his weapon continued its reaver's arc, snapping up and forward, exploding through the skull of the man beside the now headless corpse, both collapsing in what seemed to Malek's battle heightened state an eerie slowness, spraying a crimson shower upon the surviving rogues even now stumbling back.

  Malek laughter was terrible even as the remaining trio of slavers facing him stumbled back, blades raised futilely, haunted eyes desperate for escape. The lead pair nodded in unison, cursing as they tried to rush Malek, blades leading their charge. As fast as thought Malek whipped forth his serpentine blade, cleaving through first one then the other stumbling pirate, their desperate attempts to parry knocked effortlessly aside, bodies twisting and exploding, covering Malek in a crimson spray he felt his soul consume like a man dying of thirst, even as their remains shriveled to ash. Malek roared with the hideous power now flooding his shuddering form, such was the potency of his terrible magics, his killing blade.