Hozark's Revenge

by Scott Baron

  “I’m sorry, but Niallik has instructed me that no one but her and her staff are allowed to enter,” the guard said.

  Samara stood stock-still, fixing her unblinking eyes upon the man. She had no intention of harming him whatsoever, but she knew full well the unnerving affect her gaze could have and was wielding it to its maximum potential.

  The poor man blinked and swallowed hard. She just stood quietly. The guard’s gaze flicked to either end of the corridor, hoping someone with more authority might happen along to save him from this uncomfortable situation, but no relief was coming.

  Samara simply continued to stare. The poor guard knew what she was and what she could do and was damn near soiling himself under the assassin’s probing gaze. Finally, she twitched one eyebrow upward ever so slightly in a questioning arch.

  “Um, I don’t know,” the guard stammered.

  Samara added a minute head tilt to her expression.

  “Well, I...”

  Her arm crossing and sigh served two purposes. One, it showed her annoyance with the delay caused by his indecision. Two, it more clearly revealed the pair of daggers clearly strapped at her waist.

  Of course, those, while useful, were only worn as a distraction. Only in the most dire of circumstances would she draw the weapons that were actually visible to others. Samara was a skilled assassin, and the weapon she would end you with, you would never see coming.

  In this instance, the little display served its purpose well, and without the need for words expended in the pursuit of convincing the man to step aside.

  “Well, you are with Visla Maktan,” the guard reasoned. “And he’s the boss, so...”

  He stepped aside.

  “Thank you,” Samara said, quietly disarming the wards guarding the door and passing through before the guard could even disable them for her.

  It was only a minuscule waste of magic, but the effect it would have on the rest of the staff when the man blabbed how easily she passed through the protective spells would only serve to enhance her air of mystery. And in a place like this, having others wonder just what you might be capable of was not a bad thing, if for no other reason than it would make them leave you alone.

  Samara resealed the door behind her and cast a muting spell on the threshold as she did so. Privacy was something she valued, especially in this place. And this was a visit she wished to keep to herself.

  She padded silently to the cell and gazed down upon the slumbering girl. She could sense the lingering effects of whatever odd magic Niallik had used still keeping her under, but it was clear that it was slowly fading away and the captive’s natural power was already restored with no lasting ill effects.

  “Fascinating, isn’t she?” a man’s voice asked from the adjacent cell space.

  Samara’s keen eyes easily made out his shape in the dim light. Visla Jinnik. The father of the boy she had seen Hozark protecting. The man coerced into doing Ravik and Maktan’s bidding. At least, up until recently.

  He looked a bit ragged for a visla, and thin to boot, despite being well fed. Clearly, the constant forced draining of his power was taking its toll on the man. And yet, he still carried himself with the air of a man of his stature and power. Even imprisoned.

  “Indeed, she is,” Samara agreed. “And a strong young woman at that.”

  “Yes, most definitely,” he agreed, not even bothering to attempt to conceal Henni’s power.

  By this point, they had figured out what was within her and were doing all they could to extract it. Lying and misdirecting would no longer work now that they’d managed to tap into it, even if it was only to a small degree. Samara, however, was not interested in that.

  “So, do you think she has the power they believe she possesses?” she asked.

  Jinnik paused a moment, as if in thought. “Well, she certainly does have some power to her.”

  “That is not what I mean. Do you believe she possesses the unusual power of which they speak? The power akin to that of the Zomoki?”

  Jinnik thought a moment, searching for the right words. “That’s hard to say,” he replied, doing his best to protect the unconscious girl from further harm.

  But he also knew that their captors had tapped into her magic, so there was only so much he could do in the way of misdirection. Bald-faced lies were out of the question, so he had to make do with careful wording as best he could.

  Samara looked at the girl. “Hard to say, yet she is obviously a power user.”

  “She has some sort of power to her, that’s for certain. And yes, it is an unusual variety indeed. But the girl is not skilled with it. In fact, before coming to this place, I very much doubt she even realized what was inside of her. So far as I’ve seen, it appears she has no idea how to even use it.”

  “I gathered as much. The sudden jump spell she cast would seem to bolster that belief,” Samara noted.

  This was an unusual turn, and one that caught Jinnik’s attention. “You think that was out of her control?”

  “It most certainly would seem that way, though the others undoubtedly harbor doubts about what she knows of her true abilities. I cannot help but wonder exactly what she is capable of.”

  “Well, it seems your friends are having a hard time stealing it from her. At least for the time being.”

  Samara’s face did not shift, but a cool air seemed to form around her all the same.

  “They are not my friends.”

  “Oh?” Jinnik replied. “Then why do you do this? Why serve these masters?”

  Samara stood quietly a long moment, as if mulling over the question, though she clearly had no intention of answering.

  “I have my reasons,” she finally said, then turned for the exit. “Rest, Visla. You will need your strength.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Demelza’s return raised something of a stir within the walls of Master Prombatz’s home, though not for bad reasons. She had brought with her a wealth of treats from Master Corann, an update on the feral boy they had rescued, as well as a message only for Ghalian ears.

  Happizano and Laskar both dug into the baked goods while the three Wampeh quietly discussed the news in another chamber.

  “He is called Jokka now. While he is still quite wild, he does seem to be making at least some progress,” Demelza informed them.

  “It is all we can ask for,” Hozark mused. “But what of this errand she wishes you to embark upon? It seems an unusual thing to ask of a Ghalian.”

  “I agree,” Prombatz said. “Under most circumstances, yes, indeed. But it sounds as if Corann actually thinks she has found trace of the Quommus. Is that true?”

  “It is the task I have been given,” Demelza replied. “And I do not believe she would send me on it were there not substantial reason to believe in its success.”

  “I would tend to agree,” Hozark said. “However, the Quommus has been sought by adventurers and treasure hunters for centuries. Longer, even. And its location, or even the proof of its existence, has never been held by the Wampeh Ghalian. What has changed in our absence?”

  Demelza held out the parchment she had been given. “The last message from Master Orkut,” she said. “It is quite cryptic, but Corann believes it shall lead to the resting place of the actual Quommus.”

  The two Ghalian masters examined the page. It seemed to be in Master Orkut’s hand, and he was an old and very knowledgeable swordsmith with ties to a great many ancient orders, as those providing unique weapons oft tended to be.

  “Imagine it,” Prombatz said. “If she could truly obtain the Quommus, what an advantage we would have over our adversaries.”

  Hozark agreed with his Ghalian brother, but he also knew that relying too much on outside means to complete one’s tasks could leave an opening for enemies to escape. Or worse, to counterattack.

  But possessing a powered item that could mask their own power signatures could prove most helpful indeed. If Demelza could find it.

  “She wishes yo
u to go on this quest alone?”

  “Yes, Master Hozark. Corann believes that my extended period working under Orkut gives me an advantage in interpreting his meaning and following the clues to the Quommus, should it in fact exist.”

  The master assassin nodded. Corann was right, of course. If this truly was the last directive of the reclusive bladesmith, Demelza was best prepared for this task. She had spent a great deal of time with the man, and though he would not admit it to her, it was clear the man held her in high regard.

  “Then you shall begin at once,” he said. “We shall outfit your ship with additional resources as might be needed for this task. Supplies, bribes, weapons. Whatever may speed you to your goal.”

  “Thank you, Master Hozark. But before I depart, I do wish to bid my farewell to Happizano. It may be some time before I am able to return, and I would make this as non-traumatic a separation as possible for him.”

  “Wise,” he agreed. “We shall accompany you.”

  Hap was growing up far faster than a boy his age normally would, but he was still young, and having one of the few stable people in his world suddenly vanish could be a bit of a blow to him regardless of his strides toward manhood. He was still not even a teen, after all.

  “You’re going away? Again?” he griped when she came to tell him of her pending departure.

  “Yes, I am,” she replied. “And I shall not lie to you, Happizano. This may take some time, and I do not know when I shall return. But before I depart, I would very much like to see what you have been learning while I was gone. Has Aargun helped you with your knife skills?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Hap said, perking up a bit. “But there’s been so much training. All the time, every day!”

  Hozark, Prombatz, and Aargun all chuckled from where they sat. It was a feeling any Ghalian was well acquainted with.

  “Life is training,” Demelza said, repeating the words each of them had drilled into their heads when they first started on the long path toward becoming full-fledged Wampeh Ghalian. “Years of practice for those few seconds that matter most.”

  “I know, it’s just tiring sometimes, is all.”

  “As it should be. The more you sweat in practice, the less you bleed in combat, Happizano. It is a lesson all Ghalian learn. And for most it holds true, but even then, sometimes no amount of training is enough.”

  “But you guys make it look so easy.”

  “Yes, it looks easy. But it takes many, many years of hard work, and blood and sweat to achieve this level. Remember, the ease of mastery comes only with the effort of training. And you are still on the early steps of your journey. But in time I believe you may become a great warrior.”

  “You really think so?”

  “I do. Now, you were going to show me what you and Aargun have been practicing. How is your throwing progressing?”

  Hap took a few steps from Demelza and turned to face the wooden target. In one motion, he drew his blade from its sheath and threw it. He used an unusual underhand motion that was a favorite among the Ghalian for both its speed and difficulty to detect before it was too late.

  The knife flashed through the air, a bit off target, Demelza noted, but Hap’s concentration did not break, and with a whispered nudge from his power, he steered it back on course, the tip digging into the wood with a satisfying thunk.

  It wasn’t the greatest throw ever. It wasn’t even a particularly good one. But the boy was putting the pieces together surprisingly fast, and his progress was impressive for a non-Ghalian.

  Aargun nodded his approval, his sharp ears registering the knife finding its target. He then threw his own in an unusual backhanded motion, the target not remotely lined up with his body. But, as Happizano had done, Aargun used his magic to steer the blade, curving its path and sending it home to the center of the target.

  Demelza glanced at the others with a bit of surprise. Aargun had not uttered a word, yet she could sense his magical grasp on the blade had been strong.

  “You are getting much better at silently casting,” she complimented the wounded Wampeh.

  Aargun smiled and gave a slight nod.

  “Great, he can toss a knife,” Laskar grumbled. “But all of this waiting around is boring. When do we get to do something? When do we take out Maktan once and for all?”

  “Patience,” Hozark replied. “Sometimes our lives are full of action, but other times we must wait. That, too, is part of the process.”

  The copilot merely grumbled and sank back into his seat, sipping on his tall drink.

  “Indeed, it is,” Demelza added. “And now I must take my leave of you all. I hope to see you again sooner than later.”

  She cut the farewell short, turning and heading to her ship without another word.

  “When do you think she’s gonna come back?” Hap asked.

  “I cannot say for sure,” Hozark replied.

  “What about Bud? He’s been gone a while.”

  “I know. But each person has their own mission to perform, and their timetables are their own. But, if fortune smiles upon our friends, we shall all be reunited soon.”

  “And with a new advantage, we hope,” Prombatz added.

  “What? You think Henni’s an advantage?” Laskar joked.

  “While she is amusing company, I refer to Demelza’s quest,” Prombatz replied. “We shall have to wait and see, however, though I hope her errand is not a futile one.”

  Hozark nodded his agreement. “If Demelza is truly as skilled as I believe her to be, we shall know one way or another soon enough.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The fine red dust was choking, the omnipresent, swirling clouds covering nearly the entire terrestrial landscape on the backwater world. It was an utterly miserable rock in an entirely unremarkable system. And something of a shithole. A place the locals had taken to calling Muck.

  It wasn’t the planet’s real name, of course. The name given to the world by its original colonists was Mulannis. But the oppressive heat, combined with the insidious grime that worked its way into every nook and cranny, regardless of clothing or protective spells, led to a sweaty sort of sticky filth that would accumulate across the damper regions of a person’s body. It was far from pleasant, to say the least.

  Hence the name.

  Muck.

  If not for the rich veins of ore used in the fashioning of konuses and other magic-retaining devices, the planet would likely have remained uninhabited. But with resources such as those, some semblance of civilization was always bound to follow. Coin, and the opportunity to make more of it, were powerful motivators.

  Miners were by their very nature used to rather harsh and unpleasant conditions, but those typically abated once they returned from their day’s shift to the surface. On Muck, however, it was just as bad up top, if not worse. At least in the mines the temperatures were a bit more pleasant, though a good haul could lead to a nice bonus, and that meant more cooling spells for the group housing.

  It was easy for Demelza to blend in with this group of coin-hungry men and women. There were all sorts of races there, with the notable exception of the amphibians, whose gills and skin simply could not withstand the planet’s harsh environment for any significant length of time.

  Demelza didn’t even have to cast a disguise spell. Not with the layer of red her body soon sported. And she fit right in with the raucous crews immediately. For a sturdily built, hardworking woman, no one much cared what color her skin was so long as she did her job. And she did her job well.

  She had stopped off at a half dozen backwater worlds along the way before setting up on Muck. Master Orkut’s cryptic message had been written not only in plain text, but also with a combination of minor spells and a smattering of arcane symbols peppered throughout the message. No one who read it would have the slightest idea what it meant. No one but someone who had spent time with the man.

  The text, she realized, was a diversion. A false trail designed to send any who might intercept t
he parchment on a wild Bundabist chase. And she had very nearly fallen into that trap herself when something about the sigils caught her eye. After a moment’s careful casting, she realized she had felt those curious markings before.

  They were power runes. Symbols that channeled magic, but of the most ancient variety. She’d heard that there were secret, underground sects of craftsmen who still utilized that type of antiquated scribbling to communicate, and it seemed the aged swordsmith was one of them. He had written a message for none but those of his hidden clan. No one else would have the slightest idea what to do otherwise.

  But Demelza had seen those markings before, and, given the recent nature of the message’s drafting, it seemed a certainty he knew if the parchment found its way to her hands, she would recognize them. She had always had an impressive memory, even for a Ghalian.

  “The anvil,” she realized when one of the ancient sigils suddenly leapt out from the page at her as its familiarity made itself known.

  She’d only seen it upside-down, but that was because it had been stamped into the very metal of one of Orkut’s anvils. It was smaller than most of them, and tucked away in a corner. It was also very, very old, from what she could tell.

  “Used for a very specific type of blade,” he had told her with a curious little wink.

  At the time, it seemed like it was simply for easier manipulation of some certain variety of hot metal. But now she realized the anvil no doubt possessed a unique magical property. One that was tapped when cooling metal was forged on its surface.

  It had taken her a bit of digging to find other instances of that symbol, but at last her searching paid off. It appeared it was occasionally associated with a particular, antiquated religious sect. One still occasionally found in mining communities.

  It made sense, actually. An anvil would be a logical item for a metal working and mining order to imprint their sigil on. But it seemed to be far more difficult to track down active temples of this group than anticipated.