by Layton Green
Tamás clapped him on the shoulder, his eyes intense. “I know you share our blood, but I also know this didn’t have to be your fight. Thank you for risking your life for our people. I no longer consider you my friend, my ally, my comrade in arms—we are brothers now, Will Blackwood.”
As they clasped forearms, Will felt a rush of pride, then guilt about his other motives. He truly wanted to help these people, but he also knew his first duty was to Val and Caleb.
He hoped he never had to choose.
“I have to ask,” Tamás said, still holding into Will, “where you found Zariduke.”
Will started; he had long been expecting the question, and knew Tamás wasn’t happy Will had kept the origin of the sword a secret.
After hesitating, Will said, “Do you promise to keep this between us? At least for now?”
“As you wish. It is your knowledge to give.”
He knew Val and Caleb might feel differently about revealing the secret of the sword and their father, but Will was more trusting—and more impulsive—than his brothers. “Our father was Dane Blackwood.”
Tamás’s eyes slowly widened. He had known only that Will and his brothers shared the common surname. “But what . . . no one knows what happened to him.”
“He died,” Will said. “A long time ago. I don’t know where he found the sword, or why he was looking for it, but he left it for me.”
After promising to relay the full story at a later time, Will left the leader of the Revolution standing stunned on the cobblestoned street. When Will turned back to the others, he saw Mala approaching the square, and felt both giddy and queasy at the prospect of a journey with the woman who haunted his dreams. Then he saw who was walking behind her with a large rucksack strapped on his back, along with a two-handed broadsword almost as long as Will.
Mala’s handsome, overly muscled companion.
Boyfriend, long-term friends with benefits, partner for a seven-night stand, Will wasn’t sure of the exact nature of their relationship. But his flush of excitement had melted into a puddle of dirty rainwater at the sight of the hulking warrior.
“Will the Builder,” Mala said, greeting him with the familiar teasing tone. Her eyes lingered on Mateo, as if judging his prowess, and then apprised Selina.
“A sylvamancer?” Mala said. “Inside a pyramid?”
“You’re welcome,” Tamás said wryly. “Our remaining elder mages are needed here, and we thought a sylvamancer would be useful for the journey through the jungle. Or perhaps you wish for an apprentice geomancer instead?”
Mala ignored him, then crossed her arms in silence while Tamás gave a rousing speech to remind them of the importance of the journey. Caleb staggered up just before they climbed onto the simorghs, beer mug in hand, and Will could tell he was drunk again.
“You hang in there,” Will said, crushing his brother in a bear hug. “I’ll be back soon.”
“Don’t try to be a hero,” Caleb said, his breath reeking.
Will swallowed hard. “You lay off the sauce, okay?”
Caleb looked down at his mug. “The true measure of a man, little brother, is how much fun he has in life.”
“Is that why you’ve been working so hard to help build shelters and repair wagons for families who lost everything in the attack?”
Caleb looked down and mumbled a reply. There was something different in his voice, something profoundly sad beneath the glib comebacks, that Will didn’t like one bit. Before he could reply, he saw his brother’s eyes widen, and Will turned to find Yasmina striding towards them wrapped in a pewter-colored traveling cloak, her caramel hair spilling out from the hood, and with her owl staff in hand.
He thought she was coming to hug his brother goodbye, but after giving Will a warm smile, she brushed past Caleb and walked right up to one of the simorghs. The beast lowered its head to allow Yasmina access to the ladder-like harness.
“Yaz?” Caleb said.
“I’d like to join the expedition,” she said, from the back of the simorgh.
Mala turned to Tamás, who looked flustered. He had harbored a not-so-secret crush on Yasmina ever since the flight from the Darklands.
Yasmina’s eyes flicked towards Caleb, and Will understood. She wanted separation.
“We agreed to keep the effort small and maneuverable,” Mala said. “Nor do I know this woman.”
Yasmina ignored her and addressed Tamás. “I thought a wilder might be useful on the journey.”
“You’re a wilder?” Mala said doubtfully.
Yasmina turned to lock eyes with the adventuress, then held out her arms. Two furry moles scurried out of her sleeves and into her palms, pink noses twitching, before racing back inside. She lowered her hand, made a strange and high-pitched sound from the back of her throat, and the simorgh reared its head to allow her to stroke its plumed mane.
“By the Queen,” Mala said, with grudging respect. “An actual wilder. Your talents are welcome indeed, though we both know your loyalty lies with your calling, and not with this expedition.”
Yasmina didn’t dispute the claim, and Will could only stare. Who had Yasmina become?
“It’s settled, then,” Tamás said, unable to disguise the disappointment in his voice. “The party is complete.”
Guided by Yith Riders, the three simorghs climbed in a lazy spiral, crimson wings fluttering and flowing tails spread like a halo in the air as the ruins of Freetown receded from sight. The great birds hugged the coastline as they traveled south, the ocean stretched out like a vast blue painting. To Will’s left loomed the dry tawny hills of central California, known as the Barrier Coast on Urfe.
The Yith Riders, Will had learned, descended from one of the first Romani clans to arrive on the Barrier Coast. They had settled in the high reaches of the Făgras and Dragon’s Teeth long ago, intermingled with the native peoples, and adapted their lifestyle and customs to fit their surroundings. But they had remained close to the other clans, and always heeded their call.
Will shared a simorgh with Selina. As they swept over an undulating line of dunes, he leaned forward in his saddle, shouting over the wind. “Have you been to the Mayan Kingdom before?”
“I’ve never left the Barrier Coast,” Selina replied, in a soft-spoken voice marked by a deep rural accent. She had olive skin, chin-length chestnut hair, and a mousy face with none of the arrogance typical of most mage-born.
“But you’re a wizard—don’t you have to pass some kind of test? In New Victoria?”
“Only if one desires validation from the Congregation. We train our own wizards. I would never abandon my clan simply to see my name inscribed in some registry.”
So Selina was a down-to-earth, small-town girl who marched to the beat of her own drum.
Will liked her already.
“I hear the Mayan Kingdom is another world,” she said in a subdued voice. “Unlike anything in New Albion.”
According to Mala, the starting point on the map was a well-known Mayan coastal town named Ixmal, a lawless port on the fringes of the empire. Though dangerous, the isolation of Ixmal could work in the expedition’s favor. The Mayan Kingdom had a Divine King who ruled from a giant pyramid at Tikal-Paya, but the real power lay in the two dozen or so city-states run by Arch-governors and supported by a class of Battle Mages: fearsome wizards with a reputation of seeking out and punishing intruders.
Due to Ixmal’s position on the frontier, there might be less chance of running across the legendary warrior-wizards.
Will shivered. “What do you know about the pyramid tomb?”
“When the Calakmul Empire was finally conquered by Tikal, Yiknoom didn’t want his enemies to possess his fabled treasure. As the story goes, he built a pyramid deep in the jungle to entomb himself alongside his possessions.”
“If it’s a pyramid, why has no one ever found it?”
“He was a powerful sorcerer. No doubt he used cloaking magic.”
“That lasted after his death?”
>
She shrugged. “No one really knows the extent of his power.”
Will swallowed as he remembered the inscription. All those who seek may enter, but none shall ever leave. “Are there any legends about the pyramid itself?”
“Until this map surfaced, no one had ever claimed to find it.” Her face turned grim. “But the Mayans have been building pyramids for thousands of years, and the sorcerer kings were infamous for their cruelty.”
Isn’t that fascinating, Will thought.
The simorghs were incredibly strong and fast. They flew three shifts a day, of nearly four hours each, over some of the most beautiful scenery Will had ever seen. Swaths of wildflowers flowed like brushstrokes across the hills, golden mountains swept down to a coastline of mist-drizzled dunes and frothy surf, and on the second day, after turning inland and crossing a desert, the party entered a moonscape of pockmarked mesas and canyons scooped from the earth.
They stopped that night atop a sandstone pillar that emerged from the desert floor like a giant mushroom. After a cold dinner and six hours of sleep under the stars, they took flight again, soon entering a lush mountain range that extended to the horizon. Somewhere in northern Mexico, Will presumed.
Just after midday, as he was snacking on a piece of dried beef, the simorghs drew together in a tight formation and slowed to a stop, hovering in midair as if awaiting instruction. Will and Selina exchanged a worried glance as their Yith Rider stood in his saddle and gazed at the clear sky through a leather-covered glass tube, trying to discern what had spooked the mounts.
After a few moments, the Rider said something in his own language that sounded like a curse, then exchanged frantic, shouted instructions with the other two Riders. Yasmina, riding behind Mateo, peered into the distance as she clutched the owl staff bequeathed to her by a wilder named Elegon, and which somehow enhanced her sensory perception.
In the distance, a pair of green dots appeared, gaining rapidly in size. Before anyone offered an explanation, Will saw for himself the nature of the terrifying creatures speeding towards them like colossal reptilian arrows, wings tucked in and curved talons extended. Saurian creatures straight out of every fantasy novel and role playing game, the monster no one ever wanted to face, the stuff of which dreams and nightmares were made.
Dragons.
-5-
A team of majitsu escorted Val to the infirmary, where a cuerpomancer bandaged his wrists and treated the bite wound by cauterizing it and making Val drink a creamy liquid that tasted like sassafras. After that, the majitsu hooded him and stuck him back in his cell.
On the third day after his appointment with the queen, a portion of the honeycombed prison wall hinged open, and the same gray-cloaked member of the Wizard Guard who had saved Val’s life stepped inside.
He surprised Val by offering a forearm clasp. “We’ve not been properly introduced. My name is Cyrus Ravensill.”
After Val accepted the gesture, Cyrus handed him a silver bracelet. “Before we leave, you must don this spirit bond. It does not interfere with the working of magic, but so long as you remain on Urfe, we’ll know your location.”
Knowing he didn’t have a choice, Val slipped on the slender bracelet. It molded to his wrist, tight but not uncomfortable. He hid his anger at being treated like chattel.
Cyrus handed him a hooded gray cloak similar to his own, with fewer black markings on the sleeves. “You will travel under the aegis of the Wizard Guard. Honor the position.”
Val gave a curt nod. “Are you a spirit mage?”
“I see the rumors are true. You’re from a northern outpost, indeed.” Cyrus’s lips parted in a faint smile. “The Wizard Guard focuses on magic expedient to the defense of Queen and Realm. Though we draw from a variety of disciplines, and many of our spells are hybrid in nature, it is rare indeed for one with the talent of a spiritmancer to join our ranks.”
Val followed him out of the cell. Cyrus waved a hand and closed the azantite doorway. As Val shrugged into the heavy cloak, they floated down a wide stone hallway lined with similar doorways spaced thirty feet apart. At the end of the corridor, they drifted up a long spiral staircase, and Cyrus hooded Val again.
Once they removed his hood, Val saw that they had led him back to the same room as before. Queen Victoria and her retinue of majitsu had already arrived. With them was a bald woman about Caleb’s age, wearing a fitted black shirt and trousers. She was slight but wiry, and a majitsu grasped each arm.
“Synne will be accompanying you,” the queen stated. Val wondered what crime she had committed. The majitsu released the woman, and Synne walked over to stand beside Val, eying him warily. She had an androgynous face that, combined with the bald head, Val had almost mistaken for a man.
“It is time to learn who has agreed to accompany you,” Queen Victoria said.
As if on cue, he heard a dull whoosh, like the opening of a rubber seal. A man with skin the color of a moonless night appeared out of nowhere, between Val and the queen. Val recognized his friend Dida, a bibliomancer from the Kingdom of Great Zimbabwe. Val felt a mix of emotions: a rush of gratitude at his presence, relief that he wouldn’t be alone, and a stabbing guilt from asking him to risk his life.
“Dida! I can’t believe you came.”
“Perhaps I will have the chance to put my esoteric skills to actual use,” he said, with a warm smile. Besides Adaira, whose powerful father Val knew would never let her leave, Dida was the most accomplished mage Val counted as a friend.
Another whoosh, and someone he had counted as an extreme long shot teleported into the room. A one-armed, grizzled warrior gripping an oddly wide short sword in his left hand and wearing a battle-notched, black leather breastplate.
Rucker.
A legendary adventurer Val had met only once, when he and Dida had visited Rucker in a tavern in New Victoria to gain information on the assassin targeting their fellow students at the Abbey. Even in a room of hardened explorers, Rucker had commanded respect. He would be an invaluable addition.
Val was stunned. “I can’t believe you came. Thank you.”
“I didn’t do it for ye, boy. I told ye before I don’t join parties any more, unless it’s something that intrigues me.”
“Which almost nothing does.”
Rucker barked a laugh. “Good memory.”
He didn’t explain further, and Val wondered at his true motive. Dida hurried out of the way as the crusty buccaneer took his place beside Val. Synne, he noted, didn’t flinch as did most people in Rucker’s presence.
The queen seemed to concentrate on something for a moment, then said, “It appears your party is complete. Dean Groft, I’m afraid, will not be joining you.”
Though disappointed, Val was not surprised. Put on the spot by the queen, he had struggled to name his companions. He debated asking for Alrick, but feared the dissolute phrenomancer would be in no condition to travel. Who was left? Lord Alistair would never let Adaira go, and Val had worked hard to stay out of the limelight at wizard school. He had no other close friends.
He had hardly expected Dean Groft, the esteemed Dean of Spiritmancy, to leave the Abbey and join an ill-fated expedition into the unknown. He had chosen the dean for two reasons: first, because Groft was the most powerful mage Val knew, short of Salomon and Lord Alistair. Second, Val had always thought Dean Groft had a soft spot for him, and he had seen compassion in his eyes when Val was sent to prison. Perhaps the dean would send someone in his stead the queen would accept.
Apparently not.
“A bold choice,” the queen said, in a neutral tone. “A pity it did not work out.”
More than a pity. Val knew he had talent, and Dida was years ahead of him in his studies, but neither were a full-fledged wizard. What did the queen think two apprentice mages, an aging adventurer, and a young woman with no apparent battle skills were supposed to do about a situation the Wizard Guard had not been able to handle?
He decided to ask her. “My Queen, I mean no offense,
but even if we do find Tobar, he’s a spirit mage. How do we combat him?”
The queen gave a small, knowing smile, as if she’d been waiting for the question. She held a palm out, and an azantite container the size of a saltshaker materialized in her hand.
“Do you recognize this?” she asked the group.
Even Rucker looked perplexed.
“A Soul Jar,” the queen said. “A most powerful device. If you manage to find Tobar Baltoris, this will allow you to trap his essence inside.”
The inspiration for the genie in the bottle, Val wondered? “How does it work?”
“The jar will take the first breath it feels after it is opened,” she said, pinching the intricately wrought stopper. Her parting smile was as cold as a glacier. “Take care it is not yours.”
An hour later, Val found himself stepping into another flying black stagecoach with Dida, Rucker, and Synne. Dida and Rucker both carried small rucksacks they had brought through the portal.
Rucker’s gray ponytail stuck out beneath a red-and-black horned battle helm. In addition to the sword strapped on his back and a spiked bronze vambrace covering his forearm, a serrated hunting knife and a set of smaller tools hung from his leather belt. A pair of wicked iron spurs protected his boots, and his gnarled index finger bore a multi-colored ring that resembled hardened lava.
Val and Synne had each been given packs with basic gear, provisions, and a valuable jar of healing salve. Synne carried no weapons, and Val wondered what use she would be. Was she a healer? Just as he started to ask her, Rucker turned to her and said, “Where’s yer belt and robe?”
Synne gave him a frosty stare. “None of your concern.”
Belt and robe? Val wondered. Seeing his confusion, Rucker said, “She’s majitsu, boy. Can’t ye tell by the way she moves?”
Val was stunned. They had sent a majitsu? With them?
Black-robed warrior-mages who enhanced their limited magic with martial art skills, most majitsu served the Congregation in some capacity, often as bodyguards. They possessed an aura of danger and competency that always left Val uneasy in their presence.
