The Twilight City Read online

  “Oi there, Hammerhelm,” Haskell growled. “How’s retrievals?”

  Waresh glared at his rival. “Comin’ in steady, I reckon. Just waitin’ for the day they send me after yer ugly mug. That’ll be something to look forward to.”

  Haskell grunted what might have been laughter. “I’m short… Well, not short like you, but short as in I only got ten more to go, and I’m a free man.” He gestured over his shoulder to a pair of mangled corpses just outside the door. They had obviously been dragged some distance, as evidenced by the streaks of blood. Haskell could easily have teleported inside with his collar, but Waresh knew he was the type to make a statement, just as the barbarian preferred bringing them in dead rather than alive.

  To Waresh’s knowledge, he himself was the only one Haskell had ever brought in alive, and he still cursed that fateful day.

  Haskell grabbed each of his retrievals by an ankle and dragged them inside, leaving a trail of gore behind. “Be seein’ you around, Hammerhelm.” He gave Waresh a vicious grin. “Mayhap I’ll be waiting for you to come after me some day. Perhaps you’ve learned a little something in the meantime. Last time we crossed axes was a bit of a disappointment.”

  Waresh spat on the ground and went on his way. That was one retrieval he’d actually look forward to—and when the time came, he thought he just might take a cue from the barbarian and drag Haskell’s bleeding corpse through the courtyard.

  Chapter 21

  Nera used the downtime to run a whetstone over each of her throwing knives. She itched to get out and do something, unused to sitting around and lying low. Having so much free time felt odd. Arron had gone out to procure some food and drink in the morning, as well as to make some inquiries with a few of his contacts, which left her and Malek alone in the safe house.

  What would I normally do with myself? Back before the foundry, what would I have been doing? Hanging out with the lowlifes back in the guild or drinking and gambling, most likely. Perhaps filching coin purses in the markets.

  Pipes gurgled as Malek drained the bathtub in the back room. A couple minutes later, the mage emerged from the back room with a fresh set of robes and his wet hair combed back.

  “A fellow could get used to this hot water piped into one’s home,” he said with a grin.

  Nera rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress a smile of her own. “Aye, your lordship. I hope everything was to your liking, but don’t get too comfortable here. We still have to find your master.”

  “Indeed, but first we should break our fast.”

  “Sounds good to me—if Arron would ever get back here.” Nera worried at a small nick in the blade of one of her throwing knives. “Fool probably went to the market by way of the whorehouse first.”

  Before Malek could reply, they both turned toward the sound of footsteps running up the stairs. Nera tensed up and approached the door with Lightslicer in her hand but relaxed when someone gave the prearranged knock.

  She opened the door, letting Arron in with a large cloth bag. “What took you so long?”

  The half-elf shrugged. “Lots of rumors flying about what happened at the prison a couple nights back. Seems the Magehunters are investigating, and Lassiter himself is on the case. Sounds like a full call-out. They’re searching for a young brown-haired human woman—attractive enough, I hear—and a young man that looks an awful lot like our mage friend here.”

  Nera scowled. “Damn it… I suppose we should’ve expected that, with two of them winding up dead.” She glanced at Malek before turning back to her brother. “There’s getting to be too much heat. We should find this mana factory and his master and get our arses off plane for a while until it cools down.”

  “I was thinking along the same lines,” Arron replied. “Although I think, at this point, there won’t be any returning to Nexus… at least for a very long time.” He put the bag on the table and opened it. Inside was a jug of apple cider, three loaves of bread, a small wheel of cheese, and some smoked pork. Some fresh berries and a small jar of honey topped off the list.

  “I’m sorry for dragging you two into this mess.” Malek approached the table, hanging his head. “I never intended for things to get out of hand and for the two of you to be on the run.”

  Arron handed him a loaf of bread. “Cheer up, mate. Not your fault—we knew what we were getting into, wanting the collars off and all. I think a little extended vacation off plane would be good, wouldn’t you say, Nera?” He carved off a chunk of meat to go with his bread and cheese and fruit.

  “It might, provided Malek pays us what he promised, plus maybe a small bonus for such exceptional service: hot baths, food deliveries, personal protection…” She winked at the mage and helped herself to some food and cider.

  They all laughed at that and proceeded to break their fast. After a short discussion, they decided to lie low until that evening, when they would go out to search for the mana factory. Arron suggested they ask at the guild house, but Nera disagreed. She thought they had drawn too much attention there already. She knew a couple reliable people she could ask who might be able to point them in the right direction.

  Arron shrugged and replied with his usual, “If you think that’s best, I’ll go along.” That having been decided, they finished the rest of their breakfast in silence.

  After a few moments, Nera spoke up. “There is one thing that I’m dying to know, though.”

  “Which is?” Malek asked.

  “How you learned about your magical talent. You promised to tell me the story sometime. I reckon we’ve got nothing better to do at the moment, being cooped up in here.”

  Malek sighed. “It’s a bit of a long story, but I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to give you the short version.”

  “Take your time, mate. If your tale is good enough, I’ll take it easy on you when we play some tiles later. But not my sister, though. I’m cleanin’ her coin purse out.”

  Nera scoffed. “In your wildest dreams, pointy-ears. We’re all ears, mageling, some of us more than others.” She stuck her tongue out at Arron, and they all shared another laugh.

  “Very well.” Malek took a deep drink of the cider and leaned back on the sofa. “It all started when bandits raided our village in the night…”

  ***

  “Keep silent, Son. Not a word, you hear me?”

  Malek nodded mutely, frightened as his father gently nudged him down the ladder into the small root cellar beneath their cottage. The air in the enclosed space was thick with the strong, earthy smell of potatoes and turnips.

  “Hilda, stay with Malek. Don’t come out for anything until you know it’s safe.” His father looked at them with a desperate fear that terrified Malek more than the screams and shouts of alarm coming from outside their home.

  The overhead panel lowered, leaving Malek and his mother in darkness. Above, the table screeched against the floor as his father pulled it over the trapdoor. His footsteps were loud on the wooden floor overhead as he left the room in a hurry and went out the front door. The door slammed shut, and all was quiet above, except for the distant cries in the village. Malek’s breathing seemed loud in the cramped root cellar. Sounds of fighting rang out, steel on steel, along with the cries of fear replaced by those of pain.

  “Mama, I’m scared,” Malek whispered.

  His mother wrapped her arms around him and kissed the top of his head. “It’ll be all right, Son. Don’t worry.”

  They sat like that a long time in the earthy darkness. Nearby outside, someone screamed as though they were being brutally murdered. Malek clutched his mother’s arm and tried not to breathe.

  A harsh voice shouted, “Search the village for any more survivors!”

  Heavy boots clumped across the small porch of Malek’s family cottage. A large crash resounded above as the door was kicked in violently. The boots stomped across the floor overhead. From the sound, there were at least two sets of them. Dust filtered down, and Malek felt the overwhelming urge to sneeze. He clamped a hand ov
er his nose, willing the urge to subside.

  The crashing of scattered pots and overturned furniture was nearly deafening. Wood splintered as cabinets were broken open, along with his father’s chest. Curses and grunts came from overhead, followed by the screech of the table being kicked aside.

  Malek held his breath, for the clamor above had suddenly died. He could make out light from a torch through the cracks in the floor overhead.

  “Oi, there’s a trapdoor here,” someone called out in a harsh voice.

  “Well, open it, ya dumb oaf,” snapped another man.

  The panel was suddenly yanked open, and Malek blinked from the blinding light as a torch was shoved into the opening. Two bandits crouched above, peering down at them.

  “What have we ʼere? Come outta there, wench. Bring the boy with ya.”

  “Please, no. Take whatever you want, just leave my son be,” Malek’s mother pleaded with them.

  The tip of a sword poked at her head. “Bitch, don’t make me come down there. Out here—now!”

  Resignation filled his mother’s eyes. “I love you, Son,” she whispered before letting him go and starting slowly up the ladder.

  One of the brigands grabbed her by the hair and hauled her out. She screamed, and suddenly she had her kitchen knife in her hand, the one she used to chop the vegetables. She slashed at the brigand, who cursed and let her go. The torch moved out of sight, and the floorboards shuddered from a brief struggle overhead, sending showers of dust down into the root cellar. Malek clutched his knees to his chest and rocked back and forth, trying to make the awful scene go away.

  A woman’s shriek of pain was followed by a heavy thump on the floor above. Heavy breathing filled the sudden silence.

  Finally, one of the men grunted. “Bitch cut me. Get the boy.”

  Something warm and sticky dripped on Malek’s bare arm. Looking up, he saw blood dripping through the cracks in the floorboards as the torchlight approached the open trap door again. The horrific scene seemed to be happening to somebody else—all he could see was his mother’s blood dripping down from above. There’s so much of it. How could someone lose so much blood?

  “You, boy! Come on out.”

  Malek ignored the man, squeezing his eyes shut as he willed the nightmare to go away. He held his knees tightly to his chest, resting his forehead against them.

  “Don’t make me come down there, or I’ll whip yer arse till you can’t sit down for a week,” the brigand threatened.

  Malek was focused so intently on blocking out the horror he didn’t hear the man come down the ladder. His arm was suddenly snatched painfully, and he was hauled up the ladder and thrown roughly down on the floor… right next to his mother. Her vacant eyes were focused on the ceiling, her face twisted in pain, and a ragged wound gaped in her chest.

  Malek screamed in horror. His hands were warm and sticky with her blood. Scrambling to his feet, he ran for the door, but a man stepped in front of it, a bearded man, dirty, wearing a mail shirt and a sword in hand. He moved with a limp, and Malek noted a long bleeding gash across his inner thigh.

  “Stop, you little bastard—” the brigand began.

  “Nooo!” Malek screamed and something broke loose inside him. He collected all his pain and rage and let it loose. The man flew backward through the broken door and onto the street as if punched by a giant.

  Malek was out the door. He stopped at the edge of the porch, gasping at the sight. Cottages were on fire in the night, the brightness almost painful to look at. Several of the village men were surrounded by bandits, fighting bravely with their simple weapons and farm implements in a futile attempt to hold them off. They succeeded mainly in buying time for the women and children to flee into the cornfields behind the village. Malek looked around desperately for his father but couldn’t see him in the chaos.

  Heavy footsteps made the floorboards sway beneath Malek’s feet as the other bandit came up behind him. Malek ran, stumbling off the porch and twisting an ankle. With a cry, he hobbled away, his mind latching onto the fields as a place to hide, as he had seen the women and other children doing.

  “Come back ʼere, ya little shite.”

  A hand seized Malek by the hair and jerked him backward. Glancing behind him, he saw the second bandit with a snarl on his face. Malek struggled, his heels driving into the dirt, hands clawing at the brigand’s rough hand. With a painful wrench, a patch of Malek’s hair tore free in the man’s hand. Then he was free. He darted into the cornfield, limping and ducking low.

  “They’re fleeing into the fields!” someone shouted. “What should we do, torch ʼem?”

  “Go fetch them out,” another replied.

  Corn stalks swished and crunched underfoot as Malek fled. He ducked low and darted across several rows so he wouldn’t be seen, making his way deeper into the field. He wondered if he should try to reach the Hangman’s Tree on the hill at the northern edge of the fields, thinking he’d be able to see the entire village from there.

  Panting from exertion and the painful throbbing of his ankle, he staggered deeper into the field. Several bandits with torches were moving down the corn rows, the flickering light helping not only Malek to see, but also his pursuers.

  “Over there!” shouted someone nearby.

  Corn stalks crunched as bandits crashed through them, much nearer now. Malek tried to redouble his pace, but he landed badly on his sore ankle and hit the ground, getting a mouthful of dirt. He tried to push himself up, but he was suddenly illuminated in torchlight. He rolled onto his back in dread.

  “Got ya!” The second bandit that had killed Malek’s mother leered at him, displaying a mouth full of yellowed, broken teeth. “Ye’re gonna pay for making me run all the way out ʼere.” He reached for Malek.

  Malek suddenly felt dizzy, the torchlight turning black for a moment, as if a thick curtain were dropped over it. A tremendous surge of energy flowed through his body, the pain of his ankle insignificant in comparison as strength and vigor flooded into him. The night turned bright as day, blinding him, and then the feeling of energy rushed out of him, leaving him weak. He fell back in the soft dirt.

  When he was able to see again, stars glimmered in the night sky overhead. The corn stalks had disappeared, and he was lying in an open field. He sat up and gasped as he came face to face with a desiccated corpse that lay where it had fallen in front of him. The corpse seemed to be grinning at him with its mouth full of broken yellow teeth.

  Malek regained his feet and saw the cornfield had disappeared for a thirty-pace radius around him. The plants had shriveled to dust, as if stomped flat by giant feet and crushed into powder. Several other corpses were visible across the dead crop circle.

  “What manner of deviltry is this?” A bandit stood at the edge of the circle, eyes wide as he surveyed the damage while two others came up behind him and gaped at the sight.

  The first bandit’s eyes fell on Malek. He made a superstitious protective symbol in the air and backed away. “That boy is cursed. Let’s get away from here.”

  The bandits turned and fled back into what remained of the cornfield.

  Malek eventually returned to town to find seventeen dead from the village of sixty, mostly men. His father had fallen while defending the town. Malek cried as his parents were buried along with the rest of the townspeople in the small cemetery. He was afraid the bandit had spoken truly and he really was cursed. Perhaps it was somehow his fault his family had been killed that night.

  Despite all the time he spent thinking about that night, he couldn’t understand what had happened, exactly, in the cornfield. The rush of power he had felt had been unbelievable, thrilling, yet he was afraid he’d hurt those around him if he tried to access it again, and somehow lost control.

  A couple weeks later, Malek was tending his neighbor’s chickens when a strange man rode into town. He had a long white beard and wore flowing blue robes and a funny pointy hat. He spoke with several farmers, who pointed into the cornfields. T
he man rode his horse into the corn rows and approached the circle of destruction, which the villagers had avoided, thinking it cursed.

  Unable to suppress his curiosity any longer, Malek followed the man into the cornfield. He carefully stepped through the rows of corn and crouched, peering through the plants.

  The strange man dismounted in the circle and knelt down, sifting a handful of dirt through his fingers. The four corpses lay where they had fallen, little more than skeletons covered in parchmentlike flesh. For a long while, the man knelt there, back turned, and studied the ground.

  “It’s all right, lad. You can come out of there.” The man had a deep, compelling voice.

  Before Malek realized what he was doing, he was standing in the circle.

  The man rose and turned to face Malek. He had a kindly face with bright blue eyes. “Hello there. You aren’t afraid to step foot out here after what took place, are you, lad?”

  Malek shook his head.

  “Can you tell me what happened? I know about the bandit raid already, but I’m here to investigate what occurred in this field.”

  “It was me,” Malek said in a small voice. “I’m cursed. I did this.”

  The man approached and knelt in front of Malek until they were eye to eye. “Well then, I’d say you are a very special boy indeed. I don’t think it’s necessarily a curse—it’s just a mystery, something special that needs to be studied a bit. What’s your name, lad?”

  “Malek.”

  “A good name. And where are your parents?”

  Malek shook his head. “They… they… died from the bad men. I’m staying with Mr. Cook’s family now.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I truly am.” The man’s face was sad as he studied Malek. “I shall have a talk with Goodman Cook, and in time if you like, Malek, perhaps you can come stay with me. I’d like to see if I can help you control what you call a curse. My name is Magellan.”