The Winding Road: Old Friends

by Frank Gori

Bellany released her bowstring a couple of seconds before the seemingly innocent carpenter expertly turned into a throwing motion. The arrow struck just above his collarbone just as his arm started forward.

Bellany already had another arrow knocked as she scanned the street for the other three Tradesmen. From the peripheral she saw Dab’s massive form charging the assassin carpenter down, just as she noticed the gardener’s hedge trimmers were actually double edged. She fired another arrow in his direction just before she felt a sting then telltale cold numbness on her right shoulder blade.

Without hesitation Bellany leapt off her third story perch and twisted around midair for a look at her assassin. She almost missed placing her feet correctly at the first intervals as she repelled rapidly down to the street.

A scream from the street confirmed the Tradesmen struck while she was distracted but the poison in her shoulder wasn’t the only thing making Ballany feel numb at the moment. Jax sent Galladee after her!

Galladee was a Krishtog female with an unfortunate singing voice. She could dance in a manner that would take your breath away and she was one of the most skilled infiltrators in the guild. Galladee took her natural talents and developed her skills as sharp as any blacksmith. She was one of the guild’s top earners and invested that income right back into her craft.

Bellany and Galladee trained under the same guild masters. They learned the art of dance and the 

precision of inches together. Theirs was a friendship forged by sharing the same kind of scars and succeeding in the same demanding difficult trade. They cried together as girls, shared drinks and contracts together as adults. Bellany felt stung by the betrayal, she’d never have taken a contract on Galladee.

Bellany locked her rope harness about a floor short of the ground and dropped her bow. It landed in the net Gallade had enchanted invisible. Galladee was one of the few people Bellany confided in, she knew Bellany’s tricks and Bellany knew hers. Unfortunately they were somewhat evenly matched under normal circumstances, but hanging from a rope with her right arm rapidly going numb Bellany had the unsettling feeling she was out matched. It left her with one play.

“Really Galladee, you’re going to side with my ex,” Bellany kept her voice casual, despite the rising heat she felt from her womb. Her son to be had a temper.

“I’m going to take you in Bell, you can make it easy on both of us and just give up,” Galladee replied in her croaking tones. Three limbs casually braced the roof top ledge and she had one of her javelins in her free hand.

Bellany did her best to tune out the commotion on the street. Without her spotting, those Workman Guild hack assassins called the Tradesmen were going to take a toll. Unfortunately, Bellany had her own problems at the moment.

“You shadowed them, Bellany nodded toward the street. Followed that quad knowing I’d set up to cover,” Bellany didn’t have to try hard to sound impressed. “Why’d you take the job, I thought we were friends?”

“Couldn’t resist, Bell. You were always the favorite, and I wanted to know who was better. Besides 

it’s a non-lethal, boss wants you alive. Now give up, I got you lined up for a good throw, dart poison has you down an arm, you’re dangling on a line I can cut, and that net there below you is made of enchanted spidersilk. Face it you’re caught.” Galladee was confident, even pleased with herself. Bellany wondered if they had ever truly been friends or if she was just too isolated in her old life.

“Yeah, seems like you got me, but you forgot about something,” Bellany smiled a tight malice laced smile at her old friend.

“What’s that,” she replied.

“I made new friends,” Bellany replied.

Galladee turned just in time to look her death in the face. Bellany felt some of the warm splatter of her old friend’s blood as Zool’s blade struck true. Her head fell into her own net trap, and Zool caught the body and dragged it onto the roof. The fire of emotions swept over Bellany for a long moment. She felt angry at the betrayal, worried about the poison and if it’d effect the child in her womb, but mostly she felt the shock of loss.

Bellany wept as Zool pulled her back up the building, her tears mixing with the blood splattered across her face.

The Winding Road: The Ambush

by Frank Gori

Dab tried to stay alert this time.

It had been a rough week of ambushes and assassination attempts just trying to acquire the necessary supplies for their journey. Bellany and Zool called the assassins The Tradesmen. They were great at blending in, striking, and fleeing, causing the caravan damage in their wake.

Dab was learning that the great guilds of Hub were more interconnected then one might otherwise perceive. While the Merchant's Guild itself was supplying the majority of the personnel and physical goods for the journey, Malleck still needed various jobs performed by the Workman's Guild, tools from the Blacksmith Guild, and the Mage's Guild was for the most part necessary for magical supplies to ease the road.

One moment a group of roofers were working on a building across the street, then the next they were shooting at you with poisoned crossbow bolts. Malleck tried sending intermediaries unaffiliated with the caravan, but The Tradesmen always struck anyway. Malleck tried disguising people, again the Tradesmen struck. They targeted anyone going on or helping with the expedition and Dab had yet to spot one before they struck.

Clearly the Merchant's Guild had spies within, but that was hardly Dab’s department. He was guarding this transaction which was the only thing that somewhat worked. Malleck was resolved that if the Tradesmen would not cease the attempts to harm the caravan then they’d pay a blood price for every attempt. Even expecting trouble the bastards were hard to spot.

By the time it was sorted out who needed killing, most Tradesmen ran. They used smoke sticks, flash powder, and caltrops but still Dab usually got a hold of one. The Tradesmen always worked in a group multiples of four, or quads (which apparently was the term even when there was sixteen of them.) Losses didn’t seem to daunt them, despite having traded an equal number of lives from their ranks to the losses they inflicted the kept coming. It was a bloody week roughly two dozen people didn’t see the end of and Dab was getting weary of it.

Mal, Zool, Bellany, and Snook were the only reliable spotters they had. Everyone was on alert, but being alert didn’t seem to be enough. 

Despite his resolve, Dab found himself reflecting on Laz. Laz seemed preoccupied and edgy lately. Perhaps understandable given the circumstances, but there was something akin to the skinny boy that helped him stand up to the street toughs despite clearly being terrified. Laz was the kind of guy that threw his best punches when he was scared to and if Laz was scared there was good reason to be…

An arrow interrupted Dab’s thoughts, “Dammit,” he said aloud in exasperation. The carpenter with the arrow perforating his throat was the obvious target, which Dab found himself charging. This time he took a moment to focus and noticed a customer in the grocer stand not very far behind the carpenter reaching into a canvas bag. The customer was too calm in the face of violence, Dab squared his shoulders and lowered himself further in the run.               

In the last second he pulled wide of the carpenter and pushed with all his bulk and muscle. The shopper had raised a crossbow out of the bag and lined it to someone in the caravan.

“Not this time,” the carpenter flew into the field of fire just as the bolt flew clear of the crossbar. If the carpenter survived Bellany’s shot, he’d likely not survive this one. Dab made eye contact with the crossbow woman just as a stream of Marta’s energy bolts twisted around the obstacles of the grocer stand and slammed into the would be assassin.

Dab followed that up with a throwing axe, before turning around to see who was next. A gardener had an arrow through his eye and some attention was further ahead of the wagon at some fleeing foe making it four.

Dab’s eyes swept back to the caravan, one of Zool’s Blacksmith’s had a bolt in his buckler. That made this attack three of them for none of theirs, perhaps the next Quad would think twice.

The scuff of boot on cobblestone to his left was Dab’s only warning. On instinct he punched out to his right before dropping into a roll to his left. His fist connected and he managed to trip his other attacker into a tangle with the first. They set up in his flanks invisible, likely from a potion or some dust.

Dab managed to get back to his feet before his attackers which afforded him a few seconds to scan the area and get a lay for the battlefield. Aside from the two, the shopkeeper held a wand over the not quite dead crossbowman and she had already apparently used it on the carpenter who was downing a potion and had already retrieved his weapon. The five on one would for a short time wouldn’t be so bad, but a glance over at the supply wagons now shrouded in mist, indicated a caster focused on cutting off reinforcements.

They used magical resources to isolate him and get the advantage of first strike. They counted on that being enough, they counted on taking him down, but they didn’t count on a loose cobblestone ruining their stealth. That was their mistake.

Dab touched his new ring and said the command word that would make his skin stone hard and enhance his already impressive ability to take a beating. In all likelihood they assumed they had the advantage with numbers, the reality was they were outnumbered and attrition favored Dab. Laz would be annoyed he used the charge up already but being captured or killed was probably worse. It also made his priority to take down the casters as the other four would have a hard time damaging him.

Dab ran at the shopkeeper first. Barreling past his assailants allowed them to take swings on him and were he not protected he’d have paid a blood price. As it was the minotaur barely felt the blows. A crossbow bolt bounced off his chest before he closed on the wand wielding shopkeeper who now had a blue disk of energy in front of him.

Dab let go. Let go of the dozens of half remembered beatings in the course of a battered life, let go of the frustrations of a lost career, let go of the anger of being separated from his only childhood friend, let go of being tortured. He let all of that go in a raging flurry.

When the fog cleared a few moments later they found Dab covered in blood on his knees. Five foes lied broken and dead.

The Winding Road: In Blood

By Frank Gori

Lazeron Pi pulled his mind from the darkest shadow of despair. With his voice and mind he called out to Dab and the world came rushing back. Laz’s love for Dab was the one thing he could never reason away, it was an anchor. The minotaur was the brother Laz didn’t have, and the father he never knew. Laz’s memory of his boyhood friend Dab was the only time from childhood Laz could recall feeling safe. Dab’s protective embrace made a circle of protection that Lazeron Pi’s mind could take shelter in when the darker memories came like a storm.

Lazeron found something else within that darkness, an awakening of sorts. The number that entranced him was a mathematical expression of his desire to be safe. Twenty two over seven wasn’t just a ratio, it was Dab. Being a normal wizard and trying to impose order on it was like trying to swim against the tide, fueling that ambition with the magic within your blood was like sailing with a tail wind. It was insane. Some Wizards referred to the process of training another wizard as “the breaking”, because of that insanity.

Lazeron suddenly understood the source of his breaking and his ability to shape the chaotic energies of creation without risking despair. Lazeron understood now that the number wasn’t needed, he had heard of the True Mage before, the kind of magical practitioner that could interweave and marry the magic of sorcerer and wizard. Understanding the source of his insanity meant understanding himself, which also meant understanding that the true source of his power, which was also self. If magic was a fruit tree, wizards were taking from a different branch than sorcerers, the fruit was the same.

The blood was like fire. Any brute can use fire as a weapon, it took know how to use the fire as a tool to create. From fire the tools on which civilization was built were made, it was the same with blood and magic.

As Mal began negotiating with the Sewer King, Lazeron kneeled over, faking a bout of sickness, snatched a rat and put it in his pocket. He looked up at the Sewer King and noted the slightest tilt of the head. The act was acknowledged and permission granted.

Lazeron put his hand inside the pocket with the rat and allowed it to bite him, drawing his blood inside of it. The connection was shockingly fast, the blood of Lazeron’s magic connected immediately with the arcane bond the Sewer King extended to the vermin.

The connection allowed Lazeron a glimpse of the power The Sewer King controlled, what he really was, that glimpse nearly overwhelmed Laz. Every life had a connection to magic, even the vermin. Somehow a portion of all the magical potential of every vermin in the sewer was donated to its king, every creature that decided to call the sewer home paid a sliver of power to him and all that potential together was stitched together like a cloak around his soul. He would be a potent sorcerer without the mantle of power augmenting him, with that power Lazeron would be a torch against a river.

It was a two way street, the Sewer King would understand the source of Lazeron’s power as well. With his power and understanding of necromancy he could be slain but would reform as his mind and power would spread to all the vermin in the sewer then reshape him a new body over time. To Lazeron it was familiar and disgusting.

The Sewer King’s presence in his mind was like having a film on the back of your teeth that you couldn’t quite scrap off with your tongue. The presence touched the number Lazeron wielded like a shield and lingered a moment before retreating respectfully. “Impressive, you have become a True Mage, I hope your Caravanner trades you,” the Sewer King projected.

Goading never worked on Laz. Mal wouldn’t sell him off and if he did Lazeron would bring this misbegotten hole down on their heads. “That’s the spirit, you’d make the Chaos Man proud if you did, well if you haven’t turned traitor.” Laz saw the Sewer King’s mouth moving in conversation with Mal, it wasn’t as impressive as you might imagine. Of course the Sewer King could carry on multiple conversations his awareness was divided constantly among thousands of beady little eyes.

“You understand,” The King projected. It was a statement, he could follow Laz’s thoughts not just what he projected. “Yes,” The Sewer King replied.

Laz used the mental exercise of calculating more portions of the great number to focus. It helped him cope with having that terrible power in his thoughts. Laz then mentally gathered and presented what he felt was a compelling case that he did not in fact betray the Mage’s Guild. It was his old mentor Morte Bisset setting him up, gaining revenge.

The prison had spell wards to contain a living spell, and a release mechanism to unleash it, that was Wizard work and there were very few wizards. The floor with the undead was another tell, Morte was the only wizard in Hub who specialized in Necromancy. The only problem was that Morte had been executed for his crimes against his students and the Mage’s Guild.

The blacksmith was evidence in a way. Morte wanted the secret of soul forging to make himself a new kind of living death. It would be a unique brand of immortality that would suit his twisted desires. In undeath Morte couldn’t feel the things he wanted to feel. If Hodge could teach him soul forging he could create new bodies for himself, it was not dissimilar to what The Sewer King had done. 

This was a theory, but to Lazeron it had the ring of truth. He knew Morte Bisset in a more intimate manner then he desired. The elderly wizard was fascinated by the line between life and death and in that fascination he crossed lines. He was obsessed with youth, living magic, and delighted in torture. The prison was his, Lazeron knew it to be as true as the number he held sacred, the circle that failed to protect him from his master’s repellant lust.

Morte had devised a method to steal some of the magical potential from his students. Lazeron was fortunate enough to discover and expose this before his power was taken. It was another form of abuse he justified in the name of power. 

The Sewer King projected, “I see the reasoning on your theory and your conviction in evidence that is circumstantial at best. Still your fears have enough foundation in reality that I cannot discount them and I will bring this forth in the next meeting of guild lieutenants. You did not trust us when you were in trouble, you fled with the others to the Merchant Guild rather than your family, of this you are guilty and you have forsaken us and are banished from our company. If your old mentor somehow survives as you believe he does then only bringing proof of his destruction will reverse your banishment and restore you to the guild.” It had a ring of finality and the presence left.

Lazeron’s defection would stand, the choice was irreversible, but how the Mage guild regarded him was still salvageable. Lazeron would rather be viewed a friendly to his old colleagues than regarded as a traitor and enemy. Sometimes outsiders enjoyed a status near that of a guild member, it was about as much as Laz could hope for if he ever wanted to call Hub home again.

If Lazeron Pi was right about Morte Bisset the truth is he’d end up confronting the bastard sooner or later anyway. There was enmity enough between them that Morte would pursue Lazeron which was why Laz would be happy to leave Hub with Mal’s Caravan, the road would be an equalizer.

Laz could still feel the rat in his pocket without touching it. With little will he could smell with its, no her, nose and see with her eyes. It was the arcane bond, like what Laz had with his ring. A whisper on the wind carried The Sewer King’s gravelly voice which matched that oily presence, “a gift.”

The Winding Road: Zool’s lesson

By Frank Gori

Zool felt like he had been struck by an arrow. Hodge was alive and offering to soul forge a weapon for the Sewer King as payment for their escape. Every apprentice Blacksmith dreamed of rebuilding the great fire-forge of Hodge. Finding out Hodge was alive was like hearing The Nameless God was reborn.

They say Hodge lived among dwarves for fifty years and studied a great red dragon to build the forge. The forge was based on the dragon’s breath chamber and could make a flame so hot it would melt diamonds. It survived only long enough to forge “Hallow-shard” the great sword held by the Blacksmith Guild high general. “Hallow-shard” was made of an alloy no Blacksmith has seen before or since, as the great fire-forge 

 

Yet Zool believed the elderly orc when he claimed to be Hodge. Something inside of Zool understood immediately the elder orc’s quality and were he not in the literal bowls of the city in hostile company, Zool would kneel before him.

Soul-forging was beyond the comprehension of most. Hacks used it as a shortcut to magic, discarding parts of their own experience cheaply. In the hands of a master, one who had honed a soul of worth sacrificing a piece of such a worthy individual made for a potent item worthy of legend. Such an item in the Sewer King’s defiling hands was like swallowing shards of glass, it just didn’t sit right in the gut.

The bargain was struck quickly, and Zool barely recovered from the shock before it was time to go. Hodge walked up to Zool and the Lizardman could not keep a tear from forming in the corner of his eye. Hodge took his hand in the clasp of brotherhood and drew Zool into a mentor’s embrace. In Zool’s ear he whispered, “you are more than a sunder, Zool Swiftblade. I have seen the quality that lies inside you. It just needs to be tempered by a steadier hand.” Hodge’s grasp burned like molten steel then cooled like the quench, “I’ve given you a gift and I forbid you to pass it to another until you have learned the secrets of soul forging.”

 

The moment would haunt Zool. As Hodge drew away Zool knew that he intended to die. They had not broken Hodge in that cage. Whatever the fools from the Workman Guild sought, they had not taken it. Hodge was trading his life for the lives of seventy eight other souls and he was resolved to do so.

Zool could feel the new mark on his forearm, Hodge’s mark. In a saner world Hodge would have passed that mark to his finest apprentice before he died, and with it a measure of his skill and power would live on. For the first time since his apprenticeship Zool yearned to work at the forge, for the first time in over a decade he yearned to be a maker. His master told him he lacked the talent, but for the first time Zool didn’t believe it.

As everyone else filed out of the Sewer King’s receiving chamber, Zool lingered. The mark on his arm was imbued with strong magic and the guild would want it passed on to a more worthy hand. Forbidding Zool to do so until he learned the secrets of soul forging would make things complicated. Yet it all felt like… providence.

Dab’s meaty oversized hand roughly clapped Zool’s shoulder, “Come on, we got to go now.” Zool pondered drawing his magic and steel against this Sewer King for a moment, but the mark seemed to gain weight with the thought.

A last glance toward Hodge was all Zool could afford because in the end he had work to do. The boy who daydreamed of rebuilding a forge that mimicked dragon-fire had another calling to answer. Zool afforded himself a second to salute Hodge, so he choose the salute of a student to his master.

In that moment Zool understood that it wasn’t his master’s assessment of his worth that held him from becoming a maker, it was his own acceptance of it. Another time soon Zool would stand before the forge and follow the instructed work of a new master but for now…

Seventy seven backs needed watching.

The Winding Road: King's Ransom

By Frank Gori

Caravanner Malleck found negotiating with the Sewer King disconcerting. It was the lack of eyes, he decided. Normally a person’s eyes betrayed much of their inner workings for those who knew what to read. Eye movement could indicate truth and falsehood, dilation indicated surprise or fear, even the speed at which someone blinked could provide a skilled negotiator like Mal with information.

The Sewer Kings eyes were torn from his skull with claws, and in their place were orbs of green amber within which flies had been trapped. Perhaps most disconcertingly, Mal would swear they fluttered their wings from time to time.

The elderly dwarf that claimed kingship of the sewers was also clearly insane.

The King demanded not only monetary tribute but that Mal surrender over either Lazeron, Bellany, or himself to the king as a prisoner. Lazeron was without doubt in trouble with the mages guild, he had not only defected which was a rare and dangerous act to begin with but he had also brought the majority of his gang with him, which could be construed as an act of war unless he left Hub entirely. The Sewer King was in the mages guild. Mal could understand why he’d not want to allow Laz to slip through his fingers. 

Mal could even understand his own value. Liara would pay a handsome ransom for him, or one of the other guilds would pay more and kill him just to wound Liara. If it came to it Mal felt he had no choice but to surrender himself.

What Mal could not comprehend was Bellany’s value to the Sewer King. She was comely, and as deadly in her own way as Zool. But Mal and Laz had value to the heads of two guilds, Bellany was nothing to that.

“If you tell me why you want Bellany, I might consider it,” Mal bluffed. He had no intention of handing anyone over but he needed more information, he needed a better look at his opponent's ivory. The Sewer King clearly believed himself negotiating from a dominant position. The tiles he concealed had to be strong ones, and this was a game of scrim Mal had best not lose.

“I smell Jax’s seed has taken root in her, he would pay handsomely for her, or you,” the elderly dwarf smiled showing that some of his teeth had also been replaced with amber. It was an unpleasant sight. Mal could feel hundreds of tiny eyes on him as the room darkened and the patter or tiny claws scraped and scratched creating a menacing buzz of background noise.

Mal understood that the Music Guild was far more than a bunch of entertainers, that they were the criminal element of Hub. The Music Guild was powerful and inevitable, if Liara were to destroy it it’d simply infect the other guilds. It was like beheading a hydra; leaving the Music Guild intact was a wise decision. But Jax was just their chump figurehead, a preening bard they used as a distraction for the real business of the guild. He could and would pay something for Bellany, just less than the Sewer King might expect.

A fight in these tight quarters in the Sewer King’s home would end poorly. A few of them might escape, but it was just as likely they’d all die even with Laz back up. Mal had painted himself into a corner and surrendering himself was the best option available.

“Let them go and I’ll soul forge you a weapon of your choice, on my honor,” a gentle even voice from the huddle prisoners spoke. It was the elderly orc Blacksmith.

There was a collective gasp. As good a negotiator as the Sewer King was, he failed to hide his surprise at the statement. Mal had probably betrayed his shock as well, soulforged weapons were extremely rare and valuable, it cost the Blacksmith something of what they were to make one, and the smith that knew the secrets to such craft were rare and in high esteem.

The practice of soul forging was common during the Marian empire and some say was part of the cause of the fall. Today it was used sparingly and with consequence, offering it to the Sewer King was a measure of profound respect and required tremendous skill or foolish bravery.

“What is your name smith?” the Sewer King demanded. The rats and other vermin buzzed and squealed now into what could well be described as a dull roar. It was the Sewer King’s tell, he wanted to take the offer. If the offer was genuine he’d be a fool not to.

“My name is Hodge, you been around long enough to know it. I speak the truth, on my anvil and my hammer.” Hodge kept his tone even and his eye rose to meet the amber orbs of the Sewer king. His pose was one that spoke of a man with deadly know how and defiant courage. Mal judged this was no bluff.

“Once he finishes your sword he is also free to return to his guild with an escort,” Mal added. The Sewer King’s face twisted into a grimace then returned to a disconcerting smile. It was enough to tell Mal he had hoped to keep the Blacksmith. Still, the deal was too good to pass.

“Bargain struck,” The Sewer King extended his hand toward Mal to seal it. No doubt he’d sell information on them but Mal saw no other way to get everyone out safely and shook on it.

The Sewer King touched his pinky to his jugular and drew it across the apple of his throat. It was a Marian gesture which meant: I’ll yet have your blood. Mal spit between his feet which was a gesture of violent contempt to Marian sensibilities, or a gesture of respect for one’s martial prowess to the kindred.

The Sewer King let it pass and they soon left. Hodge and Zool shared a moment before departing and something passed between them. Hodge was a familiar name to Malleck and the Sewer King exacted a steep price indeed, the man was thought long dead, a soul forged blade from his hand would be a powerful symbol for the Sewer King to claim.

The bargain was the least bloody one he could strike. Mal had a sinking feeling it was a bargain he’d one day regret.

The Winding Road: Fire and Ice

by Frank Gori

Bellany knew enough to almost prefer the dragon to the sewers. Music Guild contractors referred to taking a sewer escape route as Plan D, the D being for desperate. Below the streets of Hub was a realm, it was a place where men and women were twisted and misshapen by magic, where the vermin cooperated and seemed too intelligent, and where dead men walked and spoke retaining the semblance of life. It was home to a mad king with potent magic.

There was an arrangement between the guild and the Sewer King, but he always exacted his own semitone and it was notoriously the one a guild rogue held most dear. Bellany was unaccustomed to fear. Yet today she was afraid, prices are more dear when you have something to lose.

Mel shouted orders, and he picked a direction but it was little better than running blind in the dark. He had the wisdom to advise everyone to be careful where they step and to harm no creatures in the sewer. At least he knew enough to advise that; trespass was an opportunity for the sewer king. Harm any creature and you went from being an opportunity to being a source of meat for his minions. 

The guild file on the Sewer King was extensive and frightening. He could petrify organic matter with a touch and he had a potent batch of necromantic spells at his disposal. The man was mad and tended to gibber, but most importantly he was extremely territorial. All objects and creatures that dwelled in the sewers were under his protection, harming them was harming him and he took a pound of flesh for every ounce of harm.

Eventually the raging sound of the dragon became distant and the 80 or so survivors found themselves at the bank of a wide underground river. The water was clean, the sewers themselves were cleaner than most of the lower rung Workman neighborhoods. The Sewer King was Mage Guild and the sewers were perhaps the one true contribution they had made to the city. Bellany had never taken “plan d” and was somewhat surprised.

It wasn’t long before the Sewer King’s undead boatmen came. Through the eyes of his mongrelmen spies or the vermin that skittered around the sewers, the king knew of their presence and had taken an interest. “Don’t deal with death, Mal,” Laz managed to mutter before losing himself once more into the delusions of deep despair.

The first Gondola landed on shore and its zombie pilot extended his hand in a greeting about six hundred years out of date, Mal moved forward. He pricked his palm and bled two drops of blood for the boatman; it was an archaic gesture of Mariean courtesy. It was an oath to negotiate and pay the Sewer King, or forfeit one’s lifeblood.  A gesture that he was dealing in good faith.

Given the number of passengers and the importance of several members of this particular party, Bellany anticipated that the price would be a steep one. The cold logic of her Elvish ancestry appraised the situation quickly and concluded a sacrifice was going to be required.

Feelings that were not her own, feelings that burned like fire, threatened to break the mask of stoicism Bellany had maintained her entire professional career. Fear and rage blossomed at the prospect that she might be the price the Sewer King demanded, for Jax would pay dearly for her return. With effort she compartmentalized those feelings to deal with later. It cost her.

Bellany’s thoughts turned to the belt pouch holding the herbs that could solve her problems. Another riot of emotions rallied against her. It was to be expected, the life inside her was filled with Jax’s fire and it very fiercely wanted to live. Still, Bellany could chew the herbs, or brew them into a foul tea and her Jax problems would become more manageable. He’d simply try to kill her, as opposed to capturing her and having her returned to him.

The threat of Jax wasn’t the real temptation though. Ballany didn’t like that her emotional control was slipping. Between the hormones of pregnancy and the sheer turbulence of the magical life growing inside her, Bellany was worried about surviving this pregnancy with her sanity intact.

The passions of the life inside her and the inferno of Jax’s love would consume Bellany if she allowed it. The music Jax made was often described as primal, passionate, and frenzied. Those that knew Jax privately knew that his music was restrained. Being alone in a room with Jax was like standing on a beach in a hurricane. His emotions were palpable and threatened to overcome all but the most stalwart.

 The life inside Ballany’s womb was barely more than a month old and its emotions were potent. The child inside was going to be a powerful sorcerer, she already felt its magic, she already knew she would not take the contents of the herb pouch. It meant her life in Hub was over, she’d have to run and run far. The guild reached far.

A single tear welled in the corner of Bellany’s eye, Mal was the only one that saw it and he nodded sagely as though he could possibly understand. The boat ride was over and an armed escort waited on the other side. 

The mongrelmen guardsmen would take them to the Sewer King’s court. If he demanded Bellany as a price she’d slay him, consequences be dammed. The cold logic of the kiss and the fire inside her finally agreed on something.

The Winding Road: The Despair of Pi

by Frank Gori

Lazeron Pi heard the voice of his teacher Morte Bisset, “We share the ability to do magic with many others. Applying that magic with knowledge is a wizard’s greatest weapon, and makes us stronger then sorcerers.” Master Bisset was a harsh tutor and his tastes and desires still brought bile to Lazeron's throat, but Morte was right about knowledge.

The guard with a deadman’s lever was standing in the key to a wizard’s spell trap. The design was thought to be a secret only known to a handful of wizards and its purpose was solely to contain living spells. 

 

Wizard magic was mind over matter in the extreme. Manipulating the ambient energies of creation and bending them to one’s will meant imposing order on inherently chaotic energy. The mind needed to be a little broken to achieve such a feat, though some wizards called this enlightenment. Lazeron was more honest about the situation, it was the price wizards paid for power.

 Sorcerers achieved the same effect by calling on magical energy inherent in their blood. This subjected them to magic’s chaotic rules and at anytime the bliss or despair could come. The breaking protected wizards to a limited extent.

Lazeron was both a wizard and sorcerer, though the magic in his blood alone would have made him a middling mage at best. With time Lazeron would be a very potent wizard, assuming he survived the next five minutes or so. Gifted wizards learned to combine the discipline of wizard magic with the raw fueled power of sorcery into something greater.

Lazeron stole a glance at Dab. The numbers were a little quieter in the presence of his childhood friend. Before Laz bloomed into his power he shared a summer with Dab. They faced bullies, told one another trivial secrets of childhood, and on occasion shared a quiet moment in a simple brotherly embrace. The memory of that helped Laz get through some of the less innocent affections that soiled Laz’s childhood a few years later.

The irrational power of the numbers was Pi’s secret knowledge and the foundation of his wizardly might. Pi was also a sorcerer and could call on his emotions and blood to fuel his power. Combining the two was powerful but dangerous. Laz had little choice, he watched the living spell infuse itself into the guard and it was a form of the dragon spell. It would enact a transformation that would result in a creature not quite as powerful as a normal dragon, but powerful enough.

Calling on his fear and worry for his friends was easy, channeling that into the cold reason of the perfect equation 22/7 was harder. He began by associating each digit with a face, three for Mal as Malleck struggled with three identity roles around his patron son, subject, and suitor. One was for Dab as Dab was the only friend from Laz’s childhood who had survived his mentor’s envy. Four he associated with Zool because four was a number about balance and a feminine male who was both a consummate professional and comrade at the same time took extraordinary balance. One, again for Dab, five for Bellany as she was as much a star as Lazeron ever encountered, nine for the surviving female prisoners they liberated, and two for himself a caster arcane of both wizardry and sorcery.

The wall or iron and stone were up. A wall of force was his next objective, his mind associated six with his mentor as that was the number of times… Laz lost focus a moment and felt the gut wrench of despair. He was tired. Desperate really, this prison was clearly designed by a Mage and he was outclassed. The guards were a sham, they were there to force him to use his magic, his master always said his desire to show compassion to outsiders would be his death and only now was he being proven right. They needed the wall though so six dam it. Six was for Morte Bisset as six was the number of time he… the world slipped away.

Six… six was something.

Lazeron felt strong arms embracing him, lifting him up. Then they went away, six.

A maze was before him there were six paths. All seemed wrong, he knelt for some time there and wept. Then he felt the eyes of something malevolent and angry on his back, it was a lion and a serpent at the same time, and Laz had to run down a path or be consumed. Instinctually he took the fifth path a path that made him want to dance. The path was beautiful and vibrant and he smiled a moment despite the danger. He had to find Dab, Dab would be in the labyrinth and Dab would keep him safe.

The fifth path ended at another juncture of six branches but he could hear Mal giving orders down the third so the third path he took. He sensed Bellani in Mals path which meant they’d probably be lovers but there was an infinite amount of potential within Bellani if she chose to let it flourish. Laz had a brief moment where he could almost hear her discussing the death path with one of the nine. It made him scream.

Was that his scream? No, it was not.

Death came in the form of a boatman, he had but seven fingers and the life of one of the nine would be his toll. Mal didn’t know that so he accepted the bargain. 

“Don’t bargain with Death, Mal,” Laz tried to call magic to fight it but couldn’t latch onto the number enough to do so.

Ballany’s unborn baby giggled and Laz returned to the maze. This was confusing but then it all became confusing after his apprenticeship as a wizard. 

Zool was there at the maze; he raised his hand and smacked Laz six times. Once again Laz’s mind drifted to Morte, his debased love sometimes involved striking. In tribunal his defense was that he needed to break Laz’s mind and abuse was the fastest way. Something stopped another round of smacks from Zool, Mal, the unborn infinity and Pi would dance forever in the maze but something stopped it.

Something was important…

The arms were still there. Had they always been there? Propping him up and keeping him from being eaten by the serpent? Only in the moment of their absence did he notice they were gone.

“DAB,” Lazeron screamed it and the world came rushing back.

They were in the court of the self proclaimed sewer king, the boatman suddenly made sense. Lazeron briefly missed the comforting insanity of Despair. The sewer king was a potent Mage and would exact a heavy toll for passage.

Lazeron opened the sight and glanced toward Bellany confirming his fear, the life within her was strongly magical. He wondered if she knew. The Sewer King would surely notice.