The Wellspring - Part 1

                Hanzu sat quietly cleaning blood from between his knuckle plates and I wondered for the third time today why I even bothered getting out of my bunk every morning. Hanzu of course knew my every look and answered my unspoken question.

                “For the money, we do it for the money.”

                He was right of course. Had the Sibellines not somehow known we were coming then we would have strolled right off the planet with twelve million credits worth of antique gemstones in our pockets. But they had known we were coming. And they stopped us. Or at least they stopped us from taking the gemstones. Hanzu and I, mostly Hanzu, had been able to fight them off long enough to make it back to the ship. Knapper hadn’t been so lucky.

                The Renarin had been the first through the door when the Sibellines had sprung their trap. Captain Reyjvak had said something about stealth, not strength, being most important for this job, and had only sent the three of us down to the surface. I’d say it was his fault that we’d failed to retrieve the stones, not to his face of course, but he sure wasn’t going to be happy that Knapper hadn’t made it back either.

                Hanzu had said very little since we’d docked with Grathu’s Vengence, but I knew he was thinking something along the same lines. It had been nearly sixty standard days since we’d had a successful job. Not for lack of trying, but somebody out there in the big black was making things difficult for us. The Tellurade ambassador had known we were coming too, and the score on Yaris had been an outright fake. Nothing but killer robots and explosions.

                If the Captain hadn’t been more worried about a half empty plasma core and twenty-some people with completely empty bellies then he might have been thinking harder about what was wrong with their luck. I’d been thinking about it. But nothing had come together. The jobs were all secured through different brokers. They’d all been offered on the open market, so it didn’t even seem as if we were being singled out for some reason. But none of the crews on jobs we’d been beaten out of had reported any of the same problems.

Even the Sibelline job had seemed legit right until they’d made it into the vault and everything went void shaped. One of the Captain’s favorite brokers Kaltherine Hobb had posted it on a deep net site. There were a few decent bids, but with us being so desperate the Captain had low balled them all. Kaltherine had given them the details and offered a bonus if the job was finished within fifteen days. Even that wasn’t unusual. There was probably a pushy buyer out there with more money than sense who was willing to pay extra for a speedy delivery.

                None of our problems made sense.

                Now we were just sitting here in one of the smaller briefing rooms waiting for Captain Reyjvak and his first mate Tennul to come in and tear us up. Verbally I hoped, though the Captain hadn’t been controlling his temper very wells for the past few weeks. I must have still been in a state of shock because I was having trouble telling if I looked nervous. I couldn’t feel my face all that well. Hanzu never looked nervous, not even that time we’d gotten into a fist fight with a Debris Spider Crab. Of course it was difficult for Dragonians to look nervous what with all the scales. Instead, like usual, he just looked angry. This time at the dried blood spattered across his arms.

                After the shuttle had joined up with the Vengence we hadn’t even been given a chance to change out of our uniforms. One of the techies, Bultz, had told us where the Captain wanted us and got right to work repairing the damage to our ship. The Sibellines hadn’t stopped shooting even after we’d made a run for it.

                Sitting with my thoughts I guess I had been expecting the Captain to enter the room in rage, or at least to be simmering with anger. I certainly hadn’t been expecting him to look so defeated.

                Captain Anotin Reyjvak was a human male, maybe eighty or ninety years old, a man in his prime. He usually carried himself with a regal bearing, as if he always had a plan. His long leather coat snapping behind as every step was made with sharp purpose.

                Today was different. Reyjvak entered the room with his head hanging low, his arms crossed across his chest. He looked like a man who had been defeated. It wasn’t a look I’d ever seen on the Captain. Behind him entered Tennul and the engineer Kaplan, both of the crew looking as miserable as the man they had followed.

                “Well, it looks like it happened again.” The Captain sat down on the other side of the table, barely looking up at us. “They got us again and Knapper died.” With a thunderous bang that echoed through the small metal room the Reyjvak slammed a fist into the table. “One of my crew died, for what? Rocks? Why dark dammit?” The silence that followed was scarier than the Captain’s sudden outburst of rage.

                I hoped it was a rhetorical question because I didn’t have any kind of answer. I didn’t know the Captain very well, but I knew it wouldn’t do any good to make him any angrier. About 180 days ago I’d been sitting in a bar on Hume, burning through the last of my credits trying to think up my next move. The universe is a large place, but for a person with my record very few companies were willing to give me a legitimate job. I’d overheard Reyjvak and Tennul talking about a three dimensional phasic lock and the various difficulties of breaking into advanced computer systems. I’d offered an opinion of the easiest way to break into such a system, and had quickly been offered a place on the crew of Grahtu’s Vengence.

                Luckily it was Tennul who broke the silence. “Captain,” his voice was low, trying to avoid Reyjvak’s temper as much as the rest of us, “this is personal, we need to find some place to go to go to ground and figure out our next move.”

                The Captain’s hands flexed against the table and balled into fists. “I know that. What I want to know is who is doing this to us? The rest of the crew already figured out that something’s wrong. I want to have a plan before I go and tell them what happened.”

                It probably wasn’t my best idea ever but I decided to speak up. “Sir, how can you be sure that we’re being targeted? I mean, the job looked legit. The gemstones were there, and you had me double check to make sure it was Kaltherine we were dealing with.”

                Kaplan, a human from Yaris answered. “Three in a row is more than a coincidence. Just because it looks like it could have happened to anyone doesn’t mean it would have.” I wasn’t entirely sure what she meant by that.

                “We have powerful enemies Mr. Merrek,” Captain Reyjvak sucked air between clenched teeth, “or rather, I have powerful enemies. It would not be beyond their abilities to make revenge appear to be happenstance.” I had to admit to myself that I knew very little of the history of the Captain, his crew, or the ship. I had joined up at one of the many low points in my brief career as a pirate, and hadn’t bothered doing any research until after I was several systems away from home. As far as I had been able to tell Reyjvak and the Vengence had been committing minor acts of piracy and freelancing for about a decade, typically successful jobs that had earned a dependable reputation. There hadn’t been any particular red flags that had made me question my decision to sign on board, and none of their marks seemed to be the kind of people who could pull of the high stakes manipulation that we were currently talking about.

                I started to ask another question, “who – ” when the Captain raised a single hand to silence me.

                “Mr. Merrek you are here because I don’t want you talking to the crew until we have decided on a course of action, not because I want to tell you a bed time story.” He might as well have slapped me across the face. I know that at only twenty six years of age I was the youngest person currently on the ship, but that didn’t mean I was a child, and I certainly had never done anything to earn that kind of treatment.

                It was Hanzu who stood up for me. “Captain, Sir, I do not mean any disrespect but I am of a similar mind as Calvin. We’ve never pulled one over on someone who could do this. It’s part of why we have not been shot out of the void in the past ten years.” The Dragonian had been with the Vengence for that long? I’d never really taken any time to get to know the man. His constant fierceness had led me to believe any small talk would be truly small indeed.

                The Captain looked divided for a moment, as if he wanted to snap at Hanzu as well, but was considering his history with the armor plated warrior. Finally he sighed and unballed his fists, laying his palms flat on the table, and looked up to stare me right in the eyes. It was a mournful gaze I could not hold for more than a couple of seconds. I felt my face go hot as I quickly looked away.

                Reyjvak’s voice was cold when he finally spoke. “I think we’re dealing with an old enemy, from before your time Hanzu. Back when I was Danton.” Now I’m no history buff, especially if it doesn’t have to do with machines, but even I knew the name Derreck Danton, rebel king and ace pilot. If you had told me an hour ago that Captain Antonin Reyjvak was the legendary outlaw pilot I’d have probably scoffed and asked for the recipe of the drink you’d been having. But now, seeing the sadness and anger playing across the face of the man sitting opposite me I was utterly convinced. As a child I’d heard my father angrily describe one amazing battle after another for years, until his death in the skies of Delta. And now I was sitting in the same room as an apparently still living legend.

                It was a few moments before I realized my mouth was hanging open. I shut it and looked around the room. I was the only one who had reacted which meant the other three were already in on the Captain’s secret.

Kaplan was eyeing me with a serious look of suspicion. “Sir, should Mr. Merrek being hearing this?”

“He’s got to hear it, he’s probably not a spy and if he is our enemies already know everything I’m about to say, so it won’t hurt anything else.” I met his gaze again. Some of his usual fire had returned to his eyes, the look of a man with a mission. “And it’s probably going to get him killed if he doesn’t know enough.” Reyjvak, or Danton, my mind was having trouble deciding what to call him, looked away from me this time and for a second I thought I saw something like shame. For all of the confidence I had placed in the Captain over the past half of a year, he suddenly seemed too small, too timid, to be the man that I imagined Derreck Danton to be.

The Captain continued, looking at Hanzu now, “If I’m right then one of the families of Junction has finally found me. I don’t know how. The Void knows I’ve stayed out of their space and off their radar, but it wouldn’t take too much effort to confirm a suspicion if they got one. There are a couple of families with the connections and credits to give us this kind of run around. They’re wearing us out, wearing me down.” He paused and took a breath as he interlocked his fingers. “They want me to go to ground because they believe I will lead them straight to my wellspring.” This time Hanzu, Kaplan, and I all reacted. Kaplan went so far as to mutter a curse under her breath, but it was Tennul who spoke up first again.

“The wellspring Sir, there is no way they think we’d be so short sighted as to run back to it at the first signs of trouble.” I almost laughed. It was the second jaw dropping revelation of the day, and of several orders of magnitude greater than finding out my pirate captain was a long dead rebel leader. Wellsprings were the common name for founts of magical energy. I’ll say it again, magic energy. Everyone and their crazy grandmother knew there was no such thing as magic. Of course you hear stories of lightning storms in space and terrible necromancers, but those were the plots of silly movies. But the seriousness of Tennul’s face made me doubt everything I held to be true. It was my turn to speak up again.

“What, a wellspring? Captain, you can’t be serious. Even if you are Danton, there’s no such thing.” I felt stupid even as the words left my mouth, but the rational side of my brain insisted that I finish my thought. And of every possible response I thought I might get from the Captain I had certainly not been expecting a smile.

“Mr. Merrek, I will stomach your incredulity, but not your insubordinate tone.”

                “Captain, we’re going to need you and Mr. Tennul on the bridge stat, and Kaplan might want to return to engineering.” Bastata, our navigator sounded more than a little worried, his voice strained to appear calm. “Immediately Sir.”

                “What is it Bast?” Reyjvak was already on his feet. “It sounds like you’re calling us to battle stations.”

                “That’s exactly what I’m doing Sir. Two Arrant Cruisers, and a Class 3 Carrier have just decelerated less than 200 aeroms from us. They’ve already scanned us Sir, and appear to have target locks. Ms. Conneri seems to think they’re just waiting for us to give them an excuse to open fire.”

                The Captain turned and looked gravely at Tennul. “Sound the alert Mr. Bastata, we’re going to have to figh-” His order was cut off by an explosion that sent a violent shudder through the entire ship.

The Last World - Zed Crosses the Desert

            Three days was a long time to walk barefoot through the desert sand. Zed had always imagined that walking across the dunes would be gentle, sand pillowing beneath his toes. Instead his feet were raw and blistered, torn in places by hidden rocks, and leaving bloody prints that were quickly swallowed by the wind.

            He’d taken as many bottles of water as he could fit into his bags, and few of the nasty tasting protein bars Rayeed was always going on about. They were all gone now, the bottles of water, Rayeed, his family. Zed shook his head sharply, trying to keep the bad thoughts away, and the horizon swirled for several beats after he’d stopped moving.

           

            They watched the boy take a shaky step, and then another. Tenu’a thought they would be following him for yet more pointless miles across this gritty wasteland. But what the mistress wants she shall always receive. If she’d just explain what she was looking for then maybe he’d have fewer complaints floating through his head.

            Then, as if the mother of fate was listening to his thoughts, the urchin stumbled, recovered for a moment, and crumpled to the ground.

            The mistress sighed. A pleased sighed. Tenu’a tried to read her face, but as always she betrayed nothing but a fierce vitality. Lady Raid rolled her shoulder like a stalking beast just about to pounce and began walking slowly toward the boy’s withered form. She said nothing but it was for Tenu’a and Glady to follow as always.

            The two servants trudged through the loosely packed sand though their mistress barely left an imprint as she stepped over the dune, as if her feet barely kissed the earth before they moved on. The boy had left a shuffling track nearly a mile long that would be gone in less than an hour. It had been easy to follow.

            This morning when they had picked up his trail the mistress had kept them far back, always out of sight. But as the sun had risen in the sky she had grown bolder, following more and more closely though staying out of eyesight. It was clear that the boy had run out of reserves, and even under the best of circumstances could have offered them no physical challenge. Tenu’a had quickly come to realize that they were not hunting the child, something else was.

            Just a pace short of the body the mistress stopped moving and turned slightly, glancing over her shoulder at Glady. The tiny woman understood the beckoning look and quickened her march to reach their lady’s side. Had Tenu’a received the same glance he would have likely jogged over, but even in doing the mistress’ bidding Glady always comported herself as a proper lady.

            “Yes Mistress.” Glady coughed, her voice dried from the scorching heat of the desert.

            “Are you prepared?” The mistress sounded as cool as always, her voice hard, the question not asking for Glady’s readiness , but rather demanding it.

            “Of course mistress, only…” Glady stopped her thought before any hesitation could be voiced. The mistress had days were even the slightest perception of insolence could be met with the fiercest of recriminations. Not today it seemed.

            “Speak Glady, the law only permits me to save one a generation. If you have doubts, I’d not have to look upon your knowing smirks for another thirty years.”

            Glady’s eyes started at the desert floor. Tenu’a quickly realized what they had come here to do, and understood why he had been left out of the preparations. They were going to interfere. “Mistress, it is only that this one is so young. Is there not another who might be better able to carry out our plans? One who would not be so vulnerable?”

            The Lady Raid cocked her head to the side, seriously considering her answer, choosing the words carefully as she always did. “You know the game Glady. It is a long one. There are others of course who might bear the brand, but all of them are so obvious. Too many of their own ideas. This one will grow with its power, and so be shaped by it. Best of all the enemy will never see him coming.” She turned away from her servants and looked down on the boy, the smallest of smiles touching her lips. “And, this one has the sight.”

            Tenu’a was able to bite his tongue, but Glady voice his gasp for him. The sight, the true sight, was a gift rarer than a long and happy life among the mortals. One born with the sight was a powerful ally indeed, and to place their mark upon such a child would be a coup indeed. But there was also risk there as well. The sight could see things, futures, realities, the cold hard truth of all matters, in such a bare faced way that almost all the mortals who possessed it were driven mad.

            It was true that this child had already shown a resilience Tenu’a had not seen match in decades, maybe even centuries, but it was a danger none the less to spend the brand on one who might not be capable of using it.

            “I understand my Lady.” Glady knew everything Tenu’a did, and even she with her outbursts was not about to outright question the mistress. “He will be powerful, a storm upon the desert, one that can bring the flood.”

            Yes, Tenu’a agreed silently, but there is no telling who might drown.

            The Lady lowered herself to her knees as Glady pulled a length of coiled wire from her travelling bag. Tenu’a had seen this ritual several times in the service of his mistress and every time it frightened him. The High Danan were prohibited by the laws from interfering with unwilling mortals, though as in all things exceptions did exist. Those mortals whose time on the material plane had come to the end, the dying, with souls about to leave their bodies save for the intercession of a greater power were, to put it bluntly, fair game.

            The great warrior Braxis, the dark priest Mathugh, and surely countless others, had at one point been upon the doorstep of death only to be pulled back into their flesh by the mark of the High Danan. Tenu’a shuddered thinking about the pain and ruin that surely followed.

            The wire was laid on top of the sand in a large circle that enclosed both the unconscious boy and the Lady Raid. The lady had rolled the child over as if her were weightless and laid his arms down at his side. When the simple circle’s ends were joined Glady whispered a word of power into the wire and suddenly their link to their mistress was broken as if a wall or a world had fallen between the few meters that separated them. Tenu’s knew the circle would contain the forces about to be unleashed upon the mortal realm, but he always felt nervous when his mistress was so exposed.

            Glady walked backwards towards him, her eyes never leaving the Lady or the boy. Clearly she was nervous as well, but Tenu’a was not prepared to try and comfort her.

            Inside the circle the Lady Raid reached into her flowing pearl colored robes and withdrew a tiny dagger. The blade could not have been more than three inches long, but Tenu’a was still shocked by it presence. The weight of the dagger like a pressure against the inside of the circle. It was the Dervish Blade, the slayer of the Giant Salas’dan, the blade that wounded the god Hemlock. To use such a weapon for a branding was surely against the Law.

            There was nothing he was capable of doing, nor would he dare approach and break the ritual while the Dervish Blade was present. It was clear that his Lady had something in mind for the boy and it was not a servant’s place to question.

            In prior rituals the tools used to mark the mortals were often symbolic of their stations. For Boraxis it had been the shattered halft of an Orok chieftan’s axe. If Tenu’a understood his mistress she wanted to make a statement about the boy. See a child, like a small unassuming dagger, one that wields a power capable of hurting the gods themselves.

            With a deft slash, quicker than Tenu’a could blink the lady had cut open the boys shirt. Tenu’a watched the thin starved chest, its rise and fall almost so slow as to be imperceptible. The child was not long for this world and so were the laws observed.

            The branding would not make the child immortal, but it would grant him strength. Of what kind Tenu’a did not know, but it was certain to be powerful given the circumstances and time the Lady Rain was prepared to devote. Most importantly the brand would get the attention of the mother of fate, placing the boy into the games of the gods and inviting those who would stand in the way of that power. The child had not asked for such a life, but even Tenu’a would have rather been a slave than to die outright. The Dana were next to immortal, so long as their bodies remained unharmed and cared for. For most the mortal coil grew tiresome and tedious. Tenu’a felt as if there were so many things he had yet to experience, even the slightest shortchanging of his experience would be the worst fate imaginable. So he couldn’t understand why he felt so bad for this child that was being offered a new chance at life.

            Then the Lady began the ritual and the fear returned to Tenu’a. He understood.

            In all moments outside of battle, the Lady Raid was gorgeous. Her round face and sultry curves exuded warmth, while her eyes and long limbs sand of intense vitality. A lust for life. In moments like these she was a different creature entirely.

            The Lady began a chant in the old language, her voice low and steady. Tenu’a didn’t understand the words but he could feel the call and response of a ceremony that needed two participants. The boy’s soul was expected to hear and join in. A wind began moving within the wire circle though the rest of the desert was deathly still.

            With both hands the mistress reached out over the body, one hand on the knife the other gripping the blade. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, Tenu’a watched her draw the dagger across her palm opening a deep gash. Her blood welled out, the color of heat at the base of a bonfire. The bleeding hand was held straight up above her head, allowing the vital fluids to run down her arm.

The tip of the knife was rested gently on the boys chest. With one hand the mistress used four strokes to carve her sigil into the space above his heart. He did not bleed.

Tenu’a shivered again despite the warmth of the desert and the heat beginning to rise from the circle. The arrow of dawn, representing the first lifht of day, one of the most ancient symbols of the Dana, should never have been cut into dead flesh. No matter how many times he would have to see it, no matter how many times she forced him to watch, Tenu’a would never feel that they were doing the right thing.

The mistress’ chant grew louder and the heat coming from her body grew more intense. This was not the right place, the boy was not the right candidate. How could none of the others see that.

Then she switched her hands, thrusting the knife into the air above her head, its tip flickering as a portion of the blade entered another world. The other hand slapped down onto the new wound on the boys chest.

His body jumped simultaneously as if he was rising to meet her, or her touch had been pure electricity. There was a small clap like distant thunder and the smell of burning flesh. Tenu’a thanked the god of spells for granting him the protection of the magic circle. He couldn’t even begin to imagine such a ritual performed on unprotected ground. The result would have been catastrophic.

From the lady’s fingertips a golden light began to cover the boy’s chest, moving like a thick liquid. The golden light glowed brighter and then burst into a low blue flame engulfing the body and surrounding the lady’s arm, though not burning her.

She ignored the fire and continued chanting, quickening her tempo and raising her voice as the flames grew larger.

Tenu’a was forced to look away as the heat from the circle grew too intense. Even his shadow seemed to be retreating from the ritual, the light growing so bright it began to wash out everything around them.

Tenu’a had heard the words of the ceremony spoken dozens of times. Never before had he felt this kind of intensity. He wondered if the boy’s body was trying to reject the lady’s gift, or if the magic was refusing to enter him. He didn’t want to admit to himself that there was something else in the mix. There was an incredible natural power emanating from the lady’s voice.

With his hands covering most of his face, Tenu’a forced himself to look at the circle. Squinting as hard as he was able, Tenu’a could barely see anything through the brilliant light. The fire seemed to have filled the entire magic circle creating a column of fire reaching into the sky. Both the lady and the boy were no longer visible, consumed entirely by the magic fire. A white hot pulse rolled against the walls of the circle, a blinding light forcing Tenu’a to look away again.

More light rolled across the sand and the world seemed to fade to white as the lady’s voice was lost in the sound of thunder and crackling flame.

And then the light was gone and the desert was almost entirely silent. Silent, save for crackling glass and the sound of four people breathing. Tenu’a cursed to himself, the ritual had worked.

The Last World - Gabriel Fights Dirty

            Gabriel desperately sucked in another breath of scalding hot air. If his throat hadn’t been so burnt then he’d have taken the time to curse. As it stood now breathing out hurt almost as much as breathing in, but at least he was still alive. He swore angrily in his head, at himself, for taking the time to bemoan his situation rather than dodge yet another explosion of fire and shrapnel.

            The young wizard had dropped his staff less than a minute into the battle when his opponent had started flinging fire in every direction. His master had him up all week practicing kinetic shields and mental wards, but somehow despite all the late nights they had never got to redirecting fire.

            Gabe tried to comfort himself with the fact that this was only a mock battle. All he had to do was surrender and the mad man would stop throwing fire and someone would drag him off the field. This balm to his pride lasted only as long as it took for his master’s face to appear in his head, once again scowling with disapproval.

            “A wizard never surrenders. Magic is fueled by willpower, the belief that the universe is meant to be the way you want it to be. Surrender is admitting to the universe that it can roll right over you. Besides, if he knocks you out the fight is over just the same.”

            Being knocked out hadn’t seemed like the worst alternative just a few minutes ago. Now Gabe wasn’t sure if he lost consciousness if he would ever wake up again. At the very least he’d be horribly burned. Surrender appeared to have a very big upside, but he wasn’t about to let his master down without getting at least one shot in. Who knew, maybe the fireball loving freak had a glass jaw.

            Gabe’s staff was lying on the ground less than twenty feet away, in the middle of a smoldering crater. The magically enhanced wood hadn’t burned, but Gabe knew from experience that it would still be hot to the touch. That didn’t matter now.

            At a flat out run he could grab the staff and roll behind a boulder before another fireball could be sent his way. He’d just have to time it perfectly.

            That was when Gabe noticed that his robe was on fire.

            Vessuvuss cackled as the younger mage rolled across the ground, trying to avoid the fireball while also putting out his burning robe. His master had told him to watch out for the apprentice of Matthew Dayne, but this child just seemed pathetic. His master was probably sitting in the crow right now chiding him for not finishing his opponent off rather than enjoying the fiery show. But Vessuvuss had decided he was going to at least enjoy the fight and suffer his master’s complaints later. At least this way the crowd loved him.

           

Gabe slid behind another boulder. His staff further away than before and his hand’s shiny red with a rising burn. He’d managed to save most of his robe, but it probably would have made more sense to just throw it off.

Plan A, grabbing the staff, didn’t seem like an option any more. A weaker spell aimed perfectly was going to have to make up Plan B. Gabe’s specialty was terra and kinetic magic. With enough time, concentration, and usually a circle or focus he could literally move mountains, or at least boulders like the one he was hidden behind. Without any of that he would have to try to think outside the box.

“Hey, Vesuvius.” Gabe called out from behind his rock. “What do you think about calling this a draw?”

“It’s Vessuvuss you worm.” The rival apprentice nearly choked on his surprise at the impudent question.

“Whatever Vessy. We can both still walk out of here with our head held high. No need for you to be embarrassed.” Gabe coughed, only partially to stifle a laugh, the rest because of too much ash floating in the air.

“Embarrassed. Hah.” A fake laugh. “It will only be embarrassing if I accidentally kill you.” He was right. It was considered shameful to kill you opponent in a match in the great arena. It meant that the wizard didn’t have control of his abilities. That didn’t mean that an opponent couldn’t be seriously hurt or maimed even.

“Look Vussy,” Gabe rhymed it with wussy, “if we call a draw right now everyone will think you’re so chivalrous, not kicking an enemy while he’s down. You’d look really good. For once.”

“My name,” Vessuvuss stretched out every word, taking large breaths as he gather enough power to melt through the boulder Gabe was hiding behind, “is Vessuvuss!”

The enraged apprentice let loose with more energy than he’d used the entire fight. Gabe felt the wave of heat coming even from the other side of his cover. It was how he knew exactly when to rush out into the open, and when to duck and roll.

His timing was perfect. Vessuvuss’ blast had exploded high against the boulder, boiling over the top and scourging the area where he’d hidden. Gabe’s roll took him under the lower edge of the fire, igniting his robe once more but getting him quite close to his opponent.

Gabe saw his opening and tried to shout triumphantly but his throat wasn’t in a state to keep up with the rest of him. Instead the apprentice let out a hacking cough as he thrust his hands up into the air and then down again as he clasped them together.

With the upward thrust the layer of dust and ash liberally coating the entire area exploded into the air, surprising an momentarily obscuring the crowds vision. A casual observer might have thought that had been Gabe’s plan, creating a smokescreen to buy a few moments. They wouldn’t have felt the building energy of understood Gabe’s precise control of the earth.

With the downward grasping gesture the cloud seemed to flow as if it was made of water, not fine dust. The entire shifting body surged toward Vessuvuss, surrounding his entire body and completely covering his head. As Gabe squeezed his hands together the cloud grew thicker, turning from gathered dust to a caked ball of ash trying to force itself into Vessuvuss. Inside the roiling storm, Vessuvuss fought to keep his lips pressed together and to regain his concentration. Still ash and dirt forced their way into his mouth and the fiery apprentice lost all composure and focus. He truly believed in that moment that he was about to suffocate and his survival instincts overwhelmed any magical response he might have come up with.

Just a few feet from Gabe his opponent dropped to his knees and began hacking, coughing, and spewing dirt. Gabe wasn’t trying to kill the other young man and let the spell drop, the dust collapsing into piles around the gagging man. His opponent may have been trying to keep himself from vomiting but Gabe knew the fight hadn’t ended yet. Vessuvuss or his master could have surrendered and the attendants would have removed the dust in an instant. Gabe only took a second to look at Vessuvuss master’s unforgiving face and knew that if he didn’t end the fight soon Vessuvuss might suffocate.

Ignoring thoughts of his own master’s response, Gabe decided to end the fight the quickest way he knew how. A knockout blow. His arms had dropped to his sides, heavier than lead and from the black spots floating in the corners of his eyes Gabe could tell that he didn’t have enough left in him for another spell. If he wanted the fight to end he’d have to do it the old fashioned way. Of mostly the old fashioned way because it didn’t look like he was going to be able to use his hands.

Luckily Vessuvuss was already on his hands and knees, trying to spit out a mouthful of ash. Somehow he still heard or felt Gabe coming and lifted his tear and dirt stained face to regard his opponent. Underneath the soot his face had turned a deep purple and Gabe could tell he had over done it. The flourish at the end of his spell had forced the ash not only into his opponents mouth but also down into his lungs. It wasn’t a problem for the attendants to fix, they’d simply transform the carbon ash into air, or some other neat procedure. Gabe could tell that Vessuvuss was willing to suffocate, shaming Gabe and his master, before he would surrender, even to save his own life.

Gabe let out a painful sigh, looked down at the pitiable man prostrate before him, the defiant sad eyes, and kicked Vessuvuss as hard as he could in the face.

The crowd gasped as Gabe’s foot connected with the side of Vessuvuss’ head. The crowd may not have been used to direct physical violence, but Master Dayne certainly had spent enough time drilling Gabe on the precise way to kick someone in the side of the head. Gabe’s ears started ringing just thinking about practice.

It took Gabe a couple more seconds for Gabe to realize that noise was actually the cheering and clapping crowd. Gabe’s world slowly came back into focus and he noticed the pair of attendants already examining Vessuvuss. His opponent had been revived and was quickly having the ash removed from his system. Gabe saw Vessuvuss’ master standing, avoiding looking at the victor, and staring mournfully at his own apprentice. For a moment Gabe expected the opposite reaction from Master Dayne, but when he turned to look at his own master he was sorely disappointed.

Master Dayne hadn’t even risen to his feet. His head was in his hands in an expression of shame. Gabe reeled like he’d just received a blow to the gut. What had he done wrong? He’d used a thrifty spell to incapacitate his opponent, he’d ended the fight quickly, and he didn’t let Vessuvuss die. Gabe had been clearly out classed in terms of raw power so he’d fallen back on a more roundabout strategy, exactly the kind of thing they had spent months practicing. But even as Gabe watched, his master stood up, ignoring the crowd settling into their seats as they waited for the officials to announce the next round, and walked down the steps to an exit ramp. All without ever taking a look at Gabe.

An attendant tapped Gabe on the shoulder, gently congratulating the apprentice and gesturing toward the nearest exit. Gabe stared at his master’s back so intently that the attended began to ask if anything was wrong. The apprentice gave up, and dropped his gaze to his feet, muttering “everything is fine, I won.”

The Last World - Elda Joins the Hunters

            “Can you taste it? The river runs with the blood of our enemies and our kin. With each drop we swallow, we take in their strength, their essence. Every swallow is a promise. In return for their nourishment we swear to honor their memories.” High Chief Vaaldosk raised the wooden bowl above his head careful to not spill a single drop. The crowd of onlookers filled the hillside. Hundreds of members of the Vike were able to see the glare of the sun reflecting off the water. 

            Elda knelt in the damp sand of the river bank gazing up at the Chief of all Chiefs. With the sun high in the air on the other side of the river, the High Chief’s sillouette was imposing. His scaled leather armor, fetishes, and cloth scarves made his shadow appear larger. Elda wasn’t wearing any of the traditional clothes of the Vike. Instead she had been wrapped from knees to elbows in the vibrant red cloth of an initiate hunter.

            The High Chief looked down at Elda, his eyes almost glowing with the power of the spirits residing in his body. “Merelda Blackstorm of the Far Crows, child of Andurlas Blackstorm and Mayda Firefist, do you seek to honor the memories of the fallen?”

            “Yes, the memories of the fallen are honored in my mind.”

“You who would be a hunter, explorer of the land, seeker of truth, and death to our enemies, do you have the soul of a warrior?”

“Yes, the strength of the hunter resides in my soul.”

“Daughter of the Vike, member of the clan, scion of the future, would you renounce your family clan and claim blood ties with all of our family?”

“Yes, the blood of the family flows through my body.”

“Thrice sworn, mind, soul, and body. Drink deep of the water of the fallen and be forever bound to their spirits.”

Vaaldosk slowly lowered the bowl until it was two hands above Elda’s head. He closed his eyes and began whispering in the language of the spirits. Elda tilted her head backwards and opened her mouth. As his low chant reached a crescendo the High Chief poured the water over her head in a steady stream.

Immediately Elda tasted the silt and iron rich water of the River Grend. Every child in the clan would sneak a taste as some point in their life to see if it really tasted like blood. Back then when she had first tried it, she hadn't been able to taste anything but muddy river water. Now, it seemed as though the water had been transformed into something hard to describe; a cross between warm salty blood and cool nourishing milk. As Elda swallowed her first mouthful the Chief raised the bowl, allowing the water to splash across her face and run down onto the bright red cloth wrapping. Elda couldn’t see herself but she had been to previous hunter’s initiations when she was younger.

The water that ran into the cloth darkened the fabric, changing it from a vibrant red into a deep crimson. Almost the same color as arterial blood. This was symbolic in two ways. The ritual was both a form of death, drenching oneself with blood, but also a rebirth, as a member of the hunters, warriors with no clan.

The last drops of water spilled from the bowl and Vaaldosk lowered his arms. The ritual was nearly complete.

“Bound now to the Vike, Far Crow no longer, rise Merelda Blackstorm of the Hunters.” The final words. Elda lowered her head and rocked back onto her heels. She blinked several times, clearing the water from her eyes. The world seemed different somehow, brighter, sharper.

Slowly she rose to her full height, nearly eye level with the High Chief. She dared to take another glance at the shadowy figure with too bright eyes and was surprised. He was smiling. Vaaldosk had been transformed into a kindly older man with wise crinkled eyes and a toothy grin.

Suddenly Elda realized there was a noise growing behind her, the start of a whooping cheer. The brand new hunter initiate cautiously turned around and realized that the entire crowd of her people standing on the hill had begun to cheer for her. The gathering was moving, jumping and stomping, and beating their hands on armored plates. It was impossible to find her parents in the throng but Elda swore she could hear her father’s hollering loudest of all.

From behind her, “They welcome you to the tribe Merelda, your family has grown much larger today.” The High Chief placed a hand on her shoulder, and then with a loud whoop of his own punched the other hand into the air.

Marl of the Maunt - Part 1

            The old Maunt stood high above the empty valley. Of course there were homes still standing, but only because the thorny vines grew thick enough to prop up the old wooden beams. The shadows cast by the surrounding mounts gave the day a sickly pallor. But in the winters the sun would pass directly overhead. The valley was beautiful then; when the air was cold enough to freeze in your lungs. 

            Things still lived up on the Maunt. In it might have been a more accurate term. All over the surface were caves. Some well hidden, others much more obvious for a sinister reason.

            The caves that ran deep through the mountain chain were populated by creatures, mutants, and soulless half-men. They were not things that you wanted to run into in the dead of night; and in their barrow homes, it was always the dead of night.

            Marl was one these so called half-men, though he and his people preferred the term soul-bound. In the ancient time of strife the creatures that had always survived in these parts had given them refuge. There had been a price, but it was one they willingly paid.

            But out here on the far side of the mountain, looking over the wild fields, toward the darker end of the valley, near the “lake” and the glacial wall, Marl didn’t think that it had been so important to bind themselves away from the sky. Under the land, there was never anything that could be described as open. Even the people; being shut in just came with the territory.

            He always liked to wait for the sun to climb over his mountain. Now, in the early fall when the shadows were still long, the sun would light up the darkness that seemed to envelope the northern end of the valley. The glacier stood almost the same height as the Maunt, and it radiated with an unearthly cold. It jutted out sharply, concealing its depths.

            Then as it had been doing, every day, sooner and sooner, until it would be too late, the brilliant sun peaked and the entire ice wall lit up.

             Marl’s eyes buckled under burst. Not his human ones, they had been adjusting to the light all morning. The strange circles tattooed above and below his own oval orbs were much more sensitive to the light. Even wrapped in dark cloth shrouds the sudden warmth across the entire ancient wall of ice was enough to reach them.

            But he could still see it; the great castle in the depths of the ice. This year, more clearly than ever before. When Marl had been very young the first wall had been sticking out of the ice. Now, so much later, nearly two-thirds of the ancient citadel was free of the receding ice wall. Thank the gods for the warming sky.

            He looked as often as he could, for any sign that some priceless treasure had been freed from winter’s clutch. Then Marl and the Valley Reach clan would profit from the expedition he would surely convince them to launch.

            He had tried last year, but they had said no. And the year before that as well. They always demanded proof. ‘Bring us a spec of gold and maybe we shall hear you out.’ ‘We have heard of the beasts that dwell in the Open.’

            Marl believed them to be cowards with no sense of the daring the free-spirits must have had. To come to this sacred land and try to live with the spirits of the Maunt and the valley. The destruction they must have escaped to prefer this desolate existence.

            So he withstood the pain in his face; it reached deeper than the needles that had made the markings to the sprits that dwelt in the fabric of his skein. Marl ced Vincen cal Met’to’tan called on the part of him that had tried to live in the Open.

            Today he strained his untested eyes to search the depths of the newest tower. It was larger than the rest and the stone was made of a darker granite. The windows were much larger and had balconies; a luxury none of the other spires were equipped with. Something inside of his chest had told Marl that this was the stronghold of the castle’s secrets.

            He looked hopefully through the gaps in the shadowed walls, trying to gauge the depths of the power hidden in the more solid shadows within. Something he could take back, anything that would make his days on the Maunt more fulfilled.

            His eyes perceived nothing but darkness and empty space. The cold air couldn’t be penetrated. Another morning wasted. Another day of mundane toil stood ahead.

            Marl rubbed his eyes and sighed to the gods below and even those above. Any sign would be appreciated. The clouds drifted idly by and the wind didn’t shift.

            In an act of sheer aggravation Marl pulled out his father’s dagger and hurled it with all his killing might. It stabbed point first into the dried out trunk of an old mountain tree. The fine silver handle quivered only slightly and the thud echoed down the rocky slope. His father was not amused.

            Knowing he had to retrieve the blade, as was his sonly duty, Marl stepped off his waiting rock and leapt to the boulder the tree’s ancient roots had taken over.

            That was when it happened. It must have been the shift in perspective, or the sign he had begged for, but a brilliant golden flash jumped out of the castle’s dark window, catching Marl’s eye. It blinded him, and he ruined his landing. Knees first into the rocky hill, then elbows into the loose gravel. Marl slipped further, scratching his side. He prayed to the spider spirit living inside of his heart and he felt strength flow into his hands, the swirls of his tattooed thumbs moved hypnotically and his fingers closed around a root, vice-like in their grip.

            His feet kicked out frantically and found purchase on the side of the crumbling boulder. With the gift of his bound hands Marl was able to climb up onto the tree’s plane. He craned his neck looking towards the castle.
            The window was dark and clouds were swelling ominously, threatening to block the sun.
            With his improved strength Marl jumped out over the hill to one of the old tree’s branches, hanging in the middle of cliff. His strong hands gripped the dry branch and Marl saw it again.
            The throbbing pulse of the sun’s reflection, gold against whatever it was emanating from. Marl’s head swirled with the beat, and his mind filled with the implications of such a treasure; fame and fortune, security in this dangerous world. He would be the one to have claimed the frozen castle, and return life to the valley.
            But, rang out in Marl’s head, only if you show them proof. Marl had to claim the golden treasure and bring it back to the tribe. Then they would believe him. They would go to the castle and hail Marl as their king. King of the Spider-bound.
            Then the sun was obscured by the looming storm front. A freezing squall would come down the Maunt and chill the valley with torrents of lashing water.
            Marl didn’t care. He had to cross the valley. He had to climb the glacier and enter the castle. He had to have the golden treasure that his eyes could no longer perceive. These goals he swore to his father’s dagger as he pulled it from the elder tree.

            With hardened purpose Marl, soul-bound to the spiders, started down the Maunt, moving only closer to his destiny.

Go To Part 2

Marl of the Maunt - Part 2

            Marl gave thanks to the spirit gods for the darkness within the castle. More like the caverns of his home, these depths were suited to his other eyes.

            This was also fortuitous because Marl had used the dark scarves that usually covered his face to bandage his hands. The ragged wrappings covered his blistered and burned fingers and palms.

            Crossing the valley in the storm had been rough. The wind had been worse than Marl had expected. The way it cut across the flat plains and whipped the rain sideways was particularly harsh. At least he was moving with the storm.

            The fierce gale was only fueling his drive. Even so, Marl had to take refuge for the heart of the storm. He ducked into an ancient barn, the rafters over taken by vines, the walls thick with leaves. The wind railed against the rickety building, but it was used to the stresses of the weather.

            Lightning crashed and thunder shook the ground. The storm only raged harder and the wind screamed through the cracks in the walls. Marl had never even seen a storm like this from the safety of his cave, let alone weathered one in a shack out in the Open.

            There was lightning again. The thunder was louder and the tremors threatened to tear the barn to the earth. He had never seen a storm of this magnitude. As quickly as it had swelled, the winds blew on.

Marl felt the eye pass over his head as the electricity in the air danced and his hair had stood on end. The rain didn’t slow, but the lighting had moved on with a burst.

The spirit-bound ran out into the rain and watched the path of the storms vortex, hurtling away from the dusk. Lightning bolts scoured the earth underneath its swell. Marl was awed by the power he had felt. Something awful would happen before the sun’s light touched the earth again, and he, Marl ced Vincen cal Met’to’tan would be in the shadow of the glacier before that happened.

Before his third dawn off the mountain Marl had jogged through the freezing rain and into the icy shadow of the ancient rock. His breath came ragged as his lungs tried to fight out the frost. There was something chill about this glacier and the air that touched its surface reflected its nature.

Marl had waited until the suns peak, while not breaking through the clouds of the storm, still warmed the air and gave him the strength to ascend the cliff. The spider inside of his soul lent its will to his finger tips and they did not slip against the icy face. Still they burned at the unnatural cold and tore against the glass-like rock.

The sun had begun its descent behind the Maunt and the air turned harsh. Only half way to the castles wall, Marl feared a night out in the exposed freezing air. If the rain started again, his body would freeze to the glacier until the spring thaws melted him free.

The spirit gods lent him an ounce of wit and he pulled out the two lowest daggers from his concealed eight. These were sturdy tools; not of fine death like some of the others, but every tool had its purpose. With resigned strength and the thought of his oath, Marl stabbed into the glaciers face and moved even more quickly up the frozen wall.

He had reached the grey castle wall before the moon had risen into view of the valley, and the clouds had seemed to lose their energy. They dissipated letting the full moon through. The rains would not return this night. Marl looked at god of the night sky and put his daggers away their work done. His hands ached, and blood flowed freely from several sores.

The grey wall was not smooth as it had appeared from even a short distance. It was jagged and rough, which made scaling it an easy if not painful feat. The rock seemed to bite into Marl’s hands and the points tore at his legs and stomach. More than once he had banged his head though he had been looking where he had been headed.

Marl had sat atop the high grey wall, resting his torn palms and watched the moon drift behind the old Maunt. It had been a heroic climb, and the gods would be pleased by his effort. Every drop of blood spilled in their name would be added to his tally of deeds. Some men measured their worth only in their own vital fluids.

Marl was surely glad of the darkness of the keep. A large boxed fortress sat in the middle of the castle, built around the black tower, rising from the center. It had been set into the ground to make use of the earth’s natural defense. The cold bit worse here in the stale caverns of the castle.

The spirit within him could feel something more sinister about the chill air. It was not the absence of heat; it was more the unwillingness of it to travel inside the castles walls.

Marl had also noticed the absence of anything living other than insects, and only those that crawled across the earth in search of waste and carrion. Marl was the only predator here, his soul the only that belonged to a spider. 

The caverns were laid out strategically, a defensive position Marl was easily able to follow to its center. A wrought iron portcullis barred the last passageway. Marl could see the tower beyond it through the eyes of his spider-spirit, it glowed a strange black that seeped into the cavern floor and the icy ceiling.

The gate had been lowered but Marl could not tell if it was locked. There was a pile of very old armor slumped against the wall, the dirt and shadows trying to reclaim it as well. He tried not to think about his raw palms and wrapped them around a cold iron bar.

Marl heaved, and a loud grating sound echoed down the empty caverns. Much louder than he would have guessed possible, but the portcullis had only moved a few inches. His left hand started bleeding again.

Again he tried, this time willing more out of his spirit, Marl knew where to find the strength to move this gate. Every year since the day it had been deemed he would survive being weaned, Marl had been slashed with the first pair of daggers he had been given. Two Xs under each arm; four new Xs cut each year on top of the old ones. It was a painful sacrifice to his spirit, but it gave Marl extraordinary power in return.

Now he put only some of his spirit’s weight into the pull. The gate shrieked again, metal grating that could have woke the dead. It pulled another inch upwards but still would not fully commit. Marl’s left hand bled freely, soaking the bandage, and he feared that his right had gone numb from damage. 

One more time Marl cal Met’to’tan summoned his spirit into his arms and pulled on the metal grate. The banshee wail of metal on stone echoed down the short tunnel, and for a split second Marl felt the metal bar his right hand gripped bend upward out of its frame. The very lattice of the portcullis was breaking before it consented to move another centimeter.

Then Marl’s left hand, his blood greasing the bar it held, slipped and he lost his battle with the gate. His hands hurt and his side ached. The tired hunter slumped against iron wall and again a loud clang bounced down the earthen halls.

It was only a split second of rest, then the pile of armor burst into motion. Dust flew from its ancient breastplate, revealing a unique emblem, one Marl had never seen before. He was only able to glimpse a flower and a skull before he jumped back from the stubborn gate.

The animated suit clanged into the portcullis, the sound less urgent than before. Marl couldn’t see a face beneath the helm, but skeletal hands clutched at the iron bars. With his spirit’s eyes Marl could see the deep black of the tower clinging to the suit from the floor where it stood. This was no simple trick.

The armored skeleton pulled up on the gate, one bone hand tugging on the bar Marl had bent. The warrior expected the rotted arm to fall right out of its socket, but the portcullis slid straight up into the ceiling, no rusted shrieks sounded this time.

The undead thing gestured towards the black doorway of the tower, and whatever power resided inside. Marl had come too far now to turn back, his path was finally clear. As he took his first step behind the suit, Marl took account of his weapons, in case the thing that had drawn him here was not friendly.

He had his two personal daggers, Zim and Barca at his hips, that was their rightful place. Hanging below Zim on his right hip, was his father’s dagger, Devil-root. Slung low across his back, end resting on his hip, was the machete-like blade Marl had taken from a Mutant chieftain. There was the small blade from Auto cal Re’De’Tan concealed in his right boot, and the long thin blade behind his left thigh from a cabin on the surface he had found two Springs earlier. Last was the pair of daggers, upside-down on his back, which Marl had won in octathalon, marks of his skill, as well as tools of death.

Should it come to a fight, Marl was sure he could overpower the dead soldier and escape down the tunnel. As he took one more glance at the final passageway the spirit in him knew that was only true if they left the gate open.

Live Blogging A Reaction to the SCOTUS Hobby Lobby Case.

"It held that the Greens' businesses are "persons" under RFRA, and that the corporations had established a likelihood of success on their RFRA claim because the contraceptive mandate substantially burdened their exercise of religion."

"No conceivable definition of "person" includes natural persons and non-profit corporations, but not for-profit corporations." - Did they laugh hysterically at their own wit while putting this one down?

"In fact, this Court considered and rejected a nearly identical argument in Thomas v. Review Bd. of Indiana Employment Security Div., 450 U.S. 707... at 716." - pp 5. The case the court is referring to, Thomas was about a Jehovah's Witness refusing to build tank turrets. The court is very clearly drawing a line that there is no difference between providing contraception and creating a weapon of war.


"All, told, the contraceptive mandate 'presently does not apply to tens of millions of people.... This is attributable, in large part, to grand-fathered health plans."- pp. 11 That's the point of grandfathering, over time more and more people will be covered by the new law. Too bad for hobby lobby that they didn't bet on their employees in 2009.

This part blows the door off the hinges and I'm going to make leave out the cites, its on page 12. "As explained in Conestoga's board-adopted 'Statement on the Sanctity of Human Life,' the Hahns believe that 'human life begins at conception.' It is therefore 'against [their] moral conviction to be involved in the termination of human life' after conception, which they believe is a 'sin against God to which they are held accountable.'   pp 13. I mean how involved are they in their sex lives. In Thomas the court states that because Thomas was willing to work at least peripherally in the construction of component materials such as rolled steel, his objection to the discovery of the turrets was more valid.
This really is going to allow employers/employees/anyone to stretch the meaning of burden. I mean public schools are teaching evolution, I don't want my taxes to pay for something I'm going to have to pay Ben Stein to unteach. Same with physics, and sex-ed, and most of those English books, and any history before 324 AD.

"they buy hundreds of full-page newspaper ads inviting people to "know Jesus as Lord and Savior." - pp. 14, since when has advertising been evidence of closely held moral values, and how does it make up for the thousands that maternity can cost.