Mad Elf Chronicles - a place for my writing (critiques welcome)

Short Story

2008-02-19T17:18:11Z

This is the second installment of the short story "A Death in Dockside".
Read Part One if you haven't already, or you won't have a clue what's going on.

A Death in Dockside - Part Two

"Lieutenant!" A distant voice called.

Talia didn't have the will to respond, everything was dark now, and the pain was gone. It was enough.

"Talia!"

There was that voice again. It sounded worried. But what was there to be concerned about. It was all right now, here in the dark, and the quiet.

"Damn it, woman! Don't you die on my watch!"

A jolt of pain stabbed through the darkness and silence. A white hot blast of light seared Talia's mind. She gasped, choking on the air that filled her lungs. It smelled of chemicals and death. She felt her body lifted, someone was shaking her. No, she was just shaking, the earlier convulsions beginning to pass. But someone had a firm grip on her shoulders, and was leaning in to look closely at her face. She caught a glimpse of distressed eyes as her own rolled back in her head.

She felt another jolt of pain, and a burning sensation on her cheek as the world spun around and locked back into its proper place. She breathed in great shuddering gasps, her throat raw. Every muscle in her body felt like it had been ridden over by a team of draft horses, repeatedly. She lifted a trembling hand to her cheek.

"Did you," she inquired, her voice a hoarse whisper, "Just slap me?"

"Twice," Jenkins confirmed, his boyish face still lined with concern. "Are you alright? You had me worried there for a minute."

"I will be," Talia answered. "Thank you." She thought about trying to get up, but decided to give herself a little longer. No need to rush such things, after all.

"Heh," Jenkins chuckled as he rose from his knees beside Talia. "No one will ever believe I smacked an Inquisitor and she even thanked me for it."

"I trust," Talia responded, with a stern look from her place on the floor, "That you'll never tell them."

"Of course," Jenkins replied, with a grin.

He is enjoying this far too much, Talia thought. Time to get moving. With a heroic effort and the help of Jenkins' offered hand, she made it to her feet. A glance around the room reassured her that she hadn't actually vomited while in the throes of the vision. That would, she thought, have been rather embarrassing. Not actually dying is also a plus, of course.

At that moment the door to the room burst open, to reveal Professor Whitley and a couple of burly older students. The professor took a quick look around, seeming confused, and inquired, "Is everything alright? We thought we heard screaming and shouting."

"Quite alright," Talia responded in an admirably controlled voice. "Simply a bit of...difficulty, related to the investigative spell."

"Ah," the professor sounded unconvinced. "As long as there's no need for concern..."

"None at all, Professor Whitley," Talia assured him. "We're actually finished here now, so you can proceed with your original plans for the body. I won't have further need of it."

"Ah, well then..."

"You've been most helpful, Professor," she continued, moving toward the door. "The Crown appreciates your assistance. We can show ourselves out."

"Well, you're welcome, to be sure," Whitley began, but Talia was already headed down the hall with Jenkins close behind. The woman seemed to waver a bit, stumbling once, perhaps dizzy or weak, but the young man took a firm grip on her arm and kept her on her feet and moving.

"Most curious," Whitley observed.

***

"So," Jenkins inquired, as he and Talia sat on a low stone wall in a nearby park. Talia was attempting to quiet the trembling in her limbs, while Jenkins was just hoping she wouldn't suddenly keel over, "Is it always that bad?"

Talia shook her head. "It is never that bad," she replied, her voice weary.

"So," Jenkins prodded gently, "Why did..."

"I'm not sure," Talia told him. "I've entered death visions, before. Even murders, though not often. This was somehow different. There was just such a sense of... of evil, that it was nearly overwhelming."

The two sat in silence for a moment, watching people going by.

"I've heard," Talia began again, "stories of people who have used too much magic for ill purposes, channeled so much dark dweomer, that it consumes their mind, or their soul, leaving nothing but a darkness behind. I think, maybe... that's what happened to this woman."

"Wha..." Jenkins started, "A woman did this?"

"Do you think a woman can't kill, can't hate, can't lose herself to darkness?" Talia admonished him. "You would fear me if you knew the things I've done, and I follow a path of light."

"Yeah," Jenkins chuckled. "You're really scary."

"Don't fool yourself, boy," Talia warned, her voice taking on an edge of steel and her eyes hardening to golden quartz. "You don't truly know what I am."

Jenkins swallowed, his eyes falling away. "Okay, so maybe you're a little scary," he allowed. "But I'm not really scared of you. I can tell you're good people."

Talia laughed, a startlingly pure and musical sound. "Gods save us from the piercing perception of fools. You can tell," she scoffed.

"I can," Jenkins insisted in an injured tone.

Talia smiled a rare smile, but didn't try to dissuade him further.

"You should do that more often," Jenkins told her.

"Do what?" she asked, perplexed.

"Smile. It looks good on you. You should do it more"

"Oh bother," Talia snorted. "We've dallied enough." She stood up, considerably less wobbly now. "We need to get back to Dockside, so you can get some time off before your next shift and I can track our murderer."

"You're not going anywhere without me," Jenkins informed her.

"Why?" Talia stared at him. "I'm fine. And I have done this sort of thing before."

"You can barely stand," he said. "I'm not letting you go up against some crazed dark dweomer killer all alone."

"Letting me," Talia quoted him. "Hasn't anyone ever told you that chivalry is dead?"

"Not while I yet live, milady," Jenkins replied, performing a low bow.

"Ass," Talia declared him, then turned and walked toward the street.

***

Dusk was beginning to fall, as the two prowled the side streets and alleys of the Dockside district. Talia seemed to almost float along, distracted and not really looking around her. Jenkins was beginning to wonder what in the gods' names she was doing. He figured it was about time to ask.

"Do we have a plan?" he inquired. "Do we even know who we're looking for? Or are we just wandering about hoping she stumbles across us and confesses?"

Talia frowned, striving to maintain her concentration and deal with a troublesome tag-along at the same time. "I've seen her face. I will know her. I've felt her power, and I can find her. I can sense her presence."

"Ah," Jenkins said. "That's good then."

"She's close," Talia offered.

Jenkins started slightly, and began peering more closely at the growing shadows as they walked along.

***

Talia squatted in an alley behind a broken crate, peering over the top at a shabby building across the street. She could feel Jenkins' presence behind her and hear him breath. It was strangely comforting.

"Are you armed?" she asked him.

"Of course," he responded. "Just a revolver though."

"A gun will kill a mage as readily as a spell. Often moreso," Talia assured him. "But you're to stay out of the way, and only fire to protect yourself. This is a dweomer crime we're dealing with. My jurisdiction, my responsibility. As is your safety. You're only here as an observer."

"Yes, ma'am," Jenkins responded. "So what is it I'm observing?"

"I believe," Talia replied, "That our quarry is in that building across the way."

"So we're going in?" Jenkins asked.

Talia sighed. "What did I just say about you being an observer?"

"So you're going in?"

"I'm not sure yet. I'm trying to get an impression as to whether she knows we're after her."

Talia heard a hard gulp from behind her. "So she can do that, can she?" Jenkins inquired.

"Maybe. Maybe not," Talia said. "It depends on her skill, and on how cautious she is. She certainly has the raw power, though. She might even be a match for me, and I'm considered somewhat exceptional. It surprises me that we haven't discovered her before."

"She could be new in town. You said she's Posoti, and they're always on the move."

"True," Talia agreed. "I'd also like to be able to get people out of the building, but I don't think we could do it without tipping her off; assuming she hasn't noticed something already."

"Well," said Jenkins, "It's not like she's going to take down a building."

Talia gave him a glance over her shoulder, raising one eyebrow.

"Er..."

***

Talia crept down the corridor of the run-down apartment building, her senses attuned to the Posoti woman's aura of power, seeking her location. Revolver in hand, Talia leaned her back against the cracked dirty wall and peered carefully around the corner.

"See anything?" a voice whispered in her ear.

Talia jerked her head back from the corner, pressing her shoulders hard against the wall and barely biting off a startled shout. She thanked the gods she hadn't fired the revolver out of reflex. "I thought," she hissed angrily, "that I told you to wait outside."

"Yeah," Jenkins whispered back. "Like that was going to happen."

"I could shoot you," Talia threatened softly. "Interference with justice. I could make it stick too. Wouldn't even get a reprimand."

"Nah, you'd make too much noise. Have you figured out where she is yet?"

"End of the hall," Talia nodded toward the corner.

"So... we going in?"

"Yes," Talia sighed, "apparently we are going in."

Checking once more around the corner, Talia proceeded carefully down the corridor. Jenkins followed silently after. How in the hells does a Human move that quietly, Talia wondered. It's downright eerie.

They stopped at the door, one on each side, pistols ready. Talia called on the dweomer and held up her left hand, smoking with glowing magical energy. She had one finger held out. One, she mouthed silently. Two, and she raised a second finger. Three. She slapped her hand, palm first, against the door and blew it off its hinges.

"Stand down in the name of the Crown," Talia shouted as she stepped into the doorway, revolver leveled. "Stand down and prepare to be bound."

She could see Jenkins' revolver out of the corner of her eye as he stepped into the doorway behind her, and aimed over her shoulder. Across the room a small Posoti child leaped up and ran screaming down a back hallway, rag doll in tow.

Talia swore in several different languages and drew a deep breath, shaken to her core. Not only because there was a child on the scene of a dangerous arrest, which was bad enough, but because this could have been a scene from her own childhood. Her parents, too, had known the workings of dweomer, but had no license. After her father had died of the fever, her mother had no choice but to sell her skills with magic, to buy food and pay the rent. At least until the day the men in black had come crashing through the door to take her mother away. Now she was the one crashing through the door, to ruin another child's life.

She heard Jenkins mutter over her shoulder. "Oh, that's not good. Where's the woman?"

"I don't know." Talia answered, moving further into the room. "She's here, I can feel..."

Talia never got to reveal what she felt, as a blast of fiery dweomer slammed her into the wall, knocking away her gun and her breath. Her body convulsed as the energy surged through it. The dweomer still roiling in her hand flickered, but a panicked burst of willpower kept it in control.

Jenkins, not yet in the room, dove for cover beside the doorway, peeking quickly around the edge and ducking back. "Where is she?" he shouted. "I can't see her."

"She's invisible," Talia responded, willing a rush of dweomer to her eyes. The golden eyes flared up a burning blue and the room took on an eerie unnatural tint. "There you are," she snarled, and lashed a tendril of energy across the room, catching the Posoti by surprise and sending her crashing into the wall to smash the chair below on her rebound.

"I said," Talia shouted, "to stand down!"

The Posoti woman rose to her knees, now visible once more, her concentration broken and the spell lost. Her dark curly hair cascaded over her face, hiding her eyes, as she growled like a wounded wolf.

"Stand down," Talia ordered. "I'm an agent of the Crown and you're under arrest. Don't make this worse than it has to be."

"Go to hell," the Posoti snarled.

Talia never saw her move, never felt her draw the power, but a roar of dweomer burst out of the woman and tore the room apart. Talia was driven completely through the plaster wall, crashing to the floor in the hallway, as Jenkins scrambled for cover. Talia struggled to regain her footing, and summon her lost dweomer, as the Posoti rose to her feet and stalked toward her, hands and eyes flaring with blue fire.

The Posoti sent a lash of dweomer at Talia. Unable to deflect it in time, the elf felt it wrap around her throat and lift her into the air. As she dangled helpless and thrashing in pain, the burning dweomer crawled down her arms and legs, pulling her into a spread-eagled position, pinned against the wall.

The Posoti cackled with glee. "You should have stayed away, Inquisitor. You're no match for me, even if you do know a few tricks." She looked around, as Talia writhed helpless and furious. "And where's your friend? Run away already has he?"

Talia snarled and spat and fought the eldritch binding with all her strength, but was unable to free herself. As soon as she could manage to grasp at a wisp of dweomer, the other woman's power sucked it away to fuel her own strength.

"I'd love to stay and play with you awhile, make this last," the mad woman chuckled. "I'm sure it would be delicious. But we may have more of your kind coming along soon, and that would never do. So I'll just have to kill you quickly and have done."

"You won't get away with this," Talia screamed. "You can kill me, but another will hunt you down. And another if necessary. Eventually you'll be put down like a rabid dog."

"But you won't live to see it," the woman laughed at her.

The Posoti lifted her hands, clenching her fists, and Talia felt her limbs being stretched. She growled in pain, fighting back the scream that was coming.

Suddenly there was a roar of sound and she was falling, the magical binding gone. Hitting the ground with a thud, she rolled over to see the Posoti woman reeling back. The gnome lifted a hand to the ragged gash across her temple, and stared as it came away bloody.

"Oh hells," Talia cried, rolling over to see Jenkins, still pointing his revolver at the dying Posoti. "Run!" Trying to take her own advice, a deep crackling roar growing behind her, Talia stumbled toward Jenkins as he stared wide-eyed over her head.

The constable managed to shake off his shock as Talia staggered near him, grabbing her hand and dragging her behind as he sprinted, and then dove, for cover around the corner of the corridor.

Behind them an eye-searing ball of blue fire exploded, blasting away the walls and roof to open the apartment and hallway to the night sky. Timbers groaned and crashed, plaster rattled to the floor, and then all was quiet but for the crackle of burning wood. Moments later came panicked cries and running footsteps, as the other residents evacuated the building.

"Holy Ratha," Jenkins gasped. "The hells...?"

"Dweomer backlash," Talia told him, not moving from her prone position. "She lost control of it and it turned on her."

Jenkins grunted. "That was an awful lot of power."

"Yes," Talia agreed. "I underestimated her. I didn't have the strength to take her. If you hadn't shot..."

"You're welcome," Jenkins replied. "But do you think you could climb off me now? It's not that you weigh much, but your elbows are sharp."

"Oh gods," Talia cried out in embarrassment and rolled off to the side.

"Ugh," Jenkins levered himself to a sitting position and gazed at the smoldering ruin where part of a building had recently been. "That's going to take some paperwork to explain."

Talia snorted. "I've seen your idea of paperwork," she chided. "I'll be surprised if it takes eight lines to explain the whole day."

"Hey, now..."

"The girl!" Talia burst out, scrambling to her feet.

Jenkins was close behind as she charged back into the burning apartment. Between them, and Talia's dweomer, they managed to lever aside enough fallen timbers and collapsed walls to reach the rear corridor. A quick search revealed the child sitting curled up beside a crude bed in a back bedroom, her doll in her lap. The little girl, also a Posoti, stared up at them with wide bright yes. She looked scared, but not as much as Talia would have expected.

What does one say to a child in this situation? Talia wondered. She thought back to her own mother's arrest and the towering gruff man who had dragged a small child kicking and screaming from under the bed with a terse order to, "Come along, girl."

Probably not the best approach, Talia decided. She knelt in front of the child and held out a tentative hand. "It's okay, little one," she said. "No one is going to hurt you."

The little girl looked at her with big, clear eyes, and asked, "Is she gone?"

Talia was confused. It wasn't quite the reaction she'd expected. "Who?"

"Her," the little girl nodded her chin toward the front of the apartment.

"I'm afraid your Mommy had to go away, sweetie," Talia tried, hoping she sounded reassuring, but feeling more out of her depth now than during the spell battle.

"She wasn't really my Mommy," said the little girl. "She just wanted me to call her that."

"She wasn't?" Talia rocked back on her heels in surprise. A kidnapper too?

"No. My Mommy's gone," the little girl stated matter-of-factly. "You killed her didn't you?"

"Your Mommy?" Talia asked. "No."

"Not my Mommy," the girl said, sounding slightly exasperated. "Her."

"Oh," Talia said. "Well, not me exactly, but..."

"But she's dead?"

"Uhmm...," Talia stumbled, at a loss. "Yes?"

"Good," the little girl stated. "She was mean. She hurt people."

"Yes," Talia agreed. 'Yes she did."

The girl looked up at the sound of a timber crashing somewhere in the outer room. Talia thought the crackling of fire was louder. In the distance she could hear the clanging of an alarm bell.

"Should we leave?" the little girl asked. "I think the house is on fire."

"Right," Talia agreed, happy for something she understood. Better fleeing from a burning and collapsing building than talking to this bizarre child.

She scooped the little girl up in her arms, stepped close to Jenkins, and erected a crackling dweomer shield around them all. Protected by the magic, they made their way through the burning apartment to the relative safety of the front stairs, where Talia released the energy with a sigh of relief.

"I'm Merrilee," spoke the little girl's voice her ear.

"Very nice to meet you, Merrilee. I'm Talia."

"Who's he?" Merrilee asked pointing over Talia's shoulder.

"That's Off..." Talia began, then, with a glance at the young man, she responded, "That's Charlie."

"Hi Charlie!" said the little girl, peaking out from behind the Inquisitor's raven hair.

Jenkins gave her a big grin and a wink. Leaning close to Talia's opposite ear, he whispered, "She's not scared of you either, you know."

Talia gave him a snarl and a sharp elbow in the ribs, but hid a smile.

Short Story

2008-02-19T17:10:32Z

This is a fairly long story, for the Tales of Angor setting. It's kind of gaslight fantasy meets buddy-cop movie. It's my favorite so far.

Apparently this is too long for a single post, so this is Part One, and I'll post Part Two seperately.

A Death in Dockside - Part One

Talia stood formally, her hands clasped behind her back and feet slightly spread, in the position a soldier would call parade rest. Her legs were braced, body swaying slightly with the rocking of the train. She kept her eyes on the soot-stained floor, avoiding the fear in the eyes of the other passengers. Even in the smoky dimness of the underground rail tunnel she could feel their stares.

She was used to it. Her small, lithe build, sharp features, and almond suggested an elven heritage even though her long black hair, pinned at the sides, hid her tapered ears. Her brown skin and golden eyes marked her as a foreigner of the far eastern lands, one of the elven kind known as Tehnsune; though she was born here in TirTilo. Elves and foreigners weren't popular, strangely enough, in this immigrant country where elves, though of another kind than her, were native.

That she was well dressed, rather than adorned in patched homespun, also showed she was living above her rightful station in life; at least in their eyes. Assuredly she was no lady, for dressing in trousers, though permissible given the nature of her employment, was just not done by women with respect for themselves.

None of those were the reason for the fear, though. That had a different origin, and it wasn't even the army issue revolver on her hip. Guns were hardly unusual in the city, especially for officers of the Crown, as she was. Indeed it was, partly, her uniform which set people on edge. The crisp black garb of the Dweomer Corp identified her as not only a mage, who most sane folk would be wary of, but a battle mage. The mages of the Dweomer Corp were trained for war and special police duties. They were the only mages authorized by the Crown to flaunt the First Law of magic, in the line of duty of course.

The Dweomer Corp was seldom seen in downtown BenardVane, most were mage-soldiers, serving in military field units or stationed at government facilities. That meant one thing, most likely, that this woman was no ordinary battle mage. This was an agent of the Inquistion.

She didn't look the part, of course. Inquisitors were supposed to be tall, hawk-nosed men, skulking about in the dark and preying on the unwary who slipped up and touched the dweomer without a license, or, gods forefend, happened to run afoul of one of the laws of magic. And what Inquisitor would carry a gun when they could simply burn their quarry alive, or steal their very soul, with dark dweomer?

Instead this was a petite woman, still young, though her elven features made her look slightly younger than she really was. She was pretty, in a cool and distant sort of way and appeared rather harmless; yet there hung about her a certain miasma of danger, and power.

The train began to slow, and the tunnel to brighten. The woman looked up in time to see the stone walls of the tunnel pass by the window and open up into the sunken plaza of a station. The coal smoke from the engine billowed up to the streets above and a breath of fresher air cleared a bit of the smog. As the train rattled to a stop, no one moved. The other passengers in the train car just sat, staring at the Inquisitor as if frozen in place. Several dared to blink in the brightness of the sunlight, after the gloom of the tunnels.

The woman sniffed disdainfully, smelling the fish and salt-water stench of Dockside Quarter. Do they think, she wondered, that I'm going to murder them all right here? dmitting to herself that they just might, at that, she walked briskly to the door and out onto the station platform, where the crowd swiftly parted to let her through.

Climbing the litter strewn steps to the surface, the woman paused a moment to get her bearings amid the clamor and bustle of the busy street, and then set off for her destination through a horde of people too intent on their own affairs to even notice a lone woman, no matter her attire. After a short walk and a daring jaunt across the street, ducking between a heavily laden wagon of semi-fresh fish and the weary team of horses pulling a weathered bus, she arrived at the local precinct of the City Constables.

It was a squat, solid building of antique style, the first floor raised up above grade to allow for small barred windows at ground level, letting minimal light and air into the jail cells in the cellar. The two stories of weathered stone above would house the offices. A young officer, presumably off duty, lounged on the flagstone porch and watched the woman with curiosity as she marched up the steps.

A bell rang over the door as she opened it and stepped into the cooler air of the building, and a somewhat grizzled looking officer, his stripes proclaiming him a sergeant, looked up from his desk behind a dividing counter. As she approached the counter, he levered himself up out of the chair with evident reluctance. She could see him take note of her uniform, but was unable to read the response in his eyes. Her estimation of him rose a notch, which didn't really say much.

"Can I help you, Miss...?"

"Talia a'TehnJien. Lieutenant," the woman responded, presenting the slim folder that held her official identification and practitioner's license. "Special Investigations."

"Right," the sergeant grunted. He pulled back a latch and swung open a heavy wood gate beside the counter. "C'mon in."

He led her back toward his desk. "So the 'of TehnJien' bit," he spoke conversationally, "no other name, then?"

"No." She could have explained that she didn't know her own last name, having been orphaned at far too young an age to remember it, but he hadn't risen that highly in her esteem.

"Well, then. Mine's Croland, so you know. But to business it is," the sergeant responded. He plucked a folder off his desk and handed it to her. "That's the folder. I expect you'll have questions."

Talia opened the folder and flipped through the three sheets of paper that were clipped within it; one of which, a copy of the memo that had brought her here, she'd already seen. "Yes," she agreed, "I expect so."

The first sheet was a crime report, dated yesterday. In coarse blocky writing it gave a date and the name of the reporting officer. Below that were three lines in the same hand.

DEAD BODY FOUND IN ALLEY BY WAREHOUSE ON PIER 14.

REPORTED TO OWNER BY DOCK WORKER.

NO WITNESSES TO CRIME. NO I.D. NO VALUABLES.

Those were followed by a hastily scrawled addition, written by a different person, which read,

PROBABLE MUGGING.

BODY SENT TO UNIVERSITY - NO KNOWN RELATIVES.

R.C. SGT

Dockside precinct police procedure at its finest, Talia mused. "Sergeant, are you the 'R.C.' who initialed this report?" she asked Corland.

"Aye," he answered. "That I am."

Talia lowered her estimation back down a notch and looked again to the folder. At least someone had put some effort into the second page. It was a formal memo on City University letterhead, addressed to the Dockside precinct.

Dear Sirs,

While your most recent contribution, for the education of our medical students, is, as always, greatly appreciated, I must regretfully inform you of a disturbing development. Upon examination of the aforementioned cadaver, there were discovered certain injuries inconsistent with an accidental, or even a typically premeditated, death. The injuries, to be more specific, are burns.

These burns, in my considered opinion, are of a type and pattern that do not generally suggest the unfortunate party having been on fire. They are, rather, of a type that suggests an unnatural source.

This, to my mind, suggests foul play of a rather fouler sort than one might normally expect. I, in fact, strongly suspect that this unfortunate soul is the victim of a magical attack. Given the circumstances, I trust that your offices will wish to investigate this matter further.

We will, of course, maintain the cadaver in an undisturbed state until such time as you notify us that it is acceptable to proceed with further uses.

Cordially yours,

Professor William J. Whitley

Talia didn't bother to look at the third page, it merely being a copy of the memo sent to the Special Investigations office at the Tiers, requesting assistance from an agent of the Crown.

"What else can you tell me, Sergeant?" Talia asked, looking up from the folder.

"Bloody little, I'm afraid," Corland responded with what sounded like genuine regret. "There's really not much more to it than what's in there, as little as that is. We find bodies sometimes, it's a rough neighborhood down here. And when there's no witnesses there's just not much we can do about it. This guy was brought in, dead, with no papers or money on him, like the report said. His clothes were a mess, but they weren't rags. So he wasn't a beggar, I don't think. Didn't look roughed up much. Just looked dead. I figured someone caught him by surprise, sapped him a bit too hard, and ran off with whatever he had on him. So I called it a mugging. 'Course that was before we got the note from the Professor."

"That would tend to alter one's assumptions," Talia agreed.

"Darn right," Corland said. "Once we got wind of that, I notified the Captain right off and he sent word up the hill. And... here you are."

"Here I am," Talia agreed. "I'll need to speak to Officer..." she checked the crime report, "Jenkins. I'll also need to see the body and the scene of the crime."

"Right you are," the Sergeant nodded. "Jenkins is right outside. I asked him to stick around a bit after his regular shift. Figured someone would be along shortly and want to see him. He can show you where he picked up the stiff. And take you over the University too if you like."

"Well enough," Talia told Corland, handing back the folder, "I'll be off then."

Back outside, she pulled the door shut behind her and looked to the young man leaning on the nearby railing. The young man stood up and tugged at his blue and gold uniform to straighten it. He smiled, but seemed just a bit nervous.

Probably never met a real live Inquisitor before, Talia thought. She walked up to him and offered her small hand, "Officer Jenkins, I presume?"

"Yes, ma'am," Jenkins responded. He grasped her hand in return.

Talia felt him lifting as if he was going to kiss it like he was meeting a lady at the ball, and she gave his fingers a squeeze that made him wince. "Lieutenant Talia a'TehnJien," she told him. "Special Investigations."

"Right," Jenkins grimaced, flexing his fingers. "Nice to meet you, Lieutenant a'TehnJien."

"Lietenant Talia would be appropriate," she told him. "a'TehnJien refers to my ancestral homeland. There's no surname."

"Ah," Jenkins acquiesced. "Sergeant Corland said you'd probably want to see where I found the body."

"Sergeant Corland is correct," Talia answered, turning to the steps and starting down.

"You can call Charlie," Jenkins called after her. "Everyone does."

"Are you coming, Officer Jenkins?" Talia asked from the bottom of the steps.

"Oh, of course." He rushed down the steps two at a time. "It's not far, if you don't mind walking."

"Not at all," Talia told him.

The neighborhood got shabbier, and the smell of seawater and dead fish got stronger, as they walked along in silence. Talia gazed about her with a sense of curiosity. This section of the city always felt strange to her. She thought it ought to feel familiar, since she'd lived near here as a child, but that was a time she barely remembered, and seldom thought of anymore.

The only home she'd ever really known was the Dweomer Council, and their big old mansion on the Tiers; or more recently the modest townhouse that the Crown provided for her use in the Barracks Quarter of the Tiers. Although not a part of the upper-class social circles that frequented most of the Tiers, or remotely near the income level of many who resided there, she still felt out of place in the poorer districts of the city.

Within minutes the two passed out of the maze of buildings and onto the waterfront itself, where the waves lapped against the wooden piers and the masts of ships towered above. They walked past piles of cargo, dodging wagons and sweating dockworkers as they made their way along the waterfront.

My father was one of these men, Talia thought. I remember that much of him, that he was an honest man, and worked hard for a living, and died too young. She thought she should feel something for this place.

"Down here," Jenkins spoke, leading her toward a narrow alley beside two large barn-like structures.

"Gods above," Talia swore as they entered the alley itself. "It smells like a sewer." There were times that her elven senses were a curse.

"Yeah, it kind of is one," Jenkins nodded. "The dock workers use these alleys when they need to make a quick dash for... you know."

"I do now," Talia answered.

"I found him right here," Jenkins told her, kicking at a pile of trash like any of a dozen others. " I'm thinking someone dumped him though. I don't think he worked here. He didn't really have the look of a loader, and no one is missing a clerk."

"They wouldn't miss a loader?" Talia pondered.

"Nah," Jenkins answered. "A lot of those guys are just day labor. Sometimes they work, sometimes they don't. Sometimes they get better work and just stop coming around."

"Sometimes they stop coming for other reasons," Talia almost whispered.

"Well, yeah. I guess." Jenkins seemed confused by her comment.

Talia frowned. "Give me a moment," she said. "I need to see if I can sense anything here."

"Sure."

Talia closed her eyes and reached out with her mind, the senses of the spirit that she had honed through years of practice with the capricious energies of dweomer. She could see it, in her mind, almost like the after-image of a lightning strike that is held by the eye after the light itself has faded. She reached out to the residue of magic, touched it with her own spirit... and recoiled.

She came back to herself with a gasp, her eyes staring blind for a moment as her senses readjusted to the natural world. She felt a hand on her elbow and shook it loose, straightening her posture.

"Lieutenant?" Jenkins was asking, concerned. It was his hand she'd felt, steadying her. "Are you all right? You looked a bit... shaky, there."

"I'm fine," Talia spoke. She took a deep breath to compose herself, instantly regretting it, and strode out of the alley at a brisk pace. "There was no dropping of a body," she informed Jenkins. "The murder was done right here."

"Really," Jenkins said, as they paused outside the alley. "You can tell that?"

"Yes," Talia shuddered slightly. "And it was done with such hatred, almost hunger... This was no simple mugging gone wrong."

"Hmm," Jenkins responded helpfully. "Now what?"

"Now," said Talia. "I need to go to the University to see Professor Whitley. And our murder victim." She led a swift pace back through the crowds the way they had come. "I can proceed on my own, if you like," she told Jenkins. "I know you're off duty. I'll just need an address in case more questions arise."

"Actually I wouldn't mind tagging along a bit further," Jenkins answered. "This is kind of fascinating."

"Suit yourself," Talia said with a shrug.

***

After a second lung-searing commute on the underground, back up to the higher and pricier neighborhoods nearer the Tiers, the woman in black and the young man in blue and gold stood in a lovely paneled foyer, speaking to a matronly woman seated behind a heavy oak desk.

"I'm Lieutenant Talia 'aTehnJien, Special Investigations, and this is Constable Jenkins," Talia informed the woman, displaying her credentials. "We need to see Professor Whitley."

Hardly glancing up, the woman shook her head. "Professor Whitley is conducting a class at the moment. If you'd like to wait..."

"We'd rather not wait," Talia frowned. "Please let the Professor know we're here."

"I'm sorry, young lady," the woman persisted. "That's quite out of the question."

"Ma'am," Talia frowned deeper, her voice dropping an octave and taking on an icy tone, "I didn't ask a question. Perhaps you didn't quite understand me. I'm an agent of the Crown, from Special Investigations." She leaned over the desk, even with her small size seeming to loom over the other woman. "Perhaps you've heard of the Inquisition?"

Finally deigning to actually notice her visitors, the lady's eyes widened and her powdered face paled. "Oh...the..." she gasped. "You mean that Special..."

"That one. Exactly."

"I'm terribly sorry," the woman said jumping up. "I'll take you to him straight away."

"You're too kind," Talia answered, following her down the hall.

Jenkins fought to stifle his laughter.

After a trip down a long flight of stairs and through several hallways, the woman rapped on a door and threw it open. A room full of young men, and a few women, in white smocks and gathered around a cadaver laid out on a stone slab, all looked up. An older man seemed distracted by the entrails he was waving through the air as he expounded on esoteric principle of surgery.

"Professor Whitley," the woman cried out, in a nearly panicked voice. "There are some people here who need to see you."

As the professor looked up, the matronly woman fled back to the relative safety of her foyer and Talia stepped into the room. Jenkins waited in the doorway, looking slightly ill. Talia would have rather died herself than admit to the weakness of being made uncomfortable by the presence of a partially dismembered corpse. And, of course, she had seen worse.

The Special Investigator displayed her credentials once more, introducing herself and her associate, and they were swiftly bustled off by the Professor. After leaving one of his advanced students in temporary charge of the class, he led his visitors out of the room and farther down the corridor.

"I knew someone would be coming by," he said on the way. "Very impressive response time however. It's good to know the Crown takes this sort of thing seriously."

"The Crown takes dweomer crime very seriously," Talia assured him. "Especially when the crime is murder."

"Yes, quite," Professor Whitley agreed. "Quite." Pulling out a ring of keys he stopped beside the door at the end of the corridor and unlocked it. "Our unfortunate gentleman is right in here. Completely undisturbed, as I assured the constables."

Talia and Jenkins followed the professor into the room, and gathered, with him, around the cloth-covered figure that rested on another soapstone table. The professor drew back the cloth.

"These here," Professor Whitley said, indicating several locations on the body, "are the burns I spoke of in the memo. Quite irregular, as you can see."

"Quite," Talia agreed, peering closely at the areas of blackened skin. "And his clothes?"

"Oh, they were extremely soiled when he was brought in," Whitley told her. "We burned them."

Talia looked pained, "It would have been best to have kept them."

"Well, if I'd realized at the time that something was amiss... but one of the students was assigned to prepare the cadaver. I didn't notice the unusual nature of the situation until it was far too late to recover the clothes." The professor was apologetic. "Can you truly find information of worth from a victim's clothing?" he asked.

Talia nodded. "Sometimes an impression is left on things that someone was wearing or holding. Nothing that won't also remain with the body itself, of course, but often less... unpleasant to obtain."

"Ah, well then," Whitley spoke. "You've got your man, such as he is. If you don't need me any longer, I should get back to my class. Unless you have other questions?"

"No, Professor," Talia responded. "I think we can spare you for now. I know how to reach you if we need further assistance."

"Right then," the professor spoke. "Just pull the door shut when you go out, won't you? It'll lock on it's own."

"Thank you, Professor," Jenkins said to Whitley on the man's way out.

Talia took up a position at the head of the table, resting her hands on the cool stone as she composed herself for the next step.

"You're going to do that thing again, aren't you?" Jenkins asked.

"Pardon?"

"The thing you did in the alley, where you kind of go somewhere else and see what happened. Only you're going to do it on him."

Quite perceptive, Talia thought. There might be hope for the local police yet. To Jenkins, she said, "Actually yes. That's fairly accurate."

Jenkins nodded somberly, and Talia went back to steeling herself for what was to come. After a few moments, she reached out and placed her hands on the dead man's face, her palms over his eyes. She heard Jenkins catch his breath as she felt the tingling sensation that she knew meant her hands were being to glow with dweomer energy. Clenching her teeth, she reached into the dead man's mind, or to his spirit or soul... whatever it was that always lingers for a short time after death.

***

Talia found herself on the waterfront, in the dark of night; stumbling about in a near delirium of drunkenness, arm about the shoulder of a young girl. The girl was obviously drunk too, and half dressed in the gaudy costume of a tavern dancer, or a prostitute. The woman was rather tiny. Gods above, a child? No, a gnome. Posoti by the look of her, with the swarthy skin and brightly colored dress. And not so young either. Nearing middle age, most likely, though it was hard to tell with gnomes.

She was a pretty thing though. Talia stopped, leaning against a crate, to give her a kiss, only to be violently sick over the side of the wharf a moment later. The Posoti woman laughed and helped her back to her feet. Grabbing hold of her by the belt, she dragged Talia playfully toward the warehouses.

Talia followed willingly, if unstably, as the small woman disappeared down a darkened alleyway. Running to catch up, Talia grabbed her by the shoulder and spun her around into a laughing embrace. Suddenly something felt wrong. She loosened her embrace, holding the woman away a bit to see her better. Gods, her eyes were glowing. What...

Suddenly a wave of pain tore through Talia, pain that made the world go a fiery white. Pain that sent her convulsing to the ground, thrashing in the filth, and screaming into the empty night with a voice broken from the agony. Talia choked and screamed and died, there in the wharf-side alley, as the Posoti woman stood over her laughing, and the fires of dweomer roared from her open hands, enveloping her victim.

***

Continued in
A Death in Dockside - Part 2

Short Story

2008-02-18T20:48:31Z

This is another fairly short piece. It doesn't really tie into anything in particular, though it bears some vague resemblance to the Dweomer Noir concept. It's fairly dark stuff (at least for me). And the title is lame. Not sure what else to say about it, so here it is.

Joe's Shadow

Joe's hand shook with rage, while blood ran down his arm and dripped from his clenched fist. The dark energy that had given him the edge in the fight still crackled around his balled up fingers, but was fading now. His other hand gripped the collar of the thug's shirt, holding him off the floor.

He blinked the sweat out of his eyes, and hissed through clenched teeth, "You don't cross me, Tony. You know better than to cross me."

Tony's eyes rolled back in fear, blood from his freshly broken nose bubbled on his torn lips as he whimpered, a wordless plea that just infuriated Joe all the more.

"Kill him," the voices shouted in Joe's head. "Smash his stinking face into the ground, he deserves it." It was the Shadow talking, Joe knew. He'd heard it often enough before and it wasn't the first time he'd had to fight the darkness in his own heart. "Cut his throat," the voices cried, "Put a bullet right between those beady eyes".

"He's harmless now," another voice whispered, barely noticeable behind the howling of the Shadow. Joe's conscience? Did he still have one of those? "Why not let him go? Do the right thing."

Using all the will he could summon, Joe unclenched his fist and released Tony's shirt collar. It felt like the hardest thing he'd ever done, deciding to let this worthless scum live. As Joe lurched to his feet, Tony slumped to the floor like a rag doll.

Shrugging his jacket back into place and adjusting his tie, while ignoring the blood and bruises from the fight, Joe looked down at his vanquished foe. "You tell your boss, the next time he sends a goon like you after me, he'll get the guy back in a body bag," and Joe turned toward the door, grasping at a desperate sense of relief.

"Stinkin’ punk," Tony sneered from behind him, trying to steal back some dignity.

"KILL HIM!" the voices screamed.

The gun was in Joe's hand before he even thought about reaching for it. It seemed more as if the room was spinning around him than it did his own body turning, and his eyes fell once more upon Tony. Weak and helpless, beaten Tony. Joe was still trying to force the gun back into the holster when he felt it jump. Again and again, the weapon jerked in his hand as it pumped death into the convulsing body on the floor.

"No," Joe screamed, as the dark, powerful energies released by the killing snarled through the dim corridors of his mind. "You bastard. You dirty, damned bastard. Why?" The revolver clicked, and clicked, the hammer falling on empty chambers. "Why did you make me do that?"

Jamming the empty gun back into its holster, Joe kicked savagely at the corpse spilling its life across the carpet. "You weren't worth it, damn you," Joe swore. "You weren't worth another piece of me." With one more half-hearted kick, Joe turned and stalked out.

Pausing on the lamp-lit street, Joe lit a cigarette. His hand was shaking again. Blowing smoke into the cloudy night, Joe walked on, pondering his future, and the past that had brought him here. He wondered what tomorrow would bring. Who would he hurt, who would die? It got harder every time, not killing. Would tomorrow be the day the Shadow finally took over, and Joe was gone? Gone like the light when the dark night comes? Or would Joe stick around, watching himself turn into a cold and heartless monster, until Hell felt like home? Which would be worse?

As the police sirens began to echo through the sleepy city, Joe walked on, fading into the distant shadows, with a pale, flickering, glimmer of light clenched desperately tight against the darker Shadow in his soul, a Shadow that snapped and crackled around him with an eldritch intensity that only those who knew its touch could see.

Setting piece

2008-02-17T16:56:11Z

This is just an introductory piece for a setting idea I had awhile back. I like the concept although not much has really jumped out at me as a story idea yet. I definitely want to pursue it further though. It's a post-apocalyptic / alternate history / film noir / fantasy thing that I call Dweomer Noir.

They called it an "incident".

On June 30, 1908, a ball of fire that reports described as being "bright as the sun" came roaring across the skies of Western Europe. The flaming tail of this object was estimated at 500 miles long. The fiery object then exploded over a remote section of forest in Siberia.

Flattening 800 square miles of forest, and laying the trees out like matchsticks in a ring pointing away from the epicenter of the blast, the explosion was heard over 500 miles away. A tower of smoke and fire was visible from 200 miles away and people were knocked from their feet at nearly twice that distance. The explosion triggered a magnetic anomaly, rendering compasses useless as far as 600 miles away, and an electromagnetic pulse was noted on the opposite side of the world. The shockwave reportedly passed around the globe twice. The force was later estimated to be at least 10 to15 megatons, while some estimates were as high as 30 megatons.

People near the explosion died from burns, and many more died from a strange sickness afterward. Those who traveled to the site shortly after the explosion and touched the rocks or soil of the area also became sick. The chief of the local people declared the entire area enchanted, and off limits for all.

It was called the "Tunguska Incident." They should have called it the beginning of the end.

There wasn't much to worry about at first, as the site was located in such a remote region and everyone assumed it was just a large meteor strike. And of course with the political upheaval and war in Russia, it wasn't the best of times for scientific inquiries.

It wasn't until 1921 that a Russian scientist mounted an expedition to investigate the occurrence. Strangely he found no sign of the crater that would be expected from a meteor impact; in fact some trees were found, burnt but still standing, at the center of the great circle of destruction. No meteorite fragments were found. Later expeditions also revealed no clear explanation for the incident.

Although it was noted that plants and animals in the region were affected by something unknown, plants and trees in particular showing signs of accelerated growth, the local stories of strange creatures and abnormal occurrences in the vicinity were largely ignored and written off as superstitious nonsense. Who could have guessed, back then, that all the subsequent strangeness growing in the world could be traced right back to that night in 1908, and a smoldering forest in the Siberian wilderness?

We know, now, what the Tunguska Incident was, although there's still no answer to the mystery of its cause. We know what it was, because we recreated it.

The first atomic bomb was tested on July 16, 1945 in the desert of New Mexico. Even the creators of the bomb were stunned by the destructive power they had unleashed. Some felt that such a device should never be used, that it was a threat to all mankind. They didn't know how right they were, but we didn't take those men's advice. It might have been too late anyway, for soon strange sightings and occurrences were being reported throughout the Southwest; and, again, they were ignored.

On the 6th of August, 1945, a Monday morning in the midst of World War Two, we did it again. We dropped an atomic bomb on a Japanese city named Hiroshima. Three days later, we dropped another one on Nagasaki. The blast patterns and aftereffects were nearly identical to those at Tunguska. They were the deathblow to the world, as we knew it.

The very fabric of our reality was torn on that strange night back in 1908. And, weakened as it was by a slow disintegration over the intervening years, then ripped further by each new atomic event, that fabric was finally blown to tattered shreds and left fluttering in the breeze on that fateful August day in 1945.

Through the rent and ragged boundary between our world and another, stranger reality slipped the eldritch power of magic, and with it came the shadows and the darkness; and the Fae. Our world will never be the same. And the question has to be asked... how long will it even be ours?

Are you afraid of the Dark? Maybe you should be. There is magic, a deep well of power, in the shadows and the darkness. There, in the places where the boundary between our world and that of the Fae is thin, where the fabric of reality is ragged and torn, one can tap into resources that were never meant for the hands of man. There is power to heal, power to harm, and power to fulfill your wildest dreams. But what price are you willing to pay for the power? How much are you willing to give up? Will you give up your humanity? Will you give up your immortal soul?

What about the Fae, the creatures of magic, who thrive in the darkness and work to bring an end to the world of light and humanity? Will you cover your eyes and refuse to see? Will you let the shadows grow and the darkness swallow the world? Or will you fight to preserved the world of mankind, and combat the forces of the Fae?

If you decide to be a hero, if you take the battle into the dark alleys and dim-lit streets of the perilous night, how then will you persevere? The guns and swords that are so effective against one's fellow man are chancy at best when turned upon the creatures that lurk in the shadows of the night. Some of the Fae die easily at the touch of hot lead or cold steel, but there are others that will only laugh at your pathetic attempts to destroy them and swallow up all that makes you human.

Many have found that light is an effective protection from the Fae. Whether the light of day, when the creatures of shadow must slink back into the dark world from which they come, the bright artificial light brought by modern technology, or the old fallback of cleansing flame, the light is one thing no creature of shadow can well abide. Some claim that the light of faith is enough to hold back the forces of shadow, but many scoff at the idea of trusting their lives to such an ephemeral thing as faith; where, afterall, was God when the Fae came for us in the first place? Some claim that science will find an answer.

Some brave souls (or dangerously foolish ones, depending on who you believe) have found that sometimes the most effective way of dealing with the Fae is to meet them on their own terms. These people have found that the Shadow-spawned are not the only ones who can wield magic; that humankind can tap into the power of the shadows and twist it to their desires as well. Some claim that only by embracing the magic of the shadows, making it their own, can mankind hope to overcome the forces that seek to destroy them. Others insist that those who dabble with these forces beyond mortal understanding only hasten the impending doom, by strengthening the darkness, and thinning further the walls dividing our world from the shadow-world, even as they attempt to protect our world and drive back, or destroy, the Fae.

Whichever opinion is the truth, it is evident that using magic leaves its mark on those who dare to take the chance. Changes, both mental and physical, result from the reckless use of magic; weird and frightening changes which mark the body, mind, and soul of the sorcerer. These Changelings, as those who show the outward signs of shadow-taint are called, may begin to take on the physical characteristics of the Fae; and perhaps the mental as well, becoming strange and violent. They become more distanced from the world of their origins and more attuned to the world of shadows, darkness, and magic. In time they may become nearly unrecognizable as human, and all but incapable of relating to their fellow man.

This, then, is the choice you must make if you want to be a hero. Fight a near-hopeless battle against the growing hordes of Fae with only the pitiful mundane means available in our world, or risk your very humanity to save a world in which you may no longer belong?

Mankind is in danger. Entire regions (Northeastern Europe, the Southwestern US & parts of Central America, East Asia) have been completely swallowed up by the shadows. The Fae rule there now, and the land is none of this world. And still the shadow creeps throughout the world, exerting its strange influence over even the lands remaining to humanity.

Organized society and centralized government has collapsed. Most of mankind (or what's left of it) has consolidated; fortifying themselves in hastily-walled cities, while outside the walls the accelerated growth of the wilderness covers the works and structures of man like ancient ruins in the jungle, and the animals mutate into strange and fantastical monsters. There the humans huddle, and hope, guarding against the Fae and the monsters of the wild; working tirelessly to keep the lights on and keep the darkness at bay. But the machines are beginning to wear out and break down, the limited soil is souring and producing fewer crops, people are starting to turn on each other when resources run short, crime is rampant, and time is obviously running out. The agents of the Fae seem to crop up everywhere; even inside the cities working behind the scenes to turn people against each other, weakening human society from within. Humanity is under siege, and they're beginning to wonder, "How long can we hold out like this?"

The shadow, the darkness, and even magic and the Fae, have always been there. And there has always been some cross-over between the worlds. Legends and fairy tales, myths and magic... it all had some truth behind it, just little real strength. It had power only in our dreams, and nightmares. Now all the darkest dreams of our nightmares are real, and they're here. And they're getting stronger all the time.

This is the world of...

Short Story

2008-02-15T18:33:37Z

This one is an older story in the Tales of Angor setting. Magic in Angor doesn't really work the way it's portrayed in this story, anymore, but I'm putting it up anyway, because I like the old guy it's written about. Maybe sometime I'll rewrite it to fit the setting better, but it'll do for now.

Lyster's Lesson

"Orcbreath!" Bellerian bellowed, banging his gnarled oak walking stick on the table. "Ye're all daft and I'll hear no more of this nonsense!"

The other men seated at the table looked at each other in silence, hoping in unison that he was finally winding down. It seemed that he was, for, with one last whack on the table for emphasis, Bellerian sat down. Unfortunately, the old man had forgotten that he had knocked his chair over at the beginning of his tirade. With a startled yelp, he went over backwards on the floor. Impatiently slapping away the hands of several men who jumped up to help him, he managed to get his chair righted and sat down with considerably more dignity than he did the first time.

As the others sat back down, he smacked the table again. "I don't believe it," he rasped. "I don't believe ye would even think of doing this to me."

"Bellerian," the middle aged man at the other end of the table spoke softly, folding his hands before him. "You know that we all have the utmost respect for you, and that we intend no insult, but you must accept the fact that..."

"Baldersnot!" Bellerian snorted. "I should have known ye were behind this, Lyster! Ye always hated me!"

"Eh?" the other man was startled. "I was your apprentice, Bellerian!"

"Aye! And ye were always jealous 'cause I wouldn't teach ye all my tricks!" the old man snapped.

Lystyr reddened slightly at the memory of their parting argument over the spells his teacher had claimed he wasn't ready to know.

"Hah! Hit a nerve there, didn't I, boy," Bellerian crowed, pounding his stick on the table in glee.

Lystyr frowned. "That is not the point and you know it, Bellerian. You have to accept the fact that you are getting old. It's time for you to retire."

"Old am I?" Bellerian snarled, getting to his feet again, pushing his chair back carefully. "And what ever happened to respect for yer elders? Eh?" The old man walked around the table to his former pupil and poked him with the walking stick. "Eh?"

Lystyr stood up, towering over the stooped old man." "The decision has been made, and our decision is final."

"Ye'll regret this, Lystyr. I warn ye. I'm a more powerful wizard than all of ye upstarts put together. Ye can't do this. Ye need me!" the old man was shaking with rage.

"Bellerian, I'm sorry it has to be like this, but you are no longer capable of filling your position on the Dweomer Council."

"Ye pompous little brat!" the elderly wizard shouted, long beard twitching. "I'll show ye!" With that, he rapped the other man soundly on the head with the oak staff.

"Ow! You daft old bugger!" Lystyr howled, ducking back and covering his head with his hands. "Get out of here! Can't you see you've lost it? You used to be a brilliant mage, but your mind is going. You can't make logical decisions. You can barely remember your own name! You have to retire."

"Retire!" the old man yelled, outraged. "I'll retire when they put me in the ground! No upstart apprentice is going to tell me when to retire!"

"I haven't been your apprentice for over thirty years, you senile old fool!" Lystyr yelled, losing his temper at the other's stubbornness.

"Senile! I'll show you senile! I'll turn ye into a frog! Ye'll look bloody funny as a frog, Lystyr!"

Lystyr stepped back and folded his arms, “Try it, Bellerian."

The old man's eyes bulged and he sputtered in fury. Whirling his staff around his head, he spoke in a voice far deeper and more resonant than his normal tone. "Alem! Shenak!" the staff started to glow, then flickered. "Ah.. uhm..." the glow died, and so did the old man's resistance.

"You see?" Lystyr spoke gently. "You can't even remember your spells. You have to accept that you aren't the man you used to be."

"I'll go," Bellerian whispered, turning toward the door. His head bowed and the wrinkles in his aged face seemed to deepen as he walked across the room. He stopped at the door, but didn't look back as he spoke, "I'll go, but mark my words. One day ye'll want my help. I may have a bad day now and then, but I'm still the most powerful wizard this city has ever seen."

When he closed the door behind him, Bellerian seemed to deflate. He looked older even than he had before, as if the very life had been drained from him. He blinked swiftly, trying to still the watering of his eyes, as he walked one last time down the echoing hall to the street and out of the Council House, leaving behind a piece of his life and a place he loved, the Dweomer Council that he had, himself, founded so many years ago.

***

Dust motes danced in the mid-afternoon light shining through the narrow window. More dust swirled up to join them as a door banged on the floor below. The creaking of wooden stairs being climbed grew louder as a low muttering drifted up the stairwell.

The door to the room thumped open and Bellerian stomped into the room, a determined expression replacing his earlier look of weary defeat. He paused a moment, running one hand across his balding head and stroking his wispy, gray beard with the other.

"Now where did I put that beleaguered book?" he growled as he dug into the piles of books and scrolls stacked about the perimeter of the tower room.

Scrolls and sheets of parchment cascaded like a fountain behind him as he pawed through the collected clutter of a lifetime. Suddenly, he stood, a large metal and leather bound book held out before him. He blew the dust off the ancient tome, sneezing.

"Found it," the old man shouted. "Now I'll show them!"

***

Lystyr was sitting at the desk in his study, writing, when the first tremor hit. He had reached to dip his quill into the inkbottle only to have the small jar skitter across the desk and shatter on the floor, spilling ink across his expensive carpet. He was just getting to his feet when the shuddering subsided, dust drifted down from the ceiling and a single book toppled from its shelf, hitting the floor with a thud, then all was still.

Sitting back down, Lyster listened for a moment, and then got up to see to the mess on the floor. As he was dabbing at the ink spots, he heard footsteps pounding up the stairs to his chambers. Getting up, he went to the door to meet the person who was in such a hurry.

The apprentice knocked twice on empty air as the door swung open unexpectedly. Struggling to catch his breath, he gasped out, "Chairman Lyster. I think you should see something."

"See what?" the Chairman snapped. "It had best be important at this hour."

"Well sir, I'm not certain how important it is, but it's surely cursed strange. There's something in the basement." Another tremor shook the building, the apprentice paled. "And it's growing."

Lystyr followed the lad down the stairs at a trot, robes flapping.

The crowd at the door to the basement storeroom parted to let the chairman through and Lystyr got a peak at the "something". There, in the middle of the room, seemingly coming out of the floor, was some sort of globe. Not appearing quite solid, the surface rippled and flowed, colors mixing and swirling across it. It seemed to pulse, like a living thing. Every now and then it would give a stronger pulse and swell, growing larger and larger. Every time it grew, another tremor passed through the building.

Everyone clamored to know what the strange orb was, but Lystyr waved them to silence. "How very odd. I don't believe I've ever seen anything quite like this. Has anyone tried to probe it?"

"Aye," one of the other mages answered, "but we can't tell a thing. It's like there's nothing there. It must be blocking us somehow."

"Hmm," Lyster pondered, moving into the room. He held a hand out, just inches from the surface of the orb. "It doesn't seem to be giving off any heat, or energy."

"Are you sure it's wise to get that close?" someone asked.

"We won't know until we find out," Lystyr answered, reaching out with a finger. He touched the surface, noticing that it was cool to the touch. Then it pulsed again, and the orb exploded.

Lystyr was thrown back through the doorway and up against the corridor wall, bowling over several other mages, and knocking the wind out of him. As the Chairman floundered on the floor like a fish out of water, wizards fled in all directions and out of the smoking crater in the storeroom climbed a man-like figure. As Lystyr made it to his feet and the smoke began to clear, he stared into the room.

A creature that was no man stared back at him. Cat-like yellow eyes gazed at him out of a snouted face covered with greenish brown fur. The lips drew back from sharp canine teeth and the three-fingered hands clenched, long white claws extending and retracting. The thing from the orb spoke with a voice that sent chills up Lystyr's spine. "So, little mage, want to play?"

The man steeled himself and whispered words of magic, his hands sketching symbols in the air. The walls of the room sparked and smoldered. Lystyr shouted, and screamed his spells, fingers moving in a blur. The mage threw every ounce of power at his command at the creature..... and it laughed. As Lystyr fled up the stairs from the basement, the creature still laughed, and grew.

In the main hall of the Council House, the mages rallied. Pooling their power, master wizards and apprentices alike stood, united and strong, and waited for the demon as it crawled up out of the smoking pit that was all it had left of the basement. They hit the creature with spells that would level buildings, spells that would turn dragons to dust. They fed it everything that forty mages could muster and it laughed, and grew.

Reaching up, the creature grasped one of the main support beams of the building and heaved. Out in the street, the people who had gathered in curiosity at the sounds coming from within the building gaped in astonishment as the mages fled from the council building. Wizards fought each other through the doorways, mages leaped out of windows and apprentices ran screaming down the streets away from the demon.

The gathered crowd thinned, and swiftly disappeared. Lystyr, staggering from the building, grabbed a fleeing mage and shook the man until the light of reason dawned again in his eyes. "Go get Bellerian!" Lystyr shouted. "Quickly!"

"Bellerian?" the other stammered. "But he's...."

"Our only hope!" Lystyr finished. "Now go!"

As Lystyr watched in helplessness, the walls of the Council House buckled and caved in, the roof collapsed and out of the pile of rubble and billowing dust rose the demon. Laughing.... and growing.

"Humph." came a voice from behind him. "Looks as though you boys need some help."

Lystyr spun around to find Bellerian standing at his side, leaning on his walking stick and staring with evident amusement at the carnage unfolding before him.

"Bellerian!" the chairman cried. "Thank the gods you're here! You have to do something! That thing will destroy the city!"

"Do?" the old man looked puzzled. "What can I do? I'm just a senile old fool who can't remember his spells. There's nothing I could possibly do."

Lystyr dropped to his knees, clutching at the old man's robes, all dignity gone. "Please!" he cried. "I'll do anything. You can have your place on the Council back. You can take my position. You can be Chairman! Just do something!"

"And what makes ye think I can do anything, boy? Why do ye think I can do what all of ye couldn't?" Bellerian demanded with a scowl. "Eh?" he poked Lystyr with his walking stick. "Eh?"

"You're the most powerful wizard in the country, blast it! If you can't stop that thing, the city will fall in ruins! We'll all be dead!"

"Ah," Bellerian smiled. "In that case then, I'll see what I can do." Shaking Lystyr loose from his leg, the old man strode toward the monster, climbing now from the rubble of the once proud Dweomer Council House. "All right ye ugly, overgrown, mangy excuse fer a netherworld being! Now ye're in real trouble, know ye!" he shouted at the demon.

"Oh gods," Lystyr groaned, hiding his face. "Don't make it any madder than it already is!"

The demon turned to the old man and smiled, showing its fangs. "So little mage," it snarled. "Want to play?"

"Oh think up an original taunt," Bellerian snorted. Sketching an arcane symbol in the air with his staff, he spoke a single word of sizzling power. There was a blinding flash of light and the creature was gone.

Lystyr blinked and rubbed his eyes, then looked again. There was a rattle of falling stone, a creak of shifting timbers, and silence. The Chairman got to his feet as the dust settled and walked up to the old man, who was now flipping through the pages of his book. "Bellerian! You did it! You saved the entire city! How can we repay you?"

The old man scowled at his former apprentice. "Just remember what ye promised a moment ago. I may have forgotten more about magic than ye ever knew, but I still know more about magic than ye ever will!" he answered, poking Lystyr with the stick. "Eh? Now shut up, I'm looking for something."

Bellerian licked a finger and continued flipping pages in his book as Lystyr gazed in wonder at the wreckage around him. "Ah, here it is," Bellerian exclaimed. He waved a hand in the air and muttered a few words, then shut the book with a thump and walked off down the road, tapping his walking stick in an odd cadence.

Lystyr stood staring after the old mage until a sound startled him. A cold hand clenched his heart for a moment, thinking that the demon had returned, but as he looked at the ruins of the Council House, he noticed a stone move, then another. Slowly at first, then faster and faster, more stones came together, one upon another.

Right before Lysters astonished eyes, the Council House was repairing itself.

As he strolled along the street toward home, Bellerian allowed himself a small smile and, in the weathered old face, his once sad eyes now sparkled like those of a mischievous child.

Short Story

2008-02-15T00:59:26Z

For the first story ever, I present a ShadowDancer tale.
These stories are intended to be a hardboiled horror/supernatural sort of thing. They're intended to be pulp, so expect any horror elements to be fairly light-hearted rather than dark. If you're into really grim horror, I'm probably not the guy to go to.

So without further beating around the bush, I present...

Testament

Most of the people in the City, at least those who've heard of me, know me as ShadowDancer. There are a few who know my last name is really Malloy, but not even the bare handful of people who I might be tempted to count as friends call me Gavin. I'm a gumshoe, a shamus, a private eye... ShadowDancer Investigations, that's me.

The night this story started, I was sitting at my desk with my feet up, staring out a dirty window at the dirtier streets of the City and thinking some thoughts I'd be better off not thinking about. I was startled out of my gloomy reverie by the jangle of the bell over the hall door. Leaning over in my chair to see out the open door to the front office, I was startled again. The pretty blond coming in the door looked like she could probably be trouble, but not the kind that usually came walking into my office.

"Back here," I called, kicking my feet off the desk and standing to meet my guest. The way she came bustling in, with a perky step and a big smile on her face, made me a little wary. I honestly couldn't think of a time that perky had ever crossed my threshold, and the last woman that came in smiling was looking for a taste of my blood. As least this freckle-faced little thing didn't seem to have fangs.

"Hi!" The girl positively bubbled, exuding good cheer like a sunny day. She threw the dim shadows and grime of the rundown office into harsh relief as she stuck out a hand. "You're the detective?"

I nodded reluctant agreement as I gave her hand a shake and then waved her to a seat. I sat back down behind the desk and tried to smile, something I'd gotten out of practice with. I wondered what her angle was; she didn't seem like the scared or desperate, or even angry, sorts who usually show up looking for me. Only one way to find out, I suppose.

"So what can I do for you?" I asked.

“Well,” she said, seeming slightly embarrassed. “My name's Testament O'Reilly, but most folks call me Testy. And I'm looking for a job.”

I almost laughed, but I held it back. That was a new one. Most people I meet don't want a job; they want a job done, usually a rotten one. “Sorry. I work alone.”

“Oh no!” she protested. “I don't want to be a detective. I mean, I do, someday... that's why I want to work at a detective agency. That's my long-term goal.” She paused for breath, “But right now I'm looking for a job as a secretary. I'm a very good secretary.”

“I'm sure you are. But I'm not in the market for one.”

She looked doubtfully around the room at the cobwebs and dust, and at the pile of un-filed paperwork leaning in the corner next to the file cabinets in the front room. “I could do housekeeping too, around the office. I'm very good on the phone, and with filing. I take dictation, and I'm a very fast typist too. And I'd work cheap.”

“You'd have to. Most days I can't afford to pay myself.”

She laughed. Must have thought I was joking.

“Yes sir. I sure will. I just want to get my foot in the door. Give me a chance and before you know it, you won't know what you did without me.”

I shook my head. “Sorry. I've got an answering service to watch the phone, and I can peck out the occasional letter on the typewriter myself when I have to. I get by. And I really can't afford to take on anyone right now.”

“Are you sure? I'd do a really good job, I swear. I want to work in a detective office in the worst way and I've been all over town, and nobody's hiring.”

“Been everywhere else, and now you're willing to settle for me, huh?” As soon as I said it, I started to feel bad for needling her. It was kind of like kicking a kitten.

As soon as she realized what she'd said, her eyes got big and she slapped a hand over her mouth with a little gasp. “Oh no! I didn't mean it that way. I only meant that I'd been looking for so long and...”

It wasn't coming out much better that time either, and the poor kid looked like she might cry over insulting my operation, so I chuckled to make it okay and interrupted her before she dug herself in any deeper. “Don't worry about it. I wouldn't work here if I had better prospects either. But believe me, you don't want to get into this kind of work. It's not glamorous, it's not exciting except when it's dangerous, and there's not much money in it even when it is. And that's when you're working for the big guys, working for me you wouldn't even have it that good.”

I got up and walked around the desk to show her to the door. “Take some good advice, kid. Go apply at a doctor's office, or a lawyer. Maybe look into a clerk's job somewhere. You'll be a lot happier in the long run.”

She hadn't gotten up yet, just turned around in the chair to try out her puppy-dog eyes on me, when the phone rang. Suddenly her face lit up in a grin that was pure evil glee, and she snatched the phone off my desk.

“ShadowDancer Investigations, how may I help you?” bringing the receiver up to her ear, she spoke cheerfully into the phone as I scowled at her. “Yes sir. Of course. Just a moment and I'll see if he's in. Who should I say is calling? Thank you, just a moment.”

She pressed the mouthpiece to her stomach, to muffle it, and said, “A Mister Moretti wishes to speak with you. I can take a message if you'd like.” I held out my hand for the phone and she relinquished it with a smile. “Yes sir, I'll be right out front if you need me,” she said, in a voice loud enough to be heard over the phone, and pulled the door to the front office shut behind her.

Smart-ass dame. I held the receiver up a couple inches from my ear. “Yeah, Mori?”

"Mori" Moretti bellowed in my ear with his usual exuberance and I moved the receiver out a little farther still, hoping to protect my eardrum.

“Malloy! You're holding out on me. I ain't seen the rent check yet, and now I see why. You're spending it on a chipper young thing to answer the phone.”

“C'mon, Mori," I groaned. "You know I wouldn't do that. If I had the money, I'd have paid you the rent already. She doesn't work for me, she's just bucking for the job.”

“Yeah, sure. Does she know that?”

“She will. I was about to show her out when you called.”

“Why? She'd be good for you. Clean up that flytrap of an office, get someone to talk nice to the clients, and smile. It'd make a whole lot better impression than you and your scowling, and smart mouth. Maybe you could get some decent clients and make enough money to pay the rent on time for a change. Is she pretty? If she's pretty, that would be good for business too.”

“She's all right, if you like the cheerful type. But she'd drive me nuts inside of three minutes. I can't afford her anyways.”

“Sure you can afford her! Pay her with the rent money you're holding out on me. I know I won't see it, anyhow.”

“Damn it, Mori, I'd pay you right now, but I...”

He hung up on me. I swear the old gangster likes me not paying him. It gives him leverage when he needs a favor.

I dropped the receiver back in the cradle, set the phone on the desk, and pulled the door back open to see Miss O'Reilly sliding folders into my file cabinet.

“What do you think you're doing?”

“Oh nothing.” She beamed at me. “Just passing time till you were done on the phone. I like to keep busy and be useful.”

“It would be more useful if you'd stop messing up my filing system.”

“This is a system?” She arched an eyebrow at me and tilted her head toward the leaning pile of folders.

“Yeah, it's a system. And it's working fine, just like it is.” I crossed over to the hall door and held it open for her.

She made a production out of getting her purse off the top of the file cabinet, stalling for time. “Was that a client?” she asked, trying for conversational but sounding a little too interested.

“No. Actually that was the landlord wanting to know why the rent's late.”

“Oh.”

“Uhm hmm.”

“I suppose I should be going then.” She sounded doubtful.

“Yeah. You should. I'm sure there's a great job waiting for you just around the corner.” Hopefully I sounded optimistic. I was sure she'd be a credit to any normal office. “You should hurry so you don't miss it.”

“Miss what, Gumshoe?” a choking, gravelly voice whispered beside my ear. I must have been off my game. I usually see guys like him coming. Or smell them. This brute stank like he'd just crawled out of a fresh grave, and with good reason.

I craned my neck around to get a better look at the revolver that was shoved against my neck and then glanced up at the pale ugly mug it belonged to; a mug that looked like someone had slapped him a couple times with a dump truck. His shirtfront was black and crusty around the bullet holes.

“Oh. Hiya, Frank. I hadn't expected to see you again.”

Frank and his revolver shoved me out of the doorway so he could come in and then shut the door. Testament was looking at us with the biggest eyes I've ever seen, her mouth hanging open in surprise. This was exactly the sort of reason she didn't want to be involved in the kind of work I do, but it was a hard way for her to find out.

“Yeah,” Frank answered. “You thought you took care of me. But we gots some unfinished business.” He turned his attention away from me for a moment to address my erstwhile employee. “C'mon over here, girly. No fair sitting out the show.”

I glanced over at her, and shook my head just slightly, trying to tell her with my eyes to stay put. My old friend must have noticed the movement and disapproved. He belted me one across the temple with the gun and sent me reeling.

I fell over the davenport that was set out for clients to wait, as if I ever had enough clients to keep any waiting, and hit the floor hard. By the time I got my bearings I was flat on my back and the big guy was standing over me with a size twelve shoe planted on my chest, taking aim. I could see his finger tightening on the trigger and I could hardly believe it was going to go down like this.

I jumped when I heard the report of a small caliber gun and for just a second I thought I was dead. A second or so later, I realized I was still alive. And the goon was still standing over me with not only a gun, but a stupefied look. He lifted his hand up to the side of his head and felt around; then he stared in amazement at the gooey red stuff on his fingers and toppled like a felled tree. I barely scrambled out of the way in time to keep him from landing on me.

I spared a quick glance at the girl as she stood there with a nickel-plated .22 still aimed at the thug on the floor, lower lip clenched between her teeth and shaking like a willow in the wind. I was just as happy she was still aiming at the guy. It could prove useful. Leaving her there I scrambled for the back room and the cabinet with my special equipment.

I heard the screaming start before I got to the cabinet. I wasn't surprised, but I had hoped for just a little more time. I grabbed a sawn-off shotgun and an ax out of the cabinet, and was halfway back to the front office when the shooting started. Small caliber again, a very good sign.

I flung myself across the room and braced the shotgun, one-handed, against the doorframe, just as Testy's little pistol ran out of ammo. The big goon was halfway to her, and he looked like he was a little ticked off about all the new bullet holes she'd put in him. Luckily he'd forgotten he'd brought along a gun of his own, but I guess nobody can be expected to think so good with lead rattling around in his skull. Heck, his type usually don't think all that much at the best of times.

Testy was a Testament all right; a testament to courage. That girl had more than her fair share of guts. Her scream had died down to something more like a cat's snarl by the time she threw the empty gun at her assailant. It bounced off his head without doing any more than making him blink, but when she reached around behind her and sent my heavy old typewriter after it, that rocked him back a step.

Then I punched him in the gut with a 10-gage slug. That knocked him back a few more steps. The second one folded him up and dropped him on the floor long enough for me to reload. The third shot kept him there long enough for me to cross the room and get between him and Testy. It took a forth one to knock him back down when he tried to get up again. I shoved a couple more cartridges in the chambers and used a fifth shot to keep him down long enough to switch weapons.

I was definitely off my game, or old Frank was better than average at kicking and flailing. It took me three blows with the ax before his head finally rolled away under the end table, and his body stopped fighting its long overdue demise. It's a good thing they don't bleed much when they're already dead. I really couldn't afford a hefty cleaning bill.

I dropped the ax and sat down on the davenport to catch my breath. Testy, not looking quite so perky now, tried to lean on the desk and instead slid slowly down to the floor. Her face was dead white around the freckles and she was gasping like a fish out of water. Every now and then she'd get a word out. “That...” “He...” “Dead...” “Moving...” “He...”

I took pity on her and helped her up off the floor. I led her into the back office and sat her down in a chair. I shut the door on the grisly scene out front and collected the bottle of whiskey and a couple glasses out of my desk drawer. I poured us each a shot and slid one across the desk to her.

“That'll help,” I said. “And then you've probably got some questions.”

“Questions?” she squeaked.

Ignoring the glass, she reached across the desk and grabbed the bottle. Turning it up, she downed about three or four large gulps and set it back on the desk. She let out a long shaky breath. “Shouldn't you be calling the police? With all the shooting, someone's bound to, and with the body...if you don't...”

She let the comment hang, apparently not sure where to take it. I was impressed she could talk at all, much less worry about my problems. She'd had a pretty good shock, and I don't exactly water down my hooch.

I shook my head. “Nope. Nobody's calling anybody. That's one of the benefits of keeping an office in a building owned by a Syndicate member. Nobody asks questions, and nobody makes inconvenient calls to the cops. And the body will be right where I left it when I'm ready to deal with it. This time, at least.”

“A Mob building. Of course.” She really didn't sound surprised, not that she should since half of the city is Mob controlled; mostly this half, admittedly. And she was starting to get some color back too. She picked up the glass this time and took a more ladylike sip. “And the guy who wouldn't die was...?”

“Contract killer.” I took a slug of whiskey for myself. I wasn't as shaken as the girl across the desk, but it wasn't one of my best days all of a sudden. I had to hand it to her though, she was holding up a hell of a lot better than most people would.

She stared the question I hadn't really answered over her glass as she took another sip. I hadn't answered the real question for a reason. I wanted to give her time to consider whether she really wanted that answer. Most people don't. I gave her plenty of time; I even poured myself another shot.

“Contract killer?” she persisted.

I shrugged. “Long term contract. Some are more binding than others.”

She finished off her drink and slid the glass back across the desk. “You're shtill not splaining anything,” she said. Ha, I knew that bottle was the good stuff.

I gave her a hard look. “Are you sure, are you absolutely certain, that you want to know what went on in that room a few minutes ago? Are you really sure you wouldn't rather come up with a nice plausible explanation and go on about your normal life? Because once you open that door, it gets hard to keep it closed. What's behind that door will change the way you see the world. And not for the better.”

“I want to know.”

“You may not believe it.”

“Try me.”

“Fair enough.”

I explained everything. She took it a lot better than I expected.

She starts Monday.