TARN & BECK (3 page)

But the Vampiric ripped the musket away from Tarn. Tarn shielded himself, bracing for the Vampiric’s bite. Perhaps it was just what he deserved after all of these years trying to escape his past, and get away from the horrors he had committed as well.

The monster reared up with fangs bared, about to dive into his prey. But then a swinging shovel, wielded by Beck, knocked the monster off of Tarn.

Tarn looked up, stunned as Beck, enraged, swung and hammered the shovel into the lifeless Vampiric monster multiple times. Who was this man that had stepped up to save him?

“This! Is! Not! Supposed! To! Happen!” Beck screamed in between swings.

Exhausted and finally satisfied that the monster was dead, Beck threw the shovel aside. He leaned over, panting and almost hyperventilating as Tarn stood up and joined him, still in shock.

“You okay?” Tarn asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine. What about you?” Beck asked.

“Same.” Tarn said, not sure what else to say.

Beck straightened up. “Okay, great. What is that thing?”

“Not sure.” Tarn frowned, studying the monster. “But then again, there are bound to be more monsters out there than I’ve ever seen.”

Tarn approached the monster’s remains as Beck remained standing to the side. Monsters were something out of a horror story to Beck, but he knew that they existed, too.

“But they never come close to the city. Not like this before.” Beck said.

Tarn looked back at Beck. “Perhaps they are getting desperate. Hungry for food as more people flock to cities and towns for work.” Tarn said.

Tarn bent down, examining the monster’s form and face. Beck threw his hands up in frustration.

“Oh, great. Now we’re getting a monster mass migration.” Beck said.

Tarn looked up at Beck. “People go look for opportunities when there’s none to be found where they are. Why wouldn’t monsters do the same?”

“Don’t they have territories, hunting grounds of their own? Wouldn’t these monsters rather stay at home?” Beck asked, gesturing to emphasize his point.

Tarn appeared grim, a thought or memory occurring to him. “People don’t stay where they belong. Sometimes they’re driven out.”

“Huh?” Beck asked, curious. “What are you talking about?”

However, Tarn went back to his examination, avoiding that troublesome thought or memory. He couldn’t handle it right now after all he had been through, and he had to focus on the present.

“I think I’ve heard of something like this before. A Vampiric, a flesh eater of the dead.” Tarn looked up at Beck, serious. “More of a vulture than a vampire.”

Beck shivered. “Oh, that would be just what we need, a vampire.”

Tarn stood up and rejoined Beck. “At least he’s dead. Less trouble to kill than a vampire from what I’ve heard.”

“It was still pretty difficult.” Beck shuddered. “I can’t imagine what a vampire would be like.”

The two of them stood there, awkward, quiet, and grim without anything more to say as they glanced at each other. Who was this other person standing next to me, they both wondered to themselves, and could they trust that person?

“So are you going to arrest me?” Beck asked.

Tarn sighed. “Not tonight. You’re free to go. I think I found the real culprit.” Tarn glanced at the Vampiric, and the remains of his friend, Ralph.

“Sorry about your friend.” Beck said.

“He was good to me. Gave me this job when no one else would.” Tarn said, mournful.

“Shame.” Beck said, looking down, acting as morose as he could for Tarn’s benefit.

Tarn escorted Beck to the graveyard fence in case there were any other monsters around. “You should get out of here and go before someone sees you.” Tarn told him.

“Thanks. Hey, my name is Beck. What’s yours?” Beck turned and held his hand out to Tarn with a warm smile.

Tarn hesitated, but then shook Beck’s hand. “Tarn.”

They held hands and smiled at each other as Beck shook Tarn’s hand again. “Tarn. Well, nice knowing you.” Beck said.

Beck let go of Tarn’s hand, waved at him, and then approached the fence. As Tarn watched, Beck climbed up the graveyard fence and jumped down on the other side.

Beck grabbed his bag of gold coins hidden in the bush, smiling as he examined them. But then he hesitated, glancing back toward the graveyard fence. He did owe something to Tarn, after all, for letting him go like this.

Tarn turned to go, certain he wouldn’t see Beck again. Just like any other common thief he had met before. But then Beck appeared at the fence again on the other side, holding out a gold coin to him.

“Here, Tarn. For your trouble.” Beck said.

Tarn looked back at Beck and the gold coin and shook his head. “No, I really shouldn’t.”

Beck waved the coin at Tarn. “Come on, you did me a favor. And I want to repay you.”

Tarn hesitated, staring at the coin, and then recognized it in some shock. He grabbed the coin from Beck, examining it closer.

“Where did you get it?” Tarn asked.

He looked up, but Beck had already left him alone. Tarn pocketed the coin for now and went to fetch a constable and several guards to report Ralph’s death and the Vampiric monster.

It was a bit of a step for him to alert the authorities like this, but he should get used to acting like a concerned citizen with nothing to hide. Ralph at least deserved some proper care even in death and people had to be warned if there were more monsters like this Vampiric in the area.

Chapter 3:

The Gold Coin

A couple hours went by as the constable and guards questioned Tarn, examined the two bodies, and then removed the monster for further study at the university while Ralph was taken to a funeral parlor. Tarn was released by the constable and allowed to go home, but he was warned that he might be needed for further questioning at a formal inquiry.

Tarn agreed, though he was nervous about further probing by the authorities into his background and the events of that evening. They might be tied together if his hunch about the coin was right.

He went back to his small flat and changed out of his blood-splattered uniform, throwing it away when it couldn’t be salvaged. He didn’t know if he still had a job at the graveyard as a night guard when Ralph was the one who had vouched for him. He didn’t particularly feel like he wanted to return there again.

He removed the gold coin, however, from his uniform’s pants and laid it on his nightstand so that it wouldn’t be lost. He washed himself as best as he was able to with a little soap and water, trying to get rid of the smell and stain of blood and death.

He changed into his nightclothes and attempted to sleep a little, very tired. But he couldn’t rest for long as his eyes kept straying toward the gold coin and he relived the horror of that evening over and over again.

Finally, in the early morning hours before dawn, he gave up the attempt and decided that he had to know more about the coin now, perhaps before it was too late. He changed into regular street clothes and pocketed the gold coin before he headed out to the only place and only person he knew of who might be able to help him now.

In the middle of a grim, gritty neighborhood, the exterior of a small, classically designed, but austere museum towered above everything else. The museum had been built in better days when a wide promenade and market had brought tourists and visitors to the area.

Though some of that prosperity had fled the area for other neighborhoods, the museum still remained a prominent attraction for scholars, renowned for its staff and collection. Tarn walked stridently, yet cautiously up the museum steps, not wanting to draw any attention to himself from guards or early-morning risers who might be wandering the neighborhood.

However, Tarn was already being watched from afar by a shamanic wizard dressed in voluminous robes, currently observing Tarn from the mouth of an alleyway close-by. The wizard had tracked Tarn down after hearing about the Vampiric attack and followed him from his flat to the museum without Tarn knowing.

Meanwhile, Tarn knocked on the museum’s front door, currently locked. The sound echoed through the small, cramped museum lobby with not even a guard in sight at this early morning hour.

However, a light did shine out from underneath an office door as Nutmeg, a studious, firm woman in her late twenties, hunched over her work inside the office. She mumbled to herself as she translated a difficult passage in an old book and didn’t pay any attention to the knocking.

“Hello! Is anyone in there? Nutmeg! Are you there?” Tarn shouted through the museum’s front door as he persisted in knocking.

His faint shout drew Nutmeg’s attention at last as she glared at her office door.

Tarn was pressed up against the front door now, banging on and shouting at it. “I know you’re in there, Nutmeg! You never leave the museum! Not when there’s an exhibition of your work!”

Meanwhile, Nutmeg furiously crossed the museum lobby, feet pounding on the floor until she finally unlocked and flung open the museum’s front door. Tarn sagged forward a bit, but caught himself as he nervously looked up at her.

“That’s not to say you should leave. You can do whatever you want. I’m a great admirer of your work.” Tarn said.

Nutmeg blew aside a loose strand of hair and leaned against the doorway. “What do you want, Tarn? I’m busy.”

Tarn reached into his pocket and held up the gold coin that Beck gave him. “I want you to take a look at this. I think it’s from Bretha.”

Nutmeg rolled her eyes, annoyed. “If this is another counterfeit--”

Tarn shook his head. “I swear to you, this is genuine. Or at least as genuine as I know it to be. I need you to confirm this for me, please.”

Nutmeg snatched the coin from Tarn and casually examined it, then leaned in closer for another look. Finally, they wound up back in Nutmeg’s office with Nutmeg using a large magnifying glass for a close-up view of the coin.

She now had various books spread out over her desk, some of which contained symbols similar to the ones on the coin, and others of which had maps of the lost civilization of Bretha. She also had a small tray with several chemical reagent mixtures set up to analyze flakes or chips from the coin for its mineral and magical content.

Tarn sat in a chair off to the side, watching Nutmeg work as she wrote down notes and checked reference and results. “So what’s the verdict?” Tarn asked after about an hour.

Nutmeg looked up from her inspection. “This coin is definitely old, at least a couple thousand years old, according to chemical analysis. Yet in surprisingly mint condition.”

“So it could be from Bretha?” Tarn sat up a little straighter, staring.

Nutmeg nodded and handed an opened book to Tarn. “It’s from the right time period. And the coin’s design does match the technique and aesthetic used by that culture.”

Tarn examined the book page, which showed illustrations of various coins from ancient cultures and civilizations and a minter making one. “Carroll used to be obsessed with these Brethan artifacts. He would stop at nothing to hunt them down.” Tarn said.

Nutmeg grimaced. “I know. He’s gotten pretty infamous these last four years pilfering archeological sites. He killed an assistant that got in the way. That’s why we had to hire my brother to become a guard.”

Tarn looked down. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know it had gotten that bad. On top of his highway robberies--”

Nutmeg reached over and gripped Tarn’s arm. “You got out of there, safely, before he and his men could harm you. Or you became a murderer and thief like them.”

Tarn brushed her hand away and she let go, turning back to the coin and writing. “You could try donating this coin to the museum if that might help ease your guilt.” She muttered.

Tarn moodily stared off into space. “You can take it. It means nothing to me.”

“Thanks. But the real problem here with this coin, of course, are the sigils printed on it.” Nutmeg remarked.

Tarn looked up at her. “Aren’t they part of its design?”

“Not originally. I think they were stamped on here by court magicians. Maybe working for the cult of the god of death, Towasa.”

“Towasa?” Tarn asked, horrified.

Nutmeg looked up at Tarn. “Yes, do you know about it?”

Tarn sat there, panic mounting. “I know that Carroll had a really big belief in this Towasa crap. That there was magic that could prevent death. Eternal life and power.”

Nutmeg whistled, shaking her head before going back to her work. “Magic can’t go that far. But it can still be dangerous. If these sigils do have magical properties, then the coin might be more valuable than its material wealth.”

Tarn hesitated, thinking. “Should I draw a copy of one of the sigils? Maybe show it to a hedge witch to hear her opinion on its power?”

Nutmeg waved at him. “Go for it. I’m not a magical expert and we probably need a second opinion here.”

Tarn nodded and soon left, heading down the museum steps and crossing the street to search for a hedge wizard with a paper etching of a sigil in his pocket. The sun was starting to rise and he hoped that one of the local hedge wizards might already be accepting customers at this early morning hour.

Meanwhile, the wizard watched Tarn’s departure, but didn’t follow after him as the coin he needed and wanted was still inside the museum. He could sense the magic wafting from it, the power drawing him in and calling to him from across the city after it was unearthed.

It was how he had tracked Tarn down and followed him to this museum, and now he would get this coin and its companions back. The wizard signaled his cronies, a group of Carroll’s bandits, and they snuck out of the alleyway and across the street to the museum.

Nutmeg was examining the coin once more when her office door burst open, causing her to stand up and set the coin aside. Facing the crowd of bandits and the wizard, she muttered, “Oh, hell.”

A short while later, Tarn raced back to the museum, climbing the steps as the sun rose higher in the sky. He had seen a local hedge wizard, who identified the sort of magical spell associated with the sigil and it wasn’t anything good. Indeed, it promised long life to its bearer at the cost of his or her soul.

Tarn wasn’t a superstitious man per se, but he had seen and experienced a lot in his time, and he knew that there was real magic out in the world. Perhaps the spell wasn’t effective and it was just a bunch of hokum, but he thought that he and Nutmeg should be careful.

Tarn paused at the top of the steps, staring in horror at the broken, shattered front door of the museum. “Nutmeg!” He cried.

It was just like Ralph all over again, and his parents a long time ago, why did he bring all of this trouble and tragedy down on those closest to him? He frantically stumbled through and over the smashed remains of the door and skidded through the museum lobby, praying that she would be all right. He ran toward Nutmeg’s office door, which was also busted open.

The office was a wreck with papers, books, and equipment strewn everywhere and shattered glass from the broken magnifying glass and chemical beakers was also scattered across the floor. The desk and chair had also been knocked over and Nutmeg was lying on the floor, half sheltered by the fractured furniture.

Tarn ran over and bent down by Nutmeg’s side to check if she was all right, his heart pounding in his chest. She had been roughed up, bruised and bleeding, but she was still alive and grimly trying to get up.

“Oh, Nutmeg, what happened? Who did this?”

Nutmeg looked up at him, angry. “Carroll, of course, or at least some of his crew. They’ve been following you and the coin.”

Tarn groaned. “Oh, hell, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. How could they have found me?”

Nutmeg shook her head and examined her office and the wreck it had become. “Well, it did. It’s going to take me weeks to clean all of this up and reorganize my research. Valuable information has probably been lost.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll help, any way I can. I’ll go get the constables.”

Nutmeg turned to him. “Never mind that for now. They took the coin and a wizard was with them. He cast a tracking spell on the coin to find the rest of its collection. You didn’t tell me there was more.”

Tarn was horrified. “Are they trying to find--Beck! That spell would lead them right to him!”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about. But the spell apparently sent them to Willow Street in the Outer Ring neighborhood. To The Duke Boardinghouse.” Nutmeg said.

Tarn was panicking, thinking of facing Carroll again after all these years, and another innocent person being caught up in this web of death and destruction that seemed to surround him. He didn’t know if he could handle all of it alone, but he was still trying to reason things out.

“That must be where Beck lives. He probably took the coins there.” Tarn said.

“If you want to try helping your friend before Carroll and the rest of his gang do, then you should probably go there now.” Nutmeg said.

Tarn nodded and ran for the office door, but he stopped in the doorway to turn back to Nutmeg. “Thanks for telling me about this. I’m so sorry about this mess. I’ll do anything I can to repay you one day. Thanks!” Tarn waved good-bye to her and ran off, his footsteps soon fading.

Nutmeg sighed and examined the wreck of her office. “What am I going to do? The thanks I get for trying to help a friend out.”

Tarn and Nutmeg had been friends for a couple years now, ever since Tarn first came to the city of Silvo and tried to sell her some counterfeit artifacts for the museum. Not the most promising start to a friendship for an archeologist and scholar like her, but he was understanding, intelligent, compassionate, charming and knew a lot about the black market and artifact thievery, which made him a good informant.

Sometimes they went months without seeing each other, usually when Tarn was pursuing a job elsewhere or she went out on a dig. But they met up every now and again to exchange stories, information, and news and have polite, general conversations with each other.

It was usually a nice, friendly meeting between them, although Tarn would sometimes get distracted or lost in his own deep, dark thoughts, his mind wandering. She would have to snap him out of it or else he might get lost in such a fugue state.

She wondered what had happened to him in the past that he never spoke about. He told her a little about Carroll and his days as a thief and highwayman in Carroll’s gang, but he never said anything about his life before then and his recollection of the years since he left Carroll’s gang were splotchy at best.

In any case, she knew that he had suffered a lot in the past, but she hoped that he was happy in his life now. Maybe he might find some more friends, besides her and the graveyard guard Ralph, to help him out in his troubled state.