The Wizard Killer - Season One: A Post-Apocalyptic Fantasy Serial (8 page)

The bartender takes a step backwards, her open hand disappearing below the bar. “Then we’ve got a problem,” she says, her voice a bit stilted and with a real edge to it.

I run my free hand along the cold, metal railing and sigh nice and loud. My other hand has an iron grip on my pistol which she’s eyeing intently.
 

The creaking of old knees and the skidding of chairs behind me confirms that my time’s just about run out. Sweat drips from my forehead, and runs down my back. My mouth’s dry and my mood’s eroding like a sandy cliff in a hurricane.

The only thing holding me back is knowing how stiff and sloppy this body is, and not being able to count on it. At least I’m shooting better than I remember. But against this group, I’m not sure I’m getting out without some kind of help. A small part of me wonders if I should just surrender my weapons, but the rest does its best to pound those thoughts into the back of my mind.
 

Staring up at the bottles on the shelf, it dawns on me that I don’t even have a way to pay. Way to go, smart guy. You come waltzing in, stirring up trouble, and even if they agreed, you’ve got nothing. I need to stop being an idiot.

I turn to the bartender again, a forced smile on my face. The dark side of her face is even more unnerving now that I’m looking at it dead on. It’s wrinkled and leathery, like it’s from an eighty-year-old woman who’s spent her life in the sun. But the other half looks like that of a reasonably attractive woman in her twenties, maybe thirties.

“Last chance to—” she stops herself and starts sniffing the air like a dog. Her one good eye is closed and her head is moving left and right. I resist the urge to pull back as she comes right up close to me. At first it seems funny, then weird, but when she opens her eye, a memory cracks through. “Yigging leecher!” I yell. As I move to step back, she leaps at me, grabbing my pistol arm.

In a heartbeat, the world falls away.

Shaking my head, I give myself a good slap. I can’t afford to fall asleep, not when there are Scourge Patrols about. A shiver goes down my spine as I think of those elite squads of soldiers, each led by a ruthless, devoted acolyte. While the will of soldiers may waiver, even with their enchanted armor and weapons, an acolyte will rarely ever deviate from the orders of the ruling Wizard or their delegates. The last thing I need is to be asleep when they show up, and they will. I can’t avoid them forever.

Waving the smoke from the putrid-smelling campfire out of my face, I pull the raggedy furs up and tighter. It’s cold, and the wind’s whistling in the background.
 

Looking up, I’m confused by the complete lack of stars. Feeling something in my hands, I find a dirty, wooden bowl. It’s empty of its vile contents, which I can still feel slithering down to my stomach. The taste is still lingering, as is the appreciation for having had a meal.

Squinting at the others sitting around the fire, I feel I know them. It’s weird. Closing my eyes and concentrating, I’m certain I’ve been here before. Opening my eyes, I glance about. Wasn’t there a leecher? I rub the back of my neck. I must be losing my mind. This feels right. Maybe I’d nodded off, had a bad dream for a minute. I can’t shake the sense that this is all so familiar, it’s almost a memory. The leecher thing feels further and further away with every passing second.

The shadowy forms are huddled together for warmth and protection. They aren’t taking any particular note of me, leaving me to my less than social ways. We’ve been hiding for days, moving every two nights or so. They’re risking their lives to protect me, all because I showed them the Scourge Patrols aren’t immortal like they pretend to be.
 

Rubbing the middle of my forehead, I think back to a week ago. I was passing through a market here in the under-city of Banareal. Only the poor and ruthless opportunists live in the shadow of the great floating behemoth that is Banareal. It’s cold and little grows. They say that benefits trickle down from the top of the ruling Wizard’s tower where he stays, down to the people, but like so many things, it’s fiction meant to pacify the masses.
 

Scratching my stubbly face, I can’t remember why they were hunting me. I remember killing the acolyte, that arrogant yig. The Scourge soldiers were already laying waste to the market before that, but after, they went completely crazy. Hiding behind their painted masks, they unleashed the worst of themselves. And with the acolyte killed before their very eyes, the people had risen up with me. It was horrible but just, to see the soldiers ripped apart. For every person the soldiers killed, there were ten more to take their place. Before other Scourge Patrols showed up, I was ushered away.

With a heavy sigh, I glance around at the people again. I have a horrible feeling that their kindness is going to be rudely rewarded, but I don’t know why.

I reach down and touch the ground. I don’t expect it to be firm, flat and dusty. Craning my head and squinting into the dark, I realize we’re inside an abandoned building, likely in the basement.

Around the campfire I hear the worried voices of children asking the same questions they’ve asked for days, and tired parents who are losing faith in their answers.
 

Putting my hands out to warm them, I’m surprised to see my tattoos. Why am I surprised? I’ve always had them.

I stand up and put my back to the fire, staring into the inky darkness, waiting. Something’s supposed to happen. Something’s coming and it should be here any minute. Maybe this is a memory?
 

A glint of light shows up in the distance, and then wavers, it’s beam becoming wider until it’s pointed straight at us. They’ve found us.

“Scourge!” I yell to the group, but it doesn’t help. By the time anyone understands what’s going on, I’m sent flying into a column.

This Scourge’s acolyte isn’t a rookie. He issues his commands quickly and clearly, and then moves as a blur of blue and silver.
 

My world’s spinning. If I had any weapons, they’re gone. There’s a boot keeping my head down and a blade touching my back. The taste of blood and dirt helps keep me awake. I gaze out helplessly at the slummers.

One by one, they’re cut down, until only a mother and little daughter are left. I remember having watched the mother run her finger along the inside of her dinner bowl and hold it out for the girl to lick.

As the daughter is pulled away, the mother throws a soldier to the ground. Despite her petite frame and lack of formal training, she puts up a good fight until three of them are on her. The acolyte laughs and takes an interest. My stomach turns as I suspect what’s coming. I’m tempted to look away, but I can’t, it feels like I’d be abandoning her. I try to stand but the boot and blade remind me that I’m not going anywhere.

The acolyte waves away the soldier who is holding the daughter. The kid wisely just stands there. Some points of light circle around her. Probably floating lanterns.

With a sharp gesture and whispered word, the acolyte forces the girl to her knees, and with another, makes her lean forward, head out. The acolyte is so wasteful with his mana, I can feel the residue on my face from here.

He walks over to the girl, paralyzed with fear and held in place by his will, and raises a hand above her neck. I remember the first time I’d seen an acolyte behead someone with their hand, it’d sent a bolt of fear through me. They love doing this to the stunted. Yes, that’s what they’re called. Those who can’t touch the world of magic and mana. There are the Wizards, the acolytes, the adepts, the wesleks, and the stunted.
 

I’ve heard a million screams, but never one like the one that which erupts out of this mother. It’s the scream of the powerless trying to shake something loose in the universe, trying to shock Fate into giving them a chance.

Her face contorts and her body twists. She manages to knock one of the soldiers backwards, and then to my surprise, she sends another flying one several feet. Limply, the woman hobbles forward. I notice the shadow of only one arm at her side, and as she comes into the light, I see the other one’s curled up to her chest. She bends down and grabs a stone.
 

“What did you just do?” asks the acolyte, speaking for the two of us. I can tell by the look on his face that she didn’t just throw those soldiers, she must have done something else to them.

The mother pulls her arm back and when she lets the stone go, there’s a boom. The acolyte falls forward, light shining through a fist-sized hole through his chest. The daughter collapses to the ground in tears.

The mother clumsily dashes for her daughter and then skids to a stop, resting on all fours. Half of her body seems dark, and only one eye’s shining in the light. Her nose is raised in the air. What’s she doing? The soldiers don’t know what to make of her or the death of their leader. She turns about, sniffing and then glares hungrily at a particular soldier. I can tell by his uniform that he’s an adept, able to enhance his skills with mana. It’s a massacre. I barely get out of there, the only one alive.

“Leecher…” I whisper as I pass out and the world slips away.

My head hits the floor with a wallop. The leecher bartender leaps over the bar, kicking me accidentally on her way towards the door. She’s yelling something, but I can’t make sense of it.
 

Staring at the ceiling, I feel weak and drained. What could have made her leave? Then I hear the screech of the carnu. Yig, they’ve tracked me down.
 

All I can manage is to roll my head a bit to the left and right. Spit’s riding down the side of my face, and my arms and legs are jelly. The only thing I can feel is my heart pounding so hard I can barely breathe.

The sounds of battle are drawing closer, though it’s strange. The only actual voices I hear are that of the leecher and the carnu, no one else.

At one point, one of the carnu screams in pain, and I immediately remember an image of a Wizard’s laboratory, and tables upon tables of strapped down stunted being experimented on. “They’re made… yig, they’re experiments… I was there when they made the first one.” I’m surprised by my own words. Narrowing my eyes, I focus in on the memory as much as I can. My heart skips a beat and I glance about frantically, muttering the truth I finally can grasp, “They were made to hunt and kill rogue wesleks, adepts, and acolytes. Yig me.” I force my body to turn so I can stare at the door. “He’s coming and nothing’s going to stop him.” Gritting my teeth, I force my head up and try to get my upper body to follow suit. “Come on.”

In the doorway are two silhouettes, probably what’s left of the original patrons. Outside, I hear one of the carnu roar and a loud whooshing sound. Whimpers follow.

I’ve only got sensitivity in one finger. Carefully, so as not to get the attention of the patrons who are preparing themselves for the inevitable, I run my finger over my body until I find my short sword. “Oh Mother of Mercy, thank you for still being there,” I mutter. Taking hold of it, I wait. Nothing happens. Blinking desperately, I think about touching the etched markings at the base of the blade again. Taking in a big breath, I get my head up again and watch as my clumsy fingers finally get the job done. With a sigh, I take some healing and pull all the remaining mana out of it, which isn’t much.

As I roll over on to my chest, my body now only feeling like I’ve been in a bad bar fight, I hear the wood crunch at the doorway. Glancing up, I swallow hard. The scarred carn is staring past the two patrons and right at me.

episode sixteen

One of the silhouettes raises his pistol at the scarred carn. It reaches out with its muscular clawed arm and takes hold of him. The old man struggles and then goes up in flames in the carn’s iron grip. The doorway and wall catch fire while he burns. Giving the smoldering corpse a shake for good measure, the carn then throws the remains into the corner.

As the other patron backs away, I realize it’s one of the cloaked women from the card game. She’s holding two long, serrated blades in her hands and is shifting her weight back and forth trying to find an opening.

The carn shifts its attention to her and takes two more steps into the bar. Pushing its shoulders down, I watch in disbelief as its mage-head rises up on a black and spiny tendril. Panic runs rampant through me, and I start shaking my hands and feet violently to get them to wake the yig up!

The mage-head moves like a serpent, floating three feet from the body, which is taking steps to counter each one taken by the woman.

When the yig did carn get the ability to do that? Why didn’t it do that before? I glance about. It must be the confined space. Yig me. “Come on, get up!” I tell my fumbling body as I try to get everything in place to stand.

The carn starts emitting a disturbing clicking sound from its chest. It’s out of synch with the movements of the skull. It’s dizzying, making it hard to think. I focus on the floor and try to block it out. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a shadow growing behind the carn. A nervous chuckle escapes me as I try to imagine who would be so foolish as to approach a carn.