'A Hunter and His Prey' Chapter Eight- Identity

Though he knew Nareena didn’t trust of the art of Focus, Jonah knew it was the only way they’d survive the harsh environment. He couldn’t use a travel Site again that day, but he created an alteration Site and stood in the center of it, pressing his palms to the Site around him. There was the scent of pudding, and a slight trace of urine, as his body was suddenly covered with bear fur. An animal howl loosed from somewhere far off in the mountains, and Jonah asked for forgiveness from the ursine he had just essentially stripped bald.

He led Nareena into a fresh Focus Site and repeated the process, watching as the white and gray fur of a timber wolf covered her.

“This is humiliating,” she murmured as she pulled on the fur that was temporarily attached to her body.

Portenda looked at them with a cock-eyed glance, and sniggered.

“You see? He’s laughing at us!”

“I’m laughing with you,” the Bounty Hunter said as he gusted a plume of warm breath into the mountain air. “Come on. We’ve got to head to Traithrock. By the way, Jonah?”

The Human Alchemist looked at Portenda with his bushy eyebrow raised.

“You do look ridiculous.”

Jonah shrugged, pleased that he was warm now. With a nod and his arms crossed over his chest, Jonah Staples followed Portenda the Quiet’s quiet, frozen lead down the slopes and onto the mountain pass.

For nearly an hour and a half, the trio from Ja-Wen continued on the mountain paths southward and west, making a beeline for Traithrock.

Jonah knew that they were marching through dangerous territory: mountain lions, crazed bears, snow wolves, dragons, chimeras, and other monstrous creatures of the land made their home in these mountains. Though, he thought brightly, not all of the breeds of dragon were vicious. Perhaps, if they were unfortunate to meet up with a wyrm, it would be one of the more intellectual sorts, and they could avoid a conflict.

The only sounds Jonah heard as they passed on toward Traithrock were the crunch of snow and ice underfoot and the occasional call or cry from an animal. Wind whistled past his ears now and again but only in short gusts. Portenda seemed to know the best paths and branches to turn down so as to minimize the harshness of the environment. Thankfully, fur he had acquired for himself and Nareena was holding up rather well, though now he itched like all Hells and had an unusual craving for raw trout.

Finally, he heard new sounds coming from perhaps two or three hundred yards away. Through the gently falling snow, Jonah made out smoke piping up from chimneys and forges, and his heart swelled with relief.

They would be in Traithrock in ten or twenty minutes, barring any interruptions. Jonah checked himself, however, as the moment he had thoughts like that, problems tended to arise.

Portenda came to a sudden halt, and Jonah bumped into his broad back.

The Simpa had pulled a small mirror of some sort from his pocket.

“Where did you get that,” the Human Alchemist inquired.

Portenda half turned to him, still looking at the mirror. “When I parried the Werewolf’s third overhead strike, I snatched it from his belt. I smelled Alchemy all over it, the same scent I detect each time you prepare a Focus Site. The air fills with a sort of faint ozone scent.”

Portenda watched as the mirror’s surface shimmered. A moment later, an ivory masked face filled the mirror’s surface, gray, dead eyes, not unlike Portenda’s own, stared from the eye slots.

The eyes widened, then the man on the other side of the mirror spoke.

“You aren’t Wren. What has happened? Wait, you’re the Bounty Hunter.”

“That’s right,” Portenda said coldly. “As for your mercenary, I don’t think he’s survived. We had been fighting in front of High Chief Ashkadu’s home. The Lizardman most likely made short work of your lackey.”

Genma chortled like a madman for a long minute, and then pressed his face closer to the mirror’s surface.

“I hardly needed him that badly.”

Jonah Staples shuddered down to his core. He recognized the voice of Genma on some primal, subconscious level. How? He couldn’t remember meeting the man.

Jonah lunged forward, pressing his hairy face as close to the mirror as he could, screaming at Genma.

“Bring my sister back, you freak. So help me gods, if you’ve done anything to hurt her, I’ll have your head put on a pike outside the gates of Desanadron.”

Genma laughed again, his mirth filled with malicious intent.

“Young Jonah,” Genma cooed. “Execute command seventy-three.”

The surface of the mirror went blank. Jonah’s mind did the same,

Portenda was about to ask Jonah what the Hells that had been all about but before he could turn, Jonah stripped his weapon and fired a single round from the Bounty Hunter’s pistol into his side.

The weapon’s power tossed Portenda to the snow.

Blood sprayed over Jonah’s facial fur, and Nareena screamed at the top of her lungs.

Smoke billowed from the barrel of the ancient firearm, and Jonah’s eyes remained blank. He turned toward Nareena, the gun still leveled at Portenda’s chest height. A shot would eradicate her head.

A moment before Jonah could pull the trigger, he was pummeled from the side, bull-tackled into a snow bank twice his height and many times his density.

Portenda held Jonah’s right wrist in his huge left hand, his eyes lined with fury.

“Nobody shoots me with my own gun.” He twisted Jonah’s wrist violently.

Jonah’s eyes cleared and he screamed in agony, the bones in his wrist crushed to a fine powder.

Portenda grabbed the gun, tossed the mirror in the air, and shot it with a single bullet, shattering it over his shoulder without looking.

“Jonah, what happened,” he said, pistol whipping the young Human.

A tooth came loose as Jonah put his left hand up in a plea of mercy.

“I, I don’t know,” Jonah moaned, rolling onto his side as Portenda got up off of him. “I, I’ve heard that voice! I recognize him, but I don’t remember why. I wouldn’t have done that on my own.”

Jonah thought back to the last time that he had blacked out like that, back in Satory. Portenda had forced a situation, and Jonah had reacted with a speed and course of action that he was only partially familiar with. Now, on the word of a man he couldn’t be certain he recognized, he had shot his only hope of finding his sister.

The Bounty Hunter bled heavily on the snow-covered slopes.

Pain flared in Jonah’s right arm, where his wrist had once been and he sat up as best he could, drawing out a healing potion and downing the entire vial in a few seconds. His arm went numb as the potion went to work repairing his shattered wrist.

The Simpa Bounty Hunter holstered his firearm and hefted Jonah to his feet.

He pulled out his auto crossbow, which he had crushed when he fell from the gunshot and tossed it into the snow, deciding that he didn’t really need it anymore.

Nareena, he noted, still trembled. After all, she had been moments from death, and her lover was the one who was going to kill her. Her trepidation was understandable, but none of Portenda’s concern. He felt himself withdrawing into the cold, dark space that he had carved for himself over the years as a Bounty Hunter. He felt distanced now from Jonah, because now, he felt he had to keep an eye on the Human Alchemist for more reasons than protection.

Without another word, Portenda moved back onto the road to Traithrock, his wound slowly closing as it regenerated.

His body temperature had dropped three degrees from the loss of blood and the environment. As he looked back over his shoulder at the two Alchemists, he noticed strands of animal fur falling away into the snow. Their alterations were fading away, and they had perhaps another twenty minutes before they were exposed to the elements again. Luckily, Traithrock was closer than that.

He led them on towards the gates of the Dwarven capital.

Jonah and Nareena both held themselves, shivering when they stopped before five armed Dwarf sentries.

Axes and pikes in hand, the heavily armored mountain men took defensive postures as Portenda approached, and the Simpa came to a full halt.

“Who goes there, that seeks entrance into der city of Traithrock,” one of the horned helmet-wearing Dwarves asked aloud.

“I am Portenda the Quiet,” the Bounty Hunter said softly, his voice and presence reaching out to the Dwarves, who suddenly felt humbled.

This man could kill them all in the blink of an eye, they thought, and they took up more relaxed stances.

“With me,” the Simpa continued, “are Jonah Staples and Nareena. We come seeking shelter from the elements, and a place to stay for a couple of days. An accident has caused our Alchemical form of transport to malfunction.” He kept his voice at a monotone the whole while. Dwarves possessed some of the keenest scientific minds of all the Races, second only to Gnomes.

The Dwarves all looked to one another and nodded. The shortest among them stepped forward, sheathing his axe as he looked past Portenda to Jonah and Nareena.

“Your Focus Site was disrupted?” he asked.

Jonah nodded in response. He didn’t feel much like talking. Since his blackout, Nareena had stayed a good four or more feet away from him, as if she expected him to snap again. His heart sank to his stomach, and he felt the urge to wretch.

“Ah. Well, at least you came here before nightfall.” The Dwarf straightened and looking up at Portenda, who positively towered over the bearded mountain warriors.

“Jaft raiding parties have been attacking travelers out in the open these last few weeks. They aren’t like their noble kinsmen,” the Dwarf said, showing his natural appreciation for the gruff blue skinned humanoids. “These attack innocent people, even Monks and Clerics. We know of you, Portenda the Quiet, and we know you are capable. But twenty Jaft warriors on one Simpa and a pair like these,” the Dwarf said, indicating Jonah and Nareena with a tilt of his helmet. “Well, those aren’t exactly good odds.”

Portenda nodded, and the guards opened a space between them, allowing the trio to enter the city proper.

Portenda wasted no time, taking the two in his charge directly to the Hotel Outlander, a Dwarven-run establishment that serviced the members of the taller Races. It was a large structure, made entirely of stone on the outside and inside.

The city’s eldest leader, Morek Rockmight, had extended a line of credit for Portenda at the inn, and he intended to use a couple of nights of it.

Today, Jonah and he would have that long talk.

He led the way to the lobby, which was blissfully heated by a series of metal shafts connected to a large, coal burning furnace down in the basement. The entire building was warmed this way, and Portenda rather enjoyed the environment whenever he stayed.

“Two rooms,” Portenda said to Tograk Stonehewer, the inn’s owner and manager.

Tograk was a Dwarf of nearly five hundred years. Most Dwarves died of natural causes at four hundred and fifty, at the oldest. Somehow, Tograk had held on longer.

Probably because he has nobody to inherit his estate or business, Portenda thought briefly. The man had never married, never had children, which were two things that Dwarven society treasured more than gold. Family meant a lot to the Dwarves of Tamalaria.

“No offense meant,” Nareena chimed in. “But, I’ll bunk by myself tonight.”

Jonah felt something break inside him, but he understood her feelings. He wasn’t sure himself whether he posed a threat to her or Portenda.

“I had planned on that,” Portenda replied, his voice filling the room with a chill so deep that Jonah thought he had been encased in frost. “Jonah, you stay with me tonight.”

The Human Alchemist hung his head like a lost puppy.

“Here are your keys, Mister Portenda.” Tograk smiled at the Bounty Hunter. “I must say, I’m surprised you’ve got company. You’re always alone when I see you,” the Dwarf said.

“I usually prefer it that way,” the Bounty Hunter replied.

He handed one key to Nareena, and the three separated as Portenda opened the door across the hall from Nareena, and tossed Jonah inside by the shoulder.

Jonah stumbled as he tried to catch himself on a bed.

Portenda closed the door and locked it behind him, winding several inches of wire around the doorknob before connected to his spear, which he set against the wall. If someone tried to enter, they would be struck on the head by the blunt end of the weapon.

This took him only a few moments, after which he turned to face the boy, who had sat down on the bed, slumped over, his face in his hands.

“Jonah, it’s all right.” Portenda let a bit of concern into his voice. He had to approach this delicately, he knew. He had, essentially, a one-man hostage situation here. The day’s events had rocked Jonah’s confidence to the core of his being.

“No it’s not,” Jonah groaned through tear-wracked gulps of air. “I’m a freak. I’m a threat to myself, to you, and to Nareena. Do us all a favor and just kill me now! Then you can get my sister back for my parents on your own, without having to worry about me turning on you again.”

Portenda sat down heavily next to him on the bed, his knees bunched up against his elbows.

The bed was sized for a Human or smaller creature, and Portenda almost looked ridiculous enough, hunched over as he was, to make Jonah laugh.

Almost.

Portenda put one thickly muscled arm around Jonah’s shoulder in a friendly gesture, and squeezed.

This was, Jonah thought, out of character for Portenda. After all, he had shot the Simpa. He expected to be slapped around.

“Jonah, I have some things to tell you, and some things you should read for yourself.” Portenda drew out the manila folder from his rucksack.

Jonah’s name was emblazoned on the cover, and the Alchemist took it from Portenda’s hand.

He flipped it open and began to browse through the reports and information sheets.

“Jonah, I’ve seen what’s happened to you before, in kidnapping contracts. It’s an old form of mind control, called brainwashing.”

“I’m familiar with the concept,” Jonah said slowly. “But I’ve never been abducted. Nobody’s ever held me long enough to do something like this. Not that I can recall, anyway,” he amended, thinking of the time when he was thirteen, and a group of Elven girls had taken them to one of their basements, to pretend he was their servant while they played silly girl games. But that didn’t seem likely to have created these problems. They had been kids, just doing kid stuff. Nareena had been there, too, though she had been the oldest of the girls and was supposed to be babysitting them, not letting this sort of thing go on.

“Therein lies the problem.” Portenda got off of the bed and paced across the stone floor. The carpeting was thin and offered little padding, but he didn’t mind. He had always gone barefoot, even here in the blistering mountain regions. The calluses on his feet were thicker than some leather boots, and he liked it that way.

“If you were brainwashed, the one who did so to you would have used a subliminal command to clean your memory of the incident. So, as far as you or I know, you have been abducted once. Not, of course, while you were living with your parents,” he added with a soft smile, looking kindly down on Jonah. “I have the feeling your father would have dealt with the villain rather harshly.”

“You have no idea,” Jonah said. “I remember this one time, when I was in grammar school, the principal lashed me with a belt for blowing up the science room. I had just started getting into Alchemy then, and, well, my first healing potion turned out to be somewhat explosive.”

“What happened,” Portenda asked, genuinely interested.

“Well, when I got home, I told my dad,” Jonah said, taking a trip down memory lane. “He walked me up to the school, stormed into the principal’s office, and before Mr. Macgregor could do anything, my dad took the belt from his own waist and grabbed him! He pulled him over that big oak desk of his and wailed on his back,” Jonah said, making the same arm motion his father had. “It was great! My dad lashed him, must have been ten or eleven times before he let him go! And when we were leaving, he shouted at him, ‘Don’t you ever touch my boy again, or next time I’ll have you arrested!’  I think that was the moment I was most in awe of my father.” He brought to mind the image of his father, toiling away in the back garden while his heart strained with worry for his children.

“We’ve got to get my sister back, Portenda,” he said grimly. “My father and mother can’t take this sort of strain too long. They’ll die of worry.”

“No they won’t,” Portenda said, sitting heavily across from Jonah. “They won’t because they’re strong people, Jonah, and because we’re going to bring you and your sister back to them. I would suggest that when we do, you stick around for a while. Make sure things settle back to normal before you go taking off again.” He got up once again, and stared down at Jonah for a long, silent minute. “Read over those files. Don’t leave the room. I have something to check on.”

He undid the spear trap as he opened the door. “Reset this when I’m out,” he said over his shoulder, leaving Jonah Staples in the hotel room by himself, to learn about his own past.

* * * *

“We understand, sir,” one of the Dwarf Sergeants said as he rifled through a cabinet of files and folders.

Traithrock had peace accords with many of its nearby neighbors, and some with cities clear across the continent. Though great warriors, Dwarves preferred cooperation and group profit to war and individual victory. As a result, the main police station in Traithrock towered over the rest of the city, standing at seventeen stories in height, though they were numbered one through eighteen. The thirteenth floor had been labeled the fourteenth, due to the superstitious nature of the humble mountain folk.

Portenda had asked for all records and files concerning Jonah Staples and an Elven Alchemist, the girl, Nareena. He didn’t have a last name to go by, and had simply asked that they bring him any matches they had for her. He had also inquired about anyone by the names Genma, or Kobuchi, the Kobold servant to the abductor.

His request had been a large one, and would take several hours to process, so he had been shown to a waiting lounge with comfortable sofas and a collection of books to read. One other occupant sat across the room from him, a Cuyotai youth who was filling out an application for citizenship, and another one for entry into the Traithrock police. His yellowish fur told Portenda that the youth was from one of the southeastern provinces, near the great desert known as the Desperation. Not many men or women could make a living in that wasteland, but one particular tribe of Cuyotai had been famous for surviving there. After a few generations, their offspring had begun to take on the characteristics of the desert environment, including sand-colored fur to effectively camouflage themselves. The youth smiled at him a few times, his brow breaking into a cold sweat.

“Don’t be nervous,” Portenda said softly. “Just answer all of the questions honestly, and shortly. Dwarves don’t like reading long responses: they haven’t the patience. Reading to them is impersonal. They prefer to read short responses, and hear long ones.”

The young Cuyotai nodded his understanding. 

Portenda, bored witless, picked up one of the books and turned to the first page. It was a Dwarven novel, written by one Alfred T. Sunstone, a Dwarven author of some note. He browsed through the first few pages, but found that the hints he had just given the Cuyotai were true also of their literature. Very short and to the point. Not a lot of description, not a lot of character development. He turned the book aside, and looked around the room.

Patience had always been one of his strong points, he thought as he mulled over his current situation. He had decided not to make another move without trying to figure a few things out. Thus far, he had come across no reports of Jonah having been abducted, and there were only a handful of times in his life when he couldn’t be accounted for. Payment receipts for the few jobs he had held were on record, and most of his youth had been spent with his family. Only on a couple of occasions, the Desanadron records stated, had the minor been taken out of the city by someone other than his immediate family, and that had been by his uncle Allen. But Allen had, according to public records, died when his house near the Allenian Hills had gone up in an explosion.

His entire family had been unaccounted for, but Portenda requested all records concerning Allen Staples and his family anyway.

Tired beyond measure, he stretched out on the couch for a quick nap.

The next thing he knew, he was being shrugged awake by a Dwarven constable of the Corporal rank.

The corporal had a large stack in his left hand as he shook Portenda with his right. “Sir, the copies you requested.” The Dwarf set the stack on the floor. It came up to Portenda’s snout as he sat on the sofa.

“Ah, gods,” he muttered, shaking his head. “How long was I asleep?”

“About two hours,” The Cuyotai youth in the corner, now being fitted by another Dwarven constable for his uniform, replied. “Citizen,” he added with civic pride.

“Hell’s bells.” Portenda rubbed his eyes. “Certainly doesn’t feel like it. Thank you officer,” he said to the Dwarf in front of him. “Here,” he said, handing the Dwarf one of his pouches of money, with fifty gold pieces in it. Money went a long way in Traithrock, as Dwarves used gems for most of their purchases, and coin was not common here. “Put it to good use for the department.” He took the first folder from the stack, and began to read more about Jonah Staples.

* * * *

Genma had broken his own mirror shortly after the connection had been severed. The incompetent boy hadn’t killed either the Bounty Hunter or the girl. In a fury, Genma had punched his mirror with his bare hand, and the already mangled flesh had been lacerated badly.

A potion did the trick, but the pain was still there.

Kobuchi now stood in the doorway, a torch in his hand. The Kobold was bold to bring a source of light to his private chamber.

“Kobuchi, why do you have that torch,” the Alchemist growled deep in his throat.

“No disrespect meant, sire,” Kobuchi said, his voice quavering. “The manticore was rather agitated when I went to feed him, and I thought perhaps I should keep some flames around. You know, easy access,” Kobuchi said.

He was an adept of Pyromancy, but his skill with the fire magic was very basic, and he preferred to have flames present if he needed to use those powers. His preferred method of magic was Aeromancy, an art he had mastered many times over. But such spells had little effect on the various guard creatures that his Master employed for defense and attack duties. Fire, though, did the trick quite nicely.

Kobuchi was weaker within the tower, magically speaking, because of the Manna Converters. The girl had found them, he knew, because he had spied her opening the Interior chamber door. She would never be able to use the computation machine, but her own magical nature would surely show her what the apparatus was used for.

“Why was the manticore agitated,” Genma asked out of the shadows he sat in.

“Couldn’t be certain, my lordship,” Kobuchi lied. He knew the girl had tried to go downstairs. “Perhaps because he hasn’t had any, um, fun, in a while. You know, live food.”

Genma grunted in response from the darkness. “You’re probably right, Kobuchi. See to it that he gets something fresh in the next day or so, keep him on his toes. After all, I doubt the Bounty Hunter or the boy are ever going to arrive,” he said. “The mercenary is dead, by the way,” he rasped to Kobuchi.

“The Bounty Hunter?”

“Satory’s High Chief,” Genma said. “Portenda the Quiet chose just to defend the boy and the girl. He could have easily done Wren in, though. That speaks volumes to me about his character.”

Genma turned in the swivel chair to look out at his Kobold servant.

“Sire, if I may speak openly?”

Genma waved his barely visible hand to Kobuchi, who sighed and relaxed a little.

“He’s just a Bounty Hunter. Sure, he’s good, but the boy surely can’t afford his help much longer. And you and I both know they’re all the way in the mountains now. Even if they use the Focus Site again, they can’t know where we are.”

“That, my friend, is where you’re wrong. I don’t believe, for starters, that the Bounty Hunter is being paid.”

“That’s foolish,” Kobuchi said, meaning Portenda. “A Bounty Hunter needs to be paid. Otherwise, why bother calling yourself one? Why would he work for free?”

“I’m not entirely certain,” Genma admitted. “Still, the fact remains that he is most likely doing this all gratis. Pro bono, if you will. The second point is, Jonah Staples is a terribly skilled Alchemist. He could find us if he got close to the tower. The prismatic barrier would be simple for one of his skill to break.”

The masked man was referring to an illusory and force wall that was set up around the perimeter of the tower, in order to hide it from plain view. Anyone who got close enough to the force wall would set off mecha sensors that would alert the guard beasts throughout the tower that there were intruders. One by one they would attack the intruders, until they were dead. Only twice had anyone wandered onto the premises, but Genma had spared the second one. It had been a boy of no more than twelve years of age, and he and his friends had been playing a game of kickball in the fields near the barrier. After seeing the manticore, the boy had suggested, rather shakily, that they move their game far, far away.

“Sire, how do you know about the boy? What aren’t you telling me?”

Genma said nothing, but chuckled low under his breath.

“Leave me now, Kobuchi. Keep an eye on the girl. It will only be another week before everything is in readiness. A few more adjustments on the instruments, and we shall be ready. Oh, and Kobuchi?”

“Yes?”

“You say she’s named the pet?” Kobuchi nodded curtly. “Go ahead and have its name engraved on its bowl. I’ll let her keep it. I owe her that much.”

Kobuchi, confused beyond reason, closed the door behind him as he left. His Master was acting strangely, even more so than the girl upstairs. What could be going through his head?

Genma removed his ivory mask in the darkness, and pulled out a small mirror from one of his coat pockets. He stared at the face looking back at him. “I owe her that much,” he said in a voice choked by regret.

* * * *

“That took quite a while,” Jonah said as the Simpa came through the door with a stack of folders.

The spear came down, but Portenda caught it with a flick of his wrist, pulling it off of the wall.

He had discovered some disturbing facts while at the police station, and he hadn’t reached the last quarter of the files. He set the stack down at the foot of his bed and tossed four folders to Jonah.

“Why do I feel more like a detective right now than a citizen?”

“Because detective work is part of my trade,” Portenda snapped as he opened another folder. “Sorry. I just feel like I haven’t slept in a long time.”

His nap had been like blinking, and it still disturbed him that he couldn’t get any rest. “I’ve given you Kobuchi’s files and what I think will interest you the most. Your father’s files.” There were two thick folders for each, and Jonah opened his father’s first.

His entire military profile had been condensed into shorthand on thirty sheets of parchment in each folder. His father, apparently, had been an accomplished and decorated man.

Portenda kept from Jonah the two files that he had read before coming back.

One was a rather short profile listing on a man known as Genma, a profile report taken by a constable in the Golden Empire, also known as the Fiefdom of Lemago. Not much had been written about the man, just that he had been in the area searching for Alchemical ingredients. Some side notes had been made about the man’s mangled hands, and his purchase of black leather gloves. Another side note mentioned a strange black cloak that the man wore, which appeared at times to be alive. His registry signature had been copied into the file.

The second file had been lengthy, and told of the man called Allen Staples. An accomplished member of the Tamalarian Alchemists’ Alliance, Allen Staples had rediscovered ancient tomes of Focus deep in a set of ruins in the western territories. He had mastered Focus Sites quickly, and became known around the realm as the Focus Alchemist. Several of his articles on the practical uses of Alchemy in agriculture and other fields of everyday use filled the file. But one particular item had sent a chill down his spine as he had read it in the police station.

For that reason, he didn’t let Jonah see those files. As the night fell upon the city, the Human fell asleep sitting up, his face buried in Kobuchi’s records. Portenda gently laid him to sleep.

“I know you now, you bastard,” Portenda growled to the room in general. “I know who you are.” Portenda went to the window and looked out to the darkened city. The bodies of Allen Staples’ family had been discovered months after the explosion at his residence, far from the home. They had been traveling into the Allenians, the reporting officer had guessed. But Allen had never been found among them. And a medical examiner had reported that the family had been killed before the house had gone up in flames.

Using all of these facts, and one other piece of evidence, Portenda had discovered Genma’s identity. The last straw had been the signatures.

Allen Staples’s and Genma’s signatures were essentially the same.

* * * *

The second floor above her own had revealed to Eileen the extent of Genma’s power. This floor, the seventeenth of the tower, as the door leading in to the corridors had indicated, was filled with works in progress.

Two huge chambers took up the entire floor, one on the left, and one on the right hand side of a narrow corridor, much like the conversion floor below. In the left chamber, she had discovered half a dozen beasts in cages. All were inactive or incomplete, but she could tell that these creatures would become more of the guard beasts that Genma commanded.

One of the few creatures that was awake and aware appeared to be a freak crossbreed of a Jaft and a Dwarf. The man wasn’t just using animal subjects; he was using people in his twisted experiments.

The baleful creature was muttering something to itself, its blue and black flesh contorting as its face twisted with rage. Its right arm, from the shoulder down, appeared to be made of some metallic material, and Eileen realized it was an artificial limb, molded directly into the Alchemical transformation.

She got closer to the cage, but stayed out of reach of the long, foreign arm.

“Kill, me,” it said.

Though it pained her to do so, Eileen had thrust her left palm through the bars, pressed it flat against the abomination’s forehead, and cast a Raybolt that utterly destroyed the creature.

“May you rest in peace,” she whispered to the empty air.

Half an hour later, she was seated at a desk in the opposite chamber, which appeared to contain only one cage, covered in a shroud of crimson fabric. Something beneath c rattled the bars of its cage, but made no other noise.

Eileen tried to ignore it as she poured over the charts and maps that had been left on the desk in the left corner, directly parallel to the door, which she had left open.

Blink napped in her lap as she examined the maps, trying to find a hint, some clue as to where her tower prison was located.

Something in the room over her head had hummed and pulsated the entire time she had been here. She knew she had to be close to the top of the tower. Soon her explorations would become meaningless, unless she could find a way past the manticore on the fourteenth floor.

That’s when she came upon something Genma had not meant for her to find: an interior map of the tower.

It was a crude design, more of a sketch work, and she realized that it might not be completely accurate. Still, it was better than nothing.

She scanned the crinkled, yellowing document, then stared in disbelief at the signature of the designer in the bottom right corner of the map.

Impossible, she thought. “That can’t be.” Then she shrieked as a heavy, leather glove fell to rest on her shoulder.

“Oh, but it is,” Genma said. He spun her swivel chair around to make Eileen face him as he tore the ivory mask off of his face. “Now give your uncle Allen a kiss.”

A banshee roar blasted from Eileen Staples’ lungs, tearing the air itself with a horror more acute than glimpsing the first layer of the Hells.

Genma tapped a nerve in her neck, and Eileen slumped to the floor, unconscious.

Blink stood in a guard stance on her back. The Alchemist put his mask back over his burned countenance, and laughed derisively.

Allen Staples left his niece on the floor of the Edge’s chamber to sleep it off.

* * * *

When the sun filtered light in through the chamber windows, Jonah awoke to find himself staring at sheets of information. He took Kobuchi’s file off of his face and rubbed his bleary eyes. He had caught glimpses of strange creatures in his dreams, creatures that tore at his flesh and snapped crudely fashioned jaws at his throat.

As he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, he looked down at his rumpled clothes and wondered how much longer he could press on in these conditions. He was not the strongest person in terms of body, heart or mind. He needed a whole day of rest sometime soon, though that didn’t seem fair now that he thought about it.

Portenda the Quiet, the Bounty Hunter of fame, sat in the window, looking out.

Jonah stood and also looked out to the city of Traithrock, watching as teams of three and four Dwarves took large shovels and cleaned the main roads of the overnight snowfall. They worked in perfect unison, clearing huge tracks of road in little time, and with little effort. “Sturdy folks, Dwarves,” Jonah commented.

Portenda said nothing, just staring out the window. “So, what’s on the agenda for the day?” Jonah continued.

Portenda was still taking in the fact that so little information was available on he himself. A long tally of his collected bounties was in his record folder, but little else. It was as though nobody was really interested. Constables had issued a few notes and bulletins warning others in their organizations against interfering with the Simpa’s hunts, but aside from this, there was nothing. It was, in a way, depressing.

Jonah waved a hand in front of Portenda’s face.

Portenda snatched Jonah’s hand, stopping it and looking hard into Jonah’s eyes before letting go of his wrist.

“Is something wrong,” Jonah asked in a whisper. “Are you still angry with me about yesterday? Because I don’t know what happened.”

Portenda just shook his head as he looked out the window one more time. Without a word, he strapped his armor on and his weapons, collected his rucksack, and turned to Jonah.

The Human Alchemist, disturbed by Portenda’s apparent return to form as Portenda the Quiet, stepped into the bathroom and splashed ice cold water on his face to wake up.  After drying his bristly face, which would be in need of a shave soon, he too got his things ready.

The two men exited the room in silence.

The Bounty Hunter rapped on Nareena’s door and the Elven girl opened it an inch, bleary eyes trying to come into focus on her companions. “Give me a few minutes,” she groaned through a throat still thick with sleep.

Portenda’s nostrils flared as he sniffed at the air through the crack her door was ajar. He heard the clink of equipment being packed away, and glass vials slipped into leather notches on a belt.

Portenda detected the scent of herbs and, to his interest, silver.

The rushed movement on the other side of the door pushed air over Nareena’s body, breaking over extended arms and a brow that dripped with cold sweat. He could just make out the faint splash of it on the floor.

From early in his career as a Bounty Hunter, Portenda had noticed that the less he spoke, the more powerful his senses became. Today, he had resolved to do little more than observe Jonah and Nareena and try to determine what was really going on between the two of them. The Elven girl had avoided Jonah since the incident the day before, and Portenda knew more than fear of the Human Alchemist kept Nareena at bay. When Jonah had taken the pistol from Portenda’s holster, he had immediately inscribed a Focus Site along the barrel, transforming the small firearm into a cannon capable of massive destruction. Portenda had spotted recognition in Nareena’s eyes in that moment as she’d peering through the wolf fur. She had seen such acts from Jonah in the past, and she didn’t want Jonah to know, he surmised.

The Elf woman opened the door all the way now, and Portenda and Jonah both took a step back. She wore a pair of denim pants much like Jonah’s, tattered and worn and frayed at the ankles. She had strapped thick boots on her feet, and under a thick fur coat, she wore a plain, white tank top. Her ample curves were highlighted by the tight clothing, and Jonah had to suppress the urge to groan like a lust-driven idiot.

“What,” she asked, looking back and forth at the two of them.

Jonah blushed, and much to his surprise, so did Portenda. The Simpa turned around and stalked slowly away.

“Look, Jonah, about yesterday, I’m sorry I freaked out.” Nareena lightly touched his left forearm.

Portenda watched them out of the corner of his eye as he half turned back to them.

“It’s just, whatever happened to you back there, it was kind of scary. I’ve never seen anything like that,” she said.

Liar, Portenda thought. He took in the rapid increase in her heart rate, the secretion of the bitter-smelling acid that mixed with her sweat. Not many humanoid creatures knew it, but all humanoid Races had glands in their flesh that produced this acidic fluid. It mixed with sweat when they became nervous or tense, and this fluid, Portenda had noted over the years, was primarily secreted when nervousness or tension were brought on by lying. They hadn’t even left the inn, and already one of Portenda’s objectives was complete.

“It’s all right, Nareena. I don’t blame you.” Jonah put his hand over Nareena’s, kissing the back of it as he let go.

His own heart rate jumped, but Portenda discerned that this was due to his affection for the girl. Blood rushed through the boy’s vessels, a good deal of it southward.

The Alchemists followed Portenda to the check in desk, where the innkeeper informed the Bounty Hunter that Morek Rockmight wanted to speak with him.

Portenda nodded wordlessly, and exited the building, Jonah and Nareena in tow.

“He hasn’t said a word all morning,” Portenda heard Jonah whisper in Nareena’s ear. There was a hint of concern in the Human’s tone, but Portenda noted more fear than concern in his voice.

The Bounty Hunter mentally chided himself for being this way with the Human and the Elf girl, but he had to do it, just for today. Tomorrow, he resolved, I’ll make up for it.

“Well, he is called ‘the Quiet’ Jonah,” Nareena said. “Maybe he already used his month’s ration of speech.”

Portenda heard Jonah’s abdominal muscles clench as he held down a chuckle. Despite the caustic nature of the joke, Portenda had to mentally laugh as well. This did seem silly, after all. He had company. He should be taking advantage of the rare situation.

The trio approached Morek Rockmight’s home slowly, and Portenda listened in once again on Nareena. “Hey, if we find an inn to stay at again tonight or go back to that one, I’ll make it up to you for last night,” she whispered.

Portenda cursed his heightened hearing for a moment as he held a hand up for the two of them to stop.

“Is something wrong, Portenda?” Jonah asked.

The Bounty Hunter shook his head, and stalked up to the porch of Morek Rockmight’s abode. He knocked on the door twice, and a minute later, the Dwarven Boxer opened the door.

The years had aged him more than Portenda had realized. He had not been to see Morek for ten years, since he had taken a contract to find his wayward son. Morek’s long beard was now completely covered with gray, and his arms had shrunk a little. His muscles had not been needed much in the twenty years since the War of Vandross. His dark blue button shirt bulged, though, as he retained a very well kept frame.

“Portenda the Quiet.” Morek smiled through his thick beard and mustache. “I just wanted a minute of your time. Can we talk?”

Portenda said nothing, but made a small hand signal, and Morek nodded. “I understand. Good thing I know sign language. Please, sit.” He indicated a set of stone chairs a few feet away on his porch.

The Simpa and Dwarf sat down across from one another, and Morek’s attendant brought him a cuppa.

“Thanks Sam,” he said to the Gnome attendant, who offered Portenda one as well.

The Bounty Hunter took it and drained the cup’s contents greedily. He hadn’t slept much, again, and needed the extra boost.

‘What’s on your mind?’ he signed to Morek.

He heard Nareena ask Jonah what he was doing, but the boy just shrugged his shoulders.

“There’s been a lot of talk from our scouts. Seems one of them saw the boy shoot you with that firearm of yours.” Morek took a slow sip of his cuppa as Sam brought Portenda a second.   Without preamble he continued down off of the porch steps and offered cups to Nareena and Jonah as well, the two of them admiring the surrounding landscape of the city.

Portenda drained half of it, and set the cup and saucer down on the table. He admired the Dwarves’ ability to shape stone through a force of will unique to their Race. It was much like the Elves’ ability to shape wood. The mugs they were currently drinking out of were made of thinly formed rock, painted with a careful hand in shades of brown and green.

‘I’m investigating the boy’s powers and the disappearance of his sister,’ he signed rapidly. Morek nodded and sipped his drink.

“Oh, so nothing to worry about, then,” he said, signing just out of the Alchemists’ sight. ‘I don’t trust the girl,’ he signed.

‘I’ve looked into her. She’s no threat,’ Portenda signed. Morek nodded. ‘Why bring it up?’

“Well, I mention the incident because our miners found something interesting the other day.” Morek stood and pulled down his shirt. “There was a chamber down in the ground, a shelter of some sort. We found a few mecha weapons, big stuff,” he said. “Thought you might be interested.”

Portenda raised an eyebrow, and signed. ‘That’ll have to wait.’

“We brought a couple of them up, actually,” Morek said with a wide smile. “Sam, bring the long one out.”

The Gnome attendant disappeared into the house for a few minutes while Portenda waited. He returned bearing a huge, metal cylinder with a wood stock handle.

Portenda recognized it immediately for what it was: a shotgun. “What do you think?”

‘Not really my style,’ Portenda signed. ‘It’s called a shotgun. Powerful in close, but no good at range.’

“Roit, roit. Sam, get the other long one, you know, with the little doodad on top,” Morek said.

The Gnome heaved an impatient sigh as he stalked back inside. He returned a minute later with a similar weapon, single-barreled, with a long, rectangular tube atop the main barrel.

Portenda viewed the weapon, and found that he hadn’t seen or read anything about it. But he did know what the tube atop the barrel was. It was a sort of looking glass for magnified aiming. He instinctively liked it.

‘How much,’ he signed.

“Consider it payment due,” Morek said, and Sam handed the rifle to Portenda.

The Bounty Hunter stood and hefted the weapon. Heavy, he thought, but not too heavy. He turned out to the street, and aimed the weapon to the sky, looking through the spyglass. A bird crossed his field of vision, already enhanced by both his strange innate power, and the scope. He could make out every speck of water and sweat on the bird’s body, the tension of its back muscles as it flapped its wings. When he pulled the rifle down, he found that he could barely make out the dot of the animal in the sky. He had handled rifles before, but none as large and clearly powerful as this, and certainly none with such a magnificent sight on it.

‘Reminds me of the long sniper bows,’ he signed with one hand. ‘I’ll call it a sniper rifle.’ Using the leather strap as a sling, he strapped the weapon over his shoulder and across his back, letting it hang over his rucksack for easy access. ‘Was there anything else you needed?’ he asked with his hands.

“That’s all for now. But I’ll send for you if something else comes up,” Morek said as he shuffled slowly towards his front door. “Oh, and Portenda?”

The Simpa turned around halfway down the steps fronting his home.

“Take care now,” the Dwarven Boxer said with a serene smile.

The Bounty Hunter approached the two Alchemists, drew out a pad of paper and a pen from one of his vest pockets, and scribbled something hastily. He showed his message to them, and Jonah and Nareena glared at one another for a moment.

“Are you sure? I mean, look at what happened last time,” Jonah said.

Portenda scribbled furiously on the pad once more. “Okay, okay, we’ll do it. You’re right. I did say that the last Site was disturbed. We should do it someplace inside, though, to make certain nobody tramples it.”

“Agreed,” said Nareena. “Maybe the library would do.”

“I’m not so certain I trust libraries anymore,” Jonah said as he scrunched up his face. “I mean, that mercenary sort of ruined them for me.”

“Yeah, well, I’m the one who almost got split in half, if you recall,” Nareena chided him. “Besides, I think it’s the only building that isn’t full of Dwarves or Jafts. Let’s go.”

Jonah turned around and followed, with Portenda taking up the rear.

The trio walked through the crisp mountain air of the city, careful to avoid drawing unwanted attention. The miners were all heading to the shafts to work, and several of the smiths had started their labors for the day.

Near the eastern edge of town they halted before the tall brick structure of the library. Portenda listened for voices through the walls but heard nothing save for the occasional turning of pages. Not many: two or three, he thought. From the scent of the cheap aftershave, he guessed that they were Humans come through on study.

Nareena once again took the lead, and the trio entered the massive main chamber of the library.

A building consisting of one main library, a records room, and a basement filled with governmentally protected reference manuals, the library of Traithrock was not often frequented by the townsfolk. As he had predicted, Portenda saw a pair of Humans, most likely mages of some sort, scanning through tomes of black, leather-bound pages. They paid the trio no heed.

The librarian herself, a Jaft woman with a wool dress worn under an open-fronted fur coat, eyeballed them suspiciously over the top of her book. Jaft females, unlike their male counterparts, were able to grow shoulder-length hair on their heads, and did not emanate the powerful natural odor. This was due, it was theorized, to their much less powerful regenerative capabilities, as well as their slightly less muscular frames.

“Can I help you find something,” she muttered over her book.

“No, actually, we need to use some floor space,” Jonah said with his most winning smile. The Jaft woman was thoroughly unimpressed, and waved a hand dismissively at them.

“Do what you like, as long as you don’t damage anything.” She returned to her book.

Jonah cringed as he viewed the title of the book, How to Mate With Humans, a Guide to Jaft-Human Relations. He took out one of his last remaining sticks of chalk, and stepped forward, asking Portenda to move the chairs in his way.

As the Bounty Hunter did so, he looked around at the library; it was solid, sturdy, and there were chests with large padlocks on them scattered along the walls of the main chamber. Undoubtedly a large array of weapons was held in them, and this structure was likely a fall back point for defending the city from intruders.

Portenda took a brief look around the shelves of fiction held in the standing racks a little ways away from Jonah and Nareena. The two were working in perfect unison.

With nothing to do, Portenda examined the novels before him: a collection of mystery novels, mostly written by Gnomes and Humans.

After three minutes of searching, he found the one he had been looking for. The Secret of Jauxis, written by James Akado. He slid the book from its place, approached the librarian, and set ten gold pieces on the counter.

“Buying it outright, are you,” the Jaft woman asked.

Portenda nodded.

“That’s way more than it’s worth, you know?”

Portenda said nothing, but simply clutched the book under his right arm.

“Have it your way,” the woman said, taking the money off the counter and slipping it into a drawer in the wooden desk.

Portenda moved over toward the Alchemists as the flash of light revealed a white, plain door.

Jonah stepped through, then Nareena, and finally, Portenda himself.

For a moment, he lost himself in that corridor of darkness before flying out the other side onto a cobblestone street, mere inches from Jonah’s retreating foot.

“Well we’re here,” Jonah said as he dusted himself off. The surrounding townsfolk didn’t react in the slightest to their abrupt appearance in the middle of one of their city streets. Portenda stood and glanced around. They had arrived where they should have the day before, near the center of the city that all of Tamalaria referred to as the ‘Magical Capital’.

“Welcome,” said a friendly voice. An Elven Aquamancer dressed in light chain mail approached them with his hand thrust forward. “To Palen, city of magic.”