'A Hunter and His Prey' Chapter Seven- Broken

When Jonah and Nareena entered the door, they found themselves flying through a tunnel flanked on all sides by shadowy creatures out of nightmare.

The black-fleshed monstrosities made no move toward them, seemingly engaged with one another in conversation or, in some instances, combat.

When an open door appeared before them again, they hurled themselves through it and landed in a heap in the center of a town square.

Jonah pushed himself up off of Nareena, who rolled out of the way as Portenda came bustling through, also airborne.

Had she not rolled away, she thought with a heave of her chest, the Simpa would have crushed her.

“Damnation.” Portenda growled, rubbing his head as he stood up.

Several dozen armed Lizardmen had formed a circle around them, their spears and swords at the ready.

Jonah slowly raised his arms, as did Nareena, and the Human Alchemist smiled at the nearest guard.

“We’re just passing through. It was Alchemy, that’s all.”

One large Lizardman, his scales shimmering in the dim sunlight the clouds above let through, broke through the ring of guards. He wore a sleeveless vest made of purple cotton, tied shut with a black sash. His pants were white and baggy, allowing for flexible movement, and his feet were bare. He bore no weapons, and as he circled the group, his tongue flicking out to smell them.

“Nisha kim goaku,” he rasped.

The guards lowered their weapons and disbursed.

The Lizardman before Jonah stood only an inch or so taller than he, but his arms and legs were as thick as tree trunks, and his body was heavily muscled beneath the tunic. His head, Jonah noted, was not covered in scales completely. A half-moon crescent mark rested just beneath the slit of his left ear.

“Koma ko antapibi,” he shouted at the citizens.

They all quickly returned to their activities.

The Lizardman turned to Jonah and graced him with a reptilian smile. “My apologies, young man,” he said in a thick, tribal accent. “We are not accustomed to having travelers arrive in such a fashion. I was sent for when one of the guards saw a white door appear out of nowhere in the middle of our town.” He gave the three of them a graceful bow. “I am Ashkadu, High Chief of Satory. And you three are?”

His manner was formal, all three noticed, but he beamed a smile at them that seemed, well, genuine. This man was clearly not the typical politician. Then again, few Lizardmen could call themselves politicians. In Lizardman society, mediation is when the leaders of two warring tribes get together and bash one another’s head in with clubs until one of them passes out. That man is declared the loser of the debate.

“I am Jonah,” Jonah said, returning a small bow of his own, though not nearly as graceful, he thought. “This is Portenda,” he said, waving his hands at the Bounty Hunter, who bowed deeply with one arm over his chest. Ashkadu smiled broadly at the gesture. “And this young woman is Nareena.”

The Elven girl curtsied as politely as she knew how.

“Ah, yes. Now that introductions are out of the way, might I ask that you review this leaflet?” Ashkadu handed them each a pamphlet. In large, italicized letters, the cover said simply, ‘Laws of Satory, a guide for outsiders’.

Much to Jonah’s discomfort, the pamphlet was terribly thin, and he had a sudden feeling that there weren’t many rules to follow in this town. Luckily, Satory was a fraction of the size of Desanadron or Ja-Wen, and he could hoof it out of town if need be.

The Lizardman turned around and started to walk away.

“A moment, High Chief. If you will.” Portenda sauntered to the Lizardman, giving the Alchemists a hand signal to wait where they were.

Jonah tried to lean forward to listen in on Portenda’s whispered conversation, but Nareena took him by the arm and pulled him back.

Jonah blushed for a moment, and gave her a smile. He opened the pamphlet and started to read the very short list of laws in Satory.

“What do you require, young man,” Ashkadu asked of Portenda.

“There is a man, a tan Werewolf with a black streak along the right side of his face,” he whispered. “We are going to be staying here for a couple of days, nothing more. But this man may pursue us. If he arrives, make certain your guards do not attempt to engage him.”

The Lizardman gave Portenda a curious glance. “My guards are more than capable,” Ashkadu said.

“Your men have bronze weapons and their circle around us was not complete. Their leggings are poorly made, Human smithy work from the looks of it,” Portenda said.

Ashkadu’s eyes widened.

“Whoever you paid for them took you to the cleaners on them. I could have amputated all of their legs in a manner of a minute or so,” Portenda reported flatly.

Ashkadu faced Portenda with rage in his slit-like, reptilian eyes.

“Do not be angry with me. I am simply giving you the facts,” Portenda said.

“So it would seem,” Ashkadu said. “I too was not pleased with the craftsmanship of the leggings, or the fact that the weapons were made with bronze instead of steel. I suppose you know what Class I am as well?”

“You’re a Monk,” Portenda whispered evenly. “The sash, the sleeveless vest, the baggy pants to allow for wide stances and swift kicking. The way in which you hold yourself, no weapons of any kind on your person,” he continued. “Your men were also trembling, their muscles were tensed. None of them expected us to come flying through that door. Then again, neither did we,” he added with mild irritation.

Ashkadu threw his head back and cackled. “You are amazing, Portenda. How did you observe so much about us in so little time?”

Portenda shrugged and remained silent.

“Very well. Trade secrets, I understand. I shall inform the guards that they are not to trifle with this Werewolf you speak of. It is getting late in the afternoon, however. When the sun sets, bring your friends with you to my home. It is the only red house in the town, a mark of the High Chief’s residence. We shall share dinner and discuss your situation.”

“What situation?” Portenda raised an eyebrow.

“People who drop out of holes or doors in midair tend to have situations, my friend,” Ashkadu said in a sage manner. “One does not live so long as I have without knowing such things.”

Portenda grinned at the old Lizardman’s back as he walked away among his people.

“Come on, you two,” he said gruffly to Jonah and Nareena. “We have questions to ask and a dinner engagement in a few hours. Let’s get moving.”

* * * *

Wren Headsplitter escorted the mangled Gnome shopkeeper through the streets toward the Byron Aixler Memorial Library, keeping a gentle hand on the little man while still out in the public’s view. He had his uniform on and had applied the fur paint to his black streak, so that the librarian wouldn’t recognize him—he hoped. If the Sidalis did, however, it would mean another body in the tally.

“It was horrible,” the burned Gnome said through his bandaging.

Wren was more than a little disturbed that he hadn’t killed the Human, Jonah Staples. The little puke had clearly lied to him about one of the vials, something that he took very personally. His chosen Class had been that of a Knight, and Knights were supposed to be able to catch a person in a lie. But then again, he chose not to follow the Knights’ code of ethics, and had most likely lost that particular ability as a result. The gods didn’t look kindly on Fallen Knights.

Not that it mattered. Like him, the trio had no idea where Genma’s tower was, or how to get to it if they did find out where it was. He would hunt them down, provided the Gnome could decipher the cryptic writing around the symbol that the Human and Elf girl had drawn on the library floor.

Wren had sent a private to order the librarian to leave the mark as it was.

The great thing about being in the Desanadron Standing Army, he thought smugly, was that the civilians tended to listen to a man armed and supported by the government.

“I just came out of me back room, and loik, there was this fellah standin’ there, waitin’ fer me,” the Gnome muttered through the cloth wraps.

In his own way, Wren admired Jonah Staples for what he had done: it had shown a potential for violence that the Werewolf hadn’t thought Jonah had in him. It also, however, showed that the boy knew what the Hells he was doing with this Alchemy business. “And then, when I tried to talk to ‘im, he just breathed fire on me, fer no reason,” the Gnome lied. Wren knew this was a lie, simply because he had himself bribed the Gnome to let the Human boy be murdered in his shop, with the boy’s potions and books a part of the price.

“All right, we’re here,” Wren said gently. “Now, you say you’re not an Alchemist?”

“No,” the Gnome admitted. “I’m an Engineer. I just, have a thing for languages, and I wanted me own shop. I’m a pretty decent merchant, you know,” he said, prodding his bandaged cheek and wincing in pain. “I’m never going to look roit again, am I?”

Wren felt badly for the little man. After all, in a way, he had caused the permanent marring of his face. Then again, the little shit should have waited a while longer before coming out of his back room, now shouldn’t he?

“Well, if you have a thing for languages, perhaps you can be of some help.” Wren led the Gnome inside the library.

The four-armed Sidalis was at his desk, his eyes in two separate books, as before. He didn’t even look up at the men as they entered, but simply put one hand up to his lips to indicate that he wanted quiet.

Wren led the Gnome to the symbol on the floor, now cordoned off with yellow tape tied to four step stools. The private that Wren had sent, a Jaft by the name of Wilkins, stood with his body as stiff as a board, guarding the taped off area.

“Very good, Wilkins. You’re dismissed,” Wren said.

The Jaft popped outside and lit a smoke stick.

Dreadful things, Wren thought, wrinkling his snout.

“Is this it?” The Gnome looked up at Wren.

The Werewolf nodded and lifted the tape for the Gnome to get a closer look at the inscriptions. 

The Gnome muttered to himself as he traced the lines of the Focus Site and the characters beneath it. After ten grueling minutes of this, the Gnome poked out from beneath the tape.

“Well? What does it say?”

“I believe the boy used this to travel instantly to a town called Satory,” the Gnome said.

Satory, Wren thought with a mild disgust. A town full of savages and brutes. He had been there once, when he was a lad accompanying his father and older brother to do some trading with the Lizardmen. Things likely hadn’t changed much in thirty years, so he shrugged his shoulders and decided that it had to be done.

“Thank you for your help in this matter.” Wren stormed out of the library, leaving the Gnome behind. The stench of his burned flesh had caused Wren a great deal of discomfort, and now that he had what he needed from the little man, he would avoid him and his shop.

Satory, eh? He approximately a month’s worth of leave due. He decided it was time to use it.

An hour later, after having filed the proper paperwork and trading in his uniform for the much more comfortable combat gear he favored, he strolled into the stables. He paid the Elven attendant full price for the purchase of the largest stallion he had available, and mounted.

He was charging toward Satory before the sun had even set.

* * * *

At sunset, Portenda, Jonah and Nareena had made no progress in their lines of questioning. Few of the Lizardmen spoke Common, and the Dwarves and Jafts brushed them off. They weren’t openly hostile, but the message they sent the trio was quite clear: you’re not from around here, and we don’t trust you.

Portenda heaved a sigh as he looked to the western skyline.

“We’re due at Ashkadu’s home for dinner. We may as well ask him our questions.”

“Here’s hoping he’s a bit more cooperative,” Nareena chimed in. “I don’t get these people at all. I practically flashed them my breasts before I asked them anything.” She adjusted her dress to hide the cleavage she had tried to use as leverage.

“Well, dear heart,” Jonah said, taking a last gander for himself. “These people are members of Races that don’t exactly admire the Elven female form.”

“Huh?” She planted her hands on her hips.

“They aren’t sexually attracted to Elves,” Jonah said bluntly.

Nareena looked around at the men and women of the town, most of whom had continued on with their daily routines, as though the trio had never come to town.

“Humph. Fine by me. They’re not exactly lookers themselves.” She grabbed Jonah’s hand and walked beside him.

She leaned in close to Jonah, whispering in his ear. “So do you think he’s ever had a girlfriend?”

Jonah looked at the broad, weapon-laden back of the Bounty Hunter.

“To tell you the truth, I’m not sure. I mean, who would risk it?”

Nareena cut off a chortle, and they both stopped in their tracks when Portenda looked back at them over his shoulder.

“We’ll be there in a few minutes. I suggest you hurry your private little conversation,” he grumbled.

Jonah leaned in and whispered to Nareena again. “I believe my point has just been demonstrated.”

“I don’t know.” Nareena gave Portenda a quick up-and-down. “Some girls dig the strong, silent type. And some really get into the dangerous sorts. He’s got both in one package.”

Jonah felt himself get flustered by her attentions and double meanings.

“Are you attracted to him?” he rasped in her ear.

The Elven woman giggled. “Why Jonah, do I detect jealousy?”

Jonah gave her hand a brief squeeze. This was how it should have stayed, all that time ago. “You bet.”

They wound up bumping into Portenda’s back as the Bounty Hunter came to a halt before Ashkadu, who waited at the bottom of the steps to his home.

“Well met, Portenda, Jonah, and Nareena,” he said with another graceful bow. “Please, follow me.” The Lizardman High Chief led them through an iron door into an antechamber with a relatively low ceiling and two benches. Beneath the benches were several sets of shoes.

Jonah, feeling a tad bit awkward, removed his boots and his socks. The floor, he noted, was made entirely of steel, as were the inside walls. The whole building seemed to be made of brick and steel, with glass windows, most likely reinforced. The architectural design was reminiscent, Jonah thought, of old southland estate houses, of the variety that had several dozen acres of land to be tended by hired hands.

They went through the opposite door into an enormous and airy den/study room, where a wide fireplace and several couches, along with the addition of two recliners, had been arranged for maximum atmosphere.

Two Jaft men stood on either side of one doorway leading out of the chamber, fully dressed in tuxedoes with the little bow ties slightly askew.

Jonah almost laughed aloud at how ridiculous the pair of blue-skinned warriors looked, but the Jafts weren’t meant to be elegant or even graceful by any stretch of the imagination. The tux each man wore barely contained their broad and ample musculature, and the perfume, or whatever it was that they were wearing, had the metallic odor of blood, plain and simple. The message was clear to Jonah. These are my guards. They will kill you if they have to.

As Ashkadu approached them, each bald servant gave him a brief smile and a bow, following suit when Portenda, Jonah, and Nareena passed between the two of them and into a luxurious dining room, replete with little touches of class.

Wineglasses had been set, upside down, at each of the eight seats, and some of the finest ceramic dishes to be found in the region sat untouched at the table.

Ashkadu sat at the head of the table, opposite the doorway, and indicated to the others that he would like for them to be seated as well.

Portenda remained at a distance, selecting a set two places away from Ashkadu while Jonah and Nareena took up the seats on the opposite side of the table, as close to the Lizardman as they could get.

The Bounty Hunter kept a mental log of all of the escape routes and defensible positions in the antechamber, the den, and now, here, in the dining room. The windows, while they appeared to be nothing more than glass, had a slightly shaded appearance. They were reinforced with a material, called plastic, that the Dwarves had only recently discovered how to refine. The Dwarves had been convinced, once they had produced a certain amount of the stuff, that it was one of the more useful materials in the realm of Tamalaria. Certainly the stuff was flexible, Portenda thought. He had taken down a target seven months before who had purchased an order of the material to be shaped into armor. The problem for the target had been that although the stuff was fairly durable, it still wasn’t a match for the Bounty Hunter’s broadsword. That, and after a few days of cooling in the mountain air, the newly shaped armor had begun to stiffen up. It is difficult to avoid decapitation when your abdomen can’t bend.

But the stuff outside the windows appeared, if he had to hazard a guess, to be woven right into the glass windows themselves. He would have to punch or kick the windows out rather quickly if he were to entertain the idea of using one as an exit. But the manor’s security measures didn’t seem to be in place to keep anyone from getting out. They were to keep people from getting in.

“A tad bit paranoid, are we,” the Simpa asked bluntly of Ashkadu, who gave him a beaming smile.

“Several assassination attempts were made on me in the last few years. I have taken the necessary precautions against further attempts,” the Lizardman said. “It’s all standard practice in this town.” He sighed as he upturned his wineglass, letting one of the two Jaft pour him a healthy portion of drink.

The bottle was suddenly being pressed almost into Jonah’s face, and the Human Alchemist realized that the Jaft was letting him observe the alcohol before deciding on it.

“Standard practice?” Jonah asked as he gave the Jaft the okay for a little pour.

He sampled the wine, found it had a good body and flavor, and let the Jaft finish pouring him a glass.

Without further pause or preamble, the Jaft left the room and returned with a different bottle, pouring some farlberry wine for Nareena.

Then, once more the Jaft left the room.

“Yes, standard practice,” Ashkadu replied. “It is the manner of ascension in Satory. Lower Chiefs hire out assassins or mercenaries to dispatch the current High Chief. When the High Chief is slain, the other Chiefs hold a public election to see who the townsfolk want to take the post of High Chief. The newly elected High Chief then selects a resident of the township to move up to the empty Chief’s position. It has gone on like that in Satory for the hundred and fifty years of the town’s existence.” Ashkadu took a long swig of his wine.

The other Jaft took his plate and bowl into a kitchen that Jonah could just make out when the narrow door swung on its hinges. They were returned a minute later, laden with food and soup and the Jaft gave a small bow.

Portenda’s dishes were taken next, and the first Jaft had finally returned with a small green bottle, which he poured without question into Portenda’s glass. The Simpa sniffed the mixture; it was Simpa blood wine, a blend of several sweet, fermented berries and grapes, with another ingredient added that most Simpa rather enjoyed drinking.

Khan blood.

Portenda raised a thick finger, catching the Jaft’s attention, along with everyone else at the table. The Jaft leaned in close, and Portenda grabbed his privates hard with his left claw beneath the surface of the table. The blue humanoid’s eyes went wide, and he turned his head slightly away, to get his ear closer to Portenda’s moving lips. The others at the table couldn’t hear what was being said, but it went something like this. “Use your eyes, blue man.”

The Bounty Hunter flexed the muscles of his right arm, which was on the table and in clear view of the Jaft, who squinted his eyes, searching for what the trouble was.

“Notice anything, different, about my fur?”

A minute passed, and suddenly the Jaft’s eyes went wider than saucers.

“You have my deepest apologies,” the Jaft stammered.

The Jaft was released, and he took the wineglass away in a rush.

“My my. Whatever did my attendant do to offend you?” Ashkadu asked.

Portenda’s left eye twitched with closely checked rage.

“I do not imbibe traditional Simpa beverages,” Portenda said evenly, his voice not so much cold as entirely devoid of feeling. “I simply had to have him take it away and replace it.”

The Jaft, still rubbing his privates tenderly, returned with a glass filled with a sweetly scented Human-brewed vintage.

Portenda gave it a whiff, smiled somewhat at the blue humanoid, and took a sip of his drink before tearing into the meal before him like a savage. He hadn’t eaten in a while, and sorely needed the energy.

As the other three ate in contented silence, with the Bounty Hunter asking for a second helping before they had half done with their first portions, Portenda flicked his eyes left and right. Using his keen sense of hearing and smell, he searched for any treachery against the High Chief or himself and his companions.

Nothing thus far, he thought, but that didn’t mean nothing would happen.

The second Jaft, who had served the food, hadn’t said a word since their arrival. He hadn’t even moved to help his coworker when Portenda had grabbed the man’s tender bits.

Jafts tended to be very personable with one another, standing up for a total stranger so long as the man or woman in question was a member of their noble yet savage Race. Yet this other Jaft had said nothing, done nothing to interfere on his coworker’s behalf.

Ashkadu asked for a small second helping of the meal, and the Jaft Portenda had been eyeballing took the plate away without a question or comment.

Despite the light order, it took the blue-skinned humanoid a full minute and a half to return.

Portenda noticed the vein slightly bulging on the Jaft’s bare forehead, the slight, slick sheen of a cold sweat. And something didn’t smell quite right.

As Ashkadu picked up his fork once more, Portenda lobbed a throwing knife at the utensil, knocking it from Ashkadu’s hand.

The Lizardman stared at him with both shock and menace in his reptilian features. “What is this?” he bellowed.

“Don’t touch that food.” Portenda stalked toward the second Jaft servant.

The fellow he had grabbed a couple of minutes before had poking his head into the room, but quickly ducked back into the kitchen as Portenda approached the head of the table.

The Jaft didn’t budge, didn’t flinch; either he was very good at bluffing, or the man was paralyzed. Or possibly, he was someone’s puppet. In any event, the man had tried to poison the Head Chief.

Portenda grabbed Ashkadu’s fork, and handed it directly to the Jaft. “Eat,” he commanded. Now he saw a flicker behind those eyes: the flicker of mortal fear.

Still the Jaft said nothing, however, and made no move as Portenda held the fork at his side.

Ashkadu glared at his servant. He grabbed the big humanoid by the collar, tugging him down to eye level. “You heard the man,” the Lizardman said. “Take a sample of the fine food that George has prepared. And by the way, where is Peter?”

Enough talk, Portenda decided. Time for action. With a single deft movement of his hand, he pierced a piece of crab meat from Ashkadu’s plate and thrust his left hand onto the Jaft’s face, ripping his jaw down, forcing his mouth open. He pushed the fork between the Jaft’s parted lips as the man tried to struggle. But the Bounty Hunter was more than a match for the strength of both of the Jaft’s arms. As the fork found its mark, Portenda pushed the man’s mouth shut, and ripped the fork out, sans crab.

With a swift, open-palmed slap to the Jaft’s belly, Portenda forced the fake servant to swallow the offending food.

After a moment, smoke plumed out of the blue humanoid’s mouth and nostrils, and his body shook. A moment later, the Jaft assassin’s eyeballs burst from his head. His body, already dead, fell backward like a tree.

There was no bending of the knees, or catching a glance off of any furniture. He toppled like a maple cut down for construction material.

Jonah wiped eyeball juice off of his tunic shirt, and pushed his meal aside.

Nareena sprinted into the kitchen to throw up.

“That was remarkable.” Ashkadu stood and gave Portenda a deep bow. “I am surprised you helped me out of that dangerous little situation.”

“Do not thank me,” Portenda said brusquely. “We need both answers to our questions and the continued vigilance of your guards. I don’t care what happens to you once we leave the town. But until we leave, you or anyone else who has information for us must be kept alive. Now, down to business.” He took his seat as Nareena came through the kitchen door, supported in part by the other Jaft.

“Thank you very much George,” Ashkadu said to the Jaft. “Where is Peter, by the way?”

“’fraid I haven’t got a clue, sir,” George replied, helping Nareena down into her seat as he took the plates one by one into his hands. “I thought maybe he had gone home sick, seein’ as you had that other fellah here.” He grabbed the dead assassin’s ankles as he hauled him toward the kitchen door.

“No, I thought you brought him in,” Ashkadu said to the Jaft called George.

George shook his head.

“Do us a grand favor and put him in the same area as the others,” Ashkadu said.

Jonah sprayed wine on his hand as he attempted to minimize the damage, choking and coughing hard enough that Nareena had to pat him roughly on the back.

“The others,” Jonah asked as he gagged.

“There was a mound of fresh earth on the left hand side of the building when we were approaching. I assume from the size of it that you’ve been High Chief for a while now.” Portenda managed a slight grin.

Ashkadu returned it in kind.

“Fifteen long years. That’s about the average term of any High Chief. I intend to resign from my post in a few weeks, to tell you the truth. I will be the first High Chief in the history of Satory to resign from the post, instead of being, ah, forcibly replaced, as it were.” Ashkadu took the last of his drink. “Now, you had questions for me, I believe, and I have agreed already to help you out as much as I can. So by all means, ask.”

Jonah took a swig of his drink, and cleared his throat as he dabbed his lips with a finely folded napkin.

“We’re looking for someone very particular,” Jonah said, and began the search for information proper.

As the evening wore on, however, it became apparent that Ashkadu had never seen heard of Genma, or his servant, Kobuchi. The Lizardman High Chief offered his apologies, as well as quarters for them to rest for the night.

“If you continue east and north another day and a half from here on foot, you’ll come to the trade village of Bolamar. The traders and artisans might be able to help you out more than I have,” he offered as he handed a towel to his Jaft servant. “Did you find Peter?”

“Yes, m’lord. He’d been bound and gagged in his room. Apparently the assassin meant no harm to anyone but you, sire,” the Jaft reported.

Ashkadu nodded, smiled once more at the trio, and stepped away.

“Make certain they get rooms of comfort,” he told his servant. “That towel is for the big fellow. It’s the only one in the house big enough to accommodate him.”

“Of course, sire.” The Jaft turned to face the trio. “Please, follow me to the west wing.” George turned on his heel and exiting the dining hall.

Portenda took the lead behind the tuxedo-wearing Jaft, as he had become accustomed to. The Alchemists, he noted, tended not to be too comfortable around other people of Portenda’s size, and so he had allowed them to stay at his back. In most groups, the Bounty Hunter preferred to bring up the rear, so that he could completely smell, hear and feel anything coming from behind.

They followed George for a good fifteen minutes until at last they stood in a long, gorgeously decorated hallway.

Clay busts and paintings of beautiful landscapes sat on pedestals and hung on the walls along the outer right hand wall, and along the left hand side, between the room doors, arrangements of various exotic flowers bloomed and bristled.

George sniffed a delias, a hybrid flower grown by only the most skilled of gardeners in Tamalaria. He seemed to take pride from the scent he took in, and Portenda felt his lungs fill with the mellow, relaxing odor of them.

Jonah practically drooled as he thought of the healing potions and other tinctures he could process with the petals from a single delias plant. George turned to them then, standing upright. He seemed to have remembered his place and duties as he cleared his throat and adjusted his bow tie.

“Mr. Portenda, your room.” He indicated the door to his right.

The big Bounty Hunter slipped into his chambers without a word to the other two.

Jonah noticed that while standing in this hallway, he couldn’t smell anything but the flowers, and suddenly felt he knew why George had grown and tended these flowers. After all, he reasoned, who else would grow them? He probably uses them to make colognes or perfumes to mask his own natural stench as a Jaft. Whatever the purpose, he knew that the Jaft was much like the shop owner in Desanadron: kind hearted and gentle beneath the gruff, warrior-like exterior.

He took Nareena by the hand once more, and the Jaft led them to another door. “Mr. Jonah, your room.”

Jonah was about to let go of Nareena’s hand and let her be led off to her chambers, but she followed him, still holding his hand.

“We’ll be staying together,” the Elven woman said.

The Jaft blushed as he rubbed the back of his bald, blue head.

“Oh, um, well then, good evening.” George dashed away.

Jonah had just enough time to step through the door before his attractive companion was on him, wild and hungry in her urges. This time, Jonah Staples went with it. His resolve to resist her advances had broken like a cheaply made wall.

* * * *

At a few minutes after midnight, Wren Headsplitter felt the shaking from his cotton pants pocket.

He brought his mount to a halt atop an atoll, surveyed the surrounding landscape, and pulled the small mirror out of his cargo pocket.

Genma’s ivory mask looked back at him through the mirror, but Wren could make out the slightest hint of a smile in those strange, dead eyes.

“What is it, boss,” the Werewolf asked irritably. He would have to ride all night if he intended to get to Satory before the targets hightailed it out of there. With this interruption, however, he was granted the opportunity to let his mount graze and take in some water from a nearby pond.

Dismounting, he let the black stallion go on about its business.

“Are you already in pursuit of them, Wren?” The image of Genma’s ivory mask flickered in and out of blurry nothingness.

“Affirmative.” The tan-furred Werewolf looked around. He thought he could smell Humans in the near distance. He would have to avoid being seen by them as Humans often asked for assistance with this or that, and he felt instinctively compelled to aid them—without charge. Werewolves had come into being to protect the Human Race from the dark things that lived all over the world in the oldest days of history. Of course, back then, lycanthropes had been very few in number, and could only take their full bestial form during a full moon, or some nonsense like that. Thank the gods I was born in this time, Wren thought as he moved down the atoll to avoid being spotted by the Human merchant caravan heading for Desanadron.

“How long until you reach them,” Genma asked through the mirror.

“Around noon tomorrow, sir,” he said flatly, rubbing his eyes. He was tired, but he needed to get going again.

His mount came back toward him, refreshed and ready to continue on again.

“They used a Focus Site to get away, like I mentioned before. I need to know if there’s some way to cancel that out in case they use it again. You’re an Alchemist, boss, so if there’s anything you can tell me, I’d appreciate it.”

“There are two ways to negate their advantage of travel,” Genma said calmly. “The simplest way is to follow them through the door when it appears. I know that last time you had been knocked aside by the Bounty Hunter, and didn’t have time to follow. The other way is to interrupt the Focus Site.”

“How do I do that,” Wren asked as he swung himself up on the horse.

“Throw some sand or broken glass on the symbol when the boy draws it. It will alter the Site, and cause an adverse affect. If you go that route, keep your distance from the Site. What occurs when a Focus Site is altered is unknown.” Genma said. “For all we know, a tentacle beast might come through from another dimension.”

Wren stared at the ivory masked face. “Can that sort of thing really happen?”

“Of course,” Genma replied. “The art of Focus is a lot like magic in that respect, Wren. Where magic deals with the spiritual energies and manna flow, Alchemy deals with the scientific laws and molecules of the universe. Magic and Alchemy are, essentially, the same. Now, I must leave you to your business. I have some of my own to attend to.”

The mirror misted over, and a moment later, reflected Wren Headsplitter’s own visage.

Sand, eh? He led the horse back down to the pond, opened an empty leather pouch at his waist, and poured some of the fine grains of sand from the edge of the pond into it. Wren wasn’t keen on subjecting himself to any sort of magic, be it scientific or spiritual. He wouldn’t follow through any weird door made out of thin air, that was for certain.

But the thought of a tentacle beast showing up out of nowhere made him chuckle a little as he hefted the sack of sand.

* * * *

It had taken a very long time, but Eileen Staples finally found a timepiece hanging on the wall of a laboratory.

Two in the morning, she thought, looking out of the single window in the room. Unlike most of the other windows she had found, this portal was devoid of bars.

Now, she thought rather glibly, all I have to do was deal with the drop of a couple of miles to the ground below.

The lab was filled with wooden closets, each containing an arsenal of chemicals, powders, plants, and strange organic objects suspended in some red fluid. She couldn’t guess what a few of those objects were, but she knew an eyeball when she saw one.

A pair of long tables in the center of the chamber itself was laden with Alchemy instruments, and a load of handwritten notebooks littered the ends of the tables.

Her blood ran cold as she tiptoed toward a stack of notes, Blink slinking along by her left leg, silent and stealthy as the source of the creature’s stinger.

Kobuchi had served Eileen’s latest meal, and the Kobold had also brought a small, plastic red dish for the animal.

Blink had devoured his own meal in moments while the Human girl ate slowly, purposefully. She had wanted Kobuchi to leave, but the Kobold stood in the doorway for an additional three hours after she had finished her meal. Finally, a couple of hours ago, he had left, his eyes sagging in his face.

As soon as he was gone, Eileen had left the bedchamber to explore.

Now, she held an open notebook in her hands. She briefly scanned the notes there, noticing that the handwriting was much different from that in the animal lab she had taken Blink from. The pages were older, slightly yellowed.

There was a strange familiarity to the way the words had been written and arranged, almost poetic in style. It reminded her a little of the way Jonah went on in his own notes.

Who was this strange, ivory-masked man?

She set the notebook aside, and selected another notebook.

Again, the elegant writing style had been applied.

Eileen set the book down and turned around, selecting a notebook at random from the table closer to the back wall, and noted Genma’s handwriting.

When she turned the book around, and set it next the first notebook, she noticed several similarities in the lettering. For instance, the cursive writing was broken up here and there by block lettering, and the ‘o’ in both notebooks, was more curly than most people wrote it. But it was the exact same character in each instance. The same man had written all of these notes, at different times in his life.

Genma, she had confirmed, had not always been Genma.

Having had enough of the lab’s eerie aura of scientific discovery and experimentation, she put the books down and called Blink to follow her.

Together, they made their way to the stairwell in the western corridor.

For a moment, she contemplated what would happen if she tried to go downstairs.

Curiosity got the better of her, and she turned to descend the stairwell.

The stone steps curled around the outer walls, preventing her from seeing much more than a few yards in front of her.

She had gone down several dozen steps when she froze in mid-step. Something, just out of sight down the stairs, was growling at her. Whatever it was, it was far larger than her, and several hundred times more dangerous and powerful.

Once again, her curiosity got the better of her, and she slunk down three more steps.

The creature at the bottom of those steps made her heart skip a beat.

The body and head of a golden lion faced her squarely, the wings of a small dragon spread from its back, and a stinger much akin to the one on Blink’s hindquarters wavered in the air. Legs bunched with muscles and covered in scales set the creature in a crouch as it growled at her, and a soft, red light glowed deep in the manticore’s mouth.

A manticore, she thought.

Creatures of legend and myth, the monsters known as manticores were created out of magic and Alchemy, entirely constructed from scratch.

At least, that had been the truth hundreds of years before. Now, methods had been found by Beastmasters of getting the beasts to mate and reproduce offspring that were even more potent than their artificial parents.

Eileen sensed no magic on this creature, other than its own innate power, which apparently it was preparing to bring to bear on her for her breach of the rules. This creature had either been created through Alchemy, a highly likely option, or purchased from someone in the outside world.

Regardless, she thought, the creature was right in front of her.

An instant later, it was below and behind her as she sprinted back up the stairs, scooping up Blink with her.

She let her momentum carry her and her pet all the way up the stairs and to the level above the one her sleeping chamber was on. An oak door stood closed on the floor’s access platform, with a bronze plaque gracing its surface.

“Energy Conversion and Focus Site Reference Level,” she read aloud to herself. “Well, shall we take a look see,” she asked Blink, who closed his eyes and nodded.

The door swung open with some considerable effort, the hinges creaking noisily. Eileen wasn’t certain if they had been ignored or purposefully left without oiling, in case Genma was within one of the labs or chambers on this floor. It would get his attention in case someone entered the floor without his permission, she thought. But he had said she could access any floor above her own, Eileen reasoned, and she stepped into another black and gray stone hallway.

Steel doors lined the hall for several scores of yards, and she saw no intersections or hallways branching off of the main one she stood in. Opposite her, fifty yards away, was the eastern stairwell.

“Pretty straightforward, eh, Blink?”

The creature on her shoulder nodded and made a strange, high-pitched croak in his throat as if to agree.

She stalked down to the first set of doors, one on her left, and one on her right. The plaque on her left read ‘Manna Conversion, Internal,’ and the door on her right read, ‘Manna Conversion, External’.

She opted for Internal first, grabbing the oblong handle and hauling back on it, grunting with the effort it took her to pull the door open.

When she let go of the door, it didn’t move to swing shut, and she entered.

Despite the torches in the hallway, the room was almost pitch black.

She fumbled along the wall to find another torch to light, but instead found something hard and strange along the wall.

A lever of some sort, she surmised, and pulled it up.

Lights glowed in the ceiling over her head, revealing a room filled with strange mecha and glass tubes, systems of them interconnecting and filled with some sort of soft, sky blue light. A black window set in a steel cabinet flashed with green, blocky lettering as she approached, and she realized that the text was in the Common tongue.

She read the information as it flashed past, but much of it was mathematical formulae, and she was at a loss to understand any of it.

She tried to find the energy source as she scanned the floor. Cords, she knew, were often attached to mecha and led to a power source of some sort, a ‘generator’, her brother had called them. This technology, she knew, was ancient, relic of the Age of Mecha. Yet somehow, the mad Alchemist knew how to use it all.

She soon located a single black cord leading from the right hand side of the steel cabinet to a black box made of a metal she didn’t recognize. Atop the black box was a glass globe, filled with sparkling purple energy. A tube fitted to the top of the orb led to another device, which crackled with that same blue energy she had first noticed when she had entered the room.

Eileen felt herself being drained mentally, as though just looking at all of this stuff was taxing her body.

She conjured an Awaken spell, the reversal of her Sleep spell, and watched as the manna energy she invoked slipped straight from her fingers into an open-ended tube.

Her eyes widened with shock as her magical energy flowed through into the purple orb, and into the steel cabinet.

The blackened window set in the desk seemed to pulsate for a moment, and then hundreds of characters of text flew across the screen.

“I understand now,” she rasped aloud. “Manna conversion, internal. He’s using my magic to power his mecha.”

Blink stared bug-eyed at the machinery and contraptions.

Her captor, she realized, had everything he needed to sustain himself in this tower. If someone showed up to save her, his beasts would kill them. If they employed magic, it would be siphoned through the tower’s stone to this chamber, or the one across the hall.

Damnation, she thought. “Hellfire, Hell and blood,” she spat aloud.

She headed further down the hall, determined to find out what else the man called Genma had at his disposal. She would then figure out a way to disrupt this fortress—from within.

* * * *

Portenda couldn’t sleep.

The big Simpa Bounty Hunter attributed part of his insomnia to his natural sleep cycle, which was miniscule. He attributed the other part to the moaning and thumping from the next room over.

He slammed on the wall twice, to no avail. Jonah and Nareena, apparently, were patching up their long time rivalry.

Good for them, Portenda thought vehemently, uncharacteristically bothered and annoyed by their noisy intrusion on his slumber.

“Idiots,” he grumbled as he got out of his bed.

According to the timepiece by his bed, it was two in the morning, and he didn’t want to have them at it all night. He wasn’t certain why he couldn’t ignore them, but he couldn’t.

He could have torn the wall apart and knocked their heads together, but that would have been a tad bit harsh, even in his mind. Still, he smiled at the thought of bringing a harsh and screeching halt to their rutting.

Well, Jonah had earned a bit of privacy. The public records office in Ja-Wen had a file on Jonah, as he had taken up residence in the city once before in his travels. From there, Portenda had learned a lot about the boy.

When he had gone to the basement to grab a cot frame to replace the one that Jonah had transformed into the two short swords, the Bounty Hunter had opened a secret mail slot in the wall where one of his many informants left him packages. Inside of a manila folder he had found the basic facts and records concerning the Human Alchemist.

Jonah had earned continent-wide praise from the scientific community at large, and had twice been heralded a ‘newfound prodigy in the arts of Alchemy’, according to one article written by an Arthur P. Muddlesworth of Palen.

When Jonah was seventeen, the records indicated, he had suffered some sort of psychological incident. The Desanadron constabulary had written a report, sealed as confidential, which was copied and placed in the folder. While out shopping for his mother, two armed bandits had approached, brandishing mecha weapons known as ‘shotguns.’. Jonah, the observing officer had said, had first gone slack, and then whipped into motion faster than he could see.

In a matter of seconds, the Human boy had ripped the weapons from the goons’ hands, and had held one in each hand as he shot and killed both men, blowing their heads clean off of their shoulders. Jonah had passed out and been taken to the asylum for treatment and therapy.

The boy, the psyche report had stated, had no recollection of this incident.

Portenda thought now back on how Jonah had disarmed his pistol, and brooded.

Some form of brainwashing, he thought as he stalked to the door of his assigned chambers.

His leather vest had been hung on a wall hook, and he walked out into the darkened hallway, looking out of one of the reinforced windows, up at the crescent moon. Who had trained the boy in the use of the ancient firearms? How had he become well versed in a form of science that even the greatest Gnome and Dwarven minds couldn’t decipher?

Jonah had started his training early on, when he had been a boy of no more than nine or ten, Portenda surmised. And his uncle, Allen, had been another accomplished practitioner. Nobody had seen Allen for years, however. Most believed he had killed himself in an experiment, and police reports from the area said that his home had exploded in a fireball several years prior. Jonah’s family hadn’t been informed.

And why not? Portenda turned these thoughts over in his mind one by one, trying to find some common thread, but all roads seemed to lead to dead ends.

He felt compelled to find out what the boy was all about. For the first time in many, many years, Portenda had found something he had thought he could do without.

He had found a friend.

* * * *

When the morning sun rose, a heavy knock came at Jonah and Nareena’s door.

The smiling Alchemist got up out of bed, got dressed, and answered the door.

George stood there, a pair of fresh towels in his hand, along with a change of clothes well suited for Jonah’s tastes—a simple, white jerkin shirt and a pair of denim pants fitted to his frame.

A velvet, green and black dress lay beneath his change of clothes.

“The master felt it appropriate that you receive these, considering the Bounty Hunter’s conversation with him this morning,” the Jaft said with a wide smile.

Jonah looked back over his shoulder and saw that Nareena had sat up, covering her bare breasts with their sheet. He turned back to George and blushed brightly.

“No worries, sonny,” the Jaft whispered. “Good fer you.” He gave Jonah a friendly punch on the arm as he handed over the clothes.

Jonah took the clothes and turned away, and then something the butler had said stuck in his mind. The Bounty Hunter’s conversation. He was already up, and possibly, due to Jonah and Nareena’s, erm, activities, hadn’t gotten a great deal of sleep.

“So, how are you feeling, Mister Staples,” Nareena cooed as Jonah changed into the fresh clothing. She took the dress he had set on the edge of the bed, slipping it on over her head, then twirled around in it, liking the feel of the material on her pale skin.

“I’m doing well, Miss Nareena,” he replied, bowing to her mockingly. “But may I suggest we lose the air of levity before we run into Portenda?”

She gave him a curious look. “Why?”

“I have a feeling we may be the reason he’s already awake. He might not have even gotten to sleep last night.” Jonah brushed his hair back and tied the back in a ponytail. He took a long hard look at himself in the mirror on the wardrobe, memorizing that face. He might never see it again.

Without another word, the pair of Alchemists linked arms and headed to the main living room.

Portenda and Ashkadu were standing several feet apart, facing the doorway through which Jonah and Nareena entered.

Jonah noticed that Portenda’s eyes were bloodshot and appeared to have bags under them.

“Portenda informs me that you two had him up for most of the night,” the Lizardman said with a grin.

“Ah, well, um, sorry about that,” Jonah stammered.

Portenda put a hand up to silence him. “I’ve been thinking, Jonah,” the Simpa said quietly.

The air around Jonah suddenly seemed chilled, and his mind filled with images of glaciers.

He looked at the two men, and saw that Portenda’s pistol was in Ashkadu’s hand. What was going on here?

“I want you to save me now,” Portenda said.

Ashkadu raised the firearm and pointed it squarely at Portenda’s face.

The world turned into a blur of colors and vague shapes as Jonah moved forward. His mind reeled as information buzzed through his mind, information he was sure he hadn’t acquired through normal means.

He felt like a man looking at the world through a pair of stained glass spectacles, his entire body numb.

Focus Sites blazed through his mind, and specifications data buzzed in his ears.

A voice, familiar, and yet foreign, spoke to him out of the dark recesses of his mind.

When he came to, he was holding a huge cannon of some sort. A high-pitched whining emanated from a glowing power cell under his armpit.

He had the barrel pointed at Ashkadu, the Lizardman staring at him over the steel weapon.

“What, what just happened?” Jonah asked as the weapon flashed and turned back into a pistol.

A Focus Site, drawn with the natural oils of his fingertips, was emblazoned on the pistol’s grip as Portenda took the weapon from Jonah’s hand.

“I see now what you were talking about,” Ashkadu said.

The Simpa grinned broadly. Jonah felt fire course through his veins.  “What is going on here? What was that all about Portenda?” He clutched the front of the Bounty Hunter’s sleeveless leather armor vest.

“Jonah, we are going to have a very long talk sometime soon. There are things you should know about yourself.” Portenda bowed to Ashkadu and moved toward the front door of the building. “Something is broken inside of you, Jonah. Before we complete this mission, we should try to fix it.”

Jonah and Nareena bowed hurriedly to Ashkadu, who returned the motion in kind to their receding backs.

Out into the dim light of a cloud-covered sky the trio walked, Jonah finally catching up to Portenda.

“What do you mean, broken? Portenda, I have no idea what I just did in there. If you do, I want to know right now!”

Portenda looked at Jonah impassively, his eyes sagging slightly.

“Later, Jonah. Right now, we have something else to worry about.” Portenda drew his broadsword.

Jonah felt a tingling sensation run up his spine. A tan furred Werewolf, long sword in hand, stood over a bloody heap of guards.

He, like Portenda, looked tired, but he smiled that lopsided, disturbed smile of his again.

“Get ready to take us to Palen, Jonah,” Portenda said over his shoulder.

The Human Alchemist drew a Focus Site in the dirt with his fingers.

“You are persistent, aren’t you,” Portenda growled at the mercenary Wren Headsplitter.

“Very much so, Portenda the Quiet.” Wren stepped out of the ring of bodies he had crafted with his weapon. “I have my orders, and was paid a handsome fee to deal with the three of you. I don’t back out of my jobs, much as you won’t back out of a contract. Oh yes, I’ve read your file in Desanadron. You’re a very well-known man in certain circles, Portenda. You too, Jonah Staples. Now, I’ve spent the whole night and morning riding here.”

He gestured and Portenda, Jonah and Nareena saw his horse behind him, dead from exhaustion. “I’ll not be denied again. You won’t escape from me this time!”

With a war cry more fit for a barbarian than a Fallen Knight, Wren dashed forward, swinging his sword with deadly speed and accuracy.

He was parried at each blow.

Citizens of Satory scattered, scrambling away from the confrontation. Even the Jafts of the town, the most capable warrior Race on the spot, wanted no part of this battle.

The loud, resounding clashes of steel weaponry echoed through the air.

Portenda tried to assemble his thoughts, get a glimpse of Wren’s stance, but the mercenary kept coming at him, not allowing him time to observe his opponent before he had to make another defensive move.

Jonah, sweating now as he tried to hasten the Site, concentrated more and more on the fight between the Werewolf and the Simpa, as the fake constable drove Portenda toward him and Nareena.

The Elven Alchemist had drawn the symbols for Palen for Jonah, who finally completed the Focus Site. He clapped his palms together and pressed them to the Site. A rush of air gusted past his face as a plain white door appeared before him. He threw the door open and shoved Nareena in first, calling out to Portenda as he stepped through himself.

Portenda launched a sidekick into Wren’s face and followed his friends into the Site.

The mercenary let himself fall back, reaching into the bag of sand at his hip. He got to his feet and tossed sand on the Focus Site, watching as light erupted from the symbol and the door exploded into thousands of wooden shards.

One of the splinters landed in his right arm, piercing all the way to the bone.

He cried out in pain, but smiled despite his discomfort. He didn’t know what would happen to the three of them now, but he didn’t care. They would most likely be killed when they reached the other side, he thought smugly. Mission accomplished.

A Lizardman opened the door on the brick and steel building before him, his body tensed and ready for battle.

“You are the Werewolf who was following them,” Ashkadu said.

Easy pickings, Wren thought. I’ll do this one for free. He dashed forward, his long sword splitting the air as he cut down the Lizardman. Or so, he thought. Something heavy landed on his shoulders, and he looked up in time to find the Lizardman Monk smiling down at him, his reptilian countenance almost laughing at him. “You telegraphed your action. Big mistake.” Ashkadu twisted his feet, breaking Wren Headsplitter’s neck and killing him on the spot.

Ashkadu landed daintily in a crouch as he jumped off of the falling body. “Portenda could have cut you down at any moment,” he whispered to the dead mercenary. “He chose not to. I wonder why?” He signaled to George, who heaved a heavy sigh, and dragged the body off to bury it in the mass grave.

“George?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Make a note. Portenda the Quiet, a Simpa Bounty Hunter, is to be given free access to Satory should he ever return during my stay here.”

“Why, sire? I watched the battle. He didn’t make a move on this guy!”

“He was too busy protecting the other two in his care. If he had attacked, the Werewolf would have gone for the Human boy and the Elven girl. Attacking is easy, when done without concern for another’s welfare. Defending is much more difficult, especially when one is not defending oneself.”

* * * *

The trio from Ja-Wen tumbled in the emptiness of the void, uncertain what had gone wrong. One moment, they had been floating along toward the door that would open on Palen, the next, they were being tossed through the black space, surrounded by creatures and beings more dreadful than nightmares.

Jonah seemed to be taking it all in stride, but Nareena screamed at the top of her high-pitched lungs, and Portenda felt dizzy and ill. He wanted to vomit, but would not permit himself such a weakness, particularly when he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t wind up wearing it a moment later.

Finally, they straightened out and found themselves flying toward another white door. A rush of freezing wind blew in their collective faces. One behind the other, they flew out of the transfer space and into a thick, ice-crusted snow bank.

Jonah groaned as he tried to pry himself out from under Nareena and Portenda. The Bounty Hunter suddenly hauled him to his feet.

Portenda sniffed the air, and shivered slightly. He knew where they were from the scent of mountain goats, the frost in the wind, and the snow all around him.

Goats only lived in one region of Tamalaria, after all.

“Where the blazes are we?” Jonah’s teeth chattered as Nareena clung to him for warmth.

Portenda looked around and then back at them.

“I’m not certain why, but I know where we are,” the Bounty Hunter said. “We’re in the northwestern mountains, about an hour and a half away from Traithrock, the Dwarven capital.”

Jonah and Nareena shivered and looked at each other with fear in their eyes.

“Come on. If we don’t move, you two will freeze to death.” Portenda moved away.

Jonah realized what must have happened. The mercenary had broken his Focus Site while they were between destinations. If he lived through this, he would remember that particular vulnerability of Alchemy. That way, he would be better prepared—if he didn’t freeze to death out here first.