My fury simmered as I haplessly searched the apartment building. All I knew is that Haslow and Goldenscale went into a second floor unit facing the square. I got turned around almost immediately upon entering the building. The floor plan must have originated from the avant-garde period of Phrygian architecture (which was popular about 150 years ago, and good riddance!), the corridors were labyrinthine, twisted and turning. By the time the I found the staircase, I feared I might be too late, that they had already absconded from the scene, dark dealings sealed.
Halfway up the stairwell, a pulse of heat hit me like a mace. I stumbled, slamming my shoulder against the wall. The ivory mask clattered on the corner midway landing. I donned it again to free my hands. I couldn’t believe what I felt.
The symptoms of my episode were suddenly muted, along with excruciating ache of my scars. Rather than overwhelming furnace heat washing over me like liquid pestilence, I felt nothing by a dull pulse, beckoning me forward.
The mask… my thoughts raced to a million different possible spell effects that may be woven into the ivory. It knows where he is. I don’t know how I knew this, but I was certain. Maze or no, I could see in my mind’s eye the pathway through the building that would take me to Haslow.
Tickling my silver ring, I wreathed my form with chameleon camouflage and stole through through the building. I soon found myself standing near the front door of unit 231, where I heard the hushed tones of a conversation within. I drew my wand, awaiting the right moment to breach.
Haslow of the Sparrow Clan leaned against the balcony’s railing watching the mass of fools dance in the courtyard below. He was tempted, so very tempted, to rain hell on the lot of them, then and there. Tightening his fist, he shivered and suppressed the urge.
His newfound power was difficult to control. Intrusive thoughts berated him day and night, goading him so he’d do something foolish. Just like I had in the lecture hall… I can’t let myself slip like that again. Worldfire is a double-edged sword, to be sure, but there wasn’t a burden Haslow wouldn’t shoulder if it meant freeing his people from the Valentine’s iron fist.
And he had known what he was getting into—didn’t he? At the time, he had thought so. Now, he wasn’t so sure. But the bed was made and he had to lie in it. He’d burn bridges along way, in every sense of the phrase, but none of that mattered so long as made it to Valencia.
“Haslow, is it?” said a deep, smooth voice behind him.
Haslow turned, and bowed before the great Councilman Venati Goldenscale. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me, my lord.”
Goldenscale was a particular sort. He wore his tastes on his sleeves. For one, he never dressed in an outfit more affordable than a 3-acre plot of fertile land. Tonight, he was dressed in royal purple robes, embroidered with golden thread. For another thing, Goldenscale was an imposing figure that any would rightly feel unworthy to gaze upon, let alone to hold private conversation with.
He was an elder dragon, one of seven remaining. Though he assumed the form of a man, standing on two feet, he was covered in gleaming scales of perfect gold, as if his body had been forged by a master smith in the height of the Old Empire—though, as an elder dragon, Goldenscale had lived far before then. He stood nearly seven feet tall, though standing was something of a misnomer. The lord dragon was infamous for floating a few inches from the ground wherever he went. His golden feet, large and clawed and thus devoid of proper footwear, were simply too important and regal to soil themselves on the same ground mortals walk.
“Inside,” said he with a dismissive flick of the wrist. “You have ten minutes.”
Haslow followed the lord dragon into the living room of a lavish apartment. Goldenscale curled a finger, pulling close a sumptuous chair and a floating silver tray with two crystals cups and three bottles of different spirits. The darkest bottle rose and filled the cup nearest him with an amber drink—scotch. Then the tallest bottle rose and filled the lord dragon’s cup with red wine. Haslow picked up his cup and pointed the base at the ceiling, shivering again as the warm spirits carved smoldering tracks down his throat.
They sat in silence as Haslow pieced together his argument. “I need help,” he said with aide of liquid courage. “I’ve messed up and I’m in over my head.”
Goldenscale laughed. “I’ve read the broadsheets, but all I need do is look at you to see how foolish you are. Dolts like you are why I forbade the use of Worldfire.”
Haslow bristled at that, but shoved it back down. Drink held the rage at bay.
“At least you have the good sense to accept my criticism,” the dragon-lord said, sipping gingerly at his floating wine. “So, tell me what it is you wish for me to do and why I should do it. Speak to me as an investor.”
“Well, sir,” Haslow stammered, “I was among the top researchers on your team in Grahtzildahn these past three years.”
“I have a hundred ’top researchers’ between my projects, son. Tell me something interesting.”
“Alright. Help me escape the city and I will go to Valencia and I will kill the king.”
The dragon lord raised his brows. “I’m listening….”
I couldn’t hear much, but one phrase pierced the noise: “…kill the king.”
I’d heard enough. I raised my wand and uttered a command in the arcane tongue. With a groan, the door sagged in its frame and I kicked it down, shattering the now-rusty hinges and latch. I charged into the living room where the ginger-headed bastard rose from his seat and a golden dragon stood suspended in the air.
“Gods in hell!” Haslow yelled. “Perry?”
Goldenscale rolled his head back with laughter and crossed his arms as if settling in to watch a production.
I didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t sure what to do. If I attacked outright, I might be disintegrated by the elder dragon who appeared to me to be working with a known terrorist. Yet, if I did nothing… I needed to call on Bastilion for backup—brandishing my wand at Haslow, I patted my pockets searching for the calling medallion.
I didn’t have it—an image of it lying on a side-table at home rolled across the surface of my consciousness, taunting me with my stupidity. I whispered a curse, drawing in a ragged breath. My head was pounding now that Haslow was in front of me—without my mask, I’d probably be catatonic.
“You’re coming with me,” I said half-heartedly, knowing my friend wouldn’t give himself up easily. Surrender is not in his blood.
“No, Perry…” Haslow said, a mournful expression on his face. “You know I can’t do that. Walk away from this—please.”
I shook my head. “I cannot.”
Haslow sighed, reaching into his coat—I whipped my wand, arcane words flowing unbidden off my tongue. I had never thrown a punch in anger, nor have I cast a spell targeting a living person outside of training exercises. But I am a tenth-year Citadel mage, my body tuned with muscle memory that came flowing into reality like a boiling waterfall.
In one breath I conjured three force bolts. Before they even flew I had raised wards around my body and augmented my reflexes so that my reaction times would be catlike for a few seconds. If you’ve ever watched a mortal sword duel, you know they typically end within twenty-seconds. Sorcerous duels are usually the same. Often the fastest mage wins, except against a grandmaster.
Speed and efficiency paired with a rehearsed sequence of attack, defense, and utility spells has been my strategy in every practical exam. Against a new opponent, I have never been defeated. Haslow, who was my sparring partner, was my match. He’d laid me out on my back as much I had him.
Haslow surged into motion, diving to the side as my bolts crashed into the furniture behind him. He hadn’t even landed by the time his an arc of fire lanced toward me in a blinding flash. I swiped horizontal line in the air, reinforcing my wards and absorbing his attack, though the force behind blow slid me several inches back towards the door.
My skin crawled as the flames dissipated—and I staggered and wheezed for but a second. It was enough of an opening. Haslow shouted, shattering the glass balcony doors behind him, and took off into the night, his legs glowing orange with sorcerous augmentation.
In the chaos, Goldenscale had simply vanished, slipping into the In Between, silent as a mouse. I couldn’t worry about that, now. I took off after Haslow, dismissing my reflexes in favor of my own speed spell. Haslow was already halfway across the roof of the neighboring building. I didn’t see him jump, but I assumed he had used magic to make the leap.
Flying was beyond me, I could never manage much more than a fleeting glide. It was all I needed as I leapt off the balcony, landing on the slick, adjacent rooftop. I sent a volley of force bolts after him in an attempt to immobilize him. Every one deflected off Haslow’s wards and went careening into the crowd below.
Party-goers in the square screamed and scattered as magical shrapnel rained from the sky. Haslow jumped, shooting into the night air like as if Dusk herself lifted him towards the moon. Time slowed as I saw the savage glint in his eye, watched his mouth curl into the ghost of smile.
One word came off his tongue. A sickening word I’d heard only once before, it’s fell definition resulting in my maiming. Though Haslow had no engine to channel potential, he still managed to siphon the essence of those roiling below. He pulled form their fear and their panic and their terror as he loosed a hellish wave of groping flames.
I’d brought up a domed ward just in time, but with my potential burning to fuel my haste—I hadn’t the resources to quell the attack. The flames rained on the roof, dripping like sludge onto the charcuterie tables below.
I kept running, sprinting, my lungs on the edge of bursting, as Haslow drifted from the clouds and disappeared into the alley beyond the square. Smoke rose in the air as the building caught. People screamed and writhed—in terror or in pain or both, I couldn’t tell.
My rage sweltered and I kept after him. I couldn’t let him go. My mask’s magic faltered the more distance Haslow gained. I jumped off the burning building, landing gracelessly on the cobbled alleyway and scrambled after him. But my body screamed in protest, fatigue constricted my airway, my veins. My wards fell away first as my potential fled from me, then my haste.
Alarm bells rang throughout the city. A fire bloomed and roared in the distance, smoke clouding the sky. I laid panting on my back, defeated and drained. Haslow sapped my potential… how? My vision went bleary, closing in around the edges, and I fell into a well of unconsciousness.