The Reaper's Pursuit

The Reaper’s Pursuit

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James B. Lynch

Published by Terravox Publishing at Smashwords

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The Reaper’s Pursuit is a work of fiction. All incidents, dialogue, and characters are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2011 by James B. Lynch

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First Edition

This book is available in print at most online retailers

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data on file.

ISBN 978-0-9818707-5-9

www.dragontayl.com

For my daughter, Lauren

who also writes, and likes to draw,

and continues to surprise me -

of whom I am so proud.

and

as ever,

My beloved wife Rebecca

who makes it all possible

The Elixir of Sight

Montqua rejected five nearly perfect, golden-brown beans before making his selection. Long, slender fingers, pale in the bright lamplight, worked the plump bean carefully before gently placing it in the bottom of an immaculate, marble mortar. The rich, dark rays of sunset painted a multicolored panorama beyond the sweeping windows of his cabin. The windows stood propped open, letting in a trickle of cool breeze with the harbor stink.

Scented oil in the lanterns, as well as several active incense censers, kept the worst of the fish-and-human-waste at bay. Together with the humid Kazali heat, the flames would have made the low, wooden room unbearable without open windows.

A small, sharp-faced monkey let out an agitated squeal. Its call was much louder and closer than the near-riot typical in Nysmor Cove, but befitted the distant chaos. His long, nimble arms and legs worked as he moved on his elaborate, wooden perch. A slender, gold chain tied round his left ankle kept him from traveling beyond the lacquered structure.

Just a moment longer, my pet, Montqua soothed in a deep, smooth voice. Stripped to the waist, with loose, baggy pantaloons, Montqua had kicked off even his thin, elegant sandals in favor of exposing the most skin area to the air. With evening almost upon them, the heat of the day was lessening. Even so, only a native Kazalian could convince himself it was actually cooling off.

Captain, Bledyn offered Montqua a small, sealed vial with squat, tanned fingers. He too had taken off his shirt, though he retained his sandals. Compact and muscular, a full foot shorter than Montqua, Bledyn had remained behind to help. It caused him trouble, sometimes, being close to the captain. Pecking order on the Black Ray was very well defined, and those who had climbed through feats of seamanship, prowess at arms, or merely outliving their fellow crewmembers seemed to feel he was currying favor and cheating his way up the ladder.

In a way it was true, for Bledyn’s responsibilities and privileges grew rapidly, but he considered himself outside the normal pecking order. He did not want command of the ship, nor over its crew. Bledyn was after magic, and was Montqua’s apprentice.

Montqua pulled out the vial’s stopper, poured the contents into the mortar, and picked up a silver pestle. He swayed with the easy grace of someone who lived most of his life afloat, mashing the bean into the light, oily liquid that had come from the vial. Bledyn watched in unmasked fascination.

It must be done delicately, Montqua instructed, his voice a lulling bass. The powder of the core of the bean cannot be exposed to the air - it must be completely coated by the oil. Also, the oil will break down if you strike too hard.

A rich, pungent scent like cinnamon-flavored coffee began to conquer the cabin. Far from calming the monkey, the scent drove him into further, excited motion. He leapt from post to post, clasping his toes, fingers, and tail around whatever he grabbed. His squeals became urgent screams in his tan-grey, furry face.

Quiet, Cycire, Montqua said, patiently yet sternly. Cycire bobbed up and down, obeying insomuch as he hooted softly instead of screaming.

However it must be done completely, Montqua continued as if Cycire had not interrupted him. He ground the pestle in such a way that it was easy for Bledyn to watch. The powdered bean must be ground as fine as possible, and very smoothly. Together, unless ground to near-perfect homogeny, they become extremely poisonous. All particles of bean and every bit of the oil must be combined if the toxicity is to be manageable.

I understand, Captain, Bledyn watched attentively. Montqua had little doubt Bledyn understood. He was a fast learner, an excellent apprentice.

What news of the crew? Montqua asked as he crushed the mash methodically.

There was a scrum while you were away, Bledyn said quietly. Almost the entire crew was ashore, contributing to Nysmor Cove’s nightly riot, but he spoke cautiously anyway. The Black Ray was a decent sized ship, with three towering masts. Her one-hundred twenty foot length made her look impressive near most of the other vessels that anchored in and around Nysmor Cove, yet for all that, over a hundred people lived their short, energetic lives aboard and there was precious little room or privacy - even in the captain’s cabin. It would not do to be heard talking about your crewmates to the captain. He had trouble enough as it was. Yet, he liked and respected Montqua, and lusted after his knowledge. If telling a little about his shipmates was the price, he would pay it.

There are usually scrums, Montqua replied, a shrug in his voice even if his shoulders did not bunch. Those aboard the Black Ray had taken to calling the ship-wide brawls as a scrum. It seemed an unusual phenomenon in that, while it was not surprising for a pent-up crew of dubious character to erupt into fights, there seemed to be specific, unbreakable rules governing the otherwise deadly chaos.

I am still not used to them, Bledyn continued. Though muscular and clever, Bledyn was not sure of those rules, what might be crossing the line, and feared massive retaliation. For one thing, nobody ever used magic, even those crewmembers like himself who had the ability. Not even those who died in the scrum. For another thing, scrupulous attention was paid to the ship herself, not a plank was scratched nor a pane of glass broken. He was not sure he could avoid that damage if he joined the fray in earnest, so he generally hid himself away and waited it out.

It helps to integrate the newer shipmates, Montqua spoke as if only a tiny portion of his mind kept track of their conversation.

Nobody died this time, Bledyn offered. His own mind was distracted as well. The few officers, limited to four mates, the surgeon, and the master of arms, would sometimes wander out on deck to watch. Untouchable, they had nothing to fear even from random projectiles. As sacrosanct during a scrum as the ship, they viewed the bloody mayhem as little more than entertainment they’d seen many times before.

Just as well, Montqua concluded, his long, agile fingers working automatically. Crewmen are only so easy to replace, and often require tedious training. I trust Mate Imrak to handle the matter. He is more than capable.

Montqua rolled the mortar gently to examine his work. Bledyn’s attention had already shifted from his minor interest in the crew to his excited fascination with the potion. Cycire had gone silent, yet continued to bob up and down, weaving from side to side near the limit of his restraint.

The eye-dropper, Montqua motioned. Bledyn carefully transferred the thin, glass tube with its bulbous top to the Captain, watched as two drops of some sort of clear liquid were added to the mortar. The cinnamon-coffee scent immediately sweetened and a few tendrils of vapor wafted from the marble mold. Montqua handed the eye-dropper back, then studied the potion. You must give it three full minutes to permeate, or the mixture will be uneven, he instructed. Bledyn licked his lips, for though the potion was not for him - indeed he would avoid imbibing so much as half a drop at all costs - the knowledge was, and he thirsted for it.

Montqua moved about the cabin, cleaning everything and locking all the precious substances and equipment away. Finally, he returned to the mortar, poured the oily potion into a shot glass, and turned to the monkey. Now, Cycire. There’s a good boy. He flickered his fingers at the monkey’s foot. The length of gold chain glowed briefly and disappeared, leaving only the eyebolts attached to the perch and Cycire’s anklet.

Cycire hopped eagerly from his stand to the table and settled near the glass. With chirrups of pleasure he sipped at its contents, looking from Montqua to Bledyn as though they were drinking buddies conversing in a pub. Montqua spread out several sketching sheets, several inkwells with different color inks, and a few pens, then pulled another sealed vial from an inner pocket and settled back to wait.

Cycire looked mournfully at the new vial, finished his elixir, and smacked his lips in an exaggerated, satisfied way. Bledyn watched with nervous excitement as the monkey’s eyes blinked languorously.

It is a delicate balancing act, Montqua mused. Like so much advanced magic, things cannot be rushed, forced, or powered into what you wish to do. His tone became condescending. "Certainly, simple energy spells designed to destroy, massive potency spells like those to affect the weather, even straightforward scrying spells to look into the distance, those are almost crude in their simplicity and one simply stuffs more power into the casting to get bigger results.

But to see into the future, Montqua almost gloated. To do anything of subtle consequence, now that takes finesse, patience, skill. Everything must be planned out in advance.

Bledyn remained quiet, expecting more, unwilling to interrupt, trying to catalog everything.

Everything I have done for the past two tenths has been building towards this moment, Montqua explained. "Everywhere we sailed, everything I purchased, who was put in which watch and even what food to serve, everything built towards this moment. Not only did I require very specific, sometimes obscure reagents, not to mention adequate time to prepare the components, but Cycire needed to be in robust health, I wanted calm waters, and most of the crew ashore.

Even with all that planning, one must act with utmost care, absolute precision. Cycire appeared to doze off for a moment. The gentle sway - almost non-existent - of the waves caused the Black Ray’s timbers to creak quietly. Montqua removed the shot glass and placed it with the mortar in a small basin. One must decide just how much one needs to learn, where to draw the line, for time is limited.

Cycire jerked awake, though his eyes couldn’t have been closed more than a few seconds. His lips peeled back from his small, pointy teeth and he produced an enormous yawn, then he chirruped again and looked at Montqua.

The tall, pale wizard smiled down at the monkey. That’s right, my pet. It’s time to draw. What do you see?

The monkey eyed the sheets pensively, then bit his lip and crawled to the nearest pen. Occasionally looking up at the men as though conversing, tongue working around his lips when he wasn’t chattering, Cycire began to draw.

Cycire can see clearly into the future now, Montqua’s eyes looked on greedily as beautiful, full color sketches bloomed on the pages. Oh, he doesn’t understand what he’s seeing, but see it he can. Another thing I’ve done with the last two tenths is to bombard him with images of the things I wish to see. People, places, items - they will flood his thought now. In his own way he’ll thread a path, connecting the points and attempting to draw out a chart showing how I can navigate to my ends.

Montqua spoke almost by rote, as though Bledyn were not there. But we must be careful. We took care making the Elixir of Sight, reducing its toxicity dramatically, but toxic it still is. The poison works its way slowly, steadily into Cycire’s system. I have the antidote here, Montqua touched the tip of a finger to the sealed vial he’d taken from his pantaloon pocket. "It works to counteract the poison, but immediately disrupts his Vision.

Administer it too late, and your medium will die, yet the extreme cost in time, money, and effort to produce the Elixir is not easy to replicate.

Cycire drew rapidly, focused, occasionally scratching at his chin. Deftly changing out pens, with an efficient use of ink, pictures continued to blossom, increasing in detail and intricacy. The longer we go, the more we learn, the clearer the message, but the weaker Cycire will become, Montqua continued. Already I judge it will be three tenths of a cycle before he will regain his health. Yet he is not close to death yet. Yes, a delicate balancing act. It will be so long before we can try again, to miss some important detail for the saving of ten seconds would be a tragedy. Yet, it is not easy to find a specimen capable of surviving the Elixir of Sight. I went through a full twelve monkeys before I found one who lived. The ones who live, their information is more accurate, easier to understand.

Bledyn watched in exultant fascination. Montqua’s crown had been depicted in several places across the sheets. He could see now that Cycire appeared to be drawing a sort of legend or key on one page. There, a detailed drawing of a person or object appeared next to a smaller, less intricate representation. These symbolic sketches then appeared in scenes on the other pages. The crown showed up throughout. It was clearly what Montqua sought in Cycire’s Sight, which only made sense. Montqua had expended a tremendous amount of treasure and other resources attempting to recover it, then it had suddenly disappeared.

Bledyn saw a man appear over and over again. A man with all-blue eyes. There was a picture of him picking the crown up, several different attempts to draw him breaking the crown, a picture with a child in his arms, a picture of him aboard a ship, and others Bledyn could not make sense of - meetings with people, fights, of the man destroying a giant box. In other pictures a stylized Black Ray sailed to different ports, two of which he thought he recognized, and Montqua likewise appeared to be meeting with different faces, going to different places.

With a start Bledyn looked up to realize the sky outside the windows was completely black, one of the lamps had begun to gutter, and his feet and back ached. He had been standing over the table, watching in fascination. What had drawn him out of his near trance was the fact that Cycire had coughed, rubbed his nose, and drew blood away on a knuckle.

The monkey had been slowing down for some time, had crouched lower over the pages, and finally slumped over. He had still drawn doggedly, though it clearly took a great deal of effort. Montqua had murmured constantly, urging him onward, a fire alight in his eyes. Clearly he saw more in the pattern than Bledyn, perhaps waited for some crucial link tying things together.

Cycire coughed again, warbled piteously, and the pen dropped from his weak fingers. He looked gaunt, spent, and wheezed dreadfully.

Yes, Montqua crooned. Yes, my sweet pet, yes. He looked over the pages with fanatic avarice. Oh, very good, Cycire. You must be the best Sight Medium I have ever heard of. Yes, well worth protecting as an investment. Yes.

With deliberate, yet speedy motions, Montqua unstopped the antidote, and rolled the hoarse and limp monkey on his back. Cycire’s head lolled, his tongue working as he dragged air through a raw throat into tortured lungs. Montqua carefully tipped the vial over Cycire’s mouth and let a few drips of clear, blue liquid spill into the tiny mouth.

Yes, Cycire, Montqua’s hiss was little more than a whisper. We shall see, we shall see. I believe we got to you in time. But it was close. Such good work, and so close.

Montqua stopped the vial, slipped it back into his pocket, and scooped the laboring monkey up in his long fingers. He laid Cycire in the basket-like bottom of his wooden perch, then with a wave restored the chain that held him in place. Food and rest, food and rest, Montqua murmured. It may take you eight or nine tenths to recover, and I may have finished with your information by then, but well worth it. Well worth it. Sleep.

Bledyn stared, awash in horror, amazement, fear, and desire. What that monkey achieved, he thought to himself, drawing in a whistled breath of awe. And the cost. He looked at the taller wizard. Montqua wouldn’t hesitate to use me the same way - balancing his own needs against my risk. Bledyn looked back down at the collection of illustrations. But to know the future - or better yet, what to do to make the future you want! Bledyn let out a shuddering breath and felt the resolve in him burn away any fear or regret. That is the kind of power I want.

Now, Montqua almost chuckled with released tension, actually rubbed his hands in anticipation as he perused his prize. Now we shall see, my strange man. Time to draw you into my net.

The Near Frontier

Chapter One

On Your Mark

--==<< Alvédon >>==--

Ansven strolled sedately through the cold mausoleum. His long, pale fingers traced gently across the top of a crystal casket as he passed. Undulating shadows interrupted the dim, white-blue light where his fingers glided above the body within.

A dull rushing, thumping sound rolled through the chamber, punctuated occasionally by a higher, repeating bark. His booted feet clacked gently against the marble floor, kicking up quiet echoes from around the thick pillars.

Ansven took a long, deep, satisfying breath. Musty dust whispered in his long, thin nostrils, a scent so familiar to him it took on the properties of home.

Quick, agile, light on her feet, nimble of mind? He thought, looking down at the bingolé under his left fingertips. The serenity of her still, cold features seemed oddly out of place with the still preserved, disheveled hair and the upturned corners of her lips. She could talk herself out of almost anything, he remembered. Could be useful when digging for information.

His gaze shifted across the narrow aisle to another clear coffin. Or perhaps smooth, quiet gracefulness, the patience and perceptiveness of the hunter? A tehlian lay in peaceful repose, his face such a study in calm that he looked more to be sleeping than dead.

Ansven’s eyes drifted upward slightly as his mind worked further and further backward. Veroci had been legendary, a hunter and occasionally assassin in Alvédon whose quiet efficiency had been admired in his field.

It was unlikely, where he was going, Veroci would be recognized, though using him within Alvédon itself would carry its own risks. This may be the perfect opportunity, he considered. His eyes refocused on the smooth, composed face.

Images flickered through his mind, fleeting glimpses of swift, limber movement, of moonlight and shadow. For a moment, it seemed the images projected themselves from his thoughts onto the crystalline surface - pale reflections resonating with his mind and energy. The wisps of recollection coalesced quickly, some rising from the sheen, others seeping in from the peripheral of his vision. They gained a pale, ghostly-blue hue, yet continued to shift and waver.

For some time Ansven stood undecided, his eyes flicking occasionally to the three other crystal caskets within the chamber. He had four anchored ghosts, sometimes called residuaries, but the more he stood next to Veroci, the less inclined he felt to even consider the others.

As though recognizing his decision before Ansven had fully come to it, the azure wisps took on a less chaotic, semi-solid form. Ansven’s gaze, focused through mostly transparent ghost, shifted from the completely unaffected, peaceful face on the solid body to that of the same, but troubled, visage now floating before him.

Slowly, as if it caused him pain, the ghost of Veroci revolved and looked down at his entombed, perfectly preserved body. Ansven gave him a moment, as if to let the awful truth sink in, though Veroci had known the state of things for many, many cycles. This was not the first time Ansven had called upon him.

Veroci, Ansven spoke. His voice was deep, but dry, as though it had once been commanding and full but began to succumb to age.

The ghost pivoted back, slowly as before, to face the necromancer. Yes, master? Veroci’s voice distorted slightly, as though unable to pin itself down in time. Traces of the words he was to say seemed to begin before his mouth moved, and linger after he had finished. Otherwise, it possessed a quiet, smooth, almost youthful timbre.

There was nothing menacing in the voice, indeed the ghost could do nothing directly physical to corporeal beings. It could startle them, make noise, try to play with their minds, but it was as incapable of doing them any direct physical damage as they were to hurt it in kind.

This was not strictly true, however. Veroci was clear on the fact that Ansven had the power to do him lasting harm. What happened to his real body would have a direct effect upon him. Ansven’s magic cocoon preserved him perfectly, protected him against decay, injury, even aging. Powerful cocoons like Ansven’s even safeguarded against accidents. Veroci felt secure that even if the tower collapsed upon this mausoleum, the cocoon would protect him.

However, should Ansven decide, he could have an effect on the body through the protective shell, or even remove the cocoon entirely. Then all Veroci could do is watch himself decay, unable to affect anything - a constant, throbbing pain coursing through him until the oblivious end.

Thus he listened attentively, if plaintively, for Ansven’s instructions, knowing the necromancer would only have called him to undertake some task. I