Universe Next Door: The Vastlands
by Brian Lewis
Chapter 3: Warmage
“Looking for this.” The voice comes as if from a vast distance. He looks up and
standing over him is the scar faced man who defeated him so easily last night. In one
hand is the pouch that contained every ounce of coin to his name, in the other is a
blood dripping sword. Behind him on the ground are two dead men lying in a pool of
blood. One had been slit open from groin to gullet; the other’s throat was torn open as
if by a great beast.
He responds by to rolling over on his side vomiting and passing out.
When he comes to again some time later he finds himself in a bed that is not the lumpy
cot on which he would normally sleep. Nor is it his rented, dingy and windowless
basement room in the Shadow District. In fact, morning sunlight streams through the
window causing him to squint slightly. His eyes adjusting to the brightness, he sits up
in the bed and realizes with a start that someone else is in the room.
It’s a man who is less than middle age, though the dim lighting of the tavern made him
appear to be much older. Weapons abound on his person from the sword buckled
around his waist, to the brace of throwing blades in a bandolier across his chest. He
wears a dark grey short sleeved tunic, studded leather arm guards, and charcoal grey
leathern leggings tucked into his boots. Basically, everything about the man says,
slayer.
“How’s your head?” He asks affably enough despite his war like appearance. “You
looked a little green earlier.”
“Still hurts a l-l-l-little.” He stammers. “Wh-wh-where am I?”
“You’re in one of the tavern’s guest rooms. And it wasn’t easy getting you up here.”
“Wh-wh-who are you and wh-wh-why are yo-yo-yo-you h-h-h-helping m-m-me?” It’s
getting worse soon he’ll be unable to speak at all.
“Stillness.” The word comes not from the man’s mouth for his lips never moved, but
from inside his own head. And although the man never moved from his original
position across the room, it felt as if they were face to face. He blinks his eyes and the
sensation passes.
“The name’s Parkman, Matt Parkman.” He says as if the strange interlude had never
happened. “You should be able to speak without any trouble now.”
“How did you do that? I’ve had a stammer all my life yet somehow in the blink of an eye
you made it stop.”
“I read your mind and found what was causing the stammer and fixed it. It’s an
oversimplification of course, but essentially that’s what happened.” He says, as he
turns a chair around and sits down by straddling it and resting his arms on the back of
the chair. The leather of his gear creaks slightly as he sits.
“You’re talking about magic, sorcery….what are you some kind of mage?” He says the
tone of his voice suddenly fearful.
“I’m no more a mage than you are however; there are those among us who cloak their
abilities in false mysticism. Making it appear that they possess magical powers when in
fact they don’t. Truth be told magic and sorcery do not exist. But, as one unschooled in
the lore of the Gifted I can see how you can make that assumption. After all many of us
can command powerful forces, for both good and ill.”
“When you say “us” what do you mean?” He speaks in low tones as if afraid of being
overheard.
“I’m talking about me, my companion and you…Zane.” With Parkman’s words and the
intensity of his gaze his heart skips a beat.
“Me? I’m just a fumble footed ox who couldn’t beat a man half my size. I’m so clumsy a
one armed blind man would hack me to pieces in the thunderpit.” He says, with eyes
downcast unable to meet his gaze.
“There’s more to life than fighting for the amusement of others like a performing
animal. That is what you aspire to isn’t it? To be like your father, a man who died a
meaningless death his blood and insides spilled on the sands of the thunderpit, a man
who never acknowledged you as his son when he was alive.”
“How did you know about that? Did you take it from my mind? Get out of my head and
out of my life. I didn’t ask for your help!” He shouts his face flushed with anger he
throws off the bed covers. Getting out of the bed he stands up, that’s when the
bedroom door violently flies open with a crash. Simone is standing in the doorway in a
combat stance both swords drawn; blood and mayhem in her eyes.
“I don’t think the two of you have been formally introduced…..Simone meet Zane, Zane
this is Simone.” Parkman says, totally deadpan.
Simone’s reply is typical of her perverse sense of humor…a wolf whistle. To which she
adds: “I can always come back later if I’m interrupting something.”
At that point Zane grabs the covers off the bed in an attempt to cover himself. His
discomfort at his nakedness in front of Simone, confirming what Matt had already
suspected. But, will not speak out loud so not to shame him further. Doing so would
serve no purpose and would only close his ears and his mind to reason.
“You’ve nothing to be embarrassed about.” Parkman says smiling. “Who do you think
helped me get you up here? In fact, I sent her to your place to find something for you
to wear. What you had on couldn’t be salvaged.”
“What happened last night?” He asks. “I thought it was just a robbery.”
“Robbing you was only incidental; those men had something worse than robbery and
death planned for you.” Simone responds, her words cooling the fires of his anger.
“What could be worse than death?”
If Simone’s words cool the fires of his anger, Parkman’s chill him to the bone. “They
were Slavers Zane, they were Slavers.”