Chapter 31 – The Blue-haired Man

Bluebird threw another book on the fire. “How’s your mother?”

Linton shut his eyes and clenched his jaw. “You know that well enough. Why would you ask me that?”

“You care about her.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You care what she thinks about you, at the very least.”

“Can we talk about something else?”

“You have to face this eventually. Why not now?”

Linton cricked his neck. He struggled to keep his breathing even. “Now is not a good time. I have other things to worry about.”

“There are always other things to worry about. But look at you now. You’re sitting in the middle of nowhere, talking to yourself, nothing to do and nowhere to be. That sounds like the best time to confront your past.”

Linton stood up and muttered his chant to himself, pacing before the fire.

Bluebird just watched with a secretive smile.

Linton rounded on him. “What? What do you expect me to do, then?”

Bluebird motioned to the edge of the ruins. “Just go out there. She’s waiting for you.”

Linton stared out through the gap of the stone wall, nothing but roiling mists beyond. He swallowed hard. His hands had gone clammy.

“No, you know what, this is stupid,” he said, turning back to the fire.

Bluebird was gone. Vanished. The mist was already encroaching on the fire, dimming its comforting light.

Linton lingered, uncertain. He sighed and headed for the gap in the wall. Stepping beyond it, he found nothing new. The ground was perfectly flat underfoot. The mist obscured the horizon, blending in with the sky to form an infuriatingly even mix of grey, like being trapped in a sea of damp cotton.

“Where are you?” Linton shouted into the fog. “I know you’re here!”

No response.

He yearned for the safety of the ruin, but there was nothing for him there. If he wanted to make it out, he had to press on.

“We need to talk!” he continued. “Come out! I’m not afraid of you!”

Linton became aware of a slow, creeping dread. Looking down, he found the mist being consumed by darkness, deep and inscrutable, spreading like ink beneath him.

He tried to back away, but his feet sank into the tar and he was unable to pull them out. Little hands emerged from the fluid, dozens of them, and began to claw his legs, pulling him down even faster.

“No!” Linton cried. “No, don’t do this!”

No one answered.

“Skolda!” he spoke. Nothing happened. “Ljisa! Knuph!”

He tried several more runes, but none of them had any effect. No matter how he flailed, he was pulled further into the black liquid, first to his waist, then his chest, then his chin.

“Mom, please,” he whimpered. “Save me.”

The darkness swallowed him whole.

***

Septum stood before the assembled People’s Council. They were all frowns and scowls, no doubt trying to look imposing. The effect would have been improved had he not been able to taste their fear.

The other two ministers stood on either side of him. Ford to the left, dashing as always, and Whittler to the right, leaning on her cane.

“We have been informed that your Archon of Technological Advancement, Lazarim Drakemyth, is dead,” Prime Councilor Azor spoke, breaking the silence. “Can you confirm the validity of this, Minister Couldess?”

“It’s true,” Septum said. “I saw his corpse myself. Not a pretty sight.”

“Then, you can also confirm whether or not you personally intervened in the Bluebirds’ raid on the Winter Fort?”

“I was there.”

“And you didn’t stop them, either from accomplishing their mission or escaping once the deed was done.”

“No.”

“Despite the fact that you are supposedly the most powerful mage in this entire nation.”

“Yes.”

Azor leaned back in his chair with a great sigh. “What could you possibly have to say for yourself? To justify not only this catastrophe, but the ones that came before.”

“I wouldn’t categorize this as a catastrophe at all,” Septum said with a smile. “I’d call it a success. Firstly, I killed one the Bluebirds—the escaped construct, responsible for dozens of deaths. Secondly, I confirmed that Linton Granhorn was not with the team that assaulted the Winter Fort, suggesting that the trap I sprung on him either succeeded in killing him or brought him very close to it. Granhorn isn’t one to sit out of operations like these.”

“Conjecture,” Azor said.

“Not at all. I know him, perhaps better than I do any of you. We have sparred many times now, clashing through proxies as we work our way to the finale. So, believe me when I say that Granhorn is out of the picture for the time being.

“Which brings me to my final discovery. While the Bluebirds did escape, I managed to briefly peer into their minds. I know the location of their primary hideout.”

Septum was proud of that. With so little time to search their minds, he had found little else, but between three separate minds, he had been able to confirm the information to a high level of reliability.

A few of the councilors murmured at the mention of the hideout. Azor, however, remained unimpressed.

“Regardless,” the Prime Councilor said, folding his hands before him, “the Council will be moving forward with its decision. We will hold an immediate vote of no-confidence to discern whether you, Minister Couldess, are fit to maintain your office. Should it be determined that you must abdicate, you may pass on any pertinent information you have gathered to your successor.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Whittler said, taking a step forward.

Azor frowned. “And why is that, Minister Whittler?”

“Because I have this.”

Whittler produced a folded-up document and placed it on the crescent-shaped table, pushing it towards Azor with the end of her cane.

“What is this?” Azor asked, unfolding the document.

“A motion of total mobilization. Under the Codes, if the Concord is at war, the Minister of Glory may gain plenary powers over all matters of state in order to secure a swift victory until such a time as the war is concluded.”

“Impossible!” Councilor Ubend spluttered. “You dare bring this to our table?”

Azor held up a hand, causing Ubend to pipe down. “You lack the proper backing to force through such a motion. Why, all three ministers would have to be in agreement.”

He looked out over Septum and Ford.

Septum grinned.

“Merith Whittler has my full endorsement,” Ford said in a neutral tone. “With all due respect to the People’s Council, this nation is under immense stress, from within and without. I fear that without a strong hand to guide us, the Concord may yet flounder. You will find my signature on the document.”

“She has my endorsement as well,” Septum added, “although not in so many words.”

“But… But this is…” one of the councilors stammered.

“Impossible?” Whittler asked. “On the contrary, it has already been done.”

A few of the councilors protested loudly, while others seemed almost relieved to have the responsibility taken off their shoulders. Not Azor. While outwardly, the only sign of any displeasure was a small twitch of his lip, inwardly, he was a storm of dark intent.

“With this motion, I gain the title of Warmaster,” Whittler said. “Firstly, I would like to make it clear that I have full faith in Couldess’s endeavors. You will not touch him.”

Azor seethed but said nothing.

Septum left the room, still grinning. He trusted Whittler to take care of the minutiae.

He had a hideout to raid.

***

Linton drifted in a sea of endless black. He couldn’t see or hear anything. But he could feel. He felt them all over him. Crawling legs, scratching claws, gnawing mouths.

He tried to throw them off, but it was no use. There were too many of them, and he was too weak. Screaming and flailing, he found himself devolving with each passing moment, becoming smaller and feebler.

“Please!” he screamed. “I can’t take it anymore! Mom, please let me out!”

The demons lapped up his salty tears, pressing closer against his flesh.

“Just a little longer,” Quintilla’s voice echoed over the empty nothing. “You can do it, kiddo. You need to be strong for me. You need to learn.”

“Please… I can’t… I can’t do it,” Linton pleaded. “I’m hurting. I’m drowning. Please, Mom.”

Suddenly, the demons released him. They backed away and relinquished his flesh. He sank until he hit solid ground.

Linton stood on a child’s small feet, rubbing away tears as he sobbed quietly.

He became aware that he was being watched. Something out there in the impenetrable dark had taken notice of him.

“M-Mom?” Linton said. “Is that you?”

An unending presence moved towards him. Shapeless, or shifting shapes, deeper than the perfect blackness all around. Linton couldn’t see it, but he felt the very surface of its inscrutable workings.

Arcane whispers set Linton’s mind spinning. Scalpels of pure hatred peeled away his skin, again and again, until only the agony remained.

Slowly, he became aware of just how small he was. Compared to this being, this creature, this dark god, he was an ant. More insignificant than that, even.

A mouth opened up into a spiral of endless maws, lowering itself to swallow Linton whole. He couldn’t run, couldn’t scream, couldn’t even move. He was stuck in place, compelled to allow the creature the fleeting pleasure of devouring a singular mote of light.

A crack opened up in the ground beneath them, leaking streams of pure light. It widened, chasing away the darkness. Demons scattered, screeching.

To the dark god, it was no more than a nuisance. Its tongue coiled itself around Linton’s body, tightening into a vice as it hoisted him into its awaiting maw, and…

The crack grew with a sound of breaking glass, and the world split in half.

Everything became white.

“They’re coming,” a voice whispered. “Run.”

***

Linton rolled out of bed, landed hard on the wooden floor. He was drenched in his own sweat, and every breath came as a struggle.

Looking around the room, he found that it was his own. His room at the Randy Bardoch.

He took a minute to regain his bearings and slow his frantic mind. His heart was racing, his skin was cold and clammy, and his thoughts were a dull, disconnected stream of consciousness that was impossible to wrangle.

When he had gathered his strength, he tried to get on his feet, but found that his legs were too weak. Instead, he was forced to crawl, going through the door on his hands and knees. Discovering that the other rooms were quiet and empty, he began slowly, painfully, making his way down the stairs. Several times, he was shaken by coughing fits which caused his chest to burn like fire. More than once, blood came with it.

“Cat!” he called out. “Doc! Anyone!”

Yelling took his breath away, and he waited for a solid minute before continuing his prodigious journey.

Almost at the bottom, he was met by Doc, who ran over and motioned for him to be still, hands wet from the kitchen.

“You shouldn’t be up,” Doc said. “You’re still sick. We need to get you back to bed.”

Looking out into the common room, Linton found it empty. “Where is everyone?” he asked.

“Off to kill Drakemyth.” Doc wiped his hands on a stained apron. “At least, I think so. We had some trouble pinning down his location, even with Tess’s help.”

Linton coughed so hard his face went hot and he couldn’t breathe. His vision blurred, and when he came to, he was in Doc’s arms, being carried up the stairs.

“How long was I out?” Linton asked.

“That doesn’t matter,” Doc said firmly. “You need more rest. You’re on the road to recovery, as evidenced by this little stunt, but you really shouldn’t be out of bed. Not only do you have a high fever, but you sustained some damage to your right lung that I wasn’t able to fix.”

“No. Not back to bed. We need to go, we…” His head lolled, and he briefly lost his train of thought. “Bad things coming.”

“Fever dreams, nothing more.” Doc carried him back into the room and placed him in the bed, dragging the covers over his mostly naked body. “I’ll bring you some soup in a bit. We’ll see if you’re up for that. Doesn’t that sound nice? Baby steps, now—that’s the way to go.”

Doc made to walk away, but Linton used what little strength he had to pull the big man down by his apron. “Dreams, yes. But that’s not what matters. What’s important here is who was in them.”

“I don’t care if it was the fricking God Rulers who came to visit, you’re not leaving that bed.”

“Not the God Rulers, Doc.” Linton had another coughing fit which left him shaking, every breath bringing a wave of new pain. “It was Imwe. She traverses dreams, and you know it.”

Doc gently peeled Linton’s fingers back. He stood away and stroked his proud mustache. “What did she tell you?”

“To run. That someone’s coming.”

“And you’re sure this wasn’t just a bad dream?” He raised his eyebrows like a skeptical parent listening to their child’s fanciful tales.

“No way to be sure. Best case, we leave, nothing happens, we come back. Worst case, we leave, we avoid death, we live to fight another day. I don’t know about you, but I’m not really up to defending this place.”

“You know my code,” Doc grumbled. “I can’t kill.”

“It’s settled, then. Get me out of here.”

With some reluctance, Doc helped Linton get into some breathable clothes and put him in a sitting position.

“You know, my life was so much more normal before I met you,” Doc said.

“Boring, more like,” Linton said, managing a smile.

Doc hoisted him onto his broad back with a grunt. “Yeah, that’s how I like it. Can’t wait to go back to regular ol’ boring once this is all over with.”

“You still cared enough to join up.”

The big man began to carry him downstairs.

“Some things just have to be done. Crimes that can’t be forgiven. I don’t know if I ever told you my story.”

“Once. You were very drunk.” Linton coughed, got blood on his fist. “They took your wife to the Arcanex for practicing magic without a license.”

“That’s right. They didn’t kill her, but when their interrogators were done with her… she wasn’t the same. The spark had gone out of her. She’d stare right through you like you weren’t there, or spend hours talking to a wall. Even with everything she taught me about vivimancy, there was nothing I could do to set her mind right.”

“She’s still alive?”

Doc took them down into the common room. “Yeah. I’ve got people out-of-province taking good care of her. I’d like to go back there, someday.”

Indistinct chatter outside the front of the bar caught Linton’s attention.

“Shh. Listen,” he whispered. “Someone’s outside.”

“Let’s not take any chances,” Doc murmured. “Could be the MOW.”

“Take me out the back door.”

“On it.”

Just as Doc went behind the counter, heading for the kitchen, the front door exploded in a shower of sparks.

“Holy crud!” Doc cried, ducking low.

A team of truthers came through the doors. They started shooting, and the bar was filled with an ear-splitting cacophony of sharp gunfire.

“Skolda,” Linton wheezed, throwing up a hardlight shield which covered him and Doc.

Doc scrambled into the kitchen. The shield shattered from a burst of fire, one of the bullets nicking Doc in the shoulder. He cried out and threw the door shut behind them.

“Granhorn!” a familiar voice called from the common room. The sound seemed to reverberate in Linton’s mind, setting his teeth chattering.

Couldess.

“No, no, no, not now,” Linton said. “I’m not ready.”

Doc went for the door in the back of the kitchen just as the truthers came into the room behind them. A portal opened in front of them, two armed constructs stepping through.

“Don’t stop! Keep going!” Linton shouted.

“Groa,” Doc spoke. He dug his feet into the ground and charged forward with a deep bellow. The two constructs settled into low stances to block the impact, but he knocked them aside with ease and kept going, bullets flying all around.

“Now, now, Granhorn, why run?” Couldess asked, coming into the kitchen. “I thought you’d want to fight me. Here I am!”

Doc shouldered through the back door.

A woman stood directly on the other side, a cat draped around her neck.

As Doc ran into her, she threw up her arms and touched both their foreheads.

The world shifted on its axis.

Doc rolled onto a stone floor and Linton flew off him. A pair of strong, secure arms hoisted him off the ground.

“Hello, human,” Aeva said, a faint smile tickling her lips.

Linton tried to think of something witty to say. He opened his mouth, coughed blood in her face, and passed out.