nanowrimo: nerdook's Spire

2005-12-01T00:00:00.000+08:00

The chapters are arranged in groups of five with the sole purpose of making things look tidier: you don't have to read it in five chapters each for the story to make sense. enjoy!

prologue

chapter 1
chapter 2
chapter 3
chapter 4
chapter 5

chapter 6
chapter 7
chapter 8
chapter 9
chapter 10

chapter 11
chapter 12
chapter 13
chapter 14
chapter 15

chapter 16
chapter 17
chapter 18
chapter 19
chapter 20

chapter 21
chapter 22
chapter 23
chapter 24
chapter 25

chapter 26
chapter 27
chapter 28
chapter 29
chapter 30

epilogue

oh yes. a quick disclaimer: while reading, you may come across any number of minor loopholes I might have overlooked (serious lapses of logic, improbable events, that kinda thing), but as far as I'm concerned, the storyline is pretty much complete. so if you find anything I missed that really really bothers you, do turn a blind eye, k?

which just goes to show: sometimes you need to turn off your brain to have fun. ;)

chapter 30

2005-11-29T09:05:00.000+08:00

previous chapter

The sun rose over the world.

Ancient One stood on the peak of the Spire, amidst the ruins of the destroyed fortress. Power, Knowledge and Invincibility coursed through his veins, fuelling him with a new kind of madness, the intoxicating insanity that comes with knowing you have the ability to alter the fate of the entire world. The metal armour burned faintly, surrounding him with a barely noticably aura of flames.

Standing at the edge, he gazed far below, surveying everything that humans had brought into the world. The City was an eyesore: a bustling hive of greed and pollution. Ancient One was displeased: in his mind, he could see a greater future, where he could rule as a new god-king, and somewhere in his boundless knowledge, he saw how to extend his lifespan far beyond that of any mortal. The future is now... and he had the world in his grasp.

"Maybe not the entire world," hissed the Messenger from behind him, and Ancient One turned around in shock. And yes, there was the Messenger, crouched on a pile of rubble, clutching a long gnarled staff. "Even with the rune of Knowledge, you have to work within the limits of your own mind, and there are some things you will never know... and that shall be your downfall."

Ancient One was shaken. How long had the hag been there? And how could she have known what he was thinking? "Do not presume to challenge me, hag!" he roared. "I am more powerful than you could possibly comprehend! Power is nothing without the knowledge to control it, and I hold that knowledge now!"

The Messenger cackled. "Fool! Power may be nothing without knowledge, but knowledge itself is useless if you do not have wisdom... and the wisdom of the Ancients has already died within you, corrupted beyond hope. The world does not need another self-proclaimed god like you!" She spat. "You are a disgrace to the Ancients, and today I will destroy you completely..."

With that, the Messenger twirled her staff, and leapt forward, moving with astonishing speed. Ancient One snarled and raised his arms in defence: just in time too, as the staff struck like thunder, each blow kicking up a shower of hissing sparks. Spark, spark, spark, and then the Messenger leapt back, and waited, the staff held outwards in a defiant pose.

"Impressive, but not good enough!" laughed Ancient One. He sounded more relieved than he felt: to his utter horror, his ability to foresee the future apparently failed to apply to the Messenger. He could not predict her movements, he couldn't see what she was thinking, and worst of all, he didn't know what she was planning. Even if she had found a way to circumvent the Knowledge rune, she could not possibly hope to beat the rune of Invincibility.. but he did not plan to let her live long enough to find out.

A spinning ball of magical energy formed rapidly in Ancient One's right hand. It was time to end this folly. The old hag must die. He hurled the ball forward.

* * * * *

The Messenger was human, once upon a time, living a quiet life in one of the many villages dotting the Spire peaks. When the Ancients began dying out, they chose her to become their eyes and ears in human affairs. She was younger then, and the Council taught her many new things. Over the years, she began establishing the spy network below, and in time she learned much of the Council's secrets, and kept a closer eye on the Ancients than the petty affairs of the City below.

It was rumoured that part of the old magic was lost when the last female Ancient died. The mind of a man is markedly different from the mind of a woman, and though they may both be argued to be equally capable, there were some things that came easier to a woman. The Messenger learned the arts of the Ancients, and grew into something more powerful than the strongest of the old battle mages. Because she was a woman, the Messenger was smart enough to keep her mouth shut about her own abilities, always careful to mask her true power behind a benign smile.

One of the very important lessons that all men eventually learn is this: do not ever assume that a woman with a benign smile isn't capable of kicking your ass.

* * * * *

To Ancient One's complete astonishment, the Messenger formed an identical ball of energy in her hands, and threw it outwards to meet his incoming missile. The balls met and exploded in mid air, blowing a tiny crater in the ground.

The Messenger breathed heavily. Without the rune of Power, that little trick had seriously drained her. She had one advantage now: by being able to hide her existence from the rune of Knowledge, Ancient One had gone from serious underestimation to incredulous overestimation of her abilities. He was unsure of what she was capable of, and if she made full use of that, she had a good chance of taking him down. Besides, the freshly claimed rune of Power was just beginning to take effect, and Ancient One only had a fraction of its full strength.

The Messenger charged.

* * * * *

Hours before, a unicorn plucked Cantrip from the air, and flew back towards the peak.

* * * * *

The Messenger slammed into Ancient One's metal shell, and threw him off balance. Taken by surprise, Ancient One staggered to his feet, but recovered enough to swing a fist right into the Messenger's frail body. The blow connected and sent the Messenger flying, blood spraying from her mouth as something inside her shattered. Her body spun as it flew backwards, and fell with a sickening crunch on the floor. Blind with rage, Ancient One raised both fists like a hammer, ready to deliver one final blow to seal the Messenger's fate.

Unfortunately, fate doesn't really like to be sealed. Especially not by crazed, metallic monsters leaking magic all over the place. Cantrip stepped out from behind a shattered wall, and placed one hand inside his pocket.

He felt his hands close on the imp, and he squeezed. Time slowed to a crawl...

Knowing something is going to happen and being able to do something about it are, of course, two completely different things. Cantrip was moving too fast for Ancient One to react, and he shot forward like a comet, catching Ancient One from behind and twisting him in a stranglehold.

"Now! Do it now!!" shouted Cantrip, desperately holding on to Ancient One's struggling body. The Messenger struggled to her feet, one hand clutching her crushed chest. She was breathing with difficulty now, but she nodded, and wiped blood from her chin with one hand. Then she began to draw on the ground, using her own blood as ink.

Cantrip hung on tightly, trying his best to dodge Ancient One's flailing fists. Enraged beyond anything he had ever known, Ancient One roared, twisting and turning, trying to shake Cantrip off. Like the world's most annoying insect, Cantrip continued clinging on...

...and then it was complete. The Messenger collapsed to the floor, her last breath bubbling through the blood in her mouth, and then she gave a final gasp and was no more...

...Ancient One took a step back, still struggling...

...right into a red circle of runes, drawn with blood. The ground beneath his feet burst open, and shadows burst into the sunlight. Septaphim emerged, still within Prawn's battered body. He screamed in pain at the rising sun, and the blood runes boiled as red shafts of light shot out of each one.

"It ends NOW!" shouted Septaphim, and then there was nothing but blood-red light, blindingly bright. For a moment the world stood still, and then the light within the circle consumed Septaphim, Cantrip, and Ancient One, sending them spiralling into eternity....

And then there was nothing but silence. Down below, the City began to wake up, and it was a day as uneventful and unremarkable as any other.

next chapter

chapter 29

2005-11-28T21:55:00.000+08:00

previous chapter

Far above the Spire, the clouds were churning. They had turned pure black, and were swirling for miles around like water going down the drainhole of an great big bathtub in the sky. Every few seconds, lightning flashed, and thunder rumbled ominously. The overall effect was eerie and appropriately apocalyptic.

Deep within the fortress, the rectangular stone shuddered wildly. All around it, magic had reached saturation point, and it was twisting the fabric of reality into really odd patterns. Everything glowed: the walls, the floor, the stone, even the air was glowing brightly (which was actually, come to think of it, something that even the most expensive special effects would be unlikely to replicate), highlighted by a brilliant halo of pure magical energy. There was a whining, high pitched sound in the background, the sort of sound a damaged motor might make just before it exploded.

This was the sort of scene that you'd expect to find if you looked up 'volatile' in a well illustrated dictionary, with plenty of references to the entries 'dangerous', 'unstable' and 'pretty damn freakish'.

* * * * *

Seraph, Cantrip and Penelope flew through the tunnels, carried on the back of a unicorn.

Cantrip's head was still reeling from the shock of discovering that he was an Ancient. There are few things more unnerving than spending the last 16 years living a normal life, only to find out that you're someone else entirely. Revelations like that tend to upset people, to say the least. And then another thought clicked into place.

The Gifts were claimed about fifty years ago, and Cantrip had been alive for sixteen years old now. So what the hell happened to the years in between? How many previous lives did he have before this one? The old man had mentioned that his memories lay locked within the tattoo, so presumably an answer lay somewhere within its intricate patterns.

Ancient One had given them very precise instructions on how to get out of the tunnels, and apparently he really did know everything. The tunnels gradually grew brighter, and eventually the unicorn burst out into the sunlight and turned majestically in the air, turning towards the peak of the Spire. And there, for just a fleeting fraction of a moment, was a picture-perfect second: the unicorn poised to leap into flight, its wings spread out wide, while its three passengers clung on determinedly. It was, in fact, the sort of magical moments that you find on movie posters and promotional leaflets.

And then the unicorn began its ascent, and the moment was gone.

* * * * *

By the time they reached the peak, the magic had gone completely haywire. The magical buildup inside the fortress had gone way beyond critical now: on a scale of zero to ten for magical activity, it was scoring triple digits. Bits of the fortress had been blown apart, and the dislodged bricks spun around the shattered fortress like a mini solar system of masonry.

Cantrip, Seraph and Penelope shielded their eyes from the sight. Everything was glowing brightly, and the magic was causing the brightness to shimmer crazily, with rapidly changing colours and psychedelic lighting effects. Taking a deep breath, they stepped forward...

...as a pair of wrinkled, gnarled hands shot out from behind them, dragging Seraph and Penelope backwards.

"Fools! Step away!" hissed the Messenger, clutching tightly onto Seraph and Penelope. "Do you have the faintest idea what you're doing?! That's pure magical energy! You'll be fried alive if you step any closer!"

Up ahead, Cantrip was forging onwards, fighting against the huge magical forces that were buffeting his frail body. It was like walking up a wind tunnel with the fan blowing full blast: every step took an incredible amount of effort, and it was a wonder he was still standing at all.

Seraph peered into the maelstrom, and was almost blinded for his efforts. All he could see through the magical barrage was a vague shape that was probably Cantrip, and a lot of weird colours. The Messenger's grip was like hardened steel, and he suspected she was right, anyway: there was so much magic there, it would probably kill him if he walked any closer.

Cantrip had reached what remained of the main doors: it was a gaping hole now, as the magic had eaten away both the wooden doors and most of the entire doorway as well. There was an incredible amount of energy swirling around him, and he was forced on his knees by the huge forces pushing against him. Crawling on all fours, Cantrip pushed forward.

There was a terrible booming sound, as a shockwave of energy exploded outwards from the stone in the center of the fortress. It slammed into Cantrip, sending him spinning backwards. The shockwave viciously tore through everything else in its path, smashing what little remained of the once mighty fortress.

Cantrip struggled to a crouching position, just as a second shockwave boomed outwards from the stone. The stone was beginning to crack now, with what seemed like pure beams of light streaming out of the hairline cracks, blindingly bright. Time was running out, and Cantrip crawled forward again, inching closer to the stone.

Past the doors, and into what used to be the hallway.

Another shockwave... Cantrip ducked as it roared by, ripping tiles from the floor and sending loose bricks spinning into the air.

Past the hallway. Not too far now.

And there... the stone! Great cracks had split the stone right down the middle, and shafts of white energy were coming out of the stone itself. The air was burning with magic, and smelled vaguely like scorched solder. Cantrip pulled himself forward, just a few more steps. Just a bit more now.

He laid his hands on the stone.... and it was so cold, it burned right through his skin. Cantrip was screaming now, bathed in magic in its purest form. He slammed his body against the stone, again and again, each blow causing magic to randomly warp the air around the stone, turning it into various colours. Cantrip screamed again, and gave the stone one final slam with all the energy he had left.

The stone shuddered, then started to topple. It fell onto the floor in a great crash before shattering into a million pieces. All the magic in the stone shot outwards in one massive shockwave, but there in the middle of it was a shimmering figure...

Ancient Five. He had tried to contain too much magic, it leaked everywhere: even his fingertips had curling wisps of energy coming from them. Cantrip did not even stop to think... he charged forward, barreled into the unresisting body of Ancient Five, and continued running, charging right towards the edge of the Spire peak.

And then he ran out of ground to run on, and, still clutching Ancient Five, fell towards the world below.

* * * * *

Falling from a great height without any form of safety harness whatsoever was a curious sensation, mostly because most people only get to do it once. Everything below appeared tiny, for one thing.

Cantrip fell, and everything spread out below did appear smaller to him. He was severely weakened, but alive. Ancient Five fell with him, blazing with magic, like a mini comet with a long flaming tail made of pure energy. There was one thing left to do for Cantrip.

As the rushing air whipped into Cantrip, he steered himself towards Ancient Five's falling body. He grasped blindly, and felt his fingers close on soft cloth, tingling with a magical flame. All or nothing now... taking a deep breath, he reached out with the other hand and grabbed more cloth. And then he swung Ancient Five's body around in midair like a hammer throw, hurling it as far away from the Spire as he could...

Which was the last thing Cantrip remembered before his vision completely failed from sheer fatigue. Over the sound of the wind, Cantrip could have sworn that he heard the distant beat of unicorn wings... and then all consciousness abandoned him.

* * * * *

Swung off course, Ancient Five fell beyond the edge of the island, and continued falling until he plunged beneath the clouds, and vanished.

Hours later, there was a massive rumble, and the entire island was hit by its first earthquake in recorded history. For the better part of an hour, the whole City shook, and the terrified citizens cowered until the quake passed. The earthquake itself was rather puzzling, but what was really weird was the fact that, once it was over, the clouds far below the island had mysteriously parted in an extremely large circumference, and the islanders could finally see what lay below: a huge, hundred mile wide crater, where it appeared something had exploded, blowing away whatever had been unfortunate enough to be there before.

* * * * *

Another rune lit up within the Vault. Ancient One let a toothless grin spread across his face, and then he shuffled over to the rune of Power. At last... those fools had been useful, after all. Unfortunately, there was no way to obtain the Immortality rune.. but that doesn't matter in the least.

Ancient One stretched out a metal, spiky arm, and claimed Power as his own.

next chapter

chapter 28

2005-11-28T06:48:00.000+08:00

previous chapter

"The Wealth rune granted riches beyond imagination, but at a heavy price. Ancient Four was struck down with an incurable disease the moment he claimed the rune, a sickness that no amount of gold could make better. However, Ancient Four became obsessed with hunting for a cure, and so he built a great empire, and spent a great portion of his wealth to cure himself of the rune's disease. In time, he discovered the entirety of Mr Porpoise's failed plot, and as a little joke, he painted porpoises on the bottoms of all the airships he owned."

"In the end, it was all for nothing, of course, and the sickness spread and got worse over the years. And then one day, Septaphim appeared to him, a mere shadow among shadows. Septaphim told him about many things, and eventually convinced Ancient Four to help rid the world of the rune's accursed effects."

"Ancient Four sent men to the top of the Spire, and when they returned, terrified by what they found, he was shocked to hear of what had befallen Ancient Five. By then, the Power rune was completely out of control: the magic had reached saturation point, causing the clouds to swirl constantly in a rapidly expanding and darkening vortex."

"His health rapidly deteriorating, Ancient Four knew that his only hope lay in the last remaining Ancient, but no one knew where Ancient Two had vanished to..."

* * * * *

Ancient Two stumbled through the City. The damned rune... it was messing with his thoughts, and he struggled to stay alert. It was like having a fog in your head, and he felt his memories slowly slipping in and out of his grasp.

Where was he now? Street, street. There was something he ought to remember... running? No, that wasn't it. Rune. Something to do with... no, the thought slipped away again, and Ancient Two grabbed his head. Concentrate! There was something important, something to remember. He shook his head, and gazed at the street ahead. Cobblestones. Street. Somewhere he had to go to... but he couldn't remember. Every fragment of memory was slipping away now.

And then a stagecoach roared down the street. Ancient Two barely had time to raise one arm, in a totally futile effort to stop the coach, and then there was a shout from the driver and a squishy thud. The horses hit him first, trampling his body beneath their powerful hoofs, before the wheels rolled over whatever mangled mess remained after the horses were done.

The stagecoach screeched to a halt, but it was too late: Ancient Two's remains were spread over the street like a long smear of red, sticky, jam.

* * * * *

"So much for Immortality," mumbled Seraph skeptically. "Killed by a stagecoach? What's so immortal about that?"

Ancient One grinned. "That's the strange thing now, isn't it? Yes, yes. All the others... death reduced them to ashes, nothing but dust and ashes. For that was how Ancients die, yes, yes... even Arathea, the greatest of the battle mages, even he turned into ashes when he was slain. But not Ancient Two... no, no. The rune did work, but not as expected, oh no..."

* * * * *

Moments after Ancient Two's unfortunate death, something strange happened elsewhere in the City.

A pile of rubbish lay sadly in an alleyway. It was completely unremarkable: the usual mixture of discarded boxes, tin cans, old rags, leftovers... all mixed into a rather large pile, leaning against the wall. It stank horribly, which was expected behaviour for a pile of half-decomposed garbage, so there was nothing strange about that either.

Two beggars were rifling through the pile, searching for something worthy of being salvaged. So far, they had collected three bananas, a dirty blanket and three cans of cheese. Some sort of cheese, anyway: in a previous existence, the cans had been full of nice warm milk, but the expiry date was long past now, and what was left was a gooey, yellowish substance, perhaps a distant cousin of cheese. They did find a nice, half-eaten apple earlier, but much to their dismay, it slipped and fell to the floor, so they had to discard it for hygiene purposes. Even beggars had standards to uphold, you know.

And it was just then that an arm burst through the garbage. The beggars screamed and ran, as the decomposing heap parted. A terrible figure, four feet tall, emerged from the rubbish heap, covered from head to toe in dirt and foul-smelling garbage juice.

Remarkably, one of the figure's arms was completely covered in an extremely complex tattoo.

* * * * *

"Hold it right there then," said Seraph. He had a sinking feeling that he knew exactly what was coming, and sighed. "You're going to tell me that the kid is Ancient Two, aren't you? In some kind of bizzare, reincarnated form?"

Ancient One rolled his eyes. You just can't tell a good story anymore these days without someone skipping straight ahead and guessing the ending. "Well.... yes, yes yes," he admitted reluctantly. "The Immortality rune.... it didn't quite grant TRUE immortality. No, nono, no indeed... instead, every time you get yourself killed, a copy of your body is, well, created elsewhere, yesyes. Minus the memories, of course. And with the body of a boy." He stared at Cantrip's tattoo, and his face twitched. "That mark, that mark is the mark of the rune: within the patterns lie all the lost memories of your previous existences, hidden, hidden, twisted and burned into a tattoo."

Cantrip was looking at his own arm in utter horror. His mouth opened as he struggled to find the words to say, and then closed. And opened. And closed. His brain was rapidly disengaging itself from the real world, and running off to whimper in a quiet corner of his head. It's one thing to find out that a crazy, rich old man is actually an Ancient in disguise, but it's quite another thing entirely to find out that you are one as well. Right now, he was incapable of anything more coherent than doing a fine imitation of a stunned goldfish.

Ancient One turned his attention to Seraph. "Septaphim told Ancient Four exactly what to look for, and he eventually hired you to find the boy. Time was of the essence to Septaphim, however, and in his impatience, he found the boy first. With his shadows, he knocked the boy unconscious, and brought him to you."

"Wait," croaked Cantrip. Parts of his brain were starting to kick in, and there was something he needed to know. "Prawn... what happened to Prawn? Did he survive?"

Ancient One fell silent. "Yes, he did... sort of. In a manner of speaking," He sighed again. "It's all very complicated, very complicated, yes. Septaphim grew weaker and weaker with each passing moment, and he was forced to... borrow another body to continue using his powers. When he finally found you, he did not have much time left, and so took control of Prawn's body to summon his shadows. You must understand that he was little more than a shadow himself by now, and your friend proved to be a most receptive host. Even now, Septaphim moves, always moving in the darkness, within Prawn's body, and it was his shadows that guided you here, yes."

Cantrip shuddered. He imagined Septaphim lurking in the shadows, hiding within the body of a street urchin, pulling strings and shadows from the edge of perception.

"Alright, old man, I think we've heard enough," interrupted Seraph. "If everything you say is true, then we don't have much time, do we? Just one last thing: what happens to the runes after its holder dies?"

"Ah, ah ah. No doubt you have noticed the walls," said Ancient One delightedly, and cackled. "Yes... two of the runes have returned, yes indeed, the runes of Wealth and Invincibility lie within this chamber once more. If you kill the holder of the rune, then it returns to this chamber, back to where it started, and it can be claimed again by another. Only the Immortality rune can never be reclaimed, because it is impossible to truly destroy anyone who holds such a rune, " His eyes glinted as he continued. "But that can be taken care of. Bring the other runes back here, and I will seal the Vault for all eternity, and lock away Arathea's Gifts, once and for all. Now go... you must find a way to retrieve the rune of Power, before all is lost."

next chapter

chapter 27

2005-11-26T17:06:00.000+08:00

previous chapter

"Nightmare?" asked Cantrip, puzzled. "I thought the Gifts were supposed to make them more powerful?"

The old man stared at Cantrip sadly. "The Gifts were never completed by Arathea, you see. The Ancients assumed that he merely did not have time to combine them into a single rune. They assumed that claiming each fragment would boost a single part of their being, each one of them becoming more powerful in a certain way. But that was not to be, because they did not realise each rune was flawed. Arathea had not combined the runes for a simple reason: they were too unstable to be combined in their current state."

"The Ancients knew none of this, of course, and they doomed themselves to a cursed existence..."

* * * * *

Ancient One screamed as the rune buried itself into his skull. Great knowledge flowed in his head, a sea of information stretching as far as the mind's eye could see. He knew everything now, everything there was to know, everything that happened, could have happened, did not happen... and then his mind broke under the onslaught of Knowledge, the sheer amount of information driving him into madness.

And right at the forefront of his newfound knowledge, was a single thought: "The Gifts shall be our downfall". It roared like a lion, and then he realised the magnitude of their folly: he saw Arathea's last moments, cut down by Septaphim, and he understood why Septaphim had sacrificed everything to ensure that the Ancients did not return to their former glory. He knew right then, with total clarity, that the Gifts were flawed, and would destroy them.

He saw the future too, but it shifted with every passing second. It was like a pattern that was forever changing everytime you glanced at it, but to his mind, it was maddening. Every small change in the world changed the future that he was certain of, and he remembered every single one even as they vanished, he could trace the probabilities, he could see what would happen if only someone did something differently. It drove him mad, and he shook his head wildly, trying to dislodge these thoughts as they tormented him.

He knew the past, he knew everything, and in his mind there was nothing but absolute truth, he knew who was guilty and who was not, he knew everyone's story, and he saw right through the deepest secrets and most elaborate lies. But he could not focus on any single thought, and his mind raged like a whirling storm of thoughts, all fighting to be heard, while new thoughts continued streaming in, and he lost his last remaining vestiges of sanity.

Ancient One began to scrawl madly on the floor, trying to jot down his thoughts even as they fled before him like frightened fish, desperately scribbling as he attempted to write down everything he knows. For hours he scribbled, then days, and the days turned to months, and the months to years, as his hair grew long and white, his eyes grew sunken, and he sank deep into the depths of insanity.

And then, one day, the door had reopened. He had always known it would.

* * * * *

The room grew silent.

"I always knew you were coming, of course, and I know many things, oh yes, many many things," muttered the insane husk that used to be the noble Ancient One. "But time grows short for stories, yes, the stories, I must tell you the stories, and you must correct the mistakes we have made." He stared again at Cantrip, and his lips quivered. "Much has been forgotten, I know, I know, but now is the time to tell you of the stories, and you must end this, yes, bring everything to an end, and complete the unhappy tale of the Ancients, cursed to the very end, the very end. There is much you must know, and quickly, before all is lost!" And he wailed loudly, beating his fists against his frail chest. "You must know! I know, I know, and I must tell you the rest of the stories... so many stories..."

Seraph gazed at the pitiful, wailing figure, and grabbed his shoulders. "Then tell us! Come, finish your story! The remaining four Ancients.. what became of them?"

Ancient One sobbed uncontrollably, and then continued the story.

* * * * *

Septaphim fled through the tunnels, his broken body a fraction of his former self. Evangelion had not killed himself in vain: Septaphim had been robbed of most of his powers, as the flames had burned away most of his physical shell. He was little more than a shadow now, with the merest of whispers binding him to the world.

He needed time to heal in solitude, and even then he feared that the damage from the fire had dealt a fatal blow to his power. The Demonic magic was faltering now, and he could feel his powers slip away. The shadows that had bent their will to his were now burned into the walls of the tunnel, and Septaphim knew that he was dying.

No matter.. there were other ways to prolong his existence. He was too weak to regain the Key now, and the Gifts were most certainly lost by now. He had to recover, and then he will return. Septaphim swore that, even if it would consume every last drop of his remaining energies, he would undo the damage wrought by Arathea's Gifts: his soul would not rest in peace until this was done.

* * * * *

"The other Ancients abandoned the Vault once they discovered the abominations that they had become. I stayed, of course, because I was too mad to leave, and they abandoned me here, sealed inside this tomb. The Key was hidden in a ledge above the door, and then each one of them fled, horrified by the true nature of their Gifts."

"Ancient Three's Invincibility rune had turned him into a monstrous, steel skinned monster, and he went mad with rage, trapped within an unbreakable shell. He escaped into the dark catacombs beneath the City, where he festered in his own hatred. He clawed at his skin, but it was too strong to be broken, and he grew hungry, unable to eat anything. And yet he stayed alive, fueled by his hatred, his hunger, and his rage, and in time, he grew obsessed with hunting and destroying Septaphim, for to his twisted mind, he blamed Septaphim for murdering Arathea before the runes could be completed, which Ancient Three saw as the only reason he was encassed in an inescapable prison that was his own skin."

"Deep under the City, Septaphim created a complex magical circle, capable of moving a person ahead in time. In his weakened state, direct sunlight was enough to kill him outright, and he had precious little time to waste hiding in the darkness while waiting for daylight to pass. He entered the circle every time the sun rose, and reappeared with the sunset, and became a true creature of the night, vanishing from existence until night fell. He protected his lair with myths and stories, convincing the locals that a great monster guarded the circle."

"You..." Ancient One pointed a wrinkled finger at Penelope. "You found the lair as well, but in the darkness, Septaphim had just enough of his powers remaining to take you prisoner, and hoped that it would discourage any further exploration into his lair. Ancient Three heard the rumours of this great monster, who defeated even a skilled bounty hunter, and in his desperation to find Septaphim for revenge, he suspected, correctly, that the 'great monster' was none other than Septaphim himself."

"Ancient Three broke into the chamber just as your friends arrived, and would have killed them both if not for Septaphim's timely intervention. Once Ancient Three stepped inside the circle, Septaphim sent him forward in time, and allowed the two of you to escape. Of course, you repayed this little debt by returning later to kill Ancient Three, ending his tortured existence."

"But... why?" asked Seraph, puzzled. "Why did this Septaphim rescue us?"

Ancient One smiled. "Oh yes... there is another part to the story you are unaware of: no doubt you remember that the Power rune was taken by Ancient Five. It was effective beyond Arathea's wildest dreams... Ancient Five was filled with so much power, he leaked pure magic. But the magic became unstable, and uncontrollable, discharging itself randomly into the environment, and it was growing stronger all the time."

"Ancient Five became a walking bomb: each discharge became more violent than the last, and soon white flames burst into existence randomly all around Ancient Five, and his body became nothing more than a vessel for an unstable buildup of raw magic. He retreated to the Fortress, at the peak of the Spire, exiled from the rest of existence, to which he had become a real danger to. He was Septaphim's greatest fear come true: what if Ancient Five could no longer contain the magic? If every last drop of magic within him was released upon his death, then it would blow us all to kingdom come, destroying the island, and possibly everything else as well."

"Ancient Five eventually reached a point where his control over the magic slowly slipped away, and in a desperate move to prevent utter annihilation of the entire world, he used the magic to seal himself for eternity inside a block of solid rock, hoping that the stone would hold the magic while preventing more magic from leaking in."

A memory tugged at Seraph's brain. A man, sealed in a rock: somehow, it all seemed familiar...

"Unfortunately, he was only partially correct. The stone did hold the magic, but more magic leaked in slowly, soaking through the solid rock. Ancient Five had only succeeded in delaying the inevitable. Septaphim could not reach the top of the Spire, where the sunlight would have killed him. He realised that he needed the help of the other Ancients to resolve this threat, and ultimately, undo once and for all the many mistakes of the Ancients."

"Unfortunately, I was mad, and sealed within the Vault, while Ancient Three was unlikely to offer any help to the person he hated so much. But there were two more Ancients remaining, and Septaphim turned to them for help."

The memory made the right connections, and Seraph's mind leapt. "The rich old man," said Seraph excitedly. "When he died, he wrote something cryptic on the parchment: "FIND OTHERS", and a drawing of a man, framed by a square. That's it, isn't it? A man framed by a square: that was Ancient Five, trapped in a rock. Which would mean that..."

Ancient One nodded. "Cain Fortune was no man: he was the Ancient who held the rune of Wealth. I'm surprised that you didn't realise it earlier, of course... after all, his name betrayed his true identity: 'CAIN FORTUNE' is nothing more than a rearrangement of his true name, 'ANCIENT FOUR'."

next chapter

chapter 26

2005-11-26T14:23:00.000+08:00

previous chapter

Hours after the crash, a black stagecoach roared out of the Porpoise mansion, headed straight for the Spire.

Inside, Mr Porpoise drummed his fingers impatiently. If Evangelion knows everything, then he would be heading for the Vault... and Mr Porpoise will meet him there. Inside his jacket was a small, specially made crossbow, loaded with a single crossbow bolt. The bolt was smeared with an extremely strong contact poison: one shot and you'll be begging for death.

Mr Porpoise glanced out the window, watching the world roll past. History would be made today, and he intended to be the one to do it. The fabled Gifts.. if the legends were true, they would make him a true god among men... free to reshape the world as he wished. Mr Porpoise sighed. The bounty hunter's body had not been found at the airship's crash site, so he was most probably alive and moving. But there was no way any bounter hunter on foot could reach the Spire faster than a stagecoach travelling at full speed.

Plenty of time to prepare a nice little surprise for him when he got there, thought Mr Porpoise.

* * * * *

A second stagecoach thundered to a stop inside the Spire, and the doors opened. Five hooded figures piled out, and hurried across the busy platform. Nobody gave them any notice, of course: people come and go all the time on the airship platforms, and hooded figures were not uncommon.

* * * * *

Mr Porpoise's coach rolled to a stop. This was... not a busy platform. They were about halfway up the Spire, inside the specially built stagecoach path, and there was no one in sight. Mr Porpoise climbed out of the stagecoach, whispered instructions to the driver, and then, glancing around suspiciously, hurried off into the darkness.

The stagecoach rolled onwards. As it turned the next corner, Evangelion released his grip, and fell from his hiding place underneath the belly of the coach. He hit the path hard, rolled, and quickly recovered into a crouching position. And then he was gone, too.

* * * * *

Deep inside the tunnels was the Vault door. Thirty feet high and thirty feet across, it was nothing more than one big flat slab of stone carved into the cave walls. There were no visible levers or buttons on nearby walls, and the only interesting feature in the entire door (besides the fact that it was excessively big) was a small hexagonal depression cut into the center of the door, about seven feet off the ground.

The five Ancients stood in front of it, gazing at the hexagonal hole. All they needed now was the Key, and the Ancients would rise again as a new power in the world, taking their rightful place as the ruler of men. Fortunately for them, that the Key was moving closer every second, and soon the Vault will open, and Arathea's Gifts will be revealed.

Nobody actually knows much about them, other than the fact that they had been sealed from existence by Septaphim's betrayal, but the Ancients knew that Arathea had been close to completing the runes, and even in their current state the runes were exceedingly powerful.

And then Mr Porpoise arrived.

* * * * *

Mr Porpoise had expected the tunnel containing the Vault to be empty.

He had discovered it many years ago, during an expedition to identify possible expansion sites for future airship platforms. It had been an astounding discovery, and he had initially envisioned mountains of gold lying behind that huge door. After extensive research, he had been dumbfounded when all clues pointed to the door as Arathea's Vault, mentioned only in legends and old fables. The Gifts in the legend were said to grant great powers to whoever claimed them, powers far beyond the comprehension of mere mortals.

Unfortunately, the tunnel was not empty when he arrived. The five Ancients turned as one, surprised by his sudden appearance, and Mr Porpoise pulled out his crossbow.

* * * * *

Ancient One gave a shout of warning, and the Ancients scattered with inhuman speed. The intruder looked nothing like a bounty hunter: he was wearing an expensive looking jacket, from which he had pulled out a small crossbow. The bolts from such a weapon would merely bounce off their skins, of course, but they couldn't risk having an intruder here when the bounty hunter arrives.

Ancient Two slammed into the body of the intruder, sending him flying. It was over within seconds: Mr Porpoise stood no chance against the full strength of five Ancients, and soon he was lying motionless on the floor, his crossbow broken into pieces.

Evangelion watched from the shadows, and shuddered. In his injured state, there was no way he could take on all of them by himself. The door was just up ahead now... so close, and yet so far. There had to be a way... Perhaps a distraction of some sort, all he needed was time, time to push the Key into the Vault door, time to...

He never finished that thought, because all around him, the shadows came alive.

* * * * *

Ancient One turned at the sound of the scream. It sounded like the howl of a thousand dead voices, and sent a shudder down his spine. The scream echoed across the tunnel, and then there were flashes of bright light, just around the corner.

Evangelion had fired off both his remaining flares in his panic. The shadows writhed, but maintained their firm grip on his body. He felt a rib bone crack.

"Fool! I will not fall for the same trick twice!" snarled Septaphim. He looked weaker now, and the bright explosion of the flares scorched his shadowy skin, but he disregarded the pain. Evangelion had stolen the Key, and his soul burned for vengeance.

Evangelion grunted as the shadows tightened their grip. This was it, then: if the flares couldn't hurt this monster, then he was completely screwed. But even if he was to die here... well, if you're going to die anyway, you might as well die fighting. He smiled at Septaphim's enraged face, and with all his remaining strength, he reached deep into his great coat, and ignited a tinderbox.

The oiled great coat caught fire at once, and the shadows squirmed as the flames engulfed Evangelion's body. Septaphim howled in anger, as the light from the flames seared through the shadows. Evangelion shook off their weakening grip, and pulled the Key from the burning coat. Gritting his teeth as his skin burned, Evangelion hurled the Key aside, and leapt at Septaphim like a human fireball.

There was a scream as their bodies collided, and the shadows writhed wildly in pain. Septaphim, screaming, desperately tried to push away Evangelion's burning flesh, but the bounty hunter held on tightly.

The darkness burned.

* * * * *

By the time the Ancients arrived, there was nothing much left. A charred body, singed and smoking, lay on the floor. All around, shadows had been permanently burned into the walls, like a huge, disturbing painting.

Ancient One could have sworn that he noticed a single shadowy figure fleeing from the tunnel, hissing, but before he could react, Ancient Four shouted excitedly. The Key had been found, lying in the ashes... the Key to Arathea's Gifts, the Key to their destiny.

* * * * *

Trembling in anticipation, the Ancients pressed the Key into the hexagonal depression on the door.Deep inside the earth came the deep rumbling of ancient gears, as the walls shook and it rained dust. A hairline crack appeared and began to split the door right down the middle, and then the door groaned as it creaked open, swinging very slowly inwards, until it stopped with a great resounding thud.

The Ancients peered inside nervously.

It was... a strange room. The entire floor was roughly hexagonal in shape, with each of the six walls stretching upwards into the darkness as far as the eye could see. Lanterns blazed in here, but the flames were pure white. Each of the walls were inscribed with a single, gigantic rune word, except for the one with the door. All five runes blazed brightly, casting their strange light across the empty chamber.

The Ancients stepped inside.

Each rune was a single word, written in the tongues of the Ancients. A thin layer of ash and dust lay on the floor, undisturbed until now. As the Ancients walked in, the dust and ashes swirled in little clouds, catching the rays of the light to form fantastic patterns.

* * * * *

The old man stopped his tale, and gazed into nothing.

"And then?" asked Seraph excitedly. "What happened after that? Did they claim the runes?" Seraph glanced around the chamber, and noticed that two of the runes were still glowing. "If you're telling the truth, old man, then we're standing in the very same chamber that they opened, all those years ago. But the Ancients did not come to conquer the City, so did they chose not to take the runes?"

The old man shook his head sadly. "No... they did claim the runes, and then they understood why Septaphim had chosen to seal the chamber with the seal of regret. But I am getting ahead of the story. As the Ancients stood here, in this very chamber, they chose one rune each. It was unfortunate that Arathea was killed before he could complete the runes: instead of a single, powerful rune, the Gifts lay in five fragments, each one granting a single Gift."

"The first rune gave Knowledge, and it promised to grant sight beyond sight to whoever claimed it. The ability to know everything and anything, future and past, and utter clarity of memory. It was claimed by Ancient One, for he was the wisest and the oldest."

"The second rune gave Immortality, and it promised to grant a boon of eternal youth, never dying or growing old. It was created to ensure the survival of the Ancients against the relentless passage of time, protecting them from the shadow of extinction. It was claimed by Ancient Two."

"The third rune was Invincibility, and it gave full protection against the sharp weapons of the human armies waiting below. Arathea intended to use it as the ultimate defence: the skins of the Ancient were already strong, but the strongest steel forged by the humans would still be capable of seriously injuring them. The third rune was created to render all human weapons utterly useless. It was claimed by Ancient Three."

"The fourth rune was Wealth, and it was created to ensure the Ancients would be capable of rebuilding the full glory of the empire they had lost in the Demon wars. It was claimed by Ancient Four."

"The fifth rune was Power, and it contained the full, terrible power of the old magic of the Ancients. Arathea had extracted the explosive essence of the old battle magic, and crafted it into a single rune that greatly increased the destructive magical power of anyone who wielded it. It was claimed by Ancient Five. Thus distributed, the Ancients laid their hands on their respective Gifts and claimed it for their own."

The old man paused, and sighed sadly. "And then the nightmare began."

next chapter

chapter 25

2005-11-25T22:10:00.000+08:00

previous chapter

Time passed.

The sign swinging over the door said "Ronal & Sons, Travel Consultants, Since 1852", with a little bell that tinkled whenever the door was pushed open. It was one of those things about a small business, you just had to have a bell that tinkles when the door opens, and nobody actually knows why. Since it's a small shop, you certainly don't need a bell to tell you that a customer has just walked in: seeing it for yourself usually does the trick just as well.

In any case, the bell did tinkle, and a man walked in. He wore a dirty great coat that reeked of sewage, and had a hunted look in his eyes. His right arm was missing: it looked as though it had very recently been cut off at the shoulder, and the empty sleeve swung creepily as he walked. His hair was greyish, but it was a kind of grey that suggested it used to be white, before layers of grime and dirt decided to make themselves comfortable.

Behind the desk, a nervous young man with a pair of tiny spectacles glanced up. "Welcome to Ronal & Sons, sir. How can I help you?" he said, and something in his tone added: 'although of course, it would be better all around if I didn't have to help you at all'. And it's always safer to address a dangerous-looking stranger as 'sir'.

Evangelion stepped forward. "Give me your fastest airship to the Spire, and I want it to leave as soon as humanly possible."

The young man behind the counter carefully noted the use of the word 'humanly', which seemed to be suggesting that this stranger does not operate within normal human limits. "Certainly sir, but that'll be, er, quite an large sum of money. Er..."

"Here," said Evangelion, and plonked a money bag full of gems onto the desk. "That's $5,000 in assorted precious stones. Now... give me the airship."

The boy stared at the gems. They had apparently been stuffed hurriedly into the bag, and now trickled slowly onto the table. He gulped. "Okay sir, I'll, er, see what I can do. Freddie's on the way back now with the skimmer airship, I'll, erm, see to it that he gets here as quickly as he can, erm... maybe, by tomorrow evening...?" and his speech faltered against the cold stare of the stranger's eyes. It was uncomfortably similar to staring into a freshly dug grave.

"What's your name, kid?" asked Evangelion gruffly.

"My name's Acturus, sir, but, erm, everyone calls me Act for short."

"Great. Tell you what, Act. Get me that airship within one hour, and I'll make sure you get handsomely rewarded for your effort. One hour, for an extra $5,000. How's that, hm?" said Evangelion. Money was no object now... the Gifts are worth far more than all the gold in the world.

Act hesitated. $10,000 was a lot of money... there were some recently serviced airships that would do the trick. Oh all right... "Okay, sir, I'll see what I can do. One hour, you said? You got it..."

* * * * *

Mr Porpoise opened a sealed letter.

He was furious: all his efforts to stop the bounty hunter so far had failed miserably. The men he sent had been slaughtered like sheep, and the bounty hunter was still fleeing with the Key. If the bounty hunter already knew about the Vault, then all was lost... Damn, damn, damn, thought Mr Porpoise. He had been very careful to destroy all maps and references to the Vault, but he must have missed something... something small, yet important. Despite appearances, the bounty hunter was the best in the business, and he was as cunning as a snake.

Anyway. He took a deep breath, and read the letter. Fifteen minutes later, it had been torn to shreds, and Mr Porpoise's anger had evolved to a point where he felt extremely calm. The bounty hunter was taking an airship straight to the Spire? Typical, of course. The bounty hunter was famous for acts of bravado and showsmanship: he took it as nothing more than a game, and flying straight for the Spire was nothing but gloating in the face of Mr Porpoise. Nyeh, nyeh, I have the Key, come and get it.

Mr Porpoise clenched his fists tightly. Airship eh? Well, we know how to deal with that. We just shoot it down, and let gravity do the rest of the work.

* * * * *

The airship creaked as it sailed clumsily through the air, piloted by a nervous Act. It was built for hauling cargo, not for speed, and so it rumbled along slowly, pulled by a big fat unicorn, with the words "Ronal & Sons" painted on the sides. Evangelion gazed out of a cabin window, into the starry night sky beyond. He was getting very close to the Gifts... once he reached the tunnels, it would be a simple matter to find the Vault and...

His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden shout. The ship banked hard as Evangelion saw something fly out of the clouds...

It was a cloud of homing pigeons, carrying what appeared to be a flaming torches. Evangelion's eyes widened in surprise. The pigeons screeched madly, and collided with the airship. There was a brief 'whooooomp' as the flames spread over the balloon. Evangelion kicked open the window, leapt, and then everything exploded.

* * * * *

At the edge of the City, the Ancients saw the burning airship fall from the sky.

The ship fell apart as it fell, burning bits of wood coming off like dandruff. But there, when you looked really carefully in the midst of the growing fireball, was a figure in a great coat, clinging on to the unicorn as it struggled to break its fall. The unicorn spread its huge wings, slowing itself as it fell.

Clinging on to the unicorn, Evangelion saw the rooftops screaming towards him, the entire City laid out before his eyes and getting closer by the second. And then he leapt away, landing heavily on the rooftops, his coat smouldering. Evangelion grunted, rolled, and then he was still. For a moment there was silence, then Evangelion groaned, pulled himself up, and stumbled off into the darkness.

There was a crash as the airship finally hit the ground.

The Ancients saw Evangelion's narrow escape, so the Key must have made it, too, and the airship was of little concern now. There were other ways to get into the Spire, and if the bounty hunter could survive an airship on fire, then he could certainly find a way to bring the Key to the Vault.

It would take too long to walk back up the Spire, of course. Ancient One spoke first, and his voice was tense. "Our worst fears are now confirmed, brothers: the Key has been taken, and the bounty hunter is heading for the Vault even as we speak. We must move quickly, and take what is rightfully ours before it is stolen from right beneath our noses."

The other Ancients nodded quickly, and three minutes later, the alley was empty once more.

next chapter

chapter 24

2005-11-25T11:12:00.000+08:00

previous chapter

The Messenger wrapped the shawl tighter around herself as she trudged along the rocky path. This was... somewhere above the cloud cover, and she had left the blizzard behind, but she felt a strange chill of apprehension. Up in front was the imposing shape of the Ancients' fortress, casting its huge shadow on existence.

At the end of the winding path, the Messenger knocked on a pair of large wooden doors. It opened, and the handsome figure of Ancient One stood in the doorway.

"Greetings, Messenger," said the Ancient, his voice like the rustle of old parchment. "You are certainly early today... has something happened in the City, perhaps?"

The Messenger twisted her shawl nervously, and spoke softly, with her head bowed. "Greeting, Ancient One. Indeed I bring you news: the Key has been discovered by a powerful bounty hunter by the name of Evangelion, and even as we speak, he is heading directly for its hiding place to claim it for himself."

"The Key?" asked Ancient One, taken aback. "The Key stolen by Septaphim?" His eyebrows narrowed. "Thank you, Messenger... I shall need to call a Gathering immediately. Good day."

Ancient One turned to go, and the door clanged to a close behind him. He hurried along the halls, deep in thought.

* * * * *

The Gathering was more solemn than usual. There was a heavy silence in the air, as the five Ancients sat around the ceremonial Council table. It was built to comfortably seat 30 people, so there was plenty of extra space, but this time, even all that space seemed to be filled with silence.

Finally, Ancient Two stirred in his seat. The silence was unnerving. "Hm. Are you sure?"

"Very," replied Ancient One.

"Well, well. Hm. An interesting piece of news indeed. Hm. After all this time?"

"Yes. I was rather surprised as well, to tell you the truth."

The other three shifted uneasily in their seats. This was surprising news, and after being up here for so long, they did not enjoy surprises. Several hours ago, the Messenger had arrived with the news, and minutes later, the Ancients hastily convened this emergency Gathering. They had been sitting deep in though for hours, thinking: the Key had been found, and the Ancients were worried. If the runes fell into the Evangelion's hands, the salvation of their race would be lost. It was time to move, and intercept the bounty hunter in the City. Fighting an enemy you don't know well is a recipe for defeat, and they intend to gauge the bounty hunter's true strength before he reaches the Vault.

Long forgotten cupboards were opened, releasing decades of dust and decay. There was a hint of leather, and a buckle was pulled tight. A swirl of black cloth, kicking up a mini storm of dust. A soft 'clink', and the sound of weapons being checked and resheathed. Hoods were pulled over heads.

And then they were ready. Within the hour, the fortress had been locked and emptied. The Ancients were on the move, and there was nowhere to go but down.

Hidden in the shadows, the Messenger watched them leave. She sighed, and hurried after the moving Ancients. She had a sinking feeling that the first pebbles of history had been dislodged, and it would be only a matter of time before it turned into a metaphorical avalanche.

* * * * *

In the Undercity, a sewer cover flew open, clattering noisily on the street. Evangelion emerged, dragging himself out with his remaining arm. Several denizens ran for cover at this sight: a one-armed man in a great coat emerging from the pits of the Undercity could only mean trouble.

Evangelion glanced wildly around. The Gyst rune would not hold Septaphim's mind forever, and he had previous little time to get to the Vault. Handing over the Key to Mr Porpoise was out of the question now: he was expected at the mansion tomorrow morning, so Mr Porpoise would suspect nothing until then. He had some time, but not much.

He turned and ran down the streets. Time, time: never enough of it when you need it, too much of it when you don't. He had some things to take care of first, and then the Gifts would be within his grasp.

* * * * *

In the darkest corners of his mind, Septaphim stood triumphantly over a moutain of bodies: the earthly remains of his vanquished enemies. The Key hung safely from his neck, and Septaphim laughed loudly. The sweet smell of victory...

The City burned around him, as dark shadows screamed through the air, killing everything that was foolish enough to stand in their path. The skies were tinted blood red, with clouds as black as burning death. "Yes... Arathea was a fool to have linked the future of the great Ancients with these weak humans," cackled Septaphim gleefully. "The Gifts will never be found! All who seek it shall perish by my hands!"

And he laughed, a dark, mirthless laughter that echoed throughout the destruction he wrought. The Ancients are a cursed race, Septaphim knew that, but even to the bitter end, they will never taint the bloodline! No! The earth must be purged, and he will be the one to do it...

Septaphim's mind, already wracked by guilt over the murder of Arathea and the sealing of the Gifts, was finally broken by the twisted Dark arts. He had abandoned his old, noble self, and now desperately clung on to the Key as the last symbol of his sanity. It was the entire reason for his exile from his own people, but he had long forgotten his original reason for denying the corrupting power of the Gifts to the other Ancients: now, he only knew that the Key must be protected at all costs, and the Gifts must remain firmly locked away...

A sudden flash of heat seared through his head, and Septaphim clutched his head in pain. Something was wrong... and a single memory bubbled to the surface.

...a blinding flash of light...

The memory sank back into the murky depths, but Septaphim was puzzled. Strange, the memory had clearly been about a bright light of some sort, but he couldn't remember anything like it. The nagging sensation that he was forgetting something persisted, and he struggled to remember. Deep inside his own head, a memory was struggling to be heard, and he plunged his hands in, pulling out memories at random...

...a bounty hunter, pulling out a flare...

* * * * *

In the sanctuary, Septaphim opened his eyes. His head hurt like mad, and it felt like something was inside his head trying to drill its way out.

Damn! A Gyst rune! He had almost forgotten such old magic by now. Ironically, he had been defeated by a weapon that he helped to create. With a sinking feeling, Septaphim whirled around, and saw the empty pedestal.

* * * * *

The Undercity shook terribly, as a great howl of outrage came from the very ground.

The denizens of the Undercity shuddered, and began to move off the streets. Trouble was brewing, and they didn't want to be caught in the middle of it. In the Raven's Nest, the barkeeper took out an extra axe, as well as a loaded crossbow and several meat cleavers, and safely hid them under the bar counter. Better safe than sorry.

Several hours later, another sewer hole exploded outwards, and a dark tangle of shadows swam across the street. In the middle of the shadows was a terrible being, shaking with fury and moving now with demonic speed, heading directly for the Spire in the distance.

next chapter

chapter 23

2005-11-24T11:39:00.000+08:00

previous chapter

Evangelion left not long afterwards. The Messenger stared blankly at the fire for several hours, then sighed and reached for her travelling cloak and shawl. It was time to warn the Ancients that the Key had been taken. It was her duty, after all.

After she had left, the cottage door opened by itself, and then closed again twenty minutes later.

* * * * *

Far far below the depths of the earth, Evangelion arrived at the sealed door, its single rune staring outwards like an evil eye. It was a massive stone slab, carved from top to bottom with the story of the Ancients and their cursed fate. Evangelion took a deep breath, pulled back his hood, and stepped forward.

"Regret," he intoned, and there was a click. Something clicked and clacked, and the door silently slide open. Evangelion hesitated, then stepped inside the dark frame of the door.

* * * * *

There was a sensation of time and space shuffling each other around like a bunch of playful kittens, and Evangelion felt reality warp and twist for a brief moment. And then...

It was always dark in this room, despite the abundance of tall (albeit heavily curtained) windows and large (albeit grimy) domes on the ceiling. The very air in the room strongly hinted to anyone who breathed it that visitors were not welcome here. There were shadows everywhere, and it was in fact so dark that these shadows had their own shadows. In this room, stray beams of light that wandered in would hastily apologize and hurriedly leave as soon as possible.

Evangelion stood with his back to one of the walls in the room. The heavy silence in the room swirled by silently. The entire chamber was otherwise empty, and it was as eerie as a tomb. A very large, very quiet, very shadowy and very dark tomb.

Thunder rolled overhead, and there was a flash of lightning a few seconds after. Thunder rolled a second time, and then it started to rain.

It began slowly, then became louder and louder as raindrops pelted the building. More lightning, and more thunder. The rain assaulted the walls relentlessly, and outside the wind howled viciously.

And Evangelion began to move. Like the rain, he moved slowly at first, as he raised one gloved hand, clutching what appeared to be a rusted dagger. Then, he leapt forward and blurred. The shadows twisted. Evangelion, moving faster and faster now as he flew across the length of the chamber, slashed wildly, and the shadows twisted and turned, whipping at Evangelion as he shot across the room. There, on the other side of the room, was the Key on a pedestal, but in front of it...

...was Septaphim. Something was wrong, however... he looked dark and translucent, like a shadow, and he was shrouded in shadows. He stared at Evangelion with eyes that were pure white, and Evangelion stopped, poised in the middle of the room, his great coat draped around him like the death shroud.

"Why have you come here?" spoke Septaphim, and it sounded like a thousand voices whispering at the same time, echoing across the depths of eternity. "This is no place for you: leave now, or die..."

Evangelion twirled his dagger defiantly. "No. I have come this far, and I will not leave without the Key."

Septaphim laughed, and a thousand whispering voices giggled and hissed. "Fool! Do you really think that you can defeat me? Do you not know who I am?" Tendrils of shadows shot out of the darkness, and before Evangelion could react, they wrapped themselves around his right arm, and squeezed. There was a crack of bone, and his dagger clattered onto the floor. Evangelion screamed. It did not sound very pleasant. "I am Septaphim, the last surviving member of the Ancient Council, and you are a mere insect in my presence! I can crush the very life out of you with a single thought, and you dare to stand here and defy my will?"

Evangelion groaned on the floor, clutching his arm. It was utterly crushed, dangling uselessly from one side of his body. The shadows around him coiled and writhed in anticipation of the kill.

"And now, you will die!" roared Septaphim. His white eyes blazed with a burning fury, and all around Evangelion, the shadows swirled like a whirlpool, then enveloped Evangelion for a final embrace.

* * * * *

The mad old man paused in his story. Seraph, Cantrip and Penelope sat around him, enthralled by the tale. He grinned. "Yes, yes, this was the very same Septaphim, oh yes, but he had been twisted and corrupted beyond all recognition. His sole reason for being was the protection of the Key, and he grew increasingly paranoid, fearing that Arathea's Gifts would fall into the wrong hands. And so he hid in the tunnels deep underground, living like a vermin, scraping an existence from the cold, dank earth. He built for himself a sanctuary accesible only by the sealed portal, and he mastered the shadows."

"His art was one that was practised by the cruelest Demons: it binds the souls of your enemies into shadows, denying them eternal peace, and dooming them to an eternity under your command. Septaphim became fallen, and his obsession with the Key gnawed at his very soul."

* * * * *

As the shadows closed in, Evangelion opened his greatcoat, and pulled out a short, grey stick. He shut his eyes, bit one end of the stick, and pulled.

Bounty hunters travel to many dangerous corners of the earth, and so they are always well equipped for all eventualities. There are few things more useful than as a stick of magnesium metal, packed tightly in a tube, to be ignited in times of emergency. Such times would most definitely include being assaulted by homicidal shadows out for your blood.

The chamber lit up like the sun as the flare went off. The shadows wailed as the searing light sliced into them, and they retreated, howling. Evangelion dropped the burning flare and shot forward again. Even with his eyes shut, his vision was momentarily lost, and his eyes burned. He had a few moments to move, before the darkness returned.

A few moments was all he needed.

Septaphim stumbled backwards, taken by surprise. Stabbing him would probably not achieve much, and in any case, Evangelion's fighting arm was completely useless now. Instead, he reached into his great coat a second time, and pulled out nothing at all. He whirled behind Septaphim's powerful figure, and slapped nothing in particular into the back of the Ancient's head.

The last remaining Gyst rune in existence, stolen from the cottage of the Messenger, burned itself into Septaphim's skull, and Septaphim collapsed, now living a world that was completely inside his own head. For a moment, there was a horrible scream as thousands of shadows wailed, and then the sound faded, leaving Evangelion alone in the dark chamber, save for Septaphim's immobile body.

Evangelion was breathing deeply now, as the adrenaline coursed through his veins. He walked over to the pedestal, and took the Key: a hexagonal shaped metal object, with a single rune carved in the middle... the rune of regret.

next chapter

chapter 22

2005-11-23T16:25:00.000+08:00

previous chapter

"This is a story of a bounty hunter, the best one there ever was. He was a legend among legends: few have not heard the whispers of his existence, but despite this, nobody really knows anything about him, not even the people who could afford his services. Very few people actually remember what his face looks like, or his name, or even if it really is a he. But I know, of course, I know his story.. and I tell you now, it was indeed a man, and his name was Evangelion..."

* * * * *

Once again, there was a prickly sensation of time rolling backwards, and we are back in the City, flying through the streets, admiring the amazing light-bloom special effects, until we see...

Evangelion stepped out of the stagecoach, clutching his heavy oiled great-coat against the pelting rain. It was raining heavily, and even with the coat he was shivering. He hurried across the street, and stood for a moment in front of a pair of wrought iron gates. The gates swung open, and he strode onwards, past a driveway with shady trees on either side, up the marble steps, through the door, and into the mansion, his long white hair gleaming with silvery raindrops.

"Your coat, if you please, sir," came a voice dripping with contempt. Evangelion turned, and saw the butler gazing icily at him as he stood in the hall, dripping water all over the expensive floor.

"If you don't mind, Jeremiah, I'll hold on to the coat," Evangelion returned the stare with an equally stony one, turned, and trudged onwards into the mansion, leaving behind a trail of muddy footsteps. The butler gritted his teeth. Bounty hunters! in his opinion, they were the bane of all domestic housekeeping, which made them on par with serial killers in the butler's book. It'll take ages to get the scullery maids to scrub the floor clean again...

* * * * *

Mr Porpoise looked up from his huge oak desk as Evangelion entered the room.

"Ah. You must be the famous bounty hunter I have heard so much about," said Mr Porpoise as he steepled his fingers. "Evangelion, wasn't it? I am honoured that you found time to fit me in your busy schedule. Certainly a man of your abilities would be... very busy indeed."

Evangelion replied with a cold silence that lasted several seconds longer than Mr Porpoise was comfortable with. Mr Porpoise squirmed. Outside, the rain continued to pour down, falling noisily on the rooftops.

"A man of few words, I see. Very well, very well... I shall cut straight to the point then. The reason you are here today is because I need someone with your, shall we say, unique abilities, to retrieve something for me. Quite probably it will be a rather drastic departure from your other contracts, and I would therefore advise you to go into this with both eyes open, and if possible both ears as well." Mr Porpoise leaned back in his chair. "Of course, the reward will also be befitting of such a difficult contract. You will be handsomely compensated upon completion of the contract. The fee will be upwards of $8,500,000, in precious stones and any currency of your choice."

Evangelion raised an eyebrow. Eight and a half million dollars? One hell of a job this is, then. A small smile curled in the corner of his lips, and he felt a brief rush of excitement. He has done many things that men could only dream of, and yet, something had always eluded him: the satisfaction of completing a truly impossible challenge, rather than callenges that were merely highly improbable. Evangelion lived for this: to one day know that he had truly broken all barriers of possibility, and stepped into the rarefied air breathed by heroes and gods.

Every field has a person like him: a true genius who pops up every few hundred years or so, someone so good at doing things that it bores them to follow the old traditions. And so they push the envelope out of sheer boredom, doing things previously thought impossible, setting new standards for the field, and sometimes they permanently alter the future of the world they live in.

"Tell me more," said Evangelion, carefully concealing his excitement. His smile vanished and his face faded even further into the shadows.

"Of course. As I have outlined to you, you will be retrieving an item for me. A rather unique item, in fact." And Mr Porpoise gave Evangelion the description of that item, which was met with a raised eyebrow from Evangelion. "You will most likely be up against some very powerful foes on this little mission... I believe you have heard the legend of the Ancients?"

"I thought they were a myth... but yes, they were rumoured to exist many centuries ago, before man arrived on this island. Supposedly each one of them was more powerful than a hundred strong men," said Evangelion.

"No, maybe not a hundred, but certainly they were no myth. The Ancients were very powerful, but they were forced to the peaks of the Spire in the aftermath of a great war... and there they have been since. But they will be seeking the same thing as you, so be very careful," replied Mr Porpoise sinisterly. It was risky to warn the bounty hunter of their existence, but Mr Porpoise could not afford to hide this. The Key was too important: if the bounty hunter didn't know what he was up against, he would certainly be killed, and the Key would be lost.

"Oh? And, pray tell, how would you know all this?" asked Evangelion curiously.

"I have my sources, and this has been a little, hm, passion of mine for the last few years. Enough chatter, Evangelion. Go, find the item, and bring it back to me. And good luck, I believe you will be needing a lot of it," said Mr Porpoise, and he went back to his desk, signalling the end of the conversation.

Evangelion turned to go, and paused for a moment, a silhouette in the light of the doorframe. "Luck? I don't believe in luck, Mr Porpoise... a man must forge his own destiny. Good day to you," and then he was gone.

* * * * *

"For the next few months, Evangelion completely vanished from the public eye. Of course, he had always been nothing more than a passing whisper to the public, but this time he really did utterly vanish... it was like he never existed. Mr Porpoise lost all contact with him, and despite the best efforts of his vast network of spies, he could not determine Evangelion's whereabouts..."

* * * * *

A figure trudged through the thick snow, leaving behind little footstep-shaped craters in the white landscape. He was wrapped in a thick furry cloak and wore a grimy great-coat, yet moved surprisingly quickly in the freezing cold weather. It snowed lightly as he walked.

And there, up ahead, was a small cottage, where a thin wisp of smoke was rising. A wolf howled in the distance, and a mountain goat peered curiously as the figure stopped in the snow. There was a moment of hesitation, then the figure continued trudging onwards, and knocked on the door of the cottage.

The snow continued falling lightly, like flakes of manna falling from the heavens.

The door to the cottage creaked open, and an old lady poked her head out. The figure pulled off his cloak, revealing a head of white hair, and he smiled politely at the old lady.

"Good morning. I believe you are the one they call the Messenger of the Ancients?" said Evangelion. His features appeared more haggard and drawn than usual, like he had been on a very long journey.

"How did you find this place?" asked the lady sharply, ignoring his question. "I had some extremely powerful charms in place, and I'm pretty sure nobody else even knows that this cottage exists." Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Ah.... you're that genius bounty hunter I've heard so much about, aren't you? Evangelion, that's the name..."

"Yes, I am. Amazed that you've heard of me," Evangelion gave her a thin smile and bowed. "And your protection charms were rather tricky to defeat, of course. The Gyst rune had me lost inside my own head for several days before I managed to get out, but here I am now."

The Messenger sighed. Gyst runes were extremely difficult to create, but worth every last drop of time spent. They were almost invisible to intruders, and when triggered, seamlessly drops the mind of an intruder into a dream of reality while the body collapses in a deep sleep. Most people will never realise they were dreaming, and eventually died from thirst or madness. They were a relic from the Demon wars, serving as mental minefields to protect the fortress of the Ancients. Only two exist now, and Evangelion had just defeated one. Oh well, she'll just have to put out the last rune later...

"Very clever of you to be able to find me, for a bounty hunter," admitted the Messenger grudgingly. "I suppose you would be pleased to know that I put my best spies on your case, yet you still managed to shake them off: something that, surprisingly enough, nobody has managed before. And now you have come all the way here. So the burning question is... what do you want?"

"I want many things," said Evangelion, "but you can only give me a few of them. But for now... let me into the cottage, and I will explain everything."

* * * * *

It was warm and cosy inside the cottage. The fireplace burned brightly, while a kettle whistled over the stove. A half-finished sweater lay on the table, with two large knitting needles poking through the wool. A coat stand stood forlonly in one corner, with a few shawls and cloaks hanging from it. There was a large, comfortable sofa in the middle of the room. The Messenger walked to the sofa and sank into the seat. She offered a stool to Evangelion, who politely declined and remained standing.

Evangelion removed his great-coat, and hung it on the coat stand. "I am searching for something, and I'm sure you know what it is. Your famous spies have ears everywhere, no?"

The Messenger chuckled. "Yes, you are looking for the Key. I know that much.. your friend Mr Porpoise is not nearly as careful as you are. But I still wonder how you found me... and I am quite frankly surprised that you even know of my existence."

"It wasn't easy," said Evangelion, and his voice took on a hard edge. "There were plenty of... obstacles, and it's doubly hard with your spies on my tail. Furthermore, you were very good at keeping yourself hidden, and the loyalty those spies have in you is inspiring, to say the least. But even they don't know your real identity, am I correct? Last I heard, they sincerely believed they were volunteering information for a top secret branch of the City Watch."

"Very good, Evangelion, very good indeed, to have even found out that much. So... how did you do it?"

"Mr Porpoise mentioned that the Ancients would be very interested indeed in my mission, and I was naturally curious. As far as I knew, they were creatures of legend, stories made up to frighten young children. But then, Mr Porpoise is no small child, and he mentioned that he had an interest in them. So, it logically follows that the thing I am looking for is connected to the Ancients. To find it, I would first have to find out their true history."

"I first realised that I was being followed when I left the Porpoise mansion," continued Evangelion. "She was well-concealed, of course... surely, no one would suspect a ragged old street cleaner of being anything but another hardworking citizen. It was when I saw her again, fifteen streets later, still sweeping, that I realised something was wrong. Either she was unnaturally determined to keep the streets clean, or I was being followed. I spotted more of them after that, and once I knew they were there, it was a simple matter to give them the slip."

"Observant," muttered the Messenger appreciatively. "And cunning, too."

"It was necessary to completely drop out of sight for a while, of course. I tracked several of your spies, but it was practically impossible to find out where the radio imps were going. So I gathered what little information I could find, and then I began searching the libraries for any mention of the Ancients. Here I found something strange... every book or scroll mentioning their very existence had either been destroyed or damaged, as if someone was very determined to ensure that their names were simply forgotten. And there was a nagging doubt: if all the information had been destroyed, how had Mr Porpoise known so much? Could it be that he had something to hide?"

Evangelion paused and stared out the window. Outside, the snow was growing into a fierce blizzard, and it snowed in torrents.

"In any case," continued Evangelion. "I found clues in artefacts, and various monuments hidden deep under the bowels of the City, that mentioned a Demon king called Nargarath, who was a fearsome creature. Far beneath the depths of the City sewers, I discovered some ancient tunnels that led further and further down, until at last it came to a sealed door. The entire story of the Ancients was written on that door: their rise and fall, the defeat of their glorious Emperor, the slaying of Nargarath, and the story of Arathea and his Gifts, even a map to the Vault itself. I realised then that Mr Porpoise must have discovered the location of the Vault, and sent me to recover the Key."

"And now, for the reason I came to see you. I know that the sealed door was a locked portal, for it reeked of ancient magic. A single rune was written on the door, but I could not decipher its meaning, for the language of the magic is unknown to me. But also written on that door was your story: the Messenger who brings tidings of the City to the ears of the Ancients. I wish to know the meaning of that rune. I wish to reopen the portal."

Evangelion slowly pulled out a crumpled, folded parchment, and handed it wordlessly to the old lady. She stared at it, and with a trembling hand, took the parchment and opened it. On it was a rough sketch of a rune.

The Messenger's eyes remained firmly locked on the rune for the longest time, and then she bowed her head. She slowly got up and burned the parchment in the fireplace, and there was silence as they watched the paper burn.

"If you must know," whispered the Messenger quietly, watching the smouldering ashes of the parchment rising up into the air, "the word is 'regret'. Now go, and leave a tired old woman to the peace she deserves."

next chapter

chapter 21

2005-11-22T15:42:00.000+08:00

previous chapter

"Once upon a time, there was a great race that walked the island, and they called themselves the Ancients. They were a powerful race, noble but proud, and their reign was a time of peace and prosperity. The Golden Age of the land, as chronicled in their records. For many centuries they built a wonderful civilization, and they mastered many crafts. They produced many great writings, many great works of art, and many inspiring monuments. All was good."

"The Ancients were ruled by a single member of their race, whose word was law, and whose wisdom surpassed that of even the wisest human. He was declared the Emperor, and the entire civilization centered around his will. But the Ancients had many enemies in those times, for it is an unspoken law of a corrupted nature that those living in abundance will attract the envy of those with less. Chief among their enemies were the foul race of Demons that lived in the dark, fiery caves deep in the heart of the island."

"The Demons were monstrous creatures of the dark, and their weapons were terror and destruction. Down in the secret darkness, they bred dragons and experimented with many horrifying spells and incantations, in preparation for an all-out war on the Ancients living in luxury above ground. The Demons grew increasingly jealous of the Ancients' dominance of the land above, and hated their own wretched existence, bound to the shadows and scorching fires of the depths. They craved justice, and to them, justice can only be achieved by utterly destroying the Ancients and their proud civilization."

"The Demons were led by the one they called Nargarath, the Evilest One. He was a monster nine feet tall, with horns and many scars across his blackened skin. His glowing red eyes burned with evil, and he thirsted for the blood of the arrogant Ancients."

"Eventually the Demons grew strong enough to wage war on the Ancients, and the war was a terrible one. Dragon riders burst out of the very earth, burning cities and razing everything in their path. A great host of the evil Demons were mustered and marched out of the caves and dark places, sweeping across the island in an unstoppable swarm. The Ancients were caught off guard, and lost hundreds of thousands of their own as the surprise assault destroyed much that they had built. Bodies of their women and children littered the streets as the attacks increased in ferocity, and the Demons struck again and again like a mighty hammer. Nargarath's army was many times stronger than the scattered resistance they encountered, and within a week the entire island had fallen to their hands. The sky turned dark as the Demons blotted out the sun, and began killing every last survivor of the onslaught: those who were not killed were enslaved by the foul Demons and sent down to the fiery furnaces deep below the earth."

"The Emperor survived, and with his remaining loyal subjects, fled to the safety of the Spire, fighting back the black horde of enemies every step of the way. They came at last to the very peak of the Spire, and there the Emperor constructed a fortress to withstand the fiercest assault of the Demons. No dragon was able to fly that high, and anyone attacking the sheer slopes of the Spire found themselves thrown back again and again, until at last the Demons gave up, and retreated to their conquered lands below."

"For many years the land festered as the Ancients regrouped and prepared to seize back their stolen lands. They were small in number, but they trained with a burning desire for vengeance for their slain brethren. A War Council was established to plan all military matters, handling all war strategies and battle tactics. And on the fifth anniversary of their retreat, the army of the Ancients issued forth from the fortress, led by the Emperor himself, and in a titanic struggle that lasted many years, they carved a path through the land, cutting down all who resisted them. In the intervening years, the Ancients had mastered battle magic, and the entire land flashed constantly with the discharges of raw power unleashed by the great army."

"The Demons fought tooth and claw with the Ancient host, and many lives were lost by either side. After nine long years of bitter war, the Emperor himself descended into the depths of the earth, and with a small force cut to the very heart of the Demon threat, and slew Nargarath in his own pit. Nargarath was a mighty foe, and before he died, he lay a great curse upon the Emperor and the entire Ancient race."

"Sure enough, the Emperor was slain by the maddened Demons before he could escape from the depths, but across the island the tides of war were turning. Ancients living in hiding rose up and joined the new army, and they routed the howling Demons back into their pits, where they were sealed and left for dead. With the death of the Emperor, the Council took over until a new Emperor was found, and the war ended with the triumphant display of Nargarath's head in a victory parade."

* * * * *

"The war changed the Ancients, and they paid a heavy price for the ensuing peace. They had lost nine tenths of their number in the entire war, and deep inside, they had been permanently scarred: they had witnessed horrors beyond imagining in the war, for they had stared into a bottomless abyss of pure evil during the war, and it stared right back at them."

"A new Emperor was never elected, for the Council squabbled among themselves, descending into a power struggle for control over the future of the race. Many cities were never rebuilt, for there was no one to live in them, and in the end the Ancients agreed to return to the peaks, leaving the island in its barren state in the hope that time and nature will heal all wounds."

"The race split into many factions, each with a different demand and a different agenda. The infighting went on for many years, and the race grew weaker with the passage of time. Meanwhile, down below, humans arrived from outlying islands, and began taking over the scorched lands and building from it the foundations of a great City, and despite humans being greedy, foolish creatures, the early City flourished, and more and more humans began to trickle into the island."

"Balance exists in all things, and as the power of the Ancients continued to decline, the humans steadily grew stronger, and forged from these humble beginnings a powerful civilization of iron and steel. Their dirty industries fueled a growth that allowed them to spread far throughout the island, and they created weapons and tools from steel. Weapons for conquering and defending, and tools for building."

"And then the female Ancients began dying out to a mysterious plague, until one day, there were none left. The Council ceased their bickering, and with increasing horror, realised that their race was now doomed to extinction. The Ancients had two choices: they could retake the lands below, by force if necessary, starting a new Empire under the rule of the Ancients and selectively intermarrying with humans to ensure the survival of their own race. The other choice was to accept that the curse of Nargarath was at last taking hold, and they should selflessly allow the Ancients to vanish quietly from the pages of history before the curse on their bloodline inflicts more damage on the island."

"The oldest Ancient on the Council bore the name of Arathea, who supported the creation of a second Empire, but he was opposed by a younger, craftier Ancient named Septaphim. Both of them were veteran battle-mages, equally skilled in the ways of magic and political manipulation. Except for Septaphim, the remaining Ancients saw the wisdom in Arathea's belief, but they also knew that their weakened army will be no match for the full might of the humans below. Fearing the eventual death of his own race, Arathea laboured in secret to create a series of rune words that were so powerful, they would allow him to wrest control of the Council from Septaphim, and guide the Ancient race to retake the island from the humans, beginning a new second Golden Age. "

"Through his spies, Septaphim discovered the full extent of Arathea's plans, and moved quickly to seal the chamber, deep within the tunnels of the Spire, where the half-completed rune words lay. Arathea and Septaphim dueled titanically inside the chamber, but in his fury at being discovered, Arathea grew careless and was defeated by Septaphim. The doors to the chamber were sealed with a Key, in order to prevent the remaining Ancients from the temptation of the powerful runes residing within. Septaphim fled the Spire with this Key, hiding in exile in the human City far below. Here, his story was lost to the Ancients."

"Arathea's Gifts passed into legend, and the remaining Ancients searched everywhere for this mythical Key that will lead them to the salvation of their race. But none could find the crafty Septaphim... and then, one day, there were only five living Ancients left, and here our story ends. Yes, yes. But every ending is, hoho, the beginning of another story..."

* * * * *

The old man cackled again, and winked at Seraph. His voice returned to its usual ramble: "Yes, of course of course, there ends the first of my stories, but there are more, oh so many more, I know many stories to tell, to share, oh yes I do! Indeed, many tales, many stories. Ask me another, ask me one more, perhaps things will become clearer then, oh yes..."

And then he began another story.

next chapter

chapter 20

2005-11-22T13:40:00.000+08:00

previous chapter

The tunnels leading to the airship platforms were a quirky mix of old cave passages and relatively newer, dynamite blasted openings. The way was lit by an occasional lantern or two, casting a dim pool of light in a sea of inky darkness. Cantrip heard another airship creaking and groaning as it glided by slowly in the darkness.

They were utterly lost now. The tunnels wound round and round, and branched left, right, up and down, before twisting suddenly and spiralling in a totally different direction. Every once in a while, the tunnel appears to lead in the right direction, before it deceptively turns again, thoroughly confusing anyone who dared to try and plumb its complicated depths. In other words, it bore a remarkable resemblance to the brain of an average human female.

The unicorn flew close to the floor of the tunnels in order to avoid detection by other airships. Even the most experienced airship pilots only stayed on familiar paths in here, since some of the cave passages led on to even older tunnels, and if you ended up on one of those, then you were well and truly beyond rescue: the natural cave network within the Spire was huge and even more confusing than the original tunnels, and you could probably get lost for months before you could find a way out.

Cantrip stared ahead into the inky blackness, while Seraph shifted restlessly behind him.

"Do you really think there is a diamond hidden somewhere in here? It could be anywhere within the tunnels!" whispered Cantrip.

"We've come this far, kid, and I'm willing to bet that our good friend Mr Fortune wouldn't just throw a diamond anywhere. No... eccentric rich people who wish to hide their treasure always put some kind of clue lying around, in the secret hope that someone will find it," replied Seraph.

He'd been on enough treasure hunts to know that this was true: lots of fabulously wealthy madmen were too paranoid to keep their hard-earned treasure in a bank. Instead, they chose to spend a large sum of money constructing an elaborate treasure room of some sort, and then surround it with fiendish traps which could only be defeated with cunning (answer a riddle or solve a puzzle of some sort), agility (leaping spiked pits, dodging huge rolling balls) and a healthy supply of courage (for those nasty snakes and scorpions, say). And then, subconsciously worried that nobody would actually be able to see the results of all this effort, they then helpfully provide enigmatic clues to the secret location, and on some occasions, they liberally sprinkle these dungeons with health potions, additional weapons and other useful stuff.

However, if there were any hidden clues at the moment, then they were doing a damn good job of remaining firmly hidden. The unicorn flew onwards, deeper into the gloom.

* * * * *

A small, unmarked airship docked at Platform Sixteen, and Tiffany stepped out. She had been tracking the bounty hunter for days now, but the attack on the airship had made a huge dent in this little pastime.

Over the last few days, the bounty hunter and his two friends have stumbled from one major crime scene to another, and Tiffany's suspicion meter was on full alert. Either they were trying to start something big, or someone was trying to start something big to them. Trouble had an amazing tendency to find them wherever they went, and Tiffany was quite frankly surprised that they lived long enough to board that airship.

Fortunately, she had not been onboard the doomed airship herself: she had observed them boarding the Donkey, of course, but she would have been spotted the moment she stepped foot inside the cabin. Instead, she had bought tickets for the next flight to the Spire, and radioed ahead to the platforms for additional agents to keep an eye out for passengers disembarking from the Donkey. Too bad it never arrived... getting shot at and blown up in mid air tends to mess up any carefully planned flight schedule really badly.

Something was wrong with the airship attack, but Tiffany couldn't quite put her finger on what was bothering her. A small detail, something overlooked, and it nagged at the back of her head like a concerned mother-in-law. She tried to recall the scene... it all happened rather quickly, of course, and the Dreadnoughts had cleverly hid in the clouds and struck the Donkey like a bolt of lightning: a quick, sudden and devastating attack. The ships emerged from the clouds out of nowhere, fired twice, and then vanished as quietly as they had come.

She had rushed to the crash site as soon as the airship began to plunge, but there was nothing there but smouldering wreckage and mangled bodies. The ship had fallen right in the middle of the Commerce District, crushing several tax collection offices and moneylenders. It ripped out a good chunk of chimneys and drainpipes as it fell, and created a little crater right in the middle of the road. Tiffany had searched carefully, but she found no traces of anything suspicious: it looked exactly like an airship that had been shot down.

Tiffany knew that the girl travelling with Seraph was a bounty hunter wanted by the Merchant's Guild, but certainly they wouldn't be mad enough to shoot down an entire airship just to take her out. Well, Tiffany thought, at least, it would be an unlikely event. This is the Merchant's Guild, after all, and they would do anything for financial gain.

And that was another thing that was bothering her. There was no financial gain for them with such a brazen attack; if anything, it was a serious blow to the Guild, a public relations nightmare of epic proportions. It'll take months to regain some semblance of public trust again, if ever. Tiffany shook her head. The whole thing stank of politics, and she didn't like it at all. Politics is confusing, and makes your head spin if you try to reason things out.

Another airship glided into the hangar, pulled by another white unicorn. Tiffany stared at it as it flew past and came to a rest at Platform Seventeen.

Unicorn. There was no unicorn at the crash site. That's it, that's what's so weird... a unicorn would have broken its own fall, and was quite likely to have survived such a drop even it if was injured in the process. But there was no unicorn... which means that there was one running loose somewhere in the City. The bounty hunter might have survived after all... but if he did, where could he go?

Tiffany's lips curled into a smile. Where else would he go? The bounty hunter had taken a flight headed straight for the Spire. Tiffany very much suspected that a person with a flying unicorn would have no problems at all sneaking into the tunnels.

* * * * *

Cantrip was sure that they had been here before. The caves were starting to look very similar to one another, and even the bounty hunters' instincts were useless against miles and miles of featureless rock. They needed another sign, a clue, a pointer, anything. Penelope was steering the unicorn, mostly because she firmly believed that women are better drivers than men.

"You're quite sure we're headed in the right direction?" asked Seraph doubtfully. "Only I think we've passed that funny rock formation an hour ago."

"Oh, so it's my fault is it? We're miles away from civilization, without a map, and not the foggiest idea of where we came from and where we're going to. We don't even know what we're looking for! How the hell would I know if we're headed in the right direction??" snapped Penelope.

They were hopelessly lost now, and they hadn't even seen any other airships for some time. There were no lanterns here anymore: the rock walls were smooth and overgrown with dirty green moss. The unicorn flew onwards, reached a fork, and then randomly took another turning into more tunnels.

Silence, broken by the distant and soft beating of unicorn wings. Then the shadows squirmed and moved, and a blink of an eye later, an observer would have sworn that several additional cave openings appeared where there had been none before.

* * * * *

Two hours later, they came to a stop. Right in front of them was a giant door. Penelope halted the unicorn, and the three of them got off and stared at it.

The door was thirty feet high and thirty feet across, and was smooth to the touch. Despite appearances, there was no giant doorknob, just one big flat slab of stone carved into the cave walls. There were no visible levers or buttons on nearby walls, either, and the only interesting feature in the entire door (besides the fact that it was excessively big) was a small hexagonal depression cut into the center of the door, about seven feet off the ground.

Cantrip stared, open mouthed, as Seraph walked ahead and placed a hand on the cold stone surface.

"Well, certainly looks like we've found something," muttered Penelope as she gazed upwards at the door. "Looks firmly shut to me though. And it'll take a lot of explosives to blow a hole through a door that size, but I think that even all the explosives in the world would barely dent it."

She was right, of course: the door looked like it was built to last. It would probably take several nuclear bombs to even put a dent in the door, and right now they had nothing but daggers. Seraph squinted at the hexagonal depression. It was.. hexagonal, and it looked very depressed indeed.

"Ookay. So now what? We have, against all probability, managed to navigate through miles of barren tunnels without the slightest idea where we were going and, somehow, found what appears to be, against all probability, again, a massive door slapped onto the cave walls. Only there seems to be no way of opening it, and we'd probably get lost if we tried to retrace our steps, and die of hunger/thirst/sheer madness somewhere in the damned tunnels. If this is someone's idea of an elaborate joke, then I'm laughing, ha ha, very funny!" said Seraph angrily, and gave the door a violent kick.

Something dropped from above, and bounced off the floor before rolling to a stop at Seraph's feet. It looked like a hexagonal shaped metal object, with a single, foreign-looking rune carved in the middle. Seraph, Cantrip and Penelope stared at it.

"I think..." said Penelope, breaking the silence. "...that you should try fitting it into the hole."

Seraph wordlessly picked up the object, stretched, and slid it into the depression. It clicked into place, and then there was a moment where the world held its breath and waited.

Deep inside the earth came the deep rumbling of ancient gears, as the walls shook and it rained dust. A hairline crack appeared and began to split the door right down the middle, and then the door groaned as it creaked open, swinging very slowly inwards, until it stopped with a great resounding thud. Once the dust had settled, Seraph looked into the room beyond.

* * * * *

It was... a strange room. The entire floor was roughly hexagonal in shape, with each of the six walls stretching upwards into the darkness as far as the eye could see. Lanterns blazed in here, but the flames were pure white. Each of the walls were inscribed with a single, gigantic rune word, except for the one with the door. Two of the five runes blazed brightly, while the other three glowed dimly in the darkness.

The strange thing about the room was the scribbles: someone had scribbled words everywhere, and the walls were covered by the same spider-like writing. Apparently the author ran out of space to write, and so the old writings were overwritten with new scribbles, until the entire room was overwritten several times over. The writings were unintelligible to Seraph, Cantrip and Penelope, and in any case they weren't paying much attention to it.

This was mostly because there was someone sitting in the room. Someone with long, bedraggled white hair, yellowed nails, sunken eyes, and a constantly twitching facial motion. If insanity had a smell, then this old man would be a walking perfume counter. He radiated nine different kinds of madness, and gazed blankly at the three intruders who had walked into his lair.

The old man laughed maniacally, then broke down crying, and then giggled helplessly. His eyeballs swivelled madly in their sockets for a moment, and then he started laughing again.

"Er... hello?" said Seraph. Every fibre in his body was telling him to run: madmen tended to do mad things, and sometimes those mad things involved very violent ways to die.

The lunatic sitting in the room twitched, and turned to Seraph, apparently becoming aware of the existence of visitors to his little room. He giggled again. "So, so, so so so so. You have come at last, haven't you, hm hm hm? Excelllent, excellent, it is time for the story, oh yes indeed! The story, the story!" And then he cackled madly again.

Seraph looked at him bewilderedly. Certainly there were no diamonds here, unless the old man was hiding it. Oh well, worth a try... "Erm, you wouldn't happen to have a large diamond in here, would you?" asked Seraph hopefully. "Only there was this guy who said..."

"Diamond? Diamond diamond diamond... no no, no diamonds here, no indeed. No. But a story now! I have many stories, oh yes, many many stories indeed, and many many tales, and some songs. Songs? Yes, sing songs, yes yes, but first, a story! Ask me a story, I know many stories. And many tales."

Seraph gave up. The old man was babbling. "Alright, alright, I guess we have time for a story. It doesnt look like we're going to be going anywhere soon, in any case."

The old man lost his smile, and his face became dead serious. His voice lost the edge of madness, and then he began a story.

next chapter

chapter 19

2005-11-21T23:29:00.000+08:00

previous chapter

At the edge of the City, the Ancients had seen the burning airship fall from the sky, but they also knew the bounty hunter had survived. The Key must have made it, too, so the airship was of little concern now. There were other ways to get into the Spire, and if the bounty hunter could survive an airship on fire, then he could certainly find a way to bring the Key to the Vault.

It would take too long to walk back up the Spire, of course. Ancient One spoke first, and his voice was tense. "Our worst fears are now confirmed, brothers: the Key has been taken, and the bounty hunter is heading for the Vault even as we speak. We must move quickly, and take what is rightfully ours before it is stolen from right beneath our noses."

The other Ancients nodded quickly, and three minutes later, the alley was empty once more.

* * * * *

In its long and illustrious existence, the City had only experienced an airship crash twice.

The first occured when the airship engineers experimented with flame-based propulsion systems, and a freak accident ignited the main balloon, creating an impressive looking fireball in the skies above the City. Fortunately, there was no loss of life, since no one was daft enough to volunteer to sit in a flimsy, imflammable balloon with a burning jetpack stuck to one end.

The second incident occured about fifty years ago, when an airship headed for the Spire blew apart in mid air. It belonged to a small firm that rented it out to anyone with too much gold and not enough common sense, and for a small fortune a trained pilot will fly you pretty much anywhere you want... Strangely enough, they only found the charred remains of the pilot: whoever had rented the airship either managed to escape in time, or was (more likely) burned to a crisp. In this case, the Merchant's Guild had just coincidentally begun their own little airship operation, and all the other small firms pretty much closed shop after that, leading to a momentary monopoly of the industry by the Guild before Cain Fortune turned up and bought up large chunks of everything.

This third crash was a major disaster compared to the first two: Watchmen converged upon the wreckage instantly, putting out the spreading fires and moving people to the nearby Infirmaries. The number of people killed rose steadily, from dozens to hundreds and moving rapidly into the thousands. The Merchant's Guild hastily released a statement disavowing any possible involvement in such an atrocity, but this was met with plenty of healthy scepticism by the general public. No other organization had enough wealth to maintain Dreadnoughts, and the Guild were known to own a small fleet of the battleships, mostly to escort their more expensive shipments. Within the hour, Guild branches across the City had been boarded up as street mobs massed for retaliation.

* * * * *

Mr Miller opened a bottle of high quality champagne, and poured it into two cups, one for Mr Jacobson. There was a tinkle as they toasted each other.

"To unimaginable wealth!" roared Mr Jacobson heartily, as he drained his cup. "With that bounty hunter safely out of the way, it should be a simple matter to carve a large slice of the Fortune pie... rich beyond our wildest dreams!"

Mr Miller laughed, and toasted Mr Jacobson again with a soft 'plink'. "To success, and to ingeniuty! Those fools in the Watch will never trace it back to us, of course... pinning the attack on the Merchant's Guild is a stroke of genius, my dear Mr Jacobson. They will certainly be in disarray now, and we'll corner their businesses once the Fortune empire is ours. Two birds in one fell swoop... excellent indeed. A weakened Guild will never be able to stand against the full might of the Miller and Jacobson empire!To the future, my friend!"

"To the future!" Mr Jacobson roared as he poured himself another cup. "But I am curious... where did you find the Dreadnoughts? The Guild is rumoured to own a dozen of those, of course, but to get two Dreadnoughts without being a Guild member is quite a remarkable feat."

"Ah... the beauty of deception, Mr Jacobson," Mr Miller smiled satisfactorily, and leaned back in his seat. "What would you say if I told you that those weren't actually Dreadnoughts? Hm? What a difference a proper impression makes.. In this case, a normal airship painted black, decorated with spikes, armed with cannons, and painted with the Guild insignia: the only way to tell the difference between this and a real Dreadnought would be to engage it in combat, but a cargo ship is unlikely to fire back, hm?" He chuckled softly. "And of course, the crew was... taken care of afterwards. It never pays to leave any loose ends lying around."

Mr Jacobson winked and tapped the side of his nose knowingly. "Well said, eh? Bloody well said. Anyone crazy enough to blow people out of the sky is certainly too dangerous to keep alive. Haha, is there anything you never think of? Absolutely brilliant."

"Brilliant? You don't know the half of it, Mr Jacobson. Oh, if only you knew..." and there it was, the smile of a shark, swimming in for the kill. Mr Jacobson felt strangely uncomfortable at the sight of Mr Miller's smile, and he frowned, brows furrowed and thinking. No, nothing seemed to be amiss, and yet.. there was that uncomfortable feeling of something going wrong...

It was with a dawning horror that Mr Jacobson realised the uncomfortable feeling was coming from his own chest. His lungs were on fire, and his heart beat faster and faster. His vision swam out of focus as he stared up at Mr Miller in morbid comprehension.. at that devious smile, that piercing stare, and above all, that cup of champagne which remained untouched.

"No loose ends, Mr Jacobson," muttered Mr Miller softly as he rose slowly from his chair. He walked to the door and paused, turning around. "None at all. The poison is a neurotoxin, and it will kill you in an hour or so, and until it does, I'm sure you will have plenty of time to congratulate me on my newfound wealth. Money is such a difficult thing to share, don't you think?"

And then Mr Miller was gone.

* * * * *

The unicorn swooped majestically along the slopes, flying vertically. Penelope had to shut her eyes against the rushing wind, while Cantrip clung on for dear life. Sharp, jagged peaks were decorated by the occasional mountain goat and fields of popper fruits, growing all along the vertical slopes of the Spire. Penelope stopped the unicorn in a patch of popper fruit on a large ledge, and they got off.

"Flying into the hangars in bright daylight is out of the question: the spotters will see the unicorn for sure," explained Penelope as she ran a hand experimentally along the sheer rock wall of the Spire. "If Mr Finnigle's sculpture is right, then what we're looking for is somewhere inside the hangars, so we'll need to find another way in."

Seraph glanced back across the cloudy expanse of sky. A cloud of smoke still hung lazily in the distance over the crash site, and Seraph shuddered. That had been a close call: a whisker more and they would have been killed in the attack. The last few days had been too eventful for Seraph to dismiss this as some sort of bizzare coincidence: the airship had definitely been shot down because someone believed they were on it. The good news is, whoever wants them dead now has no reason to believe otherwise, and they would be safe as long as they kept their heads down.

The unicorn retracted its wings, and began munching on some half-ripe popper fruits. Seraph looked upwards, and slightly more than ninety feet above was the large steel frame of an airship gate. He turned to the others. "I say we wait for nightfall... it'll be easier to sneak in when it gets darker."

* * * * *

Up above them, an army of homing pigeons flew in and out of the gates, spreading the news between the Control Room and the outside world. The news was grim: the mobs had broken into the headquarters of the Merchant's Guild, and all throughout the City, businesses owned by the Guild were being torched by the angry mobs, and even the Watchmen had been stretched thin.

Like dough, the minutes stretched into hours, and then it was night time once more. The riots had quietened down by now, as the Watchmen began rounding up rioters and looters. The Guild members had fled their properties, and for a moment, the City slumbered in an uneasy peace.

Except up in the Spire, of course. Here, the gates came alive in a burst of light and activity: the local traffic had eased in the aftermath of the attack, but foreign traffic from the outlying islands was still coming in steadily. Lanterns were fired up to guide the airships in, and the homing pigeons continued their busy patrols.

A heavy airship arrived, bearing a shipment of timber from an island to the north. As it glided slowly past the gates, nobody noticed a second unicorn flying slowly in the shadow underneath its huge belly, and so Seraph, Penelope and Cantrip passed into the dark tunnels of the airship hangars.

next chapter

chapter 18

2005-11-21T21:14:00.000+08:00

previous chapter

The airship operators constructed and maintained a network of huge platforms all around the island, and these dotted the City like large wooden pimples. Obviously they were not just someone's idea of expensive decoration: they looked rather unsightly, jutting out of the skyline like sore thumbs. Rather, these platforms were an integral part of the public transportation system, as airships swooped downwards, picking up passengers waiting on the platforms. It was an additional (and significant) source of income for the airships, for minimal extra effort.

A long flight of rickety wooden stairs led from the street to the platform itself, and the general public has generously decorated the stairs with litter and graffiti. Seraph, Penelope and Cantrip ran up the stairs two at a time, dodging several old ladies, a couple squirming in a passionate position, several kids, and a few stray chickens.

Panting and out of breath, they finally came to the ticket counter, halfway up the platform. And seated behind the glass window was a beady-eyed little man, who was for some reason blinking furiously.

"One-way tickets for two adults and one kid, straight to the Spire," said Seraph, still trying to catch his breath. In the distance, the 2pm airship from the Outer Isles was already beginning its descent.

The ticket man pushed a few buttons on the cash register, and it politely spat out three ticket with a soft 'phut phut phut' sound. "Okay, sir. Here you go. Enjoy your flight."

Seraph mumbled a hasty thanks, and the three of them ran on upwards.

* * * * *

Across the City, the Ancients were regrouping.

Ancient One sprinted through the streets, heading straight for the gathering point. After days of listening in dark corners and spying, he had gathered plenty of interesting news. The Key was indeed on the move, and they had to intercept it before the bounty hunter took it to the Vault. Ancient One shook his head... it seemed unlikely that the bounty hunter could have stolen the Key so easily, but he had done it, somehow.

Ancient One frowned. It had been a long time since he had learnt the legend of the Key, and he was rather hazy on the details now. Perhaps the others remember it better... he would be sure to ask them again later.

* * * * *

Mr Porpoise opened a sealed letter.

He was furious: all his efforts to stop the bounty hunter so far had failed miserably. The men he sent had been slaughtered like sheep, and the bounty hunter was still fleeing with the Key. If the bounty hunter already knew about the Vault, then all was lost... Damn, damn, damn, thought Mr Porpoise. He had been very careful to destroy all maps and references to the Vault, but he must have missed something... something small, yet important. Despite appearances, the bounty hunter was the best in the business, and he was as cunning as a snake.

Anyway. He took a deep breath, and read the letter. Fifteen minutes later, it had been torn to shreds, and Mr Porpoise's anger had evolved to a point where he felt extremely calm. The bounty hunter was taking an airship straight to the Spire? Typical, of course. The bounty hunter was famous for acts of bravado and showsmanship: he took it as nothing more than a game, and flying straight for the Spire was nothing but gloating in the face of Mr Porpoise. Nyeh, nyeh, I have the Key, come and get it.

Mr Porpoise clenched his fists tightly. Airship eh? Well, we know how to deal with that. We just shoot it down, and let gravity do the rest of the work.

* * * * *

Elsewhere in the City, Mr Jacobson sat in Mr Miller's office, on opposite sides of the desk.

"I regret to inform you that your men have been found dead, Mr Jacobson, and by all indications, the forger has escaped," said Mr Miller cheerfully. "An unfortunate series of events, of course. Made all the more unfortunate by the happy news that our friend Mr Cabbage, and his colleagues, have been sighted boarding an airship in a great hurry."

A frown flickered for a moment in the corner of Mr Jacobson's mouth. "Minor setback, Mr Miller. I have men hunting every corner of the City for the forger even as we speak, and I believe he cannot hide for much longer. As for Mr Cabbage... well, if he becomes too much of an inconvenience, we can always arrange for a little accident for him. Or for the boy, of course: even if they find the real diamond, it is useless without the boy alive." He smiled.

Mr Miller did not smile. He leaned forward, and steepled his fingers. "Really? It appears Mr Cabbage is a man of significant resource, and he is travelling in the company of a second bounty hunter. The boy will not be easy to take care of, and if Mr Cabbage finds the diamond... well, it would be a great loss to the firm is all that money ends up in his hands." He took a deep breath. "Mr Jacobson, perhaps it will interest you to know that we have done some digging on the identity of the second bounty hunter... and interestingly, she is very high up on the Merchant's Guild's wanted list. The Guildmaster is apparently rather upset with her over the sudden death of a high ranking Guild member."

"Understood, Mr Miller. I will be sure to tip off our merchant friends regarding this... serendipitous discovery," Mr Jacobson said, then rose and left the room.

* * * * *

The unicorn's powerful wings dragged the large airship through the air, as it flew on towards the Spire. This airship was proudly known as the Donkey to its crew members, and it had donkey ears painted on either side of the ship.

Up in the passenger's cabin, Seraph gazed out the window at the bleak tapestry of the City far below, while Penelope nervously glanced around the cabin. She had a bad feeling about this, and clutched her dagger for comfort. Nothing like a sharp weapon to soothe your fears. The cabin itself consisted of rows of worn leather seats, lined up against both sides of the narrow cabin, so every seat was a window seat, of sorts. The cabin was sandwiched between the cargo holds and the giant hot air balloon, and right now it was packed with people headed straight for the Spire.

Cantrip gazed, awestruck, out the window. He had never seen the City from an airship before, and it was a magnificient view. Seraph had seen it before, of course, and everything loses some of its initial charm with time. But for Cantrip, this was the brilliant moment when you encounter something new for the first time, and it etches a neat little groove in the alcoves of your memory.

They were still a quarter of an hour away from the hangars of the Spire when they heard the explosion. Penelope and Seraph instinctively moved away from the windows and flattened themselves on the floor as the airship shuddered. Cantrip, caught off guard, fell as another explosion rocked the airship. Everywhere, the passengers were screaming and searching desperately for something to cling on to. Smoke started to fill the air, and part of the cabin was on fire.

Seraph drew a dagger, and smashed a window with the hilt of his dagger...

* * * * *

Outside, two black airships emerged from the cloud cover beneath the Donkey, bristling with cannons which were pointed directly upwards. These were Dreadnought Class airships, armed to the teeth and ready for battle. The insignia of the Merchant's Guild was emblazoned across the black balloons, and the crew were preparing to fire again.

The Donkey was ablaze now: the first attack had blown a hole in its cargo hold, and several tonnes of freshly imported fish rained down on the City below. The rear of the passenger's cabin was on fire, and the Donkey's unicorn was in a panic.

The Dreadnoughts fired again. It was a spectacular sight (except perhaps to the people who were being fired at): rows of cannons discharging one by one, in a series of high-bass booms and a lot of smoke. Each cannon launched a single iron cannonball upwards at incredible speed, tearing through the Donkey's wood like a hot knife cutting through butter.

Several cannonballs blew right through the hot air balloon, and it burst open like an orange dropped from a great height. The flammable gases inside combusted, and the airship went down, a blazing wreck, like a fireball descending from the heavens, with a one-way ticket to crash somewhere in the City below.

The burning hulk passed right between the two Dreadnoughts, a fiery mess of wood, cloth and cooked fish. And then it continued falling, trailed by clouds of black smoke, before landing with a long, loud crunch on the rooftops below, coughing up a little mushroom cloud of dust and debris.

And then it was silent. The Dreadnaughts circled lazily, looking for survivors, and satisfied that no one could possibly have survived such an inferno, turned and glided back through the clouds.

* * * * *

It wouldn't be much of a story if everyone really died, of course. Roll time backwards like a winebarrel, and...

Seraph smashed a window with the hilt of his dagger, as the entire ship shuddered violently. Wooden beams creaked as the flames spread, and Seraph leapt through the window, and reached back to pull Cantrip through as well.

"Hold on tight!" screamed Seraph, and Cantrip clung onto the bounty hunter as tightly as he could. Seraph crouched to maintain his balance: they were perched precariously on the outside of an airship that was on fire and under attack, and bits fell off as they looked on in horror. The wind snapped at Seraph's hair, and several passengers tumbled out of a cabin window, falling towards the City below. Another window was smashed, and Penelope leapt out, then began running towards the front of the ship.

There was a lot of black smoke coming from the cabin now, and Seraph didn't have much time. He motioned hurriedly for Cantrip to jump on his back, and then he began to run, carrying Cantrip as he sprinted across the body of the dying airship, following Penelope. There was only one way out now...

The unicorn was in a frenzy, and its wings beat madly as the airship dragged it downwards. Penelope cleared the distance between the airship and the unicorn in a single leap, landing neatly on the unicorn's back. It was a huge creature, several times larger than an ordinary horse, with a wingspan twenty feet wide. Penelope gripped its mane, steered the creature around, and the unicorn broke the steel chains anchoring it to the airship's mangled body. And there, Seraph was running along what remained of the wooden frame, and he leapt...

Down below, there was a second round of cannon fire, and the hot air balloon exploded.

The unicorn was carrying only Seraph, Cantrip and Penelope now: freed from the weight of the giant airship, it soared through the air, gliding on its huge wings. Penelope steered it directly into the clouds of black smoke, and they plunged behind the airship, hidden from view by the choking soot. Just before it crashed, the unicorn banked away, swooping down between the rooftops as chimneys flew past like trees in the countryside, and there was a loud and long crunch from behind them, followed by a small mushroom cloud of dust and debris.

And then it was silent, except for the distant beat of a unicorn's wings as it began ascending the sheer cliffs of the Spire.

next chapter

chapter 17

2005-11-20T22:58:00.000+08:00

previous chapter

And then it was another morning in the City.

"Come on, try and keep up!" shouted Seraph as he pushed his way through the early morning crowd, with the diamond safely hidden inside his tunic. Behind him, Penelope and Cantrip fought against a human tide, desperately trying to keep up with Seraph as he cheerfully ploughed his way through the packed streets.

Penelope swore as another pedestrian bumped into her. Next to her, Cantrip vanished for a moment as a particularly vicious current of citizens pulled him underneath, then emerged coughing and spluttering for air.

"Come along now, we haven't got all day!" Seraph shouted at them enthusiastically, but his voice was drowned by the sounds of the streets. Someone had chickens running loose in the crowd, and the sea of heads was punctuated occasionally by a clucking screech, several feathers, and a sudden flash of poultry.

Seraph stopped beside a large pile of boxes, which were inconsiderately blocking off another street from view. He glanced around, making sure nobody was looking at him, then gave one of the boxes a little kick.

Half a face appeared in one of the gaps between the boxes. One scarred eye blinked at Seraph, and a disembodied voice spoke from a box lower below. "Hold it right there buddy! Secret password please. Formalities, you know, nothing personal. And do hurry up, we haven't got all day."

Seraph rearranged his face into a passable grin, and lowered his face to the gap in the boxes. "Today's secret password wouldn't happen to be.... 'swordfish', would it?" and he winked.

The eye blinked, and muttered "Hold on just one minute." The face vanished, and Seraph heard a muffled sound of argument from within the cardboard depths. There was a rustling sound of many pages of a book being flipped through. Eventually, the arguing ceased and the face reappeared. "Sorry buddy. That was last month's secret password. Care to try again?"

Seraph's face became a intense mask of concentration. "Well... perhaps you could just let me through without the damn silly password? I will certainly be very grateful indeed, and gratefulness has this strange tendency to make me very very generous indeed... I would, for example, possibly be grateful enough to donate this crisp new $5 coin to you if you'll let me and a few of my friends through." Seraph produced a shiny coin from his pocket, and wiggled it temptingly in front of the eye.

The eye vanished again, and there was a brief argument. Then it popped back into view. "Er... any chance of maybe, erm, making you grateful enough to, say, donate $10 instead?" asked the voice in a tone that was full of hope.

Seraph smiled knowingly, then reached forward, grabbed hold of what appeared to be somebody's nose, and pulled it through the gap in one swift movement. There was a squeak of pain from the boxes. Seraph hissed in a surprisingly friendly-sounding tone. "Listen closely buddy. You can take my $5 coin and let me through, or I will take the coin, and shove it somewhere extremely unpleasant. So unpleasant, in fact, that you'll probably never want to even LOOK at a coin for the rest of your life. The choice, of course, is entirely up to you. I'll count to three and let go, and when I do I expect to be allowed to pass through to the street on the other side. Three." And he let go.

There was a general sense of someone being very busy indeed on the other side of the boxes, and then one section of the boxpile slid aside silently, revealing a small passage into the street beyond. "Certainly, certainly. Wouldn't dream of delaying good gentlemen such as yourself on what is, no doubt, important business. But, er.. I still get the $5, right?" squeaked the wretched sounding voice. Seraph tossed a coin into the gap, and there was a sigh of relief.

Penelope and Cantrip arrived, right on time, looking hassled and bearing various ragged scars of their battle against the overwhelming crowd on the morning streets. Seraph ushered them through the passage, and the boxes silently slid shut behind them.

This was... a street that would have appeared dimly lit at night. Various shops lined the streets, and Cantrip couldn't help noticing that they had no signs either. Seraph, Penelope and Cantrip walked along a short distance, and halted outside Mr Finnigle's little shop. Or what was left of it, in any case.

Someone had apparently decided to do a little impromptu renovation to the shop: the door had been smashed to splinters, the glass windows were smashed, and everything inside was a complete and utter mess. There was also a lot of blood on the floor, and it was fresh, red and sticky. Just visible beyond the destroyed shop was the workshop, and it had been thoroughly ransacked as well. The remains of a large microscope lay scattered on the floor, and someone had even pried the floorboards loose.

Seraph stared at the mess and clenched his fist. Mr Finnigle was a good man, one of the best forgers in the business. If there was anything to know about a fake diamond, there was no one better to ask... but someone had gotten here first. He turned to Penelope. She shrugged.

* * * * *

Bounty hunters can track their target as well as any ranger, with one major difference: rangers work best in the woods, while bounty hunters thrive in an urban jungle. To an untrained eye, the chaos of the jungle is incomprehensible: a tangled mess of tree trunks, roots, branches, vines, grass, wild animals, mud... but to the ranger, every element contains a story. A single broken branch, a half hidden footstep in the mud: it is extremely difficult to fool an expert ranger, because the best of them can track a target deep into a forest, while travelling twice as fast as their prey. Similarly, the chaos of the city may seem confusing to everyone else, but not to a bounty hunter. Especially when there are two of them.

Penelope and Seraph searched the street, and found Mr Finnigle's trail. It was the trail of a man in a hurry, and it was easy enough to follow. Footsteps flying across the dust, ducking into small alleyways, the occasional handprint on the mossy walls where Mr Finnigle had stopped to glance behind. Seraph, Penelope and Cantrip hurried along from clue to clue, occasionally stopping as the trail appeared to branch off in two different directions, but always they picked it up again.

* * * * *

Several hours later, and Mr Finnigle had nowhere left to run.

He had been running all night and all morning, and he was exhausted. The men after him had been very persistent, but they were no match for crafty Mr Finnigle... so far. But now, there was nothing ahead except a wall: dead end. He knew they were closing in, and he was too tired to run now. He could hide until they found him, and then he would fight to the bitter end.

Mr Finnigle drew another small blade, and ducked into a dark, shadowy corner.

And there was the sound of feet, running into the alley...

* * * * *

There were nine of them, and only one old man. One of the nine was named Meatloaf, and he was the dimmest bulb in the drawer, so to speak. Actually, if he was a bulb, he would be so dim that you could brighten up the room by turning him off. But every group needed someone like him, a lump of hard, solid muscle that didn't think too much and didn't question orders. They worked for the lawyers, who (strangely enough) always reminded Meatloaf of sharks.

The old man had been running all night, and they have him cornered now. Hah, thought Meatloaf. The old man had been surprisingly good at running away, but not good enough, and now they were closing in for the kill. Although that was just a figure of speech: their instructions had been to retrieve him alive. Still, even Meatloaf knew that the others were rather unhappy about what the old man had done to the Jim, Dan and Mikhail. Underestimating the old man had seriously messed them up, and the others were now taking this really seriously.

Meatloaf tightened his grip on the steel pipe in his hand as the group pressed onwards. Several crossbows were drawn and loaded, and the group spread out as they entered the next alleyway. The ones with crossbows hung back, covering the alley as the others crept forward...

* * * * *

With his one free hand, Mr Finnigle clung desperately to the drainpipe, suspended a dozen feet above the alley and shrouded in deep shadow. Down below, the men were sweeping the alley carefully, but they haven't looked up yet. His other hand clutched the knife like a lucky charm, and Mr Finnigle knew he only had one chance. Glancing below, he counted seven, eight...

And someone shouted, and there was the sound of a crossbow being discharged. A bolt thudded into drainpipe, shattering it, and Mr Finnigle grunted as he released his grip. It was a long drop, and it was indeed very fortunate for Mr Finnigle that he landed right on top of one of the thugs. Not so fortunate for the thug, perhaps. There was a sound of someone's neck snapping as Mr Finnigle collapsed in a heap, and then the thugs charged.

In any brawl where you are insanely outnumbered, the important thing was not to fall. The moment you hit the floor, you're as good as dead. The trick is to keep on moving, keep on dancing, take the blows, block what you can, and hit back when you can. Mr Finnigle slashed and stabbed wildly as the blows rained down, until he felt his other arm break as an iron pipe connected solidly with his elbow.

Mr Finnigle's knees took a particularly vicious blow from another pipe, and he went down...

* * * * *

Meatloaf had a nasty slash across his right arm, and he was sure that the old man had just killed three of his comrades: one with a broken neck, and the other two had their necks punctured by the little blade the old man was wielding, and were currently leaking blood like fire hydrants. Two other members of the group had lost the use of their arms, and were probably not going to be playing a piano anytime soon. The others were hanging back with crossbows, which meant Meatloaf was the only one close enough to the old man to finish him off. Squinting at the old man lying flat out on the floor, Meatloaf raised the iron pipe. For a second it paused for dramatic effect, then descended towards Mr Finnigle like the fury of a scorned woman.

There was a squishy sound that is generally heard when steel makes contact with soft tissue and bone. And Meatloaf thought it was really strange, because he had not expected the sound to come from his own skull.... which was his last thought before he fell over with a knife firmly embedded in one side of his head.

Seraph stepped smartly over the body, and pulled Mr Finnigle to his feet. Behind him, the thugs who survived were rapidly being reclassified into thugs who didn't survive, as Penelope noisily took care of matters. With knives. Cantrip, sitting on an upturned cart, munched an apple thoughtfully as he watched the carnage unfold.

"Mr Finnigle, old chum! Fancy meeting you here!" said Seraph with a twinkle in his eyes.

Mr Finnigle blinked, one arm dangling uselessly by his side. He coughed. "And I suppose you just happened to pass by and decided to lend a helping hand to an old man in distress? Come off it Seraph, I've known you long enough. Why are you tracking me?"

Seraph gave a loud and altogether very unconvincing laugh. "Come now, Mr Finnigle, you know that's a cruel accusation to throw at a kind soul like me! But while we're on the subject, I must say that you left a most difficult trail for us." He pulled the diamond out and showed it to the old man. "Does this diamond, by any chance, look familiar to you, Mr Finnigle?"

For a fraction of a second, Mr Finnigle's face became very pale indeed. He winced. "Never seen it before in my life, I'm afraid," he muttered.

"Really?" Seraph had caught the flash of recognition, and he was not about to give up so easily. "Perhaps it'll interest you to know that Cain Fortune is dead, and left this diamond to me. I really don't have time to play games with you now, Mr Finnigle, so please, tell me what you know about the diamond."

Mr Finnigle looked genuinely shocked now. "Old Man Fortune is dead? Well, well," he said softly, and groaned as he clutched his broken arm. Oh well, he thought. They did save my life... "Alright, yes, I made the diamond. He gave me the exact specifications, and I made the best fake diamond you'll ever see in your life. Clever little thing, too."

"Was there, uh, any mention of a real diamond? Exactly like this one?" asked Seraph hopefully.

"A real diamond? Good heavens, I shouldn't think so. It took me ages to make the pieces fit," replied Mr Finnigle.

Seraph's brow furrowed in puzzlement. "Pieces? What, someone dropped the diamond and you put it back together again?"

This time, it was Mr Finnigle's turn to laugh out loud. He reached out and took the diamond from Seraph, then balanced it for a moment with his blood soaked hand. And then, to Seraph's utter horror, Mr Finnigle hurled the glass diamond into the wall.

It sailed gently through the air, turning and twisting slowly, then shattered as it smashed into the brickwork. As the pieces rained down like crystal droplets, Seraph gaped at Mr Finnigle, too shocked for words. Mr Finnigle merely smiled, and pointed calmly at the remains of the glass diamond. "The diamond was built to hide its true nature, and Old Man Fortune was very pleased with the results. The outer diamond was made of pure glass, but the real thing... well, let's just say, it took a very long time to carve."

And there, lying among the shards of glass, was a perfect glass replica of the entire island, complete with a central spire in the middle. Every building in the city was represented, and a series of tiny markers mapped out a route from the Fortune mansion to the airship hangars, where a tiny X had been carved into the glass.

Bingo.

next chapter

chapter 16

2005-11-18T22:44:00.000+08:00

previous chapter

This is... a dimly lit street. The last rays of light had faded, and the darkness of the street was punctuated by the half-hearted street lanterns. This was a quiet part of the City: but this was not the kind of quiet where it would be a good idea to settle down and raise a family. Quite the contrary. This was the quiet of people keeping their heads down, keeping out of trouble, and generally maintaining a nonchalantly low profile. The Watchmen kept a close eye on street like these, because people who are keeping quietly hidden in dimly lit streets are, more often than not, up to no good.

One of the doors along this street led to an even more dimly lit shop. In fact, the sheer dimly-litnessity of the shop pretty much outclassed that of the street; it was a really excellent sort of dim, the sort that could only happen through a combination of carefully arranged lighting, specially designed glass and meticulous placement of the furniture, all of which resulted in a shop where, for some inexplicable reason, anyone wandering in would be visible in a really dim light, but the shopkeeper's face was always completely hidden by shadows.

At the back of the shop was a little workshop, and it was a well-used one. What appeared to be a large microscope took up most of the workbench, while various blades and tools were arranged by size on a piece of soft cloth. There was a general sense of neatness about the workshop, despite the shavings of wood and glittery grains of glass scattered on the floor. And a man was sitting there, hunched over the workbench, focusing intently with one eye glued to the viewing lens of the microscope.

He was an old man, white hair, stubbly chin, spotty arms, and a pair of small spectacles balanced like a trapeze artist on his wrinkled nose. He was dressed in a shirt with a lot of pockets, and those pockets were currently full of pens and tiny screwdrivers. The old man's name was Mr Finnigle, and he was a craftsman. A very special sort of craftsman.

The old man raised his eye from the microscope, and blinked. He carefully removed something from the other side of the viewing lens, and placed it on the workbench. It appeared to be... a stamp. Not a postage stamp, of course: it was a rubber stamp, the sort with a knobbly handle on one end, and a large flat square of rubber on the other end. There was a very intricate design carved into the rubber, which resembled, suspiciously enough, a back to front version of the Merchant's Guild logo and motto.

Mr Finnigle sighed happily and rummaged around inside a drawer on the workbench, which dutifully produced another rubber stamp with an identical knobbly handle, but without an image on the clean rubber. Mr Finnigle carefully rubbed the surface of the rubber, giving it a worn look, and then placed it under the microscope.

As he lowered his eye back to the viewing lens, a bell rang.

* * * * *

This is... a brightly lit street, the kind where Watchmen stood at street corners, and the lanterns blazed brightly, turning the night into a sort of darker day. And right in the middle of the street was the office of Miller, Jacobson, Johnson & Johnson, advocates of law.

Unfortunately, one of the major obstacles towards establishing a law firm was the complete and utter lack of a proper judicial system on the island: the Watchmen fulfilled this regretably necessary function, and they have a natural distrust of lawyers. Cleverly, the law firms sidestepped this little inconvenience by employing a small army of men who were very skilled with their hands, especially when holding a weapon of some kind. The lawyers considered themselves to be the negotiators and persuaders, carefully ensuring that everyone obeyed the law by cunningly twisting words and sentences. Anyone who chose not to listen very carefully indeed when a lawyer gives a friendly warning would quickly find out that other parts of their body could, surprisingly, be twisted further than any word.

Junior lawyers bustled around on the lower floors, shuffling papers and speaking rapidly into imp-boxes. There was no concept of night time inside the law firms. Partly because the long arm of the law operates twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, but mostly because most clients prefered to conduct their business under the convenient shroud of night. Money was money, after all.

In the same way that dead seaweed rises to the top of a dirty lake, senior lawyers of Miller, Jacobson, Johnson & Johnson took up residence in the upper offices. The higher up they worked, the higher the rank in the firm, and right at the very top were the offices of Mr Miller, Mr Jacobson, and Mr and Mrs Johnson.

Mr Miller was currently standing and quietly staring out of the large windows in his own office. Seated in a comfortable chair opposite his desk was Mr Jacobson, who looked exactly like Mr Miller, except that he was a bit greyer and looked more shark-like than his partner.

"Old Man Fortune was a fool," said Mr Miller bitterly. "All that hard-earned gold, and he's going to just give it away to some bounty hunter, randomly picked off the streets? Foolish madness!"

Mr Jacobson coughed politely. "Perhaps. But he was a rich and cunning fool, and it would have been too risky to keep his will hidden from public knowledge. No doubt he had... other ways... of making sure that such a strange request would be made known. Besides, I suspect he never really trusted us as much as we thought."

"Oh really? How shocking," muttered Mr Miller, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Old Man Fortune trusting lawyers? If he was so stupid, he would have been a lot poorer a long time ago. No... I think he had a reason for such a strange condition to be imposed on the inheritance. All our investigations so far have revealed absolutely nothing about this Cabbage: it seems he was nothing more than a lucky idiot who got picked to be part of the old man's mind games. Confound it!"

Mr Jacobson removed his shiny monocle and began polishing it thoughtfully. He gave a faint smile. "Well.. fortunately for us, I have discovered an interesting fact about the diamond. Something that has, no doubt, slipped your attention during the investigations. Understandable, of course: no doubt you have had a lot on your mind lately."

"Hm?" Mr Miller turned sharply. Mr Jacobson was giving him an innocent little smile, and for a brief moment, Mr Miller felt uncomfortable. In this law firm, you swam constantly among sharks, and if you're not careful, well... one less shark in the sea, and there'll be more fish to go around. "An interesting fact, you say? And pray, what interesting fact would that be? You do realise that I've had the best experts inspecting it, and they found nothing out of the ordinary: the only thing they found was that the diamond was a damn good fake."

Mr Jacobson sighed and replaced his monocle on his eye. "And that is exactly my point. It is a damn good fake. DAMN good. Now.. doesn't that strike you as something really peculiar?"

Mr Miller frowned. He was, by most standards, an extremely intelligent man, but this time he had been caught blindsided. "Peculiar? Well, we were certainly surprised that the diamond was a fake, but there can't possibly be a real, identical diamond of that size. I have clerks researching the histories of all known unusually large diamonds, and there has been nothing resembling this.... bizzare clue left by the old man. It could be nothing but a very elaborate hoax, after all: Old Man Fortune's little joke, at our expense."

"Perhaps so, perhaps so," replied Mr Jacobson, in a voice like honey. His little smile was allowed to become a little broader. "But ask yourself this: what if it really is a clue? Where in the world would Old Man Fortune get a FAKE diamond of this quality? Certainly he did not make it himself, so he would have had to arrange for it to be made somewhere."

Something clicked inside Mr Miller's head. Mr Jacobson continued speaking in his silky voice. "And in this city, there are only a handful of craftsmen capable of producing such a fake. Find the person who made the diamond... and I'm sure our, ahem, other colleagues have plenty of effective interrogation techniques. I am of course surprised that you overlooked something so simple."

"Well, I certainly must thank you for your concern," Mr Miller replied frostily. "And of course, I shall arrange for someone to find and collect this craftsman as soon as possible."

Mr Jacobson's smile vanished as he rose from his seat. "No, that will not be necessary. Someone is already taking care of it. And now, I must return to my own chambers... and I trust that this little matter will be resolved soon, hm?" He flashed another smile, and left.

Mr Miller stared coldly at the door as it closed behind Mr Jacobson.

* * * * *

A bell rang softly, and Mr Finnigle's eyes narrowed. His hands carefully moved into his shirt, and he took out a thin, razor sharp blade, holding it at an angle where it was completely concealed by his hand.

Something moved at the edge of his vision, and Mr Finnigle twisted with surprising speed for such an old man. The blade shot out and stabbed upwards, connecting with somebody else's arm. There was a strangled gasp.

Mr Finnigle's other hand grabbed a sharp tool, and he slammed it hard into the intruder's head. The important thing was not to let him shout: the intruder collapsed like a rag doll under the force of the blow. Mr Finnigle took a quick glance: black cloak, black clerk's uniform, no visible weapons. Not an assassin, then: probably a thug sent to retrieve him. Which means that they'd certainly there'd be more of them lurking nearby.

Fortunately, Mr Finnigle took many precautions. A job such as his... well, many of his customers would sleep a lot better if he was removed: he knew too much, and in his field, trust was a very rare and dangerous thing. Tiny threads wound around his shop like cobwebs, triggering a small bell when broken. The intruder had been very skilled to come so close before the bell rang... but not skilled enough.

Mr Finnigle opened another drawer, and took out a small case. It yielded a tasty selection of blades and knives. Mr Finnigle pocketed these, and moved towards the entrance of the workshop, separated from the shop by a thin curtain. He peeked through a gap in the curtains, and yes, hiding there in the dim light were two more intruders, standing guard. Mr Finnigle sighed.

The curtain parted like the Red Sea as Mr Finnigle rushed out silently. The two shapes in the semi-darkness whirled around... and Mr Finnigle slashed outwards, four neat strokes on each side. There was a nasty gurgling sound, but Mr Finnigle did not stop. He dropped the knives, groped for the door knob, pulled it open, and then vanished into the night.

As he hurried through narrow alleys, Mr Finnigle glanced nervously behind him. Whoever sent those men will certainly be very angry indeed in the morning. But for now, Mr Finnigle had to get as far away from the shop as possible.

next chapter

chapter 15

2005-11-15T19:26:00.000+08:00

previous chapter

The sun rose, cycled across the sky lazily like an old man on a shaky bicycle, and then dramatically plunged down behind some mountains, creating a spectacular sunset. Hues of orange and red flames burned across the sky, creating a single picture perfect moment when the world stands still and admires the sheer beauty of nature.

The streets were bathed in the orange shade of the dying daylight when they left the safehouse. Cantrip ached all over: the training had been harsh, but at least now he was sure he had a slightly longer life expectancy should he ever be attacked by unknown assailants. The amused imp sat hidden inside a pocket, amusing itself by being somewhere else at the same time. Presumably somewhere more fun.

Seraph led the way to the Central Bank. It was an ancient stone building, built centuries ago in an unusually spirited attempt to create an architectural marvel that future generations could be proud of. The entire front of the building was preceded by a long row of gigantic pillars, covered from top to bottom in intricate carvings of what appeared to be, strangely enough, little angels holding bags of money and dollar signs. There was a row of eighteen doors leading into the bank's main hall and reception area, which was a large open room with light streaming downwards from a big stained-glass dome above.

Dozens of clerks sat behind the glass counters that lined the main hall, guarded by several burly ogres wearing ill-fitting security uniforms. Well-dressed customers were scurrying here and there, eager to conclude their business before the bank closed for the day, and the air had the strange musky smell of people rushing to finish too many things at once.

Seraph, Penelope and Cantrip headed uncertainly past the bustle, since the interior of a bank was something really strange to all of them. Bounty hunters generally kept their money in secret stashes, while street urchins stayed away from buildings like this. So much money in one place is really depressing, when you're flat broke and living off the streets. Seraph stopped at a counter labelled 'Information', which was manned by a harried looking lady with horn-rimmed spectacles. She glared at them as Seraph flashed his most convincing smile.

"Hey there," he said cheerfully. "We'd like to.."

"I'm sorry, are you sure you've come to the right building?" interrupted the lady severely. Her hair had become so messy it appeared to be pointing in several directions at once, and she practically radiated an attitude of 'it's been a long day so don't mess with me'. She had a name tag labelling her as one Miss Tulip.

"Well, yes, this IS the Central Bank, isn't it?" asked Seraph bewilderedly. "We're just here to.."

"If you're here for a loan, the Central Bank requires extensive documentations of all current assets you own and wish to put up for mortgage, and you will need to fill Forms 19(A), 25(C) and 32(B&C), which can be found at the Loans Counter. Allows twenty days for processing, and in the UNLIKELY event that it is approved, you will be duly informed. Good day."

"No, we're here to.." Seraph began again desperately.

Miss Tulip looked up sharply, quite possibly irritated at Seraph for reopening a conversation she had considered closed.

"Unfortunately, the Central Bank does not offer pawn-broking services, and we probably wouldn't serve you even if we did. And there are no jobs available at the moment, unless of course you are a heavily disguised ogre, which I doubt. If, heaven forbid, you are here to rob the bank, then I would strongly suggest you give up that foolish notion now and walk away while you still have the use of your legs. On the other hand, if you think that the Information Counter is some sort of walking encyclopedia to be funned with, then I regret to inform you that you are wrong. Ask me anything that has nothing to do with the Central Bank, and I will show you just how good I am with this crossbow I have right HERE," said Miss Tulip, as she produced a damn huge crossbow from somewhere under the counter and aimed it right at Seraph. "You're all the same, you know that?! You think asking stupid questions at the Information Counter is funny?? HUH?? DO YOU?! Come get some of THIS!"

"WHOA!" shouted Seraph as he ducked under the counter hastily. "RELAX! We're only here to..."

Miss Tulip relaxed slightly, and dropped the crossbow back under the counter. Her voice returned to its normal strained version. "Of course, if you have legitimate questions regarding the Bank or its many functions, then I will be more than happy to clarify those doubts. Deposits and withdrawals are handled by our helpful staff in the Financial Counters in the main hall, and we have a team of managers upstairs who are always willing to negotiate attractive interest rates for any large deposits with the Bank, large here referring to deposits of $500,000 or above. Should you wish to.."

Something inside Seraph snapped, and he slammed the counter and the words gushed out like a waterfall. "Enough!! I have a deed from a Mr Miller to a vault, and I just want to know what to do with it! That's all, okay?!" He stopped and took a deep breath.

Miss Tulip had gone silent. Then she replied in a small voice. "Okay, why didn't you just say so earlier? No need to shout. Down the hall, take a right at the end, and look for Mr McMuffin. He's the Vault Manager. Have a nice day."

Seraph gritted his teeth and stormed off, followed closely by the relieved duo of Penelope and Cantrip. Now that's why he wasn't a damned clerk, thought Seraph. All that exposure to the general public just drove them crazy.

* * * * *

Mr McMuffin was a small, jovial man, and as Seraph handed over the vault deed, he cheerfully led them down a long corridor ending at a large steel door, guarded by a pair of dim-witted ogres. Mr McMuffin removed a keyring containing what appeared to be hundreds of keys, and ten minutes later he found one that fit. The steel door swung open, and he led them down into the vaults.

The Central Bank deals with a lot of money, of course. Every day, hundreds of thousands of coins exchange hands in the Bank. Just like droplets of water, money had a strange tendency to disappear if left lying around, so the Bank kept them safely in a large network of vaults deep underground. The original design of the Bank included a single large, reinforced room to serve as the vault, but as the number of customers grew, the Bank opened a series of smaller vaults, each one serving as an expensive safety deposit box.

Access to a particular vault requires three things. First, you need a deed, which is just a scrap of expensive paper declaring your ownership of Vault So-and-so. Of course, there are various forgery techniques which could make a perfect duplicate of any document, so additional steps of verification were required.

The second thing you'll need is a password, which is a word or phrase designated by the vault owner. Whenever ownership of a vault changes hands, or upon request of the current owner, the Vault Manager inserts a special key into a statue near the Vault entrance, and the password is whispered into the statue's ear. Various gears and counterweights will then click and clack and drop into place, and the vault entrance will remain firmly locked until the password is whispered into the statue's ear again.

Unfortunately, both of the above steps have one small but important loophole: if you're a crooked Vault Manager, it would be a simple affair to stick the key into the statue, make up a silly password, and then gleefully help yourself to all the gold coins you can stuff inside your shirt. (Note: Only a really stupid person would even consider this, though. Any manager walking nonchalantly out of a bank with coins overflowing from his pockets would be viewed with deep suspicion. It would be safer and wiser to steal only a few coins at a time)

The management of the Bank gathered and debated the matter for days, and after countless meetings, they came up with a most manager-like solution, i.e. perfectly logical, until you actually think about it. Anyone who wishes to access the vault was required to sign a document, solemnly declaring their honest intentions and a promise that they won't steal the money inside.

* * * * *

Mr Fortune's vault was guarded by a particularly ugly statue, with a face that even its own mother would run away screaming from, if it had a mother. Seraph whispered 'wealth' into its ears.

Something inside the statue clicked and clacked, and with a groaning screech the door to the vault slid open. Inside was...

...nothing....

...except a lot of gold coins. There were so many coins that it formed a little golden island, complete with tiny mountains and valleys. The golden light it reflected bounced off the walls, creating an eerie shimmering effect rather similar to the reflections of a golden pond in a cave. Someone had originally packed the gold coins into sacks, but the gold overflowed and the poor sacks were now buried somewhere deep inside the pile, with an occasional corner sticking out forlornly.

Seraph's eyes glinted, and his mouth went dry at the sight of so much money. Gold tended to have that sort of effect on people.

"$65,000 and change, sir," said Mr McMuffin happily. "You can count it if you wish."

Seraph suspected the banker was pulling his leg: it would take days to count this pile. Stunned by the sheer gold-ness of the money, Seraph grabbed a handful of coins and stuffed them into his money bag. "Thank you, Mr McMuffin. We'll, er, take what we need, and the rest can stay here, eh? And, er, if we need some more we'll just pop by later and help ourselves," he said in a dazed tone.

"As you wish, sir." Mr McMuffin waited patiently outside, while the other three gawked blankly at the money in the vault. Penelope took a few hundred dollars in spare change, then happily squeaked as all girls do when they lay their hands on serious money. Cantrip wondered how many apples $65,000 could buy: probably several hundred carts, he concluded. A hell of a lot of apples.

An hour later, they left the Bank, a lot richer than when they entered. It was getting dark, and now Seraph was determined to find the diamond. Once he did, he would be very very rich... and even that money in the vault would be nothing but spare change. Heehee.

Which just goes to show that a little greed is a very powerful thing.

next chapter

chapter 14

2005-11-14T20:58:00.000+08:00

previous chapter

The late Mr Cain Fortune was a seriously rich person, and when seriously rich people suddenly pass away, the lawyers swoop in like well-dressed sharks...

Now, lawyers have always been, in general, portrayed negatively in literary fiction. Sharks, vultures, crocodiles... every single one of these animals are merciless killers of the animal kingdom, and have the unfortunate tendency to be mentioned whenever people mention lawyers. Of course, this was not a fair description of lawyers at all, since most of them are, in fact, distinguished members of the noble profession of law. Unlike sharks, lawyers don't swim around underwater with a permanent frown on their faces. Unlike vultures, they don't swoop down cackling to feast on rotting carcasses. However, they do admittedly sunbathe like crocodiles occasionally.

...but these lawyers really did resemble very well-groomed sharks. They were the predators of their profession, and a man of Fortune's fortune could afford to hire the best hunters in the pack. When you're this rich, there are plenty of people who will gladly steal (or at least try to share) a piece of your pie, on the justification that you'll be too busy being rich to notice. Lawyers were great for making sure these people return the pieces, with interest, and the law firm of Miller, Jacobson, Johnson & Johnson were exceptionally good at it.

* * * * *

Seraph looked up as a man entered the room. The newcomer was thin, with a gaunt face, greying but tidily combed hair, and expensive clothes. A single gold-chained monocle hung loosely from one pocket, and he had a meticulously trimmed beard. Behind him were several clerks, although something in their manner suggested that they played the role of bodyguard as well. They were dressed like priests: black clothes, neat robes, except there was a faint suggestion of concealed weaponry.

The newcomer smiled, and it was the well-trained smile of an animal perched at the very top of the food pyramid. Seraph's brain immediately took a running jump and leapt to one obvious conclusion: lawyer. And a good one.

"Mr Loopelberry Cabbage III, I gather?" he asked, in a soft clipped voice. It was the sort of voice that sounded harmless until it actually reaches your brain, at which point you have an uncomfortable feeling that a shark is grinning at you. "My name is Mr Miller, and I represent the firm of Miller, Jacobson, Johnson & Johnson. The recently departed Mr Cain Fortune, bless his soul, has, for several decades now, engaged the services of our firm to look after his various assets and investments." The lawyer extended a hand towards Seraph.

Seraph hesitated, then cautiously shook it. Firm, cold grip, and it was like shaking hands with a corpse.

The lawyer smiled again, and took out a thin file from the depths of his jacket. "Mr Fortune had the foresight to make certain arrangements in the event of an untimely demise. Since his death was certainly untimely, I think there's no better time to take care of these little matters." He winked, and took his monocle out of the pocket, polished it, then wore it on his right eye. "Now, Mr Fortune has instructed us to make a payment of no less than $50,000 upon delivery of a..." He looked up from the notes and glanced at Cantrip, "...a boy with an extensive, complicated tattoo on one arm."

Seraph was barely listening now, drunk with euphoria as his heart leapt with joy. The money... oh yes... he was going to get paid after all...

"The payment will be made immediately, but there are some additional clauses you should be aware of," said the lawyer, and shut the file. The tone of his voice became noticably sharper and more business like. "First, you are instructed to ensure that the boy stays alive. Mr Fortune has explicitedly stated that the sum of $50,000 will be recovered, by force if necessary, upon the death of the boy. Is that agreed then?"

Cantrip's heart skipped a few beats when he heard this. On the other hand, whispered a treacherous little voice inside his head, the old man had reason to believe that someone wants you dead. From the corner of his eye, he saw Seraph nodding slowly.

"And secondly, you are to bring the boy to a location specified by the late Mr Fortune, as soon as possible. The exact location is unknown even to me; apparently Mr Fortune went through a great deal of trouble to keep it a secret." The lawyer paused, and fished inside his pocket, producing what looked suspiciously like an extraordinarily large cut diamond. It glittered in the light.

Seraph stiffled a gasp. "But.. that's worth at least... at least..." he stuttered, as his brain, calculating an estimate of how much a diamond that size is worth, ran out of zeros and gave up.

The lawyer handed the diamond over carefully. "No, it is worth a lot less than you think: a very well-made fake, made of glass. Mr Fortune told me to give this to you, and you are to use it to begin your search. According to Mr Fortune, this is an exact replica of a real diamond which is hidden at the location: this will be the proof that your task is complete."

Clever move there, thought Seraph bitterly. A real diamond of that size would be truly one of a kind, and more than impossible to forge.

He reopened the file and pulled out a yellowed parchment. "This is the deed to a vault in Central Bank. The password chosen by Mr Fortune is 'wealth': a rather appropriate password, you will agree. Inside you will find $50,000 in unmarked coins, and a further $15,000 as a token of good faith."

The lawyer paused and looked Seraph straight in the eye. "Mr Loopelberry, I have dealt with many bounty hunters in my time, and quite frankly, I find their blatant greed and thuggish methods rather distasteful. But Mr Fortune seemed to hold your abilities in high regard, and against my own better judgement, I now execute the final will and testament of the late Mr Cain Fortune: complete the tasks given, Mr Loopelberry, and your reward will be the complete ownership of the Fortune empire."

* * * * *

The rest of the day passed by in a daze. Seraph, Penelope and Cantrip were back in the safehouse, but they were still in shock over the lawyer's announcement. $65,000 in cash... and a chance to be rich beyond even their wildest dreams.

The Fortune empire: the lawyer had spent some time outlining the sheer vastness of the riches. And vast was too small a word, in fact; through a series of ruthless takeovers and business maneuvers, Cain Fortune took over large chunks of the city's financial sectors. He was the business world's Genghiz Khan, Alexander the Great and Roman Empire all rolled into one: an unstoppable conqueror, marching his legions of gold horsemen through the desolate plains of the business, and then building a glorious empire that stretched further than the eye can see.

Cain Fortune had a special kind of genius: he somehow knew which properties and businesses were undervalued or undeveloped, and he had an uncanny knack for building them up again into serious cash cows. Big fat cash cows, with large bells on. The money rolled in like a golden tidal wave, and then it rolled out again to finance more investments, more takeovers... and soon the money was everywhere, growing into a larger and larger pile.

Seraph's eyes glinted as he estimated how much the entire fortune must be worth. Millions of dollars, possibly. Controlling the Fortune empire.. well, that would certainly get Penelope out of trouble with the Guild.

However, there was one small catch. That damned diamond. Seraph took it carefully out of his pocket, and examined it. It looked shiny, just like an ordinary diamond, except that this was the shine of high quality glass instead of pressurized carbon. Its unusually large size meant that it had to be cut many times, and the end result could be best described as a glass diamond with a lot of faces. As Seraph twirled it in his hands, the light rays passing through it bounced around, creating tiny rainbows within the glass. Fascinating.

But of course, the glass diamond was totally useless to Seraph at the moment. Even with the cash they had, they were still short by $185,000, and even the thousands of gold he had earned was sitting in a bank vault somewhere deep within the bowels of the Central Bank. Certainly it was comforting to know that it was there, but until he saw it with his own eyes, it was pretty hard to bend his mind around that much gold. He had to find out where the real diamond was hidden... and until he did, he also had to keep Cantrip alive.

He turned to Cantrip and grinned. "Well kid, have I got some happy news for you. Come on.. I think it's time we taught you the beautiful art of bounty hunter combat."

* * * * *

It only took about an hour to turn the safehouse into a makeshift combat training center.

Seraph and Penelope had dragged out a really ugly looking straw dummy from somewhere (it's always helpful to have a straw dummy when practicing: that way, if you ever come up against an immobile, limbless and headless enemy, you will know exactly where to hit him), and the floors were padded with thick, moth-eaten carpets. Penelope had also produced a variety of wooden blades, arranged neatly on a rack. Even the wooden daggers were shaped exactly like real throwing daggers, except that they were slightly less likely to take your head off when thrown.

Seraph pulled a wooden sword from the rack, and tossed it to Cantrip.

"Alright kid, show me what you've got. Come at me swinging, and try and land a hit," said Seraph cheerfully.

Cantrip took a deep breath, lifted the sword and charged.

When Cantrip opened his eyes again, he found himself staring blankly at his sword, which had somehow lodged itself firmly in the ceiling, leaving him flat out on the floor. There was nothing but silence from Seraph and Penelope. Seraph sighed. "Okay, I see we've got a lot to teach you here," he muttered.

* * * * *

"The most important thing about fighting is staying alive. That's the only trick there is to it," said Penelope, twirling a wooden dagger like a circus juggler. "Sure, fancy moves are impressive, but at the end of every fight, the winner is the one who can still walk away. Or maybe crawl away. Or maybe even roll away, if it's a particularly tough match."

"Remember, the best fighters fight like rats. No rules, no honour. Bite anywhere it hurts, and run if necessary. Putting on a macho image is an excellent way to get yourself killed. Come on, you're a street urchin, I'm sure you've had plenty of practice at running, eh?" asked Penelope.

Cantrip grimaced. "Oh yes. Lots," he muttered.

"Great!" beamed Penelope. "Now let's see if we can get you to move just a LITTLE bit faster..."

* * * * *

It's a common misconception that tying heavy weights to your legs makes you move faster when the weights come off. Countless stories have a plot device where heroes wear an extremely heavy item of clothing (a thousand-kg shirt, for example, or a heavy turtle shell, or maybe a heavy alien hermit in a basket, even), learn to move around normally with it, and upon the removal of the shirt/shell/alien, they suddenly develop the ability to move with superhuman speed, bouncing around like rubber balls, and in rare cases, even developing the ability to fly.

All this is utter rubbish, of course. Tying weights to your legs merely makes you look a bit ridiculous, and a thousand kg shirt will probably kill you before it makes you fly. And wearing a turtle shell makes you look silly, AND gives you a terrible backache until you take it off.

* * * * *

"Speed is a good thing. If you can react faster, move faster, and hit faster than the enemy, then you gain two immediate advantages. One, you could probably take the enemy by surprise, and do some major damage before they can even react to your presence. And two, you can outrun them if they outnumber you greatly," explained Penelope as Seraph watched their training. "Unfortunately, the bad news is that it'll take several years of well-structured and intensive training to condition your muscles to move even a litttle bit faster."

Cantrip looked puzzled. "Er... so I can forget about becoming faster, right?"

"Well.. yes. Unfortunately. But there are certain tricks, which you can use in a real emergency, that will probably let you move as fast as I can. Observe...." Penelope produced a small wooden box which suspiciously resembled a Watch radio. She cracked it open, and inside, staring back at a startled Cantrip, was a little red imp, blinking in the sudden light. Penelope gave it a big friendly smile, and carefully picked it up by the scruff of its neck.

"Here, hold the guy. Gently now..." she slowly lowered the imp into Cantrip's grasp. It peered at Cantrip curiously, and squeaked a greeting. Cantrip smiled at it nervously. Penelope took a few steps back, and...

...whipped out a shiny STEEL dagger, and stabbed it towards Cantrip at lightning speed....

...Cantrip shouted, caught completely off guard, and squeezed the imp tightly...

...and time slowed. Everything moved in slow motion, like an incredibly overused special effect, as the dagger braked through the air, growing slower and slower, and then stopped, half an inch from the tip of Cantrip's nose. He blinked, and carefully moved his nose out of the dagger's path. In his iron grip, the imp was squealing madly, so he loosened his grip...

...and the dagger shot past, missing him by inches. Penelope turned around and grinned. "Keep an imp on you at all times: it's a little known fact that they can actually bend time enough to slow it down for a bit. Be careful though, squeeze too hard and they actually explode in your hands."

Cantrip could only stare at her incredulously.

next chapter

chapter 13

2005-11-13T18:24:00.000+08:00

previous chapter

It was much later. The Watchmen had arrived, questioned the dazed butler, and then left, baffled.

"His name was Cain Fortune," explained Seraph to Cantrip. "And he offered me an insane sum of $50,000 if I could bring you here in one piece. I would have to be crazy to pass up such a job, of course, but you proved to be surprisingly tricky to track down, until I found you lying in that alley." Seraph paused. "I've always thought that 'Fortune' was an obnoxious name, though."

According to the butler, Mr Fortune was a man with many strange habits, and spent most of his time in the dark. He had never been in good health as far as the butler could remember, and was usually ill with one ailment or another. He was also fabulously wealthy, owning several fleets of airships and various holdings and businesses throughout the City. He did not socialise much, and had no known hobbies besides sitting alone in a dark, quiet room. The butler was well paid, and so did not see any reason to ask difficult questions regarding his master's quirks. Besides, Mr Fortune's eccentricities were considered abnormally normal by the standards of the City's rich and famous.

"I heard he had a weird obsession with fish," said Penelope, the world expert on marine wildlife. "Apparently, every airship in his fleet is expected to have dolphin painted on the bottom."

"But dolphins aren't fish, they're..." began Cantrip, but he was interrupted before he could finish.

"Ah crap! I've brought the kid all the way here, and SOMEONE had better pay me my money! It was FIFTY FREAKING THOUSAND DOLLARS!" shouted Seraph angrily. "Damn it, why can't the old man kick the bucket AFTER I get the money, hey?"

"At least that means I probably won't be killed after all, right? Hurrah!" cheered Cantrip optimistically. Seraph glared at him, and Cantrip wisely decided to keep quiet.

Penelope stared at the mysterious parchment. "Hey... you guys wouldn't happen to have any idea what he meant by 'others', would you? Perhaps he has a secret collection of little boys with tattoos on their bodies stashed away some place? You never know, rich people are really weird sometimes," she added darkly.

"And what the hell is that drawing supposed to be?" wailed Seraph, pointing accusingly at the crude stickman-in-a-box. "Damn weird thing to draw when you're dying!"

Cantrip thought for a moment. "Hm, didn't the metal creature turn into ashes too?" he asked.

Silence descended across the room like an invisible falling apple as Penelope and Seraph thought about this. Silence bounced, and then descended a second time as they thought some more. No matter how Seraph was twisting and turning the thoughts in his head, everything just didn't seem to fit. People don't turn into ashes just like that... once was weird enough, but twice is plain disturbing. You never know when it might happen again, once things happen a second time.

"Well.. yea," replied Seraph weakly, breaking the silence. "And it's not natural at all! But more importantly..." (and here Seraph's puzzled brain happily switched to a topic it was more familiar with) "...he did not write 'FIND OTHERS AT $50,000 EACH', so there's no reason for me to find out what the crackpot was after."

There was another long stretch of silence as they considered the situation. Now that he wasn't actually worth a large sum of money anymore, Cantrip was almost certain that he was free to walk away. On the other hand, if everything that happened was somehow connected to him, then there was no place safer than around Seraph and Penelope. They were psychotic hunter killers, but that's okay because, significantly, they only hunt and kill other people.

Seraph was still angry over the lost $50,000, which meant that the impossible task of collecting $250,000 to get Penelope out of trouble had just become $50,000 more impossible than before. He could probably scavenge that sum eventually, but by then Penelope would probably be dead. The Merchant's Guild survived on sheer cunning and guile, and if they find out Seraph had gone rogue on them, well... they could easily arrange for more expensive and specialised employees to see that things got done. Painful things, done with sharp instruments. Probably more a question of 'when' rather than 'if', too, thought Seraph bitterly.

* * * * *

Contrary to popular belief, bounty hunting was not, in general, an occupation where people can become rich enough to opt for early retirement, because:

a) There was a lot of overhead in the industry. Looking as good as a bounty hunter is expected to is an expensive affair, and there's wear and tear on the equipment to be considered. Factor in the costs of travelling, the generous bribery to obtain important information, the sunk costs of chasing false leads... everything adds up, and makes a big dent in the bounty hunter's money pouch.

b) Most bounty hunters don't live long enough to retire. Age is like a very persistent tax collector, because no matter how far you run, age will still catch up with you eventually and take its toll. And when your occupation involves chasing down people who don't want to be found, some of the survivors will, sooner or later, decide to hunt down the person who put them through so much misery. Old bounty hunters are crafty as foxes and have absolutely no trust in other people, but even the best make mistakes one day.

But on the bright side, bounty hunters get a lot of glamour. They aren't called bounty hunters for nothing: the title is quite a literal one, because they earn an honest living by hunting people with a bounty on their heads. There is a certain amount of respect reserved for people who live their lives on the cutting edge of danger.

Some bounty hunters pass into legend for achieving impossible feats, far beyond the abilities of other mere mortals. There were whispers of one such hunter, who was reputedly the best hunter the world had ever seen. He is said to exude style, and executed his contracts quickly and ruthlessly. Legend has it that he took on an entire squad of well-trained Watchmen and killed every single one... using only his left hand. Nobody knew his real identity, what he looked like, or where he was now. In fact, it could very well be a she, and nobody could tell the difference. Presumably he (or she) was lying low somewhere, hidden from the world and shielded from the fate of all the other bounty hunters.

* * * * *

Mr Porpoise was livid with anger. The bounty hunter had not come. He slammed his clenched fists into the table.

"NO! He must have taken the Key for himself!" he roared in anger, sweeping away the contents of his desk furiously. "That snake... He must have found out what it was for!"

Mr Porpoise bit his lip and calmed himself down slightly. Things were looking really bad now. He did not have the Key, and the Ancients were already in the City. If they found it first, his meticulously laid plans would be utterly ruined. Anger leads to mistakes.. and he could not afford a single mistake now, so late in the game.

He donned the travelling cloak. There were a few visits to be paid, and then the treacherous bounty hunter will regret crossing Mr Porpoise. Oh yes, thought Mr Porpoise grimly, he will be given a lot of time to regret what he has done. And then, he will die a long, slow death.

next chapter

chapter 12

2005-11-13T14:46:00.000+08:00

previous chapter

The stagecoach thundered past iron wrought gates, held open by two impassive gate wardens. It passed on through a small driveway lined on both sides by rows of shady trees, and stopped in front of a large mansion. Marble steps led to the main doors, where a butler was patiently awaiting his master's arrival.

All the wealthy people in stories have butlers, or at least a large retinue of servants. It's just one of those things that go without saying. And if there is a murder in the house, cliches dictate that there will be a compulsory joke of "the butler did it". It wasn't very funny, but it always appeared anyway. Nobody knows why. Fortunately, no gruesome murders have occured in this mansion, so there probably won't be any jokes of that sort in this story. Probably. This butler's name was Jeremiah.

Mr Porpoise descended from the stagecoach, his travelling cloak billowing impressively. The two bodyguards reappeared on either side behind him, looking around suspiciously in case there were assassins hidden in the bushes, ready to pounce.

"Glad to have you back, sir," greeted the butler in a voice as polished as diamonds.

Mr Porpoise nodded curtly at Jeremiah. "Has the bounty hunter arrived?" he asked.

"No, sir, the bounty hunter will be here in the morning. In the meantime, there are several gentlemen here to see you. I have directed them to wait in the drawing room, as per your instructions," replied the butler, with all the liveliness and excitement of a pair of used socks.

"Well, let's keep them waiting, shall we? Tell the cook I have returned, and have dinner ready by seven. That will be all for now," said Mr Porpoise, and he waved the butler away. Jeremiah silently vanished.

What he really really wants right now is a nice long bath, thought Mr Porpoise as he went into the mansion. And then... there was a lot of unfinished business to conclude.

* * * * *

Sometimes, especially when you are having a lot of fun, time flies. Wake up in the morning on a nice holiday, have a wonderful cup of coffee, and next thing you know, the sun leaps across the sky, evening settles in like an extremely unwelcome guest, and the day has passed, leaving you sorrowfully nursing a cold coffee cup, wondering where the day went.

But at other times, time crawls slower than a snail moving backwards, and this usually happens just when you wish it would move faster. Right now, time was crawling for Cantrip as he slept. He dreamt of mad old men paying exorbitant sums of money to find him, of psychotic bounty hunters with sharp daggers, of unnatural shadows grinning at him from the shadows, of a blinded metal monster madly searching for him in a deep dark hole...

He woke up drenched in cold sweat. Outside, the first rays of the morning were lazily starting to climb out of bed. Seraph was already awake, decked out in full bounty hunter gear, bristling with sharp and shiny weapons. He had changed his eyepatch into a leather one, and his grey hair had been dyed white, with copious amounts of gel giving it a spiky look, with the rest of his hair tied into a ponytail. He exuded danger and style by the bucketloads.

Penelope looked exactly as before, except that she had evidently found a great big sword lying about somewhere, and had slung it on her back.

"Rise and shine, kid. We're moving soon," announced Seraph cheerfully. "And please don't run away, I really hate it when people do that." He gave Cantrip a cheerful slap on the back.

Right now, Cantrip was feeling anything but cheerful. Being handed over to some stranger who was willing to pay a lot of money for it to happen is seldom a good thing. Usually, it means someone really really wants to see you dead, and those kind of deaths are usually prefered to be methodically slow and painful.

Oh joy, thought Cantrip.

* * * * *

They left around mid-morning. Seraph hailed a yellow and black stagecoach with "TAXI" emblazoned on a flashing yellow sign on its roof. It was drawn by two snorting stallions, one yellow and one black, and each of them had "TAXI" painted across their bodies as well.

"Where to?" asked the stagecoach driver gruffly.

"Upper West Side of Merchant's District, please..." replied Seraph. "And step on it."

"I always do," grinned the driver, and then he stepped on it.

* * * * *

The roads of the City were full of crazy stagecoach drivers, but the taxi drivers were the craziest. An imp sat next to the driver, madly shouting out numbers, and Cantrip realised it was keeping track of how much this little trip was going to cost.

"ONE FIFTY TWO!" yelled the imp as the taxi driver dodged a vegetable cart. The stagecoach rolled along on two wheels for several meters, then crashed back and rattled onwards, leaving the indignant shouts of the cart pusher behind.

Cantrip clung on for dear life as the coach roared on at top speed. Beside him, Penelope had turned a strange shade of green.

"TWO FORTY NINE!" shouted the mad imp as the stagecoach slipped into a powerslide and swung a corner, knocking down a lamp post.

"THHREE SIXTY THREEE!!" as the stagecoach cut madly through traffic, barely squeezing into the smallest of gaps, and cutting across alleyways and pavements, then lurched to a stop in front of a pair of large gates.

"Here we are, sirs and ma'am," said the driver, and turned. "That'll be four dollars and seventy two cents, please."

"Here, take it, and keep the change," replied Seraph as he pushed a five dollar coin towards the driver. He stumbled out of the stagecoach with Cantrip, trying to regain control of their quivering legs. Penelope sort of fell out, and promptly emptied her breakfast into the nearest gutter.

The driver tipped his head, thanked Seraph, and the stagecoach rolled away.

Five minutes later, they had recovered enough to begin walking normally, and Seraph led them to the gates of a large and impressive looking mansion. It was, of course, wrought iron. Seraph had a quiet word with the door wardens, showed them a parchment, and they nodded. The gates swung open, and they moved through a driveway, not surprisingly lined on both sides by shady trees.

A butler met them at the door, while resolutely refusing to make eye contact.

"The master will see you now," he said, staring straight ahead and speaking in a tone that suggested he did not wish to be seen speaking to people of their social status. "Follow me." He stiffly led them through a maze of rooms, and then stopped outside a majestically carved wooden door.

"Inside," barked the butler, and then he turned the door handle.

* * * * *

Inside, the room was dark, and this appeared to be a deliberate effect. Heavy curtains were drawn across the windows, and there was a general absence of a light source of any kind. There was a horrible smell in the air, too. And Cantrip could have sworn he heard the buzzing of flies.

Seraph swore loudly and whipped out a mini lantern. As the lantern flared and lit the room, the butler gasped.

Sitting on a study chair with his back to the windows was a man. He wore expensive jewellery, and he was short, fat and round. He was also very dead, and he appeared to have died from an illness that, if described, would leave a permanent scar on the imaginations of younger readers. Suffice to say, it was a very un-describable disease. And unless the butler was an extremely talented biological weapon developer, he didn't do this. The body lay slumped on the heavy wooden table.

As the butler fainted, Seraph swung the lantern to shine more closely on the dead man. An ink bottle lay shattered on the floor, and the dead man's hand dangled over it. A quill lay in the puddle of ink, soaked to the last feather. Seraph moved across the room, and carefully nudged the dead man's head aside with a dagger.

To his utter horror, the dead man's head crumbled into ashes. At the touch of the dagger, the entire corpse appeared to implode, collapsing into a heap of grey soot. It was then that Seraph noticed a parchment lying under the dead man's head. Or, Seraph reminded himself, what little remained of his head, anyway. He gingerly pulled the sooty parchment away, and dusted off the excess ashes.

Scrawled onto the parchment were the words: "FIND OTHERS" and then what appeared to be a hastily scribbled diagram of a stick man, framed by a square.

next chapter

chapter 11

2005-11-12T23:01:00.000+08:00

previous chapter

Ancient One sat quietly in a dark, quiet corner of the tavern. This tavern was called the Raven's Nest, as proudly proclaimed by a crudely carved sign hanging over the entrance, and it was located somewhere in the lower cesspits of the Undercity. The other patrons sat quietly nursing their drinks, and there was a distinct atmosphere of dread in here. This was the kind of tavern nobody in their right mind would enter, because there is a really low possibility of walking out again once you step through the door. Little candles burned dimly, creating a mind-bending play of shadows and candle-light on the tavern's walls.

On the table in front of Ancient One was a tall mug of an unidentifiable alcoholic drink. The alcohol was so strong that it appeared to be eating holes in the mug, and as it leaked out of those holes it corroded the table as well. Fortunately, Ancient One was not here to drink: he was here to listen.

Two hooded men sat nearby, half-hidden in the flickering shadows of the candles. They were whispering rapidly, and there was a hint of terror in their voices. In fact, Ancient One realised that there was a harmonic of fear everywhere in the Undercity tonight: in its gutters and its dirty streets, on the rooftops and in the dark alleyways. The denizens of the Undercity were like rats: they could smell trouble coming from a mile away, and were smart enough to get the hell away before it arrived. Judging from what he has seen so far, something big was going on in the Undercity tonight, and everyone was frightened.

He eavesdropped intently on the whispering voices. The rumour mill in the Undercity was very efficient when it comes to spreading news, but more often than not, the further it spreads, the more distorted the news. With every retelling, new details are added for dramatic effect, some details deemed inconvenient are removed, and as the rumour spreads it told a completely different story every time. But always, there is a grain of truth hidden somewhere inside the rumours, if you dig deep enough.

Over at the bar, the bartender was locking up his chest of money, and carefully moving the more expensive drinks into the cellar. Trouble in the Undercity was always bad for business, and it never hurts to take precautions. The bartender usually had a reassuringly big axe under the bar for dealing with difficult customers, but just to be safe, he now had TWO big axes, as well as a loaded crossbow and several meat cleavers safely hidden under the bar counter.

Ancient One sighed and continued to listen, hoping the others were having more luck than he was.

* * * * *

Cantrip opened his eyes when he felt someone kicking his ribs.

The first thing he saw was a lot of skin. A lot of female skin, to be exact. Smooth, fair, female skin. Actually, his entire vision was obscured by what appeared to be female thighs. There was also a fragrant smell that somehow reminded him of flowers, with a slight hint of peppermint at the edges. And somewhere in his field of vision were dark brown bits of leather too.

"Are you an angel?" mumbled Cantrip groggily. His brain was still getting up to speed with current events, and right now it was as coherent as a brick. Somewhere in the back of his head, an important memory was determinedly tugging at his brain to make itself heard, but he couldn't remember what it exactly it was. "Only thing is, I heard angels are supposed to have great big wings or something, not skimpy leather outfits. Not that I'm complaining, of course," he added hurriedly.

Someone kicked his ribs again, and it hurt. "I think you'd better get up," said a distant voice that sounded a lot like Seraph's. Cantrip's brain kicked into second gear, and he sat up.

Peering at him with a look of amusement on her face was the girl who had been tied to a pole the last time Cantrip had seen her. She was kneeling down next to him, and then Cantrip remembered where he was. He gazed up at the platform, eight feet above, and was silently amazed that he survived the drop. Fortunately the ground he had landed on was quite literally a mattress of dust: if he had landed on some sharp rocks, he would probably be finding out what real angels looked like.

Cantrip winced. Seraph was squatting a few feet away, cautiously poking what appeared to be a large pile of ashes, vaguely human shaped. In the middle of the room was the runic circle, and in the middle of that was an empty pole.

"Hullo there kid, my name's Penelope. What's yours?" asked the girl, extending a slender hand in his direction. She appeared to be grinning.

"Er, I don't know, but my friends call me Cantrip," answered Cantrip, and shook her hand. "Nice to meet you, I guess."

Both of them turned to look at Seraph, who was shaking his head and muttering darkly. "It's really weird.. it really turned into ashes..." Cantrip stared at the pile of grey soot, and realised that it was the remains of the dreaded metal creature.

"How'd you do that?" asked Cantrip, eyes wide.

"Hm? Do what?" Seraph turned, shaken from his thoughts. "This? I didn't... I'm pretty sure the needles killed it, but last I checked, they don't have turning-people-into-ashes properties. Not that I know of anyway."

"What needles?" asked Cantrip, puzzled.

Seraph explained everything that had happened after Cantrip fell off the platform."...and then, I cut Penelope down from the pole. And that's about it, really... it's really strange, I've never seen any creatures like this one," concluded Seraph. He gave the pile of ashes a kick. "Well, let's figure out a way to get out of here."

"Why not just go back up the way you came?" Penelope asked. Cantrip noticed that she had taken several of Seraph's shiny daggers and stuck them into her belt.

"The Watch will be waiting there, and I'm not eager to get myself killed yet," replied Seraph drily. He began examining the stone walls for another exit.

"Oh don't be such a wuss!" said Penelope, and she gave a smile that sent shivers down Cantrip's spine. "The Watchmen won't be a problem."

* * * * *

Twenty minutes later, they were back on the streets.

Several Watchmen had drawn their swords when the three of them appeared at the top of the hole, and then Cantrip had been shocked at how quickly Penelope moved. She practically flew towards the stunned Watchmen and before they could react, she expertly slammed the blunt end of the dagger somewhere where it hurt. And judging by the strangled sounds the Watchmen made after she was done, it must have hurt a lot.

They fled through the roads of the City, heading for one of Seraph's safehouses. Once the doors had been securely locked and bolted, they heaved a sigh of relief.

Seraph turned to Cantrip. "Okay kid, the good news is, the Watchmen probably didn't have time to see our faces, but we'd better lay low here for a while, just in case." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "And tomorrow morning, I'll bring you to the old man. It's been nice hanging out with you and all, but business is business, after all."

Cantrip sighed and nodded. "Er.. can't you give me a clue on the identity of this mysterious employer of yours?" he asked hopefully.

Seraph thought for a while and shook his head. "Don't worry, you'll find out tomorrow. But he's really really rich... and I do wonder why he's willing to pay so much to find you." He paused and stared thoughtfully at Cantrip's tattooed arm. "Er.. that doesn't happen to be some top secret map to some location holding treasures of untold value, right?"

"Not that I know of. I've had it for as long as I could remember, though," replied Cantrip, and scratched the tattoo. "Sometimes it itches."

Seraph shrugged. "Whatever it is, I think you'll find out soon enough." He turned to Penelope and smirked. "A fine mess you got yourself into this time, eh? Fortunately, I came across this contract on your head and got you out of there first."

Penelope scowled. "Alright, so I got careless! The guy was really annoying me, and I was in a bad mood."

"Well the good news is, merchants are very flexible people when money is involved. The Guildmaster says he'll drop the contract upon, and I quote, 'repayment of the financial value lost due to the untimely demise of our esteemed colleague, the late Mr Bailey, approximately amounting to $250,000'. Only problem is, where in the world are you going to find that much money? And how did you end up in that chamber anyway?" asked Seraph.

"Are you insane? $250,000?! Crap.... I thought $15,000 or so might've covered it," Penelope bit her lip. "And as for the chamber, there was a rumour among the locals saying it was haunted by some weird creature, so I decided to check it out. You know, in case there's a big pile of treasure lying somewhere inside," she added airily.

"Wait.. let me guess. Then you lost to the metal creature too, eh?"

"Metal creature? Nope, never met any. Last thing I remember was walking into that chamber, and then everything went black. Next thing I knew, you were cutting me down from that pole."

"You never met any spiky, super strong, super fast metal monsters then?" asked a surprised Seraph.

"Not that I know of."

"Hey... are you a bounty hunter too?" interrupted Cantrip.

"Who me? Of course... guess who taught Mr Loopelberry here everything he knows about bounty hunting?" Penelope grinned again, and pinched Seraph's cheeks playfully. Seraph's ears began to redden. "I ran into a bit of trouble a while back with the Merchant's Guild, and was forced to go on the run. But not to worry, I'm sure Seraph here will settle everything. Isn't that right, Mr Loopelberry?"

"You know I hate it when you call me that..." grumbled Seraph. "But yea, I'll figure something out. In the meantime, we'd better keep this kid alive. The price on his head would go a long way towards repaying your debt with the Guild."

"Glad to be of help..." muttered Cantrip weakly. "But er, I'm not REALLY going to die right?"

"Who knows? Rich people are notoriously eccentric," shrugged Seraph. "Now let's get some sleep, it's been a long day and we'll need to set off early tomorrow morning."

* * * * *

Far above, at the peak of the Spire, something strange was happening. Sudden, random discharges of magical energy began to erupt from a strangely shaped stone within the Ancient's empty fortress. The stone was rectangular in shape, and vibrated in the wind. Right now, it was also bathed in a mixture of strangely coloured lights as the unstable magical energy filled the room, and outside, the vortex of clouds began to darken and expand.

next chapter

chapter 10

2005-11-09T22:33:00.000+08:00

previous chapter

As the five Ancients moved through the city, they were completely oblivious to the presence of the messenger watching from the shadows. Not just any messenger of course, but a Messenger with a prominent capital M.

The Messenger of the Ancients was, in fact, a woman. Not a very young woman at all, but a frail-looking old lady, with a head streaked with grey hair, her pale skin wrinkled and making her resemble a very large prune, and a shabby black shawl draped over her shoulders. No skimpy leather outfit here. Obviously, she was not REALLY ordinary: you can't actually claim a title like Messenger of the Ancients if you're just an ordinary old lady, can you? If she had a name, then it was a well-guarded secret, because nobody else knows it. Nobody alive, anyway.

She lived just below the snowline of the Spire, and, like a tortoise, she could move a lot faster than you think. The Messenger had a network of spies acting as her eyes and ears all around the island: actually, they were all middle-aged to not-so-middle-aged ladies, because it's amazing how fast news travels through gossiping elderly aunties. All her agents had radio imps concealed on their bodies, and since nobody would EVER think of body searching an elderly lady armed with an umbrella, it was a very effective way of communication.

The Messenger knew where the Key was, of course, because it was her job to know. It was also her job to inform the Ancients when it was taken, and she did it, but telling the Ancients where the Key was seemed like a bad idea. Something about them wasn't quite right... something she couldn't put her finger on, and it was bothering her.

Above, a black airship cruised towards the Spire.

* * * * *

Seraph and Cantrip were moving in a downwards direction.

The scaffolding had been hastily constructed by the Watchmen, and it was definitely not making the list of the world's top 10 marvels of civil engineering. In fact, it was a long way from making it into the top 100,000, since it rocked and squeaked dangerously in the slightest breeze. Seraph and Cantrip moved with care, guided only by the occasional lantern. Stairs, ladders, more stairs, long platforms, ladders again... and so on.

Bounty hunting was a legal profession on this island, of course. In fact, the Watch positively encouraged bounty hunting, since it kept the number of criminals down and stimulated the local economy. Not everyone can become a good bounty hunter, of course, but anyone is welcome to try. There was no license required: after all, any wannabe bounty hunter who did not quite make the cut were, inevitably, eliminated by their targets. In this job, either you learned very fast, or you stopped learning. Permanently.

Seraph was definitely a quick learner, and he did not intend to be hammered in the chest again. Certainly not by the same spiky metal freako. Nope, he had a Plan, and it will work. And if he keeps repeating that, he might JUST start to believe it really WILL work. He had tackled many stronger foes in his long and illustrious career, and he had survived every single time.

"You're sure about this, aren't you?" asked Cantrip as they clambered down another ladder.

Seraph winced in the half-light. Doubt was a very contagious disease (they don't call it 'plagued by doubt' for no reason), and Cantrip was a walking epidemic of it at the moment. "Of course I am! have some confidence, kid, I wouldn't have survived as a bounty hunter for this long if I was a total idiot, you know," chuckled Seraph with a healthy dose of false bravado.

They continued downwards, and then the scaffolding ended. There, just underneath, was the ruins of the chamber. Cantrip shuddered as he remembered the horrible battle that had taken place here. The remains of the rune circle could be seen in the middle of the room, where the rubble had been cleared. There was no sign of the girl or the monster.

Both of them heaved a sigh of relief.

"By the way... how long HAVE you been a bounty hunter?" asked Cantrip, trying to break the tense mood.

"Oh... about six and a half months now," replied Seraph nonchalantly.

And then the chamber exploded with a very bright light.

* * * * *

The black airship glided into a private hangar, and docked silently with a waiting platform. One part of the cabin slid open and Mr Porpoise stepped out into the world. The bodyguards followed quietly behind, with grim faces that were utterly devoid of any humour.

A stagecoach awaited, and Mr Porpoise stepped in, right on time. A minute later, it was rolling down a specially built path inside the Spire itself, heading for the City.

* * * * *

The first important thing about eyes is that they are strange and squishy little things. They are amazing for looking at things, because that's what they were made for. A human eye may not have the almost 360 degrees field of vision that, say, a fly has, or the telescopic abilities of an eagle, but it was excellent nonetheless under normal conditions. But the second important thing about eyes, is that when there is a strobe of very bright (and unexpected) light after a prolonged period of darkness, they tend to perform rather poorly for some time.

Cantrip and Seraph were blinded by the light screaming madly in their eyes, and stumbled blindly. There was a real scream as Cantrip's feet ran out of platform to stumble around in, and he tumbled over the edge.

Seraph cursed, and covered his eyes with one hand. His vision was completely shot to hell for the moment, and all he could see were bizzare shadows frozen on a white background. Damn...! He fumbled around madly in his tunic, and pulled out a rolled-up velvet cloth, opened it, and dropped something shiny into his palm.

There was a thud as Cantrip hit the ground. Fortunately, the drop was only about eight feet, so he did not instantly end up resembling peanut butter spread across the pavement.

In the center of the circle, the columns of light faded as the girl reappeared. And right beside her was a familiar spiky shape, furiously overflowing with generous amounts of anger and itching for a fight. It pounded the floor and roared through its sealed lips.

Seraph cursed again. Crap, he thought, so Fred was right after all... and now he was stuck in what was basically a deep hole with a murderous metal beast. Good news: he had a Plan this time. Bad news: the best laid plans are rendered useless when you're running around as blind as a headless chicken.

Seraph spun towards the direction of the roar, and forced his eyes open. Through the white haze, he could JUST ABOUT make out the vague shape of the creature. He took a deep breath, and leapt forward...

Parts of his body complained as a sharp pain seared across all his muscles. His chest had barely healed from the blow, and his lungs burned as he shot forward through the dark. Something in his brain veto-ed his body's whinings and complaints, and he continued moving.

Up ahead, he saw the creature's vague shape stirring. Here goes nothing, thought Seraph, and with every ounce of strength in his body, he sped up.

The creature swung a giant fist right into his path, but Seraph twisted and...

The first thing about eyes, is that they are are strange and, importantly, squishy things. As Seraph flew past, he stabbed a pair of very sharp and very specially designed needles into each of the creature's burning eyes.

It was unfortunate that the creature could not scream, because the loud scream of a wounded creature echoing up a deep dark hole would have been very dramatic indeed. And the special thing about the needles was their shape: the sharp point was designed to be the tip of an extremely aerodynamic dart. It would have taken several inches of very strong wood to stop the needle, and apparently, the creature did not have any metal skin inside its head.

The metal creature's head snapped back, and it toppled over just as Seraph's accelerating body hit the rocky floor, coughing up a large cloud of dust. And then the chamber was dark and silent once more.

next chapter

chapter 9

2005-11-08T21:55:00.000+08:00

previous chapter

Up in the sky, a black airship drifted along gently. It was drawn by a single majestic black unicorn, a creature that seemed to consist entirely of pure muscle. This airship had no visible insignia of any kind, and it was certainly not in a hurry. It cruised.

The airship was, in fact, somewhat similar to a floating mini-mansion. The balloon was studded with elegant silver hubs, stitched into strips of expensive leather. The chains were stainless steel, and the cabin itself was carved out of specially imported wood: light yet strong. Velvet curtains covered the windows, and the interior of the cabin was designed to resemble an exact replica of a very upscale lounge. There was a bar, several sofas, a writing table, and even a mini pool, complete with a tiny fountain.

The whole place gave the impression that its owner was very, very rich indeed. And actually, he really was very rich. He was known as Mr Porpoise, and he was currently standing on a small platform on the airship, staring down at the world below. He was dressed in a specially tailored smoking jacket, and against all stereotypes of rich people who float around in black airships, he was neither short, fat, nor round. Six feet three could hardly be considered short, he worked out often enough to have proper muscles, and the only thing round about him was a large gold ring on his finger.

Tucked barely out of sight were two even more well built men, who could be described very vaguely as bodyguards. Their eyes never stopped moving, constantly scanning the skies for, one has to assume, any would-be assassins lying in ambush within the clouds. One of their hands remained within their coats at all times, presumably because they were too shy to show both hands.

Mr Porpoise was reading a letter. As he read, his eyes narrowed in fury, and he angrily tore the paper into shreds. "Damn..." he muttered in a voice that, somehow, reminded a listener of an assortment of animals such as foxes, wolves and snakes. Particularly snakes. Every word uttered in that voice dripped with cunning.

So, he thought, there has been a minor hiccup in the plan. No matter.. every problem had a solution, if you look hard enough. Sometimes it was money. In fact, most of the time it was money: all you had to know was where to put it, and if you keep shoving money in the right places, the problems went away eventually.

Fortunately, he had plenty of money. And to ensure that this plan succeeds.. well, even his entire fortune would be a small price to pay.

* * * * *

The Watch had dug a very big hole in the middle of a busy street to reach the caved-in chamber. They then hammered together a rickety series of scaffolds, leading deeper and deeper underground. The Forensics arm of the Watch were gone now, but several Watchmen hung around the hole on guard duty. They looked really bored: nobody was likely to steal a hole in the ground, and there was nothing down there but a lot of rocks and dust.

In a nearby alleyway, Seraph and Cantrip peeked around a corner at the gaping hole.

"If Fred was right, then the metal guy and the girl would probably reappear eventually. All we have to do is wait," whispered Seraph.

"And you honestly believe we can just WALK in there and whisk away the girl?? We'll probably get ourselves killed!" Cantrip hissed back. "Can't you think of a better plan?"

"Trust me... this time, it had better watch out, because we are PREPARED," declared Seraph with a lot more confidence than he felt. "Now all we have to do is figure out a way to get inside."

They stared blankly at the Watchmen around the hole. For a moment, Cantrip's imagination ran wild, and he pictured both of them leaping forward, swords drawn, charging valiantly towards the hole while shrieking bravely, striking terror into the hearts of all who oppose them. Unfortunately, doing so right now would most probably lead to them being: a) shot dead and turned into a pair of human pincushions by a shower of crossbow bolts before they'd taken more than 10 steps, b) attacked by the Watchmen, put up a brief and pointless struggle, and then get chopped into tiny pieces, or c) all of the above.

They continued staring glumly. Overhead, the sun continued chugging across the sky, and time dripped through late afternoon, trickled into dusk, and then flowed on into the night. The Watchmen continued guarding, and far above, a Watchwoman remained perched on top of a chimney, staring curiously at the two figures in the alleyway.

* * * * *

Five hooded figures arrived at the edge of the City, just as the first rays of moonlight lightly touched the earth, as soundless as a, urm, thing with no sound. The leading figure flicked back his hood, and grimly turned to the other figures.

"Alright, brothers. Here we are. Don't forget, our main purpose here is to find the Key and return it before it falls into the wrong hands. Keep a low profile as much as possible, we don't know who we're dealing with for now," said Ancient One, already discarding his robes, revealing a slightly less attention grabbing leather tunic beneath. "We'll split up, and meet back here in five days. Here, take these.." He distributed some suspicious looking cylinders to the other Ancients. "..and set them off if anything happens. Good luck."

The rest nodded silently, and then the group dispersed, leaving behind nothing but a small pile of discarded robes.

* * * * *

At night, the street lanterns lit up the roads of the City like a very long and hopelessly tangled string of Christmas lights. Overhead, the airship traffic became noticably slower. The airships had their own lights, so the night sky blinked with random little red dots. One of the airships flew low over the buildings, and Cantrip caught a quick glimpse of what looked suspiciously like another dolphin painted to the bottom of the airship.

Those airship people must really love dolphins, thought Cantrip. Either they had delusions that their airships resembled dolphins slicing gracefully through the air (which really IS a delusion, because they looked like big fat walruses) or they all hired a painter with an obsession with gray fish that have snouts.

Then Seraph had an idea.

He dragged a startled Cantrip into action, and they ran down the alleyway, away from the hole, eyes scanning furiously along the wall, looking for.. there. A drainpipe, rusted with age, leading straight to the roof. Seraph clung onto the pipe and started climbing, pausing halfway up the pipe to rip some clothes off one of the many overhanging clotheslines. This was a typical alleyway, after all.

Cantrip followed, and they darted up the drainpipe like a pair of very determined monkeys. Seraph was moving with one hand: his other hand shoved what appeared to be a large bedsheet into his tunic, then began fumbling in his pockets for something. He pulled out a small tube that looked very much like a primitive grenade. They reached the top just as the airship glided by overhead, and Seraph ripped off a piece of cloth, twisted it hurriedly around the tube, and hurled it over the edge of the roof.

The cloth opened up like a tiny parachute, and the grenade started to fall...

The airship looked deceptively slow from a distance, but now that it was just overhead, it was moving FAST, with a loud whooshing sound, dragged forward by a unicorn. Seraph grabbed Cantrip and sprinted, up another drainpipe, and soon they were going higher and higher, up a smaller tower on the roofs...

And NOW, higher than the airship's balloon... with Cantrip clinging on tightly, Seraph leapt, barely landing on the strong leathery surface of the airship, and slipping... The streets far below looked quite fatal from this distance, but Seraph's face was full of exhilaration, drunk in the thrill of the stunt. He's actually ENJOYING himself, thought a shocked Cantrip, just before Seraph released his grip on the balloon and fell backwards.

...there was an explosion from a nearby alleyway as the grenade landed...

As the Watchmen drew their weapons and rushed towards the alley, they completely failed to notice two figures dropping from the airship. One of the figures released a giant bedsheet as a makeshift parachute, and they drifted gently into the great big hole in the ground.

The Watchmen found nothing in the alley except a small crater, rubbish blown to bits everywhere, and a very cooked rat. Puzzled, they resumed their vigil, more alert now than before. But the falling figures were already gone.

* * * * *

Oh, by the way, dolphins are not fish... they're mammals. But I'm sure you already knew that.

next chapter

chapter 8

2005-11-07T18:44:00.000+08:00

previous chapter

Every universe has its own form of magic. Some tack on an extra alphabet at the end (usually a K), and call it.. magick. Some classify complicated technical illusions as magic, such as making a large car disappear, or cutting an assistant into several sections in a box, or pulling rabbits out of top hats. Some have mathematical magic: not strictly in the sense of the seemingly magical applications of complex numbers, multiple level derivatives or eigenvalues, but mathematical as in 'roll-a-dice-and-that-is-the-damage-done-by-your-magic-missile' kind of magic.

On the Spire, magic is... unique. In any existence, the theory of energy conservation is generally obeyed, and it is no different on the Spire. Electrical energy, for example, has a complex but mathematically provable relationship with magnetic energy. Both of them can be shown to be related through four Maxwell's equations, which in physics is somewhat similar to the relationship guidelines between a girl and a guy, as dictated by the girl's father. In other words, it is physics' equivalent of "Bring her back before 10pm, keep your hands where I can see them, and stay three feet apart at all times in a brightly lit place, or you're dead meat", but applied to electrical and magnetic energy.

Which brings us very neatly back to the original topic of magic. By a quirky stroke of luck, magic and physics can be shown to be exactly like electricity and magnetism: not opposite sides, but more like opposite edges of the same side of a coin. Which is of course just one circular edge. But not quite. It is, in short, very complex. But where physics collapses (floating islands, sudden combustions e.g. fireballs, teleportation, objects moving by themselves, et cetera et cetera), magic steps in and makes it JUST logical enough to be possible.

Most importantly, magic is quantifiable, and it can be measured and calculated.

* * * * *

The City attracted all types of people, and somewhere in the City lived... a certain type of people. People whose minds worked in a special way: they saw numbers in EVERYTHING. In the sunset, on the leaves, on the cobblestones, on the scales of fish, in raindrops, in snow... everywhere. If the numbers were missing, they will find it. If they can't find it, they will bend and twist the existing numbers in new ways until it fits into the hole. Sleep, food, and social needs are all optional aspects of life for them: the numbers matter above all. In any other world, they would have become mathematicians or (more likely) institutionalized madmen.

But in this universe... there were more numbers than anywhere else. The magic in the world added an entirely new dimension of numbers to get lost in. In this universe, imaginary numbers had an imagination of their own, and created even more complex branches of mathematics. Numbers could be derived and integrated in different directions, and there were so many numbers, so many possibilities...

It was like staring straight into the deepest depths of insanity, and finding all those numbers dancing there, forming patterns, in some ways more dreamlike than any dream, and in some ways more real than any reality.

They dreamed, of course. It was only human to dream... and they dreamt that if they managed to understand the numbers, they would be able to harness its true power. And so they tried, but many minds were broken by the numbers, snapped open like a mathematical oyster. Those who solved one problem inevitably stumbled across another, completely new problem, and they went mad with despair. But some succeeded reaching a sort of understanding, eventually. They went mad too, but it was a calm sort of mad: it was the madness of knowing something so well that you cannot explain it, because if you tried to understand it further it would break you.

They called themselves Thinkers, and they really do think a lot.

* * * * *

One of the Thinkers sat in a dark basement in the City, staring at numbers nobody else can see. There was a knock on the door, but his brain focused solely on the interesting variability in the sound and the resonant properties of the echo: the way the echo bounced allowed his mind to reconstruct the layout of the room mathematically, calculating the speed of the sound, the damping in the air, the properties of the various surfaces, interference and reflection....

There was another knock.

His name was Friedrich Markov, or Fred for short. His hair had turned pure white many years ago, and there was a permanent look of worry on his thin face. By Thinker standards, he was quite sociable, being able to maintain a single coherent conversation for up to two minutes. By the third knock, he was vaguely aware that something was expected of him, so he opened the door.

Seraph climbed into the basement, followed closely by Cantrip. Fred had a poor memory for names and faces, so he settled for mumbling a vague greeting, which used up pretty much his entire supply of social abilities. The boy's arm tattoo held much potential though.. so many possible patterns and colours... his mind started to wander along again, looking for connections between the runes and the words...

His thoughts were interrupted by Seraph's voice. "Fred. It's me.. your old buddy Cabbage! Remember?" And just in case, Seraph waved his hand an inch from Fred's eyes, which were rallying to come into focus.

"Uh.. hello..." mumbled Fred, desperately hoping it was the correct answer.

"Yea, hi. Anyway, do you know anything about.. oh, say.. magic circles that can teleport things around?" asked Seraph slowly, and Cantrip noticed he was speaking louder than usual.

Something inside Fred whirled to life. A piece of chalk appeared in his hand, and he began scrawling numbers and figures on the floor. Fred paused occasionally, gazing at some inner blackboard, then continued writing and drawing, until the entire floor was filled with diagrams and equations. Once in a while he rubbed things out and redrew even more arcane figures.

An hour later, the entire basement had been scribbled with equations. Cantrip and Seraph were trying to press themselves up against the walls to make room for the scribbles, and if Fred was aware of their presense, he did not show it. Several figures had even been scrawled on Seraph's boots.

Two hours later, Fred stopped. "Right!" he exclaimed cheerfully, and pointed one triumphant finger in the air. Then he beamed happily at Seraph.

Seraph blinked. "Er... and...?"

"Oh... yes, it is entirely possible to create a magical field strong enough to move something from a specified space into a non specified destination! Amazing.. but of course, the objects would have to obey Krayton's Third Law," said Fred with a wink, under the mistaken assumption that his audience knows who the hell Krayton is and what his Third Law states.

"Uh. And the Third Law says that...?" prodded Seraph desperately.

"Simple, really. Krayton's Third Law states that when objects are moved by magic, they will end up exactly where they started."

Seraph gaped. "What?!"

Fred nodded wisely. "Oh yes. It would be really complicated all around if you could end up ANYWHERE, wouldn't it? We wouldn't need vehicles at all. No, the objects will definitely end up at the exact spot they started in, but, aha, here's the catch, they will reappear again much much later. Excellent for storing food and valuables, of course. And..."

But he was talking to thin air, for Seraph and Cantrip had disappeared. They ran through the City, heading back to the collapsed chamber. And up on the rooftops, a Watchwoman followed.

Fred shrugged and went back to his world of numbers, where things were much simpler.

next chapter

chapter 7

2005-11-07T12:03:00.000+08:00

previous chapter

In the Watchpost Infirmary, Seraph lay on a cold slab of stone, his entire chest covered in bloodied bandages. Tubes of gooey stuff had been plugged into his arm, and as he stared, little bubbles merrily danced around in the tubes. Overhead, an extremely bright (and, strangely enough, white coloured) lantern shone down, and the entire room felt cold and clean.

While certain layers of society spent large portions of their time on quiet hobbies such as collecting stamps, members of the Watch tended to amass a fascinating collection of grevious injuries, and over the years they became very good at it. A broken arm or leg was a common sight, right up there with multiple lacerations, slashed ligaments, crossbow-shot wounds, and a long list of other injuries classified under "Occupational Hazards". Occasionally there were special cases, such as the infamous case of Bobby the Watchman and his Amazing Rotatable Head.

It was no surprise then, that the Watch also ran a large network of Watchpost Infirmaries across the island. Here, specially trained members of the Watch operated on all manner of combat injuries. The Watch was currently the largest single consumer of bandages in the world, and single-handedly account for more than 83% of the total bandages imported into the city, and eventually the business became so lucrative that entire islands concentrated their economy solely on bandage production.

It wasn't easy to make the cut and qualify for membership into the elite Medical Watchmen (or, as they fondly refer to themselves, the Medics). Potential candidates underwent a compulsory, gruelling ten year training program under the watchful eye of veteran Medics. The training was a well-guarded secret, and by the end of it, the new recruits emerged with an extensive knowledge of a variety of sharp instruments, a total lack of fear for blood, the ability to remain totally calm in any situation, nerves of steel, and the amazing ability to reattach a severed arm to its original owner.

The Medics had one motto, proudly emblazoned on the wall of the Infirmary: "si vos non mortuus , nos can redintegro is". Seraph stared at it, wondering it meant. Something noble, no doubt. Whatever the hell their motto was, those nutcase Medics had done a good job on his chest, and it was feeling a lot better. Seraph flexed his arms experimentally. Yup, feeling good. A female Medic shuffled in,reassuringly wrote down something on a clipboard hanging from one end of the stone slab, and walked out again.

Seraph had an overwhelming urge to rip off the tubes and walk away, but in his current state that might not be very wise. Besides, he was in a Watchpost, and a couple of Watchmen were more than a match for a mere bounty hunter. Instead, he spent his time trying to fill in the blanks between being slapped in the chest by a walking tin can of muscle, and waking up here in the Infirmary. However, his memory was refusing to function, and he remained extremely perplexed.

* * * * *

Later that evening, Cantrip was allowed to leave. Tiffany the Watchwoman gave him some papers to sign, and then took down a wet, inky fingerprint for future reference. To Cantrip's relief, there appeared to be no sudden decapitation or asphyxiation in his immediate future, which meant the Watch had decided to drop all charges against him. Tiffy led him down several dimly lit corridors, until they came to the Infirmary.

More papers were signed, and then Seraph was unplugged and taken off the stone slab. Tiffany led them to the back door of the Watchpost, and then they were out and back on the streets of the City.

* * * * *

An hour later, they were sitting on the rooftops above the bustling commerce district. Cantrip had explained everything that happened to Seraph, who had lapsed into a moody silence.

"Cheer up.. it could have been worse," said Cantrip carefully, in what has to be the world's most overused phrase for 'stupid things to say when trying to cheering people up'.

"Worse? Worse than this?? My sword is broken clean in half, something broke every bone in my upper abdomen, and the girl I'm supposed to retrieve is, very likely, currently be buried under several tonnes of solid rock! How could it be any worse??" shouted Seraph.

Cantrip considered the options. "Well. If you had been killed, things would certainly be looking a lot less rosy," he replied reasonably.

Seraph stared grumpily into the distance. He was not accustomed to failure, and the girl was supposed to have been an easy mission. He had put the word out, and they had found her... all he had to do was retrieve her. The metal killing machine had come as a shock, and he had to grudgingly admit that he was lucky to have survived. Still... he did not have the girl. Delivery of the boy would have to wait; nobody crosses Loopelberry Cabbage III!

And while anger was busy burning a hole in his skull, Seraph had a plan.

* * * * *

Tiffany the Watchwoman observed them, safely shrouded in the shadow of a nearby chimney. Unlike the regular Watch, members of the Special Branch did not work in pairs: it was usually safer to move alone.

The collapse of the underground chamber had taken down several major streets, causing traffic pile ups all over the City. The Watch had drilled down into the ruins of the chamber, and Forensics found trace amounts of incredibly high level magic in the background radiation. Not many creatures were capable of producing that much magic, and most of those that could had been wiped out centuries ago. Tiffany noted Cantrip's description of the metallic monster as highly suspicious. Since she was pretty sure he was telling the truth, there would be the unpleasant task of identifying and containing such a powerful creature. In the wrong hands, it would be a serious threat to the City.

Special Branch was a boring job, however. It involved a lot of watching and waiting for things to happen, with a few exciting bits in between. But even as she waited, Watchmen were combing the City libraries for any mention of metal creatures that could move like the wind.

Down below, merchants were selling fine clothes freshly imported from foreign and exotic locations by airship. The sheer number of colours was mind numbing, and Tiffany felt a primitive, distinctly female urge to go shopping.

She concentrated harder on the two figures sitting on the roof. They appeared to have started moving.

* * * * *

Seraph led Cantrip down a narrow alleyway. The shops here had no signs: if you have to ask what they sell, then you most likely had wandered into the wrong shop, and you were equally likely to never walk out again. The goods were could all be classified under 'gray imports'. They came to a nondescript door. Seraph motioned for Cantrip to stay quiet, then knocked and entered.

It was a small, narrow shop, with glass cases lining both walls. The glass was grimy, and Cantrip could barely make out a wide variety of crossbows and sharp weapons. There was a wizened old man at the end of the shop, behind a counter. He didn't look quite as frightened as he should be: a frail old man standing alone in a shop full of deadly weapons. Or maybe Cantrip was missing something here.

Seraph had a quiet word with the old man, who nodded. A velvet cloth appeared on the table all by itself, and Seraph selected something from it. There was the sound of coins being exchanged and the bounty hunter pocketed something shiny. He then firmly dragged Cantrip out of the shop, and out of the alleyway.

Far above, Tiff watched curiously.

* * * * *

They stopped at one of the many roadside stalls for lunch.

"Now, time to ask ourselves a few questions," said Seraph jovially, munching happily on a chicken burger. His mood seemed to have taken a turn for the better now that he had a plan to follow. "What do you do if, say, a creature like our friend Mr Metal shows up again: faster than you, stronger than you and quite unlike you, is able to deflect steel?"

Cantrip's face twisted as he thought about this. "Er... run away very fast?"

"Ah..." Seraph leaned forward. "But then again, we already know it can move even faster." He took another munch. "No, kid, you can't run away. And when you can't flee, you have to FIGHT it."

"But.. isn't he faster, stronger and able to deflect steel?" asked Cantrip. "Fighting would be suicidal, wouldn't it?"

Seraph put his burger down. "Yes.. unless, of course, you know its weak point. I know for sure that everything has a chink in its armor, even insanely powerful freaks of nature like Mr Metal." And now it's just a question of HOW sure I am, thought Seraph to himself. On the bright side, if I'm wrong, I probably won't get a chance to find out, on account of being dead.

"So you have a plan?" asked Cantrip. Privately, he was worrying about the strange shadows. There was still no sign of Prawn, and Cantrip fervently hoped that he was just laying low someplace. And back in the chamber... the shadows had come alive... or was that something he imagined?

"Sort of. All we have to do now is find the creature and the girl," Seraph said, and resumed munching thoughtfully on the burger. Easier said than done, of course. From Cantrip's story, he guessed the runes were some kind of teleportation circle, which was very complex magic. A lot of things could go wrong with teleportation, and most of those involve very messy and complicated ways to die.

But there was a way. There was always a way.

next chapter

chapter 6

2005-11-07T00:06:00.000+08:00

previous chapter

Up on the Upper Spire, the view is magnificient.

From this high up, you can see for miles around. The scenery on the ground forms an amazing tapestry of colour: but since most of the ground is the City, the tapestry's colours consists mostly of various shades of brown and grey, which is, nonetheless, fascinating in its own special way. The outlying islands are just visible in the distance, and the stream of airships, coming and going, is strikingly similar to a line of ants ferrying food to their nest. When the popper fruits rain down, an observer in the Upper Spire sees a massive shower of purple dots, slowly expanding and spreading sustenance to the waiting populace below.

The atmosphere in the Upper Spire is markedly different, too. Way up here, far away from the pollution and noise of the City, life is slow and the air is fresh. Small, quaint villages jut out of the vertical cliffs, supported by a network of wooden platforms. After generations of selective breeding, the mountain goats in the Upper Spire are able to walking up vertical slopes, thanks to hooves that are harder than diamonds, capable of clinging on to any rock surface. The Upper Spire goats spend their days clinging vertically to the slopes, calmly chewing on the horizontally growing grass. Occasionally a cliff-climber will risk life and limb to milk the goats.

And in the spirit of all scenic, quiet, out-of-the-way locations in existence, the main economy has shifted from traditional activities (such as milking vertical goats and staring blankly at clouds passing by) to... tourism. City dwellers were willing to spend large amounts of gold to travel many miles from the hustle and bustle down below, and the locals were quick to capitalise on this opportunity.

First came the hotels, of course. Due to the pressure of space (mostly the complete lack of any horizontal building space), the hotels were built horizontally, jutting out of the sheer cliffs. In the lower parts of the Upper Spire, multi-coloured hotels sprang into existence like candy bars, and an entire section of the Upper Spire was a warzone of neon signs and billboards, all jostling for the all-important Tourist Dollar.

Unfortunately, the hotel owners soon realised there was a limited number of tourists to fight over, and soon a second mini-economy boomed. Gigantic elevators were built to make it easier for more tourists to reach the hotels, and the cut-throat competition soon lowered prices to such an affordable level that large numbers of City Dwellers were able to reach the Upper Spire's ring of hotels.

One of the phenomena related to a tourism boom is the sudden appearance of stalls selling a wide selection of souvenirs. There were genuine goods, well-made fakes, and fakes of such low quality that you would have to be incredibly short-sighted AND stupid to believe that they were genuine. And by some twisted law of economics, the price of everything within the tourism zone goes up triplefold(at least), with goods being sold at a slightly more sensible price after intense haggling.

Eventually, someone set up a bunch of casinos and a theme park, and soon the entire bottom half of the Upper Spire was no longer quiet nor out-of-the-way. The villages and goats complained about the constant noise and moved further up the slopes, and life went on.

* * * * *

Night time.

The five Ancients passed through a little village in the Upper Spire. Clinging to a nearby wall, a goat stared at them curiously, then shrugged and continued chewing a particularly interesting blade of grass.

* * * * *

Cantrip woke up in a tiny cell.

His mouth felt drier than a drought in a desert, his body felt like it had gone through a blender (with sharp blades) several times, and his head felt like something was trying to crack it open by hammering it from the inside. His last coherent memory was leaping out of the
dust-filled stairwell like a creature emerging from the smoking depths of hell, and then he remembered his muscles finally giving up after the strain of running while carrying a man a lot heavier than himself.

And now he appeared to be in a cell. A prison cell, by the looks of it. Seraph was nowhere to be found, and after that blow he had taken, Cantrip was not even sure if Seraph was still alive. The cell looked exactly like how Cantrip imagined a prison cell would look like: a small barred window on one wall, three walls of solid stone, and a fourth wall made entirely of thick, steel prison bars. He was lying on a wooden plank suspended from the walls by diagonal, rusty metal chains, and there was a hole in the floor emanating a foul smell. The only light there was came from the corridor: outside the barred window was the dark blue shroud of night.

Cantrip tried to move, and failed. His muscles were sulking, and were currently ignoring all instructions from his brain. Cantrip gave up, and went back to sleep. At least he did not appear to be in any immediate danger at the moment.

* * * * *

Time rolled on, slowly and ponderously, as it had always done.

Cantrip opened his eyes. A faint light streamed in from the window, so it was either dawn or dusk, he couldn't tell. Someone has shoved a plate of food through the bars: over-ripe, worm-infested popper fruits, and some kind of unidentified meat. There was a tin cup filled with dirty water as well.

Cantrip groaned and stirred. At least his muscles were working again, even though his whole body ached as he moved. He rolled off the makeshift bed, and took a bite from the fruit, carefully spitting out any stray worms, and washed down the foul sweetness with the water. Urgh.

He peeked through the bars, but the only thing he could see were more cells. There was no sign of other prisoners: either there weren't any, or they chose not to be seen. Most likely the latter.

Great, Cantrip thought. What a day. Dragged along on some wild goose chase by a total stranger, almost killed by a metal freak of nature, barely escaped a collapsing underground cavern, and now stuck inside a prison cell in who-knows-where. And what's worst, the total stranger who started all this was nowhere to be found.

There were footsteps down the corridor.

* * * * *

The City Watch was the most ruthless civil defence force on the island. Actually, it was the only civil defence force on the island, but that didn't stop it from being utterly ruthless and slightly corrupt anyway. There was an actual law of the land written down somewhere, in a big book, no doubt, but the Watch long ago considered it to be more of a book full of friendly (and more importantly, entirely optional) advice on how to maintain peace in the land.

Strangely enough, this method did manage to keep the peace, of sorts. Petty criminals were hurled into a jail cell without trial, and their sole punishment was meted out by the other, less petty criminals already inside the prisons. Anyone convicted of a capital crime (conviction is used loosely here, since the Watch served as both jury and judge) was kept in the cells for a day in case anything else turned up, and then they were executed in the morning.

The members called themselves Watchmen, and they moved in pairs. While lower ranked Watchmen cleared the traffic and chased vandals and street urchin, the higher ranking Watchmen were highly trained street brawlers who were extremely good at dishing out the pain, and eventually crime around the island was bullied into submission.

The Watchmen incorporated a lot of nifty tricks in their fight against crime, carrying all manner of concealed weapons and making full use of the latest technology. Every Watchman, for instance, carried a box with a small imp inside.

The thing about imps was their ability to work tirelessly for years and years, as long as they were occasionally fed a small lump of cheese. They were also very magical creatures, so they could be used for all sorts of things. In this case, the imps could be persuaded to very magically exist in TWO PLACES AT THE SAME TIME, and so they were both inside the box AND not inside the box. Not inside the box specifically referring to being inside the communications room of a Watchpost, where multiple imps relayed information to each other. It was, admittedly, exactly like radio, without the pesky batteries and electromagnetic waves.

Why do things the hard way?

* * * * *

To Cantrip's utter shock, a Watchwoman appeared and peered in through the bars. He supposed it was entirely possible that Watchwomen existed, but he had never actually seen one before.

She had greying hair and muscles like a horse, and looked like a grizzled veteran of many street fights. She shot Cantrip a weary glance.

"Hey, you can't keep me in here!" protested Cantrip feebly.

"Oh? Really? And if anyone else is found in a room full of dead people in the future, we shall certainly not hesitate to let THEM walk away too," replied the Watchwoman sarcastically.

"I didn't kill those people!"

"Maybe, or maybe not. But what we DO know is that you were there, and until we figure out what you were doing there, you are staying put in this cell," said the Watchwoman. She gazed coldly at Cantrip, and there was several seconds of embarassed silence. The Watchwoman turned to leave.

"Hey wait.. where's the bounty hunter?" wondered Cantrip.

The Watchwoman paused. "We have him in the Infirmary, and he looks pretty messed up. But he'll survive. And between you and me..." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "...good job back there, almost every dead guy we found is on one of our wanted lists. But we figured you'd be safer in the cells. Oh, and my name is Tiffany, but all my friends call me Tiffy," and this was coming from a woman who could probably break every bone in Cantrip's body effortlessly. Using only one finger.

And with that, she winked and walked away, leaving a stunned Cantrip clawing for a reply, and failing. His mouth opened and closed like a goldfish, and gave up. Some things were simply beyond comprehension.

next chapter

chapter 5

2005-11-06T17:19:00.000+08:00

previous chapter

Cantrip stumbled blindly through the darkness, guided by the feeble light of the lantern. In this choking blackness, the lantern was trying its best to shine, and failing miserably. The darkness closed in from all around like a gigantic black hand, squeezing out all traces of light and happiness from its death-like grip. The lantern managed to produce a half-hearted glow, which stuttered and died after three feet.

He was in a narrow corridor, with stone walls on each side. Cantrip ran his tatooed left hand against the walls. The stone felt damp and slippery, and several generations of green-coloured moss seemed to have made themselves comfortable here. Behind Cantrip, Seraph shuffled along cautiously, occasionally pausing to scrape a mark on the walls.

There was a faint light from ahead.

The corridor opened into a large underground chamber. Right in the middle of the dome-shaped ceiling was a large opening, where faint beams of sunlight were streaming down.

This wasn't real sunlight, of course: they were too far underground for that. This was recycled sunlight, the equivalent of last night's leftovers reheated in a microwave. This was light that had been rejected by everybody else above ground, and had crawled downwards dejectedly until it reached this chamber. There were bits of other lights in there, too: dirty lights from the grimy street lanterns, the pitiful glow of discarded candles, the low-grade light when rubbish is burned. All of them swirled and mixed, and now came streaming down into the chamber that Cantrip and Seraph had just stumbled into.

Strangely enough, someone had taken the trouble to draw a lot of complex runes on the floor. Magical looking alphabets formed a circle around the center of the room, and glowered menacingly like very tiny and squiggly dogs, daring all intruders to step past them. In the middle of the circle was a girl, gagged and tied to what appeared to be, for all intents and purposes, a nondescript looking metal pole that had been impaled into the ground.

Whoever planted the pole there must have really really wanted it to stay planted, because it had been slammed in with such force that large cracks spread from the point of impact, and snaked across the ground for several feet.

Cantrip stepped forward gingerly. The girl appeared to be unconscious. Now, it is a well known fact that fashion and logic do not always go together, but in fantasy worlds, they don't just NOT go together, they appear to reside on opposite ends of a very large planet. In other words, people often dress very insensibly in fantasy settings. Skimpy leather clothes are just the tip of the iceberg: there were the funny wizard robes, all that impossibly heavy platemail, the ridiculously pointy shoes, et cetera, et cetera.

In this case, the girl was dressed in, of course, skimpy leather clothes. Revealing skimpy leather clothes, in fact. So revealing that Seraph was staring in her direction several seconds longer than strictly necessary. Cantrip coughed.

"Erm. Yes?" muttered Seraph, reluctantly drawing his eyes away.

"Shall we go rescue her, or what? Or are you gonna stand here and stare all day?" chided Cantrip.

"Righto. You'd better go first, I have this allergy to menacing-and-possibly-fatal-looking rune circles that just sit there in the dark."

Cantrip grumbled and strode towards the circle.

* * * * *

Nearby and in the darkness, a very unlucky rat scampered across the floor. Something rather bigger than any rodent stirred in the shadows. There was a surprised squeak, and then a wet sound that sounded suspiciously like a rat being stepped on by something really heavy.

Two eyes appeared in the pitch blackness. They glowed red, and burned with hatred.

* * * * *

Cantrip poked the runes suspiciously. They appeared to have no function other than to remain firmly painted to the floor. Also, the words appeared to have been written using either very red and sticky ink, or the blood of some unknown beast (or possibly, some unfortunate person). However, Cantrip remembered stories from the streets of incredibly powerful wards that instantly fried anyone foolish enough to step across them.

To be safe, Cantrip's hand searched the floor for a loose stone. He took a deep breath, then threw the stone a short distance across the runes.

There was a sound like thunder, and rubble started falling like brown rain onto the chamber. The stone landed inside the circle without further incident, but something else appeared to have ripped a hole in one of the chamber walls.

Cantrip turned. Seraph was already moving towards him, daggers drawn.

In the broken masonry stood a figure, with what seemed like very large spikes coming out of its back and shoulders. It also appeared to be made out of metal, with sinews of steel and a face that looked like it had been rather painfully dipped inside a vat of molten iron. The only detail visible through the dust and darkness were the eyes, burning red and staring straight at Cantrip.

The metallic figure moved with impossible speed. It shot forward through the dust, charging straight for Cantrip. The air rippled in his wake, and dust was sucked into the vortex created by the sudden burst of speed. There was a mini sonic boom as sound struggled to catch up with the rapidly accelerating metal monster. In a single second, it had covered almost half the distance to Cantrip...

...Seraph's body slammed into Cantrip, and they rolled past the runes and into the circle...

...as the monster shot past, still accelerating. It was now moving too fast to slow down, and crashed into the wall on the opposite side of the chamber, blowing a crater in solid rock. More rubble rained down from the ceiling, and huge cracks appeared on every wall of the chamber. The ceiling rocked ominously, as chunks of rock were dislodged and crashed onto the chamber floor.

The figure climbed out of the crater and spun to face Seraph. It was murderously silent, quite likely because its mouth appeared to be fused shut. Cantrip grunted in pain on the floor. The creature flexed its muscles, then accelerated forward again.

Seraph twisted his body and hurled the daggers, then in one fluid motion drew his sword and spun into the defensive stance of a baseball batter: in this case, it involved a very large, very fast and very SPIKY ball.

The creature roared and slammed into the circle as time seemed to slow down...

...Seraph swung, and the blade sailed in the air with a funky 'whoooooomph' sound...

...Cantrip shut his eyes as a huge ball of dust that had been trailing behind the creature engulfed the circle...

...more rocks were falling from the ceiling...

...and something snapped.

Cantrip heard something clattering onto the floor nearby. He opened his eyes and saw the upper half of Seraph's blade, significantly missing its lower half. He looked up..

Two daggers lay on the floor some distance behind, where they had bounced harmlessly off the creature upon impact. Inside the circle, Seraph had swung the blade directly at the creature's throat: any normal person would have been instantly decapitated by such a blow, but the creature's metal skin had deflected the blow and snapped the blade in half. However, the blow had been strong enough to stop the creature dead in its tracks and slam it into the floor. A thin drizzle of dust fell on the stunned creature.

Seraph was breathing heavily, clutching half a blade. The creature rose, and hurled one spiky steel fist right into his chest...

...there was a crack of bones breaking, and Seraph flew across the chamber, spinning several times in the air, crashed into the wall and slid motionless onto the floor. The creature turned its maddened eyes to Cantrip, who appeared to be in shock. Cantrip scrambled to his feet, and leapt out of the circle, landing heavily and rolling. He felt a strange sensation of dread, and then the shadows came alive.

Shapes erupted from the darkness: curling tendrils snaked along the walls, a pair of shadows (shaped suspiciously like giant hands) shot across the floor, and other shapes shifted uneasily in the dark, subtly suggesting that pain and suffering is quite likely to be experienced by somebody in the near future. Once again, Cantrip felt like he was falling...

...and falling...

In his distorted vision, everything appeared blurred and tinged with pink. Everything in the chamber appeared to be moving extremely slowly: every particle of dust, every falling rock, turned slowly in the air. Except the purplish shadows, writhing and twisting in his eyes.. these were moving faster than normal, and every shadow was converging on the bluured image of the metallic figure...

...the monster raised one hand and drew a complicated pattern in the air...

... and the runewords lit up, each one sending shafts of light screaming towards the collapsing ceiling. The circle was soon lost from sight in the brilliant columns of pure light, and the shadows screamed and circled, but were unable to pass through...

...larger chunks of the ceiling were falling now, coming apart in slow motion...

...and the light exploded outwards...

Cantrip was hurled across the chamber by the blast, landing in a crumpled heap on the other side. The air smelled like burning solder, and his vision was returning to normal now, as more rocks fell. The chamber was imploding, with an ring of dust rapidly expanding outwards from where the circle used to be. There was no sign of the metallic attacker, and the girl appeared to have vanished as well. The runes were scorched black, wifts of smoke rising from each one.

Cantrip pulled himself up and dashed across the chamber as another boulder made a large dent on the floor. He had to find Seraph.... and THERE, covered by dust and pebbles, he saw a motionless body. Cantrip rushed forward, ducking under more falling stones, hurled Seraph over his frail shoulders, and dashed for the doorway. He was fueled by desperation now, and managed to break into a run with Seraph over his shoulders despite vehement protests from his legs and shoulders.

As he ran down the corridor, the chamber's ceiling came down. There was a sound like tectonic plates colliding, and a loud, dull roar as an explosion of dust rocketed down the narrow corridor. Cantrip ran on and on through the darkness.

He reached the stairs and raced upwards two steps at a time, and came to the closed trapdoor. He desperately slammed into the trapdoor, but it remained stubbornly closed. The walls were shuddering now, and he could see clouds of dust screaming through the corridor and up the stairwell. His eyes flew around desperately, found a lever, and pulled.

The trapdoor burst open, and Cantrip clambered out. The dust exploded out of the opening with a loud whooshing noise, and then Cantrip collapsed, exhausted.

next chapter

chapter 4

2005-11-03T10:47:00.000+08:00

previous chapter

The thing about secret rooms is, most of them aren't very secretive. In any piece of literary fiction, a REALLY secret room would be totally useless, since nobody would know about it even after the story is over (with the room being a total secret and all). So it's a bit of a misnomer, really. So it would be better to refer to them as, say, rooms with cunningly-disguised doors.

In this case, the door was cunningly disguised as the floor. As Seraph pulled, well-oiled mechanisms grinded somewhere in the walls, and a large section of the floor slid open to reveal a staircase. The beginning of a staircase, anyway: it was one of those winding ones, and this particular windy staircase wound into pitch darkness.

"Bloody hell! A secret room!" gaped Cantrip, conveniently ignoring the fact that rooms that were really meant to be a secret did not, in general, have a crude sign next to the opening-lever-disguised-as-a-candlestick.

Seraph shuffled over to the stairs and peeked into the darkness. The darkness peeked back. It was a special kind of darkness, the kind that promises all sorts of ways to die when you step inside. There was a cheerful hint of mysterious creatures waiting in that darkness, the sort that disembowels you first and asked questions later. And usually, 'later' refers to the time AFTER you've been thouroughly digested.

Seraph gave Cantrip a quick glance. "You go first, kid. I'll, uh, watch your back."

"What?! NO! I don't even know what we're looking for inside!" wailed Cantrip, backing away.

There was a sound of something being unscrewed, and a rustle of very old paper. "Here, read this," said Seraph, and handed over a yellowing parchment rolled into a little cylinder.

Cantrip gingerly took it and read. And gasped.

"Er... it looks like a picture of a... erm... with something on her, uh..."

Seraph lunged forward and snatched the parchment from his hands. "Damn! Sorry, wrong parchment." He rummaged around, blushing hotly, and came up with another parchment. "Here you go. Stupid multi-compartment containers, they just don't make them like they used to."

* * * * *

In any organization, there has to be paperwork. Usually a lot of it. Sometimes, entire branches of organization does nothing but deal with paperwork all day. Since most paperwork involves reading things written by other people, there was usually a lot of junk to sift through.

In utter defiance of the normal curve of Probability, there were a lot of idiots in the world when it came to paperwork. There was a surprising amount of people who insist on writing down EVERYTHING. They thought that it would be utterly essential, for example, to note down the exact amount of coffee taken by everybody else, and logged this information down with meticulous accuracy. From this information, they proceeded to construct a dizzying number of pie charts, graphs and colourful tables, and all these are piled up with the other paperwork.

And so, eventually, everyone implemented forms.

Forms were great for two reasons. The first was the fact that they were very easy to process. You already KNOW where the guy who filled the form is going to put his name, for example. Generally it can be found under 'Name:'. In a form-less world, the guy can put his name anywhere he damn well chooses to. Many clerks have lost their minds looking for a single name among thousands of squiggly words packed together like very squiggly commuters in a very flat train.

The second reason was, if you make a form bewildering enough, you cut down the total amount of paperwork significantly. Nobody can submit a form they don't know how to fill, and uncompleted forms can, of course, be legally turned into little paper aeroplanes.

* * * * *

The parchment was a form. It looked like this:

Bounty Hunter Application Form 96(b): Acquisition Details

Name of applicant: (and here someone had scribbled what looked very suspiciously like the words 'Mr Anonymous')
Amount payable: $1504.92, tax inclusive
Description of target: Young lady, presumed dangerous. Proceed with caution. (You'll know her when you see her, she'll be the one standing around all the groaning bodies on the floor.)
Deadline for retrieval: As soon as possible.
Do you wish to see this target come to any sort of harm?: Not yet.
Last known location of target: Running away very fast.
Suspected location of target: If I knew, I wouldn't have to fill this damn stupid form.
Other action required: None. Bring her to *such and such address* when you've found her.

... and the form went on, branching into trivial details such as the applicant's income information ('more than enough to pay you') and place of residence ('99 nowhere street', apparently).

Cantrip stopped reading. "We're looking for a girl?"

"Yes. Now let's get moving," said Seraph, who had somehow managed to pry a lantern off the wall. He lit the lantern, and thrust it to Cantrip. "You first."

Cantrip took the lantern, muttered, and plunged into the darkness. Seraph followed.

There was a 'click', and the not-so-secret door slid shut.

* * * * *

Way up on the Spire, five shapes were moving rapidly down. Under the cloud cover, a snowy blizzard had set in, but it did not seem to slow down the moving shapes in the least.

There were brigands up here, of course. They exist on the off-chance that some merchant way below would one day exclaim: "Good golly, I believe it would be an EXCELLENT idea to load up this wagon with a lot of expensive and easily stolen goods, then go on a long, dangerous and extremely pointless journey up that vertical mountain. Without guards." If there was a probability curve for brigand intelligence, these brigands would, unfortunately, be located on the extreme left. On a scale of one to ten for intelligence, they scored a negative complex number.

Right now, twenty brigands leapt out of the snow upon the five moving shapes and wailed "Hands up! Your money or your life!" It was assumed that they had been looking forward to this for some time, because each one of them had a happy, triumphant smile on his face.

Ten minutes later, the five shapes moved on. There was a general feeling that the average human intelligence had just increased by a few points.

next chapter

chapter 3

2005-11-02T22:18:00.000+08:00

previous chapter

The City was home to more than five million people of all shapes and sizes, squeezed into a circular area around a very improbably shaped mountain, and located within the bowl of the island. There are many drawbacks to such and arrangement, up to and including the possibility of massive loss of life should there ever be a fire or flood, since there isn't actually anywhere to run to (which doesn't involve a sheer drop into the clouds, that is).

The other major problem was the lack of land for farming.

Sure, the airships bring in a lot of food every day, but five million people consume so much food that thousands of airships would be required to ship enough food into the city. This was a problem for several years: people can tolerate oppression for many years, but widespread hunger tends to get bumped up right to the top of any government's list of priorities.

Much like the airships, there were many spectacular failures before they found a solution that worked: popper fruits.

Popper fruits were a real find: they grew only on rocks, soaked moisture from the air, started bearing fruit a year after they were planted as a seed, and each bite was equivalent to a million sugarcanes condensed into one small purple-coloured sphere. The only disadvantage: they were not named popper fruits for nothing. Whenever the fruits are almost ripe, they suddenly expand in size (like very purple popcorn) and pop off the stalks.

Popper fruits were the staple diet in the City, because they were so readily available. Most of the fruits were grown on the practically vertical lower slopes of the Spire, and every month or so the mountain was covered with purple explosions as fruit drizzled from the sky into the City below: the locals call it the Purple Rain.

* * * * *

Cantrip grabbed a popper fruit as it hurtled through the air, and took a bite. Across the city, popper fruit gatherers swooped in, collecting as many fruits as possible to be sold in the market later. City folks are nothing if not enterprising.

Seraph absent mindedly dodged a purple projectile as he slowed down, and stopped in front of a rather nondescript door. Cantrip took a quick look around and realised they were right at the edge of a very dodgy part of the city. Dodgy would be too good a word, in fact: even the street urchins avoided this neighbourhood. It straddled both the City and the Undercity, and contained the worst of both worlds.

Cantrip could have sworn there were unseen eyes gazing intently at him. He shrank closer to Seraph: nothing reassures like a buddy with a belt full of sharp steel knives, and most importantly, one who (presumably) knows how to use them effectively.

Seraph stepped up to the door and pondered quietly for a while. Finally he asked Cantrip, "Hey kid. You any good at picklocking?"

"Who me?" Cantrip grinned. He sidled up to the door and glanced at the lock. Cantilever IV locks, with extra special tumblers designed to make it harder to pick, and triple springs on random tumblers for that extra security. In other words, a piece of cake. Like magic, a small bendy metal paperclip appeared in Cantrip's hand, and he went to work. Six seconds later, the lock clicked and the door swung open.

Cantrip had just enough time to catch a glint of cold steel, there was a shout, and then everything else was a violent blur.

When it was all over, he realised he was flat out on the floor. There was a general feeling of unpleasantness in the air, which was possibly due to the fact that everyone in the room beyond the door was either a) really dead, b) wishing they were dead, or c) pretending to be dead, except for Seraph. The bounty hunter's knives were currently spread strategically across the room, mostly in various body parts of the unfortunate people from categories a) and b).

Seraph's sword was drawn, and he stood in the middle of the room, every fibre in his being trembling with the wrath of a thousand angry wives. Cantrip could have sworn he was posing, and a passing breeze obligingly blew Seraph's hair. Cantrip slowly pulled himself off the dirty alley floor, and crawled into the room.

"I say..." he whispered in a trembling voice. "Er. What exactly are we doing here?"

Seraph stirred from his Harbinger of Death pose, and shoved his sword back into its sheath. "I've got another person to pick up, and then I'll drop both of you off on the way back," he explained as he plucked a bloodstained knife out of somebody's thigh. "Saves time, you know, since I'm passing through this neighbourhood and all."

"Right... and all these people are...?"

"Brigands and other assorted scum of the City. Think of this as.. performing my civic duty," Seraph grinned, and gave a hearty thumbs up. Bonus points for that quote, he thought to himself, you have to admit it has potential.

Cantrip groaned. "And who exactly are we looking for?"

Seraph did not reply, and instead bounced across the room and stopped in front of a very normal looking candlestick holder set into the wall. Next to it was a grubby sign proclaiming:

DoN'T PuLL THe CaNDLeSTiCK. oR ELsE.

Seraph gripped it and pulled.

* * * * *

Up on the mountain, the Ancients were preparing.

Long forgotten cupboards were opened, releasing decades of dust and decay. There was a hint of leather, and a buckle was pulled tight. A swirl of black cloth, kicking up a mini storm of dust. A soft 'clink', and the sound of weapons being checked and resheathed. Hoods were pulled over heads.

And then they were ready. Within the hour, the fortress had been locked and emptied. The Ancients were on the move, and there was nowhere to go but down.

Hidden in the shadows, the messenger watched them leave.

next chapter

chapter 2

2005-11-02T14:48:00.000+08:00

previous chapter

There was an annual tradition among the Ancients called the Council Gathering. The Gathering originated as a war council, back when they actually had some enemies to wage war against. But by now, even the most bitter of enemies have died out with the unstoppable passage of time, and as the number of Ancients dwindled the Gathering gradually lost its importance.

These days, the Ancients did not debate much. When you've been stuck on top of a very tall mountain with the same people for several hundred years, your conversation options become rather limited.

But then, fate has an uncanny knack for dropping the metaphorical anvil on your head (metaphorically, of course) just when you least expect it.

* * * * *

The first thing Cantrip saw when he opened his eyes was the ruggedly good looking face of Seraph the bounty hunter. Cantrip's head was pounding like a stallion on steroids, and the rain seemed to have stopped. His tattooed arm was being held in an iron grip by the eyepatched stranger, who was staring at him intently, with a look that was disturbingly similar to how an owl stares at an unlucky rat.

Cantrip pushed himself into a sitting position. There was no sign of Prawn anywhere, and upon looking around he realised he was no longer on the rooftops. If ever there was a competition for the Most-Stereotypical-Alley-In-A-Fantasy-Setting, the alley he was in would win hands down. There was the prerequisite Dead End Wall at the end of the alleyway, the Assorted Rubbish Scattered Across the Floor, bonus points for the Clothes Hanging Overhead, a Shadowy Doorway set in one wall, and ah, in a nice stroke of creativity, there was also a Rat Scampering Into The Sewer Drainhole.

Cantrip blinked. "Who the bloody hell are you?" he muttered to the bounty hunter, but it came out of his mouth sounding more like "Hr brl herl u?" His mouth felt like it had been chewing enthusiatically on a hedgehog, and he had no idea which part of the City he was in. Still, he was in one piece, and the guy didn't seem to be in a hurry to stick any sharp pointy objects at him, so it could have been a lot worse.

"I am.... Seraph," replied the bounty hunter, carefully inserting a pause for dramatic effect. "And I have been sent to find you."

"Ah? Hm. And you were sent by...?" asked Cantrip, while his brain hurriedly went through a list of people who would bother to send people to find him. It was a very long list, and most of the candidates were people who seemed extremely interested in making his life very miserable indeed if he was ever found.

"By a.. benefactor. My instructions were to... retrieve you."

"Really? Well you can tell him I dont need to be found, thank you very much. And please, enough of the dramatic pauses." Cantrip winced and rubbed his head.

"What? Dramatic pauses are TRADITIONAL!" exclaimed Seraph, slightly hurt.

"Yea well, maybe it's time for a new tradition. Where's my friend?" Cantrip demanded. His headache was slowly fading away.

"Friend? You were lying here alone when I found you. Now come on, there's not much time."

Cantrip froze. "Wait.. you mean.. you didn't carry me all the way down here?"

"Er.. no? Is that a problem then?"

"I... nevermind." I'll find Prawn once I figure out what the hell is going on, thought Cantrip.

Seraph unbundled a small cloak, and handed it to Cantrip. He then unbuckled the little container from his ankle, and pulled out a dry parchment. He read it quickly, then carefully placed it back into the container. As Cantrip struggled into his cloak, Seraph lapsed into deep thought.

"Hm," he said eventually. "Come with me, kid. I've got some... unfinished business to take care of first."

Cantrip hesitated. Here was a total stranger, sent by an even more unknown person, and there was really no reason to follow him. He could try running now, and then hide in the many hiding places the City offers that few know of. But then again... Seraph was a bounty hunter after all, and one thing about bounty hunters was how.. relentless they were. They were very patient people. You may get away now, but you won't get away forever. And, Cantrip thought, if he tried to run and Seraph caught up, well, there were ways of making sure he did not run away again. Such as, for example, the inconvenient removal of several vital limbs.

Cantrip shuddered. Well, at least a little adventure into the unknown could turn out to be better than stealing apples for a living.

* * * * *

This Gathering was more solemn than usual.

There was a heavy silence in the air, as the five Ancients sat around the ceremonial Council table. It was built to comfortably seat 30 people, so there was plenty of extra space, but this time, even all that space seemed to be filled with silence.

Finally, Ancient Two stirred in his seat. The silence was unnerving. "Hm. Are you sure?"

"Very," replied Ancient One.

"Well, well. Hm. An interesting piece of news indeed. Hm. After all this time?"

"Yes. I was rather surprised as well, to tell you the truth."

The other three shifted uneasily in their seats. This was surprising news, and after being up here for so long, they did not enjoy surprises. Several hours ago, the messenger had arrived with the news, and minutes later, the Ancients hastily convened this emergency Gathering.

The Key had been found, and the Ancients were worried.

* * * * *

Seraph silently led Cantrip through the City streets. It was almost morning now, and the City was in that special zone between night and day.

The men (and women) of the various night trades were slowly starting to fade away. This includes, of course, the bartenders, the watchmen, the night clerks, and of course the men (and sometimes, women too) who spent the night in the shadows with a crowbar and a large empty sack, which is usually a lot less empty by morning. And now, as the night was slowly shoved out of the world by the encroaching daylight, they slowly faded into the background of the City.

As they shuffled along, the City woke up. Stalls were wheeled out and lined the roadsides, shops opened for business, street cleaners prowled the streets, butchers butchered, grocers grocered and blacksmiths blacksmithed. Overhead, the first airship of the morning glided past...

* * * * *

The airships were a fairly old invention: half the airship was a large balloon shaped like a rugby ball, with a sharp pointy spike screwed into one end. The passengers rode in a chamber attached below the balloon. Of course, it looked pretty ridiculous back when the whole ship just floated slowly along several hundred feet above the ground, so several ingenious methods of propulsion were employed in the early days, ranging from large fans turned by cranks to jets of fire shooting out the rear end. Unfortunately, the fans made little difference in the airship speed (although it did manage to raise the speed to one that was a little faster than crawling), and the jets of flame tended to annoy the occupants of the airship, because it's hard not be very annoyed indeed when the airship you are in is on fire and moving rapidly downwards.

So the dwarven airship engineers gave the matter some thought, and finally came up with a clean, safe and effective propulsion mechanism for the airships. Which is why every airship these days was pulled by a single white unicorn, freshly imported from one of the furthest outlying islands. Now, the airships were the most vital link between the City and the outlying islanders, who were presumed to be savage, barbaric, and inconveniently possessed a lot of raw materials that the City needed. So the trade routes flourished.

Cantrip gazed in wonder at the airship overhead as they hurried along. When he squinted, he could JUST make out what appeared to be a dolphin painted on the bottom of the ship. It was heading for the Spire, of course.

About a third of the way up the Spire, an extensive network of caves had been carved out of the rock, and a multitude of gates marked the many entrances and exits. The airship routes these days crawled across the entire world like nerve tendrils, and this was its very center. Men dressed in bright clothes stood on platforms that extended outwards from the Spire, and they enthusiastically waved little lollipop shaped handles in patterns that made sense to the airship pilots. Somewhere inside the Spire, a huge chamber housed the Control Room, where dozens of people work around the clock, coordinating the arrivals of departures of all the airships. Homing pigeons flew in and out of the Room every few minutes, carrying signals between the airships, the control room and the spotters in the small towers around the Spire itself. The busiest signal routes were proudly marked by a long and colourful streak of pigeon droppings.

The dolphin-painted airship glided past one of the big western gates, and vanished from sight. Inside, its cargo would eventually be unloaded at the correct platform, a thorough mechanical inspection would be performed and the unicorn would be exchanged for a fresh one for a return trip with more goods.

Seraph ducked into another side street and Cantrip scampered to catch up. He had no idea where they were headed, but Seraph was moving with a purpose now, pausing only occasionally to listen to nothing in particular.

At exactly eight o clock that morning, fruit started raining down from the sky.

next chapter

chapter 1

2005-11-01T17:00:00.000+08:00

previous chapter

It was always dark in this room, despite the abundance of tall (albeit heavily curtained) windows and large (albeit grimy) domes on the ceiling. The very air in the room strongly hinted to anyone who breathed it that visitors were not welcome here. There were shadows everywhere, and it was in fact so dark that these shadows had their own shadows. In this room, stray beams of light that wandered in would hastily apologize and hurriedly leave as soon as possible.

A lone figure stood with its back to one of the walls in the room. The figure was hooded and bowed, and the heavy silence in the room swirled by silently. The entire chamber was otherwise empty, and it was as eerie as a tomb. A very large, very quiet, very shadowy and very dark tomb.

Thunder rolled overhead, and there was a flash of lightning a few seconds after. Since this is, of course, yet another blatant violation of grade-school-level physics, nature compensated by rolling thunder a second time. And then it started to rain.
It began slowly, then became louder and louder as raindrops pelted the building. More lightning, and more thunder. The rain assaulted the walls relentlessly, and outside the wind howled viciously.

And the figure began to move. Like the rain, it moved slowly at first, as it raised one gloved hand, clutching what appeared to be a rusted dagger. Then, it leapt forward and blurred. The shadows twisted. The figure, moving faster and faster now as he flew across the length of the chamber, slashed wildly, and the darkness closed in.

There was a scream. It did not sound very pleasant.

* * * * *

Across the island, the nocturnal rain fell.

The dark storm clouds carried it to every nook and cranny of the island, and washed away the grime and the dirt. All across the City, people rushed for cover as the sky unloaded its full fury on mankind. It fell in bucketfulls, and it rolled down the gutters and the roofs, the alleys, the markets, the pavement, the cobblestones, and most interestingly, it completely soaked a little boy huddled on the rooftops.

The boy's hair was a brownish tinge and completely soaked, he had a skinny body which was completely soaked, and he wore a wretched brown outfit, which was of course completely soaked. And all this was certainly very interesting but also, as it turns out, not very important. What was important was the fact that he appeared to have a complicated tattoo burned across one entire arm.

Actually, it would be totally inadequate to describe the tattoo as "complicated". It seemed that whoever designed it had decided to cram every known arcane symbol into that one tattoo, then fill what little space remained with lines and circles and hexagrams. Then, not satisfied with being merely complicated, the designer had upgraded to "incredibly complex" by squeezing in symbols in other colours as well, so little red runes mingled freely with bluish pyramids, as other multicoloured symbols danced around them. And the weird thing is, the tattoo shifted whenever you looked at it a second time.

In short, it had all the charm and special effects of a particularly funky disco light. Except, of course, it was carved onto the arm of a little boy, from shoulder to fingertips.

Like the ancients, the boy had long ago forgotten his own name. To his chums, he was known as Cantrip, for reasons that nobody in particular could remember. He was an urchin, and he had spent all 16 years of his life growing up on the streets of the City. Which was of course a remarkable achievement, and it also meant that he had all the cunning and all the self-preservation instincts of a particular sneaky rat.

Right now, he was stuck on the rooftops in the pelting rain, and huddled right beside him was another urchin of similar build and age, and who was, most probably, equally capable of surviving on the harsh streets of the City. This particular fellow went by the name of Prawn, whose origins were, as always, lost in the murky depths of Time. There was a silence between them that dragged on, punctuated by the falling raindrops.

"I reckon even the guards'd given up by now in this awful weather," muttered Prawn glumly.

"Yea, 'cept now we're stuck up here coz they've gone and took away the bloody ladder, aint we?" replied Cantrip bitterly, flicking off a stubborn raindrop clinging to the tip of his nose. "And now im freezing cold and stuck on top of the bloody rooftops in the rain. No thanks to you, Prawn."

"Me?! It was you'd suggest we help ourselves to a few of 'em apples, Canty!" Prawn protested.

"A few apples, Prawn. Not the whole bloody cart. And I reckon they're REALLY pissed at us now."

Down below, chaos reigned. Several stalls lay in ruins, and a couple of cows were peacefully grazing the scattered remains of various assorted fruits on the floor. A few merchants could be seen scanning the rooftops intently, and judging by the large, armed crossbows they were aiming at the roofs, they were not very friendly people. Several City Guards ran across some nearby rooftops, shouting to be heard above the noise of the storm. Further down the street, a large group of cart remains lay smashed across the pavement, and these particularly included the remains of a large and very colourful fruit cart.

It was going to be another long night for the two.

* * * * *

Many rooftops away, another figure stirred. It was a man, and the description that leaps to mind is "bounty hunter". Long, grey hair (carefully dyed: you had to have style as a bounty hunter, after all), a belt with more knives than anyone could ever use, and a large, vaguely magical looking sword slung across his back. An eyepatch over his right eye too, of course: nothing raises the cool factor like an eyepatch. Gives the features a hint of danger, of course. Certainly one covered eye seems to be a prerequisite for being a cool looking hero these days.

His name was Loopelberry Cabbage III, but since you did not get far in the bounty hunter business with a name like that, he had adopted the rather cooler sounding nickname of "Seraph". Quite an excellent piece of work there, in fact: he had shortlisted five potential candidates before settling for Seraph. Powerful sounding name, with a faint whiff of 'dont-mess-with-me'. And of course, there were bonus style points to be scored for swooping down on your bounty and whispering "I am Seraph" into his ear. And now he was on a slightly different mission.

He was looking for a boy.

Actually, he was on several different missions. Times were hard in the bounty hunting business, so he was doing search-and-retrieve jobs on the side. Even the coolest looking ones have to pay for food and rent, after all. He carried a parchment with the descriptions of his targets in a small waterproof container, taped to his ankles. But right now, he was looking for the boy, and he was getting close. Not many people have a bizzare tattoo carved into one arm.

Seraph blinked in the rain, then moved. All that remained in his wake were footsteps in the puddles, which gradually faded back into nothing in particular.

* * * * *

Prawn and Cantrip sat shivering, as the night grew older and the sky continued raining. The mess below had been cleared, the guards and merchants had gone home, but it was a sheer 50 foot drop to the next rooftop, so they were stuck up here for a while. Rainwater gushed along merrily in the City below, overflowing the drains and sewers. Months of filth were dislodged and mixed into an even bigger, liquified mess.

Thunder and lightning.

And the shadows erupted from the darkness. Cantrip had just enough time to be vaguely aware of many dark shapes suddenly moving on the edge of vision, and a cold chill sent a shudder down his spine. Prawn gave a shout, which was stiffled and faded into the silence.

Then the shadows moved in, and they were lost...

...floating in a sea of strange shadows...

* * * * *

The funny thing about dreams is, you are never sure if you are dreaming.

You could dream that you were a great purple giraffe prancing sideways across the great African plains, and you might actually believe you really are. In a dream, all the little bubbles of sanity that exist in reality are stripped away, leaving behind a world limited only by imagination. Anything can happen in a dream, and you momentarily forget the real world, escaping into a distorted reality of half-truths and illusions. If you could control your dreams, you would never want to wake up.

Cantrip dreamt that he was falling. Then, there was a second shadow clutching him, and they were falling together. Grey, blurry clouds parted as they fell, and far far below were the lights of the city, distorted and coloured in psychedelic shades of black and white.
Shadows passed by. And he was aware now of the Spire, a great distorted shadow moving parallel to him in the background, and then he was screaming downwards. The ground was getting nearer, and it was getting cold.

Very cold indeed...

...and then an even stronger grip closed around his body, and he shouted, and the shadows faded away...

Cantrip woke up.

next chapter

Prologue

2005-11-01T11:16:00.000+08:00

It has been said, many many times, that every story begins somewhere. This particular story begins here: far far above a huge island that is, in utter defiance of every known rule of physics, floating thousands of feet off the ground. It is, in fact, one of many islands just like it, every single one of them slowly drifting in the air, far above the dense clouds.

Strangely enough, nobody knows what lies below those clouds, since those few brave explorers who ventured below have never actually returned to report what they found, and are presumed to be very dead by now. Some speculate that there was nothing but a vast sea, while others solemnly proclaim the realms below the clouds as the place where all dead souls go. There are also those who believe that anyone who tries to go beyond the clouds will simply fall off the bottom of the world, and then keep falling for a very, very long time. Nobody knows for sure, and so the speculation goes on.

But on this particular island.. well, it was a very strange island, probably the strangest of them all. Vaguely bowl shaped, it is the largest known island in the entire world, and right in the middle of the bowl was a very very tall, phallic-shaped mountain, extending miles and miles into the sky like a gigantic rude gesture aimed at the rest of the world. In any other world, it would have been a civil engineer's nightmare, since such a structure would seem unlikely to remain upright for more than ten minutes in any kind of weather. Fortunately, as you would probably have guessed by now, the law of physics here was an extremely flexible thing. This particular geographical spike was known to everyone as the Spire, and the entire civilisation on the island clustered around it like fungus clinging to particularly sweet piece of candy.

Fungus is, of course, a very appropriate analogy for this island. The island was essentially one huge city around the base of the Spire, and it had a decidedly fungus like quality. The citizens divided themselves neatly into two districts: there was the City, which is slightly noisier, slightly busier and definitely slightly bigger, and then there was the Undercity, which introduced all sorts of creative ways to die a horrible death. The Undercity was home to all the misfits and outcasts who did not quite fit into the City, and so they left and formed their own fringe community, which soon grew into a festering den on the edge of the City.

And of course, there was those who lived inside the Spire.

* * * * *

From far, far above, the island looked like a big bicycle wheel spinning slowly in the sky. Airships orbited gently around the central spire, the lifeblood of trade between here and the many smaller outlying islands. Right at the top of the Spire was a spinning vortex of clouds, punctuated by the occasional flash of lightning, said to be the source of all magic in this world.

Imagine...

...as our view hurtles downwards, and the island grows larger and larger in our vision. The smaller details leap into view: the sprawling houses of the City, the smoke from its workshops, the airships appearing to move faster and faster across the sky. Watch as we sweep past the craggy peaks of the Spire, but there, right at the top, was a fortress like no other, balanced against all odds on the very peak of the world.

Of course, in any typical fantasy realm, there is ALWAYS an extremely large castle/fortress/tower/underground dungeon built in the most inhospitable of places. So large, in fact, that most of the space had to be filled with traps, contraptions, mazes and monsters of all shapes and sizes. In a slightly-less-magically-inclined world, anyone who stumbles across such a place would wonder, for example, which idiot thought that building a huge (and probably very expensive) fortress right next to a smouldering volcano would be an EXCELLENT IDEA INDEED.

However, this was not such a world. And so, there really WAS an impossibly BIG fortress built on the tallest peak in this world. Anyone who wondered aloud regarding construction logistics, particularly how several hundred tonnes of bricks were apparently carted several dozen miles off the ground, will be answered by a lengthy and decidedly stony silence by the narrator. It just WAS there. If you had to persistently wonder how it actually GOT there, then you should start with wondering how a million tonne island stays afloat on thin air.

Anyway.

This particular fortress was home to the Ancients, an ancient (no surprise there) and no doubt noble race that had lived there for centuries. So ancient, in fact, that there were only five of them remaining. And since all five of them were male, they probably will not be ancient for very much longer, mainly due to the inconvenient fact that it's hard to be ancient when you're extinct. But they were very very powerful beings: oh yes. They had a lifespan many times that of a normal man, and it also helped that they could, if they so choose, move faster than a speeding arrow, punch a rather large hole through several dozen inches of solid steel, leap higher than a moderately-high-thingie, and of course they were impervious to most damage and had no obvious weaknesses (such as a potentially fatal aversion to certain types of glowing green rock).

They also looked like a bunch of gorgeous hunks, with well-toned bodies and shoulder length jet-black hair. They spent their time sunbathing, playing tennis, and included healthy green vegetables in every meal. Their names were long forgotten many ages ago, but for convenience they called each other Ancient One to Ancient Five. Names were so hard to remember after the first hundred years.

And it is here that our story begins.

next chapter

words

2005-11-01T07:23:00.000+08:00

this blog is dedicated solely for posting my nanowrimo entry online: bits and pieces of the novel will be uploaded as often as possible, and by the end of the month, the whole thing will be compiled and submitted for the word count. in the meantime, enjoy reading! :)

note: i'm making this up as i go along, so please don't flame me if you feel that you disagree with the story. comments will be enabled...