The Wizard Killer - Season One: A Post-Apocalyptic Fantasy Serial (9 page)

Finally, I get myself up to a kneeling position, thankful that the carn hasn’t taken notice yet. I see my pistol several feet away, on the floor under a chair. Even if I could get to it, I don’t know if I have enough mana to do anything. I know I’ve got some from my sword, but I don’t feel anything inside.

The woman slashes at the carn’s head, missing. Another swipe gets it to back up a few steps into the doorway. At first, I’m shaking my head at how badly she missed, then I realize that wasn’t what she was trying to accomplish. Dozens of arms grab on to a part of the scarred carn from behind, despite its flames, and haul it out of the bar.

Without a thought, I snatch my short sword off the floor and stand, pointing it at the woman. “Are we going to have a problem?”

She stares at me with white eyes and an expressionless face. “Oh freaking yig, oners.” My stomach sinks as I finally realize she’s connected to the arms and probably all the other people I’ve seen so far. I step back slowly, hoping that the hive-mind is more focused on taking on the two carnu than me.
 

Her head turns as I move. “I’m getting out of here,” I tell her, slip my sword away and scoop up my pistol, my eyes on her the whole time. As I take a step, she points her two black, serrated swords at me.
 

Staring at her face, I remember something about oners being an infection, taking over the living hosts. They’re alive, just the will and sense of self is suppressed. I glance at her hands, which are thankfully covered in dark leather gloves. She’s not looking to make me one of them.

All of a sudden I feel magic drop hard and fast. She stumbles and falls over, while I drop to my knees and throw up. Shaking my head, I force myself to my feet. She’s looking lost. She jerks her head about, strangely. Maybe they use magic to communicate? Huh, interesting, but a thought for another day.

A loud whoosh grabs my attention. The entire ceiling and the beams are ablaze. “I’ve got to get out of here.” Scanning about, I can’t see Randmon. “Randmon, if you’re here, get out!”

There’s a roar at the doorway and my shoulders slump. I don’t need to look back to know the carn’s standing there. Even still, I can’t help myself and glance over my shoulder. The scarred carn’s standing there, bloody and with dark spots on its body, some of them large. I don’t think anything can stop it.

I fall on the floor, a sense of vertigo as my stomach tells me that magic’s rocketing back. Propping myself up with one arm, I aim my pistol squarely at the carn’s black scar. “Want some more?”
 

Staring into the mage-skull’s eyes, a memory breaks through. I’m twelve years old and strapped to a table, someone looking over me. Words I heard a thousand times ring in my ears:
Great wesleks are made, not found
. The Old Man, he helped me escape. He was the first of us. The carn and I stare at each other, one magical experiment to another.
 

Bouncing my leg nervously, I keep darting my eyes back and forth between the carn and the oner woman, who’s got her blades back in hand. The three of us stand there, waiting. Suddenly the carn flinches, screams, and falls to its knees.

The hair on the back of my neck stands up as the carn looks at me in pain. A sense of fear and a yearning for help washes over me. I shake my head to clear it.
 

The carn tries to reach around its back, but can’t and then it falls forward, it’s flames barely visible.
 

I reaffirm my sweaty grip on my pistol and swipe a hand across my soaked upper lip as I stare at the shadow behind it. What the yig can bring down a carn like that?

Stepping into the bar, I see it’s the leecher, her eyes wild. The once-dark side of her face looks fine, almost sparkling.
 

“Yigging Mother of Mercy, what the—?” My arm starts to tremble as I push myself backwards. If she drained the carn, I can’t imagine what she’ll be able to do now. Leechers are untrained and unpredictable.

The oner woman takes a step back and then drops her hands at her side. I flip my gaze between the two of them, something’s not making sense. I’ve never heard of oners having an alliance with anyone, and leechers are always consumed by their addiction to mana.

The leecher plants her hands back on the carn and it moans, another wave of emotion washing over me. It’s mage-skull lies there, a foot away from the rest of the body, attached by the tendril. I feel like it’s looking at me.

I’m tempted to touch the oner to see if I can drain her, given that she’s supposed to be alive, but for all I know I’d bring the infection along too. Involuntary suicide isn’t the plan, and I don’t know what I can safely drain or not. Is it people? Or was that guy I killed a weslek like me and I just pulled his mana too fast?
 

The leecher lets go of the carn and stands, staring straight at me. “Thanks for inviting your friends.”

“No friends of mine,” I reply. The fire’s spreading to everything, last will be the wall behind the bar. Gazing up, I notice the big beams are well on their way. I think I’ve been in worse situations, but I was a different person then, and this version of me is a sweaty, heart-pounding mess.

I straighten and raise my pistol arm, but she sees it coming a mile away. She’s a blur that sends me crashing over the bar into the shelves and bottles.
 

Groaning, I hastily right myself and search desperately for my pistol, quickly finding it. I catch a glimpse of Randmon and snatch him up too. “We’re getting out of here,” I say, placing him on my shoulder.
 

With a short, steadying breath, I peer over the bar. The leecher’s staring at the floor, her face tight in concentration. The oner woman looks like a statue.

The carn’s starting to stir, its mage-skull tendril slowly pulling back into its neck. Yig, he’s a tough beast. The leecher has her back to him. In the distance, I hear the other carn calling out. It’s coming quickly.

Biting my lip, I swiftly change my target to the drained carn. Just as it looks at me, I pull the trigger. My pistol fizzles, and I see in its eyes that I’ve truly made an enemy for life. Another idiot move. I can only hope that the scarred carn’s ticked off enough with the leecher to go for her before hunting me down.

Using the bar for cover, I make my way towards the end until I catching a glimpse of light. I don’t see an actual door, but I throw all my weight in that direction and find myself outside the burning tavern.
 

Stumbling into the grassy area behind the burning building, I fall on the ground and laugh nervously. There is a sound like thunder. I glance up at the sky, but that’s not it. Turning, my sense of relief instantly evaporates as I see dozens of oners running full tilt towards the burning bar, and me.

episode seventeen

The landscape is flooded with oners of all colors, creeds, ages and sizes. They move in disturbing unison, independently and collaboratively, helping the fallen up. They all have the same intense look on their white-eyed faces, and the same tattered clothes.

I run as fast as I can but there’s nowhere to go. As the human river races around me, I’m elbowed, shouldered, kneed, and shoved mercilessly. Screaming at them is pointless, a whisper against their thunderous footfalls. As the wounds pile up, I find myself repeating the mantra: “Stay standing, stay alive.” The memory of seeing a man fall in a riot once flashes by, the horror reinforcing my resolve.

The sea of white eyes glance at me as they sail onwards to surround the bar. I can tell I’m logged in their collective mind, and once they’re done with the carn, they’re coming for me.

As the last oner passes, I’m shoved from behind and land face first in the once pristine grass, now pulpy mud. Every joint, every muscle and fiber of my being is in agony. Of all places to die, I don’t want it to be here in the mud.

A shadow appears over me. I wonder if there’s a oner who’s been assigned to keep an eye on me. Coughing, I try to summon the strength to get up, but rolling over is as far as I get. I lazily watch the blazing bar and the swarm of oners around it, some on the shoulders or backs of others. The bar sways back and forth and finally comes down in a fiery crash.
 

Despite my desperate wishes, my limbs refuse to do my bidding. What’s going on? With each blink, my eyes are taking more and more energy to force open, and stay open for less time. My breathing’s getting heavier. Come on, got to get up. I start to move, surprised to see my hand locked in a death-grip around my pistol. Maybe I need to rest just a minute.

“Hey, weslek, you’ve been staring at that pistol for a while. Is that what you want or is there something else?”
 

I turn to look at the steely-faced woman leaning against a white, stone counter. Her arms are folded and she seems at home. She’s wearing a red jerkin with green sleeves, and black pants. Her long, red hair is done up in a bun, with a strand dangling down over one shoulder. She has an intricately designed, empty leather holster under one arm and another like it on her hip.

“You’re the… the smith.”

She squints at me. “What’s going on? Are you feeling okay?” She comes right up to, inspecting my face. “You seem a little off. You didn’t look like this when you walked in here a minute ago.”

Taking a step backwards, I wave a hand. “Sorry, I’m just having a bad day. Things have been intense lately. I guess it’s starting to catch up with me.”
 

Glancing about, I take in the room. The walls are dark wood, with sections decorated with beautiful firearms, from small pistols to rifles. There are several bright, gas-powered lanterns hanging from the exposed ceiling, leaving few shadows. There are a few swords of various types, here and there, for additional decor.
 

She returns to leaning against the counter. I follow her gaze and find I’m cradling a pistol in my hands. It’s silver with an etched floral design. There's a deep, rich, blue line that runs from the hilt to the tip. “Huh.”

“Is huh good?” she asks.
 

I bring it up for a closer inspection but shake my head. “I can’t place it, but it looks familiar.”

She scoffs. “No one comes into my workshop without me being here, I remember faces, and I’ve not seen yours. I’ve designed every one of these myself, and I’m sure you haven’t seen that before. Do you know how hard it was to get the quality of crushed sapphires I needed to create the mana channel? Never mind the level of expertise it took to make it work? That pistol is my greatest work of art.”

“It’s beautiful,” I offer, glancing up with a half-hearted smile. Holding it in one hand, I point it at the wall and try to imagine myself using it. Part of the hilt digs into one of my knuckles. “The weight feels right, but the grip’s awkward.”

“You sound disappointed, but the grip wasn’t designed for you. It’s easy enough to change if that’s what you want. I’ll need a cast of your hand and about three days to do it. Your buddy already gave me enough coin to cover whatever you want, so make it count.” She pushed a sleeve back and glanced at an ebony rectangle affixed to her forearm. “Better make it quick, apparently there’s a Scourge being released in this district.” Looking me over quickly, she bites her lip, stopping herself from asking the obvious.

“What is that?” I ask, curious.

“None of your business,” she says, covering it back up.

My knees suddenly go weak, but I catch myself. I lean against the wall, shaking my head, trying to clear the cobwebs.

“Don’t you dare be sick in here,” she snaps. I notice a sleek piece of black steel peeking out from the edge of her pants. She’s keeping it tucked almost out of sight, wanting me to see it but wanting me to know that she doesn’t consider me an outright threat just yet. I’ve used that technique many times. I’m curious what it is, but don’t dare ask.

“Just a bit light-headed,” I tell her. “That’s all. I like this one. Can you modify it to have a longer barrel? I like more control. Also, no flowery stuff on the grip… if you don’t mind. It’d like it sleek and flat.”

“Flat?”

“In case I need to strap it against the bottom of something. Flat doesn’t stick out as much.”

“Strapped to something like, I don’t know, a levi-car?” She straightens up. “You’re aiming to pass through a checkpoint, get to the under-city.” She narrows her eyes at me. “You don’t have a permit to leave, do you?”

I stare at the ground and shrug, then look back up at her. “You don’t want to know, do you?”

“No, I don’t,” she replies. The black steel disappears, likely into a holster on the back of her leg. Her expression’s steely, but her eyes show concern. She grabs my head with both hands before I can react. “Did you get slammed on the way in?”
 

“Slammed?” I ask, squinting. It feels like my thoughts are traipsing through molasses. “I can’t… I know that word, don’t I?” Suddenly I’m struck with a sense of panic. My eyes dart about, her grip firm on my head. “Where’s Randmon?”
 

“Who? There’s been no one else here but you and me since you got here.” She rubs her thumbs along my cheeks and then lets my head go.