Patch 17 (Realm of Arkon) (29 page)

"Why didn't you want to leave?" I asked as a formality, picking up the keys.

"You see, young man, it was raining heavily that evening..." the demon's words sounded distant somehow. I felt dizzy as the world began to spin.

***

The cold rain kept pouring. Cymon wrapped his uniform cloak—bearing the punisher's badge—tight around his torso. If water got under the armor, it wouldn't be pleasant. It wasn't fun being encased in all that metal, but the master's orders were to be obeyed, not questioned. He didn't want to go home to change in the rain; besides, it was pretty far. He adjusted the blades at his waist, which he'd inherited from his grandfather, and continued on.

Come morning the weather seemed to improve—the rain had stopped, and the sun was starting to peek out from behind the clouds. The streets of Nittal immediately flooded with citizens weary of the foul weather. The shops' doors opened invitingly and the backyards' rang out with childish laughter, but the downpour returned shortly after lunch and sent everyone back to their homes.

In the evening dusk, the magical lamplight barely illuminated the road leading to the west wing of the palace complex; the pavement was covered with rain puddles that squelched merrily under the punisher's boots.

This year's summer was turning out awfully showery, as the eastern wind had brought cold and rainclouds to Nittal. It had been two decades since he'd last seen a truly pleasant day.
I wonder how the boys on the Rualt border are doing?
thought the tifling as he walked.

The war with Rualt over Jarus Province had begun several months prior, and the lord had taken the legions southwest. Success seemed to follow the Ashtareans—rumors from the border had it that the province's capture was only a matter of days. The city, however, with only half of the city guard and a quarter of the Gray Tunics left to keep the peace, was showing signs of unrest, with thieves of every stripe, killers and saboteurs crawling out from their shadowy holes. A week ago they finally tracked down a necromancer in the suburbs who had turned a small village into a graveyard. They destroyed the monster, but with considerable difficulty. Cymon frowned at the memory of the devastation witnessed in that village. It was that achievement that had earned him his punisher's badge, which the master had put on him personally.

In their magistrate, "punisher" was roughly equivalent to the rank of centurion in a legion. For the forty-year-old Cymon—now the youngest punisher on the force—the promotion was yet another milestone in a very promising career. He was exhausted—the chronic lack of sleep over the past several months was taking its toll—but sleep would have to wait. After all, Cymon had promised his old college buddy to drop by and celebrate his latest success.

He had met Kert in their sophomore year. After flopping yet another alchemy project, Cymon was sitting in the campus park, unsure of what to do next. The workbook lying on his knees was filled from end to end with Master Akat's red ink. It was hard to admit failure, but to say that the young tifling was struggling with alchemy would be a gross understatement. Deliquation, amalgamation and other albification processes were hopelessly tangled up in his head, erecting an impassable wall of chaos.

He was distracted from his dark thoughts by a young man in a yellow student's mantle sitting on the bench a few feet away. Cymon shot an annoyed glance at the uninvited neighbor and immediately realized that his own problems probably weren't the worst thing that could happen in life.

The youth was panting while holding a bloodied handkerchief to his nose, trying to stem the bleeding. His lip was broken, and the bruise under his left eye seemed to be swelling across his cheek in real time. Realizing that Cymon was looking, he turned in his direction and, glaring with his surviving eye, hissed vehemently, the handkerchief still in his face.

"What are you looking at?"

"I was just sitting here, actually," the tifling chuckled.

"Whatever," the words came hard for him. "Feel free to sit somewhere else." The kid was clearly asking for it, but Cymon wasn't going to take the bait.

"Whatever is right," he shrugged. Really, why would he—the finest swordsman in his sophomore class—bother with this shorty?

Tiflings were taught the art of combat from diapers, and by twenty years of age each of them was head and shoulders above ordinary demons. Possessing a tail as yet another extremity for use in battle, coupled with the finest fighting and magic skills inherited from their fraction of true blood, magnified the noble demons' combat qualities several times over. Other than that, however, the tiflings enjoyed no special privileges, save for perhaps the title of "Dar." Sure, tiflings boasted abilities far beyond those of ordinary demons, but the effort required to actualize them was equally great.

Such an unexpected retort appeared to mollify the kid. Noticing the notebook with a sea of red on Cymon's knees, he asked in a normal tone:

"Alchemy? I think I recognize that ugly handwriting—Master Akat, yes? Let me take a look."

Cymon handed over the notebook, noting that the sleeve on his neighbor's yellow mantle was singed in several places—likely the result of failed experiments.

"There's the problem," the youth stuck his finger with a gnawed-off nail into the notebook. "This is where you should have done a repeat distillation, then let it sit for two hours before heating it up and finally purifying."

"Could you say it in plain language now?" the tifling inquired somewhat sheepishly.

"Sure! I can explain it if you need me to. I'm Kert, by the way," the kid spread his swollen lips in a smile.

"Cymon," the tifling shook the offered hand.

"Look, Cymon," Kert moved closer, "this is where you—"

"Aww, that's sweet," a jeering voice came from the bench across. Cymon looked up and saw that it belonged to one of the three students sitting there. "You've found yourself another nerd to pal around with!"

As the trio walked over, the tifling checked out the runes on their mantles. All were seniors—one noble and the other two apparently his lackeys. Totally at ease, they clearly didn't expect any opposition since Cymon's tail was hidden from view.
Well, well, gentlemen, let's see how this plays out.

"We thought that you've had enough at first, but then we changed our minds," said the biggest of the three, scowling at Kert while lashing his bootleg with his tail.

Good on you, little buddy!
thought the tifling, noticing the shiner on the mugs of one the aggressors.

Kert was about to respond, but Cymon stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Scram, shitbirds," the tifling leaned back on the bench, breaking up the distance between them a bit.

"Oh, this one's got a mouth on him!" The beefcake at the center leaned in and threw a jab aimed at the head without even bothering to swing.

Dodging sharply to the left, Cymon slid forward and whipped the one on the left square in the mug with his tail. At the same time, adding inertia to his body's movement, he threw an uppercut-like kick at the attacking tifling that landed at his jaw. Two more strikes at the torso and the head, and the stunned beefcake was flat on the ground. Pouncing on the third, he kicked him in the stomach, interrupting his cast. Another powerful blow had the mage's apprentice doubled over and went out of action. Cymon looked over his foes and, with a derisive snort, walked over casually to the tifling, still wheezing on the ground. He crouched over him and spoke in a tone dripping with scorn:

"Next time, I will cut off your tail and stuff it down your throat. Better you don't give me a reason to do it."

Still sitting on the bench with his mouth wide open, Kert was shifting his gaze from the bullies to his protector and back again.

"That was really something," he shook his head.

"Let's get out of here," the tifling waved. "These fellows have a lot of recovering to do."

After graduation, Cymon joined a legion and, like all his ancestors, rose to the rank of captain before being noticed by one of Master Ritter's punishers.

As for Kert, who had been drawn to sciences and the arcane since childhood, he stayed behind to work at the research lab, eventually attaining the degree of Master of Fire.

In time meantime, it had become completely dark. The magic lanterns grew brighter, casting peculiar shadows on the pavement. The wind was picking up; there was a flash in the sky, followed by a peal of thunder several seconds later.
Great, now this,
thought the punisher as he picked up the pace. A few minutes later he was at the western palace extensions, pushing open the massive front door of the research center.

"Greetings, Cymon," the gray gatekeeper behind the desk welcomed him with a warm smile.

"Greetings, Allet," said the demon, shaking water off his cloak. "Is Master Kert still around?"

"Almost no one has left yet," the gatekeeper groused. "Those science folk can get mighty obsessive. Today they've got some kind of speriments."

"Experiments," Cymon corrected the old-timer with a smile.

"They can play bridge with Hart himself for all I care, as long as they do it at home!" the gatekeeper declared with discontent. "All grownups too, probably have wives waiting at home. Now old Allet doesn't need much: let me close the gate for the night and have a drink in peace before bed... But no, not with these scientists. Instead I'm waiting up half the night until they're all done with their experiments. Watch, one of these days I'll retire, and you lot will have to post your own people to stand guard. Don't think there are many fools willing to waste their nights here," the old demon threw up his arms. "Just... go! Master Kert is inside—today is his shift at the main accumulator."

Cymon thanked the gatekeeper and proceeded along a familiar route: down one flight of stairs, then straight down a poorly-lit corridor, past a row of closed doors and an absurd construction—a box of light-colored metal attached to a wall with matte glass at the center. After another forty steps he turned right and pushed open a wooden door with the symbol of fire carved on it.

"Finally! I was getting tired of waiting," Kert jumped out of his armchair, walked briskly over to Cymon and shook his hand. "Come quickly or we'll miss the best part."

"Come where?" exclaimed the punisher, taken aback by his friend's persistence.

"I'll tell you on the way," Kert shot back as he dragged Cymon with him.

They complemented each other very well. Where Cymon exuded utter calm and confidence, his friend—ever slovenly with a mop of hair that had never known a brush—was literally bursting with energy. All the shady and dubious ventures the duo had gotten themselves into—and out of, albeit with great difficulty—back in their college years had been on Kert's initiative. Little had changed since then: like a ball of mercury, he scurried along in front in a direction only he knew.

"How's Lita and Kert?" he asked as he walked, without turning around.

"Kert is almost talking, and Lita is good," the tifling smiled. "But you're going to get it for missing her birthday."

"Bah! I sent a basket! I didn't forget her—"

"Exactly! That same basket is what she's going to put on your head when she sees you. She's keeping it safe especially for the occasion."

"I couldn't make it. Honest. It was all hands on deck here."

"Uh huh, I know all your excuses. Your lab mouse died or some such nonsense."

They went down one flight, walked some twenty yards and ended up before a massive mithril door leading to the holy of holies—the space containing the main magic accumulator. Kert put his palm to a hand-shaped recess on the door, turned it slightly and whispered a few obscure words. The door shuddered and began sliding to the side.

"Come in," the mage made an inviting gesture, but was the first to step inside.

Cymon followed him in and took a look around the large, well-lit space with a high ceiling. The walls were lined with racks and stands bursting with devices of ambiguous function, and metal cabinets with tubes connecting them to the center of the room where, on a pedestal of truesilver, perched a gigantic elongated crystal—three feet wide at least—and sparkling with every color imaginable. The tifling shivered from the magic emanations filling the room.

"Don't just stand there like a statue, come closer," Kert motioned at a small table with three chairs leaning against it, covered with a greenish material that resembled silk to the touch. "But watch it! I know how rowdy you get when you've had a few."

"Look who's talking!" Cymon nearly choked on his outrage. "There was only that one time, and all I did was knock over a shelf of vials. Accidentally! Besides, it was you who'd dragged me into that shop."

"Not so much a shelf as a whole stand," Kert shook his head. "And those weren't vials but reagents. And you didn't just knock it over, but rammed it through the shop window, which also broke, in case you forgot. Master Yrkan still hasn't regrown his hair."

"That's because you spilled that green gloop on his head! And it was you who picked a fight with the guards, as usual."

"I was standing up for a friend who was called a clumsy ass!" Kert couldn't hold out any longer and roared with laughter. "I'll get the glasses. What are we drinking today?"