Sorcerer Rising (A Virgil McDane Novel) (29 page)

“What is the issue?” Dorne asked.

“Aw, you know how it is around these parts. They’re superstitious, seeing things in the dark.”

I laughed. “James, I like you, but please don’t jinx us. Off the type of my head, I can think of ten superstitions that have tried to eat me. These people live their lives in one of the most unstable areas in the world. If it isn’t war, or the loca
l critters, it’s something we haven’t heard of yet. That kicks up all kinds of weird.” I pointed in the direction of the Congo. “Most of that jungle hasn’t seen the footsteps of man. If they say there’s something wrong, there is.”

“Besides,” Dorne chimed in, “we thought we were safe in the Walter Cloud. Instead, the impossible happened.”

James held up his hands, eyes wide. “Whoa, touchy. Didn’t mean to get ya’ll started with that again. All they’re saying is that things are a bit more wild. The hunters won’t go in alone, say they’ve seen too many things they don’t recognize.”

“Sounds li
ke the stories you hear around clouds, about them changing things,” Dorne said. “It’s not always without reason.”

“Then we keep our eyes open,” Lambros said “We will leave within the hour.”

I was here to haul things around in my head, not in my hands, so I got out of their way and made my way to the nearest bar. It was dark and dank, filled with rough looking workers. They were just looking to blow off some steam, rest after a long day. More bark than bite.

I bumped into a kid on my way in, and after making sure I still had all my possessions, made my way to the bar.

“Pombe,” I said to the bartender, a slender black man who made no expression as I gutted his language. “Muey Pombe,” I said again. It was the wrong combination of languages, but he got the idea. He poured something dark and corrosive into a shot glass. I took a swig and grimaced. It tasted like it was probably what they used to clean the truck engine. I waved another over.

The door to the bar opened and I felt the room go motionless.

I threw back the drink.

“What is your business here?” I heard in a soft, accented voice.

I turned my head, focusing through the slight blur of my vision from drinking too much battery acid too quickly. The man was tall and thin with long, delicate fingers and skin the color of coal. He was perfectly still, watching me with large eyes. His fingers were the only thing about him in motion, stroking the various talisman he had pinned to his clothing.

He was a shaman, I knew that immediately. Well, that’s what we would call him, he was actually a Vodun, a voodooist. And again, it wasn’t really voodoo, it had nothing to do with religion, not really. The various talisman radiated a sharp, lethal power, small in scope but almost poisonous in sensation. They poked holes straight through his aura, like needles that pressed themselves against anyone around him.

What was really my concern though, was that he was obviously a hunter, an approved hedge mage contracted by the Guild to weed out Sorcerers. He probably wasn’t flexible enough to be called a true Sorcerer or Wizard, but just because you didn’t have the full toolset didn’t mean you couldn’t get the job done.

It suddenly occurred to me that I hadn’t had near enough alcohol for my head to be swimming like it was. Worse, I realized one of his talisman was made from cloth and hair. I remembered back to the kid bumping into me and smiled. Voodoo, gotta love it.

“I’m a salesman,” I said.

His eyes narrowed. “What”

“Oh, yeah,” I said, pulling my gun from its holster and placing it on the bar. “I sell bullets. How about I trade you one for that doll?”

He didn’t smile, didn’t react at all. Just kept stroking the doll. I didn’t know too much about Voodoo, but I knew that the whole thing with the pins, fire, etc, that was mostly what you heard in the pulp, on the radio. It wasn’t how it really worked, not always anyway. He was working something and it was bypassing everything I had.

I flexed my hand, feeling the newly reconstructed web of power that was the talisman. It surged, throwing off the worst of his spell. I stood straighter, just in time to see three more men walk into the bar.

They stood behind the Vodun, big men, all of them. They were obviously mercenaries or some other breed of hired thug. They were white, dressed for a rough and tumble life style. I was pretty sure I was about to be on the other end of the rough and tumble.

“Is there a problem?” I heard from the doorway.

“None of yours,” the Vodun said, not taking his eyes away from me.

The air exploded, scattering the three men like dolls. The Vodun spun around, my senses itching as his magic powered up.

Then he froze.

Dorne
was in the doorway, his staff planted firmly at his side. He held out his hand and there was a whisper of power. Aether surged from his palm, a mist of dark, earthen soil, liquid metal and light. It coalesced in his hand, forming into a long metal rapier, the tip resting against the Vodun’s throat.

“Is there a problem?” D
orne repeated.

The Vodun shook his head, though I imagine he did so very carefully. It was hard to tell, my vision was still blurry. “I did not know he was with you, Wizard.” He said the title reverently. The locals knew the Guild when the
y saw them, and though they didn’t usually give those from non-African Houses much credence, a Wizard was a Wizard. Especially when he had a spell held against your throat.

“Get out,” Dorne said, motioning with the blade.

The Vodun’s goons cleared out. Before the Vodun could follow, I reached out and snatched the doll off his vest. With a flick of my hand I tore apart the fragile hex he had wound around it and tossed the doll back at him. It was useless now.

He took off.

Dorne flicked the blade and it disappeared into a swirling mix of mist and light. The bar had settled back down as soon as the Vodun scurried out, but froze as a deep laugh echoed from the back of the room.

A man stood up, though it was hard to tell. He came barely up to my chest, but was made all of heavy, knotted muscle. Thick, dirty blonde hair covered his head and face, so thick that you could barely see his mouth. Beady eyes peered out like a rodent in a bush. He was dressed in rough, dirty traveling clothes, a large revolver on one hip and even larger bowie knife on the other.

“You gave old Kebe a scare there, you did,” he said in a deep, husky voice that reeked of Australia. He smiled, a horribly ferocious expression that peeled back his lips to show the white, er…yellow, of his teeth. “He scares easy though. I don’t share that particular quality.”

“And you would be?” Dorne asked.

“Lucas Gulo. And what be your reason for being in these parts, Wizard?” he asked, sliding into a guttural growl as he said Wizard.

“None of your business,” Dorne replied.

The man snorted, his hackles rising. “I know you to be chasing the Arcus. Doesn’t take much to see that.”

“Doesn’t take much to see a Lycanthrope either,” I said.

His head snapped in my direction, his eyes flashing red in the dim light of the bar. I swear, his skin actually rippled and for a moment he seemed to grow a few inches.

“Clever, Sorcerer,” he said, his voice huskier, his words slurred. “It’ll be fun racing you to the Arcus. Next time, I won’t bother with some petty Voodoo though.”

Then he tipped his hat and walked out of the bar.

I watched him go, finally allowing myself to relax.

“You are nothing but trouble,” Dorne said. Then he motioned for a drink. He even used proper Swahili.

CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN

The paw print was huge and
deep
, fresh blood pooling where the ball had pressed into the earth. I grimaced. That didn’t bode well for the missing men.

We had been in the jungle for three days and for the past two had been losing men on a daily if not hourly basis. Whatever it was that was taking them, it was quick and silent. We had found a few bodies, chewed to pieces, but hadn’t heard them until it was too late.

Even worse, several men hadn’t been found at all.

Now we were hunting something in the jungle and I
’d been separated from the group. And, of course, I was the one looking at a blood filled paw print.

Sometimes it just didn’t pay to get out of bed.

I stepped over the paw print and made my way deeper into the jungle, Abigail’s barrels raised and ready. I had a red shell in the left barrel, a normal in the right, and a finger poised over each trigger. If I ran into something normal it would get the right, if I sensed any type of magic, it would get the left. I repeated the mantra over and over in my head, making sure I’d react with the right impulse for each finger.

Rustling ahead of me nearly made me blow away the whole jungle. I took a deep breath to settle my nerves and peered through the foliage.

A great muscled shape was dragging itself across the ground.

I stepped out into the clearing,
Abigail trained on the creature. It turned its great yellow eyes on me, peeling back its lips to reveal long, saber-like fangs. The creature was nearly invisible in the shadow of the dense jungle canopy, its fur the color of oil.

I knelt down on one knee. I didn’t lower my weapon but I tried to make myself as small as possible.

The panther was torn up, long claw marks going up and down its back. One back leg had been mangled and the side of its face was shredded. Whatever it had fought had taken a good chunk out of it.

That was particularly impressive considering I was looking at a totem, the purest, most essential form of the animal. It was the epitome of the panther, larger and faster than any normal big cat with layers of arcane power resonating through its blood and flesh. Its body was already healing, knitting together before my eyes.

“Who’s a pretty kitty,” I said in a singsong voice.

The totem cocked its head to the side, then licked its chops with a long pink tongue. It laid back and curled its tail around its bad leg, its eyes drooping into a heavy lidded, bored expression.

Cats. Go figure.

I lowered
Abigail, keeping her ready if I needed, and approached the creature. It would be fine in a few hours, they were practically immortal, but a single large claw was jutting from the creature’s side. Blood flowed freely from the wound.

“Just gonna pull this out, okay?” I said, slowly reaching for the claw. I had no doubt that the creature could have taken our men, just that it hadn’t. It had been busy with something else.

The totem growled, baring its teeth as I touched it. I made a soothing sound, gently cutting away skin to work the claw out. It was a good six inches long, curved like a talon, but barbed. Finally, when it was out, the cat flopped over on its side, tail twitching.

I sat down, examining the claw. It confirmed my suspicions. I didn’t need to look Deeper to see the curse, it reeked of it, more powerful than I
’d anticipated. I’d hunted down a wereviper a few years back, when I was still in the Guild, and its curse hadn’t been near as prevalent. It hadn’t had the strength to tangle with a totem either.

I looked around, gripping Abigail’s stock. The jungle seemed a lot more crowded, darker, filled with thousands of places to be ambushed.

Suddenly, the cat sprang up and darted into the jungle. After confirming I hadn’t peed myself, I stood up and tucked the claw into my pack. “I guess I got boring,” I called after it. “You’re welcome!”

Its head popped out from under the foliaged. It turned around, moving deeper into the jungle. It looked over its shoulder, waiting.

I followed, or did my best to. The thing was fast and several times it outpaced me, only for me to find it waiting, watching.

Finally, I entered a new clearing. The panther had scaled a tree and was nestled in its crown. The leg had mended itself and the old warrior was hunched in the branches, a shadow but for the sharp yellow of its eyes.

Under the tree was a cloud of Aether, wrapped in a cage of jungle growth.

I approached it. It floated wistfully about three feet off the ground. A tree had sprouted under it and grown up around it, wrapping the mist in a basket of narrow branches and bright, orange leaves. Deep red vines had wound through the branches, sprouting vibrant purple flowers.

I held out my hand, inches away from the mist, watching as tendrils of vapor drifted out to caress my skin. My throat was tight and tears were in my eyes. Every explorer dreamed of the worlds he might find, whether it be charting a river, finding the New World, or discovering a whole universe.

My uncle had discovered seven worlds. I could count on two hands, with change, how many had discovered more than five.

This was my first.

I glanced up, looking for the totem, but it was gone.

I slung Abigail over my shoulder, shaking my head. I didn’t think anything could break Dorne’s veneer of calm, but he was practically giddy, like a schoolboy on Christmas morning.

“This is amazing, Virgil,” Dorne said. He was using my first name, something I found disturbing.