Sorcerer's Vendetta (The Secret of Zanalon) (8 page)

Rachel watched his back, sensing guilt.
Am I seeing more than is really there? Or more than he wants me to?
She shook her head.

"My eyes! Everything is so clear! This is
fantastic
," she beamed. Normally Rachel was fairly reserved in her responses, but now she couldn't resist a little jump and a whoop.
No more glasses!

Zanalon glanced back over his shoulder, a little smile quirking at the corner of his mouth, watching her. "'Tis but a simple thing, when one but knows how to ask," he answered, starting away again. Then he paused, turned to her thoughtfully.

"Wait. That is it." His eyes brightened. "I know how to find Hafgan."

"How?"

"My Book. An I can not summon him, surely I can tune in to the Book. 'Tis certain he still has it within his possession."

"That's great!" she said, then paused and dropped her gaze. It would soon be over and he would return to his own time. He reached for the blood-red stone on the chain that descended to his heart.

Rachel, discerning his intent, touched his hand to stop him. "Right now? Do you think maybe you could tune in to some dinner, first? And maybe a place I can take a bath. No real hurry, is there? I mean, who wants to do battle on an empty stomach, right?"

His face went expressionless, his lips tightened, showing a trace of impatience. Then his gaze lowered, came back to her.

"Methinks I have been thoughtless. I require much less sustenance than thee, though it would be a pleasure to dine with thee. I shall tune in to the Book but place us nearby, where we might find an inn. Would that please thee?"

She smiled. "Aye, m'lord."

He nodded and reached up to hold the stone at his throat, then paused.

"Thou'rt teasing me anon, eh?" He gave her a wry half-smile. "Thinkest thou might keep thy clever wit within thy head a moment, whilst I "zap" us to safety?"

Rachel chuckled. "Zap away." She lowered her head, meek but mischievous. Her eyes widened slightly, fixed on his hand. The cracks between his fingers went transparent red as the stone inside his hand began to glow.

"First must needs I direct our path," he said, as he walked around and took a position behind her. She gave a puzzled look over her shoulder, started to turn.

"Be still," he commanded. He moved close to her, apparently felt her tense. "Must needs I keep thee close within my cloak," he explained. "It is imbued with the definition of this spell so that I need only to direct and trigger it." He folded her close to him. "'Tis less power involved, though still not little."

Zanalon began to speak in the low tones of the spell. Rachel felt the focus of power building. Everything around them – the trees, the undergrowth that poked through the deep carpet of decaying leaves, the light spray of evening mist – began to hum and shimmer in an all-encompassing bond of energy. She could feel the life all around her, through her, as her awareness seemed to spread out beyond her physical self.

At the corner of her eye, at the edge of her hearing, she saw the dim beam of a flashlight strike the trees to their left. She heard voices behind them, the crackle of leaves underfoot.

"There – who's there? That's them! Stop!" a gruff voice shouted.

Oh, God. They're coming, please hurry, they're co –

Rachel tensed, instinctively seeking to run. Instantly, she felt Zanalon's gentle hold become rigid around her, warning. He did not cease his spellcasting, yet she could almost feel his alarm as her own. In that moment she was fused with all sentience around her, all life. She knew his thought, the consequence he projected if she broke from him---her life force shattered and diffused into that realm of energy. Another flash from his mind to hers and she knew that it was singing, joyous energy---for an instant she even craved that peace.

Then the world shimmered into whiteness, through all the colors of the rainbow. Rachel could no longer feel his arms around her, his body close; she could not even feel her own.

"Be not afraid," Zanalon whispered, his voice echoing as if from a distant canyon into a crystalline cavern where all who are mortal are alone.

Chapter 5 – NAKED TRUTH

It was dark again. Dimly, a red brick wall came into focus before her and a foul smell struck her nostrils. Turning her head, she located the source: they were standing in an alley lined with garbage bins. Her next sensation was physical, the slight pressure around her of Zanalon's arms, easing as he released her and stepped back.

She turned to face him, where he stood before the parallel wall.

"Where---?" she began.

They invaded from all around them, suddenly appearing, tendrils like misty fingers ranging from crackling white-blue, flowing deep blue, to a heavy red-brown. They streaked straight to Zanalon and struck him in the chest, passing through. He grunted slightly, as if taking an awaited solar-plexus punch from a child who turned out to be stronger than expected.

Then the elementals were gone, paid in full. Zanalon stumbled back a step, leaning against the wall. He snorted softly, self-derisive.

Rachel, though startled at first, understood what was happening. Rather than comment directly and risk embarrassing him further, she only raised her brows with a sympathetic smile.

Zanalon's return smile was grim. "This interlude for a meal and rest seems to be a good idea, anon." He sighed and took her arm, heading to the right, where the alley opened into a street.

"Wait a minute," Rachel said, hesitating. He turned back.

"Listen, I think it might be better if you take the cloak and sword off, for the moment," Rachel proffered. He just looked at her, stone-faced.

"People will stare---" she began.

Zanalon dropped his hand from her arm, drew himself up straight, his eyes cold. "I care naught for the whims o' the peasantry. Surely thou dost not seriously believe I would leave myself defenseless?"

He turned and strode toward the road again.

"Oh, pooh," Rachel said, following.

Between the stares of the passers-by and Zanalon's glares at every product of science he encountered, the short walk down the street was a nightmare. Neon signs were plentiful and a favorite peeve. Rachel could imagine herself through the British strangers' eyes: a furtive-eyed woman with a prominent facial twitch, her hair frizzed insanely.

Then they stopped at the top of a hill where most of the small town was revealed, busy lights blinking below the violet-pink twilight sky, streets stretched out below them. The sight was accompanied by scents from a small tobacco shop nearby, as the proprietor stood in the doorway, sampling one of his wares. Rachel found the scene inviting. Zanalon didn't.

Zanalon froze, staring. His features slowly set into fury, as he began to draw his arms up. An aura of power grew around him.

"Wait! Wh--what are you doing?" She grabbed his shoulder in alarm, sure she knew already. He was planning disaster for this innocent town. Blackout.

"With one word I can free them," he said, his jaw clenched.

"And then what?" she urged. "What will happen to you? Will the elementals swamp you with their starvation, drain you of every ounce of strength you have?"

She had her answer in his eyes, a flicker of doubt. But his stance was still taut, threatening.

He'd do it. Even if it destroys him.

"And even if they don't," she continued, "I really think you'd be complicating your life. Don't you think
Hafgan
might notice? They've been living like this a long time. Don't you think they can wait 'til you've resolved your problem with your rival?"

Still he stared, an indignant tremor running through him, yet she saw her argument take root. Finally, he looked to her, calming.

"Aye," he said. "I must focus myself. I cannot afford to be distracted. When I have my full power back, I could free the entire world, not just this one village."

He looked back to the star-dotted town laid out before them and the wind drew a strand of dark hair across his forehead like a caress.

"Thy time shall come, my friends," he whispered. "I promise thee."

Rachel began to breathe again, pulled him gently away from the sight, toward an inn down an adjacent street.

God, I'm glad this isn't London. He'd
really
have blown a fuse. But where are we?
No sooner had she thought this than she saw a sign over a shop which identified the town: Callow Hill Market. She pointed it out to him, as she stood and stared.

"We've come full circle."

Exasperated, she sighed and flapped her arms impotently. His attitude about blending in could really be a problem, this close to the epicenter of the search for them.

At that moment another minor problem arose that captured her attention: his unfamiliarity with modern women's fashions. Rachel felt a surge of envy and embarrassment when he gawked at one particular knockout blond in a tight denim dress, as she approached. Even as she passed, revealing the daring drop of the dress in back.

Worse, the woman stopped, turned, and stared back at Zanalon. And smiled.

A yank got him on his way.

Money was a small matter, in terms of his power, though he had to copy from what she had: one pound and coins she had happened to stuff in her pocket after she'd stopped for a traveling snack. It took a few trips into different places for change of larger denominations for him to copy but soon they had a decent amount. Rachel almost got used to the small, ghostly balls of light that no one else could see, dancing around his hand as the bills duplicated themselves, then shooting through him, taking their toll. At this effort he barely flinched, though he was still worn from his prior teleport spell.

While they built their resources, he filled her in, somewhat sketchily, on the details of the events that led up to the theft of his mana, and up to the failed spell of the witch who had been trying to help him. He didn't really know what had brought him out of the spell, though he believed that it had to mean that the witch's spell had not misfired entirely; he had been released because Hafgan had been dangerously close to him. In turn, she told him about the impending sale of the property which had led to his discovery.

At that, Zanalon narrowed his eyes. "Mayhaps we should investigate the identity of the buyer. It certainly would have been dangerous for Hafgan to take possession of the land---and of
me
."

Soon they had enough money for several meals at any decent restaurant and two rooms at a respectable inn, something that offered more privacy than the usual bed and breakfast. They even had enough for clothes, except they couldn't find a shop open once night fell. As it was, when Rachel mentioned her aversion to wearing her clothes dirty again after her bath, Zanalon offered a small spell that would make them clean and new again.

Once they found a hotel, it was not easy to convince him it would be best if he waited outside while she made the arrangements. When pushed about the issue of his conspicuous appearance, Zanalon declared that
he
would be noticed and
she
wouldn't. Rachel let it alone at that, though he finally did give way on entering the lobby with her.

At the rooms, she unlocked the door, habitually reached to flick on the light. He slapped his hand over hers, pinning it to the wall, a wounded look in his eyes.

"Sorry," she murmured, grimacing. "But what are we going to do, stumble around in pitch dark?"

He closed the door behind them and it
was
pitch dark. Then she heard the sound of smooth metal ring on metal.

A sword drawn.

"Jesus!" she cried, fear zinging along her spine. It wasn't taking the name in vain, at that moment, but a sincere, instinctive call for help, as her trust in Zanalon disappeared suddenly, completely. 

He's here to kill me!

Just for an instant, her church upbringing all rushed back when she stared at death in the dark and there was no one else to trust.  Rachel backed away in the blackness, turned, smashed her shin into what felt like a chair, spun again and met the soft edge of the bed at the back of her legs. She fell flat on her back. Holding her breath, she listened for the whistle of cut air, the sound of her demise ...

Suddenly, a bright but soft, golden light permeated the room. Zanalon stood over her, his sword aloft, glowing.

She stared up at him, panting, terror apparent.

He peered around the room as if seeking some other person, some other source of danger. One hand was raised, ready to cast, ready to protect her.  It hit her, then, that he did not know the name of Christ as “Jesus” – in his time, if he had heard of Him at all it would have been His true name, Yeshua, or something closer to that.  He recognized only that she was calling out a name, in terror.

Then, he turned back to her, and the question on his lips died as the focus of her terror registered.  Realization grew clear on his face, his lips tightening slowly. His blue eyes glinted, narrowed, shifted quickly, pain suddenly masked by anger.