The Way of the Black Beast

THE WAY OF THE BLACK BEAST

Stuart Jaffe

For Glory and Gabe

Malja had followed the killer for hours.  She hid amongst the shadows of the forest pines and birches, careful not to alert him with any sound. Though he acted as if out for a stroll, all her instincts told her a confrontation neared.

He stepped into an open clearing. The broken macadam of a four-lane highway long dead cut through only to disappear in an overgrowth of weeds and vines. Insects meandered in the tall grass. A rusting signpost — NO FLYER LANDING — held a lonely vigil in the center.

The killer stopped near the sign and raised his face to the clouds. The hot Krysstaprime season neared its end, but the sun still cooked the ground.

"Don't you think it's 'bout time we talk?" he said. His dark skin obscured the brown eyes underneath his little round hat. He wore a strange suit — all black, trim cut, black shirt, gold buttons — and carried a beaten guitar on his back. Unusual clothes but not unheard of, not like Malja's long coat and black assault suit. "Or do you plan on following me forever?"

Malja cursed and stepped away from the trees. She stopped at the clearing's edge, reached behind, and pulled Viper from its custom-made sheath. The large sickle-shaped weapon with both its inner- and outer-crescents sharpened was unique amongst the world's fine straight edges.

"Weapons already?" the killer/guitarist said. "No talk?"

"We'll talk." She scanned the trees, searching for an ambush. Light and shadow sprinkled the ground. He had picked this spot for a reason. "You killed two people before I could talk with them. Why?"

"It's my job. Why else?"

She saw movement off to the right — just a bird. The guitarist grinned as he pulled a sleek, balanced sword from the neck of his guitar. Sunlight glinted off its clean blade. "You want to kill me for those I killed?"

"I want to know who hired you."

He chuckled. "I can't tell you that."

"The two people you murdered had information for me."

"I imagine so. I was told to kill them before they could speak with you."

So it hadn't been a coincidence. Her body slipped from cautiousness to warrior with nothing more than a shift of her foot. Her grip on Viper tightened as anger heated her chest. Her senses grabbed every detail — the rustle of the leaves, the movement of his blade, the uneven macadam, the broken branches, the sweat trickling down his neck, the sun baking the earth.

With a sadistic grin, the guitarist pointed to the left edge of the forest. "Come out, boy," he said, his voice losing all of its playful tone.

Malja's anger boiled hotter. A lanky, twelve-year-old took three furtive steps into the clearing. He had scraggly blond hair and misfit clothes.
Tommy.
Malja had told him to stay at their camp.

"Doesn't look much like you," the guitarist said.

Now she saw why he had picked this place. He knew the boy had followed them, and he thought she was the mother. He had traveled such an odd, circuitous route in order to force Tommy's position — too far away for Malja's protection.

She glanced at Tommy. Despite the hot sun, he was shivering. She studied the guitarist, searching for the flicker of motion that gave an enemy away — a twitch of the shoulder, a change in attention, a lowering of the body. When she saw it, she knew he was about to attack the boy.

Like two wolves smelling the same meal, Malja and the guitarist broke into sprints to reach Tommy. Her straight black hair, braided to the middle of her back, slapped left and right. The thick heat made the run brutal. Malja's legs pumped hard only to travel a short way. Everything in her felt slow and labored while the guitarist appeared to glide through the grass.

Tommy stood his ground.

He thinks I'll get to him first, but he's wrong.
Breathing in dust and heat, Malja found enough air to yell once, "Tommy!"

Her urgency cut through his confidence. Recognizing his miscalculation, he dashed towards her. Too late. He only managed a few steps. The guitarist grabbed his arm, yanked him close, and put the sword against his neck.

Tommy grunted and kicked, but the guitarist had a firm grip. Malja rushed up and snapped into a fighting stance. Tommy saw this and became still — quiet and cold. To Malja's surprise, his eyes dropped to the lightning arc tattoo on his forearm.

No, don't do that.

"I'd love to kill you," the guitarist said, dripping sweat.

"Let the boy go, and you can give it a try."

"Not my orders, sadly, and I must follow my orders." Honest regret flashed across the man's face. "Of course, if you really are who you say —
the
Malja — well, maybe I ought to bend the rules a little."

Don't, Tommy. I can handle this.

The guitarist readjusted his hold on Tommy, breaking the boy's concentration for a moment. A chilling sparkle lit in the guitarist's eye. "Y'know, if you really are her, then I know how to get you what you're after. Or should I say
who
you're after, hmm?"

No matter how much she wished otherwise, Malja's shock raced through her like a feverish disease. "You lie," she finally managed.

The guitarist shook his head with patronizing mirth. "You're looking to find two magicians. Brothers. Go by the name of Jarik and Callib."

Malja's chest constricted. "Anybody who knows even a little about me knows I'm going to kill those bastards."

"Not a very nice thing to call your fathers."

"I can think of a lot worse to call them. They ripped me from my mother's arms, taught me only to fight, and then tossed me away because I didn't turn out like they wanted. Left me in the woods to die. I was ten." Tommy would be ready anytime now. If he succeeded, she would have no choice but to strike. "Now tell me what you know or die."

"An empty threat while I have the boy."

"Never made an empty threat in my life."

With amusement, the guitarist weighed her words. "Perhaps I've said too much. Let's end this in the best way possible. We each go off on our own. You can go back to your camp, and I'll go a different direction. I'll send the boy when I'm safe. Then you —"

A ball of crackling electricity appeared before the guitarist.
No, not yet,
she thought as the guitarist stared, befuddled by its sudden formation. Angry understanding gradually creased his forehead. He looked at Tommy.

Before he could slash the boy's neck, the entire electric ball blasted into the guitarist. Violent shaking sent him a few steps backwards, throwing Tommy aside. Malja wanted to rush to Tommy — his body shook as well — but she could do nothing for him. The guitarist, however — with him she could do plenty.

She struck fast like another ball of electricity. Cutting upward from the knee, out across the forearm, and back through the neck. Three distinct cuts in one fluid maneuver as she stepped forward. She finished a pace beyond the guitarist and listened like an animal expecting another attack. Only when she heard his body slush to the ground in several pieces could she relax.

With careful, controlled motions, she removed a stained cloth from her pocket and wiped Viper. Her pulse calmed as she cleaned. When she finished with the cloth, she pulled out an apple.

Malja loved apples. She had grown up eating them and for her, they were the perfect food. Her blade was perfect, too. It needed to be sharpened and oiled but it did the job, slicing more people than she dared to think about. Easier to think about apples. Each bite calmed her, brought her back from the animal she had just been.

She tossed the core aside, spun Viper and settled the blade in its special sheath. She walked over to Tommy who sat in the grass playing with a rock.

"You okay?" she asked.

Tommy squinted against the sun, tapped his chest twice, and brought his hand to his forehead — a military salute. A brave face, but Malja caught the tremors in his hands. She also saw the tattoo on his arm. She often tried to forget that Tommy was a magician. Most of the time, she only saw a sweet boy who had suffered at the world's callousness. But when she glimpsed that tattoo, she glimpsed the other side of him.

Magicians bore one tattoo for each spell they mastered, using it as a focal point. Some said the magic came from the tattoo itself. If that was true, then Tommy could never be rid of it. Under her scrutiny, he rolled his sleeve down.

"Don't do that again," she said. "If he had realized you were conjuring, he would've killed you. He almost did."

Flashing a cute smile, Tommy pointed to Malja.

"You can't know I'll win. I make mistakes."

Tommy popped to his feet and skipped toward the body. Even after caring for the boy over several months, Malja found some of his behaviors disturbing. Maybe because of his abusive past, maybe because of his magician blood, maybe because he needed her protection — whatever the reason, he seemed to find comfort in her violence.

As she approached the dead guitarist, Tommy motioned for her attention. He held up the old acoustic and pointed to the pick guard. The word
Bluesman
had been etched in with a graceful hand.

"Means nothing to me. And don't think you're forgiven. No more magic. Understand?"

Tommy saluted, but his body language said he doubted her.

To hide her frustration, she inspected the body pieces. The first thing to strike her was the suit. This close up, she saw that it had been well made and well cared for — looked almost new if not for being slashed to pieces and soaked in blood. Nobody made clothes like this anymore.

Long ago, centuries maybe, before the Devastation, everybody wore such suits. The world thrived under the spell of success and civilization. Magicians provided unlimited energy, bountiful harvests, and all the raw power needed to fuel industry and technology. But some magicians grew too powerful. They abused their magic, striving to dominate people instead of helping society, seeking the secrets that might turn them into gods. And the Devastation leveled it all, casting the people into generations of scavengers and survivors. Yet another gift of the magicians.

The guitarist might have found scraps of a suit in one of the many city ruins, but a well-tailored, crisp and clean one? That stretched reality too far. Yet here he lay. The only answer she could think of was magic. But magic supposedly only worked in the natural realms. A magician could conjure a cotton plant or a herd of wooly torsles to sheer, but someone would still have to turn it all into cloth and tailor the suit.

Then again, Jarik and Callib had conjured her assault suit, and without a doubt, it was magic. She had worn it from her earliest memory — it grew with her, always conforming to her changing body. It stayed cool in the heat of Krysstaprime and warm in the icy rains of Korstraprime. It allowed her to move free and smooth.

"Look at this," she said, spreading open the Bluesman's coat. Tucked in his waistband, Malja found a small handgun — a relic from before the Devastation. Finding ammunition would be challenging, but in the right hands, a well-placed shot could end a fight very fast. The gun had a clean barrel and a wooden body with a minor crack down the side — and no trigger. That's why he didn't use it.

Malja considered pocketing the find. However, experience told her the weapon would never work well again. She'd be better off having one made from scratch, except no one did that. The magicians had made them. Like so many other secrets, the Devastation took that art as well.

"This man," she said, "was an assassin with a suit that could only have been conjured, and the only magicians I know who can do that are Jarik and Callib. So they hire him, kill off my way of finding them, but don't kill me? Maybe they have some feelings for me after all." Tommy grunted and shook his head. "No? Because they don't need to hire an assassin. So, who would hire this man?"

Tommy pulled his hand from the Bluesman's inside pocket. He held up a gold coin for Malja to see. On either side, the same name had been engraved — NOLAN.

Malja let out a disappointed sigh. "Wonderful."

After the morning's excitement, neither Malja nor Tommy wanted to trek farther through the forest. They silently decided to take the rest of the day off in front of their campfire. Tommy played with some sticks, watched birds, and tended the fire. Malja pulled a tattered book from her pack and settled down to read.