d**k Richards: Planeswalker

Chapter 1 The kid will get us both killed and I don’t even know him. These townsfolk are too salt-of-the-earth to d**k around, and good old rural xenophobia won’t stop at just one execution. One by one they squeeze through the narrow doorway. A particularly dignified gentleman trips and almost slams his head into the wall. Once inside they sidle around the periphery, faces twisted in anger and fear. The inn’s common room was claustrophobic when empty. Now it’s downright intimate. The host of this party makes his appearance. The bricksmith. Sweat-soaked hair lies limp across his face. A heavy brown apron with blackened stains sits like armor on his chest. “Holy man!” he yells. It damn near echoes. The kid pulls himself up to his full height, such as it is, and steadies himself on the common room table. He’s a missionary and I have to admit: someone this young stirring up this much trouble is impressive. “Yes?” the kid replies. The bricksmith slams the table hard enough to make it jump. The kid startles. Several of the onlookers chuckle, but the sound dies quickly in the flat air. “Look at me when I’m talking to you!” the bricksmith yells. The kid’s hands fly up into a placating posture. “If I’ve given offense,” he begins, “I apol—” “What did you do with my brother?!” This time, the bricksmith slams both fists. The other end of the table flies up. The kid jumps again. My dinner lands on the floor at my feet. “I’m sorry. I don’t know your brother,” the kid says. The bricksmith brushes the hair from his eyes and laughs quietly. “No. I’m sure you don’t.” He pulls a wicked construction from beneath his apron. Blades and black edges sprout from a central point. “But does that really matter?” I’d love to help the kid, but when religious disagreements get this ugly a bloody clusterfuck isn’t far behind. There’d be two of us, about fifteen of them and no room to maneuver. I’d also like to leave, but the cordon of surly townsfolk shows no sign of parting. I’ll have to wait for this to escalate to violence and escape in the confusion. With his hands up and palms out, the kid backs away the few inches he has left before hitting the wall. From the way he’s standing he has a weapon hidden under his robes. For his sake, I hope he doesn’t draw it. Instead, he decides to commit suicide a different way. “May the Southern God’s peace be upon you,” he says quietly. Unsurprisingly, that doesn’t work. The bricksmith stalks around the table, his face a blank mask of hate. “My brother left to join your false church, and hasn’t been back for years. If I hear one more word about—” He pauses, shaking with fury. “Where is he?” “If you’d like to come with me, we can talk to the deacon at—” “WHERE IS HE?” The bricksmith’s roar fills the dead air. “Abnus, that’s enough.” Almost as one, heads swivel toward the voice brave enough to speak. It’s the innkeep. “Jerrod isn’t coming back,” the innkeep continues. “Not this one’s fault.” He almost spits this one like it’s a curse. “He’s Church,” Abnus growls. “Spreading their filthy lies.” “You know the road’s dangerous. He’s a traveler. Are you going to kill the old ways too?” “No more than his kind have already,” Abnus responds, but the tension’s drained from the air. The bricksmith shoulders his way through the crowd and slams his fist against the doorway as he leaves. The evening’s entertainment over, the crowd grudgingly files out of the inn. Once the last leaves, the kid sighs in relief. There’s just enough space between the table and wall that he can convincingly sink back in his chair. I wait a moment, then wave at the innkeep. “Some more food. Please.” The innkeep glares like my politeness is sarcastic, which it is. I’ve only been on this planet for a week and I’m already wishing it would burn. It’s a good thing this species can pass for human, or I’d have been first on that lynch mob’s list. “That’s six drams,” the innkeep replies, wiping his counter. There’s nothing behind him except a rough wall with a small service door leading wherever the food comes from. The counter seems like it’s there solely for tradition and a place to hide weapons. There isn’t even a section which flips up. “It only cost three the first time,” I say. The innkeep shrugs and motions to the dinner I didn’t have time to eat. “Bowl’s dented. Floor needs cleaning.” I’m tempted to cast a spell to make him give me the food for free, and possibly jam his head through the counter, but this is a dead magic world and every scrap of power I have left is precious. More precious than this backwater civilization will ever know. I pull a small cloth pouch from inside my shirt. It was dyed green once. The frayed drawstring gives way after a few tugs and I upend the contents into my palm. The coppery coins which serve as money here spill out. They have triangular holes in the center for reasons unknown. I hold a small one and a medium one up high so the innkeep can see, then set them on the table. If he’s going to double the price, he can come get them himself. The innkeep disappears through the service door, reappears a short while later with another bowl of runny stew. He holds it up high, then sets it on the counter. Seriously? I grab the coins and head over. The innkeep glares at me like I stole the money, which is technically true, even though the previous owner was long dead and desiccated by the time I stumbled on his corpse. He tries each coin between his teeth and, satisfied at the way they bend, secrets them away. “I’d run you both out if you weren’t travelers,” he says. I grab the bowl of stew. “It’s cold,” I say. We stare at each other until he decides this last bit of dickishness isn’t worth the trouble. He gives the small coin back in change. “Thank you,” I say. Back at the table, the kid has his holy book open and is carefully thumbing through it with shaking hands. He’s about five foot eight, sandy brown hair and eyes. His dirty red robes cover a dingy white shirt and thick traveling pants. Other than a strained expression on his face, the only remarkable thing about him is how badly people want him dead. Not once in the time it takes me to finish my stew does he look up. # Calling this place an inn is…generous. It has two rooms for travelers, each with one bed. These open into a hallway that’s only as long as the rooms are wide, which immediately opens onto the commons room. The only decoration on the rough walls is a lamp brace in the hallway. Sans lamp. My room is just as claustrophobic as the commons—a cramped rectangle with an empty doorway. The bed, a cot of interwoven slats stretched across a low-standing frame, lies flush against the longest wall because that’s only way it will fit. I nearly slam my shins stepping inside. I wrestle my backpack out from underneath the bed and rummage through it until I find my storage crystals—the only source of magic in this world. Their colors range from clear to rose to translucent purple. The power within is all that keeps my standing spells running. Little things like creating a bubble of breathable air around me in case this world’s atmosphere turns out to be poison. The crystals glint in the dull light as I turn them over examining them. In stronger light (or magical fields) they’d shine, but here all they can manage is a glittery shrug. As they drain, one by one my spells will fade. Pushing back a useless sense of frustration, I consider my options. I’ve found civilization, or a reasonable substitute thereof, which is more than I could say when I first landed in the endless fields of gray shrubs. It took two days of wandering to find the dead body whose clothes and money I stole. A dead magic world. A gods forsaken dead magic world. I’d heard of them, of course, but never thought I’d have the misfortune to end up on one. A planeswalker’s grave. An end to travels through the universe. Land on one and hopefully it’s to your taste, because you’ll never leave. f**k. I don’t want to put the crystals back in my backpack, and that’s stupid. It’s not like they’ll work less well there—in fact, they’ll be less likely to get stolen—but some part of me clings to the hope that my situation isn’t as bad as it seems, that if I just want it hard enough, the universe will change. Giving in to that would be as bad as giving up. First things first, I need information. Jumps between planes rarely go bad and when they do, there are rarely survivors. The odds against landing on a dead magic world are astronomical. For two planeswalkers to f**k up and land on the same deathtrap is outright impossible. But since most of us are functionally immortal, the laws of probability will inevitably land the grundle punch. Not that I believed it would happen to me. Assuming the first planeswalker stranded isn’t a complete asshole, they’ll create a Walker’s Folly—a list of everything they’ve tried. The end of the list should be either what got them off-world or the last dead end they slammed into before dying. That saves time for the next i***t who comes along. If there isn’t a Walker’s Folly on this world, I’m screwed because I’ll have to start from scratch, and I’m not going to think about that. To be useful, the Folly has to be in a prominent yet protected place, usually a source of myths and legends. The place everyone knows about but is afraid to go. To figure out where it might be, I’ll need people willing to talk. These townsfolk don’t seem that friendly, so that leaves the kid. As a missionary, he’s a traveler. And most religions are based on a kernel of truth, however distorted they may be. I peek out into the commons room and he’s not there. Hoping he’s not stupid enough to go outside, I knock on his door. His room actually has one. A flimsy one. Muffled sounds of movement within. He must be hiding something. I’ll have to find out what it is later. He opens the door a crack. “What is it?” he says. “Are you all right?” I ask, hoping I sound genuinely concerned. “Yes.” He starts to close the door and I slide my boot forward. The top of the door closes, but the bottom doesn’t. “I’m interested in hearing more about the Southern God,” I say, then remove my foot. It’s my first full day in this town, after several hellish nights on the open plains. If outsiders aren’t going to be welcome much longer, there’s no time to waste. You can almost hear the gears turning in his head. The door opens, slightly wider than a crack. “Tomorrow,” he says. “You might not make it until then.” No answer. # I wake to the overly cautious silence of someone sneaking around. Rolling out of bed, I land softly on all fours. My walking stick, propped in the corner within arm’s reach—claustrophobic architecture is sometimes useful—is a heavy, reassuring presence in my hand. After a few moments, nothing. They’re not coming for me. The kid, then. I honestly didn’t think the townsfolk would try anything again this soon. And if they’re this determined to kill the missionary, they’ll be coming for me next. I ease into the hallway. The oil lamp, its wick nearly burnt out, is spewing thick, black smoke. The rough, packed-dirt floor is uneven through my thin-soled boots. Everything is cold. The door to the kid’s room is ajar. You could let it go, I think. It’s nothing you haven’t done a million times before. But then I had magic, options. Someplace to go. Now I’m fumbling in the dark like a virgin with a blow-up doll, about to face some backwater mook who, if he gets a lucky shot in, might actually be able to kill me. Flattening myself against the wall, I push on the kid’s door. It moves without resistance so I kick it open. It bounces back, off the intruder.