d**k Richards: Planeswalker

Chapter 1-2

I kick the door again, harder, and the next moments are a confused mess of shouts and flailing. The would-be murderer wasn’t expecting company and the kid certainly wasn’t expecting to be murdered. A shard of darkness hints at a drawn knife.

The cloaked attacker lunges wildly at me. Resisting the overwhelming urge to cast a spell, any spell, I jab him in the gut with my walking stick. He staggers to one knee, propping himself up against the doorframe. I step back to give myself more range as he swings blindly, and don’t follow when he stumbles out into the common room to escape.

I wait until I’m sure he’s not coming back, then check on the kid.

He’s still sitting on his bed, holding his knees and shaking. “By the Southern God’s glory and grace,” he mutters. “Who was that?”

“Probably one of the townsfolk,” I reply. “They don’t like you. We should leave.”

He nods, too scared to argue, and begins the long process of bundling up for traveling. The wind will kill you without a second thought.

#

Under the clouded night, the town’s windbreaker walls blot out the stars near the horizon like a band of nothingness, protective and stifling. The band grows taller as we hurry along the packed dirt road toward it. They’re arranged in concentric circles and darkness pools in the gaps between the walls, entrances to a labyrinth of darkness with only slivers of sky overhead. Then we reach the open road. The kid’s shoulders sag in relief as the howling wind attacks us.

A moon, distant and shrouded, bathes the landscape in wan light.

The road widens until it’s several feet across, then rises until it’s the top of a wall. Solid stone guardrails, hip high, flank us. On either side, row upon row of shrubs, bleak in the moonlight, stretch to the horizon, the monotony broken only by the dark forms of shattered ruins.

The wind screams, and I tug on the straps of my elbow-length gloves. They don’t fit well and are starting to chafe, but they’re secure and I’m glad. Up here, raised and exposed, the wind bites like rabies, foaming with clouds of loose, thin soil as it tries to scour you off the planet. I had to burn far too much magic just to fend it off my first nights here.

The road curves north, a line of deeper darkness, and we trudge onward.

When day breaks, we’re a good distance away from the town. Even in daylight, the endless, mind-numbing rows of shrubs look sickly, a pale green that’s more gray than green. The shapes of the ruins in the distance, nothing but lumbering hulks at night, resemble pieces of a sculpture shattered so long ago no one remembers what it looked like.

The day passes without conversation. The wind alone would make it impossible, but I doubt either of us has much to say. Groups of farmers, dressed entirely in black except for dirty white headwraps, make an occasional appearance tending the wilting shrubs. If they see us, they give no sign of it.

There is far too much time to think, but the edge of hunger and fear slices unhelpful thoughts out of mind. The townsfolk might be following.

At dusk, we stop. Here, the wall that the road tops is nearly eight feet high. We climb down a crumbling ladder built into the wall itself. The stones are cold even through my gloves. The ladder leads to a nook at ground level, filled with brush that blew in and never blew out.

At least the wind is less.

The kid reaches inside his traveling pack and pulls out a small blanket, arranges it in one of the corners. Shoulder-height extensions from the roadwall form a semi-enclosed space. The last wall is mostly missing, which I appreciate. While we’re probably out of the reach of any vengeful townsfolk, highway robbers are as old as time itself and I don’t want to wake to some asshole shooting down at me from the road with a ridiculous grin on his face. Not without someplace to run.

I thump the side walls. They’re solid enough for cover.

The kid has a book out, the same book of scripture he had at the inn. Clumsy in his gloves, he carefully peels the white cloth protecting it away and stares for a long time. Apparently satisfied, he bundles it again and returns it to his pack.

“Thanks,” he eventually yells through the thick layer of cloth covering his face. I can barely hear him above the wind and his eyes, the only part of his face visible through his protective headwrap, don’t meet mine.

“Don’t mention it,” I yell back.

“My name’s Paules,” he yells during a lull in the wind. “What’s yours?”

I consider lying. It’s habit by now, and even on a dead magic world revealing your real name can be dangerous if you have enemies. On the other hand, no one here knows me by my real name, and if I lie now I’ll just have to make up another one later. The more you have to remember, the harder it is to keep everything straight. Honesty, surprisingly, is the most expedient policy.

“d**k,” I yell.

Paules says something. I only catch the last part over the wind. “…protect each other are as brothers,” he finishes.

Rather than answer, I head to the nook’s other corner. My back to Paules, I check my storage crystals again. They’re not that much more drained than last night. Satisfied, if not reassured, I tuck them back and start a small fire the hard way. The brush burns sullenly.

The sun sets and night passes. It’s damn cold and I wake up coughing several times. Unable to sleep, I study Paules and try not to think too much. Just because he’s my best bet for information doesn’t mean I trust him. If I ask the wrong questions, he might also mark me as too foreign and turn. Xenophobia tends to be catching and I know nothing about his church. Unfortunately, staring at a sleeping lump doesn’t give me much I can use.

I doze off several times, but it’s a long wait until dawn and the adrenaline rush of almost getting killed had long since worn off, replaced by uneasy jitters.

#

Paules starts the day with a quick prayer. He yells to make sure I can hear over the wind. Guess he’s decided my interest in his religion is sincere. That’s encouraging.

“Oh great Southern God, You who make and unmake the fabric of the world, we thank You for Your blessings and provenance.” As he intones the words, he traces patterns in the air with his arms. Despite myself, I watch closely for telltale signs of magic, but it’s just ceremony.

The sun is bloated and wan, shrouded by wispy clouds. After a sparse breakfast—I couldn’t find much food to steal during our hasty exit—we climb the ladder back to the road. The notches carved into the wall are still numbingly cold. A cough keeps me company all morning.

We reach another traveler’s shelter barely before sundown. This one is more intact, completely enclosed, but we haven’t seen anyone all day. I doubt we’ll get ambushed during the night. There’s little debris inside this nook, so I crawl through the waist-high opening in the far wall and into a cloud of dust.

Even at ground level the wind is harsh and abrasive, but we need a fire. The nearby shrubs pull free with little effort, sickly gray roots barely holding onto the dusty soil. Their leaves, thin and spindly, seem past wilting. There’s a spire in the distance I’d like to investigate, but once the sun goes down there’s no guarantee I’d find my way back without magic.

Shielding my collection from the wind with my body, I crawl back inside the shelter.

Paules looks at me. I nod at the opening. His turn.

After several trips we have enough for a fire. It burns acrid and won’t last more than an hour or two, but at least it’s warm.

With the wind gone, there’s no need for headwraps and mine’s starting to sting. I unwrap it—it feels like peeling off my face—and shake it roughly in the air to dislodge whatever dirt had gotten trapped during the day. Paules leaves his on.

“I don’t know how the Silent Ones do it,” he says.

“It’s what they do,” I say noncommittally. I don’t want to reveal my ignorance, but I do need to keep him talking.

“I’d go crazy if I had to tend all this,” he says, nodding toward the fields of shrubs.

“So would I.”

Silence.

A few minutes later, I ask, “Where are you going?”

“There’s a town a few days ahead called Maltan. There I’ll spread the word of the Southern God to all who may in it find succor.”

I grunt. This is a dead magic world. No magic means no gods. “And from there?” I prompt. Another small town is unlikely to have what I need.

“If the fields of belief prove rent and salted, I’ll return to Del Lasmar.”

I make a mental note of the name. “And then?” I prod.

“I’ll obey the bidding of the church,” Paules says matter-of-factly, like he’s never considered anything else in his life. “Are you ill?” he says.

I wave him off with one hand, coughing thickly into the other. The fit passes.

“Since we’re here,” Paules continues, “let’s start the lesson.”

It takes me a moment to remember I’d pretended to be interested in converting. And who knows? The information might prove useful later, assuming I don’t die from boredom first.

“Let us start with the Southern God,” Paules begins in a pedantic tone. “As scriptures say, ‘He controls that which binds us to form and life.’ He watches over us and shepherds our existence. His brother is the Northern God, the dead god who sacrificed himself that we might live. It’s in his honor that the church proudly bears his sign.”

Paules shows me his book of scripture. There’s an infinity symbol embossed onto the faded red cover. The sign looks golden, but in the flickering firelight it’s hard to tell. It might just be yellow.

“Why the loops?” I ask, and Paules is happy to oblige with more doctrine. I listen with a planeswalker’s ear, not to the words but to what the words reveal about the culture underneath. The wind, muted, moans past the opening in the far wall like an offended corpse.

#

At first, the group heading toward us on the road is a cluster of black dots on the horizon, unlucky bugs crushed and smeared by the thumb of a cosmic jackass. A little closer, and it’s obvious they’re flying a flag. Long and thin, red and black, it flickers against the afternoon sky.

Paules raises his arm in greeting when they’re a stone’s throw away.

The group, ten men total, carry short spears strapped to their backs. Two flagbearers, connected by a sturdy harness, bring up the rear. The flag, over twenty feet long and two feet wide, thrashes wildly in the wind, threatening to lift them into the sky.

The leader of the group, a short, stocky man, strides up to us. Reaching Paules, he raises gloved hands and touches his thumbs to his index fingers, forming an infinity symbol. Paules returns the sign and the man gestures to his group, who encircle us and wrestle the flag into an impromptu wind barrier. Inside, the wind is muted just enough for conversation to take place.

All of them are heavily armed. Even bulky traveling clothes can’t hide the bulges where more weapons have been secured, and their arrogant boredom screams military. Good thing they’re friendly.

“Bates,” the leader says.

“Brother Paules,” Paules replies. “The Southern God watch over you.”

“And the Northern God bring you ever home.”

They both glance at me, but I’ve got nothing. Don’t want to be more of an outsider than I already am.

“He saved my life,” Paules says for me, “and is interested in learning more about the true faith.”

Bates looks me over, then nods. “These are dangerous times.”

“Still,” Paules replies, “the Southern God protects His children like a loving father.”

Even through the heavy wrap that covers his entire face, Bates exudes a shocked cynicism. But when he speaks again, it’s in the impassive tones of a professional soldier. “Yes. Praise the Southern God, for He is great.”

Turning to me, Bates asks, “Which part of the catechism inspires you most?”

I’ll grant him this much: he’s a suspicious bastard after my own heart.

I cover my lack of answer with a fake cough that turns real and Paules takes over. “His instruction has only now begun, but just as the Southern God moved him to save me, so too will he find the light.”

“Of course,” Bates says, his voice so matter-of-fact it has to be sarcasm. “May the light of truth sustain you both.”

“Thank you,” I say. “Such words mean much to a lonely traveler.”

Satisfied they’re not going to take me prisoner over some trivial excuse—religions with armies act like assistant managers with real power more often than not—I tune the rest of the conversation out. It’s mostly Paules justifying his naïveté with scripture anyway.

Business concluded, the soldiers reform ranks and depart.

When we stop for the night at another shelter, Paules apologizes for their behavior.

“I can’t fault their faith, but their zealousness often leads them to question sincerity and take needless offense.”

I can’t resist the urge to pour some realism on his idealistic optimism. “Maybe they’re concerned about missionaries almost getting killed.”

Paules shrugs. “‘The path of righteousness leads through the temples of darkness, but faith will light the way,’” he quotes.

He can’t be that clueless. No one can. After I get enough information, I’ll need to ditch him for someone more practical.

#

“…of course, this is only my humble interpretation,” Paules says. “In this, as in so many other matters, it is best to seek the source itself.”

We’ve been discussing the nature of evil.

Actually, we haven’t. Paules has been lecturing on theories of evil and explaining why all except the one he believes in are wrong. According to him, evil is a spiritual force which takes a personal interest in derailing people’s day-to-day lives.

That’s cute. There are forces out there which will devour your soul as easily as breathing and thrive on the misery of worlds, but they don’t actually care. Their destruction is so vast and incomprehensible that calling them evil is like calling the ocean wet. I’ve met a few, then run away as fast as possible.

The more mundane evil is mostly selfishness and greed, with the occasional explosion of spite thrown in. More petty than evil, and so, so trite.

“It’s the Book of Quiet Wisdom,” Paules says, “Chapter the Fifth. I can never quote it correctly but it’s quite profound.”

That’s a lie. He’s practiced it so often that it almost sounds true, but he’s too honest to be entirely comfortable with it. He wants me to read the section for myself and be moved by its power.

I accept the book of scripture and open it. My traveling gloves make the handling awkward as I open it to the indicated page. A familiar-looking but incomprehensible script stares back at me. Some seconds later, the letters morph into readable words as my translation spell catches up.

“Virtue lies not in the magnitude of a man’s accomplishments, but in the moral course of his actions,” I read aloud. This triggers a coughing fit. My chest cold’s getting worse.

“So you can read,” Paules says, surprised.

Damn it. This is a primitive world, so of course literacy isn’t commonplace. The wind and the cold and the stress must be dulling my wits when I can least afford to lose them.

“A little,” I say. There’s no point in lying now.

Paules smiles. “Good to know.”

A few more days and we come within sight of Maltan. Its windbreaker walls squat on the horizon like a deflated tumor, but at least it promises warmth and shelter from the omnipresent wind.