d**k Richards: Planeswalker

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Is everyone trying to kill this kid, or does he just have that kind of charisma?

We don’t even make it to the inn before pissed-off townsfolk erupt as if from the depths of the earth itself. How does this shithole of a town even hold this many people?

They close in on us from all sides. From what they’re yelling, they have a brickery, it’s broken, and it being broken is our fault. Stabbing us will fix it.

“Take your deviltry back to the burning lands!” a man shouts. The pale scar above his left eye twitches and he brandishes a decent-sized knife.

“The Southern God is a tyrant!” another yells.

Since this is the way Bates and his men came, maybe there was some friction. Maybe the Church military sabotaged the brickery on purpose. Either way we’re the scapegoats and screwed, caught and surrounded in the street.

Even if we could reach the buildings without blasting through angry townsfolk, there are no low hanging roofs, nothing to climb onto, no real escape routes away from this burgeoning cloud of clusterfuck.

Paules decides they can be reasoned with.

“Please!” he yells. “We mean you no harm.”

A magical rainbow of peace fails to pierce the overcast sky and transform hate into friendship.

Paules looks over like he expects me to do something. I ignore him. If we could make it to one of the adobe buildings, that should be enough cover that we can sprint for the windbreaker walls. Once there, I doubt they’ll follow. We’re still dressed for the wind. They aren’t.

Without a distraction, we’ll need to do this the hard way. Still hoping to avoid using more magic, I reach into my coat and palm the small knife hidden there.

Paules pulls out the sword he’s been hiding under his cloak.

The crowd steps back. They were expecting easy prey, a safe venting for their rage and violence. More than a few decide they’ll let other, braver souls strike the first blows. Then the jeering starts.

“Look. He’s got a sword!”

“Think it will do him any good?”

“I’ve seen knives bigger than that.”

“He drew first. You all saw it!”

As if on cue, every townsfolk who has a knife draws it as well. The pointier parts of the circle surrounding us close in. Great. Now I’ll have to waste magic on these assholes. I can’t take the chance one will get lucky. It doesn’t take much with knives.

“Please step back,” Paules says, holding his sword high. “The Southern God protects His children, and His power sustains me.” As if to demonstrate, he reaches into his pack and pulls out the book of scripture. The crowd lets him. Convinced they have the upper hand, they don’t mind a little more spectacle.

With his non-sword hand, Paules holds the holy book, still wrapped in protective cloth, in front of him like a talisman or shield.

“Really?” one of the mob taunts. “Where is your god now?”

“He’s not just my god,” Paules says. “He’s your god too.”

No one laughs at Paules’ obstinate naïveté. They’ll be closing in for the kill soon.

I ready a spell. Spells that only knock people down use less juice than spells that kill, so the townsfolk are luckier than they realize.

A thin wind picks up and a cloud of dust swirls around Paules’ feet.

The crowd closes in.

Before I can cast, Paules yells and the words hang in the air. “May the Southern God’s power lie upon you!”

An orange glow, like ceramics heated near to bursting, rises from the ground through Paules’ feet. It travels through his body, sparking as it goes, and is channeled through his arm into the book. The golden infinity symbol stitched into the cover erupts into light visible through the protective cloth.

A crimson bolt of energy shoots forward, singeing the air with a smell like rust and blood.

It blasts one of the townsfolk, launching him backward into an adobe building. His head bounces off the wall with a surprisingly audible crack and, when the bolt dissipates, wisps of smoke rise from the charred hole in his chest. Fingers spasm as he drops his knife. The scent of crisped flesh is unmistakable, overpowering the town’s aroma of urine and dirt.

I’m as shocked as the townsfolk. That was magic.

Paules looks more shocked than anyone and I snap myself out of it. We need to leave before we lose the initiative.

“Now you see the power and mercy of the Southern God,” I shout. I clench my teeth and swallow a coughing fit like glass. At times like this, image is everything.

“Demons,” a woman yells back. “You killed him!” She rushes to the dead man and cradles him in her arms.

Paules moves his jaw like he’s trying to stammer something—probably an apology—and I continue, hoping he’s smart enough to shut up for a few more minutes.

“Be grateful he did not smite each and every one of you nonbelievers,” I proclaim. “The Southern God’s justice is swift.”

The woman starts wailing and the energy drains out of the lynch mob.

“Let us leave,” I finish, “and no more harm will come to you. We swear it.” Backing up until I’m next to Paules, I take a slow and measured breath, hold it until the urge to cough subsides.

“Don’t turn your back on them and we might make it out of here alive,” I say quietly.

He doesn’t respond. Time to go. I grab his arm and shepherd him out.

The townsfolks’ hate is palpable, but they let us pass. Soon we’re back on the road, gray shrubs blanketing the plains from horizon to horizon.

It’s after dawn the next day when we finally stop. This should be enough distance from Maltan that we’re reasonably safe. We climb down into another traveler’s shelter and settle ourselves. The numbness and fatigue are overpowering. I’m out as soon as my body hits the ground.

#

Liquid ice and shards of fire fill my chest, jerking me from a deep sleep. When the coughing fit passes, there’s blood on my glove. Paules is still asleep, which means I can cast healing magic without being observed. I’m still a stranger in this world and trusting too easily can get me killed.

I’m more than a little relieved, to be honest. Like most planeswalkers, I’ve lived for centuries and enjoyed (mostly) perfect health, all thanks to magic. But on this dead magic world, those enchantments would slowly unravel piece by piece, until all my reserves were gone and I’d—I don’t know. Maybe all the sickness I’d cured would relapse all at once. Maybe I’d live for a few days, aging with ever increasing speed until exploding in a shower of coffin dust.

Rather than hasten the inevitable, I cut down to the bare minimum. After determining I could survive this planet’s environment unaided, I dropped all spells except for my immortality and, when I reached quote-unquote civilization, translation. And food and drink transmutations to ensure I get all the nutrients I need to survive.

So when I first started to get sick, I hoped it would go away on its own. This is despite not having a safe, warm place to rest.

But now that’s moot. Paules used magic, real magic. This world isn’t a dead end after all. All I need to do is work my way into the good graces of whoever controls it and I’m out of here. I can heal myself.

I still need to be prudent. I haven’t escaped yet and who knows how long charming the masters of magic will take. They’re at least reasonably powerful—otherwise I’d have been able to connect to the sources of magic myself—and won’t give away the magic for free. They never do.

Placing my back to the frigid wind seeping through the shelter walls, I fish a storage crystal from my pack. I could connect to it mentally, but that would take slightly more power than if I held it in my hands. Skin-to-stone contact is best, so I remove one of my gloves. My hand is stiff and chapped from the cold.

Concentrating, I mouth a quick chant. Warmth like honey flows through me. When it reaches my chest I cough sharply, spitting out a black clod that’s alarmingly hairy, like a clump from a smoker’s lung. But I feel better.

I cut the spell short before it has a chance to fully heal my exhaustion and light exposure. I don’t need to be at 110%. Just enough to make it to the next town.

When I’m done, I open my eyes and glance at Paules. He’s pulled himself to a sitting position and is staring through me with a haunted look. I’d guess he’s never killed anyone before.

“You did the right thing,” I say.

“Your talisman,” he says, avoiding the subject. “What is it?”

With only moonlight, I’m surprised he can see what I’m doing. I’ll need to be more careful in the future.

“A reminder of home,” I lie.

“Home,” he repeats.

“You did the right thing, Paules,” I repeat. “They would have killed us.”

“But I didn’t know.”

“Would you rather they have killed us?”

“The fury of the Southern God is righteous,” Paules says tonelessly. “But that woman’s face…”

I lose patience. “It happens,” I say. That doesn’t help. Paules lifts his gaze to stare at the night sky. A weak moon casts tenuous shadows.

Still, I can’t lose him to grief or guilt or whatever he’s dealing with right now. I need more information, much more, and I need to keep him somewhat stable for that.

“What do the scriptures have to say about this?” I try.

“They say the power of the Southern God is not a trifling affair. He protects His own,” Paules replies.

“So it’s not really your fault. The Southern God chose to kill that man in your defense. You’re blameless.”

Judging from Paules’ lack of response, that also doesn’t help. Then again, I’m not the comforting type. He’ll have to come to grips with this on his own and I’ll have more chances to pry information out of him later.

I can only imagine what he’s going through. I’ve always been a cold-hearted bastard, even in my younger days, and the philosophy that’s served me well is if assholes are trying to kill you, you shoot them between the eyes. That’s what they get for trying to kill you.

Paules, though, is obviously a bit more—was a bit more naïve. His theology lessons thus far have been filled with grand pronouncements about kindness, compassion and love. Like always, those don’t survive first contact with reality. Everyone has to grow up eventually.

I drift off to sleep. Judging by the position of the sun, it’s a little after noon when we set out again.