Uroboros Capter 2 part 11

11

The town of Lock was as hot as he remembered. The air was dry and had a faint taste of dust, particles that had been blown in from the wastelands. The streets were busy and a little crowded, but despite this, everyone gave the blonde man and his pet a wide birth.

He had stopped to eat at a little cantina called True Brew not too far from the docks. Steaks. One for himself and two for Fenris. He had ordered water with his steak. This son of the Greene family did not believe in indulging in the drink. It weakened men in an unacceptable way, at least in his opinion. It turned them into jumping, dancing, hollering fools. Both unobservant and careless. He could afford to be neither.

He played with his steak and ate only a little. He didn’t eat much, this one. Fenris ate his steaks almost delicately, tearing off pieces one at a time. The blonde man watched him eat. When he had entered the little dive bar it had cleared out rather quickly. Most of the men and women shooting a nervous glance at the big wolf. The bartender, a skinny woman with dirty blonde hair, stood in a corner with her arms folded across her chest. She looked to be in her late thirties. Frina she had said her name was when she brought the blonde man his food and drink, wearing a very nervous smile. After, she had gone to a corner and stood quietly, deliberately avoiding eye contact with the blonde man.

The blonde man’s name was Minos Greene. Cousin to Elven Greene and nephew to Lord Richard Greene of Lock. Minos was the guardian of the flying-spear. Also called the thunder-spear. Just as Elven was the guardian of the great broken-sword. The weapon was wrapped in clean, off white cotton bandages. It was laid on the table before him. He reached out and touched the weapon thoughtfully. There was nothing. You had to be in direct contact with the weapon for it to work. True, but still its strength, or aura could always be felt. A somehow underneath feeling.  

Despite his father and uncle’s warnings, no one had ever come for the spear, to try to take it or otherwise. But that did not mean he had never used it. No sir. Certain circumstances had called for it.

 He had had to most recently when a group of thugs just outside of a small town called Taor had tried to rob him. There had been five of them. Young backwater hellions, who had developed a taste for robbery and beatings. Preying on pilgrims using the great northern road that ran by their homestead. They liked to wait for their victims a few miles out of town and would take anything of value, leaving the traveler unconscious and bleeding, but usually alive.

Normally, Minos would have just set Fenris on them, but one of the bastards had had a gun. Surprising to see out in the southern arc. Wonders never cease, so true. He didn’t want his wolf to be hurt so he had taken the spear off his back and unwrapped it.

The punks had then demanded that he drop his gunna to the ground and lay face down in the dirt. The young man that had pointed the gun at him had had bushy red hair and a dirty and almost greasy face full of pimples.

Minos had smiled at him as he put his purse on the ground. He then grabbed the fine, unwrapped weapon. He laid his fingers on the fine engraved shaft of the spear. The light had then shone.

Within four seconds the young men were all dead. Reis redhead had been the first to go. He hadn’t even had time to fire a shot before the point of the spear had entered his brain through his left eye socket. The other four, who had been carrying clubs and knives, went just as quickly. Blood flew from the spear head with delicate elegance. It had stained a patch of dry grass near the road a dark red-gold color. The bodies of the gang lay this way and that. One of them had apparently wet himself in the moment of dying.

Minos had hunkered down to look at the dead redhead. He was sprawled face down in the dirt, a small pool of blood around his head like an uneven halo.

He had allowed Fenris to eat the redheaded fuck. Carefully, he wrapped his spear as he watched. The ginger would be wolf shit by this time tomorrow and he deserved it for pointing a gun at him. Fenris held the body down with one paw and used his huge jaws tear the redhead’s left arm clean off. There was a ripping sound as the seam of the shirt torn free. Then a meatier tearing plop as the arm tore off. He could see tendon and sinew where the arm had been ripped off. Blood had spurted for a moment then turned into a little dribble. The packed dirt of the road had turned a darker shade of brown as it drank the bloody repast.

He remembered how bright and red the blood soaking into the gingers white cotton shirt had been. A vibrant crimson that spread and flowered and meant life. He had watched Fenris enjoy his meal, pleased with himself. But he did not smile.

By the time they headed out on the road again there were only four and a half bodies left dead in the dirt. The spear once more was slung around his back.

Minos had traveled far, yes. The guardians always did. There was no real need for it, as their line was one of lords. But the general consensus within the family was that the weapons were safer on the road. Away from the watchful eyes of the meddlesome sage fuck, whose servants were everywhere. In every land and every place, one might say. The roads did Minos fine. He never needed much. Not food or drink. His need for pussy was strong sometimes, but these urges came few and far between. A whore every now and again did him fine too. And as for company? Fenris was all he needed. One friend. One true friend was enough. A wolf and a man, an unusual duo yes, but they were quite effective as a team, say true.

Minos looked down at the wolf. Fenris was finishing what was left of his second steak. He had ordered it raw of course. The blood did not show up on the wolf’s black snout. He was now licking his paw in an almost puppy like way. Fenris’s tongue was long and pink.  Minos smiled. Something that he rarely did and almost never around other people.

Fenris looked up at him, as if he had sensed his master’s amusements. His eyes were large and green. They were keen and intelligent in the way only a predators eyes are. But now they shown with affection.

The wolf came to the man. The man reached out and stroked the animals head. He had to reach up to do so since he was sitting on a bar stool. Its fur was a sleek and shiny black. Fenris closed his eyes and put his ears back as his master petted him. He was fed; he was out of the blistering heat. All was well with the beast, yes.

“Fenris, no one is to come in.” Minos said as he nodded towards the batwing doors of the cantina.

The wolf made a light hoofing sound deep in its throat in response. From experience Minos knew that his partner understood. Fenris went to the entrance and laid himself down just to right of the doors.  

Minos looked at the bartender. She was a bit older then him, but he liked skinny girls. And he especially liked blondes. He got up from his stool and walked to the corner where the bartender stood. She watched him approach wearily. She wore a long, tan dress and corset that was old but clean. Her voice had been a little raspy. No doubt do to the pipe she smoked and the dry, dusty air of this place.

She pressed herself against the wall as he approached. The blonde man was no longer smiling. He had a calm and almost grim expression on his face. His eyes were as green and as predatory as the wolf’s.

 An expression of fear slowly bloomed on her face. Minos came close to her and put his right hand on her shoulder. Frina started to cry quietly. Tears rolled down her tan cheeks.

“You can cry if you want.” The blonde man said, almost gently. He pressed his face into the arch where Frina’s shoulder met her neck and breathed. He could smell perfume and soap and underneath those smell, faintly he could smell the sweat of her. He immediately grew hard. She quivered slightly at his touch. Looking up at the wooden rafters, she cried her tears silently.

During it all she had gritted her teeth and had even cried out in pain once as he had relentlessly thrust into her, pinning her to the wall. Choking her the whole time and biting into her shoulder. But mostly she had been silent. And when the blonde man had finished with her he backed away, buckling his belt and returned to his stool to finish his meal.

 He ate slowly and thoughtfully.  She could feel herself filled with his sticky seed. She felt some of it slowly running down her inner thigh. A tiny line of blood flowed from her shoulder where her dress was now torn. The bite marks she wore were deep and red.

Frina slowly slid down the wall to the floor. She pulled her knees to her chest and began to sob. Not quite silently anymore.

The blonde man finished his food and once more came around the counter to where she was. She looked down at the floor as he came, refusing to look him in the eyes. He hunkered down and looked at her. The expression on his face was one of faint amusement. The expression of a man watching some small boggle unfolding before him.

“You know sometimes bad things happen, mim. We try so hard to find some meaning in those horrible things. But mostly none can be found. And I know how hard it can be.”

He nodded at her reassuringly. A pleasant enough smile on his face.

“But time has a way of healing all the wounds that don’t kill us, mim.” Minos said in an introspective voice, as he traced his fingers over the bite marks on here shoulder.

“We move out, and move on. Dalay and dalla.” He nodded again and patted her head in much the same way he had petted the wolf.

Minos pulled his revolver and pressed the barrel to Frina’s smooth and tanned neck. She began so cry more loudly and to shake uncontrollably. All the while she looked at the floor.

“Dalay and dalla. Do you understand?” He asked, no longer smiling. He was asking her a serious question. And if she wanted to live she’d better have a serious answer, by the gods.

Frina nodded furiously and starting crying louder than ever.

“Please don’t kill me.” She almost screamed. Fenris opened his eyes and looked around to see what all the commotion was about.

Minos nodded. He was satisfied with her response. She understood that to live, even the way she was now, was better than to die. Any life was better than death. That was what he believed and she understood. In a primal, maybe even instinctual way, she understood. That was good enough for him, say true. The cantina felt warmer now and somehow fuller too. The smell of old stale beer was strong. So was the smell of the hay on the ground. Minos picked up a clean, golden yellow strand of the stuff and put it in the corner of his mouth. It was almost the same color as his hair. He holstered his revolver.

Minos produced a gold coin and tossed it at her. It landed on in her lap

The blonde man stood and made for the door after collecting his gunna. He left the cantina, the wolf following closely behind.

Frina sat the way she was for a long time. Holding her knees to her chest, the gold coin in her lap. Eventually her crying stopped. All that came out were small, dry sobs.

She got up and went to the back where she kept an extra dress in case one of her patrons vomited on her. Which seemed to happen far too often. Slowly she cleaned herself up, changed and from the bar she heard someone call her name. It sounded like Pinkman, one of her regulars. He sounded a little worried. Frina never left the bar unattended. She looked down at her hand. In it was the blonde man’s gold coin. She slid it in her pocket and went back to the bar.

“Dalay and dalla.” She said under her breath and went back to work. A deep sense of angry acceptance filling her. But the men and woman of Lock needed a drink.

A few weeks later a blonde man had come into True Brew for a drink. Not the same blonde man. This one had no wolf in tow. She had served him a beer, then another and then another. By the end of the night the blonde man, Ricci Goodman this one’s name had been, was completely blackout drunk. The place was empty and dirty, except for her and him. The mim had then produced a knife (a fine dagger she had bought with Minos’s gold coin) and proceeded to stab Ricci Goodman to death. She then calmly went to the back, changed her dress, washed herself and went looking for Jonah. The owner of True Brew. When the marshal had come by to ask her about it the next day she had said that she had been in the outhouse out back when it had happened. The marshal had nodded his understanding and Frina had given him a free whiskey for his trouble.

In the next three years Frina killed six more blonde men with her dagger. Sometimes in the bar, but usually in one of the nearby allies. Unfortunately Sarry Adams saw her kill her sixth victim from a back alley window and had turned her into the marshal. Sarry had given testimony and Frina the skinny bartender of True Brew hung the very next week.

Her neck had snapped as fell from the gallows. The last words she spoke, according to the one of the spectators, were dalay and dalla.

uroboros chapter 2 part 10

10

“No.” Davis said without hesitation. He did not at the moment know how to find the Wizard, but Davis did not think it necessary to mention that little fact. When he did find him, he and the Wizard would hold long palaver about the terms of Davis’s service. Also about how the old fuck had almost gotten him killed again by not telling him of the dangers of the broken sword. Also Davis was no fucking servant to this Gob lord, however rich he may be. He cared nothing for his ambitions or his megrims.

 Damir smiled, undeterred. 

“Well under normal circumstances I would offer free potions or store credit or even gold. But with you, I do believe that would be useless.” Damir said, looking down at the pile of coin before him. 

Davis flicked the stub of his cigarette to the wood floor and snubbed it with his boot. He stood up and put away the extra revolver. As far as he was concerned, this meeting was over. He grabbed the quilt wrapped sword and slung it on his back. 

“I can help you.” Damir said. His voice was a little desperate now. 

Davis shook his head. This gesture bore no argument. The last thing Davis needed was a town lord on the desert trail.

“I don’t need your help, reis.” David said. He turned to leave. 

“I need to know. I need his help.” Damir said. This was unacceptable. He needed his answer. He needed to know if what his heart desired was even possible. And if it was, he would do anything; give anything, to reach his goal. His shop, his gold, maybe even his life. This was a powerful and disturbing thought. The thought around which the state of his being revolved. The Wizard had an answer for him. This Damir knew with what was almost an insane certainty. He needed peace and an answer would bring him peace. A simple yes or no.

It was this man, Davis son of Victor, who was the key. Key to the Wizard, and to his deepest desire. The potion lord of Lock would not be denied.

Damir stood from his chair grabbing his staff. He picked up a handful of coins from the table and collected his spark, drawing from the coins and pulled back. His will manifested physically. His spark was stronger now indeed.

Davis who had his back turned was lifted off his feet and flung backwards. He cursed himself for doing something so stupid as turning his back on the bard. He hit the edge of the table with a hard thunk sound. The pain was excruciating and stars bloomed in his vision when his forehead connected with the wood table. Papers and parchment flew everywhere as the table toppled. Damir dropped the coins and moved quickly, staff still in hand. The Wizard’s coins clinked to the ground.

Davis quickly gained his feet and pulled leather intending to kill the bard. Lord or no. Then a strong cool hand closed around his wrist. The middle finger of that hand dug into Davis’s wrist pinching a nerve bundle. His fingers first went numb then released their grip on the revolver. It fell to the fell to the floor with a metal plop. 

This Gob was fast. But not fast enough.

David drew his new sword with blurry speed and brought it foreword. He stopped the blade about a hairs width from Damir’s neck. He was still holding Davis’s wrist with his right hand. In his left hand he held his staff pointed at Davis’s face. 

“You will take me to him. I will have your word. Or we both die here.” Damir was wearing an almost predatory smile. Davis was disturbed to see this. He was also a little embarrassed. He should not have turned his back on the bard for even a moment. Davis could feel a thin trickle of blood running down from where his head had connected with the table. It was funny, seconds ago they were having a pleasant enough conversation. Now they were both ready to kill each other. Davis was smiling fiercely now too.

“Fuck you.” Davis said, with a bit of satisfaction.

He could cut the Gob’s neck but he would certainly be put through the nearest wall by old Damir’s staff and magic for his trouble. Davis was not sure if he would survive such a blow. His head had begun to throb dully. Concussion maybe. The thin trail of blood ran between his eyes and down one side of his nose.

Standoff. Old time standoff. Kill and be killed. The kind of thing old gabbies liked to talk about while sitting on porches or back stoops and passing the time with other gabbies. Rocking in their chairs, cackling and smoking their clay pipes they’d say-

This one and t'other were inna ’ol Rego’s bar, knocking back a few, when they got inta a scuffle a sorts. They both pulled out they shooting irons anna pointed ‘em at t’others face. They stood tha way fer a few second, not movin’. Jus watchin’. Waitin fer de other fella to make a move do ya ken? Then dat fat barmaid (Winda had been er name) let out a loud fart. Like an ox cutting loose, it was. And wouldn’t ya know it, the sound surprised both men, who woulda probably backed down a few more seconds down the line. They ended up blown’ each other’s heads of. And ooooh how ‘ol Winda had screamed!  

No one had come to the back to investigate the noise. The day was busy at the shop. The hustle and bustle consumed employees and patrons alike. 

Davis stood how he was for a moment, going through his option. His first thought was to duck to the left and go for his dropped revolver. Making some distance between him and the Gob. Maybe using the fallen table as cover. 

This move was too dangerous. Not only did he not know the extent of Damir’s power, but the Bard was fast. He had moved around the table and to Davis with incredible speed. Not as fast as the blonde man, but faster than Davis. 

Also, if he killed this lord, it could cause problems for him down the line. The marshal of Lock and his men may come for him before he could leave this desert city. And killing a marshal would put a bounty on his head. After the debacle with the blonde man’s crew, Davis did not need any more trouble. He needed to be able to lay low for a time and wait for sign of the Wizard. 

All at once, Davis was not sure he could even kill Damir. He looked into Damir’s steady yellow eyes, the color of sunflowers. They burned fiercely, and were completely without fear. Those were not the eyes of a business man. They were the eyes of a killer.

Well then, in this case there was not choice really. With one quick move, the Gob had forced his hand. Quick and clever, this Damir, underneath his polite smile. And also rather ruthless when it came to getting what he wanted. Maybe Davis could even come to like this man, with time. 

 Davis nodded and sheathed his sword as Damir released Davis’s wrist, his hand had gone completely numb, but he did not lower his staff. 

“I want your word, reis Davis.” Damir said, waving the staff at his face. Davis shook his head. He had just been bested by magic and not for the first time, but Davis knew when he was beaten. He adjusted the broken sword on his back. It had been shifted to his right side and hung uncomfortably. 

“What do you want with that old fuck?” Davis asked bitterly as he bent to pick up his revolver. Fully aware that Damir still had his staff trained on him like the barrel of a gun.

“My business with the Wizard is my own.” Damir said, his yellow eyes not wavering. David sighed, feeling both defeated and suddenly tired. He had to remember that he had been out of commission for the past few weeks.

“Your life is not my responsibility. I will not protect you. I will not cook for you. When we travel, we travel light, we travel fast. And out there on the roads, you will obey my command.”

Damir lowered his weapon. Davis raised an eyebrow at him expectantly. 

“Yes, reis. I will so follow.” The goblin said, lowering his staff. He was looking very pleased indeed.

“Then you have my word, lord” Davis said. He was a little disgusted with himself at the moment. Davis son of victor was no leader. Nor was he a team player. He had worked alone for most of his service and he worked better alone. 

“Go on then. Collect your gunna and be quick.” Davis said to Damir.  He began to roll another smoke. 

Beaten and forced to back down. That was rare for Davis. Now it looked like he was going to have a trail mate and he didn’t know how to feel about that. But Davis had just given his word.

Your word is your law, he heard Altair say. From the far away and long ago, some people like to say.

And a man’s law is not to be broken. For such that does so dishonors himself and his forefathers.

Davis had given his word. And to keep ones word was the way of the moirai. But the fates looked down harshly on those that kept their promises too. Davis would one day learn that first hand. Your moirai to you and the same unto me. Which was just another way of saying, Fuck it, what happens, happens.

Davis picked up his revolver and holstered it. He had a small smile on his face and didn’t know why. Damir was to join him, and from somewhere deep inside, the same place that produces our greatest intuitions, Davis felt that it was right. Maybe he had found a new partner. One that had tried to kill him just a few minutes after meeting him. But maybe that was the kind of partner he needed. It was certainly the kind of partner he wanted.

Damir stood the table up, leaving the papers where they were. He was also smiling. 

“We’re off to see the Wizard.” Davis said.

Uroboros Chaper 2 part 9

9

            Martin opened the large green door for him and Davis entered. This shop looked and smelled much like other liquid magic shops he had been in. Although this one was rather bigger than most. The shop had a thousand mingled smell and most of them pleasant enough. He could smell the rough scent of spices mixed with what seemed to be the smell of a hundred different flowers. The smell of mint herbs was also strong.

The shop was filled with people. The walls of the shop were lined with shelves and the middle with display cases. The cases were filled with various herbs, spices and other ingredients. One small case held what looked suspiciously like rat tails. The selves held many vials of different sizes. In front of each was a small square piece of paper, a handwritten label. The liquids in the vials came in every color imaginable. From a dull brown that looked like dirty water to a fiercely blue substances that almost seemed to glow. Draught of the Healer one was labeled. Philter of Distractions said another. One that contained what liked like boiling blood read Flask of the Berserker.

On top of one of the shelves perched a raven of a dark blue color. It cawed contentedly as it watched the patron look about the shop.

There two large center displays dedicated entirely to tea and coffee. The smell that came off the roasted coffee beans was strong and very pleasant. One other display set off to the right of the brews was of smoking weed buds. Many men stood around these discussing the positive or negative effects of each and checking the buds for stem or seed. There were several men and woman working the shop. At least four. They stood by their respective displays and help costumers if they had questions about the herbs or potions.

Towards the back of the shop was a large counter. Several men and woman were lined up there. They carried plants or mineral stones and had an anxious, expectant look on their faces. They were selling to the shop, either for store credit or coin. Martin smiled and waved at the tall dark man behind the counter.

“Good noon to you, Brane!” Martin called to as they passed. The man behind the counter looked up from the dead lizards laid out on the counter before him.

“Busy day, Martin. Aye so it always is.” Brane said with a smile. He gave a quick, disapproving glace at Davis and then went back to his business. Martin led Davis to the back of the shop.

The back of the shop was rather spacious. Up against the walls were many crates and wooden boxes. These appeared to be filled with potions and ephemera. The shop’s extra stock. In the center of the room was a long wooden table with many papers and rolled parchments neatly stacked upon it. Also writing quills and bottles of ink. There were more bookcases to Davis’s right. But instead of potions, these were filled with neat stacks of papers, each row labeled by day and year.

Martin gestured for Davis to sit on one of the six chairs that surrounded the table. He chose a chair and sat down. Taking the weapon off his back as he did it. He set the broken blade on the table in front of him.

“Now sir, let me go find Lord Damir. I would think that he would be in his office.” He turned and walked out a small back door to another room.  Davis looked around. There were no pots or cauldrons or open fires. This was simply the place of business. The cooking and brewing of the potions must be done elsewhere.

Martin returned walking briskly.

“May I introduce my Lord and master, Potion Lord of Lock, Lord Damir Skrog Khurram!” Martin said as he turned and lowered his head in a sight bow.

A tall Goblin entered the room after Martin.

“Now, now Martin. None of that please.” Lord Damir said, smiling at Martin. He had a smooth, low voice.

“Thank you for bringing our guest.”

“My pleasure, ries.” Martin said flushing red at his master’s approval.

“I’ll be about my work now, ries, if it please you.”

Damir nodded at Martin. Martin made another quick little bow and headed back towards the shop and was gone.

“Martin is the Manager of my shop. A good and honest man, but a rather excitable fellow.” Damir said as he walked to the table. Davis stood up and walked around the table to make his manners. He gave a low bow, his right hand over his heart.

Damir was tall. A few inches taller than David, who was considered tall. He was bald. His skin was smooth and of a darkish green color. He wore a full length, hooded cloak was a pale blue almost color of charcoal. His belt was over his cloak. The buckle was bright silver and in the shape of a wolfs head. He also wore a medium sized pack slung around his shoulder on his right side. In his right hand was an old wooden staff of some grey brown wood.

“Davis son of Victor.” Davis said. “A pleasure to meet you, lord.”

“None of that lord business, please.” Damir said, seeming a little embarrassed. He offered his hand to Davis. He shook it. Damir’s hand was cool to the touch.

Damir smiled and waved a hand at the table in a “please have a seat” gesture. He sat down himself leaning his staff against the table. He stacked some papers neatly, and then moved them out of the way. Davis sat in the chair across from him.

For a long moment neither man spoke. Davis was having a hard time figuring this Lord Damir out. On the surface he looked calm and composed. His smile was that of a polite business man. But beneath, Davis could feel a deep reservoir of emotion. There was something else too. A vague, almost imperceptible sense of menace. Like a snake that has drawn back the tiniest bit, preparing to strike. Both of these things had probably served this business man well. But maybe Davis was wrong. Damir’s polite smile never wavered. And this smile looked, to Davis at least, to be completely real.

Davis let out a sigh.

“Well, Damir, you wanted to speak to me? Here I am. Let us palaver.”

Davis reached into his purse and brought out one of the revolvers that belonged to the Blonde man’s crew. He set the weapon on the table before him. This revolver had a worn nickel plating. On the barrel Davis could see a small streak of what had to be dried blood. Damir looked at the revolver but continued to smile.

“You know about my business in the town of Lock? Yes you do.” Davis pulled makings from his poke and began rolling himself a smoke.

“Or at least, you know as much as the Wizard wanted you to.”

At the sound of the Wizards name, Damir’s smile faded.

“You and your man have helped me.” Davis reached for his new revolver this time. He drew it and placed it on the table next to the older one, then but his fresh cigarette in his mouth.

“You have healed me and outfitted me. For these services I have no doubt you have been well compensated.”

Davis raised his hands, palms up, in a “what else is there to say” gesture.

Damir leaned forward in his chair. He was observing the weapon that was wrapped in a quilt before him. He reached one finger out and tapped the blade with a pointed black finger nail.

“So this is what you’ve come for.” But he seemed to be speaking to himself. Davis noticed that is eyes were of a vibrant yellow color. He produced a sulfur match and lit his smoke.

“What is your business with me, ries?” Davis said. He was starting to feel a tinge of impatience.

Damir leaned back.

Damir did not speak for a moment, considering Davis’s question. He then reached into his own bag and produced a medium sized pouch. It was of tan hide and held closed by a black string loop.

“I have paid both Martin and ries merchant out my own pocket.” He then pulled the draw string open and tilted the contents of the pouch on the table.

“This was to be my payment.” Beautifully struck gold and silver coins fell onto the table. Each one was struck with an intricate sun pattern on the face of the coin and a moon pattern on the back. Davis instantly recognized them as coins of the Wizard. He had seen them before.

“I paid out of pocket to save these coins.”

Davis looked at the coins thoughtfully and flicked ash from his smoke onto the ground. Damir either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

“I have no need of your coin.”

At this Damir smiled. He reached out and picked up one of the coins, a silver one, from the pile. He held it up, between his middle and index finger.

“No. You have no need for it. That much I know. But these coins are very interesting and not because of their monetary value.” Damir held his hand up. He was looking at the coin instead of Davis.

“In truth I have no need of your coin either.” Davis thought to tell Damir that he had not sent him these coins, but held his tongue instead.

“My shop generates more than enough business. And I may well be one of the three richest lords of Lock. So…”

Damir waved his empty hand absently.

“My interests lie elsewhere.”

Davis just sat in his seat smoking.

Damir looked up at him. He then closed his eyes and concentrated, bringing his smooth, black thumb nail to the edge of the coin. He drew in the power of his spark and sent it to the coin.

“Flar.” He said, using the power of the word itself to direct his spark and his will. He dragged his long thumb nail across the edge of the coin as he spoke.

The result was immediate. The coin glowed for a moment. Then a round and silver lick of flame came from the coin. The light coming off the flame was smooth and eerie.

In the instant the flame had been lit, Davis had jumped from his seat, grabbed his new revolver and pointed it at Damir’s face. The smoke still in the corner of his mouth.

“Drop it or I drop you.” His hand was steady but his voice was a little uneasy. This fucking goblin was magic user. And not just liquid potion magical, but real magic. He was a little fucking Bard. And gods new just how dangerous one such as he could be.

Damir did not move, and kept smiling his polite smile. Apparently amused by Davis’s reaction. The silver flame had separated from the coin and now floated a few inches above his hand.

“I don’t want to kill you with the weapon you bought me, ries. But I will.” Davis cocked his revolver. The hustle and bustle of the store could still be heard. From somewhere there was a light crashing sound then the sound of laughter. A man named John Radley had dropped a vial of Man potency potion and had tried to pick up the remains by hand. This specific brew was highly concentrated and required only a small drop for the desired effect. Men, usually those that had gotten along in years, but still wanted to pleasure their wives or side whores more or less frequently, bought elixirs with a drop or so added to take home. The elixirs also regulated their bowel movements and had a light fruity taste. A veritable drink of the gods!

Radley had touched the bright blue concentrated potion with his bare hand. He was now attempting to pull his cotton shirt up over the crotch of his pants. Which was now bulging outward in a massive erection. Several of the patrons had turned to look when John had dropped the vial. Most were now pointing at Radley and laughing. He was now blushing fiercely, although you would have said it was impossible for such a tan man to blush at all, and walking out the shop.

“Wow! Look at ‘im go! Old Radley’s at full salute!” Someone called after him and the laughter continued.

At the back of the huge shop Damir slowly put the coin down on the table. The coin was moon side up. The silver flame still swayed and danced a few inches above the coin.

“There is no need for that silly thing.” Damir waved a careless hand at the revolver. Davis could see that this was not the first time Damir had had a gun pointed at him. Davis carefully put the hammer on his revolver down and sat in his chair again. But he did holster his weapon.

“Don’t do that again. And if you reach for that staff, I’ll kill you.”

Damir continued with his polite, and now infuriating, little smile. A bard, no matter how inexperienced, was dangerous.

Damir gestured at the silver flame above the coin. In was now flickering and growing smaller.

“I was just proving a point, ries Davis.” David did not smile back.

“I’m a practitioner of magic. Potions and Draughts as you well know. But I have also have taught myself the old magic. The real magic, do ya ken? The spark.” This last word was spoken with an odd reverence.

“I have been able to increase my spark and its effectiveness with practice and with trinkets.  With nooks and babbles.”

The silver flame suddenly winked out. Damir leaned forward and his voice was serious now. No more polite smile

“But these coins are different. They were made by magic. I can feel it. I can feel it when I send my spark out to it. The deep magic. The old magic.”

He tapped the coin with the long nail of his index finger.

“The real magic.”

Davis was a bit confused.

“I don’t know what you’ve heard. I’ve had dealings with magic, yes.” Davis looked down at the broken sword with the quilt around it.

“But I do not know it. I do not practice it.” Davis holstered his revolver.

“Ah, but your master does.” Damir said. He was smiling again, but this was a different smile. This smile was almost fierce.

“What do you want from me, ries?” Davis said.

“I want to meet the Wizard.”

           

Uroboros chapter 2 part 8

                                                                       8

            Davis and Martin walked down one of the high streets of the city of Lock. Davis had the broken blade wrapped and slung around his back. His new sword, now tied down to his gun belt, swayed slightly as they walked. All of the people the pair passed went out of their way to avoid eye contact with Davis. But after they had passed all then looked at him carefully. Especially the new revolver that now sat in his holster. New firearms were a very rare sight indeed. David could feel the eyes on him as he passed. He ignored them. He had no more business in this city and was planning on leaving this very afternoon. As soon as he found a way to contact the Wizard that was.

He wanted to be rid of the wrapped weapon now slung on his back. Davis hated the thing and not because it had almost killed him. Or rather it had been used to try to kill him. And to rather great effect. The broken sword had some great power. A curse was upon in. Some deep and commanding magic that could give certain individuals great power. It could be very dangerous if it fell into the wrong hands. The Wizard was smart to want it.

            But there was something else. There was a feeling that came off the blade somehow. He could sense it. The way your hand can sense the heat coming of a hot surface before touching it. It was also a feeling that Davis was not unfamiliar with. The feeling that came off the blade was like battle fever. But that was not quite right. Close, but not right. The feeling was deeper than that. It was simple blood lust. It felt as though the blade itself wanted war. It wanted conflict and strife. Davis could also sense these feeling slowly leaking into him. Filling him with a dull, constant rage. This disquieted him. The object on his back was an instrument of war. An instrument of death. And although it did not seem to grant all that wielded it its unnatural power, it yearned for the feel of blood all the same.

            Davis took in a deep breath and followed Martin around a corner. This street was lined with peddlers and small shops. Most of these seemed to sell textiles and leather works. This street offered shade and was much cooler. It was also rather more diverse than the area they had come from. Many more of the green folken could be seen here. Some shopping, but most just passing the time it seemed. They stood in front of shops talking and laughing in their own tongue, most of which Davis understood. They worked a little further on. A few minutes later they stopped in front of a largish two story building.

            “Here we are!” Martin said waving his hand at the building. Sweat now stood out on his flushed face and his shoes were rather more dusty than when they had set out.

            Davis looked up at the rather run down looking building. The windows were old and a little dirty with dark shades drawn closed. There was no large sign as there had been at the mercantile, and there was no need for on either. The front door was painted a bright and rather offensive shade of green. The green door had ever been a sign of a potions shop.

            Despite the look of the place it was far from deserted, as Davis could see. Every few seconds a patron would enter the shop or exit it holding various objects wrapped in brown paper. They must do a fair amount of business, being this busy.

            “Finest potion shop in this fair city!” Martin exclaimed, looking at Davis.

            “Ever busy, with the hustle and bustle of the town folk. All of them needing this or that.” Martin said with a touch of pride. He produces a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his face.

            “Now then, good sir, let us go and meet the Lord!” Martin led Davis into the shop.

           

           

Uroboros chapter 2 part 7

7

A small green fire flared for a moment then went out again. It had bathed the small room with a momentary green glow. A small flame in the dark. A bright flash of emerald spark. This pleased Damir. In his hand was a small, rough green stone. Not a bright green, but a dull, pallid green like stagnant water in a swamp pond.

Martin would arrive soon. He was sure that there would be no problems with the clerk from the mercantile. The trade he had offered the old man was more than fair and they did business often.

Damir sat back in his large, wooden, almost throne like chair. The room in which he sat was comfortably cool. The basement office of his shop. The room was dark. No lamp or torch was lit. Damir’s eyes were perfectly adjusted to the darkness. His pupils were wide almost to the point of consuming his irises, which were of a bright yellow tone.

He touched the point of his long, black thumbnail to the stone, which he now held between this index and middle finger. He gathered his spark, doing so slowly, carefully. Much the way a man gathers his will before preforming a strenuous act. He brought the power to a point and directed it towards the stone. No word was spoken. Just the gathering of himself. In one quick movement he moved his thumb up, scraping his thumbnail against the stone.

First came small green sparks, then the green fire flared again, filling the room with the eerie glow. This time it did not go out. It floated there above his open palm and the stone between his fingers. It was beautiful. The lick of the flame swayed and danced, going from the bright green of grass, to the dark green of emeralds. He gathered his spark again, this time mixing it with his inner force, his force of will. The flame grew, from the size of a coin to about the size of an apple.

There was much to learn. Much to see. Damir’s spark was strong, but maybe more important than that, it was concentrated. Focused in a way that was hard for anyone control. So easily could the spark escape. Flair up and burn all those around. It could also be overused. Burned out as it were. Then all that could be produced were weak sparks and ineffectual words.

The flame went a dull green color then went out despite all his concentration. It just slipped away. Damir sighed. He put the small green stone on the desk and leaned back in his chair.

How? How do I keep the spark going? This was the question he kept asking himself.  Over and over he would ask. But he had no answer.

He had grown stronger of course. Of this much he was sure. The small green flame was enough proof of that. But there was something missing. Some deep knowledge of the spark that eluded him. Physical magic had never baffled him the way the spark had. In fact, for physical magic, or liquid magic as most called it, he had quite an aptitude. In his younger days he had apprenticed under the Potion Master of Lock and within two years he had opened his shop. Liquid magic was so easy. All that was needed was patience and careful measurements. And as always, the proper ingredients. Goat horn, a lock of an infant’s hair, or the red blood weed thorns. Heat, or crush, or mix, or burn. All too easy, for a person of patience that was. Potions and elixirs to ease toothaches, growing out bald men’s hair, or even make any man unable to speak for a few days straight. Youngster were quite fond of this last one. But it was barely magic. The magic of the most common folk and sold as such.

Damir stood and lit the oil lamps. The office was small and lined with book cases, with his small desk and oversized chair in the middle. All the volumes were old and many in foreign and sometimes unknown languages. He studied the spines and the words written upon each. They were all about magic, in one way or another. He had read them all several times.

The city of Lock had been good to Damir and his shop. Damir had always been good to the people of this small desert community. He had always helped out the folken of this city as best he could. Never taking advantage of others and always, always, charging a fair price. So the people came to Damir with their liquid magic needs. He had quietly built his fortune over the years and he gave back to the community often. Most notable by building public canals and wells for the people of Lock and by giving out potions to those most in need. It was fair to say that the people of Lock loved Damir. He was the most beloved of the Green Folken and that was also clear. The people, along with the high Baron of Lock, had even made him a Lord. But the title was mostly an honorary one, as Damir did not own very much land. He did employ some twelve people to help with his shop, but that was it.

With his employees handling the day to day business of his shop, Damir spent most of his time and money in pursuit of his spark. Buying all the books on the subject he could get his hands on. Although after careful reading of each volume he found that they were mostly useless. The prattling  words of those who believed themselves sorcerers but could hardly do more than the most basic of magic. Moving coins or producing smoke from thin air, things of that nature. So Damir had been left to find answers alone. And alone he had come fairly far. Mastering the basics himself and pushing forward.

But Damir needed more. He needed insights and knowledge. The kind of knowledge he simply did not have. He sighed again and picked up his staff. It had been leaning in a corner by the door. Martin was on his way. So was the man from the desert. The man who served the Wizard. The Wizard was the key. The answer to all his questions.

Lord Damir left his office and ascended the stairs to his shop. On his desk, amid all the clutter of paper and parchments, the green stone still lay. It glowed weakly for a moment and went dark once more.