The Reforged Trilogy: Book 1 — Crucible of Stars
Chapter 10
Striking Sparks
“Sometimes hate and fear are the only weapons we have.”
– Gren Barviss, Lyran Consul (750 MA)
Duaal seethed. Tiberius didn’t think he could handle one wounded bounty hunter? Did he think Duaal was some ordinary, helpless little boy? Duaal was the only one like him in the entire galaxy. The only human mage… Well, more or less the only one. Could Coldhand say that? Or Tiberius?
Maeve said that Logan Coldhand felt no pain, that he was as tireless and unstoppable as a machine. That seemed… unlikely. And Coldhand was just one man, Duaal reminded himself, with a reputation that surpassed his own only because the young mage had no chance to prove himself yet.
Well, that was about to change.
Stray’s fat crimson sun was setting and it would be night soon. Shadows followed their owners home through the darkening streets of Gharib. In the circle of the great central marketplace, vendors hawked their remaining wares with increasing desperation as their business wandered away. As their last customers vanished into the sinking twilight, the merchants unfolded static covers and closed down their stalls for the evening.
How would Duaal hunt a bounty hunter? The excitement of it tasted hot and metallic. Duaal tapped his fingers against the jug of delberry wine, thinking. Gharib wasn’t the biggest city on Stray, but it was certainly large enough for a single man to lose himself in.
Tiberius said he had shot Coldhand. Unless some of the wilder rumors that Maeve had repeated were true — that Logan Coldhand had nitric coolant running through his veins instead of blood, or that he was really a robot instead of human — he would be bleeding from the wound. If he was on the run, Coldhand would need to put some distance between himself and Tiberius before he could stop to tend the injury. So he was leaving a blood trail, right?
Pleased with his own cleverness, Duaal made his way back in the direction of the Blue Phoenix. He stopped three landing pads down from where it was berthed, though, and peered over the rounded nose of another ship that — to guess by the liquid lines and its name, Riptide — came from Hyzaar. Like Duaal himself.
Beyond, the Blue Phoenix was still grounded, probably waiting for clearance from Stray’s automated air control system. Duaal frowned. He would have preferred to start there, but he didn’t want to risk Tiberius seeing and stopping him. Duaal circled the landing pad, searching for the telltale signs of Coldhand’s blood. It wasn’t until he made his way back around to the other side of the Riptide that he found what he was looking for.
Duaal was disappointed by the tiny cinnamon-colored spray. He had expected a great red splash of gushing life-blood. He leaned close to examine the small stain. It wasn’t droplets, but smeared fingerprints. There must have been blood on the bounty hunter’s fingers. Duaal squinted. His right hand, since there were tiny, whorled ridges in the crusted blood. The cybernetic fingers of the hunter’s left hand were smooth and wouldn’t have made marks like that.
A moment later, Duaal realized that simply checking which side the thumbprint was on would have told him the same thing, but he was still proud of his clever discoveries and brilliant deductions. What any of it actually meant, Duaal wasn’t sure yet. He set down his heavy wine jug and leaned against the Riptide, wondering what to do next.
“Oi, what are you doing back there?” someone asked.
Duaal jumped up and whirled to find a woman in oil-spotted orange coveralls frowning at him. Her skin was dark and lined from the sun, her black hair braided into a long tail. She eyed Duaal suspiciously. He straightened and gave her his brightest, sweetest smile.
“Is this your ship?” Duaal asked.
“Na, not mine,” the woman answered, shaking her head. Her accent was distinctly Hyzaari, but much thicker than Duaal’s. “I just work on it.”
She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder toward a fuel pylon extended above the Riptide and the flashing red light that indicated it was in use. Perhaps Duaal’s smile was working because her posture lost some of its defensive rigidity.
“The cap’n is in the city taking care of some business. Maybe I can help you?” she suggested.
“I’ll bet you can,” Duaal said. “This is a big ship. You must have been fueling for a while, right?”
The woman nodded. “About an hour now.”
“Did you see a man running away from that ship over there?” Duaal pointed at the Blue Phoenix.
“Ya, two of them. A man with a cybernetic arm — who has those these days? — and an older fella chasing him. Prian, I think. There was a big bird chasing him. The one with the metal hand ran off and the older man yelled after him for a bit, then went into the ship there.”
“Did you see which way the one with the cybernetics went?” Duaal asked. He was getting closer…
“Off that direction,” the Hyzaari woman said, pointing north.
“He’d been shot,” Duaal told her, indicating the blood on the nose of the Riptide where Coldhand must have steadied himself. “Do you know where he was bleeding from?”
“Na, I didn’t get that close. I stayed back behind the fuel pylon until it was well over.”
Duaal thanked her. He could find out for himself how badly Coldhand was wounded when he cornered the bounty hunter. Now that Duaal knew which direction to go.
He made his way north, weaving between the ships in search of his quarry. The landing pads formed a large crescent on the west side of Gharib, running in a curve north and south along the city’s edge. The Blue Phoenix was just south of the midpoint, so Coldhand had fled further up there, not into the city.
Once Coldhand put some distance between him and Tiberius, what would he do? This close to Gharib, the landing crescent was full of passenger ships instead of the cargo vessels that made berth further out. Most were small starships carrying no more than fifty people. Stray wasn’t exactly a vacation port.
As evening crept over Gharib, shops and bars turned on bright holographic signs and neon lights, illuminating the dusty city like a discarded Waytide decoration. Duaal jogged up the main landing road. Vehicles on their null-fields buzzed past and Duaal pulled up his collar against the cool rising wind. Stray’s sun was half hidden behind the horizon, sinking Gharib into deep russet shadows. It was getting cold.
Duaal scanned the streets of the landing crescent, full of vehicles moving cargo or supplies to or from ships, but with only a few pedestrians. Most everyone was already in the city, bedding down for the night or else drinking it away. What could Coldhand want in the landing crescent that he couldn’t find in Gharib? It wasn’t a place for a lone man to lose himself in the crowd, much less one so obviously wounded and deformed.
Maybe Coldhand was looking for a doctor? The hunter was injured, after all. But why go search out a ship medic when he could just go to a hospital in Gharib? The city doctors were almost as corrupt as the police, but could Coldhand find anyone better in the landing crescent?
Or were the rumors true…? Maybe Coldhand didn’t care about his injuries. But if he wasn’t trying to hide in the city or get medical attention, then where was he going?
To get off Stray, Duaal realized. Back to his starfighter on Axis, equipped with plenty of weaponry to shoot down the much larger but unarmed Blue Phoenix. Coldhand had been chasing Maeve for the better part of a year and never seemed to have much difficulty in finding her. The detour to retrieve his Raptor was probably an acceptable delay.
Now what? Duaal wandered along the street with no idea where to go or what to do next. The entire roadway was lined with ships, crossed by myriad tributary streets leading out to the next rows of landing pads. One by one, the ships and cargo haulers flipped on their nightlights, etching the landing crescent in glaring reds and greens.
Coldhand could be inside any one of those other ships. Hells, he might already be gone, up in the big black and on his way back to Axis. Duaal stopped and frowned through the deepening darkness of the Stray night.
An elegant silver ship sat across the street, all smoothly curving, swooping lines and delicate chromium filigree that threw back the surrounding lights like a broken mirror. A Kahli design, maybe? They were very expensive, all customized by the Narsus shipyards.
A gleaming figure in white stood at the bottom of the extended boarding ramp. The darkening night and layers of pale cloth disguised race or gender from a distance. Their posture seemed all wrong, but their covered face was raised, contemplating the stars. Staring just like Duaal. What if they had seen Coldhand? Maybe Duaal could still bring the hunter back to Tiberius.
Duaal ran across the road to the lowered ramp and grabbed the white-shrouded figure by the shoulder.
“Hey, did you see a man with a metal hand come this way?” he asked. “He would have been bleeding.”
It was a woman. She was considerably shorter than Duaal, delicately feminine under his hand. What he had mistaken for a cloak from a distance were long feathered wings, held out behind her and nearly lost against the soft white of her flowing gown.
An Arcadian? On a ship like this? Maybe she was some kind of hired help? The dry desert wind rustled the fairy’s feathers and tugged at her dress. It was expensive, too, just like the ship. Layers of silver-embroidered white silk were knotted at the waist with an intricately wrought gold belt, beaded with glass. Her back was straight and her chin held high. Duaal doubted that such a woman would ever serve someone else.
A hood of snowy velvet was pulled up over her face and a white veil affixed across her high, sharp cheekbones. Small silver discs dangled from the edge, chiming in the evening breeze. Duaal was about to repeat his questions, but the words died in his throat. Her eyes were lined in ashy gray makeup that curled down over her cheeks in graceful arcs and vanished beneath her veil. It wasn’t the exquisite makeup job that arrested Duaal, though, but her eyes — the only color anywhere on the fairy woman. They were a deep violet, like lilacs at twilight. They were lovely and sad, but proud and defiant.
So beautiful…
Duaal had no idea how long he just stood there, falling into the Arcadian woman’s violet gaze, before a loud cry roused him from his reverie.
“Lady Xartasia!”
Two men raced down the boarding ramp behind the Arcadian. They were also robed and hooded, but in fading black cloth instead of white, and not nearly as fine a cut or weave. The one who had shouted was human with unremarkable blond hair poking out from under his hood, but his accent marked him as Cyran, from the old farming colony. A Lyran with singed-looking fur ran close on his heels. Both of them drew worn laser pistols and leveled them at Duaal.
“You, stand back!” the Lyran barked.
Duaal frowned, but he removed his hand from the Arcadian woman’s shoulder and stepped back. Both guards bowed to the fairy. Xartasia, apparently.
“My lady, are you alright?” the human one asked. “Is this boy bothering you?”
Annoyed though Duaal was at being treated like any old piece of Gharib trash, Duaal actually hoped he hadn’t disturbed her. Xartasia ignored her guard’s question and cocked her head toward Duaal, curiosity in her violet eyes. She took in Duaal’s clothes, the arcane symbols and strange sigils there.
“I have not seen such marks in a long time,” Xartasia said. “You stir memories of my home, if only for a moment. And for that moment, I thank you. Are you searching for someone?”
Duaal nearly swooned. Xartasia’s voice was as smooth and sweet as the finest golden mantle syrup. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard. And it sounded strangely familiar…
“Um, yes,” Duaal said. He wasn’t sure how he should address her, but she obviously commanded respect. “My um… my lady.”
“A bleeding man with a metal hand, I believe you said. One with blond hair and a rather… stark bearing?”
Duaal wasn’t certain what that last part meant, but it certainly sounded like Coldhand.
“Yes, he’s a bounty hunter,” Duaal said. “He’s trying to catch one of my crewmates.”
Duaal didn’t think he would mind if Coldhand hauled Maeve away, but the man had shot at Tiberius. Xartasia regarded Duaal with those luminous, heart-stopping violet eyes.
“And what will you do to this man when you find him?” she asked. “Kill him?”
Duaal blinked. “What? No! I just want to stop him before he gets off Stray. I need to take him back to Tiberius.”
Xartasia stepped closer to Duaal, her white skirts whispering. She stroked his cheek with cool alabaster fingers. Her guards still held their weapons at the ready and watched the scene carefully, but didn’t say anything.
“This man is a bounty hunter,” Xartasia said. “A man who kills for money. One who would kill your friend for nothing more than plastic cenmark chips.”
Duaal wished that he could see the fairy’s lips, but they were invisible behind her veil.
“She’s not my friend,” he objected half-heartedly. “I don’t think she’s really worth killing someone over.”
Something flickered in Xartasia’s glorious eyes. Why did she care? But Duaal couldn’t help the surge of gratitude that she did. Xartasia stepped behind Duaal, trailing soft wings along his arms.
“Kill him,” she urged. “This man is a monster. A misshapen destroyer who spreads pain like a plague.”
“Have you… met him?” Duaal asked. His head was spinning.
“I do not have to.”
Xartasia’s words made a dreamy kind of sense. Bounty hunters were fringe rogues themselves, not much better than the criminals they hunted. Coldhand was worse than most. He hunted Maeve, a woman Duaal didn’t like, but whose loss would be a painful blow to Tiberius. If Duaal killed Coldhand, the captain would praise his bravery. Maybe Tiberius would finally see that Duaal was a far superior first mate and promote him up over the drunken, chem-addicted fairy.
“To conquer a killer, to conquer death… it takes strength,” said Xartasia. “Do you have such strength?”
She smelled like flowers. Xartasia’s wings closed around Duaal like a soft white cage. Maeve was a wanted criminal herself, wasn’t she? She must have done something to earn the bounty on her head. Maeve didn’t belong on Tiberius’ ship. Logan Coldhand was ruthless and inhuman, but at least what he did was legal. If Duaal killed Coldhand, wouldn’t he become a criminal, too? A murderer?
“I can’t… kill him,” Duaal said. “I just need to find him. Do you know where he went?”
Xartasia withdrew her wings and stepped back, disappointment in her beautiful violet eyes.
“Your heart is sullen and your spirit is placid,” she told Duaal. “I have nothing else to offer you.”
Xartasia turned away and gestured to her Cyran guard.
“We have business to tend to in this place, I believe,” she said.
They were all ignoring Duaal now. He felt small, insignificant, and he hated it.
“Yes, my lady. The cathedral is this way,” her human guard said, nodding to the east. “He is waiting for you. I’ll escort you there.”
“Remain with my ship,” Xartasia instructed the Lyran.
The second guard bowed, too, and took up his position next to the shiny silver ship. Xartasia spread her wings and leapt into the darkened sky, her skirts rippling like clouds in the breeze. Duaal found himself gazing after her with the same expression of devoted adoration as the other two men. Her perfect whiteness shone bright against the night for a moment, dwindled and then was gone.
The Cyran man shook himself and holstered his gun. He cursed under his breath, hiked up his black robes, and then jogged out east after the departing Arcadian. So much for escorting her. With a sigh, Duaal turned back to the Lyran they left behind. He had put away his gun, at least.
“Did you see the man I’m looking for?” Duaal asked.
The Lyran growled. “Lady Xartasia didn’t tell you, so I don’t see why I should. Get along, boy!”
“Then you did see him,” Duaal said. “Which way did he go?”
“You heard the lady,” the Lyran barked. “We’re done!”
“Tell me!” Duaal demanded, drawing himself up and glaring at the guard.
The Lyran snarled, his uneven hackles bristling and laying his ears flat against his skull. He bared long, sharp teeth. “Run back home to the bitch that spawned you, pup! Stop whining for a rip or I will give it to you!”
He placed his hand over the butt of his laser pistol. Duaal raised his hands before him and laced the fingers together into a jagged star pattern.
“Na illya ma’naari su,” he chanted.
There it was, that mix of thrill and terror as the Arcadian words moved through Duaal, the fairy spell turning thought into deadly form. The air around Duaal’s hands cracked and flickered with twisting bolts of blue-white lightning. Now the Lyran sank to his knees and curled his tail awkwardly between his robed legs.
“God… what? How did you…?” the man whimpered.
“Tell me!” Duaal shouted.
The blaze of electricity had already faded, but the effect — and the smell of ozone — lingered. Trembling, the Lyran pointed to an empty landing pad just down the road.
“The man with the cybernetics… he went to the ship landed there. It was unmarked. It took off half an hour ago.”
“Was he on board when they left?”
“I think so,” the Lyran said.
“Damn it!”
He was too late and Coldhand was already gone. Briefly, Duaal contemplated trying to pry a departure vector or flight plan from Stray’s orbital control. But what was the point? Duaal didn’t have any of the necessary codes or credentials to get that information, and he already knew where Coldhand was going — Axis. Back to his ship and his weapons. There was no way to haul the bounty hunter back to Tiberius now.
“Damn it,” Duaal growled again.
Behind him, the Lyran said something and Duaal looked back over his shoulder.
“What?” he asked.
“I answered your question. Will you kill me now?”
“What? No!” Duaal said, aghast.
“I’m ready. Kill me.”
The Lyran certainly looked prepared. He was still down on his knees, head bowed and ready for execution.
“What are you doing?” Duaal asked. “If you wanted to die, why did you answer my question?”
The Lyran’s ears angled back flat against his skull. “You… know magic. Aren’t you…?”
But he trailed off, suddenly looking uncertain. There was something going on here that Duaal didn’t understand.
And Duaal had no desire to. He was angry, frustrated at his lack of success and ashamed of threatening the Lyran guard like that. Duaal didn’t want to kill Coldhand, much less this shabbily dressed stranger.
The Jinn couldn’t even scream anymore. Her delicate amber leaves blackened and smoked under the jagged blue curls of lightning. Duaal’s master released the spell and the Jinn pitched forward, twigs and charred boughs snapping as she fell to the concrete floor. He brought his black boot down hard on her branches. Tears streamed down Duaal’s cheeks, but he didn’t dare leave his master’s side.
“Answer me and your pain will end,” said the old man. His tone was one of gentle compromise, even as the Jinn’s branches crunched under his feet.
“Why are you questioning me? Ask the Arcadians! Or the Nnyth!” she cried.
“The Ivory Spire adepts are all dead. Even the Arcadian princess can’t tell me what I need to know. She was never trained in those spells. The Nnyth won’t let any ship I hire get close enough to have such a… civil conversation as this. So you must tell me.”
Please just answer him, Duaal wished silently. Make it stop!
“Why do you want the opening spells?” the Jinn asked. “There are no Waygates in the core to use them on! You’ve already somehow managed to learn more of the Arcadian’s magic than any human before you… Can you not be proud and content in that?”
“If the spells are so useless, then stop fighting me.”
“No,” the alien tree whispered. She closed her berry-like eyes. “I don’t know what you intend to do with those spells, but if you somehow learn to use the Waygates, you could bring your… gentle touch… to any world.”
Duaal stared. Would she truly rather die than tell the old man her secrets? But Duaal’s master was unimpressed. He grabbed the Jinn by the boughs and hauled her up to her roots, chanting another spell in his rich, powerful voice. The words rang through Duaal’s mind and rose in his throat like bile, unwelcome but inexorable. He screamed out his master’s words.
To any other coreworlder, they would have meant nothing. Duaal didn’t speak Arcadian, but he knew these words. His master had burned them into his memory, forced the boy to understand them, and that understanding lent power and form.
The close air crackled and hissed. Duaal’s ears popped as lightning consumed the air in the room and surged at the captive Jinn. Her bark split and cracked, baring soft wood beneath that smoked and splintered. Leaves burned away to drifting ash and the Jinn girl lay still as an ordinary tree.
The monotone beeping of his com brought Duaal back to the present. The Lyran was still on his knees, but pricked his ears toward the sound. Duaal thrust his hands into his pockets and walked the opposite direction as quickly as he could without breaking into a run.
When he had created a little distance, Duaal grabbed his com and swore under his breath. Somewhere along the way, he had lost the jug of delberry wine purchased from Ssassi. He must have set it down at some point and forgotten to pick it up again. Thirty cenmarks thrown away for some Gharib vagrant to drink…
Duaal keyed on his com with a sigh. “Yeah? What is it?”
“The bird’s secure now. You can come back,” Tiberius told him. “Are you safe? You didn’t run into Coldhand, did you?”
“I’m fine. And I haven’t seen Coldhand all evening,” Duaal said truthfully.
