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They are nearing the forest when they find a man half-sprawled among the rocks beside the road, nearly naked and still as a corpse. Ambushed, Mercenary thinks. Stripped and left for dead. Ahead of him, Warlord reins in his horse to pause by the body.
Mercenary halts his own horse lest he be yanked out of the saddle by the long chain that binds him to Warlord. “We should move on,” he says. To Warlord, but also to the voice
—stop—look—
whisper-soft as wings in the night.
—help—save—
They cannot. “Whatever killed this man might still be near,” Mercenary warns.
“He’s not dead,” says Machiste. “Look, his side expands with breath.”
He’s right. The poor fucker’s alive. “We’ll bring him with us,” says Warlord pointedly at Mercenary.
“He’s not a small man, and we don’t have a spare horse. He’ll only slow us down.”
“We’ll manage. Now get him up.”
You’re not my king, Mercenary wants to snarl, but he alights to kneel beside the man. The sooner he’s done, the sooner they can go.
He rolls the man over onto his back. Pauses. The dust caking his skin belies a lack of wounds—not a bruise or scratch on him, not even sunburn. Nor is he completely dispossessed: he’s been left with a belt to hold up the scrap of cloth at his groin, and something red is bunched tightly in the fist no longer trapped under his heavy bulk.
The man stirs with a groan. His eyes open to squint against the sun overhead, and his gaze flits around briefly before landing on Mercenary. “Who are you? What happened—where—?”
“I am the Warlord, and these are my men,” says Warlord before Mercenary can answer. “We can speak more when we are safely off the road. Are you hurt?”
The man props himself up on an elbow and looks over his own body. “My head’s pounding,” he says, pressing the heel of his hand to his temple, “but otherwise I think I’m fine.”
“Very well, then. You’ll ride with the mercenary.” Warlord motions for the group to press onward. Mercenary rises to his feet—and finds his hand has extended to the man without his knowing. He stares at it, bemused.
“Thanks,” says the man and grasps the proffered arm to pull himself up. Mercenary watches him unfold to his full height. He is—very tall. His eyes are very blue
—sky—bright—
Which makes no sense; the sky above Skartaris burns a dull red.
Scowling at himself, Mercenary shakes off the man’s hand. “Let’s go,” he says and turns away to his horse.
—
They make camp in a glade Mariah has scouted out and build a fire to drive back the deep gloom. The man sits beside Mercenary as they eat and drink by its light. Spread across his lap is a long swath of red fabric.
“A strange symbol,” says Machiste from the other side of the man. “I do not know it. Is that your banner?”
“I’m…not sure.” The man frowns as his hand traces faded yellow lines. “I can’t remember anything.”
“You’re not the only one,” says Mariah. “The mercenary doesn’t know where he hails from, either.”
“I know enough to lead you to Deimos,” Mercenary growls.
“Deimos?” says the man.
“A wizard,” says Warlord from across the fire. “A blight on this land.”
The man narrows his eyes. “What has he done?”
“He seeks to destroy Shamballah and bring all of Skartaris under his rule. But we are not so easily conquered,” says Machiste, polishing his prosthetic mace. “It seems he has taken cutthroats and assassins into his employ to do what he cannot through direct force. He sent this one”—he practically spits in Mercenary’s direction—“to kill the Warlord.”
The man looks over Mercenary. His brow furrows as his eyes catch on the black sigil on Mercenary’s belt and the heavy chain that leads from the collar at his neck to the band on Warlord’s wrist, its length twice a man’s height. “Obviously he failed. Why the chain, though? You’re not—is he your—”
“I’m no man’s slave,” Mercenary snaps.
Mariah scoffs. “True, your only master is gold,” she says, her saber pointed at him as she inspects its edge by the firelight.
“We have promised him payment for his services as our guide,” says Warlord, “but loyalty such as his is easily bought. This”—Warlord raises his chained wrist—”is to ensure no treachery on his part as we go to Deimos’ stronghold and deal with the wizard for good.” He pauses to study the man. “You look like you can fight. Will you join us?”
The man looks unsure. “I suppose—” Suddenly he straightens. “Something’s coming. We should get to the trees.”
Mercenary frowns. “I don’t hear anything,” says Mariah.
The man’s urgency turns to fear. “Trust me, we need to get up now.” He yanks Mercenary to his feet and hauls both him and Warlord to the nearest tree. “Climb!”
The others are slower to rise. “Do as he says!” orders Warlord. “Quickly!”
They’ve barely settled in the branches when the ground begins shaking. Huge, horned beasts burst from the brush, scattering coals everywhere as the animals trample the fire in their haste. Long minutes go by before the last of the stampeding herd passes and the forest settles back into relative stillness.
Warlord starts to descend from his perch, but Mercenary holds him back. “Those creatures were running from something,” he says. Soon enough, the sound of snapping tree limbs grows louder by the second.
“Wait, don’t—” the man calls out, too late for the poor fools who climbed down. A deafening roar is their only warning before massive jaws snatch one up and lift him screaming high above the ground.
“Like hell!” Warlord bellows as he draws his sword. He jumps down and charges at the monster, dragging Mercenary along by his chain. The monster flings aside its prey and lunges whip-quick at Warlord, but he’s faster. He ducks under its snapping jaws and thrusts his sword into its belly, slicing it open as he rushes toward its legs. Mercenary, trailing helplessly after, fails to avoid the rain of viscera.
The beast totters for a moment before it falls over dead. The rest of the band come down from the trees to tend to the groaning wounded. “Are you alright?” the man asks, looking from Mercenary to Warlord.
“We’re fine,” says Warlord. He flings the blood from his sword and resheathes it, then raises his voice to the others. “Pack up everything; this place holds no safety for us. Those who can’t go on will return to Shamballah with the horses,” he commands before turning to the man. “How did you know those things were coming?”
The man stills at the question, shoulders tense and eyes uncertain. “I-I guess I just have good hearing.”
“Like a bat’s,” Mercenary remarks.
The man smiles weakly. “You could put it that way.”
“Certainly a useful trait,” says Warlord. “You have my thanks. Many would have died if not for your warning.”
“There’s no need,” the man demurs. “It was the least I could do after you saved me on the road.”
Warlord nods his acceptance. “Will you join us then? We could use another scout, and you would help rid Skartaris of a great evil.”
The man relaxes at the offer, his expression grateful—almost relieved. “I’d be glad to,” he says.
Mercenary clears his throat. “If you’re done here, some of us would like to get cleaned up.”
“The rivulet nearby does not carry enough water for bathing,” says Warlord, frowning at the mess on him.
“I’ll find you rags and a waterskin,” the man offers Mercenary brightly. Warlord nods and turns his attention elsewhere while Mercenary goes to follow the man as far as his chain will allow. On the way to their saddlebags, the man stoops to pick up his red cloth, fallen to the ground in the chaos.
He shakes it out and holds it up: it’s somehow stayed spotless and whole. Mercenary doesn’t catch what he mutters to himself, but after a moment’s study, the man drapes it like a sash over one broad shoulder and tucks the ends under his belt. The yellow sigil, now emblazoned on his chest, seems to shine in the dim light as he sets to his self-appointed task.
Sure as the never-setting sun, Mercenary knows: the man and his symbol are much more than they appear.
—
The wind blows strong as they sail across the Dragon Sea. With Machiste steering their raft, Mercenary has nothing to do but sit by the water. He looks out at the foam-tipped waves, ignoring the gaze boring into the side of his head until he can’t anymore.
“Stop staring,” he growls at the man sitting next to him.
“Sorry. It’s just—I feel like I know you from somewhere. Maybe we’ve crossed paths before?”
“I’ve never seen your face in my life.” But
—know—known—
the words feel wrong in Mercenary’s mouth. “Leave me alone.”
“And go where?” says the man with a wry glance around the small raft. “Besides, you’ve been watching me, too. What’s your reason?”
Not watching but analyzing, trying to
—know—known—
That damn whisper again. Mercenary shakes it out of his head.
“Not going to admit it, are you.” The man shrugs. “Alright then. Just know I’m onto you.”
Mercenary eyes him sidelong. He can admit this much, if only to himself: the man is easy to look at, well-formed and strong with a handsome face. He’ll never tell, though; it won’t do to encourage him.
He tries Mercenary’s patience enough as it is. “This wizard. Deimos,” the man carries on blithely and nods at the growing peak on the horizon. “He lives on that mountain?”
“Yes.”
“You know what we’ll face there?”
“Death.”
The man chuckles. “You’re a regular ray of sunshine.”
“I told you to leave me alone.”
“He’s afraid,” Mariah scoffs behind them. “He fears the wizard’s magic.”
“I don’t fear anything,” Mercenary snaps. “And I don’t believe in magic.”
Mariah laughs, incredulous. “So Deimos simply dabbles in parlor tricks and petty illusions?”
“Not tricks—powerful, dangerous tools. But anyone could wield them if they understood how.”
Mariah says nothing—the skepticism on her face is clear enough—but the man looks thoughtful. “If you don’t believe in magic, what do you believe in?”
—pearls—gunshots—
“Steel. Gold. The evil in men’s hearts.”
“Mercenary,” Mariah spits.
“I don’t think that’s entirely true,” the man says. “If we’re facing certain death, gold can’t be all that keeps you coming along with us to his lair.”
Mercenary gives him a dry look as he lifts his chain.
The man smiles. “No. You’re too clever for that thing to actually hold you, and you’ve had plenty of chances to betray us.” He studies Mercenary, considering. “I think, beneath that prickly cynicism, you actually care.”
—orphaned—adopted—
“You’re wrong. And naive.”
“I’m not saying you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart,” the man says mildly. “But you won’t simply let evil win, either.”
—truth—justice—
“Shut up,” mutters Mercenary.
“Say again? I couldn’t hear you,” the man says with a teasing grin—and drops it as his eyes grow wide. “What in—”
The raft tilts sharply as an enormous head rises from the water. It lunges straight for Mercenary, rows of sharp teeth closing in too fast for reaction. Then the press of a body, so brief he might have imagined it. He’s now on the far side of the raft and looks back to see the man leap—
up, up, up—
and drop like an eagle on the sea monster’s neck. He scrambles to straddle its crest and brings his fists down hard on its skull. The beast rears back in pain and tries to shake him off, but he hangs on with one hand and drives the whole length of his free arm into its eye. With a screech, it plunges back into the depths, taking the man with it.
“No!” Mercenary yells and dashes to the edge of the raft. The wind is speeding them away from the bubbles trailing downward and vanishing fast. He readies to dive in, but Warlord hauls him back by the shoulders.
“You can’t help,” he says, the chain between them a heavy reminder of his situation. “He made his choice to keep you alive. Don’t waste it.”
Mercenary shoves him off with a snarl. He staggers back to the edge and falls hard to his knees, staring into the waves. Why would the man do that for someone like him?
“Hey, over here! I could use a hand!”
Not far from another side of the raft, the man has surfaced and is swimming towards them with long, strong strokes. Mercenary is the first to reach out and pull him over the side. He looks him over for injuries but finds nothing.
“I was right, you do care,” the man laughs breathlessly. He shakes out his wet hair like a dog, spraying water all over Mercenary.
Mercenary refrains from shoving him back overboard. “What were you thinking,” he grits out instead.
The man’s steady gaze is blue, blue, blue
—friend—more—
and his smile is gentle and knowing. “I care, too.”
—
Once they make shore, they waste no time in finding a way up the sheer crags, hacking through the dense understory of the jungle. Eventually they come upon a broad, smooth path gently sloping up the mountainside.
“Looks too easy,” mutters the man. “I don’t like it.”
Mercenary agrees privately. Deimos does not care if challengers come: sooner or later, they all fall to his power. Nothing to be done but trudge after Warlord with grim acceptance.
The way grows steeper and rockier. It narrows the higher they climb until they are forced to shuffle sideways with their backs to the rock wall, a sheer drop into empty air before them. From overhead they hear squawks and calls; vast leathery wings above them swoop closer and closer.
Screams as a woman is snatched away. Warlord draws his sword. “Get to cover!” he urges as he points at a large fissure in the rock maybe thirty paces ahead.
They won’t make it. The footing is treacherous, and their swords haven’t the reach to keep back the flying beasts. Mercenary hurls a rock at the nearest one, striking true on the head, but his effort does little more than draw its ire and attention to himself.
A rush of air as a shadow passes overhead: not a diving monster but a boulder. It flies into the creature with so much force that the thing smashes into two others, sending all three tumbling out of the sky. Mercenary looks up to see the man perched on the ledge above, tearing off another piece of the crag with his bare hands.
Now is not the time to gawp. He shoves Warlord up the path until they both reach the safety of the crevasse. More scramble in after them, but Mercenary watches only for the man—and of course he would be the last to come through.
They huddle in place, waiting anxiously. The creatures claw at the narrow opening but fall back when they fail to reach their prey, and their wingbeats gradually grow distant.
“We’ll rest here for an hour,” says Warlord. “Best to be sure those things stay away.”
While they wait, Mercenary spots the man among the warriors packed tight in the crevasse and pushes his way to his side. “Out there,” he says roughly and seizes the man’s hands: they are broad and strong, but smooth as a child’s. “How?” he asks. What are you, he doesn’t say.
He doesn’t have to. The man takes his hands back, mouth pressed into a thin line and shoulders drawing inward. “Would you believe me if I said I don’t know?” he says in a small voice. “I needed to, and then—and then I could.”
“But—”
“I just want to help. Isn’t that enough?”
“That’s not it,” Mercenary says. He simply has
—awe—want—
questions. But the man slips away into the press of bodies.
—
They finally come to the castle. The entrance gapes wide, darkness beyond it beckoning them inside, but Mercenary signals them to halt before the threshold.
Machiste growls impatiently. “What are we waiting for? Let us kill the wizard and be done with this place.”
“Something’s wrong,” says Mercenary, but his gut feeling can tell him no more than that.
“He’s right,” says the man, shouldering past Mercenary as he steps closer to the doorway. “But where exactly…” His muttering trails off as he squints at the empty air. Then he shrugs and stretches forth a hand.
“Stop—” Mercenary is too late to grab his arm, but other than a wince and a shake of his hand, the man is unharmed. Where his hand had passed, an odd shimmer pulses and fades away.
Instinct leads Mercenary to inspect the surfaces closely. There—something snaking across the floor. He grabs and pulls up the thing—thick as a jungle vine but strangely smooth—until it lifts a metal plate from the floor. More vine things are gathered in the space beneath. Mercenary grabs these too and snaps them with a hard yank. Sparks fall from the torn ends, and the strange charge in the air dies with them.
The man tests the doorway with his hand again. “Whatever that was, it’s gone. It’s safe to go in.”
As Mercenary leads the group with slow caution, Warlord watches him closely. “Your hesitance is unfeigned. You’ve never set foot in this place,” he remarks. “How did you know what to do at the door?”
“...I’m not sure,” says Mercenary, discomfited by his own actions. He glances sidelong to see the man lift a brow at him: so you, too.
The passageways begin to take abrupt, random turns. They must be in a maze. Mercenary stops Warlord from stepping on a flagstone that seems off, and he kneels to weight it with a careful hand.
Ahead of them, spikes burst from fissures in the walls before retracting. “Traps ahead,” Mercenary says as he marks the stone. “Watch your step, and don’t touch anything.”
Dead end by dead end, trap after trap, they eke out a path through the maze. The stench of rotting meat thickens as they approach what feels like the center. Mercenary hears retching behind him but presses on regardless. He’s not imagining those faint thuds and metallic screeches; from his place in the rearguard, even the man looks nervous and frustrated by the slow pace. Something terrible lurks here that he has no desire to meet.
Just as he breathes in the slightest draft of fresh air, Mercenary feels the tremor of heavy footsteps through the floor. He starts to trot while still mindful of traps, but the pounding grows heavier and closer. Faster. A hulking, horn-studded figure fills the passage behind them. Its roar shakes the walls, and Mercenary throws caution to the wind. “Run!”
He sprints as hard as he can, dodging spikes and blades that spring from every surface. Warlord lags behind him as he keeps looking back towards his men, so Mercenary tugs roughly on the chain. “Leave them, or none of us will live to kill the wizard!”
Warlord snarls and sends him a murderous glare but picks up the pace.
Miracle of miracles, they stumble upon the exit. Mercenary watches for anyone still following, his hand on the lever of the raised portcullis guarding the way out. Mariah runs into view with several others, then Machiste, and at long last the man, wielding an axe he’s scavenged from somewhere.
But he stops just short of the gate, looking over his shoulder at whatever is approaching then upwards at the waiting bars. “Come on!” Mercenary wildly gestures for him to move.
The man shakes his head and readies to throw the axe—at Mercenary. He draws back from the lever just in time as the axe smashes it to splinters and drops the portcullis, trapping the man inside.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING, YOU FOOL?” Mercenary roars and tries to lift the gate, but his frantic pulling fails to budge the heavy iron. He can only look on as the man smiles at him before charging back into the darkness.
Mercenary futilely pries at the bars, his screams mingling with the harsh bellows that echo out of the depths. Then—silence, broken only by his own hoarse cries.
The chain jangles as Warlord approaches. He puts a hand on Mercenary’s shoulder and, mercifully, says nothing.
—
No further danger lies between them and Deimos. Among the survivors trailing after Mercenary, the silence is brittle and tense. Mercenary himself thinks only of ending this fool’s quest as soon as possible. Then he’ll tear down this accursed place until not a stone is left standing.
They enter a cavernous room ringed with broken columns and crumbling plinths. Four sets of wide stairs lead down to an empty stone chair on a central dais, mountains of gold and treasure piled around it. Deimos is nowhere in sight.
“Spread out,” says Warlord, drawing his sword. “Find him. I know he’s here.” He marches onto the dais with Mercenary. “Come out, you coward! Face me!”
Clapping his hands slowly, Deimos steps out from a darkened doorway. “You’ve done well, mercenary, bringing the Warlord to me.” He waves a hand, and a cage of light falls around Warlord, slicing through everything it touches—Mercenary’s chain included. “Take whatever you like as payment.”
“You planned this,” howls Warlord as his warriors rush at Deimos and Mercenary. The wizard waves his hand again. A low hum, and every scrap of steel and iron begins to glow. Swords fall as their bearers scream and claw at helmets and armor. The length of Mercenary’s chain lying off the dais smokes and melts the gold it rests on, but he himself stands unharmed.
Mercenary wrinkles his nose at the smell of burning flesh as he turns to Warlord. “Deimos made me a deal: I try to kill you, fail on purpose, and guide you here so he can kill you himself. In return, I get a pile of gold,” he says in a tired, toneless voice.
“I’ll wring your neck for this treachery!” Mariah snarls, crawling on blistered limbs.
Mercenary shrugs. From a hidden pocket, he draws the key he lifted off Warlord and unlocks the chaining collar at his neck, then flings it into the heaping piles. “It doesn’t matter. I’m done with all of you.”
Before he can step off the dais, Deimos tosses him something small. He catches it on reflex. A strange wand: it sits cold and heavy in his hand, with an angled grip at one end and a hollow length of steel at the other.
—gun—
“One last thing, mercenary. Put these wretches out of their misery, and you’ll be free to go.”
Though Mercenary has never seen such a weapon, his hands know how to grip it, to thumb the small lever, sight down its length and pull—
“No.” He tosses the wand—the gun—aside. “I won’t do it.”
“Disappointing,” says Deimos. He draws another gun from his robes and aims it at Mercenary. “But at least I won’t have to pay you.” He fires.
Mercenary staggers back as he’s enfolded in a large embrace. The man, shielding him from Deimos—he’s alive. He’s alive.
Deimos fires again, but the bullet crumples against the man’s back. The man lets go of Mercenary and stalks towards the wizard, who panics and shoots him wildly to no effect. Then the man blurs. Deimos flies backward into a wall with a solid crunch, and the gun is now a lump in the man’s huge fist.
The cage of light and the deadly hum vanish. Mercenary looks for the nearest weapon while Warlord raises his sword and charges at the wizard. “For Shamballah!” he cries, and a few warriors struggle to their feet in answer.
“ENOUGH.” An explosion of red light fills the room. Mercenary’s vision clears to find Deimos floating above them, encircled by glowing glyphs and eyes alight with rage. “Pathetic mortals. You think to kill me so easily?” He drifts higher, his body deforming as it lengthens and grows. “I am the ruler of Skartaris. I am Magic incarnate. And now, I am your death!”
In place of the wizard, a gigantic snake now hisses, its rune-covered coils winding around the chamber. “Ugh, I hate magic,” mutters the man standing beside him. Mercenary shares the sentiment wholeheartedly.
The snake bares its fangs and strikes at the two of them. Mercenary leaps away in time, but the man cries out and stumbles. Mercenary grunts as he catches his heavy weight and gets them both behind a column, narrowly avoiding a second strike.
Collapsed on the floor, the man clutches at his leg and stares at the deep gash in bewilderment. “It burns. But just before—all the other times—what’s happening?”
Mercenary can do nothing for him at the moment. “Press on it as much as you can, and stay out of sight.” He leans out and takes in the raging battle: Warlord and Machiste remain on their feet, but everywhere bodies lie moaning or still. Defeat is almost certain. On impulse, he tips the man’s chin up and kisses him hard on the lips, then leaps back into the fight.
He scoops up a heavy spear as he sprints for the snake’s blind spot. While the others distract it, Mercenary aims at an eye and hurls the spear with everything he has.
At the last moment, the snake twitches its head. The spearhead breaks against its scales, not even leaving a scratch. “Steel won’t work!” Warlord yells. “We need to find something else!”
Mercenary scans the hoard. He spots talismans and glowing staves, but these could as easily harm as help. Then his gaze lands on the gun he’d tossed aside, its barrel glinting atop a distant pile of treasure.
He runs for it, diving and sliding, hurdling a wave of gold when the snake’s tail slams into him from behind and sends him tumbling down a slope. He lands hard on his back and looks up to see an avalanche of coins rushing towards him. Mercenary scrambles up in time to avoid being smothered, but he’s now trapped chest-deep in the hoard.
It’s hopeless. Just as his eyes close in resignation, he hears the man cry out, “Bruce! Behind you!”
His name. That’s his name—he’d forgotten—and how did—? No, not time to wonder. Right now—
Bruce turns to see the gun lying not an arm’s length away. With a roar of effort, he heaves his arms free and grabs it, then pushes down on the gold as hard as he can, managing to haul himself out to his waist. He tries to get an angle on the snake, but even his sharp eye can’t find a clear shot from down here.
What else can he use? Nothing at hand gives him the needed leverage to free himself, but up over there—
“Warlord! Catch!” he bellows and throws the gun. Warlord snatches it neatly out of the air, raises it with practiced aim, and shoots.
Blood bursts from the snake's right eye. It screams like a man and falls, its bulk twisting and shrinking until Deimos lies prone with a hand held to a dripping socket. “I will have my revenge, Warlord,” he hisses as raises his other hand. Then a flash of red light, and he’s gone.
Warlord drops the gun and runs over to pull Bruce out. They stagger up the steps to where the man is leaning by a doorframe.
“I told you to stay out of sight,” says Bruce, though he’s too tired to put any heat into his words.
The man shrugs. “I started feeling better.”
Bruce looks down at the leg: under the drying blood, the wound seems shallower than before. He resists the urge to look closer and press for more.
Instead, Bruce directs his question at Warlord. “The gun. How did you—”
“When I caught it,” says Warlord, “I remembered everything. Another life as an air force pilot, the crash that stranded me. But my home is here, and I must protect Skartaris from Deimos.” He squares his shoulders, looking out at the remaining warriors. “I was once Travis Morgan. Now I am the Warlord.”
He turns back to Bruce. “The two of you are sojourners as well?”
—Gotham—
“We are,” says Bruce and looks at the man. “But we can’t stay.”
The man returns his gaze, his eyes intent and bright, sky blue. “We need to find a way back and figure out what’s going on. Any ideas?” Bruce feels the man’s fingers brush the back of his hand: a different kind of question, an invitation
—home—Clark—
Bruce takes his hand in answer. “Getting out of here would be a good start.”
As he speaks, the doorway beside them starts to hum and pulse with a bright, strange light. A portal, Bruce recognizes. “More magic,” he grumbles under his breath.
Bruce and Clark bid Warlord good luck as he gathers his men and leaves. “You believe in magic now?” Clark teases before they go forth to whatever awaits them.
Bruce suppresses an eyeroll. “No.”
—I believe in you—
