Happy reading, people (that is if anyone actually cares)
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Chapter Seventeen: Non Serviam
Sabrina was at the barracks scrubbing the floors. Morty hadn't seen her in a few days and her condition had deteriorated. Her clothes were dirty, and her body bruised and battered. He even spotted a few scratches on her knees from all the hours she had spent kneeling on the rough floor. The poor girl. She had so much power and yet she wasn't able to fully unlock it because of her position. He approached her. "Sabrina."
She looked up, startled. He noted the black bags under her eyes. "Morty."
Ah, she remembered him. Perhaps he was one of the few people who had shown her some kindness in return. Extending a hand towards her, he said, "You look unwell. You should rest."
"There's no time for rest," she replied, looking back down at the floor. The floor wasn't even dirty. She was scrubbing away for no other reason than she didn't know any better. This was her life. How unfortunate. These people didn't even know how valuable she truly was.
"And I'm telling you to stop and help me. My shoulders are feeling stiff. I'm thinking you can help me there. You're supposed to look after the soldiers, right?" The poor girl looked scared. That was the oddest reaction he had ever gotten from asking for a shoulder massage. "It's not difficult and I'm not going to bite. I just want you up off the floor. You're no good to anyone if you work yourself into exhaustion."
She grabbed his hand and pulled herself up from the floor. "You will not hurt me?"
"No, of course not." He wondered if other soldiers had tried to take advantage of her and make her do things that she wasn't comfortable with. Holding her hand firmly, he guided her towards his room. Fortunately, Falkner was still being treated for his injuries. The man wouldn't be returning for at least another day giving him time with Sabrina. He needed to know what else she had seen.
She seemed afraid to follow him, but she did as commanded. "Why do you talk to me?" she said as soon as they reached the door to his room.
He opened the door then glanced at her. "Because your visions interest me. I believe you have a gift, Sabrina. An exceedingly rare gift. You can help people with it. Save lives. It's just unfortunate that the others don't seem to recognize it," he replied closing the door behind her. He removed his shoes then sat down on the edge of the bed, gesturing for her to stand behind him so she could reach his shoulders. "Tell me. What have you seen?"
"I saw this city torn apart by civil war. I saw corpses stacked atop each other being turned into ash. There was a man… a crippled man in a black cloak. There's an army behind him and they are storming towards this city. The other visions are less clear. There is a crown covered in red and a wedding dress stained with blood. There's a full moon and a wolf standing outside the city gates."
The first one clearly referred to the mass resurrection. Blackthorn was going to fall, and the kingdom would belong to their founder and his followers. The crown had to be related to the royal family and seemed to hint at a death or a murder. As for the wedding dress being dyed in blood that pointed to Clair's involvement with Benga.
Fortunately, he wasn't in Sabrina's visions. She didn't seem to know how to fully unlock her visions yet – right now, she was just seeing clues and bits and pieces of things, but nothing too detailed. She didn't know names and faces. Even if she knew what he was, it wasn't as if anyone was going to believe her. She placed her hands on his shoulders and dug her fingers into his shoulder blades. Slowly but firmly, she worked her fingers.
Her movements came to an abrupt stop. "Your life is in danger," she said slowly, her voice barely above a whisper. Was she seeing something right now? "There's a man in this city. An eccentric fellow who visits the tavern regularly. He's one of them, a mage. He knows you, but you don't know him. He's a danger to you. Look out for a man with odd-coloured hair."
A man with odd-coloured hair. It was something at least. There weren't too many people in the city that had hair a different shade from the usual brown, black and blond. But a mage here in the city and no one had even noticed? He wondered what the boy was doing here. It was worth investigating and dealing with the threat. Morty pulled away and rotated his shoulder blades. "That feels much better. Thank you."
As he stood up from the bed, she said, "Why do you believe me?"
Turning around to face her, he answered, "Because I believe in magic. I know what it can do."
"Even my parents feared this power. My mother said that we're part of a powerful bloodline."
"That indeed you are, but I think you should embrace it rather than fear it."
"The blood of an oracle enhances the power of blood magic."
He raised an eyebrow. That was something new to him. "Blood magic," he repeated. Necromancy.
She nodded. "Dark magic."
He knew what it was, but he wasn't going to tell her that. "You're safe here. You're protected within these city walls," he said softly. Without warning, the girl wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her head on his chest. Hesitantly, he returned the gesture, holding her close. She remained pressed up against him for a few moments before pulling away, her cheeks flushed red. Morty didn't say anything to make her feel more embarrassed.
"Thank you," she murmured. "I have these visions all the time and I don't understand them. I wish this blood didn't flow through my veins because I feel I am cursed with these horrible scenes of death, pain and suffering. But I can't help these people. I can only stand by and watch them suffer. I'm just a servant bound in invisible chains."
"We all are. We all serve someone other than ourselves." Although he was serving King Edward, his true allegiance was with Naoko and the Order. "Why don't you just leave the city? Sneak out one night."
"And go where? I don't have another place to go to and I can't defend myself. Oracles aren't trained in combat. No. This is my home now; this is my safe place."
He saw no point in debating the matter further with her. She was right – she was safe in the kingdom. For now, at least. When N decided they had all they needed for the ritual then they would attack, and Blackthorn would fall under their Order's power. "It's your choice, but the suggestion is there. No place remains safe forever. I have places to be now but thank you again."
He showed her the door and waited until he could no longer hear her footsteps before leaving himself. It was time to visit the tavern to try and lure out this mage who apparently knew him. Perhaps he could also learn more about the local people here. Maybe someone knew about the Oak ancestors. Naoko had wanted him to find out more about the sceptre which was connected to the Oak name. With a sigh, he made his way down the stairs.
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Morty headed towards the tavern in search of information. People from all walks of life congregated here to share their stories whether fact or fiction. They could trade tales over a few mugs of ale in a relaxed environment. For Morty, it was foreign to him. They didn't have taverns in his hometown and his order didn't need such entertainment. But these people were simple folk, oblivious to the threats outside their walls. Nevertheless, it was a chance to relax and learn a little more about the city he had taken residence up in.
He approached the counter where a man with black hair stood. He was currently counting some coins. Morty waited until the man had finished before tapping his fingers on the counter to grab his attention. The bartender had been so caught up in his counting that he hadn't even realized he had a customer.
"Oh, I'm so sorry," he exclaimed.
Morty raised a hand. "It's fine. I understand you were busy."
He scooped the coins up into a brown bag and put it under the counter. "No, I should be apologizing. Always attend to customers first Mr. Oak says."
Oak? Morty lifted a brow. "There's an Oak who lives here?"
"Oh yeah, he's the owner of the tavern! His grandfather lives in the castle working closely alongside the king."
Well, that had been more information than he had bargained for. Not only was there an Oak who lived in Blackthorn but there were two of them. One was an elderly man who lived within the castle walls - although he was physically weaker, he would be much harder to gain access to. But the grandson owned the tavern. He probably lived upstairs. Still, it would be no easy task. He'd be constantly surrounded by people. He'd have to try and lure him away from the crowds if he ever wanted to obtain the sceptre. "I'm new here. I'm still learning about the city and its inhabitants. Your name?"
"Tracey," the man said, extending his hand in a gesture of friendship.
Morty accepted it. "I'm Morty, one of the new recruits for the army." He looked around, searching for other soldiers, expecting to see quite a few, but he only spotted three huddled in the far north eastern corner. Most of the soldiers were probably on duty which only reminded him he had to report his findings to Chuck soon.
"Right, one of you soldiers. My parents wanted me to be a soldier when I was a child, but I just couldn't do it. I'd practice sword fighting using sticks with my friends and I would always lose. So, my parents decided I should focus my talents elsewhere – I like working with people. I like talking to people. So, this sort of environment seemed fitting for me," Tracey said, turning his attention to Morty, his elbows resting on the counter. "What about you? What made you decide to be a soldier?"
"I like it," he replied with a casual shrug of shoulders. "I don't have to rely on others to protect me when I can do it myself. I'm not invincible, but it feels like it when you defeat your opponent. There's a rush of adrenaline that I can't find anywhere else, and it keeps me coming back for me," he answered. "But enough about me. Tell me about the Oaks."
Tracey's eyebrows lifted. He was probably expecting questions about the royal family and local gossip. "There's Samuel Oak and Gary Oak. Samuel lives in the castle and Gary owns the tavern. I haven't met the grandfather before, but Gary's friendly. He's not working today – said he was feeling a bit unwell – so that's why I'm here. I don't normally work the day shifts, but when I'm here, all the strange ones come too."
"Right. If I wanted to talk with either of them or must I arrange a meeting beforehand?"
"What? One of the weird ones? You're welcome to talk to them anytime."
Morty sighed. "No. The Oaks."
"Oh," Tracey replied, eyebrows raised. "Well, if you come back at night, Gary will be here. As for Samuel, no. He doesn't associate with the soldiers. You'd only be able to meet him under special circumstances such as a personal invitation. But since he doesn't know you, you won't be summoned anytime."
Of course. Typical. Why did the city folks have to make everything so difficult? Morty waved a hand. "Thanks. I'll leave you back to your work."
The man seemed disappointed – a conversation with a soldier that wasn't about work was probably a welcome change to the usual routine – but he had gotten what he needed. One of the Oaks had to know about the sceptre. Perhaps they had it here in the city. Samuel Oak would probably know more, but he had no chance of meeting with the man as a common soldier. But Gary Oak was worth talking to. Morty pulled away from the counter and retreated to one of the tables in far north western corner.
He sat on the chair closest to the wall, so he could study his surroundings better. The usual people were at the tavern – peasants mostly, but a few merchants and some soldiers – but the person who caught his interest was a boy with green hair. Sabrina had stated that his life was in danger from a man with odd-coloured hair. He hadn't seen anyone else in the city with green hair. The boy was by himself in the opposite corner with his back pressed against the wall, his gaze fixed in his direction.
Rising to his feet, Morty left his table and walked over to the approach the man. "Staring for too long is an easy way to make trouble," he said, taking the seat opposite. "What do you want?"
"You look like someone who knows how to handle themselves in a fight."
"That I do. Who is asking and why should I care?"
The man chuckled. "I'm Bugsy."
This must be one of the weird ones Tracey had mentioned. "Nice name," he replied dryly.
The boy glowered. "I'm looking for something. Something important. I think you can help."
"And why should I do that?"
"You're a soldier. Isn't that what soldiers do?"
He raised a brow. "That's not very a convincing argument."
The boy leaned forward, elbows resting on the edge of the table. "I'm a treasure hunter and I'm seeking something valuable. You don't seem like the other soldiers – they normally stick together in pairs or groups, but not you, so that makes me think you have something to hide.
Lowering his voice, he added, "I'm searching for an artefact of great power and I think a mercenary such as yourself would be interested."
"And how did you know that I was a mercenary?"
The boy leaned back. "I assumed, and you didn't deny it. Am I wrong?"
"No, you're not. That's a fair assumption. What evidence do you have?"
"I'm one of the newest recruits. An outsider. They haven't recruited anyone within these walls in many months. You're the first so you must have skills gained elsewhere because the peasants here are certainly not trained for combat," Bugsy explained, arms now folded across his chest. "So, will you help me? It'll be worth your while."
"What sort of artefact?"
"Something that will make us both rich. It's a sceptre. I know where it is. I have my allies."
Somehow Bugsy had stumbled upon the weapon. He wasn't sure how the man had obtained it, but it made his job much easier, but could the man even be trusted? Who would speak of a such a thing so openly to any soldier? Unless the man knew him. Still, he had to know what he knew.
"How about we step outside somewhere and discuss this further? That bartender has been looking at us for a while now," Morty said, tilting his head towards Tracey. The man was looking in their direction. "I'd rather not have him telling the commander I'm slacking off."
Bugsy nodded. "Of course."
The man was easily convinced. Far too easy. "Right. Let's go then."
Rising to his feet, Bugsy nodded again. "Follow me."
Morty did as asked. Before exiting the door, he glanced in Tracey's direction again to see if the man was still watching. He was, and he seemed concerned but then he turned his attention away, focusing on wiping down the counter. Even the other customers were watching Bugsy as he exited. Popular for all the wrong reasons it seemed. But his time was short lived. All he wanted was information about the sceptre and then he'd have no need for this man.
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Lyra had the milk weed. She had the poison ivy. She had the strawberries. All she needed now was the ale and the honey and she'd be able to obtain them at the tavern. Ethan had accompanied her last time; this time she was going alone. As the personal maid of Clair, she was free to travel anywhere within the city and no one could deny her access so long as she carried Clair's signature. As usual the tavern was busy. Men. Women. Even young adults had come here under a single roof to gossip and drink.
This afternoon there was a bard telling tales of false adventurers with difficult to pronounce names embarking on dangerous quests to save beautiful young women from nasty monsters. It was the usual tales she had read about as a child growing up. The stories were all the same. A knight in shining armour would rescue the beautiful woman from the clutches of danger and the stories would always end on a positive note. She had yet to come across a story in which it was the woman saving the man.
She spotted Gary behind the counter, a troubled look on his face. He kept looking around the room, as if expecting an ambush. There was another man with him. A tall lanky fellow with short jet-black hair. They were engaged in a conversation about something related to the kegs in the corner. At least, that's what she assumed because Gary kept pointing at them.
Eventually, they parted ways and Gary was free to approach. "Gary," Lyra started, walking up to the counter. "I need some ingredients from you."
"You're here alone? You do know the rules, right? No women allowed without male company?"
She bent over, pulled out the note from her shoe then placed it on the counter for Gary to see. "I serve Clair Blackthorn and she's asked me to obtain some ingredients. Now I already have everything I need except the ale and honey."
Gary took the note from her and scanned the words. "Poison ivy… milkweed… strawberries… honey…and ale. You're trying to brew a poison? Who pissed off Clair this time?" he said in a light-hearted manner that Lyra was unsure of whether to laugh or not.
Was he attempting to make a joke or was he being serious? "It's rat poison."
Gary looked away from the paper. "It's a complex one. But yeah. I can help you with the ingredients you need. Clair's orders, right? Can't disagree with her or I might lose my head and I happen to like my head." He gestured towards the kitchen area. "Head on through. I'll meet you there shortly. Just need to check up on Tracey. He's still a bit new around here."
Lyra nodded and walked around the counter towards the kitchen area. It was not much bigger than the servant's quarters near the castle. There were multiple kegs filled with ale in the back north eastern corner and shelves with many glass jars of ingredients. She walked over to study them. Chilli peppers. Different grains. Different flours too.
"Must be tough for working for Clair," Gary said.
She jumped, startled by his sudden appearance, having not expected his return so soon. "She can be a bit demanding and intimidating, but it's not all bad. She doesn't really ask for much to be honest." Not that Lyra was complaining. She knew it would change in a few days when they left for Unova. "It could be worse. She could flog me. I hear that's a thing."
"Unfortunately, some people have black hearts and wicked tongues," Gary pointed out. "But no harm will come to you under the king's guard. I would know. I'm protected because Samuel Oak is my grandfather and he's the potions master. He's the one the king turns to for advice when it comes to matters of health."
A potion master. Just like her mother although she doubted that they knew each other. Samuel had probably been born and raised in Blackthorn. "My mother was one. She knew everything about brewing potions to heal wounds and other ailments. Some would jokingly say she was using magic." That's how the people saw her work – they saw it as miracles and only magic could perform miracles in their eyes. But Lyra had never seen her mother use magic. It was all natural. "She had a big book of potions."
"Did she happen to know anything about blood magic?"
Lyra shook her head. "Not to my knowledge. Why'd you ask?"
He shrugged. "I've just been hearing rumours that's all."
"About blood magic?"
Gary nodded. "You hear a lot of stories here in the tavern especially at night when people come to relax after a long hard day's work. But you should keep your eye open - there are troublesome people living in this city as we speak." He didn't speak further on the topic as if he had already said too much. He probably thought she'd inform Clair. He then gestured to the table. "Put on the ingredients down and I'll grab a bowl to mix it all in. I'll even give you a jar to contain it."
"Thanks for the help."
Again, he shrugged. "Can't refuse a royal princess, can we?"
"I suppose not." Gary walked over to one of the cupboards and grabbed a small ceramic bowl and a big wooden spoon. He brought it back over and laid it down on the table. "You'll have to break off the plants into smaller pieces of course."
"Right." She grabbed a poison ivy petal and tore it into smaller pieces before throwing them into the bowl.
Gary helped her with the milkweed to quicken the process. "How did you even get these anyway? They're in the forest."
"I had help. One of the soldiers accompanied me. Morty. That's what he called himself."
Gary looked at her blankly. "That's not a name I recognize… Must be a new recruit."
"He scratched himself on the milkweed by accident, but he said it was just a minor injury and nothing to be concerned about. There was blood, but he seemed to have it under control," Lyra explained. The man hadn't even flinched, nor did he seem concerned that there was a possibility of poison entering his system. It might've been a small scratch from a thorn, but anything was possible. What if he got infected? According to her mother's works, it was the lesser wounds that were more concerning because they were often overlooked and ignored. These smaller wounds and injuries would lead to greater infections.
"It's just a cut," Gary said. "People cut themselves on stuff all the time."
"But how many people do that on poisonous plants they don't really understand?"
He shrugged. "Fair point, I guess. If that Morty fellow runs into trouble, he can just talk to my grandfather. My grandfather will find a way to fix things. He always does. I'll be right back." Gary walked over to a shelf and pick up two glass jars. One with honey in it and another with some brown murky ale. "This ale is a bit old, but it's for rats, right? I don't want to waste good ale on a rat." He pulled off the lids and poured the contents of the ale in the bowl and then used his finger to take out the honey.
Once the ingredients were mixed in, Lyra grabbed the spoon and started to stir. "Do you happen to know anything about curses?"
He looked at her eyebrow raised. "A little bit. Why?"
She thought about the mark on Lance's neck and the strange reaction she had gotten from touching him earlier. "How do they work?
"Well, if you've been cursed, a mark shows on some part of the body."
Just like Lance. "What type of curses are there?"
"It's a branch of hex magic and it's usually associated with mages. They have control over nature, right? So, they use magic to control nature and people are a part of the environment. Curses are generally placed on people to inflict pain or to trap someone in the case of a binding spell."
"What do you mean trap someone though?"
He cleared his throat. "Stop something from getting out. Stop other mages from using magic. Stop wolves from transforming. That sort of powerful magic. Generally, the curse bearer displays certain symptoms of a curse. They'll have the usual cold symptoms; you know the sore throat, headaches, and muscle stiffness… all that sort of stuff. My grandfather treated someone with a curse with Agatha's help."
Was Lance a mage? No. Why would he be? His grandfather hated magic. But perhaps his wife had been one and that is what caused the man's hatred towards wielders of magic? "Who was Edward Blackthorn's wife? Why is there no queen?" These were questions she probably could've asked Ethan about, but Gary had connections close to the king himself.
"I know I told you a bit last we met, but I didn't tell you everything." He paused.
Lyra shook her head. "We talked a bit about necromancy."
Gary continued. "Magic has been around for a long time, but it wasn't until a century ago today that it became something that was taught. Centuries ago, people with magic just did whatever; they didn't have rules like we do. The early people lived in tribal communities with tents in the forest and such and populations were reasonably small. But as time passes on, cultures change and so do ideologies. A century ago, Nathaniel started up the priesthood. He wanted to set up a school to teach people how to use magic; in his view, magic was to be understood and not feared. He had two friends; Ghetsis and Krahiya whom agreed to help him. But tragedies happen. Ghetsis fell sick with a disease that could not be cured."
"And that was enough to prompt him to turn to other forces of power to cure himself?" Lyra finished.
Gary nodded again. "Yes. He's the man responsible for what we know as necromancy. Now the priests practiced something called blood magic which is using your own blood to channel energy. Ghetsis wanted to take it one step further and use that power to raise the dead. All he needed was a death of an oracle to make the ritual work, but he was slain in battle before that could happen. But his body was taken away from his followers. This is what came to be known as the Time of Troubles. A series of conflicts between the priesthood and the necromancers."
"How does Edward Blackthorn fit into all of this?"
"Edward took over the throne at the end of the Time of Troubles after the poisoning of Henry. Edward declared that magic was a threat to the kingdom and therefore created a law that would see all wielders of magic executed. That's why you don't see any mages around here anymore," Gary explained. "As for the Queen, well, rumour has it she just left, but no one knows why. It's not something is brought up."
"And what about the wolves? What's their story?"
"The wolves were the result of a woman's heartbreak. She cursed her lover and the other men in his tribe to turn into wolves on a full moon night. That's what the story says. Only men carried this curse and only direct descendants of this tribe carry it. You can only be born a wolf. As you can imagine, their population numbers aren't big. Edward Blackthorn demanded a culling of the wolves in the same year he turned the druids away. It was the same year Lance had been born."
Lyra frowned, reflecting on Gary's words, trying to piece the puzzle together. The man had clearly been shaken by the events that had occurred during the Times of Trouble, so he had changed the laws to forbid magic being used within the kingdom. It happened during the same year Lance had been born and Lance's grandmother had also disappeared that very year. They had to be connected.
There was something different about Lance. The mark on the back of his neck confirmed that. Was he a wolf? That would answer a lot of questions. No marriage. No children. Bore a curse of some description. His father was a mercenary. She didn't see any scars on him either and she had heard stories soldiers often bore scars because of their conflicts. Werewolves had enhanced healing so no scars would show. Edward Blackthorn must've sought the aid of Agatha to place a spell on Lance to prevent him from triggering that part of him.
"I knew there was something off about you," she murmured.
Gary raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
"Oh, not you. I was just thinking of someone else, that's all." She continued stirring the ingredients until they were mixed. The potion was a thick brownish-green colour. It didn't look very appetizing. She brought her face closer to the bowl and sniffed. The smell of honey was strong, but she could still smell the strong scent of milkweed and the sweetness of the ale. A person would probably feel sick immediately taking this.
Her thoughts moved back to Lance. Lance probably didn't even know what he was. Did Samuel Oak know? He was the man presumably responsible for helping Lance manage the curse and its side effects and he was held in high regard by the king. The man must've known but was sworn to secrecy. How would he react if he knew the truth? As much as she wanted to tell him her thoughts, he would have no reason to believe her. After all, she was just a servant.
"You should probably stop stirring, Lyra," Gary said, breaking her out of her thoughts. "I think you've mixed it in well enough."
Lyra stopped stirring. "Oh right, of course." She looked down at her creation and almost barfed. It was now a dark green colour and lumpy and smelled of a rotten egg. "That's disgusting."
"Yeah, it certainly is," Gary said, pinching his nose. He grabbed the bowl and poured the contents into another empty glass jar filling it to the brim. Once done, he placed a lid on top then handed it to Lyra. "Now it's yours to give to Clair. Welcome to brewing potions."
She held it close to her stomach. "Great."
"Take care then. Unova is quite a different region and their rules and expectations are different."
"I'll take care of myself. You should look after yourself too. You don't look well."
He shrugged. "Nothing to be concerned about. Just a few rough nights that's all."
"Thanks Gary. Thanks for the help."
"Like I said, it's no issue."
She said her goodbyes and walked out the door.
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Gary's home was the tavern itself. He lived on the uppermost floor. His room was nothing special – just a plain bed with some sheets and clothes rack. All the necessaries were downstairs in the kitchen and dining area. The best part about living in the tavern was that he never had to venture too far for some food and liquor. On the downside it was hard to find time for himself. He would always hear the crowds.
Lyra seemed like a nice girl. She certainly asked a lot of questions for a servant though, but he was more than happy to indulge her with the city's history. It was nice talking to someone with some sense. Most of the locals within the city cared little for their kingdom's history – they would rather indulge gossip and talk about trivial matters. He did wonder about the poison. It seemed a little too strong for rats. Just one poison ivy would be enough to weaken the rat and cause a slow painful death. What game was Clair playing?
But he couldn't worry about that. He had other matters to attend to such as hiding the sceptre from unwanted eyes. Bugsy was still alive. He didn't know if the boy had allies. For all he knew the boy could've been working for the necromancers. They were out there somewhere in hiding waiting for the right moment to attack.
The sceptre had great power – the power to access memories of the dead. If it fell into their hands, they could use it to find other secrets. Their power would be limitless. He couldn't allow that to happen. He just had to learn how to use blood magic to protect the weapon and to do that he needed to access Nathaniel's memories once more.
Pulling the sceptre out from beneath his pillow, he picked it up with both hands and held it before him. Drawing in a deep breath, he said, "I need you to show me how you were able to shield the sceptre. Those enemies of yours still exist and they're going to try and find this. Show me how you were able to create a barrier."
The sceptre started to burn, the heat travelling through his fingertips and throughout his body. A shockwave of pain followed afters and he squeezed his eyes shut waiting for the temporary pain to pass. When he reopened his eyes, he found himself in an unfurnished dimly lit room. There was no natural light here; only lanterns provided vision. With the limited light, he was able to make out a dirty path before him. Rats scurried by towards a human skeleton figure positioned against a wall. He appeared to be in a dungeon somewhere.
"Nathaniel. Are you sure this is wise?"
He turned his head to the right. His friend, Krahiya, looked nervous.
"I must. "
Krahiya's dark eyes fixed on him, his thick brows furrowed. "He has the blood of an oracle."
"And if he obtains this sceptre, his followers will be able to raise him from the dead. This sceptre is the most powerful magical item to exist. It was created with my blood and my wife's blood," he replied. "We can't allow Ghetsis to reawaken, or he will bring the dead with him. Only the venom of a werewolf will be able to kill him then."
"How do you know that?"
"Do you remember Melisandre?"
"Yes, I do," Krahiya nodded. "Quite the loner I remember. She preferred the company of canines."
He sighed. "I wish I had tried harder in controlling her magic, but her spirit was wild much like the wolves she enjoyed the company of. She found love with a man from another tribe. I even oversaw the wedding, but their love after marriage lasted like a flame does in the rain. She cursed the man and the other men in the tribe. They would turn into rabid beasts each full moon night displaying more aggression than a typical wolf. Every time a wolf transform, they feel her pain and suffering in a physical manner."
Krahiya gave him a sombre look. "You can't blame yourself."
"I failed to protect her. I promised I would."
"Ghetsis is not the same as Melisandre."
"I failed him too, Krahiya. We formed a pact together – that we would always help one another – but I can't follow him on the path he has chosen to walk across. This path of murder and hatred. I must ensure he does not return. He already has the oracle blood, but his followers cannot raise him from the dead without the sceptre. If they can't obtain it then he will not rise again." He stood at the doorway and pressed his palms against the stone surface. "We're going to break this door and rebuild it."
"It'll take a lot of blood to create a barrier strong enough to last generations."
"That is the plan. You will watch over the younger priests."
The man raised an eyebrow. "No."
"This man can't be brought back. If I must sacrifice my life to save others, then I will gladly do so."
"Is this punishment for your failure to save others?"
He frowned. "It's penance for my sins. You will remake the door with my blood and seal the barrier."
"…You can't ask this of me."
"But I am because you are a friend."
The vision ended. Gary found himself back in his room. So that's how the door had been created through self-sacrifice. His ancestor had given up his life to protect the sceptre. One thing was certain. He had no intentions of killing himself to hide the sceptre. Surely just hiding it somewhere would be enough. Who else but Bugsy knew about it anyway? And it wasn't as if Bugsy was going to break into his room to steal it. He wasn't of Oak ancestry. He'd never be able to unlock its power. Why did he want it so much? Unless he thought Gary would use the sceptre to return the mages to power?
The other possibility was that Bugsy was serving another master and was simply staying in Blackthorn to spy. That was unsettling. But the man couldn't do any harm to him, right? If he used magic, Gary could report him to the authorities. It wasn't as if he was at any risk of dying considering his connection to the sceptre. So, what was he even worried about? He looked down at the sceptre.
"I'm going to put you away in a chest under the bed. I will hide it and take the key with me," he said as if the sceptre could reply.
What could possibly go wrong?
.
Morty followed Bugsy outside the tavern and remained behind him, preferring to keep the man in front in case he tried something. From what he could see, the man wasn't holding any weapons – no swords or knives. He wasn't a slave. His clothing was far too clean, a clear sign that he wasn't at the bottom of the social hierarchy ladder. Perhaps he was a peasant, but he didn't wear the typical tunic the male peasants wore either.
"We should avoid the crowds. I wouldn't want to risk anyone overhearing us," Morty said, gesturing towards one of the alleyways to the right. It was a narrow winding path that seemed to lead towards the back entrance of the stables for the soldiers. The royals had their stables on the opposite side. He made sure there were no patrolling soldiers around then headed towards the gate leading the forest. This was the same gate he had walked through before when he had accompanied Lyra.
If he could lure Bugsy into the forest, then he could simply state the man had been killed by wild animals. He certainly couldn't risk killing the man within the castle walls or on the castle farmlands. Someone would eventually investigate. But the woodlands were owned by no one. He just had to convince Bugsy to come for a walk. As if sensing there was something wrong, Bugsy came to an abrupt halt several feet away from the gate.
"When you said step outside, I didn't think you meant outside the walls."
"I was here several days ago escorting one of the slaves into the forest to collect some herbs. It's safe. I didn't spot any tracks of any wild animals or any mages so we're fine out here, okay? Besides, it'll get us away from the public eye. I didn't fail to notice those people back at the tavern giving you strange looks as we were leaving." He searched the man's face searching for a glimpse of fear or uncertainty. Bugsy's elbows were pulled into his sides and his shoulders slightly hunched. Two signs usually associated with nerves.
"I don't know."
Morty sighed. "You were so confident back inside the tavern. What changed?"
"Just a bad feeling."
The gate guard glanced in their direction. "Do you seek passage, soldier?"
With a nod, he said, "Yes."
"State your business."
"I heard there were some wild boars roaming around. I thought I'd go and clear the paths."
Morty couldn't read the expression behind the man's helm, but he suspected the guard wore a frown. "You plan to fight boar without a bow?"
"I've learned many tricks over the years. Boars don't adapt. People do. This guy here is a boar expert. He knows how to track these beasts down. Please, grant us exit." The guard nodded and proceeded to pull the lever that opened the portcullis. Bugsy didn't get a say in the matter – he just mustered up a grim smile and followed Morty towards the woods. He heard the gate close as they started wandering down the dusty path.
"A boar expert?" Bugsy repeated.
"You got something better?" Once they reached the forest boundary, Morty came to a stop. Shifting his attention to Bugsy, he said, "This sceptre. How did you find it and where was it? I need to know more about it if I am to help you." He moved his right hand to his sword.
"My parents were treasure hunters. They would search woodlands, plains, crypts and mountain caves looking for relics of the past," Bugsy explained, his eyes darting left and right, as if seeking an escape. He was scared. Did he know who he was? "My father used to speak of a sceptre crafted by Nathaniel Oak. He said it was one of the most powerful weapons ever made and a great boon would be given to the person who could find it. I've spent my life searching for it and I finally did. It was in a cave in the farmlands to the north just at the base of the mountains."
"Your parents died."
Bugsy nodded. "Yes. They were killed by soldiers."
"Why would soldiers do that?"
"They were mages."
"And you're telling me that? Have you forgotten that I'm a soldier for a king who despises magic?" His fingers curled around the hilt of his sword. What was the foolish man trying to do? Was he trying to get himself killed? He didn't even know Morty – this was the first time they had met – and he was sharing his life story with a stranger? Something didn't seem right. "Why are you asking me, and not someone else? There are plenty of soldiers around you know."
Bugsy didn't work for Naoko. No, he had sworn allegiance to someone else. Zuki She had already been known to have tried to interfere with Naoko's plans by sending a mercenary into Blackthorn to assassinate the king. That would've been catastrophic if her plan had succeeded.
"I know you found the sword that belonged to Henry Blackthorn. You killed a mage."
"What?" What a peculiar character, Morty thought.
"I have eyes in many places. My friends can find their way through any crack in the wall," he said, gesturing to a trail of ants walking past. "You're skilled. You can get the sceptre back. Gary Oak has it."
Morty narrowed his eyes. Bugsy had given him everything he needed to know. How foolish. "You're a mage." He dropped a hand to his sword.
"I know what you are," Bugsy said. "Nature does not lie. I can help you. I want to help."
Sabrina had warned him about a strange boy with odd-coloured hair. He supposed Bugsy was the man. He didn't seem dangerous, but he knew too much. Knowledge was a dangerous tool. "Why do you want to help?"
"Because we are the same. We mages must help each other. I thought I could trust Gary, but he fears magic, unlike you. I can give you information others cannot give."
Morty moved his hand away from his blade. He didn't even need a weapon to kill this fool. "You've given me everything I need… But you're dangerous to let live." Before Bugsy could react, Morty lunged forward, and shoved the boy to the ground. He pinned Bugsy to the grass, straddling his waist before moving both his hands to Bugsy's neck. "You know too much. I can't let you walk."
He applied more pressure to the boy's throat, choking him. The boy writhed beneath him, trying to pry Morty's hands off, but he lacked the strength. Keeping his gaze fixed on Bugsy's face, Morty maintained an iron firm grip, watching the life slowly fade from the boy's eyes.
"Arceus, damn you!" Bugsy spluttered.
"I don't believe in Arceus."
"…Why?" Bugsy rasped. The colour drained from his face.
"Because you know what I am. I can't risk you telling others about me.'" He climbed to his feet and grabbed Bugsy's arms then dragged his lifeless corpse across the dirt off the path. No one would miss the boy. "Know that in your death, you will aid nature. I hope that gives you small comfort."
Nature would take its course.
