Chapter Fifteen
History seemed to be repeating itself, Wyatt considered quietly as he shifted his weight on his feet and leaned his shoulder on the edge of the brick alcove so he could get a clearer view of the stall standing yards away from his hiding space, in the center of the busy subterranean square. Apart from Ma DeMilo, Wyatt could also, from this vantage point, spy his cohorts in their appointed locations – Ahamo sat at an outdoor pub, pretending to sip on a pint of brew, and was chatting up the barkeep in an animated debate about whether the women in Central City's sin district were more beautiful than the specimens found in the Realm. Jeb was on the other end of the square, and having found his most tattered costume, appeared as a lowly street urchin, pretending to nap under a pile of discarded newspapers in the corner of an abandoned stoop. The other men had blended so well into the shadows that Wyatt had trouble finding them, which gave him a small glimmer of comfort, having not been familiar with them before last night, and uncertain of their abilities. He needn't have worried, since all of the men now under his command had been assigned and trained by General Andrus himself, and were equivalent to any seasoned Tin Man for their steadfastness and proficiency.
All the same, the similarities in his circumstances to the dream he'd had the day before were unsettling, and his mouth twitched unhappily while he brooded on the matter. He'd taken great pains to obtain the false belts, now in Ma DeMilo's possession, with the intent of passing off a replica to their unknown enemy, and he now strongly suspected that he wouldn't show at all. If anyone sprung his trap, it was sure to be Vizor, and Vizor alone, which meant that the subterfuge created by the false belts was a moot point. The more Wyatt considered the matter, the more he believed that this unseen cohort of Vizor's had other plans, and probably intended to spring a trap of his own. This had been why he'd still taken the genuine article from Artie, on the outside chance that Boulderstone might try to get the jump on him while Wyatt was down in the Realm. Perhaps, he hoped, Boulderstone might expect Wyatt to still have the belt on his person and would try to ambush Wyatt instead.
Wyatt turned from his vigil to look the other way down the alley. Dark as it was in that narrow passageway, he could still easily make out the outlines of the random articles of trash and debris discarded by the occupants of the building on either side, as well as the various openings onto this space – doorways and windows, fire escapes, and brighter areas where the alley was broken up by other avenues cutting across the realm. The alley went on for some way like this, like a narrow tunnel into the dark, and he could barely make out the dead end where more trash bins and boxes were piled haphazardly a few streets away. A cool breeze suddenly pushed past Wyatt's space as he stared down the expanse, and it picked up a discarded piece of newspaper, sending it sailing down the dark walk a few yards past him, and setting it down again close to a large pile of boxes. A glint of a firearm muzzle caught his eye, barely noticeable amongst the boxes until the glossy page threw reflective light onto it when it landed. This had to be Breckenridge, the keen-eyed sharpshooter assigned to guard Wyatt's backside, Wyatt noted silently before he touched his finger to the brim of his hat in acknowledgement and turned back to gaze on Ma DeMilo's shop. He was somewhat satisfied now, knowing that he would not be completely alone should his suspicions be confirmed.
It was unlike Wyatt to be so easily assuaged, and his brow furrowed at the realization. He opened his jacket for a moment to gaze on the belt wrapped snuggly around his waist, and its jewels seemed to wink at him even in the low light of the alcove. His fingers glanced over the stones for a moment and a giddy feeling seemed to bubble up in him at the contact. Wyatt withdrew his hand from the belt as if burned, and he rebuttoned his jacket hastily before he withdrew a note from his pocket and read it once more for edification:
Cain –
The Belt of Roquat is known to cause its wearer to experience delusions of grandeur and may greatly affect your judgement if you are forced to wear it. If you begin to feel stronger than you've ever felt, or like you are incapable of being harmed, DO NOT TRUST IT. This is a side effect of the belt. If you do have to use it at all, place both hands on the belt a tell it where you want to go. When you get there, you need to take the belt off immediately, or the effects of the belt may multiply and cause irreparable delirium and paranoia. The minute you have accomplished your task, please contact me via the lamp, and I will come immediately. Do not let this belt out of your sight.
Wyatt crumpled the note in his hand and grimaced, while a low growl emitted from the back of his throat. He'd have to be careful – now was not the time to become lax in his usual vigilant nature, and although it seemed necessary now to second guess himself, he knew that doing so might cost him valuable time overall. He wouldn't have too much time to mull over these factors though, because his cohorts outside the alley had all changed in their overall demeanor, signaling that their target had finally arrived. Wyatt and his team had been on standby for hours, and weariness had long settled in their bones and made their eyes grow tired of the endless stream of suspicious looking people milling about the square, but when Vizor finally appeared, their collective weariness seemed to melt away instantly. The Sorceress's former advisor seemed almost snake-like in the way he slid towards Ma DeMilo. He meandered through the crowd without touching a soul, and his dark leather coat glistening in the lamplight as he went.
Wyatt's eyes flickered onto the forms of his team. Despite being seemingly involved in their own activities, Wyatt could discern a focused and serious undertone in the manner in which the other men seemed to track the movements of their target. Ahamo had put down his drink and his eyes roved over his shoulder to land on the man, drawing nearer to the stall. Jeb had discarded his paper coverings and was stumbling closer to the center of the square, panhandling for change as he went and throwing covert glances to Ahamo and his father. Wyatt held back a split second longer though, holding his breath while he watched the scene unfold in near slow motion, and half expecting the other to appear at his shoulder the moment he cleared the alley.
Wyatt pushed the notion aside quickly, feeling confident that he could handle any challenge that confronted him. He turned his attention back to the stall, where Vizor had finally landed, and had already begun his fatal transaction. The picture before Wyatt was like a carefully timed dance, and if he weren't part of the overall choreography, Wyatt would be utterly mesmerized by the events. Ma DeMilo was like a snake charmer in her abilities of keeping Vizor occupied, creating a great deal of excitement from him when she produced the Belt of Roquat and laid it on the counter. The gems on the belt glittered temptingly, and Vizor gasped quietly as he leaned down to examine them. He seemed quelled enough to let his attention waiver, glancing downward so he could withdraw his payment from within the confines of his pocket. While his eyes were averted, the shady woman pulled her switch, and it was so seamless that one wouldn't have realized what she had done had they not already been aware of the deception, and when Vizor straightened to present her with a small velvet bag, he seemed completely unphased.
Ma DeMilo wasn't done sealing the deception, and she maintained her grasp on the article while they haggled over her fee. From Wyatt's distance, he could not hear the words spoken between the parties, but he could tell by Ma DeMilo's disgruntled face, and the way that she held the belt back from the man's grasp, that there was some question of payment. When Vizor sniffed and presented yet another petite bag, Ma finally relented, and released her tight grip on the coveted belt, laying waste to any remaining suspicions the man might have had about the belt's authenticity.
While this was happening, the other players in the scene slid smoothly into their places, ready to catch and block their prey at the appointed moment. Wyatt held back only slightly before he examined his surroundings cautiously. Maybe he felt somewhat overconfident when he failed to find any threats closing in on his position, but he shrugged his concern away quickly. He rationalized that he had so far gone unnoticed, and he stepped away from his alcove with sure, quick moving feet, gliding quietly to his target standing directly ahead, now completely uncaring to any potential danger, and certain he would prevail in his goal.
Vizor seemed completely unaware that he had been suddenly surrounded in a loose circle, so when he turned from Ma DeMilo with the false belt in hand, his eyes were wide in surprise to find Wyatt so close by.
"Well, hey there, Vizor, long time no see," Wyatt exclaimed brightly, clapping the man on the shoulders and grinning as he spoke in a booming, overly friendly voice.
Vizor attempted to shift out of Wyatt's grasp, but found his shoulders held fast in Wyatt's vice-like grip. He couldn't have gone far in any case, he discovered, for Ahamo, Jeb and two other members of their extraction team had sealed the distance and stood barring his other possible exits. So instead, the dark man turned his eyes back to the ex-law man and he sneered as he replied coolly, "I wish I could say the same, Mister Cain. I've seen more of your face in the past cycles than I care to remember. It's too bad Zero didn't have the heart to finish the job I sent him on all those long annuals ago. It would have saved your family a great deal of suffering." He stopped to chuckle with a sudden realization that made his eyes grow wide, and he continued in astonishment, "My goodness, I do hope your new wife has the opportunity to see your face again before my employer finds her. What a shame for you not to be able to say good-bye. Again."
Wyatt's smile narrowed into a tight curl, and his eyes turned to cold steel as they surveyed the man critically. The longer he looked down on the Sorceress's former advisor, the hotter his rage became. It was as if someone had lit him on fire, simultaneously transmitting images to Wyatt of his past – the last man who had sneered at him in this fashion had been Zero himself, and the only thing that had saved him then was DG's influence on his psyche. There were no angels of mercy now, however, and Wyatt's rage grew unchecked, causing his very presence to grow in time with his anger.
As Wyatt stepped into his space, Vizor attempted to step back, feeling the threat in Wyatt's eyes looming largely over him like a tangible thing. He stepped into the chest of one of his captors though, and he sniveled as Wyatt maintained his proximity, growling low as he answered in a deathly quiet voice, "You'd better hope I'm not the last thing you see, Vizor. Lucky for you, you're not really the fish I came to fry. Where's your buddy?"
When Vizor laughed, a chill ran down Wyatt's spine that he masked by clenching his jaw, and when Vizor paused to breathe, he held Wyatt's gaze and replied darkly, "Oh, don't worry Tin Man, he'll find you, I'm sure. As soon as he's done with your little curator."
Wyatt froze, and something snapped within him, like he had been splashed with cold water. He shook his head furiously, like he was forcing drugs out of his system, and he growled at him as his eyes flicked on the men standing behind him. He had had enough of talking to Vizor, and given what he'd just said, he felt an urgent need to confer with Jeb and Ahamo, knowing that time was running short on the next stage in their plan. With a jerk of his head, he signaled for the extraction team to take over, and Wyatt stepped back to make way while he commanded in a quiet rumble, "Get him topside right away." When they nodded and turned to leave, Wyatt's eyes darted to Ahamo and Jeb, who still stood close by, awaiting his orders.
"Dad, Artie– "Jeb began with a troubled expression, only to be interrupted by Wyatt, who raised his hand to silence Jeb before he interjected.
"I know son." He paused to breathe and consider, and continued on in a metered voice, "I want you both to go with the truck. Hightail it to Central, and don't let Vizor or the Princesses out of your sight."
Ahamo placed a fatherly hand on Wyatt's shoulder and he stared into Wyatt's eyes as he asked, "What about you, Wyatt? How are you going to get back?"
Wyatt opened his jacket to reveal the belt, and he answered cryptically, "Don't worry about me, I've got it covered." Ahamo and Jeb stepped back and nodded in silent understanding, and Wyatt added quickly, "If I don't see you guys first, tell DG I love her, and I'll be home as quick as I can."
Wyatt could see the worry in their faces before he commanded the belt to take him to the hut. They knew just as well as he did that he was very likely walking into a trap. They'd hoped that Boulderstone would try and ambush Wyatt in the square, where there was plenty of backup and the risk was much lower that Wyatt might end up dead. Going alone raised so many red flags that Wyatt would have ordinarily advised anyone else against it. As it was, he felt oddly certain that he could overcome this foe and save Artie, even if the look on his family's faces said otherwise. Although he'd kept control of a dangerous artifact and had successfully kept it out of the hands of their enemies thus far, it felt important to see this through. Artie was the keeper of so many more artifacts, many of which Wyatt had little to no knowledge of, and the very fact that they were so well hidden and so secret meant that they had to be guarded at all costs.
He could not let the archives, or their keeper get into the hands of this mysterious foe, he determined swiftly, before he placed his hands on the belt and muttered, "Take me to the Seeker's hut."
If Ahamo and Jeb had known the content of Artie's secret note to Wyatt, they might have stopped him from going. There would have been no doubt in their minds that Wyatt's judgement had been impaired by the belt that he had been wearing for hours, but as it was, they were completely clueless as to the real threat to their mission. Wyatt had completely lost his objectivity and had finally given in to the pull of the belt, believing that only he could stop Boulderstone now, without any thought for the warning he'd received the day before. By the time he peeped out of existence before Ahamo and Jeb's eyes, and reappeared seconds later within the confines of the hut, the damage had been done, and Wyatt's ordinarily cautious nature had been scattered to the winds.
The hut was lit only by the weak light of the late afternoon sun when Wyatt appeared, standing just before the ladder and surrounded in the small amount of light that filtered from the opening in the roof. Although the place appeared uninhabited, Wyatt sensed that he was not alone, and in the moment that he turned quickly to face the source of a muffled cry, the fireplace roared to life, throwing light onto the room and its previously unseen occupants. Artie had been the source of the muffled warning, and he sat on the stone ledge directly opposite the fireplace, unable to speak for the rag shoved in his mouth. His hands were bound before him, and his fingers, appearing stonelike and immovable, were wrapped around a garnet-colored gem that twinkled menacingly in the firelight. Beside him sat a jovial looking old man, whose snow-white hair fell around his face and shoulders in stringy clumps and barely covered the withered, grey skin of his ancient face that grinned back at Wyatt. If it weren't for Artie being bound, it might have seemed as if the two men were friendly, and Wyatt was unsurprised to find them there, but the overall condition of the two stilled his hand on his firearm, and he let it drop useless to his side.
"Hello, my boy, how nice of you to join us," the old man greeted Wyatt in a crackled and friendly sounding voice, and he pointed a gnarled finger at Wyatt when he warned, "now why don't you just hand over what I came here for, so I can release your friend here?"
Wyatt scoffed to the ceiling and folded his arms in front of him before he shot the old man a skeptical look, replying through a disbelieving laugh, "And why would I do that old man?"
Artie grunted through fabric in his mouth, and jabbed the air with his bound hands, his eyes wide in terror. The old man snickered, and answered for Artie, "What your friend is trying to say, is that the lovely little stone in his hands is slowly turning him to stone, and although I have the antidote to his current predicament, I have no reason to give it to him while you refuse to do as I've asked."
"I could just shoot you and get the antidote myself," Wyatt offered thoughtfully as he scrubbed his beard, his eyes glinting with a certain amount of danger.
Artie shook his head furiously, as if warning Wyatt against threats. The old man was not swayed, and instead laughed brightly and answered with a question that made Wyatt pause and his heart to thud loudly in his ears. "My dear boy, I believe that my belt might be going to your head. Didn't the good curator here warn you about its effects?" He wagged a finger at Wyatt and smirked, and he sighed before his face became serious once more and he continued quietly, "You don't really think it would be that easy, did you? Do you really believe there's a little vial just hidden away within the folds of my cloak that will save your friend here? I'll need to use the belt to get what he needs."
Wyatt glanced at Artie's hands again, silently measuring how much time he thought the man might have. The old man seemed to read his mind, and he offered suggestively, "Time is short, my boy, shorter than you think, and the antidote will do him no good if he cannot swallow any longer."
Wyatt continued to survey Artie, whose arms were now a definite shade of grey up to his elbows, the color darkening as it traveled further up his limbs. Despite the continued sense of unflappable confidence that washed over him in continuous waves, Wyatt was now keenly aware that the man was right; he'd erred in coming here at all, and although he might save Artie, he would be endangering much more in the process. It was unavoidable at this point, and he knew it, so with a heavy sigh, he unbuckled the belt and stretched his arm out to offer it to the man. The old man rose to his feet slowly and pushed his dark cloak open as he retrieved the article from Wyatt's outstretched hand. His smile menacing and triumphant from the time he stood, until the time he secured the old leather around his own small waist, and the coldness in the man's dark eyes seemed to pierce Wyatt's very soul, leaving a feeling of dread in its wake. Then he was gone, and Wyatt felt his stomach drop. Without the belt, he felt bereft, as if someone had cut a limb from his body, and he felt a paralyzing fear take over him. It was difficult to move, and his limbs felt heavy, but he stepped forward to remove the gag from Artie's mouth despite this, feeling as if he was dragging his feet through tar as he moved.
Artie breathed a sigh of small relief when the gag was removed, and he took a moment to breathe freely before he gave Wyatt some encouragement, telling him authoritatively, "It'll pass Cain. You had the belt on a little too long. It's a little like coming off vapors, just breathe through it."
"Artie," Wyatt replied in a shaky voice, "I don't know what to do. What if he doesn't come back?"
Artie's eyes shifted suddenly, and the air changed behind Wyatt, where a voice announced itself cheerfully, "Have no fear my boy, I always keep my word." Wyatt spun around to face the man, whose black eyes met Wyatt's in a stern, promising look, and he held out the aforementioned vial while he stated, "and here is your salvation, Mr. Saul."
Wyatt swiped the vial from the man and wasted no time in pouring its contents down Artie's throat, despite still being watched by his unsettling foe. Wyatt watched as Artie's gradual metamorphosis halted, and his natural color inched back at a snail's pace, ignoring the man at his back. The man had to be waiting for him though, and when Wyatt did not turn quick enough, the man barked at him gruffly, "Now turn around, Mr. Cain, I'll have a final word before I leave."
Wyatt was already regaining some of his natural gumption, and his voice was impatient as he turned, asking angrily, "Who are you really, anyway?"
When he turned and faced the old man completely, his body was forcibly slammed against the wall behind him by an unseen set of hands, and he heard an unpleasant crunch where his skull struck the stone. His vision blurred and his head spun, his body slumping to the earthen ground in a heap. He felt like a weight had suddenly pulled his head and body down, and he struggled to get up, but a set of worn leather shoes had appeared beside him and he was certain the man had drawn close to him, making him all the more determined to move.
When he looked up, the man's face was close by, and he whispered to Wyatt as he pushed him back down onto the ground easily, "I've been called many names over the long annuals Mr. Cain, but when next I see your dear wife, and bring an end to that wretched line, she'll know me as her greatest great grandmother did. She called me Roquat the Red. Now sleep well, Tin Man."
Wyatt's eyes could not hold their focus any longer, and his body had finally grown too heavy for him to control, and he sunk to the ground with a groan. He was desperate to get up, and he could hear Artie yelp in his half-conscious state, but he could no longer control his limbs, and darkness was creeping up on him in rapid succession. The last thing he remembered hearing before his body was plunged into a fitful state of unconscious was a cold, menacing laugh that seemed to echo through his skull and plunge his body into ice water, freezing his mind in a state of utter dread and terror, and leaving him to question what the man would do to him and DG next.