Cycle of Strife

Wine Street, Paris, France

430 Hours

I materialized, in accordance to laws immemorial, in a pentacle.

Choices, Choices. What form should I take? My life depended on it. Should I do something with humility or have one last laugh at my dear master's face before going to the shriveling fire?

I decided to do a bit of both. I appeared as his son. Black hair, pale skin, energetic of movement, bright of eye. He was wearing a simple white shirt and trousers.

He was looking at me with an expression of snotty indifference, which quickly was wiped off. He stared at me, expressionless.

"Bartimaeus." I grin, the same lopsided grin his son had had.

"You disobeyed my charge."

"One of your charges. Your other charge was to stay alive. Which I am." I shift my weight. Just as his son had.

"I should destroy you with a shriveling flame."

"But you aren't going to." I shift my voice into a perfect Czech accent. The pitch, timbre was perfect. I could see it discomfited him, so what're you going to do? Dismiss me or the shriveling fire?

"Don't push me, Bartimaeus. I have my limits." It was an empty bluster. He needed me. Destroying a servant (Particularly one of my virtuosity) in the middle of a war wasn't feasible. He didn't have the time or energy to summon another djinni. Besides, he was a weak one. Never hit me with anything but the stipples. I doubted he had the power to conjure the fire.

"Sure you do."

"Well. I want a report. Was the defeat total?"

"Yep. They hit us with nothing else than ten marids. They were only the vanguard. I sensed great power in the main force. A whole battalion of tenth level magicians. They had at least a couple of hundred horlas with them."

"Hmm… Two hundred horlas, you say? Nothing insurmountable."
"They were only guards. They will conjure their army on the spot. I tell you, it will be formidable."

"We will defeat whatever wile forces the British call upon!... And what about their human troops?"

"Yes. Their herded on the ships like cattle. The scout spheres told us they were nearly forty thousand strong. Maybe more. The foliots were destroyed before getting an accurate measure." (Ever seen a horla eat something? Not pleasant.)

"We have more men, then."

"Your soldiers are untrained. Farm boys playing with guns."

"We have the advantage of defense!" I had riled him. Good. Now for the hard part.

"Which will not be enough. Not against Gladstone. I have heard that he uses an afrit as his door keeper. When a guy starts doing that, you know you don't want to mess with him. The British army is powerful, but strapped for information…" I broke off. The red hot stipples. Imagine a heated whip hitting your back.

"I am no traitor! I will serve the empire to the very end!" I calmly look at him. Ok. Didn't expect much from that, anyway. Now, to secure my dismissal.

"Kinda makes you wonder where Eric learned it from…" I hadn't expected something as potent as the simulating compass. But, the dismissal was worth it. Particularly in the middle of a war. The pentacle crackled with energy; from each of it's five points a lightning bolt sprang out and speared my essence.

I played my final gambit. I made a change though the excruciating pain. The boy's torso was suddenly covered with oozing wounds. His clothes were badly ripped. Blood dripped from his mouth. He raised a hand, the one that wasn't broken, imploringly to my master.

My master took an involuntary step back. Still in the pentacle, unfortunately. The spell was broken. The pain gone.

"Father…" My master stared at me, hypnotized with horror.

"Please…?" A gunshot rang out. The boy's head rolled back. Eyes glassy. A bullet shape hole in his forehead. He suddenly disappeared; leaving my master alone in his misery.

I had been dismissed.

…

The Other Place

I sigh. In the middle of my general ocean of hate of all magicians, there was a drop of pity.

My master was a fool. A weakling. Blinded by tragedy, going to his doom. Maybe I had been too cruel to him. I, after all, wasn't a magician.

I sigh again. But then again he was. That was his crime, you see? One that can never be forgiven. Our enmity was written in blood, spilt for five thousand years.

…