Cycle of Strife
The Other Place
? Hours
As usual, I fought the summons.
As usual, it was a token gesture.
My essence was stretched to infinity and cruelly torn for the chaos of the other place. I knew that at the end of eternity lay a pentacle.
Ever the optimist, aren't I?
…
Wine Street, Paris, France
0300 Hours.
3 weeks after Bartimaeus's dismissal
I decided to do Ptomey.
My surroundings materialized. An open pentacle, with a grandstand view of the Eiffel tower. (They call this a wonder of the modern word? Pardon, my derision, but a tower made from metal sticks doesn't impress someone who helped build the tower of Orenios) my master looked worn and tired. But very well alive. My hopes of him being killed were dashed. Well, time to face the consequences.
"Bartimaeus. Believe me I would like nothing more than to cast you to the shriveling fire. But I do not have the time to research another slave. Therefore, I charge you to comply to obey the charge laid by John Magus." I almost drop my jaw, but my powerful persona rejected such an act and I coolly look at my master. (Okay. That's a complete lie. But it was cool to write.)
"Magus? You mean your boss? The afrit… Borolo's master?" No consequences? Things must be bad indeed.
"Yes. His slave has been dismissed to recuperate… I hope a horla eats you on this mission."
"I love you too. So, what's the situation? Judging by the fact I'm not writhing in pain right now; they can't be too rosy." He snarled.
"Yes. They British have crushed all our forces in northern France. There is talk of treason. We believe them to be preparing for a strike at Paris." I mull this over. Well anything that saves me for the flame…
"Yeah. Real no-brainer. Maybe, if you work hard, someday you'll defeat their imps…" I had to weather the stipples at that. I then dematerialized for my charge.
…
Outside Paris, France
I rematerialize somewhere outside Paris. A pentacle painted in a raised platform in the greenery. I immediately noticed two things: One. The absence of any magician or higher spirits. Two. I shared the pentacle with five small blue imps. (An annoying variety. Got to hand it to my master: Being trapped in a small pentacle with five of them certainly an innovative type of torture.) They tittered complacently.
I sigh. Always the early bird, my master.
…
Outside Paris, France
0800 Hours
Five hours later, I caught sight of a small host of spirits and some magicians approaching me. By the time I was a sleek black cat, which stretched luxuriously inside the pentacle (The imps had long since disappeared in a strange incident that left me feeling quite full.)
"And this." Said my master. "Is my Djinn. Bartimaeus. Unfortunately, my other djinn are recuperating, so you will have to deal with this djinni of small brains and great impudence." I barely control my lip at this point. (I felt that the time, being inside a pentacle and surrounded by master magicians, was not the time for lip-service. But my master will soon beg for mercy against my tide of unanswerably witty remarks!... More or less.)
"Ah." Nodded the magician in the center (Red haired, thin and tall. Would have been imposing if he wasn't wearing a yellow pinstripe suit. But fashion sense aside, He radiated power.) "What level is it?"
"Fourth level Djinni." Magicians rank each of our types from level one to nine. Although, level can give no indication of ability. Modesty alone keeps me from speaking on.
"Tricky things." One of the French magicians stirred. An impudent looking fellow.
"And what, perchance, is your Demon?" I sensed a rift in them, consciously or not, all the Czech magicians tilted themselves toward Magus. The French likewise. Interesting…
"Level two Afrit. And no need to tell me yours. A lesser foliot, if I am not mistaken?" Judging by the blush on the Frenchman's face, he wasn't.
"At least, I can control it. I have heard tales about you, Maggot."
"Yes. I heard you French have a thing for fiction…" I was interested now.
"Maybe they'll kill each other." I whisper to a nearby djinni. A banshee. She gave me skeptic look.
"Been there, done that…" She muttered.
"Haven't we all?" The macho showdown ended with Magus pulling rank. He now addressed us.
"Your objective is north of Paris, Fifty miles; a battle was fought between our… allies and the British. We have no news about the conditions. Your mission is simple: reconnaissance and rescue of surviving magicians… or bring news of glorious victory." I raise a paw. My master sighed.
"Yes, Bartimaeus."
"No news? That means everyone's dead. And sending us on a rescue mission will be suicidal. Why don't you quietly forget about them and continue to brew more propaganda- ouch!" as usual, the red hot stipples broke my train of thoughts.
One of the Czechs, a female, thin and; I'm sure; wellproportioned, turned to me. "Because." She said calmly "The British are too close for comfort. You are to see how close. And besides the French third army, which was engaged in battle, is of great morale value to the commoners-"
"Being the force that killed dear Rudolf" the French guy rudely interrupted. Whether rightly or wrongly, I saw that he thought himself in a position. The woman smiled thinly. Really interesting.
"Just after he burned Paris, if memory serves." Rudolf, the greediest of the emperors. Memory did serve. It was the French guy's turn to smile thinly. (Boy, they're sure lacking in witty responses.)
"History repeats itself, Madame'; The British come to burn Prague."
"They'll have to go though Paris first. Or were you going stop them with your Foliot?" His eyes flashed.
"And yours being…?"
"Ninth level Djinni." Is it just me or are they talking about us a bit too much? The French guy blinked. (Seriously lacking)
"Enough Catherine; now to the task at hand…" Magus asserted himself, at last. They formally gave us their charges. The French guy muttered a good deal about a 'traitorous witch.'
…
Enroute to Battle site
0830 Hours
Things were already looking up.
Not only was there no British in sight, but I was already hooking up with old acquaintances. The 'ninth level djinni' was none other than my old acquaintance from Egypt, Balim. He sure never wavered in al-Arish or the War of Set' (Bloody battle of succession after Ramzes III bought it. I'm sure he would have liked it. A suitable end to a guy who fought al-Arish) and was precisely the djinni I wanted behind my back. He came as a shamanic bird totem (Raven), come to life. I liked his style.
My other companions included a succubus of some power (She claimed she spent time in Greece, venerated as the goddess Aphrodite. Not many of us get that lucky. Although I had second thoughts when she described her love life.) She was, at the moment a translucent banshee.
Other than that, they were the usual assortment of spirits. A lesser Afrit, some Djinn and a hotchpotch of foliots. (The French guy's too)
"Okay, were here." The Afrit said.
"Here?" I look around, a picturesque river valley; you know one of those paste-on-a-postcard types. Down on the beach, a small cottage lay. Nearby, two humans were-
I avert my gaze just in time. Well, point being it didn't exactly look like a battle site.
"Prison, down river. British prison. And change, will you? You guys are attracting too much attention." Fair enough. The planes rippled with the changes. Soon a flock of pigeons alighted on the pine trees.
We thrashed out a plan of campaign. And a couple of foliots, too. We gently reminded the others too: no movement while we work.
Well, the plan was simple (and so were the foliots) we wait for a prisoner caravan to approach. We destroy it and take its place. Crude but effective.
…
Valley in northern France
0900 Hours
Still waiting…
…
Valley in northern France
0930 Hours
No luck…
….
Valley in northern France
1000 Hours
You know what? This might be the flaw in our plan…
…
Valley in northern France
1023 Hours
A trampling in the woods. The spider perked up. Now, were talking. The prison caravan moved with the speed and elegance of a bull elephant. The soldiers had guns that radiated the aura of iron. Some imps guarded the company, along with a few wisps (Lesser Djinn, spirits of air. On the lower planes they appear as a heat blur, on the higher: incandescent halos of pale green light) hey, they were trying.
The spider moved at the speed of sound (Literally. What? Think I can't do it?) A detonation wiped the imps off the face of the earth. The soldiers moved fast. The wisps, faster. Me? Fastest. Another detonation. A wisp gone. I retreated a bit, the soldiers began firing, the spirits retaliated.
A screech tore the air (or at least: my eardrums.) a figure emerged from the forest. A shamanic bird totem. Giant wings of the raven and a human torso, wreathed in shadows. It gave another battle cry. Detonations and even the bullets rippled on its shield. Its aura pulsed with magic. Spirit, soldier, prisoner alike were consumed in a raging purple pestilence.
I liked Balim's style.
…
The British Prison
1030 hours
We marched in, unchallenged. Not so much as an imp accosted us. The human soldiers dozed in their towers. We took the forms of some guards; the rest of our caravan was made out of an illusion. Pretty shoddy affair, they existed up to the third plane.
"I don't know about you, but this doesn't look like a high security prison to me." A guard glanced at me.
"Do you have a better plan, Bartimaeus?" I hesitated. "I thought so."
My elegant remark was cut short by a challenge. "Halt! Who goes there, Friend or Foe?" We were already though the 'gate.' The British probably subscribed to the theory of better late than never.
"Friend." I roll my eyes. Has there been ever any other response to that old poser?
The guard clumsily marched up to Balim. Judging by the general lack of condition, this wasn't even a British prison. Spanish, maybe.
"Identification." Silence. Perhaps for ten seconds. The guard got an eloquent detonation to the face. (Maybe not eloquent, more like 'ha, ha, answer that, sucker!' type of thing)
An inhuman roar of rage shattered the stunned silence of the guards. A small ragtag group of foliots and ghuls materialized. We let the illusion fall, the planes rippled with collapsing magic. The spirits and guards meandered around in confusion. We took the opportunity to charge out.
I let detonations fly, destroying a couple of foliots. I change into a gargoyle without breaking stride. I came face to face to one of the 'friend or foe' guards.
"Foe." I vaporize him too. All said and done, the defenders didn't stand a chance. I survey my companions. The afrit looked somewhat plump.
"Search the camp?"
"Search the camp."
…
1036 Hours
What a surprise! Not
a single French magician found.
hoo-hum
We found some French prisoners, and since we were instructed to rescue magicians, the afrit ate them. After some short delibrirations we decided to return and give our masters the news.
…
Enroute to Paris
1100 Hours
A detonation ruptured our joyfully easy return home. Well, you can't get anything for nothing, can you? Resistance is almost expected.
We turned, the foliots scattered. A djinni silently took his leave via vaporization. We turned to our attackers; a couple of horla and a ragtag group of succubae. My misgivings about the whole mission caused me notice one detail.
They looked very French.
The newly rounded afrit charged them, turning into a burning phoenix enroute. It moved sluggishly, our attacks proved useless against their collective shields. I spotted another worrying fact: more horla, flying from the woods. Down below a small army of imps rose up.
"RUN!" I scream and do. The others follow my lead. A lone Djinni stood his ground. The ambushers converged on him and the afrit; giving us an escape Route. And escape we did. Behind us we heard the death cries of dying djinn. (It's not running away… think of it as a tactical withdrawal.)
Ten minutes later, no pursuit. By the time, Paris came into view. Actually, not exactly into view. You see, our sight was obscured by thick black smoke; the kind that comes from high intensity infernos.
This only spurned us onto greater speeds.
…
Jacked up the melodrama in this chapter. Hopefully the dark parts and slapsticks struck a balance.
In other words: REVIEW!
Minor edit. I was wondering why Rekyt sounded so familiar…