Aliphor

CHAPTER ONE
By Beck McLaughlin

The Kelblades are very close. There are dozens of them, swords drawn, their silhouettes stark against the flames. Behind them, waiting for the cleansing fire, bodies are heaped one upon the other, women and children hacked to pieces. Man-lin's head lies within her reach, dead eyes wide and filled with accusation.

Crouching in her hiding place, she is soaked with sweat from the heat of the fires and her own debilitating fear. Roaring flames and the screams of the dying blend into an endless howl of horror, but it seems that her heartbeat is louder still. She cannot take her eyes from the murderers' leader whose gaze swings back and forth with preternatural acuity.

That dread gaze falls upon her and focuses; a hand lifts, pointing. She tries to get up, to run, but her limbs are rooted to the filthy paving stones. They turn and, as one man, start toward her. There is no hurry. Red blades lift, mouths twist into vulpine grins. They fill her vision, all black leather and steel, wreathed 'round with smoke, haloed by fire. She starts to scream ...

Elfie woke with a convulsive shudder and lay shaking in a silent mix of fear and cold. Tears burned behind her eyelids and her chest hurt. Dead, so many dead. Man-lin, Shep, Vanshi -- even that old fool, Roque. Yet she still lived -- if this wretched, fugitive existence could be called living. Was she thankful? Now was not the time to ask.

She sat up, every muscle aching. The light of a grey afternoon barely penetrated distant, dripping branches. Gods, but she was tired! She'd not meant to fall asleep here, to lie helpless in this endless forest. But three days of headlong flight and little food had finally claimed their due. Increasingly, her body was making decisions for her. If she did not get to Seroult soon, there was a chance that one of these times she would not awake.

Brushing leaves and twigs from damp hair, Elfie weighed her choices, aware that she was completely unqualified to do so. City-born and bred, her experience with Nature had been to gaze upon the pages of a stolen, very fine, leather-bound book. The illustrations had lied, of course. The wilderness was not sun-dappled and strewn with brightly colored flowers. It was cold, gray and wet.

Thunder rumbled from the west. Already thoroughly chilled, Elfie's low spirits ebbed further. For a moment she considered pushing back to the road, but these days, roads were possibly more dangerous than the wilderness. Val Ankaran, self-proclaimed Emperor of the Southern Lands (Usurper, others proclaimed -- in whispers) was wasting no time in shoring up his base of power. Already l'Sanjil's corrupted Kelblades and a growing number of mercenaries were moving to quell opposition in Bluehills and Chalis. Elfie had twice encountered patrols, escaping both times by the barest of margins.

Still, better the devil you know . . .

"Don't be a fool!" The voice whispered through her brain and Elfie started. She looked around but there was nothing to see. Apparently, Storchi was not inclined to take form this morning. The lazy bastard.

"I know that," she said aloud, "but why should they bother a lone traveler?"

"Because they're looking for a thief, silly girl, and you are one, if you recall?"

Elfie's hand automatically slid under her shirt to her right shoulder. The Guild's tattoo, a tiny money-pouch pierced by a tinier dagger, had never been much respected outside the Quarter; now it was a death sentence.

"But why? The Kelblades slaughtered us like cattle! Why should they waste their time rounding up those few of us that escaped? What threat do we pose to the Ankaran the Weak?"

"Have a care, insolent chit! Ankaran's reach is longer than you might think!"

"I've heard the stories, Storchi, so you needn't try to scare me with them. Black magic ... demons ... faugh!" Elfie spat elaborately into the wet leaves. "Now if you've nothing useful to contribute to my well-being -- like food -- begone!"

"Food is it, thiefling? There are birds' eggs over your head. Roots beneath your feet - a veritable feast of nature."

"You aren't funny." Still, Elfie poked speculatively at the soft earth and looked up into the branches of the towering cypress. "I need real food, not berries and grubs."

"Well, then, why not seek the shore?"

"I don't eat seaweed either and I've no fishing net."

"Than you aren't hungry enough, are you?"

"You're a bastard, Storchi. You were murdered, weren't you?"

"Tsk, tsk . . . no need to get nasty, Mistress Prickly-Rump. There are two travelers camped out along the beach, digging in for the coming storm. A thief might find a way to take advantage of this."

There was a sudden snap in her head, and Elfie knew Storchi was gone. Travelers, eh? She stood, vacillating. The ghost's information could be unreliable. Indeed, Elfie occasionally suspected the shade of deliberately leading her into sticky situations. Still, Storchi had never before led her into actual danger.

Deciding against the road, she started down the hillside toward the sea. In the South, the ocean was warm and deep blue. It caressed the wide, sunny beaches, offering up its bounty freely to the broad nets of the Fisher Guild. But here, farther north, it was a hostile creature, smashing against the broken, boulder-strewn beach with a fury that seldom abated. Little wonder that this land had few human inhabitants. If offered nothing but hardship.

By the time Elfie reached the ocean, the storm was almost directly overhead. Lightning split the boiling clouds and a few drops of rain spattered down, leaving tiny pockmarks in the sand. She clenched her jaw as misery swamped her. Tightening the rope-belt that held up her stolen breeches, she trudged grimly on, half-heartedly looking for a sign of Storchi's travelers.

She saw it suddenly, a tattered ribbon of smoke rising from the rocks. In spite of herself, Elfie felt a leap of hope, hope she quickly damped. What if Storchi was wrong? What if it was a Blade patrol? She would have a look, but carefully. If, by some miracle, it was some ordinary fool -- well, she was a thief, after all.

Going slowly, Elfie was careful to stay downwind in case there were horses or hounds. When she reached the rocks, she scrambled up their steep and slippery sides until, atop the tallest, she looked down into a cozy niche. There was a fire at the mouth, two men crouched before the flames, wrapped in thick, woolen cloaks. Their mounts stood nearby, feedbags strapped to muzzles, tails twitching in that slow, leisurely fashion that signals equine contentment. To their left, where the open space narrowed, a piece of canvas had been stretched from one rock to the next.

The men were roasting fish and the scent that wafted up to Elfie nearly overset her. She swallowed the sudden flood of water in her mouth and prayed that the snarling of her stomach, so loud up here, was inaudible below.

Mercenaries, all right. Their gear bore no identifying marks, no city-patches to declare their allegiance. They were probably on their way south. Even before his official ascension to the throne of l'Sanjil, Ankaran's ambitions had been no secret.

The rain started in earnest. Being in no position to offend the gods, Elfie bit back curses and waited. As she expected, the men wasted little time in getting out of the rain, withdrawing with their roast fish into the shelter. Elfie lay flat along the top of the boulder and waited.

The fire went out, smoking a bit. A few leather satchels and packs lay in a heap beneath a small lip of rock. The horses stood with heads down, munching stoically. Elfie waited. When the water was coming down in sheets, obscuring everything further than two inches past one's nose, she moved. Her memory-map of the tiny campsite was detailed and accurate, a thief-skill, so she did not need eyes to find that leather-bound treasure trove.

She found the packs; they were reassuringly full. With luck, she would snatch trail rations and some warmer clothes - maybe even a few silver pieces. Working quickly, with frequent looks in the direction of the canvas shelter, Elfie opened the bag on top of the pile. Her fingers slid inside and brushed against velvet. Her heart leapt in excitement. Jewelry, perhaps?

But when Elfie started to slide the object from the pack, strong fingers came out of the dark to lock around her wrist. A second later, she was flat on her back, the wind knocked out of her. For a moment, she could do nothing but lie there, eyes and mouth open to the pouring rain.

"I don't believe it," she thought in amazement. "I'm going to drown!"

Then the sky moved - no, it was she moving, dragged by the ankles across the sand and into a place of warmth, darkness and, most wonderful of all, no choking rain. She was released. Thunder roared directly overhead and, inside the cramped shelter, yellow light blossomed.

Elfie regained her wits, but as she coiled himself to run, she heard the whisper of steel against leather and felt a sharp point under her chin. Her heart took another frightened leap. The man leaning over her had long, honey-colored hair held back from his eyes by a slim, intricate braid. Kelblade! Elfie swallowed again and again, but that nasty lump in her throat refused to budge. Eyes narrowing, the Blade reached down and ripped away her sleeve, exposing her shoulder.

"Ha! This is no spy. We've caught ourselves a rat, a thieving rat."

The other man leaned forward. He was smaller than the Blade, damp hair curled around a long face of angle and shadow. The eyes were unlucky, a bright, vivid blue, down-tilted slightly at the corners. Beneath his cloak, he wore a coat, the style of which Elfie didn't recognize. In his hand was a globe of light. The girl blinked in astonishment. A mage?

"Is that true . . . rat?" The Kelblade gave a gentle poke with his dirk, but Elfie's terror was beginning to fade. His city emblem was noticeably missing from the warrior's uniform and as for the other -- well, mages were hardly honored members of society.

"Stop it, Reven." The mage pushed aside the Blade's knife. Picking up the purple velvet pouch that had started all this trouble, he opened it. An oddly shaped bit of metal fell out - nickel maybe, or tin. "Not very valuable, I'm afraid."

Elfie moved slowly to sit up. Her captors allowed it, sliding back, but not too far. The Blade returned his dagger to his belt, and laid a great, sheathed sword across his knee, his meaning clear. Elfie barely noticed the threat; her attention was riveted to the weapon. In the mage-light, its hilt, heavily encrusted with gems, glittered seductively. The scabbard alone would command a handsome sum -- solid silver under its leather covering . . . a most unusual weapon. Perhaps the Kelblade, or ex-Blade, was a lord's son. She glanced involuntarily up into the swordsman's face and caught a look of bleak amusement.

"Never touch this," the man said softly. "You would . . . regret it."

Not as much as you would, she thought, calculating the value of the gems she could see and getting dizzy at the total. "So," she managed, jerking her eyes from the sword. "Now what?"

"A good question." Elfie's heart jumped again as his fingers tightened around the sword, began to slide it from its scabbard.

"NO!" The mage's voice was low, but forceful.

"He's a thief! And worse -- a thief who's seen us!"

The atmosphere in the tiny shelter changed. Suddenly, there was evil here, thick and suffocating -- as if a fourth person had appeared among them, exuding malevolence and hunger. Yet she saw only her two captors. Sweat popped out on her forehead and she began to shake.

Storchi! Gods, Storchi! Help!

"Put that away," commanded the mage. "He took nothing and will conveniently forget everything he's seen here. Isn't that right, boy?"

Elfie nodded frantically.

"Good intentions are worthless after a few hours with an Interrogator," the swordsman retorted. "I say we gut him and be done with it!"

Where was Storchi? He always came when Elfie called, yet that special place in the thief's mind remained silent and empty. Was there black magic at work? The mage!

But the mage was not muttering spells, he was glaring at the Blade. "Don't be any more barbaric than you can help. And put that thing away! You swore to use it only in self defense."

"And so I shall," retorted the warrior. "Isn't anyone who threatens our lives an enemy?"

"I ... I'm no threat, lords, I swear it!" The words squeezed out between frozen lips. "I'm just hungry!"

There was music in the shelter now, barely audible through the hiss of the rain and thunder's tympanic din. The melody, half-heard, sent chills up Elfie's spine.

"Sheathe the thing!" the mage roared. "Reven! Fight it!"

For a moment, something chased across the swordsman's face and the music swelled. Then, with a strangled curse, the man shoved the blade back into the scabbard and sat, shaking, elbows on knees, head bowed. The music was gone. The mage sagged back on his heels, shoulders slumping. Elfie tensed herself to run.

"Don't," said the mage tiredly. For just a moment, it seemed that those uncanny eyes looked back at Elfie out of some other place or time. The girl swallowed. An errant blast of wind found its way into the niche and seized the canvas roof, shaking it wildly. Muttering something, the mage tugged at the canvas' ties. Outside, a horse whinnied.

Storchi? Where are you? Get me out of this!

Finally, miraculously, the shade was there.

Get down, thiefling . . .

The Blade had time only for a startled cry. Elfie flung herself onto her face and the beach erupted. The swordsman's curses mingled with Storchi's wild, echoing laughter as the small shelter filled with a stinging whirlwind of grit. Elfie heard the canvas rip away and the rain pounded down to mingle with the sand.

Are your wits gone begging, child? Crawl away!

Elfie tried, keeping her head down and eyes screwed shut. She did not get far. The Blade, much bigger, stronger, and -- curse him -- faster, seized her ankle and pulled her back, plucking her from the sand and slamming her into the rock. For a moment, the universe was an uncertain place.

Dimly, he heard: "Enough! Reven! Leave him be!"

Elfie was released abruptly and slid, dazed into the wet sand. She was vaguely aware of the mage restoring the canvas. For a moment, there was silence. The thief's vision settled. She looked fearfully at the Blade, but the mage, unnatural strength in his long, fine hand, gripped the warrior's arm and pressed the furious man back into his seat. After a moment, the mage turned back to Elfie. "Four miles back, and a few hours hence, we ran into a very unsavory group of men -- mercenaries. They were looking for -- among other miscreants -- a thief."

Elfie's aching belly cramped.

"We're no friend to Ankaran or his new Queen," the mage went on. "You might consider that we could be friends to you."

"W-why?"

"Indeed," muttered Reven. He was ignored.

"You're trying to reach Seroult, aren't you? That is the nearest city with a Thief Guild."

Elfie nodded reluctantly. The mage considered another long moment.

"I'm the Doctor. This is Reven. We're also on our way to Seroult. If you're the thief they're looking for, you would be safer with us."

"Begging your pardon, sir, but being found with a mage and a disgraced Blade is more likely to get me hanged," she retorted. "No, thanks."

It was close, but the Doctor once again restrained the fiery Blade. Sighing, he shook his head and said, "It's not what you think, but if you wish, you can go."

"DOCTOR!"

Elfie stood up, heart banging again, suspecting a trick. "Good. I'll do just that, thanks."

"At least take this," said the Doctor. "For the trouble."

Her jaw sagging, Elfie accepted a blue, woolen shirt. The Blade was gnashing his teeth.

"With decent clothes you won't be as conspicuous," the mage continued. Then, unexpectedly, he leaned forward, and taking her arm, said softly into her ear: "Be careful, young lady."

Mute with astonishment, Elfie looked from one to the other. The swordsman had rolled his eyes heavenward, then dropped his head into his hands in despair.

"Th-thanks," stammered Elfie again and, clutching the gift to her chest, she turned and fled.

Sunlight chased the storm inland, teasing rainbows from the dissolving clouds. The beach stretched before them, empty. Rising tide washed their trail clean. The two men rode slowly, saving the horses.

"I can't believe you actually invited the thief to come with us!" Reven pulled back on Jihadran's reins when the spirited animal took offense at a crab's sudden dash to the ocean. "And him a Summoner, too!"

"A what?"

"The rat unleashed a spirit on the beach! You were there! You saw it!"

"I saw telekinesis," replied the Doctor, matter-of-fact. "And it was a 'she.' "

"Summoning -- telekinesis, what's the difference? She? That guttersnipe was female?"

"Yes. And there's nothing supernatural about telekinesis." Abruptly, the Doctor broke off, leaning forward, eyes narrowing. "Oh-oh. Trouble."

At once, Reven's hand went to Bloodsinger's hilt. He could see nothing ahead, but the hair rose on the back of his neck nonetheless. From the pockets of his damp coat, the Doctor pulled out a spyglass. "Our mercenary friends," he said tersely, replacing the instrument. "Let's get out of here."

Turning Barusa, the mage sent his horse toward a line of rocks that marked the inland edge of the beach. Jihadran was quickly on their heels. Within minutes, they left the shore and danger behind.

Sometimes, Reven was certain he was locked into a nightmare -- that nothing lay ahead of him but endless flight. Their hunters were relentless; and Ankaran had a seemingly endless supply. Without the Doctor, Reven knew he'd not have made it this far. Sooner or later, they would have worn him down, pushed him into making a fatal mistake out of sheer exhaustion.

Reven would have called it luck, meeting the Doctor in that l'Sanjilese alley, but there was no such thing where magic was involved. Never mind the mage's protests that he did not work magic. Nothing else could've kept them ahead of Driade.

The two men turn inland, up into the hills. By the reckoning of maps, they were still close to the sea, but the land was steep and heavily wooded -- no easy ride, especially for an armed party. After a while, the Doctor slowed, satisfied at last that no one pursued them. He dismounted and beckoned Reven to do the same. Their horses were breathing hard, exhausted by the run. Reven knew how they felt. His own body ached.

"Where are we going?" Reven asked finally. The evergreens pressed in thickly around them. Brambles and vines caught at their clothing and wrapped around their ankles.

"A place to catch our breath. We're almost there." The mage paused a moment, closing his eyes, lifting his head as if tasting the mingled scents of cedar and sea. "To the left," he said at last.

The trees thinned and, a moment later, the ground leveled off. Iron-shod hooves rang on stone.

"There's a road here!" Reven called. "What is this place, Doctor?"

His companion did not answer immediately. They came upon the remains of the outer wall. Vines grew in tangled profusion over the blackened stones. Beyond, a ruined manor had succumbed to a like fate, the outline of its broken walls softened by the lush vegetation.

"Kirmil House," the Doctor said. "A mage hall once."

"A long time ago, it would seem."

"Yes," the mage agreed, and said nothing more.

Reven could see that the Doctor was disturbed by some memory of this place. Rooks nested atop the shattered walls; a once-elegant courtyard was littered with their droppings. The herb garden had long since gone wild. An old bell lay on the ground near the fallen steeple, rusted and broken. They reached the stables. Half the long structure had collapsed into a heap of rubble, but the four end stalls were more or less intact.

"We should be all right here," the Doctor said. "Kirmilians avoid this place, or did. They say it's haunted. I think it's more likely an inherited guilty conscience."

"What happened?"

"When the Demon war was over, shortly after magery was outlawed, the surviving Masters withdrew to isolated spots like this all over Aliphor. Kirmil Hall held twenty-nine souls, most of them boys abandoned by their parents when their telekinetic abilities surfaced. They were discovered. The Masters got the children away before the soldiers came, but they died to protect them."

Reven looked around again. "That's one thing the new Kel has done. Mages can practice their arts freely again."

The Doctor snorted. From somewhere among the ruined buildings, an otow hooted. In spite of himself, a superstitious trickle ran down Reven's spine. "Is it truly haunted?" The Kelblade looked around uneasily.

"If it is," shrugged his companion, "we've no cause to be frightened. The Masters were scholarly and kind. In fact, I wouldn't mind speaking to them again."

The stalls were dank, musty with age and rot. Tatters of grey cobwebs hung from the beams. Small creatures skittered through the debris that littered the floor and heaped up in the corners. The mage regarded the mess with fastidious disapproval, but Reven was far too tired to care about the shelter's inadequacies. He unsaddled Jihadran and gave the animal the last of its feed.

The Doctor pulled one of his arcane devices from the gelding's saddlebags -- a cooker that used no flame nor burned fuel. "There's a well behind the chapel," he instructed. "You get the water and I'll make up a bit of dinner."

Only porridge again, but even that sounded good after a day's rough ride. Reven nodded and trotted obediently off with their water bottles. A month ago, he would have taken offense at the Doctor's peremptory order, but time and bitter experience had done much to humble him. He refilled his containers and hurried back. The Doctor squatted in front of the stables, a cooker set on a flat stone, carefully pouring a measure of oats into their battered, tin pot.

"Almost out of power," he announced as Reven crouched beside him. "We need a good, long stint of sunlight or it's back to campfires."

In minutes, the smell of oats and sugared spices rose from the bubbling meal. The Kelblade pulled off his mail vest, sighing at the sudden release from its weight. "The horses are out of feed, too."

The Doctor nodded. Reven studied the gleaming, down-bent head, then asked: "If you traveled to this place a half a century ago, did you observe the Demon War, as well?"

"No. When I last visited Aliphor, the war had been over for some time. Signs of it were still visible -- at least in the north -- blasted landscape, dead, poisoned cities. And, of course, there was the relentless persecution of anyone thought to have demon blood or be in sympathy with them -- such as the mages." His mouth curved into a rueful smile. "At least, as wars go, it was a relatively small one."

"You jest!" History was an important subject to Aliphoran lordlings, be they first sons or fifth. "Thousands died!"

"I don't mean to trivialize it," the Doctor replied quickly. "One such death is always too many, but I have seen more wars that you can imagine, Reven, and in no few of them, everything was laid waste, billions dead -- life itself completely extinguished. Aliphor got off easily, take my word for it."

Reven struggled with the idea of billions. "Did all these wars you speak of -- did they happen on the other side of the mountains?"

The mage's brows drew together, then the smile returned. "Um . . . allegorically speaking, I suppose. Ready for some dinner?"

Reven considered his words as they ate. The Doctor was a font of strange stories. He denied working magic, yet produced light from empty, crystal globes and heat from lumps of metal. By face and form, he looked only a few years older than Reven -- and spoke with familiarity of events centuries past.

"I'm a Time Lord," the mage had explained early in their acquaintance. "From Gallifrey."

Reven was unfamiliar with divisions within the Mages' Guild, but he reckoned that a Time Lord was probably some specialized branch of magic, although he seriously doubted the mage could actually travel into the past. As for Gallifrey, he'd never heard of the place, but geography, alas, had never been one of his better subjects.

After their frugal dinner, the Doctor announced his attention to poke about the ruins a bit. He was vague about what he sought, but the Blade noticed that he took several more of his magical items from the saddlebags. Like most Aliphorans, magic made Reven uneasy. He was more then willing to leave the Doctor to it, and went off to wash their dishes in a tiny spring behind the stable. Afterwards he relaxed as the dusk chorus of birds filled the mountainside with song. The sun was almost set, golden light streaking through the trees. Finally, he stirred himself and returned to the stables. Reven unrolled his bed-pack and lay down, wrapping himself in the thin blankets. He fell into a half doze, waking abruptly when the mage returned.

"Doctor?"

"Mmmm?" The mage unrolled his own blankets and, light-globe on the ground beside him, pulled out in his little book. Each night he wrote in it and when Reven asked about it, replied that it was a record for the High Council who had sent him to l'Sanjil in the first place.

"What's it like on the other side of the mountains?" he asked suddenly.

"Are we talking literally this time, or allegorically?"

"Doctor?"

The mage grinned and closed his book, marking his place with his pen. "Literally, then. It's much like Aliphor. The customs are different, but not terribly so. Aliphorans and Dromandi are descended from a common stock, I think -- those mountains are fairly recent, a couple million years or so ..."

"Recent? A million years? Billions of people? Doctor, your numbers make my head spin. And what is the Dromondi?"

"People. Like you. Someday one or the other of you will make it over the mountains. If human behavior holds true, you'll spend a couple of centuries fighting each other, then gradually reach a state of mutual tolerance."

Reven grinned. "My father was right."

"About what?"

"Mages are eccentric. You talk about 'humans' as if you weren't one."

"I told you -- I'm a Time Lord!"

"Yes, of course. From Gallifrey. I remember."

The mage's smile turned rueful. "And you don't believe a word of it. Where do you think the cooker comes from? And my solar lamp?"

"Magic," replied Reven, propping himself on an elbow.

"They are not magic!" The mage was exasperated, flinging his hands up in despair. "It's technology! Tools. Machines! Magic is just a way -- a general explanation for something that is, at the moment, unexplainable!"

"And Bloodsinger. Is that a machine?"

The Doctor went very still. His lips thinned. "If you would let me look at it ..."

"NO!" Reven's gut knotted.

"You could keep a hand on the cursed thing. I just want to have a look at the hilt."

Reven's hand closed around the weapon until his knuckles ached. "No," he said again, mind stuck on that single syllable. "No."

For that moment, the Kelblade was desperately afraid. He was under no illusions about his traveling companion. The mage's kindly, diffident manner hid ruthless power; he was as certain of that as he was of anything in his shattered life. Should the Doctor so desire, Reven had no doubt he could take Bloodsinger by force of will.

But the mage only shook his head and settled back against the wall. "Calm down, Reven. I'm not about force the issue."

Heart pounding, breath coming in ragged gasps, the Kelblade nodded, settling back onto the blankets. He felt weak and his stomach rolled.

"Are you all right?"

His breathing eased. "I'm sorry . . . I can't . . . the demon won't . . . "

"I understand. Think no more about it." The Doctor's blue eyes reflected the lamplight, making them impossible to read. "And for what it's worth, Reven, I do think Bloodsinger is a machine -- particularly evil and pernicious -- but a machine nonetheless. What I can't figure out is why? What is its purpose in her schemes? What, for that matter, are her schemes?"

"Why, Doctor? Why do you think? To advance her husband's power, of course."

The mage laughed. There was no mirth in the sound. "Ankaran? He's a dupe, a means to an end. Oh, no, my unfortunate friend, the queen - the lovely Driade, as she calls herself -- never does anything without a cold, well-considered reason. And if I don't find out what it is, Rassilon only knows what catastrophe will befall Aliphor."

"You speak as if you know her."

"I do." The Doctor picked up his book again. "She's like me. She's Gallifreyen."