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The Warlock Round 2 - Blog Posts

cyr-frey

3 years ago

After way too long of working on it, I’ve finally finished the prologue to The Warlock round 2.

Prologue - The Man in Black

‘The man in Black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed.’ I read a book that began like that once. A few years ago. I remember very little of it, but I recall that line quite well. Why, I cannot say. But it comes to mind now, as I myself flee to the North. Although I cannot be sure yet whether I am being pursued or not. It is possible, and I hope it is not the case. If it is so I am almost certain it will spell my death. So long as I don’t freeze first, that is.

This night is bitterly cold and unwelcoming, I had expected nothing less. I despise the cold, though I have lived in it my entire life. I suppose I am used to it by now. My life has been quite long, by human standards.

Too long, according to some.

My trek will be lengthy and arduous, but it will be worth it at the end. Granted, I do not know when or where the end will be, but I expect I will know when I arrive. Unfortunately mundane transportation is too risky, and the Ways would be even worse. As much as some people claim to have good foresight, who or what you will run into on the train or in the Ways cannot be predicted. Any random person or creature could be my undoing, and I do not know everybody who may know me. My chances walking all the way to Canada through the cold, detest it as I may, are better than they would be should I get on a train or enter the Ways.

That is not a comforting thought, and perhaps I am not deserving of comfort. Only time will tell, I suppose.

Wind cuts through my layers, and for a moment I consider digging out the old, tattered grey fabric in my only bag - though I ultimately decide against it, that would be far too conspicuous. If my aim is to not draw unwanted attention, dressing up like a Warden is the exact wrong decision. While the cloak is more formidable than most other scraps of fabric, the warmth would not be worth the risk.

I tug the knapsack further onto my shoulder, hoping it isn’t going to be too conspicuous as well. To some, it likely would look like an ordinary, albeit very well worn backpack. However, those I am actively trying to avoid would likely recognise it for what it is. A pack from the Great War, stolen ages ago from a friend of mine who was unfortunate enough to fight in it. Despite the potential danger, it is a serviceable bag, and it holds a lot. Not to mention the certain… sentimental value, associated with my friend. It has been quite some time since I have seen him, and at this rate I doubt I will ever see him again.

As another gust of wind chills me to the bone I briefly consider making my way to one of my friend’s old safehouses. An advantage of knowing him well is that I know where most, if not all of his refuges are. There is one not too far, one I could probably make it to in the next few hours if I keep up my current speed, but that is also a serious risk. It is not certain that my friend wants to see me, and in fact I expect if I were to run into him there, he would greet me very violently. As much as I want to see him, and as much as I want to get out of the cold, it would be profoundly stupid of me to intrude in one of his safehouses knowing very well that he would likely be furious with me if he found me anywhere, let alone in a property of his that he did not invite me to.

Besides, he’s probably changed the locks on me by now. We did have quite the tiff last time I saw him.

After what feels like hours of trudging through snow that had gone from a minute amount to being shin-deep, I finally see a road ahead of me. No major highway, not overly busy - thank goodness - and not plowed. I could take my chances walking along the road for another few hours, but at this point I feel as though I am going to freeze to death if I do not find shelter soon. The road is not a well populated one, but the first time I see somebody driving in the direction I need to go, I hold my thumb out.

The car doesn’t stop. I suppose I cannot blame them, who in their right mind would want to pick up a mysterious man with a army knapsack and a hood covering his face, in the middle of the night on a mostly deserted road? They would either have to be the most good-natured person alive, or they would have to be just as insane as they’d assume I am. Which… Well, I am confident in my ability to defend myself should it come to that, but I sincerely hope it doesn’t. I am very exhausted, and I would like nothing more than to be able to sit down, out of the wind for just a few minutes.

Two more cars come by in my direction, and two more cars drive past me without stopping. I almost hope that I run across an insane driver, just so somebody will give me a ride. Besides, the likelihood of me being picked up out here by somebody or something that could actually do any damage to me is very low. Realistically, if I were picked up by a maniac, it would be far more likely that I would wind up being forced to kill them, at which point I would get a free car, and free whatever else they had in the car, and probably a free coat - although that would depend on their size. The trick to that would be leaving the car somewhere inconspicuous enough, and getting far away quickly enough that I would not be seen or suspected of any wrongdoing.

Hopefully it does not come to that. I am very tired, and I would very much just like to keep moving without also having to cover up a murder and a stolen vehicle as well. I already suspect magical authorities are looking for me, I do not want to also have mundane ones on my trail.

It feels like a long time until another car comes into my view - a beat up, gas guzzling truck that looks like it could really use a new coat of paint or three. It was probably no more than twenty or thirty minutes, but when one is walking in the cold by oneself, twenty or thirty minutes feels like an eternity and a half.

I again hold out my thumb, although I do not really expect this person to stop for me either. They would need balls of steel to take this risk. Preparing myself for disappointment for the fourth time, I hardly notice when the truck actually starts to slow down.

For a moment I do not register that it’s pulling up just ahead of me, or that the man inside leans across the seats and throws the passenger door open. I do not really register it until he calls out to me as I approach the truck.

“Y’look mighty cold, mister. Hop in, ‘fore there gets six inches’a snow on the seat.” His voice is deep, a little gravelly. I find it difficult to place the accent, but if I had to guess I would say the East coast, possibly New England. Which begs the question, what is this man doing in Northern Minesota? Travel is possible, but he has the aura of a man who has lived his entire life in his home town, never intending to leave.

“Thank you,” I say, hurrying up to the vehicle and climbing into the passenger’s seat. I pull the door shut and shiver. The inside of the truck is a very stark contrast to the chill of the snowstorm I had been stumbling about in. Looking out the window, I think it is a marvel that I did not freeze to death before I ever reached the road.

The man glances over at me. I glance over at him. He is rather stout, with a thick grey beard that looks to be made of wires, and presumably thinning grey hair beneath his baseball cap. I can see the hint of a tattoo on his jaw which seems to extend down his neck, but which is obscured by the collar of his coat. The truck smells heavily of cigarette smoke, leather, and coffee, which is exactly how it looks like it would smell. On the radio there plays soft music, so quiet that I can barley distinguish it. Whatever it is, it is not to my taste.

“Which way’re you headed?” The man asks.

“As far North as you can take me,” I reply.

“That’ll be a ways.” The man pretends to not notice me shiver again and turns the heat up. “You lookin’ t’ cross the border?”

I nod. I hope he doesn’t intend to ask too many questions about my journey. I have very few answers in general, and even fewer that I would actually like to give him. He may seem nice enough, but I have been alive long enough to suspect everybody. Perhaps I gained that quality from time spent around my friend, he has always been the paranoid sort, and this would certainly not be the only habit I have every picked up from him.

“I can’t take you that far, but I can get’ye pretty damn close.” He glances at me out of the corner of his eyes again. “What’s yer name?”

“Adam Barnett.”

“Interestin’ accent y’got there, Adam. Where’re’ye from?”

This man asks far too many questions. I have never liked people that ask so many questions.

“England.” Technically true. He does not need to hear my life story. “What’s your name?”

“Augustus Plinny. Gus’ll do fine, though.”

“Where do you come from, Augustus?” I have never cared for the American sort of nicknames.

“Vermont. Moved out here when I was uh.. Shit, must’a been no older’n fifteen.” Gus sighs. “S’pose I just wanted t’make my own way.” There is a wistfulness to his tone, one I think I may have had in my own voice many years ago. Back before I got myself into this mess.

“I can understand that.” Was the desire to forge my own path not what landed me in this situation in the first place?

The man - Augustus, nods solemnly. I suppose perhaps he’s also run face-first into trouble in his pursuit of… What was I pursuing? Power, probably. Freedom? I verily had freedom, it is my own fault that I’ve squandered it. I was looking for something so fervently that I could not see everything I already had.

He speaks up again after a minute or two of “Why’re’ye wearing that hood still, if’ye don’ mind my askin’?”

Like hell I’m telling this man the real reasons for concealing my face. Harmless as he may seem, it is impossible to tell from just looking at someone what they are capable of.

“My eyes are sensitive to the light.” Despite it is quite dark out, and the lights in the truck are dim at best, this is the best answer I am willing to give him.

“Fair ‘nough. Evr’ybody’s got s’mthing I s’pose.”

For a moment I wonder what his ‘something’ is, but I am not interested enough to ask.

He still decides to offer it up anyway.

“I get a wicked headache ‘f I try t’sleep in hotels. Couldn’t tell’ye why, just always been that way.”

“How bizarre,” I murmur.

“I s’pose I jus’ am not intended t’ sleep outside’a my home.”

“I suppose not,” I say with a slight sigh. Augustus evidently does not notice my vexation with his rambling. That, or he simply does not care.

I am thoroughly exhausted, between my escape and my companion’s unfortunate vivaciousness, I am prepared to fall asleep where I sit. I am not going to, but I wish I could. There is the matter of my safety, which is very much still at risk, hence why I cannot afford to let my guard down for even a moment. While I do not suspect that Augustus has any designs to harm me, I can not afford to be careless. For now I shall just have to be tired, and hope that he drops me off somewhere that has coffee.

“What’s ya’destination, Adam?” He asks me, after a few minutes of blissful silence.

“I already told you, I am going North.”

“North ain’t a destination.”

I am quiet for several moments. “Alaska.” It is not where I actually intend to go, but who knows. Fate might find it suitable to drop me there instead of Nunavut. I am prepared to go whichever way seems to be the safest, which is currently Nunavut, but that very well may change. After so many years in the White Council, so many years as a Warden, I am well accustomed to sudden change.

“Alaska,” Augustus repeats. “Quite a ways to be walkin’, or hitch hikin’.” His tone is not suspicious at all, but I had met people who had the ability to interrogate you as casually as they might comment on the weather.

“It’s cheaper,” I say. “And I enjoy travelling outdoors for the most part, anyway.” This is a lie, I hate travelling outdoors. I would greatly prefer to be in a private compartment on a train, with hot food and comfortable seats.

Augustus chuckles. “Tha’s plenty reasonable. Fresh air’s good for’ya lungs.”

I do not get the sense that this man is toying with me. He is a bizarre person, true, but his good nature does not strike me as false. Nobody can always tell when someone is playing a game with them, but usually my sense for these things is quite good. I can thank my mentor and my many years in the White Council for that. It is difficult to be someone of any import in the Council without some skill in politics and society.

“That it is.” Neutral responses have gotten me through a lot.

“Y’got family out there, Adam?” I don’t like how often he is saying my name. Well, the name I told him.

“A sister, and two nephews.” All of my siblings perished when I was a young boy. “It’s been some time since I’ve had the chance to go out and visit them.”

“Shame, that. How old’re y’nephews?”

“Lord, they must be… Well I think they’re seven and twelve now. I’ve not seen them since the youngest one was a toddler.”

“Well, I hope y’have a good visit with’em. Family’s important, y’know. Wicked important.”

“It is.” For the first time since I set out, I think of my own family. The family that actually exists. My father, a substantial number of wardens who I grew to consider Aunts and Uncles when I was a boy. It truly has been quite a long time since I saw them, and I miss them very dearly. Perhaps most of all I miss the man I called my husband, though his title was not recognised by the Council or the mundane government, but we wore rings and loved each other all the same.

It stings to know that it was my own fault that I lost him, but I suppose I must deal with the consequences of my own actions. Perhaps one day I will see him again, in this life or the next.

“Y’alright there, Adam?” Augustus glances at me briefly, before turning his attention back to the dark road ahead.

“Hm? Yes, perfectly fine. Only glad to see my family.”

Augustus nods silently in what I assume is understanding. I wonder what exactly he is doing out here at this hour, by himself. Perhaps he is on his way to see his family, or perhaps he too is running from something. If he is, he is doing it very casually.

The road continues to be devoid of other cars, which I am immensely grateful for. Traffic would only serve to worsen my nerves, which would likely lead to a headache, and that is the last thing I need at the moment. My headaches have gotten far worse in recent years. In my youth, they were easy to deal with. They were almost never bad enough to disrupt my day. But now, I get a headache and I am out of commission for the next twenty-four hours at least. I expect I know why they’ve worsened, but that does not make it any less nerve wracking or irritating.

“Have you got family?” I ask him, once the silence has stretched on for a little too long.

“I got a few folks back home. Been a long time since I saw them too.” He glances at me again. “D’ya mind if I have a smoke?”

I shake my head. He rolls down the window.

I am extremely glad that cigarette smoke smells different from regular smoke.

“Y’want one? I got plenty,” he holds the cigarette box out to me once he’s lit his own, and I am reminded of when my husband used to smoke. Only when he was stressed, though unfortunately that was quite frequent. He would offer me one, and sometimes I would accept, but it was never something I had much of a taste for.

Tonight, though, I could really use a cigarette. I take one from the box and pluck the lighter from where Augustus had dropped it in the otherwise empty cup holders.

It stings my throat, burns in my lungs, and I have never been so glad to have it. Tonight of all nights, I am happy to have so tangible a reminder of my husband, and of happier times. I am unlikely to ever be able to call him my husband again, and it is unlikely that I will ever find myself someplace where I will never have to run again.

For now, I will gladly and firmly cling to what small happy things I can.

The cigarette does not last nearly as long as I would like. Perhaps Augustus will drop me off close to somewhere that I can buy my own pack, I do not need a lighter.

It isn’t long after I finish my cigarette that Augustus pulls into a gas station, one of the few signs of civilisation we have seen on this road. We have already passed a few scattered houses, another gas station a ways back that had trash bags taped over the pumps and boards over the solitary window, and what looked to be a general store, closed for the night. I find it comforting how remote this area is.

“This’ll be far as I can take’ya, if ya’ want t’get Northwest,” Augustus says, pulling the key from the ignition and tucking his remaining cigarettes in his pocket. “Heading East mighty soon, but here’s the last stop before I turn.”

I nod. “Thank you for the ride,” I say. I never bothered with a seat belt, so I simply collect my bag from the floor by my feet and open the truck door.

“Best’a luck, Adam. Hope ya’ get to y’family safe’n sound.” He climbs out as well, pushing the driver’s door shut without locking it. I do not bother locking my side either.

As soon as I am back out in the frigid night, a gust of wind slams into me, cutting through my layers and chilling me to the bone. It is clear that hitch-hiking is no longer an option, I would likely freeze to death before getting picked up again. I pull my coat tighter around my shoulders and look around the mostly vacant parking lot. Augustus’ truck is one of two cars around, the other being left by the gas pumps, still idling and empty.

At a glance, the only two people I can see through the windows of the station itself are Augustus and the cashier. I hurry towards the other truck, lamenting to myself that I likely do not have time to get coffee and cigarettes here. With luck, there would be another stop before too long.

Inside, another man emerges from behind a shelf, striding towards the counter, presumably the owner of this other truck. I quicken my pace, and fortunately nobody seems to take notice of me as I reach the vehicle and climb inside. Luckily for me, the man had not only left it idling, but left the doors unlocked as well. I suppose it is not wholly foolish, it is the dead of night and he was the only person here until moments ago.

I toss my bag in the passengers seat and pull the door shut, the sound of which seems to alert the three men inside the station that something is happening outside. They squint for a moment, and as soon as I put my foot on the gas peddle, all three are running out the door, waving and shouting and cursing at me. While stealing a car was not my first choice, given how conspicuous it usually is, it is much better and safer than walking in a storm like this.

I flip my hood down and turn the heat up, the cold always aggravates my nerves. Out of the rear view mirror I can see all three men from the gas station standing in the parking lot, one is still waving his arms. I assume he is the owner of my new truck, but it is difficult to see now, they are so far behind me.

The truck is not unlike Augustus’, it too is old, tattered, and it reeks of cigarette smoke. However, unlike Augustus, the poor sod who owned this one left his smokes on the dash. They aren’t the sort I prefer, but they’ll do. I light one for myself and take one last look in the rear view mirror. The gas station is but a speck in the distance, and I drive a little faster in an effort to outpace whatever police officers wind up looking into this. I will need to get rid of this truck before I cross the border, but I have plenty of time to figure out a next step before then. I will likely have to cross the border on foot, and then find another car once I am in Canada. But that is something I will handle when I get to it.

The headache beginning to blossom in my temples is a far more immediate concern. That, and I could really use a cup of coffee.