SCOTT McGOUGH SCOTT McGOUGH "CHAINER'S TORMENT" (Magic: the Gathering. Odyssey cycle. Book II.) "Kamahl! Are you okay?" The barbarian waved Chainer off and dropped the rest of the way down to the ground, trying to evade the pollen. With his face half-buried in mulch, Kamahl coughed the pollen out and tried to suck clear forest air in. Chainer hesitated. He didn't want to leave Kamahl in the dirt, and he didn't want to face the grendelkin without support. The huge monster took a step forward and casually snapped the top off another tree. It used the tree as a crude club, and it shambled for-ward, slamming into the ground and other trees with each step. "Poison," Kamahl choked. His eyes were wet, but he had stopped coughing and was struggling back to his feet. "There aren't any poisonous plants in this part of Krosan, Chainer. We're being set up." PROLOGUE Just outside the walls of Cabal City, far from the crushing waves of people and the ringing shouts in the marketplace, the young man pressed on. He called himself Chainer, and for the first time in a long, busy day he was unscheduled. He picked his way through the dwindling foot traffic, moving against the flow of people headed into the city. As he navigated around the last pedestrians in his path, he relished the rare gifts of free time and solitude. Without a training exercise to complete, an incantation to memorize, or a schedule to keep, Chainer was determined not to be found. He was a member of the Cabal by choice, ritual, and oath, and the Cabal demanded much from its initiates. His superiors would pounce on an idle boy proclaiming, "Nothing to do? I can fix that." Chainer hated being rewarded for good work with more work. Rather than waiting for that inevitable hammer to fall, Chainer ducked down an alley when no one was looking and headed for the gates. His pace slowed once he was clear of the city. It had been so long since he'd had any time to himself that he had all but forgotten how to enjoy it. He wondered what other people did when they weren't serving their own masters. More to the point, what did they do when they weren't trying their best simply to stay alive? As he wandered and pondered, Chainer walked through the squatters' shacks outside the city and into the salt flats toward the sparse, dying forest beyond. He ignored the sullen glares from the squatters themselves. If his membership in the Cabal didn't protect him from starving civilians, his own skills could. He was more alert for any of the dangerous wild beasts that lurked on the edges of this and every other settlement. Large predators were rare this close to the well-lit city gates and its armed guards, but the first thing the Cabal taught its members was to be careful with the Cabal's equipment, which included their own bodies. He altered his course and scanned the path through the marshy flats. Chainer moved along by choosing which parts of the muddy path to avoid rather than which ones he wanted to take. He grew lost in the rhythm and the repetition of trekking through the flats, unaware and unconcerned about how far he had traveled. He hiked until his shadow grew long before him, until a soft, insistent whisper broke through his reverie. It wasn't a voice, but it called directly to him. It wasn't a song, but the melody gave him chills. It wasn't an alarm, but it commanded his attention with an urgency that was soft but undeniable. He cupped a hand around his ear to help pinpoint the sound. The remains of a residential district sat to the southeast, and the sound was coming from there. Chainer listened for a moment, then started off toward the largest house on the ruined block. Its immediate neighbors had been bombed and burned flat. The ruined mansion with the caved-in roof and exposed frame stood tall, a broken but defiant veteran of a barely remembered war. Chainer paused at the bottom of the front porch steps. Except for the beckoning sound, the mansion was completely silent and still. Chainer expertly drew his knuckle dagger, clenched it blade-down and ready at his hip, and went carefully up the rickety porch. He doubted there was any live danger inside the mansion, but then again, he didn't want the Cabal's equipment to be damaged either. The interior of the mansion was in worse shape than the exterior. The main floor was more hole than floor, with the basement level clearly visible from the front doorway. An ornate metal banister led up to the second floor, but the staircase itself was gone, a pile of broken wood and carpet scraps in the basement below. Chainer looked closer and saw what appeared to be bones among the wreckage of the staircase. At least three complete humans, one of whom was very small. Chainer took one tentative step onto the threadbare floor, but before he could put his full weight down the ancient boards split and fell away. He stepped back onto the porch, which shuddered and swayed beneath him. Chainer grunted and scouted the entire first floor for a safe route down into the basement. Finding none, he sheathed his knuckle dagger and took his weapon and tool of choice-a ten-foot length of black metal chain-from his belt. He looped the hard, polished chain around the broken base of a statue that guarded the front doorway, and with the simplest spell he knew, connected the chain to itself. "Link," he whispered, and the spot he was staring at shimmered, then coalesced into a new link that was indistinguishable from the rest of the chain. Chainer leaned backward to cinch up the metal noose and test its strength. Then he lowered himself down into the still, musty debris. It was incredibly dark, the kind of darkness that caused him to wonder if his eyes were still open. He listened for any other movement and waited in vain for his eyes to adjust. The sound continued to call him, growing higher and more excited as he got closer. Methodically, he made his way across the basement toward the sound, testing the stone floor before putting any weight on it. By a pile of moth-eaten fabric and random junk, he lit one of his flare candles and immediately noticed the sphere. In a small bubble of bright light, Chainer stared in naked wonder at the treasure, hovering a clear foot off the ground, that had called to him across the salt flats. The smooth, flawless black ball somehow seemed to radiate darkness like fire radiates light. Chainer's flare only showed it in relief, for the sphere defined itself with its own anti-light. The edges of the sphere's dark field crackled and sparked as they rippled and undulated outward. Half-hypnotized by the black light and the triumphant crescendo of sound, Chainer had a vision of his future. The world around him dropped away, and in a flash of black light and silence he saw, felt, and knew the triumphant course his destiny would take. He would be a man of importance, of success, honored and obeyed as one of the true masters of the world. People and monsters alike would bow down before him, and at his pleasure they would live or die. He would be the Cabal's champion, its ambassador, its paragon, and he would spread its influence over the entire world. The light from Chainer's flare began to sputter and die. He could still hear the sphere's call, still feel its power vibrating in his skull. His course was clear. It was the most important thing in the world and as such fit only for the most important person in the world. "For the First," Chainer whispered. He firmly grabbed the glowing-black sphere, dropped it into his satchel, and pulled the leather drawstring tight. The First was undisputed lord and master of the entire Cabal, patriarch and protector of its members, supreme controller of its political and magical power. He managed the Cabal and all its assets from his manor inside the city walls, and he needed to see the treasure Chainer had uncovered right away. He alone deserved it. Chainer's eyes narrowed as he considered the trip back to Cabal City. It was one thing to walk without fear when one's pack was empty. Now that he had something worth stealing, opportunist vermin would swarm around it like maggots around a corpse. The shame and sin of losing the sphere before he had a chance to present it to the First would be unbearable. Chainer's flare went out, and he stood for a moment in the darkness. He quickly retraced his steps across the basement and found his chain where it still hung from above. He patted the precious cargo at his hip, smiled, and began to go hand-over-hand up the chain. Soon he would be back inside the city. He would petition for an audience with the First. And when the First laid hands on the black sphere, he would know what Chainer knew: that Chainer wanted nothing more than for his fate and his fortune to be forever tied to that of the Cabal. PART ONE: Cabalist CHAPTER 1 The sun was setting by the time Chainer returned to...
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