Byron Torg stared at the dwarven publisher, his face slack with disappointment. "Really? You aren't going to print it," he asked.
"Bullocks," grunted the dwarf, running his braided beard through his hand. "I can't run this story, Byron. Their guild would have me shut down in about a week." The dwarf in question was Goblatt Burnstrom, a savvy newspaper chief for The Quinnet Times. Quinnet, the largest city in the newly named nation of Engelesh, was a writhing, teeming mass of faerie and spirits both. Parallel in the Ether to New York and much of New England, Engelesh had established a new democracy that Byron wasn't very fond of. It echoed the politics of his homeland too closely, being an American human being.
"That guild isn't a guild anymore, Gob," Byron snapped, pushing his glasses back up his nose. "It's a bunch of money-hungry cretins with half the governors in its pockets!"
"Hey," Goblatt shouted, pounding his thick, powerful fist on his rickety desk top. "Careful what you say, lad! You can't say stuff like that out loud just because it's true!" Byron, hunched over Goblatt's desk with his hands spread wide, whipped up and backward, laughing like a man run crazy. He took a drag of the cigarette in his left hand and shook his head, blowing smoke out of his nostrils like a dragon. He aligned his body to be in profile to the dwarf, head hung down.
Byron Torg didn't cut an impressive figure, never would. Slightly paunchy, pale, and with a mustache and goatee that made him look more at home in a garage than at a typewriter or laptop, he nonetheless commanded a certain degree of respect from his peers. It was likely due to his clever use of words and keen ability to observe and speak in laymen's terms about politics and social issues. That, and the streak of insanity that gripped him like a muscle spasm at random.
As an Awakened human, Byron possessed a unique form of magic. Using index cards, he would write out a desired magical effect. Then, holding it between thumb and forefinger, he would channel his power into the card, creating its written script. Thus, if he wanted to throw a fireball, he would write 'fireball, red', and it would appear in hand. He hadn't discovered all of his limits yet, but it was handy to have on hand.
Except for money. He couldn't create new currency. The gods had cheated him, he felt, but considering what he could create, he felt no need to complain.
"This is so fucking stupid," Byron said, blowing out a cloud of smoke. He let out a bitter chuckle. "I've been bringing you stories here for five years, almost since my Awakening. Sure, I've sold a few little pieces to other outfits, gone out of country for assignments, but I've always come back, always been loyal. I never took a story someplace else if I even thought you might want to run it first."
"Byron," Goblatt said softly, easing down into his chair.
"I make your paper my home ground, bring gifts over from the Mortal Plane, and ask for nothing but a steady market to run my pieces. But I ask you to back my play one time, to take a chance just once, and you scurry like a rat fleeing a sinking ship."
Most dwarves would no sooner take a tongue-lashing like that than a nun would go skinny dipping, but Goblatt Burnstrom was a dwarf who understood humans and their ways better than most. He'd worked with numerous Awakened and Adepts over the course of his five-hundred and twenty-six years of life. Humes were impulsive creatures, most of them, given to speaking whatever was on their minds. He rather enjoyed that about them.
Byron sighed, his pinched, scrutinizing look softening. "Look, I get it, Gob. The guild could make your life here a nightmare. You've been living in this country all your life, hell, this city from what you've told me. I'll take the story someplace else," he finished. Gob opened a desk drawer and pulled out a small maroon pouch, letting it clink on the desk. "What's this?"
"Ten sovereigns," Gob said. "Not to buy the story, but to compensate you for the time it took putting it together. And for what it's worth, I'm sorry. Come back with a different story, anything you want that isn't political, and I'll run it. Shit, you can freestyle an op-ed piece if you want."
Byron took the pouch and deposited it in his backpack. "I have to find a home for this piece first," he said, thrusting the thin manuscript box inside. As he turned to leave, Gob called out to him. Byron looked over his shoulder at the dwarf.
"Be careful, Byron. You've heard of the attacks on Awakened round the country. It's happened elsewhere as well."
"I'll keep an eye out," Byron said, leaving the office and the building for the sprawl of the city.
That had been two weeks ago now, as he rode his horse across the eastern border between ranks of Rangers of Amermidst Kingdom. That very night he had been roused from sleep by a hellish shrieking sound in his tiny apartment. He'd sat up in bed to find a strange robed figure standing over him, a white feather in one emaciated, long-fingered hand. Chains ran from its unseen back across the room to a swirling blue vortex in the bedroom wall, black iron links that looked sharpened along their outer edges.
Before he could even scream it had jabbed his arm with the feather tip, turning and leaping through the vortex, its chains rattling behind it. The portal closed, and he blacked out. The next morning he began asking questions of the local wisemen, and they told him of rumors about the creature moving from nation to nation, striking other Awakened the same way. They didn't know what it was, but they all knew who would have answers- the sages of King Ovin's court, in Amermidst.
Being a journalist, a storyteller at heart, he hadn't been satisfied with his own survival of the incident. He wanted to know all he could about this mysterious creature. Now, halted by a gruff-looking minotaur in chain link armor bearing the stripes of a sergeant, he felt the giddiness of getting closer to the story tingle in his nerves.
"Hail, outrider," said the sergeant. He raised an eyebrow at Byron's mount. "What manner of creature is this?"
"Mechanical horse," Byron said with a winning smile, eyes goggling. "No need to feed, just haul for speed," he said in a jovial, sing-song voice.
"Hmm. State your name and purpose in Amermidst Kingdom, knave." Several other Rangers began circling around him, quizzically staring at the copper construct he sat upon. Gears and fly wheels turned and ground together, steam hissing out of pipes running down under the swoop of its belly.
"I am Byron Torg, and I have come to speak with the sages of this kingdom's court." This was met with derisive laughter and insults from most of the Rangers, but the sergeant remained placid, arms folded over his powerful chest. "I was attacked a fortnight ago by a strange creature in the night, an intruder in my home with chains in his back."
At this information the laughter died, and Byron knew he'd hit paydirt from the flash in the minotaur's eyes. "Another one," the sergeant said. "Very well. You may proceed onward, Byron Torg, but be cautioned; the specters have been restless these last couple of years. There aren't enough Rangers to protect everyone along the roads."
"That's okay," Byron said, sitting up straight and saluting, making a mock-frown. "You boys are doing God's work, and a fine job of it, mmm-hmm." He chuckled to himself and rode off, leaving the sergeant glowering after him. One of the privates stepped close.
"What was that all about, sir?"
"The creature he spoke of? There are several other Awakened seeking the sages about it. As for that man himself?" He snorted dismissively. "He's a madman. Perhaps we'll all get lucky, and the specters wil get him before he reaches Celia."
Byron looked around at the scattered gore ringing him and his damaged steed, the barrel of his weapon still smoking. The translucent bubble of bluish energy surrounding him flickered rapidly, having barely held up against the assault of the three chimeras that had ambushed him at the mouth of a narrow pass through steep foothills in the plains. It finally vanished, and he dropped the shotgun, which flashed with white light, turning back into a plain yellow card with the words 'Hellfire Shotgun' written on it. It crumbled into ashes and blew away.
Trial and error had resulted in his development of weapons and armor-themed cards in the Ether Plane. Science fiction weapons were a no-go here; instead, he'd had to simplify his efforts and think magically. Some things were simply beyond his power, but the Hellfire shotgun had been a potent standby, as the specters could attest, were they still breathing.
Byron looked to the horse, which fell over and evaporated into another card, blowing away. He sighed, his reserves of magical energy nearly tapped. The Spirit Shield always wore heavily when he used it, another card gone with most of his power. He drew out his deck, found another Mechanical Horse, and activated it with an effort of will. He tossed the card, which exploded with orange light and became a new mount.
"Neat trick," someone nearby said. Byron spun about, reaching into his coat sleeve for another Hellfire shotgun. He didn't draw it, however. A few yards away stood another human, a pudgy fellow of late middle age wearing a deep scarlet cloak over camo pants and a plain gray shirt. "That's something I've never seen, and I've seen a lot in my time."
Byron eased into a neutral stance and smirked, eyes closed, head tipped downward. "Well, I'm always proud of my individuality, sir. I find life to be much more rewarding when marching to the beat of my own drummer." He looked up, still smirking, and said, "Until the drummer drops dead of a coke-fueled heart attack. Then I'm not very picky about who has the sticks."
"What," asked the man in the crimson cloak, looking baffled and somewhat ill-at-ease.
"Nothing, nevermind, ignore the man behind the curtain," Byron said, flapping one hand side to side in exaggerated dismissal. He approached the other human with the same hand outstretched. "Byron Torg," he said. The newcomer took his hand and shook, still looking uneasy.
"Sheldon Burke," said the other man. He hitched up the straps on his backpack, his own horse, a flesh-and-blood sort, nickering at them fifteen feet away. "And that there's Romeo. Where are you headed, Mr. Torg?"
"Byron, please," Byron said, sounding less manic, more like his normal self. "I'm heading for Celia, to see the court's sages. You?"
"The same." Burke pursed his lips, leaning slightly left. "I was attacked in my home a few nights ago, about two days' travel south of here, by a strange creature with chains in its back."
"The same creature took after me two weeks ago, roughly," Byron said.
"Hmm, then the rumors are true," said Burke. "I've been hearing that other Awakened from all over the Ether are coming here as a result of the same thing attacking them. We're being targeted for some reason."
"Well that's probably no good," Byron said. He pulled a small notebook out of one of his pockets and began jotting down notes. "Did it prick you with a feather?"
"Yes! Did it do that to you too?"
"It did," Byron said. He pocketed the notebook again. "Well, we're going in the same direction. Care to travel together?"
"A grand idea, Byron! And please, call me Burke. It's what I'm used to." Byron fetched his mount and climbed up on it, joining Burke back on the main road that the chimeras had chased him off of.
"So, you've seen my talent. What's yours?"
"Oh, I'm afraid I'm not allowed to show you, Byron," said Burke with a sadness in his voice. "I have no Travel Writ for my primary powers. You see, I'm a death magic specialist."
"Necromancy? What, is that illegal here?"
"Highly frowned upon without the proper writs. I have one for my home and my township, but not for travel. So, I can't demonstrate. I do have some affinity for fire magic, though. I'm not useless in a scrap."
Byron filed that away mentally for later reference, in the event specters cropped up again. After all, he only had so many cards prepared. Together he and Burke rode along at a decent run, finally stopping to make camp for the night near a small wooded area. Byron fetched firewood, which Burke ignited with a wave of his left hand. As they sat across from one another, Byron prepared a simple stew from his rations in a blue ceramic field pot.
"Byron," Burke said, fetching his attention. A cigarette dangled from the corner of Byron's mouth, lit on the campfire and smouldering. His eyes looked eerily dark in the glow of firelight, his frame somehow bulkier, more menacing in the fading daylight. "Um, back when we first met up, you said some pretty strange things."
"Did I?" Byron kept the cigarette perched between his lips as he revealed the right half of his teeth in a lurid grin. "Hadn't really thought of any of it as strange, Burke."
"Well, quirky at the least. Do you have trouble fitting in here in the Ether sometimes?"
"Occasionally yes," Byron said, eyes back on his stew, which he stirred. "I confess to sometimes lapsing into gibberish or nonsense. I'm not sure why, but I've always done that. My brothers used to say I forgot to turn on the filter between my brain and my mouth now and again. Why?"
"Just curious," Burke said. "In my life on our side, the Mortal Plane, I'm a psychiatrist. I don't get much chance to practice my trade over here. What do you do for a living?"
"Freelance journalist," Byron replied, grabbing bowls from his kit. "I do mostly sports and political pieces, both back home and here in Ether." He came around the fire with a bowl and spoon, handing them down to Burke. "Sup's on," he said amiably. He returned to his side of the fire and tucked into his food. "I was working on a piece about the Ralph Wilson Stadium concessions price increases about two years back when I got the itch to come back Ether-side. Haven't been Mortal-side since."
"Wow! The longest I've stayed in Ether Plane was five months, about twelve years back. Of course, when I got home I found that an entire year had slipped by. It's very strange, the difference in time, it never stays the same scale."
"Nope," said Byron. When they finished their food, Burke offered to wash the dishes in a nearby stream, and Byron used a card to produce an iron dome with a shutter door for himself to sleep in. He used another for Burke, saying it was his pleasure to share, and the two men turned in for the night.
While Byron was drifting off to sleep, Burke was writing in his own leatherbound notebook. His first impression of Byron went onto the page before he nuzzled into his sleeping bag, and it read, 'Possibly suffering schizo-affective disorder, further observation required'.