Chapters

Chapter from FORMULA FOR DEATH will follow pending publisher's permission.

LEGEND OF THE LOCUS by Rose Fait and Paul Tuger

 Chapter 1 -- Prologue

 Muir Win reached Swingan before the others. He tore off his own cloak and used it to beat out the flames. He dropped to one knee and gently pried the giant’s visor open. The smell of singed hair and burned flesh assaulted his nostrils. The face inside was blistered and red. With aching care, he eased off the helmet. The others gathered about Swingan’s body, dismay evident on their faces.

“Is he dead?” Drogen said, his brow furled with concern.

As though in response, an eyelid twitched in Swingan’s scalded face.

“He lives, but just barely,” Muir Win said. “We must cool him down.”

Heartened by the slight but definite sign of life, they rolled Swingan onto his back and set about removing the smoking armor from his body.

The burnt leather ties securing the breast piece were brittle and broke easily. Bara and Napkiral lifted the breast piece away. Steam rose from Swingan’s body. His shirt was scorched and discolored.

They were so intent on freeing Swingan’s limbs from the confines of the charred armor that no one paid any heed to the crackling behind them as static electricity built up around the base of the stone lancet.

The gathering energy on the ground attracted a sudden discharge of electricity in the clouds. A bolt of lightning struck the top of the stone lancet just as ground lightning shot up the length of the tall stone. When the electrified charges collided, the resultant explosion split the upright stone from top to bottom.

The loud crash startled them all, drawing their eyes in that direction. Before they could move, one of the twin spires toppled straight at them.

The long thin stone never reached them. The tip slammed into the base of the pillar. It snapped in half and folded back on itself. The top part then rolled to the side. The lower half lodged against the foundation stone. Jagged shards of broken rock pelted them and struck Swingan’s unprotected body.

The remaining spire teetered precariously, threatening to tip over at any second.

“We must move him under there,” Muir Win said, pointing to where the broken spire leaned against the base of the pillar. The area beneath the wedged stone, though small, offered a measure of protection from falling stones.

Muir Win slipped his hands under Swingan’s arm in an attempt to lift the massive shoulder clear of the ground. “Help me pick him up.”

Drogen took hold of Swingan’s other arm and tugged with all his might. The others seized the giant’s limbs, and together, they half-dragged, half-carried their unwieldy burden.

Blistered skin on Swingan’s arms and legs peeled away in sheets in their hands. Raw flesh beneath oozed a pinkish liquid. Sharp rocks tore at the giant’s tender back through his shirt, leaving a bright red trail to mark their path.

“Stop!” Bara cried, releasing his hold on the crook of Swingan’s knee. He glanced back at the bloody stones in their wake. “We’re doing more harm than good.”

The others, now forced to halt, lowered their charge to the ground.

“We must keep going,” Drogen urged. “We must get him out of harm’s way.”

The peculiar expression on the young man’s face did not escape Muir Win’s notice. Before he could resume his grasp under Swingan’s arms, a tremor shook the ground.

The quake upset the remaining spire’s delicate balance. It rocked wildly for a perilous moment before it tipped in their direction.

A warning hail of stones sent them into a flurry of activity. They managed to lift Swingan clear of the ground. Together, they staggered the last few steps to the shelter of the broken stone wedged against the foundation. With a collective grunt, they deposited the giant’s body none too gently against the base of the pillar.

The falling spire struck the wedged stone over their heads at such an angle that both stones shattered on impact.

Drogen threw himself over Swingan’s prostrated body. Muir Win and the others followed his lead, using their own bodies to shield their friend and companion, their shoulders hunched against the falling rubble.

In the next instant, heavy stones crashed down upon them.

Muir Win felt a crushing weight against his body, yet he suffered no pain. Before he could marvel at that, a great roaring filled his ears. The sensation of spinning and falling overwhelmed his senses. Enoril’s face swam before him, even as darkness and despair closed in around him, blotting out any hope of a future with her.

Before he slipped into the dense darkness pressing in on him, a flash of clarity in a corner of his mind flung him back in time to where it all began, only three months ago...

 Chapter 2

 The long spring day drew to a close over Quinloc. Few travelers ever found their way to that walled town, for it was situated well off the main road in an outlying province.

Enoril crouched in the shadow of the surrounding wall, waiting for old Nat, the gatekeeper, to fall asleep after supper. While he dozed, she would relieve him of one of the many coins that jingled in his purse whenever he walked about. Should she take the whole purse, he would notice it immediately. This way, he would not miss such a small amount at all.

She crept closer to the gatehouse, a small dark figure barely visible in the gloom. Her size was an asset to her trade, for she could squeeze through tight places to lift valuables from an unsuspecting merchant and withdraw with equal stealth. Despite her nimble fingers and a light touch, the pickings in town were slim. It was worse out on the road, so of necessity she stayed here in Quinloc.

Living on the streets did have its advantages. She could do as she pleased, with no one to keep account of her comings and goings. The downside was that no one cared whether she came or went. Then, there was that other problem, which in her early teens brought a change to the flat plains of her slender body. Now, at sixteen, she wore a narrow cloth around her breasts to bind them and an overlarge tunic to keep men from looking at her too closely. She felt less vulnerable in the guise of a male, and to make the ruse believable, she walked with a swagger and spat on the ground, just like the three boys in her care. Although unrelated by blood, they were like family to her.

She stole into the gatehouse and reached for the purse attached to the snoring gatekeeper’s belt. She picked at the knot with her fingernails to loosen the binding tie until a sudden pounding on the great wooden gate made her jump.

With her heart thumping in her chest, she abandoned the purse to flee through the open doorway and dash around behind the gatehouse to hide.

The noise startled Nat, too, for he jerked upright with a loud snort. Another round of pounding on the gate brought him to his feet, invoking a pox upon the disturber of his slumber. Still muttering under his breath, he lifted the lantern from the peg and shuffled over to the gate. He opened the tiny portal in it to peer out into the darkness. “Who goes there?” he said with a petulant note in his gruff voice.

“I seek shelter for the night,” a man replied in a clear deep voice.

“Are you alone?”

“I am,” the man said.

The gatekeeper lifted the timber bar with a grunt. Rusted hinges creaked as the gate swung open just wide enough to let the stranger squeeze through.

Enoril edged an eye around the corner of the gatehouse to peer at the stranger standing just inside the gate.

The man stood straight and tall, with his hood drawn against the cool night air. The clothing visible where his cloak parted was fashionably cut. He wore a tapered copper guard on each wrist. Doeskin leggings covered his muscular thighs, and his long black leather boots were folded back at the knee. A tiger’s eye cabochon set in the gold cloak pin at his neck glinted in the lantern light, as did the silver scabbard protruding from under his cloak.

“Can’t be too careful these days, you know.” Nat shoved his hip against the gate to close it. The heavy bar dropped into place with a solid thud. “Hardly anybody comes out this way, except marauders.”

“Marauders?” the stranger said.

“Yes,” Nat said. “They come down from yon hills, mostly for livestock.”

“Have you ever seen the marauders?”

“No,” Nat said. “They come by night, and none dare give them chase in the rough country beyond these walls. There’s them that pass through here telling wild tales of creatures that fly by night, but none of us with sense pays them any heed.” He eyed the cloak pin with the striped yellowish-gold stone in the center. “How do they call you, fellow?” he added, tearing his gaze from the unique piece.

“Muir Win.”

“Foreigner,” Nat said with disdain under his breath. He lifted the lantern high to get a better look at the cloak pin.

Light flooded the recesses of Muir Win’s hood. Blond hair framed his clean-shaven face. He appeared to be in his early twenties. His features were handsome, yet it was his eyes that drew first notice. They were brilliant green and clear as crystal between long dark lashes.

Enoril drew in a sharp breath at the beauty of the stranger’s face. The first stirrings of love burned through her like fire. She did not know the man at all, yet she felt drawn to him for some unexplainable reason. The strength of her feelings made her fearful, yet joyful at the same time.

The sight affected Nat quite to the reverse. He lowered the lantern, and with his free hand, he made a half-circle sign against the evil eye behind his back.

“Where is the tavern?” Muir Win said.

“That way,” Nat said, pointing to a street on the far side of the town square.

Enoril turned away, her business with Nat forgotten for the moment. She hastened toward the tavern, intent on getting there before the stranger. From the look of him, he could well afford the loss of a coin or two from his purse. If the god of luck—what was his name anyway?—smiled on her, she and the boys would sleep this night with a full belly. She plunged into the nearest alley and headed for the street at the other end.

****

A cool breeze somewhat tempered the heat of the midsummer night as Muir Win strode across the deserted public square. He turned onto a narrow street with a gutter down the center and closely set timber houses on either side.

A pool of light in the street farther along the way marked the site of the tavern. Since the public house was the most practical place to gather information, he would make inquiries there as to the whereabouts of the man he sought. He would do so discreetly, of course, without drawing undue attention to himself.

The sound of raucous laughter grew louder as he approached the tavern. The smell of cooked food drifted in the air, reminding him that it had been a full day since his last meal.

He was a dozen paces from the front door when four children in threadbare tunics burst from the alley beside the tavern and darted across his path. One of them tripped and stumbled into him. He would have let it go but for the slight tug on the pouch at his waist. His hand flashed out to catch the youth by the wrist. In the soft light coming through the tavern windows, he was unsure whether it was a boy or a girl under that tangle of dark curls and streaks of grime.

“Let me go,” the youth said, struggling to get away. “I didn’t do nothing.”

“In that case,” Muir Win said, “you will not mind opening your hand.” He tightened his grip on the skinny wrist to persuade the youth to comply.

“Ow!” the youth cried. “That hurts.”

“Then open your hand.”

By that time, the three other youngsters came back to gather behind their ensnared companion. They ranged in age from six to eight years and bore the stamp of hunger on their thin faces.

Muir Win examined the young person in his grasp. That one stood barely an inch above four feet, and although slightly older than the others, was nothing more than skin and bones in an ill-fitting garment. If it were a female, such a guise would be a clever way to avoid detection by lecherous men. This youth looked more like a male, though. The lack of peach fuzz above the full lips marked him as an adolescent, yet there was a shrewd intelligence in the large brown eyes peering out from the pixie-like face. “What is your name?

“What’s it to you?”

“Your name,” Muir Win said, squeezing the youth’s wrist once again. “What is it?”

“Enoril, if you must know.”

Muir Win swept aside his cloak and settled his free hand on the jeweled hilt of his sword. The scabbard, which was made of silver, hung from a leather belt with six narrow stilettos artfully woven into the design, three on one side of the ornate silver buckle and three on the other. “Well, Enoril. Shall I call out for a magistrate or will you give me back what is mine?”

Enoril eyed the ready arsenal. The boys crowded close behind her, elbowing each other aside to get a better look at the stranger’s belt.

“Please.” Her gaze flicked to the sword. “Sir,” she added with a note of respect in her voice. “I only took it to buy food for my brothers. I don’t want any trouble.” She opened her hand and surrendered a scrap of parchment with curved black lines drawn upon it.

Muir Win tucked the restored item into the leather pouch at his side before he released her wrist. “I don’t like to see children go hungry. Regrettably, I have no money to give you.” He removed a ring from his little finger and laid it on his open hand for her to see. “Will this do, instead?”

The ring was fashioned from rare pink coral, with the likeness of sea creatures carved upon it. Its polished surface gleamed in the palm of his hand.

Enoril whistled in admiration. “Oh, yes. That will do quite well.”

Before she could snatch away the ring, Muir Win’s fingers closed over it. “Where is the wise one in this town?”

Enoril shook her head, a frown of puzzlement on her face.

Muir Win tried again. “Who would know where a certain fellow may be found?”

Enoril’s countenance brightened. “That would be Selby, the tavern keeper. He knows everybody. I wouldn’t call him wise, though.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder at the tavern. “He’s in there.”

The instant Muir Win opened his hand, Enoril seized the ring. With a mumbled word of thanks, she dashed into the tavern with the three boys following on her heels.

Muir Win entered the public house behind them. He ducked under the low-hanging lintel and stood erect inside the large room. The tantalizing aroma of roasted meat made his stomach growl.

A haze of smoke hung in the air. Oil lanterns attached to the walls cast a yellow light upon the wood floor littered with gnawed bones and bits of food. Men sat at every table, eating and drinking and chatting among themselves.

The murmur of voices ceased as every head turned toward the hooded figure in the forest green cloak standing in the doorway. Calloused hands casually slid near the hilt of sword or dagger. After a moment, they appeared to lose interest, for the hum of conversation resumed.

Only the two heavily armed men seated near the doorway continued to study the newcomer after the others turned away.

Muir Win’s gaze swept the tavern’s occupants. When he spied a gray-haired man in a stained apron clearing one of the tables, he made his way over to him. “Where can I find one called Selby?”

“Who wants to know?” said the man in the stained apron. He was short and stocky, with a barrel chest and bowed legs. A long puckered scar creased one side of his bearded face and crossed his eye socket, leaving the pupil milky white.

“I have something for him.” Muir Win fished in the leather pouch at his side and withdrew a gold nugget the size of a child’s thumb.

The man’s eyes widened at the sight of the gold. “I am Selby,” he said, glancing up at the bearer of such a prize.

Muir Win tossed the nugget to him.

Selby caught it without taking his gaze from the unblinking green eyes peering at him.

Muir Win took from his pouch the scrap of parchment on which was drawn in black ink a small circle with four curved lines on the inside that formed a diamond-like shape at the center. He held it out for Selby’s inspection. “I seek a fellow marked thus on his wrist.”

Selby’s good eye flicked down to the drawing, then back to Muir Win’s face. “I know of no such fellow.”

Before Muir Win could put another question to him, a high-pitched squeal of anger drew his head around.

On the far side of the room, Enoril landed an ineffectual punch on the solid belly of a black-bearded Goliath. The big man laughed at her, his shaved head thrown back, his meaty fist held high out of her reach. His comrades joined him in the laughter.

“It’s mine, Atillo,” Enoril shrieked. She kicked him in the shin with a bare foot.

“I know you stole it, you little gutter rat,” Atillo said with a sneer. “Now, it’s mine.” He put his hand on Enoril’s face and shoved her backwards into the trio of boys behind her.

Enoril landed on her backside on the wooden floor. The oldest boy whispered furiously in her ear. The other two boys pulled on her bare arms to help her up. She shook them off as she clambered to her feet, her jaw set in determination. She strode over to Atillo, who smirked down at her. “Give it back, you bully,” she said, thrusting a slim hand, palm up, under his nose.

At that moment, Muir Win ambled up beside Enoril. Atillo was a head taller than he was and weighed more than twice as much.

“He is a big one,” Muir Win said to Enoril. “Only a fool would tangle with a fellow that size without good cause.”

Enoril bristled with indignation. “That thieving pile of sheep dung stole the ring you gave me. The sale of it would have bought us meat for a month.”

Muir Win rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. “It seems you owe this boy either the ring or its value,” he said to Atillo. “What do you say?”

“I say butt out,” Atillo said, his lip curled in contempt. In a deliberate gesture of disdain, he slipped the ring onto the little finger of his left hand. When Enoril drew too close, he gave her a hard nudge with his elbow that sent her reeling.

Muir Win stepped between Atillo and Enoril, who recovered her balance with a cry of outrage. “Now you owe the boy an apology, too.”

“For what?” Atillo said.

“You might want to pick on somebody your own size,” Muir Win said, his voice deceptively mild.

“Is that an offer?” Atillo looked pleased at the chance to show off before his comrades.

By that time, every able-bodied man in the tavern gathered in a loose circle around Muir Win and Atillo. Some even dragged a couple of the tables aside to clear a space on the floor. Every man present looked hopeful that the disagreement would turn into a brawl, which would certainly brighten an otherwise dull evening.

Muir Win pushed back his hood, exposing a wealth of wavy blond hair that reached his broad shoulders. He glanced around the expectant faces. The last thing he wanted to do was announce his presence. Now, here he was, in the middle of a crowd about to exchange blows with the biggest man in the room.

To his left, Selby scratched on a small board with a charcoal stub, doing his best to keep account of the wagers flung his way. To his right, Enoril and the boys climbed onto a trestle table in order to see over the heads of men in front of them.

The two heavily armed men abandoned their table by the doorway to stand at the edge of the circle, presumably to watch the fight. Neither of them took their eyes from Muir Win.

Atillo planted his fists on either side of the wide leather belt around his thick waist. “Well?” he demanded.

“Look, neighbor,” Muir Win said. “I don’t want trouble.”

“Too bad, neighbor,” Atillo said, mocking him. “You found it.” He beckoned with both hands in an unmistakable gesture for Muir Win to take him on. “I’ll show you how we deal with meddlers in this part of the country.”

Muir Win took his opponent’s measure from shaved head to booted toe in a single glance.

Atillo appeared to be a veteran of armed combat, as evidenced by the old scars on his muscular arms and legs. He was also a man of his fists, judging from the flat broken nose in his beefy face. Although formidable at first glance, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The problem with such a stance is that an unexpected shove at the right instant would easily upset his balance.

Those on the sidelines urged Atillo on, adding their voices to the rising din.

Atillo circled his foe, his balled fists churning the air, ready to strike. The corded muscles in his neck suddenly tightened.

Heeding the subtle cue, Muir Win dodged a jab to the face. He blocked a left to the ribs and landed a solid blow to the man’s bearded jaw.

Atillo staggered back, shaking his head to clear it. A grudging admiration for the stranger crept into his eyes. He circled more slowly, using wit this time rather than brawn to seek an opening. He feinted with his left to test Muir Win’s guard, then he threw his weight behind a right hook to the chin.

Muir Win evaded the blow with ease.

The force of the swing spun Atillo around in a complete circle.

“Knock him flat, ’Tillo,” a man shouted.

“I would,” Atillo said through clenched teeth, “if the bugger would hold still.”

“What’s the matter, ’Tillo?” someone chided. “Is he too quick for you?”

“After I lay this meddler flat,” Atillo snarled in reply, “I’ll shove those words down your throat.”

“I’ll shake your hand, stranger,” the man called out to Muir Win, “if you take that braggart down a peg.”

The man’s friends joined him in heckling Atillo.

Their taunts enraged him. He began to swing wildly at Muir Win, who ducked and dodged his every blow.

At length, Atillo drew his dagger in frustration, causing a hush to fall over those gathered. “Not so tough now, are you?” he said, stalking his prey in a slow circle, his weapon poised to strike.

“You don’t want to do that,” Muir Win said.

“Why not?” Atillo said. “Afraid you might get hurt?” He made a quick stab at Muir Win’s shoulder to immobilize him.

No one looking on could recall later exactly what happened next, except that Atillo’s finger with the pink coral ring on it suddenly plopped to the floor.

Slacked-jawed with horror, Atillo stared down at his own finger on the wooden boards at his feet.

Muir Win wiped the stiletto in his hand on his leggings before returning the slender weapon to its place in his sword belt.

Atillo lunged forward with a howl of rage, his dagger leveled at Muir Win’s chest for the kill.

Muir Win nimbly stepped aside. As Atillo stumbled past, he struck the man with a chopping blow to the back of the head.

Atillo collided with a bystander, taking the unlucky man with him into the solid base of a trestle table. The pair of them lay there without moving while the crowd cheered.

Enoril hopped down from the table and bounded across the open floor. She snatched up the bloody digit with a cry of triumph and pried the coral ring from it.

One of the two heavily armed men made his way to where the throng gathered around Muir Win to congratulate him for bringing Atillo down.

The armed man appeared to be about thirty, with sharp features in a bony face and a shaved head. Reddish stubble bristled on his square chin. “I bet against Atillo,” he said to Muir Win. “Because of you, I won quite a bit tonight. Permit me to buy you supper. It is my way of saying thanks.” With a nod to his companion across the room, he led the way to the nearest vacant table.

“That is kind of you,” Muir Win said, settling on the wooden bench. “I am hungry.”

The man sat across the table from him. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”

“Here and there,” Muir Win said.

They exchanged small talk until the man’s companion walked up with a wooden tray piled high with roasted meat and potatoes, along with two mugs of ale.

“I shall share a drink with you,” the man said. “Then I must go collect my winnings before Selby runs short of money.”

“Will you not eat, too?” Muir Win said. “There is more here than I can finish by myself.”

“Alas, I already ate.” The man grasped the mug nearest to him and raised it aloft. “To your health.”

Muir Win picked up the other mug and lifted it in the air. “To your health.”

The man drank his ale with gusto.

Muir Win brought the mug to his lips. The instant he tasted the bitter substance smeared along the rim, he knew he’d made a serious mistake. Too late, he realized that the man must have recognized him and took measures to ensure his capture. The room began to spin, and a roaring filled his ears. He tried to stand up, but his limbs refused to obey his command. The floor leaped up to meet him just before everything went black.