Shun has never experienced such a rough ride. The wagon feels as though it’s about to shake to pieces as it careens through the streets, stirring up a whirlwind of dust and mud and of course the ever present nose stinging, eye watering smoke.

“I’ll take this over your rockets any day.” The Lieutenant says.

Shun can’t understand how anyone could possibly like riding in this jarring and unstable thing. The rockets may be terrifying but there is a kind of grace to flying above the clouds. There’s a sense of power and privilege that comes with riding the rockets. There is simply no comparing it to messily speeding around in the dirt atop a ramshackle on wheels.

The dust begins to ebb as they turn onto the paved streets of the city proper. However, the stench of the battle is a constant presence, stronger now than ever like a blanket of death swaddling the air in it’s grim embrace. Shun feels an evil sensation creeping up his spine as he passes burnt and blasted buildings on all sides. He tries not to let his eyes linger in one place because when he does he sees twisted limbs sticking up like weeds in a rock garden.

He’s thankful for the loud rumble of the engine, for sometimes the wails of the trapped will be so loud that his eyes are drawn to the source and he feels a tightening in his stomach each time he sees an inescapable tomb of smashed stone and wood and knows that there is no hope of rescue. The work crews are all too busy clearing the streets of the dead and freeing the few who can be saved.

Shun is nearly thrown from his seat as the vehicle lurches to a sudden stop.

“Well fuck!” The driver says. “This is just great.”

“Who the fuck is in charge here?” Lieutenant Sim shouts as he jumps to the ground and races toward the fifty or so prisoners on their knees in the street.

“Stop what you’re doing, hold your fire!” The Lieutenant shouts. The soldiers hesitate as they see him approaching.

An irritated fat man with captain's stripes on his tabard steps out and marches toward Sim.

“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing, Lieutenant?” The Captain bellows.

“Trying to stop you from doing something fucked up, sir.” Sim replies. “You can’t just shoot all of these people in the middle of the street.”

“Don’t you fucking tell me what I can and cannot do, Lieutenant.” The Captain says, loud enough for all to hear but with perfect composure. “These workers are in open revolt. The stupid fuckers attacked one of my men and I intend to make an example. If you’re too much of a pussy to handle it, close your fucking eyes.”

Sim steps forward and stares the superior down.

“Listen, you stupid shit, look where you’re standing. This is the only street we’ve got clear of rubble and you’re planning to clog it up with corpses. Now, I don’t give a fuck about these people but if I have to wait around while you assholes clean up the mess you will be the one to explain to the top brass why they have to wait to debrief this man when they ordered to see him immediately. I don’t expect General Armstrong will be pleased.”

At the mention of the general’s displeasure the captain visibly pales. General Armstrong, leader of the Third Army has a reputation for cool and calculating cruelty and a penchant for delivering brutal reprisals to any who fail him. His displeasure or frankly even his attention is to be avoided at all costs. Shun feels his mouth drying out at the Lieutenant's dropping of the General’s name.

“Oh Gods,” He thinks. “Does Armstrong really want to see me?”

The dread spectre of General Armstrong closes on the Captain as Sim presents his papers.

“Try to keep the streets clear, sir.” Sim says. “I hear there are plenty of holes left by the bombing, consider finding one of them.”

“Get up on your feet, move it!” The Captain shouts as his men push the ragged civilians off to the side of the road. Sim leaps back into the wagon.

“Let’s go,” he says, pointing forward with authority as the smoke wagon leaps back into movement. It isn’t long before the sound of gunshots screams out in the distance. Shun tries not to think about the fifty women and old men now laying dead in the dirt.

***

With rising determination Draken swings open the door to the hall. The steps creak beneath his feet as he marches down them. He stops, letting his heart pound in his chest as he listens.

No sign that the master has been disturbed. He catches his thought and almost laughs.

Nobody is his master.

In the kitchen he spots the three barrels, looking harmless and typical as if they contain sugar or barley. Of course this is a wizard’s kitchen so nothing here is necessarily harmless or typical.

He learned that lesson this past morning. Everything here could be deadly and that’s fine with him. He reaches in and takes a cold handful of the wet and clumpy red clay.

His hands tremble as he pictures what his much of it could do. In his mind he sees Lord Grisham’s palatial home reduced to a burning ruin.

With a sloppy wet thwack he lays the lump of explosive clay on the wizard’s workbench and moves on the bookshelf.

“What are you doing up at this hour?” The bookend demands, indignant at being rousted from its slumber.

“Shut up,” Draken says as he snatches the book he wants from the shelf.

“Don’t touch my books with those muddy hands!” The bookend protests. Draken picks it up and before it can protest any louder shoves it head first into the soil of the nearby potted fern.

“Anyone else want to take a dirt nap?” His cold eyes pass over the other near-living household objects, projecting ruthless intent. They remain silent and unmoving.

“Good.” He opens the book and flips through the pages until he finds the spell.

His eyes dwell on the page as he reads and rereads the instructions. There is a nervous thrill quaking inside him as the realization sets in that he has everything he needs to commit the perfect murder. The spell before him is simple enough if all he wants to do is create a walking bomb.

He has a clear picture of the route in his mind and a simple direction spell fresh in his memory from a long night of study. He has enough clay to, by his estimate destroy half a city block.

All he has to do is put the knowledge and the materials together. No need to worry about most of the wards surrounding the property either as they are almost certainly designed with humans in mind. Otherwise small animals would be getting caught up in them all the time and that would leave a noticeable mess that a man like Grisham wouldn’t tolerate.

So, there will be nothing to stop his agent of disaster from strolling right in. A massive explosion will rock the city, rousing everyone for miles. The fireball will be visible from every corner of Gold Seal yet only Lord Grisham’s grand estate will be touched by the burning hand of death.

Mother, grandfather, uncle and the lives they could have had avenged in a single moment of wizardly doom.

Draken sighs, he sinks into his seat, his whole body shaking. Tears well up behind his eyes and he finds it suddenly hard to breathe.

“I can’t do it!” He gasps. “What’s wrong with me?”

His fist booms with pain as he smashes it into the wooden armrest.

“Cold blooded murder doesn’t come easilly to everyone.”

Draken whirls in his seat, his heart pounding and his face flushing as he stares into the cool blue eyes of Blackard Hood.

“I just put on some tea,” he sits in the large armchair and whistles. A tea set appears on the coffee table. “The tea used to appear ready made with the set but it tasted awful. It’s the little things that tend to elude us as magicians. ” He wiggles his ringed finger and Draken’s chair turns to face him.

“It doesn’t really matter who you're trying to kill but I'd certainly like to know why.” The whistle of the teapot steals Hood’s attention. He holds up his finger. “One moment, the tea’s ready.”

The screeching kettle floats slowly into the workroom and hovers over the teapot, tipping and letting the stream of steaming water pour into the blue dragon shaped teapot. Hood pours the tea into rose petal shaped teacups by hand. “The pot used to pour itself but it’s aim was never right. Many a burnt lap before I gave up.”

Sipping at the hot tea sends a warm sensation through Draken’s body, he stops shaking. His breathing slows to normal. He sets down the cup and wipes his eyes with a handkerchief.

“I’m so fucking pathetic.” Draken slumps in his seat. “Just a worthless coward.”

Hood sips long at his tea and smacks his lips as he sets the cup down.

“Imported, you know. From the Eastern Kingdoms, say what you will about how they treat mages the kingdoms grow a fine tea.” Hood locks eyes with Draken, there is a warmth projecting from his ice blue orbs. “How does not killing make you a coward?”

Draken shrugs. “I’ve iced guys before but never really deeply wanted them dead. But now I really want a guy dead but i’ve lost my nerve!”

Hood chuckles. “Premeditated murder is a lot different than defending yourself or even striking someone down in anger. It’s probably good that it doesn’t come easy to you. But you didn’t answer my initial question. Why after a long day and a longer night do I find you in my workshop planning a murder?”

“Revenge,” Draken takes another sip, it’s bitter in his mouth.

Hood nods.

“Ah, my old friend.”

For just an instant Draken feels a hardness in his master’s mind, a different person as cold and cruel as a frozen tundra. Then that person is gone, replaced by the soft man he’s come to know.

“You’re treading dangerous waters.” Hood warns.

Draken shakes his head.

“I didn’t do it. I think I've finally found the limit of my moral flexibility. I like to think of myself as a hard bastard but i guess i’m soft. I can’t even bring myself to go through with the murder of a guy I hate. ”

Hood sips at his drink thoughtfully, never taking his eyes off Draken.

“I’ll be straight with you. You’ll need to get over it. There’s a war coming and because of your special skill set when that war finally hits us you will be expected to plan and execute murder. You’ll probably be expected to do a lot worse. I wish it wasn’t the case but you are an important weapon and we need you to be hard.”

Draken blinks his eyes in disbelief. Tempted to know more he touches Hood’s mind and is slapped in the face by an invisible hand of thunderous pain.

“None of that,” Hood says. “You should know that wizards have our means of protection against witchcraft.” He chuckles. “If you have questions, just ask.”

“Fine,” Draken says. “I don’t get you. Yesterday you were on me hard about maybe killing somebody by accident, threatening all sorts of crazy punishment. Now you’re saying you want me to go out and commit a revenge murder? What about that hellish little box of yours?”

Hood grins toothily like some vicious beast. “I stand by my earlier threat. If you kill anyone I will make you experience one thousand brutal deaths. If you had gone through with your scheme to blow up god knows who or what I might have even enjoyed it.”

Hood’s smile give’s Draken the creeps. It’s the smile of a person who likes to kill, which doesn’t match Hood’s personality. It’s like sometimes he’s a different man altogether, an evil man.

“I sympathize with you, murdering the people who wrong us is very appealing.” He bites his lip. “But it’s not acceptable. Though, there is a time and a place for murder and you should be prepared to do it.”

Draken slams down his cup in frustration.

“For once just give me a straight answer!”

The cracking of Hood’s knuckles. Draken grits his teeth.

“Give up on this revenge of yours. Is that straight enough for you?”

“I won't kill him,” Draken says.

“Won’t or can’t? ” Hood asks.

Draken shrugs again. “Does it matter? What exactly do you want from me on this?”

Hood sighs. “I want you to have the resolve to murder this man and the discapline not to. I suppose that’s asking too much of you.” The wizard stands, shaking his head slowly. “I forget how young and inexperienced you are. Just an apprentice, just a boy struggling with the burden of hate. I had such a burden once and let it consume me.”

Draken casts his glance around the big house. “Doesn’t seem to have hurt you any. Rich and powerful, got all your limbs.” He feels a strange shifting in the atmosphere.

“No jokes, apprentice!” Hood snaps his fingers and a broom spins like a child’s top into the room. “If you’ve still got so much energy that you can plot murders I expect tha you have more than enough to clean the workshop.” Hood vanishes in a puff of purple smoke that stinks of burnt hair. Draken takes one last look at the hunk of clay before tossing it in the waste bin, thinking better of it scooping it out and dumping it back into the barrel.

***

The street twists and dips as the smokewagon rolls up and down hills passing brownstones and tennimants bearing varying degrees of battle scars. The sound reaches Shun’s ears before the scene is clear in front of him. He hears the rapid pops , cracks and booms before he sees the soldiers huddled behind a smashed townhouse and crouched under a low wall trying to get off a few shots. He hears the air shattering thunder before he sees the eye dazzling bolts of lightning and balls of blue fire raining down from a place just out of sight.

A soldier runs up to the wagon waving them to stop.

“You can’t go that way!” He shouts, frantically indicating the skirmish as if they wouldn't have seen it without his aid.

“The hell I can’t,” Sim replies. “Armstrong wants to see this man and I don’t plan to keep him waiting.” The second mention of the general’s name twists a knot in Shun’s stomach and he vaguely starts to hope that the undeniable complication they’ve run into might just save him from the meeting. Surely the general will become too busy to see them if they have to wait this thing out.

“We’re pushing through.” Sim tells the driver.

“I do not recommend that, sir!” The soldier shouts. “We’ve got snipers shooting from the top of the inn the next street over, they’ve got enchanted crossbows and enough bolts to keep shooting till the cows come home. That place is built like a goddamn fortress, they’ve got safe little murder holes to snipe us from and a vantage point wide as my grandma’s ass. Meanwhile we ain't got but a tiny little wall that - ” The air is struck by an ear deafening boom. Flaming men fly like ragdolls as part of the low stone wall is shattered by a ball of wickedly blue fire. “Keeps getting fucking holes blasted right through it!” The soldier finishes. “Around that corner there ain't no cover for a good fifty, maybe sixty yards. You try to make that run we’ll be picking up the pieces of you and your pretty little cart come morning.”

Sim glowers, scratching his chin in contemplation.

“How long until you can get some backup and clear that roach nest out?”

The soldier shrugs his shoulders in a ‘how the hell should I know’ kind of way. Shrinking from the look in the lieutenant's eyes he quickly tries to do some finger calculations.

“Big city, lot of skirmishes going on. If I had to guess, based on who is stationed closest with the most battle ready men… maybe three or four hours before help arrives.”

“Hell’s bells, man!” Sim shouts. “I can’t wait around that long.”

He shouts over his shoulder to the driver.

“Open up the crate, we got us a situation that calls for special equipment.”

The driver chuckles as he unlatches the big wooden box strapped down behind his seat.

“You're gonna like this.” He says, winking at Shun.

Inside the box are two big metal tubes which the driver deftly screws together to form a long hollow shaft with a trigger. “Hold this,” he says passing the big tube to Shun’s unwelcoming hands as Sim climbs up close to take the other end.

“We’re gonna have some fun.” Sim says, his face twisting into a big buck toothed grin.

“I don’t know what you’re planning but if you try making that run it’ll be your funeral.” The soldier shouts.

Sim mockingly salutes the private. “Thanks for the advice sonny but we got places to be.” He locks eyes with Shun, sending a chill through his blood. Sim’s eyes are like pools of insanity. “You better aim straight, magekiller.”

With no further warning the wagon leaps back into it’s rattling shaky motion. An instant warps into an eternity as the light cover offered by the crumbling wall beset upon by fire and lightning as terrified lads duck for life and limb retreats slowly to reveal an open plaza at the far end of which is a two story inn made of grey stones and looking older than the city itself. A fireball explodes not far from the bumper burning off Shun’s eyebrows but he barely registers it as he aims the massive tube. He hears the sound of metal sliding on metal past the ringing in his ears. The weapon is loaded, he waits for the perfect moment. He feels the hair on his head standing on end as a lightning bolt passes just feet above him. He refuses to panic, making sure he has the best shot and then he pulls the trigger.

The sound is like the world coming apart. There is a brilliant flash followed by darkness and lung choking dust. He falls hard on the wood of the wagon as it comes to a sudden stop.

He isn’t sure if it takes minutes or seconds but the dust slowly recedes to reveal rubble blasted across the plaza and no sign that an inn was ever there. He feels himself being pulled back upright.

“Hot damn, you did it!” Sim shouts. He puts the weapon back in Shun’s hands. “We ain’t done yet, we gotta teach these fuckers a lesson. See that big tenement in the plaza, I’ll bet dollars to doughnuts it’s where the bastards live. ”

Shun aims the weapon at the tenement as Sim reloads. The side of the tall building explodes in a shower of wood and brick. As the echoes of the blast fade to nothing there is a dreadful wailing that takes its place. The souls trapped in the building screaming for help as it crumbles around them. All Shun can think is that he wants that terrible sound to stop. He preys for the building to fall and his prayers are answered as it teeters into a dusty heap of slag. The ground rumbles as it all comes down and then there is nothing but silence.

“Let’s move, I’ve had it with these damn delays.” Sim says, easing into a position of relative comfort.

***

As he sweeps dust into the surprisingly ordinary dustpan Draken’s mind slowly becomes calmer, his thinking cooler. He remembers Warren’s mad dash for that spoiled cunt who hurt Lily, ready to stick him like the holiday goose in front of the whole world.

“Rage is a dangerous thing,” Draken says to himself as he sweeps. “Murder is one thing but a public spectacle quite another.” He pulls the bookend out of the potted dirt.

“Would I have gotten away with blowing up Lord Grishams’ castle, or following such a public crime would the council have made Hood hand me over?”

The bookend spits out a mouthful of dirt.

“You ignorant brat! How dare you do that to me, I was carved by a master craftsman. They aught to hang you from your toes and beat you with hot pokers!”

He sticks the bookend back in the dirt.

“Should have guessed you’d say that. But you’re right, making a spectacle I couldn’t expect leniency and Grisham is important. True, he’s foreign but he’s made a lot of powerful friends. Even assuming the council stuck to custom and let Hood handle me, how long could I expect to live? ” He pulls the bookend back out of the dirt.

“If I were a few feet taller i’d rip out your spine, you cretinous son of a sodomite jackal!

He tosses the bookend into the fish tank and watches it slowly sink to the bottom, mouth still moving. Eying the fish Draken says. “He’s right, you know. But that sodomite jackal would cause me endless trouble if I did manage to nut up enough to go ahead and kill him.” The fish opens and closes its mouth as if to match the irate bookend’s silent shouting.

Draken wipes the fish tank clean with a nearby rag.

“The more I think about it, my fish the more I think Top Boy had the right idea. He owes me something, so I'll take what I'm owed. No murder, just a job, the biggest lift of my carreer. I won’t kill him but i’ll rob and humiliate him with my magic.” Draken’s mind’s eye is alight with visions of treasure and more. Could he manage to take it all?

“I’m his son, bastard yes but if he acknowledges me i’ll be his heir.” The gears of his criminal mind move faster. “I can force him to sign a legal document naming me his heir even as I rob him blind.” The idea of himself as a young mage moving into Lord Grisham’s palace and through mystical means making him a prisoner in his own home causes the boy to salivate a little.

“One step at a time.” He reminds himself. “First the heist and the paperwork, then comes a lifetime of torment.” Simple murder is just too good for him.