Chapter 7 – The Bluebirds

Berron waited, stiff as a board, in the minister’s office.

Couldess sat in his chair, facing away. Berron couldn’t see any of him over the tall backrest apart from the glass he held out to the side.

Sweat trailed down his jawline. Over the years, he had learned to get used to the immense pressure Couldess’s very presence gave off—at least to an extent. Bringing the minister bad news, however, was an entirely different feeling.

Couldess spun in his chair, facing Berron, and placed his tumbler down on the desk with a thump.

“Report,” he said. Smoothly. Firmly.

Berron took a deep breath, running a hand across his buzzed scalp. “The wildkin got out, sir.”

“How?”

“Inquisitor Linton Granhorn. He aided in her escape. It looks like he planned the whole thing.”

Couldess leaned back in his chair. The pressure increased. Berron fell to one knee with a grunt, grimacing at the vice clamping down on the sides of his head.

“Interesting,” Couldess purred. “Linton Granhorn, a traitor. I didn’t see that coming. To think he could hide his intentions from me. You recaptured them both, of course?”

Berron’s eyes bulged. He scrambled for an appropriate explanation. At least some excuse.

There were none.

Couldess’s invisible tendrils crawled across his skull. They prodded his brain, pulled at his very being like a puppeteer trying out the strings of a new doll.

“They… they got away, sir,” Berron said. “Both of them. But I shot the wildkin in the chest—they won’t get far without medical attention.”

Couldess suddenly leaned forward. His eyes were intense, grey points. “They escaped? How?”

Berron’s head wrenched with pain. He clutched it in both hands and clenched his teeth to keep quiet, but a weak whimper escaped him all the same.

“They intended to steal the Crown we retrieved,” he said quickly. “Granhorn broke the wildkin out of her interrogation chamber, glamored her, and shuttled her to Floor 43. When confronted by Taskmage O’Mare, he killed the man in cold blood, and they escaped out the window. They fled across the courtyard and disabled the enchantments atop the wall before escaping in an unmarked truck.”

Couldess was quiet for several moments.

Then he laughed.

A raucous, joyous laugh.

All of a sudden, the pressure on Berron’s head vanished. He collapsed on the floor, panting as he rubbed his aching skull.

“He really did it!” Couldess whooped. “That boy does know how to impress, I’ll give him that.” He slowly composed himself, wiping his eyes and taking a deep breath. “Storm. Are you listening?”

“Yes, sir,” Berron said as he got back on his knees.

“I want Granhorn and the asset captured. For Granhorn, a public execution—for our little wildkin, further interrogation with higher security. Since our traitor inquisitor has clearly taken an interest in her, she must be someone of importance. Perhaps even more so than the Crown itself, given his priorities.”

“We are currently tracking the fugitives,” Berron said. “With your permission, we can intervene to capture them.”

Couldess nodded. “Granted. Do it immediately.”

Berron stood. “Yes, sir.”

“And lead the strike personally. No mistakes. This is already going to be a nightmare with public relations.”

The door behind Berron opened, and Fummel—Couldess’s assistant—entered. He stopped next to him, sparing Berron a condescending glance.

“Your daughter has attempted to reach out to you, sir,” Fummel said. “She wished to remind you of your lunch engagement.”

Couldess rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Right, right. I knew there was something. I’ll give her a call.” He waved his hand at Storm. “Dismissed. Make sure this matter is resolved.”

Berron fled the room as quickly as he could without running. Outside, he ordered his attachment of truthers to close up behind him.

Granhorn is mine.

He will suffer for this embarrassment.

***

Aeva woke.

That was the first surprise.

The second was the large human standing above her, fussing over her body.

He was tall, broad-shouldered and rotund. His face was round with rosy cheeks, and he had a shiny, bald pate. He wore a droopy, thick mustache, kept styled and springy with some carefully applied wax.

“Unhand me!” Aeva growled.

She tried to shove him off but managed only to pat his chest half-heartedly.

The human rushed to his feet, eyes wide, sausage-fingered hands held out in a placating gesture.

“Oh my, you’re awake! And quite a temper, too! I reckon that’s a good sign, given what you’ve been through.”

“Who are you?” Aeva demanded. She tried to sit, but the pain kept her firmly in place.

She glanced around, noticing that she was in a small room with moldy walls, shelves dragged to the side to create more space. The room had no windows, only a flickering magelight in the ceiling.

“My name is—” the human began before trailing off. “Oh, who am I kidding? Just call me Doc. Feel free to skewer me on those claws if you want. However, I am in fact your doctor, so I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“Who. Are. You?” Aeva repeated.

“Oh.” Doc wiped bloody hands on the front of a tan apron. “I’m one of the Bluebirds, of course.” He pulled down the collar of his brown button-up, revealing a tattoo of a stylized bird, wings spread, on his neck.

Aeva frowned. “What?”

Doc looked a little taken aback. He fetched a small bottle from one of the shelves, unscrewed the cap, and poured a dark liquid into it. “You mean he didn’t tell you about us?”

“Stop speaking riddles, apothecary.”

With great effort, holding her stomach, Aeva worked herself into a sitting position. The floor seemed to sway. Her vision doubled.

“Linton, I mean,” Doc said. “Our glorious leader.” He offered her the thimbleful of dubious liquid, and she sniffed it. The sharp sting of peppermint and machine-processed chemicals made her face scrunch up.

“It’s not exactly candy,” Doc said with a hearty chuckle, “but it’ll take the edge off the pain as good as any spell. We’re getting out of here soon, so we need you in walking condition. Unless you prefer to be carried.”

Aeva eyed the human suspiciously for one moment, then downed the liquid. She grimaced—it tasted just how it smelled—and handed back the cap.

“You did not answer my question, apothecary,” she said. “Who are the Bluebirds?”

Doc wrung his big hands. “Oh, heck, I’m not much of an explainer. Suffice to say, we’re a group of semi-professionals working towards a common goal.” He gestured to the door. “Ask Linton—he knows his way around words better than I. If you get him talking on the subject, I suspect he might not stop unless you make him.”

Aeva nodded slowly.

It seems Linton Granhorn had planned this for some time. But why? What is his goal?

The painkiller kicked in after a few minutes, and she was soon able to stand. Doc recommended she go see ‘the others’ while he packed up his medical supplies.

Upon closer inspection of her body, Aeva discovered that almost all of her wounds had healed. The gunshot to her hand had been passably stitched up by a med-patch, but this was different.

Something more powerful.

Her wounds weren’t just further along the healing process, they were gone. There were still keen aches, even with the medicine, but far less than she would have expected after having received a seemingly fatal wound.

Some doctor, indeed.

Leaving through the door, she entered into a cramped apartment unadorned by furniture. She padded across the floor, which was marred by lines of runes worked into the wood. They all ran to a metal dome at the end of the room which rose from a large, circular base.

“Hey! Careful with that!”

Aeva spun and found a creature coming towards her. After a few moments of confusion, she recognized it as a lubbard—one of the seafolk. She had seen a few of his kind in Anderland, traders and mercenaries, but none quite like him.

If there was one thing she had learned to expect from lubbards, it was bright colors. Blues, greens, reds, purples.

This one was chalk white, ghostly, with a light-pink frill atop his head. His large eyes were dominated by pale red irises.

It was hard to tell what gender a lubbard presented as, due to their lithe, effeminate body structure, but there were usually subtle differences in their voices and garb. Aeva didn’t have extensive experience with them, but enough to tell the difference.

He was dressed in a soiled work shirt and a pair of rough cargo pants, with a pair of large gloves stuffed into one of the pockets and some dusty goggles around his neck.

“What are you staring at?” the lubbard asked, waving a hand in front of her face. He looked over his shoulder, then back, frowning through smooth, hairless brows. “What? Never seen a lubbard before?”

“No, I have,” Aeva said quickly. “Just not…” She glanced at his stark white arms.

“Ohhh,” he said. “My skin? I’m albino. Feast your eyes.”

“And… you are one of the Bluebirds as well?”

“Sure am.” He revealed a tattoo on the left side of his narrow chest, identical to the one Doc had. “And you’re heavy.”

Aeva blinked. “What?”

“Heavy, you are. For a girl.”

“Um…”

“We had to carry you from the truck, so I have some first-hand experience. Maybe on account of the fact that you’re built like a damn tank, eh?” He clapped one of her arms.

“Easy,” she said. Her hands slowly curled into fists.

The lubbard took a step back, wetting pale lips with a long, pink tongue. “Okay. Touchy, too, it seems.”

“Not touchy. I do not like being touched.”

“Yeah, that’s what I—” He trailed off and shook his head. “You know, I think there’s a bit of a language barrier here.”

“Are you poking fun?” Aeva asked, stepping closer to him. It was a satisfying sensation, seeing him cower. She was nearly two heads taller than him.

“Uh, Linton?” the lubbard cried. “Little help here, boss?”

There were footsteps, then Linton came through an open doorway into the room. He had changed out of his black coat into a simple white button-up tucked into black pants. His blue hair was wild as ever.

“You guys playing nice?” he asked, walking up.

“I-I think she’s about to snap me in half,” the lubbard said.

“You’ve got nothing to worry about, Aeva,” Linton said. “This is Frost. He’s the Bluebirds’ enchanter.”

“He is rude,” Aeva observed.

Linton shrugged. “Aren’t we all?” He put a hand on Frost’s shoulder and pointed to the dome at the other end of the room. “Frost, finish prepping the portal.”

Aeva shifted uncomfortably as she watched the lubbard scurry off.

“Doc, you ready yet?” Linton called. “Truthers will be here any minute! I’m starting to sense them outside!”

The big human came into the main room, one bag in each hand and one pinned under his right arm, all stuffed to the brim.

“Ready,” he said with a grunt. “And our newest addition is fit for travel, too.”

“I can see that,” Linton said.

“What is happening?” Aeva asked. She went over to one of the windows, looking out into an empty, drab street. “Are we being hunted? I cannot see anything.”

“Move,” Linton said, pulling her away from the window.

Aeva let him.

“We went straight here after escaping the Arcanex. A safe house—one of many. The MOW is still on our tail—they’ll have this place surrounded soon.”

“Then we have been herded into a trap,” Aeva said.

Linton held up a finger, grinning. “On the contrary. Things are proceeding exactly according to plan. Well, more or less.”

A sudden explosion made Aeva duck. Cardboard boxes and disassembled furniture were hurled across the room, and Doc’s mustaches flapped like the arms of a belly dancer. Aeva looked back and saw the dome coming alive with spurts of violent energy, building into a black-purple vortex.

“Portal is go!” Frost shouted, one hand over his face as he worked a wrench on the side of the dome, tightening a rattling bolt. “Shame to waste all this black anima though, eh boss?”

The portal stabilized. The energy field dissipated and gave way to a picture, almost like a mirror, displaying a completely different space. The inside of a building with a rich, wooden floor and walls laden with paintings as well as a long bar standing on the left-hand side, illuminated by gentle mood lighting. Everything stilled except for a steady hum emitted by the portal.

“Good work, Frost!” Linton said, walking towards the portal. “Doc, Aeva, with me. Frost, sorry buddy, but you’re the last man out. Still got to rig up that little surprise I ordered.”

Frost nodded and gave a mock salute. “Aye, aye, cap’n!”

Aeva followed Linton. She looked back as Frost etched runes into the floor with a wand that emitted a focused beam of heat.

Linton walked into the mirror maintained by the dome and stepped right through, now part of its reflection. Doc was up next, stopping with his body halfway between worlds, one foot in this room and one in the next.

“It’s alright, see?” Doc said. “Bet you haven’t seen many teleporters in Anderland. Don’t worry, I was scared half to death when I first heard Frost talk about them.”

He slipped through, and then it was Aeva’s turn.

She took a deep breath, flinched when an arc of energy passed close to her face, and steeled herself. She leapt through the portal, the whorling energy briefly tugging at her limbs. She came out on the other side and was immediately greeted by a soft warmth and the tender scent of cooked, savory meats.

Doc placed his bags down next to the bar, whistling to himself, and Linton had a seat at one of many tables in the large, open room with his feet on the tabletop.

“Hey! Feet off the table!” Doc bellowed with a snap of his fingers.

Linton remained still. “I’m your boss, remember? I do what I want.”

“This is my bar,” Doc said. He came over and picked up Linton’s feet, softly guiding them onto the floor. “Which means my rules.” He harrumphed. “Unless you’d like to heal your own arm next time you break it.”

Linton whistled through his teeth. “Fine, fine.” He looked over at Aeva. “He’s very particular about this place. Everything has to be spotless.”

Their priorities certainly seem a little… off, Aeva thought.

She looked back and saw Frost placing some sort of box on the domed portal.

“All done!” Frost said, his voice sounding muffled through the distortion in reality. “Truthers are in for a helluva surprise!”

He jumped through to the other side, dusted himself off, and pressed a few buttons on the dome. The portal collapsed into itself. It narrowed down to the size of an eyeball, then vanished entirely with a burst of sparks. Only the empty dome was left.

“We did it, guys,” Linton said. He sat up straight. “We’re finally in business.”

“Except we don’t have the weapon you promised,” Frost pointed out.

“Details. Besides, we’ve got a Chosen One. That’s something.”

Aeva suddenly felt all eyes on her.

She swallowed.

“Um, yes,” she said.

She couldn’t tell what they expected of her. She didn’t even know what her next move was. Too much was happening too quickly.

A swinging door behind the bar was kicked open, revealing a skinny human female with wild, red hair, wearing a baggy orange hoodie and a pair of dark pants. She carried a cast-iron pot, which she placed down on the bar on top of a thick cloth cover.

“This is the newbie, right?” the female asked. She eyed Aeva, hands on her narrow hips. “Mission accomplished, then?”

“Mostly,” Linton said with a tilt of his head. He stood and walked over to the bar. “We didn’t get the Crown, but I have a plan. We’ll talk about it later.” He rubbed his hands, peering into the pot. “Now, what’s this?”

“A little hearty lunch in celebration of a job well done, and the first step in crushing the fucking MOW.”

“Not your cooking, I hope,” Frost said. He dipped his finger in the stew and sucked on it.

“Hey, what’s the big idea?” the female growled, grabbing the lubbard by the collar. “My cooking is stellar, right?”

Frost shrank into himself. He looked around for help and received none. “Uh…”

“Right?” the female repeated. Bright sparks flashed around her clenched fist.

“Yeah! Right! Your food is a culinary delight!” Frost squeezed out.

“Luckily, I did most of the cooking,” came a deep, tinny voice from behind the swinging door.

The door came open and a creature made of steel walked through, several smaller pots and bowls stacked on his arms.

He had pistons and gears instead of muscles and tendons, some of which were exposed through the metal plating covering his arms, legs, and torso. His face was more akin to a skull, bare and unadorned, with a set of glowing, blue eyes. A similar glow emitted from the seams in his chest plating. The metal man wore a white apron that covered much of his torso and legs with a pink love heart in the center.

He stopped in his tracks, staring dully at Aeva. “You’ll have to carry your weight around here. Don’t expect to be coddled.” His hinged jaw moved mechanically as he spoke, more like the gaping of a fish than a mouth capable of complex speech.

The robot placed the pots and bowls next to the first on the bar, then retreated into the back room.

Aeva could only stare, numbly trying to connect what she had seen with reality.

“I don’t blame you for being a little surprised,” Linton said. “Hunter’s a construct. They’re an uncommon sight, even in the Concord.”

“A human soul ensnared in a metal body,” Frost mused. “Fascinating tech, if a little gruesome. Drakemyth’s pet project.”

“I think you’re just confusing her even more,” the red-haired female said with an apologetic smile. She extended her hand across the bar. “I’m Cat. Catia Granhorn, if you want to be pedantic about it.”

Aeva took her hand. “Granhorn? Then, you’re…” She glanced over at Linton.

“Damn, that’s quite a grip,” Cat said, working her hand once Aeva let go. “Yeah, I’m his sister. We don’t look it, I know.”

“I got all the looks in the family,” Linton said with a grin.

Catia poked him hard in the ribs, causing him to stumble back with a wheeze.

Doc placed a surprisingly gentle hand on Aeva’s arm.

“You look pale,” he murmured. “Do you feel alright?”

“I suppose,” she mumbled. “I have no complaints with your healing.”

He guided her away from the rest of the group while they dug into the food. She didn’t feel like resisting.

She was adrift, directionless, set upon a random course on waters wholly unfamiliar to her.

“I understand that this is probably overwhelming for you,” Doc said. “Linton explained some of your situation to us. We have a room prepared for you so that you can gather yourself. Get your bearings.”

“Your leader aided the man who killed my mother, my tribesmen,” Aeva said, holding back her rage. She held up her bruised hand. “He shot me, too. He’s lucky I haven’t killed him.”

Doc nodded sagely. “An understandable reasoning.” He took her by the arm once more and guided her up a set of wooden stairs. “Come, I’ll show you to your room. I’ll bring you some food once you’re settled. You’re safe here.”

“Mm.”

Safe? I doubt it.

***

Berron watched the three-story apartment building with a keen eye.

All civilians in the surrounding blocks had been evacuated. He had over two dozen truthers surrounding the building, with roadblocks on every intersection.

Granhorn and his accomplices would not escape.

One inquisitor, Temare, approached him from behind, her arms folded behind her back. She was a psychomancer—the only mage present. Her mental acuity would be vital in gaining intelligence on the terrorists.

“Detect anything inside?” Berron asked.

“Not much,” Temare admitted. “Traces of black anima. Maybe a little green, but it’s hard to tell.”

“Black anima?” Berron frowned. “What could that mean?”

“My guess? They’re trying to escape. Black anima is chiefly used in teleportation.”

“Then we go in now. I want you and your men to form up behind me.”

Temare nodded. “Yes, sir.” She barked some orders, and six truthers formed a tight group with her, brandishing assault rifles.

Berron led them into the apartment building, taking out his own rifle. He climbed the stairs, a clamor of footsteps behind him.

“Keep me updated if you sense any auras,” Berron said.

“Yes, sir,” Temare said. “None so far.”

Berron hurried his steps.

They cannot have escaped. It’s not possible. I won’t allow it.

He reached the third floor, and Temare pointed out the door behind which she had sensed magic.

With a gesture, Berron had the truthers form up to the left and right of the door, while he readied himself in front of it.

He kicked the door. The handle splintered, and the door swung inward.

The apartment was mostly empty, with no people in sight. The only thing present was a mess of runes and on the floor, all leading to a teleporter.

A line of runes at Berron’s feet came to life, aglow with a red light.

The teleporter awakened with a rush of black anima, forming an oval, whirling hole in the fabric of space.

“Motherfucker!” Berron bellowed. “Get out of here, now!”

He shoved Temare into the stairs, and she went tumbling down.

A box on the side of the teleporter detonated with a dense shockwave and a mess of shrapnel. The dome-shaped teleporter warped, the black anima churning within quickly growing unstable.

The energy was sucked in, folding into a tiny point.

Berron dragged the truthers who didn’t have the sense to move, shuttling them to the stairs.

He glanced back. A horrible screech split his ears as the apartment was engulfed by a mass of exploding darkness.

It grew, and grew, and grew.

It went up his legs, unraveling them like yarn. His flesh melted away, revealing bone and fibrous muscle, which warped and knotted in on itself.

He pulled himself away with his hands, down the stairs, crying out. His scream was drowned out by a deafening boom. He was swallowed by the impenetrable darkness.