The Brotherhood (Part 2)

By Mark W. Meier

Act I

The Final Spell

Scene 2

“Horoscopes, fortune telling, and tarot are next, Ken. And get used to incense. It’ll help create a mood for your readings.”

If I’d accepted help from others in the Brotherhood it could have been done in a few months, but I hated owing anyone favors. Senior Brothers might ask for help in return at the worst possible time, ruining my own plans, which is why I had this assignment. I hated my Brothers almost as much as I hated you.

You lost your job busing tables at a local franchise restaurant because you called in sick too often. No matter. Your time with an oversized tarot deck on your coffee table would garner you more than enough cash at next year’s fair.

Any deck of cards could give a tarot reading, but a specialized deck tended to impress people more. A crystal ball added a level of mystique, and the fragrant Nag Champa powders added to a simmering candle warmer amplified the effect.

The next county fair brought longer lines outside your tent. People remembered your dream readings; now they wanted to know their futures. I seldom prompted you. By the end of the fair you’d earned more money – five dollars at a time – than you’d ever possessed.

“Give your money to Gilbert & Associates.” That enterprise was controlled by one of my other clients. “They can work magic – no pun intended – with money, and you’ll be wealthy by the next county fair. You’ll never have to fill out a job application ever again.”

In the meantime, your latest job of sweeping floors for a cleaning service put food in your pantry, paid the electricity bill, and built up a workroom for magickal training. Over the next year you learned numerology, runes, and potions, all of which came as second nature to you.

You moved from your apartment into a small house in Lake Hills, next to an industrial park. The oily stench there was less obvious than the untreated sewage near your previous flat. You felt safe enough, though, to stop carrying your pistol – during the day.

When neighbors discovered your skills they asked you to paint runes on their walls. The crime rate around your home dropped to near zero, thanks to my intervention. You suggested which numbers to pick in the lottery, and those were numbers that won – no big jackpots though, as that would be too obvious. Your concoctions helped them lose weight, gain muscle, earn promotions, and find love.

Again, you were careful. Too much too soon is almost as deadly as too little for too long.

In the course of two years Gilbert turned your three thousand dollars into three million. Using a half million, you bought property in the country outside of Bristol. We needed acreage to learn spellcasting.

Watching your home being built from the already-completed greenhouse, you turned morose. “But what about love? I’m so alone it hurts. Can’t you bring someone to me?”

“They’ll only get in the way. A needy woman will derail your training.”

While you washed dirt and residue from your hands I could see you thinking. I’d given you everything you’d need to find the solution, and you didn’t disappoint.

“How about a non-needy woman?”

“A prostitute?” I pantomimed a shocked expression.

“Well, yeah. She can see to my needs when I want her, and she can otherwise go about her business.”

“Hmmm. We should use a teenage girl who won’t mind staying out here in the middle of nowhere. Barely legal would be best.” If she were over eighteen she wouldn’t be of much concern to the police.

Your face twisted in horror. “I’m thirty-five. Eighteen . . . that’s wrong.”

“Why? Younger girls are easier to control. They’ll be more impressed with you and won’t cost anywhere near as much money. And they’re . . . cleaner.” I peered closer at some white sage, pretending to inspect it.

Your resolve crumbled in record time. “Okay. A girl of eighteen.”

“Get three of them. A real man’s attention will tire only one or two girls that age.”

“Three it is.” You didn’t even pause that time.

“Set them up as your daughters. That’ll keep most people from questioning you if you’re seen with them.”

Your country home eventually grew into a sprawling mansion. One entire wing held your magickal training facility, another, your three girls. Your greenhouse was updated to grow things native to different climates. As the years passed, you acquired new companions – that is, after paying the previous ones a handsome severance package.

“Why is it taking me so long to learn spellcasting?”

So I could attend to other projects at the same time. I wouldn’t tell you that, of course.

“Because you’ll be needing all the things you’ve been collecting and grinding.” You’d worn out two mortar and pestles in the five years you’d been working. Vials of completed spell components covered entire walls in your storage rooms.

I leaned forward to inspect a glass jar of powdered lavender. “Besides, it’s the hardest of all magick to master. It’s easy to pull a rabbit out of a hat, pick the right card from a deck, and make someone’s watch disappear. Any idiot can learn that. Magic is simple, magick is more involved.”

You kept with it, despite what seemed like foolish activities. A flask with pine extract? An envelope with bits of string? Even the broken remnants of a porcelain teacup stored in a felt pouch.

You hired staff to keep your home tidy. A decade passed, and you finally cast a simple spell – creating fire.

You complained bitterly.

“I can strike a match and make fire.” You sipped tea in your work room, watching the pyramid of lint and splintered wood chips burn down. “It took ten years for me to cast a spell to do that!”

I drew myself up taller and let my face reflect a bit of my anger. “You’re just starting.” Raising my voice wouldn’t matter, since nobody else could hear me. “The next ones will be easier. In another ten years you’ll be more powerful than you can imagine!”

You frightened so easily. A hint of sharpened teeth and smoldering red eyes, and you lowered your gaze. Cowed, but not cowering.

“It just seems to be taking so long for so little progress.” You pointed to the smoldering remains of burning pine pitch and linen emanating from a copper brazier.

“Little progress? Your entire lifestyle is supported by donations from grateful clients. Do you want more, like astral projection?” A rhetorical question, since I already knew the answer.

You nodded.

“How about summoning and dispelling spirits? Speaking with people long dead, enchanting mundane items, flooding entire valleys, burning whole towns to the ground? Does that appeal to you?”

Your eyes widened with an avaricious gleam. “Yes.” Your whisper screamed.

The hook was set. “What if such power required the use of . . . unconventional . . . methods?”

“I want it.” Your hands clenched, as if grasping something intangible. “I want it.”

“You’ll need help.”

Now I would really make some headway.

If you appreciate this story, please consider supporting the author's ability to write more by purchasing The Brotherhood, available in print and on Kindle. Please share on social media, and leave a review on the page linked above.

Saving Cayn 1

Wind shrieked in protest as the William Placard plummeted through the thin atmosphere at Herlorwis. The air barely qualified as “atmosphere,” being about half the density of the envelope around Mars.

Streamers of ionized atoms howled in the wake of the descending Ladybug-3 cargo ship. Lannetay, owner and captain of the vessel, smiled inwardly at her second-in-command’s nervous grip on his chair arms.

Lieutenant Commander Carnifor clenched his teeth. “Lannetay! We’re going to crash.”

Lannetay sneered inwardly. If Carnifor really believed they were about to crash, he’d object more strenuously. “Stuff it.” She continued as before, allowing deflectors and shields to protect the hemispheric ship. She had to gauge things closely, and turned her attention to the readings. Just a little longer.

Carnifor bristled. “Who’s in command here?”

“I am.” Lannetay knew good and well she was in charge. “You might get to tell us where to go, but I run the ship. My ship. My rules.” She considered it somewhat of a miracle he’d agreed to have their first stop in the Wanti Confederation be at this backwater colony.

The William Placard’s artificial intelligence, Bill, spoke to Lannetay’s mind via electronic implants – almost like telepathy. We are getting close to their atmo shield. Maybe we should slow down a bit.

A few seconds more, Lannetay thought back. I like annoying him.

Bill used sound inducers to speak aloud. “We’re getting a message from the colony.”

“Play it.” Lannetay and Carnifor spoke in unison. Lannetay scowled at the commander, who didn’t seem to notice.

“William Placard, Herlorwis colony.” A woman’s voice held a bit of tension. “We have you on final approach. You’re dropping a bit quickly. Perhaps you’d consider decreasing your rate of descent.”

Out of the corner of her eye Lannetay saw Carnifor’s “I told you so” smirk. She ignored the condescending man.

Lannetay’s in-eye display showed the circular atmospheric retaining wall expanding as the William Placard plunged toward the colony. She carefully monitored their approach for a few more seconds as the dirty brown landscape showed more rocky detail. “Now, Bill.”

The AI threw in full thrusters, decelerating hard. Artificial gravity fluttered, fighting to keep up with the change. Bill showed their course plot and Lannetay smiled. Right on target, right on velocity.

“We’ll be below maximum to pass through their atmo shield.” Lannetay had done similar maneuvers dozens of times. None recently, but this was her first trading mission in more than a year ̵̶ thanks to a certain admiral.

“Barely below the limit.” Carnifor highlighted a readout for her attention. “Another few meters per second and we’d splatter.”

“We’re freelance.” Lannetay scoffed inwardly at Carnifor’s naivete. “If we made our approach according to Navy specs, we’d be pegged as frauds in an instant.” According to his file, the man was known for two things: bravery, and following regulations.

“Nobody’s going to think you’re Navy wearing that outfit.”

Lannetay looked down at her saffron Boh-Runo blouse with coral buttons. She liked the way it set off her eggshell skirt. Carmine stockings, embroidered with black piping, reached into claret Andy M. pumps. A cherry tam by Lo Ton completed the ensemble. “Definitely not trying to be Navy.”

Olthan’s coming. A moment after Bill’s announcement the Marine lance corporal paused in the hatchway and cleared his throat. He’s standing at attention. Bill laughed in Lannetay’s head.

“What is it, Olthan?” Carnifor asked.

Lannetay liked the awkward Marine. He never intruded when she wanted to be alone. Unlike some members of her crew. She glanced at Carnifor out of the corner of her eye.

“Just goin’ to do my walk-around, s–” Olthan choked off the “sir” he normally used to address an officer.

Carnifor shot a scowl over his shoulder at Olthan. “Get out of that habit, Olthan. It’s been months now, and you might get us killed if the wrong person overhears you.”

“Y-you said you wanted to walk with me, s–” Olthan blushed, then pivoted and bolted through the open hatch.

“Why won’t that hatch close?” Carnifor asked. “We’ve been in the control room for hours. Isn’t the hatch supposed to close by itself?

“I don’t want our crew to think we might be . . . inappropriate.” Lannetay watched an in-head hologram as Bill made their final approach to the colony. No human could match the precision of a Core or AI, but Lannetay preferred to keep close track of things.

Carnifor rolled his eyes. “Who cares what they think? We’re in charge. We’re not supposed to be Navy, so it doesn’t make any difference.”

Oh, so now he’s not Navy? Bill’s quip almost made Lannetay laugh.

“It makes a difference to me. I don’t want even a suspicion of wrongdoing.” Lannetay didn’t add her thought of, “And I don’t care what you think.”

Carnifor stood and stretched, with Lannetay following suit. The commander strode into the living section of the cargo ship to accompany Olthan on his rounds. About half of that space protruded from the half-sphere of the William Placard. The control section jutted out from there. There wasn’t much to inspect, but the daily chore kept Olthan busy for a few minutes.

Lannetay watched as the two men followed the exercise track bordering the area in a rounded rectangle. Ten circuits equaled a kilometer. One portion of the room held flexible-use entertainment equipment, another a dining facility, and another a rudimentary sickbay. Barriers could be grown from macrites to separate each section, with sound dampeners to further isolate different activities. Mostly the crew didn’t bother with the physical obstructions.

L-T, born Letinnialimek Twunyesperinak – which is why people called him “L-T” – played a game of chess in the dining area with Lannetay’s adopted son. Nine-year-old Marc usually held his own against the Navy lieutenant. Lannetay smiled at the memory of the boy cutting his hair to match L-T’s close-cropped style.

Nearby, the seasoned fighter pilot and part-time programmer, Romiy Sentro, used the entertainment area as a flight simulator to practice dogfighting. He’d been given the call sign “Goofball” because of his penchant for practical – and impractical – jokes. Though using the direct mind-linking implants, the man still twisted and tilted his body to “help” get commands through the interface.

None of those three paid any attention as Olthan peered into every nook and cranny he could find. If his augmented senses detected anything out of the ordinary, he’d report it. Next up were the crew quarters, the engineering spaces, and finally the cargo hold.

Carnifor left the soldier to his duty and walked back to Lannetay, grumbling to himself just loud enough for her to hear. “Olthan doesn’t need me for this.”

“I thought you wanted to follow regulations,” Lannetay said.

“We haven’t stopped in months. What are the chances someone managed to get aboard?”

Lannetay ignored the question. “We have a strange crew, Carnifor.” She’d made that observation a number of times already.

The Navy man edged back a fraction of a meter so he wouldn’t have to look so steeply down at Lannetay. “Won’t catch me disagreeing. What did you do to get this sentence?”

Lannetay didn’t want to talk about herself, but rather the rest of those aboard. Though she’d read their files, she wanted Carnifor’s thoughts.

“What did you do?” Lannetay already knew. She just wanted to hear his side of the story.

Bill interrupted before either could elaborate. “Atmo shield in ten seconds.”

Lannetay grimaced, then headed back to her seat in the control cabin.

Carnifor followed. “You’ll have to tell me sometime.”

So will he, Bill sent to Lannetay.

If you're wondering more about these characters, their origins are detailed in Ebony Sea: Origins. If you appreciate this story, please share on social media, and consider supporting the author's ability to continue writing by purchasing the Origins story and leaving a review at the link above.

The Brotherhood (Part 1)

By Mark W. Meier

Act I

The Final Spell

Scene 1

“I lied.”

-Mastema

You were reading a dust jacket the day we met. A shiver crawled up your spine as you sensed me watching. You reached into the pocket of your cheap suit for your concealed Beretta and glanced over your shoulder. Eyes darting from person to person, you looked right through me.

But I saw you.

The sweet aroma of power-hunger oozed from your pores. All remaining doubt dissipated when I read the title of the book in your hand: Magick – my area of expertise.

I followed you home, watched you sleep, got into your mind.

Searching your crummy apartment in Bristol, I found several magazines: Magick Runes, Effective Spells, and Cursing the Enemy. Each address sticker revealed a different false name – twenty-one in all. When I found three mailings with the same name, I knew your real identity: Ken Jensen.

You’d learned the difference between “magic” and “magick”; those who practiced the latter called the former legerdemain – parlor tricks.

Magick was your only vice. Your home was devoid of hard liquor, pictures of a wife or lover, crayon drawings on the refrigerator door – it lacked even a hint of personal connection with neighbors. With anyone.

I’d learned all I needed. As you woke the next morning, I reshaped my invisible form into the image of a spectral human body. I stood just over six feet tall, sported a long, flowing gray beard, and wore a black wizard’s robe. I added a few unidentifiable sigils to the robe. Embroidered stars and moons would have been too cliché, as would a pointed hat.

“Gaaah!” You screamed, sitting bolt upright, bed covers flying. You yanked a pistol from beneath your pillow and pointed it at me.

I chuckled with a sepulchral tone. “A bullet will go right through me, that wall,” I poked a thumb over my shoulder, “and out into the street. Some unlucky kid might get killed.”

Not that I cared either way.

“Who are you?”

I bowed with a flourish and floated an inch or two above the floor. “I am the spirit of the previous wizard of North America. I’ve selected you as my replacement.” I pointed at your book, Magick, on the nightstand. “You won’t be learning anything from that, so I’ll be your tutor, Ken.”

“How do you know my name?” The nine-millimeter pistol never wavered, proving your courage.

“I’m a wizard, albeit a dead one. I have my ways.” I used the driest tone I could muster, one that, Kulak has said, reminds him of clattering bones.

You raised a skeptical eyebrow, so I continued. “Tell you what – if it would make you feel better, pull the trigger.”

Your pistol dipped a fraction of an inch. You looked from me to the clock to the closet – that’s where you kept a more powerful handgun, I knew – then back to me. Edging to the side of the bed, you pulled open a drawer on the nightstand and withdrew an illegal suppressor. With practiced ease you fixed it to the weapon and aimed for my head.

You fired.

I could have stopped the bullet in mid-air, then let it fall or hover, but instead I allowed it to pass through me and hit the wall. My extra senses informed me the slug penetrated the wall at my back, plowed through the drywall, insulation, Styrofoam, then siding. Instead of having it tear through a passing car, I deflected the pellet into the blacktop. There was no sense getting the police involved when I had a job to do.

I asked, “Are you ready to begin?”

***

For a year I trained you in the arts of herbalism and dream interpretation. No real skill was needed there – plenty of books already existed on those subjects. I insisted you learn my way of doing things, and you obliged. You knew I could provide what you wanted.

Our spartan tent-booth at the Columbia County Fair drew a reasonable crowd of slobs gorging themselves on deep-fried foods. Most of their dreams were as simplistic as they were disgusting. They all craved money or fame or power or love, and you told them they’d find it. That made people happy, and they all spread the word.

“Why can’t they see or hear you?” you asked during a lull. I subtly deepened the darkness within the mauve booth. Most of your kind seemed to like that during any sort of reading.

“You’ll learn that, too, if you stick with it long enough.” I waved to the entrance. “Call in another client. This one might stretch your ability a bit.”

“Next!” you shouted.

The canvas divider opened to admit the smell of corn dogs and wood chips. The day was early enough for only a slight tang of sweat, most of it from farm animals. A young man in a suit sauntered in, and his cologne pushed the other scents toward the background without being overpowering. His expression was canny; I could see he didn’t believe you could tell him anything, but was willing to risk a dollar to find out. This was your first real test.

“Tell me your dream.”

“First tell me what’s going to happen tomorrow.” He crossed his legs and turned to one side.

Since most fortune tellers were frauds it’s no wonder a skeptic would ask that. In essence, he’d said, “Prove you’re not lying and then I’ll believe what you say.”

You shook your head. “I can’t tell the future, only what your dreams mean.”

The man’s smirk broadened. “Very well. I dreamed of a dollar bill found on the road.”

When he didn’t elaborate you asked, “Where is the road?” Knowing that could tell a lot about the man and his motivation.

“I couldn’t tell.” He squinted a little. He needed corrective lenses and didn’t wear contacts. I ran a phantasmal hand through his pockets and found a pair of glasses.

I whispered in your ear. “He doesn’t want to be recognized.”

“Tell me more.”

“When I picked up the dollar, it grew and grew until it was the size of my house. Then I found another dollar bill, and that one grew twice as large. The first bill ripped in two and puffed into confetti that blew away on the wind.”

The man lifted a hand to his mouth but forced it back to his lap. “A third dollar bill also grew, but three times the size of the second, which also tore itself in half and fell to pieces, scattering on the breeze.”

The man’s knee bobbed, and the set of his lips told me it wasn’t because he was nervous.

“There’s more,” I told you. “Dreams don’t end like that.”

You remained stock still as you said, “Then what happened?” Your absence of movement would heighten his unease.

“What makes you think that wasn’t all?” Suspicion oozed like pitch from a fir tree.

“Because a dream interpreter can tell when a dream is incomplete.” You folded your hands on the red velvet tablecloth draped over the plank propped between the two of you. “What you’ve told me doesn’t finish the dream.”

The man scowled, nibbling on a fingernail. He glanced at his hand as if surprised and forced it back to his lap. “The third dollar bill turned into a large tent. Trees, flowers, and crops grew under it. I pulled up a chair and watched everything grow, then I turned into a skeleton and fell to dust.”

You paused to think for a moment. As you began to speak I softened the noise from outside. The calliope’s music dwindling, along with the shouts of revelers diminishing, added impact to your words.

“You will find a large sum of money with no clue who it belongs to. You will invest the money in a single company. When you’re satisfied it’s earned enough, you’ll sell that stock. You’ll invest in a bigger company as the first one files for bankruptcy.”

The man’s jaw dropped. He was so focused on you he didn’t notice the absence of all sound other than you.

You forged ahead – just like I’d taught. “This second company will earn you twice the return as the first, and you’ll sell that just before it goes bankrupt. A third company will get your money. You’ll earn triple what you made on the second company, then diversify your holdings. You’ll live the rest of your life on the income generated by your investments.”

He nibbled on his fingernails again. “Will I find love?”

He wouldn’t, but I’d taught you to never say so to anyone. I allowed the noise of the fair to ramp up, signifying the end of his reading.

“Yes. You’ll live at least until eighty, maybe ninety, and will never be alone.”

Absolute hogwash. The dream had no indication he’d find companionship, but if someone wanted to hear a lie, well, so be it.

The man left after a few more questions, handing over your paltry fee plus a hundred-dollar tip.

The next phase of your training began the following day.

If you appreciate this story, please consider supporting the author's ability to write more stories by purchasing The Brotherhood, available in print and on Kindle. Please share on social media, and leave a review on the page linked above.