Walk up to an amassing horde of Abby to take a pot shot and run away? I’ll do that any day of the week.
Step into a closed room with five dangerous outlaws wanted for murder and worse? Not ideal, but if it happens, then I’ll deal with whatever may come.
Present myself to Aunty Ray while all bruised, battered, and bloodshot without so much as a shower first? I’d sooner eat a Bolt than willingly walk into that landmine.
So after Carter and his people escort me back to New Hope and we make our report to the Sherrif, my first port of call is home for a shower and a fresh change of clothes. Unfortunately, Carter got other ideas and frogmarches me over to the hospital for a check up, even though the matronly, no-nonsense Ines already laid her rough mitts all over me. Uncle Art’s got a lot to say about how I keep landing myself in trouble, and I can’t really argue, not with Carter right there. Ain’t no one’s fault that his home is an Abby hotspot, something I brung up with the Sherrif when we was there, and he said he’d kick it over to the Rangers to investigate while they do a wellness check on the settlements around Carter’s.
Got nothing to do with me though, as Uncle Art hits me with a forty-eight-hour observation period. Wants me to stay overnight at the hospital of all places, but I convince him to let me handle it myself. Takes some doing, but the nail in the coffin is the picture I paint of Aunty Ray, Tina, and Chrissy leaving the comfort of the church to keep me company throughout my stay, and he knows how miserable they’d be. To spare them the hardship, Uncle Art’s more than willing to risk my hide, so he sends me on my way with a laundry list of symptoms to watch for and express orders to come back if I exhibit even a single one.
Then and only then am I allowed to return home, escorted by Carter of course. Makes me stop off to pick up Danny along the way, so I got someone looking after me once our business is concluded. Carter is good people, but eager to get home, and I can’t rightly blame him, seeing how they just warded off a massive Abby attack this morning. The fact that they spared three powerful Wildshapers to see me home safely shows that even though he seems frosty on the outside, Carter’s a big ol’ softie underneath it all. Raja the Malaysian and Bodvar the Nord are my other two escorts, or the armoured rhino and grizzly bear respectively. Neither one speaks much English, though they understand it well enough, and the same goes for Nhial the tall, dark beanpole who apparently turns into the big old black panther which I never actually saw. Lot of folks like that in Carter’s community, but they get along well enough, and work together even better.
They ain’t Magi, or so Carter says. Claims they’re all just really, really good with the Wildshape Spell, and some of them picked up a few tricks along the way. Bullshit is what that is, because Carter is most certainly Special Forces of some flavour or another. Same with Raja and Nhial, though I’m not so sure about Bodvar, as the big bear of a man strikes me more as the naturally talented leg-breaking type. Lacks the discipline and self-control you get from proper training, which makes his prowess all the more impressive. Either way, I’m pretty sure most of Carter’s people got at least some military training, or have learned enough since the Advent to pass for former military. It’s in how the compound is laid out, how there are no dissenting voices ever, their battlefield tactics, and the way they follow orders even in battle without flinching before the Abby warband.
Then again, I wouldn’t have flinched either if I’d known miss Amelie’s diamondclaw form would be on our side. Wasn’t no baby there, but a full-sized beastie, which really got me thinking about the Wildshape Spell. I don’t know much about it, but I know enough to know that if you want to Summon a horse, that’s a Third Order Spell. Has to do with the mass and magical abilities of the creature, as a horse got one hell of a lot of mass. Now since Wildshaping is supposedly similar to Summoning, then I gotta assume the same mass limits apply. This tells me a few things. First, that Raja, Nhial, Bodvar, and anyone else who can Wildshape into a horsie are at the very least capable of casting Third Order Spells. They might not be Magi, and might not even have any Third Order Spell Structures prepped in memory, but they got enough metaphysical muscle to sling a Third Order Spell, or more specifically a Second Order Spell at Third Order power.
The next thing to take note of is how powerful miss Amelie is. Didn’t really register until I had time to mull over the battle and realize how much stronger she was compared to everyone else. If she opened up the gates and turned into a diamondclaw, I’m pretty sure she could’ve killed the entire Abby warband all by her lonesome as they filed into the compound. Her fur gives her Aetheric Resistance to Spells and Spell-like-effects, while the diamondclaw’s Innate Abjuration Spells offers her protection from fangs, claws, and other mundane attacks. It wouldn’t have been easy, and I’m guessing she wouldn’t have walked away unscathed, but if you run that fight a hundred times, she wins ninety-five out of a hundred, easily. And that’s being conservative, as I’m not sure there was anything those Abby could’ve done to actually kill miss Amelie.
The thing is, if a regular horse, bear, or rhino already requires a Third Order Spell, how is it possible to use that same amount of juice to Wildshape into a full-grown diamondclaw, a creature more than three times the size of them other animals with Innate Magical abilities to boot?
It’s not, or at least logic dictates it shouldn’t be possible. It clearly is, as I seen it happen, and it’s not because miss Amelie can cast it at Fourth Order. Mostly because it’s downright impossible for the Frontier to support a Fourth Order Spell. It just can’t happen, as the concentration of ambient Aether ain’t thick or fast enough to support the flows of a Spell Structure higher than Third Order. So take away the impossible, and the only explanation left is that miss Amelie has figured out how to squeeze more juice out of the same Wildshape Spell that everyone can use. Which is exactly what I’m trying to do with Mage Hand, except I imagine far more complex considering I would put a diamondclaw Wildshape at a Fourth Order power level, if not Fifth.
Which makes Elodie a damn prodigy, since she takes things another step further. When she Wildshapes into a diamondclaw, she isn’t specifying a ‘baby diamondclaw’, because that’s not how the Spell works. Instead, she’s exerting enough control on the Spell to not only take on the form of a powerful Magical Beast, but also reducing the mass and power of her chosen form to fit within her Aetheric limits, which I imagine is Second Order. It’d be like me casting Fireball at the First Order power level. You can upcast a Spell all you want, put more power into it to get more out of it, but going the other direction requires genius intellect and Aetheric understanding comparable to an Immortal Monarch. You can’t just reduce the Grainage willy nilly. Third Order Spells require 16 Grain of Aether to Prime and activate. That is the cost. Any less, and the Spell Structure doesn’t reach full saturation and the Spell comes apart before ever making it into reality. To put it in physical terms? If you can’t push the rock hard enough, then it don’t move, simple as that. So for Elodie to go against that basic principle is like the first person who invented the lever, allowing her to do more work with less effort.
Seems like Chrissy ain’t the only gifted Innate out there, as Elodie’s talented in her own unique way too.
The worst part is? I nearly got myself killed trying to save them, but they didn’t need no saving. See, I was following Ranger S.O.P, in that you never want to surrender the initiative unless you can’t help it. All Abby got that murderous cunning, even Ferals who tend to be the dumbest of the bunch, and their logic is as alien as their D.N.A. If I fell back to the compound to wait for the attack, we might well have been left waiting for hours, or even days. They could’ve dug in and tried to starve us out while launching probing attacks to keep us tired and on our toes, or started burrowing under the compound from out of sight. I’ve seen Abby encircle a fortified position and throw themselves at the wall without thinking, but I’ve also seen them work together to form ramps from fallen trees for their brethren to get up over the walls. They could have suicidal exploders, Spellslingers with siege Spells, or access to group Rituals that defy classic Spell Order classification and are capable of unleashing the power of a dozen Fireballs in a single go.
All of which is to say you can never be sure what Abby got hidden up their sleeves. That’s why you gotta strike first whenever you can, and that’s what I did. I kicked the viper’s nest and got them all worked up and angry, which overrode their murderous cunning and made their animal instincts kick in. No planning, no tactics, no feints or probing strikes, just man against Abby in a head on clash. Truth is, I played my hand poorly there, as they would’ve stuck around at the base of my tree for as long as it took to topple it if I didn’t bring out the big guns so quick.
Even then, once they realized I was no small fish, what did they do? They went at the compound piecemeal, in drips and drabs as they slunk off in search of a softer target, instead of en masse like they’d probably been planning. That’s because when Abby gets hard of thinking, they go at you direct, narrowing down the lane of fire and massing together in numbers big enough to make Area of Effect Spells well worth it. Yea, everything went exactly as planned, aside from the bit where I was bleeding out my ears and almost lost a foot to climbing doggies, but like they say, man proposes and God disposes.
In hindsight however, my actions were unnecessary, as Carter and his people had it all handled. They had their summoned tuskwulves ready to play the part of bait, while the rest of them sat quiet in the darkness while waiting for me to come in, except I made a big mess of things because I underestimated their abilities.
Which to be fair, I had no real way of knowing about, not when they’ve been keeping their cards so close to their vest. Still feel conflicted when I count out the cash to pay Carter for the Aberrtin and Spell Cores. We settled on a 30-70 split in his favour, and even then I think he’s getting robbed, but he wanted to do 50-50 and took a whole lot of convincing to even get this far. Ain’t that he don’t value money, as he knows he’s got bills to pay. Ain’t a lack of ambition neither, else he wouldn’t be so gung-ho about improving the standard of living for his people and making sure they don’t completely lose the social skills they’d largely given up on in favour of Wildshaping into beasts. Takes foresight and planning to think so far ahead, because while they’re doing fine in the here and now, things will change come the Watershed and we get manpower enough to launch ourselves into the 21st Century in terms of technology and development.
All of which leaves me wondering why Carter would let himself be extorted by the likes of ‘Mikey’ from the Mafia. I get not wanting to risk the lives of his family and his people, I really do, but he got strength enough to run roughshod over anything the Mafia throws at him. Look at Joseph for example. Man was also an Innate, but his lacklustre Ice Knife was worlds apart from what miss Amelie and Elodie can do. Swallowing a Spell Core is the easiest path to Aetheric power, but you still gotta work at it all the same, and criminals ain’t known for their great work ethics, else they’d have better options than turning criminal in the first place.
To that end, I add a bit extra into the envelope without mentioning it, and Carter doesn’t count as expected. It’s only fair since he’s taking his share in cash while I get to hold onto all the Aberrtin and Spell Cores. He don’t say much after I hand over the envelope, just nods in farewell and turns to leave, waving away my offer of lunch or even a drink as he heads off with Raja and Bodvar. Eager to get home, they are, so I shout a thanks as they leave and share a shrug with Danny, who is similarly put off by their taciturn nature. “They good people,” I say, and Danny gets that much at least, because he knows I got high standards when it comes to good people. Most ain’t. Good that is. They can be decent, or downright friendly, but good is a whole other level, one reserved for the likes of Uncle Teddy, Uncle Art, Tim, Marcus, and others like them, the true heroes of the Frontier.
After getting Old Tux and Cowie settled in, I leave Danny with a soda and a snack while I hop into the shower to scrub all the blood and grime off of me. Always a treat, that first hot shower back, but this one is marred by the pain. The Mindspire drone is bad as ever, but now I’m battered, bruised, and exhausted to boot, the last of which is one of the symptoms on Uncle Art’s list. I told him as much, but he said I shouldn’t worry unless I get a good eight or twelve hours of sleep and wake up still feeling tired. Which is why he prescribed a nap, but I ain’t got time for that, so I finish up in the shower and head over to the mirror to see how I look.
Bad. That’s how, and I ain’t talking about my features. I got the makings of a bruise under my right eye, where I face planted into the tree after my first Levitation Spell dropped off. Also got a line of bruises along my right shoulder and forearm, from when I had the rope wrapped around me while hanging all my weight off of it. Wiping the steam off the mirror for a closer look, I wince at sight of my bloodshot eyes, because there’s absolutely no way to hide them. Calling them bloodshot is underselling the issue, as it ain’t just a bit of redness like I been smoking the wacky tobacky. My eyes are so red it’s like my brown iris’ are sitting in pools of bright red blood, on account of something Uncle Art called a subconjunctival hemorrhage. Burst capillaries in the eyes, as well as my nose, ears, and mouth, which is why I was bleeding out of all them orifices.
No major damage to my brain though, far as he could tell, but it’s hard to be sure. Hence why I’ll need someone to mind me for the next couple days.
So I stifle my sighs, get dressed, pack a little go bag of clothes, and head on out to the church with Danny in tow. Don’t go straight for the kitchen, where I suspect Aunty Ray will be, as she’s always been one to work off her nerves with cooking, and ain’t nothing make her more nervous than when I send a runner to tell her I’m back, but need to stop off at the Sherrif’s office first. Luckily for me, I don’t gotta do any sneaking around as the person I’m looking for is in the church proper, busy doing whatever it is priests do outside of mass. Which don’t seem to be much, as the Padre greets me and Danny with a big smile. “Howie, Danny, good to see you both. You’re just in time for lunch, and Mrs. Walker-Bradshaw has been cooking up a feast. I’ve been eating better this last week than I have been in years.” Soon as he’s close enough, the dim candlelight reveals my newfangled condition and the Padre’s smile fades to concern. “Are you hurt?”
“Nah, I’m fine,” I say, pulling out the list Uncle Art wrote up and explain how I need someone to keep an eye on me. “I’d ask Aunty Ray, but you know how she is,” I continue, while the Padre looks over the exhaustive list. “I show her that, and she’ll twist herself into knots seeing issues where there ain’t none. She’ll think every wince is a headache, every sigh some shortness of breath, and Lord help me if I don’t eat every scrap of food she puts in front of me because that’ll be nausea for sure.”
“Well, the good news is, if you do have brain damage, then we’ll hardly even notice.” The Padre flashes me a boyish grin, one I can’t help but match until I realize we got the same sense of humour. “No, I get it Howie,” the Padre says, looking all happy and relaxed again. “You don’t want her to worry, so you came to me. Thank you for trusting me man, and I’m more than happy to help, but I do have two conditions.” Even when he tries to lay down the law, he looks like friendly marty, his eyes all soft and wide while his tone is almost playful. “One, you’re sleeping here. No arguments. The room next to theirs is still available. Two, if you leave the church, you need to have someone else with you who knows what to watch out for.”
“That’s me,” Danny says, even though I haven’t asked, and he rolls his eyes at my grateful expression. “Oh please. If you’re homebound, then you’re gonna park yourself in my workshop anyways, so I might as well volunteer to babysit.”
“Great.” Taking a Photo of the list one handed, the Padre hands the paper back, then makes like he’s about to grab my head in both hands. At the last moment, he stops to ask, “Do you mind if I take a look?”
I’ve already recoiled away, which was what prompted him to ask, but I ain’t about to say yes just to be polite. “Didn’t know you had a medical license, Padre.”
“Oh I don’t.” Making a face like he been told to eat all his mushrooms, the Padre says, “I never was any good at studying.”
“You don’t say.”
Unphased by my lacking enthusiasm, the Padre flashes his warm but sleepy smile and taps the side of his head. “It’s just that while I was looking over the list of symptoms there, it occurred to me that this sounds like what a doctor would call ‘psychic’, ‘psionic’, or ‘mental’ damage. Like say from a Mind Spike, Mind Whip, or Psionic Blast.”
Which I never mentioned, but I guess he knows something about something after all. “Yeah. And?”
“And if it is, then I might have a way to help you,” the Padre says, smiling all the while.
I’ll be the first to admit that I got trust issues, but that don’t mean it’s wrong to want to know more before giving someone the okay to root around in my head. “How so?”
“It’s a little difficult to explain.” Bobbing his head side to side in thought, the Padre lights up and says, “Okay, so you know how those terms for mental damage are fairly new right?”
“Yea. Came into popular use to reference the lasting psychological trauma inflicted on prisoners inside Nazi death camps, then spread to any Spells that do damage outside the standard eight.” Namely Force, Fire, Acid, Electric, Cold, Necrotic, Radiant, and Corruption.
“Exactly. So do you know what it was called before then?” There’s no hint of reproach in the Padre’s tone, no dismissive air to his attitude, as he’s just speaking his mind in his usual friendly and non-confrontational manner.
This time he’s got me stumped though, so Danny swoops in to pick up the spare. “Spiritual,” he supplies, and the Padre gives him a big grin.
“Right you are, Danny.” Waving his hand to dismiss my waiting argument, the Padre says, “Look, I don’t know about which term is right or wrong or whatever. That’s for smarter minds than mine to debate. All I’m saying is that the science behind ‘mental’ damage is fairly new, whereas the Church has been studying the concept of Spirituality for as long as it’s been around, and humanity has been studying it even longer. I’m not saying we do things better than doctors either, but in the thousands of years we’ve been around, the Church has learned a thing or two about magic. We might not understand it enough to explain them the way Science would like us to, but that doesn’t mean our knowledge isn’t useful.”
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
“Not for nothin’ Padre,” I say, trying to let him down easy. “I appreciate the offer, I do, but I feel perfectly fine. Doc checked me out and I got no loss of memory, no trouble speaking, no sudden headaches, dizziness, or weakness.” Only a constant one, and that bout of infirmity right after the fight wasn’t a big deal. “No chest pains, shortness of breath, swelling in my head or inability to control my face either. Gave me a clean bill of health, and the observation period is just to be extra sure, so no need to waste your Spell on me.”
“Do you want to know why the church is sticking with the old classification and disagrees with the new?” Gotta say, the Padre really knows his crowd, because if he wanted to talk theology, both me and Danny would’ve noped right out. This is magic adjacent though, and personally relevant, so I stick it out and listen to the Padre as he says, “The scientific argument for calling it mental, psionic, or psychic damage is because it’s targeted towards the brain.” Smiling when me and Danny both nod because that makes sense, the Padre continues, “But have you ever wondered how those Spells are able to target the mind?”
I have actually, and I say as much. “Not just with Mental Damage Spells neither,” I add. “Never understood how Enchantments and Illusions could trick the brain and make you think you see, smell, hear, feel, or taste something that ain’t actually there.” If it was, then Record Video and Record Audio would pick up illusions in recording, but they don’t, which means them illusions ain’t based on actual light and sound, or whatever.
Rather than answer, the Padre looks to Danny with a smile, who pipes up to say, “It has to do with Aetheric Entanglement.” Which is only the second time I done heard the term, so I ain’t all that familiar with it, and Danny can see as much, so he explains, “It’s a concept that describes the metaphysical connection between an individual and the Immaterium, like say when you have a prepped Spell Structure in memory. There’s more to it, because technically, every time you Actuate a Spell Core with your will, you’re briefly touching upon the Immaterium through the Core. There are other ways to promote Entanglement in a more permanent fashion, but there’s a whole lot of complexity to it, and not a lot of understanding.”
“…And that connection acts like a radio antenna leading back down into the brain, which is how them Spells target our minds.” Makes sense, because like I said, carving out a Spell Structure in memory changes a man, connects them to the Immaterium in some way, so it stands to reason those connections can be used against us.
Danny nods in agreement, but it’s the Padre who speaks up first. “Wow.” Looking at the both of us one after the other, the Padre is all soft smiles again. “It still amazes me every time I see how far the two of you have come along.” Turning around to point at a little area at the front of the church to the right of the altar, he says, “I remember the first mass we held in here, when the two of you, Chrissy, Tina, Marijke, and the other kids were all playing over there while I gave my sermon.” Shaking his head with a chuckle, he turns back to us and smiles proudly. “Now look at you two. When did you get so smart?” Putting his hands on our shoulders, he gives us a look and says, “This feels like a group hug moment. Can we get a group hug?”
Course, neither Danny nor I am all that enthusiastic about it, but neither of us got it in us to deny the friendly, chummy Padre a hug. Long as he don’t make a habit of it, I’m good, so I give him a brief hug before pulling away. “Where were we again?” the Padre asks, before finally finding his way back on track. “Right. Aetheric Entanglement. Another big science word that’s only recently come into use. What the church believes is a little different. We believe that it’s all Spiritual, that the magic we use is our Spirits or Souls reaching out into the cosmos, or the heavens, or whatever you want to call it, in order to connect with our Lord in Heaven. Through this connection, He speaks to us, grants us the strength, courage, and conviction to overcome the trials and tribulations meant to test our faith and refine it, so that we can become better people and lift ourselves up to the kingdom of Heaven.” Pursing his lips and bobbing his head like he don’t wholly buy what he’s selling, the Padre adds, “Or you know. Whatever.”
Which is hardly the kind of dismissive attitude you’d expect from a priest, and me and Danny’s expressions convey as much. “Oh come on guys,” the Padre says, all smiles and good cheer. “You know what I mean. Even I think some of that stuff is a bit heavy handed, but you guys are old and smart enough to know that bible study and proselytizing aren’t the most important part of being Christian.”
“…Then what is?” I ask, more out of curiosity than anything else, because I know Preacher Rigsby of the Catholic Knight’s Templar most certainly wouldn’t agree.
“Having a kind and charitable heart.” Grinning from ear to ear, the Padre adds, “So how about you offer up your brain in the name of science and let me poke around in there for a bit?” Tilting his head as he stares at me a bit, he adds, “I sense something off about you, and I think I can help. Really.”
Which don’t sound all that convincing, at least not on paper, but it does sell it for me. The Padre got some rustling jimmies of his own, but not of the Portent kind, so I suppose I ought to trust him this once. Then again, my daddy always said trust, but verify, so I ask, “What’s this Spell you want to cast called?”
“Dunno,” the Padre says, laid back and relaxed as ever, which really gets my guard up. Rolling his eyes, he explains, “It’s not a Spell like you know it, a structure prepared in my head, because I’m not much of a Spellcaster to begin with. What I want to do is something you might call a Ritual, and you wouldn’t be far off, but this is more of a faith thing that’s difficult to explain.” Which again, doesn’t sound all that convincing, but is somehow reassuring, because when a man of faith says he’s doing something by it, then you know he’s stands behind his actions. “It’s just to see if there’s anything actionable, and if there is, then it’ll take care of it.”
So I give him the go ahead, and immediately regret it as he cups my head in his hands and forces me to look him in the eyes. “This little light of mine,” he begins, singing under his breath while studying me with all the intensity of a curious marty. “I’m gonna let it shine. Stop that.”
The last bit isn’t sung and is directed at me. “Stop what?”
“Doubting. Just relax man. Let the music take you away.” Which I try to do, but it’s difficult to unwind when a man’s got his hands clamped around your head while singing terrible church tunes. He goes through four other songs while we stand there across from one another, and halfway through the fifth, I’m ready to call it quits, but then the magic stirs within and I get swept up in it. There’s no words to describe it other than cleansing, like my mind has been stripped apart, soaked in a sterilizing solution, then put back together in an instant. A warmth radiates inwards from the Padre’s hands and sinks deep into my mind and body, bringing a lightness and clarity alongside a release of pressure that I didn’t know was there. This isn’t me feeling better, but rather me feeling normal again, no longer carrying a burden which I’ve had for less than a day but was already weighing heavily upon me.
One that was unseen, unheard, unfelt even, wholly imperceptible, but its absence is sorely telling. There was something off about me, something even I didn’t notice, but the Padre saw it and ripped it away.
“Wow,” the Padre says, supporting me by the shoulders as he stands back a little bit, his brow soaked in sweat and legs a little wobbly. “Told you there was something off and that I could fix it.”
Though I can’t put a name to what it was, I can’t argue that I feel better. Like I been seeing things through dirty glass and it’s all just been wiped clean. “What was it?”
“An injury to your Spirit,” the Padre replies, and I help him take a seat on the pews. Then I join him in the row behind, while Danny watches us both in confusion. “Modern science is still debating whether the Spirit can be injured, alongside the existence of Curses, Astral Projection, Necromancy, and a whole bunch of other issues the Church has known of for some time.”
“What’s a Spiritual injury entail?” I ask, making note of all those other things he mentioned to ask about some other time.
“Usually nothing,” the Padre replies, dabbing at his forehead with a kerchief and leaning back to settle in. “Or it’s something so minor you don’t really notice. They’re typically incurred in battles against the Soulless, but certain Spells targeting the mind or Spirit can inflict injuries too. You might think slower. Be less responsive. Have bouts of lost focus, or become strange and reclusive. Could make you physically weaker, sicker or even feeble-minded. Oftentimes a Spiritual injury gets worse over time and could even develop into delusions or psychosis, which often is mistaken for post traumatic stress. The most obvious indicator of an injury to the Spirit though is a reduced ability to cast Spells.”
“What you mean? Like dropping a whole Order in Spells?” Now there’s a nightmare I never thought possible.
“Rarely,” the Padre says, smiling at my alarm. “There’ve been few examples of so drastic a change, mostly because the amount of Spiritual Damage necessary to affect you so severely would usually kill you first. Mostly, we see a reduction in the number of Spells the injured can cast each day, or possibly even a loss of Spell Structures embedded into memory or a decrease in the maximum you can prepare.” Seeing the wide-eyed look of alarm etched across my face as I take inventory of my Spell Structures, the Padre chuckles and says, “Even if you lost a Spell Structure, you should be able to memorize it anew now. No need to check your Cantrips either, as those won’t be affected. I’ll want to check on you again in a few days though, because the fact that you took this sort of damage from a single Spell means you ran into a very powerful Aberration.”
Probably the lean, lanky Froggie would be my guess. Though I feel better than before, I wasn’t feeling all that terrible to start with, just tired and beat up as expected. Still, I don’t doubt that something happened, because I felt it firsthand, but my lack of understanding makes it all the more terrifying. “Well… thanks Padre.” Feeling a little awkward, I ask, “Uh… I owe you anything for the…?”
“Restoration is what we call it, and no need for any payment.” Waving a hand in dismissal, the Padre grins and says, “You’ve been a part of my congregation for all your life, so first one is free.” Having recovered his strength, the Padre stands up, stretches, and declares, “Wow. I’m starving. How about we go see if we can help in the kitchen?”
Danny doesn’t join us, as he’s gotta run home for lunch with his family, so I bid him farewell and tell him there ain’t no need to come fetch me after he done. I figure a nice afternoon with the family would do me some good, especially after Aunty Ray overreacts as expected, getting all teary and sad at the sight of my blood-filled eyes. “I swear Howie,” she says, after abandoning her post in front of the stove to run over and greet me with a hug. “One of these days, I’m gonna fit you for a collar and tie you to a post in the backyard to keep you from getting hurt.”
“Looks bad, but really isn’t,” I say, ready to pull out the excuse I done made up to explain my eyes, but Aunty Ray ain’t having none of it.
“Hand it over,” she says, not even waiting for me to ask what she means before she gets to rummaging through my pockets. Finds the list Uncle Art wrote out right quick, while the Padre just smiles from the side and offers no help whatsoever. “I knew it,” she says, as she skims through the list. “Possible brain damage ain’t bad now? That what you trying to say? Or were you about to stand there and lie to my face in church of all places?”
“This is really none of my business,” a dowdy older lady begins, sticking her nose right in the thick of it despite what she’s saying. “But you really shouldn’t leave the stove unattended.”
“You right Martha. It ain’t your business,” Aunty Ray retorts, much to my surprise and amusement. “I’m standing two feet away from the stove in a room full of busybodies who got nothing better to do than hurry me along, so if you think the stove needs mindin’, how ‘bout you go mind it then?”
“Well I never!” Martha exclaims, but Aunty Ray’s petulant glare sends her waddling away to her friends all gathered up in the corner and acting like a harsh tone is the most scandalous thing ever. Thing is, it ain’t like Aunty Ray to be so snappy like that, and she realizes it too, so she sheepishly heads back to the stove. I follow after to help while giving her the broad strokes of what went down, and she none too happy to hear it. Ain’t that I did anything wrong. She just worries about me is all, and now she’s worried about Tina too, who got called away to conduct a patrol, which means she’s part of the team doing that wellness check I suggested.
Needs doing, and that’s the life a Ranger leads, so Aunty Ray gonna have to get used to it. Doesn’t like it much though, especially when it’s her baby girl. She’s had years to get used to me being out and about, but now Tina’s gonna be riding off with the Rangers too, leaving Aunty Ray feeling all out of sorts. So I spend the rest of the afternoon keeping her and Chrissy company, singing songs, playing games, and talking things out, which I can tell Aunty Ray really appreciates. She ain’t ever been one to ask anything of me, always leaving me to make my own decisions no matter what it might be. Even asking for a nice afternoon together feels too much like an imposition to her, which is why she been cooking and cleaning for the whole church these last few days. I only realize this when I walk past the kitchen again to find the sink still full of dishes, so I quietly approach the various groups of people taking shelter in the church and politely make my argument clear. My Aunty Ray done the cooking, and I imagine she’s been cooking all week, so the least these lazy deadbeats can do is help clean up.
The townies I talk to are all apologetic. The folks from the Protestant community like Martha and her murder of crones act all offended, like doing dishes is somehow beneath them. There are also a few families with Innates who’ve come to seek shelter, and I give them the same spiel, because if Aunty Ray can pull herself together and cook food for twenty plus people every day, then I don’t see why them other Innates can’t wipe a table or put away a chair.
I swear, Aunty Ray is too nice for her own good, so the fact that she even snapped at Martha tells me that bitch had it coming.
Tina don’t get back until long after dinner, squeaking in just before the gates close. Got nothing much to report, save for tracks of scouting Abby around several other communities, but no actual attacks besides the one on Carter’s. Their best guess is that Abby figured their warband would be strong enough to clear out the compound before moving on to the next community, and then the next one after that, but we done ruined that plan. Still strange for Abby to attack Carter’s so often, especially with the prize that is Mueller’s Quay sitting so close by. No point trying to understand Abby logic though, so we call it an early night and head off to bed.
The next morning, the four of us head off to church all together for the first time in what feels like forever. After a hearty breakfast of pancakes and fruit I whipped up for the family. And only the family, with an extra portion for the Padre too, but them other visitors staying in the church can make their own batter and cut their own fruit because I’m petty like that. Was almost tempted to take back my jar of honey too, but that’d be taking things a touch too far, and wouldn’t you know it, Aunty Ray don’t even act scandalized to see it, which is pretty much tacit approval of my actions.
In her eyes, being rude is second only to skipping meals, adultery, and blasphemy, so if she’s so fed up to the point of agreeing with my behaviour, then that’s all you really need to know, now ain’t it?
Thoughtful man that he is, Uncle Teddy got four seats saved for all us, and we filter in to sit on either side of him. Tina and Chrissy right next to him, while I take the aisle next to Tina since she’s still looking out of sorts. Giving her hand a squeeze, I make a silent promise to figure out Mental Fortress as quick as I can, though last night’s studying yielded no fruit. My lesson with Uncle Teddy is most compelling though, as he knows me better than myself and jumps right into explaining the Third Order Spell without needing to be asked. Has our lesson in my borrowed room at the Church too, so Tina and Chrissy can listen in, as the Spell ain’t in Aunty Ray’s or Uncle Raleigh’s Innate wheelhouse, so both my sorta sisters will have to learn the Spell the Orthodox way.
In two short hours, I make more progress with the Mental Fortress Spell Formula than I have all week, showing well the value of a proper Mentor. Not only does Uncle Teddy provide a wealth of information regarding the math, he also shows me how to visualize the Structure and which ways the flows need to go, information I had to work out by trial and error myself when I was learning Fireball on my own. By the time our lesson is done, I got confidence enough to believe I’ll have the Spell prepped by this time next week, though I don’t say as much to avoid sounding overconfident or looking like a fool if I should fail. Tina ain’t as far along, and squeezes a promise out of me to tutor her more later tonight, but I got plans to see Danny after lunch so he can help me with my Artificer studies.
Knowing I need a minder still, Uncle Teddy offers to walk me over, and he has me fill him in on the Abby attack. He already knows most of the broad strokes, but he wants an A.A.R from me personal. Which I give as best I can without revealing Carter’s secret, because he specifically asked me not to. I get the feeling Uncle Teddy knows something though, because he doesn’t poke at the obvious holes in my story, just nods along and laughs when I tell him about my run in with the tree-climbing doggies. Since he don’t got any notes to add, I finish up my report right quick and tell him about the places Carter told me to have checked out, with plenty of time yet to go before we arrive at Danny’s.
So, on a whim, I ask, “Mind if I ask a question unofficial like? Meaning you don’t ask why I’m asking, or act on it?”
“Depends,” he replies, giving me a wary look. “What’s the question?”
“Well… what can you tell me about the Mafia?”
Uncle Teddy sucks in a breath and hits me with his best stern glare. “What are you mixed up in now, son?”
So much for an unofficial discussion then. “Off the record?” Uncle Teddy begrudgingly nods, so I tell him about how Carter’s people are being squeezed by the Mafia. “Said he was a made man of the Pugly-anny Family, one Michael Dipolio or something like that.”
“The Pugliano Family,” Uncle Teddy begins, and I have no earthly idea how my mouth is supposed to string those syllables together like that. “Are led by one Ignazio ‘Firebrand’ Pugliano, and his cousin Francis ‘the Phantom’ Pugliano.”
“Real blood cousins out here on the Frontier?” I whistle while we walk, because that ain’t something you see every day.
“Shows how heavily their families invested in the Frontier,” Uncle Teddy says, sounding grim and dour as can be. “The Five Families didn’t care much about it, because they were well entranced in the old world, but to their underlings, it was a once in a lifetime opportunity to establish their own criminal dynasties here on the Frontier. Some sent over every male of fighting age, and plenty of women to ensure they’d be able to carry on the bloodline, and the Pugliano Family emerged as the premier criminal gang in our neck of the woods. They established a power base in Mount Rime early on by remaining low key while we focused on more prominent threats, and even went so far as to offer information regarding their rival operations. For ten years, they had the Rangers sweep away all their competition until they had money, influence, and manpower enough to seize control of all mining operations in the area.”
“How though?” I ask. “I thought those mines were Ranger owned and operated.”
“They are,” Uncle Teddy says, stifling as sigh as he looks for the right way to phrase it. “But the people overseeing operations aren’t Rangers, nor are the miners, the labourers, the smelters, or the shippers, and that’s where the Pugliano Family focused their efforts. They own all the companies we need to work the mines and ship the products, while simultaneously shutting out any new competitors who try to move in. They use a mixture of legal and illegal tactics to hold the mines hostage, making the cost of removing them far higher than simply doing business.” He don’t elaborate, but I can guess at the rest. Someone higher up in Ranger Command is probably also getting paid well to look the other way too, so Uncle Teddy got no choice but to turn a blind eye, because he’s got bigger fish to fry. Even if he ignores those orders and goes after the Pugliano Family, chances are they’ll shut down operations and starve New Hope of resources, which we need to produce weapons, ammunition, building materials, and more.
Or worse, they’ll fade into the shadows and put a bounty out on Ranger families until no one wants to fight them anymore. Even if we wiped them out in one fell swoop, we’d have to deal with the power vacuum left in their wake to keep the cycle from repeating itself with new players into the same roles. Didn’t think about it like that until now. The Rangers could wipe out the Pugliano Family for sure, but they’d lose more in the process than it costs to look the other way. Better the evil we know, I suppose. Don’t much care for that, having to overlook criminal scum like they just another facet of life and there ain’t nothing we can do about them.
“So the mining operations can’t be helped,” I say, though I don’t really believe it, “But now they expanding operations to squeeze independent communities. We supposed to just sit by and let it happen?”
“More likely it’s this Michael acting independently,” Uncle Teddy explains, sounding none too pleased about it either. “Every member of the Mafia has to kick up to the bosses, and this Michael sounds like he sits very low on the totem pole, so he has no choice but to expand outwards to secure revenue.”
“Secure revenue? Nah, Uncle Teddy, that’s too neat and tidy. They’re shaking down farmers and fisherfolk for cash,” I say, not even sure what I’m trying to get it. “Demanded $300 extra a season just because Carter put in a new dock. Said he could find work for the man’s daughter too, and you know what kind of work he talkin’ about. No idea how Carter could stomach it, because that’d been Chrissy, I’d’ve put that mobster six feet under.”
“And bought yourself a world of pain in doing so.” There’s a note of warning in his tone, one telling me I’m too close to the edge. Not because he’s afraid of the Mafia. No, he wants me to tread lightly because he expects me to live up to the standards he set for himself, the standard that earned him his reputation as The Marshal around these parts. “The Mafia might not care about a two-bit player like Michael, but they cannot let the death of a made man go unanswered. It would make them look weak to their rivals, so they would have to strike back, and they will keep striking until they get their man.” Pursing his lips as he meets my eyes, he adds, “It’s never the bosses who come after you. It’ll always be some desperate person who thinks they have no other choice. You’re good Howie, but no matter how many times you come out ahead, they’ll keep sending desperate people to the slaughter until you slip up.”
It's my turn to stifle a sigh, because like I said, I don’t like giving up the initiative, and my battle with Mikey has already begun. “So there ain’t nothing to be done about them then?” I ask, even though I know I’m not gonna like the answer.
“Not in the short term,” Uncle Teddy says. “We could plant a bug to listen in on their next exchange and arrest this Michael on extortion or racketeering charges, but even if we send him away to prison, chances are the Mafia would make an example of Carter whether he was a willing participant or not.” Having arrived at Danny’s doorstep, Uncle Teddy stops to look me in the eyes, and he does something I almost never seen him do. He hesitates, then looks away and says, “Truth is Howie, the Pugliano Family are not the worst criminals to have around. At the very least, they steer clear of heavy drugs and human trafficking for the most part, and play a role in fighting off their less scrupulous rivals.”
Ain’t much I can say about that, and he knows it too, but I give him a hug all the same to tell him I get it. That’s just the world we live in, one he thinks I’m old enough to understand, even if he is ashamed of how it gotta be. It ain’t pretty, but it is what it is, so I bid him farewell and head inside while thinking about my next move. Carter’s idea about putting the blame on Joseph’s death on Abby is a decent one if I wanna escape blame, but now I’m wondering if I made a mistake. Maybe I should’ve let Joseph live to spread word of what I done, warn Michael off a little bit. Or better yet, I should’ve brought their bodies in and owned up to the kills, to show people they don’t gotta be afraid of the Puglianos. Too late to do anything about it now, so it’s all food for thought really, because now the ball is in Michael’s court, and ain’t nothing for me to do but sit and wait.
Well, that and prepare of course, which is step one of surviving, and if there’s one thing my daddy taught me to do, it’s how to survive.