Chapter Twelve: Wands, Guns, and BLOOD!

It was a strong grip that Gabriel had gotten around Wesley’s neck.

What made it worse, was it seemed the Templar had been taught hand-to-hand combat. Which was odd for a magician. General practice was never to let another magician close enough to touch you. That was its own kind of magic.

But there was no sensation of mental attack. Only the squeezing hell of his hands trying to wring his next.

Gabriel’s bright eyes were terrible and bloodshot.

Wesley managed to gag out a simple spell and a second later the music cut off. Then Wesley drove his elbows down on Gabriel’s arms, breaking his grip. He quickly followed with a shove that sent the Templar into the side of the elevator.

For a moment, it looked like the man was going to go at him again but just as soon as he’d turned, he returned. Blinking his eyes, the clouded look in his eyes cleared. He shook his head.

“You alright?” Wesley asked.

He was actively ignoring the nagging sensation in the pit of his stomach telling him to cut the man’s throat right then and there. The damned dagger was tingling in his fingers, sending little vibrations he could feel in his brain.

“What happened?” Gabriel asked, rubbing his eyes.

“The music,” Wesley explained. “It was imbued with magic. Made you want to kill me. I’d guess you’d have killed yourself too once you’d dealt with me.”

Gabriel chuckled. “These goddamn people. I swear. Even we aren’t that fussy about our security.” Then he narrowed his eyes. “Why weren’t you affected by it?”

“I’ve got this,” Wesley said, showing his watch.

The Templar rolled his eyes. “What am I, an idiot?” He tapped the cross necklace he wore. “I’ve got one too.”

Wesley blinked.

Gabriel peered up at Wesley, “What's wrong with your eyes?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your eyes, they’re clouded, almost yellowish.”

Wesley peered at a strip of brass on the side of the elevator. He could barely see himself, but his eyes did stare back, even blurred they looked strange.

He shrugged. “Got a little Basilisk blood on me.”

Gabriel whistled as the elevator shook, suddenly taking them back up. “You killed it? Not as soft as I thought you were.”

Wesley snorted. “And you folks don’t waste any time.”

“Centuries are a long time to wait to reclaim those which are already yours.”

“Ah, the sentiment of every thief, if they could properly philosophize.”

Gabriel held up a finger, “Careful, detective, lest you lose your tongue.”

Wesley was feeling cheeky so he said, “You think you could take it?”

The man chuckled. “I give myself…one in three. Seeing as you’re still alive, even after I went darkside. I’d guess you’re more dangerous than you look.”

Wesley frowned, taking the compliment and said, “One in five, I’d guess. You’re trained-in-hand to hand.”

“We take the Arts seriously.”

“So did my father.”

“Boxing?”

“Pankration mostly.”

Gabriel raised his eyes. “Old style. Smart man. It is its own art.”

Wesley just grunted. He hardly looked back at his training fondly and he cared little for the memories.

They were still rising in the elevator and they had been for several minutes. The space was tight and his head was throbbing.

“They’re going to make me a Duke when I recover this.” He craned his neck, stretching it. “The women will go nuts.”

That drew a chuckle from Wesley. “Really? A devout man like yourself?”

Gabriel shrugged smugly, throwing a wild grin Wesley’s way. “No idea what you’re talking about.”

“What are we expecting?” Wesley asked.

“Intel suggests there will be a number of guards. Possible five or more. Several other measures. Gargoyles are likely. Maybe a dragon.”

Wesley let out a breath. “Another dragon. Great.”

Gabriel looked at him with intrigued eyes. “You simply must tell me about this.” He waited a moment, considering something. “Maybe later. I’ll invite you to my villa. When I buy one. After I recover the treasure.”

“I’m guessing you volunteered for this one.”

He nodded.

“And now we’re facing something akin to certain death,” Wesley said.

Gabriel threw back his head and laughed. “All death is certain. But at least we can die in a blaze of glory. Imagine it, Wesley. We kill dozens, bodies littered around us before we finally crumble under the pressure of twenty spells.”

“I’ve got some other things to attend to. But send me a postcard.”

The elevator was slowing.

“If you don’t have a death wish, then why on earth are you in this elevator.”

“Long story,” Wesley growled. “And I don’t think I’ve got time to tell it.”

Their little cabin had begun to shake, almost violently. They ground to a halt.

“Well then, kind sir. If I am going to die, I will do so with good music.” He flicked his wand and a sudden blast of sound filled the elevator.

It took several seconds for Wesely to realize it was music. Really, really loud music.

Many more seconds passed before it took form. He quirked his head. “Is this Led Zeppelin?”

Gabriel grinned like a mad man, nodding. “Immigrant song. God I love this song.”

Despite the loud music, his voice was perfectly audible, as if he spoke right into Wesley’s ear.

The violence-hungry Templar Knight stuck out his hand. “In case this all goes bloody wrong.”

Wesley couldn’t help but smile, taking the man’s hand. “A pleasure.”

The doors opened just as Led Zeppelin broke their vocals.

And all hell broke loose.

Gabriel stepped out first, his wand raised and he shouted, “Inferno.”

A torrent of absolute fiery heat blasted down the wide hallway, expanding to fit the big space. Glass shattered and metal screamed under the heat. When it was gone, a burst of cold air hit them.

As the smoke cleared, pushed by the wind from the open windows, Wesley finally saw what it was they faced.

About a dozen gargoyles. Several sets of heavily armed suits of armor. Three, possibly four, guards, their long robes billowing. Behind them, was an old fashioned looking bank vault. With all the metal workings and turn dial.

Near it there was a glimmer. Possibly someone behind a veil. But he would deal with that when he got there.

First, he would have to survive all the other things between him and the damn map.

Gabriel was either fearless or an idiot. Either way, he ran straight into the danger. A long, Roman-esque dueling sword had appeared in his hand, which he swiped at the nearest gargoyle, taking a leg off it in a burst of dust.

Wesley followed, raising his gun first, rattling off about five shots at the nearest guards. Like most foolish wizards, they put too much reliance on magic. His bullets cured them of that plague as two of them dropped to lay unmoving among the ground. Blood began to pool around them on the white marble floor.

He tried to follow up with spellwork but found himself having to dodge the wild swing of a broadsword of one of the knights. Whatever possessed the knight, seemed to scream like some distant ghost as it brought the sword over its head to fell a death stroke.

Wesley kicked it hard in the chest, but instead of it flying back, it was like hitting a brick wall. He was thrown off balance and went into a roll as the sword came down, chipping stone from the ground where he’d just been.

Coming up, he fired the rest of the bullets at the wizards before they could throw anymore spells at them.

Gabriel was…in three places at once. Or at least two clones of him were. One fought the guards, throwing what could only have been a projection of magic at them. Still it had them ducking and weaving. The other ran around, distracting about half a dozen gargoyles as they tried to swipe his ethereal form.

This was taking too long and no help was coming. He tossed the pistol aside and grit his teeth. He really, really didn’t want to do this. But the bloody pull of the damn thing had him. He was slowly getting wrapped around it. Or at least his will power was.

Wesley pulled out the knife and as if the wind had caught his limbs, he spun forward, slashing at the suit of armor. The knife caught the thing on its backswing and cut through the belly, then the neck, then the eyes.

It fell into pieces, sending them across the floor.

A bloody rush of violent satisfaction pulsed through him. He screamed as he ran forward, his wand flashing with ruinous spells and the knife, like a streak of silver, darting for death.

The furor of battle. The thrill of death. The rage of killing.

Wesley had felt nothing like it. It was a blur. When a razor sharp gargoyle claw got his arm it felt like excruciating pleasure. Pain was a distant memory.

At last he stood before the remaining guards. They stumbled back as he came at them. Big fireballs expanded against their shields. One was so powerful it caught a guard before his shield expanded and turned him into a roast.

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For the last one he hit her with a spell that sent him, or her, from the sound of the screaming, out one of the broken windows.

That left the–

Something searing hot burned Wesley’s hand. He looked down and saw the dagger was turning white. It took every piece of willpower he had to drop it, as its own power told him to never let it go.

It clattered to the floor and not a second later it flew out of one of the broken windows.

Then someone materialized not five meters from him, wand extended, a victorious smile on their face.

“Mors manus,” a high pitched voice shouted.

Wesley’s shield was barely up in time to deflect the spell. The force of it sent him off balance, spinning away. His mind raced hearing the words. They were Old Magick. The kind only found in the oldest schools of magick. The Elder Houses.

Hands of Death.

They had meant to trap him in his own body. A wicked kind of death. Easily down when one did not have their guard up. A kind of mind magick.

In his confusion he threw out a distraction spell that popped like a firecracker.

When he rose, he found that the figure had thrown back their hood. A woman, a rather attractive young woman, as luck would have it, stood there, a smirk playing on her thin lips.

Long flowing brunette hair fell to her shoulders. The eyes, which glowed slightly, as if by magic or something else, were bright green. And a narrow scar ran from the edge of her forehead down to her cheek.

“Petty magic,” she hissed. “You fight like a fool.”

Wesley was affronted, spreading his hands wide. “Really?”

She cackled like a fiend. “The knife was a good touch but you don’t have it any longer. You will crumble like a ragdoll.”

It was Wesley’s turn to grin. “Give it your best shot,” he growled.

She came at him quietly, violently, sleek and nimble as a cat, whispering her spells as to not give him an advantage. And she was fast. The assault was relentless. Three, four spells at a time. Not meant to kill, but meant to slowly break down his guard.

This kind of fight was like a dance. If they’d had blades, it would have been more gruesome. But this…this was like a game. Cat and mouse. Each of them switching positions as they attacked and defended.

The lust of battle from the knife had not left him. It still fueled him. Like a slow ebbing stream feeding a reservoir.

A silver streak of a spell almost took his head off and their fervor broke. Behind him, Gabriel had almost finished off all the other guardians. He was locked in battle with the two remaining suits of armor. His face set in grim, almost excited, determination. A red streak of blood ran down his face.

If he joined the fight, they would certainly overpower the last guard. She knew it too. Her attack doubled and with such blinding battle rage, he found an opening. As she gathered herself in the milliseconds between spells, he hit her with a simple one.

“Repente.”

It was a rudimentary spell. Something they learned as children in the arts. A little blast of force to rock someone back. Steal their balance.

This one spun her in an uncontrolled pirouette some two meters in the air. She ruined the thing by landing somewhat gracefully on her feet.

She showed him her teeth, the gesture fierce. “That was juvenile.”

Wesley showed his teeth back. “But effective. Now get out of here before you get hurt.”

The woman laughed through gritted teeth. “I think that's my line.”

That settled it.

As she raised her wand, Wesley flicked his, tendrils of silvery light gathering broken glass around in a twirl of razor sharp tornadoes. They were deadly little things. He’d seen it done before. Not by him, but by a criminal who’d been cornered. It had ended badly for him.

She screamed like a banshee, slashing her wand through the air, her own wind magic, spinning the wand in circles. In under five seconds he lost control of the tornadoes and the glass flew everywhere.

Wesley’s shield grew white hot under the storm of glass. And the heat was getting to him.

Suddenly Gabriel was beside him. He’d gathered more cuts on his face. But still he was smiling.

“You haven’t handled her yet?” he asked, rolling his neck.

“Would you like to help?”

“Watch and learn,” he said suddenly.

“Be my guest,” Wesley told him.

His first spell was some kind of air distortion, making the air between them like a series of waves. He proceeded to flick his wand toward the ground, sending little bouncing balls of light her way.

Only then did he actually go at her. And he was procedural. It was like reading from a spellfighting how-to book.

He hit her with several jinxes, testing her defenses, then he threw some heavier ones at different parts of her body. Legs, center mass, head. Deflecting two of her surprised defensive spells he burst through his own air distortion spell just as the little balls of light exploded around her feet.

She flung herself back, propelled by a spell of her own, which she’d sent at the ground.

Gabriel’s sword missed her by millimeters, catching only part of her robes. He followed up with a complex series of spells, some of which missed completely. The sheer ferocity and unrelenting nature of his attack even took Wesley by surprise.

The Templars did not mess around.

Even the woman seemed surprised, her shield a desperate thing.

Gabriel’s sword grew red hot as it cut through it.

They were caught in a kind of limbo, trapped in the battle of wills. The shield would explode, eventually, which they both knew. But whoever broke first would be at a disadvantage. If she broke, his blade would most likely gut her in one form or another. If he broke, she would immediately press him with jinxes.

Wesley, watching this battle a little too calmly, stepped around the two embattled wizards, raised his wand and said, “Funinculus.”

More of the silvery tendrils erupted from his wand, arcing towards the woman. She cried out as they grabbed her, wrapping around her body like writhing snakes. When they had gained their hold, he whipped his wand toward one of the large windows.

The wizard woman was flung out of the hall and yelling furiously as she plummeted.

A stillness settled on the great hall. The only sound coming from the distant stereo in the elevator. Led Zeppelin still played, though its sound was so distant.

Wesley walked to the window. He was surprised to find that he only saw clouds around them. As if they floated there. Far beyond the window he saw more buildings, jutting out of the white, bulbous vapors.

Ah, he thought. The Kingdom Among the Clouds.

The elevator had taken them into the skies. An entire magical community built above the world, floating as if on nothing. It was Old World. It housed some of the oldest magical families that still existed. He himself had spent little bits of time here as a child, taking dinner with his father’s friends. Then at the Academy, he’d studied for several months in the research chambers there.

As he watched the slowly scooting clouds, he saw little shapes flying about. Wizards on broomsticks were moving between the buildings.

The rasp of a blade being put away brought Wesley back to his task. He turned, finding Gabriel looking at him. The Templar was bloody and he seemed to be favoring his left leg though there was no obvious injury there.

There was an instant where Wesley thought the man might attack him. A glint in the eyes.

But instead, Gabriel just said, albeit reproachfully, “I had her.”

Wesley shrugged. “That shield spell could have killed you both.”

The man swiped his hand. “Come on. I had that handled.” He spun the blackened blade in his hand. “I’d earned it.”

“Are all Templars so bloodthirsty?”

“You have heard of the Crusades, haven’t you?”

Wesley gave him a flat look.

“I will get you back for that. You owe me,” Gabriel added.

Another uncertain moment passed between them.

“Perhaps we can focus on the goal at hand. Then later, if you’re so inclined, we can settle debts,” Wesley offered, meeting the man’s eyes unflinchingly.

Gabriel seemed to consider that and nodded. “Acceptable. We do make a good team, I suppose. You’d have made a good soldier.” He showed his teeth in a wolfish grin. “Like you said, we are often bloodthirsty.”

That comment sent a little chill down Wesley’s spine. He did not like the implications.

Gabriel walked over to the big vault, held out his wand, and muttered a little spell that sent a small, probing bit of silver energy out. It only made it within a meter of the metal workings before it struck an invisible barrier. A water like ripple was sent out, revealing a meshwork of overlapping magicks.

It was a skilled bit of magick. This kind of artistry would have cost a fortune. Probably weeks of work. Mind-numbing, detail retching work.

Most probably it was tied to several of the higher Guild members. They would have some kind of pendant to unlock it.

Damn near impossible to get into without kidnapping someone. Even leveling the whole place wouldn’t get it open. To pick apart the thing would take weeks.

They didn’t have weeks. They didn’t even have hours.

Wesley, being somewhat of a wardsmith himself, knew he only had to find the backdoor. Inevitably, the creators of this ward would have left themselves a way to get through the magick in case the Guild member who had keys were lost or killed.

Of course they would have made it very difficult to locate. It was probable they had left several fake ones. These would, obviously, kill him if he got it wrong.

“I think we’re screwed,” Gabriel said, staring up at the somewhat overwhelming ward.

“I need you to find me a key. Or fashion me one out of some metal. Something that doesn’t have any current metal properties. I’ll need it to open the ward.”

Gabriel stared at him. “You can open this?”

“I’ve seen worse.” He hadn’t, actually. “This will be simple.” It wouldn’t be. “I can make quick work of it.” It was very possible he would die a horrible death. “Go.”

He shooed the man away.

It was time for him to focus. All ward artists with this level of skill left their signature somewhere. It was like a compunction for people like them. Much like painters.

Wesley began the painstaking search, his wand raised, flicking it gently. Careful like a minesweeper he pushed aside traps meant to burn him alive. Others meant to flay the skin from his body. Even one that would literally melt his brain.

They were so nice, these Guild folks.

It could have been seconds or minutes later, when he found a small series of stacked triangles.

A grin spread Wesley’s face.

He recognized the little thing.

It was a merkaba.

In the grand scheme of things, relatively few people could make such a ward. He’d run into one with this exact marking before. Only after it had killed three thieves who’d tried to steal from a Lord’s house some years before.

The person who’d made that ward had also made this one.

A particularly devious slimebag named Bacchus. Or so he called himself. He was clever, but overconfident. Wesley had helped the wardbreakers. Bacchus liked to hide doors in obvious places. Only thing to do was to choose the right one.

“Gabriel,” Wesley shouted. “Where is the–”

“Why are you yelling?” the man asked from right beside him.

It made Wesley jump and he glared over. “How long have you been standing there?”

“About two minutes.”

“And? Do you have the key?”

He held up a shimmering little silver key. Probably made from the armor of one of the knights they’d fought. It was crudely made but given the short time…

“It’ll do.”

He took it, feeling the warmth still in it from the magical crafting.

“You can open it? So soon?” Gabriel asked, impressed.

Wesley nodded far more confidently than he felt. “Give me some space, would you? I can barely breathe.”

The man backed away, his arms raised. “You get mean when you’re stressed.”

Wesley just rolled his eyes and began to look for the hidden doors in the ward. It didn’t take him long to find his options. Knowing who’d made the thing made the process infinitely easier.

When it came down it, he found two places that could have been a hidden door. One was an obvious trap that threatened to draw and quarter him, if he was reading the old runes correctly. The other looked like it would wrap a rope around his throat and jerk him around like he was being dragged by a horse.

It was the old style torture kill methods that made him think there was something behind it. When he’d helped with the first ward in the lord’s house, it had been a trap made to tickle the person who opened it to death. Odd. But revealing.

Wesley would be operating off instinct.

Before he did so, he looked around to find Gabriel only a few meters behind him. “You, uh, might want to step back a little further.”

The man frowned. “I see,” he said, moving back. “I’m beginning to think you aren’t as confident as you led me to believe.”

That actually made Wesely laugh. And it sounded like a mad thing, almost a cackle. He said nothing, gripping the key harder as he reached forward.

A strange thing happened in that moment, a surge of magic in some distant, far-flung part of his hindbrain. Like a memory but…older.

A kind of aberrant magic.

It flowed into the key, imbuing it with something foreign to him.

Instinct told him to trust it, so he did. And as he did so, as if by its own volition, his hand drifted toward the first trap. The key slipped in through the ward, growing warmer with each piece of magic it touched.

There was no snap of unleashed magick, or pain of a trap sprung.

He had chosen wisely.

Turning the key, he saw the layers of ward magick falling away like a receding wave.

When the ward released him, he fell back and felt hands catch him.

Gabriel whistled as he hauled Wesley up. “Look at that.”

With almost a dismissive gesture he flicked his wand at the vault and the wheel began to spin. Then it was opening, the heavy metal door flinging itself outward.

With it came a rotten stench.

Wesley’s stomach dropped, his eyes going wide.

A plume of flame erupted from the mouth of the vault.

It would have turned them both to charred bone if Wesley hadn’t shoved them both out of the way.

Then a dragon, roaring its dismay, came charging out, its razor sharp teeth snapping wildly.