Zatanna #20 - Meg Ytic, VIII: Tser

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Author: ScarecrowSid

Book: Zatanna

Arc: Gem City

Set: 25

★・゜゜・。。・゜ ゜★・゜゜・。。・゜ ゜★

    Torture is an imprecise art.

    It relies too heavily on both abstractions and absolutes, the promise of pain and the hope of escape are at constant odds with one another. Worse yet, both suffer from a flood of fear that bends rational thought to the point of break. Born from this are lies, like the ones the man chained to the floor was likely spouting.

    Zatanna couldn’t understand him, but the sweat-slicked hair smeared across his forehead was a good indication of his mental state. He looked unstable, and that was enough to unnerve her.

    Citrina sat upon an overturned crate nearby, mustering all the lady-like composure one could when squatting in an old fire station. It was an out of the way thing, some brick and mortar shoved between a bakery and a dry cleaners that looked to be entirely out of use.

    Laral approached their little circle, nearing the man in the center with a hard set to her jaw. She glared at him, not bothering to hide her malice as he began to mumble at her in their own tongue. Laral simply walked neared, a glass dagger materializing in her hand. The man’s eyes grew wide, and Zatanna expected howls to follow.

    “How did you know about this place?” Zatanna asked, ignoring the first cries to escape their prisoner.

    Citrina stirred, her gaze drifting from the prisoner to Zatanna, then back again. “You don’t live to my age without planning for the worst.”

    Zatanna felt a smile tug at her lips, and some snark followed. “You planned for magical soldiers from another dimension invading the city?”

    If Citrina caught that bit of sarcasm, she made no indication of it and offered a simple reply. “I planned for assassins, dear. I planned for the sudden need to hide my comrades and my future Queen.”

    Further questions blurred as their prisoner began to shout something that had the cadence of expletives, despite lacking the clarity. Laral stood over him, dagger gone and fingers crimson. The prisoner was sprawled on the floor, rivulets of blood flowing free from the stumps where his fingers had been. He continued to shout at Laral, tapering off only when the need to cry out in pain overtook his senses.

    Zatanna winced, wondering what would possess the woman to act so aggressively in her opening salvo of this interrogation. She looked to Citrina, so simply watched the exchange with her silent approval. Laral tossed several somethings aside, and Zatanna pointedly looked away. She could guess what they were, but buried the conclusion deep.

    “Learn anything useful?” Zatanna asked, her voice taking on a curious inflection somewhere between a question and a growl.

    Laral turned to her. The overhead lights hollowed out her eyes and gave a skeletal appearance to the woman, and soft whisper she spoke only amplified the effect. “If your stomach is that soft, go wait upstairs.”

    “My stomach is fine, but it’s going to be difficult to get answers from the man if he bleeds to death.” Zatanna met the woman’s look with a glare of her own, not bothering to hide her aggression.

    “He will be fine,” Laral replied. She turned back to her prisoner and stood over him, taking the bleeding hand in her own. A soft amber glow shone through her fingers, followed suddenly by the thump of heavy stone striking the ground.

    The prisoner’s hand was encased in crystal, a thin layer that only seemed to accentuate the horrors inflicted upon said appendage. Zatanna stared at it, noting the shifting color of the crystal. It drifted between amber and deep violet, with the former smothering the latter in regular intervals.

    Citrina spoke up. “You think us cruel, sorceress?”

    “You didn’t need to maim him,” Zatanna muttered. “There are better ways to employ magic and still get what you want.”

    Citrina smiled at her. “Our home is not privy to your better ways, and our sorcery has never been subtle.” She pointed at the prisoner. “His kind are dangerous if captured, we need to be sure he can’t conjure anything.”

    The old sorceress nodded to Laral, then smiled down at the prisoner. “Please begin, child.”

★・゜゜・。。・゜ ゜★・゜゜・。。・゜ ゜★

    Bound, surrounded, and awaiting execution. It was curious how often one found themselves party to such situations when their lifetime spanned centuries, not decades. Jason watched through the Demon’s eyes, observing the two figures sitting at the heart of the enemy encampment. Etrigan narrowed his focus on two sentries at the camps edge.

    Despite the anachronistic feel of it all, the enemy force had settled quite comfortably into a fortified place with several sedans serving as barricades and small fires at scattered intervals. The microclimate of the dome was worse when sundown neared, causing the violet glow of afternoon to fade to a near black that carried winter chill.

    Etrigan was alone now, Philomela and Granch were scouting the perimeter and for any signs of reinforcements. If none were found, the trio would sneak into the camp, slaughter the men, and retrieve the prisoners. One was apparently a princess of some sort, and the other was of no real consequence. Jason was so tired of dealing with monarchs, but it seemed his fate was intertwined with blue blood, despite his prejudices.

    Jason spoke to the demon, the whole conversation taking place between heartbeats and within their shared mind.

    Take the archers first, Jason said. Doing so is the only way to make a clean vault over those vehicles.

    I have never been one for subtlety, Jason, Etrigan rumbled in reply. I will cut down the archers after I’ve seen to the sentries. We are not skulking in the night.

    Yes, let’s just charge the barricade with our sword held high. Jason knew his attitude would be lost on the Demon, but he still felt the need to speak out. You saw how well that worked for us during the Renaissance.

    That was largely due to the cannons, and I see none here.

    Granch landed beside the Demon with the soft, silent feet of an assassin well versed in wandering rooftops. He pointed down to a pair of sentries approaching the edge of the camp’s perimeter, swords at their side and engaged in hurried conversation.

    There was the muffled flash of steel leaving a scabbard, followed quickly by the stifled cries of dying men. The Demon’s eyes were able to find Philomela in the creeping shadows and hear soft creak of a city dumpster as she deposited the bodies.

    “For a human, she is very impressive,” Granch mused.

    “She isn’t human.” Etrigan stood, readying himself to leap over the edge. Jason silently agreed with the Demon. Philomela was no more human than any other member of their trio, she was something else entirely. The Amazons were said to be a might breed, and if Wonder Woman was any indication, they were nearly without equal in combat.

    Etrigan leaped from the roof, smoke-wreathed around him as Granch followed. They descended, in darkness, upon their prey. Jason, as passenger, offered a silent prayer, May God have mercy on them.

★・゜゜・。。・゜ ゜★・゜゜・。。・゜ ゜★

    Several hours passed without note, and neither sorceress spoke. Zatanna decided to follow suit, though it was uncomfortable to watch the stranger writhing on the floor. Half of his body was now covered in the amber gemstone, it had crept slowly up his arm until it reached the shoulder, then down the length of his side and across the back.

    Even now she could smell the sorcery in the gemstone, the stench filled the air around her until it smothered out even the sense of dread the dome overhead offered. Zatanna had watched long enough, and she knew what was happening now.

    “You’re overriding his sorcery somehow,” Zatanna muttered. Citrina and Laral looked up at this, and the old woman smiled.

    “We are.” The reply came in the quiet, curt tone that Zatanna had come to associate with the old sorceress’ happier moods. “There is power in blood, more so among the people of our world. His power will be removed before we attempt to speak to him.”

    “Removed?” Zatanna asked.

    “Yes.” Citrina sighed, then leaned forward and let her forearms rest upon her thighs. “Child, there are bloodlines in my world that extend from further back than the darkest days of your own, but every one, down to the last, is sorcerous. Yet, without some way to channel that power, we are powerless.” A dagger fell into her hand, materializing from the air above. “His blood contains sorcery, the accumulation of the gemstones that allow him to summon his constructs and put them to purpose.”

    Zatanna frowned at that. “If you can build things, why have you people been bothering with swords and bows, just create a gun.”

    “I assume, dear, you mean apart from the fact that they don’t exist in our world?” Citrina’s smile went momentarily wicked, and a small pistol materialized in her hand. She held it aloft and mimed pulling the trigger.

    Nothing happened.

    Zatanna stared at the gun, which fell away to dust seconds later before dissolving back into the air. She looked questioningly at the old sorceress, who simply shrugged in reply.

    “How many parts are there to a sword?” Laral asked. Zatanna thought to reply, but Laral spoke again. “How many parts are there to a pistol?”

    Zatanna took a moment, then nodded her understanding. It wasn’t about what could be made, but rather how quickly it could be made. One could certainly produce a firearm, or several, using this method, but they wouldn’t be conducive to self-defense unless the sorcerer in question was prepared for the fight prior to it happening. It was fairly weak, as far as sorcery went.

    Not that she was one speak, she was less useful than either of them so long as she remained in this state. How many days had it been since she even attempted a casting? Would the attempt drain her as it had last time?

    Laral stood, a dagger appearing in her hand. Zatanna stood as well, following her gaze toward the distant shadows of the room. “What is it?”

    Her whispered query nearly drowned in the back of her throat. Cold fear took hold of her senses as eyes flickered to life as they reflected the fire.

    “Now what…” Zatanna whispered.

    “Now we run,” Citrina muttered. Her smile was gone and her eyes were hard. “Because I have no idea what those are.”

★・゜゜・。。・゜ ゜★・゜゜・。。・゜ ゜★

    The remnants of their skirmish scarred the camp, and Jason stepped over broken bodies and charred limbs. Etrigan was sleeping now. The Demon’s thirst for war had been sated for now, and the task at hand was better suited to someone with a bit of patience.

    Granch stood nearby, speaking to the pair of prisoners. The first was a young man, dressed from head to toe in a white rag stitched into some sort of body suit. A moment after being freed, he had attempted to flee through the strange method of flight his suit provided. The other was… a girl. There didn’t seem to much to her. She was somewhat lanky, and her hair was a pale blonde that neared gold as it caught the fire’s light. She wore a hooded sweatshirt and jeans… not exactly what you would expect when you thought of royalty.

    Jason neared the trio and caught the tail end of the conversation.

    “... And this boy, princess. He is a vagrant and…”

    “Granch,” Jason said, clearing his throat. “Not to interrupt the lecture, my friend, but what was the purpose of this little detour. It feels like I’ve been running around this city for months and accomplished nothing.”

    Granch met his eye, then readied to speak. He was interrupted by the sudden arrival of a random quarrel striking the nearest corpse. There, tied to the shaft with a single bright cord, was a small scroll.