Algorithm - Book 1 - The Medallion

Prologue

He scaled the blackened wooden planks and landed softly at the base of the coal pile. He clambered up, slipping and kicking up sulfurous dust, blackening hands and knees as he scrambled to the top. He lunged for the ball, grasped it with one hand, and glided down the rocky heap in deep satisfaction. Dust settled around and on him, fading in and out of the light. Adam found his other hand clutching a few nuggets. He was about to toss them back into the heap when a sparkle of reflected light caught his eye. He opened his fingers, releasing one lump at a time, until all that remained was a fist-sized chunk. Even in the muted light he saw the oddly-shaped golden glimmer. He rotated his upturned palm, bringing it closer. There was something metallic in the coal.

The sound of footfalls on the staircase broke his reverie. There he was, reclining in a dusty coal bin at the far end of an unlit, unfamiliar and cavernous cellar—ball in one hand and a mystery lump of coal in the other. The shadowy figure reaching the foot of the stairs was about to discover an intruder. Tucking away the coal in his dungarees pocket, he rolled off the brimstone mound, careful to avoid dislodging a 'here-I-am' mini-avalanche. He slipped over the side of the bin and felt for some potential cover. The lights came on just as he squeezed between a stack of cartons and the cellar damp wall. Shuffling feet with loose slippers slapped their way toward him. Adam fought down a strong urge to jump up and run.

I bet my ass is hanging out for all to see.

The shuffling and slapping drew to a stop.

That's it, he's got me.

"What's this?"

I'm dead.

Adam recognized the voice of his neighbor, Mr. Kurtinaitis—a gravelly, ancient and grinding timbre, which even with such a short phrase, retained its distinct Lithuanian origins. Every neighborhood had its curmudgeon, some old geezer that never got along with anyone younger than thirty, the community warlock whispered about by the children unfortunate enough to have encountered him. Mr. Kurtinaitis had the required indeterminate advanced age, the bent-over posture, gnarly limbs, the grizzled, unkempt look, an obscure foreign accent and gruff demeanor required for a fully-fledged wizard of the dark world. Adam imagined him staring at the broken window of his beloved, dreary cellar domain. A deeply furrowed brow framed the evil eye searching him out, maybe already locked in on his exposed posterior. He was about to stand and beg for mercy, when after a few more shuffling sounds, Mr. Kurtinaitis muttered, "Damned kids."

More silence.

He's seen me for sure. He's probably sneaking up on me now.

Instead of getting hoisted by the scruff of his neck, Adam heard a deep and profound sigh of disgust, a kind of snort a dragon might issue, and the shuffling headed away to the back stairs.

The Dark Lord proceeded to shut off the lights and uttered several nasty sounding phrases in the Lord's native tongue. Adam heard him ascend the stairs, grumbling at each step, and slam a door. A full five minutes of complete silence went by before he drew up enough courage to step out from behind the boxes. He tip-toed through the same door, all the while certain that Mr. Kurtinaitis was actually hiding just out of sight at the entrance.

He slinked outside, holding his breath lest it give away his position. After reaching the security of his own backyard next door, he parked himself on the wooden stairs and waited for his adrenaline levels to subside along with the thumping in his chest. When he resumed normal breathing, he placed the ball in the recess of his backdoor entry, and with a satisfied exhale, reached into his pocket.

As he held the lump of coal to the waning afternoon sunlight, he beheld an odd metallic gleam, appearing as a golden slash in the side of the black rock.