by Ember Lane
“I’m not enjoying this,” Merl hissed.
“Ask it t’stop,” Billy hissed, his voice trembling.
“Don’t you dare, Merl,” Frank growled. “Those infantrymen will be right up our ass any minute.”
“If it gets much tighter, Billy isn’t getting out anyway,” Desmelda pointed out, but even her normally steady tone was filled with fear.
Merl continued following Quaiyl. The fissure began to widen by a breath or two. Its base became a small, stony trail, and then grew to a meandering stream of tumbled rock. Quaiyl sped a little and then stopped a few yards ahead of Merl. The construct lit a welcome cave, and the party spilled into it, staggering, lurching, and sitting on tumbled rock or just collapsing onto the floor. Gloomy Joe stuck close to Merl’s feet, wagging his tail and panting as if both relieved and frantic at the same time. Quaiyl stepped back toward the fissure and stopped.
“He’s guarding the entrance,” Billy said.
“It’s not the only entrance, Billy,” Frank pointed out, and a torch appeared in his hand. He lit it, then began roaming around the small cave and toward a low tunnel. He bent down to take a look. “I’m guessing this is either a way out, or a way in.”
Billy chuckled nervously. “Bit o’ mountain logic there, Frank. Me ‘n Merl are rubbin’ off on you.”
Desmelda gobbled her laugh down. “We can’t stay here for too long. The cold’ll get us before the night’s done.”
Frank drew aside Quaiyl. “We’ll wait here for an hour, then I’ll go see if it’s clear. We can’t risk the other way. It might take us on a one-way trip into the mountain’s guts, and only Andula knows what’s there.”
Frank slumped down and produced a water canteen. “Anyone?”
They sat in silence until the wizard grunted. “So bloody close.”
His thoughts mirrored Merl’s, but Merl also had a bit of sadness about him.
“I liked him too, that Stobart,” Merl said. “He was probably the most ‘telligent person I’ve ever met. Used to be you, Frank, but I had the feelin’ Stobart had brains t’spare.”
Desmelda coughed.
“And you, witchy. You got brains too.”
“Thank you, Merl.” Desmelda set about Billy’s wounded side. Magic warmed them as her quiet chants comforted all.
Merl, however, couldn’t get the constructs out of his mind. “It’s a shame we got no answer about Guardian, but more of a shame Stobart got an arrow in the guts.”
“Yeah,” said Frank. “We could have used some answers, yet all we got was more questions.”
“Somethin’s not quite right,” Merl muttered. “The guardians weren’t no simple constructs like one o’ those farmin’ ones, and nor is Quaiyl. Fer a start, Quaiyl fights like a berserker.”
“That weren’t no berserker,” Frank said. “I’ve seen berserkers. They are madness, I’ll give you that, but they fight like a pack of wolves rips their prey apart. Quaiyl fights like a mountain cat and strikes like an eagle. There ain’t no berserk there—there’s somethin’ much scarier.”
“I hear you, Frank,” Merl replied, trying his hardest to understand the strange construct that stood static before him. “Like I said, Quaiyl ain’t no green plowin’ construct. It can’t jus’ be made from brick crumbs.”
“Nope, I’ll bet a fat gold coin it wasn’t. Plus, Quaiyl didn’t look like one of the crimson soldier ones either. Them crimson ones reminded me of wet-behind-the-ears infantry. Only good fer takin’ orders. Not a chance of thinkin’ on their feet—not a chance. Maybe Quaiyl isn’t a construct?”
“Trouble is,” Merl continued, “they ain’t no NPCs either. None of them guardians had letters over their heads, just like the constructs, just like Quaiyl doesn’t. They’re all cast from the same mold, but somehow somethin’s different.”
Desmelda patted Billy’s side, seemingly pleased with her work. She let out a long, thought-filled breath. “Let’s say Quaiyl is a construct. What if there are differing levels of construct—like there are differing levels of NPC. Assuming we all have NPC over our heads, Billy would, obviously, be a lower level that say… me.”
Merl was stunned Desmelda couldn’t see the words. He’d assumed all learned people would. The words didn’t mean so much to Merl because they faded once you knew—it was like they’d done their job and weren’t needed anymore. Billy hadn’t had any over his head since the first day they’d met.
“Jus’ what are you getting’ at?” Billy said, folding his arms and huffing.
“I’m merely stating, just like Merl just said, that there are differing levels of NPC. Some, like you, Billy, no offence, are happier if things are… simpler, yes, simpler.”
Billy leaned back. He looked down his nose at Desmelda. For a moment, Merl thought Billy might launch at her, but then Billy began smiling and nodding. “You’re right. I do like things simpler. I get it. You’re sayin’ that there are two type o’ folk. Those that like their stuff plain and true, an’ those who muddle stuff up so they can jump in with thar fancy bonces and pretend to untie what they tied in the first place.”
“Unravel.”
“Untie. I’ll show you,” Billy said emphatically, clearly feeling better.
“Go on, then,” Desmelda snapped, drawing her cloak around her shoulders and shivering. “We’re going to need a fire if we’re going to stay here much longer.”
Merl knew what she meant. The temperature in the small cave had plunged. He sank back into his own robe and briefly wondered if Frank had suddenly become a coward, mostly because he hadn’t said a word while Billy and Desmelda sparred with theirs, but Frank and coward weren’t words that were ever supposed to meet in the same sentence, so he discounted that.
“I reckon,” Billy pronounced. “I reckon Guardian was a normal construct, like, but with a bit of added oomph.” He leaned forward. “Them guardians, they had brains in their noggins.”
Desmelda’s jaw dropped. “That’s what I was going to say.”
“Nope,” said Billy. “That’s what you was eventually goin’ t’say, after you’d muddled it enough to t’make yer answer sound extra ‘telligent.”
He winked at Merl, and Merl wondered when Billy had got all ‘telligent.
“I…” Desmelda made to say, but then sniffed the air. “Is that smoke?”
The instant she said it, smoke began drifting in from the fissure. It quickly filled the cave. Merl started coughing as Frank shouted, “They’re trying to smoke us out!”
Quaiyl grabbed Merl by his arm and Gloomy Joe by the scruff of his neck and marched them toward the cave’s low exit. Merl ducked into the tunnel, forced onto all fours by its sharp ceiling. Frank, Billy, and Desmelda followed. All were soon hacking as the smoke thickened and the tunnel they crawled down drew it in like a flue. Frank tried to shout something, but his words were lost as he convulsed. Merl’s head became fuzzy. His arms and legs began to feel strange. Quaiyl grabbed Merl and pulled him forward, yanking him out of the smokey tunnel. Merl rolled and rolled, tumbling down a narrow path, and then the path vanished, and he started falling, just like he had those long summers ago, down the waterfall on Three Face mountain.
Desmelda’s terror-filled scream ripped through the silence of his own startled fear. Merl plunged. He somehow had Gloomy Joe in his arms. Desmelda banged into him, and they hurtled into the chasm’s black. Merl hit water. He yelped with shock and water imediately rushed into his lungs. Its icy fingers enveloped him and he plunged in. Merl sank like a stone and then crashed into rock. He rose as two then three more sounds, like boulders plunging, whizzed around him. Merl held Gloomy like he was the most precious thing in Merl’s life. He bobbed upward, surfacing and gasping. Gloomy shook his head, slapping Merl around the face with his floppy wet ears.
Quaiyl surfaced and his luminescence spread. The construct grabbed Merl by the scruff of his tunic and dragging him toward a dry rock shelf. He tossed Merl onto it, and then eased Gloomy Joe up. Quaiyl doubled back, dragging Desmelda out f
irst, then Billy. Frank surfaced and swam over.
“That’s one way to escape,” Frank said, and promptly began coughing his guts up.
He produced another torch. It blinked into flame and Frank waved it around.
“Well, at least this one’s a bit bigger,” Frank said while he looked up. “And there isn’t any way in hell they’re going to follow.”
“I swear I swallowed my own heart,” Desmelda said. “What did I tell you all about drops? Light me a fire now. We’re going no farther until my legs work out where they belong and the screaming stops reverberating in my ears.”
Merl wondered where they were going anyhow. They were sitting on a scree-strewn shelf. The black lake stilled in front of them. To one side, a small river drained the lake, but offered no escape as it flowed into under a low breach. Searching for a way out, Merl spied a small arched exit, and he scratched his head. “What’s that?” he asked.
Frank squinted. “I’m guessing it’s a mine shaft, or something of the like.”
“Did you not hear me?” Desmelda snapped. “We prepared for this. You have the wood, you have the kindling, now light a damn fire.”
Merl shrank into his sodden clothes. Billy emptied out his boots out. Frank hesitated for less than a tap, and then produced some kindling and logs and soon had a fire going. Merl’s spirits rose the instant his clothes started drying. They all huddled close, but none closer than Gloomy Joe.
“Do you really think it’s possible?” Desmelda suddenly asked, as if in the asking she would absolve herself of her earlier snapping.
“What?” Frank asked.
“Do you really think you can add intelligence to constructs?”
Merl regarded Quaiyl. “We have livin’ proof,” he said, pointing. “Quaiyl’s ‘telligent, so constructs can be ‘telligent.”
“I’m guessing you create the construct, then weave the intelligence into it,” Frank said. He shed his sodden cloak and spread it over a boulder. “At least we know a bit more. We know that the old lords had farms, and these produced bricks of what they called food. Stobart inferred that they had lumberyards and quarries that produced building materials. I’ve been doing some thinking about on that.”
“Jus’ when did you getta chance t’think, like, Frank?”
“I think all of the time, Billy. Keeps me sharp. Now, getting back to the constructs. What did they use all the bricks for? I think they were the building blocks of war, and if we could work it all out, we could build an army that might turn the tide of a battle. We could give them hope, Billy. We could give them hope.”
Merl turned his back to the fire to dry that side of him. “Who is Daemon Mercer?” he asked. He knew the name sent a shiver up his spine, and the image of a mustached warlord with dark, squinting eyes sprang into his mind’s eye for no apparent reason.
“Daemon Mercer?” Frank said, turning toward him. “That is a name that shouldn’t be spoken lightly.” Frank’s inward breath whistled as he sucked it in. “Daemon Mercer is Mordrant’s war commander. The man’s a military genius. It is he that outflanks and outwits my old army. He harries them. He is Mordant’s commander, his spymaster and his torturer. Kill Daemon Mercer, and that war is half won.”
Merl had never seen a war. The closest he’d been to one was hacking out at zombays or dirty elves. He couldn’t imagine the horror of thousands of folk all slaughtering each other. “Is that the only answer?” Merl asked.
“What?”
“To beat Daemon Mercer, someone has to build a bigger army than his? What if he does the same? Then no one will be any better off. They won’t be any better than the old lords. I know you all worship them, but to me they sound pretty awful.” He kicked at the scree, then picked up a stone and tossed it into the lake. “Sounds pretty darn awful t’me.”
Frank picked up a stone and tossed it too. “Never thought about it like that.” He stared at Merl. “I never thought about it like that at all.”
“It’s power, Frank. Makes folk do daft things. Walinda Alepuller was like that. Nice enough, like, until ya put her behind tha counter of the inn, then she was a real tyrant, weren’t she, Billy? Weren’t she?”
“Sure was, Merl.”
“What would you do, Merl?” Desmelda asked.
Merl thought hard. All eyes were fixed on him. “I think I would find another way. I don’t think I would…” He squeezed his eyes shut tightly then gasped hard, almost turning to a yawn as fatigue washed over him. “You don’t let a sheep fall down the same hole time an’ time again. It’ll just break its foot over n’ over.”
“Then what do you do, Merl?” Desmelda asked.
“You find a new way,” Merl said.
19
Frank edged around the archway. He tossed a burning torch in it and then darted after it, Scaramanza raised and ready. Merl waited while the Wizard of Quintz made sure the way was clear. They’d heard no sign of pursuit from the Alarian infantry, nor had any arrows been shot down from the lofty fissure. Frank had concluded that the warband would declare them all dead and return to their barracks. Death, he’d told them all, was a convenient cover they could all use while they snuck out of Alaria.
Merl thought that fine and dandy but was slightly more concerned that they were stuck in an underground cavern with only one means of escape. The archway was as foreboding as a closed door. It had been formed, chiseled, and smoothed but its middle was as black as the lake. Desmelda postulated that it was an access to the drinking water, and that meant folk worked close by. They’d assumed, therefore, that the miners would be Alarians, and that meant they hadn’t escaped anything yet. On the face of it, that was bad enough. Merl had been able to accept they might have to duck and dive a little to avoid miners, until Billy had pointed out the obvious. It was something that Merl had conveniently forgotten.
“You know Quarryman Fred, Frank? You know why he had that monster wagon?” Billy had said.
“Shut it, Billy,” Frank had hissed.
But Billy was having none of it. “Quarryman Fred reckoned he had to grease his axles twice a day coz there were so many monsters underground that their guts got caught up under the wagon. But he said it were worth it, like. He said he’d never go underground without a monster wagon, coz there woz always a monster close by as soon as dark snuffed out the light. Merl knew Quarryman Fred.”
“Sure did.”
“An’ he said that, didn’t he?”
“Sure did.”
Billy had then shut up, but he’d done his damage and set the fear of the Gods up Merl’s rear end. Fortunately, Quaiyl was close to Merl, and so was Gloomy Joe. Merl had no idea if Gloomy would be any good in a monster battle, but he was pretty sure that Quaiyl would be invincible.
Frank called them on.
They’d agreed on a formation, so Billy slipped through the archway first. Merl followed his lifelong friend, and then Desmelda brought up the rear. Gloomy Joe ambled through in his own sweet time, sniffed the archway’s sides, wagged his tail, and then cocked his leg. Once he’d completed his risk assessment, the dune dog followed.
Frank stood a few yards in, torch raised, and Merl couldn’t believe they spent the last hours on a cramped and stony bank. A vast and vaulted hall opened up before them. They stood on smoothly hewn stone. Huge columns thrust upward and great beams curved away to join with others and form a daunting network of lofty archways. Each column had been chiseled like it had been turned on a lathe, not hacked with a pick. They had countless runes etched on them, some daubed with faded blue stain, others green or red. Some larger inscriptions had been inlaid with varnished wood, and others still leafed with gold and silver.
The hallway was irregular, as if its sculptors had accepted they could only influence its shape so much and had allowed its boundaries to lend the cavern an eclectic style, chaotic where its center was ordered.
“What in Andula’s name is this place?” Billy asked. “Like, fer real. What’s what with it, like?”
Desme
lda ran her fingers over the runes. “Dwarves, I think. Are these truly dwarven halls? Although these are inordinately intricate even for those little folk. Someone had a vast amount of time on their hands, unless there is some hidden purpose we are not seeing.”
Frank ventured farther in, headed toward the next closest archway. Their bootsteps echoed. Their breaths rasped. The air became humid and lost its chill edge. Merl’s gaze darted from the vaulted ceiling to the pillars. His ears strained, searching for any foreign sound, any monster.
“It’s way too empty,” Merl hissed.
Gloomy Joe looked up at him, but then padded along as if he was out for a stroll along the beach. Frank stopped. “Did you hear that?” he asked.
“What?” Desmelda quickly looked around.
“Wind folding.”
“What?” Desmelda asked, somewhat incredulously.
A line of stone blurred. It rushed from one column to the next. Frank held his hand up, stopping the small line. Merl fixed his eyes on the spot. The blur darted back another column, seemingly hiding behind it.
“A spirit,” Desmelda said, her voice filled with a tinge of wonder. “But what’s it doing?”
Frank edged forward. “Only one way to find out.”
Merl held his breath as he, too, advanced. Quaiyl stayed right by his side, trotting along as if oblivious to the threat of the blur. Then Frank stopped. His back became rigid and Scaramanza rose, ready to strike.
A line of guardian-like constructs now stretched between two of the pillars. They stood erect, like they were on a parade ground. Each held a simple spear in one hand and a shield in the other. They barred the way forward, causing an impasse.
Billy’s elfen sword appeared in Frank’s off hand. He handed it to Billy. “You take that flank,” Frank whispered, although his words were still plain to hear. Merl’s cleaver then appeared. “Merl, arm yourself and take the other side.”
“What if they’re not here to harm us?” Merl asked.
“Then they won’t fight back,” Frank said. “Desmelda, heal from the center and keep an eye on Quaiyl. If he turns on us, we know I’ve got this wrong.”
