Scrimshaw reached among a pile of papers and withdrew a large crown of blue-black steel. A massive cable was attached at its peak, connected at the other end to a globe containing green lightning. The gnome jammed the crown down on Griffiths’s head. “Wear this you will. Protect you it can!”
“Protect me from what?” Griffiths squawked.
“Nothing, really!” Flynn assured him. “Just relax.”
“Relax?” Griffiths turned to look at Flynn, standing so smugly next to him. The crown did not fit Griffiths well. It had apparently been made for someone with a much larger head. The only things keeping it from slipping down over his eyes were his ears, which were now painfully bent. “Are you sure this is the right guy?”
“He’s the best I’ve ever met. Many maps made by his own hand are a coveted feature in the shops on the promenade.”
“Really?” Griffiths said. “So this is the guy that makes the true maps?”
“No,” Flynn replied with a sly smile. “This is the guy who does all the forgeries.”
“What?” Griffiths quickly rose from the stool but was suddenly held down by a gnarled hand on his shoulder.
“Concerned you not be,” the dwarf said as he pushed the confused man back down onto the stool. “Forger I am, it is true, but more skill than a forger you will not find. Know we must truth that is lost. Knowledge. Legends. History. Forgery that is good must be mostly truth or fool no one it will. Map you have that tells you where to go. Where to begin, this you know not! Trust in Scrimshaw. Place to start will he give you!”
The old gnome returned to his own stool on the opposite side of the massive drawing table. With surprising deftness, the small creature pulled out a large, yellowing sheet of blank parchment paper and laid it carefully flat on the smooth surface.
Griffiths looked at him miserably from under the massive helmet pressing down on his ears. “So what do I do? Use the force?”
“Clear your mind and think only of the map you have seen,” said the gnome. “Let the haunting projector do its job and soon the map in your hand you will have instead of in your head.”
Griffiths sighed and slumped slightly on his stool. He closed his eyes but was haunted for a time not by the chart swimming in the back of his consciousness but by the image of Evon Flynn still standing before him grinning from ear to ear.
“Is that it?” Flynn said at last.
“Completed the map is,” said Scrimshaw, the gnome’s voice weary from the exertion, “though little is the good it may do you.”
Griffiths winced against the stabbing pain that was shooting through his temples. He struggled off the stool that he had for so long sat upon with increasing discomfort. “Can you take this thing off my head now?”
Flynn smiled again his roguish grin, making no move to help the astronaut. He moved to examine the chart more carefully. “Now that is one of the most intriguing maps you’ve ever done, Scrimshaw. Just where did you get all that ornamentation around the edges?”
“Dreamed it his mind did,” the gnome said pointing with no small amount of accusation toward Griffiths.
“From his mind, you say?” Flynn moved in closer toward the newly rendered chart. “Naked women and mermaids cavorting amid windswept surf?”
“The mind a strange place often is.” Scrimshaw jumped down from his work stool and moved quickly over toward where Griffiths was struggling with the headpiece. “Details I was concentrating on. Difficult is the human mind to keep up with. When busy I was, idle thoughts he brought up. This idea of a treasure map, his it is.”
The helmet on Griffiths’s head came loose with a sudden sucking sound. “Ouch! Is that it?”
“Finished I am; pleased you will be,” Scrimshaw cackled once again.
Griffiths stood up quickly and rushed around the drafting table. The great parchment that had not so long ago been a blank surface had been transformed under the small gnome’s hands. The whole of it was framed in beautifully detailed ornamentation with great curling waves and beautiful figures. Fine lines of ink were traced with precision across its surface. Impossibly perfect circles and dots designated the various stellar systems. Vast areas of dust clouds and nebulae were drawn in exquisite detail. A single black line wound its way with increasingly convoluted turns into the center of the galactic spiral. It was perhaps a bit more gaudy than he remembered it in his head—but it was complete in every detail.
“Exquisite calligraphy,” Flynn said, reaching down and tracing the newly dry figures with his fingers. “What does it mean, I wonder?”
“You can’t read the map?” Griffiths asked as he peered at the details laid out before him.
“Scrimshaw just drafts what you see in your head,” Flynn said, studying the map with equal interest. “These symbols are apparently from the Lost Empire, which means that all the symbols are … wait! Are you saying that you can read these symbols?”
“Of course,” Griffiths said. He pointed down at several of the groups situated at various points on the course line. “This says Gates of Darkness. This one over here says—let’s see—Siren Shoals, I think. Mardeth’s Turn, Star of the Ancients, Here Be Dragons … it’s all pretty plain. There are lots of course and timing numbers scattered over the thing but they don’t make much sense to me. Well, you can see for yourself!” Griffiths gestured casually at the map.
Flynn’s eyes narrowed in concentration. “I can’t read it. Scrimshaw, what about you? Can you read these symbols?”
The old gnome snorted from where he stood coiling the cables from the helmet for storage. “Read them I cannot. Nonsense they are.”
“There must be something wrong with your biolink,” Flynn said to Griffiths. “Once a language is learned, the link automatically transmits the translation to all biolinks that are locally in use. It’s the backbone of galactic communication.”
“Well, I’m understanding you just fine and it seems to be working well enough on the little guy over there,” Griffiths snapped back.
“So why are you the only one who can read it?”
“I don’t know,” Griffiths said, turning back toward the chart. “It’s an ancient imperial language form. I understood it when I first saw the image through the Mantle of Kendis-dai. Perhaps there’s something about ancient imperial language that prevents TFPs from propagating any translations.”
“Great!” Flynn roared. “Now we have the map but we still need you to read it! What good does that do us?”
“Much good it does you,” Scrimshaw cackled again. “Read it we cannot but familiar it is.”
Both humans turned toward the gnome, Flynn being the first to gain his voice. “What are you talking about, old one?”
The gnome shuffled hurriedly across the floor, kicking an occasional book that was in his way in his haste. The small, ancient figure pulled several books from the shelf, discarding them almost carelessly until he found the passage he was looking for. “Ancient maps have ancient names! Places you have read. Know them I do! Others can you recognize once you go there! Said you this place Siren Shoals, Griffiths-man?”
“Yeah,” the astronaut responded, pointing back to the map. “It’s right here, this sliver between these dark areas.”
“Not always by that name was it known,” Scrimshaw said, wagging his finger as he balanced a massive open book in his hand. “Many warriors followed Lokan into the core. Many died among the Shoals. Name changed it did.”
“What do we call it now?” Flynn asked without patience.
“Bonefield Narrows,” Scrimshaw replied.
“Bonefield Narrows?” Griffiths repeated. “Well, then we have it! We know where to pick up the trail!”
Scrimshaw’s cackle was beginning to get on Griffiths’s nerves. “Have it you do not! Know I not where to find this legendary Bonefield Narrows. Do you, Griffiths-man?”
“No, he doesn’t,” Flynn said through a huge smile. “But I believe I know where to find a man who does!”
22
Last Stand
“What a break,” Flynn said, stepping lightly down the maze of tunnels leading back to the volcano’s throat. “I worked passage on a ship a few years ago. There was this old man aboard who used to tell all kinds of tales. I used to think the captain kept him on just to listen to the crazy old fool spin his yarns. He was always going on about the Bonefield Narrows and how he’d been there. Last I left him, he was coreward, on one of the New Territories—down on his luck and more willing to talk than ever. If we find him, then we know where to start!”
Griffiths was tired from the mental exertion of making the map. All he really wanted to do now was sleep. “Fine. We know where to start. Hey! Slow down!”
Flynn was already striding down another tunnel, weaving rather jauntily along its path through the larger boulders jutting out of the wall. “Come along, Captain Griffiths! We have places to go, things to do! Provisions for the ship may be in order, although if I know Merinda, the ship is already stocked for an extended voyage. We’ll need some departure clearances, but I’m sure that Merinda can get us those, as well.”
“Flynn! Hold up, will you?” Griffiths picked up his pace. Flynn was already nearly out of sight among the rocks and turning down yet another branching tunnel. Without Flynn, Griffiths suddenly realized, he would be hopelessly lost down here. “What’s the big hurry to get out of here?”
“Ah …” Flynn stopped, but the spring was still in his step. He was fairly dancing with anticipation. “One happens upon a chance like this only once in a dozen lifetimes, Griffiths. In my trade, that means that for every one person who gets this chance, there are eleven others willing to kill you for the chance they will never get. That’s not the kind of thing that one wants to stand still over. Opportunities can vanish as quickly as they appear in your hands.”
Flynn brandished the map. Then, with a smile, he quickly rolled the parchment up and slipped it into a leather map case. “You see, lad, I figure that as there are three of us now involved, there must be at least thirty-three people looking to kill us.” He smiled at his own little joke. “I’d say that’s reason enough for a little haste on our part.”
“Your assessment is mathematically flawed, Evon Flynn,” came a voice from the darkness.
Flynn’s face fell suddenly as he turned around, tense and wary. In the next moment, however, he relaxed. “What are you doing sneaking up on men like that, you piece of scrap metal? And how did you get in here?”
“I am Seven-alpha-three-five,” the TyRen replied. “It is my job to keep the prophet safe from harm. As Merinda Neskat suggested that the prophet was overdue for check-in, he may be in need of my assistance. Apparently she was correct in her assessment, considering your recent conversation. As to my getting into this secret location, that is part of my training.”
The distraction gave Griffiths a chance to catch up to Flynn. “So you’ve been eavesdropping?” he asked as he joined the other two.
“I have been monitoring your conversations for the last seven minutes. As your communications seem to indicate danger in the immediate—Just a moment.”
Both Flynn and Griffiths looked up sharply at the change in the TyRen’s speech pattern.
“There are five large creatures approaching from various vectors. They are Tsultak dragons. Their coordinated patterns indicate that they are trained warriors. That they are continuing to approach rather than attack from a distance indicates that they mean to capture us rather than destroy us.”
“Escape options?” Griffiths asked.
“Follow me,” the TyRen responded.
The headless torso of metal and multiple weapons appendages suddenly illuminated the tunnel in a brilliant light. The TyRen turned and floated quickly down a side corridor, its own light illuminating the way. Despite his fatigue, Griffiths quickly settled into a run behind Flynn. “Where is he leading us?” he huffed.
“I don’t know,” Flynn replied. “I’ve never been here before.”
“Well, I certainly haven’t been here! I’d be willing to bet that TyRen hasn’t either.” But Griffiths continued to run after the guardian machine.
“Threat targets are closing,” the TyRen announced. “Three additional targets detected. Two are Tsultak dragons. The third is a humanoid form. The humanoid’s signature is obscured by mystic protections.”
The TyRen rushed toward a solid wall of rock at the end of the tunnel. The face was clearly lit by the TyRen’s own illumination.
Suddenly the light vanished. The tunnel was plunged into darkness. Griffiths tried to stop but his footing slipped on the sand and loose stones scattered across the floor of the tunnel. He slid in the darkness and suddenly was back in the TyRen’s light.
Flynn emerged from the illusionary wall and stumbled over the supine Griffiths, nearly falling in the process. “Which way to do we go now?”
The TyRen held still, the beam of light fixed on the end of the tunnel.
Griffiths dragged himself painfully to his feet. “Well, Seven-alpha-forty-two! Which way now?”
“I am Seven-alpha-three-five,” the TyRen responded in a voice just barely loud enough for Griffiths to hear. “We are surrounded. Please hold still for a few moments while I finish my threat assessment.”
“Surrounded?” Griffiths squawked. “What the hell kind of a guardian are you, anyway?”
“I have studied the Tsultak attack patterns. This situation offers us the best possibility for escape.”
In the distance of the tunnel, huge shapes could be seen moving at the edges of the TyRen’s light. The openings to two other tunnels remained dark, but Griffiths could hear ominous sounds of approach coming from those, as well.
“Flynn, you must get the prophet to safety,” the TyRen intoned. “You must take him off-world as soon as possible.”
“How?” Flynn asked.
“The wall directly behind me is also an illusion. It leads to the catwalks surrounding the lower warrens.”
“Great, then let’s just—”
“Do not pass through there at this time. Two of the Tsultak dragons lay in wait beyond the illusion to take the prophet captive. When the time comes, however, take the prophet through and get him to Merinda Neskat’s ship as soon as possible. You will need to depart at once, as I believe your best hope for safety lies off this world. Threat assessment continues.”
The heads of the approaching dragons could clearly be seen. Griffiths wondered how such huge creatures could so easily move through such a confined space.
“Halt!” the TyRen cried out in a booming voice. “Identify yourselves and your purpose!”
“We are the minions of Dedrak Kurbin-Flamishar, Minister of Peace,” rumbled a voice in return. Its sound shook stones loose from the ceiling above Griffiths and his companions. “You are commanded to surrender yourselves to the questioning of the minister and his authorized counsel.”
“His counsel?” Flynn said to Griffiths, puzzled. “The Minister of Peace has no counsel.”
The TyRen overheard the remark. It called out a second challenge. “We do not recognize the counsel to your minister. Identify this counsel!”
The dragons were close. Griffiths could feel the lead dragon’s hot breath as it spoke.
“The counsel is an emissary of the stars,” the dragon replied. “A wizard from a new kingdom of the Outer Rim. He is a master of the Darkness and leader of wraith fleets.”
Griffiths started suddenly. “My God! It’s a Sentinel!”
Flynn took in Griffiths’s fear. “Sentinels! Those Sentinels? The we-destroy-life-at-the-drop-of-a-stone Sentinels? They’re after the map, too? They’ll eat our hearts out, Griffiths!”
“I see you have some experience with them,” Griffiths said dryly.
“The counsel is approaching,” the dragon hissed.
“We’ve got to get out of here now,” Griffiths breathed. The walls of the tunnel seemed to be getting closer.
“Threat assessment is complete,” the TyRen replied. “How much
time does the prophet require to reach the ship and escape the planet?”
“Fifteen minutes,” Flynn responded at once.
“I can give you twelve minutes,” the TyRen said quietly.
“We’ll take it! What do we do?”
“When I tell you,” the TyRen said softly, “you must run for the exit.”
“When?” Griffiths asked, panicked.
“Now!” the TyRen shouted loudly.
In a fluid motion, the TyRen rotated. All four of its appendages rotated open, their weapons brandished and focused toward the illusionary wall. A hail of fire erupted from all four weapons mounts, their deadly effect carrying through the false barrier to their targets beyond.
In that instant, Griffiths and Flynn dashed for the wall as well. The murderous discharge streamed between them, each bolt and bullet aimed with incredible precision so as to avoid either of the humans in their flight.
Behind the TyRen, the dragons roared their anger.
“I AM SEVEN-ALPHA-THREE-FIVE!” the TyRen shouted over the thunderous cacophony of sound. “DEATH TO THE ENEMIES OF THE PROPHET! I AM SEVEN-ALPHA-THREE-FIVE!”
The TyRen then rotated its weapons upward.
Griffiths and Flynn ran through the illusionary wall only to find themselves crossing a thin catwalk rimming the volcano’s throat. Griffiths tried to stop but slammed painfully against the safety railing. For a moment, he was concerned that his impact would break through the chains restraining him, but they held.
A strong hand grabbed Griffiths’s upper arm. It was Flynn, pulling at him. “Come on! We haven’t much time!”
“Where are the dragons?” Griffiths gulped.
“Still falling down the volcano shaft, if that TyRen did his job,” Flynn shouted. “Now get moving!”
Griffiths extracted himself painfully from the railing, gasping for the breath that had just been knocked out of him. He stumbled under Flynn’s insistent grasp, finally getting his feet under him.
Nightsword Page 19
