by Dan Allen
“All right.” Gork raised his ax and, with a war cry, sent the perfectly honed edge crashing into the side of the Biter Booty. The force of his swing tipped the overweight chest over, and it landed on the floor with its jaws forced open against the ground. A second expert swing from the dwarf’s ax at a critical corner put the chest into no less than five wriggling pieces which bled bubbling green juice until they finally went still.
Nyan-Nyan shivered with rage. “You let it lick me!”
“I thought freyjans liked licking their fur.”
“I’m not a cat, you moron,” Nyan-Nyan started, but her head snapped in the direction of something shiny in the rubble of the ruined Biter Booty. Before Gork could grab for it himself, Nyan-Nyan pounced. She came up with what looked like a studded iron cup, except it was too narrow to hold enough cider to be useful and too rounded on the end to stand up.
Nyan-Nyan turned it over, stroking it excitedly as if it were solid gold.
“That’s the butt cap of a spear or a pike,” Gork noted. “To balance it and keep the end from—”
“I’m keeping it. It matches my gauntlets.”
It didn’t.
Nyan-Nyan whisked her tail around and inserted the end of her tiger-striped tail into the studded iron spear butt cap. She gave it a trial swish. “Can you stand right there?” Nyan-Nyan said to Gork. “I want to see if this hurts when I swing it.”
“No thanks.”
“Ooh, look at that.” Nyan-Nyan picked up an old wooden comb.
“Let’s get going,” Terras interrupted. “We’ve wasted enough time, and I can’t breathe in here.”
Gork turned to leave, but in the gore of the Biter Booty’s fragmented corpse he spotted something else—flat, steel, and slick. He kicked aside a piece of the Biter Booty’s jaw and gasped. “Light of the Goddess . . .” Carefully, he reached down and took hold of the handle of an ornate sword, the likes of which he had never before seen. He lifted the flawless steel weapon and felt its balance in his hand.
It was a hand-and-a-half sword, though he doubted it was ever intended for battle. Intricate runes scribed the length of a double-edged blade that met the handle at a gilded crossbar. Even after what he imagined must have been centuries of decay in the belly of the Biter Booty, the sword had no trace of rust. At the pommel was a large ruby—a very large ruby.
Gork swallowed twice. The gem was nearly the size of Nyan-Nyan’s fist.
Nyan-Nyan sidled alongside Gork. “Trade you.”
“Finders keepers.”
“That is no ordinary sword.” Terras covered his nose with his arm and climbed into the room for a better view. “Those are powerful runes. But the design, it must be as old as—”
“Look at this.” Gork pointed to the very tip where, unlike the rest of the sword, the darkness had taken hold. The fine cracks that a casual observer might have missed stood out to the blacksmithing prodigy. Darkness had somehow penetrated the sword, much like the orcs’ blades in the Dark Realm, but this sword was only corrupted along half its length. “How can only half a sword be touched by darkness?”
“Whatever cursed it just ran out of evil?” Nyan-Nyan wondered.
“That’s ridiculous. And no unenchanted weapon could have lasted in the belly of a Biter Booty without sharing its corruption. This sword must be from before the Dark Consul breached the Dark Realm. The last of the great Arcadian magicians died in the fall of Arcadia shortly afterward. I just don’t see how the darkness could have gotten into the metal if it was forged in Crystalia and not the Dark Realm.”
After a brief pause, Terras spoke. “There is a way.”
Gork looked up and noticed the Deeproot on the Druid’s wrist had a faint glowing red line curling through it, not unlike the orc blades.
“How did that happen?” Gork said, pointing to the Deeproot vine wrapped on Terras’s wrist.
“The same way that sword was altered,” Terras said. “It crossed into the Dark Realm.”
“How?” Gork wondered, shaking his head in confusion.
“I reached into a spawning point,” Terras said.
Nyan-Nyan choked on a cry of surprise. “You’re insane!”
“That is the source of my powers of transformation. It is the same mingled magic that created the chimeric races such as freyjans.”
“Question,” Nyan-Nyan said. “Where can I wash my face?”
“Not now,” Gork said.
“Another question,” Nyan-Nyan repeated, raising her paw-like hand.
“What?”
“Potty?”
“Find some sand; dig a hole.”
“Question,” Terras interrupted. He leaned back against the wall. “If that sword was forged before the opening of the rift to the Dark Realm, that would explain the rune marks.”
“Yes,” Gork said. “That’s what I’ve been saying.”
“Then how did its tip reach into the Dark Realm? There were no spawning points before the Dark Consul created the first breach.”
Gork pointed a finger at Terras. “That is a very good question.”
“May I?” Terras said, stepping forward and stooping so that his head did not hit the low ceiling. He reached out to hold the sword.
“I want it back,” Gork warned.
“Of course,” Terras breathed, his eyes not moving from the royal artifact.
Gork turned the sword sideways, laying it across his hands in the traditional Hearthsworn manner for safely handing over swords.
Terras reached out a trembling hand and wrapped his fingers around the handle. As he lifted the sword, his focus drifted. Terras screamed and fell to his knees. His arm holding the sword shook violently.
Nyan-Nyan quickly grabbed Terras’s arm and Gork wrenched the sword out of the Druid’s grip.
Terras wobbled, his eyes unable to focus as he grabbed at his wrist where the vivid green Deeproot had shriveled into a thin, withered brown vine. He took a ragged breath that sounded like a metal file being run over a sheet of metal.
Nyan-Nyan held Terras’s hand against her cheek. She looked up at Gork. “He’s freezing.”
Gork turned the sword over in his grip. It was cool and unchanged save the ruby which now seemed to swirl with iridescence. “It hoards magic,” Gork realized.
“. . . would have killed me,” Terras whispered between chattering teeth. “It took everything.” His head bowed, and the Druid slumped to one side.
Nyan-Nyan tugged at his ear. “He’s unconscious. Should we give him his potion?”
“No. We may need that potion later. I can treat him with herbs.” Gork tucked the royal sword under his belt and climbed out of the hole. Nyan-Nyan passed the limp body of the unconscious Druid down. After wrapping him in a wool blanket from his pack, Gork retrieved another coal stone and boiled water in his dwindling canteen, adding copious amounts of pungent herbs.
“What do those do?” Nyan-Nyan asked.
“No idea. I just got some free samples from the apothecary when he couldn’t pay for his mended cauldron.”
Nyan-Nyan snickered as Gork brought the steaming liquid to Terras’s lips.
“He’s gonna have the runs for days.”
Terras coughed, sputtering the obscene liquid. “What is that? Are you trying to kill me?”
“He’s awake,” Gork said, a smug expression crossing his features.
“Ok, let’s move.” Nyan-Nyan helped Terras to his feet. “How much time do we have before the oil lamp runs out?”
“Not long,” Gork said. “How good is your night vision?”
“Pretty good,” Nyan-Nyan said with a shrug, “but pitch black is pitch black. Once it goes dark, that’s the last light we’ll ever see.”
Gork held the oil lamp steady as its light flickered uneasily, threatening to go out.
“Thanks to that sword, the darkness I had stored to allow me to do a blood transformation is gone. All my magic is gone.” Terras gestured t
o the dried root on his wrist. “We have no choice. I have to commune with the Deeproot.”
“Are you sure we have time for that?” Gork gestured to the lamp. “We have to get going.”
Terras sat down on the dusty floor of the ancient aqueduct and crossed his legs, closing his eyes and breathing deeply.
“Oh, great. How long is this going to take?”
“Shh,” Nyan-Nyan reached out to wave her hand in front of Terras’s face. “He’s doing something mystical.”
Terras swatted at Nyan-Nyan’s hand but the swift freyjan dodged. “Knock it off. I need to focus.”
Gork blew out a breath of frustration and dropped his pack. “Might as well save some oil if everyone is going to close their eyes.” He pinched the lantern wick and smothered the faint light, then lay back and closed his eyes.
When he next opened his eyes, the world was green.
It’s a dream, he thought.
No, it’s alive.
Chapter 10: Palace of Illusion
All along the tunnel in both directions, tiny roots creeped between cracks in the bricks. The roots had sprouted miniature bulbs which gave off a soft luminescence.
“It’s beautiful,” Gork whispered. He had heard of the beauty of the Fae Wood. Now, in the most desolate place in Crystalia, he was immersed in it. His panic and disorientation drifted into a courageous calm. Where fear of death had gripped him, something new grew from within his heart—a pulsing rhythm of boundless life.
What is this?
“How long was I out?” Nyan-Nyan meowed, stretching her arms and sitting up. “Just a little cat nap? Ooh . . . that’s . . .” She stared at the green-glowing tendrils as if watching a pie being taken out of the oven.
“Power of the Deeproot conjures life.” Terras walked over to the wall and touched one of the glowing bulbs. Faint streams of light wrapped around his hand and swirled up his arm, siphoning into the Druid. As it filled with magic, the Deeproot vine on his wrist swelled and began to glow green like the tendrils along the corridor.
Nyan-Nyan sniffed at the dew dripping from one of the luminescent bulbs. “It’s like fruity flower water.”
“Is it safe to drink?”
“Deeproot nectar,” Terras answered, “an elixir for healing and energy.”
Nyan-Nyan wasted no time in quenching her thirst and Gork quickly refilled his canteen from a nearby bulb and took a long drink from slightly salty jasmine-scented water. “Good gravy . . . that’s refreshing.”
Gork held up his hands. They were glowing. “Blazing balls of burnished brass—what is happening to me?” Gork shook his hands, but they only glowed brighter. He looked at Terras. “I hope this isn’t permanent.”
“Twelve hours—give or take,” Terras said, lifting the glowing vine on his wrist to cast a faint glow down the dark corridor. “We’ve got to find an exit before then.”
The skin on Nyan-Nyan’s exposed neck and chest gave off the same greenish glow. “I like it.”
“This requires much of the Deeproot’s energy,” Terras said. “It has risked this great expenditure to give us a chance. The princess is here in Arcadia. The Deeproot knows it. We must find her.”
Something in the Druid’s voice struck a chord with Gork. Terras wasn’t just a crazed crusader. His mission was perhaps greater than Gork’s or Nyan-Nyan’s. And if so, perhaps Gork’s true reason for leaving Dwarfholm Bastion was not to find artifacts. But that would mean there were vast consequences if they failed.
“What if we don’t find her?”
“Don’t you see?” Terras said. “The Deeproot is at war. Within the foundations of Crystalia, the darkness spreads—like a dark Thorn that the spawning points grow out of. While the Deeproot lights our path here, somewhere in Crystalia, the Thorn advances unhindered. We must hurry.”
Gork shouldered his pack, and the trio broke into a run. Refreshed by sleep and the nutrient-rich water from the Deeproot, the team covered more than ten miles without stopping. After a break for lunch, Gork followed Nyan-Nyan and Terras into a new section of tunnel. The Deeproot luminescence was beginning to fade, and Gork was forced to follow Nyan-Nyan to stay headed in the right direction. Terras brought up the rear.
Nyan-Nyan raised her hand and stopped Gork, who reached out and stopped Terras. “What is it?”
Nyan-Nyan sniffed. “I smell books.”
Gork made a face. “Why do we care about—”
“It means a city,” Terras guessed. “Only humans in cities have large collections of books.”
“And where there are humans—” Nyan-Nyan reminded.
“—there are monsters attacking them,” Gork finished. There was something about humans that made a dwarf check his pockets and cinch his coin purse. They were charismatic, often too clean, and always recruiting other people to help with their wars. Perhaps that was what drew the forces of darkness to attack them.
After another half mile of hiking the cavern, narrow gaps in the bricks overhead opened to glimpses of sunlight.
“A municipal duct,” Gork noted. “You were right about the city, freyjan. We’re close.”
“Of course I was right.”
A dozen yards farther on, an entire section of the roof had given way, creating a roadblock and a chance to escape the darkness.
Gork climbed up the rubble, eagerly stepping out into the blazing morning sun. “Burning biscuits, it’s hot out here.”
Terras pointed to a great object in the distance. It was about the size of a mountain but the shape of a man with a pyramid for a head. “The Colossus of Arcadia. Our first landmark.”
“Yeah, but it’s like 200 miles away,” Nyan-Nyan whined.
Gork shifted his pack on his back. It was already sticky with sweat.
“All this sand,” Gork grumbled. “Honestly, I’d rather be back in the tunnel.”
“Spoken like a true dwarf,” Terras said. He scanned the horizon. “So where is the city? I thought you smelled books.”
“I did smell books.”
“Then where are they?”
“Look,” Nyan-Nyan said, “I’m only one-fourth cat, and everybody knows a dog has a better nose than a cat. So why don’t you change into a wolf and tell me?”
“I can’t do that without siphoning some dark magic from a spawning point.”
“Then we follow the aqueduct,” Gork said. “Back to the cave in. We can dig our way through the rubble.”
“Wait,” Nyan-Nyan said. She took a long sniff. “I smell food.”
“You’re delirious.”
Nyan-Nyan sniffed again. “Somebody made breakfast.” She stepped forward again, then stopped and turned around. “Wait a minute, why is the Colossus behind us, too?”
Gork spun around. The famous landmark was in the wrong direction and just as far away. “That’s impossible.” No, it’s not.
Gork had tried his hand as an apprentice at various professions in his young life. Once, he had worked with a glazier. A strange thought crossed his mind. Could it be a trick of the light? “Nyan-Nyan, which way to breakfast?”
The freyjan sniffed and pointed toward the Colossus back in the direction they had come. “Over there.”
Like any dwarf, Gork knew how to hide treasure, and this smelled of a great trick, one of the best—hiding in plain sight.
Urged on by his growling stomach, Gork ran forward for a hundred paces in the direction Nyan-Nyan had pointed and stopped when he saw something he recognized: a young dwarf with a handsome blond beard. He let out a roar of a laugh and charged forward. So did the dwarf in the distance. As Nyan-Nyan and Terras came over the rise behind him, their doppelgangers appeared on the horizon as well.
Ha, I knew it.
“It’s a giant mirror!” Terras gave a buoyant laugh. “Now that’s how you hide a city in the desert. Sand in every direction—no way to tell what you’re seeing.”
When Gork reached his reflection, he walked along the mirr
ored wall until he came to a corner. He turned and followed the next section of mirror. For ten long minutes, he circumnavigated the glass structure until, finally, his reflection disappeared.
Stepping into the space where no reflection stood, Gork found himself at the entrance to a mirrored labyrinth. “Nyan-Nyan, find breakfast.”
The freyjan crouched, sniffed for a few seconds, and darted forward, turning left and then right. Gork ran behind her, huffing and sweating and swearing. Terras followed, his footsteps barely audible. Dozens of reflected Gorks, Nyan-Nyans, and Terrases raced around them, darting dizzyingly in every direction. At every turn, Gork faced a more distraught version of himself. Thoroughly convinced that he was hopelessly lost, Gork had no choice but to keep following the Chaos Kitty.
Then all at once, the labyrinth of mirrors ended, and before his eyes stood a grand structure of domes and steeples. Nyan-Nyan was already climbing the steps to the columned front entrance of the ornate palace.
Gork followed Nyan-Nyan through a disorienting forest of columns into the palace, only to find it utterly deserted—halls, empty rooms, and whitewashed corridors bereft of any sign of occupation.
“There’s nothing here,” Terras said. His voiced echoed in the empty hall.
But, despite the lack of occupants, Gork couldn’t shake the feeling that they were not alone. After all, Nyan-Nyan had smelled something cooking.
This place was not deserted. He gripped the handles of his hand axes. “If this place is abandoned,” he thought aloud, “why is it so clean?”
“Good point,” Terras said. “If it is abandoned, it ought to be covered with piles of wind-blown sand.”
Gork drew a hand out of one of his pockets and sprinkled some grains of collected sand onto the polished floor. As the grains approached the floor, they seemed to fall laterally and then sweep back up into the air. The entire place was charmed to repel sand. Even his dirty shoes left no prints on the marble flooring.
“Magnificent. Who do you think lived here?”
“Somebody still does,” Nyan-Nyan said. Turning a corner, she stopped at the top of a stairwell and pointed down. “I smell food down there.”
