Thus far she had only managed to seal the largest vein. Several small veins were still bleeding, but she thought he might have more time now—if she could get the manacles off and finish the task.
Communicating with Lenny was futile, and she couldn’t reasonably expect to improve his mental faculties in her present position. Even if he could be made more functional, the spellmind might not be able to access the information stored in the dead man’s brain. Assuming that Lenny had even known where the key to her manacles was kept.
That key was her current goal.
Sneaking along the corridor turned out to be unrealistic. Some of the other cells held prisoners, many of whom felt the need to speak to her as she passed. She worried that they might make so much noise that the other jailors would come, a few were already yelling obscenities at her, although she got the impression that was normal down in King Darogen’s dungeon.
If I can’t sneak to the guard station, or whatever they call it, what do I do? She thought for a moment, and then an idea came to her. Just as Dad always said, every problem is an opportunity. She turned her attention to the other prisoners.
Being a Centyr mage had certain advantages. She went back to the first two cells she had passed but dismissed the occupants immediately. Insane and violently insane, she noted silently, studying them with her magesight. The third cell held more promise, intelligent and antisocial, but at least he seems rational.
“You,” she said addressing the thin and nearly naked man within. “What’s your name?”
“What’s it to you?” he responded belligerently.
“If you want out of that cell, it’s rather important,” she held up the key ring in the air and gave it a small shake.
The man looked at her ‘guard’ a second time, finally realizing that despite her shackles and her escort, she seemed to be the one in charge of their situation. “What’s wrong with him?” he asked, suddenly fearful.
“His comrade hit him in the head with one of those clubs a few minutes ago,” she lied. “He killed the other guard, and now I have these.” She shook the keys again for emphasis. Lenny contributed by smiling idiotically while shaking his head.
“You can’t get past the guard station at the entrance to this place,” said the prisoner. “As soon as they realize he’s off his noggin they’ll lock you up again, if not worse.”
“That’s why I need help…” she said agreeably, “Mister…?”
“Perkins,” said the skinny prisoner. “Wat Perkins.”
“Excellent, Mister Perkins, do you think you would like to help me escape?”
“You’re mad, girl,” he responded. “There are at least five men up there, and maybe more. Look at me. Do I look like I could take down a guard?”
She took a moment to reassess the dungeon with her magesight before addressing his question, “There are at least, thirty-five, or no—closer to forty men locked up down here. Surely we can muster a group large enough to handle a few guards.”
“Half of them are mad, and some of them may not even be men!” said Wat, his voice dropping in volume even as it rose to a hiss filled with fear. “I’ve seen them, out there,” he whispered. “There are demons walking in men’s bodies. They could be anywhere.”
“I’m sure you’re much safer in here, until they come to make you one of them,” she intoned ominously. “I’ve seen them too, and I can spot them. Would you rather wait to die or try to do something about it?”
“What do you mean, ‘you can spot them’?”
“Why do you think they put these on me,” she said confidently, raising her manacled wrists for his inspection. “I’m a wizard. Help me get the key, and we can stop what’s happening here.” She could see his doubt and fear threatening to eclipse what small hope her words brought, so she reached out with her aythar and fed what strength she could to his hope. Trust me, she thought.
Wat’s eyes brightened slightly, but then he looked down, “Even if you can find the ones who aren’t demons, half of these men would just as soon rape you as help.”
“I can spot courage, Wat, and I can see decency,” she declared. “That’s why I came to your cell first. I will only release the ones we can trust.” She sent another pulse along the delicate line of aythar that was now touching his mind, believe me. Sweat was beginning to break out on her brow. She couldn’t do much more.
He made up his mind, “Fine. Let’s do this. It’s better than rotting down here.”
It got easier after that. They moved from cell to cell while she inspected each prisoner, those who were plainly mad she passed by, but there were many who were sane. Some of the sane ones were definitely criminals, but most were simply people who had been locked up for convenience. As long as they were rational and able to cooperate, she released them.
What she didn’t find was anyone with one of those strange metal creatures within them. She checked for that very carefully. It made sense. Whatever the purpose of the creatures was, if they had implanted someone, there was no need for them to lock them up, and King Darogen was most likely at the top of their hierarchy.
When they came to the end of the cells, they had eighteen somewhat reliable men—well, at the least they were sane and not overtly hostile to her. She had spent more than a half an hour picking them out, and she was worried that the Baron might not have much more time. She needed to get the key and get back to him.
“Remember…,” she told them, “…after we take the guardroom, we wait. I have to help my companion. Our best chance of escaping the palace is if we stay together. If anyone runs off alone they’re liable to get caught, and then we’ll all have a castle full of alert guards to deal with.”
Most of them nodded, but she could see defiance in some of them. More than a few had no intention of honoring their commitment any further than escaping the dungeon. I will have to deal with that once we’ve beaten the guards. She only hoped the key would be in the guardroom, otherwise she might be in trouble.
One guard was just leaving the guardroom as they approached. He instantly knew there was trouble and tried to retreat into the room before they reached him. If he had managed to close the door and alert the others, their plan might have failed right then, but fortunately one of the men was quick enough to get there in time to get his foot in the door.
He yelled in pain as the slamming door broke his instep, but the others got their hands around the edge and pried the door back. Bloody mayhem erupted after that as they swarmed in and took on the men on duty.
Seven guards died within a short span of minutes, mostly in brutal and horrifying fashion. There was nothing noble or glorifying about the battle. It was made even worse by the fact that whatever was controlling the guards took over, and consequently none of them made even the most normal cries of fear or pain as they died. They fought and died silently, like strange puppets made to look human.
Moira’s new friends received a number of injuries, mostly bruises, but the first man still had a broken foot and another had taken a solid blow to the skull. That one lay on the floor, twisted and contorted into a tight knot, even though he was unconscious. Moira could tell that the injury to his brain would most likely prove fatal, and even if the manacles were removed, she doubted she could do much for him.
“Quick! Let’s be gone before the others come and find them,” declared one of the men.
“Wait. We need to find the key to these manacles,” reminded Moira. “We agreed we would leave together.”
He wavered, as did some of the others, but in the end they were willing to wait a few minutes while they searched the bodies of the guards, and the room itself.
The key, when it was found, turned out to be stored within a locked box that held a variety of keys. They never found the key to the box itself, but the man who had found it solved that problem by beating the box with a truncheon until the locking mechanism was bent enough for him to pry it open.
The key to her manacles was easily distinguished from the
others since it was the only one made of silver.
“Alright, let’s get out of here!” said the man who handed her the key.
“We’re supposed to go back and get her friend,” said Wat.
“He’s dying already. What’s the point?” said another.
A heavyset dockworker voiced what the majority were already thinking, “Fuck that, let’s get out of here now. The bitch can go back for her popinjay by herself if she wants.”
Moira fumbled with the key, trying to reach the manacle lock with her hands, “Help me, Wat.” It was an awkward task, and although she could probably manage given enough time, she didn’t think she had enough time to waste trying.
A sigh escaped her lips as the shackles were opened, and her aythar blossomed around her once more, stretching outward from her body as it normally did. She rebuilt her personal shield immediately.
Three of them were already heading for the exit when she spoke, “Grethak!” Everyone froze, except Wat, who she deliberately excluded from the spell.
He stared at her in confusion and fear, “What happened to them?”
Moira smiled at him reassuringly, “I told you I am a wizard, Wat. I’m just making sure none of them go back on our bargain. I won’t hurt them.”
Wat’s eyes were wide as he stared at each of them in turn, “They’re frozen solid.” One of the men fell while Wat was speaking.
“Help me get them to the ground,” she told him, rushing to catch another who was already toppling. “They can’t balance while their muscles are immobile. A fall could hurt them.”
Several fell before they could lower them, but she cushioned their falls with her aythar to prevent any serious injuries.
“What are you going to do to them?” asked Wat, trying in vain to conceal his fear of her.
Moira sighed, she had hoped that Wat would be reasonable enough to stay calm after witnessing her magic. The frenetic activity within his mind told her clearly that he was on the edge of snapping. “I just don’t want them to make a break for it before we’re ready. If they go charging out now, some of them will get caught, some might not, but either way, we’ll have the entire palace alerted, and everyone will be looking for us. This way they stay together until I—until we are ready to run together. It will improve our chances.”
“Magic only comes from the gods, light or dark…,” began Wat, “…are you in league with the dark gods?”
The dark gods are dead you idiot! Well, most of them anyway. That was what she thought, but she kept a tight rein on her mouth. “I don’t know what you were taught, Wat, but wizards make their own magic. It isn’t good or bad by itself; it depends on the person using it.”
There was a strong impulse to run in Wat. His eyes were darting to the sides as he wondered if he could make it out one of the doors before she caught him. Moira considered paralyzing him as she had the others, but she needed help, willing help. Rather than take the simple route she once again broke the ancient rule of the Centyr mages, she touched his mind directly.
She was in full control of herself now, so it was easier to be delicate. She smoothed away his fear and instilled a deeper trust in him. As she worked she found the heart of his fear rooted in memories of his childhood. She caught flashes of them, an older man, probably a priest lecturing him about wizards, practitioners of dark arts, and witches. Even his mother had spent considerable time warning him about such things. Rubbish, she thought, and then she removed the memories. It was easier than trying to alter them.
The process took slightly longer than she anticipated, but she figured it was better to do a good job than to mess things up. After what might have been five or ten minutes she finished, and mentally dusting off her hands, she released him. Wat was now a less fearful man, more courageous, more noble, and without a trace of fear regarding magic and wizards. She felt a faint sense of pride looking at her handiwork.
Wat blinked as his mind snapped back into motion.
“Well, Wat, what’s it going to be? Will you help me, or did I misjudge you?” Moira asked him.
“Never worry on my behalf, milady,” he answered solidly. “Old Wat would never abandon a woman in need. What do you want me to do?”
“Stay and watch them. If anyone comes, keep the door locked and try to delay them. I should be back in less than half an hour,” she told him authoritatively. She definitely liked the new Wat better.
Standing taller, Moira strode back down the cell corridor, followed by her other companion, the ‘spellbeast’ made flesh, Lenny. Lenny still hobbled awkwardly. She would have to figure out some way to remove the metal thing in him, if she wanted him to have better motor control, but that would have to wait for now. Baron Ingerhold needed attention, and quickly, if he were to live.
Chapter 10
It took Moira less than half an hour to patch Gerold back together. If Matthew had done this, he’d be lucky to still have his arms and legs in the right places, she thought sarcastically. She had sealed the smallest bleeders and reattached the moderate sized and larger veins. Gerold’s liver would have a scar, but it should function properly.
The biggest problem now was that the man had lost a considerable amount of blood. He needed rest and lots of liquids to help him replenish his blood volume. The Baron’s heart beat at an uncomfortably fast rate as it struggled to compensate. Despite her solving the mechanical problems relating to his spear wound, he would need days to recover even a moderate amount of his former strength.
Now, how do I get him out of here? Moira considered simply levitating him, but that would require attention, and if they got into a confrontation, she might not be able to afford to divide her concentration. Fortunately, being a Centyr mage, she had never lacked for helpers.
Lenny might have carried him, but it would have been awkward, and given Lenny’s lack of good muscular control, accidents would have been likely. Instead, she spent several minutes creating a spellbeast, endowing it with a bizarre configuration of arms and legs. It was four-legged, standing much like a horse, but it also had two oddly angled arms that could reach over its back to steady and retain its passenger, the unconscious Baron. She added a manlike torso and two arms in the front in case it needed to fight or hold things for her.
In the end, it wound up looking something like a mythical centaur, if centaurs had had an extra set of arms sprouting from their back, and if their backs had been slightly concave on top to accommodate prone people.
“Ok, this would have scared poor Wat to death, if he had seen it before…,” her voice trailed off. Before what? She didn’t know quite what to call what she had done. His ‘adjustment’?
She put that aside. “Now, what to call you,” she said, talking to herself. “Pal? Short for ‘palanquin’? No, that won’t do.” After a moment’s thought she decided on ‘Stretch’, which was short for stretcher. She had kept Stretch’s mind simple to save time, but he was still probably a little smarter than Lenny. At least Stretch could talk.
Standing up, she and Lenny helped Stretch load the unconscious nobleman onto his soft dimpled back. Although Stretch was a proper spellbeast, meaning he was made entirely of aythar, he was quite physical, and he felt soft and warm to the touch. She had invested him with perhaps a quarter of her aythar, which should have been enough to last for half a week, if it had been used in something like a doll, but in this case would probably only last a day. Large creatures made purely of magic used it up very quickly.
A wave of dizziness passed over her as she stepped back from Stretch. Moira was tempted to create a second spellbeast, one meant purely as a guardian, but she worried that she might be forced to fight soon. Her aythar would recover quickly, meaning a pre-made spellbeast could be a large advantage, but if she was forced to fight while still tired, it might just as well be a hindrance. She decided to play it safe. Once she felt recovered from making Stretch, she would consider making a guardian, until then she would rely on Lenny and her prisoner friends for support.
Returning to the guardroom, she found that things were still much as she had left them. Wat seemed glad to see her again, but his eyes widened when he saw Stretch, “What is that?”
“My new friend, Stretch. Don’t worry about him, he’s just a bit of magic created to help me carry the Baron,” she explained.
“Oh,” said Wat simply, though his eyes still expressed a degree of fascination.
An hour ago Stretch would have had him running for the hills, now he’s merely curious, she thought smugly. Examining the others, she realized she had made a mistake using a spell to paralyze them. Still conscious, her newly released prisoner friends were in a state of extreme terror, if not outright panic. And that’s why Father usually puts people to sleep instead of freezing them in place.
Moira couldn’t be sure of how long they had, but she was growing increasingly confident of her ability to handle people. She started with the man who’d had his foot broken when they rushed the guard room. Damping his pain, she quickly fused the broken bone in his right foot. There would still be some swelling and discomfort, but he would be able to walk. Before she released him, she touched his mind, calming him and removing his memory of the past half an hour. She was mildly surprised at how easy it was to do.
Increasing familiarity was improving her ability to manipulate memories. After a second of hesitation she altered some of his early memories as well, to make him less afraid of magic and the unusual things he was about to witness. Stretch was a special case, though. Her centaur-like creation was too odd to trust that simply removing their fear of magic would allow them to accept him.
Instead, she formulated a false memory, a simple one that she could insert into any of their minds without much tailoring to suit their individual differences. She moved to the next man and altered his memories as well, removing his fear of magic and adding her new memory of Stretch.
Once she started, it proved far easier than she would have once believed. Three or four minutes with each man, and none of them were afraid of magic. They also now had a fond memory of a strange childhood playmate who looked remarkably like Stretch.
Centyr Dominance Page 10
