Thus far, the night had been a splendid success. The only factor that hadn’t gone according to plan was the bizarre loss of contact with Bliezahr. The demon wasn’t answering her psionic summons. Instead, she merely sensed a cloud of pain and rage and confusion.
She took a moment to ponder that. Nothing in Ammon Nor should’ve been able to defeat such a powerful fiend. But then she remembered the scene left behind in Ryedale and the dramatic end of her inquisitor, Tellast.
Perhaps my young sculptor has revealed himself once more. That thought brought another smile to her face as she went to check on the progress of her main army.
Chapter 2
After stepping through the portal in the cave beneath the ruins of Ammon Nor, Taren appeared in a small circular chamber lit only by the bluish glow emanating from the portal. His three companions, Mira, Creel, and Ferret, were illuminated by the glow behind him, their shadows looming huge in the space. After a moment, the portal dwindled and evanesced, its magic fading away to glowing wisps before leaving them in darkness.
Taren’s eyes adjusted after a few moments, and he realized the blackness wasn’t absolute. The gloom was faintly lit by a softly glowing orange crystal embedded in the wall at knee height. The walls themselves were of roughly hewn stone. The air was stale and heavy, smelling faintly of mildew and what he thought might be rusted metal. All was silent save the sound of their quiet breathing and water dripping somewhere in the distance.
Creel moved forward to investigate a passageway leading from the portal chamber, hand on the hilt of his sword. A straight, dark corridor extended into the distance, lit every ten or so paces by another orange crystal.
Taren approached the nearest phosphorescent crystal and touched it. Cool to the touch, it radiated faint magic, although he got the impression its magic was decaying.
“What is this place?” Ferret asked, her voice echoing and sounding tight with apprehension.
Creel paused in the corridor to examine some runic inscription on the wall and shrugged. “Only the gods know.”
The runes seemed somehow familiar to Taren, but he could neither decipher them nor recall where he’d seen such glyphs. He wondered if he had seen them in the book Gradnik had left for him after his death.
Seeing nothing else of interest, Creel beckoned them forward, taking the lead as they passed down the narrow corridor. Great metal pipes lined one wall, and from one of those, water leaked out through a rusted spot, dripping into an ankle-deep puddle filling the hallway.
They slogged through the puddle in silence. After about fifty paces, the corridor abruptly opened up to an immense chamber, much like the great hall of a castle, its reaches lost in darkness. Only the steady illumination of the crystals provided a sense of its vastness, for they continued in a straight line before fading out of sight in the far distance. The blackness was relieved by islands of the orangish light at regular intervals. The floor was perfectly smooth stone, almost like polished marble Taren imagined suitable to adorn a palace, yet it was a dull gray with no sheen to it, similar to the onyx cube they’d entered in the ruins on the surface.
As Taren was caught up in gawking around the huge room, his boot caught the edge of a rusted scrap of metal debris on the floor. The metal clattered stridently against the stone and echoed loudly. The group froze at the clamor, hardly daring to breathe. Eventually, the reverberation faded, and that eerie, nearly palpable silence pressed down on them once more.
Taren looked more closely at the metal scrap and found it belonged to a pile of assorted pieces, dented and rusting. Some ancient armor? He noted what looked like strange gears and springs among the armor pieces. Near the scraps of armor was a skeletal corpse dressed in the rotting remains of what might have once been a robe.
“There’s a body here,” Taren said. “Looks to be long dead.”
Creel nudged the skeleton with his boot, whereupon the robe disintegrated to dust, and the brittle leg bone detached from the hip joint. “Aye, long dead indeed. Centuries, perhaps. Some ancient battle fought here?” He crouched down and studied a piece of metal resembling a breastplate. “And what are all these other metal bits?” He picked up one of the rusty gears and examined it.
“And where are the remains of whoever wore that armor?” Mira asked.
The group exchanged apprehensive glances, unnerved by the bizarre place. They walked a bit farther and stopped at a jumble of metal pipes and beams, rusted through and collapsed onto the floor. With his eyes, Taren followed the length of one beam, still attached somewhere above, but he was unable to pierce the darkness and see what it attached to.
Creel evidently could make it out, however. “Looks like some kind of network of catwalks spanning the hall. This portion of it collapsed.” He frowned as he peered into the blackness.
“Should we light a torch?” Ferret asked.
Creel shook his head. “Not yet. Wouldn’t be prudent to announce our presence if anyone or anything yet inhabits this place, fortress or whatever it is. Although they’d probably have already heard us by now.”
They continued onward, occasionally finding more robed skeletons and piles of shattered metal armor. Taren tried to piece together a picture of what had happened. His best guess was that a group of mages had battled some type of magical constructs, evidenced by the lack of any corpses with the armor. He’d heard of such things before—suits of armor given a pale semblance of life by spells animating them to act as guardians.
“Look over here.” Mira stood at the juncture with a corridor leading to the left, the only deviation from the main hall since the tunnel they’d taken from the portal chamber. “Can anyone decipher these runes?” She pointed at cryptic writing with yellow-and-black lines.
Must be something of importance, judging from the markings. Taren touched the runes on the wall, which were painted rather than carved, some yellow flakes of paint peeling away. Down the short hallway was another room, lit by more of the orange crystals, although the room reflected light strangely, as though the walls were metallic.
He was about to enter the chamber to investigate further when a sound reached his ears, causing him to start.
Clank… scrape… clank… scrape.
Whatever made the sound was growing closer, approaching from the vast darkness of the main hall.
The party grouped together uneasily, peering into the darkness ahead of them. Creel drew his sword, the steel rasping loudly as it cleared the scabbard. Ferret clutched a dagger in hand. Taren found himself unable to swallow a knot in his throat, his mouth suddenly dry. Only Mira seemed unaffected, standing calmly beside him, a stolid, comforting presence with staff in hand.
Clank… scrape… clank… scrape.
“Where are the artificers? What are our directives?” The hollow voice boomed from the darkness, its words strangely enunciated.
The sounds of the creature’s approach continued until a humanoid figure shambled into the dim pool of light cast by the next crystal along the wall, ten paces away. Twin points of red light, glowing in the darkness like backlit jewels, resolved themselves into eyes as the figure moved jerkily with a clamor of clanks and whirs. The orange light of the mounted crystal gleamed dully on a complete suit of plate armor like the ruined ones they had seen. Iron-shod boots scraped heavily on the floor as it approached, its left leg stiff from a bad joint, causing it to move with a limp.
“Approach no closer,” Creel growled. He held Final Strike out before him. “Who or what are you?”
“We are the factotum.” The armored figure tottered to a halt five paces away, staring at Creel a moment before its head swiveled to Taren, then on to Mira and Ferret with a sharp, precise motion that generated a rasping sound, its metal parts in dire need of oil. “Where are the artificers? What are our directives?”
The companions exchanged confused glances.
“Who are these artificers?” Creel asked.
“The Order of Artificers are the masters, the builders who serve the ove
rseer.” The construct stood still, regarding them a long moment.
“What is this place?” Taren asked.
“You stand in the Hall of the Artificers.” After a loud clicking sounded, the construct jerkily raised a hand to encompass the hall. “All stands ready. We await our directives.”
Ferret spoke up. “What are factotum?”
“Factotum are automatons created to serve the artificers. What are our directives?”
“How long have you awaited your directives?” Taren asked.
A screech followed by a whirring noise issued from the automaton. After it ticked for several moments, it spoke again. “Last directive was issued one thousand nine hundred eighty-eight years, fifty-three days, thirteen hours, and ten minutes ago.”
“What was the last directive?” Creel asked.
“Defend the Hall of the Artificers against all intruders.” The red eyes burned in the gloom as it regarded them. “Authenticating artificer identities.” The automaton began clicking ominously. “State the countersign, masters. You have ten seconds to comply. Nine… eight… seven…” With each count it ticked ominously, like some nefarious timepiece.
“What is it asking for?” Ferret’s eyes were round and fearful.
“It wants some proof that we are these artificers,” Mira replied.
“As an artificer, I command you to stand down,” Creel said.
“Three… two… one…” The automaton clanked and shuddered violently as if it would fall apart, then it raised both arms. “Authentication failed. Intruders detected. Eliminating intruders.” It surged forward in a burst of jerky speed, arms flailing at them.
Creel struck it on the forearm with his sword, which made a loud ringing reverberation but had little effect. He dodged a swipe of its fist. Mira balanced on her right leg and kicked with her left, foot catching the automaton at the hip. The construct staggered a couple steps before it regained its balance then came at them again. It didn’t speak. The only noise it made was the eerie machine sounds from its body. The construct punched and grabbed at them with articulated hands, but it was in disrepair, and its motions were likely slower and more stuttering than they would have been ordinarily.
Mira attempted to knock its legs out from under it, but the automaton resisted her leg sweep, likely due to its ponderous weight, which set the floor vibrating with each step. It stomped down at her, but she drew her leg back just in time. Creel struck another blow against its back, but his sword seemed to have little effect. The automaton responded with a backhand swing, which caught Creel’s shoulder, knocking him to the ground, sword clattering. It reached for Ferret, its arm lashing out as forcefully as a piston, but the girl dodged away, the hem of her cloak slipping through its fingers. With an abrupt pivot, it punched at Taren, its fist likely to have caved his head in had Mira not snatched his cloak and yanked him backward to a safe distance, sending him sprawling.
The automaton advanced on Taren, intending to follow up its attack. Mira crouched over him protectively. The construct’s feet drummed the floor as it came at them in a lumbering charge. Taren tried to scramble away. Mira stood motionless in a slight crouch as it approached rapidly, then she uncoiled into a spinning kick. Her blow struck the construct’s breastplate. It reeled backward from the power of her kick, gears grinding furiously until it stabilized itself. It was poised to resume its charge again, when suddenly the tip of a sword burst from its midsection.
Creel twisted his blade and yanked it out. A metallic snap sounded, then metal bits spilled from its belly like entrails. A severed spring swung loosely while a large cog bounced and rolled away across the floor. A grinding screech issued, and the machine seemed to freeze in place a moment. Its fingers opened and closed spastically as if it would throttle the life from them with its final bit of energy.
“Go down, you clunky bastard.” Creel stepped up behind it and drove Final Strike through its backplate.
Metal shrieked, and its breastplate dented outward. More cogs and gears broke loose. Something screeched and snapped as Creel withdrew his sword, and the automaton broke apart at the waist. It hit the ground with a thunderous clamor then finally lay still in the midst of its broken pieces, the echoes fading away in the vast hall. The glow of its eyes faded like swiftly cooling embers and extinguished.
“Anything within a mile would’ve heard us with all that damn racket.” Creel peered into the gloom as though awaiting a charge of more of the automatons. He glanced over at Ferret. “You all right, lass?”
“Aye. Just a bit unnerved by the strangeness of it all.” She kicked a metal cog away.
Mira extended a hand and helped Taren to his feet. She stood over the automaton’s torso thoughtfully. “Was this a sentient creature?”
“Of limited intellect, perhaps. I would think similar to a golem or other construct that can carry out basic commands but cannot think for itself.” Taren wished he could spend some time to take the creature apart and examine it further, trying to decipher how it worked, but he knew they needed to be moving on. Whatever the purpose of this Hall of the Artificers was, poking around haphazardly could prove dangerous.
Creel sheathed his sword when no further threat appeared. “If nothing else reveals itself, once we get the measure of this place, it might be wise to rest for a time.”
Taren nodded. Although he had lost all sense of time since having entered the cube in the ruins, they’d been on the move since the previous night. After a harrowing escape from Ammon Nor followed by only a few hours of rest, they’d been pursued by Nebaran troops through the ruins that morning, followed by the battle at the bridge. A few hours to rest and recuperate would do them well.
Chapter 3
The morning brought no relief.
Elyas had aided the other soldiers where he could throughout the night, gathering bodies and transporting wounded to the field hospital, yet the survivors were too few, sadly. The death toll of those murdered in the night was staggering. A few hundred more had perished during battle, but at least the latter had had a chance to defend themselves. All told, thousands had been slain during the night, perhaps as many as a third of the army’s number, judging from early estimates. And the tragic death toll wasn’t the end of their misfortune. Supply wagons had been put to the torch, tents and equipment burned and destroyed, and many horses either slain or scattered from their paddock.
Even after all their misfortune, the gods were unsparing in their ill favor toward King Clement’s forces. Before the battered army could fashion a pyre for their slain men and retrieve horses and gather salvageable equipment, a frantic scout returned, the first of a dozen that had been sent into the surrounding areas to gain intelligence on the enemy’s movements.
The scout was bleeding from a quarrel in his thigh and was clearly distraught, his horse blowing and foam covering its flanks. From the scout’s grave expression, Elyas could tell the news was about to be another blow to their already fragile morale. He walked over within earshot to try to hear the report.
“Let him through,” Lord Lanthas snapped to the milling soldiers blocking the scout’s way. He, the king, and several knights and officers all closed on the scout.
“Your Majesty! My lords!” The scout’s voice was ragged with fear or tension. “The enemy is on the march from the direction of Ammon Nor. They’ll be arriving within the hour.”
An explosion of conversation erupted, concern and curses in equal measure as a dozen voices talked over each other, followed by a flurry of shouted questions.
King Clement raised his hand, and the tumult subsided. “What are their numbers?”
The scout blanched. “Your Majesty, I, well… all of them, I believe.”
“What?” The king looked stunned, and his commanders exchanged despairing glances. “How is this so?”
“There are too many to count, Majesty. They were marching swiftly, a column ten abreast and stretching into the distance. Easily many thousands, by my guess.”
“By the g
ods,” Clement said, his face paling. “Have we confirmed this with the other scouts?”
The commanders shook their heads and answered in the negative.
“He is the first man to return,” one officer offered.
Elyas could feel confusion and fear rising in the men around him. He couldn’t help but think of how his own father had been commander of a mercenary company.
This news is poorly received. The men’s fragile morale just took another big hit—I wager Father would’ve had this conversation in private and then put on a brave face for the army’s sake. Tough to regain morale once it’s snuffed out.
“I was nearly brought down myself, Your Majesty,” the scout was saying into the tense silence. “The hills and fields are crawling with the remaining force of assassins from the night past. Was a near thing that I escaped, but some of my fellow scouts weren’t so fortunate.”
The king looked as though he were no longer listening. “We cannot stand against their full might… certainly not in such condition as we are.”
“We must fall back and regroup,” one of the commanders said.
“No, we’ll hold them here and make them pay,” said a young man, one of the king’s sons, with red-brown hair and dressed in fine armor. “Father, give the order. I’ll rally the men. If we retreat, they’ll have free rein to ravage the countryside.”
Lanthas was shaking his head. “Sire, if we don’t fall back, we’ll be destroyed. The men are weary and disheartened after last night. Better that we fall back and make a stand at a time, and on ground, of our choosing.”
Another young man spoke up from near the king. “Father, I agree with Lord Lanthas. Allow me the honor of commanding the rearguard.”
Elyas couldn’t get a clear look at the other prince through the crowd, but he noted the man had his brother’s same red-brown hair and a thin shadow of a beard.
The Way of Pain Page 2
