Trial of the Thaumaturge (Scions of Nexus Book 3)

by Gregory Mattix

  “Unfortunately, the portal was destroyed in the blast. I just need to rest a bit… Don’t have the strength to open another gate right now. If someone could make a fire, I have some herbs I can brew that will help my recovery a bit.”

  A couple of the more able-bodied warriors went off in search of fuel.

  While they were gone, Taren fought to stay awake and stave off the unconsciousness that was eager to claim him. His eyes drifted over to where many of their fallen had been laid out in neat rows by Kulnor and the others. He recognized Mira, Elyas, and Harbek among them.

  We’ll come back for you all and see that you’re honored accordingly, as befits your brave sacrifices.

  The men returned with some pieces of ruined furniture found in one of the laboratories. Scraps of moldering parchments used as tinder took to light quickly, and soon a small fire was burning. Taren couldn’t find his pack and assumed it lost in one of the crevasses, but he did find Mira’s, from which he used her teapot and cup. He couldn’t help but remember his friend wet and shivering while he brewed her tea after her valiant actions to rescue him that night, the memory so powerful he had to fight back tears again.

  Only a score of them had survived out of a hundred forty-four total who’d gone into the Hall of the Artificers. Yet many of those wounded were unconscious, covered in blood-soaked bandages, and their survival was still in doubt.

  “I tended them as best I could,” Kulnor said when he saw Taren studying the wounded. “Sorry for yer loss… ’Twas too late to aid the lass, though.” He nodded in the direction of Mira’s broken body.

  “I know.” Taren sighed heavily. I’ll see your body returned to your monastery, my dear friend. Your brothers and sisters shall all know of your exemplary service to the Balance. “How are you doing?” he asked the dwarf.

  Kulnor flexed his injured arm gingerly. “It be gettin’ better. Just need a bit o’ rest and another spell on it. Other than that, I’m just drained from me casting.”

  Taren tried to smile but he couldn’t find the energy. “I feel the same. Rest would be wonderful.”

  He poured some hot water into his cup then added the remaining pouch of herbs from Aninyel’s tea recipe he’d stuffed in a pocket earlier. After letting it steep a few minutes, he tasted the brew. The water hadn’t been quite hot enough, but he didn’t care. It still had some rejuvenative effect, and he had grown to like its taste. By the time he emptied his cup and tucked it back into Mira’s pack along with the pot, he felt better.

  “All right, gather everyone, and I’ll try to summon a gate to take us home.”

  ***

  Taren’s gate brought them back to the cellar of the Giantslayers Inn, for lack of any better landmarks that he was familiar with in Llantry. He helped carry the injured through, then shut the gate. Once the wounded were situated, Taren leaned heavily against the railing of the stairs so that he wouldn’t pass out.

  A noise on the steps drew his attention, and he looked up into the wide-eyed face of Brom’s daughter on the landing.

  “Hello,” he said, unable to remember the dwarven maid’s name. “Will you please send for help?”

  “Da!” Brom’s daughter ran back upstairs.

  “Taren!” Brom made his way down the stairs a moment later, looking over the survivors, his daughter following. “Did Creel…?”

  “I’m sorry. He didn’t make it.”

  Brom let out a long breath, sorrow on his face. “I knew one o’ these times he wouldn’t be back. Tilda, fetch one o’ those guards loiterin’ about on the street and have ’em send for healers! And send yer mother down here with supplies to aid the wounded.”

  Tilda ran off to get help.

  Taren sat down, leaning heavily against a stack of flour sacks. He must have nodded off, for he blinked to find an elven cleric kneeling beside him. Several priests, both human and elven, were moving about, tending to the others.

  “Nothing major, mostly just half-healed wounds,” he told the elven healer, who reminded him somewhat of Enelwyn, whom he had met in Egrondel.

  “You have a bad burn… a very unusual one.” The elf regarded him curiously with her deep blue eyes. She took his left hand and frowned at the angry puckered red scar in his palm. “Your wounds appear to be mostly superficial. Give me a moment to call upon Etenia for her blessing.”

  She chanted softly while holding his hand. Warmth seeped into his sore hand and across his raw skin, a soothing feeling much like slipping into a warm bath. He fought to keep his eyelids open, knowing he still had much to do: report to Sianna and return to recover his friends’ and allies’ remains.

  Taren thanked the elf when she was finished. He was pain free, with his hands fully healed and the scourging wounds on his skin gone. Other than sleeping for a few days to regain his energy, he couldn’t do much else to improve his condition. He got to his feet and found Kulnor talking quietly with Brom. Kulnor’s arm looked much better after another cleric had aided him.

  “I need to report to the queen,” he told the two dwarves. “Brom, do you have something that will keep me awake for another few hours? I feel dead on my feet.”

  “Ye looked it a few moments ago, lad. Better now, I reckon. A shot o’ spirits ought to fix ye up for a time. Ye too?” he asked Kulnor.

  “Aye. I need to find me queen as well.”

  “They’re all up at the castle now. Procession went by a couple hours ago.” Brom led the way upstairs. “Second procession it was. Queen Sianna went through a few hours earlier to retake her castle. Once all was in order, she sent word for the other monarchs to join her. Haven’t seen old Rukk in sixty-odd years… and that was me first time seeing Queen Sioned. Capable lookin’ lass.”

  “Aye, she is,” Kulnor agreed.

  Once in the common room, seated at their old table with the curtain drawn for privacy, Brom brought each of them a tumbler of the dwarven spirits that Taren remembered Creel loved so much. The liquor had a complex aroma that was appealing despite its caustic nature. He followed Kulnor’s lead and drank it back in one swig. It burned his throat and made his eyes water but went down smoother than expected. Brom was right, for it gave him a wakeful jolt and burned in his empty stomach. Tilda set out a platter of cheese and smoked sausages for them to munch on. He realized he was famished, and he and Kulnor made quick work of the food.

  While they did their best to replenish their energy, he barely noticed the festive mood of the crowded common room around them.

  “You have my thanks, Brom,” Taren said.

  “’Tis the least I can do. Anything else ye need, just ask.”

  Taren nodded and turned to Kulnor. “Ready?”

  “Aye. Best be about it, then.”

  The walk up to the castle seemed to take a long time, especially as weary as Taren was. Kulnor didn’t seem to be in any great hurry either, the loss of friends likely weighing heavily on him as well. Taren wanted nothing more than to fall into bed for several days but knew he had to report to Sianna and also find Ferret to pass on the grave news.

  Though night had fallen some hours earlier, bringing with it winter’s chill, the streets were brightly lit, and revelers were out in force celebrating Sianna’s return and Calcote’s removal. All the taverns they passed were doing brisk business. Taren was heartened by the relaxed atmosphere in the city. He and Kulnor garnered their fair share of curious looks at their grimy, bloodied appearances, but they ignored the attention, eager to reach their destination. The castle gates were open when they arrived. A handful of guards on duty saluted the two of them, and Taren heard the word “thaumaturge” spoken reverently in hushed tones. The bailey still bustled with activity, a result of both the change in stewardship and the attempt to get all the esteemed visitors and their retinues settled in. Harried servants ran to and fro, many busy unloading various supply wagons.

  “Lord Taren?” A young guardsman approached. “I’m to take you to see the queen at once.”

  “Very well. Is Queen Sioned here a
s well?” he asked, thinking of Kulnor’s desire to report to his own queen.

  “Yes, milord. I’ll have a page direct you to your queen, Master Dwarf.”

  “Aye, thanks.”

  Taren spotted Ferret before he’d taken a dozen steps across the bailey. She was sitting on a bench at the edge of the gardens, watching the activity in the courtyard and fiddling with the small dagger she favored. She must have sensed his approach, for she looked up, and their eyes met. She hopped to her feet, a broad smile on her face that faltered after a moment. She hesitated, eyes searching. At not finding who they sought, her face fell.

  “Taren? Is Dak…?”

  He shook his head, hating himself for having to deliver her such crushing news. “I’m sorry, Ferret. He didn’t make it.”

  Ferret looked as if she might collapse, so Taren embraced her. She clung to him like a drowning woman to a rope. A moment went by while silent sobs shook her.

  She abruptly looked up at him as if a thought had just occurred, tears shining in her violet eyes. “Wait, where’s Mira? Oh, gods, I’m so sorry…”

  Then they were supporting each other in their mutual sorrow, as if trying to draw some shred of strength from the other. Taren found tears in his own eyes as well.

  Eventually, he remembered the young guardsman awaiting him, who had stepped away to give them space while politely averting his gaze, looking embarrassed. Kulnor had apparently been taken to see Sioned. With some difficulty, Taren disentangled himself from Ferret’s crushing grip.

  “Your hair.” She touched his hair with her fingers, drawing a lock forward so he could see. His dark brown hair was streaked with silver.

  “I’m fortunate I got off that easy. The Tellurian Engine was already activated when we arrived. It devoured earth magic and vitality alike from everything around. I was close enough that I guess it leeched some of the life from me. You should’ve seen my skin before—it had little chunks peeled away, but the healing worked for that. Well, at least I’m not the only one going gray already.” He glanced pointedly at her stubble of white hair.

  She snorted and managed a half smile.

  “I need to report to the queen, then I’ll go back with a detail to recover the bodies.”

  “I’ll come with and help.”

  “You sure? Creel… Well, there’s no way to get to him. That portal was destroyed in an explosion of power.”

  “Aye. I owe that to the others. Might as well make myself useful.” His words sank in, and a faint glimmer of hope stole into her eyes. “Do you think there’s any chance…?”

  He sighed. “I don’t think even he could have survived such an explosion.” He fingered the pouch holding the Bracer of Fellraven. “I’d like to try using this, but I don’t know if it will work. If not, then I’ll try to speak to Grandmother. Perhaps she will know of his fate for certain.”

  Ferret swallowed hard. “Aye. I’ll be here when you’re done reporting to the queen.”

  “If you could find wagons and donkeys and gather a couple dozen men to aid in the recovery, that would be helpful.”

  “Aye, I’ll do so. Go report—she’s waiting for you.” Ferret gave him a smile that must have taken a lot out of her, along with a gentle shove.

  ***

  Taren found Sianna in a cluttered office with Iris, Rafe, and a pair of servants. They were busy sorting through a mountain of paperwork heaped on the floor, which seemed the place where the contents of both a desk and a cabinet had ended up.

  “We need to find a ledger with an account of all the servants on the payroll prior to your father’s departure,” Iris was saying, sorting through a handful of parchments.

  “Taren, you’re back!” Rafe noticed him first and stepped forward to clasp hands.

  “Rafe, good to see you.” He bowed to Sianna, who had turned at Rafe’s voice, her green eyes wide. “Your Majesty. Lady Iris.”

  “Gods, it’s good to see you,” Sianna said with a warm smile. She seemed about to embrace him but then thought better of it after a quick glance at the servants, who were trying unsuccessfully to look uninterested.

  “You as well, Your Majesty.” He smiled in return.

  Iris cleared her throat. “Leave us,” she crisply ordered the servants. Once they had scurried away and the door closed, she turned to Sianna. “Shall Rafe and I leave as well?”

  “No, you should hear this. Ah, damn decorum.” Sianna stepped up and embraced Taren, who was quick to hug her back. The clean scent of her hair filled his nostrils, which just made him uncomfortably aware of his unbathed condition and the sorry state of his robes, torn and bloodied as they were.

  “Sorry, I thought I’d best come here at once to report before finding a bath and change of clothes.”

  Sianna frowned when she stepped back and took in his general condition. “I don’t mind, but… your hair!” Her hand reached up toward his hair as Ferret’s had but then flittered a moment like an indecisive bird before she pulled it back.

  “The Tellurian Engine… Nesnys had already activated it. We were successful in destroying the machine and Nesnys alike. Yet the battle took a lot out of us. I was one of the fortunate ones… the few who made it out of there.” He had to hold back another rush of emotion at the loss of his friends.

  “I’m sorry. Truly, I am.” Sianna took his hand and guided him to a pair of chairs.

  Iris perched on the edge of the desk, while Rafe stood beside her.

  “Tell me everything,” Sianna said.

  Chapter 58

  Ferret walked along the Royal Way with a heart made especially heavy by the burden in her hand.

  Final Strike, Creel’s beloved longsword, didn’t look like anything special in its worn scabbard. The hilt was plain, wrapped in sweat-stained leather, the scabbard battered and soiled with old stains of mud and blood and ichor and everything else a monster hunter encountered in his line of work. One would never suspect it was the enchanted sword of a great hero, one who had sacrificed himself to save the entire multiverse. The harrowing truth was unbeknownst to all those around—just how close they had come to annihilation just three days past.

  Evidence of the near destruction could be found in Ferret’s onetime home of Ammon Nor. Out of curiosity, Taren had opened a gate outside Ammon Nor prior to reentering the Hall of the Artificers with Ferret and the recovery detail in tow. The sight of the destruction of what had once been a good-sized city and army garrison shocked all of them to their cores. Save for a couple of city blocks precariously perched upon the lip of a great crater, the city was no more. The Tellurian Engine had caused the ground to collapse above the Hall of the Artificers into a vast pit at least a hundred paces deep, taking everything in that area of the city with it.

  Ferret was surprised that the underground facility itself hadn’t been crushed flat in the process. She had thought the place wretched before, but that was nothing compared to the awful sight that had awaited her. The Hall of the Artificers was a mere ruin of what it had been previously, turned into a veritable charnel house. Slain men, elves, dwarves, destroyed constructs, and the carcasses of demons—horrific things that Ferret knew would give her nightmares for months—all littered the floor. The ceiling was collapsed in places and the floor torn asunder, making their grim task treacherous work.

  She located Creel’s sword and belt just outside the portal room, now a wreckage of twisted metal and pitted stone, looking as if Lenantos’s bomb had gone off right there inside. She later found his satchel and pack in the great hall, which she also retrieved.

  The recovery of bodies was a bleak process. Already, the hall’s stale air reeked of offal and the first hints of decay. The men had difficulty convincing the donkeys pulling the carts to progress through the battlefield. The animals brayed and stamped nervously, eyes rolling in fear at the stench of death and the remains of monsters of the Abyss. Demon carcasses were moved aside only by enough to clear a path and then left to rot, for none wished to ever return to the woeful place. Bod
ies of the fallen heroes were wrapped in sheets procured at the last minute in the city and lain in the backs of the carts.

  The last of the bodies were already laid out nearest the portal room, and that was where they found Mira, Harbek, and Taren’s cousin Elyas. The sight of her friend made Ferret feel sick—Mira’s body was battered and bloody and covered with awful black veins of corruption. Taren’s obvious heartbreak while wrapping Mira’s body tore at Ferret’s heart as well.

  She hadn’t known his cousin Elyas and wouldn’t have recognized him even if she had, for the greater part of the man’s head was turned to pulp. Harbek she knew, and a few others looked vaguely familiar.

  With satisfaction, she saw the evil fiend Nesnys had been reduced to ash and blackened bones and scorched armor, which Ferret had given a wide berth.

  But of Creel there was no sign, nor was there any way to reach Voshoth to search for his body. Nothing remained of the portal but shards of scrap metal. Taren tried to use his Bracer of Fellraven to open a portal to Voshoth, but after several attempts, he gave up. The artifact wouldn’t lock onto Voshoth, which meant the plane had likely been destroyed. Either that, or it was somehow warded against any teleportation magic. To Ferret’s limited understanding, it wasn’t a true plane in itself but an extra-dimensional space linked only to the Hall of the Artificers.

  In her heart, however, she knew Creel was gone. She couldn’t have explained the feeling, but she simply knew. He had been reunited with Rada as he had wanted.

  I’ll make sure there’s a ballad told in your name, Dak. An epic one to do right by all the heroic feats you’ve done in your life. I shall name it The Legend of Dakarai Creel.

  With a sigh, she turned away from such bittersweet thoughts and focused on her present surroundings. The Llantry streets were crowded, the mood noticeably improved since the war had been declared ended. With all the troops in the city, many of them foreign, merchants were as eager to do business as soldiers were happy to spend coin.