by Devin Hanson
The other alchemist lay quietly under Andrew’s shield, eyes fixed on Andrew. He spoke as Andrew approached. “You’re the Speaker,” he shook his head. “Trent was wrong about you, I see that now.” He shrugged, as much as the tight confines would let him. “What’s done is done. Still, I do not regret the revolt, though I wish it had been under cleaner circumstances. This war of Trent’s is in poor taste.” He nodded at Jules. “Lady Vierra. I wish it was you who had rebelled when the Academy closed its doors to you, rather than Lord Priah.”
“Sammish, if you knew me at all, you’d know that would never happen.” Jules folded her arms, her eyes sad.
Sammish laid his head back against the stone floor and closed his eyes. “One can always hope. I won’t fight it, Lady.”
“Goodbye, Sammish.”
Andrew released the shield and turned away as Jules’s blade flashed once more. The fighting in the passage had come nearly to a halt. One of the wardens was limping, and all the mercenaries were dead except for the one in the runed plate who still stood against the wardens, the sword in his hand flicking impossibly fast to parry and drive back the Maar.
The last time Andrew had seen armor of that type was when Trent had kidnapped Jules and stolen one of Avandakossi’s eggs. The armor was Tan-strengthened airon, and impervious to normal weaponry. “Enough, wardens,” Andrew said. “We’ll take it from here.”
The wardens disengaged and backed off, but held themselves at the ready to jump in front of Andrew if the soldier attacked him. The soldier stood, sword held at the ready, his shoulders heaving with deep breaths.
“Lay down your arms, soldier,” Andrew called. “This is not Salia. You have no rights here.”
“You waste your time,” Hakhim said. His breath came deep but easily and a light sheen of sweat covered him. “The Lady tried talking them down earlier. They are too willing to die.”
The soldier coughed a laugh, hollow from inside his helmet, confirming Adnan’s prediction. “By the end of the night, Salia will own Andronath. Then we’ll see who has rights here.”
Andrew frowned. Adnan was right. He could hear the conviction in the man’s voice. Well, no time to waste. “Igan’can,” he called.
“Hah,” the soldier cried. “Is that the best you … what? What is this?” He beat at the armor covering him, trying to brush it off. The smell of hot iron filled the passage, along with a sizzling sound, the same sound you get when you toss a fresh steak onto a hot griddle. The soldier’s cries rose in panic and he struggled at the straps holding the armor in place. The armor started glowing red along the edges and the soldier collapsed, writhing on the ground, his screams choked.
Adnan turned his head to the side and stared stonily at the ground. Andrew watched, ignoring the distant wail in his mind.
“Caco’lani,” Jules said and the soldier’s cries cut off as his helmet buckled. “Tiny gods, Andrew. What’s gotten into you?”
Andrew closed his eyes, and for a moment, the emotion he had locked away threatened to break free. No, he had to stay focused. For just a little while longer. “Sorry,” he rasped and cleared his throat. “Let’s just… keep going.”
Jules nodded slowly. “The Archives are just ahead. But we’re going to have a long talk after this.”
“Let’s get through this first, then we can discuss talking,” Andrew replied. He had his control back and his voice came out flat and emotionless. Distantly, the sound of combat was audible, both the clash of steel and the strident calls of alchemical Sayings. The Archives were under siege.
Chapter 26
Beneath the Academy
Milkin leaned on his cane and inventoried his remaining fluxes. Empty pureglass vials rattled in his satchel as he dug through it, searching for the heavy weight of the dragon scale somewhere within. He found it and pulled it free, delicately avoiding the serrated edges. He’d been saving the scale for a rainy day, and so far today had been one deluge after another. Besides the scale, he had the tooth of one of the great western wyrms, all tangled about with the runes for ice and wind. That one was nearly depleted of vitae, he kept it for the runes engraved upon its surface rather than its value as a flux. The tooth he left in his robe pocket.
It had been a while since he last made the trip down to the Archives. Several stories below ground, it was suffused with a chill damp that set his bones to aching if he stayed for long. The Archives were the heart of the Academy in more than one sense. High cathedral ceilings comprised of ribbed vaults soared overhead, disappearing into the dimness beyond the reach of the lamps. Bulky pillars marching at regular intervals supported the roof. Bookshelves twice the height of a man divided the space into a veritable maze, filled with reading nooks. Elaborate chandeliers hung on chains, providing light bright enough to ease the strain of reading for tired old eyes.
And, of course, the Archives held the vast collection of fluxes from every dragon species ever discovered. There were more than just teeth and scales here; bones were in evidence as well, dating back to the very earliest Guild records. Central in the gallery, the great skull of a northern dragon sat prominent, surrounded by an enormous pureglass dome, thrice-etched with master Tan runes. It was the only piece of pureglass in existence with three Tans carved into it. If asked, Milkin would have said it was impossible. After two Tans, any material grew so hard that it would require tectonic forces to alter it. With three Tans, it would take Romeda itself falling from on high to break it, and even then Milkin would place even odds on the dome surviving intact. The dome was a relic from before written history. These days, humans lacked the technology to produce such a large piece of glass, never mind the runes on it.
Spaced about the dome, smaller cylinders of pureglass protected the collection of fluxes. Milkin had had a hand in creating a few of them in his younger years. The cylinders were twice-etched with master Tan runes and merged seamlessly with their basalt pedestals. Even the pedestals were protected, laced about with Sayings that made them just as strong as the pureglass on top.
With Milkin were a scattering of alchemists. Meria Yale and Michael Esterforth were among them, the youngest of the alchemists present. In the fighting that had engulfed the Academy, Milkin had been separated from the majority of the defenders. Meria had stayed by his side throughout the fighting, as had Alexi Fontaine. Michael had joined up fairly close to the Archives, bringing with him a score of Andronath guards and conscripts, doubling their number.
There were now almost fifty defenders gathered in the Archives, and no more would be coming. The first thing Milkin had done when he arrived had been to activate the rune-powered portal shield that was a last line of defense, cutting the Archives off from the entrance hall and sealing them inside. Of course, a determined foe would eventually find a way to breach the shield, but it would buy time.
“Professor!” Meria called, waving him over.
“Yes? What is it?” he asked after he had limped his way to her side.
Meria had aged during the last month. She was still young, still at the end of her teens, but she held herself with the assurance of an adult, and her eyes held a weight of years usually reserved for people three or four times her age. “That shield,” she said, nodding toward the faint displacement spanning the entrance to the Archives, “how far does it go into the rock?”
Milkin shook his head. The original architects of the Academy’s external shield had built this one as well. Over a thousand years ago. There were no blueprints or notes giving structural details. He told Meria as much and she frowned.
“Then this is a dead-end trap,” she said bluntly. “Trent and his goons will blast through the walls, disrupt the shield, and kill everyone here.” She didn’t sound upset about it, just tired and resigned.
“Come now, Meria,” Milkin clucked his tongue, chiding her, “While there is life, there is hope. We have an excellent defensive position. Between the dome and the flux pedestals, we’ll have plenty of cover. Trent may break in, but he’ll have to pay for
every inch of ground in blood.”
Meria’s mouth twitched in a reluctant smile. “I would never have guessed you to be a violent man, Professor.”
“I’m not. But these mangy crypt larvae would destroy everything I have lived for and murder my friends. What kind of man would I be if I stood aside and let them do that?”
“‘Fear the wrath of a gentle man’,” Meria quoted softly, her smile fading away leaving only sadness in its place. “We will hold as long as we can, Professor. Don’t worry about that.”
Milkin opened his mouth to respond, but a coruscating blast of fire smashed against the shield at that moment. The ground trembled under the impact and dust sifted down from the ceiling high over head.
“Enough, you fools!” A man’s voice shouted from the passage. The flames died away and Trent strode up to the shield. He was dressed in a combination of armor and flowing silk, all engraved and painted with runes, and inlaid with cloth-of-gold and gems wherever the runes allowed. He had on a helmet that had more in common with a crown than a standard article of war. “Who is in charge here?” he cried, “I demand you lower the shield and let me pass!”
Milkin stepped up to the shield and took a perverse delight in how Trent’s face twisted with rage. “Where’s your lapdog?” Milkin asked. “Bircham give up and go home?”
“Not likely,” Trent sneered. “His tastes run to young women. I don’t doubt he’s found a few by now.” Behind Trent, the entrance hall was filling with people, mostly men and women dressed in the mis-matched gear of mercenaries. Scattered among them were the telltale robes of alchemists, and a pair of soldiers in runed mail stood in the front row.
Meria stepped forward, her face tight with anger, but Milkin held out a hand, catching her arm as she went by. “Easy, lass. He can’t get to us, so he must try to hurt us through words.” He raised his voice to include Trent, “Just as likely Lameda got killed in the fighting.”
Trent ignored him and started pacing outside the shield. “I’ll get through this, you know,” he said, trying for a reasonable tone, ruined by an unconscious curl of his lips. “I’ll get one of the breaching rings from the gates if I have to, or break through the wall. Either way, you don’t have much longer to live.”
“So, what, we’re supposed to just give up?” Meria asked, her voice heavy with derision.
“Oh, would you?” Trent said brightly. “That would be so much easier than killing all of you. Because I will, you know. I have enough men here to wipe you all out, alchemists or not.”
“Perhaps,” Milkin allowed. “But you’ll have to spend an awful long time doing so. Who knows what could happen between now and then?”
“Be silent, old man. You, girl, what’s your name?”
“Meria Yale,” Meria spat.
“Yale? I don’t know that name. What are you, some noble’s bastard spawn? Or are your parents merchants or something?” Trent looked puzzled for a second, then brushed it aside. “No matter. I’ll offer you a deal. Kill this old fool for me, open the shield, and I’ll let you live.”
“What, you expect me to take that offer?” Meria chuckled darkly. “Are you insane?”
“I don’t see why not,” Trent shrugged. “What’s he to you? A teacher? If you need a teacher to learn runes,” Trent’s mouth twisted in disgust. “I’ll find you a replacement. No, I’ll double it. I’ll get you two tutors, real alchemists, not this farce you’re currently thrown in with.”
Meria laughed in his face. “You don’t have enough humanity to understand. You’ll have to break into the Archives the hard way, Ranno Kossar. And you’ll find us waiting for you when you do.”
Trent slammed a fist against the shield and snarled wordlessly before spinning away and retreating to the line of men and women gathered in the entrance hall. He jabbed a finger at a pair of alchemists. “You two. Tear down this burned wall. Find the shield ring and destroy it!”
The indicated alchemists stepped forward and raised their hands, calling out Sayings that sent lashing fire and thunderous explosions against the shield and the stone surrounding it. Fire and smoke blurred the view of the hall and Milkin turned away, leaning heavily on his cane. It had been many years since he struck out with alchemy in anger. The fight to the Archives had brought a lot of it back but he could use some practice. No time like the present.
Iria caught the swinging blade on the guard of her scimitar and twisted it aside, opening the mercenary’s stance just enough to drive her dagger past his shield and into his throat. The mercenary’s sword sprang from suddenly enervated fingers and rang on the flagstones. These northerners had an odd way of fighting with their heavy, straight swords, relying more on brute strength than agility and finesse. Compared to fighting the black balai in Khar Bora, they were a joke.
But there were so many of them! Each engagement seemed to last a little bit longer, take a little bit more out of her energy reserves. As a balai, she had never had to engage in large-scale battles or drawn-out combat. That sort of thing was left for soldiers to deal with. Her role had been investigation, infiltration and assassination, and her skills and body were highly tuned to carrying out those tasks. She was blindingly fast, but the scimitar, though lighter than the metal planks the Salians called swords, was heavy and was slowly wearing down her strength.
Another mercenary came swinging around the corner of the passageway ahead of her, and she threw her knife at him. Fatigue spoiled the throw and the weapon caught the mercenary in the shoulder, the blade glancing off a boiled-leather spaulder. She brought her scimitar up into a guard stance, weary muscles protesting.
“Igan’anir!”
A spear of fire lanced over her shoulder and caught the mercenary in the chest, burning through the man’s leather breast piece, through his ribs and lung, and out his back in an instant. Motive force abandoned the man and he crashed to the floor, dead before he hit the ground. Iria held the guard stance for another few seconds, then relaxed out of it when it became clear there were no more mercenaries coming.
“Thank you,” Iria said gruffly, nodding to the plump and unassuming Merin before bending over to retrieve her dagger. The alchemist had held her own during the fighting; she was not as thoroughly deadly as the Lady Vierra, perhaps, but had claimed a body count as high as any of the wardens. “How much further to the Archives?”
Merin glanced around at the brick walls of the passage and seemed to find some landmark invisible to Iria. To the warden, every inch of this place looked exactly the same. “Close. Five, ten minutes tops.”
The ground trembled and a second later, the distant echoes of an explosion reached their ears. “We have run out of time,” Iria said. “We must hurry now.”
A quick flashing of hand signals gathered the wardens into a tight group within seconds. Merin and her fellows moved just as quickly, but without discipline, and so were still getting organized when the wardens set off down the passage at nearly a run, their feet moving whisper-soft on the flagstones in the broken cadence of the sand walk.
Iria moved to the head of the wardens, her fatigue replaced by worry over the Speaker. A constant roar of explosions and shattering stone gave her direction. Behind her, Merin and her group were just getting moving, their feet clapping against the flagstones as they ran after the wardens, barely audible over the noise ahead.
The passages in this part of the Academy were deep underground, the brick walls moss-stained, the air damp and chilly. There were periodic lanterns of some sort built into the wall, but they gave off light steadily, without the flicker and smoke of a typical lantern.
She reached an intersection and paused to sort out the conflicting echoes. She knew they were nearer to their destination; the tremors and their accompanying echoes were closer together, but the nature of the passages made it impossible to determine which path was the right one to take. Merin caught up with them, puffing hard from her run and indicated the passage to their left.
Iria was torn. She desperately wanted to go s
printing ahead, but Merin and her alchemists were undeniably valuable, perhaps even indispensible when they finally engaged the main force of the enemy. Iria was confident in her ability to engage and eliminate an alchemist on open ground, but she wasn’t so sure of herself in these underground passages.
She made the decision. It pained her, but she signaled for the wardens to proceed at a slower pace. They would need the alchemists, and they would be of no use out of breath.
Andrew ran forward with the wardens, his footsteps ringing loud on the flagstone floor despite his best efforts to soften his footfalls. It wasn’t just the sandals the wardens were wearing, he remembered how Jules’s footsteps had slapped the ground when she had been wearing the same footwear. No, it had to do with the way they placed their feet. He tried to study it for a moment and almost tripped over an uneven flagstone before forcing his attention back up. There would be time enough to learn later.
They had joined up with Fakhir and his spear a few intersections back and now numbered twelve: ten wardens, Jules and himself. A shout raised further up the passage gave Andrew the warning he needed and he gasped out a Saying that threw a shield across the passage in front of the leading wardens. A flight of crossbow bolts shattered against the shield with sharp, crisp cracks and the wardens skidded to a halt before impacting the shield.
Andrew released the shield and reformed it a dozen paces further down the passage and gestured for the wardens to follow. He leapfrogged the shield forward, but the mercenaries who had fired the crossbow salvo had already fallen back. Andrew continued forward, but caution slowed their pace to a walk.
The passage grew brighter and finally opened up into an enormous, high-ceilinged chamber hung with elaborate chandeliers. It seemed to be a hub, with a dozen passages terminating into the chamber. At one end, a pair of robed alchemists directed controlled blasts against the stonework, gradually eating away at the wall. A shield blocked off the passage, coruscating slightly with reflected energies.
