The Tower

by Jean Johnson

  Immediately, the door vanished. Without hesitation, he strode across to the far side, hands digging out the tools from his pouch. The moment he crossed the center of the room, a hissing sound rushed down from that hole. Within seconds, it turned into a broad spill of sand. The mage ignored the cascading granules, focusing instead on a small hole placed just above a fist-sized iron ring.

  Myal felt the air in the bell-shaped room swirl up around her, racing toward the ceiling as the falling mass of sand displaced it. Fine strands of black not caught up in her braid wafted up against her cheeks, tickling her skin. Tightening her left ring finger, the one with the green and brown turtle inked on it, she moved toward the sand-fall. Already it had formed a mound bigger than a footstool, but she stuck her right hand under the falling spray.

  With the tattoo hardening her skin, the abrasion of all that sand didn’t harm her. The larger chunks of stone did sting, though. Managing to snag two of them between her slightly spread fingers, she shuffled away from the growing pile, now the size of a cushioned chair, and joined Kerric. He grunted and grabbed the ring, pulling it up on its hinge and giving it a twist. The smooth rock cracked and swung open, allowing them to escape into the dimly lit corridor beyond. Closing the door on the hissing trap, Kerric grinned at her. “Did you get anything good?”

  Myal shrugged, dusting off the stones. The lighting was a bit too low to tell exactly what color they were, either blue or purple, so she simply tucked them into her pouch. “I’ll find out later. Let me get the sand out of my boots.”

  She started to stoop to unbuckle her shin guards, but Kerric touched her arm. “Please, allow me. Mage, remember? Silicamundic!” he commanded, one hand stretched toward her feet, the other toward his own. Sand whipped out of her clothes, bundled up into a sphere at the height of her knees, then floated off to the side and settled on the ground at a gesture from his hand. It promptly collapsed into a little pile. A tiny, similar ball of grit removed itself from his boots as well, joining the first. “There. That wasn’t too harsh on your skin, was it?”

  Belatedly, she realized her skin was still toughened. Flexing her ring finger again, she shook her head. “No, I had it guarded against the sand.”

  “Good. Next up is . . . ?” Kerric let his tone turn it into a probing question for her. As much as he knew she had to harbor doubts about his abilities to run this particular gauntlet, and needed reassurances he wasn’t going to get both of them killed, he needed to know she was paying attention. Not paying attention would also get them killed.

  “The Pit Stop.” She smiled shyly when he blinked at her teasing. “Try to leap across the pit, and it stops you.”

  “Wasp Hitting the Mage Shield,” Kerric retorted lightly. “It’s like a wasp zooming in on a mage, only to splat against their shield-spell.”

  Myal gave it some thought as he started to lead the way. “I think Pit Stop is more accurate.”

  “Well, it is shorter, I’ll grant you that,” he allowed. The corridor was short, making a left turn. Located just a few lengths past the corner, the pit in question was now visible. About as long as Kerric was tall and stretching from wall to wall, it looked to be about twice as deep as it was long. A forest of spears filled the bottom half.

  This time, he didn’t use his floating spell. Moving up to the edge of the pit, Kerric extended his hand, murmuring. A pool of mist formed just above the spear-heads. It thickened, rising up in slow, eddying waves. After a few lapping movements, the waves solidified into smoke-translucent steps, one set at each end of the pit. The air, however, felt uncomfortably dry; the mist was a solidified mass of all the humidity in reach.

  “There. No need to walk the wall on this one. I’ll go first.” The steps were narrow. Descending sideways, he stretched out his hand, felt for the unseen barrier and its bottom edge, then carefully ducked under it, straightening on the far side so he could climb out again.

  Myal followed as soon as he was clear. Following his lead, she reached out her hand, bracing her descent on the invisible wall, then ducked under it. Kerric offered her his hand as she navigated the narrow steps on the far side. Accepting it, she nodded at the wooden panel blocking the far side of the corridor, roughly three lengths away. “Right. Fifth is The Door That Wasn’t, you said?”

  “It’s big, it’s ugly, and it varies from day to day as to what, exactly, is on the other side of that ‘door,’” Kerric warned her. “And that ‘door’ is warded against magic. But only the shield, so I cannot strike whatever’s holding it from in front. That means the opening moves are all yours, Painted Warrior.”

  “Then I’ll knock on it with my sword hilt, slip through the moment it opens, and turn whoever’s holding it so you can take them down, Mage,” Myal returned briskly. Grasping her sword hilt and her scabbard, she unsheathed the broad, slightly curved blade. Its width was somewhere between a saber and a scimitar for weight behind each blow, yet the tip came to a point fine enough for stabbing. Looking at the door with her left eye, she wasn’t sure but she thought the shield-door was glowing faintly. “Illusion, right?”

  “Oh, definitely an illusion,” Kerric reassured her, flipping his hand to disperse the mist in the pit. Moist air wafted their way, allowing him to breathe deeply without his sinuses feeling like they were going to crack. “A very solid, very mean, very cranky illusion. You don’t have to feel guilty about killing it, but don’t underestimate it. You’ll only have to worry about living people if we cross a still-adventuring team along the way, or maintenance personnel, or if we had a third person for Cabbage, Goat, Wolf, or . . .”

  She looked back at him over her shoulder, wrinkling her nose. “You are so very cheerful, Master Kerric.”

  “Just Kerric,” he reminded her, and nodded at the door. “Go on, give it a good knock, and let the what’s-it-today know we’re here.”

  Flexing her right knee, with its gray-and-black bull tattoo, she sized up the door, backed up, skipped into a swift charge, and whirled at the last moment, thrusting her leg hard behind her so that her heel slammed into the stoutly built panel with all the power of an actual bison. The bang forced the panel back with an audible grunt from its wielder. Twisting, she darted forward, ducking low as the owner of the door that wasn’t a door growled and straightened.

  The room beyond was fairly large, about the size of the Honey Spear. The thing which she had just kicked back was a caricature of a man melded with a mountain, with craggy sandstone skin, mossy dark green hair, gray scale armor like cracked and crazed shale, and a shield taller than Myal. Which was only fair; she only came up to the middle of his thigh at best, and that while he was crouched. Like the two of them, the ogre-man was clad in a strip-skirt, breastplate, and guards for his arms, shoulders, and legs. Unlike them, he had no shoes covering his feet, though they were so callused and the nails of his toes so clawlike, there was no need for further protection.

  Leaning to one side as she entered, the ogre grabbed the trunklike haft of a giant mace, its head a squared-off knob of spiked steel, and swung it at her. Faster than she was expecting.

  Her right bicep flexed instinctively, activating the green, red, and black braid of ink encircling her arm muscles. Everything blurred for a split second, then slowed down from her perspective, giving her time to haul herself out of the way. Spine arching, she leaned back from that swift, swiping blow. The mace-head whooshed just over her breastplate. Spinning, Myal whirled out of the way and slashed at the back of the ogre’s nearest knee, above the straps holding his shin guards in place.

  At this speed, strength didn’t matter, just the angle of her blade versus his unguarded flesh. The modest curve of its edge sliced deep into his tendons, setting off a gravelly roar of pain with a hint of a rocky avalanche rushing down a mountainside. With more of that same speed, the ogre whirled to follow her as she continued her traveling spin, slashing again with his mace, though he limped as he did so. This time, she dove and tumbled along the floor, feeling a bit of a wind from his missed a
ttack. Using her momentum to tumble up to her feet in a low crouch, she prepared to duck, dodge, or leap his next attack.

  “Spetulignessum!” Kerric thrust out his hand as if he was throwing something, and his hard cry jolted through the ogre. Or rather, the glowing spear of energy he had just hurled through the giant’s ribs. The barbed head protruded from the front of his chest.

  He coughed, and blood bubbled up from his punctured lung. Staggering, the ogre tried to swipe at Myal again, his club traveling in a low, scooping arc. This time, she flexed her left bicep and leaped upward, high and hard with great strength. Boots landing with a thump, she watched the mountain giant stagger a second time, cough and wince, then collapse with a thud that she could feel through the floor. Myal approached the ogre warily. When the monster didn’t move, she wiped her sword on the mossy green hair, sheathed it, and flexed her muscles again, relaxing her abilities and the drain they made on her life force.

  “My compliments to your illusionists,” she murmured, heart still racing a bit. Then wrinkled her nose, catching a whiff of the dead ogre’s rank sweat and blood, and the relaxing of his bowels. “Sincerely, my compliments. My left eye tattoo normally lets me discern illusions in the gauntlet games, gauging how solid or ephemeral they are, their weaknesses . . . but this one looks very solid and real.”

  “It’s as real as magic can make it, now that the Tower is in full defense mode. It is otherwise a great pity that all means of scrying on this trip have been blocked out, because this run would have made for high interest among our watchers,” Kerric murmured, skirting the fallen body. “What we’re facing is the Tower at its best. Or worst, depending on your viewpoint. And these are some of the easiest dangers we’ll face.”

  “Right. So what are the next few traps?” Myal asked him. The door on the far side of this room wasn’t a door, so much as it was just an opening. The frame for it was made of the same stone as the rest of the corridors, discernible only by the crack edging the doorway. According to her guide, the Gate built into that doorway wasn’t going to be active, so she peered into the broad corridor beyond without crossing it. “I see . . . a large bronze plaque on the wall, a lever a little bit past it, a long pit filled with some sort of liquid, and an iron grate in the middle of the pit, blocking us from getting across.”

  “That’s the Rowboat and Brick,” Kerric told her. “After that is Herding Cats, a set of stairs beyond it will be trapped with the Snowball Effect . . . with three separate trigger points to be circumnavigated . . . then we have to cross the room with All That Glitters Is Bone, and one of our many infamous Junk Room Riddles. Number Four, to be precise. You can safely cross the threshold. There are no traps between us and the Rowboat and Brick.”

  “I feel sorry for all those brute-strength adventurers who come here thinking they only have to swing hard and fast to make it through alive,” Myal murmured, stepping cautiously into the long, broad corridor. “They’d get through this one, but I’ve seen the looks of confusion on some of their faces when they’ve met up with your Junk Room Riddles. Your predecessors were downright devious, insisting anyone wanting to breach the Tower had to be able to think as well as fight.”

  “Those ‘dumb brute’ scrycastings are actually quite popular,” Kerric admitted, following her. “Particularly the comedic ones—and the ones who are smart enough to play it up for the watchers are assured a steady job as adventurers. Mainly because we tone down the danger levels for those.”

  “I’m . . . too shy, I guess,” Myal stated, trying to pick out the right word for it in Aian. “Retiring? Not . . . ah, flamboyant. That’s the word. I am not flamboyant enough. One of the Hall employees asked me if I could play up the humor and such, but . . . it’s not me. I have a sense of humor,” she added, slowing her steps so that he caught up with her, “but I came here to test my skills, not to entertain. I take it too seriously.”

  “Well, some people like a good comedy, and others enjoy a good drama,” Kerric allowed. “The Hall staff are very good at figuring out within just a few runs which adventurers are suited for what kind of a run. Some can do more than one kind, but they don’t all have to do it that way.”

  They stopped next to the plaque. The lever was located out of their reach, halfway between the edge of the pit and that iron grate. The long pit was actually quite shallow, only about a finger-length in depth, but it was filled to the brim with a clear liquid. The smell in the air told Myal what that liquid was.

  “An oil pit? Let me guess: if we get the riddle wrong, a torch drops into the pit, and this whole corridor roasts us alive?” she asked.

  Kerric nodded. “In the ‘safe’ version, the torch is an illusion, and lowers slowly on a chain from a hole behind that grate. We get the real torch version, which will be dropped swiftly if we’re wrong.” He lifted his chin at the plaque. “Don’t touch the lever just yet. I’ll give you a chance to guess the riddle, since you are a smart adventurer.”

  “What will I get if I guess it right?” Myal asked him, curious.

  Kerric opened his mouth, closed it in thought, then finally shrugged. “Well, I was going to offer the usual, a bag of coins or whatever after we get out. But since we’re going to be facing the Seraglio gauntlet at some point . . . how about a kiss?”

  If he hadn’t offered it so matter-of-factly, Myal would have wondered at his real motives for bringing her along. As it was, however, she felt a little bit insulted that he’d treat kissing her so casually. Hands shifting to her hips, she stared down at him. “How do I know your kiss is worth a correct answer?”

  Kerric lifted his brows, not expecting that particular challenge to his offer. He could have boasted, he could have argued, but the truth was . . . Shrugging, he admitted freely, “I don’t know if it is or not. Some women have quite enjoyed my kisses, and wanted more. Others were only mildly pleased by them. I suppose you could have a free one right now, if you like. But just the one.”

  The absurdity of the bargain made her chuckle. Hands slipping off her hips, she shook her head at him. “This is ridiculous. A kiss isn’t worth a bag of coins.”

  “Nor are you a whore, to trade for one,” he agreed quickly, wanting to make that point clear. “But we do need to build up some, ah, physical trust between us.” He reached up to tuck the edge of his finger under her chin, caressing it a little. She permitted the touch, looking down at him. Kerric realized at that moment just how tall she was, and an unhappy thought crossed his mind. Lowering his hand, he asked, “Or is it because I’m too short?”

  Myal stared down at him. “Kerric, every man in this land is ‘too short’ by my people’s standards, if you gauge it by that. Even most of the adventurers; Nafiel himself is among the tallest of those, and I am a thumb-width taller than him. But I am not interested in him, I am not interested in my two fellow Mendhites—who are taller than me—and I have occasionally enjoyed a moment of . . . of intimacy with some of my fellow, shorter adventurers. I have learned that height is no guarantee of pleasure in such matters.

  “It is the truth to say that it is a man’s skill that makes him good or bad at being a lover.” A pause, and she added lightly, “I will take that free sample, and see if a kiss per riddle is worth it.”

  It was his turn to chuckle. Not for long, though; Kerric lifted his head as she stooped. Cupping her cheek, he guided their lips together. She didn’t make it a quick kiss, either, though it stayed soft and tenuous at first. Moving his lips against hers, he nibbled slowly on her bottom lip, then gently traced the upper one with the tip of his tongue.

  A soft sigh escaped her. He did have some skill, Myal decided. Grateful this wasn’t going to be too awkward, she nibbled back, sliding her own hand under his chin. Their height difference was a little distracting, but not insurmountable, and his taste was sweet and slightly minty. She wondered if he could taste the spiced fruit from her dessert, though it had been eaten over half an hour ago. She prolonged the kiss, encouraged when he met her lips with just as much interest
. . . until a stray thought crossed her mind.

  Breaking it off, she straightened, shaking her head a little to clear it.

  Not knowing why she ended the kiss, Kerric lifted a brow. “Come now, my kisses cannot be all that bad?”

  “No. It was very nice.” She gave him an awkward smile. “No, it just occurred to me I was kissing the Master of the Tower. And it felt . . . unreal.”

  “I am also a man,” he reminded her, his own hands going to his leather-stripped hips. “I deserve as much pleasure as any other man should hope for in the presence of a beautiful and willing woman.”

  She ducked her head shyly at the compliment. “A rather big and unpleasant-looking woman.”

  “A beautiful woman,” he corrected. “With the exotic appeal of a far-distant foreigner, exciting and lovely. Plus you are talented, competent, and intelligent.”

  “I meant my tattoos,” she told him. “They’re not exactly lovely.”

  “They are. They make you a beautiful, colorful woman,” Kerric clarified.

  Myal realized that he didn’t get it. He didn’t understand that a non-mage Painted Warrior was . . . less than appealing, back home. On the one hand, that was a very flattering compliment, that he didn’t care she was infertile. On the other hand, he probably didn’t know her tattoos made her infertile, and that might cause a problem down the road.

  “Kerric . . . the tattoo that empowers everything,” she said, gesturing at the one surrounding her navel, “that one is responsible for making me infertile. It makes me . . . less than a woman, back home.”

  He frowned at her words. “That’s a pile of turds. Why should that make you less than a woman? You’re still an adult female, and I find you attractive. As for what other people might say, they do not speak for me. I can do that myself.”

  His assertions warmed her, soothing part of the old ache inside. Except this is supposed to be a one-time liaison, and he did say he wasn’t looking for long-term attachments, she reminded herself. So I shouldn’t worry about the needs of any long-term interest . . . and not plan for any long-term interest in me.