The Tiger's Eye (Book 1)

by Robert P. Hansen

  The side of his head throbbed, and there was blood trickling down his cheek.

  He was covered in dust and rock fragments.

  When he opened his eyes, there were flickering spots dancing all around him. At first, he thought it was his imagination, but then he realized there were flickering spots where the rock particles had briefly ignited.

  He opened his mouth to take a breath—and sputtered as the grit in the air clung to his throat, his tongue. He coughed and spat, then used his robe to cover his mouth and nose.

  He sat up slowly—he was sore, but not in serious pain—and opened his eyes a sliver. A strange, gray-black haziness permeated the corridor, and ended with a dingy yellow glow.

  Much of the end of the corridor was gone. The wand’s conical ray had disintegrated the upper half of the doorway and the stone above it. It had continued past it, through the floor that had blocked the doorway, and into the ceiling of the room where Giorge had been trapped.

  Hobart hurried around the corner and the rock flakes fluttering to the ground lit up like sparks as the torchlight struck them. “Giorge!” Hobart called out, pausing only briefly as he passed Angus and made his way to the end of the corridor.

  Angus continued sitting for almost a minute before he struggled unsteadily to his feet, his lower back protesting against it.

  His ears were still ringing.

  His nose was getting clogged, despite breathing through the fine fabric of his robe.

  He reached up and gingerly felt his temple where a shard of rock had grazed him in passing. The wound wasn’t deep, and the blood was already drying.

  As he tucked the wand back into his sleeve, he thought, Five more spells. Maybe I can find someone to cast the spells into it? It is a delicate process….

  “Do you see him?” Angus called, his throat scratchy.

  “It’s too dusty,” Hobart said waving his hand before putting it back over his nose.

  “Where’s the Lamplight?” Angus asked, squinting.

  “The what?” Hobart asked, still waving his hand in front of him.

  “The light,” Angus said. He leaned against the wall and shuffled unsteadily toward Hobart. “Where’s the light?”

  “Right there,” Hobart pointed. “In the middle of the room.”

  “That’s where Giorge is,” Angus said. “The Lamplight is connected to him. Even if he were dead, it would stay next to his shoulder.”

  “Giorge!” Hobart called several times as Angus made his way gingerly to his side.

  “It’s no use,” Angus said through his robe. “He must have been deafened by the noise. It was pretty bad out here, and must have been much worse in there.”

  “You’ll have to fly over—”

  “Can’t,” Angus said, shaking his head. “I have to prime for it before I can cast it again, and that would take too long.”

  “I’ll get a rope,” Hobart said, turning. “You can climb down—”

  “Won’t work,” Angus said. “There were stakes beneath the floor, just like in the pit under the stairwell.”

  “What can we do, then?” Hobart asked, flexing his hand like he wanted to hit something.

  The haze had settled enough for them to see Giorge’s outline. He was clinging to the bowl with his head down and his chest on top of it.

  “I don’t know,” Angus said. “At least we know he’s alive.”

  “Maybe I can throw him a rope,” Hobart suggested. “If he catches it—”

  “He’ll have to let go of that podium to catch it,” Angus interrupted. “He’ll fall.” Then he frowned. “Why would you throw him a rope?”

  “If he ties it to the podium,” Hobart said through his hand, “and I hold it over here, he can crawl across. I’ve even seen him walk along a rope before.”

  “It might work,” Angus said. “He already has a rope tied around him. If we bring the other end over here, do you think he will understand what we’re doing?”

  Hobart frowned and dropped his hand from his mouth and nose long enough to call out, “Giorge! Can you hear me?”

  No answer.

  “He has to be deaf,” Angus said. “It should wear off in time, but he can’t hear us now.”

  “I think he’ll figure it out,” Hobart said. “But it might take him a little while.”

  “Let’s hope he does,” Angus said, drawing the magic around him into focus. He winced and his arm reflexively went up to shield his eyes. It did no good; there was a huge swath of flame magic dancing around in front of him, and the strands almost blinded him; they were even brighter than the complex network of spells protecting Hellsbreath. He gasped and dropped to his knees, letting the magic fade back into the background. After it was gone, the after-image lingered for several seconds.

  Hobart half-reached for him, paused, and asked, “Are you all right?”

  Angus blinked several times, the rock particles scraping uncomfortably against his eyes. “I will be,” he said after a moment. “It caught me by surprise.”

  “What did?” Hobart asked.

  Angus shook his head and held his breath until he could bring the robe back over his nose. “It might have been the tumble I took catching up to me,” he lied. How could he explain what he had seen? Hobart wouldn’t even begin to understand it, and this was not the time for a lengthy explanation. Even if it were, he wouldn’t be inclined to tell him.

  He pushed himself into a seated position and leaned against the corridor wall. This time, he turned away from the room and brought the energy into focus. It was more tolerable with the energy behind him, but there was still a tremendous array of flame magic to draw upon. Fiercely brilliant, deep-red threads of great power. But he needed sky magic, not flame, and it took a long time to single out a thin blue strand from all the red chaos surrounding him. When he found it, he held his breath and tied the quick knot for Puffer. Then he braced himself, sending the magic as far to the periphery as he dared before turning around. The magic was so strong that it looked as if he still had it fully in focus, but it was manageable.

  He sent the light breeze toward the rope dangling from Giorge, and it fluttered. He squeezed the knot a little tighter to make the breeze stronger, reducing his control over it. Nearly a minute passed before he was able to bring the rope into reach with a series of rapid bursts of wind. Hobart leaned forward to grab it.

  The rope was barely long enough to reach through the hole in the floor-now-wall, and when he had a firm grip, Hobart gave it a brisk tug.

  “Stop!” Giorge yelled. “You’ll pull me off!”

  “Giorge!” Hobart called as he let up on the rope. “Can you hear me?”

  No response.

  “Let me try,” Angus said, reaching out with his right hand. He took the rope and flicked it back and forth, sending a series of waves down the rope toward Giorge. He kept flicking it for several seconds, and then stopped abruptly.

  “What good will all that wiggling do?” Hobart asked.

  Angus shrugged. “I’m hoping he will realize we’re holding onto the rope and want him to tie it off.”

  Another minute went by, and then Giorge stirred, tentatively shifting his position until his knees were in the bowl. He balanced precariously and loosened the rope loop around his chest. He slid it down to his knees and worked it over his feet. He held onto the rope at the loop’s knot, and then maneuvered very slowly until he was scrunched up enough to pull the loop tight around the podium.

  Angus handed the rope back to Hobart, who pulled the rope taut and braced himself.

  Giorge continued his slow, methodical ballet of slothful movements until he was dangling upside down from the rope. He slowly slid away from the podium, his hands pulling him along with his legs trailing behind, wrapped around the rope.

  Hobart coughed and leaned back, but shook his head when Angus moved to help him with the rope.

  Once Giorge had moved a few feet, he began pulling with greater urgency and quickly crossed over the pit. When he was withi
n reach, Angus tapped him on his shoulder and guided him through the opening and into the tunnel.

  “My eyes,” Giorge sputtered. “I can’t see.” He coughed.

  “Can you hear us?” Angus asked.

  No answer.

  “Let’s get him out of this corridor,” Hobart said. “There’s too much dust in the air.”

  Angus nodded and led Giorge down the corridors, not entirely sure who was leaning against whom. When they reached the control room, they set him down and washed the dust off Giorge’s face. His eyes were bright red, and they poured water over them for several seconds, despite his attempts to avoid it.

  “Can you hear anything?” Angus asked, his voice loud. “Can you see?”

  Giorge closed his eyes and didn’t respond.

  Angus took went to his backpack, opened it, and scrounged around until he found the pot of healing balm. He pried open the lid and looked inside. It was nearly empty, barely half an inch of the goop clung to the bottom. He reached inside with two fingers and brought out a big glob. He looked at Giorge and said, “I hope this works on eyes as well as it does on skin.”

  Hobart frowned but said nothing.

  Angus spread the salve around Giorge’s eyes first, then on the lids. He was sure the pain was already subsiding, as it had done with his own burns, and he hoped that Giorge would trust him to spread the goo onto the eyes, themselves. Surprisingly, Giorge opened them on his own and didn’t even flinch as Angus’s fingers moved gently over the spongy surface. When he finished, Hobart took a clean piece of cloth out of a sack and wrapped it around Giorge’s eyes.

  “Do you think it will help?” Hobart asked.

  “I have no idea,” Angus said. “We’ll just have to wait and see.”

  “I’ll keep watch on him,” Ortis said as he leaned heavily against the doorway. “What happened?”

  While Hobart gave him a brief recap of what he knew, Angus recaptured the Lamplight and stood up. He lifted the empty water flask and said, “We need more water. I’ll try to find some down here.” He squeezed through the doorway, past Ortis—who had something sticky on his arms and hands—and went down the corridor, back to the chamber Giorge had found. He doubted he would find water in it, but he needed to get another look at the magic, first.

  The dust was still settling, still obscuring his vision, but that didn’t matter; the magic would still be clear, and he needed to find out where it was coming from. He knew what it was, and it frightened him, intrigued him. It was a nexus.

  18

  Voltari turned to Angus and said, “It is time for you to learn where the magic comes from.”

  Angus frowned. “I thought it came from the strands of energy surrounding us.”

  “That is what we draw upon,” Voltari said. “It is not the source from which the strands sprout.”

  Voltari put his hand on Angus’s shoulder and tweaked the strands of his teleportation spell. It was not the usual quick flick of his fingers that would take him from one room to another; rather, it was a complex series of gestures that danced along the knots he had already set in place. Then the practice chamber disappeared, and he was surrounded by the black strands of death. There were many of them, very dark and waving about as if they sought to devour something, anything, everything.

  “We must not stay long,” Voltari said. “Do you see the strands?”

  Angus nodded. “Yes, Master.”

  “Do you see where they come from?”

  Angus studied their pattern and realized they all originated in the deep crack below them. He pointed. “They seem to be coming from down there,” he said.

  Voltari nodded. “Yes,” he said. “It is a nexus.”

  Angus frowned. Nexus? It was a new concept, and he wondered what it was. He was about to ask Voltari when his master continued.

  “A nexus,” Voltari said, “is a fixed point of magic. It may be a place where the threads come together, merge, and separate again, or it is the place from which a particular form of magic originates. The latter are extremely dangerous; the power is raw and untamed. The spells that draw upon the power of an origination point will be magnified disproportionately and difficult to control. It is best not to use them.”

  “My tower is built on this minor nexus where threads from decay and death merge together. You cannot see it from here; it is too deep within that crack. I know of other minor nexuses that have been claimed by wizards who specialize in other forms of magic. The Wizards’ Schools are all built upon nexus points where many different threads merge together. The Wizards’ School in Wayfair is built upon a particularly powerful one, a major nexus, that is both a concentration of energies and an origination point of two distinct forms of magic. I know of only one other major nexus, and that is deep within the mountains; it fuels the magic of the dwarves and keeps their forges burning. But they are incompetent fools who barely know how to tap into its energy.”

  Voltari fell into an angry silence for several seconds, and then returned them to the practice room. When it appeared he was about to leave, Angus asked, “What should I do if I ever find a nexus?”

  “You?” Voltari laughed. “Run. You don’t have the ability to tame it, to make it do your bidding.”

  “What if I did have that power?” Angus asked.

  Voltari cuffed him, laughed, and teleported away.

  19

  “We can’t stay down here,” Hobart said. “We’ve already left the horses alone for too long.”

  “Something might have seen Angus’s flare, too,” Ortis added.

  “At least we shouldn’t have to worry about the cat-things,” Angus said. “They appear to be more-or-less domesticated.”

  “Giorge needs more time to recover,” Ortis said. “It’s been less than a day.”

  “It’s too bad all those other rooms were empty,” Hobart said.

  “As far as we could tell,” Angus said. “We didn’t search them close enough to find trapdoors, secret tunnels—”

  “Traps,” Hobart interjected.

  “While we wait for Giorge to recover,” Angus said. “I’d like to take another look at that pit.”

  “Why?” Hobart asked. “You’ve already spent a lot of time there.”

  “I know,” Angus said. “Call it a feeling if you want to, but there’s something down there.”

  “What if there is?” Hobart said. “How would we get down to it?”

  Angus shrugged. “Give me a few hours rest to rejuvenate my energy matrix, and I’ll prime my flying spell.”

  “The way you fly,” Hobart muttered, “You’ll run into the wall again.”

  Angus chuckled. “Probably,” he agreed. “But if I don’t practice, I’ll never get better. It is a new spell for me, after all.”

  “All right,” Ortis said. “I’ll go up to check on the horses and bring back some food and water.”

  “Do you think you can make it up the staircase in your condition?”

  Ortis nodded. “It might take me a while, but I can do it.”

  “I’m going to take a nap,” Angus said. “I’m getting a bit tired, anyway. You can check up on Giorge, can’t you Hobart?”

  Hobart nodded and turned away.

  Two Ortises went down the corridor and out into the stairwell; the other one followed Hobart.

  Angus went into the antechamber where Ortis had healed himself and looked around for a few minutes before sitting down in a corner to sleep. The same sticky substance was on the floor that he had felt on Ortis’s arm when he had passed him, and he wondered if there had been a cocoon after all. If only he had had time to look in on him again….

  20

  By the time Angus had finished priming his spells—Lamplight, Flying, Puffer, Arclight—Ortis had returned and Giorge had woken up. Giorge could hear again, but his vision was still blurry.

  Ortis told them the cat-things were still in the grain near the temple, but they were keeping their distance. The horses were fine.

  “Well?”
Angus asked as he joined them. “Are we going to look in that room again, or not?”

  “You know there’s nothing there but the pit,” Hobart said.

  “Yes there is,” Giorge said. He reached into his tunic and brought out a small pouch. He opened the ties and tipped some of the gems into his hand. “I dropped the other bag,” he said.

  Hobart reached over and picked up a pea-sized emerald. “These will fetch a handsome price,” he said. “How many are there?”

  “Enough to lift Angus’s injunction, winter in Hellsbreath, and buy Hedreth’s inn a half-dozen times. If we get the other bag.”

  “Don’t forget the taxes,” Hobart said. “The king will want his share.”

  “That’s what the other bag is for,” Giorge said. “We can leave it here and let the king’s men come back and get it for the king, can’t we?”

  Hobart glared at him and shook his head. “The king is generous enough to us as it is. He deserves his due.”

  “Oh?” Giorge countered. “And what, exactly, did he do to help us find this place? Did he come down here with us? Did he almost die? Did he go blind? No. We’re not even in his land anymore.”

  “That isn’t quite true,” Hobart said, frowning. “He claims The Tween as his own.”

  “So do the Dwarves,” Giorge said. “Maybe we should pay them taxes.”

  “Never mind that,” Ortis said. “There will be plenty of time to argue the point on our way back to Hellsbreath.”

  “Right,” Angus said. “You said you dropped another pouch in that room. How do we get down to it?”

  “What about that spell you used to lift the rope?” Hobart asked. “That pouch has to weigh a lot less than the rope.”

  Angus tilted his head and half-smiled. “If I can see it, I’ll try,” he said. “But I will have to go into the room to see it.”

  “So,” Hobart said. “You’re going to fly, then?”

  Angus nodded. “Unless you have another idea for avoiding the stakes.”

  No one had any suggestions, and into the silence Giorge said, “At least I can see a little better today.”

  “Sorry about that,” Angus said. “I tried to minimize the risk from the wand.”