Key to Magic 04 Emperor

by H. Jonas Rhynedahll

  After a lengthy pause, the younger Gaaelfharenii replied, "No, my lord king."

  "Well, let's try right first."

  The left branch of the right-hand cross corridor was only a stub, sealed after ten paces with a plug of olive stone. The right branch made an immediate right angled turn and doubled back, to intersect another corridor that proved to be the original left cross corridor, meaning that they had simply walked around a rectangle. One end of second cross corridor, coinciding with the dead end of the other, was also blocked by olive stone.

  "I hope this place is not a maze," Lord Hhrahld grumbled. "I hate mazes. I was lost in one on the isle of Ge'slindaep off the Western Shore for almost a month."

  "If it is," Eishtren proposed, "we should establish a descriptive nomenclature to map our route."

  At Aelwyrd's confused look, Lord Hhrahld clarified, "We will have to pick an arbitrary direction to describe the turns we take, lad. For instance, if we call the first corridor north-south, with our original direction being north, then this one would run east-west, with the dead end here being west. Understand?"

  Aelwyrd continued to look blank. "No, my lord."

  "Right, then. Just take it on faith that the direction that I am facing is west. What direction is our only direction to continue?"

  "East?"

  "Exactly right. We will keep track of our turns based on that orientation." As the five of them moved on, the old pirate went on at length, enthralling the recruit with a rambling discourse on basic orienteering, map reading, battle movement, course headings, and precision surveying.

  As it turned out, the level was not a maze but simply a regular grid of corridors, all brightly lit, whose various ends had been sealed, in no recognizable pattern, with the olive stone. They encountered no doors or alcoves and at the rough center of the grid was a single room, twenty by thirty paces. By Lord Hhrahld's reckoning, it lay northeast of the entrance. Here they found a darkened, circular shaft five paces across.

  Mar floated over the shaft. "Stand by here. I'll take a look."

  As he expected, light sprang out from flush mounted lamps as he descended below floor level, revealing an otherwise smooth tube that appeared to cut through bedrock. Pausing for a moment, he delved the magic of the lamps and found a remarkably simplistic modulation. It was such an obvious construction of natural flux that he felt dumb for not having discovered it on his own. In any event, it was easily replicable and once he found an appropriate vessel, he should be able to produce these magical lamps by the dozens with as little effort as it took to make sand spheres.

  Continuing, he rotated his head back and forth, trying to watch all sides at once. The shaft went down as much as four manheight and then opened into a vastly larger space, a circular cavern with a domed roof. Here the lamps, formed in concentric rings, came on in stages, rather than all at once. He stopped and hovered just below the bottom of the shaft, still about six manheight from the floor, and rotated to take in the orderly ranks of metal devices, thousands upon thousands, that occupied all of the area of the floor save for an empty circle immediately below and a straight, narrow aisle that led off to his right toward a dark tunnel mouth.

  With at least two dozen readily identified types, some of the silvery objects were no larger than a dog, some where twice the size of a horse, some were the size of a house, and many were sizes in between. All appeared folded in upon themselves, with leg-like structures, implements, and armatures tucked into compact, vaguely box-like volumes. The devices were segregated according to size, with the smallest closest to the center and the largest against the far walls. It was clear that these were mechanisms of some sort, as he could clearly discern gears and cogs amongst their complicated innards, but he discerned nothing that would allow him to guess their function. When he moved down far enough to delve one of the nearest, he found it bursting with incredibly complex and intricately interconnected flux modulations, but none of these appeared to be active.

  Trying to trigger any possible response from the spells, he approached one of the nearer ones and placed his hand upon a burnished protrusion, prepared to flee at the first movement, but the magic remained dormant. He flew all about the room, checking devices at random, but found none that reacted either to his presence, touch, or ethereal nudging.

  Satisfied, he returned to the level above, told the others to gather together and link arms to make the managing the spells easier, infused their boots and clothing and armor, and then lowered the group down the shaft and to the clear area at the center of the cavern. As soon as their feet touched down, he urged them down the aisle.

  "My lord king, have you noticed that these apparatus are lined up like armsmen on parade?" Eishtren asked, after only a few steps, peering with evident suspicion first to his left, then to his right.

  "Yes, but their spells are dormant. I checked."

  "They do not look like engines of war," Lord Hhrahld suggested. "That large one there ahead appears to be bearing a large shovel or scoop."

  Mar's unease flared and then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the smaller constructions whirl to life.

  FORTY-TWO

  142nd Year of the Reign of the City

  (Ninthday, Waning, 1st Wintermoon, 1644 After the Founding of the Empire)

  Ghorn rattled his chain again. The fingerwidth thick links were soft iron, old, and begrimed with filth that covered a chancre of rust. He was the first prisoner in the old dungeon beneath Steel Point in probably a century and his captors had not bothered to replace the original appurtenances.

  As an experiment, he snapped the chain taut several times. The links both sounded and felt disagreeably strong. Carefully placing his bare feet in the inky blackness, he followed the chain to the wall and examined its fastening by touch. At about the height of his breast bone, the end of the chain had been welded directly onto a stud that extended a scant quarter of a fingerlength from the rough stone of the wall.

  After a moment's thought, he took a firm hold on the chain with both hands about half an armlength from the stud, hiked up his leg and placed his right foot on the slime coated wall alongside it, flexed his back to take a strain on the chain, and then carefully raised his left foot from the floor.

  His right foot slipped off and he dropped heavily into the muck that filled the bottom of his cell. As the chain jerked to the end of its length, the manacle on his right wrist dragged along his forearm, gouging deep enough to draw blood. Ignoring the injury, he rose and used the edge of his hand to scrape the slime from the large block that contained the stud. It was still slick with damp and mildew when he was done, but he thought he could gain traction now, and repeated his balancing procedure. This time, when he went to raise his left foot, his other did not slip, and he successfully secured his stance, leaving him suspended perpendicular to the wall.

  Slowly, he took up a greater strain, pushing with his legs as he tried to straighten his back. Holding tension on the chain as long as he could, he focused intently on his hands, trying to detect even the slightest movement.

  When the stud gave an abrupt, oily screech and slid a fingerlength from the wall, he fell again, landing hard on the flat of his back, but his unseen grin was as wide as his face. Climbing to his feet, he examined the end of the stud behind the chain. It was as thick as the meaty part of his thumb, but its surface was deeply pitted. For it to have moved at all, the anchor welded to its other end must have corroded away. Wrapping most of his left fist around it, he gave it a strong tug, felt it move slightly, then wrenched it back in forth in an attempt to loosen it further. While he managed to grind some of the rust from the shaft, the stone around it remained solid.

  Undeterred, he caught hold of it, braced his feet against the wall again, and gave it another tug. This time he gained nearly two fingerlengths. He continued this procedure -- wrenching the stud to loosen the caking rust and then pulling on it -- until he had nearly a third of an armlength extending from the wall. At this point, a solid sectio
n of the shaft with a larger diameter lodged tightly in the hole. In spite of his best efforts, it refused to come further out.

  Bending his knees, he took it in both hands, lodged his shoulder against the end, and then pressed upward for all that he was worth. With the strain pressing blood up into his head and making him feel as if he would swoon, the stud began to bend and slowly but steadily turned up near vertical. He stopped to rest then, his labored breath bursting in and out of his mouth. As soon as the racing beat of his heart had slowed, he grabbed the stud again, walked his feet up the wall to brace himself, and forced it back level. He repeated the process -- bend, rest, bend, rest -- twelve times, the metal growing increasingly weaker and warmer. On the thirteenth downward bend, the near scalding stud snapped off cleanly in his hands.

  Grimly wrapping the chain loosely around his forearm, he felt around the wall until he reached the narrow door and then squatted on the hinge side to wait.

  They fed him moldy bread and tepid water once a day -- or, at least, as far as he could figure it was once a day -- throwing the door fully open to toss a pan inside. He had waited what he thought was two hours after his meal to begin work on the stud.

  Compelled by the prediction of the Gods thrice damned sorcerer to wait, he had spent seventy days in this foul cell. Today, the seventy-first, he would escape or die in the attempt.

  Ghorn dozed some, but was wide awake when the light of the guard's lantern crept under the door. Listening intently, he heard the man put down his lantern and then twist a large iron key in the big lock.

  Quietly, Ghorn settled a loop of the chain around his fist, priming his legs for a terrific lunge. As soon as the door was snatched open, he hurtled through, swinging with savage anger.

  The hammer of his chain-wrapped fist struck the wide-eyed fellow alongside the ear slot of his helmet and such was the fury of the blow that the guard was cast down instantly, stunned or dead, Ghorn did not know or care which. Without pause, he rolled the guard over on his back, pulled the saber from the sheath on his belt, then caught up the lantern. He almost ran on immediately, but turned back to hurriedly strip the guard of his trousers and boots and don them; desperate he might be, but he was not yet so deprived of his dignity that he wanted to run through the fortress naked. He did not bother with the mail shirt, under tunic, or helmet, not wanting anything that might slow him down. His only hope was speed. He had to escape before armsmen or magery could be turned out against him.

  Though he had only seen the route out of the dungeon the one time -- when he had been dragged into it -- he remembered it exactly and sprinted around corners, up dank passages, and finally up the exit stairs. At the top, the heavy door leading into ground floor of the fortress was slightly ajar and he stopped, stilled his breath to suppress the noise, and peered out.

  Beyond was a wide, vaulted corridor that ran the length of the fortresses' main keep. What little he could see of it was empty.

  Now, he had a choice to make.

  Left led through the keep to the bailey and the main landward gate. The gate was most likely closed and attempting to drop over the high outer wall would almost certainly be crippling if not fatal, but it seemed reasonable that a postern gate would be accessible, presuming that he could fight his way through any guard detail. The landscape beyond was as inhospitable -- especially at this time of year -- as any in the world: rock, sparse vegetation, and few sources of fresh water. The peninsula was more than twenty leagues long and had not a single habitation along it. A man on foot could reach the mainland in three or four days, but even then the nearest village must be nearly a hundred leagues along the coast to the east.

  Right led to the inner courtyard. From there, any part of the fortress was accessible, including the harbor gate. Supposing that he could dash through and get down to the harbor, he figured that there must be an even chance that a small courier boat would be tied up at one of the piers. He was a good enough of a sailor to manage something like that on his own, and a small boat running before the wind could outrun a galley, particularly if he had a decent head start.

  He pulled the door open, edged his head out to look, and, when he saw no one along its whitewashed length, slipped out and went right, moving at a wary lope, trying to keep his stolen boots from striking heavily on the worn black flagstones. Passing several closed doors, he proceeded without mishap until the double doors at the far end of the corridor were only thirty paces away. Here, a smaller cross corridor intersected the main corridor, and he slowed for moment, hearing two male voices chatting to the left. He considered his lack of options, then sprinted directly ahead, his eyes fixed on the exit.

  A sudden, startled shout told him that his passage had not gone unnoticed.

  Reaching the doors, he threw the latch and burst out, barreling right under the sun washed arcade without stopping and almost ran headlong into two monks. He dodged, throwing out the saber to chop at both, elicited a scream and a grunt, and continued at a dead run without glancing back to see what damage he had done.

  There were many shouts behind and ahead of him now, but he ignored them, making a right and then a left to join the corridor that led to the harbor gate.

  Nearly silent, a crossbow bolt whizzed by his head and he rapidly reversed direction as the dozen armsmen barring the way to the barred gate charged. Turning on his heel, he sped into a chambered hall and then left into the narrow opening of a spiral stair, leaping up the treads four at a time. With his pursuers lagging only a couple dozen paces, he continued up the stair, passing one landing, then another. At the third, a monk stepped out to bar his path, drawing back his arm as if to hurl something.

  Ghorn thrust hard and pieced the Phaelle'n through and through, then muscled the shrieking man around and shoved him off into the stairwell with the sole of his boot. The monk tumbled downward, his cries diminishing with every bloody bounce. For good measure, he threw the lantern after him. The glass globe burst, but the brass reservoir did not and the flame simply went out. Grunting a curse, he fled upward once more.

  He did not bother to count the landings he passed, but by the time he reached the top of the stair, his breath came in ragged gasps and his steps were unsteady. The half-circular platform with roundel windows all around told him that he had mounted one of the towers. The diametric wall had a single, pine plank door with a hand latch. Opening this, he found an equally small, also half-circular room that was empty save for a simple table and chair sitting before a man-sized casement.

  Dealing first with the obvious, he slammed the door, then dragged the table and chair over to wedge against it, even though he knew it would not hold for more than a few seconds. Taking deep breaths to ease the ache in his lungs and using his free fist to knead the ache under the side of his ribs, he walked to the casement, swung the two sashes inward and stepped up onto the sill to look out.

  Directly below, the tower outer wall dropped to the battlements, then swelled outward slightly to join the main outer wall of the fortress. Below this were the cliffs and the sea. The harbor and the fortified switchbacks leading down to it were off to his left and beyond those the lighthouse. From where he stood to the breakers crashing against the rough jumble of splintered rock at the base of the cliff was not less than thirty manheight. Readying the saber, he stepped down from the sill and turned back to the door.

  Heavy steps echoed up the stairwell, milled about for a moment, then approached the door. The latch rattled and then the door shook in its frame as weight -- two shoulders, he thought -- slammed against it. The chair shattered, but the angled table only jumped, holding firm.

  Weight hit the door again and this time the table skittered aside, allowing the panel to open and spill two off-balance armsmen into the room. Others, swords drawn, crowded behind.

  Ghorn crouched and thrust, impaling one of the armsmen through his unarmored thigh and then, without another look, spun about and flung himself out the casement, leaping out as far as he possibly could.

  FO
RTY-THREE

  Eishtren drew and fired. His arrow pierced the approaching mechanism and wedged into the floor beneath it, pinning the thing in place. Scrabbling frantically with six multi-jointed extensions, the contraption tried to continue, then abruptly stopped resisting. After a moment, it extended a segmented arm from its forward end, curled it back to grasp the shaft with a four-fingered silver claw, and began to investigate it.

  Mar was unsure what level of intelligence this implied and likewise whether these actions indicated that it could or could not see. It had nothing that he would term a head or eyes.

  Eishtren fired again, this time at a more busy section of the mechanism near its roughly pear-shaped center. His arrow striking something more vital, the mechanism slumped lifeless with a small burp of purple flame and orange smoke, its various appendages splayed in random directions.

  On the heel of the quaestor's second shot, both Gaaelfharenii drew swords and held them at high guard, Lord Hhrahld moving left and Wilhm right.

  For a brief few seconds none of the other mechanisms moved, then those nearest each swordsman vibrated and began to unfold, and that movement triggered their neighbors, and that theirs, so that the activation rippled across the entire room and brought all of the stored devices to life. In another moment, a wave of the smallest mechanisms shifted toward the party, their ball shaped metal feet making a clattering roar.

  Eishtren fired continuously, each shot killing one of the smaller models. For a few seconds, the advance paused as the first wave dodged back under the cover of their larger cousins. The quaestor shifted his aim to these, but scored few hits as the bigger devices, using arms or claws or scoops or hammers moving at incredible speed, slapped his arrows away.

  Mar manipulated flux to seize Eishtren, Aelwyrd, Wilhm, and Lord Hhrahld and raise them off the floor out of reach. Just below the domed ceiling, he drew the group into a tight cluster to facilitate easier control, with the quaestor and his recruit in front and the two Gaaelfharenii behind. Though all the armored men were a strain, the Gaaelfharenii were particularly difficult as their boots and the leather straps of their armor were not sufficient to permit him to comfortably overcome the weight of their mail, breastplates, greaves, and swords for an extended duration, compelling him to constantly re-infuse their leaky wool trousers and other garments to provide additional lift.