The Ventifact Colossus (The Heroes of Spira Book 1)

by Dorian Hart

  Tor charged in from the flank, limping but with fury, and bowled over the Sharshun atop Dranko. The boy had incapacitated the Sharshun who had shot him, but not without terrible cost. Blood gushed from his off-hand and also down the side of his face from a cut to his scalp. The Sharshun popped to her feet while Tor struggled to rise. Her curved sword came sweeping down, and Tor barely deflected it.

  Eye of Moirel, I command you to blast those damn bald bastards. Sagiro too.

  THERE WILL BE CONSEQUENCES.

  Dranko had gotten to his feet, and Kibi bellowed at him. “Dranko, get into the keep, now.”

  “But Tor needs…”

  “Now! Dranko, find cover right now or we’re all as good as dead!”

  Dranko dashed off toward the keep. Kibi couldn’t follow his progress because Sagiro was nearly upon him.

  “If you hand over the Eye, I will tell my friends to stand down.” Sagiro sounded so conciliatory, even over the battlefield sounds of steel on steel. Unlike the indigo faces of the Sharshun, lit with battle-lust and malice, Sagiro looked regretful, almost apologetic. But he also wasn’t stopping his advance. He pulled back his rapier and turned his wrist, clearly intending to skewer Kibi through the heart.

  Now! Damn the consequences!

  The tip of the rapier was nudging the fabric of Kibi’s shirt when the blast went off. A purple sphere of force expanded outward from the Eye of Moirel, lifting everyone but Kibi off their feet. The shockwave was many times stronger than the one Sagiro’s Eye had effected in the cave; it sent the combatants sailing upward and backward like windblown leaves. Two of the Sharshun, along with Ernie and Tor, were slammed bodily into the rough walls of the keep, where they fell into senseless heaps. Morningstar and the remaining Sharshun were merely flung a dozen feet across the courtyard, landing with rolling thuds. None of them stood up.

  Behind him Aravia had been spared the worst of it by dint of already lying prone on the ground. The concussive force of the Eye rolled her backward nearly to the keep entrance.

  Sagiro gave Kibi a final look of something like betrayal as he was picked up and thrown directly backwards, through the gap of the gatehouse and over the lip of the ravine. Kibi imagined the rest: his body spinning gracefully, possibly ricocheting off the far side of the chasm, and plunging into the churn of rapids and rocks at the bottom.

  “Good riddance, you mustached bastard!”

  Dranko poked his head out of the keep. “Hells’ breakfast! Kibi, what happened? Are they all dead?”

  Kibi looked at his friends, every bit as unconscious as the Sharshun, and prayed they were not. “Should just be knocked out and bruised. But Tor’s badly cut up, and the others might be too. If you feel up to channelin’, figure out who’s worst off. Otherwise just patch ‘em up best as you can.”

  Dranko nodded. “Right. But where’s Sagiro? Did he get away?”

  “Nope. The Eye knocked ’im into the river.”

  “Serves him right,” said Dranko, before hurrying from body to body, inspecting their injuries. “Kibi, while I tend to our friends, I think our Sharshun buddies here should go play follow the leader.”

  It took Kibi a moment to figure that out. “You mean dump ’em over the edge?”

  “No, I mean dance a jig and kiss ’em on the lips. Yes, of course dump them over! Those Sharshun are tougher than we are and will probably wake up sooner from your magic blast. It would be safer to drive your pick through their skulls; just choose whatever you can live with. Oh, and if you choose the toss-plummet option, loot the bodies first.”

  “But that might wake ’em up!” Kibi could hardly think of a less appealing activity than searching unconscious Sharshun for valuables.

  “Then do it gently.”

  Kibi walked to the closest Sharshun, knocked senseless at the base of the wall. Even with an idea of the stakes involved, and knowing the Sharshun would not spare his life were their situations reversed, he knew he couldn’t just skewer them while they were helpless. But would dumping them into a hundred foot ravine be any better?

  “Yeah, it would,” he muttered. “Still don’t like it.” He cursorily checked the Sharshun’s pockets, found them empty, then picked up the body and slung it over his shoulder. Before his conscience could bring up any objections, he strode through the gatehouse and unburdened himself of the Sharshun at the ravine’s edge. He didn’t stay to watch the body fall, but went back for a second.

  Dranko was applying salves and bandages to Morningstar and Ernie, even though Tor was clearly the most injured. But soon enough Kibi understood Dranko’s methods. Once Dranko channeled, he might not have the wherewithal to help anyone else. Only when he had done his triage on the others did he kneel before Tor and pray.

  By the time Kibi had tossed all four Sharshun (and thank the Gods none of them had stirred to consciousness while he carried them), Dranko had channeled for Tor and was sitting dazedly with his back against the front wall of the keep, next to where Aravia still lay sprawled following the Eye’s wave of force.

  “If you were wondering whether my healing could regrow lost body parts,” he said, “I’m afraid the answer is ‘no.’ Incidentally, Tor has only nine fingers now.”

  Dranko closed his eyes. “Should be okay, though. It’s only the last finger on his off hand. He’ll get used to it.” Soon thereafter, he was asleep.

  Kibi took the Eye of Moirel from his pocket and held it up to his face. It didn’t look damaged. It was still a perfect spherical diamond, just under two inches across, with that impossible dot of blackness in its center. There were no cracks, no scratches, not the slightest indication of wear or imperfection.

  “You still there?” he asked it.

  The Eye of Moirel was silent.

  * * *

  Tor was the first to wake, and he took the loss of his pinky with an optimistic equanimity. Dranko’s healing had left only a faint pink scar over the knuckle.

  Tor flipped his hand back and forth, admiring his wound from both sides. “What a story it’ll make! Someday people will ask me how I lost it, and I’ll tell them I was fighting as part of Horn’s Company, saving the world from being unmade by a guy with a fantastic mustache. Don’t worry, Kibi, you’ll be famous too. We all will!”

  Kibi wanted nothing to do with fame, but there was no point in trying to make Tor understand that.

  It was another hour before the whole group was awake again. Aravia made a big deal over Tor’s wounded hand, and the boy brightened noticeably at the attention. Kibi was no expert in such matters, but something was going on between those two. None of his business, though.

  Since the wizardess couldn’t teleport the Eye, Kibi feared there would be many hours on Vyasa Vya in his future, but Aravia gave him another option.

  “Kibi, would you trust Tor to carry the Eye of Moirel for a day?”

  Tor might be impetuous and unable to focus, but the boy understood the nature of responsibility. “I suppose so,” he answered. “What’re you thinkin’ about?”

  “I’m thinking that we’re only ten hours from Tal Hae by carpet, if one were to fly more or less due north of here, across the strait between Nahalm and Harkran. I have to wait until morning before I can teleport us home, but if Tor were to start now…”

  “Absolutely!” said Tor. “I have a good sense of direction. It won’t be any problem.”

  “But what if the lad falls asleep?” Kibi asked. “He’s bound to, before he gets all the way home.”

  “The carpet has magical safeguards while flying to prevent riders from falling off. And while it’s in the air, if Tor tells it ahead of time, it will keep going at a constant direction and speed if the driver releases the tassels. Tor, find an altitude from which you can see the ground, but high enough to clear any trees and hills if you’re still asleep on the other side of the channel. Set your direction due north, tell the carpet to keep flying even if you let go, and try getting a good night’s rest. In the morning you should see Tal Hae when you reach the coast
. If you’re off by a few degrees, remember Tal Hae is at the northeast corner of the Bay of Brechen.”

  Morningstar argued, successfully, that they should find somewhere else to camp for the night. Sagiro and his allies might be out of the picture, but more Sharshun could be on their way. Kibi had to endure a final carpet ride after all, as Tor shuttled everyone to a sheltered valley some five miles to the southeast. There he handed the boy the Eye of Moirel.

  “Don’t drop it in the ocean, lad,” he admonished.

  “I promise I won’t. See you back at the Greenhouse!”

  And with that, Tor took off, vanishing into the dusky sky. The rest of them spent a quiet night camped beneath a stand of firs, talking about Sagiro and his Sharshun allies and how they planned to use the Eyes to “unmake the world.” Morningstar’s sister Previa had thought that the Eyes and the Seven Mirrors “combined to effect a form of magical transport.” But if so, where would they take you? Maybe different Eyes sent you to different places. Aravia speculated that the Mirrors could be another way to reach the continent of Kivia and that Sagiro might even have known about the Crosser’s Maze and had been hoping to get to it ahead of Horn’s Company.

  “Don’t matter now,” said Kibi. “Sagiro’s dead. I checked to make sure he weren’t clingin’ to the side walls of the chasm, and there weren’t no sign of him.”

  “Maybe you knocked him clean to the other side!” Ernie offered.

  “Nah. I saw Sagiro go over the edge. Could be he survived a hundred foot drop onto the rocks, but I doubt it.”

  “Why did it take you so long to use the Eye?” asked Ernie.

  “Damn thing took some convincin’. Kept complainin’ that it would get damaged if I used it as a weapon, but I didn’t see nothin’ wrong with it afterward. I guess we’ll see, but I’d do the same thing over again if I had the choice.”

  * * *

  Aravia teleported them to the Greenhouse the next morning, and Kibi almost relished the wrenching of his innards since it meant no more carpet flying. Eddings greeted them warmly and offered them breakfast.

  “Is Tor here?” asked Aravia.

  “No, Miss Telmir. Did he not travel with the rest of you?”

  “We sent him on ahead by carpet. He’ll arrive any time.”

  Kibi gratefully accepted a plate of scrambled eggs. “Eddings, I don’t suppose the Eye of Moirel in the basement busted out again and possessed Ernie’s bear while we was gone?”

  “I am happy to report that it has not,” answered the butler. “Things have been calm in your absence. Abernathy is still asleep, though I have been tending to his survival and comfort. He does not seem to be suffering any effects of malnutrition, which I ascribe to some manner of wizardly preparation on his part. There have been no messengers or visitors. Was your venture more successful than the previous?”

  “Yup. Got ourselves a second Eye of Moirel to keep the first one company. Tor should be showin’ up with it any time, and then they can fight over who gets to make Bumbly talk.”

  Almost on cue, Tor appeared in the doorway, his hair disheveled and a huge grin across his face.

  “That was fantastic! Cold, but fantastic.”

  He walked straight to Kibi. “Here’s your Eye. I managed not to toss it overboard.”

  Kibi laughed with the boy, who immediately became distracted by the prospect of breakfast.

  After the meal Kibi tromped down to the basement and unlocked the iron trunk containing the green Eye of Moirel. It took a bit of feeling around inside the opaque soupy sludge with which he had filled the iron pot, but his fingers found the Eye and he pulled it free.

  “Here you are,” he said, taking the purple Eye from his pocket. “We found your brother. Now what?”

  The Eyes did not choose that moment to speak.

  “I thought there was some terrible rush. You got somethin’ to say, so say it!”

  Nor the next moment.

  “You’re the one who told me time was short! Ah, a pox upon you. I suppose part a’ the hurry was just to keep Sagiro from getting’ his hands on you, but he’s dead, so no more worry ’bout that.”

  He considered storing the Eyes in separate closets, but since his muddy cook-pot had finally done the trick of keeping the green Eye docile, he dropped the purple one in with it, resealed the pot, and locked the trunk.

  “I’ll check on you tomorrow,” he promised. Kibi paused once on the stairs up from the basement, still holding out hope the Eyes would say or do something useful after all the trouble Horn’s Company had taken to collect them.

  Tor was practically bouncing around the living room. “What next?”

  Aravia came in from the dining room and went directly to the bookshelf. “All we have left to go on is Hodge’s prophecy about the Ventifact Colossus,” she said absently. She pulled down one of Abernathy’s tomes. “But until we find out where Ganit Tuvith is, there’s not much we can do about it. In the meantime, if you need me, I’ll be studying.”

  Morningstar came down the stairs. “Abernathy is still unconscious.”

  What would it mean if Abernathy never snapped out of whatever he was in? Maybe they’d have to find another archmage. And if the old wizard was comatose, what did that imply about Naradawk, the monster locked up in his prison world?

  “Looks like we get a day off,” said Dranko. “And a well-deserved one, too. I’m going to go out and buy us some celebratory bottles of wine.”

  “And I’ll cook dinner tonight,” said Ernie. “We can save the Icebox for lunch and dessert.”

  Morningstar called out to Dranko as the channeler was leaving. “Make a stop at the shrine of Werthis, will you? See if they know anything about a prophecy involving three of their number killing a giant turtle.”

  Kibi spent the afternoon relaxing, but his mind kept returning to the Eyes of Moirel. Twice he popped down to the basement to see if they had become communicative, but they remained silent in their closet.

  When he closed his eyes and emptied his mind, he fancied he could sense them, two bright little sources of earthy magic, one green, one purple, twinkling in the darkness. They tugged at him, exerting an ineffable sort of gravity on his subconscious.

  Dranko came back in the midafternoon, carrying a small straw-lined crate of bottles.

  “Decided to splurge on the good stuff.” He pulled out one of the bottles, uncorked it, and took a long swig. When he finally came up for air he gave the rest a defiant look. “Finder’s fee.”

  “Did you talk to the Werthans?” asked Morningstar.

  “Yeah. And let me tell you, they have no sense of humor. Make one joke about polishing their axe handles and they get all grumpy. Worshiping a god of war must do that to people.”

  Morningstar rolled her eyes. “And…?”

  “And, huge surprise, they thought I was nuts when I mentioned a giant turtle. They had no idea what I was talking about, and the Stormknights I talked to had never heard of Ganit Tuvith.”

  “Then we’ll just have to wait for Previa’s report, assuming she finds anything.”

  “And what if she doesn’t?” asked Ernie. “We seem to have come to a dead end. Abernathy hasn’t given us anything more to do.”

  “Guess we just stay here in the Greenhouse,” said Kibi. “Somethin’ tells me we ain’t gonna be waitin’ too long before somethin’ comes up. Just a feelin’ I’m gettin’.” He glanced nervously at the basement door. “Just a feelin’.”

  After dinner, when Horn’s Company was finishing up a chocolate mousse from the Icebox and getting ready for bed, a messenger arrived from the Ellish temple with a letter for Morningstar. She grabbed it from Eddings and quickly read it.

  “So is Ganit Tuvith actually Tal Hae?” asked Dranko. “’Cause that would be very convenient.”

  “No,” said Morningstar. “Ganit Tuvith is what Sand’s Edge used to be called, centuries ago.”

  Aravia looked up from her book, balanced on one knee while she ate her mousse. “I imagine many
cities had different names back when Naloric was emperor of Charagan.”

  “So now we know everything!” said Tor. “A giant turtle is going to attack Sand’s Edge, and three Stormknights will kill it, and then the Kivian archway will open up, and we’ll be able to go get the Crosser’s Maze.”

  “No, Tor, we don’t know everything,” said Aravia. “We’re missing a critical piece of information, which is when that’s going to happen.”

  “Or if we’re supposed to do something to help make it happen,” said Morningstar.

  “Why would we?” asked Ernie. “We’re not mentioned in any of the prophecies.”

  “Not by name,” said Dranko. “But the madman wrote that someone would warn the Stormknights. Maybe Tor’s right, and that’s us.”

  “In my dream Eddings killed the turtle with a letter opener,” said Morningstar. “Does that mean we should bring Eddings along when the time comes?”

  “And where are we going to find a letter opener big enough?” asked Tor.

  “Maybe the right thing to do is stop the turtle from being summoned in the first place,” said Ernie. “If the Kivian Arch is going to open down on Seablade Point, I don’t see how a giant turtle smashing half of Sand’s Edge hundreds of miles away is going to bring it about. More likely, Hodge’s prophecy just means the two events are going to happen one after the other. There’s no reason a city needs to get destroyed and who knows how many people killed. Shouldn’t that be what we care about most?”

  “I agree with Ernie,” said Kibi. The others regarded him curiously, probably surprised at him offering up a clear opinion. “I said many times before now, and I’m sure I’ll say it again. I don’t believe in no destiny. If a huge turtle is gonna stomp on folks, and we know a way to stop it, we should stop it. Everything else can work itself out after.”

  * * *

  Kibi had trouble sleeping that night. Every time he closed his eyes, the Eyes of Moirel were staring back at him, glimmering, two crystalline foci of an indescribably powerful magic. Kibi tried to work out his vision’s significance. Perhaps he was supposed to take them to the Seven Mirrors, and they would transport him somewhere important. Or could his stone-shaping skill work on diamond, and he needed to free the little dots of jet inside them? Or had they something of critical importance to say through Bumbly but couldn’t because he had them trapped in sludge?