by Allan Cole
“But the magical process to create the material proved much more valuable than mere gold. Now all the gold we dig from these mountains goes into the ancient machines Novari brought back to life.”
She leaned forward. “And it takes many ore carts heaped with pure gold to make just one ounce of that stuff.”
“That’d require a tremendous amount of power,” I pointed out. “I don’t know of a wizard in the world who could do it.”
“Not alone,” Zalia said.
“Ah, yes,” I said, recalling Novari’s kidnapping raids that’d swept up my own Evocators.
“The things they make from this material,” Zalia said, “are as close to miraculous as you can get in the real world. Weapons that never shatter or become dull. Shields that are impervious to any blow. Huge ships as light as if they were made of pine veneer but are actually as indestructible as steel.
“From the quantities we’re turning out here, Novari must be preparing to equip the greatest army in history. And she’s got an empty-headed man toy to lead it.”
I felt like a fool when I recalled my brave words to Novari. I’d dared her to attack Orissa and suffer the wrath of my people. Who, I’d believed, had such superior forces no mere ice barbarian like Magon would stand a chance.
As if she were reading my mind, Zalia said, “Both our homelands are in grave danger, Rali. That’s why I came here.”
“Why you were sent, you mean?” I said.
She hesitated, then said, “Yes. That’s why... my queen... commanded me to undertake this mission.”
“Isn’t it about time,” I said, “you told me about your kingdom? I don’t even know where it is. Or know your queen’s name or her looks or her desires. Or any other details about your homeland such as why your people worship Maranonia.
“She’s a war goddess. And war is only popular in its beginning stages. When the blood flows only a soldier, and a special kind, at that, has stomach enough to praise Maranonia.”
“I’ll have to disappoint you,” Zalia said. “And I’m not sorry for it. I’ll tell you nothing until the day comes when you swear you trust me.”
“You have the word of the Goddess Maranonia, herself,” I said, “to swear to my honesty. According to you she appeared in a vision and said to seek me out.”
Zalia sneered. “First off,” she replied, “you know very well I can tell you nothing more about the vision than what I’ve already said. You also know I’m forbidden to tell you whether she said to trust you or merely to make certain I met up with you and to speak a certain phrase. ‘The silver ship,’ Maranonia said. ‘When you meet Rali, mention the silver ship. She’ll know what I mean.’”
“You’re begging the point like a royal politician,” I said. “It’s this. It’s that. It’s whatever it pleases you to believe at any given moment. Maranonia’s visit to you clearly implies that you are commanded by her to trust me.”
Zalia curled a scoffing lip. “You’re the one who sounds like a politician,” she said. “You brandish the word trust too easily when it applies to you,” she said, “and not easily enough when it applies to me.
“You can’t have it both ways, Rali. The trust has to be mutual. Otherwise I could place my queen and kingdom in peril on what could prove to be your slippery word.
“No, I think I’ll rely on a captive soldier’s pose. You know all about that so you shouldn’t object. It’s name and rank you’ll get from me and that’s it. Novari got nothing more. You’ll get the same. In the meantime I’ll tell you what I choose you to know and when I think it’s best advised you know it.
“And that, my dubious friend, is that.”
I fingered the eyepatch and decided to slip past the quarrel if I could for the sake of the gift.
“Thank you for this, anyway,” I said.
I started to take it off and hand it back. “And you can be sure that when I put it on every night I’ll thank you for it again.”
“Leave it,” she said, surprised at my action. “Why use it only at night? I made it for more than cosmetic reasons. It’s mostly to promote healing and keep dirt and infection out. You’ll notice it has magical properties that make it shed dust and grime and all other sorts of nasty things. That’s why I went to so much trouble and no little danger to steal the material for it.”
“But the guards will notice the eyepatch immediately,” I protested. “Not even a dunce could miss it. It’s gold, after all. And magical gold at that!”
“It’s only the color you have to worry about,” she said. “And that can be fixed easily. All you have to do is think a particular hue, hold the thought for a moment - and the patch will become that color. Think black and it’ll be black. Red and it’ll shift to red.
“It’s the nature of the material. And since it was produced here, using Novari’s sorcerous machines, even the most sensitive wizard will miss it. No power was stolen but only... borrowed... and then returned in a different guise.”
I was intrigued. “Any color I like?” I asked.
“Try it,” she said.
I peeled the eyepatch off and dangled it in front of me. I pictured it black and instantly it shimmered from gold to black. I tried red and green and the other pure colors and each time it shifted to those hues the instant the color came to mind. I turned it back to black - a rather grimy black, to match the conditions of the mine - and put it on again.
It felt smoother and even more comfortable than before. And I no longer had the urge to let my head flop to my shoulder to study things with my good eye.
“I always wanted to be a pirate,” I said. “Now at least I can look like one.”
Zalia looked me over, measuring. “What you really need,” she finally said, “is a pair of earrings. A stud on one side and big loopy one on the other. That’d really set the eyepatch off.
“It’s what only the most discerning pirate would wear.”
The eyepatch changed more than my image. As the days went on I noticed that objects seemed clearer and possessed more depth. I no longer suffered a dizzy feeling when I looked at an object too quickly.
Although I only had one eye, the missing one - thanks to the eyepatch - seemed to serve some ghostly purpose. As if it were peering into the ethers to help my remaining eye focus on the physical world and give me two-eyed perspective.
Then one day I realized I could also “see” more clearly in the Otherworlds.
It was at night, just after my rat stew meal, and I was cleaning grime from my metal hand while Zalia slept. I got dust in my “good” eye and winked a few times to try clear away the irritating speck.
When I shut that eye, however, a strange image floated up - seemingly from nowhere.
I opened my eye and the image vanished. Was it only my imagination?
I shut my good eye again and up floated that faded image. I could make out a vague outline, a skeleton really, of fingers and a thumb. I wriggled my artificial hand and saw the ghostly image wriggle in return.
I opened my eye and saw only the metal hand - the slave hand. But now I could definitely feel the shadow of the real one - the part of me that’d been lopped off for Novari’s magical stew pot.
I shut the eye once more, turning my head this way and that. All kinds of glittering things seemed to be fluttering about. I realized I could see into the ethers with almost no effort. I only had to shut my eye and shift my view and the sorcerous world made itself plain.
“Zalia,” I said. “Wake up!”
She bolted up from her stone bed. “What’s wrong?” she said, alarmed.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I replied. “I have to talk to you.”
Zalia groaned, weary from breaking rock all day. “Can’t it wait?” she said.
“Not a single moment,” I replied.
“What do you want?” she asked, yawning but resigned.
“Tell me how you made the eyepatch again,” I said. “Every detail. Leave nothing out. And while you’re at it I want you to think very hard.”<
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“About what?”
I fingered the eyepatch. “How we can get onto the right work detail and steal more of this fabulous stuff.”
It took fearfully little time for Zalia to do what I’d asked.
The two slaves we approached eagerly snatched up the small bribe she offered. They readily agreed to switch places with us. They swore they’d not whisper a word and would assist in every way to cover up the small bargain we’d made.
They were so fervent in their assurances I had no doubt they’d keep their word. I growled a few appropriate threats about what’d happen if they betrayed us, but it wasn’t really necessary. They were two very happy slaves.
This was my first sign Zalia hadn’t exaggerated when she’d said it was the worst work detail in the mine.
Confirmation came a day later when a guard poked his head into our warren and shouted:
“Two for Hellspoint!
“Antero! Zalia! Get yer arses out here.”
We stumbled from our cells and I shot Zalia a look, whispering, “Hellspoint?”
She grimaced. “It was your idea,” she whispered back. “And don’t forget it!”
I didn’t.
Her whisper hung over me like a demon jester, mocking me as we were pummeled into line with another sorry group of slaves. As each chain was linked to each belt I heard the sound of the locks snap shut with unnatural clarity.
Whips cracked and we shambled forward. Slaves in other details looked at us as we passed and shook their heads in pity or grinned at our misery.
We were marched for about an hour, winding through a series of tunnels and corridors and going up and down several lifts.
Finally, with an iron-wrenching groan, a huge door cratered open from solid stone and we staggered out of the mines into the shock of sudden sunlight.
For the first time in months I was not enclosed by tons of hollowed out rock.
The air was crisp and cold and my muscles twitched uncontrollably at the elusive scent of freedom on the wind.
I heard other slaves mutter curses, nearly snarled myself, but bit my lip when Zalia gave my arm a warning squeeze.
The guards roared and charged the one’s who’d cursed, quickly beating them into submission. They did it with such practiced ease I knew the incident was a routine occurrence on the way to Hellspoint.
It was only a small taste of what was in store for us.
We were herded through a large yard, cut into the face of a mountain which rose above us for as far as I could see without craning my neck and earning a lash from a watchful guard. The yard was hatch-patterned by wooden rails and carts were being lugged up and down the rails by slaves.
Our route took us through the yard to a rubble-strewn road that wound down the face of the mountain.
There, I caught a glimpse of the BearTemple in the distance; saw the docks jutting out into the frozen lake and ships with billowing sails skimming freely across the lake. Overhead the sky was a shocking blue.
The immense vistas were enough to make me – no, command me! - want to bolt. To leap over the cliff face if necessary if win my freedom… in death.
Zalia clutched my arm and I breathed deeply to steady my nerves.
While I calmed myself I remembered seeing the yard and the mountain road from another perspective. I peeped out at the lake and saw the rocky far shore where I’d hidden with my men so long ago and had observed the mines and foundries of Koronos for the first time.
I studied the docks again and noted the absence of Magon’s golden ship. I guessed he’d left and I wondered if Novari had returned to their capital with him.
Thinking about Novari, and my budding plans for revenge, helped me don my slave character again and as I plodded along I had a little smile to myself, remembering my childhood theater – the family games we used to play - where my father always proclaimed me “best actress.”
The reflections helped me steady myself and I was soon able to plod along passively with the others. A dull shambling slave on the exterior, while on the interior my mind was ablaze with curiosity, observing and storing every detail for possible later use.
As we came around one bend I saw the BearTemple towering over the city. It seemed quiet. Maybe even empty. Then I felt a buzz of magic and knew wizards had to be at work.
Not Novari, though. I would’ve sensed her immediately.
And I wondered: Where was she? What was she up to?
It was about a mile’s walk to the bottom and about another mile to our destination.
The factory they took us to was built of plain, rough stone blocks. It had no chimney or any remarkable features at all, other than the big, double-gated doors we were heading for. The building was long and extremely low but as soon as we entered I saw that the bulk of the building was underground. Six floors in all, I learned, for that’s how many flights of steps we descended to reach the main forgeroom.
It was a terrifying place. The dim light had an eerie orange cast to it and the whole building throbbed rhythmically as if an immense heart was beating just beyond the walls. The sound was a big drum backdrop to the shriek of hot metal plunged into water, hissing steam, chains clanking, hammers hammering and - so distant it could be from the Otherworlds - what sounded like faint screams.
We shuffled through huge rooms with racks of golden swords and spears and shields. I could feel sorcery radiating from them and knew they were made of the same material as my eyepatch.
Once we swung close to a rack of swords and I snatched a hungry look at their keen edges and apparent light balance. I ached with the impulse to dash for the rack, grab a weapon and lay waste to the guards.
The impulse was replaced by sudden foreboding that those weapons might soon be wielded by the enemy against my own people.
The anxiety made me quicken my step, I had to act - and soon.
I bumped into the slave in front of me and he snarled, “What’s your hurry, sister? It’s to Hellspoint you’re goin’! What’ja think it was, the chow line?”
I slowed my pace but continued to shift my head about, studying the might of my opponents, my anxieties growing with each thing I saw.
On the sixth and final level we came to immense golden doors set in stone that were stained black with grease and smoke. The golden doors were so dazzling, so polished and clean looking I knew they had to be made of Novari’s magical material.
We stood there waiting as the guards unlocked our chains.
“Remember what I told you, Rali,” Zalia hissed. “Do exactly as I say at all times.”
I nodded and two huge guards, naked to the waist and streaming sweat, muscled the doors open.
A blast of heat nearly knocked me over. I gagged at the acid stench of the air. It burned my throat and seared my lips.
Before I could recover my wits we were all kicked and pushed through the doors. Bewildered, I saw the guards step retreat on the double-step run. They screamed for us to get to work, then slammed the doors shut, closing us in.
Hellspoint was so hot and lung-polluted that you couldn’t toil there for more than an hour at a time. Each shift in that chamber was limited to that hour – not for humanity – they cared nothing for us – but so that they could have crews continually at work.
When an hour’s work passed, you got an hour’s rest while another slave crew suffered inside before you were forced back into the forgeroom to take their places.
Slaves were worked to the point of collapse, driven by special guards who changed crew every fifteen minutes, so as not to be weakened by the poisonous environment.
Other slaves dragged you out to recover while a second group manned the forges.
During our rest periods we were given copious amounts of cold water to drink and pour over ourselves. As I indicated before, this was not a sign of kindness in our masters. It was a necessity. Without the rest and the water we’d have died quickly and then who would do the work?
The chamber was huge, filled with machines b
elching fire and steam. Slaves staggered past us – pushing wooden platforms on rollers stacked high with long thick bars of natural gold.
The rods were hauled to an immense machine that commanded one whole side of the forgeroom. They were loaded onto a wide clattering conveyor shaped like a shallow trough that carried the rods into the machine’s fiery maw.
Another conveyor swept out from behind the machine through a large area that glowed and shimmered so it looked like the conveyor was emerging through curtains.
But instead of golden rods the bottom of the trough was covered with a film of glittering dust.
