“It’s gone, Moth.”
The bald brute continued his search.
Finally, Finster said, “I’ve got enough strength, I think, to get us out of here.” Moth paid him no mind. Finster stepped into his path and pounded Moth’s rock-hard chest. He pointed at the door. “Out! Escape! Freedom! Think of all the sheep waiting to be molested out there.”
Foaming at the lips, Moth glowered down at him.
Hands up, Finster said, “The sheep part was only a jest. Please, pay attention.” Grimacing, he edged toward the dungeon door. He tapped the locking mechanism. “Everything has a weakness. With doors, it’s not the bars but the locks and the hinges. I can use my power to weaken them.” He pointed at the lock. “But you must push right here. Do you understand?”
Stone-faced, Moth said nothing. He turned and sat down against the wall.
CHAPTER 11
“Now you want to take a rest from your mindless battering?” Finster marched over to Moth and kicked him in the thigh. “Ouch!” With the chain rattling behind him, he dragged himself back over to the door. He placed his hand on the lock. “Listen to me again, Moth. We can break the mechanism. Together. I have just enough energy for it. We must try.”
Moth closed his eyes.
“Unbelievable!” Desperation began to set in. His stomach quavered. His limbs were weak. Even with the beetle out of him, the thing had taken a toll. He was fragile. Feverish. A raspy quality clung to his breath. “We aren’t going to get many more chances at this. Time is fleeting.”
Moth let out a sigh. It was the kind of sound an animal let out just before it died, when all of the vibrant strength in its limbs had failed. The taut muscles in the barbarian’s body eased.
Head sagging, Finster shook his chin. “I suppose I can try it without you.” His fingers dusted the metal on the locking mechanism. It was a stalwart lock made of heavy, unbreakable parts. The construction was of the finest craft. Everything in the Red Citadel was.
Finster closed his eyes. Summoning his sorcerous powers, he explored the inner workings on the other side of the metal plate. He tried to feel the tumbler within. He wanted to move it with his mind. The lock, however, had a special design. Unlike the common sort, it was designed to hold against wizards.
Perspiration built on his forehead. Gasping, he stepped away. “I… I can’t do it. Nothing more aggravating than locks that a wizard’s tools can’t penetrate.” He placed his hands on his knees. “Moth, you have to help. Even someone little smarter than cattle deserves to frolic among the manure again. If we can’t get past this door, I can’t get you out of this cursed citadel.”
The barbarian’s chin slipped to his chest.
Turning away, Finster took hold of the bars. They were solid steel, a full inch thick in diameter. It wasn’t so long ago I could bend this metal like a noodle. When I was at full strength, at least. He tugged on the metal. The bars were vertical and horizontal, making one solid piece, more like a gate than a door. He touched the inside of one of the bars’ angles. Am I not the Master of the Inanimate? I can do this by myself. He channeled his energy. He envisioned the metal coming to life, spreading apart. There was a discernible creak of metal. The bar in his grip bent the slightest bit.
Moth came alive. On his feet, the big barbarian stepped across the cell. He grabbed the bars with savage intensity. An animal-like hurk sound erupted from his lips.
Finster funneled more energy into the metal, spreading it out, attacking the angles. Veins popped up at his temples. His mind pulled at the bars.
The hardened metal began to bend. The barbarian’s great efforts doubled. He let out a guttural cry. Freedom lay just beyond the threshold. The bars peeled back. The metal ripped open like webbing. Moth’s arms and Finster’s mind spread the steel wide open.
“We did it!” Finster said with a gasp. He dashed the sweat from his brow. The gap in the cell door looked like a mouth of busted metal teeth. Before he could say another word, Moth squeezed through it. The sharp metal drew blood. Finster teetered through on wobbly knees. The jagged steel snagged and tore his robes. “Slow down. I need my breath, Moth. Most men don’t have the endurance of a spawning salmon.”
With the grace of a prowling cat, Moth slunk by the other cells toward the door that led outside the dungeon. It was thick, made of iron and wood. He gave the iron handle a fierce tug, and it came off.
Finster wedged himself between the door and the hairless man. “Listen to me. The guards will come. Then we strike.” He smacked his fist into his hand. “Wait for it, Moth.”
Moth pushed him aside.
A voice called out from one of the cells deeper within. “Is that you, Finster?” Moth turned along with Finster. “It is I, Gregory the Grand.” Jutting out of a distant cell, an arm—without a hand—waved.
Finster knew the voice. He angled for a better look and saw Gregory’s dopey face pressed to the bars. “Gregory, why wait to reveal yourself now? I can only assume you are a spy, Gregory the Guileful.”
“I saw no reason to strike up a conversation with the damned. Har! But you, Finster, have fooled death again.” He stuck the handless arm farther out. “She took my hands. I was loyal, and she took my hands and tossed me in this cell.”
“Yes, well, as I recall, you weren’t very good with your hands to begin with. Or anything else, for that matter. Perhaps it is a good thing.”
“Finster! I was a fine member of the order. Let me help. I know things.”
“I’m busy at the moment, Gregory. Please keep silent. I’m thinking. I don’t need your useless thoughts clouding my serenity.”
Moth swiveled toward the door. He bent at the knees. Footsteps and the jangle of metal could be heard on the other side of the entrance. The guards had come.
CHAPTER 12
Together, Moth and Finster stepped to the side of the hinges. The lock popped. The door swung open. Two soldiers, one carrying a tray of food and the other a spear, marched inside.
Moth pounced. The barbarian locked the men up in the crooks of his massive arms and lifted them off the ground. The food tray clattered on the stone floor. Eyes bulging and legs kicking, their necks gave two notable cracks. Moth dropped the broken guards like two bundles of rotting fruit.
Finster quickly huddled over them. He grabbed a ring of keys and fished through them one at a time. “Leg iron? No! Leg iron? No! Leg iron? No! Every key but the leg irons. I hate that Crawley.”
Gregory’s hollow laughter echoed. “You wouldn’t have that problem if your feet were cut off like my hands.”
“I’m busy, Gregory. Go and imagine you’re a great wizard or some other absurd impossibility.”
“You always were more arrogant than most,” Gregory said.
“And that’s why I’m out here and you’re in there, idiot.” He handed Moth the spear. “We must go.”
Led by Moth, they hustled out of the door.
“No, barbarian, come with me! I know the way.”
Moth was unrelenting in his path. Finster had no choice but to keep up with him. Shuffling as fast as he could, he said, “Moth, will you listen? I know the way out. The way you’re going is certain doom.”
Moth slid into the next hallway. They ran smack-dab into an unsuspecting guard, dressed in chain mail and studded leather, who caught the dungeon-door handle in his face. He crumpled beneath the blow. One-handed, Moth jabbed the man repeatedly with the spear. The guard died from blunt-force trauma.
Finster looked at the mangled man then at Moth. The blunt end of the spear was bloody. “You’re supposed to use the pointed end of the spear, not the butt! Even I know that!” He pointed to the tip. “That end!”
The wizard citadel was a small city behind thick walls. Ancient in origin, it was a network of complicated alleys and halls, not to mention dimension doors that took a person from one place to the other. As a young man with a knack for exploration, Finster had sought out and found many of the citadel’s secrets. He had used that knowledge to leave w
hen he wasn’t supposed to.
Scraping through the halls, half dragged by Moth, Finster dropped into a ball. “Listen to me, fool!”
Moth dragged him.
Finster yanked back. “You are going the wrong way. Up there, the guardians of the citadel will carve you to pieces.”
Spear in hand, Moth stopped. He poked the spear tip in Finster’s face.
“We are so close, Moth. So close.” He pointed. “This way. I swear it. This way, and you’ll breathe the fresh air of freedom.”
Moth pulled the spear back.
Finster stood. “Good. You’re smarter than you smell. Come along, Moth, you curious man with the brain of a child.”
Ambling along at a ragged gait with a giant-barbarian shadow behind him, Finster traversed the mind-bending catacombs of the citadel. Typically, the students, soldiers, servants, and guardians roamed the main sanctum of the inner city above, leaving the stark hallways of the sublevels, damp in dew and moss, empty.
Finster slipped into a narrow pass Moth could barely squeeze his shoulders through. It emptied into a chamber, small and discreet. A damp woven carpet covered the floor. This was the study chamber named after Constance the Chameleon, a high-ranking teacher who had taken a shine to Finster.
Moth became uneasy. He paced back and forth in the cramped room.
“A moment.” Finster muttered a quiet incantation. The stones that made up the wall, stacked up like tiles, shuffled, moved, and spread apart. A dark tunnel waited. “This way.”
***
Finster appeared inside the mouth of a cave a few miles from the Red Citadel. Moth appeared uneasy. Finster wasn’t going to spend the time explaining to him that they’d just transported themselves through time and space. “Moth, we need to get these shackles off. What we should use for that is not far from here. We need to take advantage of our head start. No doubt, Crawley and his band of illiterate misfits will be coming. No offense.”
Down the hillside they went with the sun setting over the mountains. A small town at the base of the craggy hills greeted them warily. Doors and shutters were closed. Women and children scurried out of sight. Holding a length of chain in his hand, Finster walked into a barn where a strapping young man wearing a blacksmith’s apron was shoeing a horse. He fell off his stool when he saw Moth.
“Listen, boy, would you be so kind as to bust these shackles from our ankles? I have a special affair to attend to, but it’s exclusive. I need to rid myself of this hairless ape.”
Stammering, the young man said, “You look like criminals. Did you escape from the citadel? To help you would be my death.”
“Pfft! Escape from the citadel? Really, farm boy. Have you ever known anyone to escape from the citadel?”
“Well, no.”
“Good. Now, bust these irons off.”
The young farmer gave the shackles a glance. “That’s no ordinary steel. I can’t break that.”
“I bet you can. I imagine this steel alone is worth years of your labor. You might be able to purchase the finest cows to show the local maidens.”
“I-I can’t.”
Moth snatched the hammer from the farm boy. He dragged Finster over to an anvil and straddled the chain with it. He pounded the metal with the hammer in thunderous blows. Sparks flew.
The metal heated in a chain reaction. Finster could feel it in his ankle.
With awesome force, Moth beat the link in the chain until it heated up red. “That’s it, Moth. Keep hitting!”
“He’s not going to break that,” the young man said. “I’ve never seen links so thick.”
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The weld in the chain link gave in to the force of muscle and hammer.
Finster poked the boy in the chest. “It’s a good thing you didn’t put a wager on that. Now, scrape me up something to eat. Quickly!”
The young farmer dashed away.
Finster studied the shackle on his leg. It was nagging, but he still had freedom. He locked eyes on the sullen-eyed barbarian. “Moth, go. Be free. Go and spawn with whatever two-legged heifer will have you. I’m sure the women will swoon at your return. Bring a new litter of savages into the realm. Just raise them far, far away. There won’t be much left of this part of the world if I don’t save it.”
The horse the young man was shoeing whinnied.
“Hmm. I believe I do have a faster means of transportation,” Finster said to himself. “Ah, the beast is saddled. Even better.” He mounted the horse. “Good-bye, Moth. May the light of day never knit our shadows together again.” He dug his sandals into the horse, rode out of the barn, and jumped a length of fence on the way out. “I may not be able to saddle them, but I can ride them.”
Finster took a glance back at the barn. Moth was gone. Founder’s Stone, I’m coming.
CHAPTER 13
Crawley entered the throne room. He took a knee at the bottom of the steps.
Sitting on the throne, Ingrid said, “Yes, Crawley.”
“I have unpleasant news. Finster and the barbarian escaped. A handful of guards are dead.”
“So soon,” she said with a playful look in her eyes. “Impressive.”
“You anticipated this?”
“It was a gamble, yes, but I felt Finster could pull off the feat. He’s much more formidable than you think. Don’t let his shabby appearance fool you. Though I’m curious to know how he pulled it off.”
“Gregory reported that the barbarian ripped the scarab from his back. It restored his powers, or some of them.” He stood up. “It won’t take my riders long to catch them. Shall I bring them back?”
Ingrid rose from her seat. “No. We will follow them, but not too closely.”
“We? You’re coming? I beg your pardon, but why?”
“Because he will lead me to the artifact. The Founder’s Stone. Not only do I want it—I need it.”
“I thought you weren’t certain that it existed?”
The servant girl draped a dark, fur-lined cloak over Ingrid’s shoulders. “We’ll know soon enough,” Ingrid said.
“And if it does exist? Won’t Finster use it?”
“If he could, I believe he would have. Either way, Finster dies.” Ingrid strolled out of the room with the citadel guardians behind her. “It will be a joy killing him. Then, with the Founder’s Stone, the kingdoms will be mine.”
CHAPTER 14
Coughing and hacking, with a steady rain chilling him to the bone, Finster ambled through a village. He’d just talked a man out of a shovel by giving him advice on how to increase his crops. He mounted his horse and rode hunched over at a trot a few more miserable leagues. He stopped at a rocky area where the sun sank between two high sets of hills. “One can only hope it is still here.”
He dismounted and, using the shovel for a cane, traversed the closest hill. Then he slipped, cracking his knee on stone. Dark spots blurred his vision. What would life be without pain? Yes, delightful. Nearing the top, he wandered around a bit. Several large stones were scattered over the soil. Tall grasses and daisies sprouted up between the rocks. The terrain was overgrown but natural. It’s hard to make it out with all of these plants.
He pushed foliage aside. Stepping from one rock to another, he spied a rose bush with small purple blossoms beginning to bud. Ah, the only plant I ever planted. There, among the small green leaves and thorns, was a triangular stone. He beat the rose bush back with the shovel. The thorns scratched his hands and made them bleed. He labored through it, sickly and panting.
Years before, Finster had abandoned the order to go on a personal quest. He’d sought the Founder’s Stone. He’d done an agonizing, harrowing search only to one day find the stone almost by accident. His venture had led him to a small keep where three streams met. The building was abandoned and overgrown. He crept into its walls, seeking shelter, and encountered a dangerous lich, which he battled to the point of death and won. The lich, a female, turned human and, in her last dying breath, thanked him. She pointed to a
wall and said, “Fate.”
Finster searched the wall and found a concealed chamber behind the stone. A small treasure lay within—a golden ring, like a crown for a child, with a gemstone in it. Also, a stone lay hidden in a simple traveler’s pouch. It was smooth and opaque. It came to life with smoky energy the moment he touched it. He knew instantly what it was: the Founder’s Stone.
All of the power he’d ever wanted was in his hands. But there was a problem. Despite Finster’s efforts, he hadn’t been able to tap into the stone’s mystic forces. A lesson learned long ago from his teacher, Constance the Chameleon, had haunted his mind: It takes power to control power.
Finster wedged the shovel underneath the triangular rock, and with a grunt, he tried to pry it up. It didn’t budge. Wheezing, he dug around the edges. I’ve got a hole in my back and soon will have calluses on my fingers. Disgraceful. Before long, I’ll probably start eating my nails. He dug one small shovelful at a time, making little progress. He slung the shovel to the ground and sat. So close. Now I’m too weak to move a bloody stone. I can’t let her win like this. Perhaps I should let this be buried and run as long and far as I can. Let someone else stop her. Maybe I’ll die of old age before she finds me.
Shivering, he cradled his shoulders. The wind picked up. The rain stung his face. He needed time and shelter. There was neither to be found. Ingrid and Crawley would be coming right after him. By his assessment, he had maybe half a day on them at most. They’d come. They’d bring many. He’d need the stone in order to make one last stand. The scary thought was that he didn’t have the power to control it, but Ingrid, now a tenth of the order and wielder of many rings of power, certainly would.
I can’t let her have it. With my dying breath, I won’t let her have it! The stone is mine! I’ll have it!
Without looking, Finster reached for the shovel and found a huge bare foot. He lurched back. “Gaaaah!”
The Red Citadel and the Sorcerer's Power Page 5
