by Lyndon Hardy
“It took you four days,” Delia said. “For someone older, who knows how long it would be?”
“We can ill afford to wait.” Jemidon frowned. “How deep is the sleep?”
“If you stimulate him enough, he might respond,” Delia said, “but only in snatches and they will be incoherent, at that.”
Jemidon reached down to roll Burdon over, but felt a numbing twinge in his shoulder. He looked up to see one of the dusting imps hovering overhead and quickly sprang aside.
“Drag him back into my sprite’s sphere,” Delia said. “We will withdraw from the rest.”
Jemidon grunted and pulled at Burden’s bulk.
“Rebellion,” the lord mumbled. “The archmage, wizards, and wine.”
Jemidon ducked to the side as the imp made another pass and then heaved Burdon from one sphere to the next. In a few minutes, he had crammed the lord into Delia’s globe. Awkwardly, he squeezed in beside her and tried to keep his balance as the giant ball of emptiness rolled away from the rest.
“Thirty years,” Burdon mumbled. “Who would have thought of treachery by my steward after thrice a decade? They have all lost their senses. Drugs in the wine. Swinging scythes like madmen, not caring whom they struck down.”
“Where is the high prince?” Jemidon shook the man’s arm. “What did Kenton do after the battle in the pass?”
“Kenton, Kenton.” Burdon’s eyes flickered open for a moment in a glassy stare. “Of his, I am not surprised. So hard. He pressed them so hard. But my own. My very own, along with the rest. As if ensorcelled, although that can no longer be.
“And now it is full rebellion. There are thousands up on the slopes. No matter how many the high prince and the others muster, they will not easily storm these cliffs against the flails and rakes. They have even taken the cages and dragged them up the mountainside for all the plains to see. They are a symbol, a measure of their defiance, and a taunt for the high prince’s men to mount an attack.”
“Another battle!” Jemidon exclaimed. “I would think the high prince would move with caution after what happened at Plowblade Pass.”
“The pass. The battle,” Burdon wheezed. “This is far graver than the skirmish of a few companies. Far graver, no matter which side you believe was the final victor. Now all the baronies, and all their minions, are drawing together to put down the insurrection. But what if they fail? Yes, what then? Everyone is afraid to uncover what he knows to be true. If the leather vests carry the day, there is nothing standing between them and the palaces in Searoyal.
“And I saw the gravity of the situation, even if no one else did.” Burdon waved his arm, suddenly more alert. “I sent for the archmage. It is not only catapult and shield that we are dealing with. The wizards and alchemists and all the rest whom he can muster will be needed as well. I rode with an escort of six to where he had agreed to meet at dusk. A few swallows of wine from the flagon on my saddle horn quenched my thirst. There is something wrong. I feel dizzy. I must sleep.”
Burden’s face relaxed. His arm fell to his side. Eyes snapped shut; lips vibrated with the beginnings of a snore.
“The archmage is nearby,” Jemidon said. “He would listen for sure. Far better than Kenton or the high prince.”
Jemidon looked up and surveyed his surroundings in a new light. “Exactly where are we now? How far to the archmage and in what direction?”
Burdon did not answer. Jemidon shook his arm and then both shoulders with more vigor, but nothing happened. Frowning, he let the lord slip back into the bottom of the sphere.
“Each passing moment is time in Melizar’s favor,” he said. “We must be away.” He looked around the small bubble again, this time more critically, searching for some clues that would lead to an escape. He studied the walls in the hope of seeing a fissure and then stared up at the ceiling, trying to imagine exactly where they might be.
“Delia, your sprite,” he said suddenly. “How can it be that you can order him about? Certainly you are no wizard. And I know the basics of the theory. There is no gratitude or courtesies with the likes of an imp or a sprite.”
“I do not dominate him as would a wizard,” Delia said. “He already has a master.” She shrugged. “And despite whatever you say is the theory, he states he has done what he has for favor received.”
“You were able to persuade him to pull this sphere away from the rest,” Jemidon said.
“It is not truly separate. To tangency was as far as I could persuade him. And for that, even in his misshapen face, I could see the struggle not to comply. He says he can act only insofar as it does not conflict with the instructions of his master.”
“But to give him instructions at all, somehow you must—”
Jemidon halted and snapped his mouth shut. He frowned as he felt his thoughts begin to race off to solve a new riddle. There was no time for that now. Their escape was the important matter at hand. Resolutely, he forced his concentration back in the proper direction.
He turned his attention to the walls, judging distances in the featureless surroundings. “The void seems larger in area than the tent that rests upon it,” he said. “Did you try sending the imp upward as well as to the left and right?”
“To what purpose?”
“We might not be that far beneath the surface.”
“I thought of that myself,” Delia said. “Even if the sprite were to break through to free air, there would be no way for me to climb. The curved walls are too smooth.”
“Not the walls, but my shoulders,” Jemidon said quickly. “I saw the distance Burdon descended. It cannot be far. Yes, that is it, Delia. We must burst through to the surface and then run for the archmage as best we can. Tell your sprite to rejoin the rest and then to ascend above them as the one in the center did.”
“A moment.” Delia grasped at Jemidon’s arm as he squirmed to turn around. “You act no differently from the way you did at the presentation hall. All inspiration, but with no plan to see the idea through. Suppose I were to get to the surface. What then? More likely than not, I would find myself in the middle of some armed camp. And even if I could escape and flee to the opposition, what tale would I tell? How could I do better than you at Kenton’s feasting?”
“We have no time for detail,” Jemidon said. “I will think of more as we go along.”
“As no doubt you did before charging into the vault in the grotto?”
Jemidon opened his mouth to rattle off a rebuttal, but then stopped and frowned. “Those are hard words for one whose intent was to save you from your fate. Despite what I said to Melizar above, the quest was at least in part for you.”
“You are like the raw elixir of the alchemist, Jemidon.” Delia reached out and stroked his arm. “I mean no disrespect of what you say. The power of your thoughts fumes and sparks. You show a great talent for seeing the solution where for others the goal is unclear. But as for means, you dash forward, grasping the first thought that comes, without a hint of a plan.”
“I cannot help how I think.” Jemidon pushed her arm away, suddenly irritated. “And it has served you well on more than one occasion already. It was not detailed instructions that slew Drandor’s pets. A carefully reasoned treatise did not misdirect Erid’s blade in the presentation hall.”
“Nor was it your forethought that brought the dagger when the second of the beasts was at your throat. Your inspiration did not list all the props that made Farnel’s glamour possible in such a short time.”
Jemidon scowled and grabbed at the brandel dangling about his neck. He ran his tongue over his lips, formulating what to say. He looked deeply into Delia’s eyes.
She moved her hand forward a second time, but stopped short of placing it on his arm. Palm upward, it rested on the curve of the sphere halfway between where they knelt.
Jemidon looked aside and let out his breath. He rubbed the brandel stiffly between his fingers. The hint that she was a piece of the puzzle ricocheted through his mind. And she must have some
feelings for him. Why did she not express them instead of dwelling on irrelevant faults? Why couldn’t she be more like Augusta, warm and friendly, rather than carefully meting out favors only in exchange for some gain?
Jemidon looked back at Delia and saw her patiently waiting, her face a pleasant mask. For a long moment there was silence.
“You are right in that the solution to any puzzle can be improved if it is studied again,” he said at last. “The number of steps until the pieces disentangle can be lessened, or the beauty of how one manipulation logically follows another enhanced. It is Burdon we must free from this pit. Burdon, more so than you or I. He was the one who has called the archmage. And failing that, it is he to whom Kenton and the other nobles might listen. We must wait until he awakens—until the right time when he can make good his escape.”
“So it would seem to me as well,” Delia said softly. “We must stimulate his recovery as best we can and then tell him everything we know. Give him a plan, something he can carry back and put to work against the magics Melizar will employ. We can use the time while we wait to explore all the details of what we will do.”
“Then let us begin with formulating the message to the archmage.” Jemidon released the coin about his neck. The tension was gone just as suddenly as it had come. He looked down at Delia’s outstretched hand. “Anything else?” he asked.
Jemidon watched impatiently as the ceiling dissolved. Under Delia’s direction, the sprite rose slowly, creating a void above its head. As the sphere drew farther away, the intersection with the bubble in which he was standing became less. He saw a circle of rock squeeze in from the sides, restricting the view into a smaller and smaller area. When the diameter had shrunk to barely three feet across, a beam of light burst through at the apex, outshining the feeble glow of the imps dancing over the manipulants. An incoherent mixture of excited voices tumbled through the opening and filled the den with sound.
“A little bit more,” Jemidon said. “We can still squeeze through the constriction between your sphere and the one below, if you separate them somewhat farther. But we need at least the length of a forearm for the diameter of the one at the surface of the ground.”
The sprite halted at Jemidon’s words and folded his bony arms across his chest. “You are not the one who took my side against the mushbrains who babble so,” he said. “It is to the golden curls that I choose to show my favor.”
Jemidon waved his arm in exasperation and motioned Delia to come forward. In a few moments, using words hardly different from his own, she molded the passage to the surface in the proper proportions.
Without saying more, Delia placed her foot on Jemidon’s intertwined fingers and boosted herself into the upper sphere. Jemidon wriggled his torso after until he stood erect between the two globes. Delia climbed on his shoulders and cautiously raised her eyes above the level of the ground. She paused a moment to look in all directions and then stretched to full height, scrambling out of the hole.
An instant later, a crude rope made of belts and torn clothing snaked back into the pit. Jemidon pulled himself up and out. Together, they hoisted out Burdon and the still slumbering Drandor.
Jemidon looked quickly about. His pulse began to race. They were on a flat ledge on the slopes of one of the mountains. The folds of Melizar’s tent stood immediately to the left, quietly flapping in a midmorning breeze. The excited shouts came from a second ledge immediately below. Much wider, it ran out of sight around the curve of the mountain in both directions. All along, its length was packed with men, some dressed in leather, some with helmets of horn, others in bare-sleeved tunics, waving flails in the air.
With hoarse shouts and cheers, they rained abuse and taunts down on the valley below. Everyone’s attention was turned away. No one bothered to watch what was happening in the vicinity of the tent.
Below the lower ledge, the ground fell rapidly away. Like a blanket covered with crumbs, the slope was littered with boulders. Cracked rocks and gaping fissures laced the slanting ground in intricate patterns. Halfway down the slope, Jemidon saw tangled masses of steel bars and dented plates. Next to them, still undamaged cages sprawled to the ground. In twos and threes, they formed a line of demarcation that divided the high slope from the plain.
Sweeping to the horizon were the wheatlands of Arcadia, all scoured black and sending wisps of smoke into the air from still smoldering flames. In the near distance, the humps of thatch and precise lines of stone marked the village of Kenton’s barony. Approaching the very foot of the slope was a vast army of armored men. Squares of marchers, their mail gleaming brightly in the sunlight, stood ten rows deep. For every four companies on foot, there was a squad of richly decorated cavalry. Even from the distance, Jemidon could hear the nervous whinnies of the horses as they approached. In the very center flew not one royal standard but two. The rebellion had become far too grave for the high prince to handle without the presence of his father.
Behind the front ranks were arrayed rows of catapults and ballistas. Pressed closely together, they looked like the wall of some huge fortress that kept the mountain from creeping further onto the plain. In contrast to the slow and stately march toward the slope, Jemidon saw robes of black busily flitting among the throwing machines, adjusting their tensions and making ready the arsenals of stone arrayed by each.
The first contingents of the army were already climbing the slope, breaking precise formations and picking their way among the loose jumble of rock that littered the surface. Jemidon looked again at the thaumaturges, who were preparing their weapons, and then back at the rock-strewn slope. “You must convince them to use the engines without any magical aid,” he said to Burdon. “Otherwise, it will only make it easier for Melizar to break the coupling.”
“But without the aid of thaumaturgy, they project no more than blind missiles, hardly worth the effort to have dragged them across the plain.”
“Nevertheless, you must do as I say,” Jemidon snapped. The sense of urgency within him began to boil. He had little patience for delay. He looked at the slope and then at the army slowly making its way uphill. “Come along,” he decided suddenly. “Throw off your cloak so that they will not know you are a lord. We must reach them before they come any closer.”
Without waiting for an answer, Jemidon broke for the edge of the cliff and began to scramble to the one below. “But our plan,” Delia shouted as Burdon started to follow. “We were to wait until the first skirmishes had started, so there would be a better chance to pass unnoticed. You will arouse Melizar. What about Drandor?”
“Not now, Delia,” Jemidon shouted back as he bumped into the rearmost row of peasants watching the royal advance. “There is not time for debate.” He turned the man in front aside and worked his way forward, barely offering apologies to those he pushed away. Burdon followed immediately after. Delia hesitated a moment more, then scrambled to catch up before she was permanently cut off. In a moment, they were in the front line.
Jemidon did not pause. He vaulted the edge and plunged down the mountainside, raising a billow of dust. Delia called out, and he reached back to grab her wrist, pulling her after. Burdon, puffing from the effort to push through the throng, awkwardly clambered over the edge into the cloud that marked Jemidon’s path.
Down the slope Jemidon dodged, dislodging small streams of pebbles that cascaded in front and bounced off the larger boulders in the way. Barely in control of his motion, he careened between two rocks and then cut sharply to avoid another directly ahead. Delia stumbled and tripped. For a moment, only Jemidon’s grip kept her from tumbling to the ground.
A small stone whizzed past Jemidon’s ear, and then a shower somewhat farther away. The throng on the ledge was not sure who the runners on the slope were, but the targets were much closer than the ones at the base of the cliff.
“Why so fast?” Delia managed to pant. “Their aim is not all that good, and none come in pursuit. We can reach the royal army without the haste.”
“They are almost all on the slope.” Jemidon pointed ahead. “I think that Melizar will not wait much longer. We have to convince them to turn back before the cold one acts.”
Almost in answer, Jemidon felt a sudden rumble in the ground. He missed his step and skidded to his knees. A large rock on his right began to pitch back and forth in its shallow depression. The shower of pebbles from Jemidon’s feet was joined by additional rivulets across the entire face of the cliff. A stone the size of a child’s head skittered down to follow.
Bigger rocks began to move, crashing into those in front and dislodging them from their rest. Two large boulders rumbled from their moorings on the left and plowed smaller debris down the cliff to augment the cascade.
The quaking increased in intensity, so much that Jemidon could barely move forward. Like a drunken man, he stumbled down the mountainside, tripping on the obstacles thrust suddenly in his way. He gritted his teeth to ignore the sharp snaps of pain, as small missiles hurled into his ankles and legs.
“Avalanche,” Delia shouted, finally realizing what was going to happen. Her cry was drowned out by the one on the ledge, as truly massive monoliths began to lumber down the slope.
Jemidon looked over his shoulder to see a dense wave of dust mask the shouting rebels. The hillside was alive in a fusillade of hurling death. For a moment, he watched the cloud gather momentum and then turned to judge the distance remaining to the bottom of the slope. Instinctively, he swung to the side with the thought of moving out of the way before the avalanche roared past, but then halted, realizing the length of the line was too great.
He scanned the downslope, desperately looking for some natural feature that would give them a place to hide. But except for the moving boulders, the terrain was smooth.
“To the cages,” he said at last. “Farther down the hill. It is the best we can do.”
With a snap, he spun Delia after and scampered down the slope toward the wreckage of Kenton’s machines. He heard Burden trip behind him, but now there was no time to turn back. Without thinking about how he would stop, Jemidon vaulted a stone in the way and skated on a wave of pebbles for a good thirty feet. Regaining his balance, he twisted past a boulder bounding by on the left, savagely whipping Delia to the side.
