Then they would hit a dead end.
This happened time and again: a promising passage would simply end in a smooth and unbroken wall that, as subsequent experiments showed, was at least four feet thick. Tellmore could almost taste the whiff of older magics in the air when he descended into the ruins, and had at one point convinced himself that he faced a magical challenge, not one whose solution would be found in mere digging.
And yet, there was no centrepoint to the magic, no obvious ethereal construct that could be moved or manipulated. It just seemed to permeate the area, as if something magical were leaking.
He fervently hoped that the something was not the Guardian Starlight itself, and that they had not arrived a few hundred years too late to take advantage of whatever properties the artefact might bestow upon its wielder.
Tellmore knew his objective might be mere yards away, and he could not reach it. His frustration grew to enormous proportions. Renauld soon learned not to interrupt the wizard’s work for any purpose but the most critical.
A few days ago, men had started dying. The first was killed in a rockfall as a ceiling collapsed, and this was put down to inadequate preparation on that part of the excavation, coupled with a weakening of the soil due to the rain. Procedures were revised and work continued. Almost immediately, another man stepped on some sort of pressure plate that triggered a spike as thick as Tellmore’s own arm to shoot up from the floor, impaling the poor soldier from underneath.
At least he had died instantaneously but, as Renauld quietly pointed out, any more deaths of this nature were likely to have a negative effect on morale.
The deaths continued and increased in pace. More traps claimed lives. Pits opened up beneath the feet of soldiers, sending them plummeting into a dark void that was too deep for torches or lanterns to illuminate. Scything metal wheels erupted from walls to cut men apart at the waist, or sections of the ruins would spontaneously collapse, burying whoever was walking on top under tonnes of rock. Hidden reservoirs would flood passageways, drowning any who did not start moving at the first ominous rumbles though, it had to be said, the soldiers were certainly more alert now and false alarms were becoming just as common as real dangers. Either would send men spilling out of the ruins, screaming in raw fear.
Not blind to the panic around him and all too aware of stories of bloody mutinies in Pontaine’s history, Tellmore started to create protective charms, spells of shielding and absorption that robbed most traps of their lethality. Gradually, Renauld’s soldiers began to settle back down into the rhythm of work and progress began to be made.
Tellmore had felt a rush of elation yesterday when they finally broke into a new chamber that seemed to serve as some kind of entrance hall. There were no cobwebs in the darkest recesses of this chamber, nor layers of dust, just the same flat grey stone they had all seen throughout the rest of the ruins. The place might have been deserted only a month ago, and yet Tellmore instantly recognised the unmistakable pull of magic tugging on his senses, ancient though it might be, and he knew they had taken a large step towards their goal.
The flap of his tent was pulled aside and Renauld, his armour dripping with the rain still pouring outside, entered. His face, as it had remained since his men started dying on the expedition, was grim.
“We are ready for you now, Magister.”
Tellmore took a deep breath, closed his eyes briefly, and then stood.
“Good. Let’s finish this.”
Renauld held the tent flap open for the wizard, but could not refrain from the question that burned within.
“Do you think it will work this time, Magister?”
Tellmore gave him a sharp glare, a warning for the knight to keep his questions to himself lest someone in the camp overhear them. Pontaine troops had been known to mutiny before, and he feared the continued deaths would drive the soldiers in this camp to do something very foolish.
Drawing his cloak around him, Tellmore bent his head against the rain as he strode outside, Renauld quickly following. He kept his eyes to the ground, as much to avoid the stares of the soldiers as to shield his face from the rain, though he could feel the cold glare of each one, the blame for lost friends and comrades landing squarely on his shoulders.
Picking their way past the tents that had served as home for the entire camp over the past weeks, Tellmore and Renauld marched through the excavation area. What had once been a picturesque valley with lush grass had been transformed by the industry of the men-at-arms. Within the stockade, great mounds of earth were piled next to long trenches and shallow shafts, the glint of ancient grey stone flashing here and there as it shone in the first rain to touch it for thousands of years. Picking a careful path to avoid slipping on the thickening mud, Tellmore turned past a large pile of excavated earth and stepped gingerly onto a set of narrow stairs that descended underground and into a long passageway. His heart quickened its pace, as it always did when he came to this place. He could feel they were very close to their goal now.
They had broken into the chamber through a passageway that had started to slope downwards, and ended at the top of a wide flight of stairs that continued downwards to the chamber’s floor. The floor itself was tiled, though from the same rock as the walls, and spanned perhaps thirty yards from end to end. The ceiling was domed, though torchlight rapidly fell away from its tallest point, leaving it in darkness.
To either side of the chamber were narrow alcoves, two to each wall, and it had been presumed that either statues or guards had once stood there, though they were empty now.
Directly opposite the staircase lay a large stone door, between two pillars set into the wall and decorated with a single line of elven text that Tellmore had been labouring to decipher. No handle or bar was present to open the door, but he believed the text suggested that, under the right conditions, one merely had to push lightly against the portal, and it would swing open. He had theorised the door was at least a couple of yards thick and it had so far resisted any attempt to break through or tunnel round, usually with lethal consequences for the soldiers involved.
Four men-at-arms stood nervously between the alcoves, studiously avoiding a glance at the scorch marks that marred the grey stone floor before them, the results of the last attempt to pass through the door.
Smiling in a way he hoped was both confident and encouraging, Tellmore nodded to the soldiers, and strode past them to confront the door. It remained a grey, monolithic barrier but, as Tellmore reached out, his hand hovering just an inch away from its surface, he could feel the latent magical energies stored within and, just at the far reaches of his senses, the arcane throb of something else that lay beyond the portal, something old, ancient and powerful. He turned back to the men-at-arms.
“I have devised a new spell of shielding and protection,” he told them. “However, I won’t be using the normal magics taught at the Three Towers, but will instead bind the magic of this place itself into the spell.”
The men-at-arms looked at one another, and he cold see the doubt. He decided to use another tack.
“Basically, this means wreathing the protection spell with energies that the elves will have used themselves. It would be like... covering oneself with musk in order to approach a bear you are hunting, without it attacking you.”
That seemed to work, for a couple of the men at least, and he saw them steel themselves to the task,
“The spell will take only a moment to fashion – when I give the word, you need only approach the door, push gently, and it will open. You will be the first to see riches that have lain here, undisturbed, since before the nations of Vos and Pontaine even existed!”
Renauld, he noticed, had not come down the stairs and was standing with obvious nervousness at the entrance of the chamber.
Reaching into his tunic, Tellmore produced a small silk bag and, as he paced slowly around the men-at-arms, he reached into the bag and threw pinches of sand. Murmuring a chant as he did so, Tellmore continued his pacing, f
eeling the magic rush into him as he shaped the spell, infusing the energy into the sand as it drifted through the air to settle on the armour and weapons of the men.
Having paced round them three times, Tellmore stopped and his chant grew louder as he sought to snare the magical energy permeating the chamber, binding it into his own spell to combine the magic of man with that of the elves. It was a strange feeling, like nothing he had felt before; he could liken it to wrapping his naked body in a single expanse of silk, but one that felt at once warm and inviting, as well as utterly alien. There was immense power to be used here, but he saw the dangers inherent in his own lack of knowledge. He just hoped that what little energy he was siphoning from the chamber would not unbalance any other defences that they had not yet discovered.
Abruptly, his chant stopped. Tellmore took a deep breath as he studied the soldiers, reaching out with his mind’s eye to test the integrity and coverage of the spell. He could almost see it, a faint haze that enveloped each man-at-arms, subtly twisting and bending, though never yielding, as the passive magic of the chamber brushed against it.
“It is done. Please, gentleman, proceed and bring riches to all of us.”
The soldiers drew their weapons. They glanced at one another, obviously debating who should go first, until one, a close-shaven middle-aged man, sighed quietly and took a step forward. A sergeant, Tellmore guessed, leading his men by example.
The others followed him, all taking slow and very short steps towards the grey stone door, as though prolonging the short journey as much as possible. All too soon, they were right in front of the door.
Briefly glancing at his men, the sergeant gritted his teeth and held a hand out, palm open, to the door. Slowly, grimacing as he did so, he stretched out to touch the door and push it open. For a second, his hand hovered just an inch from the smooth grey surface.
From across the chamber, Tellmore’s moustache twitched as he chewed on his lower lip, caught between anticipation and fear. He saw the sergeant reach out to the door, hesitate, then push forward.
The effect was instant. A chill wind sprang up from the door itself, whipping through the chamber, tugging at Tellmore’s cloak. There was a flash of blue-white light, followed by a terrible crack, and, just for an instant, Tellmore fancied he saw the outline of a tall, thin figure standing imperiously before the men-at-arms, within the door itself.
Then the light disappeared, leaving the chamber in guttering torchlight. All four of the soldiers had disappeared, the only trace of their existence a new set of scorch marks on the cold floor before the impenetrable door.
Bowing his head, Tellmore felt a sudden shudder as the frustration built to a pitch within him. Without a word, he turned and mounted the stairs, striding past Renauld’s accusing stare without acknowledgement.
Outside, the rain persisted, but Tellmore no longer felt it. He was instead acutely aware of the murderous looks he received from every soldier he passed. They all knew what had happened. More of their friends had been killed, and at the behest of the wizard in their midst.
Forcing himself not to run back to his tent in fear, Tellmore ignored them all, focussing his attention dead ahead.
He almost dove into his tent when he reached it, and immediately raced across the enclosed space to rummage through one of his cases. After a few seconds of groping, he found what he was looking for: a small pewter mug and a bottle of Pontaine brandy. Pouring himself a judicious amount from the bottle, he drained the mug completely and then stood still, closing his eyes as he felt the warmth of the drink spread through his body.
Replacing the bottle and mug back into the case, Tellmore hunched over his desk, staring at the piles of notes he had written over the past three weeks, as if they were about to give him some new answer, some new inspiration. After a few minutes, he had to admit to himself that no new information was forthcoming.
He closed his eyes and muttered the one thing he had thought he would never hear himself say.
“I don’t know what to do.”
CHAPTER SIX
IT HAD STARTED raining again. Alhmanic gave the dark clouded sky a baleful look.
The Anclas Territories were notorious for their bad weather. He had once heard a church scholar describe the effects of the Drakengrat Mountains on the area, as the wind swept in over Vos from the ocean but he had neglected to learn the details. However, the effect was that it always rained in the Territories, and not just a few showers here and there, but constant, wet misery interspersed with outbreaks of gales and sleet.
It gave Alhmanic pause to wonder why Pontaine had struggled so hard to fight over these lands, and why the Anointed Lord had ordered their seizure by the Empire. It was a depressing place, with tiny little settlements barely worthy of the title of town, a population who resented whoever ruled over them, precious few minerals and earth that made for poor farming.
Still, the Territories had once been the scene of tremendous glory during the war between Vos and Pontaine, and Alhmanic remembered well his own part in the struggle. He had been younger then, all those years ago, fitter physically and more ambitious, if that were possible. It was funny to think of how much potential that young man had had back then.
Starting the war as a humble but God-fearing militiaman, Alhmanic’s devotion to the cause and ability with a sword had caught the eye of the fighting clergy, and thus began his rise. By the time the Pontaine army had been beaten and the Territories claimed by Vos, Alhmanic had been at the head of a force ten thousand strong, every one of them listening intently to the man who would become the Preacher Divine as he gave sermons masquerading as battle speeches, even in the heart of the fighting. They were real fighting men, he recalled, able to march all day and fight a battle at the end of it without so much as a complaint.
He had less faith in his current charges, though they seemed capable enough of following orders. The half-company he led, less than fifty men, had at least been given horses. It seemed as though Klaus had not been as sadistic as he could have been, and had granted that mercy at least.
A pathetic sneeze caught Alhmanic’s attention and he threw a contemptuous glance over his shoulder. Traipsing behind him, on a horse that looked as ragged as its rider, was Otto, a mage of the Final Faith that Alhmanic had been able to requisition by calling in a few favours that would remain unknown to Klaus. The intention had been to grant his half-company some magical support. The result was a little more doubtful.
Otto was a young man, in his early twenties but going on sixty, Alhmanic swore. The lad might well have been as competent as Alhmanic had been assured, but he had turned out to be strictly a city mage. His back was permanently bowed as he huddled under his soaking cloak, trying in vain to stay dry.
Now it seemed as though their only mage had caught a cold.
As evening drew in, making the bleak land all the more bleak, the Vos horsemen rode at breakneck pace on Alhmanic’s orders, heedless of the wet grassland and patches of sucking mud. One of his scouting outriders had rejoined the force an hour before carrying what he doubtless considered good news. The scout had returned from Soire, a tiny village typical of so many in the Territories, with a report that the site they were looking for was close by, to the west. Unfortunately, a Pontaine force had already ridden through Soire, and had apparently set up its own camp there.
The scout’s cheerful face fell as Alhmanic let loose a stream of expletives. They had ridden within a few miles of the Pontaine position and his scouts had failed to spot them. He was furious that Pontaine was ahead of them and already in position, and nervous that he might be too late. Ordering his men to prepare for battle, he rode them hard towards the valley the scout had spoken of, trying to race the fall of night and thus avoid yet another delay.
With the sound of hooves thudding on soft ground all around him, Alhmanic finally allowed himself a grim smile. He had no idea of how advanced the plans of the Pontaine force were, nor even if they were after the same artefact. However, he
was no believer in coincidence and an armed Pontaine force travelling through the Territories was justification for an attack. Whatever the reason for their presence, Alhmanic intended to rid the Territories of every Pontaine soldier he could find.
A cry went up from one of the horsemen ahead of him, and he looked up to see two men standing on top of a small hillock about half a mile away. Barking an order, Alhmanic sent three of his horsemen to ride them down. Perhaps they were just a couple of innocent travellers, shepherds, or traders, but he was not going to take the chance they were not Pontaine scouts. When he attacked their camp, he wanted complete surprise.
The three horsemen veered away from the force and goaded their horses into full gallops, covering the ground between them and the unknown men rapidly. As the distance closed, they lowered their spears as the two men started to run.
They barely made it to the summit of the hill before one was spitted on the spear of a Vos horseman, while the other was ridden down by the other two. Circling around, one of the horsemen plunged his spear into the unmoving body that lay on the ground. Alhmanic appreciated that gesture. It always counted to be thorough.
Ahead, the lead horseman, some sergeant whose name had escaped Alhmanic within minutes of them meeting in Scholten, had raised his hand to call the force to a halt. Impatiently, Alhmanic quickly trotted over to him.
“Scout returns, Preacher,” the sergeant said, pointing out a lone horseman slowly becoming visible through the gloom of evening and the ever-present rain.
It was the same man who had returned from Soire to report the presence of the Pontaine force, and Alhmanic noted his demeanour was far more subdued this time.
“What news?”
“Valley up ahead, my Lord. Filled with Pontaine soldiers. They have a camp, seem to have been there some time.”
“Have they built fortifications?”
The Shadowmage Trilogy (Twilight of Kerberos: The Shadowmage Books) Page 56
