by D Mickleson
“Aaaahhhhh!” said the blotch appreciatively. “At last. You might be on to something. You”—and here he must have gripped her shoulder too tightly, for crimson scratches appeared there and she winced. Triston loosed a feral growl. “Help him find the right constellation. Describe it or something. And be quick!”
“There’s a star chart over by the gears. I’ll just go get—”
“No,” said Triston. “The dragon wouldn’t be able to read it. Not surrounded by all this luster. Can you tell me what to look for?”
Abigail hesitated. “Very well, I’ll do it. But only if you bring my father down right now!” Suddenly she cried out, and Triston knew the hand on her shoulder was squeezing yellow nails deeper into her flesh.
“You will aid the boy now or I’ll feed your father alive to my fleshthrall, starting with the royal fingers and toes. And I’ll see to it you watch every second of the feasting. Do you understand me? GET BACK!”
Someone was approaching. Triston thought he recognized the sweet spirit of Abigail’s governess. Agatha was it? “Let my Abby go this instant you horrible, you miserable—”
Her aging body flew back through the air and crashed into the wall with a sickening thud.
Triston had a sudden vision of himself leaping at the foul blotch and tearing it apart with his sharp teeth and claws. But he knew that, in the unlikely event he even reached the sorcerer without being blown to bits, the girl’s father would surely fall to his death.
He was still holding the girl’s hand. She was trembling, but the sobs he sensed inside her heart never came. “I’ll do it,” she said in a remarkably calm voice. “Just don’t hurt her anymore. Trist, listen. The Beached Whale is one of the hardest to make-out. The trouble is, most of these dwarf signs don’t really look like the thing they’re supposed to be. You have to use your imagination to really see them. Um, this one has a belt, a vertical belt of five bright stars. I forget their names, but they form the points of the whale’s tail. They’re not in a straight line; they make sort of a squiggly ‘M.’ If you can find that tail, the rest is easier.”
Triston was gazing up at the canopy. It was so difficult to behold the starry host without losing himself completely to the Dragonsight. “I don’t know,” he muttered, craning his neck. “There are a lot of bright ones to my eyes. Can you narrow it down?”
“No,” she said, sounding desperate. He could tell she’d glanced over her shoulder at her father again. “The belt is by far the easiest way.” She cried out in pain again.
“Poor King Stentor. Finding an end in the worm-ridden belly of a walking corpse. Tut tut. But maybe there’s room in Fido’s stomach for a family reunion.”
“Or maybe you could shut up and let me think!” she said through clenched teeth, wrenching herself free and taking a step toward Triston. She took his other hand. “OK. I’ve got it.” The irate sorcerer was regarding her back with an upraised hand, ready to spellcast, but at these words he desisted.
“The Broken Hammer! You should be able to find that one because it actually looks like a hammer. And you can draw a line across the sky from the handle right to the whale’s eye.”
Triston nodded. “So, I’m just looking for a hammer?”
“Yes! Or—just the head, actually. You won’t find the handle at first.”
Staring upwards, his neck beginning to ache, Triston’s eyes darted everywhere across the shining canopy. “And why won’t I find the handle?”
“It’s supposed to be broken off. After you locate the head you can find the handle lying askew a little ways off. Just tell me when you find—”
“Got it! It’s right there,” he said, pointing at the outline of a hammerhead midway up the dome. It was fixed opposite the opening in the wall, and was just as easy to recognize as she said. Once spotted, it seemed impossible that he hadn’t seen it right away. “But—that’s strange. It’s got a fairly obvious handle already. Let’s see. There are six, no seven stars that form a distinct shaft. I thought it was supposed to be broken?”
“It is,” she said, shrugging. “But no matter. Trace a line, say, two night watches east and you should be able to spot the ‘M’ in the whale’s tail. All the brightest stars in that region are part of the tail.”
Triston knew the night sky was broken into twelve equal parts called watches, and the stars circled the earth at the rate of one watch an hour. “OK. That’s about one, two watches. And . . . er. Nothing. Abby, I’m sorry. I don’t see a thing.”
“What?” said Abigail, sounding alarmed. “But you have to. Keep looking.”
“I see some bright stars but there’s no ‘M’ in sight. Are you sure—”
“Yes, I’m sure!” she interrupted impatiently. “And you better get this right or Daddy dies. I mean, come on! I don’t get it, Trist. You should be able to see—”
“It’s a puzzlebox.”
“What?” demanded Abigail and Sarconius together. It was hard to tell who was the more impatient now.
“This whole room is one gigantic puzzlebox,” said Triston, still staring straight above him. “I’ve only just realized—that’s why it has such an inefficient design. It was never meant to be just a lookout room. It’s all about guarding the Relic.”
“Triston—what?” pleaded Abigail, the panic rising in her voice.
“Explain, boy.”
Now it was Triston’s turn to speak with an impatient urgency. “Don’t you see? The constellations aren’t lined up properly. It’s part of the puzzle. That’s why the handle wasn’t broken, and it explains why there’s no ‘M.’ Look,” he said, pointing excitedly, “the upper and lower rings of this huge, rotating turret meet right where the hammerhead is fixed onto the handle. We need to align the constellations, like pictures in a puzzlebox, and then—”
“And then we get the treasure inside the box,” said Sarconius in deeply satisfied tones. “You know, I’m so glad I didn’t kill you earlier. What a find you are, boy! I do believe this will make the second Relic you’ve won for me. So how do we do it?”
But Abigail was already hurrying over to the diamond-capped gears. Running past them, she stopped at the shelf and began flipping through some broad sheets of parchment. By the amount of dust she kicked up, they hadn’t been touched in years. “Found it—the Broken Hammer. And you say the handle isn’t broken right? So that means we need to rotate the upper half about five degrees to the left.”
Without waiting for anyone to say anything, she seized the gear closest to the wall and pulled. At once the grinding clamor swelled over them as the upper portion of the chamber began to roll. Caught off guard, Sarconius raised both his hands in alarm, ready to blast anyone who came near. But Lord Strungent and the guard made no move, and Agatha and the Seer both appeared broken or dead. The cacophony lasted only a moment. Then Abigail returned the gear to its resting position and looked at Triston expectantly.
He was smiling. “The Broken Hammer, yes,” he muttered, following a line from the handle two watches to the east. “And the ‘M’ in the tail. I see it!” he shouted in relief, pointing at a spot in the wall right above the arched, and now oddly disjointed, opening. “That must be the whale’s eye over there, and—but it doesn’t really look much like a whale, does it?”
Abigail wasn’t listening. She sprang from the gears to the Dwarfglass and sat down, taking careful note of where Triston was pointing.
Sarconius stepped toward her, his face dark with distrust. “You will point the glass at this supposed constellation, and then you will wait for my orders. If either of you moves to retrieve the Relic when it appears, I will engulf you all in liquid fire so fast you won’t live to see His Majesty splatter on the ground. Is that clear?”
When Abigail and Triston nodded, Sarconius indicated that she should proceed. “And my father? You’ll bring him back to me?” she asked in a small voice.
“You have my word of honor,” said the lord, flashing a grin. “Now get on with it.”
The Dwarfgla
ss remained where Abigail had left it earlier that day. It still faced out the opening in the wall, pointing straight at the suspended king. Perched on the brass seat, she grasped a lever with a trembling hand and looked down the length of the glass at her father’s dangling form beyond. Then, forcing her gaze away, she pulled the lever down. The glass shot backward a dozen feet, at the same time rising at her practiced direction to point upward at the exact spot Triston had indicated.
The glass shuddered violently. Abigail leapt from the seat, backing away from it in surprise. Steam began to rise from its joints. The sound of breaking glass and groaning metal reverberated within. The shuddering grew to a tumult of grating brass and rattling glass shards. Abigail, who’d frozen a few feet away from the anguished machine, held her hands to her ears. Triston stepped forward to stand between her and the Meridian lord, who was ogling the dwarven artifact with a look of ecstasy. A hush fell. A second passed in which no one moved. Then the wide lens facing the Beached Whale fell out with a pop and smashed to pieces on the marble floor. They heard a sound like something rolling, rolling against gravity. The noise began at the base of the Dwarfglass and rolled all the way up to the tip of the eyepiece, then ceased.
Triston turned to face Sarconius, willing his own sight to return. The sorcerer was stepping closer, eyeing the glass and chuckling with a shake of his head. “I am truly in your debt.” He stopped, lowering his gaze to the two of them. Triston unconsciously placed a protective arm around Abigail’s shoulder. “Both of you. I admit it—I never would have figured that out on my own. You kids were . . . beautiful together.” He tilted his head to one side, regarding them almost with affection, as a parent might behold a newborn child. Suddenly his face contorted into a sneer. “Fido! Be a good lad and fetch me that Relic.”
He turned to Triston with a knowing glint in his eye. “You no doubt hoped I’d try to take it myself. That’s why you’ve been cooperating. But I’m not so foolish as that. Everyone knows those fiendish little hammer-wielding tools love nothing better than snaring a foe with a deadly trap. We’ll see what happens to my thrall when he sticks his hand in there. Hurry Fido!”
Mugwort shuffled up, his sunken eyes still fixed on Abigail. Leering at the princess all the while, even walking backwards in order to do so, the fleshthrall stepped up to the far end of the glass. Standing on the tips of his toes to reach the tilted opening, he jammed in a gray-blue hand and closed his fists on something inside. When the hand came out, palm open, it bore a pearl of marvelous size.
Abigail gasped, but she wasn’t looking at the pearl. Triston had no trouble seeing what had amazed her. Four dwarf darts protruded from the undead flesh of Mugwort’s hand, their shafts glimmering with an acid green ooze. The slime ran down the thrall’s wrist and into his outstretched hand, staining the glossy Relic with a liquid sheen.
Akataka. A last defense against an attempt to steal the Pearl. And completely useless against the undead slave.
A panicked exclamation suddenly sounded from the air outside, fading into the distance below them. Looking, Triston saw that King Stentor had disappeared.
“Daddy no!” screamed Abigail at the top of her lungs. Wild-eyed, she made to race to the edge, but Triston held her back. She elbowed him hard in the gut. “Let me go! Daddy!” Triston tightened his grip.
“You can still stop his fall!” he shouted at Sarconius, whose eyes were fixed on the pearl. “Use Magog! His power works over long distance with enough focus.”
Sarconius looked at Triston with a frown, as though these words made no sense to him. He laughed coldly. “But he served his purpose. Why would I continue to hold him up? Fido, I’ll take the Relic if you please. Just bring that pearl here. As for you two, I think you’ve earned a speedy end.” He raised a hand and pointed a long, crooked finger at the princess.
With nothing left to lose, Triston kicked out with his right foot at the Dwarfglass, striking the forward lever. Pushing off with all his might, he dove to the ground with Abigail beneath him. The glass surged forward along its track toward the open air ahead, driving into Mugwort, who had watched Abigail roll to the ground at his feet with a thrilled grin. The impact tore the fleshthrall’s head right off, sending it flying over the ledge, still grinning stupidly, while his body crumpled beneath the brass base. The glass jumped the track and followed Mugwort’s head over the ledge, leaving a severed corpse wiggling and flopping in its wake.
Something shiny flew from Mugwort’s hand. It ricocheted off the wall, then rolled to a dead stop three feet from where Triston was struggling to disentangle himself from the princess. He lunged forward and seized the pearl. Twisting around, he concentrated with all his might. One frenzied thought flooded his mind the moment his skin touched the Relic: water.
He knew what was coming, knew the instant Sarconius had willed it. His bond with Magog’s heart was stronger than ever. No use of the dragon’s Relic could surprise him now. The fireball formed and streaked toward them, a pulsing orb of writhing flames. But just as suddenly as it appeared, it was snuffed out by the watery shield that materialized over their prostrate bodies.
The shield vaporized into a cloud of steam, obscuring Triston’s vision. Gripping the pearl, feeling its power throb in his fingers like a static shock, two courses of action leapt into his mind. He faced a terrible choice, one upon which many lives might depend, and he had no time to think. He must act, one way or another. His every instinct raged at him to counterattack, to send streams of boiling water surging toward the place Sarconius had stood before the steam cloud enveloped them.
But that would mean sealing another’s fate. There was no time for both actions. Maybe five seconds had passed since he’d kicked the lever. It was not too late yet, but in another few seconds it certainly would be. In that infinitesimal moment of choice, he was aware of Abigail, as if time had slowed to a shuddering halt. She was gripping him, clutching and scratching. She was crying out for her father with a drawn-out wail that echoed piercingly in his mind.
There was no real choice after all.
Through the opening into the starry sky his mind leapt. Down, down the white stone flanks of the highest tower his thoughts fell, diving faster than a bird of prey, streaking toward the earth like a bolt of lightning.
The freefalling king was ten feet from crashing into a third story balcony when Triston reached him. The leviathan’s spirit, rejoicing at the freedom of movement after long centuries of captivity, looped itself around the frail human body and held fast.
High above, an explosion rocked the turret. Triston’s consciousness jolted back to his body like a recoiling whip, and his eyes opened. An iron-tipped boot skidded into view through the dissipating cloud, sliding to a stop six inches from Abigail’s tortured face. It was the doorward’s, along with his foot and severed ankle.
Someone was moaning in agony. Triston gathered his thought for an attack. He could feel Magog’s bearer standing behind the mist wall just feet away. But suddenly a force drove into his chest like a steel-fisted punch. In one moment he was kneeling beside Abigail, clutching the Serpentaugrum; the next he was on his back, his sight lost, his skull throbbing, his breath gone.
Slowly the mist and darkness cleared. A triumphant face emerged. Sarconius stood gloating over his prize, the Fury now visible hanging on a gold chain around his neck, the Serpentaugrum balanced on his outstretched palm.
“You could have killed me,” the lord remarked in an offhand voice. “When that halfwit guard and the old nobleman attacked me from behind just now, you could have blown me to bits. But you hesitated. Why?”
Triston tried to lift his head but the effort nearly brought on another blackout. He stared up at Sarconius. Each beat of his heart was like a hammer blow in his chest. He could only wait for the onslaught that would bring an end to that beating. Any second now.
But Sarconius only continued to gaze in amusement.
“Let her live, I beg. Kill me. Take your treasure and go.”
“You
were never one for satisfying my questions—”
Sarconius stopped suddenly, his look of mild interest twisting into disbelief. An emerald light flashed, followed by a triumphant cackle behind him.
The Seer stepped into view. At the same time, a long, crimson-streaked blade blossomed from Sarconius’ torso. It protruded into the empty space before him, a stark, double-edged reality the lord seemed unable to comprehend. He mouthed silently, blinking repeatedly as if trying to bat away the unacceptable vision. He tried to speak but blood poured from his open mouth. His words died in a gurgling stream.
“I’ll take that, maggot fodder,” said the Seer, seizing Magog’s Fury by the chain and yanking it over his head. Sarconius’ chin jerked backward with the motion and his eyes rolled.
A second flash erupted from her upraised ring and the Meridian lord fell on his belly with an agonized cry. The sword quivered in his flesh, the hilt rocking back and forth. Convulsing violently, he nevertheless tried to rise and crawl. But the Seer kicked his buttocks with a cackle and he collapsed again, his legs and arms still shaking. Out of his mouth they heard a blood-choked plea, suddenly cut short. The Seer had lifted the sword with a third flash and plunged it into his skull.
“I was waiting for just the right moment to use my little ring,” she told Triston cheerfully, stooping and prying the Serpentaugrum from Sarconius’ hand. “I thought to myself maybe, just maybe, the boy will find the wretched thing, and maybe, just maybe, this gilded turd will turn his back to me.” She kicked Sarconius in the face. “And you see how the Fates have favored me.
“Ah, dear one. You have no idea how pleased I am, really pleased, that Lady Fortune brought you into my life. More than thirty years I’ve longed for this day! Ever since I read Sir Athant’s Chronicle as a girl. I looked and looked. How I searched! Never to find a thing but little piles of ratshit in the crannies and crevices of the castle.
