Evenmere (The Evenmere Chronicles Book 3)

by Stoddard, James

  He tried to find some place of concealment beneath a

  stairway or in a nook, but the corridors and bare rooms

  stretched on and on. He did not relish the idea of being trapped

  within one of the chambers, nor of lying down in the narrow

  hall. At last he found a place where the corridor widened to

  form an antechamber. He threw his bedroll into the darkest

  corner and lay down, the odor of dust heavy in his nostrils. He

  longed to enter the land of dream, to check with Mr. Hope and

  make certain Jason was well, but dared not do so while the

  anarchists sought him. Feeling miserably vulnerable, he

  doused his lantern and tried to sleep.

  Over the years, he had adopted a certain attitude whenever

  he found himself in a deserted, often benighted way. Knowing

  he had done all he could, he released the troubles of the day,

  mentally picturing laying them into hands larger than his own.

  Yet his sleep was disturbed, for he dreamed he walked the

  Transverse Corridor in the Inner Chambers. The hallway was

  dark and growing darker, and he knew something horrible was

  coming, something he couldn’t see in the gloom. Something of

  Chaos. Growing nearer … nearer …

  He woke with a start to find a Poetry Man standing over

  him, holding a candle in his left hand, his right hand upraised,

  palm open, glowing with a light of its own.

  Lord Anderson rolled to the side as the poet unleashed a

  lightning bolt from his outstretched hand. Where it struck, the

  boards exploded, sending wood shards spearing across the

  room. Carter dove into the narrower portion of the corridor,

  and turned, speaking the Word Which Seals. He did not hear

  his own voice; the thunder had deafened him, but a golden

  sheen rose to cover the portal between him and his foe.

  The poet stepped to the sealed doorway, holding his candle

  aloft, shading his eyes as if the light’s reflection off the barrier

  kept him from seeing through it. Without knowing how the

  man was connected to his lightning avatar, Carter doubted he

  could defeat him as he had the woman at the bridge. He fled,

  guided by the Poetry Man’s candlelight.

  Thunder boomed in the passages behind him as the poet

  released his might against the seal. The lightning flashes

  illuminated Carter’s way until he reached a turn fifty yards

  farther down. Though he had lost his bedroll, he had slept with

  his backpack slung over one arm, and still held it and the

  lantern strapped to it. Halting only long enough to light the

  lamp, he scurried down the passage. He doubted if even the

  poet’s power could destroy what the Word Which Seals had

  created—that corridor would be blocked until Carter chose to

  open it—but eventually his foe would seek another path. By

  then, Lord Anderson intended to be far away.

  Yet as he fled, he kept expecting to see another of his

  enemies approaching through the darkness. In this way he

  passed a hapless hour, until he began to sense, as the Master

  can, hidden passages nearby. He spoke the Word of Secret

  Ways and began searching for the familiar blue glow.

  At first this proved fruitless, until he passed a bare

  chamber and saw a faint rectangular illumination on the low,

  slanting ceiling. A quick search of the room revealed a knob

  hidden behind a support joint that released the trapdoor. The

  ceiling was high enough to require him to stand on tiptoe to

  throw the door back. He would have to jump up and catch the

  sides of the opening to pull himself through.

  On his first attempt, he discovered he could not enter the

  hatch while wearing his backpack, which had the lantern tied

  to it. He was forced to release his hold, douse the lantern and

  then, working in absolute darkness, throw his gear in first and

  follow after. When he raised himself through the aperture, he

  banged his skull against the roof. Despite the shock, he

  maintained his hold, and keeping low, pulled himself through

  the opening.

  “Why am I always hitting my head?” he snarled, his whole

  world a blanket of pain.

  When he had recovered and relit his lantern, he found

  himself in an oaken shaft only high enough for going on all

  fours. He groaned, but shut the trapdoor and crept on hands

  and knees for several hundred feet before resting on his

  forearms to catch his breath.

  A moment later, he heard the creak of the trapdoor

  opening. A dim light appeared down the shaft. He did not

  think he had the strength to summon the Word Which Seals

  again. Before him, the tunnel veered to the right, and he made

  a crawling dash toward the turning, expecting at any second to

  hear the release of a lightning bolt.

  None came; perhaps the poet had exhausted his strength.

  As he reached the corner, Carter drew his revolver. The

  passage was too narrow for him to turn around, so he leaned

  back and fired twice without aiming. The bullets whined down

  the shaft, but there came no answering cry of pain.

  Undoubtedly, the poet was as impervious to gunfire as his

  comrades.

  A mad race ensued, Carter scurrying away, the Poetry Man

  following, neither speaking, their lamps the only light in that

  elongated darkness. The tunnel branched in several places, and

  Carter kept his maps close to his thoughts to trace his way.

  How could he elude his opponent when his every motion left

  marks in the dust?

  For a half hour they rushed through the tunnels, until at

  last Carter came to the blue glow of another secret way. He

  found the latch and slid aside a panel opening onto the bare

  desolation of the attic. Leaping down, he closed the door

  behind him and fled at top speed, eager for a chance of escape.

  He passed down a passage, turned right at an intersection, left

  at another, and slid to a halt before a new secret way. Sweat

  broke across his brow as he fumbled to find the unlocking

  mechanism, but at last he discovered a wooden button hidden

  among the slats. An entire portion of the wall swung up,

  opening into a dingy passage. Carter stepped inside, grateful to

  find it was not another tunnel. He closed the door and hurried

  down it.

  For a while, the corridor doubled back the way he had

  come. He passed spy-holes every hundred yards, with elegant,

  wooden chin rests. With his lantern shrouded, Carter gazed

  through each in turn, and soon saw the poet shuffling along the

  passage, holding the candle low to perceive footprints. Lord

  Anderson would have given much to learn if an unexpected

  assault could harm the creature, but had no way to reach him

  through the wall.

  For another hour he followed the secret passage, taking

  intersections when they presented themselves, veering always

  to the south and east.

  He sat on the floor to rest and study his maps, and in so

  doing, felt the full weight of his exhaustion. He could not

  concentrate; the maps kept slipping from his mind. After a


  time he sighed, and with grim resolution, summoned the Word

  Which Gives Strength, the only Word that makes the Master

  stronger after its use. Inwardly he groaned, knowing it would

  take a terrible toll when its effects wore off, yet he had no

  choice. As soon as he spoke it, he felt renewed; his mind

  cleared; his situation seemed less hopeless. He gulped water

  from his canteen and returned to the maps.

  From his current location, the secret corridor forked in

  three directions, one leading up a stair to a higher level. With

  some consternation, he saw another passage intersecting this

  one, that could have allowed him to reach his current position

  much more quickly. He shrugged. The mistake was already

  made. Rising, he headed toward the stair, which he reached in

  twenty minutes.

  The steps creaked as he ascended, and he kept his sword

  ready, but did not meet any enemies at the top. He followed

  another interminable passage, unique in having occasional slits

  in the floor, allowing glimpses of the corridor below. As he

  neared one such opening, he detected a gleam of light below.

  Mantling his own lantern and sheathing his blade, he knelt and

  peered through the gap.

  His foe must have made up time by taking the passage

  Lord Anderson had missed. Clearly, the poet knew almost as

  much about the secret ways as any Master, and was tracking

  Carter with the skill of a bloodhound. Perhaps he could sense

  Lord Anderson’s power. Whatever the source of his ability,

  Carter could have wept at the sight of him. No doubt he would

  soon find a way into this passage as well.

  He hurried through the gloom, wondering if his enemy

  ever required sleep. As soon as possible, he left the secret way.

  He had traveled far enough east to bypass Beam Forest, and

  now left the high attic, descending the rickety steps of a

  circular stair. A wide hallway lay at the bottom, and he

  continued until dawn toward the Sidereal Sea, taking a

  winding course intended to confuse his pursuer.

  By the time the morning sun warmed the panes of

  Evenmere, the Word Which Gives Strength had worn off,

  leaving him stumbling on his feet.

  He came to a set of double doors opening into a large

  study. According to his maps, the door at the far side of the

  room led to the ruins of the Opoian capitol. He strode toward

  it.

  “The chase is done,” the voice of the poet said behind him.

  Without turning, Carter bolted for the far door. A blast

  passed overhead, striking the door, shattering it to pieces. The

  impact hurled Lord Anderson off his feet. Blinded by the

  flash, he rolled onto his stomach and tried to rise, but his legs

  gave way beneath him.

  “You were beaten by no less a foe than exhaustion,” the

  Poetry Man said, “while I remain fresh, filled with power. Too

  late to submit; you should have surrendered when you could.”

  Carter could feel his enemy’s energies, hot on his face.

  Still unable to see clearly, he spoke the Word Which

  Manifests, though it came ragged from his throat. He felt it

  leave him in a splattering wave that caused his enemy to yelp

  in pain.

  Carter crawled to his knees. His eyes began to clear; the

  Word had thrown the poet against the far wall, but he was

  already trying to rise.

  He had no more strength for running. He pulled his pistol

  and fired, but the bullets veered from his foe, riddling the

  wood panels with holes. Recovering his Lightning Sword from

  where it lay on the floor, Carter made a desperate charge, only

  to be cut off by a sheet of lightning descending between him

  and his target, a sizzling curtain of voltage he dared not cross.

  “I will use … whatever means necessary to stop you,” the

  Poetry Man cried, half panting. “Whatever power. Even if I

  perish, it will be wonderful beyond words. That is why you

  cannot win! It is too glorious.”

  Fingers of electricity crackled up and down the chamber,

  pushing Carter against a corner. He was trapped, done for. The

  poet had beaten him.

  He did the last thing he could, drawing deep within himself

  to summon the strength to speak the Word Which Brings Aid.

  Elahkammor !

  Beneath the hissing, electric cacophony, the Word’s effect

  could not be heard. No one could possibly come in time. Even

  if they did, they could not challenge the poet’s might.

  The Poetry Man stood, arms above his head, a vortex of

  lightning coruscating between his palms.

  “Don’t you realize you’ve tapped energies we were never

  meant to control?” Carter cried, trying to stall, shouting to

  make himself heard above the storm.

  “The apples of the gods!” his foe replied. “The

  Promethean fire. You have a parochial attitude for a child of

  the modern age. Man was meant to command all things.”

  Carter sought a way to get beneath the surrounding

  current. “Not until he learns to control himself!”

  With a mad, skeletal grin, the Poetry Man stepped forward,

  bringing the lightnings closer. Lord Anderson retreated until

  his back was against the wall. In desperation, he struck at the

  flashing curtain with his Lightning Sword. Current flowed

  back through his blade into his arm, wrenching a scream from

  his lips. He slammed against the wall and slumped to the

  ground. His sword hung, trapped, within the electric field. His

  whole body felt numb. He could no longer rise; he could no

  longer resist. He could not even lift his hand to protect

  himself. He thought he might be dying.

  The poet stepped through the curtain, his body so

  enmeshed with the force flowing through him that he appeared

  as rolling lightning in human shape. Looming over Carter, he

  reached his hand toward his victim’s head.

  Something cold abruptly washed over Carter. He thought it

  must be his blood. The poet stiffened and shrieked. Carter

  spied a figure at the doorway, spraying a steady stream from a

  fire hose onto the poet, who disintegrated with a dreadful

  crackling, like all the world’s lightning going out at once. The

  stench of burnt flesh filled the air.

  Whether from the effect of the water, or because of the

  poet’s passing, Carter found he had enough strength to move.

  He turned toward the doorway just as Doctor Armilus stepped

  into the light, his black familiar padding behind him. The

  anarchist twisted shut the valve on the hose, cutting off the

  flow from a line connected to one of the many outlets used by

  the Firemen of Ooz to fight house fires. He carried a pistol, but

  kept it aimed away from Lord Anderson.

  “I am owed for this one,” Armilus said, with a grimacing

  smile.

  Carter glanced at his Lightning Sword, lying several feet

  away. He could never draw his gun in time.

  “Why?” he asked.

  The doctor raised his eyebrows. “Not from any sense of

  compassion. I had been searching for a Poetry Man
because I

  wanted to see if I could kill one. I was told the use of an

  opposing element might do the trick. I am gratified at my

  success. No doubt you feel the same.”

  Carter climbed to his feet, his entire body trembling with

  weakness. The beast growled.

  “None of that!” Armilus commanded the hound. “You and

  I, Lord Anderson, are the only ones standing between the

  poets and the destruction of the house, so regardless what my

  strange ally wishes, I need you alive. I am a man of honor, and

  we have a truce. Even my own defeat is preferable to the

  victory of these lunatics.”

  “Then your time would be better spent discarding your

  plans and aiding me.”

  “Perhaps,” Armilus said, “but there is opportunity

  whenever power shifts. I am still discovering new uses for the

  knowledge I took from The Book of Lore , things even the

  Masters feared to accomplish.”

  “Do you understand what your actions could do to the

  Balance?”

  Armilus waved his hand in dismissal. “If I succeed there

  will be a new Balance. You and the Masters before you—think

  of what you could have done if you’d had the spine. Makes the

  blood pump.”

  “If you believe that, you’re as mad as the poets.”

  “No harm in enjoying one’s work. I’m afraid I must be

  going. Just remember what I did for you this day.”

  Armilus passed into the darkness, the Black Beast behind

  him. No longer able to keep his wits, Carter swooned.

  “Why didn’t you kill him?” the beast hissed, when they

  were out of earshot.

  “I gave my word,” the doctor replied wearily. “If you

  wanted Anderson dead, you should have waited a few

  moments instead of ripping us from our place and transporting

  us here. The poet would have done the job for you.”

  Armilus grimaced. He had always prided himself on his

  ability to bear up under physical pain, but had never felt

  anything so terrible as that instantaneous journey—he had

  actually thought it was killing him. That would have put a

  pretty end to his plans.

  “I was not the one who brought us.”

  Armilus turned and studied the beast’s hideous face. “What

  do you mean?”

  “Anderson summoned us with the Word Which Brings

  Aid.”

  “He can transport people as he likes?”

  “The Word searches for someone close at hand. If none are