The Vespus Blade

by Scott Baron

  But the weaponsmiths didn’t seem to care. The apparent leader took the hair and held it over a newly forged konus, then uttered a series of arcane spells. The very particular magic that would grant the device the ability to hold and disperse power as its wearer desired.

  It was a difficult task, and one that most lacked weapons-grade proficiency at. But this man seemed to know his way around the tricky magic, and moments later, the golden hair faded to white as its power drained into the metal band. He held still a long moment until the konus ceased glowing. Then, when it was safe to pick up, he transferred it to the nearest crate to join the other completed konuses.

  A trace of something made the assassin spin, his senses sharp and hands ready for combat. But no one was there. Still, there had been something. A sense of a familiar magic.

  Horvath, he realized, identifying the subtle hint of magic from the visla he and Demelza had been contracted to kill. But there was more. Emmik Rostall, as well, he noted, feeling the residue of the dead man’s power reach out to the same power still residing within him from the assassination. The magic seemed to be mixed together, and it was coming from some of the other crates. Crates containing finished weapons.

  The two men had been here. Here, of all places. And they were apparently more than just in cahoots to wrest power from the Council of Twenty in a few systems. No, this seemed to be far more than that. They were involved in a plot much more dangerous.

  And there was more.

  Another magic was present. Far, far stronger than the others. Hozark had simply failed to notice it at first as his senses were so flooded with the fresh Ootaki magic being harvested in front of his eyes. But this other trace? It was incredibly strong, yet also disguised. Expertly hidden. Just a scent of it was present, and not enough to identify. But it was strong, whomever it belonged to.

  Someone was preparing for action, and it seemed many of his recent encounters were tied into it somehow. Hozark simply didn’t know why.

  Chapter Thirty

  The acoustics of the smelting facility were not the best. Sound had a funny way of bouncing and echoing off of the hard surfaces and angles, making it incredibly difficult for even one as skilled as Hozark to listen in.

  If he’d had his shimmer cloak, that would have been easily remedied, at least normally. But here, with this volatile mix of magic in the making, even if he hadn’t left it aboard his ship, using the magical cloak could very well set off a chain reaction.

  So, strained ears it would be. Fortunately, the smelting had ceased, at least for the time being, and the green and black men’s voices carried with a degree of clarity for the moment. And the subject matter of their discussion was of great interest to the lurking Wampeh.

  The men closest to the forge were talking over details of their magical resources as they loaded the last konus into a full crate and sealed it tight, stacking it atop another identical crate nearby. There were not terribly many of them––certainly not enough for a proper military action––but more than enough to cause all manner of mischief in the right, or wrong, hands.

  “We need to speed the process. Are there any more Ootaki inbound?” the stockiest of the group asked. “This is our last one.”

  “Dunno,” the apparent leader of the workers said, pulling on the poor slave woman’s golden hair. What was left of it, anyway. “There were supposed to be more coming, but then that idiot Horvath went and got himself killed, and that screwed up the whole thing.”

  “Too bad about that. I liked him. He brought us drinks when he came to power those konuses,” another said.

  “Idiot, that was just to keep everyone happy and working harder. And apparently it worked. I swear, you’re so gullible.”

  “Call it what you like, I still thought it was a nice gesture.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter now anyway. Whatever is completed is set to be shipped out soon. Visla––”

  A terrible clanging rang out as a red-hot crucible was pulled free and tipped, the molten metal inside merrily pouring into the konus mold.

  What did he say? Hozark wondered, more than a little frustrated at their horrible timing. It sounded like Visla Akta. Is that right? I’ve never heard of such a man. Or woman.

  Whatever had been said, the moment was now lost as the workers settled back into their routine.

  “...picked up at the depot,” he heard one man say.

  “The Fakarian will handle the delivery,” another said.

  Hozark was surprised to hear that tidbit. But he had heard correctly. A Fakarian was involved. Normally you didn’t see members of that amphibian race on bone-dry worlds. It wasn’t that they couldn’t go there, it was just they preferred not to.

  For one, their skin was sensitive to drying out in dryer climes. For another, they simply felt more secure with water at their backs to provide an easy escape should it be needed.

  More clanging rang out, and the next bit was simply too garbled to understand, but Hozark was able to pick out a few key words. It seemed the Fakarian was going to carry the cargo and then await distribution orders.

  Wherever the visla wanted them to go, he would handle the delivery. As for the metalsmiths, all they had to do was wait for more power-holding bodies to arrive for them to drain to charge the weapons.

  A whiff of a very familiar smell suddenly cut through the sharp tang of the molten metal. It was a smell Hozark knew as intimately as any lover. It was the smell of death. Somewhere nearby, corpses lay.

  Carefully, the assassin moved around the periphery of the room, following his nose until he discovered the smell’s source.

  A dozen bodies lay piled against the far wall. Most bore the markings of magical draining, and others still had signs of torture. Whatever they’d done here, it had been an attempt to utilize power wielders other than Ootaki. Even a Pair of Drooks lay in the heap, and to sacrifice users of that value, whoever was in charge must have really wanted to complete these weapons in a hurry.

  Something caught Hozark’s eye among the dead. A sight that chilled even him. He moved closer for a better look, a look that confirmed his suspicion. It was a dead Wampeh, his pale body tossed aside. Tortured by the look of it. Experimented on. But why? Wampeh weren’t a magical race.

  Whatever the reason, Hozark had seen enough. This warranted breaking cover and returning to the other members of the Five to relay what he had learned. What manner of nefarious plotting was afoot. It looked like an attack was imminent, and given what he’d seen so far, it could upend some systems and lead to all-out war in others.

  With a stealth that came as naturally as breathing, he slowly melted farther into the shadows in the dim chamber, moving farther from the workers and closer to the exit.

  From where he was standing, it seemed the adjacent storage room would provide him not only cover from being seen by the workers, but also a more direct route back to the hidden door he had arrived by. It was a fortuitous bit of luck, and one he would gladly accept.

  Hozark stuck to the walls, lurking in the shadows as the Wampeh Ghalian were wont to do, until he finally reached the doorway to the room. Peeking his head inside, he saw his hunch confirmed. There was a door at the other end of the room that appeared to empty out into the far end of the larger chamber, right by the secret entry.

  Double checking that no one was looking his way, Hozark reached out and felt for wards or snares on the doorframe. None were to be found. It was just a doorway. Satisfied that for once things were going easier than expected, he stepped through the doorway and found himself abruptly falling straight down, tumbling to what might very well be his end.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  It was only pure instinct that saved Hozark’s life, the blocking spells he cast as he fell drawing deep from the internal magic he carried, forming a protective bubble around him. The act was not something that could really be taught, it was more of a visceral reaction, and one that he had done without even thinking about it.

  A good thing, too,
for when he impacted the bottom of the deep pit into which he’d fallen, a sharp cracking sound heralded his abrupt arrival.

  Ahh, spikes, he quietly noted. Even having fallen into a deadly trap, his calm remained, as did his attention to maintaining silence.

  Given the depth of the pit, however, he was relatively certain any sound, such as that of the cracking spikes, would have been directed straight upward. And as the room containing the trap was set away from the main labor area on the smelting floor, odds were none would have heard a thing.

  Hozark loosened his grip on the magic cushioning him and settled down onto the dirt.

  “Illumino azminus,” he quietly said, casting the faintest of illumination spells. One that would be utterly unnoticed by any above unless they gazed directly upon it.

  The dim light revealed what he had deduced from his abrupt landing. The floor of the pitfall was indeed covered in sharp spikes pointing upward to welcome whatever surprise visitors might make an appearance. Any lesser man would have found himself dead, and in a most unpleasant way.

  He examined the ends of the broken spikes, careful not to touch the points or any part near them. A habit drilled into him since his earliest days, but one that proved unwarranted in this particular instance. No poison had been applied to the wood, as was common in this type of trap.

  But given the secrecy of this particular section of the facility, it seemed unlikely the Tslavar mercenaries with experience in that arena of combat would be allowed into this obviously secret and sensitive area. Whoever had set the trap knew the basics––and had done an admirable job of it––but was ignorant of the finer nuances of pitfalls.

  Hozark looked up at the smooth walls. They were cut from the soil beneath the building, not bedrock. That was an interesting wrinkle to things. Apparently, the security of the hillside shielding the entrance was worth the slight lack of stability from building atop soil, not rock.

  But the dirt had been altered. Hardened. Made into a smooth surface as if it was rock. Hozark had no choice but to admire the craftsmanship. Far superior to anything a mercenary could have achieved with his konus.

  This was the work of a powerful caster. And given the location and nature of the masterfully laid trap, it was one who knew a thing or two about Ghalian ways, it seemed.

  He chided himself for only a moment as he replayed the incident that had led to his current predicament. All of the usual precautions were taken, and there had been no traps or wards placed on the door, nor directly inside the threshold.

  However, the piece of stone lying on the ground keyed him in to the novel trigger mechanism. Whoever it was who had caught him in their snare had been clever. Exceptionally clever.

  They had placed a perfectly normal, solid, real piece of stone where one would tread upon entering the room. But it was suspended in place by a magic cushion. Only when a person’s other foot had left the ground to take their next step would the connection to solid ground be broken and the spell released.

  The resulting tumble would have caught those with even the quickest of reflexes.

  Hozark had been holding his power at the ready for a few minutes as he waited for the mind behind this endeavor to make an appearance, but none appeared at the lip of the pit to gloat at his folly.

  They are not present, he realized. If they were, they would undoubtedly have sensed their trap having been sprung. Interesting.

  Hozark slowly released his grip on the spells he had ready on his lips. The deadliest of arcane Ghalian magic. Killing spells known to but a handful, and even then, rarely used due to the power they required.

  But whoever had placed this trap was a powerful caster, and in his precarious position, he would have only one shot at them. If he missed, all would be lost. But they never came. Only workers and lackeys were present, and unattuned to magic as they were, and with any ambient spells that might have notified them deactivated due to the risk of magical reaction with the fabrication, Hozark found himself in an unusual position.

  He was trapped, but no one knew. Not yet. He was left alone for the time being. And that meant he could be down there a while. He glanced around for a better look and noticed the white of bones littering the pit floor. Rather than feel any fear, he almost laughed.

  It was startlingly amateurish. There was simply no way a body would have decomposed to bleached bones in the time in which the facility had existed. Not even close. Someone had scattered them to terrify any who might fall into the trap and survive.

  No wonder the spikes were not poisoned. The maker of this trap was a bit of a sadist, apparently, and while the spikes might have killed their victim on impact, the odds were more likely that whoever fell in would be terribly injured, then left bleeding and broken, with plenty of time to stare at the bones as they bled out.

  But Hozark was no ordinary victim. Not by a long shot. And this silly little ploy by a petty tyrant could quite possibly have provided him his means of escape.

  Several of the bones were simply too small for his needs, but some of the leg bones strewn about were sturdy enough. Hozark picked one that held the most promise and then carefully applied a precision strike with the edge of his hand while channeling a little of his power to reinforce the bone everywhere but where he was making contact.

  The crack was not terribly loud. Certainly nothing that would be heard outside of the pit. And the sharp points that were the result of his first attempt seemed like they would suffice. If they didn’t, he would only have a few more tries before he used up the suitable bones. After that, he could have a very, very long wait in the bottom of a pit.

  Hozark tucked the bones into his belt, then walked around the pit, taking his time studying the smooth walls, running his fingers across the surface. It was not stone, but the magic applied to the dirt had made it into a particularly slick and robust surface. Climbing it would be impossible, and chipping hand and footholds simply wasn’t an option.

  But Hozark had other plans.

  Yes, this is the spot, he noted as his fingers found an irregularity in the surface just above head height.

  He withdrew one of the sharpened bones and began casting, slightly at first, the magic reinforcing the bone’s natural matrix, making it far harder than it would otherwise be. He then drove it into the wall as hard as he could, pushing it with not only his muscles, but also additional magical force.

  The bone pierced the slick surface and wedged into the obscured crack, sinking in a few inches once it had found its way through the hard exterior. Hozark whispered an unusual spell. A slight variant of a ship’s docking spell now used in a most novel way. When he felt the bone actually lock in, he applied more magic still, binding it to the softer dirt held behind the firm wall.

  With one arm, he heaved himself up, then felt the wall above for another weak spot. After a moment, a sufficiently irregular line presented itself. He drew the other bone spike from his belt and once more drove his makeshift piton into the hardened soil.

  The amount of magic he was forcing into the bone and soil was substantial, but he had enough still saved within him from the last magical victim he had drained. But this escape was taking time. Far more than he would have liked.

  He continued up the wall, magically shoving the spikes into the surface, then pulling himself up and searching for where to drive the next one. He could feel the magic within him being drained. Used up from this lengthy period of expenditure.

  Magic was used in spurts, normally. But this constant casting was pulling the power from him at an alarming rate. So much so that he was beginning to worry it might not last long enough to get him to the surface. And if that happened, he wouldn’t have magic left to cushion his fall a second time, and if that happened, it was a very real possibility that the next set of bones at the bottom of the pit would be his own.

  Up and up he went, quietly repeating his spell over and over. His arms burned and his hands were beginning to cramp from the sustained effort, but on he climbed. Failure was s
imply not an option. To fail was to die. And that was something he had no intention of doing.

  After what seemed like an eternity, his hands finally felt the rough soil at the lip of the pitfall trap. And it was good timing, as he had almost no power left within him. As he rolled to the floor, his hands uncurling from the bone spikes they clutched, a deep lungful of relief found its way into his lungs.

  He lay there for two long breaths then rolled to his feet. Any longer would be folly, even for a master assassin. Looking down, he saw that the illusion of the pit’s floor was still intact. Even the stone he had stepped on appeared to be in place, though he knew it was at the bottom of the long shaft.

  This was good. Unless someone actually touched the stone, it would seem as if the trap had remained unsprung. One small slip-up by the caster, and one that could buy him time. His triggering the pitfall might even go entirely unnoticed. Whoever had cast the spell was powerful, yes, but also overconfident and a tiny bit sloppy. Never a good combination, in his experience.

  He tucked the sharpened bones into his clothing to either dispose of elsewhere––there was no sense in revealing the caster their error in their plan––or to be used as makeshift weapons should the need arise.

  Careful to ensure there were no other traps or snares in his path, Hozark made his way through the room to the far end, then re-opened the secret door and made his way back outside.

  It was getting dark out, and the guards had changed shifts in the time he was delayed in the pit. His friends would be wondering where he was, but that would be a topic easy enough for them to rationalize without his needing to make an explanation. He had gone missing, but it really wasn’t that much of a surprise, the seeds of his plan in place and taking root for weeks now.

  More likely than not, they would simply believe their friend Alasnib the trader had finally grown tired of the manual labor he had been increasingly less fond of and had returned to the seemingly easier life of world-hopping and trade. It was a bit earlier than he intended, but this new information he had unveiled needed to be shared with the Five. He had done all he could on this world for now. It was time to leave.