The old miner nodded assent, “Alright. What’s in t’box?”
Jessop hesitated a moment, but then responded, “Karthild.” There, he’d said it, there probably wasn’t any going back on it now.
Bolson’s eyes narrowed and face puckered in disgust, “That hocus pocus, what you want that for?”
Jessop went all in on his plan. After all, if Reuben was right it wouldn’t matter soon enough anyway, “Don’t bother me ‘bout it, will ye? There’ll be a whole bottle o’ me bestest stuff for ye. Just no more questions.”
Somewhat put out, Bolson finished his drink all in one go. “Whatever you say, boss. I’ll do it soon as Targeld is headed towards here.” The old miner got up and walked to the door, out into the night.
* * *
It was morning of the next day. Reuben lay awake, resting in his bed, constantly wondering when the first rumblings of the ground would come. He could see the shadow of the miner on the cloth that served as a door for his rough room. His small window showed unusually red morning sky. He hoped that this was because it would be fair weather today, but his heart suspected instead that the land was already transforming. He heard approaching footsteps, and the curtain was drawn aside. Jessop stood there, a sack with something heavy in it held in his hands. Jessop stepped inside and before he let the curtain close again, Reuben heard him telling the guard to step outside for a bit.
“What pleasure do I owe for your presence this morning?” said Reuben, none too happy to be bothered. He sat on his bed, watching the town leader sit in the one chair in the room. Jessop looked terrible, eyes with deep circles under them and crow’s feet deep etched by the corners of his eyes. Reuben also noticed that his visitor did not have the usual braggadocio that he had become used to when dealing with him.
Jessop placed his bag on the floor between his feet. He sat there in silence, breathing heavily. Even a few feet apart, Reuben could catch the scent of alcohol emanating from the man’s breath. Reuben suspected the man had not slept at all. Reuben could guess why, if he hadn’t been utterly exhausted himself, he would have been unable to sleep either. Jessop pulled his chair closer, leaning over and whispering, “How… how sure are ye that they’re coming?” The words were costing the man to speak them, Reuben could tell. The heavily slurred speech spoke volumes itself.
Reuben decided that his best bet was to be honest, “What do you want to hear? That it was all in my head? Or maybe it was real but that they won’t come here? I know better than that. You know better than that. Where else is there to go in these lands? No. They’ll be here, and soon.”
Jessop sighed heavily, the weight of Tekuda’s situation bearing him nearly to the ground. “I want to show you summat.” Jessop passed the sack over to Reuben.
Despite the urgency and frustration of the situation, Reuben picked up the sack. He drew from its interior a heavy black box. He set it on the bed next to him and looked at Jessop questioningly.
Jessop looked away, out of Reuben’s window. Then he said, “Open it.”
Reuben looked at the box. It was curious, about the size of a loaf of bread. He guessed it was made of iron, with heavy hinges and a heavy lid. Carefully, not knowing what to expect, he pushed the lid open. Within were a handful of round, flattish stones, black and silver in color. What the black stone exact purpose was he couldn’t guess, but the grey white veins that traced a pattern were set, not natural. He guessed they were of the silver which came from the mines of Tekuda, part of the small amount of the precious metal that did not get sent to Entigria. The round stone looked the size of a small biscuit with every surface inscribed, the runes dense and small, covering the surface with their deep etched angles. Toward the middle the stone narrowed, the sides more thick. The very center was exceedingly thin. It would take some force, but a concerted effort would surely snap the stone in two. What would happen, Reuben did not know.
“I’ll let ye have two o’these,” said Jessop. “You take one back to that old codger in Subria, he’ll get part o’ what he was after. It’ll have to do fer ‘im.” Jessop paused for a moment, “The other is fer you, Reuben. I’m takin’ a chance here, but gods be blasted I got nay choice. Iff’n yer right about what’s a comin’, you’ll know what to do when the time is right.”
Reuben took two of the odd stones, he figured that placating the obviously tired and tipsy leader was his only way forward. He put them in his pocket, then closed the box and put it in the sack. After he handed it back to Jessop, the leader looked at him hard, staring into his eyes.
“There’s many here, well, some anyway, that deserve what I just give ye. I can’t help them all, and neither can ye. You do well by them,” said Jessop.
“I don’t under-” began Reuben.
“Do it, you hear me,” said Jessop, his voice raising in his earnestness, “Do it or be cursed. Do well by them as is left.”
Thoroughly confused, but not wishing to incense the leader, Reuben responded, “Alright Jessop, I will.”
This seemed to placate the tired man, who sighed again. He seemed to have lost all his energy suddenly, and nearly slumped in his chair. Reuben thought of asking him what was going on with his strange gift. As he debated this possibility Jessop stood suddenly, whatever internal drive must have kicked in.
“Well, goodbye then,” Jessop said, and walked away quickly, before Reuben could even reply in like kind.
Reuben got up to follow but if he had thought of escaping his small room his hopes were dashed, the miner was already coming back down the hallway, Jessop just visible behind him walking quickly away. Reuben saw the grim look on the miner and ducked back into his room.
Reuben returned to sit on his bed. He wished he understood what was going on with the strange visit. Just then, he heard it, a low sound. He groaned, it was starting then, the tunnelers had to be approaching. Cursing at the situation, he tried to reason with the miner to let him go. When his calls were ignored, Reuben tried to force his way past the miner, but was shoved back into his room. The man was much bigger, and more well rested, than Reuben. Shouts from outside sounded in alarm. The rumbling of the ground, cursing and fighting townsfolk, the hated screeching of imps as they went about their grisly work, all of these blended into a terrible waking nightmare. Reuben cursed, but the miner was resolute in his stance, he would not allow Reuben to help with the defense of the town, nor would he be moved from his duty to guard his prisoner. Reuben watched from his window, knowing he could do nothing anymore to help this town. A flash of blue light from over Jessop’s house drew raging screams from the imps, though the townsfolk knew not of what it meant. The battle for the town waged back and forth, though it was a foregone conclusion to Reuben. Corpses lined the streets, both former townsfolk and hideous attackers. Reuben could see, in the distance, the watchful presence of two knights, flanking another figure. Reuben felt a sense of dread seize him. He did not know why, something about the smaller figure, robed, was more evil yet. It too, had burning eyes, but more sullen, a quieter, more insidious flame. With a wave of its hand, the robed figure motioned casually. The knights turned and bowed toward the robed one, then walked slowly toward the center of the town. Reuben saw them unsheathe their mighty blades before their passage was obscured by a building. He had no doubt about their work, as sudden urgent yells and horrible screams signalled their death-dealing blows had begun. Reuben picked up the flattish stone he had been given. “Forgive me,” he whispered, then snapped the stone.
Blue light filled his vision momentarily. When it cleared, Reuben screamed, he was above Tekuda, in the air. He could see with horrible clarity the tunnels, countless imps pouring from the holes. There were fires everywhere, and the ground was already metamorphosing into the hated ash. The land itself looked like a tumor, around Tekuda the lines of approach could be seen, the scars of the path that the enemy had taken leaving their stain. He could trace them into the distance, the line of his first travel into the badlands with Vern, the enemy had followed the same passage. He tried to m
ove but was held in place. For a moment he was puzzled, then the meaning of what was happening dawned in his understanding. The stone he had snapped was Karthild, and this was not, in some ways, actually happening. He recognized it, he was portaling. How a single stone could do this, with no special pedestal, unaccompanied by the Karthild specialists, he did not know. His wondering was quickly forgotten though. Reuben had spotted the robed figure below. That was enough to stop any other thought. But it was worse than that, it was looking at Reuben. Its gaze left no doubt that it could see him, somehow; and it glared pure malice. Slowly at first, but quickly accelerating, the scene started to shrink, Reuben was being carried away by the magic.
The portal journey was not at all pleasant. Reuben looked behind him, all was a red-black cacophony of flame and smoke. Still viewing as if from a height, he could see only glimpses of the town’s destruction, indistinct figures darting through vicious light and smothering darkness. And he was being buffeted around, as if by a strong wind. Though Reuben knew little of the variations and intricacies of how this travel was supposed to go, he had never experienced anything like the sensation of speed he now felt. More rapid than ever before, the scene below vanished and, turning his sight around, a picture ahead drew into sharp focus. He barely had time to identify his destination before he was there. Upon arrival he collapsed, the sheer momentum difference was overwhelming. Reuben noticed briefly that the stone beneath him felt warm. His vision swam in his eyes, worse than any evening at a pub. Suddenly his stomach churned, the travel having been too much for his constitution. Through the sounds of his heaving, he did not hear the approach of several workers. He looked up into their surprised faces. Several workman had come up to him, near the steps that lead to the platform stone he was on.
“Look boss, another one,” said one of them, a short fellow with a bristling mustache.
“I always thought the fancy robed people had to be here for this thing to work, where you headed, mister?” another queried.
Unsteadily he got up, one of the workers, the mustached fellow who had first spoken, helping him to his feet. So wavering was Reuben, his legs trying to compensate for movement that had remitted, that his helper put Reuben’s arm around his shoulder. Gratefully, Reuben clung to the steadying presence, doing his best not to heave once more as stillness slowly leached back into his reality. Grumbling and complaining, the other workers set to cleaning up the mess Reuben had left on the stone. The man steadying Reuben said, “Think you can totter a few steps yet?”
Reuben nodded, but slowly, in case the world might spin away again.
“Go along, tell the foreman we got another traveler,” said the man who had helped him up. “Now then, just come along with me and we’ll find you a place to rest.”
Reuben allowed himself to be gently steered towards a bench that was placed against the wall nearby. The rest of the workers had given up interest, going back to their various tasks. Reuben looked around quickly; Arneph must have been on his side this time, for he saw an open doorway, morning light from outside spilling into the storeroom revealing a cobbled road.
Just as his benefactor went to help him sit down, after he had moved Reuben’s arm from his supporting shoulder, Reuben shoved away quickly. A cry of shock escaped from the poor man’s mouth as he skidded into the bench with a crash, but Reuben was already away. The room shook in his vision, but he managed to force his legs to a straight coarse. The movement and noise, as well as the sight of the fellow worker down, caused yells of anger to pursue Reuben outside. He nearly stopped dead when he reached the free air, but forced himself to keep moving, legs pistoning doggedly. He could not be caught again, he had to find a place to hide. Reuben was back in Entigria, the dust of Tekuda still on his feet.
7 THE SMOKE CLEARS
Powered granite, mixed in a two to one ratio with basalt, proved far too vigorous a reaction. Extrapolation of the result would seem to indicate unstable Karthild resonance at concentrations required for any practical application. This is a shame, for it leaves the formula as a party trick and robs us of what otherwise would have been the greatest leap in exothermic production since the infancy of the art. Further research may provide a more stable compound, but it is hardly likely to impress the others, as a diminished potentiality would drop the project below the hoped for thresholds.
Research notes from the personal archive of Lucius Orramar, Master of Karthild
Wisps of thought threaded their way through murky consciousness. Fog and confusion filled recent memory. Hadn’t he just collapsed in bed, weary from travel? Steadily, the body came through the stages of waking into the living world. Reason stirred, trying to make sense of the darkness in front of him. He could reckon having slept for a good long while, maybe even into the night. That might account for the murk in his vision, yet he still felt disquieted; something was wrong. It was too dark, it felt cloying and suffocating. Were his eyes even open? Vern reached his hand up, testing to see just how dark it was and found that he could not move. Startled into being fully awake, he struggled and realized he was bound hand and foot. Vern strained against the bonds that held his limbs together. The ropes were thin and tight, biting cruelly. He heaved against them, but could not burst them. Next, he tried bringing his arms to his mouth to bite at the coils. It was painful, but he was able to crane his head forward far enough for his teeth to nip at the cords. He grunted as the fibers slowly gave way; he could tell it would take a few minutes and he could not do it all at once. Panic overwhelmed him for a moment and he lay still, trying to remember what had happened.
Various bits of the last few days began to come into focus. He did not wish to recall the travel back to Tekuda, that had been an unending balancing act of breathing and painful running. By the time they had made it back he had been near collapse, chest afire with prolonged ragged breathing. He had gone back to his bunk at the forge, blearily he remembered falling into his cot. He was not in that cot now though; instead, a cold stone floor bore into his back. Whoever had bound him must have also moved him to this place; he guessed it to be the working quarters. Vern tried once more to strain, grunting with the effort. Again, he was barely able to reach but he could feel his bite having an effect. Hope glimmered in him as the first cord of the braid parted in two.
Suddenly, a heavy, thudding tread of metal-clad boots on stone froze Vern stiff. The room was no longer completely dark anymore. He looked up, in the doorway of this room, filling the frame with its bulk, stood a knight in black armor and flaming eyes. Its breath came in measured depth and cadence, menacing even in the absence of words.
“Get away from me!” shouted Vern. He abandoned his endeavour to chew the cords, reverting to his previous plan, muscles bulging as he tried to snap the ropes. A cold, dry laugh, sonorous and full of spiteful hate, greeted his attempt. Vern redoubled his effort, squirming his body, seeking some angle that might give him purchase for leverage. He stopped, panting from exertion.
The knight stepped into the room, its stylized clawed boot scratching at the floor like a talon on slate. Its eyes were deep set coals, filling the room with ruddy light. “Every last one,” rumbled the giant figure.
Vern heaved with all his might. Blood coursed madly through him, heartbeat drumming in his ears from effort and panic combined. There was a small snap, the rope burst near his wrist without warning. Vern struggled all the more to free himself now that his forearms were loose.
The smoke knight’s eyes raged with wild fury, flame streaking out in fierce orange tongues. With a single large stride it was next to Vern, just as he was beginning to get the coils undone. The knight reached down and seized him, who struggled, trying to clamber out of its grasp. It was useless, the enemy had a hold on Vern’s shoulder, its wide hand able to exert immense pressure. Vern was wrestled to the floor, then his adversary was able to corral Vern’s flailing limbs and pin them to his side in a quick switch of hold. Vern was held tight, arms pinned to his sides, as the knight hauled him up, holding him
out at arms’ length in its viselike grip. Vern gasped in pain at the relentless pressure, jerking madly as the knight crushed him with his powerful grasp.
“No escape,” hissed the knight, cruelly squeezing him.
Lights appeared in Vern’s vision as he screamed at the agony. He thrashed wildly, to no avail. In his throes he reared back and brought his unprotected forehead plummeting forward into the helmeted knight. Fresh pain blossomed, barely noticed, as his skin split from the impact. The dull clang was lost in the laughter of the knight, who threw Vern to the ground like a rag-doll. As he hit the floor, a loud crack sounded and Vern shrieked in new pain.
“No escape,” hissed the knight again, the fire of its eyes almost merry now. “You show promise,” it said.
Through waves of pounding torment, too much to even move, Vern felt his arm being grabbed. Then he felt the strain as he was dragged along the ground, the knight taking him he knew not where. The walls passed by in a blur, every bump along the ground causing his broken rib to jolt and wriggle. They passed outside into a world that Vern did not recognize anymore.
The destruction of Tekuda was taking place in earnest, other knights could be seen, perhaps no more than a dozen all told. Many times that number of imps were present, piling up broken timbers into the many large bonfires. Great turves of earth, as if an enormous farm plow had passed through the town like an uncut field, were ugly gashes upon the formerly level ground. The land all around the town was pockmarked from the tunnelers, mounds of earth exposed to the sky. Smoke drifted this way and that, caught in the whirlpool eddies of turbulent air currents in choking sheets. Vern’s eyes burned from the stench, smoking wood and bodies, charred flesh and ruined town. The mill was a broken tooth, the tower still being demolished with haphazard blows from the imps and one of the tunneling creatures that wrapped itself around the jagged frames, its strength and weight coiling around and slowly crushing the structure.
Litany of Wrath Page 13