The Way of Pain

by Gregory Mattix

  An instant later, they were all battling for their lives. A man behind Elyas went down with a quarrel in his neck. Dark-clothed figures materialized all around them, rising up from behind bushes and dropping down from the boughs of nearby trees. Kavia, riding just ahead of him, cried out as she was dragged from her saddle. Elyas spurred his horse forward and cleaved open her attacker’s head.

  A bolt lodged in his horse’s flank, and the bay reared, spilling Elyas from the saddle. He managed to get his feet mostly under himself although he still lost his balance and hit the ground. Two foes came at him, swords stabbing down. Glin turned his mount and struck one of the men down, burying his sword in the man’s back. Elyas managed to get his shield up and block the other’s stab. He kicked out, striking the man’s knee, and he collapsed with a cry. Elyas was upon him immediately, catching his foe in the temple with the rim of his shield. After a couple more shield slams, the Nebaran’s caved-in skull was leaking bloody gray chunks onto the ground.

  Screams and whinnies of panicked horses, thudding hooves and ringing steel formed the chaos around him as indistinct figures fought and crashed around in the twilight while Elyas sought to get his bearings.

  Berut bellowed as he exchanged blows with an attacker. Another Nebaran appeared from behind and ran Berut’s horse through the belly. The tall man tumbled from his saddle onto his first opponent. He lay still a moment, then his foe rolled him off, a foot of steel in Berut’s gut. The Nebaran rose, withdrew his sword, and stabbed him through the chest. Sensing movement, he turned just as Elyas’s blade hacked into the side of his neck.

  “Rally on me, men!” Glin shouted from somewhere ahead.

  Elyas stumbled and nearly fell over a corpse as he tried to locate the sergeant. Ahead of him, a trio of fighters were locked in a fierce contest, one spinning and slashing with a long punching dagger, a buckler on the opposite forearm. He recognized Kavia, bleeding from a gash on her forehead, which had sheeted her face with blood. She deflected a blow off her buckler and slashed her attacker on the forearm. The man cursed and dropped his sword, then she punched her dagger through his chest. The second man lunged to strike her back, but Elyas shouldered into him, throwing him down. Kavia dove on her fallen attacker and rolled away, leaving the man clutching the underside of his jaw, where blood was pouring out. He gurgled and went still.

  Kavia nodded her thanks, and together they went to look for Glin and any other survivors. A heavy knot of fighting remained ahead of them.

  Elyas noticed movement about thirty paces ahead in the open field. The air seemed to warp and shift, then two or three dozen Nebarans appeared, well-armed infantrymen and crossbowmen.

  The winged fiend sprang into the air with powerful beats of its leathery wings. Its fist began to glow, and a moment later, a green fireball sizzled down ahead. Bodies flew, silhouetted against the fire. The crossbowmen unloaded on the besieged group of Ketanians, and the score or so fighting ahead were reduced by nearly half.

  “This is hopeless—we must get out of here.” Kavia lunged and backstabbed a Nebaran whose back was turned, a number of the foe surrounding Glin and several other Ketanians.

  Elyas followed the archer’s lead, and they swiftly cut down a small group of Nebaran ambushers although he could see the new arrivals moving toward them in formation, the crossbowmen reloading.

  “This way!” Vallen, one of the fighters from their party, was mounted and held the reins of three other horses. “We can outrun them.”

  “Glin!” Kavia called.

  “Here,” came the reply.

  A moment later, Glin and a handful of men joined them, two of the fighters still mounted. Elyas shoved a dead man from the saddle of another horse and mounted up while the others took the free mounts Vallen offered them.

  The sergeant had a pained expression as he noted how few of them remained. “Berut?”

  Elyas shook his head. “I saw him cut down.”

  “One moment—be right back.” Kavia ran off into the descending darkness. A minute later, she reappeared on her own mount, bow in hand, sending a stream of arrows toward the group of fresh Nebarans who were moving to cut off their path. Her quarrels were nearly depleted, even with the others having previously donated their remaining arrows during the course of the day. She loosed a couple shafts after the fiend also, but a sphere of amber light flared to life around it, and the arrows splintered apart.

  “What about the prince?” someone asked.

  Glin shook his head, face grave. “Dead or soon to be. He was just ahead of me and took a solid blow to the head. Before I could blink, the bastards were on us. Even if we could still reach him, the gambit would cost the rest of us our lives. A good man—may Sol watch over him. But now, we must ride.”

  As if emphasizing his point, another sickly-green gout of fire sizzled down into the cover of the trees. Someone screamed then was quickly silenced.

  The way was momentarily clear, and the descending darkness worked in their favor. None of the magically transported Nebarans were mounted, although quarrels occasionally flew in the Ketanians’ direction. The seven remaining members of the rearguard put their heels to their mounts, surging away into the concealing night and riding hard for the fields of Varrackot, where they hoped they would find some measure of safety.

  Chapter 6

  Mira wriggled through the tight gap and into the next room. She was uncomfortably aware of the massive weight of the thick iron door poised a hairsbreadth above her chest, knowing it could crush her like an insect if it dropped.

  The door was as broad as a barn and fashioned of thick iron, set on a track to rise and lower like a portcullis. Over the centuries, it had become stuck, rusted in place. A control lever had been broken off and didn’t look as if it could be bypassed.

  So Mira had volunteered to crawl through the inches-high gap and further explore the Hall of the Artificers. At first, she was uneasy about leaving Taren behind, but they’d seen no other sign of any functioning automatons since the one they had fought upon their arrival, nor any other apparent threats.

  Whatever had afflicted Ferret seemed to be restricted to that one chamber. Creel had chanced reentering the room, hoping to discover if the process was reversible, but had discovered nothing other than a strange metal spike jutting out of the center of the floor. Instead of risking repeating the transformation process by fiddling with the spike, they decided to try to gain a better understanding of the facility and the magical process that had transformed her. Better to explore further and find some clue to decipher the chamber’s mysterious functions.

  The stuck door stymied their further exploration of the facility, and Mira was the only one who could fit through the narrow gap beneath the gate. Taren and Creel hadn’t been happy about the idea but had relented, knowing they needed to find a way out.

  With a quick kip-up, she sprang to her feet. A torch guttered fitfully a few feet away, lying where Creel had tossed it under the door. She retrieved the torch and held it aloft.

  The section of the hall in which she found herself was in worse disrepair than the previous portion. The orange crystals had ceased glowing altogether, and scorch marks from either fire or a magical battle scarred the walls and floor. The remains of destroyed automatons were numerous, some of them melted to slag by the intense fires. Skeletal corpses were also plentiful, many of them warriors yet ensconced in their battered, rusted armor.

  “Mira, what do you see?” Taren called.

  “Corpses and signs of battle, more intense in this section. I’m going to explore further.”

  The cavernous hall narrowed gradually until her torchlight reached walls to either side and even the rough stone ceiling. The air was stale and smelled faintly of mildew and decay. She walked among the slain, marveling at the tremendous destruction that had occurred there. Dozens of sets of remains, both human and mechanical, lay strewn about. Water leaking through the stone ceiling dripped and pooled in several places. She reached an area where the fig
hting had been particularly intense. Scorched and rotted remnants of furniture clogged the mouth of a hallway, likely a breached barricade where she imagined the artificers had made a desperate final stand against the invaders. Beyond that point, she found more skeletons, these wearing drab brown uniforms of unusual design, fashioned with many pockets and pouches.

  These must have been the artificers themselves.

  The rooms here were clearly living quarters. The scent of mildew and rot was thick in the heavy air. Water had leaked through the ceiling in several rooms, forming puddles, and wooden debris was furry with mold. Rusted iron cots still stood though the mattresses had long since rotted away. She looked briefly into roughly two dozen rooms, most of which seemed to have slept several people, judging by the cots, although a few of the rooms were better furnished and contained only one cot, likely for the superiors.

  Save the corpses—artificers, warriors, and mages, judging by the garb—she found nothing of interest. The automatons had been the last line of defense before the attackers breached the living quarters and a slaughter ensued. Whatever treasures the place might once have held had long since been looted by the invaders.

  A common room was adjacent to the living quarters, containing a long table broken in twain, with a warrior’s corpse lying across the wreckage. The room contained a hearth apparently serving as a kitchen and dining space. A tight vent extended upward above the hearth into the rock ceiling to funnel smoke out.

  Mira returned to the main hall once more. Opposite the living quarters, a tunnel led to another vast cavern. Inside were enormous cast-iron cauldrons holding raw materials: iron ore, copper, ordinary chunks of stone, the shiny black sheen of oil in one particular vat, and other minerals she couldn’t name. Mining carts were lined up neatly along the right-hand wall. Tracks in the floor led into the darkness out of range of her torchlight.

  These raw materials must have fueled their operation here, whatever that might have been.

  She advanced until her light reached the far end of the cavern, where stood another lift-type gate like the one she had crawled beneath. The mechanism to operate it appeared to have been intentionally destroyed. She looked around for a moment then shrugged, unable to see any way to circumvent the gate.

  Branching off from the storeroom was a darkened forge. A great furnace lay cold, surrounded by anvils, workbenches, tanks, and barrels. Orderly racks of hammers, tongs, and other tools lined the walls. A soot-stained leather apron lay atop a workbench as if its owner had cast it aside moments before.

  Mira returned to her two companions. Taren in particular seemed relieved, which warmed her heart. She briefly related what she had discovered.

  “I’d wager there’s another portal or exit beyond that closed gate,” Creel said. “In order to haul all of that ore and stone in there, they’d make it as convenient as possible.”

  “And that would mean there may be another way to reach said portal without traipsing through the warehouse,” Taren added.

  “It was this way.” Mira pointed to the left of the gate and walked in that direction.

  They spread out, searching for concealed entranceways. Creel found a storage locker containing tools—hammers, wrenches, and other unusual implements Mira couldn’t identify. Another held coiled lengths of chain. Covered bins and barrels held mechanical parts: rods, bolts, cogs, springs and other bits of unknown nature.

  “Over here,” Taren called. He was examining a wall panel with the yellow-and-black runic markings on it. Closer inspection revealed it was a tightly fitted door.

  “Perhaps it takes your ring,” Mira suggested after they studied it for several minutes without finding any means of opening it save a hexagonal indentation at the right side.

  Taren held up his magical ring, the same that had opened the stone cube and activated the portal. When he moved it over the depression, the band transformed, folding neatly into a hexagonal key. He pressed it into the slot, and the door clicked loudly and swung open with a squeak of hinges in need of oil.

  Beyond the door was a narrow corridor that led to a warren of rooms that appeared to be laboratories and workspaces. The orange crystals illuminated tables and chairs and cabinets filling the spaces, in various stages of collapse. Parchments were spread out on tables, many curled at the edges, and bookshelves were filled with scrolls and tomes. A thick layer of dust and grime coated everything. Parchments and books disintegrated when handled, to Taren’s obvious disappointment.

  “What about over here?” Creel asked after they had poked around for several minutes. He stood beside a door similar to the entry door, and it had a placard beside it with more of the runic script.

  This door also opened with Taren’s ring, in the same manner as the previous one. The door’s seal broke with a hiss, and when it swung open, stale air wafted out. They all looked on in marvel, surprised to find a well-preserved study in which decay had been held at bay. A plush burgundy carpet covered the floor, and parchments inscribed with cryptic diagrams were affixed to the walls. Furniture consisted of a large desk with a padded chair and a bookshelf lining the wall behind it. A few ceramic pots held the desiccated remains of plants. A brown leather apron filled with a great many pockets of tools and small mechanical bits hung from a coatrack beside the door.

  Taren leaned over the desk, bare save for a lone piece of parchment lying there, written in Common in a neat hand. As well preserved as the office was, the script was crisp and clearly legible, as if written the previous day. He cleared his throat and began to read aloud:

  To those of our order who may come after me,

  Tragedy has befallen us, my brethren! I fear we have a traitor in our midst, for without warning, our old enemies, the Architect’s Mystic Legion, suddenly arrived through our portal via Ammon Nor (Prime). I know of no other way they could have found us, save for having a spy amongst us all this time. We have been ever careful over the long years to conceal our presence on this plane, but alas, our precautions were not enough.

  Soldiers and mages alike, a couple hundred or more, disgorged from the portal, instantly slaughtering our noble brethren. The factotum defended us, seeking to buy us time to escape, but even with their stalwart aid, we were quickly overwhelmed, our losses staggering. We managed to contain the majority of our attackers in the eastern hall, but unfortunately that exposed the greater number of our unsuspecting brethren to the ambush. We held as long as we could, many brothers and sisters valiantly sacrificing their lives that the rest might flee. When news reached me, I immediately disabled the portal, yet by that time, my action proved too late.

  I am leading the remnants of our order to fall back to Kaejax Outpost in the hopes that if the Mystic Legion follows us there, we shall be able to hold them or at least inflict ruinous casualties upon them with our dying breaths.

  I mourn the fact our revered master, the Engineer, has not been heard from in a great many years now, and I fear our struggle is all but over. If he has been defeated, then we are the last, and his ingenious plan shall fall to the wayside, never to be brought to fruition. I strive to maintain faith even in our darkest hour that perhaps in time we shall receive orders from our master. In the meantime, take heart in the fact that Voshoth will remain safe without the rod necessary to open the portal. I shall carry it upon my person and defend it till my dying breath.

  As I finish writing this, the sounds of combat draw frightfully near. The last of us must go now through the portal before our chance is lost. If you are reading this, then have faith, my brothers and sisters, for the Order of Artificers shall never truly perish while one of us yet draws breath. By iron and steel, fire and forge, we shall rise again!

  Overseer Lenantos

  6th of Arlast, 88 Anno Nexum

  Taren fell silent, eyes scanning the page and mouth moving slightly as he reread the words. Mira could feel his excitement at finding the document, an important piece of forgotten history.

  Creel spoke up. “The Mystic Legion? If I’m
remembering right, this dates back to the Planar War. The timing seems to fit when combined with that construct’s claims that it was last issued its directives nearly two thousand years ago.”

  Mira didn’t know what he spoke of, for she had little schooling of such ancient history, especially pertaining to other planes, but Taren apparently recognized the reference, for he was nodding agreement.

  “The Engineer… These were his loyalists. And whatever Voshoth is, it is a secret Lenantos was willing to die to protect.” Taren had a thoughtful look as he digested the information.

  “Let’s see if we can find anything here that references what happened to Ferret.” Creel began pulling tomes off the bookshelf for a cursory examination.

  The three of them spent the next hour or so searching the expansive bookshelves, but they found little that would explain Ferret’s condition, much less a remedy, if that was even possible. The tomes and manuals were mainly of scientific topics, beyond Mira’s ken, but she also found ledgers detailing supply inventories and notebooks filled with cryptic notations on various experiments being conducted with different substances.

  “‘The catalyst is yet unstable although the energy input is at the hypothesized norms. All I require is a more robust metal for absorption—Abyssal iron. Yet how can I get my hands on a sufficient quantity of the most valuable metal in the multiverse?’” Taren looked up from the notebook he was thumbing through. “Either of you heard of Abyssal iron before?”