by Garon Whited
“Where’s Bob?” I asked. “I would expect him to deliver this message, as well as a status report.”
“This servant regrets deeply that the chief of all your servants is engaged in battle beneath the mountains, Dread Lord. He begs the forgiveness of our Dread Lord and prays that you will come to his aid in the campaign against those who live beneath the mountains, but not beneath the banner.”
She was too stressed. There was nothing physical, not so much as a nervous glance, but her spirit was a chaotic kaleidoscope. I looked over the rest of them. On the outside, a sphinx would hate to play poker with them. Inside, they varied from agitated to nervous to borderline panic.
I thought about it for a minute, just looking them over and wondering. The more I looked at them without saying anything, the more nervous they became.
Bronze took a step forward, then another, then another. After a moment, she lowered her head and stretched her neck to sniff at Salishar’s face. Salishar stood absolutely still, as one might when being sniffed by a dangerous animal that seems more curious than angry. The rest took a single, gliding step back, giving Bronze room to obliterate Salishar if she chose.
Bronze finished her inspection, raised her head again, and snorted in disgust. That was enough for me.
“Go back to Vathula,” I told them. “Tell Bob I want him here on the third night, in the first hour after sunset.”
“Dread Lord,” Salishar said, “his duties are extensive and demand—”
“Does he have a duty beyond obeying me?” I interrupted. She was silent. “He’ll be here because I order it,” I told her, in my best I’m-the-dark-lord-around-here tone.
“Yes, Dread Lord,” she agreed. She and her retinue genuflected and started packing up.
I left them to it, went over the bridge, and around the mountain.
As I rode, I considered the wall around the base of the mountain. It was a great fortification, but it was a long ride around to the main gate. As far as holding off invaders was concerned, it was beautiful. For people coming and going from a city, it was awful.
I could add a gate on the circle of the outer wall at every halfway point between the four canals. A few small boats could act as ferries between the gates and the shore, making any morning commute from city to fields that much easier. Later, if we actually became a bustling metropolis, cargo could take the road over the bridge while people could come and go via the ferries… maybe I should add a road around the outside of the lake, as well? Yes, probably. Another thing to address when I’m communing with the mountain.
My people saw me coming and opened the gate as I approached. They were all awake and armed with whatever they could find, mostly farming implements, but several had hunting bows and there were even a few crossbows.
“Majesty?” asked Cormon, the straw boss of the farming crew. “Are they gone?”
“They’re leaving. I’ll check on them later, to make sure. You locked up when you saw them coming?”
“Yes, Majesty.”
“Good. From now on, I think we should stay inside the mountain. I know it’s a longer walk to get to the fields, but it’ll be more secure. What do you think?”
“We’ll walk,” he assured me, deeply sincere. “We’ll be happy to walk. We would be delighted to have a morning stroll through the city.”
“Let’s get everyone moved in.”
Once we relocated our quarters, I started spying. A shallow pan of mercury makes a pretty good mirror; I used it as the focus for a scrying spell.
The area just southwest of the main bridge was abandoned. I turned my viewpoint as though I was standing there, looking around in a full circle. No sign of them was to be seen, so I moved north, past the canal, and started looking for them along the path to Vathula. I still didn’t see them.
Frowning, I raised my viewpoint altitude, looking down over a larger and larger area. Eventually, I did find them, but not on the northern path. They were just entering the mountains, following the road on the north side of the west canal. I zoomed in to look more closely, as though I were only a few hundred feet above them. They all seemed to be there.
When they reached the head of the canal—that is, a large pool under a wide, rocky, foamy waterfall; this was the source of the western canal’s water—they simply rode around the wide, flat perimeter of the pool and under the overhang, through the curtain of water.
Huh. Well. The Eastrange has so many communities underground, the mountains are practically hipster. I shouldn’t be surprised they have tunnels everywhere.
My viewpoint swooped down and went through the spray of water. Yes, it was a tunnel. It looked artificial and somewhat rough-hewn, but it was tall enough for a horse and rider, as wide as the waterfall—maybe thirty feet, maybe a little less. Bronze would easily fit if she kept her head low. It ran for several yards with a slight upward slope, then crested and started down and to the right. The floor was mostly solid rock, but a thin layer of dirt held imprints of hooves. It didn’t look as though this particular tunnel saw a lot of traffic.
I dismissed my spell and sat back to think. What made them so nervous about Firebrand? Well, more nervous than they should be—it’s an awfully scary sword, I grant you. Or were they nervous about me? I admit, Linnaeus seems to have laid it on a bit thick, and I did put on a good performance the last time I was in Eastgate, if I do say so myself. That could have grown into a terrible legend, I suppose. Or were they worried about delivering messages from Firebrand and Bob, instead of those two coming to greet me in person? Did they think I would kill the messengers for the “discourtesy” of Bob not showing up to personally greet me? Just how terrible a “Dread Lord” am I supposed to be?
I don’t know. I just don’t know.
I filed it away under “Unexplained” and got to work. Tonight, I planned to spend some time talking to the mountain about the possibility of new roads. Discussion about a training room for knights might also happen. After that, maybe some rooftop gardens… and maybe a water source higher up the mountain, flowing down one side? Or all four sides? Some water gardens would be nice—swimming pools, perhaps, and maybe some park areas lower down? Places for water wheels would be nice, too, for grinding grain, pounding pulp for paper, hammering steel… A medieval industrial revolution might be possible, but it all hinged on what we could do with a living mountain.
I’m going to go talk to the mountain. This might take all night.
Interlude
“So, that didn’t work,” Tyrecan observed, waving a hand to close the scrying mirror.
“Shut up.”
“Rakal, he’s not going to simply come visit, not even if his sword invites him. He knows someone is trying to kill him. Parrin’s an idiot if he thinks we can lure him here.”
“Parrin didn’t order it. I did.”
Tyrecan sat down in an ornate chair, staring at Rakal. He crossed his legs and laced his fingers together, white eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“Maybe you should explain.”
Rakal paced back and forth in front of the crackling fireplace.
“Look, Parrin says he can get that monster to come to him, right? If he does, what then? We were promised the secret to immortality, but how many people have tried to use his blood for that? Fifty? A hundred? How many arcane battles have been fought over it—not just in Arondael, but with bitches from Kamshasa, or even the mentalists from the East? Just locally, not counting arcanists from other traditions, how many magicians have fought with each other over the last few drops of it?”
“I don’t know,” Tyrecan admitted.
“How many have died over it?”
“I don’t know that, either.”
“A lot. The conclave of Arondael issued an edict over it.”
“I heard something about that, but I didn’t pay much attention.”
“Exactly. My point is that so many magicians have died just fighting over the resources to do research—how does Parrin know he can find the answer? He’s
not even a magician! Come to that, how do we know that if he gets the monster to come to him, Parrin can really capture it?”
“He has powers I don’t understand,” Tyrecan pointed out, “but you already know I have my doubts.”
“I’ve seen things like it,” Rakal said, darkly. “It makes me suspicious. The more I find out about Parrin, the less I trust him. He reminds me too much of sorcerers I’ve known.”
“I don’t trust him too much, either. But I’m also over three hundred years old. What happens to me—or to you; you’re even older—if we don’t find something better?”
“That’s why I haven’t quit this alliance.”
“The alliance you’re trying to double-cross?”
“I thought that if we could get the monster to come here, we might manage to capture it ourselves. I’ve got hundreds of corpses with demons inhabiting them; we might be able to capture it.”
“Ah. That’s why you had Keria order the elves to lie like that. You wanted it to take bait in Vathula, rather than in Byrne!”
“Exactly.”
“Are you insane?” Tyrecan demanded, hands slamming down on the arms of the chair. “Have you not seen the ruins of the Hand compound in Telen?”
“He had lots of time to prepare a spell,” Rakal said. “I could have done something similar myself, given a week or two of preparation.”
“No doubt. But could you have then invaded the place? And opened a gate? And fought the embodied Devourer? And then fought the hordes that poured in through the hole in the firmament?”
“No,” Rakal grudged. “Not all at once.”
“Neither could I. Not even the two of us together. Not even the three of us, when Hagus was alive, and with your demon-corpses, and with all the armies of Vathula, and with your Keria-corpse thrown in. Luring that monster here is the stupidest idea you have ever had, and you’ve had your share!”
Tyrecan and Rakal glared at each other for several seconds. Dark crackles, like black sparks, flickered through Rakal’s hair. Bluish light glinted in Tyrecan’s eyes.
Finally, Rakal broke the silence.
“All right,” he said, quietly. “All right, I had that coming. Maybe I’m overestimating our powers. I still say we can’t trust Parrin.”
“Well, of course we can’t!” Tyrecan agreed, sitting back. “We’re just running out of options. So, tell me when you plan to go off and do something like this. Neither of us trusts Parrin; are we going to trust each other?”
“I suppose,” Rakal said, sighing. “I think we have to. It’s not like immortality is something only one of us can get.”
“I agree. Which brings us back to the question of what do we do now? Hope it shows up and kills the army? Parrin said he wanted the Vathulan forces quashed.”
“You heard it,” Rakal said. “It wants Bob to come to it and report.”
“We can’t let that happen, can we?”
“I’ll say not. There’s no telling what that elf knows or has guessed. He could shoot down everything we’re trying to accomplish here. We can’t even let it talk to the Dragonsword.”
“Can we stop the monster? If it takes it into its head to simply make contact with either of them…”
“Already dealt with. I am highly proficient with barriers and wards. In my line of work, I have to be.”
“I imagine. But I haven’t noticed any.”
“I didn’t want the wards interfering with your work. They’ll activate as soon as someone triggers them. Or something, in this case.”
“And if the monster just breaks your wards? It has a magician of its own, you know. Plus, it has powers nobody’s seen since the War of Night.”
“If then,” Rakal muttered.
“If then,” Tyrecan agreed. “Well?”
“We evacuate to Byrne through that one-shot gate spell we set up in the dungeons. And I’m sure you have a backup plan for escaping. I do.”
“Lerondal’s Cloud Ship,” Tyrecan said. “The spell is moored to a tower. All right. So, it didn’t take you up on your offered bait. What now?”
“We’ll just have to carry on with Parrin’s plan. Keria’s got the army; I’ve got Keria. We send a lot of troops after the thing that lives in Karvalen.”
“I hope Parrin knows what he’s doing. What’s the monster going to do against an army? Especially with those special sling bullets?” Tyrecan paused in thought. “Does Parrin know about those? Or the horse-killers? Or the Lifting Rope?”
“I don’t know what Parrin knows. He didn’t ask about how they were armed, armored, or equipped. He just said to throw them at the monster’s mountain,” Rakal admitted. “It may just be a trick to get the monster killed. Parrin seems to hate it so much! That’s another reason I wanted to try and lure it here.”
“But it’s not coming,” Tyrecan pointed out. “We can either go along with Parrin’s plan, or we can quit now and start looking elsewhere for a cure for old age.”
“And Parrin’s plan still might net us the blood of a nightlord,” Rakal finished. “Yes. I know. I don’t like it.”
“Neither do I. So, we send the army?”
“They’re already on their way.”
Sunday, May 16th
Spiders.
I was thinking about how to make better, lighter armor, and I had a brilliant idea. Spider silk. It’s stronger than steel, even stronger than Kevlar. The problem has always been how to get it in quantity.
So, to get spider silk, I got spiders. I’ve collected dozens of them and laid spells on them to convince them to weave a very specific web. They’re working together in blissful arachnid harmony—as opposed to a cannibalistic arachnid slaughter—to weave webs of unprecedented thickness. That is, a multi-stranded cable of spider silk. It’s about as thick as heavy thread. It’s mostly the non-sticky form of webbing with just enough sticky strands to help it hold itself together. As thread, it’s a trifle clingy, but mostly it just behaves like thread. If they can produce enough of it, I’ll get it on a loom and we’ll see how it behaves when it’s made into cloth.
Feeding them is easy, though. I roll out tendrils of power, scoop in a hundred or a thousand insects, drain their miniscule lives, and dump the bodies into a clay jar. I have people feed them at least once a day and then collect the day’s thread production on a spool. My spiders are well-fed and industrious. I suppose, if one can use the term to describe something with a brain that small, they’re happy.
Tort and I finally had a chance to get together and experiment with the spells on the crossbow bolts. Remember my assassins? I didn’t. I completely forgot about them until Tort asked me if I wanted to keep them. Well, I’ve had a lot on my mind; perhaps I can be excused. I also tend to regard people trying to kill me as, well, normal.
That’s not normal. But it is the way I am. I should get over that.
So, the crossbow bolts. I had Tort shoot me in the hand one night. It was an unpleasant sensation, to say the least. It nailed my hand to the wooden wall, no problem. The spell, however, locked up my hand and part of my forearm. It didn’t go numb at all, just solidified as the blood coagulated.
I tapped my little finger a few times, experimentally, but it didn’t shatter. Locked up solid but not, apparently, frozen; it was more of a crystallization, really. Important distinction. It loosened up again much more quickly than a piece of meat thawing, though, and didn’t seem to have any lasting aftereffects. Just the same, we decided not to test it on my torso.
We tried another one on a chicken. Well, I say a chicken; it’s a bird with short legs, small wings, and a rather chunky body. It doesn’t swim, it doesn’t really fly, and probably wouldn’t survive for long without human intervention. It tastes a lot like… well… chicken. Maybe it’s more like a dodo bird. I wouldn’t know; I’ve never seen a dodo.
Anyway, when I shot the bird, the blood tried to crystallize, but only managed to thicken, reaching the consistency of pancake batter. Watching the spell work, I could see the living metaboli
sm resisting it. The chicken wasn’t solidified, but the spell didn’t do it any good. At least it didn’t bleed to death; the wound clotted off almost immediately.
As a weapon, it was actually moderately clever. Anywhere it hit me would cause inconvenience or immobility. If they were out to capture me, rather than kill me, this would work very well, indeed. Of course, if they immobilized me, killing me would also be easy… someone was thinking ahead, here. My ability to move quickly is one of my stronger supernatural traits.
As for the prisoners, Tort has been keeping them in the jail. Mochara’s city guards have a nice basement under their headquarters; it has several cells. And, for people they particularly dislike, there are several holes in the floor; these have heavy, metal lids, a trickle of water running down the inside, and no sanitation to speak of.
I don’t think they like assassins. That’s just a guess.
Jaret, however, is not in the cells. I said to treat him like a guest, and he’s been trying very hard to be a well-behaved guest. He’s also been trying very hard to avoid me. I think he suspects I don’t like him, and I’m utterly heartbroken at his attitude. On the plus side, he’s been good for confirmation of what Tort has… extracted… from the other prisoners.
She called it “extracted.” I haven’t pressed her for details. I can remember enough “extraction” techniques from Zirafel to be certain that I don’t want to learn any new ones.
There are two kings in the old kingdom of Rethven—well, two main contenders. The more militant and conquest-oriented is the Prince of Byrne; he’s got a weak claim to the throne by virtue (?) of being descended from a bastard son of the former king’s grandfather, which makes him… what? An illegitimate cousin? Second cousin? Something like that.
The other contender for the crown is the Duke of Carrillon. He has a slightly better claim on the ancestry end of things; he’s descended directly from the original Duke of Carrillon, who was rumored to be a bastard son of King Relven, the last king of Rethven. What makes his claim more practical is that he holds the capitol, the palace, and the royal regalia—throne, crown, and scepter. He seems more willing to enjoy ruling his much-diminished kingdom than he is to re-conquer the rest of it. His strategy, if I may call it that, is to use more peaceful methods, such as marriages, treaties, and trade to bring outside areas into closer alignment with his political viewpoint.