by Garon Whited
Some rules of science still work when applied to magic. For example, there’s a direct correlation between area affected and power requirements: the larger the volume, the more power it takes.
Keeping observation out of an area the size of a city is a titanic job. To the best of my knowledge, blocking out scrying spells through a volume of space as large as a whole city has never been done. And that’s just a temporary spell; I didn’t have the time or power to make such a thing an enchantment. A barrier spell would need a massive charge to work even once. Every scrying attempt would peck away at it, costing the barrier an equal amount of energy to block it until it dropped below the critical level and the barrier failed.
But I didn’t intend to make a barrier. I intended to create interference. Instead of blocking the view, this would transmit an image of my choosing, much brighter and stronger than a picture of the darkened interior of a mountain. That would cost almost nothing as it blocked scrying attempts. It would also save power in that it simply piggybacked on the channel of the scrying spell and jammed it with another image.
As for what image to send, I didn’t have any good ideas. I mean, a picture of a rude gesture is hardly in keeping with my image as a hero, king, nightlord, or angel. I had a bad moment or two while I struggled to think of something. A mushroom cloud? Nobody would understand it. An accretion disk around a black hole? Ditto. Something out of a porn movie? Distracting, but probably not a deterrent. A simple, bright, white light? Someone would notice the under-image; something as simple as sunglasses would bypass it.
I finally settled on a flaming eye. It was vivid, intimidating, and could easily be made to “look around,” as though it was looking back at the viewer.
More important, it was the only thing I could think of that didn’t seem stupid. Cliché, yes; stupid, no. It was a busy night, I was still injured, and I’d just recovered from shrapnel in the forebrain. Don’t judge me.
Once I had the mountain-city defined in terms of space, I could draw a magical sphere around it all. That would be the border of the spell’s effect. I would hook that into the image-transmission spell and dump power into the whole thing to bring it on-line.
Then I sat down on a nostril of the dragon throne and waited. The longer it took the attackers to get up here, the more living energy would be siphoned out of the prisoners and into the spell. I also had time to take stock of our damage.
It was a good thing I’d managed to drink dinner. Closing wounds is one thing; regrowing lost body parts is another. My left forearm was regrowing, but slowly. It already projected farther than the remains of the elbow armor. At that rate, I should have a hand again sometime tomorrow night. If things went very well, I might be able to speed that up… but not right now. I might need every bit of magical force I possessed.
Bronze clanged over, awkwardly, to put her head in my lap. She laid it there carefully, so the open, missing section was upper most and didn’t leak flames onto my leg. I tried not to cry; it would be a waste of blood. I stroked her nose and talked to her.
“You were superb,” I told her. She flicked her remaining ear in agreement and nosed at my shortened arm in sympathy. I tried harder not to cry and noticed that bloody tears weren’t wasted; they just soaked into the skin of my cheeks.
In one respect, our injuries were similar. We weren’t in pain, just annoyed at the loss of functionality. I’m not sure I could have taken it if she was actually hurting. I was more than a little upset that she was damaged—more upset at her damage than my own, certainly. For my part, I was annoyed. On her behalf, I was enraged.
“I’m going to kill them all,” I whispered into her remaining ear, “and then I’m going to get you a whole lot of molten copper and tin. Any parts we can find out there are going into the vat. I’ll put you back together if I have to build a furnace big enough for you to stand in. If I thought it would do you good, I’d bathe you in their boiling blood.”
She knew that. Never doubted it. She was in no hurry, and I should get on with everything else that needed doing. She would wait as long as necessary.
My horse is a better person than I am.
I was still working hard at ignoring a twisting, burning rage in my middle. Someone was going to pay for this, and pay dearly. “And wherein Rome hath done you any scathe, let him make treble satisfaction…” Treble? Seven-fold. Maybe exponents should be involved. Scientific notation. On the other hand, I wasn’t sure there was anything I could do to whoever was responsible that would hurt this much.
Whoever was responsible? Who am I kidding? Keria. Queen Keria of Vathula.
While we waited, I spent a little power to make sure we were both wrapped in Tort’s disruption spell. While I hoped the mountain was about to be shielded from direct observation, it was very important that directional spells, things that could locate us like a compass locates north, should not work. They only had to last until the next sunset, but I still overbuilt them a bit. Safety first.
It took the invaders quite a while to get through the city and up the mountain. Maybe they were concerned about being ambushed, or they paused to regroup before attacking the upper courtyard. It was past midnight before I heard the pounding and scraping at the courtyard gate. They would be through that in a minute, then another few minutes to reach the inner door and ready their assault…
Bronze lifted her head and I stood up. At my nod, she scrambled off to the metals room. I set to work on shielding the mountain.
The base spell was pretty well charged. I disconnected the elf from the matrix; I had another use for him—maybe more than one, come to think of it. Then I gathered up power of my own, forced it into the spell, and, one by one, bit and fed on each of the orku. I drained their blood, drank them dry, and drew their living essence from them. As quickly as I consumed them, I poured the power of their lives into the spell.
This is different from sacrificing a life directly into a spell. When I drain something living, I gain something in terms of a power reserve. It’s much less effective than sacrificial magic, but it’s also less morally questionable.
The spell surrounded me, expanded, moved outward in an invisible sphere, passing through stone and steel and flesh. It would take even more power to shape it to the mountain, so I let it expand in a sphere, lowering it into the floor, moving the center down, deeper and deeper, as it expanded outward. Street by street, building by building, it grew like a soap bubble; less material than that; more powerful than a wall of iron. Vital force made it grow. Living souls, transformed through me into magical energy, pumped it up, strengthened it. It flowed outward, rippled, solidified at the outer wall, hardened, surrounded the mountain, cloaked it in power, hid it from prying eyes from the highest peak to the darkest depths.
I laid the empty, desiccated husks against the inside of the great hall’s outer door, just to annoy the invaders. They would force the door against the wedges, then have to shove wedges and bodies. I doubted they would use the rams when the door was already opening, but the mountain was already alert to start repairs if they did.
I slung my elf over one shoulder and hustled down to my chapel. The elf I laid out on the altar at the foot of my statue. I stripped him naked as a peeled banana and proceeded to flesh-weld his arms to his sides and his legs to each other: Elf sausage. I then built a new spell, tying it to the vital power centers in the elf’s body. His life force would regenerate over time as he rested. All the excess over the current amount, however, would siphon off, trickle down, and feed the living essence of the mountain. It didn’t need it, but the point was to keep the elf unconscious.
I climbed into my drawer, slid myself into the base of the statue, and dropped into rapport with the stone.
I’m not sure I’ve ever had a busier night. And now the real work starts.
Interlude
Rakal finished binding the entity into the corpse. The corpse sat up and turned its head to look at him. He gave it orders and it obeyed, rising from the worktable and wal
king from the room.
A servant of the more mundane sort hurried into through the open door and threw itself on the floor, tapping its forehead on the ground three times.
“Speak,” Rakal commanded.
“Master, there is a fire!”
“Then put it out,” Rakal snapped.
“It is in the chamber of the seer, master!”
Rakal bit back a sharp reply. A fire? In Tyrecan’s chambers?
“Where is the Dragonsword?” he demanded.
“The Sword of Kings sits upon the dais, next to the throne, master.”
Frowning, Rakal stalked swiftly from the room, robes almost fluttering. He ascended the stairs to the main floor, then crossed to Tyrecan’s tower. He could already smell the smoke. A few floors later he had to order the stairs cleared of the curious; orku and galgar shuffled past obediently, trying not to touch the magician.
Rakal gestured and muttered. A wind rose up the stairs, flowing past him and into the fiery room. Smoke and flames wavered and hurried toward the blasted-open windows. Various items of broken furniture, thrown against the walls, were still aflame.
As was Tyrecan.
Rakal gestured the flames down, down further, down into embers, and finally into nothingness. He waited until the room had cleared and cooled in the magical wind, then examined the body, or what was left of it. The upper torso was mostly missing, but some parts of the head remained—charred bits of skull and a few scorched teeth.
Whatever it was had shattered every mirror and scrying crystal. The bowl of visions was bent and partly melted. The other implements of Tyrecan’s specialty were in similar condition.
Rakal gave orders to have the room cleared and cleaned, then continued his climb to reach the flat roof of the tower. He found the skyboat spell and activated it. Mist gathered together in the shape of a long, low ship. He stepped aboard as it bobbed next to the tower top, then sailed at great speed to the northwest, shedding bits of cloud from his transport as he pushed the spell to its limits.
The cloud-boat, diminished into no more than a cloud-canoe, settled on top of another tower. Rakal dismissed the remnants and descended.
Prince Parrin received the magician immediately.
“Well?” he demanded. “You could have just called.”
“I do not feel comfortable scrying right now. Even less comfortable in Vathula.”
“Oh?” The Prince raised an eyebrow. The eyebrow spoke volumes.
“You wanted an army sent after the—the nightlord. I had Keria give the orders; they went. Now, somehow, Tyrecan is dead—you don’t want to smell what’s left.”
“And what is it doing now?”
“I’m afraid to look,” Rakal admitted. “It might see me and do what it did to Tyrecan.”
Prince Parrin sighed and ended in a coughing fit. When he finished, he glared at Rakal.
“Fine. I’ll have Belosh take a look, since you’re afraid.” The Prince rang for servants, gave the necessary orders, and sent for refreshments. Rakal sat and joined the Prince while they waited.
Belosh, a wizard in the Prince’s employ, came into the room shortly thereafter, white-faced and shaking.
“My lord,” he said, bowing deeply.
“Report.”
“My lord,” he repeated, and swallowed. He clasped his hands together to stop their trembling. “I essayed the vision you ordered. I saw no mountain, nor any soldiers. Instead, I saw only a realm of darkness and fire, with a huge tower, all of black stone. Atop it burned a great, lidless eye of flame, and it… It looked at me, my lord! And then it looked past me, all around, as though seeking to identify the room in which I stood! I banished the vision, my lord, but I fear it may have seen enough to find this place.”
The Prince sighed heavily and coughed. He dabbed at his lips and noted again a trace of blood.
“Lidless eye of flame, hmm? That sounds familiar.”
“You knew of this thing?” Rakal demanded.
“What? No, it’s not some power he has, or an entity on his side.” The Prince paused for a moment, thinking. “Well, I don’t think it is. Even if that entity existed, the two of them wouldn’t get along. No, it’s some sort of illusion, I think. I just recognize the description.”
“Then how did Tyrecan die?” Rakal asked.
“Fire?” Prince Parrin said, smiling coldly. “No, I suspect that our prey has eaten a good portion of the army, hopefully causing indigestion. Maybe not, though, if he’s expending power like that…”
“Like what?”
“Oh, he probably used Tyrecan’s scrying portal to open a gate back along it and attack him. Maybe with a fireball spell, or just a fuel-air explosive. I don’t know. It seems reasonable for him.”
“A scrying spell can be used in reverse to target a spell?” Rakal asked.
“Of course. The magical connection acts like a grounding—no, nevermind. But the plan is proceeding, yes? You sent all the armies of the Eastrange to Karvalen?”
“All of them? No.” At Prince Parrin’s lowered brows and beginning snarl, Rakal hastily added, “There was no time to gather them all. He’s tried to bespeak the Dragonsword and I had to shield it. Any delay might have seen him in Vathula.”
The Prince’s snarl diminished to a sneer.
“Well, we can’t have him so close to your precious skin, now can we?” he asked, rhetorically. “Fine, then. What was the last word on the attack?”
“I believe they have invaded the city.”
“And?”
“That is all I know. Tyrecan was monitoring.”
“I want to know how he deals with that army,” Parrin said, flatly.
“You believe he will?” Rakal asked.
“I know he will. Eric is a fool, but a clever fool. He will find a way and I want to know how he does it!”
“As you say, my lord.”
“Good. You have Bob locked up?”
“Yes. He will be no trouble.”
“Also good. Now, have you found a way to contain that damned psychic sword?”
“Yes. The case is being prepared even now. It is not an easy thing to cage.”
“I didn’t ask if it was easy,” the Prince snapped. He rubbed his temples with his fingertips. “All right,” he continued, more mildly. “Get it muzzled. I have some arrangements to make, then we’ll have it try to escape. Mmm. And use Keria to assemble the rest of the undermountain army somewhere southerly—someplace in striking distance of Mochara or Baret. I’m not sure which one I want threatened, yet.”
“You plan to let the Dragonsword escape?” Rakal asked, dubiously.
“No, I plan to have him come get it. It shouldn’t just escape. It’s part of your idea to use it as an inducement. I want him to go to Vathula and take control of the place once its military is depleted. That will add to his distractions without adding to his power. Plus, it’ll be useful to me for him to own the city, later.”
“I don’t like being so close to the nightlord, especially if it winds up holding that sword.”
“You can use Keria to hold him off while you escape,” Parrin said, as though explaining things to a child. “Her usefulness will be at an end by that point. Send her in to try and kill him when he gets there, but make sure he doesn’t capture her for questioning. Now get out. I have princes to intimidate.”
Rakal rose, bowed, and departed for Vathula.
Monday, May 17th
I slid my drawer out again in the late afternoon. I was filthy, tired, and hungry. I still didn’t have a left hand, and it hurt like hell. Never mind that it wasn’t there; ghost pains are no less painful than physical ones. On the other hand—or, rather, building up to that hand—my left arm had grown considerably. If I hadn’t had several corpses to provide fresh blood, I wouldn’t have regrown as much of that arm as I did. By sunrise, my regeneration had restored it almost to the wrist, so that was to the good. It will probably finish later tonight, provided I can find enough blood.
That,
I reflected, should not be a problem.
I swung my legs over the side of my slab and sat up, feeling both a profound sense of déjà vu and an awful headache. At least I could see out of both eyes equally well. A little exploration with my fingertips failed to find any scars anywhere on my face, so I was pleased about that.
The smell, however, was still disgusting. The more regenerating I do at night, the worse the transformation byproducts are in the morning. This was a lot of damage. Going down to negotiate with the oncoming army may have given the mortals time to escape, but it wasn’t the wisest thing I’ve ever done. It wasn’t the most foolish, either—there’s some pretty stiff competition for that.
On the plus side, things went perfectly after I made it into the secret drawer.
I was one with the stone of the mountain while the invaders streamed in like ants. I felt them through the stone, crawling like insects all over my skin and inside my caverns. The largest of them came in no farther than the great hall; the tunnels were only about man-height by then, making the passages difficult for the biggest ones, the ogres. The ogres would have to almost crawl down them, and there was no real point to that. A crawling ogre is at a serious disadvantage. I figured they would be left as a sort of rearguard, to prevent my escape, and I was right.
The rest of the invaders scattered throughout, seeking my flesh-and-blood self. Their plan was obvious: find me, swarm me, and bury me in bodies. They weren’t even in much of a hurry. They could afford to waste a hundred or a thousand troops in keeping me cornered. When dawn rolled around, they would know exactly where I was and would easily overwhelm me then.
I’m sure they were confident.
So they spread out like a dark wave, flowing through the whole of the undermountain like the subterranean dwellers they are, to locate me, raise the hue and cry, and close me in.
Once they were suitably dispersed, all those doors—now weighted and balanced to close by themselves—suddenly started to merge with the stone of the mountain again. The seams between door and doorframe vanished, turning doors into walls. Foot-thick slabs of granite no longer opened at a push; they stayed rock-solid against all the force the invaders could bring to bear because the rams were still in the great hall. Walled-off corridors became sealed caverns. Rooms became prisons. Everything, everywhere, was cut off from everywhere else.