“He knows how to find him? I can’t believe I’d be so fortunate after all that’s happened.”
Zita got up and started dressing. “Aye, those birdmen have a tight-knit community in Nexus.” She pulled on her breeches and regarded Arron seriously. “Find Nera, will you? And come back to let me know you’re alive… I don’t want to have another crisis before you show your pretty face around here again.”
Arron saluted her. “Aye, madam, I’ll do my damned best, on both counts.”
Despite his forced joviality, once he got up and moving, his worry over Nera returned. He knew she was adept at taking care of herself, but because he hadn’t been watching her back, he felt like a warhorse subjected to the duty of pulling a plow. He was simply uneasy, his sense of purpose unfulfilled.
After washing up quickly, dressing, and filching a small loaf of bread and a smoked sausage from the larder, Arron left the guildhall in Knotton’s company.
The Torumel moved with a jerky grace, as if he couldn’t resist his avian nature to flitter about. His sable feathers gleamed with a sheen in the lantern light.
They made their way out of the guildhall and deeper into the slums. The magelights no longer burned atop the lampposts since the Machine’s destruction, but he could see well enough. The hazy sky gleamed a reddish color from nearby fires, the acrid stench of burning substances filling Arron’s nostrils.
They reached a section of the slums occupied primarily by Torumel, unmolested. A trio of rickety-looking three-story flats leaned together like drunkards steadying themselves against one another.
A pair of armed Torumel stood guard outside the entrance to the central building. After a quick exchange in the birdmen’s language, they were waved inside. The flats sounded like an aviary. Screeches and cries of conversation were audible through the thin walls.
Knotton led him down a staircase and deep underground, beneath the flats. The ground was eerily silent to Arron’s ears. He’d never experienced a silent Nexus before, without the vibrations thrumming through the ground from the great Machine.
His guide stopped before a nondescript door at the end of the passage. He knocked, and they waited a moment until Arron heard claws clicking on the floor inside. A bolt was slid aside, and Knotton pulled open the door and held it for Arron to enter. Inside was a poor space, barely larger than a closet. It was filled with refuse from food and had an earthy, animal smell, but not unpleasant.
Atop a dingy rug at the far end sat a large dog, its ears perked up. The animal rose smoothly to its feet at Arron’s entrance. Knotton bowed low to the animal then slipped outside and shut the door behind him.
The dog was the size of a small pony. Its shoulder came up to Arron’s chest. Its fur was a rich dark color, a few shades closer to blue than black, its eyes reflecting lantern light like platinum coins. The canine’s lips peeled back to reveal a maw full of sharp teeth. Long tufts of hair extended from its upright ears, which swiveled around. It sniffed at him for a moment, and Arron was silent. Finally, the dog looked him in the eye and tilted its head questioningly.
“Hello, Strydasus. I’d like to speak with your master if he’ll give me a moment of his time.”
The canine sat before him, and its tail swished the floor. It pulled its lips back again, but this time it seemed as if it was grinning at Arron. The large head tilted back until the dog was looking up at the ceiling. Revealed hanging from its thick leather collar was a silver sphere the size of a small egg.
The image of reaching out and touching the sphere suddenly appeared in Arron’s mind. He raised an eyebrow at the dog. “You’re a smart one, Strydasus—telepathic, aye?”
The dog whined, and its tail wagged again.
“Let’s hope your master isn’t in a foul mood.” Arron reached out and touched the silver orb.
In the blink of an eye, he found himself somewhere else. He was standing in the center of a plushly decorated room. Fancy rugs and pillows surrounded an open space. A stack of large tomes lay on a low table, one of which was open, its pages filled with magical runes.
“Despite my refusal of your request, my vexatious guardian sees fit to disobey my command and allow you entry,” a voice grumbled.
Zar Jurrik entered the room through an archway to one side. The High Torumel was an imposing sight. He was tall for his species—a head taller than Arron, his feathers a bright plumage, unlike the lesser members of his race. His head was covered with tan feathers that shimmered golden in the light. The plumage blended into a deep brown on the rest of his body, at least what was visible, as he wore a purple robe stitched with gold runes. His sharp beak looked as if it could snap off a man’s hand, and his piercing eaglelike eyes were sharp with intelligence. All High Torumel were wizards and priests, due to their innate magical abilities, and made up the noble class of that race, hence the arrogance.
“Strydasus exhibits commendable intelligence and wise judgment, my good Zar Jurrik, a reflection of his noble master.” Arron replied smoothly with a bow while he tried to conceal the grin on his face. “I would ask a boon of you—the very future of Nexus depends on my success.”
“Bah! Find someone else to try to baffle with your shite. Very future of Nexus, indeed.” The birdman shook his head in a humanlike gesture. His voice was a tenor shriek, making Arron think of the sound of a wooden barstool scraping across the floor.
“So the Goddess of the Night herself indicated to me. You can search my thoughts if you so wish and see the truth in them.” Even as he said the words, he wondered if they were true. His vision and following escape from the dungeon was becoming more hazy and undefined as time went on.
Zar Jurrik stared at him for a long moment, his sharp eagle eyes boring into Arron. “Aarack,” he finally snapped in Torumish, an obvious curse. “I see you are convinced of such foolishness. Very well, I shall honor your request as long as you grant me a payment of my choice.” The High Torumel’s steely gaze was filled with cunning.
Can it really be so easy?
Although surprised at the High Torumel’s willingness to help, Arron wasn’t about to argue with his sudden good fortune. In his experience, luck came in streaks. “Of course—whatever you ask,” he replied instantly. “The safety of my sister is paramount. I need a way off Nexus and perhaps a method of return as well.” He gestured at the expansive silver walls of Zar Jurrik’s home around them. “Can you craft me a sphere to escape Nexus and return again?”
“It can be done although for your wishes, it doesn’t exactly work as you think. The interdimensional spheres will need to be paired. One must be tethered in each location, or ’twill not work.”
“How would I do that?” Arron asked, confused. “I assume your noble canine tethers the end on Nexus. Where is the other?”
“Torum, of course, at a location where the rabble can’t access it, which clearly is not the case in Nexus,” he snapped. “I would recommend you entrust its location only to one you trust, lest they cause you to have a very bad day if it is untethered or placed in, say, a pool of acid.”
“Uh, aye, that’d not be so good, mate. I’ll find a place here… but I have no idea how it’d work on the other end.”
“That’s the tricky part.” Zar Jurrik seemed to be smirking, but it was hard to tell with his sharp beak. “You can tether it here, step inside, and with my magic, I can transport you to the other end, where you will physically place the other sphere. If you bugger it up, you’re liable to be cast adrift in the void—or worse—when you try to step through, so you’d better have a damned good destination in mind for me to send you to.”
***
“Zita, I’ve a favor to ask.” Arron stood outside the guildmistress’s spacious room, formerly belonging to Rollo.
She was still in the process of clearing out the former resident’s unwanted possessions, judging from the clutter in the hallway. He spotted threadbare rugs draped over an armchair, stacks of moldy books, a pile of dusty garments, and other odds and ends, but little of real value, unsu
rprisingly, as Zita had to save every copper to rebuild her guild.
The half-orc’s eyebrows rose at the gravity of his tone. She gestured him inside and closed the door behind him. “Aye, what’ll it be, my gallant knight in ill-fitting clothes?” she asked with a disapproving glance at Arron’s borrowed clothes, still bearing spatters of blood. “I do owe you for your timely intervention. Perhaps I can provide a better choice of wardrobe?”
Arron grinned. “Normally, I’d say your amorous gratitude of last night would be enough, but I do need something else in return. Don’t fret—should take little enough effort on your part. I’d like for you to come with me to see Zar Jurrik… and hold on to something very dear to me.”
“Ah, so you found the Torumel. What might that be? Some form of payment?”
Arron explained the interdimensional spheres.
She agreed at once. “If it’ll help you bring Nera back safely, that’s enough for me. You’ve both been good friends through the years, and I’ll help as I can.”
Arron gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Lovely, lass. Whenever you’re ready to face that ill-tempered, feather-brained bastard.”
“We can go at once.” She buckled her scimitar to her waist. Pausing at the door, she frowned at his clothes. “Perhaps not quite at once… I must insist you change into something more appealing. I can’t admire your backside in those baggy breeches.” She smacked him on the buttock.
Arron sighed in mock aggravation but allowed her to lead him to the supply room. She removed a heavy key and unlocked the sturdy ironbound door. Inside, she threw open a large wardrobe full of clothing, costumes seemingly from a mummers’ troupe, and uniforms, including those of the Nexus Watch. She rummaged through the clothes for a time before pulling out a well-cut tunic and breeches of black trimmed with crimson, which could’ve been taken from a nobleman’s closet. She held it up to Arron and eyeballed the fit. Grunting in approval, she tossed him the clothes. She then led him to the armory, where she picked out a suit of boiled-leather armor. Arron had retained Urlov’s short sword, which was finely crafted and carried an enchantment. Zita further outfitted him with an enchanted dagger and a short bow with a quiver full of sharp bodkin-tipped arrows.
She watched him as he changed, helping to cinch up the armor. Arron was impressed at her eye—the fit of clothes and armor was nearly perfect. The armor was feather light and flexible, obviously enchanted like the weapons.
Zita stood back and gave him the once-over. “Much better. I refuse to have you going into harm’s way looking like a damned beggar.”
“Surely this is too much,” he protested, admiring the gifts. “You could sell this for a good price and use it to rebuild the guild.”
“The least I can do is get you outfitted properly so you don’t get yourself killed right away. If Nexus falls, then it matters not whether the guild survives.” She wrapped him up in a powerful embrace and kissed him hard on the mouth. “And I mean that—don’t get yourself killed, you oaf.”
When he was able to draw air into his lungs once again, he grinned and squeezed her hand. “Little chance of that. Our enemies will be blinded by my dashing good looks, and before they can react, I’ll strike them down.”
She sighed. “I see your head grows too large already. Careful, lest it prove a tempting target for a stray arrow.”
“Then it’ll deflate back to a proper size, I reckon. Shall we pay that Zar Jurrik a visit?”
“Aye, best be on with it.”
***
Zar Jurrik waited for them inside the slovenly quarters where his guardian had waited previously, obviously put out at the inconvenience. Strydasus greeted them with a whine and a wagging tail. The birdman glared at his guardian in annoyance.
“All set then, mate,” Arron said. “Zita will maintain the Nexus sphere for me.”
“Yes, fine,” the Torumel replied brusquely. He held up a pair of matching silver spheres the size of small eggs.
Zita looked at the one offered her questioningly before tucking it into a pocket of her jerkin at Zar Jurrik’s gesture.
“The woman holds your Nexus sphere. We will enter it, and from there I will transport you where you wish to go. The planar walls are much easier to pierce away from Nexus, for even with the Machine lying dormant, the innate magic of Nexus resists other portals and teleportation magic.”
“And how do we access it?” He looked from Zita to the birdman.
“You keep this on your person and speak the command word.” Zar Jurrik held out a tiny key and placed it in Arron’s palm. The key was attached to a fine silver chain. “The command word is Rasirm ruka.”
Arron nodded. He placed the chain around his neck and let the key drop inside his tunic. “Wish me well,” he told Zita.
The half-orc squeezed his hand. “Find Nera and don’t tarry too long. I don’t believe Nexus has much time remaining.”
“We shall return,” he vowed. “Are you ready?” he asked Zar Jurrik.
The Torumel placed a hand on Arron’s shoulder. “Yes. Await my return here,” he told Zita. “Speak the command word now.”
Arron cleared his throat. “Rasim ruka,” he said dramatically, letting the words roll off his tongue as a bard might.
Nothing happened. He looked at Zar Jurrik questioningly.
The mage sighed loudly. “Pay attention, fool, for if you bugger up magic, it can prove hazardous. Rasirm ruka. Rasirm.”
“Ah, my fault. Rasirm ruka,” he said with a flourish.
Arron felt no sensation of movement. He simply ceased being in the small room in the cellar and was suddenly in a spacious silver room instead. The room was perfectly round, about thirty paces across, and completely unadorned. The floor was flat beneath him, but the walls curved up to a rounded ceiling overhead.
I’m inside the sphere. No longer in Nexus… somewhere between the planes in one of his pocket dimensions.
“Now for the matter of payment,” Zar Jurrik screeched, interrupting Arron from his thoughts.
“Aye, verily. I recovered my property from the guildhall…” He dug out his coin purse and withdrew some gems and gold crowns.
“I have no interest in your coin or gems.” The Torumel withdrew a small vial from his robes. “I claim a vial of blood for payment.”
“My blood? What in the Abyss for?” His eyebrows rose.
“The blood of one such as you can be a powerful reagent. As to what I wish it for—that is my business.”
Arron studied Zar Jurrik’s face and saw greed in his eyes, a type of hunger. He’s interested in the blood of a half-elven orphan? Whatever he wants it for, it is probably for the best if I don’t know.
“Very well,” he agreed. He prepared to loosen his leather bracer, but the Torumel stopped him.
“That won’t be necessary. Hold out your hand.”
He did so, and Zar Jurrik jabbed the sharp tip of one of his talons into the back of his hand. He grasped Arron’s hand in his rough, yellow-scaled hand and twisted it delicately, thumb down, allowing a trickle of blood to run down and drip from the tip of Arron’s thumb into the vial. When it was full, he released him and stoppered the vial.
Arron sucked at the wound, and the bleeding stopped shortly. The vial had disappeared back into the High Torumel’s robes.
“Next comes the tricky part, so don’t bugger it up, fool.” Zar Jurrik pressed the second sphere into Arron’s hand. “The spheres are paired—they will seem as one from within. Hold on to this and focus your mind on where you wish to be. I will cast a spell to join our thoughts so I can see the destination. Once you have a clear enough picture in your mind, I will push you through the planar wall with my magic and to the destination you have chosen.”
“Sounds simple.”
“Well, it’s not,” Zar Jurrik snapped in annoyance. “Get that through your thick skull, or you might end up somewhere you have no desire to be.”
Arron thought of the Torumel’s earlier mention of a pool of acid and swallowed th
ickly. He could imagine even worse places.
“Very well. Let’s begin.”
Zar Jurrik nodded and spoke a brief incantation. When he finished, Arron felt another presence inside his mind.
“The mind link spell is complete. Focus now on your target destination.”
The words came directly into Arron’s head, the voice more pleasing than the screech of the mage’s spoken words to his ears.
He thought of his old friend Wyat, off campaigning on Oblith, a Prime world under constant warfare and strife. He imagined the boy who had accompanied him and Nera on their first excursion off plane together, later grown into a man fighting as a mercenary, eventually starting his own company once he gained enough fame and wealth. Countless visits the two of them had taken to the taverns and brothels of Nexus came to mind, in particular one episode with some drunk female adventurers looking to try—
“Focus, you fool!” Zar Jurrik’s unpleasant voice sent that pleasant memory spiraling away. “If this Wyat is the person you seek, focus on his face, on an item of importance he might always have on his person.”
Chastened and embarrassed, Arron tried to focus on his friend’s face. He remembered the scared boy he had once been and later the man, the staunch companion, but try as he might, he couldn’t picture his face clearly. Arron redoubled his efforts, but the details refused to fill in.
I’m losing my damned memory. Perhaps I should drink less.
He clenched his teeth, expecting an angry rebuke from Zar Jurrik, but it wasn’t forthcoming, thankfully. He tried to picture Wyat’s armor or sword but realized he’d likely upgraded either one or the other.
What in the Abyss can I focus on? The times we spent together were usually unfocused, lost in wenches and ale.
The thought of ale sparked a memory, and suddenly he remembered the time he had given Wyat a gift that his friend had always treasured, a large drinking horn, suitable for a warrior of his stature, fashioned from Abyssian white horn and banded in silver. The image came clearly to his mind.
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