by Tim Waggoner
“Wait!” Solus cried out. “Something is wrong! I sense great power … the stone masked it from me, but now that the door is opening, I can feel it! Psionic energy, far stronger than anything I’ve ever known. We have to—”
Galharath reached out, took hold of their minds, and they were lost.
Diran found himself standing in a chamber that he hadn’t seen for decades, though it felt as if he’d been here only yesterday. Long room, high ceiling, wooden floors, empty save for a large mahogany chest with double doors … He was back at Emon Gorsedd’s academy, inside the Proving Room.
“Welcome home, Diran.”
Though he’d been alone an instant before, Aldarik Cathmore now stood before Diran. The man appeared just as Diran remembered him: lean, handsome, looking like he was in his late thirties. Cathmore wore the same outfit he always did for sessions in the Proving Room—long-sleeved light brown shirt, tan pants and boots.
Diran didn’t know what magic was at work here, and he didn’t care. He reached for a pair of daggers sheathed at his belt, but his hands brushed only soft cloth. He looked down and saw that he wore the gray tunic of a new student at the academy. He felt around for his cloak and found he wasn’t wearing it. No belt sheathes and no cloak meant no daggers. He was unarmed.
Cathmore smiled. “Missing something?”
Diran realized then that he wasn’t just dressed as a student; his body was that of a much younger man … a boy. Though he retained his adult memories, his physical form had regressed to the age he’d been when he’d first entered the academy, or at least, it seemed that way. Diran remembered Solus’s warning as the entrance to Mount Luster started to open. I can feel it! Psionic energy, far stronger than anything I’ve ever known! Somehow the kalashtar working with Cathmore had to be responsible for this.
“This isn’t real,” Diran said.
“That depends entirely on one’s definition of reality,” Cathmore countered. “You are real, I am real, and the power that gives shape to all this—” the master assassin gestured at the room surrounding them—“is real. If you die here, I’m afraid that will be real, too.”
“That’s a two-edged sword, isn’t it? If I can die here, then so can you.”
Cathmore laughed. “Your mind is as sharp as I remember, Diran. I’m tempted to offer you a chance to join me. Together, the two of us could destroy my half-brother and his vaunted Brotherhood. Then by using the power of this facility, we could create an army of psi-forged even stronger than Solus—mindslayers who would obey our every command. We could establish our own Brotherhood, one far more powerful than anything Emon could ever dream of!” Cathmore paused then sighed. “But I won’t bother. I know the spineless followers of the Silver Flame have warped your mind with their foolish beliefs. Everything we taught you, Emon and I … wasted.” He shook his head. “It’s enough to make me weep.”
“Where are my friends?” Diran demanded.
“Oh, they’re around, but you shouldn’t worry about them. You have problems enough of your own to deal with. Do you remember our first session here?”
“How could I forget? I only wish I’d been smart enough to slit your throat instead of hitting you in the shoulder with that dagger.”
Cathmore’s eyes glittered with cold anger. “Indeed, and if you’ll recall, there was a third party present.”
Cathmore did nothing that Diran could see, but now there was a body lying on the floor nearby. Male, naked, bronze-skinned, concentric tattoo on the top of his bald head, a droopy black mustache on his lip. The man’s eyes were swollen and black-tinged, as were his lips. Diran recognized Bruk: one of the raiders responsible for killing his parents, and the man he’d poisoned in the Proving Room so many years ago.
Diran whispered the raider’s name, and as if the word were a signal of some sort, the dead raider’s eyes snapped open. The eyes were white and filmy, with no sign of iris or pupil. Bruk’s swollen lips parted in a grotesque parody of a smile, revealing discolored teeth that were sharper than they should’ve been. Moving with slow, spastic motions, Bruk maneuvered himself into a sitting position and then rose to his feet.
Diran reached for his silver arrowhead charm, but it was gone, along with his daggers. No matter. The arrowhead was merely a symbol. The true power came from the Silver Flame itself. Diran raised his hand and opened his mind and soul. Silver flame ignited in the palm of his hand to form a blazing arrowhead shape. Argent light washed over the undead creature that had been Bruk, but instead of being repelled, the raider simply stood and grinned at Diran.
Diran allowed the silver light he held to dim and wink out.
“I make the rules here,” Cathmore said. “Your parlor tricks will have no effect unless I say they do.” He turned to the undead raider. “Now I believe Bruk has a score he’d like to settle with you.”
Still grinning, the zombie reached out with hands that looked more like animal claws and started toward Diran.
It was still night, but it was no longer cold, and the rocky terrain of Mount Luster had been replaced by grass and trees. Ghaji looked around, confused.
“Where am I?” he said.
“You mean, where are we.”
He turned to see Yvka standing by his side, which was odd because he could’ve sworn she hadn’t been there an instant ago. Nevertheless, he was relieved to see her.
“Weren’t we about to enter the mountain?” he asked. “What happened to everyone else?”
“I think we are inside Mount Luster,” Yvka said. “We just can’t see it. We’re trapped inside some kind of illusion. The others are probably here too, but we can’t see them because whatever is causing this illusion won’t let us.” She reached up and stroked his left cheek. “You look younger, too. There’s no gray in your hair.”
Ghaji ignored her comment about his hair. An illusion? Everything seemed so real—the cool breeze, the birds’ night-songs, the rustling of leaves … And if he were truly his younger self, why did he still carry his elemental axe? “Do you think Solus went crazy again?”
Yvka shook her head. “I doubt it. It’s more likely this is Cathmore’s doing … or rather the kalashtar he’s working with.”
Ghaji frowned. “Something just occurred to me. If everything around us is an illusion, how do I know that you’re real? How do you know I am?”
Yvka smiled, stepped forward, and kissed him long and slow. When she stepped back, Ghaji grinned. “All right, you’re real. So … how do we get break free of the illusion?”
Yvka shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve had occasion to use certain devices during my career that can create illusions, but never anything like on this scale. I wouldn’t know where to begin. Too bad Tresslar isn’t here.”
Ghaji felt that there was a reason the artificer—or any of their other companions—wasn’t present, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. There was something familiar about this place … and then it hit him.
“I’ve been here before! During my early days in the Last War, I served with a mercenary group led by Chagai. This valley was the site of the last raid I went on with them before I left the group.”
“Before you betrayed us with your weakness, you mean.”
Ghaji and Yvka spun around to see Chagai standing several yards away—not Chagai as he was now, but rather as he had been when Ghaji had served under him: younger, stronger, in his prime. Ghaji was certain the orc warrior hadn’t been present before, and neither had the cottage that the mercenary leader stood in front of. It was a cottage that Ghaji had visited only once but had seen many times since in his dreams.
“I see you brought a friend with you,” Chagai said, “and she’s an elf.” The orc wrinkled his noise in disgust. “Is she your woman, Ghaji? I can smell her stink on you.”
Ghaji snarled and drew his elemental axe. He willed the weapon’s flame to activate, but nothing happened.
Chagai grinned, displaying a mouthful of sharp orc teeth. “You’re not in control here, Ghaji.
I am. You participated in the raid on the shifter’s cottage, but your heart wasn’t in it. You’re a coward and a weakling, Ghaji, a halfbreed ruined by the taint of human blood running through your veins. You never should have been born, and that’s a mistake I intend to rectify now.”
The cottage door burst open and a male shifter stepped outside, features transformed into his full bestial aspect. The man’s eyes were completely white, his forehead split open. Blood from the ghastly wound trickled down the sides of his face, and Ghaji remembered that it had been he who dealt that killing wound so long ago. This was Ruelo, the wood-wright the orcs had been sent to kill, and whose entire family they had slaughtered.
As Ruelo’s animated corpse came charging toward Ghaji and Yvka, three other figures emerged from the cottage, and Ghaji knew the wood-wright wasn’t the only shifter looking for revenge.
As soon as the sensation of vertigo hit him, Tresslar understood what was happening. Of course, Solus’s warning helped, too. They were being subjected to a psionic assault of some sort, and while Tresslar was hardly a psionicist, he knew enough to attempt to mount a defense against such an attack—and he still had hold of the dragonwand. It all came down to speed now. If he could cast a spell before the psionic attack fully took hold of his mind …
The momentary dizziness passed, and Tresslar found himself standing within a cavern before the dead body of a large green dragon.
“Damn,” the artificer muttered.
He’d been too slow. He looked down at his hand and saw that it was empty, and more startlingly, that it had become the hand of a far younger man, one in his early twenties. It seemed that not only did he find himself inhabiting a memory, he was—outwardly at least—the same age he’d been then. He knew he was still a man in his seventies, and he still held the dragonwand, but as long as this illusion had a grip on him, he would be unable to draw upon the wand’s magic. If only he’d been faster …
A coughing-gagging sound came from his right, and he turned to see Asenka standing next to him. The woman’s eyes were wide with alarm, and she had her hand to her throat as she struggled to breathe.
Tresslar felt the pebble under his tongue, and he realized what was happening. The air in the cavern had been tainted by the dragon’s toxic breath, and Asenka didn’t have an enchanted pebble to help her breathe. It didn’t matter that they weren’t really here, and that the air wasn’t really filled with deadly gas. Their minds had been made to believe it, and their bodies would react accordingly. If Tresslar didn’t do something to help her, she would die.
Tresslar quickly reached into his backpack and withdrew a pebble. He took hold of Asenka’s face with one hand and slipped the pebble beneath her tongue with the other.
“You’ll be all right now,” he told her. “Just try to breathe normally.”
It took several moments for Asenka’s panic to subside, but eventually she got hold of herself enough to ask, “What’s happening?” She frowned at him. “Who are you?”
That’s right, Tresslar thought. Though her appearance hasn’t changed, I look like a young lad to her. “Do you remember the story I told you aboard the Zephyr, about how I came to find the dragonhead on my wand?”
Asenka frowned. “Tresslar?”
The artificer nodded. “We’ve become trapped within that memory. Though why you should be here too, I’m not certain. Perhaps it’s simply because I told the story to you recently. At any rate, here we are.”
Asenka looked around the cavern, grimacing as she saw the bloody remains of the dead dragon. “We’re actually inside one of your memories?”
“Technically, this memory has been used to create a psionic illusion to ensnare our minds. I assume the same thing has happened to our companions.”
“Why?”
“We came to Mount Luster to prevent Cathmore from using the psi-forge. I imagine he’s trying to stop us.”
“You think you’re smart.” The voice boomed through the cavern, echoing off the walls, and seeming to vibrate through their very bones.
They turned to see that the dragon—Paganus, Tresslar recalled—had raised his head and was glaring at them with a single milky-white eye.
“If you’re so damned clever, how come you never learned what the Amahau was or why I had it? How come you’ve never taken the time to fully investigate the Amahau and discover its true power? Is it because you’re not as intelligent as you like to others to think—or is that you’ve been afraid all these years? Afraid of finding out what it was that you stole from me?”
Despite the knowledge that this wasn’t truly Paganus they faced, the dragon’s words still cut Tresslar deep—for while the beast might not be real, his accusation was all too accurate.
Before Tresslar could stammer a reply, Paganus roared, spraying blood from his wounded throat, and attacked.
Hinto was very confused. One second they had been standing outside the mountain, and now it seemed that he and Solus were inside, though he didn’t remember actually entering. The two of them stood within a large cavern, facing a strange object made entirely of crystal. The thing glowed with a pulsing inner light that spilled into the chamber, the eerie illumination only serving to make the cavern’s darkness more ominous. The shadows reminded Hinto of the terrible nights he had endured aboard the Proud Pelican, shipwrecked in the Mire. He felt the first stirrings of panic—a cold, jittery sensation just below his sternum, but he gritted his teeth and fought his fear. Whatever was happening, his friends … especially Solus … were counting on him, and he was determined not to let them down again.
Speaking of friends, Hinto couldn’t see any of them, just Solus.
“That’s because they aren’t present,” the psi-forged said, “or rather, they are, but we currently exist on separate psionic frequencies. We share the same physical space, but not the same mental space.”
Hinto had no idea what his new friend was saying, but the specifics didn’t matter. He understood enough: Diran and the others were here, but he couldn’t see them, which meant they couldn’t see him, either. It was like being lost in a thick fog at sea. Two ships could pass right by each other and never know the other was there.
“An apt comparison, my friend,” Solus said.
“So this place … is where you were born?”
The psi-forged nodded. “That is the creation forge where I was imbued with life, or at least an image of it. I believe Galharath is standing within the true forge, using its power to boost his psionic abilities to create this illusion, as well as those that our friends are currently experiencing.”
“Galharath?”
“The kalashtar who repaired the psi-forge for Aldarik Cathmore. My full memories—such as they are—have returned. I believe exposure to the forge’s energies has restored my mind to its previous state, completing the repairs Tresslar began.”
“That’s wonderful!” Hinto said. “Is your vision restored as well?”
“No. I will need to continue to rely on you as my eyes.”
“But you remember everything about how to use your powers, right?” the halfling asked. “That means you can fight Galharath!”
“It’s not that simple, my friend. Galharath attacked before my mind was restored, and I was unable to shield us from his assault. I am trapped within his illusions as surely as the rest of you.”
“But you can fight your way free … can’t you?”
“Perhaps with time, but Galharath isn’t going to give me the chance.”
“Too true.”
Hinto turned to see that they were no longer alone in the cavern. Four people stood shoulder to shoulder, glaring at Hinto and Solus with dead-white eyes: a human and three kalashtar. Though the halfling pirate had never seen any of them before, he knew who they were. Perhaps Solus had psionically shared the knowledge with him, or perhaps it was Galharath’s doing. Either way, Hinto recognized Banain, Evalina, Turi, and Karnil—the telekineticist, artificer, psionicist, and House Cannith overseer who had been r
esponsible for the creation of the psi-forge and Solus’s birth. It was they whose minds Solus had accidentally absorbed in the first confusing moments after he emerged from the psi-forge.
It was Karnil who had responded to Solus’s statement, and the short human—not much taller than Hinto, really—took a half step forward, as if to differentiate himself from the others and make clear he was their leader. “None of you will succeed. Why not surrender now, Solus? Cathmore can still make use of you. You need not share the fate of your new companions.”
“I will die before allowing myself to be used by anyone again,” Solus said.
Hinto felt proud of his friend, and he knew he had to do whatever he could to give Solus the time he needed to counter Galharath’s illusions.
The halfling drew his long knife and stepped forward. “I’ll see to these four, Solus. You deal with Galharath.”
“Do not do this, Hinto,” Solus warned. “Those four may be illusory, but they have power enough to kill.”
All four of the memory-ghosts grinned.
“That we do,” Karnil said.
“Don’t worry about me,” Hinto said. “I’ve sailed the Lhazaar all my life. I’ve weathered rough seas before.”
Karnil trained his dead gaze on the halfling pirate, and Hinto felt as if the man were peering into his mind. “You have, haven’t you? None were as rough as those you weathered in the Mire.”
Hinto watched in ever-increasing horror as the ghostly quartet changed. Their forms blurred, shifted, and merged until they had become a multi-headed, multi-limbed conglomeration of human and kalashtar, but the transformation didn’t end there, Their arms lengthened, became sinuous, fingers withdrawing as hands formed lamprey-like mouths. Hinto understood what was happening: they were becoming like the creatures that inhabited the Mire, that in a very real sense were the Mire. The same creatures that had snatched up and devoured the crew of the Proud Pelican one by one, leaving Hinto the only survivor.