The Chronicles of Nevin Reasoner: The Complete Duology

by Thomas Lombard

  As the soldier drew back his pike for a fatal thrust, Anson pulled himself up and backed off slowly. Feinting jabs with his weapon and glaring with a taunting smile, the Guardsman backed his victim against a large tree and lunged. Anson dodged enough that the point only nicked his arm and stuck firmly in the tree. The wooden shaft broke from the effort of pulling it free, leaving the tip imbedded in the tree. With a curse, the attacker swung the remainder of the shaft and flattened Anson with a blow to the head.

  Flat on the ground, Anson was too stunned at first to notice any pain. Only semiconscious, his senses swam. Barely hearing a cruel laugh from the Guardsman, he was grabbed by the shirt and forced to stand up. The soldier glared at Anson.

  “I’ll kill you with my hands, boy. I’ll squeeze your neck until your eyeballs pop.”

  Anson reacted instinctively. He grabbed the man’s beard with one hand, kicked him in the knee and pulled him down to the ground. They rolled around, Anson defending himself from blows by the other man but not striking any on his own account. With punches beginning to take their toll, the mage was nearly subdued as the other tried to pin him to the ground. The soldier did not let up and repeatedly swung his fists as they rolled back and forth on the ground. With all the strength he could muster, Anson lurched and forced the Guardsman on his back. Before the man could react to this surprising move, Anson swung a loose forearm and knocked off the soldier’s helmet. Wriggling both hands free, Anson dug his fingertips into critical pressure points by his assailant’s ears. Before the soldier could figure out what was happening, Anson shouted a litany of spellwords made potent by his own fury and fear. The Guardsman gurgled a bit before his hands splayed and entire body went limp. In less time than it would have taken to kill someone with a spear, the soldier from Gilsum expired with the mage from Huxley collapsing on top of him.

  Anson was stunned at what had happened, unbelieving at first. He was not even sure what spell he drew; it was so quick and powerful. The soldier’s face was oddly serene, but there was no doubt he was dead. Anson had never killed a man, or even a beast. When he fully perceived what he had done, he fell forward and buried his head in shame on the Guardsman’s breast. This was the gravest of sins for Anson, an abuse of his skills. Distraught by this killing at his own hand, he sobbed over the lifeless form. How unraveled the order of the land had become when the most gentle of its people must kill or be killed.

  Slowly his wits gathered and he realized he was still in mortal danger. There were many more Guardsmen about, any one of whom would retaliate on sight. Fortunately, Anson and the body were hard to spot in the dark, partially obscured among some trees. Anson pushed off the dead man and staggered a few steps away. Leaning against a tree, hidden by its shadow, he remembered his plan to get to the library. After a few deep breaths to further collect himself, he canted another indifference spell with a dogged effort to maintain his concentration. Calmly making his way past several cottages and open areas he came to the small, one-room building he called the library. A Guardsman blocked the open doorway armed with a drawn sword, shooting glances in all directions. Anson quietly walked past the sentry, who actually stepped aside to maintain vigilance not realizing a young mage moved past him to attempt an unlikely escape.

  Chapter 4

  Deliverance

  Village huts and cottages seldom had more than one window, but the library had large, semi-translucent glass windows on each wall to provide light during daytime hours. Inside, the room had a table and two chairs. On the table a large candle, about the diameter of a man’s arm, was stuck by hardened wax to a plate that served as its base. The availability of illumination day or night and the absence of a lock on the door provided any potential readers with unrestricted opportunity to consult the village books.

  Even though relatively few residents actually could read, all took pride in their compilation of books and other written works. Their collection of more than thirty items was thought to be larger than any place outside of the King’s castle. Huxley’s books came from various sources, but most were turned over by villagers upon inheritance. It was a long held tradition for anyone with a book among his or her possessions to donate it for community access. Books were too highly valued for individuals to keep to themselves.

  Along two adjoining walls in this building were numerous shelves holding the few dozen books and other written items. Anson went immediately to the old palimpsest located on the highest shelf and carefully brought it down. Of the few persons who may have attempted to read this old manuscript, all but a mage would recognize it as a compendium of many things from recipes to records of rainfall put down over many years. Only a mage would detect those scattered entries obscured in the overwritten parchment pages that would compose spells if properly sequenced. It was unknown why these spells were safeguarded in this manner.

  Anson sat down and set the pages on the table in the proper order. Ignoring aches and pains from the night’s travail, he sped through the lines to formulate a deliverance. In his desperation, he resisted the nagging truth that he knew nothing about this spell, or any person who had learned it. He had no idea where, or to what, he might be “delivered.” The outcome could be worse than the situation precipitating the spell. It was even possible that the incantation could cause death, catatonia or some other unknown but dubious form of deliverance. Would the spellcaster remain clothed? Would physical articles on his person be lost?

  Settling his anxiety as best he could, Anson focused his mind precisely as trained through thousands of repetitions of common spellcasting. The words of a spell and hand movements were actually less important than the spellcaster’s state of mind. Any person could recite the words, but nothing intentional would happen without the controlled focus of a trained spellcaster. With his concentration building, Anson was ready to proceed. He canted the spell’s words and phrases in a low voice, reciting them exactly as written. Speaking slowly at first, he increased the tempo as he completed the first iteration. With a second recital, his voice rose in volume as he blended the words and phrases with gestures into a pattern. To an untrained ear, this incantation might sound like simple mumbling, but a competent mage would carefully enunciate the words to flow together, conceiving a coalescent, evocative thought with the hand gestures as catalyst to give the pattern a powerful rhythm. However, long complex spells like this one might require multiple iterations to get the intended outcome. With Anson’s experience and talent, he rarely needed to cant a spell more than once. Not this time. Through a second iteration, he felt the spell begin to take hold, its affects becoming perceptible. Whiteness billowed in his mind like hoar-fog, blurring the sights and sounds around him. He closed his eyes as his vision started fading. The power and depth of this spell was already unlike anything he ever experienced. With a pounding heart and rising excitement, he braced himself. It was going to work. It was working!

  At the onset of a third iteration, there were voices outside the room. Almost casually, a Gilsum Guardsman peered in the doorway and watched dumbly trying to comprehend what was happening to the young man seated at a table. He was startled upon seeing Anson’s image fade, as if it was beginning to disappear. The Guardsman drew his dagger and shouted, “Stop this deviltry and be taken prisoner!”

  A thick shadow cloaked Anson. He felt so extraordinarily light and unfixed in time or place that he dismissed any thought to the armed threat. He faded completely from view as the Guardsman cocked his arm and threw the dagger. In the scant second it took to fly across the room, the blade passed harmlessly through Anson’s spectral shadow and stuck an inch deep in the chair, where it landed at throat height and quivered as it was denied its fleshy target.

  * * *

  After an oddly timeless moment, the opaque shroud obscuring Anson’s perceptions gradually gave way to intermittent light. Shapes and shading took form like a rapidly assembled three-dimensional picture puzzle. The experience felt like weightless movement that involved the entire body without distinguis
hing one’s feet or hands. He felt his weight return, sensing that he was in an earthly place and time. While not visible, he perceived vague bands of energy converging below him. The deliverance was accomplished.

  Anson blinked repeatedly, finding himself in a seated position on the floor of a small room with a hard, stone-like floor. His leaned his back against a wall, his hands resting on upraised knees. With some relief he saw no trace of the Guardsman, the dagger or its handiwork, although the pike wound on his left arm was still seeping a little blood. Unconcerned about his arm, Anson padded his fingers around the right side of his head where a good-sized knot was raised by the pike handle. Fortunately, there was no blood flow. Satisfied that he was more or less healthy and whole, his attention turned to his surroundings.

  The narrow room had four windowless walls with a single globe of light shining in the center of the ceiling. Many unconscious sensations communicated that there were things in this place he had never seen before. Directly opposite him, the wall had a door slightly ajar, revealing a crack of light from an adjacent area.

  On the walls to his right and left were several shelves filled with articles. Some of the shelves were stacked with dozens of squat white cylinders that appeared to be made of a very thin parchment. Most of the other articles were oddly shaped containers, possibly holding liquids or powders. This room must belong to an alchemist, he said to himself.

  Immediately to Anson’s left, an open-topped rectangular box was attached to the wall several inches off the floor. Protruding from the wall at the top center was a pipe made of the shiniest metal Anson had ever seen, the fixture vaguely reminiscent of a fountain. Attached to the end of the shiny pipe was a narrow black tube, apparently flexible, extending straight down into the basin. Star-shaped devices flanked either side of the center pipe.

  A small, gray metal vat with a set of small wheels attached at its base sat on the floor nearby; an arc-shaped hefty wire was loosely connected at opposite ends on the top of the vat, perhaps a handle for carrying the contrivance. Was this a vehicle of some sort? Perhaps it was a carriage for a small creature, maybe a pet or juvenile elf. As he slowly raised himself to a standing position, the soreness in his arms and legs was remindful of the troubles preceding this deliverance. A hot bath would soothe these aches.

  Upon standing, Anson took a closer look at the wheeled container. It was half-full of gray-colored liquid; a wooden staff was immersed in it and there was a slight malodorous taint to the liquid. On the side of the vat, these words were stenciled in white lettering:

  HEMPSTEAD COLLEGE

  MAINTENANCE DEPARTMENT

  It was a relief that he could read these words. Though their meaning was unclear, the language was familiar. At least he was in a place where he could potentially communicate. He saw no clues where this place actually was.

  The deep rectangular box fixed to the wall was three to four feet wide and about as deep, and the top was about eye height. It was made of a thin material he had never seen before, neither metal nor mortar and whitish in color. Whatever the material, the box was solid and strong but somewhat flexible as he pushed on the sides. He tapped the shiny center pipe over the basin, confirming that it was made of metal. The narrow black tube attached to the pipe was very flexible and the lower end of it coiled at the bottom. The purpose of this apparatus was difficult to fathom, but traces of liquid at the bottom suggested it was a basin of some kind. He grasped the star-shaped object on the right and pulled on it with no effect. Grasping the star to the left, he pulled up and pushed down, again with no results. Then, serendipitously, he rotated the left star and discovered that it had a pivot point allowing it to turn to the left. Slow turning made a slight creaking sound followed by a gush of clear liquid from the end of the black tube, making it writhe like a snake spurting in all directions at the bottom of the basin.

  Anson quickly turned the star back in the opposite direction and stopped the flow. He marveled at such an effortless way to produce water, or at least what appeared to be water. From his experience, people obtained water by dropping a pail into a well or cistern, but this device made water available fast and easy. He turned the left star again, picked up the flexible black tube to keep the flow aimed down and sprayed the fingers of his other hand. When the water quickly became scalding hot he jerked his hand away, quickly turning the star to stop the flow.

  Figuring that the star on the right would pivot similarly, he turned it and another spurt of water erupted. This time the water quickly cooled and seemed to get increasingly colder. Certain that the cold liquid was definitely water, he refreshed himself by alternately spraying his hands and face and sloppily lapping a drink from the end of the tube. The water had a definite off-taste that hinted at a familiar reagent, but the long drink was pleasant and the taste was not bothersome. As expected, turning the right star in the reverse direction stopped the flow of cold water.

  Anson had once visited King Lucan’s castle in Antrim where water flowed through a system of clay pipes for the bathing and toilet needs of the gentry. Perhaps this basin, or tub, was connected to that very water system and this room was in Lucan’s castle. Wherever this room was, it was marvelous to have such instant access to hot and cold water. Perhaps cooks used this basin for cooking purposes by spewing boiling water to prepare soup or stew, but that seemed unlikely after a sharp gurgling sound revealed that it was unsuitable for cooking. All the water had slowly drained away through holes punched in a shiny metal disc at the bottom. Looking under the basin to see where the water went, it apparently drained into an s-shaped sequence of metal tubes attached directly to the center disc. It struck Anson that this basin must be used personal ablutions.

  He remembered seeing private indoor latrines in King Lucan’s castle. Shaped more like a trough than this basin, they also had a similar draining system. Some were designed for sitting patrons and others for standing. All made use of a clay pipe of narrow diameter protruding through the wall and suspended over the apparatus. Water continuously dripped from a line of small holes in the pipe, falling directly into the trough to wash away the human effluent. It was the most amazing bit of plumbing Anson had ever seen, until now. The basin in front of him required the patron to activate the flow of water by turning one of the stars. Not only was this more convenient with hot or cold running water, a man could also rinse his hands. He then proceeded to use the basin for what he thought was its intended purpose.

  Flailing his dripping hands to dry them, his attention caught a white box on the wall to the left of the basin. This box was about a foot across, several inches high and deep. Protruding from the underside of the box was a leaf of tan-colored parchment. Anson rubbed the parchment between his thumb and forefinger, gave it a tug and a short length popped out of the box. To his amazement, there was still a protruding edge of a separate leaf at the underside of the box. He pulled out another piece, then another, each time staring incredulously at the box. Could this be magic reproducing a sheet of parchment without any incantation or other form of magery? He sensed none of the mental flux required for spellwork, so he ruled out magic. Was there a servant on the other side of wall standing ready to thread the box each time someone pulled out a sheet? This seemed plausible because this room might well be in Lucan’s castle and there were always servants ready to serve the needs of gentry. It would be amusing to see how fast he could pull out more sheets, challenging the servant to keep up with him in replenishing the box. He let that thought pass; it would be wrong to waste a book’s worth of parchment on such a jest. A mild throbbing pain reminded him of the superficial wound on his arm, so he wetted some tan sheets with hot water to wash the wound clean.

  The next thing to draw Anson’s attention was the wooden staff immersed in the metal vat. It might be a good idea to take this staff with him, he thought, since he was otherwise unarmed and did not know what dangers might lurk in this place. He fingered the staff and determined that it had a nice feel. There was no risk of splinters because
the entire length of the staff was uniformly smooth, not just in the area where the user’s hands might rub it to smoothness. Grasping the staff with two hands, he felt the weight of something attached to the immersed end. Lifting it revealed hundreds of wet strings, each about a foot long, tied to the lower end. Gray liquid dripped from the strings, giving rise to that vaguely familiar odor he noticed before; it was reminiscent of pine trees. Considering the nearness of the water supply, it seemed likely that the gray liquid in the vat was dirty water tainted with some noxious reagent. However, the purpose of the strings was puzzling. Perhaps this type of staff is used on horseback. A rider could swing it around so that the heavy stringed end would dismount an opponent, but that seemed impractical with its relatively short length—unless he was transported to a land where the people and horses were much smaller. Whatever the use, this staff was not practical for a person on foot so he replaced it in the vat. It was time to leave this room and discover more about this place of deliverance.

  * * *

  Anson went to the door and peered out into a corridor so brightly lit that it caused his eyes to squint. The corridor’s ceiling had a row of regularly spaced rectangular objects, kind of like narrow windows in the ceiling, each of which was made of a translucent material that imparted bright light. The illumination from these ceiling lights obviously did not derive from candles, oil lamps or any burning medium, but Anson did detect an unusual humming sound emanating from each rectangle.

  There were several additional doors up and down the corridor, one of which was open. Interestingly, each of these doors had a small window installed above his eye level. It struck him as peculiar to place a window in a door, but there was probably a reasonable explanation for it.