by Garon Whited
About this point, the Protesting Priest rounded the statue at a hustle.
“Goodman, you may not go there; this is sacred—“
I cut him off with a hand around his throat. I beat his head against the base of the statue until he quieted. It was all rather muffled, so I hoped nobody would be too suspicious or investigative. But I brought him with me down the steps just the same.
They went down some distance. I was struck by the similarities between these steps and the ones in my dream… it was not a good feeling. Would it have demons at the bottom, hiding from the sun?
At the bottom, the stairs ended in a door—a wooden one, with metal straps, not a big, black, iron portal. I felt a little better. I opened this a crack and peered through; beyond was a torture chamber, fully equipped, even if it looked like it hadn’t been used in a while. Racks, tongs, pincers, braziers, pokers and coals, iron maiden, you name it. It was a masochist’s wet dream. Sadist’s, too.
From the scream that floated out, I gathered someone’s dreams were coming true.
I threw open the door, still carrying Father Protest. I laid him down on the floor and cried, “Help! This worthy priest has fallen down the steps! Your aid!”
This got attention; Lothen—yes, he was there—put down the hot iron and hurried with the other two to tend to their fellow. The two guards stayed by Shada; she was on the rack and stretched out, just like I’d seen in the ball. I spotted an elderly magician in a chair; he remained seated and simply watched keenly.
Lothen checked his rush and stared at me. “You!”
“Me,” I agreed. I dropped my staff, picked up the nearer inquisitor, and threw him at Lothen; they both fetched up against one wall and went down in a swearing heap. I kicked the other inquisitor—he was kneeling by Father Protest—in the face; I’m pretty sure I broke his jaw. He didn’t do anything afterward but lie there, so I was happy.
Lothen and his buddy were disentangling themselves and swearing—piously—at their minor hurts; the guards immediately drew steel and rushed me. If it had been nighttime, I might have tried lashing them with tendrils and taking my chances on whether or not they were protected. Regardless, no priest was going to get any sort of a tendril-touch; I didn’t want to find out if tendrils could be burned off. I may have as many as I can imagine, but I also imagine that would hurt. That left me with more difficult options.
Pity for them it was a full-sized torture chamber. I had time to grab a fistful of magic and lash it at their weapons; the mundane blades soaked up the power and began to glow hot. They almost reached me anyway; it took a second for the swords to warm up. Both guards shouted and dropped their weapons, nursing blistered hands just as they came up into sword-range.
Still lying on the floor, Lothen began to pray.
Even in the middle of all this, his prayer caught my attention. You bet it did! I’ve felt the blast of power from dead assassins; a full priest was something I considered a threat! But his prayer was very strange to see. When Tamara invoked her Goddess, power just came out of her. I presume it has a limit based on her own capacity to channel, like a conduit or pipe tapping a huge reservoir. But she did things—Jon’s pyre, for example—I couldn’t have done without a few cattle. And certainly not that quickly!
Lothen was reciting the words to a prayer… but, working as I was with the stuff of magic, I could see the way magic moved around him. I would have called it an incantation, myself. He was using no divine powers, even though he invoked his god; he was working magic, like a magician. The power was drawn to him, coalesced about him, and streamed toward the weapons. It was like watching a garden hose extinguish a campfire. His stream of energy disrupted and dissipated the spell I had placed on the weapons.
The blades cooled rapidly under the influence of his chanting. The guards picked them up again.
Meanwhile, I wasn’t holding still. When he started chanting, I moved toward him and the priest I’d thrown; Lothen stayed down while the other man got to his feet. I shoved the standing priest against the stone wall and grabbed his face; I pounded his head against the stone, twice, and he fell heavily. He probably survived that.
Lothen I simply poked a hole through, like sticking a piece of litter in the park. He looked at me with an expression of surprise, then looked at the steel protruding from his upper chest.
“I thought… you a wizard,” he said, and blood came out of his mouth.
“I thought you to be heartless. Glad I was wrong,” I replied. He collapsed and I pulled Firebrand free.
By that time the guards had recovered their now-cooled weapons and were on me. I kept moving, trying to keep them in each other’s way, while I went for the quick disables—legs and arms.
Firebrand lived up to its name. It flared up into brilliant light. I had a moment’s warning, being able to feel it stirring; they did not. We were all dazzled by the sudden glare, but I recovered first. Guard One took a solid hit to the sword arm, all the way to the bone. Guard Two got a nasty slash in his thigh. Both wounds cauterized immediately; there are disadvantages to a flaming sword, but I was in no position to complain!
I knocked the sword out of Guard Two’s hand and kicked both the blades away from them. I herded them at swordpoint to a handy torture device—don’t ask me what it was; all I know is it had manacles. I locked them to it and held out my hand.
“Keys.” One of them handed over a couple of keys on a ring without arguing.
Then I turned my attention to Shada.
They had used the rack and a lash, with the recent addition of hot irons. I’d say it was all superficial damage—no broken bones, no penetrating wounds—but she looked like a particularly well-used masochist. Lash marks on her front and back, her arms and legs. Marks around her wrists and ankles from the rack. Burns under her arms, along the inside of her thighs. A few bruises about the face, presumably from blows. One eye swollen shut.
“Halar?” she asked, softly.
“Hmm?” I replied, sheathing a now-extinguished Firebrand. I was glad Firebrand had gone out on its own; I could feel a sort of glee in it at killing. I don’t want to find my sword is more determined to fight than I am to flee; that could turn out very badly.
“Escape,” she said. “Flee. They will be coming.”
“You’re supposed to say ‘thank you’ when you’re being rescued.” I unlocked her manacles and removed her from the rack-like affair that held her.
“If you can, I will be pleased. I—I have told them nothing…”
“If I can’t get you out of here, go ahead and tell them. See if they have any mercy. There!”
I picked her up, set her on her feet. “Can you stand?”
“Yes.”
“Walk?”
“I—I do not think…”
“I’ll carry you. We have stairs to climb. I may have to put you down suddenly.”
“All right.”
I picked her up again, carefully cradled in my arms. She hissed as her back pressed against my arm; the lash left bleeding streaks. I recovered my staff by kicking it up and catching it in one hand. Then I realized the magician in the corner was gone; simply gone. To get help, possibly. Suddenly I felt very pressed for time. I headed up the steps. Halfway up, I could hear noises, see light. Someone opened the door and started down.
A guard’s helmet and tabard would have helped enormously, if I had thought to wear one. Oh, well. I was rushed.
“Halt!” the descending person said. “What goes here?”
“Someone attacked the prelate and his guards! He’s badly hurt! Get a priest, and be swift!” I replied, trying to sound panicked. It wasn’t that hard.
“What? How is this? What has happened? Wait, who are you?”
While he was asking questions, I kept climbing. By this point I was close enough to see he was a guard, not a priest, and was carrying an oil lamp.
I set Shada on her feet. “I do beg your pardon, goodman. Allow me to introduce myself,” I began. Courtesy. With a
little luck, it would soothe him enough to put him off his guard.
I need more luck. He stepped back and drew steel. “Do that.”
I gestured and used more power; I set fire to his sword. He yelped and dropped it; it clattered and bounced down the steps. I lunged forward, grappled him, and sent him after it. I had a moment to reflect it was probably not the best course; the lamp broke as he bounced and he started screaming. Being set on fire does that.
I picked up Shada, slung her over one shoulder with a quick apology, and hurried.
At the top of the steps, the door was closed; I worked the latch and toed it open. Several priests were standing there, looking curious and a bit worried. When I came out, they started looking actively hostile.
“Aaaah! The wizard is in league with the dark harlot!” was the most polite of their remarks.
Why is any woman accused of a crime automatically a harlot? That was the first thing through my head. I mean, isn’t a harlot a whore? Why the automatic assumption? Can’t women be murderers and conspirators and just generally mean-spirited without being sexually promiscuous? Nasty stereotype, that.
I started waving my staff like a baton; priests scattered away from me, arms raised to fend off blows. I made for the exit door and cleared it. We were outside.
Not out of danger, but outside. I headed around the building as fast I could run, shouting for Bronze. I don’t know who or what she ran over, around, or through to get to me, but I’m fairly sure she didn’t kill anyone. I heard screams, but no gooey thuds, anyway. I mounted, Shada held before me so I could keep her in the saddle, and we rode like hell was after us. Or, in this case, heaven.
Bronze is faster than any horse; we made it to the waterfront well ahead of any pursuit. Keldun was as good as his word; we hurried aboard one of his ships, the Prosperina, and cast off. Keldun had been generous enough to allow us to “commandeer the vessel at swordpoint”—at least, that was what the captain was going to say. I had my sword out and stayed near him, both to make it look believable to the crew and to make sure everything went to plan. Once we were aboard, sailors slung ropes under Bronze and worked to lower her into the hold; the Prosperina looked like a fairly small boat to me, but I think of oil tankers when I think of freighters. They didn’t need her weight topside.
We could have made it out of the city on Bronze, I’m sure. With her speed, nobody would have caught us. But a magical message, or even carrier pigeons, could carry our description all through the kingdom. Not good. Not good at all. Better to get out of the kingdom forever, or at least make them think so.
I still have unfinished business with the Hand, but the Hand isn’t going anywhere. It’ll wait.
Speaking of business with the Hand, why did they grab Shada? Because she’s with me? Because she’s an ex-gata member? Because Lothen just liked to grab pretty women off the street, or because he and I got on so poorly? If I’d had more time during the break-out, I’d have asked him. As it is, I may have to get used to not knowing. It worries me a lot to be ignorant on that score. I don’t understand the subtler motivations of the Hand, and that could be a bad thing.
We headed away from the wall; with our lead, we had no trouble getting out of arrow range before anyone thought to fire on us. Why should they? We were just a merchantman setting sail. No one even gave us a second look until we were well out to sea. Things were settling in to a nice cruise with a fair wind and full sails. We were making good time and making our slow turn around the projecting headlands of the Eastrange.
A sizzling line of steam drew itself through the water across our course.
Occasionally, I do regret my brilliant ideas.
Bronze would go to the bottom immediately; she would also walk out on her own. Shada could float on debris, I felt sure, if they didn’t just keep waving my heat ray over the survivors. But I was going to be in trouble any way you sliced it; sunset wasn’t that far off.
The fountain of steam tracked back and the beam swept along our hull, igniting a line along the wood. The captain got busy with damage control and I got busy thinking.
A mirror. Not that I had one handy, but that was what I needed. A big one. Could I create one, or the appearance of one, magically? Yes. But it would take time I did not have; it would have to be big. The boat looked small from a shipping standpoint; from the standpoint of covering it with a spell, it was huge. Or I could weave a spell to scatter it, which is much easier than a reflection. It would have to be huge to be useful, and to make it would take that precious commodity—time.
I swore viciously and wove one around Shada; she might come through this, at least. The beam came back, playing through the rigging, cutting a neat line through several sails and setting fire to the masts. Fortunately, I had failed to anticipate how difficult it might be to aim a beam that long by hand; it was like poking a fly on the wall with the tip of a broom handle.
It would take a couple of minutes of steady work to make a ship-sized shield against this. Maybe there was enough time. I had to try; there wasn’t much choice.
I went to the portside rail and started spinning a shield; any heat energy that came through it would scatter evenly in a cone, like using a magnifying glass in reverse. Since the shield was forming several feet from the hull, this would lower the energy density enough to avoid setting fire to anything. I started it in front of me, amidships, and expanded it, making it grow like a piece of pizza dough—spinning faster and faster, getting larger, feeding on the power I kept moving into it.
The beam moved more slowly now, as the operator got the hang of it. A bright streak moved along the bow, wavering up and down, sending boards into instant flames and boiling away the caulking into smoke. It worked its way aft—sometimes steaming into the ocean, sometimes missing us completely above—and bloomed amidships as it hit my shield. I closed my eyes as the blaze of hot light ran over me like a desert sun and I worked harder at expanding the shield. The beam left the rear edge of the shield and started a fresh surge of flames on the hull. Luck played the beam over our helmsman; he screamed briefly as he caught fire. Not his clothes; him. Hair and flesh. He hurled himself over the starboard side.
Someone else took the wheel immediately, but we were losing headway; the damage to the sails wasn’t that bad, not really, but it cut down our speed and speed was what we needed. Even if they stopped shooting at us, we might not make it to shore with these fires, and the water out here was deep. Very deep. The Eastrange is a faulted area and extends well out to sea, mountains marching down into the water.
The beam came back, burning. Less of the ship was ignited; my shield was working and had grown considerably. But that fore quarter and aft quarter were still vulnerable; these were further set afire or freshly, depending on how well the crew had done with buckets. I could hear the snap and pop of boards coming free of the ribs in the flames, and the occasional scream of a man blasted by my ray.
It’s one thing to kill a man when he’s trying to kill you. It’s another to kill someone when they want to die. And it’s yet another to consider a weapon such as that “for defensive purposes.”
These were dying men, burned by fire and by an invention of my mind; their agony was my fault, first to last, and needless. Killing someone should be a personal experience, not a wholesale slaughter. One person at a time—even if it’s only a second’s worth of attention—makes it personal. This was cold-blooded murder. I felt it, and I hated it, and I hated the Hand all the more for it. There was also the guilt. Lots of guilt. I killed these men, impersonally and coldly, without ever even considering they would die. It was my idea, and I was responsible. Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa—my fault, all my fault.
Suddenly, I hated my own invention. I wished I had never built it. That gave me an idea.
I stabilized my spell so it would hold as it was without my attention, then I knelt and whipped open my pack, fetching out my glass ball. I stared at it, reaching, and the vision of the tower of the lens swam into focus. Yes, there w
ere priests up there, and the smiles on their faces were visible. Pious smiles, pleased at the work of their god… and cold smiles, excited smiles, filled with the joy of killing.
I never thought I’d be sickened by anything short of a gruesome road accident.
I reached through the glass to the lens—the key to the whole device. And, sympathetic magic being the easiest sort, I brought the hilt of my new dagger smashing down on the glass ball. Glass broken here, glass broken there…
The beam winked out.
That would help. I rose from the deck and withdrew my spell, absorbing again some of the power I had put into it. I didn’t get much back, but I suspected I was going to need it.
The ship was thoroughly afire in the bow and the stern. Since the wind was at our backs, I concentrated on dimming down the flames in the stern. Between my efforts and those of the sailors, the flames died quickly. We turned our attention to the forward section.
We lost a lot of sail from both the beam and from the burning embers the wind drove up from the poop deck into our canvas. Worse, too much hull had been burned completely away and we were taking on water below decks. The fires were out now, but the ship was sinking despite our best efforts.
We had rounded the point of the Eastrange; the land on the other side was plainly visible. Five miles of open water doesn’t seem that far—until you don’t have a ship. Ours was going down, much like the Sun. We were only minutes away from foundering when the captain gave the order to abandon ship. Pity there was only one boat.
“We cannot take that horse,” he said, coldly. I gathered he was unhappy about losing his ship; I would have been. “I will see to it that your woman has a place in the launch. I can make no promise beyond that, as I do not know if any of us will reach land alive.”
“Fair enough. Get what’s left of the crew and go.”
He looked me up and down. “And you?”
“No. Give me the ship, captain, and I will go down with it.”
He laughed bitterly. “Wizard, the ship is yours. Godspeed.”