It seemed as though it took three times as long to climb the stairs as it had to descend them, and Timothy spent this time pondering the future of the Parliament of Mages and the world of Terra. Yes, Alhazred had been destroyed, but that did little to squelch the fear that he harbored over the potential threat of invasion from Draconae. Timothy shivered as he recalled his time in the Wurm world as Raptus’s prisoner.
“We’re almost there, Ivar,” Timothy said, helping support his friend as they made their ascent of the winding stone staircase.
As they rounded a corner, a large shape was silhouetted in the doorway above them, and a bird fluttered over it. In the midst of his pain, Timothy found a spark of comfort at the sight, for the silhouette was that of Sheridan, the mechanical man he had built, with Edgar, the black-feathered rook who had been his father’s familiar. Timothy was no mage, but Edgar was his familiar now.
“Caw! Caw!” Edgar cried. “It’s them! By the tail feathers of my ancestors, it’s them!”
“Timothy! You’re alive!” Sheridan said, extending his segmented metal arms down the staircase to assist them in their climb. He clanked as he moved, and steam hissed from the release valve on the side of his head.
Another day, Timothy might have made a joke of Sheridan’s pointing out the obvious, but there was nothing amusing in the mechanical man’s concern for him. Not all those who had descended into the belly of SkyHaven to combat Alhazred were coming back alive.
Cassandra went first, with the lantern, and then Timothy helped Ivar through the door into the storage chamber, barraged by questions from their anxious friends. There were half a dozen mages in the room, acolytes of the Order of Alhazred, but though Cassandra was their grandmaster, as a sign of respect they would stay away from Timothy unless they were forced to confront him.
“Thank Zephyrus you’re safe,” said Caiaphas, the navigation mage who had served Leander long and well. Those who had studied that specialty all wore a distinctive veil that covered most of their faces, leaving only their eyes visible, but Timothy could see the relief in him. He could almost not bear to meet that gaze.
Caiaphas frowned and peered back down into the darkness of the stairwell. “But where is Master Leander?”
“Yeah,” Edgar croaked, tucking his wings back and tilting his head, looking down from his perch on Sheridan’s shoulder. “Where is he? Guarding Alhazred or—”
They all then saw the look on Timothy’s face, and their expressions tore at his heart. Just let me be strong now, he thought. Just let me be strong for my friends.
“Alhazred is truly dead now,” he said. “But Leander … if not for him arriving when he did, none of us would have made it out of there alive. But the cost … ,” Timothy said, prying the terrible words from his mouth. “Leander was killed.”
They were all thunderstruck, each of them falling silent. Caiaphas closed his eyes and turned away, hanging his head. Edgar fluttered his wings, beak opening as though trying to find something to say. Sheridan’s glowing red eyes dimmed and his arms hung at his sides as though he had shut himself down. The other Alhazred mages muttered among themselves, some of them gazing at Timothy with open suspicion.
“What went on down there, kid?” Edgar asked at last, flapping his wings as he flew up to a new perch atop Sheridan’s head. “It must’ve been awful. The whole place started falling. We thought it was the end for all of us.”
“It was terrifying,” the mechanical man agreed. “How can such a thing happen, that spells so powerful and intricate could falter?”
The acolytes watched Timothy with fear in their eyes, as if they knew that he was somehow responsible. The un-magician was to blame.
And they were right.
“It was Alhazred,” Timothy began. “By absorbing the soul energies in the ghostfire, he managed to connect himself to the magical matrix. He was draining it, making himself stronger and stronger. He was going to try to take control of the whole thing, to command all the magic in the world. Leander tried to stop him, but Alhazred was too strong. If I hadn’t done what I did…”
“What did you do, Timothy?” the black bird asked in a troubled whisper.
“I … I touched the matrix,” he explained. “I touched the matrix and for a moment, I think I might have shut it down.”
The mages huddled together, whispering among themselves. The suspicion in them had turned to utter terror at the very thought of such a thing.
“Oh, dear,” Sheridan muttered.
“You sure did something, kid,” Edgar said. “For a minute there I thought the whole place was going into the drink.”
Timothy looked around at the shambles the room had become, shelves fallen over and debris scattered across the floor. “Is everybody all right?” he asked. “Is SkyHaven all right?”
“Other than the mess, everything appears to be fine now,” Caiaphas replied. “But, Timothy, it was not just SkyHaven that was affected. For a moment we all felt our magic leave us.”
His head swam with the enormity of what he had done. He had no idea that he could be capable of such a feat, and for a brief moment, he was actually afraid of himself.
“Timothy did what was necessary,” Cassandra said, her voice filled with authority and gravity. As it should have been, for with Leander’s demise, she was the one, true Grandmaster of the order now. “If not for him, Alhazred would have been unstoppable.” She looked about the chamber, making certain that all were listening. “Without Timothy, we would all be enslaved to Alhazred now, all of our magic in his control.”
Cassandra turned to one of the acolytes. “Take Ivar to the physician at once,” she ordered.
The mage bowed at the waist, then carefully approached the Asura warrior. Ivar hesitated, looking to Timothy.
“Don’t worry, old friend,” Timothy said. “I’ll be fine until you get back.”
Ivar nodded once, and allowed himself to be led from the chamber. No sooner had they departed than Carlyle, personal assistant to the Grandmaster, charged into the room, several more acolytes in tow.
“Thank the gods,” he said, placing a hand to his chest. Carlyle was normally fussy and derisive, but in the midst of this crisis he had proven himself a valuable ally … and revealed himself to have once been a combat mage. “When SkyHaven began to fall, I thought the worst.”
He paused for a moment, carefully studying their number, and frowned. “What of Grandmaster Maddox?”
Timothy couldn’t bear to explain it all again, and was grateful when Caiaphas took charge.
“My master fell during the battle with Alhazred,” he explained. “I go now to recover his body.” The navigation mage turned, moving toward the stairs.
Carlyle’s face tightened with pain. He gritted his teeth and seemed to deflate. “Caiaphas,” he said, following after the navigation mage, “please allow the order to assist you.” He gestured toward the acolytes, and several quickly followed Caiaphas into the secret passage.
“What a dark day,” Carlyle added, almost as though he were speaking to himself.
Timothy had always found Carlyle annoying, but during the crisis of the past few days, he had begun to see a different side to the man. There was much more to the Grandmaster’s assistant than he had originally believed.
Now Carlyle composed himself, pushing aside his sorrow the way one would remove a cloak, and proceeded to report to Cassandra. He told her of the shipment of Malleum weapons the parliamentary headquarters had received earlier that morning from Tora’nah, and explained that SkyHaven’s sudden lurch in the sky had made a mess, but not caused any serious structural damage. At least none that the inspectors could find.
Only half listening to Carlyle’s report, Timothy took notice of a spider as it crawled across the chamber floor, and he was immediately reminded of an evil among them.
“What about Grimshaw?”
“Don’t worry about that lunatic,” Edgar croaked. “Security made sure he stayed put when the magic blinked out, and last
I checked, he was still locked away tight.”
“Where, I might add, he belongs,” Sheridan said, punctuating his words with a toot of steam.
But Timothy kept his focus on Carlyle, wanting official word.
The serious little man nodded toward Edgar. “Indeed, former constable Grimshaw remains confined to a holding cell, awaiting prosecution for his crimes.”
Timothy breathed a sigh of relief, hoping now for a moment of respite to collect his thoughts and mourn the loss of his friend. All too soon he would discover that it was simply the calm before a storm.
Carlyle stopped to compose himself before entering the chamber where Lord Romulus of the Legion Nocturne awaited a word with him.
Conjuring a looking glass, he studied his reflection, dismayed at the circles beneath his eyes and the lack of color on his lips. There could be no rest for the personal assistant to the Grandmaster of the Order of Alhazred. It was his duty to be sure that everything ran smoothly, and to do that meant a certain amount of sacrifice. Sacrifice and discipline, both things he had learned a great deal about as a combat mage, many years ago.
His mind raced with thoughts of all that had happened these past months—since the arrival of the Cade boy. It was both amazing and terrifying so much could change upon the appearance of one individual. If someone had told him that all of Arcanum—no, all the world—would be thrown into turmoil with the introduction of a single child, he would have laughed out loud and called them mad.
But it has happened, he mused, staring at his reflection in the shimmering surface. Timothy’s return to Terra seemed to have been the catalyst for change, forcing the world around them down a frightening new path to the unknown.
Carlyle had yet to decide if this was a good thing.
He waved his hand in the air, dispersing the magical mirror as if it were made of smoke. Now was not the time for such rumination. Now was the time to do his appointed job—to make certain everything functioned as it was supposed to at SkyHaven, or at least to create the appearance of such.
“Lord Romulus,” Carlyle said with a bow as the double doors opened into the chamber. “So sorry to keep you waiting, things today have been a tad … chaotic.”
The Grandmaster of the Legion Nocturne had been standing out on the balcony, and now turned at the sound of Carlyle’s voice. The armored giant was a fearsome sight.
“What is going on here, sir?” Romulus bellowed, clenching and unclenching his large hands, covered in studded gloves of dark leather. “Who’s in charge here? What’s become of the boy, and of Maddox? And what of the … flickering … of the matrix?”
The leader of the Legion Nocturne looked down on him, and Carlyle gazed up into the eyes that glowered from inside the darkness of the great horned helmet Romulus wore.
“I felt it, as I am certain we all did,” Romulus continued. “My sky carriage began to fall toward the sea, and as it did, I saw SkyHaven dropping…”
Romulus moved even closer and Carlyle could smell the almost animal aroma that exuded from the body of the fearsome man.
“I have felt this … loss … before, Carlyle. When Timothy Cade touched me. I demand an explanation.”
Carlyle felt a claw of dread grip his heart. I touched the magical matrix, the boy had said. Timothy’s … affliction had always made Carlyle apprehensive, but this was something altogether different—and profoundly disturbing.
“Ah yes, that,” he said, struggling to keep his voice calm. “I believe the Cade boy was responsible, extending his unique talents to prevent Alhazred from enslaving us all.”
Romulus reared back as if Carlyle had tried to strike him. “Extended his talents?” he snarled, his voice echoing from within the helmet. “Do you understand what you’re saying?”
Carlyle wasn’t positive, but he could have sworn he heard a trace of fear in the Nocturne Grandmaster’s question.
“Quite,” he replied, carefully. “But Cassandra—that is, Grandmaster Nicodemus, has said that if the boy hadn’t done so, Alhazred would have—”
“He touched the matrix,” Romulus interrupted, grabbing hold of Carlyle’s robes and drawing him closer. “The Cade boy’s insidious powers traveled beyond the walls of SkyHaven—who knows how far?”
Carlyle caused a charge of magical energy to course through his body and Romulus grunted as a blue spark of energy forced him to remove his hands from the assistant’s clothing.
“I understand your concern, Grandmaster Romulus,” Carlyle stated, brushing the wrinkles from his front. “But Timothy Cade acted in defense of us all, and so far there have been no reports of any serious repercussions.”
As if to make a liar of him, the air began to shimmer between them, and the face of Alethea Borgia, the Voice of Parliament, appeared in their midst. Her expression in that magical communiqué was severe.
“Lord Romulus!” the Voice snapped.
The gigantic Legion Grandmaster inclined his head respectfully. “At your service.”
“Alhazred’s Divide has fallen,” the Voice stated, stumbling over the last word as though she could hardly believe what she was reporting. “The Wurm have come through and are now attacking our operations at Tora’nah.”
Romulus glared at Carlyle. “You were saying?”
Chapter Two
Wurm dropped from the sky, wings beating the air unmercifully, gouts of orange flame streaming from their mouths as they laid waste the mages’ mining operations in Tora’nah.
Verlis tensed, struggling with the urge to throw himself into battle, but he had made a pledge to himself to do everything in his power to keep Walter Telford and his people safe. They were hiding inside a wooden storage shed used to house the various supplies needed to run the Forge. The scent of the black heatstone, volcanite, hung heavy in the air.
“What are we going to do?” one of the smiths asked. He was the youngest of the metal workers.
No one answered, and then Verlis realized that they were waiting for him to respond. “We can’t stay here,” he said with a growl, peering out through a crack in the door.
The raiders outside were in a frenzy, destroying everything in their path, and he could hear the screams of the dying, of mages who had been in the village or in an area of the mining operation too far from Telford’s core crew and hadn’t found anywhere to hide. Ordinary mages had basic magic at their disposal, but were not trained for fighting. The average Wurm also had rudimentary magical skills, but Wurm spent their entire lives preparing for war. There was no question how this day would end.
“It is only a matter of time before they find us,” Verlis said with a growl. He turned to look at those who had followed him when the invasion began. In addition to Telford and Charna, there were perhaps fifteen blacksmiths and miners gathered in that cramped space. They had retrieved as many weapons and pieces of armor as they could carry, and it all rested in a heap on the floor behind them.
“Do you think we could make it to the sky carriages?” Charna asked, her eyes wide in terror. “Perhaps even save some of the others?”
Verlis shook his head, smoke furling from his nostrils. “Raptus’s elite would burn us from the sky before we had a chance to clear the valley.”
A stream of Wurm fire dropped dangerously close to the shack in which they hid, and they could feel the intense heat of the flames that now burned the very soil.
“What then?” Telford asked. “Those who were quickest into the fray have shown us the foolishness of trying to fight. If we had greater numbers, perhaps, but hearing their screams and watching them burn has shown us the truth. We are no match for Raptus and his army. Do we just wait here to die? I would rather rush out to meet my fate, to have a more noble death.”
Verlis returned to the door and again gazed out on the devastation of the encampment. To remain here was certain death, but what if they did make their way from the valley? Would their chances be any better then?
“All right. You must listen to me,” he said, returning his atte
ntion to the smiths and miners. “What I am about to propose may sound like madness, but I fear it is our only chance. Unless, friend Walter, you insist upon discarding your life needlessly?”
“Go on,” Telford encouraged. “Any chance of living is better than dying at the mercy of those monsters.”
The others nodded in agreement.
“Wearing what armor and weapons remain, we will fight our way out of the valley, to the one place Raptus’s villains will not follow.”
“You’re insane,” one of the smiths spat, a large man with a long, black beard on which he nervously tugged. “What chance do we have against those … those things?”
“More than if you wait for them to find you here,” the Wurm explained, two trails of steam drifting from his nostrils, as the flame inside him began to churn with anticipation. “Our object is to survive long enough to reach our goal, not to be victorious.”
“You have courage and honor, Verlis, but perhaps too much faith in us,” Telford said. “And where could we go that they wouldn’t follow? Eventually they would…”
The project coordinator’s voice trailed off, and his eyes lit with understanding. “You can’t possibly be suggesting—”
Verlis stretched his wings as far as he could within the confines of the shed. “I am. The one place we might flee that the other Wurm will not follow. Alhazred’s Divide has fallen. The way is open for us to cross into Draconae. All the Wurm serving Raptus are here now, and they would never return there for fear that they would become trapped again.”
Charna swore under her breath. “You’re correct, Verlis. It is madness.”
“It is our only hope,” the Wurm said. “We make our escape to Draconae. Once removed from the immediate threat of Raptus and his legions, we can begin to plot our return to Arcanum.”
The sound of crackling fire and the thunder of beating wings drew closer, and Verlis knew they were only moments from discovery
Wurm War Page 2