by Lyndon Hardy
Small geysers shot from the well around the edges of the column as it continued its plunge, moving more slowly as it pushed the resistance before it. The din of the contact echoed about, and Alodar felt dazed from the onslaught. The cacophony continued unabated for minutes; but through his cupped hands, Alodar could hear another sound slowly increasing in intensity, the rumble of stone on stone.
He looked about for the source of the noise and, as the copper top of the column slid from view into the well, he spotted motion in the northeast passageway.
“The whole floor,” he exclaimed, “the whole floor moves as one unit. No wonder we could never spot a break in the stone. There isn’t any.”
“What has happened, Alodar?” Aeriel asked weakly, still on her knees from the shock. “What did the column do in the well?”
“It was a giant water ram, Aeriel. A giant ram that moved the whole passageway floor upwards a good three feet. We are seeing what no one has witnessed since Iron Fist was constructed hundreds of years ago. By the laws, let us hope we also see our way out of this trap. Look at that gap,” he continued excitedly as he approached the raised floorway. “Stone a foot thick but still a slot beneath the bottom and the level of the cobbling here in the chamber.”
As he got nearer, he lit a candle and thrust it into the newly made opening. “Stairs,” he exclaimed. Before Aeriel could protest, he huddled down and disappeared from view.
The passage was narrow and confining, and Alodar had to stoop and bow in his shoulders as he made his way downwards. He held the candle in front as far as he could, but the darkness extended farther than the feeble light could reach. He paused and tried to concentrate on whether to continue or return to the chamber and announce his discovery. Each heartbeat relentlessly ticked away the time they had left, and the fall of the cylinder would surely bring Bandor’s vassals on the run.
Aeriel’s scream made his decision for him. Alodar quickly spun about and retraced the few steps he had made into the gloom. As he surfaced, Aeriel ran toward him, pointing frantically down the passageway that lay atop the newly discovered stairs. Alodar turned and squinted down the long length of stone archway that led to the corner tower. His already rapid pulse quickened as he saw in the distance the wave of torches and the glint of armor. At least six of Bandor’s men were on the bottom level, babbling wildly about the raised flooring and pointing down at the newly discovered prey under the keep.
Alodar grabbed Aeriel by the hand and turned to descend again into the darkness. He took a step and hesitated. “The queen,” he said. “Where is the queen? It is no good unless we can also save the fair lady.”
He ran back to the center of the chamber and sighted down the two passageways he could not see from the edge. The first was empty, but in the second he saw rapid movement towards him. His heart leaped with his good fortune.
“It is the queen, Aeriel,” he shouted, motioning her towards him. “Feston is still with her, and I can see Periac and Festil close behind.”
He moved his head from side to side, trying to see behind the four fleeing figures. He sucked in his breath. “More of Bandor’s men hot on their trail,” he cried.
He glanced back into the passageway with the raised floor. The men there had begun to move towards the chamber, though not with the speed of those pursuing Vendora and the others. Angry shouts and the rapid tread of feet sounded from behind, and Alodar whirled about, his worst fears realized. Enemies converged on them from all four corners.
Alodar felt his muscles tense and his breathing turn to shallow gasps. Run, run, take the only chance that you have, his body said. But he steeled himself and held his ground, eyeing each tunnel in turn, trying to estimate which group would reach him first. Time lost all meaning while he waited; it seemed an eon later when Feston and Vendora burst through with their pursuers hard at their heels.
“Where are the other men-at-arms?” Alodar scouted as Periac and Festil followed the first two into the center of the room.
“They stood their ground nobly to defend the queen,” Festil gasped, waving aside Alodar’s question as irrelevant to his own plight.
“Then follow me,” Alodar commanded and he led Aeriel into the passageway. He did not pause to rekindle a candle, but caught the rhythm of the steps and descended as rapidly as he could in the blackness, pulling Aeriel after him. He could hear the voices of the other four following close behind.
They descended for more than a flight, and then Alodar stumbled as the ground suddenly became level and the tunnel widened. The others tumbled over him. As they flailed to disentangle, a dim light filtered down from above.
“Down here,” a voice shouted, and Alodar heard the cautious tread of steel on the cold stone. His eyes began to adjust to the dimness, and he extended his hand against the floor. Immediately he felt an indentation and, sweeping his arm to the side, he discovered another. With an extended finger, he touched smooth and straight edges on either side of the depressions but found they extended forward farther than he could reach. Grooves, he thought, long narrow grooves cut into the stone floor. He cautiously pressed forward and saw a shape gradually taking form in the dimness.
The light brightened with each clinking step, and Alodar recognized what was before him. “A wagon,” he exclaimed. “Some sort of wagon with wheels that are guided by the grooves cut into the floor.”
He puzzled over the flat frame, unadorned except for the two central pillars that supported giant two-handed cranks; but as the light grew brighter and the sounds closer, he flung himself up onto the platform. In blind imitation the rest followed.
Feston was the last; as he leaped aboard with a surefooted bound, the tunnel behind them blazed forth with light. Bandor’s men packed into the narrow confines three abreast, holding torches high and staring down at Alodar and the others. The stairs sounded with rapid footfalls as more and more poured in after them.
Pushed from behind, the first three charged with swords drawn and bore down on the small party. Feston drew his own blade and stood in a crouch at the platform’s edge, awaiting their rush. The three jostled for position and the first momentarily lowered his guard. Festil lashed out with his boot and caught the man on the chin, sending him sprawling.
The wagon lurched with the recoil, and Alodar saw the cranks turn lazy circles about their axles. In a flash, he realized their intent. While Feston parried the blows of the other two, he leaped up to the nearest post.
“Man the other one,” he shouted as he cranked the handles before him. They responded slowly to his effort; but with each inch that he pulled and pushed, he felt the car begin to move underneath them. He saw the two men lunge at Feston again, but the warrior deftly leaned back, and the blows cut air. One of the two stumbled and fell, surprised by the motion that the retreating wagon gave to his target.
Alodar felt the pumping ease as the car gained speed. Then, as Periac rose to join him on the other pillar, they jumped away from their foes. An angry shout roared from the pursuers and they lunged forward after the car, trampling over the two who lay sprawled in front of them.
Alodar readjusted his stance and pushed all the harder, beginning to feel the wind made by their progress whistle over his back and around to tickle his face. The vanguard of Bandor’s men kept pace for awhile, but then he saw them start to fall behind. The soldiers perceived the outcome of the race as well, and hurled their torches towards him in rage. He ducked the first two as they sailed harmlessly overhead and kicked the third from the platform, barely loosing the rhythm of his methodical strokes.
With a sudden lurch, the car made a sharp curve and cut off the men-at-arms from view. They increased speed still more, and the voice of pursuit lessened as they flew on. The only sound was the muffled scrape of the wheels against their precisely chiseled guides.
Alodar cranked on. He had escaped and at the same time saved the queen.
The small crew remained silent, oppressed by the pitch blackness that gave them no hint as to their pa
th or destination. Alodar felt odd, facing backwards to the direction of motion, but determinedly kept at his task. After many minutes, Periac sagged to the platform floor, gasping for breath, his energy spent, and Alodar felt the crank-arm’s resistance stiffen. His arms ached and began to tremble from the effort, but he gritted his teeth and continued. His thoughts soared with what he had done. Beyond his wildest expectations, he had accomplished everything. He was alive and well, free of the tragedy of Iron Fist, free to think again of the future, to mold his own destiny. And that destiny now was far more exciting than what a thaumaturge might dream of attaining even two months ago. He was not merely Alodar the journeyman, but Alodar, savior of the queen.
After much more cranking, the resistance began to increase, and Alodar felt a gradual tilting of the platform on which they rode. They were slowly rising, he thought, but no more could he tell in the blackness. He pushed harder still against the handles, but the slope increased faster and the speed slackened.
Slower and slower moved the cart in the darkness. The wind no longer whistled about them, and each revolution of the arms was a fresh agony. Suddenly the front of the platform clanged and latched against a metal abutment, sending Alodar sprawling and filling the tunnel with noise. Simultaneously he felt fresh air blow by his face and looked forward to see a stone slab hinging up before them and starlight beyond.
The party clambered forward through the opening and into the cool night air. They walked on coarse grass and looked down a gentle slope into rolling farmland. In the distance, a scattering of candlelight hinted at man-made structures, and the air carried the odor of animals corralled close by. A gibbous moon, high in the sky, cast faint shadows, but none could look at it without squinting, so black had been the passageway.
“Why, we have covered a good fifteen miles,” Festil exclaimed. “These are the farms on the last ridge that bounds the wastelands to the west. We are indeed well away from Bandor and his threat.”
“Yes, and by what strange means were we conveyed here?” Feston wondered. “I have not seen the likes of it in any battlecraft before. The builders of Iron Fist, whoever they were, provided her extremely well.”
“As well as you have provided the queen, Feston,” Vendora said, raising and stretching her hands high overhead, deeply drinking the fresh air. “If only we had what we set out for, our adventure would be complete. But for the moment, I would settle for a comb for my hair. Aeriel, have you one about you?”
“No, my fair lady,” Aeriel responded. “I do not. But mark you, did not Kelric say that we would not find what we sought until Iron Fist lost its grip? That it did in most emphatic fashion. Perhaps our search is indeed not yet over.”
Alodar pondered Aeriel’s words, then returned to the opening in the slope and squinted into the darkness at the car. He withdrew and relit the candle from his cape and began a close inspection.
He did not have to look far. This time there was no subterfuge or deception. There, in the flat platform between the two cranking pillars, was a small square of metal, hinged at one side and with a finger grip on the other. Alodar bent down and swung the door open, his light illuminating a tightly bound parchment, hard and cracked with age.
“Look here,” he shouted, running quickly back to the others. “You spoke of alchemy formulas. Do they not record them in grimoires of about this size?”
All faces turned as he advanced, and Feston reached out and grabbed the bundle from him. With a quick flourish, he ripped the cord and outer covering from the package and began to thumb through the bound parchment within.
“Hold the candle closer,” he commanded before Alodar could protest. “Sweetbalm, is that what you seek, my fair lady? The ink is faint, but I can see the beginnings still. Powders, ointments, philtres, elixirs, amulets, and fetishes. Formulas of high yield, none less than eighty-five parts in a hundred.”
“Eighty-five!” exclaimed Vendora. “Why Feston, you have done it all. A sweeping rescue and a treasure besides. With a yield of eighty-five, we undercut the costs of them all. The royal products will sweep the competition from the field, and my coffers will be fed by a much-needed new source.”
“You speak most glowingly, my fair lady,” Feston said. “Can I interpret your praise to mean that you at last see fit to choose the hero of the realm?”
Vendora’s smile stiffened and she drew herself erect. “Do not presume too much, lord Feston. You have done me great service here these past few days, but not so much that my senses depart me.”
Feston’s heavy brows furrowed, and Vendora laughed at his discomfort. “Do not fret, my warrior. Know that I look upon you with much favor. I wish you to journey with me to court, be known as a royal suitor, and stand by me as you have done here. If in time I grow used to the roughness of your features, then perhaps I will indeed honor you with my hand.”
“Wait a moment, my fair lady,” Aeriel said. “Alodar, the journeyman thaumaturge, did apply his mind and skills with marvelous imagination to our cause. It is to him that we owe our good fortune.”
Vendora frowned, paused, and then pulled her face into a smile as she turned to Alodar. “Indeed I thank you all for my deliverance,” she said. “Your steadfastness in propelling the car was most dedicated.”
“That was but a minor part of it,” Aeriel persisted. “He fathomed the castle’s secret. He discovered the passageway out. Why he even found you the grimoire.”
“May I remind the fair lady,” Festil cut in, “that many of the more restless vassals of your crown will interpret the fall of Iron Fist as a sign of weakness. Without the house of the red surcoat standing at your side, you may be hard pressed to deal with them, Bandor, and the border kingdoms to the south, all at the same time.”
Vendora looked at Alodar and then back to Feston. Her eyes narrows in thought. She stared at the sword at the warrior’s side and then studied Alodar’s cape-draped form.
“Oh well enough, Aeriel,” she said at last. “I am sure that the thaumaturge did exercise his art most exceedingly fine. He and his master may henceforth speak of royal favor when they lure customers to their craft. But I cannot see how his acts compare with the feats of lord Feston or the comforts he gave me. What indeed can you profit by pressing his suit upon me so?”
Aeriel opened her mouth to speak again, looking first at Vendora and then to Alodar. She hesitated a moment, but finally snapped it shut. Vendora nodded approval at her apparent acquiescence and returned her attention to the grimoire that Feston now held before her.
Alodar flung his candle aside and stepped forward, his eyes starting to smoulder, but Aeriel placed her hand on his arm. He shot her a sidelong glance, then halted when her fingers squeezed more tightly.
“My fair lady, there is no more business to conduct here,” Festil said quickly as he saw Alodar pause. “We must start immediately for Ambrosia. Each hour we save will limit the time Bandor has to consolidate his victory. Let us descend this slope and appropriate a quicker means of transport from the first farm we encounter.”
Vendora looked up from the grimoire and into Alodar’s eyes. “It is settled then,” she said. “A royal endorsement for the thaumaturges and status as suitor for lord Feston. Ample largess for deeds well done.”
Alodar sucked in a deep breath and opened his mouth; but before he could speak, Aeriel covered his lips. Vendora smiled and looked around the group, from Periac standing silently near the car to Festil already ten yards down the slope. She nodded her agreement to the old man’s suggestion, placed her hand on Feston’s offered arm, and started to descend the incline. She paced ten slow steps and then looked back over her shoulder at Aeriel.
“In a moment, my fair lady,” Aeriel said as she cautiously lowered her hand from Alodar’s mouth while still maintaining her grip on his arm.
The two stood silently, not moving, watching the queen draw away from them. Several minutes passed, and she and the two lords gradually shrank to dim outlines, fading into their surroundings.
/> “By the laws!” Alodar exploded. “What feat must one accomplish to be held worthy in this kingdom? Can she not grasp what I have done?”
Aeriel again raised her finger to his lips. “It will avail you no good, Alodar,” she said. “The queen is clever enough to know how her actions influence the safety of the crown. And the circumstances here prevent her from giving her reward in a just manner. So long as Festil and his son feel they have some claim, she can bestow it on no other.”
She turned and looked down the hillside. “But at least I know who is the true hero of the day,” she continued softly as she released his arm and then suddenly clasped her hands behind his neck. Alodar’s eyes widened in surprise and he felt her lips pressing his as she drew against him.
After a moment she dropped her arms and started to step back, but Alodar put his hand behind her. She stopped when she felt the gentle pressure and smiled, watching him intently.
“You indeed behave most unlike a lady-in-waiting,” he said huskily after a long pause. He drew another deep breath and the emotions churned within him like the hot acid in the thaumaturge’s cauldron. The exhilaration of freedom, Vendora’s beauty, the grim determination of his resolve, the anger of yet another injustice, and now the warm presence of Aeriel in his arms, all tumbled in confusion, and he could not sort them out.
“And you are most unlike the tradition-bound noble or the meekly accepting craftsman, Alodar,” she said. “You have dared to seek as did no other and because of it you have saved us all.”
He smiled and pulled her towards him, and she again reached her arms to ring his neck.
Yes, he had saved the queen, his thoughts raced. Had not Feston been along for the final dash, then all would have followed. Title restored, respect of the peerage and hero of the realm.
Suddenly he stopped his gentle tugging and frowned as the realization of what he was doing hit him. The queen and hero of the realm—or Aeriel and whatever that future might bring? She has judged him by what he had done, rather than by his station. He could treat her in return with no less fairness.