by Ryk E. Spoor
“I heard it too,” the other mazakh agreed. “One of those passing to the Great Summoning, perhaps, brushing by?”
“There was no one in the passage when I opened the door, and the door to the Summoning was closed.” Lassish hissed in annoyance, and abruptly let the door swing shut and turned.
The little Toad found himself following as closely as he dared on Lassish’s heels; it was the only thing he could think of, to let the body and tail of the seven-foot creature hide him as he scuttled across the room. The tail and feet were hideously close and threatened to crush him with every stride, but Duckweed was committed now.
The mazakh reached the table and pulled out his cutout-backed chair, appropriate for a tailed creature; the Toad moved completely under the chair as Lassish sat down. “Finally the Summoning, and we’re stuck here,” the human grumbled, opening his warcard box and checking the positions; the four had apparently been in a match when Duckweed’s impromptu knock had interrupted.
“Gladness I feel; wisdom for you, likewise should you feel.” The insectoid’s voice was a buzz and chatter. He also smells very tasty. Tough, though, probably.
“Why’s that?”
“Because, smooth-skin, a Great Summoning is perilous even for the trained. Sometimes, despite all the sacrifices and preparation, the mazolishta demands more than was expected . . . and then the Summoners must restrain it, or become sacrifices themselves.”
Mazolishta? Duckweed had heard the word before, but never thought he’d have heard it in a real, living context. Great Blackwart, they’re summoning one of their Ruling Demons!
The human’s voice was tense. “What? Are you telling me that what we’re calling up might just decide to eat our souls instead of help us?”
Hissing laughs. Duckweed eased himself from under the chair and moved along under the table. These guys have gotta be guards. And that means . . . yep, there’s an opening back there, an archway.
“Did you think dealing with one of the mazolishta was safe?”
“I figured the boss knew what he was doing.”
“Possibility granted; present in this location, is not the ‘boss.’”
As they were focused on their conversation, Duckweed cautiously made his way out from under the table. Now that he knew what was going on, there was even more urgency. He glanced behind him and shifted his line a bit, trying to keep the wider form of the human between himself and the others as he moved towards the archway. He could see several alcoves on each side of the passage.
Duckweed gave a silent sigh of relief, letting himself sag down so he looked like a brown puddle with warts for a moment, as he reached the first alcove and ducked around the corner, now completely out of sight of the four guards. Inside the alcove were several strongboxes with crude locks holding them shut. But not tightly shut. They’ve got enough slack, I think, so I could get the top open a little.
He was able to insert his little sword between the top and bottom and lever upward, the lock and hasp allowing slightly less than an inch of opening. Peering in, he saw rows of cushioned spheres of glass with reddish liquid inside. The liquid appeared to glow very faintly.
The little Toad shivered. He knew what that had to be. Fire essence. Cases of it. They’re armed for a war. Against us? One case of that would be enough—most of us wouldn’t fight, just run. But north of here . . .
It was insane, of course. The Artan—elves, as the humans called them—of the Forest Sea might be the youngest of the Great Races, but they had proven how tenacious and indomitable they were as soon as they had appeared. Still . . .
He lowered the top of the case quietly and withdrew his sword. Can’t open that without making noise. Let’s check the other alcoves.
He systematically searched the other three, taking care to not be seen as he quickly moved from one to the other. More weapons, lots of them, varied in style and type. He paused to admire one rack of Zachass, wristblade launchers, with their intricate clockwork mechanisms that allowed the mazakh to fire several of the balanced, circular blades in quick succession. Duckweed loved clockworks and other complicated devices. Gears, levers, springs, pulleys, little assemblies that moved in precision . . . he’d built a few clumsy devices along those lines himself, but the parts that made up these were works of art. Deadly art though . . . He shrugged and moved on. Crossbows . . . slings . . . What are these little cases?
The cases in question, about his own nose-to-rump length of five inches square, were packed along with slings and slugthrowers, which used little round bullets of lead or other heavy, hard material. These are locked too . . . but I’m another alcove down from the guards, and they’re busy with their game . . .
He examined the box carefully, and finally—almost holding his breath—slid the sharp point of his blade in where he thought the latching mechanism was, and twisted.
Toads can be quite strong for their size, and Duckweed was experienced in using what he had to the utmost. The latch resisted, but he managed to slide the blade in a little farther, braced his feet on the sides of the big chest the box was sitting in, and heaved as he twisted with both hands on the hilt.
The latch gave with an audible pop that surprised him; he paused and listened, but there was no sign that any of the guards, even the sharp-eared Lassish, had heard.
Inside the case were blackberry-sized spheres that mirrored in miniature the much larger ones in the first chest he’d examined, packed in soft cloth. More fire essence in bullet-sizes now. This is bad.
And he was running out of time. Yes, a summoning ritual like that took time, but no telling how long it had already been going on. He had to do something. He gazed around in growing desperation.
And then his golden gaze alighted on the Zachass again.
He paused. And then he smiled, a slight upturn of the almost-immobile lips. If I can have just ten more minutes . . . He gave the same hop-and-bob that everyone gave when they entered the Temple, and imagined the immense obsidian statue that loomed behind the altar. Blackwart, give me just ten more minutes, please, ten more minutes to work in.
Because if they didn’t finish their ritual in ten minutes, the little Toad was pretty sure he could make sure they never would.
6
Duckweed lowered himself slowly down the cord. Ritual’s still going on . . . Maybe, just maybe . . .
It wasn’t easy. Two bags were now tied onto him with some of the same string he’d gotten from the fourth alcove, bulky bags that were fairly light but almost as big as his own body. His sword was in a hastily wrapped semi-scabbard on his back. Rigging everything in the alcoves had taken him ten minutes, but it had taken another five minutes to figure out how he was getting out of there past the guards. Fortunately, the rooms had been cut out of natural cavern and he’d finally noticed in the upper corner of one a small crack which he and the bags had just been able to squeeze through; apparently no one thought it was worth the trouble to block up. He’d set things going and then gotten out of there.
Getting very tight on the timing I think . . . Gotta get to the ground before everything starts happening. Normally he’d just drop—it was a long way down, but he’d also long since found out that someone as small as he was could fall a lot farther than the big people without getting hurt.
But that was, of course, not a good idea right now.
The ritual was clearly reaching a crescendo. Three ranks of monstrous figures were circling the great pentagonal array, the inner moving to the right, the middle to the left, the outer to the right again, all repeating invocations in lockstep rhythm in a language that made Duckweed’s skin prickle. And the rhythm was speeding up. It wouldn’t be long now at all.
Only good thing is that means most of them are completely focused on their nasty ritual. He was still worried about the few guards inside the room who weren’t part of the ritual. He was descending from the same little passageway he’d been in before, and it was in a shadowed part of the room . . . but mazakh had good eyes in the da
rk, some said they could see heat. Not much heat in a little Toad, but all they needed to do was notice movement . . .
Only ten feet to go. But time was passing. Had it been five minutes? Seven? He’d been able to rig the clockwork, but no time to be sure of the exact timing. He thought he’d given himself ten minutes, but he couldn’t be sure . . . and there were no clocks in here, so he wasn’t sure how long it had been. I feel like a Newleg, stuck between the Swimmer and the Leaper.
Five feet. Finally he could relax a little. A giant stalagmite now obscured him from the guards. He slid the rest of the way and landed gingerly on the cool stone. Now I just have to get over near the doors . . . not too near, though.
He scuttled from rock to rock, trying to keep from jarring the bags too much. Still, they should be okay with a little banging around.
One of the mazakh suddenly loomed up, pacing slowly around the perimeter of the room. Duckweed froze, pressing himself against the rock, trying to look like a lump of brownish stone.
Either it worked, or—more likely—the demon-snake never looked down. The little Toad waited, fidgeting. He has to get far enough away so he won’t hear me. I think I’m close enough to the doors, but if I try this and I get caught, it’s not going to work! And I’m almost out of time!
The green and gray-scaled creature paused, sniffing suddenly, and Duckweed swallowed nervously.
It shook its head slightly and turned, moving away. Almost . . . almost . . . now!
He unslung one of the bags, opened the top, and carefully judged the direction and angle of the floor. Then he emptied the bag with a single crescent-shaped movement that sent its contents rolling across the floor towards the two doorways. The second he spread between the doorways and the pentacle, the chanting approached a new crescendo. Oh, snakes and fisher-birds, I hope I didn’t set everything for too long, it would suck bottom-mud if I—
The entire cavern shuddered, and there was a thunderous echoing blast that sounded like the rage of an awakened Dragon. A blaze of orange fire spurted from the little tunnel he’d just exited. Oh, ow, that would have hurt!
Hisses and chittering screeches of consternation echoed through the room, the ritual movement and chanting now ragged. A loud voice—human, I think! They’re everywhere, those creatures—shouted, “Keep going! Dhokar morred zshenta vell . . .”
A second concussion rocked the cavern, sending fragments of stone sifting down from the ceiling. A huge stalactite suddenly plummeted down like a divine spear, crushing one of the insectoid creatures.
That was enough for the rest. Abandoning such a ritual was dangerous, but it was clear that something worse might happen if they didn’t. The three circles broke and ran for the doors.
As they did, some of them stepped on the tiny, blackberry-sized glassy spheres the little Toad had scattered in their path.
A series of fierce detonations erupted, shattering bodies, incinerating limbs, scattering corpses left and right as the compressed fire essence was liberated by the impacts and unleashed the quintessence of devouring heat upon all around it, just as had happened in the alcove rooms moments before when the Zachass Duckweed had rigged had fired one of its razor-edged missiles directly into one of the cases of fire-essence warspheres.
A third case must have detonated just then, because the first door suddenly bulged inward as another blast echoed through the cavern’s very bedrock, sending a cascade of larger stone fragments raining down. Shrieks and roars of consternation filled the air, and Duckweed hopped desperately forward, dodging falling rocks and moving between running legs. No one was looking down now at all. I haven’t seen anything but mazakh and those insect-things, which means . . .
And then, just behind him, half the cavern roof caved in with a rumble and a juddering roar that dwarfed even the explosion that triggered it. The blast of air and dust and pebbles from the impact blew him off his feet, and smoke and flame belched from the mass of rock as the remaining fire-essence sought release from within the rockfall. He tumbled uncontrollably, fetching up with a jolt against the base of another stalagmite.
Slowly the rockfall slackened from a fall to a stream to a trickle of sifting dust. Duckweed righted himself gingerly and listened. Everything was deathly silent except for the slow grumble of settling stone and the faint hissing of dampness boiling away from the heat of the fire essence. Dust clouded everything and for long moments he couldn’t see anything; only the eerie rock-fire in the center provided light at all, and it was half-buried and slowly, slowly starting to fade.
But as the dust gradually cleared, the faint breeze showing that some small outlet, at least, remained to the surface, Duckweed became aware that there was another source of light. A glowing sphere floated about fifty feet away, near a shadowy upright silhouette.
“So near. So very near. By the Gods Below, how could this have happened?” It was the same human voice, filled with disbelief and rage. Muttered arcane words, and a wind ripped through the remaining cavern, clearing away the dust as though it had never been. Only some small clouds remained, seeming to glow in the unnatural light.
Duckweed could see now, in the flickering light from both rockfire and magical glow. Human, all right, long brown hair in carefully arranged braids, a set of three long, fine white scars in parallel on his bare upper right arm. He wore some sort of leather protective garment that left his arms clear. His lower half was dressed in black cloth pants with tough-looking leather boots.
Much more worrisome for Duckweed were the eyes, which were now focused on him.
“Could it be . . . ?” The man studied him intensely; abruptly, a strange carven crystal implement was in his hand, pointing in Duckweed’s direction. “Speak now if you can, Toad, or I will incinerate you where you sit.”
The little Toad debated the question for a moment, but as the tanned hand began to tighten on the crystal, hopped forward a pace. “All right. I’m speaking.”
A hiss, almost like that of a mazakh, escaped the man. “Surprising. Surprising. Would I be correct in surmising you are responsible for all this?”
Duckweed shrugged. “Well, some of it. I didn’t really mean to bring the whole cave down. You had waaaaay too much of that fire-essence stuff.”
The man gave a very small humorless grin. “So it would appear.”
Duckweed blinked. It looked as though one of the clouds of dust was getting bigger. And the color looked . . . wrong.
“Your people are usually such lazy cowards. What fortune brought me you? One willing to risk such dangers as you cannot even imagine . . . and with such magnificent timing! You have ruined years of work, and with but seconds to spare.” The wizard—for he was clearly some kind of magician—shook his head slowly. “Truly, I would like to take weeks to devise a suitable punishment for—”
“Sssummonnerr . . .”
The voice was faint, distant, yet cut through all other sound as a blade through grass, a hiss and a scrape as of metal claws climbing a cliff of granite. “Summoner . . .”
The man whirled. Scarcely ten feet from him, the thing Duckweed had taken for a strange dust cloud had grown larger, a perfectly circular pearlescent gateway, and within it something of polished black armor, bladed, edged, eyes that glittered with facets, mandibles and cutting, grasping mouth, something huge and terrible and very, very near to entering indeed. “My Lord . . .”
“Complete . . . the Summoning . . .”
The wizard glanced around. “I . . . I cannot. My pentacle is—”
“Ssspeak my Name, human. Sspeak it and I shall be free.”
Duckweed was appalled. All he’d done, and the summoning could still be completed? With a broken pentacle? No, no, that’s not just bad, that’s very, very bad, like a drought that makes the whole lake dry up bad. He had his sword out, but he didn’t have any delusion that he could fight . . . that.
The wizard did not speak immediately, and the shape within the cloud stirred impatiently, revealing the shimmer of reptilian scales on the
body. “Did you not wish to summon me? Speak my name!”
“Do you want fools as servants, or think me a fool for a sacrifice alone?” The man’s voice was tense. “An uncompleted ritual like this? What guarantees do you offer to make it worth my while to risk my life and soul that way? You and your allies—whoever they were—wanted this as much as we. You have some reason for this, something much greater.” He straightened. “Swear that, though the wards are broken and no spells laid upon you, that you will aid me as though the wards whole, the spells complete, and at the end of the service will seek no harm against me or mine. Swear it in the name of Kerlamion himself, his TRUE name.”
The mazolishta—for Duckweed knew it could be nothing else—hissed again, but somewhat to his surprise—and apparently the wizard’s—the hiss sounded almost pleased. “Wiser than many. Good. We have need of you, then. H’ved schkalavis mokhteth dergschokh, Kerlamionahlmbana!”
Oh no. Duckweed tensed himself. One last chance, I think.
The wizard cast a terrible triumphant grin at the little Toad and turned back to the shadowy demonic presence. “Then come forth, Voo—ARGH!”
The wizard staggered and fell, clawing at his neck; Duckweed leapt from his shoulder, withdrawing the long, narrow blade he’d plunged deep into the man’s back, evading the grasping hands, somersaulting above as the wizard hit the floor, turning, coming down, twisting his body, the human’s eyes widening, hand reaching, brushing the little Toad’s body, and then—
A terrible impact smashed Duckweed aside into the wall and everything seemed to go dark for a moment. He rolled painfully, groggily, to his feet. Ouch. Rib broken. Maybe more. Moving hurts. He blinked. It is a little darker . . .
The glowing sphere of light the wizard had summoned was gone. In the dim light of the demon-portal and the still-flickering rockfire, the reason was clear. The wizard’s corpse lay, still twitching, on the cold stone, with the hilt of the tiny sword protruding from his throat.