The Golden Key (Book 3)

by Robert P. Hansen

  The room was a fifteen foot cube, and he was pinned against the wall opposite the door, halfway between the walls to the left and right. But what caught and held his attention was the table set in the corner next to the huge door. There were all sorts of potential weapons on it: tongs for pulling out fingernails, blades of various sizes and shapes, mallets…. He had seen that array before—had used that array before—when Argyle had an especially nasty job for him. They planned to torture him. But why? There was no need for it; he would tell Argyle what he knew about the key and be glad of it. If it came to that. It should be a simple transaction: his life for the information about the key. But he had killed so many of Argyle’s men.…

  A thoughtful, sinister smile consumed his face as he ran through the various ways he could use those tools of torture to kill, efficiently and quickly, anyone who came through that door. If he could get to them. The small blades would be best; he could maneuver with them much more easily in the confined quarters than the more cumbersome ones—especially if Argyle sent more than one of his henchmen through the door to have a chat with him. He frowned; there would be no fewer than three; any less would be an insult. Argyle might even be with them, and that would pose a significant problem. First, though, he had to reach the implements, and that meant he had to free himself from the manacles. How could he do that?

  He looked at the writhing, lopsided sphere of the Lamplight spell. It should have been a perfect orb, like Angus’s, but that didn’t matter. He had cast it, and that meant he could cast other spells. Could one of them help him escape before Argyle and his henchmen returned? He frowned: who would Argyle send? Sardach?

  Typhus took a deep breath, frowned, and looked down at his chest. Sardach had crushed his ribs in that vice-like grip of his, hadn’t he? Yes. He was certain of it; he had even heard the ribs crumble and felt their jagged ends slash into his lungs. And yet, he felt as whole, as healthy as he had ever been. Why? Who had healed him? He shook his head and his heart sunk in his chest. Iscara, he thought. Only she would be so delightfully cruel. She takes torture to places no one else can go. It was true, too; he had seen her take a man to the verge of death and then heal him a dozen times before finally letting him succumb to it—and that was after she had elicited the information Argyle wanted.

  Had Iscara healed him? Would she be among those who came through that door to chat with him? He shook his head. First things first, he thought. Those weapons are pointless if I can’t get to them in time. He looked at the manacle on his right wrist. There were no seams, no welds in it; it was as if it had been forged whole around his wrist—and the magic entangled with it was probably how it had been done. Had Iscara done it?

  There was play in the chains, though, and his wrists were supple enough that he could rotate his hand in a small circle of about six inches in diameter. It wasn’t much, but if he twisted his wrist and flexed his fingers, he could touch the third link from the manacle. He smiled; they had done everything possible to prevent an assassin from escaping—to prevent him from escaping—but not a wizard. If they had known he had spells, they would have crushed his fingers or cut them off. He smiled. Iscara would have enjoyed doing that, playfully, slowly slicing through one finger at a time with that enchanting grin on her lovely face.

  He fondled the Lamplight spell as he looked inward for the magic again. The part of him that had been primed for casting it was now a tangled mass; he wouldn’t be able to cast it again without priming for it. But there was no way for him to prime for it again. Angus had the scrolls, and he was lost in the mountains where Sardach had dropped him. Typhus would have to be careful with his magic; he would only have one chance to cast the meager spells he had available to him, and each one was more precious to him now than ten thousand gold coins—and he had already cast one of them.

  He sighed and squeezed the Lamplight until it became a furious, bubbling, marble-sized ball of raging fire. He hissed as pain swarmed over his fingertips and quickly pushed that marble to the chain link. As soon as it was attached to it, he pulled his fingers back, the tips reddened with harsh welts where they had stayed in contact with the spell for too long. They throbbed in agony, but there was nothing he could do but clench his teeth and endure the pain.

  In seconds, the chain link glowed red and softened. He pulled against it. Several seconds passed before it began to separate, and a few more went by before it finally broke. He gritted his teeth and reached for the little fireball still clinging to the dangling chain link. He quickly urged it toward the chain holding his other arm in place. As that link began to glow, Typhus wondered if the spell would last long enough for him to get his legs free. Angus had said something about the Lamplight spell that troubled him: the smaller the globe, the more intense the heat and the more quickly the magic would break free from the spell. And this was the smallest he had ever seen the Lamplight, much smaller than what Angus had done with it.

  He grunted and strained against the chain, trying to will it to come apart more quickly.

  4

  Angus sighed and looked up the ice shaft. He would have liked to have slept longer, but he had already spent far too much time trapped in the ice. He was ravenous, and there was no food to be found. Water was not an issue, but a man can only live so long licking moisture from the ice. He needed food, and he needed it soon. Any food. Even Voltari’s horrid cooking would be welcome.

  He stood up in the narrow confines of the shaft and turned until the wall facing him was only a few inches from his face. It still stretched out to either side a foot or so, but he only needed to be able to reach the walls in front of and behind him. He leaned back and gripped the smooth, slick edge of the second handhold he had made. He would have to be careful; it would melt quickly, and his hand could easily slip out of it. Then he positioned his left leg so that it was up against the back of the shaft and lifted his foot up about six inches. He pressed his left thigh against the wall and clung to the handhold as he lifted his right foot off the shelf. His left leg stayed where it was, and he had no trouble keeping it there. In fact, he felt much lighter than normal, and he decided to find out if the breeches could support his full weight. He braced himself for a fall with his right foot ready to catch him and then slowly brought his hand out of the handhold. He clung there, hanging by his left thigh as if it had merged with the ice and frozen into place. He put his right foot down and peeled his left leg off the wall. It came free easily, and soon he was standing on his own again.

  He completely ignored the handholds he had patiently made and lifted his left leg until the knee contacted the ice in front of him. It stuck there, and he brought his right one up next to it. He pressed his back against the bumpy ice and steadied himself with his left hand, then easily peeled his left knee free, lifted it, and stuck it to the ice again. It was difficult climbing at first, since he had to keep from jarring his right shoulder against the ice, but once he developed a rhythm, he was sliding easily up the convoluted shaft. He moved quickly, more quickly than he probably should have, and emerged from the shaft less than a half hour later.

  It was late afternoon, and the sun was half-hidden behind the mountains to the west. There was still plenty of light, but there wasn’t much to see. He was in a valley between two mountains, and the thick ice was covered with a thin layer of loose snow. At any point, it could collapse beneath him and drop him into a crevice tens or hundreds of feet deep—just like the one he had just found himself in. It would be better to go higher up on the mountainside, and the breeches would help him do that. But which way should he go?

  Sardach had taken him east, away from the lift. That meant he needed to go west, toward the lift. But how far had he been carried? Had Sardach veered north or south? Was he still close enough to be able to see the lift when he neared the cliff face? Was the mountain behind him the same one with the cave in it? Or was it the one on the other side of the valley? Or another one, further away? If it was on the other side of the valley, could he make it safely ac
ross the ice?

  He frowned and looked to the west. He could see a small part of a cliff face, but not any details; the mountain behind him was obstructing his view too much. But the small sliver he could see seemed to be much closer to the mountain to the north of him. If it was, then the chances were it was the mountain with the cave. The bridge between that mountain and the plateau was only about a hundred feet long, and he wasn’t sure if the mountain behind him got that close to the cliff. He would have to get past the outcropping blocking his view to make sure, and he was already exhausted.

  He looked around to find more secure footing, and made his way slowly up the steep slope until he nestled in a small crack in the stone not far above the snowline. It wasn’t a cave, exactly; it was more like a perch a fletching would use for its aerie. But it was wide enough for him to squeeze into it without bumping his right shoulder, and once he was inside, the breeches clung to the sides and held him in place. He leaned back and closed his eyes.

  5

  Typhus lurched forward as the last chain fell from his ankle, but quickly corrected his momentary imbalance by hopping rapidly forward and to the side. Then he turned around and hurried back to the Lamplight spell. It hadn’t burned itself out yet, and he reached out with his right hand—no sense burning the fingers on his left hand—and grimaced as he enlarged it to its normal size. Then he put his fingers in his mouth, turned, and walked up to the table. The chain links dragged noisily on the floor as he took the first step, and the chain links dangling from his arms clinked as they jostled each other. He would have to do something about them if he could.

  He looked at the equipment on the table and smiled. There was a frayed leather whip that would do nicely, and he reached for it and one of the small blades. He sliced off the handle of the whip and tossed it aside, then cut off a length of leather about a foot long. He unraveled the braided strands and set the chain attached to his left hand on the edge of the table. He wove the leather through the links and back again, and then pulled it as tight as he could. He tied it with a knot he didn’t remember learning and shook his arm. The chain still shifted a little bit, but it made very little noise as it did so. He nodded with satisfaction and used two more of the strips of leather to secure the chain to his forearm like a bracer. He used knots that could be easily released, just in case he needed to use the leather strap as a garrote, and then did the same with the other chains dangling from him.

  He looked at the torture implements and shook his head. Most of them were useless; he had no clothes to conceal them, and he would have to move quickly when they came for him. Still, he tied the rest of the whip around his waist and used the end to make a small loop at his side. Next, he tucked a mallet that was used to crush fingers or toes into the loop and adjusted it so it wouldn’t get in the way. He wasn’t intending to use the little mallet in battle—there was little point in doing that—but it would offer some protection against the knife he was going to use. He picked up that thin knife and slid it through the whip’s leather until it nestled against the handle of the mallet. Then he tied it into place with the last of the leather from the whip. He stretched and bent and twisted around to make sure the blade wasn’t going to cut into his thigh when he needed to contort his body during battle, and then picked up another knife, one with a wide, flat blade about six inches long. Its weight felt a little off, but it didn’t matter; he wasn’t planning to throw it unless he absolutely had to. He set it down near the edge of the table and reached for the vicious-looking barbed hook. It was about a foot long, and the handle made it easy to manipulate, but it would have limited use. It was too much like a fishhook; the curved end wouldn’t penetrate very far, but if he hooked it around someone’s neck and pulled…

  He put the rest of the tools that might be useful within easy reach near the table edge closest to the door and turned to the question of escape. He needed to get out, but how? Argyle had constructed these rooms so the door couldn’t be opened from the inside. He would have to wait until they came for him and then act swiftly and decisively. But who would Argyle send? Iscara would be one of them. These were her tools, and she wouldn’t let anyone else use them, especially the barbed hook. He smiled; the first time he had seen her use it, she had cut a little slit into the man’s belly, wormed it up inside of him, and twisted it around twice. Then she had given it a gentle, steady pull…. All the while, she had a hideous grin on her face, one that reminded him of how she looked later, when they—

  He shook his head. He needed to set aside those memories and think about what he would have to do when they came. If Iscara was among them; he would do what was necessary. She would understand that, perhaps better than most. If their roles were reversed, she’d have little difficulty using the hook on him, and their roles were reversed. She had already healed him once; how many more times would she heal him before she grew tired of the torture? His lips tightened; she was insatiable, and that was her problem. Torture needed to be done with purpose, not pleasure, and was best dispatched with a cold, efficient hand and a quiet mind. She enjoyed it too much, and that made her careless. If it weren’t for her healing abilities….

  His teeth ground together as he shook his head and vowed, I will not be one of her playthings.

  Who would Iscara bring with her? Fanzool? No, he was dead, wasn’t he? Argyle had said something about that, hadn’t he? Who would Argyle send in his place? He didn’t know, and that worried him. Whenever Argyle had had Typhus torture someone, Fanzool had been the one who asked the questions, sought the answers, and tested those answers for veracity. Usually, Fanzool didn’t need more than the threat of torture to find out the truth, which was a good thing, since he was about as squeamish as they came. A little bit of blood, a high-pitched scream, and Fanzool would pale to an almost glossy white sheen.

  Focus, Typhus thought fiercely. Fanzool is dead, and there’s no sense thinking about him. Argyle will send a different wizard. He glanced at the manacles that seemed to tighten whenever he tried to wriggle free of them. A wizard did that; would he be the one with Iscara?

  Would Argyle come with them? No, he seldom joined the festivities before the end was near; he would send his cronies in his place. But which ones? Thaddius? He was a clod, and Typhus would have no problem dispatching him. His curved knife looked nasty, but he was too clumsy with it for him to be a real threat. It was a pity Argyle hadn’t sent Thaddius after him when he had escaped the first time; he would have enjoyed ending that cretin’s life. But Thaddius was Argyle’s chief henchman, and his loss would have been difficult to replace. So he hadn’t sent him. Perhaps this time? Who else?

  It was pointless to speculate with all the changes that had taken place in Argyle’s organization since he had left. Most of those changes were because of him, and if he was ready when they arrived, there’d be more changes coming. If Argyle wasn’t with them, he should be able to deal with all of them—if he was prepared to do so. Iscara would be trouble, though; she knew magic. So would the new wizard. But if he was anything like Fanzool, he would not be a problem for long. Under normal conditions, neither would Argyle’s other cronies. Except, he was naked, and he didn’t have proper weapons; he only had a handful of knives, a little hammer, and a giant fishhook. He needed an advantage, one that would make those weapons more formidable, would make him more formidable. He didn’t need to look around the room to know he had nowhere to conceal himself; the only thing large enough was the table, and it would be as much an impediment to himself as it would be for others. Perhaps there was another way he could conceal himself?

  He brought the magic within him into focus and studied the patterns of the spells he had primed. He recognized Puffer almost immediately, and even though he knew he could cast it, it wouldn’t be of much use. Friction? He glanced at the burns on his fingertips and shrugged; it would probably burn him more than it would anyone else. Flying? No; he would need that after he got out of Argyle’s dungeon. The last two—Lava Bubble and Cloaking—could prove u
seful, but he wasn’t sure if he could cast them. They were a lot more complicated than Lamplight and Puffer, and Angus hadn’t cast them very much when he was with him. But if they couldn’t see him when they entered, it would give him the kind of advantage he would need—perhaps even enough for him to deal with Argyle.

  He turned outward, looking for the magic around him. There was plenty of magic around him, but most of it was earth magic, and he needed sky magic. But anywhere there was air, there was sky magic, and he picked out a pretty, light blue strand and brought it toward him. Then he brought one of the few icy-white ones to him and paused. The next strand was a problem. It had to be earth magic of a particular shade, and he couldn’t remember what that shade looked like. He knew what it was called—umber—but that didn’t help. All the different strands of brown around him were just that: brown. He could see differences in their shades, but he didn’t know what they were called. They were all just brown, and brown was a brand new concept to him. If he had seen the shade of gray that corresponded to umber, then he could figure it out, but he had never heard of umber until Angus had thought about it. He sighed, trying to remember the strand Angus had brought to him when he had cast the Cloaking spell on the platform, when he had hid them from Sardach.

  He cringed. What if Argyle sent Sardach with Iscara? Sardach had found him once….

  Typhus shook his head. He couldn’t remember the shade of brown; he hadn’t been paying enough attention to it. He had been consumed by his fear of Sardach. Give him flesh and blood enemies any time, and he would face them from behind without flinching, but Sardach? How do you kill smoke with a blade or strangle it with a garrote?