Path of Shadows

by Ben Wolf

  The six ice-forged blades lashing in from the side walls beckoned him forward next. They presented a new, more fearsome challenge than the sickle pendulums had: he had to not only get past, but he had to alternate between hugging one side of the path and skirting the edge where the path yielded to the spikes below.

  Worse yet, he’d have to zigzag through them, hurrying from one far side of the path to the other, all without getting carved up or falling or slipping in the process. It was probably an impossible task, given how fast the blades lashed in and out from the sides, but what other choice did Mehta have?

  As he watched, he realized there might be another choice after all. The blade mechanisms exposed themselves, particularly on the underside of the blade where it wasn’t sharp, as they clawed at the path and then retracted with creaks and groans.

  Wood and metal moved those mechanisms, and that meant he had other options.

  It was crazy—insane, even—but if Mehta could grab hold of the bottom of the first mechanism, he could conceivably climb across, under the blades, instead of trying to squirt between them. He watched them for a bit longer, then he made his move.

  Mehta jumped out over the spikes, arms extended, fingers outstretched. He grabbed the wooden structure supporting the blades, and as it jerked back, he swung his leg over it. The jolt of the blade retracting nearly shook him free, but he clung to it with every measure of determination he could muster, and he hung on.

  He managed to right himself, and he straddled the wooden beam. It jerked him back and forth along with the blade like a jumpy horse that couldn’t make up its mind. Gradually, he climbed his way up near the top of the blade, careful not to be hurled off, and prepared himself for his next jump.

  He had to get high enough, as the blades alternated sides, so instead of being one length away, he had to jump twice the distance. Jumping from higher up ensured a greater chance of success, and he needed every advantage he could get.

  Mehta bided his time, mastered the motion of the mechanism he was perched on, and timed his jump. He flew off of the first blade toward the third, and he slammed against the side of its mechanism hard enough to knock the wind out of him.

  His fingers slipped, but they caught hold of the next lowest beam—the last one before he would’ve fallen onto the spikes—and he managed to grip it well enough to hold on. His lungs burned and raged at him, but he forced himself up and onto the lowest beam.

  He clung to it for a long moment, working to catch his breath as the mechanism jerked him back and forth. Finally, when he was ready, he climbed to the top once more.

  The next jump went a little better, but not by much. It still knocked the air out of him, and he’d definitely bruised his ribs in the process, but he hadn’t slipped down this time. He clung to the middle of the three beams, caught his breath, and positioned himself atop the mechanism of the fifth blade.

  He’d cleared five of the six blades, but to land safely back on the path, he had to get past the sixth, which pulsed at him and then retracted at a different interval than the fifth one moved. They were staggered, but not perfectly, so the distance between them varied widely.

  Mehta studied their combined motions for a long moment and waited for the right opportunity. Once he had it figured out, he waited two more complete cycles to confirm he was right. He was.

  It was a terrifying prospect all the same. It meant he had to jump as the sixth blade was slicing toward him—he would in effect be jumping into it and to his death if he timed it wrong.

  But it was the only way he could see to get back on the path and safely clear the sixth blade all at once. Any other approaches he could conceive of risked slipping or getting caught between the fifth and sixth blades.

  So when the time was right, he jumped at the edge of the sixth blade, ready to slide past its range the instant it retracted.

  He flew at it, but the blade kept coming toward him. Just when he thought he’d timed it wrong, the blade lurched backward, away from him, and Mehta’s feet hit the ice floor. He rolled, skidded along the ice, and clawed along the floor to bring himself to a stop before he slipped over the edge and onto the spikes.

  He’d made it.

  Mehta exhaled a shaky breath—his ribs still hurt—and took a few minutes to rest. Back when the Xyonates had put him through their own gauntlets, resting wasn’t an option. The Xyonate influence that lingered in his brain told him to get up, but he was in charge now, so he stayed down.

  Then Kallie’s beautiful face flickered into his memory, and Mehta found himself wishing he’d worked up the courage to share a meaningful conversation with her. If they could save her in time, perhaps his wish would come to pass.

  The Xyonate influence shouted at him again. Mehta exhaled a long sigh and pushed himself up. He had to keep moving. Who knew how much time they would or wouldn’t have to rescue her once they got back? Every minute might count.

  He faced the spinning orbs next.

  The orbs extended out in varying lengths from central poles, also ice-forged. They were designed solely to crush and batter whoever entered them and, ultimately, to send them into the spike pits on either side. Mehta saw a smattering of bones on one side, and some additional bones, including a ribcage, on the other side.

  Worse yet, as they spun, the orbs swept past each other with only inches of room to spare, so Mehta couldn’t just squeeze through them. Not even he was lithe enough to accomplish that.

  Furthermore, he couldn’t identify a crazy workaround like he’d done with the blades, either. The orbs connected to one of a half-dozen spinning shafts that ran from floor to ceiling.

  It looked like the only way to get past them was to grab one of the orbs and try to ride it toward the outside of the obstacle, toward the next set, and make some sort of transfer without falling into the pit of spikes next to the path.

  Attempting to go through the middle would result in him getting crushed, pulverized, or, if he was lucky, merely rebuffed.

  With Mehta’s ribs already messed up, he didn’t like either prospect, but only one meant he had a chance of getting past, so he headed for the outside of the obstacle and grabbed on.

  To his surprise and delight, he actually managed to get around the orbs without any issues. He transitioned smoothly and nearly painlessly, and his feet hit the ice path again right before the first of the spots on the floor that opened up at random.

  The ice-forged material yet again proved unpredictable, but one thing remained consistent: wherever the floor yawned open, rows of ice-forged spikes awaited beneath it. As with the random spikes in the second obstacle, Mehta resolved just to run through.

  Three steps in, the floor opened under his left foot. He dropped in partway, but he pulled his heel up in time to keep it from striking the spikes below. Mehta quickly adjusted and shoved himself up and away from the hole, and it closed shortly after.

  Back on his feet, he scampered side-to-side, dodging openings when he saw them and recovering whenever something caught him off-guard. Within a few more seconds, he’d made it through the drops.

  As Mehta stood to his full height, something gleamed in his periphery. Scythe.

  Instinct dropped him to the floor once again, and sure enough, a scythe just like the one that had nearly felled Kent hissed through the air.

  Mehta waited there for a few seconds, dubious of rising to his feet again, but he kept a wary eye on the wall where the scythe had emerged. As with the first one, it did not reemerge, so Mehta stood up once more, albeit a bit hunched over just to be safe.

  The scythe stayed put, and a series of seven levers protruding from the back wall beckoned him over. The controls for the gauntlet—or maybe another trap. Either way, he was about to find out. With a final check of his surroundings, he pulled the first lever down.

  Tension immediately seized his muscles, and Mehta scanned the room for approaching dangers, but nothing happened except that the sickles in the first section slowed considerably. Their momentum ul
timately diminished to the point where they swayed instead of swung.

  The second lever stopped the spikes, the third disengaged the side blades, the fourth took out the spinning orbs, and the fifth stopped the floor from opening and closing by dropping out completely except for a narrow perimeter of ice.

  The effect of the fifth lever wasn’t ideal, but it was still better than leaving the floor active and risking anyone getting caught off-guard.

  Try as he might, Mehta couldn’t comprehend the kind of machinery needed to make the two floor traps do what they did. How intricate must the gears and pulleys and other mechanisms be to yield such results?

  A series of whoops and hollers and the hiss of raindrops pattering stole Mehta’s focus from the quandary. He looked to the opposite side of the room, alarmed at first. Had one of the levers tripped a new trap and endangered his comrades?

  But the sight he saw confused him as much as it allayed his fears. The whoops and hollers were born of joy, and the raindrops weren’t raindrops at all—it was applause. For him.

  In his entire life, no one had ever applauded him. The concept was nearly as foreign to him as whatever god-forged, god-constructed machinery operated this gauntlet. He’d seen street performers receive applause for their various acts, but he’d personally never done anything worthy of applause.

  In fact, most times whenever he encountered someone, they more likely tried to flee or feebly resist, usually because he was about to sift them.

  Hearing the others cheer for him felt… weird.

  But also nice.

  Mehta didn’t need any praise. He’d done what he could, and he was just thankful it had been enough.

  It took only a matter of seconds for the others to reach his position. Unsure of exactly what the last two levers did, he decided not to push his luck. For all he knew, one of them might open the center of the floor and plunge them all directly into the Underworld.

  “That was incredible!” Aeron said when he arrived. “I couldn’t believe my eyes.”

  Wafer bobbed his head and trilled a series of chirps. Mehta assumed he was agreeing.

  He considered asking Aeron for a shroom for his aching ribs, but he thought better of it, mostly because Aeron needed them. He decided to bear the pain in silence as with any other injury or wound.

  “Well done, Mehta.” Kent clapped him on his shoulder again, and Mehta actually grinned slightly. It felt especially good to have Kent’s approval. “You did what magic could not. Simply remarkable.”

  “Good work, kid.” Garrick handed him his cloak. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

  And Garrick… was still Garrick. At least he’d thought well enough of Mehta to bring him his cloak.

  Raqat and the wyvern knights each thanked him in turn, and then Kent took hold of the handles of the next set of double doors, ready to open them as he had before.

  Mehta grabbed his wrist. “Wait.”

  Kent looked at him, tentative.

  “Once you get them open, stay back,” Mehta said. “Might be another trap.”

  Kent nodded. “Thank you for the reminder.”

  Kent’s hands glowed blue, and the doors parted, this time opening inward.

  No traps sprung, no enemies attacked, and the same blue light that permeated all the entirety of the temple glowed in the next room as well, only it glowed brighter in there than anywhere else. Furthermore, the ice-forged dagger on Kent’s belt now radiated a brighter blue than ever.

  As Mehta surveyed the contents of the room, he realized why. Half the room was a mammoth forge of sorts, made entirely of ice. The other half was the source of the glow.

  It was Fjorst’s armory.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Garrick nearly burst with joy at the myriad of ice-forged weapons mounted to the walls.

  Axes, spears, swords, flails, hammers, staffs, bludgeons, and more exotic instruments that he didn’t have a name for hung all around him. If a human mind could have imagined it, Fjorst had forged it out of ice, sharpened it, and made it lethal.

  Garrick wanted to take them all, but he knew it was impossible. More than anything, he wanted to ditch the cursed phantom steel weapons hanging from his hips. As powerful as they were, even combined, they couldn’t compare to the unspeakable power of Fjorst’s arsenal.

  Satisfied that no traps were yet to be sprung—well, as satisfied as they could be—the Blood Mercs entered the armory with Raqat and the wyvern knights close behind. But once they all got inside, the doors slammed shut, sealing them inside.

  Garrick clutched the poleaxe a bit tighter as he scanned the colossal room. If more frostbloods came at them, it wouldn’t do him much good, especially compared to the phantom steel that hung from his hips.

  But if he had to use those again… he didn’t know what might happen. They might end up controlling him forever.

  The sound of a raging winter storm filled the space, and it extinguished every single one of the torches the group had with them. But as the torches went out, a brilliant flame swirled to life in the massive forge.

  It started as pure, red-orange fire, then it turned yellow, then it crystalized into a vivid green and shined like a perfectly cut emerald. Garrick had never seen anything like it, and he couldn’t begin to understand it.

  As the flame burned, it cast emerald light into the room. The temperature plummeted, and everyone—including the wyverns—began to shiver. Garrick pulled his cloak tighter, but it did little good. The cold continued to intensify until it felt as if it were actually burning Garrick’s face.

  He started to head toward the fire to warm up, but he quickly realized the fire was, inexplicably, the source of the cold. Sure enough, when he backed away from it a few steps, the cold lessened some.

  Mehta’s grandfather had been right about the flame, too. Green like an emerald, and as cold as fire was hot.

  Along with the others, Garrick continued his retreat from the emerald fire, closer to the array of weapons, and he found himself growing warmer still.

  “Warmer” was a loose term, though—the entire room was still freezing.

  “Come on,” he said to the group. “Whatever’s happening, we don’t want to stick around for it. Let’s grab what we need and find a way out of here.”

  Before they even had a chance to turn around, a voice boomed throughout the space. “You dare to enter my most sacred sanctuary?”

  Garrick tilted his head. Something about the voice felt off—forced, even. Unnaturally deep, as if somehow manipulated to achieve that effect.

  He glanced at Kent, and then at Mehta. They both scanned the armory, trying to find the voice’s source. Perhaps they, too, could sense something was off.

  Aeron, on the other hand, kept glancing from wall to wall with wide doe eyes, then to the ceiling, then back to the walls again and in every conceivable angle. He, at least, appeared convinced they were hearing the voice of a god, but Garrick remained skeptical.

  The wonky voice reverberated off the walls once more. “Begone, mortals. Leave me to my rest.”

  “Fjorst?” Aeron yelped. “I mean… the god Fjorst? Your majesty?” He looked at Garrick. “How do you address a god?”

  “You think I’ve done this before?” Garrick quipped. “Good luck.”

  “Uh… Your Greatness… ness?” Aeron resumed his babbling. “Look, I don’t know what to call you, but we’re sorry for bothering you. We just need—”

  “I know what you desire,” the voice rumbled. “I am, after all, a god. One of the greatest and most powerful…”

  Garrick fought off a grin. What kind of god had to emphasize how great and powerful he was? The crazy idea of challenging him to an arm-wrestling match flickered in and out of Garrick’s mind.

  “…and my answer is no,” the voice thundered.

  “What?” Aeron gasped. “No, Fjorst, my—Your Greatness—you don’t understand. We need your help. We came here specifically for—”

  “For my weapons,” the voice in
terrupted again. “As I said, I already know. But my answer still stands.”

  The way his voice warbled at times concerned Garrick, but not in a worrisome way—it was more confusing than anything. A god that can’t control his own voice?

  “Forget this,” Garrick mumbled. “He’s no god. Just some moron growling into a metal tube or something. Come on. Let’s loot this place.”

  Garrick stormed over to the nearest wall with weapons mounted on it and reached for a mammoth broadsword. But as he did, a rush of icy air swept toward him from the sides and… from within the wall itself?

  It buffeted him and pushed him back, somewhat, but it wasn’t nearly enough to stop him from reaching the broadsword. He extended his hand to take hold of it.

  “NO!” the voice half-roared, half-squealed.

  A huge, thick hand made of snow and ice shot out from the wall and shoved Garrick back hard. He toppled onto his back and skidded to a halt near Kent and Mehta’s feet.

  When he looked up, Garrick saw a humanlike figure step out from the wall. It materialized into the shape of a man with each step forward, but one constructed of ice and snow—and with some really strange proportions.

  Overall, the figure stood taller than Garrick, and it was easily four times as wide, but it was general girth and fat instead of muscle. Stranger still, even though the figure stood taller than Garrick overall, his legs and arms seemed far too short for his body, and his head looked unusually large—even a bit bulbous—compared to his torso.

  His hands were meaty and had stubby fingers, and his center of gravity was far lower than it ought to have been. It didn’t make any sense to Garrick at first, but then it all clicked: whatever this thing was, it was a dwarf.

  A giant-sized dwarf.

  Now fully emerged from within the wall, the man’s boots joined together, and he went totally still. Then his entire form collapsed into wisps of ice and snow, and it swirled throughout the room until it dissipated entirely.

  In the form’s place stood an actual dwarf-sized dwarf with comparable facial features to his larger version. But instead of being a hodgepodge construct of ice and snow, the smaller version looked more concentrated, more condensed in every way.