He tried to find some place of concealment beneath a
stairway or in a nook, but the corridors and bare rooms
stretched on and on. He did not relish the idea of being trapped
within one of the chambers, nor of lying down in the narrow
hall. At last he found a place where the corridor widened to
form an antechamber. He threw his bedroll into the darkest
corner and lay down, the odor of dust heavy in his nostrils. He
longed to enter the land of dream, to check with Mr. Hope and
make certain Jason was well, but dared not do so while the
anarchists sought him. Feeling miserably vulnerable, he
doused his lantern and tried to sleep.
Over the years, he had adopted a certain attitude whenever
he found himself in a deserted, often benighted way. Knowing
he had done all he could, he released the troubles of the day,
mentally picturing laying them into hands larger than his own.
Yet his sleep was disturbed, for he dreamed he walked the
Transverse Corridor in the Inner Chambers. The hallway was
dark and growing darker, and he knew something horrible was
coming, something he couldn’t see in the gloom. Something of
Chaos. Growing nearer … nearer …
He woke with a start to find a Poetry Man standing over
him, holding a candle in his left hand, his right hand upraised,
palm open, glowing with a light of its own.
Lord Anderson rolled to the side as the poet unleashed a
lightning bolt from his outstretched hand. Where it struck, the
boards exploded, sending wood shards spearing across the
room. Carter dove into the narrower portion of the corridor,
and turned, speaking the Word Which Seals. He did not hear
his own voice; the thunder had deafened him, but a golden
sheen rose to cover the portal between him and his foe.
The poet stepped to the sealed doorway, holding his candle
aloft, shading his eyes as if the light’s reflection off the barrier
kept him from seeing through it. Without knowing how the
man was connected to his lightning avatar, Carter doubted he
could defeat him as he had the woman at the bridge. He fled,
guided by the Poetry Man’s candlelight.
Thunder boomed in the passages behind him as the poet
released his might against the seal. The lightning flashes
illuminated Carter’s way until he reached a turn fifty yards
farther down. Though he had lost his bedroll, he had slept with
his backpack slung over one arm, and still held it and the
lantern strapped to it. Halting only long enough to light the
lamp, he scurried down the passage. He doubted if even the
poet’s power could destroy what the Word Which Seals had
created—that corridor would be blocked until Carter chose to
open it—but eventually his foe would seek another path. By
then, Lord Anderson intended to be far away.
Yet as he fled, he kept expecting to see another of his
enemies approaching through the darkness. In this way he
passed a hapless hour, until he began to sense, as the Master
can, hidden passages nearby. He spoke the Word of Secret
Ways and began searching for the familiar blue glow.
At first this proved fruitless, until he passed a bare
chamber and saw a faint rectangular illumination on the low,
slanting ceiling. A quick search of the room revealed a knob
hidden behind a support joint that released the trapdoor. The
ceiling was high enough to require him to stand on tiptoe to
throw the door back. He would have to jump up and catch the
sides of the opening to pull himself through.
On his first attempt, he discovered he could not enter the
hatch while wearing his backpack, which had the lantern tied
to it. He was forced to release his hold, douse the lantern and
then, working in absolute darkness, throw his gear in first and
follow after. When he raised himself through the aperture, he
banged his skull against the roof. Despite the shock, he
maintained his hold, and keeping low, pulled himself through
the opening.
“Why am I always hitting my head?” he snarled, his whole
world a blanket of pain.
When he had recovered and relit his lantern, he found
himself in an oaken shaft only high enough for going on all
fours. He groaned, but shut the trapdoor and crept on hands
and knees for several hundred feet before resting on his
forearms to catch his breath.
A moment later, he heard the creak of the trapdoor
opening. A dim light appeared down the shaft. He did not
think he had the strength to summon the Word Which Seals
again. Before him, the tunnel veered to the right, and he made
a crawling dash toward the turning, expecting at any second to
hear the release of a lightning bolt.
None came; perhaps the poet had exhausted his strength.
As he reached the corner, Carter drew his revolver. The
passage was too narrow for him to turn around, so he leaned
back and fired twice without aiming. The bullets whined down
the shaft, but there came no answering cry of pain.
Undoubtedly, the poet was as impervious to gunfire as his
comrades.
A mad race ensued, Carter scurrying away, the Poetry Man
following, neither speaking, their lamps the only light in that
elongated darkness. The tunnel branched in several places, and
Carter kept his maps close to his thoughts to trace his way.
How could he elude his opponent when his every motion left
marks in the dust?
For a half hour they rushed through the tunnels, until at
last Carter came to the blue glow of another secret way. He
found the latch and slid aside a panel opening onto the bare
desolation of the attic. Leaping down, he closed the door
behind him and fled at top speed, eager for a chance of escape.
He passed down a passage, turned right at an intersection, left
at another, and slid to a halt before a new secret way. Sweat
broke across his brow as he fumbled to find the unlocking
mechanism, but at last he discovered a wooden button hidden
among the slats. An entire portion of the wall swung up,
opening into a dingy passage. Carter stepped inside, grateful to
find it was not another tunnel. He closed the door and hurried
down it.
For a while, the corridor doubled back the way he had
come. He passed spy-holes every hundred yards, with elegant,
wooden chin rests. With his lantern shrouded, Carter gazed
through each in turn, and soon saw the poet shuffling along the
passage, holding the candle low to perceive footprints. Lord
Anderson would have given much to learn if an unexpected
assault could harm the creature, but had no way to reach him
through the wall.
For another hour he followed the secret passage, taking
intersections when they presented themselves, veering always
to the south and east.
He sat on the floor to rest and study his maps, and in so
doing, felt the full weight of his exhaustion. He could not
concentrate; the maps kept slipping from his mind. After a
time he sighed, and with grim resolution, summoned the Word
Which Gives Strength, the only Word that makes the Master
stronger after its use. Inwardly he groaned, knowing it would
take a terrible toll when its effects wore off, yet he had no
choice. As soon as he spoke it, he felt renewed; his mind
cleared; his situation seemed less hopeless. He gulped water
from his canteen and returned to the maps.
From his current location, the secret corridor forked in
three directions, one leading up a stair to a higher level. With
some consternation, he saw another passage intersecting this
one, that could have allowed him to reach his current position
much more quickly. He shrugged. The mistake was already
made. Rising, he headed toward the stair, which he reached in
twenty minutes.
The steps creaked as he ascended, and he kept his sword
ready, but did not meet any enemies at the top. He followed
another interminable passage, unique in having occasional slits
in the floor, allowing glimpses of the corridor below. As he
neared one such opening, he detected a gleam of light below.
Mantling his own lantern and sheathing his blade, he knelt and
peered through the gap.
His foe must have made up time by taking the passage
Lord Anderson had missed. Clearly, the poet knew almost as
much about the secret ways as any Master, and was tracking
Carter with the skill of a bloodhound. Perhaps he could sense
Lord Anderson’s power. Whatever the source of his ability,
Carter could have wept at the sight of him. No doubt he would
soon find a way into this passage as well.
He hurried through the gloom, wondering if his enemy
ever required sleep. As soon as possible, he left the secret way.
He had traveled far enough east to bypass Beam Forest, and
now left the high attic, descending the rickety steps of a
circular stair. A wide hallway lay at the bottom, and he
continued until dawn toward the Sidereal Sea, taking a
winding course intended to confuse his pursuer.
By the time the morning sun warmed the panes of
Evenmere, the Word Which Gives Strength had worn off,
leaving him stumbling on his feet.
He came to a set of double doors opening into a large
study. According to his maps, the door at the far side of the
room led to the ruins of the Opoian capitol. He strode toward
it.
“The chase is done,” the voice of the poet said behind him.
Without turning, Carter bolted for the far door. A blast
passed overhead, striking the door, shattering it to pieces. The
impact hurled Lord Anderson off his feet. Blinded by the
flash, he rolled onto his stomach and tried to rise, but his legs
gave way beneath him.
“You were beaten by no less a foe than exhaustion,” the
Poetry Man said, “while I remain fresh, filled with power. Too
late to submit; you should have surrendered when you could.”
Carter could feel his enemy’s energies, hot on his face.
Still unable to see clearly, he spoke the Word Which
Manifests, though it came ragged from his throat. He felt it
leave him in a splattering wave that caused his enemy to yelp
in pain.
Carter crawled to his knees. His eyes began to clear; the
Word had thrown the poet against the far wall, but he was
already trying to rise.
He had no more strength for running. He pulled his pistol
and fired, but the bullets veered from his foe, riddling the
wood panels with holes. Recovering his Lightning Sword from
where it lay on the floor, Carter made a desperate charge, only
to be cut off by a sheet of lightning descending between him
and his target, a sizzling curtain of voltage he dared not cross.
“I will use … whatever means necessary to stop you,” the
Poetry Man cried, half panting. “Whatever power. Even if I
perish, it will be wonderful beyond words. That is why you
cannot win! It is too glorious.”
Fingers of electricity crackled up and down the chamber,
pushing Carter against a corner. He was trapped, done for. The
poet had beaten him.
He did the last thing he could, drawing deep within himself
to summon the strength to speak the Word Which Brings Aid.
Elahkammor !
Beneath the hissing, electric cacophony, the Word’s effect
could not be heard. No one could possibly come in time. Even
if they did, they could not challenge the poet’s might.
The Poetry Man stood, arms above his head, a vortex of
lightning coruscating between his palms.
“Don’t you realize you’ve tapped energies we were never
meant to control?” Carter cried, trying to stall, shouting to
make himself heard above the storm.
“The apples of the gods!” his foe replied. “The
Promethean fire. You have a parochial attitude for a child of
the modern age. Man was meant to command all things.”
Carter sought a way to get beneath the surrounding
current. “Not until he learns to control himself!”
With a mad, skeletal grin, the Poetry Man stepped forward,
bringing the lightnings closer. Lord Anderson retreated until
his back was against the wall. In desperation, he struck at the
flashing curtain with his Lightning Sword. Current flowed
back through his blade into his arm, wrenching a scream from
his lips. He slammed against the wall and slumped to the
ground. His sword hung, trapped, within the electric field. His
whole body felt numb. He could no longer rise; he could no
longer resist. He could not even lift his hand to protect
himself. He thought he might be dying.
The poet stepped through the curtain, his body so
enmeshed with the force flowing through him that he appeared
as rolling lightning in human shape. Looming over Carter, he
reached his hand toward his victim’s head.
Something cold abruptly washed over Carter. He thought it
must be his blood. The poet stiffened and shrieked. Carter
spied a figure at the doorway, spraying a steady stream from a
fire hose onto the poet, who disintegrated with a dreadful
crackling, like all the world’s lightning going out at once. The
stench of burnt flesh filled the air.
Whether from the effect of the water, or because of the
poet’s passing, Carter found he had enough strength to move.
He turned toward the doorway just as Doctor Armilus stepped
into the light, his black familiar padding behind him. The
anarchist twisted shut the valve on the hose, cutting off the
flow from a line connected to one of the many outlets used by
the Firemen of Ooz to fight house fires. He carried a pistol, but
kept it aimed away from Lord Anderson.
“I am owed for this one,” Armilus said, with a grimacing
smile.
Carter glanced at his Lightning Sword, lying several feet
away. He could never draw his gun in time.
“Why?” he asked.
The doctor raised his eyebrows. “Not from any sense of
compassion. I had been searching for a Poetry Man
because I
wanted to see if I could kill one. I was told the use of an
opposing element might do the trick. I am gratified at my
success. No doubt you feel the same.”
Carter climbed to his feet, his entire body trembling with
weakness. The beast growled.
“None of that!” Armilus commanded the hound. “You and
I, Lord Anderson, are the only ones standing between the
poets and the destruction of the house, so regardless what my
strange ally wishes, I need you alive. I am a man of honor, and
we have a truce. Even my own defeat is preferable to the
victory of these lunatics.”
“Then your time would be better spent discarding your
plans and aiding me.”
“Perhaps,” Armilus said, “but there is opportunity
whenever power shifts. I am still discovering new uses for the
knowledge I took from The Book of Lore , things even the
Masters feared to accomplish.”
“Do you understand what your actions could do to the
Balance?”
Armilus waved his hand in dismissal. “If I succeed there
will be a new Balance. You and the Masters before you—think
of what you could have done if you’d had the spine. Makes the
blood pump.”
“If you believe that, you’re as mad as the poets.”
“No harm in enjoying one’s work. I’m afraid I must be
going. Just remember what I did for you this day.”
Armilus passed into the darkness, the Black Beast behind
him. No longer able to keep his wits, Carter swooned.
“Why didn’t you kill him?” the beast hissed, when they
were out of earshot.
“I gave my word,” the doctor replied wearily. “If you
wanted Anderson dead, you should have waited a few
moments instead of ripping us from our place and transporting
us here. The poet would have done the job for you.”
Armilus grimaced. He had always prided himself on his
ability to bear up under physical pain, but had never felt
anything so terrible as that instantaneous journey—he had
actually thought it was killing him. That would have put a
pretty end to his plans.
“I was not the one who brought us.”
Armilus turned and studied the beast’s hideous face. “What
do you mean?”
“Anderson summoned us with the Word Which Brings
Aid.”
“He can transport people as he likes?”
“The Word searches for someone close at hand. If none are
Evenmere (The Evenmere Chronicles Book 3) Page 32