Beyond the Sapphire Gate: Epic Fantasy-Some Magic Should Remain Untouched (The Flow of Power Book 1) (35 page)

AN OPPORTUNITY TO RECTIFY

The blades jabbed faster this time, coming at Garn from every direction. Daggers and throwing knives sought his eyes and torso. Brutal war axes and sharp pikes sliced through the air from the front and rear, even above, seeking to sever a femoral artery or chop his legs from under him. Curved scimitars and double-edged broadswords flashed.

Garn’s dual swords whirled faster than the deadly array as he spun; pirouetting around the room in a ringing, clanging, deadly dance. He leapt constantly, his feet rarely in contact with the floor, reveling in the physical exertion of it all, but he was tiring. His toes pushed from the floor to spin him along a different trajectory than he had intended. He spun less each time.

The blades’ owners had begun to notice his fatigue, attacking with renewed frenzy. The daggers and knives he simply dodged, letting them fly harmlessly over a shoulder or near an ear as he whirled. The swords that came at his waist, he blocked to a standstill or flicked away with his thick-backed swords while flowing endlessly between fighting forms. The magical attacks he blocked with the flat of his steel or dodged, letting them sail into other attackers.

All of it was tiring him, however, even with the exceptional enhancement of the sixth dose from the Alchemist. Was it his age? Or did its effect lessen with use, as the Alchemist was beginning to suspect? Garn stepped up the pace, concentrating on disabling a few axes and swords to even the score. Should his age be a factor, perhaps he could mask it with skill.

Mid-pirouette, he switched his whirling long swords direction while reversing his spin. The move nearly repaid him with a scimitar to the gut, but it worked. Expecting his flashing swords to block their weapons, the men surrounding him in the first row stumbled when their weapons met only air. Even the adept swordsmen slipped.

Garn didn’t hesitate, spinning faster, he roared through the front ring with a series of ripostes designed to disarm an opponent. The sound of metal clanging to the floor mixed with men’s cries and curses. Garn slowed, assessing the situation. The second and third ring, the one with the Dark Users, hesitated, caution apparent in faces and body posture.

The loud
kaasoom
of the end gong sounded through the room.

The second and third ring of men lowered their weapons quickly. The first ring was down or disabled, some would need extensive internal healing. Per the unwritten rule, he’d allowed them to keep their limbs intact, this time.

Garn slowed his dance, sheathing both swords to his back as he went; it wouldn’t do to have his muscles cramp, leaving him squirming in agony on the floor.

Winding down to a fast walk, he moved toward the gilded table taking up the great room’s northern end. The long table was likely the Alchemist’s most prized possession, at least, Garn thought of him as the Alchemist now. The Hooded Man spent most of his time at the table poring over maps and scrolls, settling disputes in the compound, but most often mixing together dark liquids. Black streaks on the work surface attested to the volatility of the compounds.

The Alchemist wasn’t mixing at present. Instead, he was watching Garn’s every move. Even though he couldn’t see the feline eyes under the cowl, Garn could sense them upon him when he finally stopped moving near the table, working to keep his breathing steady.

“Tell me how you feel,” the Alchemist demanded. “Are you weak? Or can you continue?”

“I could go on for some time yet, but not at the pace I was setting just before you rang the gong. I’d begun to falter.” Garn had learned early on to provide truthful answers to the man, nothing added, no observations, and no questions. The Hooded Man didn’t respond to any of it. Or worse, gave a command to have him punished. The most emotion he’d seen from the man had been the first morning back Corteezsha’s room. Or was it her cell? He was still undecided which.

Placing his elbows on the table, the hooded man leaned forward. “I have one final question. This is very important. The move you used to disable the adepts was that before or after you felt yourself tire?”

“After.”

The Alchemist fell back in his chair. Silence reigned. Garn began to get uncomfortable. He needed to eat soon. As after every test, his body was clamoring for sustenance, waiting too long could be fatal. His body would start to feed on itself at an accelerated rate, damaging his muscles and internal organs beyond magical, or potion infused, healing.

Finally, the Hooded Man stirred. “You are twice the age of nearly every man on the first ring, which constituted many of my best, yet you have defeated them. I have little doubt you would’ve beaten the second and third had I not ended it. An Impressive showing, I now consider you my greatest accomplishment. You may eat.”

Garn was stunned as he moved to the end of the table. Stuffing meats and fruits into his mouth, he chomped with abandon, marveling. He was the Hooded Man’s greatest achievement, something he found hard to believe. He hadn’t heard any higher praise spewing from the man’s mouth, not even when he witnessed Codar best a ring of steel. In truth, the Alchemist rarely said anything at all beyond asking questions, then making notations in a journal he always kept. The man’s clinical arrogance knew no bounds.

Such arrogance helped, in a way. It would make it slightly easier when the time arose for Garn to destroy him. His disposing of evil as profound as the Alchemist’s wouldn’t be any different than eradicating any of the assassins who’d attempted a go at the King or one of the King’s Administrators. It was simply something one did to protect an innocent—or not so innocent, as it may turn out—from filth. In this case, he’d be saving tens, perhaps hundreds of souls, innocent or not. The Alchemist didn’t care, male or female, good or bad, any soul to him he’d use as a lab rat.

Garn had seen his type in the Administration’s labs. Every lab had at least one smug bastard. The difference was the Alchemist probably deserved his sense of superiority. The man was more brilliant—though dangerous—than any arrogant lab coat he’d met during his seasons of service for the Administration.

Destroying him wasn’t going to be easy, not by any means he possessed. So far, no opportunity had arisen, not even a poor one. Nevertheless, he wasn’t about to give up or hesitate when the time arrived. Evil as profound as the Alchemist required cleansing the way one might remove a malignant growth sucking the life from someone. Though he’d never been a surgeon, he knew how to cut away the bad parts, with force if necessary, making the hard decisions when he must. At least he had as head of the King’s security, until his heart had failed and they’d replaced him.

His failing organ was now in the past. There was no sign of the slightest irregular heart rhythm. He was in better shape than he’d been back in his mid-twenties, but with extra muscle mass to go with it. Whatever Malkor had done to him in the alley, he’d performed it well. Perhaps too well, he was going to purge the man’s malignance from this world too. During the many, many days of his imprisonment, the Alchemist had invited Malkor to join the challenge ring working to defeat him with injury on several occasions. The Dark User had relished hurling red cones at him. Whenever the red robe had connected, the wounds Garn received were far more excruciating than any others—Users included—requiring several healing sessions and draughts of some vile liquid. Fortunately, Malkor hadn’t joined in the gauntlet for some time. The red robe seemed to have a knack for timing his cones to connect with the most painful areas of his body.

However, the last time Garn had seen the red-robed User with the Alchemist, Malkor walked with a severe limp that hadn’t happened in his challenge ring. Whoever had struck the red robe such a devastating blow merited respect, but perhaps also, a simple admonishment to leave that particular Dark User’s punishment to Garn.

Provided he ever got the opportunity. So far, opportunities for escape or retribution hadn’t happened. Lined with heavy bars, every window of the sprawling one-story structure looked out upon a dismal, sand-blown landscape, each one inspected personally by the steward each evening before night fell. There was no exterior door anywhere in the entire keep, only solid walls of granite, something he’d verified many times. The only way in or out was through the gateway Codar had brought him through. Again, the question burned through his mind: how was he going to escape to find his daughters? He
would
find a way.

His plate bare, Garn stood, ready for his next session, whatever that may be. He never knew after a bout what would occur next until the Alchemist gave an order. Besides the sparring, his schedule was set for the day or even the week. Training, then training, at least his new life was consistent.

Perhaps
too
consistent, he didn’t want to get accustomed to it.

He waited before the Alchemist, watching the dainty way the Hooded Man ate as he chose small portions carefully, and chewed slowly. The man devoted enormous amounts of time to his meals. Though shorter, he had to weigh nearly as much as Garn. Of course, outside of mixing vile brews, what else did the Alchemist have to do? Perhaps sleep, which Garn had yet to discover. Or perhaps, oversee the warehouse. Strangely, the Alchemist hadn’t spent much time there since Garn came to the keep.

Pausing with silverware part way to his mouth, The Hooded Man looked up, his emerald hourglass eyes appraising his captive as if he’d heard Garn’s thoughts. “You are free to end the evening as you choose. In the early morning, you will accompany me on an errand. It’s time I put you to use. You may go,” he said, waving his free hand.

Garn bowed deep. Any less would signify an act of rebellion. Punishments were severe, sometimes fatal. Garn had seen it twice in his captivity. Both times the Hooded Man had exacted the punishment personally. The first was a dagger thrown swiftly into the offending man’s throat. The other, a woman, had ended with one of the Alchemist’s potions forced down her throat at his command. Garn retained the image of her desiccated corpse lying where he stood now, after her lengthy struggle to live. The Alchemist had observed every nuance of her losing battle with clinical interest.

Straightening, Garn spun on his heel, striding to the end of the great room at a steady pace. The last thing he wanted was to appear anxious to be away from the Alchemist’s sight. Yet he was. He didn’t trust himself to be in his captor’s foul presence much longer. The man was putting him
to use
tomorrow. His arrogance had no end. He was no man’s slave!

But he was. Garnet Creek was the Hooded Man’s slave as long as he was captive. The Alchemist commanded his every move, dangled his life by his dark-hooded sadistic little boy whims. He was a slave. No other word fit.

Perhaps the morrow would present an opportunity to rectify it.

BURLAP FRIEND

Jade couldn’t be more miserable, but at least she lived. Groaning, she forced herself to stand. Camoe glanced at her sharply from the far side of the small clearing where he was organizing his pack for the day’s march, but he kept his thoughts to himself.

Slowly, she sorted through the contents of the black bag. Everything was still intact: the food from the Dark Citadel’s kitchen, the water-like vitality draught from Camoe’s room, and thankfully, the white candle from Crystalyn’s service. The candle thrummed when she touched it, as if it recognized her. For one anxious moment, she panicked when she couldn’t find the arrowhead necklace inside, but then she recalled putting it on a lifetime ago in Burl’s kitchen. Her raggedy friend hadn’t lost a single item, even though the bag had some prominent gouges along the bottom. Running her fingers along the inside, she was relieved to find no gouge had punctured the reinforced leather.

“Your pet is shrewder than I believed,” Camoe said.

She looked up from her inspection. “Why do you say that?”

“I suspect those marks are from dragging your bag along the ground to create a false trail for those beasts to follow.”

Jade glanced at her burlap-skinned friend, surprised. Burl stood in some thick foliage, watching the back trail, his useless arm hidden inside a dense jungle of green. “I hadn’t thought of that, but you must be right. It would explain why he left. I know you believe he can’t feel pain, but can’t we do something for the arm? Perhaps stitch it together like you did his knees?”

“I would if I could. His legs ripping at the knees has helped him run and walk faster, which was a good thing. I kept the stitches loose so he has some flexibility without them tearing further. At least, I hope so. Stitches will not hold so grievous a wound as his arm together. If you can call it a wound; there is no blood, only that black, tarry substance,” Camoe gave a deep sigh. “For now, the sling is the best I can do.”

Jade moved closer. A brown, double-looped rag snaked around Burl’s head where his neck should be and wound around his chest to the end of his forearm. He probably didn’t need to hold it with his other hand now. “Oh, Camoe!” she said. She hobbled to the druid and gave him a hug. He gave her a quick hug back. When did you do it?” Jade didn’t try to keep the smile from her face.

Camoe smiled back. “He allowed me to do it this morning, while you slept.”

“Well at least it won’t be flopping around. I was afraid it was going to tear the rest of the way through. Though I suppose if it did, I could carry it in my bag.”

Camoe blinked.

Jade paused, and then laughed. “What am I saying? I’m starting to get morbid, don’t you think?”

Camoe laughed, too, lighting up his blue eyes. “I don’t think there’s any room in your disposition for morbidity, Jade. You care too much for that.” His smile faded, and his eyes grew sad. “You remind me so much of...” he added so quietly that she strained to hear. “Come, we have a full day of marching ahead of us, providing we can find a decent path through the swamps. They are the last obstacles before reaching Brown Recluse.”

Shouldering her bag, Jade forced her legs into motion, grimacing. Her abused body hurt as badly as she’d expected. The dark thing on the wall had kept them running until the last failing light had made for too dangerous a trek through the swamps. Pain shot through her hips and legs, a familiar but unwanted sensation retained from the Dark Citadel. She felt like wailing as loud as the dark thing had, and then shuddered at the thought. The worst of the journey had to be behind them. It
had
to be. Nothing could be worse than what she’d already been through, what they all had.

Camoe took it easy on her for the first mile, stopping now and then to gaze ostensibly at a mossy cypress tree overgrown with black hanging vines or a clump of pale-green tuber plants with dandelion heads gone to seed. Then the roots of the trees immersed in water, and the tuber plants ceased to grow. Sloshing through brackish water at the base of a tree, Jade’s boots were soon soaked, and she yearned for the dry paths of the plateau’s forest.

The morning wore into afternoon, the afternoon crept into evening, the evening ambience slid toward nightfall with the same putrid drudgery. Trudging through slime yet again, she began to hate the swamplands worst of all. Though her muscles had loosened early on, the swamps were a trial. They had to wade through knee-deep water, following what Camoe hoped was the trail. Jade hadn’t the faintest idea how he knew which way to go; it all looked the same to her.

Ahead, another clump of exposed-root plants gripped the meager topsoil while floating outward from the solid frond islands they normally traversed. Camoe went toward the protrusion without deviating. Jade expected as much. They’d been using the floating sod clumps throughout the day to vault over deep-but-narrow waterways. Afterwards, there would be phosphorescent fronds to push out of the way, as they stepped from root to root in a futile effort to stay dry.

Her soaked jeans clung to her skin, creating itchy pockets she couldn’t scratch. It took an enormous effort to ignore it. As Camoe stepped on the sod island, sudden ripples and a wet plop indicated one of the swamps denizens had noticed their passing. The ripples moved to a nearby island. Jade relaxed a bit. They were safe if the ripples moved away. The plops with no ripples, on the other hand, held her attention for as long as she dared keep her eye on them. Most instances ended with her wondering what had made the noise. In rare cases, she’d get a flash of something green or pale white, but nothing tangible enough to show her what sort of creature had made the noise.

Worse by far, was the smell. As Camoe had warned her, no one with any sense of smell would be able to ignore it. The mud they slogged through, the sickly green plants they brushed past, the deeper dark pools of water they avoided, all had a horrid stench. In terms of her most horrible conditions to travel through, the fetid smell took second only to trekking through absolute dark without a light, or searching for scarce hand and footholds on a cliff side in a storm. After a day spent in the midst of the swamp, aptly named, her natural inclination made her feel like retching every step of the way.

Camoe seemed to be afflicted much the same way. Not once had he mentioned pausing for sustenance. She was grateful for it. Eating was out of the question. Sipping the water they toted was a mistake, too, for it tasted foul in the fetid air. The Druid had spit it out nearly as fast as she had. No water or food for the bulk of the day would work for her, as long as they left the swamp behind by nightfall. Camoe had assured her on a few occasions there was ample time to pass through the foul bogs with daylight to spare.

Now it was beginning to look like he was wrong.

Jade leaped the narrow stream of dark water to an island amidst the swampland sea, yet another in an endless line of islands they’d crossed. The first few times she’d been afraid she would fall through the clumps. It was comparable to walking on a bed filled with muscle-firming gel or a giant sponge. She jumped to where the roots had grown together the thickest without thinking about it. Camoe stood on the island, gazing at a wall of tall sunflower plants. Except the florets encircling the head were lime green, a color she hadn’t seen on the Farm. Jade splashed to a halt behind him. “Now what do we do? I don’t see a way past, do you?”

“Not through that mess, whatever it is. I have never seen flora like them. I do not understand, I could have sworn there were only trees around here. Trees would have meant an end to these blasted islands.”

“Well, those plants are blocking the way forward. How long will it take us to go around? I don’t want to be stuck on an island all night.”

“We cannot be on an island at night. It is too dangerous. There are things in the water that crawl on these islands at night. Poisonous things, and worse—”

“Do I want to know what could be worse than poisonous?”

“I do not understand…I could have sworn…” Camoe said, ignoring her comment. Pulling his sword from his scabbard, he made his way to the living wall. If not for the round, black flower heads, the pale green flowers would’ve appeared almost transparent. Camoe swung his sword. Slashing one direction, he mowed down a large swath. Reversing direction, he cut as big a section away on the backhand. A waist-high pile littered the ground, which he kicked to the side. The wall rippled with a tiny motion along its length. “It may not be too bad. I think I can see through to the other side. Give me a few moments.” His right arm a blur, Camoe swung back and forth, stepping into the space he’d cleared.

Two steps into it, his arm fell slack to his side. His sword clanged to the ground.

“What’s—” Jade began to ask.

Camoe collapsed in a heap. A quick whoosh of air brought a sharp sting to her cheek. As she put her hand to her cheek, another sting shot through her palm. Confused, Jade had a moment to wonder why she couldn’t feel the large quill sticking through her hand, but then her perspective changed. Camoe’s back loomed in her view, the wide leather strap from his bag draped over a shoulder. She reached for him. Nothing responded, her fingers, her arms, her legs…she couldn’t even blink. Her eyes locked on Camoe’s comatose form. Helpless, she watched as a pale vine snaked around Camoe’s waist. Another slithered over his shoulder, reaching for her.

Camoe began to move, the floral wall parting before him. Beyond, many disproportionately wide plants the color of blood hugged the soil around a pond of brackish water. Grouped in spotty areas around the hole, the black sunflower heads stood out in the foreground like miniature storm-warning poles broadcasting the danger lurking beyond.

Jade realized the pond was getting closer, and she too was moving forward. Camoe was nearly to the broad, blood-colored leaves.

Burl stepped into view, the druid’s sword gripped in his remaining hand. Black quills feathered his textured skin. Nearby, a group of pale sunflowers shot quills from tiny-screened holes in the florets, striking Burl in the chest with chilling accuracy. Ignoring the assault, Burl sliced through the vine pulling her. Moving to the Druid, Burl chopped with the sword, severing the tether, then cropped the group of sunflowers that had quilled him using a series of precise swings.

At first, Jade thought he was exacting revenge until she glimpsed the blood leaves flipping over into the pond. Triangular-tipped with a rectangular shape, the leaves resembled jagged teeth lining an enormous maw as Burl flipped over half the plant leaves in the horrid pond. Several of the tentacle vines slithered toward him, rising up from the sides. Burl cut them away.

Swinging the sword tirelessly, Burl hacked at the remaining sunflowers.

It was soon over. The vines retreated into the water. The blood leaves flipped one by one onto the dark pond, leaving a bucket-sized hole in the center.

Presenting his quill-coated back to the pond, Burl slipped Camoe’s sword deftly into the druid’s scabbard. Gripping the silver-haired man by the back of his shirt, Burl dragged the druid beside her. After a moment, she was moving again. This time, she moved away and off to the side of the maw. Camoe drifted in and out of view beside her.

Jade’s mind boggled at her companion’s strength. Burl pulled both her and Camoe with one arm. How long could he last?

Sometime later, she felt solid ground dragging against her feet. Wait. She’d
felt
it?