Nightlord: Orb (109 page)

I like her.  I think she assumes I’m always hungry.

With a plate of food in hand, I munched my way over to what was now my new gate room.  I wondered again what happened to the old one.  I hadn’t found it in all my wanderings.  With the original gate destroyed, it didn’t really have a purpose.  It might have simply closed up and vanished.  I suppose I could ask the mountain, but asking it questions and getting answers takes an awfully long time compared to people.  Every question becomes a geography question…

The mountain had an arch prepared and a layer of silver on the wall for me.  The new arch was already a free-standing piece of stone.  I hadn’t specified how big it should be, so it duplicated the old one.  That suited me.  I could ride Bronze through it at a full gallop if I needed to, and I might.

Rather than dive right into another major enchantment project, I worked on the sheet of silver first.  The mirror was the easy part—much less complex and far less power-intensive.  Since the mountain had the metal sheet embedded in the wall, I worked carefully.  No, it wasn’t considered “part” of the mountain.  The metal was separated, but held there by a frame of stone.

Does this mean the stone of the mountain is alive, but the metals aren’t?  Or is this particular sheet of silver something of an exception because I asked for it to be?  The mountain doesn’t really know these things, not like I want to know these things, so asking it is pointless.

But I wonder.

I gave the new mirror a quick polish and a basic pan-and-scan scrying enchantment; I was in a hurry.  With the mirror mounted next to the arch, one could find the target point and use the scrying portal as a sort of lightning rod, or maybe as a pilot hole for the gate spell to follow.  It would help with targeting the other end.

Then it was time for the heavy lifting.

Creating a gate spell enchantment is not a small task—not for me, not for magicians, not even for the ancient Order of Magicians from Zirafel.  On the other hand, I cheat.

Casting the spell, rather than making a permanent magic item, is much easier.  It’s a sort of poor man’s enchantment, really—the duct tape and wire version, if you like.

Rather than exhaust myself by gathering power, I drew energy from a charged gem to build the spell matrix.  A second gem gave it a functional charge; it would work at least once with only moderate effort on the part of the person opening the gate—assuming they were enough of a wizard to activate the thing.

I cheated further by embedding the other two gems into the stone structure of the arch.  With those connected to the spell, it should be good for three uses, maybe four, depending on how quickly it was used.  Call it ten or fifteen seconds of open time.

Under normal circumstances, one would use the spell until it ran down.  The spell would then fold in on itself and consume its own structure until it disintegrated and the portal closed.  In this case, however, the gate could be opened or closed at will.  If the spell didn’t discharge fully, it would remain intact, ready to be used again—and could be recharged.

It’s something like an old diesel engine.  If you run it until it uses all its fuel, you get a fault called vapor lock.  Basically, it won’t run again even if you do put in more fuel.  You shouldn’t have let it run out, because now you have a lot of work to do to fix it before it will start.  The spell was just one step worse.  If you let it run out, it melts down and goes away.  You can’t fix it; you need a new one.  But as long as you don’t let it run out, you can keep refueling it indefinitely.

As a further cheat, I built a small power jet and a fuel gauge.  As time went on, the gate would continue to suck in power and charge itself.  When the crystals and the spell reached their maximum capacity, the jet would shut down, go into an idle mode, and wait to be reactivated.  It struck me as a lot less troublesome than building a power circle and periodically draining it, feeding power to the gate, and erecting another power circle.

I like automation.

After all my work, it was time for a shower; I was worn out and sweaty.  Power-intensive work as a mortal does it to me every time.  It’s a drain on the vitality of the caster even when there’s power aplenty.  I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again:  Building sand castles with lots of the best sand isn’t as tiring as having to go all over, scraping it together, but it’s still effort—and gates are rather elaborate sand castles.

Then it was time for a big dinner after a busy day.  Laisa doesn’t say much, which tells me where Caris got the tendency.  I don’t know much about her, really.  On the other hand, she does her best to keep food in front of me, so my mouth was too full to ask much.  Not really ideal chatting circumstances, anyway.  I can’t really object.  I wonder, though, if she’s so determined to feed me because she wants to control who and what I eat.  It bothers me she might have such an opinion of me.

Am I being insecure?  Probably.  Doesn’t change the fact I worry about it.

In my chambers, I set up a protective ward on the half of the room with the bed platform.  Then I remembered one more thing I needed to do.

Never fails.  Get set to have a nap and everything you forgot comes rushing back.

I went out and found a small club, about the size of a typical policeman’s nightstick.  At least this wouldn’t require much.  Certainly no enchantments; I was too tired for enchantments.  But a few spells, yes.  A couple of conditional spells to identify the holder, some sets of recorded words to be played back under the proper conditions, one small spell to destroy the fibrous matrix of the wood, another for some illumination effects…

By then I was pushing past tired into fatigued.  I crawled onto the pile of furs and rolled into the protective circle.  With Firebrand lying next to me and Bronze standing over me, it was time for my nap.  The last time I had a nap seemed to go all right, so I wasn’t as worried about it as before.  Wearing myself out would help with overcome my natural tendency to lie awake and worry, too.

If I was about to have a talk with the Queen to convince her I wasn’t an Evil Overlord, I was going to have to be at my sharpest.

The fettered genie stands tall as mountains, broad as seas.  It bleeds bright drops of rainbow blood like rain.  Each drop strikes like a note of music, a ringing, liquid meteor.  The splashes shatter into shards, each a crystal seed.  Sharp and deadly, they are spears piercing the earth.  They grow around the genie, crackling and clicking, crystals multiplying, spreading outward, upward, thrusting sky-bright spires into the bellies of the clouds.

A palace all of glass and crystal takes shape, chiming, tinkling, spreading and branching, prismatic, glowing, delicate.  A thing all of angles and light, formed of high spires and eggshell arches, fragile as dewdrops.  At the heart of the palace, the wounded genie bleeds still, feeding the spreading empire.

Crystal strands spread across the land, lines of glass and scintillating power.  They mark the face of the world, transforming it.  Wherever the glowing lines touch, nothing remains the same.  Men become gods or beasts.  Animals grow into myths or vanish.  Everything evolves, drinking in the bright power or being slain by it—there is no third choice.  The world within this egg of rainbow crystal and bloodied glass is a thing of splendor and terror, blazing light and horror.

The genie dies before my eyes, breathing out its last, looking at me, accusing and mournful and afraid.  Its final breath is a pale mist of color, swept away on iron winds.  The genie fades, turns grey, turns old, turns cold.  It cracks, like stone beneath the weight of winter and years, but does not crumble.  Its face remains, with the look of pain and weary sadness.  Its sightless eyes are black with burnt tears.

Tall towers, their points brushing the cloudless sky, crack and fall.  They shatter into flakes like sharp, glittering snow.  Coruscating lines collapse, leaving only barren ground.  The eggshell arches sway as the earth shudders, break into jagged shards.  Showers of crystal daggers fall like a rain of death upon screaming multitudes.  Sharp points pierce flesh and bone and stone, and nothing survives the fall.

Reflected in every shard, I see my face.

I sat up with a jerk, heart pounding, sweat beading my forehead.  I seized Firebrand and looked wildly around.

Nothing was trying to kill me.

Didn’t go well, Boss?

“Depends on how you look at it,” I admitted, trying to calm down.  “I’m not actually being buried under tons of broken glass, am I?”

Not that I’ve noticed.

“That’s good.”  I took a deep breath and lay back.  “See, this is why I hate sleeping.  Nightmares.”

Bronze snorted.

“It’s not an actual mare,” I replied.  “You’re quite comforting.  Bad dreams are not.”

She nodded, mane tinkling slightly.

At least you’re trying, Boss.  That’s good thing, right?

“Is it?”

You don’t like it, so it must be good for you.  It builds character.  Right?

“I don’t like being electrocuted, beheaded, or ripped apart by rabid weasels, either.  Do those build character?”

Do you at least remember what it was?
Firebrand asked, avoiding the question.

“Something about a genie bleeding to create palaces of crystal, I think.  Then the genie died and it all fell apart.  Somehow, it was all my fault.”

Something is going to kill the mountain?
Firebrand guessed.

“That’s what I was thinking.  Blood and I go together, and the mountain grew in a sort-of crystalline fashion; it’s a rock, anyway.  I’m not sure how killing me would have any effect on it, though.  I’ll look into it the moment I get back from Carrillon.”

I’m not sure how everything would fall apart even if the mountain died.  Doesn’t stone tend to, you know, sit there?  If it stopped being alive, we’d be stuck with a mountain, right?

“Yeah, I don’t get that part, either.  It was clearly a disaster of epic proportions, not the passing away of my pet rock.”

Maybe there’s something bad that happens if the mountain dies?
Firebrand guessed. 
It’s a really
big
pet rock.  Big enough the world might notice?

That cold feeling of fear came to visit me, settled in, made itself comfortable.

“I can think of something,” I admitted, slowly, “that could kill the mountain and injure the world.  I’d rather not, though.”

If you say so.  Precautions will be taken, right?

“Yes.  And maybe I can get Mary to do the dreaming from now on.  I think I hate doing this.”

Fair enough
.

“And I’m probably going to do it again.”

That’s my Boss.  You keep on being stubborn.  Bad dreams aren’t going to get the better of you!

I got out of bed—well, rolled off the edge of the platform—and stretched.  Piles of furs and blankets do not a mattress make.  On the other hand, I felt much more rested.  Enough, at least, to conjure up a small spell to do some wood-burning before sunset.  I inscribed “In the hands of the minstrel Tyma, my name is KINGSMACKER.”

Yes, it sounds stupid when you say it like that.  It sounds much more impressive and portentous in Rethven.  It’s kind of like, “Quidquid Latine dictum sit, altum viditur.”  Anything said in Latin sounds profound.

Sunset started and I hit the waterfall immediately.  I was going to be in a hurry again as soon as I died.

The Kingsway was wider.  It also had low railings.  The footpath had a slight curve downward in the middle, like a shallow gutter.  The railings continued the curve upward, almost making it a half-circle.  Another week and it would be a long tube.  I made a mental note to get a big ball of rock slightly smaller than the interior.  Not for anything in particular, just… you know, in case.  A few barrels of lubricant could be funny, and a few barrels of kerosene less so.  Those might not be bad ideas, either.

Bronze carried me down without incident and almost without sound.  She didn’t like the stairs at the end, however.  They were broad, wide, and shallow, but she doesn’t like going down stairs.  She’s perfectly fine with going up a flight of stairs, but down annoys her.  I have no idea why.

Tianna was waiting for us at the Temple of Fire.  She had a traveling bag with her, which I tied to the saddlehorn.  I also had her move back when she tried to take the front position.

“No,” I told her.  “I’m in front.”

“I’ve ridden Bronze before, Grandpa.  Besides, I want to see.”

“You’ve ridden Bronze when she was taking it slow and easy,” I countered.  “Besides, even with the aerodynamic spell I’m going to use, I expect it to get more than a little breezy.  You may be glad I’m a windshield.”

“She wasn’t exactly walking when we rode between Karvalen and Mochara.”

“She also wasn’t trying.”

“We’ll see,” she answered, but let me swing her up behind me.  I prepared spells for the teardrop-shaped air shield and a couple of gravity-distorting ones.

“What’s this?” she asked, reaching out to touch Kingsmacker, where it hung from my belt.  The spell didn’t recognize her as Tyma, so it sounded off with one of the recorded messages.

“
I am Kingsmacker, meant only for the hand of the minstrel Tyma!  In her hands, my name comes true!
”

Tianna dropped it before it got out the second word.

“What in the name of the elder moons is
that
?” she demanded.

“A present for Tyma.  I’m hoping to do some fence-mending while I’m in Carrillon.”

“Seriously?  By giving her a stick meant for smiting kings?”

“
Smacking
kings,” I corrected.  “Yep.  I have an idea.  You can call it stupid later; everyone else will.  Now hold on,” I advised.  She did so.

Bronze started her run.

We were out of the city, over the southwest bridge, and headed south along the canal track in about a minute.  We didn’t take the central island—the road-like area between the canals—because people tended to camp on them overnight.  Instead, we stayed on the canal’s side-road along the western bank.  Tianna hunched down and admitted she was pleased to have me for a shield.  I refrained from saying Grandpa knows best.  She probably wouldn’t have heard me over the wind, anyway.

It’s even more eerie to be blasting along at highway speeds without a single hoofbeat.  Wind, yes, like a motorcycle on the freeway, but without even engine noise.  No, better yet:  It was like falling.

Before long, we swung aside to avoid Mochara and intercept the coast road.  Bronze skidded slightly—and soundlessly—on the hard surface as she merged, throwing blue-green sparks.  This reminded me yet again to do something for her traction.

Bronze didn’t care.  She tossed her head and extended her neck.

With nothing in front of us but unbroken road, I activated the aerodynamic shell and the gravity-shifter.  Suddenly, the screaming wind diminished to a light breeze and the road ahead seemed downhill.  Bronze blew a vast plume of flame into the air and shifted into high gear.

I’ve said it before and will say it again.  I need a speedometer.  I’ll settle for a stopwatch and mile markers.  The force of air against our shield taxed it severely; I pumped more power into it.  All I could think at that moment, though, was maybe she really could hold her own against a police car.  Even if it did manage to catch her, it would deeply—although briefly—regret doing so.

Behind me, all I heard was a sustained “Wheee!” sound.  A whipping, flickering light came from behind me, too, as though a flag of divine fire flew behind us.  I was afraid to look back; I might turn into a pillar of salt.  Instead, I concentrated on shoring up our air shell.

The road bore straight to the mountains before it started to snake around on the slopes.  It clung to the mountains, curving gently and then leaping across gaps in arched bridges.  It was never quite a tunnel, but was usually recessed heavily into the mountainside.  There were also large side-sections, pull-offs from the main thoroughfare, easily long and wide enough for a whole caravan of wagons.  Some of them were even occupied by travelers encamped for the night.  I can’t even imagine what they made of us as we passed by.  We were a vibration in the ground and a fiery whoosh and a lingering trail of smoke.  And a scream of glee, of course.

I still don’t know how she can sustain such a sound.  It’s obviously not only a little-girl thing.  Circular breathing?  Training as a singer?  A miracle?

About halfway through the mountain range, we encountered a gate.  Someone built a small castle on the side of a mountain and fortified a chunk of road.  Beyond the gate was a short tunnel, then another gate leading to the rest of the road.  Judging by the smell—ultra-keen nose, you know—it was manned by
galgar
.

Bronze wanted to just go through it.  It wasn’t capable of stopping her.  I nixed the idea; Tianna might get caught by twisted bits of metal as we broke through.  Bronze agreed and slowed in good time.

“Hello the gate!” I shouted.  A head popped up over the wall.  Big nose, greasy hair,
galgar
.

“A copper for you and a copper for the horse.”

I drew Firebrand and held it up.  It burst into flame.  Bronze reared and blew a plume of fire to go with it.  Tianna wrapped her arms around my chest and held on.

“
Open the gate
!
” I bellowed.  A few loose stones rattled down the mountainside.  The sentry clapped hands over his ears and squeaked in terror.  Undead lungs, undead vocal cords.  When I’m loud, I’m inhumanly loud.

Besides, I don’t much care for
galgar
,
orku
, trolls, ogres, or elves.  I think they were lucky I didn’t jump to the battlement, kill everything in reach, and open the gate myself.  I might have, if I didn’t have Tianna to think about.

Sadly, they decided to open the gates and let us through.

We raced onward.  Not long after, we cleared the mountains and followed the bypass road to go around Baret.  I suppose we could have gone through the city, but doing so always involves explaining who you are and why you’re traveling at night.  Fortunately, there’s a bridge north of Baret crossing the Caladar.  It has a gate, but the guards are only there to collect the toll.  Bronze slowed to a fire-breathing halt, pawing impatiently at the ground, and the gate-guards let us through.

Weird.  They didn’t ask who we were.  They didn’t even ask for money.  They opened the gate, stood aside, and saluted as we thundered over.  I can only conclude human gate-guards are smarter than
galgar
.  To be fair, the humans were also standing much closer.  They had a much better look at us.

Then it was on to the Quaen river, across the bridge to the north of Formia, and a long, unbroken run to Carrillon.  Five hundred miles, maybe?  I don’t have an odometer, either.  And the night wasn’t even half done.

Bronze slowed as we approached Carrillon, shifting from a blowtorch gallop to a more sedate running walk.  She continued to blast fire from mouth and nose while cooling down.  I let the mistreated air shield fail and took down our gravity-shifter.

“Grandpa?”

“Yes, Tianna?”

“Thank you for sitting in front.”

“No problem,” I chuckled.  “Are you okay?”

“Yes, but I’ve never been on horseback this long before.  When can I get down?”

“We’re almost to the city.  Would you like to walk for a bit?”

“Please.”

We dismounted and Tianna ran one hand over Bronze’s nose, ignoring the—to her—harmless flames.

“I am so very sorry I doubted you.”

Bronze snorted a plume of fire in Tianna’s hand.  It was completely understandable and Bronze forgave her.

We walked.  Tianna worked the stiffness out of her legs and Bronze cooled more quickly.  Ahead, I saw the eastern gate of Carrillon.  The Oisen River branched at Riverpool and sent the Dormer River south.  It ran along the eastern side of the city, much like the canals on the eastern side of Mochara.

Carrillon continued to grow since the last time I saw it.  A spread of buildings—a suburb, if you will—mottled the eastern side of the river.  The city would doubtless need a new outer wall, someday; that seemed to be the growth cycle.  Build a town, put a wall around it, build more town outside the wall, put up a wall around that… like growth rings in a tree, in a way.

People eyeballed us from their homes or stood aside to let us pass.  We didn’t attract as much attention as I feared, possibly because Bronze didn’t announce her coming with bells and metallic gleams.  We were another pair of people with a big, dark horse.

Some of the outside-the-walls neighborhoods along the main road were a bit rough.  No one bothered us, though.

The river could almost be crossed via any of a half-dozen partial bridges.  The dead-end portions, out in the river itself, could each be completed by lowering its drawbridge from the city wall.  Naturally, the drawbridges were up for the night.  That struck me as odd.  Cities this big, with this much traffic, don’t lock up for the night.  Small towns, yes.  Small cities with a bandit problem, yes.  Large cities don’t close unless they are actively under siege.  Was it the eastern suburb?  Was it more of a ghetto than a suburb?  Or was there a reason I didn’t know about?