Secrets of Arkana Fortress (10 page)

              ‘I believe that you, Mr Valdera, are a fine negotiator and trader.’ Orellok stretched his arm out with his hand wide open waiting for Mikos to reciprocate. ‘But is that all you’re after? A simple contract?’

              Mikos chuckled softly. ‘Maybe a trading pass so I don’t have to pay the stupid price they charge me to sell my wares?’

              ‘Agreed.’ The captain did not hesitate.

              That seemed too easy.

A sharp and urgent knock at the door violated the ambience like a knife piercing soft flesh. A plain clothed servant popped his head around the door, a look of distress on his face. ‘I am terribly sorry for the interruption, sir, but can you come to the front gates? There’s a group of Psyloss victims causing chaos.’

              Captain Orellok raised an eyebrow. ‘Causing chaos? What the hell? They don’t do things like that without being roused purposefully. Let the guards deal with it.’

              The weedy little man now stood in the room fully, a meek expression on his pallid face. ‘The guard commander is in a bind, sir. He… he doesn’t know what to do.’

              The captain sighed heavily and grumbled. ‘Fine I will go have a word with him.’ He looked over at Mikos apologetically. ‘Our business will have to wait for five minutes or so, Mr Valdera. This won’t take long.’

              Before he could reply, the captain and his servant were gone, leaving behind an unnerving echo in the room like that of a mausoleum.

              Now was his one and only chance to raid the place.

              He opened a few drawers, rifled through, and closed them. Nothing in there. He went to the shelves and sifted through the papers and files with his slender fingers. Where the hell was he going to find this set of plans? Think.

              He came across some letters; nothing important that he could see. More letters, some manifests, intercepted mail. Hold on… intercepted mail? What was so important that the captain had kept hold of it? Stuff like that would surely go to a higher authority? Mikos opened one of the already unsealed envelopes and skim read it.

What was this? Why would the Donnol government be sending exploration forces there?

His eager hands opened a second letter, this time the content being of much more interest. War against an extinct clan from the east? The missive had come from an unknown sender south east of Donnol.

What the hell was this? What had gotten into the minds of these people?

A rattle at the door startled Mikos from his frantic thoughts. He kneeled down as he pocketed the two letters into his thin jacket and started to examine the shelves.

‘What are you doing?’ Orellok’s irate voice sounded from behind.

Mikos eased himself up and faced the captain with an awkward smile on his lips. ‘I… was just looking at this set of shelves; a gorgeous piece from Yingtzo isn’t it?’ He moved back to his chair.

The captain eyed him as he went over to his desk. ‘Well, yes it is, but I would rather you not do anything that without me in the room – security, you understand.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ he replied with a defeated bow. ‘I was just rather taken with delight at seeing such a rare piece.’

Orellok’s hand arced in front of him. ‘Just don’t do that again; remember that for our next business meeting.’ He smiled broadly and re-offered his hand.

Mikos shook it firmly. ‘I am overjoyed to hear this, captain. I will send you an inventory list next week if that’s OK?’

Orellok nodded.

Mikos exited the room and made his way down to the exit. He had failed to find any blueprints or floor plans of the jail complex.

Shit.

Dedrick wasn’t going to be a happy man.

Chapter 8

As she looked out over the ancient ruins that reflected in the strained sunlight, Vicana Slorin felt a wave of self-satisfaction ebb over her lithe body. She flexed her long fingers and picked up a small book, opening it at where she had marked the page. She was enthralled by this piece of work by a southern scholar and philosopher about the roots of ancient and forgotten magic. How wrong he had been when he wrote this.

              She clicked her fingers, and a nearby candle breathed into life, the light emanating from the miniscule flame as strong as an inferno. That was much better – she could see the words more clearly. Her mulberry eyes darted from side to side as she read the text at a quickened pace. Every minute that passed got her two pages closer to the end of another book – she really had a bad habit of doing this.

              A loud carillon of 12 bells rang simultaneously from the empty air, filling it with a shrill reminder of the turbulence everything was being plunged into. Vicana breathed out softly and marked her page again. At least this book was taking her longer than four or five hours this time around. She swept her cloak around her feet and turned to see a dozen of her mages filing their way down the stairs to the underground rooms.

              ‘Shift change,’ she announced with a drab tone. How much longer was this to go on? She had always wondered. While watching the blank-faced mages she thanked the gods that she had been allowed to keep her individuality – their life was no life at all. At least they were of use though.

              Each of them had shaven heads and were kitted out in orange-gold monk’s habits with a piece of thickened brown rope tied around the waist. Their faces were pale and emotionless – Vicana could clearly see the essence of magical suppression each one of them was constantly subjected to; they may as well be dead. They were in her charge and did her bidding as she saw fit.

              Her unnatural, ghost-like gait was seemingly effortless as she followed the troop of enchanters across the musty room and down the spiralling stone staircase where they were to go about their day in, day out chore in the lower reaches of Arkana Fortress.

***

Her hands waved incessantly, her eyes glimmered with raw magic, her chest tingled; this was an all too familiar feeling. As she hovered a few feet above the zombie-like men, she suddenly felt the sharp surge of immense power hit her like a wall of steel and stone.

              ‘Change,’ she uttered with strain dominating her grated voice. The mages moved in with their arms in front of them, palms facing a giant spire of precious stone that jutted up from the slate foundations and came to a point just below the ceiling.

              Vicana fell back to the ground with a jolting thump. She received no sympathy. Why would she? These guys were about as useful as rotten cabbages outside of their magical duties; they were mere pawns in the grand scheme of things anyway.

              It was then that another set of a dozen mages materialised from the air, each one of them standing in the same position that the other mages had just taken up. These other bald men wore a dark green set of habits instead. They took up a single file line as Vicana pushed herself up from the damp floor. A click of the fingers and they ascended towards the surface to meditate until they were needed again in another twelve hours.

              A great deal of power was required to sustain the spire and its powers. The power of a single mage was not enough to keep the flow going for very long, but 12 of them was enough for half a day or so. In between the two shifts, however, Vicana herself took up the strain of maintaining the stream of this raw, mythical might. She was obviously more powerful than these peons, but even she could not hold up the magic for longer than a few minutes at a time. Her role was to grapple with the spire while the next shift got into place – it always took its toll on her.

              The beating of her quivering heart was all that could be heard against the ethereal silence that shrouded the underground room. Residual surges and pulsating shocks crowded her blood making her feel as if it was boiling inside her. She gritted her teeth and balled her hands up. It was normal for her to faint after being subjected to such a cascade of power, however this time her body held firm. Maybe she was finally getting used to these experiences?

              She escaped back to her personal quarters that lay in another section of the subterranean level. It was a wide, well-lit room that had been magically carved out of the stone and furnished with simple wooden chairs and a table. A giant bed with an antique staff propped up against it was slotted into the far corner. It was harder than it looked – there were many nights that Vicana woke up in agony because of the solidity of the mattress. In the opposite corner was a set of alchemic utilities that were laid out on an oversized table in militarised order; bottles bubbled, test tubes rattled, liquids of rainbow colours seethed and churned around, propelled by an unseen set of forces.

Regardless of her unmatched magic abilities, she pursued her interests in the long abandoned practice of producing magic from substance rather than mind and body – she found that some things she concocted were unattainable by powers that any one person could possess. Apart from a small ottoman that housed her clothes, there was nothing else that she owned – her requirements were simple yet satisfying.

Her footsteps softly vibrated in the air as she moved towards her bed, her fingers twiddling with each other in front of her waist. An onset of nerves always kicked in after holding the spire’s strength – her body just couldn’t seem to get used to the shock that it sent through her, maybe because of its magical properties. She could hear her back creak as she eased herself down onto the mattress. She groaned.

‘
I hope the powers that be appreciate these efforts
,’ she told herself soothingly. She reached over to her side table and grabbed a small bottle of something that looked like a tonic or tincture of some description. She removed the cork and downed the thickened liquid with grateful yearning. After shaking her head and letting out a sigh of satisfaction she replaced the bottle onto the tabletop.

‘Nothing like a bit of Lupian brandy.’

A knock came at her door. To say that she jumped was an understatement. Since when does someone knock at her door when she was the only non-cabbaged person in the place? She could feel her body becoming as stiff as a metal pole. Who was it? ‘Come… in?’

The oak panelled door swerved open and, with a shudder, Vicana shot up and grabbed the staff by her bed, readying it at one side with her arm. Her shoulders grew broader as she seethed underneath; a short, cloaked mass of dark blue and black shaded cloth floated in with minimal effort.

An abrupt surge of something intangible constrained her mind; her arms weakened along with her legs, and the staff clanged on the floor as it fell with unusual force. Her body vibrated suddenly; she buckled down to her knees.

‘I am a representative of the Providence. They are pleased that you show the proper respect.’
The small hooded presence pulsated and slowly straightened itself like a monument, now standing at well over six feet tall. The hood fell back with the help of a couple of webbed hands.

              Vicana swallowed hard as she saw the featureless, dark red-brown leather skin that looked at her with a pair of slit-eyes. They began to glow an eerie white as she was addressed. She had seen these people once or twice before, and each time she was taken aback by their lack of noses and mouths; instead of which a layer of flexible skin was placed. Whether this was natural or not, she didn’t know.

              ‘I have no choice but to kneel to you and the Providence,’ she said meekly, her voice wavering at the back of her throat.

The representative moved toward her, the air around it chilling with instant momentum. Its cold-blooded hand slipped around her chin and eased her head up, an eerie gaze locking on her own as if they were entangled in a battle of willpower – the representative obviously the victor.
‘Your work is going well, Vicana. The Providence is grateful for what you have been doing to aid them.’

‘It is always a pleasure,’ she said softly.

The figure attempted what she could only assume was a smile, the flexi-skin crinkling and creasing around its jaw line.
‘Nullification of the mages’ minds was a superb suggestion by your good self,’
it said in a raspy, hollow voice.

‘I do my best, my lord. What is the nature of your visit?’ She decided to get straight to the point even though it was a risky move.

The representative peered at her with a deceptive glare before stepping back and raising his hand level with Vicana’s head. She began a crescendo of screams as the feeling of pressure on her mind grew exponentially.

‘Please… I’m sorry,’ she gargled amidst the unimaginable pain of this figure’s grasp.

‘You do not ask the Providence questions with that tone of directness.’
The representative released its invisible grip on her and watched her fall forward gasping for air.

‘I apologise, my lord; I am truly sorry.’ She pushed herself back up onto her knees and looked at the representative’s eyes once more. Any deviation of sight by anyone while addressing a member of the Providence always resulted in death… and not a quick or painless one either.

‘My visit here is of a simple nature – the Providence requires a higher output of power starting in a few days. This means an increase of magic generated by the spire.’