Chapter 8
Zanther, Novanostrum, and Varello walk across the endless moonlit plains. They make their way across the grassy plane with only the moons and stars to serve as directional references.
Novanostrum inhales a lungful of smoke from his pipe and exhales thoughtfully. Zanther halfheartedly swings his wooden longknife at imaginary foes. Varello takes the occasional hit from a small flask concealed in a pocket.
“Hey Varello,” Zanther asks, “how can Risma be a real goddess? I mean, I know about the Two True Gods and all that, but it’s just a story.”
Varello clears his throat. “The two true gods, Life and Death, also known as Vitala and Thanos were but two of an entire race of higher beings. While it’s true that they tend not to interact with the humanfolk, it happens occasionally.”
Zanther makes a face. “But I mean, she’s basically just a really powerful sorceress, right?”
“Not quite,” Novanostrum interjects, “comparing a sorceress to a goddess is like comparing a salamander to a dragon. For wizards and witches, magick is a skill, an ability that must be learned and practiced and focused. For gods and goddesses, it’s automatic, like breathing. While their power is not without limits, the limits of their power are beyond our comprehension.”
“Well, that’s a shame,” Zanther says, “it’s going to be a real pain to kill her, then.”
“Kill her?” Novanostrum says.
“Well, you read the prophecy, we can’t let her have her baby and destroy the world. Unless you know some way to cause a divine abortion and render her powerless, I’m pretty sure we’re going to have to kill her.”
Varello raises his eyebrows.
“Now wait just a tick, Zanther,” Novanostrum says, “I, for one, do not intend to kill Risma or any potential child she may or may not be bearing. After all, I would be the father.”
“I hate to say this, Master Singularis, but I fear Zanther may have a point,” Varello says.
Novanostrum stops walking.
“This is crazy! You’re both bonking crazy!” Novanostrum points at Varello, “You find some words carved on a tablet in the ocean and now you just expect me to--on blind faith no less--accept that the woman I love is not only a goddess, but could also be carrying my apocalyptic offspring, and you,” he points to Zanther, “want to kill them both because of some unarticulated threat.”
Zanther frowns. “You don’t have to take it so personally.”
Novanostrum folds his arms and trots away from them, making it only a few manlengths before he disappears with a shriek.
“Well, that was odd,” Varello says.
Madra stomps along the dank stone corridor, and a guard leads her through a sturdy wooden door into the large dungeon. On the other side of iron bars are about twenty men bearing untended wounds, no doubt acquired as they were ushered to the castle gaol. She scans the crowd before seeing the one she wants.
“That one,” she says, pointing at Leo.
Two guards enter the cell and drag him out, each holding an arm. They stand him in front of the queen without relaxing their grip.
“Leo, I wanted to thank you for your compassion earlier. Had you tried to force me to stay, I would have had to do so in order to avoid their suspicion,” she says as she gestures toward the others.
“So you’re going to let me go?” he says, hopefully.
“Well, not quite,” Madra says, “though I will spare you from watching all your friends die, one by one.”
“Ah, so you’re saying you won’t kill me?”
“Oh, don’t be silly, I’m allowing you to die first,” she says, pointing at the door. She follows as the soldiers drag him through.
“My life was a small price to pay for a date with the Queen. I shall die happy.”
Once in the hallway, she nods and the soldiers let Leo go. He looks around, confused. Madra laughs.
“Oh, relax, Leo,” she says, “I was just having a little fun. I do intend to let you go. However, I have an offer for you: how would you like to serve me as a member of the Stoneguard?”
“I...I would be honored, your majesty,” he says, falling to one knee, “but why would you trust me after what I was planning to do to you?”
Her face turns serious, “Because you now owe me your life, and if you do anything to betray my trust I shall have it.”
Zanther and Varello stand at the edge of the hole, peering down into the darkness. Zanther picks up some straw and grass clippings strewn about the edge of the pit.
“Looks like the top of the pit was covered with a thin weave of grass and straw.”
“You think?!” Novanostrum shouts up from the bottom of the hole.
“Are you all right down there?” Varello shouts.
“I think so,” Novanostrum replies, “I landed in a pile of grass.”
“How are we going to get him out?” Varello asks Zanther.
A bundle flies out of the pit and hits Zanther in the chest; a scarf. A very, very long scarf. Varello gives him a quizzical look.
“It’s a wizard’s scarf,” Zanther explains, “very sturdy, and very warm. It should work as a rope.”
Inside the pit, Novanostrum uses his flintrocks to ignite a small pile of the dry grass in order to create some light.
“Hey!” Novanostrum shouts, “There’s a tunnel down here!”
Madra peruses the rows of shelves, her eyes darting from item to item. She lifts a jar of this, looks behind a flask of that, but does not find what she is searching for. A rotund man wearing a white apron stands at a respectful distance.
“Your majesty, if you would but tell me what you would like I will cook it for you immediately.”
She turns to face her head cook. “I thought we had some yafbeest jerky. I suddenly find myself in the mood for something salty...and tough.”
He nods. “I can plate it for you and bring it to the dining room shortly,” he says, locating the jar containing the jagged strips of meat.
“I can’t wait that loooong,” she replies, snatching the jar out of his hand, “gimme, gimme, gimme.”
At this moment, Marchand storms into the room. “Queen Madra! I’ve been searching for you. There is news.”
“Well,” she says in between meaty chews, “what is it?”
“Duke Kaverle gave us some...interesting information. Before he took a little roll into the ravine, that is. We barely had the clippers around the tip of his pinky before he started singing like a pocketweet. He started crying, and--”
“Yes, great, what did he say?” she says, swallowing.
“He said this man in a black robe approached him and told him to arrange this plot against you.”
“His name?”
“He said the man never told him his name, just told him he was a member of the Black Robes and said that he wanted to put the Duke in your throne.”
Madra frowns, a piece of jerky dangling from her mouth. “I thought the Black Robes were just a legend.”
“And that’s not all,” Marchand says, “Kaverle said that wizard had a girl with him, and the wizard called her Risma. That name mean anything to you?”
“And I thought she was my friend.”
General Reichsteadtler stands on the deck of the Hardfist, the flagship of the Darrinian skyfleet. The skyline of Arcania stands profiled against the horizon in the light of the rising sun. Flying in formation behind the Hardfist are thirty other skyships, all of them bearing bombs, cannons, and parashooters armed with powderblasts.
Standing to the general’s left is a young woman in robes, his advisor.
“General, we’re wasting time,” she says, pointing to the mass of soldiers, looking like a black mass of ants at this distance, bearing down upon Arcania, “by the time we get there, there won’t be anything left to destroy.”
“Let those fools from Labrinthe get in our way. We’ll crush them, too.”
“It?
??s not just the Labrinthians,” she says, pointing now at the sea, “San-torus has sent a fleet of ships as well.”
“Like I said, I’m not worried about collateral damage.”
“I’m not worried about their might,” she says, “I’m worried that there won’t be anything of value left once we get there.” As she says this she traces a sandglass figure with her pointer fingers.
He nods at the wisdom of her observation and summons his engineer. “Get word to the others, increase speed to full power. We’re in a race here, and there won’t be any tits left for second place.”
The three of them walk silently down the tunnel. The walls are a cold, blue brick and there are rails running along the floor.
“Underground tunnels,” Varello says, “Amazing. It was said that the ancient city of Rheme had tunnels like these, but I’ve always thought it was a just a legend.”
“Rheme was said to be destroyed over six hundred sunspins ago,” Novanostrum replies.
“I don’t like it,” Zanther says, “reminds me too much of the last time we were all in a tunnel. And you,” he points at Varello, “don’t even think of singing up an army of lizard bastards.”
“It’s a moot point,” Varello replies, “like Novanostrum, my magick seems to have left me.”
The three of them cease their conversation, finding themselves speechless upon stumbling into a huge room with five other tunnels leading into it. The ceiling is domed, the walls formed of intricate masonry. Stone reliefs of beasts, gods, and regal-looking figures are outlined by rows of close-laid bricks. Four thick columns hold up the ceiling, and in the center of the room is a pedestal.
“There it is!” Novanostrum says, pointing at the gleaming silver object on the stone pedestal.
“Always a valid statement,” Zanther says, “care to be more specific?”
Novanostrum produces a golden orb from his sleeve. “This is the Globotransmitrix. It was crafted by wizards to allow instant travel to any point in the world.”
Zanther takes it from Novanostrum’s outstretched hand and looks it over. “So why have we been bumbling around in this cursed place instead of just magicking ourselves back to Claustria?”
“Because the Globotransmitrix is useless on its own. It requires the Compassitor to function. It resembles a silver compass. You merely touch the point to the area on the globe to which you wish to travel, and you are immediately whisked there.”
“Great, go grab that thing and let’s go.”
Varello clears his throat, and the other two look at him.
“Things are rarely that simple. Do you care to explain, Master Singularis?”
“I doubt we’re the only people to make our way down here in the centuries since this artifact was placed here. Yet there it is. Something is protecting it from simply being snatched up.”
“You’re right,” Zanther says, “something is. It’s that bonking desert of deathgrass above our heads. Yet it didn’t kill us to be there, so it’s logical to assume that whatever is protecting this trinket won’t kill us either.”
Varello gives his head a quizzical tilt, “That’s not really how logic works, I mean, you could argue that--”
Zanther dismisses Varello with a wave of his hand. “You two can stand here and philosofiddle all you want, I’m just gonna go grab this thing so we can get out of here.”
He walks toward the square platform bearing the pedestal, managing to make it almost three man-lengths away from the compass before being knocked backward with an incredible burst of energy. He is flung back to Varello and Novanostrum, sliding most of the way on his back, with the noise of his effort sending a shockwave through the room which looses a small rain of pebbles.
“An anti-magickal field,” Varello observes.
Novanostrum nods. “Any person or thing with any kind of magick is violently repelled. All people possess at least some magick, so nobody can pass through. Tricky.”
“Correction,” Zanther says, brushing the dust off his white robes, “you two no longer have any magick. So you should be able to walk right through, Varello.”
Novanostrum narrows his eyes at Zanther.
“Sorry, Nove, we don’t have time to wait here all day for you to take all the magickal toys out of your sleeves and pockets.”
Varello takes a breath and cracks his knuckles as he prepares to approach the platform.