Space Assassins: The Complete Series 1-5, page 25
It was the lights that gave him the clue he needed. Most would have begun undoing the wards one by one as they went, clearing the way to the door at the far end of the hallway. And most would have perished.
It was quite clever, and he certainly gave whoever devised this little trap full kudos for their ingenious design. This was a functional entrance to an important facility, and whoever came through the outer door would be on their way to whatever task they were engaged in. Likely something that would simply not do with lengthy delays.
This hallway was one giant delay. Even with the correct counter-spells, it would take time to deactivate and reset them as you went. Each light above was keyed in to a series of spells, and their visual shifts would act as a confirmation of progress, leading the intruder farther down the hall, closer to their goal.
But the doorway at the far end was a trap in and of itself.
“Oh, you are a clever one,” Hozark said with a low chuckle.
Logic dictated that workers would need to be efficient. Speedy, even. This entry was by no means fast.
Hozark closed his eyes and shut down his senses once more, focusing on ignoring the tangle of magic laid out in front of him. Slowly, it all faded until it was just him standing within the entryway and nothing else.
He then let his power trickle out to either side, gently feeling for a tug on his magic.
“Yes, there you are,” he said, slowly opening his eyes as he reeled in that thread of connection.
It was almost invisible to the naked eye. A tiny discoloration on the wall to his left. And within that mark was a very subtle magical ward. A lock. He grinned.
Locks were meant to be picked.
In just a few seconds he had disabled the warding spell and released the hidden doorway, the section of wall silently and effortlessly swinging open on a magically linked cushion of power.
Hozark stepped inside, the door sealing behind him as he did. This was the true interior of the facility, and it was far different than what any would have guessed from seeing the rest of the structure.
It was dark, for one. Not pitch-black, but merely measured in the use of power to illuminate the space. No additional magic was floating through this area, and when the sharp, acrid smell of hot metal and the clanging of enchanted tools reached his ears, Hozark suddenly had a very good idea why.
This was a weapons factory. And the forming and powering of konuses and slaaps had to be done in a very particular manner. Once they were completed units, they would be robustly safeguarded against all sorts of mishaps. But in the creating process, too much ambient magic could make the initial charge misfire, and that could be catastrophic.
It was for that reason that most konuses and slaaps were only minimally imbued with magical potential at first, then shipped for proper powering up afterward. It greatly reduced the likelihood of mishaps that way.
These, however, were being fully charged on creation. And while they were stable once that task was completed, each unit still in production could prove deadly if the wrong magic mingled with its new charge.
Hozark stealthily moved through the shadows to get a better view, utilizing the side effect of the reduced magic to his benefit. The creatures forging the devices were a deep green with blotches of black smattered across their skin.
He had come across their kind before, and always in the employ of nefarious types. Weapons makers of some talent, but with such a malevolent nature that only the most powerful, or the most twisted, would employ their skills. And it seemed that this lot was making some very powerful weapons.
A few small crates lay open, exposing their contents. Konuses, in one crate. Slaaps in another, the more powerful weaponized version of a konus being of particular use in purely martial endeavors. Yes, this confirmed it. Someone was gearing up for a conflict, though most of the devices did not appear to be charged yet.
A flash of golden light caught his eye. There, in the dark, a pale-yellow-skinned woman sat chained to a heavy ring in the floor. No control collar for her. Not in this place where magic had to be carefully contained. But she was an Ootaki, and she possessed a vast quantity of magic of her own. Magic that she herself could not access.
So, that’s how they’re doing it, Hozark mused.
Without a visla or other high-level power user to actively feed magic into the new devices, they would be no more than inert pieces of metal. And it was clear that whoever their master was, he or she was nowhere near. Had they been, they would not have needed the Ootaki, though a visla conserving their own power would often use the stored magic in Ootaki hair to preserve and enhance their own.
Looking closer, he could see she had already had a large chunk of her long hair crudely chopped off, undoubtedly used to power some of the devices. Movement in the shadows caught Hozark’s attention, and even in the dim light, he could make out the shapes of several other Ootaki, all huddled together, bound by non-magical restraints.
They were being treated like refuse, not the valuable tools their kind were seen as. But one look at their heads revealed why. Shorn, the lot of them, robbed of their magical hair, undoubtedly by the creatures currently enslaving them.
Yes, their hair would grow back, and it seemed as if several were of the age where they’d likely had their locks harvested more than once. But that would take years, and until any sizable amount had grown back, they were just more mouths to feed and look after, their value diminished with their loss of hair.
Hozark watched in silence as another swath of hair was unceremoniously cut from the woman’s head. It seemed to be her first growth. The most powerful. But she was not freely giving it. Not in these circumstances. And as a result, much of the power faded as soon as the hair had parted from her head.
But the weaponsmiths didn’t seem to care. The apparent leader took the hair and held it over a newly forged konus, then uttered a series of arcane spells. The very particular magic that would grant the device the ability to hold and disperse power as its wearer desired.
It was a difficult task, and one that most lacked weapons-grade proficiency at. But this man seemed to know his way around the tricky magic, and moments later, the golden hair faded to white as its power drained into the metal band. He held still a long moment until the konus ceased glowing. Then, when it was safe to pick up, he transferred it to the nearest crate to join the other completed konuses.
A trace of something made the assassin spin, his senses sharp and hands ready for combat. But no one was there. Still, there had been something. A sense of a familiar magic.
Horvath, he realized, identifying the subtle hint of magic from the visla he and Demelza had been contracted to kill. But there was more. Emmik Rostall, as well, he noted, feeling the residue of the dead man’s power reach out to the same power still residing within him from the assassination. The magic seemed to be mixed together, and it was coming from some of the other crates. Crates containing finished weapons.
The two men had been here. Here, of all places. And they were apparently more than just in cahoots to wrest power from the Council of Twenty in a few systems. No, this seemed to be far more than that. They were involved in a plot much more dangerous.
And there was more.
Another magic was present. Far, far stronger than the others. Hozark had simply failed to notice it at first as his senses were so flooded with the fresh Ootaki magic being harvested in front of his eyes. But this other trace? It was incredibly strong, yet also disguised. Expertly hidden. Just a scent of it was present, and not enough to identify. But it was strong, whomever it belonged to.
Someone was preparing for action, and it seemed many of his recent encounters were tied into it somehow. Hozark simply didn’t know why.
Chapter Thirty
The acoustics of the smelting facility were not the best. Sound had a funny way of bouncing and echoing off of the hard surfaces and angles, making it incredibly difficult for even one as skilled as Hozark to listen in.
If he’d had his shimmer cloak, that would have been easily remedied, at least normally. But here, with this volatile mix of magic in the making, even if he hadn’t left it aboard his ship, using the magical cloak could very well set off a chain reaction.
So, strained ears it would be. Fortunately, the smelting had ceased, at least for the time being, and the green and black men’s voices carried with a degree of clarity for the moment. And the subject matter of their discussion was of great interest to the lurking Wampeh.
The men closest to the forge were talking over details of their magical resources as they loaded the last konus into a full crate and sealed it tight, stacking it atop another identical crate nearby. There were not terribly many of them––certainly not enough for a proper military action––but more than enough to cause all manner of mischief in the right, or wrong, hands.
“We need to speed the process. Are there any more Ootaki inbound?” the stockiest of the group asked. “This is our last one.”
“Dunno,” the apparent leader of the workers said, pulling on the poor slave woman’s golden hair. What was left of it, anyway. “There were supposed to be more coming, but then that idiot Horvath went and got himself killed, and that screwed up the whole thing.”
“Too bad about that. I liked him. He brought us drinks when he came to power those konuses,” another said.
“Idiot, that was just to keep everyone happy and working harder. And apparently it worked. I swear, you’re so gullible.”
“Call it what you like, I still thought it was a nice gesture.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter now anyway. Whatever is completed is set to be shipped out soon. Visla––”
A terrible clanging rang out as a red-hot crucible was pulled free and tipped, the molten metal inside merrily pouring into the konus mold.
What did he say? Hozark wondered, more than a little frustrated at their horrible timing. It sounded like Visla Akta. Is that right? I’ve never heard of such a man. Or woman.
Whatever had been said, the moment was now lost as the workers settled back into their routine.
“...picked up at the depot,” he heard one man say.
“The Fakarian will handle the delivery,” another said.
Hozark was surprised to hear that tidbit. But he had heard correctly. A Fakarian was involved. Normally you didn’t see members of that amphibian race on bone-dry worlds. It wasn’t that they couldn’t go there, it was just they preferred not to.
For one, their skin was sensitive to drying out in dryer climes. For another, they simply felt more secure with water at their backs to provide an easy escape should it be needed.
More clanging rang out, and the next bit was simply too garbled to understand, but Hozark was able to pick out a few key words. It seemed the Fakarian was going to carry the cargo and then await distribution orders.
Wherever the visla wanted them to go, he would handle the delivery. As for the metalsmiths, all they had to do was wait for more power-holding bodies to arrive for them to drain to charge the weapons.
A whiff of a very familiar smell suddenly cut through the sharp tang of the molten metal. It was a smell Hozark knew as intimately as any lover. It was the smell of death. Somewhere nearby, corpses lay.
Carefully, the assassin moved around the periphery of the room, following his nose until he discovered the smell’s source.
A dozen bodies lay piled against the far wall. Most bore the markings of magical draining, and others still had signs of torture. Whatever they’d done here, it had been an attempt to utilize power wielders other than Ootaki. Even a Pair of Drooks lay in the heap, and to sacrifice users of that value, whoever was in charge must have really wanted to complete these weapons in a hurry.
Something caught Hozark’s eye among the dead. A sight that chilled even him. He moved closer for a better look, a look that confirmed his suspicion. It was a dead Wampeh, his pale body tossed aside. Tortured by the look of it. Experimented on. But why? Wampeh weren’t a magical race.
Whatever the reason, Hozark had seen enough. This warranted breaking cover and returning to the other members of the Five to relay what he had learned. What manner of nefarious plotting was afoot. It looked like an attack was imminent, and given what he’d seen so far, it could upend some systems and lead to all-out war in others.
With a stealth that came as naturally as breathing, he slowly melted farther into the shadows in the dim chamber, moving farther from the workers and closer to the exit.
From where he was standing, it seemed the adjacent storage room would provide him not only cover from being seen by the workers, but also a more direct route back to the hidden door he had arrived by. It was a fortuitous bit of luck, and one he would gladly accept.
Hozark stuck to the walls, lurking in the shadows as the Wampeh Ghalian were wont to do, until he finally reached the doorway to the room. Peeking his head inside, he saw his hunch confirmed. There was a door at the other end of the room that appeared to empty out into the far end of the larger chamber, right by the secret entry.
Double checking that no one was looking his way, Hozark reached out and felt for wards or snares on the doorframe. None were to be found. It was just a doorway. Satisfied that for once things were going easier than expected, he stepped through the doorway and found himself abruptly falling straight down, tumbling to what might very well be his end.
Chapter Thirty-One
It was only pure instinct that saved Hozark’s life, the blocking spells he cast as he fell drawing deep from the internal magic he carried, forming a protective bubble around him. The act was not something that could really be taught, it was more of a visceral reaction, and one that he had done without even thinking about it.
A good thing, too, for when he impacted the bottom of the deep pit into which he’d fallen, a sharp cracking sound heralded his abrupt arrival.
Ahh, spikes, he quietly noted. Even having fallen into a deadly trap, his calm remained, as did his attention to maintaining silence.
Given the depth of the pit, however, he was relatively certain any sound, such as that of the cracking spikes, would have been directed straight upward. And as the room containing the trap was set away from the main labor area on the smelting floor, odds were none would have heard a thing.
Hozark loosened his grip on the magic cushioning him and settled down onto the dirt.
“Illumino azminus,” he quietly said, casting the faintest of illumination spells. One that would be utterly unnoticed by any above unless they gazed directly upon it.
The dim light revealed what he had deduced from his abrupt landing. The floor of the pitfall was indeed covered in sharp spikes pointing upward to welcome whatever surprise visitors might make an appearance. Any lesser man would have found himself dead, and in a most unpleasant way.
He examined the ends of the broken spikes, careful not to touch the points or any part near them. A habit drilled into him since his earliest days, but one that proved unwarranted in this particular instance. No poison had been applied to the wood, as was common in this type of trap.
But given the secrecy of this particular section of the facility, it seemed unlikely the Tslavar mercenaries with experience in that arena of combat would be allowed into this obviously secret and sensitive area. Whoever had set the trap knew the basics––and had done an admirable job of it––but was ignorant of the finer nuances of pitfalls.
Hozark looked up at the smooth walls. They were cut from the soil beneath the building, not bedrock. That was an interesting wrinkle to things. Apparently, the security of the hillside shielding the entrance was worth the slight lack of stability from building atop soil, not rock.
But the dirt had been altered. Hardened. Made into a smooth surface as if it was rock. Hozark had no choice but to admire the craftsmanship. Far superior to anything a mercenary could have achieved with his konus.
This was the work of a powerful caster. And given the location and nature of the masterfully laid trap, it was one who knew a thing or two about Ghalian ways, it seemed.
He chided himself for only a moment as he replayed the incident that had led to his current predicament. All of the usual precautions were taken, and there had been no traps or wards placed on the door, nor directly inside the threshold.
However, the piece of stone lying on the ground keyed him in to the novel trigger mechanism. Whoever it was who had caught him in their snare had been clever. Exceptionally clever.
They had placed a perfectly normal, solid, real piece of stone where one would tread upon entering the room. But it was suspended in place by a magic cushion. Only when a person’s other foot had left the ground to take their next step would the connection to solid ground be broken and the spell released.
The resulting tumble would have caught those with even the quickest of reflexes.
Hozark had been holding his power at the ready for a few minutes as he waited for the mind behind this endeavor to make an appearance, but none appeared at the lip of the pit to gloat at his folly.
They are not present, he realized. If they were, they would undoubtedly have sensed their trap having been sprung. Interesting.
Hozark slowly released his grip on the spells he had ready on his lips. The deadliest of arcane Ghalian magic. Killing spells known to but a handful, and even then, rarely used due to the power they required.
But whoever had placed this trap was a powerful caster, and in his precarious position, he would have only one shot at them. If he missed, all would be lost. But they never came. Only workers and lackeys were present, and unattuned to magic as they were, and with any ambient spells that might have notified them deactivated due to the risk of magical reaction with the fabrication, Hozark found himself in an unusual position.
He was trapped, but no one knew. Not yet. He was left alone for the time being. And that meant he could be down there a while. He glanced around for a better look and noticed the white of bones littering the pit floor. Rather than feel any fear, he almost laughed.
