Mystic Pursuit, page 15
The tower dungeons were, suitably, a stark contrast to the abundance of light and life throughout the rest of the Inner Realm. Despite having emerged from sheer nothingness hours prior, the dungeon’s dark, damp path gave the impression of having existed unchanged for millennia.
The walkway continued down a gradual downward slope, seeming to follow the gradual curve of the tower. Jutting out from the walls, a series of crude wooden torches provided just enough illumination to see directly in front, but not enough to move forward quickly with any confidence.
Soon they passed a fork in the path. Then another. Within moments, Lakos could see stone walkways up above him, over to the side, and then down below. It truly was a maze, and despite feeling as though he had merely walked in a fairly straight line since entering the dungeon pathway, he was hopelessly lost.
“I pity the prisoner who attempts escape,” said the old prison guard, breaking the silence. “They are more liable to perish from exhaustion or madness while seeking the exit than they are the blade of a guard’s sword. Masdazii ingenuity, I suppose.” With a slight wheeze, he continued shuffling ahead. “What you see around you is not merely a static maze but a living, ever-changing series of paths and turns. At times, it presents itself as an array of inclines, declines, abrupt turns, and gradual curves. At other times, it appears simply as a straight line, with no options but forward or backward. As is presently the case, the path may also be littered with detours leading to nowhere, and curves that seemingly contradict the very architecture of the tower. All with the aim of subtly inducing disorientation, confusion, and despair. A recipe for suicide if ever there was one. Brilliant. The labors of a twisted mind, perhaps, but brilliant nonetheless,” he commented, shaking his head.
“Tell me, how have you come to gain these insights?” asked Lakos. “The Masdazii are not forthcoming in their ways, and even less so to a human.”
“I have a long and painful history of dealing with these creatures. A history that I will not burden you with, as I know that we all have stories that led us to this point. But I assure you, the methods of the Masdazii, or of any other mystic order, are no mystery to me. Come,” he said, waving Lakos further still into the dizzying network of tunnels.
Lakos found immense comfort in the confidence with which the old guard spoke but was nonetheless unsettled by the thought of venturing through the dimly lit passage alone.
“Are we nearing the cells? We’ve walked an eternity and seen no one,” he said bluntly.
“Yes, my Lord. My apologies—at times my pride at having deciphered the code of the Masdazii prison gets the better of me. The cells are just ahead. The one you seek, the last Lii-jit cell, is past these ones.”
Within several more strides, Lakos had reached the first cell, its residents a sea of forlorn faces glowing in the muted firelight. In keeping with the dungeon’s outwardly traditional appearance, the prison cells were a series of small pens, each locked behind its own set of thick, heavy bars.
“The Masdazii constructed the bars using a mysterious magnetic alloy that I had never encountered before or since. Of course, none of your other men had come across it before, either.” The old guard unsheathed his dagger and clanged it against the bars. “A magnetic compound completely harmless to the soldiers outside the cage, but for anyone inside who tries to sneak in a concealed weapon—a dagger, for instance—” He tossed his dagger into the cell, unlocked the cage’s door, and shuffled inside, shutting the door behind him.
The Lii-jit prisoners merely stood as before, oblivious. All the same, Lakos was appalled.
“Now, my Lord, I’ve been told that you possess the ability to control the minds of these creatures, is that correct?” asked the guard.
“That is correct. Though I’m not certain what the aim of this exercise is, and I don’t care to find out. I demand that you take me to the prisoners of the last Lii-jit vessel,” Lakos reiterated, growing restless.
“In due time, my Lord. In due time. But first, I humbly request you grant this one favor to an old soldier,” said the guard, peering through the bars at Lakos. “Use your powers to relinquish every one of the Lii-jit around me. I want to show you something. If you are not suitably impressed, I will vow to remain behind these bars. Of course, as a human surrounded by a pack of angered life-mystics, I do not imagine I would last long.”
“This is no time for games, guard. This dungeon is a perverse maze. If you perish, I will perish alongside you. Come, I grow tired of this foolishness.”
But the guard persisted. “A great leader must know every stone in his kingdom, every secret that it holds.”
Lakos had heard enough. “You have both defied my direct orders and insulted me. Why do you do this, old soldier? Do you beg for death? If so, then lead me out of this cursed dungeon, and I will gladly oblige.”
“My Lord,” the guard said, still within the cage, “your soldiers, your loyal men and women, will follow you to the next world if that’s what you ask of us. Our belief in you, and in the realization of the prophecy, comes first, before all. My greatest sorrow for any offense I may have caused. But an audience with the great and powerful Lord Lakos is a rare and treasured thing. I must risk my life for what I hope to communicate to you, as my very life depends upon it.”
Lakos nodded without a word, his mind set on placating the senseless guard until he was safely removed from the dungeon, at which point the guard would be swiftly dispatched. Lakos loathed having to take such measures with one of his own, a human who no doubt shared his dream. But all the same, incompetence and dissension had no place in his kingdom.
“I have seen the wizard who travels near you,” the guard said. “He is the fallen Ohlinn, Gris Hallis.”
“I am quite aware of the company I keep. Speak quickly.”
“My Lord, he cannot be trusted. He feigns obedience, but his motives are very much his own. I fear for not only your life, but for the fate of our kind.”
Hearing nothing he did not already know and suspect, Lakos forced a deep sigh. “So, what would you have me do, guard? The ways of a mystic are treacherous. For reasons you would not understand, his life must be spared.”
“There are alternatives to murder, are there not? Look around you. Neither man nor mystic could ever hope to escape from these dark corridors. Within this dungeon, his life can be spared in perpetuity, while his snake’s tongue would forever lack of venom.”
It was a reasonable notion. But things still did not add up. “This dialogue could have occurred from the safety of the path and not through these bars. Why the theatrics?” asked Lakos.
“Because I, too, have a motive very much my own,” replied the guard. “Despite standing before you as no more than an aged and broken-down prison guard, I wish to imprison Gris Hallis, and then I wish to take his place at your side. For my hatred for all mystics burns as bright as it does for you. But it was not always so. My home was far from these lands, a small farming community once filled with all order of beings—both mystic and human, co-existing peacefully and productively. But when the cursed Gray Mystic Noryssin saw fit to reduce Merrin Ells to ruin, all was lost. A great conflict arose in our village, as it did across the known world—a war between humans and mystics. We attempted to banish all mystics from our community, and I, once a simple farmer, led the charge. Of course, not all mystics went peacefully. There was bloodshed and death on all sides. Prisoners were taken, with my family and I among them. For one wretched year, my wife, my two daughters and I lived as captives in a mystic settlement, starved and tortured as they awaited the return of their own kind. When they learned that the humans had killed every last mystic they had captured, the mystics sought to do the same to us. I was the only one to make it back alive, and even then…” He gestured down to the remnant of his severed leg. “From that day forward, I waited patiently for the one spoken of in the prophecy to emerge and reunite the world, this time under human control.”
Lakos was touched. “I appreciate your passion, old soldier. And your goal truly is my own. But these strange theatrics are pointless. You are regrettably in no shape to become second-in-command. Surely you must understand that.”
But the old guard would not be deterred. “I know that I will never again feel the rush of battle on the front lines, offering my life in exchange for honor. But there is strength beyond physical power. And I assure you, my Lord, when your journey is complete and your reign commenced, you will possess more than enough power on your own. But as to where my utility lies, I can impress upon you these three facts. One: That I possess a wealth of knowledge regarding the three mystic orders from the days when we co-existed peacefully, going far beyond simply deciphering the intricacies of a Masdazii dungeon network. During my imprisonment, I studied the mystics—their manner, their customs. Their abilities and weaknesses. I understand their ways as well as any human alive. And, as a great warrior like yourself is surely well aware, one must fully understand the enemy in order to defeat them.
“Two: That despite possessing greater insights into mystic ways and tendencies than any other soldier under your command, my loathing of their blasphemous ways is also without peer. Save, of course, for yourself. And, three: The one who assumes a position by your side should be your most trusted ally, and someone who, in turn, trusts you. I would gladly give my life for you and your cause, whether on a battlefield or here in this cell. I dare say that this is not the case for the one currently lurking in your shadow. A mystic, no less, fighting the human cause? It reeks of deception, from the very one who apprenticed under Noryssin.
“But if you will see my request through and return the prisoners in this cell around me their worldly senses, you will be showing the ultimate trust that what I promised you was true. That I, even with my false leg and slow reflexes, can control every being in this cell. And if I betray that trust and mislead you, then we will both perish in this dungeon. I implore you to obey your intuition. For it is truly the greatest weapon of all. It knows who should be by your side, and who should be in this cell.”
“This is madness,” said Lakos, nonetheless drawn in by the guard’s argument. “You have succeeded in catching my attention, guard.” He took a slow, deep breath. “As I appear to have no alternative, I shall accommodate your request. However, I will not imprison myself within this cursed maze. Should it appear as though the Lii-jit have gotten the best of you, I will once again shroud them in their spell before your life can be taken, and you will promptly escort me back to the courtyard. Where your head shall promptly fall by my hand. Are we agreed?”
“As you wish, my Lord,” said the guard without hesitation.
Growing more expedient in using his newly acquired gifts, Lakos lowered his head slightly and willed the prisoners to awareness.
The group of Lii-jit, numbering at least thirty within the shadows of the cell, began hollering and bounding against the walls of the cage. Noticing the old guard standing inside the door, several of the Lii-jit leapt over to him, and before Lakos could stop them, had him forcefully pinned against the bars.
Realizing what was unfolding, Lakos lowered his head once again.
“No!” shouted the guard. “Give me more time!”
Torn, Lakos lifted his head back up and watched, praying that he would not regret his hesitation.
One of the Lii-jit noticed the glint of the guard’s dagger as it rested on the stony ground. He lunged down to pick it up, but as he did so, the blade soared across the room, tearing his arm from its socket and clanging loudly against the bars. The Lii-jit screamed in agony as those restraining the guard released their grip.
“All Lii-jit standing before me,” shouted the guard. “We humans now possess power far greater than any mystic could ever hope to comprehend. Do not cross us. Do not antagonize us or attempt escape. You will be treated justly, but subversion will result in death at the hands of the all-powerful Lord Lakos.”
The guard then turned his back to the huddled Lii-jit, opened the door to the cell, and calmly stepped out, slamming it shut behind him.
Lakos lowered his head once again, bringing the captive life-mystics back into their stupor.
Once outside the cell, the guard reached in to grasp his dagger from the metal bars it still clung to. With but the faintest tug, the weapon released into his grip, where he re-sheathed it by his hip.
The old guard peered back into the cell and smirked. “You needn’t bother with the dramatics, Lii-jit. You know full well that the arm will soon grow back.”
“What is your name, guard?” asked Lakos, his face expressionless.
“Belwellin, my Lord,” replied the guard.
“Belwellin, the passengers from the wreckage—where are they?” asked Lakos, still focused on his primary objective.
“In this one.” Belwellin opened the final Lii-jit cage and swung the door open.
Lakos entered the cage freely, inspecting each of the little mystics inside. “Do you recall a human among them?”
The guard seemed taken aback by the question. “A human? No, my Lord. To my knowledge, there are only Lii-jit, Ohlinn, and Masdazii residing in this dungeon.”
After inspecting every vacant face in the cell, Lakos stormed back into the walkway. “Belwellin, if you truly wish to demonstrate your worth to me, you will see to it that the traitorous human who accompanied our most recent Lii-jit captives rejoins his associates behind these bars.”
“My Lord,” replied Belwellin, “I seek not to evade your charge, but I suspect that this human you speak of may soon be taken to the next world without our intervention.”
“What do you mean?” asked Lakos, once again intrigued by the unimposing prison guard.
Belwellin spoke confidently. “The imprisoned Masdazii grow restless, as they do when sensing an impending disaster. Even in their current dreamlike state they are aware—connected to the matter around them. I have seen this prescience from their kind before, and it never fails to come to pass. In the moments before you joined me in my dungeon, I overheard a growing number of Masdazii captives murmuring through their trance. They spoke of a coming storm, violent and brutal, with torrents of metallic pellets raining down from the sky, destroying all in its path.”
“Metallic rain? Nonsense.” Lakos snorted.
But Belwellin continued in sincerity. “My Lord, I speak the truth. The notion of iron or steel falling from the sky does indeed sound preposterous, but I assure you, the Masdazii have never been wrong. And if this is no exception, then I would wager that once the storm hits, no one left outside the Inner Realm will survive.”
Lakos was unconvinced. “I will take note of all that has transpired here. But do not mistake tolerance for reverence. It will take a fair deal more than ambition and a fool’s bravery to raise you from the prisons to the throne room. Now, see me from this wicked dungeon,” he ordered.
The two men walked in silence back along the eerie, shadowy, stone path, until they emerged from the dark tunnel and out into the bright, lively courtyard.
“Assume your post, prison guard,” said Lakos.
“Of course, my Lord,” replied Belwellin, nodding anxiously as though a crucial opportunity were slipping through his fingers. “You must beware the fallen mystic who follows you, for he lives in deceit,” he blurted. “His subservience is a lie. When your distrust of him mounts to its breaking point, he will manipulate you into trusting him all the more. And he will not rest until your power is his.”
Without a word, Lakos walked away from the guard, who remained dutifully at his post. However, after several strides, he paused, and turned back to the old guard.
“Belwellin, I offer you no guarantee of any fate but the one you currently serve. But should I call upon you to discuss matters further, see to it that you bring one of your captives with you,” he said, nodding in the direction of the dungeon door.
Appearing slightly perplexed, Belwellin quickly bowed. “I shall do as you request, my Lord.”
With that, Lakos strode across the courtyard toward the black gate.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Thayliss had little time to make a decision. The rapidly settling cloud of ash around him would at any moment cease to provide cover from the legion of armed guards patrolling the base of the mountainside. Once exposed, unarmed, and wounded, his fate would be sealed.
Twenty strides to his right, he saw the remnants of Lakos’s caravan, the vast majority of which had vanished. What few of the tents and other transient structures remained were being industriously dismantled by crews of soldiers and transported into a large entryway carved into the side of the Bray Ridge.
A soldier had just vacated the tent nearest to where Thayliss lay, leaving it, to the best of his estimation, empty. It was a chance worth taking.
Thayliss pushed himself up off the dusty ground, realizing that he was now plainly visible to all around him. His first step toward the tent brought electric flashes of pain up from his ankle. Shuffling awkwardly, he moved across the desert floor as quickly as he could, expecting any moment to hear a guard sounding the alert to his presence or, worse still, feel an arrow tearing through him. But on he limped, across the longest twenty strides of his life.
Finally, mercifully, Thayliss arrived at the tent. He quickly lifted the main flap and stepped inside. Once there, he realized that he had no idea what to do next. The structure he had chosen as his temporary reprieve was part of a caravan clearly in the midst of relocation.
At any moment, a soldier would most certainly burst in on him, his presence unexpected but hardly a threat to an armed guard. All the same, the one advantage Thayliss did have was the element of surprise.
He scanned the contents of the little tent, disappointed by what he saw, or didn’t see. He had expected to come across a rack of arrows, a sword, a knife, a spear. Something. To his chagrin, he did not see a single object within the tent that could be used as a weapon. All he saw was a row of six wash basins, each filled with murky water, a collapsible wooden table upon which a stack of woolen trousers was neatly folded, and a pair of leather boots resting on the floor. The laundering tent. Thayliss cursed under his breath.
