Page 59 of Elvenbred

She held still.

She could see little, but could hear moaning, and weeping, and the soft murmur of shocked voices. The Overseer said something she could quite hear, then came into her view. His face was mottled with rage.

He took the table leg from the guard, and withdrew it, then used his shoe to turn her head away. He then placed the sole of his shoe on her cheek forcing her head to one side so she couldn’t speak or see, and her head was restrained.

She could hear moans and screams from the hall, and the fading sounds of the panic, and workers from the ration production room continued to flee. “One may be dead. Don’t know yet. Two others with obvious broken bones, enough that they can’t run. Once we get the rest to stop running, then we’ll figure out what other injuries we might have.” His voice might have been conversational, but his tone radiated pure fury. He twisted her head around so she could see the wreckage, the blood, one still body, and another crawling away. “I really hope you are happy.”

“Do you have the collar?” he asked. “Put it on her.”

She felt the bespelled ring snap around her neck, then cried out as it burned her flesh for a moment as the control spells settled into place and “recognized” her as the object to be controlled. She had snapped collars on so very many slaves in the past, but this was the first time she experienced the moment from the other side. She tried to raise her head, then felt the waves of lassitude wash over her. She remembered this, and what would come next.

The sleep. Followed by the nightmares.

13

N

Haldeen stood in the cave in Triana’s world … the Traitors World? It definitely needs a better name. He checked over the elements of his experiment. Let’s hope this works. He turned down the oil lamps he’d brought through with him to their lowest levels, just enough to see the wicks a cherry red, but not enough to read by.

“Here goes nothing,” he said, talking to himself.

He cast the incantation, making hand-passes over the mage-light. In theory the incantation would channel a tiny sliver of the magic that powered the Gate, and light the mage-light. He was careful to limit its scope. Too much, and … in theory … and he wouldn’t be able to get back.

He held his breath, waiting. Too much theory.

The mage-light lit … not very much and not very long … but it lit. He could move ambient magic from his world, through the Gate, and into this device.

He let out a shout of exaltation and pumped his fist. “Yes!”

He danced a quick jig as he went to the makeshift table he used for a writing desk. He turned up the oil lamp that sat beside his journal, took a pen, blotted it, and quickly wrote, quite aware that he was drafting history for the ages.

Success! I have successfully drawn a tendril of ambient magic, first through the Gate using my wife’s MY calculations, and then passed it into a simple mage-light. While of modest effect, this proves a PROFOUND truth … that the new world CAN accept physical principles that govern us … namely ambient magic. This world simply has no SOURCE to do so reliably. If one follows this thread to its logical conclusion, then, if one could provide a SOURCE, then one could provide the ambient magic.

He blew on the ink to dry it. Someday, his journal will be required reading. He’d have to do another version, of course, to curate out the false starts and awkward bits. But as a first draft of history, he rather liked how it sounded. PROFOUND truth. Had a nice ring.

He rubbed his hand across his chin and felt the stubble. He’d been in too long this time. His servants had brought him breakfast in his lab, clean shaven. It would not do for them to see him with stubble on his chin, after only a couple of marks … there-time.

Several oil lamps had been leaned out too much and had gone out. He turned the knobs on each to open up the fuel, and in an extravagance, cast incantations to call a little of the magic from the Gates to light the lamps. He made dramatic, and wholly unnecessary, gestures to bring each one to life, pointing his index finger at each lamp. Each in turn obediently lit, his candle-flame incantation catching each oil-soaked wick. One by one, they flared, until the whole area he’d secured for his own shone with light. He raised his finger to his lips and mimed blowing it out, as he would a burning candle.

He looked around the well-lit area. On one level it all appeared quite primitive. He’d made his shelter in the cave near where the refugees had panicked once they had crossed, and where many had died. His efforts to protect himself here had resulted in fencing in a small area, protected by overturned vehicles, with a small alcove for sleeping, and a rather larger for working, all protected by a screen of (animal?) caging that he had found tumbled off the back of a transport wagon.

Not much to look at, but oh … what this place represented. He, and he alone, at least of this age, had come to this place, in this new world, and worked to discover its secrets. So far, only he knew that ambient magic did work here, provided one had a Source to provide it. Without a Source, well, the locals were weak sauce, born of the weakest magical classes, and with no ambient magic to find and tap, condemned to children’s illusions.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the lamp’s reflector. Stubble. Need to shave, and get back. Gone too long already. He went to his sleeping-alcove, and the small hygiene area he’d set up. It wouldn’t do to go back looking unshaven, not after being seen smooth-cheeked.

Haldeen looked himself over in the mirror with approval. No more hollow cheeks, no more rings under his eyes. He poured a bit of water over the brush, and whipped it through the cake to get a good lather, whistling as he worked it up. He washed his face with a good soap and water, the better to wash away the cave-grime. He tested his razor with the edge of his thumb and gave it a few quick strops across the leather belt to sharpen it, then set it next to the basin on the scrap of towel he’d brought.

He grinned at this reflection in the mirror and splashed himself with the mint-water his wife loathed. When he needed sleep, he just slipped over to the Traitors’ World. He spent whole days here for the cost of a few marks at home. He still hadn’t figured out the exact ratio … it felt like about a nine-ish to one Traitors’ Time to his time, but he had the nagging suspicion it wasn’t constant. He knew he needed to really sit down and figure out the exact difference, but right now he had a bigger game to win.

He smiled as he looked around at the simple cot and blankets, and then at the workspace he’d made out of scavenged materials and a few bits he’d brought through the Gate. This place was the miracle he’d needed. Long sleep and plenty of time to think. He was now far ahead on all of his projects for the king. He had worked out the fixes to the problems with the fighting machine, including selected improvements. Well, he called them improvements; what he’d actually done, now that he had the time to look at the problem in depth, was he’d tweaked power flow so it no longer backed up and caused an explosion. The initial calculations had represented their best understanding. Now, he could see where they had gone awry. That became obvious only after adequate sleep and many hours of uninterrupted study. The fix wasn’t easy, but would be papered over in work needed to implement his other improvements.

He’d made an advancement on the firelances; now they were more efficient. Those changes would add power and duration to the firelances’ flames. They also would provide cover for repairing the challenges with main weapon failures. No one would know about the design flaw, and the initial failures could be blamed on the Manipulators … once they stopped happening.

He whisked his shaving brush across the soap cake, twisting it to raise a lather, then brushed it across his cheeks and chin. The fix to the firelances would get him out of trouble with the king, but this was not helping the main situation, of course. The Predators were still attacking the cities, and in greater numbers than before. Fortunately, stopping the Monsters wasn’t his problem to solve. And he had been able to hold off the king about the Gate and Triana simply because the king’s eyes were on the walls now, and the ration numbers, not anything else. Even the Lord Provisioner, after one clumsy attempt to follow up on his “deal” with Haldeen, had let him be. Food was the Lord Provisioner’s main job.

Haldeen gave the razor a final test, then took it up in thumb and fore-fingers to begin the upsweep along his throat and under his chin. He paused.

Hold up. The monsters may not be attacking in “greater” numbers. There are a lot fewer cities than there were, and once they’ve overrun one, the attackers there probably just move to join the ones attacking the next city. It looks like there are more of them, but all they are doing is consolidation.