Page 98 of Elvenbred

Three guards and a round dozen laborers armed with tools rushed past. Haldeen bit down on the instinct to call out, to tell them who he was. Moragen’s words came back to him You may have killed us all. Part of him felt shame, but the cold part, the part he rarely acknowledged, whispered. What’s done is done. You look out for you.

He moved to one side to let them go past. He felt their eyes on him … not as their lord, but just one more elf in their way. One guard opened his mouth to say something sharp to Haldeen, saw his bloody leg, and let it pass. The laborers stopped cold the moment they saw the carnage in the courtyard, then had to be driven forward with threats and curses. The last worker in line turned away, and threw up in the hall. The elf wiped his mouth and followed the others up into the light and into the fight. Haldeen waited for them to pass, then used the spear-shaft to push himself up.

He descended the stairs and into the below ground halls. The mage-lights usually made these halls bright as noonday, but now they flickered fitfully … just like they had after Triana had gone mad in the food-hall. He felt his stomach twist and bile rose in the back of his throat. That cursed woman! He worked his way down the hall, moving to one side as others swept past. More laborers, being pressed from behind by guards. One looked as though he was going to pull Haldeen in, but saw the state of him, and his obvious injuries, and let him be. Haldeen was certain the guard would stand down if he knew he accosted his own bound lord, but Haldeen preferred the moment to pass without a confrontation.

He pushed himself along. The pain returned as the restorative faded. The splint began to hurt like blazes, but he could peg along, after a fashion. He used the spear-shaft to take the weight off the injured leg, allowing him to limp slowly down the hall. The spear-shaft wasn’t long enough for a proper crutch, but proved much better than nothing. He followed the hallway down towards the lab, leaning against the wall. There was a vibration, and dust fell from the overhead. He looked back, and saw the bloody trail he’d left.

He sobbed once, quickly, and fought to hold it in before he broke down completely. Another vibration, and more dust fell. He had to hurry. He would be cut off from his lab if the stones shifted and the ceiling came down. The lab was his prize, and the Gate his safety. He half dragged, half fell down the last short flight of stone stairs, then along the hall to his lab.

He saw the magic jars and boxes containing the copper spheres stacked outside the door. The guards had followed orders, in spite of everything. They had gone on somewhere else afterwards, possibly back to the fight. But they had brought the jars to the lab. He looked bleakly at them, objects that a mark ago that had been vitally important. Now, they were just ceramic boxes that were in the way. He heard a distant rumble. A few heartbeats later more dust fell from the ceiling.

He passed the magic jars and made the specific pattern of hand-passes needed to disarm the locks and open the lab door. Even without the Source, he still had enough magic for this. He heard the door locks snap back, and the heavy stone opened. He leaned against the door, levering it open and smearing blood across it as he entered. He stumbled in, making no effort to close it behind him.

Inside the lab, the Probe squatted in its cage, waiting for its commands, seemingly unaware of the dangers outside. Another heavy vibration, and distant grinding noise of stone on stone. Something big … and important … had fallen. He looked at the Gate. It stood … quiescent. He leaned his spearshaft against the bench and started the incantations needed to bring it to life, creating the shell that the ambient would then fill. He felt his magic ebb away. He swore, and made a second attempt. Nothing. He raised the shape he expected, but it simply collapsed.

“What the ….” Then he remembered. With no Source, his magic had nothing to hold. The ambient magic was too weak for the spell he needed to cast to arm the Gate. He wanted to cry. He was so close to safety. He tried to raise the spell again, this time to try and fill it with his own magic … to try to shore it up with his own will.

The magic dribbled away again. He swore in frustration. So close to safety, and no way to power the Gate! He looked around desperately, hoping for inspiration. Then, he remembered the magic jars stacked in the hallway. Stored magic, maybe enough to charge the Gate and make his escape.

He went back to the door, favoring his injured leg. He tried to lift one of the ceramic jars. He was weakened and had no leverage. He nearly toppled over. He looked around the lab and saw the rolling table. He could lift the jars that far, up onto the table, then bring the whole thing in.

He pushed the table out into the hall and next to the jars, and very carefully, and very laboriously lifted each up onto the table. His leg hurt so much it was nearly unbearable, though his foot remained numb, and he felt cold sweat trickle down his back. He had to stop once when a wave of dizziness washed over him. He leaned against the table then, breathing deeply while his head cleared, and hoping the table didn’t roll and pitch him onto the hallway floor. His vision started to collapse down into a tunnel, and he focused on taking deep, steady breaths.

After some moments his sight cleared and the dizziness passed. He finished lifting the last of the jars up onto the table. He stopped and listened. The hallway was quiet. He heard distant cries and voices, but the words were indistinct. More distant shouting, mingled with quite a lot of screaming.

He rolled the table back into the lab, and studied the jars. He extended his own magic, using an opening spell to see if the jars would respond, and was gratified, when a series of small circles appeared in its clay top. He felt the magic stored within, a sensation felt both warm and cold at the same time. He toyed with the magic a bit, learning its properties. He drew wisps out and used them to strengthen the mage-lights in the room. He’d never worked with magic in this way, and was gratified that it didn’t seem difficult. Simply spell the jar open, and draw what you need. At least until the jar had been emptied.

He started the Gate spell again, and fumbled it, feeling the jar’s energy bleed away. Focus! Confidence is key! You’ve done this a thousand times! He raised the spell again, drawing the energy out of the jar, using it to fill his spell. He used a small tendril of power for a second spell, juggling the two as he opened a second jar and drained it. He felt a resistance as the first one went dry … sooner than he would have expected. He opened a third, then a fourth, enough to Spell the Gate, and arm it, then began transferring energy into it.

He did the spell from long memory, making the hand-passes that shaped the magic and the mnemonics that helped him focus his energy on the outcome he desired. The repetition and ritual helped steady him, offset by the pit of anxiety in his stomach. Normally, a failure meant only some lost time, a bit of a headache, and a second try. Here, with a finite, and diminishing number of jars, a failure would seal the Gate. He might die.

That realization shook him, and he fumbled the words, and had to struggle to hold the shape of his spell. He transferred more energy in, and released the portion of the spell that let the Gate draw ambient energy of its own accord. Normally, the Gate would continue from here of its own accord, drawing the magic it needed until it was fully powered. This time it stuttered and dimmed.

He quickly opened the remaining jars, and drew their contents out into the air. The Gate sucked it up eagerly, drawing in whatever it found in its vicinity.

Despite the pain and weakness, he worked with the most precision and care he ever had in his life, and started the second series of enchantments. These would let him pass through. This was a lesser magic, but more precise … and his own reserves were sufficient to this task. He took a deep breath and exhaled heavily. This casting appeared to be working. He felt the Gate come to life, and respond to his commands. He felt the last of the jars drain. The Gate had taken all of the magic it could glean from those storage jars. He hoped it would be enough.

He released the second set of spells, and sensed the Gate reaching out to the exiles’ world, seeking the portal on the other side. He continued the incantations, ignoring the pains from the wound, the splints, and the tourniquet. The Gate made the connection, but it was weak. Tentative. He tried to open the Gate. It flickered for a moment. He swore. The jars had served well enough to establish the connection, but not quite enough for him to go through.

He looked around for something else he could tap for power. Just a bit more.

“Good evening, my lord,” he heard a cool voice say.

He turned back towards sound, only then appreciating that he had left the doorway to the hall standing wide open. He turned. A tall, thin elf in a baggy soldier’s uniform and wrong-color boots stood in the doorway. For a moment, the uniform confused him, then he looked at the face. He knew that face. Oh, how he knew that face! He felt a flash of hatred, and fought to maintain his cool.

“Hello, Triana,” he said coolly, as though greeting a supplicant in his office. He pointed with his chin towards the courtyard and city wall. “This is your doing, I think?” She glanced in the direction he pointed. He used that opportunity to limp in the direction of the bench, where he had leaned the spear-shaft he’d used for a cane.

The coldly rational part of his mind saw him grasp it like a club and brain her with it. Once he’d stunned her, he would finish her off. He felt a cold rage build … not like the hot, unreasoning tempests of his wife’s anger, the storms of female emotion … or his own furies, the red rages that sometimes overcame him. These were the icy fury of logic and calculation. He could see the blows, see her fall, and see himself strike until he’d finished her.

The shaft was out of reach, for now. How to get to it?

He leaned against the table, felt it roll a bit. It would be heavy, but if he could time it right, he might knock her down, or disable her with its weight, or the jars’. That might gain him the few moments he would need to lunge for the spear-shaft, then to deal with Triana. His mind’s eye saw her on the floor, struggling with the table’s weight, while he armed himself and struck. Repeatedly.

She glanced briefly behind him, towards the Gate. “Ah, excellent. Less to figure out.” Her eyes snapped back to focus on him. Her voice was as cool as his. “That mess out there? My doing? Not really.” She didn’t take her eyes off him. “In fact, when it all comes down to causes, it’s all your doing, you and every other person in this world that either knew about, or was directly responsible for, imprisoning and torturing creatures that meant you no harm in order to live off their life force.”

He snorted with derision. “Says the slaveholder who tortured her own … what was your word you used … property? That was it. Property. Sent your property to their deaths, sent them to your breeding pens … how did you just phrase it … while you ‘lived off their life force.’ You don’t get to lecture me.”

But she just smiled. “The difference between us is that now I know better, and intend to do better. You’ve had—how many now?—at least a dozen fallen cities to learn better. You didn’t. So, one more will fall.” Her expression grew still, and he could see what looked like pain and regret.