Douglas Niles - Fate of Thorbardin

“But, General,” protested his captain, Dack Whiteye. “What good will all these men do here? Even if the gate is opened, the enemy can only enter two by two. Don’t we run the risk of the whole garrison, all four companies, getting trapped in these close quarters if they spring some sort of surprise on us? Or what if we get attacked from inside Thorbardin? You have your best men here, where they’ll be of no use in defending the city!”

“Stop with the questions! Those are my orders, and so are they yours! Or perhaps you’d like to take up your objections with the black wizard himself?”

That retort served the desired purpose: Whiteye’s already pale face grew white as a sheet of snow, and he shook his head firmly. “No, my general. Of course I will obey the order.”

“Good. I thought as much.”

Darkstone left his captain and went into the machine room of the gate itself. The great screw of stone was mostly invisible, buried as it was in the snug, threaded socket of bedrock. A series of metal gears, connected with pulleys and levers to a large water wheel drive system, filled the chamber below him. Those gears had not turned so much as a quarter inch in more than a decade, but the general was pleased to see that they were all free of rust, well oiled, and apparently ready for immediate use-should such a use be ordained by a power greater even than Darkstone’s.

The gate truly was impregnable, he believed. Even if someone found a way to move the massive weight of stone that was the gate, the threaded socket held it firmly in place. It could be unscrewed if the machinery within the mountain were employed. Of course, the mechanism was of no use to anyone on the outside. And he didn’t see how the gate itself could possibly be smashed.

So General Darkstone stood listening, looking, and thinking. He remained certain that he had done all he could do to be ready and kept his eyes open.

Then the world exploded around him, and all his confidence, all his calm assertions vanished in the instant of destruction. The solid stone floor beneath his feet split asunder, opening a gap that, to his panicked brain, appeared to be bottomless.

Somehow daylight was pouring into the gatehouse.

Then he was falling, and darkness surrounded him again.

When Willim snapped his fingers, a flickering light came into being in the air over his head. It burned as bright as the wick of a candle, only there was no fuel, no wick, not even any visible flame. The brilliant fire shed its light far and fiercely, driving back the shadows in the cavernous laboratory, illuminating even the distant corners and the lofty ceiling.

It was not for himself that the wizard conjured the light-his spell of true-seeing guaranteed that he didn’t require any such mundane accessory as illumination to see-but he wanted Facet to observe what he was doing. And there was another, two others in point of fact, whose attention he also desired. He smiled privately, speculating about Facet’s reaction when she learned of the other pair of living creatures secreted in that deep cavern.

Languidly, he rose from his pallet, aware of Facet’s wide eyes watching him as he reached for his robe, slipping the dark silk over his scrawny, scarred frame. As always when his nakedness was displayed, he scrutinized her face, watching for any hint of revulsion or disgust. If she had displayed such a reaction, he would have killed her. But as always she looked at him with an affection verging on adoration.

“Get up. Get dressed,” he ordered curtly, turning his back and walking toward his marble worktable. He heard the rustling of her movements and, even with his back to her, admired the lush curves of her flesh until her own black robe once again slid around her body.

By then, Willim had arrived at the bell jar containing the two blue sparks. Both of those glimmering flickers had paled at his approach. They retreated, cowered actually, to the far side of the jar. He reached out a hand, caressed the glass, and the blue little lights swirled around in obvious agitation as Facet came up to stand behind him.

“I have never told you about these little sparks, have I?” Willim asked casually.

“No, Master,” Facet replied, her eyes downcast. They both remembered the time she had asked about them. Right after his victory over King Stonespringer, Willim had returned to his laboratory and set up the jar in the middle of his worktable. Facet had been curious then, but her innocent question had resulted in a whipping that had left her bloody and sobbing on the rack. Naturally, she had never brought the topic up again.

“They are more than tiny blue fireflies, you know,” the wizard said, relishing every word of the revelation to come. His dry lips crackled into a grotesque grin as he stroked the jar with both hands, pressing on the glass as though he could squeeze it into diamond with the force of his touch. The two blue flickers, Facet saw, had shrunk to the base of the jar and quivered, barely visible, in the center of the flat plate.

“I … I had wondered,” she replied, realizing that he was waiting for an answer. “But I would never presume to guess. Indeed, they do seem like living things.”

“You are wise, my pretty one,” the Theiwar mage declared with an affection-and menace-that sent a shiver down Facet’s spine. “But now the time has come for me to disclose their true nature.”

“Please, Master. Tell me what you will.”

The wizard pointed his finger at one of the blue sparks and flicked his hand to the side. The first of the blue lights flew in reaction to his gesture, like a bug that had been swatted away. That spark struck the side of the bell jar and sank, barely flickering, back to the bottom.

Then, in a gesture that was almost too fast to see, Willim lifted up the jar and snatched out the second, still vibrant spark, with a snakelike strike of his hand. Just as quickly, the jar was replaced on its resting spot, and the wizard held out his free hand with the fist clenched and his scarred face creased by a triumphant sneer.

He spoke a word of wrenching magic so powerful that Facet’s black hair stood on end and she involuntarily recoiled, flinching away. When she looked back, there was a very old woman, a stooped and withered dwarf maid, standing in front of the black wizard. She wore a tattered shawl, and her skin was creased with wrinkles; her frail shoulders were quivering underneath the rude garment. With a gasp, she wrapped her skinny arms around herself and dropped to the floor at Willim the Black’s feet.

“Oh, Master!” she cried in a voice as ancient and brittle as her skin. “Please forgive me! I shall never betray you again!”

“I know that, you pathetic crone,” Willim declared coldly. “For if you do, it will be the last act of your worthless life.”

Facet watched, fascinated. It had taken her only a moment to realize that she hated, really hated , the old crone. She didn’t understand the feeling or where it had come from, but the emotion was so real that she could physically taste it, like a bitter bile that rose in her gorge.

But she could only stare, eyes wide, lips parted, as the wizard stalked in a circle around the cowering, frail figure. When he was on the far side of her, he raised his face, a cruel smile twisting his scarred features.

“Facet, this is Sadie Guilder. At one time she worked for me, was one of my agents in the city of Norbardin. But she and her husband betrayed me. So I punished them.”

The younger female turned to look at the lone blue spark in the bell jar. It had recovered from Willim’s blow and was drifting aimlessly, weakly, in small circles within the magical prison. Facet didn’t need to study or reflect very long before she understood that the remaining spark was the treacherous husband Willim referred to.