David Grace - The Accidental Magician

"It is misty, my lord, transparent. It extends around them on all sides. Nothing stops it. It penetrates the walls as if they did not exist."

"The walls? You mean they are inside already? I ordered you to keep me informed of their movement. Why didn't you tell me this before!"

"My lord, at first nothing happened, so there was nothing to tell. They walked across the meadow very slowly. They took no hostile action, threw no bolts, and so we watched them to see what they would do. Soon it became clear that they were making for the southwest entrance. I immediately dispatched a squad of guards. I instructed the section leader to engage them and sent Goren here with the men to watch and bring back a report. He has just now returned."

"Stop making excuses for disobeying my orders and tell me what has happened!"

"My lord, I have never seen anything like it," Goren began. "They entered the tunnel as if out for an afternoon stroll. They had reached no more than ten feet inside the entrance when six fully armored soldiers attacked. The fugitives made no resistance. They took no notice of the swords and bolts aimed at them. The soldiers ran full into the field and then fell as if dead."

"And then what happened?"

"Nothing, my lord, that is to say, the fugitives continued to walk on down the tunnel immobilizing all who came near them."

"Why didn't someone stand back and fire bolts at them from a distance?"

"My lord, they did, but to no avail. As soon as they entered the field the arrows slowed as if proceeding through thick syrup. The fugitives easily moved out of their way. The bolts sailed harmlessly past." Goren gave a fearful shrug of his shoulders and was silent.

"Well, don't just stand there; what happened next?"

"Nothing, my lord. They come even now. Nothing stops them, not bolts, not fire, not rocks or knives. I used my spells, but they were as effective as trying to breach the walls of Cicero by throwing pebbles. They do not know the passageways, but surely they will be here in a few minutes, in any event."

"You are all a bunch of fools-cowards and fools! I can see that I can trust no one but myself. Nimo, I am going to give you an order, and you will follow it no matter what happens. Do you understand?"

"Yes, my lord," Nimo answered a bit apprehensively.

"Stand by the edge of my desk and hold the dagger next to the line. Upon my command cut the rope. Do you understand?"

"Yes, my lord. I am to stand here and, when you give the order, cut the rope."

"And not before, Nimo. Goren, you go down to the bend in the tunnel. Watch for them. When they get there, if they get there, warn me. Don't stand there like an idiot! Go! Go!"

More afraid of Hazar's wrath than the sorcery of the fugitives, the subdeacon raced down the corridor.

Alone now except for Nimo, the slaves having fled upon overhearing Goren's report, Hazar strode to the deserted cutters' table and retrieved the two largest of the finished stones. There was no time to set them in a ring or bracelet or amulet. He would have to do his work with them clasped within his palm, in contact with his naked skin. Hazar pushed his desk out of the way, then seated himself in his ironwood chair, a mate to the one in which Mara was imprisoned. The bloodstones trembled in the open palm of his left hand. Taking a deep breath, he clamped down his right hand, imprisoning the stones in the hollow between his hands, and then began to channel a spell of fiery death through the crystals and out into the ether, unerringly directed at Grantin, Chom, and Castor.

The early stages of the attack were surprisingly easy. The protective sphere was mental rather than physical and thus presented none of the inconveniences associated with mass, weight, and inertia. Grantin, Chom, and Castor entered the Gogol caverns without the slightest difficulty. Above them and on each side the misty shield disappeared as it insinuated itself between the molecules of solid rock. Only in front and behind could its existence be discerned.

Suddenly a group of screaming soldiers raced down the tunnel, intent on repulsing the attackers. In less than five seconds the frozen bodies of the defenders littered the floor. Encouraged by this initial success, they increased their pace. Except for the distraction of being forced to dodge drastically slowed crossbow bolts, nothing except the intricateness of the network of tunnels hindered their advance.

"How long do you think we can keep up the shield?" Grantin asked Chom.

"I do not know. Perhaps hours, perhaps only a few more minutes. It may just slowly fade away to nothing, or it might disappear all at once. The only thing we can do is proceed as rapidly as possible."

"I assure you, Chom, I am proceeding as fast as possible."

From the bend in the tunnel ahead of them another flight of arrows was loosed at them. In the dim light of the phosphorescent mosses the missiles flickered dully like a flight of peculiar insects. The arrows entered the shield and, as in each previous attack, slowed to a rate of one or two feet per second, imparting a brighter whiteness to the portions of the barrier surrounding the points of penetration. Almost absentmindedly Chom waved his four arms and plucked the bolts from midair.

The three reached the right-hand bend in the tunnel and increased their speed to a run as they made the turn. This tactic never seemed to be anticipated by the defenders, and always their increase in speed caught a few of the waiting soldiers by surprise. This time was no exception. They stepped over the immobilized defenders and continued at a rapid pace. Ahead of them the tunnel swung to the right, rising toward the central chamber.

Judging by the height of the tunnel and the number of turns already made in the spiraling passage, Grantin estimated that in another five minutes, ten at the most, they would reach the surface of the lake. As if to confirm his hypothesis, the tunnel seemed to be getting brighter, almost glowing with the illumination of reflected daylight. And it seemed to be getting warmer, too.

Grantin noticed that the front edge of the shield appeared thicker, frostier, while at the same time he detected within himself a great lethargy.

"Chom, something's happening. Do you feel it?"

"We are being attacked," Castor said. "They are trying to hex us."

For the first time in their relationship Grantin detected signs of weariness in Chom. The Fanist's head, neck, and shoulders glistened with a thin, oily film.

"We must make it colder," the Fanist rasped. "We must put more energy into our spell before their weapon defeats us."

Grantin's forehead became knotted in concentration, while Castor's tendons and muscles stiffened with the increased strain. Chom gave no outward sign of his redoubled efforts except for a thickening and spreading of his glistening second skin. Each of the three dredged up images of numbing cold, mountains of steaming ice, wintry vistas of bleak terrain frozen from horizon to horizon. Each visualized a blizzard driving sleet and snow through every tunnel, nook, and crevice of Grog Cup Mountain.

Two levels above the attackers their efforts made themselves felt. A burning shiver sliced through Hazar's body while, at the edge of the room, Greyhorn's flesh became as stone. The horror of Mara's suspension over the pit had caused her to faint before the latest attack. Since the sorcery achieved its goals through mental rather than physical power, her unconsciousness protected her from the incantation's worst effects.

Not so spared, however, was Hazar's servant Nimo. Even though he stood a bare ten feet from Hazar's protection, he received enough of a blast to remove from his members the power of voluntary movement. Sensationless fingers held the dagger and a frozen arm poised the blade a quarter of an inch above the rope.