Lyndon Hardy - Master of the five Magics

As they watched, the master thaumaturge directed the three running up behind him to dump the sacks they carried onto the ground. A pile of small stones discharged from each. Two more men lugged into position a huge cauldron and began filling it from a wagonload of jars that halted alongside.

"Lodestones," Alodar cried with sudden recognition. "Tracers. By the laws, let there be no marksman good enough for this task among them."

A small group of archers formed a single file; as they passed the cowled figure, he deftly chipped a fragment from each rock and gave it to one of the bowmen. After each had received his charge, he bound it to the shaft of an arrow and let fly at the catapult in the cliff above.

Alodar watched the ledge as the missiles hurled upwards. Most were wide of the mark, splintering against hard rock and falling back to the floor of the pass. Several minutes passed as volley after volley did no harm. But finally one shot struck the frame of the catapult and held fast.

"Quickly!" Alodar shouted. "Signal them to remove the shaft before he can complete the incantation."

"But a single arrow does them no harm, journeyman. Let them use their time to continue firing while it is still light," the sergeant said. "You remain with your craft and I will manage mine."

"Get it removed or they will hurl nothing more today. See, they have the other stone in the acid already."

As he spoke, the master cracked one of the remaining untouched rocks in two and dropped one half into the cauldron steaming atop a hastily constructed fire. The brew frothed like storm-driven surf as three heavyset men slowly tipped the contents of the huge crucible onto a pile of artillery stones stacked at their feet. The crews from the siegecraft each retrieved one hot wet stone and loaded and cocked their engines. The thaumaturge held his hands high overhead. In one was the stone from which the chip now affixed to the catapult had been cleft; in the other was the remains of the one consumed in the acid bath. Alodar held his breath, knowing what was to come next. A mailed figure astride the horse surveyed the ready engines and the waiting craftsman. He signaled the crews to fire and the projectiles sprang from their beds in unison. An instant later, with the missiles already rising high into the air, the thaumaturge brought the two small stones swiftly together.

The flying rocks wrenched out of their natural trajectories; like sunlight focused with a glass, they converged simultaneously on the ledge. The catapult exploded in a mass of ragged timber, splinters, and dust. The bombarding rock shattered into an avalanche of gravel against the cliff face and cascaded to the plain. The hills rocked with the violence of the impact and the shock threw Alodar nearly to his knees. Where once there had been form was now a shattered ruin of timber and flesh.

The scene was quiet, attacker and defender alike shaken by the force of the blow. Alodar looked back at the enemy camp and noticed only a few wisps of smoke where the fire had raged but moments before. Of course, the perfect source, he thought.

As the last rays of the sun faded, the detachment of artillery slowly returned to the besieging circle and both sides made ready for the cessation of action for the day. As elsewhere, the stunned silence continued for several minutes more up on the high keep. Finally the sergeant turned for the archway.

"In two days, for certain," he muttered.

"A waste of time, if you ask me, Alodar," Morwin said irritably as they stumbled along the passageway that evening. "How are we, in a single night, going to find something that has eluded the occupants of this fortress for probably three hundred years? And with a single torch yet? Why, I can barely make you out two feet before me, let alone some secret mark along these clammy walls. And you know Periac is probably pacing his quarters right now, wanting a full report on what happened today with the air gondola. Let's be done with this, I say."

"Not just yet, Morwin," Alodar said. "I admit it seems hopeless, but what are we to do? Just follow through our prescribed tasks until the inevitable happens?"

"Oh, by the taws, Alodar, I relish this entrapment as little as you. But I would rather save my strength for something useful tomorrow, rather than burning off my evening gruel sloshing through puddles in the dark, three full flights beneath the ground."

"But look, Morwin, there must be something to aid us here. Some clue to help us break the siege. Think about it. Why are these passages and chambers under the walls even here? The whole castle is laid out with such an economy of design, not a wasted stone anywhere. The perfect fortress, the men-at-arms say. The flanking towers project out just the right amount to cover walls of optimum height. Crenelations and loopholes are cut to maximize both protection and density of fire. The central keep is pocked with bartizans of all sizes for observation of missile launching. With all of that care, why honeycomb the thing with these subterranean caverns unless they too somehow play in the defense?"

"Well then, for what do the records of the builders say all of this is to be used? We use the chamber under the northeast tower on the first level as an area of discipline. Perhaps this place was intended to be a grand dungeon?"

"With this layout, hardly. There aren't any small cells, just long corridors connecting large chambers, and no gates to impede one's access. And as to the builders, would that we could ask them. The sagas say only that when the scions of Procolon first pushed into these desolate western lands they found the Iron Fist open and unoccupied. The portcullis was up and the oaken doors of the gatehouse full ajar. Inside was nary a trace of man or beast or any sign that any had ever been here. Just mute stone in a silent wasteland. Vendora's forefathers used their luck well, granted. They garrisoned the place, and ever since it has protected Procolon's western flank with its grip of iron against the likes of a Bandor gone wild. But no one living knows more of this castle's secrets than even you or… Hold, I think we are under the Keep again."

Alodar thrust his torch forward, staring into the blackness ahead. He could see the walls receding from him on both sides into the gloom but could discern no other detail of their surroundings. He began to move cautiously to the left, one hand on moist stone, the other still advancing the torch in front.

"Look," he exclaimed, "a wall cresset, and with oil still in it." He touched his torch to the small pool in the lip of the rock and it sprang to life. He and Morwin again looked about them, now able to see to the opposite wall of the chamber.

"Cressets all around, Alodar," Morwin said. "At least here we will be able to see what we are stumbling over."

Alodar quickly circled the chamber, lighting the wall flames as he did so. When he was done, he moved towards the center to survey what the flickering light revealed. The chamber was large and circular, though not as huge as the massive keep which towered above it. The walls were smooth and damp, pieced with precision from many small stones and pierced by four dark archways evenly spaced around the periphery. The stone floor sloped downwards from all directions; in the very center stood a pool of dark water fed by the drippings from the walls. As he approached, Alodar thrust the handle of his torch into the still surface.

"Why, there is a well here, Morwin," he exclaimed. "See, the depth is much greater than the slope of the floor would indicate. I wonder how deep it is?"

Suddenly a flicker of light in one of the passageways caught his eye. As he and Morwin turned, they heard the clank of arms and the stomp of many feet echoing down towards them.

In a moment, several men-at-arms tromped into the chamber, torches held high and swords drawn. "Halt, who's there?" the first called out belligerently as his eyes adjusted to the increased light.