Dan Parkinson - Hammer and Axe

And then Sigamon, instead of simply dousing the fire with a rain spell, had decided to show off his own powers, and the resulting, sudden ice storm had blinded them all for long minutes while the fires continued to burn unchecked. Scorched and shivering, Megistal had finally managed to put an end to the runaway results of the magics by cloaking the entire mesa in a dense downpour of rain.

But the damage was done. At least half of the survey stakes they had worked so long to set, stakes that marked the closing area of the precise point they had finally found, were either burned away or blown up by quick-frost. The Stone of Threes was in place, but all of the lines of power would have to be restaked if there was ever to be a Tower of High Sorcery in this part of Ansalon.

“I can’t believe it,” Megistal muttered to himself as the other two wandered around trying to relocate some of the test points so laboriously established. The wizard was beginning to wonder if the tower was worth the aggravation.

All that had occurred two days ago, and Megistal still couldn’t bring himself to speak a civil word to the other wizards. But now another day was dawning, and they had dawdled enough. They had work to do, and it wouldn’t get done by itself.

He started to turn away from the cliff’s edge, then paused as movement caught his eye. High above, first sunlight glinted on something moving. He raised his eyes, then sighed. It was only a bird, a hawk of some kind, soaring high above. He had the impression that it was a large bird, but it was hard to tell. He watched it for a moment, then lowered his gaze and tensed. Other movement was visible now, far off but clear. On the slopes beyond the canyons that footed Sheercliff, three specks moved, coming toward him. He squinted, shading his eyes, then spread his arms, raised them, and lowered them, describing an arc. He stepped back from the cliff’s edge, muttered an incantation, and the arc he had made became visible, a ring of shimmering gray like a circle of fog. Again Megistal muttered, and within the ring shapes became clear: three armed, mounted dwarves, magnified as though seen through a lens. They appeared to be only a hundred feet away, instead of the span of miles where they appeared as only specks.

Sigamon and Tantas had ceased their bickering and came to join him. “Ah, we have company,” Tantas rasped. “Dwarves, I believe.”

“Most likely you attracted them with your cursed fire,” Sigamon said haughtily.

“Or you with your swirling ice,” Tantas growled. “Well, we have no time for dwarves right now.” He raised his right arm and started to chant a spell, but Megistal stopped him, grabbing his wrist.

“What are you doing?” the red wizard hissed.

“I’m going to kill them.” Tantas shook free. “Get out of my way.”

“Kill them?” Sigamon stared at the hunched wizard with the black hat. “Why kill them? They are of no consequence.”

“But they’re coming this way,” Tantas pointed out. “If they find us, they might signal for others to come. That could delay us no end.”

“There is that.” Sigamon shrugged. “Well, be merciful about it then. I do not share your penchant for causing pain . . . unless, of course, it is for a worthy cause.”

“Stop it, both of you!” Megistal snapped. “There is no reason to kill those dwarves. I shall simply give them an illusion to lead them away.”

Without waiting for argument, the red wizard raised a hand, pointed, and muttered, “Oviat devis duon! Chapak! ” In the viewing ring, the three dwarves blinked, drew rein, and turned their heads this way and that in obvious confusion. One of them lifted a mesh faceplate, squinted, and rubbed a hand across his eyes, then pointed off to the right, his beard twitching as he spoke to the others. The gold-bearded one beside him shrugged and nodded, but the third one—the largest one—shook his head. He gestured, indicating his horse and theirs, and lifted his reins, saying something. Then he pointed straight ahead.

“Blast!” Megistal said. “He knows it is an illusion. But how? I used first-order magic.”

“Illusion!” Tantas scoffed. “Soft magic!”

“Interesting,” Sigamon murmured, stepping closer to the view ring. “Look at him, how he squints. It is as though he sees your illusion, but also sees through it. See, he is showing the others. Maybe you should rethink your spells, Megistal. This one lacks potency.”

The big dwarf flicked his reins and rode straight ahead, and the others followed him. After a few yards they all blinked, stared, and pointed.

“They’ve broken free of the spell,” Sigamon said. “They have no trouble seeing clearly.”

Megistal scratched his beard thoughtfully. “Have either of you ever used magic against dwarves before?”

“Only to shield ourselves in passage,” Sigamon admitted. “Why?”

“Dwarves hate magic, I understand,” Megistal said. “I’m just wondering if. . .”

Tantas ignored the other two. Again he raised his arm, brought it down, and hissed, “Dagat mordem! Chapak!”

Abruptly the viewing ring blazed with intense light, and out on the far slopes a ball of blue-white fire grew, engulfing the distant riders. It was gone as quickly as it came, but the scene in the ring was startlingly different. Where before there had been three riders coming down a lush slope, surrounded by low vegetation, now there was smoke, blowing ash, and the blackened forms of three fallen dwarves. The only things moving were three terrified horses, galloping away toward the east, and the lingering smoke that drifted on the wind.

“That settles that,” Tantas chuckled. “They are dead. There is nothing wrong with my spells.”

Megistal stared at the hunched wizard in disgust, then turned away. The viewing ring winked out.

“So you killed three dwarves,” Sigamon sneered. “Your spell was still faulty, though. Those horses didn’t seem injured at all. Only frightened.”

“Dumb animals,” Tantas rasped. “Magic sometimes doesn’t touch animals, remember? The Scions told us that.” He swung away, then turned back to snap, “I could have killed the horses, too, if I had wanted to try another spell. I could have dropped boulders on the brutes. Magic may not be real to them, but boulders are.”

“I don’t understand the big to-do,” carped Sigamon, “over three simple dwarves.”

The Northgate entrance to Thorbardin, when completed, would be the mirror image of Southgate—a perfectly delved, iron-framed opening in a wall of solid granite that faced onto a wide walled ledge high on the mountainside of Cloudseeker Peak. The sheer granite wall itself was reinforced with an unseen mesh of iron bars drilled into the stone so that it could not be cracked or shattered by even the greatest force. The frame of the opening was polished iron, fourteen feet wide and two feet thick.

Running through the gatehouse behind the opening was a huge screw set in a threaded stone shaft lined with graphite and geared to a waterwheel drive. The screw itself, and its twin—nearly thirty miles away at Southgate—were the two largest single artifacts of solid steel ever produced in dwarven foundries . . . or in any foundries.

Each contained a year’s production of iron, coke, and nickel from the Daergar’s best mines, and each had taken nine years to forge, mill, and polish into final shape. Just within the opening on the mountainside was a large, delved area that served as outer gatehouse. The great gate resting there now, ready to be mounted on the screw, was identical to the one in use at Southgate—a massive plug of metal-clad stone, grooved to ride on ranked steel rails set in floor, ceiling, and walls of the gateway. Once mounted, it would be closed by turning the screw to drive it into the opening.