The Ventifact Colossus (The Heroes of Spira Book 1) (15 page)

“Was dead,” Dranko interrupted. “And on the ground. Little flying rodents killed him, just like they killed Mrs. Horn.”

Abernathy clutched his mug. “Are you certain? And was he…was the body still in the field?”

“No,” said Aravia. “He had walked or crawled a few feet away from it.”

Abernathy stared again at the fire, and the shadows it cast upon his old features made him seem older still. “Too soon,” he muttered. “We’re not ready.” Before Aravia could ask what he meant, Abernathy let out a huge sigh. “How do you know what killed him?”

“If I may,” said Aravia before anyone else could answer, “I figured out what happened. Tell me, sir, is that blue field a sort of temporal stasis?”

Abernathy nodded. “Very good, Aravia.”

She spent the next few minutes sharing her hypotheses with Abernathy. It pleased her to see the others listening raptly. Here she was, talking shop with an archmage!

“That is an excellent and accurate supposition,” said Abernathy when she was finished. “For someone with so little practical experience, your ability to draw conclusions from evidence is remarkable.”

She flushed with pride and wished desperately that Serpicore were there to see her praised by such a magical luminary as Abernathy.

“But the facts themselves are deeply troubling. We were expecting that the stasis field would not suffer that kind of failure for…well, not for a long time. And that the enemy could have cracked the door of his prison sufficiently to let out a swarm of skellari means our time is shorter than we imagined. We can adjust the wards to compensate, but now I fear our long vigil has become little more than a doomed holding action.”

“What about the man with blue skin?” asked Tor.

Abernathy’s eyebrows shot up. “What? Blue skin?”

“Outside the building with the magic field in it,” said Tor. “There was a bald man with blue skin, and I chased him into the forest and we had a duel. He ran away before we could finish it even though he was a fantastically skilled warrior. Do you know who he is?”

Abernathy rubbed his temples with wrinkled fingers. “Yes, I think I do. That man is a Sharshun.”

“A what?” asked Tor.

The aged wizard let out another long sigh, this one ending with a wheeze. He glanced at the ruby on his chest. “I think I need to give you a little more background regarding my life’s work. The being we have trapped is the son of King Naloric the Monstrous. Do any of you recall your history lessons?”

Aravia had memorized every history book in Serpicore’s house. She opened her mouth to answer, but Tor beat her to it.

“Sure!” said the boy. “Naloric the Monstrous was king of Charagan many hundreds of years ago, and he used to be called Naloric the Just, but overnight he became some kind of horrible villain, and nobody knows why.”

“Very good,” said Abernathy. “Indeed, King Naloric Skewn went from being a benign and beloved sovereign whose only fault was a mild obsession with collecting butterflies, to becoming a merciless monster who authorized a slave trade, imprisoned and tortured his political rivals, raised taxes to an unconscionable level, and committed other atrocities far too numerous to mention. Naturally the dukes revolted, and there were years of civil war. According to legend, Naloric was nearly killed in single combat by the Duchess Daynell Kalkas, but there was some fell power in him that resisted death even after suffering what should have been a mortal wound. Soon enough he had put down the rebellion and turned Charagan into a nightmare realm of abused slaves and terrified peasants, all toiling under his soldiers’ whips while they were forced to build his mines and pits.”

“Had a thing for holes, did he?” said Dranko.

“Indeed,” said Abernathy. “At first we thought mining was his goal, but in many places he dug unfathomably deep holes for no reason that was ever discovered. Perhaps he was hoping to unearth something specific, but if he was, he never found it, for he never stopped digging. Countless thousands of workers died from accidents or fatigue in the process.”

“So what happened to Naloric?” asked Morningstar.

“For a long time, nothing,” said Abernathy. “Whatever had transformed him gave Naloric Skewn an unnatural longevity. His tyranny lasted over a hundred years. But though he was immune to the ravages of time, he was unable to forestall the doom of complacency. A resistance took root and grew, a resistance that included most of the powerful wizards of that era. Armies were gathered in remote places overlooked by Naloric and his cadre of warlords. The leaders of the resistance called themselves the Spire, which was the name of Daynell Kalkas’s castle before Naloric had it razed.

“Finally the Spire struck, and once again there was war in Charagan. Despite all of our power and preparations, the Spire
still
could not kill Naloric Skewn; his power was too great to be quenched by any means we possessed. But we were able to banish him to a prison world, another world from which any escape could only be back into this one.”

Aravia knew that one. “Sir, are you talking about a Prison Pair?”

“You continue to impress me, young lady. Yes, I am. The only way to leave the second Prison Pair world is by first traveling to the primary world. In most other cases passage between worlds, though difficult, is well within the powers of wizards who achieve certain echelons of skill and knowledge. Naloric was trapped in a room with only one door, as it were, and the most accomplished wizards of the Spire closed and locked that door behind him.”

“I’m pretty sure I can guess where this is goin’” said Kibi. “I’ll bet that Naloric fellah, he’s figured out how to get back through the door.”

“You’re close,” said Abernathy. “Happily, what happened to Naloric is that he
was
killed, in the end. Less than a year after his banishment, he contrived to kick the door in, to continue the metaphor, and emerge back into Spira. But the tremendous effort needed to make that ingress had weakened him, and the combined might of the Spire’s greatest heroes was sufficient to slay him at last…though not without terrible loss. Our three most powerful wizards were killed in the battle that brought about Naloric’s downfall: Typier, Parthol, and Alander. That all happened about five hundred years ago.

“But even that turned out not to be the end of it,” Abernathy went on. “For Naloric had a son, named Naradawk, who had also been banished to the prison world. When Naloric broke free and was killed, his son Naradawk wasn’t with him; he had stayed behind. We’re not sure why. Perhaps Naloric was keeping him in reserve, not expecting that the Spire could seal up the breach between the worlds again so quickly. I think it more likely that Naradawk
expected
his father would be killed and chose to stay behind on purpose, knowing that one day he would be strong enough to make the attempt himself.

“Following Naloric’s jailbreak, the remaining archmagi, along with the apprentices of those slain, vowed to become ever-vigilant, to guard ceaselessly the single portal that links our world, Spira, with Volpos, its prison-paired world. I myself was one of those, having been apprenticed to Alander all those years ago.”

“And the portal to the other world where Naradawk is trapped,” said Aravia, “that’s near Verdshane, isn’t it? That’s why you have a stasis field set up around it—so that if anyone does break through, they’ll get caught in it.”

“Precisely,” said Abernathy. “That man you saw has, until recently, been suspended in the stasis. Naradawk was able to squeeze him through the portal in the early days, before we had strengthened the spells we use to keep it closed. We’ve always assumed he was a prisoner, or at least someone Naradawk was willing to sacrifice. But since the day the man became trapped, the stasis field has also served as an early warning system, and by your account of it, it’s gone off.”

Ernie fidgeted as he spoke. “Er, in that case, sir, shouldn’t you be guarding the, uh, portal instead of chatting with us? Not that we don’t appreciate it…”

Abernathy nodded. “I should,” he said. “But for the moment some of the other archmagi have taken over my portion of the ongoing spell we maintain to keep the portal shut.”

“If Naloric could be killed, then there
must
be a way to kill his son,” said Tor.

“As I mentioned,” said the archmage, “we were unable to kill Naloric the first time, which is why banishment was the only option. His subsequent breach of the portal between worlds took so much of his strength and power to effect, the Spire was able to destroy him, but even weakened he killed our three greatest wizards. His own impatience was his undoing, but Naradawk has been biding his time now for centuries, gathering strength and only carefully probing for new weakness in the portal. None of the present generation of wizards, myself included, can approach the might of Typier, Parthol, and Alander. We’re all older than you can imagine and very, very tired.”

“How old, exactly?” asked Aravia. “If Alander was killed hundreds of years ago, and you were his apprentice, then you must be hundreds of years old yourself. How is that possible?”

“Correct, my dear,” said Abernathy. “All of us have lived well beyond our normal span. The…the place we go to maintain the spell that keeps the portal sealed is constructed in part from a magical alloy called gartine, which slows the passage of time. It’s the same metal we used to frame the stasis field in Verdshane. As such, all of us—myself, Salk, Fylnia, Grawly, and Ozella—we are all of us hundreds of years old.”

Aravia immediately spotted a discrepancy. “Serpicore taught me there were six living archmagi. Did one of you die? Or is he wrong?”

Abernathy raised an eyebrow at her questions. “This Serpicore fellow is remarkably well-informed. I suppose technically there are six of us, but the sixth is a recluse named Caranch. He doesn’t join us, and we’ve never actually met him, though he contacts us from time to time with remarkably savvy advice. There’s something strange about him that none of us can put a finger on.”

Aravia’s heart was beating unusually fast given that she was perfectly still. King Naloric was a well-known figure, a historical villain who, like all such villains, had burned hot and dangerous for a time before being swept from the board of history by the inevitable ascendance of the just and heroic. The history books said that Naloric had been banished, permanently, to a place that was never quite spelled out. But there was nothing about his subsequent break-out, or his death, or a son still trapped in a prison-paired world, hungry to get out and avenge his father.

“I’m guessin’ this has somethin’ to do with Tor’s blue fellah?” asked Kibi.

“Ah. Right,” said Abernathy. “That ‘blue fellow’ was a Sharshun. Whatever malign power or substance infected Naloric the Just, and which we assume he passed on to his son, was used to create a cadre of dangerous servants called the Sharshun. We thought they were all wiped out in the decades following Naloric’s ill-fated escape, and none have been seen for centuries. We know little about them, save for the fact that they were skilled warriors, and obsessed with the Seven Mirrors.”

“Oh!” said Ernie. “I know about those.”

Aravia felt a bit miffed; she had never heard of them.

“The Seven Mirrors aren’t far from White Ferry,” said Ernie. “They’re a ring of tall obelisks out in the wilderness. They flash once a year, and some of the villagers make a sport of running out into the middle of them when they do. Flashing Day is like a holiday for all the surrounding villages.”

“Why did the Sharshun care about them?” asked Aravia.

“We don’t know,” said Abernathy. “But they’re connected in some way with a set of gemstones called the Eyes of Moirel, which the Sharshun were trying desperately to collect. The Sharshun believed that if they ever gathered all seven Eyes and brought them to the Seven Mirrors, they would win the war almost instantly.”

“Too many names!” Dranko complained. “Sharshun? Mirrors? Eyes? Naloric and Naradawk? If you want us to stick this out, keep it simple!”

Aravia chuckled. “Relax,” she told him. “I’m keeping track of everything.” She tapped her head.

Abernathy looked right at her and smiled. “Good, good,” he said. “Aravia, it gives me great comfort to know my spell chose you.”

She flushed with pride.

“Say,” said Dranko. “Since Aravia’s got everything covered, I don’t suppose you can spare me for a couple of weeks? I have a friend who’s gotten into some trouble, and there are some strange goings-on at my old church. Something to do with Mokad and embezzlement and a black circle.”

Abernathy’s eyes grew wide. “Black Circle? Are you certain?”

“Read for yourself.” Dranko handed over the letter from Praska.

Abernathy grabbed the letter and read the whole thing in about thirty seconds. When he was done, he handed the letter back without a word and stood stiffly, using his staff for leverage. Slowly, slowly, he walked around the living room, putting out one hand to touch the walls.

“Do you know why I summoned you?” he asked, addressing none of them in particular.

“You said you needed field agents,” said Aravia. “Because the danger to the kingdom had become more imminent.”

“Yes, and that’s true,” said Abernathy. “But only
since
I’ve summoned you has the
degree
of that danger become apparent. I cast the summoning spell because…”