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They stopped for the night in a copse of tall pine trees. Dead Machine had taken the first watch, although the Epic Lands had proven fairly safe to travel through; the one knight who had stopped them had let them pass unmolested after Radagast had given him a nonsense story about journeying to a city under siege to rescue a princess. He had surprised himself with the conviction with which his tale had been told; perhaps he was getting to be better at dissimulation.
“Do you feel it?” Rio muttered, staring into the fire.
“What?” Radagast’s automatic response was as much incomprehension as inquiry.
“The land here. It’s like it’s trying to gather us in. Don’t you feel different than you did in the forest?”
“It’s different here. It’s warmer. You’re just not used to–” Radagast faltered. “Not used to it.” His eyes flicked involuntarily to Rio’s arm.
“No, it’s something else, I’m sure of it.” He would have gone on, but Dead Machine suddenly entered the ring of firelight.
“We have a guest.” He lead a tall man into camp, dressed in a black, hooded robe and cowl. A violin dangled from one sleeve, his hand still hidden.
“Who’s this?” Radagast automatically reached for his sword, and was stabbed with a moment of panic when he couldn’t find it. Then he remembered that he’d never had a sword in his life.
“I am the Sightless Warden.” His voice sounded hollow and breathy. “I helped define these lands, with my half-light tales and nocturnal songs. I sense that the three of you have not yet embraced the ways of the battling True.” Dead Machine inclined his head toward the figure, staring at him out of his mechanical eyes. There might have been suspicion in them, if something inorganic can show emotion. Two hatches quietly slid open in his chest, baring the empty mouths of cannons. “No, you were indoctrinated long ago, but you do not feel the True Flame of Dragons deep within your souls.” He lifted his violin, and put bowhair to strings. Rio and Radagast started when the Warden’s sleeves fell away to reveal skeletal hands, bones reflecting the moon and fire in a weirdling interplay of light and shadow. Dead Machine’s cannons roared, but the Warden had already begun to play.
*
Iyzor shuddered, his jaw too slack to shape a scream. Cold ichor dripped off the stone wall and slithered down his back. Perversely, that constant trail of slime was what bothered him the most. His brain rejected the rest of it and turned it into unreality. Kathaarian had used him to assuage his pique before disappearing into the bowels of the Tower, and Iyzor wondered what the victims of the Inquisition must have felt. He knew the reports of victims kept for days, weeks....
“Comfy in there?” Iyzor blinked at the face that had appeared on the other side of the bars set in the door to the cell. It was mocking, starkly painted with coalblack around the eyes. It belonged to one of Kathaarian’s right-hand men, D’thcult. A consummate climber of ranks, Iyzor had been loathe to let him continue to serve after the Inquisition. There had been far too many reports of unnecessary cruelty, and a kind of twisted humor that ruled him. The broken wizard stared resolutely away. “Aw, not enjoying the Bishop’s hospitality? Ungrateful wretch. Don’t worry, things are about to get quite a bit more interesting.” Iyzor continued to stare blankly at the wall, but now D’thcult had his full attention. “Yes, once Kathaarian finishes – oh, but I’ve said too much already. What, were you expecting me to divulge our nefarious plan so you and the plucky heroes could stop it in the nick of time?” He snorted in utmost contempt. “We are the heroes, and the villains, and neither. There is no good or evil, only power and will. And right now, you can’t exercise either. Too bad.” With that, he turned away, and continued his progress through the dark hallway.
Iyzor twitched his hands in the shackles that bound him to the wall, his fingers twisting in the tiniest of arcane signs. He heard a faint click, and they fell open. No longer supported by the cold iron, he collapsed to the floor.
What? Since when can he do that?
He’s a wizard.
But that’s –
Hah. You might be able to keep me here, but I’ve been doing this a long time. I make the rules. I AM the deus ex, and I AM the machine.
We’ll see about that. We still have your body, you know.
Perverts.
You’re quite the modest one, aren’t you? I wonder what would happen if we had you put this on and go parading around that one area of town. You know, the one near your work.
Stop that! No!
Then be a good girl and behave.
I’m going to –
This again? Perhaps if we put these lovely devices on your feet…
Iyzor jerked as he hit the flagstones, too enervated to do anything but lie there. He didn’t know why he had wasted the last of his power like that. The visceral desire for freedom was a dangerous thing in humans. It overrode logic and sense, wasting empires.
Better.
He heard another clicking of a lock turning, and felt only numb fear. Kathaarian was back.
“Iyzor!” The voice that hissed his name was female. It shocked enough strength back into his body to allow him to turn and look towards the door. Carnif’x and Vikie slipped into his cell. He saw that the princess carried a bloodied dagger, and a short sword at her belt. “Come on, man! We have to move!”
Queen Vikie knelt by him. “He’s hurt! Iyzor, can you move?”
He swallowed hard. “I don’t know.”
“Dammit.” Carnif’x’s face darkened. “Well, help me, then.” She stuck her dagger in her belt and carefully hoisted Iyzor up so that he leaned on her shoulder. “Vikie, get his other side.” The women were as gentle as possible, but Iyzor still muttered in pain.
“It doesn’t look too bad,” said Vikie. “I don’t think his bones are broken, and he’s not bleeding.”
“You’d be surprised at how much you can hurt someone without leaving a mark.” Carnif’x cynically eyed Iyzor. “Given how much they’ve marked him, I imagine he must be in quite a bit of pain.”
“Guards,” mumbled Iyzor.
Carnif’x grinned. “Yes. Yes, there were.”
To be continued...
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