BETTER LEFT BURIED (PART THREE)
“I felt the magic more than anything else. There’s a sort of… crackle in the air when a spell that powerful is unleashed. If you survive your first one, then you get a sense for it. Well, I did and the moment that tingle went up my neck-hair, I bolted for Battlemage Stanmark. He obviously felt it too and was preparing his shields, screaming for everyone to get close. All the old hands did, and most of the new meat… but not enough. After the spell hit and when I could hear and see again; well what was outside the barrier I see it in my nightmares.”- A letter written by Man-at-arms Kropik after the Battle of Torek Wood.
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The skith disc floated up the shaft in total silence, its occupants too stunned to speak. Glancing upwards, Rellim nodded to himself, they were near the top and so far nothing else had happened. Praying that would continue, the Preceptor started planning. “Thorim, do you think you can get a message to Seirena once we’re on the surface?”
Staring off into the empty space the rattled seer took a moment to respond. “I’m sorry, but using a messenger bird would probably be better.”
Rellim had expected as much, but needed to be certain. Long distance psychic communication took more effort than what Thorim could currently muster. Still, the expedition wasn’t stupid enough to rely on a single means of communication. Even if the two other less potent seers among the staff weren’t capable, a bewitched bird could get word to the mainland. But the time delay such a method engendered pulled Rellim’s mind to his most pressing concern.
“How long until they escape the mirror?” He asked, fearing what the older seer might say.
Lomi and Wilkith stared at Rellim in horror, apparently not considering what the Preceptor had thought obvious. Peering over the disk's edge at the hints of movement in the reflections below, Thorim shrugged. “I don’t know if they even can. Those copies… those refractions of Abel might not be stable enough to enter reality; or at least this part of it. But I wouldn’t put gold on that considering what it did to the crane.”
Rellim nodded, being on the same page as his colleague. The myriad accidents and issues plaguing the dig site had taken on a new light. Whatever was within the ruin needed knowledge and sought it in the most classical of ways: experimentation. But with that question answered, another took its place. Was the sabotage intentional or merely a side effect? Did the ruin’s occupant seek to stymie their investigation, or were the problems it caused simply the most obvious signs of its own efforts to learn?
As the top of the shaft came closer, the Preceptor decided such thoughts could wait for a later date. Even if the intelligence they’d encountered wasn’t intentionally hostile, it had still killed a man. Now wasn’t the time for curiosity and conjecture; it was time to call for help and do what they could to keep this contained.
The skith disc gently slid up and onto the atrium’s floor at Rellim’s direction. Offering a final glance down at the now dark shaft, the Preceptor shrunk down his trinket and folded it away. Thorim was upright now but supported by Lomi, the seer still discombobulated by whatever he’d encountered. Interrogating him would be important, but leaving this cursed place came first.
Walking together in silence, the four magi traveled down the screw-tunnel and out into the blinding light of high summer. They found the excavation site little changed, with dozens of nervous dig staff staring up at them from where they’d been waiting. Magus Urbain quickly approached them, his voice low. “No luck?”
Shaking his head, Rellim spoke quickly. “We need to evacuate back to the main camp and get word to the mainland. Things… things aren’t good.”
Seeing the Preceptor’s grim look, Urbain swallowed down a nervous lump and started shouting orders to those around them. Before he could join his colleague in herding their subordinates, Rellim glanced back at the waiting Triskelion tunnel. Staring into that triangular opening, he got the distinct sense something was returning the favor.
Shaking that uncomfortable thought off, Rellim got to work, and within two hours, the entire expedition was assembled back at the main camp. It took another hour for Rellim to relay events to his inner circle and for them to share an agreed upon abridgment with everyone else. Avoiding panic at this point was key; so better the staff and servants be told ruins were merely dangerous, not that they were hosting an eldritch intelligence of unknown origin and intent.
With all that settled, Rellim could get to work on the most important task; calling for help. While one of Magus Hanna’s messenger gulls could carry the Preceptor’s words easily, he needed to decide exactly who to seek aid from. On the surface, this conundrum seemed non-existent. The expedition was organized by an Ivory Tower and composed of magi; of course they’d seek their Seirena colleague’s aid. But the Ivory Tower of Seirena wasn’t the Ivory Tower of Vindabon. The high ideals of cooperation were no guarantee, especially in a situation like this. Poaching this expedition out from beneath the Aenean magi’s noses hadn’t earned Rellim’s school any friends and academic grudges combined with avarice for the unknown might lead to tragic results.
While the Preceptor didn’t think the Seriena Magi would do anything untoward, it couldn’t be guaranteed. Powerful people tended to get irrational when words like ‘ancient ruins’ ‘mysterious magics’ or ‘dangerous precursor’ were put together. Rellim would not risk any more of his subordinates in this mess, so a counterweight was needed. Of his options, the temples seemed the most obvious. Not only did they have the political and arcane strength to match the Ivory Tower, their priests might have crucial expertise on this matter.
Sitting in his tent, stylus in hand, Rellim knew which of the temples he needed to contact. In a fit of cosmic irony, his first choice in these matters was also seemingly the correct one. From what Thorim had said and what the Preceptor himself had witnessed, this was a matter for Master Time’s followers. Thinking about the dead empty eyes of the Abel refractions and how the snapped string repaired itself, Rellim became more certain of this. His expedition had uncovered something beyond their ken, but hopefully not a Knight-Proctor of the Tower or a Hierophant of Time’s.
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Rellim stood atop a bluff near Mycio Island’s north shore, staring at the fast-growing dot in the sky. It had been a week since he’d sent his message and less than an hour ago Thorim received psychic word that the Knight-Proctor was close, and arriving by air. This relatively fast response was not unwelcome but still concerning, especially since there was no sign of the counterbalance Rellim sought. So, wand in hand, the Preceptor prepared for the proctor and tried not to worry about the lack of Tenth Temple aid.
With every passing second, the dot grew until it resolved itself into three specks, each vaguely oval in shape. Tapping his glasses with his wand, Rellim zoomed in on the shapes and sucked in a nervous breath. They were giant feathers, each at least three meters long and flying through the air fast as any bird. Sitting atop each of them was a warrior in full rune-etched armor, multi-hued sparks dripping from where they gripped the quill tip of their strange steed. The Knight-Proctor and their subordinates were arriving by rukh feather. This was extraordinary and did little to settle the Preceptor’s nerves. Using such a potent elemental relic for mere fast transport was shocking and meant the tower was taking his plea seriously. Now the question was what form would their response take?
Deciding it was too late for doubts, Rellim raised his wand and shot a series of fiery words into the air, directing the proctors towards a safe space to land. The three feathers shifted slightly as their passengers altered the magic wind carrying them aloft. Leaving the bluff, Rellim headed towards the reasonably flat stretch of island he’d directed his potential allies towards. Hand on his hat to keep it from blowing away, the Preceptor watched the three feathers descend in a slow circling path. The very air tingled with magic as the relics shaped the wind to their rider’s will. With a final roaring gale, the feathers landed, the spell bound to them fading away as the proctors changed focus.
All three were tall, well-built soldiers, two carrying swords and the last a long ornate spear. The spear-user took off his helmet, revealing a shock of white hair and deep bronze skin. Sunborn wrinkles fought old scars for space as the Knight-Proctor’s steady, single-eyed gaze drank in Rellim and his assembled inner circle. One of the old battlemage’s scars traced along the left side of his face, disappearing under the rune-etched eyepatch he wore. Judging by looks alone, Rellim was dealing with that most terrifying of persons, an elder in a dangerous profession.
The title proctor was given to those magi tasked with enforcing the law upon their fellows and keeping order within the Ivory Towers. They were the shield raised in defense of magic’s sanctity and the sword placed at the throat of all its practitioners. But among their numbers, those called knights were the most seasoned and effective. These were the battlemages and spellswords sent to deal with the worst threats to the Ivory towers. Facing such a warrior, Rellim could only hope that the enchanted spear he carried would be pointed in a palatable direction.
Holding out a hand, Rellim introduced himself. “Preceptor Rellim Hardspade of the Vindabon Archaeology School. Thank you for coming so quickly.”
After a long moment, the Knight-Proctor took the offered hand. “Haddon Sharp-Staff.” gesturing to his left and right, he continued. “My squires, Olasis and Yimik.”
Olasis was a lean woman with a partially shaved head and scarred cheek. Yimik by contrast, was a hulking bearblood with heavy sideburns and ruddy wild hair. Accepting the pair’s curt nods, Rellim couldn’t help but marvel at the drastically inappropriate title of squire. While the two battlemages were clearly assistants and potential successors to Haddon, they didn’t exactly look like the fresh-faced noblings the word squire brought to mind.
Haddon’s single eye fixed on the distant peak of the Triskelion rift. “Take us to the problem. Sooner we deal with it, the better.”
Glancing at the two squires as they collected and stored the rukh feathers, Rellim made a small but important gamble. “Did the Tenth Temple not send anyone? We’re extraordinarily grateful to have your aid, but their aid might prove important.”
It wasn’t the most diplomatic question, and judging by Haddon’s iron stare, he didn’t appreciate the implied doubt of his abilities. Still, it had to be asked, and after a few seconds of letting Rellim cook beneath his gaze, the Knight-Proctor answered it. “The Tower will inform them if they are needed; which is doubtful. Old fae relics like this pop up every few years; we of Aenea are long used to handling even their time magic.”
A surge of deep dread welled up in Rellim. “In my letter, I mentioned how we think the site might pre-date the fae or other known precursors. One of my magus is a skilled geomancer and has dated some of the-”
Haddon cut him off with a gesture. “If you are relying on physical signs for identification, then of course your findings will be inaccurate. Anywhere the fae infested is twisted, no scholarly assessment is worth shit when it comes to their ruins. You can’t measure layers of dirt or any other academic trick to get the whole story about creatures who warp the world around them.”
That sense of foreboding in Rellim was growing with every passing second. Before him stood not just an old professional in a dangerous career but the much less desirable other side of that same coin; a headstrong elder so set in their ways they couldn’t adapt. If Rellim had to guess, Haddon was probably beyond knowledgeable and effective in his set fields of expertise; but seemingly unable to conceive of matters outside his context. The Ivory Tower of Seirena had read the Preceptor’s letter and sent who they thought best, instead of who he’d requested. Swallowing down his nerves, Rellim could only pray he was catastrophizing, not prophesying.
Deciding acquiescence was his best option, the Preceptor changed topics and focus. “I’ll take you to the site and answer any questions you have.”
Fittingly for experienced magi, Haddon and his squires had many inquiries for Rellim and his fellows. They hunted after details, cutting through so many words to find what they thought was important. Aside from sharing testimony of events in the tunnels, the expedition offered accounts of all that had happened in the weeks since the Abel incident. Despite layering the shaft’s entrance in protective wards and even sealing the Triskelion’s entrance, uncanny events still plagued the archaeologist. The strange dreams once only found amongst the most sensitive were now common among all the magi and even a few of the mundane staff.
Even Rellim hadn’t escaped the dreams, suffering two in the last week. In both he’d been in his office back in Vindabon trying to decipher a scroll made of stone, except every time he blinked or otherwise moved, things around him subtly shifted. Books would change positions on shelves, or furniture would be ever so slightly tilted a handful of degrees. Gripped by that irrational fervor found in dreams, Rellim kept at his translation as with every moment, his office slowly transfigured into something unrecognizable. Eventually, after minutes that felt like hours, he’d look up from the impossible scroll and find himself in a madman’s parody of what once was familiar. Shelves teetering at dangerous angles, their books spilled out into open air, dangling mid-fall above low tables now barely a hand-span tall or bent into ludicrous shapes.
The first dream ended with Rellim staring out at this surreality, drinking in its twisted details before consciousness came like a punch to the gut. But in the second dream, he lingered long enough to stand from his desk, which now boughed at the middle and walked to his office’s single window. With every step, Rellim became more and more convinced someone was on the other side of that frosted glass, waiting for him. Strangely, the notion filled him with both giddy excitement and deep terror, both emotions mounting as he came closer to the window. When he stood before the smudged oculus, the Preceptor squinted at his own dusty reflection, trying to see what lay past it. Leaning in towards the glass, despite part of himself screaming not to, Rellim’s dream ended right as his own reflection reached out to touch him.
While those originally afflicted with the odd dreams were unwilling to share them, once their importance came to light and they became more common, that self-inflicted taboo died. With every shared dream, the similarities became clear; each had the same basic concept of a familiar space slowly transfiguring in some absurd way. Only some experienced the foreign presence like Rellim, but it was comforting he wasn’t the only one. Haddon found these particularly interesting, and the Preceptor could understand why. The entity in the ruins was clearly touching the expedition’s unconscious minds by some unknown method and for some unknown reason.
The stream of questions from the Proctors finally ended as they finally reached the Triskelion rift. Having approached from the west, they entered at one of the rift’s mouths, getting a good look at the abandoned excavation and hastily blocked off ruin. Staring at the great reflective triangle set into the smooth rock, Haddon asked. “Do you know how large the structure is?”
Magus Alvia cleared her throat. She’d not been too pleased with how dismissive the Proctors were of her geological assessments. Having argued as a trained stone savant, scholar and clan dwarf, she’d have ‘slagging noticed signs of fae arse-spoil in the rock.’ But, in an unusually diplomatic move, she didn’t continue this argument. “We’ve used tremor-tellers and other methods to get a notion of what’s down there and it's massive. The entire island sits on top of the complex, with only a few parts of it sticking out into open air.”
To literally illustrate her point, the Magus squatted down and placed her hands on a reasonably flat hunk of rock. Eyes shut, she made a deep noise in the back of her throat and the rock shifted like disturbed water. When it settled, the stone showed a series of interlinking spirals. Overlapping and flowing into each other, the spirals were clustered in threes, giving the ruin a strange symmetry. At the center of the branching whirls was a tri-lobed cave with a shaft branching down from it into the lower coils and the single tunnel stretched out and breaking the complex’s radial perfection. Staring at the simplified version of what lay beneath their feet, Haddon grunted. “I see why you named it the Triskelion.”
Pointing at the central shaft that connected the upper atrium and lower spirals, the Knight-Proctor asked. “That's where the incident happened?”
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Rellim nodded and Haddon unbuckled his spear, flickers of indigo fire dancing along its blades. “I want to examine the site and see if these ‘refracted’ remain. Preceptor, will you accompany us?”
Letting out a nervous breath, Rellim checked over his robes and the small collection of arcane trinkets he kept on his person. “I suppose you’ll need a guide.”
Soon enough, the Preceptor stood at the entrance of the Triskelion while Magus Urbain telekinetically removed the piled stone plugging the triangular tunnel. Nearby, the three proctors checked over each other's armor and weapons. Haddon’s spear and his squire’s swords were all intricate casting foci, the battle-tested cousins to Rellim’s own wand. Comparing his own arcane focus and collection of protection runes to the arsenal displayed was enough to have the senior archaeologist feeling grossly unprepared. Magi were often defined by their collections of magical items, using them to bolster and expand their capabilities. While Rellim’s favorites were more than adequate for his uses, they wouldn’t be much use in a true battle.
Deciding he’d do his best to keep the proctors between him and any danger, Rellim turned his focus towards the quartet of magi, examining the locus for the warding arrays they’d put inside the ruin. They’d been here before Rellim and the proctors arrived, making final checks to the complicated spells left inside the ruins. Catching bits of the hushed but clearly intense conversation they were having, Rellim asked. “Find anything?”
The senior of the four, Magus Yvonne, a mousy woman with a slight tic in one cheek, said. “We’ve found something strange; possibly an explanation to the detector ward issue.”
That got Rellim’s attention. The last thing the expedition had done before sealing off the ruin was cover the atrium in sensor spells, hoping to catch hints of whatever magic had trapped and killed Abel. Despite near constant examinations of the wards, they’d found no sign of whatever pulled the poor man into the mirror; which made no sense. Magic of that scale and scope always left a mark, one a team of skilled magi should find easier than a bloodhound did a cut of raw steak.
Fidgeting slightly, Magus Yvonne gestured at the collection of intricate quartz crystals making up the array’s heart. “When I heard the proctors were coming, it seemed a good idea to do a few extra checks. And… and when we did, things didn’t match what we recorded.”
Rellim’s eyes were drawn then to another member of the quartet, Adept Corico, who was squatting down, a notebook in one hand, the other stroking some of the crystals, tiny ribbons of light dripping from his fingers. The Adept was checking the quartz, feeling the information trapped in the spells bound to them, and clearly not liking what he found judging by the ever deepening frown on his umber face.
Letting out a curse, Corico stood up and handed the logbook to his senior. Yvonne took it and after a long look, spoke faster. “We do multiple readings every day and record them; but the spell itself remembers what it experienced. They should match perfectly and they did yesterday and every day since we set the wards, but now they don’t.”
Lips parting, Rellim slowly asked. “What changed?”
Fidgeting, Yvonne glanced at the notebook as if she expected its contents to have also changed. “Our records say the Aether was normal over the past week, showing only slight shifts when we worked our more potent spells. But, the magic itself says the Aether has been stirred up horribly. More than that, the spells show signs of stress, like they’d been taxed by overuse. Specifically, twice as much use as they were intended.”
Part of the Preceptor wanted to ask stupid questions like if the records could be wrong or if someone might have tampered with the detector spells. Instinct and education told him to seek the simplest solution, but experience had a differing opinion. The razor of rationality was excellent in cutting to the truth most of the time, but when you were mired in bizarre arcane phenomena, easy answers weren’t common. Long ago, Rellim learned in moments like these not to deny the impossible just because it was happening; better to accept and adapt.
Slowly taking the notebook from Yvonne, Rellim looked it over in a token effort of finding that vaunted simple solution. The old records were intricate, methodical and verbose; as were the new results pulled from the crystals today. Both sets of data told contradicting stories that, when put together with other facts Rellim collected, pointed in a worrying direction. Four skilled magi had witnessed Abel’s fate and none of them had sensed anything, nor had they or anyone else detected the magic clearly at work inside the ruin. So unless whatever was inside could break the rules of reality without magic, then it had some method of hiding its actions. A method Rellim was starting to understand thanks to what happened to Thorim in the ruin.
The Token-Seer had seen two pasts for the thread made from Abel’s clothes. That same bizarre string healed itself seemingly at the cost of Thorim’s own sleeve, and in doing so pulled the attention of whatever resided within the ruin. Attention that gave the seer a seizure as his attuned mind brushed against the entity. Thorim’s brain unable to handle contact with something so profoundly alien. But now, staring at the crystals and the logbook, Rellim had an idea of exactly how alien the Triskelion entity was.
“It hid its spell in the future, or at least part of it,” he murmured, trying to make his brain hold the idea that threatened to slip away. “The magic couldn’t be erased, but it could be put where we wouldn’t see it.”
The Preceptor stared off into space, putting his jumbled thoughts into order. “Think of a mage hiding behind a boulder, jumping out to shoot flame and then scurrying back behind it when their enemies came looking. Except the mage isn’t moving through space, but through time, using the future as their cover.”
Coming back the moment and seeing the magi looking at him with confusion, Rellim shook his head. “Don’t you see? The damn thing is a mountebank, shuffling its cards and playing tricks on the blind! It cast its magic on Abel last week and hid the effects on the Aether in today. You all recorded what the Aether was like before the spell ‘arrived’ in the present, so that’s why it doesn’t match! The Mountebank changed things in its favor and reality adjusted, just like the thread. But there has to be a cost, all magic has a price, especially madness like this. That’s why Thorim’s sleeve broke and the sensor wards are damaged.”
Yvonne and her fellows stared at Rellim in confusion. Grimacing, Rellim handed the logbook back to her and headed for the Proctors. “Thank you; this might help us solve this whole mess!”
The three battlemages waited and watched while Urbain finished his work. The Telekinetic had just pulled out the last boulder from the Triskelion’s entrance and was setting it down nearby, sweat beading on his brow as he moved solid rock through will alone. Huffing slightly, he wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “The shaft is sealed primarily with spells; Rellim knows how to deactivate them. Which- ah, well he can explain it better than I can.”
As the corpulent Magus waddled away, Haddon and his squires turned to regard Rellim as he said. “I have a few ideas about the entity.”
After listening to the Preceptor’s theory, Haddon grunted. “If the Sidhe can steal moments and trade them like baubles, then maybe this ‘Mountebank’ can hide in them”
Without further ceremony the old battlemage climbed the ramp to the Triskelion, his squires following him, Rellim a step behind them. Stepping over the dust and gravel left by Urbain’s efforts, the quartet entered the screw-tunnel, senses peeled for anything abnormal. Magelight flared from Haddon’s spear-staff, coating its tip in blue flames. In that queer glow, the warped reflections surrounding the group became pale unearthly things; which reminded Rellim too much of a wraith’s phosphorescence to be comfortable.
Aside from the unnerving illumination, there was no sign of activity, paranormal or otherwise. Nothing had changed inside the ruin and Rellim got the sense that thought had been applicable for entire epochs before his expedition came sniffing about.
Entering into the atrium, the group slowly approached the collection of wards surrounding the shaft. Wooden planks had been laid over the hole and atop them were layers of arcane defenses marked in runes and crystals. At Haddon’s prompting, Rellim reached out to the wards with his mind and prepared to deactivate the more… active defenses. Standing over the magical array, the Preceptor paused as his Aetheric senses brushed against the wards. A thought had just occurred to him and its implications sent ice through his veins. If the Mountebank could shift its influence on the Aether through time to trick their spells and senses… then what good were these defensive wards?
A noise echoed through the atrium then, a horrible horrible noise Rellim recognized.
‘Thunk thunk thunk’
Slowly turning towards the sound's origin, the Preceptor saw what he’d feared. Near the atrium’ entrance, in the reflective surface of the wall, stood a naked corpse, its fist banging on the mirror. Staring at the body, Rellim’s brain pointed out details in a vain attempt to stop his growing panic. Abel, or at least this copy of him, was decaying slowly, looking like he’d spent a day in a cold mortuary, not a week on the other side of a mirror. Also the pattern of blows was familiar, almost identical to the real Abel’s frantic strikes. But the refracted copy’s mouth merely flapped like a fish, unable to form the original’s final words.
Pointing his wand at the copy, Rellim hissed. “We have a problem.”
The proctors moved quickly, getting into formation as the Aether stirred with their gathering power. Raising one hand, Haddon made a series of gestures and a sigil cast from blue fire floated from his fingers and towards the copy. Upon touching the mirror wall, the sigil became blindly bright and then vanished with a snap. Blinking away afterimages, Rellim thought for a second he was seeing double as other refracted appeared in other parts of the walls. But the growing rumble of dozens of fists slamming against the mirrors ended that notion. All around them, in every panel of the walls, was a copy, each hammering their fist and flapping their lips in a sickening parody of Abel’s last moments.
Spear-staff at the ready, Haddon slowly approached the nearest wall, his single eye fixed on the refracted opposite him. With a whispered word of power, the Knight-Proctor drove his weapon forward, its tip cracking against the mirror wall, sending ripping sparks out from the point of impact. Occult sigils flared momentarily in the crackling discharge and Haddon started to ‘draw’ with his speartip, painting runes of blue fire onto the mirror. Pulling his weapon back, the Knight-Proctor pressed his hand into the rune’s center and Rellim watched in shock as the fire’s reflection went ‘deeper’ into the mirror, coiling around the Abel copy and binding it in tongues of sapphire flame.
Slowly the refracted was lifted into the air by its fiery shackles, held in place as Haddon positioned himself, spear at the ready. With a lightning quick jab, he stabbed open air and his reflection impaled the copy, catching it right through the heart, sending clots of drying blood flying in a brown splatter. Streams of blue fire danced up the mirror-spear’s tip and flowed into the refracted as the Knight-Proctor started to speak words of magic. Then, with a loud grunt, Haddon fell to one knee, the magic flickering out like a drowned candle.
Proctor Yimik ran to his mentor’s side, sword flaring with arcane power. Dropping his spear, clutching his squire with one hand, Haddon slammed his other one into his chest and sparks flew from the blow. Letting out a long groan, the Knight-Proctor got to his feet and collected the dropped staff with a thought. Using it to keep upright, Haddon approached Rellim, still clutching at his chest. Voice tight with pain, the old warrior said. “It just gave me a heart-attack.”
Deciding now wasn’t the time to be stunned by Haddon’s hardiness, Rellim asked. “What were you doing?”
Sucking in deep breaths and filling his body with reinforcing magic, the Knight-Proctor said. “Testing some theories.” gesturing about them with his staff he added. “These aren’t reflections, or at least not entirely.”
Haddon shut his single eye for a moment and then continued. “They are moments of time, split off and contained. Bubbles of near-identical alternatives we brush against but don’t enter.” An ugly smile spread along the Knight-Proctor’s face. “Or at least aren’t supposed to enter. I managed it, and your Mountebank responded.”
Taking this in, Rellim nodded but then sought clarification. “No specifically, what were you physically doing when it attacked?” Turning to the others, he said. “That goes for all of us.”
Confused, Yimik offered. “I think I was looking at Master Haddon.”
Olasis nodded. “I was as well.”
Frowning, Haddon said. “I shut my eye to focus on the spell. Foolish of me.”
Rellim looked past his fellows to the Abel copy that was attacked. Aside from a smear of dead blood upon its chest, the refracted showed no sign of being stabbed. Like the others, Rellim had been focused on Haddon. Much like the snapped thread became whole when no one was looking at it, the refracted had healed.
Sorting this important fact away, the Preceptor said. “I think we should head back to camp, to get you better treatment, Knight-Proctor.”
Shaking his head, Haddon knocked on his breastplate, the sound eerily like the rhythmic blows coming all around them. “I always come prepared for fulgurmancy. This isn’t the first time I’ve restarted my heart during battle.”
The dead serious looks on both squires' faces told Rellim the old knight wouldn’t be dissuaded. “Fine, I suppose I should finish undoing the protections so we can examine the-”
‘THUNK!’
All eyes whirled to one corner of the room where Rellim expected to find an agitated refracted; which he did in a way. Sprawled on the ground was one of the copies, it had fallen through the mirror and into this side of reality. All around them the refracted pushed against the looking glass, slipping through the shimmering material and towards Rellim’s group.
Thorim’s words echoed in the Preceptor’s mind. ‘We woke it up, Rellim, we woke it up, and we gave it a manual.’
Haddon hadn’t just pierced the mirror and evoked a backlash, he’d shown the Mountebank a new trick, one it was quickly learning. Blades at the ready, the proctors formed a loose triangle around Rellim, prepared for whatever attack may come. Voice still taut and grim, Haddon barked. “Aim to restrain, not hurt.”
Within a few seconds, nearly two dozen of the refracted were free from the mirrors and standing about, a husk parade awaiting their orders. Rellim prepared his own binding spells, wondering if the refracted would attack like the hungering ghouls they so resembled, or simply keep standing there, uncertain of what to do. After nearly half a minute of the tense stand-off, the copies did neither. Some of them started walking towards the atrium’s exit while others skirted around the magi, heading for the sealed off shaft.
That sent a bolt of concern up Rellim’s spine, particularly the idea of what might happen if the husks triggered the defenses on the shaft. Would the backlash merely damage the spells or the magi who cast them? That wasn’t a risk Rellim was willing to take. “Stop them while I shut off the defenses!”
To their credit the three proctors understood his reasoning within seconds, and Yimik stepped forward, flipping his sword into a reverse grip, the gemstone pommel glowing with focused power. Some of the rope left behind from the dismantled crane snapped out like a whip and slithered about the two closest refracted. With a thought, the large bearblood tied the pair together, winding lengths of cord about them, while his comrades did similar to the others. Soon all six refracted were trapped, while Rellim himself conjured a barrier of force at the exit tunnel’s mouth, just in time for the first copy to bounce off it like a fly on a window.
Even tied up as they were, the six refracted ‘assigned’ to the shaft kept wriggling, trying to move towards the planks blocking off the vertical tunnel. This time, there was no backlash and Rellim thought they were making progress, then his crude ward at the atrium’s entrance shattered. A noise like thunder exploded through the ruin, deafening Rellim, his ears ringing as he fell to the ground.
Trying to gather his wits, Rellim realized his ward had been smashed by incredible kinetic force, and the refracted who’d been pressed up against his barrier was gone. Looking about him, the Preceptor’s hearing returned just in time for a strange buzzing to reach his ears. One of the tied up refracted was… was vibrating, its body blurred like a bee’s wings. Bits of shredded hemp puffed in the air around the refracted, as it twitched on the floor at eye-escaping speeds. Thinking about Abel's fate, Rellim started to shout something about the refracted… well refracting into more copies and then a second thunderbolt rocked the chamber, this one followed by sticky rain.
Rellim’s wards flared around him, crackling as they fought against some attack. Through the distortion of his arcane defenses, Rellim saw a world turned pink. A cloud of cherry mist filled the atrium, and with it a horrible stink. Wiping away some of the crimson vapor clinging to his face and glasses, the Preceptor realized he was on the ground and surrounded by flecks of… of something. Head still reeling from the two blasts, he reached out and picked up some of the splinters dotting the ground near him. He winced upon touching a bitterly sharp metal shard and quickly settled upon a familiarly textured flinder.
Holding up the centimeter-long scrap, Rellim’s years of archaeological experience told him its nature. “Bone?”
Able to hear his own voice now, the Preceptor dropped the fragment and looked around as the reddish fog settled, covering the cave in a slick stinking film. Yimik and Olasis were sprawled out nearby, also reeling from the explosion, their armor’s runes glowing white-hot in response to whatever just happened. Five of the refracted still lay on the ground, struggling against their bonds, but aside from the one that had been vibrating, the cavern was missing another occupant. Haddon was gone, his staff laying on the ground a few meters away.
Shakily, Olasis got to her knees, and stared around, her eyes wide with incredulity and recognition. “Fu-fuck!”
A low groan escaped Yimik as he tried to stand up. In an uncertain voice, the large proctor asked the question on Rellim’s mind “Wh-where is Master Haddon?”
Grim faced, Olassis looked all about the cave. “Everywhere, he’s everywhere around us.”
Her meaning sunk into Rellim like a poisoned dagger as he stared at the red mess and the bits of metal and bone mixed in with it. Gazing around the chamber, Rellim looked towards the entrance, seeing a long smear of crimson heading out of the atrium, the tracks of something moving incredibly fast. The vibrating refracted had gotten free and left the Triskelion; Knight-Proctor Haddon just happened to be standing in its way when it did.
Despite his efforts, the Preceptor vomited up his lunch all over the blood-coated floor. He’d been around death, and seen its myriad forms, but this… this was new and beyond horrible. There wasn’t even anything left to bury, just a spray of liquefied person and enough shrapnel to nearly crack Rellim’s wards. That thought made other things click into place, the first explosion, the one that destroyed his crude barrier, it had been one of the refracted ‘accelerating’ like what killed Haddon; there just had been no one to accelerate through for it. Then like toppling gambling tiles another more obvious realization struck him. Two of the refracted were loose out at the dig site, and he was surrounded by the rest.
Staring at the five bound copies of poor dead Abel, Rellim sucked in a breath. “We need to leave! NOW!”