Temple Hill Page 20

  The gnome’s dire warning conjured a grim pause in the conversation. Fendel dispelled the heavy silence with a clap of his dirty hands.

  “No dwelling on what ifs. Let’s get down to business, Corin. Show me that potion the wizard gave you.”

  Without bothering to ask why, Corin produced the vial and placed it in the gnome’s hands. Fendel jiggled the container, studying the way the contents rolled and rippled inside the glass.

  “Looks genuine,” he admitted, “but I’ll need to do a few tests to be sure.” He set the bottle down. “Let’s see that map.”

  After a few minutes of careful study of the intricate layout of the tunnels beneath Elversult’s surface, Fendel raised his head. “This is another set up. They want you to fail. If you try to get into Xiliath’s lair through the smugglers’ tunnels on this map you’re as good as dead.”

  Corin had suspected as much. The Cult of the Dragon wanted their package back, and the warrior knew the lizard worshipers would consider him very expendable. Likely they wanted him to draw attention away from their own efforts to infiltrate Xiliath’s hideout. But he didn’t tell any of this to Fendel. There was no point.

  “Going down into the smugglers’ tunnels is virtually a suicide mission,” Fendel continued. “But I may have a solution. Here, I’ll show you.”

  Leaving Corin’s map spread out across his workbench, Fendel rummaged around his workshop before returning with several scroll tubes. He proceeded to remove the documents inside and unroll them. “Hmmm.… Not this one. Hang on … nope. Ah … here it is.”

  He laid his own version of the map out on the table, side by side with Azlar’s. To Corin’s curious glance, they appeared almost identical—a dizzying picture of meandering routes crossing over, under, and through each other.

  “How did you get this?” the warrior asked in amazement, staring at what appeared to be two copies of the entire legendary smugglers’ system.

  “I wasn’t always in the service of the Wonderbringer,” the gnome answered. “The tunnels were an easy way to move about the city without being seen, and a good place to hide out. I spent enough time down there in my day, I decided I might as well map them out to pass the time.”

  “You were a thief,” Corin said as the realization slowly dawned. “A burglar. Like Lhasha.”

  “Who do you think got her into the business?” the gnome replied, slightly amused by Corin’s reaction. “I’m surprised Lhasha never mentioned it, but I guess you aren’t one for small talk.”

  True enough, Corin thought.

  “Of course, things were different back then,” the gnome continued. “Elversult was a savage, violent city before Yanseldara took over. Didn’t have to worry about the Maces, but there was always another thief around the corner looking to slit your throat and take what you worked so hard to steal.”

  “But you said traveling the tunnels was a suicide mission,” Corin pointed out, bringing the gnome back to the topic at hand. “How did you survive them?”

  “I didn’t go through the tunnels, I went under them.”

  Seeing Corin’s confusion, the gnome clarified. “Everyone knows about the tunnels beneath the city. What most people don’t know is that there is another network of passages below the original smugglers’ tunnels—the subtunnels, if you will.”

  Corin was skeptical, but the gnome continued his explanation.

  “It was only a matter of time, really. The smugglers came to realize that avoiding the Elversult authorities was easy, but avoiding each other was much tougher. The tunnels were full of guards, traps, monsters—you name it. And everyone wanted a piece of everyone else’s action.

  “So some of the more resourceful smugglers decided they’d build themselves another set of passages they could use to move quickly and safely between important areas, like Xiliath’s storage cavern on your map. And of course, they were careful to make sure very few people would ever know of the new passages’ existence. You could say they’re the smugglers’ tunnels of the smugglers’ tunnels. But that’s quite a mouthful, so I just call them the sub-tunnels.”

  “You’ve been in these sub-tunnels?” Corin asked, the excitement obvious in his voice.

  Fendel nodded.

  “Then you can tell me how to use them to find Lhasha!”

  “Tell you? I’ll show you. Did you really think I’d just sit here while Lhasha’s in trouble?”

  “This isn’t a quest for an inventor or a thief,” Corin said, remembering what had happened with Lhasha and the naga. “You’ll just be in my way.”

  “Don’t underestimate me.” Fendel’s voice was hard as iron. The prospect of a job to be done had brought about a sudden metamorphosis in his usual jovial mood. As Corin had seen with Lhasha, the gnome’s disposition became serious and cold when it was time for business.

  “I’m much more than just a thief, as you’ve already guessed from my inventions. I doubt my magic is a match for the young cult wizard, but I know my fair share of incantations. Anyway, you’ll need all the help you can get. The sub-tunnels might give you safe passage to Xiliath’s treasure room, but finding the way into them won’t be easy, even for me. And there’s bound to be guards in the treasure cavern when you get there. Alone, you’ll never even get close enough to Lhasha to use that potion. Together we might actually stand a small chance of getting her out alive.”

  It was pointless to argue. Corin knew how stubborn Lhasha could be; now he understood where she got it from. Fendel also spoke the truth. With a mage by his side—even a minor spellcaster—his odds of success were much higher.

  Corin shrugged. “So be it. We’ll go together.”

  Fendel gave a curt nod then turned his attention back to the map.

  “Look here,” the gnome said, pointing a gnarled finger at a point on the page. “If I remember right, we can get into the sub-tunnels through a secret door somewhere around here. If the cult’s info on Xiliath is accurate, the sub-tunnels should then take us straight under his treasure room.”

  Corin took a closer look and saw the route as the gnome traced it with his gnarled finger—a straight line running beneath the larger network of caves, right through the heart of the area Azlar had marked on his own map as Xiliath’s lair.

  “The sub-tunnels are well hidden,” Fendel continued. “If we’re lucky, even Xiliath himself might not know about them. No guards, no alarms. In and out in a matter of minutes, and no one the wiser.”

  “As soon as night falls, we’ll go in,” Fendel added. “That’ll give me some time to get my things together, make sure this potion from the cult can really do what they claim, and memorize a few spells. Plus, it’ll give you a chance to rest. When was the last time you slept? I’ve seen liches who looked more alive than you.”

  “I got some rest a couple nights ago. A few hours. Before Lhasha and I went to the warehouse.” Two straight days without sleep. Corin had gone much longer on forced marches with the White Shields. That night he and Lhasha broke into the warehouse seemed a long, long way from where he was now.

  The gnome nodded. “It shows. If you don’t get some rest you won’t be much use when we go after Lhasha.”

  Everything Fendel said was true, arguing would only waste time and energy. For Lhasha’s sake, Corin consented to his orders. “I’ll lie down. But I doubt I can sleep.”

  Fendel rummaged around his workshop again, and produced a crystal flask of clear liquid. “Take a swig of this. It’ll knock you out. One gulp, no more. I don’t want you waking up a tenday from now.”

  Corin took the bottle from Fendel’s hand and popped the stopper out.

  “Better lie down first,” Fendel warned. “It works fast.”

  Heeding the gnome’s advice, the soldier went into the small bedroom attached to the back of Fendel’s workshop and stretched out on the bed in the corner. His feet dangled off the end of the tiny mattress, but at least it was comfortable. He could hear Fendel rummaging around in the workshop.

  “Now, where di
d I stash my spellbooks?” the gnome muttered as the door separating the bedroom and the workshop slowly closed, drawn shut by the springs Fendel had installed on its hinges.

  Corin took a sniff of the liquid. Odorless. He raised the flask to his lips. One long drink, two coughing gasps of surprise as the liquid burned down his throat, a three-count while he waited for the potion to take effect—and Corin knew no more.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  By the light streaming through the window when he awoke, Corin knew it was early evening. He had slept for nearly twelve hours, but he wasn’t stiff or sore at all. Fendel’s elixir had left him feeling refreshed and rejuvenated, and even the cuts and bruises from his fight with Graal had all but vanished. He got to his feet and went back into the workshop to find Fendel.

  The gnome glanced over from his workbench to the stirring warrior.

  “Feeling better?” He didn’t bother to wait for the answer he already knew. “I have something for you.”

  Clasped in his wrinkled, grimy hands was a gleaming metal arm. The light from the setting sun glinted off the fingers and the wrist. The gnome walked over and held it out toward Corin, as if making an offering at the feet of an emperor.

  “But Lhasha just gave you the down payment a couple days ago,” Corin said, slightly confused.

  “The idea of building a working prosthetic kind of tweaked my imagination,” the gnome explained with a rueful smile. “And I knew Lhasha would eventually come up with the gold for the rest. So the day after I first met you I went out and purchased the materials. I’ve been refining and tinkering with it the past month—things are always pretty slow around here during the Claw of Winter anyway. I think it’s finally ready.”

  “I … you know I can’t pay you. Not yet, at least,” Corin said.

  “This isn’t charity, Corin. Getting Lhasha back isn’t going to be easy. Every advantage helps. Besides, I know you’ll pay me back. If we survive.

  “Here,” the gnome concluded, handing the artificial limb to the speechless warrior, “try it on.”

  With his left hand, Corin raised the prosthetic for a closer look. “It’s light,” he said, hefting its weight.

  “But sturdy,” Fendel assured him. “The alloy is one of my own making. Harder than mithral. Maybe even stronger than adamantine.”

  Corin examined the finely crafted limb in more detail. It was about the same distance from Corin’s elbow to where the tips of his fingers would have been. The base was hollowed out and contained a complicated leather strap to secure the piece over the small stump of forearm protruding from his elbow.

  The hand had five distinct digits. The thumb was even opposable. The knuckles were made of a fine mesh, while the rest was made of solid metal. The wrist contained an odd hinge that allowed the hand to twist, bend, and rotate on the end of the metal arm.

  “How do I keep it from just flopping around?” Corin asked curiously.

  “Don’t worry, I’ve thought of that,” the gnome replied. “Just put it on and see how it works.”

  Corin slid his forearm into the base, lashed the strap around his elbow and pulled it tight. He felt a warm tingle shoot from the end of his stump and up right through his shoulder, and the hand sprang to life. The metal fingers began to clutch, clench, and twist. The hand writhed in circles on the end of its wrist. Corin recoiled in surprise.

  “It’s all right,” Fendel assured him, “that’s supposed to happen. Give it a few seconds to adjust to you.”

  Heeding the gnome’s instructions, Corin stood still while the alien appendage slowly ceased its spastic motions. With a hint of trepidation in his voice, Corin asked, “What next?”

  “Try making a fist.”

  “How?” Corin was unfamiliar with even the most mundane of magics, and Fendel’s invention was obviously an artifact of tremendous enchantments.

  “Just make a fist. Like you used to. Clench the other hand, too, if that helps.”

  Corin did, clenching his left hand into a tight ball while staring at the right. In unison, the metal fingers curled in, and the thumb overlapped them. Corin uncurled his left hand, and the prosthetic did the same. Then he tried clenching a fist with just his artificial hand. To his amazement, it worked.

  “Praise the Wonderbringer,” he gasped.

  “Try picking something up,” Fendel urged.

  The warrior walked over to a hammer on one of the workbenches. Instinctively, his left hand started forward, but he pulled it back. He extended his right arm, concentrating on opening the fingers. They responded to his mental commands and wrapped themselves around the handle. He raised the tool up, and brought it down on a slightly protruding nail, pounding it back into place. The wrist moved with a natural, fluid motion as he swung the hammer. He didn’t even have to think about it.

  “Well, what do you think?”

  There was no reply from Corin, though not because of his usual taciturn nature. He was truly speechless.

  “Not as good as the real thing, I’ll admit. You can’t feel anything with it—I never could figure out how to incorporate a tactile component. And it’ll take a long time before you have any sense of how hard you’re squeezing something. I wouldn’t shake anyone’s hand for a while.”

  Gripping a tool was one thing, but Corin needed to know if his new arm would stand up to a true test. He set the hammer back on the table and pulled his sword from its scabbard. He took a few slow, arcing swings; the most basic of moves. The arm moved clumsily, awkwardly—far too cumbersome to effectively strike an opponent.

  Frowning, Corin tried a simple parry and thrust combination. The wrist failed to turn properly, and the sword sliced the air at a completely ineffective angle.

  “Don’t think about it so much,” the gnome advised. “Just relax. Don’t try to steer it—let the limb think for itself.”

  Think for itself? Corin began to wonder how powerful Fendel’s magic really was. Could the metal appendage actually be sentient?

  While he was considering the ramifications of his new limb’s potential intelligence, Corin’s mind had ceased to focus on the mechanics of his stroke. The sword sliced through the air with a sharp swish. The wrist pivoted and the arm reversed its momentum, carving a path back against the original stroke. A difficult move, executed with near flawless precision.

  Corin continued his exercises, running through the traditional positions and movements of his warrior training. Instead of trying to control the sword, he watched it, allowing the limb to move on its own, free from the fetters of his conscious mind.

  “Gods,” he muttered in awe as the weapon became a flickering, flashing reflection of light whirling through the air, battling a horde of imaginary foes. “It’s a better soldier than I am!”

  “I highly doubt that,” Fendel replied. “It’s just drawing on your own talent. If I tried to use it, I’d likely slice off the tip of my nose. It may not seem like it, but you do control the hand. The trick is to control it at a subliminal level.”

  With a simple, casual thought Corin caused the arm to cease its display of swordsmanship. The warrior built up a picture of an opponent in front of him—an amalgamation of all the nameless, anonymous foes he had fought and defeated countless times in his years as a White Shield. He engaged his imaginary opponent with a series of standard attack and defense combinations. A sweep at the knees, a reverse cut at the belt, a simple cross block, and a quick counter.

  The arm responded, but its movements were sluggish. Corin tried to disengage his mind and attacked again. The sword became a blur of movement, a savage, overpowering attack, but not the moves Corin intended, or expected. He grimaced. If the arm insisted on executing moves he wasn’t anticipating, he’d eventually leave himself vulnerable.

  He tried again and again. Searching for the balance between conscious action and instinctive reaction. For a brief second, it was there. The sword flowed with the grace and lethal beauty of a true White Shield, executing an array of strikes, blocks, and counter-strike
s that would render most opponents defenseless for the final blow.

  When Corin drove home the final thrust to impale his phantom foe, the blow went awry. Lethal, probably, but not a clean kill. He swore in frustration and hurled his sword to the ground.

  “What good is an arm if it wields a sword like an undisciplined rookie recruit? I’d be better off using my left hand!”

  The gnome scowled at Corin as he bent to pick up the blade. “Keep practicing,” he spat, jamming the hilt back into the cold fingers of the metal arm. Then, in a softer voice he added, “Just trust your instincts.”

  Corin bowed his head in embarrassment at his outburst. Only a fool thought he could use a weapon without many, many hours of practice.

  “Fendel,” he said intently, “your creation is truly amazing. Eventually, I’m sure it will be of great use to me, but I don’t have the time to master it right now. We have to go after Lhasha.”

  “Keep at it,” the gnome said, reaching up to give Corin a pat on the shoulder. “I don’t want to leave until dark, anyway. Xiliath probably has eyes on every street corner, and we can’t risk him seeing us go into the tunnels. You’ve still got a few hours.”

  Nodding, Corin resumed his drills, though he expected it to be an exercise in futility. Still, it was something to occupy the time, to keep his mind from conjuring up images of statues tipping over and smashing into broken rubble.

  “I’ve still got some more preparations of my own to make,” Fendel told him. “I thought I’d left this kind of thing behind when I joined the House of Hands, so it’s taking me longer to get my things together.”

  As the wrinkled little man again disappeared through the door leading to his private storeroom, Corin heard him mutter, “Now, where are those spell components? I was sure I had some sulfur around here somewhere.”

  The twin blades twirled and danced in intricate patterns, the swish of their strikes crisp and true as they carved the air around Corin. The warrior swung the weapons with the controlled fury of the legendary berserkers of the Cold Lands. The speed and savagery of his blows sent ripples of wind wafting across the sheen of sweat that coated his bare torso.