Goblinopolis, The Tol Chronicles, Book 1 (36 page)

“Does anyone else know about this?”

“We suspect so. There is a class of archmages who have transcended the physical plane through their arts and now exist primarily in The Slice, although they can yet have limited interaction with our plane from time to time. They are probably aware of this technique, although it would likely hold little more than passing interest for them. As for N’plork itself, we don’t think the magical community at large here has any knowledge of this, except perhaps as a completely theoretical thought experiment. Nothing in my long years of training hinted at it, at any rate.”

“What happens to the memories and skills developed by the subject between the time the image is taken and the time it is restored to them?”

“Right now, as I said, that is the limiting factor for the process that renders it currently impractical. Eventually we will learn how to wipe them clean prior to the restoration. There is no way any of the research team can see to retain them without a high probability of driving the subject insane.”

“If time does not pass in The Slice, are transcendent mages able to learn new skills or accumulate memories there?”

“We honestly don’t know. There is a theory that the matrix of The Slice itself serves as a form of ‘external storage’ for the creatures that inhabit it, rendering additional neocortical function unnecessary, but that’s very difficult to corroborate. There would seem to be a bandwidth issue, as it were, in accessing those memories, but our understanding of the arcanophysical limitations, if any, of The Slice is quite limited. Oh, and one more drawback to this process: as far as we have been able to ascertain, restored clones are sterile. We believe this has to do with the role hormones play in gametogenesis during early development. A cloned genetic template does not produce new gametes unless the image is taken prior to sexual maturity.”

“Is there nothing to be done about this?”

“Actually, one of the most exciting sub-projects underway here at present is one which extracts partial genetic and psychic images on a periodic basis throughout the life of the subject in order to restore them sequentially and thus preserve the entirety of the subject’s biological meta-architecture.”

“And that doesn’t encounter the overlay discrepancy problem?”

“No, because each image is incremental to the previous: they don’t overlap, at least in theory.”

“What about the case where some injury has triggered the brain’s plasticity to repurpose previously allocated structures?”

“Very astute point. You have an impressively broad range of knowledge, Your Excellency. The same plasticity that allows the brain to rewire itself to bypass an injury may work to our benefit—or against us. At this juncture we simply don’t know.”

“I see. Well, please keep us informed as to your progress. I will provide you with the private Royal Encryption keys before I leave; they make use of one-time pads that rotate every morning. A special messenger will deliver a new set once a month.”

“Thank you, Your Excellency. May I presume that some Royal funding will be made available to us as well? So far we have made due with Duber research and development monies, but they are inadequate to fund the various projects over the long term.”

“I will need to speak with His Majesty concerning this; I don’t think He will have any reservations about backing this project fully, however.”

The carriage trip back to Goblinopolis traversed the vast northern woodlands. Hundreds of thousands of hectares of old growth forest resided here in pristine glory. Rumors abounded of many species of undiscovered wildlife and, as with other less well-explored areas of Tragacanth a few old legends persisted of unknown sentients. The vast area bounded by Dresmak, the Mernal River, and the Kopyrewt rain forest was relatively poorly charted, despite its proximity to two of Tragacanth’s major urban centers. Kopyrewt was easily accessible by water, and harbored a great treasure trove of economically-important trees and herbs, so it was far better explored in comparison with the neighboring forest lands.

There was a movement afoot in Lumbos to have portions of Kopyrewt declared a national preserve before some unique species were lost forever due to habitat destruction, but so far it had failed to attract much attention in the capitol. Environmentalism was rather a new phenomenon in Goblin culture, although some of the other less thoroughly urbanized races had championed like causes for many years.

It was late in the evening when Boogla’s carriage finally pulled into Loca Station. She left her escort at the entrance to the Royal Staff housing, thanked them, climbed the steps of her townhouse tiredly, greeted her servants and tumbled into bed. A good night’s sleep was just what she needed after her grand tour of Tragacanth. As she drifted off into slumber she reflected on the differences and similarities between hacking and diplomacy. Hacking, she decided at length, was a lot easier. 

Chapter Twenty-One:
Aggravating Assault

T
ol was grateful for the plethora of stone formations protruding at odd angles from the walls, ceiling, and floor of the caverns. They gave him plenty of easy cover. He followed Pyfox and his cronies by dodging from stalagmite to pillar to column; after a few minutes his clothes were wet and a little slimy from the thin coating of water on the living formations. Pyfox headed up a short, broad stairway and into a smallish chamber off to one side of the hallway at the top. Tol followed using his three decades of surveillance skill and sandwiched himself between two troll-sized boulders to watch. Pyfox stood in front of a carved wooden table on which sat a large crystalline sphere and thrice chanted some phrase Tol couldn’t quite make out. At the very last word of the third repetition the sphere glowed with a rosy radiance. It seemed to enlarge as the light grew more intense, until the sphere itself took up half the room. Tol didn’t know what to make of this, so he just made himself as small and inconspicuous as possible and waited.

The giant sphere shimmered impressively for a few seconds, then a ghostly figure appeared within it and an ethereal, distinctly unpleasant rasp of a voice infested the small chamber like a dread disease.

“Pyfox, my loyal servant. Have you positioned your minions for the final assault?”

“Yes, Your Eminence. All of the Marker attack portals have been established and the mageslaves controlling them await my command.”

“Excellent. You may proceed at will. Be certain to adhere to the attack pattern as planned.”

• * • * • * •

Ballop’ril, wrapped in a rich scarlet robe emblazoned with mystic symbols, stood on a marvelously carved dais cut from some mystical bluish stone that seemed to glow from within. Prond knelt before him, with the others forming a semicircle about three meters out. The Archmage held in one hand a beautifully embroidered green sash and in the other an unadorned black orb of indeterminate composition that fit neatly in his gnarled palm. Prond was dressed in a simple white tunic with a thin silver chain around his waist.

Ballop’ril addressed the assemblage.

“Today we induct a new acolyte into the elite circle of mages. Prond has agreed to take on the sash of the Mage’s Apprentice and to serve under my tutelage for so long as the relationship is mutually agreeable.”

He stepped forward and bid Prond stand, then tied the sash around his waist.

“This orb,” he said, holding it up for all to see, “Is a magical energy sink mages formally refer to as a
speculum arcanis
. The orb may be invoked only by you, Prond, once we fuse it to your corolla integumenta—that’s the magical aura that surrounds all of us—and you may then use it to draw magical essence, or manna, from The Slice and store it for future use.”

He held the orb to Prond’s forehead, raised his other hand palm up, and uttered an incantation. The orb began to glow, which progressed through yellow-orange-red, then all the color drained out of it and into Prond’s forehead, briefly illuminating him from within down to the shoulders. Prond stepped back and staggered, but quickly regained his composure. He held the orb up and it glowed with a golden radiance that grew in intensity until a bright throbbing arc leapt out, the leading edge of which poured into an invisible tear in the fabric of the air itself. The orb began to accumulate manna as if it were literally being filled through a hole in the top.

At approximately the halfway mark the arc suddenly oscillated wildly then faded. Prond looked at Ballop’ril, puzzled. Ballop’ril put one hand on either side of his head and went into a mystic trance while everyone else looked on in concern. After a few moments he came out of it. The rocky floor beneath them began to rumble. They braced themselves; it was obvious the mountain was on the move again.

“We must hasten to Astflanar. The Slice is under attack.”

It took about half an hour for the mountain to reach its destination moving at top speed. It was noisy and difficult to walk about during the journey, so the crew just found places to hang on without trying to converse over the din. Ballop’ril sat cross-legged in a trance, doing whatever it was archmages did at times like this. Prond in his new sash stood nearby, clutching the now inoperative orb and trying not to feel awkward and superfluous.

There was one final spasm of grinding and thumping, then all fell silent. Ballop’ril returned from his spiritual sojourn and stood up.

“Come.”

He strode off into a small crevice in the wall. The rest followed somewhat hesitantly. They traversed a narrow but passable corridor for quite a while, until they came at last to what appeared to be the end of the line: a wall of very solid-looking unbroken rock. Ballop’ril stood there studying it for a moment, then raised one hand in a tight fist. He held the position for a few seconds, and then abruptly his fingers sprang open. The solid wall in front of them melted away like smoke dissipating in a sudden breeze. Ballop’ril strode through and motioned for the others to follow.

“Neat trick,” Kurg muttered.

After only a few meters they came to a wide spot in the corridor. Ballop’ril halted and turned to address them.

“We have passed from my sanctuary mountain into the interior of Mount Astflanar. We are headed for a chamber deep in the bowels of the mountain where a puppet of the evil transcendent mage Namni is even now orchestrating a devastating attack on The Slice, or more accurately, on the portals that allow magic to flow from The Slice to the physical plane. As we approach the lair of the puppet Pyfox the path will be increasingly heavily fortified with magical traps. It is absolutely imperative for your safety that you follow my instructions to the letter. Any disregard may prove fatal. Are you all clear on that point?”

He looked at them expectantly. One by one, they nodded.

“Why are we doing this, again?” Lom whispered to Selpla.

“Because it’s a story!” Selpla and Kurg answered, together.

“Sorry I asked.”

Ballop’ril and Prond walked side-by-side. Prond held the speculum arcanis in front of him to serve as an early warning for magical activity. As they rounded a corner it suddenly began to pulse with a deep golden light. Ballop’ril put his hand up to halt the party. He scanned the area ahead of them systematically, from lower left and around. After about a minute he picked up a loose stone.

“Shield your eyes.”

He tossed the rock in a lazy parabola down the path and at its apex a brilliant blinding flash of white light erupted from the walls of the corridor. The rock disintegrated into fiery dust and a strong burning smell permeated the air.

“Integrity disruptor. Only one charge, so we’re safe to head through.”

The rest of the party looked at one another in alarm. Ballop’ril raised his large eyebrows. “It’s perfectly passable now. Behold.” He walked down the path a few steps and turned to face them.

The others followed, a little hesitantly. Selpla stopped to pick up some of the rock dust. It was still warm and smelled like burnt charcoal. “Nasty trap.”

A little further on Ballop’ril halted them once more. “Hug the right-hand wall. Do not touch any stone on the left.” He stood between them and the left wall as they passed. Once they were safely beyond the danger, he pointed to something embedded in a stone slab on the left. It was the rear portion of a cave wrat. “Quicklith,” he explained, “Instantly entraps and eventually absorbs any living creature that comes in contact with it.” The wrat tail twitched spasmodically. “It can take a while to kill the victim. Not a pleasant death, either.”

“Ugh,” said Drin, “Bad magic.”

“Bad magic, indeed,” agreed Lom.

There were similar traps every five to ten meters along the passageway; avoiding being crushed, lacerated, sautéed, or impaled almost started to feel like a routine activity by the time they were approaching the crest of a rise beyond which Ballop’ril had informed them lay the lair of Pyfox.

“There will most likely be one final trap near the entryway. I suspect it will be unlike the others. Stay back until I give the all clear.”

Suddenly Slud let out a sharp exclamation. The others turned to see him being wrapped by a strange snake-like apparition, smothering him in a vaporous grasp. They rushed over to him just as Ballop’ril shouted, “Keep your place!” All but Lom stopped in their tracks, but he had too much momentum, stumbled, and grabbed at a protruding rock for support which unexpectedly folded back as if hinged. A deep gong rang from somewhere down the corridor. Ballop’ril waved his hand over the constrictor and a flash of blue energy from his palm popped it like a pricked balloon.