Tinkermage (Book 2) (30 page)

One of the guards, a gnome with wide jowls and a hard smile, smirked. “The First Wizard part’s new to me, but I know your worth, Master Nur.” He shrugged and stepped aside. “Be my guest. If you can make any sense of what’s going on in this madhouse, I’ll personally take you over to Juicer’s and buy every round ‘til you fall off your stool.”

Nikselpik paused. “I like you,” he said, then nodded as the gate screeched open.

He moved into the inner chamber, stopped short of the second gate, a solid piece of steel also skewed by Jontuk’s undermining of the foundation, and waited for the guard to clear them.

He felt a tug on his sleeve.

“What is it, Tenzy?”

“Awful things, sir…” He saw the scryer was sweating, eyes wide with nervous fear. Tenzic gulped. “I suspect we’ll find out soon enough if everything you’ve heard is true.”

The massive gate rolled to the right, and the sounds of chaos bombarded them. Nikselpik knew what oddities sounded like. In his adventures, he had experienced some of the most terrifying creatures in all of Sullenor, had heard their spine-tingling cries, often while in the act of escaping their claws and teeth, but the noises made by the captive ultraworlders was like nothing he’d heard before. Piercing wails, lowing cattle noises that indicated creatures near to dying or at the very least suffering miserably, simpering wails, incessant chatter, even a bouncing chortle that could only be interpreted as alien laughter.

The stench was nearly unbearable: a combination of feces and urine and something far more animal. Even at the edge of the miasma, the putrescence worked into his nasal passages all the way to his brain. He wanted to escape the place immediately.

Stairs led up and down on either side of a long, central corridor lined with cell doors. The hall was filled with groups of gnomes running various errands, some hauling buckets of filth while others brought in buckets of water. Others pushed wheelbarrows filled with various foodstuffs. Pickled vegetables, fruits from the mechanincubator houses, dried and raw meats, and even live sheep and goats being led by tethers.

“You have the sketch?”

Tenzic handed him a piece of cloth bearing Raulnock’s face sketched in charcoal, done quite adeptly by Master Toz. Nikselpik lowered his head and pushed forward to one of the first cells. The one on the right held a simple old man, a human, dressed in tatters, hugging himself close. His dusky skin did not mark him as a human of Sullenor, as Teszereth were pale and Pelorians far darker. Nikselpik held up the cloth and hailed him: “Old man.”

The eyes lifted, yellowed by cataracts, face so wrinkled that Nikselpik had to wonder what the sun must be like on his world. The man murmured something in a language he did not understand.

“Never mind,” Nikselpik said and turned away from the haunting visage.

The occupant of the cell on the left rushed at them, throwing itself against the cell bars, clutching them as if it could pull them apart. Nikselpik scowled and approached as close as he dared. It was an orc, tall as a human, lean and string-muscled, black eyes glaring at them. Spittle clung to the orc’s pointy chin.

This said a great deal about how far the amorphs had reached across Sullenor. Nikselpik knew a little orcish. “Ulk doth prikt, suela?”

Orcs are overrun, warrior?

“Ulk ni’doth… prikt.”

Orcs are never overrun!

The orc’s lips twisted as he switched to common. “And as soon as me gets free and gets a nice fiery iron, me’s have the lot o’ you on a nice spit!”

Chapter Thirty-Five

Nikselpik’s wellspring twitched to life. There was nothing quite as foul and mischievous as an orc, especially one under lock and key. Even so, he’d shared a few of his fires and food with such creatures while on the road and found some had redeemable qualities such as hunting, drinking, even storytelling. Hells, he’d even employed an orc once. So, despite his better sense, he held up the image of Raulnock. “Seen this face?”

“
Doth spak!
” The orc pushed grabbed his own warty genitals and launched a stream of foul dark urine at them, trying to hit the sketched cloth. They backpedaled faster than if someone had tossed a firebomb at them.

After achieving a respectable distance, Nikselpik turned and ground his teeth at the orc. Another part of him wanted to laugh—he could respect the bastard for the action, though he could have done without seeing the orc’s large phallus pointed at him.

Three precisors rushed forward, using short lances to prod the orc hard in the ribs and drive him back from the bars.

“We’ll not get any answers from that one, I suppose.”

“Yes, sir,” Tenzic muttered, covering his nose with the cuff of his coat.

They’d passed down two more rows of cells, each with its own strange inhabitant—one had a female (he thought) with pale blue skin curled on a mat that was soaked with some kind of aqua-colored secretion, another had several gnome-sized bipeds sitting in a circle, facing one another and chanting in a slick, ear-bending tongue—when finally a cleric walked up to them.

“Can I help you?” she said, taking Nikselpik’s arm and drawing him to the center of the row.

“I’m Niksel—”

“I know who you are. What are you doing here?”

Nikselpik looked the gnomestress up and down. While most clerics in Hightower looked to Evana as the only true goddess of life and healing, it didn’t keep the other gnomish gods from being worshiped. This cleric wore a rough spun lavender shirt with the symbol of Tomtum—a golden coin—sewn into the front, although more humbly sized than the open palm of Evana. She also wore a leather apron, the kind a common worker might wear, cinched by a black belt, and a mixed pair of vambraces on her forearms.

She noticed him looking at her uncharacteristic display of armor. “Some of the prisoners get…
bitey
. And almost all of them have big teeth.”

There was something familiar about the lass, but her hair was tucked well into her tight leather cap. The brass nose guard made it impossible to guess. She shrugged. “They get a handful of hair, and you’re done.”

Nikselpik nodded. “You’ve been here awhile?”

“Since the fight at Rad’s when you destroyed the amorphs and set all of them free. Well, free in the most basic sense. They’re all refugees now. Starving, frightened, alone. And we’ve come to take care of them.”

“Volunteers?”

“Some of us are regular citizens, but mostly it’s our duty as clerics of Tomtum to perform the most humble service. War isn’t our expertise.” She looked around. “This… this is more of a challenge, I think. Staffed well enough for now, at least until the guards are called away to fight. You’ve heard the rumors from the south?”

Nikselpik nodded. “I live within the rumors, my dear.” A series of wails cut through the entire block, making him cringe. “I can’t imagine how hard this must be.”

“It is. And we have zero understanding of their basic needs. They’ve suffered, too. It’s hard for us to explain we’re here to help when we’ve got them locked behind bars.”

“I understand.”

She gave him a harsh look. “No. I don’t think you do.”

He nodded. “Maybe not. How many are there?”

“We started with over two hundred, but many died quickly. We’ve managed to keep one hundred and seventy-three alive so far.” He could see the mixed look of anguish and determination in her eyes, and he wanted to help, but he didn’t have the time.

“I’m searching for the former First Wizard.”

The gnomestress turned her head to the side in a curious way. “Master Raulnock?”

“We refer to him as the First Bastard, but yes.”

“And why are you looking for him here?”

“You know of his current… condition?”

“He’s possessed by an amorph. It’s public knowledge at this point. He’s to be turned in if spotted, avoided if possible.”

“Due to his possessed condition, we’re having trouble properly scrying him out. I’m hoping any creature previously possessed by an amorph may be picking up some telepathic… residue. And considering the orc prisoner just tried to piss on this sketch of him, I’m thinking I may have the right of it.”

She glanced at him with her violet-hued eyes before looking askance, back to her mess of a jail and all its dying creatures. “It certainly couldn’t hurt. Many of the prisoners have expressed a growing anxiety since the attack at the Golden Cog. Agitation, self-abuse, sometimes violence toward others. As if they are afraid of something. No, not afraid. Terrified.”

“Then I shall try. Are there any particularly less aggressive entities you recommend?”

The cleric looked around, took two steps, and grasped the bars of one cell. “This one appears to be gentle. Most on this level are. The more violent ones are upstairs, where there are solid walls between them. But you could start here. Although I fear for this one’s sanity.”

“Why?”

“It sits there all day, just drawing in the dirt. Alien symbols. Signs.” She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Nikselpik noticed that not only was his body as tightly wound as a spring, so was his mind. He would not be able to read anything this fraught with tension. He took a breath and tried to relax. Some wine would have hit the spot about now—and lots of it. “Forgive me, but what is your name?”

“Pria.”

Nikselpik nodded his thanks and went to the cell door. A diminutive figure huddled against the back wall. He looked at Pria and she motioned for a guard and pointed at the cell. The guard nodded and stepped into the lever room. In seconds, the door clanked and slid on rails into a pocket in the wall.

Nikselpik stepped warily inside and Pria stepped in behind him. As he drew nearer, he saw the figure was gnome-sized, perhaps a bit smaller, dressed in threadbare rags… in fact, it was a robe, with the hood pulled over its head. One of the first things he noticed was the particular orderliness of the area. The figure sat on a mat, a small towel placed squarely between the mat and its backside. A plate of half-nibbled, overdone fish had been pushed away from the figure’s crossed legs. There were no flaky bits falling over the sides of the plate. Instead, all the leftovers had been placed in a neat pile in the center as if the figure had taken a few bites and then decided it wasn’t interested, but chose to make the leftover pieces into something orderly. A wooden cup of water rested near its right knee, barely touched. There were indeed strange symbols drawn in the dust on the ground.

“You’re not exactly invasion material,” Nikselpik observed aloud.

The head lifted. The cowl fell back and a frail face looked up at him. Smooth pale skin with a tinge of blue, wide and flappy ears pinned back. Its eyes twin seas of salmon pink with no pupils he could discern. The lips peeled back to reveal rows of sharp, triangular teeth. Shark teeth. Nikselpik took a step back.

“Never mind,” he said, sitting down. “Maybe you are.” He showing his hands in a gesture of friendliness. “I want to help you, if you can help me.” He held up the cloth, which smelled a bit of orc piss.

The head turned, eyes scanning the drawing with a sort of flat interest. It nodded. A pair of pale hands burst from the robe and clasped his wrists, and Nikselpik’s mind was suddenly spinning.

Being used to this sort of mind melding, Nikselpik righted himself almost immediately. He felt no fear, only a faint sense of hope. He saw the same figure, the one sitting directly before him…
she
was dressed in a robe of pure black, holding hands with two others of her kind, running, laughing, in a way he could not describe, through an immense underground maze, a labyrinth made of salmon pink rock the same hue as her eyes, navigating turnabouts through curtains of violet moss, leaping like fairies across pools of phosphorescent sludge. Spanning bridges thousands of feet across, thousands high.

They sat in circles, drawing games with their fingers in the crunchy, onyx scree as toothy, venomous worms came up and nipped at their fingers.

Deadly puzzles. Deadly games.

An overwhelming hunger punched him in the brain. Nothing like the hunger he was used to but more of a dull ache, a feeling that he was slowly losing his mind and slipping into oblivion. It was
her
hunger.

Nikselpik jerked back, eyes wide with understanding. He looked at Pria. “Bring this one a sprocket box. Puzzles…” When the cleric’s face went slack with confusion, Nikselpik tried to explain. “She feeds off stimuli. Games, anything that takes half a brain. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Pria’s face strained with thought then perked up. “Neplers? I can play neplers with her. Maybe once an hour if it will help. A sprocket box too, of course.”

It wasn’t a bad idea. A challenge of sorts. Yes, that would certainly help. He nodded at the cleric. “Excellent idea.” He turned back to the fey shark being. “They’re going to help you.”

Nikselpik stood and with Tenzic in tow moved to the next cell, one he couldn’t see inside of due to the covers put up on all sides. He directed a guard to open the covers even as Tenzic bombarded him with questions. He didn’t hear a word. His mind was falling into a state similar to deadspeak only without the dread, without the soul-shattering noise of dead voices. If he stopped now, he might lose the focus.

Nikselpik stepped into the cell and was met by a cluster of six immense, crustacean-like legs that blossomed like chitinous flower petals at his approach, spiked and bony and poised to pierce him through. A single, plate-sized eye stared back at him from between two fierce-looking, mandible-like pincers, each serrated part as long and wide as a cleaver. Two sets of feelers splayed and then folded down. And just as aggressively as they had opened, the legs wilted, the eye sunk back into the protective socket, and the thing gave a massive shudder.

Nikselpik gulped, steeled himself, and then went to one knee before the beast. He carefully touched a feeler and dove into the creature’s mind.

Show me your world.

He was instantly in the water, deep, deep… plunging down with fearless abandon. Elation as he and his host plowed through ocean currents with powerful swishes of their flipper-shaped tail. He peered through the crystal clear brine at ocean trenches far below and a great city of bright red coral. He felt the vibrations of every living creature for miles through tiny cilia running between the thick shell plating.

A paralyzing cramp twisted through his middle, hunger, like a spear in his side. This time, it was as real as any hunger he’d ever felt in his gnomish form, only multiplied a hundred times.

It was starving.

Show me.

This one was a lone creature, a warrior, privileged to swim at the edges of the swarm, to protect their young and old, to be wary of predators and rival swarms. It often met its warrior kind at the edges of lakes and shorelines, swimming great distances in the darkness, to fight and mate and spawn. And to feed.

Show me.

At the edges of these lakes, on land, were great fields of white grasses, wind-bent and warmed by twin suns. While there were other forms of sustenance beneath the ocean waves, these fields were a source of great nourishment, the stalk heads filled with seed kernels. Warriors plunged their bodies on the shore and used their cleaver-like mandibles to cut great swaths of the stuff, where they would bask and munch happily.

It tasted like…

Nikselpik slowly surfaced to the real world. He gave one of its chitinous legs a gentle pat. Out in the hall, two guards had joined the group, peering inside, curious at what Nikselpik was doing. To one of them, he said, “This gentle creature needs pure grains. Raw if possible. Probably a bucket of gruel will do just fine. Salt water, too. Buckets of it. A pool if you can manage it.”

One guard, a young, hopeful-looking fellow, said, “Can we take it to the ocean? Set it free?”

Nikselpik couldn’t imagine what might happen if they did that. “I’m not sure if the cold will kill it. I think it would likely expire in our oceans.”

The other guard spoke up, clearly getting into the spirit of things. “One of the heating units. In the basement. Turn off the inflow and outflow valves, bring up some seawater, and heat it proper.”

Nikselpik nodded. “A controlled environment might just work. It certainly couldn’t hurt. Make it happen. There’s not much time.”

From there, things became a blur. Nikselpik moved from cell to cell, communicating with each inhabitant as best he could, expressing their needs to the Tomtum volunteers, guards, and anyone willing to assist. By late afternoon, after having gone through the entire first floor of the jail, exhaustion caught up with him. His head swam with an overload of sensation.

Worn thin and ready to collapse, Nikselpik sat on one of the bottom stairs at the end of the long hall. Toz and Boovash had involved themselves in the effort, and both were covered in filth, each of them repulsed by the jail conditions yet intrigued by what Nikselpik was doing, lending their aid enthusiastically.