Quaint Escapes for Traitorous Bastards: All of Chapter 21

Notes: Welp, it's been a but of a shit whirlwind lately, but at least there's some cozy M/M fantasy to settle in with today. Enjoy, darlins ;) 

Title: Quaint Escapes for Traitorous Bastards: All of Chapter 21 

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Chapter Twenty-One, Part One

 

Photo by Iliana S

 

Curiosity was the strongest trait of every wizard.

You had to be a curious person in order to dedicate yourself to solving puzzles of power that might just incinerate you if you got them wrong. The drive—no, the need—to know how, and why, and even occasionally if for the thoughtful ones was what kept them on the path long enough to achieve actual wizard status. There were many users of magic, many worshippers of powers greater than themselves who wrought miracles thanks to the beings they belonged to, but wizards were without a doubt the ones who took themselves furthest on the basis of individual acumen alone.

Hiram was no different from the rest of his kind in this way. In fact, he was probably worse than most, given how high he’d risen. That was why, when confronted with what had to be tons of diamonds lying in haphazard heaps, he immediately bent down to get a closer look. Not out of greed, but because it was a puzzle.

Diamonds…among other precious gems, from the looks of things. Enough to ransom a dragon, enough to buy off an entire kingdom, sitting here moldering. Say what you would about the avarice of dwarves, about how they worshipped rock and stone and would go to ridiculous lengths for wealth, but when it came right down to it they were intensely practical people. If Gemmel’s clan knew this wealth had existed, they wouldn’t have let their people become carpenters and cutpurses. They would have used it to set themselves up in style somewhere so that they could live in the way they preferred, not in a rural, human-heavy village that didn’t have any bedrock to speak of.

So, these diamonds weren’t the clan’s natural inheritance. So where did they come from? Hiram leaned in closer, the light from his long-lasting match filling the rough gems with a strange, bloody light. Red at the heart of each one, only black over here, and here the color of steel, and…

“Bodies,” Hiram murmured. The gems were roughly in the shapes of bodies, of armor, even floss-thin crystals that had to be hair apparent in places. These were people…likely the group that had penetrated the Tower in an effort to raid it.

Gemmel had had the last laugh, it looked like.

Hiram drew back without touching. This entire level was a sepulcher, and it didn’t do to disturb the dead. He scanned his surroundings for a way out and saw a set of stone steps rising out of the mass grave ten feet to the right. Getting there without stepping on anyone was a challenge, but with time and care he made it, and breathed a sigh of relief as he climbed out from the lowest level.

The door at the top of the spiral stairs was open. Hiram stepped through it and looked around. To the left was another open door, stone of course, that led into a darkened room. He lifted his match in its direction and was able to make out walls covered in shelves, and on those shelves were—

“Oh, fire and flame.” Books. It was all books and scrolls, dusty tomes that made Hiram’s fingers positively itch to open and read for himself. He wasn’t the most accomplished linguist, but he could decipher the text of most major languages, including ancient and modern dwarvish. The spells that might exist within them, the histories, the puzzles…this was a more powerful temptation for Hiram than an acre of gemstones ever could be.

Move on, old man. This isn’t what you’re here for. Hiram blinked and exhaled sharply, and the sudden pain in his shoulder blade was enough to bring his mind back to the present. As precious as those books might be, he wasn’t here for them. The world had existed without accessing them for centuries now, and it would exist fine a while longer. He was here for Avery, who might be on his way at this very moment. Hiram could protect him as long as he kept moving.

So he kept moving. He continued up the spiral staircase, past a room that looked like a laboratory, complete with empty cauldrons and glass bottles and alembics, some of which still glowed a menacing green color. He climbed past several rooms that were laid out with desks and chairs, clearly meant for teaching inside. He passed several more that held dormitory-style beds, likely for the students Gemmel had so briefly catered to. He climbed until he reached the top of the tower, a final door waiting for him there.

It was closed. This was the first closed door he’d encountered the whole time he’d been here. What did that mean? Had no one who’d penetrated the Tower bothered to climb this high before, or had one of them found something so awful inside that they’d firmly shut it before trying to make their escape?

It didn’t really matter—Hiram had to open it. He hadn’t found anything yet to explain Avery’s curse. The library might be where he ended up, but he needed to make his search thorough before indulging himself in the place he most wanted to go anyhow. He laid a hand on the door, turned the ancient iron handle, and—

It was locked. Locked from the inside.

“How about that?” Hiram murmured, then felt a little silly as he realized he was talking to himself, no Phlox around to bounce his ideas off of. He felt oddly naked, to be without his old friend and enemy, and a little more nervous than he’d otherwise be.

“It’s all right,” he said, letting the sound of his own voice comfort him. “You’re all right. You’ve done harder things before.” And he could use his magic now, so… Hiram focused on the handle and sent a tendril of magic through it, not the fire he loved best but something that warmed the metal up just enough to be malleable. He sent his thought with it, a mild inhabitation, and wrapped his mind around the lock on the other side, one with over a dozen pins set in a circular pattern that would have made picking it impossible.

Hiram slid the pins into their most comfortable spots, the ones that were the most worn down, then turned the handle once more. The door opened, and rather than opening on darkness, the room within was full of light.

Hiram patted the handle as he withdrew his magic, then squared his shoulders and stepped inside.

Immediately, the light went from bright to blinding. He squeezed his eyes shut, and as he did so he heard the door close behind him and felt the last beam of light slip into place, turning into a binding that dragged him to the center of the room and began to increase in heat.

A flash trap. Fascinating. Hiram hadn’t been caught in one of these before, but he’d read about them. They generally used a circle of mirrors to create a lariat-like effect on whoever stepped inside of them, one that could do everything from tickle to incinerate based on the designer’s power and intent. Judging from the way this one was heating up, it intended death.

Well, he could do something about that. It had been a long time since he’d been on the battlefield, but against other wizards and other beings who liked to attack with pure magic, there was nothing so cleansing as fire.

A nice, controlled fire, thank you very much.

He crossed his arms in front of his chest, wincing a bit at the pain even as he spoke the words for flame armor. There was no power here to draw on but his own, which—

The flames rippled up his body faster than lightning, cool on the inside of the barrier he created but brutally hot on the outside, and so bright they disrupted the pattern of the light attacking him. He felt it scan up and down his body, mirrors tilting and falling, trying to find a weakness in his defense. They failed. Hiram stood comfortably within his fiery shell and waited for his attacker to choose their next move. Would it be a light bomb? Glass shards turned into deadly shrapnel? Perhaps—

The trap died without ceremony, as one more than one half of the mirrors tilting out of alignment. The ones that remained were enough to illuminate the room without the menace of the trap itself, and Hiram dimmed his flame armor and withdrew it from his eyes.

He found himself looking at a metallic being sitting on a stone bench straight across from him. Not a person in armor or chainmail,  no—this person was made entirely of metal, it seemed. Its visible limbs were a miracle of interlocking parts, pistons and gears turning with perfect synchronization as it shifted its weight from side to side. It even had an automaton beard, tiny and delicate interlocking chains that swung ever so slightly as it tilted its head and blinked its glassy eyes. It was shorter than him, and broader, and wore a robe that looked suspiciously like a—

Ah.

“The wizard Gemmel, I presume,” Hiram said, glad his voice came out even.

The chain beard parted, and a rusty voice emerged from within the opening. “You presume correctly.”

 

Chapter Twenty-One, Part Two

 

 

Photo by Dan Dennis

A Tower of Wonders

 

“How incredible.” Hiram was aware that he sounded like a simpering neophyte, but he couldn’t help himself. It was incredible, a transformation on a scope that he’d never seen before. It was the sort of thing that, quite frankly, shouldn’t be possible in a classic conservation-of-energy sense. “Extraordinary, even.”

Gemmel tilted his head slightly, chains dancing against each other. “You know something of the art and science of transubstantiation?”

“Not as much as I might wish,” he demurred. “My field of interest lay elsewhere, but I know enough to understand that you either have a very powerful deity on your side, or you’ve invented a whole new branch of study.”

The wizard smiled, the corners of his mouth creaking. “I have done neither.”

“What?” That didn’t seem possible. “You’re embodying a construct. Either a god helped you transfer your soul, or you managed to figure out a spell that would preserve your mind as you transformed yourself.” Unless… “Or perhaps,” he said after a moment, “you’re not actually the wizard Gemmel.”

The construct nodded. “Now you’re getting there.” The rusty voice spoke with a northern intonation, hard consonants and brisk, short vowels that made every word feel slightly rushed. “I am neither Gemmel’s soul nor his mind, for neither survived his efforts to make his mark in this place.”

Hiram frowned. “Are you referring to his madness?”

“Brought on by his own transubstantiation spells.” The construct steepled his metallic fingers, the tips ringing against each other. “Against his better instincts, Gemmel poured his magic into the construction of this tower, sacrificing proper testing for the sake of speed. He intended to create blackstone, but didn’t understand that he would be fundamentally unable to do so until it was too late.”

Fundamentally unable… “Isn’t transformation—especially transubstantiation—supposed to recreate the chosen target right down to its base elements?”

The construct nodded once more. “Indeed it is.” The glowing eyes narrowed slightly. “It seems you have more than a passing familiarity with this type of magic.”

“Not much more,” Hiram said. “Just enough to know what I don’t know.”

“Would that my creator had maintained the same sense of humility,” the construct mused. “Gemmel was brilliant, adept at understanding the basic elements of both animate and inanimate objects. His knowledge of blackstone in particular was deep, and he was able to draw upon that knowledge to ensure that the wood he used as a template here contained all the same elements as his former home.” The construct sighed. “What he did not pursue well enough was whether or not those elements would be stable in their new housing.”

Ah. It was like Hiram had thought. “The spell lattice is failing. And if he laid hands on each of these stones, then over time he…he poisoned himself.”

“And his students. And his clan. And the land around him.” The construct looked out the window. “But it was hard for him to see what was happening while in the midst of it all. He became more and more paranoid, fearful of what would happen if his vast repository of knowledge and clan treasures went without his protection. So he began to make me, among his other great, final acts of magic.”

It came to Hiram then. “You’re his magic, aren’t you? His aura, his place in the ethosphere…his final impression.”

“I am. I was transferred into this construct with his last breath, but I am neither truly soul nor mind.” The creation inclined its head. “The wizard Gemmel is dead, but no wizard truly dies while their magic lives on. Hence, my comfort in claiming his name.”

Hiram would come back to that, but first things first. “What were his other final acts of magic?”

The construct—Gemmel, for lack of a better alternative—laughed a rusty laugh. “I think a person of your understanding can guess at least one of them!”

He certainly could. “The bodies turned to precious stones.”

“Indeed. Perfection, wouldn’t you agree?” Gemmel’s eyes gleamed. “They came for riches, and they got them.”

That was up to interpretation. “They’re dead, though.”

“They also came to kill me. I simply proved to be better at it.”

Well, that explained the imperial troops sent to rout him, but… “What curse have you laid upon this place?” he asked.

“Think about it,” Gemmel encouraged him. “Use your intellect to infer from what you know of me, of this place…”

Hiram felt like a student again. The impatient part of him wanted to demand an answer—after all, the sun was up! Avery would be here any moment, if he wasn’t here already! There were likely wizards outside who were on the verge of beginning their efforts to break in! But he also couldn’t resist a puzzle, and he knew the value of being able to draw an appropriate conclusion on his own. So he quelled his anxiety and thought out loud. “As a transubstantiation specialist, you believe in balance. Equal actions and reactions.”

“As is proper, both for dwarves and for wizards.”

Phlox would have plenty to say about the proportionate responses of dwarves if he was here right now. Hiram was grateful he’d found a way to leave his friend behind for this confrontation. “The bodies on the bottom level, those people came to kill and raid for their own glory, not to save the land or the people here. So you met their avarice by transforming them into the very thing they desired.”

“Keep going,” Gemmel said, glowing eyes fixed on Hiram’s face.

“The curse is an equal reaction to the intent of the intruder.”

“Indeed. Would-be killers were outright killed, turned into the treasure they desired. The thief, on the other hand…” Gemmel shook his head. “Theft is a beastly act, especially from the dead.”

Hiram went cold inside. “You turned him into a beast.” Everything fell into place in his mind, piece after piece he knew and hadn’t been able to place twisting into a position that made sense. Avery’s monthly illness, the cloak with the rents in the fabric, the dangerous company he’d once kept…

“He gained the body of a beast for a first infraction,” Gemmel agreed. “And the mind of a beast after the second time. If he does so again, he will gain the heart of a beast, and lose himself to the change completely.”

This was the third time. Avery was coming for the third time now. “What’s the trigger for the curse?” Hiram demanded. “Is it merely entry? No, it can’t be—”

“For you yourself bear no curse,” Gemmel said. “Intent, remember. You came to learn. Others came to kill.”

Avery had come to steal. “He took something out of the Tower.”

“Not just something.” Gemmel’s rusty voice was rich with satisfaction. “Someone.”

Someone…of value…someo—

“He took from one of the bodies,” Hiram whispered. Avery had done something even worse than theft; he’d unwittingly desecrated a grave.

“As he is doing once more, right now.”

Oh…oh, shit.