Broken Crescent

  “And deeper,” Nate thought of the long spell that infected the ghadi.

  “And you think this cannot help me?”

  “In battle?”

  “Tell me, can this run likewise in reverse?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Can this spell carve the runes of the Gods’ Language as well?”

  “Well, of course it could. It has.”

  “Then you can give me an army to take Manhome.”

  It was ironic, for all of Nate’s modern sensibilities, it was Uthar who recognized the implications of mass production first. Despite the presence of magic here, an enchanted item was still a rarity. It took inhuman discipline and stamina to engrave anything of any import in stone or metal, because any pause in the creation of the object would destroy the process, and possibly the caster. Even the ritual scarification of the College mages was done by masters with decades of practice. Creating something akin to the translation sphere had been beyond anyone for an age.

  Uthar saw that, with Nate’s spell, if they had one enchanted sword, they could easily have a thousand. A single protective amulet could embrace a whole army.

  Uthar took Nate down to the armory, where three mages waited. They were young, younger than Nate. They had survived the destruction of the Shadow College because they had not yet made it there when the attack destroyed it.

  “Teach them what to do,” Uthar told him.

  Nate did.

  Without the pretense and the ceremony, Nate showed them the rudiments. How to name the source and the target, and the words to cast the transcription itself. Nate had to provide the three mages individually named copies of the spell, but that was easily enough done. The three took their paper copies, and the youngest—and the smartest—did something unexpected.

  Once Nate had gotten the concept across, that one used the spell to etch itself into his own skin. Nate watched, horrified and fascinated as the long lines of the spell traced themselves in blood and then scarred over. The spell was so long, it took several minutes, even as fine as the lines it drew were.

  The young mage stood, the pain clear on his face, sweat mixing with the blood as it dripped down his bare skin.

  Then, it was over and the mage handed Nate back the paper. “Now this will always be mine.” The acolyte’s smile was disturbing, and Nate began to feel that some line had been crossed here.

  But they did as Uthar wanted.

  In his cache he had three swords that were enchanted. One would cleave through any metal, one would burn anything pierced by its blade, and one’s cut was poison to whatever bled upon its steel.

  The end of that first day saw thirty such swords. The second saw another hundred.

  Shields stacked up that would shatter any blade that cut against them, armor that provided speed and stamina, amulets that protected against hostile magic.

  Less than half a dozen artifacts, a treasure that had been beyond any price before Nate had arrived at Uthar’s keep, became, in forty-eight hours, an arsenal to supply an entire army.

  Uthar gave Nate a well-appointed room. He had a desk, a lamp, and a bed that was more luxurious than anything Nate had slept in, either in this world or his own. Nate had a chance to bathe, and to dress in new clothes. He was given meals and drink.

  And Nate couldn’t sleep.

  Were ghadi still gathering at the tower without him, or had they dispersed when Nate abandoned them? Every spare moment, Nate thought of the doom that marched on them and knew that he was in large part responsible for it.

  I encouraged the ghadi to fight. I showed them they could fight. . . .

  Instead of sleep, Nate burned a lamp and studied the spell he had pulled from the ghadi flesh, the curse that muted them and made them chattel for Mankind. In the odd twists and loops of code, there had to be an answer, something to be undone.

  The code didn’t like to be studied. It had more twists and jumps than a nest of rattlers. The logic was slick and evil, as if anticipating the eyes that might try to unravel it.

  Nate was hunched over the evil spell, when Uthar knocked on the door to Nate’s chamber. Nate looked up and saw Uthar standing in the doorway.

  “You should sleep. Conserve your strength.”

  “I don’t have the time. Are you ready to move yet?”

  “Within this sixday.”

  Nate pushed his chair away from the desk and looked at Uthar. “You have what you need of me. I should go back.”

  “You can do more for your ghadi by aiding me.”

  “I have given you all I’ve learned, what else is there?”

  Uthar nodded. “Then tell me if this is possible—can a man with no knowledge of the Gods’ Language cause a spell to be cast?”

  “Of course—” Not?

  Even as Nate was about to say no, he remembered the counterexamples. The daggers the ancient Ghadikan used as keys, the traps where moving the wrong thing could immolate the trespasser. . . .

  “Yes,” Nate said, “given the right artifact.”

  “Do this for me, then go.”

  Nate was about to object, but he already saw how it could be done. His transcription spell could read a spell into the air, and he had seen on the weapons how a spell could be targeted by mere contact with the spell-bearing artifact. Combine the two, and you could create an artifact that could cast a spell by merely touching the text of that spell. Nate had outlined two thirds of the code in his head by the time he said, “I can do this.”

  Twelve hours of debugging, and Nate presented Uthar a wand. Runes wrapped the wand, microscopically small, spelling out a dormant spell like the booby trap in the ghadi tower door, or the code that awaited an enchanted dagger to open an ancient passage. This spell awaited the tip of the wand to touch the runes of another spell.

  Uthar took the wand in one hand, and opened the other. Scars traced the palm, weaving some sort of incantation. Wordlessly, Uthar touched the wand to the surface of his palm. In response, the air around him began to glow, casting a deadly bright light.

  Uthar laughed. “You do not know the miracles you work.”

  The light faded as he withdrew the wand.

  “Return to your ghadi. I have what I need to reduce the College of Man into nonexistence.”

  “Thank you, Uthar.”

  Uthar waved to a pair of guards. “Show our guest to his guide and his mount.”

  Two armored men flanked Nate. Their weapons and armor reflected from thousands of intricately carved runes. Nate knew what the runes did, and he would not want to be on the wrong end of these guys in a fight. The College was in for a rude awakening.

  Nate followed them out of the great hall and out into the courtyard of the keep. The troops were already on the march, so the keep was nearly empty. Nate expected to find Yerith, but she wasn’t to be seen.

  “This way, sir,” said one of the guards, pointing toward one of the stables across the courtyard.

  “Oh, yes.” Sure, you keep a mount in a stable. Nate hoped the trip back wouldn’t be as painful as the trip here.

  Nate walked through the dark entrance and waited for his eyes to adjust. Something was wrong. There was no horse here, the stable was empty.

  “What?” Nate said as he started to turn around.

  Something solid and heavy fell across the back of Nate’s skull.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  THE WORLD was moving. That was the first thing that Nate was aware of. The second thing was the vast cold blue sky arcing above him, empty of everything but a small, hard sun that hurt his eyes. He raised his hand to shade his eyes, and found himself chained.

  “That fucking bastard!” he called out in English, the words coming out more phlegm than voice. Nate sat up, coughing.

  He was in the back of an open wagon, on a straw mat in the midst of barrels and sacks of grain. They were moving, and out the rear of the wagon, Nate could see a column of troops following.

  “How are you feeling?”

  Nate
turned and saw Yerith, seated on a chest, in the back of the wagon with him.

  “How do you think I’m feeling?”

  “You need to understand—”

  “Understand what? That I work with this guy and for thanks he clubs me on the head?”

  “They couldn’t risk your capture.”

  “And we just let the ghadi die? We let the College slaughter them?”

  Yerith shook her head. “If we take Manhome, the army will break.” She said it forcefully, almost as if she was trying to convince herself.

  “Then why stop me from going?”

  She looked away from him. “This wasn’t what I wanted.”

  Nate shook his hands and looked down at his shackles. The manacles and chains were gold, one set binding his wrists together, another binding his ankles. Outside of that, he could move around.

  Looking closely at the manacles, Nate saw long runic inscriptions. He looked up at Yerith. “What are these?”

  She didn’t respond immediately.

  “Tell me, I know enough now that I could figure it out, so save us the time.”

  “Don’t. Those are mage shackles. Any invocation will cause them to attack you. I don’t know how, but they have killed before.”

  Great!

  Of course, someone had to have built something like these a long time ago. Otherwise, how do you confine a mage short of killing him or performing an extreme mutilation like the College did to Bhodan?

  Nate guessed the manacles were preferable.

  “This is only until the army takes Manhome.”

  Nate nodded. “You know this, how?”

  “Uthar said—”

  “Uthar is a liar. He said I could return.” Nate looked out at the column of troops. “Now he’s stolen any chance of me getting to them before the College does.”

  The army marched fast, aided no doubt by some artifact or other that Nate played some part in distributing. They marched without stopping until several hours after nightfall, and after that they camped in only the most abbreviated fashion—eating cold rations and sleeping on their shields without any fire.

  With no lights at all, and a moonless night, Nate wouldn’t have known that there was an army surrounding the wagon if it wasn’t for the sound of multitudes breathing. Nate stayed in the wagon, even though he was only chained to himself, the straw mat he had looked to be the most comfortable bed available.

  Nate couldn’t sleep, so he saw Uthar approach. Nate sat up as he climbed into the back of the wagon. “Yerith tells me that you are unhappy.”

  “You wouldn’t be in my place?”

  “Perhaps not,” Uthar looked out at the army. “Understand me. I had little choice. This is our opportunity to strike, I cannot cede any advantage. Too much is lost already.”

  “So you deceive me and chain me and kidnap me?”

  “I am protecting you. Right now your safest place is with me. Anywhere else and you may fall into the hands of the enemy.”

  “I was doing all right before I joined with you.”

  “When Manhome falls, we can part ways, if you still desire it.”

  Something about the way Uthar said that made Nate feel chilled. “If I still desire it?”

  “Consider well. Rule the ghadi if you must, a broken and dying race. But you could also share in the rule of Man.”

  “What does the Monarch think of this?”

  “I am past the point of troubling the Monarch with such ideas. The men here fight for the Monarch, not the youth who holds that title. There are those better suited to fill such a role.”

  Are you saying what I think you are saying?

  Uthar saw Nate’s expression and smiled. “Do not think it odd. Those who lead men must always be marked separate, or they do not command respect. But, as I advised you once, do not talk in haste.”

  “I will consider what you said.”

  “I do not wish to be an ungrateful host. You have helped me mightily. Can I do anything to ease your stay?”

  Nate held up the chains. “Remove these.”

  Uthar shook his head. “No, I cannot set you free just yet. Not while Manhome is over the next rise.”

  “Then give me my papers, my books, and my brushes.”

  Uthar shook his head. “I know what you are capable of, even if you do not.”

  Nate snorted.

  “Perhaps I can abide a more realistic request.”

  “Is it too much to ask for a blanket, and maybe a ride in a wagon that has some cover from the sun.”

  “This much I can grant you.”

  “And I do not want Yerith’s company.”

  “She has done much for you.”

  “If I’m captive again, I’d be captive alone.”

  “I am a reasonable man.” Uthar stepped away and paused. After a moment he added, “You will see the wisdom of this path.”

  I am sure, you manipulative bastard.

  Nate had no real hope of getting his freedom, or his papers, or so much as a pencil. He had asked for those first so that his last request, privacy, was more likely to be granted.

  He got what he wanted, a berth on a wagon covered from the eyes of the troops, and a blanket to cover what he did.

  To someone who composed C++ code in his head, a pen and paper were more a convenience than a necessity. To study the spell on these gauntlets, all he really needed was a loose nail, a semi-flat board, and an absence of prying eyes.

  The problem of the gauntlets was a timing issue. When did these manacles do their dirty work?

  To find out, Nate transcribed the spell in hexadecimal notation so he could study the thing. That took several hours, hiding his scratches under his blanket. When he was done, he was almost too tired to study what he had written.

  Almost. However, as with many a coding problem before, fatigue only sharpened his resolve.

  He stared at his scratches and tried to make sense of them.

  The chains were triggered when their captive spoke, gestured, or wrote any runes of the Gods’ Language. There were several layers to the code. It would burn, becoming more intense based on the number of characters the victim tried to write or speak. If the runes were completed by successfully invoking a spell, a jolt would be sent though the victim, strong enough to kill. There was even code that punished the captive for invoking other artifacts.

  It took some long pondering before Nate thought of a possible loophole.

  Of course, the wearer of the manacles was free to activate the manacles themselves. In theory, the person wearing these things could simply invoke the punishment routine directly.

  Or any spell named the same as the punishment routine.

  If Nate was coding this, at the very least he would have tried to come up with a check-sum, or the MED equivalent. However, the mages who wrote this code weren’t that sophisticated. Like most security holes, the people responsible for it probably couldn’t even see that it was a hole. After all, the wearer wasn’t about to compose anything in MED; four runes in and he’d probably be suffering from third-degree burns. The only thing available to cast was the code on the manacles themselves.

  At least the only thing in MED.

  The author hadn’t anticipated that there might be an alternate way to compose a spell.

  Nate knew enough now to compose a hack of the manacle’s code without writing a single rune of MED. If he wrote code in hexadecimal, there was, in theory, no reason it needed to exist at all in MED until he cast it. Nate already thought of MED in his own notation; it required less effort to think about.

  As long as the code he wrote matched the beginning of the manacle spell, he shouldn’t trigger anything when he cast it.

  Shouldn’t.

  Nate sat in the darkened back of the wagon, contemplating what he was going to do.

  Well, this is going to be dangerous.

  That was a bit of an understatement. He could kill himself with what he planned on doing. He could easily sit back here and let events roll
on, in relative safety. . . .

  On the floor of the wagon, he sketched several columns of hexadecimal code to replace the body of the punishment routine.

  It was a variant of the one spell he had invented himself. One of the few working spells he could remember entirely. Sketching it out, he worked out how to make it do exactly the opposite of what he had written it to do. The effect was elegant and strangely devastating.

  When he was done, he smiled, thinking of the expression on the ghadi’s faces when he had left them.

  “Okay, guys, I haven’t forgotten you.”

  While he still had light, he began the arduous task of memorizing the new spell.

  Before dawn, Uthar Vailen sent Yerith to fetch the stranger. The attack on Manhome was about to commence, and the scholar wanted the Angel of Death with him and the Monarch, overseeing the battle.

  Yerith didn’t know what she was supposed to think. This creature, this man, had started her questioning things she had been avoiding questioning. She had seen the mass of ghadi that came to serve him. How could it be right to take Nate Black away from them?

  She kept thinking of what Uthar had told her, that the College’s army would break when the College fell.

  What if it didn’t?

  Was it that easy to deceive herself? Did she believe Uthar because he was right, or because she needed to? Was she, after everything, willing to sacrifice the ghadi to see her revenge against the College?

  The choice wasn’t like that. This is the only chance we had. Without Nate, without the College’s forces far removed . . .

  She was disturbed to find herself thinking Uthar’s arguments as if they were her own.

  Nate knew better, apparently. He had seen through her enough to ask Uthar to keep her away. She wanted to be angry at him for that, after all that she had done for him.

  Somehow, the only anger she could come up with was for herself.

  She reached the back of the wagon where they had moved Nate and stopped. Dawn had yet to touch the sky, and no light made it inside the dark, covered interior of the wagon. She couldn’t see anything, but she heard something. Even with the sounds of troops massing around her, the clank of armor and the crunch of hundreds of boots on gravel, she could hear Nate Black’s strangely accented voice.