The Warrior Returns - Anteros 04 (27 page)

I was intrigued. "Any color I like?" I asked.

'Try it," she said.

I peeled the eyepatch off and dangled it in front of me. I pictur
ed it black and instantly it sh
immered from gold to black. I tried red and green and the other pure colors, and each time it shifted to those hues the instant the color came to mind. I turned it back to black—a rather grimy black, to match the conditions of the mine—and put it on again.

It felt smoother and even more comfortable than before. And I no longer felt the urge to let my head flop to my shoulder to study things with my good eye.

"I always wanted to be a pirate," I said. "Now at least I can look like one."

Zalia looked me over, measuring. "What you really need," she finally said, "is a pair of earrings. A stud on one side and a big loopy one on the other. That'd really set the eyepatch off.

"It's what only the most discerning pirate would wear."

the eyepatch changed
more than my image. As the days went on I noticed that objects seemed clearer and possessed more depth. I no longer suffered a dizzy feeling when I looked at a thing too quickly.

Although I only had one eye, the missing one—thanks to the eyepatch—seemed to serve some ghostly purpose. As if it were peering into the ethers to help my remaining eye focus on the physical world and give me two-eyed perspective.

Then one day I realized I could also "see" more clearly in the Otherworlds.

It was at night, just after my rat stew meal, and I was cleaning grime from my metal hand while Zalia slept. I got dust in my eye and winked a few times to try and clear away the irritating speck.

When I shut the eye, however, a strange image floated up— seemingly from nowhere.

I opened my eye and the image vanished. Was it only my imagination?

I shut my good eye again and up floated that faded image. I could make out a vague outline, a skeleton really, of fingers and a thumb. I wriggled my artificial hand and saw the ghostly image wriggle in return.

I opened my eye and saw only the metal hand—the slave hand. But now I could definitely feel the shadow of the real one—the part of me that'd been lopped off for Novari's magical stew pot.

I shut the eye once more, turning my head this way and that. All kinds of glittering things seemed to be fluttering about I realized I could see into the ethers with almost no effort I only had to shut my eye and
shift
my view, and the sorcerous world made itself plain.

"Zalia," I said. "Wake up!"

She bolted up from her stone bed. "What's wrong?" she said, alarmed.

"Nothing's wrong," I replied. "I have to talk to you."

Zalia groaned, weary from breaking rock all day. "Can't it wait?" she said.

"Not a single moment," I replied.

"What do you want?" she asked, yawning but resigned.

'Tell me how you made the eyepatch again," I said. "Every detail. Leave nothing out And while you're at it, I want you to think very hard."

"About what?"

I fingered the eyepatch. "How we can get onto the right work detail and steal more of this stuff."

it took fearfully
little time for Zalia to do what I'd asked.

The two slaves we approached eagerly grabbed the small bribe she offered. They readily agreed to switch places with us. They swore they'd not whisper a word and would assist in every way to cover up the small bargain we'd made. They were so fervent in their assurances, I had no doubt they'd keep their word. I growled a few appropriate threats about what'd happen if they betrayed us, but it wasn't really necessary. They were two very happy slaves.

This was my first sign that Zalia hadn't exaggerated when she'd said it was the worst work detail in the mine.

Confirmation came a day later when a guard poked his head into our warren and shouted: 'Two for Hellspoint! Antero! Zalia! Get yer arses out here."

We stumbled from our cells and I shot Zalia a look, whispering,
"Hellspoint?"

She grimaced. "It was
your
idea," she whispered back. "And don't forget it!"

I didn't

Her whisper hung over me like a demon jester, mocking me, as we were pummeled into line with another sorry group of slaves. As each chain was linked to each belt, I heard the sound of the locks snap shut with unnatural clarity.

Whips cracked and we shambled forward. Slaves in other details looked at us as we passed and shook their heads in pity or grinned at our misery.

We were marched for about an hour, winding through a series of tunnels and corridors and going up and down several lifts. Finally, a gate clattered open and we staggered out of the mines into the shock of sudden sunlight.

For the first time in months I was not enclosed by tons of hollowed-out rock. The air was crisp and cold and my muscles twitched uncontrollably at the elusive scent of freedom on the wind.

I heard other slaves mutter curses and nearly snarled myself, but bit my Up when Zalia gave my arm a warning squeeze.

The guards roared and charged the ones who'd cursed, quickly beating them into submission. They did it with such practiced ease, I knew that the incident was a routine occurrence on the way to Hellspoint.

It was only a sip of what was in store for us.

We were herded through a large yard, which was cut into the face of a mountain that rose above us for as far as I could see without craning my neck and earning a lash from a watchful guard. The yard was hatch-patterned by wooden rails, and carts were being lugged up and down the rails by slaves. Our route took us through the yard to a rubble-strewn road that wound down the face of the mountain.

When we came to it, I caught a glimpse of the Bear Temple in the distance, saw the docks jutting out into the frozen lake and ships with billowing sails skimming freely across the lake. Overhead the sky was a shocking blue.

The immense vistas were enough to make me want to bolt—to leap over the cliff face if necessary.

Zalia clutched my arm and
I
breathed deeply to steady my nerves.

While I calmed myself I remembered seeing the yard and the mountain road from another perspective. I peeped out at the lake and saw the familiar rocky far shore where I'd hidden with my men so long ago and had observed the mines and foundries of Koronos for the first time.

I looked at the docks again and noted the absence of Magon's golden ship. I guessed he'd left, and I wondered if Novari had returned to their capital with him.

Thinking about Novari helped me steady myself, and I was soon able to plod along passively with the others. A dull shambling slave on the exterior, while on the interior my mind was ablaze with curiosity, observing and storing every detail for possible later use.

As we came around one bend I saw the Bear Temple towering over the city. It seemed quiet. Maybe even empty. Then I felt a buzz of magic and knew wizards had to be at work. Not Novari, though. I would've sensed her immediately. And I wondered: Where was she? What was she up to?

It was about a mile's walk to the bottom and about another mile to our destination.

The factory they took us to was built of plain, rough stone blocks. It had no chimney or any remarkable features at all, other than the big, double-gated doors we were heading for. The building was long and extremely low, but as soon as we entered I saw that the bulk of it was underground. Six floors in all, I learned, for that's how many flights of steps we descended to reach the main forgeroom.

It was a terrifying place. The dim light had an eerie orange cast to it, and the whole building throbbed rhythmically as if an immense heart was beating just beyond the walls. The sound was a big drum backdrop to the shriek of hot metal plunged into water, hissing steam, chains clanking, hammers hammering, and—so distant it could be from the Otherworlds—what sounded like faint screams.

We shuffled through huge rooms with racks of golden swords and spears and shields. I could feel sorcery radiating from them and knew they were made of the same material as my eyepatch. Once, we swung close to a rack of swords and I snatched a hungry look at their keen edges and apparent light balance. I ached with the impulse to dash for the rack, grab a weapon, and lay waste to the guards.

The impulse was replaced by sudden foreboding that those weapons might soon be wielded by the enemy against my own people. The anxiety made me quicken my step. I had to act— and soon.

I bumped into the slave in front of me and he snarled, "What's your hurry, sister? It's to Hellspoint you're goin'! What'ja think it was, the chow line?"

I slowed my pace but continued to shift my head about, studying the might of my opponent, my anxieties growing with each thing 1 saw.

On the sixth and final level, we came to immense golden doors set in stone that were stained black with grease and smoke. The doors were so dazzling, so polished and clean-looking, I knew they had to be made of Novari's magical material.

We stood there waiting as the guards unlocked our chains.

"Remember what I told you, Rali," Zalia hissed. "Do exactly as I say at all times."

I nodded and two huge guards, naked to the waist and streaming sweat, muscled the doors open.

A blast of heat nearly knocked me over. I gagged at the acid stench of the air. It burned my throat and seared my lips.

Before I could recover my wits, we were all kicked and pushed through the doors. Bewildered, I saw the guards step swiftly back outside. They screamed for us to get to work, then slammed the doors shut, closing us in.

Hellspoint was so hot you couldn't toil there for more than an hour at a time. Each shift in that chamber was limited to an hour. Then you had an hour's rest while another slave crew suffered inside before you were forced back into the forge-room to take their places.

Slaves were worked to the point of collapse, driven by special guards who changed crew every fifteen minutes. Other slaves dragged you out to recover while a second group manned the forges. During our rest periods we were given copious amounts of cold water to drink and pour over ourselves. This was not a sign of kindness in our masters. It was a necessity. Without the rest and the water, we'd have died quickly, and then who would do the work?

The chamber was huge, filled with machines belching fire and steam. Slaves staggered past pushing wooden platforms on rollers stacked high with long, thick bars of natural gold.

The rods were hauled to an immense machine that commanded one whole side of the forgeroom. They were loaded onto a wide, clattering conveyor shaped like a shallow trough; it carried the rods into the machine's fiery maw. Another conveyor swept out from behind the machine through a large area that glowed and shimmered so it looked like the conveyor was emerging through curtains.

But instead of golden rods, the bottom of the trough was covered with a film of glittering dust.

It was from this dust, Zalia later told me, that the magical material was formed. That the material Magon's ship and weapons were made of—and my wondrous eyepatch.

Slaves moved along the final leg of the conveyor, hauling big portable bellows on rollers that were valved so they reversed the flow of air. Flexible hoses sucked up the gold dust, which was drawn into large gray jars that Zalia later said were made of sugar. The jars were fed into another forge, the sugar vanished, and the dust became a thin golden sheet that could be stitched like cloth or worked and reshaped like metal.

The swords, for example, were formed of many layers, turned back on one another repeatedly until the blades were perfect.

I saw the chamber in dim snatches stretched out over what seemed like the eternity the gods reserve for the condemned. Guided by Zalia, I loaded and unloaded bars. Helped pump out the dust and lugged the filled jars—which were amazingly light—to other slaves who carried them away for storage.

The heat and noise drained every speck of energy, so you felt like you were swimming in hot porridge. It was an effort just to lift your arms, much less the murderously heavy rods. I was doubly punished because the sorcery pouring out of the magical forge seared my senses, withering them with blast after powerful blast.

Somehow I managed to get through the agony. At the end of the day one slave was not so lucky. It was the fellow who'd cursed me for being in such a hurry. He'd suffered a seizure in the final hour and lay there flopping on the floor until a bored guard lazily motioned for us to haul him away. He breathed his last as I lifted his arms. It was a long sigh, and in my imagination it was filled with the sound of vast relief.

When I heard it I thought, May the gods be with you, brother. Wherever you're going, it can't be worse than this.

They hosed us off with some sort of chemical that stung the nostrils and made the skin look as red and chafed as if we'd spent a week under a desert sun.

The man's sigh still echoed in my thoughts when the day was done and I finally staggered into the cell and collapsed on my stone shelf.

I heard Zalia moan as she sank down on hers.

"Now what in the names of all the gods who curse us was that worth?" she groaned. "Except to dig our graves deeper and longer."