22. N #2
He felt no pain in his leg, and wasn’t sure if that was from the tourniquet or the restorative spell.
He needed to get to where he would be recognized and cared for.
He was the Lord Gatekeeper, and vital to the city.
Haldeen worked his way along the wall towards his Tower.
He looked up, and saw it leaning drunkenly.
That sight shook him. Its construction, designed to withstand gales, had bent and flexed under the hot, actinic wind.
Moragen’s words came back to him then, and for the first time he understood the danger they were in.
If Triana had sabotaged the Source somehow, and they could not get the Beast back in harness, then the gap in the Shield would be like a hole in a dam.
The Monsters would flood through the breach, and the city would die.
“The Gate.” he said aloud to himself. “Get to the Gate.”
He could ride out the battle there. “Come back once the storm has passed.”
If the city fell, he would live. But, he had to get to the Gate.
He pushed off from the wall, and made two steps before his leg betrayed him and he fell.
A bolt of pain, even through the numbed leg and spell.
He turned his head to look back at the courtyard.
The creature had impaled a second guard and hoisted him aloft, screaming.
Another guard had found a spear. Haldeen watched as he leaned back, aimed, and cast it into the creature’s maw.
It let out a shriek. More guards came up the stairs at the base of the Tower, and fanned out to fight the monster.
Haldeen pulled himself up on his elbows and crawled for the open door.
A broken spear-shaft flew across the courtyard and clattered against the wall a few in front of him.
The spear had been neatly snipped in half.
He grabbed the broken shaft and levered himself up, using it as a sort of cane to take his weight off his injured leg.
The battle on the wall above grew as he heard metal shriek.
Stones from the battlements fell around him.
A portion of a Machina grasping a writhing tentacle fell a few body-lengths from where he crawled.
The sounds of battle built as the elves’ defenses rallied again.
Haldeen knew he was no strategist, but the city’s defenses had been badly depleted.
Perhaps help might come from other parts of the city, but taking from there left them weaker.
He looked up to check his distance to the Tower and saw a blue sky.
You ass. If there is no Shield, then the rest doesn’t matter.
He put his head down and focused on crawling.
He made it to the open door at the base of his Tower, and pulled himself in.
He saw a dead elf on the floor there, wearing medical smocks and carrying a pack.
The blood trail suggested she had been pulled there.
Haldeen ignored the blood to root through her knapsack.
He found another round of bandaging for his calf, along with a pair of thick wooden dowels the length of his forearm.
He wound the first bandage around his calf, as an additional layer to try and stop the bleeding.
He took the second bandage and the dowels and used them to brace his knee into rigidity.
The pack contained a restorative. He guzzled it, though the warning clearly said to limit consumption to one a day.
The pain in his leg dimmed to a dull throb, then went numb.
He looked back outside as he worked. The guards had nearly done for the creature in the courtyard, swinging more found spears like clubs to break its joints and limit its mobility.
Once they had it on the ground, the guard lept on it, and hacked at it, stabbing its eyes to blind it.
A guard gave it a final sword thrust to its vitals, and it shuddered and died, spewing an ichor across the courtyard grass.
The guards appeared to have brought it down, but Haldeen saw the butcher’s bill …
a half dozen or so defenders had died in the process.
Haldeen, though no military genius, could see that math to be unsustainable.
Three guards and a round dozen laborers armed with tools rushed past.
Haldeen bit down on the instinct to call out, to tell them who he was.
Moragen’s words came back to him You may have killed us all.
Part of him felt shame, but the cold part, the part he rarely acknowledged, whispered.
What’s done is done. You look out for you.
He moved to one side to let them go past.
He felt their eyes on him … not as their lord, but just one more elf in their way.
One guard opened his mouth to say something sharp to Haldeen, saw his bloody leg, and let it pass.
The laborers stopped cold the moment they saw the carnage in the courtyard, then had to be driven forward with threats and curses.
The last worker in line turned away, and threw up in the hall.
The elf wiped his mouth and followed the others up into the light and into the fight.
Haldeen waited for them to pass, then used the spear-shaft to push himself up.
He descended the stairs and into the below ground halls.
The mage-lights usually made these halls bright as noonday, but now they flickered fitfully …
just like they had after Triana had gone mad in the food-hall.
He felt his stomach twist and bile rose in the back of his throat.
That cursed woman! He worked his way down the hall, moving to one side as others swept past.
More laborers, being pressed from behind by guards.
One looked as though he was going to pull Haldeen in, but saw the state of him, and his obvious injuries, and let him be.
Haldeen was certain the guard would stand down if he knew he accosted his own bound lord, but Haldeen preferred the moment to pass without a confrontation.
He pushed himself along. The pain returned as the restorative faded.
The splint began to hurt like blazes, but he could peg along, after a fashion.
He used the spear-shaft to take the weight off the injured leg, allowing him to limp slowly down the hall.
The spear-shaft wasn’t long enough for a proper crutch, but proved much better than nothing.
He followed the hallway down towards the lab, leaning against the wall.
There was a vibration, and dust fell from the overhead.
He looked back, and saw the bloody trail he’d left.
He sobbed once, quickly, and fought to hold it in before he broke down completely.
Another vibration, and more dust fell. He had to hurry.
He would be cut off from his lab if the stones shifted and the ceiling came down.
The lab was his prize, and the Gate his safety.
He half dragged, half fell down the last short flight of stone stairs, then along the hall to his lab.
He saw the magic jars and boxes containing the copper spheres stacked outside the door.
The guards had followed orders, in spite of everything.
They had gone on somewhere else afterwards, possibly back to the fight.
But they had brought the jars to the lab.
He looked bleakly at them, objects that a mark ago that had been vitally important.
Now, they were just ceramic boxes that were in the way.
He heard a distant rumble. A few heartbeats later more dust fell from the ceiling.
He passed the magic jars and made the specific pattern of hand-passes needed to disarm the locks and open the lab door.
Even without the Source, he still had enough magic for this.
He heard the door locks snap back, and the heavy stone opened.
He leaned against the door, levering it open and smearing blood across it as he entered.
He stumbled in, making no effort to close it behind him.
Inside the lab, the Probe squatted in its cage, waiting for its commands, seemingly unaware of the dangers outside.
Another heavy vibration, and distant grinding noise of stone on stone.
Something big … and important … had fallen.
He looked at the Gate. It stood … quiescent.
He leaned his spearshaft against the bench and started the incantations needed to bring it to life, creating the shell that the ambient would then fill.
He felt his magic ebb away. He swore, and made a second attempt.
Nothing. He raised the shape he expected, but it simply collapsed.
“What the ….” Then he remembered. With no Source, his magic had nothing to hold.
The ambient magic was too weak for the spell he needed to cast to arm the Gate.
He wanted to cry. He was so close to safety.
He tried to raise the spell again, this time to try and fill it with his own magic …
to try to shore it up with his own will.
The magic dribbled away again. He swore in frustration. So close to safety, and no way to power the Gate! He looked around desperately, hoping for inspiration. Then, he remembered the magic jars stacked in the hallway. Stored magic, maybe enough to charge the Gate and make his escape.
He went back to the door, favoring his injured leg. He tried to lift one of the ceramic jars. He was weakened and had no leverage. He nearly toppled over. He looked around the lab and saw the rolling table. He could lift the jars that far, up onto the table, then bring the whole thing in.
He pushed the table out into the hall and next to the jars, and very carefully, and very laboriously lifted each up onto the table.
His leg hurt so much it was nearly unbearable, though his foot remained numb, and he felt cold sweat trickle down his back.
He had to stop once when a wave of dizziness washed over him.
He leaned against the table then, breathing deeply while his head cleared, and hoping the table didn’t roll and pitch him onto the hallway floor.
His vision started to collapse down into a tunnel, and he focused on taking deep, steady breaths.
After some moments his sight cleared and the dizziness passed. He finished lifting the last of the jars up onto the table. He stopped and listened. The hallway was quiet. He heard distant cries and voices, but the words were indistinct. More distant shouting, mingled with quite a lot of screaming.
He rolled the table back into the lab, and studied the jars.
He extended his own magic, using an opening spell to see if the jars would respond, and was gratified, when a series of small circles appeared in its clay top.
He felt the magic stored within, a sensation felt both warm and cold at the same time.
He toyed with the magic a bit, learning its properties.
He drew wisps out and used them to strengthen the mage-lights in the room.