Chapter 15 #2
The colossal geode shuddered, disengaging from the bedrock of the Deep Forge.
The massive, stomach-dropping acceleration seized them again as the cathedral-sized room shot straight up the vertical shaft of the mountain.
Riven watched the holographic projection hovering over the table.
The map blurred as they rocketed upward, bypassing the terrifying, shifting mechanical horrors of the middle levels.
The deceleration hit them hard, the geode grinding to a halt and locking into its ancient anchor points with a deafening thud.
They were back in the upper levels. Back in the war zone.
Riven looked at the glowing wireframe map. The upper strata were a hornet's nest of crimson dots. The Inquisitor Phalanxes were systematically sweeping the corridors, locking down intersections, and erecting hard-light barriers to seal off any escape routes.
He isolated a specific cluster of red dots moving methodically through a long, straight corridor roughly a half-mile from their current position.
"There," Riven pointed. "A twelve-man Phalanx. They are sweeping the primary aqueduct tunnel heading east. It's a straight shot, narrow walls, no intersecting hallways for three hundred yards."
"A chokepoint," Vael noted, leaning over the map. "If I engage them there, they can't flank me. They will have to lock shields and meet me head-on."
"That's the plan," Riven said. "But we have to make sure they can't spread out, and we have to make sure they can't back up."
Riven turned and marched toward the exit. The crystal iris dissolved, revealing the dark, damp brickwork of the fourth Stratum. It was significantly colder here, the air smelling of stale water and fear.
They moved with brutal efficiency. Vael took point, the Abyssal Cleaver held at the ready, its black blade devouring the ambient shadows.
Carys flanked her, her violet focus crystals hovering tightly around her shoulders, the light noticeably dimming whenever they drifted too close to Vael's weapon.
Riven guided them through the maze of abandoned aqueducts, avoiding the main arteries where the larger patrols were marching. The Lexicon gave him perfect situational awareness. He saw the enemy through solid rock, tracking their exact pace and trajectory.
They reached the designated corridor.
It was a long, oppressive tunnel carved from solid grey basalt, designed centuries ago to funnel massive volumes of water. The floor was slick with ancient slime.
"They are two corridors over," Riven said, his amber eyes burning in the gloom. "They will turn the corner and enter this aqueduct in exactly four minutes."
"I'll take the center," Vael said, stepping into the middle of the slick floor. She planted her boots wide, gripping the black halberd with both hands, lowering the massive crescent blade toward the ground.
Riven didn't just stand back. This was his trap, and he had to ensure the geometry was flawless.
He walked to the left wall of the tunnel. He placed his bare hands against the damp basalt. He didn't carve a rune to break or shift the stone. He channeled the deepest, most unyielding command in the Builder's Lexicon.
Fortify.
A blinding flash of golden light shot down the length of the tunnel.
The walls didn't move, but the physical density of the stone violently shifted. Riven forced the atomic structure of the basalt to compress, weaving his golden circuitry directly into the rock. The walls turned a deep, polished black, humming with an indestructible resonance.
He crossed to the right wall and repeated the process.
He was building a kill box. He was removing any possibility of the Inquisitors using their own explosives or magic to breach the walls and escape. He created a perfect, unbreakable funnel.
"The walls are locked," Riven said, stepping back, his breath pluming in the cold air. The blackened veins on his arm throbbed slightly, a dull ache compared to the agony of the upper levels. His body was adapting to the Lexicon.
"Carys," Vael commanded, her eyes locked dead ahead on the dark end of the tunnel. "Stay twenty paces back. Do not cast a single bolt until I break their synchronization. If you hit the shield wall while it's active, the kinetic rebound will take your head off."
"Understood," Carys said, raising her hands. The jagged black rings on her fingers seemed to hum, eager to rip the magic from the air.
Riven stepped to the side, pressing his back against the indestructible wall. He was the Architect. He had built the stage, he had forged the weapon, and now he had to watch his Vanguard execute the math.
The silence stretched. The damp air felt suffocatingly tight.
Then, the sound reached them.
Clank. Clank. Clank.
It was the perfectly synchronized, terrifying march of steel-weave boots hitting stone. The rhythm was flawless, devoid of any human hesitation.
Around the distant corner of the aqueduct, the pale, sterile blue light of academy aether-torches bled into the gloom.
A moment later, they appeared.
The Inquisitor Phalanx marched into the long corridor. Twelve towering figures clad in immaculate white-and-gold runic plate. Their mirrored silver faceplates reflected the darkness of the tunnel, entirely featureless, entirely devoid of mercy.
They marched three abreast, four ranks deep.
The moment the leading rank rounded the corner and saw Vael standing alone in the center of the tunnel, they didn't pause. They didn't shout a warning. They didn't demand a surrender.
The front three Inquisitors simultaneously raised their left arms.
A blinding, solid wall of crackling blue energy erupted from their gauntlets.
The hard-light shields locked together seamlessly, spanning the entire width of the narrow tunnel.
The second rank stepped up, locking their shields over the heads of the first, creating an impenetrable, angled phalanx of pure kinetic denial.
The air in the tunnel popped and hissed as the sheer volume of academy magic displaced the oxygen.
They advanced. A slow, grinding wall of indestructible light moving forward to crush the single girl standing in their path.
Vael did not back up.
She rolled her shoulders, her golden eyes locking onto the center of the blue shield wall. She tightened her grip on the dark, heavy haft of the Abyssal Cleaver.
"For the Solar-Crest," Vael whispered, the words not a boast, but a eulogy for the girl who had died in the arena.
She broke into a sprint.
Her heavy boots splashed through the shallow puddles of the aqueduct. She charged directly at the impenetrable wall of magic, the pitch-black blade of the halberd dragging behind her, actively devouring the blue light cast by the shields.
The Inquisitors braced, locking their boots against the stone, preparing to absorb the kinetic impact and disperse it flawlessly across their synchronized aether-network.
Vael reached the ten-yard mark. She planted her left foot, using her massive forward momentum to pivot her entire body. She swung the Abyssal Cleaver in a brutal, horizontal, devastating arc, aiming dead center for the glowing blue shield wall.
The pitch-black blade blurred through the air, screaming with the hungry, anti-magic gravity of the Deep Forge.