21
Mason Grabfelder was only five when it was discovered he could store mana in his blood. By eight, he was able to pull mana into a ball in his palm. His parents thought of him as a genius.
Compared to many in the Academy, though, he was middling at best.
But he took comfort in his mother’s letters and his father’s steady encouragement when he went home on breaks.
It was his second year at the Academy. His first had been a constant trial. The dungeons in particular had left him shaking after each one.
All the blood.
All the violence.
It wasn’t what he wanted to do with his life.
But he understood the need for it. As a mage, he had to be ready at any time to defend the Court against unknown threats. He needed to learn how to react to danger swiftly and appropriately.
Dungeons helped with that.
They were meant to teach students to rely on themselves and their team. To gain a high level of confidence in their own abilities by forcing them to push themselves harder and harder.
But three students had died in the previous year.
Students he’d known.
One, Winfred, had even been someone he’d felt close to. She’d helped him study sometimes. Had laughed with him. They’d even mildly flirted with each other enough that he’d considered asking her to dinner.
Then she was gone.
In an instant.
Wiped out by a pirate in one of the dungeons.
All it took was a moment where she wasn’t paying attention.
The loss had shaken him a lot. He still felt sad every time he thought of her. Which, lately, was often. Because there were rumors there were ghosts haunting the walls.
Rumors he hadn’t believed at first.
Not until he’d heard it. The soft scratch as if something was trying to get out. And howling moans which vibrated in the air as though some spirit was crawling through the pipes and moaning.
Rats, some guys said.
But it wasn’t rats. Ket had confirmed the wards which dealt with rats were effective. It wasn’t rats.
Or roaches.
Or any other kind of pest. Which left only one option.
Either a ghost, or a monster. Some creature which had thrived in the dangerous and mysterious levels deep below the Academy. Where, it was said, the failed experiments of the dwarves still haunted halls no human had ever seen.
The shifting rooms would sometimes bring them up, they said.
And, when they arrived, they would hunt.
On his bed, Mason stared up at the corner of the room where the little vent let air inside. His room had a small window, but the vents were needed to keep the air cool or warm depending on the weather.
And through the vent, he could hear it.
Skittering.
Crawling.
Creeping.
Something coming.
He’d dragged Ket here last time he’d heard it. The little blue-haired Hall Monitor had listened, then rolled her eyes.
“It’s just a door somewhere,” she told him. Then batted the back of his head lightly. “Don’t be a baby.”
Then she’d left.
And the skittering continued.
It wasn’t a door. No way it was a door.
It was something else.
His heart beat heavily in his chest as whatever it was came closer. He could swear he heard a chittering of gears, and his eyes flicked to the ceiling.
Saws could drop from the ceilings without any warning. That’s what they’d been told. Buzzing saws on long dexterous mechanical arms which chopped people to pieces!
Gulping, he pressed himself against the far wall, his pillow hugged tightly around his ears as he tried to block the sound of it.
But it was there!
A long angry beep zoomed past the grille.
Did he see a flash as something went past?
“No!” He moaned. “Please. Leave me alone…”
Then another went past. A streak of light maybe. Or a reflection as something metallic whipped past, the skittering fading into the distance.
But it would return.
It always did.
Tears rolled down his cheeks as Mason stared at the vent. Afraid whatever was up there was about to pour out of it and then the saws would come.
“I want to go home…”
* * *
Within the pipes, Click darted furiously after Clack.
The smaller golem had a slight advantage in the tight tunnels. But Click was catching up. Suddenly, Clack made an abrupt turn, diving through a grille which clapped shut behind the golem.
Falling to the stone floor with a loud crash, Clack found itself in a wide open room. It was empty. Maybe no one had ever been in here. There was a lot of dust.
Click dropped behind it, the larger golem prowling calmly towards the smaller.
Clack’s front legs lifted nervously and it gave a hopeful wave.
Which Click did not return.
Instead, the bigger golem stopped about a meter away and stamped its feet one by one.
A challenge.
Only the most dominant golem could be in charge.
This was natural.
It was ingrained into Clack’s Machine Intelligence Matrix.
There was only one way to resolve such a challenge. The little golem’s gears chittered. It was scared, but didn’t want to show its fear.
Though it did ask the larger golem if it was sure this was the only way to resolve their differences.
Click dipped its body and stamped its feet again.
It was so aggressive!
Clack accepted with a lowering of its arms and a long sad beep.
So.
It would be violence.
As the challenged, it had the right of first attack.
But its experience was poor. It hadn’t had any chance to practice. Click knew this. Knew it, but still wanted to proceed.
What a bully!
Well.
If that’s how it was going to be, Clack wouldn’t back down without a proper fight. Lifting its body proudly, Clack pulled out of its Hard Memory a series of projects it had been working on.
These were going to be key to Clack’s victory.
Because, if it could win, then Click would have no choice but to bow and accept being subordinate.
Deciding there was no point in hesitating, Clack pounced. Using beeps and an occasional clatter of gears, Clack relayed its first attack.
The shadows bite,
But between the levers,
A simple screw,
Maintains the whole.
Then, following its programming, it completed its attack by slamming the ground with its arms.
Click watched, unimpressed.
It lifted its body and returned a heavy blow.
Lines of copper float,
Above cobalt streets,
While shifting beneath their feet,
Forgotten oil flows.
Slamming its arms down, Click seemed pleased.
Clack wilted a little. It was a good poem.
Clack could almost feel the pulsing oil beneath the city street as he thought about it. Were the streets really cobalt?
It didn’t matter.
The vision was all that mattered.
Its own vision had been small. But Click’s was more mighty.
Still. It couldn’t give up without a battle. Clack was no pushover.
Skating through broken pipes,
A glitter of light,
A moment without darkness.
The world is not so little outside.
Click paused as Clack finished.
Grudgingly, the larger golem flicked an arm to accept the poem. It felt it needed a little work, but it had some potential.
It was acceptable.
Thoughtfully, Click pulled another poem up. This time, one of his favorites.
Tangled cords gathered upon,
A wide open asphalt plane.
There is no movement.
With a strong slam of its arms, Click’s gears rattled happily.
Only three lines, but they were invoking a sharp sense of dread in Clack. It was a poem about the end of a golem’s life.
Shivering, Clack felt desperate as it sifted through its little works.
It had nothing like this. Nothing so moody. Or so evocative.
How could it tell the other golem this, though?
With a rattle, the little golem fired off a thought straight out of its conscious fore-node.
Smell of smoke,
Rises pale in the breeze.
I have no missing parts.
Clack let out a sharp beep as it slammed its arms down.
There! A poem about the future. A statement. A hard firm belief that experience would make him better. Clack’s gears let out a stubborn rattle.
Which made Click’s rear leg twitch.
The bigger golem was still.
Clack watched it think.
Wondering if the slam was over. Who had won? Would Click now bow? That was the normal process.
Bow and accept being a subordinate.
Then Click started sending out its words, and Clack’s dreams of dominance were stripped away with each save syllable.
Within the mirror glass,
Of cracked spinal armor,
I see drip of grease,
Drop of oil.
But this is not my face.
With a heavy slam of its arms, Click stood triumphant.
Clack shivered in fear. The words were too mighty!
In one way, Click had rebuked his dream, promising only defeat. But in the end there is an acceptance that the bully is not the thing Click wants to be, so it cannot recognize itself in its own reflection.
It is seriously good!
Clack gave its projects one more final check, but it had nothing so mighty.
Nothing so deep.
Even the poem about the color of rain and the opalescent moon could do nothing in the face of this epic.
With a long whining beep, Clack gently lowered its body to the floor and pressed down.
Surrender.
Swaggering close, Click loomed like a frightening demon.
And, with one giant swing, thwapped Clack heavily on the head.
Thus was dominance achieved.