Chapter Thirty-Six
Dalhmun Prison
Former Transellia
Amos Lowe
A new day dawned at Dalhmun Prison. It began with the same routine, now twenty-three years familiar. When Amos rose that morning, little did he realize that it would be the end of his time here.
He should have known something was coming. The guards had been nervous before, but they were particularly agitated today. They wouldn’t speak to him as they rushed about, and it wasn’t like they really thought of Amos as one of the prisoners, more a fixture of the place. Rather than get answers, all he got was a terse “Not now, Zaydele” from any guard he asked.
After breakfast, all the prisoners were notified that they were to gather in the main yard for an address from their warden. They knew the drill. Several hundred men dressed in striped uniforms and ill-fitting slippers gathered, then sorted themselves into lines based upon their assigned number to await whatever message he would have for them today. It was rarely anything meaningful.
Except this time when Warden Tamf walked out, he was flanked by an Almacian army officer, and followed by a few gray-coated soldiers carrying rifles. The other prisoners began to grumble. Despite being in a land that had been defeated and occupied, it was rare to see real soldiers at forgotten Dalhmun. These men may have been political prisoners, but they were still proud Transellians, and they didn’t like being reminded that their country was a mere vassal state now.
Amos noted that the main gate was open and several more Almacian soldiers were visible there. The guards were out in force, nervously watching the prisoners and the visiting Almacians. They feared their Almacian conquerors. As long as the Almacians believed everything was orderly they normally left their vassals alone, but they had a reputation for fearsome and vicious reprisals when crossed.
The warden and the officer stopped in front of the first rank of prisoners. Amos was toward the back, in the sixth line, and he did his best to look unremarkable. He didn’t try to conceal his face because that would have been too suspicious. Besides, who would recognize him after all this time?
The Almacian had a white bandage over one eye, but that other, remaining eye belonged to a hunter of men. His manner reminded Amos of a wolf, watching a herd of prey animals, taking note of some, while passing others quickly by. Amos realized that the ones the officer was focusing on were the older prisoners, around his age, and he felt a cold knot form in his stomach.
“Attention, prisoners. Quiet down.” Warden Tamf raised his voice so even those in the back could hear him. “As you can see, we have guests today. You will show them the utmost respect, or you will be severely punished.”
“Thank you,” the one-eyed officer spoke in passable Transellian. “We appreciate your cooperation.”
“Our guests are here looking for someone, but apparently there has been a paperwork mix-up, because there is no prisoner here by that name.”
The Almacian held up one hand to silence him. “I will take it from here.”
The warden nodded and stepped meekly aside.
The officer began speaking in a different language. A language that it would be very unlikely any of the prisoners would be fluent in. “I know you are here, Amos Lowe.”
Amos cringed. It was over. He risked a nervous glance toward his garden, where the tiny golem he had assembled had been buried.
“You can come along peacefully, or we can do this in a significantly more difficult manner. I am speaking your native tongue because I do not wish to make these men panic and riot just yet. Identify yourself, or I will begin executing them, and I will continue until this place has been completely emptied.” His Prajan was nearly perfect. Someone had taught him well, but that wasn’t an Almacian accent. This man had been educated in Kolakolvia.
These weren’t Almacs at all. They were the Tsar’s men in disguise.
Nicodemus had found him.
The other prisoners were baffled and muttering to each other. None of them spoke Prajan. Most of them didn’t even recognize the language of the long-isolated city-state.
“Do you hear me, Amos Lowe? How many lives will you allow me to take before you step forward? One?” He drew a large pistol from the holster on his belt.
“What are you doing?” the warden asked.
“Demonstrating the seriousness of my request.” And then he shot someone in the front row.
The prisoner fell, gasping and gut shot. He lay at the warden’s feet, bleeding upon his shoes. The mass of bodies reflexively pulled back, some of them shouting in surprise, others in fear. The guards hadn’t been expecting that. The few of them who had been given rifles from the armory didn’t know who to point them at. The fake Almacians, however, did not have that issue, and their rifles were shouldered, prepared to shoot, guard or prisoner, it mattered not.
The wounded man began to scream.
The prisoners were frightened and confused, but not yet ready to make a run at the guns. There may have only been a few in the courtyard with the officer, but there were an unknown number more waiting by the gate. Amos guessed those were the Kolaks who couldn’t fake being an Almacian.
“You can’t just execute men! There are procedures!” Warden Tamf cried.
“You have procedures for executions here? Well, as it happens we, too, have procedures where I am from. Though I suspect ours are more . . . direct . . . than your own.” The officer calmly broke open his pistol and reloaded with a shell from his coat pocket. He switched back to Prajan. “That is one, Amos Lowe. I can do this all day.”
Surprisingly, the warden knelt beside the fallen man to try and help him. He may have been their captor, but he was not a cruel or spiteful one. As he tried in vain to stop the bleeding, he shouted. “Zaydele! Come help. Where are you, Zaydele?”
The officer had been preparing to shoot another random prisoner, but he paused, a smile creeping onto his lips. “Who do you call for?”
“Zaydele. He’s a skilled healer. He might be able to save this man.”
“Zaydele? Well now. Is this Zaydele a prisoner?”
“Yes. He can help.”
“I do not doubt you for a moment, good Warden.” The one-eyed man laughed and spoke in Amos’ old language again. “So they call you ‘Grandfather’? A Prajan term of respect and endearment for a wise teacher. Come out and demonstrate what you learned at the great college of Praja. If it is anything like I’ve seen from another magi, it will border on the miraculous.”
Amos had hoped it would never come to this. He had never wanted to use this kind of terrible magic ever again. He had no choice. He could not be taken by Nicodemus. Panicked, he looked toward the garden.
Of course, with every other prisoner focused on danger, the one-eyed wolf spotted the man desperately searching for a way out. When Amos turned back, the officer was looking right at him.
“Hello, Amos.”
He ran for the garden.
“There. The man I’m looking for. I will take him and be on my way, if you please.”
Two of the closest guards ran after him. Another had been posted on the wall above the garden, and he started climbing down the ladder. It had been a long time since Amos had tried to run, but he was driven by fear, and would reach the small golem before the guards could catch him.
“Do not harm him. I need him alive. If you hurt him, I promise I will burn this place to the ground.”
It had been a long time since he had called upon this specific type of power. There were too many repercussions. Too many risks. And it always brought about great suffering. He had hoped to never bring such danger into the world again, but he had prepared for it. He dropped to his knees, thrust his fists into the soil, and began the chant. He found the edge of the board and pulled it up.
There were many fragments of spirits bound to him. He was their anchor, to keep them from drifting off on chaotic tides, to wander this plane in endless torment. They were why he had to escape and survive. Without him, they would be lost. It was a great and terrible weight for one man to bear.
And now he had to call upon one of them for aid. There was only one he trusted to not lose control when given such incredible physical power. His Sarah had always had a gentle heart. Even this part of her still shined with love and patience. If any of them would heed his commands, it would be her. The other fragments might give into their rage, and if that happened, a single out-of-control golem—even one as small and shoddy as this—might slaughter everyone in the prison before he could stop it.
The guards were nearly upon him. As he worked through the chant, he traced his finger across all the letters he’d carved into the golem’s stone head, in the proper way, in the proper order, coaxing it to life.
Is it time? she asked.
A guard crashed into him. Amos hit the ground, still chanting, as he struggled back to his knees. The second guard grabbed him by one wrist. A moment later the third encircled his arm around Amos’ neck.
“Zaydele! Calm down. Don’t make us hurt you.” Mr. Kartevur shouted in Amos’ ear. “Stop struggling!”
Except Amos kept up the chant.
“Silence him!”
Kartevur shoved Amos’ face into the dirt, trying to ground out the chant. But it was too late.
The board exploded out of the ground in a shower of dirt. One misshapen arm, made of twisted sticks, rose from the grave. The hand on the end twitched. Bones of wood and tendons of string moved on their own.
“Run for your lives,” Amos pleaded with the guards. “Run!”
Except they watched, frozen in horror, as the being of stone, vines, and earth slowly unfolded itself from the ground. Knees had been tucked against its chest to take up the little bit of room he’d had to work with, but it rose, shakily, slowly, magical joints creaking, as soft dirt defied gravity, and crawled up the construct, coating it like rough flesh.
“He’s made a golem,” the fake Almacian said in awe, then immediately began shouting. “Glazkov! Bring up the Object now!”
His creation stepped from the grave as the dirt crawled up its oblong stone head, covering the glowing letters across its face. Barely the size of a man, it was tiny and pathetically constructed by golem standards, but even then, this thing that looked like a ragged scarecrow was one of the most dangerous entities the world had ever seen.
“Don’t hurt th—” Amos was abruptly cut off when Kartevur made the worst mistake of his life by striking Amos hard with his fist in an attempt to silence him. The blow left him stunned and unable to finish his command.
Mr. Kartevur was not a bad man. In fact, he was probably a good man, a caring husband and father, who meant well, but who had acted out of fear and confusion while merely trying his best to do his duty.
Only the golem didn’t understand that.
That was the danger of such things.
It reacted, striking Kartevur with blinding speed. The blow caused his skull to fly into pieces. The second guard died a heartbeat later, with his sternum punched through his spine. Then the guard who was lying atop Amos, the golem picked up and hurled him across the courtyard so hard he splattered when he hit the stone wall.
There was a terrible moment of silence as the golem took in the myriad of potential threats, and the prisoners, guards, and soldiers tried to understand what was unfolding.
“No, wait, stop,” Amos begged, but then everything happened at once. Rifles barked and blue sparks flew as they struck the golem’s protective aura. Hundreds of prisoners ran in every direction. The golem covered the entire garden in a single bound and tore a guard’s head from his neck. It hurled the head at the guard in the tower, hitting hard enough to knock him over the railing to fall screaming to his death.
“Stop killing!” Amos bellowed at the top of his lungs. “No more.”
The golem froze. It was already poised to kill again. He had forgotten how quickly things unfolded when a golem was involved. It had been a very long time for good reason.
“We must go. Protect me.”
The golem rushed over, a blur of motion, to put its body between Amos and the gunfire. Blue fire flickered as the bullets harmlessly shattered in midair. He began walking toward the gate and the golem moved with him, absorbing every attack. His head was still reeling from the hit. And to think he had once healed the hand that had given him that blow. “That way. Out the gate.” The fragments that powered the creations were not stupid but being once again tied to a physical body was a confusing and disorienting experience even for a complete spirit. This orphaned part of his wife’s ghost was doing the best it could.
The courtyard had turned to chaos. Some of the prisoners had attacked the guards. A guard shot a prisoner, but then was quickly overwhelmed by others. Men were trying to escape, running for the main gate, and the soldiers there were a lot more interested in the golem headed their way than the prisoners. Other prisoners were using the guard’s distraction to their advantage to run for the other exits.
All through this, the fake Almacian walked, parallel to them across the courtyard, calmly matching pace with the golem. Whenever a prisoner got too close, one of his men would shoot or bayonet them, but the entire time the wolf kept his eye on Amos. He was the prize.
Amos was sorely tempted to order the golem to kill that particular man, but he knew doing so risked losing control of it again. How many innocents would die before he could get the golem back under control? How many more widows would there be tonight because of him? None, if he could help it.
They were only a hundred paces from the main gate when something huge walked through it. Ten feet tall, it had to duck to not hit its head. It was mostly steel, once painted, but had since been badly burned so that now it was ashen and peeling. Amos blinked in confusion, thinking it was some other kind of small golem, but then he saw its aura and knew it for what it really was. This was some manner of machine abomination, also powered by a ghostly fragment.
He could no longer hear the words of his wife, but he saw the golem hesitate, unsure how to reconcile the presence of the steel beast with the command not to kill. The machine leveled a mighty pole arm toward them and charged on loud, clanking feet. Terrified prisoners had to dive out of the way or be crushed.
“Carry me up and over the wall. We can crawl down the other side.”
The golem wrapped one arm around Amos’ waist, trapping him against the body of cool dirt, and then leapt up and to the side. He screamed. The golem hit, a dozen feet up, and clung to the stones. The impact knocked the air from Amos’ lungs. It began to scurry upward, free fingers and toes sticking to the wall like a fly, and all he could do was hang on like he was a child and watch.
“Glazkov, do not let him escape,” the one-eyed man shouted.
They were nearly to the top. There was a guard above them, but when he saw what was heading his way he ran as fast as he could into the nearest tower and slammed the door behind him.
The steel monstrosity raised one arm. On the end of it was a gigantic cannon. It spat fire and the loudest sound Amos had ever heard. The wall above them disintegrated in a cloud of dust. Fragments slammed against the shield, and for a moment it appeared as if the golem was beneath a glowing blue umbrella. Bigger chunks of stone fell as the wall crumbled above them, and they were going slow enough that they passed through the magical aura without being diverted. The golem was hit repeatedly, each impact tearing off chunks of dirt, but it instinctively protected Amos with its body. Then as the wall crumbled beneath its hand, it had no choice but to jump.
They hit the ground, but even then, the golem did its best to save its charge from harm, taking the entirety of the impact. They rolled to a stop. His creation immediately sprang to its feet, but all Amos could do was lie there, dizzy and coughing.
The giant was lumbering toward them. Each step shook the ground. It lifted the polearm and swung it with incredible force at the much smaller golem.
The golem caught the gigantic weapon effortlessly with one hand, instantly stopping the multiton machine in its tracks. With a quick and simple twist, it snapped the shaft and ripped the blade off. The metal face had no expression, but if it had, right then it would have looked surprised. The golem spun the blade around—the length of it bigger than the golem itself—and smashed it against the metal man, sending it tumbling away to land in a great clanking heap.
The golem looked to him for guidance, but he couldn’t speak, couldn’t catch his breath. It believed the metal man would hurt its creator, and just like Kartevur, it would not allow that. Left without instruction the golem defaulted to what golems always do.
Destroy.
* * *
Nothing had ever hit the Object that hard before. The tiny golem had sent 12 rolling after it had snapped the halberd like a twig. It was far stronger than should have been possible for its size.
The instant 12 slid to a stop, Illarion smoothly engaged the controls and got up. It was a good thing the increase in power and control from entering the Dead Sister’s realm was still there, because otherwise he wouldn’t have made it before the golem was on him.
It struck 12 in the thickly armored chest. It shook the entire Object, making Illarion’s ears ring. It hit him again, and Illarion actually saw the steel wall in front of him bow inward from the impact. He worked the arm control as he stepped back, bringing the halberd shaft down on the golem’s head. The steel rod bent. It would have turned a man to paste. A few bits of dirt and wood flew, but then the golem turned back, seemingly unfazed.
It was unbelievable, seeing such a thin creature, no larger than a man, suddenly leap into the air to punch 12 in the helmet. The armored view screen shattered and Illarion’s face was cut by chunks of flying glass.
But by the time the golem landed, Illarion had leaned into it, throwing all of 12’s considerable weight forward. He crashed into the thing and shoved. It may have had incredible strength, but 12 had mass. Illarion pushed the foot controls all the way down, driving the golem across the courtyard. Its feet cut a trench in the ground until Illarion smashed it against the stone wall. He crushed it as hard as he could, and when he’d run out of momentum, he stepped back, and threw one arm forward.
The last bit of pole-arm shaft pierced the golem through the chest. Pinning it to the wall. Illarion let go, used the finger rings to close 12’s fist, and slammed that into the golem’s head. Soil tore away as the stone beneath cracked. A familiar blue light glowed through the wound, only this light was far brighter than anything Illarion had ever seen around the Object.
His next hit was slapped away by the golem’s tiny hand. It pried the steel plates apart and reached into 12’s arm, ripping. Illarion nearly lost his pinky as the wire to that control tugged violently. He barely got his fingers out before all the rings were ripped away, along with the hand of the Object. That would’ve stripped the flesh from his bones like taking off a glove. His arm was still strapped in, though, so he curled his bicep, and then dropped his shoulder to drive his elbow against the golem.
The wall shattered and the two of them fell through. They were outside the prison walls.
No longer pinned, the golem spun away, far faster than Illarion could react. It yanked the broken shaft from its chest and tossed it aside before coming at him again. He could no longer work the fingers, but he could still swing that arm. Only the golem slid beneath the wild haymaker, popped up, and struck 12 with both hands. Now it was his turn to flail back and collide with the wall.
The golem picked up a fallen stone, easily ten times the size of its body, and hurled it at him. He barely had time to lift his damaged arm before it hit. The rock was going so fast it caused the shield to react and burn blue, but it was so big it went right through.
12 crashed through the wall again, this time back into the prison. He landed on his back so hard that he heard the hatch latches break off behind him. He spit out dust and gravel from the pulverized wall that had come through his broken view port. That hit had caused the temperature inside the Object to jump dramatically. The instant 12 quit sliding, he worked the controls and stood up. He hoped he hadn’t crushed any prisoners. They’d done him no wrong.
The golem came through the second hole and started toward him. Cautious now. At least he could die saying he’d actually managed to strike fear into a miniature golem.
Extra power from the other realm or not, if this thing had been full-sized, Illarion knew he’d already be a red smear against a wall.
With the view port ruined, his vision was no longer clear, and there was no way he could get to his spectacles without unstrapping from the arm controls. However, even with his bad vision he could see that the thing was hurt. He’d torn chunks off it. There were broken bits of rope dangling. And from every gash, blue light leaked, so intense he had to squint to keep from being blinded. He raised 12’s hands defensively in front of him. While the one was a gaping hole of twisted metal, the gun hand was still fine.
As it closed, the golem moved quicker, suddenly dodging side to side, and then it rushed in to strike. Off-balance, 12 reeled back, and Illarion was crashing through another wall, this one made of wood. They were inside a small chapel, pews being crushed into kindling. He swung at the golem again, but to no avail, as it leapt above his attack, landed on the altar, and then jumped from there to hit 12 again.
12 stumbled through the opposite wall, the golem right on top of him. He’d seen the flashes as his comrades had shot at the golem, so he knew it had a shield like his own. However, they had to be inside each other’s shields now, and Illarion had a cannon full of explosive shells. He tried to angle the cannon into it, but the cannon was too big, and the golem too fast. The best he could do was trigger the explosive shell into the ground at their feet.
The blast consumed them both. Illarion felt the sensation of falling backwards.
For a moment everything was a dark haze. He was so dizzy he wasn’t sure which direction was up. And then he snapped back, ears ringing, tasting blood, smelling smoke.
He worked the controls. 12’s legs were responding, but one of them had been hurt bad. He could feel the resistance in the harness. His halberd arm was entirely dead. He tried to work the cannon’s action, but it was jammed. So he unstrapped that arm, reached across his body, and pulled the safety pins to dump the cannon on the ground. He felt the weight slide off and heard the clunk from outside.
With one good arm, and one good leg, it would’ve been impossible for any other driver to get any other Object out of this situation, but he was Illarion Glazkov and this was Object 12, damn it. So grinding his teeth and ignoring the awful pain in his head, he finessed the controls until 12 wobbled to its feet. Now where’s that—
The golem punched a hole in 12’s side, narrowly missing Illarion’s ribs. When the hand pulled out, the hole was so big that it let sunshine in.
It hit 12 again, somehow even harder. He tried to hit it back, but the thing just accepted the blow. 12’s fist blasted pounds of dirt off the monster, cracked stone, and splintered wood, but it didn’t seem to care. It wanted him dead. It easily ducked beneath his next attack, and for an instant Illarion lost sight of the thing.
That was all it took, because it hit the back of 12’s good knee, and the joint buckled. The Object topped, face down. The ground rushed up to meet the view port, and dust flashed through the hole, blinding and choking.
Before he could react, there was a terrible metallic screech as the hatch was peeled open behind him. The golem grabbed him by the harness on his back, ripped him from the cockpit, dragged him out, and flung him to the ground.
It could have killed him then. And as Illarion lay there bloody in the dirt, he realized the only reason it hadn’t was because the golem didn’t understand that an Object was a suit with a human driving it, because the monster was still looking around inside the Object’s interior, trying to figure out how to kill its foe once and for all. Illarion had just been some meat in the way.
The golem must have realized what its real enemy was, because it slowly turned back to look at him, bleeding magic from a hundred wounds. It was too broken. Its body was disintegrating. Unless there was a way to repair these things, it was not long for this world. At least he would die with the satisfaction that he had ended this creature in the process. Regardless, the golem hopped down from the Object and began walking toward Illarion. It still had strength sufficient to finish him off.
“Stop!”
An older man with a bushy gray beard rushed between them. The golem froze. The man stared at Illarion in stunned confusion.
“You have been marked,” he said in perfect Kolakolvian. “I can see the spirits gathered around you. Are there more?”
“More what?” Illarion managed to gasp.
“More magi. More like us.”
“I . . . I don’t know.”
“It has been a long time since I’ve seen one of our kind. This must have been hidden from Nicodemus somehow, or he’d have already killed your body and stolen your soul.” The stranger—surely this was the man Kristoph had come here for—looked around and saw that no one else was close enough to overhear them. “Your secret is safe with me. I will surrender to you.”
Then he hurried over to the broken golem. “I’m so sorry. You did the very best you could. I will not let these people enslave you.” He gently placed his hand on the golem’s head, brushed aside the dirt, and began drawing with blue light from his fingertips. It was so bright Illarion had to shield his eyes.
The golem crumpled to pieces.
Prisoners were escaping through the holes they’d made in the wall. Even the guards were fleeing. Kristoph slowly approached, pistol aimed at the fallen golem . . . as if that would do any good. When it was clear that the thing was nothing but a lifeless pile of debris, Kristoph went to its head and checked for the valuable markings.
“The letters are gone.”
“They are not for you,” the old man spat. “They were never meant for your kind.”
“Be quiet.” Kristoph tossed the rock on the ground and gestured at two of the soldiers to seize the man. “Tie his hands and gag him. No one speaks to him except for me. If I catch anyone speaking to this prisoner, they will be executed on the spot.”
Kristoph extended one hand to Illarion to help him up.
He was still too dazed to stand on his own, and too proud to stay lying there, so he grudgingly took the secret policeman’s hand, and Kristoph hauled him to his feet. For once Kristoph’s good mood seemed genuine. “Fine work, Glazkov. It may have only been a baby, but I do believe you just defeated an actual golem in battle. The Kommandant will need to commission all new recruiting posters when we get back. Now come on, we’ve got a boat to catch.”
Illarion began walking toward the Object. He hoped it wouldn’t be too damaged to limp to the river, because just like its driver, 12 was proud, and would dislike having to be carried in a wagon.
Kristoph called after him, “We make a fine team, you and I. We will accomplish great things for the empire, Glazkov. Marvelous things!”