The Greatwood Portal Read online

  THE GREATWOOD PORTAL

  DORIAN HART

  THE GREATWOOD PORTAL

  © 2019 Dorian Hart

  Cover art by Gareth Hinds

  http://www.garethhinds.com

  Formatting by Polgarus Studio

  http://www.polgarusstudio.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or conveyed via the Internet or a Web site without prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Under no circumstances may any part of this book be photocopied for resale.

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and coincidental.

  Comments and inquiries should be sent via e-mail to

  [email protected]

  ISBN-13: 978-0-578-52704-8 (Jester Hat Books - paperback)

  For Anthony Ridgway

  “A word is worth a thousand pictures.”

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  Ivellios Forrester’s shoulder blades pressed against something smooth and hard as glass. A stone ceiling glowed a dim blue-gray—not with the flickering light of torches or lamps, but a cold, steady, unnatural glow. He sat up and looked around, discovering that the blue light shone upward out of the slab on which he lay. And it was glass, a translucent glowing rectangle the size of a large bed, that either floated in the air or (more likely) sat upon a pedestal directly beneath. The room, a stone square not more than a dozen feet on a side, showed a troubling lack of doors. Ivellios’s sword still pressed at his hip, and his pack rested beside him.

  He moved to swing his legs over the side and dismount the glass slab, but his feet met resistance. A bit of feeling around confirmed that he was trapped in a small box whose sides and roof were invisible, cold, and unyielding.

  “Hey!” he shouted into the blue shadows. “Hey!”

  No answer came. Did his voice even carry beyond his cage? He pounded a few times against the unseen walls and ceiling, both with his fist and the hilt of his sword, but gained only a bruise on his hand.

  “Gods damn it,” he muttered.

  The glow from the glass slab made it hard to see the details of his prison, but maybe he could spot a clue as to where he was or how he might escape. Ivellios shaded his eyes with his hands and squinted at the ceiling. Words and pictures were drawn there, difficult to see clearly. He fumbled for his light-rod, wrapped in a scrap of cloth so it wouldn’t shine awkwardly from his pocket all the time. Its white light drowned out the hazy blue from the slab as he held it high, right up against the invisible top of his cage.

  “Oh, crap.” A large black circle, covering over half the ceiling and positioned directly above the glass platform, was drawn upon, or perhaps set into, the stone blocks. Dark lines stretched across it, and inside its boundary were spirals of cramped lettering and odd geometric figures.

  Hells and damnation! Ivellios knew the Black Circle bastards were going to try to kidnap him. He had counted on being protected within the walls of the Greenhouse, had hoped Abernathy and the other bigshot wizards would devise a way to keep him safe. But no, here he was, an insect caught in a jar, yanked into this sinister trap straight out of Aravia’s teleport.

  Despite the plain reality that magic had saved his life many times over since he joined Abernathy’s band, he never entirely trusted it. A moment ago, Ivellios had stood in a forest with the rest of Horn’s Company, the forest where Aravia’s cadre of divine cats had their secret meetings. She had made the gestures, spoken the strange words to teleport them back to the Greenhouse so they could turn the Crosser’s Maze over to the archmagi—though how one could give away something embedded in one’s own head, he had no idea.

  This time, something had definitely gone wrong.

  Ivellios recalled the vision shown to him by Solomea in the Crosser’s Maze.

  The Silverswords have divined that the prime instrument of Naradawk’s escape will be a direct descendant of Naloric’s chief arcanist, Moirel Stoneshaper. Having tracked down and executed all other such descendants, the only two remaining are Ivos Forrester and his son, Ivellios Forrester.

  So Ivellios was going to be “the prime instrument of Naradawk’s escape”? The gods only knew what that would entail, but he greatly doubted he’d enjoy it. Maybe it involved keeping him in this enchanted cage, but with luck the Black Circle cultists would need to get him out of here to perform some sort of unspeakable ritual upon him. That would be his best chance to escape. Ivellios lay back down on the slab, kept his hand on the hilt of his sword, and closed his eyes.

  Time passed; it felt like hours. Once, he dozed off, then came awake with a flash of fear, uncertain as to how long he’d been sleeping. The hand around his sword grip didn’t feel stiff or cramped, so it hadn’t been long. Only when he began to wonder if he’d ever be let free did lines of light draw themselves on one wall, describing a doorway. A section of stone pushed inward, and Ivellios quickly returned his head to the glass, feigning sleep.

  Soft footsteps. A small exhalation.

  “It’s true. You’re alive.” A woman’s voice, whispering. Then, louder, “Can you hear me?”

  Ivellios didn’t move. Let her think he was asleep or unconscious, increase the odds she’d lower her guard, make a mistake.

  “I think you can,” the woman said, her words soft and hurried. “My name is Essik. They will be coming for you soon. Do not fight them; they would prefer you alive, but they can still work their rites upon your corpse if they have to. I will seek a means of your escape, but I cannot do it openly. Be patient, bide your time, and I will figure something out. All I ask is that you not give me away.”

  A pause. “Be strong, Ivellios.”

  Ivellios warred within himself. Should he betray his wakefulness and talk to this woman, learn her identity, and discover why she wanted to help him? Should he trust her at all? If he was in a Black Circle headquarters, she could be a ruse, someone meant to quell any thoughts of escaping on his own. Conversely, she might be his only means of getting out of here, and that was worth a hefty gamble.

  Before he could make up his mind, additional footsteps sounded in the doorway.

  “Better late than never,” said a man’s voice. “Essik, please inform the council that the Pivot is in our custody.”

  “Of course.”

  Ivellios listened to her depart but kept his eyes closed, his body still.

  “Sit up and face me,” said the man, sounding impatient.

  Ivellios did not obl
ige.

  “Fine.”

  Pain spiked, a knife-strike in his head. He cried out despite his best efforts.

  “Good. Now you’re awake. Sit up and face me, Ivellios.”

  His gut told him to resist, to be as uncooperative as possible. If they were going to use him, let them do the work. But he might learn more if he pretended to cooperate, and fighting them could make it more difficult for Essik to find ways to help him. Ivellios opened his eyes and sat up.

  “We have some busy days ahead of us.” The man’s features were obscured by the blue light of the platform, but Ivellios could make out his loose black shirt and black trousers. “They don’t have to be unpleasant for you if you can see fit to be obliging.”

  “Maybe we can meet each other halfway,” said Ivellios. “What’s your name?”

  “Naul.” The man crouched down so that Ivellios could see only his head and shoulders over the edge of the glass slab. From his arm motions and a light scratching sound, Naul seemed to be drawing something on the floor.

  “Why did you call me the Pivot?” Ivellios asked.

  “Because that’s what you are.” Naul didn’t look up from his drawing as he spoke. “The worlds of Spira and Volpos are going to overlap, in a manner of speaking, and you will be the axle around which they both spin.” He stood, a piece of dark chalk in his fingers. “Now, Ivellios, I’m going to paralyze your torso and limbs so that I can disarm you safely, and then ask you some questions to which I expect truthful answers. Unless you’d like me to cut your pack straps, please take it off now and leave it by your feet.”

  Ivellios stared at his captor, fought down an urge to unleash a string of profanities, and shrugged out of his pack. Naul, seemingly satisfied, chanted softly and moved his hands through a series of odd patterns. Ivellios’s limbs became rigid, unresponsive to his wishes. He resisted an instinctual upwelling of panic; if the Black Circle wanted to kill him, they could have teleported him into a fire or something similarly deadly.

  Having rendered Ivellios helpless, Naul changed the rotation of his wrists and fingers, while his unintelligible words became clipped, staccato. After a few seconds of this, the blue light emanating from the glass bed faded to a shadowy indigo, then black. This left the room without any light at all; Essik had closed the door on her way out.

  Hands fumbled at his belt, and Ivellios heard more than felt his sword being drawn from its sheath, his pack being lifted away. Despite his resolution not to fight, Ivellios couldn’t help but test his paralysis. It was futile. His head might as well have rested atop a scarecrow.

  “One last thing,” said Naul. Ivellios heard him take a step back, then more chanting. This went on for over a minute, during which time Ivellios became increasingly nervous. Was Naul casting a spell upon him? For what purpose? He was already helpless.

  An odd thing happened in his mind, swift and sudden, something he couldn’t easily describe because he’d never experienced anything like it. If he had to explain it, he’d have said a cloud of whirling knives had sprung up inside his head, leaving his own thoughts untouched but threatening anything that might encroach upon them.

  The chanting ceased abruptly. The doorway opened again, its rectangle of light blocked briefly by Naul leaving the room without further comment. Several minutes passed, during which Ivellios continued to struggle fruitlessly against his enchanted torpor. Had Naul been trying to read his mind? Dranko’s tales of Black Circle priests contained multiple instances of the bastards trying to do just that. But something—he had no idea what—had protected him. Perhaps whatever made him the Pivot also defended his mind from attack. That seemed like something the Black Circle would have foreseen, but Ivellios was hardly an expert in how one sort of magic would interact with another.

  After a short time the doorway opened again. Naul was flanked by two women, both wearing the same outfit of black shirt and pants. One was tall and thin, the other short, but with the only light coming faintly from beyond the cell door, Ivellios could make out no more detail. His muscles were starting to cramp, paralyzed as he was in an awkward sitting position.

  “How are you blocking our magic?” asked the shorter woman without preamble.

  “I don’t know,” Ivellios said truthfully. “And could you release me from your freezing spell? My legs hurt.”

  “Not yet.” The short woman frowned down at him.

  “I think you’re lying,” the taller woman said.

  “Which is ironic,” said Naul, “because we have no way of knowing.”

  “I’m not lying,” Ivellios insisted.

  The short woman continued to stare, as if trying to bore holes into his skull with her gaze alone. “He must be wearing an enchanted object that shields him.”

  Naul gestured to the floor. “Quia, you can use my circle.” The tall woman took a diagonal step forward, glanced down, and began to cast. Whatever magic she invoked took only seconds, after which Ivellios felt a slight warm tingle at his wrist and his right ear.

  “By the Circle!” Quia swayed as though a gust of wind had struck her. “His bracelet and his earcuff are two of the most potent magics I’ve ever felt.”

  “We know about the bracelet,” said Naul. “That’s no surprise. But what is the earcuff? A ward against psychomancy?”

  “No.” Quia frowned. “It translates, I think. Both written and spoken words.”

  “Then what is keeping us from reading his mind?” asked the shorter woman.

  “I don’t know.”

  Naul tilted his chin sideways, cricking his neck. “Does it matter? We don’t need to know his thoughts to use him in the merging ritual, do we?”

  “No,” said Quia. “But it would make things easier. More certain.”

  “Take the earcuff.” The short woman sounded bored, business-like. “Leave the bracelet. Check him thoroughly for hidden weapons, then let him move on his own. Bring him to the laboratory.”

  The two women departed.

  Without wasting time on chatter, Naul unfastened and removed Ivellios’s earcuff, then patted down his legs and body. Ivellios still couldn’t feel anything below his neck, but glancing down he saw Naul fumble at his belt to remove his utility knife.

  “I’m going to release you,” said Naul. “If you attempt to run, or hurt me or anyone else here, you will be caught, paralyzed again, and tied up for the remainder of your stay. And possibly tortured. So.”

  Naul slashed the air with his hand and muttered a few words, upon which Ivellios’s whole body prickled and stung like a sleeping foot coming awake. He stretched his cramped body, shook life into his limbs, and decided not to check, for the moment, whether Naul was bluffing.

  “Follow me, please.” Naul stepped back into the doorway. “Stay close. Don’t touch anything.”

  Ivellios had no idea what he’d see beyond his cell. Perhaps a row of similar chambers, like a jail block waiting for those unfortunate enough to be abducted by the Black Circle cultists. What he saw instead was much more troubling. He emerged blinking into a large round chamber, a light-gray stone cylinder, windowless, lit by unwavering fist-sized globes—certainly enchanted—set into the walls. His little prison room was a freestanding stone cube in the exact middle of this larger space, and surrounding it was a circle of black stone bricks set into the floor. It reminded him at once of the much larger version he had seen during the last of his “gut-churners” while traversing a range of Kivian mountains.

  A second circle was set opposite in the ceiling, the two like mirrored reflections, sea and sky. Both were crisscrossed with painted black lines and ornamented with numbers, equations, and mysterious diagrams. Ivellios was baffled by the particulars, but it was abundantly clear that a complex and painstaking ritual had been prepared for the sole purpose of imprisoning him. That only a single door opened onto the cylinder reinforced his suspicion.

  Naul walked briskly, so Ivellios had to hurry to keep pace. The exit led to a long stone hallway with imposing wooden doors on either
side. Each of these doors—all closed—displayed an indecipherable painted glyph. From behind one came a faint, tuneless chant; beyond a second something pounded rhythmically, like a hammer against rock.

  At the last door on the left, before the hallway opened onto an ascending stairwell, Naul stopped and knocked. “I have the Pivot,” he called. “He’s been disarmed and divested of enchanted objects except for his bracelet, but his mind is shielded. We don’t yet know how.”

  “Send him in,” came the reply—a man’s voice, low and oily.

  Naul pushed the door open and motioned for Ivellios to enter. His sword-for-hire instincts warned him against stepping through, and he paused despite Naul’s earlier warnings. Was this his last chance to try a fighting escape? Naul wasn’t armed, and Ivellios could probably overpower him and make a dash up the stairs.

  No. Too much risk. Furthermore, if Essik was truly conspiring to spring him from this cultists’ hive, it would be useful for him to learn as much as possible in the meantime.

  He stepped into the laboratory. Enchanted light-globes on the walls showed Ivellios a room crowded with objects, saved from hopeless clutter by a strict imposition of order. Sheaves of parchment were stacked high, either on small tables or the room’s single large desk, but each was perfectly collected, without even a corner out of place. Dozens of books of uniform height and color filled their shelves like soldiers at attention. Upon a long narrow table against the left-hand wall stood a half dozen gleaming copper armillary spheres, set out in a perfect line and connected by taut lengths of white string.

  The entirety of the wall opposite was a giant schoolhouse slate, covered top to bottom with neatly chalked strings of numbers and symbols. A man in a black shirt and trousers stood before the slate, his back to the door, a length of chalk in his hand. As Ivellios watched, the man wiped away one of the numbers with a cloth, then reached up to turn a melon-sized globe that hung from the ceiling by a wire.