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  The Prison Stone

  The Red Horn Saga • Book One

  J.R. Mabry

  Mickey Asteriou

  Xenophile Press

  1700 Shattuck Ave #81, Berkeley, CA 94709

  www.xenophilepress.com

  Copyright © 2020 by J.R. Mabry & Mickey Asteriou

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN 978-1-949643-45-9 | paperback

  ISBN 978-1-949643-45-9 | epub

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without written permission of the author and publisher, except for brief quotations in printed reviews.

  By the same authors…

  BY MICKEY ASTERIOU

  Lake of Power

  * * *

  BY J.R. MABRY & MICKEY ASTERIOU

  The Red Horn Saga

  The Prison Stone • The Dark Field

  Summoners’ Keep • The Red Horn

  * * *

  BY J.R. MABRY

  The Berkeley Blackfriars Series

  The Kingdom • The Power • The Glory

  The Temple of All Worlds Series

  The Worship of Mystery

  * * *

  BY J.R. MABRY & B.J. WEST

  The Oblivion Saga

  Oblivion Threshold • Oblivion Flight

  Oblivion Quest • Oblivion Gambit

  Get the back story…

  Read about the events that set the whole Red Horn Saga in motion. The Song of the Scar is a prequel novella available free when you join our mailing list.

  Download your free copy today!

  https://BookHip.com/LZXPFG

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Afterword

  Dramatis Personae

  Glossary

  He roiled in the æther,

  thrashing in his rage.

  In the place of his birth,

  he was a lesser being,

  not respected or worshipped

  —not as he ought to have been.

  * * *

  The spite he received from his own

  fueled his anger

  and made it a hot, dark thing,

  ready and eager to incinerate

  any who crossed him.

  * * *

  Samael, in Hearthentongue,

  the Doom of All Bright Worlds;

  Saklas, in the Dwarfentongue,

  the Bringer of Death;

  Ialdaboth, in the reckoning of the elves,

  the Oathbreaker.

  * * *

  After many æons of contempt,

  a scar opened between the worlds,

  the work of a man.

  A way opened into another universe,

  where none was mightier than he.

  He took it. He entered it.

  He feasted upon the blood

  of a billion bright beings.

  He feasted until a more savory morsel

  was presented to him.

  Not only their fear,

  but their awe, their worship.

  He deigned to allow those who feared him

  in their hearts and swore to him their fealty

  the gift of their lives.

  The others, he savaged without mercy,

  roiling in his wrath from world to world.

  Then he was banished,

  the Scar permitting magic to pass,

  but not him.

  He found himself exiled,

  not only from his own,

  but from the universe

  that worshipped and feared him.

  * * *

  There was a world where magic

  could be invested in stone

  A world where anything with a known name

  could be sealed off and denied passage.

  And so, due to the ministry of the summoners,

  a stone was made,

  the magic was summoned,

  and the elder god extinguished

  from the universe that feared him.

  * * *

  —from The Song of the Stone,

  a free verse translation into Hearthentongue

  from the original rhymed poem in the Elventongue

  by Allas, Bard of Mywyck, 4th Age

  Prologue

  { String 257 }

  * * *

  A fissure wounded the face of the living rock, a cruel gash that looked like a smile marred by jagged granite teeth.

  “What is that, father?”

  Harclimar stepped back. His pick was raised, ready to strike, but he lowered it at the sound of his son’s question. The truth was, he didn’t know, but a trickle of cold ran down his spine.

  His dark eyes narrowed as he studied the rock. There was much in dwarfish lore about the mood and character of stone, and Harclimar was well studied in his lore. The rock could tell you what forces had formed it, what it was composed of, what lay beneath it. And if your eye was sharp, the stone could tell a dwarf about himself—about his depths, the places he was brittle, and even the means by which the copper in his own blood would someday rejoin the metals still in the mountain.

  “It could be many things,” Harclimar said. He stepped away from the fissure and adjusted the lens of his lantern. He motioned for his son to step closer to the face of the rock. “But I want you to read it for yourself, min kära. What is the stone saying to you?”

  Harcligan’s eyes narrowed as he stepped closer to the rock face. His beard was wispy, just now beginning to jut beyond his chin. He was bright, but given to impulse. His father was grateful for an opportunity to invite him to pause and discern carefully.

  He watched his son read the stone in the traditional way, from right to left, and then from bottom to top. “It is gråstensten,” he said.

  It was—a very common kind of stone, gray and strong, but brittle.

  “But there is a glimmer of something else, just here along the lip of this seam. Realgar, maybe?”

  “Could be,” Harclimar agreed noncommittally. “We’ll need to knock some out to tell.”

  “Well, if it is, the oyarsin would say the combination augurs a tragedy just out of si—”

  “The oyarsin couldn’t tell an agate from an arsehole,” Harclimar interrupted him. “Tell me about the rock.”

  “The combination—if I’m right—probably means there’s zinc around, too.”

  Harclimar grunted. “That is the lore, but in my experience it’s as wrong as it is right.”

  Then Harcligan did something his father did not expect. He slapped the rock.

  “Here, now, what are you—?” The rock could be chipped or hewn, but a slap was the traditional insult among dwarfs. To slap the rock was like slapping Father Mountain himself.

  “Just…listen.” Harcligan did it again.

  Harclimar listened. There was an echo. His bushy brows bunched and his eyes met the eyes of his son. Harcligan smiled, showing his own jagged teeth beneath his nascent mustache.

  “There’s nothing in the rock to suggest a cavern behind it,” Harcligan thought aloud, studying the rock face with new eyes. He turned to face his son. “How did you know?”

  Harcligan shrugged. “It was just a feeling.”

/>   Harclimar scowled. He did not like the idea of affirming his son’s impulsive nature, but he could not deny it had paid off in this case. The dwarf raised his pickax and tapped along the fissure, listening. Finally, with one well-placed stroke, he smote the stone, just above the gash, and smiled with satisfaction as the rock gave away behind it, shards tumbling into darkness. Inserting the tip of the pick, Harclimar widened the hole, now punching at the rock, now pulling at it, testing the places it wanted to give and wanted to hold.

  The dwarfs had more than six thousand words for rock, stone, and metal, ways to describe even the subtlest distinctions between them, and the variations within each species. But none of these words sprang to Harclimar’s mind as he dug. He was one with the mountain as he tore at the seam, opening a way for passage, for discovery, for wisdom. Every dwarfish child was taught that there was no knowledge in the universe that could not be learned from the mountain, and the mountain was on the verge of a revelation—to him. Harclimar’s pulse raced.

  Soon the hole was wide enough to shine the lantern into it. Harclimar placed the lamp next to his cheek and felt the heat of it on his wide nose as he gazed into the gloom. He gasped.

  “What is it, father?” Harcligan asked.

  “Grab your pick. Dig.”

  The young dwarf did as he was told. He tapped at the stone with his pickax a few feet away from the hole his father had started and struck at the stone. It fell away from his ax with almost no effort. He struck again and again, pausing now and then to tug at the edges with his pick, testing as he had watched his father do.

  Before long, they had widened a hole large enough for a small dwarf to step through. Just beyond it was a small cavern—a pocket in the mountain, it seemed to Harclimar, as he did not see any tunnels leading away from it. It is too early to tell that, he reminded himself. The mountain likes to hide its secrets, just as much as it delights to reveal them.

  “Let me go in, father,” Harcligan said. “I can fit easily.”

  It was true. His son was slim, as most young dwarfs were. They did not acquire their girth until their children arrived. The dwarfish saying was mostly true, “When a wife is with child, the whole family grows fat.”

  Harclimar nodded. “In you go, then. Make sure to test the floor.”

  “I’m not a fool, father.” Harcligan looked momentarily wounded.

  “No, kära, you’re not. Love sometimes speaks with a sharp voice.” That was another well-known dwarfish aphorism. “Forgive me.”

  Harcligan nodded his absolution, squeezing his father’s forearm.

  “Go in, and I’ll hand the lantern through.”

  Harcligan passed his pickax through and tested the floor of the cavern. It was jagged but solid. He nodded at his father, and then placed one tentative boot on the lowermost lip of the hole they had made. His father hoisted at the young dwarf’s belt, and tipped his balance inward. Harcligan stepped down and then reached back for the lantern.

  Harclimar gave it to him. He fought down his own impulsive impatience. “What is Father Mountain revealing?” he asked.

  “There are no tunnels. The floor is untrod. I feel dripping…from above.”

  Harclimar saw the shadows stretch ominously as the young dwarf moved the lantern around. “There is a shaft…straight above me. Its end is dark, but it is about three hands wide.”

  The divinatory implications began to rush through Harclimar’s brain, and none of them were good. He pushed them aside.

  “I…I think I see what you saw, father.”

  Harclimar closed his eyes and calmed himself. In his bones, he knew that Father Mountain was about to bestow a boon like none Harclimar had ever encountered before. His hairy ears twitched as he heard the scrape of a stone being lifted from its resting place. Harclimar opened his eyes to see a vision passing through the hole in the rock wall. With trembling hands he received it.

  The stone was two hands wide, black as pitch and shiny. In the middle of it was a fiery red eye that seemed to be deeper than the stone was. The eye seemed to shine with a light of its own, but Harclimar knew that it must be an illusion. Somehow it was concentrating and refracting the dim, reflected light available. He longed to see it in the full light of day. He wondered if he would be able to tolerate its brilliance. He could not wait to find out.

  “Is that all, son?” he heard himself call. Is that all? What more could there possibly be?

  “I was right about the zinc,” his son’s voice said.

  “Knulla zinc,” he spat, unable to take his eyes from the treasure in his hands.

  His son’s face appeared in the rock wall’s aperture, holding the lantern aloft. “What is it, father?”

  Harclimar had an inkling, but did not want to get his son’s hopes up. By looks alone, what he held was a special find, so rare he dared not speak of. He could feel its infrangible solidity, yet he feared that to express his suspicions would cause the rock to disintegrate before him. Could it be? he asked himself. And how? he added. This stone should be hidden. It should not have been so easily found. Or, he wondered, was there a reason behind it? Was there a reason it had come to him?

  He would need to consult with a summoner, perhaps more than one. But whom could he trust?

  “Father?”

  “This,” Harclimar voiced at last, “is a stone that can change the world.” His world, certainly. If Harclimar was right, a find such as this one could make him a very rich dwarf indeed.

  “Who would want that?” Harcligan asked.

  “Many, my son,” Harclimar replied, thinking only of the stone. “There are many—dwarf, elf, and man—who would desire this.”

  The summoner Elsorin Fairhaven lit a candle and sat down on his bed with a groan. For all his skill with magic, he was still growing old. He had done rituals to evade the creaking of bones, to soften the burning in his back, but to no avail. The common folk believed the summoners were omnipotent. “If only that were true,” he whispered aloud to his empty room.

  The summoners lived austere lives, yet, as head of the Order of Arrunwolfe, his room in the keep was larger than most. Summoners were not generally cloistered, but lived among the people, often peripatetic, travelling here and there as they were needed, relying on the hospitality of strangers. Some had familiars, some did not. And because the summoners were often effective at their arts, the people were generous. Elsorin did not live sumptuously, but he was comfortable.

  Except for when he wasn’t. The pain in his back was growing worse, and nothing he did seemed to help. He had resisted asking for help from the physic, seeing it as a sign of weakness. But he knew what the old lady would say—not coming to her was a sign of pride. She would not be wrong, but that did not make it easier.

  Elsorin was just lifting his feet from the floor when he heard an urgent rapping on his door. “Horn of blood,” he spat, and groaned as he stood. He reached for his cane and headed for the door. He was only halfway to the door when it swung open, which meant two things—it was his personal assistant, Riza, as no one else would dare enter unbidden; and that the matter was important.

  Riza bowed, averting her eyes from his nightshirt. Her familiar, a mouse named Kibit, skittered under the hem of her robe. “I’m sorry, master.”

  “Yes, yes, yes. What’s so important?”

  “The oracle! …The oracle has awakened.”

  “Oh.” That was news indeed. The blind summoner Objor sat enthroned in the temple of the Keep, but he was usually motionless and silent. It was magic that kept him alive, and it was through magic that he beheld his visions. And the last time Elsorin could remember the oracle speaking, the order master still had hair on his head.

  “Quickly, help me into my robe,” Elsorin commanded, and Riza darted to the clothes horse near the foot of the master’s bed. She was shorter than he—much shorter—but held the robe up as high as she could. Every now and then Kibit would skitter over his naked toe. It no longer bothered him. He had to stoop to put his arm through
the sleeve, which made his back spasm, but he managed it. Tightening his cincture, he set his cane on the floor and pointed to the door with his chin. “Let’s go.”

  Riza fluttered around him as he walked, rushing ahead to open doors, waiting until he passed, shutting doors behind him, then rushing ahead again, her mouse racing around her feet. The Keep was cold at night and Elsorin cursed the fact that he had not put on his slippers. Too late now, he thought.

  The newfangled gas lamps stretched out at eye level along the corridors. They emitted a steadier glow than the torches used to, and with far less smoke. They had been a good decision. He had made a lot of good decisions, he realized. It was not for nothing that the Order of Arrunwolfe had elected him their master. He was worthy, and he knew it. He didn’t lord it over anyone—at least he didn’t think he did—but he had a keen sense of his authority and power. He had used it judiciously, and he was proud of what they had done.

  The worlds of the bright races were thriving, in no small part due to the ministry of the summoners. Certainly there were those who disapproved of magic, but they were in the minority. Most people loved the summoners and were appreciative of how much easier their lives were because of them. They loved them because the order members were disciplined and principled. And it was he who made sure of that.

  Elsorin felt a little winded by the time they made it to the temple. Riza rushed ahead to open the doors and strained against them. During the day they were always open. What purpose it served to close them at night, Elsorin did not know. It was simply what had always been done. That was a rule that could be changed. He made a mental note.