After a while, the Moldan’s efforts settled into a rhythmic pattern of exertion and rest. His thoughts sank into a drowsy blankness, taking him no further than his next gargantuan effort to widen his fissure by another fraction. Hopes and plans he must put aside for the present—they would only distract him from his essential task. When he finally freed himself from this stony prison—ah, then there would be time for plans and more! Then at last he could find some pawn, some vessel, who could bear his spirit home across the seas to his beloved mountain, where he could become himself again, healed and whole.
Ghabal had lost all track of time. He might have been testing and stretching his bonds for hours—or aeons. He had crushed down his impatience and was measuring his strength carefully, trying to conserve as much of his energy as possible. He could go on like this indefinitely if he wished—had it been necessary. Instead, with a sudden shock like falling from some massive height, he encountered space. The Moldan’s will, concentrated to thrust against the stony barrier, abruptly found itself unfettered. The force of his power, with nothing upon which to impact, snapped back to him with a fearful, explosive recoil that sent his senses reeling down into a spiral of darkness.—Free—he was free! The thought pierced Ghabal’s dark unconsciousness like a single, blazing sunbeam, guiding his fragile spirit safely back up into the light. He pulled the tatters of his torn and tender consciousness around himself and rested a moment, taking stock. Though he had hurt himself when his will had exploded outward, there was no damage that would not mend in time.—The powerful energies of the elemental earth would renew him, feed him, heal him. And while that was happening, it would not hurt him to explore a little, just a little....
By the Mother-Earth that spawned him, but there had been some changes made since he had first been locked away beneath this hill! Tentatively, Ghabal extended his consciousness into the tangle of tunnels, passages, and chambers that honeycombed the promontory beneath the Magefolk dwellings. Incredible!—Why those accursed Mages must have been as busy as a band of moles for centuries, to have accomplished all of this. Then the Moldan found the place where the web of underground passages joined the Nexian sewer system, and was astounded all over again. Why, he thought gleefully, those arrogant fools have created a vulnerable network of hidden paths that run beneath their entire city. How I should like to bring it down around them, send it crashing into ruin... .
Alas, Ghabal was no longer what he had been before the Magefolk had defeated and broken him. He no longer had the power, and would not possess it for some considerable time to come, when the deep energies of the earth should nourish and renew him. Besides, what would be the point in annihilating the city?—Accomplishing destruction on such a scale would only waste his remaining powers for nothing—for the Magefolk themselves were gone. His very return to consciousness and freedom was clear proof of that. What had happened to them? he wondered. He hoped that their fall had involved the greatest possible torment and suffering.
Curious, the Moldan withdrew from the widespread area of the sewers and probed a little more carefully through the catacombs beneath the Academy itself.—Perhaps there were clues hidden here to explain the demise of so powerful a race. But to his disappointment, there were no memories encoded in the structure of the stone, such as the Moldai left to record their deeds. The vast collection of volumes and scrolls meant nothing to him—it was simply heaps of moldering, desiccated plant and animal remains, and he wondered why the Mages had left such a clutter of rubbish beneath their home.
Ghabal’s tendrils of thought reached the chamber of the Death-Wraiths and recoiled in horror, withdrawing back into the core of his awareness like a sea beast’s tentacles. The time spell he recognized all too well, to his dismay.—It had been one of the favored weapons of the Dragonfolk in the past. But what else was here? Something that reeked of evil magic—some horror beyond the darkest imaginings of a Moldan. If the Magefolk had dared to meddle with such malevolent atrocities, then their fall was well deserved and must come as no surprise?
Tentatively, the Moldan began to explore again, taking the greatest care to shun the chamber of the dreaded Wraiths, and staying alert for any further unpleasant surprises. More and more chambers, more debris and trash—and suddenly, once again, he encountered the cold, metallic tingle of a time spell. Ghabal stopped abruptly. A Mage was here! One of the accursed, detested Magefolk! Had the Moldan possessed an embodied voice he would have howled in fury. As it was, the whole of the city shook with the force of his wrath.—Finally, Ghabal calmed himself. So one of their unholy brood had survived the destruction of the Mages. At least one of them was left then, to suffer the vengeance of the Moldan! Putting forth a single, slender filament of his awareness, Ghabal approached the periphery of the spell with caution, seeking a weak spot from which he could turn the spell into something far more deadly.—He was extremely circumspect: it was not advisable to interrupt the field of a time spell when the original creator was no longer present to renew the magic—occasionally the victim could break loose.. ..
Too late. A bolt of magic came sizzling out of nowhere, scorched its way along the Moldan’s thought-thread, and drove straight into the core of his awareness. Suddenly Ghabal found himself utterly paralyzed, all his external senses shut down dead.
“Got you!” The cracked old voice reverberated, grim and cruel, within the dark, sequestered core of Ghabal’s consciousness.
“You have nothing, Mage!” the Moldan snarled, though his words were nothing but an empty boast. As he spoke he tried to writhe quickly away from the fetters of the iron will that bound him, but his foe’s hold simply tightened, preventing his escape. Then he could do nothing but shriek in soundless agony as the other rent his mind asunder with power that stripped bare his innermost thoughts like talons of steel. Ghabal could only cower, screaming as his entire existence, his dearest hopes and deepest fears, were all laid open to the searing gaze of the dreadful Mage.
After an endless, excruciating age, it was over. The Moldan, cowed and whimpering, cringed away from his tormentor and tried to pull together the pathetic remnants of his thoughts like the shreds of some torn and tattered garment.
“Good,” grated the terrible grim voice. “Very good indeed. A Moldan—one of the legendary Earth-elementals from across the ocean, eh?” The voice dropped in intensity, became gentle and almost mild, like some grisly caress. “Well, Moldan—I feel certain that you and I can reach some kind of understanding.”
Miathan smiled to himself as he twisted the chains of his will more tightly around the Moldan’s consciousness. He had conquered the elemental by means of surprise, using the remnants of the ancient Magefolk spells that had bound it—and he counted himself fortunate indeed to have done so. Now his very survival depended on keeping it cowed, off-balance—and under his control, for it could prove to be a much-needed weapon in his hand. He knew now what the creature wanted above life itself: someone to take it home—and, by the laws of its kind, it would owe an incalculable debt to anyone who could assist it.—So Eliseth had dared to betray him? Well, somehow, somewhere, she had met her match, according to the Moldan’s thoughts. The weakening of the spells which had imprisoned Ghabal was proof that no Mage existed anywhere near Nexis—save himself of course. But though it would be easy enough for him to return to the Academy and take the reins of his city once more, simply picking up where he had left off, caution made him hesitate. He could not be the only remaining Mage—even if Aurian and Eliseth had come to a confrontation, surely one of them must have survived. And how many Artifacts of Power did the victor hold?—No, whichever of the Magewomen had conquered, if the Archmage stayed in Nexis he would be a sitting target. He needed to be somewhere else, somewhere hidden—somewhere completely unexpected—at least until he could find out what had happened and formulate his plans accordingly. A powerful ally wouldn’t come amiss at this point, either—and Miathan suspected with a little ingenuity and the assistance of a time spell and the Moldan’s particular powers, he could lay a trap for any wielder of the Artifacts who might dare return to Nexis.