King Vlastimil was alive, trapped behind iron bars, and completely mad. The man behind the bars saw her then, his eyes, like chipped ice, fixing on hers with an unnerving intensity. A low growl rumbled in his chest, guttural and starved, as he lunged, his emaciated hand shooting between the iron bars, fingers scrabbling at the air, just inches from her face.
“The Catalyst!” he rasped, voice like grinding stones. “The new vessel! You cannot cage me, demon! I *will* consume!”
Jana yelped, stumbling back, the stench of decay and madness assaulting her. She fumbled for the dampening rod Marek had given her, her fingers slick with sudden sweat. Before she could find purchase, a blinding flash erupted from behind her, a percussive *CRUMP* echoing through the dungeon. White light seared her eyes, and a sharp, metallic tang filled the air.
“A bit dramatic, perhaps,” a familiar voice muttered, already closer than it should have been. “But effective.”
Pips, who had been curled in Jana’s satchel, poked his head out, ears pinned back, before letting out a high-pitched squeak. “Marek! You scared the fur clean off me! And what was *that*? My ears are still ringing like a bell-tower on market day!”
Jana blinked away the afterimage, turning to see Marek, his spectacles askew, a peculiar device clutched in his hand – a polished brass orb with a filigree of humming wires. Behind him, the mad king was slumped against the cell wall, whimpering and covering his eyes.
“Marek? How in the—?”
“I had a suspicion about Lord Olek’s observatory chatter,” Marek said, steering her by the elbow. “And your world's resonance profile is distinct. I tracked its wake here through the stone.”
He steered her toward an archway half-hidden by crumbling masonry. “Less conversation, more running. Bohumil keys these shafts with acoustic chimes. He'll track us shortly.”
The archway fed into a narrow, twisting corridor, barely wide enough for two. The air smelled of wet gravel and ancient rust. Pips chittered from the satchel. “A badger set? I prefer escape routes with fresh air and fewer rabid monarchs.”
Marek moved with surprising agility, his coat snapping behind him. “Old service shafts from the First Construction. Maintained for staff, but the emergency protocols include automated defenses.”
A rhythmic clang echoed behind them, vibrating through the flags. Jana risked a backward glance. Two iron constructs emerged from the gloom, their plates catching the phosphorescent moss along the ceiling. They stood seven feet tall, vacant visors leveled forward, iron gauntlets gripping blunted greatswords while raw blue vapor churned inside their exposed joint-bearings.
“Oh, you have *got* to be kidding me,” Jana muttered, her voice tight. “Haunted armor? What’s next, a dragon that breathes pierogi?”
“Clockwork Wardens,” Marek corrected. “Triggered by potent sorcerous signatures. Like Bohumil's, or yours. Slow, but persistent.”
“Persistent is awful!” Pips squeaked, burrowing into the canvas lining. “Sprint, Jana, like a wind-whipped dandelion!”
They sprinted through branching masonry. Marek led without hesitation, guiding her past choked intersections while his lungs wheezed. The brass cylinder felt heavy and cold in her palm.
“Marek,” she panted, “that siphon. You said it kills spells. Will it shut down these tin cans?”
Marek looked back, nose smudged with soot. “I simplified its description. It doesn't cancel power; it drinks it. It can starve the armor's motive core, yes, but drinking concentrated charge risks a back-surge. It's draining a lake into a flask.”
“Attract unwanted attention?” Jana practically shrieked. “We already have unwanted attention from a mad king and two very large, very stabby statues!”
They broke into a vaulted chamber cluttered with brass gearing, mercury gauges, and half-assembled apparatuses. Workbenches groaned under crystals, calipers, and ink-stained schematics. Marek's laboratory smelled of tin solder, vibrating with a deep sub-bass vibration.
Before Jana could catch her footing, the two Wardens cleared the entrance. Broadswords rose in tandem as pale sapphire exhaust hissed from their neck seals.
“Cornered, it seems,” Marek said, surprisingly calm, adjusting his spectacles. “I suppose this is where the gamble comes in.”
Jana gripped the siphon. Its casing radiated sudden heat. She clamped her teeth together, smothered her instinct to assume Marek was playing her, and pointed the intake nozzle.
“Brace yourself, Pips!” she yelled.
She depressed the copper lever on the grip. A shrill pitch climbed through the room. The cylinder flared, siphoning the motive charge out of the iron plates. Bright azure ribbons arced across the floorboards into her palm. The automatons shuddered, listed sideways, and crashed down with an iron boom.
The cylinder did not stop. Its seams flashed blinding violet, the pitch screaming into dog-whistle territory. Bench lamps shattered, and the copper tubing along the rafters sparked. Marek threw an arm up, horrified.
“Drop it! It's overloading—it’s feeding directly into the central accumulator!”
With a sharp crack, the cylinder burned out cold in her palm. The room plunged into pitch, broken only by sputtering crimson sparks inside a massive faceted glass pylon at the center of the floor. Warning bells clattered against the roof beams. Chalk dust drifted from cracked flagstones as a heavy thrum shook the deck under their boots.
“The accumulator!” Marek shouted. “The circuit broke open—it's boiling over!”
A spiderweb of cracks erupted across the vast crystalline core of the generator, spreading with alarming speed. A searing heat washed over them, quickly followed by the sickening smell of ozone and burning metal. The *THUM-THUM-THUM* became a violent, shuddering roar. The walls around them began to crack, deep fissures appearing in the stone, threatening to cleave the very tower in two.