Chapter 3

Wellsprings are everywhere. Every town has one, no matter how big or small. They’re a vital part of modern life. And yet, no one knows all that much about them. The newest wellspring we know of was built some 300 years ago.

So much was lost in the Schism. Grumpy old scholars with beards down to their balls claim that taming wild magic fixed the world. If they had the faintest idea as to how any of this supposedly tame magic is supposed to work, I might even believe them.

Here’s what we do know about wellsprings: the open pits at the center of the town are built around natural leaks in ley lines, the massive rivers of magic that rage beneath the surface of the world. These springs, infinitesimally small compared to their source, are everywhere in nature. Where there are springs, there is life. Where there aren’t, the land is desiccated, lifeless, devoid of anything good and green.

Some time in the distant past, the Stogialum Empire discovered a means of collecting the power of these natural springs, excavating open pit wells in the earth and lining them with alchemized ceramic bricks that repel mana. Unable to diffuse back into the earth, mana collects in the bottom of the well, forming a vast metaphysical pool that can feed an entire city and the surrounding countryside.

The last brick maker and her apprentices were lost to the Schism. They were early casualties, deliberately targeted by the Wilders who sought to end the domestication of magic and turn it wild once more. And because the Wilders were damnably thorough, they burned the alchemical formulas needed to make the bricks. No one has been able to crack the secret since.

“This is all fascinating,” Sagar said. “How, exactly, does this help us?”

Some people have no appreciation for history.

“Shufel and her apprentices built from the top down,” I said. “If they built from the bottom up, the well would fill while they were working and kill them before they could get halfway up. Stands to reason that they’d build an escape route, some way to get out of the pool once the last brick was laid. If we can find their escape route, we can get back to the surface.”

“You sound like you’ve been in this situation before.”

I didn’t have to be able to see her expression to guess she thought I was full of it.

“Once or twice. Surely you’ve fed bodies to a wellspring after a battle before.”

“Yes, but I make sure they’re truly dead first,” she said.

“Then you’re uncommonly thorough. Most of Lady Flir’s forces aren’t,” I said. “Can you see?”

“No, but I’ve other senses. What am I looking for?”

“My musket, for starters,” I said. “We’ll need a lever to pry open the escape door.”

“I don’t know what’s more ridiculous: that you expect me to hand you a weapon, or that you plan to use it as a pry bar.”

“My musket is enchanted to hell and back,” I said. “I’ve done far worse with it. Unless you can move a two ton slab of ceramic by your lonesome, you’re just going to have to trust me.”

A hiss and frustration echoed across the pit, and then a familiar wooden form was pressed into my hands. Even without the benefit of eyesight, I could see the contours of the time-worn stock as clear as day in my mind’s eye. I inspected the weapon by feel, looking for cracks or dings that would require my attention. Aside from criminal levels of fouling, she was as perfect as the day I first laid my hands on her.

“We’re looking for a section of brick about a meter tall and a half meter wide,” I said. “That’s our way out. It won’t be marked, but there may be rails on the floor in front of it. The builders would have pulled it into place from behind.”

I sat in silence as she felt around the edges of the pit, exploring by touch and smell more sensitive than I could imagine. I could probably grope around just as quickly, if not as gracefully, but sometimes it’s nice to let a professional do the work. That gave me time to slip the bayonet around the muzzle and lock it into place

“Here,” the General said. “Rails. And a section of brick bigger than the rest.”

I followed her voice, using the tip of the bayonet as a cane. As expected, the floor of the wellspring was smooth, with no obstructions to block my way. The only hazard was the opening where the spring fed into it. So long as I avoided the exact geometric center, I’d be fine.

The tip of my bayonet made a light tink as it touched the rail. I followed it to the wall, then traced the outline of the escape door with my fingertips. It was mortared in place, as expected. The mortar had fragments of the mana-blocking ceramic worked into it as aggregate to stop leaks. This was definitely one of Shufel’s creations. No one else was that thorough.

“First thing’s first: we need to get rid of this mortar. Do you have a knife you’re not so fond of?”

“Does the one I took from you count?”

Of course my belt dagger was missing. The sturdy roundel was designed to pierce through armor. It would do for mortar.

“We need to talk about your sticky fingers,” I sighed. “That’ll do. We don’t need a big hole, just about the size of a finger.”

If you ever need a hole made quickly and to order, a knife witch is hard to beat. There was a flare of mana, and the clang of steel against mortar. I couldn’t see the blade sink in, but it made an awful grinding sound as she twisted it deep. Ugh. The edges would never be the same after that.

“What now?”

“Stand the hell back,” I said. “I’m going to pack the hole and blast a section of mortar out.”

She vanished from my side so quickly, I felt a little puff of displaced air rush in to fill the space she vacated. Flash step? Maybe. She wasn’t that quick when we fought, but then again, I took out one of her legs to start.

The standard powder from my cartridge box wouldn’t do the trick. I needed something a little more controlled. Luckily, I had a little vial of blasting powder tucked up my sleeve.

In daylight, the emerald green powder looked more like gemstone dust than explosives. I poured the powder into my palm and infused it with a spark of mana. It had the consistency of flour and smelled faintly of rain. Like flour wetted on a baker’s counter, it started to clump together as I kneaded it between my fingers, and started to swell as I added more mana. Before long, I had a roll of dough just a little larger than my finger. I stuffed it into the hole and gave it another squirt of mana, enough to completely pack the hole.

Into the dough went a blasting cap, a tiny metal cylinder packed with flash powder. I crushed the end of it with my fingertips, breaking the glass capsule within and unleashing the ignition catalyst.

Ignimancy thrives in moments like this. Mere combustion is child’s play. Anyone with a spark of talent can shape flames. It takes real skill to manipulate an explosion, skill born from years of training and dedication. There’s no room for failing in my art. Those who don’t put in the work to develop the focus and discipline required to channel a blast make one hell of a mess when they die.

The flash powder roared to life in an actinic flash. The sudden wave of heat and pressure shocked the much less sensitive blasting putty hard enough to rip apart the alchemical bonds, releasing stored energy in yet more heat and light.

I channeled the shockwave along the gap between bricks, crumbling the mortar into dust. The mana-reflecting nature of the ceramic helped, focusing the energy until, finally, it exhausted itself.

General Sagar heard a sharp crack and the sound of flying bits of masonry as the blast expelled flecks of mortar faster than any bullet. My senses expanded the instantaneous into an eternity. When time returned to normal, the mortar was blasted free from the gap between the escape door and the rest of the wall.

“It’s safe now,” I said.

“Are you quite sure?”

“Well. It’s done exploding, at least,” I said. “Now we just have to hope the tunnel hasn’t collapsed at any point in the last few centuries. You coming?”