by Alec Hutson
Falling.
My arms flail, rebounding off soft earth as I plummet. The slice of night sky holding the silver moon recedes . . . and I land on something brittle and soft that gives slightly. Enough, at least, that I don’t break my back. Still, the air has been knocked from my lungs, and though I try to call for Bell again I can only wheeze, staring up at that tiny silver coin in the far distance. Then the moon and the stars are occluded as something dark follows me down, quickly swelling larger.
The scream rebounding down the hole is high and feminine. I’m just considering whether I should roll out of the way when Bell lands on top of me, her shoulder slamming into my chest. I manage a little cry of pain as she bounces off me, then slides partway down the mound of whatever it is we’ve landed on.
“Oh,” she moans.
I roll onto my side, just in time to see a dark shape scurry away from us. My hand scrabbles for my sword, which is twisted awkwardly beneath me. I try to stand.
We’re in a chamber of some kind. There’s light, though not much of it, and it comes from long segmented insects crawling along the walls and ceiling. They glow faintly, like fireflies. My eyes slowly begin to pick out the details of where we are, though I keep my attention on the shape huddled against the wall.
The space is large, perhaps thirty paces across and ten span high. The mouths of several tunnels yawn ominously. There are flat objects scattered around my feet, and I nudge one with my toe, causing it to fall open, and a few pages fall out. A book. I glance back at the mound Bell and I fell on – the faint light from the insects crawls across lacquered bindings and titles scrawled in reflective ink. It’s a big pile of books. Bell is moving weakly, her arms and legs trying to find purchase on the slithering mound.
“Oh, ah, hello,” the shadow in the corner finally ventures nervously. It’s a young man’s voice. “Please . . . please calm down. Don’t kill me.”
“What’s going on?” I gasp, finally managing to draw a deep breath.
“You’ve, ah, you’ve fallen into the poelthari’s barrow. With me. I’m guessing the hunchback pushed you down the hole.”
The hole. I stare up at the distant night sky. “Kalvin!” I cry, my voice echoing in the chamber.
“Please, please, please,” the shadow says. “Don’t be so loud. They don’t like noise.”
“What don’t?”
“The ghasts.”
I glance again at the tunnels. “You’ve seen them?”
“They come when the bugs sleep, when it’s dark.”
Bell groans, struggling to sit up.
“Are you all right?” I ask her.
She rubs at her shoulder. “Yes, just sore.” She picks up one of the heavy volumes beneath her and stares at it as if she’s having trouble comprehending what it is. “Books.”
“Yes.” There are more books piled along the edges of the chamber in neat stacks, and despite the blackness I think I can see similar towers in each of the tunnels. “Did you fall as well?”
“That bastard pushed me,” Bell says, tossing the book away. Then she sees the shadow crouched against the wall and shrieks. “There!”
“I know, I know,” I say. “He’s human.”
“I am,” the shadow says quickly. It edges closer, and I can see tattered clothes that might once have been of fine make and a youthful face covered with an unkempt beard. His eyes and cheeks are sunken – he looks half-starved. “My name is Waylish. I’m a second-year astronomy student at the Seminarium.”
“What the hells are you doing down here?” Bell asks, finally managing to stand. She staggers, favoring her left leg.
“The same as you, I imagine,” Waylish says. “My friends and I discovered that a very rare book – the last of its kind – had been claimed by the poelthari. Grace of the Celestial Dancers. Worth a fair fortune. So we tried to sneak inside the barrow to find it. That freak offered to show us a way within and then pushed us through that hole.”
“And where are your friends now?”
Waylish is quiet for a moment. “Dead, I imagine. The ghasts came for them in the dark time. Dragged them away, probably to crack open their heads.” He shudders violently.
“Rich boy!” comes the faint cry, echoing down from above. Kalvin. I rush over to the hole in the ceiling and look up.
“You bastard!” I cry. Something is occluding the moon and stars, and it must be the hunchback.
“Don’t want talk to you, big boy.”
Waylish rushes up next to me and peers up the shaft. He smells terrible – how long has he been down here?
“Yes, here,” he says, keeping his voice low enough that it doesn’t echo down the tunnels. “I’m here.”
A wet-sounding chuckle. “You been a good rich boy?”
“I have! I have!”
“Tell me what you learned.”
Waylish’s breathing is getting heavier now. “I learned . . . uh, alethian greetings and basic trade-talk. Also I learned the names of every empress of the old Ghevalt Imperium. And how to bloodforge a knife that will cut through bone like it was butter.”
“You knew that last time.”
“I, uh, learned more.”
A long pause. I can sense the nervousness in Waylish – he’s practically hopping from foot to foot.
“All right.”
Moments later something soft and squishy hits me in the head. “What in the abyss?” I say, stepping back just as a rain of small things patters on the piled books.
Waylish is on his hands and knees, scrabbling among the covers, stuffing whatever it is Kalvin has tossed down the hole into his mouth.
“Eat much, rich boy. Learn the books.”
“Kalvin!” I cry up the shaft, but there’s no answer.
Waylish’s frantic gorging has stopped. He’s sitting on the pile of books with his head in his hands.
“What was that?” I ask him, still disgusted.
He sniffles. “That . . . that freak comes back every night. Dumps down a little food if I’ve been good.”
Bell creeps closer to the shuddering student and lays a hand on his shoulder. “Good?”
“If I’ve . . . if I’ve learned enough.”
Bell turns slowly, taking in the mounds of ancient texts. “From the books?”
“Yes.” He hugs his knees to his chest and begins to rock back and forth.
“Why?” I ask. “Is the hunchback insane?”
I can see some sort of horrible realization dawning on Bell’s face, her eyes widening. “No . . . I mean, he’s certainly insane. But I know why he wants him reading the books.” She runs a hand through her dark hair. “It’s for the ghasts. They’re scavengers, they eat the dead . . . but they particularly enjoy the brain. And from what I’ve read some scholars believe that the more filled with knowledge a brain is, the richer a meal it will be for the ghasts.” She stares at Waylish in horror. “He’s being fattened up.”
“Havlar and Rogan were taken first, during the dark time.” He lets out a strangled laugh. “I never thought I’d actually give thanks for being a poorer student than them.”
It feels like there are eyes watching us from the blackness of the tunnels. “Do they always come in the dark time?”
Waylish shakes his head. “No. They only come when they want one of us. I think . . . I think I’ve been down here a fortnight. Rogan was taken a few days ago. I haven’t seen them since.”
That comforts me somewhat. “And this dark time?”
Waylish gestures at the glowing centipedes veining the walls. “It’s coming. Can’t you tell?”
Now that he’s said that, I do realize that the light seems to have recently faded. Before, I could make out the titles of some of the books, but now they are just a pile of jumbled shadows. “Bell, do you still have your lantern?”
She shakes her head. “I dropped it above.” I can hear the fear creeping into her voice. She evidently doesn’t like the thought of being down here in utter blackness.
I’m
not too fond of that happening either. “All right. Likely the ghasts won’t even come here, and if they do I still have my sword. I’ll stay awake until the light comes back, then we’ll go find this poelthari and get the hells out of here. You should try and rest, if you can.”
I watch in mounting dread as the glow from the squirming insects continues to dwindle. The last few wink out at almost the same time, and Bell gives a little whimper. I breathe out slowly, trying to master my fear, and concentrate on listening for any sounds in the oppressive darkness.
The silence is deafening. I hear no wind, no running water, no scrapes of scampering feet on stone. That should be comforting, but it’s almost like how a jungle grows quiet when a predator is stalking its prey. I push that thought out of my head. There’s no noise because nothing is down here except empty tunnels and stolen books.
Time passes as I sit here, listening hard. The blackness seems to roil and pulse, but I know that’s my imagination. I start counting in my head. I give up at three thousand.
A sound, the slither of piled books falling over. My hand goes to my sword hilt, my heart thundering.
“Sorry, sorry,” whispers Waylish.
Somehow, impossibly, I feel exhaustion stealing over me. I fight to keep my eyes from closing. I have to pinch myself hard as I start to drift asleep.
Light. It begins as the softest of glows, tiny spots of luminescence in the previously seamless dark. Slowly these points strengthen and begin to move as the insects stir from their slumber. Gradually the chamber we’re in resolves. Waylish is sprawled out over the books, fast asleep.
Bell is gone.
I leap to my feet, panic thudding through me. “Bell!” I cry, taking a step towards one of the three tunnel mouths. “Bell!”
Waylish stirs, then comes awake with a start. “Oh, gods,” he moans, holding his head in his hands. “It’s happening again.”
I whirl on him. “What? What’s happening?”
“It’s just like before,” he sobs. “I woke up and they were gone. I never heard them go . . .”
I grab Waylish by the torn and stained frill around his neck and haul him to his feet. “Where do they go? Which tunnel?”
“I don’t know . . .” he moans, and in disgust I let him collapse again.
Growling in frustration, I approach one of the three tunnel entrances and stand there, listening intently. Nothing. I try another, ignoring Waylish’s sniveling. The blackness seems to stare back at me.
“To hells with this,” I mutter, my sword chiming as I unsheathe it.
But that’s not the only thing that happens when I draw the blade. A soft radiance is emanating from the glass, painting the walls of the tunnels and the books stacked in piles the color of jade. Eventually The tunnel curving away from me is swallowed by darkness, but my sword illuminates a good dozen paces.
By all the dead gods, I love this sword.
As I step into the tunnel the darkness retreats.
“Are you coming?” I ask Waylish, and his muffled sobs stop.
“Your . . . your sword,” he says softly.
“My sword,” I say, striding into the dark. “I don’t know how long Bell has, so I have no time to be your wet-nurse. Follow me if you want to get out of here.”
This place was built by madmen.
The corridors twist and contort in a way that defies all sense: some are looping spirals that after many turnings end in barren earthen walls, while other times branchings double back and rejoin where they first diverged.
There are no bodies, though, that I can see, unless they are entombed within the earth. This barrow now only hold books – they are stacked everywhere, in surprisingly neat piles. Along some corridors they are only a few deep; elsewhere they soar to the ceiling, so that it’s like I’m hurrying through a canyon of cracked leather bindings. The green light from my sword skitters over the titles stamped along their spines, and I slow for the briefest of moments to find out what kinds of books the poelthari collects: The Flora and Fauna of the Ravaged Lands. A Mathematical Treatise on the Motion of the Moons. The Passion of the Tusk: Romancing the Kvah.
Waylish stumbles along behind me, gasping at the pace I’m setting. My instinct is to sprint down the corridors in search of Bell, but if I do I’ll leave the poor student stranded in the darkness. It’s immensely frustrating.
I slow as the corridor I’m following opens up into a larger space, and then I creep closer and peer inside. It’s another chamber like the one we fell into, mounds of books scattered about. The same bugs are squirming across the ceiling and bathing what’s below in their wan light. It’s very faint, but I hear a scuffling from deeper within, though the source of the sound is blocked by a teetering book pile. I turn and motion for Waylish to be quiet; no need, as he’s also heard, and all the blood has drained from his face.
I slide my glowing sword into its sheath and stealthily approach the hill of books until I can peer around its edge. A pair of sickly white shapes are hunched over something sprawled on the floor – they look like hairless monkeys, skin stretched so taut their ribs and muscles are etched clearly. Despite the gloom, a web of blue veins is visible beneath their nearly translucent skin. They are intent on whatever is before them: the sound of flesh ripping and bones cracking travels to where I’m watching, and a coldness settles over me. A pale hand lies open on the stone, unmoving, spattered with blood. Raven-black hair puddles on the stone.
Rage takes me. I rip my sword free and charge the feeding creatures; I’m moving through a red mist, all thought obliterated by the desire to kill and punish these horrible things.
A simian face with pupiless black eyes turns to me as I raise my sword, a strip of meat hanging from its jaws. It raises a long, knobby arm to protect itself.
Something slams into me from the side. I crash into a pile of books, my sword flying from my hand. Clawed fingers clutch at my throat and hot breath washes over me. Another of the ghasts – assuming these are ghasts – is on top of me, panting and gibbering in what almost sounds like desperation.
Roaring in anger, I hurl the thing from me – it’s about my size, but so emaciated that I’d be surprised if it is half my weight. As I struggle to my feet it lunges again and I punch it in its face; its flesh is rubbery, almost like a giant mushroom. It flops backwards and tries to rise again, but it’s clearly dazed. I find my sword among the scattered books and turn back to the ghast, my blood singing with the need to slaughter these things. I will extract a terrible revenge for what they did to Bell.
I raise the blade as the creature looks up at me. Despite its inhuman face I see resignation and terror.
“No!” The cry is guttural, so debased as to be nearly unintelligible. But I can understand. I hesitate, turning back to the other two creatures.
One of them is on its knees, its arms raised imploringly. From its withered breasts it looks to be female. The other, much smaller of the creatures is clutching at its bony waist. A child. I blink, the blinding rage lifting slightly.
“No . . . man. Please no.”
The request is so desperate and pathetic that it surprises me, and I lower my sword slightly.
“This one . . . you know?” A shaking finger indicates Bell’s body. But . . . it’s not Bell. It’s the corpse of a black-haired woman, but she’s been dead for some time. Relief washes through me and I nearly drop my sword.
I shake myself and step back from the cowering ghast. It scrambles across the stone floor to the female, cradling its face where I had struck it.
“No. I thought it was my friend. I thought you’d killed her.”
“This one . . . just bury. Fresh. But dead already.”
“I can see that.”
“We no kill.”
The anger has now seeped from me utterly, leaving me drained. I sheathe my sword. As the green light vanishes the gloom rushes in.
“Then where is she? My friend was taken.”
The ghasts glance at each other. “She follow the wh
ispers. Into the black.”
“The whispers?”
“The book-taker. He call to her.”
“The poelthari?”
A shiver of confusion in the female ghast’s face. “Don’t know. The one who takes the books.”
“Can you bring me to where he is?”
The ghasts huddle together, whispering in some strange hissing language. Finally, they turn back to me.
“Yes,” says the female ghast. She lightly cuffs the male ghast, who scowls. He looks like he might disagree with her. “Grv will take you. Then you go back, leave our home. Yes?”
“Yes,” I say, laying my palm over my heart. “I promise.”
Grv is an excellent guide in these tunnels, never getting too far ahead that he vanishes beyond my sword’s light. I know that he could move much faster if he wanted to, but he lopes ahead of us at a speed that isn’t too quick for Waylish. The student-scholar is still trailing well behind me, though, as if hoping when the ghast inevitably turns to attack it will have to get through me first. He had screamed in terror when he’d seen Grv following me back to the tunnel, and even after I’ve explained everything he still seems wary of the creature.
The labyrinth extends much farther than I would have thought possible, and I soon realize that there is no way I ever would have found the poelthari’s lair. Occasionally we pass other ghasts, hunched and snuffling as they move through the corridors. Despite their inhuman faces I clearly see their astonishment when they notice Waylish and myself, though none try to stop us. Finally, after an uncountable number of twists and turns, I can see that the tunnel we’re following widens up ahead into another chamber. The doorway here is larger and grander than any I’d seen before in these barrows, soaring three times the height of a man, the stone lintel buttressed by massive stone columns.
“There,” Grv says, gesturing with a clawed finger at the room. There’s light spilling out from within, a pale radiance that’s much brighter than the luminescent insects or my sword. “The Whisperer.”