Solace Lost

by Michael Sliter

  “Is this really the time?” Emma asked. Why would Escamilla persist with these lessons, even now?

  “Now is exactly the time. Tell me what you saw.”

  “Well, that small girl, Morgyn, she knew Fenrir from before; maybe was mad at him. She was upset, and wanted to hurt him. She is fast, and she used the darkness to her advantage, moving in the shadows and striking at him. I’d love to take a shot myself,” Emma added in a mutter.

  “Exactly,” said Escamilla.

  “What?”

  “You saw yourself, Emma. You saw a girl let her emotions get the better of her at a very critical moment. If that girl had contained herself, her emotions, would we be fleeing right now? Would there be armed guards at our heels?”

  There was a pounding noise from above, and Emma heard shouts, though too muffled to make out the words.

  “No, we would be down here without imminent threat of capture and torture. Now, can we please get moving?” asked Emma with a sigh.

  “Not without our escorts. Shall we wander about down here, in the dark, until we starve to death? Or are consumed by whatever creatures frequent these shadowy places?”

  There was a sudden click then, and a light flared into view a scant few feet away. Emma jumped while Escamilla shifted swiftly into a fighting pose. Once their eyes adapted, they saw it was Morgyn holding the lantern, having descended the ladder almost silently. The roughly-clad girl stood still, studying both of them, her eyes darting back and forth like she was a predatory animal. Emma felt like she was being sized up—and found wanting.

  With a loud bang, Fenrir dismounted the ladder next, skipping the last few rungs and plopping heavily to the ground. He wiped his sweaty, bald head and scratched at his heavily-bearded face. So different from what Emma remembered. He’d once taken pride in his appearance, and he’d had lovely brown-blonde hair that he’d kept trimmed just below his brow. There’d never been more than a stubble on his face, and that only at the end of the day. With this new look, Fenrir appeared… barbaric. Dangerous. Frightening. But, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her afraid. She drew herself tall, standing at the edge of the light and folding her arms, giving him as fixed and neutral a look as she could manage.

  “Coldbreaker, where exactly are we?” she asked, carefully concealing both her contempt and her fear of the man.

  Fenrir cleared his throat. “Well, the Plateau was not built upon a natural formation, as many think. Rather, it was built on the ruins of a much older structure, which has since been covered in moss, ivy, and dirt. I am willing to bet we are standing within those ruins,” said Fenrir, his diction quite rehearsed. Emma was very familiar with Fenrir’s tactics of repeating stories, rumors, and information overheard from others, claiming it as his own. Nobles, dignitaries, administrators, officials… they were all very open around guardsmen, sometimes forgetting that there was someone contained within the six feet of metal casing standing nearby. Often, Emma hadn’t minded that Fenrir would parrot this information. In fact, she would encourage it. Much of what she’d learned about various people within the Plateau—and inevitably shared with Escamilla—had come from Fenrir’s rather loose lips. Now, though, hearing his rehearsed, matter-of-fact, and slightly condescending tone, she felt a renewed urge to bash his head in with a vase.

  Thankfully, Morgyn interjected. “We oughta get moving. It won’t be long until they get a key and start searching down here. Only a couple of folks above have a key at all, at least, so we should have a head start.”

  “Lead the way, young one,” said Escamilla, resting the shaft of her spear on her shoulder. Fenrir opened his mouth for a moment, sighed, and assumed a place as the rear guard. He must have decided that pursuit from behind was the most likely peril to the group.

  The group walked down a wide hallway, the lantern light revealing walls made of large blocks of rough-hewn stone that stood in rather stark contrast to the uniform, mortared-stone bricks comprising the fortress above. The Plateau was at least two hundred years old, but this hallway, this place, was far older. Emma felt as though the air was harder to breathe; it felt stale and sour and thick. Dead, even, as if whomever used to occupy this ruin had all exhaled in unison just before they’d expired.

  “What was this place before the Plateau was built atop it?” Emma asked to no one in particular.

  “I heard it was a temple to one of the pagan gods, not sure which,” said Morgyn, speaking quickly. “I’ve looked around a bit, but haven’t been able to find anything good.”

  “How do you know about this place, young one?” asked Escamilla.

  “That’s not your business,” the girl said offhandedly. Emma was shocked at her impertinence, and was sure that Lady Escamilla would not stand for it.

  “Of course, my dear. I do not mean to pry. I am just interested in old places.”

  “I’ve been to a lot of old places,” Morgyn said with a hint of a brag. “This place is nothing compared to the Farinx ruins in the Tulanque Mountains. Those are massive, and I’ve found good stuff there!”

  “What kind of stuff, young one?” asked Escamilla.

  “Oh, this and that. I found an old spear, made all of metal. It was worth fifty yets! There was a little old statue of a man riding a weird beast, too. It was carved from wood, but the wood didn’t rot. I got ten yets for that.”

  As they walked, Morgyn continued to regale Escamilla with descriptions of her findings and exactly what each had been worth. Emma soon became bored, even as Morgyn became more animated in the telling. At least her lively chatter brightened these dreary hallways and temporarily chased away whatever ghosts were probably lurking around. Even the lantern seemed to shine brighter.

  But what would happen once they got out of this place? Would there be war? She suspected that Eric Malless would not accept that his father had thrown himself from the palace and, with the impetuousness of youth, he’d likely put Florens at odds with Rostane. Rostane’s military would have Florens outmanned, but if Henrik Malless hadn’t been bluffing, they had Jecustan allies to call upon. The resulting war would likely draw in the other duchies, and potentially other nations.

  Escamilla had her own unofficial standing army. On the surface, she merely kept a small force to guard each of her many holdings. But, were those forces to be combined, she would have a trained army of several thousand, enough to noticeably bolster the forces of Eric Malless or whomever else Escamilla decided to throw in with. The result would be a war-torn and divided Ardia, potentially leaving the country ripe for conquest from Algania, Jecusta, or even a sea-borne invasion from Sestra or Rafón. The Wasmer, too, might renew their attacks from the mountains.

  As Emma reflected on the various costs of war, she wondered about her own fate. Frankly, she was terrified of pain. She’d heard people say that pain itself wasn’t as bad as the fear of it. Those people had never lost a chunk of their hand. Surprisingly, she had barely felt the pain of her dismemberment at first. It hadn’t been until she’d seen the damage, the blood sheeting down her arm and across the bed and nightstand, that the gut-wrenching pain had hit her all at once. Words were inadequate to describe the searing torment. Not to mention the persistent, sharp ache over the following weeks and months, even after Escamilla had brought in a surgeon, a man called Martis, to salvage as much of her appendage as possible.

  Emma was resolved to take her own life before being captured and used as a demonstration like Erlins. She would not be tortured!

  Morgyn continued to chat and lead them through a confusing crisscross of hallways, all perpendicular to one another. Every so often, the stone walls were broken by an opening into much larger chambers that Emma could not discern in the darkness. People might have lived in these great chambers, or perhaps some strange religious ceremonies were held within. Morgyn had said this was a temple to the pagan gods, and it certainly seemed plausible. This place had the dour atmosphere and unnecessary scale of religious constructions.

  Emma was not a devo
ut Yetranian, nor was Escamilla, but she’d attended services before. Primarily to gather information. A surprising amount of business was conducted during and after such services, and Emma had been able to reconnoiter a good deal of intelligence by simply attending them. She’d occasionally listened to the sermons and diatribes from the Taneos, as well, and they spoke a pleasant message of peace and equality, of something they called Harmony. But, then she would see a Taneo throw a boiling cup of tea at a servant or stumble out of a whore house in the warehouse district. While this did leave such men open for extortion, it stunk of hypocrisy and filled Emma with disgust.

  But, even that hypocrisy might be better than whatever had happened in these ruins. She had heard that many of the old religions—particularly those of the Wasmer folk—practiced ritual sacrifices of animals and humans. This was, of course, after the sacrifice had been “made clean” through systematic and ceremonial torture. It was said that such a ritual would allow for the priest to absorb the soul of a sacrifice, absolving them of sin and making them one with whatever god was being honored at the time. Emma shuddered at the thought, that she may had been working atop a sacrificial altar for almost a decade.

  Morgyn continued to lead the ragtag group through the maze with surety. They came to a narrow, steep ramp that brought them down another level. As they descended, Emma could feel the press of earth, or the Plateau rather, weighing down on her. She began to feel panicky and drew several audible, deep breaths in an effort to calm herself. Fenrir—who’d somehow ended up next to her—slowed down and snuck her a glance. A renewed flash of anger washed away the panic when she caught it, and she threw him what she hoped was a withering glare in return. He shrugged, shook his bald head, and continued forward.

  “Hsssst!” This from Fenrir a few minutes later, getting the attention of Morgyn and Escamilla, quieting their chatter. “Hear that? Guardsmen.”

  Emma listened; Fenrir was right. She could hear the hint of voices, and an occasional obscured, barked order. They seemed a long way off, but even with the echoes, it was clear that, somehow, the guards had gotten ahead of them. Oh, cocks.

  “They must have mobilized some other forces and come down a different entrance,” said Fenrir, looking back the way they’d come.

  “Brilliant deduction,” said Emma, her hands busy as always. “What do we do?”

  “Who knows how many entrances there are into this place,” said Escamilla in a considering and calm tone. “These ruins have been locked up for years. I’ve heard whispers of them, and y sources told me that only the little duke and captains of the watch have keys.”

  “And me,” smirked Morgyn, holding up the key that she had retrieved from Fenrir.

  Where had this little beggar—or rather her superiors—gotten a key to this place that few even knew existed?

  “Yes, and you, young one. But, these soldiers do not know the paths of this place. We have a guide.” Escamilla quickly smiled at Morgyn, and Emma felt a surprising surge of jealousy. Silly.

  “Which way, girl? We’d better keep moving,” said Fenrir, gruffly.

  Morgyn appeared indecisive for a moment, stepping a few feet down each path at the nearby intersection and listening intently.

  “Follow me,” she then said with conviction. Emma couldn’t tell if it was feigned or real, but they had little choice but to follow.

  They walked for about fifteen minutes, leaving the sounds of the pursuit behind. Whenever Morgyn came to an intersection, she would stop and walk a few feet down each hall, listening and even sniffing the air, a squirrel searching for a buried nut. Then, she would make a decision, and the rest would follow. Emma did not know how the girl kept her bearings in here, with few landmarks of any distinction, but they did seem to be moving steadily forward and downward, away from their hunters.

  They descended another steep ramp, one that opened into a large chamber, the scant light of their lantern being quickly consumed by the inky darkness. Emma felt as if she were stranded amidst nothingness instead of encapsulated deep in a tomb of stone. It offered a different kind of fear, making her feel alone, insignificant. She edged closer to Fenrir, just to be near something solid. He didn’t notice. Maybe he was having his own existential thoughts.

  Morgyn halted suddenly, as still as a ceremonial guard.

  “Young one, what is the matter?”

  “I… um…” she stuttered. “I’m not sure where we are.” Fenrir groaned, and Emma felt a stab of fear. The thought of being trapped here, in this blackness, was untenable. So thick was the darkness that their small, austere chamber above seemed like a safer option—even being imprisoned by a madman might be preferable.

  “I knew this shit was a mistake,” Emma heard Fenrir mutter. She had almost forgotten that this was all just a job for him. Something to pad his pockets with money. He’d just as soon cut off Escamilla’s hand for a few Yets as rescue them from this place.

  “Hold a moment!” Morgyn set down the lantern and ran off into the darkness, silent as one of the ghosts that prowled these halls. The girl must be touched in the head, Emma thought, running into the abyss that surrounded them.

  She was gone for several long minutes, leaving Emma to fidget with her fingers. Fenrir was pacing back and forth, hand on the hilt of his sword while he muttered curses. Escamilla stood, her feet spread to the width of her shoulders, leaning on her spear as if it were a cane. Exhaustion painted her face in wrinkled grays. Emma often forgot that Escamilla was somewhere in her sixth decade, so powerful and poised she was. But, tonight, she’d dove to catch a vase, taken a circuitous route through the burrows of the Plateau, run from the pursuers nipping at her heels, and, earlier in the day, she’d been threatened with death. That would take its toll on a very young woman, let alone a woman in the last quarter of her life.

  Emma wanted to comfort Escamilla, but knew that would be taken poorly. The older woman would be angry that her exhaustion was evident, if anything.

  Morgyn reappeared, seemingly enthusiastic. She bounded into the circle of light, their little oasis in the desert of blackness.

  “I found something!” she said.

  “What did you find, young one?” asked Escamilla.

  “A person! I ran off that way, and there was a dim light,” she said, and pointed back the way she’d come from. “I saw him through a door with a window. There was a man in there, looking like he was in pain. He looked hurt! Come look!”

  “No. We need to get out of here. If the guard suspects that these ruins are a back entrance into the Plateau, this place will be swarming with them for the foreseeable future. And then the ruins will be blocked off, utterly and completely. We need to move,” said Fenrir firmly.

  “Let us take a look. A few minutes shouldn’t harm us, and we could potentially have assistance in our efforts to escape. We must take help where we can find it,” said Escamilla, again standing upright, strong and confident. And appearing younger once more. Fenrir gave an exasperated sigh.

  “I’d leave you if I had an idea of how to get out this fucking place.” Not quite under his breath. “Alrighty, girl. Lead the way. Again.”

  After a few minutes, Emma could see a dim light shining through a small, square opening—a barred window in a door. Fenrir pushed past the group and peered into the tiny portal for a long moment. Emma heard a despairing moan coming from beyond the door. Fenrir turned back to the group, gesturing for them to come in close.

  “There is a man in there, chained by his neck. I can’t see his face, but he appears to be missing a hand,” he murmured.

  “Erlins,” Emma and Escamilla whispered in unison, Emma as a question and Escamilla as a statement of fact.

  “We need to get in there,” said Escamilla.

  “Give me a moment,” said Morgyn, procuring a set of lock picks from a boot. She soundlessly worked at the lock, with only the occasional soft click betraying her presence.

  “We don’t know who else might be in there,” said Fenrir. “We could be wal
king into an ambush. We should leave this person and find our way out. Now.”

  “How could you leave a person, any person, trapped in this darkness? What if that were you, down here, Coldbreaker? Are you such a cock-sucking cretin…” Emma hissed furiously until she was interrupted.

  “Got it!” whispered Morgyn, following the distinct metallic snap and slip of a lock being popped. Fenrir released another frustrated sigh.

  “At least let me go first,” he said, drawing his sword. This time, Morgyn didn’t argue.

  Fenrir opened the door with a loud creak. The door had been recently replaced, as the wood was relatively fresh even though the hinges had begun to rust. He entered cautiously, sword held out in front of him, head swiveling left and then right. As soon as he cleared the doorway, Escamilla followed, her own spear levelled in front of her. Morgyn went in, as well, now bearing their source of light and holding her short iron baton at the ready in her other hand.

  Emma found herself standing alone in the darkness. She hastily drew her curved sword from her belt, held it in front of her with shaky hands, and followed.

  The room was relatively small, perhaps a dozen or so paces wide and long. Immediately next to the door, there was a chair and a desk covered in books, as well as two gas lamps left burning low. On the far end of the room were several shackles bolted to the wall. Two of them restrained naked men by their necks, with just enough slack that the men were both seated, slumped on the ground. Aside from the prisoners, the room appeared uninhabited, though the stench could have easily filled the great chamber nearby. Fenrir surveyed the room, shook his head, and drove his sword into his sheathe with a ring.

  “Hurry up!” said Fenrir impatiently, taking a place by the door, standing easily at guard. A natural at indolence.

  “Morgyn, check that man over there,” ordered Escamilla, pointing to the motionless man deeper into the room. Morgyn did not question the order, but walked cautiously toward him, iron baton at the ready, while Emma and Escamilla approached the one-handed man.