People were the danger in the Lower Quarters, not an abandoned tunnel full of moldy cloth. Sarn called up the Litany and jumped down to the Allies, Enemies and Other Folk section seeking a match for the creature stitched into the billowing banner.
“Why’s it doing that?” Ran tugged Sarn’s pant leg.
“Doing what?”
One of the banners split in half spawning whipping threads. Sarn grabbed his son and dove for cover as they lashed out at him. More moldy strands wrapped around the column and yanked it down.
“How the hell do I fight a piece of cloth?” Sarn asked the rat squeaking at him.
Another banner divided into four lariats and flung them at him. Sarn tucked and tumbled, shielding his son with his body. But he didn’t roll behind a rock formation fast enough. One of the lariats struck his shoulder, and his arm went numb.
“Why’s this happening?” Ran fingered his pockets no doubt searching for his slingshot.
But what could Ran shoot? Banners had no eyes. Or did they?
“I don’t know.”
Sarn put the question to his magic. It shrugged. Great, not even his magic wanted to tangle with the things attacking him.
Rocks rained down as other banners lashed out at the walls. A solitary rat dodged the projectiles. Sarn lunged after the fleeing creature.
Rat Woman’s silver eyes met his. “Release me,” she said through the rat’s mouth. “Run away from here.”
“Not until you tell me what’s going on.”
“I don't know.”
And Sarn wanted to believe her, but she was created by the demon he'd vanquished.
Unnatural, his magic said.
The banners or the rat? Never mind. Just tell me what to do. Sarn waited, but his magic said nothing more as it flowed down his numb arm warming it. Sparks danced between his fingers.
The rat froze. Rat Woman’s mirrored eyes faded into the beady black ones of a regular rat. She was gone. And his captive wriggled until it could bite his hand.
“Ouch.” Sarn dropped the rat in favor of staunching the blood streaming from the wound, but he wasn’t quick enough. A crimson drop splashed onto the ground and Mount Eredren shook.
“Why’d she hurt you?” Ran huddled against his side.
“I don’t know.” And right then, it didn’t matter.
At least twenty lariats wrapped around the boulder shielding them. Between the shaking ground and the tugging lariats, the boulder didn’t stand a chance. It ripped free and the banners swung it like a giant hammer.
I must shield him. I must … Sarn threw himself on top of his son as magic exploded from every pore. It arced into an emerald half dome over them. Somewhere deep inside a voice sang a song of protection.
I am the rock-breaker. The world breaks on my back.
Yes, shouted his magic in joyous abandon. Yes!
The boulder shattered against his shield.
Throw them, urged his magic.
Yes—Sarn pushed to his knees, caught the fragments by inverting his shield and flung them at the banners. They punched holes in the moldering fabric. Embroidered dragons roared in silence as translucent griffons took wing and unicorns galloped.
“Look! Look, Papa! They’re running away.” Ran pointed to the escaping designs.
For a moment, the banners flickered, like windows into an ancient world. They showed mythic creatures long dead but remembered in stitchery. Then they faded out leaving nothing more than the tattered remains of discarded finery. A shadow broke free of the now inanimate banners and merged with the general gloom down here.
Whatever malevolent force had animated those banners was gone now. Sarn sat back on his heels uncertain what to do next. Should I warn someone? Who could I tell and what could they do about it? The Indentured had no leader just a series of rabble-rousers, but they were always arrested before they gained any real sway down here. Who would even believe me?
“What was that?”
“I don’t know.” Sarn rubbed his tired eyes.
“But you’ll find out?” Ran sounded hopeful.
“Yeah, I guess I will.” What choice did he have? There was no one else who had magic here.
“Who died and made you lead investigator?”
This time, Sarn had an answer for Jerlo’s question. All the mages who came before me. I’m the only one left. That he knew of. Hopefully, there were more somewhere.
“Come on, I don’t think we should stay here.”
Sarn pushed to his feet and searched for that damned sack of food. Finding it, he slung the reeking, leaking mess over his shoulder. Something must be rotting away in there. But since he’d paid no attention to what he’d consigned to the sack, Sarn had no idea what caused the spoilt meat smell.
Thank Fate, the jerk he was following headed for the very people this food was meant for. Soon that edible mess would be someone else's problem.
Ran wrinkled his nose and gave his father a wide berth, not that Sarn blamed him.
Dryskellion Standoff
A blur shoulder-checked Cris as it shot past. The wind from its passage made the torch flicker.
“Rags? What are you doing?”
The thin man rushed toward a circle of man-sized rock formations. They ringed a stygian pit that was at least a half mile across if not more, and those fell things glittered in the torchlight like giant teeth.
“You shall not pass.”
Gray shapes exited the pit. They pushed up on their hind legs to tower over them. One of them seized Ragnes and held him aloft. A lion’s mane of rippling darkness wreathed Rags’ head. His eyes were wide, staring pits. His essence had been sucked out to make room for something else—something not of this world.
The giant lizard—no—dragon—ghosts mantled their eerie translucent wings and angled their wicked broadswords at Cris and his two friends. They stood poised on the balls of their three-toed feet like men ready to fight. In fact, there was something about them that was more man-like than dragonish, as if they were some strange cross between the two species, a failed experiment maybe.
Dryskellions hissed a frightened voice in his head. What were they guarding?
“Our lives we gave to save the world from enslavement. Our sacrifice will not be in vain. You shall not pass,” said the largest reptilian warrior in a perfect, accentless soprano. Her tail lashed the darkness welling up from the pit behind her.
Were they real? Or were they just more figments of his overwrought mind? Cris glanced at Villar and yes, those dragonish creatures must be real given his friend’s wide-eyed terror.
“What the hell are you staring at?” Gore strolled up to the lead dragon warrior. The top of his head was level with her sword point, but he either didn’t care or couldn’t see it.
“What the hell are you two staring at? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Gore waved a hand through her hind leg.
Villar just pointed. His lips moved in soundless horror as one of those dragonish things swung a misty sword at Gore’s head.
“You shall not pass.”
“Look out!” Cris shot forward and swung the pickax up to block the blow, but the air thickened, resisting his passage. “I don’t believe in ghosts!” I don’t believe in—but he did believe.
Sword and pickax met at the apex of his swing sending sparks flying then a three-digit hand shoved Cris away from the edge. He struggled to regain his balance as something shot out of the pit and wrapped around his waist. Cris buried the pickax in the scaly appendage. No blood spurted, nor did the blow slow his edge-ward slide toward the monster below.
“Help me!” Cris shouted, but Villar was backing away from those dragonish creatures. They were advancing on the pit and the tentacles flailing around in search of prey. One of them seized Ragnes right out of the hands of those dragonish creatures and dragged him toward the pit.
And Gore, that ornery bastard, just stood there muttering to himself. Didn't he see the monster in their midst?
Cris gritte
d his teeth. He was on his own, as usual. He raised the pickax for another strike, but a gloved hand wrenched it out of his grip.
“Ah, ah, ah, this one belongs to me.” The hooded man pitched the pickax into the pit.
“Why did you do that?” Cris stared at the wraith, stunned by its interference.
“Because steel can't harm a phantasm.” At the stranger’s touch, the tentacle dissolved.
Cris fell to his knees, free at last. Pebbles skittered over the edge and vanished into the gloom. The monster was gone—for now.
Ragnes lay motionless a few feet away from where the monster had dropped him. But he seemed okay in the fleeting glance Cris got before all three dragons—warriors—ghosts—things turned as one. They slashed at the hooded man, but their glowing swords exploded when they touched him.
“No!” screamed the lead dragonish creature staring at her empty hands. Her transparent wings billowed in the breeze wafting the putrid scent of decay at Cris.
“What have you done?” She fixed glowing eyes on Cris right before the ground dropped out from under him.
The ledge Cris had been standing on disintegrated, and he plummeted into darkness. He struck steps and rolled deeper into the pit, bruising every part of him until a rock slammed into his side.
Cris lay in a heap, groaning on the cold stone while pain ricocheted through his body. Something brushed past him—a leather fringe—oh, God, Ragnes. He threw out an arm, but his questing fingers closed on air.
The thud of a body striking something hard broke the silence. A wet grunt died in a gurgle as Cris crawled to the edge and looked over.
All was stygian darkness. Far above, something shined or maybe it was just the memory of light.
A long exhalation startled Cris. “Rags? Are you there? Ragnes? Say something. I know you’re there.” And he didn’t care if he sounded frightened. Villar had been right to be scared. “Ragnes? Talk to me. Ragnes?”
Cris felt along the edge. It was wet. Crystals terminating at needle points jutted out of the rock face at crazy angles. He touched his wet fingers to his lips and tasted blood. “Ragnes?”
Perhaps six-feet down, a light kindled, illuminating Ragnes’ face. Cris covered his mouth and fought back the urge to retch. Gray light streamed out of those staring eyes, fixed in death.
“No, no, no! This can't be happening. You can’t be—” Cris couldn’t say the word, ‘dead,’ couldn’t accept the reality staring him in the face.
A vague man-shape coalesced in the air above his impaled friend and its glow reflected off the crystal protruding from Ragnes’ chest. Ragnes’ ghost extended a translucent gray hand to Cris, but he recoiled in horror. The specter elongated into a brilliant thread then spun into a vortex that floated above a gloved hand.
“Ah, but he’s quite dead,” said the same hooded man from before. Ragnes’ ghost contracted into a point and sank into the mote in that hovering man's eye. It flared once then winked out. “’Cause everybody dies. Yes, everybody dies, and the flies are waiting for their prize.” A dazzling smile cleaved through the darkness under the man’s hood, but that cruel sickle-shaped glow lit a caved-in hole where his nose should be.
Cris recoiled from the Leper. A new light flickered in the stygian gloom as the smile died on the hooded man’s lips. Then it divided into the beady eyes of the abyss. He alighted onto the landing. “One to weaken, two to crack, eleven souls I still need to trap. Plus, one more, to break the cap.”
“Wh-who are you?”
“Does it matter?” The robed man grasped Cris’ hand and pulled him to his feet. “In another moment, you won't care.”
Before Cris could pull away, he met that soulless gaze. But the man’s grip was firm, and its warmth radiated throughout Cris’ body, soothing the developing bruises from his fall.
A small voice whispered, the Adversary, in the back of his mind. But it faded out replaced by the oppressive silence down here. Besides, its assertion was impossible. Everyone knew the Adversary had been locked out of this world for a very long time.
Cris shook his head to clear it of such strange notions. He needed to concentrate because everything was growing fuzzy around the edges. “Where am I?”
“Right where you belong. Trust me.”
The man wrapping an arm around Cris' shoulders was familiar. So was the sickle smile the hooded man offered him and the greedy glint in his eyes.
Splat. A red drop landed in the puddle forming underfoot.
Something wet dripped down his leg, but Cris felt no pain, just a curious warmth. So, it couldn’t be blood.
“Come, my new friend, we’ve work to do before you become number two. And maybe you’ll lure eleven more souls for me to woo.”
The man waved an arm and a tiny light, cold as the distant stars, floated into the middle of the pit. The crystals bristling the walls reflected its light as they descended, deeper into the pit. Darkness fell behind them, covering a trail of bloody footprints, and two white pawns.
A proboscis slithered out of the shadows. It probed Ragnes' body. When it found his chest wound, it sucked on his congealing blood and the residual magic all living things possess. Down, down, down into the pit, the last embers of Ragnes' life went to fuel a long-dormant horror.
“What the hell was that all about?” Gore rubbed his brow but directed his question at the still mute Villar. Something odd had just happened, but his vision had gone all blurry, so he’d seen only smears of shadows and light.
“Vill? Oh, not you too. There are no ghosts. It’s just smoke wafting up from somewhere below. Stop letting your mind play tricks on you.”
Gore snapped his fingers in front of his paralyzed friend's face, but that failed to snap Villar out of his trance. “Damn it Vill, I need you clearheaded. Snap out of it.”
But Villar didn’t. So, he gave up. Doubt scratched at the edges of Gore’s mind as he rubbed his eyes to clear them. He refused to grant it an audience. Instead, Gore cupped the flickering flame to protect it from the drafts trying to blow it out.
“There are no such things as ghosts,” he muttered.
“I know what I saw,” Vill said finally in a voice so frayed from fear, it almost snapped.
So, did Gore’s temper. He’d had all he could take of his friend’s spinelessness. He rounded on Villar—the weakest link in the chain binding his friends together, but his eyes fell on the pit, and the site stopped the hurtful words bubbling up from his soul.
Where the hell am I? This isn’t where we pulled the other gems from. Gore spun on his heel. The broken door was gone. There was just that dark chasm.
A word nibbled at the edges of his mind, the Ægeldar. But he couldn’t have blundered into that benighted place.
“Where’s Ragnes and Cris?”
Villar pointed to the chasm. Rocks ringed it like teeth set in the terrible maw of a giant stone beast. Gore approached it with caution. Torchlight illuminated an uncountable number of steps carved into the chasm’s wall. They looked like Litherian workmanship. Those ancient misanthropes could carve statues so lifelike they scared the trousers off the unwary, but could they fashion a usable staircase? Not a chance.
This spiral nightmare, like every other damned staircase the Litherians had created, featured lots of uneven steps set at varying distances from one another. And of course, there was no railing. How had they climbed these steps without falling to their deaths?
Maybe they were a race of giants.
Maybe. Safety had not been high on their list of priorities, and that didn’t bode well for his errand.
“Didn’t you see those things toss them into the pit?”
“What things?” Gore glanced at Villar, but his gaze caught on the figure separating from the darkness wreathing the stairs.
“Come, my friends, the gems you seek are down there.” The shadow gestured behind him. His black robes billowed in the ill wind sweeping up from the pit. Gore blinked at the pool of shadow standing in for legs until the man’s robes set
tled removing his alarm.
There was something familiar about him. It niggled at Gore as those hidden eyes studied him. What was the man waiting for?
Then it came to him. Gore almost smacked himself. Weren’t there six of them, not five in their little band? Yes, it seemed there had always been six friends—brothers of different mothers, comrades in cons, lifelong companions. How had he forgotten?
“Come, my friends, what you—I mean we—seek is down there. Treasure awaits us. Come now and descend with me.” The shadow held out a hand and coins appeared. They caught the torchlight as he juggled them one-handed while he descended.
“See Vill, I told you. Everything’s going according to plan.” Gore slapped his friend's flabby shoulder never taking his eyes off those spinning coins. He advanced toward them with a strange gleam in his eyes.
“Where are you going? Gore?”
“Down, I’m going down into the pit.”
A smile split his dry, cracking lips. It was so arid in here. He should have brought a canteen or something to slake his thirst. Who knew he’d be doing so much wrangling.
The shadowed man smiled. Gore couldn’t see it, but he felt it and that smile felt right. More so than anything else had in the long, strange hike to this place.
“I don’t think you should. Gore!” Villar sounded desperate.
What was his problem now? Couldn’t he recognize a friend come to lead them to the prize? A queer bit of frippery sprang to mind and rolled off his tongue. It just seemed so appropriate as Gore stepped down.
“Let your dark desires rise, my allies. ‘Cause everybody dies. Yes, everybody dies, and the flies are waiting for their prize.” Gore’s smile broadened into a grin that might have been a touch manic as his foot touched the first step. It angled down under his weight, and he slipped into darkness. The torch dropped from his hand. It lit a scaly tentacle slithering up the pit's wall. But that was impossible.
“Gore, no!”
Rapid footsteps beat a frantic tattoo, but Villar reached the edge too late to catch him. Gore fell face first into the blackness choking this place. But he was among friends. The darkness closing in on him wore their faces as it swallowed him. Its black hands reached for Villar. Good old Villar who was screaming his head off.
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