SPARX Incarnation: Order of the Undying (SPARX Series I Book 2)

by K. B. Sprague

  “There’s nothing there,” said a man’s voice, annoyed and authoritative. But the dogs were not convinced. Had a regular, casual person been coming up the stairs, the dogs might have yawned and let him or her pass without a fuss. But the discrepancy between that which was seen and that which was otherwise sensed disturbed them greatly.

  In a sudden rush, one of the dogs bolted to the stairs, barking ferociously. His companion chased after. I gasped and scrambled back down as fast as I could. The two brutes skidded to a stop at the top of the staircase. I glanced back. They shuffled sideways on the smooth floor, crouched and barking, snarling and barring their teeth.

  “What’s gotten into them,” said another voice from the room.

  As I fled farther down the stairs, I heard choking yelps from the dogs as their master hauled them back by their collars.

  There would be no getting around those beasts, I decided, not without a distraction or an entirely different way out. Defeated, I silently withdrew to the Nexus Chamber where I had said goodbye to Raven. I waited while a group of three men wearing robes and speaking in hushed tones passed by.

  When their footsteps faded, I called out softly: “Raven.” I should have asked him to wait for a bit, just in case things did not work out.

  A little louder: “Raven!” The name echoed back through the offshoot tunnels. The walls gave no answer. Nothing stirred or sounded save drips from the ceiling and wavering shadows that swayed with the torchlight. I scanned the cave for some sign of where the Glooms might have gone. The bar latch on the heavy golden doors had been lifted. I stepped softly to the arch and pushed hard at one of the doors. It glided open.

  I entered the empty hall and cast off my hood. A salty current of air swept over me. The throughway was elaborate, its floor blood red and polished granite. Hanging lanterns cast an orange glow over rich depictions of old Akeda, done in fresco along the walls. The ceiling was arched and richly gilded, end to end. I walked on through to the other side, passing two stairways leading up.

  The other end of the hall opened up into a domed coliseum. It was massive, with seating for thousands, complete with its own cove and a half-circle centre-stage that bulged into its placid waters. Two small circular pools appeared a ways back from the waterline on the stage itself. I stepped in and felt the airiness of the structure’s volume. Immensely open and lavish to the extreme, it had to be the most fantastic underground chamber ever known.

  Pole-mounted torches and bright lanterns along the walls glazed the interior with a fiery glow. Bright red banners decorated the stands. Stretching over the inlet to the cove, a fantastic archway framed a watery view of twilit shores – the sunless sea of the leviathan. There, the waterway pinched to a narrow channel that met open water.

  The emptiness and solitude of the place seemed altogether off. Even the water did not seem quite right, so clear and still and reflective of fire. Over the haunting silence, I could almost hear the roar of a thousand voices.

  Once my eyes met the wall decor, there was no turning away. A kind of morbid curiosity set in. Violent scenes erupted out of the stonework, some large and lifelike, chiseled out of the natural rock of the cavern, others miniature and painted on flat surfaces of varying proportions. The scenes were arranged in panels, each separated from the next by a mast-like column, crows’ nest and all. Above was the domed ceiling, intricately carved and decorated, with a squat, inverted rendering of the Iron Tower at its apex. Bright light shone through crystalline facets mounted on the miniature battlement.

  “What is this place?” I called out. Unexpectedly, I received an answer – a familiar trill erupted from the stands. Raven popped up out of hiding, followed by his hesitant cohorts. “Back? ” he said.

  “Guards, dogs, top of stairs,” I said, mimicking his manner of speaking, then I made a barking sound.

  “Oh,” said the Bound One.

  Before I could elaborate, he raised one hand and shook his head. He had something to say to the others, and consulted them with a flurry of quick beats. They chittered back and forth for some time while I waited. Finally, he turned my way again.

  “No problem,” he said. “ Free Bound Ones.” He began nodding his head as he spoke. “ Bound Ones run everywhere . Guards come; dogs chase; round up. Nud leave when guards gone .” He stopped nodding and waited for my reaction.

  “But the wraiths—” I began. Raven cut me off.

  “ No wraiths. We say ground shake, rocks crack .” He nodded his head again, and actually smiled. “Happens. Never come for that.”

  It was a great idea, and I was out of options. Raven seemed to know what he was doing, so I put my trust in his plan. I think that more than anything, he wanted me to fulfill my promise and find Isotopia. It is what they all wanted.

  “Do I just wait here then?” I asked.

  He lifted one hand to eye level, four fingers showing. “Four hours . Highest cave Nexus Chamber … be there,” he said. “Guards, dogs go down. Nud go up .”

  I reiterated his plan. “Yes. Nud waits high tunnel. Dogs, guards go down other tunnel. Nud leaves, up the stairs.”

  Raven nodded.

  “No guards up there.”

  He nodded again.

  “How will I know four hours have passed?” I said.

  “You not count? ” he replied.

  “No,” I said.

  “Eight guard patrols. Leave by seventh to be sure. ”

  “OK,” I said. “That makes sense.”

  “Soon go,” said Raven. “First, honor Bound Ones. Lost.” He pointed to the sea.

  “Here?” I said. “The stadium?”

  “Ritual,” said Raven.

  From what I could gather of his choppy explanation that followed, Dromeron Odoon entertains its own version of the same brutal practice. The Il’kinik rulers, it seems, are about as humble as those in Harrow: they honor the very best workers, slaves and scholars by sacrificing them. But they do not deem themselves or their kin worthy of such an honor, excepting a few isolated cases that had more to do with rivalry or politics than honor. Sadly, the Bound Ones must endure sacrifice both in Harrow and in Dromeron Odoon.

  Raven and the others congregated at the central platform and stood facing the Dim Sea. As they exchanged hushed clicks at a slow tempo, I stepped past them along the water’s edge and marveled at the massive columns supporting the arch, and then at the arch itself. A white whale, jutting out in high relief, formed its keystone. Something was off about the whale though. On closer examination, I could see that the creature had many sets of eyes, extending diagonally from just above the crease of the mouth halfway to the blowhole. Writhing tentacles lashed out in a flailing pattern from the forebody, clutching a woman who looked to be at peace.

  I gasped. The leviathan?

  Finally, it struck me. But it can’t be… why would Harrow offer up sacrifices to the White Whale? The notion didn’t make any sense. The leviathan that I met was helpful and wise, and would never lower himself to such a level – accepting sacrifices. Plus he’s a he, and Karna – whom they worship – was always depicted as a she, a goddess. The beast I knew would much rather exchange news and stories with someone than witness that person sacrificed in his name, wasted, and the knowledge he or she possessed lost to the world, forever.

  My mind raced. Kechekenibek was the name the Glooms gave to the White Whale. Karna was the Orbweaver in stories and the one Harrow took to be a goddess worthy of sacrificing their own citizens to. None of it made sense.

  I looked through the arch to the waters of the leviathan. A few stretched fingers of ambient light reflected off the rippled surface to the greater blackness beyond. Rushing water sounded somewhere in the far-off distance. The soft noise seemed to filter in from all directi
ons.

  My chest heaved. I felt heavy.

  And in that heavy moment, gently swelling over the rush of the far off falls and the rhythmic train of caressing wavelets, the most beautiful music filled my ears and prickled into my spine. It was nothing like anything I had ever heard before. Entranced, I turned to face my gloomy-no-more rescuers. They stood together on the central platform, united in voice and mind, blank eyes riveted on the open sea. Their voices, if indeed so plain a word as “voices” could describe the sounds they crafted, were purely ethereal. And as they wove crescendos, the uplifting joy of life and the brilliance of being awakened inside of me, like a fire rekindled. And as their tones deepened, my heart and soul fell through the hard stony earth, to touch loss unbearable and longing unfathomable… and the overwhelming desire to call back the dead from dark waves.

  And there was no chorus. A chorus would bring you back, but this song marched ever forward, unrelenting. And when the song reached its climax, anyone listening would know it had to end that way, and that the only road to absolution was to complete the song right then and there, lest it linger and be diminished, never to rise again to such fantastic heights and such profound glory. In the final bar, the hymn released the living to life and sealed the dead in their watery tombs, forever subaqueous.

  Chapter XXV

  The sunless bay

  Every half hour or thereabouts, two guards poked their heads into the stadium. Sometimes they walked the stage or the stands, sometimes not. Always, they would casually look about with firm expressions, any which way. And always, they would fail to notice the quiet Pip standing in plain view, and they would fail to notice how the laboring Bound Ones made passing glances to a particular blank space along the story wall. Blank, that is, but not unoccupied.

  The stunted Gloom slaves hobbled in and out frequently, running errands for their masters. Some pushed sack barrows, others bore dishes and cups or carted maintenance gear for the stadium’s many facilities. A Pip’s form must have seemed child-like to their faculties, compared to the heavy-built Men of Dim Lake.

  Besides the guards and the Il’kinik, the occasional townsperson or touring group would also show up to mull about, marveling at the wall art or tossing stones out to sea. All the while, I played the inquisitive ghost, quietly acquainting myself with the layout of the stadium and the artful decor, and secretly dropping in on private conversations whenever I could.

  One area of the stands offered prime seating with private booths and small, lavish rooms – luxury meant for the highborn, no doubt. The wall scene above that section was the most dreadful of all. One had to stand back a ways to fully appreciate it. They must revel in gore, I thought.

  At first glance, the foreground was similar in style to most of the other flat story panels – an ocean scene with sailing vessels and wild water, painted in graduated hues of blue and grey. But something about it stood out: the presence of the color red, for one, streaking along the swirling contours of an all-consuming whirlpool that dominated the seascape. On the near edge of the whirlpool, the dark shade of a warship with tattered sails fought the draw to the centre. Blotches of faint yellow lantern light spilled out of the aft portholes into grey mist. Surrounding the vessel the water danced, alive with bubbling white foam and spray, and contrasting the dark blue-grey of an overcast sea that stretched out to meet a weather-bearing horizon.

  The shock of what I saw bobbing within the whirlpool’s dark waters caused me to examine the details ever so closely. I confirmed that the image of swirling horror that bled through to the eyes was not a mistake or some trick of light – that it was meant to be seen that way.

  The eyes could not resist but to follow the circular trail of panicked swimmers and severed body parts, set adrift in a messy red wash that rippled as it twisted downward. In the violent waters near the rotating rim, a fountain of pink spray shot up laced with white frothing. Blood and guts drew towards the depths of the maelstrom, red water gradually darkening to a central black hole. There were no sharks, as one might expect of such a dark scene. Instead, the White Whale swam amongst the carnage, torn flesh streaming from its teeth. In the background, grey ships with black sails kept a safe distance. The true-to-life detail extended to the innermost confines of the whirlpool, down to the minute figure of half a woman rapidly descending into the tightest swirls of perspective distance. No more than a thumbnail in size, as far as the eye could tell the workmanship was complete in every feature, even the dazed stare and misplaced grin etched onto her terrified face.

  The hush inside the stadium was broken when a fish flopped on the surface of the cove’s waters below. I turned to look. As the ripples spread out, my eyes wandered to a narrow walkway that I hadn’t seen before. It began just past the arch and curved right, hugging the shoreline out of sight.

  Another way out? I thought back to the daylight holes in the leviathan’s vault.

  With renewed hope and having had my fill of artful slaughter, I abandoned the ocean scene and descended to the stage, crossed over to the boardwalk and passed under the arch. Ambient light from the stadium revealed a small island not far off shore, little more than sheer cliffs set against a backdrop of gloomy, honeycombed rock walls, thin and frail and shadowy.

  Around the first bend and after a short walk, the path led me to a small bay, complete with a wharf and jutting piers. The yellow blaze of post lanterns and the glowing windows of small, wooden shacks lit up the shoreline. The shabby shacks seemed to have sprung up out of the rock, anywhere and everywhere, without regard for order or planning. A thin trail of smoke streamed out of the pipe chimney of one shack. Teams of men and half-giants worked on the lit up piers and wharf, tending to vessels, ropes, and cargo. Small rowing watercrafts – dories – heaved and swayed gently alongside their berths.

  Two larger vessels were also present, everything about them sleek and dark. Longboats, I would call them, but one much longer than the other, each with a sail and oars. They sat lonely and unoccupied. The three slips beside them were empty.

  I continued to slink along the bay shore, unseen and unheard, and drew near to the shorter longboat’s pier. As a ghost, I treaded softly, keeping to the edge of the walkway where the boards never creaked. Pacing alongside the longship, I saw she had a high gunwale. End-to-end she must have spanned nearly sixty feet, close to fifteen in breadth. I ran my fingers along the overlapping hull strakes. The wood was dark and dull. Scribed across her hull in elegantly scripted, dull gold letters were the words “Karna’s Whim.” The second longship was nearly of the same construction, but twice as long and almost as narrow, with the name “Black Sliver” on her bow in the same gold lettering.

  The pier offered a better view of the shoreline than the boardwalk had. From my new position, it was hard to miss the wide cave opening on the other side of the small bay and the steady stream of traffic through it. Voices carried loudly from the throat of the passage. The wayfarers were all mariner-types, carrying ropes, packs, tackle and other such gear. Echoes revealed their talk of fish and winds and supplies and shoals. One even mentioned leviathans in the water. I watched as he led a fully loaded mule down to the wharf.

  Unseen and unheard, I closed the gap to the entrance. Burning braziers stood at either side and lanterns lined the passage walls. As another group passed by, heading into the bay, I quietly stepped into the cave. I glided along one wall for several minutes, making my way in complete silence and dodging the odd passerby, until I came to a three-way split. I decided on the rightmost branch. As suspected, it wound its way back to the Nexus Chamber with the golden door. So much for that idea, I thought, no new exits here. Just as well – by my reckoning, six or seven guard patrols must have passed since Raven left, and he would be creating the diversion soon. It was time to get into position.

  Activity had picked up in the Nexus. Harrowians sauntered down the stairs from the surface, casually making small talk with one another while passing through the chamber and then through the golden doors to
the stadium. To keep out of the way, I flattened myself against a part of the wall where the shadows pooled, behind one of the naturally formed ground spikes.

  This will complicate things, I realized. I might have to make my escape against the flow of the show-goers.

  People from all walks of life had come for some special event, it seemed, all sporting their best attire. Anticipation reveled in the air. A play, I surmised, from the snippets of conversation that I overheard, something about mariners battling sea monsters.

  “…never seen a leviathan before…” said one lady in a fine dress as she passed. That comment disturbed me. The woman was small for her kind and slim, probably from the coast.

  At the next lull in traffic, I stepped briskly to the foot of the passage Raven had chosen and climbed a narrow flight of hewn stairs to the opening. Inside, I found a convenient cranny masked in shadows. I backed into it. As the highest cave, it made for an ideal vantage point overlooking the Nexus.

  Once settled, I took the opportunity to sift through my backpack. I sipped from my waterskin and had a quick bite to eat. Half a loaf of bread and heavily salted fish tightly wrapped in paper set my head straight, compliments of Fyorn.

  Without warning, the blast of a loud horn echoed out of one of the downsloping tunnels. The alarm, I thought. I kept watch for the guards and their dogs.

  At that moment, as though the horn were his cue, a diminutive doorman entered the Nexus Chamber. He was an older man with white, wispy hair sticking out sideways from beneath his cap. He scanned the room as the blast sounded again.

  He took off his hat and waved it high. “Carry on,” he called out to the passersby. “Nothing to be concerned about. Carry on to witness the Miracle of Rejuvenation! Come one, come all!” The man wore a navy blue suit of fine cloth. The cap in his hand was also blue, with a gold rim. His face was oddly long – mostly in the chin area – a dwarf of sorts. By dwarf, I do not mean that he was a Pip, a Stout, or some variety of halfling. No, he was a small man. His proportions gave him away – the larger head and stubby limbs. He might, with some effort, pass for a smaller Stout, but never a long-limbed Pip.