A Gathering of Fools

by James Evans

  The stairs led them down, curving around to the right before depositing them in another huge hall. This one was smaller than those on the floors above and the ceiling was lower but it was still a vast space. They made their way between the columns following Ediaf’s whispered directions. The tapping noises were growing ever louder and now, amongst the near continuous taps, they could hear other sounds, human sounds.

  Thaurid walked slowly carrying one of the lamps, shaking his head. Behind him Theap rolled her shoulders and loosened her sword again, flexing her fingers then shaking her hands. Farwen looked at her and smiled reassuringly but Theap didn’t smile back and wasn’t reassured. Farwen went back to watching Ediaf, holding her lamp high enough for him to read the map.

  At the far side of the hall they came to a narrow corridor, the smallest they’d seen since descending from the entrance level. They stopped as Ediaf grunted in confusion.

  “This isn’t right,” he whispered, “the map shows a much larger hallway with doors and vaults leading off it both to the left and to the right.” He turned back and looked around the room, signalling Farwen to raise her lamp so he could look into the corners of the room.

  “I don’t understand,” he said, looking at Gwilath and talking quietly, “the map led us here but this bit isn’t right.”

  “Let me see that,” said Gwilath, grabbing the map and holding it one handed with the lamp held in the other. He peered at it intently for several seconds then handed it back to Ediaf.

  “The map’s wrong. We’re in the right place, we followed the stairways as shown, but this level doesn’t match the map.”

  “Great,” said Thaurid, “so what do we do now?”

  “We go on. Maybe this was a plan but they made changes on this level. Yes, that must be it; this isn’t a map, it’s a design and they changed the layout after this version was made. Come on, let’s see what’s down this corridor.”

  He led them forward, into the narrow corridor. They walked only a little further, thirty feet, maybe, before the corridor opened suddenly into a natural cave, a long open space almost as big as the rooms they had travelled through to get here. They paused again but the map was now useless and Ediaf reluctantly stowed it in its carry case.

  They opted to follow the right-hand wall of the cave which led them another seventy feet or so before narrowing to a tunnel. Here there were signs of mine works; pick marks, dust and spoil, a discarded prop, and the noise was growing ever louder. As they entered the tunnel Thaurid suddenly grabbed Gwilath.

  “Stop!” he hissed, pointing down the tunnel that lay to their right, “there’s light. Douse the lamps or we’ll be seen by whoever’s down here.”

  They stopped and extinguished all three lamps. The cavern and tunnels were suddenly very dark indeed but Thaurid was right; there was a faint light from the tunnel to their right and the noises were louder from that direction. They crept forward, feeling their way in the gloom, walking in single file along the right-hand wall until they suddenly emerged into a truly vast cave, a single cavernous space filled with noise and pinpoints of light. Lamps of some sort burned across the enormous space, hundreds of them, thousands maybe, all casting their light on a scene of awful activity.

  The crew stood for a few seconds, transfixed by the sight before them, until Theap came to her senses and pulled Farwen down to a crouch.

  “Get down,” she hissed, and the others dropped as well, crouching behind a low drystone wall that separated their ledge from the rest of the cavern. They peered over the wall and looked down into a colossal pit lined with ledges and ladders, dotted with balconies and platforms. Ropes dangled from the roof high above them and disappeared down into the depths, some carrying baskets or bundles of tools, others hauling buckets of ore or rock. Everywhere they looked there was activity as people swarmed along ledges and up ladders, hacking at the walls, shoring up the roofs of tunnels and loading buckets. And amongst these huddling masses there were other, larger, figures wielding clubs and whips, striking indiscriminately at the miners, screaming incoherently at them and kicking anyone who fell within range.

  “Slaves,” whispered Gwilath, horrified, “thousands of them, mining for god knows what.”

  “The slavers,” hissed Thaurid, “look at the slavers. They’re not human!”

  They crouched for a few more seconds staring at the terrible scenes in front of them.

  “Is this the doom of Lankdon Gate?” asked Ediaf, “Does this explain what happened to the city and the surrounding areas? Why the towns are abandoned, why there no farms or villages?”

  Gwilath shook his head.

  “I don’t know, but there’s no treasure here. We need to leave before we’re sucked into this horror.” He started edging back the way they had come but as he moved a slave, a woman, stepped out of a tunnel onto the ledge only a few feet in front of Theap. They stared at each other, shocked, for a few seconds, and all was still for a moment. The slave, in her mid-twenties maybe, although it was difficult to tell amongst the gloom and the dirt, was naked except for the collar around her neck and rags around her torso. She stood there, mouth open, until another slave, a man of about the same age, stepped out behind her. They were linked together by a chain that connected their collars.

  The woman finally shook herself to her sense.

  “Run,” she hissed desperately, eyes wide and terrified, her hands flapping at Theap, “run, get out, get away.”

  There was movement behind her as more slaves emerged from the tunnel and then a slaver followed, a tall dark figure with a long club in one hand. He struck the woman on the back of her thighs and screamed at her to move.

  As the slave fell forward Theap stuck, slashing her sword across the face of the slaver. It fell back, screaming, and dropped the club as Theap struck again, killing him.

  The slaves looked on in horror, then the woman said, more loudly this time, “Run! Run!”

  Two more slavers stepped onto the ledge and the woman screamed, “Run!” as loudly as she could, then a club caught her around the head and she collapsed to the floor, her chain pulling down the man behind her as she fell.

  Theap yelled and struck at the nearest slaver but without the advantage of surprise she was outmatched and the creature just batted away her sword with its club then punched her in the face, knocking her over. It sprang forward and raised the club, intent on finishing the job, but Gwilath shoulder-barged the creature, pushing it to the edge of the ledge. For a moment it stood, arms wheeling, and then Gwilath slashed it across the chest with his sword and the slaver slid backwards, screaming as it fell until it smacked into something solid a few levels down.

  Gwilath backed away from the remaining slaver as it stepped warily forward, club raised. It was big, well over six feet tall, and heavily muscled with long, dangerous arms. Theap had scrabbled back to her feet and she suddenly rushed past Gwilath to stab at the slaver from its side. Her thrust skittered along the creature’s ribs, deflected either by armour or skin, she couldn’t tell. It let loose a high-pitched wail and struck back, catching Theap’s shoulder with a wild swing of its club.

  Theap was knocked sideways, her left arm hanging useless at her side as she stumbled around, trying to get away from the slaver. Gwilath covered her retreat, slashing his sword toward the slaver while Thaurid and Farwen pulled Theap back down the tunnel. Gwilath backed after them, sword up, eyes on the slaver, looking for an opportunity, but he was no fighter and there was really only one way this could go. Gwilath kept shuffling backward as his crew made their escape but then he caught his heel on a rock in the floor and he fell backward. The slaver sprang forward, triumph showing on its face, but then it was suddenly snapped backwards.

  It fell back and Gwilath watched, terrified but relieved, as the slave woman yanked down on the chain that she had thrown around the creature’s neck, dragging it to the ground. It was a brave effort but futile. The slaver got its fingers under the chain and started to pull it away from its neck. The woman
screamed but the other slaves didn’t move. Inexorably, to Gwilath’s horror, the slaver pulled itself free of the chain then punched the woman full in the face. She fell backward and the slaver kicked her where she lay, then kept kicking.

  Nobody moved until Gwilath suddenly came to his senses and leapt back across the tunnel, swinging the sword wildly and opening a long gash across the creature’s back.

  It screamed and swung back to face him, bringing the club round with frightening speed. Then Thaurid appeared and a sudden gout of flame from a fire charm caught the slaver full in the face, melting skin and eyeballs and setting light to hair. The slaver screamed in agony and thrashed around, falling to the floor, its face a bloody ruin.

  The flame winked out and Thaurid grabbed Gwilath’s arm.

  “Come on!” he shouted, dragging him backwards.

  “What about them?”

  “There’s nothing we can do, they’re chained together and there are too many slavers. Come on!”

  Gwilath looked at the woman who had saved his life as she lay still on the floor.

  “Thank you,” he whispered, “and I’m sorry.”

  Then he turned and followed Thaurid down the tunnel, moving as fast as they could in the gloom until they caught up with Ediaf, Theap and Farwen just inside the next cavern.

  “Keep going,” said Thaurid, taking charge from the stunned Gwilath, “and get a lamp lit so we can see where we’re going.”

  Ediaf fumbled with his lamp until he had enough of a glow to light the way and then they set off again, moving as fast as they could. At the end of the cavern they came to the final stretch of corridor and with some relief they stumbled back onto the flat, level floor of the hall.

  Farwen was crying, tears streaming down her face and it didn’t look like Ediaf was holding up much better. Gwilath, though, had shaken himself from his shock and he took out his own lamp, lighting it as they cross the hall.

  “Come on,” he urged, “they’ll be looking for us and we need to get out of here.”

  They rushed across the hall and up the first set of stairs then across the next chamber and up the second set of stairs. Gwilath, desperate to get out of the underground city, tore across the chamber and stopped at the bottom of the final set of stairs. He waved Theap, Farwen and Thaurid past him in a blur, their legs pumping as they climbed the steps. Ediaf was slower, struggling with the steps, and it was quite a few seconds before the light from his lamp bobbed up the stairs and he finally appeared in the hallway. The effort was taking its toll. Ediaf stopped at the top of the stairs, leaning forward with one hand on his knee as he sucked in great lungfuls of air.

  “Move!” screamed Gwilath, taking a step back into the hall, as light flickered on the stairway behind Ediaf, a light that could only mean pursuit. Ediaf looked up and then back over his shoulder, seeming suddenly to realise the danger. He forced himself into action and started to stagger across the hall. Even as he moved, a tall figure appeared behind him, then another, then two more. The first figure, long club in his right hand dashed forward and caught Ediaf before he was halfway across the hall, knocking him to the ground.

  Ediaf cried out as he fell, dropping the charmed lamp. Ediaf tried to stand but the slaver swung his club again, a hard blow that broke bone with a sharp crack. Ediaf collapsed. His foot twitched once and then he was still.

  “No!” shouted Gwilath, taking another step toward the hall. The slaver looked up and saw Gwilath standing in a small pool of light from his lamp. It raised the club again and stepped past Ediaf’s corpse as more figures appeared on the stairway. Then it sprang forward and charged at Gwilath.

  Ediaf’s lamp was fading quickly, it’s circle of light shrinking until it was no more than a dim glow. Then it winked out and Gwilath turned, running up the stairs with the sounds of pursuit close behind him.

  At the top of the stairway he sprinted along the corridor, skidding to turn into the hallway that would lead back to the surface. Thaurid was waiting there for him, flame charm held high.

  “Where’s Ediaf?”

  “He’s dead! Move,” said Gwilath, pushing Thaurid ahead of him, “move, they’re right behind me.”

  Thaurid stumbled back along the corridor, then turned and followed Gwilath, who was sprinting for all he was worth toward the end of the room and the narrow guardroom. There was a yell from behind them and suddenly slavers were crowding into the hallway, fanning out as they raced across the floor. Gwilath reached the narrow bridge and didn’t slow, crossing it in a few seconds and hurling himself under the half-raised portcullis. Thaurid was just behind him and together they crowded into the narrow corridor, where Theap was waiting for them. She knocked out the improvised wedge with the pommel of her sword then ran, following Farwen's lamp as it disappeared down the passage.

  The portcullis slid a few inches then stopped, jammed on some piece of ancient crud in the slots.

  “Fuck,” shouted Gwilath, jumping back to put his weight on the portcullis. Thaurid joined him and for an agonising few seconds nothing happened. Then, as figures appeared in the gloom on the far side of the bridge and streamed forward waving cudgels and long clubs, the portcullis slipped, slamming to the floor. Gwilath scrabbled on the floor for the wedge and then hammered it back into the slot while Thaurid played fire from his charm back into the chamber.

  Gwilath beat at the wedges, binding them as hard as he could, then he shouted at Thaurid and they sprinted along the corridor, back to the outside. Seconds later they burst out, staggering into the late afternoon sunlight.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  AROUND NOON THE next day Paltiel found herself in the hallway of Lord Mantior’s city mansion awaiting an audience with the Duke’s personal secretary. Commander Astiland was there as well but this gave Paltiel little comfort; her briefing of Astiland on the topic of ‘Lord Bay’ that morning had been, for want of a better phrase, poorly received, and so here she was to explain herself in person to the man who paid their wages.

  She fidgeted awkwardly with the cuffs of her sleeve, picking at a loose thread before jerking her hands apart and thrusting them down by her side. She stared at the tapestries, trying to interest herself in the scenes of hunt and battle arrayed before her, but art wasn’t something she appreciated and she quickly found she was picking at the thread again. She ground her teeth in frustration and stuffed her hands in her pockets, just as the study door opened and a footman appeared to usher them in.

  Lord Mantior was seated behind an enormous leather-covered desk, sipping tea from an elegant porcelain cup. He waved away their salutes and didn’t invite them to sit, leaving them to stand before his desk like over-large carpet ornaments.

  “My lord,” began Astiland, “thank you for seeing us.” He stopped, unsure of how to continue.

  “I hope you’re going to enlighten me, Commander, about events at the Snarling Goat? I would hate to think there were other matters so serious you had to attend me in person again so soon.”

  Astiland coughed.

  “Yes, my lord. We suspect an interloper, an imperial agent, posing as a nobleman, sent to destabilise the city, possibly as a precursor to invasion.”

  Mantior raised his eyebrows.

  “Invasion?” he said, not bothering to disguise his scepticism.

  “It seems the only reasonable explanation, my lord. An imperial agent, going by the name of ‘Lord Bay’, attempting to sew discord amongst us in preparation for an attack. A tall man with long hair, a short-cropped beard. Carries a short staff.”

  “And he sews discord by killing criminals?”

  Astiland coughed again and nodded to Paltiel.

  “We, er, we think he may have other plans as yet undiscovered,” she said.

  Mantior stared at them, nonplussed, then turned his attention to a report on his desk.

  “Astonishing. Well. Is there anything else?”

  There was a pause. Mantior looked up, frowning.

  “Well?”

  “Ah, er,�
� began Astiland, glancing at Paltiel for help and finding none, “there seems to have been an incident last night at the Lighthouse.”

  “An incident,” said Mantior flatly, looking from Astiland’s worried and sweating face to Paltiel, who was staring straight ahead as if she had other places she would far rather be, “and what sort of incident might it have been?” he continued in a tone he might normally have reserved for a disobedient child.

  “Our source says that Artas is dead and replaced by Gauward,” he said hurriedly, the words spilling quickly once he began to speak, “and they blame a tall Imperial nobleman with long hair.”

  Mantior narrowed his eyes. Was this a consolidation of the North Enders and the Flank Siders gangs? He had long been worried by the prospect but the risk had always seemed small, given their differences. If this Imperial agent had achieved it then maybe the situation was deteriorating.

  “Have you apprehended this agent?”

  “No, my lord, but we have men watching him so that we might learn which of our citizens he is working with. We plan to seize him before his plans come to pass but after we have identified his conspirators.”

  Mantior shook his head in disbelief.

  “Well, Commander, I really don’t know what to say.” He paused for a few moments as sweat dripped from Astiland’s face. “Was there anything else?” he asked eventually.

  “No, my lord, that was all.”

  “The Duke will not want enemy agents operating freely within the city,” said Mantior, “so keep a close eye on him, Astiland, and bring him to me in chains as soon as you have the details of this conspiracy.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “And keep me apprised of the situation; I want a report every other day. You may go.”

  Commander Astiland nodded, saluted once more, then led Paltiel from the room. When they had gone Mantior said, “Did you believe any of that rubbish?”