by Tom Lloyd
‘The entrance?’ Tylom corrected. ‘Try all of the bloody entrances.’
‘My apologies, yes. All of the entrances. She must bear some blame for this situation given she’s fled, but most importantly she may know how to close them again.’
‘We’ve gone beyond that point!’ he snapped. ‘Word’s out already, in a few days half of Parthain will know of this.’
‘And half the continent by next week,’ Stilanna agreed. ‘Colonel, I want a detatchment of guards at every entrance – admit no one without my personal warrant, understand?’
‘Yes, Monarch.’
‘Good. The city’s already nervous and these deaths will only worsen that, but I know our noble youth. They’ll bribe or browbeat their way inside, seeking fortune and glory. It appears these spirits only attack once someone goes inside, but who knows how far they will roam once disturbed?’
‘How many entrances have we found?’ Tylom asked Gerail.
‘Six others thus far, Crown-Prince. Most like this, stairways opening up around blocks that have done nothing in centuries. It’s lucky more people hadn’t used them as foundation stones for their houses really.’
‘What do the glyphs say?’
Lieutenant Gerail fumbled for a piece of paper in her jacket. She wore grey like the colonel, but better tailored and subtly picked out in red and white. A noble daughter clearly trying to make a name for herself in the city guard. Such things hadn’t been so fashionable when Stilanna had been her age, but apparently the young men of the city all went mad over a girl in uniform now.
‘They incorporate numbers and a complex form I’m told could be a name. We’ve found entrances numbered one, two, four and six; if they follow the pattern suggested, three will be in the north of the city and five near the university so I’m arranging a search of streets and cellars.’
‘And the others?’
‘No numbers, but other engravings from what can be seen. The Fountain of course, what appeared to be a doorway that’s opened behind a stone wall in the North Keep—’
‘The North Keep?’ Tylom and Stilanna gasped together. That wasn’t just news of ghostly monsters walking the city streets, but a threat to the whole of Jarrazir. The bombardment spheres stored there were mage-built weapons of such power, each could obliterate a half-dozen streets.
‘Yes, Monarch – we’ve just been informed. I’m sorry, I assumed word had reached you by now.’
‘Shattered gods,’ Stilanna said in a stunned voice. ‘This changes everything.’ She shook her head then glared around at the others. ‘Who knows? Is it common knowledge?’
‘I, ah, I don’t know, Monarch,’ Colonel Pilter broke in. ‘I received word from the armoury commander not an hour ago. There is no damage to the keep, but I cannot say how many know of it.’
‘Well damn well find out, man!’ the Crown-Prince snapped. ‘Go now – secure it and contain the news for as long as possible!’
‘Wait,’ Stilanna said. ‘First, I want a search party sent down. We cannot continue in ignorance if our defences might be vulnerable.’
‘I will order an expedition party,’ Gerail replied hesitantly.
‘Do so,’ Stilanna snapped. ‘Armed troops – burn out these spirits if you have to, but we must know what lies down there. All it would take was one fanatic from the Militant Orders to destroy half the city if they got into the armoury!’
‘Yes, Monarch, I will lead the party myself.’
‘Why so many entrances?’ wondered Tylom. ‘If it really is a damn labyrinth protecting a tomb, why not just one?’
‘If I may, Crown-Prince?’ Lieutenant Gerail said. ‘According to the writings in Ishienne Matarin’s house, it was not always believed to be a tomb. She was the authority on the labyrinth I’m told, obsessed with the Fountain but a scholar held in the highest esteem rather than some crazed eccentric. She seemed to think it may have had a different function.’
‘A vault for God Fragments like in the stories we used to tell as children?’
‘There is mention of a cache or a treasure within, but Matarin seemed to have her doubts as to whether its intended purpose was to house God Fragments. She thinks mistranslation or fabrication by a writer during the Revival age was just as likely, believing the labyrinth older than the Fall, though some great cache is the most common belief. She knew there were multiple entrances and suggested it might have served as some sort of contest ground or a temple complex.’
‘Marvellous,’ Tylom growled. ‘We’re risking siege by the Militant Orders over something a bloody scholar might have made up hundreds of years ago?’
‘Right now, that’s not my concern,’ Stilanna said. ‘Colonel Pilter, our priority is the security of the deep armouries. Seal the entrance that’s opened up in the North Keep. Move most of the bomb-spheres to the other armouries, just make damn sure those are fully checked over first. Gerail, I want more information about what’s down each stairway, markings, anything. We need to know what tunnels there are and where they go – before we even get to the question of what is really at the heart of the labyrinth. We’ve always known that the Militant Orders will have a better idea than us, but until now that’s been a mere academic detail. Now it could be the city’s downfall. Take a squad in – shoot anything that moves and have scribes on hand to detail it all. “It’s dark and there are ghosts that can kill” isn’t enough information, understand? I also want every text and translation that mentions the labyrinth, every scholar in the city scouring their libraries. Find the pupil too; I want her standing before me when I start handing out blame for this mess.’
‘And once we send a full expedition all the way inside, she’ll be part of it,’ Tylom added. ‘We can’t trust bloody relic hunters to read and write their own names, let alone the ancient Duegar script. Whatever blame there is to apportion, her expertise may take precedence.’
‘Oh Blessed Catrac and all his workings!’ Stilanna sighed. ‘You’re right – relic hunters. We’ll have an army of those unwashed madmen flocking to the city. Pilter, that’ll be another problem for you. Anyone who wants to get in needs to go to you first; weed out the obviously stupid or insane and let us know if there’s anyone likely to be useful. I don’t like it but we may need their expertise.’
‘Keeping fools away is paramount,’ Tylom agreed. ‘We need to know what’s down there, but the rest of the city must be kept away.’
Stilanna looked over at the body once more, taking note of the distance between it and the stairway that led down into the labyrinth. Not far, but far enough to be a concern.
‘If these ghosts aren’t confined to the labyrinth itself, how long before entire neighbouring households are killed too? How long before the city is in chaos? The relic hunters and Orders are welcome to compete among themselves so long as they don’t go down without my authorisation. Pray gods we find answers soon.’
The afternoon found Lastani in the Deep Market against her better instincts and watching the Fountain with a growing sense of trepidation. The soldiers of the Monarch had set up a cordon that took up a third of the market, but despite the current of fear in Jarrazir some traders were still doing wary business beyond that. The Fountain – or stairway, or entrance or whatever it was now – stood on the low ground. Two walkways overlooked it and a curved shelf of stone, normally covered with carts selling glassware and cheap jewellery, ran down the eastern side. That was where Lastani stood, wrapped tight against the morning chill in a dark woollen cloak.
She hadn’t wanted to come, for all that she refused to flee the city. In a city of ancient names and dynastic wealth, she wasn’t so foolish as to think her account of events would hold any more water than the Monarch or her ministers wanted it to. She had been present and was of no consequence to the city. If a quick execution calmed the simmering panic that might be exactly what she got. But at the same time she felt a duty to be present – a twofold obligation. This was Mistress Ishienne’s legacy and this was Lastani’s city. She would not
flee while the former was ruined, nor did she want to abandon her home when her knowledge might help.
And that brought her back to the Fountain this cold afternoon, despite Atieno hearing a survivor was being sought.
Part of her just wanted to run home to her family, to scream and wail at the deaths of her friends from behind familiar walls. Nothing in their research had suggested other entrances would open by what they’d done, nor that others would die as a result. Still – people she’d loved had died, and strangers too. As she lay in bed at night, praying for a dreamless sleep, she felt the weight of those deaths while the nightmares stalked her.
Flashes of movement, shining inhuman shapes and blood in the light of the Skyriver. None of the writings had warned them of this, but perhaps they should have known. The guilt gnawed at her in her fitful sleep, their world of books and transcribed tablets now forever marked by the blood of innocent lives.
A knot of brown-jackets loitered uneasily near the Fountain. With collars turned up high, cudgels hanging from their belts and wearing battered brown hats, they looked a criminal lot. Half were nervously smoking as they watched the briskly efficient soldiers arrive with a laden mule.
Oh gods, they’re really going inside.
Lastani felt a shudder run through her as the soldiers began to unload pitch-soaked torches and oil lamps that could be hung off long poles. They carried guns too of course, no matter that it wouldn’t help and might only serve to damage whatever vital writings were inside.
Her instincts screaming for her to run, Lastani took a deep breath and pushed her way through the small crowd, back down to the floor of the Deep Market. As she approached the Fountain a soldier spotted her and moved to block her path, mage-gun not quite dropping to point at her but being shifted in readiness nonetheless.
‘That’s as far as you can go, miss,’ the man declared, walking right up to Lastani and forcing her to stop. He was a thin young man with a wispy beard and a long grey coat over his uniform, a cartridge box and bayonet visible on his belt.
‘You’re not going inside, are you?’ she found herself asking in a nervous squeak.
He cocked his head. ‘Who’s asking?’
The words caught in her throat for a moment. ‘I – no one. I mean, I just saw what happened. At one of the other entrances. I work a stall in the market normally.’
‘Your name?’
‘It doesn’t matter. I’m sorry, I’ll go.’
‘Just wait right there,’ he said sharply. ‘You saw what happened where?’
‘At one of the other entrances.’
‘Which one?’
Lastani blinked at him, too flustered to think for a moment. ‘Why does it matter?’
His response was to slide his mage-gun off his shoulder and hold it levelled. ‘We’ve got orders to be looking for a woman, a pupil of the one who did this. Tell me your name now.’
‘My name? You don’t … Catrac’s mercy! I’ve done nothing wrong! My name is Seniel. I told you, I work a stall here, or I did until this happened. I work for a textiles merchant, we’d normally set up over there.’
She pointed and the young soldier turned in that direction on instinct. It only took him a moment to realise his mistake but by then Lastani’s magic filled the air. The sharp snap of cold flew from her fingers, cast widely and without focus so that the soldier vanished from sight behind a cloud of white mist.
Lastani turned without a second thought, knowing the mist would soon disperse. Her heart pounded as she sprinted away through the ragged crowd and gave a sudden, violent jolt as a great crash rang out behind her. The gunshot echoed around off the stone formations of the Deep Market, soon joined by screams. She didn’t see the icer’s trail flash past, but she heard the panic erupt like a volcano.
Soon she was being barged as people ran blindly then more soldiers began to fire in their alarm – the flash of icers darting left and right. Screams and shouts rang out from across the Deep Market as Lastani fought to keep upright. Someone fell nearby, blood spraying from an icer wound, but she didn’t stop – couldn’t stop running now the tide of Jarrazir’s fear had swept her up. The screams echoed in her head, her own mingling with those of people around her, and still she ran, tears of shame and terror streaming down her cheeks.
Chapter 6
Lieutenant Gerail took a long breath and looked over her small command. The day’s dull grey light seemed to barely reach down to the Deep Market floor, while the chill breeze had made the place its own. Distantly she heard the sounds of life continue in the furthest parts of the market. The stampede of earlier had left three dead, all because of some jumpy idiot. This whole side of the market was now deserted but for the debris left behind by those fleeing and spots of blood. A jangle of fears rang in her head and in that quiet corner of the city she could find no peace. Those deaths were on her head, the failure hers as senior officer, and they added to the weight on her shoulders.
The remaining stallholders on the far fringes were barely audible, the distilled panic of that stampede still flowing through their veins. The usual babble of background sound was absent, a pall hanging over the entire market and the city beyond it. The longer she stood there, the more Gerail experienced a sense of the world contracting around her, the air of uncertainty and fear in the city condensing to this bare patch of stone. Time seemed to have slowed, her soul feeling untethered in the breeze as even the gods themselves held their breath and waited for what was to come.
Twelve soldiers from the City Regiment stood ready in front of her, faces almost as grey as their uniforms and clutching their mage-guns tightly. Six brown-jackets from the civilian watch loitered beside them, carrying cudgels and oil lamps hung from the end of short poles. She shook her head to try and dispel her mood. A pair of young scribes stood with them, hugging sheaves of paper to their chests.
Nineteen armed men and women, nineteen! All to walk down one bloody staircase and still I’m frightened.
The sweat was icy cold against her skin as she glanced back at the bare stone steps just a few yards away. There was no sign of life down there, no movement or anything else, but she’d grown up in Jarrazir, as had the rest of them. The labyrinth was the dark heart of the city and the tales told in it – stories handed down generation to generation. The children whispered them to each other at night, the elders folded warnings and morals into their more austere retellings.
Gerail’s fingers went to the charm around her neck, tucked out of sight behind the high, rounded collar of her uniform. A simple sun device, the emblem of Veraimin.
Embrace me with your light, Lord, she said in the privacy of her mind, knowing most of her soldiers would be doing the same. Walk with me in the deepest heathen dark. Cast your radiance over all those around me and scourge these profane creatures from the land.
Had they been going into battle a priest would be there, speaking similar words over them while they knelt, but this was just a staircase. Just a few plain steps down into some sort of room, most likely. She would have looked foolish if she’d requested a priest, though, despite her desperate desire for a blessing, and no doubt word of it would get back to her family soon enough.
‘Move out. Veraimin be with us.’
It sounded like a stranger speaking in her own voice. Gerail waved forward the oldest of the brown-jackets, a tall white-haired man who looked like the bravest of the lot. He nodded and twisted a knob on the side of his lamp to increase the flame before pulling his cudgel from his belt. Gerail unbuttoned her coat and slipped her mage-pistol from its holster, checking first it was loaded and then that she had spare cartridges on her belt.
The two of them led the way to the stair and paused at the top. Only a few yards away, the darkness down there was profound. Gerail forced herself not to look at her company and took the first step down.
There was a collective exhalation as nothing happened. The lieutenant herself gasped with relief, only then realising fear had looped tight bands around her che
st. She raised her gun and continued down, waving forward the brown-jacket. He kept a step behind her, lamp lowered like a lance to light the way. The stairs were plain and smoothly cut, awkwardly shallow by human standards, but she went slowly and placed each foot with great care as she watched the darkness reluctantly recede.
It didn’t take Gerail long to cover the two dozen steps visible from the ground above. The walls were plain too, cut stone quickly giving way to bare, mage-worked rock. There were faint veins and colours in the rock, barely visible in the weak light. A few grooves had been cut into it – one long undulating line with shorter ones branching off from it at random. She could make no sense of it so she kept her eyes ahead – copying it down would be the job of the scribes.
Another dozen steps and the floor levelled out into a small, almost disappointingly bare chamber even if the lack of ghosts was a profound relief. A wall stood just a few yards in front of the foot of the stair, curving away in both directions as though it was a broad pillar. Looking right, Gerail could see the roof sloped down to meet the ground not far behind, while off to the left the chamber opened up. It extended about twenty yards and contained a six-sided pillar standing slightly off-centre and a wide tunnel leading away at the rear.
‘Spread out,’ Gerail whispered, her voice carrying easily through the empty stone room.
Her troops filed down, keeping to their assigned trios – two soldiers and a brown-jacket moving in tight knots until they were spread around the room and the walls were fully illuminated.
There was nothing there. The ceiling rose to a slight peak where the pillar stood, but beyond that there was nothing more than a musty, faintly unpleasant smell that Gerail couldn’t help but imagine as that of a tomb.
‘What now?’ one of the scribes said, scuttling up to Gerail’s side as the other finished sketching the groove down the side of the steps.
‘Look around,’ Gerail snapped, her anger only amplified by the apparent foolishness of the statement.