by Tom Lloyd
He could see little of what they were shooting at. Through the fitful illumination of the raging fires, he could make out a shifting mass but nothing more. Then pinpricks of light appeared, the white streaks of icers surging their way down and it all fell into focus.
‘Bridge Watch,’ Por yelled, ‘defend the crater!’
He pulled his own mage-gun from his shoulder and checked it was loaded before hurrying forward, not waiting to see if the others were following. A sour, sick feeling filled his stomach and he had to fight to avoid vomiting as he ran. The Knights-Charnel were swarming forward against their broken defences. If they breached the line, the city would be lost.
Por floundered through the rubble and mud until he found a long hump of earth that offered some sort of protection. There he dropped down and levelled his gun, firing almost blindly into the shadows beyond where the city wall had once been. He couldn’t tell if he hit anything but continued to fire as soldiers appeared on both sides of him. Soon the air was a brutal drumbeat of gunshots.
More soldiers – grey City Regiment and black Bridge Watch – streamed forward. There was no artillery here, not yet. Cart-mounted catapults were being sent from the palace, but right now they were on their own. Normally to attack a city was madness itself, even an idle nobleman such as he had learned as much.
But now our defences have been turned on us. Por shivered. The North Keep had been almost entirely emptied of mage-spheres so far as he remembered, so there had only been a few left. What damage would there have been if the Monarch had not ordered that? Shattered gods, this whole section of the city would be gone!
He shook his head and returned to the indistinct shapes moving towards them. His eyes had started to adjust and he could make out clumps of troops working their slow way forward. Taking a breath he closed one eye and fired again, watching the white thread dart away into the black to strike into one of the formless masses. As he reloaded he realised the horror was still sinking in on the faces of many. Soldiers in grey or black, civilians milling through the devastation too, the shock of what had happened here – of what it meant – dulling their response to the threat.
‘Firing positions!’ Por yelled at the top of his voice. ‘All of you, forward! We’re under attack!’
The horror receded in his mind, unexpectedly replaced with a more constant force in his life – the cold voice of his father. Por the elder had been a bastard, pure and simple, one who had shown little interest in even his eldest child. But one piece of advice had pierced the veil of the man’s disdain and, perhaps only for rarity’s sake, Por had always remembered it.
The lies we tell ourselves are the most powerful and it’s the powerful who should understand them best. Only a fool believes the gods placed you above other men, that breeding counts and you deserve your high station. The truth, my heir, is that most people fool themselves so they need leaders who see clearly.
Embrace the lie and it becomes the way of the world, a beacon of certainty others rely upon. Never more so than in battle is that light needed most to cut through the fear and confusion.
They want to believe, Por told himself desperately. When the world is at its worst, they need to believe the man with power and money is better than they are – simply because purpose is better than fear. Give them that purpose!
He stood, trusting the gloom and distance to protect him as faces turned his way. ‘Any man or woman with a gun, forward! Defend the city, defend Jarrazir! The Knights-Charnel have sent saboteurs to weaken us and now they attack – fight with me! Show them we have no such weakness!’
Part of him wanted to spit or choke on the words as they came out, but that part faltered when he saw the eyes turn his way. The hunched and fearful straightened, the wild-eyed stilled for long enough to hear his words.
More gunshots rang out and Por looked back over his shoulder at the advancing Knights-Charnel. He couldn’t guess how far they were but one of his men hurled a grenade out into the black. Writhing tendrils of lightning burst out somewhere before the advancing soldiers – he caught sight of some figures in the staccato flashes. In that moment he realised they were closer than he had guessed, the advance troops holding fire to let the light of the second wave draw the defenders’ fire.
‘They are upon us!’ Por yelled, drunk with terror but more than aware that his only chance of survival was to stiffen hearts here on this broken line. ‘Stand with me, people of Jarrazir – stand and fight for your city!’
He dropped to one knee as a ragged cheer broke out behind to be swiftly enveloped by the whip-crack of gunfire. White trails flashed harmlessly past him as Por fumbled for a fire-cartridge. His mage-gun training was a dull memory, but one that had been beaten into him from a young age. Eventually his fingers recognised the glyph he’d been searching for and he loaded it, aiming blindly at a point about fifty yards distant.
He fired and orange light bloomed across the landscape. Men screamed and more fires rose up. Then something exploded, a grenade-pouch maybe, and one long section of the advancing Charnelers was revealed. Clumps of soldiers in the black and white livery reeled away from the explosion as the defenders used the light to their advantage. More grenades were thrown, Por watched them blossom terrible flowers of light in the dark garden of the night.
‘Keep firing!’ he yelled as he did just that, pausing once to check around him.
There was a thin stream of soldiers heading to the defence, running without regard through the shallow crater to throw themselves against the humped edge. Volleys of icers hammered into the rough ridge of earth that had been thrown up by the explosion, but almost as many were fired in response and the more terrible ammunition the Bridge Watch carried had to be taking its toll.
Still the advance wave of Knights-Charnel had not fired, either that or they were mostly dead as burners and sparkers were fired into the path of those troops the defenders could see. A regular flowering of spark-grenades continued to burst, even a handful of white ice-bombs and orange fire-grenades too. The darkness seemed to swallow them all, but what lay hidden would be terrible death and destruction.
‘For Jarrazir!’ Por continued to yell, brandishing his mage-gun madly above his head for those who could see him and might find heart in such foolishness. This time the enemy icers flashed close by, then the night was parted by a searing burst of light as the remnants of the first wave unleashed their burners and the defenders responded. Por flinched back, falling on to his backside as great curls of flame washed over the ridge of ground he’d been perched on.
Somewhere near him a man screamed, high and agonised. As Por blinked away the glare from his eyes he heard his own cry taken up from each of the pockets of defenders. He struggled to his feet, barely seeing the hands that reached to help him, and added his own voice to the clamour.
When he did rise the world seemed in flux – shifting and moving in ways he couldn’t explain. A stretch of ground lifted ahead of him, stone rubble began to shift and knit together. Por looked around and saw brightly coloured figures emerging from the chaos of the city behind him, two, then four then six – the colours of the city’s mage colleges visible in the flickering light as Jarrazir’s most exalted minority arrived to defend their city.
His father had always said Por’s was not a voice for giving orders, more one for singing tripe to maidens. But a singer’s lungs were what he needed now and he strained them as hard as he could – howling the words up to the Skyriver above until they burned with the effort.
‘For Jarrazir!’
Chapter 22
Lynx and his companions reached the Deep Market as fast as they could manage, but as they neared the Fountain he made out faces in the lamplight and realised others were already waiting. There was a strange dome-like canopy of stone over the Fountain itself; a carved stone block with detailed decorations that opened on one side to reveal steps down. In the shadows behind were soldiers in both black and grey uniforms, just ten in all spared the horror of the gun battle g
oing on in the city.
Flanking the steps were curious metal snakes that he remembered from when Lastani had recounted her story, while looking down on it from the inside of the dome was the puzzle inscription that Lastani and her teacher had devoted their lives to. Lynx didn’t see much to get excited about there – just a few hundred glowing curves of metal set into stone, ancient, discoloured and lichen-stained.
The ground in front of the steps had a roundish discoloration to it, a skein of cracks visible on the darkened surface of the stone there – the result of whatever Atieno had thrown at the guardian, he realised. Atieno had demurred from explaining, but Lynx knew he had glass balls in pouches at his waist – presumably charged with whatever magic he wielded. Less effective than mage-cartridges, the crude weapons would still pack a punch and wouldn’t require a God Fragment to make, just a competent glass-blower.
A pile of canvas packs lay to one side, behind them a steel-bound ammunition case and long pole on which several dozen mage-guns had been strung. There were liveried servants waiting alongside the troops, but before any of the mercenaries were reunited with their weapons Toil came forward to cast her eye over those Cards following Lynx and Kas – Teshen, Safir, Layir, Estal, Deern, Brols, Shoal and Haphori.
‘And the rest?’
‘Out of their gourds still,’ Lynx replied quietly, ‘and of no bloody use to anyone. They’re following, Foren will get them here in time, but you don’t want ’em underground yet or anyone reporting back the state they’re in.’
‘Anatin was willing,’ Kas said, still looking pale after the explosion but resolute all the same. ‘Eager, you might say – he was waving a mage-pistol around with great enthusiasm, but it wasn’t the most inspiring of sights.’
‘No Reft?’
Lynx looked back and shrugged. ‘Passed out on his bed, we tried to wake him but got nothing. Deern assures us he’s not dead, just not moving any time soon.’
He gave Deern a level look, which the scrawny rat grinned at. His presence was a surprise, but anyone approaching sober was good enough right now.
‘You can try waking Reft,’ Deern replied, ‘but I wouldn’t advise it. Man’s kinda single-minded on a night of revelry. If you take away “fall over” as an option by waking him up you’ve only got “fight” or “fuck” left to pick from.’
‘Is there a problem?’ called a man in a Bridge Watch uniform nearby.
‘No,’ Toil replied, ‘here’s my scout group – the rest will be following, but best not to wait.’
‘These are all experienced relic hunters?’
‘They’ll serve well enough, Elei,’ Toil said sharply. ‘I’ll be the one out front if anything goes wrong, remember.’
As the mercenaries collected the supplies and weapons already laid out for them, Toil addressed the small scouting party.
‘Listen up. You’re all taking my orders from now on – that means you two as well, Elei and Suth,’ she said, pointing to the two Bridge Watch soldiers keeping close by. ‘Rule one is that you do what I tell you – when I tell you – or you get shot in the face. If you think I’m joking about that, ask Barra or Aben.’
As she spoke, Toil brandished a solid walking staff, using the blunt ends to add emphasis to her words. ‘Those of you who’ve not done this before, keep out of the way and don’t do anything stupid like wandering off on your own. Most city-ruins are huge, confusing holes in the ground and as far as you’re concerned this labyrinth is actually trying to kill you. Don’t prod anything that looks unusual or interesting, don’t put your fingers in anything, don’t chat away or talk at all unless you’re telling me something useful. Aben and me go first, mages and their handlers behind.’
‘Handlers?’ Atieno asked, a note of disapproval in his voice.
‘Mebbe you can handle yourself, but you’re not exactly spry,’ Toil replied, ‘and while we’re underground all mages are as precious and stupid as children so far as I’m concerned. Suth, you’ve got Lastani there to keep alive, Lynx, you’ve got Sitain—’ She held up a hand as Sitain started to protest. ‘Sitain – rule one, remember? Layir, you stick with Atieno in case he needs a hand. We’re the scouting party – we go down, make sure it’s safe and we know where we’re going, then I’ll fetch down the rest.’
With that, Toil activated her Duegar lamp, made sure her coat was clear of her holstered mage-pistol, and started down the stairs. Lynx had barely reached the steps when he saw Toil stop and raise her lamp, running it along the side of the wall before approaching a smoothed section opposite the bottom step.
Duegar glyphs glowed faintly blue in the strange lamp’s light. He couldn’t read them but all it took was a glance back from Toil and Lastani pushed her way forward. Toil pulled a glass bead from a pouch at her waist and nodded to Lastani – tossing it forward at one glyph while Lastani flicked her fingers forward at the other.
Pale wisps of cold shot forward from her fingertips and slapped into the glyph while a brief flash of orange flame crackled over the other. A strange wavering border appeared between the two for an instant until the fire magic in the bead was exhausted and a white coating of frost stole over both.
The glyphs both briefly glowed blue then went dark. Exactly nothing else happened, but Toil appeared satisfied and headed on down into the darkness beyond.
‘That’s it?’ Lynx wondered aloud.
‘Yup,’ Toil called back. ‘The guard dog’s sniffed our hand and thinks we belong – it’s just here to keep the wildlife out.’
‘Is that what we are?’
‘To the Duegar?’ She laughed. ‘Vermin probably, they were a long way from nice even by our standards.’
Lynx followed when it was his turn and saw in the elusive blue light a plain, roundish room with absolutely nothing of interest save a pillar and dark tunnel leading off.
‘Certainly living up to its wondrous reputation so far,’ Kas whispered to Lynx, ignoring the look she got from Toil as the relic hunter did an inspection of every wall with her lamp.
‘There’ll be nothing to see here,’ Lastani said, ‘the Fountain riddle says that the true labyrinth lies beyond the upper hall.’
‘If you go around trusting riddles,’ Toil replied as she searched, ‘you’ll not live long enough to hear me say I told you so.’ She paused and gave Lastani a cruel grin. ‘I can say it in a few languages and sign it in Wisp too, so I really hate missing out on the chance.’
Despite her words, Toil found nothing on her sweep and moved on to the tunnel – while Lynx experienced a flush of relief that no spectral monster had apparated to tear them apart.
They moved quickly down the tunnel, the now-familiar bluish tint of rock glowing in the Duegar lamplight overlaid by the yellow light of more mundane lamps. Just like the first time Toil had led members of the Cards underground, the tunnel became a long slowly spiralling slope. They went two abreast and moved as quickly as Toil’s caution allowed. There was nothing by way of decoration or detail, just slightly sloped steps that corkscrewed down before levelling out into a shallow straight path that ran for several hundred yards. After a long, cautious procession they arrived at an oval doorway filled by a slab of stone. There was barely enough space for them all in the space before the doorway, the tunnel widening a touch for the last five yards only.
‘Got a key?’ Deern asked helpfully as Toil inspected the door.
She ignored him and ran her fingers reverentially over the stone’s surface.
‘Here,’ she said to Lastani, pointing to a section that looked no different to the rest. ‘Just a little magic to activate the door.’
The young woman nodded and crouched down, caressing the stone herself before settling two fingers on one part. There she stayed, perfectly still for a moment, while the light faintly illuminated fingers of frost creeping out across the stone surface. A few heartbeats later and there was a grate of stone as the circle of frost slid away left. A waft of stale air washed forward over them, peppery and sour to Lynx’s no
se, and perfect blackness was revealed behind it.
Lynx closed his eyes as his heart skipped an anxious beat, reminding himself of Shadows Deep just a handful of weeks earlier. The fear he’d felt at entering and the great scale of the tunnels and chambers he’d found himself in. He’d not developed a love of the dark – what they’d encountered down there had strangled any small chance of that. All the same, he knew the Duegar city-ruins were a far cry from the mines beneath To Lort prison.
The mine had been cramped and hot, stinking and airless. There you could feel the rock all around you, taste the dust in the air and sense the countless tons ready to collapse and smother you. In Shadows Deep, the caverns had been huge – on a greater scale than the halls of the Bridge Palace – and built to withstand the centuries by stone mages of unsurpassed skill.
When he had composed himself and opened his eyes, Lynx saw Toil raise her lantern to illuminate what lay beyond. She waved Sitain forward and the night mage crouched beside Lastani to peer into the black.
‘I see a cavern, a paved floor – nothing more. Think I can just make out the far wall, it curves away, but no features.’
‘The upper hall,’ Lastani whispered excitedly. ‘Somewhere there is the path down to the labyrinth. Whispers of Insar, I’m really here! After all these years!’
‘We’re all bloody here and some of us want to live to tell the tale. Where is the path exactly?’
‘The Fountain inscription is no simple guide to follow,’ she pointed out. ‘But it does state that the path is to be found on a descent through the unseen dark.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Sitain snapped.
‘Sounds like it’s hidden,’ Toil said without the younger woman’s irritation. ‘I’d expect nothing less.’
‘Hidden, certainly,’ Lastani conceded, ‘but this is only the upper hall, remember? One must simply think like a Duegar. The deepest black held no terror for them, the unseen black equally so.’