by Alec Hutson
“You know, I wouldn’t recommend drinking so much so soon.”
The lamias regards the doctor over the lip of her cup with amethyst eyes. “This is what we do on Vel. Nothing numbs pain like the blood of a bonetree. And it helps speed the healing – I will be mended in a few weeks if I drink enough.”
The doctor sighs and turns to Xela, recessed in the corner of the room. Even without using her strange abilities she seems to be merging with the shadows. “The stitches are holding?”
Xela glances at where her arm has been sewn up and nods. I sense that she’s itching to be away from here.
“And you?” the gaunt doctor says, finally turning to me. “You seem to have escaped from this mysterious ordeal unscathed.”
My fingers brush the pommel of the sword at my side, remembering the flood of energy that had banished the aches from my body. “Doctor, in the last few days I’ve been disemboweled by a demon, stabbed by the stinger of a giant insect, crushed in the arms of a lizard man and smashed by a living statue. And yet I feel fine.”
“That’s good,” the doctor says, putting his arm on my shoulder as he moves towards the door. I don’t think he believes what I just said. “Send for me the next time you need healing, won’t you?”
“We will, doctor,” Bell says, dropping several coins into the doctor’s hand. Then she closes the door behind him and turns back to face the rest of us.
“It seems you all had an eventful evening.”
Xela chuckles and pushes away from the wall, shaking her head. “The Contessa is not going to be pleased. We learned nothing about what the Marquis is planning and made quite a mess of the divine district. If any of those witnesses tell tales of a lamias fighting the temple guardians the trail might just lead back to here.”
Deliah shrugs and takes another sip. “And who would follow that trail? The Red Trillium Trust? They do not frighten me.”
“Yes, well, they should,” Xela says, going over to the room’s small window and unlatching it. “I need to tell the Contessa what happened tonight. I will come find you when she wills it.” She leaps up onto the window’s ledge, graceful as a cat, then pauses and turns to look at me. “Thank you,” she says, staring into my eyes as she briefly crosses her arms across her chest. “I have a debt to you.”
“There’s nothing –” I begin, but she’s already gone, vanishing into the darkness. The casualness of her exit is impressive considering that our room is on the fourth floor of the tavern.
“I don’t understand,” Deliah says. “Why didn’t she just go out the door?”
“I don’t think she likes being seen,” I answer, crossing the room to close the window’s slatted shutters. As I expected, there’s no sign of the shadowdancer.
“Well,” Bell says, clapping her hands, “your night may have been disastrous, but mine was a bit more rewarding.”
“You found something at the knowledge-saint’s sanctum?” I ask.
“I did. In truth, I discovered where the information we need might be. I had a lengthy discussion with the prime bibliognost about glitter and the Cleansing Flame, and he happened to know about a book that deals exactly with that topic – specifically, what would likely happen if the glitter of the black sand pyromancers is added to the flame.”
“And what’s that?”
Bell shrugs. “He doesn’t know – he hasn’t read it. But he recommended we try and get our hands on the book.”
“It’s in print? We could find it in a store?” I ask hopefully, and Bell rolls her eyes.
“Does it sound like a book that would sell a lot of copies? No, the bibliognost said it was the published research of a now-dead scholar at the Seminarium. Limited edition print run, only a handful of copies in existence.”
“And I’d guess the Marquis has one of them.”
Bell nods in appreciation of my perceptiveness. “Indeed. He acquired it from Lahgokep’s sanctum for an impressive donation a few years back. Most of the other copies have vanished over the decades, but the bibliognost did know that one had found its way into the private collection of a merchant prince.”
“Then we know what we have to do,” I say, cracking my knuckles.
“It . . . won’t be that easy,” Bell says. “That merchant prince died a few months back, and his estate was visited by a servant of the poelthari.”
Deliah, who has been diligently numbing her pain, nearly chokes on her drink. Her face is a deep pink.
“The poelthari?” I ask, feeling the chill that has settled over the room.
“The poelthari,” Bell repeats grimly as Deliah puts down her cup, concern in her face.
“What is it? Who is it?”
“Probably more of a ‘what’, but I couldn’t say for certain.” Bell bites down on her lower lip, as if trying to decide where to start. “It appeared a few centuries ago – or, at least, that’s when the rest of the city became aware of its presence. Maybe it had been here the whole time. Ysala, you see, is like most cities, built over the bones of other peoples. There’s a large swath of the city that we call the Necropolis – it’s where the dead are interred according to whatever faith or tradition they followed in life. There’s stone ziggurats for the devoted of Shen, communal grave-pits for the ko-kalak, different kinds of tombs for all the various human beliefs. Well, the area that became the Necropolis was chosen because that’s where an earlier people had dug the barrows for their dead. I’ve seen them – they look like hills rising up among the stone effigies of the Ysalans. You wouldn’t even know there was anything inside them. But there is.”
“Dead people?” I guess.
Bell gives me a look. “Maybe once. But now the poelthari lairs inside.”
“What is it?” I ask in exasperation, my frustration starting to bubble over.
“A collector of books,” Bell replies. “Inside the barrows it has dug a vast labyrinth and filled the tunnels with a hoard of codexes and grimoires and histories, the largest in Ysala.”
“Where does it get the books?”
“From the dead. When someone who owns books in the city dies there’s a chance that the poelthari’s servants will visit their home. I’ve seen this, actually – I was at the wake of a scholar who had died, a colleague of my papa, and when we were in his parlor reminiscing about his life there came this hollow knock that reverberated throughout the house. Some of the other guests had been witness to this before, but for me it was terrifying. We opened the door to his manse and there was this . . . thing . . . there – it looked like a ragged, shrouded figure floating over the ground. It said nothing, just drifted inside, then went into the library and removed three or four books from the scholar’s collection. It knew exactly what it was there for. Afterwards it left, without acknowledging us at all.”
Silence falls in the room as we consider this tale. “Perhaps we can steal the copy owned by the Marquis?” I offer.
“If we could do that, we might as well liberate my papa while we’re at it. No, the manse of the Red Trillium Trust would be nearly impossible to sneak inside. The poelthari’s barrow, on the other hand, shouldn’t be very hard . . . the problem will be surviving once we’re within.”
“Then this creature doesn’t take kindly to intruders?”
Bell shakes her head at my question. “To be truthful, it seems surprisingly accepting of those who enter looking for lost and rare tomes. I’ve even heard of it helping those who come seeking answers.”
“Then . . .”
“It’s not the poelthari that is dangerous,” she says. “Its barrow has become infested with ghasts.” She sees my mouth opening and quickly continues. “They’re dangerous pests. They lair in lichyards and cemeteries, feeding off the recently deceased. From what I understand a very large tribe has moved into the barrow, and from there raids the rest of the Necropolis. But I’ve still heard of heavily armed warriors who desperately need a particular book descending into the barrow – some return with what they were looking for, some do not.”
“And you want to go in?”
“If you’re feeling up to it.”
“When?”
“The plans of the Marquis are clearly already in motion. There’s really no time to waste . . .”
Sighing, I reach for the coat of ring mail I’d draped over the back of a chair. As the weight settles on my shoulders, Deliah clears her throat.
“Two things,” says the lamias. “First, don’t expect me to save you again if you get into trouble. I don’t plan on moving from this bed for a while.”
“Understood,” I say, tightening my sword belt. “And the second?”
Deliah takes another quick sip of sap. “Tell the barkeep to send up a plate of roast duck and another three bottles of this stuff. I don’t want to feel my arm . . . or remember where you are and what you’re doing tonight.”
The Necropolis of Ysala is surprisingly popular after dark. The small silver moon is high and bright in the cloudless sky, but the broad stone avenue that slices through the heart of the graveyard is also illuminated by a string of the electryc glowspheres. The jumble of tombs and gravestones and obelisks spreading out from this central path eventually merges with the darkness, but I can see cowled figures moving in the gloom, lighting incense or crouching to commune with the dead.
“The Sisters of Sweet Oblivion,” Bell says as we pass a woman in black robes carrying a long candle with both hands. Her hood is drawn up, but I glimpse a pretty young face framed by dark curls, her lips moving as she whispers some mantra. “They are the caretakers of the Necropolis.”
“They’re not worried about the ghasts?”
“Ghasts do not usually kill, unless their home is invaded. They sneak out to steal corpses, so one of the duties of the Sisters is to ensure that the tombs are locked tight and the coffins sealed before they are buried. I imagine the Sisters also have their own protections, though I don’t know exactly what those would be.”
We pass a large tiered pyramid and the statue of some horned, weeping man holding the limp body of a woman. Eventually Bell turns from the lighted avenue and begins to pick her between the monuments and markers, following a path that wends into the darkness. The glow from the electryc spheres quickly fades, and soon only a silvery sheen of moonlight gilds the stone around us. I keep expecting some gibbering ghoul or spirit to emerge from the blackness, but nothing does. It’s very peaceful, in fact.
Points of light glimmer in the distance. As we continue these swell into flickering torches bracketing a stone doorway set into a great grassy mound. There’s a few tents set up beside this entrance, as well as a peaked wooden building, and shapes are moving in the darkness. Voices and bursts of laughter float across the graveyard to us.
“The poelthari’s barrow,” Bell whispers, holding out her arm to keep me from going any further. “The Trusts must have gotten tired of folk wandering in to get eaten by the ghasts.”
“What should we do?”
I sense her hesitation. “There might be another way inside. The barrow is vast – it fills that hill, and spreads underneath a fair bit of the Necropolis. If the ghasts are raiding this place for corpses they must have another way out. Let’s do a little exploring.”
We creep between the tumbled stone monuments, skirting the edges of the light thrown by the torches. Now we’re closer I can see five heavily armored warriors crouched in the grass around a lantern, intent on some card game. There’s a dull glow filling the window of the wooden hut, suggesting that even more guards are inside. Without the shadowdancer here I doubt we could sneak past them unseen.
We leave the entrance and the torchlight behind us as we circle the barrow. There are fewer grave markers here, but I can still see a few shadowy outlines marching up the slope of the hill. They resolve in the moonlight as we approach. There’s a canted obelisk that’s about ready to topple over, a monument with a cross set inside a circle, a hunched statue that looks like it’s rooting around in the grass . . . I can’t hold back a startled little gasp as the statue turns towards us.
Bell shrieks, clutching at me, and my hand goes to the hilt of my sword. But the thing I’d thought was a statue seems even more frightened, nearly falling over as it stumbles away from us with its hands raised protectively. Something it had been holding falls to the ground with a hollow thump.
“Please!” it cries. “I’m sorry! Kalvin knows he’s supposed to stay away!”
The man – at least, I think it’s a man, from its shape and voice – ducks behind one of the grave markers. I let go of my sword.
“We’re not going to hurt you,” I say, trying not to sound threatening. “Uh, right, Bell?”
“We’re just visitors to the Necropolis,” she says, letting go of me as she steps forward.
“Not . . . soldiers?” the man asks nervously, peeking out from around the stone.
“You mean those Trust warriors? We’re not with them.”
The man hesitates a moment, as if still unsure what he should do. “You’re not angry Kalvin is finding the mushrooms?”
Mushrooms?
Bell crouches and picks up the boxy shape the man has dropped. “It’s a basket,” she says to me. She reaches a hand inside. “And it’s filled with mushrooms.”
“Kalvin’s mushrooms!” the man cries.
“Your mushrooms,” she says, holding out the basket.
The man scuttles out from behind the grave marker and snatches the basket away from her. He moves oddly, with a pronounced limp, and his back is swollen and hunched. I can’t see well enough in the moonlight to be sure, but I suspect his face has some deformity.
“Soldiers beat Kalvin if they find him around the ghost-hill. But the best mushrooms grows up here. ‘Cause of what’s inside.”
“And . . . what would that be?” Bell asks.
“Dead things.”
“We should go,” I say, reaching out to touch Bell’s sleeve.
“Wait, wait,” she replies, pulling away from me. “Kalvin. Do you know a way inside this ghost hill?”
The man shuffles his feet, clutching the basket to his chest protectively. “The girl wants go inside?”
“Yes.”
The man is quiet for a long moment. Then he gives a high-pitched giggle. “Maybe Kalvin knows.”
“Could you tell us?”
“Is the girl sure? Bitey things down there.”
“We are.” I can hear the excitement in Bell’s voice. “Please, Kalvin. If you lead us inside the hill I would think you very brave.”
The hunched shape seems to fold in upon itself. Another span of silence, and then the man shudders and raises his head a bit higher than before. “Brave Kalvin.”
“Brave Kalvin,” Bell repeats soothingly.
Her tone seems to inspire him, as the man turns and begins stumping up the barrow’s gentle slope. He raises his arm, a lump in the darkness, and motions for us to follow. “Come.”
Kalvin leads us higher, and the number of grave markers quickly dwindles until soon we’re simply moving through long, scratchy grass. Kelvin is an indistinct shadow up ahead, muttering to himself. I keep catching the words ‘brave’ and ‘girl’, though I can’t parse much else.
“Over here, over here,” the strange little man says. “Come look, come look.” There’s a fold in the barrow here, a smaller mound that rises up from the hill. I can’t be sure in the darkness, but I think there might be a hole recessed in its center. “The brain gobblers come out there.”
I creep closer, my fingers itching to hold my sword. The sound of flint striking steel comes from behind me, and then light swells. Kalvin hisses, and I glance back: Bell has lit a small hand lantern, and our guide has thrown his hands up to cover his face. As I suspected, his deformities are more than simply a club foot or hunchback – his arms are too long and knobby, and what little of his face I can see through his fingers is twisted.
“I’m sorry,” Bell says quickly, turning away so that her body shields the light from him.
&nbs
p; Kalvin grumbles something and clomps closer to me. I look again at the little rill of earth – there is a hole in the center, wide enough for a man to enter if he crouches. I take a tentative step closer, half expecting horrible creatures to boil out into the night.
“It seems –” I begin, and then the grass beneath my foot gives way. “Bell!” I scream, scrabbling for the edge of the hole I’ve stumbled into, but my fingers only close on slick grass and it tears loose in my hands.
Falling.
My arms flail, rebounding off soft earth as I plummet. The slice of night sky holding the silver moon recedes . . . and I land on something brittle and soft that gives slightly. Enough, at least, that I don’t break my back. Still, the air has been knocked from my lungs, and though I try to call for Bell again I can only wheeze, staring up at that tiny silver coin in the far distance. Then the moon and the stars are occluded as something dark follows me down, quickly swelling larger.
The scream rebounding down the hole is high and feminine. I’m just considering whether I should roll out of the way when Bell lands on top of me, her shoulder slamming into my chest. I manage a little cry of pain as she bounces off me, then slides partway down the mound of whatever it is we’ve landed on.
“Oh,” she moans.
I roll onto my side, just in time to see a dark shape scurry away from us. My hand scrabbles for my sword, which is twisted awkwardly beneath me. I try to stand.
We’re in a chamber of some kind. There’s light, though not much of it, and it comes from long segmented insects crawling along the walls and ceiling. They glow faintly, like fireflies. My eyes slowly begin to pick out the details of where we are, though I keep my attention on the shape huddled against the wall.
The space is large, perhaps thirty paces across and ten span high. The mouths of several tunnels yawn ominously. There are flat objects scattered around my feet, and I nudge one with my toe, causing it to fall open, and a few pages fall out. A book. I glance back at the mound Bell and I fell on – the faint light from the insects crawls across lacquered bindings and titles scrawled in reflective ink. It’s a big pile of books. Bell is moving weakly, her arms and legs trying to find purchase on the slithering mound.