by M J Sweeney
The corridor kept curving around, so from my sense of direction, I thought we should now be more or less directly under the skeletons up top. It went on for quite a distance—perhaps eighty metres sloping gradually downward. The corridor then ended in another stone door, so we were now facing back the way we had come. It had the same Quadrinity symbol. I put my hand on the door. “Cylvai.” This one opened with barely any noise.
Inside, we found a rather neat-looking laboratory. The room was semi-circular, the far wall flat with two solid wooden doors. The room itself was neat and tidy, with rows of labelled jars filled with dried herbs, eyeballs, and other gruesome substances. A stone bench on one side looked to be a set alchemist table with some kind of cast iron stove and in-built mortar and stone pestle lying next to it.
“Nice,” I said.
“Alchemy,” said Marcus. “So if that’s an alchemist’s table, perhaps…” He pointed at the doors. “… in there will be the alchemist.”
“Smart thinking. You’re probably right.”
We ignored the equipment and pushed open the double doors. Inside was a large square room with rows of benches down each side. The roof was domed, with various carvings depicted on its surface. Initially I didn’t get a good look, as we were distracted by the very end of the room.
Right down the centre was a throne on a raised dais. Strangely, the large room was otherwise unoccupied. I looked at Marcus, and he shrugged. It seemed to be his go-to gesture. He was typically leaving me in the driver’s seat unless he had something definite to offer. My elbows leaves were definitely not twitching, so I took that as a sign and strode forward.
In the far back corners of the chamber, one to either side, were two large braziers. Each one burned with a sinister-looking blue flame, emitting thin blue-black smoke that lazily wafted to the ceiling. The light gave everything a weird kind of eldritch glow, spooky and ominous.
Our booted feet echoed in the otherwise clean and sparse chamber. I noticed two large side doors, but we approached down the middle first. We stepped around the low stone benches—kind of like church pews—and came to the raised dais and throne. The bluish smoke from the two fireplaces wafted up to the ceiling and simply dispersed.
“Magic?” I asked Marcus, looking up.
He slowly shrugged once more. “Probably.”
The ceiling had what looked at first to be innocent scenes of elves going about daily activities. But then, as I looked some more, I could see oddly jarring elements—an elven man being hung from a rope by another, and two women fighting over something. Both had daggers hidden behind their backs, and a pile of dismembered arms and legs strewn between them. It was a little disturbing, but I guessed it made sense considering where we stood.
We searched the throne, and despite the age, it was a fairly solid piece of brass and stone. It was high-backed, and looked almost like an open mouth waiting to eat whoever was foolish enough to sit on it. Neither of us volunteered for that little experiment. It also had faded blue leather padded seating. It did have a couple of small statues as decoration at its base, but they didn’t seem to indicate anything. Behind the stone was more sculptured old alfar script. I looked at it curiously, but left that for the moment.
There were also two large wooden doors to each side, midway down the room. The doors pushed open easily, without much noise. Inside were rows of low cots, like small hospital beds, containing many twisted elven corpses. When we got closer, I could see dark red runes engraved on a lot of the bones—an evil-looking script that hurt my eyes to look at. We were waiting tensely for something to happen, weapons to hand, but nothing. They didn’t animate; there were no spooky noises. A bit of a let-down, all told. Once again, Marcus shrugged at me to go on. That was getting annoying.
There were side benches in here with embalming tools, flaying knives, branding irons, that sort of thing.
“Disgusting,” Marcus said. “In some ways, I hate this aspect of the world. But in the end, perhaps it’s no different than atrocities committed back on earth. I guess it just makes me more determined; you know what I mean?”
“Yeah, Memory is not a world with only fairies and sweet happy ending fairy tales. The nasty shit has an impact.”
“Agreed.”
There were no other exits or entrances, so we’d come to the end of the road. The empty throne room was clearly the final boss room, but why no boss? Neither of us knew. No wonder this place was ‘untouched.’ We searched a bit longer and found no further secret doors or other evidence to guide us onward.
“Well,” I said, “the mobs up top won’t respawn for a little, maybe forty minutes or so. I want to have a look at the carving there first, and then I think we should collect as much of that alchemy gear as we can and head back up.”
“All right.”
I looked at the stone mural while Marcus went and packed some alchemy jars into his near empty backpack. I started drawing the runes on the paper I had, but then realised that would take too long and I’d likely make mistakes.
“Marcus?” I called. He poked his head back inside.
“Yup?”
“Is your cloak magical?”
He looked perplexed. “Uh, what? No.”
“Can I buy it, then?”
“What? What do you want to do with it?”
“I’m gonna draw on it.” I held up my charcoal and pointed at the stone mural. As his cloak was a lot whiter than mine, I hoped the runes would be easier to discern.
“Oh… right. Okay then.”
He shucked it off and then handed it to me. Parts of the mural were decayed and worn, so I doubted all of it would be legible anyway. Marcus finished packing the alchemy lab, though he couldn’t fit everything in, so I handed him my Bag of Holding and he put the rest in there.
We exited, disturbing the upper level as little as we could, and made our way back to the tree to make camp for a little.
“So, what next?” he asked.
“You know, I don’t think we’re done here.”
“Really?”
“I want to check out a couple more things. You’ll see…”
My inner-action-man was fully abuzz again. It felt like I was laughing at the old me, the bouncer that I was. Taking action was an absolute blast compared to standing around, watching, waiting, and calculating. I loved it.
He just shrugged. “Should we rest for the day and try again for the morning? I’m a bit knackered right now,” he added, rubbing at his mostly healed wounds.
“Yes, a day at least. Let’s recover from being near stabbed to death, then head back in a day or so. Good plan?”
“Sure.”
We took the gear back to the fisherman’s hut, but put the better looking gear with his horse, who I found out went by the name Caesar. Marcus would walk or ride the horse most mornings, and sometimes in the evening when we had time. And so each time we walked from the tree to the hut or back again, the horse and pack mule came with us, faithful companions.
Most of the better gear and coins we stored inside my Bag of Holding, as safe as could be. Marcus did tell me his horse was trained to attack and defend, so a thief wouldn’t find it easy to steal any gear it carried—but unfortunately, if we were deep underground, we wouldn’t hear it neigh or scream.
Chapter 16
We rested for one day, and went hunting on the morning of the next. Later that afternoon, we were about to venture back inside, but were interrupted. I started to feel an itchy sensation between my shoulder blades, like I was being watched. Fortunately my elbow-leaves remained quiescent. Initially, I saw nothing, but still feeling disturbed, I held Marcus back from leading the way. He was ready once more to kill skeletons and zombies for experience. I had a better look around, and coming down the mountain path was a strange sight. There came a large wagon with about five horses, a couple of guards on horseback, and what looked like a family of high elves.
I walked over slowly, Marcus trailing behind, muttering slightly. When the guards sp
otted me, they both raised their bows. I held up one hand as reassuringly as I could. I had just come from the ruins, after all, which they could clearly see. An older elf got down from the wagon and looked me over. Eventually, he motioned the two guards to stand down. A younger elf woman then got down also and stood beside him.
“Hello stranger,” the elf greeted me. He walked a little closer so we could touch fingertips—the elven equivalent of shaking hands.
“Greetings, sir. What brings you to these parts?” I asked.
“We are travellers”—He gestured at the wagon—“as you can see. I am a cloth merchant, in fact, recently come from Bolgas Dizzini. And you?”
“An adventurer, sir, and doing my best to clear yonder ruins,” I replied, gesturing to the crumbling sandstone walls.
“Ah, well met, then. I am Jayvar Benisse, and this is my daughter, Elgo.”
“Greetings again.” I nodded to the woman. “I am Cordaen of-the-Forest.” I gestured at Marcus. “And this is Marcus Pollonius.”
“Greetings,” she murmured back, looking a little shy.
“These two fellows are my nephews, Garsadd and Belsann.” He gestured to the two guards, and we exchanged nods. I could hear more voices coming from the wagon—children, it sounded like.
“And over there, now where did he get to? Always running off…” The old elf was peering about when a young human lad came around the side of the wagon. He was bare-chested, despite the cold weather, and had some nasty looking burn scars on his belly and torso and up the left side of his neck and arm. He was wearing an assortment of mismatched items—tattered leather pants and boots, a couple of long knives, and an odd bone necklace.
“This is Elz, one of our adoptees.”
The teenager just nodded at us suspiciously. All right, I thought.
“And those are my granddaughters, three all told.” They peered from the back of the wagon, and the littlest waved at us. Two were brunette and one was blonde, each with bright shining eyes.
“Quite the troupe, sir.” I smiled.
“Yes, indeed.” He smiled fondly at his daughter, who was still perusing her toes. “Is this your camp?”
“Yes, it is. But I wouldn’t advise staying here.” The way he was eyeing it off was a bit of a giveaway.
“Oh… damn.” His face fell. “We had a bit of a hard time of it coming over that pass, and were hoping to set camp now.”
I shook my head. “The ruins over there are infested with undead.” I pointed. “I wouldn’t advise being too close, and certainly not with children.”
Marcus was nodding agreement.
Both adult’s faces blanched, not happy with that pronouncement at all.
“All right, then. We’ll be on our way, sir dryad,” he began, but I held up one hand.
“Actually, not too far from here is a nice camping spot with a cabin. Marcus and I have been using it as our base, but you’re welcome to share. I can take you there if you want.”
He thought about that for a moment, then looked at his daughter. She slowly nodded.
“Thank you, sir, that’s certainly generous of you. Are you ready now, or do you need some time?”
I thought about that, and looked at Marcus. He didn’t look too happy; maybe he didn’t want to share our little shack, but slowly he shrugged acceptance.
“Now is fine,” I said.
“Then lead the way; we will follow.”
We moved most of our gear out of the cabin to give them more room, despite Elgo’s protests, and set up camp a short distance outside. Marcus grumbled a little, muttering something like, “damned civilians,” under his breath, but otherwise went with it.
I told the elves the surroundings here were quite peaceful, with only geese and wild pigs for company, so there would be little to trouble them. They made a fine feast that evening from their stores, which we all enjoyed immensely. We ate outside in the cleared space Marcus and I had used for training. I got to meet the three granddaughters—Beille, Sheralle, and Juisse. The youngest was especially cute, and decided my lap was the best place to eat her dinner.
It was my first experience of children here, and… it was cute. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not a typical cuddle-and-hugs kind of person, and hadn’t been a family man since the death of my son. I shied from that thought. But I still liked children and small animals, so this lot was adorable. I played the lute for them, while the girls danced to some of my tunes, clapped, and did cartwheels in the flickering firelight.
The three daughters ranged in age: Beille was twelve, Sheralle was ten, and Juisse was seven. The nephews, Garsadd and Belsann (I didn’t ask their ages), were mature- looking enough for elves, but were from Jayvar’s other daughter, who lived in Alh’Olpiron. The family all had a similar brown-haired, green-eyed look, except for Juisse, who was blonde and blue-eyed. All of them had the typical shorter, lighter high elf build, slim noses, and the usual pointy elf-ears.
Elz seemed a little bit of an outsider, even within their family group, and kept a lot to himself. Plus, he was the only human amongst a family of elves. Not wanting to pry, I didn’t ask what the adoption meant. He wandered off a couple of times into the darkness, and appeared randomly every now and then—sometimes too close for comfort—appearing on the other side of the fire when I least expected it, making me start slightly. He had black hair cut roughly short, looking like it had been hacked with a knife, and dark eyes, and a bit of a hooked Roman nose. He had an inward, almost sullen kind of quality, and often stared intently at me and Marcus.
That night, with all the extra food and conversation, and after the weeks of solitude and then partnering with Marcus, it felt like quite the party.
We talked of various things, though I tried to steer the subject away from discussing the ruins—Juisse asked me about it more than once.
“Can I go see, Popi?” she asked her grandfather, but he shook his head.
“No, child, it is too dangerous.”
“It’s not too dangerous for Cordaen and Marcus though, is it?” she asked, looking up at us. She was now sitting on Marcus’ lap, and he seemed even more ill-used to children than I. But he was patting her hair absently, I noted, so I couldn’t help a wry chuckle.
“Hmm… hard to answer that, little one,” I said. “It is dangerous even for us.”
“But as long as we’re careful,” Marcus added, “and believe me, we’re very careful. So then we are victorious.”
The grandfather nodded approval.
Later that evening, when the rest were asleep, Jayvar told me that Juisse was a particularly inquisitive one. They had adopted her a couple of years before, from another high elf family who had been lost at sea, with her the only survivor. They had taken her in when it seemed no one else from their village would or could.
“And Elz?”
“He was friends with Juisse, and she begged us to adopt him also. He’s been with us for a bit less than a year.” He didn’t seem to want to say more than that.
“Do you come down this pass often?” I asked.
“No indeed, sir. We usually cross over from further south and then head north. Better roads, and no surprises, even though it takes longer. But Juisse and Elz were insistent that we come this way this season, and… when the little one gets something in her head like that, she’s very hard to refuse.” He smiled the happy and harried smile of a man surrounded by five females.
Marcus and I were heading back to the ruins early the next morning, expecting the family to start packing up, but Jayvar asked if they could stay a day longer. “It is an idyllic place, this lake, and the children need the rest, I think.” He was looking at Juisse as he said this. Clearly, he doted on her and spoiled her not a little, but so what? She seemed a good kid for it.
***
We cleared out all the skeletons, and then I explained my idea to Marcus.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” he grumbled, “but all right.”
We stood at the foot of the first se
t of stairs. The doors were open, and we both had weapons out and auras on. I picked up a wooden goblet and held it while a ghostly hand tried to wrest it from me. The goblet felt foul somehow; with my aura on, I somehow knew it was cursed. I held on for a moment more as the bones gathered and formed around the ghost. I dropped the goblet as it screamed “Mine! Mine!” Very gollum-esque. It had solidified into a ghostly skeleton hybrid in rotted elven clothing.
We started hitting it, and it struck back with the goblet. Fortunately, our weapons actually damaged it once it was corporeal, so it didn’t last long. All went quiet again.
“That wasn’t so bad, eh?” I said.
“No, not at all. Again?” Marcus asked.
We moved in a bit further and repeated the manoeuvre, this time with a pair of scissors. Marcus did the honours this time, picking the item up, and we smashed down on the semi-animated body of an elven seamstress. Marcus got the worst of the scissors in one thigh when she dropped to one knee—she managed to plunge them into his leg on the way down. I wound up with a big swing, hands on my staff like a baseball bat. I knocked her head flying with my haft, and she was de-animated with a wailing cry.
“A critical hit,” he complained, pulling the scissors out with a grunt. He was quick to drop them again; he felt the same revulsion to the curse as I.
“She critical hit you, I critical hit her… but she’s the one who’s dead. Well, for a while.”
“Yeah…”
We healed for a moment and then tried again.
On the third try, we did it with a silver candlestick. This time, not just one, but three spirits animated, each clutching at different items, but they all attacked as one. They didn’t have much skill, but they were durable and managed a number of awkward blows. Their combined howling was causing the corridors to echo with sound, and gradually both the sound and wind picked up their tempo. More and more bones started to form. The noise from the wind became deafening for a moment, then abruptly stopped, dead silent.