by Dave Dickie
“And then?” asked Corel.
Teinhaj grinned. “Then we ask nicely about their experience. If they don’t like to share… Daesal might be a problem, but the rest aren’t Holder’s daughters. We squeeze them until they change their minds.”
Chapter Eleven
Crossing the underground river turned out to be easier than Daesal expected. The pylons were solid, the rope they had scavenged from the camouflage webbing helped, and the water wasn’t that deep. Gyeong was strong and, like all Stangri, had an affinity for the water. He carefully carried the wounded elf over his shoulder. Hantlin took over again on the far shore.
The unnatural opening that flicker-glowed beckoned them on. Daesal and Gyeong led the way through the entranceway into what was once obviously a great hall, now in ruins and half submerged in dark, still water. A great hall, Daesal could see, carved from the mountainside with ceilings at least twenty feet high, a main corridor at least thirty feet wide and a corridor branching to the left only slightly smaller. Thick, musty air filled her lungs. She looked up and saw that the blue glow emanated from not just a part, but all, of the ceiling. It rhythmically flickered with eerie blue light as if lit by a small set of guttering candles encased in undulating glass. She doubted that was intentional. At one point, she was sure, it had been a steady, full light. The flickering blue felt like the last breath of a dying man, desperately trying to fulfill its ancient function until it finally winked out of existence. The scale of the hall, the ceilings, the corridors: to Daesal’s senses, it was all off, somehow, as if meant for the gods Astraea and Ipdohr to walk through with Kydaos loping at their side.
Daesal could see that the main corridor had collapsed, blocking more than half the passageway. Chunks of stone as if from an explosion were heaped in the vast space on one side. Deep gouges were scraped into the opposite, still-standing wall. Though it was dry where they were, water from some unknown source pooled against the columns that lay in massive pieces near their feet. The floor was dry over to a side corridor on their left, but shallow water covered the remains of the main corridor straight ahead, reflecting the ceiling’s arcing blue flickers. It had the effect of lighting the entire space in dancing, shimmering blue sparks.
The party, less Hantlin who stayed behind with the still-unconscious elf just outside the entryway, crowded in behind Daesal and Gyeong. Daesal studied the area carefully. There were shards of metal scattered around the area, bits that matched what she had seen at the base of the cliff where the trolls and humans had fought. The humans must have set one of the canisters off inside this complex. She looked up. There was a giant crater in the ceiling. Perhaps they had teleported the bomb in, intersecting the roof.
She studied the walls. It was clear they had been completely covered with tile mosaics at one time, buried now under centuries of grime. Curious, Daesal drew a dagger and gently scraped at several of the tiles. “I think there’s a picture under here,” she exclaimed, scraping more eagerly. In her haste to learn anything about the ruins, she failed to notice that she wasn’t scraping off the expected lichen and mold but instead some sort of greasy, foul-smelling substance that left behind an oily slick of residue. The smell hit her just as Grimalkin appeared at her side, saying, “Daesal, I don’t know what’s covering these walls but it’s not dirt, be caref-“ Just as Grimalkin uttered his warning, Daesal instinctively dipped her finger in the residue and tasted it.
Pain exploded in her mouth, radiating into her head. “Aagh,” she cried out and staggered back, trying to spit the taste out of her mouth. Hands steadied her. Images flashed in her head, so fast and sharp and bright and big she couldn’t begin to comprehend them. She heard shrieks inside, alarmed voices outside, one indistinguishable from the other. She gasped, steadied herself and finally stood upright. She slowly came to her senses. Mistake number three today, and she was lucky to still be standing. “What was that?” Grimalkin’s voice rose above the others.
“You were correct, thief,” she enunciated as carefully and calmly as she could. Her head hurt like the Bull himself had rammed it. “The residue is not dirt. It’s the trolls. The trolls, mixed with something else.” She pointed at the debris strewn by their feet. In the midst of the collapsed and broken stone, they now looked more closely and saw a form. A humanoid form, perhaps twelve feet in length, now nothing but broken and mangled bones within half melted shards of armor, destroyed in some ancient melee.
“By the Gods,“ Grimalkin cried, “You just ate melted troll?!” A unified and singularly loud chorus of disgust rose from the party.
Daesal responded, “Yes, I did. Let’s move on.” She walked away, a little unsteadily but not particularly caring if the group followed. The party, however, now knew they were in not just an ancient hall, but a tomb.
They moved as one along the dry area to the side corridor they had spied to their left, noticing more decaying bodies but no signs of life, dead or alive, not even vermin. The only sounds were those they made themselves. There were two rooms down the corridor, one cobblestone, and one smooth-floored with three columns in a line along the middle. Both had evidence of oversized furniture and scraps of leather that may have been from old books.
They went back toward the main, collapsed corridor. Daesal reached the intersection first and turned left, inching along as far as she possibly could without wetting her feet to see past the mass of stone debris toward the corridor’s end. The rest of the party crowded into the dry area behind her. “I can see about 200 feet into the hall,” Daesal called back, “The water is maybe a foot deep in the middle, and maybe at most four feet over in the far right corridor. There is a table just above the water line, and beyond that, a large chair or throne on a high dais facing a wall behind it. The wall is circular and deep black. It…” Daesal paused for a moment, a bit unnerved as she studied the wall. “It’s black. But black like I’ve never seen before. It doesn’t reflect the blue lights at all, it, it eats them. It’s like the wall swallows the light to make the black more black and I can see each bit of light die. They hit the black and spark and then just … nothing.” Daesal stopped, aware of how silly she sounded.
“Among my people,” Nyjha said, “this would not be considered inviting.”
Chapter Twelve
None of the hells that Stegar had heard described in stories of demons and far-off plains seemed more haunting or surreal than where they were now. The soft blue glow of the ceiling would have been unnatural enough for him, but over the years the magic had deteriorated, and now the light came in fitful waves interspersed with showers of sparks. The resulting glow it gave off was weak and irregular and led to many shadows dancing across the mosaics on the walls, mixing patterns of shadows with patterns of faded colors until no direction seemed solid or safe. The shallow layer of water on the floor reflected back both light and sound, echoing every creak and scuffle of the party’s movements back at him. It all blended together to put him in an unpleasant mood.
Stegar no longer knew what his role was. When there was danger outside, there were things to protect against. When Padan was with them there were orders to be followed and objectives to be accomplished. Here there was danger as well, but he had no idea how to prepare for it. The water on the floor was still and dank. The dais at the far end of the room was of a different time, was supposedly magical, and Stegar could not even begin to fathom what kind of magic it was. Hells, the slime which had covered the walls in the previous room could have been deadly poison or acid. He had no idea why Daesal decided to taste the material in the first place or what she expected to gain from it She either had a superhuman constitution to go with her dark sight or she was somehow suicidal.
Might as well have a drink, a part of his mind volunteered; after all, exploring magical constructs was a job for someone else. The bottle of firewater in his hip pouch itched to come out. Perhaps just a little in order to dull the annoyance of the flickering lights from above. It was putting him ill at ease. But they were not clear of da
nger yet. He should wait a little longer.
As the group moved forward they passed great pillars felled by some mighty force that radiated out from a pit gouged into the ceiling. The obvious power of the blow sent his thoughts back to the tremendous beast of a drake that had sealed them in this prison. That had been no mere wyvern or one of the small, dumb beasts in Pranan. That beast was a true dragon of the elder times, a thing from tales and myths, large as a keep if it wanted to be but possessing power that came from much more than its size. What had Stegar gotten himself into that beings like this were threatening him? He looked quizzically over to where the massive Gyeong was still effortlessly carrying Beldaer’s limp form, not sure how anything fit together any more.
The chatter of the party washed over him, finding less purchase than the sparks of light and shadow. They moved forward and stepped into the water, barely over the tops of their boots for now, as they had no choice. At least the party was sticking together.
To their left were rooms that proved uninteresting; to their right, in the dim glow of the room’s strange lights, he could see something like a table or some other circular surface a few inches above the water line. As they moved toward the dais which Daesal had told them about, they grew closer to it. It was a raised circle in the floor, perhaps six inches high, a few inches above the waterline. As they neared it, the five gems embedded in the surface of the raised area became visible. Teleport pads were unusual, but Stegar had used them occasionally in his old life, and this could only be one of those devices. Stegar could tell that the sight of gems momentarily brought a glint to Grimalkin’s eye, but even that rogue seemed a bit subdued by the eldritch nature of everything here.
They moved past it to the large chair on the dias Daesal had described. As Stegar drew closer, the occupant of the great throne on the dais, facing away from them towards the back wall of the room, came into view. In life he must have stood twelve feet tall, and been strong as an ox. Now he was a collection of bones covered by rags, scraps of metal, and cracked leather. The only intact item on him was, as Grim pointed out, a valuable-looking amulet which he had worn in life, but which had fallen from his chest into his lap as his body decayed. It looked untouched by the events that had destroyed the complex or by the intervening years.
The state of the corpse seemed at odds with the throne in which it sat. The throne itself was a massive construction of stone and steel and it was not surprising that it looked as solid as if it were new. In front of the chair were three large obsidian cubes, each four feet high, all within touching distance of the chair’s occupant if he had been alive. They looked not only undamaged but still glowed with a latent power that was waiting to be freed. Traced finely in the face of the obsidian Stegar could see red runes and lights ordered with clear purpose. What information they reported he could not tell, but they were still functional, and at least one of the other shapes which he could see there appeared to be a blood-orange button just waiting to be pressed.
The magic present in the chair and its accompanying controls was palpable, even with nothing more obvious than glowing letters in an unknown language. The wall in front of it was worse. It was a background against which the obsidian was clearly visible; where the panels were dark, the wall consumed all light near it, making it the deepest of matte blacks. Somehow, though it had reached the epitome of blackness and there could be no more variation of the shade, Stegar felt as if he could see tendrils and wisps of images moving across the wall. The wall was both the deepest pit from which there was no escape and also a moving, living thing at the same time. It sent chills down his spine.
“The amulet might control this thing,” said Nyjha. “But it could also be dangerous. We could try it on the elf first,” Nyjha said, looking down with hooded eyes, “and see if he reacts badly.”
“Probably best not to disturb the patient,” said Hantlin, “and as he’s unconscious, he might not respond in a visible fashion.”
“I, Gyeong, will try it,” said the Strangi warrior. “Sa Kajok do not succumb to fear.” Which seemed an odd thing to say, but Stegar could see the hesitation in the man and realized he was afraid.
The amulet looked quite valuable, and Gyeong could not help but admire it. He picked it up and tentatively pulled it over his head. "HAAAA!" He yelled, a warrior's cry of warning at whatever was lighting up the cavern. He pulled out his sword, waving it towards what was coming. Then he realized the lights were between his eyes and the sword, and they weren't just lights. There were symbols there, words that were too different for him to understand a letter of, but clearly intended to convey meaning. Cautiously, he pulled the amulet up off his chest, and the words and lights were gone. A huge smile covered his face and he dropped it down upon his neck, causing the words to reappear. "It is strong magic!" He declared, "Also, it is mine." He slipped his sword back into its sheath, the look in his eyes warning enough.
Moving about the room with his chest puffed out a bit more than normal, he tried to see if the words reacted to anything within the area. They did not seem interested in changing, but something did call his attention. The orange button. It had been bright before, but now he was completely focused on it. He stepped closer. It was so bright, so much nicer looking than all that black behind the throne. Another step closer. A more sensible part of his brain told him that pressing strangely bright buttons in ancient ruins, ones full of mutilated and melted bodies, was rarely a good idea. But sensible was boring and best ignored, so he gleefully punched the button. There was a chorus of "No!" behind him, but that was also ignored.
The three protrusions behind the throne lit up, casting light onto the pitch black wall. "I thought you said this thing killed light, magic-woman." He chuckled. Clearly it didn't, as the wall was now covered in light.
The lights appeared to show a map, that much Gyeong could tell. It wasn't of an area he recognized, and his brow furrowed as he moved closer to try to view it better. He could see what he thought were the shapes of a northern mountain range shown in white, and an open space lined in bright blue and purple that ran from the mountain to the edge of the land mass, perhaps a river? There were also bright pink dots scattered across. Suddenly, a slight buzzing noise sounded out and the map flickered out of existence, leaving Gyeong standing next to the dead troll, staring at a blank wall. Before he could complain, the light within the cavern began to flicker as well. Everyone had time for a "Dammit, Gyeong!" before the lights turned off for the final time and they all found themselves in complete darkness.
"Anybody have a glow disk or a torch?" Stegar asked.
The after-image of the map’s lights burned in Daesal’s eyes. Indeed, so fixated was she on the map and its purpose that it took her a moment to even realize that the room had plunged into darkness. She blinked and looked around, her eyes immediately adjusting to see in dim colors muted by greyscale. Jovial curiosity if not delight played on Gyeong’s face after this new development, whereas Stegar and Grimalkin both reflexively crouched, one in a fighting stance, the other in a fleeing stance. Caution born of wise fear was writ large on their faces, while the priest, Hantlin, simply looked shocked. Nhi Nyjha, the Ibisi, was another matter – far from curiosity or caution, raw rage (and was there also sorrow?) showed in every feature, every sinew, even the bones of his body as he stood immobilized, staring at where the map had been. A map of Tawhiem, she knew from her studies, though she had no idea what the colored orbs meant or why they were so concentrated on the right – she assumed the east – side of the map. Nyjha’s unbridled emotional reaction, though, that was striking in a man committed to cloaking his true self with bluff and banter.
Daesal shook her head. Again she had forgotten that the others could not see as she did. “Hantlin,” she called out to the priest as she cast a light to glow at the end of her staff. Hantlin recollected himself and likewise brought his light to life. Daesal wondered at their mutual sluggishness, at all of the group’s actions in this strange place. It was entirely unlike her
to taste everything – everything! – in sight. She hadn’t done that since she toddled after her mother’s skirts. And now Gyeong, a battle-tested warrior who should certainly know that whimsically donning magical amulets and randomly punching ancient glowing buttons in a place of death was simply doom-seeking, had done just that. What had gotten into them?
At the flaring lights, everyone looked around, startled, and began talking at once. That is, everyone but Nhi Nyjha, who quickly wiped his features and adopted his typically insouciant stance, yet remained silent as he glanced between the screen and the teleportal, cold calculation in his eyes. Amidst the din, Stegar straightened and clapped his hands once, a resounding sound in the confined space. He looked ill, yet once again whatever his former training had been took hold. “Quiet, quiet!” he called. “We must sort this through.”
“Sort it through?” Gyeong said excitedly, as he began to pace the room. “Did you not see it? Feel the power I brought forth? I, alone? A map of lights where no light should live! I, Gyeong, did that!” He thumped his own chest in one quick blow, eyes burning with joy as his pace quickened. The amulet around his neck began to glow dimly. “None of you accomplished this feat – none! It was I, Gyeong Ran of the Sa Kajok, who did this! I, bidden by the ceaseless words of MAGIC!” At Gyeong’s increasingly frenetic speech and pace, even Nhi Nyjha turned to look, his look of calculation replaced by one of intent inspection. Grimalkin subtly crouched once again. “Yes, Gyeong,” Stegar said as he reached for Gyeong, worry in his eyes, “yes, we see what you di-”
“STOP!” Gyeong roared. The amulet burned ember bright as he turned, arms wide, and strode toward the teleportal. He started into the water. “The words! The Words of the Ancients! I alone, Gyeong Ran of the Sa Kajok alone, see them!”