by David Adams
Lucien gave the spear nearest him a tentative tug, then applied more strength. It did not move. “How know?” he asked Demetrius.
“I didn’t. A guess, based on there being so many bones close, and fewer further up the aisle. A leader takes a few hesitant steps, probably eyeing those weapons, and when nothing happens everyone becomes bolder. When the trap goes they are all caught.”
“This is an ancient mechanism though,” said Tala. “Likely it was placed to stop tomb raiders. The Dark One’s servant did not set this trap, but I see why he chose the place. Beware; we may face other dangers of his device.”
They went to the center aisle and started forward, making their way through the bars, which remained in place. Corson looked down and saw a skull that had been impaled by a shaft, the sharp point driving through the back of the skull and out the eye socket.
That will soon be your fate. All of you.
Demetrius thought the bars, once triggered, provided some odd comfort. Certainly little could be thrown at them through the metal maze. But then his mind started to wander to more gruesome thoughts of secondary spears waiting to launch, boiling oil falling from above, or a fire pit opening below. He shook the thoughts away. He allowed his hand to touch one of the bars as he squeezed around it and found the metal cold and course. For some reason it sent a chill down his spine and he pulled his hand away as if recoiling.
Without warning the spears retracted, doing so at the same blinding speed with which they had appeared.
“Nobody move,” said Demetrius, feeling naked.
“Wouldn’t think of it,” Corson answered. He had frozen in an odd pose as he had been slithering around one of the shafts.
“I can’t be certain my weight did not shift when the bars moved,” said Alexis.
“Mine did,” said Lucien.
“I have no thought to trigger them again,” Demetrius said. “I doubt any of us would be so well positioned.”
Rowan studied the ground as best he could, fearful even to crouch down. “They are well-hidden when retracted. Even knowing they are there I cannot see them.”
Demetrius had taken a cursory glance at the floor as well, but his focus was now on the bones of the dead. Here they were not the jumbled mess that was seen at the beginning of the aisle. The bones formed mostly distinct bodies, and there were far fewer of them. Some twenty feet ahead he could make out a last full skeleton. The skull he had thrown had ended up further on, out of the torch light’s range. “I think we are near the trigger. We are nearly as far as any have reached.”
“How can we see the trigger though?” asked Alexis. “Especially when we are frozen in place.”
“The torches seem of little use,” agreed Demetrius. Something in his own words struck him. “Put out the torches.”
“Out?” Rowan said, lifting an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”
Lucien answered for Demetrius. “Another guess.”
Demetrius nodded that it was so, and then beat out his torch with a few stomps of his boot. The other two flames were likewise extinguished.
Utter blackness descended. The crypt felt even more like what it was in the dark.
“This is pleasant,” Corson said, seeking the comfort of his own voice and hoping for a reply. In the empty silence he felt very alone.
The stone has been placed. You are buried alive.
“Look up ahead,” said Demetrius.
“I can’t see anything,” Rowan said.
“Give your eyes time to adjust,” said Tala. “I see it too, Demetrius.”
Thirty-five feet ahead six beams of pale light crossed the aisle, the lowest mere inches from the floor, the highest eight feet up.
“Wait here,” Demetrius said. He crept forward to study the beams, which ran between sets of tombs. Of the source of the light he could see nothing. He peered beyond, looking for additional traps, but saw no more.
“Tala,” he called back. “Could you use the magic to light a torch and bring it here?” He glanced back in time to see a blue flame spark in the darkness. As it approached he could make out Tala’s face, the visage of a ghost in the dim blue light. He took the torch and played it along the tombs, and quickly found what he was looking for. “Hand and footholds,” he said, tracing a path up. “We should be able to cross safely.”
“How did you know they would be there?”
“There are usually ways around traps so that those that set them can pass unharmed.”
“You have experience in these things?” Tala asked, surprise in her voice.
“Not directly. I’ve read a lot of books. It’s how I passed a lot of time back home when I was off duty.”
“Someday you’ll have to thank the authors.”
They called the others forward and Tala held the torch aloft while Demetrius went up the side of the tombs and over the top of the now-unseen beams of light. Once he was safely on the other side, the light was extinguished for a moment so they could see the light trap from both sides and mark where it lay. Once that was done, Tala lit three torches and the whole party crossed without incident.
“How far now?” Alexis asked when they were on the other side.
“More than a quarter mile yet.”
The response drew frowns. “How should we proceed?” asked Rowan. “With the torches out we could see other light traps, but might miss triggers for other dangers.”
Demetrius studied the aisle ahead. “There are no bones beyond this point.”
“Meaning there are no more traps,” Alexis concluded, “or that no one else made it this far.”
“We move in stages,” Demetrius said, and Corson heard the command in his voice that he remembered from their days serving King Rodaan together in Corindor.
But now he leads you to your death.
“—with the torches out to see light traps,” Demetrius continued. “Once we know we can go forward for fifty feet or so, we re-light the torches and look for visible triggers or other pitfalls.” He turned to Tala. “Will that be too much of a drain on you, constantly re-doing the torches?”
“I will be fine,” she replied.
They started their slow procession, inching ahead in alternating light and darkness, wary that every step could be their last. Tala had the best eyes, but it was Demetrius, who had spent as much time looking for foot and handholds as for triggers who called them to an abrupt halt after they had covered nearly an eighth of a mile.
He crouched down and eyed the floor, bringing a torch close. A faint seam was only obvious when his nose was within four inches of it. “Pressure panel, I would guess. We go up and over again.”
They marked the second trap and forged ahead, their progress slower if anything, eyes and minds growing tired from searching in the dim light and muscles sore from tension that could not be released. There was an audible exhale from the group when Tala announced, “The shard is below us.”
Rowan was first to find the seam in the floor, and Demetrius and Alexis joined him in tracing the irregular pattern that it made, an area four feet across with jagged spikes that shot out to varying lengths, like an ancient drawing of the sun with various sized rays emanating from it. Lucien put a heavy boot to the area and a faint echo was heard below.
“Can you lift it?” Demetrius asked Tala.
“I will try.” She sat on the ground with her legs crossed and her hands relaxed on her thighs, closed her eyes and focused her mind. The inlaid stone started to grind upward, a fraction of an inch at a time. Strain etched into her face, and a bead of sweat formed on her brow and ran down her cheek like a single tear.
No one spoke, afraid to break the spell. The stone edged upward in starts and stops. Rowan could see Tala’s hands begin to tremble. Just a little more, he thought.
When four inches of the inlay showed above the floor, Lucien pressed it against the far side with his powerful hands, then started to lever it upward. Four other pairs of hands were soon joined with his in the effort. With a sound like a clap of thun
der, the stone crashed onto the floor, having been flipped on its back.
“Thank you,” Tala said, her breath coming in ragged gasps. “I could not have held it much longer.”
“And we could not have lifted it without you,” Rowan said. He grasped one of the magic torches, noting without comment that the light had faded significantly. He thrust it into the pit, bathing the chamber in a pale blue light.
“I can’t see far enough in to spot it,” he announced while still peering below, his voice echoing deeply. “We’ll have to lower someone down.”
Finally something you can do to help. Use that tongue for something other than glib comments.
“I’ll do it,” said Corson. He pulled the rope from a pack and started to fasten it under his arms. When he was done, Rowan handed him the torch and Lucien and Demetrius took strong holds on the opposite end of the rope.
Corson gave the rope a try to make sure it was tight and secure, touched the hilt of his sword to make sure it was where he expected it to be, then stood at the edge of the opening. He pushed off, letting out a short grunt as the rope went taut, a quick jab of pain reminding him of his earlier rib injury. He gathered himself and then held the torch below him for the best view as he was slowly lowered down.
The chamber was twenty feet across, and cylindrical in shape. The walls were rough-hewn out of the light gray rock, nothing like the polished black of the floor above. “I see the bottom,” he called up when he had been lowered a dozen feet. “It’s maybe twenty feet below where you are all standing.”
“Any sign of the shard?” Tala called, peering down from above.
“The bottom looks clean,” Corson said. “Hold me here a moment.”
Demetrius and Lucien stopped playing out the rope, leaving Corson dangling in the center of the chamber.
“What’s wrong?” Tala asked.
“Nothing. I think I see something in the wall.” He struggled to point to the spot as he spun slowly, having to twist his head back and forth just to keep his own eyes on the irregularity he had seen in the wall. “I’m going to try to swing over. Just hold the rope where it is.”
After a few fruitless wiggles he started to sway his legs in a rhythm and gained control of his body. A few more swings and he was moving in a distinct arc, each pass moving him closer to the wall. “Lower me another two feet,” he shouted, noting his trajectory would carry him too high when he finally reached his target. The rope slid down as per his request.
As he drew close to the wall he held the torch before him. Sticking out from the rock was what appeared to be a stone box, six inches square and of the same gray stone as the rest of the chamber. It was easier to see when he swung close and the shadow it cast in the torchlight stretched out against the outer wall. He reached for it, once, twice, three times, each time his fingers coming closer.
They don’t need you now.
He swung in again, his fingers brushing the stone.
They’ll cut the rope and leave you here.
Most of his hand found the stone, but his weight pulled him away, the near miss stealing his momentum. He kicked out, working up speed again, reaching…
Time for treachery.
When he was near the top of the swing’s arc, the rope went slack. Corson grabbed at the stone, but just as he did his weight shifted downward. He slapped the wall with his side and heard a crack as the box started to give, but then his hand slipped off and he tumbled, his torch spinning away as he fell. The floor of the chamber slowed his descent but did not stop it. Rather, it crumbled beneath his dead weight. He fell into total darkness, barely having enough time to realize he was below the chamber and falling into oblivion before he splashed into a pool of foul water. The water was only knee-deep above a muddy floor. He had to take a moment to steady his shaking limbs before he managed to right himself and stand. Only then did the shouts from above register in his mind.
“I’m okay,” he called, able to see the hole he had made in the chamber when he had fallen but little more. It hovered fifteen feet over him, a light blue patch in an otherwise black world. “What happened?”
“The rope frayed on the edge of the opening,” Tala replied. “Did you get the shard?”
“No. There is a stone box of sorts on the wall. It may be in there. I had a hand on it, and heard it start to break away from the wall as I fell, but it held.”
They’ll leave you now.
“I don’t think the rope that’s left is long enough to reach you,” said Demetrius.
“Tala, could you lift me, like you did the rock covering the opening?” Corson asked.
There was a pause, long enough to make Corson uncomfortable. “I will need time to regain my strength before I try. And living beings and rocks are different.”
This is your tomb.
Demetrius called out again. “We can lower someone with our part of the rope to the floor of the upper chamber, then drop the rope to you, then work back up from there.”
“I guess that—” Corson cut himself off, hearing a faint exhale of breath that was not his own. He slowly pulled his sword from its scabbard. “Can someone drop a torch to me? Fast?”
“What’s wrong?” yelled Demetrius, the concern in his voice obvious.
“Something is in here with me.”
A torch came tumbling through the hole, falling into the water a few feet away from where Corson stood frozen in place, the magic glow not quenched by the liquid as a flame would have been. Corson lifted it and saw fiery pink eyes staring at him from only six feet away. Suddenly they lurched forward, two embers propelled by an unseen body. Corson swung his sword up defensively, the blade biting into flesh and bone.
The thing let out an awful, high-pitched squeak, then fell at his feet, dead, the blood from its wound dancing into the water.
“Corson!” Demetrius called.
“I got it. A rat, sort of. A rat-thing the size of a big dog.” He waved the torch before him, seeing other eyes watching. “Apparently it has a family.”
Lucien listened to Corson’s words as they rose up from below, as if they came from some distant dream. He heard the splash of a foot falling heavily in water, the singing of a blade tearing the air, the rising voices of a small host on the attack. Unable to bear simply standing by any longer, he jumped into the pit.
Corson slashed with abandon, dropping rats or just keeping them at bay. The torch had made them hesitate, but they soon felt the lack of heat coming from it, and their fear of the flame vanished. Knowing their advantage lie in their numbers, they raced forward as one to overwhelm their quarry.
The forward movement stopped for an instant as a second hole was punched in the ceiling, and another splash signaled a new entrant into the contest. Lucien was on his feet and attacking even before Corson knew it was him.
Recovered from their shock, the rat-things pressed forward, but now a warblade, expertly wielded, had joined the sword opposing them. The water soon grew thick with their blood.
When it was over, a pile of bodies lay at Lucien’s feet. Corson moved the torch in a wide arc, checking to be sure the area was clear. “I want to say ‘You’re crazier than you are ugly,’ but I think I’ll just say ‘Thanks.’ ”
“You would do same for me.”
You would? He does not know you very well.
I would, Corson thought, but his eyes drifted upward, where he could see the others through the hole that Lucien had made. The goblin had made quite a leap.
Demetrius acknowledged Lucien’s call that the foe had been defeated, his voice surprisingly close. He had rappelled down on the remainder of the rope and was now peering down upon them from the floor of the chamber.
“Do you see the stone outcropping?” Corson asked. “Off to your left.”
Demetrius secured his sword and held his torch aloft. Its blue glow had regained some of its intensity as Tala’s strength slowly returned. “I see it. You’re right; it’s hanging half off the wall now. It should be easy enough to b
ring down. I might even be able to hit it with my sword.”
“A spear would be better,” Alexis called from the crypt above.
“Can you hit it from where you are?”
“No. I’ll drop the spear down to you.”
A moment later Demetrius had the spear in hand, and eyed the stone compartment that hung precariously off the wall.
The two misfits are below. They’ll leave you once they have the prize.
Corson wound the loose end of the rope that was still fastened about his waist in his hands. “Demetrius, I’ll toss up my part of the rope so you can pull us up.”
“Hold there. If the shard falls through one of these holes you can retrieve it.”
Buried alive.
“But we can—” Corson heard the clack of the spear striking the wall and then rattling to the floor.
“I see you need lessons,” Alexis called.
“Just out of practice,” Demetrius answered. “And the spear is heavier than what I’m used to.”
Buried alive.
Sweat beaded on Corson’s brow. He looked at Lucien, expecting to see the same apprehension, but instead the goblin simply looked upward placidly, waiting.
Demetrius fired again, the noise this time different, more muffled.
“One more like that and it’ll come down,” Alexis said.
Corson started to search. The rat-things had come from somewhere. This place he had fallen into was apparently some sort of ancient sewer, the walls made of simple stone blocks. He took a few steps and paused, noticing a subtle breeze from the left.
“You have to hit it with the spear,” Alexis said with a laugh, as Demetrius missed and mumbled curses to himself.
Buried alive.
Corson found a hole in the wall. He touched the stone around it and found that it crumbled easily in his hands. The torch revealed only a dark tunnel beyond, but the fresher air he smelled was a promise of escape.