City Under the Sand: A Dark Sun Novel (Dungeons & Dragons: Dark Sun)

by Jeff Mariotte

  And it was true. But he and Shen’ti had never claimed not to be fools, in Avra’s memory.

  Shen’ti lowered himself until he was dangling from his fingertips, then dropped to the street below. He hit with a thump, falling backward onto some rubble, and let out a tight cry. Avra followed suit. When he landed, his left ankle twisted beneath him and he flopped forward against the rough stone wall of the building. Dropping this way meant leaving Hagkun’s lotulis behind, but he still had his own sword.

  “You hurt?” Shen’ti asked.

  “I’ll live,” Avra said. “Let’s get out of here!” He started running, favoring his hurt ankle. When he glanced back to make sure Shen’ti followed, he saw a shadow in the window they had just left. One of the sand howlers, its eyes glittering in the sunlight.

  Several blocks later, they still had not reached the wide avenue that marked the city’s boundary. The pain in Avra’s ankle had reached an agonizing level, and it was already beginning to swell. “I can’t run anymore,” he said, leaning on a nearby wall for support. “Are they chasing us?”

  “I don’t know,” Shen’ti said.

  “I can’t run anymore,” Avra said. “I’m sorry, Shen’ti. Perhaps you should escape. I need to let my ankle rest.”

  “Neither of us will make it alone,” Shen’ti said. “If rest we must, let’s find another hiding place. A better one, this time, where they can’t sniff us out.”

  Avra knew he couldn’t run more than a few steps without collapsing. If he went slow, kept his weight off his left leg, he could get around, but barely. Healing might take days.

  He kept his mouth shut, though. He had offered Shen’ti a way out. If the man chose not to take it, Avra couldn’t force him.

  “Through here!” Shen’ti shouted. He pushed on a wooden door, held closed only by the sheer weight of debris piled on the floor behind it. The stuff scraped back as Shen’ti forced the door open. Avra searched for any indication of what the building’s function had once been, but the walls were empty. Akrankhot, he remembered. At least we know that much about it.

  Shen’ti shoved the door closed. They waded through detritus, mostly plaster from the walls and collapsed ceiling, and through an arched doorway on the far side of the room.

  Here they found another staircase, spiraling up and down. Not much light filtered through the closed door, although there might have been windows on an upper floor. Shen’ti started up.

  “No more jumping!” Avra insisted. “Let’s go down.”

  “But.… we’ll be trapped down there, if anything follows us in.”

  “I’ll be just as trapped above,” Avra said. “I can’t risk landing on this ankle again, so either way I’ll have to fight.”

  Shen’ti shrugged. “Down it is, then.” He started to descend, and Avra followed, pressing against the walls to help.

  He had not known Shen’ti well, but the man had always struck him as opinionated, never shy about sharing his beliefs. If Shen’ti thought they should go up, he would have made that argument. Avra was glad not to be deserted, but there was something strange about how agreeable the man had become. Shen’ti would bear close watching.

  The stairs wound down and down, into what seemed like the depths of Athas itself. They should have been pitch black after the first curves, but somehow the walls seemed to glow with just enough luminosity to keep the short, smooth stone steps visible. Avra kept expecting a landing, a subterranean floor—some sort of destination for this staircase. But instead of finding it, he kept limping, around and around. Shen’ti was moving faster, so far ahead that Avra could no longer hear the huff of his companion’s breath, only the rasp of his feet on the steps. The air was blessedly cool, but held a sharp tang reminiscent of blood, giving him the unpleasant sensation that he was descending into some gigantic creature’s veins.

  Finally, after what seemed like the duration of a festival week, Shen’ti uttered a short, sharp cry. “Ha!”

  “What?” Avra asked, trying to hurry down without pitching forward onto his face.

  “Avra, it’s … come quick!”

  “I’m coming!”

  He went as fast as he dared, and the bottom seemed to arrive suddenly, bringing him up short and almost causing him to stumble. Even down here, leagues underground, that glow persisted, illuminating a massive subterranean cavern.

  “Look, Avra!” Shen’ti said. His voice was hushed, and he waved a hand toward the contents of the cavern.

  Everywhere, piled up on the floor, stacked on tall racks, even thrust into the walls themselves, was metal. Rods of metal as big around as Avra’s wrist, balls the size of a man’s skull, rectangular bars, and more, all of it gleaming in the soft light.

  Avra rushed forward and picked up a bar. It seemed to weigh as much as a large child. “It’s really steel,” he said, his voice quaking with wonder. “I’ve never even dreamed of this much in one place.”

  “Do you know what kind it is?” Shen’ti asked him.

  “No. I’ve held iron and once, gold. But this? I’ve no idea. It’s a treasure trove, though.”

  “Not as easily transported as gold or gems.”

  “No. But this much of it—do you have any idea what the Shadow King would give for this? Or any other sorcerer-king, for that matter?” The cavern reached back into the darkness, beyond where Avra could see, although he believed if he walked that way the illuminated walls would continue to light his path. “An army could be outfitted with this, or an entire currency minted. Possibly both!”

  Shen’ti stroked his chin. “You might be right, Avra.”

  “Perhaps we can salvage something from this damned trip after all,” Avra said. “Certainly House Faylon won’t be paying us for our trouble.”

  “But how … we’d need an argosy to carry all this. A dozen of them.”

  “We’ll take a couple of samples, ones we can carry easily. We’ll show them to Nibenay, and let him pay us for the location of the city.”

  “Or torture it out of us, or simply reach into our minds and pluck it out like low-hanging fruit.”

  “The road to riches never runs straight, Shen’ti. There’s always some risk.”

  “Very well, then,” Shen’ti said. He started collecting chunks of metal small enough to be carried.

  “Not yet, man! We just got here! Whatever it was up there might still be lurking about. Anyway, my ankle won’t stand up to climbing those stairs so soon. We’ll rest here—surrounded by our new treasure—for an hour or two, then if it’s clear we’ll get out of this city for good.”

  Shen’ti dropped the metal he had gathered. Once again, Avra noted how agreeable he had become.

  But surrounded by all this steel, he didn’t care to complain.

  6

  The climb back up the winding staircase was indeed painful, especially laden as they were. But at the top, whatever had stalked them seemed to be gone, and nothing interfered with their escape from the city. By the time the two moons rose into the night sky, they were encamped at a small oasis, far from the city. The ache in Avra’s ankle had started to fade, as if walking on it had been beneficial.

  Both soldiers felt safer here than they had in the city, but they still planned to sleep in shifts, to keep watch for anything that might attack them. The water in the oasis was fresh, and Avra drank deep, slaking his thirst at last. But oases, he knew, tended to draw all sorts of visitors, including the kind who would not hesitate to kill them for a handful of ceramic coins.

  Avra was sleeping soundly, dreaming about lying back on a soft divan with a nubile young lady pouring wine into his mouth, when a strange noise disturbed his slumber. He opened his eyes and saw Shen’ti walking in a tight circle, muttering to himself.

  “It’s in there,” he said. “It’s in there. I saw it in there. I saw it.”

  “What’s in where?” Avra asked him. “Are you standing watch, or walking in your sleep?”

  Shen’ti didn’t react in any way, just kept walking. His hands
opened wide, then closed into fists, then opened again. “It’s in there. In there. It. Is. In. There.”

  “Shen’ti.”

  “Must go back,” Shen’ti said. “It’s in there. Must go.”

  “Shen’ti!” Avra called. He rose to his feet. His companion was bewitched or sleepwalking. Either way, he needed to be brought around, before he hurt himself.

  But Shen’ti ignored him. Leaving his refilled water bladder, his trikal and everything else behind, he started walking back the way they had come. Back toward Akrankhot.

  “Shen’ti, stop!” Avra cried. “Come back!”

  Shen’ti didn’t stop. Avra started after him. His ankle gave out under him and he pitched down into the sand.

  Avra tried to scramble to his feet again, because Shen’ti was already disappearing into the darkness. But he had strayed too close to an elven rope cactus. A spiny red vine twisted around Avra’s right ankle—his good one—and tightened there. Instantly, burning agony gripped Avra as the cactus drove its needles deep into his leg. At the same time, more of the tendril pushed up from beneath the sand and snaked up his leg.

  Avra screamed. If the cactus responded at all, it was just to clamp down even harder on his leg.

  He had never encountered an elven rope cactus, but he’d heard stories. Those needles were digging into his veins and sucking down his blood, draining him into the plant’s inner parts, deep underground. What he didn’t know was how long it would take to remove enough blood to kill him.

  And he didn’t know if he would be able to break free of it in time to catch Shen’ti.

  He didn’t dare grab the thing, because it would just ensnare his arm as well. He could cut it off, if he could just get to his sword. But he had left that where he was sleeping, hadn’t thought he would need it simply to grab Shen’ti and shake him into wakefulness.

  Gritting his teeth against the pain, Avra pushed off with his arms and tried handwalking to his left. He couldn’t get any distance from the cactus, but he didn’t expect it would care where he was as long as it had its grip on him. He made it a few “steps” and collapsed again, the pain too severe. He lay there panting for a few minutes, feeling himself being weakened by the second, and tried again.

  In this way, slowly and painfully, he made his way back almost to where he had slept. He could see the dark wood of his sword, resting atop the few pieces of metal he had brought out of the city. He could almost reach it.

  Almost. He strained his arm, fingers splayed out, but they fell just short. He tried to lurch forward, but the cactus held him fast.

  The night seemed to be growing darker, as if the stars had slid behind a semi-opaque film. He didn’t have much time left. Do something, he told himself. Anything, while you’ve an ounce of strength to do it with!

  He stretched his arm out again. He couldn’t reach the sword, but he could get his fingers on one of the slender metal rods he had carried from Akrankhot. If he could tip it, slide the sword to him …

  Moving slowly, cautiously, he wiggled the rod. He had to move it just right, try to raise the far end and lower the near so that the sword would shift the right way. He got the sword moving, little by little and then the elven rope hitched itself up higher, slithering around his waist, setting off an entire new wave of agony. Reflexively, Avra jerked the metal rod, and the sword went clattering off the far side of the pile. He would never get to it now.

  It took several long moments for the realization that he did have a weapon to penetrate his pain-clouded mind. The rod. It was shorter than a sword, not much bigger around than one of his fingers.

  But it was metal. With all the strength he could muster, he rose to a sitting position, ignoring the pain stitching across his midsection. He raised the rod high and brought it down fast, into the elven rope just beneath his foot. The angle didn’t give him as much force as he would have liked, and the cactus clung tighter in protest, but he did it again a second and third time. On the fourth blow, the cactus seemed to relax a little. Avra yanked his leg and was granted more leeway than he’d had just seconds before. He adjusted his swing and struck again, pounding the cactus into the dirt.

  Finally, the thing split in two. Blood—his blood, Avra knew—gushed from both severed ends as the tendril gripping him went limp. Avra plucked it from his body and threw it as far as he could, scrambling away from the plant in case it sent out more.

  Free of it at last, he collapsed into the sand. He had lost so much blood, when he tried to raise his head, the stars above started spinning. He lowered it to the ground again, and slept.

  7

  Avra didn’t know how long he slept. Surely not more than an hour. When he woke up, blood still seeped from his wounds. With considerable pain, he managed to stand up and retrieve his sword. Shen’ti hadn’t returned. Avra wanted to find him before heading back toward Nibenay.

  He thought he knew where to look.

  Shen’ti’s footprints in the sand confirmed his guess. His fellow soldier was on his way back to Akrankhot. For what purpose, Avra had no idea. He never wanted to see the place again, unless perhaps with a well-guarded caravan.

  But Shen’ti had stuck by him, even when he might have left Avra to his fate and saved himself. He had thought there was something odd about Shen’ti’s behavior all that day. He’d put it down to watching their friends die, to being cut off from their caravan and on their own in a strange and frightening place. If it was something else? Well, no use pondering questions that couldn’t be answered. He would find out when he found out, or he would never know at all. Such was the way of things.

  By the time Avra reached Akrankhot—relief flooding through him when he saw that it had not been submerged, during the night, beneath the desert that had held it close for so long—the sky was lightening at the approach of the sun. With it would come the punishing heat of the day. And he would be back at the city, far from the shade and refreshing water of the oasis, and that much farther from home.

  Inside the city, Shen’ti’s tracks were harder to follow than they had been in the desert sands. It hardly mattered. Avra believed he knew where Shen’ti was going. He headed toward the building beneath which they had found the vast trove of steel. He had almost reached it when he saw Shen’ti coming out the door.

  Something was wrong, though. More wrong than it had been. He had spent a lot of time with Shen’ti over the past couple of days, and he had never seen Shen’ti walking as he was, an ungainly half-stumble, half-lurch. And his head, held at a strange angle, bobbed loosely as he walked. “Shen’ti?” Avra said.

  Shen’ti didn’t acknowledge him, just kept walking. When he got closer, Avra saw the reason his head was bobbing—it had been half-severed. Avra could see Shen’ti’s spine through the opening, and blood everywhere, but except for the spine and a narrow strip of flesh there wasn’t much holding it on. Shen’ti’s eyes stared blankly through Avra, and the soldier kept going, past him and toward the open desert.

  Shen’ti was dead. Walking, but dead.

  “Shen’ti? Shen’ti!” Avra cried. He wanted to stop the man, to shake him, to find out what had drawn him back here, and what animated him now.

  But that was when the sand howlers came back.…

  II

  STEEL

  1

  Aric listened to steel.

  Everyone had some psionic ability, some affinity with the Way; some just developed it more than others. Aric believed that his ability was his connection to metals—he had always been able to hear what they had to say, and had been surprised to learn that others couldn’t.

  As a result, he had chosen a difficult occupation for anyone on Athas, harder still for someone like him. Swordsmithing required the constant use of two of the rarest things around, metal and water. But his swords, when they were finished, were beautiful weapons, and fetched premium prices. The one he was finishing now was no different.

  He was near the final stage. The metals had been combined—and this was when the son
g of the steel was loudest, the different combinations of materials calling out to him, telling him which amounts of what would work together to achieve the effect that he wanted—the blade hammered into shape, scraped and filed, heat-treated and quenched. Now he held it in his lap and worked it over with fine polishing stones, smoothing out any roughness, wiping away the faintest lines or cracks that he could only see by turning it this way and that in the bright Athasian sun.

  This work required patience and concentration. He had to make sure he didn’t polish one spot more than another, which could throw off the balance he had worked so hard to achieve in the earlier stages. He had filed the edges and point to near-razor sharpness, testing them against knotty wood and carru hide and a scrap of fine silk he had managed to acquire, and it sliced through all three. He had tempered it in clay and water and heat until he could bend it almost back on itself and let it go, and it would resume its ideal shape, without curves or kinks.

  So he didn’t want to ruin it now, with these final touches. This particular sword was a special order from a noble family, and they wanted it strong but lightweight, flexible but sturdy enough to stand up to the sorts of chips and nicks any sword took in battle, without breaking. Aric would deliver what they had asked. As he worked it in his hands, listening to the steel telling him which parts had been worked enough and which needed another touch here or there, he thought it was, perhaps, the best blade he had ever made.

  “Falling in love with that thing?”

  Aric looked up to see Ruhm, his goliath friend and assistant, watching him work. “What do you mean?”

  “Looks like you want to kiss it,” Ruhm said. He was thick-necked and slope-shouldered, and he wore an almost perpetual frown. It was for the best. His smile, when he showed it, was an unnatural thing; a ghoulish, yellow-toothed grin that frightened small children and brave men alike. His voice was a low rumble, like the sound of rocks rolling along a river bottom. At almost twelve feet tall, he had to stoop to pass through the doors of Aric’s shop—most doors, for that matter—but his sheer brute strength often came in handy around the shop. Years of working with metals had deepened Aric’s chest, made his shoulders broad and his arms more muscular than those of all but the biggest full-blooded elves he had met. But there were still things he couldn’t lift, or could just barely manage, that didn’t even strain the goliath.