The Secret Kings

by Brian Niemeier

  “Which way now?” she asked.

  “You’re the one who said there’s a gate leading to my ship. I take it that was the door?”

  “Yes,” Celwen said. “We left Temil when we passed through.”

  Teg glanced around the bare tunnel. “Any clue where we are?”

  “If I had to guess, I would say that this is the Stone Stratum.”

  She was probably right, which Teg didn’t find comforting. What little he knew of the Stone Stratum came from tales of mining companies a hundred men strong vanishing without a trace between weekly supply runs.

  The whole place was supposedly an infinite mass of solid rock, except for manmade tunnels like this one. Visitors from the Middle Stratum had been digging around the Stone Stratum in search of precious minerals for ages, and there were stories of strange tunnels dug by visitors from elsewhere. He’d have bet real money back in Vigh that this tunnel was one of the latter.

  Teg recalled that this was the last Stratum before the Void. He wondered how close he was to hell, and shivered.

  “I don’t suppose your nexism could scout out where the tunnel leads?”

  Celwen’s face conveyed deep concentration. Silence fell, and it was more than a minute before she cried out, her eyes wide.

  “Come on,” she said, gesturing urgently down the hall to the right. “Quickly!”

  She and Teg were still holding hands, so he managed to rein her in.

  “Panic is understandable,” he said. “Rashness is plain stupid. Some of these tunnel systems run for hundreds of miles.”

  “This hallway leads to a large chamber about a quarter of a mile straight ahead,” Celwen assured him. “It is lighted, and people are there. At least, one of them is a person. He may be two.”

  “Can you repeat what you just said in a way that makes sense?”

  “No time!” Celwen broke into a run, nearly pulling Teg off his feet. He caught his balance with an effort and ran with her.

  The small fire died, bringing a total, oppressive blackout. But after a while Teg saw a somewhat lighter patch amid the absolute darkness.

  At first he thought his starving eyes were playing tricks on him, but the slightly less dark patch slowly brightened to charcoal; then gradually lighter shades of grey, and finally resolved into a silver rectangle standing amid the black.

  This welcome sight was soon joined by other sensations. Mechanical sounds echoed down the hall. Closer to the archway—which the silver rectangle turned out to be—Teg smelled the sharp scent of ether.

  Teg signaled a halt by stretching his arm out in front of Celwen. She stopped, and he positioned himself in front of her, facing the light source. Then he drew his gun, checked to make sure all six chambers were loaded, and crept toward the open arch with his back pressed to the tunnel wall.

  Whatever he’d been expecting, the sight waiting for him on the other side wasn’t it. Teg stepped through the square arch and onto a metal platform anchored to the wall of a gigantic shaft.

  Work lights fixed to the railing revealed the pit to be a hundred feet across, easy. The silver lamplight gave out before reaching a ceiling above or a floor below.

  Teg fought the sudden urge to throw his last match into the hole. Reason prevailed. The damn thing might actually be infinite.

  The industrial sounds were coming from an open archway directly across the shaft. A platform on the opposite side had its own work lights, plus an extendable bridge of metal struts and grills that was inconveniently retracted.

  Teg motioned for Celwen to join him on the platform.

  She sighed. “There is no way across.”

  “Yeah there is.” All that stood between Teg and the abyss was an aluminum railing that he now climbed over. His heels landed on a narrow metal lip, and he cringed at the echo that redounded from the four sheer walls. The machine noises from the other side continued uninterrupted.

  Celwen gripped the railing. “You cannot mean to climb across!”

  “I’ve climbed worse. At least it’s not snowing.”

  Sweat moistened Teg’s palms as he felt the cool rock face. Finding a pair of likely handholds, he tightened his grip and swung his legs out over the pit. His right foot slipped off a small crease in the stone. His stomach lurched in anticipation of a fall, but his left foot found enough purchase to let him regain his footing.

  Teg glanced at Celwen, who stood on the platform covering her mouth with her hand, eyes wide.

  “This might be harder than I thought,” he said between rapid breaths.

  “What if we are discovered?” Celwen asked. “I am completely exposed here.”

  Teg nodded toward the wall. “You’re welcome to join me.”

  She shook her head. “What if you fall?”

  “Then just do whatever you want. It won’t matter, anyway.”

  Teg inched along the wall. He realized with a sickening feeling that he was more out of practice than he’d thought. Less than halfway to the side wall, his fingers were already numb; his hands cramping.

  But Celwen was right. Getting caught here meant certain death for both of them.

  Teg pushed his burning muscles onward, counting on his unnaturally quick healing to cover the cost of overexerting himself.

  Mostly to take his mind off the pain, but partly in the hope of an answer, Teg silently prayed.

  You got me this far, he reminded Elena. Anyway, I’m pretty sure it was you. Get me through this—get all of us through this—and I’ll set you up like the old gods. Temples, worshipers, tax exemption; the works.

  The promise had come to Teg out of desperation. But the more he thought about it, the more right it seemed. The Guild had pulled down all the temples and banned the ancient faiths—and perhaps the old gods had earned it by deserting the world. But the Guild’s failure to give people something else to believe in had clearly been a mistake.

  Teg reached the right angle where the first and second walls met. A visual search turned up new hand and footholds, letting him traverse the corner. His infernal healing ability kept his body in equilibrium, so while the burning ache never went away, it didn’t get any worse either.

  Teg’s spirits were actually rising until he came to the limit of the lights’ range. A long stretch of sheer stone bathed in total darkness stood between him and the vertical pool of light cast from the far platform.

  The lightless section spanned the middle third of the wall. Continuing on would mean going by feel alone.

  With no other options, Teg eased his throbbing hand into the shadows. His fingers met only smooth stone.

  A moment’s frantic thought reminded Teg of the short sword strapped to his left leg. He carefully released the blade from its bindings and drew it. Transferring the weapon to his right hand was a harrowing but ultimately successful exercise.

  Using the blade to extend his reach, Teg found his next handhold. He slid the blade into his belt and blindly stretched his arm toward the narrow crevice in the stone. His left hand slid into the right’s former position, and his aching arms bore his full weight while his feet probed the wall for support.

  After several repetitions of this grueling process, Teg still hadn’t escaped the darkness. He sucked in a couple of deep breaths to calm his nerves and reached out with the sword again.

  This time the blade found no handhold. His anxiety rising to panic, he stretched his right arm till he feared it would pop out of its socket. The sword still scraped against bare stone.

  Teg’s left hand slipped. It reflexively sought a new handhold, but his sweaty fingers couldn’t get traction. The half inch-wide ledge below couldn’t support all his weight, and his feet shot out from under him.

  The next instant of terrible weightlessness stretched into absurdity. Teg recalled his Mithgarder climbing instructor’s stern warning that arresting a fall from a vertical surface was next to impossible.

  His reflexes took charge again, making his arms and legs scrabble against the pitiless wall as he fell. In
an act of final desperation Teg gripped the sword’s hilt in both hands and stabbed the rock with strength amplified by mortal terror.

  The blade sank into the stone. Teg’s downward motion ceased with a jarring suddenness that sent an agonized jolt through his upper body and scattered pebbles into the abyss. The sword bowed. It took all the strength of his arms and will to hold on.

  “Teg!” Celwen cried. His name reverberated from the walls.

  “Still here,” grunted Teg. “Please shut up.”

  Teg’s mind raced. He’d fallen even farther from the light, and now his best means of finding handholds was stuck in the wall.

  There was only one way he knew he could climb—up.

  Teg dangled from the sword hilt until the hellish pain in his shoulders had subsided to a burning ache. Then he let go with his left hand and carefully felt for a handhold, which he thankfully found.

  Now came the risky part. Teg jammed his right hand into another fissure in the stone and hauled himself up. The sword still jutted from the rock below him, and he gingerly set first one foot; then another on its hilt.

  Confident that the bending sword wouldn’t break, Teg ran his hands over the wall above him until he found more secure handholds. He ascended, leaving the weapon that had saved his life.

  Teg didn’t know how long he’d climbed before the fear that had fueled his ascent wore off and he paused for a breather, but looking at the next wall showed him that he was level with the door again. The platform was tantalizingly close.

  Seeing the retracted bridge and the lever that extended it gave Teg an idea. It was undoubtedly stupid, but it was his only way forward.

  Teg continued up the wall until the stone became too smooth to climb. He looked down at the bridge controls twenty feet down and perhaps twice that distance to his right.

  The lever stood up from a metal box attached to the railing. It was thin, and he might miss. It might’ve had a hidden catch that locked it in place.

  Teg ignored these disastrous possibilities, drew Scrope’s knife, and threw.

  For one gut-wrenching moment it looked as though Teg had aimed too high, but the knife struck the top of its target with the ring of steel on steel.

  The lever moved a fraction of an inch and the knife clattered to the platform.

  Resisting the urge to curse out loud demanded all of Teg’s self-control. He took a few more deep breaths and thought again.

  One idea kept popping into Teg’s mind, and he forced it back down each time it surfaced. But the jagged crevices to which he clung bit into his fingers. His hands were slick with perspiration. He only had one more shot.

  Actually, if he went through with this he’d have no more shots. But he would have a slim chance of living.

  Teg pulled the gun from his pocket—but not to fire it, which would alert everyone for miles and probably jar him from his perch. Unloading the cylinder with one cramped hand, he tried to preserve the ammo. But four of the six cartridges fell through his fingers and into the pit. He never heard any impacts.

  After stuffing the last two shells in his pocket, Teg flipped the cylinder back into place. A pang of shame assaulted him as he drew back his arm, took aim, and threw away his last weapon.

  Teg’s remorse turned to giddy relief when the gun banged into the lever, throwing it flat against the box. His relief became dismay when the revolver bounced off the railing and joined the lost bullets in the endless depths of the shaft.

  A low-pitched hum and regular metallic clanking announced the bridge’s deployment.

  Its painfully slow deployment.

  Teg’s grip was about to give out when the leading bridge segment reached the space perpendicular to and below him. He was already slipping when he let go, dug his feet into the rock, and sprang from the wall.

  He would have backflipped into the hole, but a last second twist brought him around.

  The bridge was too far away.

  Without thinking, Teg yanked the belt from his waist and flailed at the bridge. The narrow metal gangplank had no railing, but there were hooks along the side to secure the bridge in place when it retracted.

  The belt buckle latched onto a metal hook, and Teg swung beneath the extending span. His stomach turned somersaults as he pendulumed back toward the wall. He swung back just short of impact to dangle off the side of the bridge.

  Hauling himself up took the last of Teg’s strength. He lay on the extending bridge, letting the perforated metal dig into his back, until it carried him to the entrance platform where Celwen stood waiting.

  Teg looked up at her. “Told you there’s a way across.”

  “I can see that, yes.” Her voice was flat, but Celwen’s face betrayed her horror and relief.

  He let her help him to his feet. After another moment’s rest, Teg put his belt back on and started across the bridge.

  “You nearly died!” Celwen said. “Why rush back toward danger?”

  Teg didn’t look back. “Because I nearly died.”

  Celwen hurried after him. By the time he reached the other side his footsteps were sure and his pain was gone, replaced with renewed purpose. The knife was lying on the platform, and Teg retrieved it, taking care not to let his only weapon slip through the grate.

  20

  The arch leading off the platform gave on a square chamber about thirty feet across. Carved from the same dark stone as the rest of the tunnel system, it had a sunken floor that descended in three steps. The walls were carved, but with simple recessed panels nowhere near as complex as the black and white doors’ reliefs.

  Teg examined the open archway as thoroughly as he could. Nothing out of the ordinary, except for the uniform light in the room beyond that seemed to shine from nowhere.

  “Wait here a second,” Teg told Celwen. He stepped through the arch, knife in hand, and descended into the room. The steady thrum of heavy machinery emanating through the far door was as loud as a powerplant turbine. The sharp scent of ether, which Teg had noticed out in the hallway, was strong enough to sting his nose.

  Do they have a ship’s engine room down here?

  A blow to the head set off bursts of red pain behind Teg’s eyes and sent him reeling. Before he could recover something slammed into his stomach and drove the air from his lungs.

  Habits learned by painful repetition moved Teg’s back against the right wall. Gasping for air, he brought his arms up in a fighting stance and cast about for his attacker.

  Besides Teg himself and a fading trace of ether, the room was empty.

  Izlaril? he wondered, feeling a surge of fear for himself and Celwen.

  As if in answer to his silent question, a fist hammered Teg’s right kidney. He cried out and fell forward onto his hands and knees. Darting a quick glance behind him, he saw only a seamless wall. Shaiel’s Blade was crafty, but to Teg’s knowledge not even Izlaril could attack through solid stone.

  Another whiff of ether, this time accompanied by a blur of motion to his left, gave Teg enough warning to brace himself. The kick would have shattered his ribs but merely cracked them instead. He rolled to the right and felt a blow from an entirely new direction pass over the back of his head.

  There’s more than one of them!

  Teg sprang to his feet, wincing as his skull and ribs reknit themselves. This time he kept moving in a complex dance meant to maximize his awareness while minimizing his vulnerability.

  Not that it would do much good if he was really fighting ghosts.

  “There are two of them,” Celwen shouted from the entrance. “In the ether!”

  Teg turned to face Celwen right as a man-shaped haze appeared and punched her across the face. She fell to the platform.

  Teg lunged at the rose-tinted apparition, which looked like a man dressed in short wool robes with his head wrapped in linen. But the image faded and Teg struck empty air.

  Correction—air mixed with a touch of ether.

  Based on Teg’s experience and Celwen’s words, the guardians
hid in the ether and emerged just long enough to make hit-and-run attacks on trespassers.

  And they can see between dimensions like she can.

  Out of the corner of his eye Teg caught a blur coinciding with a powerful kick that swept his right leg out from under him. While he struggled to regain his balance, a savage punch to the face sent him backpedaling with blood streaming from a cut above his left eye.

  The pain focused Teg’s mind. In search of a plan, he looked to the entry and exit arches but decided against making a run for it. There was no guarantee that the ethereal guardians couldn’t follow, and he cringed at the thought of fighting them on a narrow bridge over an endless drop.

  Teg caught another whiff of ether and ducked under another blow aimed at his head. This time he saw his opponent clearly. Besides his monkish robes, the guardian’s bound head was encircled by a mirrored band. Similar plates reinforced his gauntlets. Teg’s reflection in the pale metal was a lavender shadow.

  Ether metal. Probably Worked to pierce the veil between Strata.

  Time for a little test. When he smelled ether again a moment later, Teg flourished the knife; not intending to wound, but only to make contact. His experiment met with success when the blade rebounded from his foe’s armored glove.

  Teg backed his way up the steps to stand inside the entrance. He wasn’t counting on the arch to give him any cover; just a quick escape.

  Shoving his right hand into his pants pocket, Teg released the knife and fished around until his fingers touched the slim wooden shaft of his last matchstick.

  The guardians’ attacks indicated that one took point to lower an opponent’s defenses while the other waited nearby to exploit the opening. Teg counted on them sticking to the same pattern, and on the first attack coming through the stone on his right.

  Teg struck at the first hint of ether. True to form, a blurry gauntleted fist emerged from the arch’s right side. Teg grabbed his attacker by the wrist and struck the match on the armored glove. The trace of ether in the air made the tiny flame blaze to twice its normal size.

  Teg flicked the match onto the guardian’s woolen sleeve. He didn’t wait to see what happened next.