The Blighted City (The Fractured Tapestry)

by Scott Kaelen

  No sense wasting time, he thought as he gave a curt nod to the age-ravaged head of the Chiddari matron. “Madam,” he said in a flat greeting. “We must stop meeting like this. People will begin to talk.”

  Cunaxa Chiddari looked singularly unimpressed.

  He stalked back along the hallway, his mood becoming more rotten than Cunaxa with each step. When he reached the alcove where Jalis waited, the flicker of the lamp illuminated her leaning against the wall, arms crossed over her middle with the daggers still in her hands, the flat of Silverspire’s blade resting against her cheek. She raised her eyebrows questioningly. When he shook his head, she hissed a curse.

  “…which leaves only one course of action,” he said, nodding to the brass lever. “Care to do the honours?”

  Jalis gave him a tight nod. “You’re too kind,” she said, positioning herself before the lever.

  He unclipped the crossbow and loaded it, then aimed it at the door. If something waited on the other side – as long as it wasn’t Dagra – it would get a bolt to the face before he ran in with the sabre. A tiny bolt wasn’t likely to do much, but loosing a shot into a corpse’s face should slow it for a moment, maybe knock it back long enough for them to coordinate an attack.

  “Do it,” he told her. With both hands, Jalis grasped the lever and put her weight into pulling the handle towards her. Metal scraped against metal, stone scraped against stone. With gasps of effort, she managed to shift the door inwards inch by inch until it ground to a half-open halt. The yawning darkness beyond was silent and still.

  “That’s as far as I can open it,” she said.

  “It’s enough.”

  The dust beyond the door was unsettled. Oriken squatted for a closer look. A clear set of bootprints led into the murk, joined a short distance ahead by a second set.

  “He’s not alone,” Oriken said.

  “What?” Jalis peered over his head at the tracks in the dust. “Oh, great. By the fucking stars.”

  Oriken glanced up at her. “I don’t know if this is the right time to mention it, but I’m really not in the mood for this shit.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “If only it made three.”

  They set off into the passageway. For half an hour, they trudged tediously past an unchanging array of beams and rough-cut stone, following Dagra’s footprints and those of his unknown companion. There were no side-passages or doors leading off the tunnel. Oriken could see evidence of mining activity, but he guessed that wasn’t the tunnel’s intended purpose. More likely it was a chance opportunity after the discovery of a few veins when the tunnel was freshly dug, and any minerals were long since depleted.

  Oriken drew a breath. “If I didn’t know better—”

  “Which you don’t.”

  “Which, admittedly, I don’t,” he conceded with a scowl. “But if I didn’t, then I might believe that this passage leads all the way to the Underland. It’s like we’re wandering into the arsehole of the Pit itself.”

  Being on their guard had spiralled into tediousness. Oriken had long since given up on keeping his voice low, as had Jalis, and their weapons were back in their sheaths.

  “It seems apparent,” Jalis said, “that as long as we continue on a level gradient, we can’t go any further than the cliffs that line the promontory.”

  “What if it does go deeper? What if it carries on into the ocean?”

  Jalis shrugged. “Then it’ll be under water. In which case, two things will be certain. Dagra will be dead, and we’ll be turning back. The chances of someone building a long tunnel leading nowhere but into the ocean are extremely slim, not to mention a flagrant waste of time.”

  “What I don’t get is why the tunnel’s not on the map. Sure, it was hidden from obvious sight, but I wouldn’t call it secret.”

  “My best guess,” Jalis said, “is that its exclusion from the map suggests it probably wasn’t used by the common citizens, but by the clergy, guardsmen, or nobility. I’d further guess that the other crypts have similar tunnels leading from them. I admit that I can’t begin to guess what’s going on here, and I don’t like that one bit. It makes us vulnerable. It’s obvious at this stage that this isn’t just about Dagra. Whatever the case, the question isn’t whether there’s trouble up ahead, but how big is it and how close are we to reaching it?”

  Oriken sighed. “Trouble ahead and trouble behind. What about the chapel? Was that on the map?”

  Jalis slowed her pace as she pulled the parchment from her pocket and unfolded it. Oriken held the lamp closer, and for a long moment the only sound was the crunch of their footfalls on the gravelly floor, then Jalis gave a disgruntled murmur.

  “That doesn’t sound like a yes or a no.”

  “It’s a yes,” she said. “It’s a yes times four.”

  Oriken frowned. “You mean there’s a chapel in each corner of the graveyard?”

  “Right.”

  “Each one filled with a congregation of corpses.”

  “Could be.”

  “Any good news?”

  “I’ll get back to you on that.”

  Oriken peered at the map. “I can’t make arse nor elbow out of the lettering. It doesn’t help that half of it’s written in Old Himaeran.”

  “You really don’t know your own land’s native language?”

  He shook his head. “A few of the old folk back in Eyndal spoke a little of it, but for some reason learning the language just never cropped up in life’s lessons.”

  “Well,” Jalis said, “I do know a smattering of Old Himaeran, not to mention Sardayan, Modern Sosarran, Middle Sosarran…”

  Oriken barked a wry laugh. “Old Cela must have some connections, getting hold of a map like that.”

  There was a soft rustling of parchment as Jalis returned it to her pocket. “The map’s not ancient. No more than a few decades, I’d guess. Might be a copy of an original. Either way, it only gives us the most basic information. It’s as crude as a Khalevali sailor in a bath-house.”

  Oriken snorted. “You’re mixing your definitions.”

  “It was a play on words. Gods, your grasp of Modern Sosarran is also crude at times.”

  “My apologies, siosa. I’ll leave the word-play to you.”

  “Promises, promises.”

  “And you leave the sword-play to me.”

  “Really? You’ve got a nerve saying that to a bladesmistress. And I’d love to hear you mention your affinity with sword-play in the wrong wing of the Brancosi Brothels; the boys there would adore you talking that way to them.”

  Oriken gave a low growl. It was a touch of playful banter, but it was enough to lift his spirit ever so slightly from the mud it was otherwise wallowing in.

  They settled into silence and continued along the unchanging tunnel. His thoughts drifted through everything they’d witnessed since scaling the perimeter wall. True enough, this had seemed a fool’s contract, but what did they have to lose?

  The contract should have been easy, he thought. It almost was, except for one detail which Dagra anticipated but I didn’t consider. There’s more than a seed of truth buried within the legend. This time, I was wrong and Dagra was right to hold to his superstitions. I never saw it coming. My sense of reason made me blind to the possibility of far-fetched truth.

  Up ahead, something was different about the shadowy sameness of the tunnel. Oriken touched Jalis’s arm.

  “Steps,” she said.

  The ceiling angled down, parallel with the descending stairs. Oriken crouched beside Jalis at the top and peered ahead. There were only half a dozen steps before the ground levelled off, the ceiling supported by a thick length of timber. Ten feet further along, a second set of steps led upwards. Dagra’s footprints were discernible in the dust and grit, along with those of his unknown companion.

  Oriken shared a glance with Jalis. They made their way down the steps and across to the second set. At the top, they were met with more tunnel stretching into blackness.
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  “I guess you were right about other tunnels leading from the crypts,” Oriken said. “I reckon we just passed one crossing overhead.”

  Jalis nodded. “I’m surprised there haven’t been more. Maybe the Chiddari tunnel takes precedence in route.”

  “Any thoughts on where we’re heading?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Don’t ask me which direction, though. I got lost with all the turns in the stairwell and the curvature of this tunnel. But I don’t see a point in it connecting to another crypt.”

  “Which leaves the only option being Lachyla itself.”

  Jalis nodded gravely. “The Blighted City.”

  “Well, we were considering a treasure hunt.”

  “That was before the dead showed up and we made a majority vote against returning.”

  “Uh-huh. And yet, here we are.”

  Again, they lapsed into silence, marked only by their steady footfalls. Oriken’s mind wandered to nothing in particular but listening to the sound of Jalis’s gentle breathing. He flinched when she grabbed his arm and pointed ahead. He peered into the gloom, silently cursing himself for letting his attention wander. Jalis drew Dusklight from its sheath with a soft sigh of steel, the black blade glinting in the lamp-light. Fifteen paces along the tunnel, softer shadows interrupted the deeper darkness.

  “What do you see?” he whispered.

  Jalis held her hand up and motioned for them to advance slowly. After several paces, Oriken could distinguish the dim shape of a round stone table, what appeared to be a set of shelves against the right-hand wall, and a narrow black recess to the left. A collection of objects were scattered upon the tabletop, and more items filled the shadowed shelves. He couldn’t see any bodies lying around, either living, dead or something in between.

  Slowly, quietly, he drew his sabre and passed the lamp to Jalis. He inched forward, grimacing as grit crunched beneath his boots. Jalis stayed close behind, and when they reached the table the glow from the lamp revealed three vertical beams marking a dead-end a short way ahead.

  Oriken shifted his attention to the narrow alcove; as he made to approach it, Jalis stopped him with a hand on his arm. He raised an eyebrow at her, and she pointed to the floor. The footprints led directly into the alcove. He nodded in understanding and resumed his approach, treading carefully into the opening. With Jalis behind him, the light played upon two ascending stone steps several feet into the alcove, above which stood a heavy-duty wooden door. Reaching it, Oriken placed his ear to the wood and listened.

  “I don’t hear anything.”

  “Let’s take a look around,” Jalis said. “There might be something here that can help us appraise the situation.”

  Oriken stifled a sigh. “All right. But quickly.”

  They returned to the stone table and Jalis placed the lamp on its pitted surface. While she searched the shelves, Oriken scanned the contents of the table. The lamp guttered, causing shadows to flicker across the items. There was a cracked clay bowl, filled with dust-laden ore samples; a crude copper goblet, brittle and lined with rust; a small knife; a few worthless gem shards; and a leather-bound book, the edges of its pages brown and furrowed, the cover grimy with dead fungus.

  “This is all junk,” he said as he flipped the cover open. The pages were brittle but stayed intact. After the first couple of blank pages he found the title, scrawled in meticulous but faded calligraphy: On The Nayture Of Mynerales. Underneath the title was the author’s name: Cleve Hauverydh. Oriken closed the book.

  “Nothing much here either,” Jalis said, moving to his side with something in her hand. “Except this statue, which I’m guessing is an idol of the goddess Valsana.”

  He glanced at the onyx figurine. “Yeah, that’s her. You can tell by the exaggerated breasts and labia, and those big, sunken eyes. Ugly bitch, if you ask me. Not a patch on the likes of Khariali or Pheranisa. Now those are two deities I’d like to—” The oil lamp guttered, dimmed and snuffed out completely, casting the tunnel into total darkness. “Fuck.”

  “Oh, great,” Jalis said. “I didn’t bring a spare oil flask.”

  “Only one thing for it.” Oriken inched across to the alcove until his boots struck the first step. He reached into the darkness. His fingers touched the rough wood and he climbed the two steps to stand before the door. He found the doorknob and pulled it towards him, but it didn’t budge. When he pushed inwards, the door shifted, luckily with scarcely a sound. “I’m going in,” he said. “Hold onto me.” By way of answer, Jalis gave his arm a squeeze.

  He kept a tight grip on the loaded crossbow as he grasped the doorknob and eased the door open. It swung inwards with a quiet creak.

  So far, so good, he thought.

  He took a step over the threshold, then another. Jalis’s grip on his arm was slack but she stayed with him. He inched forwards one careful step after another, making his way along the wall.

  “If we’re somewhere beneath the city,” he whispered, “then this could be anything. A castle keep, a treasury…”

  “An oubliette,” Jalis offered.

  “Huh?”

  “Shh.”

  Another step along the wall and the back of his hand touched something hard. He felt along the smooth edge and guessed it must be a table. He ran his hand over the dusty surface, inching along until he reached the table’s corner. He angled around it and stepped slowly until he reached a wall, then wandered along it with his fingers tracing the stone.

  His hip knocked into another obstacle and he froze as it shifted an inch across the floor. Something upon its surface rattled and began to roll. Jalis squeezed his arm.

  “Shit,” he whispered.

  A moment later, the rolling sound stopped and he knew the object had teetered over the edge. Time slowed and his heart thudded, then the silence was shattered as the object clanged against the floor, and the metallic echo rang into the darkness.

  Jalis dug her fingertips into his arm. “Oriken, you dolt!”

  The crash resounded, echoing from the walls as the metal object spun upon the ground. And then silence returned – except for the hammering of his heart as he released a shaky breath.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  Jalis didn’t respond.

  There was nothing to be done but resume course. He was thankful, at least, that his finger hadn’t squeezed the trigger and released the loaded bolt. They only had a limited supply. I knew I should’ve let Jalis lead the way. But no; big Oriken had to prove his worth, didn’t he? Blundering in like a bull in an apothecary store! No more groping around blindly. He nudged forwards. One inch. Two…

  Click.

  Oriken’s gaze shot in the direction of the sound. An amber glow appeared in the air some twenty yards across the way, casting its lustre into the room. Stone steps led up to a door that opened slowly to reveal the figure of a man standing at the threshold, a flaming torch in his hand.

  Oriken frowned at the gladius on the stranger’s hip, then locked his gaze with the man. Perhaps it was the light and shadows playing over the clean-shaven face, but the man’s eyes seemed to be outlined with thin, dark circles.

  The man’s expression was calm. Confident. “You—”

  Oriken’s hand flashed up and he squeezed the trigger.

  The crossbow bolt thudded into the man’s jacket near his collar-bone. He grunted and glanced down at the protruding bolt, grabbed it, and plucked it out.

  Jalis gasped. “What under the stars…”

  The stranger sighed and cast them a cold smile. “If that’s how they greet people in Alder’s Folly, I’m all the more grateful for remaining in Lachyla.” An unsettling, liquidy undertone trickled beneath each syllable, reminding Oriken of old Jerrick, the Peddler’s nepenthe-smoking regular; watery, crackly, but not frail like Jerrick.

  Oriken slotted the crossbow over his belt and drew his sabre. “What are you?”

  The man smiled. “Who I am is Gorven Althalus.
As to what I am…” He gave a brief chuckle. “Well, that, my uninvited friends, is a question that remains wide open for debate. What is not for debate, however, is that you will both accompany me from this cellar immediately.” He half-turned, then paused to add, “And, please, do try to refrain from attacking me any further; it may not kill me, but I can assure you it does indeed rankle.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ANOTHER BRANCH OF THE TREE

  Their enigmatic host led them from the cellar along a series of well-kept corridors, up two separate flights of stairs with lacquered, dust-free banisters. Many doors were closed, but those that were open showed ornately-decorated rooms with faded portraits hanging over antiquated furniture. Oriken glimpsed strange devices to which he could assign no obvious purpose, and in one room he spotted an alchemical desk filled with alembics, retorts, a mortar and pestle, and a clay crucible. Another room was filled with shelves stacked floor to ceiling with ore samples, coloured stones, and some interesting items that could have been unearthed while mining: a polished skull, similar to but flatter and wider than a human’s; a worn stone pictograph carved with runic symbols and displaying a creature covered in teeth, eyes and limbs; a dented copper helm of simple design that he guessed pre-dated the Days of Kings.

  The building was fancy and gilded, but Oriken’s intrigue was overshadowed by his concern for Dagra and the desire to not be in the place at all. Though the adventurer in him buzzed at the sight of the plethora of treasures, he kept it on a tight leash. The temptation to stick his sabre through Gorven’s back was strong. He considered lopping the man’s head from his shoulders as he led them through the elaborate house, but although their guide, captor or whatever he truly was, looked like a man and seemed amiable enough with his brief comments, Gorven had plucked the bolt from his chest as if it were nothing more than a splinter, and that, for Oriken, was that. Those feeble husks out in the graveyard were overwhelming in their number, but he wasn’t prepared to get down and dirty with someone who brushed aside a wound that would have felled most normal men, especially when that man – or creature – had a hefty gladius at his disposal. Jalis’s shake of her head told Oriken that she fully agreed with his unspoken assessment of Gorven Althalus, at least until they learned more about him.