With one last fearful glance at Kara, the acolyte bid them farewell then quickly left.
The men began to gather up the sacks of supplies and several long lengths of rope. Aemon was about to sling a second bag of food over his shoulder when Kara stopped him. “That bag doesn’t look heavy. Let me take it.”
Aemon shook his head. “You might hurt yourself. Your wound—”
“Give it to me, Aemon,” she snapped.
He caught his breath. Would she hit him again?
Kara’s face softened. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get angry.”
“Let her carry the bag; it’ll help build her strength,” Minard said.
Aemon bit back a retort and handed the sack of dried meat and mushrooms to Kara. When she took it, he said, “Promise me, if it gets heavy or hurts you, then you will hand it back.”
She gave him one of her radiant, toothy smiles. “I promise.”
How he loved that smile. It somehow made their predicament not seem so dire.
Wrynric grabbed a shield and strapped it to his left arm then signaled he was ready. When Aemon and Kara had shouldered their loads, Minard lit a torch and strode over to a set of stone double doors.
He pulled a lever on the wall then stepped back. Bits of dirt and chips of rock fell from the ceiling as the doors slowly slid open. Horrid air wafted through the widening gap, making Aemon cough and splutter. The air reeked of death and decay.
Aemon gagged. “What is that smell?”
“This place is where we inter our dead,” Minard said, his voice as indifferent as the rock around them. Torch held high, the monk walked into the gloom of the catacombs.
Aemon went next, then Kara, with Wrynric taking the rear. An oppressive silence hung over the crypt, making their footsteps and breaths unnaturally loud. The air was hard to breathe and left a revolting taste in Aemon’s mouth.
The stench grew as they headed deeper into this silent realm of the dead. Finally, they encountered the first body laid to rest in a nook carved into the wall. The dead man was naked, with no jewelry or any markers to identify who he had been or his rank in the Order. He had died recently, as his flesh was in the early stages of putrefying, repulsive body fluids pooling around him, some dripping to the floor.
Aemon studied the man’s face to see if he was one of the monks who had followed Meglen, but the smell and the pallor of the puffy flesh made him gag and turn away. Minard should have warned them they would be passing the recently deceased. By the divines, the stench was worse than the cloying smell of animal dung at the village where they had seen the Inquisitor General.
Wrynric gave Minard a disgusted scowl. “You people ever heard of boiling the flesh from the bone before burial? What about using the lava around your temple to dispose of the dead? Anything is better than this.”
Minard stopped beside the corpse, his hand over his mouth. “I’m sorry about the smell. My order inters our dead with little fanfare. Our bodies are but engines to serve Ibilirith.” He tapped the wall beside the burial nook with his staff. “In death, when our life’s power is extinguished, our purpose is at an end and we are sent here to sleep in darkness until the day our Holy Lady has need of us once more.”
“This is no way to treat the dead,” Kara said, her face as white as her eyes. “The dead should not be hidden away from Ibilirith’s sacred lights. These people maintained her lights; surely they deserve to be laid to rest under them.”
“It’s our way,” Minard said coldly. “At least here they are not fed on by vermin like they are in the catacombs under the capital.”
Kara breathed through her sleeve as she spoke. “Even people who live in places lit only by torches send their dead to the cities so they can rest forever under the sacred lights. You should honor the deceased, like they do.”
Aemon was not surprised about how the Order treated their dead. He had read about their burial customs in the book, Ilimdalis and the Order of the Lights. Time and again that book had proven itself accurate.
No wonder the Order had banished the poor author into the Great Dark. His writing hit too close to the truth.
Aemon whispered into Kara’s ear, “They are fanatics. When you are dead you are as much use as a broken hammer, and they discard you accordingly.”
Minard glared at him, the torchlight flickering in his brown eyes. “You’re right, Me Lord. We do serve our lady most devoutly.”
Damn, the monk had heard him.
“Get moving,” Wrynric growled. “If we stand here any longer we’re likely to join the ranks of the dead down here.”
Moving off again, Minard led them along dank hallways, through dark chambers and past small shrines with scatterings of metal offerings around them. They walked by dozens of bodies, some skeletons with ragged dried-out sinews, others broken piles of green mildewing bones. Deeper into the catacombs the remains became older, many little more than fragments of bone or piles of dust that shifted slightly when they passed them.
How many people are buried here? Aemon wondered as they strode along a lengthy bone-strewn corridor. It must be thousands.
After descending a long, curved flight of stairs they arrived at a small square chamber with six exits. Minard took one on the left and they followed him down yet more dead-lined tunnels, some containing archaic shrines to Ibilirith.
The Divine looked different than she did in the more modern representations of her nearer to the temple. Some were so dissimilar that they may not have been Ibilirith at all. The statues here looked more like a real person, rather than an ideal representation of one. Was it because they had been made closer to the time Ibilirith was mortal, or was it just a sign that artistry had changed over the many centuries since the Order was established?
Aemon chided himself again. He needed to stop letting his mind wander and keep it focused!
The air became cooler and the smell of rot was replaced by a far more mundane one of wet stone. Aemon’s teeth began to chatter so he tightened his cloak and crossed his arms to try to stay warm. He never thought he would miss the stifling heat of the temple.
A draft from a side tunnel made Minard’s torch splutter out, plunging them into total darkness. Kara drew her breath in quickly, like something had startled her. Aemon’s heart began to race and he reached for his weapon.
He heard Wrynric drawing his sword. “What is it?” the old man hissed.
Minard struck the flint and tinder and re-lit the torch, then held it up to light their surroundings.
Kara cast her gaze forward then backward, scanning the darkness beyond the edge of light. “I... I can see in the dark.”
“Why do you sound surprised?” the monk chuckled. “Everyone can see in the dark to an extent, once their eyes adjust and there’s a tiny bit of light around.”
“This is different. I never noticed it until the torch blew out, but I can see almost as well in complete darkness as I can in the light.” She turned to Wrynric. “My eyes... They’ve changed somehow, just like they did in my visiondream. When I look behind us, I can see the last corner we walked around.” She faced forward. “And about fifty feet in front of us, I can see a room with bones scattered all over the floor.”
“Interesting.” Wrynric studied her closely. “Perhaps you can use your dark-vision to watch for dangers we cannot see. If you see anything, and I mean anything—warn us immediately.”
Kara wrapped her fingers around the passkey and nodded. She appeared as spooked as she had after trying to attack the bald man back at the crossroad town of Jalarfed. The passkey was changing her, but maybe some of those changes were not as bad as others. Having some form of dark-vision seemed like a useful ability to possess.
Still. The change bothered Aemon. What would be left of the woman he had fallen head over heels for if the changes continued occurring?
With that disquieting thought rolling around his head, Aemon followed the others. They soon passed through the antechamber filled with bones Kara had seen.
> When they reached the far end, Minard stopped and made them gather close to the light of his torch. “In a minute, we’ll enter a chamber with eight tunnels leading from it.” He studied each one of them in turn, as if weighing them up in his mind. “Be on your guard. If I were Kahan, I would set my ambush there.”
Aemon fingered the hilt of his mace. “Why?”
“Other than the way we entered, it’s the only way out here. Four of the eight passages lead to hidden exits, while the other four lead to the oldest parts of the catacombs. Enemies could assault us from multiple sides and unless they’re thick-headed enough to be holding lit torches, we won’t know they are there until they’re on us.”
“How would Kahan even know we would pass through this chamber?” Aemon asked.
Minard gave him a look one would give upon biting into a rotten piece of meat. “We have no idea how long Kahan spent down here before finding his way into the temple. If he scouted the tunnels, he’d know all paths lead to the chamber up ahead and that we must pass through it to escape.”
Wrynric snorted. “Then pray to your Divine Lady, monk, that your brethren keep him and his knives busy back at the temple.”
“Oh, they will. If he makes it out of the temple alive he’ll have lost more than a few followers.” He cracked his knuckles, his mouth twisting into an evil grin. “I will kill any knife that gets in my way. They have transgressed against Lady Ibilirith, and there must be a reckoning.”
The old man’s expression hardened to iron. “Vengeance can wait. We must protect the half-blood at all costs—even if it means one of us gets left behind.”
“Getting the scion out of the temple will quell my desire for revenge... for now.” Minard cleared his throat. “In any case, if I don’t make it, there’s a hidden lever near the exit. Pull it and it’ll collapse the tunnel behind you and prevent any pursuit.”
“If there are eight tunnels, how will we know what one to take?” Aemon asked.
“When you enter the chamber, look for numbers carved in the wall above each passage. We are after the number-four tunnel. When you find the right one, head down it and wait for me and the ol’ man at the exit.” Minard lost his evil grin. “Assuming we’re still alive.”
A chill went down Aemon’s spine. “Where do we go from there?” He tried unsuccessfully to keep his voice from quivering. “I do not know much about this part of Stelemia.”
“The tunnel will lead you to a cave system. Ancient steps have been carved into the rock so it should be easy to follow them until you reach a river. Go the direction of the water’s flow and it will take you to the settlement of Rylore Bellholes.”
Wrynric took torches from one of the sacks he carried and passed them around. “In case we get separated, we’ll each carry a lit torch. Once we reach the chamber, Minard and I will throw ours into it, then charge in with weapons ready.” He pointed at Aemon. “You hang back with the half-blood and protect her. If anyone attacks us, you both need to flee down the number-four tunnel while we engage them.”
Aemon stepped toward the old warrior. “I can help you fight. I promised I would protect her too.”
The old man gently pushed him back. “And you will. If we fall, it is up to you to get her to safety. If worse comes to worst, our lives will buy you enough time to flee and pull the lever.”
“But—”
“Then it all comes down to you to get her to Safehold.”
Aemon swallowed his disappointment. He wanted to fight for Kara, not run away and hide from those who would harm her. “I do not know where Safehold is. It might be better if—”
The old warrior pulled a slip of parchment from inside his armor and shoved it in Aemon’s face. “Here. Directions to Safehold. When you get there, you will find a woman named Erinie who will help you. Keep this map well hidden, for if it were to fall into the hands of our enemies, it would doom the last of my people.” He put a mailed hand on Aemon’s shoulder. “Guard the half-blood well, Son.” He let go and drew his sword. “I have faith in you.”
Aemon raised his chin. Wrynric was putting great trust in him. As much as Aemon wanted to fight, it was more important to get Kara to Safehold and then to the Dead City. He would protect Kara until his last breath. Touching his sore cheek, he tried not to wince. No matter what she was, what she did to him or what they came up against.
They lit the torches and followed Minard as he made his way cautiously toward the chamber. Aemon walked at the rear beside Kara, torch in one hand, mace in the other, his heart pounding in his ears. His heart sounded so loud that it was a wonder the others could not hear it.
The silence, the dark, the scattered bones and the tension of walking into danger began to erode away his resolve. As they continued on, it became hard for him to retain his façade of composure. His growing fear made him feel like he was a fraud. He could be walking into battle, a battle in which he may die.
A real warrior feared not these things. Rexus of Acid Lake had not when he faced the armored Slizmaga and nor did Edward of Abyssal Hall, who had fought against the false Priest King until the very end, on the orders of his noble lady.
Minard did not look scared, nor did Wrynric. So why did Aemon?
Damn it. I made a pledge to protect Kara. I cannot allow myself to be afraid.
For her part, Kara looked as frightened as he did. Her eyes scanned the darkness, her breathing shallow, sweat glistening on her forehead.
To combat his growing fear, Aemon began to repeat a mantra in his head. I am brave. I can do this. I must protect Kara.
The sad thing was, the mantra did little to make him feel braver. He felt like he had when he was a little boy standing at the door to his mother’s chambers waiting to be punished. The terror he felt then mirrored the one he felt now.
I am brave. I can do this. I must—no, I will—protect Kara.
The mantra allowed him to keep a grasp at the last vestiges of his composure, and he was able to go on—walking ever closer to the place he or Kara could die.
Minard stopped and mouthed they were almost at the chamber. If anyone was hiding out there, they would know someone was coming. The light from their torches would warn the enemy in advance, giving them time to prepare their ambush.
Wrynric watched Kara expectedly. She used her dark-vision to scan ahead but after a moment she shook her head. Aemon let out his breath slowly. Perhaps no one was out there after all.
The old man nodded once to Minard, then gave Aemon a searching look. Aemon bit his lip and squared his shoulders and signaled he was ready. The old warrior patted him on the head, took a deep breath, then raced forward with the monk beside him.
Aemon and Kara followed at a slower pace and watched as the two men hurled their torches into the chamber. Wrynric let out a challenging roar and charged in first, his shield held before him. A javelin flew from one of the side passages and lodged into it with a great thunk.
They had sprung Kahan’s ambush.
Minard ducked as another javelin flew from the darkness and struck the wall behind him. Aemon and Kara ran into the octagonal chamber.
Four knives burst from the shadows, twin swords glistening in the torchlight. “Bless us, Lord Dwaycar.” They launched themselves into the chamber in a desperate attempt to reach Kara. Minard and Wrynric charged, driving the knives back with a flurry of blows.
Finding the number-four passage, Aemon started toward it but Kara stopped him.
“Wait, someone’s in there.”
Kara backed away as a fifth knife emerged from the number-four corridor, torchlight reflecting off her blades. Like her brethren, the knife was dressed head to toe in black and wore a featureless mask that covered most of her face.
She started toward them.
“Die, Scion,” the knife screamed, eyes blazing with hatred and single-minded purpose. To kill Kara.
Aemon’s mind spun out of control. He was going to die. Kara was going to die. The knife was almost on him, twin blades poised to strike
.
There was little time. He had to do something.
Then his training took hold. Hurling his torch at her, he charged forward and swung his mace.
The torch struck the knife a moment before his mace smashed into her shoulder. Bones crunched, blood sprayed, and a terrible cry exploded from her lips. Her arm crippled, she reeled backward, dropping her left sword.
Aemon’s heart pounded, the world around him forgotten. It was kill or be killed—it was exhilarating. The woman recovered and started toward him. “Get out of my way, fool. You know not what you protect.”
Gritting his teeth, Aemon moved to finish her. “I do not care what you think she is. You will not hurt her again.”
The knife lunged, trying to skewer him on the tip of her sword. “Then die, husk.”
Aemon side-stepped, but her thrust tore a gouge from his armor. The knife’s attack took her past him.
She leapt at Kara, her blade ringed by fire. “Die, Scion!”
For a moment, Aemon did not know what to do. Kara was backed into a corner and had nowhere to go.
Then Minard backed into him, as the monk fended off an attack from one of the other knives. The jolt broke Aemon’s indecision. Without thinking, he charged after the knife bearing down on Kara.
The knife spun to face him, swinging her sword in a wide arc. He slid under it and rammed the mace into her stomach. Blood gushing from her mouth, she flew backward and slammed into the wall, her mask dropping to the floor.
When she came to rest, her eyes fell on him, her body broken, blood pooling around her. There was fear in her eyes. Fear of him or fear of death.
“Sorry,” he said but the knife was dead. Then he noticed the long braid of auburn hair flowing past her shoulders, the decorative earrings, and the young, smooth face. She was a woman, like Kara, and he had just killed her.
He wrenched his eyes away from that dead face and found Kara panting beside him. She looked afraid but in control. Wrynric and Minard still fought the other knives.
The Lost Sun Series Box Set 1: Books 1 and 2 (Lost Sun Box Set) Page 25