Arn observed all as he followed the slave in front of him. Once through the doorway, slaves descended a wide set of steps that led downward. For long minutes, they continued forward and down, their passage marked only by the mulgos who stood guard along the way.
At the bottom of the steps, Arn entered a circular chamber from which four passages exited. The column entered the third from the right and began descending once more. The long march continued down dimly lit passages carved from solid rock, turning to the right here, to the left there, but always downward.
The path emerged onto a rope bridge that extended across a chasm. Far below, a faint ribbon of glowing lava wound away into the distance. These sights were quickly blotted from view as the slaves entered the passage found in the opposite wall.
The way continued straight ahead for a short time before the procession turned once more to the left.
As the line in front of him rounded the sharp bend, Arn drew a throwing dagger and hurled it into the overseer’s throat, sending him slumping to the floor before he could raise his whip. Drawing Slaken, Arn shifted his attention back to the line of slaves, taken aback by their lack of reaction. The slaves proceeded forward as if nothing unusual had happened until they disappeared around another bend in the passage.
Retrieving his dagger, Arn shrugged off the slave cloak. Lifting the dead mulgo, he carried him back down the hallway to the chasm, where he dropped the overseer and the cloak over the side.
Footsteps emanated from the hallway he had just left. Arn leapt into the tunnel beyond. At the first side passage, he ducked inside, just out of sight, and waited. The sounds grew loud enough that he could distinguish between the long shuffling gait of mulgos and the nimble padding of slaves. The crack of a whip echoed through the corridors, and the footsteps dwindled into the distance.
Arn stepped out into the main passage and moved silently down the hall, following the route taken by the mulgos and their captives. His long strides soon brought him within hearing of the shuffling footsteps ahead. Arn slowed, maintaining a safe distance between himself and the slaves and mulgos while keeping close enough to observe in which direction they turned. The sound suddenly changed, the footsteps taking on a muffled tone. Arn paused, tilting his head to listen. The footsteps had lost the echo that pervaded the tunnels.
He continued forward more slowly. As he rounded a bend in the passage, Arn saw what had caused the change in sound. The slaves had moved out onto a highway through a monstrous cavern. The road crossed the chamber between towering stalagmites and carefully cultivated rows of mushrooms.
The mushrooms were gigantic, the average height of a man, some rising much taller. Thousands of smaller mushrooms also grew. The entire scene was bathed in a green glow emitted from lichen on the cavern walls and ceiling.
Arn let the line of slaves dwindle into the distance before moving out into the cavern. He ducked into the mushroom grove, the excellent concealment allowing him to push the pace. He intended to follow the slaves to wherever they were kept and then sneak in and find out more. However, the sight of a crossroad leading to a narrow trail that ran up the wall far to his right distracted him. The trail worked its way upward to a black doorway above.
Arn filed the spot in his mind as something that he wanted to investigate later and continued after the procession. Reaching the end of the mushroom grove, he paused. To his front, a man-made wall rose twenty feet from the cavern floor, stretching across the entire cavern’s width, only broken where the slave road passed through a gate.
A space of perhaps fifty paces lay between himself and the wall to the slave compound. Between it and him, a forest of stalagmites rose from the floor. The wall itself didn’t seem designed to act as an effective barrier.
There were no guard towers, no barbed wire, nor any other measures Arn typically associated with the forcible imprisonment of men. Beside the main gate, he saw a narrow opening with a drop-down portcullis just wide enough for one man to fit through at a time.
What in the deep? Did they have the prisoners so cowed that they didn’t have to worry about them escaping?
The slaves he had been following came to a stop before the chute. Two mulgo guards came out through the main gate to meet them.
Arn returned to his study of the wall, which extended to the left and right, coming to an end on the far-right side of the cavern but passing out of sight in the dimness to the left. Moving along the row of mushrooms, he put more distance between himself and the gate. He ducked through the stalagmites and up to the wall.
He began to climb, pausing at the top to ensure that no guards were in position to see him. He gazed upon hundreds of large cages in which slaves slept on the stone floor, their cloaks serving as their only blankets. Some of the cages butted up against the wall to which he clung, but the rest formed a huge grid, stretching out from the wall. Within this grid, randomly placed buildings rose toward the cavern ceiling.
Arn swung his legs over the top of the wall and stepped silently down onto the bars topping the cage below. Moving across, he lowered himself to the ground on the far side. None of the imprisoned stirred.
He moved down the row of cages that lay against the cavern wall, traveling several hundred feet before stopping. All the cages in this section held males. Most housed up to a dozen men who slept sprawled on the ground. Scattered coughs could be heard interspersed with low moans and snores. Not wanting to risk awakening one of the slaves in these groups, Arn moved on. The lack of roving guards continued to puzzle him.
As he approached a building, Arn caught a glimpse of a light shining from beneath a door. This was followed by another shaft of light darting out into the cavern as a different door opened and closed. Arn ducked low behind a cage as a line of slaves was herded down the central road, perhaps a hundred paces in front of him. The slaves disappeared between the buildings and were gone.
Turning to his right, he headed farther back among the cages. He found a cage with three men, one of whom was Endarian. The lock on the cage was a simple tumbler. Arn pulled his lockpicks from the pouch at his waist. Applying pressure on the lock with his left hand to deaden the sound, he manipulated the picks with his right. The lock popped open.
Arn tested the gate slowly and, hearing no squeak, opened it just enough to pass his body through. He moved to the Endarian’s side and placed a hand over his mouth.
The Endarian jumped slightly, his eyes opening wide, but stilled when he felt Slaken against his throat.
“Be quiet!” Arn whispered. “I don’t want to kill you. I’m a friend, but I can’t have you making a lot of noise.”
The Endarian recovered his composure quickly, nodding his head to indicate that he understood. Arn lowered his knife and removed his hand from the man’s mouth. The man moved to a sitting position with his legs crossed. He was tall, with finely carved features that bespoke nobility despite the lash marks on his body.
“You’d be doing me a favor if you killed me now,” the Endarian said in a voice that barely carried to Arn’s ears. “Why are you here?”
“I’m here to find out what is going on within this city. Perhaps you could enlighten me.”
“It would do no good. All you’ve accomplished is to get yourself caught, too. No enemy of Kragan’s who has seen Lagoth ever leaves.”
“Why not?”
“Look around you. Do not be fooled by the small number of slaves you see here. We are but the new-captures. They keep us here until we have come to accept our lot or die. There is a vast city below this level, a city of slaves that is larger than the city above. It is where the slaves of Kragan have lived for thousands of years.
“It is where they are bred to provide food and service for their masters. Some are raised to work, and some are raised to be eaten. The workers who are no longer useful also find their way to the butcher’s block. We new-captures are the fresh blood that is continually brought in to strengthen the herd. After we are properly prepared, we will be incorporated int
o the city below, assuming we survive that long.”
“Why don’t you try to escape?” Arn asked.
“The spell Kragan cast over this city robs anyone not aligned with him of the will to leave. Just the opposite, we will fight anyone who tries to take us away from here. The fact that you haven’t already succumbed is surprising, but you will. In the last four hundred years, everyone who has cast his or her eyes on this city has fallen prey to the spell that hangs over it. Those who do not serve Kragan are trapped, with no hope of ever leaving.”
“How did you get captured?” Arn asked.
“I was scouting when I discovered that Lagoth still exists. I should have returned immediately to Endar Pass to report it, but I felt a need to check it out more closely, as did the others who were with me. We crept into the city, thinking to observe and then sneak out, all under cover of darkness. Once inside, we could not make ourselves leave, despite knowing that we should. So we remained until we were spotted. We fought but were overcome. It surprised us that they did not attempt to kill us, though we killed several of them. But they prize slaves more than corpses.”
“What about the army camped outside the city?”
“I do not know its purpose. It cannot mean good things for the lands of Endarians and men. Kragan is a wielder of terrible power who has long desired world dominion. Outside of this city, most believe him long dead. It saddens me to know he yet lives.”
Arn leaned forward in anticipation. “Is Kragan in the city?”
“I do not know.”
“Get up. I’ll take you out with me.”
“No. I cannot go. You will not make it out, either. I have heard that only when someone escapes Lagoth will the spell be broken. Since that is exactly what the spell prevents, it does not seem likely to happen.”
“What’s your name?” Arn asked.
The Endarian merely shook his head. Then he lay back down and rolled onto his side.
Arn slipped out through the gate and relocked it. Heading back in the direction from which he had come, he moved more swiftly than before. He soon reached the outer wall and climbed down to the ground on the far side.
He passed through the mushrooms on a different route than the one he’d taken on his way into the cavern. As he approached the point where he’d seen the strange doorway high up on the cavern wall, he turned toward it. Ahead, the trail ended in a set of black lava steps.
He paused at the edge of the mushroom field. As Arn lay beneath the giant agaric, he relaxed his body, taking the opportunity to rest and watch. An hour passed before he moved again. He saw no sign of activity in the area, and he felt confident that no one was near enough to observe him climbing the steps.
Arn moved. He passed across the open space quickly but paused at the base of the stairs to study the cooled lava path that showed little sign of usage. Bounding up to the opening above, he ducked inside. Arn found himself in a dark hall. There was no torchlight here. Instead, a dim red light glowed from the far end of the tunnel, too diffuse to illuminate the interior of the passage but bright enough to beckon him forward.
The passage opened into a cavern. The black walls were pocked with holes from which lava flowed, winding downward to form a glowing stream that moved through the center of the room. There the stream split to form a fiery circle.
In the center, a breathtaking statue rose fifty feet into the air. Carved from smooth white marble, a woman faced the far wall, bands of red extruding from the stone floor to bind her hands and ankles. Centered on her bare left shoulder, a red brand marred the statue’s perfection. Arn stared at the image, fascinated. It formed the shape of a fire elemental surrounded by flames so realistic that even from a distance they seemed to dance in the shimmering heat.
Shifting his gaze back to the path beneath his feet, Arn knelt and ran his finger across the smooth black stone. As he turned his hand palm-up in the dull-red glow that filled this chamber, he could see that his fingers were covered in thick dust. He was the only being to have ventured into this chamber in many years. A suspicion was building in his mind. This chamber was forbidden.
Arn rose to look forward once more. A narrow trail led across an obsidian ramp that arched over the molten river, then around to the front of the statue. As he walked the path, a blast of hot air singed his lungs and scorched his eyebrows, a sharp contrast to the cool, damp cavern from which he had come. He hurried to the far side of the ramp.
Once across the lava flow, Arn again noted that the black floor showed no sign of being worn by the passage of feet. Moving to the base of the statue, he extended his hand to feel the ankle. It was smooth, the workmanship exquisite. From the wear on the stone around it, Arn judged that the statue had been bound to the floor for hundreds, perhaps thousands of years.
He moved back out onto the path and walked around to the front of the statue. Here steps only wide enough for one led up onto a raised viewing platform where a lone throne faced the alabaster figure. Turning to gaze in that direction, he felt his breath catch in his throat.
“Gods of the deep.”
Arn found himself staring into the perfect likeness of Carol’s face.
It was as if someone had hammered a fist into his gut, the shock of the statue’s features dropping Arn onto the throne. His temples throbbed, and his vision narrowed until all he could see was that face he had given up ever seeing again. But how could Kragan have created this so long ago? And why?
Arn stood up and forced himself to breathe again. His eyes studied the abomination. It was Carol as he had last seen her, every detail correct except for one—the brand on her shoulder.
The heat waves rising from the flowing lava made her seem to quiver as she stared back at him, as if she were struggling against her bonds in an attempt to rise. This did not seem like a mere statue. This had the feel of an idol.
Arn reluctantly pulled his gaze from the statue and took a more thorough look around the chamber. No. These black walls that wept magma and the molten river that radiated heat weren’t part of some chamber of worship. This place radiated hatred and fear.
A new conclusion formed in his head with certainty.
Kragan had hunted Carol through all the centuries that this idol had stood here, and he was hunting her still. Without realizing that he had drawn the weapon from its sheath, Arn tightened his grip on Slaken’s haft.
18
Hannington Castle
YOR 413, Late Summer
In his chambers, far beneath Hannington Castle, Kragan felt himself come alert as the wards he had placed on the statue beneath Lagoth blared their warning in his mind. That someone had dared violate his forbidden chamber set his teeth on edge. Focusing his attention on the statue of the prophesied she-wielder within the cavern, he looked out through its warded eyes at his obsidian throne and at the man who stood staring back at him.
Blade.
Of course it was. The knowledge that the assassin had taken his unique skill for destruction into Lagoth filled Kragan with rage. Blade had violated Kragan’s personal throne room, and in so doing had sealed his fate. The knife Blade wore would protect him from the spell that Kragan had cast on Lagoth four centuries ago, but this time the assassin had made a mistake that would cost him his life.
Breaking his mental link to the statue, Kragan walked to the crystal scrying vase atop its chest-high pedestal, snared the water elemental, and watched as the water crawled from the bottom of the vase to its sides. A water lens formed within just as another formed in its sister vase in Lagoth. Bohdan, the vorg wielder that Kragan had left in charge of Lagoth until his return, appeared within the vase. Despite an obvious attempt to keep his expression neutral, the vorg’s short canine muzzle wrinkled to expose unusually long fangs. Kragan interpreted the look as more of a grimace than a snarl.
Bohdan’s bow confirmed that impression. “How may I serve you, Master Kragan?”
“A man has entered my forbidden chamber. I want you to kill him.”
“Who is
it?”
“The assassin you know of as Blade, the one whose image I distributed months ago.”
Kragan’s jaw clenched hard enough to send a sharp pain shooting through his molars before he continued. “Blade bears an artifact that prevents any spells from directly affecting him. Otherwise I would have killed him long ago. Because of that artifact’s warding, you will need to send soldiers into the caverns and tunnels beneath Lagoth to find him. As of a moment ago, he was still inside my throne room.”
“I will give the command.”
Kragan broke his link with Bohdan and reconnected with the eyes of the Lagoth idol. But this time, Blade was gone.
19
Lagoth
YOR 413, Late Summer
Arn moved rapidly along the passageways, his mind focused on the task at hand. Right turn, left, past two, right, right, past five, left, stairs down, right. He worked backward along the list of directions, always turning opposite to the direction he had memorized. The mental gymnastics formed a familiar singsong pattern.
He did not pause as the guard at the exit yelled at him. His knife caught the surprised mulgo in the throat as he began uncoiling his whip. Arn reached down and plucked the dagger from the guard’s throat even as its seven-foot body writhed on the floor. Two long strides carried him out the door.
The sky was jet-black, and the cobbled street was damp and slick from recent rain. Arn darted across the main thoroughfare and into an alley. The sight of the ancient statue of Carol had staggered him, putting a tremor in his hands that he’d only experienced in her presence. Old memories came flooding back, along with repressed desire and longing.
Arn tensed his muscles, working to drive the wave of emotions from his brain. It was ridiculous to feel this way. Even if Carol still shared the love he secretly felt for her, the match could never be. He was Blade. And Blade had enemies who would seek out and destroy anyone he cared about. And thus he often worked diligently to appear as if he cared for no one.
Mark of Fire (The Endarian Prophecy Book 1) Page 17