Their pace slowed, then stopped as they neared the gate. Here his heart caught in his throat.
Following Helador, fighting had broken out in the Del’atre as forces, rumored to have been financed by various Houses, tried to seize positions of power left vacant when Del’atre’s representatives perished at Vastroth’s hands.
Demonstrations and a few timely assassinations had led to street-to-street battles that raged until Elderow himself led Directorate forces to regain control. A stark reminder of that conflict stood before him.
Beside the city gates, which showed signs of both destruction and recent reconstruction, stood a machine of war, a hulking warning to any who would disturb the city. Its ten pace long frame bulged with boilers and smokestacks. A dark hells maw gaped at the fore. Even silent and still, crouching on iron legs, the machine exuded menace.
Not for the first time, Ryle wondered at the Directorate’s true power. How many of these machines did they possess, and how many would they send west if Praeter forces invaded? More importantly, even if they stopped such an invasion, would anything survive the resulting destruction when the two sides clashed?
Guards clustered around and atop the gate, the Del’atre men in blue and green, and Directorate forces in gray and white, both bore the mixed expressions of stress and boredom worn by guards the world over. Ryle didn’t blame them, not with the endless stream of humanity consumed and disgorged through the entrance. Saying there was any actual order to the process was generous.
Futile or not, the guards were trying to check each person as they pushed through the gate. This dropped progress to a crawl while the heat of the afternoon sun pressed in on the stinking, milling crowd. At any point, a snail could have passed them on the side of the road.
This felt like the stupidest of ideas. They were stuck in the middle of a crowd, intentionally riding toward a wall of guards. Useless or not, they could always spell trouble. His mother would’ve cursed him for his stupidity. His father would’ve plain beaten his ass. Not that he needed an excuse to do that.
Ryle clung to the idea that he now rode with Lastrahn, that his past remained on the frontier, and that there was almost no chance anyone would recognize him. It didn’t help, but he could do nothing about it. So he sweated and suffered, torn between wanting to stay anonymous and almost hoping the guards would recognize Lastrahn, and wave them forward.
For good or ill, they had no such luck. They plodded on in misery until the impossible occurred. They reached the gates. After a few gruff questions, the guards waved them along.
Ryle’s relief was short lived.
“Keep your ass close,” Lastrahn said as they passed through.
He soon knew why.
Wagons and the masses of poor entering the gates swarmed into a small plaza surrounded by grim stone buildings. Here, the flow of visitors ran smack into the citizens of the city. The patched and faded clothes he’d witnessed for hours, stood in stark contrast to the tailored, long-tailed coats, and fitted bodices.
The entire crowd was in continuous motion. Men and women alike jostled each other. They expected you to be about your business, and if you weren’t, you best get the hex out of the way. Ryle was cursed at twice before they’d gone a hundred paces, and he was on horseback.
The thick air smelled of smoke and unwashed bodies. A haze, whether from the unseen factories or other burning substances, turned the sky oily and the sun into a distorted glowing miasma.
Along the edges of the chaos, Directorate guards lined the plaza. Their white helmets and sigils—a seven pointed gear, rising like a sun—shone in stark contrast to the general gloom. All were armed, and all watched the passing crowds closely.
The crowd watched the guards as well. Not overtly, but Ryle saw more than a few sideways glances from both the ragged poor and the well-dressed residents. Fear and suspicion filled the first’s faces, and glares the second’s. It was clear that the Directorate might’ve ended the fighting, but he sensed they hadn’t brought actual peace to the city.
Confusion and exhaustion soon overwhelmed him. There were amazing sights, wonders of the realm he’d only dreamed of, and probably more than a few threats, but right then, none of it mattered. He couldn’t get his bearings, and the crowd never thinned.
He soon realized that, through some generally understood process, the wagons and those in ragged clothing were being separated from the general population. Lastrahn kept them solidly within this flow of traffic.
One-by-one the wagons peeled off into lines assisted by men in leather vests and gloves, and descended steep ramps down into the bowels of the city. Ahead, a smaller passage choked with dirty-faced, shuffling masses, also descended below ground. Ryle tried to maintain his composure as the walls closed in around them, and they rode in a dim world dominated by labored breaths and shuffling feet.
The passage eventually emptied into a wider, if no brighter, space with the same feel as the streets above ground, but instead of sky, vaulted stone hung fifteen paces above. Torches, and somehow, a few stray beams of sunlight, provided sparse illumination. As his eyes adjusted, Ryle learned this underground world was just as crowded as the one they’d left above. If not more so.
Those descending from above dispersed into thick crowds, appearing and disappearing in the shadows. All hustling along the street in a continuous stream. For the most part their clothes were cheaper, their appearance that of laborers or workmen, but not always. Here and there he spotted a merchant or a well-dressed servant going about their business.
The noise of all these people rang even louder below ground. Each sound, each voice, each cry, rebounded from the stone ceiling with renewed intensity.
They crept along, riding through the throng. Ryle sucked slow breaths through gritted teeth, trying to regain some control over himself. Focus on the details, not on the chaos.
A vast array of styles and materials composed the buildings around them. Tilting stone columns fronted some facades. Others were constructed of metal beams and cracked glass, or other reflective materials. Some looked like smaller, more intact versions of the soaring towers in Shelling.
Merchant stalls, shops, and pubs were crammed into every space along the street. Children played by torchlight before many of them, and beggars sprawled before others. Their begging pans almost always empty.
Beside some of the beggars were other figures. Bodies, Ryle thought with horror, taking in their grayish waxy skin, their vacant eyes. Then one of the bodies moved, raising a thin hand curled into a claw. Their fingernails were black, their knuckles swollen. His gorge rose, and then the living corpse slipped back into the shadows. Ryle was left more confused than ever.
Later, he glimpsed the windows of what looked like homes on higher floors near the vaulted ceiling. He soon realized nearly every window was full of faces, young, old, and everything in between. An uncountable multitude resided around them.
The sight left him reeling. He understood people traveled down here, but that they might dwell here? The thought sent his skin crawling. One could easily get lost in this endless mess and never see the sun again. He focused his attention on Lastrahn’s back and did his best to ignore the crowded vastness.
Whether or not Ryle hated the crawling sensations this new world placed upon his skin, he understood the champion’s decision. Guards filled the open air streets, but there were far fewer down here. Within his range of vision, he spotted only a single uniformed figure, and he didn’t look interested in anything beyond the mug he held in one fist.
Based on his mom’s . . . past. Ryle was surprised she’d never told stories of the underground city. She must’ve thrived down here.
They passed through plazas where water burbled from fountains he’d expected to lie dry and lifeless. They crossed a small courtyard, dark as night and covered in a thick tangle of peculiar overarching roses that hung down from above. Their scent wispy and thin, like the edge of a fog. Deep in the shadows, someone played a stringed instrumen
t. The melancholy strains sounded like the distance separating him from Casyne. His chest ached.
Eventually, Lastrahn stopped beside a tall wooden door and rapped. A moment later, a slot in the door slid open, at eye height with Lastrahn on horseback, no less. Lastrahn passed a small object through, a coin? A wooden token? The panel clicked shut, a large lock thunked, and the door opened. Lastrahn rode through, ducking slightly to clear the doorframe. Ryle followed.
They entered a good sized stone room lit by a scattering of lanterns hanging from wooden beams. Ryle blinked in the bright light. The noises of the underground were silenced as the door closed behind them.
A thickset man in a leather vest turned from the door. His crooked nose indicated he’d survived more than a few scraps. The look in his eyes backed it up. Ryle had no doubts he knew how to use the heavy axe slung across his back.
Lastrahn gestured to a smaller door on the far side of the room. The man shook his head then seated himself on a stool beside the door they’d entered.
They waited.
Ryle was well past fidgety by the time a bell above the far door jingled.
Emitting a sigh, the man hauled himself off the stool and crossed to the smaller door. Lastrahn dismounted after he’d passed, so Ryle did the same.
He’d asked himself what they were doing down here enough times he’d lost count. Lastrahn’s wilting stare had silenced his single attempt to gain information. Maybe now he’d get some answers.
Wood creaked as the man hauled the door open, and he ushered them through.
The solid slam of the door closing behind them wasn’t comforting. Nor was the lack of doorknob on this side.
This room was smaller, with a wooden floor, but large enough to accommodate a handful of men and horses. Beside another door—another with no latch or knob—a single lantern sat on a shelf below a wooden rack.
Lastrahn looked calm as ever, but Ryle’s skin itched. After passing Ryle his mount’s reins, Lastrahn crossed to the rack, where he inspected its contents. Row upon row of wooden tiles, too numerous to count, hung from pegs. Symbols Ryle couldn’t make out were carved or burned into each.
Lastrahn selected one, examined it, then slipped it through a slot Ryle hadn’t noticed in the door. It rattled into a container on the other side.
Lastrahn reclaimed his horse and they waited.
Their horses stamped their feet, snorted. Ryle stroked Grey’s neck, and tried to keep the tension out of his shoulders.
Another bell rang, this one deeper than the last. A latch clicked, and the door with the slot opened outward.
A small figure that barely came to Lastrahn’s shoulder stood in the doorway. He or she—Ryle couldn’t tell—wore a close fitting, deep blue robe. Their long hair hung about their face, but beneath it he saw a strip of blue cloth across their eyes. They beckoned to Lastrahn, then disappeared into the darkness beyond the doorway.
No dimly lit area waited. This was pure dark, like a black curtain hung on the other side. Lastrahn didn’t hesitate. He led his horse into the darkness. It felt insane, but Ryle followed.
Once they cleared the door he felt it close with another solid thunk. Ryle’s heart pounded. He heard breaths in the dark, soft footsteps. Then there was a pink light, like nothing he’d ever seen. He blinked, then blinked again. It shone from something in their guide’s hand. The soft glow was enough to outline a stone floor, the shape of walls around them, and a hint of a vaulted ceiling overhead.
The light moved with their guide, and they followed.
No one spoke. The clatter of their horses’ hooves punctuated their breaths, and their boots shuffled on stone. A dozen paces farther, their guide took a side passage, then another. Ryle only saw them as they turned.
It was all he could do to maintain some last bit of composure. The underground city had been bad enough, but this dark, twisting chaos, pushed him to the edge. Keeping a map of their travel in his head was impossible, and he gave up after their fifth turn. Instead he stayed as close as he could to Lastrahn and focused on each breath he took.
At some passages their guide stopped, as if listening, then continued. At others, even intersections of six or seven doorways, they’d push on without pause. The place was a maze in every sense of the word.
Some minutes later, less than half an hour, Ryle thought, they took one more turn, the ground sloped upwards, and a wooden door appeared. Their guide struck a small bell beside the door, and a half minute later, a ring from the other side answered.
They entered a small wooden room, and the door closed behind them. This space contained no rack of tiles, and no guard. They left by the room’s only other door, and climbed a short ramp toward actual sunlight.
Ryle gasped with relief as they emerged in an open air courtyard, fifty paces wide, and surrounded on all sides by four stories of wood and stone. He squinted in the fading daylight while his eyes adjusted. It looked like an inn.
Two gray haired women pulled loaves of bread from a stone oven in one corner, and a mustached farrier shod a horse in a small stable off to one side; his matikforge clanged and wheezed beside him. A sandy haired young man in a working man’s trousers and vest rose from a bench as they exited the tunnel. His eyes widened as he caught sight of the champion. Lastrahn held the teenager off with a dismissive wave and turned to face Ryle.
“Del’atre is a city of secrets. Residents like to keep theirs, but are all too happy to gain new information. There’s a damn market for the stuff here. Remember that.”
“Yes, Sir,” he said, his mind still spinning from the past hour.
“Because of that, those passages we came through connect most areas of the city. You can go about anywhere if you gain access. No one uses the front door here unless they want to be seen, remember that too.”
“Yes, Sir,” Ryle said again.
Lastrahn turned away as a slight, older man with amber hair in a high-necked, white jacket approached. His thin mustache gleamed like waxed wood.
“My good, Sir, welcome back to the Granite Blossom. It has been too long.”
When he spoke Ryle realized that the man was a woman, and the mustache really was polished wood. He couldn’t figure out how it was attached. Another Del’atre mystery.
She smiled and inclined her head.
“Ferrel,” Lastrahn answered, his voice warm.
Ryle watched their exchange without seeing much. His mind remained in the dark maze, and beyond, outside in the streets, within the jostling press.
How the hex would they find Hartvau in all that?
CHAPTER 21
“That’s a nice horse. An appaloosa?”
The quiet voice came from near the stable doors. A round-faced boy dressed in a stable hand's brown overalls stood there. His eyes darted between Ryle and Grey from beneath a mop of dark hair.
“Thank you. You know your horses.” Ryle scooped up a handful of straw and rubbed Grey down, wincing at the pain in his back. The days of riding had combined with the injuries from their increasingly frequent battles to twist his spine into a line of knots that refused to come untied. He knuckled his back for a moment then continued with his task.
Bolstered by Ryle’s response, the kid nodded and stepped into the stable, stopping outside Grey’s stall. “I thought so. We don’t see many like her around these parts.”
Ryle smiled. “Yeah, she’s one of a kind.” He patted her neck and continued rubbing down her foreleg.
“I heard appaloosas come from up north. Well that’s what Neil told me, and Simeon said I shouldn’t always believe what Neil says on account of him being a no good layabout, but it always made sense to me because snow’s pale,” the kid pointed to Grey, “and so are they. That where y’all are from?”
The words came out in such a tumble Ryle required a moment to sort them out. Kid or not, Lastrahn’s orders remained in his ears. He didn’t think the champion had driven them cross country for him to blab about where they’d come from. “Oh, from here and
there.”
“Y’all are travelers? Yeah, we get a lot of those, just passing through. They say everyone in Del’atre’s passing through to somewhere. Always on the move and such.”
Ryle chuckled at the kid’s amusing ramble. “Yeah, something like that,” he said, moving to Grey’s other side.
“Y’all are duelists?”
He looked too young to be into that. “What makes you think that?”
“You look like duelists. You and the big guy. He’s almost as big as Balrod, you know that?”
Ryle didn’t. “Who’s Balrod?”
The kid looked shocked and took it upon himself to correct this serious problem. “Balrod the Bear. He’s the top challenger for the Grand Title. Twenty wins and no losses. Not one. He’ll fight for the title after Advent.”
The title. Empty fights for empty prizes. Crowds of people starved, and the whole city still wanted to see who came out on top. Ryle shook his head.
Despite knowing the city’s obsession, he felt surprised that kids were spectators. “You watch much of that?”
“Neil does. He tells me about it.”
That was something anyway. “No, we’re not duelists,” Ryle said,
The boy’s face fell. Ryle concealed his smile behind Grey as he moved on to her hindquarters.
“Then you must be champions.”
Or not so amusing. His hand stopped moving on Grey’s flank. “How’s that?”
“If you’re not duelists, you must be champions. I think you have that look. Neil says that champions have a certain look about them. He saw Elderow once, the champion leader? And said he’d never forget it, and I’ve never seen a champion, but I’ve heard of them of course. I mean who hasn’t? And I know there’s this big champion named Lawtron, or something like that. He’s been missing, but he’s big and your friend, he’s big, and it struck me out of the blue, maybe that’s him, and y’all are champions.”
Gearspire: Advent Page 17