by Stephen Deas
‘What is it?’
‘Gate. Bars. Hold on.’
Skjorl stood his ground, stock still. He’d been in tunnels this dark before, plenty of times. Darkness didn’t bother him, but other things did. Things lived in tunnels and dead ends made his skin crawl.
‘Some sort of grille. Kasern, you still behind me? Give me a hand.’
Down in the mines of Scarsdale, for example. Plenty of tunnels there, and plenty of dead ends too. For once he’d been the hunter, sword in hand, already stained with blood. In Sand they’d explored the passages under the monastery. Plenty of tunnels there too. They’d found scholars and Adamantine Men and a friendly place for a day or two before they’d moved on, underneath the hell that the dragons had made above.
And before that there had been Outwatch, where they’d thought they were safe under the ground. Dragons were huge and the caves were narrow. Safe, as long as you were deep enough to escape their fire. He didn’t know what had happened after he’d fled the room and left the greybeard to his scorpion, but the old fool hadn’t killed the hatchling like he was supposed to and then someone had smashed down the door and the little bastard had come after them. Thin and wiry, all teeth and claws and flames, and whatever they’d thought about being safe, they’d found they were wrong. Alchemists knew better now. Jex and Vish knew better too. They were the ones who’d lived to talk about it, and the caves under the Purple Spur had grown a lot more big heavy doors after they’d embraced Skjorl and his men.
‘Got it.’
Metal grated on metal, the sort of sound that carried much too far inside a cave. Skjorl winced. He had to remind himself: this time the dragons were on the outside. ‘What is it?’
‘Metal gate. Keeps animals out.’
Keeps animals out? Worth remembering for the way back then. ‘Keep a hatchling out?’
‘Don’t know. Might. Might not.’
There wasn’t much for it but to press on. ‘Another hour,’ Skjorl growled. ‘We find a place we can stop for the day by then or we turn back.’ He heard Jex and Relk groan. Knew how they felt – tracking back always felt like a waste, but that was how you stayed alive when there were dragons to be stalked. Impatience, that was the killer, always was. One thing you could always do, one way you’d always win against a dragon, was wait it out. Even if it knew you were there, if you waited it out, eventually it would go away. They got bored. ‘I’ll just mention Samir’s Crossing and wait for you lot to shut up,’ he growled. Half the men they’d lost, they’d lost at Samir’s Crossing.
They sloshed on through the dark, slowly and carefully, wary of rubbish and rubble under the water. Didn’t dare light a torch even if they could, in case there were holes in the roof. One gleam, one glimmer, one flash of light in the wrong place, that would be the end of them all. For all Skjorl knew, there were hatchlings right outside.
‘Who builds a covered canal anyway?’ he muttered under his breath.
‘Means we can keep on going through the day though. Get this over with,’ murmured Vish, and Skjorl hadn’t thought of that. So set in their routine of sleeping through the day and walking at night, he never stopped to think about the why of it any more. Dragons didn’t see so well in the dark. Mostly they didn’t fly at night, so that’s when you walked. In the day they had eyes like eagles. A man wanted to stay alive, he walked at night and he hid when the sun came up. Always.
He was on the brink of turning them all around and marching back to find a place where they could do just that when Vish stopped again. The roof had fallen in. Skjorl could see the stars in the sky and his hand in front of his face again. For maybe twenty, thirty yards the tunnel was crushed into a jumble and tumble of bricks and broken stone.
‘Hold.’ He clambered up, slow and careful and silent. The moon was gone now; it was later than he’d thought. Eyes peeled, peering into the starlight. Not that he had much chance of telling the difference between a resting dragon and yet another sand-swept boulder, but still, you had to try.
Nothing. He skirted the rubble and the canal went on, roof intact once more. He could almost see it: some dragon had come here, chasing after some whim of its own, and stood on a ridge of stone that turned out not as solid as it had looked. Or maybe it had been done on purpose. Maybe the dragons that destroyed Bloodsalt had come here. Crushed the veins that fed the blood-water to the city after they’d smashed and burned it to ashes, in case their dam didn’t work. That was a thing you learned about dragons, if you watched them. Yes, they got bored, but until they did, they were nothing if not thorough.
Down where there was a roof again the canal bed was dry and covered in patches of old dead prickle-grass. The air smelled different. Old dry earth-dust, fine as flour, the sort to fill your nose and your throat and make you choke. No water here, not for a long time. Likely as not the cisterns were dry and empty then; but if the tunnel went on long enough to keep them out of sight, they had a place to hide in the day. He crept back.
‘Get your scarves on, nice and wet.’ He sniffed. ‘What’s the water in here like?’ Hadn’t thought to taste it.
‘Tastes like shit,’ muttered Jex.
‘Tastes like blood,’ said someone else. ‘Salt and iron.’
‘Leave it then.’ He paused. Tried to think about how much water they were carrying. Not something he’d had to worry much about while they’d been following the river, but away from it, even out of the sun, desert heat was quick and deadly to a man who didn’t have water. Found that one out the hard way, fleeing the ruins of Outwatch when the dragons had finally left them alone.
They had enough, though. Good for a day or two before they’d have to turn back. Time to get to the city and take a good look to know that no one was still alive. Maybe the dragons would be kind and bring back a kill. He wondered for a bit if maybe he should send the others away. Bring water from the river. Hide up here at night, right up and close, just him and his axe.
They walked on through the old canal, holding on to one another in the darkness. Skjorl took the front. His company, his job, feeling his way with his feet. Here and there pushing a loose stone out of the way so no one would trip and stumble and make a noise. For the most part, the canal bed was flat and smooth and sandy. Easy going until he took a step and there suddenly wasn’t anything under his foot. He had just enough balance to let himself go and sit down hard, both feet dangling over an invisible edge. ‘Well that’ll be the cisterns then,’ he whispered, as much to himself as anyone. ‘Oi! Vish …’
Shit. He remembered where he was just a little too late. Sitting on the edge of some underground place where sound would carry like water over an oilcloth. No idea how far below him the floor was, or whether there even was one, or how big the space in front of him might be. For all he knew, there could be a clutch of dragon eggs right beside him.
He felt movement. ‘Boss?’ Vish. Short for Vishmir, the same name as probably half the soldiers in the Adamantine Guard, but it always got shortened to Vish. Back before the war every legion had had half a dozen of them or more. He’d had Tall Vish, Loud Vish, Fat Vish, Blue Vish and Vish the Hands. Tall Vish and Blue Vish had died when the dragons smashed the Adamantine Palace. Loud Vish had gone at Outwatch, done by the hatchling that had hunted them through the tunnels. Fat Vish, well he’d just vanished somewhere in the northern Blackwind Dales. Dead, or else maybe he went back to throw in his lot with the survivors at Sand. Bad choice, but it probably hadn’t seemed so bad at the time.
Vish the Hands had died at Scarsdale. No doubt about that one, since he’d died with Skjorl’s stabbing sword through his guts. Now they had just the one Vish left. Quiet Vish he’d been once, but there was no need for that now. He was the last one and just Vish would do. Skjorl had come to think of him as their lucky charm.
‘Boss?’
Skjorl shook himself. He pulled Vish down to whisper into his ear. ‘You ever come and see these cisterns when you were here?’
‘Nothing much else to do.’
‘That where we are?’
‘Canal empties right into it.’
‘How far down is it?’
‘It was full of water, boss. I got no idea.’
‘Get a rope.’ The air still smelled dry. If there had been water here once, it was long gone, same as in the tunnel. They tied a rope in a harness around him and lowered him slowly. He still couldn’t see a thing but he felt at the wall as he went. Old dry brick or stone. Big slabs with sandy mortar between them. Crumbs of it fell away under his fingers, hissing down the walls. Too small and quiet to gauge any depth. No sound of hitting water, though. No water meant no people. Maybe no eggs too.
Meant this was a waste of time.
His feet touched something hard that crunched under his weight and then he was on solid ground. He climbed out of the harness and gave a few tugs on the rope, sending it back up. They’d wait for his call now. He felt in his knapsack for the alchemists’ firebox, wrapped in an oiled piece of rabbit skin to keep it dry. A big handle on the top to hold once it was lit, a little winder to start it burning. Not like the cold smokeless lamps the alchemists made for living under the Purple Spur, this was more the sort of lamp Skjorl understood, with a wick and a warped glass screen and sweet-smelling oil.
He had it in his hand, ready to light. Instinct stopped him. Lighting a lamp in a place like this was like crossing a rising river. Once done, there was no return. He’d get to see whatever was in this chamber, but whatever was here, it would get to see him right back.
Then again it was that or stand here doing nothing.
He wound the handle. A small flare plumed between his hands. Dimmed again to almost nothing and then the wick caught and the light rose once more. There was a dragon egg right next to him. Tall as he was and as wide as a barrel. Under his feet were brittle pieces of shell. Dry, thank Vishmir. Whatever had hatched, it was weeks ago.
The fire in his hands grew stronger. He looked around. Deep shadows everywhere. Didn’t hear anything except his own slow breaths. But there were eggs everywhere. The most he’d ever seen in one place. At Outwatch, one of the biggest eyries in the realms, they’d had eighty-six. He’d counted them as his company had smashed them. This – this was something new.
He thought for a bit. They couldn’t go on, not with this here. They’d have to go back, all the way to the river where there was water, and they didn’t have time for that, not before the sun came up. So they’d be in the tunnel, quiet as mice for the whole day, praying to the Great Flame. They could do that. Or they could set to work and do what Adamantine Men were meant to do. Kill dragons.
‘Jex! Vish! Jasaan! Hammers and axes.’ He set the firebox down and swung his own axe off his back. His lady, his lover, and in his hands she felt warm and strong. ‘I serve the speaker,’ he muttered under his breath as he lifted her. ‘The Guard obeys orders. From birth to death. Nothing more, nothing less.’ Go to Bloodsalt. Look for survivors. Smash eggs. Kill dragons. Nothing about coming back again. He brought the axe down on the nearest shell. The brittle outside split and shattered, and the axe bit down into the lifeless hatchling within. He struck again and then a third time, until he’d hacked the hatchling’s head from its body. The next one was the same. They’d all be like that. Hatchlings, all grown and ready to break out of their eggs, just sitting inside their shells, quiet and still, waiting for the spark of life.
Jex was down. No questions; he just got his axe out and got on with it. The quicker the better. Needed to be done before daylight. Dragons mostly left their eggs alone, but you could never be sure. Vishmir’s cock! There were hundreds of them! You could see that, now Jex had laid his own firebox down and lit a few rags and tossed them in a circle around him. The cisterns were huge. One vast empty space held by a forest of columns. Skjorl could just about make out the vaulted roof made of hundreds of little domes. Couldn’t see the far walls though.
He paused for a moment. There had to be another way in. A dragon had come down here to lay, so there had to be another way in. A big one. Somewhere or other they must have brought the roof down.
‘Vish. When you were here – how big was this place?’
Vish shrugged. ‘Huge. They took us on a boat that way.’ He pointed. Skjorl’s best guess was he was pointing towards Bloodsalt Lake. ‘Didn’t see all of it either.’
‘Where did you get in.’
‘Up there.’ Except up there was nothing but shadows. ‘There’s a passage that used to lead into the old fort in the middle of the city.’
‘Any other ways?’
Vish shrugged. ‘Lots, I expect. The cisterns run all over the city. No one builds upwards here. No tall towers. Nowhere to get the stone, apparently. They all dig down. Every house has its own cellar. Helps keep it nice and cool. A lot of them have tunnels that lead to the cisterns, if they haven’t all caved in.’
Skjorl got on with smashing eggs. Tunnels were good. A man could hide in a tunnel. As long as there were no hatchlings in it.
‘Skjorl! Movement!’ The shout came from Jasaan, almost down the rope, ripping over the sounds of the axes. He was pointing. At the edge of their light an egg had toppled over.
For a faint moment Skjorl froze. Movement meant …
Jex and Vish were already running and Skjorl ran too, axes held high. The egg rolled again. Cracked. Jex was a dozen paces away, Skjorl much the same.
The end fell off the egg. A nose, a head, two eyes, closed and blind. A neck. Skjorl hurled himself across the last few yards. Brought the axe down. Didn’t hesitate. Dragons didn’t give second chances.
The dragon opened its eyes. Looked right at him almost like it had seen him once before. And then the eyes closed again and fell back, its neck cleaved apart. Jex and Vish looked at him and Skjorl looked back. They were all breathing hard but they froze for a moment anyway. Listening.
Jasaan reached them. ‘Wha—’ A hand over his mouth from Vish.
They stood in silence.
‘What?’ hissed Jasaan.
Skjorl shook his head. He looked at Jasaan. ‘Get in the harness and get out. Jex, you first. Then Vish, then Jasaan, then me. If we’re lucky, we got it quick enough. If we’re not, the adults felt it die and we’re done for if we stay here.’
‘What?’ If Jasaan could have furrowed his brow any further, his eyebrows were going to touch his nose.
‘They didn’t teach you much at Sand then, eh? Its eyes opened. It saw us. Maybe we got it fast enough the big ones didn’t get a warning; maybe we didn’t. Get on with it. Quick. Smash what you can while you’re waiting and then let’s get out of here.’ Making Jasaan the last man out ahead of him again. Turning into a habit, that was. As if there wasn’t already enough trouble between them.
He watched Jex get into the harness. Watched Kasern and Relk and Marran haul him up. For a moment he paused from hacking at an egg. He leaned against one of the pillars that held up the roof.
And felt a tremor through the stone. And then another and then another and another. Footsteps. Dragon-sized. Shit!
‘Dragon!’ he roared. Jex was at the top. They were getting him out of the harness. Vish had shouldered his axe, waiting for it to come back down.
The ground shook. Skjorl felt it through his feet this time. A different kind of shudder. A second dragon. There was one up above them somewhere and now there was one down in the cist—
‘Lights out! Now! Then run!’ He fumbled for his own firebox, snuffing the wick with his fingers and never mind how much that hurt. The last he saw was the harness, coming back down for Vish. The whole floor was shaking now. He could taste dust in the air.
Sounds of something smashing, of stones shattered and falling. Where the covered canal had fed into the wall, where Jex and Relk and the others had been only a moment ago, Skjorl saw a patch of darkness that wasn’t quite black. Stars. He was seeing stars. He was seeing the sky.
Then something blotted them out. Filled the hole. And as he looked away, the fire started.
5
> Kataros
Twenty-three days before the Black Mausoleum
‘He can’t walk.’ The Adamantine Man was looking down at Rat, his face saying loudly that he couldn’t care less.
‘Then you have to carry him.’
‘What’s the point? He’ll be dead in a few days.’ He did what he was told, though: he picked the outsider up and slung him over his shoulder. Rat groaned.
‘No. You’re going to keep him alive just like you’re going to keep me alive. We need him.’
‘To do what?’
Kataros ignored him. He was obedient – that was all that mattered – and she’d never said anything about not asking questions. ‘How do we get out of here without being caught?’ The Adamantine Man shrugged. ‘You don’t know?’
‘No.’
She thought about that for a few seconds. While she thought, the Adamantine Man stood in the middle of the cell with Rat over his back. He didn’t do anything; he just stood there, waiting. ‘We’ll have to find someone who does, then,’ she snapped at him. Think. Think! The Pinnacles were surrounded by dragons. Back in the days of the speakers, when Queen Zafir had lived here, people had landed them on the tops of the peaks, but there were other ways in. There were passages and tunnels down to the ruin of the Silver City – Kataros knew that because that was how they’d brought her here in the first place.
She’d have to find someone else, someone who knew the ways. She’d have to make another blood-bond. Some of the alchemists under the Purple Spur had quietly been getting a lot of practice at that. There, like here, you survived as best you could. Every day you ate, someone else didn’t. But not her. If she bound someone else, she might have to let this one go. There’d be consequences to that.
The Adamantine Man sniffed. ‘Actually, I do know a way,’ he said. ‘As long as it’s dark. Up and out the side.’
‘Up?’
‘Yes.’
‘You want me to climb down the side of the mountain? They’re sheer cliffs out there! And how are you going to carry him?’