Maaz is building something. Whatever it is, it can’t be good.
When Maarkov emerged from the bottom of the landing, he was shocked to see torchlight burning in the once-shadowed halls of the dungeon. The smell of stone and dirt filled the air, mingling with the stench of dead bodies. A strega walked from the open bars of one cell, crossed the space between the rows of cages, and disappeared into another. The noise was coming from the cell the strega had exited, and now that Maarkov was close to the sound, he could tell what it meant.
They’re digging. He’s got them burrowing under the castle like moles.
Maarkov approached the noisy cell, but started back as another living corpse emerged from within, a bucket of pulverized rock carried in its arms. It didn’t register Maarkov’s presence as it went by, just walked straight ahead with a blank stare on its face. Maarkov spat at the thing’s feet as it crossed the space in front of him and poked his head into the cell.
A tunnel had been dug into the back part of the wall, the stones pulled down to expose the soft, black dirt beneath. The hole stretched into the distance, where low torchlight flickered in time with the digging sounds. Turning his head, Maarkov saw an identical tunnel being dug through the back wall of the opposite cell. He looked just in time to be treated to the sight of another corpse trudging out of the tunnel. It was an old woman with pallid skin wearing the rumpled yellow-and-black livery of a castle servant. Her fingers were tattered, feet bare. Dark stains colored the uniform she wore—blood or dirt. Maybe both.
That one used to work at the gates. She’s taken my cloak a time or two. I’ve seen her sweeping.
Not anymore—now the poor old woman was a rotting meat-puppet, a mindless golem made of flesh. She walked past Maarkov and down the noisy tunnel without bothering to look his way. Maarkov watched her go with a scowl.
How does he plan to stay hidden if he keeps killing the castle staff? He’ll bring the whole city down on our heads.
Maaz had been keeping his plans to himself since he’d pulled Maarkov from the dirt. He had even less concern for the retribution of the living than he’d had before. Maarkov counted at least thirteen different strega carrying buckets of gravel through the tunnels, and by the sounds echoing from the dark, there were many more he couldn’t see.
Maarkov moved toward his brother’s study—if one could call it a study. The door remained shut, and Maarkov put his ear to the wood before pulling it open. He could hear muffled voices on the other side, like the desperate bleating of dying farm animals.
That’s new, too. Maarkov felt a bitter taste in his mouth, the muscles between his shoulder blades knotting. He put one hand on the hilt of his blade, the other on the door handle, and took a deep breath.
When did he start to frighten me?
The thought echoed in Maarkov’s mind as he pulled the door open, a grinding creak issuing from the hinges. The smell of blood struck his nose as a wave of wet air washed over him, bringing the stink of open guts along with it. The moaning, pitiful cries became clearer—a chorus of slow, creeping pain.
The source of those cries would have caused Maarkov to vomit if he’d had any lunch to spill.
People were pinned to the back wall in contorted, fixed positions. Their bodies twitched, spasmed, and struggled in time with their protests. They were arranged into a rectangle, arms and legs twisted together to achieve the intended shape. A large space of bare stone was left in the center, like the frame for a tapestry that had yet to arrive. Their crazed eyes turned in Maarkov’s direction as he opened the door, and a few of the pinned, naked forms grew livelier at the sight of him.
Poor bastards—they think I can save them.
Throughout the struggling group of people grew a dark mass, like a spiky creeper vine made of pitch. Its surface reflected the candles burning in the room, as if it was covered in a film of slime. It had wreathed itself through the bodies, between them, and around them, and Maarkov could see places where it had punched into the stone as well.
It’s grown into them like fungi. The dark creeper didn’t have the solid appearance of the thing Maarkov had given the Shendi, but Maarkov could tell that one had probably come from the other, like a cutting from a fruit tree. The black vine undulated as one of its victims twitched, its form moving like the back of a giant tick. Around the macabre construct were symbols—more of Maaz’s fell runes. They flickered with a dim crimson light.
“Maarkov.”
Maarkov turned to see his brother standing by the stone table, another victim lying dead beneath him. This time it was a young man—perhaps one of the soldiers, by the look of him. His blood had drained through the channels carved in the table’s surface and now pattered to the stone beneath the spigots in its side. A large pot sat close by. The pot was full of dark, still liquid. Maarkov could guess what it was.
“What is this thing, Maaz?” Maarkov gestured at the bodies on the wall. “Why build it?”
Maaz gave him a cold, black stare. His eyes reflected the candlelight in the room, and Maarkov was struck by how it reminded him of the substance growing through the bodies on the wall. After a tense moment, Maaz stepped around the table and approached.
Maarkov tightened his grip on his sword.
“That thing is my concern.” Maaz flicked a skeletal gesture at the corpse over his shoulder. The young man on the table twitched, fingers spasming. The body rose from the table, sightless eyes staring, and trudged from the room. Maarkov shuddered with disgust.
“And the tunnels outside—they’re part of this?”
Maaz looked to the display on the wall. “Did the assassin take the contract? Did you deliver the object?”
“He did.” Maarkov’s eyes followed his brother’s, alighting on the macabre display. Maarkov clenched his teeth together and looked away. “I gave him the device.”
Those people on the wall—will the device do the same thing to the girl?
“Good. It will be days yet until I am ready for the next step. I will send for you when the time comes.” Maaz kept his gaze on the wall. “Don’t leave the city.”
“Maaz, how many people have you taken? Do you not think that drawing the ire of the Imperial garrison, or the Regent, would be a stupid thing to do?”
Maaz smiled, an expression devoid of everything but muscles and teeth. “The Regent will do nothing, and the garrison’s ire will be drawn soon enough. In the meantime, Maarkov, just worry about keeping your blade sharp.”
Maarkov leaned toward his brother, baring his teeth. “If the garrison marches down here and puts a dozen swords through our guts, it’s going to hurt, brother. What if the Regent has written of you to the Emperor, what if Dargorin—”
“If the garrison comes down that stairwell, Maarkov, they will all die.” Maaz didn’t bother to look at Maarkov. “The Regent, as I told you, will do nothing.”
Maarkov glowered at his brother, waiting for him to say more. The silence stretched between them, and Maarkov looked away in frustration. Someone in the mass of bodies uttered a moan of pain. The black vine shivered in response.
“And the Emperor?” Maarkov leaned closer to his brother. “What if he orders every blade in the city to march down here, chop us to pieces, and burn what’s left? I think if he knew the extent of your—”
“The Emperor will have worries of his own before anything can be done!” Maaz turned an angry glare in Maarkov’s direction. “My plans move onward, Maarkov. They cannot be stopped—not by Emperor Dargorin, nor the regent and all the blades he could summon.” He paused for a moment, leaning toward Maarkov and peering into his face. “Nor by you, brother mine. The time has long since passed for you to pick a side.”
Maarkov returned his brother’s scowl. He wanted to yank his blade free and plunge it through Maaz’s stomach. There had been a time when he may have done just that, but that time had passed. Maarkov told himself he didn’t have the energy to play such games anymore, that taking out his frustrations on his brother’s corpse had won him only grief.<
br />
The truth had much more to do with the swimming darkness in Maaz’s eyes and the thing growing through the people on the wall. Maarkov hated to admit it, but perhaps his brother was finally gone. Whatever creature lived inside his scarred body seemed alien and cold, devoid of the last vestiges of the boy that Maarkov had protected for so many years.
That boy’s been gone for much longer than that. It was hard to deny it, looking into those black eyes.
“You know where I stand. I cannot survive without your—” Maarkov grimaced, “—help.”
“Yes,” Maaz turned his attention back to the wall. “You are forever bound to me.”
He sounds awful pleased about that.
“What do you have those things doing outside?” Maarkov gestured at the dungeon through the door. “Why are they digging?”
Maaz smiled. “Perhaps I’m building an escape route to satisfy your trepidation.”
“You’ve never done anything to assuage my trepidation.”
“True enough.” Maaz turned his back to Maarkov, granting his attention to the pot of thick blood. “Go, brother, enjoy the few days left to you here. I will be calling on you soon. Have your blades sharp.”
“Calling on me for what?”
Maaz looked over his shoulder and favored Maarkov with another cold smile. “Killing, Maarkov. What else? It’s the only skill you have.”
Maarkov scowled at his brother but declined to comment. Hearing those words come out of Maaz’s mouth made him angry, but only for a moment. Truth be told, he’d had plenty of thoughts in that direction, too.
Maarkov left the room without replying. He ignored the strega in the tunnels and kept his thoughts quiet on the way up the stairs. When he reached the top of the landing, and the door that led into the halls of the castle proper, he paused on his way through. The guard who stood this watch was missing.
He’s digging now. That’s where he’ll be, till his hands are destroyed by it.
What would happen when Maaz’s plans were complete? What was this dreadful next step? Maarkov had planned to get answers from his brother, but only came away with more questions. Was he like the guardsman—doomed to dig unto his own destruction?
In Maarkov’s estimation, he was worse. The guardsman had been an unwilling participant in his fate. There had probably been screaming, maybe kicking, and a healthy dose of begging for mercy on his part. Maarkov, though, had chosen to go under his brother’s knife. He’d walked forward with both eyes open and filled his gaze with the horrors that had come as a result.
The face of Baroness Llewan popped into Maarkov’s mind. Her words to him echoed in the depths of his consciousness. I am no pawn, she had said. Shame welled up in Maarkov. Anger followed on its heels.
He scowled as he walked back to his rooms, ignoring the frightened glances of the castle staff. Maarkov wished he had the courage to turn against his brother, had the fortitude to withstand the long, decaying death that would follow. He wished he could tolerate the inevitable loss of his mind. If Maarkov had the least regard for his honor, he would forsake his attachment to life and kill Maaz. Maarkov didn’t have the courage. He didn’t care enough for honor, and probably couldn’t kill Maaz if he tried.
Instead, he’d just keep digging, like the corpses in the tunnels below.
A Two-Sided Trap
Dormael struggled out of the river.
His body shook as he pulled himself onto a rocky shelf. The boulder had come from nowhere in the dark, arresting Dormael’s tumbling momentum. Spots danced across his vision as he crawled further onto the stone. The night air was frigid.
Dormael spent the next few moments retching, heedless of what dangers might lay around him. The noise of the river was cacophonous, and dark forms floated by in the chaos. Dormael could do little but lay prone and pretend to be dead, hoping that any live Garthorin would be too busy with survival to notice him.
There were no murderous howls in response to his seizures, so Dormael allowed himself to collapse against the rock in exhaustion. If a Garthorin found him now, Dormael doubted he would have the energy to escape, anyway. The slimy, wet rock was cold against his face, but it felt a thousand times better than the violent darkness of the river.
You can’t have me today, Lord of Bones.
The river had torn into Dormael’s magical senses like a grater through a cheese wheel, the noise of its fury like a thousand screaming needles vibrating against his skull. There had been a long moment of blindness followed by furious motion. Water could play havoc with a wizard’s senses, but Dormael had never felt such a thing in his life.
Maybe you were just knocked senseless. The gods knew he’d slammed against any number of things in the water. Dormael shuddered at the memory of the dark forms he’d known were Garthorin—both dead and living.
I’ve got to find a place to hunker down for the night. If I survived, then so did some of the Garthorin.
Dormael’s body shivered with uncontrollable tremors as he rose to a crouch, eyes scanning the darkness. He reached for his Kai and felt his magic respond, though the effort rewarded him with an aching headache. His body was reaching its limit.
Dormael’s Kai painted the night in singing tones. He turned toward the nearest shoreline and swept the shadows with his senses. Holding his magic made his eyes water, but the warning it would give him was worth the pain. When he could feel nothing moving in the dark, he made his way into the trees.
There were no skulls wreathed into the branches, which Dormael took as a good sign. He had no way to know how far he had traveled down the river’s path and he couldn’t yet get his bearings. The wooded valleys in the Gathan Mountains were still dangerous, despite the lack of morbid fruit hanging from the canopy.
Doesn’t matter where I go down here, I’m liable to run into them.
Tall, ancient pines grew nearest to the river. Dormael could smell their sap as he moved beneath them, picking his way over a thick carpet of dead pine needles. A bird called from somewhere in the forest, though Dormael didn’t recognize the type.
At least something is still alive out here besides bloodthirsty monsters.
The underbrush grew thicker as he moved into the woods. Moss and fungi grew from every surface, and Dormael was heartened to see the ground undisturbed by the passage of clawed feet. Dormael stepped with care but couldn’t keep his shivering body silent. His muscles spasmed, his head ached, and his extremities had long since gone numb from the cold.
He ran into a thick wall of brambles. Dormael cursed under his breath as he searched for a way around the bush, but it had grown unchecked for so long that it might as well have been a wall. The thorns were as long as Dormael’s thumb and sharp enough to break the skin.
While searching for a way through, he found a place where the vines had grown around the base of a tree, creating a natural barrier. Dormael fell to his knees and dug into the layer of dead needles, hollowing a space beneath the wall of brambles. A thick, earthy smell escaped the needles at his disturbance.
Sometimes you have to get right down in the dirt. His grandmother had always said that before doing anything distasteful. The affirmation didn’t make Dormael feel any better. He might have shivered at the thought of bugs crawling over him in his sleep, but his body was already shaking from the cold.
Dormael broke some twigs from the tree and laid them against the thornbush, erecting a makeshift wall. He piled pine needles atop the twigs until he had something resembling a lean-to. The hollow he’d cleared was just large enough for him to crawl inside without toppling the entire structure.
Maybe this will keep me hidden until morning.
After he found a comfortable position, Dormael piled some of the dead needles over his body. He poured magic into the air beneath the blanket of needles, warming it like an oven. His head pounded in protest of using his power, but Dormael needed to dry his clothing and keep his blood warm, lest he die before sunrise.
He drifted for a time, his mind hover
ing on the edge of sleep. His trembling subsided, and the warmth he fed into the burrow loosened his taught muscles. Exhaustion took hold, and demanded that Dormael surrender to its whispering embrace. Dormael resisted only because he needed to be awake to channel the heat.
His contented torpor was the reason he didn’t sense the foreign song in the ether right away. Some part of his brain registered its presence, but the more conscious parts took time to react with urgency. His eyes snapped awake as he realized what he was hearing, and he dropped the heating spell.
Dormael’s first instinct was that D’Jenn was searching him out, and Dormael almost opened himself to the other song. He couldn’t sense where it was, but he could draw a few conclusions from the tones playing in his Kai. The song was faint, as if the caster were working at a distance.
Mind Flight, then. Maybe D’Jenn is looking for me.
Dormael focused on the melody of the foreign song. It came to his senses like a shape through thick mist. It was little more than a faint whisper through the ether, but with an effort of concentration, Dormael brought its signature to his Kai.
He didn’t recognize the song.
Dormael drew away from the foreign source of magic, silencing his own song. His Kai burned with quiet panic, intensifying the headache pounding his skull. The other song paused in its search, as if Dormael had alerted it, and hovered in the air nearby.
Did they sense something?
Dormael forced his Kai to stillness. If another wizard was using Mind Flight to search for him, his melody would give away his position. All wizards could quiet their songs when needed, just as a child could hold its breath underwater. The stronger the gift, though, the harder it was to keep the song from leaking out. For Dormael it was like trying to wrestle a bag of angry raccoons to stillness.
Magic was a vibrant, living force, and it resisted suppression.
Dormael’s legs began to itch. His heart pounded, and his head ached in time with the blood pulsing through his veins. His feet wanted to twitch, fingers wanted to scratch at every inch of skin. His brain screamed for relief as every tiny irritation became a chorus of mind-bending torture.
The City Under the Mountain (The Seven Signs Book 4) Page 14