Written in Blood

by Span, Ryan A.

  I wouldn't, Humber said suddenly. The mountaineers call this fire-water. Your friend Aemedd would probably call it naphtha. Imagine being covered in lamp oil, only worse.

  Reluctantly I sheathed my knife and put the rock back. Hot anger burned in the pit of my stomach. “You could have warned me.”

  I just did.

  I chose not to dignify that with a response. I could sense him grinning.

  The point is, I got you something to burn. Something that should last longer than two fingers of gin. You know what to do.

  I grumbled and rubbed some life back into my poor leg. The rest of the gin went down my gullet in a few comforting gulps. Then I unwrapped my handkerchief, took off my undershirt, and unclasped my cloak. Everything I could spare. I soaked them in the pool of naphtha and cut up the dry part of my fur trousers to wrap it all up into a package I could carry. Filled my flask, too. I had a feeling I'd need as much of this stuff as I could get.

  “How do I know it will light at all when I need it?” I asked testily.

  Try it out. One spark here and this entire mine could go up in flames. Otherwise, you'll just have to trust me.

  “Trust the voice of the dead man in my head. Excellent.”

  If he said anything else, I wasn't listening. Instead I concentrated on getting back out of the fumes. The pervading smell got into my head until it felt like my eyeballs were floating inside my skull, too light, blurry, dizzy. It became a challenge to put one foot in front of the other. I kept breathing through my sleeve as best I could.

  Finally I reached a place where the air was clearer. Stale and nasty, rather than actively suffocating. I sucked in a few lungfuls and then coughed my guts out from the dust and the lingering scent of naphtha.

  After another few minutes of wandering around the pitch-black maze, I found the edge of a small pool of water, dripping in from above. I remembered what Racha and Aemedd had said. Better to go thirsty until I was really desperate. I only used it to clean up my leg. When I stood up again, I found the long, narrow stalactite from which the water dripped, by bashing my head into it.

  At first I cursed the invisible obstacle. Then an idea lit up inside my head, and I found my smile. Humber had taught me well. Drawing my sword again, I carefully sawed through the stone spike. I caught it in my other hand as it came loose, and went to find a patch of dry ground to work.

  I laid the stalactite on the floor, and knotted my soaked undershirt around the top. After some effort, bashing stone against steel, I managed to strike a spark off my knife. The naphtha didn't need any persuasion to flare up like a house of straw.

  Light. Heat. They were wonderful beyond words. I couldn't even tell how long I'd been lost. Hours? More? I held my hands out to the curling, licking flames and felt warmth bleed back into my fingers. It was the nicest sensation I could remember.

  I carefully picked up the spike by its base and raised it out in front of me. My very own improvised torch. Saints, it was a proud moment. I just had to remember to keep it as far away as possible from the rest of my precious naphtha.

  The light showed me my surroundings for the first time. Somehow, somewhere, I'd wandered out of the mine tunnels and into a place which looked it had once been a dormitory or barracks. Dozens of alcoves led off from a main passage wide enough to accommodate an army, as well as larger chambers supported by immense columns. These housed hundreds of dusty niches chiselled out of the stone, just big enough for a man lying down. They could be one of two things. Bunks, or graves.

  I did find one interesting thing toward the back of one of the larger rooms. Fresh charcoal, and dust disturbed by a number of feet. Examining closer, I found the leavings and rubbish of a camp of six or seven men. Curiously, some of the prints left in the inch-thick dust had been made by boots, while others walked barefoot.

  Dodging more stalactites, I followed the vast hallway through a right turn, and quickly realised there was a whole underground city here, dedicated to supporting the mines. Next to the dormitories lay a communal washroom whose floor had been carved into deep slits by thousands of years of running water. Nothing but a black abyss down there. I heard a stream babbling somewhere at the bottom, but I didn't fancy trying to take a dive.

  Then, to my horror, the charred remains of my handkerchief burned out. It crumbled to the floor in a pile of ash. The world went dark again in an instant, and I bit my tongue to stop myself from screaming in frustration and bitter despair. It had barely lasted ten minutes. That meant all the rest of my fuel would make maybe half an hour's worth of light.

  I screwed my eyes shut and fought the desire to cry.

  Good God, Byren, pick up your skirt and dry your knickers! I thought you were a man of the King's Own, not some snivelling girl!

  Somehow the insult made me smile. It was just like being back in the Army again, comfortable, familiar. It evaporated my misery like sunlight on rain, and some of the old military discipline reasserted itself. “Humber, I've known girls ten times tougher than you ever were.”

  Alright. Keep my secret, and I'll keep yours. He nudged me back towards the central passage, which I'd come to dub the 'high street' in my mind. Now tell me, does that look bright to you?

  I stared down the faintly shadowed tunnel, stunned. He was right. The blackness here had gradients, tiny shifts of colour visible to the human eye. I blinked and started to walk.

  Another cluster of chambers lay up ahead, where the subterranean night was pushed back by a tiny glimmer of pale but unmistakable daylight. I ran through them to find the source.

  The halls were stained with green. A few shards of time-eaten bronze still lay scattered on the floor. There wasn't much to tell them apart. However, I knew I'd found what I was looking for when I ran across it. A small pile of snow had gathered in the middle of one room, underneath a polished, circular hole drilled into the ceiling. I climbed the pile in a desperate hurry and looked up through the gap.

  The effect was dizzying. The whole ceiling slanted upwards like an upside-down funnel. The flue at the top went on for hundreds of yards, absolutely vertical all the way to the surface. Glimpses of brilliant white clouds and sky showed through a hole which, from down here, was no bigger than a coin. It must've been around midday up there. Rays of light touched my face and I basked in them like an oasis in the desert.

  For a minute I thought about climbing the shaft. I'd kill myself trying, but it took a lot of willpower to resist the idea. The frantic need for sunlight almost overwhelmed my good sense.

  Exploring, I found one other shaft like it, in a room identical to the first. This one was blocked shut by packed snow. Based on their shape and placement, I guessed them to be kitchen chimneys in a mess built to serve an army. The room next to them seemed to bear my theory out.

  It was a dining room on a massive scale, edging out even the Great Hall at Winter Court. Unlike the temple we found earlier, this was a purely functional structure, supported not by swooping arches and columns but by a framework of the ageless red wood which held up most of the chambers and tunnels. Carved stone benches and tables were arranged in six long lines, seating two to three hundred men. A giant light well in the ceiling offered another glimpse of sun, though mostly covered up by snow and ice. The well showed deep notches and vibrant blemishes where it used to be lined with polished bronze plates. Mirrors, to light up this hall like a cloudless day in the South.

  The spiral decorations so common in the temples and mausoleums were almost absent here. The only thing bearing any kind of ornamentation was a tall archway on my left, which promised to lead to somewhere significant. Then I heard a noise coming from it, something human or human-like, faint and far-off. I crouched by the side of the arch and clutched my sword. Hard discipline steadied my breathing and eased my racing heartbeat. I listened for a minute to make sure they weren't coming any closer. Satisfied, I rounded the corner and crept quietly into the dark. Reconnaissance was needed, and maybe a fight if I could take them by surprise.

&
nbsp; My eyes slowly adjusted to blackness again. I peered down the tunnel and thought I saw something moving. Voices growled at each other in rough, unhappy monotones. It sounded for all the world like the Brunoke mountain dialect, and it was like beautiful, reassuring music. This time my foes were only human.

  I closed the distance until I could make out two shapes silhouetted against the deeper black. One was struggling with a tinderbox and a torch which had died before its time. I didn't understand the exact words, but I recognised swearing when I heard it. With their backs turned, I'd never get a better chance to take them down.

  Keeping my sword behind me to avoid unwanted reflections, I shuffled in for the kill...

  The torch caught. In the sudden flicker of fire, I saw eyes go wide as I stood in full view. No time to run. I attacked.

  Nearest to me was a huge, rugged mountaineer in heavy furs, half again my size, wearing a brown beard down to his knees. A heavy bearded axe rested in his right hand. I ran him through as he was turning to face me. His torch-lighting friend, a redhead holding nothing but flint and steel, dove frantically for his bow. I arrived as his hands closed around the stock, and slammed my bootheel down on his fingers. The trigger clicked. The string snapped forward with a twang. The quarrel snapped in two against the stone wall.

  One swipe of my sword slit him open from shoulder to hip before he could think of asking to surrender. He spasmed and rolled over onto the torch, smothering it for good as he died.

  It was over so quickly, so cleanly, I didn't even get a spot of blood on myself. The soldier in me took quiet pride in that. I checked the torch, but found it beyond saving. I swore under my breath. Not wanting to waste any more of my naphtha, I dragged the bodies back into the dining hall where I could take a look at them.

  They were mountaineers, alright, just like the people I'd seen in Brunoke. Stocky and strong-boned, wearing the same kinds of furs and carrying the same kinds of weapons. Crossbows were rare here but not unheard-of. Seemed like Rogald had sent some men to take his daughter back after all.

  Then something caught my eye. I stuck my sword-point under the outer layers of fur and peeled them back. Underneath, their clothes were green.

  Well well, said Humber, looks like you've made some exciting new enemies.

  “What are the Grenokes doing down here? Were they part of the group that attacked us?” I shuddered at the memory of that awful sound. “If that was a group. Or human.”

  As opposed to ghosts and goblins and things that go bump in the night?

  “Now you sound like Aemedd.”

  Heh. Well, if you're going to run into any of that anywhere in this world, this is the place. His voice turned serious. Hold fast. Whatever you do, remember that.

  I shook my head and went back to searching the bodies for something I could use. They didn't carry much worth taking. I lifted a half-full waterskin, but didn't bother with the evil-smelling packets of what I guessed they ate for food. I wasn't that desperate yet.

  Next I cut away the blood-drenched fabric from that ruined torch and rewrapped it with my naphtha cloak. More convenient than hauling the heavy stalactite around. I also took the crossbow and the three spare quarrels stuck in the man's belt. Maybe I'd get some use out of it. It was brand new, poorly made but functional, still smelling of sap and pine needles. I worked the ratchet, primed the string, and nocked the bolt. Everything in working order.

  Armed and slightly better-provisioned, I set off down the tunnel again, and hoped the Grenokes' presence meant it led somewhere worth going.

  I carried on one careful step at a time, always mindful of how long my torch would last. It wasn't long before I noticed the floor beginning to sink, changing into carved steps leading down. It was taking me round in a spiral like a giant staircase.

  The descent seemed to take forever. My torch burned out long before I hit bottom, and I decided to carry on in the dark, saving my light. My legs began to twinge from the endless steps. I stumbled when my boot unexpectedly met level ground. Almost fell flat on my face, but hit the side of a great archway instead. With my head. It would leave a nice big bump.

  From the way sound simply vanished into the space beyond, I could tell it was big, maybe even as big as the dining hall upstairs. The scuffling of my feet echoed back to me over the course of several seconds. Only... There were more feet than there ought to be. I wasn't alone.

  My hand went to my sword hilt without even thinking. I practically dropped the crossbow on my foot before I realised I was still holding it.

  Getting a grip on myself, I strained to listen. Any sounds were too soft and too far to carry well in the huge chamber. I could make out... Rapid breathing. A susurrus of whispered voices, stripped of gender and inflection by the distance. I could even make out a flicker of light from a hooded lantern.

  The rest of the Grenoke raiding party, no doubt. They would've sent more than two. If I got the drop on them, I could finish them off in one fell swoop, trusting to my armour to keep me safe. Somehow that sounded like a reasonable plan to my mind.

  I moved ahead at a croach, thinking about how to start the attack. I still had my handkerchief. Enough light for a minute or two. I'd just have to be quick... I unwrapped the kerchief, quiet as a mouse. My back to the enemy, I bashed a spark into the naphta-soaked cloth, picked it up in one hand, and threw it like a flare into their camp. I quickly wrapped my hand in what was left of my vest to choke out the flames, then took aim with the crossbow, waiting for targets.

  The silhouettes of men rose into view. I heard a horse whinny in fright, shouted curses, the creak of a drawn bowstring. An immediate flow of soothing Harari to quiet the animal down. Someone rushed in to stamp out the flare.

  My fingers were already squeezing the trigger. I pulled the bow up at the last possible moment. The quarrel flew high and thudded into a piece of wood overhead. I dropped to my hands and knees as they returned fire. An arrow whizzed too close past me, followed by another near-miss before I could even open my mouth. Their accuracy was frightening.

  “Cease fire,” I shouted with more than a hint of fear. “It's Byren! It's me!” A third arrow all but shaved a new parting in the top of my head. “Mudden, you miserable bastard, stop shooting at me!”

  Someone hissed something at the archer. A muttered deliberation. I heard the Ranger's voice call out, “Stay where you are,” while someone else struggled with the squeaking lantern. Its gentle glow drove back the darkness.

  I approached them with empty hands. Four of our group were huddled together, scuffed and dirty and wide-eyed. The escape had been rough on them. I nodded to Mudden, who eyed me warily with longbow still in hand, and to Yazizi. Fatigue and loss showed in their beaten-down expressions.

  The woman came forward and stared up into my eyes for a long time. Then she threw her arms around me, unreserved, without the slightest hint of pretense. I buried my face in her neck and held her tight to me. Under different circumstances, it could've been one of the happiest moments of my life.

  Then I saw Descard. He lay on his back because he couldn't stand, his head supported by a pillow of rags. Blood soaked his grey uniform from the stomach down. The wound had been crudely bound where the javelin had gone in, but its shaft still stuck out of him. Removing it would only do more harm.

  A sheen of sweat made his skin glisten in the light. His body was tense with pain, his breathing shallow, his eyes cloudy and distant. It was the look of a dying man.

  The woman let go and stepped back as I knelt by his bedside. I owed Descard d'Ost a debt, and now I'd never get to repay it, except by holding his wake.

  “God,” he coughed, “I never thought I'd be so glad to see your face.”

  I flashed a weak smile. “This isn't part of the deal, my Lord. You're supposed to take us back to Kingsport under guard.”

  “Not in this lifetime, Byren.”

  “What, you don't have a special herb recipe to make this hole close right up?”

  “You see a lot o
f herbs around?” he laughed harshly. Flecks of blood stained the corners of his mouth. Every word was becoming a struggle. “It was a Hell of a fight. Even wounded, I cut down two of them myself. Maybe three. That last one had a little bit of life left in him.” He cleared his throat and spat a mouthful of blood down his chin. “I did the Regiment proud.”

  I didn't know what to tell him. I moved my mouth, but no words came out. Descard seemed to understand. He lowered his voice for my ears only.

  “Sergeant, listen to me... I want you to take command of this expedition when I'm gone. Don't argue. Mudden isn't up to it. Sir Erroll is a buffoon. It's got to be you.”

  It left me dumbstruck for a minute. Somehow he was under the illusion that he'd been in charge somehow, or that I could be, while the woman was right there.

  Swallowing hard, I whispered, “Your wish, my Lord.”

  “Good. Good man.” His eyes closed for a second, then sprang back open. “Go. Lead them. Death isn't knocking on my door just yet.”

  I nodded and returned my attention to the other battered survivors. We needed to regroup, with everyone if I could help it. Not an easy assignment. Mudden wouldn't speak to me, and neither the woman nor Yazizi could recall much from the blind, desperate run for their lives.

  The only thing they could agree on was the scream. It happened a few minutes into the chaos, just after I got lost. One of our group tripped and fell in the dark, and never caught up again. They could only be captive or dead. Sir Erroll, Aemedd, Faro and Racha were still missing ‒ and chances were we'd never see one of them again.