The farther they descended, the more Max could sense of the entity. It was not demonic, but it radiated evil. And it was old. Not old and alien like Astaroth, but old like the earth, like the molten rock at its core. Strong as it was, Max also sensed uncertainty and this triggered an almost predatory response. The ache in his side diminished, replaced by a surge of adrenaline. It was not unlike Ember’s reaction to the other dragon in the scrying pool. Having sensed weakness, a part of Max wanted to find this other being, to conquer it and take its realm. The gae bolga grew warm in his hand.
Far below, Max could begin to make out the cavern floor as though it shone with its own soft light. Its surface appeared moonlike, a chalky landscape of cracked and pitted depressions that ended at an immense wall of dark stone. Max soon made out a pair of doors set within the wall. Judging by the coffins scattered on either side, they were no more than twenty feet tall—surprisingly small given the wall and cavern’s scale.
Looking over, Max found that Bram was to his right, some thirty feet away. The sorcerer was staring intently at the doors, dangling idly beneath the hideous gray ferryman whose spinnerets released a thick strand of glistening silk. Max wondered if the Archmage also sensed the malevolence around them. As they approached the cavern floor, Max could feel the presence retreating from the doors, withdrawing deeper into Tartarus.
When the ferrymen set them down upon the cavern floor, they flipped over and scuttled up their threads, eating the silk as they went. Within seconds, they were swallowed up by the darkness. Max glanced at a nearby rock and the staff propped against it. He recalled the sequence of Naomi’s tapping and wondered how long it would take a ferryman to answer their summons when they left Tartarus.
If they left Tartarus.
Setting down his pack, Bram gazed at the wall some forty feet away. Its doors were made of gilt bronze, green with age, and sculpted with reliefs that had somehow melted into one another. The result was a jumble of twisted, half-formed figures that appeared to be writhing within a pool of shallow metal. Turning from the doors, Bram surveyed the rest of the moonlike cavern and flexed his fingers.
“Solas.”
There was no dazzling burst of light, just a dim pulse.
“The Umadahm was right,” said Bram. “My magic is dampened here. That is unfortunate.” Reaching down, he slipped the pack onto his shoulder. “How do you feel?”
The truth surprised even Max. “Stronger.”
This was not the answer Bram expected. He scrutinized Max, searching for signs of his recent weakness. “Remarkable,” he said quietly. “And I’d feared you might not survive the descent.” He gestured at the inky black sky. “Would you?”
Max flexed his hand. “Solas.”
There was a flash of brilliant, blinding light. It lasted only an instant, but it brought a smile to Bram’s hard and weary face.
“Let’s carry on. Neheb awaits.”
When they arrived at the doors, Bram peered closely at them before stepping back to appraise the whole.
“What do you make of it?” asked Max.
“The doors are unlocked,” he said slowly. “And I detect no magic or spell to keep out the living. Entering Tartarus is less demanding than I had supposed. That is rarely a good sign. The simpler it is to enter, the harder it will be to leave.”
“There’s something very old and evil in there. It knows we’re here.”
Bram nodded grimly. “I sensed it, too.”
Max unsheathed the gae bolga’s blade. The spear moaned as it tasted the cavern’s air, hungry and eager.
Opening his pack, Bram tossed aside the ice axes and crampons, some bundled clothing—everything but the three Canopic jars. The discarded items joined the empty coffins and sarcophagi, ancient vestments, weapons, and coins that lay scattered about.
Using his spear butt, Max pushed one of the doors. It gave way like a garden gate, swinging silently inward. A wall of rock ten feet ahead blocked their view so that all one could see of Tartarus from the outside was the suggestion of a diffuse, dusty light. Max heard no sound. He could barely even detect the presence he had felt earlier. Whatever it was, it had retreated far away.
With a glance at Bram, Max crossed the threshold.
The instant he did, the environment changed. It was like entering another world whose torrid, clinging atmosphere was remarkably dense. His first step forward was like wading through invisible sludge. Something burned his skin. Glancing at his hands, Max saw the witch’s henna tattoos vanish in a trickle of acrid smoke.
“Look,” said Bram, pointing to the threshold they had crossed. Strange markings were appearing in the stone. They were not like any runes or writing that Max had ever seen.
“Do you recognize them?”
The Archmage shook his head and tried to extend his hand across the threshold. It stopped as though it met an invisible barrier. When he tried to pull it back, he found he could not. His palm might have been stuck to invisible flypaper.
“It’s draining me,” he exclaimed suddenly. “Cut off my hand. Cut it off!”
Max seized Bram’s wrist and pulled, grimacing with the effort. There was a sharp crack and Bram stumbled back. The sorcerer bent double at the waist, breathing heavily and clutching a broken wrist. The skin of his palm and fingertips remained on the barrier, a bloody handprint hovering in midair.
“Thank you,” he gasped. “I do not think we’ll be leaving this way. Let’s go on.”
Turning from the door, the pair stepped around the barrier to find they were standing on a rock ledge that looked upon a misty land of gray hills and dark lakes. Here and there, shafts of what looked like weak sunlight pierced the gloom to illuminate countless tombs and colossal pillars that vanished in the mist as though they supported the sky. There were no rivers of fire, no devils with pitchforks. In some ways it reminded Max of a quiet, colorless Sanctuary.
On their left, the ledge ended at a perpendicular wall that continued as far as Max could see. On their right, a long stone ramp curved down from the ledge to the ground some hundred feet below.
“Do you know where to find Neheb?” said Max, gazing uneasily at the shrouded landscape. The air’s heat and density were already taking a toll. Even the smallest movements met with dull resistance. Just turning one’s head was a chore.
“No,” said Bram. “But perhaps they do.”
The sorcerer pointed to the nearest hills. What Max had first taken for mist were translucent figures moving slowly toward them like sluggish streams of vapor.
Max and Bram descended the long ramp as hundreds of ghostly figures gathered around its base. Sweat coursed down Max’s body, stinging his wound. The air was growing so thick it might have been congealing. The two removed their heavy cloaks and left them on the ramp. Whatever jolt of strength Max had experienced earlier was fading rapidly.
All about them, there came a rumble like distant thunder. The ground shook as a tremor rippled across the land. It seemed to agitate Tartarus’s inhabitants, for Max could hear them whispering in voices like rustling silk.
“What are these things?” asked Max.
“Shades,” replied Bram. “Echoes of departed souls. They have little power or will. It would take vast numbers for them to pose any kind of threat.”
While such numbers were approaching, nothing in their appearance or behavior suggested they were hostile or meant to attack. They merely gathered about the ramp as Max and Bram reached its bottom and stepped upon Tartarus’s dry, cracked soil. A sea of pearly, insubstantial figures stood before them with faces so faint it was difficult to make out their features. Their eager whispering was even harder to decipher, for they spoke all at once and in hundreds of languages. Max could only catch snippets.
“… living …”
“… trespass …”
“… help …”
“… sorry …”
“Where is the tomb of Neheb, last son of Egypt?” Bram called. His voice seemed to fall upon deaf ears.
>
He repeated his question in many languages, but to no avail. The shades were like starving beggars clamoring for food. However, it was not food they wanted but attention, someone to listen to their story. And all the while, Tartarus pressed down upon its visitors, draining their strength, squeezing them slowly in an iron vise.
“Who are you?”
The speaker was a thin, elderly man wearing friar’s robes. His question caught Max’s attention because it was the first indication that these shades could speak of anything but themselves.
“Who are you?” the shade repeated, pointing at the Archmage. His tone was almost suspicious.
The Archmage spoke in a calm but commanding voice. “I am Elias Bram.”
“Bram,” the friar hissed, turning to his neighbor. She did the same. Soon thousands were whispering the name.
And then, all at once, the whispering stopped. A hundred yards away, Max saw shades begin moving aside, as though clearing a path for someone to come forward. Bram gasped when the nearest parted to reveal the approaching figure.
The shade was Marley Augur.
Max had not seen him since Astaroth’s armies overran Rowan. The two had clashed in the woods, with Max cleaving the revenant’s fleshless mouth. Following this humiliation, Augur had been demoted and that was the last Max had heard of him. He had no idea when or how Marley had perished at last. Had the witches brought his remains to Tartarus? Had Astaroth?
Even as a shade, Marley Augur was imposing. He stood a head taller than Max or Bram, a giant of a man in translucent, ghostly mail. Even his form seemed denser, more substantial than that of the other shades. Max could make out his features quite clearly. They were not the rotting, skeletal ruin that Max remembered from their battle in the woods, but those of a handsome, middle-aged man with long, straight hair braided at the temples. The other shades fell back as he came to stand before them.
Bram could barely find his voice. “Is that really you, Marley?”
“Greetings, Elias.”
Bram looked and sounded horrified. “What are you doing here? You were a noble man—the best man at Solas. You do not belong with the damned.”
“But I do belong here,” replied the shade. “I have broken oaths, murdered men, stolen children, and practiced arts so evil, they are not given names. I deserve to be here, Archmage, almost as much as you do.”
“What do you want?” asked Bram.
“To watch you die.”
Stepping forward, Max leveled the gae bolga at Marley Augur’s chest. Its point would pierce a spirit just as easily as it pierced flesh. But the shade did not flinch or draw back.
“Not yet, Hound. Soon.”
Laying his uninjured hand over Max’s, Bram pushed the spear aside. The Archmage was trembling. He stepped between Max and the shade. “This is my fault, Marley. All of it. I wronged you in every way.”
Augur remained impassive. “You were my friend, Elias. Brigit loved me and was to be my wife. You stole her and the life we should have had together. You betrayed me out of spite.”
The Archmage sank to his knees, clutching his pack to his chest. “I am guilty. Guilty of everything you say. I cannot right my wrong or change the past. I can only beg your forgiveness.”
“You only beg forgiveness because you cannot steal it.”
“No, Marley. I beg forgiveness because I wronged you. There is no fouler crime than betrayal—it is the most personal.” Bram bowed his head, his shoulders shaking. “I am a flawed man who made terrible mistakes. Please let me right them.”
Another, more powerful tremor shook Tartarus, but neither Bram nor Augur appeared to notice. The shade gazed down at Bram’s bowed head, frowning slightly.
“Augur,” said Max.
The shade did not look up. “What is it, Hound?”
“You’ve waited centuries for this moment. You sacrificed your life, your values, even your soul in the name of vengeance. Was it worth it? Would Brigit be proud?”
Augur’s head snapped up. “Do not speak her name!”
“This moment is your opportunity to find peace,” continued Max. “Vengeance won’t give it to you. Your obsession with vengeance is why you’re here. Maybe forgiveness will set you free. Don’t waste this chance.”
The shade did not reply but returned his attention to Bram. As the Archmage remained kneeling with his head bowed, Max had to lean on the gae bolga. He’d been expecting a battle in Tartarus, not this slow suffocation. His strength was ebbing.
“Were you good to Brigit?” the blacksmith asked Bram. “Did you love her?”
“I did my best. And yes, I grew to love Brigit very much.”
“And did she grow to love you, Elias?”
Bram nodded. “In her own way and time. But her affection was that of a sister, not a wife. You were her true love to the end.”
The blacksmith was silent, but it was clear Bram’s words had a powerful effect on him. He gazed at Max momentarily, as though weighing what he had said earlier. Behind him, the shades watched and listened. At last, Augur spoke.
“Look at me, Elias.”
The Archmage slowly raised his head.
“You are forgiven.”
Tears filled Bram’s eyes. “Thank you, Marley. You are the better man. You have always been the better man.”
Bram struggled to rise. As Max helped him, he felt the man trembling with weakness. Tartarus appeared to be having a far greater effect on him than it was on Max. Augur noticed this, too, for his face became grave.
“Why have you come here? What is it you seek?”
“A boy named Neheb,” Bram gasped. “He was—”
“The last prince of Egypt,” said Augur. “All know his tomb, for he has no shade. It is not far, but we must hurry. I feel myself fading. Perhaps the Hound was right and I can leave this place.”
Turning, Augur led them through the sea of shades, which parted for them. Bram was staggering now, leaning on Max as he clutched his pack. Max worried whether the Archmage would be strong enough to reach the tomb, much less cast the necessary spells. Hundreds of shades fell in step behind them, their whispers resuming in an endless babble. Ahead loomed gray hills dotted with white tombs beneath the pale, colorless sky. Everything seemed to warp and undulate in the thick, sweltering air.
Max’s head was growing light; the gae bolga felt heavy and unwieldy as another tremor shivered across the land. He stumbled sideways, clutching Bram, who was barely conscious. Catching himself, Max gazed out at the farthest hills where they disappeared into shadow. The presence he had felt earlier was out there, patiently waiting for its visitors to weaken.
“That is Neheb’s tomb.”
The voice was Augur’s and very faint. As Max turned, he found the blacksmith’s shade was barely visible. The shimmer that remained was pointing at a small white tomb by the shores of a nearby lake. It sat alone, surrounded by white, leafless trees. Augur’s whisper seemed to revive Bram, who raised his head to look for him.
“Farewell, Elias.”
The sorcerer sagged, his legs buckling as Augur vanished entirely. Taking Bram by the arm, Max heaved him over his shoulder and carried him. The tomb had no door, just a dark opening crowned with an Egyptian symbol like a burning lamp.
Ducking beneath the arch, Max eased Bram upon the stone floor and conjured a small glowsphere. In Tartarus, even this least of spells was more difficult than he cared to admit. The tomb was small, no more than twelve feet to a side with an alabaster sarcophagus at its center. Outside, curious shades were gathering. They did not cross the threshold, but peered through the doorway whispering their sins and secrets.
Max shook Bram by the shoulders. “We’re here.”
With a wheezing gasp, Bram opened his eyes and blinked several times as he regained his bearings. Sitting up, he reached into his pack and removed the three Canopic jars. One was topped with a carving of a human head, another a baboon, and the third a falcon.
“Open the sarcophagus, Hound. The fo
urth jar will be within. It will have the head of a jackal.”
Going to the sarcophagus, Max slid its heavy cover aside. True to Bram’s prediction, he found a Canopic jar that matched the others but for its jackal’s head. “It’s here.”
“Help me up.”
Once on his feet, Bram breathed deeply and gathered himself. “Hand me the jars in the order I ask. Hapi first.”
“Which?”
“The baboon,” Bram snapped. “Do they teach you nothing at Rowan?”
Max almost grinned. An impatient sorcerer was a focused sorcerer. Indeed, the man’s eyes seemed to blaze as he emptied the three jars into the sarcophagus. Their contents were a fine gray powder that formed a little mound next to the jackal-headed jar. Before Bram opened it, he indicated Max should back away.
“A precaution,” he said. “I do not trust my powers here.”
Holding the jar in his bloody hand, Bram carefully removed its top. All the while, he spoke softly in Egyptian, as though trying to coax something out. Tipping the jar, he slowly mixed its contents with the rest. When the jar was empty, he set it down and walked clockwise about the sarcophagus with his head bowed, whispering like the shades outside the tomb. Now and again, Max made out the names “Neheb” and “Nectanebo.”
Something was happening in the sarcophagus. A swirling of fine dust and gray smoke drifted up in a lazy, pluming cloud that began to take on the shape of someone sitting upright in the sarcophagus. As more dust swirled up, its form solidified into something far more substantial than a shade.
When the last dust settled, Max found himself staring at a slim, adolescent boy with a shaved head and large brown eyes. He wore naught but a white shendyt—a kiltlike wrap—that extended to his knees, which were bent almost to his hairless chin. His skin was brown and smooth except for pale, hideous scars that encircled his neck and upper arms.
Bram glanced at Max. “I trust you don’t speak Egyptian?”
Max shook his head.
“I’ll translate,” said the sorcerer. “You must understand everything that’s said.” Walking around the sarcophagus, he stood directly before the boy, who gazed at him warily. After each question and answer, Bram translated the Egyptian for Max.
The Red Winter Page 54