by Layton Green
“Thank you,” he said. “For saving me again.”
“I took an Oath to protect you. There is no need for acknowledgment.” She looked down in shame. “I should thank you, instead.”
“How about we mutually acknowledge that there is no need to continually thank each other for saving each other’s lives, as often as needed?”
When she lifted her head, the hint of a smile graced her lips, the first Val had seen since the journey had started.
As the party continued slogging through the tunnel, wary of encountering more rakatori, Val wrinkled his nose at the fetid odor. Finally the sewer tunnel sloped uphill, and the water level lowered until they were walking on dry ground again.
“Why were you sent to prison?” Val asked Synne quietly, moving up to walk beside her.
The majitsu stiffened and didn’t respond. He could tell by her labored breathing that her injury was still affecting her.
“You don’t have to tell me,” he said. “But somehow, I think a grave injustice was done.”
She turned to him, eyes flashing. “My family has been majitsu for many generations. For longer than the Order has records. Nothing was more important to me.”
“Was?”
Synne tightened her lips. He didn’t think she was going to respond, but after a moment she said, “I have a younger sister. She sought entrance into the Academy during my final year. One of the Head Dons—” Val noticed her left fist clenching—“entered the bedchamber of my sister during the Testing. When she refused his advances and reported him, he denied it and had her expelled. No one questions a Head Don.” Her voice turned bitter. “Their standards of honor are legendary.”
“That’s terrible. What happened to your sister?”
“She hung herself.”
“My God,” Val muttered. “I’m sorry, Synne.”
The majitsu was quiet for a long moment. “My sister was not like me,” she said. “She was born weak, with but a trace of power. But the pressure to succeed from our family was immense. The headmaster knew this when he approached her. He offered her acceptance into the Academy.”
“How did you end up in prison? Did you speak out against him, too?”
“I challenged him to a duel to the death,” she said calmly. “He accepted.”
Before Val could process her response, leaving him wondering how Synne had bested a powerful don while still a student, the party rounded a corner and saw a sewer grate twenty feet ahead. Ferin rushed to it and peered up at the street. “I can see the top of the bathhouse,” he said in an excited whisper.
Val and Adaira levitated up to take a look. To his right, Val saw the columned green tower marking the corner of the sprawling building that housed the baths. His line of sight was limited, but he saw no sign of demons on the street in either direction.
Adaira peered closer with her Owl Vision. “I think there’s a window on the ground floor. No sign of activity on the street.”
Rucker waved his axe. “We can scratch our arses down ’ere and wait for more rakatori to wander by, or we can get on with this.”
Val didn’t like it. They had no way of seeing inside the bathhouse, no idea of where to find the crown. But Rucker was right. Standing around and talking about it would only expose them to more danger.
“How’s yer strength, boy?” Rucker asked.
Val wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. “Decent.”
“Save what ye can. I’ve a feeling we’ll need it.”
Val floated up to remove the grate, checking the street and seeing nothing but a corridor of handsome stone buildings. Strange growls and shrieks arose in the distance, a chorus of demon chatter that caused a wave of gooseflesh to prickle his arms.
One by one, the party climbed or drifted out of the sewer, and Val replaced the iron grate.
-32-
Lord Alistair pushed away thoughts of his daughter and forced himself to concentrate on the five assembled members of the War Council, some of the most influential figures in New Albion.
The Chief Thaumaturge had long felt that the members of the War Council—the five unanimous votes needed to usher the Protectorate into war—should reside solely with the Congregation. Soon, he would make that a reality. For now, the makeup of the current assembly suited his purpose. In fact, he expected the lone dissent to come from Dean Groft.
In the gray-walled, musty War Room located in the magically-secure basement of the Sanctum, decorated with world maps and portraits of the monarchy, unused for official purposes in over fifty years, the other members waited for Lord Alistair to present his case. As he ordered his thoughts, the Chief Thaumaturge gazed down from his dais, casting an imperious eye on those present.
First there was Yasir Ookar, First General of the Protectorate Army, a half-breed reptilus with a genius for battle strategy and the most commanding gaze Lord Alistair had ever encountered from a common born.
Next to him was Kjeld Anarsson, Tenth Don of the Order of Majitsu, a mountain of a man from the wild northern fringes of the Realm. Kjeld, Alistair knew, had exhibited enough magical proficiency to be accepted into the Abbey, but his love for the fighting arts—for physical violence—was so great that he chose the path of the majitsu instead. Kjeld was the most feared non-mage in the Realm.
Neither Yasir nor Kjeld, Alistair knew, would blink at the prospect of war.
Seated to Yasir’s left was Alaina Whitehall, the common-born Governess of the Protectorate, a woman who dealt in financial markets and diplomacy. A shrewd and powerful woman, her interests were aligned with those of the Congregation.
And, finally, his orange eyes gazing at Lord Alistair with unsettling calm, was Dean Groft. Long ago, out of respect for the wisdom, public service, and awesome power of the spirit mages, the Congregation and the Protectorate Governors had made the joint decision to include the Abbey’s Dean of Spiritmancy in the War Council.
How utterly inconvenient.
No removal mechanism existed to remove current members of the War Council, and Dean Groft might retain his position at the abbey for decades to come.
Another solution was called for.
“I’m sure you’ve all heard by now,” Lord Alistair began, “of the terrible murder of Garbind Ellhorn.”
A round of grave nods.
“What you may not know is the identity of the murderer.”
“Has to be another wizard,” Kjeld rumbled. “An elder mage. No one else has the power.”
Lord Alistair folded his hands as he stood atop the floating dais of spirit he had formed when he arrived. The others were seated in stern, high-backed chairs, including Dean Groft, who had an annoying tendency to put the common-born more at ease in his presence.
“Unfortunately,” Lord Alistair said, “you’re mistaken. Garbind’s body was reduced to ash, and a black sash laid on his bed.”
Kjeld snarled and flew to his feet. “That wasn’t reported!”
“I don’t understand,” said Yasir. “Does that not confirm a wizard was to blame?”
“No gypsy wizard is strong enough to defeat an elder mage of the Congregation. Above the sash, the image of a sword was carved into the bedpost. Based on the carving and recent events on the Barrier Coast, we believe this to be the murder weapon. A blade powerful enough to cut through Garbind’s defenses. We suspect the blade took his life, and a gypsy mage burned the body.”
How convenient, Lord Alistair thought, that the spirit lieges are so thorough. Not even the Conclave suspects the truth.
Alaina paled. “The rumors of Zariduke returning . . . they’re true? And the Black Sash has the sword? By the Queen . . .”
“Yes,” Alistair said somberly. “I’m afraid so.”
Yasir placed a gloved fist on the table. Lord Alistair had always admired the professionalism of the commander-in-chief. Even now, in the face of such dire news, he exhibited an eerie calm. “Shall I order raids in the slums?”
Alistair nodded in approval. “A wise sentiment, thoug
h I fear another course of action is needed. My belief—gleaned from various sources—is that Zariduke is on its way back to the Barrier Coast.”
“What sources, pray tell?” Dean Groft asked. His red beard flowed over his brown cassock, and his orange eyes, often tinged with paternal warmth, flashed a challenging stare. Gripped in Groft’s left hand, a little too tightly for Lord Alistair’s liking, was the Dean’s staff, a solid quarterstaff of blackthorn with an azantite handle.
“You doubt my sources?”
“I doubt the wisdom of what I suspect you’re about to propose,” Groft said. “More so without the soundest of evidentiary foundations.”
“As you know,” Alistair said evenly, aware of the disturbance among the others the rift was causing, “we have spies within the gypsy community. All of whom report that Zariduke was used to murder Garbind, and is now westward bound.”
“Conveniently headed for Freetown, I assume? Out of reach of the Congregation?”
Alistair locked eyes with the Dean.
Kjeld pounded the table. “This cannot stand!”
“My aides reported another attack on a pleasure garden last night,” Alaina said. “Claimed by the Black Sash.”
In retaliation to the growing persecution, Black Sash gypsies across the Protectorate had increased their militant activity, often carrying out terrorist attacks in the larger cities. The rationale, Lord Alistair knew, was to raise awareness for their cause. Instead, it was scaring the populace and playing right into his hands.
Lord Alistair hung his head. How terrible, his gesture said, that the world has come to this.
The table set, he served the main course. He described the damage a weapon like Zariduke could do—had already done—in the wrong hands. An elder mage slaughtered. A Revolution empowered. He recounted tales of massacres of Congregation sympathizers in the Ninth Protectorate. Told lies about the atrocities committed by the Devlan worshippers. Described how a fractured Protectorate would appear weak to its enemies to the south and across the oceans.
Laying the groundwork for his larger scheme, he spoke of how the Arch-Governors in the Mayan Kingdom had begun massing troops along the border, preparing for an incursion.
When he finished with his speech, Lord Alistair placed his hands on the dais and summoned his gravest expression. “Our Realm has enjoyed long decades of peace and prosperity, but nothing lasts forever. Let us delay no further. Before one more innocent life of an Oath-fearing citizen is taken—be it mage or common born—let us take control of the Ninth Protectorate once and for all, and root out every unlawful occupant of our cities. We delivered a gentle rebuke in Freetown, but the message was not received. Gentlemen, I propose that we declare war against the gypsy people. Find Zariduke, bring the Revolution to heel once and for all, and secure our border with the Mayan Kingdom.”
Through it all, Dean Groft sat quietly, damning Lord Alistair with his eyes. The Dean had a trump card, a veto, and he knew it.
But so did Lord Alistair.
Dean Groft crossed his legs. “So it’s war, is it?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“A gentle rebuke?”
“A final attempt at peace.”
Dean Groft leaned on his staff and stood. “I’m afraid I have to dissent.”
“Would you care to say why?”
“Oh, I believe you know.”
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
One by one, Dean Groft cast his melancholy gaze on the other four members of the War Council. No one spoke. All except Yasir averted their eyes.
“When you have a proposal worthy of my time,” the dean said to Lord Alistair, “I’ll be happy to reconvene.”
As Dean Groft left the room, Alistair seethed on his dais, resisting the urge to sear the infuriating dean with Spirit Fire. He resisted because it would be antithetical to his purpose, and because, truth be told, he was not sure who would emerge the victor of that battle.
Instead, Lord Alistair let the other four members join him in silent contemplation of the aging academic who was afraid to defend the Realm. A man whose cowardice, it would soon be reported, had driven him to take his own life.
-33-
Immersed in the roar of the cataract, the serpent canoe plummeted for so long Will thought surely they were doomed, until the vessel leveled off in midair and took them on a demented roller coaster across a mythic landscape, racing across a roiling sea of tears, skimming the peaks of razor-tipped mountains, plummeting down rivers of blood and slime and pus as monsters out of Will’s worst nightmares fought pitched battles and tormented human prisoners. A throbbing crimson light exposed the canoe journey in flashes, the smell of sulfur-tinged water suffused his nostrils, and he did not know how long the voyage had lasted or whether it was all a waking dream, a nightmarish thrill ride engineered by the mad genius of the sorcerer king. All he knew was that he could not leave the canoe, could not blink or close his eyes, could do nothing except stare in terrified awe until it was over.
When the motion finally stopped, Will blinked and fought against the nausea the ride had induced. The others wobbled unsteadily around him. There was no sign of the canoe or the river or the stone jungle. Instead they found themselves in the corner of what appeared to be the inside of a vast, traditional pyramid: gray slabs of stone stacked together without mortar, gently sloping to a ceiling fifty feet above their heads.
Aglow with the purple hues of dusk, a replica of an entire Mayan city sprawled inside the pyramid. He saw squat stone buildings and thatch-roofed huts, a wide flagstone boulevard, courtyards and terraces and fountains. Four terraced, smaller pyramids towered over the city at various intervals, their flat tops almost brushing the cavern ceiling.
“Xibalba’s city of the dead,” Mateo said, his voice hushed.
Jittery with apprehension, Will busied his mind by studying the angle of the walls and the size of the chamber. If he strained, he could see the far end. “I have a theory about this pyramid,” he said, “though you’re not going to believe it.”
“Which one?” Gunnar asked, peering at the silent city.
“Not one of those pyramids—the whole thing. Yiknoom’s tomb. This is the fourth tier, right? I’ve been doing my best to get a handle on the size of each level, and they’re definitely shrinking, despite their size. Shrinking by a substantial and uniform amount, if my instincts are correct. And when it comes to construction, they usually are.”
“Shrinking?” Mala said. “So this cannot be a pyramid.”
“Actually, I think it is. I just think it’s upside down.”
After a moment of stunned silence, Selina shivered and folded her arms. “Inverting a normal pyramid to reflect life after death, a journey into the underworld.” She looked at the imposing stone walls looming above their heads. “I know not how we arrived, or how to name the magic that drove the illusion of the canoe ride.”
“About the only thing certain,” Mala said, stepping onto the first flagstone of the boulevard, “is that the only way forward is down.”
One of the four smaller pyramids lay at the end of the first stretch of boulevard. In fact, the road was the only way through, since a contiguous line of huts and stone buildings fronted the byway. Will and the others fell into step behind Mala, weapons drawn, wary of the next test and knowing it would come soon.
It started as soon as they passed the first hut. The decomposing corpse of a Mayan warrior lurched out of the entrance, followed by two more. They attacked the party with spears and bone knives, gaining fluidity as they moved, as if just awakened from the grave. Mala and Mateo slew the first two, and Will cut through the third, his blade snipping the life force of the zombie as easily as it had Zedock’s undead creations.
Not true undead, he thought: creations of a necromancer.
Before the party could wipe their blades, a host of dead Mayans stumbled out of the buildings, blocking the way forward. The wounds on the corpses were gruesome, testaments to the violent manner in which the
y had died: entrails spilling out of stomachs, eyes hanging from sockets, flesh stripped from bone.
Will shivered as he swept Zariduke through a pair of moaning corpses, trying not to think about the hell into which they had descended. He remembered what Xibalba meant. The place of fright.
Selina blew the horde back with a Wind Push, giving the party a chance to regroup. Will looked behind them and to the sides. There was no place to run.
Mala pointed towards the pyramid looming at the end of the street. “That must be the way!”
“I can use magic,” Selina said, “but I cannot fly. The air above is warded.”
“Then we fight our way through.”
Though skilled, the Mayan undead did not have a coherent battle plan, and were no match for the prowess of the party. Selina saved them from being overwhelmed by sheer numbers with periodic blasts of wind, and the party made steady progress down the boulevard. Fifty feet from the end of the street, Will spotted a darkened entrance at the bottom of the small pyramid.
He pointed it out to the group, and they surged forward. Will shepherded everyone inside, cut down two more of the ensorcelled undead with a touch of the blade, then slipped inside.
Darkness, utter and complete. The smell of dusty stone.
“Mala!” Will called out. “Mateo! Selina! Gunnar!”
No answer.
He tried to back through the entrance, but it seemed to have disappeared. He felt blindly for a wall or ceiling. Just as he suspected he had entered a sensory deprivation chamber, he heard a low, ominous growl.
Will whipped around and saw two curved yellow eyes shining in the darkness from ten feet away. The animal growled again and then roared, a familiar sound from the jungle.
Jaguar.
The yellow eyes lowered as if about to spring. Will might be blind, but he liked his chances with his sword, as long as he could track the big cat’s eyes. He crouched in defense, gripping his weapon with both hands.
The eyes leapt forward. Just before Will swung, he heard another growl from behind, within striking range. On instinct, Will rolled to his left and felt claws rip into his left shoulder. He screamed and jumped to his feet. He could see them both now, on his right and left, stalking forward together. Fast as Will was, he knew he had little chance if they lunged in tandem.