Crypt of the Violator

by K. J. Coble

  The ruins loomed, suddenly rearing up right before them. Moon light whitened collapsed crags like splintered bones, made them stand apart from the darker masses of rock and cliff. Seen from far below, Zadam hadn’t seemed so massive. But getting close, with the still-intact spire stabbing to the stars on the right, Strayden felt the first real trickle of doubt in his gut. You could get lost in that for days, he thought, wandering, finding nothing. He shot the Xyxian a side-eyed look. Bastard better be serious when he says he knows the place.

  “Nice view,” Durrak mumbled from Strayden’s right flank.

  Strayden turned to him, half-ready to tear him a new one for his superstitiousness. But he realized the Nuburran spoke not of the ruins, but of the region laid out around them by their vantage. The wastes stretched into silvered distance, seen from the heights of the escarpment, stars dazzlingly brilliant and the endless sands pale as a sea of ivory. The hills and cliffs of eastern Xyxian, the coastal uplands, shown as dark shores bunching before this false ocean. And the yellowy glitter of the Scintallan camps sprawled out astride them like jewels washed ashore by a phantom tide.

  “Yeah, nice,” Strayden replied quietly. His gaze went back to the ruins, to Kham, striding on ahead of them. “Better than that.”

  Scampering to catch up to the Xyxian, Strayden and the party passed the spire and entered what seemed to be Zadam-proper. The gentle moan of the breeze fell with each step further, until it had withered to silence, left only the scrape of their steps in sand, the occasional grate of hobnails catching a fragment of half-buried masonry. Someone cursed and spat. Someone else—Vidar, whose fondness for food made him slow on any march—huffed with labored breaths. But even the creak of Strayden’s shield, shifting on his back as he moved, seemed obscenely loud in the place.

  “I think I changed my mind,” Aelren tried to quip, though the hush in his voice stole its usual confidence.

  “That’s what your mother told me,” Durrak rumbled back.

  “You realize you just insulted yourself.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Both of you shut up,” Strayden snapped as he came to a halt.

  Kham had stopped ahead of them, at what the crumbled outlines of walls made some sort of intersection. They were far enough in, now, that a look around showed a variety of remnants; time-worn steps that led up to nothing, toothy shards of columns with no roofs to hold aloft, low pyramids that were temples or tombs or something. Strayden’s gaze flitted up to the Great Pyramid, glowering down on it all.

  Nothing about that looked crumbled.

  The Xyxian seemed confused, mumbling to himself. Strayden stepped up to his side. “Prince Kham?”

  “The Dome of Patah...” he mumbled. Something else came out, a stream of words in his native tongue. “It was near the main gate.” Suddenly, he stiffened and moved off to the right.

  Strayden led the others in following him. Their course took them down what almost seemed a side street and into the shadow cast by the still-standing spire. Kham turned, seemed to trace the length of that shadow, as though following a road of darkness. His pace sped up as he neared where it came to a point.

  They stopped before a half-crumbled entrance. To either side, fragments of wall curved away, traced the outline of what looked like had been a theater or amphitheater—or a dome, Strayden realized with a chill. Shards like teeth still poked for the sky, gave some hint of its former grandeur. A faded inscription crawled across the cornerstone of the entrance, the usual Xyxian gibberish, looking as though it writhed in the moons’ light.

  But that wasn’t all that had given them pause. A shadow bunched atop the entryway and moved suddenly, squirmed, stood.

  “You know,” a familiar voice said, “you could have just told me you didn’t want me to come along.”

  Strayden grinned.

  ASYRA JUMPED DOWN FROM the top of the entrance, landed with catlike precision, and straightened once more before the gawking party. “You should really see yourselves.”

  Strayden’s teeth flashed out from the shadows, but the others stood in variations of tension, mouths dangled open, hands on weapons, one or two a step into flight. The Xyxian’s hand had darted into his cloak and didn’t appear to be fishing for a sword.

  She held up her palms disarmingly, let them fully see her. “Come on, lads. I’m no ghost. Just move quieter than one, is all.”

  Strayden was laughing now and the other Vothans relaxing. But the Xyxian didn’t quite let up his guard, the hand still out of sight. “Who is this?” he hissed.

  “It’s fine,” Strayden replied, stepping towards her. “She’s with us.”

  “Am I?” Asyra sniped. “You certainly didn’t send word.”

  He shrugged. “Figured you’d find out, find a way.”

  “I said, who is this?” the Xyxian repeated with venom.

  “You warned of traps,” Strayden replied, turning to the man. “Asyra is...well, let’s just say she has experience with such things.”

  “A thief?”

  Asyra met the Xyxian’s glare. “A problem-solver.”

  He hissed something she didn’t make out and moved past her, through the entryway. Strayden nodded to the others and they started after him. But Asyra caught him by the arm, pulled him close. “You realize who that is?”

  “Yeah, the rebel prince. So what?”

  “So what?” Really, Vothans were the worst! “So, this is suddenly a bit more complicated than just a tomb raid!”

  “No,” Strayden replied brightly, “it’s just one more person.” He slapped her on the shoulder, playfully, but the blow still enough to nearly put her in the dust, and started after the others into the dark.

  Asyra followed, rubbing her arm and grumbling to herself. The entry tunnel stretched twenty feet ahead of them, half-collapsed at one point. Moon light slivered through the gap in the ceiling, also gleamed ahead. They followed to the source and the soft echoes of the others’ whispers.

  “We really weren’t trying to cut you out,” Strayden murmured. “No one could find you.”

  She nodded in understanding. She’d kept a low profile after the previous night’s...disappointment. Not going to think on that. It’s clarifying, is what it is. Better everyone understands where they stand in life. “It’s fine,” she replied. “I was resting. Unlike a Vothan, I know how to care for myself.”

  “Did you see Lyssa?”

  The very name seemed to hurt and Asyra was glad for the shadow that hid her face. “No,” she lied. “But you were right. If we got her involved, she’d just try to stop us.”

  They emerged from the tunnel, back out into the glare of the moons. The outline of the dome was clear, standing within it, must’ve been quite the sight in its time. The hollowed-out chamber formed a circle at least two hundred feet across. Piles of sand partially hid the flagstones that had once formed its floor. Blocks at even intervals marked the placing of columns that must’ve held the dome aloft. The moons weren’t quite over the ruin and their angle threw shadows across the floor; claws of darkness formed by the jags of stone.

  Asyra looked around, was surprised to hear or feel nothing. The voice hadn’t returned, not as she’d climbed the escarpment, not as she prowled the remnants. She’d thought about calling out, at one point, then scolded herself for the silliness. Her blood ran warm and her mind crackled sharply. It was the thrill of exploration and possible loot, but nothing else.

  The Vothans milled about as the Xyxian prince wandered the space, pausing now and then to kneel and brush dust away from the floor. Durrak joined Asyra and Strayden, uncorked a wine skin, took a sip, and held it out to her. “Good to see you,” he rumbled.

  She accepted it. “I know how much trouble you have with this one,” she replied, nodding towards Strayden. They chuckled and she took a quick drink, didn’t quite grimace at the stale, watered-down wine.

  “So far,” Durrak said, as much to Strayden as to Asyra, “I can’t say I’m impressed.”

  “A
nother dead city,” Aelren, standing just in earshot, grumbled and shot Strayden a look.

  The Vothan captain didn’t immediately respond, was watching the Xyxian’s prowl with a frown. “It’s almost like he’s not sure what he’s doing.”

  Prince Kahm circled the central floor aimlessly, casting about, pausing again to kneel and scrape at the stones. Hissing in obvious frustration, he stood and resumed his circling, the loops beginning to tighten inward. Asyra realized Strayden was wrong. He did know what he was doing, was conducting a slow, methodical sweep. Looking for something specific.

  The other Vothans were beginning to break up, explore the space with whispers and occasional chortles that echoed hollowly off the curves of the collapsed dome. Something crackled under hobnails and one of the men cursed. Another guffawed at him, the racket shockingly loud.

  Asyra felt herself tense, inexplicably.

  “Look at this bastard,” Aelren murmured, having drifted over to one of the time-eaten blocks.

  Unlike the others, this one served as the base of a statue that still retained some of its features, a squat, bulbous thing that set Asyra’s flesh to crawling as she stepped close to it. Closer examination revealed details of legs bent, tensed, as though to spring—eight of them. A face of fangs and eyes, still obvious, despite ages of wear, glowered.

  “What do you think that is?” Aelren wondered.

  “Get away from it!” Strayden rumbled.

  Asyra turned sharply to the Vothan, surprised at the vehemence in his voice. He’d shrunken away from the statue, hand a hand on his sword, white-knuckled, while his eyes flashed with green fire.

  “Here,” Kham’s voice echoed from the middle of the floor.

  Strayden blinked, seemed to remember himself. With obvious haste, he strode to the center to join the Xyxian. Asyra shared a glance with Aelren, who smirked like a kid who’d discovered where his parents hid the sweets. Together, they moved to join the others.

  Kham knelt near the center of the floor, brushing feverishly at the dust, quickly bringing the outline of a large flagstone into focus. His ministrations uncovered a carving chiseled into the stone, as well. Seeing this, he devoted his full attention to it, completely scouring the symbol clean. Coming to stand over him, Asyra could see it was a spider-like character, not unlike the worn statue they’d just examined. A prickle of cold walked along her nerves.

  “The cartouche of Patah,” Kham said with satisfaction. He glanced over at the statue, seemed to measure the distance with his eyes, and nodded. “This is the spot.” He stood and looked around at the Vothans, who’d gathered close. “We’ll need it pulled out. You have tools?”

  Strayden glanced at Durrak, who was already handing off his unlit torch and drawing a prybar from his pack. Ivar and Vidar were producing similar. The latter two strode quickly to the flagstone and knelt, went to work with grunts. Steel scrawled under stone and dust puffed. The stone didn’t move and curses joined the grunts, both men laboring with teeth bared and sweat beginning to sprout across their brows.

  “You’re useless,” Durrk growled at the other two and started forward with his prybar.

  “Wait,” Asyra said, stepping into his path, plucked the tool from his huge hand. Nerves that’d gone cool suddenly warmed with an electric current of alarm. She scanned their surroundings again, noted the size of the chamber, the spacing of the collapsed columns, the placement of the statue, and—as she looked, really looked—the pattern of other crumbles that suggested a circle of statues, long gone, that’d once accompanied the first. “Wait,” she repeated and turned to Kham, pointing the prybar at him. “Magic was done here?”

  The Xyxian hesitated before answering. “Yes.”

  “You think a spell?” Strayden rumbled to her. “You think a trap?”

  “I don’t know about the first,” she replied and stepped over to Ivar and Vidar, who’d both stopped to look at her. “But definitely the second.” She glanced again at the still-erect spider statue, then at the cartouche. “Everyone, outside the circle.” She gestured at the statue when they milled about in confusion. “Past that.” She pointed and waited for Strayden and the others to comply. “You two stay with me,” she said to the Vothans working the stone.

  “You said a trap...?” Vidar began.

  “It’s fine,” she replied and knelt with them, worked Durrak’s prybar under the lip of the stone. “Just keep close to it.” She checked to see that the others were outside the circle. “All right, back at it.”

  The three leaned into the iron tools, hissing and cursing together. The two Vothans shivered with their efforts, chords standing out along tense necks, faces tightening into grimaces that purpled and sparkled with perspiration. They stank, too, but Asyra couldn’t hardly complain. She was pretty sure she wasn’t much help, barely half the size of either. But she needed to feel what happened when the resistance broke, needed to confirm her suspicion.

  The stone crackled, loosened. Vidar crowed breathlessly with the small success. Dust plumed out from the edges. With it came an indescribable odor, stale air and staler things, dry and dark and dead. Asyra worked her prybar under the gap as the other two began to lever the stone up. She leaned her full weight upon it, waited, waited.

  A pop passed through the stone, vibrated up her bar, like something cracked—more like something switched. “Stop!” she hissed at the other two. “Get close to it!”

  The last word had barely left her mouth when a series of booms rent the air. She shrank close to the flagstone—what she recognized now as a hatch, and a booby-trapped one. Ivar scuttled practically over top of it.

  Vidar wasn’t quite as fast and yelped as the floor directly behind him vanished. Down he went, slamming chest-first to the floor, puffing out dust and dropping his tool with a clang as his legs went over the edge of the suddenly opened pit.

  Shouts from the others joined his howl of fear as he dangled.

  “Vodor and Izzliv!” Vidar cursed two of the Vothans’ lesser gods. He pawed for the edge of the partially-opened hatch. “One of you idiots going to help me?”

  Asyra stood and looked around.

  The floor had dropped away in a circle all around the cartouche-marked stone, the blocks swallowed by darkness that continued to seep dust fumes into the air. Far below, a weird echo like stone scraping across stone echoed, seemed more a scuttled of many smaller stones. She couldn’t tell. But she could see the trap’s intended effect. Open the door, trigger the switch, and the places where the others had stood vanished.

  The rest of the party went silent, after the clamor of the trap faded and the stirred dust began to settle. Stradyen stepped from behind the spider statue, mouth dangling open as he regarded the single, narrow path remaining to the hatch, still intact, and running straight from the statue. His shock turned into a grin. “Glad to have you along, lady.”

  “And you would’ve left me behind,” she quipped.

  “I said,” Vidar gasped from where he dangled, “is someone going to help?”

  With curses and apologies, Ivar and Asyra helped pull the struggling Vothan back from the edge. While they did so, the Xyxian prowled slowly up the single-stone width path, casting furtive glances down either side. “The ancients were clever,” he said.

  “You mean nasty,” Strayden growled at his back.

  “I mean they intended that no mere grave robbers would be able to disturb their great work.” Kham stepped over Asyra, who was still trying to right Vidar. “I mean that only one with the knowledge—one destined to possess it—could find their way to their secrets.”

  “I seem to recall it was me finding the trap,” Asyra squawked at him as he crowded her ever closer to the edge of the pit. “And, I don’t know if you noticed, but there’s not a lot of room to work here?”

  “Get it open the rest of the way,” he replied without acknowledging the concern.

  He’ll be plenty concerned if we knock his ass off the edge, getting this thing loose, she thought, but did
n’t voice, rejoined Ivar and Vidar, instead, as they worked their prybars under again. She added hers, leaned hard on it, all her meager weight. A shape loomed behind her, added a sudden surge of strength. She looked over her shoulder, expecting the Xyxian there, and found Strayden, fingers under the lip of the flagstone as it came up. His face reddened under the whiskers, teeth grinding as he got the stone slab up and shifted his strength underneath it.

  Stone grated. Men groaned. The hatch slid fully free and screeched as Strayden pushed and the others got under its weight, as well. Seeing the futility of her assistance, Asyra skipped back a step, had to catch herself before she went too far. The three Vothans worked their calves like pistons, shoving, shoving the slab until it went over the edge of the pit. With a last, communal roar, they sent it toppling on its way into the dark.

  It seemed a very long time before they heard the crash of its impact, somewhere below. Faintly, a flutter of something else, dust pattering down, perhaps, echoed up from the gloom.

  “Something’s moving down there,” Horsa whispered, stepping to the edge of the pit and peering into the depths.

  “Just shadows,” Durrak growled at the kid. “You can’t even see the bottom.”

  “Maybe get those lit,” Strayden snapped breathlessly, still red-faced and wiping away sweat, “so we don’t have to guess about it.”

  Flints clacked in the dark and pitch smoked as Durrak and Aelren ignited torches and began passing them around. Red flames blossomed into yellow brightness, filled the space with writhing shadows. Strayden retrieved one and brought it back to Asyra, handed it to her. Her nostrils wrinkled at the acrid stink as she panned the flame over the darkness upon which the flagstone had laid. But it was the odor of old air she’d noticed before that kept her face wrinkled in distaste.

  Stairs led down into blackness so thick the light barely illuminated forty feet. Gingerly, Asyra set a foot in the first step and dust a half an inch deep powdered away from her foot. Leaning further in, she squinted her eyes, strained every other sense, too. No trail—at least none left by anything passing in the last century—marred the patina coating the way down. No sound not their own greeted her ears.