The sound of movement in the corridor behind him caused Wyand to spin backwards, worried about what he might find. To his relief, he saw Keltin creeping through the gloom a few strides behind him. “Smoke and darkness I can manage, but this…. I don’t know how you did this every day for seven turnings,” Keltin muttered quietly when he saw that Wyand had stopped.
“It’s easier to work in a place like this when you’re not worried about stumbling into any Cultivators,” Wyand replied with a shudder. He then looked past his friend to an advancing line of silent fighters led by Aemetta and Eyrie, with Ryna, Cailla, and Ansund close behind. The glow of Watch helmets and of the eyes of the Guided pierced the brooding darkness at points throughout the column and cast shifting shadows onto the stone walls. As tense as the situation was, Wyand was reassured to see so many people ready to support him. With a slow, controlled breath he led the group forward.
A growing sound in the distance drew his attention; at first, Wyand assumed it was the storm outside, but a constant rumbling hum accompanied what sounded like short bursts of air and a rhythmic thud of some large object. Something stirred in Wyand’s memory, but he had no recollection of where he could have heard the strange mixture of noises before that point. One darkened opening after another passed by, some leading to more drifts that disappeared from sight, some seeming to lead to nowhere but solid walls of stone. A faint breeze flowed from some of these drifts, its currents tinged by an acrid smell that Wyand recognized from his journey through the Cavern of the Winds. At last, the passage curved and a dim light spilled through an opening that was wider than the others.
After concealing the glowing Stormheart within his armor, Wyand peered past the edge of the opening at an astonishing sight. Six rows of enormous metal cylinders—each wider than he was tall—lined the floor from one end of the room to the other some fifty strides away. There were dozens of them, and they all moved with their own unique timing. As each cylinder rose slowly to the ceiling high above, it would emit a puff of what looked like steam before descending with a crash back to the floor.
Beyond the cylinders, there were a myriad of other confusing devices within this peculiar space. Dark pipes of varying sizes coated the walls, some weaving through each other, others disappearing into the rock, and still others splitting from one into many before inexplicably joining together again. From within large metal cases, the teeth of enormous gears linked one rotating axle to another while whatever mechanism existed behind the gears released a hissing jet of steam. Small flashes of lightning flew in crackling arcs from a box on the far end of the room; with each surge, a column of light windows beside the box flickered to life from the floor to the ceiling.
Machines, Wyand realized suddenly. These are like the things I saw in the Thoughtcaster. Enthralled yet terrified, his senses struggled to process the dizzying barrage of sound, light, and movement that stood before him. Though there was no sign of the Cultivators immediately nearby, such a complex assembly had to serve some function that was very important to them—surely they were monitoring this place. As Wyand considered this unsettling thought, a hand on his shoulder nearly sent him to the floor with fright.
“I don’t know what this is,” Keltin said softly as he glanced around the room, “but unless it puts a stop to that weapon the Cultivators are using, it’s not important right now.” Wyand considered the possibility of what Keltin had just suggested, but he soon agreed that it was best to keep moving. Others in the group paused at the remarkable entryway as well, but they quickly turned away to maintain the pace that Wyand set. They knew, just as Wyand did, that there would be time to study all the levels of the Hall later once its current masters had been removed.
Another memory from the Thoughtcaster suddenly leapt to the forefront of Wyand’s mind—somewhere in the depths beneath the Hall, the remnants of a Seed Ship lay in darkness. Within it, the true beacon to contact the Old Kingdom was waiting for a single human touch, just as it had been since the earliest days of Aldhagen. He had no idea of the ship’s exact location within the plateau, and after having already walked past a seemingly endless number of side passages, he knew that finding the true beacon could take weeks if not longer.
After accepting he could do nothing about the beacon for now, Wyand refocused on finding the people that Hirst said were in danger. Progress was slow and exhausting given the constant upward climb and the extra effort needed to keep each step quiet. Long periods of intimidating silence ended without warning as he passed certain side corridors. Sounds rushed forward from the unseen distance of more machines carrying out their mysterious functions in places never viewed by human eyes. Then, a new noise began to echo against the tunnel walls.
“That’s water,” Wyand whispered aloud.
“It’s more than that,” Keltin replied as he stepped forward to walk by Wyand’s side. His wide eyes glittered in the light of the Stormheart. “That’s the Great River.” Their pace increased, just as it had every night for countless evenings on the way to Last Calling. This time, though, reaching the Last Calling chamber would not be a symbol of rest and peace after a day of honorable work, it would be a waypoint to mark their progress in taking the Hall from its false gods.
Wyand’s steps slowed when he realized the sound of the Great River had not come from the Last Calling chamber. As the corridor curved and the entrance came into view, so too did the ominous balconies that led to Wracandyr. He knew this space, but something was wrong. “The river’s flow is backwards,” he observed aloud.
“This isn’t Aldhagen,” Keltin began.
“Locboran!” Ryna and Eyrie hissed in unison as they reached the chamber. A loud and sudden splash ended all discussion, however, and drew everyone’s attention to the Casting Platform. On it, two Cultivators stood beside a dark mound three strides across and nearly a stride high. As Wyand and the others watched, the two former deities lifted something from the pile and tossed it from the platform. Though there was little light in the chamber, the object that struck the water was clearly human. Horror turned to rage as Wyand looked to Keltin.
“Break them,” Keltin snarled, affirming Wyand’s thoughts. With swift and silent steps, Wyand sped past the balconies that had borne witness to countless atrocities. He took pride in the knowledge that such injustices had reached their end. As he ran, Wyand felt waves of heat pulsing against him from the Stormheart—it was as though the device could sense that the Cultivators were near and it almost seemed eager to engage them. Wyand did not deny its desire for long.
Ten steps from the Casting Platform, Wyand removed the Stormheart from his armor; only then did the pair of Cultivators take note of their assailant. There was no time for them to react, and their staves lay on the opposite side of the mound of bodies. Wyand knew that machines were incapable of emotion, but when the Cultivators saw him, whatever mechanism controlled their eyes produced a close approximation of fear. With a brilliant burst of light and a staggering clap of thunder, Wyand ascended the platform and slammed the Stormheart against each Cultivator’s chest. In the span of a breath, they lay crumpled in ruin at his feet.
Keltin raced past, his dark blade drawn as he leapt atop the nearest Cultivator’s chest. The knife easily pierced the luminous silver robes as well as the layers of pseudo-flesh and metal beneath. Keltin then twisted his arm sharply, puling the blade free amid a spray of translucent grey liquid and torn strands of thin metallic filament. He stood, revealing a look of crazed hatred on his face as he sheathed the blade. When Keltin noticed Wyand watching him, he leaned close with rage still dancing behind his eyes. “I hope it felt that,” Keltin growled as he walked past. In what seemed like a response, the cavern was suddenly filled with an endless series of mournful, wavering tones that emanated from the same unseen source as the Calling chimes.
Tense stares moved from the fallen Cultivators to the entrance of the chamber and back again as the fighters listened and waited. On the Casting Platform, Wyand noticed Ansund dragging the C
ultivator that bore no knife marks towards the overhanging edge. Without hesitation, the Draeden unceremoniously dumped the body into the river, then proceeded to do the same with the other Cultivator. Ansund stepped back and gave an approving nod as the lifeless forms disappeared into the darkness of Wracandyr. “That will send quite a message to our forces below,” he said proudly. Then with a pensive frown he looked up to the ceiling where the wavering tone echoed among the finger-like projections of stone. “And that will send the same message to the enemy above. The time for stealth has passed—speed and overwhelming force are our only allies now.”
Heeding Ansund’s advice, Wyand rushed out of the cavern and led the assault force upward with a renewed sense of urgency. The sound of the Great River returned once more as the entrance to the Last Calling chamber passed by, but Wyand did not slow. His focus was solely on destroying the Cultivators’ weapons to prevent further bloodshed. A sudden thought halted his steps just a few strides past the opening, however. What if there are more Cultivators hiding in there, waiting for us to pass so they can surprise us from behind? Speed and force were enticing ideas, but thoroughness was the only way to guarantee safety. With a frustrated growl, he sprinted back to inspect the Last Calling chamber. Wyand feared that clearing every room he passed would reduce what had started as a race to a crawl—an excruciating but necessary crawl.
Once he was certain no threats lingered in the shadows of the Last Calling chamber, Wyand resumed the climb up the spiraling hallway. Thankfully, no other rooms lay between the Last Calling chamber and the main floor of the Hall, so he was free to sprint for a few dozen strides. Upon reaching the ground level, the Calling Room appeared empty and all entrances to the Hall were blocked by massive walls of metal. It was a startling reminder of the shared memory Wyand witnessed in the Thoughtcaster of Grigg’s exodus from Aldhagen. Also, just as in Grigg’s time, people now screamed on the opposite side of the metal barriers, all pleading for help and a means of escape.
Wyand’s thoughts raced—whether he chose to press forward or to stop here and attempt to reopen the Hall, more people were going to die. He thought back to Hirst’s words and wondered if the workers shouting outside the Hall were those that Hirst could hear in his mind. Frustrated, Wyand considered what Tilia would do in such a situation, and a plan suddenly formed. “We clear the Calling Room first,” Wyand declared to those close enough to hear him. “Then, we use thunder stones to remove the barriers and escort survivors to safety.”
Bows and thunderstones were soon trained on the section of hallway that led to the upper levels, ready in the event any Cultivators appeared. Meanwhile, Wyand walked slowly through the darkened rows of seats, scanning for any sign of the Cultivators. As he glanced from side to side, Wyand saw that other sections of the room were being cleared by Keltin, Ansund, Ryna, Aemetta, Eyrie, and Cailla. When they all reached the central speaking platform, Wyand turned to leave, satisfied that the space was safe.
“Wait,” Keltin said softly. Wyand and the others turned to watch as Keltin took a tentative step up onto the speaking platform. Without a sound, he then parted the sacred curtains that lined the wall and disappeared. By the Cultivators’ rules, Keltin had just committed an offense worthy of Casting—only the gods were allowed access to whatever lay beyond the Calling Chamber. Given the current situation, though, it was a wise location to inspect for threats. Just as Wyand was beginning to worry, Keltin’s head poked through the curtains. “Wyand, you need to see this.”
Wyand frowned, looking over his shoulder at the barricaded entrances before turning back to face his friend. He had every intention of telling Keltin they had lingered here too long already, but the astonishment on Keltin’s face was enough to ignite Wyand’s curiosity. After darting onto the speaking platform and pushing the curtain aside, Wyand saw nothing more than a solid wall of stone at first. Then Keltin motioned for him to follow to the left. They crept along the wall behind the curtain until a small corridor appeared that curved away from the Calling Room. It widened into a tunnel that ran straight for more than twenty strides before curving once more. What lay beyond that curve was more than enough to explain Keltin’s astonishment.
A curtain, identical to the one they’d just stepped through, hung in front of a stone wall. Did we somehow just go in a circle? Wyand wondered, but this thought was quickly dismissed when Keltin parted the curtains. It was the Calling Room—the same rows of seats, the same steps leading from the speaking platform up to each entrance—but it was deserted. There was a moment of confused silence as Wyand studied the space, then the truth at last revealed itself. I’ve stood in this exact spot before. “Aldhagen,” he breathed.
Keltin nodded as he scanned the enormous chamber. “We’ve been right next to each other this entire time,” he said in disbelief. “The Cultivators divided us so they could control us—families were an inconvenience and a liability to them. But now…now we’re unified. Aldhagen and Locboran stand together, as do Cynmere and Dism Slyde.”
Wyand’s eyes were fixed on the walls of metal beyond the Calling Room. “You’re right, or you soon will be. One final barrier remains and it’s up to us to tear it down. We can—” His words ended as a sizzling orb of green light hurtled towards the speaking platform from one of the entrances to the Calling Room. Keltin spotted the attacker and had just enough time to tackle Wyand before the burst of energy exploded on the platform. They landed in a heap in front of the first row of seats. Dazed, Wyand rolled to his side until he could look at Keltin. “Are you all right?” he asked weakly.
The back of Keltin’s grey field clothes emitted a thin wisp of smoke, but he nodded numbly in reply. Wyand patted the singed fabric quickly before rolling to his feet and peering over the row of seats. Another green orb sped towards him, crackling just above his head as he crouched down behind the seats once again. This time, the blast ripped through the curtain on the speaking platform and slammed into the stones that lay behind it. A blaze immediately engulfed the tattered curtain, sending dark smoke billowing into the Calling Room. “Go!” Keltin hissed as he crawled on his stomach towards the speaking platform. Wyand joined him seconds before a third blast ripped through the rows of seats where he and Keltin had been hiding.
The floor seemed to stretch on to infinity as Wyand looked across it at the stairs leading onto the speaking platform. There was nowhere to hide between where he lay currently and the relative safety of the passageway to Locboran—the likelihood of sprinting that distance before falling to the Cultivators’ fire was nonexistent. Wyand shut his eyes and clenched the Stormheart, desperately praying for some means of escape. Then, to his surprise, the strange stone from the Cavern of the Winds began to hum with a pitch he’d never heard it make before. Intricate patterns in every imaginable shade of blue swirled furiously beneath the outer surface until the Stormheart flashed a brilliant white.
In the sudden stillness that followed, Wyand heard something fall close to where the Cultivator had been standing. He risked a glance above the seats and found the Cultivator staggering backwards, with the still-glowing staff now laying on the floor. Wyand pulled Keltin to his feet, but before they could start running, a dark arrow struck the Cultivator’s face with a sharp snap. Two more followed, one piercing just above the left eye, the other lodging itself deep in the chest cavity. The Cultivator shuddered and slumped forward, too damaged to function. Seeing his opportunity, Keltin’s eyes sparked with rage and he sprinted across the Calling Room to sink his blade into another fallen god.
The rolling smoke on the speaking platform moved aside briefly, revealing Ansund armed with his bow and another arrow prepared to loose. “Aldhagen, I presume?” he called to Wyand as more fighters appeared from within the smoke. Wyand nodded in reply and Ansund leapt down, landing less than a stride from the first row. “Whatever you did with the Stormheart, you’ll need to do it again if we’re ever going to reach the top of this Hall,” Ansund said. He then studied the room with his remaining eye and no
dded thoughtfully to himself. “This is a strategic junction, and one that we must hold if we hope to escape this place. When you’re ready, we can begin the effort of reopening the doors to Aldhagen. Aemetta is already preparing to do the same in Locboran, though she will await your order.”
Wyand pulled the stone away from his chest slightly. “I have no idea how the Stormheart just did…whatever that was, but I agree with you—this is our best weapon for now.” The wavering tone lingered behind the sound of crackling flames as the remnants of the curtain were consumed. “Once the passage is clear, I’ll send word to Aemetta to open the Hall to any survivors in Locboran. Until then, and until more of our people can make it through to reinforce this side, we need to make certain the corridor beyond stays clear. Come on.”
Wyand climbed swiftly to the top of the Calling Room with Keltin and Ansund by his side, but as soon as they reached the main corridor, heavy footfalls echoed from the upper levels. “Back inside before they see us!” Keltin hissed, but it was too late. A row of four Cultivators appeared, their staves already glowing. Wyand, Keltin, and Ansund leapt for cover as a volley of deadly orbs streamed past them.
Once behind the safety of the Calling Room’s wall, Keltin and Ansund stared at Wyand with nervous impatience. Smoke filled the air as the synchronized footsteps in the corridor grew louder. Wyand shut his eyes, focusing all of his thoughts on purging the Cultivators from the Hall, but nothing happened. His eyes flew open as cold fear gripped his heart. “It isn’t working!” he whispered.
“Slag,” Keltin muttered. “I know something that works.” He sprinted through the smoke to the next opening that led into the Calling Room—isen in his right hand, knife in the other—and pressed his back against the wall. One of the Cultivators appeared in that entrance just as Keltin arrived, but only the end of its staff made it into the room before Keltin attacked. He swung his left arm at the entrance and the dark blade sank into the Cultivator’s chest with tremendous force. Sensing that the threat had moved, the other three Cultivators opened fire on the entrance where Keltin stood. He stepped back just before a series of explosions shattered the plastered stone walls behind him.
Kingdomturn Page 105
