Splinter (Trapped Souls Book 1)

by Ricki Delaine

  From his observation, it appeared that there was a good fifteen to twenty minutes between when the guard walked out of sight and when he returned, after completing his rounds.

  Twenty minutes was more than enough time. He looked up at the sky. It would still be safer to do this after dark and hopefully the majority of the temple would be asleep. He had already told Ria and Mako the basic plan. He would wait until the moon rose, take out the guard and find his way in for the gem.

  Heaving a sigh, he settled in for a long wait. Getting back down the cliff would be treacherous. There was no possible way he’d be able to negotiate the climb down in the dark, let alone in the rain that was coming. He had rope. He doubted he’d have the luxury of a leisurely tie off and rappel down. He needed to find a place where he could leave it, ready to go, so all he needed to do was toss one end over the edge and scramble down. Scanning along the sheltered edge where he’d clambered up, he saw that one of the large trees had some roots exposed from the weather worn edge of cliff face. Glancing around to see he would not be discovered, he carefully moved through the tall grass over to the tree and tied off one edge of the rope and hid it among the green. Hopefully, he would be able to find it again in the rain and the dark. A quick toss of that rope over the edge would ensure as safe a climb down as he could manage.

  Moving carefully back to his original hiding place, he watched the guard at the entrance. Hoping it would be like the palace, complacent security, too long unchallenged.

  No such luck.

  After watching the man for nearly an hour, he remained as alert as when Theron had first arrived. The Protector looked up at the sky. It was hard to tell the time with the storm clouds above, but it was likely still a few hours before he could move. Scowling, he settled in to wait.

  A few minutes later, the first heavy drops fell.

  In the end, it was the rain that gave him the opening he needed. The patrols came less frequently as the afternoon wore on, stretching to every thirty minutes. The scattering of rain became steady, the drops quickly saturating his clothing and beginning to chill him the longer he remained waiting. It was when he judged the moon almost risen that his opportunity came.

  The guard changed. He saw the man standing at the entrance shift his attention away from the darkened landscape and back toward the torch lit area under the protected doorway. Whether it was the normal practice or not, a gap in their security or a mistake, it didn’t matter. The man turned and walked into the building, leaving the entrance unguarded. The patrol had passed only a few minutes before. Deciding quickly, he stood, sprinting toward the entrance.

  He didn’t have any idea what the layout of the building was, but if he were guarding a treasure, he’d put it in the center of the fortress, or keep it hidden, secured in a room or chamber. Pausing at the doorway, he glanced in. Seeing it was clear, he entered into a large rectangular room that ran the length of the front of the building and stretched about twenty feet in.

  To the left and right, shoji doors led off the main area, and a quick inspection found them also empty of people. One room on each side held a small shrine surrounded by candles and infused with the cloying smell of incense. The other rooms were obviously quiet places to meet, or meditate. That only left one door, at the far end of the room, just to the left of center. It revealed a single hallway, silent and flickering with torchlight. Here, then. He had already used too much time exploring. Anxiously, Theron stepped into the hallway. Hopefully, that monk was far away by this time.

  Eyes sharp for movement, he hugged the wall, making his way down the narrow hall. The walls were perfectly smooth. It was stone, by the color, texture and smell of it. And yet, as his hand ran along it, he could detect no score marks from chisels, no roughness from an errant slip of the hands that crafted it. No seam from laying one stone upon the other. It had an otherworldly feel. There were more rooms, empty and spare, with long stretches of hallway in between. Each time he passed one, curiosity and anxiety warred within him until he was able to satisfy himself that they were empty. Minutes passed and he grew more and more uneasy. How deep did the passage run? The longer it went, the more likely he would be discovered.

  No sooner than that thought passed through his mind, when a door creaked open in front of him and a man stepped out. The surprise on the monk’s face was almost comical. Thankfully, he was elderly and unlikely to be a fighter. But when the Protector stepped in to take him down quickly, the elder stepped aside with astonishing agility, his hand snapping forward to deliver a jab to the young man’s solar plexus. Theron avoided it, but as he jumped back the older man followed, faster than Theron liked. Cursing in his head, Theron was grateful the monk hadn’t already shouted to alert the rest of the temple. He had to finish this quickly. Reading the older man’s movements, he feinted a move to the right, and when the man took the bait, he struck him in the temple with the hilt of his dagger. Falling with a cry, the monk was unfortunately still awake. He struggled to get up, taking in a deep breath, obviously to call for help, but Theron covered his mouth, showing the man the edge of his dagger with a significant look. The monk glowered and remained silent.

  “Troublesome,” Theron muttered, gripping the older man under one arm, tugging to pull him back to the room he had emerged from. Theron took a quick look around the modest space. Apparently some kind of scribing room, there were several tables covered in scrolls. Thankfully, this chamber had a door. If he closed it and no one thought to open it, he would hopefully have completed his task and be on his way before anyone else even knew he was here. Cutting a length of cloth from the tie of the monk’s robe, he gagged the old man and started to bind the man’s arms.

  “Ariyoshi, did you let Cale know about what you found on the –” the young monk stopped in his tracks, one foot in and the other out as he paused in the doorway. His eyes widened as he took in Theron’s black outfit, pausing for an instant before falling to the old man lying half-tied up on the floor.

  He took several quick steps back, opening his mouth to yell. Before Theron could really think about it, he was launching forward. Striking a blow to the man’s chest, he knocked the air from his lungs. The young man’s eyes bulged in panic as he struggled to breathe in again. In those seconds of distraction, Theron got behind him. Twisting the man’s arm behind his back, his forearm pressed tight against his voice box. He heard the wheeze of the man’s breath and tightened his arm. He had to be quick. The man struggled, his movements more frantic and Theron held on, his jaw clenching while he counted down. Five – four – three – in moments, the monk was unconscious.

  He heaved a sigh. Two now. Twice the risk of discovery. He finished tying up the older man, and treated the younger man to the same. Then he stood, bowing at the neck at the monk, glancing into angry old eyes. “My apologies, elder. It was necessary.” Then he made sure to close the door behind him when he saw the hallway was clear. Thankfully, the muffled shouts of the monk couldn’t be heard easily, even in the quiet hallway. With luck, they’d hold there until this was all over.

  He continued further into the temple, worried more of the monks were going to appear. But the hall remained empty as he moved deeper into the building. Color began to appear on the sand colored stone, forming scenes. The painting extended from floor to ceiling, making it seem like he had stepped into another reality. At first he had difficulty deciphering it all, but eventually the pictures took shape. They were quite obviously very old. Even if he couldn’t tell that from the fading colors, particularly those areas where the light of the torches fell, he could see it in the style that the painting had been done in. The stylized method where landscape showed exaggerated whorls and swirling patterns hadn’t been used for more than a century.

  Despite the rough fading in the more brightly lit areas, he was able to see the story. It was the stuff of nightmares. There were people in it – men – their forms melting from human into monsters. Fire, consuming everything in its path. Dark shadows amongst it all, surroundin
g and stretching, reaching, threading toward the center of the building. When he finally saw what that creeping pestilence was heading toward, he stopped.

  Curiosity aside, he was not so lost in the painting to forget his surroundings. He quickly scanned the area and paused. Something was off about this section of hall. Immediately, he froze, listening intently. Nothing. What had made him wary?

  Ah.

  The floor. Everywhere else, the color in the floor was faded evenly. Except in this area. Certain areas were scuffed, but not where you would think. There were gaps. Unnatural for a regular stride, or even an elderly one. Looking carefully now, he examined the painting over this odd stretch of hallway. There were holes in the wall where shadows fell in the pictures, so they couldn’t be seen easily.

  Seeing immediately what he needed to do, he moved, feeling his heart pounding in his chest. Stepping only where the color was unevenly worn, hoping he was right. It was slow going. He could almost feel the moon tracking a path across the sky outside. And when that worry got the best of him, he took the next step too quickly, stepping on a place that might have been correct, until the stone shifted under his feet. Jumping to the next stone, he prayed he wasn’t reading that one wrong as well. He felt a tug on his sleeve, just below his shoulder. He turned his head to look back. A dart had struck the wall behind him, falling to the floor. The tip was shining, wet. Poison.

  Finally, he reached the end of the hallway, and the end of the deadly painting. The hall split here, going off in two directions, sand colored and unbroken once more. One led to a steep incline and the other sloped gradually back up and away. In front of him though, stood a door. There were carved symbols all around the frame and, as it had been in the tunnels below the palace, he knew they were not simple letterings. These markings had a purpose. The question was, what?

  With such treatment, where everything else about this place was so spare (except perhaps the hallway behind him). This must be the chamber he sought.

  He looked around. The corridor was still empty. Carefully he laid his hand on the ridge of wooden handle that had been carved into the door. He looked back up at the carvings around the door. Mouth tightening, he shook his head. He couldn’t stand here and hope the door would open. He had to take a chance.

  Steeling himself, he reached for the handle. But then there was a noise, back the way he’d come. A voice raised in surprise. He cursed in his head, it was too late. Someone must have stumbled on the two monks. He had hoped not to do this (something told him he’d need all of his strength before this was over), but it looked like he didn’t have a choice. Closing his eyes briefly, he called up the power. That ache started again, burning into the meat of his shoulder. Shield, hide me. He held up his hand, seeing it fade. Stepping back from the doorway, he pressed up against the wall and waited.

  Seconds later, he heard footsteps. Looking down the hallway he’d entered from, he saw a hooded monk running towards him. The man slowed when he got to the painted portion of the hallway, and Theron watched him navigate it with quick stuttering steps and hops. He’d obviously traveled it many times, because in moments he was through. He ran straight up to the doors where Theron stood, hidden. The monk yanked at a cord around his neck.

  “Please, please. Let it be safe.” The voice was muffled. Theron could see that the man also wore a mask under his cowl. To protect his face from the foul weather? It didn’t matter. Theron didn’t care what he looked like, he just needed to get into the room. At the end of the cord hung a metal pendant, with forms exactly like those carved into the door frame. He pressed the circle of metal against one of them, muttering a word. Theron felt his eyes widen. The runes, for that is what they were, lit up and, crackling blue-white light like lightning, flickered along the surface. That metal “key” didn’t protect the man from all of it, for he gasped a curse and as the lightning faded, allowed the pendant to fall against his robe. Rubbing the tips of his fingers against each other, he reached out and slid open the door, stepping quickly inside.

  Shadowing the man, Theron had to hold back a gasp. The story of the painting was finished in here, what must be the final scene in the room he now faced. It covered nearly every inch of the surrounding wall. Careful to avoid the monk as he quickly inspected the room, Theron found himself drawn to the image in front of him. The hooded man shook his head and exited, but it didn’t register that he’d left until Theron heard the door slide closed. There was no handle on this side. The wall was smooth and unbroken. That was a problem. He frowned. First things first.

  Resisting the pull of the painted walls, he took the time now to see where he was. He was still shielded from view and it was draining him, slowly but steadily. Now that there was no one here to see, he focused briefly, releasing the cloak. Spots danced briefly in his vision and he took a moment to recover and looked around the room.

  The chamber wasn’t large, roughly ten paces across in any direction. Now that he was inside, he saw what he couldn’t from the outside. The chamber was round. Not an easy feat, with stone. Intricate scroll work had been meticulously carved along the borders at the ceiling and floor. The symbols were edged with softly glowing borders, for which he could see no explainable source. Firmly, he pushed down the twinge of unease. Nothing about this could ever be comforting.

  The scroll work and its lit borders extended in thin lines from the round ceiling of the room at five points, laying over the painting to meet at a pedestal in the center of the room. The effect was like a star burst, exploding outward. The pedestal was draped with what appeared to be a cloth of woven silk and the same runes adorning the walls and floor were embroidered into the weave. Again, in that same strange, radiating pattern.

  On the cloth sat a rough, unfinished gem. There was no doubt this was what he was sent to bring back. Green and semi-translucent, with a soft light that surged and faded as if it were breathing, or had a heartbeat. In what would have been a dimly lit room, the light it emitted on each “beat” was enough to illuminate everything. Ceiling, floor and the painted walls.

  Time was short. He knew that. But the images surrounding him continued to pull at him. The woman in it. Her hair was lifting around her, flowing like waves on an unseen current. Had she some kind of power? It seemed she barely held it in check. Her clothing held an odd combination of martial elements, protective leather kote wrapped around her forearms, a chest plate and tiled leather around narrow hips. One hand was thrown out in front of her, in a warding gesture.

  Her enemy? That same encroaching darkness, twisting up. Reaching for her. Somehow, the artist had captured the heart stuttering creep of fear in her vivid green eyes. It hurt to breathe, seeing that. He wanted to wipe that fear away. Theron needed to protect her. The urge was so strong – like a dagger in his chest – he couldn’t help the hand he laid on the painted features of this unknown woman. This feeling, this was what he felt for Lynea.

  No. He felt the prickle of goosebumps run down his arms.

  He remembered her.

  He stepped back, heart pounding. He didn’t know this person. If she had even existed, she died long before he’d been born. He was here for Lynea. He closed his eyes, trying to steady himself, pushing those other thoughts away.

  He had a task to do. He turned to face the pedestal, tuning in once again to his surroundings. The air in the chamber itself was oppressive. It felt evil. Seeing that pulsing light made him distinctly uncomfortable. His eyes were drawn to it, but he was strangely unwilling to really look. Every time he tried, he found his eyes glance away to look at the lines of runes, the pedestal, the walls. Once he finally forced his eyes upon it, his gaze resolutely exploring to touch the center of it, a knife of unease pierced his heart.

  Unconsciously, he took a step back, wanting to yank the largest stone he could manage from the walls around him to shatter the vile thing. There was no question that this was the stone the Emperor wanted.

  He was unwilling to lay his fingers on it. If it had ever been a normal ston
e, it had obviously been touched by some evil. He wasn’t even wearing full gloves, having needed all the grip he could get on the climb up the cliff. Taking a blade from his belt, he cut and unwrapped some of the cloth he’d used to bind his sleeves tight around his forearms. He re-wrapped what remained, tying it to adjust for the loss. There was still enough left for it to be serviceable.

  With the strip he’d cut, he carefully wrapped his hands, being certain he could pick up the stone without touching any part of it with his bare skin. The material was black and not very thick. Even with the cloth covering his hands, he could see there would still be a faint pulsing of unnatural light visible. Pulling out the small bag he had fastened around his waist, he opened it. Then, before he thought better of it, he reached out to grip the enchanted gem. Instantly a chill spread through him, up his arms, icy fingers reaching hungrily towards his own living, beating, heart. He snatched his hand away, cursing, his heart pounding.

  How was he to … there was no way he could take it away from here if that was what would happen if he touched it, even with the barrier of cotton wrapped around his hands. He looked around again but there was nothing else in the room. He clenched and unclenched his hands, willing the stinging ache of cold away. Feeling returned to his fingers in a painful rush, the prickle of pins and needles as the blood flow was restored, making him wince.

  He understood now, why there were no guards in this room. If that happened to anyone who touched it, the gem alone was protection enough.

  What now?

  He could feel time slipping through his fingers. Absently, he massaged his hands. The ache was nearly gone now. Mouth turning down, he looked at the cloth he had wound around them. He should have known it would not be enough. But the monks had to have done something in order to place it here. What had they done, and his mouth turned up at the thought, levitate it? His smirk disappeared, thinking of all he had seen and done himself in recent days. This was an ancient sect, perhaps they could do exactly that.