The Black Shriving (Chronicles of the Black Gate Book 2)

by Phil Tucker

"It still bleeding?"

  Meffrid hesitated, then shook his head.

  Tiron grunted. "Good work." Exhaustion rolled through him. He wanted nothing more than to pass out. How much blood had he lost? "Work on the rope situation. I'll be up soon."

  The wound in his side throbbed and ached right down to his bones. All his life he'd fought, and with fighting came injury. With injury came pain. He'd reconciled himself to a bloody end long ago. He had weathered wounds, including one long winter when a cut to his arm had gone bad and he'd nearly died. Pain was of the body and good for the soul. He focused on his breathing and allowed the pain to become part of him so as to be able to ignore it.

  An excited cry roused him. Audsley was applauding wildly, and even Bogusch looked momentarily cheered.

  "He did it! The rope's secure."

  Meffrid took Tiron's hand and helped him sit up. Pain sloshed around inside him like wine in a half-filled skin.

  "Wrap some bandages around me and then help me into my chain."

  Tiron could make out Audsley cooing and cuddling Aedelbert as Meffrid tore his cloak into broad strips and wound them tightly about Tiron's waist, tucking the final end under the rest to keep it cinched tight. They buttoned the padded undercoat on, and then Meffrid picked up the chainmail.

  "You sure you want this on, ser?"

  Tiron tried to imagine wrestling his way back into it and shook his head with regret. "No, I suppose not. I'll come back for it later. Come. Let's get out of this damned room." He moved to where the rope hung. "Good work, Magister."

  "Oh, I'm not the one who deserves the praise," said Audsley proudly.

  "Yes, well. I'm sure your firecat be rewarded with Ascension for his aid. Meffrid, you're up first. Temyl, Bogusch, position yourselves below to catch him if the rope snaps."

  The group moved into position, and Meffrid gave the rope a couple of good yanks before reaching up to haul himself off the ground. With both feet on the wall, he walked his way up, pulling himself up the rope. Ominous creaks filled the air as it took his weight, but it held. With Temyl and Bogusch standing anxiously beneath him, Meffrid soon disappeared into the gloom. They heard a few grunts of exertion, and then the rope went slack.

  "I'm up," Meffrid called down. "Big tunnel. Can't see the end of it." His voice grew faint. "Looks like the firecat wrapped the rope around something here." His voice came back clearly as he moved back. "All clear."

  Audsley stepped in close to Tiron and asked quietly, "How are you going to get up?"

  "I'll go last," said Tiron. "I'll tie the rope in a loop and have you haul me up. You'll see. It won't be a problem."

  Audsley nodded slowly, clearly unhappy. "Very well. Do you think...?"

  Tiron sighed. "Sure. We'll have the men haul you up too."

  Audsley ducked his head in embarrassment. "Thank you. It's just that I'm not particularly suited to this manner of escapade."

  Tiron considered the man. A part of him, the part that had grown cruel and twisted in the Kyferin dungeon, wanted to twist the dagger. Instead he thought of Lady Iskra and reached out to squeeze Audsley's soft shoulder. "Think nothing of it. That's why we came along."

  Bogusch had already disappeared up after Meffrid, and soon Temyl followed along behind him. Then Tiron tied the rope into a noose which he slotted around Audsley's arse. The three soldiers up above hauled him up, cursing and groaning, lifting Audsley's bulk in fits and starts until he too disappeared and Tiron was left alone.

  He considered his stacked armor and chain shirt. Useless. He'd barely be able to move with all that on, much less fight. Better that he stayed light and mobile.

  The rope tumbled back down into view, and he stepped up and took hold of it. Coarse and fibrous, it was a mixture of twisted shirts and old belts. Good enough for this short ascent and little else. Tiron stepped awkwardly into the noose, pulled it tight, and then gave the rope a tug.

  It went taut, and he was hauled two feet up into the air. Tiron placed his feet on the smooth wall and walked up as best he could, the strain in his abdominal muscles causing the pain in his side to flare viciously. Sweat drenched his face again. Up he went, the floor disappearing from view. So this was how old men scaled castle walls, he thought. He inched up, and finally the edge of the tunnel came into view. He reached up to take hold of it, Audsley took hold of him by the arm, and together they all pulled him up and into the tunnel.

  Tiron bent over, hands on knees, and stared stonily at the floor till the pain subsided. Then he straightened with a grunt to take in their new surroundings.

  The tunnel was huge, strange and geometric, shaped like a hexagon and constructed of the same black rock as the walls below. No seams. No sign of it being built of distinct blocks. Rather, it looked hollowed out, as if the original builders had carved their way through. The rope extended to a fragmented mess in one side, a ruinous hole that had been blasted into the wall by some ancient magic. Aedelbert had wrapped the rope around a fang of black rock, over and over until it had cinched tight.

  Smart firecat.

  Tiron stood straight and forced himself to smile. "Good work. Now, let's find a hot bath, some good food, and a comfortable place to sleep."

  Nervous smiles appeared on the soldier's faces.

  "No talking," he said. "Swords out. Move quietly and keep your wits about you. Ready? Meffrid, Bogusch, take the lead."

  Meffrid finished coiling the rope over his shoulder, drew his blade, and moved forward, Bogusch just a step behind him. Audsley followed right behind, Aedelbert on his shoulder, and Tiron and Temyl came last, both with their swords drawn.

  The same diffuse, ambient light illuminated the tunnel, allowing them to see a good twenty paces before them before it faded away to gloom. The tunnel dwarfed them, devoured their footsteps so that they moved ahead silently.

  All right, Starkadr. Let's see what else you've got in store for us.

  The group moved forward slowly. Meffrid squinted into the gloom that draped the hexagonal passage in shadows, kept his steps short and his sword held out before him. Temyl began to crowd in close, continuously swallowing and making a dull gulping sound that would have aroused Tiron's ire had he the energy to spare. When Temyl's shoulder finally brushed against his own, however, he cut the guard a sharp look and the man ducked his head in apology and stepped out wide once more.

  It was hard for Tiron to wrap his mind around the construction of this place. He had seen wondrous buildings in his time, from the great curtain wall of Kyferin Castle to the soaring arches of Ennoia's Portals, but this tunnel felt unnatural. The black walls seemed to hold green tints to them that fled when he focused his eye on any given area. The floor, the hexagonal walls and the ceiling overhead were impossibly smooth. He detected no seams, no indication that humans had built this with their hands.

  Which they hadn't, of course. He almost snorted at his foolishness. Sin casters had carved out this complex with their unhallowed magics. But it was one thing to make that statement in his mind, and another to walk along the endless length of this vast hall.

  "Hold up," whispered Meffrid, raising a hand. "Do you feel that?"

  Tiron felt nothing. He peered over Audsley's shoulder in irritation. "Feel what?"

  "A breeze," said Bogusch. "Least, I think I felt one."

  "Yes," said Meffrid. "First time I've felt the air move."

  "Let's keep moving," said Tiron. "Careful, now."

  Their little group shuffled on for another twenty paces before a faint moan issued forth from the darkness ahead of them. Temyl gulped and took a quick sidestep closer to Tiron, while Aedelbert flared his wings on Audsley's shoulder. The moan continued, hollow and desolate, fading away and then returning without any real break.

  Temyl formed the triangle with shaking hands. "By all that's holy, what is that?"

  Nobody answered. Tiron could feel sweat running down his brow despite the cool temperature.

  "I've heard that before," said Audsley suddenly. "Back home in Nous. The
re were certain stairwells that descended right into the drowned levels, massive and empty, and the wind would moan just like that as it raced up and down their length."

  "Stairwells, hmm?" Tiron inhaled slowly, fighting to steady his nerves. "Sounds more manageable than some ghostly Sin Caster. Meffrid, Bogusch. Onward."

  Meffrid gripped his sword with both hands and walked on, Bogusch falling back a pace so that he was almost level with Audsley. As they pressed on, the moaning grew louder, more insistent, until it was a haunting and continuous groan that throbbed and ebbed with no rhyme or reason. The ambient gloom ended up ahead at a stark black wall as if the passageway had been cut by a massive sword. A ponderous sheet of metal the size of a huge door lay askew just before it on the floor.

  Nobody spoke. They all stood still, staring at the impenetrable wall, and it was clear that the moaning was coming from its far side. Tiron spat and pushed his way past Audsley and Bogusch and Meffrid, and stalked up to the fallen sheet of metal. It was perhaps three inches thick, the size of a barn door, and its surface glimmered with the muted light of hammered iron. Someone must have dropped it here, for it lay unevenly across the floor, one corner propped up on the rising surface of the left wall.

  Tiron stepped onto it carefully, but it didn't shift beneath his weight. Something extended vertically from its far end, and as he drew closer he saw that it was a sword, its blade black like the one Asho had wielded, stabbed into the platform's far side. Tiron didn't touch it, but leaned down to inspect the weapon. Its black blade had fused with the iron platform. Frowning, he looked up at the black wall and realized with a start that it wasn't a wall of any kind but rather a gaping and terrible void.

  His knees weakened and his stomach lurched, and he almost grabbed onto the black blade's hilt for support. Breathing in sharp, shallow gulps, he stepped off the far edge of the platform and inched up to the edge of nothingness.

  The hexagonal tunnel simply ended, opening up into a wretched and total darkness. The moan was overwhelming this close up, desolate and continuous, and Tiron felt his sweat-soaked hair stir as wind caressed his face. He couldn't see anything out there, anything at all.

  He wanted nothing more than to turn and flee. To scamper back from this impossibility, gripped by a primordial fear. Instead, he bared his teeth in a grin and stood there, letting his heart pound mightily, refusing to succumb to his terror. The moan continued unabated, the winds plucked at him, and the void promised an end to his troubles. He stared into the heart of nothing till he was his own master once more, and then he turned back and returned to the group.

  They all drew in close, but Tiron spoke only to Audsley. "There's nothing beyond. The tunnel opens out into nothingness. A dead end."

  Bogusch scowled and rubbed at his jaw. "We head back? Look for another tunnel?"

  "I don't think so," said Audsley carefully. "We've assumed that the Sin Casters here moved by means of flight. Thus an empty void would have presented them with no great difficulty. It can't extend forever, for its expanse has to be contained within Starkadr's body. I would guess that it must be a shaft, like my stairwells back home, but without the steps. A means to climb and descend to other levels."

  "Fat lot of good that does us," said Temyl. "We're out of luck, aren't we, grounded as we are and forced to use our two feet. Useless!"

  "Perhaps," said Audsley. "But we haven't taken into account everything that lies before our eyes. What do you make of this metal platform, Tiron?"

  "There's a sword stabbed into it at the far end, there," said Tiron. "Similar to the blade you found in Mythgræfen's hidden rooms. The one that caught fire when Asho held it."

  "Ah," said Audsley, as if that meant something. He hesitated, foot raised, and then climbed onto the platform and edged his way forward, moving ever deeper into a crouch as he drew closer to the void. Finally he knelt by the blade itself and peered closely at it.

  "What's this?" Audsley stared at the metal surface where the blade was sunken in. "Aedelbert, if you will?"

  His firecat leaped down off his shoulder and breathed out a tongue of warm red flame. It was good to see cherry red in this grim place, thought Tiron. "What is it?" he asked.

  "Hmm," said Audsley. "Interesting. Most - yes. Quite. But if - no. Well, do you think?" He stared curiously at Aedelbert, who gave no response, then scuttled back and stepped off the platform. His face was alight with excitement. "Runes, carved around the blade, in old Sigean. An incantation of sorts. A binding, perhaps. Which, given the - ah - arcane properties of the blade that Asho wielded, might indicate that it was meant to channel power into the platform?"

  Tiron felt equal parts frustration and hope. "What are you talking about?"

  Audsley smiled. "The blade. I believe it channels power into the platform. Which, given its location, might indicate that it can, ah, fly."

  Tiron blinked. "Fly?"

  "Yes," said Audsley, reaching up to adjust his glasses, his smile growing wider. "Precisely. Our means, good ser, of navigating that terrible void."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Lady Iskra Kyferin was sitting on a small chest by the great hall's central fire, a bowl of oatmeal on her lap. Despite the bruising that mottled the side of her face, she felt alert, alive, and filled with purpose. Their victory over Lord Laur's force had invigorated her, and her energy was shared by her servants and followers as they bustled around the fire, cooking breakfast, laughing and animated in a manner that she hadn't seen since they'd come to this wretched Hold.

  Brocuff -- the former constable of Kyferin Castle and now for all purposes her steward – stepped up, gave her a quick bow, and then lowered himself to a comfortable squat, a sheet of paper held between his powerful hands. "I've finished my tally, milady."

  Iskra set her bowl aside. "So soon? And your stay in the Hold is doing you well, constable. I thought you couldn't read or write."

  He grinned at her, showing strong, yellowed teeth. "Still can't. But I've recruited the help of a young Hrething warrior by the name of Erling who can, and he's been good enough to draw little pictures of each kind of category here."

  He showed her the paper, and indeed there were accurate depictions of swords, barrels, and all manner of goods drawn down the left margin, along with notches beside them that were slashed diagonally for each group of five.

  "Now," said Brocuff, scrutinizing the paper as if seeing it for the first time, "Kitan brought a powerful amount of supplies with him. This was no mere assault. I reckon he planned to kill us off and then set about fixing the Hold and making it suitable for defense. Enough food to last our little band six months, though a good amount of it might go bad if it's not stored right before then. Tools aplenty, along with fine furniture for Kitan's own use. Can you believe that he had his four-poster bed broken down and hauled all the way out here?" Brocuff looked up at her with merry lights dancing in his eyes. "Incredible. Live poultry, flour, cured hams, wheels of cheese, grains, a good dozen tuns of fortified wine, and so forth."

  Iskra smiled. "Very good. Set enough food aside to last us three months, and give the rest to the Hrethings as thanks for their help."

  Brocuff nodded. "I thought you might say that, so I took the liberty of sorting it into two piles. Now, we've also got enough armor and weaponry to outfit an army of some hundred knights. Funny, that. Some eighty swords, about half as many good shields, along with suits of plate armor and chainmail. Elon's sorting through it, separating the stuff that'll need fixing, but it's worth a fortune and all of it good steel."

  Iskra leaned forward, chin resting on the base of her palm, and tapped her lips with her fingers. "Far too much for us to use, and I've no wish to ransom it back to Lord Laur. When we're done speaking, please ask Kolgrimr to attend me. I might have a proposition for him."

  Brocuff tapped the side of his nose. "Thought you might. I'll do just that." He scrutinized his list once more, but this time Iskra noticed that he was staring through the paper, buying time as he hesitated over some notion
or thought.

  "Yes, constable?"

  "It's not my place to question your decisions, my lady." His voice took on a gruff note. "But surveying all these weapons and armor, I was wondering if we really needed to reach out to the Agerastians like you said you were going to do." He looked up, eyes suddenly bright with hope or desperation. "We fought off Lord Laur's men once, and that without all these swords and suits of plate. Might we not do so again, and righteously, without turning to the heretics for aid?"

  Iskra set her bowl aside carefully as she schooled her mind and expression. When she looked up at Brocuff she was positive she exuded nothing but confidence and serenity. "Would that it were so. We've killed a Virtue, Brocuff. We've slain Lord Laur's son. They will not send a small force against us again. We need allies, or we shall be crushed."

  Brocuff searched her face, pupils moving from side to side with minute darts, and then coughed and lowered his head. "Of course, my lady. Forgive me for asking. If you'll excuse me." He rose, sketched an awkward bow, and strode quickly away.

  Iskra watched the constable leave the great hall with consternation. She'd seen more than simple distaste in his eyes. Something akin to fear, perhaps, or more accurately horror. Horror at the thought of allying with the enemies of their most sacred creed. Would he follow her command? How far could she push her followers before they recoiled for fear of their souls?

  Ser Jander Wyland rounded the main fire and approached. Tall, broad-shouldered, and handsome, Jander was the last of the infamous Black Wolves who had once followed Iskra's late husband. The blade at his hip had seen countless battles over the past two decades, and his was a steadying and firm presence that she greatly appreciated.

  "Good morning, my lady." He bowed and then sat, looking at her sidelong as he stirred his oatmeal. "I like that light in your eye. It bodes poorly for Lord Mertyn Laur."

  "Indeed." She took up her own bowl, though she no longer had an appetite. "I have a thousand ideas racing through my mind. Ways to leverage this victory to our lasting advantage. Mertyn was intent on garrisoning the Hold, and as a result has gifted us with a wealth of resources. How long do you think we have before Lord Laur sends another armed force?"