by Phil Tucker
Her gaze lingered on Ser Wyland. Never had she seen his expression so dour and forbidding. He wouldn't meet her eyes.
"I ask that you stay the course, that you remain true to our cause, and have faith in our success. I shall return, and when I do, I shall come with such might at my back that it will cause Ser Laur to tremble and regret the day he thought to enact his evil plan."
Heads around her nodded, and she heard a rumble of agreement. She smiled, meeting as many eyes as she could as she looked across the crowd. "Have faith. Our cause is just, and we are righteous. I shall return."
The Gate behind her flickered to life. Black, choppy waters cascaded into being, a vertical plane of ink that swirled and broke as if lashed by an unfelt wind. Many around her drew back as Audsley's head and shoulders pushed through. The magister reached up to adjust his glasses and then smiled broadly at them all.
"Ah! My dear Lady Kyferin. I see you are quite ready to travel. If you will?" And with that, he withdrew and disappeared.
Iskra had passed through many Portals in her time, from the great Solar Gates that reached twenty yards into the sky to countless private Lunar Portals. Still, none had ever promised to send her to such a place as Starkadr.
She took a measured breath, nodded to Ser Wyland, who bowed deeply in return, then allowed Ser Tiron to take her arm and lead her through the Gate.
As always, there was a sense of visceral disorientation, of being pulled apart and inverted, the sound of a screaming gale tearing past her and of great distances traveled. Then she emerged, blinking rapidly, into a vast and gloomy room, larger even than the greatest of cathedrals in Sige, built on a scale to boggle the mind.
Ser Tiron helped her keep her balance as she looked around, taking in the huge, twisted pillars of Portals and the slumbering mist that barely hid its dead charges. Everything gleamed black, and the air was oppressive and dense.
Hannus and Ord, the two guards selected by Brocuff to escort her, emerged through the Gate, and to their credit they did little more than stifle their gasps.
Audsley beamed at her and sketched a deep bow with surprising grace. "Be welcome, my august Lady Kyferin, to the halls of the dead, the once-home of the Sin Casters, known as Starkadr to the lovers of history, but to us, the living, to be known as our singular hope and means of salvation!"
His grin was so at odds with their dismal surroundings that Iskra couldn't help but smile and reach out to take his hand. "My dear Audsley. You have performed such a service that I barely know how to thank you."
The magister's dark skin hid his blush, but he ducked his head and waved a hand as if shooing away an insect. "Think nothing of it, my dear lady. My pleasure is to serve! And I believe that Starkadr yet holds even greater secrets. Who knows what I may divine while I await your return here?"
"Indeed. Ser Tiron spoke of a possible danger lurking here. He has told me of Meffrid's disappearance." Iskra held on to Audsley's hand. "Are you sure about staying here?"
Audsley's smile slipped away. "I need to stay by the Gates, my lady. They can only be operated in this manner from within. If I leave Starkadr, I will have to wait a month like any other to return. I will take every precaution, and after all, I have the valiant Bogusch and Temyl to ensure that I am safe. Don't I, good sers?"
The two guards in question were standing stiffly at attention, but Iskra didn't miss their quick glances at each other before they both bowed.
"Very well. Thank you all for your service."
Iskra took a moment to marvel at the room once more. At the creeping mist, the hundreds of forms seeming to slumber as far as the eye could see. At the dizzying number of Portals embedded into the huge pillars that rose in the same twisted fashion as the oak before the Hold's front gate.
"Incredible," she murmured.
"Magister," said Tiron, voice hard and steady. "If you will. The Portal to Agerastos."
"Indeed, indeed. I have been scouting, and by luck have found one that I believe will serve. After all, many if not most of the Portals here are of an, ah, elevated nature. It would be a challenge to climb up to most of them, but a pillar over there has a ground level Portal that I think should suffice. If you will?"
Audsley turned and hurried off, the mist boiling around his legs as he strode away into the gloom.
Ser Tiron drew his blade, and the metallic ring of his doing so brought home to Iskra how this terrible and majestic place was not merely a dream, some eidolon from ages past, but a very real and present danger to them all. She raised her chin and followed Audsley, the four guards at their heels, exchanging words amongst themselves.
Audsley strode eagerly ahead, only to falter and come to a stop. He cast around, trying to get his bearings, and finally called out, "Aedelbert? A little light to guide the way?"
Ahead, a small tongue of flame flickered in the gloom, and Audsley turned back to them with a proud smile. "Aedelbert. Indispensable, really. A true treasure."
Soon they reached the great pillar, and Iskra saw the firecat perched on the threshold ledge of a Portal at head height. He chirped and swooped down to land on Audsley's shoulder.
"Here, my lady. I am quite confident that this Portal should lead you to the capital city of Agerastos. Now, precisely where it will open up, I cannot say, but my guess is that it will be someplace hidden, just as our Portal beneath Mythgræfen was lost to the centuries due to a hidden door."
Iskra stepped up to the Portal. The form of an arch had been carved out of the black obsidian pillar, but unlike every other Portal she had ever seen, its center was filled with stone. There was no passing through it.
"Now, up here. Do you see these runes?" Audsley stretched and pointed at a number of deeply incised markings. "These are the key with which we operate the door. I know now what language they are in, but believe me, it is ghastly. Just trying to speak it gives me a headache. But they operate when spoken out loud, and the primer I've discovered translates each rune into its phonetic equivalent in a variety of ancient languages. So, while I will be saying 'horse principality tin shoe' in a hideous combination of broken Sigean, Aletheian, and Noussian, I will in fact be voicing this terrible word in its own language, and thereby opening the Portal."
Ser Tiron shifted his weight, eyes on the blank stone. "Then let us proceed, Audsley. The less time Lady Kyferin spends in Starkadr, the better."
"Very well." Audsley stroked Aedelbert's head. "If we are all quite ready?"
Iskra studied her magister. Was that a note of concern? Had she heard a ripple of fear pass through his voice? Perhaps the prospect of staying behind in Starkadr alone with his two guards was of greater concern than he was letting on.
Hannus and Ord drew their swords and moved to stand beside Tiron.
Audsley coughed, shook out his hands, then stared intently up at the runes. He took a deep breath, then in a voice that was deep and rough and cracked as if with the pain of saying the words, called out, "Yon kederack kiberuu ad Nebraton!"
The Portal shuddered. The runes flared to life briefly as flames licked out of them, and then black ink flowed across the rock surface between the arches.
Audsley wiped his brow. "Ghastly language. Tortures the tongue and throat to even try it."
"Thank you, Audsley." Iskra smoothed down her dress. "Ser Tiron, when you're ready."
The knight stepped up to the flowing Portal, took a torch from one of the guards, and then leaned forward stiffly to pass his head and torch through the black liquid, seemingly into the stone of the pillar. He turned as if looking from side to side, then pulled back.
"A large room, though I can't get a sense of its true size. Nothing like this place, however. The floor is covered in water, and there's a forest of columns holding up the room. It looked empty, and mine was the only source of light."
Iskra glanced at Audsley, who shrugged. "Very well," she said. "Let us proceed. Audsley, open the Gate an hour hence. If we're not there to return, open it at this hour tomorrow, and then every day f
ollowing."
"As you wish, my lady." The magister bowed, his expression grave.
Tiron turned to Ord and Hannus. They were tense but focused, Hannus with his long, horse-like face and fair hair, Ord whip-lean and with a sharp look to his eyes. "The Portal seems to lead out to a small platform," Tiron said. "Hannus, you'll follow me and take the right corner. Ord, move aside, but stay by the Portal to guard Lady Kyferin when she comes through. Once we've made sure there's no danger, we'll plan our next move."
Both men nodded. Tiron turned to Iskra. "Are you ready, my lady?"
Her heart fluttered at the thought. She was about to step into the heart of the most reviled city of the Empire. Agerastos, the home of the heretics, punished for centuries and now the current invaders of Ennoia. What would they find there? Did they have a chance to find anything but torture and death?
"Yes," she said quietly. "Proceed."
Ser Tiron turned and, without ceremony, stepped through the Gate and disappeared. Hannus went next, his movements graceful, followed by Ord, who slipped through the Gate as if through the window of a house he intended to burgle.
Iskra took a deep breath, smiled one last time at Audsley, and then stepped through.
Again there was that wrenching sense of dislocation. Again she heard the howl of ghostly winds, and then she stepped out onto a rough stone platform. The air was moist and heavy, and Ser Tiron's raised torch cast flickering orange light across the closest of the pillars that extended away from them seemingly in all directions, pale and thick as trees, to hold up the vaulted brick ceiling. The sound of dripping water echoed plaintively, and the floor beyond the platform was black with still water.
Iskra glanced behind her. The Portal was dead, its surface now pitted yellow stone. Peering ahead into the gloom, she could barely make out the far left- and right-hand walls; they weren't in as cavernous a space as she had first thought, but rather at the back of some huge rectangular hall, perhaps sixty or seventy yards across. How far it stretched, however, she could not tell. The columns looked to be composed of older pieces of stone; some segments were grooved, others rough; some smooth, others carved. They looked as if a hundred pillars had been harvested from across the city and dragged down here to make these new supports.
"All right," said Tiron, rising from the combat stance in which he'd stood. He kept his sword drawn, however. "Hannus, Ord, don't relax. My lady, it seems we'll have to enter the water to explore further."
"No telling how deep it is," said Ord, lowering down to crouch at the stone platform's edge. He slid his blade into the water to the hilt. "At least three feet."
Hannus was looking around with slow, careful scrutiny. "We're underground, I believe. Look." He pointed up at the vaulted brick ceiling, where slender stalactites of a white mineral had crept through the cracks to hang inches long here and there. "The water's dripping down from above."
"Yes," said Iskra. That felt right. There was a heaviness to the air, a closeness that spoke of great weight above them – a sensation she'd grown accustomed to in Kyferin Castle's keep. "A cistern, perhaps. Agerastos is said to be a dry land. Perhaps we've emerged into a forgotten reservoir." Her gaze caught on a segment of pillar a dozen yards away, on which a face was carved sideways. It was a horrific depiction: cheeks hollowed, mouth filled with razor teeth, hair a writhing mass. "What is that?"
The three men stared at where she was pointing. Ord made the sign of the triangle. "Looks like a medusa's head to me, my lady. See the snake hair? Very old, that."
Tiron sheathed his blade. "We can admire the statuary later. First, we need to determine how deep this water goes. Ord, see if you can reach the ground with the tip of your blade."
The wiry guard dropped to his stomach and sank his sword and arm down into the water. "Ah, there it is." The water had risen to his elbow. "I'd warrant it's a good four feet, maybe a bit more."
"Chest height," said Ser Tiron. "Very well. My lady, if you will, I'll carry you while Ord and Hannus guard us."
Iskra nodded. It was a logical suggestion, yet she couldn't help but search his face for sign that his gallantry spoke of a softening of his reserve. Nothing. It was hard not to imagine something dwelling in this black water, something ancient and cold and evil that their presence would awaken. "Very well. Let us press on quickly. If there's no exit, I want to be back at this platform when Audsley opens the Gate."
Hannus and Ord slid into the water carefully, intent on making as little a disturbance as possible, but still ripples spread out from them to the far reaches of their light. Hannus held his torch aloft, sword in his other hand. Tiron followed suit, moving less smoothly than the guards, and Iskra was reminded of his injury; he bore it so stoically that it was easy to forget.
"When you're ready, my lady." He turned to her, arms upraised.
Iskra sat and then leaned against his chest. He slid an arm under her knees and around her back, then lifted her up altogether. He smelled good, of leather and iron and masculinity, and she resisted the urge to press her head to his shoulder.
Turning, their little group moved away from the wall, stepping slowly through the deep water, each of them constantly searching the shadows for some sign of danger, for some sign that their arrival had disturbed some peril. They found none.
It was hard to keep track of time. The columns were identically spaced, Iskra realized, geometrically perfect, so that with every five or six steps they would align diagonally, horizontally, and vertically with each other and the forest would disappear, reduced for a moment to eight columns around them, which but a step would split into an infinity once more.
"Ahead," said Ord. "A wall."
A moment later Iskra made out a lighter expanse which their torches soon revealed to be the end of the great cistern. No Portal marked its face; rather, a slender set of stairs rose up before them before terminating in a heavy trap door. Tiron levered her up onto the first step, and then hauled himself after her in a deluge of water. Ord came after, slipping out of the water like an eel, with Hannus bringing up the rear.
"Excuse me," said Tiron, pressing past her.
He had taken a torch from Ord, and he climbed the dozen steps till he reached the door. There was no lock, so he pressed his shoulder to the wooden boards and pushed. It didn't move. Tiron took a deep breath and heaved, but again there was no result.
Ord and Hannus stepped up beside him, all of them crowding on the steps, and together they counted to three and then thrust up. Nothing happened – and then there was a splintering sound, followed by the sliding scrape of something heavy moving reluctantly. The three men took a deep breath, propped their blades against the wall so they could press their palms against the door, and once more shoved with everything they had. Iskra watched their faces darken, veins emerging on the sides of their necks as their jaws clenched, and then with a cry from all of them the door swung up and away with a crash as something toppled over and the three of them nearly collapsed.
Tiron snatched up his blade and darted up into the next room, waving his torch about as the other guards followed suit. Iskra waited tensely for cries of outrage or anger, but nothing came.
"All clear, my lady." Tiron appeared at the trap door's mouth. "All clear."
Iskra climbed up. The trap door led into what appeared to be a basement of some sort, filled with old furniture and barrels, all of it covered in dust. Shelving held clay bottles covered in spider webs, and it all looked abandoned and forgotten. For centuries, perhaps.
"Here," said Ord, pausing at the end of the small room. "Looks like a way out." He pulled an old stool into place, hopped up onto it, and then pressed his palm against a second trap door, smaller than the first, made of old boards that looked furry with age. He pressed, and the door rose a fraction, then immediately stopped with a small, metallic click. "Locked," he said. He turned with a feral smile to Tiron. "With your permission, ser?"
Tiron nodded.
Ord inserted the tip of his sword between the board
s and began to work it back and forth. Thick splinters and wedges of wood began to fall. "No use putting a good lock on something if the door itself is as soft as mud," he muttered. Reaching up, he grabbed hold of the side of a board and gave a savage yank, breaking it free. Immediately, cool daylight poured into the basement, along with the distant sounds of a street. Ord reached out and grabbed at something - the lock, no doubt - tore it free, then pushed the trap door open altogether.
Blade in hand, he climbed out and disappeared. Hannus was up and out right after him. Iskra waited, heart in her throat, until Hannus' face appeared in the hole.
"Looks like a dead end alley. All clear," he said.
Tiron helped Iskra up onto the stool, and Ord and Hannus hauled her up and out of the dusty air into the pale light of late afternoon.
Around her was a common alley like any other, narrow enough that she could reach out and touch both rough walls, ending at a high wall behind her and leading out a crooked ten yards ahead to a brightly lit avenue of some sort. She stepped forward to make room for Tiron, her eyes on the people passing by the alley mouth, oblivious to her presence.
She saw them in brief flashes. Their skin was burnished like golden sand, their features sharp, the men's beards close-shaved and coming to a point. She caught glimpses of flowing clothing: pale yellows, whites, and beige with accents of crimson, gold, and green. The air was dry, scented with cloves and dung and spices she couldn't identify. She heard shouts in a language she didn't understand, and from somewhere close but out of sight a peal of laughter rang out like gold coins tossed into the sun. A cart rumbled by, laden with strange, leathery-skinned green fruit with deep ribs. The cart was drawn by a mule whose mane was braided with bronze ornaments, its owner walking alongside. Almost immediately, it was gone, out of sight.
"We're here," she whispered to herself. "We've arrived. We're in Agerastos."
