“No, you promised a nice ad-ven-ture.” Ran shook his head and maneuvered his small body between Sarn and the doorway. “No more spying, spying is boring.”
His son had a point. But that box, the odd one with the out of sequence numerical code, stuck out in Sarn’s mind as a possible clue. And there was that strange incident right before he'd blacked out. He should take a moment to check both out. He needed something more concrete than a gut feeling to go on because it wasn’t just his life on the line if he was right.
Ran tugged his hand. “Come on, Papa. We’re going home.”
Dirk’s icon glowed brighter as it moved through the Lower Quarters. And if that wasn’t enough of an inducement, an arrow pointed to Dirk’s estimated trajectory. Something about it bothered his magic. Sarn sifted through possible destinations but none made sense. There wasn’t anything in the Lower Quarters except the Indentured and their hovels.
What business could Dirk possibly have down there? And why did Sarn’s gut clench with dread at the question?
“I stopped by to say hello and check on the current crop of Foundlings. It’s tough growing up without a family,” Dirk had admitted last month, giving Sarn a flat stare.
Every muscle of the shorter man’s powerful body had been tensed to continue the fight. Even out of context, Dirk’s words sounded like a threat. Sarn pushed the memory away, still sore about almost losing his life to such lowlife scum. Was the jerk checking on the Foundlings now?
Fear almost flung Sarn after him. Dirk knew about his son. So, did the Foundlings. Hell, they babysat his son every morning except this one because spying had been more important than sleeping. Worse still, they knew where he lived. Would they sell him out?
When Ran’s mother was alive, no, but now? Sarn squeezed the sack of food he’d stolen wishing it was Dirk’s neck. He had to intercept that jerk and risk a confrontation he might lose—anything to keep the fool away from the Foundlings.
As if reading his mind, Ran shook his head. “I want to go home, now.”
Fear had made his mouth dry and his words stick in his throat, so Sarn nodded in answer. He stepped off the landing hoping he wasn’t making a mistake. And even if he was, his son was worth it.
Ran gave him the side-eye until he realized he’d gotten his way.
Around the next bend, the stairs narrowed forcing Ran to get behind him. Lines twisted and diverged, multiplying as the tangle comprising the Lower Quarters overlaid the glow of Sarn’s eyes. So many branches to sift through, but yes, there—a route highlighted itself on his map. If he took that fork and cut across that cavern, then he might beat Dirk to the Foundlings’ cave and with luck, avert another disaster.
Ragnes eyed his friends. Cris was all tense muscles and roving, distrustful eyes—not a good sign. Gore was so focused on his goal, the world could end, and he’d never notice—also, a bad sign. Vill was, well, Vill and giving off enough nervous vibes to unnerve everyone. Ragnes sipped from his hip flask and forced the metallic-tasting water down. His tired muscles begged for rest. He was pushing it after his recent illness, but his friends were shoulder-deep in trouble. And only cowards run away.
But that darkness tried to choke you, his logical half said, and it had a point. Something wicked had blown past, and they’d been caught in its wake. It was gone now, but the way ahead was as stygian as the one behind. What if they were really digging black lumir out of the ground?
Ragnes tripped over a crack, but he backpedaled too slowly. The crack widened into a canyon, and he plummeted a full story before he landed on overlapping plates. Ragnes pitched forward, and his hands struck the armored back of a—giant serpent? What the hell?
Oh, for the love of God, he could see right through the beast's body. And there was something man-shaped glowing in there.
Vill screamed. Gore, implacable as always, cursed his fire kit. Didn't he see the dragon holding them up?
There are no dragons, just shadows playing tricks on you, a voice insisted. It threaded through Ragnes' thoughts, cinching his doubts.
“C-Cris?” Ragnes stammered. Cris will know what to do. Good old, level-headed— “C-Cris!” Oh, God, why wasn’t he answering? “C-Cris?”
“Get down!” Cris shouted, but his voice was muffled as if it came from a long way off.
Ragnes dropped flat on his belly as a loud bang reverberated in his bones. Something whizzed over his head.
Claws closed around his waist and flung Ragnes face-first into the black. He slammed into a boulder and lay there for a long moment glad to be on solid ground again. A dull ache radiated across his chest and stomach, but it faded, soothed by the cold stone he rested on. It was his raft in this oppressive darkness, and Ragnes clung to it as a light kindled.
Firelight kissed Gore’s ugly mug and banished the shadows to the edges of its fitful nimbus. The ground flickered in time with the flame dancing on Gore’s fist, giving his reflection a demonic cast. Or perhaps, it was just revealing his friend’s true nature.
Ragnes shuddered. Will you survive this fool’s quest? He pushed the thought away, but it refused to go. Disquiet beat in his breast as Ragnes slid down the man-sized rock to touch the strangely reflective ground.
“This can’t be silver.” Ragnes looked to his friends for confirmation. Am I going mad?
Villar toed his reflection. “It’s mirrored glass. Guys, we’re standing on a giant mirror.”
“No, it's not glass.”
Cris knocked on it with the flat of his pickax, and a bell-like tone reverberated. Stars rocketed through the crystal and fell off the edge of a massive pit as its song faded.
Cris nodded to his stunned friends. “This is a giant slab of lumir coated with a layer of silver.”
“Holy shit, we found the mother lode.” Villar shook his head in amazement.
“How did you know it would light up like that?” Ragnes pointed to a fading pinprick of light.
“That's how miners test for lumir. But it only works on large active ones. You need magic to check the others.”
Or a mage, like that green-eyed freak named Sarn, but Ragnes didn't suggest it.
“It’s not lumir. Lumir glows constantly and this crystal isn’t glowing anymore.” Gore spat on it. “It's worthless.”
Disappointed, Ragnes toed the rock. That light show had been pretty, but Gore was right. Without its trademark glow, this lumir was useless. They were back to looking for more faux black lumir and hoping it wasn’t the real thing.
Remember the money, you’re earning real gold for this errand, so you can pay the healer’s bill. Healing doesn’t come cheap, reminded that voice. Indeed, it didn’t. Thoughts of that impending bill depressed Ragnes. If he couldn’t come up with the funds in thirty days, he could end up Indentured until his debt was paid. Not going to happen. Dirk’ll pull off this con and I’ll get my share.
What if this time the con’s on you? Asked that damned voice of reason.
Ragnes squirmed because it wouldn’t be the first time one of Dirk’s schemes backfired. Cris would try to stop it. He was dependable like that. But you’re too weak to back him up. You’re a wasted bag of bones thanks to that fever.
The tiny fire caught the oil-soaked rag Gore offered it. He’d tied said rag around a rusting metal spar, and it bloomed into glorious light. But its nimbus stayed tight against Gore's hand as darkness pressed down on it. What luminance squeezed past the gloom leaning on them picked out waist-high teeth and beyond them, there was nothing at all, just stygian darkness unmoved by their pitiful light.
“What was all that yelling about before?” Gore glanced at each of them, but none met his gaze.
A muscle worked in Cris’ jaw as those beady eyes fell on him and judged him unworthy. He gripped the haft of his pickax until his knuckles whitened. Ragnes laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder to calm him, but Cris threw it off.
“Lead on or chicken out. Some of us have gold to earn.” Cris stuck out his chin in an eerie repeat of a thousand other
verbal skirmishes.
A mocking smile quirked Gore’s lips. That rat-bastard had gotten the response he’d wanted. Damn him.
“It’s this way.” Gore turned, and his torchlight illuminated a ten-foot-wide iron door. “Through that—door?”
But there was no door, not anymore. Something had ripped it into three jagged pieces and dropped them on a tangle of wrist-thick chains. A fist-sized padlock lay beside it.
Ragnes whistled, but inside he was quaking, and a voice was gibbering about dragons in his head. He could still feel the armored back of the translucent creature he’d landed on.
Cris pointed to the pile of scrap metal that had been a door.
“That thing was at least three inches of tempered steel,” Cris said, letting his shock show.
“I heard a loud bang and the floor—I swear it moved.” Villar backed away from the heap.
“As I said, you all are a bunch of sissies.” Gore rolled his eyes and stepped with care around the sharp metal, but his reflection didn't follow.
Will you survive this con? A voice asked in the back of Ragnes’ mind. He chewed the inside of his cheek. He just didn’t know.
“But something blew that door off its hinges. You said yourself it wasn’t like this last time you came.” Villar raised a shaking finger and pointed. Said hinges were six inches long, and they hung from an aperture behind them.
“Maybe it was broken last time I came. I didn’t exactly survey the place. We came in, got what we needed and left. There was money to be made.” Gore kicked the hasp sending it sliding across the crystal floor. The lock passed between two giant black teeth then plummeted into darkness. They all listened but there was only the quiet breathing of four men and the crackling of the torch.
“Hold up, that door is Shayarin steel, and there isn’t a rust spot on it.”
“And your point is?” Gore cut Ragnes a warning glare, but the words were tumbling out pushed by his growing doubts.
“If it was broken when you came before, there would be rust, but there isn’t. I did hear a loud bang just before something flung me in here. I didn’t imagine that.” Ragnes transferred his gaze to Cris, but the strong man wouldn’t meet his gaze. It was as good as an admission. “You experienced the same thing. Admit it.” But Cris only clenched his jaw.
“I did too,” Villar added though it was Cris who needed to weigh in. Gore might see reason if Cris did, but instead, Cris shook his head.
“I think the darkness is getting to us. Making it hard to tell what’s real and what’s not.” Cris chewed the end of his toothpick, but he still refused to meet Ragnes’ eyes.
“You all need to either grow a pair or turn back. I don’t care which at this point.”
Gore strode between two rock formations taking their light with him. The torch couldn’t protect them for long. Soon it would burn through its reserves and leave them in complete darkness again. For now, it was safer to follow than go back.
Feeling eyes on him, Ragnes slowed and glanced around seeking the watcher, but there was nothing except shadows closing in on him. Their reptilian bodies split as they swelled to dragon-sized. They were all around them now, these bizarre man-sized lizards, and they were multiplying.
Ragnes opened his mouth to shout a warning, but a shadow dove down his throat choking him. A voice invaded his mind:
Ghosts and ghouls and sallow fools lost with tools and bloody drool. Oh, how they cool. Oh, how they cool, ‘neath the land where tyrants rule! The voice dissolved into hissing laughter.
Leathery wings buffeted Ragnes. Something large and scaly brushed past him blotting out the torch’s measly light.
“What the hell is that?” Gore asked right before darkness smote Ragnes.
High overhead, a snake slithered away from the edge. It wriggled through a hole in the wall and slid down a board to a woman sitting cross-legged on a blanket. The snake flicked its tongue out licking her hand then it nuzzled her palm. In its golden eye, pinpoints of light spun into a bubble. That pearl of pinkish light pushed out of the snake and into her hand. It was a ball of consciousness colliding with a conglomerate of other balls. Lightning zigzagged between them. She blinked.
Snake Woman arched her back in a delicious stretch. A cobra’s hood curved around her head. Her skin was scaly like the reptiles that comprised her. She smiled at what she’d spied. Some naughty boys had opened the Ægeldar in search of black gems. And wasn’t she in the market for the light stealer, the eam’eritol neem’eye—the eye of the blighted Adversary? The only damned substance that could defeat the Queen of All Trees’ shield. And just the thing a creature like her, fashioned by demonic magic, could not stroll in and steal. Oh, it was too perfect.
A peel of laughter rolled off her forked tongue even though her situation was not in the least bit funny. But it made for some delicious irony. Snake Woman stroked the cobra that had brought her this happy news. After planting a kiss on its head, she rose. It was time to get out of here before they disturbed the Ægeldar. Time to go spy on the buyer and discover her plans, and how she could twist them to suit her own ends.
You can’t keep me from my maker’s bones forever, Witch Tree!
But as shouts mixed with an intriguing chant about ‘ghosts and ghouls,’ she poked her head back through that hole in the wall to see what was happening now. Quality entertainment was hard to come by these days.
And I do so love a good show! Snake woman grinned exposing her fangs and settled in to watch just for a few more minutes. Surely, she had the time.
Beastly Banners
After readjusting his burden, which had begun to emit an unappetizing aroma, Sarn scanned the tunnel and relaxed when he sensed no one in the vicinity. Maybe his luck would continue to hold. He hoped so as he froze.
His head map divided. One half kept track of Dirk’s progress while the other zoomed in on a section of the meadow. The unknown woman crossed the first circle of menhirs ahead of a small group of generic people icons and vanished. The people following her vanished too.
Sarn waited for them to cross the ten-feet of gravel between the circles of standing stones. But they didn't. What the hell is going on out there?
While Sarn stood there dumbfounded, six—no—eight Rangers crossed the inner ring of standing stones, and they also disappeared.
Neither could he sense anything outside that ring of menhirs. Everything beyond them—the enchanted forest, the place where Shade had died—dropped off his map. They were no longer part of his mental landscape.
Panic beat in his breast, but Sarn fought it down. His range was about five miles unless he limited it, so—something must be blocking my sight.
He could find out what, but Ran squeezed his hand.
No, said the magic as his map extruded a third dimension.
Not now, Sarn told his magic. He squashed the map flat again. I need my wits about me.
The reek of piss and unwashed bodies mixed with rotting food hit Sarn as the wind changed. Welcome to squalor and the only place the Indentured were permitted to live. Sarn wrinkled his nose in disgust.
“Ew,” Ran said as the stench hit him too. Then the boy resumed his study of the lumpy banner hanging in front of his face.
“Don’t touch any of the hangings.” Sarn nodded to the moldering banners.
The fluttering mold colonies were supposed to absorb sound and reduce the echoes bouncing off miles upon miles of stone tunnels. Forty-feet long by two-feet wide, the banners were strung up every twelve-feet and their slow-motion twisting made the tunnel appear to breathe.
Maybe I should find another route, but this one would catch him up to Dirk faster than the alternatives.
“Why can’t I touch them?”
“They’ll make you sick.” And the banners repelled his magic, but Sarn fell silent rather than admit that.
Sick, commented his magic.
Tell me something I don’t know like why they’re sick. And why they seem sinister. Sarn adjusted his burden, b
ut his magic had nothing more to contribute. Maybe he’d imagined its commentary, the ill wind blowing past and the shadows twisting into claws.
A foot-wide stripe of lumir glowed along the ceiling casting pale orange light on everything. But the shadows ignored it.
Sarn set a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Maybe we should find another route.”
“Why?” Ran twisted out of his grip and turned in a half circle taking in the sight of those once proud banners swaying in the half-light.
No two banners were the same, and those differences tripped all Sarn’s internal alarms. But those intricate designs entranced Ran, he studied each in turn.
Guilt pricked Sarn's heart. He wanted to hurry, but he’d wasted most of his time off spying on someone else instead of entertaining his son. So long as Dirk stayed on his current course, he could overtake the man via a shortcut.
“Never mind.”
The Litherians whispered his magic.
Shut up. Sarn rubbed his brow with his free hand then started as a rat darted past his foot. Was that one of Rat Woman’s minions? Why would she spy on him?
He still had no idea what to think about her or her fellow construct. Over the last four weeks, Rat Woman and Insect Man had made themselves scarce until today, and that couldn’t be a coincidence. What were they up to?
Ran squinted at a banner as they passed and pointed. “That one's a unicorn. And that one’s a dragon.”
“Very good, and the next one?”
Had that shadow moved? Sarn played the green glow of his eyes across the floor and fought the urge to hurry his son out of this tunnel. The ground was pitted and scarred, but there was no sign of the rat or any reason for the unease knotting his gut. Surely, he could give Ran five minutes to explore.
“Why does that cat have a bird’s head?”
“What? Oh, give me a minute to think.” Sarn looked at the banner Ran pointed at and told his gut to shut up.
Curse Breaker: Books 1-4 Page 67
