The buildings beyond the statues were of every shape and size. Some bore the characteristic seams of masonry, though the precision was supernatural. There were as many globular structures as square ones, and a few shapes Dormael had never seen. Bridges stretched overhead and shadows beckoned from empty doorways.
Some of the buildings had fallen in, or been crushed by rubble from above. Others stood untouched, like the skeletons of a time long past. The sound of water echoed from the stone in a ghostly whisper.
“Where did the people go?” Bethany spun in a circle, shooting glances at the darkness. “Shouldn’t there be skeletons if they died? Did they just leave?”
D’Jenn kept walking. “There could be evidence of destruction further in the city.”
Bethany gave him a wary look. “You mean skeletons?”
“Is it the skeletons that frighten you?” D’Jenn kept his eyes on their surroundings.
Bethany scowled and scooted closer to Dormael. “Not the skeletons.”
“Do we have to talk about skeletons and frightening people?” Allen said. “Invite curses and the gods deliver.”
Dormael narrowed his eyes at his brother. “Did you steal that from our grandmother?”
“He did.” D’Jenn snorted at Allen’s protesting glare. “She used to say that all the time.”
Allen shrugged and continued walking. “Sound advice, if you ask me.”
Everyone poked their heads into buildings, gaping at the construction. One of the buildings must have been a tenement. It was divided into four separate living spaces on the inside, with a communal stairway leading to a courtyard on the roof.
This is where neighbors gathered to scream at each other.
Fountains were placed at the intersections of streets, each featuring a different design. The first three had stopped functioning. White, crusty build-up told of the water that once filled them.
Deeper into the city, the water was flowing.
Their path followed a wide, curving avenue toward the center of the city. The street followed a pattern Dormael couldn’t discern, so he had trouble keeping track of where they had been. He found himself lost in the sights, mesmerized by the cracked, broken bridges towering overhead.
A multitude of holes were carved into the walls of the cavern. They were uniform, square, and reminded Dormael of the inside of a beehive. Walkways and platforms jutted from the cavern wall, creating an entire system of pathways above. Dormael nudged Bethany and urged her to look. She gasped and spun in a circle, a wan smile on her face.
At least I can still make her smile.
The farther they went into the city, the more Dormael could feel the hum of magic. His Kai tingled constantly. Something pulsed at the center of the cavern, like the heart of a terrible beast.
They emerged in a large, open area at the crux of several pathways. In the center sat a gigantic dome, smooth as a bubble risen from clay. Pillars were built around the bubble, each with a blue symbol shining at the top. Glowing symbols were written into the floor, stretching from the dome to each pillar. A single square opening in the dome was illuminated from within, casting an orange light to join the blue glow from the pillars.
“Screaming gods in the Void,” Allen said, coming to a stop behind D’Jenn. “What you think they kept in there?”
“The thing making so much noise in the ether.” Dormael shared a look with his brother. “The heart of the spell under the city.”
Bethany stared at the dome in wonder. “It’s making my bones tingle.”
“I don’t like the look of those columns.” Allen gestured to the nearest pillar. “What if they spit fire if you get too close?”
D’Jenn peered at the blue symbol. “I don't think so.”
He walked forward, taking cautious steps. Dormael could hear his Kai singing a wary melody, poised to react at the first sign of danger. D’Jenn approached the sentinel, moving in a circle. The pillar stood silent, even when D’Jenn touched it with a wary hand.
“It’s alright.” D’Jenn turned to walk toward the dome. “Let’s see what’s inside.”
***
Maarkov was taken aback by the silence in the castle.
From the approach, he had been certain he’d seen guards on the ramparts, but from inside the gate, there was no one in sight. Torches burned along the defenses, but the common areas were awash in shadow. In the silence, the old castle seemed a haunted remnant.
What’s happened here?
The main door to the palace—which should have been guarded—creaked on its hinges as Maarkov pushed it open. The castle staff was nowhere to be seen. The main hallway was shrouded in darkness.
“Anyone there?” Maarkov’s voice echoed from the walls.
A candle passed down a distant hallway, casting an orange glow. Maarkov waited, but no answer came. The candlelight faded, leaving the sound of Maarkov’s fidgeting to fill the corridor.
A chill crawled down Maarkov’s back.
What’s he done?
Maarkov clutched the hilt of his sword as he made his way to the dungeons. There was just enough candlelight to see, with sconces still burning at the intersections of hallways. No one had dusted or swept in days. Trays of half-eaten food lay forgotten. Flies buzzed in the corridors, vultures to the feast of their lives.
Maarkov expected to see bodies. His eyes looked for pools of blood or signs of violence. There was nothing but yawning emptiness in the hallways.
Nothing but silence.
Twice he saw candlelight moving down a distant corridor, but never close enough to glimpse its bearer. Hinges creaked somewhere in the castle, echoing from the shadows. Maarkov resisted the urge to pull his blade.
I have nothing to fear from my own brother. I might be the only one.
The guard post leading to the dungeons was unmanned, as was the stairway beyond the door. As Maarkov stepped down the spiraling corridor, the air grew warm and humid. His nose was assaulted with the stench of blood, rotten meat, and the open-guts stink of a battlefield. The strega always smelled like an open, wet grave, but now the odor was like a cloud of wet fog. He fumbled in his belt pouch for his sword’s oiling rag and covered his nose with it.
It helped, but only a bit.
The dungeons bustled like a busy war-forge. The sound of breaking stone and sifting dirt reverberated from the tunnels. Corpses passed through the bones of the original dungeon, which now served as an intersection. They carried buckets or dragged tools in their wake, expressions devoid of intelligence. The stone remaining from the original structure was being used to shore up the stairs and ceiling. New tunnels had been dug through the stone on all sides, snaking into darkness. Maarkov was stunned by the progress.
How many days has it been since you were last here?
The door to Maaz’s lair beckoned from the back wall, a crimson light leaking from the door. Maarkov dodged a few strega on his approach. He counted eight crossing the space between the tunnels, and by the noise, there were dozens more in the shadows—maybe scores. Maarkov had seen his brother command thirty, perhaps forty strega before, and only when he was present to direct them. There had to be a battalion in the tunnels beneath Shundov Castle, all performing specialized tasks.
I didn’t think he was capable of this.
The finer techniques of Maaz’s work were beyond Maarkov’s understanding, but he had spent many long years in his brother’s company. He’d watched as his quiet, reserved sibling had grown into a sorcerer. He had witnessed the evolution of Maaz’s powers. Each step on his path to godhood had come at a price. Each Secret cut into his skin—or Maarkov’s, for that matter—had cost something dear. Thus, he and Maaz had sank to the lowest depths of depravity in search of those powers, had chosen to do terrible things in the name of that sacrifice.
What did you sacrifice for this, Maaz?
The door to Maaz’s study came open with a cry of pain from its rusty hinges. Maarkov had to shield his eyes against the flood of crimson light from th
e back wall. Runes and magical formulas were carved into the stone. They shone like angry slashes into another world, as if the wall was a paper-thin veil to something terrible beyond.
The people trapped in the black vine were still alive, much to Maarkov’s horror. Writhing against their imprisonment, they uttered a painful chorus as they fought to wriggle free. The vine had also grown. There were black veins spreading from the vine into the bodies, like corruption seeping into their skin. The more the bodies struggled, the deeper they fell into the creeper’s grasp. The bodies formed a rectangle on the back wall, and the stone inside was the only patch clear of glowing symbols.
It’s been scrubbed clean.
“Maarkov. So glad you heeded my invitation.”
Maarkov spun to face his brother. “Invitation, was it? More like a summons.”
“A summons, then.” Maaz moved forward in the blinding crimson light. “The spell is almost charged, Maarkov. The light will soon fade. Watch your step.”
Just as the words left his brother’s lips, Maarkov bumped into something that jingled like chain-mail. He backed away, resisting the urge to poke at the offending surface. Maarkov turned away from the wall.
“What’s happened in the castle, Maaz? What have you done?”
Maarkov heard his brother give a derisive snort.
“Why must you whimper, brother mine?” Maaz chuckled. “The time for such things has long past. I told you to divest yourself of your attachment to this place. Now you whine when the inevitable presents itself. The castle is mine, Maarkov.”
“And the servants?” Maarkov squinted through the light. “The kitchen staff, the guards and the gods-damned garrison? What happened to them?”
“The staff,” Maaz said, “the guards, the puppies and the kittens and the gods-damned garrison—mine, Maarkov. All mine.”
The noises from outside rang through the open doorway.
“All of them?”
“All of them.”
“And what happens when the Imperial Regent hears of this?” Maarkov closed his eyes. “What happens when one of his governors comes for a visit? Don’t you think a deserted castle might raise a few fucking eyebrows?”
“Calm yourself, brother,” Maaz said. “The regent has given his blessing. Turn and see for yourself.”
The light from the glowing wall receded, and Maarkov blinked his eyes into focus. He was startled by the appearance of his brother, standing shirtless on the other side of the room. His eyes were the inky color of the alien vine, giving his smile a snake-like cast. Veins of corruption, much like those infecting the moaning figures on the wall, crept from the corners of his eyes and across his face. He smiled at Maarkov, his hand on a huge tarp-covered object, and gestured for Maarkov to turn around.
Maarkov scowled and looked over his shoulder.
The Imperial Regent stood at rigid attention, wearing his full battle regalia. He was armed for war, with a large Galanian-style shield and a sword belted at his waist. He was wearing chain-mail armor and covered with a bloodied surcoat bearing the standard of the Galanian Empire. His face was frozen in a mask of absolute terror, eyes the milky color of death.
Behind the Imperial Regent stood an entire squad of his soldiers, around twenty in number. They were packed into the left side of the room like firewood rather than soldiers. Each was armed for battle, and each had the same milky pair of eyes.
“You attacked the Imperial garrison?”
“Much more than that, Maarkov.” Maaz strode forward to stand beside him. “Look at them. They are a masterpiece.”
“They look like the others to me.”
“Nonsense.” Maaz smiled like a baker over his rolls. “Those creatures out there are but a pale shadow of what I’ve done with these. Sometimes, if the body is in good condition, it can retain some vestige of its former reflexes. Most of my creations are blunt instruments, but these—these are different. They were soldiers, you understand. Trained over and over to kill. I’ve removed their pain, their mercy. I’ve removed the limits their living bodies placed upon them. These are what men are meant to be, Maarkov.”
“They’re corpses.” Maarkov spat at their feet. “Not men. Just meat-puppets for your magic.”
“Wait until you see them in action.” Maaz turned his empty smile on Maarkov. “You don’t have long to wait.”
“Why did you summon me here? To show off your new toys?”
Maaz snorted and turned away, walking to the other side of the room. He moved around the object under the tarp to the ancient stone table, snickering as he donned his clothes. A black cloak went over his shoulders, wrapped several times around his body like a Rashardian screamer. He covered his face with a mask, leaving only his black eyes visible. Turning back to Maarkov, he raised his hood and strapped a satchel over his shoulder.
“The next part of our plan moves forward. I have need of your talents, Maarkov.”
Maarkov looked to the dead Imperial soldiers. “Looks like you have that covered.”
“You’re coming, Maarkov. You cannot stay here.”
“Coming where?”
Maaz smiled. “You will see. My work has borne fruit. There is something we must retrieve.”
“What?”
Maaz went silent as the moaning figures on the wall started humming. The runes on the wall flickered. Maarkov put his hand to his weapon.
“What’s happening, Maaz? What is this madness?”
“This is a parade, Maarkov.” Maaz laughed. “We’re the opening act, you and I. Prepare yourself. We’ve got a wild ride ahead of us.”
Maaz reached for the object under the tarp and winked at Maarkov as he ripped the fabric aside.
Something terrible rose from the floor. It raised itself to a crouch, almost brushing the ceiling. The creature’s skin was gray and mottled. It had a long, barrel snout with a cluster of tusks sprouting in random directions where its nostrils should have been. Its back was covered with rows of spiny protrusions, like the scaly back of a swamp lizard.
The creature had seven eyes, each burning with a sickening yellow light.
“What is that thing?”
“Our guide, Maarkov.” Maaz looked to the soldiers packed against the wall, narrowing his black eyes. The regent moved forward, slinging his shield over his back, and climbed onto the strange beast. The creature kept its yellow-eyed stare on Maarkov, oblivious as each member of the dead Imperial squad followed their commander’s example. All twenty climbed on, until the beast looked like a mother spider carrying eggs on her back.
“Your turn, brother mine.”
“You’re out of your bloody mind.” Maarkov backed away from the monstrous creature. “I don’t want to be anywhere near that thing.”
“You can ride it, or I can strap you to its neck. It’s necessary, Maarkov.”
“Why?”
Maaz smiled. “Because it’s the only way to pass the roads we’re traveling. Decide, brother—time is wasting.”
Maarkov gave his brother a murderous glare. He knew if he refused, Maaz would make good on his promise to strap him down. Checking his sword belt, Maarkov moved toward the creature.
Its skin was thick and scaly, just as it appeared, but it had an alien slickness to its surface. Maarkov’s skin crawled, but he climbed onto the creature’s neck and sat between the spines on its back. The beast gave no reaction as Maarkov settled.
“Where are we going, Maaz?”
Maaz looked at him but offered no answer. He stood before the bodies on the wall and raised a thin knife to his forearm. Slicing one of his palms, Maaz splashed black-colored blood into the clean space between the bodies.
The humming figures screamed. Their voices deepened, changed to something raw and furious. Some of them roared at a different pitch, until a musical chord emerged from the chaotic noise. Maaz raised his fists and shouted into the din.
There was a great whooshing sound as air was pulled toward the wall. The light coming from the runes intensified un
til it was blinding. Maarkov felt his brother’s presence beside him as Maaz mounted the creature.
With a great heave of muscles, the beast shuffled across the stone.
Maarkov forced his eyes open, glancing over the creature’s head to see where they were headed. The bodies on the wall were screaming in pain, thrashing against the vine. In the center of the wall was a writhing mass of liquid darkness, seeping upward from cracks in the stone. It bubbled as it spread, until it filled the space that had been scrubbed clean.
Six Bloody Hells—it’s some kind of gateway!
“Hold on tight, Maarkov.” Maaz grinned at him. “You don’t want to fall.”
Maarkov screamed as the creature leapt through the gate, and the darkness filled his eyes like oil.
***
Yurian took a deep breath and tried to settle his stomach.
A warm breeze blew over the hillside, making the grasses wave in the twilight. Yurian could smell cook fires, spices, and roasting meat. His mouth watered. Days had passed since they’d eaten anything but hard rations. He smiled at the thought of what might be sizzling on the cook fires below the hill.
There was dark business to be done, but at least he; d get some real food out of the deal.
Janrel shifted in the grass beside Yurian. “How many fighting men, do you think?”
“Seven, maybe eight.” Yurian squinted at the campsite below. “I think one of them slipped into a wagon with a girl just now.”
Janrel snorted a quiet laugh. “It’s a shame to ruin their fun.”
Yurian only grunted in reply.
They spent the next few moments in silence, watching the camp in the fading light. Snatches of music drifted on the wind—the same lively tunes one could hear in any tavern in Alderak. Laughter bubbled from the campsite, sending a quiet stab of guilt through Yurian’s heart.
Dark business—that’s the gods’ own truth.
In the years Yurian had been sworn to Nalia Arynthaal, he’d done many questionable things. He’d strangled people with his bare hands, killed would-be assassins in the dead of night, and participated in any number of schemes. She had been his charge since her days as a clumsy youth, and had won his loyalty many times over.
The City Under the Mountain Page 27
