Still, he could feel nothing but dread for what was coming. It sat in his bones, pervaded his thoughts. More laughter drifted to his ears, making Yurian clench his teeth.
You got a job to do, old man. Shut your mouth and get to it.
The campsite had been a lucky find for Yurian’s scouts. The wagoneers were few in number, and at least half a day’s ride from anyone else on the road. They had entered the Haunted Hills two days prior, and had been trundling their way south toward the war camp. There were thirteen covered wagons, all loaded to the springs with goods for the war effort. Yurian didn’t know what they carried, but it didn’t matter. They were in the right place at the right time.
How unlucky for them.
“Should I order the men to make ready?” Janrel glanced at the fading light. “This is the best opportunity we’re going to get, Captain.”
Yurian made a noncommittal noise. “Give them a few moments more. Let the rabbits sing a few more songs before their souls go to the Void.”
“Yes, sir.” Janrel was silent for a long moment before he cleared his throat. “Is it always like this in Her Highness’s service? Do you know her mind?”
Yurian turned a dangerous look on his lieutenant. “I know enough not to question her judgment. The Princess does what is necessary, and she has my complete loyalty. Can I count on yours, Lieutenant?”
“Until the gods return,” Janrel said without hesitation. “A little blood won’t turn my stomach, Captain, but this—“
“—is a key part of her plans,” Yurian finished. “That’s all we need to care about. We are Sworn Men, Janrel. Have you forgotten to whose name we’re Sworn?”
Janrel’s eyes hardened. “Never, Captain. My word on my sword.” He turned his eyes back to the campfires and let out a tense breath. “I’m allowed to give a damn whose blood I have to spill. I’ll do what’s required of me, Captain, but I don’t have to bloody like it.”
Yurian nodded and turned his attention back to the campsite. “Good enough for me. Tell the men to make ready. We’ll attack after moonrise.”
Janrel made an affirmative noise and crawled backward over the hill. Yurian spent a while longer watching the campsite, studying the terrain around the circle of wagons. He hadn’t seen any guards, nor weapons to give him pause.
They’re traveling light, the fools.
Later, after the moonlight turned the grasses into a ghostly sea, Yurian stood before his men. He had chosen ten of his best sword-arms for the job. Ten pairs of hardened eyes stared back at Yurian in the moonlight, the restless motions of their horses making their weapons jingle. Yurian took a deep breath and cleared his throat.
“I don’t have to tell you men your business. You know what the night holds for us.”
“Blood.” The smile looked out of sorts on Jorg’s bearded face.
Yurian nodded. “Blood. Lieutenant—you briefed the men?”
“Yes, sir.” Janrel touched a fist to his chest. “They know the situation.”
“Good.” Yurian turned a hard look on his men. “There can’t be any survivors tonight. That means big ones, little ones, pretty ones—they all go to the Void. Understood?”
The men responded with salutes and grunts in the affirmative.
“Her Highness has granted us the right of blood-gild.” Yurian held up a hand before the men could reply. “But don’t take anything suspicious. If I catch you fools selling a crate of Shundovian iron, or cloth for Imperial uniforms, I’ll pluck out your eyes myself. And don’t kick over the stew pots, boys. I’ll be hungry when this is done.”
The men shared a quiet laugh.
Janrel kicked his horse forward. “How do you want to proceed, Captain?”
“Quick and bloody.” Yurian mounted and arranged his sword-belt. “You take half the men and come down from the north. I’ll take the other half and hit them from the south. Keep your heads down and don’t make any noise on the approach. I’m not building any funeral pyres tonight.”
Janrel saluted and rode to the north, half the squad following in his wake. Yurian clucked to his horse and signaled his men, turning south and swinging wide around the camp. The only sounds during the ride were the soft clop of hooves against the dirt and the jingling of tack. Yurian had the whole way to think about what was coming. It made his sword hand itch.
It didn’t take long for Yurian to get in position. The night was clear, which made the going easy. The flat, grassy hills were perfect for horses, unlike the craggy mountain trails of Yurian’s homeland. He missed the brisk mountain air, the cold winter passes, and the snow on the Thardish peaks. The air was thick in this sweltering grassland. No matter what Yurian wore, he was always sweating and uncomfortable. He longed for the frosty winter nights and the warm body of a good Thardish woman. Since coming to Moravia, Yurian slept naked every night, too hot to share his bed with anyone.
Live through this war and you’ll turn as brown as the Moravians, baked under the same sun.
Reining his horse to a stop just south of the campsite, Yurian gestured his squad into a line. The men found their places in quick order, fanning out in near silence. Yurian gave one last look to the campsite in the distance, peering through the moonlight for signs of movement. An instrument played a somber tune, though the singing had abated.
Janrel should be in position by now.
Yurian drew his sword and raised it over his head. He heard the swish of steel against leather as his men drew their own weapons. Someone down the line cleared their throat, and one of the horses whinnied in reply. Yurian pointed his blade at the campsite and kicked his mount into motion.
It had been too long since Yurian had sat a charging horse. The wind in his face filled him with excitement, making his heart beat a wild rhythm. He raised his sword high as they thundered closer, standing in the stirrups. Bloodlust rose in Yurian’s chest as he neared the campfires. His ears were full of rushing wind, his hand tight on the hilt of his sword. Yurian snapped the reins, urging more speed from his mount.
Yurian turned his horse toward a wagon. The face of a bewildered old man leapt out of the night, his form half-risen from the driver’s seat. Yurian lashed out and his blade bit deep as he thundered past. The old man uttered a pitiful cry as he went down.
Screams erupted as Yurian burst into camp.
His sword took a young man in the head as he stumbled past Yurian’s horse. The boy crumpled without a sound. A second youth was dumb enough to step into Yurian’s path, drawing a bow to his ear. The horse rode the lad down before he could let fly. Yurian passed from the light of one cookfire to another, killing everyone in sight.
He saw one of his Sworn Men kill an older fellow dressed in a nightshirt. His shield-mate charged in behind, knocking over cook-pots as his horse whirled and kicked. His sword drew gouts of blood everywhere it slashed.
Yurian spurred his mount toward the north side of camp and cut down a young girl as she tried to flee. He rode past, looking for a better target—an archer, a man with a sword, anything to present a challenge. He saw a matronly woman making for the hills, screaming in terror. The grass in front of her was disturbed by little forms fleeing through the tall grass.
Children. Yurian felt sick. It had to be children.
He took a deep breath and put spurs to his horse.
Later, he sat before one of the campfires, gnawing on a spiced piece of mutton. An iron plate full of cooked vegetables set nearby, but Yurian had already taken his fill. He washed the food down with a warm swig of mulled wine—a Moravian drink. It made his guts feel weak. It was too hot on the plains for good liquor. Yurian scowled at the mutton and tossed the remnants into the fire.
“Captain.” Janrel approached and saluted. “The bodies are prepared. The men want your leave to gather the blood-gild.”
Yurian took a deep breath and sighed. He wiped his hands on his trousers and stood, turning to give Janrel a quiet nod. Janrel nodded in reply and left to relay his decision. There were no cheers as the
men were given leave to loot the dead, but they set about the task with quiet fervor. Yurian watched them for a time before leaving to inspect their handiwork.
On a flat stretch of ground between the road and the circle of wagons, Yurian’s men had erected a gruesome display. Seven spears were driven into the ground, spaced in wide intervals. Bodies sat against the spears, tied in place with their own clothing. The wagoneers had been mutilated beyond recognition. Yurian’s men were always thorough. It was an ugly sight, and Yurian blurred his eyes to the details.
He walked to the center of the line, to the body of a young girl. She sat upright, her arms tied behind the spear. Her face had been defiled. A gaping wound opened her midsection. Yurian grimaced and spat into the dirt, turning his eyes away. Bile rose to the back of his throat and he spent a moment settling his stomach.
There’s dark gods-damned business tonight.
Reaching into the space between his mail and padded gambeson, Yurian grasped a long piece of fabric. He pulled it free, revealing a blue streamer with a dark Mala’kii rune sewn in the center. He held it out, letting the standard flap in the wind. Yurian couldn’t read the Mala’kii language, but he found the characters pleasing to the eye.
Holding his breath, Yurian grabbed the girl’s jaw and pried her lips apart. He stuffed the flag into her mouth, leaving enough to flutter in the wind. He stood back to take stock of his handiwork.
The girl’s eyes stared at him, sightless and accusatory. Yurian took a deep breath and met her empty gaze, wondering who had been the one to cut her down. Yurian couldn’t remember.
When he turned, he found Janrel standing behind him.
Yurian scowled at his lieutenant. “Is Nurik ready?”
Janrel nodded. “Stripped out of his armor and dressed in the traders’ clothing. Barely fits him, but it’s good enough.”
“Good.” Yurian glanced at the line of spears. “Have him smear some blood over the clothing, maybe blacken his eye. Make it look good.”
Janrel chuckled. “He’s not going to like that.”
“He can suck it up like the rest of us,” Yurian said. “Tell him to ride south and find an Imperial patrol. We’ve only got a few days to make this work, so he needs to raise a fuss.”
Janrel nodded, but his eyes caught on the corpse of the girl before he turned to leave. “Dark business, Captain.”
Yurian turned to walk back to the cook-fires.
“Dark business, indeed.”
***
“There’s magic here,” Dormael said. “Something big just beneath us.”
D’Jenn snickered. My Cousin, Lord of Understatements.
The room inside the dome was much smaller than its outward size had indicated. The stone on the inside was smooth and seamless, as if shaped from the bedrock itself. The doorways were without joints, the floor without flagstones.
In the center of the room was another statue, though a different figure than the others. She was an elderly woman dressed in a stately robe, her face a mask of concern. She held one thin arm outstretched, though the hand was missing. Her opposite hand was resting over her heart, clutching the fabric of her robe. The detail was mesmerizing. She was smaller than the other statues, allowing D’Jenn to examine the craftsmanship up close. Everything about her—from the lines in her face to the tight bun in her hair—was rendered in loving detail.
Shawna stepped up behind him. “Who do you think she was?”
D’Jenn shrugged. “Who can say? She’s different from the others.”
“I think you’re right.” Shawna narrowed her eyes at the statue. “The others felt symbolic. This one looks more grounded.”
“Like she was an actual person.” D’Jenn plucked at the folds of her robe. “The detail is stunning.”
Shawna nodded. “Maybe she built this place.”
“Perhaps.”
“There are more of those bolt holes, like the key in the pedestal above.” Dormael gestured at the wall. “They’re spaced around the interior of the room.”
D’Jenn moved to the wall and studied the bolt holes. Each was the nexus of tiny metallic tendrils that disappeared beneath the stone like veins under the skin. Symbols were carved above the bolt holes, just as indecipherable as the ones they’d seen before. It seemed an odd way to write. The glyphs beckoned to D’Jenn’s magic, though their power had faded.
D’Jenn ran his senses along the metallic veins. The metal was entwined with the bedrock, buried beneath every stone surface. It was a pattern, though it secrets escaped D’Jenn. He could feel energy pulsing through its web, like blood through his own limbs.
How was it built? The metal was an alloy of silver, according to the tone in D’Jenn’s Kai. Silver was known to be the most conductive metal for magical energy, but it didn’t hold a candle to the material in the stone. It moves energy like nothing I’ve seen.
The web hummed with magic.
“Do you feel what’s buried in the walls?” Dormael approached, noting D’Jenn’s scrutiny of the bolt holes.
“Aye.”
“What do you think it is?”
D’Jenn raised an eyebrow at his cousin. “It’s hard to say without reading their language, but I have a theory.”
“Let’s hear it.” Dormael laid a hand on the wall and closed his eyes.
“I think it delivers magic to different parts of the city.”
Dormael’s brow furrowed. “Like pipes deliver water?”
“More like veins delivering blood.” D’Jenn nodded toward the dome’s entrance. “Something has to be moving the air in here—there’s been a slight breeze since we entered the cavern. Water was flowing in parts of the city—lots of water. That doesn’t happen on its own.”
“And you think there’s a spell powering the whole city?”
D’Jenn smiled. “This place is alive, Dormael. Living things have a heart.”
Allen laughed. “Not all of them. Women don’t have hearts, just evil where a heart should be.”
“More nonsense.” Shawna rolled her eyes. “Is there an end to your rubbish? I’m starting to wonder.”
“That’s a question for the gods themselves.” Allen smiled and wiggled his eyebrows at Shawna. “You know, my brother will get jealous that you’re thinking about me so much.”
Shawna smiled. “Even if my thoughts involve beating you senseless?”
“Let’s keep going.” Dormael moved to a circular portal in the wall. “I want to see what’s at the bottom.”
D’Jenn followed his cousin through the portal, prompting the others to fall in behind him. A smooth tunnel spiraled down to an antechamber shaped like a squished globe. The floor and ceiling were as smooth as polished bone. There were two tunnels branching from the room, with circular doorways identical to the ones above.
Stretched around the portals were rings of magical script—a warding spell D’Jenn recognized. The runes had been carved into the stone, running in a circle between four gems at the focal points. Bubbles of cooled rock around the gems revealed the technique used to set in the wall.
The stone was heated and the gems were pressed into it.
Dormael shook his head. “Well, fuck the gods.”
“What?” Allen backed away from the portals.
“We’re not the first ones down here.” D’Jenn gestured at the spell. “That symbolism—it’s not native to this place. The design is Lesmiran”
Shawna eyed the symbols around the doorways. “What do they do?”
D’Jenn walked forward and touched one of the gems. “It’s a ward. Just a physical barrier. It’s nothing to worry about now—the spell is dead.”
“Those gems were the sources, right?” Bethany peered at the symbols. “There’s no magic left, so they won’t work?”
D’Jenn gave her a blank look. “Is that a question?”
“No.” Bethany raised her chin. “That’s a statement.”
“A correct statement.” D’Jenn gestured at the spell. “There was probably m
ore to it when it was built. The wizard would have needed a different material to bind the glyphs with his magic. Whatever that was, it’s gone, too.”
“Why would you use four different sources?” Bethany said. “Isn’t one enough?”
“The more power you use, the longer the spell will last.” Dormael scratched at one of the gems with his fingernail. “This one went for years, if nothing interfered.”
Allen sighed. “So whatever used to be down there has already been taken by someone else. I was hoping for gold.”
“People don’t bury their gold.” Dormael snickered. “They spend it.”
Allen scowled. “I’d like to get something more than sore knees and bad dreams out of this trip.”
“Let’s go down and have a look.” D’Jenn tapped one of the gems. “Pry these from the wall if you want.”
Allen fingered the hilt of one of his daggers and narrowed his eyes at the jewels.
“Not a bad idea,” he said. “Why don’t you all go ahead? I’ll be here for a little while.”
“Sounds good.” Dormael clapped his brother on the shoulder. “We’re going below. We’re taking the lights with us.”
Allen scowled at him. “Next time I’m bringing a torch, and don’t say something like why would you need that?”
“Why would you need it?” Dormael smiled.
The two brothers stared at each other.
D’Jenn rolled his eyes. “Come on. You can pry rubies from the stone on the way out.”
“Why don’t you teach Bethany to pull them out with her magic?” Allen said. “Sounds like good practice.”
Bethany made a thoughtful noise. “I could do that. I could do that easy.”
“She’s learned quite enough from you already.” Shawna fixed Allen with a challenging glare.
“I could do it.” Bethany straightened her back and refused to acknowledge Shawna’s angry look.
D’Jenn shook his head and stepped into the tunnel.
The floor was smooth and sloped at a comfortable angle. It turned a gentle curve, spiraling deeper into the rock. A rotten smell wafted from the darkness below.
The City Under the Mountain Page 28
