The City Under the Mountain

by D. W. Hawkins

  The lights of a bustling city were sprinkled along the shore, split on either side of a wide bay. Wethrael was a major city in the Sevenlands. Maarkov expected a hue and cry to be raised, for pitchforks to storm up the rise from the city. The commotion was just starting at the manor, and the only screaming voice was the girl who had first seen them.

  They should all be screaming.

  “What did you discover?” Maarkov could guess the answer. There were few things to draw Maaz from his dungeon of late.

  He must have left at some point. All those people are dead. The Imperial Regent and his men!

  Maaz smiled, though the expression didn’t touch his black eyes. “A fruit ripe for the plucking—one that’s escaped the notice of our adversaries.”

  “Why did you bring me here?” Maarkov scowled. “I told you I’m not interested in this anymore.”

  Maaz sighed and turned to face the manor. “Our binding would not survive such a distance between us. I could only bring so many strega through the gate, so I’ll have to take a personal hand tonight. I need your sword.”

  Our binding would not survive such a distance between us. Maarkov had known that being near his brother was necessary because of the eating ritual. Without Maaz’s magic to sustain him, Maarkov’s body would rot like a fish in the sun. The bond between them was deeper than the ritual, it seemed. Distance itself could be fatal.

  Even that is denied me.

  “My sword.” Maarkov sighed and pulled it free. “I suppose there’s no choice.”

  Maaz kept his gaze on the manor. “There is not.”

  Maaz beckoned the beast with a single, spindly finger. The creature rose from its crouch and shook itself like an ox. It pounded its long, mouth-less beak into the ground, shattering flagstones with its tusks. With three bounding steps, the creature slammed into the manor’s doorway, shattering the face of the wall. Screams erupted from the hole.

  Maaz turned to the courtyard gate and made another gesture, whispering under his breath. The black, oily substance crawled over the gate, spreading to the wall on either side. It hissed and crackled, and Maarkov got the sense it was somehow hardening. With a nod, Maaz turned his attention back to the building.

  “The gate will only hold for a short while,” he said. “We must move quickly.”

  Maaz whispered another command and the beast backed away from the door. A group of fighting men stabbed spears at its face, but the creature paid them no mind. It turned and lumbered back toward the grass, taking vicious wounds with no signs of pain. It even stepped over one of the men, avoiding its chance to kill.

  The strega had no such inhibitions.

  The dead warriors moved as one, raising their shields and advancing toward the breach. The hole in the building filled with shields and spears as soldiers appeared from the manor. An officer behind the shield wall barked a command and the spears raised into a deadly hedgerow. A line of men in the back let fly with a volley of javelins.

  The strega advanced through the rain of projectiles. They absorbed the attack without losing a single corpse. Javelins stuck from odd angles as they marched forward, silent against the battle cries of the spear-line through the breach.

  Those poor bastards.

  Arrows sliced through the air, landing in the dirt near Maarkov. Three archers stood at the far end of the courtyard, pulling back for another volley. Maarkov made to call out a warning, but Maaz saw them before he could summon the words.

  Maaz raised his hand and summoned a small ball of flame. It made a whooshing noise as it popped into existence. The fire leapt from his palm and hit the grass at the archers’ feet. Flames splashed over the archers like glowing liquid, and the night was filled with their screams.

  The clash of steel rang through the courtyard, peppered with the battle cries of the manor’s defenders. The locals were no push-overs in combat. They moved together, kept their line, and attacked in good order.

  It wouldn’t be enough to save them.

  The strega were relentless. They attacked in silence, moving forward with steady, inexorable steps. Their expressions were empty, but their movements were full of violence. They took wounds that would have crippled a normal man as minor inconveniences, sometimes using the spears thrust into their bodies to pull the defenders from their battle line. Once yanked into the stregas’ formation, the living were chopped or bludgeoned to pieces.

  The officer was a perceptive man—he saw the futility of their fight. He called another command and the spear line took a step backward. Another command, another step. The battle line shifted as the defenders tried to lure the strega into a trap.

  The strega ignored the tactic and rushed forward. They forced the spears aside and crippled the shield wall, cutting into the center of the line. The officer screamed again and again, but the strega made short work of his soldiers once they were past the defenses. Maarkov winced and looked away from the slaughter.

  Maaz walked toward the breach as the soldiers died. Maarkov scowled and followed him.

  Maaz held the hem of his robe as he stepped over the soldiers’ bodies. It reminded Maarkov of a lady stepping over a puddle in her feast-day dress. Maaz trailed his finger along a tapestry as he entered the hallway, and flames sprang from his touch.

  Sword at the ready, Maarkov followed his brother into the manor.

  The screams echoing through the halls had too many feminine or childlike voices for Maarkov; s taste. The strega kept to the main hallway, neglecting to go charging through the manor the way others of their kind would. They fought the remaining defenders, pushing deeper into the palace. Maaz and Maarkov walked in their wake, the nexus of a storm of blood.

  Maaz spread destruction with abandon.

  Every time they passed an open doorway, Maaz filled the room beyond with hungry fire. He delighted in catching people who fled. He burned one of them, snapped another’s neck, and splattered a third against a wall like a beetle.

  Maarkov averted his eyes. Killing with magic always struck him as unfair. At least with a sword, the opponent had a chance to defend themselves.

  A howl of rage heralded a man rushing Maarkov from the right. A spear nearly took Maarkov’s eye—and would have, save for his preternatural reflexes. Maarkov grabbed the haft of the spear in his left hand and pulled the soldier off-balance. He took the man in the midsection with a clean thrust and let his body fall to the floor. Maarkov dropped the spear on top of him.

  Another soldier rushed forward behind his shield. Maarkov kicked the shield, slamming its edge into the face of its wielder. The man cried out and stumbled backwards, falling over the extended leg of his friend. Maarkov’s sword slithered between his ribs after he hit the ground. He died gasping for air.

  Smoke filled the corridors with a choking haze. Screams came out of the murk. Maarkov killed two more soldiers, leaving their bodies to slump against the walls. The strega, moving in tight formation, slaughtered everything in their path. Before long, Maarkov had to step over the bodies littering the floor. Blood was spattered over the walls and spilling on the floor, disturbed by the prints of fighting soldiers and fleeing custodians. Maaz strode through the chaos like a general directing his troops, grinning at the carnage.

  They came to a large set of double doors which opened into a grand hall. A dais stood at the end, elevating a long table and six chairs. Galleries containing rows of benches were built on either side of the dais. Tapestries and flags lined the walls on both sides of the chamber.

  Trophies won in times past.

  At the foot of the dais stood a small group of fighting men. These, unlike the household guard, were dressed in full armor and ready for battle. A man stood in front of the formation, his bearing one of command. With a wordless cry of rage, he raised his spear and led his men forward to meet the strega.

  Maaz cared nothing for glorious charges. He flicked his wrist and the leader was smashed aside by an invisible force. Maaz’s magic hit him so hard that his weapon and boots clattered
to the floor where he’d been standing. His body crashed into a decorative pedestal and settled into a twisted lump.

  The strega made short work of the remaining men. For anyone who didn’t know their weakness, strega were nigh invincible. They killed the soldiers with efficient motions, eschewing the mindless brutality in which their lower cousins might have engaged. Once the manor’s defenders were dead, the strega returned to their battle formation.

  Maaz spoke to them in the guttural language of his craft, waving a commanding gesture in their direction. The formation dispersed as the strega broke ranks and disappeared into the manor. Maarkov looked to the twisted body of the man who had been in charge.

  “Who is this, Maaz?” Maarkov kicked at the body. “A rich man, by the look of this place. An important man.”

  “That is Loren Markanian.” Maaz ran his black eyes over the room. “The Kansil of Orris.”

  “The Kansil.” Maarkov took a moment to absorb the idea. “Maaz, isn’t a Sevenlander Kansil the same as an Alderakan King?”

  Maaz stared at one of the pedestals and ignored Maarkov’s question. He took slow steps toward the side of the room, turning his head as if he could hear a distant sound. Maarkov almost repeated his question, but a chill ran down his spine, and he remained silent.

  What is he looking at?

  A collection of items were displayed on the pedestal. An ancient dagger, thick with corrosion, sat beside a broken sword hilt, which was equally ravaged by time. Small stone sculptures—perhaps depictions of old gods—sat in a row across the back of the platform, while a collection of jewelry and baubles was arranged in the center.

  Maaz moved for the pedestal with careful steps, his opaque eyes distant. His hands moved for one of the pieces of jewelry—a bracelet made of curving silver tendrils set with a blue gem. Maaz plucked it from the pedestal and held it to his eyes, turning it over in the low candlelight.

  “I have you,” he said. “All this time, and you were lying here to be plucked like an apple.”

  “Is that what I think it is?” Maarkov sheathed his sword. “Is that one of them?”

  Maaz continued to stare at the bracelet. “Yes—The Sign of Water. Still sleeping, yet, but Indalvian’s spells couldn’t hide it forever. It would never allow such a thing.”

  “It?” Maarkov glanced at the gem set into the bracelet. “You mean the artifact?”

  Maaz ran his fingers over the silver band. He looked to be awaiting something significant, some reaction from the old piece of jewelry. A genuine emotion crossed Maaz’s features. It was there and gone in a flash, but Maarkov recognized it like a ghost from his past.

  Sorrow—that was sorrow on my brother’s face.

  Maarkov took a step in his brother’s direction. “What happens when the Conclave hears of this? The entire Sevenlands will be up in arms. Those two wizards from the temple—they’ll return. They’ve got another piece of that thing, don’t they?”

  Maaz turned a murderous look on him, a glare so intense it stopped Maarkov in his tracks.

  “I know very well what will happen! They will come for it. They will all come for it, and I’ll be waiting for them.”

  Maaz spun on his heel and stomped away, the bracelet clutched in his fist. Maarkov watched him go, feeling an odd sense of doom. He turned and took in the destruction, the bodies littered across the floor. Screams still echoed through the manor, and smoke choked the hallways. Soon, the fires would spread to the rest of the building.

  He’s lost everything that grounded him, abandoned all fear of reprisal. Is this the end?

  Maarkov let his eyes fall on the body of the Orrisan Kansil. His fingers twitched on the hilt of his sword. For some damned reason, the Baroness Llewan entered his thoughts—I am no pawn. Maarkov closed his eyes until her face sank into his memory.

  I have to find out what he’s planning. Maarkov gripped his sword, feeling the leather under his palm. Somehow, I have to stop it.

  Slayer of Beasts

  Dormael stared upward with his mouth agape.

  Set into the wall of the cavern, built into the stone itself, stood a pair of gigantic steel doors. They were three times the size of the tallest gates Dormael had seen. Symbols were cut into the stone around the doors, each one taller than a building. The gate stood ajar, letting in a sliver of daylight. Leaves and pine needles were piled in the entrance and spilled over the approach—the product of years of precipitation.

  Carved into either door were the monstrous faces of the male and female deities.

  When did you decide they were gods?

  “I told you there might be another door.” Shawna fingered the hilt of one of her swords. “And with the gods’ own luck, it’s been open this whole time. Comforting to know—right, D’Jenn?”

  D’Jenn ignored her.

  Allen whistled under his breath. “How in all Six Hells did they stand those things up? Dormael, could you do that? Could you pick those things up with your evil powers?”

  “Gods, no.” Dormael peered at the doors. “It would take three more just like me to lift them. Maybe if I was standing in the Crux. And my powers aren’t evil.”

  “Why haven’t they rusted?” Shawna took a deep breath through her nose. “That’s fresh air. I can smell pine.”

  Allen nodded at Shawna. “You’re right. That much metal should be bubbling with rust.”

  “If the doors were magical,” D’Jenn said, “their power has faded. Maybe it’s a lost art—a unique mix of steel, for instance.”

  “Hey, little pig.” Allen kicked a pebble at Bethany. “Could you lift those doors if you tried?”

  Bethany opened her mouth to reply, a smile already forming before she noticed D’Jenn listening. Her expression sobered and she looked at the doors. A moment passed before she answered.

  “I think maybe I could, maybe just one—but it wouldn’t be good to try.”

  D’Jenn smiled. “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t know for sure.” Bethany sighed. “And I don’t know how to figure it out.”

  “Yet,” D’Jenn said. “You don’t know yet. Is that all?”

  Bethany thought for a moment. “Well, there’s been a lot of weird magic down here. There might be something about the doors I don’t understand.”

  “Good answer.” D’Jenn nodded and moved for the doors.

  The scale became more impressive as Dormael approached the monstrous portal. The male face stared in cold judgment. His female counterpart on the opposite door was scowling.

  No happiness between those two. What sort of people would venerate those figures?

  Dormael couldn’t resist touching the inside edge of the door. When Dormael slid his finger in one direction, the surface felt oiled. In the reverse, the metal became rough and resistant, and tugged on the skin of his finger. On the opposite door, the effect was the same, though the directions were reversed.

  That must hold them shut. There’s no bar, no gate mechanism. I wish I had weeks to explore this place.

  What secrets could be revealed? The city had contained wonders beyond Dormael’s imagination. The source gem, the silvery veins, the moving water—how many secrets were left undiscovered? Dormael could walk these caverns for weeks and there would still be more to find.

  When we come back, we’ll have to fly. We can avoid the Garthorin and make better time. If we set up wards, we could even make a camp here. It would be a good place to hide from Victus.

  The doors opened into a wide tunnel. The path was paved with wide flagstones, and a ditch ran on either side. The stones were cracked, weathered, and covered with rubble. Near the tunnel’s exit, they had to push their way through drifts of twigs and leaves. When Shawna balked at the army of insects skittering from disturbed piles, Dormael opened his Kai and forged a path with his magic.

  Allen flashed something at Bethany in the Hunter’s Tongue, but Dormael missed it. Bethany snickered, but kept her laughs quiet. The open air beckoned, which drove everyone to silence. />
  The tunnel opened to a sunny midafternoon. They emerged a short distance up the side of the slope, with the path leading into a wide valley. Clouds hid the summits of distant mountains in frothy obscurity, and as Dormael looked on, a cold wind blew from the wintry distance. In the valley lay a forest just as overgrown and foreboding as the woods to the south.

  “Look.” D’Jenn pointed to the foot of the mountain. “Just there, in the valley.”

  Nature had reclaimed most of the path closer to the valley floor. From his vantage point above the valley, Dormael could see patterns emerging from the overgrown woods. Some of the knotted vegetation was arranged in orderly pathways too straight to have been grown by the goddess of nature. Bushy mounds, when viewed from the path, took on the look of ruined structures. The slopes of flat-topped mountain were covered with rows of stone terracing.

  That must be where they grew their food.

  “It’s a city.” Allen looked from the valley back into the tunnel. “The same city, I guess. It’s just larger than we thought.”

  “Do you see the square?” D’Jenn pointed downslope. “The open ground just beyond the path. Look what’s standing in the middle.”

  A hexagonal wall was visible through the overgrowth, though part of it had fallen down. It cordoned a small piece of ground with several paths leading in from different directions. Inside the courtyard was a scattering of ashen debris, though Dormael couldn’t tell what it was.

  In the center of the courtyard stood a tall effigy of a pregnant woman.

  She was made from twigs, brambles, and leaves, though Dormael was too far to make out details of her construction. There were no legs on the statue, but she held her arms outstretched, crude fingers splayed wide. Her hair was made of vines and twisted branches. It waved in the cold breeze from the mountains.