So she followed Braden into the mist. He walked cautiously forward, splashing through puddles that had gathered on the cobbled street. His shoulders were rigid with tension, fists balled at his sides. There was nothing soft or gentle about his face anymore; his lips were compressed in a straight line, his brow deeply furrowed.
Reaching the other side of the alley, he drew up and raised his hand to signal a halt. Slowing, he pulled open a door that Sephana hadn’t even noticed was there. Her eyes widened as she watched him step inside, the door swinging closed behind him. She made no move to follow; she was fighting a strong impulse to run the other way. Instead she waited, nerves on edge, eyes intently focused on the handle of the door. After only moments, the door cracked open again, enough to admit Sephana through the opening.
The cellar she found herself within was exactly the way Merris had described, complete with rows of stacked crates and straw-covered floor. But it was to the door at the far end of the room that Sephana’s eyes were immediately drawn as if compelled. That door now stood closed. For a moment, she forgot to breathe. She stood transfixed by the sight of it, completely rooted in place.
Braden moved forward, but Sephana could not force herself to do more than track his motion with her eyes. She watched as if from a distance as he rested his palm against the door’s rough texture as if trying to get a feel for what might be lingering on the other side of it. For seconds, he just stood there, hand planted squarely in the center of the wood. His fingers went to fumble with the rusty knob. He set his shoulder against the door and gave a push. With a shudder, the tired oak gave way beneath the weight of his body.
Beyond, a dark passage was revealed.
Braden glanced back at Sephana with eyes that seemed more saddened than worried.
She forced herself to cross the cellar floor toward him. As she walked past him through the doorway, he caught her by the hand and stopped her short.
Gazing adamantly into her eyes, his voice grated in a near-whisper, “Last chance. There’s really no sense in risking us both.”
Sephana scowled. Then she kissed him.
Hand in hand, they entered the lightless corridor together, allowing the door to swing fully closed behind them. Sephana winced as darkness enveloped them. She stopped, unable to make out Braden’s outline even though he stood only a pace away. She couldn’t even see his hand in hers; the blackness of the passage was too complete.
This would never do, she decided. She opened her mind to the magic field, allowing its rhythmic cadence to soothe her. Awash in the soft comfort of the field, Sephana produced a glow of magelight at their feet.
The mist she summoned flowed out ahead of them, a churning blue incandescence that writhed across the floor, lighting their way. In its glow, Braden’s image sprang into lurid focus. His features had the appearance of a portrait rendered by a novice’s crude hand: all harsh strokes punctuated by bold contrasts.
He nodded his head in wary approval of her use of the magelight. Sephana could almost sense the conflict that seethed just below the patient expression on his face. The light could easily give away their presence, but it was necessary. Without it, they would only fumble blindly in the dark. He took her by the hand and together they made their way down the narrow passage, the dim tendrils of her magelight groping vaporously ahead.
The walls of the corridor were narrow, carved from the dark granite of the mountainside. The passage before them led straight ahead. Her magelight served only to illuminate the stone right beneath their feet; it did nothing to drive back the darkness either ahead or behind.
The corridor they travelled became a treacherous, narrow stair that angled sharply downward. There, they paused. Sephana closed her eyes, straining to listen into the black depths below. But there was nothing; only the distant sound of trickling water broke the gaping silence that surrounded them. They descended the stairs together, hand in hand, her magelight like roiling fog cascading down the steps.
“This is as far as Merris got,” Braden whispered at her side.
Sephana nodded her agreement. She looked up and noticed a rock archway overhead. A symbol was carved into the keystone of the arch: the Silver Star. She could feel Braden’s fingers tightening on her own.
The sound of dribbling water was louder now and seemed to be coming from all directions at once. It was as though the very walls of the mountain were weeping. It was much colder down here than it had been at the top of the stairs, a damp and penetrating chill.
The steps came to an end at a narrow, rock-encrusted passage.
Sephana let the magelight that guided their path fade quietly away. The corridor ahead was lit by fiery torches ensconced upon the walls. Sephana swallowed a nervous lump in her throat as she wondered who the torches were meant for.
“Let me go first,” Braden whispered against her ear.
Numb, Sephana could only nod in response as Braden started down the passage ahead of her. The floor was sloped, leading them further down into the bedrock of the mountainside. All around them the flickering light of torches cast a lurid shadow play on the stone. The walls themselves were wet, oozing dark water that dribbled down their rough faces to gather in stagnant pools on the floor.
The passage made a sharp turn, doubling back upon itself, then angled steeply downward.
Braden stopped and pressed his body up against the wall. He peered around a corner ahead. He then pulled back, casting a troubled glance her way.
“There’s an intersection just ahead,” he whispered. “I thought I heard something. I can’t be sure. Just be ready.”
Sephana nodded her understanding. She felt for the pulse of the magic field and took ahold of it. She would keep it there, just at the edge of her mind, within easy reach.
Swallowing, Sephana followed Braden as he edged forward, rounding the corner. Ahead, she could make out the intersection he had spoken of. Another corridor crossed their path.
“Stop,” Braden hissed sharply.
He ran his hand down the wall beside him, feeling its damp, rough texture. His fingers paused at a circular indentation in the rock. Frowning, he reached for the torch on the wall opposite and took it into his hand, holding the crackling flame up as he bent forward to examine the small depression in the wall.
“Smart,” he muttered. “Whoever they are, these people certainly don’t want any visitors.”
Sephana frowned, wordlessly pressing him to elaborate. He indicated what looked like a small button recessed into the stone. She could make out some sort of glyph that had been carved into the center of it. The markings looked fresh and precisely wrought; it was a recent addition to the ancient wall.
“This symbol is callebra,” Braden whispered, his fingers tracing over the small circle. “The hunter’s horn. It’s a trap; walking through the intersection probably sounds an alarm somewhere.”
“How do you know?” Sephana demanded.
“I’ve seen its like before,” he explained. “In the Lyceum. We use devices such as these to control access to certain critical areas.”
“Interesting,” Sephana muttered, gazing up into her lover’s face in wordless speculation. “So why do we find one here beneath Aerysius?”
Braden shook his head with a troubled shrug. With his finger, he depressed the button on the wall. There was a small clicking noise.
Sephana jerked back, glancing at him sharply in alarm. “What was that?”
“I think I disarmed it,” he informed her. “But let’s hurry—for all I know, I might have just set the damned thing off.”
He replaced the torch in its sconce and led her forward through the intersection ahead. Their feet splashed through pools of water. The walls themselves were weeping crusted minerals down their faces.
Suddenly, Braden’s fingers clamped down hard on her hand. He stopped so fast that Sephana almost ran into the back of him. He turned and threw an arm across her chest, forcing her back against the wall.
Sephana gaped at the sight of
a man crossing the corridor just ahead. He was there for only a second and then was gone again, disappearing through a passage on the right. The sound of his footsteps continued on, the noise slowly receding.
“This is getting too dangerous,” Braden grumbled. “We need to turn back.”
“No,” Sephana insisted stubbornly. “We’ve come this far.”
“It’s a warren down here,” he argued. “We could get lost. Or what if I miss one of those traps? It’s no good, Seph. We need to go back and report what we’ve already found. Let the Assembly deal with these people.”
But she was adamant. “Just a little further. You said so yourself: I need evidence, Braden. I’m not leaving here until I get some.”
Braden glared at her hard for a long moment. In the wavering glow of the torchlight, he looked subtly older, subtly more dangerous. Finally he released a beleaguered sigh, shaking his head.
“I’ll give you five minutes,” he allowed. “Then we leave.”
Ahead, the corridor widened, the walls rounding, until it looked more like a natural cave than it did any human-carved passage. The torches here were spaced out at much greater intervals, creating long stretches of darkness between pools of wavering torchlight. The tunnel was icy and wet, the water beneath their feet stagnant and foul smelling.
Before them, the passage came to a sudden end.
They both drew up to stare at a wide doorway that was carved into the wall just ahead. There was no light at all beyond. The opening in the rock was little more than a gaping hole that led straight ahead into blackness.
Glancing at Braden, Sephana quickly produced another glow of magelight at their feet. To this he added his own, a golden-amber shade that mingled with Sephana’s mist, became a churning fog of roiling colors. The magelight trailed ahead of them through the opening in the wall, illuminating a dark chamber just ahead.
Through the glowing fog they walked hand in hand, their shadows cast in tormented display upon the walls to either side.
As they stepped into the chamber, Braden pulled up short.
Sephana shivered, feeling as if a cold wash of water had been poured over her head, running down her neck and trickling down her back.
The room they entered was just as dark and wet as the rest of the warren of passageways they had traversed. On one side of the floor was a large slab of granite, waist-high. It had the look of a table or altar, hewn from a single slab of rock. A foul, dark liquid oozed down its sides, congealing on its surface.
To the other side of the chamber was a circular well made of staggered granite blocks.
It was toward the stone table that Braden moved first. He paused beside it, eyes contemplating the rough surface. Slowly, he extended his hand and dipped a finger into the dark liquid pooled on its surface. His finger came away coated with thick, coagulated blood.
Sephana recoiled with a gasp. The sheer amount of blood was appalling. It collected on the surface of the table, running in thick rivulets to the floor. She was standing in it. The blood had mixed with the water at her feet, rendering it impossible to tell how much there actually was.
She shook her head and whispered, “Animal sacrifice? To what purpose?”
“No.”
Braden’s voice was empty and hollow, completely drained of all emotion. The sound of it chilled her heart. He lifted something from the floor next to the slab of rock. It took Sephana a moment to recognize the object in his hand: a thick iron shackle anchored by a heavy chain to the side of the granite block.
“Human,” she whispered.
She covered her mouth with her hand as Braden cast the chain away from him, repulsed. The iron shackle slapped hard against the slab with a sharp ring of metal.
Sephana flinched at the harsh sound. Braden hardly seemed to care if anyone heard. With a grimace of contempt, he wrenched himself back away from the altar, swinging around to face the well. He stalked across the floor toward it, kneeling down beside the granite ring. His hand rose, tracing over a series of vile-looking markings that were carved into the well’s rim. They looked more like claw marks raked into the stone by some ghastly creature than any language Sephana knew.
She crept up beside him and observed Braden’s study of the gruesome marks.
“I want to go,” she insisted, voice quavering.
But he didn’t act as though he even heard her. He was kneeling beside the well, inching his way slowly around its circumference, eyes and fingers exploring the hideous markings all around the rim.
At last, Braden finished his scrutiny of the well’s texture and pushed himself to his feet. His gaze remained fixed on the sinister markings, stare narrowed in thought. He brought his hand up to his face, absently stroking his thumb over the whiskers on his chin. He rested his other hand on the well’s cover, a thick slab of granite stone.
“This is a portal,” he said finally. His voice was cold and dispassionate. Utterly flat. He didn’t look up at her; his eyes remained captured by the cruel markings of the well’s rim. “They’re boring a gateway to the Netherworld. And they’re using human sacrifice to finish the job.”
Sephana could only stare vacantly ahead, mouth agape.
“They call it the Well of Tears,” Braden continued impassively, indicating an inscription set into the very base of the well itself. “If they succeed—if this gateway is ever opened—then more than just Aerysius will be in danger. They will unleash the powers of Chaos across the world.”
The sound of a loud, metallic crash rang out across the chamber. And then another noise: a distant thundering sound, low and throbbing, echoing up from the depths.
“They know we’re here,” Sephana gasped.
Chapter Three
The Enemy
Bryn Calazar, Caladorn
MERRIS SPILLED FORWARD through the portal, body slapping hard against stone. Hands were suddenly upon her, lifting her up and dragging her forward over the ground. There was no point in struggling; the thick arms that encircled her chest felt like the hard trunks of oaks. She was heaved onto her feet, those strong arms stabilizing her enough to stand, swaying in their rigid embrace.
Merris raised her head enough to peer through the brown strands of her matted hair into the face of the man who held her upright. The sight of him made her flinch.
The man’s face was grizzly and scarred, eyes dark and fiercely intense. They bored into her like twin wooden spears. She turned her face away, seeking refuge behind the length of her hair. The man reached up with callused fingers and cupped her cheek, forcefully directing her stare back up into his own.
The guard was tall, almost looming over her. He was dressed in leather breeches with two woven straps that crossed his bare chest. He carried two swords at his back, their hilts visible over his wide shoulders. He was dreadful to behold, all thick muscle and angry scars. His coarse black hair was drawn back into a top braid.
“By whose authority do you come here?” he growled, lips barely moving over clenched teeth. His eyes looked particularly murderous.
Merris glanced around frantically, realizing that she had arrived in another chamber full of arches. Only, the arches in this place were absent their posted sentries. Instead, there was only a pack of rough-looking men seated on rugs around a flaming brazier at the far end of the room. They didn’t have the appearance of stationed guardsmen. They looked rather like a pack of brutes.
Merris swallowed hard before answering in a quavering voice, “Ambassador Braden Reis sent me with dispatches from Aerysius. Please, I need to deliver them to his brother, Grand Master Quinlan.”
The guardsman’s hand swept down and caught her left arm in his grasp. He brought it up before his face, grimacing at the sight of the chain-like markings that encircled her left wrist. He threw her arm back away from him as if affronted.
“Your very presence here breaks the treaty,” he snarled. “Do the witches of Aerysius really desire war this desperately?”
“No!” Merris cried out, retreating
away from him a step while reaching into the pocket of her cloak. She fished out the introduction Braden had written for her, wielding it like a scepter in her hand. “I mean, I wasn’t sent! They don’t even know I’m here—read this! It’s from Ambassador Braden!”
Glaring at her sideways, the grizzly man snatched Braden’s letter right out of her hand. Tearing through the wax seal, his face remained rigid as his eyes scanned over the scroll. Merris stood as if rooted in place, mouth open, her hand still extended before her.
The guardsman finally lowered the letter and wadded it up in his hand. His expression had changed somewhat; he appeared to be appraising her. His eyes roamed savagely over her body, lingering for a moment on her hips. At last he nodded slightly.
“Welcome to Bryn Calazar,” he all but growled. He took a lock of her rain-dampened hair into his hand, bringing it up before his face to consider. He fingered it for a moment before tossing the strands aside. “I am Cael Stinar of the Areshi Jenn. I do not know what your life was worth in the Rhen, but here you have very little status. If you ever have need of protection, I will let you share my bed.”
Merris gasped, appalled by his base assessment of her worth. Red heat rose to her cheeks. But before she could say a word to deny him, he went on:
“You’ve lost the right to that cloak you wear. Remove it. Only then will I take you to the Grand Master.”
Merris didn’t want to, but she obeyed his command. She retrieved the last two scrolls Braden had given her from the inside pocket and then let the black cloak of Aerysius fall from her shoulders, spilling to the ground around her feet.
Cael picked the cloak up in his big hands, wadding it into a ball. Then he strode over to the wall and removed a torch from its brace. He held it up to Merris’s cloak until the fabric caught, orange-red flames spreading quickly in his hand. He let the burning cloak fall to the stone floor, stepping back as the flames blossomed to engulf it.
Darkstorm (The Rhenwars Saga Book 1) Page 4
