by Alec Hutson
Keilan stared hard into the flames, remembering the men clustered outside the door, demanding to come in. “They searched our house, looking for signs of witchcraft. If they’d found my books first I’m sure that would have been enough to justify what came next – but they found something else. A doll. A doll with a long, black braid. So they took her. I tried to go with them, but my father held me back. It was the only time I’d seen him cry, and it shocked me. He knew what would happen next, even if I did not. She did as well, though, and before she left she kissed me softly on the forehead and whispered that she loved me and would always be with me. Then the men – my father’s friends and relatives, many of them – led her down the path to the sea and drowned her in the surf.”
There was silence except for the hiss and crackle of the flames. Keilan saw that Nel’s eyes, usually bright and mocking, had softened.
“I’m sorry, Keilan – my mother was murdered as well.”
Vhelan prodded the fire with a long stick, causing it to flare higher. “I grieve for your loss. Tragedies like what happened to you and your mother have been too common for far too many centuries. That is why what we are building in Dymoria is so important. No more young boys should lose their mothers because of such ignorance.”
Keilan nodded, trying to push down the welter of emotions that his remembering had stirred up.
Vhelan seemed to understand that he needed some time alone. “Well,” the sorcerer said, twisting around to gather up his bedroll, “let us sleep. Tomorrow comes quickly. And the dawn will be bright, I promise you.”
Keilan woke. His face was pressed against a mat of woven grass, his legs tangled in a thin blanket. From somewhere in the distance, a flame painted the huge fragments of stone scattered around him in striations of shadow and light. His body ached, numb from sleeping on the hard, uneven ground, and his legs and inner thighs burned from riding Storm.
He found Nel and Vhelan’s sleeping shapes in the semi-darkness; the sorcerer lay with his arms out-flung, his hand almost touching the remains of the previous night’s fire, while his knife had curled herself into a tiny ball, her fingers resting lightly on the handle of one of her daggers. Keilan could hear a faint snoring, and to his surprise he thought it was coming from Nel and not Vhelan. He smiled in the darkness.
What had pulled him from his dreams? The snoring? He didn’t think so. The light from the torches their guards had set along the edges of the ruin they camped inside? No. It had been something insistent, like an itch that demanded to be scratched. Perhaps his legs needed stretching. As quietly as he could, Keilan stood and began trying to massage the deep ache from his muscles.
With a start he realized that the snoring had stopped.
“Are you all right?” Nel whispered, uncoiling from her sleeping position and sitting up.
Keilan nodded. “Yes, just sore,” he replied quietly.
But then he heard it, a faint scratching, like a cat wanting to come in. Now that he had noticed the sound he recognized it as what had dragged him awake. “Did you hear something?” he asked Nel.
She cocked her head. “Nothing unusual. Perhaps it is the men on the night watch?”
As if prompted, the faint sound of laughter floated up from the entrance to the ruined building.
“No,” Keilan said, peering into the darkness pooled around them. “But maybe I’m imagining it.”
Then it came again, louder, claws scraping against stone. “It sounds like an animal,” Keilan whispered.
Nel nudged Vhelan with her foot, and the sorcerer snorted awake. “Yes? What is it?” he murmured sleepily.
“Quiet,” Nel hissed. “Keilan says he hears something nearby. It sounds like an animal.”
“That’s preposterous,” Vhelan said, not bothering to keep his voice low. “What beast would approach the light and noise of our camp? And anyways, if there was an animal prowling about we shouldn’t be quiet, but loud so we can scare it off. Speaking quietly is fool . . . wait.” The sorcerer bent his head, as if listening hard for something. “Wait, I heard it. Like a scratching, yes?”
Keilan nodded as Vhelan cupped his hands and began muttering an incantation. Light seeped from between his fingers, then briefly flared, and he released another glowing ball like the one that had preceded them during their night ride through the forest. Slowly it drifted above the dead fire, banishing the darkness and drenching the ruins in its pale, colorless light. Keilan looked around, expecting to glimpse the tail of a wild cat or fox vanishing into a chink in the wall, but saw nothing. The scratching suddenly became more frantic, as if excited by the light.
Another sound, this time the crunching of many boots on gravel, and Keilan turned to find a group of rangers hurriedly approaching.
“What’s going on?” said the captain with the red-dragon medallion when he arrived, the magical light making the steel of the sword he held run like quicksilver.
“Shhhh,” Vhelan said, gesturing for quiet. He crept closer to one of the walls and the glowing ball followed him, illuminating intricate carvings that seemed to show some kind of ritual: dozens of men and women, their heads bowed, shuffling towards a taller man wearing a faceted mask with many eyes. The priest – if it was a priest – had his arms upraised, and in one hand he held a curved dagger. In the other he brandished what looked to be a heart. Behind him was a pit piled high with tangled bodies, dark holes cut into their chests. Keilan was almost certain that the scratching was coming from behind this carving.
Vhelan reached out tentatively, brushing the ancient stone with his fingers. When he touched the heart held aloft by the priest there was a click, and with a faint grinding a square of the carving receded slightly.
“Wait, magister,” the captain said, putting his hand on Vhelan’s shoulder, but the sorcerer was already shoving the panel aside, and it slid away to reveal a square hole just large enough for a man to squeeze through. A draft of cold air pushed out, heavy with the musty smell of dust and age-rotted things.
Vhelan glanced back at them, his eyes bright with excitement. “Who wants to come with me?”
The captain of the rangers stepped forward, making a cutting motion with his hand. “No, I forbid it. This foolishness has gone on long enough, wizard. We need to break camp right now and put some distance between ourselves and this cursed city.”
Vhelan clucked his tongue. “Captain, if you’re afraid of sorcery you are guarding the wrong man, and sworn to serve the wrong queen.”
Keilan imagined he could hear the ranger’s teeth grinding. “I am a loyal soldier to the Dragon Throne. But just as there are some good men and some bad, so the same is true of sorcery. And this place has the stink of evil.”
“The stink of evil,” Vhelan repeated, chuckling. “What does that smell like? Old eggs? The only smell coming from this hole is the admittedly rather fetid stench of things hidden a thousand years ago and forgotten about. I am worried about traps, it’s true, but luckily I have with me the finest eyes in Lyr at finding and disarming such things. Nel?”
With an exaggerated sigh his knife stepped forward. “You know, boss, you did hear something scratching at that wall just a moment ago. Maybe you should be more careful?”
“I have a theory about that, actually,” Vhelan replied, running his hands along the outline of the hidden door. Dust sifted down, disturbed for the first time in centuries.
“I think there was some kind of spell set on this secret panel. It’s been waiting a thousand years for a sorcerer to come close enough so that it could activate and reveal itself. I can only imagine what waits for us within.”
Keilan found his own heart beating faster at the giddiness he heard in Vhelan’s voice.
The glowing sphere floated through the secret entrance, revealing a passageway sloping downwards.
“We’re going inside,” Vhelan said, rolling up his sleeves. “Who else wants a share
of the treasure we find?”
Several of the rangers glanced at each other, but none said anything.
“Go with him,” the captain said, his frustration evident. “Do your best to make sure he comes back in one piece.”
Three of the rangers moved toward the door, but Nel held up her hand before they started to climb inside. “I’ll go first. I should be able to find any nasty little surprises the previous tenants might have left behind.”
With effortless grace she vaulted through the opening, and after a moment of careful inspection she beckoned for the rest to join her. The rangers sheathed their blades and pulled themselves inside; Vhelan followed last, clambering through the raised door with grunting awkwardness.
The sorcerer straightened his tunic, brushing away a smear of gray dust. “Keilan, you discovered this place as much as I. You should come with us.”
Keilan’s heart quickened again, and though his head was emphatically telling him he shouldn’t accompany the sorcerer he found that his legs were moving toward the secret door.
“There’s a good lad,” Vhelan said when Keilan had climbed through the entrance, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Bravery is one of the most important traits for any sorcerer. Now, let’s see where this takes us, eh?”
Nel took the lead as they moved down the passage, her eyes darting everywhere as she examined the walls and floor for possible traps. They had gone only a little ways when a familiar grinding started from behind them.
“The hole!” Nel cried, sprinting back the way they had come. Keilan followed, a sinking feeling in his stomach. When they arrived at the entrance they found smooth stone, only the slightest of grooves to indicate that there was any kind of hidden door. Vhelan slapped the wall with the flat of his hand.
“Captain d’Taran! Can you hear me?”
“I can, magister,” came the faint response, as if passing through a great length of stone, rather than just a few spans. “The door closed on its own.”
“Of course,” replied Vhelan, his shouted replies echoing in the tiny passage. “Can you touch the same stone I did? The one shaped like a heart?”
There was a brief pause, and Keilan held his breath, desperately hoping to hear again the sound of the stone grinding.
“Nothing is happening. It’s like there’s no door here.”
Vhelan muttered a curse under his breath. “All right,” the wizard said, rolling up his sleeves. “Let’s see how the old magic of Kalyuni compares to what we are creating in Dymoria.” His long fingers sketched a glittering pattern upon the stone as he chanted in a language that tickled at Keilan’s memory, almost as if he had known it once and then forgotten. The sorcerer’s words boomed louder as he approached a crescendo, and Keilan covered his ears and ducked back as Vhelan finished the spell and smote the stone with his fist.
Nothing happened.
“Hmmm,” Nel said, “looks like the wizards of Dymoria still have a few things left to learn.”
“Be quiet,” Vhelan muttered, massaging his hand. “Gods, that hurt.” He stepped back, studying the wall critically. “There’s powerful wards here. I won’t be able to breach them easily.” The if at all hung unspoken.
“It’s fine,” Nel said, “I’m sure there’s food and water further down this passage. We can just wait a few weeks to be rescued.” The rangers glanced at each other, their faces ashen.
“Quiet, Nel, you’re scaring them. Don’t worry everyone, Nel and I have been in more precarious situations that this. Remember the tomb of the Leopard Prince, in the catacombs below Lyr?”
“I remember being so hungry we ate a rat raw.”
Vhelan flourished something from his pocket, a chunk of flint. “See? Our situation now is improved. We can start a fire – cooked rat tastes much better.”
Nel rolled her eyes, turning away. “Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Maybe there’s another way out, or some sort of key down here. Whoever built this place would have left something like that behind, surely.”
“That’s the spirit, Nel,” the sorcerer said, hurrying to catch up with her quick, little strides. “I’ve missed this, you know. Sometimes I think we should break into a few noble’s mansions in Herath, just to keep life interesting.”
His knife chuckled softly. “Who is to say I don’t do that already?”
“You don’t, do you?” Vhelan cried, but Nel ignored the sorcerer, staring straight ahead. “Oh, you traitorous little wench.”
The bickering between the wizard and his knife continued as the party moved down the passage, which swelled larger as they walked, until the ceiling no longer brushed the hair of the tallest ranger. Several times it jagged slightly, though always it continued to slope downwards. The walls were engraved with the same intricate friezes as the ruins above; the subject matter had changed, however, as now they depicted two great armies clashing. On one side the soldiers wore pleated skirts and had pointed helms, and their generals rode in chariots pulled by giant spiders. Their enemies were clad in carapaces of metal that covered every inch of their bodies, spikes and twisted barbs emerging from the joints, and even their faces were hidden beneath stylized masks that resembled grinning demons. At least Keilan hoped they were masks. Looming over the battle, as large as the mountains in the background, was the four-armed man from the mosaic on the ruin’s ceiling.
Vhelan paused briefly to better examine the carven creature. “I believe we are in a temple to this demon,” he said, stabbing the image with a finger. “I don’t know much about it, but I’ve read that one of Kalyuni’s many cults worshipped a spider demon, and this must be him. Handsome fellow.”
“So are we caught in his web?” Nel asked.
Vhelan shook his head. “No. This place is a bolthole, a refuge of last resort. There should be some way of getting out – otherwise it wouldn’t make a very good sanctuary, would it?”
A little farther on the light passed from the narrow corridor into a wider space beyond. Nel motioned for them to be still, then crouched lower and crept ahead. Keilan kept himself motionless, but he craned his neck forward, trying to make out the strange shapes the light was illuminating through the doorway. Nel vanished within the room, and as the seconds crept past the rangers and Keilan shared a few worried glances. Vhelan, however, seemed unperturbed, and he even began to hum softly. When the sorcerer caught Keilan’s eye, he winked.
Finally, Nel emerged again, striding confidently back towards them. “There’s a room, with nothing dangerous inside. Come, you should see this.”
It looked like it had once been the personal chamber of someone important. The ceiling was lost to the shadows, ribs of stone curving up to vanish into darkness. A great table of black stone dominated the room, around which were scattered the remains of chairs, all reduced to shards of wood and metal except for the great granite throne positioned at the table’s head. A skeleton in scraps of finery slouched in this seat, its skull resting in the dust of the table and its hand still clutching a tarnished goblet. The glowing orb had come to hover above the table, and Keilan saw that strands of silver threaded the deep black of its stone, almost as if a great spiderweb was sunk just below the surface. Stone shelves were recessed into the walls, many filled with mounds of paper fragments. When Vhelan saw this he cried out in delight and rushed over to investigate. The rest of the room was filled with the detritus of furniture: some of it had long since rotted past the point of identification, but Keilan saw the collapsed outlines of a few chests pushed against another wall, and the rangers moved quickly in that direction.
Keilan jumped when he felt Nel’s light touch on his arm. “What do you think those are?” she asked, pointing at large holes in the walls at the upper edges of the orb’s light.
“Perhaps some way to run water here? Or get fresh air?”
Nel nodded, but from the set of her mouth he didn’t think she was convinced.
“Look at this!” Vhelan exclaimed, carefully pulling an intact scroll from the mounds of disintegrated paper. Cradling it gently he rushed to the table and laid it down, gesturing for Keilan and Nel to approach.
“Given the age of this city, and the state of the rest of the parchment here, this should be in fragments. And yet it is not.” Vhelan stroked the yellowed vellum lovingly, lingering on the rosewood rollers that bound the scroll. “That means it has been magically preserved. And that means that there is a fair likelihood that this is a spell scroll, inscribed with one or more of the lost sorceries of the Mosaic Cities.” Vhelan gathered in a deep breath, and then let it out slowly, as if trying to master himself.
Nel frowned, fingering the tattered edges of the scroll. “It might be a spell scroll, or it might be the cult’s collected holy spider songs. Let’s not dream of lordships from the Crimson Queen quite yet.”
“True, true,” Vhelan murmured, unrolling the scroll slightly. “We won’t know for certain until we get back to Herath and find a scholar who can read High Kalyuni.”
“I can read High Kalyuni,” Keilan said, bending closer to see what Vhelan had revealed of the writing. “Ah, the first few words are: “As the black sun wanes – no, sorry – waxes.”
He straightened to find Nel and Vhelan staring at him. “You read High Kalyuni?” the sorcerer exclaimed incredulously.
“Yes, my mother taught me. We had a few books in my house.”
“Who in the seven abysses was your mother? There can’t be more than a half-dozen people in all of Dymoria who can read it! And you had books written in High Kalyuni? You probably could have bought your entire village several times over!”
