“What was what?” D’Jenn hissed back at him.
“You didn’t hear it?”
“Obviously not,” D’Jenn replied back.
Dormael looked behind him, and Allen was peering back up the stairs and the shadows that concealed the entrance to them.
“I could have sworn there was something behind us,” Allen muttered.
“I…think I heard something, too,” Shawna admitted, a little sheepishly.
“Oh, to the Hells with this,” Dormael cursed, and summoning his Kai, he illuminated the chamber in bright, white light.
There was blood all around them. It was spattered over the stairs in great puddles. It ran down the walls like water pouring down the side of a basin. Bethany screamed, clutching to Dormael in fear, and in the instant she screamed, the blood was gone.
“What…?” Allen cursed.
“Just keep going!” D’Jenn snarled, “The longer we sit still, the worse it will get. We have to keep moving!”
“I don’t understand,” Shawna said.
“It’s the spirits,” Dormael said, “They’ll converge on us if we stay in one place. If we move quickly enough, they’ll be confused and lose their interest. Spirits are fickle that way.”
“The more you react to them, the more power it gives them,” D’Jenn said, pushing against Dormael’s shoulder slightly to get him moving, “Ghosts feed off the living, in a fashion. They steal energy from you and use it to manifest things like that horror we just saw. Now let’s go, before we end up giving them an even bigger meal.”
Everyone started hurrying down the stairs, albeit shooting cautious eyes into every shadowed corner. Dormael kept up his light as they went, and he had to admit that the presence of the more natural hue of light made him feel a bit more comfortable. It wasn’t as if he was afraid of the dark; it was just nice to be able to see the frightening remnants of dead souls coming for you head on.
That’s what he kept repeating to himself, anyway.
The stairs descended four flights, turning to the right from every landing until they made a spiral. The armlet continued to sing its alien song, and with every step downward Dormael imagined he could feel that malicious presence growing stronger. He could hear the others shifting around behind him as they walked, but he was afraid to look behind them because of what he might see. Instead, he kept his eyes forward with steely determination and forced his feet to keep going forward. Bethany continued to hold tight to his hand, and Dormael tried as best he could to provide comfort to the little one through his touch.
The stairs came out into a room much like the one above that they’d left. There were two long hallways stretching out to the right and left, interspersed with what looked like more rooms like the ones in the halls above. Dormael couldn’t tell if the hallways turned at all like the ones above. His light didn’t penetrate that far.
On the wall before them was another giant bas-relief carving, only slightly better preserved. D’Jenn walked past him to approach the thing, and Dormael followed. Everyone else followed suit.
The stonework showed a rough depiction of Orm, represented by a simplistic depiction of the stone grotto, standing alone on the hill. What appeared to be light streamed up from it in a straight line and became a star, joining others in the Void. Or perhaps the star was shining light down onto Orm. There was no real way to tell.
The hill was filled with ranks of people bent in supplication toward the holy site, their hands held outward as if to receive something. The faces of the Gods and Goddesses looked on from the edge of the carving, large and stylized. Symbols were carved into the wall around the stone grotto; glyphs like Dormael had never seen before, but were easy to make out. What perked Dormael’s eyebrows up though, was that there were seven of them.
Body, Mind, Earth, Fire, Water, Wind, and Wisdom.
They were simplistic in design, and Dormael had never seen their like in any text he’d studied at the Conclave, but the subtle lines that constructed them were easy to interpret. Wavy, parallel lines arranged in a box pattern to represent water; straight ones arranged the same way for wind. One had curving lines originating from a central point that when taken as a whole resembled a stylized flame, and another was a stick figure that represented a man. The others were all easy to read when taken in context with the group.
“Do you see this?” D’Jenn asked, running a hand lightly along the lines of the runes.
“Yes. I think I can read them, too. Odd, don’t you think?” Dormael said.
“Indeed. Seven runes for seven powers…maybe that story that the Mekai told us was true, after all.”
“How could something like this go unnoticed for so long?” Allen asked, still peering into the shadows and keeping one hand on his sword hilt.
“This carving is old…maybe even a thousand years or more. After the slaughter, no one would even step foot in this ruin. It’s entirely possible that it just faded from collective memory,” D’Jenn said.
“We need to keep moving,” Dormael said, “The vaults are where we will find our answers, if there are any here to be found.”
“Quite right,” D’Jenn agreed, turning from the bas-relief and gazing into the shadows to either side, “Which way, do you think? Right or left?”
“The way that has a staircase,” Dormael said. D’Jenn just gave him a flat look. Dormael sighed.
“Right, then,” D’Jenn said, and moved off in that direction, shaking his head. Dormael and everyone else followed.
The shadows on this level seemed a bit more oppressive, as if the light needed more strength to push them back as easily as it had before. Dormael felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck every time they passed another of those empty doorways, and once he even thought he’d seen someone standing in one of the rooms out of the corner of his eye, only to find that no one was there when he turned his gaze in that direction. He began to brace himself as they walked slowly past the rooms, and he consciously made an effort to stop.
The detritus that lay haphazardly around the temple wasn’t as decayed on this level as on the level above. Sometimes he could still make out hinges, though blistered with rust, set into the stone of the doorways. Every now and then he’d spot an odd piece of furniture in one of the domiciles they passed; wooden end tables that looked as if one breath would blow them into dust, brass or copper bowls and religious idols gone brown and green with tarnish, and even once a mirror that was so covered in grime that the only way he was able to indentify it was by the reflection his magical light cast back at him from underneath the dirt. The debris drove home the thought that at one time these halls had been filled with priests and priestesses, and that the hill it sat upon played host to great holiday celebrations in its day.
Now, the only thing alive down here was…well, Dormael and his friends. This place was long dead. It was a fitting home for the spirits trapped within its walls.
Finally, the companions emerged into a circular chamber that was completely dominated by a large spiral staircase that led even further underground. He could feel a low hum of energy wafting up the stairs from somewhere below, and it took Dormael a moment to realize that it was more than just the oppressive feeling of the ruins themselves. It was his Kai that was sensing this energy.
“Do you feel that?” he asked D’Jenn, and D’Jenn nodded in return.
“Something’s down there.”
“What do you mean?” Shawna asked nervously, the quavering tone in her voice giving away her fear.
“There’s something magical down those stairs,” Dormael clarified for her, and he watched the girl visibly relax.
“We’re going to have to be more careful from here,” D’Jenn said, “Whatever is down there could be wards against the very thing we’re trying to do now.”
“Wards?” Allen asked.
“Magical defenses,” D’Jenn explained, “If the Nar’doroc really did originate here in the Sevenlands, then its secrets would have been worth protecting, I thin
k. If Ishamael really was the one to have wielded it, and he separated the pieces as the Mekai’s story suggested, then I think other measures would have been taken to protect anything pertaining to it or its origins.”
“Indalvian,” Dormael mused, and everyone looked at him askance. He cleared his throat and continued, “Indalvian was Ishamael’s advisor – sort of the way the Mekai advises and works with the Tal-Kansil. If Ishamael really wanted to protect the Nar’doroc and anything relating to it…it would have been Indalvian who designed and implemented the defenses.”
“Damn,” Allen breathed, “You mean to tell me that we’re about to meddle around with dangerous stuff designed by the greatest wizard in history? Oh, that sounds just wonderful.”
“We’re only standing around conjecturing at this point,” D’Jenn pointed out, “But we should be ready. Dormael and I will be trying to sense and counter the things down there – but if any of you feel anything out of the ordinary, speak up immediately. You can never be too careful where magic is concerned.”
Everyone muttered a tense agreement, and shooting one last look around the circular chamber, D’Jenn mounted the stairs and started down.
Something came screaming out of the darkness below. It coalesced out of the shadows as if it was partly made from them, and Dormael got a good look at it as it rushed D’Jenn. It was larger than a man by two hands at least, though it had the form of one. It seemed to be made from severed body parts and organs and flotsam from dead bodies, all pressed into a humanoid form and given life. D’Jenn started at first, as if he weren’t sure if he should just ignore the spirit and keep going or avoid it. That hesitation cost him.
Still screaming with a voice like a madman, the thing rushed up the stairs on its ungainly legs and grabbed D’Jenn’s armor, slamming him bodily into the wall. He let out a pained gasp as the creature pressed him into the wall and raised his body from the floor, and Dormael was startled to see his cousin’s feet kicking as they left the stairs. The thing put its face to D’Jenn’s and smiled, hissing out hatred and rage.
Dormael dropped Bethany’s hand and brandished his spear, rushing the thing to try and pin it against the wall and away from D’Jenn, and Bethany’s fearful scream filled the room and echoed out through the ruined temple. As the cold steel of his spearhead met the creature, it dissipated into a blackened mist that disappeared, and D’Jenn’s feet thumped to the stairs as he slid onto his rump against the wall. Dormael’s spear clanged against the stone and drew a tiny spark, and he almost pitched down the steps as his weapon met only air where he’d expected to impale flesh. All was silent for a moment.
“What in all the Six bloody Hells was that?” Allen hissed, pulling his sword from its scabbard and peering around them into the darkness. Dormael heard Shawna’s swords give off their usual musical tone and hiss as they also came free.
“I don’t know,” D’Jenn coughed, pushing himself to his feet.
“Are you alright?” Dormael asked, still holding his spear at the ready and peering down the stairs.
“Yes. It just knocked the wind out of me, I’m fine.”
“I thought ghosts couldn’t hurt you,” Shawna said.
“You were wrong,” D’Jenn said as he arranged himself, “Though I didn’t know they were capable of that.”
“Is this part of those magical defenses we were talking about?” Allen asked.
“No. Only Vilthinum traffic with the dead, and Indalvian was no Vilth. This is something else,” Dormael said, still peering down the stairs.
“What, then?” Shawna asked.
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like it before,” Dormael said.
“Oh. Well, then. I feel much better,” Shawna grated.
“This doesn’t change anything,” D’Jenn said, “We still have to keep going. Just be on your guard. Next time that thing comes back I’m not waiting around for it to grab me.”
Dormael felt more than a little apprehensive about continuing, but turning back now would be foolish. He gave D’Jenn a concerned look, but his cousin only shifted in his armor to resituate himself and began to step once more down the staircase. Sighing, Dormael followed.
The stairs continued downward, spiraling in upon themselves for what seemed like an eternity. The only sounds were his companions’ fearful breathing and the scuff of their boots across the dusty stone. The source of Dormael’s light hung somewhere over his head, and it caused everyone’s shadows to stretch over the stone in elongated semblances of their actual frames. It was disconcerting, but Dormael forced himself to concentrate and peer into the darkness and watch for any other nasty surprises that Orm could throw at them.
He pushed his magical senses out before him, and he could feel D’Jenn doing the same, but he found nothing but a low buzzing hum originating from somewhere below them, and Dormael could sense nothing more specific about it. He examined the walls as he passed, looking for runes or glyphs, but all he found were cracks and dirt. The noise began to work its way under his skin, making him grit his teeth. He could feel a headache coming on, and he felt each pump of his heart reverberate with pain in his temples.
They emerged from the stairs into an expansive room that Dormael’s light didn’t illuminate completely. D’Jenn looked back at him, and Dormael nodded and coaxed a bit more power into his light, and it began to push against the darkness, growing brighter. The ceiling was vaulted, and Dormael could see columns throughout the darkened room that held up the vast arches that combined to make the vaults. The construction always reminded him of flowers whenever he saw it for some reason – perhaps it was the way the columns expanded smoothly at the top and became the curving lines that were so distinct of this style, and then integrated with others to form the room.
Here, the vaults evinced nothing but thoughts of the grave. This place may have been beautiful and reverent at one time, but now there was nothing here but dried remnants of a time long past. All that remained was long dead.
“This is it. The vaults,” D’Jenn said, and his voice echoed through the vast room.
“Let’s hurry, then. I’m ready to be topside again. This place is…uncomfortable,” Allen said. D’Jenn nodded, and the party moved off into the vaults.
Dormael stepped slowly into the vast room, peering into the multitude of niches along the walls of the place. The air felt heavy down here, and it smelled somehow like mildew. Sharp, sickening, but wet and earthy as well. Dormael couldn’t place the smell at first. Then he saw the sarcophagi.
“This place isn’t a library,” Dormael said, “It’s a mausoleum.”
“Indeed,” D’Jenn said, walking into one of the niches and running a hand along a dusty stone sarcophagus, “I once read a text about this place. In it, it stated something to the effect of ‘The vaults of Orm contain the knowledge of our ancestors, should anyone dare to enter’. I’d always assumed that it meant there were scrolls and books contained here, but now I can see that the author meant something completely different.”
Dormael stepped into the niche, examining what was within. The sarcophagus dominated the small space; a long, stone coffin carved with ancient runes and designs, but no name. All along the walls were small square spaces set into the stone, large enough to hold a few books or a vase. Piles of dust sat in each one, and as Dormael reached up to push some of the dust aside he caught himself before he put his hand inside.
One of the dust piles had a rough shape to it – that of a human skull. Dormael brushed his hand off, even though he hadn’t touched it. He suddenly felt dirty.
“These are human remains,” he said, gazing into each stone space in turn and seeing the remains there for what they were for the first time.
“This is probably the final resting place for the clergy that lived here during the temple’s years as a place of worship and celebration,” D’Jenn commented, turning his eyes to the dust piles that Dormael was examining.
“There has to be more here than graves,” Allen said in fru
stration, “Else we just wasted a trip here.”
“Let’s keep looking,” D’Jenn nodded, and the two wizards moved out of the niche.
The vaults seemed to be designed as one large room the size of the entire temple, with the niches set at regular intervals along each side. Each one contained one or two sarcophagi and a multitude of the bone cabinets, and as they passed further into the darkness of the lowest level of the temple, Dormael began to grow doubtful that they would find texts of any sort down here. It seemed that Allen was right.
“Who…are you?” The voice came from behind them.
Everyone started, hissing and making excited noises as they turned. Dormael turned, his hand grasping his spear in a white knuckled grip. His magical light seemed to react in the same fashion, and suddenly the light was brighter and seemed more violent, somehow. The air seemed charged as they turned to see what had spoken to them.
A man with a confused, woeful expression on his face stood in the middle of the floor just behind them. He was bald and slightly into his middle years, wearing what appeared to be some sort of robe with a sinuous, curving design sown into the chest. His hands seemed to shake reflexively, one moment clenching into a fist, the next relaxing. His fingers would move back and forth of their own accord, twitching and grasping and jumping. It seemed at odds with the rest of his body. He stood, regarding them mournfully, head slightly tilted and eyes squinted as if he’d just emerged from a cave or darkened room into the sunlight. It was his eyes, though, that frightened Dormael.
His eyes were the glassy grey of a corpse.
“Who are you?” he asked again, his voice seeming stronger this time, though it was the wheezy groan of an old man. He appeared to be around forty years old, but it seemed his voice was closer to eighty.
D’Jenn pushed past Dormael and moved up to the man, his hands and posture soft and wary, almost the same way one would approach a wild animal, “We are Sevenlanders, come seeking answers. Who are you?”
“I…my name…I don’t remember…answers? What answers?” the dead man asked.
The Sentient Fire (The Seven Signs) Page 90
