The Verdant Passage

by Denning, Troy

  Despite his curiosity, Tithian was tempted to leave the trapdoor closed. He had no doubt that they were somewhere beneath Kalak’s Golden Tower, which meant the tunnel could only be a secret passage connecting the palace and the ziggurat. He doubted that the king would be happy to know it had been discovered.

  Unfortunately, he and his men had only recovered one of the two amulets that remained secreted in the ziggurat. He could not afford to ignore the possibility that the other had been planted in this tunnel or on the other side of the door. Besides, Tithian was curious. As the High Templar of both Games and the King’s Works, it seemed suspicious to him that Kalak had not mentioned this secret passageway. He wanted to find out as much about it as he could.

  Tithian stepped away from the door and motioned to the half-elf. “Gathalimay, give Stravos a lift so he can open the door.”

  Stravos’s wiry face went ashen.

  “We’ll have a look around and cast a few detection spells,” Tithian said, more to reassure himself than the human templar. “If the last amulet isn’t there, we’ll close the door and forget we ever saw this place.”

  Gathalimay created a stirrup with his pudgy hands, then Stravos swallowed hard and stepped up. When the gray-haired templar released the latch, the rusty door fell open with a loud creak. Dim white light shone down into the tunnel.

  Tithian motioned the man through the doorway, then passed his torch up and followed himself. As Stravos reached down to help Gathalimay through the trapdoor, Tithian lifted his eyes to examine their surroundings.

  He saw that they had come up facing the wall of a gloomy chamber. Suddenly a melon-sized globe of yellow-green light appeared in front of him. The sphere hovered four feet off the ground, a fuzzy, undulating, indistinct ball of glowing haze shaped vaguely like a bald head with a sagging chin.

  “Lord Tithian?” asked the shaky voice of Agis’s aged valet, Caro.

  Beneath his breath, Tithian swore at the spy’s bad timing. “I’m busy. Contact me later.”

  The ball changed hue to deeper green and blurred even more. “This is the first chance I’ve had to sneak away in three days and it might be the last for another three. You’ll have to listen now or take your chances on hearing from me again.”

  Tithian sighed, cursing the combination of dwarven obstinacy and Agis’s leniency that made Caro so insistent. He had turned the old valet to his cause after confiscating his old friend’s slaves. It had been an easy matter to undermine the dwarf’s loyalty to the Asticles family, for the high templar understood the power of both bondage and liberty as few other free men did. When presented with the option of dying in the king’s brick pits or earning his liberty by spying on Agis, Caro had opted for freedom.

  “Hold the crystal away from your face,” Tithian ordered. “We’ll be able to see each other.”

  He had given Caro a magical crystal of olivine that the dwarf could use to communicate with him. Just as he could see Caro in the ghostly light, he knew that his spy could see his own face in the crystal itself. Tithian’s words would sound like no more than a faint whisper to anyone except the person holding the crystal.

  As Caro obeyed, the heavy furrows of the dwarf’s withered face came into focus. The old slave was squinting into the crystal, his wrinkled brow folded in concentration and his toothless mouth hanging open.

  “What is it?” Tithian demanded.

  The high templar listened impatiently as Caro told him about the meeting between Agis and the other four nobles, as well as the attack that had resulted in Jaseela’s injury. Tithian was not surprised by anything the dwarf told him, for he had expected his friend to respond to the slave confiscations by doing something foolish.

  When the dwarf related the story of Agis’s purchase at the slave auction, Tithian’s impatience changed to interest. “What’s the girl’s name?” he demanded, temporarily forgetting where he was standing.

  “Her name is Sadira.”

  “Don’t let her out of your sight!” Tithian exclaimed, motioning for Stravos to stand up. “Where are you? I’ll send someone to watch her immediately.”

  “That will do you no good,” Caro replied. “A few minutes after he bought her, Lord Agis gave the girl a bag of gold and set her free. He told her he wanted to aid the rebellion and that she should contact him when Those Who Wear the Veil needed his help.”

  “I have the luck of a blind desert runner!” Tithian snarled. “What did the other bidder look like?”

  With growing frustration, the high templar listened as the dwarf offered a portrait that, save for the obsidian-pommeled cane, could have fit half the craftsmen in Tyr. Once Caro had finished his description, Tithian questioned him briefly about the auction and the elves who had run it.

  “You’ll be a free man soon,” Tithian said, as the conversation wore to a close. “Besides, with your help, it’ll be much easier for me to keep Agis out of trouble. You’re doing the Asticles family a great service.”

  “I know what I’m doing,” Caro replied, the black pits of his eyes fixed steadily on Tithian’s face. “Don’t make a fool of me by pretending that it’s anything but betrayal.”

  Tithian shrugged. “Think of your service however you wish,” he said. “If you see Sadira again, contact me immediately. You’ll have your freedom the same day I capture her.”

  “I will,” Caro replied. He closed his fingers over the crystal, and his shriveled face disappeared from view.

  Tithian turned to his subordinates. “Forget you heard a word of this.”

  No sooner had he issued the command than he wondered if there had been any need. Both Stravos and Gathalimay were staring at the room with gaping mouths. Tithian joined them in inspecting their surroundings.

  They had entered an immense chamber in the bottom of the Golden Tower. Copper-plated rafters hung high overhead. In the squares between the beams were carved shadowy figures of beasts that Tithian did not recognize. At the edges of the ceiling, fluted columns of granite supported the gilded rafters. Between these pillars stood row after row of wooden shelving. Most of the planks were empty, save for a few ceramic urns and metal boxes filled with coins and glittering jewels. In a few places, the murky outline of an ancient steel sword or battle-axe occupied an otherwise empty shelf. On one shelf rested an entire suit of dust-covered armor.

  A translucent, alabaster panel through which shone a filmy white light provided the chamber’s weak illumination. Beneath the alabaster panel sat a black, glassy pyramid taller than a full giant and more than a dozen paces across at the base. The entire structure had been carved from a single block of obsidian, the surface polished to icy smoothness. It seemed to Tithian that he was staring into the heart of darkness itself, and he felt more curious than ever about the significance of the obsidian corridor.

  The top of the pyramid was flat, forming a small deck large enough for several men to stand upon. Along the edge of the deck sat two-dozen balls—also of polished obsidian—ranging in size from that of a piece of fruit to as large as a half-giant’s head. As strange as they were, the ebony globes were not what caught the high templar’s eye. A magnificent silver-gilded throne stood at the front of the deck.

  On the arms of the throne sat a pair of human heads with topknots of long, coarse hair, their faces turned toward a diminutive figure perched at the edge of the seat. Tithian could just make out the gleam of a golden diadem ringing the old man’s head and see that deep-etched lines of age creased his withered face. The high templar had no doubt that he was looking at Kalak.

  At Tithian’s side, Stravos gasped as he turned and saw who was watching them. The aged templar stepped toward the exit. The trapdoor suddenly swung shut with an ominous clang, sealing them all in the vault with Kalak. Stravos faced the king and fell to his knees, an action quickly mimicked by Gathalimay.

  “Mighty One,” Stravos began, inclining his head toward Kalak. “Forgive our intrusion—”

  “Quiet!” Tithian ordered, cuffing the templar across th
e head. He had no idea how Kalak would respond to their presence, but he did not want to make the king angry by having his subordinates behave disrespectfully. “How dare you speak without permission!”

  After a short silence, Kalak turned one of the heads so that it faced the three templars. “Look, Wyan. Intruders.”

  Tithian could make out just enough detail to see that Wyan’s head was sallow-skinned and sunken-featured. Its leathery lips were curled into a sinister grin, revealing a broken set of yellowed teeth. Fixing its gray eyes on the trio, it said, “Filthy murderers come to assassinate their king, don’t you think, Sacha?”

  The other head asked, “Why do you always think of murder, Wyan? Perhaps they’re greedy thieves, come to steal what’s left of our treasure.”

  “My treasure!” Kalak stormed, sweeping Sacha off the throne’s arm.

  The head rolled down the pyramid and landed in front of the intruders. It was grotesquely bloated, with puffy cheeks and eyes swollen to narrow, dark slits. It stared up at Tithian with a grisly snarl.

  “Our treasure,” Sacha insisted to the high templar. “Kalak spent it all on his ziggurat. A millennium of prudence and thrift, thrown away in a mere century.”

  Tithian studied the thing in ghastly wonder. There was a glow of intelligence in its dusky eyes, and the spiteful expression on its face seemed as lively and spirited as any he had ever seen on a templar’s face. The heads, he realized, were no mere zombies that Kalak had animated for his own amusement. They were alive, at least after a fashion.

  Kalak grabbed Wyan’s head by the topknot and stepped to the edge of the deck. He crept down the smooth surface of the pyramid as easily as he would have crossed a level floor. As the king came closer, Tithian saw that the skin of Wyan’s missing neck had been gathered up beneath the jawline and neatly stitched into a straight seam.

  When Kalak reached the bottom of the pyramid, be dropped Wyan next to Sacha. The two heads fell to arguing about whether the three intruders were murderers or thieves, and Kalak moved close to Gathalimay.

  “This one was thinking of stealing,” said the ancient monarch.

  “No, Mighty One,” Gathalimay answered, not daring to lift his eyes from the floor. “I was merely awed—”

  “Don’t lie to your king!” Kalak snapped, glaring at the half-elf.

  “I’m sorry, Great King,” Gathalimay answered, his voice trembling. “The thought crept into my mind, but I would never—”

  “What you would have done doesn’t matter,” the sorcerer-king interrupted.

  Kalak stepped behind the kneeling templar, grabbing Gathalimay’s chin with one hand and placing the other on the back of the half-elf’s head. He jerked the chin to one side and pushed forward at the base of the skull, snapping the neck with a single crack. The body slumped to the floor in a flaccid heap.

  The only emotion Tithian felt at the loss of his subordinate was fear for himself. It seemed entirely possible that the king would kill him as well.

  Kalak stepped to Stravos next. “This one is frightened.”

  “Kill him!” urged one of the heads.

  “Please, Mighty One. I only opened the door because the High Templar ordered it,” he said, his voice quavering. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Are you not frightened of me?” Kalak demanded.

  “M-most certainly, Great King.”

  “That is wrong,” Kalak responded. “You are mine. If I choose to kill you, you should be happy because that is my will. You should not be frightened because your insignificant existence is about to end.”

  “Yes, my king. I understand that now,” Stravos said.

  “Let us see if you do.”

  The king reached down to Stravos’s belt and drew the templar’s dagger, then smiled as he saw that it had an obsidian blade. “Feed the dagger,” he said, handing the weapon to Stravos.

  The templar stared at the knife in horror, but made no move to do as the king ordered.

  “Feed the dagger,” echoed Sacha and Wyan, their bloated gray eyes sparkling with anticipation.

  As Tithian watched the scene, his fear for his own life mounted. So did his interest in the sorcerer-king’s seemingly insane actions. Obsidian was so common that it was used to make weapons and inexpensive jewelry. He was surprised to see Kalak and the heads treating the stone as if it had magical properties.

  At last Stravos directed the blade toward his own heart, but he froze there. His lips began to quiver and tears welled in his eyes. “My king, show pity on a poor subject.”

  “I thought as much,” sneered Kalak, fixing his black eyes on the dagger.

  Stravos suddenly gripped the hilt more tightly. The muscles on his arms tensed as he struggled against the king’s mind. “No, please!” The blade moved closer and closer to his chest, though the templar fought to hold it back.

  A crooked grin crossed the king’s lips. The hilt slipped from between Stravos’s hands, and the blade plunged deep into his stomach. The gray-haired templar grasped at the dagger, then pitched forward and rolled onto his side. He lay groaning on the marble floor, lacking the strength to pull the blade from his gut.

  “You should have done it yourself,” Kalak chuckled. “You could have chosen to die a lot faster.”

  Tithian watched a stream of blood spill out of the wound and spread over the marble floor.

  The king looked at Tithian next. “I didn’t summon my high templar,” he said. “What is he doing here?”

  “Robbing,” said Sacha.

  “Spying,” said Wyan.

  Though he had not been given permission to speak, Tithian decided to explain before the two heads convinced Kalak to execute him. Trying to keep his fear from showing, the high-templar met the king’s gaze. “Mighty One, we were searching for the Veiled Alliance’s last amulet when we discovered the secret passage between the ziggurat and your palace. We only opened the door to be sure—”

  Kalak raised an eyebrow. “Does he really believe that Those Who Wear the Veil hid an amulet in my treasure vault, Wyan?”

  “I had to be certain,” Tithian answered before the undead creatures could speak.

  “He’s disrespectful,” said Sacha.

  “Kill him, too,” added Wyan.

  Kalak shook his wispy-haired head. “Not Tithian,” he said. “I have need of him.”

  Tithian breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Tithian of Mericles?” demanded Sacha. “This snakefaced runt can’t be a descendant of mine!”

  Tithian’s jaw fell slack, and he stared at the bloated head in astonishment. “Who are you?”

  With an amused chuckle, Kalak lifted his disembodied companions by their topknots. He brought Sacha over to the high templar and held the head out to him. Tithian accepted it with both hands, and was surprised to discover the head seemed as warm as any living body.

  “I present Sacha the Beastly, progenitor of the noble Mericles line,” the king said to Tithian. “Sacha and Wyan were the two chieftains who accompanied me when I conquered Tyr.”

  “You mean the chieftains who conquered it for you,” Sacha spat.

  Kalak ignored the comment and stooped over Stravos’s groaning form. He pulled the dagger from the templar’s wound. The man cried out as blood began to gush from his shredded stomach.

  Tithian stared at the head in his hands. He felt nothing but disgust toward his ancient ancestor and could not bring himself to accept that the thing’s blood ran in his veins.

  Kalak moved to Stravos’s side and placed Wyan in front of the templar’s wound. The sallow head extended its ash-colored tongue and began lapping up blood.

  Kalak handed the dagger to Tithian and motioned toward Gathalimay’s inert form. “Feed your ancestor,” he said. “Then we’ll discuss some things I want you to do for me.”

  Tithian tucked Sacha under one arm and went to the half-elf s body. “Where would you like me to cut him?” he asked the head.

  “The throat,” Sacha said anxiously. “Prop his f
eet up. The blood will flow more freely.”

  Tithian placed the bloated head near the dead templar’s throat and did as his ancestor instructed. He left the dagger lying on Gathalimay’s barrel-shaped chest.

  Kalak gripped Tithian’s arm and led him to the base of the pyramid, squeezing the high templar’s elbow painfully. “You saw the shaft leading down from my arena into my tunnel?”

  Tithian nodded. “Yes, my king.” His arm began to throb beneath Kalak’s grip.

  “Good. During the games commemorating the completion of the ziggurat, you must place this obsidian pyramid over the shaft you passed, but only when the last match of the day begins. Make it look like part of the contest.”

  Tithian studied the enormous structure with an eye toward moving it. Teleporting the pyramid would require more magic than the king had granted him, but he thought he could shrink it just long enough to move it. “What about the throne and the balls?” he asked. “Should I place them in the arena as well, Mighty One?”

  “No!” Kalak hissed. His long fingernails broke the surface of Tithian’s skin and drew blood. “Don’t touch anything else. The globes and the throne stay here with me!”

  “As you command,” Tithian replied evenly. “Forgive me for asking. Is there anything else?”

  Kalak nodded. “When the last game begins, I want you to lock all the gates to my stadium.”

  “Until when?”

  “Don’t worry about opening them,” the king said. “You’ll need to make special preparations so they can’t be burned down.”

  “How long will we keep the gates closed?” Tithian asked. “It won’t be an easy matter to provide food and water for forty thousand people.”

  “You won’t have to feed them,” Kalak said. “Just keep them inside.”

  Tithian frowned, puzzled by the unusual order. “Perhaps it would help if you could tell me—”

  “You don’t need to know anything else, High Templar,” Kalak snapped. He glared at Tithian from beneath his aged brow. “All you need to know is that I want the gates closed and the spectators kept inside.”