by Jeff Wheeler
Suddenly the flapping of wings sounded from behind, swooping down on them. Khiara gave a cry of warning and spun around, swinging her long staff from one side and struck something heavily plumed and solid, sending it careening into one of the stone sculptures nearby. The creature hissed in pain and aggravation, a mass of scales and wings and—
“Don’t look at it!” Erasmus roared.
Annon glanced at the Preachán, his eyes wide with terror. Erasmus stared away, looking at the ground. “The statues! They aren’t carvings. They are people, turned to stone. These creatures have magic that will turn us to stone! Out! We must get out!”
The flapping of wings sounded like an avalanche from above. From his side vision, Annon saw dozens of the plumed avian creatures dropping down from the pockmarked ceilings, rushing down at them in a frenzy. He shut his eyes, his heart quailing in panic, and the creatures attacked him savagely. He held up his arms to ward off the attack and felt talons ripping at his skin, beaks snapping into his flesh, shredding his robes. One landed on his back, gashing the back of his head with its hooked beak. Cries of pain from the others erupted all around.
Annon’s emotions went wild with desperation. He summoned the fireblood, spraying the flames everywhere above him, and the bird-creatures squawked in pain and rage. Some flopped to the ground, their bodies burned and smoking. Annon tried to get clear and ran into a statue, striking sparks in his eyes. He reached back and grabbed the plumage of the bird creature on his back and hurled it away.
Erasmus and Khiara cried out in pain as they fought back the savage things clawing and pecking at them. Look at us! the creatures seemed to be saying. Look!
It took all of Annon’s mental will not to open his eyes. He heard the sound of wings and dropped low. Nizeera screamed in fury, swatting at the ones assailing her. Annon felt the rake of the talons again, this time on his back. He flipped around, wind-milling his arms to dislodge them. Blood oozed from the razor wounds in his skin. Pain lanced throughout his body. The cuts stung tremendously and he realized with dread that the room was full of their victims, all in poses of warding and defense.
Fury engulfed him and he sent another sheet of fire blazing into the ranks of the creatures, reducing them to ash in a sweep of his arms. What were these creatures? He struggled to search his memory for any Druidecht lore that would help. Calcatrix. A Vaettir word. Was there another word, in another language then? His memory, sharp as a knife’s blade, remembered. His Druidecht studies referred to these creatures with a warning—for out of the serpent’s root shall come forth a Cockatrice, and his fruit shall be a fiery flying serpent.
That is what they faced.
Calcatrix was the Vaettir word for Cockatrice, a creature that did not exist in Wayland, but was warned of in Druidecht lore.
More wings fluttered. Ribbons of pain sliced into Annon’s elbow. He grabbed the creature with his other hand and sent the fireblood coursing into it, making it explode. He was bleeding from many places now, the blood and sweat mingling.
Before they had faced darkness. Now the room was light. He made the connection instantly. Without light, the Cockatrice had no ability to turn them into stone.
“Khiara!” Annon shouted, swatting away at others who ravaged at him. “The orbs! Crush the glass! Darkness will save us!”
Annon let out another plume of fire and spread it out in a wide net, trying to keep the next ones back. His heart churned with the magic, the temptation to loose it completely and turn the entire chamber into ash. The pain sickened his thoughts, adding to the compulsion to kill. He squeezed his eyes shut, near delirious from the itching pain in his arms and back.
The sound of shattering glass echoed. The chamber dimmed slightly. Annon crawled away from the base of the statue and scrabbled to another, trying to change positions. More of the Cockatrice fell on him, pecking and stabbing him with beak and talon. He kicked and shoved them away, willing his eyes to remain closed. Another burst of glass sounded. Then another.
He could imagine Khiara in the air, using the sense of light from her eyelids to draw near and then pulverizing the orbs with the butt of her staff. Another went out. The room was darkening and the Cockatrice increased the ferocity of the attack. One of the creatures went straight for Annon’s face, clawing his cheek. He huddled low, burying his face in his arms, and brought in his body. They swarmed around him, pecking and tearing at him.
Another orb shattered amidst the fury. Darkness descended around them, closing in like a veil. Khiara had broken most of the columns around them. As the light failed, the Cockatrice grew confused and began flapping around the chamber wildly, as if chasing something. Or someone!
“Khiara!” Annon croaked, fearing for her. The sound of breaking glass happened farther and farther away. He knelt, dragging himself forward, listening to the sounds of wings and malevolent cawing.
The explosion of glass from the final orb plunged the room back into darkness. Annon writhed in pain on the floor then, twitching with agony. The whoosh of the wings disappeared as the Cockatrice return to their roosting place.
Erasmus moaned somewhere nearby. Khiara’s voice came from the gloom. “Where are you?”
“Here,” Annon said, trying to sit. He heard the soft tread of her boots as she approached and knelt by him. He was feverish with suffering, skin burning with itching and cuts.
“Hold still,” she breathed, resting her hand on his back. A flood of relief surged through him, emerging from her hands to tame the wild pain and soothe the tormenting itches. The venom of the Cockatrice purged from his body, and he lay gasping with relief and comfort. It was amazing. He had never felt such torture in his life. It felt like his back had been a field harrowed by a farmer and now it was soaked with healing waters and soothed. He sat up, breathing deeply.
“Thank you, Khiara,” he said, meaning every word. “I heard Erasmus over there.”
“Yes,” came the reply through clenched teeth. She found him and applied her hands again, using the keramat to heal him. “I would have paid ten thousand ducats for that,” Erasmus said with a blissful sigh. “Sadly, I do not have a hundred anymore. But I do thank you, Khiara. Death by stone would have been easier, I should think.”
They all stood, listening to the rustling sounds on the floor around them of the dying Cockatrice, those who could not fly. An idea sprouted in Annon’s mind.
Nizeera shared it instantly. Wise, Druidecht. Turn the enemy’s weapon against him.
“Before we depart,” Annon said. “I think we should bring the Rikes a gift when we visit.”
“There is news in the city. All shipments of goods from Havenrook have been halted to Kenatos. The Arch-Rike has negotiated a new treaty with the king of Wayland to transport grain, fruits, and timber. In retaliation, we have learned that the Romani are attacking the shipments and destroying the caravans bound for our docks, seizing the goods and stockpiling them in Havenrook. Confrontations like these are inevitable, but it is curious that the Preachán act as if they alone have the right to control trade. I pity them, for the king of Wayland has a massive army and the Preachán are vulnerable. The woods that surround Havenrook will not protect them long. The Arch-Rike’s pragmatism is truly inspiring. I hope these skirmishes do not provoke a war between our kingdoms.”
—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
The end of the tunnel trail concluded at a set of massive stone doors hung on iron brackets. A series of tiles covered the ground in front of it, revealing patterns of dusty footprints showing frequent traffic. Torches were suspended in sconces on the wall, their flames blazing away the dark. Annon stared at the doors, his stomach churning with nervousness. Were the torches always lit or was it a sign that their arrival was expected?
Khiara brushed away her dark hair, cocking her head as she examined the stone doors. Nizeera approached the edge of the tiles and dropped her muzzle close, sniffing the air.
Erasmus scratched the back of his neck, mulling over the scene. “
The doors open toward us,” he whispered. “Do you see the crossbar over there?”
Annon stared and noticed it. “Strange. Why do you think the lock is on this side?”
Khiara stepped forward. “To trap inside whatever is in there. I don’t like the feel of this place. There is ancient magic at work here.” She rested on her long staff, staring ahead and squinting with a look of revulsion and worry.
“Test the tiles,” Annon suggested. “They may be trapped.”
Khiara approached and nudged the first tile with the butt of her staff. She tested several, pushing hard against them. She shook her head.
“Do you have the Cockatrice?” Annon asked Erasmus, who patted his travel pack and watched as the creature inside thrashed. He kept a sturdy grip. “Good. Khiara, you pull the door ajar. Erasmus, let loose the straps and fling in the pack. I’m suspecting there are Rikes inside. Maybe it can do some damage to them first. Ready?”
Khiara advanced to the doors with a surefooted grace. She reached the first and grasped the thick iron handle. She nodded to Erasmus, who approached next and unslung his pack. He readied the straps and stood by the edge.
Annon advanced as well, thinking the words to tame fire in his mind. His stomach squirmed with dread. It seemed as if they had been buried beneath the mountain for days. Nizeera, can you hear anything?
The doors are too thick. Nothing comes from behind.
Stay near me.
She brushed against his leg. Annon took a deep breath, steadying himself. Then he gave a curt nod to Khiara.
The Vaettir woman yanked against the door. It groaned with weight, swinging slowly on its thick hinges. It opened into a room beyond lit with greenish light. The smell of strong incense wafted toward them, fouling the air with its musty smell. Erasmus flung the pack into the room, where it landed with a thud. The Cockatrice fluttered free and let out a vicious shriek of rage, its wings flapping aggressively.
Annon stared at the floor, controlling his vision.
Cries of alarm came from inside the room.
“What is that thing?”
“Don’t look at it!”
“Roth! Over there! Roth!”
A brazier toppled over, sending a plume of flame that immediately extinguished. Cries of fear and terror sounded as the men inside were caught unaware.
“Shut the door!” Annon called. “Grab the crossbar!”
Erasmus fetched it while Khiara and Annon shoved hard at the door. The Preachán slid the iron bar in place as the first attempt to flee struck the stone door on the other side. The iron crossbar rattled in place. They all stepped back, preparing for attack. The hinges groaned and the door shifted, but it did not open. Annon’s nerves were as taut as bowstrings. He ground his teeth, fingers tingling with buds of flame. He stared at the door. It shuddered again, the muffled sound of screams inside. Erasmus stared coldly at the doors, his expression grim. Khiara sighed.
The shuddering of the door ceased.
Annon made them wait. Nothing happened. No sound came from the stone doors. The torches sputtered, startling them. Erasmus grunted in surprise, rubbing his arm nervously. Nizeera was tense as well, hackles bristling. What lay beyond?
The effort of drawing on the fireblood was wearying him. Annon nodded to Erasmus finally and motioned for him to remove the crossbar.
“Pull,” he whispered, preparing himself to go in first as a leader should. Nizeera was crouched at his heels, shoulder muscles bunching.
Erasmus and Khiara pulled on the door handles, causing them to groan. Sweat streaked down Annon’s back. He marched forward, ready to enter the room and face whatever horrors lay beyond. If the Cockatrice had survived, he was ready to reduce it to ash. As the crack in the door parted, he saw the statue of a man, face turned back to the room, his arms frozen in the motion of pushing on the door. Two other statues were there as well, both turning to look back into the room. All three were made of stone.
Annon glanced down at the floor and stepped between the statues and entered the circular chamber. There was another man, on the floor, also made of stone, his arms and legs bunched in a cowering position.
Blue fire erupted from Annon’s left, sending a blast of flame that tore into him and engulfed him, but did not harm him. Annon strode forward, exiting the sheet of flames, and faced his attacker, a man half-hidden behind a pillar. The flames came from a ring on his hand.
“Now!” the man shouted from behind the pillar.
Nizeera hissed and Annon flattened himself on the ground, dropping to the tiles so hard his bones rattled. Streaks of lightning lanced at him from pillars around the room, exploding into stone and sending jagged fragments into the air. Explosions rattled his ears and he rolled to one side, another bolt searing the ground where he had been a moment before. He was surrounded on all sides.
Nizeera! The order came from there! He’s the leader!
Annon scrabbled toward a nearby statue of a Rike, using it to block the blasts of white lightning streaming through the room at him. Khiara sailed into the room from above, her white staff gleaming.
There were many more than the Druidecht had expected. Bits of stone spattered off his cloak as the lightning continued to strike against the statue. He glanced at the room, trying to understand it. Pillars stood around the circumference but there were openings between them at various intervals. Stone altars or biers stood in a circle as well, probably twelve in all, each with the effigy of a sleeping corpse engraved onto the surface. Were they sarcophagi? All of the altars faced the center where a large bronze circle had been inset into the floor in the middle of the room. At the far side was another set of large stone doors with scrawling letters engraved above it: BASILIDES.
A blast of energy struck Annon in the shoulder, searing with pain and flinging him like a doll. His shoulder burned as if it has been stabbed with a hot poker and he let out an involuntary cry of pain.
Exposed now, Annon knew he had to find shelter again quickly. Trying to force down a moan of pain, he crawled toward one of the biers and then found his feet and ran. The tiles behind him cracked with the impact of energy. Khiara could not be seen. Neither could Erasmus. Nizeera shrieked with savage fury as she rushed the hidden man and he sensed her mind suddenly go black with terror. She had charged at the Rike with the ring, the one who had shouted for the others to attack. A wall of frenzied fear had struck her, reducing her mind to a gibbering mass. She fled from the pillar, cowed, unable even to think to Annon, unable to communicate anything.
Annon made it to the nearest bier and dropped behind it, feeling a blast of lightning zoom over his head, smashing into the stone wall across from him. He pressed his back against the firm stone, breathing in gasps, trying to think. What could they do against so much magic? How could they defend—?
The memory struck him. In the prince’s manor, when the Arch-Rike’s forces had attacked, Tyrus had uttered a single Vaettir word that had disabled all the devices and even killed many who held them.
The kiss from Neodesha brought the word to his mind instantly.
“Calvariae!” Annon shouted.
Nothing happened. The blasts continued to slam against the stone behind him.
“Hold your attack!” came a voice from behind the pillar, the one that had driven away Nizeera.
The hail of lightning stopped.
“You uttered the sacred Vaettir word,” the voice said, ghosting from behind the pillar. “Surely you did not believe we would let that trick happen twice? Think, Druidecht! We know so much about you. We know so much about Tyrus. Fool us once, yes. But not a second time.”
Annon craned his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of the hidden man. He felt totally alone, defeated. They had charged into the enemy’s lair. Surely the Arch-Rike would have prepared for the arrival. Surely he would have taken precautions.
“Why do you seek Basilides?” the voice said. It was moving now, showing the man had changed positions.
Annon shifted, preparing to duck aro
und the corner of the bier. His mind worked frantically to find an escape. “Knowledge,” he replied.
“Hardly,” the other man said. “This is a trove of treasures, Annon of Wayland. This is where the kings of old are buried. Which treasure did Tyrus send you to steal? He sent the Bhikhu and the Romani girl to claim the Sword of Winds. A precious relic, yes, but an equally foolish venture. The Kishion train where it is kept and your friends will not survive the ordeal of blindness. I guarantee it. Which of the many artifacts here did Tyrus send you to claim?”
Annon was baffled by the man’s words, but he wanted to learn what he could. “If you know so much about us, you tell me.” He turned his head and examined the lid of the sarcophagus. It was half a hand thick and made of solid stone. Would he be able to budge it? Would it slide off or was the stone fitted and needed to be lifted to open? If this truly was the lair of dead kings, perhaps they were buried with items that would be helpful to him, especially if he could free the trapped spirits inside.
“We know you brought Lukias,” came the voice, much closer now. He seemed to be approaching steadily from the center of the room. “He is loyal to us.”
Annon bit his lip. The next bier was not far away. With a running start, would he be able to shove it off? Open it enough? If the lid was lying flat, he might. He took several deep breaths.
“I know the Arch-Rike prizes loyalty,” Annon said, drawing up his knees, getting ready to run again. “Does he also punish those who fail him?”
“Most severely, Annon. Quite so. You are surrounded. I have no qualms killing you. But you are worth a great deal if I can bring you to Kenatos alive. You passed the outer defenses. You showed great courage coming to this place. Tell me what Tyrus sent you to find here? What relic do you seek?”
Annon dropped low, planting his fingers on the ground soundlessly. He arched his back, ready to run. “You know I spoke truth, if those black rings truly do not lie. I came for knowledge.”
