“Well?” Hobart called from above him. “Is there anything we can use? Or do we have to get something from up here?”
“Give me a minute to look around,” Angus said. “It’s a large chamber.”
When he saw the skeletons, Angus brought the magic energy into focus, but the skeletons did not radiate the tell-tale black tendrils of the dead-but-not. The only thing magical in the area was the Lamplight spell, so he let the magical threads fade into the background again.
“It’s a large octagonal room,” Angus shouted up to Hobart. “Do you think a bone from one of the skeletons will work?”
“No,” Hobart said. “The trapdoor will shear it off, especially with my weight added to it.”
“Look at this,” Giorge said, holding up a skeletal arm. There was a twisted, tarnished copper bracelet on it. He slid it off the bones and shook the dust off. He looked closely at it before tossing it to Angus. “Recognize the insignia?”
Angus studied it for several seconds. It had three teardrop shapes radiating out from a circular center. “Part of it resembles the mark on my map,” he said. “But only superficially. I’ll toss it up to Hobart and see if he or Ortis recognize it.”
“They all have one,” Giorge noted, gathering them up. “They must have been priests or monks.”
It took three tosses before Hobart finally caught the bracelet. He barely glanced at it before passing it back to Ortis. Not long after that, he said, “We don’t recognize it, but if you throw a few more of them up here, we should be able to wedge them under the trapdoor to keep it partly open.”
“Why not go back and get one of the dwarf axes?” Angus asked. “Wouldn’t they be better?”
“Ortis tried to get one off the floor of that room you burned,” Hobart said. “It’s fused into the stone and won’t budge. The others are with the horses, and Ortis is already on his way back.”
Angus threw a few more bracelets up to Hobart, and then he and Giorge surveyed the area. Two of Ortis joined them, and Hobart lowered ropes, torches, lantern, and sacks—empty and full ones. By the time Hobart, the last to climb down the rope, had arrived, they had a fairly good idea of where they were. It was a thirty foot octagonal chamber, and the trapdoor deposited them on one side of it. In the center of the chamber was an open, circular stairwell leading down.
“Those bracelets aren’t worth much,” Giorge said, “but it is something. Hopefully we’ll find something more valuable down there, like The Tiger’s Eye.”
“One thing is certain,” Hobart said. “No one has been here before us. But that doesn’t mean the priests left much behind when they fled.”
“Why die here if they weren’t protecting something?” Giorge asked. “They could have left after their attackers were gone, but they stayed down here until they died.”
“Perhaps,” Hobart said. “These could have been the ones who were too injured to go with them when they left.”
“They may have died of old age,” Ortis suggested. “There’s no sign of wound marks on the bones.”
“Even better,” Giorge said. “If they died of old age, then their treasure would still be here.”
“Yes,” Ortis agreed. “But where?”
“How long will this thing last?” Giorge asked, pointing at the Lamplight still attached to his shoulder.
Angus shrugged. “Up to a day. It depends on the strength of the thread; the more powerful it is, the shorter it lasts. This one was an extremely strong strand, so I wouldn’t expect more than ten to twelve hours before it escapes.”
“We have a dozen torches,” Ortis said. “And a cask of oil for the lantern.”
“Let me have that torch,” Giorge said, taking the lit torch from Hobart and tossing it down the stairwell. Several seconds later, he whistled and said, “It’s deep, but it has a bottom.”
“All right,” Hobart said. “If this is an Angst temple, what do we know about them?”
Giorge shrugged. “They were fanatics who disappeared about a thousand years ago. They worshipped a fire god of some sort. The Tiger’s Eye was a gift from that god, and some say they used it to focus that god’s energy into a weapon. Considering they’re dead, that part probably isn’t true. I couldn’t find out anything else about them while I was in Hellsbreath; it’s one of those legends people talk about but don’t really believe.”
“You should have told me about The Tiger’s Eye,” Angus said. “I would have looked for information on it in the Wizards’ School’s library. It is quite extensive.”
Giorge shook his head. “I couldn’t risk others finding out what I was looking into. They might have followed us. Or worse. The Tiger’s Eye is one of those treasures that a lot of people dream about and would kill for—and not just the ones who kill for fun or money. If anyone knew we had a map that might lead to it, it would not have gone well. Of course,” Giorge grinned, “if we find it, we’ll become legends—and targets, just like all the rest of the extremely wealthy.”
“If we survive,” Angus mused, looking down at the distant flicker of flame at the bottom of the stairwell.
“Well,” Hobart said, “We won’t find it here.” He turned to the stairwell and started down.
14
“I don’t like this,” Ortis said as they stopped to rest. “We’ve been going down these steps for almost an hour without finding any openings.”
“I know what you mean,” Giorge added. “I’m bored. I thought something would have happened by now.”
“It is a bit odd,” Hobart conceded. “But, if you have a great treasure, wouldn’t you protect it with something like this? By the time we get down to the bottom, we’ll be too tired to fight effectively.”
“I’d protect it with traps,” Giorge said, grinning mischievously. “Lots of them.”
“They only took advantage of a natural formation and added the stairs to it,” Angus said. “There are probably more natural tunnels at the bottom.”
“Giorge is right, Angus,” Ortis agreed. “There could be traps. Maybe he should take point and the rest of us follow in a staggered formation.”
“Fine with me,” Giorge said, moving to the front. “I’m bored anyway.” One at a time the others followed, each about twenty steps behind the man in front of him. Twenty minutes later, Giorge was at the bottom of the stairwell waiting for the others to join him.
“Nothing,” Giorge grunted, sneering and slapping the rough wall of the stairwell.
“Not quite,” Angus said. “Don’t you see it?” He pointed at a reddish shadow on the wall. “Right there?”
“See what?” Hobart puffed as he joined them. He slid the ropes from his shoulders and dropped them to the floor, and then he sagged heavily against the stairwell wall.
“Did either of you bring a bracelet?”
Giorge grinned at Hobart. “I thought they might come in handy as a doorstop,” he said, taking a bracelet out and handing it to Angus. “What are you looking at?”
“The wall,” Angus said. “There’s a dull red shadow. Are you sure you can’t see it?”
“I don’t see anything but the wall,” Giorge said.
“That’s all I see,” Hobart added. “What does it look like?”
Angus pointed to the bracelet. “It’s like this insignia,” he said. “The curves of the shadow follow the same pattern, but this section is missing.” He traced the shadow for them. “I think it’s a seal of some kind.”
The others stared at the wall until Ortis said, “Are you sure? I don’t see anything either.”
“Yes, it’s right—”
A series of snapping sounds echoed down from high above them, steadily growing louder as their echoes approached.
“What’s that?” Ortis asked as he turned around and ran up the stairs.
“A trap!” Hobart cried. “And we’re caught in it!”
“How?” Angus asked, turning to follow Ortis.
“No!” Giorge warned. “The steps are collapsing! We can’t get out that w
ay.”
Angus paused, but Ortis kept running.
“We can only wait to see what happens when they reach us. It might not do anything other than collapsing the stairs and leaving us here. Or—”
There was a horrid grating, and the floor began sliding into the wall, moving slowly toward the symbol Angus had seen.
Giorge frowned and moved to the edge of the floor where it was already opening up. He sighed. “Or it could drop us into something pretty nasty.”
“What is it?” Hobart asked.
“A pit,” Giorge said as he knelt down and leaned over the edge. “It’s about thirty feet deep. There are iron stakes—a lot of them. There are some skeletons, too; they look like adventurers by their armor and weapons.”
Angus studied the shadowy insignia. It had to be a key, didn’t it? A way to open a door that only the followers of Angst could see? There had to be a way to open it, didn’t there? No one would make such an elaborate trap that ended nowhere, would they? They could, but…. He pushed against the different parts of the shadowy insignia, but nothing happened. Then, on impulse, he pushed the section of the wall where the missing part of the insignia should have been. It gave, sliding inward about two inches, and the rest of the insignia evaporated. A moment later, a section of the wall slid apart to reveal a narrow opening. Beyond it was a long tunnel, just wide enough for a large man to pass.
“Quick!” Angus cried, as he stepped through the opening. A moment later, Giorge followed after him. But Hobart lingered on the retracting floor near the opening.
“There has to be a way to reset the trap or make it stop,” Giorge said, pushing past Angus. “We have to find it!”
About five feet inside the tunnel, there were two small side passages. Giorge took the left and Angus the right.
“It’s in here,” Giorge called.
“How does it work?” Angus asked as he joined him. It was a small chamber, and along the left wall were a series of metal gears and levers. The gears were turning steadily, clicking noisily as the teeth meshed and rust flaked free.
“Give me a minute,” Giorge said, tracing the connections of the gears and levers.
“Ortis doesn’t have a minute,” Angus said.
“I know,” Giorge said. “Can you do anything?”
Angus nodded, went back into the main tunnel, and sought out a blue strand of sky magic. It was difficult to find one; they were deep enough underground that almost all of the magical strands were the red shades of flame magic—many of them quite dark and radiating tremendous power—or brown ones of earth magic.
Hobart tossed the ropes he had carried down into the tunnel and stepped into the narrow opening. He turned and stared up the stairwell.
Angus finally found a faint blue strand and reached for it, weaving it into the knotted sequence for the flying spell. It was a weak strand, easy to manage but not very potent. His spell would not last as long, but it would be easier to manipulate it.
“Gods,” Hobart muttered as the floor clanked to a stop in the wall beneath them.
“Let me by,” Angus said.
Hobart barely looked up as he reached for the rope and said, “I have to catch him if I can.” He made a large loop in the rope and squatted down, bracing his calves and shins against the tunnel walls. The rope dangled below him as he extended his arms and made a practice toss with the noose.
“I will catch him if you let me by,” Angus said from behind and above him.
Hobart turned and looked as if he were about to protest, but when he saw Angus hovering behind him, he hunched down as far as he could.
Angus guided himself out by pulling with his hands instead of working the spell; the area was narrow, and his ability to aim was still uncertain.
“Here,” Hobart said, holding out the rope. “Take this.”
Angus nodded, took hold of the rope and tweaked the thread. He shot forward more quickly than he expected and barely managed to redirect himself upward before banging into the wall. The rope dangled beneath him like a long tail as he rose rapidly upward for about fifty feet. Ortis was tumbling down the slope of the stairwell, each of his constituents about ten feet apart.
Angus positioned himself, took hold of the rope, and whipped it around until most of it was lying on the stairwell. If Ortis was lucky, if he was quick enough, he might be able to catch onto it. But Angus didn’t want to rely upon luck; he brought his skills into play. He estimated the distance between himself and the first Ortis; he anticipated the trajectory for where he would be in three seconds, and he tweaked the thread, directing himself to that location.
He overshot it, but it didn’t matter. His timing was right, and Ortis collided with him, grappled with him, clung to his arm. Then Angus banged into the wall and almost lost him—but Ortis was clinging too tightly to him for that—and for controlling the spell!
“Get on my back!” Angus shouted. “I need my hands!”
Ortis hesitated only briefly before he maneuvered himself into position, his arms and legs wrapped around Angus’s torso and hips. Then the second Ortis was upon him, lunged for his legs. The impact and additional weight almost caused Angus to lose control of the thread—and would have if it had been a stronger one—and made maneuvering too difficult for his novice ability at flight. He floated outward, away from the slope, and fluttered downward. He had to drop the rope to regain control, and by the time he had, the third Ortis was past him.
Angus frantically redirected himself downward, and they dropped quickly—too quickly; the pit was rapidly approached, and in desperation, Angus redirected them sideways and used the wall to brake to a stop, almost losing both Ortises in the process.
The third Ortis tried to leap for Hobart, tried to catch the rope Hobart threw near him—but missed them both. When he struck the stakes, both of the Ortises with Angus tensed, the one clinging to his chest nearly cracking ribs as he squeezed the air from Angus’s lungs.
“Grab him!” Angus gasped, as he guided them to the wall near Hobart.
The tenseness in the Ortises suddenly eased, and the one dangling from his feet relaxed his grip, began to slide limply down the wall. The one wrapped around him began to tilt away, to slide, but Angus spread his legs as wide as he could and used his right arm to grip Ortis’s wrist. With his left, he lowered them down until they were level with the opening, and then used it to push himself along the wall until he could step inside. Once there, he turned around and let Ortis slump to the ground. Then he turned to the third Ortis, the one he had not been able to catch.
“Found it!” Giorge cried into the sudden silence. A moment later, the stairwell floor began to slide slowly out of the wall.
Angus flew cautiously to the third Ortis. He was impaled on metallic, spear-like stakes in the middle of the pit. One of them jutted up through his back, another pinioned his left leg, and a third had torn through the soft flesh of his right arm.
The floor was already a foot away from the wall, but it would take time to reach the other end. If he hurried….
Angus let himself fall until he was almost on top of the spear-like stakes, and then arrested his descent by transferring the momentum horizontally. When he was near Ortis, he stopped and, rather than flying closer to Ortis, used the spikes as if they were stepping stones, lightly pushing off from one to the next until he was hovering next to Ortis.
He paused, turned back toward the opening, and shouted, “He’s dead.”
The floor now extended about five feet—a third of the way—and would soon be over his head. He prepared to fly upward, but Hobart stopped him.
“Not yet,” Hobart shouted. “You need to bring his body back.”
Angus frowned. What’s the point? Does it really matter where he’s buried? Then he shrugged. It did to Teffles. Maybe it does to Ortis, too.
Angus gripped Ortis’s belt firmly in his right hand, and tugged on the thread, urging it to lift them up. He had braced himself for the jarring resistance of Ortis’s body, but was pl
easantly surprised by how easily his corpse slid free from the stakes. He rose upward several feet, his right arm and shoulder straining against the additional weight of Ortis’s body. He redirected them sideways until they were over the floor—it had passed the halfway point—and dropped him. He fell only a few feet, and when he landed, he quivered a bit and didn’t move any more.
Hobart hurried out to him, lifted him easily over his shoulder, and carried him into the tunnel.
Angus settled down onto the floor, quickly adjusted to its motion, and was about to release the thread when Hobart returned to the entry.
“We’ll need all the food we can spare and more,” Hobart said. “We don’t have nearly enough down here. Can you get more?”
“Why?” Angus asked. The thread was weak, and even though he could control it for a while longer, he wasn’t sure how long.
“Ortis can sometimes heal himself,” Hobart said. “But he needs to eat a lot to do it.”
“All right,” Angus said, “I’ll need a torch.”
“Giorge! Light a torch!”
While he waited, Angus reasserted his control over the thread by reinforcing the fraying knot. It was the only thing he could think of doing to extend the spell’s life, and he wasn’t sure it would work. But if he lost control while he was flying up or down the stairwell….
When he had the torch in hand, he lifting himself rapidly up through the stairwell. When he reached the octagonal room, he slowed his ascent and redirected himself to the rope dangling from the trapdoor. He used it to guide himself upward, and then half-crawled, half-fluttered down the tunnel, the smoke of the torch stinging his eyes. Once in the room, he half-ran, half-floated until he was outside, and then flew to the horses. He quickly gathered up the hardtack and was about to go back when he remembered something Fyngar had written:
The plains folk gathered around a pile of grain that was taller than they were and began eating.
If Ortis was one of them, couldn’t he eat grain? He decided to find out. He gathered the full feedbags from some of the horses and tossed them over his shoulder before flying back into the ruins. By the time he reached the bottom of the stairwell, he was out of breath. He dropped the sacks and feedbags, and slumped to the floor. The stairs still clattering into place, and they were getting closer. He let the spell go and waited for his breathing to ease before carrying the supplies into the tunnel.
The Tiger's Eye (Book 1) Page 31
