by Mike Wild
“Nyet. Saint Petersburg.”
Trix had begun firing, unleashing waterbolts into the torso of the elemental, sending it flailing back from the cage as its chest erupted in hissing clouds of steam. Ralph, meanwhile, was concentrating his efforts on a second elemental, hurling icicles from his fingertips, which scarred the fiery red of his target with splotches of black, like gunshot wounds in reverse. A third was pressured back as Yuri unleashed his own unique brand of defence. As her bolts left her elemental a spiralling, smouldering mess, Trix turned to assist Yuri, trying her best to ignore the golden arc. Together, they drove his elemental off. Ralph, too, succeeded against his foe. All they needed to do was continue to keep the elementals at bay—while trying to keep the cage stable—until they reached the cover of the second shaft.
But the fourth elemental proved more cunning than its brethren. It backed out of range of Trix’s bolts, and while Ralph’s icicles made the distance, each had, by time of impact, melted so much as to inflict no more damage than a splash of rain. As for Yuri, even he wasn’t up to that much of a pissing contest. The elemental’s grin turned cocky, then sly. It had spotted the rope holding the cage. Trix cursed as it headed upwards, tracking it with her crossbow, and Ralph equally tried to line up a shot, but the bastard darted evasively, confounding their aim every time, until it entered a blind spot above the cage.
“No, you don’t,” Trix said. “Oh, no, you bloody don’t.”
Despite the dangers, Trix punched out slats and had Yuri heft her onto the cage’s roof. The cage tipped dizzyingly, and she was treated to a vertiginous kaleidoscope of views—rock, lava, the shaft below—before grabbing onto the rope and stabilising herself. A foot above her own, a fiery hand also gripped the rope, fibres burning away one by one beneath it. Trix stared up into a red grin that had grown so wide it looked like a fatal wound. She fired a waterbolt right into it.
That got it. Caught off guard by the swiftness of her action, the elemental jerked backwards, clutching its face. Trix took advantage of its temporary blindness to douse the burning rope with a couple of waterbolts, then turned back to the elemental itself. This time, before firing, she had Ralph infuse a bolt with a spell of frostbite and watched it start to crackle as it shot away. The elemental pulled its hands from its face just as the bolt punctured its torso, and, if such a being could look surprised, it looked surprised. A second later Ralph’s still-burgeoning magic blossomed inside it, sending spears of ice bursting from its insides in every direction. Its fiery countenance was instantly snuffed. The elemental exploded.
Trix lowered herself back into the cage, looked through the floor. They were now some fifty yards from reentry into the shaft—and swinging like a fairground ride. If they hit the rocks, what was left of the cage would likely fall apart. In order to steady it, Trix and Ralph each took a corner while Yuri spread himself across two, and they hunkered down, using themselves as ballast. It worked, to a degree—would have worked completely if, at that moment, their means of suspension hadn’t finally given up the ghost. A couple of twangs, a lurch, and a whiplash and whizz of liberated rope warned them to hang on for dear life, and then they were in freefall.
Twenty yards, maybe.
Ten.
None.
The cage clipped the corner of the shaft with a resounding clang, survived, but flipped ninety degrees before tumbling in. The clip had reduced its iron frame to a buckled mess, and it was mangled still further as it plunged down, ricocheting from side to side against the shaft’s walls. Trix, Yuri, and Ralph huddled and hugged in a ball, deafened and disoriented by the destruction, crying out in pain and ultimately knocked almost senseless as they were flung back and forth against the cage’s sides, which it seemed were being hammered into a coffin about them. How far they had to fall was impossible to tell—the only thing they could determine was that there was no sign of any orange light beneath them, only a blackness promising nothing and everything at the same time. They could have been falling to the centre of the Earth—or at least the centre of this world—for all they knew. Their own was nothing but a chaotic, deafening, agonising blur.
Which came to an end a moment later. But not before Trix was aware of Yuri grabbing her and flinging her around to exchange his position with her own. Trix had no idea why, and then had no idea of anything at all. The remains of the cage hit bottom, the whole thing exploded, and her head exploded, too, a sudden searing brightness as every nerve ending in her body experienced a flash of impact and pain. Then there was only blackness.
For a while.
“Guhh!”
“Oh, thank god. Patricia … Patricia, can you hear me?”
Her eyes snapped open. Ralph—bruised, battered, bloody, but Ralph—was bending over her. She remembered what had happened. Sat up. Saw that behind Ralph, amidst the tangles of the remains of the cage, its arms and legs splayed, a body was arced unnaturally, seemingly a foot off the ground.
“Yuri?”
“Patricia, no. Don’t look.”
But, of course, she did look. Discovered why—however long ago it had been—Yuri had swapped places with her. He was impaled on one of the bars brought down by the juggernoid, which had preceded them into the shaft. She scrambled over, ignoring the pain it caused.
“Christ, Yuri. What have you done?”
His face was white, mottled with sweat; cold sweat, death sweat. He clutched the hand stroking it.
“I hope maybe I saved your life.”
Trix clutched back. “You did. You did, you stupid bastard.”
Yuri chortled, gurgled blood. His eyes began to glaze.
“Oh, no,” Trix said, shaking him. “No, no, no, no. Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare.”
“Do not worry, English” Yuri sighed. It was a long, long sigh. And at the end of it were some last, faint words. “Grandmama Katooshka, she sings to me …”
XIV
Underbelly
There was no way she was going to let Yuri die. No way. Not like this. Not for her, and not in some stupid bloody accident. For a full minute she pounded his chest, gave him her breath, but got nothing but blood on her lips in return.
“Ralph, help me.”
The old man stood impotently, looking down. His clenched fists still glowed slightly with the blue of healing magic he’d summoned before he’d seen just how badly Yuri was hurt. Thereafter he let the magic fade; he’d realized that the wound was far beyond his capability.
“Ralph, he isn’t breathing.”
“I know, Patricia. I know.”
“Dammit, I will not let him go!” Trix shouted. To Ralph’s surprise, she found the strength to heave Yuri’s body off the impaling bar and lay him on the ground, where she proceeded to stuff and bind his gaping wound with whatever was to hand. “We are going to save him, do you hear me?”
“Yes, Trix, I hear you … do you hear me … Trix, Trix, are you there?”
Both Trix and Ralph stared at the wormglass.
“Shen? Shen, we thought we’d lost you for good.”
Their guide’s voice sounded strained. “So did I. Would have, if there hadn’t been … developments here.”
“Developments?”
“The levels, Trix. They’ve grown. Not just pulsed, but grown. At least ten kilometres in every direction. The expansion boosted our link.”
“Ten klicks?”
“Confirm: ten klicks. And now they’re pulsing again. More powerfully than ever. Trix, I think it’s going to happen again.”
As Shen spoke, the chamber rumbled, shook. Rock dust fell from the shaft and the surrounding ceiling. Ancient spears that had been racked against a wall fell to the floor with a clatter. Trix pictured nearby corridors lengthening.
“Jesus Christ,” she said. But then her focus seemed to shift. “Shen—I want you to forget about that for now.”
“What? Say again?”
“It’s Major Dragomiloff. He’s … hurt. I need you to locate a health fountain. Can you do that?
”
“I think so. Their energy signatures are more than distinctive. A second …”
“Patricia, he’s dead,” Ralph said. “A health fountain won’t—”
“It will if we can get him breathing again! You’re supposed to be a wizard, aren’t you? Then resurrect him, for fuck’s sake!”
Resurrect him. Just like that. As if this really were some kind of game. Trix realised her outburst came solely from desperation. Realised also it had made the old man stagger back, had hurt him, and she was immediately sorry. Nonetheless it seemed to have triggered something. Something he hadn’t thought of before. It was the grimoire he looked to first, as if something about its contents had suddenly become clearer, though he still seemed uncertain of its use. Instead, his fists clenched once more, a look of determination crossed his face, and the bunched flesh of his hands flared with voltage.
“Clear!” he shouted.
Trix didn’t need telling twice. She scrambled back as Ralph planted both fists on Yuri’s chest, then opened them. The Russian jolted beneath the electrical arc but did not breathe. Ralph delivered a second arc, then a third. He was sweating from what it cost him. But Yuri breathed. With a great, gulping intake of air, he breathed. Trix gulped also, laughed, stared at Ralph. Her expression was both an apology and a thank-you.
“Shen-Li,” Ralph said. “Have you located that fountain yet? We have a sick man to tend to.”
“Professor? Yes, yes, of course. Approximately two klicks west and one level down. But—”
Trix and Ralph were already moving, Yuri slung between them. The corridor continued to shake, the result of expansion elsewhere if Shen was right, but for the moment their attention was wholly on how far they were from help. Oddly, their path corresponded with a pattern of slightly glowing runes that ran down the middle of the corridor floor—a pattern that reminded Trix of a ‘do not deviate from the red line’ marking in any secure facility back home—and the validity of Ralph’s prison theory seemed suddenly more convincing.
“Ralph?”
“Disempowerment runes, Patricia. Designed to strip anything brought along this corridor of its magic.”
“What kind of magic?”
“Powerful.”
“It reminds me of death row. Shen, you said ‘but’?”
“I did, Trix,” he confirmed. “What I was trying to say was, ‘but’ it’s in the middle of something massive.”
“Massive?”
“Materially and magically. I don’t know what to say, Trix—just keep going and you’ll see for yourself …”
They kept on, dragging Yuri’s all-but-inert bulk. Slow going, not helped by the fact the corridor’s shakes were now violent enough to make them stagger. It was no longer, however, solely the levels’ burgeoning expansion causing them. The sounds of a battle—perhaps the very same battle of which Trix had heard distant strains that night on the ledge, what seemed so long ago—had been growing in volume for a while, and now its physical side was manifesting, too. Explosions somewhere in the vicinity—somewhere slightly below—rocked the stonework around them, and they were forced to weave to avoid falls of disintegrating masonry. They would have been extremely wary of proceeding any farther in that direction had not Yuri’s life depended on it.
And, it seemed, they were fated to be here. It was Ralph who pointed it out, etched into the wall in a position where Trix would have missed it—a symbol they hadn’t encountered for some time: III.
“Ian,” Trix said. “Ralph, we’re back on track.”
That, at least, was the theory. But as had been the case with another junction they’d passed, the route the symbol marked—a stairwell—was blocked by a collapsed archway, brought down recently by the look of it. Fortunately, there was another way down—of a sort. The corridor continued on for some twenty yards more, where it opened out onto what appeared to be the ultimate firework display. At least, that’s what the scene framed by the end of the corridor suggested. They stumbled on towards it—and then stumbled back.
The crackles, roarings, howlings, and flashes that lit the space had nothing to do with fireworks. The explosions, nothing with spectacle.
Below them, there was a war going on.
What they looked down upon from their vantage of a small ledge some two-thirds of the way to its ceiling was a chamber that in size far surpassed anything ever explored on the levels. Arched and buttressed, it was immense in scale, the size of conjoined cathedrals or of some other-dimensional Circus Maximus carved from the untold depths. Its far half could barely be discerned, such was its length, but what could be perceived was that it was occupied by an army, as was the near half. Between the front lines, splitting the chamber, was a chasm spanned by a great stone bridge, and it was across this chasm—and on the bridge—that the conflict raged. Trix and Ralph could only stare as from the chasm’s edges deliverers of magics unleashed fire and ice, lightning, maelstrom and storm, their volleys wreaking havoc in opposing territory or clashing in midair to cancel each other out, illuminating the combatants in rainbow hues. As if these mutual barrages were not enough, there were war machines, too—hulking wooden trebuchets and catapults that regularly launched thrumming balls of fire or masses of rocks across the dark gap to transform swathes of opposing turf into burning conflagration or pounded dust. On the bridge, at the same time, waves of warriors charged each other from both sides, trampling and crushing the remains of many who had gone before, littering the bridge from end to end. They clashed at its middle, creatures of every and unknown kind, and where they met was carnage. The clang of swords and axes meeting blades and shields rang out time after time, as did the roars of warriors, in determination, in desperation, in bloodlust, and in pain. Arcing crescents of blood—oft containing chunks of flesh—sprayed over the sides of the bridge, and screaming bodies plummeted into the darkness within the chunky red rain.
Why this battle raged—who the combatants were—they had no idea, but both armies had clearly been going at it some time. This was evident in what lay below the ledge—behind the lines. A sprawling encampment of variously sized yurts, dotted with campfires, it was Diablo for real, where they were able to pick out blacksmiths’ forges, apothecaries, supply caches, commissaries, and the like.
There were two other things of note. The first, an active teleportal through which arrived an endless succession of warriors to replenish those on the bridge and chasm who were dying with alarming rapidity. They were of all shapes and species, and while impossible to know whence they came, the snow-covered, mud-splattered, sand-blasted, or rain-soaked armour many wore was suggestive of origins outside the dungeon—more, different regions outside the dungeon. It was the first hint they’d had that there was another world beyond this place—a world perhaps as expansive as their own—and the idea was exhilarating.
But not for exploration at that moment. Because the second thing of note was what they had come in search of: the health fountain. Which was slap-bang in the middle of the camp.
“That,” observed Ralph, “is a little inconvenient.”
“Well, we sure as hell can’t bring the fountain to Yuri by the cupful. We’ll have to get him down there. And quickly.”
Ralph nodded, tied a rope around the Russian’s chest and armpits. Then they moved him to the edge of the ledge, eased him off. Even with the two of them holding the rope, Yuri’s deadweight was almost too much for them, and though their heels dug in, they found themselves sliding after him. It seemed to take forever to lower his bulk the hundred or so feet required but, thankfully, Yuri reached the ground before they reached the edge. Their turn, they lashed ropes around pillars and rapelled down. Each of them paused whenever an explosion lit their descent, but for the most part the shadow of the ledge permitted them to descend unseen.
From there on in, it was going to be a different matter.
They stood, now, in what had to be one of a very few quiet spots in the whole area—a niche behind three yurts pitched against the wall itse
lf. From flickering candlelight and moving shadow within, two had occupants, but the third was empty, and, Yuri once again slung between them, they slipped inside by lifting the thick hide covering its rear. A supply tent of crates and barrels, some open, it exerted almost as much fascination for Ralph as had the teleportal. He stared at a number of pear-shaped glass bottles nested in straw, their contents liquids of a vivid red, blue, or yellow.
“Potions,” he said. “Straight from the alchemist who mixed them.”
“Ralph, you’ve seen potions before.”
“Yes, yes, I know, but—” Ralph spotted a barrel. “Arrows! Not only arrows, but direct from the fletcher! Don’t you see? We come across these things, but only so much later—these, these existed not so long ago as raw components from whatever world lies outside. Patricia, don’t you see the wonder in that!?”
Despite their circumstances, Trix did. The levels had a certain unreality about them—far from a game, but still, as if all their explorations were confined to an enclosed arena—but seeing these supplies, the warriors from outside, brought the reality of this other world hammering home. As did the rapid footfalls as a shadow loomed outside the yurt. She and Ralph were likely more than capable of taking its owner down, but until they knew what they were up against, it was best to play safe.
“Hide!”
They dragged Yuri into cover as a figure swept open the front flap of the yurt. It was perspiring, breathing hard, clearly in a rush. It scooped up two bundles of arrows and was gone again. Though its footfalls faded, Trix and Ralph stayed silent for a few seconds more, staring at each other in surprise. Because while they’d been expecting a creature in some way remarkable, the most remarkable thing had been its unremarkability. It had been human. Or human-like, at least. The only visible features distinguishing it from them being a slightly more sweeping forehead and a pair of violently violet-coloured eyes.
“Well, that was unexpected,” Ralph commented.
“At least it’s something we can take advantage of,” said Trix. “We should be able to get Yuri to the fountain undetected. Maybe even find out what goes on here while we’re at it.” She pulled her hood up. “No time like the present, eh?”
