by V. Lakshman
Malak met his gaze, his eyes resolute. He shook his head slowly. “Doubtful.” The firstmark looked around and then asked, “The gate?”
Bernal took stock of their surroundings then made his way to the landing from which Yetteje and he had ascended. He and Malak went to the edge and looked down into the blackness below. Something had snuffed all the torchlights along the passageways, leaving the bottom landing pitch dark.
“We head down, Firstmark. Three levels and then exit to the vault doors that lead to the cisterns and the underdark of Bara’cor.”
Malak motioned and the elves reformed. Sparrow appeared, carrying a torch with barely two fingers. She looked at the king accusingly then addressed the firstmark.
“Fire.”
Malak nodded and said, “We knew much would be different. Use them—”
“Kill for light? That does not sit well within our hearts. We need not the light.”
“Yet he does,” Malak said, looking at Bernal.
“Then let him carry what he would consume without thought,” she replied, shoving the torch into Bernal’s hand.
The king looked at Malak, confused by Sparrow’s words. What was being killed?
Malak sighed, then explained, “We elves nurture all living things, including wood. Burning it is abhorrent to us.” The firstmark watched Sparrow’s retreating back, his eyes softening. “I apologize, though, for my second’s behavior. She is less enthusiastic about your people and mine collaborating.”
Bernal took a deep breath. “She seems to particularly hate me.”
“She is young still, and being within these walls instead of the openness of Avalyon is weighing heavily on her.”
Bernal lit the torch from a wall sconce then looked at Malak. The firstmark had moved slightly away from his fire, but that was the only action betraying what must be a difficult balance for him, obedience to a Galadine who burned what they considered holy. He didn’t ponder it much further, knowing Niall was getting farther away each moment.
“Make haste, commander. I want to get moving,” he ordered.
Malak nodded, then gestured. At his signal, three elves detached themselves and moved down the stairwell and into the darkness. When enough time had passed for them to make the next level, the firstmark gestured and the main body of elves along with the king began moving down the circular stairwell.
His single torch illuminated the area around him in a flickering yellow and orange ball, the edges defined by the walls and stairs as he moved. Bernal watched for signs of anything amiss but the surrounding area was dark and silent. Even the elves barely made a sound as they glided down the stairs. The scuff and tromp of his own boots made him feel ungainly, like a plodding animal trying not to fall. None of the elves commented and Malak did not seem concerned. The combination of his noisy progress and the memory of fleeing up this very same stairwell left him feeling uncomfortably exposed.
To distract himself, Bernal appraised the firstmark again. The man was focused; his blue skin had a light sheen to it, as if fear was not unknown to him. That made Bernal feel better. Lack of fear danced with foolishness, with death often cutting in, Talin used to say. Those who did not fear took unnecessary risks, and Bernal was in no mood to deal with the results of bravado.
They continued their way down past the second level, smooth stone giving way to rougher surfaces. The workmanship was still solid and durable, and the makers had allowed for the darkness: at regular intervals, sigils had been carved into the wall. One of the healers at Bara’cor had surmised they could be used as guide stones in the dark. Sparrow had said they didn’t need the torches. Maybe, maybe not, thought the king..
Finally, they rounded the last bend and exited on the third landing. The elves had created a small perimeter just bigger than the circle of light Bernal’s torch cast. They seemed alert for any sound, but silence still reigned. Given his position in the center of this team, Bernal tried to relax, but his body stayed as taut as Valor’s string on the draw. A lifetime of having bad things happen when you thought yourself safe kept him from relying solely on the protection of the elves.
Malak motioned to Sparrow, and the two knelt beside Bernal. The firstmark asked, “Which way now?”
Bernal gestured with his chin. “Fifty paces up you’ll see a door with crossbars secured by a wheel. Turn it left. The door will swing inward.”
Malak nodded and was about to order them forward when Bernal grabbed his arm. “The other side is not patrolled. The door swings inward to keep whatever is in there out. Have care.”
Malak nodded again. Without a word Sparrow disappeared in the direction of the door.
He watched her go and then said, “She’s impressive.”
Malak’s white smile shone brightly in the dim light. “From her birth I’ve taught her how to lead.” Bernal heard the pride in Malak’s voice and asked, “She’s your child?”
They moved after the scouts, following silently behind. Finally, they were within sight of the door. Bernal could just make it out at the edge of his torch’s flickering light.
Malak watched a contingent of scouts follow Sparrow to the door and then the rest of his men moved forward to support them. When he had watched everyone fall into position, he offered a smile to Bernal.
“We elves do not give birth as you mortals do. Our lives are given to us by the highlord.”
Bernal looked down, unable to keep the sadness from his voice. “Then you can’t understand my position.”
“On the contrary, I have felt love caring for a child. Even before Sparrow, the boy you think of as Arek was my ward, nurtured by my hand each day he was in Arcadia.”
“Arek?” Bernal looked at Malak wide-eyed. “How is that possible?”
“Why do you think the boy looks like you, King Galadine?” the firstmark asked.
Bernal leaned back, trying to create a physical distance from his own thoughts. “I don’t know. We wondered.”
Malak clasped the king’s shoulder and said, “He was raised by Valarius Galadine in the resplendent realm of Arcadia, in the apple-city that grew to become Avalyon, where dreams come true. How could he not be shaped to resemble his maker?”
The elven firstmark smiled again; then his visage grew more somber. “It was not until Queen Sonya noticed the baby could not age in Avalyon that she bade me to send him back to Edyn. Something in the eldritch nature of Arcadia grants us whatever we desire most, even if a mother’s overwhelming wish would prevent her son from growing up and living his life.”
The mention of Arek’s name grew questions like weeds, choking away the last of Bernal’s confidence. “And you brought him here?” asked Bernal, moving slowly forward to follow as the firstmark made his way toward the door. He was brought up short as a contingent of elves rearranged themselves. Sparrow had found her place next to the door.
“Nay,” Malak replied. “I have not the power to transfer between realms. Only Lilyth can achieve such miracles.”
“But you’re here . . .” Bernal trailed off, recognizing a note of loss in Malak’s voice.
The man did not meet Bernal’s eyes, and his lips compressed into a tight, grim line. Then he said tersely, “As I said before, much was sacrificed for this one chance.”
Malak turned away to deal with his men, and something in the set of his shoulders said Bernal had crossed a line. Before he could try to make amends, the firstmark addressed the men.
“Stand ready! We breach the underdark.” Malak moved forward through his line of men, effectively cutting off anything Bernal might have said.
Frustrated by the firstmark’s reaction, Bernal attempted to follow, but was held back by the unyielding hands of soldiers. Clearly Malak had ordered that the king be kept safe.
To Malak’s credit, he took position at the front, with his men. At his brusque nod, Sparrow spun the wheel and unlocked the crossbars. Everyone readjusted their missile weapons with a sound like the rustle of leaves.
Due to the diligence
of Bara’cor’s men in the care of the fortress, the wheel spun smoothly on tumblers and in a moment the iron bars disengaged with a heavy, dull clang.
Sparrow waited for Malak’s nod, then pushed on the door, swinging it silently into the underdark on well-oiled hinges. She quickly flitted to one side of the rectangular blackness and out of the line of fire, drawing a short, curved blade better suited to fighting within these cramped spaces.
Nothing emerged screaming from the dark; no specters of Aeris erupted from below. Bernal threw in his torch, which bounced on hard granite and landed some distance away, a lonely pool of orange and yellow light flickering and bringing to life new shadows on the cavernous walls. He knew the landing well, and also knew it would extend some distance downward before turning back on itself.
He cleared his throat and said, “Firstmark, there’s a steep drop to the left. Your men would be wise to hold close to the right wall.”
Malak nodded, then motioned. The squads formed up and entered quickly, with Bernal positioned somewhere in the middle. They moved swiftly down the tilted path at a speed that, had Bernal not been held on each hand, would’ve meant a certain fall. To the king’s chagrin, Sparrow’s comment about seeing hadn’t been a euphemism. These elves could actually see in the dark.
It wasn’t long however before the lichen on the walls began to cast their glow, casting a soft bluish light to see by. Bernal scanned the gloomy interior. Still shadows from the glow were preferable to the slithering shadows from his torch. The elves seemed more relaxed now that Bernal’s fire had been left behind.
They proceeded for some distance before the convoy stopped, and a moment later a runner appeared and motioned for the king to follow him to the front of the line.
When Bernal arrived, Malak was looking out over the switchback landing. He looked to where the firstmark gestured and realized the switchback ended sharply in a room. Bernal’s brows drew together in consternation.
“It wasn’t like this before,” he said, almost to himself.
“Sparrow noticed something move,” said the firstmark. “At first I thought it to be our enemy, but it seems the fortress itself can shift.”
Bernal thought back to their stand in the war room against the assassins. “The bodies of some enemies we killed disappeared. Perhaps there’s more to Bara’cor than we know.”
“You know the skill of the builders; dwarven hands wrought the stone. It’s likely the fortress protects its makers.” Malak paused, looking down their trail. “Nevertheless, can you guide us from here?”
The path now turned sharply to the left, seemingly passing under their original path. His eyes scanned the rest of the area until he finally came back to the firstmark, to whom he said, “Yes. The path may have changed but I still know the direction to the cisterns.” He held out a hand, pointing.
“We follow this downward and inward toward the core of the mountain. Regardless of the changes, it should lead us there.” Now it was the king’s turn to pause, waiting until Malak met his gaze.
“You understand that if it is as you say, if Bara’cor is aiding the dwarves, we’ll never find the gate.”
Bernal said this matter-of-factly, pushing aside his rising concern for Niall to state the risks. He didn’t want the firstmark to underestimate what may be arrayed against them if the fortress was itself an enemy. At the very least, he wanted them to be prepared.
A moment passed. “I understand,” Malak replied.
He motioned to Bernal to step back.
“You’ll stay behind the first squad and scouts, and we’ll relay your instructions to us. We’ll go slow, so don’t worry about mistakes. We can always double back.”
Bernal nodded, shifting his shield onto his back. When they were ready, the column of elves moved forward. The sharp curve did lead to a tunnel under the original path, sloping downward to several T-shaped intersections. Bernal switched his turns alternately to keep them essentially moving coreward by his reckoning.
Turns gave way to straight paths that led farther down and the air began to cool, a wet chill that slowly soaked through his armor and soft clothes. They continued on, though Bernal could see these elves did not like the cold at all. More than one rubbed a bare arm or hugged themselves.
What must their home feel like? Malak had called it the apple-city, and Sparrow didn’t like fire. Clearly their city lay within woodlands, or perhaps a forest of some type. He could believe that, for they were certainly sure-footed and agile, with not even one slipping or losing ground to the slick, wet rock they trod upon. After an endless repetition of switchbacks and turns that had even Bernal doubting his direction, they came upon a landing that had two paths leading out of it.
One led downward to a place he thought he recognized, called the Giant’s Step. The other pointed to a small landing from which he heard a rumble, the first sounds he’d heard since entering this place.
He motioned for Malak, then pointed and said, “I’d like to see where this leads.”
Malak nodded, motioning to two squads to accompany them while the rest held their ground. Then they made their way down to the landing. The sight that greeted them elicited gasps of wonder as it opened up into an underground valley.
They stood on one side looking down a sheer cliff, a dark gash in the rock. Streaming from the far side was a ribbon of silver-white water, falling endlessly into the black void below. It fell with a dull roar, fanning out in the darkness like a horse’s tail caught in the wind.
“No doubt from Shimmerene,” stated Malak flatly.
Bernal looked at him in surprise, to which Malak answered, “Bara’cor is known to us, Your Majesty.” He smiled, “Remember, it is a Galadine we call our father.”
Bernal nodded but then added, “This wasn’t here before.”
Malak regarded him for a moment before replying, “There has been a cataclysm of force rendered unto the rock. Perhaps that broke open a channel. Regardless, is this important to our goal of achieving the gate?”
The king sighed, unsure if this was important enough to note or a natural result of the battle above, as Malak suggested. Still, something about it nagged him, and he found himself looking down over the cliff edge.
Just then a scout ran up and said, “Sparrow hears something.”
Bernal’s doubts disappeared as the prospect of fighting Aeris became real. His heart quickened and he took a deep breath. He wasn’t looking forward to battle, but this unending silence had taken more of a toll on his nerves than he cared to admit.
Indeed, having expected some resistance as they descended, it had been disconcerting to have encountered nothing. The utter deadness of the underdark filled him with an unnamed dread, as if they had truly left the realm of the living when they had entered these tunnels.
The scout disappeared in midstride; a new observation – the elves seemed able to blend into any surrounding. He followed Malak, whom he could still see, back to the landing. These elves would be a dangerous foe if they ever turned against Bara’cor.
Small patches of glowing lichen had been cleverly placed, lighting a path between scattered rocks, but of the elves there was no sign. Since the firstmark proceeded unperturbed, Bernal assumed they had left the path and were now camouflaged, rather than set upon by Aeris.
Malak motioned for Bernal to wait while he drew a short blade and reconnoitered a path that led straight to the first step down the rock formation that Bernal knew so well. The next Giant’s Step was some hundred feet down, secured to the top by a rope ladder.
For the third time that day, Bernal was surprised by the elves. Though he knew they could hide in plain sight, he was unprepared for the hand that grasped his arm. He heard a quiet “Sshh.”
Startled, he looked to his right and realized the rock next to him was Sparrow, her skin an exact copy of the stone texture upon which she crouched. Only her blue eyes gave her away. Now looking back, he realized all the rocks scattered about this tunnel were in fact elves.
&
nbsp; “Someone’s ahead,” she whispered. “I can hear him breathing.”
Though ahead of them both and alone, Malak must’ve heard her because he gave out a very soft sound, not quite a whistle but more like a breeze. Still, his words sounded clear in Bernal’s ear. “Capture. We need answers.”
Two “rocks” detached themselves and crept into the gloom. Moments later they heard a scream and a scuffle.
Sparrow sprang toward the sound, along with three others. The rest of the elves drew weapons but discipline reigned as they held for the firstmark’s command. Malak waited.
Soon the five elves emerged from the dark with a figure caught among them, still struggling despite the curved dagger held to his neck, below a hand clamped over his mouth. They dumped the figure down in front of the firstmark.
Before Malak could say anything, Bernal laid a hand on his arm and said, “I know this patch.” He motioned at a crest sewn into the man’s doublet. He moved closer to the man and let the torchlight fall on his face, “Do you know me, Sergeant?”
The man was on the verge of screaming, the sight of blue-skinned elves holding him at blade point more than suitable incentive. All he seemed to be able to sound out came in the form of gasps. Then, slowly, recognition seemed to dawn and he whispered, “M-my King?”
“How did you come to this place?”
“The step, my lord . . . we were ambushed by demons,” he cried. He held out a hand, clawing at Bernal’s armor. “Her Majesty fell—” He collapsed in on himself, sobbing.
Bernal stiffened. Yevaine was here? He grabbed the man and shook him. “What do you mean, fell?”
The man pointed at the cliff’s edge and the rope ladder leading down. Bernal looked at Malak and snapped, “I need your fastest with me.”
The firstmark gestured. Sparrow and another scout came up, waiting for their orders.
Bernal said, “We’re going down that rope ladder to the first step to see what’s going on.”
Malak began, “You should stay—”
“Don’t,” warned Bernal, staring at the firstmark until the man dropped his eyes. Then he gestured to the two scouts. “Come on.”
