He looked away in disgust at himself. By all rights she shouldn't even be involved; this was the prince's problem and, apparently, the witch's and the assassins. Aldrin cared what happened to the priest about as much as the priest seemed to. But Ciara was a flower caught in his eddy. Gods he really did need to stop reading Mitrione's poetry, it was rotting his soul.
She sat down beside him, leaning her back against the unforgiving wall, "We've faced down assassins, witches, soldiers, priests, undead," she smiled before adding, "more undead, and we've pulled through each time. A little tomb isn't going to stop us."
"Why? After everything, all the misery I've brought to you, why are you still with me?" Aldrin tried to hide a small quibble in his voice that masked his fear that at any moment she could vanish.
Ciara folded her hands up and placed them against her lips, she bounced them back and forth a moment before answering honestly, "It beats serving tea to mercenaries deathly afraid of soap."
The prince smiled at that, not really surprised at her non-answer. But then, maybe she didn't even know herself. Was anyone ever truly certain of their actions until hindsight could set in? He looked down at his useless hands and said, "I'm glad I'm better than tea."
"Hey, Mister Stabby?" the voice resounded through the black crypt
Taban sighed, already exhausted with the priest's nickname for him, "Yes, what is it Kitten?"
"What's the elvish word for 'Tomb?'"
"Feddrod," Taban said, wishing he'd never let on he could speak the cursed language.
"So," Kitten continued from deep in the black depths, "in theory we're looking for a door marked 'Cas's Feddrod?'"
"Your brilliance astounds me," Taban muttered, "Why do you inquire?"
"Because I found a door marked 'Cas's Feddrod.'"
The sign that Kynton proudly pointed out a few more times in case they somehow missed his brilliant find encircled above a stone opening blacker than the Raven Lady's underthings.
"There is a foul wind," Isa said, shivering against the foreign magic. Her little rock refused to cast its blue glow against the tomb's entrance.
"It wasn't me," the priest grumbled, placing his hands over his backside.
"What more mephitic beasts await us in this slide down the underlord's throat?" Taban muttered, as the tendrils of the intangible dug into his skin and found all the terror nerves.
"Did I miss a meeting or have you all decided to speak as if we're in an epic poem separately?" Kynton asked, pulling the skull off his shoulder and placing it gently upon an end table that graced the tomb's entrance. The skull could spend the next few centuries reading about the lovely opportunities for a dead couple hoping to expand their crypt in the few pamphlets that refused to crumble.
Aldrin raised his lantern, the light parting the thick darkness as if it were an inconvenient sea. It landed upon a small plaque a few feet deeper in. Without looking at the others, the prince followed, his eyes scanning across a language he couldn't read.
"What's it say?" Kynton asked, trying to shuffle his foot away from the inky threshold.
"I have no idea," Aldrin answered truthfully. The plaque was large with a strange drawing of a watercolor world where a woman stuck a large pike into the belly of what seemed to be a land whale, or possibly a giant toad. He swung his lantern about, trying to get a sense for what he was looking at, "There's another one!" he called out rushing deeper in, taking the light with him.
"We should follow," Ciara said. The others shifted and shrugged, none wanting to step foot into the open jaws of the beast. "He has the only light source," she said before placing one shiny boot deep into the night. It vanished from her vision, but the shadows didn't nibble it off or turn it into a chicken. Without looking for compliance from the others she pushed on, chasing after the prince on a discovery high.
She bumped into Aldrin's shoulder as he crouched over the fourth plaque along the path. This had a painting of a watercolor rock, cracked in half to show some bits of grain inside. "I think I am getting the hang of this language. I believe 'coprolite' refers to a kind of candy."
Ciara peered at the brown lump rock and the gibberish etched across it, not wanting to break Aldrin's heart with her own thoughts. "What are these?" she settled her hand against the stone plaque propped up upon a deep indentation in the wall.
"A shrine, perhaps?" A few coins glinted in a small cup placed beneath each plaque.
"Stop stepping on my heels!" Kitten's voice rang out across the hushed silence of the walkway, "I should give you such a spanking, you she devil."
"It was I," the rich honey of the assassin's voice answered back as if he were daring the priest to try.
"Oh, right, hey look, here's our little kingy!" he walked into Aldrin's light, his face puckered as if he were forcing himself to take a rather pungent medicine.
"You were unable to lose them, I see," the kingy said pointedly to Ciara.
"Worse than stray cats," she answered back as the dwarven light illuminated the black face of Taban and the shocked white of Isa.
Aldrin rose and shifted the lantern so it could put out as much light as possible. Through the scopious blackness, the best this did was cast a small halo around their company as they pressed together, still watching the shadows for something alive...or dead. Moving as a living doughnut, the group pressed deeper onward, forcing Aldrin to bypass the rest of the plaques he couldn't read, though they couldn't stop him from running over to a strange straw man decked out in ancient armor and posed to be fighting what looked like an oversized lizard reared up on its hind legs. "Look how tiny its front legs are," Kynton pointed out as Taban pulled the boy on, "How could it scratch itself with those?"
The plaques and dioramas gave way to a third and final doorway. This was one person wide; the better to crowd control, my dear. And there could be no doubt by the imposing set of weaponry laid against the doorframe that this led to something impressive. They paused as one, each eye trying to pierce the darkness.
"We could draw straws," Kynton said, his breath turning to smoke in the creeping chill of the underworld.
"Or we could throw you in and see what happens," Isa said, her eyes nearly glowing from the blue invading her iris.
The boy king looked up over at Ciara. Everything his plans rested on, every throw of this winter long die came down to what was inside this final room. His lower lip trembled, though he was uncertain if it was fear or hypothermia.
She tried to judge the terror crawling across Aldrin's face, not quite at "there's an assassin chasing me in the woods" levels yet, but there were certainly hints of "I have to give a speech in front of my sworn enemy while wearing no trousers." Closing her eyes, she took a daring step forward deep into the shrouded room and crushed a wire.
"What the..." she tried to pull her foot back, but that unleashed the tension and a series of rolls, thuds, twanks, thwacks, and kajiggers rolled about the room as something moved in the darkness. Ciara got her dagger out just as a spark flashed in the darkness and tumbled to the ground, erupting the entire room in flames. She jumped back into Aldrin, but lowered her hand as the rim of the room lit up by a small canal of aflame oil. Her eyes pulled away from the licking fire to the splendor of Cas's tomb before her.
Chests stacked higher than Taban, overflowed with the glint of the same coins left in the cups. Weapons of all kinds littered the floor; bows turned from ancient and extinct trees, shields embedded with jewels from lands that fell into the sea, maces with diamonds worked into the edges, pikes that hadn't been twirled a day in their life. A pair of rubies the size of chipmunks glinted out of a hand carved statue of a dragon's head roaring from above their heads.
And laying beneath it on an ivory altar was a skeleton dressed in an armor finer than any a king could know. The breastplate was inlaid with gold circling about the steady arm of a warrior's form as it raised its sword high to meet the ebony body of a Dragon, rubies spilling out in response. A tale of defeating a band of marauding Elves c
ircled down the greaves in a leaf pattern. By the time they got to the shoes, the smiths were running out of ideas and had their warrior pissing against a tree.
"Scepti's left nut!" Kynton muttered, before pinching himself for cursing, "Look at all this!"
Ciara's fingers trailed a few centimeters above the bones of the greatest hero their history bards ever knew, trying to place what bothered her. It was all here; the mounds of treasure, the altar, the bones. And most importantly the sword.
Aldrin stood beside her, setting his lantern down on the floor as his eyes wandered to a behemoth of a blade. It could cut down ten men with a single swing and glinted an icy silver in the orange firelight. More of the diamonds and rubies were embedded in the handle as another dragon scene played out across the sword that ended in the curled word of "Liam."
He held his hand above the pommel, glancing over at Ciara. Instinctively, she inched back, her eyes flitting about the room. The others held their breaths, waiting for a giant boulder, or jets of flame, or really big rats with blades for hands to come out and gnaw their ankles. A trap worthy of such a tomb.
Swallowing every survival instinct screaming at him, Aldrin cupped his hand around the monstrous blade's handle and, like ripping off a bandage, yanked her from the body of its owner. He paused, counting his breath, waiting.
Slowly one eye opened, then the other. "What, nothing?" He tried to swing the blade a bit to see if that would get the trap started, maybe it needed a little push. But all it did was wave the fetid air into Kynton's nose which sneezed and sent a chest of gold crashing in on itself, causing everyone to jump.
"May your brain be eaten by slugs," Isa cursed at the priest while slowly lowering her arms. She was twitchy from the magic buildup and could have blown the place sky high if she weren't careful.
Aldrin tried to wave the sword around a bit more, but the immense weight turned his wrist and the blade fell to the ground, sticking in the cobbles. Ciara put her hand against their warrior's breastplate, tracing along the design and trying to piece together the nagging feeling in her head.
"Something's not right."
"Yes, your king has gotten his sword caught in his trousers," Taban said as Aldrin tried to unhook a rather friendly diamond that snagged.
"No, this isn't right." She listened to Medwin's tales not of Casamir but of Cas, the woman inside the man. A woman who placed practicality above all the other virtues of the gods. A woman who wouldn't be caught dead under the trappings of useless and overweighted austerity. A woman...
Her fingers followed along the straight lines of the warrior on the breastplate, a plate that was in actuality never designed to hold breasts. "This isn't Cas's tomb," she said to herself and turned to tell the others.
And an arrow answered back, slicing over the top of Isa's head and straight into the dragon's mouth. Ciara ducked back, her fingers fumbling for her dagger and she fell back against the wall. Aldrin struggled against the oversized sword, managing to raise it, only to have it fall back down.
"What the fuck was that?" Kynton cursed, grabbing up Aldrin's lantern and trying to shine it into the blackness behind them. A second arrow glanced off the dwarven marvel and sent it skittering across the floor.
Taban yanked the priest down, "We're lit up like a Soulday tree, you moron," and tried to slide to the side of the narrow tomb shielded from the darkness that got itself some archery lessons.
Isa's hands rose, a mass of that off flavor magic sparking in her hand. Aldrin tried to crawl across the floor to Ciara, cut off from the rest hiding along the eastern edge, but another arrow stopped him.
"We come in the name of the Empire!" a thick voice garbled out of the darkness. "Lay down your arms and no one need be harmed!"
"Sod that," Isa said, aiming her crystal as the magic reached peak boiling point. Just as she was about to fry whomever was advancing, the magic kicked back against the conduit shattering her stone. She dropped to her knees like someone whacked her in the back and the blue spirals drained away as her eyes slipped shut. Her head thudded against the floor. The witch was out.
Taban lifted one of the bows laying upon the floor and fired the Empire's arrow back at them, but it skidded against a wall. "I can't see a thing, and all they can see is us." He aimed again but another arrow zipped dangerously close to his hand and he ducked beside the priest.
"I repeat again, lay down your arms and none shall be harmed. If you do not, no one will leave this tomb alive," the soldier threatened.
"Do they plan to kill themselves as well?" Kynton asked, using the worst opportunity to point out an enemy's logical fallacy.
Aldrin looked over at the crumpled witch, the cowed assassin, the always useless priest, and then to the girl crouching in the corner. He stood slowly and, with a very evident and highlighted form, laid down the sword of Cas. The soldiers burst into the narrow tomb like ants, their black armor barely shining in the firelight. A pair snatched up Isa, dragging the witch back to their den. One poked Kynton in the ribs and he giggled out of terror before the poke turned to a jab and he rose, his hands being bound behind his back.
Taban bared his teeth at the men, only ten in all, but in this narrow of constraints without the darkness and having to watch over the child, he did not stand a chance. He dropped his sword to the ground and raised his hands up. The lead soldier turned to what must be his commander and muttered something in Avarian. All Taban caught was "filthy sand worm," which made his lips rise to a deadly grin. But the soldier wrapped his armored fist around the assassin's wrist and tried to turn his hand back. Taban fought against it, offering only resistance before the commander kneed him in stomach. The assassin groaned and his hand snapped back, bound to the other.
Finally, the lead soldier walked over to Aldrin, his eyes searching over the boy, but he didn't seem to find what he wanted in the Ostero face. Instead, he followed to the sword hanging limply across his feet. With a single hand, he raised Liam up and ran a finger down the still sharp blade. Aldrin gulped hard, his mind playing out the gory scene of the commander raising his seasoned arm back and lobbing the boy prince's head right off his shoulders.
Instead, he passed the sword back to his comrades and gathered up Aldrin's scruff in his hand, shoving the boy after his protectors. The man gazed up at the dragon and mumbled something before following after his fellows. Two soldiers remained behind, laying down kindling doused in oil, brought for a specific purpose. As they scattered behind their leader into the darkness, the man pulled a match against his thumb and tossed it into the tomb. It flared up like the caravans, the flames finally casting light into the blackened walkway.
Aldrin was shoved forward by his captor, his eyes trailing over the lolling head of the witch, the babbling face of the priest, and the disturbingly serene assassin. Oh gods, where's Ciara?! he thought before the leaders pushed him away from the inferno of their beloved hero.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Only the shuffling pierced the darkness. It sounded like a child shaking his present early, his present of a box of rats with some bags thrown in for bedding. Ciara put her hand to her head trying to piece together the last few minutes of her life. Something wet clung to her palm. Blood? But she didn't feel any pain, only a disconcerting numbing around her face and her nose wouldn't stop itching.
A match struck, an insignificant flame in the room, but a pinpoint of light to pull her eyes. And also a very large "you're not alone."
"What do you want?" she called to the gloved hand holding onto the glowing match. It danced a bit before landing upon a candle, which illuminated a desk beneath it.
Ciara remembered the tomb, the body laid out upon the altar and then an arrow. She'd ducked to the side, dropping down into a crouch. The witch did something with her hands and then the world melted away.
No, before there was a set of hands, small ones that hooked around her face and held a rag against it. "It was you!" she accused the keeper of the flame. "You kidnapped me."
The f
lame jiggled as the sound of juggling gravel broke from her newest assailant, "Kid nap? You are no goat, nor are you napping."
"It's a figure of speech," she said waving her hand about as a wave of nausea pulled at her stomach.
The figure lit another match and shuffled to his side, giving life to a second candle balanced on a pile of books nearly as tall as it was. But he still kept his face in the shadows. He didn't seem to need the light to see where he was going.
"I did not nap your child," the voice was like forgotten parchment paper, torn from the back of a book. Dust clung to each word, "I rescued you."
"From..." she started to interrogate before the swell of nausea rounded upon her tongue.
"You will feel the unpleasant urge to regurgitate, it will pass," the voice said before sharply turning to his shoulder and speaking in an exasperated tone. "Yes, it was the preferred course of action. Knocking heads does not solve all problems."
Ciara looked towards where the darker shadow did, but saw nothing more than another desk or table, this one much larger than the others. Switching to her "talking to someone who shoves spoons up his nose" voice she asked, "Who are you?"
The figure sighed, a very human reaction. And then she wondered why she thought that, of course he was human. It lit a final match and turned its back to Ciara, rummaging with a lantern. He was dressed in some strange robe that wrapped all around the body like a sheet with frills on the edges. A belt made out of a leather that shimmered green in the dancing light graced his underdeveloped midsection.
Slowly the man stood to his full not even four-foot height. Wisps of hair so white they appeared nearly transparent dangled limply off a disturbingly oversized oblong head. In the orange light of the matches, his balding head looked almost green grey, that mossy color graves took on after you could no longer read the epitaph. A gloved hand raised the lantern up and slowly he turned to face her.
Ciara's dagger slipped into her hand before she realized it, and she waved it at the monster rising before her. For the most part the monster took it in stride, blinking his giant black eyes slowly and tapping his far too long fingers against the lantern. How could he find gloves that fit?
The King's Blood Page 50
