The Fall of Ventaris

by Neil McGarry

  Nor did she. As they pressed on, those niches in the wall became more frequent, and not all of them were empty. She saw a skull here, a ribcage there, and once even an entire skeleton. Those bones had seen the passing of centuries from their stone shelves, and like the keepers, they held their secrets close. She shivered. Castor, seeming to share her unease, picked up the pace, and she followed eagerly.

  When she heard the first whispering echoes, part of her thought her fear had finally gotten to her, but when Castor stopped, one hand raised, she knew they were something real. The sound bounced back and forth, from gray wall to gray wall and back again. Voices, she realized. Human voices. She met Castor’s gaze and nodded. This was why they had come. He prowled forward, hand near his blade and she followed with the torch.

  The tunnel grew wider and the ceiling higher, and she thought she saw a light ahead. She moved to extinguish the torch, but Castor stopped her with a shake of the head. After a moment she understood his concern. There was no way to tell who was ahead, but it would not do to meet them blind and stumbling in the dark. Best to keep the light until they knew more about what awaited. As they moved on, silent as they could, the sounds became clearer, resolving into two distinct voices.

  “...a coward, then? After all this...”

  “...even try that...fool enough...”

  “...any complaints. Why the change of...”

  “...from you either...hardly a one-sided deal.”

  The light became brighter, and she sensed the source was right around a bend. A man and a woman, arguing.

  “I’ll have no part of it. I’m done,” said the gruff male voice. “We’ve disturbed the dead enough.”

  “Suddenly afraid of old bones?” the woman answered, disdain dripping from her voice. Duchess decided to risk creeping nearer. She handed the torch to Castor and motioned for him to wait, then sneaked along until she could peer around the corner.

  The chamber beyond was broad and high-ceilinged, perhaps forty feet on a side and nearly half that high. Slender columns ran from floor to ceiling and marched from one end of the room to another. In the walls were more shallow alcoves, filled with the shapes of bones. The speakers stood in the center of the room, arguing by the light of a lantern. She recognized Darley from the other night, clad in the same dark cloak and dress, but the man was unfamiliar. He was tall, broad and nut-brown, with tightly curled black hair, and she recognized Ulari features. This could only be Finn, Darley’s rumored paramour. He was holding a satchel of tools — shovel, pick and spade.

  “Not bones, as you know well enough. There’s worse to fear, above and below the hill,” he said, his Rodaasi perfect and unaccented. Raised in the city, then.

  Darley snorted. “You’ve had no problems before, no complaints on the rewards.” Her tone turned suspicious. “Why stop now?” Although she was a full foot shorter than the man, she faced him without fear. He in turn seemed to catch the change in her voice, because he smiled and said nothing. That seemed to catch her off guard. She drew in closer to him, poking a finger into his chest. “What’ve you done?”

  He shifted his bag to his other hand, and with his right he took hold of her finger. He drew it to his mouth for a kiss and she snatched it away in anger. He laughed. “You’re not the only game in town, my love.”

  “You’re a liar,” she snapped, but Duchess could sense the uncertainty in her voice. “A coward and a liar.”

  “I’m neither and you know it,” he replied, placating. “But we’re done...”

  She cut him off, frustrated. “We’ve hardly started! We’ve the whole Ossuary to search! You’d no such complaints when we found the dagger!”

  Duchess held her breath.

  “No complaints from you either,” he replied. “No complaints when I sold it off. No complaints on all the gold, your lovely new clothes and jewelry that daddy never got you.” His hand was near her cheek for a stroke, both tender and mocking but she slapped it away.

  She was pacing now, gesturing as she went, the lantern throwing shadows in her wake. “So it’s worked before. It’ll work again. One more trip...”

  He cut her off then, touching her shoulder, stopping her in her tracks against the far wall. Duchess risked sneaking a little closer.

  “And one more trip and one more trip, and one more trip,” he muttered into her hair. “I’ve had enough.”

  “Or you have enough,” she muttered, pulling her head away, the suspicion clear on her face. “The other game. You bastard. What’ve you done?”

  Now it was his turn to smile. “What could I have done? Finn’s just a dumb old pack mule, right? That’s what you got him for?” He ran a hand over her neck.

  She fairly screeched then and let the lantern slip from her hand. It clattered and rolled across the floor, still burning. It threw the two figures into sharp relief against the stone — Darley with her back turned now, slamming her fist against the wall.

  “Bastard!” she screamed. “What did you do? What have you done?” Every word was another slam against the stone. Duchess saw the red in her fist as she drew it away from the wall.

  And then Finn was pressing against her, grabbing at her arms. She struggled in his grip, her hurt hand straight out, away from him and into the alcove behind her. His voice was softer now, and Duchess crawled the smallest bit further in to make it out. “Stop, just stop.” An apologetic tone crept into his voice and Duchess watched the expression on Darley’s face. The one she knew Finn couldn’t see. “I...found a way to make money off the damned thing again. I’ve got enough now. Enough for both of us. We don’t need to do this any more...”

  She’d heard enough. She could see well enough where the rest of this was going. She was slipping back towards the corridor where Castor was waiting when the noise stopped her.

  She knew instinctively she’d heard it before, but she could not for the life of her remember where. It had stopped the two lovers in their tracks as well. Finn looked, confused, behind him. Darley was on her knees, scrambling for the lantern. It was then Duchess saw the trail of red the girl had left behind — the blood on the wall where she’d hit it, the floor where it had dripped.

  The clattering sounded again, and she saw Finn jump back, eyes wide and white in his dark face. Then there was another clatter, from a neighboring niche, and then another. And another. Darley spun in a circle, holding her lantern high, its light shining upon a face pale and tight with terror. “What is it?” she said in a tremulous voice. “Who’s there?” Duchess’ heart leaped, and Finn turned this way and that, as if to keep all of the stone hollows in view. The chattering doubled, then trebled, until the chamber sounded like marbles shaken in a stone cup. The noise was everywhere in the dark, and she was certain it could be heard even in the city far above. It was the sound madness might make. “Mayu save us,” Duchess whispered through numb lips.

  As if in answer, footsteps sounded behind: Castor, with the torch. He handed her the light and drew his sword, but there was no foe to fight. Darley and Finn, crowded together, did not notice his arrival. Darley pealed forth shriek after shriek, and Finn’s mouth opened and closed, as if he could not get enough air. Steeled by Castor’s steady presence, Duchess stepped into view and lifted the torch. “Here!” she called. Both of them whirled at the sound of her voice cutting through that terrible noise. “Don’t just stand there! Run! This way!”

  There was an agonizing moment during which hope and fear warred openly on Darley’s face. Hope won and she ran forward, Finn following, but before she closed the distance a skeleton tumbled out of its niche and crashed to the floor at her feet, blocking the way. She screeched and leapt backward only to stumble over another that fell out near Finn. The chattering sounded again, and four more skeletons fell from their places, clattering one by one out on to the stone.

  Finn glanced at Duchess, but at that moment the skeleton at his feet moved, seizing his ankle with a bony hand. It made a dry clacking sound as it closed, and now Finn’s screams joi
ned Darley’s. All around there was movement as bone stirred and stood on fleshless feet. Duchess stood rooted to the spot, her blood turned to ice. Finn lurched backwards, dropping his satchel of tools and kicking wildly to free himself. The skeletal arm snapped off at the elbow, but the hand remained attached, clinging to his ankle with lifeless strength. Grasping the forearm with both hands, Finn yanked hard until the hand came away with the sounds of tearing cloth. There was blood on the tattered rags, Duchess saw, the bony fingers raking Finn’s flesh even as they were pulled away. Finn flung the arm with a wail of despair, turned, and ran across the room into the darkness. Darley screamed his name and ran after him, and by the light of their lantern Duchess saw the pair flee through an arch on the opposite wall and disappear.

  Duchess made no move to pursue, her eyes locked on the one-armed skeleton as it climbed shakily to its feet. The bones boasted no sinew, tendons or muscle, and yet somehow they moved. The sockets in its skull were dry and empty, and yet somehow they saw. The thing drew closer, but she made no move to run or evade, frozen in the grip of fear. The dagger she had used to drive off Shallows thieves, and all of Castor’s training, were forgotten in an extremity of terror she had never thought possible. It could not be, her numbed mind insisted, it could not. The creature reached out with its remaining arm, and she saw with swooning horror that its bony fingers were sharp as stilettos. It reached for her eyes...

  ...and then lost the arm in a whirl of motion and a flash of steel. Castor’s sword parted limb from body with one slash, and with another sent the armless skeleton reeling back. A third strike sent the skull flying from atop the naked spine, and then Castor was gone, moving to confront another foe. Her thoughts were still slow, but any doubts she might have had regarding the fighting prowess of the White were forgotten. She watched mutely as two more of the figures moved to flank him, swiping with sharp, bony fingers. Castor jerked back to avoid one blow that would have made a shredded ruin of his face, then stepped fluidly away from another that would have slashed his arm. He kicked out, hitting one skeleton in the center of its fleshless pelvis and sending it flying, then turned to face its companion. His sword flashed and the creature fell to the floor, missing both arms and one leg.

  Pain blazed suddenly along Duchess’ ribs, snapping her out of her trance. She whirled to see a skeleton upon her, one hand dripping with her blood. She fell to her knees, crying out. And then her dagger was in her hand and her feet back beneath her.

  Acting purely on instinct she slashed, scoring a hit across the creature’s throat. The blow would have left a living man choking on his own blood, but this thing had no veins to sever. Her blade grated uselessly against bone, and she only barely avoided the counterstrike that would have scraped off half her face. She skittered back, desperate, wondering how in Mayu’s name she could kill something that was already dead. Then she remembered what Castor had said about the torch, and she poked out with the fiery brand, praying to whatever gods were listening that even the undead feared fire.

  The gods heard, and the skeleton staggered backwards, away from the flames. Encouraged, she swung the torch in a wide arc, driving the thing back with a scrape of bony feet against stone. Again she swung and again the thing gave ground. It tried to skitter around to her left but she kept the fire between them. Her reach with the torch was longer, but the thing was quick, and if it got too close...

  This dance seemed to go on forever, and Duchess’ world became the flutter of flames, the click of bones, and the play of shadows and light across the inscrutable face of the deathless thing. The clashing of steel against bone from the battle behind her seemed far away. With no better idea she pressed forward, reasoning that if the creature were backed against the wall it would lose some of its mobility. She poked out here and thrust there, and the skeleton retreated, step by lifeless step. Once she moved too quickly and nearly got a slash across the face for her trouble, but finally she had the thing pinned against the stone. When it slid right, she moved the torch to intercept, and when it danced to the left she blocked it there as well.

  She was just wondering if she could burn bones when she heard Castor behind her. “Duck,” he said calmly, as if commenting on the weather. Without hesitation she crouched, and Castor’s blade whistled cleanly through the space she had vacated. One swing severed the creature’s skull; the second shattered its ribcage and severed its spine. The skeleton fell to the floor in three pieces, and Duchess saw that its hands still clutched and grasped blindly. She backed away hurriedly before they could grab her.

  By the light of her torch she saw that the corridor was now littered with shattered bones: a cracked skull here, a ruined ribcage there, and more severed limbs than she could count. Several of them still turned and clutched at the air, and she shuddered and looked away. Castor had not been idle, and she realized that if she had been alone down here, the undead things would have swarmed around and torn her quickly to pieces. She didn’t know what had happened to Darley and Finn and in that moment she didn’t care.

  “You’re bleeding,” he said, and she was suddenly aware of the pain in her side where the creature had mauled her. The shirt under her jerkin was warm and wet, but there was no time to tend the wound, not in this place of horror.

  “Let’s get out of here before more come,” she gasped, trying to slide her dagger back into its sheath. She missed, and the blade clattered to the floor. She bent to retrieve it and the world spun around her. The torch slipped from her other hand and the floor rushed up to meet her. She was dimly aware of Castor pulling at her clothing, trying to open her jerkin, and she remembered faintly that she had seen him naked, long ago, so perhaps it was only fair he do the same. That should have been funny but it wasn’t. Lysander would have come up with something better, she thought hazily, and she clung to the thought of him and rode it back to the stone chamber where Castor crouched over her, concern clear on his features.

  She clutched at him as if to keep herself from slipping away once more. “Lysander,” she gasped. “In the Shallows.” She could feel wetness against her skin but the pain was fading along with everything else. “Near the Vermillion...Lysander...he knows...”

  And then the darkness swallowed her, the bones, the tunnel, and all the world. And oh, she was so glad of it.

  Chapter Fifteen: Practical matters

  The first thing she thought was that Lysander was taking far too long with the mask. How long had she been lying beside the fire, waiting for the clay to dry? And even with the heat from the hearth she was far too cold for a summer day. There were voices, too, murmuring back and forth through a haze. Darley and Finn, she thought blearily, but no, both were male. The thought of Darley brought everything back: the tunnels, the bones, the screams, and the fleshless foes beneath the city. She bolted upright, feeling pain at the sudden motion, clawing for her dagger, but found only nakedness under the blanket from Lysander’s bed.

  Lysander was there, brow furrowed. “Stay still,” he said, his hands easing her back to the bed. More pain. “I patched up that wound of yours, but let’s not reopen it.” She felt along her side where the skeleton had slashed her and found tightly wrapped cloth. She was in the garret, in the Shallows, and Lysander had taken care of her, she thought, shaky with relief. As always.

  “It was a nasty wound,” came another voice from across the room, and she looked to see Castor standing near the window, which shone with morning light. “But it’s been patched up well enough.”

  “It’s not exactly the first time I’ve handled a bandage,” Lysander replied shortly, giving the former White a long look. “We can get Midwife Marna to check for infection later. But what I’d still like to know,” he went on in a tone sharp with suspicion, “is just how you came by this nasty wound. I tried getting it out of this one, but he said I should ask you.” Castor did not reply, but his eyes flicked to hers, and she read the question clearly enough.

  She tried to smile. “You’re right, of course. You two haven’t been
introduced. Lysander, this is Castor, who is new to my service.” Lysander’s look went from suspicion to surprise as he realized just who Castor was. “Do you have wine? I can’t tell this story sober.” Part of her lectured that she’d caused Lysander enough trouble, but she knew that the days of keeping secrets from him were over.

  Lysander rummaged around for a bottle. “Stephan bribed me with this a few nights ago, when he wanted me to—” he broke off, glancing uneasily at Castor. He poured them each a cup and then, after a moment, one for Castor. The soldier took it without a word and sipped.

  After half a cup she felt strong enough to recount the trek through the tunnels, and Darley and Finn, and the living dead and their attack. After the other half, her hands no longer trembled as she spoke. She was glad Castor was there for the telling, for otherwise she would have sounded like a madwoman. Every detail of that dreadful encounter was impressed luridly on her memory: the sound of the bones scraping across stone, the eyeless gaze of a skull, the fiery slash of a bony claw tearing at her flesh. In the light of day she still felt dazed, uncertain that such things had actually occurred. The city was full of stories about magic and monsters, but no one believed them as anything more than tales to tell around a fire.

  Now she knew better.

  When she was finished, Castor was as stone-faced as ever, but Lysander was pale and pensive. “What am I supposed to say to that?” he said at last. “I can just see me at Lady Vorloi’s next party. ‘Did you know the city’s built on a pile of the living dead? Pass the wine.’”

  “No,” Castor said, surprising them both. “At least it wasn’t before.”

  Duchess struggled against wine and pain, remembering Tyford’s tale of the Whites guarding the imperial prisons. “Of course you would know. You’d been there before.”

  Castor hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. “The empress and the council have been digging there for years, off and on, and so I got down there myself a few times. The area’s normally off-limits, by imperial decree.”