Crossing the ruined section of collapsed wall had brought Phin, Claudja, and the legionnaires into a district of Vod’Adia very different than those which they had seen thus far.
When they had first entered the city the gnome hawking maps before the front gate had said something about the “noble district,” and Phin thought this must surely be it. Instead of long streets lined with the unbroken facades of row-houses, shops, and other small structures, here the buildings all had the character of grand manor houses, with peaked roofs and cupola towers, long stone porches with columns, and a few scattered outbuildings on individual plots of land. Each was surrounded by their own stone walls at least a story in height. The compounds did not form blocks but were all disconnected, nor did their arrangement seem at all geometric. Instead of defined streets, only irregular cobblestones paths wound among the estates. They occasionally formed squares or plazas around broken statuary and defunct fountains, with sections of bare dirt that had once surely held grass, flowers, or trees, though there was no trace of any plant life remaining.
Without the necessity of keeping to long streets the group should have been able to wind their way due south, but navigating the noble district proved difficult. As evening drew near the sun was often behind the great houses, and though the group managed to keep it on their right-hand side the irregular layout of the walled compounds kept them zigzagging and wandering. They did not seem to have made it very far into the district before the gray daylight began to fail, and the legionnaires started to look for a place to bed down for the night. They found a small, windowless building that had been some sort of smokehouse in one bare-dirt compound. The adjacent manor house was a formidable-looking structure with its doors and shutters intact, meaning that it had likely never been searched nor looted at a previous Opening. The legionnaires were not about to try it. They slept soundly or seemed to, as did the Duchess Claudja, while Phin stayed awake for several long hours bent over the book and a candle throwing cantrip light. He finished reading the tome through once, then lay awake for another hour in the darkness.
There was no repeat of the unearthly roaring that had shaken the whole city on the previous night, and everyone slept through and woke up hungry. They swallowed the last of their poor-quality food cold, and drained all but one water skin. That would hardly be enough to get them to midday, as walking the dry and dusty city was thirsty work. No one said anything about it.
They had wedged the smokehouse door shut with a dagger, and after removing the blade and letting the door swing open the Sarge crouched back and hissed. Over his shoulder Phin could see what seemed to be a strange rippling in the air, shadows washing over the manor house and its walled yard. The group edged outside and stared at the strangest sky any of them had ever seen, for high above the city streets the dome of mist seemed to run and shimmer in waves, covering Vod’Adia in dancing shadows.
“It is raining outside,” Claudja said, and indeed that must have been the case. The party stood as though they were beneath an inverted bowl of opaque glass, with someone trickling a bucket of water out over the top of it. Or else many people were crying their eyes out.
“Gods, I hate this place,” Ty mumbled, loud in the silent yard for there was no sound at all from the rain high above.
The group moved out of the compound through the open gate and continued to head as due south as they could manage. The Sarge and Ty led the way, while Rickard now trailed Phin and Claudja at the end of the line, keeping an eye on both of them. The group went on under the rippling gray sky through the swimming black world for an hour before reaching the open circle of another plaza, though this one was grander than the others they had passed through. There was no central dais nor shattered statuary, but the plaza was surrounded save at what seemed to be the cardinal points by four matching buildings, each of half a semi-circle and two stories tall. The ground floors facing the plaza all built wide open, like stalls for merchants. The surface of the street changed from dark cobbles to square blocks of several paces across, made of gray stone that seemed much lighter in color than it actually was after the days of unremitting blackness. There was no sign of life in the plaza nor in the buildings around it, and no movement apart from the rain shadows sheeting across its surface. The group started across for the southern exit, the three legionnaires with their swords at the ready.
Halfway across Ty called out, “Hey!” and loped forward. For a moment Phin saw a glint of gold, a coin on the ground, but when the legionnaire drew near it one great block beneath his feet fell away with a sharp scrape of stone on stone.
Ty dropped out of sight with a yelp, and before the Sarge could even shout his name the stone snapped back up and crashed into place with a boom and a shudder Phin felt through his feet. Rickard ran past him and joined the Sarge at the edge of the stone block that had pivoted open and shut. The gold coin was still a spot of color in the middle of the block, like it was fastened there.
“Ty!” the Sarge yelled at the ground, working the fingers of his good hand along the bottom of the stone. Rickard stepped onto the block beside the one that had swung down, and Phin held his tongue. The second block stayed where it was.
“Sarge?” Ty’s voice came from the ground, muffled and weak.
“Ty!” the Sarge yelled again, lowering his mouth to the crack. “Where are you, boy? How far did you fall?”
“Sarge, I think my leg’s broke. It’s dark. I can’t see.”
Rickard knelt and pushed on the trap stone, which scraped and moved about an inch toward open. Ty’s voice was a little louder, and he cried out in pain.
“Ty, hang on,” the Sarge shouted. “Don’t try to move, we are coming!”
Rickard leaned more weight on his arm and pushed the stone open a bit more, though it was going to take more force than that to pry it open all the way.
Claudja jerked Phin’s sleeve, and when he turned to her she was looking up at him with her gray eyes steely.
“Phinneas. If you have a plan, might not this be the time for it?” she whispered.
Phin looked at the legionnaires. Rickard had set his sword down on the ground and the two of them were sliding on their knees along the edge of the trap stone, though that was only making it harder to push it open. Phin took Claudja’s arm and the two of them started to back away slowly.
Ty had not said anything since he had cried out, and the Sarge started hammering a fist on the block.
“Ty! Are you still with me boy?”
“Sarge?”
Phin stopped and gasped, a cold shiver running down his spine.
“I hear you, Ty! Keep talking.”
Claudja pulled at Phin’s arm but he only kept staring at the legionnaires and the trap stone. In his mind he was back in a seminar at Abverwar, years before. An old Circle Wizard was lecturing on necromancy. Explaining why death magic was not taught in the Circle.
“Sarge,” Ty’s voice called plaintively. “I’m hurt bad. There’s so much blood.”
“We are coming!” the Sarge said, now holding Rickard by the back of the belt while the sandy-haired legionnaire put a foot on the bottom end of the trap stone and started to push it open.
“Sergeant!” Phin shouted.
The old Wizard had cast a spell as part of his talk. The corpse of a dead dog had barked at the class.
“What?”
“That is not Ty.”
The Sarge and Rickard glared back at Phin. Claudja had taken a step away from him, but she froze as well.
“Sarge?” the voice that was and was not Ty called again, though a different note was creeping into it. Impatience. “Come on, Sarge. I’m waiting.”
The voice started to laugh. The Sarge and Rickard sprang away from the trap stone, and the glint of gold from the bait coin. The laughter changed until it did not sound like the dead legionnaire anymore. It sounded like a woman. Cackling.
The Sarge, sunken eyes wide in his ashy face, turned toward Phin and he shouted. Phin blinked and looked around, and saw th
at the Duchess of Chengdea had not waited for him. She was running, and was already halfway back to the north exit from the plaza.
The sergeant charged, and Phin turned and ran after Claudja. Rickard must have reached for the sword he had set down next to the trap stone, for the sharp scraping sound came again. Rickard screamed.
Phin looked back and saw the Sarge skid to a halt and turn around. The stone had been yanked open from below and a hand had reached out to grab Rickard by the wrist. It was pale and thin, like a woman’s, and the long nails were painted crimson red.
Rickard was falling forward into the hole as Phin turned and ran full-out after Claudja. The Duchess left the plaza and took the first corner, then she screamed.
Phin licked a finger as he ran and slipped it into the pouch of sand at his belt, bringing to mind the arcane words to release a Sleep spell. He rounded the corner with his hand in front of his face, hoping the few grains of sand on his finger were enough to constitute the material components for the spell, but his breath caught in his throat before he could exhale at the thing holding Claudja.
It was a figure in white robes though its hood was thrown back to reveal a scaly, crimson head with horns, a bristling beard of wiry hair, and green eyes without pupils. It had lifted the struggling Duchess off her feet by the shoulders, and there were another half dozen creatures just like it, grinning at Phin.
Phin started to speak his spell, though there wasn’t much point. He did not get halfway through the sentence before one of the things bounded forward, grabbed his hand in a cold grip strong as iron, and jammed two fingers into Phin’s mouth so hard he started to gag. He was jerked off his feet by one wrist and his chin, spun around in the air and slammed to the cobbles on his chest.
The fingers came out of his mouth but the hand pressed Phin’s face against the ground, and a sharp knee settled on his spine between the shoulder blades.
“No spell, mage,” a voice hissed in his ear, so close that a flicking tongue tickled the lobe.
The leather satchel containing the book was yanked off his shoulder.
Phin could not see Claudja but he still heard her, voice muffled but furious and feet scraping a wall as she kicked in the air. There was some dark, sibilant chuckling all around, and when it subsided Phin heard footsteps. A clacking as though from boot heels, drawing near from the direction of the plaza.
As his face was pinned to the ground all Phin saw was a pair of boots come around the corner, moving at an unhurried stroll. They were of shiny black leather and extended up shapely calves at least past the knees. The heels were ridiculously high, though the woman wearing them did not totter as she sauntered forward and stood directly in front of Phin. Behind him, Claudja stopped struggling.
“Dead or alive, Mistress?” the creature on Phin’s back asked.
There was an agonizing pause, before a throaty voice purred.
“Alive, I think. The Lord Balan may wish to speak with them.”
A legionnaire’s short sword clattered to the ground next to the boots. The blade was bloody, but it was smeared. Like it had been licked.
A scaly hand slithered around Phin’s throat, and he was throttled unconscious.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The Sable City Page 76
