by D. A. Metrov
Gretch ambled with awkward grace down a dark, earthen corridor. His crusty elephantine feet pounded the ground with purpose. And though he was an imposing figure to the guards and workers who saw him, what they could not see was his primitive brain struggling to organize his various duties. It was hard being a traitor and a spy and commander of the enemy’s army. Not to mention point man for he who would soon be Master of the Entire World.
Why won’t Seigneur show greater appreciation for my skills? My dedication? Matters not. Who needs it? I’ll soon have a kettle of gold and my own villa with terrazzos overlooking the sea at Valkyrie.
A phalanx of guards stepped aside to let him pass. Gretch did not acknowledge their presence. The giant troll thundered down another corridor lined with dungeon cells. Some were empty, some occupied by half-starved prisoners whose hollow eyes all possessed the same blank, hopeless stare.
Gretch came to the cell at the end of the block. He stood there allowing its occupants to observe his massive, hulking profile breathing in an out like an old steam engine. Finally, he turned his head, just a little, toward Chancellor Wark and Lady Sharpeye. The pair huddled in each other’s wings inside the cold, dark chamber.
Wark snarled at him. “You’ll cook in Lucifer’s boiling pot for the rest of time. With all the other traitors in history.”
“Traitor?” Gretch said with an odd childish inflection.
“The citizens of Valkyrie are good, honest people,” said Lady Sharpeye. “They trusted you. We all did. And here you are, in the employ of a madman whose only desire is to kill innocents and grow wealthy.” Her keen eyes glared at him.
“I am going to make you two a promise.” Gretch’s voice possessed some gravelly charm. “I promise I am going to personally pluck out your feathers, roast you in a smelting pot, and feed you to my top officers. We shall have a special banquet in your honor, at a long, candlelit table dressed with side dishes of stuffed monkrat and dwarol pudding.”
Wark and Sharpeye glowered at him.
“But first,” Gretch went on. “I want you to tell me why you sent the Falcon Rider to consult the Seer of Buer.” Gretch stared at the floor awaiting an answer, but heard only silence.
Lady Sharpeye finally spoke. “I predict you will be food for the earthworms long before we end up in any smelting pot.”
Gretch erupted with morbid laughter. His roars echoed throughout the underworld prison. Every guard and prisoner within hearing listened. They wondered what could possibly be the cause of the old troll’s delight.
Gretch calmed himself. He wiped the tears from his beady, bloodshot eyes, and flung away the snot that had been hanging from his nose. He looked at Wark and Sharpeye, his gaze somber now.
“What you fail to understand is the world needs wheal. My beloved master provides it. And for a good price. He provides a much needed service to places far beyond Perpetua. You have small minds. You cannot see what lies beyond. You only know your own selfish desires for your selfish little lives. You and the citizens under your ignorant domain are mere grit in the cogs of progress. Grit to be crushed and dusted away.” Gretch stared into their disbelieving eyes, then marched off as swiftly as he had come. Wark and Sharpeye could only hold each other tighter and wince from the awful smell he’d left behind.
Leaving the entrance to the dungeons, Gretch grumbled to the guards who were gathered there. “I want a full squadron of flyers ready to depart by the time I reach my post. We’re going to hunt down the Last Falcon Rider. We are going to kill him and take possession of his Magradore.” He stomped off.
The guards looked at each other. They broke into demented grins. In the next instant, two of them bolted off.
Chapter Nineteen
DEAD MAN’S MESSAGE
It was nightfall by the time Brighton pulled himself onto the temple’s foundation. He felt hungry and exhausted. At the same time, he was enchanted. He got to his feet and stared at the ancient structure silhouetted against the starlit sky.
The Temple of the Mountain Gods. Strange. Feels like I’ve been here before. He’d never been here, of course. He’d only seen the place from a distance. He’d never expected that it possessed such ambience, such inexplicable presence that conjured sensations of another world. It was, after all, dedicated to deities, each of whom inhabited one of Perpetua’s major mountain peaks. That was the legend, anyway. Legend that now seemed true as he stood before the quiet granite sanctuary.
He heard voices. Indecipherable chattering. Pello and Biffee. Brighton listened to the monkrats inside, bickering about something. He could see the flicker of a torchlight that broke up the otherwise dark hollows beyond the pillars.
Inside, Biffee sat on the old, worn throne. He was waving a branch in his paw, and wearing a sagebrush wreath like a crown on his head. “He speaks for the gods, infidel! Fill his coffer should he desire their counsel.”
Pello knelt before him, pretending to be a pilgrim. “How much doth he demand, oh, wise one?”
“Let him see.” Biffee rubbed his chin. “Fifty pieces of gold. No, make that sixty. A kinder number.”
Pello rolled his eyes without looking up. “How’s about twenty-five, seeing as how times is tough and all.”
“Forty! Not a shilling less.” Biffee raised his snout in the air in a snobbish manner.
Pello shot to his feet. “The Seer would never charge such outlandish fees! It’s his turn, now. Let him be the pilgrim.”
“He just started,” Biffee protested.
Brighton cleared his throat. Pello and Biffee, who would have smelled him coming if they hadn’t been so absorbed, whipped around to the entrance. They saw him standing there, hands on his hips.
“Took him long enough,” snapped Biffee, realizing their fun and games were over.
Brighton came in and looked around. “I take it the Seer’s away.”
“True,” said Pello. “They ain’t seen him. Not a trace.”
The white skeleton lying in the back room caught Brighton’s eye. He went toward it. “That him?” Brighton studied the tangle of bones in repose on the floor.
“A hapless pilgrim, they thinks,” said Biffee, sniffing the man’s blanched femur.
Brighton saw the parchment note lying next to the skeleton’s outstretched hand. He picked it up and held it to the light.
“Written in blood, it is,” said Pello. “Can he read it?”
“Latin,” said Brighton, then translated the words that had obviously been scrawled by a dying hand, “Seer of Buer gone mad. Stole my formula for smelting ore. Fled to underworld to mine microal. Left his dagger in my heart.”
Biffee poked the dagger that lay within the man’s ribcage.
Gone Mad? Fled to the underworld to mine microal? Brighton felt the brittle parchment with his fingertips.
The three of them stood there in silence, pondering the message and its implications. Brighton stared down at the skeleton’s face, which seemed to be looking up at him, pleading for vengeance.
“They found something else,” said Pello, excitement in his voice. He scampered back into the throne room to the old chest. Brighton and Biffee came up to him. Pello turned to them, holding the map and the old black leather book. Brighton went down on one knee. He took the book and opened it. At once, he felt himself fill with wonder.
“I think it’s the Seer’s diary,” he said.
Pello and Biffee looked at each other, eyes equally wide.
Brighton turned the brittle pages, straining to read in the dim light.
“What’s it say?” Pello dared to ask.
“Hard to read it all. Seems to be rantings about thankless pilgrims. Greedy, selfish. Coming for advice. Advice about increasing their wealth. And destroying their competitors.” Brighton put down the diary and turned his attention to the map. With care, he spread it open on the floor.
“A map, it is, eh? Of a far off land,” Biffee said.
“A map, yes. But...” Brighton moved his gaze over what appeared to be
a chain of islands.
“But?” queried Pello and Biffee together.
“It’s a map of the underground.”
Pointing to the islands, Brighton went on. “These appear to be chambers within the mountains. Connected by a network of tunnels. And here, a river.”
“A river? Inside the mountains?” Pello and Biffee said, this time one after the other.
“These are plans. For an underworld network?” Brighton tried to make sense of this. He knew there were tunnels through the mountains. But an entire underworld?
“By the Great Leonardo!” Pello’s and Biffee’s eyes went wider than ever.
A small detail on the map caught Brighton’s eye. He traced his finger from the old temple, across a secret, subterranean channel that led to the neighboring mountain peak. He examined smaller details sketched around the start of the channel, which appeared to be the floor plan of the very room they were in. He looked up. He laid the map on the floor and headed toward the adjacent wall. Pello and Biffee glanced at each other, then scampered after him.
Brighton studied the old, granite throne sitting against the wall. He noted how its surfaces were worn smooth by time. He leaned into it, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Give me a hand. Please.”
Pello and Biffee glanced at each other again, then helped him shove the throne aside. Its heavy base ground against the stone floor centispans at a time. Once it gained momentum, it moved more easily, until it finally revealed a small passageway in the wall behind it.
Brighton and the monkrats stared down into the lightless portal. It exhaled its cold dank breath against their faces. They listened for some sound, some hint of what might be down there. They heard nothing save for the eerie groaning of ghosts whooshing through the dark. At least that’s what it sounded like.
Brighton hurried across the room to fetch the torch burning in the wall. He came back and made his way through the passage, down small, narrow steps that descended into the darkness. It was a tight squeeze. His rucksack barely fit through.
Pello and Biffee watched with trepidation.
“Where’s he going?” Biffee said, alarm apparent in his voice.
“Could be dangerous,” said Pello.
“Or worse.”
“If you’re coming, come,” Brighton said. He dropped out of sight.
Pello and Biffee glanced at each other, then scrambled down after Brighton.
Brighton reached the bottom of the steps and found himself in a small, cylindrical chamber. A doorway on the other side led to even deeper darkness. He breathed in the peculiar, dank air, and knew it was old. It had been breathed before by mysterious beings century after century. He entered the far portal without speaking a word, the two nervous monkrats scampering behind him.
Brighton held the torch as they travelled the tight, earthen channel. It curved downward, following the contour of the ridge that connected the temple’s pinnacle to the neighboring mountainside. He could tell no one had been through here for quite some time. The only thing he could smell was the moisture seeping through the walls. Moisture that grew thicker the deeper they went until the ceiling of the passageway was dripping. The drips formed mucky little streamlets beneath their feet. They moved through mud, but after awhile the curve in the channel rose again and the earth became dryer.
A sudden tremor stopped them in their tracks. What in Perpetua’s name was that? Brighton stood there listening, feeling with every fiber in his body. After several moments, he led the monkrats off again.
The curve in the corridor finally led to more stairs. Narrow steps carved into the earth and hardened by years, centuries perhaps, of stamping feet. Feet so old they could only have belonged to the temple priests whose lineage had long since ended. The steps became so steep Brighton had to use his one free hand to pull himself upward. They climbed for over an hour, hearing nothing but the sounds of their own breathing and the soft flicker of torch flames.
Another tremor.
They paused only an instant this time, then kept climbing. They heard strange sounds: distant crashings, rumblings, vibrations growing louder. The narrow stairs began to turn, this way and that, switchbacking to navigate the steep ascent. The interior of the mountain seemed to be humming now as if they were approaching some great hive busy with insects. Brighton knew they’d climbed high enough to be approaching the shipping docks that had been built into the mountainside high above the temple.
At long last, they came to a landing and stood before a very old, dirt-covered door. A heavy, iron latch was sealed it into its threshold. Brighton crouched and leaned his ear against it. He listened to the variety of noises on the other side—banging, rumbling, hissing steam. And the occasional shout of a gorpe. Or was that a human? Yes, of course, it was. Gorpe voices are higher, more squeaky. He’d heard them once as a child when a pair of them had wandered near the Aviamore homestead in the dead of night. His father had chased them off. Vada had said they sounded like hyenas. No, the shouts weren’t from a gorpe. One of the dirigible pilots perhaps. Or a deck supervisor barking orders to workers.
“It’s the shipping operation,” said Pello.
“Beginning to stink, too, it is.” Biffee wrinkled his nose.
Brighton tried to determine the cause of the stench, but he could not. There were too many odors all mixed up. He knew there was only one way to find out. He stood up and unlatched the ancient door.
“What’s he doing?” Biffee said with alarm.
It took all Brighton’s strength to jar the door free. Obviously, it hadn’t been opened in years, and was stuck in its jam. With a grating squeak, he pulled it open just a crack. The three of them peeked through and saw something far beyond what their ears had proposed.
A vast shipping chamber carved inside the mountain formed a hub with a dozen docks for the helium dirigibles. The airships hovered outside, hugging the docks, allowing workers to fill them with wheal. Gorpes and tough-looking men worked together to load the ships with Perpetua’s innards—microal, ground and pulverized into fine powder. Smelted and refined as fuel. Poured into gunny sacks. Stacked into piles. Loaded onto steamcarts.
Gorpe team leaders used poles to poke the robots. The little machines were forced into teams to pull the ore carts up from the mountain’s belly. They puffed and steamed, their wheels squealing and groaning under the weight of their loads. The gorpes drove them without mercy.
Gorpe workers joined the robots to tip the carts, spilling the sacks onto the floor where they could be reorganized on pallets, and loaded onto the airships. Human airmen worked in near silence, saving their strength for their heavy chores. The spilling of sacks was a drumbeat to the cacophony of barge horns. And whistles. And the steaming rumble of dirigibles idling at the ports. Their mighty engines whined progressively louder to compensate for their growing loads.
This is unbelievable, Brighton thought, his head reeling.
He narrowed his now-burning eyes, and tightened his nostrils. The nose-stinging stench Pello and Biffee had smelled on the other side of the door was stronger now. Brighton could see the fumes drifting up from the tunnel mouths that were spitting up transporters from inside the mountain.
“Smelters,” Pello said, looking sick.
“It’s the same foul smell coming out at Valkyrie.” Biffee also grimaced. Brighton thought he might be ready to vomit.
“We’re going to investigate.” Brighton pulled open the door. The monkrats looked incredulous when he slipped inside.
“He’s daft!” Biffee gasped.
Brighton crept along the far wall of the shipping cavern. He felt the adrenaline coursing through his body, and it gave him a perverse thrill. He moved as if something had taken over, some force tapped from a higher part of himself. He wondered if it was the Breath of the Dragon.
Looking very apprehensive, Pello and Biffee crept along behind him.
The three of them skirted the great chamber. It was dimly lit by gas lamps and lights from hovering robot
s. The trio stayed in the shadows, ducking behind a steamcart or a shipping crate when necessary to avoid being spotted.
It was astounding to Brighton that this huge operation seemed to be going on so effortlessly. With relatively few orders voiced. As if all the elements involved were the well-oiled parts of a great, evil clock.
He moved along the rocky wall. He took in the noise of the steaming airships and the clamor of commerce that echoed inside the great, stinking chamber.
“Where is he heading?” Biffee demanded.
“I want to know exactly what’s going on here,” Brighton answered. His keen eyes observed the eerie shapes and silhouettes moving about in the faint light. He knew this wasn’t right. He knew foreigners couldn’t just come here and fly off with Perpetua’s resources. He knew there were old laws against it. Laws established by the Council in Valkyrie after the humans had left there.
Brighton led them out of the shipping chamber. They scurried down a tributary tunnel that went deeper into the mountain. They slipped down long, dark corridors and steep shafts, hiding from passing gorpes or robot teams flying overhead. Brighton thought he saw small, gargoyle-like creatures watching them pass from tiny nooks in the overhead rock. The ancient creatures ducked away again as if in fear of unwelcome intruders.
Brighton and the monkrats moved so deep into the mountains Pello and Biffee stopped asking where they were going. The deeper they went, the more fascinating Brighton found the underworld. He led the monkrats through areas that were nearly empty of miners or guards. He jogged down tunnels that opened into deep gorges where waterfalls cascaded into bottomless wells. He couldn’t stop taking it all in. Couldn’t get enough of the beauty and mystique. It seemed to him like some secret, magical kingdom.
