She tried her best to remain small throughout dinner, answering questions with shrugs or mumbles. She ignored Shawna’s questions when the two of them bathed after dinner, while Shawna combed her hair. She ignored Shawna while the woman talked about the importance of never being afraid.
That was just stupid—there were plenty of reasons to be afraid.
The corners held Bethany’s attention. She kept track of all movement around her, trying to catch another glance of the shadow. It never showed itself. Bethany knew it was there, though.
She could feel its malevolence like a weight on her soul.
For Everything, a Price
Maarkov was being followed.
He’d gotten into the habit of wandering the Gutters at night. The lower levels of Shundov’s poorest districts were a maze in the best daylight. They were a warren at night. Forms huddled in shadowed corners. Wet hacking noises echoed through the gloom. Water gurgled in the distance. The Gutters was no place for a stroll—which made the shadow in Maarkov’s wake a curious gods-damned thing.
At first Maarkov thought it was one of his brother’s minions, some otherworldly creature dispatched to track his movements and report back to Maaz. Would his brother need to do such a thing? Maaz had found Maarkov’s body when it was buried in the ground. Maarkov had known for a long time that Maaz could find him anywhere. Maaz didn’t care enough to have Maarkov followed.
A thief, then? Maarkov had seen the little bugger on at least three other nights. There had never been an attempted mugging. The shadow always kept its distance, electing to scuttle away whenever Maarkov tried to corner it. How many times had Maarkov been followed and failed to notice? There was no telling how long he’d been tailed without the faintest clue.
That’s what you get for roaming the Gutters like a ghost. They’re probably telling lich tales about you.
Maarkov had justified his walks by telling himself he was restless. The Gutters were the one place he could be alone to think, and the last place he’d be spotted by Irhan’s men..
Maybe that explains the tail. But, something about the notion didn’t sit right. The shadow never followed him far from the Gutters. Irhan would be more interested in his movements near the castle.
He kept as far from the castle as he could.
After finding the strega hard at work beneath the ground, Maarkov had grown curious. He’d ventured into the tunnels under the castle to have a look. There were more corpses digging than he’d ever seen his brother use—a full battalion of meat-bags. They worked day and night with pick, shovel, and bucket. Maarkov had seen strega perform rudimentary tasks before, but never so many at once.
Something big was happening under Shundov—Maarkov was certain.
The tunnels had been dug outward from the dungeon, snaking toward the Gutters. Other branches led to different points in the city, but the largest section stretched toward the poor districts. Whatever Maaz was planning, Maarkov knew it would involve an orgy of violence.
Why would he dig toward the Gutters? What does he want out here?
If Maarkov was going to discover Maaz’s plans, he first had to lose the tail. Whomever it was—or whatever it was—was a liability. Before he continued his search for clues, Maarkov had to catch the shadow.
Maarkov turned down an alley, wading into ankle-deep water. It stunk like piss and rotting garbage, but Maarkov endured the stench. He wanted to catch sight of his shadow, and this part of the Gutters was familiar. There was a perfect choke point nearby, and the ankle-deep water would make for noisy footing.
The shadow flitted behind a corner over Maarkov’s shoulder. Maarkov kept his shoulders relaxed and continued down the alley, turning a corner. The shadow appeared at the mouth of the alley and paused before entering the water.
Just a little farther. Maarkov ducked down his side passage and splashed the water with his feet, mimicking footsteps. He listened as hard as he could, trying to ignore the noise of his own splashing feet.
There! Slow, cautious steps were coming down the alley.
Maarkov sprang into action, summoning the cold strength of his undying body. He sprinted back around the corner, but slid and pitched to the side, slamming his shoulder into the wall. He managed to keep his feet, and was rewarded with the sight of his shadow.
A young boy.
The lad couldn’t have been older than thirteen springs, and Maarkov had time to spot his bewildered, dirty features hidden in the depths of a hood. The boy wore a shabby cloak with street clothes beneath, and there was the glint of a knife at his belt.
With surprising agility, the boy turned and bolted down a side street, kicking up water as he went. Maarkov almost lost sight of him as he tore off in pursuit.
The footing was slimy, and even with Maarkov’s preternatural strength, he had trouble keeping up. The kid was fast, and he knew the twists and turns of the Gutters. Maarkov stumbled several times as the lad turned corners, slamming into the side of more than one building, and once shattering a rotten crate. The boy slipped away like a shadow, but Maarkov refused to give up the chase.
They splashed through the sunken streets of the Gutters, making a ruckus as they went. A huddled form was startled from its place against a wall as they tore past. Curses followed them, erupting from shadowed alleys in the darkness. Maarkov pumped his legs and focused on keeping the boy in sight.
You’re not getting away this time, you little shit!
Sprinting down alleys and around flooded gutters, Maarkov kept right on the waif’s tail. The boy countered Maarkov’s greater speed with expert agility. He slipped past corners like a cat, leaving only the flutter of his cloak in his wake. Maarkov abandoned all pretense at stealth and yelled at the kid, trying to get him to slow down. The lad never turned around.
Maarkov came to a dead-end alley, trapping the boy at the end. The lad cast around for a way out, like a cornered rat facing a dog. Maarkov slid to a stop and held out his hands. He smiled, trying to look peaceful.
“Kid! Slow down. I don’t want to hurt you.”
The boy gave Maarkov a defiant glare before springing to the wall. He latched to a flaw in the stone, hefted himself with one hand, and sprang to the low-hanging bridge above. With a grunt of effort, he disappeared over the edge and was gone, the echoes of his footfalls thumping on the wooden bridge.
“Tricky little bastard.” Maarkov gave the wall a look, trying to gauge how much strength he’d need to make the jump. With another curse for the fool gods and their stupid games, Maarkov sprang from the flooded street to the wall, mimicking the boy.
The tread on his boots betrayed him, making his foot slip when he tried to push off. He careened from the wall and slammed his head into the thick trusses under the bridge, causing the whole thing to rattle in protest. He landed on his belly in the muck.
“Bloody urchin!” Maarkov rose to his feet. “You’re mine next time, boy! Just you wait!”
“What are you muttering about?” said a familiar voice from behind him.
Maarkov spun, ripping his dagger from his belt.
The form that confronted him was tall—freakishly tall. It had long, skinny arms and legs to match. It was wrapped in dirty bandages to its ankles and wrists. Its body was covered in a loose cloak, which looked more like a blanket, and its features were hidden in the shadows of a deep, tattered cowl. The creature smelled off, somehow—not the stink of a strega, but a definite odor of wrongness. Its fingernails were thick, yellow, and cracked.
“What—”
“You must come to the castle,” said Maaz’s voice from the cowl. Maaz must have been controlling this thing somehow, perhaps seeing through its eyes. The words coming from its throat were being whispered by Maaz himself. Maarkov suppressed a chill.
“To the castle? Why?”
“Because I command it.”
“I see.” Maarkov chuckled. “In that case, go find a hole, crawl inside, and fuck yourself.”
“Who was that boy?” The enthralled
corpse stared at him. “What games are you playing out here at night?”
“Just a cut-purse I caught following me through the Gutters.”
“Just a cut-purse, you say.” The corpse smiled. “Very well. It won’t be difficult to divine the identity of this little worm, ferret it out, and slaughter the cub and its entire family. It must have stolen something valuable, for you to be hunting it with so much…” it gestured at the bridge above, “…vigor.”
Maarkov scowled at the corpse. “He didn’t steal anything. I just don’t like being followed.”
“Come to my dungeon, Maarkov. We have work to do. I don’t care what games you play in the Gutters, but if you’re not here soon, I’ll send my strega to rip the waif’s family to pieces. That will put an end to your distractions.”
The corpse turned and trudged into the shadows, disappearing around a corner.
Maarkov scowled at its back, brushing off the grime he’d picked up from the street. What sort of creature had that been? Some new kind of strega? A golem made of flesh?
“What in the Six Hells are you planning, Maaz?” Maarkov looked at the darkness of the dripping slums, wondering if the boy had stopped to eavesdrop on the conversation. Had he been scared away, or was he still out there, bending his ears?
“Did you hear that, boy?” Maarkov’s voice echoed from the buildings.
The only answer was the ever-present gurgle of water.
“Piss on you, then.” Maarkov wiped a bit of muck from his scabbard. Would he have time to splash himself clean in a fountain before Maaz sent the strega? “Piss on me, too.”
Chewing on his thoughts, Maarkov trudged in the direction of Shundov Castle.
***
Dormael spent the morning—if there could be morning underground—trying to clear his head. His dreams had been full of the Silver Lady. He could still hear the ghost of her song, feel the cold, exhilarating sensation of her nails sinking into his skin. He had tried to seek stillness before he'd slept, but her presence in his mind was a constant itch. The dreams had grown more insistent in the days since Khora’s death, bringing visions of blood, flame, and all kinds of sexual abandon.
She’s not even real. Dormael splashed water from his wineskin over his face. She’s just a vision, just a vengeful ghost. You’ve got no idea what you’re dealing with.
Shawna had come to him during the night, taking advantage of the privacy afforded by the rooms in the ancient barracks. There hadn’t been many words between them, but Dormael had been grateful for that. Shawna had been enthusiastic, like she’d missed him during his trip down the river. Knowing her, she would never say it, only demonstrate it when it suited her.
Her silence was fine by Dormael. His mind was too conflicted to voice coherent thoughts where his heart was concerned. He tried to lose himself in the closeness of Shawna’s presence, tried to shut out the Nar’doroc by filling his senses with someone real, someone he trusted.
It hadn’t worked—the Silver Lady found him in his dreams.
“Are you alright?”
Dormael looked up to see his brother standing in the doorway to the sleeping room.
“Aye.” Dormael sighed and rose from his seat. “Just trying to wake up.”
“Everyone’s waiting on you.” Allen nodded to Dormael’s gear. “Are you coming, or do you plan to move in?”
“I’m coming.” Dormael gathered his things. “Don’t get your manhood all twisted up.”
Allen smiled. “It is a danger for a guy like me. Come on—everyone’s waiting next to the statue.”
The rooms inside the ancient building were uniform. Each had a small living space with just enough room for a bed and a few belongings. The doors would have opened to a communal hallway, had any of the doors survived. The rear portion of the building was given over to a large bathhouse.
It had a communal pool with several smaller pools alongside, each filled by a quiet stream of water trickling from a hole in the wall. Drains kept the pools from overfilling and the water was warm. Everyone had taken advantage of the pools.
Dormael emerged from the building and waved to his friends. There were no words of greeting offered, only silent gestures. The darkness around them, however staved off by D’Jenn’s magical light, demanded stillness.
Maybe that’s just your bad mood speaking.
The walk through the next section of corridors was full of echoing footfalls, shifting shadows, and low conversation. The tunnel—which was more like a street than a cave—changed direction in what seemed like random places, and at different angles. In some sections there were stairs, and in some, only a smooth, sloping floor. There were no magical lights like the ones in the chamber with the bathhouses, and no glowing swirls of alien glyphs.
“Is there an end to this?” Shawna’s voice echoed down the corridor. “If this tunnel branches, we’ll have a hard time finding our way back.”
Allen peered into the darkness. “I don’t think it’s going to branch.”
“Why not?” Shawna gave him a skeptical look.
Allen shrugged and gestured back in the direction of the buildings. “If that was some sort of garrison, maybe this tunnel is meant to stymie an assault. The turns seem random, but maybe they’re not”
D’Jenn glanced in Allen’s direction. “Go on.”
“Well, every defensible position ever built has hazards at the gate,” Allen said. “If I’m trying to attack something on either side of this tunnel, all the twists, angles, and stairs would make it a pain in the arse. Defenders could just pull back section by section and fill the tunnel with arrows—or whatever these people used. Magic crossbows, maybe.”
Dormael snorted. “Magic crossbows?”
“I don’t know what sort of fancy contraptions they had,” Allen said. “All I’m saying is that the tunnel would work both ways. If you need to pull back to the barracks above, the tunnel will slow the assault on your heels. Likewise, if you have to go below, it can be used in the opposite direction. If that thing at the summit is a magical weapon, it makes sense to put defenses around it.”
“It could be tunneled around imperfections in the stone,” D’Jenn countered. “Or maybe it has something to do with the greater construction of this place—something to do with the spells.”
Allen shrugged. “Maybe you just see magic everywhere. I see a defensible approach.”
“We don’t know what’s at the bottom,” Shawna said. “For that matter, we don’t know what’s at the top.”
“Good point.” D’Jenn looked down the tunnel. “We’ll keep going a short while longer. If the tunnel goes on for too long, or we find a labyrinth below, we’ll turn back. Agreed?”
Everyone nodded.
D’Jenn turned and continued downward. Dormael fell in beside Bethany, giving her a reassuring glance. She replied with a tired smile. The bags under her eyes were dark with sleeplessness. Dormael ruffled her hair and they walked in silent company.
Her nightmares must be getting worse. I'll have to talk to her about it.
What did he know about soothing the fears of children? Bethany’s time in his care had been anything but peaceful. A life on the run was no life for a girl her age, and Dormael was out of his depth. He had no idea what to say, no idea how to say it, and no idea if his words would matter.
You have to say something, so figure it out.
A noise came to Dormael’s ears, like the whisper of a breeze passing an open window. As he followed his friends deeper, the sound widened, expanded to a chorus of separate voices. The hollow hum of moving air was answered by a distant gurgle. A sharp, mineral sting tickled Dormael’s nose—the smell of wet stone.
Light beckoned from the end of the tunnel. D’Jenn banished his glowing orb as they neared the opening. Beyond the portal was a wide set of stairs. Moving with caution, everyone emerged from the tunnel.
“All the gods in the Void,” Shawna said. “What is this place?”
Dormael blinked his eyes to adjust them
. “Indalvian said something about ancient secrets, didn’t he? Caches of knowledge buried in the wilds?”
A wide stairway descended to the floor of a great cavern. Light filtered down from above, illuminating the silhouettes of tall buildings, monstrous columns, and half-ruined bridges that stretched across the entirety of the cavern—longer than any bridges Dormael had ever seen.
“It’s much more than that.” D’Jenn stepped farther into the cavern. “It’s a city.”
There was a breeze in the cavern, a movement of air only detectable because Dormael had opened his Kai. The distant whisper of running water echoed through the chamber, coming from a source deep in the city. The air smelled like wet stone.
“Why would anyone build this place?” Shawna followed D’Jenn down the stairs.
“It doesn’t make sense,” D’Jenn said. “Despite the magics powering this place, I can’t imagine people surviving here over generations. People don’t live underground.”
Bethany cleared her throat. “Speaking of magic, I can hear something.”
Dormael heard the distant hum of power. It whispered a slow rhythm, like the crash of waves against the shore. It made Dormael’s hair stand on end.
D’Jenn nodded. “I hear it, too.”
“I wonder what forced the people down here,” Shawna said. “The Garthorin?”
“There’s only one way to find out.” D’Jenn waved for everyone to follow.
The stairs were cut from the bedrock in a long, curving line. A wide expanse of flat ground stretched between the stairs and the edge of the city. A pair of statues stood guard over the field, facing each other at the city’s edge. They were the same figures from the chamber above—a male holding a scepter and a female wielding a sword. Both were so tall, their heads were obscured in shadow.
Shawna nodded at the statues. “They’re the same people from above.”
The City Under the Mountain (The Seven Signs Book 4) Page 26
