The witch hesitated, frowning uncertainly, before at last beckoning him forward. When Max knelt, the acolytes smoothed oil on his skin, covering all but his midsection, which they would not touch. Using delicate brushes, the young witches painted intricate symbols upon Max’s face, neck, and the tops of his hands. While these dried, two of the acolytes added a dense border of runes around his wound while the others walked around Max and Bram in little circles, chanting quietly in their own language. Once they had finished, Dame Treyva struck a silver chime and invited their guests to dress. Bram glanced over at Max with evident concern.
“Are you fit to continue?”
Max reached for his cloak. “It’s just a little blood.”
The Archmage gave him a dubious look as Dame Treyva offered Max a cup of tea.
“It will help,” she said.
There was compassion in the woman’s voice and even a tinge of sadness that surprised Max. Taking the cup, he drained the pungent brew and thanked her. There was nothing magical in the drink, but its warmth was invigorating and the strong flavors cleared his head as they followed Dame Treyva through the arch and began a long descent into the mountain.
Everywhere Max turned, he saw human skulls of various age and condition. They lined ossuary shelves, adorned archways, and peered from illuminated niches set in the wall. The skulls were not displayed as ghoulish trophies. They were simply exhibits in an unusual museum.
Whereas the Archives was a repository of scrolls and books, the ossuaries housed arcana of a different sort—the knowledge possessed by shades and spirits whose mortal remains were housed in thousands of jars and urns, obsidian cases and sarcophagi that lined the shelves and niches of caverns they passed. Within each cavern, black- and red-robed witches were sifting through mounds of dirt and soil, cleaning fragments of bone, or labeling finds with the assistance of tiny homunculi.
When they’d passed a dozen such caverns and several raven rookeries, Dame Treyva took them down a dimly lit passage lined with statues of the many gods the witches held sacred: Hecate and Isis, Artemis and Cybele, Athena and Kali. The passage ended at a pair of large wooden doors carved with leering totems.
“Umadahm is very old and rarely leaves her quarters,” said Dame Treyva. “She has convened her council here. They await you within.”
Bram did not look pleased. “I must speak with her alone.”
“That is for Umadahm to decide,” said Dame Treyva, ringing a little chime.
When the doors opened, she ushered Max and Bram into a low chamber decorated with painted screens, intricate friezes, and shelves lined with ivory carvings and figurines. Through a haze of burning incense, Max saw seven elderly witches sitting in a semicircle around a glowing firepit. Beyond them was a shrunken figure wearing simple sky-blue robes and propped in an enormous bed of carved teak covered in hides and furs.
Max could not begin to guess Umadahm’s age. The woman’s hair was so white and fine that it fell like braided cobwebs about a wrinkled brown face with large, expressive eyes. As Umadahm squinted at her visitors, her toothless mouth twisted into a broad, girlish grin. Her voice was weak, her accent heavy, but there was no mistaking its warmth and humor.
“Come in,” she croaked. “Come where I can see you. I’m almost blind, curse the gods.”
Seven pairs of dark, inscrutable eyes followed Max and Bram as Dame Treyva led them around the council to Umadahm’s bedside.
“Umadahm, your sister presents the Archmage, Elias Bram, and Max McDaniels, the Hound of Rowan.”
Umadahm clucked her tongue. “You meet him at last, Treyva. It is fate, no?”
The younger witch nodded hastily.
“What is fate?” asked Bram pointedly.
Umadahm peered at him. “Our Treyva meeting the Hound. I chose her to be his mother, you see, to raise him when we learned Rowan had children of the Old Magic. For those children were pledged to us, were they not? Pledged by you, Archmage, to our ancestors. But Rowan did not honor that promise and much woe has followed.”
Max glanced at Dame Treyva, who offered a ghost of a smile before looking away. Now he understood the witch’s reaction upon seeing his wound—it had been a look of maternal worry. Some part of her still regarded Max as hers, as the child she might have raised.
Dame Treyva cleared her throat. “The Hound brings a curse, Umadahm.”
The ancient witch raised her eyebrows. “The Hound means to curse us?”
“No,” said Dame Treyva. “He bears an evil wound upon his flesh. The mark of Set is upon him.”
Frowning, Umadahm beckoned Max closer and took his hand between two that were so delicate they might have been twigs wrapped in tissue paper. Brittle fingers sought out his pulse.
“There is evil here,” the witch muttered. “But it has no interest in us. It wants the Hound.” She gazed up at him. “My beautiful boy, what have you done to yourself?”
Bram cut in. “Umadahm, we must speak with you alone.”
The witch released Max’s hand and scowled at the Archmage. “Where are your manners? Does Elias Bram give orders here?” She sighed. “No wonder we banished men from our councils. Whatever you wish to say, say before my sisters.”
“It involves Tartarus.”
Umadahm’s smile vanished. She turned to the other witches. “Leave us.”
Her sisters looked startled by the sudden order but rose and began to file out the door. As they departed, Umadahm called to one of the acolytes waiting outside, a reedy girl with coarse brown hair and quiet, knowing eyes. “Naomi, you stay here. Treyva, we are not to be disturbed for any reason. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Umadahm.”
With a parting glance at Max, Dame Treyva followed the last witch out and closed the door behind her. When Naomi locked it, Umadahm leveled her gaze at Bram. “Where did you hear that name?”
Bram turned from where he’d been admiring a carved tusk. “From one of your predecessors. When I questioned her shade, it mentioned a secret vault beneath the ossuaries, a place that houses the damned.”
Umadahm’s mouth tightened into a thin, hard line. “If you questioned one of our dead, then you have been trespassing in the ossuaries.”
Bram bowed deeply. “Many times, I must confess. I beg your pardon, Umadahm, but I had no alternative. I assure you, I have harmed no one and treated your ancestors with respect. Anything I’ve borrowed, I’ve returned to its proper place.”
The witch grunted. “A considerate burglar. How comforting.” She glanced at Naomi, who had come to stand by her bed. “Beware of sorcerers, my dear. We cannot keep them out and they don’t ask for invitations. What is it you want, Archmage?”
“For you to take us to Tartarus.”
Again, the witch addressed her protégé. “Another lesson. Sorcerers are moths fluttering around a candle. Boundless curiosity, but little wisdom. Waste no energy fighting them. Sooner or later, they fly into the flame.”
If Bram was insulted, he did not show it. “Will you take us there?”
The witch shrugged. “Would it matter if I refused? If you’re foolish enough to seek Tartarus, I will take you to its gates. But there I leave you. I will not linger to see them opened or send aid if you do not return. Is that understood?”
“Perfectly.”
“Very well,” said Umadahm, grunting as she scooted over and dangled her frail legs over the bedside. “Naomi, bring me my slippers and the gray robe. No, the blue. It’s warmer.”
The slippers Naomi brought were beaded moccasins that looked as old and scuffed as their owner. The girl slid them gently over Umadahm’s bony brown feet before helping her up and draping a blue, fur-lined robe over her narrow shoulders. Umadahm tied the robe with slow, precise movements before shuffling past the bed with Naomi.
“Follow me, gentlemen.”
The pair walked directly into the firepit’s burning coals, plunging from view as though they’d fallen through a trapdoor.
Bram grunted. “I trust
you noticed it when we entered. Illusion has never been their strength.”
But Max was having a difficult time focusing on mundane details, much less seeing through illusions. His body was growing feverish and his wound was an ever-present agony. Unbuckling the gae bolga, he turned it into a spear so he could use it as a walking stick. None of this was lost on Bram, who studied him closely.
“Our efforts to forestall your curse have failed. Perhaps you should stay here.”
Max glared at him. “To do what? Rest up for Armageddon?”
“Time is fleeting, Hound. I cannot stop to wait for you.”
“You won’t have to.”
Without another word, the Archmage stepped into the firepit and disappeared. When Max followed, he felt like he’d stepped into a tub of scalding water. There was a sting of pain, a sensation of falling, and then he landed beside Bram. The portal had dropped them into a dim mineshaft that sloped down into blackness. Just ahead, Umadahm clutched a lantern of pale witch-fire while Naomi moved a sturdy handcart to the side. When the way was clear, Umadahm took the girl’s arm and they began to descend. Max and Bram fell in step behind them.
As they walked, every noise, even the shuffling of Umadahm’s slippers, seemed conspicuously loud. When Bram whispered, his voice almost hummed in the still air.
“How did you discover Tartarus? I understand you did not build it.”
“No human built Tartarus,” said Umadahm.
“You came upon it entirely by accident?” said the Archmage.
The witch sniffed. “Accident? Some might call it that, but not me. The Old Magic in Ymir doesn’t come from the witches, Archmage. It comes from the mountain itself. We pushed, but something else pulled. Perhaps it was pulling all along.”
“What were you pushing for?” asked Bram.
“The deeper one goes, the easier it is to converse with shades,” replied the witch. “They come more readily and will answer more questions. Because of this, one of the first Umadahms desired deeper caverns for the ossuaries. Goblins were hired to seek the mountain’s heart. They found deep places, but Umadahm demanded deeper ones. Eventually, the goblins grew reluctant—some reported hearing strange whispers.”
“But you kept going,” said Bram.
The witch sighed. “Umadahm did not share the goblins’ fears. One day, they broke through the roof of a cavern so vast the torches they dropped would disappear before they struck bottom. Umadahm declared they had found the heart of Ymir and knelt by the opening to pay homage. When she did, the rock gave way and she plunged into the abyss. They say her screams lasted a full minute.”
The Archmage grunted. “Why didn’t she use magic to save herself?”
Umadahm gave a peculiar smile. “I’m sure she tried, Archmage. Magic is fickle near Tartarus. Perhaps even yours. It is not our realm.”
“Whose realm is it?” asked Max.
The ancient witch paused a moment to catch her breath. “I do not know. And I do not wish to. The only reason we have not sealed this tunnel is because of a pact my sisters made.”
“What pact?” asked Bram directly.
Clutching Naomi’s arm, the witch resumed her slow progress down the dark tunnel. “You’d have made a very poor witch, Archmage. You have little patience or courtesy.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Bram, smiling. “Delicacy has never been my strength, and I’m anxious to learn all I can of Tartarus. Please tell me about this pact your sisters made.”
The witch patted his arm. “Much better. There’s hope for you yet. The pact was made when my sisters recovered the fallen Umadahm. Naturally, her sisters sought to recover her body, but the cavern was so deep it took them months to discover a way to reach the bottom. Magic would not work and no rope was long enough, but our ancestors were resourceful. When they finally reached the cavern floor, they found the Umadahm lying before doors so ancient they could not divine their origins. When they tried to collect her body and flee, they were unable to move it. The body was pinned to the cavern floor by a powerful spell. From beyond the doors, something spoke to them. It said it would release her body if they agreed to bring others as recompense. It wanted the damned, those who had committed terrible crimes against the gods or mankind. If they refused, the voice threatened vengeance.”
“And so your ancestors agreed,” said Bram darkly.
His sanctimonious tone made Umadahm chuckle. “We don’t bring bawling babies to its doorstep, Archmage. We leave remains, and only those that are accursed. In the past, my sisters left common criminals at the door but returned to find the remains untouched. If Tartarus wants you, you’ve done something bad.”
“Have you ever spoken with this voice?” asked Max.
“No,” said the Umadahm. “It’s been centuries since anyone heard it. But something is down there, something brings the damned inside. I have never seen what that is, spoken with it, or even tried to open the doors. I simply uphold our end of the pact and teach my duties to Naomi so she can carry on when I am gone.”
“Are you worried that bringing us will anger Tartarus?” asked Bram.
Umadahm laughed. “Why should Tartarus be upset with me? I am bringing it two potential additions. The poor boy is accursed. And you probably should be.”
Bram smiled. “I admire your pragmatism.”
She shrugged. “I’m an old lady. We haven’t time for anything else.”
By now, they had descended far beneath the Umadahm’s bedchamber. The air, which had been eerily still, was stirring now. A warm, fluttering breeze blew up from the blackness ahead. The tunnel’s grade grew steeper and Umadahm was forced to use a crude handrail anchored to the timber supports.
They continued on for several minutes until they reached some handcarts that had been positioned sideways against a stone slab so their wheels would not roll. Leaving the Umadahm by the carts, Naomi held the lantern aloft as she padded ahead into the darkness.
“Stay here,” said Umadahm, addressing Max and Bram. “The rock ahead is unstable and will not bear our weight. The girl will fetch a ferryman. If we are lucky, some will be close.”
“What are these ferrymen?” asked Bram.
“Your transportation,” said Umadahm cryptically. “Let us hope you’re not squeamish.”
Up ahead, Naomi had almost reached the tunnel’s end. Setting down the lantern, she crawled toward a large opening that must have been the very hole the Umadahm had fallen through. Once the girl reached it, she took up a hardwood staff that was propped against a rock and rapped it gently against the opening.
Tap … tap, tap. Tap … tap, tap.
The girl tapped the sequence three times before pressing her ear against the rock as though trying to detect some sound or vibrations. When none came, she started from the beginning.
Tap … tap, tap. Tap … tap, tap.
Naomi had repeated the sequence several times and was in mid-tap when she suddenly backed away and snatched up the lantern.
Behind her, two pale gray spiders the size of garden sheds crept out of the hole. They followed Naomi as she returned to the others, crawling on opposite walls and pausing occasionally to probe the air with a hairy foreleg. Whenever Naomi tapped the staff upon the floor, they scuttled forward to keep pace. While they did have eyes—two rows of cloudy orbs—the creatures behaved as though they were blind.
“Do not be afraid,” said Umadahm, holding out a hand as one of the spiders reached out to touch it. “The ferrymen will not harm you. Let them take hold of you.”
Her words were less reassuring when a ferryman climbed down from the wall and came within reach. The huge spider loomed over Max, staring blindly ahead, its mandibles clicking. Bristly pedipalps brushed his face before picking him up beneath his arms and turning him about so that his back was to the spider. Clutching the gae bolga, Max watched as the other ferryman handled the Archmage in similar fashion.
“Are you coming?” asked Bram, his arms folded tightly over his pack.
&
nbsp; Umadahm shook her head. “Forgive me, but I think not. It is a long way down and I am weary. The ferrymen will see you there safely, but take care to make no light and little noise lest you attract attention. Go in peace.”
Bowing low, the Umadahm took Naomi’s arm and the two began their long trek back to the ossuaries. As the light of their lantern receded, the ferrymen turned and scuttled silently back the way they’d come. At the tunnel’s end, Max glimpsed an irregular black hole framed by chipped and fissured rock. When the ferryman slipped inside, he saw nothing but blackness.
The next few seconds were incredibly disorienting as Max was carried upside down while the ferryman crawled along the cavern’s roof. Coming to a halt, the spider swung backward and abruptly dropped from the ceiling. They descended in a swift, straight line, suspended by what must have been the spider’s thread.
Their progress was so smooth, the cavern so vast and dark, that Max soon lost any sense of time or distance. The ferryman was as silent as death. Now and again, Max heard Bram’s muffled cough in the darkness.
The longer they descended, the less Max felt connected to his body. He welcomed this, for it meant a respite from the racking pains that had become a real and present torture. There was no pain, no disquiet. His mind was peaceful, his body numb.
Is this it? Am I dying?
It would not be the worst thing, Max supposed. After all, he was tired of pain. He was tired of grief, of struggle, of resisting the inevitable. There was no sense in fighting. If he wanted to continue living, why had he broken his geis? He tried to convince himself that he’d done the noble thing. He had glimpsed his true power when he’d incinerated the Great Red Dragon in the Workshop and it had terrified him. A dreamless sleep awaited Max—a sleep without wolfhounds or questions. All he had to do was shut his eyes and let it take him.
Let it take him …
Let it take him …
Let IT take him …
Max jolted into alertness, his heart beating like a rabbit’s. He stared into the abyss. There was something out there in the darkness. Max could sense it, a brooding malevolence that was following their descent with rising malice. Something below knew that a potential rival was entering its realm—a wounded rival, perhaps a dying rival, but a rival nonetheless.
The Red Winter Page 53
