by William Ray
The miners’ world was strangely cloistered; they dwelt in company dormitories and bought their necessities from the company store. They all paid for drinks with wooden chits, and Gus wondered if any of them had any real money or if they were slaves to company scrip. Gemmen’s factories weren’t exactly models of fair pay for fair work, but at least their pennies were actually paid.
As he began his long hike back to the upper city, Gus was a little disappointed to come away with little more than a name, but it was more than he’d had before. Dorna Michts. First, she had gone after Saucier, trying to lure him in with the promise of elfsteel trinkets, and then she had been involved in Phand’s kidnapping.
The elfsteel buckle sent to Saucier was an extravagant gift, and how could a poor miner’s daughter possibly have an uncle rich enough for such a thing? And who would consider stopping Phand’s tower worth expending that kind of treasure merely as bait?
~
“Tuls Government-In-Exile Formed”
Tuls aristocrats gathering in Sakloch have presented their exiled queen with a request to reform the Tuls government, in preparation to retake their homeland. The Sultan allowed the magnar’s widow use of his throne room for the occasion and honored her with a dais only slightly lower than his own as he observed the gathering.
By all accounts, despite her difficult situation, the queen received the petition with grace and dignity. She confirmed her intention to grant their request, but noted that in the absence of her deceased husband, formal steps could only be taken if the Duke of Maustoya or the Duke of Errapol could lead a reformed Congress in the magnar’s absence. As both men are reported dead, the Tuls aristocracy will be forced to nominate replacements once a sufficient quorum of exiled lords can be achieved.
– Khanom Daily Converser, 15 Tal. 389
~
- CHAPTER 26 -
The Master’s grand parlor had been cleared, and the curtains closed. The large room was furnished for entertaining, littered with plush chairs and elegant couches in rich reds and deep blues. Dorna had lit only two of the gas lamps along the wall, which hissed softly and on their own could only dimly light the large space they had gathered in.
The artworks hung here were more mundane than those he kept elsewhere, traditional landscapes mixed with human portraiture that so little resembled the Master’s human guise, Dorna wondered how anyone was fooled by them. It seemed ironic to her that amid such bland décor, few ever took notice of the stone sarcophagus, a rectangular box of pale granite, polished smooth, but covered with graven sigils no man could read. It was one of the Master’s most puissant treasures, yet she had seen countless visitors resting drinks upon it like a table.
Marjorie had brought the two men she promised, and Dorna stood three paces from the foot of the box, watching as the two men wedged prybars beneath the tightly fitted stone lid. They all wore their Wardens’ robes, although Dorna felt a twinge of guilt at that since they had come together for a task the Master had not planned for them. She did not know what Marjorie had told Dougal’s two friends they were doing, and she did not ask.
A small brazier burned beside her, and in the chill of early spring, she cherished its warmth. Indoors and wrapped in her thick green robes, she should have been warm enough, but somehow the cold had overtaken her as if it radiated from her very bones. Ever since having seen the Master open the stone box as a girl, she felt that way whenever she was near it.
Looking at the angular script chiseled into the stone, she imagined they were dire words of warning from whoever had crafted it. They covered every inch as if to be absolutely certain whoever came across it would heed their words, forgetting that eventually their language would be lost to the ages.
In her hands, she held another box, a small wooden rectangle with no visible opening. It was covered in similar script to the sarcophagus, but the pale pine surface of the wooden case had been polished nearly smooth in the centuries that had passed since it was made.
The men wedging back the stone lid had little notion of what lay within, and had Dougal emerged from the labyrinth, perhaps it could finally have remained forever sealed as its makers had intended. The Master’s paragon of ruthless obedience to the cause was gone though, and it had been her fault.
She thought she had followed his instructions so perfectly, but somehow she had gone awry. However Baston had managed to follow her, he was out there still, no doubt still hunting them, and he was a threat Dorna had brought upon the Great Restoration. She needed leverage that would stop him quickly.
Staring across at the stone box, she wondered if Dougal would have gone this far. Perhaps it was simply too dangerous for mortals. Perhaps they would open it and all be killed. It had not been opened in years, but she was sure she remembered the necessary steps. The danger to her cause was too great, and if releasing this monster would fix her mistakes, then she must be ruthless enough to do it. She would be the servant the Master needed.
It was no longer simply a matter of being as good as Dougal. It was her failure that led to his death, so she must fulfill his role in their cause as well as her own. He was the one for hard-hearted tasks and dark doings, and this was the darkest, hardest course of action she could think of.
Marjorie’s two Wardens gathered around the stone box, grunting as they slowly wedged their pry bars beneath the lid. The stone was already chipped, but the lid was heavy and very tightly fitted. Stone ground against stone as they pried it free, and when it came loose, there was a sharp hiss as the stale air within finally escaped the box after years of compression. Dorna had warned them it would happen, but both men still jerked back nervously.
Stepping between them, Terry counted out, and on three they pulled at the stone lid, groaning in effort as they worked together to gently lower it to the floor. In the dimly lit room, Dorna could see only shadow inside, and at the silence that greeted them, she worried something had gone wrong or that the box was somehow empty. Now that the box was open, however, she dared not step away from her place by the brazier.
Panting and brushing stone-dusted hands on his jacket, Terry leaned forward to peek inside. As soon as he did, he paled and stepped quickly away, his fearful expression and eager retreat told her that it was definitely not empty.
Dorna gripped the wooden case tightly, hoping that a tighter grip would hide the trembling in her hands as a wintry breeze leeched the last warmth from the room. The lights guttered, but even in the sudden chill, their gas lamps were not so easily extinguished. Her eyes darted nervously to the brazier, but its coals still burned.
It rose, not as a man might rise from bed or even climb from a box; instead, it simply lifted upright in one motion, like an idle marionette whose strings were pulled upward. Pale, knobby limbs crudely parodied the shape of man. It was hairless and cloaked only in a gray linen robe of rotting fabric that had long since faded to translucency.
It stretched out; bones crackled as old joints began to move once more, and its ancient sinew creaked like stretching leather.
The thing’s skin was smooth and unblemished, uniformly unnaturally parchment pale, but as the loosed immortal slowly turned in the air to settle upon its feet, its yellow eyes settled upon her, the sole Warden stationed before it. It snarled, a lipless mouth parting open over a jagged maw, its open jaw spreading inhumanly wide as it stalked towards her.
Dorna held up the wooden case, and the beast stopped in its tracks, cursing at her in an ancient tongue long since passed from the world. The thing raised its talons and reached towards her, and though still several steps away, she knew it could cross that distance in the blink of an eye.
In the sternest voice she could muster, Dorna said, “No.” She swung the box over the brazier, holding over the flames with one hand. The monster froze in place, yellow eyes fixed upon the smoke that curled around the box.
The thing sneered and cursed again, drawing itself up in outrage, so she turned her hand, precariously dangling the
box from two fingers pinched around its corner. The immortal hissed at her again as smoke began to smudge the lower edges of the box with a dark stain of soot. She wondered if it was fast enough to grab the box before it fell in the fire and how quickly the box would burn, along with whatever it contained.
Yellow eyes darted between her and the small case, clearly pondering the same questions, so she demanded of it, “We will speak in Verin.”
She held herself as stiffly as she could, terrified to let it see her trembling. The demand for Verin was absurd and desperate; the Master had spoken to it in Elven, a language as old as time, and one the creature surely knew. Dorna’s Elven was limited to recitation by rote; she had never understood more than a few words in that sacred tongue, which was not enough to explain what she needed. She had to hope the monster could speak her language.
Those pale-yellow eyes bored into her, and she could feel her heart thundering in her chest, and each breath was a struggle to draw under that dread scrutiny. Finally, in a dry, raspy voice, it hissed, “Barbarian.”
It glared about the room, and though she dared not look away from it, from the corner of her eye, she could see the other Wardens flinching back fearfully. “You will obey me,” she commanded. “You will do as I say. I have an errand you must do.”
The beast raised its boney hands as if to grasp the wooden box from several paces away, and though its yellow eyes remained focused on the box, it snarled at her, “Foolish slave, I will not serve you! Where is your master?”
Yellow eyes turned back to Dorna, their gaze boring into her with an unsettling intensity that made her want to shrink back. With a sudden burst of adrenaline, Dorna realized the thing now loomed within arm’s reach. Somehow, though she had not noticed it move, it had crept closer, close enough now to grab at the case.
She quickly raised her other hand, and at that signal, Marjorie opened the drapes behind Dorna.
Sunlight poured in, the window flooding the room with dazzling white light. The immortal shrieked, a horrific, inhuman sound that made Dorna flinch, and wherever it was graced by the sun, its skin softened and began to flow like melting wax.
It crumpled to the floor, forced to kneel at her feet in the only hiding place it could reach—Dorna’s shadow. The immortal terror mewled in pain, and Dorna felt a surge of triumph.
She snapped her fingers, and Terry hurried over bearing a map, which he displayed for the immortal in trembling hands. His obvious fear of the creature just made her feel all the more powerful for facing it down, and as she towered over the monster, she commanded, “You will make all haste to the city of Gemmen. In this building,” she gestured to the map, and Terry helpfully put his finger on the specific block, “on the fourth floor, a woman spends her days. Find her and bring her to me as quickly as possible.”
It sneered up at her as defiantly as it could manage from its abject pose on the floor, “Fool woman! You would loose me simply to murder your romantic rivals?”
As the monster cowered at her feet, her first impulse was to kick it, but fearful common sense checked that reckless notion. “Bring her to me alive! She must be brought here unharmed.”
The immortal rapped its talons against the floor, and an inhuman rattle sounded in its throat, an impatient growl. “Killing is faster and more certain. Send me against your real foe, foolish mortal.”
It was tempting, but having seen the medals on Baston’s wall, she dared not risk one of the Master’s prize possessions to fix her own mistake. “No! He fought the Lich King and has slain your kind before. Just do as I say and bring me that woman. Alive!”
It growled at her from its awkward place at her feet, and she waggled the ancient wooden box above the fire, feeling whatever mysterious leverage it contained sliding about inside. At that motion, the immortal froze in place again, inhuman yellow eyes fixed once more upon the case in her hand. The monster sneered but thankfully dared nothing further.
“Do that, then return to your slumber, and I will not set this ablaze.” Looming over the immortal, she pronounced, “Saloda?”
Its yellow eyes darted between the box in her hand and her face, and Dorna stiffened her shoulders to fight her nervous trembling as it weighed her bargain. Waggling the box again, she repeated, “Saloda?”
It snarled at her, but then begrudgingly repeated her crude Elven.
Dorna raised her free hand, and Marjorie drew the curtains shut, plunging the room into dim gaslight that now seemed even darker than it had before. The beast glared up at her from its place on the floor, then burst apart into wisps of black smoke that were quickly scattered by an unfelt draft, like ethereal serpents slithering into nonexistence.
Around the room, one of Marjorie’s Wardens gasped, and Marjorie pressed herself fearfully back against the wall, but Dorna sighed in relief. Slowly, she lowered her arm from above the brazier.
Saloda, it had said. The deal was struck.
When she had witnessed this before, the Master had assured that terrified young girl that the immortal was bound to his word. She did not know why, or how, but she knew that for the sake of whatever was kept in that wooden case, it would do her bidding and then return itself to its stone prison once done.
Dorna scratched at the sooty black that now stained one corner of the wooden case, only then noticing the pain in her hand from having had held it above the fire too long. It was red, and she rubbed at it tenderly, hoping she wouldn’t blister.
Marjorie took a deep breath and began to softly recite the Elven chant they all knew so well. The others took it up with her, and Dorna’s lips parted, instinctively drawn to join in, but then she shook her head and closed her mouth.
There was a risk that this, tampering with the Master’s secret arts without him, would disappoint him even more than just leading Baston to them would. The words could make her feel better, but they would not lessen the risk she had just undertaken.
When the monster returned, she could seek the Master’s help with her plan and perhaps confess herself to him then. The Great Restoration was all that mattered. If this worked, then surely he would forgive her.
~
“Rakhasin Rail Expansion Planned”
The story of the Royal Rakhasin Railway Company during the first year of its existence is a remarkable one, and the effect of what is being done is exciting the notice of both Verinde and Garren, for northeastern Rakhasin has virgin farmlands enough to meet the ever-expanding requirements of Verinde, and we may expect to hear little more of Garren grain “corners.”
In the just completed first year, the company built and acquired 783 miles of road. The company has let contracts for the construction of an additional 150 miles before the wet season commences. By the fall, therefore, there should be over 1,000 miles in operation. Of the land on either side of the line not reserved for other purposes, about 750,000 acres have been sold during the past six months, chiefly in lots of 160 acres, and to Verin immigrants.
– Khanom Daily Converser, 16 Tal. 389
~
- CHAPTER 27 -
Well lubricated on the bathtub hooch the miners drank, Gus slept well and woke the next morning feeling refreshed. The signature deadline on the tower project was three days away; these imitation Wardens probably wouldn’t risk Phand turning up dead before then, but based on his brief encounter, they seemed like an anxious lot, which meant they might do something stupid.
Whatever mastermind had plotted the kidnapping was smart, but Gus had seen nervous underlings take down savvy criminals before. A panicked flunky might act without orders, which might get Phand killed early, so Gus skipped lunch and went out to examine the alleyway he had caught them in.
Traffic was typically light at the start of the week but better than the day before, so he had little trouble finding a cab to take him six blocks up Queen’s. When he stepped off the main road towards the alleyway, he paused to recall the Wardens’ disappearance as it had happened.
He moved to where he had been standing when the police approached, and from there he could see a brownish stain of blood from the Warden he had shot. A trail of dark droplets led into the side alley just beyond. Nearly a dozen men had been in that alley when he arrived, and not a minute later, it was empty.
The bloodstains were easy to follow around the corner and into the side alley, but from there they vanished. The alley stood in a perpetual gloom cast by the tall buildings surrounding it, but even hunched down, he could track droplets no further than the center of the narrow space.
One of the fellow cultists might have helped stopper their fellow’s wound, but a delay to do so would have left them with even less time to disappear. Gus paced back and forth, poking at the bare walls and kicking aside drifts of garbage that had settled into the strange niche between buildings. There were doorways in the alley that stood directly off Queen’s, but there was nothing else that connected to this strange alcove for the Elven obelisk.
Looking up, he wondered if they might have ascended somehow, but there were no windows overhead, just a dozen or so stories of flat wall. Had they gone for the roof, he liked to think he would have noticed the gang of them still clambering up the wall while he stood below with the police. The only feature of note was the white obelisk at the end of the alcove, stark against the gray cement of the back walls.
The two buildings that formed the alcove shared a wall that extended to 10th, but they split on either side of the obelisk before reaching the alleyway off Queen’s. Like the others he had seen in Khanom, it was a white pylon with a semicircular concavity that faced the alleyway. Wedging himself between the wall and the Elven artifact, he peered around it to look behind it for a hidden opening in either building but found nothing there.
