“The imperial throne room,” Myron said. “In there once sat the ruler of the world.”
“You know where we are, then?” Royce asked.
Myron nodded, looking at the walls. “Yes… I think so.”
“Which way to the crypts?”
The monk hesitated, closing his eyes for a second. “This way.” He pointed forward. “Down two doors, then we take a stair down on the left.”
They quickly reached the stair and Royce led them down. Gaunt grunted, limping along with one arm around Myron’s shoulders, his fist holding on to the monk’s rope belt.
“Oberdaza?” Arista said to Hadrian as they chased the end of the line. “You mentioned them before, when we were in Hintindar, didn’t you? You said they were witch doctors who used Ghazel magic.”
“Scary little buggers.”
“What was that thing they were making?”
“No idea, but it was on fire and growing.”
“I could sense something, something disrupting the rhythm, breaking my pattern, my connection. I’ve never encountered anything like that before. I didn’t know what to do.”
“I think you did great,” he told her. “You controlled it real well too—didn’t even get close to losing you this time.”
In the dim light he managed to catch a little smile on her face. “I did control it better, didn’t I? You helped. I could sense you near me, this warm light I could cling to, an anchor to keep me grounded.”
“You were probably just afraid I’d hit you again.” Behind them, down the corridor, echoed a tremendous boom! The ground shook under them and dust blew off the walls. “Uh-oh.”
They reached another stair.
“We keep going down, right?” he heard Royce ask. “This tomb-thing is at the bottom?”
“Yes,” Myron replied. “The imperial crypt is on the lowest level. The palace was actually built over the tomb of Novron as a shrine to glorify his memory. It became a ruling palace long after.”
They came to still another stair and raced down it, Magnus grunting with each drop. At the bottom lay corridors smaller and narrower, with shorter ceilings. They moved single file now, Gaunt struggling, hopping. A three-way intersection stopped them. Three statues of long-bearded men holding shields stood before them, staring back.
“Well?” Royce asked the monk.
“This is where the map was torn,” he replied apologetically. “The rest is just white space.”
“Great,” Royce said.
“But we should be close. There wasn’t much room left, so it has to be—Look!” The monk pointed at the wall on the right corridor, where an EH was scratched.
“Let’s hope the Ghazel can’t read,” Royce said, pushing on.
“They don’t need to; they can smell,” Hadrian explained.
They ran as best they could, chasing the bobbing lantern. Behind them, the sounds of pursuit grew as the Ghazel gained on them. They passed doors on either side of the corridor, which Royce ignored as he rushed forward. Some were partially open. Hadrian tried to look inside, yet the interior of each was too dark to see anything.
Drums echoed, and the blast of a horn rang down the stone corridors. Gaunt was bleeding again. Hadrian could see dark drops on the floor behind them. If the Ghazel had had any trouble tracking them before, they would have none now.
Again they stopped, this time at a T-intersection at the center of which stood a large stone door beside a stone table. They all saw letters above it, carved deep into the arch.
“Myron, translate,” Royce ordered.
“This is it,” he said excitedly. “ ‘Tread lightly, with fear and reverence, all ye who enter these halls, for this is the eternal resting place of the emperors of Elan, rulers of the world.’ ”
Before Myron finished reading, Hadrian heard the chilling sound of claws on stone. “They’re coming!”
Royce pulled on the door and struggled with it. Hadrian and Mauvin pushed forward. Together they grabbed hold of the edge and pulled to the sound of heavy stone grinding.
The sharp clacking of hundreds of three-inch nails grew louder as behind them a fiery red light appeared and grew. They all passed through the opening and together pulled the door shut. As they did, as the door closed, Hadrian peered out the closing crack and glimpsed the sight of a giant, stooping figure made of flame striding down the corridor at them.
“There’s no way to lock it!” Alric shouted.
“Outta my way!” The dwarf fell to his knees and, drawing his hammer, pounded on the hinges. There was an immediate crack. “That will slow them.”
Ahead was another, very narrow downward stair. Here the stone was different. It cast a bluish hue and was carved in fluid curving lines.
Boom!
The Ghazel reached the door and struck it hard.
“Run!” Hadrian called forward, and Royce reached the bottom of the stairs in seconds, waiting for the rest to join him.
Boom!
Hadrian glanced over his shoulder, watching Myron help Gaunt down. There was a loathsome clicking on the far side of the door, and he imagined all those claws scratching. Magnus remained on his knees, picking up wedges of broken stone and hammering them into cracks to hold the door tight.
Boom!
A red glow was visible, seeping in around the edges. Licks of flame curled through like long fingers reaching, searching.
“The door won’t stop them,” Arista said. She too remained on the landing, standing before the door, and Hadrian could see tension in her face. “And we can’t keep running. They will eventually catch us. I have to stop them. Go on ahead.”
“You tried that,” Hadrian told her sternly.
“I didn’t understand then. I’ll do better this time.” Her little body was breathing fast as she stared unblinking at the door, her hands clenching and unclenching.
“There’s three of them and only one of you, and there’s this fire thing. You—”
“Go!” she shouted. “It’s the only way!”
Boom!
Cracks appeared across the face of the door. Bits of stone chipped off and fell on the dwarf’s head.
“Go on, all of you!” She closed her eyes and began to mutter. Myron and Gaunt were finally at the bottom. Magnus followed quickly, vaulting down the steps. Mauvin and Alric hesitated partway down, but Hadrian remained—reluctant to leave her.
Boom!
The door fractured, the hands of flames bending around, gripping tight, ripping at the stone.
Arista’s robe burst forth a brilliant white light, the stairs illuminated so harshly everyone shielded their eyes.
Boom!
The door buckled.
“No, you don’t!” Arista shouted above the thunder of the stone.
White light rushed to the door, circling it and forcing back the red fire, filling the gaps. The flaming fingers recoiled and fought. Writhing and twisting, sparks erupted where the two met. From the far side they all heard an unnatural howl of pain that shook the bowels of the stone. A loud crack shuddered through the walls and, like a candle she blew on, the fiery light went out with a snap.
Arista remained on the landing, her face slick with sweat, her arms up, her fingers weaving in the air as if she were playing an invisible harp. The stone of the doors glowed with a blue light, brightening and ebbing like a luminous heartbeat. Her movements became faster, her hands jerking. She grunted and cried out as if in alarm.
“No!” she shouted.
A wind filled the space around her; Arista’s hair whirled and snapped, her robe blowing, billowing out, shimmering like the surface of a moonstruck lake.
“Arista?” he called to her.
“They’re—they’re—” She was clearly struggling, fighting something. The pulsing light on the door sped up, growing faster and faster. She screamed and this time her head dodged to one side. She took a step backward and with another grunt struggled to throw her weight forward. “They’re fighting me!”
She crie
d out again and Hadrian felt a powerful gust of wind burst through the door. It staggered both of them. Hadrian placed a hand on the wall to keep from falling.
“More than three!” she said. “Oh dear Maribor! I can’t—”
Her face was straining, her jaw clenched; her eyes watered and tears fell down her cheeks. “I can’t hold them. Run! Run!”
The door exploded. Bits of stone flew cracking across the walls, splitting and whizzing. Dust blossomed in a cloud. Arista flew back, crumpling to the floor—her light all but out. The robe managed only a quivering purple glow.
“No!” Hadrian shouted. He grabbed hold of her and lifted just as through the door the goblin horde charged.
They broke through the fog of dust with snarling teeth and glowing eyes. They attacked with sachels held high, fanged mouths spitting curses and dripping with anticipation.
Alric drew forth the sword of Tolin Essendon. “In the name of Novron and Maribor!” he shouted fiercely as he charged up the steps with Mauvin close behind. The shimmering blade of Count Pickering slid free of its sheath. “Back!” the king cried. “Back to Oberlin, you mangy beasts!”
Hadrian ran down the steps, clutching the princess to his chest. Behind him, he could still hear Alric’s cursing the goblins, the blades’ ringing, and the Ghazels’ screams.
As Hadrian reached the bottom, Arista was stirring, her eyes fluttering open. He handed her to Myron. “Keep her safe!”
He turned, drew his swords, and ran back up the steps with Royce right behind. Above him, Mauvin and Alric fought as dark blood splattered the walls and spilled down the steps. Already a mound of bodies lay on the landing. He was still three steps away when Alric cried out and fell.
“Alric!” Mauvin shouted. He turned to his fallen king just as a sachel blade stabbed out.
Mauvin cried out in pain but managed to cleave the head from the goblin’s shoulders.
“Fall back, Mauvin!” Hadrian shouted, stepping over Alric.
Standing shoulder to shoulder, the two filled the width of the corridor and fought like a single man with four arms. The whirl of their blades was daunting, and after three attempts the goblins hesitated. The goblins paused their assault and stood beyond the broken door, staring at them across a pile of Ghazel bodies.
“Mauvin, take Alric and go!” Hadrian ordered, breathing hard.
“You can’t hold them yourself,” Mauvin replied.
“You’re bleeding, and I can hold them long enough. Get your king away.”
Mauvin glared at the grinning teeth across from him.
Hadrian could see at least two of the oberdaza lying facedown on the stone table and thought, She gave as good as she got.
“Take him, Mauvin. Your duty is to him. Alric may yet live. Take him to Arista.”
Mauvin sheathed his sword, and stooping, he lifted Alric and retreated down the steps. The goblins moved a step forward, then hesitated once more as Royce appeared beside Hadrian.
“Ugly little buggers.” He appraised the faces across the threshold.
Pressure from the back was pushing the goblins reluctantly forward.
“How long before they remember they have bows?” Royce whispered.
“They aren’t the brightest, particularly when scared,” Hadrian explained. “In many respects they are like a pack of herd animals. If one panics, they all follow suit, but yeah, they’ll figure it out. I’m guessing we got maybe a minute or two. Looks like we should have been winemakers after all, huh?”
“Oh, now you think of it,” Royce chided.
“We’d be in our cottage around a warm fire right now. You’d be sampling our wares and complaining it wasn’t good enough. I’d be making lists for the spring.”
“No,” Royce said. “It’s five in the morning. I’d still be in bed with Gwen. She’d be curled up in a ball, and I’d be watching her sleep and marveling at how her hair lay upon her cheek as if Maribor himself had placed it there in just that way for me. And in the crib my son, Elias, and my daughter, Mercedes, would be just waking up.” Hadrian saw him smile then for the first time since Gwen’s death.
“Why don’t you go down with the others and leave me here?” Royce said. “You might be able to get a little farther—a little closer to the tomb. Maybe there’s another door—a door with a lock. You’ve spent enough time with me already.”
“I’m not going to leave you here,” Hadrian told him.
“Why not?”
“There are better ways to die.”
“Maybe this is my fate, my reward for the life I lived. I wish these bastards had been at the bridge that night, or at least that Merrick had fought better. I regret it now—killing him, I mean. He was telling the truth. He didn’t kill Gwen. I guess I’ll just tack that on to all the other regrets of my life. Go on. Leave me.”
“Royce! Hadrian!” Myron called to them from the bottom. “Run!”
“We can’t—” Hadrian said when he noticed a white light growing below them and felt a rising wind. “Oh son of—!”
The stairs trembled and rock cracked. Bits of stone shattered and flew in all directions, hitting them like stinging bees. Hadrian grabbed hold of Royce and leapt headlong down the steps. A loud roar issued from above them as goblins screamed and the ceiling collapsed.
“Hadrian!” Arista cried out. Her robe brightened, and Myron held his lantern high, but she could not see through the cloud of dust. She staggered on her feet, light-headed and dizzy. Her legs were weak and her thoughts muddy. Swaying with her arms reaching out for balance, she stared into the gloom of swirling dirt, her heart pounding. “Oh god, don’t let them be dead!”
“Cut that a little close, didn’t you?” She heard Hadrian’s voice emerging out of the murk.
The fighter and the thief crawled out of the haze covered in what looked to be a fine coating of gray chalk. They waved their hands before their faces and coughed repeatedly as they climbed over the rubble to join the others in the narrow corridor. Behind them, the way was sealed.
Royce looked back. “Well, that’s one way to lock them out. Not a good way—but a way.”
“I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t know what else to do!” she said while her hands opened and closed nervously. Arista felt on the edge of losing control; she was exhausted and terrified.
“You did great,” Hadrian told her, taking her hands and holding them gently. Then, looking past her, he asked Mauvin, “How is he?”
“Not good,” the count replied with a quavering voice. “Still alive, though.”
The new Count Pickering was on his knees, holding Alric and brushing the king’s hair from his face. Alric was unconscious. A large amount of dark blood pooled on the ground around him.
“The fool,” Mauvin said. “He put his arm up to block, like he had a shield—’cause he always practiced with a shield. The blade cut his arm open from the shoulder to the elbow. When he tried to turn, they sliced open his stomach.” Mauvin wiped tears from his eyes. “He fought well, though—really well. Better than I’ve ever seen—better than I thought he could. It was almost like… like I was fighting beside Fanen again.” The tears continued to run down Mauvin’s cheeks, faster than he could brush them away.
Alric’s chest was moving, struggling up and down. A terrible gurgle bubbled up his throat with each raspy breath.
“Give me the lantern.” Hadrian rapidly bent down over the king. He tore open his shirt, revealing the wound. The moment Hadrian saw it, he stopped. “Oh dear Novron,” he said.
“Do something,” Arista told him.
“There’s nothing I can do,” he told her. “The sword—it went through. I’ve seen this before—there’s just nothing—The bleeding won’t stop, not the way he’s—I can’t—Damn, I’m so sorry.”
His lips sealed together and his eyes closed.
“No,” Arista said, shaking her head. “No!” She fell and crawled to Alric’s side. Placing her hand on his head, she felt he was hot and drenched in sweat. “No,
” she repeated. “I won’t allow it.”
“Arista?” She heard Hadrian, but she had already closed her eyes and began to hum. She sensed the dull solid forms of the old walls, the dirt and the stone, the air between them, their bodies, and the flow of Alric’s blood as it spilled on the ground. She could see it in her mind as a glowing river of silver and the glow was fading.
“Arista?” The sound of Hadrian’s voice echoed, but it was faint, as if coming from a distance.
She saw a sliver of darkness that appeared as a tear, a dark rip in the fabric of the world. She reached out and felt the edges, pulling them wider until she was able to pass through.
Inside it was dark—darker than night, darker than a room after blowing out a candle—it was the darkness of nothing. She peered deep into the void, searching. Alric was there, ahead of her, and drifting away, pulled by a current, like some dark river. She chased after him.
“Alric!” she called.
“Arista?” she heard him say. “Arista, help me!”
Ahead she saw a light, a single point that glimmered white.
“I’m trying. Stop and wait for me.”
“I can’t.”
“Then I’ll come and get you,” she said, and pushed forward.
“I don’t want to die,” Alric told her.
“I won’t let you. I can save you.”
Arista struggled forward, but progress was hard. The river that pulled Alric away pushed her backward and confounded her legs. She fought, driving against the wash even as Alric glided across the surface.
Despite the difficulty, she was getting closer. Her brother looked back at her, his face frightened. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t a better brother, a better king. Arista, you should have ruled instead of me. You were always smarter, stronger, more courageous. I was jealous. I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”
She reached out and almost caught hold of him, their fingertips touched briefly, then he slipped away. She watched as he picked up speed. The current grew stronger, pulling him away, rushing him forward, stealing him from her.
Ahead the light was closer, brighter, and in it, she thought she saw figures moving. “Alric, you have to try and slow down, you’re moving too fast, I can’t get—I can’t grab you. Alric, you’re speeding up! Alric, reach out to me! Alric! Alric!”
Heir Of Novron: The Riyria Revelations Page 59
