by Jon Sprunk
“What was this place?” he asked.
“A temple brothel,” Alyra replied over her shoulder. “The priestesses were moved when the new temple of Ishara was built ten years ago.”
She stopped at a dusty kitchen in the rear of the first floor and opened a tall cabinet that might have been a pantry. Empty shelves filled the upper half of the space, but Alyra knelt down and touched something on the floor. A cubby door popped open at the back of the pantry. Waving them forward, she crawled inside.
Jirom got down on his knees and peered into the darkness behind the small door. A faint odor issued from inside. It was dry with a metallic taint, like the air inside a smith's forge. He followed behind Alyra, moving on his hands and knees into a square tunnel about a yard across. Three Moons grumbled at the indignity of crawling like a dog, though Jirom didn't see the point in complaining. He and the sorcerer had done more demeaning things back in their mercenary days. “It's not as bad as that battle in the midden fields outside Gallean, eh?”
“Ugh!” Three Moons said. “Don't remind me. I had to burn a perfectly good pair of boots after that debacle.”
Jirom focused on staying with Alyra, but he couldn't see anything after a few feet. The head of his axe clanked on the floor with every step. Without any light, he couldn't tell how far the tunnel extended, and only by occasionally touching Alyra's feet by accident could he be sure she was ahead of him. Then the smooth wood of the floor gave way to rough stone under his palms and knees, and, if he wasn't mistaken, the tunnel took a slight downward slant.
A touch on his shoulder made him stop.
“You can stand up now,” Alyra said. Her voice was hushed.
With exaggerated slowness, Jirom got his feet under him. He reached out to find the tunnel had widened as well. The floor had a definite tilt here, making him feel like he was going to tumble forward in the dark. There was a rustling of cloth, and then a light appeared.
Alyra held a glowing rod above her head. Its yellow light illuminated a rough tunnel that ran straight ahead of them at a gentle slope.
“I would kill,” Three Moons said as he climbed out of the cramped cubby-tunnel, “for a strong drink. Or even a smoke of kafir grass.”
“Keep your head on straight,” Jirom grumbled, a little harsher than he intended, but he didn't bother to soften the words.
They got underway again down the gentle slope. The tunnel had rounded sides, making Jirom feel like they were marching into the gullet of some massive beast. The hot, bitter air scoured his throat with every breath. After about fifty or sixty feet, he noticed another light ahead, a faint ruddy glimmer. He also noticed the tunnel was getting warmer. He thought it might be just the exertion until he reached out to touch the wall and jerked his hand back before his fingers got singed. The rock felt like it had been baking under the desert sun all day. He anticipated more complaints from Three Moons, but the sorcerer kept quiet. Alyra also said nothing. In fact, she had increased her pace, still holding the shining rod before her like a mystic guide into the depths.
They came upon the red light, which turned out to be a large mark—like a character of a language Jirom had never seen before—etched into the ceiling above their heads. Alyra passed under it without looking up. Jirom would have followed her example except he heard Three Moons mutter behind him. He turned back. “What?”
Three Moons stood under the glowing mark and stared at it. His lips moved as if he were having a whispered conversation with the thing.
“What is it?” Jirom repeated.
“Bad mojo, Sergeant. Very bad. I don't think we should be down here.”
No shit, my friend. But it's too late to turn back now. Or is it?
“Are you two coming?” Alyra asked from farther down the tunnel.
“Aye,” Jirom said, mostly to himself. “Come on, old man. We need you to keep the spirits of this place from devouring our souls.”
He'd meant it as a joke, but just then a tremendous crash echoed from down the tunnel. Jirom froze, envisioning the entire palace complex collapsing on top of them.
Three Moons jumped as if a horsefly had bit him someplace tender and hurried ahead down the passage. Jirom followed as they caught up to Alyra. A few paces ahead of where she'd paused, the tunnel curved to the right and took a steeper downward slant. There was more light coming from around the bend, but it was more yellow-orange than red. For the first time, Jirom noticed that Alyra's face was pinched, her mouth scrunched up, eyes crinkled. “You all right?” he asked.
“Fine. Just keep up.”
“Understood. Let's go.”
They walked around the bend and entered a long section of tunnel running thirty or so paces that ended at a cave mouth. The yellow light poured out of this maw, along with waves of heat that made Jirom break out in a sweat. The entire tunnel shimmered like the inside of an oven.
Alyra's pace slowed just when Jirom wanted her to speed up. He almost told her to get moving before they fried like eggs on a griddle, but he bit his tongue. This was her area of expertise. He followed close on her heels.
Jirom thought Alyra was going to lead them into the yawning cave, but she turned to a door set in the left-hand wall. The door had an iron facing, but it opened when she lifted the latch. Jirom followed her inside. “How much farther?” he asked.
“Just ahead. This tunnel leads up to the palace.”
She said something else, too, under her breath. He bent closer to hear better when a loud noise echoed the passageway, and they all froze. Jirom lifted his axe. The noise had sounded like a scream. Perhaps more than one. Whatever it was, he wasn't in a hurry to meet the person or beast that had made it.
Alyra didn't say anything when Jirom moved ahead of her. Three Moons came up beside him. The old warlock was drenched in sweat, but his expression was intense. “Be careful, Sarge. There's some big—”
A roar like a hurricane filled the tunnel. Jirom looked back, but there was nowhere to go, so he shoved Three Moons behind him and braced himself. A powerful wind rolled over them, searing hot and stinking of ozone. Alyra called out, but he couldn't risk turning around without losing his balance, so he stayed in place, hoping his presence would block the brunt of the gale.
After several long seconds the wind died down, but the sense of dread remained in Jirom's gut. Three Moons was pressed against the tunnel wall, his withered face as white as snow. Alyra knelt on the floor but appeared unhurt.
Jirom started down the tunnel. He was tired of playing it safe. He was ready to face this threat head-on.
The passageway bent to the right. Jirom stalked the last few steps on the balls of his feet, his entire body tensed to react at the first sign of danger. He peered around the bend. Two men stood in the tunnel beyond. The nearest one wore a ragged gray robe. He was bent over as if suffering from some ailment, with both hands reached out before him, his fingers curled into talons. The other man was half in shadow farther down the tunnel. He held out one hand, and a barrage of tiny green balls shot from his open palm. They struck the gray-shrouded figure in quick succession, each one erupting in a fierce explosion. The man in gray fell to the floor, smoke rising from his garments.
Sensing an opportunity, Jirom charged the sorcerer still standing. With each stride, he prepared himself to be incinerated alive or killed in some other gruesome, unnatural fashion. The shadow-swathed sorcerer pointed at him, and Jirom was struck in the chest by an invisible force. It felt like a sledge had slammed in his breastbone. The air rushed from his lungs as he catapulted backward, his back scraping across the rough stone as he landed. He started to get back up when Three Moons was suddenly beside him. The hedge-wizard was chanting in some guttural language as he wove his fingers in arcane configurations. Small shapes sprouting black wings darted from Three Moons’ clothing. Crows. Scores of them. They flew at the enemy sorcerer in a stream, their sharp beaks glistening black in the tunnel's ruddy light. The sorcerer waved his hand, almost dismissively, and the flock of birds veered
to collide with the wall. Painful squawks and clouds of feathers filled the air.
Three Moons reached into his satchel, but before he could launch another attack, the enemy gestured, twisting his hand in a circle. Three Moons was picked up and flung against the wall. Jirom gritted his teeth as his friend slumped to the floor.
Growling through his teeth, Jirom rushed at the sorcerer. Anger churned inside him, erasing all semblances of fear. He focused on his enemy's head, still half-hidden, and envisioned chopping it from his shoulders. Then the sorcerer stepped forward, and the light fell upon his face. Jirom slowed to a halt with his axe raised and gazed upon the last face he'd thought to see.
Horace looked right through him with no recognition in his expression. A nasty circular incision marred his forehead, with trails of dried blood running down to outline his eyes. His clothing was worn and bloodstained.
Before Jirom could react, Horace flicked his fingers, and a swarm of rock shards rose from the floor and shot toward him. Jirom flung an arm over his face as he spun away. The stone slivers tore into his back and side. How can I fight the man I came to rescue? But if I don't, he might kill us all.
A large rock ripped free from the wall and struck him in the shoulder, knocking the axe out of Jirom's hands and sending him to the floor for the second time in a dozen heartbeats. The tunnel shook as more stones flew above his head. He covered his head with one arm as he reached for his fallen weapon with the other.
His fingers had just found the handle when Alyra's voice rang out down the tunnel.
Horace stared at the ghastly figure shambling toward him. It looked like Jirom, but he knew it couldn't be him. Jirom was dead. Somehow this hellish place had conjured up a demon wearing his friend's face to torment him. He called upon his power, driven by the dark presence inside his mind, and prepared to incinerate this warped doppelganger.
“Horace!”
A familiar voice sliced through the fog of pain and confusion filling his head. The presence retreated as clarity returned.
He stood in a winding tunnel. Alyra stood before him. She was trembling, and in an instant he realized she was shaking with fear. Fear of him. Two men lay on the floor behind her. One was an old man in a shabby robe with blood running from a gash on his scalp. The other was Jirom, holding an axe.
“How—?” Horace started to ask.
Alyra ran into his arms, and he staggered, almost falling over as his legs threatened to buckle. He was exhausted and covered in cold sweat despite the stifling warmth of the tunnel. He couldn't remember how he'd gotten here. The last thing he remembered was the arena and watching Jirom battle the huge scorpion. He opened his mouth to ask what had happened, and then it all came rushing back. The cell, the stone slab, Astaptah's diabolical machine. And the pain. Memories of the torment haunted him. He could still feel it drilling into his bones. But the presence was gone. He took a deep breath and clung to Alyra like a drowning man to a lifeline.
Behind her, Jirom went over to check on the old man. Horace cringed, guessing he was responsible for the damage. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…Alyra, I didn't realize….”
She shushed him and held him tighter. “It's all right. We're here now.”
When she leaned back, he didn't want to let her go. “Oh, Horace. You're a mess.”
His clothing was ripped and burnt. He remembered an explosion—it seemed like it had happened years ago, in another lifetime—but nothing after that.
Alyra touched his forehead. “This wound looks exactly like—”
“Yes. Like Mulcibar. Lord Astaptah tried to kill me with the same machine.”
“The machine. You saw it?”
“No, just something that attached to it…somehow. I don't know. My brain feels like its cut up into pieces. How did you get down here? And who's the old guy? And we skipped the part where you tell me how Jirom's alive.”
Jirom helped the old man to his feet, and together they came over. “How do you feel?” Alyra asked.
The man rubbed his head. Blood matted his short, bristly hair, but it didn't look too serious. “Like I got sat on by a hippopotamus. Remind me to never volunteer for a mission again. Ever. But you two look happy, so it must have been worth it.”
“Horace,” Alyra said. “This is Three Moons.”
“He's an old friend,” Jirom added with a shrug.
Three Moons squinted at Horace. “This is the one you said stopped a chaos storm all by himself? I can believe it. We've gone up against a couple heavyweight spell-slingers back in our day, even some imperial-trained wizards once, but I've never been trampled like that before. I felt like a guppy caught in the jaws of a river shark.”
Horace tried to listen, but he kept staring at Jirom, still not sure he could trust his eyes. “You were dead. I saw you die.”
Jirom looked to Alyra. “It's her fault. I thought I was headed to the underworld, too. Then she and this old coot conspired to bring me back. I've got to say it's good to see you again, brother.”
Jirom reached out, and Horace grasped his hand. Just like that, it was as if they'd never been parted. “What happened to you down here?”
Alyra answered for him, “He was brought down here by the queen's vizier, Lord Astaptah. He's extremely dangerous.”
“Astaptah killed the queen,” Horace said. “I think he's still down here somewhere.”
Alyra nodded. “When he told the court you were responsible, most of the larger houses lined up behind him. They elevated him to Lord Regent for the time being. And with that machine under his control, no one will be able to stop him.”
Jirom exchanged a glance with Three Moons. “We'd heard the queen might be using the storms as a weapon. We just weren't sure it was possible.”
“It is. The queen had her reasons, but now it appears that Astaptah was just lying in wait until he could get rid of her.”
Three Moons snorted. “Had her reasons? Damn, son, that madwoman was aiming to kill a lot of people in her quest for power.”
“You didn't know her,” Horace said. “You didn't know what she was up against. Trust me; she had cause to be afraid.”
The old man started to reply, but Alyra held up a hand. “Now isn't the time. We need to get out of here.”
Horace shook his head. “Leave? To hell with that. I'm going to find that bastard and end this, right now.”
“You can barely stand without falling over.”
“Better listen to her, son,” Three Moons said. “You might be the biggest hammer in the workshop, but that don't count for squat if you can't hit the nail.”
“I'm not sure what that means,” Jirom said. “But I agree with Alyra. I need to get back to my men. There's a battle being fought in the streets. What's the fastest way out of this maze?”
“The quickest exit is up to the palace,” Alyra answered.
Horace took her hand. “We need to destroy Astaptah's machine before it causes any more devastation.”
Three Moons spat on the floor as he looked between the three of them. “Well, it looks like we need to decide what's more important. And fast, I suggest.”
Jirom let out a deep breath. “No, we can't choose one over the other. The rebels need Three Moons and me, but the machine has to be stopped as well. We have to split up.”
“Split up?” Alyra repeated, her voice rising. “Are you mad? We just found each other.”
Horace had to agree. “He's right. I'll deal with the contraption while the rest of you—”
“No! You're not doing it alone. I know what you're thinking. That you have to make this sacrifice, but you don't. We can do it together.”
Jirom nodded. “Right. You said you had a way out of the city.”
“It's at an old race track in the Garden Quarter,” she said. “There are tunnels underneath, one of which is supposed to lead under the city walls.”
“Supposed to?” Three Moons asked.
Jirom clapped the old man on the shoulder. “We'll find it.”
&n
bsp; Horace's throat tightened as he looked at Jirom. Would they ever see each other again? He reached out his hand. Jirom looked at it for a moment, and then pulled Horace into a tight embrace. “Take care of her,” Jirom whispered in his ear.
“You go find Emanon,” Horace replied. “And we'll meet you on the other side.”
Jirom winked before he headed back down the passageway with the old warlock at his side.
Alyra put an arm around Horace's middle. “Let's go. If we're going to try this, we need to hurry.”
Horace held her close as they descended deeper into the catacombs.
“Pikes set! Here they come again!”
Ismail gripped the strap of his borrowed shield tighter and hefted his lance into position alongside the battle line of mercenaries. Weapons flashed in the dying sunlight as they readied for another attack, shields locked into a wall of steel. Rain sluiced across their ranks, rattling against armor and forming wide puddles underfoot. Ismail stood still as the crossbowman standing behind him took aim over his shoulder.
Two hundred paces away on the far side of Slaver Square, the Akeshians were forming in front of the marble-faced buildings that housed the headquarters of the city's top slaving companies. This group of guards, hirelings, and laborers weren't particularly well armed or armored, but their numbers were growing by the minute. And they looked angry. For damned good reason, I suppose. We've been killing their bosses and freeing all their property.
Ismail tried not to think about the image of an Akeshian slave-merchant, his bald pate drooling with sweat as a score of newly freed slaves dragged him out of his litter and stomped him to death in the street.
