by Layton Green
Will stiffened at her words, though he knew she spoke the truth.
Mala looked at him. “Will this warrior from another land fight for your cause? For now, the question is irrelevant. The sword is a powerful symbol, but it is not enough. Not nearly enough. A hundred Zaridukes wielded by paladins would not begin to turn the tide in a battle with the wizards. Do you not fully grasp the might of your enemy? If you choose to engage, if you even flit about their coattails like a gnat, the Congregation will massacre you.”
“I think the might of our enemies is fresh on our minds,” Tamás said stiffly.
“As it should be.”
“Did you come to mock us, or was there another purpose?”
Mala stepped closer to the table. “What if there was something that might, in fact, affect the outcome? Perhaps not enough to defeat the wizards—I doubt such a thing exists—but enough to force them to leave us in peace or risk a larger civil war? A war for which the common born might not have the stomach?”
“Now you do mock us,” Tamás said, with an edge to his voice.
“Do I?” Mala asked. She carefully unrolled the parchment scroll, yellow from the ravages of time, and laid it on the table.
Along with everyone else, Will crowded in to observe the ancient treasure map with a series of runes along the top. The beginning point was marked by a large dot that appeared to be located, if the geography was the same as Earth, on the eastern coast of the Yucatan Peninsula of Mexico. Yet again, he marveled at the eerie similarities between Urfe and back home, and wondered what it all meant.
A dotted line wound through a representation of dense jungle, then crossed three geographical markers before ending at a pyramid in the middle of the peninsula. Instead of rising to a point, the terraced pyramid tapered to a flat summit, topped by a temple.
“I don’t recognize these runes,” Kyros said.
“They’re Alazansa,” Mala replied. “The language of the Alazashin.”
From past discussions, Will knew the Alazashin was a secret society of thieves and assassins Mala had once belonged to.
She read from the scroll. “ ‘Herein lies the living tomb of the sorcerer king Yiknoom Ukab K’ahk. All those who seek may enter, but none shall ever leave.’ ”
When Will looked up, everyone’s face except Caleb’s and Yasmina’s had turned as white as alabaster.
“I cannot read the runes,” Tinea said, swallowing and then peering closer, “but she speaks the truth about the origin. I’ve seen the language of the Alazashin before.”
“I don’t understand,” Will said. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” Tamás said after a long moment, giving the map a reverent look, “that if the legends are true, and the translation correct, then this map might lead to the final resting place of the Coffer of Devla.”
“By the Queen,” Merin Dragici breathed. The eyes of all twelve elders were riveted to the map.
“According to the Book of Devla,” Mala said, “the coffer is a chest that holds not gold or silver, but the power of Devla Himself. A chest that, when opened by a true cleric, will unleash the wrath of Devla on nonbelievers.”
“When it was carried into battle,” Tamás said, “a victory for our people was assured. The coffer was used to level armies.”
“If the legends are to be believed,” Mala said, “the coffer was lost over twenty-five hundred years ago, when our homeland was invaded by the Babylonians. The beginning of the end for our people,” she said bitterly. “The reason we wander the earth still.”
Will felt a chill at the similarity of the coffer’s origin story to that of the Ark of the Covenant. Apparently, Caleb was thinking the same thing. After exchanging an alarmed glance with Will, he said, “What does a pyramid in Mexico have to do with an invasion by the Babylonians?”
Mala answered, “As was common in that era, the Babylonians used mercenary armies to supplement their forces. The histories agree that the successful invasion of our homeland was due largely to the addition of Battle Mages from,” Mala pointed at the map, “the Calakmul Empire.”
“The true reason was the turning of our people away from Devla,” Elder Alafair added. “We abandoned our god, and He abandoned us.”
“Of course,” Mala murmured, with a twist of her lips. “The Calakmul sorcerer king at the time, Yiknoom Uk’ab K’ahk, was notorious for sending mercenaries around the world to gather plunder. It has long been thought the Coffer of Devla was taken to his treasure room.”
“Which no one has ever found,” Will guessed.
Mala pointed at the map. “If this is genuine, and a past expedition successful, we would have known about it. One can only surmise the treasure remains untouched.”
“Or the map isn’t genuine,” Will said.
Mala tipped her head. “My instincts tell me otherwise, but that is a possibility.”
Tamás raised his head, a fierce light in his eyes. “The Coffer of Devla could give the Revolution a chance for victory.”
“If the map is genuine,” Mala said, “and if the coffer is real and can provide a glimmer of hope against the Congregation, then there is still an enormous obstacle to overcome.”
Elder Revansill spoke in a reverent voice, as if quoting from scripture. “ ‘And the people shall hear the roar of the last true cleric of the age, the Templar, Your fist, Your scorn, Your righteousness, the one who unseals the coffer as he breaks the will of the world.’ ”
“According to legend,” Tamás said slowly, “using the Coffer of Devla requires the presence of a true cleric. The last cleric of the age. The Templar.”
“Of which none have existed,” Mala said, “if any have existed at all, for hundreds of years.”
“Devla will provide for us,” Elder Revansill said quietly. “If we have enough faith, and recover the coffer, then He will shine a light upon our path.”
The other elders nodded in agreement, their excitement palpable.
“And if He does not,” Tamás said, “then we are lost anyway.” He stood and placed his palms on the table, his voice rising. “Our path is clear. We must form a party at once to search for the Coffer. The survival of our people depends on it.”
“I assumed you might feel that way,” Mala said drily, as she replaced the map in the bronze tube. “I will lead the expedition to the pyramid. If retrieved, the Coffer of Devla is yours. I retain right of first refusal on all other magical artifacts, and fifty percent of all coin. You will furnish me with a wizard of mutual agreement,” she looked directly at Will, “and the addition of Spiritscourge on the journey would be beneficial.”
“You offer your talents so selflessly,” Tamás said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Would it not benefit the Revolution to retain all magical artifacts for the cause?”
Mala opened her other palm, revealing a concealed fire bead. She tapped the bronze tube suggestively against her palm with the fire bead. “Those are my terms. They are non-negotiable. If I must, I will seek a wizard elsewhere. But I prefer one I can trust.” She bared her teeth in a half-smile. “Consider it my duty to my people.”
The room erupted into chaos as Tamás and the elders began to vigorously debate Mala’s offer. Will’s head was spinning at the possibility of his own involvement. A memory of the smoking remains of Freetown filled his vision, the stench of bodies scorched by Spirit Fire. Just before the attack, Will had met Lucas and Mateo Blackwood, two cousins from his father’s side of the family. Lucas had been crushed by a falling tower and died in Mateo’s arms. These people—his people—needed help, or the wizards would slaughter them.
But was it Will’s duty to risk his life? He had a duty to his brothers, too. To keep them alive. To get them home. The night before, Tamás had told Will that if Val was truly imprisoned by the wizards, then he was beyond mortal help.
Or was he? What if Will found something in this legendary lost pyramid that might help free his brother, or help them get home?
Mala watched the deb
ate with folded arms, the corners of her lips upturned, cool as a lioness in her den. Caleb leaned over and whispered, “It’s not our war, little brother.”
“They’re our family,” Will said. “And even if they weren’t, does that mean we shouldn’t help them?”
“Now’s not the time to indulge your hero complex. Think, Will.”
“I am thinking. What about Val? We have to find a way to help him.”
“We don’t even know for sure what happened. How did he even get to Urfe again?”
“Maybe it was another key. Who knows? We saw him, Caleb. We heard his voice.”
“Did we? That could have been a vision. A wizard trick.”
“For what reason? That was Val, and you know it. He’s here and he needs us.”
“Yaz?” Caleb said in exasperation. “Talk some sense into him?”
Yasmina gave him a chilly glance, then resumed staring straight ahead.
The room quieted. Tamás stood to face Mala. “By unanimous consent, the High Council has agreed to your terms. You will have your wizard. We cannot, however, force this expedition upon the owner of Zariduke.” Tamás turned towards Will. “What say you, Will Blackwood? Will you serve the cause of your people and help break the yoke of the Congregation? Will you search for the lost Coffer of Devla?”
“Yes, Will Blackwood,” Mala said, her eyes mocking. “What say you?”
-3-
Val woke to a darkness that moved, and a smell so rotten it made him gag. As he fought back the bile, he realized he was lying on his stomach, on top of something rubbery. A weight pressing down on his back induced a feeling of claustrophobia.
Just as he started to panic, he had a flash of remembrance. It worked! I faked my own death and escaped.
Or did I? There is only darkness, and I’m moving. Did I die after all? Am I passing on to the other side?
If so, then I’m headed to hell, because this stench is unbearable.
The wave of nausea passed, and he tried to summon a light. He did it slowly and carefully, making sure to illuminate only the area right in front of his face, in case someone was watching. For his sanity, he needed a glimpse of his surroundings.
Illumination spells depended on some type of light source, however faint. There must have been a window nearby, and he guessed it was nighttime, because a halo of dull gray light appeared. Congealed moonlight.
At the same time he saw the leaden flesh of the dead body putrefying underneath him, he heard a chug of locomotion, followed by the long moan of a train whistle piercing the silence of the night.
A corpse. Val was lying facedown on a corpse. He tried to jerk back but couldn’t move. He realized he was underneath another corpse, and there were more all around, piled ten deep in the compartment like a chest of gruesome dolls.
It took every ounce of willpower he possessed to suppress the horror of his situation. After considering an attempt to open one of the railcar doors and fly away, he decided to wait. Better not to chance alerting someone. If he could just endure until they dumped the bodies, he would have a better chance of escaping.
Though weakened, he had worked hard to ensure the cuts on his wrist looked worse than they actually were. His unconscious state was due more to his magical inducement than to blood loss. Still, he would need sustenance soon.
Breathing through his mouth, trying not to think about what he was touching, he wedged out from between the two bodies and clawed atop the pile of corpses. He pressed his face against a small window covered in grime. Once his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he let the light spell disperse into fading gray motes.
Outside the window, a sprawling slum seemed to suck the moonlight inside. The shantytown of wood and tarpaper shacks lasted for miles, giving way to a foggy patch of countryside. He did not think they were anywhere close to New Victoria. The landscape looked much different. Green and rolling and sodden. Minutes later, the train stopped beside a fifteen-foot iron gate. On the other side, a miniature stone city poked out of the fog. Obelisks and crypts and mausoleums, sepulchers and vaults and gargoyle-studded sarcophagi.
A cemetery. An enormous one.
The sea of age-spotted granite rippled across the landscape, dwarfing any graveyard Val had ever seen, even the legendary above-ground necropoli of New Orleans.
As revolting as it was, Val crawled back inside the pile of corpses and closed his eyes. He had to play dead as long as he could. There might be a wizard overseeing the disposal.
Soon after, he heard men’s voices and the screech of rail cars opening. He risked a glimpse and saw corpses being loaded onto flatbed carts and wheeled into the cemetery. In a history class in college, he remembered reading about trains that hauled off the dead to mass graves in Victorian England.
His time came soon. The door opened, followed by the thump of bodies tossed onto carts. He went limp as gloved hands grabbed him and threw him atop a pile of corpses. He bit his tongue to keep from gagging, praying he didn’t contract some ghastly disease.
As the cart started rolling, he counted off five minutes and thirty seconds. They had to be deep in the cemetery. Just before he opened his eyes, the cart tilted, and he slid into midair. After a moment of panic, he landed in a heap along with the other bodies.
Once he heard the cart rolling away, he risked opening his eyes and discovered he was in an enormous pit lined with sheer, twenty-foot sides. At the bottom, an irregular ring of earth-hewn passages tunneled into darkness. Access to older burial sites, he assumed.
Above him was a roiling fog and the faint haze of a crescent moon. Val scampered off the pile and into one of the tunnels, stopping as soon as he was out of sight. With his skin still crawling from the touch of the corpses, he waited while the workers made three more trips, unloading their grisly cargo to create a pyramid of bodies in the pit. Not until he heard the chug of the train departing did Val feel safe to fly away.
As soon as he stepped out of the tunnel and into the charnel pit, wondering why there were no signs of decomposing bodies, he saw the first ghoul emerge from one of the tunnels. Tall and thin, with stretched gray skin and limbs like steel rope, the creature scanned the top of the pit before advancing on the grisly pile. More ghouls emerged, faces drawn with hunger, and Val turned in alarm to find two of the monsters creeping down the tunnel right behind him.
In a panic, he hit the ghouls with a blast of hardened air, sending them tumbling back down the tunnel. Then he turned and sprinted into the pit, taking flight to create distance. He watched in horror as dozens of the filthy creatures spilled out of the tunnels and scuttled like cockroaches towards the bodies.
Something tugged at his ankle. Val whipped his head down, horrified to see that one of the ghouls had leaped into the air and grabbed his foot. Before he could react, another ghoul took a running start, much faster than he expected them to move, and jumped on the back of the first ghoul.
The added weight caused Val to drop five feet. He hit the two ghouls with another Wind Push, but that caused him to drop even farther. Four more ghouls took the place of the first two, grabbing Val’s legs and yanking him to the ground. One bit into his thigh, and he screamed.
Forcing himself to focus, he reached for his magic and flung all four away, still pushing air, but the rest of the creatures had formed a circle around him. He knew if he took flight again they would grab him, pull him down, and devour him. Panic set in. He didn’t have enough offensive spells in his arsenal.
But he did know one—and it was the deadliest force on Urfe.
Val’s magic tended to work better when his life was in danger. The Spirit Fire came easily, black energy sparking and crackling along his fingertips. He flung his hands towards the pack of ghouls and the dark fire lanced into them, passing through a dozen of the monsters before arcing into the sides of the pit. The ghouls touched by Spirit Fire simply disintegrated, consumed by the essence of pure magic.
Val stared down at his hands in shock. He had never unleashed anything that p
owerful. It had simply come out of him.
Yet after the shock came terror. He had lost control and expended his resources too fast. Weakened by both the journey and the outpouring of magic, he knew he was too spent to call more Spirit Fire, and there were still a few dozen ghouls in the pit.
Still, he had created an opening. The remaining ghouls had fled into the tunnels or backed against the wall. The closest was twenty feet away. He reached skyward, summoned the magic to burst into flight—and found he didn’t have the strength.
No no no no no.
He tried again, pushing against the ground with his mind. Nothing. A familiar emptiness loomed inside him, the mysterious well of magic gone dry.
The ghouls crept forward, backing Val against the side of the pit. He looked around in desperation. The walls were too steep to climb. A pair of ghouls had blocked the closest tunnel.
Had he escaped the prison only to die at the hands of these filthy, corpse-eating monsters? As the first ghoul reached for him, Val spun away, limping on his bitten leg. A second creature grasped him by the throat. Far stronger than it looked, the ghoul held Val tight as two more closed in for the kill, teeth bared, dirt-stained claws extended.
Just before they tore into his flesh, there was a loud pop, like a diluted sonic boom. All three monsters exploded, spraying Val with body parts and gray ichor.
As he looked around in shock, an unseen force lifted him straight into the air, out of the grasping hands of the undead. A man in a cowled, steel-gray cloak with black runes on the sleeves stood on the side of the pit with a palm outstretched. Behind him, three more men in similar garb waited beside a black stagecoach with silver trim hovering a foot off the ground.
The man standing beside the pit flicked his wrist, sending Val flying towards the coach. When the mage dropped his hand, Val collapsed in a heap. He eased to his feet as one of the gray-robed wizards opened the door to the black and silver hansom, exposing an interior of finely brocaded gold.
