Endless rooms, a lonely maze
Beneath an ever-watchful gaze.
Mekka wandered the abandoned rooms of the Black Pyramid, feeling melancholy.
He had found Ferrian, had saved his friend from a freezing death trapped in the grip of his own Winter, and yet, the Angel’s spirit had not risen.
In fact, he felt worse than ever.
It’s this damned Pyramid, he thought moodily.
Though most of the trigon was interwoven with silvertine in some kind of complex, harmonic interplay of incomprehensible magic, Mekka felt as though it was affecting him in a subtle, insidious way. He didn’t know why that should be, as Grath Ardan was of a similar construction and had never caused him any harm, but this Pyramid seemed… different to the forbidden library, more… alive, somehow.
He felt as though it was watching his every step and movement, perhaps listening to his every thought.
It had, after all, hunted him down and reeled him in like a prized fish, after smashing Caer Sync to pieces in an effort to get to him. This Pyramid could think, and it could act. It possessed some form of intelligence; it behaved with purpose.
But what did it want?
There was also the unanswered question of the mysterious blue head-piece, which was now an omnipresent feature of Mekka’s head.
He hated it. It frightened him that an alien piece of magic had attached itself to his body for some unknown purpose, was almost certainly manipulating him in some way, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.
Worse, every attempt to seriously think about the Ancients produced troubling effects. He sensed the whispers slithering about at the back of his mind, like tiny snakes, tantalising him with poisonous secrets. His thoughts became muddy and indistinct, and he experienced a strange sort of depersonalisation, as though he were no longer Mekka, but something else, merely occupying Mekka’s body.
Twice, he had dozed off, and awoken startled from nightmares in which he was dissolving into the Black Pyramid, becoming one with it…
Unsettled, he had left Ferrian and the Cat sleeping and roamed about the surrounding rooms, searching for anything that might be of use.
The rooms were all hexagonal in shape, mirrored on the ceiling, and most of them were entirely empty. Some contained illogical features like stairways that led nowhere, or balconies that bent at right-angles, or half-formed archways. There were pits and grooves in the floors and walls which seemed to serve no purpose. A couple of chambers contained recessed slabs that might have been sleeping quarters or tombs, and various random objects were standing about: stone benches, urns, ornate tables, bronze statues of twisted creatures, and an elaborate three-tiered water fountain. He saw more of the triangular black void portals, too, but decided against approaching any of them.
He also discovered a chamber that contained living plants which had outgrown their enclosures. None were any species he recognised, and Mekka wasn’t yet desperate enough to try sampling any of the berries or fruits.
Water seemed plentiful enough, but food was, however, shortly going to become a problem. Mekka’s pack contained only scant provisions – he had packed light, counting on a stopover in Meadrun to resupply – and Ferrian’s pack had been left behind in the clearing.
So far, he had found nothing obviously edible, and nothing at all that looked like it would burn.
But the Cat looks healthy, the Angel mused. He must be gaining sustenance from somewhere…
Mekka wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to know what the Cat was eating, but still…
And indeed, the Cat did wander off at regular intervals. Several times, Mekka attempted to follow him, but the animal simply vanished.
He surmised that there were more of the hidden dark corridors, but he was loath to follow the Cat through them, lest he lose his way back to Ferrian.
The young sorcerer was still in a vulnerable state. Mekka had tried to gently wake him, but he remained unresponsive, though his heartbeat was stronger and his pale skin had regained a little colour. The Angel made him as comfortable as he could on the hard floor. When the snow and ice had melted from the adjacent chamber, Mekka returned there and, to his great satisfaction, found Ferrian’s Sword lying on the black dais, gleaming in a puddle of water.
Mekka replaced the Sword in its sheath and set it down beside Ferrian.
Then he had made a terrible mistake.
He decided to venture back to the chamber with the monsters.
He wasn’t sure why he had chosen to go back there; morbid curiosity, perhaps, but upon entering the room he stopped dead, his breath freezing in his throat.
They were gone.
All of the stone alcoves were empty; the glass and the hideous things that had been sealed away were nowhere to be seen.
Mekka tried to explain it logically, thinking perhaps he had taken a wrong turn, but no – this chamber led directly off the one with the pyramids – where he had found Ferrian – and it was a dead-end, save for the secret corridor he had entered by. There was no mistaking it.
Cautiously, the Angel inspected the alcoves, and his gut twisted to find traces of hair in some of them.
The monsters had indeed been here.
And now they were not.
Mekka had crouched there for a long time, listening and hearing nothing.
Then he had returned to Ferrian, silent and swift and shadowy as the Cat.
Mekka sat in the alcove, shivering.
The Winter had long since dissipated, but a chill remained in the air. And it wasn’t just that: something about the Pyramid simply felt… wrong.
The abominations were missing, yes, but everything else seemed off as well. The rooms, too, were all strange, half-formed and vaguely absurd, as though the Pyramid had an idea about what living spaces were supposed to look like, but didn’t quite understand the concept.
From the vision that the Seraphim had granted him, Mekka gathered that the Black-Winged Angels had fled the destruction of their city in this Pyramid, that it was supposed to be a vessel of some kind, to house the survivors in safety. But who would want to live inside a gigantic Pyramid made of trigon, its walls literally formed out of melted-down tortured souls? Had the Ancients actually lived in here? Why? How could they stand it??
And more importantly:
If the race of Black-Winged Angels had survived, if they were meant to be inhabiting this Black Pyramid… then where were they?!
He rubbed his face with his hands, his thoughts turning sluggish again, his sense of self becoming distorted. There was a faint buzzing sound in his ears.
What was real and what wasn’t? Perhaps the monsters were never there, after all…
His eyes burned from lack of sleep, and drifted closed. It’s all real… the thought swam listlessly through the murk of his mind. Everything is real. I am the only thing that isn’t…
Mekka jerked awake, blinking and shaking his head angrily. He was determined to stay awake, to keep watch; if there were monsters roaming around, he refused to let them get to Ferrian…
Beside him, the Cat stood up on Ferrian’s chest, yawned, then jumped to the floor and trotted off in his lopsided way around the corner.
Wearily, the Angel pushed himself to his feet and followed, more for something to do than any expectation that the animal would lead him anywhere useful.
Predictably, the Cat disappeared, but this time Mekka caught sight of his scaly tail just as it vanished into the wall.
Slouching against a stone archway, Mekka rubbed at his eyes. Hidden passageways, he thought tiredly. Just as I suspected.
He glanced back the way he had come. Ferrian remained asleep in the alcove. All else was still, and quiet.
The silence pricked at his nerves.
But he had been sitting in this room for hours, and in all probability, if the abominations were truly alive, and mobile, they had wandered off into the depths of the Pyramid. And Mekka was fairly certain that, despite his resolve, if he allowed himself to sit down again he was going to be claimed by nightmares, if nothing else.
Better to keep moving, to be doing something…
With a sigh, he pushed himself off the pillar and went to examine the wall.
It was smooth and bare, with no alcove. The same shiny black and silver tiles stared back, as they did everywhere. There was no change in the pattern, not the slightest indication of a doorway.
But Mekka knew better, now.
Reaching out a hand, he touched the wall.
Blackness enveloped him. There was no transition; the effect was instantaneous, but this time Mekka was prepared, and at once took a step backwards.
He stood again in the grey light, facing the wall.
He patted himself before remembering that he had left his leather jacket with Ferrian. Turning, he walked back to the alcove.
Removing a glove, he placed a hand against the young man’s skin, checking his vital signs. Ferrian seemed much better, and was not so cold. Replacing his glove, he retrieved his jacket and slipped it back on, re-fastening it beneath his wings.
After a moment’s hesitation, he unhooked his waterskin and left it behind with his pack, in case Ferrian should wake, then strode back over to the hidden passage.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
Reaching into his pocket, he produced a small chunk of charcoal. Taking one large step to the right, he placed the charcoal against the wall and swiped it downwards. Two more steps to the left, he repeated the process, leaving two black lines on the wall, either side of the invisible doorway.
Satisfied, he bounced the charcoal on his palm, shoved it back into his pocket, and stepped through the wall.
Existence returned as a slow trickle, like melting snow. Silver eyes cracked open to bleary, unfamiliar surroundings.
Ferrian lay for several minutes, blinking away the fog of sleep and trying to remember what had happened to him.
Above him was a curve of vaulted stone, sweeping down into an archway to his left. The floor beneath him was composed of metallic, polished silver and black tiles in a geometric design resembling interlocking stars and circles that he had never seen before, but triggered an odd sense of déjà vu. A room opened up beyond the archway, lit with lugubrious half-light and covered with the tiles.
He recognised nothing.
Where am I?
An image of Arzath lying dead in an ashen clearing crashed into him like an avalanche. It was followed by a torrent of further memories, rapid and shocking in their intensity; the funeral pyre, the attempt to use his Sword to resurrect Arzath, the gleaming black tentacles, Mekka, the Black Pyramid…
Gasping, he jerked upright. A wave of dizziness and nausea overcame him, and he retched into the corner, but his stomach was empty and his throat parched dry.
Noticing a waterskin nearby, he grabbed it and gulped its contents until he choked. Then he slumped back against the wall, exhausted though he had only just awoken. Every single part of his body ached and was sore. He felt as though he had been pummelled into smithereens.
He stared bleakly into the empty room before him, which was silent as a crypt.
Am I… inside the Black Pyramid??
Somehow, it wasn’t at all what he expected.
No, of course it isn’t, he thought, rubbing his face. I expected to be dead!
Mekka was nowhere to be seen, though his satchel and waterskin were left behind. Ferrian’s Sword lay on the floor beside him, safely encased in its sheath. He reached out and pulled it towards him, relieved that he had not lost it, then used it to push himself painfully to his feet.
He rested for a moment against the archway, waiting for the rush of blood to subside from his head, then looked around.
His gaze lifted to the ceiling.
Somewhat like Grath Ardan, then…
Strangely enough, he felt comforted by that fact. The interior of the Pyramid was not a vast, horrifying lake of trigon, nor some dark machinery meant to crush his bones and flesh into liquid goo, but in fact was something resembling a civilised space.
Even if it was a prison, the fact that he was standing here and breathing meant that the Pyramid had wanted to keep him alive, for some unfathomable reason.
Puzzled, he pushed himself away from the arch and hobbled into the room.
There were two arched doorways on this level, and two more reversed above his head. He didn’t feel like attempting to get to those, so instead headed for the one on the far side of the room, to his left. Pins and needles washed through his limbs as he worked the cold stiffness out of them.
The next room contained nothing except two large, gleaming black platforms, one above the other. Oddly, they were covered with puddles of water.
There was an icy tang to the air that Ferrian recognised at once.
Did I… summon the Winter in here?
He could not remember doing so.
Seeing nothing else of interest, he shook his head and turned back.
Explains why I feel like a thawed out fish, he thought, then stopped and looked at his hand. He pinched it, and the skin reacted normally. Putting his hand to his chest, he felt a strong heartbeat.
“I’m not dead, this time,” he said aloud, letting a breath out in relief. “Thank the Gods…”
He crossed the room to the other archway. The room beyond was just as disappointingly bleak and vacant, except…
There were black markings on one wall.
Ferrian limped over to it.
There was nothing special about this wall, but the markings seemed to indicate something was there, almost as though they were framing a door.
Curiously, Ferrian extended a hand…
The darkness was so sudden that he stumbled and flailed about in blind panic. Coming up against a wall, he froze against its reassuring solidity, his heart frantic in his chest. After a moment, determining that he was still conscious and alive, he transferred his Sword to his left hand and turned his right palm upwards. Summoning a little magic, an icelight crackled into being, a tiny glittering silver-white flame that covered his hand in frost and dimly illuminated his surroundings.
He was in a corridor, lined on all sides with black-and-silver tiles. There was no sign of the room he had come from; the hallway extended away behind him into impenetrable blackness.
Tentatively, he slid backwards along the wall.
At once, he was back in the room.
Okay, he thought, a hidden passage. He let out a shaky breath. Fine.
He stepped back into the corridor.
Darkness stretched out before him, wound through with the ever-present pattern of tiles. His icelight glinted off the silvertine.
The most sensible thing to do would be to go back to the alcove, rest some more and wait for Mekka to return.
But for some reason, Ferrian slung his Sword onto his back and started walking, straight ahead into the unknown.
He regretted it, as the corridor seemed endless.
Ferrian was beginning to doubt himself, wondering if he had done something incredibly stupid, when he emerged with shocking abruptness into the light.
Or at least, the murky twilight was bright in comparison to the pitch-dark corridor. He stood for a moment in disorientation, letting his eyes and brain adjust.
He was in a black room, not due to shadow but because every surface was made of solid, wickedly-sleek trigon. It was highly polished, reflective like a mirror and a new design was marked out across it in thin golden lines and large circles. The room was a perfect square, rather than hexagonal like the others he had passed through, and two entryways led from it: one to his right and another, much larger, to his left.
The passage to his left was an enormous slit in the wall at least thirty feet high, stretching from floor to ceiling but disproportionately narrow: only about five feet wide. Its frame was made of grey stone covered with intricately carved details of vines, flowers and strange winged animals, here and there highlighted with gold. Light from what looked like a vast space beyond the ornate opening provided the only illumination, apart from Ferrian’s magic…
His icelight sputtered and went out.
Ferrian snapped his fingers, trying to reignite it, but could not.
His skin crawled.
I can’t use magic in here. There’s too much trigon.
Instead, he reached over his shoulder and drew his Sword. He didn’t like the look of this room, and hadn’t forgotten the black spikes that had attacked him in the clearing…
Something moved, over by the huge left-hand opening.
Ferrian brought his Sword up defensively…
A small, furry black animal wandered into the room.
“Rowl,” it greeted.
Ferrian stared at it in utter incomprehension.
A… cat?!
The cat came towards him. Ferrian backed away uncertainly.
The cat hesitated, sat down and looked up at him with round yellow eyes. “Mrooowwl,” it complained.
“Mrowl, huh?” Ferrian said nervously. “Is that your name?”
The cat did not reply. Seemingly encouraged by his voice, it approached him again.
Ferrian stood guardedly, but the little creature did not appear to be hostile, though it had a sinister-looking back paw and a peculiar scaly tail. Purring, it rubbed against his leg, then sat down and began to lick its chest fur, continuing to purr as it did so.
“Don’t suppose you’ve seen Mekka around, have you?” he asked the cat. “An Angel with black wings?”
The cat ignored him.
I’m going crazy, Ferrian thought. I’m inside a giant pyramid, in a room made of trigon, talking to a cat…
The cat got up and trotted away, disappearing back through the huge doorway.
Ferrian watched him go. Well, he thought, if it’s safe for a cat…
Reluctantly, he followed.
The opening led Ferrian into an immense, cavernous hall, also lined with trigon and gold, and bordered with mighty stone pillars which soared away like monoliths into a ceiling swallowed by night-deep shadow. White bands of light criss-crossed the hall from both sides, emanating from high, oblong windows or panels through which nothing could be seen but stark, blank brightness.
At the far end of the hall, beyond the light, occupying most of the wall, was a gargantuan black triangle. It was not a hole, nor a solid object, but something unfathomable, so black that Ferrian’s throat constricted, and a cold sweat broke out on his skin. It resembled the entrance to the Black Pyramid, through which he and Mekka had been so horribly inhaled…
He ripped his gaze away from it, gulping a breath, focussing instead on the centre of the hall.
A figure knelt motionless there, gilded silver by the rays of light.
Ferrian approached warily, both hands on his Sword, heart pounding in his chest.
It was a dark-winged Angel, but it was not Mekka. Even from a distance, kneeling as it was, he could tell that it was very tall – perhaps eight or nine feet if it were to stand. Its wings were huge, raven-black and half-spread, a smaller pair of wings folded behind and below them. Robes of black, blue and gold streamed from it, spilling across the dark floor like coloured ink. Long black hair fashioned into elaborate loops and braids, twined with gold cascaded amongst its silken garments to the ground.
The Angel made no movement, its back to Ferrian.
Silence filled the vast hall, broken only by the soft scuff of Ferrian’s boots as he tried to step quietly. His Sword caught the beams of light in dazzling flashes as he passed through them. Slowly, he circled the Angel.
And then he saw Mekka.
His friend was sitting cross-legged on the floor, a smaller, black-winged counterpart, his gaze fixed on the Ancient Angel in front of him.
Ferrian turned his own attention back to the figure before them.
It was made of stone, its fine, genderless features carved from palest alabaster, its face turned upwards and slightly to the side in an expression of heartfelt grief. Its slender hands were clasped against its chest, thumbs locked, fingers outwards in a gesture of Angel prayer.
He realised that the Angel’s wings, clothing and hair were also stone, like exquisitely carved and painted onyx.
The statue was so stunningly beautiful, and sad, that Ferrian, like Mekka, was momentarily spellbound, an unbidden wave of emotion rising through him.
Swallowing it back, forcing his gaze away, he hurried over to Mekka, who did not appear to have noticed him.
“Mekka!”
The Angel did not respond.
Ferrian knelt at his side. The glowing winged head-piece was still in place, brighter than ever, and now there was an odd light in his eyes, as well, like a thin blue ring around his pupils.
Fearfully, Ferrian touched his skin but it was warm, and his heartbeat was normal. He was very pale, however, and there were dark, weary circles around his eyes.
Ferrian tried to invoke a Mind Vision before remembering that his magic didn’t work. Sighing, he took the Angel’s shoulder instead and shook him. “Mekka!”
Mekka gave a violent jerk and there was a flash of silver, which stopped inches from Ferrian’s shocked face.
The Angel’s eyes went wide. “Ferrian! What… you’re awake!” Taking a deep breath, he dropped his dagger and slumped over with relief, putting his face in his hands.
Ferrian struggled to put his heart back into his chest, from where it had tried to leap out of his throat. “How… how long was I passed out? And… what’s going on? I assume we’re inside the Pyramid?”
Mekka took another deep breath, retrieved his dagger and carefully sheathed it. “You don’t remember?”
Ferrian shook his head.
Briefly, Mekka described everything that had happened.
Ferrian felt sick all over again. He shuddered involuntarily.
“Are you all right?” Mekka asked in concern.
Ferrian nodded, and glanced up at the Black-Winged Angel. “What were you doing just now? You were staring at this statue.”
Mekka did not reply.
Ferrian looked at him, and he closed his eyes and sighed.
“This is an Ancient,” he said quietly.
Ferrian swallowed, tightening his grip on his Sword. “Is it… alive?”
Mekka shook his head. “No. It is dead. Long dead. The last of its kind.” He looked up again at the magnificent statue. “They were known as the Iriphim.”
He was silent a moment longer, his expression sad. “They shared a collective consciousness,” he went on. “Like a… hive mind. Their thoughts and emotions created this Black Pyramid, out of a desperate need to survive.” He regarded the vast, light-strewn hall around them. “It is called the Watcher. It is an independent entity, capable of autonomous decision-making, but the Iriphim themselves are… gone. Nothing remains but an echo of their memories and knowledge.”
He shook his head. “The Pyramid – the Watcher – has been trying to speak with me. The voices in my head—” he sighed in exasperation, running a hand through his black hair. “I… thought they were demon-wraiths, wretched souls consumed by trigon, taunting me, a lingering side-effect of my possession by the dagger you tasked me with destroying. I was… wrong.”
His eyes glimmered with tears. “The Watcher showed me visions, glimpses of understanding, much as the Seraphim did. But from their perspective, I saw only horror and persecution, thousands of years of it. A very long time ago, one of the Iriphim fell in love with an Angel woman. A bloodline was created, of Angels born with black wings. The Angels and Seraphim tried their hardest to eradicate this bloodline, and… very nearly succeeded.” His fist clenched. “I believe that I am the last.”
Ferrian stared at him, stunned. “You… you are descended from the Ancients?”
Mekka nodded, his face ashen, haunted. “By many generations, but… yes.”
Ferrian gestured at Mekka’s head. “And… that?”
“A means of communication, of interacting with the Watcher.”
They fell into silence, staring at the beautiful, tragic Iriphim statue, its last moments frozen forever, pinned in place by the beams of light, its sadness eternal.
“Why would the Pyramid capture me, though?” Ferrian muttered. “Why was it trying to kill me?”
Mekka sighed. “It was not.”
Ferrian looked at him in surprise.
“The Watcher does not understand you,” Mekka explained. “A Human with the use of powerful magic. In the era in which it was created, Humans were fairly primitive. I believe it was trying to determine whether or not you were a threat.”
Ferrian’s eyes hardened. “Maybe I am!” he said angrily. “Maybe I’ll use my Sword and banish this whole thing right now!”
Mekka frowned. “That would not be wise. The Watcher is considerably more complex than—”
There was a noise at the other end of the hall. It was a strange, soft sound, like something sliding lightly over metal.
Mekka went silent and still as the Ancient. Beside them, the cat made a low warning growl in his throat, his fur standing on end.
The statue blocked their view, but the reflections of light on the floor flickered, as though something was moving through them. In the gap beneath the Iriph’s wings, something black and scaly, glittering with light, slid into view.
Mekka’s hand gripped Ferrian’s arm, the other moving to the hilt of his dagger. “We need to get out of here,” he whispered. “Now.”