“Well, fancy elf,” Leif said dryly, “got any more bright ideas?”
The party’s gaze followed Sakrattars’ magical lights as they flitted up the staircase they should be taking, illuminating boulders the size of farmhouses piled high upon the ruined masonry. Sakrattars held Codex to the rubble, using the faint, flickering spotlight coming from the little construct’s damaged shell to examine the situation. Ice cold water seeped between the rocks, gathering into shallow pools eroded into the stone over many centuries. Even if it were possible to remove the boulders, the stairs beneath were completely destroyed.
“We will need to go the alternate route Codex suggested,” Sakrattars announced. “Codex, if you could, please.”
Codex whirred into action. “No pro-pro-problem, user Sakrattars. If you turn right at the hallway ahead. . .”
The rest of the party groaned and sighed, commiserating as they reluctantly followed Sakrattars and Codex back into the dark, labyrinthine ruins. They had spent an anxious, mostly sleepless “night” amid the absolute blackness of inner Ainchalez, and were left massaging sore shoulders and stiff joints after bedding down on the cold stones. The lack of light was another problem. They had no sense of time, relying on their own body’s instincts to approximate when they should eat and rest. Even then, the longer they stayed in Ainchalez, the more time’s passage blurred together.
Kaja, especially, was on edge. At one point she tugged on Sakrattars’ sleeve and asked him, in Draconic, if he “could hear the voices too”. He did not, and when he tried to get more information from her, she clammed up and said nothing more about it. Sakrattars declined to mention Kaja’s question to the others—they were already upset as it was and he didn’t want to trigger another rant about the “ulfhednar’s warning” from Leif.
“I am curious to discover why Syntax was installed in the Cryp-Cryptaevium,” Codex stuttered, perhaps trying to relieve his guests with conversation. “Though she is a talented gatekeeper, our primary function is not as security dev-dev-devices.”
Desperate to break the cloying, oppressive silence of the dead city, Sakrattars eagerly seized the opportunity. “Tell us about her.”
“She and I are among the hundreds of gatekeepers available in Ainchalez, though Syntax is special. She has a curiosity about the outside world not com-com-common among my colleagues. She often spends as much time listening to the guest’s stories as guiding them through Ainchalez.”
Sakrattars noticed that as Codex talked, Kaja’s expression fell, until her face was hidden completely by her hood. But, for as much as he wanted to know the reason behind her sudden change, she had not been in a forthcoming mood and showed no sign of being receptive to more questions. Instead, he replied to Codex. “Syntax sounds nice,” he said absently.
“She is!” Codex chimed. “She will find all of you fascinating, and will have endless questions. Syntax always wanted to see the outside, perhaps to visit the lands her guests came from.”
“She couldn’t?”
“Oh no, gatekeepers cannot leave Ainchalez. They must remain so they can be loaned to new guests. That is the pur-pur-purpose of our creation.”
“That’s sad,” Kaja said softly. Everyone looked in her direction, surprised. “That makes me sad,” she repeated. “Maybe we can take her with us.”
“That is kind, user Kaja,” Codex said. “But we are a part of Ainchalez. We best fulfill our role here, in the grand city.”
Jo’s lips pressed into a thin line. With the backdrop of devastation and ruin, Sakrattars didn’t need to hear words to know what she was thinking. “Well you left, didn’t you?” she asked gruffly, sidestepping the growing owlbear in the room.
“According to user Helaena, I was obtained many solar cycles ago by a treasure hunting party. They sold me to the collector, and later I was obtained by Helaena. So yes, user Jo, I did leave Ainchalez, though not intentionally. My last memory be-be-before awakening in Helaena’s hands was being placed back on my charging interface by my wonderful creators.”
“So you didn’t see what happened here?”
Codex was quiet for a moment, with just the soft clicks and purr of moving gears. “No, this is all as new to me as it is to you. I ap-ap-apologize for the inconvenience.”
That statement hung in the air for several minutes, the silence uninterrupted until Codex directed them down a turn in the path. Gone were the large chambers with soaring ceilings—the party was deep in the inner city now, winding their way through a maze of smaller corridors that they couldn’t hope to navigate without Codex’s help. Sakrattars held out Codex like a torch, eyes scanning the path ahead in a mixture of wonder and apprehension. On either side of the walkway were frozen icefalls cascading down the ancient stone from cracks in the walls that had let in trickles of groundwater. The ice glinted in the glow created by the party’s passing—perhaps the first light it had seen in millenia.
But despite the stoic beauty, the unnerving desolation frayed at Sakrattars’ nerves. There were no sounds that didn’t come from him or his companions, and they didn’t find any evidence that anyone else had ventured this deep since the days of Ainchalez’s operation. The only other signs of life were clusters of mushrooms springing up from the damp, their faint, green glow somehow only highlighting the eerieness of their surroundings. To Sakrattars, it felt like they were walking through a massive tomb.
The shadows and light shifted and pulled, gradually revealing a large statue situated at a T-intersection at the end of the corridor. As they approached and Sakrattars’ light crept up the carved stone, a stylized, humanoid figure came into focus—tall, strong, broad-shouldered, bearing a smithy’s hammer in one hand and a metal ingot in the other. Though carved in the same distinctive style as the rest of Ainchalez’s art—all hard angles and geometric shapes—some of its features had a vague familiarity that Sakrattars couldn’t quite put a finger on.
“That is Tura, the legendary founder of Ainchalez,” Codex explained. His pride came through even with his hollow voice. “Since time immemorial, the orodmai lived in quarreling tribes, scattered through the mountain valleys. Tura brought them all together here, in this valley, founding the most perfect kingdom of my wonderful creators. The capital of that king-king-kingdom is this, the grand city of Ainchalez.”
As Codex babbled on—something about historical treaties and agreements—Leif’s mind and gaze began to wander. He held Oxhiminn aloft, the magical weapon’s ghostly glow crawling over the carved walls. Back home in Stjornugaard, reliefs depicted myths and legends; they showed brave thanes fighting trolls and dragons and huge Volgarian armies. But, here in Ainchalez, they only showed the same, repeating geometric patterns. Leif couldn’t help but think that this “Tura” fellow must have been a very boring guy.
Muttering with wearied disappointment, Leif turned away from one wall and towards another—
—only to come face-to-faceplate with a metal guardian.
He yelped in alarm, his heart practically leaping from his chest as he made a wild slash with his axe. Missing completely, the momentum threw him to the ground. He scrambled and fumbled, raising his shield in a hopeless gesture against the brutal attack he expected—but one never came. He peeked over his shield and his cheeks went beet red. The guardian was completely wrecked, its broken body embedded in the wall as if thrown by a mighty force. It had been there so long that small stalactites had begun to envelop it. It wasn’t going to be on the attack any time soon.
“Sad. This is Beryl Eighty-Nine,” Codex said, scanning the guardian’s body. “They always were a little glitchy.”
“I don’t think this was a glitch, Codex,” Sakrattars replied uneasily.
Amale whined, getting their attention. He gestured ahead, at the expanse of gleaming bronze shards carpeting the darkened hallway. These guardians hadn’t just been shattered—they had been torn apart. Beyond the bodies, the tunnel had completely collapsed.
Codex whirred softly, his scrying spells playing over the broken constructs, then the huge boulders blocking the way forward. “I apologize, I have once again led us to a dead end,” he said. “My maps are badly out of date, and it seems there was a terrible construction accident.” The companions exchanged knowing glances. This was no construction accident—it was a battlefield. “If I may make a re-re-request,” Codex continued, none the wiser. “We should visit the home of my forgemaster. He can repair my damage, and give me updated maps. Without them, I am not sure I can lead you to the Cryptaevium.”
Sakrattars swallowed. He could only hope that, if Ainchalez was as old as Codex claimed it to be, that the enemy the guardians had faced was long gone. “How far?” he asked nervously.
“Not far,” Codex answered.
*
*
The companions followed Codex’s instruction as he led them to what appeared to be a residential district, then down a small side street within. The apartment blocks were a comfortingly familiar sight: like the ones in Aurea, there were doors spaced along the walls both at street level and several floors above that. But where the buildings in Aurea were seldom more than three storeys tall, the apartments before the companions stretched upwards, storey after storey, until they were lost in the darkness above. They had to have been taller than even the soaring apartments of Forgeheart. Sakrattars thought of all the lives of all the people who had to have once lived there.
“Please place me in the interface,” Codex chimed.
Sakrattars hesitated for a moment, looking around to make sure there were no guardians on plinths nearby. Seeing nothing, he acquiesced, placing Codex in the divet by the door.
Codex hummed. “Please stand by,” he said as he worked. “My forgemaster has locked the door from the inside, using his personal cipher. Luckily, he shared it with me.” There was a metallic clank and a soft grinding of gears, but the door didn’t move. “Apologies, it seems the door requires maintenance. Perhaps one of you could—”
With a squeal of metal, Jo accidentally pulled the door off its rusted hinges. “Sorry,” she said, gently leaning the door against the wall.
Codex did not respond. Sakrattars picked him up and cautiously stepped through the threshold, stale air pouring out of the darkness ahead as they entered. Though the ceiling was low, the room still had the familiar layout of a family home—a kitchen here, a dining area there. There was a soft clatter as Kaja accidentally kicked something on the floor. She stooped to pick it up, lifting a toy horse made of metal. The joints were rusted together, the horse forever frozen in the position it had been lying in. Sakrattars felt the warm ripples of ethereal energy as Codex scanned the apartment.
“Pardon the interruption,” Codex called out, raising his volume slightly. “It is Codex, Forgemaster Jada. I am coming in, and I’ve brought guests.”
Having gone ahead, as was his habit, Amale emerged from a side room. His ears were lowered, and one look told them everything they needed to know.
“Let’s leave, Codex,” Sakrattars said. “I don’t think your Forgemaster will be able to help you.”
“You are polite, use-user Sakrattars, but my Forgemaster said I should always come to him for repairs. He will be hap-happy to see me, let’s proceed.”
Not knowing what else to do, Sakrattars stepped around the corner into the bedroom, already knowing what he’d see. Even so, it didn’t make it easier to bear. Laid out upon the largest bed were two bodies. Left in the cold, dry air, they had mummified over the centuries, their clothing degrading until it clung close to their leathery skin. Even in this state, he could see the two were holding each other tightly. On the other side of the room, a much smaller mummy lay in a child’s bed, the remains of a stuffed dragon clutched against its chest.
Kaja stared, wide-eyed, as if she couldn’t look away. Even when Jo placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, she barely moved. Her pale face showed little emotion, but her hands betrayed her as they quietly twisted and worked the hem of her cloak. Jo wanted nothing more than to take Kaja away, to shield her from the gruesome sight, but she recognized that this was an important step in the path Kaja had chosen. If these were the remains of zmaj, Kaja had to bear witness. She would certainly only see worse going forward.
Codex was silent. Once his scrying spells drifted over the bodies, his whirring and clicking ceased for the first time since they’d found him.
Sakrattars placed a delicate hand over Codex’s engraved metal shell. “I’m sorry, Codex.”
But Codex wasn’t still for long. “User Amale?”
Amale’s ears perked up.
“You mentioned you are a healer? Would you please examine Jada and his family?”
Amale nodded gravely, glancing at Sakrattars as he passed by. He made a cursory examination of the bodies, his paws touching them gently and respectfully. He never moved them—they had died embracing one another, and he left them so—but he did brush the brittle hair away from their faces. And when he did so, his ears shot to attention and he immediately beckoned Sakrattars over. Sakrattars held his breath, his stomach churning. He had worked as a mortician’s assistant back in Barsicum for exactly one hour before a violent bout of sickness saw him relieved of his job. But when he saw what Amale was showing him, his surprise superseded his nausea.
“Are they zmaj?” Leif asked.
“No,” Sakrattars gasped, moving aside so everyone could see the sharply pointed ears. “They’re elves.”
Leif raised his brow in shock. “What were elves doing here?” Like the rest, he only knew of elves living in the beautiful coastal cities of Aurelia, Arvis, and Taracosia.
“They are my wonderful creators,” Codex said softly. “Forgemaster Jada said I should come-come to him, rather than the smiths. He said he would always help me. . .”
Sakrattars staggered, hot blood surging below his cold, clammy skin. The so-called orodmai were elves? Decades upon decades of learning flashed through his mind, as if he were flipping through a giant compendium on elven history. Mythic origins in the land of Nyssa, exploration and settlement on the virgin continent of Calthia, the establishment of the first schools of magic, the Great Split—when a faction of elves accepted Aegis as their patron goddess over the nature goddess Kynara, later becoming known as “Imperial elves” after the subsequent founding of the Aurean Empire. Nowhere in that history was there mention of the “orodmai” and Ainchalez. Elves had long lives and longer memories. How could it be possible to just forget a civilization seemingly as grand as Ainchalez?
Amale finished his examination, his deep voice interrupting Sakrattars’ thoughts. “No signs of injuries,” he reported somberly. “Possibly suffocated, or starved. I’m sorry, Codex.”
“Thank you, user Am-Amale.”
Amale felt Jo’s large hand on his shoulder as she gently guided her companions out of the bedroom. Before she followed them out, Jo closed her eyes, and whispered a prayer to Melcuni. Then the light from Sakrattars’ magic receded completely, leaving the bodies to rest in darkness once again.
The terrible fate of Ainchalez and its people haunted the companions as they left the apartment behind, even silencing Leif’s vindication. Whatever happened to this city, that family had chosen to die behind locked doors rather than face it. Leif looked at the rows upon rows of doors laid out before them, and at the ones stretching far above, and wondered how many others now led to tombs.
Codex remained silent. Despite the occasional whirr or click of contemplation, he gave no indication he was aware of what was going on nor did he provide any direction for the lost companions. There was only one last choice: they had to somehow make it to the Cryptaevium. Even if Syntax was no longer operational, and it seemed more and more likely that that would be the case, they hoped that Codex could still activate the portals for them.
Taking the lead, Amale found his way through the silent hallways and plunging staircases as best he could, reasoning that if the Cryptaevium was at the heart of the city, it might also be at the deepest part. It was difficult going, between the piles of ruins and thick, inky darkness, and whenever Sakrattars urged Codex to confirm if they were going the right way, the construct merely replied that he was dealing with a “flaw” in his code that was interrupting his processes.
“So zmaj were never here after all,” Leif said, the tension and monotony gnawing at him. “Only some kind of underground elves. That’s typical.”
Sakrattars flashed Leif a look. “Two things can be true at once, you know,” he replied. “Zmaj were here, I can feel it.”
Leif said nothing, but kneaded his temples in frustration. Kaja still clutched at her cloak. She felt a presence too, but she was more sure than ever that it was not zmaj she was sensing. It wasn’t the pleasant, nostalgic familiarity of home; it was menacing and heavy, almost crushing. It reminded her of being pinned while playing Shield Wall in Forgeheart—panicked, trapped, claustrophobic—and yet urging her downward, as if pulling her deeper into the mountain. With every step, the worse it got, and the stronger that pull felt.
As the party passed a narrow hallway, Sakrattars paused, staring down the shifting shadows of the corridor. Without a word, he waved a hand and his light spell drifted silently down the hall ahead of him.
“Hey!” Jo exclaimed, startled from the plunge into sudden darkness. “Where are you going?”
Sakrattars didn’t answer, forcing his companions to hurry after him or lose the light. Soon, the hallway opened up into a constricted chamber. Sakrattars halted, his light crawling over the shadows of rubble and debris scattered across the floor, reflecting glints of metal back at him. With a chill, he realized the piles weren’t rock and ruin—they were bodies.
As the others caught up to him, they each stopped in turn, mortified by the sight. Leif lifted Oxhiminn, the blue glow of the weapon’s head shedding more light on the unsettling scene. In the tight tunnels lay the armored, contorted bodies of two dozen soldiers. Some wore armor made from the gleaming orange metal the party had come to associate with Ainchalez, while others wore tempered steel plates wrapped in tattered, black cloth.
“They were attacked,” Sakrattars said, his hand hovering above the steel-clad bodies of the aggressors. The residual energies were so strong here, they could practically be plucked from the air. A clash of swords, a burst of magic, the cries of agony and death—he could feel it, hear it, see it, but only in brief echoes and shifting visions. Any time he blinked, the images went away. “They had help. Allies.” He extended a hand outward, directing his light spell over a tightly-packed cluster of bodies. He knelt down next to them.
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These were not elves—their ears were round, not pointed—yet they didn’t quite seem human either. Their limbs were unusually long and slender, their bodies lithe and androgynous. Even though millenia separated their existence, Sakrattars could still sense a lingering cloud of ethereal energy around the bodies. The sinking feeling hit bottom. He had to be sure. “Codex, do you know who these people were?”
Codex whirred. “Zmaj mercenaries from the lowlands.” His metallic voice took on what seemed to be an odd, wistful tone. “I had the p-p-pleasure of guiding them to a fine tavern, once.”
“They can’t be,” Jo butted in. “They don’t look anything like zmaj. Where are their horns, their tails?”
Codex clicked a few times, as if thinking. “I apologize, but I do not understand the question. Their physiologies match my rec-records.”
“What about Kaja, then?” Sakrattars asked.
“My scans indicate with one hundred per–per-percent certainty that user Kaja is a zmaj, albeit with several physical anomalies. I cannot yet make sense of the discrepancy. Once I am able to update my crystal lattice—”
Sakrattars groaned in frustration as Codex went on to describe their mission for the dozenth time. Though it was true that she was their only point of reference for what a zmaj was, there was no way that Kaja was a unique oddity among her species. Some, yet unknown, factor must account for the physical differences they were seeing and, based on Kaja’s own bewildered reaction to the revelation, it was almost certainly going to remain a mystery for now. Sakrattars sighed and pat Bartholomew’s cool head absently. This place was ripping apart everything else he thought he knew, it might as well add his limited knowledge of zmaj to the pile.
As the others talked amongst themselves, Amale quietly examined another body in the corner, one dressed in tattered black and steel. He brushed the dust and cobwebs away from its face, revealing a metal mask. He lifted the mask from the body, his heart beating fast. Though the style was different, it bore an eerie resemblance to the masks Fallen wore. He felt a gentle hand on his arm and looked down at Kaja, who was staring at the mask in his paws, then at the body it came from.
The body was zmaj.
Kaja trembled. Her people were peaceful, they loved fishing and their children and the tranquil sounds of nature. And yet, here in this dark, horrible place, was zmaj fighting zmaj.
“Well, I don’t think these zmaj were Kaja’s people,” Leif said with finality. He spun around on his heel. “So let’s—” He let out a strangled gasp and raised his shield slowly. “Don’t. . . move. . .” he whispered.
The others immediately disregarded his warning and turned to have a look. Five pale figures crouched at the edge of the light. They were kobolds, but their scales were the color of pearl and their bodies wrapped in crude leather with an odd, green tinge to it. The peculiarities didn’t end there. They had unusually large tympanic membranes on the sides of their heads, and a smooth, translucent layer of skin where eyes should have been. The creatures were clustered in a corner, their arms full of metals and other salvage that they had been picking from the ancient battlefield.
Each side was frozen in place, waiting for the other to make a move. Finally, one of the kobolds stepped forward and placed a crude spear carved from green fiber down on the ground, before backing away.
“We don’t want to fight,” it said in unmistakable Draconic. “Please, may we leave?”
Sakrattars answered, in Draconic also. “We don’t want to fight, either.”
Hearing the familiar words, the kobolds grew visibly excited. They rushed forward, uttering odd whooping chirps that echoed around the room and made the party’s skin tingle. Leif, about ready to charge into battle, was stopped by a quick word from Sakrattars. The kobold’s crashed into the party, scaly hands touching everything they had—their clothing, their gear, even their faces if they could reach them, examining them with fascination. They took deep, exploratory sniffs, as bristly appendages on their faces resembling the whiskers of a catfish, brushed methodically over every surface. Kaja squirmed away from the ticklish sensation as one gave her face a thorough sniffing.
“This one doesn’t feel like a dragon, but she sure smells like a dragon!” they quipped while their whiskers flicked across her scaleless cheeks. This comment, much to Kaja’s chagrin, turned all of their attention onto her. They picked at her cloak and petted her hair. They even managed to find her tail and excitedly compared its length and features to their own tails. Kaja tolerated this for only a few moments before whipping her tail out of their grasp, making the kobolds chitter and giggle.
“Alright, that’s enough,” Jo said irritably. Yet despite her tone, the kobolds’ spirits weren’t the least bit dampened.
“Come, come!” One chirped and clapped, apparently gesturing for them to follow. “Our families will want to meet you! Please come!”
“Uh, what do they want?” Leif asked worriedly, trying his best to withdraw from the kobolds’ touch without invoking offense.
“Just hold on, they might be able to help us,” Sakrattars replied quickly in Imperial Common. He cleared his throat, then addressed the kobolds again in Draconic, desperately wishing that he was as naturally diplomatic as his father and brothers were. “Um, thank you for the offer, but we are trying to get out of here.”
The kobolds tilted their heads in confusion, chirping curiously. “Out? Out?”
“Yes, out. To the surface.”
One of them grabbed Sakrattars’ hand and helpfully pointed it at the ceiling. “The surface is up there!” The other kobolds nodded in enthusiastic agreement.
“Yes. We know. Uh, thank you,” Sakrattars said, gingerly withdrawing his hand and hiding his frustration. “We can’t get out that way. We’re a bit lost down here. Our guide is damaged.” He held Codex out to show them.
“Greetings, I am Co-Co-Codex” he introduced in Draconic. The kobolds chirped and recoiled in alarm, then leaned closer, sniffing the metal sphere carefully.
“Smells like the Hollow Ones,” one of the kobolds observed gravely. “Not safe. Do not wake them.”
“Hollow Ones?” Sakrattars repeated. “You mean the constructs?”
“While I am a construct, I have no com-combat capabilities,” Codex offered helpfully. “There is no need to fear.”
The kobolds didn’t appear to be completely convinced, but Sakrattars thought it safe enough to continue. “We’re trying to get to a place called the Cryptaevium. From there we can activate the city’s portals and escape,” he explained. “Do you know it?”
The kobolds turned their heads side-to-side, listening to each other just in case one of them had an insight. None did.
Sakrattars went on. “It’s at the center of the city, right?”
“Yes. It is a large room with a very tall, metal door,” Codex confirmed. “There are statues of orodmai soldiers on either side of the long promenade that leads to it.”
The kobolds suddenly startled and cowered further into the darkness. Though they couldn’t understand the conversation, Amale, Leif, and Jo reacted to the change in mood, assuming defensive stances and fingering their weapons.
“We. . . we don’t go there,” one kobold said fearfully.
Sakrattars, struggling to understand what went wrong, blinked incredulously. “What? Why not?”
The kobolds turned their heads side-to-side once more, many of them muttering, “the Voice, the Voice. . .”
Sakrattars’ heart skipped a beat as Kaja’s unsettling question earlier echoed through his mind: can you hear the voices too?
“It’s a bad place,” the kobold continued. “A very bad place. The Voice is very strong there.”
“Our friends, when they go into the Bad Places, they come back changed,” another said. “We don’t go there. We have other tunnels, good tunnels, better tunnels.”
“Yes, much better tunnels!” the first chirped. “They lead into the undercaves—places with beautiful songs and soothing smells. Our homelands!” The rest purred and clacked their jaws emphatically. “Many more tribes there. You would like it there. And tunnels to the surface from the undercaves too! Um, I think. . .”
Another thrummed confidently. “There are. Definitely. They were still there when my great-grandsire checked, according to my grandsire. Four or five weeks of walking, and you will see the surface again. No problem!”
As the kobolds chattered away, Sakrattars translated the conversation for the benefit of his companions. When he finished, Leif groaned. “What do you mean weeks?!” he exclaimed.
“And that’s even if the tunnels are still around,” Sakrattars said grimly.
The kobolds, though, were the opposite of disheartened. “Come, come! We will have a big dinner, give you strength for your long journey.” One opened a rough leather sack, showing a collection of the pale, green mushrooms they had been picking. “And our families can meet you! Come!”
“What do they want now?” Leif asked, his frustration mounting.
Sakrattars opened his mouth but Codex interrupted him. “Please, user Sakrattars. Allow me to act as a translator going fo-fo-forward. It is one of my purposes, after all.”
“Oh, alright. Thank you.” Sakrattars looked down at Codex, clicking softly in his hands. The little construct mechanically dictated the kobolds’ nonsensical exclamations in Imperial Common, and Leif and Jo’s grumbled skepticism into Draconic. He was worried that his grumpy companions might offend the kobolds, but they didn’t seem to notice or care. “And you’re sure you don’t know the way to the Cryptaevium?” he asked Codex.
“The grand city of Ainchalez has been badly dam-damaged. Without updated maps, I fear I will continue leading us to dead ends. I apologize for the inconvenience, user Sakrattars.”
“Thank you, Codex,” Sakrattars said, slipping the sphere into Kaja’s hands. “Kaja, please follow our new friends. We’ll catch up in a moment.” As Kaja reluctantly did as she was told, Amale, Jo, and Leif looked at Sakrattars in puzzlement.
“You can’t seriously be thinking that going with them is a good idea?” Leif whispered harshly. “We’ll be dead in that tunnel long before we see daylight.”
“I know!” Sakrattars hissed. “But did you see how they reacted? They know where the Cryptaevium is.” He paused, his gaze trailing to poor Kaja doing her best to entertain the vivacious kobolds alone. Then his eyes snapped back to his companions. “We just need to get them to tell us.”
*
*
The party followed the kobolds down dusty hallways, across partially collapsed rooms, and through roughly-hewn tunnels that the reptiles had clearly carved themselves as handy shortcuts. Each time they were forced to squeeze through a kobold-made tunnel, which was more often than the bruised and sore companions cared for, Sakrattars felt Codex’s scrying spells activate as he updated his internal map of Ainchalez.
“Do they have to make so much noise?” Leif grumbled, gesturing to their energetic guides. The kobolds whooped and chirped as they navigated, stopping only to chatter amongst themselves. Leif rubbed the side of his temple. “The echoes are making my head hurt.”
“I think the echoes are the point,” Sakrattars said. He had heard of bats and beasts of the ocean using sound as a means to “see” what otherwise could not be seen. It appeared that these kobolds, living for generations upon generations in the pitch black of Ainchalez, had somehow made the same adaptation.
After squeezing through an especially tight tunnel, they emerged into a vast, natural cavern. Water poured from a great rent in the ceiling, splashing into the black subterranean lake that occupied one side of the chamber. Huge stalagmites rose from the cave floor, some of them so large they had joined with stalactites extending down from the ceiling, making huge tree-trunk-like structures that peppered the cavern like a stone forest. Carved into these natural pillars, and into the cave walls opposite the lake, were the residential caves, platforms, and other structures that made up the kobolds’ village. Everywhere, pale-scaled kobolds went about their daily tasks—some milling about a central market plaza, while others crouched at the edge of the lake, poised with fishing spears. Several crawled around an area of smooth rocks, wetting fresh lichen beds with water from the lake and harvesting ripe lichen into small, stone bowls. In the distance was a plantation of the glowing green mushrooms, though these had been cultivated to be as tall as a human.
Upon entering the village their guides uttered a series of whooping chirps, and were answered by several dozen voices in kind. The party watched as a swarm of pale, reptilian bodies scurried out of tunnels and skittered down the walls like ghostly geckoes. Quickly they were surrounded by a growing crowd. Once again, Kaja found herself the unwilling center of attention. She lifted her hood and hunched away from the sniffs and whiskers, lashing her tail discontentedly. Seeing this, Jo stomped heavily on the stone and the threatening sound momentarily cooled the kobolds’ curiosity.
“These are our guests! We found them, yes we did!” the leader of the guides proclaimed proudly. “They are from the surface world!” Noises of fascination and disbelief rippled through the crowd. The leader’s nose twitched as they caught a scent. “Chief Kagaa! Chief!” They called out to a much older kobold who had pushed to the front of the crowd. “I told them we would give them food and guide them to the undercaves! May we? May we, please?”
The crowd fell silent as they awaited Kagaa’s answer, the only sound being Codex softly translating their words into Imperial Common. “Is that what you wish, surface dwellers?” he asked at last.
Once again in the unenviable position of party spokesperson, Sakrattars cleared his throat. “Yes, Chief Kagaa,” he said, then amended, “well, we want to get to the surface as quickly as possible, however we can. We were looking for the deepest chamber of the city—” He was stopped by a collective gasp from the crowd.
Kagaa clicked knowingly. “The undercaves are safer,” he said simply. “I have heard we have tunnels to the surface somewhere down there. Later, I will send some of my people to lead you there. For now, you are our guests, and you will be fed and cared for. We don’t get many visitors after all. Perhaps, in exchange, you could tell us stories about the surface?”
“Nothing about the surface should interest you, Chief Kagaa,” a deep voice rasped from somewhere in the crowd.
Squeaking in alarm, the crowd parted, revealing a group of kobolds, unusual even among their unusual kin. Their pearly scales were covered in a haphazard patchwork of purple, bioluminescent paint and they walked with a stiff, shaky gait. The speaker, and their apparent leader, was swathed in roughspun cloth dyed with powder shale, giving her dark robes a crystalline glimmer as she moved into the light. In her hand was a staff of translucent purple crystal, as raw as if she had just snapped it from its nursery. The crowd thinned as the strangers approached, many retreating back into the comforting shadows, or up the walls and into the safety of their caves.
“Dasri, I am trying to make our guests feel welcome,” Kagaa explained, trying to suppress the irritation in his voice.
The one called Dasri seemed not to hear him. She paused in front of the party. Up close, Sakrattars could see that her and her followers had sunken, bony features, as if malnourished. “The Voice in the Deep told me you were here,” Dasri said. “I will bring you before it.”
Kagaa stepped between her and the party. “They are under our protection. Please return to your temple, and take your followers with you.”
Dasri still didn’t move. She let out a single, harsh chirp and instantly focused all of her senses directly onto Kaja. “You. It wants you most of all.” Jo stepped in front of Kaja, her eyes darkening dangerously. Dasri continued. “Give us that girl, and we will see you safely to your destination: the innermost chamber of the Hollow Ones.” Sakrattars lifted his head. Was she talking about the Cryptaevium?
“Not going to happen. Ever.” Jo growled.
Kagaa issued a command and a group of armed kobolds closed rank. They placed nervous hands on the stone daggers at their belts,, clearly hesitant to draw them against Dasri and her followers. “Go home, Dasri,” Kagaa repeated, more forcefully this time.
Dasri lingered, her calm, mirthless aura colder than the stone surrounding them. “The Voice in the Deep will not be denied,” she said. But despite her words, she turned away, leading her followers back the way they came and out of sight.
Kagaa turned back toward the party, the embarrassment and grief plain on his face. “I apologize, sincerely,” he said.
“What was that about?” Jo growled, still on guard even though Dasri and the others were gone.
“I warned you about going deeper into the city,” he said sadly. “Sometimes when our people stray too far, they come back. . . changed. They can’t stop talking about something called the ‘Voice in the Deep.’ They keep saying that it’s speaking to them, or calling to them, and urging them to go deeper.”
Sakrattars perked up and peered into the shadows where Dasri and her followers had vanished. Kagaa’s words were ominous, but they also offered a bit of hope: Dasri knew how to get to the Cryptaevium, and she seemed willing to bring them there when the others were not. Everything was screaming at Sakrattars that it would be dangerous, but what other choice did they have? It was either that, or join the countless dead already in Ainchalez.
So enveloped in his thoughts was he, that Sakrattars didn’t notice Kaja nervously pulling at her cloak.
“They live in another chamber, some distance from here,” Kagaa continued. “They’ve set it up as a temple, but we view it more as an asylum.”
“Why don’t you just drive them off for good?” Leif asked.
Kagaa was shocked. “They may be different from us, but they are our former friends, they are our family members. Many of them have sons, daughters, mothers, fathers, even spouses still among us. Do your people drive away anyone who is different?”
Leif flushed red, chastened. “No, of course not,” he said.
“One day, maybe we can help them. For now, we merely tolerate one another. They have never hurt us, and we never hurt them. They don’t usually come into the village but, then again, we don’t usually have visitors.” He didn’t say it outright, but Kaja could sense that Kagaa was talking about her. “Well, enough about them. You must be tired and hungry. I hope you like mushrooms and cave fish!” he said, forcing a cheery tone. Unsure and uneasy, the companions allowed themselves to be led away.
*
*
Dinner was a stew of mushrooms and fish, just as Kagaa promised. Though completely tasteless, it was hot, and after days of dried trail rations it might as well have been divinely sent. The kobolds didn’t have torches or candles, so Sakrattars quietly kept his magical light orbs active. Around half way through the meal, Kagaa suddenly rose and exclaimed in abject horror, “our guests need light to see! I’m so sorry!”, then immediately ordered a nearby kobold to fetch some burning logs from the cooking fire and set them in dented, scrap metal bowls along the table.
Nearly the entire village had joined them for dinner, with the party sharing stories of the surface and answering dozens of mundane questions. The kobolds didn’t really care about their adventures—instead they seemed fascinated by the simpler concepts. Describing things like rain, roads, and boats drew rapt attention. Even the idea of a “day” and “night” took a while to explain, and Sakrattars never quite got past the recurring question of ‘what does sunlight smell like?’.
Afterward, the companions were led to one of the larger of the residential caves—fortunately one on ground level. Though cramped and dark, it was dry and safe. Each companion claimed a nook for themselves, doing their best to fall asleep while trying to make sense of all they had seen.
Tucked away, Sakrattars lay awake on his bed roll, plagued by thoughts and self-doubt. Convincing Kagaa to show them the way to the Cryptaevium seemed an impossible task, yet Dasri’s motives for wanting to bring them there seemed less than sincere. And that wasn’t even considering the objections Jo would have, especially after Dasri expressed wanting to take Kaja to see the “Voice”. Sakrattars wasn’t good with people, his family life growing up made that plain. Just how was he supposed to negotiate his way through this?
He stared up at the stone ceiling, his arms crossed behind his head. Imperial elves were no strangers to enclosed spaces, but the idea that his ancient cousins could live comfortably in the mountain with no sunlight and no horizon was difficult to comprehend. There was much about this place that challenged everything Sakrattars thought he knew about the world around him. He drew a deep breath of the stale, earthy air and slowly let it out.
As a child, Sakrattars had been obsessed with reading. His favorite books were ones about ancient history, folklore and mythology—anything that had a touch of mystery. He loved finishing a particularly interesting book and laying on the throw rug, staring at the cover, processing what he’d just read and daydreaming about how grand the world was and how much there was to learn. Like many wealthy elven houses, the Mistwood family had an extensive library collected over the generations. Sakrattars had read every book—many of them more than once. At first, his parents had been pleased with his thirst for knowledge, but their pleasure eroded away once they realized that their youngest son was more interested in fantasy than in practicality.
And there was no room for flights of fancy in the Mistwood household. Sakrattars’ eldest brother, Naesala, was a gifted businessman heavily involved in the bustling trade sector in Arvisian Bay. His second brother, Pelleas, had made a name for himself as a skilled politician in the Merchant’s Council. His third brother, Fenian, was a famed artist based out of the guild city of Mykos, commissioned both publicly and privately to design city buildings and sculptures. Even his little sister, Mira, had earned her place by using natural charm and social savvy to cement beneficial relationships with other powerful people.
With such a successful family, Sakrattars never stood out and was often forgotten—sometimes on purpose, he suspected. They made no secret of the fact that they thought he was a fool for pursuing the unknown, that he was wasting his studious nature on silly children’s stories and magical talents on superstitions. But Sakrattars hadn’t let that stop him. When he left Barsicum to travel with Jo and Kaja, he was confident that he knew more than most about the mysteries of the world and how to find the answers that he lacked.
But now, he was feeling the weight of what he had taken on. In the past few months, his entire world had changed. Not only did he not know so many things about the world, but he hadn’t even known that he didn’t know. The zmaj, the ordomai, the malevolent entities they faced—even the mere existence of organizations like the Irkallu had taken him completely by surprise, despite operating right under his nose. As his understanding of the world crumbled, the confidence he had felt initially was slowly replaced with a growing sense of unease. Mystery was exciting when it was just beyond reach, when it was just a missing piece to an otherwise complete puzzle. Now, he was beginning to see that the puzzle he’d been working on for his whole life was actually just one small corner of a greater puzzle obscured by shadow. He wondered if his family had been right to call him a fool, after all.
He had failed at so much already—his family business, rubbing elbows, making connections, and even academia—that all he had left to be good at was knowing things. And now, what he thought was his strength, his way to carve out meaning for himself, had turned against him. Sakrattars sighed and turned over on his bedroll, cupping his hand around Codex’s cold, metal shell. If he had just let himself forget about the vision he saw when he took Kaja’s hand on that fateful summer day, if he had let her and Jo leave without another word, if he didn’t have this compulsive need to know. . . would he have been spared this terrible feeling? Would he be reading on a park bench in Barsicum, still assured that the words on the pages told the whole truth of the world?
That night, Sakrattars dreamt that the stone floor opened up beneath him and swallowed him whole.