He squatted at the edge of the ruined structure, careful not to shift his weight too much lest it all come crashing down in a pile of rubble with him at the bottom. That was the problem with exploring old ruins, in Oskar’s estimation: they had the habit of falling apart at the worst moments. Picking at the black ichorous blood crusted under his fingernails, he grimaced. Well, maybe that’s not the worst thing about them. He tried rubbing it off on his dark wool cloak with little success. Bloody Dead blood. Can a man ever catch a break?
“Should we pursue?” Nifont asked, crouching beside him.
Oskar frowned down at the small stone building the rich priestess and her armed guardian had disappeared into. “They know their way around this forsaken place. Not sure how I feel about that.”
“The tall one carries herself well. She can fight. Not like most Column warriors.”
He glanced over to Nifont, the sinewy, tough bastard of a man. In his stained and worn canvas that he wore so often, he might as well have been born with it. With his equally ancient hood that draped down to his shoulders, he looked almost part of the landscape. Like some dead thing wrought to life. But perhaps that was a bit unfair, even if he sat still as a corpse with the only sign of life being his flicking-about eyes.
Oskar nodded slowly. “See that blade at her side?”
“Gilded well, that.”
“They only hand out such sabers to the best.” He curled his lip and spit to the side, Nifont doing the same shortly after.
“Fucking priests.”
“Fucking Nova.”
They sat there, both stewing in their own disgust till Oskar shook his head and slid away from the edge as quiet as could be on his achy knees, maneuvering the sheathed blade at his hip around the rocks. “This city’s got shit all besides other dumb pricks killing themselves over nothing. Let’s see what this priestess has come so far north for.”
“Okay.” Nifont followed, and as they crept down the side of the half-collapsed building, he muttered, “Not many more peasants running about here. Good for us.”
Oskar snorted. “Climb up to this place alone and shout your bloody head off at an arrow? And after all the story of icy blood in these parts. Hmph.”
“Living on the sea is the problem. That’s the issue with eating nothing but fish, I say.”
“By the fucking gods—”
“They’re insects of the water. Ever see someone who eats nothing but bugs and pests? They’re mad. My cousin moved to Ruila and lost his mind, started seeing apparitions!” He jabbed a finger into Oskar’s back. “Is that just my superstitions? Well?”
Before he could respond with something sharp enough to shut the fool up, a voice interrupted them, “Nifont, quiet your leperous tongue before I boil it from your skull. Rotaal should not be cursed with your absurdities. We are in the carcass of his greatest offering, show respect to the gods.”
Oskar found himself caught between wincing and grinning at Nifont’s expense. Feia always had a way with words for a lonesome frontiers witch with no education beyond toxic brews and curses a-plenty. He glanced back and exchanged brow-raised glances with Nifont, then continued to the base of the ruin through the rubble of what was once some poor prick’s shop. There stood Feia, hand on her hips, remarkably wart-free face scowling away like someone had just stolen her favorite bone rings. Behind her were four hand-picked men, all lightly armed and armored for the long climb. They stood about in casual readiness only found in veterans, hands near their weapons, sitting on their haunches or leaning against the crumbling wall, but eyes always scanning, voices kept low. Oskar smiled despite himself at the comfort they brought him. Didn’t matter how good of a fighter one was if he was surrounded by fools.
“Have you spotted the two interlopers, then?” Feia asked with a hiss to emphasize her distaste.
Oskar was handed his helmet back from one of his men and buckled it over his long, greying hair. The helm was softly conical, with a mail aventail to protect the neck and sides of the face and a prominent nosepiece to cover, well, the nose, amongst other important bits. While it made a bit too much noise for sneaking about, it saved his life more times than anything besides a shield. He twisted it about to make sure it was snug, then picked up his backstrap-fitted, aforementioned shield. “One’s a priestess, everyone here should know. The other’s her guard—well-trained. Column agents, maybe runaways considering their numbers, but either way, is everyone here fine with that?” There was a bit of shuffling, but no one raised an objection. Good thing Stanilo isn’t here, he’d not be happy about this. “Alright then, let’s see what’s got them so riled up, eh? There may be some treasure in this gods-forsaken place after all.”
Nods and grins met his words. He spared a glance to Feia, whose eyes were locked on his own, a dangerous smirk playing at her lips.
He leaned in and hissed out, “What?”
“Didn’t expect to see other Imperials here, did you?”
“Course not. But that’s beside the point, we’re following—”
She held up a hand. “I do not dissent from the plan to give chase. And if it comes to violence, you know how I feel about priests. I speak of the spindles of your threads of fate. Of your story, Oskar Koyzlov, son of goat herders, born of black dirt.”
“Enough.” He pushed past her, forcing her smirk to waver into a frown as she stepped back. “I brought you here for your knowledge of Sorcery and the Dead, not your riddles.”
“Fine. But I speak not as a seer but as one who has a nose for the odor of schemes.” Her eyes flicked away to the others, then back to him. “This will entangle us in machinations and plots. Priestesses do not come this far north without reason.”
“What could it be for then?”
“This city is a waste of death and decay, but something lies in its heart. What exactly, I cannot say.”
He sighed, wishing for not the first time that instead of a thousand curses, she had learned to speak clearly. For all her knowledge, Feia was burdened by the weight of something adjacent to madness. Not quite there, but ever-tottering. It’s cruel to blame her for that, though, he thought, thinking back to those dark days. No one gets through that whole. Oh well, what’s dead is dead.
“Understood.” He gave her a nod and friendly pat on the shoulder, then strode past, knocking some life into his sore legs. “Let’s move then, everyone. We’re following that priestess!”
…
Emalia raised her sputtering torch and squinted through the murky darkness, praying that no horrid Dead might leap out to snatch her up. It was black as blindness and even with her eyes straining wide open, she could wonder if some curse hadn’t taken her vision. But the torch illuminated their brief surroundings like a halo of something divine, and with it, she knew they were getting closer. They were inside a tunnel like that of an underground aqueduct, with brief and raised platforms on either side of a channel where water once ran through. It was impossible to tell if it was sloped down or up, how slight the tilt was. The walk was long and excruciatingly suspenseful. The slightest distant echo would make her heart pound and mouth go dry in fear, and she had to restrain herself from clutching at Sovina for safety. But finally, something was emerging from the darkness ahead.
The stone wall gave way to a brief indentation, an alcove where the torch didn’t quite reach. As they drew closer, she saw a doorway there, pressed into the stone, a thing entirely of iron. It had to be at least a hundred pounds, though even so, it was finely worked with swirling designs and patterns fitting a palace rather than some underground tunnel.
Sovina gave grunted in surprise. “First thing we’ve seen that doesn’t look like decayed rubbish.”
“Indeed,” Emalia muttered, running a hand over it, pushing slightly. “I don’t see how it opens.”
Her companion leaned in, holding her torch near what seemed to be a tiny keyhole. She passed over her torch to Emalia, stuck her sword back in her belt scabbard, and brought out a rarely-used small kit. With practiced ease, she inserted two metal tools into the keyhole. Emalia’s eyes lingered on her strong yet nimble hands for a brief moment, then flicked up to the dark tunnel behind them. If she strained her ears, she could almost hear something. An overactive imagination? Or are those footsteps? She squinted off, concentrating, but there was nothing. Not even the faintest of breezes.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
Then a click.
“Got it,” Sovina whispered, withdrawing her tools and putting them away as she nudged open the door. It hardly made a sound as it opened, their torches lighting a small room with a staircase leading up.
Emalia handed back the torch, gazing up. “We need not ascend much. The creature should be held in the bowels of this place.”
“Shall I shut the door or block it open behind us?”
She looked back, finding no obvious handle on the other side, only another keyhole. “Block it open. I’d rather have a quick escape should we run into any conflict inside.”
“Understood.” After placing a piece of nearby rubble in between the iron door and the wall, Sovina stepped in front, blade out and glittering in the firelight. “I’ll lead in here. I can already smell the stench of the Dead.”
Emalia nodded, taking a deep inhale to see if she could sense what her guardian could, but the air only smelled stale and old. She was trained for this. Sensing and fighting the Dead are Column-sworn warriors’ skills, after all. With that, she nodded to herself and followed close behind. It was not a sign of incompetence or unpreparedness that she lacked much of what Sovina had, but just a matter of their respective specializations. She would have her own role to play, after all.
The stairs were carved into the rock; arched supports curved overhead, though she couldn’t tell if they were carved of the stone or added in later. The time it would take to chisel a path, let alone carve out stairs and arches… She gazed upon the walls as she passed. This entire city is a testament to old glory. What have we lost that the eternal Vasian Empire cannot compare to its old self? That was the passage of history, her old teachers would say, with the ebb and flow of fortune and riches, but soon, Vasia would return strong and powerful as the old days of early imperium. But not if I fail.
Sovina extended a hand, and they stopped. The stairs ended at a platform with one door on each wall, each of solid iron, though they had handles this time.
“Do you know the way?” her companion asked.
Emalia scanned each, comparing the corridors to the parchment in her mind. Something tingled in her unconscious, her senses. A warning? A threat. “Careful. This is a dangerous place. Progress neither straight nor right but left onto the main hall.” She approached the middle door and put her head to it, listening. On the other side, it was quiet, but something in her knew the silence was sinister. “There was unstable Sorcery here. The kind left as a trap for thieves or assassins. I can only guess what has resulted of such decayed magic.”
Sovina put a hand on her shoulder and pulled her back. “Let’s keep our distance from it then.”
“Of course.” Emalia gave a weak grin, then nodded to the left door. “Through here.”
It wasn’t another narrow passageway or ascending staircase, but a straight hall of reaching arches as wide and long as a powerful druzhina’s feast hall. The floor glimmered under the torches, and as Emalia looked down, her breath fled her in one astonished rush. The entire floor was a stunning marble mosaic. Pieces so small they could scarcely be separated from the whole created twisting spirals of gold, ancient iconography of heraldry of old houses that must have contributed to the city, entire figures of enrobed men and women posed like beneficent magistrates, dressed in furs, fine cotton robes, and imported silks. Two columns interrupted the scene, but even they were carved with caryatids of what Emalia immediately recognized as gods. On the left, Flaael, worshiped in many coastal cities for her dominion of the seas and the moon; she held a small barbed harpoon in one hand and held a veil over her face in the other. On the right, Elan, Flaael’s sister and wife of the high god Rotaal; she held an infant in one arm and made a warding gesture with the other as fitting her role as goddess of family, purity, and the sanctity of peace.
“There’s nothing here,” Sovina muttered, and after drawing her eyes from the detailed and holy caryatids, Emalia knew she was right.
For all the grandness of the hall, it held nothing. “They had feasts here, perhaps?”
“I see no hearth.”
“Maybe they use Sorcery to warm it.” She walked ahead, careful to not let her attention be absorbed by the depictions of the gods, and looked for an exit. Sure enough, directly ahead was a passageway under an arch shrouded in darkness. Emalia headed towards it, torch held aloft.
Once close enough, the shadow retreated to a small room, an antechamber of sorts, before a massive door of stone. It was huge and looming, carved with old words in the tongue of Sorcery, scrawled with runes like a monolith dug from the sands of the ancients, bearing laws or old myths in an ancient language.
Sovina appeared beside her, torch suddenly fighting for its life as if it lacked air to feed itself. “This is it, then.”
“It’s a thing of Death. A thing of great warding power.”
“I feel the Sorcery imbued within. It’s strong.”
“I can imagine.” Emalia squinted at it, recalling the many texts she’d read as a consequence of this one door. “It isn’t a trap, per se, but more of a direct challenge. It does not conceal its danger, given you can read the forgotten tongue.”
“Can you?”
“I can understand enough to know what these inscriptions imply. And it’s quite simple: if you try to open the door without a certain set of keys, you die. Instantly, painfully.”
Sovina stared up at the gargantuan door. “I’ve trusted you that we could handle all we came across, but this frightens me. How will you open it?”
“With time and sufficient intention of Raizak’s will, to start.”
“I look forward to seeing your intention at work, Priestess,” came a voice from behind.
She spun around, torch whooshing, sparks flying, and found a half-dozen figures forming up at the entrance to the antechamber, only a half-dozen long paces away. One stood in front of the others, holding a shield with his other hand on the pommel of a sword at his side. Within a worn and square face, dark eyes glittered underneath an iron nasal helm, studying her intensely. He spoke Vasian, she thought in a moment of calm analysis. Not a local. An adventurer sort? A mercenary? Likely so.
“Stay back!” Sovina shouted, her torch abandoned to her side as she stepped before Emalia protectively, sword out and threatening. “We are serving the Column, and your intrusion is not welcomed under the gods.”
The man raised his brow at that as if he were unimpressed. None of the others behind seemed to change their stance or expression. “I would imagine your intrusion hereabouts is not welcomed either. This is a holy city if you aren’t aware. Or was. Not too sure on the current view of Vasia on Ruins, to be fair.”
“Retreat back into the darkness, scavengers. This is a godly mission—”
He yawned and turned to a woman beside him, whose hawk-like face was focused on them and dangerously sharp in its watchfulness. “This is boring me. What do you say to speaking to the priestess there instead, eh? Figure she’ll be less trite than her guardian?”
Emalia swallowed. “What my companion says is true: we are here on a holy mission.”
“Not one ordained by Nova, I can tell that much. There’s only two of you. And if I know one thing about the Column, it’s that they’re real careful when it comes to their interests.” He said it all with visible distaste, as if the mere thought of the holy Column stung him. “No, I think you’re on your own here. Far away from the safety of your precious Column.”
She took a moment to collect herself and consider her response. “I have spoken to the gods themselves. I can assure you, this mission is a holy one.”
“Ah, so she’s mad? Wonderful, we’ve not enough of those.” The woman grumbled something and elbowed at him. “Yes, yes. Well, what’s your mission here then, Oracle? Come to read the bones of the dead fools who tried messing with shit they shouldn’t have? Quite a few scattered about in a place like this.”
Emalia wrinkled her lips and about said something sharper than was wise when a screech echoed through the antechamber. Her eyes went wide as she unconsciously took a step back. “Did you open any other doors?”
The man drew his blade and turned to face the other side of the entranceway.
“Before the hall, did you open either of the two other doors?” she repeated, panic rising.
“Only one of ‘em!” he shouted over his shoulder. “Didn’t know which way you went, after all.”
“I told you it stunk of Sorcery,” the woman hissed out, then looked to Emalia. “What was inside the middle one, Priestess?”
Her stomach clenched tight, fear rising up like acid in her throat. “Whatever was once there has fallen to decay, to the Dead.”
“Fuck.”
Sovina put a hand on Emalia’s shoulder, then strode forward to join the others. “We shall fight here together to give my Column-sister enough time to break the ward and get us through, but you must agree to not harm us or hinder our mission.”
“You sure you can get through that door?” The man looked back, glancing between them. When Emalia nodded, he said, “Fine. Agreed.” He faced toward. “Feia, make us a ring, then go help out new friend. I’m partial to dying today.”
The woman named Feia tore multiple bottles from hanging straps at her sides and hidden inside the folds of her clothing, then dispersed them to the others. They poured the liquid just outside the antechamber in a shaky line, then one of the men lowered a torch. In a rush, the oil lit in a blaze of alchemical fire, smoke the color of black tar, thick and impenetrable. The sudden bright light and noxious residue made her vision swim, but after a moment to adjust, Emalia’s breath hitched as she saw that at the entrance to the large hall, the Dead were pouring in. Thin, skeletal ones with barely enough muscle to move in a straight line, others of once-rotting carcasses, and finally, the muscled Greyskins, bounding forward with fangs and eyes of hate. They rushed over each other, desperate to reach the living, to feast. Hisses and moans and screams that made her think of living minds trapped in the Dead, desperate to escape, to free themselves of forced carnage.
“Great Sunderer, protect me,” she whispered fervently. “Martyr of Humankind, giver of Spirit, of Soul, shield me from this—”
“Priestess!”
She blinked, then tore her stare from the creatures to Feia, who stood before her. The woman jerked her head to the door. “Raizak protects us only when we follow the strands of fate laid before us. Now, I can’t read this old gibberish. So focus up!”
“Right.” She swallowed and turned from the fire and the Dead. “Raizak enlighten me,” she whispered under her breath as the shouts of orders rang out behind. As the sounds of metal meeting flesh and horrific screams ripped through the still air of a tomb. “Protect me from this fear. Bring me strength and guide my hand.” She looked upon the massive stone door carved in runes and thought back to the Column, to the stolen scrolls and what they said of such magic. After a moment, she glanced to the other woman. “Can you work Sorcery?”
“Bits and bobs.” She bared her teeth at the door. “Nothing monstrous as this, though.”
“That’s more than I. You’ll have to help speed this up. We don’t have time.”
“Just tell me what to do.”
Emalia nodded, focused the memories of ancient parchment in her mind, and spoke.