Nature had claimed back what was rightfully hers in that dark labyrinth of concrete and steel. A thick layer of dust had settled on the walls, the floors and the ceilings after decades of abandonment. But on that day, the muffled sound of steps resonated through the gloomy corridors as a group of sinister figures advanced in the darkness.
An icy blast ruffled the scarf of the first silhouette. With his every stride, a pair of reinforced boots crushed the rows of stalagmites lined along the muddy terrain. Fastened on his head, an imposing hat made of brown felt, shielded the man from the viscous trickle dribbling incessantly from the roof. Mushrooms and mold interspersed the vault in all directions and similar parasites also littered the walls of the tunnel, leaving slimy streaks on the man’s leather coat. His gloved right hand gripped the handle of the sword attached to his belt. A buckle displaying a five-branched tree whose trunk was split right down the middle adorned the strap. From this blade, Erol Feuerhammer was never to be separated.
Stepping over a block of cement that must have detached from the ceiling many years ago, Erol made an abrupt sign with his chin to a second man walking a few meters behind him. With another gesture, he ordered his companion to take the lantern he held in his bare left hand. The green light of the artificial torch reflected on his round, lightly tinted glasses which disguised a piercing gaze that was constantly on guard. Erol made sure to never take his eyes off the darkness that stretched ahead of him. He was well aware that the abyss wanted nothing more than one moment of carelessness to seize him.
A young man of about twenty appeared under the beam of light. A sprinkle of freckles and acne marred his face and a deep scar ran from his right temple down to the nape. A satchel filled with books, dried food supplies and a small metal crossbow swung over his shoulders.
In silence, Erol invited him to lead the way. The young redhead obeyed without hesitation and advanced to grab the torch. The narrowness of that corridor forced him to walk flush with the wall, his pants swiping a clump of mushrooms. But just as he was about to grip the torch, his foot slipped and he immediately collapsed to the ground.
Erol captured the artificial torch mid-air, and turned to face his associate lying in a puddle of mud. Caught off-guard, he had instinctively drawn out his sword and was pointing it in the direction of his inept disciple. “Octave, you absolute tubel of a student!” he growled, before swallowing his anger. His gaze returned quickly to the darkness in front of him. This was the first time he had let it out of his sight. His heart tightened in his chest. He felt a bead of cold sweat run along his nape and disappear inside the collar of his shirt. Thankfully, nothing moved, so he returned the blade to its sheath. As he walked in the direction of the young man who was struggling to stand up, he whispered: “Your indiscretion is unparalleled!”
Disoriented, Octave ran his hand through his greasy hair and swiped them away from his face. “My deepest apologies, Herr Feuerhammer,” he replied quietly. “This labyrinth is full of traps!” He managed to get himself back on his feet under his mentor’s thunderous glare, but not without noticeable pain.
Erol glanced quickly behind his shoulders. “Be grateful that our presence has apparently gone unnoticed. There is always something lurking in the vicinity down here. Nevertheless, we must hasten to find refuge. How many of these torches do we have left?”
“This is our third,” responded the boy automatically. “I used one earlier to study some terminals that miraculously still function. Which means I have another five on me for the days ahead.”
“Good. Let us proceed.”
Octave resumed his march. As he walked, he wiped the mud that covered his shoulders when a corpse-like hand grabbed him from behind, almost crushing his shoulder blades. Two new figures emerged in his shadow.
“Damn, ginger! You are as clumsy as you are loud,” muttered one of the two, exposing his yellow teeth.
He had a hoarse voice that swallowed every vowel, requiring a special kind of skill to make out what he was saying. Every syllable he pronounced resonated with agony, producing a sound resembling the screech of a blade whet eternally against a stone. The metal pupils of this bleak figure reflected a double likeness of the artificial flame, lending him a demented gaze. A mass of black hair framed his chalky face and emaciated features before disappearing inside a filthy and shabby fur coat.
“That’s enough Reinor!” Erol intervened, attempting to keep the volume of his voice as low as possible. “There was no clause whatsoever in our contract that asked you to harass the kid.”
Reinor’s nose produced a whistling sound every time he breathed and each inhale lifted the red and blistered skin of his cheeks. His bionic eye implants had never healed properly.
“Can we get a move on for heaven’s sake! Our extremities are freezing in this endless corridor,” hurled a new voice who stood right behind Reinor and Octave.
“Ricine’s right. We don’t know what might ambush us at any moment, Feuerhammer,” the man with the steel gaze concurred immediately after.
Ricine was simultaneously the shortest and largest member of their group. A broken nose, hollowed out by alcohol, protruded under her helmet from where a single eye glared at the man at the head of their procession. Her way of staring at you as she caressed her centuries-old rifle made Erol feel ill-at ease. This bad habit of the mercenary had persisted since their first meeting a few days before, before they had departed for this perilous expedition underground.
“Any threat can come only from the front!” Erol said as he invited Octave to join him again. “Which is where I am currently standing!”
“This corridor must be dozens of kilometers long,” muttered Reinor after adjusting his coat. “Of course, there is no other way to go but straight ahead, following these rusty rail tracks. But there will be nothing for us to find here beyond the troubles caused by your noisy apprentice.”
“There’s nothing down here but cheap junk frozen by time and covered in dirt,” added Ricine. As she spoke these words, the one-eyed figure stepped on an iron rod that had fused with the ground.
The fossilized case ceded under the impact, and a fine ocher-colored cloud rose up to Erol’s scarf. Wiping his glasses with his thumb, the man ordered everyone to continue their march: “These tracks will definitely lead us somewhere, so we are going to follow them through. And in silence!”
They had been trailing this railroad line for so long. The physical fatigue was starting to take its mental toll as well, weakening his spirit. But they were too deep underground now. They could no longer retreat. They must push ahead.
But the two mercenaries insisted. They had no intention of staying there after many days spent in the semi-darkness. “The Francienne and I, we simply think that—”
“Who told you to think?” shot Erol, partially drawing his sword and revealing the grease-coated steel. This seed of mutiny must be squashed. This was not the moment to have Reinor and Ricine gain the upper hand. “We don’t pay you to think, but to press ahead!”
A shower of sparks flew from his glasses, descending upon the two figures who immediately folded, as if struck by lightning. They bowed their heads, and resumed their long march.
“Sir, do you believe it is wise to roam around much longer in this corridor so conducive to ambushes?” asked Octave after a while. “This goes against your usual habits.”
“I am aware. But we have been walking for days. No threat will come to us from behind,” answered Erol. “Furthermore, only Herr Marian knows of this place. Although he does have the tendency to leave this type of information in plain view.”
The man under the hat saw his young companion pout. Something was clearly bothering his disciple. Luckily for him, Octave did not hesitate to speak his mind: “I do not think what we are doing is correct.”
“What do you mean?”
“Rummaging through his things, then coming to Mount Dammastock without his approval. It is beneath the conduct of an archaeologist.”
Erol raised his brows and rolled his eyes behind his glasses. He was beginning to grow tired of this brat’s lessons in morality. He would have preferred for the Foundation not to impose such a burden on him. In fact, he quite resented Marian for this imposition.
Receiving no response, Octave decided not to hold back: “Herr Marian has been in charge of the University’s expeditions for years and he has never left you on the sidelines. Why would this have been any different? I am certain that if only you had asked—”
“Mister the Founder was busy elsewhere. I just—how can I phrase this? Took the ‘initiative’. That’s it, precisely!”
“Herr Feuerhammer, you are perhaps the best treasure hunter that the city has. But I am not sure that this time around, that this expedition will be worth your while.”
Erol was no longer in the mood to listen to the child’s sermons. Of course, he had been impulsive. But a formidable discovery would be enough to earn him a pardon. He was used to this.
I’ve been named Chief Archaeologist for a reason, he thought. Even the Inquisition has never stood in my way.
But as a deep rumble suddenly shook the walls and the vault, Erol was brought back to reality.
“What is happening?” asked Octave. “The mountain is shaking!”
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“Feuerhammer! Get us out of here!” howled Reinor and Ricine, spluttering saliva everywhere.
They were both just as panicked as Octave. But, before Erol was able to get to them, several blocks of reinforced concrete broke off the ceiling and shattered in front of the mercenaries’ feet.
“Reinor? Ricine?” cried out Erol in an attempt to pierce the commotion made by the rocks crumbling around him. He received no response. Reinor and Ricine had disappeared behind the pile of rubble and steel. Worse still, their only way out was obstructed and Octave tried bravely to clear the way, but he was almost buried under the rubble himself. A thick layer of dust rose around them, suffocating and blinding both men. “Get moving, kid!” cried Erol to his young assistant whose hand was almost chopped off by a lead pipe.
The archaeologist did not wait any longer, backtracking and rushing into the ominous depths. They were essentially trapped and had no other choice but to venture ever deeper into that cursed maze. Above their heads, the rumbling kept getting louder. Multiple new cracks materialized around them.
After a blind a race, they finally reached a bifurcation in their path. Once there, the two men slowed down their pace and stopped in the middle of a vast square hall. The hall looked in much better shape than the rest of the underground. Its walls were only partially covered in humid streaks and mushrooms. No stalactites nor cracks marred the vault; instead a significant network of multicolor pipes surrounded them.
“That was a very close call,” Erol said as the tremors had abated and their lives were no longer threatened by a rockslide. “But I seriously doubt those cheap mercenaries will be coming to our aid.”
The atmosphere was drier and warmer too, Erol noticed. He longed to rinse his sore throat, but prohibited himself from tapping into the meager reserves of water in his flask.
“Do you think they are dead?” Octave asked.
The man in the hat shrugged his shoulders. The fate of the two bandits was of no importance to him. Nevertheless, seeing how worried his disciple looked, he decided to reassure him. All that was missing now was for the boy to be overtaken by panic. Octave was a brilliant and intelligent student of architecture, Erol knew it. But speaking from experience, people of his disposition always lost their nerve when in hot waters. It was generally agreed that his species was incapable of surviving outside the high ramparts erected by the Foundation.
“Sir, do you think we might have ventured too deep underground?” continued the student, heading in the direction of a massive iron door camouflaged by a concrete buttress.
“Twenty meters or three hundred, it doesn’t make much of a difference. You see how thick these walls are.” Using his knuckles, Erol hammered the edges of the postern against which his disciple was leaning.
But under the pressure of his blows, a wall panel the size of a book lit up with a bright green light. There was a scratchy low melody, then, with a crack, the steel shutters opened, releasing a large cloud of dust.
A blast of foul-smelling hot air suddenly invaded the hall. His residue-covered handkerchief was incapable of correctly filtering the stench that emanated from within. Erol recognized that smell. A shiver ran down his spine as he finally crept into the room.
Looking intently at the recently revealed exit, Erol made a few steps in its direction and the overturned shutters revealed a large number of indentations, each the size of a large coin. Erol tried to wipe the dust from his glasses so he could study them more closely. This time around, it was in his best interest to anticipate any potential danger.
Were these indentations caused by firearms? he pondered. He knew his death knell could ring from one moment to the next, but he took the risk and continued his march, drawing out his sword. “Octave? Bring the torch and follow me.”
“What is this smell? It’s foul!” said the student. Behind him, Octave was trying not to vomit.
“Hurry up!” roared the raider, leaving the hall and rushing towards the exit. “Protect yourself with your scarf!”
Using the light of the artificial torch that his apprentice was holding, he first inspected the ceiling to verify there was no risk that it would collapse on them. He then looked at the walls. Once covered in metal panels, now a coating of filth and black mold lined practically every wall. The ground was littered with a significant amount of garbage. The darkness made it impossible to discern any further details.
Erol sheathed his sword and grabbed the light that was decreasing in intensity. When his gaze finally reached the floor, he gagged. Bodies were scattered across the concrete ground. Torn apart or dismembered, the desiccated corpses seemed frozen in time. Battling his disgust, he turned several bodies around using the toe of his shoe. With a quick mental calculation, the archaeologist calculated at least several hundred mutilated remains. He could read the pain etched on the twisted faces of those poor souls.
Judging from their appearance, they were all women. All of them wore the same outfit: a suit that covered almost every inch of their body, leaving their heads, hands, and feet bare. Their limbs cracked under the pressure of the adventurer’s fingers. Despite the ravages of time, Erol was still able to deduce that in the past, these curious outfits must have been a magnificent white. While they must surely have been quite comfortable once, by now these uniforms with their silver highlights had acquired a consistency that resembled plaster.
“Sir, this macabre work—some bodies have teeth marks. Some have been skinned, but others are in perfect state. So to speak.”
Erol found Octave’s observation pertinent. Some bones did indeed bear bite marks. It was unusual. Of no value, but unusual. “Have they been devoured?” he asked, inspecting a pair of carefully cleaned bones.
His student’s observation made him realize that some of the visible bites seemed to have healed. The mystery deepened and Erol felt a swell inside of him, an uneasy feeling with regards to the bodies. Something about them was not natural and his mind brimmed with questions as he scratched an opaque spot on the ground with the tip of his blade.
“Sir. Did you notice the blood?”
“Yes.”
But what the archaeologist had first believed to be dried hemoglobin lacked its characteristic brown color. Even after so many years, there should still have been a glint of red. This bloodstain, however, was pitch-black and gave off a slight blue glimmer.
“Is this normal?” Octave choked out quite naively. The poor body held the scarf against his nose with both hands. The slightest movement from his mentor made him jump.
“No, this is not normal at all.”
“They—they look like they died just yesterday.”
Once again, Octave was correct. The bodies were oozing, a detail that left a bad taste in his mouth. They were far too fresh to be considered mummies.
Was their state a result of the confined subterranean environment?
The archaeologist got up and strode over the corpses to get to the other side of the room where a new exit had emerged. This second door must have opened at the same time as the last one. He hadn’t noticed it until now, but a bluish light emanated from within. Crossing the room took longer than expected. On multiple occasions, his enormous leather boots pierced rib cages and an incalculable number of dead skulls, to the great dismay of his student.
But after desecrating his twentieth corpse, Erol could briefly scrutinize the new room. A timid halo of light seemed to originate out of a cylindrical altar at the center. Made entirely of metal, this altar was surrounded by a dozen rows of glass caskets organized in the shape of concentric circles.
“It reminds me of a cemetery,” worried Octave.
“How can this thing still work?” interjected Erol, eyes fixed on the source of light.
“I don’t know. But it’s proof that there is indeed current.”
The two prisoners of the compound crossed the room until they reached the metal cylinder. When they were in its proximity, Erol extended his arm, wishing to touch this curious lantern that radiated with a gentle warmth. But, once the archaeologist’s palm brushed the strange lantern, it whirred and suddenly shut down. The hall was plunged into darkness.
Surprised, both took a few steps backwards. The roar of glass shattering into thousand pieces resonated in the darkness behind them, making the two men jump. “If something comes out of these coffins—” Erol shouted, brandishing his blade and almost severing his acolyte’s ear.
But the room fell silent once again and nothing emerged out of the caskets.
Having recovered from the sudden shock, the archaeologist lit one of their reserve torches and proceeded to inspect the caskets while muttering some audible curses. His feet screeched as they trampled on broken glass.
Every lid had been lifted and thrown on the ground, unveiling a white padded interior covered in a light film of dust. An imposing network of dull yellow cables lay underneath the dust, and they all converged into a metallic piece that resembled a mask. These cables appeared to have been abandoned with little care once what had been stored inside the caskets was retrieved.
“Look Sir, they do resemble coffins, but they have been forced open,” whispered the young boy, proud of his deduction.
Indeed, the block of glass before him had suffered irreversible damage. On the adjacent sarcophagus, the glass pane had been broken, but the lid itself had not been lifted. Inside, the cables had been ferociously cut.
Had this been an act of savage violence or one of rescue? asked himself the archaeologist.
He walked through the various rows of rectangular blocks and inspected the interior and exterior of every casket after the other, trying to detect any sign of combat or clues that time had not concealed under the dust. His inspection led him finally to a coffin that seemed to have been opened only recently. Here, the glass shards of the lid lay above the layer of dust. After years under pressure, the silicone seals had exploded, throwing the lid to the side. The power failure had been fatal.
So this is where the noise was coming from… But when the archaeologist eventually looked inside, the contents made him drop his sword to the ground. What in the world…
In the hollow space of the glass casket lay the body of a young woman. Her skin was a dazzling white, completely devoid of flaws. She was of medium build and wore that same white suit with silver highlights. Time had somehow left her undamaged and she had been perfectly preserved. Her head rested on a mass of long and shiny brown hair. Her eyes closed, half of the woman’s face was concealed under an iron mask. The latter, covering both her nose and her mouth, was attached to the edges of the tomb by several of those strange bright yellow cables.
Stunned, the archaeologist of the Foundation approached the casket, pushing his glasses closer to his face so they would stay firmly in place. Sweat trickled down his cheeks, dripping on his scarf. But as he prepared to turn back and inform his acolyte of his discovery, the corpse of that unknown woman flinched.
“This is impossible!” exclaimed Erol before launching into an incessant tirade of curses that attracted the attention of his disciple.
When Octave finally arrived by his teacher’s side, he too blurted out a cry of surprise upon seeing the body of the young woman. Before either of them was able to move an inch, the stranger was overtaken by a new wave of convulsions.
“She’s alive, Octave! This woman is alive!”
“Al—alive?” stammered the young student, his eyes wide open. “But this place has been sealed for ages!”
Erol could not believe it. His heart was racing. His hands were shaking. This discovery was worth all the risks he had taken upon coming down here.
“Kid … our fortune is made!”