“Why is it called the Templelands?” Medus asked, craning his long neck over the sharp drop of the cliff. “I don’t see any temples. Just a bunch of holes and rocks.”

“Those are the temples,” Agraneia said. “They worship them.”

“Oh.”

Witch Patrol was standing at the top of the cliff, overlooking that long canyon. A few of the braver, stupider soldiers were sitting on the edge of the cliff, eating their rations, and seeing how far they could spit. The treeline shied away from the cliffs, so that only slippery, mist-covered mosses grew on the cliff faces.

It was a long drop. Long enough that the canyon had its own kind of wind.

Thousands of stone formations littered the canyon floor below. Some of them looked like hunched figures, gathered around holes in the ground. Others were as wide as buildings, and reached almost up to the cliffs themselves. There were gaps down there, too. In the gravel-strewn floor. Wide, gaping holes that went down beyond sight.

“Where does it go?” Medus asked. He was finally talking again.

“No one knows.”

“Look, if it's so bad, why do we have to go this way?”

“Faster,” Agraneia said. “Main force is going the long way. We’re supposed to get there first.”

From up here, it was easy to see the wave of mist. It started in the west, far out of sight. Agra could hear it; a rushing, crashing hiss as pressurized vapor shout out of the holes and the tips of the stone formations. Swishing as it rushed closer and closer, until the wave of geysers was right below them, spraying them with mist.

Even the mist was wrong, though. Infused with colors. Translucent reds and violets and greens, filling the air with cold, wet clouds that fell back as fog, settling over the canyon floor. Obscuring it from sight. The wave of mist continued, all the way to the east, until they could only hear the distant, fading hiss.

The scouts finally came back, regrouping with the twenty or so soldiers that were left.

“The village is empty, sir.”

“Good,” Captain Dinnae said. “Let’s round up and head out.”

There was a steep trail that lead down toward the canyon. A sharp climb over jagged, stone handholds that were slick with mist from the geysers, and the mosses that fed there. They crawled slowly down, single file, until the canyon walls wrapped overhead.

It wasn’t so much a village, as it was a set of holes carved into the stone. Dozens of rectangular dwellings and short, shadowy tunnels had been hewn out of the rock by ancient stone tools. Small, dark windows and cramped entrances made for things to slither through.

The soldiers were on alert, swinging their guns at every doorway, but Agraneia thought the village was empty. The only sign of movement in the village, at least from up here, were the strips of cloth and remnants of old flags swinging from ropes that were hung across the crags.

One house had dozens of clay jars stacked against walls. Most of them, cracked or smashed so her boots crunched on a sea of brown clay. Bullet scars pockmarked the walls, breaking off chips of white stone. In one house, she saw a hand sticking out of the shadows. Long claws lying open, on the ground. Only a corpse. It was buzzing with insects.

Recent.

Maybe it didn’t mean anything. Maybe someone had tried to take refuge here, in their last days.

Many of the doorways were covered in carvings. Lassertane symbols and simple figures with such unnatural proportions Agraneia couldn’t tell if they were Lassertane or something else. The locals loved to use squares and jagged triangles and other primitive shapes in their carvings, made to look like dancing lizards or jungle beasts or foods and other natural phenomena.

The scribe was close behind her. Ever since he found the others wouldn’t mess with Agraneia, he stuck to her side.

“Do the symbols mean anything?” The scribe asked.

“Not anymore.”

All the people who made them were dead. Or probably would be, soon enough.

“That one looks like one of the Makers,” the Scribe said. He was pointing ahead, at one of the largest buildings carved into an enormous outcropping at the bottom of the village, where the ground leveled out. Thick columns seemed to support the stone overhead, as if this one building was the only thing that kept the cliffs standing.

There was, indeed, a kind of face at the top of the temple. Even Agraneia could recognize it for what it was. An Old One.

“It must be hundreds of years old. Maybe more,” the scribe said, his voice filled with awe. “Older than Cyre, even.”

Down here, the houses and caves had thinned out. Their walls were more solid, their windows more narrow. And then, the houses disappeared completely, leaving nothing but the high walls of the cliff above them.

The whole line of soldiers stopped, with the Captain at head.

Six large boulders blocked the trail. They looked like they had been rolled down there, a long time ago. A kind of arch had been carved between the two largest boulders, with a slender, crooked gap below that was just large enough for someone to fit through, if they went sideways.

The archway was carved with dozens of symbols and figures. Lassertane, with their long tails and sharp snouts. Bowing at some tangled shape. It almost looked like they were offering it something...

Someone, a cyran soldier who had been here long before them, had carved a message into the boulder next to the arch. Crude, jagged scratch marks made the letters: NOTHING IS WORTH THIS

The soldiers were staring. Even Baccus had that hard look on his face, the one where he was asking himself if he could somehow get out of this. If he could somehow turn back, without losing his pride.

But Captain Dinnae had made up her mind a long time ago. She knew where she was taking Witch Patrol.

“Keep your eyes peeled,” Captain Dinnae addressed the soldiers, “We’re going two-by-two, so grab yourself a partner. And don’t let them out of your sight, because once we get into the canyon, we’re not stopping. If you’re partner falls down, help them up. And don’t touch anything you don’t have to.”

She seemed like she had more to say. As if she could somehow protect her patrol, by voicing her thoughts. But her expression was tight, and the longer she drew this out, the more nervous the soldiers got. Still, she didn’t seem able to make herself move.

Baccus stepped up to save her. “Come on! You heard your Captain. Partner up and move out!”

The scribe was at Agraneia’s elbow.

“I don’t have a weapon,” he said.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

“Good,” she said. “It’s safer that way.”

The Captain grabbed a longneck, one of the privates from her squads who was shaking like a leaf in the wind. And she dragged him under the arch.

The rest of Witch Patrol followed her lead.

And when they stepped out into the light of the canyon, the same word was on everyone’s lips.

“Whoa.”

Down here, the Templelands seemed to go on forever. Compared to the swarming jungles of Thrass, the canyon floor almost felt barren. Exposed. Instead of trees, they were surrounded by stacked stone formations - layers and layers of minerals that had formed on top of each other, hanging with shaggy moss. Some were so skinny, they looked like they might fall at the slightest touch. Others were enormous, sitting like great stone statues. Watching their line walk slowly across the canyon floor.

It was the floor of the canyon that bothered Agraneia the most. From above, it looked like nothing more than white gravel and grit and rock. But down here, she could see the pipes, the ancient metalwork sticking up through the grit. Endless tubes and strange, unnatural shapes jutting up from the floor, covered in that same white stone, as if the stone itself was growing over the long forgotten metal.

And every so often, they would find a hole. Mostly, they were small. The size of a finger, or a fist. They opened up, drinking in the sand and gravel. Trying to swallow the soldiers’ feet.

They could not see the other side of the canyon through all the mist. It made the stone temples look like other shapes. People. Things. Sometimes, if she looked the wrong way, the temples looked like they had shifted.

“What is that?” The scribe said.

Agraneia thought it had started, but he was only pointing behind her, at the six huge boulders and the archway leading back up into the village. There were scratch marks in the stone where something had tried to cut away the boulders.

“Eyes ahead,” Agraneia said. “And watch your step. The holes move.”

That caught his attention.

They walked in a line, two by two, just as the Captain said. It was the right way to do it. Stay tight, but not too tight.

Down here, the wave of the geysers, rushing from west to east, made a sound that stopped her stomach. A hiss that rose up so hard and so fast, it washed over them before any of them could take cover. But it was only mist. And it was already gone.

More waves washed over them as they walked. Sometimes, it would unearth a hole in the ground. Blocked, until the pressure sent sand and pebbles exploded out, pelting the patrol with natural shrapnel.

Once, a soldier slipped on seemingly hard ground, and was sucked almost down to his waist before his feet found a set of neat, parallel pipes. They were covered over by a shell of wet, white stone and his feet were already slipping. Beneath the pipes, there was nothing but a black shaft that led… well, who knows where it went.

“Watch where you’re going,” his partner told him, as he hauled him out.

“I didn’t see it!”

“Then clean the shit out of your eyes, and watch,” he snapped again.

Someone found a fang. At first, Agraneia didn’t believe it. Nothing left behind in the templelands ever stayed here.

But there it was, lying half-submerged in the gravel. It’s back half was burned so badly, the paint had come off, revealing the shine of silver metal. The fang was covered in those same huge scratch marks from before. Someone thought it was a good idea to open it up, to search for a pilot - or, at least, a body.

Dinnae vetoed the idea immediately. “Did I tell you to stop?”

A while later, the whole line stopped.

Baccus was up at the front, shouting every obscenity known to cyrankind, but his words were falling on deaf ears.

He was screaming in one’s face, saying awful things about the soldier’s mother in an attempt to get a reaction—any reaction. But there was something wrong with them.

They were just staring. Not at anything. At least, not at anything real.

“What the fuck are you doing, Baccus,” the Captain said. And when he tried to explain, she said, “I don’t care if you have to tie them up and drag them. Move.”

She put her hand on the back of one soldier’s neck, pinched down, and shoved him forward. He stumbled and hit the ground. “Move! Move!” She did the same to each stupefied soldier, until they were spitting gravel and picking themselves up.

“Where am I?” one of them said, blinking rapidly. “Who are you people?”

In answer, he only got a boot to the side, and another shout from the Captain.

The line kept moving.

Agraneia did her best to keep her eyes on the ground. Sometimes, she could see them. The faces, in the stones. Or in the mist. They were taunting her, or laughing, or pleading with her. Always on the corners of her vision.

Once, she heard a laugh and couldn’t help it. She had to look, it sounded so real.

But it was only private Taeso, making a joke at one of his partners.

Agraneia must’ve been staring too long, because Taeso turned around and looked at her.

Is that blood on his teeth?

She blinked a few times, clearing whatever it was out of her head.

She wasn’t the only one. Sometimes, the soldiers thought they could see holes that weren’t there. They would stop, and shout, and everyone would look. And there would be nothing there.

Sometimes, shadows passed overhead. Or maybe, Agraneia was only imagining it. Each time, she took a deep breath. Willing herself to stay calm.

The others, however, were getting worse.

Baccus wanted to start running. “We’re going too slow.” His squads agreed with him.

Captain Dinnae snapped at him, and told him to get back in line. She wasn’t doing it out of hate, no. It was because she was scared, too, but she knew that as long as they kept moving, they would make it. Smooth. Steady. Not too fast.

Each time the mists seemed about to clear, another hissing wave rolled over them. A few miles in, another soldier fell. This time, there was no helping her. She walked right into a hole. It was huge, an enormous funnel of sliding rock and soil, sucking her down into some black, impossible depth. She just walked forward, right into it, and before she knew she was falling, she was sliding down. Clawing at the soil. Screaming for help.

Gone.

After that, they did quicken their pace. Nobody spoke. Even when another wave hissed over them, and one of those enormous stone structures split and cracked open as the geyser inside pressurized too quickly. Water sprayed out of the cracks, and shot shards of stone flying across the soil.

They just kept moving.

Walking.

Hoping to find the other side of the canyon.

At first, she thought it was another shadow. Another ghost.

But then, she could feel it in the ground below her feet. She had been counting her steps, trying to stay focused on her feet, and the scribe’s feet next to hers when the ground rumbled in a way it shouldn’t have.

She dared to look up. Stopped. Held her eyes, focused on the horizon.

And counted three breaths.

“What is it?” the scribe asked. He had stopped, too, though the rest of the line walked around them.

Was that a wall?

Was it coming towards them?

Agraneia put out a hand, and lightly pushed the scribe away.

“Run,” she said.

“What?”

She grabbed him by the arm, and started running up to the front of the line, where the Captain was leading the way.

“Captain. We have to move.”

“Lieutenant, what are you doing?” the Captain said, “Get back in line. Lieutenant, get back there or-”

Agraneia shouted back down the line, “RUUUN!”

The ground was shaking now, and all the rocky sand under their feet seemed to rattle and walk away, becoming a thousand rivers of stone and gravel. Hundreds of holes were uncovered, all around them.

The rest of the soldiers were jogging now, following Agraneia’s lead. She pushed the scribe again into a full-blown sprint.

Something jostled off his pack, and when he stop to get it, she grabbed him and held fast and kept him running.

She did not stop to see if the rest of the soldiers were coming. It wasn’t worth it.

She could hear it now. The cracking of stone. The groaning of something too heavy for the ground, vibrating the soil under her feet as it came towards them. A shadow in the corner of her eye, growing in the mists.

So big. How did it get so close?

It was impossible to tell if it was one thing, or a hundred things coming towards them. All she knew was that the mass had more arms and appendages than the whole cohort put together. It smashed the ground, its long, endless body lifting and falling as it dragged itself towards them.

Now, even the Captain was running, and the soldiers were a crowd of pumping legs and arms, racing to reach the cliff wall. More holes opened up under their feet, and it was all she could do to dodge them. To keep the scribe from falling in.

The cliff wall loomed ahead. Over them. And a stroke of panic slashed through Agraneia’s mind. What if we missed the entrance on the other side?

But there were more boulders, these sealed together with a muddy mortar. And all the gouges and scars in the stone, some deep enough for Agraneia to fit her hand in, all of them pointed inwards towards the hole in the boulders. As if something had tried to tear its way in.

Loose stones trickled from the cliffs above as the ground rumbled, showering them. Agraneia pushed the scribe in first. And she threw a few more soldiers in, trying to catch a glimpse at the wall of darkness coming towards them. Something screeched, though she did not think it was a mouth. More like the screech of branches rubbing against each other, or bones. And the thunder of movement across the ground shook her to her core.

There were more stragglers behind. Captain Dinnae was still back there, waiting for them. Baccus had already gone through.

Agraneia grabbed the captain’s shoulder.

“Get off me,” the captain said, a red fury in her eyes, but Agraneia didn’t let go. She hauled the dullscale captain into the archway with her.

The stragglers would be dead soon enough.

Agraneia squeezed herself into the stone archway, and the captain had stopped resisting. They came out into the other side.

Out into another village, carved in the stone.

A sea of faces looked down on them. Reptilian faces. Locals. Still living on this side of the canyon. There were dozens of them, and the last thing they expected was a ragged patrol of cyrans to come bursting through the canyon wall.