Percepliquis

CHAPTER 18

The smoke was growing thick and it was becoming hard to breathe as Arista remained standing still, muttering, her eyes closed, her hands twitching.

“Is she going to do something?” Gaunt asked, and followed this with a series of coughs.

“Give her a second,” Hadrian told him.

As if in response, a light breeze moved within the room. Where it came from Hadrian could not tell, but it moved around the chamber, swirling and stealing away the smoke. The wind grew stronger and soon it ruffled the edges of their cloaks, slapping their hoods and spinning the dust into little whirlwinds that twirled, dancing about. All at once, the flames in the lanterns went out and the wind stopped. Everything was deathly still for a heartbeat.

Then the front wall of the guildhall exploded.

Arista’s robe flared brilliantly as from beyond the missing wall, Hadrian heard the cries of goblins, like a million squealing rats. The square cast in darkness for a thousand years lay revealed, illuminated as if the sun had returned to the Grand Mar. They could finally see the beauty that once had been, the city of Novron, the city of Percepliquis, the city of light.

“Gather your things,” Arista shouted, opening her eyes, but Hadrian could tell she was not fully with them. She was breathing deep and slow, her eyes never focusing, as if blind to what was around her. She was not seeing with her eyes anymore.

Mauvin and Alric hoisted Gaunt between them. He grunted but said nothing as he hopped on his good leg.

“Come,” she told them, and began to walk toward the collapsed pile that had once been a palace.

“You’re doing great,” Hadrian told her. She showed no sign of hearing him.

The goblins stayed back. Whether they retreated from the explosion of stone, the harsh light, or some invisible sorcery that Arista was manifesting, all Hadrian could tell was that they refused to approach.

The party walked as a group clustered around Arista.

“This is crazy,” Gaunt said, his voice quavering. “They’ll kill us.”

“Don’t leave the group,” Hadrian told them.

“They’re fitting arrows,” Mauvin announced.

“Stay together.”

Struggling to shield their eyes as they bent their bows, the Ghazel launched a barrage. All of the party flinched except Arista. A hundred dark shafts flew into the air, burst into flame, and vanished into streaks of smoke. More howls arose from the Ghazels’ ranks, but no more arrows flew, and now more than ever, the goblins showed no willingness to advance.

“Find the opening!” she shouted, sounding out of breath, her tone impatient, like someone holding up heavy furniture.

“Magnus, try and find the hollow corridor,” Hadrian barked.

“To the left, up there, a gap. No over farther-there!”

Royce was on it, throwing rocks back. “He’s right-there’s an opening here.”

“Of course I’m right!” Magnus shouted.

“Something…” Arista said dreamily.

“What was that, Arista?” Hadrian asked. She mumbled and he did not catch the last few words. He kept his hands on her shoulders, squeezing slightly, although he was not certain if by doing so he was reassuring her or himself.

“Something… I feel something-something fighting me.”

Hadrian looked up and stared out over the Grand Mar at the colony of goblins, a writhing mass of insidiously twisted bodies, with dripping teeth and brilliant claws clacking along the length of spears and swords. He spotted what he looked for beyond them, moving in a ring around the Ulurium Fountain. The small, slim figure of the oberdaza, dressed in a skirt and headdress of feathers, shaking a tulan staff and dancing his methodic steps. He spotted two more joining the first.

“We need to get in now!” Hadrian shouted.

Royce threw Myron and a lantern inside the dark hole and then shoved Magnus after him before following them inside. Gaunt, Mauvin, and Alric followed.

“We need to go,” Hadrian told Arista.

Across the span of the square, he could hear chanting as two more witch doctors joined in the dance.

“Something,” Arista muttered again. “Something taking shape, something growing.”

“That’s why we need to get moving.”

A light appeared in the center of the square. No more than a candle flame, it wavered, hovering in midair; then it began to grow. The light swirled, flared, popped, and grew to the size of an apple. The host of the Ghazel army joined in the chant of the three oberdaza as the hovering ball of fire continued to grow and take shape. Hadrian began to see what looked like limbs and a head emerging from the withering fire.

“Okay, we really have to go,” Hadrian said, and grabbed hold of the princess. The moment he did, she staggered back, looking shocked and frightened. The glow of her robe went out.

“What’s happening?” Arista asked.

He did not answer but merely grabbed her tightly by the wrist and drew her up the rubble to the opening, where he shoved her headfirst into the hole. Behind him he heard the thrum of a hundred arrows taking to the air and dove into the hole after her.

“Go! Crawl!” he shouted to Arista as he did his best to shove rocks up against the opening. She obeyed and somewhere in the darkness he heard her scream.

“Arista!” He turned and scrambled forward, only to fall.

Dropping ten feet, he landed next to her, and the two found themselves lying in a corridor illuminated by a lantern in Myron’s hand.

“You two all right?” Royce asked. “That drop is a bit of a surprise.”

“I’m sorry,” Arista was saying, rubbing her back. “I couldn’t hold them. There was something fighting me, something I’ve never felt before, another power.”

“It’s okay,” Hadrian told her. “You did great. We’re in.”

“We are?” the princess asked, looking around, surprised.

“What about getting back out?” Gaunt asked.

“I’d be more concerned about them following us right now,” Hadrian told him. “The narrow passage will slow their progress, but they’ll be coming.”

“Talk as you walk,” Royce said. “Or run if you’re up to it. Give me the lantern, Myron. I don’t want to fall into any more holes.”

“Maybe we should stay behind and kill them as they come down,” Mauvin said to Hadrian.

“You’ll run out of strength before they run out of goblins,” Hadrian told him. “And then there’s that-that thing the oberdaza were making.”

“ Thing? ” Arista asked.

They jogged down the corridor with Royce out front holding the lantern high. To either side were white marble walls, and beneath them, a dark polished floor of beautiful mosaic design.

“I don’t suppose you saw a map of this place,” Royce said to Myron.

“Actually, yes, but it was very old, and parts were missing.”

“Better than nothing. Any idea where we are?”

“Not yet.”

At first Hadrian thought they stumbled into a room-a great hall, by the size of it-but soon it became clear that it was a corridor, but far larger than any Hadrian had ever before seen. Suits of armor, each similar to the one he had found in Jerish’s room, stood on either side. The walls were sculptured relief images of men, scenes of battles, scenes of remembrance; they flashed, frame by frame, as the party raced past.

Hadrian saw a long succession of men being crowned, with the cityscape in the background; in each one the city was smaller, the crowning ceremony less lavish. Two things caught his notice as they ran. The first was that in every instance, the head of the man being crowned was scratched out, deliberately chipped away. The second was that in each depiction, although the crowd always appeared different, Hadrian could swear the artist used the same model for one figure-a tall, slender man-who appeared in the forefront in each scene. And while in the dim fluttering lantern light it was difficult to tell, Hadrian was certain he had seen the man before.

They came to a four-way intersection. To the left was an incredible door, five stories tall, made completely of gold and inlaid with stunning geometric designs of such artistry each of them expelled a sound of awe.

“The imperial throne room,” Myron said. “In there once sat the ruler of the world.”

“You know where we are, then?” Royce asked.

Myron nodded, looking at the walls. “Yes… I think so.”

“Which way to the crypts?”

The monk hesitated, closing his eyes for a second. “This way.” He pointed forward. “Down two doors, then we take a stair down on the left.”

They quickly reached the stair and Royce led them down. Gaunt grunted, limping along with one arm around Myron’s shoulders, his fist holding on to the monk’s rope belt.

“Oberdaza?” Arista said to Hadrian as they chased the end of the line. “You mentioned them before, when we were in Hintindar, didn’t you? You said they were witch doctors who used Ghazel magic.”

“Scary little buggers.”

“What was that thing they were making?”

“No idea, but it was on fire and growing.”

“I could sense something, something disrupting the rhythm, breaking my pattern, my connection. I’ve never encountered anything like that before. I didn’t know what to do.”

“I think you did great,” he told her. “You controlled it real well too-didn’t even get close to losing you this time.”

In the dim light he managed to catch a little smile on her face. “I did control it better, didn’t I? You helped. I could sense you near me, this warm light I could cling to, an anchor to keep me grounded.”

“You were probably just afraid I’d hit you again.” Behind them, down the corridor, echoed a tremendous boom! The ground shook under them and dust blew off the walls. “Uh-oh.”

They reached another stair.

“We keep going down, right?” he heard Royce ask. “This tomb-thing is at the bottom?”

“Yes,” Myron replied. “The imperial crypt is on the lowest level. The palace was actually built over the tomb of Novron as a shrine to glorify his memory. It became a ruling palace long after.”

They came to still another stair and raced down it, Magnus grunting with each drop. At the bottom lay corridors smaller and narrower, with shorter ceilings. They moved single file now, Gaunt struggling, hopping. A three-way intersection stopped them. Three statues of long-bearded men holding shields stood before them, staring back.

“Well?” Royce asked the monk.

“This is where the map was torn,” he replied apologetically. “The rest is just white space.”

“Great,” Royce said.

“But we should be close. There wasn’t much room left, so it has to be-Look!” The monk pointed at the wall on the right corridor, where an EH was scratched.

“Let’s hope the Ghazel can’t read,” Royce said, pushing on.

“They don’t need to; they can smell,” Hadrian explained.

They ran as best they could, chasing the bobbing lantern. Behind them, the sounds of pursuit grew as the Ghazel gained on them. They passed doors on either side of the corridor, which Royce ignored as he rushed forward. Some were partially open. Hadrian tried to look inside, yet the interior of each was too dark to see anything.

Drums echoed, and the blast of a horn rang down the stone corridors. Gaunt was bleeding again. Hadrian could see dark drops on the floor behind them. If the Ghazel had had any trouble tracking them before, they would have none now.

Again they stopped, this time at a T-intersection at the center of which stood a large stone door beside a stone table. They all saw letters above it, carved deep into the arch.

“Myron, translate,” Royce ordered.

“This is it,” he said excitedly. “ ‘ Tread lightly, with fear and reverence, all ye who enter these halls, for this is the eternal resting place of the emperors of Elan, rulers of the world. ’ ”

Before Myron finished reading, Hadrian heard the chilling sound of claws on stone. “They’re coming!”

Royce pulled on the door and struggled with it. Hadrian and Mauvin pushed forward. Together they grabbed hold of the edge and pulled to the sound of heavy stone grinding.

The sharp clacking of hundreds of three-inch nails grew louder as behind them a fiery red light appeared and grew. They all passed through the opening and together pulled the door shut. As they did, as the door closed, Hadrian peered out the closing crack and glimpsed the sight of a giant, stooping figure made of flame striding down the corridor at them.

“There’s no way to lock it!” Alric shouted.

“Outta my way!” The dwarf fell to his knees and, drawing his hammer, pounded on the hinges. There was an immediate crack. “That will slow them.”

Ahead was another, very narrow downward stair. Here the stone was different. It cast a bluish hue and was carved in fluid curving lines.

Boom!

The Ghazel reached the door and struck it hard.

“Run!” Hadrian called forward, and Royce reached the bottom of the stairs in seconds, waiting for the rest to join him.

Boom!

Hadrian glanced over his shoulder, watching Myron help Gaunt down. There was a loathsome clicking on the far side of the door, and he imagined all those claws scratching. Magnus remained on his knees, picking up wedges of broken stone and hammering them into cracks to hold the door tight.

Boom!

A red glow was visible, seeping in around the edges. Licks of flame curled through like long fingers reaching, searching.

“The door won’t stop them,” Arista said. She too remained on the landing, standing before the door, and Hadrian could see tension in her face. “And we can’t keep running. They will eventually catch us. I have to stop them. Go on ahead.”

“You tried that,” Hadrian told her sternly.

“I didn’t understand then. I’ll do better this time.” Her little body was breathing fast as she stared unblinking at the door, her hands clenching and unclenching.

“There’s three of them and only one of you, and there’s this fire thing. You-”

“Go!” she shouted. “It’s the only way!”

Boom!

Cracks appeared across the face of the door. Bits of stone chipped off and fell on the dwarf’s head.

“Go on, all of you!” She closed her eyes and began to mutter. Myron and Gaunt were finally at the bottom. Magnus followed quickly, vaulting down the steps. Mauvin and Alric hesitated partway down, but Hadrian remained-reluctant to leave her.

Boom!

The door fractured, the hands of flames bending around, gripping tight, ripping at the stone.

Arista’s robe burst forth a brilliant white light, the stairs illuminated so harshly everyone shielded their eyes.

Boom!

The door buckled.

“No, you don’t!” Arista shouted above the thunder of the stone.

White light rushed to the door, circling it and forcing back the red fire, filling the gaps. The flaming fingers recoiled and fought. Writhing and twisting, sparks erupted where the two met. From the far side they all heard an unnatural howl of pain that shook the bowels of the stone. A loud crack shuddered through the walls and, like a candle she blew on, the fiery light went out with a snap.

Arista remained on the landing, her face slick with sweat, her arms up, her fingers weaving in the air as if she were playing an invisible harp. The stone of the doors glowed with a blue light, brightening and ebbing like a luminous heartbeat. Her movements became faster, her hands jerking. She grunted and cried out as if in alarm.

“No!” she shouted.

A wind filled the space around her; Arista’s hair whirled and snapped, her robe blowing, billowing out, shimmering like the surface of a moonstruck lake.

“Arista?” he called to her.

“They’re-they’re-” She was clearly struggling, fighting something. The pulsing light on the door sped up, growing faster and faster. She screamed and this time her head dodged to one side. She took a step backward and with another grunt struggled to throw her weight forward. “They’re fighting me!”

She cried out again and Hadrian felt a powerful gust of wind burst through the door. It staggered both of them. Hadrian placed a hand on the wall to keep from falling.

“More than three!” she said. “Oh dear Maribor! I can’t-”

Her face was straining, her jaw clenched; her eyes watered and tears fell down her cheeks. “I can’t hold them. Run! Run! ”

The door exploded. Bits of stone flew cracking across the walls, splitting and whizzing. Dust blossomed in a cloud. Arista flew back, crumpling to the floor-her light all but out. The robe managed only a quivering purple glow.

“No!” Hadrian shouted. He grabbed hold of her and lifted just as through the door the goblin horde charged.

They broke through the fog of dust with snarling teeth and glowing eyes. They attacked with sachels held high, fanged mouths spitting curses and dripping with anticipation.

Alric drew forth the sword of Tolin Essendon. “In the name of Novron and Maribor!” he shouted fiercely as he charged up the steps with Mauvin close behind. The shimmering blade of Count Pickering slid free of its sheath. “Back!” the king cried. “Back to Oberlin, you mangy beasts!”

Hadrian ran down the steps, clutching the princess to his chest. Behind him, he could still hear Alric’s cursing the goblins, the blades’ ringing, and the Ghazels’ screams.

As Hadrian reached the bottom, Arista was stirring, her eyes fluttering open. He handed her to Myron. “Keep her safe!”

He turned, drew his swords, and ran back up the steps with Royce right behind. Above him, Mauvin and Alric fought as dark blood splattered the walls and spilled down the steps. Already a mound of bodies lay on the landing. He was still three steps away when Alric cried out and fell.

“ Alric! ” Mauvin shouted. He turned to his fallen king just as a sachel blade stabbed out.

Mauvin cried out in pain but managed to cleave the head from the goblin’s shoulders.

“Fall back, Mauvin!” Hadrian shouted, stepping over Alric.

Standing shoulder to shoulder, the two filled the width of the corridor and fought like a single man with four arms. The whirl of their blades was daunting, and after three attempts the goblins hesitated. The goblins paused their assault and stood beyond the broken door, staring at them across a pile of Ghazel bodies.

“Mauvin, take Alric and go!” Hadrian ordered, breathing hard.

“You can’t hold them yourself,” Mauvin replied.

“You’re bleeding, and I can hold them long enough. Get your king away.”

Mauvin glared at the grinning teeth across from him.

Hadrian could see at least two of the oberdaza lying facedown on the stone table and thought, She gave as good as she got.

“Take him, Mauvin. Your duty is to him. Alric may yet live. Take him to Arista.”

Mauvin sheathed his sword, and stooping, he lifted Alric and retreated down the steps. The goblins moved a step forward, then hesitated once more as Royce appeared beside Hadrian.

“Ugly little buggers.” He appraised the faces across the threshold.

Pressure from the back was pushing the goblins reluctantly forward.

“How long before they remember they have bows?” Royce whispered.

“They aren’t the brightest, particularly when scared,” Hadrian explained. “In many respects they are like a pack of herd animals. If one panics, they all follow suit, but yeah, they’ll figure it out. I’m guessing we got maybe a minute or two. Looks like we should have been winemakers after all, huh?”

“Oh, now you think of it,” Royce chided.

“We’d be in our cottage around a warm fire right now. You’d be sampling our wares and complaining it wasn’t good enough. I’d be making lists for the spring.”

“No,” Royce said. “It’s five in the morning. I’d still be in bed with Gwen. She’d be curled up in a ball, and I’d be watching her sleep and marveling at how her hair lay upon her cheek as if Maribor himself had placed it there in just that way for me. And in the crib my son, Elias, and my daughter, Mercedes, would be just waking up.” Hadrian saw him smile then for the first time since Gwen’s death.

“Why don’t you go down with the others and leave me here?” Royce said. “You might be able to get a little farther-a little closer to the tomb. Maybe there’s another door-a door with a lock. You’ve spent enough time with me already.”

“I’m not going to leave you here,” Hadrian told him.

“Why not?”

“There are better ways to die.”

“Maybe this is my fate, my reward for the life I lived. I wish these bastards had been at the bridge that night, or at least that Merrick had fought better. I regret it now-killing him, I mean. He was telling the truth. He didn’t kill Gwen. I guess I’ll just tack that on to all the other regrets of my life. Go on. Leave me.”

“Royce! Hadrian!” Myron called to them from the bottom. “Run!”

“We can’t-” Hadrian said when he noticed a white light growing below them and felt a rising wind. “Oh son of-!”

The stairs trembled and rock cracked. Bits of stone shattered and flew in all directions, hitting them like stinging bees. Hadrian grabbed hold of Royce and leapt headlong down the steps. A loud roar issued from above them as goblins screamed and the ceiling collapsed.

“Hadrian!” Arista cried out. Her robe brightened, and Myron held his lantern high, but she could not see through the cloud of dust. She staggered on her feet, light-headed and dizzy. Her legs were weak and her thoughts muddy. Swaying with her arms reaching out for balance, she stared into the gloom of swirling dirt, her heart pounding. “Oh god, don’t let them be dead!”

“Cut that a little close, didn’t you?” She heard Hadrian’s voice emerging out of the murk.

The fighter and the thief crawled out of the haze covered in what looked to be a fine coating of gray chalk. They waved their hands before their faces and coughed repeatedly as they climbed over the rubble to join the others in the narrow corridor. Behind them, the way was sealed.

Royce looked back. “Well, that’s one way to lock them out. Not a good way-but a way.”

“I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t know what else to do!” she said while her hands opened and closed nervously. Arista felt on the edge of losing control; she was exhausted and terrified.

“You did great,” Hadrian told her, taking her hands and holding them gently. Then, looking past her, he asked Mauvin, “How is he?”

“Not good,” the count replied with a quavering voice. “Still alive, though.”

The new Count Pickering was on his knees, holding Alric and brushing the king’s hair from his face. Alric was unconscious. A large amount of dark blood pooled on the ground around him.

“The fool,” Mauvin said. “He put his arm up to block, like he had a shield-’cause he always practiced with a shield. The blade cut his arm open from the shoulder to the elbow. When he tried to turn, they sliced open his stomach.” Mauvin wiped tears from his eyes. “He fought well, though-really well. Better than I’ve ever seen-better than I thought he could. It was almost like… like I was fighting beside Fanen again.” The tears continued to run down Mauvin’s cheeks, faster than he could brush them away.

Alric’s chest was moving, struggling up and down. A terrible gurgle bubbled up his throat with each raspy breath.

“Give me the lantern.” Hadrian rapidly bent down over the king. He tore open his shirt, revealing the wound. The moment Hadrian saw it, he stopped. “Oh dear Novron,” he said.

“Do something,” Arista told him.

“There’s nothing I can do,” he told her. “The sword-it went through. I’ve seen this before-there’s just nothing-The bleeding won’t stop, not the way he’s-I can’t-Damn, I’m so sorry.”

His lips sealed together and his eyes closed.

“No,” Arista said, shaking her head. “No!” She fell and crawled to Alric’s side. Placing her hand on his head, she felt he was hot and drenched in sweat. “No,” she repeated. “I won’t allow it.”

“Arista?” She heard Hadrian, but she had already closed her eyes and began to hum. She sensed the dull solid forms of the old walls, the dirt and the stone, the air between them, their bodies, and the flow of Alric’s blood as it spilled on the ground. She could see it in her mind as a glowing river of silver and the glow was fading.

“Arista?” The sound of Hadrian’s voice echoed, but it was faint, as if coming from a distance.

She saw a sliver of darkness that appeared as a tear, a dark rip in the fabric of the world. She reached out and felt the edges, pulling them wider until she was able to pass through.

Inside it was dark-darker than night, darker than a room after blowing out a candle-it was the darkness of nothing. She peered deep into the void, searching. Alric was there, ahead of her, and drifting away, pulled by a current, like some dark river. She chased after him.

“Alric!” she called.

“Arista?” she heard him say. “Arista, help me!”

Ahead she saw a light, a single point that glimmered white.

“I’m trying. Stop and wait for me.”

“I can’t.”

“Then I’ll come and get you,” she said, and pushed forward.

“I don’t want to die,” Alric told her.

“I won’t let you. I can save you.”

Arista struggled forward, but progress was hard. The river that pulled Alric away pushed her backward and confounded her legs. She fought, driving against the wash even as Alric glided across the surface.

Despite the difficulty, she was getting closer. Her brother looked back at her, his face frightened. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t a better brother, a better king. Arista, you should have ruled instead of me. You were always smarter, stronger, more courageous. I was jealous. I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”

She reached out and almost caught hold of him, their fingertips touched briefly, then he slipped away. She watched as he picked up speed. The current grew stronger, pulling him away, rushing him forward, stealing him from her.

Ahead the light was closer, brighter, and in it, she thought she saw figures moving. “Alric, you have to try and slow down, you’re moving too fast, I can’t get-I can’t grab you. Alric, you’re speeding up! Alric, reach out to me! Alric! Alric! ”

She dove forward but her brother rushed away, washing toward the light at a speed she could not match. She watched as he grew smaller and smaller until he was lost in the brilliance of the light.

“No! No! ” she cried, staring forward, blinded by the whiteness.

“ Arista. ” She heard a voice call-not Alric’s, but familiar. “Arista. Your brother is here with us now. It’s okay.”

“Daddy?”

“Yes, dear, it’s me. I’m sorry I have no hairbrush to give you at this meeting, but there is so much more, so much more than a hairbrush waiting. Come join us.”

“I–I shouldn’t,” she told him, although she was not certain why.

The light did not hurt to look at, but it made it impossible to see more than vague shapes, all blurred and hazy, as if they moved on the far side of a frosted glass.

“ It’s all right, honey,” her father said. “ And it’s not just us waiting. You have other friends here, others who love you. ”

“ My burns are gone,” Hilfred told her. “ Come see. ”

She saw their wispy outlines before her; they were growing clearer and more defined. The current was no longer fighting against her and she was starting to pick up speed. She needed to stop, she needed to go back, there was something that-

“ Arista my love. ” This was a voice she had not heard for a long, long time and her heart leapt at the sound.

“Mother?”

“Come to me, honey, come home. I’m waiting for you.”

There was music playing, soft and gentle. The light was growing all around her such that the dark of the void was fading. She let herself go, let herself drift on the current that carried her forward faster and faster.

“Arista,” another voice called. This one was faint and distant, coming from somewhere behind her.

She could almost make out the faces in the light. There were so many and they were smiling with outstretched arms.

“Arista, come back.” The voice was not in the light; it was calling to her from the darkness. “Arista, don’t leave!”

It came as a cry, a desperate plea, and she knew the voice.

“Arista, please, please don’t leave. Please come back. Let him go and come back!”

It was Hadrian.

“ Arista,” her mother called, “ come home.”

“Home,” Arista said, and as she said it, she stopped. “Home,” she repeated, and felt a pulling in her stomach as the light diminished.

“ I’ll be waiting for you always. ” She heard her mother’s voice as it drifted away.

“ Good luck,” Alric called, his voice almost too faint to hear.

She felt herself flying backward, then-

Her eyes snapped open.

Arista lay on the stone, gasping and struggling to breathe. She inhaled long and hard but still could not manage to get enough air. The world was whirling above her, dark except for a faint purple glow. In this dim haze, she saw Hadrian crouched over her and felt him squeezing her hands. His own were shaking. Suddenly his strained look was replaced with a burst of joy.

“She’s okay! See! She’s looking around!” Mauvin shouted.

“Can you hear me?” Hadrian asked.

She tried but could not speak. All she could manage was a slight nod and her eye caught sight of Alric.

“He’s gone,” Hadrian told her sadly.

Again she managed a shallow nod.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Hadrian asked.

“Very… tired,” she whispered as her eyes closed, and she fell asleep.

As both Arista and Gaunt slept, Hadrian worked on Mauvin. The count’s side was drenched in blood. A stab wound cut through the meat of his arm behind the upper bone. He had been holding it shut with his hand without complaint such that Hadrian had not noticed until Mauvin staggered.

Together, Hadrian and Magnus, with Myron holding the lantern, sewed Mauvin’s wound. Hadrian was forced to push muscle back in as he stitched, yet Mauvin made no cry and soon passed out. When they finished, Hadrian wrapped his arm. It was a good, clean job and they had stopped the bleeding. Mauvin would be fine even if his left arm would never be as strong as it once had been. Hadrian checked Gaunt’s leg and changed that bandage as well. Then, in the utter silence of the tombs, in the dim light of the lantern, they all slept.

When he woke, Hadrian felt every bruise, cut, scratch, and strained muscle. A lantern burned beside him, and with its light, he found his water skin. They all lay together in the narrow corridor, flopped haphazardly in dirt and blood like a pile of dead after a battle. He took a small sip to clear his mouth and noticed Royce was not with them.

He lifted the lantern and glanced at the pile of rubble where the stairs had once been. The way was blocked by several tons of stone.

“Well, I’m guessing you didn’t go that way,” he whispered to himself.

Turning, he noticed the corridor bent sharply to the left. Along the walls, he discerned faint, ghostly images etched in the polished stone like burnished details on glass. The images told a story. At the start of the hall was a strange scene: a group of men traveling to a great gathering in a forest where a ruler sat upon a throne that appeared to be part of a tree, yet none of the men had heads. In each instance, they were scraped away. In the next scene, the king of the tree throne fought one of the men in single combat-again no heads.

Hadrian raised the lantern and wiped the dust with his hands, looking closer at the images of the men fighting. He let his fingertips trace the weapons in their hands, strange twisted poles with multiple blades. He had never seen their like before and yet he knew them. He could imagine their weight, how his hands would grasp, and how to scoop the lower blade in order to make the upper two slice the air. His father had taught him to use this weapon, the polearm for which he had no name.

In the next scene, the king was victorious and all bowed to him save one. He stood aside with the rest of the men who had traveled together in the first scene, and in his arms, he held the body of the fallen combatant. Still no heads-each one carefully scratched out. On the ground lay bits of chipped stone and white dust.

Hadrian found Royce at the end of the hall before a closed and formidable-looking stone door.

“Locked?” Hadrian asked.

Royce nodded as his hands played over the door’s surface.

“How long you been here?”

The thief shrugged. “A few hours.”

“No keyhole?”

“Locked from the inside.”

“Inside? That’s creepy. Since when do dead men lock themselves into their own graves?”

“Something is alive in there,” Royce said. “I can hear it.”

Hadrian felt a chill run down his back as his mind ran through all the possibilities of what might lie beyond the door. Who knew what the ancients could have placed in their tombs to protect their kings: ghosts, wraiths, zombie guards, stone golems?

“And you can’t open the door?”

“Haven’t found a way yet.”

“Tried knocking?”

Royce looked over his shoulder incredulously.

“What would it hurt?”

Royce’s expression eased. He thought a moment and shrugged. He stepped back and waved toward the door. “Be my guest.”

Hadrian drew his short sword and, using the butt, tapped three times on the stone. They waited. Nothing happened. He tapped three more times.

“It was worth a-”

Stone scraped as a bolt moved. Silence. A snap, then another bolt was drawn. The stone slab shuddered and shook.

Royce and Hadrian glanced nervously at each other. Hadrian handed the lantern to Royce and drew his bastard sword. Royce pushed on the door and it swung inward.

Inside, it was dark and Hadrian held up the lantern with his left hand, probing forward with his sword. The light revealed a small square room with a vaulted ceiling. At the center was a great headless statue. The walls were filled with holes filled with piles of rolled scrolls, several of which lay ripped to pieces, their remains scattered across the floor. On the far side was another stone door, closed tight. Hadrian could see large bolts holding it fast. The ground also contained clay pots, clothes, blankets, and the melted remains of burned candles. Not far away the room’s only occupant was in the process of sitting back down on his blanket. When the man turned, Hadrian recognized him immediately.

“Thranic?” Hadrian said, stunned.

Sentinel Dovin Thranic moved slowly, painfully. He was very thin. His normally pale face was drawn and ghostly white. His dark hair, which had always been so neatly combed back, hung loose in his face. His once-narrow mustache and short goatee were now a full ragged beard. He still wore his black and red silks, which were now mere shades of their former glory, torn and filthy.

The sentinel managed a strained smile as he recognized them through squinting eyes. “How loathsome that it is you that finds me.” He focused on Royce. “Come for your revenge at last, elf?”

Royce stepped forward. He looked down at Thranic and then around the room. “How could I possibly top this? Sealed alive in a tomb of rock. My only regret is that I had nothing to do with it.”

“What happened?” Hadrian asked.

Thranic coughed; it was a bad sound, as if the sentinel’s chest was ripping apart from the inside. He reclined, trying to breathe, for a moment. “Bulard went lame-the old man was a nuisance and we left him at the library. Levy-Levy was killed. Bernie ran out on me-deserted.” Thranic shifted uneasily; as he did, Hadrian noticed a bloodstained cloth wrapped his left thigh.

“How long have you been here?”

“Months,” he replied. He glanced across the room at a pile of small humanoid bones and grimaced. “I did what I must to survive.”

“Until the wound,” Hadrian added.

The sentinel nodded. “I couldn’t sneak up on them well enough anymore.”

Royce continued to stare.

“Go ahead,” Thranic told Royce. “Kill me. It doesn’t matter anymore. It’s over and you’ll fare no better. No one can get the horn. It’s what you came for, isn’t it? The Horn of Novron? The Horn of Gylindora? It lies through there.” He pointed at the far door. “On the other side is a large hall, the Vault of Days, which leads to the tomb of Novron itself, but you will never reach it. No one has… and no one will. Look there.” He pointed to the wall across from him, where words lay scratched. “See the EH? This is as far as Edmund Hall ever got. He turned back and escaped this vile pit, because he was smart. I stayed, thinking I could somehow solve the riddle, somehow find a way to cross the Vault of Days, but it can’t be done. We tried. Levy was the slowest-not even his body remains. Bernie wouldn’t go back in after that.”

“You stabbed him,” Royce stated.

“He refused orders. He refused to make another attempt. You found him?”

“Dead.”

Thranic showed no sign of pleasure or remorse; he merely nodded.

“What is it about this Vault of Days?” Hadrian asked. “Why can’t you cross it?”

“Look for yourself.”

Hadrian started across the room and Thranic stopped him. “Let the elf do it. What can you hope to see in there with your human eyes?”

Royce stared at the sentinel. “So what kind of trick is this?”

“I don’t like it,” Hadrian said.

Royce stepped to the door and studied it. “Looks okay.”

“It is. What’s on the other side, however, is not.”

Royce touched the door and closely inspected the sides.

“So distrusting,” Thranic said. “It won’t bite if you open the door, only if you enter the room.”

Slowly he drew the bolts away.

“Careful, Royce,” Hadrian said.

Very slowly Royce pushed the door inward, peering through the gap. He looked left and right, then closed it once more and replaced the bolts.

“What is it?” Hadrian asked.

“He’s right,” Royce said dismally. “No one is getting through.”

Thranic smiled and nodded until he was beset by another series of coughs that bent him over in pain.

“What is it?” Hadrian repeated.

“You’re not going to believe it.”

“What?”

“There’s a-a thingy.”

“A what?”

“You know, a thingy thing.”

Hadrian looked at him, puzzled.

“A Gilarabrywn,” Thranic said.