Mask of Dragons (22 page)

“Do you not wonder what happens to their souls?” said Basjun.

Sigaldra shrugged. “I gave it little thought. Presumably the righteous are rewarded and the wicked punished. Or the wicked rule while the righteous suffer. Why should the land of the dead be any different from the land of the living?”

“The secret church,” said Basjun, “teaches that…”

Romaria went motionless, and Crouch turned his head, his nostrils flaring, his ears pressed tight against his head. 

“Quiet,” said Mazael. 

Adalar looked around. They had come to an intersection between two of the catacomb galleries. Following Hirune’s directions, they ought to continue down the passage on the right until they reached the stairs leading to the citadel proper. Adalar didn’t think it would be much farther, though he had a hard time keeping his sense of direction underground.

Crouch stepped forward, sniffed the air, and let out a rumbling growl that echoed through the gallery.

“They’re coming,” said Romaria, raising her Elderborn bow.

“What’s coming?” said Sigaldra.

“Spiders, probably,” said Basjun. 

“Timothy,” said Mazael. “Light!”

Timothy made a throwing gesture, and the ball of light leaped from his hand to hover a few inches below the curved stone ceiling. It blazed brighter, throwing harsh blue light across the gallery. 

In that light Adalar saw a score of hound-sized spiders hurrying towards them, their legs clicking against the floor. They were similar to the spiders they had fought at the shrine stone in the Weaver’s Vale, their bodies covered in sleek black fur, their pincers like daggers, their eyes shining like black jewels. 

Sigaldra let out a sound of pure disgust and hate, raising her bow. 

“Defend yourselves!” said Mazael, Talon sweeping from its scabbard in a flash of golden fire. 

Adalar gripped his greatsword and charged. Mazael, Earnachar, and Basjun joined him, while Romaria and Sigaldra fell back, both raising their bows, and Timothy started casting another spell. Adalar attacked first, whipping the greatsword in wide arcs. The long weapon’s superior reach kept him away from the spiders’ pincers, and the blade ripped across the abdomen of a nearby spider, drawing yellow slime from its body. One of Sigaldra’s arrows crunched into the spider, and it shuddered and went still. Romaria loosed one of her longer arrows, and it stabbed into a spider with a sound like a spike plunging into a leather wineskin. The spider wobbled, and Earnachar crushed its head with a swift blow of his mace. 

With his greatsword’s longer reach, Adalar drove back the spiders, keeping them off balance. Sigaldra and Romaria loosed arrow after arrow, while Mazael and Earnachar attacked with sword and mace. Basjun fought well, wielding an axe with two hands, and attacked with the methodical precision of a man chopping firewood. The spiders did not like Crouch, and shied away from the snarling dog. Given that Crouch seemed adept at leaping upon the backs of the spiders and ripping off their heads with his jaws, that seemed a prudent fear. Timothy cast a spell, and two spiders hurtled into the air, caught in the grip of his magic. His spell slammed the spiders against the wall and knocked them to the floor. Earnachar crushed one with his mace, while Romaria sent a shaft through the abdomen of the second. 

The spiders might have been individually dangerous, but against skilled opposition, they stood no chance. In a matter of moments nearly all the spiders had been killed, and the rest fled, retreating back into the darkness of the catacombs. 

“Get down!” shouted Romaria, throwing herself towards the wall.

Adalar blinked, wondering what she had seen, and then purple fire flared in the darkness. In the glare of purple light he saw the crimson form of a soliphage, clawed fingers gesturing.

An instant latter a strange, rippling distortion exploded from the soliphage’s fingers, rolling up the corridor.

Adalar started to dodge, but the distortion slammed into him with the force of a club. He lost his balance and hit the ground, the greatsword falling from his fingers with a clang. The soliphage surged forward, its spider legs driving it forward with terrific speed. Adalar struggled to catch his breath, to grip his sword, but the spell had hit him hard. The soliphage reared over him, clawed legs drawing back to impale him.

An arrow sprouted from the soliphage’s belly, and then another. Sigaldra stalked forward, loosing arrow after arrow. The soliphage hissed and turned to face her, clawed hands coming up to work another spell. It gave Adalar a chance to get his breath back, and he seized his greatsword and swung, rolling to a sitting position. The blade ripped down the soliphage’s right leg, tearing through the crimson chitin. The soliphage hissed again, the purple fire brightening as the creature’s next spell reached its climax. 

Mazael appeared next to the soliphage, swinging his curved sword with both hands. The blade of dragon claw ripped halfway into the soliphage’s neck. The creature staggered to the side, the white glow of its eight eyes flickering, and Earnachar raised his mace and brought it down. The soliphage’s skull collapsed, and the creature slid from Talon’s blade and slumped into a tangled heap. 

Adalar let out a long, ragged breath and got to his feet, his head spinning a little.

“Are you all right?” said Sigaldra.

Adalar nodded, wiping sweat from his face. “Fine. A little bruised, that’s all.”

“The soliphage cast a spell of psychokinetic force,” said Timothy. The ball of blue-white light floated down to his hand once more. “I fear you took the brunt of it.” 

Adalar rolled his shoulders, wincing a little. “I think it was trying to take us alive.”

“As a pleasant afternoon snack, no doubt,” said Mazael, looking into the gloom of the catacombs. 

“Thank you for distracting it,” said Adalar, meeting Sigaldra’s gaze. “It had me. Another second, and it would have opened my throat.”

Sigaldra blinked and looked away, swallowing. 

“Let’s go,” said Mazael. “I want to be gone before any other soliphages decide we would make for a likely meal.”

###

A cold wind struck Mazael’s face. 

The galley ended in a closed iron portcullis, the cold wind coming from the gaps between the bars. To the right an archway opened, revealing a staircase that spiraled up to the citadel of Armalast.

But, for the moment, the portcullis held Mazael’s attention. 

Beyond the portcullis opened a natural cavern, vast and dark. A narrow stone path clung to the right wall of the cavern. To the left of the path yawned a wide chasm, its depths vanishing into the darkness. The cold wind rose from its depths, and Mazael thought he heard the sound of splashing water.

“The stairs to the citadel, sir,” said Basjun.

“Aye,” said Mazael, staring at the portcullis. “But where does this go?”

“It is the escape tunnel from the city, sir,” said Basjun. Crouch padded over to the portcullis, sniffed it, and then decided it was not worthy of his attention. “The tunnel opens in one of the passes north of the city, the one that leads to Dragon’s Gate.” 

Mazael stared at the portcullis. His plan was a gamble, he knew, but it ought to work. Only Basracus and his most loyal lieutenants occupied the interior of the citadel. Most of the Skuldari stayed away from it for fear of the soliphages. The Prophetess would be alone and isolated, with likely no more defenders than Basracus and Rigoric, and Mazael suspected that if the fight went bad Basracus would flee before risking himself. Right here, right now, was his best chance of defeating the Prophetess, rescuing Liane, and preventing a war that would kill thousands of the fighting men of the Grim Marches.

And yet…

Mother Volaria’s warnings whispered in his mind. 

Set up the game so you gained an advantage no matter what happened, she had said. Do not risk everything on a single throw of the dice. Some of that was simple good counsel, the advice that every commander of armies knew. Always leave open an avenue of retreat, and have fallback positions prepared. If something could go wrong, it likely would. 

Yet Mazael doubted the strange woman had appeared to give him obvious advice. 

What if she had been giving him a specific warning? A warning about this exact plan?

“That portcullis,” said Mazael at last. “How does it open?”

“It is a cunning mechanism, my lord,” said Basjun. “Observe.”

He reached into one of the burial niches in the wall and grasped a metal lever. He pulled it with a grunt, and a faint shudder went through the stone floor. A moment later the portcullis slid open with a rattle.

“That’s impressive,” said Mazael. “Few engineers in the realm could have built something like that.” He considered the metal lever. It was old and worn, but well-made. “I didn’t think such engineering skill could be found anywhere in Skuldar.”

Basjun shrugged. “I do not know who made it, sir. Perhaps the priests of Marazadra. Perhaps the soliphages themselves, in ancient days, though they have little interest in tools and towers.” 

“Indeed not,” said Mazael, gripping the lever. He gave it a tug. The lever had been well made, but the housing was starting to come loose. One good tug with all his Demonsouled strength behind it, and the lever would break free.

He gave the lever a gentle push, and the portcullis rasped back into place, settling closed with a clang.

“Does this have a point?” said Sigaldra. Some of her old icy asperity, missing since her encounter with the soliphage, returned. “Surely we have not traveled all this way to play with a lever.”

“Why not?” said Mazael. “It’s an interesting lever.”

Sigaldra just stared at him. Adalar and Earnachar had near-identical expressions of confusion.

“And if we need to retreat in haste,” said Mazael, stepping away from the wall, “then this might become very important, indeed.”

“You fear a trap,” said Romaria. “That was why you hid our supplies outside of the city.”

“Maybe,” said Mazael. 

“I have not led you false,” said Basjun. “Nor have my father and Master Hirune.” 

“I don’t doubt it,” said Mazael. 

“This is our best chance to get Liane back,” said Sigaldra.

“It is,” said Mazael. “But best to prepare for the worst.” He walked back to the niche and pulled on the lever, the portcullis sliding back open. “Basjun. Earnachar. Stay here and guard this portcullis. Romaria, Adalar, Sigaldra, and Timothy, come with me.” He looked at Basjun and Earnachar. Crouch waited next to his master, tongue lolling over his teeth. “One way or another, we should be back soon…or you’ll know what happened to us. If we fail, retreat through the secret tunnel. Likely the city will be sealed, and you can escape this way.” 

“May the gods go with you, sir,” said Basjun. 

“And you,” said Mazael. Basjun nodded and busied himself with lighting a torch, while Earnachar planted himself next to the lever. “Come.” 

He turned towards the stairs, drawing Talon, and Sigaldra, Romaria, Timothy, and Adalar followed him. Mazael climbed the stairs as silently as he could, the steps winding higher into the rock of the mountain. 

After about thirty feet, he turned back to face the others, lifting one finger to his lips to silence. The others nodded, and Timothy dismissed his light, casting the stairs into darkness. The gloom was not absolute, though. Mazael saw torchlight ahead, faint and flickering. He moved up the stairs in silence, and came at last to a stone door, light leaking around its edges. After a moment’s fumbling he found the hidden lever Hirune had described. Another click came to his ears, and the door slid aside with a rasp. 

Mazael stepped through the door and onto a balcony of stone, built in the same rough-hewn style as the rest of Armalast. The balcony overlooked a great hall, illuminated by torches burning in sconces attached to the massive pillars. A dais stood at one end of the hall, holding a looming throne of rough stone, the sort of thing that would have looked at home in the hall of a Tervingi warlord. 

The hall was deserted and silent. Mazael started forward…

“Down,” whispered Romaria. 

He ducked at once, getting on his knees, and the others followed suit. An instant later Mazael heard footsteps crossing the great hall, the click of boots against the flagstones. He crawled forward, making his way to the railing. Unlike the rest of the balcony, the railing had been made of wood, and through the gaps in the slats he had a good view of the great hall. 

“You ask a great deal of me,” said a deep voice, and a moment later Basracus strolled into view, still wearing his armor. He flung himself down onto the throne with a clang, hooking one leg over the arm of the chair. 

“I ask,” said a woman’s cold voice, “nothing that you value, Basracus. And I have already given you a great deal.” 

The Prophetess moved into sight, shrouded in her black robe. A heartbeat later Rigoric stepped to his mistress’s side, still clad in his black plate armor. From his vantage point, Mazael could see the back of Rigoric’s head, and the Champion’s flesh was marked with numerous deep, livid scars. Mazael wondered how many injuries the Mask of the Champion had healed for its bearer. 

“Nonetheless,” said Basracus. 

“You have no use for the Horn of Doom and Fate,” said the Prophetess.

“It has great symbolic value,” said Basracus. “The high king of Skuldar has always been the custodian of the Horn of Doom and Fate.”

“Has he?” said the Prophetess, her voice glassy calm. “Curious, given that the high kings of Skuldar were nothing more than distant history before I came to Armalast. Before I put you upon the throne, Basracus of Armalast, Skuldar had no high king. The Horn was of no use to you then, and it is of no use to you now. Therefore, you shall give it to me.”

“Surrendering the Horn will diminish my authority in the eyes of the people,” said Basracus. 

“Your authority?” said the Prophetess. “Your authority is based upon the promise of the advent of the goddess. That advent will not happen unless I bring it about.”

“Nor will it happen,” said Basracus, “if I am deposed while you are gone and you find Skuldar in the hands of someone less friendly to you. Or the secret church, for that matter.”