James Maxey - Greatshadow

The palace itself had once been carved into the side of the mountain. In classic Vanished Kingdom style, it had been adorned with high, narrow pillars, large stone heads, and numerous windows and balconies. At some point in the distant past, the palace had collapsed in on itself. The columns were broken, the stone heads split in two, and the walls shattered into gravel. If you scrambled over the rubble, there were passages leading into the mountain, but these, too, were mostly filled with broken stone and more bat guano than any sane man would want to crawl through.

Of course, men who came this far into the jungle were seldom the model of mental health. In any tunnel, you could find evidence of previous explorers — lanterns with broken glass, block and tackles locked with rust, various spikes and pinions draped with the rotting remains of rope.

The sheer scale and scope of the ruins called out to any treasure hunter. I’d come here long before I met Infidel. I’d turned back when I found the crushed remains of an earlier explorer. There’s a chance the guy had been someone I knew; the stench of the corpse, if corpse was the right word, was still relatively ripe. The reason I hesitate to use the word corpse is that it implies there was a body, and, really, what remained was best described as a smeared paste, vaguely man-shaped, coating a smooth stone wall. Whoever he’d been, he’d had a shovel, and whatever had smacked into him had caught the blade on the edge and folded it up like an accordion. After two days of wheezing in the ammonia rich air, slipping in the guano, the sight of the flattened body had dampened my curiosity and I turned back.

“This is a good place to set up camp,” said Tower, touching down in the center of the courtyard.

“I respectfully disagree,” said Relic. “Lava-pygmies conduct rituals here. If they find us on their sacred ground, we’ll have to fight.”

“They already know we’re here,” said Menagerie, in the form of an ocelot, scanning the mounds of stone surrounding the courtyard. “I’ve spotted a few dozen, but they seem wary. My gut tells me they’ll keep their distance. They may not be as kind to the others.”

“Others?” asked Tower.

“Explorers. Tomb looters. They have a camp about a half-mile down the mountain. I can smell them.”

Zetetic raised an eyebrow. “You can tell they’re looters by the way they smell?”

“In this case, yes,” said Menagerie. “I know those scents well. It’s Hookhand and his Machete Quartet. They always fence their stuff at the Black Swan.”

“Of all the people to survive the tidal wave,” I said, giving Infidel a knowing look. Hookhand and I had a rivalry that ran back twenty years. More than once I’d gone off chasing the rumor of some newly discovered ruin to find the bastard had beaten me to it.

“I don’t think the pygmies pose a serious threat,” said Lord Tower, rising up to survey the area. “The walls may be in ruins, but they’re still formidable barriers. To attack en masse, the pygmies would have to come through the gate. We’ll simply post a watch there, and frighten them away with a show of force if necessary. Aurora and Father Ver can start the night. No-Face and Menagerie will follow them. The War Doll and I will take the final shift to see us through until dawn.”

Aurora winked at Infidel, though I don’t think anyone else saw it. Infidel simply stared straight ahead, still playing the emotionless machine.

Without the steady winds of the north slope to shield us, the mosquitoes came on strong that evening. Father Ver was particularly afflicted by the buzzing bloodsuckers. He was in a foul mood as he waited at the gate, his scowl lines and bald pate covered with red welts.

Aurora had little to fear from the insects. They froze stiff the second they touched her pale skin, tumbling into an ever growing pile around her.

“I can soothe those if you’d like,” Aurora said as Father Ver scratched his face.

“I want no part of your pagan magic,” said Father Ver. “Under any other circumstances, I would have already banished an abomination such as yourself.”

Aurora leaned back against the stone pillar. “Is there something in your holy book that demands that you be nasty to people?”

“You don’t qualify as people,” said the Truthspeaker. “Ogres, along with pygmies, mermen, and the shadowfolk, are merely distorted reflections of true humanity, lies given substance by the false beliefs of fools. When the Omega Reader opens the One True Book, your kind will vanish from this world like a nightmare fading from a waking mind.”

“Whatever,” said Aurora. “You know, I hope I’m around when your book is finally opened. It would be priceless to watch your face fall as you discover everything you believe is wrong.”

Father Ver didn’t respond.

Aurora kept talking: “You Truthspeakers spend the majority of your life hidden in a remote temple, purposefully set apart from the real world, so that you can be brainwashed into a ‘truth’ that has nothing to do with reality.” Aurora looked up at the sky. There were very few stars shining through the tropical humidity. “I come from a land where truth is stark and tangible, a landscape white as paper for as far as the eye can see. You quickly come to grips with what is real, or you die. Spend a single week out on the tundra, old man, then come back and tell me if you still believe reality is found in some book.”

Father Ver slapped a mosquito on the back of his hand. “I find discussions with unreal beings tedious. Let us pass the guard shift without further attempts at conversation.”

Aurora said, “I’d be fine with that, except we’re going to be fighting for our lives together against Greatshadow. Among my people, it’s important to know the mind of the person you’re standing shoulder to shoulder with. If you and I must be allies, shouldn’t we make at least some small attempt to be friends?”

“My mind is no great mystery,” said Father Ver. “I’ve come here to make a stand for what is good; against an evil as strong as Greatshadow, I grudgingly agree to stand shoulder to shoulder with monsters. I don’t like you, ogre, and will never be your friend. But, in battle, know that I will surrender my life to save yours should victory demand it. You do not need my friendship. You have something far more valuable: my sacred word.”

Aurora nodded slightly, then returned to her star-gazing, letting the rest of their shift pass in silence. And though Father Ver never acknowledged it, let alone thanked her, the air around the gate was cold and dry, and frost-covered mosquitoes fell like snowflakes around them.

“M UH HUHN HURS, ” moaned No-Face, rubbing his bandaged hand as he leaned against the stone gate and peered out into the darkness.

Menagerie sat cross-legged on the ground, his hands resting lightly on his knees. He said, “I know your hand hurts. Talking about it won’t make it feel better. Listen.”

No-Face tilted his head. The forest was cacophonous with life; frogs, bugs, and night-birds shouting with all their power to catch the attention of potential mates. It took a moment’s concentration to pick out a distant, dull, doom, doom, doom.

“Guh?”

“War drums. They say the Death Angel has returned.”

No-Face pointed a finger at his own chest.

“Don’t flatter yourself. They mean Infidel. Apparently she did something to piss them off.”

No-Face chuckled, low and gravelly, then said, “Muhbuh shuh fuhd. Huh huh huh.”

“Yeah, right.”

They both fell silent, listening to the bass pulse beneath the thrumming ocean of sound.

Menagerie craned his neck, following the bouncing signals. He allowed himself a slight smile. “The Cracked Earth tribe reports a bad omen. The goat they tossed into the lava screamed three times before it died. Attacking tonight would bring certain disaster.”