David Dalglish - A Dance of Ghosts

“And to think I always believed dreams were worthless,” said Thren, grinning up at Haern as he gestured to the circular tunnel leading deep underground. “We should be able to crawl through it just fine.”

“Sounds pleasant,” said Haern, fighting another stolen glance to see if Delysia watched. Looking back to the tunnel, he shuddered. Years before, his father had taken him into the temple of Karak, seeking to cure him of his fledgling belief in Ashhur. Now here he was, following the same man into the fortress of Karak’s paladins. He prayed he might escape as unscathed as he had from the temple.

“Lead the way,” Haern said, gesturing to the pit entrance.

“Stay close,” said Thren, falling to his stomach and beginning to crawl. “The way will be dark, and I would hate to lose you.”

With that, he vanished within, sliding and squirming over the dirt and into the harder stone. Taking in a deep breath, Haern looked to Delysia, who remained at the edge of the field of wheat.

I’ll be fine, he whispered, blew her a kiss, and then dropped to his belly. Headfirst, he followed Thren into the darkness.

The way was tight at first, but after twenty feet or so of crawling, it expanded so that his shoulders needn’t be scrunched so tightly. The stone was wet and cold beneath his hands, the angle sharply downward for much of the way. The sound of his crawling seemed thunderous in the confined space, equally so the noise of Thren scraping along ahead of him. Haern felt his heartbeat beginning to increase, felt the early tickle of panic poking around the edges of his mind. He could see nothing, hear nothing but the sound of his breath, the rustling of his clothes, and the scrape of his sheaths against the stone. How long did the tunnel go? What if Thren had been lied to, and they’d soon be trapped down there forever? Every sliding step he took, he felt loose stones, and he told himself not to imagine what it’d be like if the tunnel caved in, trapping but not killing him.

“Wait,” said Thren, and his voice sounded like a roar in the silence.

“What?” Haern whispered. He knew it was foolish whispering, given how deep beneath the earth they were, but he did so anyway. In that darkness, he felt painfully vulnerable, and it was a feeling he’d be glad to be rid of. Facing off against dozens of dark paladins felt preferable to another twenty minutes in that deep passageway.

“I’ve found a gap just ahead,” said Thren. “I can feel it with my hands. The tunnel’s shifted vertically, and just over the gap I can feel a sort of ladder. Climb carefully. I don’t know how far down that tunnel goes…”

“Will do,” said Haern. He waited until he heard movement, then continued on ahead. Thren grunted, there was the sound of rocks clacking and falling against one another, and then silence. Haern made sure to check every movement carefully, sliding his hands along the stone before advancing. Sure enough, within another ten feet, he felt his hand move right off the stone, feeling only open air. Pulling back, he felt for the exact edge, then slowly advanced toward it. Now closer, he reached out again, and the inability to see what he was reaching for, yet knowing he leaned out over an unknown pit, made his stomach twist and dance. When he touched a wall, followed by a steel rung just beneath it, he let out a sigh.

“I’m just above,” he heard Thren say. “Tell me when you’re safely across.”

“I will.”

Haern grabbed the rung, braced himself, then extended his other hand. The weight pulled him over the chasm, and he felt himself hanging, feet on the edge, hands on the rung. By his guess, the pit beneath him was only a few feet wide, but being unable to see, he felt like it was a thousand. Another breath, and then he took a blind step. He dropped, pivoting along the rung so that he swung toward the wall of stone. He expected to find more rungs, but instead, his feet hit smooth stone, and he dangled there, clutching the steel with both hands. He was on the bottom rung of a ladder, he realized, and if he planned on getting anywhere, he needed to stop panicking. It was just darkness, he told himself. Darkness was his friend. Something about the confined spaces messed with his mind, and again he wished he could see, if only the tiniest of light, so he could find his bearings.

Planting a foot against the wall, he pushed off it as best he could and reached up for a second rung. He found it, and telling himself to not even think of letting his grip slip, he pulled himself up higher. A grunt, another kick, and he ascended again. The fourth time, he was able to put a knee on the rung, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

“Are you across?” he heard Thren ask from up above.

“Yes,” Haern said, pressing his forehead against one of the rungs, immensely comforted by its smooth, cold feel. “Yes, I’m on the ladder.”

“Good.”

He heard a rustle of movement, and Haern shifted so instead of his knee, his foot was on the bottom rung, and he was eager to begin his climb up through whatever unknown shaft they’d found themselves in. He reached up to grab another rung, then felt his heart leap into his throat as a hand clasped his wrist.

“I’m sorry,” said Thren.

His father flung out Haern’s wrist, and at the same time, he felt a heavy weight crash against his right arm. Before he could even brace himself, another kick hit him in the face, then his left hand. Balance lost, he fell, still reaching for a rung. Twisting, reaching for the other side of the tunnel they’d come from, he scraped his fingernails against smooth stone, and then he was falling, falling. So stung by the betrayal, so frightened of the unbreakable darkness, Haern never screamed as he plummeted into the unknown.

Luther sat in an uncomfortable wood chair, a book open before him and his back to the door, when he heard the faint metal click of the lock opening. He paused in the middle of turning a page, and as he held the coarse paper between his fingers, he let out a soft breath.

“At last,” he whispered.

A dagger jammed through his left hand resting atop the desk, spearing through his palm and pinning it to the wood. Into his mouth pressed a heavy cloth, gagging him as its wielder shoved his head backward, allowing a longer blade to push against his exposed throat. Luther let out a moan at the pain, from both the stab wound and the awkward angle his neck was forced into. Above him he saw no one, just his drab ceiling. The cloth tasted of dirt and blood, and it built up a cough he had to struggle to suppress.

“I know the power a man like you can wield,” said his intruder. “The moment I hear anything that sounds remotely like a prayer or spell, I will cut open your throat and leave you to bleed all over your book. Am I understood? Say nothing, just blink twice.”

He did so, feeling remarkably calm despite what he knew was to happen. Carefully, he raised his free hand, allowing his intruder to take it, wrench it behind his back, and bind it to the chair. When that was done, the blade returned to his throat.

“Remember, not a single sound that makes me nervous.”

Out of his mouth came the cloth, and Luther gave a soft sigh.

“Thren Felhorn,” he said. “You’ve finally arrived.”

To Luther’s right was his bed, and sliding into view was an older man clothed in plain colors and wearing a pale gray cloak. His hair was short and blond, his face marked by scars and age, yet his blue eyes still seemed to shine with life. He sat on the bed, sword still in hand.

“It seems I have,” he said. “You’ve been playing dangerous games, priest.”

Luther smiled despite the pain spreading up his hand from the dagger. With the blade still in him, the bleeding wasn’t as bad as it could be, but even the slightest twitch of his fingers dramatically increased its agony.