Michael Stackpole - Chartomancy

The figures each stood twenty feet tall and, while quite humanoid in shape, lacked any definition. They had been shaped of mud that had hardened, and as Ciras rode past it was easy to pick out places where cracks had been patched. Artistically, they were not much more sophisticated than a child’s snowman, and they lacked any discernible features.

Riding between them, Ciras kept his hand on the vanyesh sword’s hilt. Borosan kept pace with him, his expression fluctuating between wonder and suspicion.

“What is it, Borosan?”

“Those statues were made of thaumston mud. Just one would be worth a fortune in Moriande.”

“Comforting to know.”

They rode forward another twenty yards, having gotten halfway into the tunnel. The reflected light pouring in through the opening revealed another opening further on, but they got little chance to study it as the light from outside began to shrink. In the moments before they were plunged into utter darkness, Ciras turned to watch the entrance iris shut.

“What now, Master Dejote?”

“We keep riding. Don’t look back.”

“Why not?”

“Because I believe the guardians are following us.”

Sitting as tall as he could in the saddle, Ciras gently spurred his mount forward. They rode for another dozen yards, the clopping of horse’s hooves echoing through the tunnel. Ciras strained to hear any sound of the guardian statues behind them, but he discerned nothing. So huge, and so silent. In an instant he knew what had killed the giant, why the monk-stone had shifted, and why he felt they’d been watched.

Up ahead, a series of torches ignited with a blue flame-the blue of the gyanrigot lamps he’d seen in Opaslynoti. Figures shambled forward, bearing the torches high in one hand, knuckling the ground with the other every four or five steps. As they grew closer and Ciras got a good look at them, he resisted the urge to order them out of his way.

The creatures had once been men-wildmen, the human stock that the Viruk had used as slaves. Shorter than True Men, with narrow chests and foreshortened limbs, they had almost enough body hair to be considered a pelt. These wore loincloths of leather and their bodies were covered, it appeared, in dust of the same stone used to shape the guardians.

More remarkably, however, was the fact that their heads were encased entirely in clay helmets, which clearly had been worked to an elaborate degree that seemingly defied their apparent skill levels. The helmets included a full face mask, and while the faces lacked much expression, they clearly had been created to resemble specific individuals. The dozen wildmen wore three different faces among them and though the torches’ blue light did little to reveal color, Ciras detected some differences.

As the circle of light grew, the wildmen stopped and dropped to their knees. Half the number, those not bearing the torches, shuffled forward, then bowed deeply. They muttered something repeatedly, but Ciras could not catch it.

He looked at Borosan, but the inventor just shrugged. “It sounds akin to what you said the night you exercised with that sword.”

That sent a shiver down Ciras’ spine. Despite his unease, he did hazard a glance behind and got another shock.

The guardians had indeed followed. Each had sunk to one knee and pressed one arm to the ground, while their free hands touched their left breasts. They even bowed their heads, but so tall were they that Ciras could see that the faces had taken on crude definition.

One of the wildmen stood and approached. “Masters our beg you guests our.”

The travelers exchanged glances. Ciras nodded. “Tell your masters we would be delighted.”

The wildman cocked his head like a dog.

“Let me try.” Borosan smiled. “Tell masters your happy guests us.”

The wildman bowed sharply, then froze, as did the other three wearing that same face. The quartet then bowed, and the other eight followed a heartbeat later. They rose to their feet and turned as one. The wildman who had been the spokesman waved them forward.

Ciras looked at Borosan. “Did you have to tell them we were happy?”

“Do you want them to think we are not?”

“Good point.” Ciras followed the wildmen slowly, and tried to see through the opening at the tunnel’s far end. Even as they grew closer, the images remained obscured, and it was not until they moved through something as heavy as a curtain, but invisible, that he got a look at their goal.

As nearly as Ciras could tell, the entire mountain had been hollowed out. Against the walls and working out to the center of the opening, mud dwellings had been constructed in a pattern that, at best, was haphazard. Some clung to walls like birds’ nests and others leaned heavily against their neighbors. Some even rose to three and four stories, with crude ladders leading from one level to another. All around the city, wildmen-men, women, and feral children-swarmed like lice over the buildings.

The building at the center, however, mocked the dwellings around it. There was no mistaking it for anything less than an Imperial citadel, with its thick walls and tall towers ending in pyramidal roofs. The roofs had even been tiled as Ciras recalled from murals, and representations of the gods lurked at each corner.

What surprised him about the fortress was that neither mud nor stone had been used to create it. It appeared to have been shaped of swords and spears, shields and armor. There was no mistaking the forms, which fit flawlessly together. All the things we have been hunting-most all of them anyway-are here. He saw weapons of Imperial and Turasynd manufacture. Here and there, motes of light played along sharp edges or over some detailed embossing, then trailed up over a web of filaments that rose to connect the citadel to the mountain surrounding it.

“Where are we, Borosan?”

“I don’t know.”

“Masters welcome bid.” The wildman spread his arms. “Name Tolwreen.”

Ciras shot Borosan a sharp glance. “That’s the name of Grija’s Eighth Hell, the one saved for magicians.”

Borosan nodded slowly. “The one, according to the stories, from which there is no escape.”

19th day, Month of the Dragon, Year of the Rat

10th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th year since the Cataclysm

Thyrenkun, Felarati

Deseirion

“Excuse me, did you say something?” Keles looked up from the table. A large sheet of rice paper was weighted with candleholders at the corners and on it Keles had been drafting a map of the new Felarati. He included sketches on separate sheets for other developments that could be overlaid to expand the city.

The woman to whom he had spoken laid her five-stringed necyl and its bow across her lap and cast her eyes down. She wore a robe of crimson with silver edging. Her crest, embroidered in silver and black on the sleeves and breasts, featured two doves nesting. A silver tie gathered her long black hair.

“I asked if there was another selection that would please you.”

“My lady, forgive me, but I get drawn into the things I am doing. In preparing a map, I can see the way things will be, and I become anxious.” He pointed beyond the table toward the balcony. “You’ve lived all your life here; you see the changes. Imagine this city transformed.”

She nodded, then smiled slowly. “It shall forever remind me of you.”

“You’re very kind.” Keles capped his bottle of ink and dried the brush on an ink-stained cloth. Much as Princess Jasai had predicted, Lady Inyr Vnonol had been introduced into his circle of acquaintances just over a week and a half ago and had quickly made demands on his time. She was clearly his to use in any capacity he desired.