Stephen Deas - The Black Mausoleum

He reached the other side of the landing field and glanced up. The dragon had already turned. It was almost straight above him now but hadn’t seen him. Or if it had, it had other things on its mind. He saw where the alchemist must be. A hole in the ground, a cave, maybe the sheared end of an old tunnel down among the shattered stones at the edge of the field.

Instinct made him dive to the ground and cower as the dragon roared back towards the slope where Skjorl had gone. Small stones rattled across the ground, whipped up by the wind of the dragon’s wings, and then it was past.

The cave. He jumped up. But he had to look back, for a moment at least. He saw the dragon’s fire blossom and burst, scattering across the rocks.

‘Goodbye, Skjorl,’ he muttered.

No time to stay and watch what the dragon did next. Dragons weren’t stupid. It knew they’d been two when it had found them, and he wasn’t about to do anything to remind it.

He ran for the cave, for the tunnel, the whatever it was. No time to think about Skjorl. The world was a better place for being rid of him, but of course he had to go out like that. Had to make himself the hero. If Jasaan ever got the alchemist back to the Pinnacles or the Purple Spur or wherever it was that she wanted to go, if ever anyone asked him to tell their tale, then he’d tell it as it was, and every Adamantine Man would raise a cup to the dragon-killer, the one who’d given his life so that others might live and fight, and never mind the rest. Rapist. Murderer. Drunk. None of that mattered if you died well. They’d all raise their cups and they’d call him a hero, and if Jasaan quietly didn’t raise his, well then most likely the rest of them would quietly not notice.

He ran down the tunnel. The place had been built by alchemists, that was obvious. Their eerie cold white light came from the walls, from the roof and floor. It reminded him of the Pinnacles rather than the curved caverns of the Spur, scoured by water. No, this was the work of…

He didn’t know. Magic? It was supposed to be the Silver King’s tomb, after all.

The tunnel took him into a vault, smooth curved walls coming together far above him. In the middle, a ring of white stone arches with gleaming mirrors between them lit up the walls.

‘Alchemist! Kataros!’ He couldn’t see inside the circle but she he had to be there, didn’t she?

He drew his sword. Being cautious hadn’t ever done him any harm, not yet, even if Skjorl had despised him for it. Best to have a care. Best to have a think about the sort of things a man might find in a place like this.

What did tombs have in them apart from bodies? Try again. What sort of person got his body stuffed into a tomb? Dragon-riders were fed to their dragons when they died. Adamantine Men too. Across the realms a man was burned and his ashes scattered either in the nearest river, if you were lucky enough to live near one, or cast into the desert winds if you came from the north. Some folk who lived along the Fury sent their dead off in boats. That was all before the Adamantine Palace had burned. Now mostly people just got burned or eaten, whether they were dead or whether they weren’t. But buried under the ground? That was wrong. That trapped a man, kept him from joining his ancestors.

As he thought, Jasaan continued walking towards the circle. So what would you find in the tomb of an ancient half-god sorcerer? He had no idea. Nothing good, probably. No one would choose to rest in a place like this, not under the ground. So what, then? You put a sorcerer in the ground because you could, and then you wrapped him up in blood-magic to keep him there and make sure he couldn’t come back. You did that because you were scared witless that if you did anything else, whatever it was you were trying to bury might claw its way out and rip your head off. You did that because what you were burying was a terrible, terrible thing.

He stopped. Skjorl was at his shoulder. His ghost, anyway. For the love of Vishmir, shut up, stop thinking, start moving and be what you are!

He reached the arches. Between them a silver surface shimmered, blocking his way into the centre circle. They were too high to climb and nothing in the world would have made him touch them. He began to walk around instead. He could hear noises now from inside. A faint sobbing. He couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. When he looked down, he saw dark drops on the floor. He knelt and peered at them. Licked his finger, rubbed it against them, tasted it.

Blood. A spray of blood. Two things did that. You cut a man in the neck or in some other places and the blood would spray on its own. Or you sliced deep into a man’s flesh and then it was your own blade that did the spraying. Either way, whoever the blood came from usually wound up dead. But was it the alchemist or was it the outsider?

Couldn’t see the alchemist swinging a sword. Or cutting a throat for that matter.

Flame!

Unless the outsider had brought her here and they’d found something waiting for them. He wasn’t sure that was much better.

The sobbing was still there. He thought he heard a whisper. It’s beautiful.

She was lost. When a mage reached through their blood to touch another mind, there was always a danger. To touch the mind of another mage, that was the fear, one who was stronger than you. She’d done that with her teacher and he’d shown her how to defend herself, how to run away, break the link, hide within yourself, throw up walls and barriers that even the strongest mage could never break. She’d touched his mind and felt his strength; she’d done as he had shown her and in the end seen how she could save herself. She’d seen him attack her with everything he had and not even strain her mastery of herself.

The silver sea consumed her as though she was nothing. Even if she’d had the time to try and hide herself, it would have washed her walls away like a tidal wave against a sandcastle. She had no idea what it was. Something immense. Vast. Something that would always be beyond her understanding, no matter how much she learned. In a blink it looked at her, took her in, absorbed her. She felt its size and its age and its utter indifference. Her own insignificance. And then she realised that yes, she did know what it was. She knew exactly.

The Silver King. It had to be. Whatever old crippled Jeiros had said, there was nothing else this could be.

‘It’s beautiful,’ whispered Siff.

It was waiting there. Waiting for what, though?

Help us! she thought as loudly as she could, simply hoping to be noticed. We need you again!

She saw Siff start. He turned slowly to look at her.

‘You?’ He shook himself. She understood. Trying to shake away the presence all around them both. Trying to bring himself back to the simple world of stone and flesh.

‘Siff,’ she breathed. ‘Look at it.’

His face twisted into a snarl. ‘You! You want to steal it.’ His hands clenched. He held out the knife towards her. ‘No no no, witch, this is mine, not yours. Mine!’

‘And all the blood around your feet is mine,’ she whispered. She had no strength in her arms any more, nor her voice. She’d lost too much blood to him, but that gave her another strength. ‘I am sorry, Siff.’

On the ground around him her blood started to flow — rising, soaking into one of his boots, climbing higher, past his ankle, up his leg. It touched his flesh and burned and he screamed. He bared his teeth and his eyes flared with silver. ‘I have told you before, blood-witch, you cannot do that!’

Jasaan walked cautiously around the outside of the arches. The sobbing stopped. Voices. He froze.

‘You?’ A man. The outsider?

‘Siff. Look at it.’ A woman’s voice full of wonder, not fear. Full of… full of awe. Kataros. The alchemist. Alive.