Michael Sullivan - Avempartha

Royce had the other end of the rope tied to a rock. There was a lantern burning beside him. The single flame easily illuminated the room. The chamber was a natural cave with a tunnel leading out. Magnus stood off to the side, either studying the cavern walls or just keeping his distance from Royce.

When Esrahaddon surfaced, Royce hauled him out. “You might have had an easier time swimming if you’d taken off-” Royce stopped as he saw the wizard’s robe. It was dry.

Hadrian climbed out of the pool feeling the river water drizzle down his body. He could hear the drops echoing in the cave like a rainstorm, but Esrahaddon was exactly as he had been before entering the river. With the exception of his hair and beard, he was not even damp.

Hadrian and Royce exchanged a glance, but said nothing.

Royce picked up his lantern. “Coming, short-stuff?”

The dwarf grumbled and, taking hold of his beard with both hands, twisted a bit of water out. “You realize, my friend, dwarves are an older and far more accomplished-”

“Less chatter, more walking,” Royce interrupted, pointing at the tunnel. “You lead. And you’re not my friend.”

Traveling forward they entered into a new world. The walls were smooth and seamless, as if cut by the flow of water. The glossy surface magnified the light from Royce’s lantern, making the curved interior surprisingly bright.

“So where are we?” Hadrian asked.

“Under the bank, not far below where we were standing before entering the water,” Magnus told him. “The tunnel here corkscrews down.”

“Incredible,” Hadrian said, his eyes looking about him in amazement at the sparkling walls. “It’s as though we’re on the inside of a diamond.”

Just as the dwarf predicted, the tunnel curved around and around, sloping down. Just as Hadrian lost all sense of direction, it stopped spinning and ran straight. It was not long before they could hear and feel the thunder of the falls. It vibrated through the stone. Here the ceiling and walls seeped water. A thousand years of neglect allowed stalactites of crystal to form on the ceiling and jagged mounds of mineral deposits on the floor.

“This is a bit disturbing,” Hadrian remarked noticing a buildup of water on the floor that was getting deeper as they moved forward.

“Bah!” Magnus muttered, but failed to add anything more.

They slogged through the water dodging stone spikes. Examining the walls, Hadrian noticed designs carved into them. Etchings of geometric shapes and patterns lined the corridor. Some of the more delicate lines were faded, missing, perhaps lost to the erosion of a billion water droplets. No words were visible and there were no recognizable symbols. The etching appeared to be nothing more than decorative. Above, almost lost in the growing stone, were brackets for what might have once been banner poles, and on the side walls he spotted mountings for lamps. Hadrian tried to imagine how the tunnel looked before the time of Novron, when multi-colored banners and rows of bright lamps might have illuminated the causeway. It was not long before the tunnel pitched upwards again and they could all see a faint light.

The tunnel ended at a stairway going up. The steps curved and were wide enough for them to take two strides before climbing the next step. When they reached the top, the star-filled sky was above them once more and before long, they stood above ground on the outcropping of rock that made up the base of the citadel. A strong wind met them. The gale was damp, filled with a wet mist. They stood at the end of a short stone bridge spanning a narrow crevasse, beyond which stood the spires of the monolithic tower. It loomed above them so high it was impossible to see the top.

More stairs awaited them on the far side and they moved at a slow but even pace, staying single file, even though the stairs were wide enough for two, or even three, to walk abreast. They climbed five sets of steps, zigzagging in a half-circle around the outside of the tower. As they started their sixth flight, Royce waited until they had moved to the lee of the citadel then called a halt for them to catch their breath. Below, the roar of the falls boomed, but from their perch, protected from the wind, the night seemed still. There were no sounds, no crickets or owls, just the deep voice of the river and the howl of the wind.

“This is ridiculous,” Royce shouted over the roar. “Where’s the damn door. I don’t like being so exposed.”

“It’s just up ahead, not too much farther,” Esrahaddon replied.

“How long do we have?” Hadrian asked, looking at the wizard who shrugged in reply.

The wizard shrugged.

“Does it return here directly after killing, or does it enjoy the night?” Royce inquired. “I should think having been locked up in this tower for nine hundred years, it would want to spend some time flying about.”

“It isn’t a person, or an animal. It’s a conjuration, a mystic embodiment of power. It mimics life and understands threats to its existence certainly, but I doubt it has any concept of pleasure or freedom. Like I said it’s not alive.”

“Then why does it eat?” Royce asked.

“It doesn’t.”

“Then why is it killing a person or two a night?”

“I’ve wondered that myself. It should attempt to fulfill its last instructions and that was clearly to kill the Emperor. It is possible that not finding its target, and not able to travel far from this tower-conjurations are often limited to a specific distance from their creator or point of origin-it might be trying to lure him here. It could have deduced that the Emperor would not tolerate the slaughter of his people and would come to aid the village.”

“Regardless, we’d better be quick,” Hadrian concluded and led them all in standing up.

The wind resumed as they circled around. It whistled in their ears and buffeted their steps. The damp clothes chilled them despite the hard work of the march. Above, the spires still rose far into the night sky and they all felt a grim sense of drudgery when they reached yet another short bridge, which ended abruptly at a solid wall.

Hadrian watched Royce sigh in disappointment as he looked at the dead end.

“I thought you said there was a door.” Royce addressed the wizard.

“There was, and is.”

Hadrian did not see a door. There was what appeared to be a faint outline of a door’s frame etched in the wall in front of them, but it was solid stone.

Royce grimaced. “Another invisible stone portal?”

“Don’t waste your time,” Magnus told him. “You’ll never open it. Trust me, I’m a dwarf. I spent hours trying to get in and nothing. That stone is enchanted and impenetrable. Crossing the river to get here was nothing compared to opening that door.”

Royce turned to the dwarf with a puzzled look in his eyes. “You’ve been here? You tried to enter the tower. Why?”

“I told you I was on a job for Lord Rufus.”

“You said you made him a sword.”

“I did, but he didn’t want just any sword. He wanted a replica of a sword, an elvish sword. He gave me a bunch of old drawings, which I used to make it. They were pretty good, with dimensions and material listed, but it’s not like being able to examine the real thing.” The dwarf’s stare lingered on Royce suggestively. “I was told others of the same type could be found inside this tower. I came out here and spent all day climbing around, but never found a way in. No doors or windows, just things like this.”

“This sword you made,” Esrahaddon said. “Did it have writing on the blade?”

“Yep,” Magnus replied. “They were real insistent that the inscription on the replica was exactly like that in the books.”

“That’s it,” Esrahaddon muttered. “The church isn’t here because of me, and they aren’t here to find the heir; they’re here to make an heir.”