Барб Хенди - Of Truth and Beasts

The two of them had tromped the countryside or rowed boats for days without stopping. But that time was long past. He had spent too many years dabbling in politics and diplomacy. However, though much younger, Shâodh was not faring much better on the pump’s other end. His long face and high forehead were flushed from exertion.

When they had first come across this cart, realizing where and how Wynn’s group traveled, Chuillyon had cautioned against moving too quickly, for fear of revealing themselves. He soon realized that overtaking Wynn was less of a concern than keeping up with her.

Ore-Locks was a dwarf, and Chane was quite possibly an undead. Between those two, they outdistanced Chuillyon at an incredible rate. Hannâschi often offered to spell Chuillyon or Shâodh. Though her offers were genuine, she could not provide much help.

In his life to date, Chuillyon had known a number of elven women who were quite strong. But Hannâschi was not one of them. Her strengths lay in other areas, so Chuillyon worked with Shâodh to keep from falling too far behind.

Upon spotting the engine crystal removed from a tram back at the station, he realized what Ore-Locks had managed. Chuillyon had found no way to break another crystal loose for his own cart. He and his had to rely on superior vision and cold lamp crystals for light.

His arms were nearly giving out, and he reluctantly decided to call for another rest. Hannâschi turned from looking ahead—over the top of the metal box—before he said a word.

“Slow down,” she said. Looking forward again, she shouted, “Shâodh, the break!”

Without hesitation, Shâodh released his pump handle and grabbed the break lever, pulling back hard.

Ahead, Chuillyon saw what had alarmed Hannâschi. Before they would even hit the packed rubble, they were going to smash into another cart on the tracks. He struggled to reach Shâodh, but the pressure of the cart slowing so rapidly forced him to keep hold of the pump handle.

Shâodh strained, crying out once with effort, and the cart slammed to a halt. Its platform’s rear end bucked upward, and Chuillyon fell across the pump handle. He heard another impact against stone before he could right himself. Upon impact, the other cart had rammed forward into the rubble.

Shâodh jumped away from the brake, taking hold of Hannâschi and pulling her up.

“Are you all right? Were you hurt?”

“No ... I mean, I was not hurt,” she answered, sounding a bit shaken.

Chuillyon dropped off the cart and left them both for a moment. There was a hole through the top of the cave-in.

“Shâodh, can you sense any life?” he called back.

With one last look at Hannâschi, Shâodh climbed off the cart and came forward. He briefly examined the cave-in, and the skin over his cheeks tightened. He closed his eyes, a soft, thrumming chant rising from his throat, and then he fell silent.

“I sense nothing,” he said. “They must have passed here too long ago. They have a good lead on us.” He glanced sidelong at Chuillyon. “You wish to press on, to crawl through to the other side?”

Chuillyon walked back to the cart for his pack. “Certainly,” he said, attempting to sound cheerful. “They have already done the work for us.”

Ghassan il’Sänke had been inside the mountain for at least eight days, possibly more. There was no way to be certain as he searched. From one dead end or cave-in to another, he had tried to climb higher into the seatt’s upper remains. He soon realized this was impossible.

All levels above the one he entered had been lost when the peak collapsed. As of yet, he had not discovered any passable tunnels downward. A few times he had been hopeful, only to reach another cave-in and then work his way back up. Tonight he stumbled onto a broad passage, easily as wide as a city street.

Broken fragments of pylons lay all along the way, but there was room to pass or climb over the debris. Though he made good time, it was difficult to keep his bearings in this ancient maze. He was almost certain he was near the center of the mountain when he saw a large archway ahead, and quickened his pace. Upon stepping through, he was not prepared for the sight that waited. The word “vast” was so insufficient.

The massive, sculpted cavern could have held a sizable village, perhaps a town. He walked forward slowly, looking around in wonder. At this depth, he was standing in an architectural impossibility. Enormous, crumbling columns some ten or more yards in diameter held the remnants of curving stairways on their exteriors. Three of eight columns were still fully erect, reaching to the high, domed ceiling perhaps sixty to seventy yards above.

There were several massive cracks in the ceiling, though the light of Ghassan’s crystal was not strong enough to fully illuminate those heights. Walkways ran around the walls at multiple levels, and broken landings at certain points showed where causeways had once spanned between the columns.

He passed the ruins of a great stairway that had once led upward into stone. Perhaps it had joined to levels above connected to the tiers of walkways. Losing all sense of time, he strolled on until he came to his senses at another huge archway on the cavern’s far side.

With no wish to leave yet, he climbed one of the countless piles of broken stone to the top of a column fragment lying on its side. In frustration, he crouched and looked about.

So far, Ghassan had found nothing of significance to explain Wynn’s desperate trek here—besides the astonishing fact that this place was not a myth. But she was not seeking some archaeological wonder.

Something about this cavern offered him comfort. He could not place his finger on exactly what until he realized that it was the only place he had seen that reminded him that other people had once lived and breathed here. Even the calcified, tragic skeletons scattered about served as reminders. Some appeared to have been too wounded or trapped by falling rubble to have escaped.

Poor souls. He could not imagine what horrors had happened in this place.

He looked around from his vantage point, still in awe of his surroundings. This seemed a good spot to wait—the only one, really. This was not only the heart of the seatt ... this was the seatt, or all that was left of it. Whatever path Wynn traveled, it would lead her here.

He had earlier sat in meditation to track her position. She was closer, but her speed had slowed, possibly stopped, and he wished he knew why. He still had not decided what to do when she arrived. Should he join her on the pretense of offering aid, or simply give her complete freedom and then follow to watch what she did?

The first option offered more control. No doubt he could convince her that he had learned enough from the part of scroll he had translated to find her here. Wynn did not trust many people, but she trusted him, to a degree. He alone had helped her when no one else in her own guild branch would. He had made the sun crystal staff for her and fought at her side.

But joining her meant she would be guarded in her actions. Perhaps the second option was the one to more quickly uncover her secrets.

He was so deep in self-debate that at first he did not notice the disturbing sensation creep over him. Like an uncomfortable tickle, when it broke through, he knew he had felt it before. He slipped over the column’s far side, crouching on the rubble he had used to climb up.

Darkness in one far archway shifted suddenly, as if those shadows awoke to life.

A black figure drifted from the opening, garbed in a flowing robe and cloak. Both garments shifted and swayed, though the cavern’s air was still and stale. Ghassan saw only more darkness inside its voluminous, sagging cowl where there should have been a face.