The Children of Urdis (Grimwold and Lethos Book 2) (18 page)

It was all he needed. Avulash predictably moved to block the doorway he had just used. But unless Avulash had been sitting in here all day, there had to be a way he entered on the other side of the room. Lethos slung Valda's limp body over his shoulder and dashed into the darkness. His footfalls were like thunder, and Avulash quickly surmised he was getting away.

"Stop him! Bring him back to me."

All along the walls shrill, sniveling voices answered the call. The red and black slaves, or whatever they were, now raised a clamor as they struggled to answer their master's command. Lethos, still blind, held one hand out as he pitched forward. To both sides he heard heavy thuds as the slaves dropped to the floor.

The crash into the wall hurt, but his supernatural stamina prevented what might have been a blow to knock out a normal man. He bumped along the length and found a door just as something grabbed his leg. He kicked with all his strength, and whatever had grabbed him flew away with a shriek. He yanked the door open in time for the blue flame to reignite behind him. He didn't even look back. A copy of the hall on the opposite end led to another landing where stairs led up and down.

Valda bounced at his shoulder as he sprinted, trying to not bump her against the wall. He felt the pulse on the inside of her thigh where his hand gripped her tight. Even if she was dead, he'd not leave her to become flesh for Avulash's creations. At the stairs he already heard the upper level filling with the stout slaves. Their squeaking, evil voices were now full of lively chatter.

Down. If ever there was a direction he did not want to go now.

He might be able to force himself past the slaves above, but Valda would be torn from him and he would eventually be overcome. Below was more unknown, and there could not be too many more decks. Once trapped at the bottom of the ship, he would have to face the inevitable. Yet Grimwold had to be down there. Perhaps if he joined with Grimwold and just prayed so hard that blood sprayed out of his nose the gods might rescue him. Or not.

He was already winding down before he had decided. He wasn't even conscious of the choice. Yet there was no icy feeling along his spine, no sense his powers guided him toward the right path. The stairs were dark and he took them carelessly. At the very bottom, blue lights lit the landing, and an open archway led into a dimness like light seen through heavy smoke. The squealing, cursing pursuers stopped the level above him and went silent.

That can't be good, he thought. If they won't pursue me down here, I've basically stepped in the bear trap. Sorry, Valda. I guess this was a valiant but doomed idea.

Forward was the only direction. Besides, Avulash wouldn't hesitate to pursue him down here. It was his damned ark, after all.

The cloying scent of blood was thick here. Every time he thought he had grown accustomed to it, the stench would slap him hard. He coughed as he moved through the hot, vaguely lit room. No blue fire here, but actual flames from real lamps guttered along the walls. The room was nowhere as large as the space above, but it was still large enough for its edges to be lost in gloom.

Sitting off-center on a table lay Grimwold's body. He was just as Lethos remembered, but stripped down to his underpants. The spot where the arrow had struck him was now a shade of black-green that had crawled like a spiderweb across his chest. Various tools and vessels of strange shapes glittered on a table next to him. A door led out across the room.

Lethos shoved all the tools off the table, sending them clattering to the wood floor. He laid Valda on it, examined the swelling bruise on the side of her head, and then adjusted her arms across her chest. He turned to Grimwold, glad to see his friend again.

"I'm not really the planner of our team, as you can see. I think I may have gotten us killed. Sorry about that. I really was hoping to impress you with a great rescue story."

Tears were hot on Lethos's face. He wanted to tell himself they were for leading Valda to death and letting Grimwold die at the hands of a madman. In part they were. But the tears were mostly for himself. Not only was he feeling like a failure, he was going to die.

The sound of footfalls on the steps he had just descended warned him the moment of death was not far away.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Syrus jumped when Thorgis broke the water's surface with a gasp. It echoed off the rough stone walls and up the shaft overhead. The light from the glowing sword unsheathed and strapped to his back was all they had to see, and its dim radiance was suffused in the clear water. Thorgis shook the water from his eyes and blew it from his beard. Syrus scrabbled to the rocky edge, the cold and slimy stones biting his flesh.

"I found a way through," Thorgis said, struggling to catch his breath. "There is more than one path, but one goes too long, and I fear I cannot hold my breath to the end of it."

"But you found a passage to a dry place?" Syrus asked as he extended a hand to Thorgis. Syrus hauled him onto the rocks with a grunt, and Thorgis rolled onto his stomach. He gasped for a several minutes before continuing.

"I did not dare go too far, but there's another large room. The air is not stale. You have to scale another small shaft to reach it. But rocks in the wall make it easy to climb. It's like the builders wanted a man to be able to climb out. I suspect the shaft above us might be the same if we could only reach it."

"The water level of this well has gone down," Syrus said, looking up into the dark. The light from Eldegris's sword seemed weaker. It did not reach the beyond the ceiling where the shaft entrance was a darker spot in the gloom. "Perhaps it has flooded away into another room. All I can say is if we can't climb back up this shaft, the best we can hope for is to continue deeper into Tsaldalr."

They sat quietly while Thorgis caught his breath. Syrus could not swim, and Thorgis would have to carry him through to the other side. All the complicating factors arose in Syrus's mind. Would he hold his breath long enough? Would he panic and cause Thorgis to slow down? So many other thoughts crowded his thoughts, but he beat them all back with an image of his starving to death at the bottom of this well. Even more horribly, what might Thorgis do with a sword if they were both trapped and starving? Syrus shuddered to think that he might not starve after all. Whatever horror awaited him in the water was better than remaining trapped.

Once Thorgis felt recovered, he sat upright. He was only an outline in the yellow light. He had stripped off his shirt, which had been so ruined that they now kept it for bandages or ties, and the light revealed a strong body. Syrus would have to trust Thorgis, despite his cowardice. Eldegris had sent him as a protector, and so Syrus had to accept the gift as such. However, he felt as if the roles were entirely reversed.

Syrus prepared himself for the plunge. Thorgis jumped into the water first and gave instructions. "Just hold your breath and do not struggle no matter how fearful you become. Close your eyes as well. Trust me to guide us to the right place and we will both be fine."

Syrus nodded without a word. His fingers and toes were like ice as he faced the water. The sword glowed on Thorgis's back, making the water seem as if it was yellow fire. He held out his arms and gestured Syrus to jump in. "I'll catch you. Don't worry."

He dove without hesitation, for to wait another moment would collapse him in fear. The water braced him like a cold hand closing around his body. He thrashed and struggled, but Thorgis's arms surrounded him in a powerful grip. "Relax," he said and waited for Syrus's panic to subside. Syrus did not trust the feeling to the water, but he had to trust Thorgis. He slowly stopped kicking, then Thorgis warned him. "Now take the deepest breath you can. It will take to the end of your breath before we surface again. Do not be afraid and we will live."

Panic overtook him the instant he submerged. The world sounded of air bubbles and the roar of water. Thorgis was incredibly strong, not like Grimwold and Lethos in their supernatural power. Thorgis was just full of a youthful strength. He held him tight, dragging him through the cold darkness. Syrus tried to open his eyes, curious what the world would look like beneath the surface. He briefly saw confusing darkness lit only with wavering yellow light. The world swayed and blurred and air bubbles rushed over his face in ticklish lines. He closed his eyes and let Thorgis work.

His relaxation succeeded a short time, but as his chest began to burn and air slipped from his lips in small bursts, he began to panic. He felt himself twisting down then up, then down again. He had no orientation and his lungs were threatening to burst. He began to struggle, even after a reproachful squeeze from Thorgis. At last fear defeated him and he began to wrestle. At what felt was the last possible moment, his head broke through to air and he sucked in the cold, soothing air.

He drew in a mouthful of water that set him coughing while Thorgis held him up. He felt the young man rocking and swaying as he treaded water. At last Syrus regained himself, cold water flowing over his face. He opened his eyes.

Inches above him a man-made ceiling pressed on him. Thorgis angled him toward a darker hole that brightened as the faint sword light approached it.

"I'm going to lift you up into that hole. There are stones that stick out like a ladder. Just climb to the top. I will wait down here in case you slip. Go on."

Before he could protest, Syrus was lifted into the dark hole. He felt for the stones that protruded from the wall, grasping them easily. The first few were hard to ascend, Thorgis needing to push him from below. Yet once he had his footing the climb went smoothly. The shaft up was short and tight. Despite the slimy residue over the stone, he managed to climb out without falling. He rolled off a raised surface to thud to the floor, dust clinging to him. He had just realized how refreshed he had felt having washed the sea salt from himself in clear water, and now he was muddied again.

Thorgis followed, the telltale approach of the yellow light from Eldegris's sword announcing his arrival. He leapt out of the well with far more grace.

"You've got a lot of strength," Syrus said. "To carry me through that plus a sword."

"The sword weighs nothing at all," he said. "And water carries whatever it holds. It wasn't so bad."

Syrus nodded, still catching his breath. At last they looked around and found a small chamber with two exits. The light revealed ancient carvings in smoothed stone walls. He wished he could be interested in examining them closer, but survival was paramount.

"There's an air current from this one," Thorgis said. "So maybe we should head that way."

Thorgis held his sword aloft like a torch, but it fell to Syrus to lead the way. It bothered him to call Thorgis a coward after he had saved them by swimming through flooded tunnels. The idea had been Syrus's, but Thorgis had taken to it without protest. Yet with him casually at the rear, Syrus could not help but feel this was unseemly for a prince and warrior. Unarmed and tattered clothing clinging to his body, he led them through ancient corridors and galleries.

He had no sense whether they traveled up or down. They followed a straight path, never veering off into side passages or rooms. Not many of those appeared for exploration in any case. Syrus regretted that he was likely passing up long lost wealth of both knowledge and treasure.

At last they came to a larger chamber and his regrets vanished.

The thin yellow light of the sword, now barely a glow better than a dying campfire, showed row upon row of what were undoubtedly stone sarcophagi. These stretched out into the darkness beyond. A thin layer of dust spread out on these stone vessels, but they seemed as complete as if newly made.

"A burial chamber," Thorgis said, his voice weak and trembling. "We must be going deeper. Let's turn back."

"No," Syrus said. His voice echoed into the black distance of the chamber. He stepped to the closest sarcophagus and brushed the dust aside. The stone was cool and smooth, a sandy tan color that was unlike any stone he had ever seen before. "We cannot. If this is truly a burial chamber, then these are the First People--the Tsal."

"All the more reason to leave," Thorgis said. "It is unwise to disturb the dead."

Yet all Syrus could think of was his chance to see the First People. Here were bodies of men that walked the world along with the gods. Just touching these sarcophagi connected him to that time. The age of this place began to sink into his mind. He had been so busy with survival that he had not paused to consider the trove of knowledge and history he had found. He was seeing what possibly no other man had seen since the First Age.

He walked the rows, studying the runes engraved over the lids that shared so much in common with his own language. Most appeared to be names and some descriptions of the deceased. Soon he walked out of Thorgis's sphere of illumination and it was like the yank of a leash about his neck.

"We are not disturbing anything," he said. "I will not become a grave robber, if that is your fear. Your father was clear on my task, which was to discover what mysteries were buried here and if they posed a threat to his kingdom. It is not good enough that we simply escape without at least answering that question."

He continued past the light, but Thorgis did not follow immediately. Instead Syrus turned to the walls, figuring there must be a way to light the room. He found a system of lamps that appeared interconnected with a stone gutter. Oil might have flowed between them, but this was now gone. At last Thorgis spoke again.

"I don't think whatever is buried here is as dangerous as what arrived in the storm, or those men who chased us into this hole."

"We do not get to change the king's orders to suit our own hopes," Syrus said, walking the length of the wall in the gloom. At last he found what he expected might be near, a stone jug with dark stains running from its stoppered spout. He pulled the stone stopper and felt inside, his fingers swabbing oil.