The Children of Urdis (Grimwold and Lethos Book 2) (19 page)

"He didn't want us to die down here." Thorgis's voice was growing more desperate.

Syrus lifted the jug and poured it into the lamp. It was heavy, but he supported it on his shoulder. The oil splashed onto the remains of his shirt, until the last of it chugged away. It was not enough to light more than a few lamps, and he still needed a spark. He continued to search deeper in the dark, and at last Thorgis moved with him. His face was tight with a frown, but once he saw the emptied stone jugs he smiled.

"Fire is necessary for survival," Syrus said as he poured another jug into the track. "As is light. Your sword could provide the spark to ignite these. Perhaps it will show us a way out, or it may not. No matter what, I have a duty to the High King to answer his questions. Here is as good a place as any to both seek his answer as well as a way out."

Thorgis joined in, and after fumbling in the darkness around the sarcophagi they had covered a large section of the left-side wall. Oil flowed again in the tracks. Unlike the animal or plant oils familiar to Syrus, this carried a faint and foul scent. He could not place it other than it pulled at the pit of his stomach and made his nostrils flare.

"Run your blade along the edge of the gutter and we will be sure to get sparks," Syrus said. Thorgis did as asked, his metal blade screeching on the rock and sparks spraying out from it. It took only a short scrape, and with a muted whoosh the oil ignited.

The fire sped along the track, each lamp flaring to life after countless millennia of darkness. In a blink the tracks they had filled were glowing with burning flame. But then more lit. A line of fire seemed to crawl up into the darkness and then lit another row of lamps unseen above. Then a line repeated and lit another row above that. Up it went along the left side wall until it had traveled five levels and ignited lamps high above them.

Syrus stood with his mouth agape. The thin line of fire crawled around the room and began to light lamps on other walls. He craned his neck back to see what the light revealed. The walls seemed to be lined with small doors all engraved as the sarcophagi on the floor. Syrus turned in a circle as the room bloomed into light. All around them, high into the room, were row upon row of what could only be tombs.

"We are surrounded by the dead," Thorgis said. "This is their house."

"Perhaps this is all that Tsaldalr is," Syrus said, still watching the line crawl to the wall from where they had entered. Not every lamp lit, some rows remaining dark, but it was already bright enough to see all he needed.

Finally Thorgis grabbed Syrus's arm and spun him around without a word. Both stared at the front of the chamber where a drizzle of now flaming oil dripped into a pan. At first the fire in the iron pan only flickered, but then it shrieked into a blaze like a phoenix reborn from ashes. The room now glowed with light, and Syrus stepped back with his heart racing.

At the distant end of the room a massive statue dominated the wall. It sat above the floor on a room-like structure. In fact, below it was a huge set of doors covered in green patina where patches of bronze still showed. Intricate, crowded carvings decorated the entire structure.

"Urdis the Deceiver," Syrus said. That was the statue. It was a huge man, naked to the waist where his body became that of a lion. Urdis's face was that of a man wearing a mask. He had no hair and his nose was wide and flattened almost to his face. His mouth was severe and his eyes were two pools of shadow that glowered at them. The statue's arms were folded across its chest.

"This cannot be good," Thorgis said.

"No, it is great," Syrus said. Beneath the statue the largest inscription was given both in the ancient runes and a variant that Syrus read easily. He read these aloud for Thorgis's benefit.

"Sleep my children, upon the wonders of your kind. A deathless dream of time unseen, when all fetters unbind." Syrus licked his lips. "This is it, Thorgis. Here is what your father sent us to find. Here is what we want, and it is beyond those doors. I'm sure of it."

"Nothing good can come from Urdis. We should head the other way."

Ignoring the tug at his ruined sleeve, Syrus wandered up the aisle between the sarcophagi to the bronze doors. The metal was cool to his touch. The bas-relief of the doors showed scenes of the First People, some he recognized as depictions from legend and others things he did not recognize. He gave the door a shove and gasped when it swung soundlessly into more darkness. The rush of air was cold and smelled vaguely of the oil that burned in the room. Inside he saw a small chamber with scattered bits of wood, but more important was a wide stone staircase leading down. Over the archway a carving showed a stylized Urdis herding his people through what seemed a gate.

"We can make torches from this wood, if only our clothing were dry. Still, we can get by with just the wood for now." Syrus handed a length of wood to Thorgis, whose face had become pale and slack. "There is an air current, too. We are fulfilling your father's command and finding a way out."

After Thorgis handed him back the burning stick, he descended the stairs. All worries of traps, crumbling construction, or other enemies abandoned him. He trotted down the stairs into yet another chamber that stretched off into the dark. Here he found the lamps already running with oil. He touched one to flame and soon another huge room illuminated. Here was row upon row of collapsed shelves all covered in dust. Books and scrolls of incalculable age were heaped atop and buried beneath the rubbish. More were contained in the sides. The sour notes of burning oil did not deter him.

"A library!" His voice echoed off the walls. "They buried their knowledge with themselves. Thorgis, this is unbelievable."

Thorgis inhaled to doubtlessly offer some glum pronouncement, but his words were cut off by a distant echoing thud. It was as if a giant rock had plunged from a ledge into a deep pit. It shook the hall, dislodging dust from the shelves that still stood.

Both remained still, staring at each other in the fluttering light. The wood of the burning torch grew hotter in Syrus's hand as it burned down. When nothing sounded again, Syrus let his breath go. "Something must've dislodged in this old place."

Another thud, and Thorgis leapt forward. Syrus's heart fluttered.

The ceiling rained down dust and flakes of stone.

"We're not alone down here," Thorgis said.

Syrus looked up and swallowed hard. Something like metal on stone grated from above and shook free more debris upon their heads. A sound of a chain rushing across stone vibrated down to them then abruptly stopped. All went silent but for the pelting of stone flakes still falling to the floor.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Grimwold had never experienced such cold. He knew darkness, isolation, uncertainty. These things did not frighten him. But the cold did. It was an icy hand around his heart, a hand that threatened to squeeze, yet for now only lingered. He wanted to shiver, but his body failed to respond. He wafted through a blankness, feeling nothing. A wind might scatter him into oblivion forever.

His mind stretched toward Lethos. He remembered the little southerner as a dark man who had let his black hair grow long and who had sensibly adapted to life in Valahur. But he was more than that to him, wasn't he? His life had been bound to Lethos's in some way. Floating in darkness, it did not seem to matter. He once could have called to Lethos, but no more. The icy hand over his heart froze anything that tried to cross it.

A voice echoed through the black, and he felt a stirring of something like a body close to his. A woman's voice and a woman's touch, gentle but hesitant, seemed to slide over his chest. The contrast of warmth and cold thrilled him. He wanted to sit up. But had he been reclining?

"Grimwold, awaken. The need is great. You cannot sleep any longer."

He awakened, blinking into a vague light. He lay upon his bed, a rough brown wolf pelt covering his naked chest. He raised his head but glimpsed no more than the dim surroundings of his bedroom in the unsteady light of oil lamps. Seated at his left on the edge of the bed was a beautiful woman, lithe and brown from life beneath the sun. Her long, dark hair hung in a single braid over her shoulder. Her smile was bright white in the gloom.

"Kafara," he said slowly. "You went away. Said it was important."

"It was," she said. She wore a plain white dress that made her seem like an ancient princess of Ageos. Her hand was on Grimwold's chest, and he enjoyed the touch. It soothed the icy cold there. "I am sorry I never returned to you, and now it is too late."

He frowned at the thought, trying to remember. An urgent message from Lethos had called him out of bed. Raiders had come yet again. There had been a handful of ships, and he had used the power to force a retreat. Yet one resisted and shot him with an arrow. That had been the source of the cold. He stared down at his chest and backed up in shock.

Spreading over his breast was a green-black mark like spilled ink. It radiated cold deep into his body and created the hand that threatened to crush his heart. Kafara's hand covered it, but the black tendrils spilled out from beneath it as if trying to crawl away.

"What is this?" He crawled back as if he could escape his own body, the pelt sliding down to his waist. "I was struck with an arrow. How did I get back to my hall?"

"We are not in your hall," Kafara said, her hands now gathered to her lap. "We are in a place between worlds, neither alive nor dead. I cannot stay long here."

The words made his chest ache. The arrow was gone from his chest, but he felt a hard pain beneath his skin where the blackness spread. It was not a hand but an arrowhead that hovered over his heart.

"I was killed?" He rubbed the spot of his wound. "You told me Manifested could not be killed. My flesh is like iron, and whatever wound does find me heals in moments. How did an arrow from a flea-infested raider drop me?"

Now Kafara's face darkened and the glittering of her dark eyes seemed to dull. She gripped her hands as she looked away. "I never said we cannot be killed, only that it was hard to do. Our kind cannot be harmed by normal weapons. The magic of our brothers and sisters will harm us, as will certain other things."

"Other things? Was that what pierced my mail?" A flare of pain shot through his chest as he righted himself. He looked around the room and it was as solid as anything he knew. If this was a place between life and death, it appeared remarkably like life.

"Yes," Kafara said simply. "Those raiders had been first met by one of the First People, the Tsal. They have been the source of unrest in your land. They gave the most potent weapon against you to those raiders."

Grimwold stared at her. "It was just an arrow."

Kafara drew a labored breath and studied her hands. "I should have told you before Turo and I departed. We Manifested all have a weakness. Do you remember the trolls Amator created, and how they were dissolved with salt from the land of their creation?"

"I've touched salt since then and it never affected me."

"Of course not." She laughed and pushed her braid from her shoulder as she faced him. "But we have a weakness just like it. All Manifested are born over a stone in the earth. I do not know why. That stone is as fatal to us as the salt was to Amator's trolls. To anyone else it is but a lightweight stone that is no more lethal than a normal stone, perhaps even less so for its weight. But this stone can be fashioned into a weapon. It will cut and wound you as certainly as the sharpest iron blade would a normal man. And this stone will seek the heart. A blade made from it will strike true to the chest. An arrowhead made from it will fly unerringly to the heart."

"So the little bastard raider was given an arrowhead made from this stone, and the Tsal gave it?" Kafara nodded. "How did they find it?"

"It is not important now. That arrowhead is caught upon your bones or it would have long entered your heart. The Tsal enchanted the arrow to penetrate your mail. They wanted to ensure your death."

"Why?" Grimwold rubbed the back of his neck. "What have I done to them?"

"You led to the downfall of Amator. You interfered with their plans." Kafara shrugged. "And you unwittingly broke the pact when you did."

He was about to protest breaking an oath he had never made. Such a thing was impossible, but Kafara held up a hand. "Please, we only have the appearance of leisure here. In fact, you are in dire peril, and I must soon return to the mountain. Let us not argue. Turo and I willingly broke a pact made in an age of the world long forgotten. The gods are gone from the world, or else they care no longer for what happens. How can anyone understand the gods? In any case, the Tsal are more of a threat than the gods are now."

Grimwold scratched at the throbbing pain over his chest. Tsal and pacts and forgetful gods were both confusing and unimportant to him. "If we are straddling life or death, then why do I not see Danir's Hall? Am I to fall into the mist realms instead? I lived as the First Father wanted our people to live, true to my honor and true to glory in battle. I fell in battle, even if I was leaning on a bit of magic. I should not be denied my place in Danir's Hall."

"This is what your thoughts have created." Kafara slid from the bed and stood. "I am but a guest here. Now there are more important matters, yet so little time."

"If I'm dying, then how were you able to find me here? And where is Turo?"

Kafara gave a shy smile, then rubbed her left eye with the back of her hand. "If time allows, I will explain. You must first decide upon life or death. If you choose life, as I expect you will, then you will have to fight for it."

"Death is the coward's escape," Grimwold said. He sat now at the edge of the bed, the wolf pelt across his lap to cover his nakedness. "You don't have to ask me what I choose."

Kafara's smile widened. "Right now your body is laid out on a table inside what the Tsal call a white ark. In time, your friend Syrus will tell you much more if he lives. For now, know it is the ship the Tsal have used to find their way through the mists that prevent their return to our world. Lethos has braved much to find you, but he has let himself become cornered at the bottom of the ark. I have not seen more, but the Tsal captain Avulash will soon finish him off. You have not been killed as originally planned. They are using your blood much like Amator did with his trolls."