The Outworlder (28 page)

Jared nodded brusquely. He moved ahead more
rapidly, directing his steps toward what he thought was the middle
of the room. When the weak light in his hand illuminated a stone
wall not five paces in front of him, he swore savagely under his
breath.

“Don’t you have any more of those stick
things?” Brytnoth asked. “Light some more and throw them.”

Jared dug in his side pockets and produced
four more sticks. “These are all I have. Let’s keep one in case we
need it later.”

Brytnoth snapped the remaining three. When
the light was as strong as it could get, he tossed each one in a
different direction. The first, which he threw in the direction
from which they had come, showed only marred columns and broken
floor. The second revealed the same landscape. The third, which he
launched with considerable force, bounced two or three times and
then tumbled down into some kind of aperture in the floor.

Jared’s face lit up with a smile. “Nice!”

They made for the feeble glow and were soon
peering down crumbling steps into a deeper blackness than the gloom
that obscured their sight in the upper temple. The three exchanged
glances, and then Jared took a deep breath.

“I have no idea how expansive this crypt is.
It lies beneath the temple, but the catacombs could stretch far
beyond the footprint of the temple itself. These light sticks will
last three hours at the most.”

“So I guess we’ve got a bit less than six
hours to find what we need and get out,” Rafe said. “Let’s not
waste time talking.”

“I know, but what I mean to say is…I know
that you’re both taking a terrible risk. This adventure might cost
any one of us—or even all of us—our lives. I don’t ask you to
follow me down here. I have to go, you see. But you could stay here
and wait. There’s no need—”

“Shut up and get moving,” said Rafe. “Of
course we’re coming with you! You don’t think we’d let you go into
that hole by yourself, do you? And what are we supposed to do up
here while you’re poking around among the dead and decaying,
anyway? Twiddle our thumbs?”

Jared studied him wordlessly, his eyes full
of the thanks he couldn’t find voice to speak.

They descended the crumbling steps carefully,
picking their way over piles of rubble. Except for the sound of
their boots crunching on loose stones, silence enveloped them. It
was farther to the bottom of the stairs than any of them had
expected, and the air was considerably warmer when they at last
reached the level ground again.

Jared held the light stick aloft, attempting
to illuminate the dense darkness around them. A faint sweet-spicy
smell, like the incense burned before the altars of the One God,
hung in the air, masking the scents of burnt and moldy wood and
damp stone that had been so striking in the upper church.

Rafe quickly scanned what they could see of
their surroundings. It took a moment for him to understand what he
was seeing, but when it finally registered, he drew in his breath
sharply.

“By God,” he murmured, “it’s like another
city!”

Brytnoth, who had also been looking around,
went quickly to the wall on their right. He pulled three small
objects from holders mounted to the wall and struck each against
the stone. One by one, they flickered and then glowed with white
light.

“These should be more useful than that
stick,” he said, distributing them to his friends.

They flashed their lights around, and Jared
and Brytnoth now understood what Rafe had meant about this
subterranean burial ground. A wide path ran away from them into the
darkness, bordered on each side by low huts of stone. Their torches
were not enough to illuminate the far end of the path, leaving them
to wonder if it had an end at all.

“How do we know which of these is the right
one?” Brytnoth murmured, fearing to speak aloud in the stillness
that held that ancient and sacred place.

Jared took a breath and went forward down the
path. He made it several paces before his foot slipped into some
kind of rut and he twisted his ankle. A series of barking curses
dropped from his lips, shattering the silence that hung heavy
around them.

“Looks like this was a road once,” Rafe said
as he joined Jared and helped him to stand straight again. “Those
are the ruts of wagons and carriages.”

“Well, they don’t do us any damn good, do
they?” snapped Jared. “And how the hell are we supposed to find the
right tomb before the torches go out? This place is probably larger
than the upper city itself!”

Brytnoth was about to speak, but he checked
himself suddenly. “Listen!”

There were voices echoing down the corridor
to their right. Harsh, guttural voices.

“Scouts!” Jared whispered. “Quick! In
here.”

They darted inside the closest burial hut and
flattened themselves against the wall.

“Won’t they see the torches?” Rafe said.

“And if we put them out, do you suppose we’ll
ever find a way to light them again?” Jared responded, his voice
harsher than he meant it to be.

“Maybe they aren’t coming,” Brytnoth
suggested. “The voices didn’t sound like they were approaching
us.”

Jared swung around to face him, stared at him
for a moment, and then grinned suddenly. “And what would they be
doing down here, do you think?”

Brytnoth raised an eyebrow. “Waiting for
people like us?”

“And what are people like us doing down
here?”

“Looking for the weapons, of course!” Rafe
clapped Brytnoth on the back. “If we find them, we find the right
tomb!”

“We just have to dispose of them before they
figure out we’re here,” Jared said. “These torches have to go.”

As if he suddenly remembered something,
Brytnoth wordlessly unslung his pack from his shoulder and started
rummaging through it. A moment later, he pulled something out and
held it up in triumph.

“You didn’t!” Rafe exclaimed with a huge
grin. “The night vision adapter for our goggles! Genius, pure
genius!”

In a few minutes’ time, they were all
equipped and ready to go. They extinguished their torches and
stacked them in the corner of the hut.

“Remember the plan,” Jared whispered. “No
more talking once we leave this room—hand signals only.”

The other two nodded, and they slunk out of
the tomb.

It was over in a few moments. Using the
element of surprise, Jared, Rafe and Brytnoth were able to
overpower the scouts before they had a chance to cry out or defend
themselves.

As Brytnoth and Rafe dragged the bodies to
the other side of the burial chamber, Jared began examining the
huge sarcophagus in the center of the room. The stone felt smooth
as glass beneath his eager fingertips, and no markings or
indentations offered him a clue as to its contents. A frown
appeared between his brows as he crouched down and felt over its
entire front and both sides.

“There should be something…some indication…of
something…” he muttered to himself.

“What’s the problem?” Rafe asked as he and
Brytnoth joined their friend in front of the tomb.

“There’s nothing here. Nothing. No indicator
markings at all.”

After a brief silence, Brytnoth asked, “Well,
isn’t that in itself an indication?” When Jared scowled at him and
Rafe stifled a laugh, he continued earnestly, “No, look! If there
were really someone buried here, there should be some kind of
decoration celebrating his life, or at least some marker for
remembrance. Doesn’t the absence of any memory marker tell us
beyond a doubt that whatever is in here was meant to be
forgotten?”

Rafe nodded slowly. “That’s quite profound,”
he remarked, his mouth quirking into a smile.

Jared seemed to breathe again. “It is, and I
think you’re right.” He turned back to the tomb, shaking his head
and muttering, “Hell of a way to send someone a message…like
invisible ink without the reagent.” He got to his feet and placed
the heels of his hands against the edge of the lid. When neither of
the others moved, Jared glanced at them over his shoulder. “Can I
get some kind of help here?”

“I was just thinking,” said Rafe, hesitating
for a moment. “What if Brytnoth’s wrong? I just don’t know if I
want to be the guy that opens some poor stiff’s coffin after God
knows how many centuries. If we’ve got to be grave robbers, I’d
rather let you take that responsibility all by yourself.”

Jared laughed aloud, and the sound echoed
through that dusty, deathly place like the rush of water over
desiccated ground. “Get over here!” he said, still laughing. “Good
God!”

Together, the three braced against the lid
and pushed with all their strength. For one agonizing moment,
nothing happened.

“Harder!” Jared gritted.

With a guttural groaning, they strained
against the ancient stone. Slowly, slowly, and with grinding
protestations, the stone began to slide away. With a final heave,
it fell with a shattering crash on the other side of the tomb.

“Well, if that’s not enough noise to wake the
dead, I don’t know what is!” Rafe gasped, wiping his brow on his
sleeve.

“Look!” breathed Brytnoth.

A strange, gently glowing light seeped from
the open tomb. Jared pulled off his night vision goggles and drew
in his breath sharply. The light was bright enough to illuminate
the rest of the burial chamber, and it seemed both to flow toward
and out of a strange device carved on the ceiling directly above
the tomb: a sword partially driven into the earth with a dragon
twined about it. Whether the dragon had been transfixed by the
sword or whether it held the sword in its lithe body was
ambiguous.

“What’s that?” Rafe asked, gesturing up at
the roof.

“I’ve never seen anything like it before,”
murmured Jared.

“What! Our scholar-soldier-minstrel-healer
has never seen this sign? Then it must be from a time beyond the
inscription of human memory on parchment!”

Jared’s mouth twisted into a half-smile,
half-frown. “Always the joker, Rafe! But perhaps this sign is not…”
His explanation was swallowed up in a gasp. “Oh, my God!”

“What? What is it?” Brytnoth took a step
toward him, peering with concern at Jared’s face.

“I’ve seen this before…I’ve seen it…I know
what it means.” The words spilled out, broken and breathless.
“Quick! Let’s get out of here, and then I’ll explain.”

They gripped the edge of the tomb and peered
inside. A small cache of weapons was clustered at the bottom: a
long, straight sword with an ivory grip and silver sheath, a bow
with a quiver full of arrows, a silver shield with the strange
device worked in ivory on its face, and a javelin about five feet
in length.

“I call the bow and arrows,” said Brytnoth
softly. “My people are known for being deadly archers, and I can’t
say that I’m less a master of the skill than the rest.”

“Give me the javelin,” said Rafe. When Jared
opened his mouth to protest, he shook his head and smiled. “I know
whose fight this is. We’re just backup.”

Wordlessly, Jared took the sword and shield
from the tomb. The light followed them as they set off for the
stairs at a run, but as they approached the entrance to the
necropolis, it began to fade. By the time they had reached the
upper temple, it had dissipated entirely.

Once out on the streets of the Great City,
Rafe stopped and turned to face the others, the javelin resting
easily on his broad shoulder.

“So what’s it all mean, Jared? Where have you
seen that device before?”

“It’s something I’d rather forget, to tell
you the truth,” Jared said with a frown.

“Why?” asked Brytnoth.

“Because I betrayed someone’s
confidence.”

“Sahara’s.” Rafe tipped his head back and
eyed Jared expectantly. “So? How is she involved?”

“Rafe, you were right about one thing. I
never saw this device on any piece of parchment. It was branded
onto Sahara’s back, at the intersection of the three lash strokes
she received when she was taken prisoner by the Dragon-Lords and
sentenced to the labor camps.”

Brytnoth and Rafe exchanged glances.

“What do you mean, branded? You mean like we
brand sheep and cattle at home?” Rafe asked.

“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”

After another long silence, Brytnoth asked,
“But I don’t understand. Why would they use that mark to identify
their prisoners if that is also the mark that identifies these
weapons…the weapons that are supposed to destroy them?”

“Maybe it’s a sign,” Rafe suggested quietly.
“Maybe they didn’t brand her…maybe someone else did.”

Jared glanced at him, ready to laugh at yet
another of his friend’s outlandish and tongue-in-cheek suggestions.
But Rafe was staring at the ground, and everything about his body
language told Jared that he was absolutely serious.

“What?” Jared said, unable to keep all of his
laughter out of his voice. “You’re serious?”

A glimmer of a smile touched his face. “Yes,
for once. It’s like a tale told by a skilled poet, you know? A sign
that’s used to identify common criminals…”

“Or ones who are particularly threatening to
the established order,” interjected Brytnoth.

“…or ones who are threatening to the
established order suddenly becomes the sign by which that order and
all its evil designs are overthrown. The Dragon-Lords read such a
sign as the image of their power—the sword that annihilates
opposition and conquers worlds. The resistance sees it as the
symbol of the oppressors’ destruction—the sword transfixes the
tyrant. It’s a paradox, you see? And only history will tell which
reading is right.”

Jared stared at him for a long time. “I
didn’t know you had it in you, Rafe,” he said at last.

“Well,” Rafe said, his cocky smile returning,
“I don’t spend all my time drinking, fighting, and wenching, you
know. I like a good story once in a while. And I like thinking
about good stories.”