Chapter 6
6
R HAIF HAD NEVER been happier to hear the crack of a whip.
The pained cry that followed echoed down the dark tunnel to him. He took heed of the warning. It meant he was nearing the mine proper. He rechecked his stolen clothes and pulled his cloak’s hood farther over his head.
At last…
He had been following the trail of the others for at least two bells. He wagered it must be close to last meal. The fare was usually a maggoty gruel, crusts of bread, and maybe a sliver of hard cheese or sometimes the rind of a melon left over from feeding the oxen. Still, his empty stomach growled in complaint at missing out.
“Hush,” he whispered. “I’ll feed you later.”
Taking an extra bit of caution, he trimmed the lamp’s oil taper and squeezed the flame to a flicker. Shadows drew more tightly around him. He knew he had to hurry.
If it was indeed close to last meal, that meant the hundreds of overseers would be corralling their charges into the various gaols and afterward heading topside, leaving only a bare few to watch over the mines.
Rhaif intended to leave with them.
He continued to follow the trail that skirted along the edge of the busy core of the mine. Clearly the Shrive did not want to be spotted, let alone draw attention to the mystery hauled forth from the copper egg.
For now, that worked for Rhaif, too.
The rumble and grind of the mine grew ever louder. Soon a constant hammering echoed from all directions, discordant and arrhythmic, interrupted by barked orders and harsh laughter. It was all undercut by a cacophony of squealing wheels on iron tracks and the strident whistles from the mine’s many shafts, where tubs full of chalk and kohl were hauled upward or lowered empty.
Rhaif had long grown accustomed to it, barely heard it any longer, like the beat of his own heart. But not now. His ears strained for every note of this dark chorale of misery and hardship, listening both for any hint of discovery and to orient himself to his location.
He was fairly certain he had his bearings. His nose picked out the scent of the burning brimstan from the smelting fires topside, which only could be smelled near the main shaft.
I must be close.
He tightened his jaw. Muskin’s body could be discovered at any moment. When that happened, the mine would ring with gongs and every shaft would be sealed or guarded. Then the hissing thylassaurs would be set loose on the trail, following the blood scent with their flared nostrils and running down their prey.
Namely me.
Rhaif checked the damp side of his cloak. The bloodstain had mostly dried, making it almost indistinguishable from the blue of the cloth. But it would not fool the sharp nose of a thylassaur. Knowing that, he dared wait no longer.
Now or never.
He tightened a fist and abandoned the trail. He took the next tunnel that aimed for the heart of the mine. As he rounded the corner, focused still on his stolen cloak, he ran square into a pair of hulking overseers coming his way.
Startled, he stumbled backward—only to have his shoulder grabbed, his cloak bunched in a scarred fist. Rhaif was sure his ruse had been exposed. Still, he kept his head down.
“You’re with us,” the overseer said, and marched past him, dragging Rhaif along.
He dared not resist but tried his best. “I… dumped my crew and was headed topside.”
“That can wait,” the man’s partner said. “Work’s not done yet.”
Rhaif was released and was plainly expected to follow. He obeyed but he trailed by a few steps. In another few breaths, he found himself back in the tunnel he had abandoned a moment ago.
It seems I’m destined to walk this path.
The overseers grumbled to each other, looking no more pleased than Rhaif about this extra duty.
“What’s all this tumult about anyway, you think, Hrahl?”
A heavy shrug. “Best not to be too curious, Berryl.”
Rhaif wished he himself had heeded that wisdom earlier.
Berryl leaned closer. “Word is that there are Shriven about?”
The other scowled. “What did I just a’say?”
The pair looked to be brothers, both black-haired with thick noses, fleshy lips, and pinched eyes from years of squinting at the endless sun glaring off sand and rock. Only the crisscrossing of scars mapped their faces differently.
Rhaif’s mother was from across the seas, from the highland forests of the Cloudreach. He only had vague memories of her. She had been svelte, with fiery hair and pale skin. She was nothing like the folks in the territories with their dark sun-burnished complexions and beefy frames. From such a commingling, Rhaif ended up slightly taller and thinner of limb than most. His hair was a ruddy auburn, his features less rocky. Best of all, he had been born with his mother’s natural gift of agility, speed, and balance. It was why he had been so readily recruited into the guild at a young age. Slippery as a fresh-oiled eel, Llyra had once described him, encompassing both his body and his skills.
“Be’s quiet now,” Hrahl warned, nudging and pointing ahead.
Their two bulky forms blocked Rhaif’s view. He heard voices carry back to him from the tunnel. He recognized the low tones of the Shrive, accompanied by the cowed acquiescence of the mine’s maestrum.
Rhaif inwardly winced.
Can’t rid myself of these pevvy swinks.
The maestrum called over to them. “You two, take this lot to the privy gaol uppaways. Wait for me there with them.”
A clank and rattle of chains announced the presence of the doomed miners. Rhaif remembered the whispered words of the Shrive, the maestrum’s palm resting atop his dagger. Rhaif wanted to shout a warning, but what would that accomplish?
Only get me killed, too.
Hrahl and Berryl grunted their assent. They hurried forward, exposing Rhaif to the attention of both the maestrum and the Shrive. He kept his face low, which was not unusual in the rare presence of such a holy man, someone who had achieved the status of Highcryst in both alchymy and the religious orders.
Even the two brothers hurried past with hardly a glance.
The maestrum turned away with a command for Rhaif: “And you help me with this.”
The Shrive stood bent over the figure of the bronze statue. It had been laid atop a wheeled flatcart. The man’s hands hovered over the gilded shape, not touching, as if he were warming his palms over a fire.
He finally straightened and turned enough to reveal the black tattoo across his eyes. “Follow me,” he ordered, and led the way into a side passageway. “And be alert, Maestrum Keel.”
Keel waved Rhaif to his side. “Get your arse over here.”
Knowing he could not refuse without drawing attention, Rhaif hurried over. The flatcart had a front and rear handgrip. Keel took hold of the one at the back. Without being told, Rhaif edged around the cart to reach the other.
Together they set off along the tunnel, Rhaif pulling and Keel pushing.
A FTER A TIME, as they rolled after the Shrive, Rhaif found his gaze returning to the bronze figure. He studied her unblemished form, free of any tarnish. He was awed by the curve and smooth suppleness of her shape. He kept returning to her face. He remembered the serenity captured there, only now from this angle, it looked slightly less peaceful. The perfect brow bore no crease but looked close to pinching with concern. And the full lips appeared drawn thinner. He cocked his head back and forth, squinting at those eyelids. He remembered thinking they had started to open, but now they were plainly sealed, fused even, showing no gaps.
He noted tinier details. Fine wires, a darker bronze, represented delicate lashes. Even her hair—which he had thought was a solid plait—was made of an intricate twining of bronze filaments.
It made no sense to him.
Why go to such detail?
The cart bumped over a ridge in the floor, interrupting his reverie.
“Watch yourself!” Keel warned. “I’ll stripe your hide if any harm is done.”
Rhaif grumbled an apology and focused on the path behind the robed Shrive. He guided the cart to as smooth of a course as possible. Only now did he realize he was lost again. The Shrive was leading them into a maze of ever-narrowing passageways. It was a section of the mine that Rhaif hadn’t known existed.
The walls here had drifted from white chalk to a dark glassy stone. There were no ax or chisel marks. The tunnel looked less like it had been dug out as melted through.
Where are we?
He risked a glance toward Keel. Even the maestrum looked disconcerted, his gaze nervously sweeping the tunnel, as if he had never been here either.
Finally, the Shrive led them to where the tunnel ended at a bronze door. Black diamonds had been imbedded in its surface, forming a curled asp crowned in thorns. All knew that foul mark: the horn’d snaken, the sigil of the dark god ? reyk.
Rhaif gave the Shrive a harder look as the man hauled open the thick door. While the Shriven were a reclusive bunch, there were rumors of a cabal within the order, called the Iflelen, who pursued forbidden arts, ancient magicks and spylls of the darkest nature, and alchymies even blacker still. It was said the Iflelen worshipped ? reyk, marking their efforts with the horn’d snaken. Whispers spoke of blood rites, burnt sacrifices, and the summoning of daemons.
Rhaif wanted to run and keep running. But he caught a firm scowl from Keel. The maestrum’s expression was easy to read.
Move and you die.
With the door open, the Shrive stepped through and waved for them to follow. “Bring the statue to the center.”
Rhaif balked, but Keel pushed the cart, ramming it into him. With no other choice, Rhaif guided the statue across the threshold. The next room was a circular chamber with a domed roof. All the glassy surfaces had been polished into a thousand-faceted mirror, reflecting everything, which dazzled the eye and confused the gaze. It was like walking into the eye of an oxfly.
The view was further confounded by the clutch of figures that swept down upon their group, circling the cart. Their movements, reflected all around, churned his stomach.
Rhaif had to look away. He focused on the cart and statue. But from the corner of his eye, he spotted a shuffle of robes and faces banded in black.
More Shriven.
The one who led them here met three others. They spoke rapidly in a tongue Rhaif did not know. The others were all far older, wrinkled and pocked. One’s features looked more skull than flesh.
Then another figure jostled forward.
Rhaif’s fingers tightened on the cart’s iron handle.
The gods have surely cursed me.
The last of the group was a black-haired man. He was tall with a pointed face, his chin and cheeks shadowed by a trimmed and oiled beard. He wore silken trousers, polished boots, and an embroidered leather vest. He also carried a sheathed sword at his hip, the pommel topped by a priceless diadem of sky-iron.
Two years ago, Rhaif had tried to steal that blade.
He lowered his face and shook the edges of his hood lower. He did not know if the archsheriff of Anvil would remember him, but Rhaif dared not risk being recognized.
Not here, not now.
What is Laach doing in Chalk, a hundred leagues south of Anvil?
A clue came from the man’s next words as he stepped up to the cart with the Shriven. “I don’t understand. How could this accursed object turn the tides of the coming war?”
Rhaif frowned within his hood. Before he was sentenced to Chalk, there had been rumblings of a conflict between the northern Kingdom of Hálendii and the lands of the Southern Klashe. Apparently, over the past couple years, tensions had worsened.
One of the Shriven attempted to answer Laach’s query. “We will need further study, but what we have fathomed—”
He was cut off by the Shrive who had led Rhaif here. “Best to let our conjectures and speculations rest, Skerren,” he intoned. “Until we know more.”
The other’s eyes narrowed to slits, but his head bowed. “Yes, until we know more,” Skerren repeated. “You are indeed correct, Wryth.”
Clearly the leader among them, Wryth turned to another of his brethren. “Now that we have confirmation, go prepare what we need.”
A nod answered him. “We’ve already consecrated a bloodbaerne.” He motioned to the Shrive next to him. “We’ll fetch it here.”
“Very good.”
The two set off toward a small door on the far side of the room.
As they waited, Wryth turned to Archsheriff Laach, but his gaze fixed to the statue. “We registered its stirrings seven days ago. It’s what drew us all here.”
“Why was I not alerted at that time?”
“We wished to be certain first. And as you’ve witnessed, you arrived at a fortuitous time. What with the quake erupting as you entered the mine. Maybe your presence even played a fateful role. If so, it would suggest the Lord ?reyk deems you one of great importance and worth.”
Laach stood straighter. All of Anvil knew that the archsheriff held himself in the highest esteem and absorbed praise like a watered weed. Still, the sick set of his lips revealed a measure of his uneasiness at this particular honor.
All knew, it was seldom good to draw the gaze of the dark god.
Laach swallowed hard and pointed to the statue. “What do you propose to do with it now?”
“A simple test. To ensure the ancient texts prove true.”
“And after that?”
“I suspect we’ll need at least another moon’s time—maybe twice that—before we will know if there is any value in this artifact beyond academic.”
The door at the back opened again, and the two Shriven returned, leading a huge Gyn. Rhaif gaped at the hulking servant who had to bow through the doorway. Bald-headed and craggy-faced, he looked more like a boulder that had sprouted rocky arms and legs. He was naked, except for a loincloth. His muscles rolled under the hairy mat of his chest and legs. Rhaif had rarely seen such tribesmen. They hailed from the steppes of northern Aglerolarpok, a land far to the west. The Gyn were considered dull-witted, often used for the hardest of labors. But this man bore a hundred brands scarred into his flesh, ancient alchymies of submission and control.
The figure pushed a rolling cart, twice the size of those used to haul ore. Atop it rose a complicated stack of steel, bronze, and copper structures, like a tiny version of a shining city. Each was connected and intertwined to its neighbor by a baffling labyrinth of copper tubes. Throughout, toothed gears turned in some arcane spectacle, perhaps driven by magick or alchymy.
At the back rose a glass cylinder bubbling with a golden elixir. It reminded Rhaif of the fluid coursing across the inside of that infernal copper egg. Only here, there was no glow or sheen.
The Gyn and two Shriven drew abreast of their group. Only then did Rhaif spot what lay at the heart of the contrivance. A young woman, barely older than a girl, lay on her back, imbedded within the monstrous contrivance, as if she were the foundations of this dread city. But that was not the worst horror.
Rhaif gasped and backed away. He couldn’t help it. But his reaction was ignored, especially as Keel did the same. Even the archsheriff paled and lifted a hand to his throat.
The Gyn pushed the cart alongside the bronze figure.
Rhaif wanted to look away, but dismay gripped him. The girl had a window cut into her chest, exposing a beating heart and a pair of lungs billowing in and out. A tube ran into her mouth, connected to a set of moving bellows, not unlike those found at a smith’s forge.
The only bit of mercy found here was that the girl looked gone from this world, alive but not here. Her glassy eyes stared blankly at the domed roof. Her entrapped limbs did not fight the steel and bronze that bound her in place.
“What… What is this?” Laach asked, stepping forward and lowering his hand from his throat as his horror faded.
“A bloodbaerne,” Shrive Wryth explained. “You need not understand. Few do beyond our circle. But it will serve as the test I mentioned.”
Wryth circled to the tall cylinder and manipulated something back there. As he did so, a darkness flowed into the golden fluid. It spiraled and spread. The exposed heart of the girl began to beat faster, as if in panic.
Rhaif returned his attention to the darkening cylinder and recognized what contaminated the golden fluid.
Blood.
Pumped into the chamber by the girl’s own heart.
As they waited, the Shriven whispered in their arcane tongue, occasionally pointing or peering closer. It did not take long before the beating heart slowed and finally diminished to a shivering quiver—then stopped. The lungs lost their air and sank into the chest.
Wryth nodded, clearly satisfied. He stepped around, drawing forth a tube that draped back to the dark cylinder. He crossed to the statue, and with the help of the Shrive Skerren, the two connected the tube to the figure’s navel.
Wryth then nodded to another, who pulled a lever.
With an ominous moan, the cylinder drained, emptying its elixir through the tube and into the hollows of the statue’s belly. Once it was finished, Wryth unhooked the tube and tossed it back to the cart. The Shrive’s attention remained on the statue.
“What’s supposed to happen?” Laach asked.
“Patience,” Wryth whispered. “We shall see.”
Rhaif held his breath—then a soft sheen brightened the bronze, so subtle only Rhaif seemed to note it. None of the others reacted. He gulped and wanted to back away, but feared drawing attention.
The sheen seemed to warm the coppery bronze. While the metal remained unmoving and hard, the reflection of the room’s lanterns off its surface shimmered and flowed, refracting the light into brighter hues of crimson, azure, and emerald, like oil spreading over water.
Gasps rose from the others now. Some drew nearer, others retreated.
Rhaif kept his spot.
As he watched, one of the folded hands lifted, drawing up an arm.
Stunned, they all withdrew, except for Rhaif. He remained transfixed at the wonder of it all. He remembered those eyes opening earlier. As if stirred by the memory, those lids parted again, shining forth with a golden light.
I hadn’t imagined it.
The bronze head turned, swiveling slightly to one side.
The archsheriff shifted away, as if to avoid that gaze. He kissed his fingertips and touched each ear in a warding against evil.
Rhaif simply stared, suddenly wanting to see what was behind that golden glow. But it was not to be. The brightness dimmed in those eyes and the lids sank back closed. The arm fell back to its side. All the magick seemed to fade from its form. Even the shimmer of radiant oil returned to a dull bronze.
No one moved. No one spoke for several stunned breaths.
“What was that?” Laach asked, his voice pitched high. “What manner of daemon did you summon into this shell?”
“Not summoned,” Wryth said. “Woken.”
“What is your intent with it?” Laach pressed.
Wryth’s answer was full of dark hunger. “It may take another moon or two before we can answer that. Countless more bloodbaerne sacrifices.”
Rhaif glanced to the dead woman and shivered under his cloak.
Laach scowled, looking dissatisfied, but also pale with terror. “I cannot wait in the depths of Chalk for such a long span. I’ve matters to attend in Anvil.”
“As you should. Return to your duties and leave us to our own work. I will dispatch a skrycrow, keep you abreast of our progress. We have much to study.”
“I will leave you to it then.” The archsheriff turned on a heel and headed stiffly toward the back door. He looked anxious to be rid of this place.
Rhaif narrowed his gaze as Laach departed.
Does that door lead to another way out of the mines, one kept secret from most?
Before he could ponder it further, the Shrive Skerren addressed Wryth. “I would like to assess where the artifact was preserved. It might give us some guidance on how best to proceed from here.”
The others also mumbled their consent.
Even Wryth nodded. “It’s a trip well worth taking, I assure you. I had to hurry earlier. And haste is the scourge to knowledge.”
Rhaif kept his face passive, but his chest squeezed tighter. He pictured the copper egg—and the body sprawled in a pool of blood at its entrance. He prayed the Shriven would put this off for another day.
Wryth ruined this hope with his next words. “I’ll take you now. I’m anxious myself to study it more.”
He headed toward the main door, drawing the others with him, even the hulking form of the Gyn. He stopped long enough to point to Maestrum Keel. “See to the prisoners from earlier. They must not share what we discovered.”
Keel bowed and prepared to follow. “It will be done.”
Rhaif took a step after them, but instead he drew Wryth’s attention.
“You remain here,” the Shrive instructed. “Guard the chamber. None must enter.”
Following the maestrum’s example, Rhaif bowed. “It… It will be done.”
With that, the others reached the entrance, filed out, and slammed the bronze door behind them.
Alone now, Rhaif turned to the statue on the flatcart and the cooling body of the poor sacrifice. His lantern, still hanging at his hip, reflected a thousand times in the mirrored facets.
He crossed over to the bronze woman.
“I can’t seem to escape you,” he whispered.
He remembered how the wayglass’s lodestone had directed him toward her, then continued to point after her, as if fixed to her, drawn to her. He could not dismiss a similar pull in his own chest. Whether it was simple curiosity or something more profound, he felt a connection, as if massive gears had turned the skies and the Urth to bring them together.
He shook his head at such delusions, especially for a lowly thief from Anvil. He pushed down such thoughts. He did not intend to stay a moment longer. With time running short, his best course was to seek another way out of the mines of Chalk—hopefully through that back door that Laach had used.
Still, Rhaif stepped next to the flatcart.
He reached and touched the hand that had lifted earlier, its movement fueled by forbidden alchymies. He found the bronze weirdly warm, but still hard and stiff—which made his heart sink.
What were you expecting, you daft swink?
He lifted his palm and turned toward the back door, knowing he must hurry.
Before he could move away, he felt a touch—then warm fingers closed over his hand.