Chapter LXIX
LXIX
ALL IS SILENT AND STILL AS I CRAWL, STINGING AND burned and naked, into the vast darkness of Qabr.
I drag myself unsteadily to my feet once through the tunnel, ignoring the cuts on my knees and instead scrubbing at my arms madly, finally able to properly address the blistering itch again.
I used sand, initially, to try and scour myself of the toxic water once I finally emerged, rasping and spewing, from the nightmare of the drainage system and into the desolate delta of the Infernis.
Barely had the strength to find the surface and drag myself to shore.
It was fortune alone that the moon was already out in the young night, and that the sky was cloudless.
Without that faint silver to guide me upward, I may well have flailed in the noxious muck until I succumbed.
I gaze around now, eyes adjusting enough to see by the faint light that leaks through the crevices above.
Wary and tense. I have already desperately buried myself twice to hide from Gleaners on the journey here; whether they are patrolling more frequently or I have simply been unlucky, I do not know.
Sand still coats the inside of my mouth, scratches at my eyeballs.
A minor discomfort next to my lack of clothing, which eventually sloughed away like rotting skin as it yielded to the acidic waters.
I am beyond thirst and beyond hunger, barely able to focus for more than brief periods.
My legs ache awfully and I would have fallen a thousand times over if it were not for the scarabs still embedded deep beneath my skin.
No sign of Gleaners, here and now, but I still have to be cautious: not having left a watch on this place doesn’t mean they won’t patrol it. For the moment, though, it seems I can move in relative safety.
I need water before anything else. I make for the garden.
As I stumble past the familiar dark maws and gilded glyphs, some distant part of me realises how strange it is to feel truly alone again.
The stretch of stone ground where the Qabrans were laid out is bare, only a faint, ugly darker stain to mark what occurred six months ago.
None survived, none still lurk here, of that much I am certain.
And if Caeror did avoid capture, he will not risk returning.
Which means that—discounting the times I was actively either running or hiding—this is the first I have been entirely without the company of others in …
I don’t know when. Possibly the first time in this world.
My thoughts drift briefly to Ahmose as I struggle my way up the stairs to the garden’s entrance.
My heart aches for what he was driven to do, and yet I find myself again probing my own sadness.
The man was already dead. Should that matter?
I didn’t know him when he was alive and I am not sure we would ever have become friends, if I had. But we were friends, in the end.
Not really something I thought about, when he was here. I suppose maybe my answer lies in that.
I finally reach the obsidian door and touch the symbols for entry, barely able to stand as the stone folds away.
“Oh, vek,” is all I have the energy to mutter.
I start in at a slow, dismayed stumble, collapsing to my knees among the brown plants.
Dying but not completely dead, on closer inspection.
A few bits look edible, and I carefully snap them off and stuff them in my mouth.
My hunger easily overcomes their bitterness, and I chew and swallow gratefully.
After taking some breaths to recover, I start my examination of the garden. Its failure is not deliberate, not some act of sabotage as far as I can tell. Instead, it seems its supply of water has simply dwindled to the point that the plants were unable to survive.
Which is a problem, because while I’ve eked a little moisture, I am still desperately in need of a drink.
I head for the well, leaning down and scooping my hand through the soil as I go, searching for any trace of dampness.
The dirt seems darker to me as I let it crumble through my fingers, but there’s no hint of what I need.
Some trees along the way are wilting but remain intact, and I pause to salvage what fruit I can, careful to save any juices that threaten to flow from the corners of my mouth.
The Gleaners somehow got past the door, but it seems they didn’t destroy everything.
Just what might have allowed a community to thrive down here.
Following orders. Chasing efficiency, I suppose, not hatred.
My mind, so intent on simply getting here up until this point, races. What could have stopped the water from flowing? I asked Caeror where it came from, once, and he admitted he didn’t know. He’d assumed that it was some deep underground aquifer that had remained untainted.
I think of the “clean” water in Duat. I think of how it tasted the same as it did here.
Vek.
My fears increase as I pull up a far too light bucket from the pitch of the well; there is an inch of moisture in its bottom and I gulp it greedily, firmly refusing to think about its possible source.
The drink is enough for my head to clear; I drop the bucket and I think I hear an echoing splash as it hits the bottom, but when I draw it again, only a few drops sit inside.
I stare into it grimly. This isn’t enough. I need more to recover my strength, and to rinse the toxins from my body, and to fill a waterskin before I undertake the journey back to Duat. The Vitaeria beneath my skin can take me only so far.
With a sigh, I estimate the length of the chain and then test its strength. It should easily hold my weight.
I unhook the bucket, wrap the links several times around my waist, and begin lowering myself into the black.
The well is barely a few feet across, and my shoulders brush the stone sides as I descend, already exhausted muscles straining.
Complete darkness comes quickly, the warm lights of the garden consumed by the stone surrounding me.
Soon my only point of reference is a bright dot far above, though I have the vaguest sense that the space around me is opening out.
Then the hint of a splash as my bare feet touch a veneer of liquid over rock.
I drop to my knees and scoop up water into my mouth, trusting that any poisonous residue washing from my skin won’t be enough to taint it.
After that, I sit in the pool—more of a puddle, less than an inch deep—and carefully scrub myself.
Almost weep in relief as the cool liquid removes the last of the burning from my skin.
I splash my face and close my eyes without pain.
Rest my head against stone. It has been more than a day since I was in the Infernis.
I allow myself several minutes to revel in the complete, soothing lack of unpleasant sensation, then force a breath and begin feeling my way around the pitch-black. I was right; the walls here have tapered outward, and the space I’m in is closer to ten feet across now.
It doesn’t take me long to find what seems to be a tunnel entrance.
It’s as dark as everything else down here, and not large—a cylinder only a few feet across, sloping gently upward—but it’s the only opening I can find, so I grit my teeth and start along it.
Slowly, slowly feeling my way. The stone beneath my hands and knees is slick with damp and the slope means I slip more often than I would like, but it rarely sets me back far.
I scrape my head a few times as the way twists ahead, but to my relief it does not get smaller.
There’s a smell, after a while. Rancid, sickly sweet, clogging my nostrils. I do my best not to breathe it in, but it only gets thicker as I proceed.
And then, light ahead.
Gaze fixed, I crawl eagerly toward it. It’s dim, not like the light from the garden. Broken by a bronze grate. Finally I reach it and pause, caution chastising me to inspect what’s ahead before simply pushing it open.
Bile rises in my throat.
Bodies. A dozen that I can see from my darkness in the wall, broken and dismembered and rotting where they lie on stone slabs. Dried blood coats every surface I can see. Pipes, like those I saw in Duat, sprout from distended and decomposing stomachs.
There is no movement. I observe in frozen, nauseous horror for almost a minute before finally pushing the grate aside—relieved to find that it’s not fixed to the wall—and then reluctantly climbing from the tunnel.
The stench hits like a physical force when I stand, and I choke, almost heave up liquid I cannot afford to lose.
I’m in a cavern, lit like the rest of Qabr by narrow crevices high above.
There are tens of bodies stretching away from me.
Dark, misshapen forms, each one with the pipes that jut from a now eroded stomach.
It’s the same setup as the room from beneath Duat.
Dual channels; one side still trickles liquid and though they are not colour-coded, I can taste the burn of extra acid in the air.
I wait until my stomach settles a little, then walk closer. I am here now. I may as well understand what in the gods-damned hell this horror actually means.
I frown as I check the first body. Its lower arms are missing, both ending in stumps at the elbow. So are the next man’s, and then the woman’s along from him. Not dissolved, the way the gaping stomach wounds are, but sliced cleanly.
These were Gleaners.
The realisation makes the butchery no more tolerable, but it does raise a hundred more questions.
Was this Ka, or the Qabrans? If the latter, then how?
When? I can see suppurating wounds in the chests of every body; I assume the Gleaners’ blades were used to keep them under control.
Their counterparts from Duat must have taken the weapons when they did this.
I do my best to replay my conversation about the water source with Caeror, but it is a distant and hazy thing, too far removed for clarity.
Still. I remember no hesitation when I asked, and I see no reason he would have kept this from me if he’d known.
And even if he was trying to protect me from the knowledge—what does it matter now?
Vek. This world has been at war for thousands of years.
Perhaps the repurposed Gleaners had been here as long as the iunctii beneath Duat.
The Qabrans themselves may not have known of their existence.
I move on but eventually, the bodies blur into one. They bear the same marks, the same poses, the same injuries. The stench is overpowering. The room stretches on. I will not find answers here.
But I still need to fill my waterskin, and to drink my fill before leaving. And the only remaining safe liquid outside of Duat is pooled in these gutters.
My feet unwillingly drag me step-by-step. I drop to my knees beside a puddle and, hands shaking, scoop and drink before I can think about it.
It tastes the same as it ever did. It doesn’t help.
My already tender stomach threatens to bring it back up but I refuse to let it, and my body’s need eventually beats the queasiness.
I give a little sob and then take another mouthful.
Easier, this time. Disgusting but it’s not going to make me sick.
I know from long experience that sometimes to survive, that is all you can ask.
I finish and then stand, a little shaky, but more from revulsion than weakness now. My mind is clearing. I fill my waterskin. It will be enough to get me back to Duat.
When I am done I return to the drain, the only exit I can find. Leave the dimly lit slaughter behind.
This, unfortunately, was the easy part. Now I have to do what I actually came here to do.
My dread only builds as I crawl into the darkness.