Trip thought Kaika might object to being the bait, but she merely jerked two fingers toward Trip and started down, not just jogging but running. Startled, he pushed past Blazer and raced after Kaika. His sword belt jangled, and the scabbards slapped against his legs.
Kaika threw an exasperated glance back at him. He had no idea how to silence himself, but he willed the rattling to stop and for the scabbards to cease banging. To his surprise, it worked.
It must be nice to be so gifted, Azarwrath thought as Trip raced down the spiral staircase, descending countless levels and struggling to keep his lightbulb following them while he remained silent.
Indeed, Jaxi thought. Fire came easily to me, but little else. I started my studies at age five, and was still horrible at healing and the mental arts ten years later.
I suppose that explains why you didn’t become a healer.
That and because I had no interest. I am fairly talented at cauterizing wounds.
Trip couldn’t believe they were chattering in his mind while he focused on two types of magic and sprinted to keep up with Kaika. He would have asked them to be quiet, but that would have required yet another shred of concentration.
Kaika slowed down. She had passed several landings with doors they could have tried, but it wasn’t until she reached the bottom of the stairwell that she stopped. Trip didn’t know if she’d seen more bloodstains along the way.
“Light off,” she whispered as Trip caught up.
The vast chamber they had dropped into was lit, albeit dimly, with lanterns on the distant walls. Trip did not sense any magic about them. The chamber spread hundreds of feet in all directions, stretching away from the staircase in the center. The floor was tiled except in places where the large tiles had been pried up, revealing stone underneath. Old scratches in the remaining tiles caught Trip’s gaze. Claw marks? The distant walls held a few wide doorways, large enough that a dragon with its wings folded against its body may have strode through them.
Kaika ran toward one of the doorways, seemingly choosing it at random. The sound of rushing water came from that direction.
Kaika lowered to a crouch as she stepped through the doorway. Trip stretched out with his senses as he emulated her. Now that he didn’t have to concentrate on the light, he could do so more easily. His step faltered as he sensed all the people ahead of and below them.
He and Kaika had come out on a balcony that overlooked another large chamber. Still crouched low, Kaika eased to a railing and peered over. The murmur of dozens of voices drifted up, along with the source of the rushing water. An underground river. The water flowed from the distant mountains, tumbled down through the outpost, then rushed out into the sea, escaping via the waterfall the group had seen on the way in.
Though his senses had already given him the gist of the area, Trip crouched next to Kaika and peered over an ancient railing carved from stone, a few of the spindles missing.
The people he’d been sensing for hours stood on the banks of the river, lush green moss—or maybe that was mold—lining the rock under their feet. Trip wondered if that was the “intriguing mold” from his mother’s letter. The people weren’t paying attention to it. Their gazes were turned upward toward a massive dragon carved into the far wall. It had been painted long ago, and though the paint had faded and peeled over the centuries—millennia—Trip thought the remaining spots were gold.
The men and women below, all wearing the loose white clothing, something between a wrap and a robe, had their hoods back as they looked upon the statue. They swayed, as if some music were playing, and they chanted. In prayer? Trip didn’t understand the chant, not a single word. It definitely wasn’t any variation of the Iskandian/Cofah language. Was this some cult? Maybe that was what the Brotherhood of the Dragon was. Did cults have their own languages?
A scream from the far side of the river and beyond the mass of people almost made Trip jump.
“Let me go!” someone yelled in words he had no trouble deciphering. The accent sounded Iskandian.
The lighting was dim in that direction, so he reached out with his mind, trying to see what his eyes wouldn’t show him. He sensed five, no six people in a cage. Five women and one man. One of the women, the one who’d screamed, was being pulled out by two robed figures. The chanting grew louder and faster, as if these people might drown out her screams with the intensity of their passion.
“What hell is this?” Kaika whispered, her fingers tightening around the grip of her pistol.
Trip couldn’t yet see the woman with his eyes, but he did spot a flat table carved into the rock under the dragon. The way it was placed made it seem like the stone creature’s front talons would sink into anything placed atop it. Or anyone.
“A sacrifice?” Trip guessed.
“Shit, maybe bombing them isn’t a bad idea.”
The crowd parted, and the people dragging the woman came into sight. They headed straight for that platform. Another robed figure sprang to the top of the table, a wicked black knife in his hand. The blade was over a foot long. His hood was up, but Trip could tell it was a man.
“Dragons have finally returned to our world!” he shouted, arms lifting. This time, Trip understood the words, but they were accented, similar to those of the man who’d died at his feet up above.
The blade he waved in his hands glowed with a dark violet light. Trip would have sensed its magic even without the eerie glow.
The people in the crowd cheered and threw up their arms. Trip lost sight of the captive being dragged toward the platform.
He drummed his fingers on the stone balcony railing, debating what he could do to stop this without putting his team at risk.
“The one we’ve awaited for generations and generations shall now return to us. The god who blessed our ancestors, who promised he would come back one day and make us powerful wizards, powerful enough to send the brotherhood all over the world, to claim what has been denied us, to leave this barren place and capture a lush and rich land for our own.”
More cheers erupted. The two “brothers” dragging the woman reached the table and hoisted her up toward the man with the knife. Her blonde hair grew visible, tumbling down her back, as she tried to kick and bite her captors. With her hands bound behind her, she struggled to effectively hurt them.
Trip grimaced, more certain than ever that she was Iskandian. A young Iskandian. Fifteen? Sixteen?
Kaika gripped Trip’s wrist. “Use your power to do something, or I will,” she growled, her eyes intent as they locked with his.
Her pistol now lay at her feet, and she’d pulled out a grenade.
“I will,” he promised, horrified at the idea of her hurling the explosive and taking out the prisoners as well as the cult members. “I’ll—”
“Enemies!” came a shout from directly under the balcony.
A man in white ran into view, gripping his shoulder, blood leaking through his fingers.
“Oh hells,” Kaika muttered. “I wondered where he went.”
“There must have been more stairs that we didn’t see,” Trip whispered, drawing back from the balcony, hoping they wouldn’t be seen. He could work his magic—or more likely, the soulblades’ magic—without needing to see.
But he was too late.
“Up there!” someone shouted, and the mass of people turned toward them.
9
Every pedestal was empty, and every room they checked was devoid of furnishings. Only the tiles remained, and many of them had been pried free. After they’d checked more than a dozen rooms on two different levels, Rysha began to suspect they should have stuck with Trip and Kaika instead of splitting up the group. Hadn’t that been Kaika’s suggestion?
Duck and Blazer shuffled along behind Rysha, impatiently tapping their weapons, and she tried not to take too long examining anything. With so little left inside the outpost, that wasn’t a hard task, though she hadn’t seen some of the tile designs before and wished she had one of the university’s
field cameras so she could take photographs of them. She supposed she could join in with the looters and pry some free, but that seemed sinful. Her archaeology professors would have chastised her soundly for not leaving them in situ.
“I think we need to go down to the larger chambers,” Rysha said, joining Blazer and Duck in yet another doorway, the flickering flames of their lanterns casting shadow and light on their restless faces.
“Let’s do it,” Blazer said, and they headed for the stairwell. It seemed to represent the center of the multilevel outpost.
Rysha regretted that she hadn’t found much on the upper levels, and also that they’d been driven away from the city. It would have been ideal to start her research there, especially if something like a library existed. Reluctantly, she admitted that coming here with so little information to guide them had been optimistic, at best.
She led the way down the staircase, sliding her hand along the granite railing that spiraled down the inside of the steps. It was worn smooth by the passage of thousands of people doing the same thing, but her thumb brushed against something slightly rough, and she paused to squint at the bottom of the railing. A carving that looked like a snake followed the bottom, undulating between the spindles.
Crouching and descending the stairs at the same time, she followed it along, trying to get a good look as she held the lantern close. The carving was so worn that it was hard to make out. Also, it was incomplete. It appeared to have once wrapped around the entire railing until hands had worn away the top portion. The snake widened, and she realized it had been a dragon tail, not a snake.
“She’s either about to make a great discovery,” Blazer said from a few stairs above her, “or she’s lost her mind.”
“Her mind looks fine,” Duck said. “Her legs look like they might cramp up.”
“There’s a dragon carving and some text here,” Rysha said, shrugging her pack off. “I can’t read it like this. I’m going to see if I can make a rubbing.”
“Text underneath a railing and between the spindles?” Blazer asked. “Was it expected to be read?”
“I think it was all over the railing at one time, but has worn off on the top.” Rysha fished in her pack, glad she’d thought to throw the rubbing paper and charcoal in at the last minute.
A thunk sounded somewhere below them, a few levels down. On the stairs? Rysha couldn’t tell. She also couldn’t tell if Kaika and Trip were returning, or if that was someone else.
“Rub away,” Blazer said, stepping past her.
They fell silent, aside from the rasp of her charcoal against the paper and stone. A faint rustle rose up to them, like fabric brushing against fabric.
Rysha leaned as far away from the railing as she could so she wouldn’t be visible to someone below peering up through the center of the stairwell, but she kept working, grabbing what appeared to be portions of Old Iskandian letters, and as many segments of the pattern as possible. In addition to the dragon itself that stretched along the rail, weaving in and out between the spindles, numerous flowery vines were carved into the stone. They were probably ornamental and nothing more, but she wanted a sample.
Two male voices drifted up from below, both whispering. That definitely wasn’t Kaika and Trip. Rysha couldn’t tell what the men were saying, but had a feeling they knew her team was up here.
Blazer calmly drew her pistol. The noise of a firearm going off in here would echo throughout the entire outpost and likely down to the people the others were trying to sneak up on.
Rysha tapped Blazer on the leg, pointed to it, touched her ear, and shook her head. Blazer’s lips pressed together. She pointed at the rubbing and at Rysha’s pack, then made a finish-up motion. Duck had also drawn his pistol, and he pressed his back to the wall so he could fire past them if need be.
Rysha quietly returned her paper and charcoal to her pack. As she stood up, two white-clad people burst into view, running around the bend and toward them. One carried a pistol, the other a long scimitar.
Blazer threw something at the face of the firearm wielder, and he flinched, his weapon wavering. Blazer charged down at him.
Afraid his buddy would attack her from the side, Rysha also raced down, opting to draw Dorfindral rather than her pistol.
The scimitar man started to turn toward Blazer, but he spotted Rysha and raised his blade toward her.
With her heart slamming in her chest, Rysha jumped down to engage him. Unfortunately, Dorfindral neither lit up with its green glow nor cried its eagerness to hunt into her mind. That meant her opponents did not possess any dragon blood, and it also meant she wouldn’t get any magical help in battling them.
Trying not to think about how little sword training she’d had, Rysha took the offensive immediately. She had the upper ground. Hopefully, that meant something.
She swung first for his head and then, not surprised when he parried, tried to sweep Dorfindral down toward his thigh. He jerked his leg away too quickly. Her blade clanked against the railing, deflecting uselessly and sending a jolt up her arm.
Her opponent snorted, but he had the same problem. Not enough room to fight. Blazer and his buddy had disarmed each other and now punched and grappled on the stairs next to Rysha’s opponent. The railing hemmed him in on the other side. He lifted his scimitar high enough to clear the railing and swept it in from the side, angled toward Rysha’s head.
She ducked, then sprang toward him right after it whizzed past. His attack left his side open. She stabbed instead of slashing, the chapaharii blade having a point as well as double edges. He leaped back, but not before Dorfindral’s tip sank several inches into his flesh.
His foot came down between steps, and he cried out, flailing for balance. Rysha knocked his scimitar out of his hand and kicked out. She didn’t want to kill the man, but definitely wanted him out of the fight.
Something slammed into her from behind—an elbow? She lost her balance and almost tumbled down the stairs. She jerked her sword up, lest she land on it, and the blade cut into her foe’s flesh again, this time his arm.
“I yield,” he cried, lifting both hands over his head.
Rysha jumped close and pressed the tip of her sword against his throat as she looked back up the stairs, afraid Blazer’s opponent had gotten the best of her. But Blazer had gotten behind her man, one arm locked around his throat. He was down on his knees, straddling two stairs, and from the awkward position, he couldn’t break her grip. But he was trying. He grabbed her forearm, his nails digging in as he tried to tear it away from his throat.
Jaw set with determination, Blazer tightened her hold and kneed him in the back. The man, his face turning red, jerked, trying to find the leverage to throw her over his shoulder.
It didn’t work, but he was likely stronger than Blazer, so Rysha wasn’t sure he would continue to fail. She wanted to help but didn’t want to risk removing the sword from her foe’s throat. It would be ideal if they could question someone.
Duck stepped into view on the step beside Blazer. He leaned in, showed the man his pistol, then pressed it to his temple.
“Nice of you to decide to help,” Blazer grumbled at him between her clenched teeth, her face still taut with the effort of holding the struggling man.
“Well, I didn’t have a sword. And it seemed like we were trying to be quiet.”
Blazer grunted. “Ravenwood’s sword is about as quiet as a bell in a clock tower.”
Remembering the way she’d clunked the railing, Rysha couldn’t refute that. Since the face of Blazer’s opponent was turning purple and he wouldn’t be conscious much longer, Rysha focused on her man, capturing his gaze with her own.
“Who are you people, and what are you doing here in this outpost?” she asked.
Deep furrows formed between the man’s eyebrows.
“I think that was the question he wanted to ask us,” Duck pointed out.
“Well, I already know why we’re here.” Rysha lightly pressed the sword tip into her prison
er’s throat, trying not to feel like a bully as she did so. The deaths of the two men she’d shot, having never exchanged words with them or even known who they were, disturbed her. “Who are you people? The Brotherhood of the Dragon?”
She couldn’t see under his tunic, so didn’t know if a brand marked his chest, but he wore the same clothing as the other two men had.
“He shall rise again,” the man whispered.
“Of course he will,” Blazer muttered, then stepped back from her own prisoner. He’d lost consciousness, and he slumped down on the stairs when she released him.
“He shall bless us and make us powerful. And grant us a better place in this world. A rich and fertile land. And in the next world, he shall watch over us.”
As accented as the man’s words were, Rysha struggled to understand them. With the way he was babbling, she wasn’t sure he would have made a lot of sense under any circumstance.
“Who?” she asked. “Who is he?”
“The great dragon god, he who swore to return to us. He whose time has come.”
“A lot of dragons have returned lately,” Blazer said. “It’s the trendy thing to do.”
“Dragons are not gods. Only our savior has divine power and immortality. Only he will pass it on to us, those who have been patient through the centuries, those who have served him and haven’t forgotten him. We shall be rewarded.”
“He talks a lot for a man with sword holes in his chest,” Duck observed.
Rysha wanted him to talk. The more he spoke, the more she might learn, though it was hard to pick useful information out of the zealous babble.