The pain in Marcus’ arm grew worse. He tried to ignore the sharp sensations as they crept up his shoulder. He led the way through a ruined alley, keeping to the shadows. As they approached the entrance to Tharin’s Passage, Antuzan forces became more frequent, and remaining unseen became more difficult. Each intersection they came to presented a new challenge.
He peered back at his companions. The Lord Governor followed close behind him. Annet and Viggo partially supported Sira as she limped along, putting her weight on her still-good leg. Rykker and Sev brought up the rear. Marcus hoped that Sev’s keen senses would prevent anyone from getting the jump on them.
He stopped just before the alley connected with a larger street. Across the way, he could see the old man Renold’s house that contained the entrance to the passage.
And it was on fire.
The windows had been broken in, and angry flames snaked from them, curling up the brick walls. Thick black smoke curled from the edges of the roof and out of the chimney. Thankfully, the structure still seemed to be intact. The fire had not been active for long.
Shit. Of all the houses the brutes had decided to burn down, Marcus thought, why did it have to be this one?
Then he saw the bodies. Vallan guards, no doubt the ones who were assigned to watch over the house lay in a bloody pile on the side of the road, tossed carelessly to the side. He thought perhaps the Antuzans realized something was special about the house but did not know what, so they decided to burn it to the ground.
He turned back to the group. They looked tired. More than that, they looked like they had been to the blightlands and back. They were broken and battered and had been through too much this day.
“What do we do now?” Rykker asked.
“We can try the northern gate,” Sira said. “There’s a chance what’s left of my garrison is still trying to evacuate people.”
“We’ll never make it that far, especially with your leg the way it is.” The Lord Governor looked particularly bad off. His head wound had started bleeding again, and he sagged against one of the alley walls.
“You seeing any other option?” She countered. “I can... make do. I think it’s feeling better already.”
Gareth gave her a flat look, then frowned. “No, I suppose I don’t.”
“I do.”
All eyes went to Marcus. He took a deep breath. Was he really prepared for this? He decided it did not matter. He knew that he had no choice. It was their only way.
“I’m going in there,” he said, pointing back at the burning building. “I’ll see if I can clear a path to the basement. Then you guys can follow.”
“Don’t be daft,” Gareth snapped. “Look at the thing! You’ll burn alive and leave us here.”
“But you’re right, we won’t make it to the southern gate. I have to try.”
“I’ll go.”
They all turned to look at Sev. The goliath pulled the hood from his head and released the clasp at his neck, shrugging the purple cloak off his broad shoulders. He gently handed the bundle of cloth to Rykker, who stared dumbstruck at his companion.
“Are you sure about this?”
“Yes, Rykker. I’m quite sure. I believe I can survive the flames.”
“You believe? Have you ever actually tried?”
“No, but, somehow I know I can.”
The engineer shook his head but allowed the giant to pass. Without his cloak to shroud him, Marcus was struck once again by how massive he was. His stone body looked ancient and formidable. As he passed, he handed his warhammer to Marcus. The weight of it nearly pulled him to the ground. Unbelievable. He carries it with one hand as if it weighs nothing.
Sev stopped at the edge of the shadows, watching the street for a moment, then with bounding strides, ran to the house and up its short set of stairs to the front door. He flung it open and vanished inside.
They could only watch in silence as the flames continued to eat away at the house. The common architecture in Valla, at least, was limestone brick, which did not burn easily. Their worry would be the burning contents of the house, and fear of the roof collapsing upon them. Sev could solve their first problem and give them a chance. They needed to hurry, though, for the longer the building burned, the more dangerous it became.
After a span of minutes, the door swung open. Sev poked his head through and waved, motioning to come.
They all but darted across the street and up the stairs. Viggo and Annet struggled to pull Sira along. They were taking too long, exposed out in the open, but with Sira’s injury, they could only move so fast.
Just as they made it to the bottom of the stairs, Marcus’ worst nightmare came true. A group of Antuzans turned the corner onto the avenue, nearly a hundred yards away. They all wore bold black and white uniforms and carried wicked spears, save for one of them, who was dressed differently, carrying no weapon that Marcus could see. He tried to look more closely, but there was no time. By the time Sira made it to the top of the stairs, the Antuzans had spotted them and sprinted towards the house.
Marcus let his companions pass, then slammed the door behind them.
It was hot. Not summer’s day hot. More like inside-of-an-oven hot. Much of the furniture, still ablaze, had been pushed to either side, and they had a short path to the basement stairs. Flames stroked the ceiling rafters, threatening to bring the entire roof crashing down upon them.
Marcus searched around for something to bar the door with, but everything was on fire. Sweat was already beginning to glisten on his forehead, and he felt it drip down his back. The acrid taste of smoke filled his mouth and bit at his lungs, making him cough. His shoulder pulsed with pain, the heat bringing a burning sensation to his wound.
“We’ve been seen!” he shouted above the roaring of the fires. “Sev, help me block the door. The rest of you, down to the tunnel. Quickly!”
Sev bounded over to the door, then slid a heavy oak table, now streaked with black scorch marks, in front of the entrance. Marcus returned Sev’s warhammer, grateful that his shoulders did not have to bear the weight of it anymore.
“Good enough,” he said, nodding at the table. “We should go.”
They made it to the top of the basement stairs when something slammed into the front door.
Damn, they’re quick.
Down in the basement, a musty underground smell replaced the bitterness of the smoke. It took a moment for Marcus’ eyes to adjust to the darkness, still burning and teary from the fire. As the shapes swimming in his vision took focus, he saw that Rykker had already flung open the hidden trapdoor leading to the passage. They just had to make it through, then they could seal the entrance behind them. If it was good enough for smugglers, it would have to be good enough for them.
One by one, they climbed down into the tunnel. Sira struggled, but not nearly as much as Marcus would have thought. To bear the pain of a broken leg through all of this staggered him.
Marcus stepped onto the tunnel stairs just as an explosion of cracking wood sounded above. What could have done that? There was no point in trying to find out. He back-stepped halfway down the stairs, then closed the trapdoor. With a simple push of the recessed brick, a quiet click locked the trapdoor in place.
He met the others waiting at the bottom of the stairs.
“Let’s go,” he said. He pushed past them to the front, then looked back. “They made it into the house. Hopefully, they don’t find the trapdoor, but even if they do there’s no way they can get through.”
“You sound confident,” Rykker said, a hint of sarcasm in his voice and one eyebrow arched in doubt. Then, more seriously: “I hope you’re right.”
“Me too,” Marcus muttered, turning towards the darkness of the tunnel.
Their pace was slow, not only because of Sira’s leg but because they were exhausted. Marcus guessed that it was probably only mid-afternoon, but it felt as though he hadn’t slept in days. His muscles and joints ached, and the pain in his shoulder was getting worse. He worried that it indicated infection. Left untreated, death would be slow and painful. He could not let the pain he felt distract him. Navigation through the tunnels required complete concentration. A wrong turn could lead them to a dead end, trapping them, and if they came across an unstable part of the cave system, it could collapse. He was their only chance for survival.
Strangely enough, being underground comforted him and eased his aches and worries, if only a little. It reminded him of home. Of Sen. The most fun they ever had together was exploring the wilds, seeking out caves, and pretending to live like the Githum. His life was far more simple, then.
Sev’s voice broke the silence, pulling him from his reverie. “Marcus, someone’s coming.”
“Fuck.”
He quickened his pace. He had to think, and think fast. His heart began to race, and the adrenal response of the chase, of being prey, kicked in. There was no way they could have broken through the trapdoor so quickly. It made no sense. And yet they had.
He knew there was only one option. It could kill them all, but it was the only way.
He stopped and moved to the side. “Everyone, keep moving. Follow the tunnel, and keep going straight. I have an idea.”
He allowed everyone to pass except for Sev, placing a hand on his stone chest. “Hey big guy, remember when I asked you to open up the cave entrance with your hammer?”
The goliath bobbed his stone head, eyes gleaming in the darkness of the tunnel.
“I’m gonna need you to do it again. But this time, harder, and instead of making an entrance, we’re gonna do the opposite.”
The sounds of quick footsteps echoed quietly from the direction they had come, the sound of boots against gravel. Four of them, or maybe five. They were running out of time.
He studied the tunnel behind them, looking for the optimal target. If these tunnels had been used for centuries, chances are they were reinforced to prevent cave-ins. His search was rewarded when he spotted them: steel bolts embedded in the ceiling of the tunnel, placed at regular three-foot intervals, no doubt installed to prevent imperfections in the rock from causing the tunnel to collapse.
“See that, Sev?” He pointed to one of the bolts nearest to them. “I want you to hit that as hard as you can.”
“Won’t that cause the tunnel to collapse?”
“That’s the idea.”
The footsteps grew louder.
Marcus retreated down the tunnel, giving Sev enough room. The behemoth readied his warhammer, bending his knees slightly, then swung it upwards, towards the bolt. A thundering crack reverberated throughout the tunnel, but the bolt held. Once more, and another sound of splitting rock. The third and final hit sent a large fissure across the span of the ceiling. A spiderweb of cracks formed, and dust and pebbles rained down. A moment later, the immense tensile pressure released, and large chunks of rock began to fall.
Sev ducked out of the way, leaping around the debris.
Together, they ran.
The sound of crashing rock was deafening in his ears. He chanced a look back, and saw that the ceiling had collapsed entirely, sealing the passage and stopping their would-be pursuers.
After few minutes of jogging down the tunnel, they caught up with the rest of the group.
He came to a stop before them, placing is hands on his knees, breathing hard. He looked up, slowing his breathing, and his heartbeat receded back into his ribcage, no longer threatening to explode from his chest.
“Did you just—” Viggo stopped himself, unable to find the words.
“Yeah. Yeah, we did,” he gasped.
“I can’t believe it.” Rykker shook his head.
“That was damn foolish,” Gareth said. “You could have killed us all.”
“We’re still hear though, aren’t we?” Sira glared daggers at the back of Gareth’s head as she supported herself against the rock wall of the tunnel.
“Yes, well, I suppose that’s true.” The Lord Governor waved his hands dismissively. “It doesn’t matter now, anyways. What’s done is done.”
“On that, we can agree,” Marcus said. “We should keep moving.”
Marcus estimated they were nearly half way to the opening they had created on their way in to the city. He only hoped he had remembered the path correctly, since they could no longer turn back.
Free of the chase, he finally had time to think and reflect on the events of the day. Valla was lost. The Antuzans surely had swept across the entire city. Evidently, the attack at the southern gate was nothing more than a distraction, so that they could get close enough to the eastern wall and breach it with the explosion. It was such a simple gambit to be fooled by. Such a simple mistake to have caused the destruction of an entire city. Perhaps some people made it out, though, through the southern gates.
His thoughts turned to Vincent, and the rest of their Ilrian battalion that had been lying in wait outside of Valla. Why had they not come to Valla’s aid? Did the boy Brixom sent never make it to his destination? Or perhaps Fastaar acted the coward and decided Valla was a lost cause. Marcus did not know whether their intervention would have turned the tides of the battle, but any chance would have been better than what they were given. He could only hope that next time, they would be more prepared. The next target for the Antuzans would likely be Cenna, but nothing about this invasion made any sense, so it felt a fool’s gambit trying to guess their enemy’s plans. Why this far south? Why Valla? The mystery of how an entire legion of Antuzan soldiers evaded detection for so long also troubled him. Something felt off about it all, like a picture on the wall that’s slightly crooked.
More concerning, though, was the strange figure he caught a glimpse of with the Antuzan soldiers just before they escaped through the tunnels. He did not appear to be a part of the Antuzan legion for lack of any uniform. He tried to recall any details about the man—all he could muster was that the mysterious figure had been bald, remembering the glint of sunlight across the shining dome.
What could the man have been doing in Valla, working with the Antuzans? It confounded Marcus. The man had honed in on the house like a bloodhound leading his pack to prey. He realized that he terrified him, even though he had no right to. He knew nothing of the man beyond his alliance with the Antuzans and his lack of hair. And yet, something about the mere thought of the man sent shivers down his spine and curdled his blood. Marcus was equal parts confused and frightened.
His fear melted into excitement when he spotted daylight ahead.
The world opened into a small clearing, flanked on all sides by cliffs. The monotonous drone of nature filled his ears, as he hopped down out of the tunnel, landing on the soft ground below, his descent cushioned by dry leaves.
It was early evening, and the sun set the treetops ablaze, casting a warm glow into the clearing. Marcus listened for any sounds of fighting, but only the quiet sound of cicadas greeted him. It seemed the tunnels had carried them far enough away from the city to avoid the battle. He allowed himself a moment of serenity. If he closed his eyes, he could almost forget about the horrors of the day—beyond the drone of insects, he heard the gentle breeze nudging the trees, imploring them to part with their leaves. Moments such as this one transported him twenty-five years and a thousand miles.
But then the moment is gone, unfrozen by the rest of his companions as they climbed from the tunnel, blinking at the light.
Rykker threw himself to the ground, stretching his arms and legs in the fallen leaves, a smile touching his face.
“Thank the trinity,” he said gleefully.
Viggo and Annet led Sira to a nearby tree, helping her lean against it.
“Not a bad place for camp,” Viggo said, appraising the cliff walls that would provide them with cover from the elements, as well as prying eyes.
“Indeed,” said the Lord Governor. “We will be well protected here, I think.”
“How’s your leg, Sira?” Annet crouched down to examine the splint, touching it lightly.
“Better, honestly.” Surprise lit her face. “It actually feels a lot better. I think the swelling has gone down.”
Viggo began to clear a space in the brush, then pulled out a tinder kit.
“No,” Marcus said quickly. “No fires. Not here.”
“What, why?”
“We’re still too close to the city. We can’t risk it.” Marcus shook his head. “And... I know everyone won’t want to here this, but, we have to keep moving until dark. We must further our distance from the city as much as possible. The Antuzans are sure to send out hunting parties looking for survivors sooner than later, and we’ll want to be as far away as we can before that happens.”
The disappointment in their faces was palpable.
“I know you’re all tired. I am too. But we have to keep going. Just a little further. Rest now, but when the sun disappears behind those trees, we leave.”
The sun gave them a few minutes more, and when the last rays of light finally died, they set forth into the forest.
Marcus guided them on a course due west, hoping to catch the road leading to Cenna. The city might be in danger, and they could warn the city council before it was too late.
They had perhaps and hour of light left until night truly came. It would not be safe to travel the forest at night. They had no trails to follow, and the rough terrain would be hazardous in the dark.
They pressed on, and when the stars began to peek through the spaces between the treetops, a lone gray slab of a building came into view. The building had long since been defeated by nature, hordes of creepers sprawling up the walls, covering the building with a green veneer. A single pointed spire reached for the sky in vain, unable to pierce through the forest ceiling.
The place looked like it had not seen a living thing in a many years. Sections of wall and roof were missing, and branches of trees were sprouting from the cavities.
They crept closer, and came to a small quad of broken stone. The remains of a fountain lay at the center, the statues too shattered to be recognizable as human.
Marcus placed his hand on the fountain, the stone rough and cracked beneath his fingers. “What is this place?”
“It’s an old Caeteran church, if I’m not mistaken,” Viggo said. He was staring up at the building.
From this vantage, the skeleton of a large domed roof could be seen, beams of some kind of metal forming a frame now devoid of glass.
“This place must be over a thousand years old,” Rykker said.
“Probably closer to three thousand, actually.”
“What’s a blacksmith-turned-medic doing with knowledge like that?” Marcus asked.
The medic shrugged, eyes searching the stone beneath his feet. He looked uncomfortable. “Just something I picked up, I guess. Saw a drawing in a book once that looked just like it.”
Marcus could not help but think that Viggo was holding something back But everyone had skeletons in their closet. He decided not to press the man.
“Well, the gods might no longer be here, but their shelter will still serve our needs.”
They made their way through the open entrance, the doors having long since rotted to nothing. A wide entrance hall, overgrown with vines, led them to a spacious atrium, slivers of moonlight casting a pale glow.
Here, they set up camp. Marcus permitted a small fire; given the distance they put behind them today, he guessed that they would be safe. The fall days were getting cooler, and the warmth was worth the small risk.
Marcus cooked a basic soup using equipment and some provisions they had pilfered from the Prioriem kitchens—some broth, mushrooms, leafy greens, and a pinch of salt hardly made a meal, but to his ravenous appetite, it smelled amazing.
He looked up from his preparations and saw that Viggo and Annet were missing from the group. He looked to Gareth, arching an eyebrow.
The Lord Governor shrugged. “They run off to somewhere. Said they wanted to explore the place. Seems that boy has taken a liking to my Annet.”
If the man seemed concerned about this fact, he did not show it. He carried the same dismissive expression he usually did.
Marcus had not realized the two were getting close. He supposed they stayed together through the tunnels and in the forest. He was out of practice, so he was not surprised he could not see the signs. It had been many years since he had felt smitten with anyone. He smiled, thinking back on happier times.
He tended to the soup, stirring the contents of the pot. The leaves wilted, and the mushrooms were starting to break down. He inhaled the steam, and his stomach growled in protest.
“Someone is coming.”
Marcus looked up, stirred from his romance with the soup, to see Sev, standing on high alert.
“Viggo?”
“No. One pair of footsteps. Coming from there.” The giant pointed to towards the entrance hall.
Marcus stood quickly, stepping away from the fire to put himself between the entrance and the rest of the group. His body went rigid. Someone followed them? How?
He stood there, ready for anything, as the footsteps grew closer.
“There’s no need for that,” a cool voice said. It had a lilting, poet’s cadence to it.
The poet stepped into view, a bald man, tall and lean, wearing dark brown hunter’s leathers. He carried no sword at his hip, but the tip of a large crossbow peeked from behind his back. His dull gray eyes glinted in the firelight as his gaze rested on Marcus, still poised to fight.
“Oh my, what a gift this is,” the poet said, and he grinned.