Shadows & Sorcery #69
Goodness gracious! Here we are AGAIN, for the sixty-ninth edition of Shadows & Sorcery!
Now, some quick news: those payment issues I’ve been complaining about still aren’t fixed. It’s not great, but to make up for people being unable to access what they would like to access, I’m giving away month full full trials every weekend of January! Are you a free reader who wanted to upgrade? Unsub and resub—I’ll see it, I’ll know it, and I’ll give you a month’s absolute access on the house. It reverts to a free one automatically, so no need to do anything. Maybe you’ll want to keep that access! Should almost certainly have this done in a MONTH.
But apart from that nonsense, the next chapter of The Path of Poison is in the works and will be on the way SOON. Also, this week we’re trying out another three jumbo-sized tales, and the first one is absolutely free to read…
Lastly, my friends, if you liked what you read here, give that little heart icon a quick tap and tell the stories you liked them!
This week, we join two desperate thieves who delve deep into the unquiet Grave of the Archives, we join a seeker of wisdom in the perilous mountain heights to find a Crystal Aerie, and finally we learn illustrious history behind the mighty Temple of Steel…
Grave of the Archives
The great beings, or gods, or powers, or however you may prefer to describe them, manifest in countless different things. Gods and their presences can be found in thunder, fire, light, shadow, certain places, or even certain times of day. But it doesn't stop there. It is believed, and more than believed, that gods present themselves in thoughts, feelings, and in human speech. Take for example, one of the mighty flame gods. That god's temple flame is both an actual fire, and a channel or shrine for the power or presence of the god itself. The name of the god, spoken and invoked by its adherents, contains that power. The building in which they chant the name before the holy fire, too, has that power.
And the written word is certainly not exempt from this.
Just as gods live in their images and spoken names, the written word is no less their image or sound. Indeed, there are precious few things in this world which do not go back to the gods in some form. Humanity is itself made up of various divine sources in an intricate interplay. So even the smallest things must be considered to house the very nature of divinity. Thus were archive graves created, vast underground repositories where the perishable forms of divinity, made by humans, would be stored as both tomb and place of reference. Into them went old holy texts, spell tomes, scrolls and other such things, unfit for use anywhere, entombed as if they were living things. And in a sense, they were. The words did not take kindly to disposal by any method, as humans had once done. Even deliberate, ceremonial burnings weren't free form it. Countless old ruins with bad auras exist in the wilderness, abandoned and afeared of due to the actions of ignorant humanity.
Thelia's padded shoes whispered across the marble as the guard turned the corner. Kiros followed close behind. The entrance to the book tomb lay down a short, wide set of steps with no chance of cover. They crouched before the bronze gate, clad in baggy, but not too lose clothing to make identification of size and height difficult, their bare hands and faces painted a dark blue, to obscure and alter their features at even a close distance. Thelia drew forth a length of thin metal from her belt, whose end was crooked, while Kiros' eyes darted back and forth in measured rhythm towards in the hallway they'd come from, in search of approaching guards.
At last, a single audible click was heard, and they waited the three full seconds allowed, just to make sure. The door was slid open just as far as it would permit them entrance, and gently shut, but not locked. Quicker escapes had been deemed more important, and an open door is more likely to be blamed upon a forgetful librarian than thieves, at least at first. The corridor they now entered was of low, bare stone vaulting, lit quite sparsely, terribly cramped, and seemed to stretch on for ages. It must reach a full mile or more, Thelia said under her breath.
They quickly saw that at regular intervals, on either side of the passage, there were entrances to smaller tunnels. Some, they found, were T shaped, ending in two dead ends they didn't like, others were U shaped loops with corners to turn they found more favourable. And inside each one were rows upon rows of vertically stacked little alcoves into which some crumbling book or scroll, and even a couple clay tablets, were placed. One of these books was the object of their quest, specifically an old grimoire of spells called Book of the Thirty Words, which had long since served its purpose. But the knowledge contained within it had, according to their client, been diluted and half-lost over time, and it was believed that something of great use could be extracted from its crumbling form.
The client had furnished them freely with amulets to aid in their endeavour, small tightly wound scraps of hardy parchment in which the names of two powers were invoked in the midst of a longer, focusing phrase. But the amulets about their necks would only cloak their movements so much. A stray gaze from a guard might go unchecked, but anything more would have them strung up in double quick time. Still, a stray gaze could be the dividing line between life and death in this profession.
They were not, as they had feared, alone. Out of the murk there came a red robed gravekeeper who wouldn't look out of place at a gathering of wizards. Festooned in pouches and little metal cylinders upon a sash and belt, thin volumes hung from the waist and there were long strips of inscribed leather about the shoulders. All of them blessings and spells to contend with the forces which thrummed oddly and invisibly in this potent place. Without so much as a thought of hesitation, Thelia sprung forward from the low shadows with a blackjack and knocked the keeper out cold. Kiros sprung up to help catch the poor wretch, which they dragged into a nearby T passage and placed at one of the ends. Kiros noted that the second they had began to drag the hopefully still breathing body in, another keeper had emerged from a tunnel they had thought empty.
They had only a vague idea of where the book was, the client had simply stated that he didn't know for sure himself, but that its placement would be obvious. Not much to go on, and not much time or space to do a thorough search. They were looking for something out of the ordinary, that much was clear. Normally such vagaries make for bad work, but the old fellow was paying a rather obscene amount of goldleaf for this single book. They crept with an agonizing slowness through U passages and hid in the immediate turns of others, straining to listen for the pad of feet upon the dusty stone. They couldn't afford a whole corridor of unconscious librarians. Their anxiety and excitement had been running them ragged as it was. Then, it loomed out of the dark at them--a single yawning opening leading into a space far greater than the cramped corridor behind them. They rightly assumed this was where their mark dwelt.
There were dozens of arranged shelves whose ornamentation had about them a funereal quality--they were essentially free standing tombs, after all. Set into the earth were slabs of carved stone bearing inscriptions of names and numbers. They shared a look that carried the worry of the internment of the book below. The first thing they did was scan these, deciphering the stylized, and often antiquated script. Nothing under the name they had been given appeared, as far as they could see. So they began to search the alcoves which lined the walls, all of which had been meticulously notated. They split up, but not too far apart. No need for two sets of eyes over every spine and cylinder.
Thelia was crouching to see the names of lower alcoves when words the client had spoken came back to her.
"Imagine, if you will, one of your fingers, bound, broken, useless, unimaginably sensitive to the smallest movements, and all you want is for the bindings to crumble, and for the digit to rot and fall away so that you might be free of the sensation. But it won't, not really. A little bit will always be gone somewhere. That is what it must be like, I think. Some portion of them stirs fitfully in the prisons we made for them, diffused and half-slumbering, chafing at the threshold. Invisible hands will brush along you from the second you step into that tomb."
She let it sit for just a moment before shaking the horrid impression away, just in time for to hear a shout from back in the main passage.
Thelia spun around. Kiros had the book in his hand, and had turned to call her when the sound of rushing feet came down the passage. They'd found the guard from earlier. There were only seconds to react. Thelia ducked behind one of the free standing tomb-shelves. Kiros had unsheathed a long dagger from his belt and crouched. There was no way they could get out. More and more feet were rushing into the room. She then heard the sound of blades being drawn, and a roar as Kiros met one of the guards in battle. Forget the book, forget the money. Thelia went into a low run and crashed through two red guards as she made for the main tunnel. What then? No doubt an alarm had been raised. What good would this wizard's amulet do her out there, with every eye looking for them?
She ran headfirst into an oncoming librarian. She was knocked back, stunned for a second. She pulled the blackjack from her belt as she heard the characteristic sick groan of a stabbed man somewhere behind her. Who it was, she could guess, but would rather not know. Another guard joined the one she'd run into. She was quickly being surrounded. She didn't think. She reached with her free hand to her right, and grabbed a weighty looking tome, and flung it at her attackers. The mouldering bulk veritably burst into shredded parchment and dust upon impact. There was a sound then, not the guards, not Kiros, not herself. But something else. It was the last thing she ever heard, and the last thing any mortal being wants to hear.
As has been said, countless old ruins sit abandoned and empty, with bad auras and atmosphere. The Great Library of Amestino in the Old Quarter has become one such place, and indeed the whole street is slowly gaining a reputation. Few can guess why, but those few who can, know exactly what it was.
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