“It was a last resort,” he said. “I’ve tried convincing my order to turn against the prophet’s ideals, to realize they were a sickening distortion of the god we all loved. In return, I received accusations of heresy. A god cannot change, they tell me, even though our own doctrines have changed again and again. You must believe me, I’ve tried everything, all I know, but this world is stubborn, full of bleak hearts and wounded children. The tiles are all across Veldaren by now, but they’re nothing without this amulet. It’s the key, Thren, and I want you to have it. The fate of our world, I want it in your hands.”
Whatever anger and confusion Thren had shown was lost, now replaced with a look Luther recognized, oh, so welclass="underline" exhaustion.
“Why me?” he asked. “I don’t know you, have never even heard of you. I’ve not once bent the knee to Karak. My connection to the priests in Veldaren is sparse and only when absolutely necessary. I want no part of the gods, no part of their war, their dogma and traditions.”
“Exactly,” said Luther. “You have always cherished your humanity above gods and kings, and not once have you hesitated at the thought of blood on your hands. Right now, I need someone like you. Someone who will have the courage to do what I cannot to protect our world.”
“This amulet,” Thren asked him, lifting it off the desk. “What does it do?”
“With a word, it activates the magic I’ve placed within the tiles,” Luther said.
Thren’s frown deepened.
“And what exactly will that magic do?”
This was it, the last piece of the puzzle. If Thren refused, there would be no other to take up the mantle. Taking in a deep breath, he pushed away his fear, his nervousness, and told him everything. As he spoke, he watched an awakening horror spread across the master thief’s face. When Luther finished, Thren had fallen perfectly still, and it seemed even his breathing had stopped.
“Do you understand now?” Luther asked him. “Why I trust you? Why I feel you are one of the few with the strength to bear such a burden?” He chuckled. “The gods help me, I know I could not. I am weak, and so I have remained here, hiding like a coward. It was only when I heard of Grayson Lightborn’s death that I knew you would come for me. You’ve brought me hope, Thren. Seize it. Declare to the world we will be the pawns of gods no longer.”
The pain in his hand was increasing, and he could see parts where it was darkening, congealing against the shining edge of the blade. He stared at the red and black, unable to meet Thren’s gaze.
“You’ve played me, my guild, my entire city as if you were a god,” Thren told him, and the sharpness of a blade pressed against his back. “You know I cannot let you live after that.”
Luther slowly nodded, and he took in a deep breath. This was it, a moment he’d long known was coming. Eternity approached, yet which god would want him? Ashhur, who he had preached against all his life? Or Karak, whom he now actively betrayed?
“Will you do it?” he asked. “If the gates fall, if the prophet’s army marches upon the castle, will you do it?”
Thren ripped out the dagger from his palm, and Luther choked down his pained cry. As warm blood spilled across his desk, seeping into the pages of the book before him, he felt water building in his eyes.
“I don’t know,” said Thren, but he put the amulet around his neck, and for Luther, that was sign enough.
“Do not fail me,” he said, and he heard his voice crack. “You need to be strong, or the whole world suffers. There’s good in what I’ve done, but unless you’re strong, it’ll all have been in vain.”
“Strong?” Thren said softly. “It is all I know. When my childhood died, Muzien left me with little else.”
The sword at his back pulled away, and he knew it prepared for a thrust. The cruelty of Luther’s plan, its sheer hopelessness, rushed through his mind. It burned him with guilt, and he loathed it, yet amid such thoughts came the words of a lost friend, and he spoke them aloud as if they came from the grave.
“We save this world by healing it,” Luther whispered. “Not with fire. Not with destruction.” He felt tears running down his face. “Forgive me, Jerico, but I saw no other way.”
Forward came the blade, pain bursting into him, and as the blood poured across his chest, he closed his eyes and gave up his breath.
CHAPTER 18
Haern didn’t fall very far, or for very long, before he landed on stone. It was sharply curved and perfectly smooth. He grabbed at it, searching for handholds, but there were none to be found. Down into the darkness he slid, unable to slow his descent. Haern tried kicking to one side, hoping to wedge himself in whatever chute he was sliding down, but he only succeeded in turning himself a different direction, and headfirst he flew.
The stone vanished, he was falling, and then he landed upon uneven ground. He heard the rattle of bones, felt pieces of something sharp digging into him. Letting out a groan from the pain, he rolled over and felt at what he’d landed on, for he had no hope of seeing it in the pitch black.
They were the bones of a man or woman, long since deceased. It did little to improve Haern’s opinion of his situation.
“Left to starve,” he muttered. “Gods damn it, is this how it all ends, starving in the darkness?”
“Not quite,” said a voice, and the surprise nearly stopped his heart. He rolled to his knees and turned to face the direction the voice had come from. At first, he thought his mind played tricks on him, but he saw the faintest hint of blue light twinkling in the distance. As he watched, it grew stronger, larger, until he could see clearly the blue flame of a torch, only it burned on nothing, merely floated in the air like a bizarre sun. With its light, he could better see the reaches of his room, though it was less of a room and more of a cave. There appeared no doors or further passages, just a circular dome with a ceiling covered with stalactites, maybe a hundred feet from one side to the other. Covering the floor were bones, and sitting beneath the magical torchlight, his face an ashen gray and his rustic armor covered with dust, was a man with a long scar on his cheek.
“Welcome to my home,” said the man. “It has been a very, very long time since I had company.”
Haern stood, both hands falling to the swords at his belt.
“Who are you?” he asked. “Where am I?”
“Beneath the Stronghold,” said the man. “In a place forgotten by most, though I would guess you knew that. As for who I am, well…”
He rose to his feet, dust billowing off of him. His armor groaned with each movement, and the way he moved, the way his joints cracked, made it seem as if he were a statue come to life. When at his full height, he stood at attention and saluted.
“Boris Marchant, at your service,” he said, his deep voice scratchy and frightening in the enclosed space.
“Well, Boris,” said Haern, trying not to panic, “care to tell me how to get out of here?”
Boris laughed.
“Look at me,” he said. “If there were a way out, do you think I would still be down here?”
It was hardly what Haern wanted to hear, not that he could deny the logic.
“Perhaps you want to be down here,” Haern said, hoping to keep the man talking. Something about him unnerved Haern immensely. He hardly carried the look of a paladin of Karak. In fact, he bore no markings at all of the god. His clothes were ratty and torn, and his armor was of a most peculiar make. He’d not seen banded mail of that style before, nor did he recognize the crudely drawn golden hawk on his chest. Much of it was crumbling along the edges, the metal tinted with green. At his side was an ancient sword, still sheathed.
At Haern’s words, Boris erupted into laughter that went on for far too long.
“Want to be down here?” he asked when finished composing himself. He wiped at his face as if to remove a tear, yet there was not a hint of moisture on his skin. “Oh, no, good sir, I do not want to be down here. I have not wanted to be down here for decades, yet still I am.”