Havert got down on one knee and set his shoulder to a rock whose surface was covered in scratch marks. He gave a grunt as he pushed, and the rock slid inward as if on a greased track to reveal a faint blue glow within.
“When we’re all inside, we shore it up,” said Hestia, taking up Havert’s rake as the other man crawled inside. “Occasionally we hear things trying to figure out why our smells lead here, but they die off before they can get inside.”
“So you just hunker down until the fiends die,” said Scorio, nodding. “I see. Smart.”
“It’s worked thus far,” said Hestia, crouching down to pass the rakes through the hole. “Go ahead. I’ll go last so I can close the door.”
Scorio crawled inside. The passage was tight and wormed a good four yards through heavy rocks that were rigidly supported by wooden beams and struts. He got a queasy feeling as he contemplated what might happen if one of the beams gave way, but then he emerged into a large cavern that had clearly been inhabited for a long time.
Lanterns made from rusted wire filled with luminous moss were placed strategically on stone shelves or hung from hooks in the ceiling, their blue light casting a subtle, dreamlike glow over the cave. Ledges had been carved out of the walls on which roughly stuffed pallets were laid, and rickety chairs were set about a central table cunningly wrought from driftwood on which a checkered board was placed, crudely crafted pieces arranged in some manner of game. A small firepit was set against a soot-stained wall, and over it hung a shallow stone bowl that might have served as a primitive cauldron.
But it was the walls that drew Scorio’s attention—they were daubed in vibrant, luminous murals that glowed with various colors: the blue of the moss, a deep, smoldering red, a rich green, and a pale yellow that was nearly white. Every inch of the cave’s interior was decorated with complex interweaving and geometric patterns. These were interspersed with full-sized figures in various poses, the quality of their composition ranging from crude to skilled, as if various artists had worked on the walls over the years. Here and there Scorio saw monsters portrayed, with one clearly being a Lasher, its tendrils extended from a bright blue stream to entrap a hapless man.
A cadaverous man with skin the color of old bone and a stringy beard rose warily from his chair. His hair hung in twisted ropes past his shoulders, and his smile revealed missing teeth.
“Havert, my boy, what’ve you got for me, eh?” The man approached cautiously, obliquely, studying Scorio out of the corner of his eyes. “A newcomer?”
“Found him sleeping by the Little Stream,” said Havert, taking the rakes over to one side where a bundle of them were laid across brackets. “He killed a Lasher with his bare hands. Was sleeping.”
“Killed a Lasher, did he? Well, that’s grand, that’s most impressive, a true warrior I see, a blessing to us all. What’s your name, warrior? I’m Salamander, or so I style myself, for I’ve chosen not to use the name they gave me, the name, you see, that’s to blame for all my woes.”
The man was eager, yet still, he stood half-turned away, moving his hands over each other as if washing them without water. His neck seemed permanently bent, or perhaps it was his back that was hunched, and the lines of his skull were visible right beneath his creased skin.
“A pleasure, Salamander. My name’s Scorio.” Despite feeling wretched, Scorio forced himself to stand tall and smile. “Thank you for taking me in.”
“Ah, a right gentleman! See how polite he is, Nissa? You could stand to learn a lesson from him.”
A woman had sat up on one of the higher ledges. Her straight hair appeared green in the blue light, and her expression was grave, her gaze direct, almost hollowed out. As if she’d been running a race all her life, and could no longer understand what it was she was chasing.
“Dream on, Sal,” she said, voice husky. “You’ll get my respect back when you earn it.”
“Ah, she wounds me, she cuts me to the bone. But pay her no heed, stranger. Through the Final Door you’ve come, hey? Cast away like so much trash. Not given a chance to plead your case, or explain that you and yours never did none of the things you were accused of, am I right?”
Scorio followed Salamander’s beckoning to join him at the table, and sat gratefully. “That’s right. The same happen to you all?”
“That’s why we’re here,” said Nissa, studying him intently. “One and all.”
“Criminals, monsters, creators of death and destruction,” said Salamander, waving a claw of a hand. “Oh, how they fear us. Yet what is there to fear? Do we look like the engineers of doom? Trapped here in our fanciful little den, whiling away the years as we await our inevitable death at the fangs of some terrible beast?”
Hestia moved over to a large cistern and emptied her heavy waterskin into it; Havert then did the same.
“I was told you had a plan,” said Scorio carefully. “That there might be a way out of here.”
Salamander’s eyes narrowed and he whipped around to glare at the other two, but they both studiously ignored him.
“I might have a plan, I might at that. But.” And at this, he looked back to Scorio, still keeping his body turned away. “It’s a desperate stratagem. You, being so freshly arrived, might not be willing to gamble so freely with your life.”
Scorio laughed. “You’ve been here five years?”
Salamander nodded reluctantly.
“Then I’ve no desire to wait as long before deciding to leave. If you’ve a plan, I’d like to hear it.”
“Determined,” mused Salamander, rubbing at his wispy beard. “Brave and bold. Ready for adventure. Ignorant, too, though that’s not his fault. Tell me, is old Praximar still the chancellor? Or has he finally choked on his pride and died a fitting death?”
“Pyre Lord Praximar,” said Scorio softly. “Yes. He’s the bastard who ordered me thrown down here.”
“And me,” said Nissa dully. “After attacking my soul.”
“Me too,” said Hestia, and Havert just raised a hand.
“Myself as well,” hissed Salamander, his voice seething with anger. Unable to control himself, he leaped to his feet and began to pace, walking always obliquely, as if constantly changing his mind about where he wished to go. “There I was upon my bejeweled bower, a naive, innocent, yes, even hopeful youth, and when the Archspire spat out its hateful lies, oh, the pleasure he took in destroying my life…”
“Peace, Sal,” said Nissa, her voice toneless.
“Yes, yes.” Sal stopped before a portrait on the wall, and Scorio realized it was a remarkably well-drawn portrait of the chancellor, a caricature that emphasized his every defect. “But no matter. The past is dead, is it not? It is the future that concerns us. Tell me, Scorio, you are truly willing to risk it all on the harebrained scheme of a stranger?”
Scorio sat back carefully, unsure if the rickety chair would bear his weight. He felt flushed and sweat ran down his back. His wrist throbbed, the various cuts along his arms and legs burned, and the dull ache that the chancellor had inflicted upon him yet throbbed. “What choice do I have? Tell me your plan.”
“The Brass Door,” whispered Sal, pulling at his wispy beard and moving to another segment of the wall where a great crimson door was painted. “So massive it might as well be painted on stone. The means by which the fiends enter our warren, and having entered, are unable to pass out once more.”
“Right,” said Scorio, forcing himself to focus. “You’ve a way to open it?”
“That I do,” said Sal, eyes gleaming as he grinned. “Force multiplication. A pretty problem. My old friend was able to open the door with his native might, but we mere Chars, without our Igneous Hearts aflame, why, we must settle for native wit.”
Hestia sat heavily on one of the lower ledges and pulled off a boot. “He’s come up with a way to open the doors using ropes and wheels. It’s actually pretty brilliant.”