Chapter 4

A group of friends, including Tarsadian, are hiding in a secret chamber beneath an ancient city. They are being hunted by death squads and must remain silent to avoid being discovered. Tarsadian is in pain and needs surgery. They wait in darkness, fearing the drinn creatures that are hunting them. After three hours, they hear footsteps and prepare for a confrontation. Serena begins to perform surgery on Tarsadian while the others assist. You are a god, Tarsadian," Serena whispered. It was an old joke, from another time. The humorous reaction of a clan of wolf dwarves who'd never seen a seven-foot southern planesman shard in night before. Another life, when they'd still been kids playing the role of adults, of heroes, a time when the seven of them, the original class, had all still been alive and too young to know what was waiting for them. I feel more like a spit pig," Tarsadian wheezed. The climb down the fountain ladder had taken its toll. He lay on the floor in a heap of blankets, waves of pain radiating out of his belly and side like heat off a desert stone. You look like one, Sergeant, or rather, Sir, Arnott said. Thanks to the wine they'd given to him, sprinkled with a bit of crushed goldroot mushroom, Tarsadian could see beyond his pain and actually offered a smile to his grizzled salt-and-pepper bearded companion sitting beside him. His pain had receded from lava to mere fire. How is it that you know of this place?" Sir Taxini whispered to Marcus. Is it yours? Marcus smirked. It is a shared secret that has been passed down from kin to kin. And for what purpose might such a cozy little chamber like this serve?" Serena asked. Even half-dead, Tarsadian could smell the lingering fragrance of perfumed oils and sex embedded in the silk blankets atop, propped under his bed, under his head. For deep study, of course, Marcus said. The smirk had turned into a grin. Indeed, Arnott said, cuffing Marcus across the arm. Deep study. There was a quick, chorus, whispery laughs. And then reality floated by like vapors, the distant screams of New Rome somehow making it through the dozens of feet of solid, chiseled granite surrounding them. Sir Taxini held up his hand. He was staring at a section of the wall with such intensity it might have spontaneously combusted. I hear them," he said in a voice so light a sigh would have blown it away. Tarsadian moved to get his coronet and was rewarded by a bolt of agony from God. There would be no more of that. They have found the fountain. Death squads prowling for survivors. Their fate now lay in their silence on the sprawling labyrinth of passages beneath a sixteen-thousand-year-old city. This particular chamber, Tarsadian suspected, would not be found in any official blueprints. After they'd come down the forty-four rungs in the dark, which had nearly done Tarsadian in, Marcus had halted them, though there was no landing. Just black space above, black space below, blank space all around them. The latter had seemed to go down for all eternity. Do not be alarmed, he'd whispered. In the dark, Marcus had reached out to one of the stone bricks that comprise the walls of the tunnel, gripped it firmly, and pulled—without a sound—an enormous slab of stone that slid with utter silence to the side, revealing a dark, dusty tunnel. Dwarves. Only they could have constructed a secret panel invisible enough to escape even Tarsadian's trained and penetrating eyes. Lying there in the dark, however, listening to the distinctive, heavy clack of drinnying claws on stone and their low, gravelly voices, Tarsadian hoped that their craftsmanship would be good enough to keep them hidden. The drinn were at home in the dark, though it seemed like hours they huddled together like kids hiding from a monster. Monsters. After a while, the scrapes of wings against the tight tunnels below them and their low, guttural voices receded, but Serena shook her head, which appeared as a mostly dissolved silhouette in the darkness. The drinn liked to play games, like to lure hiding prey by pretending to leave. So in the darkness they waited. Tarsadian hadn't realized it before, but Eluvian's silver bow, another liberated artifact from the treasure chamber of Elnitra, emanated a soft pearl glow which grew brighter the longer he stared at it. A half-hour went by, then an hour, but no one spoke. It was as if the six of them could sense the string tied around the stick holding up the box. What Tarsadian thought was surely overkill, three hours ended up saving their lives. There was a slither of skin against rock not too far away, perhaps right in front of the forty-fourth rung, in fact, and then receding footsteps that clapped with claws. Tarsadian looked around and took a perverse sense of relief that he wasn't alone, that the primal, superstitious fear implanted in the DNA of all human beings was very much alive and well in this assembled company of heroes. Though he'd been trained to harness and direct his emotions, a steady current of nerve-wracking fear for three hours took its toll no matter who you were. Faces were ashen, lips parched. Tarsadian kneeled beside Tarsadian and let out a weary sigh. Are you ready, Tarsi? she asked. Of course. Good, she said. Remember, then give me no screaming. They will hear us. I know that, he said. Let's just get on with it. I hate impending agony. All right. Sir Arnaut, Sir Taksini, help me get out of— Motherfucker. All right. Sir Arnaut, Sir Taksini, help me get him out of his armor. Marcus, do you have any spirits or wine here? Yeah, a lamerkin red. That will do. Bring it here. We have surgery to perform. Tarsadian rested his head on his pillow and closed his eyes. Time to test those Chardon pain techniques.