Revelations in the Slumbering City

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“Are you sure you don’t have a spell or something that can just teleport us into the city?” Kryos whispered, nudging the large, snow-covered grimoire that looked as if it would squash the man that lay next to him. “You could have overlooked it.”

“You already know the answer to that,” Cor murmured back, not even bothering to glance at Kryos through the darkness of the Raiaerian night. His gaze remained fixed a hundred or so yards ahead, where roadside torches lit the gate leading into the city.

“Besides, even if I did, it would attract even more attention than this plan.”

“I suppose,” Kryos sighed, feeling the heat and moisture of his breath condense on his cold cheeks, reminding him of how much he wanted a break from the elements. “Should be any minute now.”

The pair waited silently as each moment dragged slowly into the next. They tried to forget the cold and the softly accumulating snow that worked to bury them. Within the safety, light and warmth of the gate, a small contingent of soldiers vigilantly monitored for danger. Their battered and repaired armor displayed evidence of many battles, while the shining edges of their weapons shone as only beloved equipment could. Their diligence, both to their post and to their gear, told Kryos the only thing he needed to know about this group. They had survived the Corpse War. Yet even despite their experience, the enticing song of sleep called to them from within the silence of flames licking the falling snow. Every so often their gaze would become glazed over and only the frigid, seaborne air piercing their lungs would bring them back to the present. They knew all too well what dangers lurked in the darkness of the Raiaerian plains, even as far west as Beinost.

Finally, movement stirred within the tunnel, followed by the soft patter of boots on cobblestones. The final watch approached, pulling the attention of both the stationed guard and the two beyond the lights’ reach.

Kryos pushed himself up to a crouch, shaking the snow from his cloak.

“Alright. Let’s go.”

He set off at a quick jog, urging his blood to start flowing and his stiff, unwilling muscles to move. His stride found a brisk rhythm, as fast as possible without alarming the now distracted guard. Had one of them turned towards him, they would have seen two glowing, silver eyes appear, bounding closer and closer. He reached the light’s edge, form emerging from the shadows like a wraith. One of the guards paused, hand instinctively reaching for his sword.

A wave of pulsatile energy blew past the Dwiilar and slammed into the men like a wave crashing upon a cliff face. Their souls stuck to the necromantic magic like glue as it raced by, if only for a split second, before rushing back to their bodies with an almost audible snap. The group convulsed and collapsed in unison. All save one.

A glimmering disc of pearlescent magic hovered in front of the mage, absorbing the brunt of Cor’s attack. Kryos closed the gap between them before the elf could prepare a counterspell. In one fluid stroke he drew his sword and brought the hilt hard to the base of the wizard’s skull. The mage promptly joined the pile of his comrades.

With the immediate threats to their discovery dealt with, Kryos sheathed his blade and began concentrating. After a moment, his ocular ability activated and he sensed the presence of all those around him. From the unconscious guards at his feet to Cor, making his way to him from the fields, and finally to the movement above him within the great outer wall of Beinost. Finding no cause for alarm, he waved his companion over.

“Any trouble?” Cor asked, slowing to a halt beside one of the small, grated fires. The orange glow lit up the Archivist’s face beneath his amaranthine hood.

“Not at the moment, but that could change any second.” He waved to the collapsed bodies. “How long will they be out?”

“Not long, but long enough. And they shouldn’t remember anything. Except for this one.” Cor stepped carefully around and knelt beside the elven mage Kryos had incapacitated. “He knows the flavor of my magic and your face, and that could be troublesome.”

Taking a step into the tunnel, the swordsman motioned his head onward. “Whatever you do, be quick about it. Just remember, killing him will bring even more trouble.”

The Archivist didn’t bother responding, his gaze locked on his victim. A sinister, crimson glow appeared around Cor’s hands, and he placed them around the poor boy’s head. Kryos turned away and jogged deeper into the tunnel, being careful not to miss any surprises in the form of guards along the way. While the outer wall boasted the height to brush off any siege towers or scaling efforts, its true strength lay in its girth. The numerous doorways that lined the tunnel testified of this, no doubt leading to armories, stairs to the ramparts above and possibly even sleeping and living quarters to be utilized during times of war. Having been built by those who lived during the Siege of Anebrilith, this city contained the strengths that its predecessor never did. The only way in, as far as Kryos had seen, was through one of the five main gates. They had chosen the northernmost entrance to slip through, as it empties directly into the Market District at the northwest part of the city.

He froze, hand reaching out to steady himself on the dark, stone wall that glowed with torchlight. His eyes darted above him, to the sides, below. The three guards he could detect within this area of the wall hadn’t moved, hadn’t sounded an alarm. Yet Kryos was sure that someone, or something, had noticed him. A chill ran down his spine as the scent of burning oil mixed with winter air filled his lungs. Trying to shake the feeling, he focused on the texture of the smooth stone under his hand. He paused, head turning to inspect the wall. He leaned in closer. Closer still.

“Something the matter?” Cor’s strong voice murmured from behind him, breaking his concentration and with it, the unnerving feeling that made his hairs stand on end. He looked a moment longer at the wall. Whatever he had felt had vanished. He turned his mind to the three guards. One of them was moving towards the end of his range.

“No. Nothing to worry about. We’re clear.”

They reached the other side of the wall within moments. Before them, the wide street splintered into darkened paths that led in every direction into the city. Enchanted lamps lined the main cobblestone path that continued on straight ahead, as well as two other roads that followed the edge of the wall. Their light illuminated the large square that occupied the immediate area just inside the wall, filled with empty stalls and booths used during the business hours. Buildings of near-elven design rose up into the night at the edge of the marketplace, golden trim spiraling in intricate designs of impossible complexity while snow drifts settled in the recesses of the steep roofs. Kryos felt a small brush of nostalgia warm his mind. If only it could warm his body as well.

They made their way quickly into the square, weaving between the stalls and over empty baskets and barrels. They aimed for an unlit path heading east into the city, where they could find a place to hole up and get warm before beginning their mission. Kryos smiled, relishing the thought of a warm fire.

“You there!” A deep, bear-like voice rang out through the silent, winter night. The two men stopped at the edge of the marketplace. “Identify yourself!”

Kryos peered over his shoulder. Three men were approaching from the far end of the square, along the road that ran beside the wall. Two of them wore the armor of the city guard, while the other wore a wide-brimmed, pointed hat and a coat, each designed with colorful, arcane swirls. A wizard from the College Arcana. His mind raced through his options. If it was just the guards, there wouldn’t be a problem, but the wizard added an unknown variable.

As the guard in the middle of the group called again, their course of action became clear. To stay would risk waking the entire district or even city. They would need to take their chances and run.

He glanced at Cor, whose face remained hidden by his hood. Hopefully the colossal tome on the Archivist’s back hadn’t been noticed yet. Kryos smiled.

“And away we go,” he whispered.

Together they disappeared into the darkened embrace of the the city of Beinost, the sentry’s shouts echoing behind them as they ran.

A brilliant orb of magical energy flew through the narrow streets, casting the colors of Fallien’s arid sands upon the elegant elven doorways, into sleeping bedrooms and upon the confines of the alleys below. The light reflected off the snowflakes as they drifted downwards, amplifying the illuminating effect. Just ahead, the two interlopers ran down the snowy street. A shrill whistle cut through the frosted air and, from just a few moments behind, a shout from the guard.

Kryos cursed the unpredictable power of wizards. They had been unable to escape from the magical construct that relayed their every turn to their pursuers. While they had a considerable head start, the Dwiilar knew that the longer the chase wore on, the smaller the odds that they would escape became.

The increasing frequency of lighted entryways that rushed by in their desperate flight reinforced his growing dread. The sounds of tired barkeeps and drunk patrons had replaced the quiet calm of darkened, vacant homes. The signature sweet scent of honey-apple mead, fresh from the cargo ships of Scara Brae, mixed with the strong rancor of vomit. Kryos could hear fragments of conversation as they rushed past closed tavern shutters. Above, another shrill call from the wizard’s spell.

“Any ideas?” Kryos called, glancing over his shoulder.

“Keep going,” the Archivist huffed between breaths. The burden of the Forgotten One’s tome chained upon the Archivist’s back had begun to take its toll. The rattling of the metal links that bound the two together seemed to mock them. Kryos eyes narrowed in frustration.

“We could just kill them,” he suggested as he skirted around a large cart loaded with empty barrels and boxes. “Before the entire city wakes up to that thing.”

As if on cue they rounded the corner and were met by another patrol of guards. The five men reached for their weapons at the sight of the two men bearing down on them. Kryos leapt and smashed his elbow into the first man’s face between the eyes, his momentum enough to carry him past and flip the now-unconscious guard off his feet. His body crashing to the stone path echoed off the walls and droned out the rasp of blades escaping their sheaths and surprised cries of the others.

Kryos landed in a crouch in the center of the remaining four, dark cloak billowing in the softly falling snow around him. Eyes glowing with power, he dodged the swing of the rear guard’s sword and rushed past his defenses, closed fist punching upwards just below the man’s sternum. He felt the air rush from his opponent’s lungs. His free hand shot out and wrapped around the back of the man’s neck. He shifted his weight and pulled, sending the gasping guard into the paths of two spears that had been rushing toward Kryos’ exposed back. One of the weapons managed to evade the guard. The other tore through the man’s side, just above his hip.

A quiet, strangled cry escaped the from the impaled guard’s lips as agony enveloped him. He crumpled to the ground, hands clutching the spear while his lungs still struggled to open once again.

Kryos spun, avoiding the lung of the other spearman. With one hand he caught the weapon’s shaft, and with the other he reached out, obsidian spirals of magic erupting along his arm. His caught the elf’s face in his strong grasp and sent the power of his soul crashing against the essence of his unsuspecting foe with the force of a rockslide. The man collapsed.

The annoying shrill of the magic ball of light above them rang out once more. Kryos clenched his fist. How he would love to kill that wizard. Cor stepped over the crumpled bodies, having taken care of the other two guards.

“The wounded should slow them down,” the dark vassal said, warm blood dripping from the chains he had coiled around his hands into the scattered snow at their feet. His eyes, alight with exhilaration, darted from the path behind them to the floating sphere of tan light above. “We need to get off the streets.”

Kryos nodded, taking off at a quick jog. Naturally, the magical orb followed, drawn to them like waves to the moon. He tried to ignore the persistent spell and focus on finding alternatives. To escape inside now would be futile. Yet they remained exposed while on the streets. They needed cover and a way to avoid capture all rolled into one. A warehouse might work, depending on the contents, but it would still be a gamble.

Eyes still glowing silver, Kryos monitored the nearby souls to prevent being ambushed. The original three guards to give chase had reached their incapacitated comrades and, just as Cor had predicted, had stopped. Only then did he notice that Cor’s soul had stopped moving as well. He turned.

The Archivist had entered an alley barely wide enough for the two of them standing abreast, peering into the shadows.

“Cor?” Kryos called, his shout waking the two inhabitants of the shop next to him.

A raised hand beckoned him.

“What did you find,” he asked as he approached.

Cor turned, a smile across his face.

Behind him, carved into the wall between the two buildings stood a dark entryway with a simple gate devoid of a lock. Stairs lead down a darkened passage, down into the labyrinth that lay beneath the city.

“Get inside,” Cor muttered, dark green energy appearing around his hands. Kryos slipped passed him, passed the gate, and down the first few steps of the now illuminated passage. Their enchanted tail still followed. Cor shut the gate behind him and crouched, planting his hand on the cold, snow-blanketed steps. Kryos felt the air become charged with magic, whether Cor’s or Xem’Zund’s, he couldn’t tell. Then, with a sudden groaning, the top steps of the passage raced upwards, sealing them in.

They welcomed the silent darkness.

Descending into the underbelly of Beinost, their bodies began to relax. Years of living in the decay and rubble of the fallen keep TrenycÈ…, alongside wights, zombies and the living shadows of the necromancers, had instilled a dark confidence. At last they felt in their element, albeit the absence of the stinging stench of death, decay and disease.

Spiraling shards of softly glowing magic rose from Kryos’ uplifted, gloved hand, illuminating the landing they had arrived at. Smooth walls with webbed frost split, one path heading toward the harbor, another continuing on, and the last doubling back toward the market district. Overhead, a series of thick pipes, some engraved with amber designs of arcane origin, ran along the center of the passages, with occasional junctions rising into the ceiling to serve the needs of the merchant district’s water demand. A hand on his shoulder brought his attention to Cor, nodding toward the path leading back toward the city wall. The manifestation of his soul lighting the way, they pressed on.

Minutes passed in cold, silent contemplation. Eventually, the slow lullaby of flowing fluid overhead began to whisper in their ears as the sewer system attended to the nature’s nocturnal calls to the city’s residents. They had transitioned back to the more residential area of the city. Kryos let his hand fall, magic fading from existence. Just ahead, small glowing orbs of magelight floated in small pockets shaped in the walls, revealing the course of the tunnel. Additional paths now joined theirs at regular intervals, some leading to a cluster of doorways while others continued on for a short span before turning from view. At each junction, directions engraved into the walls mapped the labyrinth.

“Right. Terrabella Way sounds good enough,” he said, fingers tracing under the sign. “Let’s find a place to warm up and get ready.”

Taking off at a jog in an attempt to warm up his stiffening muscles, he placed on hand on the hilt of his shorter sword. At this point, though, he really didn’t want any more unexpected encounters.

The all too familiar caress of frigid, night air washed over his face and filled his nose with crystallized breath. Ahead rose a spiraling stairway. Taking the steps two at a time and as stealthily as he could, he reached the top in a matter of seconds and found himself in a small, naked room. Across the small hut, a simple gate barred the entrance which proceeded to open with a simple turn of the bolt. Silently the hinges swung open and he stepped out under the cloudy sky.

Kryos took a moment to gain his bearings and discovered that, fortunately, they had come out on a residential street, with houses lining both sides interspersed with young cyper trees. To his left the road gradually went downhill, toward the ocean, the merchant and naval district and people in general. From their vantage point on the hill, Kryos could see the large spires of the College Arcana rising in the western part of the city. He wondered what ramifications they would have to deal with after that troublesome wizard reported back to his superiors.

Once the Archivist had joined him, they turned their backs to the city proper and made their way up the street, glancing down the side alleys that joined Terrabella Way. They studied the homes as they passed, noting signs of occupancy in nearly erased footprints and whips of smoke rising from vents.

They crested the hill and met an intersection of two major roads. Judging from the tracks, less traffic had traveled to their right along Veridian Street. He pulled his white trimmed cloak tighter around himself, clinging to any last vestige of warmth.

Finally, they found a house suitable for their purposes, devoid of immediate neighbors but with a cellar. Leaving that for the morning, they wrapped around to the back where a single cyper tree dominated the small yard, branches barren. Cor approached the door which refused to yield. The Archivist grounded his stance and rammed into the door, splintering the frame as it gave way to the strength of the Salvan.

Kryos watched for any sign or hint that their breaking and entry had been noticed. Not a sound could be heard from the surrounding homes. Just to be safe, Kryos called upon his fargazing abilities. Once again, any nearby souls suddenly became known to him. With a satisfied, exhausted smile, he walked up the steps and closed the door. The thought of sleeping wrapped in blankets of warmth, woven by the fingers of fire, eased his tired mind. Just as the door swung shut against the fractured frame, that same, unsettling feeling touched him, cold enough to extinguish his wandering thoughts of sanctuary.

The feeling that something had been watching them.

The hollow echo of the door closing reverberated softly through the dark, empty house. Cor muttered under his breath, and a small, eldritch flame cast its sickly green light down the corridor in which they stood. To the left, stairs rose up and turned a corner, leading to the second floor. The Archivist press forward, taking no time to appreciate the intricate patterns of silver upon a blue background that decorated the walls. The Dwiilar, however, reach out his hand and touched the masterwork engravings. They were beautiful and, somehow, familiar.

He paused as a question taunted him from just beyond the edge of his mind.

“You good, Kryos?” Cor asked, looking over his shoulder.

“Fine,” he replied, letting his hand drop to his side.

He strode down the hallway and moved past his companion into the house’s bare common area. On the far side of the room, broad windows arched across the wall, darkened by the sturdy shutters on the outside. To the right, more corridors and rooms to be explored, and to the left, a large, yet modest, fireplace. The fine brick was devoid of fuel for the fire, just as the house seemed to be barest of the commodities of daily living. Good thing, then, that they were used to living among the dead.

Cor stooped by the hearthstones, fingers reaching out and tracing an elegant, circular seal into the dust within the fireplace. Kryos reached out and opened the flue just as the Cor finished. The runes within the seal began to glow, first green, and then quickly a molten red. Sparks began to spray from their surface, hissing and fizzing and spiraling together before blossoming into a energetic fire, floating a few inches above the stone. Warmth radiated outward and the gentle, flickering light cast their long shadows against the walls behind them. Kryos breathed deeply, letting his pack fall from his shoulders under his cloak to the ground.

“Nice. That’s a cool trick,” he said as he dropped to the floor before the fire. “Why didn’t you use this on the journey over?”

“Because it’s easier and less magic to hurl a fireball on dead wood,” Cor quipped. The Salvic man dropped to the floor as well, but rather than laying down, he leaned against the bricks next to the fire, the infernal tome locked between his body and the wall. “Elder Flame requires an immense amount of magic. As we’ll be here for a while, I figured that this would be more appropriate.” Reading the confusion evident on Kryos’ face, he smirked and added, “You’ll see.”

Kryos rolled his eyes as he adjusted his pack into a makeshift pillow. As he lay down, he wrapped the edges of his cloak around his body. His eyes glowed briefly for a moment as he rechecked the vicinity for any threats. Finding none, he finally allowed his body to begin to relax. His breathing deepened, heart slowed and muscles unwound. The soft whispers of dancing tongues of mage-fire mixed with the light tinkling of Cor’s chains. Rather, the Forgotten One’s chains. Kryos wondered what incredible power lay within the pages that Cor was bound to.

Despite the two years he had spent working with the Death Lord Maeril Thyrrian, he had learned almost nothing concerning the wretched existences that were known as the Archivists. No doubt it had been to Maeril’s design. He knew that while the grimoires held magics and knowledge that only Xem’Zund could fully utilize, they also held power available to others. That is certainly why the Maeril Thyrrian spent significant effort searching for any signs of surviving Archivists. The Death Lords, the generals of Xem’Zund, could access and read from the dark pages without being consumed by madness and death. If they could, then it was certainly reasonable to think that someone else could as well. Kryos held back a small chuckle as he thought of what the faces of the College Arcana would look like if they learned that an Archivist rested right under their noses.

Kryos glanced at his resting companion, although he realized that ‘companion’ wasn’t the most accurate. For they had an almost symbiotic relationship. He knew that Cor was keeping an eye on him. Two years of service be damned, Maeril wasn’t one to trust others. It was why he had survived when most of the other Dread Lords had fallen. Despite this, Kryos and Cor had the unspoken duty to protect each other, for if either of them were to be captured or killed, the other would face a punishment worse than death at Maeril’s hand.

After all, what is death, to a necromancer like Maeril?

Cor’s breathing deepened as he sunk into the embrace of sleep. As he did, the chains binding him to the huge tome slowly receded into the dark, violet folds of his robes, locking both Archive and Archivist together. Kryos wondered if those black chains had a will of their own, or if they were simply an extension of the Archive.

Curiosity concerning the relationship between book and ward pulled at his tired mind but he pushed them away. Maeril was right; such matters didn’t concern him. His job lay beyond the walls of this house in which they rested. What mattered to him was not a single person, or group, or even an army. Instead, what mattered to him was the entire physical city in which he now lay. This amazing, impossible city. Built with the fugitive souls of those who defied Xem’Zund at the conclusion to the Siege of Anebrilith. He had heard that, in a feat of magic that rivaled the breaking of the tap, a single wizard had replaced the ancient port with an entirely novel city. Perhaps the rumors had become exaggerated over the years since it happened, but regardless, the truth was that Anebrilith was no more.

Beinost.

The city of souls. The city where memories of the past slept within walls of stone.

Beinost.

The key to all of Maeril’s designs. The key that would enable the Forgotten One to achieve victory from beyond oblivion.

The key, to all that had been lost.

Kryos smiled as his sleepy eyes followed the beautiful, weaving patterns of silver on blue that filled the arched ceiling. He adjusted himself slightly, fingers lightly brushing the hilts of his weapons that lay next to him, wrapped in the shadowy confines of his cloak. His mind began to slide like the leaves of a ream of parchment placed upon a lectern–slowly at first, but then with increasing speed, his consciousness slipped into the forgetful embrace of slumber.