Revelations in the Slumbering City

[Kryos]

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.

[Kryos]

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.