“Atmos’ arse,” Narim mumbled crudely, as he slowly lowered Mavri’s chest onto the thick moss. He leaned back onto the overgrown rock. It seemed to bring him a great deal of relief, despite its hard surface. All three of the East Storm mercenaries were laden with Mavri’s equipment and supplies. Narim lifted his eyes to stare at his blacksmith charge, squinting lest sweat sting him. “You got half the Storm Fort in there?”
Toris scoffed. “Let it be, Narim,” he urged. The second warrior who had been assigned to stay with Mavri in Velend’s Grove was a little lankier than his comrade, and wore his hair back, bound in a knot.
“It’s fine,” Mavri said. “You are tasked with the safety of Storm Fort, aren’t you?”
Narim smirked and leaned back.
Toris cut a swath of the moss away and proceeded to arrange sticks for kindling. His flint and striker sent sparks flying and soon a warm glow lit up his hands. The trio soon convened around the fire for small talk, a game of dice, and the greasy haunch of a jackal they had bought from a hunter before departing the formerly rebellious village.
It was during Toris’ watch that the brigands fell upon them. Mavri was woken by her comrade’s cry and kicked her feet to scramble out of her cot. Toris had already killed one, but another slashed at his back. Narim, sword freed from his scabbard, shouldered another out of the way, while a fourth shouted a string of curses and kicked the embers of the fire at Mavri.
Singed and surprised, Mavri fumbled for her bow before realizing they were too close. She tossed it aside and staggered back from her assailant.
“Grab the trunk!” shouted one of their ambushers, only to get run through from behind by the bleeding-but-still-standing Toris.
Mavri finally had her machete out when hands grabbed her from behind. The assailant who had kicked at the flames advanced as she thrashed for freedom. Finally, her foot found purchase against her hefty smith’s trunk and she sent her—and her captor—toppling back against the rocky slope. Instead of the soft crunch of moss and perhaps broken bone, a loud creak rent the air. The ground gave way beneath her attacker and her—rocks scraping her arms. What was a strange slide into a crevice then became a gut-wrenching plummet.
A rock met her hip, hard, and she rolled away from the fall. Dirt had filled her mouth and her mind was reeling. It took her a moment to focus her eyes. Her vision was countered with darkness and the claustrophobic oppressiveness of a low ceiling. There was dirt in her throat—Mavri coughed it up as she hurriedly tried to find her feet.
It took a moment longer to realize that there were no longer enemies advancing on her. She was no longer standing near the scattered ashes of their fire or her comrade mercenaries. She now hunched below a low ceiling, on a damp, scum-covered stone slab. This was beneath the hill—a cave of some sort.
“Gods,” groaned another voice. Mavri looked about, but it was black as pitch down here. She had lost her machete when the ground had collapsed beneath her. It was night, and the moon did not reach down into the cave beneath the ground.
Firelight flickered—a match, lit by the owner of that mumbled cuss. In its momentarily illumination, Mavri saw the bare scalp of a man clutching his broken leg—and his alarmed eyebrows. He was the one who had grabbed her from behind. Between the two of them lay Mavri’s satchel, which had rested beside her during her sleep in their ambushed camp. Mavri lunged for it, but so did her enemy—and the match was dropped
In the returned shadows, Mavri clutched blindly to her satchel and scrambled back across the rock from where she had glimpsed the stranger. An agony lanced through her left arm—it must have been sprained. From the satchel, she produced a small smith’s hammer.
The two sat in the darkness for a moment after that, listening to their panting breath and the screaming of a dying man in the camp above-ground. Up there, the fight was over up.
A second match was struck, illuminating the pained face of a young man. He saw Mavri holding the hammer, but then looked around them. “We could kill each other,” he said. “Or we could try to find a way out.”
“You got anything better than a match?” Mavri asked. Of course, he wouldn’t say if he had a weapon.
The man’s shadowy face contorted. “Not on me. You?”
Mavri nodded. “Torch,” she said, and produced it from the pack. Matches were easily ruined, and she didn’t feel like lowering her hammer to fight with flint and striker. She held it toward him, and he lit it.
The torchlight soon illuminated the slanted slab of rock that supported them. The ceiling of dirt, roots, and rocks above them was only high enough to stand at a hunch, as Mavri was doing. Above the sitting, young bandit was the hole they had fallen through, though the surface looked much farther above than a short ceiling. A dark recess beyond the hole promised deeper crevices and darker caverns.
“Move back,” Mavri told the survivor. “I’ll check if the roots can be climbed.”
Her former assailant eyed her quietly. “My leg is broken,” he said, quietly. “If you climb out, you’ll leave me to my death.”
Mavri wasn’t in the habit of killing unarmed or crippled opponents, but she showed him her hammer and growled, “I can kill you first then—move back.”
This stirred the man to drag himself back.
Mavri craned her head back—sore neck screaming out—and peered out at the moonlit canopy of leaves far above the hole. She prayed that her comrades had won the fight above, but couldn’t imagine another way out without their help. “Narim?” she called to the surface. “Toris?”
Her call was greeted by a downpour of dirt and rocks. She staggered back, blinking and coughing. A distant voice called, “Mavri? It’s too unstable! We can’t get down to you.”
Mavri looked back up the hole, wordlessly.
“Mavri,” muttered the young, injured man. “Maybe there’s another way out?”
“Not in the business of sharing names with the likes of you,” Mavri told him.
“You might need me.”
Mavri scowled. “Your leg is broken. What need have I of that?” She ushered the flame toward the darkness, revealing an even narrower gap between rock floor and dirt ceiling. She was going to get crushed by a cave-in, she was certain. “Fine. It’s narrower in there, so go check it out.”
“Gods,” the man repeated. Using his one good leg, he dragged himself through the ring of torchlight and into the dimmer recesses of the cave. After a few moments, he called back, “There’s another drop back here, but I can’t see how far down.”
Mavri looked back up the opening that had deposited them down there to die. “Narim! I’m going to try finding another way!” she shouted, then she followed her former attacker’s voice.
The ledge below their stone slab was only a few feet down, so she lowered herself onto it. From there, she could see another level down, this time beneath a great arm of dripping stone. It was probably safer there than beneath the looser layer of dirt. She clambered back up to the side of the injured man. “We need to set it and then tie it with a splint. You’re no good to me like this.”
The man nodded reluctantly, steeling himself when Mavri passed him the torch. Without waiting, Mavri forced the leg straight—the man screeched and dropped the torch onto the rock beneath him. Fortunately, it was not doused. She had Narim toss down a few proper tree branches and then tied the survivor’s leg with them.
“I’m Ruggen,” the man told her.
Mavri said nothing, simply slipped over the edge onto the next ledge. Ruggen followed cautiously.
The network of caverns and crevices was more extensive than Mavri had first realized. Twice, they saw moonlight overhead, plummeting through holes in the forest floor far above. They checked the closest narrow passages—seeking something that had a chance of reaching the surface at an angle that might let them climb out.
After about an hour of searching fruitlessly, they rounded a stone corner to cast torchlight on mossy masonry. Forming part of the hillside, a segment of an old brick wall obstructed their path. A rodent scurried away, startling Ruggen.
“You and your fellow highwaymen hiding out around here?” Mavri asked.
Ruggen shook his head.
“You followed us from Velend’s then,” Mavri pointed out. Ruggen did not object this time. Likely one of the rebels, then, Mavri thought. Without a chance at winning their independence, the rebels were forced to return defeated or seek their livelihood through ulterior means.
A massive root had broken through the brick wall, causing an opening. Mavri had hoped it would lead outside, but found herself standing in an old, sunken corridor. Dirt and moss stained the walls and rounded out the corners of the floor. A silent rasp could be heard, past the popping of the torch—and beyond that, a distant, metallic clink.
Mavri lowered her eyes, searching for the nearby rasp. Dirt, root, pebble, root…hand! A hand lay amongst the detritus, sunken flesh around rotten bone. One of its fingers unfurled, then pulled a line through the dirt, curling up once more. Twice more it repeated this, its bone rasping against the stonework. A similarly chilling hand seemed to grab hold of Mavri’s stomach—dread filled her.
“Gods!” cried Ruggen. “Foul sorceries…there must be another way.”
Mavri looked at his grimy face, his fearful features. There was no other way, she feared. She stepped closer and brought her hammer down on the cursed hand, crushing its fingers to dust. She regarded it once more, warily, but it made no further movements. She looked back at Ruggen. “Let’s press on.”
In the next room, they saw a figure in a similar state of decay, sitting against the wall. Old fabrics lay in decomposed tatters around the gaping ribcage of a half-rotten woman. She made no movement, even as they passed her with the torchlight. Whatever had animated that hand, it had not worked its magic on her—or the magic had already failed.
“Have you seen anything like this before?” Ruggen asked.
Mavri shook her head. “Never myself, though one of the Commanders likes to tell the tale of his visit to the ruins of Niyaniye. Says there’s bodies walking the streets in circles, shoulder-to-shoulder. Slowly rotting until they’re nothing but bones.”
“Can they still move then, as skeletons without flesh?”
“’Course not,” Mavri snorted. “How could they move without muscle?”
Ruggen nodded, stepping forward with a pained grunt. “Let’s hurry through here—it’s all wrong down here.”
Mavri’s words did not ease her own dread, so she agreed with his words through her own action, hurrying around the splayed roots in the center of the ghostly chamber to a corridor on the other side. An old, half-rotten door hung from one hinge—Mavri stepped through until she realized Ruggen would be unable to. She broke the wood away with her boot.
Another animated corpse was staggering down the corridor. A rusted metal plate hung against his chest, while the rest of his armour decorated the hall. One arm dangled longer than the other for it clutched a rusty blade. Though it had no eyes, it moved directly towards them.
“Uh, Mavri…” Ruggen said.
Mavri approached the corpse cautiously. When the body shifted its shoulders in an attempt to swing its blade at her, she stepped back. Then she moved in and slammed her hammer down on the thing’s half-rotten skull. Little more than dust emerged as the head of the thing snapped off and rolled away.
The reanimated body did not collapse as she had expected. Instead, it turned back once more, floundering at her with its corroded sword. The old weapon grazed along her thigh, drawing blood—Mavri backstepped quickly, cursing.
The headless thing turned toward her once more.
“Hold this!” Mavri called, passing Ruggen the torch.
When the undead came at her again, she caught its arm in one hand, and brought her hammer down, severing the limb. She quickly tossed it aside, while the limb bent at the elbow, still trying to draw blood with the rusted sword. The creature’s other hand grasped at her tunic, but she yanked back from the thing—the hand tore off, maintaining its grip on her shirt.
Mavri bellowed angrily, and kicked the handless body back. The fingers clawed up her tunic, trying to find some weakness or means of paining her. She ripped it off, then slammed her hammer down on the floor-tiles, turning its knuckles to dust. She repeated this with the sword-arm, then went as far as to hammer in the corpse’s knees to prevent it from following them.
“Let’s get out of here,” she urged Ruggen. He set fire to the torso as they passed—though the fire didn’t hold purchase in the damp, rotten flesh and soon sputtered out.
The next room had another walking undead, but it was unarmed and made no motions towards them. Mavri incapacitated it to be safe. By the torchlight, Ruggen pointed out a large crest etched into the doorframe of another room. It showed three stars above a stern lion’s face. “Mean anything to you?” the limping man asked.
“No,” Mavri said. “You?”
Ruggen shook his head and followed Mavri down the next hall. After that they found a staircase, leading up and up into the shadows. Half the steps were out, but it was more promising than anything else they had found. At the top of the ascent, they found a layer of dirt and rock and root—just like where they had entered this ruinous system of caverns and coffins. Mavri prayed it was shallower as she set to work pulling at roots with her good hand.
Soon enough, the pale light of the moon was shining through the cracks. Ruggen and she clambered out onto the forest floor, panting and sweating. Mavri’s thigh was still bleeding—she’d need to bind it.
But first, she’d need to reunite with her comrades. “Ruggen,” she began, “Are there more of you hiding out here?”
He looked at her and smiled weakly. “No. I had hoped some might have survived your friends…will you kill me?”
Mavri sighed. “No.”
“Will they?”
“I’ll see that they don’t,” Mavri assured him. “No one should survive that ordeal only to die beneath the moon. Come back to the city with us.” Without waiting for a nod, she lifted her voice: “Narim! Toris! We’re over here!”