acolyte-chapters

[acolyte-chapters]

04 | Camp

The blood that stains my robes has cooled around me. Perhaps I’ve lain here hours, or a year.

My mind is filled again with skeletons: How quickly they unbarred their door, how far they followed me, how accurately their archers shot me. Twice. I do not hear them now, but if they’ve found my hiding place, they may yet have the patience and the stealth to mount an ambush. The common undead breathe. But these?

I also breathe, but not for long, if I continue bleeding. My gauges, if uncovered, would verify my time is running out. They self-illuminate in darkness. Of course that would attract the skeletons. The arrows I plucked out bear witness to their visual acuity. I should like to scoop their eyes out, if it can be done with points of light, and learn how sharp they are exactly. Perhaps they could replace my own. I’d learn much, I think, from just one captured skeleton.

I have not forgotten I am dying. It is forefront in my mind, demanding my attention when I might be focusing on other thoughts. Each breath I draw disturbs my wounds and fills me with excruciating pain. I have made myself accustomed to it so that I may go on lying here as long as possible, even if I’m certain of my safety.

My gauges are a copy of designs once popular in Ethiopia, where sorcerors worked metal with their naked minds. The spirals are concentric. Each gauge displays two quantities: The present level of the property it measures, and my capacity for holding it, expressed in orders of magnitude. Compared with phlogiston conducers, for example, a device like this is easily made, but far less useful, and thus, less lucrative. Unlike a ballast brush, its measurements are imprecise at any quantity, and though it is much easier to carry, modern artificers confine their greater manipulations to the safety of the workshop, and do not use these in the field. Furthermore, this specimen has flaws of workmanship for which its tolier, I hope, was executed. There are three gauges, each labeled. The first, whose text reads “Hunger,” reacts to the Ritual of Hunger and measures my salubrity. The second, “Infamie,” measures my infamy in response to the Ritual of Fear. The third is titled “Parkour.”

I negotiated a discount with no difficulty whatsoever.

When last I came so close to death, recovery cost weeks of bed rest. My experiments, unsupervised, were spoiled. I was almost ruined, not by rivals, but by a drunken peasant with a knife. The Ritual of Hunger, though expensive to acquire and annoying to maintain, was an insurance policy I could no longer afford to do without. The Ritual of Fear, by contrast, was an afterthought, an accident. I pursued it only because I had obtained the means by which to measure it. Even so, already it has paid for itself one hundred times over.

The Ritual of Hunger, understandably, is not well documented. All the loopholes I’ve exploited are my own discoveries. Perhaps I’ve plumbed the depths of its utility, or perhaps there is much more to know. Ah… I’m woozy, close to passing out. Very well, I’ll learn more shortly. It is time.

For an instant I can smell the garbage in the alleyway where I was stabbed.

Groping in the dark, I unseal a canopic jar and extract two hearts of artichoke, as warm as when I stored them. Carefully, I bite before I chew. The broth soaked into them runs down my chin and sleeve.

I wait. Not long. At once, my bones ache and my muscles itch, all the more intensely than my other trials. This pleases me. I’ve answered question one — yet the other’s as important. Oh, this blasted itching grinds my teeth! I seal up the jar, in agony, and then lie still.

Below me, I hear motion.

Skeletons? No. It slithers, long and winding, through the funguses, tracing out the path I took. It smells my blood. The skeletons cannot; they have no noses. Then again, they have no ears, and seem to hear. I must know how — in time. I have more pressing problems. It’s possible they’ve led this creature here to root me out. How many have they tamed? Will I escape from a single beast only to face a battalion of skeleton cavalry?

I cannot wait it out. I’ll risk it calling reinforcements. Itching still, I stow the jar and brace my back against the wall. The creature’s movements grow more agitated. My feet find purchase and I push as slowly as I can. The statue gently tilts. Stone grinds on stone.

The creature whips around, hesitates, then climbs the statue. I barely register the shifting weight before its face is near me in the dark. Its breath is warm. I push. The statue falls, the creature with it.

Its cry is shrill. I’ve hurt it. A gout of flame erupts among the funguses. I pull my shovel loose before my eyes adjust.

My aim was fortunate. The creature’s pinned, or crushed, beneath the statue. It spits another flame, but cannot turn to face me. A clump of vegetation catches fire.

I slide back down the wall to take a closer look. My hunter is a salamander, blind and wet. The statue, with its jester’s cap, has pierced its body. It will not survive. I’ll hurry it along.

I swing my shovel and its head is severed.

For a moment, I’m surprised. The shovel feels light, the swing was easy. Do I not know my own strength?

I remember, and I smile. I’ve answered question two.

[acolyte-chapters]

03 | Bluff

The staircase is narrow and twisting, the steps too tall, the ceiling low. Twice, I hit my head.

I have descended perhaps four stories when I recognize the sound of rushing water. I creep forward. The stairs spill out onto a balcony, ornately railed, that offers an impressive view of the sheer natural rock wall six inches away. I cannot repress a sigh.

Even so, I'll do some sightseeing. The railing makes a solid place to lash my rope, and I climb down, lantern hanging from the shovel on my back. The rock walls -- both of them -- recede rapidly into the darkness. I feel flecks of water on my cheek, and turn to shield the lantern. It is open at the top. I do not look forward to climbing back up in the dark to relight it if it happens to go out. Ah, a waterfall! How tall, how wide. What is this doing under the city? I cannot wait to speak with a geologist. A biologist, as well! What kind of fish is this?

Auhngh, uh?! Blast you! SLIMY CREATURE! It's flung itself from the top of the waterfall and landed precisely in my hood. I seize it, but it's slippery. I almost lose it in my tunic. By reflex, I attempt to grab it with both hands.

I fall. The fish is gone. I catch the rope.

For long moments I dangle, swinging lazily. An occasional wet slap from far below punctuates the roaring of my blood. What possessed me to come down here in the first place? How far did I fall in the instant I lost my grip? It is by luck that I arrested my fall. If I had brought a shorter rope, I'd be down there with the fish, bleeding out on jagged rocks...

I glance down and find the fish. My lantern's light, however dim, makes its scales shimmer as it performs one last heroic flop off the edge of a platform. A level platform. Masonry. I barely register the splash as it plunges back into the underground stream.

Greed fills me. I descend as far as my rope will carry me, close enough to see where the platform... no, the bridge... meets a wall, and an iron door hangs open. I smile darkly, as if success is already upon me and I have only to grasp it. The drop is less than twice my height. The bridge is directly below me. I can release the rope and bypass perhaps seven stories' worth of obstacles. Or I can climb up and suffer through it.

I think for just a moment. I've chosen already.

I drop and roll. The lantern shatters -- too bad! I land with one leg dangling off the edge. My rope slips through the railing above and falls past me as I stand. I begin to pull it up, but it's caught on something in the water. Never mind, then. I untie my harness and throw the rope away. Goodbye!

The lantern is ruined, but some of the oil pooled in part of the casing, and I light it. It won't last long. My gauges are intact. Hmm, did I get nothing from the fish? Why rats and not a fish? No matter. I face the door while stepping over scattered fishbones. There's a ghoulish sculpture overhead, little more than a bust, of a skeleton holding up a chalice. A toast to you, too, skeleton!

Inside. The ceiling's low, but the room stretches on with rows of shelves the size of coffins. Human bones are absolutely everywhere. A room that makes some sense for once -- I'm pleased. I select a femur from one of the haphazard piles and pluck some old, dry linen from a shelf. A crude torch, just in time. It burns, but poorly.

I walk the aisles, sifting through the bones for any other items I can use. I wonder, who disturbed and rearranged them all? Perhaps they were never laid properly on the shelves as entire bodies, only dumped in random heaps and stuffed into convenient holes. They do seem far more numerous than what the crypt was built to hold. Here's one strewn across a table and a chair, as if it sat down and disintegrated.

As I approach it, the skull swivels to face me. I freeze. I don't think I triggered any traps. When nothing further happens, I relax and set the torch down to inspect the skull. It's not attached to anything. I simply pick it up and sweep my other hand along the table. There's no mechanism here that I can find.

The jaw snaps shut. I flinch. Two points of light appear inside the eye sockets and grow brighter as I watch. It opens and closes its jaw rapidly. I drop it on the table and it begins to bounce around, chattering its teeth. An unseen force yanks it back onto its spine, and the entire skeleton reassembles itself at once. It tries to stand, awkwardly, having trapped the arm of its chair inside its ribcage.

I stand there in astonishment. What is holding it together with no connective tissues? How is it moving with no blood to enchant? None of this is possible in the art as I have studied it. The skeleton latches onto me and bites me on the shoulder.

I punch it in the face. It makes a great show of spinning its skull around while digging its fingers into my robes. I turn my body and slam it against the wall, and it falls apart. The skull resumes chattering its teeth. It's time I left. I grab my torch... and it flies out of my hand and across the room to be part of another skeleton. The chattering is greeted by a thousand echoes.

I'm quite surrounded.

I unstrap my shovel as fast as my hands will move. Green fire blooms in sconces all over the room. A second skeleton creeps towards me while two more jump up and down excitedly. I bash the nearest with my shovel until it collapses. One of the others yanks its own skull off and flings it at me, hitting me in the shoulder. I run.

The next aisle is blocked by perhaps a dozen of them caught in a massive tangle of bones. I can't get around it. In the aisle after that is a single upright skeleton. It does not attack me, and instead sways its hips while sensually fondling itself. I bash it in the face. Another falls from a high shelf, just missing me, its bones scattering when it lands.

I round the corner. The door -- No, it's the other way. I spin around in time to take a knife in the arm. I swing my shovel, but this one jumps back nimbly. It has a spare knife clutched in its teeth. I charge for the door, and reach it, at the cost of a shallower slash to my cheek. I try to pull it closed behind me. A skeleton wedges it open with its pelvis, which appears to be on fire. It reaches for me. I duck, and an arrow shot through the opening flies over my head.

There's a rumble from behind the door. I grab the outstretched arm and kick its owner in the knee. It falls, and something slams the door closed from within, lopping off the arm I'm holding at the elbow. The fingers curl into an offensive gesture before falling off. I slide the ulna through the handles. The door is barred.

Outside the crypt, the bridge is lit a sickly green. I run across it with abandon. Behind me, amid the sounds of chaos, the sculpture leers with glowing eyes and a chalice full of flame.

[acolyte-chapters]

02 | Wedge

That was refreshing. My thoughts are now quite clear.

I take the jagged tunnel. If I were to judge from first impressions, its broader, straighter sibling advertises itself too ostentatiously, as if to say, "This is certainly the route you seek!" Therefore it is a trap.

Well, I'll find traps in either direction. This I do not doubt.

I tread softly, but keep the lantern lit. It is not a liability. After multiple excursions to other sites, I've discovered that the undead have great difficulty detecting slower movements and gradual changes in light conditions. Indeed, I've lured a nest of ghouls into the open, and as the sun rose minutes later, watched them stupidly evaporate with nowhere left to run. This detail was not mentioned in the textbooks and I have not discussed it with the faculty. Among my peers, at least, most do not grasp the concept. Two deny it outright. Another surmises that the decay of their eyes, though arrested, leaves their vision blurry. I do not think he is wrong, but I also blame their very short attention spans.

Incidentally, that fellow labeled me "barbaric" and refused to work with me again. He has some anger issues.

Here, the tunnel forks, or rather, there is a narrow staircase on one side that I would not have seen if I were moving faster. The masonry surrounding it is badly damaged. I stop and think. The Palm is hidden deep below the surface, but not every descending staircase is necessarily a path to the region my map describes. For now, I'll ignore the stairs and find out what else is on the upper level.

I turn a corner -- they are tighter here than at the entrance -- to see the word "HOPE" engraved above me in an archway. Beyond, the floor is made of tiles, some of which are marked, and these set far enough apart that someone very agile could leap among them on one foot. I expect all of these are pressure plates.

The markings are Neshili sphenographs, naturally. God's nostrils! Who exhumed this forsaken language with its thousands of infuriating triangles? You'd do as well to read it as to fill your eyes with broken glass -- the latter may be more enjoyable! The demise of their empire in a conflagration of illiteracy was to be expected when they could not curtail the self-flagellation involved in writing sentences as simple as "You have two cows." If there were ever scholars fluent in this nonsense, I expect both of them are buried here.

At any rate, I can decipher none of it and am reduced to guesswork. There are two engraved tiles within my reach if I use my shovel as a probe. I unpack it, crouch just this side of the archway, and use the tip to press down on the tile to my left.

Immediately, a hurricane of blades fills the air ahead of me.

It lasts only seconds; they vanish into the walls. My shovel is mercifully untouched. More importantly, I wonder, how quickly does the trap reset itself? I press the same tile right away. Again, the blades appear. This time I can plainly judge their clearance to the floor -- enough for my shovel, but not for my body if I crawl. Each blade runs in a track perpendicular to the hallway, sliding out of one wall and straight across into the other. I press the tile again. The nearest blade swings from right to left, when before it swung from left to right. The others alternate behind it, interleaving like shuffled cards, leaving no room to stand between them.

I assume each blade is mounted on a pendulum. What I see of them is the lower part of a disc, with no surface irregularities by which I could halt or jam their movement. It cannot be disarmed without demolishing the walls, and I did not bring the necessary materials for doing so.

Can I wind the mechanism down? I probe the unmarked tiles around the one I started with. Each triggers it, and afterwards it resets no less quickly. It may take years to see results. Unfeasible.

Very well. I'll play your game.

I press the marked tile to my right. The blades appear. Yes, I thought so. I've only been delaying the inevitable.

I try the left again. More blades. I'll find the pattern. Now left, now right again. More blades.

Left is "true" and right is "false." I begin reciting truth tables, first in pairs of two, then three. Each time, more blades. Did I miss a row? I start again. Again, more blades. I try all the unmarked tiles. I try adding them to other sequences. I try starting with the nearest tiles as if I'm walking blindly. Blades, blades, blades.

I stand and throw my shovel at the wall.

Hope! I took the bait. I knew what sort of mind built this place, and some part of me still expected to overcome it. With youth? With cleverness? With the righteousness of my cause? Laughable. Coming here was not even my idea. They will send another if I fail, or a team of people. Better equipped, more experienced, familiar with the layout.

I gaze down the trapped hallway, and my stomach churns. Perhaps if I become angry enough I can simply leap over the tiles!

Or perhaps I will try it, fall short, and die in an instant. Minced human flesh, a snack for rats. "Here lies some imbecile. He accomplished nothing. Then he died." No, not even that -- I'll simply be forgotten. The world will turn and I will decompose.

Ah, I'm glowering at air. If I could stare at the blades, and hate those, it would be healthier. That I cannot bypass the obstacle is one thing, but its absent character makes this all the more humiliating. My anger here is not invigorating. It has sublimated into something cold and empty, and it threatens to consume me.

I gather my tools. With slow steps and gritted teeth, I turn back towards the stairs. I will not come this way again.

[acolyte-chapters]

01 | Arch

I climb down the well.

In the first place, I should not have to call it a well. Either the orifice itself is misnamed or the passages below are filled with water on account of being submerged under the water table. I shall therefore drown at the bottom. Perhaps my reanimated carcass will carry on with the assignment and return half-soaked to the university, to attend lectures and waft about the stench while my soft tissues decompose. That would serve them right.

On the other hand, if the catacombs are original and the well is of more recent construction, then the halls were dug through rock with the intent of being dry. The laborers who sunk the well, finding open air instead of water, must have made a show of bricking up the curb to keep their error secret. Is such petty spinelessness common in this country? Do fletchers also make limp arrows out of cat gut rather than admit they have run out of wood?

My sole finds solid footing. The floor is dry. I light and raise my lantern.

This is the worst scenario possible.

Pissant! Blight! Wretch! Foul odor! Your name, your family, your dinner of roast duck with caviar -- I curse them all! Pray that we will never meet. I'll scoop your eyes out. Here you have caused me an eyesore, so I'll repay it. My blood boils... Ah, I'd like to boil yours! Architect!

Work is the proof of human worthiness. It is by working that we earn survival. Give survival freely, without demanding sacrifice of sweat and tears, and you make us into wild animals rolling in our excrement. But that contract binds both ways. We cannot say our work has value if it is effort spent accomplishing nothing whatsoever for the betterment of society. A feast that is buried instead of eaten wastes both the food and the hours cooking it.

Authority demands prudence. A worker without ability has no hope for himself. A leader who delegates his wastefulness takes hope from others. The former is unworthy. The latter makes a plague out of his own incompetence.

Failure is natural. Parasites are inadmissible.

Standing at the bottom of the "well," I can plainly tell that the curb and the tunnels leading away from it were built at the same time, by the same masons, from the same materials. The arches of the tunnels are a clean and well-fitted transition to the round wall of the curb, and the floor continues from one space to the next without a threshold. All I see, perhaps everything in these catacombs, was conceived of, planned, and constructed as a single massive development.

The shaft above me was never a well. It was never going to be a well. That is a disguise, as whimsical a feature as the ugly faces lining the tunnel to my left, or the drunken, irregular zig-zag of the tunnel behind me. The architect of this place was trusted by any number of diggers and masons, capable people who clearly knew what they were about, and yet had their efforts squandered on these mad designs. As I expore below I should not be surprised to encounter stairways that lead nowhere, bridges that fail to cross their gaps, doors with locks but no hinges, and assorted levers not connected to any mechanism. Each delay will distract me from my task, rob me of precious time just as it has robbed the builders. Just as it will rob anyone who explores here after I do.

That is, if I do not destroy it first.

The very thought sets clockwork spinning in my mind, but this too is a distraction I can scarcely afford. I shut my eyes and focus. When my task is finished, when I have the Palm, when I am walking back to the university... Then I can relish such contemplations. Not before.

But I will write myself a note.

I pierce my thumb with a scalpel and drip blood onto a sheet of parchment. Architect, you putrid abscess, I may not know your name, but you will soon learn mine. When everything you've ever made is burned, I'll force it out of you. The last word you say. Your dying curse. Merovech.