The ghost recoiled upon seeing that weapon. He knew it, yet knew it not. A strange, frightening weapon. He watched as Last drew the sword from its sheath. Single-edged, dark, mottled iron, its tip weighted and slightly flaring. The deep ferule running the length of the blade was a black, nightmarish streak, like an etching of the Abyss itself. It stank of death-the whole weapon, this terrible instrument of destruction.
Last hefted the sword in his hand. ‘I would rather a spear,’ he said.
‘We don’t like spears,’ Nappet hissed. ‘Do we?’
‘No,’ the others chorused.
Last’s frown deepened. ‘No, me neither. I don’t know why I… why I… wanted one. An imp’s whisper in my head, I guess.’ And he made a warding gesture.
Sheb spat to seal the fend.
‘We don’t like spears,’ Rautos whispered. ‘They’re… dangerous.’
The ghost agreed. Fleshless and yet chilled, shivering. There had been a spear in his past-yes? Perhaps? A dreadful thing, lunging at his face, his chest, slicing the muscles of his arms. Reverberations, shivering up through his bones, rocking him back, one step, then another-
Gods, he did not like spears!
‘Come on,’ Taxilian said. ‘It is time to find a way in.’
There was a way in. The ghost knew that. There was always a way in. The challenge was in finding it, in seeing it and knowing it for what it was. The important doors stayed hidden, disguised, shaped in ways to deceive. The important doors opened from one side only, and once you were through they closed in a gust of cold air against the back of the neck. And could never be opened again.
Such was the door he sought, the ghost realized.
Did it wait in this dead city?
He would have to find it soon. Before the hunter found him-found them all. Spear Wielder, slayer, the One who does not retreat, who mocks in silence, who would not flinch-no, he’s not done with me, with us, with me, with us.
br />
The ghost recoiled upon seeing that weapon. He knew it, yet knew it not. A strange, frightening weapon. He watched as Last drew the sword from its sheath. Single-edged, dark, mottled iron, its tip weighted and slightly flaring. The deep ferule running the length of the blade was a black, nightmarish streak, like an etching of the Abyss itself. It stank of death-the whole weapon, this terrible instrument of destruction.
Last hefted the sword in his hand. ‘I would rather a spear,’ he said.
‘We don’t like spears,’ Nappet hissed. ‘Do we?’
‘No,’ the others chorused.
Last’s frown deepened. ‘No, me neither. I don’t know why I… why I… wanted one. An imp’s whisper in my head, I guess.’ And he made a warding gesture.
Sheb spat to seal the fend.
‘We don’t like spears,’ Rautos whispered. ‘They’re… dangerous.’
The ghost agreed. Fleshless and yet chilled, shivering. There had been a spear in his past-yes? Perhaps? A dreadful thing, lunging at his face, his chest, slicing the muscles of his arms. Reverberations, shivering up through his bones, rocking him back, one step, then another-
Gods, he did not like spears!
‘Come on,’ Taxilian said. ‘It is time to find a way in.’
There was a way in. The ghost knew that. There was always a way in. The challenge was in finding it, in seeing it and knowing it for what it was. The important doors stayed hidden, disguised, shaped in ways to deceive. The important doors opened from one side only, and once you were through they closed in a gust of cold air against the back of the neck. And could never be opened again.
Such was the door he sought, the ghost realized.
Did it wait in this dead city?
He would have to find it soon. Before the hunter found him-found them all. Spear Wielder, slayer, the One who does not retreat, who mocks in silence, who would not flinch-no, he’s not done with me, with us, with me, with us.
We need to find the door.
The way in.
They reached the dragon’s stone forelimb with its claws that stood arrayed like massive, tapering pillars of marble, tips sunk deep into the hard earth. Everywhere surrounding the foundations the ground was fissured, fraught with cracks that tracked outward. Rautos grunted as he crouched down to peer into one such rent. ‘Deep,’ he muttered. ‘The city is settling, suggesting that it has indeed sucked out the water beneath it.’
Taxilian was scanning the massive tower that comprised the limb in front of them, tilting his head back, and back. After a moment he staggered, cursing. ‘Too much,’ he gasped. ‘This one leg could encompass a half-dozen Ehrlii spires-if it is indeed hollow, it could hold a thousand inhabitants all by itself.’
‘And yet,’ Rautos said, coming up alongside him, ‘look at the artistry-the genius of the sculptors-have you ever seen such skill, on such a scale, Taxilian?’
‘No, it surpasses… it surpasses.’
Sheb stepped in between two of the talons, slipped into shadows and out of sight.
There were no obvious entranceways, no formal portals or ramps, no gates; no windows or apertures higher up.
‘It seems entirely self-contained,’ said Taxilian. ‘Did you notice-no evidence of outlying farms or pasture land.’
‘None that survived the interval of abandonment,’ Rautos replied. ‘For all we know, after all, this could be a hundred thousand years old.’
‘That would surprise me-yes, the surface is eroded, worn down, but if it was as old as you suggest, why, it would be little more than a shapeless lump, a giant termite tower.’
‘Are you certain of that?’
‘No,’ Taxilian admitted. ‘But I recall once, in a scriptorium in Erhlitan, seeing a map dating from the First Empire. It showed a line of rugged hills inland of the city. They ran like a spine parallel to the coast. Elevations had been noted here and there. Well, those hills are still there, but not as bold or as high as what was noted on the map.’
‘And how old was the map?’ Rautos asked.
Taxilian shrugged. ‘Twenty thousand? Fifty? Five? Scholars make a career of not agreeing on anything.’
‘Was the map on hide? Surely, no hide could last so long, not even five thousand years-’
‘Hide, yes, but treated in some arcane way. In any case, it had been found in a wax-sealed container. Seven Cities is mostly desert. Without moisture, nothing decays. It just shrinks, dries up.’ He gestured with one hand at the stone facade before them. ‘Anyway, this should be much more weathered if it was so old as to outlast signs of farming.’