LUZ
I may be Aphorain born and bred, but in all my days I have never experienced such heat as the heart of Ekasya Mountain. By the Primordial’s grace, navigating the streets above was easy, given the capital was near-empty of ordinary citizens. Darzul’s operation to help the refugees escape was executed admirably.
Now, sweat trickles down the back of my neck to soak my shirt. I stink to the sky. Yet how pretty one looks or smells matters little when one has a load of explosives strapped to their back.
I’ve thankfully long passed the last of the sewers, where the effluent of the imperial complex is piped into a single tunnel to flow out to the river. They may act like their feculence smells of roses but I have empirically observed that is a patent falsehood.
The descent through floor upon miserable floor of the dungeons wasn’t much better. Witnessing the places where my kind were imprisoned and tortured was unpleasant enough. But when Zostar’s men left this place with its skeleton guard – so few it was possible to pick them off one by one – they also left behind any of the prisoners who were not of worth. Their bodies are now in various stages of decay. Even if I had scruples about the deaths that will come from what I’m about to do, they would be paling against the urge to even the ledger.
But there’s no time for petty revenge quests now. There’s a greater balance needed, one bigger than I, or Zostar, or the Empire itself. An ancient asymmetry of human foibles in divine minds. It’s that which keeps me moving one foot after the other, ever deeper into the Mountain.
The first vent is built beneath the palace as the conduit for the hot water the imperial family and their ilk enjoyed from the thermal springs. A myriad of tunnels tangle around each other at this level, so that it won’t take much power to bring several down. Alas, only utmost precision will keep it all from caving in on my head.
With that splendid thought firmly in mind, I keep moving, ever deeper.
At the second duct, scorching air buffets me; the centre of the earth is a forge and the bellows are being worked by the Primordial themself. In mere moments, it makes my skin feel as if it has been sun-scorched from a day in the desert. I turn away from the heat and scrunch my eyes shut, dousing them with water from my canister.
Any further than this, and the pack I’m carrying is at risk. I set the haul of volatile material down ever so gently. It’s only going to get worse from here, and the last thing I want is the heat to cause a reaction. Nobody enjoys a premature conclusion, least of all me.
Working with individual packs of explosive powder, I cover a generous area of ground, affixing them at measured points along the tunnel walls with sticky resin, checking and double-checking the fuses. Each is coated in highly flammable yeb balm to ensure that once it’s lit, it doesn’t sputter out partway to its destination. It also means that if there’s one misstep, one tiny particle of flame pirouetting up the tunnel on the searing wind, it’ll all be over before its purpose could be served. Steady hands and deft fingers – by Asmudtag’s grace, please do not fail me now.
Eventually, finally, everything is in place.
I retreat as far as possible. With a prayer to the Primordial on my lips, I light the fuse, and sprint in the opposite direction.
The fuses detonate each of their targets with percussive roars that join forces, rushing up the tunnel to hit me in the back. Powdered rock and debris follows in a choking cloud. I cover my face with my sleeve until it subsides.
Satisfied there’s no more rock to fall for the immediate future, I wipe the grime from my forehead and retrace my steps to check my handiwork.
Only part of the tunnel has collapsed. Some of the packets remain along one wall, intact.
It’s not enough. It has to be completely sealed to generate the pressure required. Otherwise it could take days, moons, even turns until the blockages I’ve already created further down the line will take effect. I don’t need a messenger scroll from the battlefield to know that’s going to be too late for us all.
I hunker down over my pack to check my supplies. There’s probably enough powder to do the trick if I use up the last of it here. But there’s nowhere near the length of fuse to run back up the tunnel far enough to give me any hope of clearing this place before it comes down on my head.
I rock back on my heels. My mind doesn’t attempt to find another avenue. It’s clear there isn’t one. This is it. I swore to serve Asmudtag, to work towards keeping the world in balance until my last breath.
I never fancied living long enough to descend into doddery frailty. And I’d venture there are far more tedious ways to depart this earthly realm. One could have a worse ending than instant cremation by Primordial inferno, my ashes joining the maelstrom destined to slay the gods themselves. Even a Scent Keeper doesn’t live as long as a legend. And a legend I shall be.
So, if this be the end, I’m ready. At least I’ll be going out with a bang.
I reset the explosives and prepare to light the last fuse.