Bram walked swiftly to a trunk where he retrieved three Canopic jars inscribed with hieroglyphics. Stowing them in a pack, he pulled on his heavy cloak. “Have you ever been at high altitude?”
“Aboard the Kestrel,” said Max, for the ship had taken David and him deep into the night sky on their way to the Sidh. “But I don’t remember much of that. It was like a dream.”
“There is nothing dreamlike about the Witchpeaks,” said Bram. “The air is dangerously thin and the cold can freeze flesh in minutes. We will have to climb, for we cannot teleport directly to the witches’ temple—Ymir forbids it.”
From the trunk he retrieved two pairs of crampons, a stout rope, and an ice ax. Coming over, Max knelt and buckled the crampons around his boots.
“The initial ascent is the most challenging,” said Bram, doing likewise. “Once we reach the first ledge, we can join the paths the witches take.”
The Archmage glanced at Ember, who was making an angry thrumming in his throat as he circled about the chamber, his attention fixed on the chaotic scene in Blys. Whenever he heard the other dragon roar, Ember bared his teeth.
“Mina,” said Bram sharply. “Keep Ember here. Do not let him leave Túr an Ghrian—not even to visit the Sanctuary.”
“Why?” asked Mina.
“Astaroth did not create that abomination by accident. The ancient dragons were fiercely territorial. Astaroth is trying to lure Ember away.”
Mina looked pale. “He’s going to attack Rowan?”
“He certainly intends something. And it seems he’d prefer if Ember weren’t here when it happens. Be vigilant.”
“I’ll sound the alarm,” she said.
Bram nodded. “I think that would be wise.”
Closing her eyes, Mina clapped her hands together. From far below, Max heard Old Tom’s heavy bronze bell begin to toll. Striding over to Mina, the Archmage gave her a paternal pat on the head. “Be safe, child.”
Mina nodded and tried to smile. She looked absurdly young in her Ascendant’s robes, like a little girl playing dress-up. Coming over to Max, she removed her glittering magechain and held it up. “For luck,” she said.
He took it, well aware that Mina was sinfully proud of the many ornaments and charms that hung from its silver links. That an Ascendant probably didn’t need to prove or display her masteries was beside the point. Mina loved collecting trinkets.
“Thank you,” said Max, kneeling so she could fasten it about his neck beneath his torque. “I’ll bring it back.”
She embraced him fiercely before turning and calling to Ember. The dragon was crouched by the pool, his golden head swaying back and forth as smoke poured from his nostrils. When he did not respond, she repeated her command with an authority that took Max by surprise. Tearing his attention from the scrying pool, Ember snaked toward them in a soft rustling of scales.
Bram handed Max the coiled rope. “Ember will aid us in our travels.”
Sliding the rope over his shoulder, Max double-checked his crampons, hefted the gae bolga, and nodded that he was ready. Ember loomed over them, his body as hot as the coals he’d been lying on. Bram placed his hand on the dragon’s chest, just over where Max imagined the creature’s heart would be. There was a searing hiss, but the Archmage did not wince or flinch as he beckoned Max to take his other hand. When Bram closed his eyes, a surge of blazing heat flooded Max’s body and everything went white.
He gasped as they reappeared in a place that was almost pitch dark and numbingly cold. Releasing Bram’s hand, Max reached blindly about and felt his fingers brush rough stone. A light flared in the darkness—a green glowsphere that illuminated Bram’s hard face. Looking past the Archmage, Max saw they were in a small cave with a low, narrow opening. The wind was screaming in the darkness beyond it, sending snow swirling about them.
Max’s breath came in short, rapid gasps. He felt like he was drowning.
Glancing over, Bram traced a sign with his finger.
The air grew warm, as though Max were sitting beside a comfortable fire, and oxygen flooded his lungs. He thanked Bram, but the Archmage was already crouched by several crates he’d apparently stowed on previous trips. Fishing through one, he retrieved some dried venison and stuffed the strips in a pocket. There was another ice ax propped against the cave wall, which he handed to Max.
Taking it, Max removed the gae bolga from the enchanted spear shaft the dvergar had made for him. Now that it was a short sword, Max buckled the blade to his baldric and shrank the shaft to a baton that he hooked onto his belt.
Bram crouched by the cave entrance. Peering out, he beckoned for the rope. “This is the highest one can travel by magic. From here we must climb, but I know a good path and there’s plenty of moonlight to see by. Wind will be the greatest danger. I’ve seen gusts rip people off the mountain. Stay low.” Tying the rope around Max’s waist, Bram tethered the two of them together before extinguishing the glowsphere and crawling out the cave entrance.
Max followed, squeezing through the opening onto a shallow ledge half sheltered by an overhang. Far below was a pearly sea of moonlit clouds pierced here and there by jutting, jagged peaks. Mastering an initial sense of vertigo, Max shielded his eyes from blowing ice particles and gazed up to behold countless stars in dazzling clarity. But even at these heights in the dead of night, the sky exuded a red tinge as though the world were infected. Pivoting, Max craned his neck and gazed up at Ymir’s summit. Its peak gleamed like a knife beneath the moon.
Hefting his ax, Bram shuffled to the end of the ledge and carved a handhold that he used to swing clear of the overhang. For an older man, the Archmage possessed remarkable strength and athleticism. Every movement was decisive and assured. He wasted no time or energy, stopping only to check that Max followed.
The two fell into a comfortable rhythm. They moved steadily up the steep face. It was clear Bram knew his way, for he found every little ledge, every natural handhold that might make their passage easier. Max had not done much mountaineering, but he mimicked Bram’s techniques and found that they came naturally. He tried not to think about what might be happening in Blys or back at Rowan. Instead, he lost himself in the physical task at hand—anchoring his ax, kicking his crampons into the ice, and ascending another few feet.
Bram did not take them straight up but chose a diagonal route that would bring them to another ledge, which curved up and around the face they were climbing. Squinting through the gusting snow, Max was trying to estimate how far away it was when he heard Bram shout something over the wind.
“What?” Max yelled.
The sorcerer pointed windward where powerful gusts were blowing great plumes of snow off the neighboring peak. Swinging his ax into the ice, Bram turned his face away and flattened himself against the mountain. Max quickly did the same.
Three seconds later the winds slammed into them in a screaming assault of ice that might have torn Max from the mountain if Bram hadn’t warned him.
The two did not budge for over an hour, each holding fast with ax and crampons as the windstorm raged around them. When it finally subsided, the two shook the cramps from their hands, flexed their fingers, and resumed their determined ascent. Beneath his bandages, Max’s wound had begun to ache and throb. To ignore it, he began counting his ax swings.
The count had passed eight hundred by the time they reached the ledge. Once atop it, the two sat with their backs against the mountain and took a few minutes to rest.
“The worst is over,” Bram muttered, handing Max a strip of venison. The meat was half frozen, but Max chewed it gratefully. Brushing snow from his tangled beard, the Archmage pointed to where the ledge curved out of sight. “This merges with a trail that leads to the great temple. We may encounter others ahead, for this is a holy place and pilgrims come here seeking wisdom or blessings from the witches. Ignore them. They will not trouble us. Are you ready to continue?”
With a grunt, Max rose to one knee and pushed himself up. His stomach wound was burning and he thought several stitches might have torn, but he convinced himself the pain would subside when they got moving again. Clutching his ax, he followed Bram as they hiked along the ledge. While the going was easier, the ledge was narrow and they were far more exposed to the wind. Max did not look down, but watched the nearest peaks for signs of an oncoming gale.
Within half an hour, they crossed the sheer face and rounded the mountain to behold an escarpment up ahead. An enormous stone brazier stood upon it, its flames illuminating a shrine ringed by four great statues and a small stone hut. As they came nearer, Max made out three fur-bundled figures prostrated before the shrine.
Kneeling, Bram removed his crampons. Max did the same, handing them to the Archmage, who stowed them along with the axes. When they arrived at the escarpment, Bram bowed briefly to the fearsome-looking statues before skirting the praying figures and making for a broad stair of rough, stone steps. Within the stone hut, Max saw a young Asiatic woman sitting before a small fire and singing to a little girl who gazed up with blind, unseeing eyes. No doubt, the mother sought a spell or cure from the witches, and they had stopped to seek shelter overnight. The prostrate figures outside the hut were probably relatives.
Bram was ascending the steps, his hood pulled low and his cloak billowing about him. Beneath a snow-capped ridge high above, Max saw two flames burning. The pair trudged on, their boots crunching on the snow-covered steps. The stairs continued for another hundred yards before they ended and the two had to climb the rest of the way over bare ice and snow.
A witch waited for them at the temple’s entrance, an archway of carved stone that led down into the mountain. She sat between two braziers, a wizened old thing swathed in furs and chewing betel. Her black eyes flicked warily between Max and Bram. Removing his hood, the Archmage inclined his head.
“Greetings, Dame Hakku. You’re looking well.”
The doorkeeper scowled. “How do you know my name?”
The Archmage shrugged. “My name is Bram. Did the Umadahm receive my message?”
The old witch spat in her cup. “We do not normally allow men to enter here, but she is expecting you,” she said grudgingly. “You and Rowan’s Hound may pass, but you must be cleansed before you enter the ossuaries. Umadahm’s acolytes await you within.”
Bowing low, the Archmage led Max underneath the carved archway and down a flight of curving, torch-lit stairs. They arrived at a circular antechamber whose dark walls were embedded with gleaming bones. It had only one exit, a triangular archway crowned with a human skull.
On each side of the archway stood three barefoot girls in white robes accompanied by a middle-aged witch wearing red robes and a necklace of feathers and finger bones. The acolytes were very young and bore few tattoos or markings upon their faces. They held bowls of polished teak whose steaming contents filled the room with the scent of sage and saffron. Bowing, the older witch introduced herself as Dame Treyva and indicated they must strip to the waist.
Bram did so without question or fuss. Max saw that the man’s back was laced with old scars, shiny remnants of self-flagellation. Kneeling before the witches, Bram held out his arms as three of the acolytes anointed his upper body with oil and painted henna runes upon his face.
It took Max longer to remove his layers of clothing and armor. Once Dame Treyva saw his bare torso, she grew pale and hissed something in Nepalese.
Turning, the Archmage stared at Max’s blood-soaked bandages. “When did it open?” he asked somberly.
“During the climb. What did she say?”
“That you are cursed.”
Max met the witch’s frightened gaze. “This curse is my burden, not yours. If Umadahm asks me to leave, I will go.”
The witch hesitated, frowning uncertainly, before at last beckoning him forward. When Max knelt, the acolytes smoothed oil on his skin, covering all but his midsection, which they would not touch. Using delicate brushes, the young witches painted intricate symbols upon Max’s face, neck, and the tops of his hands. While these dried, two of the acolytes added a dense border of runes around his wound while the others walked around Max and Bram in little circles, chanting quietly in their own language. Once they had finished, Dame Treyva struck a silver chime and invited their guests to dress. Bram glanced over at Max with evident concern.
“Are you fit to continue?”
Max reached for his cloak. “It’s just a little blood.”
The Archmage gave him a dubious look as Dame Treyva offered Max a cup of tea.
There was compassion in the woman’s voice and even a tinge of sadness that surprised Max. Taking the cup, he drained the pungent brew and thanked her. There was nothing magical in the drink, but its warmth was invigorating and the strong flavors cleared his head as they followed Dame Treyva through the arch and began a long descent into the mountain.
Everywhere Max turned, he saw human skulls of various age and condition. They lined ossuary shelves, adorned archways, and peered from illuminated niches set in the wall. The skulls were not displayed as ghoulish trophies. They were simply exhibits in an unusual museum.
Whereas the Archives was a repository of scrolls and books, the ossuaries housed arcana of a different sort—the knowledge possessed by shades and spirits whose mortal remains were housed in thousands of jars and urns, obsidian cases and sarcophagi that lined the shelves and niches of caverns they passed. Within each cavern, black- and red-robed witches were sifting through mounds of dirt and soil, cleaning fragments of bone, or labeling finds with the assistance of tiny homunculi.
When they’d passed a dozen such caverns and several raven rookeries, Dame Treyva took them down a dimly lit passage lined with statues of the many gods the witches held sacred: Hecate and Isis, Artemis and Cybele, Athena and Kali. The passage ended at a pair of large wooden doors carved with leering totems.
“Umadahm is very old and rarely leaves her quarters,” said Dame Treyva. “She has convened her council here. They await you within.”
Bram did not look pleased. “I must speak with her alone.”
“That is for Umadahm to decide,” said Dame Treyva, ringing a little chime.
When the doors opened, she ushered Max and Bram into a low chamber decorated with painted screens, intricate friezes, and shelves lined with ivory carvings and figurines. Through a haze of burning incense, Max saw seven elderly witches sitting in a semicircle around a glowing firepit. Beyond them was a shrunken figure wearing simple sky-blue robes and propped in an enormous bed of carved teak covered in hides and furs.
Max could not begin to guess Umadahm’s age. The woman’s hair was so white and fine that it fell like braided cobwebs about a wrinkled brown face with large, expressive eyes. As Umadahm squinted at her visitors, her toothless mouth twisted into a broad, girlish grin. Her voice was weak, her accent heavy, but there was no mistaking its warmth and humor.
“Come in,” she croaked. “Come where I can see you. I’m almost blind, curse the gods.”
Seven pairs of dark, inscrutable eyes followed Max and Bram as Dame Treyva led them around the council to Umadahm’s bedside.
“Umadahm, your sister presents the Archmage, Elias Bram, and Max McDaniels, the Hound of Rowan.”
Umadahm clucked her tongue. “You meet him at last, Treyva. It is fate, no?”
The younger witch nodded hastily.
“What is fate?” asked Bram pointedly.
Umadahm peered at him. “Our Treyva meeting the Hound. I chose her to be his mother, you see, to raise him when we learned Rowan had children of the Old Magic. For those children were pledged to us, were they not? Pledged by you, Archmage, to our ancestors. But Rowan did not honor that promise and much woe has followed.”
Max glanced at Dame Treyva, who offered a ghost of a smile before looking away. Now he understood the witch’s reaction upon seeing his wound—it had been a look of maternal worry. Some part of her still regarded Max as hers, as the child she might have raised.
Dame Treyva cleared her throat. “The Hound brings a curse, Umadahm.”
The ancient witch raised her eyebrows. “The Hound means to curse us?”
“No,” said Dame Treyva. “He bears an evil wound upon his flesh. The mark of Set is upon him.”
Frowning, Umadahm beckoned Max closer and took his hand between two that were so delicate they might have been twigs wrapped in tissue paper. Brittle fingers sought out his pulse.
“There is evil here,” the witch muttered. “But it has no interest in us. It wants the Hound.” She gazed up at him. “My beautiful boy, what have you done to yourself?”
Bram cut in. “Umadahm, we must speak with you alone.”
The witch released Max’s hand and scowled at the Archmage. “Where are your manners? Does Elias Bram give orders here?” She sighed. “No wonder we banished men from our councils. Whatever you wish to say, say before my sisters.”
“It involves Tartarus.”
Umadahm’s smile vanished. She turned to the other witches. “Leave us.”
Her sisters looked startled by the sudden order but rose and began to file out the door. As they departed, Umadahm called to one of the acolytes waiting outside, a reedy girl with coarse brown hair and quiet, knowing eyes. “Naomi, you stay here. Treyva, we are not to be disturbed for any reason. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Umadahm.”
With a parting glance at Max, Dame Treyva followed the last witch out and closed the door behind her. When Naomi locked it, Umadahm leveled her gaze at Bram. “Where did you hear that name?”
Bram turned from where he’d been admiring a carved tusk. “From one of your predecessors. When I questioned her shade, it mentioned a secret vault beneath the ossuaries, a place that houses the damned.”
Umadahm’s mouth tightened into a thin, hard line. “If you questioned one of our dead, then you have been trespassing in the ossuaries.”
Bram bowed deeply. “Many times, I must confess. I beg your pardon, Umadahm, but I had no alternative. I assure you, I have harmed no one and treated your ancestors with respect. Anything I’ve borrowed, I’ve returned to its proper place.”
The witch grunted. “A considerate burglar. How comforting.” She glanced at Naomi, who had come to stand by her bed. “Beware of sorcerers, my dear. We cannot keep them out and they don’t ask for invitations. What is it you want, Archmage?”
“For you to take us to Tartarus.”
Again, the witch addressed her protégé. “Another lesson. Sorcerers are moths fluttering around a candle. Boundless curiosity, but little wisdom. Waste no energy fighting them. Sooner or later, they fly into the flame.”
If Bram was insulted, he did not show it. “Will you take us there?”
The witch shrugged. “Would it matter if I refused? If you’re foolish enough to seek Tartarus, I will take you to its gates. But there I leave you. I will not linger to see them opened or send aid if you do not return. Is that understood?”
“Perfectly.”
“Very well,” said Umadahm, grunting as she scooted over and dangled her frail legs over the bedside. “Naomi, bring me my slippers and the gray robe. No, the blue. It’s warmer.”
The slippers Naomi brought were beaded moccasins that looked as old and scuffed as their owner. The girl slid them gently over Umadahm’s bony brown feet before helping her up and draping a blue, fur-lined robe over her narrow shoulders. Umadahm tied the robe with slow, precise movements before shuffling past the bed with Naomi.
“Follow me, gentlemen.”
The pair walked directly into the firepit’s burning coals, plunging from view as though they’d fallen through a trapdoor.
Bram grunted. “I trust you noticed it when we entered. Illusion has never been their strength.”
But Max was having a difficult time focusing on mundane details, much less seeing through illusions. His body was growing feverish and his wound was an ever-present agony. Unbuckling the gae bolga, he turned it into a spear so he could use it as a walking stick. None of this was lost on Bram, who studied him closely.
“Our efforts to forestall your curse have failed. Perhaps you should stay here.”
Max glared at him. “To do what? Rest up for Armageddon?”
“Time is fleeting, Hound. I cannot stop to wait for you.”
“You won’t have to.”
Without another word, the Archmage stepped into the firepit and disappeared. When Max followed, he felt like he’d stepped into a tub of scalding water. There was a sting of pain, a sensation of falling, and then he landed beside Bram. The portal had dropped them into a dim mineshaft that sloped down into blackness. Just ahead, Umadahm clutched a lantern of pale witch-fire while Naomi moved a sturdy handcart to the side. When the way was clear, Umadahm took the girl’s arm and they began to descend. Max and Bram fell in step behind them.
As they walked, every noise, even the shuffling of Umadahm’s slippers, seemed conspicuously loud. When Bram whispered, his voice almost hummed in the still air.
“How did you discover Tartarus? I understand you did not build it.”
“No human built Tartarus,” said Umadahm.
“You came upon it entirely by accident?” said the Archmage.
The witch sniffed. “Accident? Some might call it that, but not me. The Old Magic in Ymir doesn’t come from the witches, Archmage. It comes from the mountain itself. We pushed, but something else pulled. Perhaps it was pulling all along.”
“What were you pushing for?” asked Bram.
“The deeper one goes, the easier it is to converse with shades,” replied the witch. “They come more readily and will answer more questions. Because of this, one of the first Umadahms desired deeper caverns for the ossuaries. Goblins were hired to seek the mountain’s heart. They found deep places, but Umadahm demanded deeper ones. Eventually, the goblins grew reluctant—some reported hearing strange whispers.”
“But you kept going,” said Bram.
The witch sighed. “Umadahm did not share the goblins’ fears. One day, they broke through the roof of a cavern so vast the torches they dropped would disappear before they struck bottom. Umadahm declared they had found the heart of Ymir and knelt by the opening to pay homage. When she did, the rock gave way and she plunged into the abyss. They say her screams lasted a full minute.”
The Archmage grunted. “Why didn’t she use magic to save herself?”
Umadahm gave a peculiar smile. “I’m sure she tried, Archmage. Magic is fickle near Tartarus. Perhaps even yours. It is not our realm.”
“Whose realm is it?” asked Max.
The ancient witch paused a moment to catch her breath. “I do not know. And I do not wish to. The only reason we have not sealed this tunnel is because of a pact my sisters made.”
“What pact?” asked Bram directly.
Clutching Naomi’s arm, the witch resumed her slow progress down the dark tunnel. “You’d have made a very poor witch, Archmage. You have little patience or courtesy.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Bram, smiling. “Delicacy has never been my strength, and I’m anxious to learn all I can of Tartarus. Please tell me about this pact your sisters made.”
The witch patted his arm. “Much better. There’s hope for you yet. The pact was made when my sisters recovered the fallen Umadahm. Naturally, her sisters sought to recover her body, but the cavern was so deep it took them months to discover a way to reach the bottom. Magic would not work and no rope was long enough, but our ancestors were resourceful. When they finally reached the cavern floor, they found the Umadahm lying before doors so ancient they could not divine their origins. When they tried to collect her body and flee, they were unable to move it. The body was pinned to the cavern floor by a powerful spell. From beyond the doors, something spoke to them. It said it would release her body if they agreed to bring others as recompense. It wanted the damned, those who had committed terrible crimes against the gods or mankind. If they refused, the voice threatened vengeance.”
“And so your ancestors agreed,” said Bram darkly.
His sanctimonious tone made Umadahm chuckle. “We don’t bring bawling babies to its doorstep, Archmage. We leave remains, and only those that are accursed. In the past, my sisters left common criminals at the door but returned to find the remains untouched. If Tartarus wants you, you’ve done something bad.”
“Have you ever spoken with this voice?” asked Max.
“No,” said the Umadahm. “It’s been centuries since anyone heard it. But something is down there, something brings the damned inside. I have never seen what that is, spoken with it, or even tried to open the doors. I simply uphold our end of the pact and teach my duties to Naomi so she can carry on when I am gone.”
“Are you worried that bringing us will anger Tartarus?” asked Bram.
Umadahm laughed. “Why should Tartarus be upset with me? I am bringing it two potential additions. The poor boy is accursed. And you probably should be.”
Bram smiled. “I admire your pragmatism.”
She shrugged. “I’m an old lady. We haven’t time for anything else.”
By now, they had descended far beneath the Umadahm’s bedchamber. The air, which had been eerily still, was stirring now. A warm, fluttering breeze blew up from the blackness ahead. The tunnel’s grade grew steeper and Umadahm was forced to use a crude handrail anchored to the timber supports.
They continued on for several minutes until they reached some handcarts that had been positioned sideways against a stone slab so their wheels would not roll. Leaving the Umadahm by the carts, Naomi held the lantern aloft as she padded ahead into the darkness.
“Stay here,” said Umadahm, addressing Max and Bram. “The rock ahead is unstable and will not bear our weight. The girl will fetch a ferryman. If we are lucky, some will be close.”
“What are these ferrymen?” asked Bram.
“Your transportation,” said Umadahm cryptically. “Let us hope you’re not squeamish.”
Up ahead, Naomi had almost reached the tunnel’s end. Setting down the lantern, she crawled toward a large opening that must have been the very hole the Umadahm had fallen through. Once the girl reached it, she took up a hardwood staff that was propped against a rock and rapped it gently against the opening.
Tap … tap, tap. Tap … tap, tap.
The girl tapped the sequence three times before pressing her ear against the rock as though trying to detect some sound or vibrations. When none came, she started from the beginning.
Tap … tap, tap. Tap … tap, tap.
Naomi had repeated the sequence several times and was in mid-tap when she suddenly backed away and snatched up the lantern.
Behind her, two pale gray spiders the size of garden sheds crept out of the hole. They followed Naomi as she returned to the others, crawling on opposite walls and pausing occasionally to probe the air with a hairy foreleg. Whenever Naomi tapped the staff upon the floor, they scuttled forward to keep pace. While they did have eyes—two rows of cloudy orbs—the creatures behaved as though they were blind.
“Do not be afraid,” said Umadahm, holding out a hand as one of the spiders reached out to touch it. “The ferrymen will not harm you. Let them take hold of you.”
Her words were less reassuring when a ferryman climbed down from the wall and came within reach. The huge spider loomed over Max, staring blindly ahead, its mandibles clicking. Bristly pedipalps brushed his face before picking him up beneath his arms and turning him about so that his back was to the spider. Clutching the gae bolga, Max watched as the other ferryman handled the Archmage in similar fashion.
“Are you coming?” asked Bram, his arms folded tightly over his pack.
Umadahm shook her head. “Forgive me, but I think not. It is a long way down and I am weary. The ferrymen will see you there safely, but take care to make no light and little noise lest you attract attention. Go in peace.”
Bowing low, the Umadahm took Naomi’s arm and the two began their long trek back to the ossuaries. As the light of their lantern receded, the ferrymen turned and scuttled silently back the way they’d come. At the tunnel’s end, Max glimpsed an irregular black hole framed by chipped and fissured rock. When the ferryman slipped inside, he saw nothing but blackness.
The next few seconds were incredibly disorienting as Max was carried upside down while the ferryman crawled along the cavern’s roof. Coming to a halt, the spider swung backward and abruptly dropped from the ceiling. They descended in a swift, straight line, suspended by what must have been the spider’s thread.
Their progress was so smooth, the cavern so vast and dark, that Max soon lost any sense of time or distance. The ferryman was as silent as death. Now and again, Max heard Bram’s muffled cough in the darkness.
The longer they descended, the less Max felt connected to his body. He welcomed this, for it meant a respite from the racking pains that had become a real and present torture. There was no pain, no disquiet. His mind was peaceful, his body numb.
Is this it? Am I dying?
It would not be the worst thing, Max supposed. After all, he was tired of pain. He was tired of grief, of struggle, of resisting the inevitable. There was no sense in fighting. If he wanted to continue living, why had he broken his geis? He tried to convince himself that he’d done the noble thing. He had glimpsed his true power when he’d incinerated the Great Red Dragon in the Workshop and it had terrified him. A dreamless sleep awaited Max—a sleep without wolfhounds or questions. All he had to do was shut his eyes and let it take him.
Let it take him …
Let IT take him …
Max jolted into alertness, his heart beating like a rabbit’s. He stared into the abyss. There was something out there in the darkness. Max could sense it, a brooding malevolence that was following their descent with rising malice. Something below knew that a potential rival was entering its realm—a wounded rival, perhaps a dying rival, but a rival nonetheless.
The farther they descended, the more Max could sense of the entity. It was not demonic, but it radiated evil. And it was old. Not old and alien like Astaroth, but old like the earth, like the molten rock at its core. Strong as it was, Max also sensed uncertainty and this triggered an almost predatory response. The ache in his side diminished, replaced by a surge of adrenaline. It was not unlike Ember’s reaction to the other dragon in the scrying pool. Having sensed weakness, a part of Max wanted to find this other being, to conquer it and take its realm. The gae bolga grew warm in his hand.
Far below, Max could begin to make out the cavern floor as though it shone with its own soft light. Its surface appeared moonlike, a chalky landscape of cracked and pitted depressions that ended at an immense wall of dark stone. Max soon made out a pair of doors set within the wall. Judging by the coffins scattered on either side, they were no more than twenty feet tall—surprisingly small given the wall and cavern’s scale.
Looking over, Max found that Bram was to his right, some thirty feet away. The sorcerer was staring intently at the doors, dangling idly beneath the hideous gray ferryman whose spinnerets released a thick strand of glistening silk. Max wondered if the Archmage also sensed the malevolence around them. As they approached the cavern floor, Max could feel the presence retreating from the doors, withdrawing deeper into Tartarus.
When the ferrymen set them down upon the cavern floor, they flipped over and scuttled up their threads, eating the silk as they went. Within seconds, they were swallowed up by the darkness. Max glanced at a nearby rock and the staff propped against it. He recalled the sequence of Naomi’s tapping and wondered how long it would take a ferryman to answer their summons when they left Tartarus.
If they left Tartarus.
Setting down his pack, Bram gazed at the wall some forty feet away. Its doors were made of gilt bronze, green with age, and sculpted with reliefs that had somehow melted into one another. The result was a jumble of twisted, half-formed figures that appeared to be writhing within a pool of shallow metal. Turning from the doors, Bram surveyed the rest of the moonlike cavern and flexed his fingers.
“Solas.”
There was no dazzling burst of light, just a dim pulse.
“The Umadahm was right,” said Bram. “My magic is dampened here. That is unfortunate.” Reaching down, he slipped the pack onto his shoulder. “How do you feel?”
The truth surprised even Max. “Stronger.”
This was not the answer Bram expected. He scrutinized Max, searching for signs of his recent weakness. “Remarkable,” he said quietly. “And I’d feared you might not survive the descent.” He gestured at the inky black sky. “Would you?”
Max flexed his hand. “Solas.”
There was a flash of brilliant, blinding light. It lasted only an instant, but it brought a smile to Bram’s hard and weary face.
“Let’s carry on. Neheb awaits.”
When they arrived at the doors, Bram peered closely at them before stepping back to appraise the whole.
“What do you make of it?” asked Max.
“The doors are unlocked,” he said slowly. “And I detect no magic or spell to keep out the living. Entering Tartarus is less demanding than I had supposed. That is rarely a good sign. The simpler it is to enter, the harder it will be to leave.”
“There’s something very old and evil in there. It knows we’re here.”
Bram nodded grimly. “I sensed it, too.”
Max unsheathed the gae bolga’s blade. The spear moaned as it tasted the cavern’s air, hungry and eager.
Opening his pack, Bram tossed aside the ice axes and crampons, some bundled clothing—everything but the three Canopic jars. The discarded items joined the empty coffins and sarcophagi, ancient vestments, weapons, and coins that lay scattered about.
Using his spear butt, Max pushed one of the doors. It gave way like a garden gate, swinging silently inward. A wall of rock ten feet ahead blocked their view so that all one could see of Tartarus from the outside was the suggestion of a diffuse, dusty light. Max heard no sound. He could barely even detect the presence he had felt earlier. Whatever it was, it had retreated far away.
With a glance at Bram, Max crossed the threshold.
The instant he did, the environment changed. It was like entering another world whose torrid, clinging atmosphere was remarkably dense. His first step forward was like wading through invisible sludge. Something burned his skin. Glancing at his hands, Max saw the witch’s henna tattoos vanish in a trickle of acrid smoke.
“Look,” said Bram, pointing to the threshold they had crossed. Strange markings were appearing in the stone. They were not like any runes or writing that Max had ever seen.
The Archmage shook his head and tried to extend his hand across the threshold. It stopped as though it met an invisible barrier. When he tried to pull it back, he found he could not. His palm might have been stuck to invisible flypaper.
“It’s draining me,” he exclaimed suddenly. “Cut off my hand. Cut it off!”
Max seized Bram’s wrist and pulled, grimacing with the effort. There was a sharp crack and Bram stumbled back. The sorcerer bent double at the waist, breathing heavily and clutching a broken wrist. The skin of his palm and fingertips remained on the barrier, a bloody handprint hovering in midair.
“Thank you,” he gasped. “I do not think we’ll be leaving this way. Let’s go on.”
Turning from the door, the pair stepped around the barrier to find they were standing on a rock ledge that looked upon a misty land of gray hills and dark lakes. Here and there, shafts of what looked like weak sunlight pierced the gloom to illuminate countless tombs and colossal pillars that vanished in the mist as though they supported the sky. There were no rivers of fire, no devils with pitchforks. In some ways it reminded Max of a quiet, colorless Sanctuary.
On their left, the ledge ended at a perpendicular wall that continued as far as Max could see. On their right, a long stone ramp curved down from the ledge to the ground some hundred feet below.
“Do you know where to find Neheb?” said Max, gazing uneasily at the shrouded landscape. The air’s heat and density were already taking a toll. Even the smallest movements met with dull resistance. Just turning one’s head was a chore.
“No,” said Bram. “But perhaps they do.”
The sorcerer pointed to the nearest hills. What Max had first taken for mist were translucent figures moving slowly toward them like sluggish streams of vapor.
Max and Bram descended the long ramp as hundreds of ghostly figures gathered around its base. Sweat coursed down Max’s body, stinging his wound. The air was growing so thick it might have been congealing. The two removed their heavy cloaks and left them on the ramp. Whatever jolt of strength Max had experienced earlier was fading rapidly.
All about them, there came a rumble like distant thunder. The ground shook as a tremor rippled across the land. It seemed to agitate Tartarus’s inhabitants, for Max could hear them whispering in voices like rustling silk.
“What are these things?” asked Max.
“Shades,” replied Bram. “Echoes of departed souls. They have little power or will. It would take vast numbers for them to pose any kind of threat.”
While such numbers were approaching, nothing in their appearance or behavior suggested they were hostile or meant to attack. They merely gathered about the ramp as Max and Bram reached its bottom and stepped upon Tartarus’s dry, cracked soil. A sea of pearly, insubstantial figures stood before them with faces so faint it was difficult to make out their features. Their eager whispering was even harder to decipher, for they spoke all at once and in hundreds of languages. Max could only catch snippets.
“… living …”
“… trespass …”
“… help …”
“… sorry …”
“Where is the tomb of Neheb, last son of Egypt?” Bram called. His voice seemed to fall upon deaf ears.
He repeated his question in many languages, but to no avail. The shades were like starving beggars clamoring for food. However, it was not food they wanted but attention, someone to listen to their story. And all the while, Tartarus pressed down upon its visitors, draining their strength, squeezing them slowly in an iron vise.
“Who are you?”
The speaker was a thin, elderly man wearing friar’s robes. His question caught Max’s attention because it was the first indication that these shades could speak of anything but themselves.
“Who are you?” the shade repeated, pointing at the Archmage. His tone was almost suspicious.
The Archmage spoke in a calm but commanding voice. “I am Elias Bram.”
“Bram,” the friar hissed, turning to his neighbor. She did the same. Soon thousands were whispering the name.
And then, all at once, the whispering stopped. A hundred yards away, Max saw shades begin moving aside, as though clearing a path for someone to come forward. Bram gasped when the nearest parted to reveal the approaching figure.
The shade was Marley Augur.
Max had not seen him since Astaroth’s armies overran Rowan. The two had clashed in the woods, with Max cleaving the revenant’s fleshless mouth. Following this humiliation, Augur had been demoted and that was the last Max had heard of him. He had no idea when or how Marley had perished at last. Had the witches brought his remains to Tartarus? Had Astaroth?
Even as a shade, Marley Augur was imposing. He stood a head taller than Max or Bram, a giant of a man in translucent, ghostly mail. Even his form seemed denser, more substantial than that of the other shades. Max could make out his features quite clearly. They were not the rotting, skeletal ruin that Max remembered from their battle in the woods, but those of a handsome, middle-aged man with long, straight hair braided at the temples. The other shades fell back as he came to stand before them.
Bram could barely find his voice. “Is that really you, Marley?”
“Greetings, Elias.”
Bram looked and sounded horrified. “What are you doing here? You were a noble man—the best man at Solas. You do not belong with the damned.”
“But I do belong here,” replied the shade. “I have broken oaths, murdered men, stolen children, and practiced arts so evil, they are not given names. I deserve to be here, Archmage, almost as much as you do.”
“What do you want?” asked Bram.
“To watch you die.”
Stepping forward, Max leveled the gae bolga at Marley Augur’s chest. Its point would pierce a spirit just as easily as it pierced flesh. But the shade did not flinch or draw back.
“Not yet, Hound. Soon.”
Laying his uninjured hand over Max’s, Bram pushed the spear aside. The Archmage was trembling. He stepped between Max and the shade. “This is my fault, Marley. All of it. I wronged you in every way.”
Augur remained impassive. “You were my friend, Elias. Brigit loved me and was to be my wife. You stole her and the life we should have had together. You betrayed me out of spite.”
The Archmage sank to his knees, clutching his pack to his chest. “I am guilty. Guilty of everything you say. I cannot right my wrong or change the past. I can only beg your forgiveness.”
“You only beg forgiveness because you cannot steal it.”
“No, Marley. I beg forgiveness because I wronged you. There is no fouler crime than betrayal—it is the most personal.” Bram bowed his head, his shoulders shaking. “I am a flawed man who made terrible mistakes. Please let me right them.”
Another, more powerful tremor shook Tartarus, but neither Bram nor Augur appeared to notice. The shade gazed down at Bram’s bowed head, frowning slightly.
“Augur,” said Max.
The shade did not look up. “What is it, Hound?”
“You’ve waited centuries for this moment. You sacrificed your life, your values, even your soul in the name of vengeance. Was it worth it? Would Brigit be proud?”
Augur’s head snapped up. “Do not speak her name!”
“This moment is your opportunity to find peace,” continued Max. “Vengeance won’t give it to you. Your obsession with vengeance is why you’re here. Maybe forgiveness will set you free. Don’t waste this chance.”
The shade did not reply but returned his attention to Bram. As the Archmage remained kneeling with his head bowed, Max had to lean on the gae bolga. He’d been expecting a battle in Tartarus, not this slow suffocation. His strength was ebbing.
“Were you good to Brigit?” the blacksmith asked Bram. “Did you love her?”
“I did my best. And yes, I grew to love Brigit very much.”
“And did she grow to love you, Elias?”
Bram nodded. “In her own way and time. But her affection was that of a sister, not a wife. You were her true love to the end.”
The blacksmith was silent, but it was clear Bram’s words had a powerful effect on him. He gazed at Max momentarily, as though weighing what he had said earlier. Behind him, the shades watched and listened. At last, Augur spoke.
“Look at me, Elias.”
The Archmage slowly raised his head.
“You are forgiven.”
Tears filled Bram’s eyes. “Thank you, Marley. You are the better man. You have always been the better man.”
Bram struggled to rise. As Max helped him, he felt the man trembling with weakness. Tartarus appeared to be having a far greater effect on him than it was on Max. Augur noticed this, too, for his face became grave.
“Why have you come here? What is it you seek?”
“A boy named Neheb,” Bram gasped. “He was—”
“The last prince of Egypt,” said Augur. “All know his tomb, for he has no shade. It is not far, but we must hurry. I feel myself fading. Perhaps the Hound was right and I can leave this place.”
Turning, Augur led them through the sea of shades, which parted for them. Bram was staggering now, leaning on Max as he clutched his pack. Max worried whether the Archmage would be strong enough to reach the tomb, much less cast the necessary spells. Hundreds of shades fell in step behind them, their whispers resuming in an endless babble. Ahead loomed gray hills dotted with white tombs beneath the pale, colorless sky. Everything seemed to warp and undulate in the thick, sweltering air.
Max’s head was growing light; the gae bolga felt heavy and unwieldy as another tremor shivered across the land. He stumbled sideways, clutching Bram, who was barely conscious. Catching himself, Max gazed out at the farthest hills where they disappeared into shadow. The presence he had felt earlier was out there, patiently waiting for its visitors to weaken.
“That is Neheb’s tomb.”
The voice was Augur’s and very faint. As Max turned, he found the blacksmith’s shade was barely visible. The shimmer that remained was pointing at a small white tomb by the shores of a nearby lake. It sat alone, surrounded by white, leafless trees. Augur’s whisper seemed to revive Bram, who raised his head to look for him.
“Farewell, Elias.”
The sorcerer sagged, his legs buckling as Augur vanished entirely. Taking Bram by the arm, Max heaved him over his shoulder and carried him. The tomb had no door, just a dark opening crowned with an Egyptian symbol like a burning lamp.
Ducking beneath the arch, Max eased Bram upon the stone floor and conjured a small glowsphere. In Tartarus, even this least of spells was more difficult than he cared to admit. The tomb was small, no more than twelve feet to a side with an alabaster sarcophagus at its center. Outside, curious shades were gathering. They did not cross the threshold, but peered through the doorway whispering their sins and secrets.
Max shook Bram by the shoulders. “We’re here.”
With a wheezing gasp, Bram opened his eyes and blinked several times as he regained his bearings. Sitting up, he reached into his pack and removed the three Canopic jars. One was topped with a carving of a human head, another a baboon, and the third a falcon.
“Open the sarcophagus, Hound. The fourth jar will be within. It will have the head of a jackal.”
Going to the sarcophagus, Max slid its heavy cover aside. True to Bram’s prediction, he found a Canopic jar that matched the others but for its jackal’s head. “It’s here.”
“Help me up.”
Once on his feet, Bram breathed deeply and gathered himself. “Hand me the jars in the order I ask. Hapi first.”
“Which?”
“The baboon,” Bram snapped. “Do they teach you nothing at Rowan?”
Max almost grinned. An impatient sorcerer was a focused sorcerer. Indeed, the man’s eyes seemed to blaze as he emptied the three jars into the sarcophagus. Their contents were a fine gray powder that formed a little mound next to the jackal-headed jar. Before Bram opened it, he indicated Max should back away.
“A precaution,” he said. “I do not trust my powers here.”
Holding the jar in his bloody hand, Bram carefully removed its top. All the while, he spoke softly in Egyptian, as though trying to coax something out. Tipping the jar, he slowly mixed its contents with the rest. When the jar was empty, he set it down and walked clockwise about the sarcophagus with his head bowed, whispering like the shades outside the tomb. Now and again, Max made out the names “Neheb” and “Nectanebo.”
Something was happening in the sarcophagus. A swirling of fine dust and gray smoke drifted up in a lazy, pluming cloud that began to take on the shape of someone sitting upright in the sarcophagus. As more dust swirled up, its form solidified into something far more substantial than a shade.
When the last dust settled, Max found himself staring at a slim, adolescent boy with a shaved head and large brown eyes. He wore naught but a white shendyt—a kiltlike wrap—that extended to his knees, which were bent almost to his hairless chin. His skin was brown and smooth except for pale, hideous scars that encircled his neck and upper arms.
Bram glanced at Max. “I trust you don’t speak Egyptian?”
Max shook his head.
“I’ll translate,” said the sorcerer. “You must understand everything that’s said.” Walking around the sarcophagus, he stood directly before the boy, who gazed at him warily. After each question and answer, Bram translated the Egyptian for Max.
“You are Neheb, son of Nectanebo.”
“I am Neheb,” said the boy in a soft voice that had not yet broken when he died.
“You have physical substance. Why is this?”
“I am not a shade.”
“What are you?”
“Unique.”
Max glanced at Bram. What on earth did it mean that Neheb was “unique”?
“Are you bound by the laws of summoning?” asked Bram, frowning.
“If they’re properly performed.”
“You will answer my questions truthfully, Neheb. If you do not, I will punish you. Did you murder your brothers?”
Neheb hesitated before giving a churlish nod.
“Did you place a curse upon your father’s house?”
The boy’s smile was chilling.
Bram folded his arms, his eyes boring into the youth. “Did you serve Astaroth?”
“I serve him still.”
“As his imp? As Mr. Sikes?”
“Yes.”
“How is this possible?”
“My master made Sikes from part of my spirit. Neheb was murdered. Sikes survives.”
“Why did he do this?”
“He loves me.”
“Astaroth is not capable of love.”
“You are wrong.”
“Is Sikes aware that I’ve summoned you?”
“Not yet.”
“When will he learn of it?”
“The instant you cease questioning me.”
As he translated this, the sorcerer closed his eyes and rubbed them. Max could not decide if it was merely weariness or concern that Astaroth had somehow outmaneuvered him. The boy was not a shade, but something “unique” and unexpected. The sorcerer’s questions suggested he was anxious to explore this further, but his strength was dwindling.
Wiping his brow, Max shook the sweat from his hand. The air in the tomb was unbearably hot and still. Outside, the shades’ whispering intensified.
“You are tethered to Sikes?” inquired Bram.
“At times.”
“Are you now?” asked Bram, peering at the boy.
“No.”
“Where does Astaroth come from?” he continued.
“Beyond.”
“Beyond what?”
“Anything you choose to name.”
“What are the Starving Gods?”
“I see you’ve spoken with Yaro. He was always foolish.”
“Answer my question. What are the Starving Gods?”
“Masters without form, thought, or mercy.”
“Why did Astaroth flee from them?”
“They are Masters without form, thought, or mercy.”
“What would they do to this world?”
“What they have done to all the others.”
“Does Astaroth have a truename?”
The boy squirmed uncomfortably in the sarcophagus.
“Does Astaroth have a truename?” repeated Bram sternly.
“Yes.”
“Do you know this truename?”
“Yes.”
“Why would he share such knowledge with you?”
“He trusts me.”
“Astaroth is not capable of trust.”
“My master is a mirror, Archmage. The reflection you see is your own.”
“What is Astaroth’s truename?”
Leaning back against the sarcophagus, Neheb drummed his fingers along its sides. He might have been taking a bath. “I will not say.”
“You must,” Bram snarled. “I will force it from you.”
“You will have to.”
Bram’s face darkened. Once again, he walked around the tomb, but this time he gave Neheb a wider berth as if worried the boy posed a physical danger. As the sorcerer began chanting in Latin, Neheb gave a strangled cry and writhed about in the sarcophagus, weeping and cursing his tormentor.
Despite Neheb’s crimes, Max found it excruciating to see such a young person suffer.
But the Archmage was unmoved. He continued his incantation, circling slowly and studying the boy’s face. Max needed no translation for what Neheb did next. Sobbing, he held up a hand in submission. Bram stopped at once and backed up against the tomb’s wall, clutching his injured hand and breathing heavily. It was hard to tell who was under greater strain.
Neheb eyed the Archmage with pure hatred before glancing at Max and then the doorway swimming with shades. Turning back to Bram, he muttered something disdainfully.
“What did he say?” asked Max.
Bram mopped his brow, exhaling slowly. “He will whisper the truename only to me. He refuses to speak within another’s hearing.”
“Then I’ll step outside,” said Max. “Don’t get close to him.”
The Archmage relayed this to Neheb, who sneered as he replied. Bram translated.
“You are mere filth. It is the shades that concern Neheb. If he speaks the truename aloud, they will hear it. He will whisper it only to me.”
“He’s lying.”
“He cannot lie,” said Bram. “If Neheb promises to whisper the name, he will. There is no time to debate.”
Neheb sat up straighter as Bram took a shaky step forward. He took a second, approaching almost within arm’s reach. Outside, the shades’ whispering had reached a fevered pitch.
When it was clear the boy would not budge, the Archmage took another unsteady step. Tartarus was winning this war. Bram looked as though he might collapse any instant. Leaning against the sarcophagus, the Archmage bent his ear to listen.
Neheb snarled and seized Bram by the neck, pulling him into the sarcophagus with such speed and violence the man was yanked out of his boots. Max sprang forward to catch hold of something, anything, but he was too late. The sarcophagus’s heavy alabaster lid was sliding swiftly over the opening, as though invisible hands were pushing it. Max caught only the briefest glimpse of a helpless Bram, crushed against his captor’s chest in a lover’s embrace. That captor was grinning, his pale features ecstatic with triumph.
The captor was Astaroth.
The sarcophagus slid shut.