Vol.7, Ch.3, P.4
“Getting rather chill…”
Down, down, down into the deep I delved. My skin crawled. My breaths misted. Light withered with every step. But at last, my feet found solid ground. Between this bottom and upstairs, the difference was quite literally night and day: damp and prickingly cold it was here, and of course, owing to its depth, dark as ink besides. But sparsely stabbing the gloom were lamps that loomed upon walls like will-o’-wisps, tracing the outline of a lonesome, tunnel-like passageway, and altogether revealing the place to be built not of timber as above, but wholly of old weathered stones.
“…”
There at the toes of the stairs I tarried, feeling rather stunned. And despite the nippy air, a nervous sweat had started down my cheeks. Calming myself, I scanned my surroundings.
“Frequented, I see,” I lipped, looking dubiously at the yet-burning lamps up ahead, “and not too long ago, I’m afraid.”
Not long at all, as I next found faintly reflecting from the floor thin puddles formed from slow and patient seepage; and upon them were hints of footprints. A frightful many of them, in fact. Then there was the peculiar width of the passageway, being broad enough to host several men abreast.
Suspicion could but swell. Might I have stumbled upon the heart of the enemy? Best I moved along, if so, and lightly. Bracing myself thus, I began to wade into the rimy mirk.
And in the going, amidst the squeaks and scrapings of unseen rodents, and the pin-poin of dripping water, grim thoughts grew in my head. Could be a trap, this, I fancied. A hollow to beckon gullibles into; a maze for them to meander… till Time and Fatigue take them.
The day’s troublemakers wouldn’t be above such tricks, I reckoned. And as I did, so I went, on and on, envisioning all the while this passageway wending and worming eternally till it pierced the very halls of Hell itself. But for good or ill, it did not come to that; for after turning a few corners, there appeared a large and decrepit double doorway.
“…”
I put a hand upon my hilt, making certain my weapon hadn’t disappeared again at unawares. With that fear allayed at the least, I resolved myself before laying a palm upon the door. A push, and with little sound and resistance, it skimmed open like a ghost. Indeed, how light it was—almost too light, as if it’d been waiting for ages to welcome me through.
And then, I gasped. “How in…”
Stale air blew. And beyond, there sprawled a wide-berthed chamber. Nay; “cave” was more the word: a vast and void-like cave. Void-like, for there were scarce any furnishings to be seen in all the silent and monstrous drear, save the water-gnawed pillars that stood like rotted trees. And withal was the ceiling astoundingly lofty. Five and ten passūs high it seemed to soar; easily so, for faint enough was the light that played upon its stalking vaults as to cheat the eye’s estimation. And speaking of, if the lamps in the passageway were sparse, then they were desperately wanting here, as the dark pressed like a moonless and colossal cloud.
“…”
Gulping, I gathered my thoughts. This intrigue, this betrayal… it had succeeded in concealing hundreds of hostiles from the keen eyes of our vaward inspectors. And at last, I now knew how: the horde of knaves had hid themselves right here in this very hollow.
“Ah. There you are.”
At once I started. Gripping scabbard and hilt, I turned to the deeper darkness whence that voice tolled. And plying my vision, I soon perceived a shape in the sheet of shadows.
It was a man. Just one. And he seemed none too young: forty or so he was, from what I could make through the mirk. And straight back at me was he staring—staring with a smile carved across his faintly lit face.
“Kept me waiting,” echoed his cooing voice. “Yes; how I’ve longed to meet you… Rolf Buckmann.”
The enigma knew my name. Well, then: I really had been lured into this lair.
“…Colour me honoured,” I answered rather aloud. “Who speaks?”
My own voice echoed uncannily. But a chuckle yonder soon choked it silent. “Oh, why the hurry? Even a meal has got steps to follow.”
As my eyes more pierced the pall, I found the stranger not to be standing, but sitting rather slovenly upon an altar or table. Steadily I stepped nearer, to which he then got off to his feet in a jubilant frolick. A cape-like cloth unfurled, showing his person panoplied in silver that shone wanly in the dim.
Pat-pat dusted his hands. “What say we start with the appetiser, hm?” the man honeyedly hissed. “This space, for instance. Whatsoever might it be? I’ll let you begin the guessing.”
A guessing game in the dark. I liked this not one bit. “A cellar, a croft,” I said after a careful pause, “suppressed by some spell from all perception, is it not?”
Bjorn and I had presumed as much: that there existed magicks kept by the Church from common knowledge. Myrd’s detonation under-death was one such example, as he’d managed to spark the steeple explosion despite being practically beheaded by Lise’s swift daggercraft—despite having lost all command of his corporeal flesh. Indeed, some wile had been at work there, something none of us knew, much less foreseen: some magicked mischief on the part of the Church.
And so explains the concealment of this place. Floors of stone, walls with lamps; though baffling in breadth, it was all told but an ambitious undercroft, conceived and constructed from honest strain. Nay, what made it strange was that it sat unknown: a hole in the floor noted by none, not even by prying search. A feat, like as not, achieved by magicks—by a glamour.
“How now,” said the mirky man, “must magick ever be the meat of all mysteries?”
“Should there be men that might profit by them, yes,” I returned.
The man’s smile widened in the dark as he softly laughed. Were this some meeting brighter and more mundane, many might’ve marked him amiable for it, or a true craver of company.
“My, my. Your insipidness is an absolute dessert, isn’t it?” he quipped, before leaning nonchalantly against the flatness behind him. With empty hands splayed upon the surface, and shoulders sagging relaxedly, the man emitted not a mote of tension. “Fair enough,” he continued. “A magick does, indeed, conceal this croft, wresting it from all recognition since days of old. The stairs are no different: plainly descendable though they ever are, none have done so without aid.” I gave no answer as I studied his words. “It responds to the inner odyl, you see,” the man added. “A whiff of it, and poof! Gone. Meaning: never could it have hid aught… from you.”
A glamour, indeed. That better explained how Björn and I had been separated so asudden. But this was a dire development; for if this… “fellow” was to be believed, then the enemy had got more cards, more deceits up their sleeves than any of us could ever have imagined.
“Since days of old, you say?” I responded at last. “But what of others beside me? Those yet without odyl? They ought’ve sensed something amiss.”
“How could they?” shrugged the man. “On any other day, they’d find the stair-mouth boarded up—plank, nail, and rug. Besides, what business would such spring-buds have got at so stern, so dusty an institution?”
Point taken. Most of Merkulov’s scholastic body comprised adults in the cornices of their careers, with exceptions being no younger than twenty or so. Consequently, none here were at an age unfit to receive the Rounic rites. And so sure enough, any that had crossed it could never have discovered this covert.
“Ah yes! Truly a marvel of a magick, wouldn’t you say?” the man gloated, seeing me answerless. “How it meddles with the mind, how it deceives the senses! Oh indeed, you’ve never witnessed such a subtlety, I’d wager. Your inspectors sure hadn’t done: why, they passed by the stairs as greybeards playing at blind-man’s buff, they did!”
Rather gracious of him to give away his deck’s designs. But all the same, this man stoked a distaste in me. For he came off as precisely the sort of illusionist I misliked: one that pleases to display his deceptions even at no one’s request. For he tricks audiences not for their amusement, but merely to advertise his technique. Of course, to mark the man afore me an “illusionist” would sore-disserve the trade, but that was my impression of the prattler: an unabashed show-off, who relishes in responses of surprise and despair.
At once, his eyes narrowed knowingly at me. “What? An anchor up the arse it is, growing old and all,” he said. “The simple joys, the thrills! they just… grow thin after a while. Can’t be helped if I’ve got a few rivets loose, now can it?”
“…”
“Hmm? Hallo! nay, nay!” he squawked on, laughing. “I did not read your heart, dear me! Such a thing is impossible, you know! Indeed, mark it a mere lucky guess, if you will.”
For one who’s conceded to his own perversion, this man’s mirth was frightfully impenitent. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying himself quite thoroughly even amidst all the mirk and mystery.
“At any rate,” he sighed, “it pleases me to have the pleasure at last, Rolf Buckmann.”
“Then show some manners,” I said. “Speak your name.”
The man shrugged again. “Why? You ought’ve guessed it by now, no? Heed thine heart, O young wolf.”
And ever as he said this, sunny was his smile and sprightly was his voice. But like the hiss of a snake, therein could be felt a chill to icen the very soul.
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Notes
Passus
(Language: Latin; plural: passūs) A unit of measure used by the ancient Romans, taken from the length of a pace (2 steps). 1 metre is equal to 0.6757 of a passus. A passus, therefore, can be roughly equated to 1 and a half metres.
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