Wander West, in Shadow

To the dismay of Martimeos and Elyse, they did not immediately descend down the stairs, into the earth.

It was Kells who was the most opposed to rushing in. "Something to eat, first," the soldier replied sardonically, upon Martim's protest, "Would do us good, I think. Give us some time to think things through. I would like to know more, if I could, before I went diving down mysterious holes."

Martimeos knew the man's words made sense. But he could barely contain his excitement. They had found Hadley's trail; whatever had transformed him into the Bogge-King likely lay somewhere below. And his brother, as well...

But truth be told, oddly, all that seemed not quite so important, right now. The Art sang to him, from beneath the earth; it sang a song so sweet it set his soul aflame. It called to him, a pull much stronger than that which had set him on the road, leaving family and lovers behind. He could tell it was having the same effect on Elyse; the witch's cheeks were rosy with excitement, and she kept fidgeting, glancing towards the stairs and muttering to herself, as if annoyed they were not down there yet. It seemed strange, to think that all the things that had seemed important to him might be pushed to the back of his mind. He knew, on some level, that this was worrying. That it was unusual for such things as the Bogge-King, and even his brother, to seem like such small concerns. But there was simply no fighting against the Art's song. "I am not hungry," he snapped, "What is there to think through? What else could we find out here, among these old stones? Perhaps we can question the ogre some more about his fool goddess? It is clear we must go down below."

Kells gave him a frown, at that, his gray eyes confused; Aela looked puzzled as well. "I understand you're eager," the man replied slowly, "But best not to rush into these things. That hole's been there Woed knows how long, I am sure 'tis not going anywhere."

Martimeos felt his anger rising; a voice within him whispered that he should just go on alone. But he breathed deep, and calmed himself; hard though it was to ignore the Art's song, begging him to explore the dark below. "You're right," he said, clenching his teeth, hands hastily scrabbling for the pipe in his pocket. "You're right. You're right. No need to be hasty."

Kells looked as if he did not believe his words. He glanced from Martimeos to Elyse, taking in their fidgeting with a curious eyebrow raised. "You two look as if you've ants crawling on your asses," he remarked with a dry drawl. "What is going on?"

Some strange, jealous voice in Martim's mind whispered to him to not tell anyone; to keep it a secret. But he ignored this. Of course the man was confused; he could not sense the undeniable song of this place. "'Tis the Art," Martim answered. "Something here - something below - is very strong with it."

"It has a way of pulling at you, if you can sense such things," Elyse elaborated, seeing Kells' still-confused expression. "I would...very much like to see what it is. If at all possible. I am certain it must have something to do with the Bogge-King; it is too great a coincedence not to."

"Well," Kells replied slowly, "That seems all the more reason for caution."

"Yes yes, we've already agreed!" Elyse cried. "No need to rub our noses in it! Let's wait." She tugged at her dark hair so hard that Martimeos thought she might pull it out, and then stamped away in a fury.

"It calls very strongly," Martimeeos said apologetically to Kells, though no small part of him felt he might join the witch in her wrath.

And so he and Elyse tolerated it as they set up a small campfire here, among the snow and ruined stone, beneath the watchful gaze of the ogre's depiction of their Stone-Mother.

He tried to distract himself with idle thought, as the others gatherd 'round the campfire and partook of their rations. Jabhok was clearly upset by the idea that they would be going into the earth, though not, it seemed, because the giant necessarily considered it a form of trespass. He seemed earnestly concerned about their safety, which struck Martim as strange; wouldn't this creature be gladly gnawing on their bones in different circumstances? Perhaps the ogre was simply too stupid to know its own feelings on the matter. Kells was questioning him on what there might be down below, but it seemed Jabhok truly did not know anything. And the more the soldier asked, the more upset the giant became; until finally Jabhok got up from the campfire and stomped away, grumbling to himself.

Martim had tried questioning the ogre himself on what he found the most confusing part of the story - the head of a bear his brother had carried, that had spoken to them. But the giant did not have much else to say on that matter either; he dared not to recount the dark words it had said to drive them mad. Martimeos did not know what this possibly could be. It reminded him, disturbingly, of the talking heads the bogge-men would use; except they did not seem to use those of animals, did they? Could they, if they so desired? Or was a human head necessary? He simply did not know. And besides, the bogge-men used the heads to speak themselves - this head seemed to have spoken all on its own. Perhaps the talking head had just been a particularly terrifying glamour his brother had conjured to frighten the ogres into obedience.

Deep in his thought, he became dimly aware that Aela had said something to him; the Crosscraw woman was staring at him, tugging at her fire-red hair anxiously. In fact, it was not just her; everyone around the campfire was looking at him, with expressions ranging from curiousity to concern. "I'm sorry," he said, reaching for his pipe, "Did you ask me something...?"

"Several times," Kells chuckled, but despite his light-hearted tone, the soldier was watching him with a sharp curiousity that was a little unsettling.

Aela shifted uncomfortably, as if it were not a question she enjoyed asking. "Ah jest asked...what d'ye suppose became o' yer brother?" she murmured, looking away. "Since he did travel here wit'....yer friend, Hadley. He ended up becomin' th' Bogge-King. Ah jest wonder then what ye think happened tae him."

Martimeos paused for a long moment, focusing on the bowl of his pipe until it glowed orange. "I suspect," he said quietly, as he puffed upon it, "That most likely, my brother's bones lie below. If there is anything left of him to find at all. He was very close with Hadley; perhaps his closest friend. I cannot imagine that my brother would let Hadley become cursed as he is without fighting against it; nor would he have let it continue without trying to stop it himself. Perhaps he escaped, who knows. But that is what I suspect I might find."

Aela studied him intently for a moment, bright green eyes searching his face, as if looking for something there. Then she nodded, satisfied. "Sorry tae hear tha', ef et's th' case. Et seems a grim place fer yer search tae end."

"'Tis more than I expected, truth told. I have thought him dead for years already." Martim shrugged, blowing out a plume of smoke from his nostrils. "I thought it most likely I'd find no answers at all. I would actually be happy to find his bones. Something to put in his grave back home."

"Does it not seem a little strange, though?" Kells leaned forward, his kettle-helm in his hands, gray eyes peering sharply at Martim above the dancing flames of the campfire. "Last we found, they had planned to journey into the Witch-Queen's lands. And yet now we find their trail here, far off that path."

"I had thought that odd as well." Martimeos puffed thoughtfully for a few long moments at his pipe, gathering his thoughts. "Perhaps my brother heard of this place, and decided to come here first. Perhaps he thought he might find something to use against the White Queen, here."

Mors had been napping by the campfire; his snout tucked into his gigantic paws. But at this, he raised his head, turning his ruined face towards the wizard. "IF THAT IS THE CASE, HE CERTAINLY TOOK HIS TIME. THE TWISTED ONES DID NOT BEGIN TO APPEAR UNTIL THE HOLLOWHEART WAS GONE. WELL AFTER I MET YOUR BROTHER IN THESE LANDS."

"Perhaps, then, this was the first place he came back to, after the war," Martim answered. "I simply don't know."

Kells considered this quietly for a moment. "Fair enough, I suppose. But it seems to me, then, we should be very cautious. We do not want to meet the same fate. It would do no good to die, or - hells, for us to become cursed. The last thing these mountains need is for there to be more Bogge-Kings. 'Tis a risk, yes? If it happened to your friend, it might happen to us. Should we ask - is the knowledge we might gain down there worth that risk?"

"Absolutely," Martimeos answered swiftly.

"We have forewarning," Elyse jumped in, before Martim could elaborate. The witch spoke quickly, excitedly, her hands fidgeting with her ragged black robes. "We know what we walk into, and that makes all the difference. We would know when to retreat."

"Exactly. We could always pull back. And do we have any choice?" Martimeos shook his head. "No. I have no good idea for killing the Bogge-King without further knowledge. We simply must go down below."

A moment passed, as Kells and Aela stared silently at the witch and the wizard, absorbing their rapid outburst. Torc hummed to himself, idly examining the branches of the dead trees surrounding them. Flit chirped something in Martim's ear about being a little too obvious.

"I do not mean to insult," Kells said finally, picking his words carefully, "But I believe that whatever you may sense down there might have a strange hold on you." He turned to Aela, nodding to the Crosscraw woman. "So. What do you think?"

"Me?" Aela looked a bit surprised to have her opinion asked. "Ah - Ah believe Grizel's Tellin'. Ah do." She nodded, setting her jaw firm, as if convincing herself. "Ef we were tae - tae become more Bogge-Kings, surely th' ol witch would hae seen et. We do what we must. Ef th' wizard an th' witch are convinced tha' goin' down below might give us an answer tae how tae kill th' Bogge-King, then Ah say et's down below we must go."

Kells looked a bit disappointed, as if he had been hoping to debate the merits of the point further. "Very well," he said, turning to Martimeos and Elyse, "But I want you to promise me something. We will follow whatever strange intuiton the Art gives you here, but use your heads. If I call you back, heed my warning and caution. For all our sakes. Whatever is down there, we must have the wisdom to flee, if retreat is called for."

"Of course." Martimeos nodded in agreement. "I - I am not unaware that the Art speaks strangely here, and plays with my temper." He offered the soldier a grateful smile. "'Tis good to have someone along to keep our wits about us."

Kells seemed to relax a bit at that, a friendly smile crossing his sharp features, gray eyes twinkling as he nodded, and strapped his kettle-helm to his head. "One other thing," he said, and then nodded towards Torc, who sat cross-legged on the groumd, bound and tied. "I do not think it is necessary for me to carry him around on a leash. I would like my hands free to defend myself, if need be."

Torc raised his head to give Kells an appreciative look, but did not say anything. Martim only growled in response to that, chewing fiercely on the stem of his pipe. "I do not trust him."

"Nor do I," Kells replied, "But I think we can, at least, trust that he does not intend to run off."

When the wizard did not answer this, Aela spoke as well. "Ah think Kells es right," she said wearily. She looked towards her brother, and then shook her head and quickly glanced away, as if just looking at him was painful. "Ah think Torc es a damn fool who willnae leave me be. He truly intends tae follow where Ah go, Ah think."

Martimeos spat, then tapped out his pipe bowl on a rock, clearing it of ash. "Fine. We need not lead him. But his...arm...remains bound."

And with that, the matter was settled. They began to prepare to descend below; Martimeos and Elyse melted snow with the Art to fill their waterskins with, while Kells took account of their rations. Martim hoped that food and drink would not become an issue. This place might be large, but it was still just the remains of a building. He did not think any building would be so large that it might take days, or weeks, to explore. He hoped.

Jabhok returned as they prepared. The giant carried a strange hunk of pink quartz in his withered hands, roughly the size of a fist, which, amusingly, he offered to them. "Look," the ogre said, peering at them through the folds of his drooping skin, holding the crystal out to them as they packed. "Gift of peace. I give you. But must go. No go down. Pass through our lands in peace. But leave. You go down, you not come back."

"Why d'ye care either way, ogre?" Aela asked, standing up from her packing. She placed her hands on her hips and tossed her long red hair back defiantly, staring fiercely up at the giant with anger in her bright green eyes. She might have been tall for a woman, and Jabhok withered, stooped and old, but the ogre still towered over her; but regardless, he took a cautious step back in the face of her wrath. "What does et matter tae ye, ef we disappear? Just some more dead Foxhairs, ent et? Does that nae make ye happy?"

Jabhok's teeth peeled back over his bulging teeth. He muttered to himself for a moment, scratching at the seam in his skull. "You disappear," he said slowly, as if explaining something to a child, "No one be there to eat you. Not good to die. Much worse to die and not be eaten. Is why the bone-brothers are mad. Too cruel." He paused, and said, gently, "I remember time when I fight Foxhairs, when I very young. I not hate you like that. I never kill you without eating." He lifted his head, to look mournfully at the rest of them. "You not listen. Your flesh go rotten. We lose you forever."

The giant's concern was almost touching, in a warped way. Elyse gave a small, delighted laugh, earning her a glare from the Crosscraw. Martimeos had to hide his own smile behind a hand, pretending to scratch his chin.

But Jabhok's warning went unheeded. And soon they stood prepared, packs upon their backs, before the stairs leading into the earth.

"I WILL LINGER HERE, FOR A TIME," Mors said, idly sniffing at the air. "IF TOO MUCH TIME PASSES, I WILL ASSUME YOU ARE DEAD." The gigantic black bear clearly did not care much if they lived or died, outside of his protection. He swung his half-dead face towards Jabhok and gave a gruesome grin. "I HOPE YOU OGRES HAVE SOME EXTRA MEAT TO FILL MY STOMACH, WHILE I STAY AND VISIT. IT PAINS ME TO THINK WHAT I MIGHT HAVE TO RESORT TO IF YOU DO NOT."

"We feed you, Stonetooth," Jabhok muttered nervously. "Good fortune, little ones. Urakato. If you meet Stone-Mother, be nice."

To Martim's surprise, Elyse fidgeted for a moment, and then she stepped forward to wrap her arms around one of Mors' arms, squeezing the bear through his thick fur. "Thank you for your protection, Mors Rothach," she said quietly.

"I DID NOT DO IT FOR YOUR SAKE," Mors snarled at her. "RELEASE ME. COME BACK WITH A WAY TO KILL THE TWISTED KING, OR DO NOT COME BACK AT ALL." But despite the bear's harsh words, he was gentle as he nudged the witch away with his snout.

And with those last words, they were ready. Martimeos looked one last time towards the pale gray sky, and the black branches clawing at it, gently stirring in the breeze. At the ogre's depiction of their Stone-Mother, crude and pale, with flowers in her hair. Then he took a breath, steeled himself, and led the way into the dark.

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The stairs, grime-covered and slick with a layer of dirty ice, led to a tangled warren of stone halls.

Elyse lit their way by a ball of flame that she summoned as glamour, and set to float above her heaad; after a moment, it was joined by a similar glamour-flame conjured by Martimeos. The wizard, Elyse thought, had been practicing, it seemed; not so long ago, he had not been able to produce such an illusion. The combined light was enough to let them see for perhaps thirty feet around; beyond that, though, lay the deep and utter blackness of a cave whose walls never saw the light of the sun.

The stone walls were smooth and flat; without decoration; much like the cave they had rested in within the Killing Grounds, peppered with strange, small, perfectly circular holes that they could not see the end of. Whoever had shaped this place, they had a power over stone much like the builders of Dun Cairn, but without the artistic bent.

At first, the air here was damp and chill; the walls coated with grime, the long residue of trickling water of melting snows, and where it was dry, marked with chalk drawings done by ogres who had dared to walk at least a little into this place. Any ogre who came here, though, would have had to stoop; the ceilings were too low for their kind. Despite Jabhok's insistence that their Stone-Mother had made this place, it was clear it had not been made for them.

But as they descended further, down yet more stairs, deeper into the earth, the air became dry. And strangely warm; they soon found themselves tugging off their layers of hides that they had worn to protect against the chill of the mountain, the fur cloaks and scarves they had worn above. It was not uncomfortably warm; in fact the temperature seemed oddly idea, though there was no source of heat that they could find. Art breathed in the stones here, though it was dim compared to what called to Martimeos and Elyse below; the wizard lay his hand upon the smooth stone of the wall, and he thought he could sense something that he recognized; something a little similar to the Art he used to drive a flame's hunger, but it was - staggering. A weaving of the Art so fine and complex; layered and wrought with so much else that he could not recognize or understand, that he thought he might spend a lifetime studying just these walls and not understand all of it. This would have to be the work of a wizard nearly mad in his knowledge, or something done by many wizards, all at once.

A small, pale hand joined his, laying next to the wall he touched; he glanced over to find Elyse staring at the wall as well, a strange expression on her face. "Isn't it amazing," he murmured to her. "I - I think I might like to live here, once my travels are done. If I can. Think of all that might be learned."

But Elyse did not seem quite as enchanted as he. "'Tis...truly wondrous," she said softly, though her face wore a small frown. "But...Martim, who might have done such as this...? Never in my life have I felt the Art worked in such a way. It feels...old. Very old."

"The makers of this place, whoever they might have been, I suppose. I do not think it was the Crosscraw, skilled though they might have been in the past. I felt nothing like this in Dun Cairn." He watched as the witch's dark blue eyes filled with confusion. "What is it?"

"If the builders of this place could do this," she asked quietly, "Then where are they?"

For it was true enough. Other than the stone halls, there was little enough trace of whoever had made this place, at least as of yet. Little trace, other than the odd stains of rust here and there along the walls. Either braver robbers than the ogres had been here at one point, or this place had stood for an unimaginably long time, long enough for all else within it to fall to rot.

Though it was not true that there was absolutely nothing.

The halls left them with many choices, all impossible to make; they branched and split, endless crossraods leading away into winding darkness. And while time had blocked off some of their paths - either earthquakes or some other disaster had reduced some of the halls to nothing but piles of rubble - what remained was complex and vast enough that Martimeos rummaged around in his pack for parchment with which to draw a map of what they had seen.

Aela and Kells, on the other hand, cast about for something with which to mark where they had been. Stones to stack; something to leave behind to show their way. Elyse joined them as Martimeos sat on the floor, muttering to himself as he scribbled on his parchment, bidding Cecil to sniff about for something useful.

While the halls were smooth, age had left a film of dust upon them, and piles of black dirt tracked along their corners from the passage of time. They had not thought much of this grime; barely visible in the darkness. But now, as Elyse picked through it to look for rocks, she found something...very peculiar.

For it was not just black dirt along the floor of these halls. Buried beneath the grime were...odds and ends, was the only way to describe it. Tiny little fragments of what had once been here, that Elyse could make no guess at as to their purpose. Scraps of ancient metal, so heavily rusted that whatever they once were was now unidentifiable. But also little bits and pieces of an odd material; not wood, she thought, or else it would have rotted, but not metal either, or it would have succumb to rust. Oddly colored, too, once the dirt had been scraped away; she collected like a broken little white wheel, and what looked to be half of an odd, thin blue flute. Aela and Kells, digging beside her, found their own strange treasures of the same material; a gray box, as small as their thumb, and a small, red lever of some sort.

More and more of these strange scraps they found, until, from the darkness behind them, Torc called out. "Witch," said the Crosscraw man, "Ye might want tae hae a look at what yer familiar dug up."

Trotting out of the darkness came Cecil, his yellow eyes gleaming like beacons in the black. And in his mouth he held what seemed to be a small plank of the odd material, no wider than a few inches around, gray in color, one end a jagged edge, as if it had been broken off. But that was not the most interesting thing about it. For raised in the plank, as if carved there, were symbols; script in a language of some kind.

"Strange," Kells muttered, looking over her shoulder. "That is no tongue I have ever heard of."

But Elyse was not listening. In a strangled voice, she called out, "Martimeos!" The wizard got up from his seat on the floor with a grumble, muttering something about how important it was to need to draw a map and how foolish it was to interrupt him, but once he saw what she was holding, his eyes widened and he fell silent as well.

"Well?" Aela asked, glancing between the two of them, furrowing her brow. "What es et? D'ye recognize th' language? Ah hae nae idea what et es mahself."

"Neither hae Ah seen et," Torc said idly, staring at the wall, as if talking to no one at all, "In all mah years upon th' crags."

Martimeos took the small plank from Elyse, frowning at it and shaking his head. "Yes and no," he muttered, brushing the bangs of his long hair out of his eyes. He glanced towards the witch, who only remained staring at the object in his hands, confused. "Some of the symbols, I recognize from sigil-work."

"Wizard," Kells said gently, "I have no idea what that means, or why it has you so gobsmacked. Does that mean you can read it?"

"I cannot read it," Martimeos answered somewhat testily. "It...it is unusual to see the symbols here. Sigils are thought to be the closest thing to the Art in written form. But nobody understands what the symbols that go into them truly mean; it is thought they have meanings too subtle or complex for the mind to possess entire. Look." He held out the small plank to the light, pointing at one of the odd, blocky symbols upon it. "You see that? I recognize that one from a few sigils I know; the ones you see me set up about our camps at night to warn of intruders - I can show you next time, if you like. And this one, and this one too - but arranged here, I have no idea what their purpose is..."

"Does et mean et's...part o' an ol' sigil, then?" Aela asked. She stepped back, eyes wide, as if the thing might explode in Martim's hands any second.

"If it is," Elyse replied, "'Tis a very strange sigil indeed. They are usually written in complex patterns, but this, this..." she trailed off, then looked up at Martimeos, her dark blue eyes catching his. "This," she finished, "Looks as if it's simply normal script."

"Perhaps the sigils were first created by those who made this place," Martimeos murmured, his voice hushed and awed. He tucked the small scrap into his pocket. "Though 'tis strange to think of sigil-scribble being used as a tongue. Some wizards claim to understand it as a language, at least a bit. Though I do not think any know how the symbols are supposed to sound, not truly." Absent-mindedly, he scratched at Flit's head, his little familiar perched on his shoulder, and turned to face the crossroads at which they stood. "We must make a choice," he said, "Might as well flip a coin."

They left a pile of the strange debris at the center of the crossroads, to mark that they had been there. Their coin toss took them down the hall to the left; this turned out to be collapsed barely thirty steps in, so they headed back and instead took the passage to the right. This led to yet another crossroad, and soon the hours began to slip away as they did their best to map out this place, though it was difficult to tell just how much time had passed without the sun. They traveled through seemingly endless passages through stone, the grand remains of builders lost to time.

The halls here were lined with doorways carved into the rock, though whatever doors might have once filled them were long gone. The rooms beyond were barren; no sign remained of what they had once been used for. Some were grandiose, large, the stone carved into ampitheaters; others were relatively small, though they still looked as if they might have once housed many people. Other rooms were not rooms at all - they were merely shafts, descending straight down into the earth. And always, from somewhere deep below, the Art sang to Martim and Elyse, calling to them.

The further they explored, the more they realized just how massive this place was; it dwarfed Dun Cairn. "Whatever this once was," Martimeos said, his voice echoing off the halls, as they backed out of yet another room with ceilings so tall their light could not reach the top of it, "It must have been magnificent. The ruins above, and all this below. How many do you suppose once walked these halls? I feel as if it could fit every soul in Twin Lamps twice over."

"I do not know about that. But there is something else entirely that I wonder," Kells said quietly. "Even putting aside what might have happened to your brother and his friend. Old Jabhok said that ogres that descended here did not return." He paused for a moment to give the rest a meaningful look, tapping his kettle-helm with one finger. "So. Where is the danger? We have delved deep enough by now, I think, that we ought to have found it. But no bogge-men; nothing here. I have not even heard any noise save what we have made."

They grew hushed, as if listening themselves for some noise; some sign of something following them. But there was nothing. In that moment, it suddenly became apparent just how stifling the silence was, when none of them talked, or moved, or breathed. They were alone, down in the hidden depths of the earth, in the small circle of light cast by Martim and Elyse's glamour-flames. And nothing, absolutely nothing, made a sound.

"Well," Aela said, perhaps a bit too loudly, as if wanting to fight back the quiet, "Ah worry mahself that we willnae be able tae find th' path th' Bogge-King...that Hadley, took, ef this place es this large. I hae seen nae trace o' those who came afore us mahself. Nawt but ogre-scribble."

Martimeos, himself, was quite certain he knew where they had gone. His brother would have felt the pull of the Art, as surely as he did. It was a simple matter of finding stairs; finding some passage down, and following it. "Who knows how long they may have been here, before they...found whatever it was they found," he finished awkwardly. "There is no need to despair. We have rations to last, should we need more than a day to explore this place. Let us worry if we run low on food or water before we find anything."

They continued on; speaking amongst themselves louder than before, nervous voices speaking out against that heavy silence to feel less alone. Even Flit joined in, singing his birdsong, his tiny chirps fading away into the dark. Only Torc, true to his word, remained silent. The Crosscraw man remained a step behind them, keeping to himself; his arm still bound tightly to his side, watching after Aela with heavyset, quiet eyes, his only companionship that of Cecil, who Elyse had set to keep an eye on him.

But after what seemed like another two hours of walking, of endless empty rooms, they reached the end of a hallway that had not collapsed, and did not end in a blank stone wall. And they fell silent once more in shock at what they saw there.

This hallway ended in a larger door than most; and at first, as they walked through it, they saw nothing but blackness beyond, the walls and ceiling too far away to be reached by their light. The dust was thick in here; as if a layer of old dirt had long ago been settled over everything - it billowed up around them in clouds as their boots struck the ground. And as they walked forward, looming out of the dark came something they simply had no words for.

Hulks of metal, arranged in neat rows, surrounded them. Each as large as a house, or larger; sleek and white beneath a layer of dust, and sharp-angled. They were meant to be some form of carriage, that was clear; except that instead of wheels, they had a belt that looked made of angled slabs of metal bolted together; though on many of these the belts had decayed and fallen apart. Though they were covered in a thick layer of dust and grime, it seemed that except for a few of their parts - their belts that served as wheels - they did not rust. And on top of each of these, another gigantic slab of metal, from which extended what looked to be a large pipe, longer than the tallest man, and thicker about than an arm.

Only Martimeos did not think that they were pipes. He had seen these before. Seen them carved in stone, in Stelle Cairn and Dun Cairn; in the friezes that graced the homes of the ancient Crosscraw. Seen them carved into stone. Ridden by men with the heads of locusts, belching fire and flame and death upon the Crosscraw in battle.

"What...what es this?" Aela asked, voice barely above a whisper, bright green eyes staring about in shock. Whatever these things were, there seemed to be no end to them; no matter how far they walked into the room, they saw only more and more rows of the massive metal carriages. "What es this? What are these? Et - et cannae be."

Nobody had an answer for her, but Torc spoke up, and Aela was so shocked that she forgot to ignore her brother, staring at him instead with wide eyes. "Et looks like," the haggard Crosscraw man said quietly, "The ol' stone-stories were real, after all."

"The locust-men?" Martimeos asked. He, too, was too awed to reprimand Torc for speaking. "I have seen these carved in stone in your homes and redoubts. Alongside a hundred other strange enemies, it seemed. Was it they who built this place, then...? Who were they?"

But Torc merely shook his head, thin, patchy hair swinging around his scalp as he did. "Ask ten Crosscraw, and ye'll get ten different answers," he muttered. "Whoe'er they were, they were goan so long ago that nae stories of 'em are left among us that make sense. Ye can find carvings o' us fightin' a thousand diff'rent enemies, and tae tell th' truth - we only know who a handful o' em were. Th' more recent ones. Ah thought th' locust-heads were like all th' others. Jest stories we tol' ourselves. Ah didnae even know fer certain ef they were real. Even when our shamans spoke tae th' Ancestors, they got nae answers about such things. But..." he paused, glancing up at one of the huge war-carriages, his face shadowed. "Ah s'pose they were real. Mebbe they all were."

"What stories do your folk tell yourselves about the locust-men?" Kells asked quietly. "Perhaps they have some grain of truth to them."

"Ah could tell ye dozens. But et's th' same thing folk say about all o' our unknown enemies o' days long goan. Stories tae scare children. They'd eat ye, et was said. Come intae yer home at night an' take ye. They came from th' Outside, or so they say. But as Ah said, they tell th' same stories about all o' th' unknown. Except..." Torc frowned, giving one of the metal carriages a kick with his foot, as if to convince himself they were real. "There es one story Ah only ever heard told about th' locust-men. They say they were defeated when they went up intae th' sky, tae try tae kill th' spirits o' th' Ancestors themselves. Ancestors struck 'em down, an' they all withered an' died. Nonsense, tae me."

"How is it," Martimeos asked, "That your folk have forgotten so much of their history?"

This seemed to annoy Torc a bit; the Crosscraw man snorted angrily. "Ef ye came across a cave wit' strange carvins bah yer home, would ye ken what tae make o' et? D'ye ken who yer grandparents even five generations back are, lowlander?" he retorted, before realizing who he was speaking to and softening his tone. "Ah do. But much further back than tha', an' it all gets a bit muddled, ye ken? All Ah ever knew was life as we are. Mountainfolk and mercenaries, surrounded bah old stories carved intae stone. Ah dinnae ken why we are as we are, an' nae as our Ancestors were." He glanced nervously at the wizard, as if expecting a backlash. "Mebbe once, we kept our history better. But we are as we are now. Et es what et es."

But Martimeos, it seemed, was lost too deeply in thought to bite back at the Crosscraw man for speaking roughly. "I suppose it's true that I would not know myself anything of my ancestors from even a few hundred years ago," he mused. "History was never a particular interest of mine, either. But still." With a wave of his hand, the ball of glamour-flame he carried rose high. And all around them, the long shadows of the gigantic metal carriages stretched long in its light. "I have to wonder where they went. Was it war with you Crosscraw that ended them? Long enough ago that all we might have ever heard of them was forgotten?"

There was no answer. Only the silence of stone, among the still, looming forms of the locust-men's war-carriages. And so they continued on.

This room was truly vast; it contained dozens, if not hundreds, of the war-carriages. It might have contained more, except that part of the room seemed to have collapsed, forming a large wall of shattered, jagged boulders, dry earth spilling out between them. This was, perhaps, why this room was so much dustier than the others; some movement of the earth long ago had set dirt spilling into it.

When the heavy layers of dust were wiped away from the war-carriages, it could be seen that some of them bore black lettering on parts of their hulls, of the same script they had found earlier; great blocky letters spelling out something that none of them could read. Kells and Aela clambered up on to the top of one of the things; there they found a hatch, but their combined efforts could not make it budge.

Strangest of all, Martimeos thought, was that he could sense nothing of the Art from the gigantic hulks of metal. In the stonework of the Crosscraw, they had been depicted as shooting flame; he had assumed that this must have meant they carried some form of the Art within their frames. But there was nothing, not even the slightest trace of something lingering and decayed. The Art, he knew, could slowly drain out of an object that it had been poured into. But the wizards here had clearly been skilled enough to ensure that their work upon the walls of this place remained after countless ages. Perhaps, he thought, they had merely not taken the same care with everything they made.

He had wandered away from the others, pondering this, when he saw something that made him freeze in his tracks.

The war-carriages were covered in the thick dust of centuries, staining their white hulls a dirty brown. There was no wind, in this place beneath the earth, to blow it away. And yet there, on the untouched carriage in front of him, a portion of the dust had been wiped away to show the white plating beneath.

And next to it, a handprint. Much too small to be an ogre's. Martimeos felt his blood quicken; cautiously, curiously, he took a step forward.

"Dinnae move, wizard."

Martimeos quickly spun around, his heart leaping into his throat. Behind him stood Torc.

The ragged Crosscraw man stared at him with dull green eyes that still bore the bruises of the beating he had received. Though the man was one-armed and handless, and with what remained of his limbs bound by rope, Martim's hand went immediately to his sword. Torc had crept up on him alone; he could see some distance away, Aela and Kells standing within the circle of light cast by Elyse's glamour-flame, silhouettes against the towering war-carriages. "What do you think you're doing?" Martimeos asked coldly, his grip tightening around the hilt of his sword.

Torc continued staring quietly for a moment, shadows dancing across his face. Then he nodded towards the ground. "Look," he said simply.

Keeping his hand on his sword, Martimeos risked a glance downward. For a moment, he didn't see anything except the smooth stone floor. But as he looked closer, he noted that the floor bore the same thick layer of dust the war-carriages did; and there, set into that dust, were old bootprints. And, he noted, looking along the path he had taken to walk here, they were not his own.

"Ah spotted th' tracks, an' followed 'em here," Torc said quietly, as Martimeos looked back up at him. "Et ent from us, Ah'm sure o' that." He paused, then said, meaningfully, "Two pairs o' boots."

Swallowing his distaste for the man, Martimeos did his best to keep his tone civil. "It is something, at least," he replied, "Though it does not rule out that others may have snuck into this place that ogres do not know about. Hadley and my brother would have been here years ago. Could these prints really be from them, do you think?"

"Who knows how long tracks might last, en a place where there's nae rain tae wash em away, nor wind tae disturb 'em, nae animals to cover 'em, nae plants tae grow over 'em," Torc answered with the best shrug he could muster with one arm. "Tell me, how well d'ye ken yer brother's boots?"

"Still your tongue," Martim snapped at Torc, and the Crosscraw man fell silent. As the son of a cobbler, Martimeos actually knew them fairly well. His father had made both his boots and his brother's. Hadley's, as well. And these tracks did look fairly similar to his own. There was little that might be told from old bootprints, truth told, but Martim thought he could at east distinguish his own boot tracks from those of, say, boots made in Twin Lamps, which had a sharper, more angular style, or the hide-stitched boots of the sort the Crosscraw wore. At the very least, he could say these tracks might have been made from boots made in Pike's Green. "Hold!" he cried, his voice echoing through the dark. "All hold! Look to the ground, and be mindful of your step! We've found tracks!"

It took some time to sort out the confusion; to hold their light to the ground, and try to untangle these new tracks from the ones they had made. But they did, eventually. Cecil, low to the ground, and not needing nearly as much light to see, picked up the trail, mewing loudly in the dark to guide them.

And it was funny, Martimeos thought, just how much you could tell about a person from the tracks they had left behind. The owners of these boots had entered this room through a separate door from the one they had come in; on the far side of the wall. It looked as if they had begun by tracing out the edge of the room in exploration, until one of them made a line straight for the war-carriages. Whoever had worn these boots had leapt on top of one of the massive metal hulks, climbing all over it, leaving behind handprints and bootprints all over, while his partner had remained on the ground, circling around the carriage in small steps.

Martim tried to imagine Hadley and his brother, as the owners of these boots. It was all too easy. His brother, impulsive and wild, would have been the one to clamber up there, breaking off from the more methodical exploration of the rooms to sate his fierce curiousity. It was good to think that he might have kept his wild spirit, up until the very end. Martimeos found himself suddenly blinking back hot tears, and he admonished himself, thankful that everyone's attention was elsewhere. It was foolish to feel sadness over these tracks, when he did not even know if they actually dfid belong to his brother. And besides, they were just marks in dust. Nothing to feel sadness over.

The tracks wound a wandering path amongst the war-carriages, as if whoever had worn them had spent some time here in wonder. And then they cut away, to one corner of the room.

To a stairwell, leading down into the dark. Down to where the Art sang so sweetly.

The stairs were carved from stone, and even had a guardrail shaped from the rock as well. They wound around each other, spiralling, with landings leading to other dark hallways on other floors of this place. The dust spilled down the first few flghts of steps, but soon enough it thinned out, so that the tracks they had been following disappeared. "A shame," Kells said, pausing to wipe dirt from his face on a black sleeve of his jacket. He paused to peer over the guardrail; the stairs went on for further than their light could touch, vanishing into shadow. "'Twould have been nice to know which floor they stopped at."

"It does not matter," Martim replied. He felt almost feverish. The pull of the Art had been strong enough in this place already. But the moment he set foot on the stairs, with every step he took downward, he could feel the Art's song growing brighter in his mind. It was now so much stronger than what they had briefly felt on the surface, and it did not abate. Elyse could feel it as well, he could tell. The witch had her arms wrapped around herself, her face flushed, and seemed nearly on the verge of breaking out into giggles. He could not blame her. It was filling him with an ecstatic joy, as well. A sweetness that seemed to sharpen his every emotion and send dark whispers coursing through his blood. "If those tracks were my brother's, he went downward. I am certain of it."

"Should we not at least look at the other floors?" the soldier asked doubtfully.

Martimeos clapped a friendly hand on his shoulder. "Kells, my good man," he said, ignoring the confused expression Kells gave him, "My wonderful, amazing man. There is nothing I would love more than to explore every inch of this place. I promise you. But I know, I am absolutely certain, that what we look for is down below."

Kells exchanged a nervous glance with Aela; he even shared a look of concern with Torc. "'Tis the Art you feel, isn't it," he muttered quietly. He looked back and forth between Martimeos and Elyse. "The both of you. You both look half-drunk. Whatever you felt above is stronger here, now. Am I right?"

"I wish you could feel it," Elyse sighed in response. A sudden wild urge filled Martimeos; an urge to grab her, grab her and kiss her, and dance laughing away from these cautious fools down to where the Art called. "'Tis a crime you cannot. Everyone should learn of the Art, if only so they might taste this." She looked to Martim, and it was as if she knew what he was thinking. Her dark blue eyes twinkled with mischief, and it seemed to him that her small smile was daring him to do what he thought of.

But perhaps Kells could tell what they were thinking, as well. For the soldier reached out and clasped them both, friendly but firmly, by the shoulder. "Far be it for I to dampen your enthusiasm," he said quietly, giving them both frank looks, "But remember what I asked of you."

Martimeos knew on some level that the man was talking good sense. And, in fact, some part of him was whispering that this wasn't right - that whatever Art was here, it was making him reckless. But the greater part of him could feel nothing but exasperation, now. "Of course," he replied, feeling a bit of shame. He knew now that it was very unlikely that he'd be able to keep his promise. But all he wanted to do right now was override the soldier's petty worries and bound down the steps. And as soon as Kells released him, that was precisely what he did, along with Elyse, leaving Kells and the Crosscraw struggling to keep up with the the light cast by their glamours. He ran so fast that even Flit, perched on his shoulder, felt the need to take off and fly alongside him, instead.

So quickly did he and the witch run, in fact, that they very nearly injured themselves.

On one of the landings lay a strange heap of debris; twisted and charred metal, half-melted into rivulets of slag, acrid-smelling, whatever fire had consumed it blackening the stone around it. Elyse, flying down the steps, tripped over this, and would have gone flying had Martimeos not quickly reached out and grabbed her arm. Drunk on the Art, the witch did nothing but laugh as he pulled her back, careless that she had nearly broken her skull on the stone. It did not even stop when they turned to look at what they had nearly fallen over, strange though it was.

For while much of it was destroyed, reduced to jagged scraps and twisted beyond any shape it had once held, some of it was recognizable.

Martim thought he was looking at the remains of a man in strange metal armor, for a moment. He could see what looked to be a gauntleted hand lying aside to one side, torn apart from the rest of the body. Only there was no sign of rot; no stink of death, no sign of flesh at all, in fact, amongst the burnt and ruined mass.

He gave Kells an apologetic look as the soldier caught up, but the man's frown quickly faded as he caught his breath. He quicky surveyed the wreckage on the landing, his sharp features a mask of confusion. "Black hells, what is this?" he muttered, drumming his fingers nervously upon his breastplate as he nudged the debris with a boot. "Pfaugh! Is that a hand...?"

It was Aela, though, who spotted the answer, gleaming in the darkness just outside of the touch of light. She bent, and with shaking hands, held up what she had found.

The head of a locust, the size of a man's skull, forged of gleaming black metal.

"Well, I suppose that gives a definite answer to who built this place," Martimeos said, and he could not help but laugh.

"What - what es funny about this?" Aela asked with a stammer. She had gone pale, and her bright green eyes stared down at the head in her hands with shock. "Martim, ye dinnae understan'. Perhaps these things are more than jest legend, aye, but - they were s'posed tae all be goan long ago. Ages ago. We dinnae even ken what they were called."

"Look at this," Kells muttered, kneeling by the ruined, blackened mass of molten metal. Covering his nose against the acrid smell, he reached in with one gloved hand, grimacing as ash and molten somethng crumbled against his fingers. He yanked out what looked to be a half-melted tangle of black rope. "Look. Whatever these locust-men are, I do not think they are...made the same way as us. If this be its guts, they're full of metal." His gray eyes traced upwards, to look at the stone wall; here the smooth stone was pitted and cracked, as if something had gouged and torn away great chunks of it. "What happened here?"

"Ah think," Torc said quietly, "Our witch and wizard hae goan mad."

For Martimeos could not help but laugh. The Art down below was a sea of sweet joy, of wondrous light that felt as if it was filling up his very soul. His hand was around Elyse's hip, and the witch had her arms wrapped around his chest, and she laughed as well, laughed until tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. She was beautiful. Everything seemed so beautiful. The dusty stone walls, scarred and pitted; the strange, metallic locust-head that Aela held; how wondrous that everyhing that was should simply be. How joyous it was to live. And when Torc spoke, he could no longer feel anger for the man. He could feel nothing but pity. The man had been blind to the beauty of life, and had fallen in with destroying it, and it had ruined him. "Oh, Torc," he said, his heart feeling as if it were soaring on a cloud, "You chose the wrong side."

Torc's eyes widened in surprise, to be addressed directly by Martimeos. "Wh-what d'ye mean bah that?" he asked. The dark circles beneath his eyes made his thin, dour face look like a skull. "What d'ye mean bah that, wizard?"

But Martimeos had already turned, hand in hand with Elyse, and begun descending the stairs once more. They were so close now. He felt a small pang of guilt as he heard Kells call out after him, knowing that he could not keep his promise to the man. But it was soon washed away in waves of beautiful light.

They bounded down the steps as if dancing, feeling as if their feet barely touched the ground, barely hearing the footsteps of t he others following close behind them. Flit chirped in alarm in Martim's ear, fluttering around his master's head, and Cecil hissed and snagged his claws in Elyse's robes, but the two of them were deaf to their familiar's warnings.

"Perhaps we are mad," Elyse said breathlessly, as she ran with him. "I certainly feel mad. What if they're right, wizard? What if we've lost our minds?"

It didn't matter, Martim thought. He could no more resist this call than he could stop breathing. Was this what his brother had felt? Was this very feeling what had pulled him to his doom? Then, he supposed, it was inevitable. It was all as it was meant to be. "Then let us be mad," he answered, his own breath ragged in his throat. "We did not choose the Art to live mundane lives."

Though you might have been happier without it, in the end, a small voice whispered within him. And unbidden, the memory of Vivian's smiling face sprang to his mind, her sky-blue eyes and golden hair. Oh well, he thought. His choices were what they were. Wonderful and terrible, all at once.

They leapt past landings, bounding down the steps two and three at a time, and the Art's song grew so sweet it was almost painful. Three, four, five; dark doorways into other floors flew past them. On the sixth landing, they came to the end of the stairs, the shouts of the others close behind them as they dashed through the doorway there.

This door did not open up into yet more darkened hallways. This one opened into a large, circular chamber. And it was lit, in the center, by a lamp, similar to the ones Twin Lamps was named for; similar to the one they had seen in the Dream that Grizel had bought them to; a long, shimmering pole topped by a globe of translucent glass.

It cast a pulsing green light across the room, illuminating more twisted corpses of locust-men scattered about, as if some great and terrible storm had passed through and bought them all to ruin. Torn apart, melted and scorched, their dead, glassy eyes stared blankly at Martimeos and Elyse as they swiftly passed.

For at the other end of the room lay a gigantic door. The oddest that Martimeos had ever seen. Tall and circular, made of gleaming silver metal, its face spoked like the helm of of a ship, riveted and cold. It was large enough that Mors could have passed through it, easily.

And it was broken. Something had burnt a hole through it large enough for a man to walk through. Great pools of melted slag lay to either side of the door, hardened and cooled. And through the hole poured a bright white light.

And above the door, scorched into the stone by flame, was the mark of a black stag's head, with antlers curled like thorns.

My brother, Martimeos thought, upon seeing that. He was here. And he wanted someone else to know he was here. Who? His feet faltered, for only a moment, before Elyse eagerly pulled him along, He did not resist her. The Art's song drowned out all thought.

Their familiars had given up on trying to stop them, as they approached the gigantic metal door. Flit sat perched reluctantly on Martim's shoulder, and Cecil trotted alongside his mistress, mewing in agitation as they drew nearer. Just before they dove through the hole, a cry echoed to them from across the chamber.

"MARTIMEOS! ELYSE!"

They turned, just briefly, to see Kells standing at the entrance to the room. Torc and Aela were behind him, peering over his shoulder. All three were wide-eyed with shock, taking in the room. The soldier spread his hands, exasperated, as he stared at them. "Don't be fools," he said, in a tone that said he knew very well they were going to be anyway.

Martimeos shrugged apologetically at the man. And then he and Elyse walked into the bright light, and passed through the door.

Beyond was a long, white hallway. It seemed made of a different stone than that of the mountain, if indeed it was stone at all. The walls were cool to the touch. There was no visible source of light, here, and yet everything was well-lit anyway. The Art still sang to them, from somewhere very, very close by.

And it was so clean. Immaculately clean; spotless, in fact, at least before they began walking through it, evey step of their boots shedding dirt, mud and dust. No doorways led off from this hallway, but it ended quickly enough. It led to a small room, of the same immaculate white walls, its only furnishings a smooth, sleek desk, oddly carved from black stone.

And behind the desk sat a woman, in a plush chair of black cushions. Small and spry, with short, dark hair that did not extend past her jaw, and large, dark eyes. Tan of skin, she wore an elaborate red dress that left her shoulders bare. Her dress, and the ribbons in her hair, were striped in such a way that they evoked butterfly wings.

She perked up as they approached, as if surprised to see them there. And then she spoke, in a strange, lilting accent, almost as if she was singing a song. "Well, hello," she said, her small mouth turning up in a smile. "It's been some time since I've had visitors."