This is part one of a fun write-up of a play-by-forum RPG I am doing with some people at RPGGeek. It is set in the world of Numenera. I am rewriting the events of the game as a serial novel, just for laughs. See if you can guess which character is "me" haha.
For important disclaimers and whatnot please see the Tears of the Gods table of contents page.
***
Date: 1st Fre in the 401st Year of the Founding
Kiraz
A harsh clanging sound awakened her, metal striking metal, very nearby.
That banging was loud... too loud for something to not have happened to me last night, Kiraz thought as her mind moved sluggishly toward consciousness. What did happen last night? She gradually became aware of the smell of rancid blood and rusted metal, mingled with the odours of seawater and other, less pleasant smells. She also became aware of her dull headache, and the stiffness from sleeping on a hard metal surface. Sleeping for how long? Where am I?
She opened her eyes. She was lying on the floor of a tightly-confined cage with several others.
The hammering came again from behind her. "Wake up, my pretties, you’re on soon," drawled a voice that sounded well-acquainted with cruelty. She turned her head toward the sound.
The speaker was a pudgy, bald-headed man, wearing some kind of studded-leather costume, too fancy to be ordinary armor. He hammered twice more on the bars of the cage with a metal-bound club.
"Come on now; you don’t want me to use the electro-whip. You’d better put on a good show; they’re expecting it." He was grinning sadistically.
The others in the cage started to stir. The first to stand was a strange, plant-like being with woody natural armor plates and a single enormous eye where its head should be, at the end of a long, flexible, vine-like neck. The creature was wearing a homespun robe. It spoke. "Put on a show? Golthiars are no performers," it said. "Please, no whip. I can talk about plant matter. Will that interest the audience?"
The golthiar swung its enormous eye around, taking in its surroundings. Kiraz wasn’t sure how it spoke.
The man twisted his face into a sneer and struck the bars again.
"Interest the audience? Tell me, Treebeard, what colour smoke do you give off when you burn? That might interest them."
"Treebeard? I do not have a beard, and I am not a tree, rather more of a sapling," the golthiar responded meekly. "I think like most of my kin I would burn with lots of smoke. It would not be much to behold..."
"Calaval’s teeth," came a pained whisper from another of the cage’s inmates. "Calaval’s teeth! Perform… Perform what? Why? You can’t—my head, by the cursed Four, my head!"
That speaker arose. It was some kind of… amphibian? With black and white… feathers? And a beak. Am I locked in a zoo?
Kiraz scrambled to her feet and spoke up. "What happened to me and why am I here? I don't seem to remember anything from last night. What’s going on here?"
Most of the others were coming around, several trying to talk at once. There were six people in the cage, she counted.
"P-p-perform? For who?" asked a male human next to her wearing beastskin armor. He had curly straw-blond hair.
A dry, choking laugh cut through their questions before turning into a wet, rasping cough. From another cage off to her right a voice grated bitterly, "Perform? Yes, perform. You are here to fight and die for the pleasure of the crowd of citizens. How do you think the King maintains order? He gives the crowds what the crowds want: a slice-and-dice orgy of blood."
Kiraz saw the speaker in the other cage was emaciated and covered in horrible rope-like burns. He struggled to sit up.
"I was taken, like you, from a tavern near to the entrance pier," he continued. "Did you perhaps accept the offer of a free drink?"
Kiraz tried to think back. She vaguely remembered a well-dressed stranger offering her a drink, but not her response.
The golthiar turned its eye toward the other captive and responded. "Drink? That must have been a strong one if it could make a golthiar dizzy. At least Seed-Brother…" he picked up a gnarled staff from the floor beside him, "is here. And a King? I have not heard of a King in a long time."
The emaciated man struggled to pull himself upright using the bars of his cage and stared at the golthiar in wide-eyed wonder as it spoke. "What manner of being are you?" he whispered. "I have never seen your like before, even in my stud-". He fell silent suddenly and dropped to his knees. "Ignore me. The pain of my injuries makes me delirious. I do not know what you are."
Kiraz didn’t know what to make of the injured man’s words.
The golthiar turned back to the jailor. "Who is this King? What realm does he rule? Who are the citizens? What performance might please them? I could juggle—but only one ball at a time. It pleases the saplings," it suggested. Kiraz wondered if that last was a joke.
The feathered amphibian spoke up again, indignant. "I am not an animal," it announced. "I will not perform, and I will not be caged!"
The creature gestured with one of its flipper-like hands, flinging an esotery of blue-green light into the bars of the cage. Onslaught, Kiraz knew. The Onslaught’s blue-green light smelled strongly of the ocean.
Kiraz backed away from the bars, waiting to see how the jailor would respond. Instinctively, she dropped her hand to the rapier on her hip and was more than a little surprised to find she still had it. They locked us in a cage but let us keep our weapons? What is this place? She wondered.
The jailor just folded his arms, amused. The Onslaught had barely scratched the bars of the cage. "We should have billed this as the freakshow and charged double. Hey, Flipperman. I'm betting twenty shins on you. Don't let me down," he taunted.
"Worst dream ever," grumbled a gravelly voice. The owner of that voice was still lying on the floor, face-down, but with his head turned so he could look up at the agitated amphibian with one bloodshot, rust-colored eye. He was possibly the ugliest man Kiraz had ever seen, hairless, with leathery, dark grey skin covered in large boil-like growths, wearing a ratty-looking oversized cloak. Kiraz wondered what was wrong with him. The grey man made no move to stand.
"You seek freedom?" whispered the voice from the next cage. All eyes turned back to the emaciated man. He had struggled upright again, clinging to the bars of the cage. "There is only one way to get free from here. The pit. The pit in the arena leads to freedom."
He paused, apparently in pain, then slowly lowered himself back down to his knees.
"In the centre of the arena is a pit," he explained. "Those who enter the pit do not return to the arena slave-pens. I too was going to chance it when the thrice-accursed Ptolus," he wheezed, jerking his chin at the club-wielding jailor, "let the bellowheart loose on us. I was not fast enough, and now I am near death. It will be a release." He hung his head, exhausted.
"Morning, Gormin!" exclaimed someone else in the cage, just now standing up with an exaggerated yawn and stretch: a lanky younger guy with unkempt, dirty-blond hair. Not that I’m likely to be looking much better kempt at the moment, thought Kiraz. The lanky youth rubbed his head and mumbled a quick "Jeez, that hurt," before continuing. "Oi, This bloke here says we gotta fight. Get yer lumpy butt up," he said to the grey man.
The grey man—Gormin?—glared at his interlocutor from under his cloak, not moving. He was the only one still lying down.
"You remember that guy from Ledon, the real skinny one...What was his name...Sclordin, Scribble, Scolour-by-numbers..." the youth continued, gesturing in the air with one hand. Kiraz noticed that the back of his hand was covered with an elaborate pattern of red scars that continued up his arm until covered by his sleeve. The youth flicked his fingers as if trying to draw the recollection from the air.
"Scilav," Gormin growled.
The youth pointed at Gormin with his scarred hand. "Yeah! That's the guy! You remember when he came in the yard like he owned the place, picked a fight with some pirates. And, do you remember how that crew from the pirate ship showed him what for?"
Kiraz noticed that all the while the youth was speaking and gesturing with one hand, drawing everyone's attention with it, his other hand was undoing the ties on his pants. "Good old Skili. You remember what he said to the pirates, Gormin?"
With a raspy sound that might have been a chuckle Gormin answered, "Yeah. I remember. ‘Sorry, I can't fight with a full bladder,’ is what that skinny punk said right before he got the stupid kicked out of him."
In time with Gormin’s answer, the youth dropped his trousers and let loose a stream of urine, angled just enough to hit the bald jailor's boots. And thrusting his chin out defiantly, said in a mocking tone, "Sorry, I can't fight with a full bladder. Ain't that a thing?"
Suddenly everyone in the cage was talking or shouting at the jailor or each other. Kiraz found it hard to focus through the fog of her headache. The man with the curly blond hair leaned in close to her. She noticed he was holding a leather whip coiled in his hand. "I m-m-might not be the smartest here," he whispered, "b-but m-m-m-may-," he stopped, frustrated. Speech impediment, Kiraz realised. The tongue-tied man continued, "Perhaps we sh-should wait… until he lets us out… to perform," he concluded. "Then escape!" he added, as if nearly forgetting that part.
Perform. Fight. Escape. Kiraz looked around and realised her crossbow was nowhere in sight. Nor either of her backpacks. A full inventory of what she was missing would have to wait, however.
She whispered back, "I was thinking the same thing. Probably safer that way."
Ptolus was looking down, studying the spreading puddle around his boot, ignoring the prisoners trying to talk to him. He had not tried to jump out of the way of the urine. He raised his head slowly to look up at the young man who'd fouled his boot, his face an ugly mask of malevolence. He stepped up to the bars of the cage.
"You will pay for that", he whispered, slowly and deliberately enunciating each word. He fingered some kind of numenera device at his belt. Immediately a bell sounded, a harsh, shivering clang that echoed through the chamber. Ptolus hefted the club and slammed it against the bars again.
"It is time, my pretties," he purred. "Be sure to put on a good show; they paid good shinies to watch you die."
He paused, eyeing the youth with the empty bladder. "But not you. I hope you live; then we can have a little… talk."
From the shadows emerged six guards wearing brigandine armour. Each had spears slung on their backs; each also carried a short staff with a glowing tip. Cascades of orange sparks dripped from the tips of their staves as they moved to surround the cage's heavy door.
Ptolus unlocked and opened the cage door. He stepped back and gestured without a further word that they were to leave with the guards.
The golthiar turned its eye to look at its fellow prisoners. "I am Yimoul-Za; you call my kind golthiar. I assume they do not want to know about botany? I have some powers but they are not great. Hopefully things will not need to get too violent," it said quickly. Kiraz thought it sounded nervous. The guards made way as it left the cage.
Kiraz followed. "I’m not planning on dying this day," she said to Ptolus as she walked by. She held her head high and did not pause to see his response. At least I go with dignity.
She heard Gormin clambering to his feet. "Off we go then. Was nice meeting all of you," he growled sarcastically. He hurried to catch up with Kiraz. "Better to walk out there than be prodded forward like a beast," he called back to the others over his shoulder.
The others weren’t following, however. Kiraz looked back. The amphibian was holding out its hands to the newly arrived guards. "Greetings!" it said. "I am Ooro of the City of Rust. I assume you are here to learn of the 75,000 shin boon we have promised to any creature who aids us in our escape?"
The guards were unimpressed. Two of them jabbed Ooro of the City of Rust with their powered staves. He bellowed in pain and fell silent.
"Shut the beak and get moving, Flipperman," shouted Ptolus, finally losing his patience.
Without further resistance, the guards escorted the six soon-to-be gladiators up a long flight of metal stairs to a holding chamber separated from an arena by a heavy gate. Ptolus had not come with them, nor the dying man who had told them of the pit. After a short wait, a bell sounded and the guards forced them through the gate and into the arena. The gate slammed shut.
The arena was octagonal, with a metal floor perhaps a hundred feet across, surrounded by banked tiers of bench-seats thronged with cheering crowds. Set in the walls just below the seats were large metal grilles. In the centre was what had to be be the pit, surrounded by a circular, waist-high metal wall. Set in the arena floor at intervals were more metal gratings. Just over the top of the seats, in the distance, Kiraz could see the slowly rotating turbines of the Wind Spire. At least I know I’m still in the City of Bridges.
Gormin stepped forward, spread his arms wide and made an obscene gesture to the roaring crowd with each hand. He turned slowly in a full circle, grinning and apparently making sure everyone in attendance was insulted. The crowd laughed and jeered. Kiraz noticed that underneath Gormin’s filthy beggar-cloak he had on thick beastskin armour and a sword-belt. A glaive?
Yimoul-Za turned his enormous eye towards the Wind Spire. "At least we are nearer the surface, Seed-Brother," he said to his staff. He turned to regard the crowd. "They find this exciting? Would they not be more excited by a lecture on the growth of the Olinthian blue mushroom?"
The bell sounded again. A group of twelve margr unhurriedly made their way out of another gate opposite Kiraz and her fellow prisoners. The goat-like abhumans were armed with bone spears; they spread around the arena, splitting into four groups of three. Kiraz frowned. Strangely disciplined for margr. One of the trios of margr moved to block the pit. They waited.
Through the same gate, more guards pushed in a wheeled cage holding three broken hounds, maddened and violently thrashing against the bars of their cage. The guards withdrew, the opposite gate slammed shut, and the bell sounded again. A cheer went up from the crowd.
"I must be honest," Ooro yelled to Kiraz over the cheers of the crowd, "this is not what I would call a typical morning!"
Gormin drew a sword from beneath his voluminous cloak: a backsword of the type favored by Draolic soldiers. "Come on. That geezer said the pit's what we wanted. Let's kill some goat-faces!" He bellowed some kind of war-cry and ran screaming toward the pit.
"Well, at least I don't have to fight with a full bladder," grumbled the young man with the elaborate scars. Kiraz saw that he was armed as well, with a heavy leaf-bladed short-sword.
Kiraz drew her rapier and followed Gormin.
Ooro moved up at her side. "Bellowheart," he said as if to himself. "The prisoner said something about a ‘bellowheart.’" As he raised his left primary hand to charge his esotery, he called out, "Gormin, what’s a bellowheart?"
Gormin shouted back, "You’ll know it when you hear it bellow!"
She heard a whip-crack off to her left, drawing a cheer from the crowd, drowning out Ooro’s sarcastic response. She had bigger concerns now. She dropped into a defensive stance and waited for the margr to make a move… as Gormin sprinted right at them like a Jaekel berserker.
One of the margr facing off against them was suddenly surrounded by a blaze of blue-green light and screamed—Ooro’s Onslaught. From behind her, she thought she heard another Onslaught. Is there another nano among us?
Gormin juked the two margr as he reached them, easily avoiding their spears. One was momentarily off-balanced enough that he was able to get in a quick jab at it with his backsword, stabbing it in the belly. The margr howled. The crowd howled.
The margr Ooro had blasted suddenly lunged toward him with the bone spear. Ooro easily avoided the clumsy spear thrust but immediately took off running, impossibly fast.
"What the—" exclaimed Gormin as the amphibious creature streaked past him toward the pit. Ooro attempted to hop onto the wall around the pit.
He fell in.
No time to worry about that now. She aimed a thrust at the margr who'd attacked Ooro. Her rapier struck true, but it seemed to do little harm to its thick hide. She found herself wishing for her crossbow.
She heard Yimoul-Za shout behind her. "Are you entertained!?" She risked a quick glance back at him in time to see him launch an Onslaught of concentrated yellow energy at her margr. It missed, however, and struck the polished metal side of the pit, scattering painfully bright (but no longer deadly) light everywhere.
Gormin cursed and followed up with a second sword thrust, striking down the margr before him. The margr sprawled on the rusted floor of the arena, clutching at its guts. After a convulsive shudder it lay still.
Kiraz did not know how the others were faring—too focused on her own survival, though she could hear the tongue-tied man’s whip crack again off to her left.
Two more margr appeared from somewhere. Had they come from the other side of the arena? One lunged at her with a wild attack, but it missed its aim and impaled itself on her rapier. With a gurgle, it fell back, dead. She glanced up in time to lock eyes with Gormin, who gave her a slight nod of—grudging?—respect.
Yimoul-Za had come up to join them at some point. "Will the crowd riot if we all went into the pit?" He looked down the pit with his eye. "Quick one that looks like bird, are you in there?" he shouted needlessly into the pit. Where else would he be? Kiraz wondered. Ooro’s voice echoed back up from the pit, but the appearance of more margr demanded her attention.
Back to the fight. Kiraz danced forward, her blade a flashing blur. The margr tried to block but its raised arm only created an opening—her sword point plunged deep into its armpit, slaying it.
Gormin got in a cut against his own margr. It howled in pain, then shouted back in a broken, guttural Truth: "You look like us—them hate you. Why you fight me?" it demanded of Gormin.
The crowd was screaming. "Release the hounds! Release the hounds! Release the beast!" Yet another margr thrust its spear at her midsection. She easily avoided it.
She strained to overhear Gormin and the margr shouting at each other over the noise of the crowd. "The fat bald man did not give us a choice. Are you here by choice?" the grey man yelled. "What's in the pit? Someone said freedom..."
Kiraz risked a quick look around. The tongue-tied man was a flashing, twisting blur of motion, his whip whistling through the air around him. He was easily handling three margr. She saw Yimoul-Za fire off another Onslaught from the corner of her eye; it missed. And the cocky younger guy with the scar seemed to be struggling alone against a larger group of margr.
The margr answered Gormin in its raspy, high-pitched voice. "No freedom in pit for margr. Margr fight and die. Margr fight not and still die. Margr die in fighting far from home".
"Die then, beast." Gormin thrust the point of his sword into the margr’s abdomen, killing it.
***
From somewhere high up, through a window, a pair of amber eyes watched the fight unfold in the arena. A second person joined the first, watching the battle.
"They are doing well." There was no response from the first figure.
"They can fight. They have esoteries. They could be the right ones." There was still no response.
"All they have to show now is that they can think."
The first figure gave a slight nod.
***
The bell rang out again and the crowd fell silent, anticipating. The remaining margr disengaged and withdrew back across the arena, towards the hound cage.
The far-side arena gate slowly began to open again.
Yimoul-Za sighed. "May you feed the drit," he said softly to the fallen margr. He turned to the pit. "The light of the sun, reveal all that is hidden," he intoned. Bright yellow energy shone forth from his eye as he peered into the shadows of the pit.
The golthiar nano completed his esotery and turned to his companions. "Perhaps we should enter the pit? I sense no immediate danger. That will deny the crowd their entertainment. If that means they release the bellowheart early then it will have to face the hounds as well. And I am curious what is within."
The tongue-tied man with the whip was at her elbow. "Entertain? Heart Below... Ooro and the drain. Water. Man said was the way in, I mean out," he stammered. He stepped forward and looked down the pit.
"You may be right," Gormin agreed. "One thing first..."
Gormin snatched up one of the margrs’ bone spears and looked toward the audience, turning in a circle. Searching for someone, Kiraz realised. Ptolus?
Gormin reversed his grip on the spear to a javelin-type hold and smiled unpleasantly. Kiraz decided that Gormin smiling was somehow even uglier than Gormin scowling. She followed his gaze; Ptolus was stood in the middle of a semi-circular control booth on the other side of the arena, visible from the waist up. He was turning a wheel slowly. The gate control?
The cocky younger man with the scars had rejoined them. "I'm not sticking around to see how any of this plays out. Oi, Flash! Get ready for some company!" He jumped into the pit.
Gormin let out a wordless shout as he took a couple of running steps. He hurled the crude spear with all his might at Ptolus.
The bone spear was, unfortunately, just the leg bone of some large animal with a sharp stone point affixed to one end—not the best quality weapon, especially for throwing. The spear wobbled through the air across most of the arena but clattered to the metal floor well short of the booth. The crowd laughed.
Ptolus looked up and wagged a finger at Gormin. He pulled a lever. With a roar, water began to cascade out of the metal grilles round the walls, flooding across the arena floor. Within seconds it was ankle deep—and rising fast.
A collective sigh of delight went round the crowd. "Rippy-fish!" They started cheering and whistling.
Kiraz decided not to find out what rippy-fish were. She hopped over the waist-high wall into the pit.
The pit was a slippery metal funnel that quickly narrowed to a spiraling metal tube about six feet wide. She slid down, trying to slow her descent but there was no purchase. The tube opened into the top of a low-ceilinged domed chamber, into which it dropped her unceremoniously.
She scrambled out of the way in case anyone was coming behind her, which they were: Yimoul-Za, then the tongue-tied man, and Gormin last of all.
***
Krystogh
Krystogh watched the opening in the ceiling carefully. The water filling the arena was not coming after them.
Ooro was there. "Greetings, friends!" he said cheerfully once everyone had fallen through the ceiling. "I am so glad you could join me in the pit. Are any of you injured?"
Krystogh stood, wincing from the back-injury he’d suffered in the arena fight. "I took a couple of hits up there, Flash, nothing too bad. I think. What about you guys?" he asked the others.
Gormin grunted and stood also. "Gettin' too old for this drit," he answered. He started to wipe the margr blood from his sword. "I may have prematurely provoked our bald captor. The goat-faces hadn't left the arena when the water started coming out. Those hounds either for that matter. If the rippy-fish live up to their name, it's likely getting pretty messy up there."
Krystogh could still hear the crowd chanting somewhere above them. The pipe seemed to act as a giant speaking-tube. "Rippy-fish. What are they?" He tried to wring the water out of his boots. A puddle of rust-colored water had collected in the center of the room.
He looked around. The domed room was little more than the junction of four pipes: the one in the ceiling that had deposited them here and three other pipes that curved away horizontally. Numerous small grilles in the ceilings and walls let in natural light.
Yimoul-Za was up as well. "Curious indeed," he said. "Why provide the means to escape right there in the middle of the arena? I think the challenges ahead are not quite done yet."
Gormin grinned. "Maybe the referee would have explained the rules of the game if someone hadn't made water on his boot. Right, Krystogh?" He let out a harsh bark of laughter and clapped Krystogh heartily on his injured back. Krystogh grimaced.
"I am glad that you are all well," Ooro said with a smile. "Yimoul-Za, I hope our next challenge does not involve another battle-royale... Unless the battle-royale were on a game board." He paused. "Friends, because we face unknown dangers ahead, I think it wise to marshal our strength for a moment. And, with your permissions, can we begin official introductions?"
"Introductions sound like a good idea, Flipperman," replied Gormin. "I don't know most of your names or what you can do. But I'm Gormin. I may not look like much, but I count myself blessed because I'm in a line of work I am truly passionate about. Which is killing people." Gormin laughed, the kind of person who laughs at his own jokes.
Krystogh spoke up. "I'm not so interested in introductions as I am in getting out of these pipes—and preferably not the way we came in. But, I'm Krystogh, for what it's worth." He wandered away, only half-listening to the others’ small talk. Yimoul-Za was saying something about the virtues of staying together. He scratched at the elaborate Scars of the Vulture on his right arm. Would be nice to get back to the Wandering Walk, he mused.
He became aware of the sound of churning water. The pipes’ odd acoustic properties made it hard to discern where it was coming from, but Krystogh thought it was loudest from the horizontal pipe he arbitrarily designated as "north". Near to the "south" tunnel, the starburst-like symbol of the Order of Truth had been scratched into the wall with some kind of cutting tool, who knows how long ago. The "west" tunnel had nothing special to recommend it.
Ooro was talking rapidly. "…and as you can tell from my stature, and my aesthetically pleasing form, I am of the skeane," he said.
"Concerning our ragtag group, I agree with the photosynthetic one. Fate has thrown us together, and who am I to argue with fate? I suggest that any who are willing should list skills in their possession that may aid our motley crew. For my part, while I am not trained in murder, like my terrifying friend here," gesturing at Gormin, "I specialize in the numenera, and I am trained in swimming, studying, and crafting. I also move quickly. However, as my accidental voyage to this pit proves, sometimes my velocity is a hindrance, not a gift.
"Additionally, I am a nano with knowledge of certain esoteries, and, before you make light of that, please know I have already encountered every ‘The fish is a witch’ jape that can be found in the Ninth World. Only half of them were funny... Calaval's teeth! An unfortunate memory just returned to me. Before our capture, I was in possession of a cypher of immense power that I cobbled together in my workshop over many years. I hope that we recover it soon. If that is not possible, I hope we are not within its radius if someone activates it." He shook his head quickly as if trying to push the thought away.
"Enough introductions. I cast my feathers on the side of an investigation of the pipe marked with the sign of the Aeon Priests. Their order is worthy of respect. With no clear directions, we may as well follow the Order of Truth." He gestured toward the "south" tunnel.
Gormin eyed the Order of Truth symbol. "Yeah, maybe this way leads to the Amber Pope's personal harem." He grinned at his own wittiness. "That's the way we want to go."
The glaive with the curly blond hair spoke up shyly. "Hello, I am Syrus." He drew his whip back out and cracked it against the metal wall to make an echoing sound. "I am… good with this."
Hopefully that didn’t alert any others to our presence, Krystogh thought, but said nothing. But speaking of others… "Oi, Flash, you said something about a powerful device? How powerful?"
But at that moment, Ooro seemed to suddenly notice something about Yimoul-Za. "The Drown! The Drown! Away! Away!" Ooro sprinted away down the northern pipe, spraying orange water in all directions.
"Rather excitable, isn’t he?" Yimoul-Za remarked. He indicated what had frightened Ooro. It was an orange fungus-like growth that covered parts of the floor; some of it had gotten onto Yimoul-Za and seemed to be taking root. "It’s a Flame of the Klang. Very rare. It will suck my strength but can provide sustenance to the rest of you. I think I'll keep it," he said.
Gormin peered warily at Yimoul-Za's new orange growth. "Provide... sustenance? You mean we’re going to be eating from your fungal infection?"
"Yes, don't animals and creatures seek out fungi and mushrooms to consume? Think of it as sharing in a bit of me. We golthiar do so all the time, particularly in the Festival of the Wild Moon, where we feed each other our bark and leaves and bits that you don't have names for," he explained. "I'm sure you get used to it. It'll taste slightly sour and a little bit metallic, but it'll be invigorating."
"Interesting. Well, I have probably eaten worse," he said. Gormin turned and addressed the group. "If we are through exchanging pleasantries, we should get a move on. This way is likely as good as any other."
He marched down the "south" pipe. Krystogh and the others—less Ooro—followed. The tunnel made a long sweeping curve round to the left; after a short distance, on the outside of the curve, they found a large panel of black stone affixed to the wall.
Engraved on the stone in white was a cluster of bright stars, fourteen in total, surrounded by a cloud of smaller stars. Krystogh somehow had the impression that the fourteen stars were running from something. Surrounding the engraving was a tracery of fine script, also in white.
On the floor before the panel was a length of synthrope, a leather helmet, and a small leather case secured by a clasp.
Krystogh studied the engraving’s script. It was a language that pre-dated the Truth. "The Gods came to seek help against the Great Hunter and his dogs. When the help was not there the Gods wept their Tears, so that those who would come later would prevail," Krystogh read aloud.
Gormin snorted. "More writing." He pointed. Another line of script was etched into the tunnel wall, made by the same cutting tool that made the Order of Truth symbol. That line of script was written in the Truth.
I am Loarn and I take up the challenge to find the Tears of the Gods. Look for my journal in the Shrine of the Wing_____
The last part of the message was obliterated by a large growth of Flame of Klang. Krystogh was reluctant to try to wipe it away.
Yimoul-Za picked up the case, a squarish leather-bound box a little more than a handspan long and a finger-width thick. "I wonder what could be in here. And why would someone leave all this behind? Perhaps the previous owner found something better and decided to shed these items here."
Gormin took the helmet and put it on. "Maybe the prior owner was eaten by some ultraterrestrial monstrosity who found these objects indigestible."
The tall woman with the rapier, whose name Krystogh had not caught earlier, spoke up. "Perhaps we ought to follow Ooro to make sure he doesn't run into anything dangerous."
Krystogh looked up from studying the scripts and glanced around. "Yeah, where’d Flash go?"
Gormin grumbled, "Flipperman had a death-wish he had to go take care of. He will be sorely missed. Maybe."
Yimoul-Za popped open the small case and looked inside. "Look," he said as he handed the case to Krystogh. "Quite something."
The case contained a set of cosmetics, facepaints, lippy, sparklepowder, and such. A small panel in the lid showed Krystogh’s reflection. There was something not right with it, though; it took a moment to realise that the panel was showing him as others would see him with the makeup. The results were stunning, bringing out his high cheekbones, hiding his blemishes, yet totally natural-looking.
Gormin looked over his shoulder at the mirror and gasped. Krystogh tilted the case slightly so they both could see. Gormin-in-the-mirror had smooth olive skin and green eyes, swarthy and ruggedly handsome. For a brief, unguarded moment, real Gormin gaped at the mirror and lightly touched his cheek in disbelief.
And then just as quickly, the moment was gone. "A whore's makeup box," he scoffed. "I knew this was the way to the Amber Pope's harem. Haha! Not much further now."
He turned and stalked off alone further into the tunnel.
Yimoul-Za took back the cosmetics case. "Perhaps this will make Ooro think that the fungus is gone. Just don't let him see you plucking bits out of me and consuming them." He started covering up his Flame of Klang infection with the makeup. The process did not take long.
Krystogh looked around. "Come on. Let’s go find Flash," he nodded to the tall woman. "Lead the way."
The group—less Gormin—backtracked to the dome room and down the "north" tunnel. It curved to the right. As they trudged down the pipe, a pulsating green glow became increasingly visible round the bend. "I swear, if he gets me killed looking for his flippered butt down in these tunnels, I going to give him a beating he won't forget," promised Krystogh. "What's your name anyway?"
Before Kiraz could answer, they found Ooro. He was in a room shaped like a truncated cone, with walls of riveted metal. The pulsating green glow was coming from a globe in the ceiling surrounded by a cage of metal. The floor was strewn with more discarded equipment: a glowglobe, a belt, and some other ordinary items. Ooro appeared to be hypnotized by the light.
Krystogh looked up at the globe again… and found himself unable to look away. He felt the light searching his mind, compelling him to reveal some hidden truth about himself.
He resisted. Time stretched out interminably.
He heard Yimoul-Za sigh. "I was young. Just a bud. I did not know the power within me. Of the sun. One day I was amongst the seedlings, taking care of them. It was joyous. My seed-brothers were away, sipping nectar and getting drunk, luring the rainbow bees. I stared at the sun and it seemed to be... staring back at me? I was nectarised and used the power of the Mother/Father sun within me… and when no one was looking, I turned my power to the young seedlings, hoping to make them grow.
"It burnt them. Charred them. They withered and then smoked and turned black. I ran, and when it was discovered the elders said it was an accident. But I know the truth of the matter and that is why I do not enjoy using the power within me in battle," he said softly.
Someone else spoke up. Krystogh was dimly aware that it was Syrus, the tongue-tied glaive, his voice nearly unrecognisable with uncharacteristic eloquence. "When I was a young boy around the age of ten, I saw a horrific crime committed. One that I haven't spoke of before today. My dad was a merchant in the city of Ledon and I would help him out by stacking merchandise or cleaning up around his market. On days when I was not doing that, I would spend it on the docks helping out in any way I could. The extra shins earned was always helpful for the family."
Syrus paused for a moment.
"One day while leaving the docks and heading back to my father's market, I turned down an alley that was a shortcut. As I did I saw two men dragging an unconscious women by the hair, heading into the back of one of the taverns. They both yelled at me, ‘Scram kid or you'll be next.’ As I turned to run, I glanced one more time at the women. Horror struck me. I couldn't run. I couldn't scream. It was my mother! One of the men let go of her and started to chase after me. I then turned and ran all the way to my father, tears running down my face.
"Her body was found the next morning. That trauma is the reason I am unable to speak with any kind of grace. I freeze up when stress levels rise. I don't think I will ever find out who killed my mom, but if I ever do, I won't freeze up this time."
Krystogh heard Syrus lash the wall with his whip, but didn’t see it. The universe was filled with the green pulsating light.
***
Amber eyes spoke. "Where are they?"
"In the Chamber of Truthfulness, your Venerence," came the reply. "They are struggling to come to terms with themselves. All of them except the ugly one."
Amber eyes widened slightly. "Where is he?"
"Here, in the Arechive, your Venerence."
"Send a Level One servitor to teach him. The others… they have until night."
Both pairs of eyes turned and looked out of the window; it was ebb and lights were coming on across the city.
***
Yimoul-Za was pleading with the others. "Unburden yourselves!" To Syrus, he said, "it is good to learn of your past, Syrus, but revenge is so pointless. Eventually, we will all return to the drit. Speaking of which, we should catch up with Gormin."
Krystogh thought he heard Yimoul-Za leave.
Kiraz unburdened her secret then. "I worked with my father for many years. He and I were very close. He disappeared from our house one night, and I've never seen him since. I don't know if he left us or if he was taken by something."
From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Syrus giving Kiraz an awkward pat on the shoulder. "Come on, let's… go find Yimoul-Za."
They both left.
Still Krystogh fought the revelation of memory. The psychic pressure was becoming unbearable. No, not that memory, thought Krystogh.
Apparently Ooro still fought as well. "... my secrets are my own," whispered Ooro. "In truth, I am a diruk disguised as a skeane," he forced out. He's trying to deceive the machine with a false revelation.
Krystogh could resist no longer. "Come on, Flash... lets catch up to the others before they disappear and I'm compelled to tell you about when I had to kill a friend of mine while I was growing up in the floatstone quarries of Milave just to stay alive, making it necessary to find a way out of that life as quickly as I could, before his family took their revenge."
His secret revealed, the pressure in his mind lifted instantly. He looked over at Ooro. Blood was trickling out of one of the amphibian’s nostrils. Krystogh dragged Ooro from the cone-shaped room.
Something seemed different as he helped the barely-conscious Ooro down the tunnel. He realised daylight was no longer shining through the grates in the tunnel ceiling. The only light to see by was the hated green light from the cone room. Night already? How long were we held by that thing? Krystogh wondered.
They reached the dome room. Suddenly, Krystogh heard Gormin’s voice bellowing from the "south" tunnel. "If you can hear the sound of my voice, run this way right now! We have only a few minutes left! Hurry up!"
Krystogh knew Gormin well enough to know he was not one prone to panic. If he said move, moving should be strongly considered. "Gotta pick up the pace, Flash," he whispered to Ooro as he dragged him along. They reached the black panel. Artificial light was visible round the bend up ahead, as from a glowglobe. He could hear the others arguing up ahead as well. "Not much further now, Flash."
A female voice up ahead. "We went after Ooro…" She never did tell me her name, Krystogh mused. They are just ahead.
"Leave them!" That was Gormin. "We have to go now."
"I am here, friends," Ooro called out weakly. Krystogh and Ooro came around the curve and saw the rest of the group.
At just that moment, a heavy metallic crash echoed through the pipes. A door slamming open, perhaps? Krystogh thought it might be from the direction of the "west" tunnel, though he wasn’t sure. Whatever it is, it is probably not good.
Gormin cursed. "Go, go, go!"
The party hustled forward in the direction Gormin had sulked off to earlier. Ooro seemed to recover himself enough to keep up. Nothing like the threat of imminent death to focus the mind, thought Krystogh.
Just then, an impossibly loud bellowing roar echoed through the pipes, amplified by the pipes' acoustic effect to deafening levels and accompanied by the running footfalls of what must be a truly massive bipedal creature.
Everyone picked up the pace. The pipes amplified the sound but that made it hard to judge by sound how close the creature was. It sounds like it’s right on top us. What is it?
They came to a hemispherical room with some kind of mosaic on the flat wall across from them. By the light of Gormin’s glowglobe, Krystogh could dimly make out a dark figure depicted in the mosaic, standing in a peculiar pose. Gormin struck the same pose as the figure: one hand palm-up at shoulder level and one hand palm-down at waist level, with his head turned to look at the palm-up hand. Metal grates slammed shut across the tunnel exit and the entire room rotated 180 degrees.
"Well, you wanted to know what a bellowheart is," Gormin grumbled sardonically once it was clear they were safe. "I hope you are happy."
To be continued…
For important disclaimers and whatnot please see the Tears of the Gods table of contents page.
***
Date: 1st Fre in the 401st Year of the Founding
Kiraz
A harsh clanging sound awakened her, metal striking metal, very nearby.
That banging was loud... too loud for something to not have happened to me last night, Kiraz thought as her mind moved sluggishly toward consciousness. What did happen last night? She gradually became aware of the smell of rancid blood and rusted metal, mingled with the odours of seawater and other, less pleasant smells. She also became aware of her dull headache, and the stiffness from sleeping on a hard metal surface. Sleeping for how long? Where am I?
She opened her eyes. She was lying on the floor of a tightly-confined cage with several others.
The hammering came again from behind her. "Wake up, my pretties, you’re on soon," drawled a voice that sounded well-acquainted with cruelty. She turned her head toward the sound.
The speaker was a pudgy, bald-headed man, wearing some kind of studded-leather costume, too fancy to be ordinary armor. He hammered twice more on the bars of the cage with a metal-bound club.
"Come on now; you don’t want me to use the electro-whip. You’d better put on a good show; they’re expecting it." He was grinning sadistically.
The others in the cage started to stir. The first to stand was a strange, plant-like being with woody natural armor plates and a single enormous eye where its head should be, at the end of a long, flexible, vine-like neck. The creature was wearing a homespun robe. It spoke. "Put on a show? Golthiars are no performers," it said. "Please, no whip. I can talk about plant matter. Will that interest the audience?"
The golthiar swung its enormous eye around, taking in its surroundings. Kiraz wasn’t sure how it spoke.
The man twisted his face into a sneer and struck the bars again.
"Interest the audience? Tell me, Treebeard, what colour smoke do you give off when you burn? That might interest them."
"Treebeard? I do not have a beard, and I am not a tree, rather more of a sapling," the golthiar responded meekly. "I think like most of my kin I would burn with lots of smoke. It would not be much to behold..."
"Calaval’s teeth," came a pained whisper from another of the cage’s inmates. "Calaval’s teeth! Perform… Perform what? Why? You can’t—my head, by the cursed Four, my head!"
That speaker arose. It was some kind of… amphibian? With black and white… feathers? And a beak. Am I locked in a zoo?
Kiraz scrambled to her feet and spoke up. "What happened to me and why am I here? I don't seem to remember anything from last night. What’s going on here?"
Most of the others were coming around, several trying to talk at once. There were six people in the cage, she counted.
"P-p-perform? For who?" asked a male human next to her wearing beastskin armor. He had curly straw-blond hair.
A dry, choking laugh cut through their questions before turning into a wet, rasping cough. From another cage off to her right a voice grated bitterly, "Perform? Yes, perform. You are here to fight and die for the pleasure of the crowd of citizens. How do you think the King maintains order? He gives the crowds what the crowds want: a slice-and-dice orgy of blood."
Kiraz saw the speaker in the other cage was emaciated and covered in horrible rope-like burns. He struggled to sit up.
"I was taken, like you, from a tavern near to the entrance pier," he continued. "Did you perhaps accept the offer of a free drink?"
Kiraz tried to think back. She vaguely remembered a well-dressed stranger offering her a drink, but not her response.
The golthiar turned its eye toward the other captive and responded. "Drink? That must have been a strong one if it could make a golthiar dizzy. At least Seed-Brother…" he picked up a gnarled staff from the floor beside him, "is here. And a King? I have not heard of a King in a long time."
The emaciated man struggled to pull himself upright using the bars of his cage and stared at the golthiar in wide-eyed wonder as it spoke. "What manner of being are you?" he whispered. "I have never seen your like before, even in my stud-". He fell silent suddenly and dropped to his knees. "Ignore me. The pain of my injuries makes me delirious. I do not know what you are."
Kiraz didn’t know what to make of the injured man’s words.
The golthiar turned back to the jailor. "Who is this King? What realm does he rule? Who are the citizens? What performance might please them? I could juggle—but only one ball at a time. It pleases the saplings," it suggested. Kiraz wondered if that last was a joke.
The feathered amphibian spoke up again, indignant. "I am not an animal," it announced. "I will not perform, and I will not be caged!"
The creature gestured with one of its flipper-like hands, flinging an esotery of blue-green light into the bars of the cage. Onslaught, Kiraz knew. The Onslaught’s blue-green light smelled strongly of the ocean.
Kiraz backed away from the bars, waiting to see how the jailor would respond. Instinctively, she dropped her hand to the rapier on her hip and was more than a little surprised to find she still had it. They locked us in a cage but let us keep our weapons? What is this place? She wondered.
The jailor just folded his arms, amused. The Onslaught had barely scratched the bars of the cage. "We should have billed this as the freakshow and charged double. Hey, Flipperman. I'm betting twenty shins on you. Don't let me down," he taunted.
"Worst dream ever," grumbled a gravelly voice. The owner of that voice was still lying on the floor, face-down, but with his head turned so he could look up at the agitated amphibian with one bloodshot, rust-colored eye. He was possibly the ugliest man Kiraz had ever seen, hairless, with leathery, dark grey skin covered in large boil-like growths, wearing a ratty-looking oversized cloak. Kiraz wondered what was wrong with him. The grey man made no move to stand.
"You seek freedom?" whispered the voice from the next cage. All eyes turned back to the emaciated man. He had struggled upright again, clinging to the bars of the cage. "There is only one way to get free from here. The pit. The pit in the arena leads to freedom."
He paused, apparently in pain, then slowly lowered himself back down to his knees.
"In the centre of the arena is a pit," he explained. "Those who enter the pit do not return to the arena slave-pens. I too was going to chance it when the thrice-accursed Ptolus," he wheezed, jerking his chin at the club-wielding jailor, "let the bellowheart loose on us. I was not fast enough, and now I am near death. It will be a release." He hung his head, exhausted.
"Morning, Gormin!" exclaimed someone else in the cage, just now standing up with an exaggerated yawn and stretch: a lanky younger guy with unkempt, dirty-blond hair. Not that I’m likely to be looking much better kempt at the moment, thought Kiraz. The lanky youth rubbed his head and mumbled a quick "Jeez, that hurt," before continuing. "Oi, This bloke here says we gotta fight. Get yer lumpy butt up," he said to the grey man.
The grey man—Gormin?—glared at his interlocutor from under his cloak, not moving. He was the only one still lying down.
"You remember that guy from Ledon, the real skinny one...What was his name...Sclordin, Scribble, Scolour-by-numbers..." the youth continued, gesturing in the air with one hand. Kiraz noticed that the back of his hand was covered with an elaborate pattern of red scars that continued up his arm until covered by his sleeve. The youth flicked his fingers as if trying to draw the recollection from the air.
"Scilav," Gormin growled.
The youth pointed at Gormin with his scarred hand. "Yeah! That's the guy! You remember when he came in the yard like he owned the place, picked a fight with some pirates. And, do you remember how that crew from the pirate ship showed him what for?"
Kiraz noticed that all the while the youth was speaking and gesturing with one hand, drawing everyone's attention with it, his other hand was undoing the ties on his pants. "Good old Skili. You remember what he said to the pirates, Gormin?"
With a raspy sound that might have been a chuckle Gormin answered, "Yeah. I remember. ‘Sorry, I can't fight with a full bladder,’ is what that skinny punk said right before he got the stupid kicked out of him."
In time with Gormin’s answer, the youth dropped his trousers and let loose a stream of urine, angled just enough to hit the bald jailor's boots. And thrusting his chin out defiantly, said in a mocking tone, "Sorry, I can't fight with a full bladder. Ain't that a thing?"
Suddenly everyone in the cage was talking or shouting at the jailor or each other. Kiraz found it hard to focus through the fog of her headache. The man with the curly blond hair leaned in close to her. She noticed he was holding a leather whip coiled in his hand. "I m-m-might not be the smartest here," he whispered, "b-but m-m-m-may-," he stopped, frustrated. Speech impediment, Kiraz realised. The tongue-tied man continued, "Perhaps we sh-should wait… until he lets us out… to perform," he concluded. "Then escape!" he added, as if nearly forgetting that part.
Perform. Fight. Escape. Kiraz looked around and realised her crossbow was nowhere in sight. Nor either of her backpacks. A full inventory of what she was missing would have to wait, however.
She whispered back, "I was thinking the same thing. Probably safer that way."
Ptolus was looking down, studying the spreading puddle around his boot, ignoring the prisoners trying to talk to him. He had not tried to jump out of the way of the urine. He raised his head slowly to look up at the young man who'd fouled his boot, his face an ugly mask of malevolence. He stepped up to the bars of the cage.
"You will pay for that", he whispered, slowly and deliberately enunciating each word. He fingered some kind of numenera device at his belt. Immediately a bell sounded, a harsh, shivering clang that echoed through the chamber. Ptolus hefted the club and slammed it against the bars again.
"It is time, my pretties," he purred. "Be sure to put on a good show; they paid good shinies to watch you die."
He paused, eyeing the youth with the empty bladder. "But not you. I hope you live; then we can have a little… talk."
From the shadows emerged six guards wearing brigandine armour. Each had spears slung on their backs; each also carried a short staff with a glowing tip. Cascades of orange sparks dripped from the tips of their staves as they moved to surround the cage's heavy door.
Ptolus unlocked and opened the cage door. He stepped back and gestured without a further word that they were to leave with the guards.
The golthiar turned its eye to look at its fellow prisoners. "I am Yimoul-Za; you call my kind golthiar. I assume they do not want to know about botany? I have some powers but they are not great. Hopefully things will not need to get too violent," it said quickly. Kiraz thought it sounded nervous. The guards made way as it left the cage.
Kiraz followed. "I’m not planning on dying this day," she said to Ptolus as she walked by. She held her head high and did not pause to see his response. At least I go with dignity.
She heard Gormin clambering to his feet. "Off we go then. Was nice meeting all of you," he growled sarcastically. He hurried to catch up with Kiraz. "Better to walk out there than be prodded forward like a beast," he called back to the others over his shoulder.
The others weren’t following, however. Kiraz looked back. The amphibian was holding out its hands to the newly arrived guards. "Greetings!" it said. "I am Ooro of the City of Rust. I assume you are here to learn of the 75,000 shin boon we have promised to any creature who aids us in our escape?"
The guards were unimpressed. Two of them jabbed Ooro of the City of Rust with their powered staves. He bellowed in pain and fell silent.
"Shut the beak and get moving, Flipperman," shouted Ptolus, finally losing his patience.
Without further resistance, the guards escorted the six soon-to-be gladiators up a long flight of metal stairs to a holding chamber separated from an arena by a heavy gate. Ptolus had not come with them, nor the dying man who had told them of the pit. After a short wait, a bell sounded and the guards forced them through the gate and into the arena. The gate slammed shut.
The arena was octagonal, with a metal floor perhaps a hundred feet across, surrounded by banked tiers of bench-seats thronged with cheering crowds. Set in the walls just below the seats were large metal grilles. In the centre was what had to be be the pit, surrounded by a circular, waist-high metal wall. Set in the arena floor at intervals were more metal gratings. Just over the top of the seats, in the distance, Kiraz could see the slowly rotating turbines of the Wind Spire. At least I know I’m still in the City of Bridges.
Gormin stepped forward, spread his arms wide and made an obscene gesture to the roaring crowd with each hand. He turned slowly in a full circle, grinning and apparently making sure everyone in attendance was insulted. The crowd laughed and jeered. Kiraz noticed that underneath Gormin’s filthy beggar-cloak he had on thick beastskin armour and a sword-belt. A glaive?
Yimoul-Za turned his enormous eye towards the Wind Spire. "At least we are nearer the surface, Seed-Brother," he said to his staff. He turned to regard the crowd. "They find this exciting? Would they not be more excited by a lecture on the growth of the Olinthian blue mushroom?"
The bell sounded again. A group of twelve margr unhurriedly made their way out of another gate opposite Kiraz and her fellow prisoners. The goat-like abhumans were armed with bone spears; they spread around the arena, splitting into four groups of three. Kiraz frowned. Strangely disciplined for margr. One of the trios of margr moved to block the pit. They waited.
Through the same gate, more guards pushed in a wheeled cage holding three broken hounds, maddened and violently thrashing against the bars of their cage. The guards withdrew, the opposite gate slammed shut, and the bell sounded again. A cheer went up from the crowd.
"I must be honest," Ooro yelled to Kiraz over the cheers of the crowd, "this is not what I would call a typical morning!"
Gormin drew a sword from beneath his voluminous cloak: a backsword of the type favored by Draolic soldiers. "Come on. That geezer said the pit's what we wanted. Let's kill some goat-faces!" He bellowed some kind of war-cry and ran screaming toward the pit.
"Well, at least I don't have to fight with a full bladder," grumbled the young man with the elaborate scars. Kiraz saw that he was armed as well, with a heavy leaf-bladed short-sword.
Kiraz drew her rapier and followed Gormin.
Ooro moved up at her side. "Bellowheart," he said as if to himself. "The prisoner said something about a ‘bellowheart.’" As he raised his left primary hand to charge his esotery, he called out, "Gormin, what’s a bellowheart?"
Gormin shouted back, "You’ll know it when you hear it bellow!"
She heard a whip-crack off to her left, drawing a cheer from the crowd, drowning out Ooro’s sarcastic response. She had bigger concerns now. She dropped into a defensive stance and waited for the margr to make a move… as Gormin sprinted right at them like a Jaekel berserker.
One of the margr facing off against them was suddenly surrounded by a blaze of blue-green light and screamed—Ooro’s Onslaught. From behind her, she thought she heard another Onslaught. Is there another nano among us?
Gormin juked the two margr as he reached them, easily avoiding their spears. One was momentarily off-balanced enough that he was able to get in a quick jab at it with his backsword, stabbing it in the belly. The margr howled. The crowd howled.
The margr Ooro had blasted suddenly lunged toward him with the bone spear. Ooro easily avoided the clumsy spear thrust but immediately took off running, impossibly fast.
"What the—" exclaimed Gormin as the amphibious creature streaked past him toward the pit. Ooro attempted to hop onto the wall around the pit.
He fell in.
No time to worry about that now. She aimed a thrust at the margr who'd attacked Ooro. Her rapier struck true, but it seemed to do little harm to its thick hide. She found herself wishing for her crossbow.
She heard Yimoul-Za shout behind her. "Are you entertained!?" She risked a quick glance back at him in time to see him launch an Onslaught of concentrated yellow energy at her margr. It missed, however, and struck the polished metal side of the pit, scattering painfully bright (but no longer deadly) light everywhere.
Gormin cursed and followed up with a second sword thrust, striking down the margr before him. The margr sprawled on the rusted floor of the arena, clutching at its guts. After a convulsive shudder it lay still.
Kiraz did not know how the others were faring—too focused on her own survival, though she could hear the tongue-tied man’s whip crack again off to her left.
Two more margr appeared from somewhere. Had they come from the other side of the arena? One lunged at her with a wild attack, but it missed its aim and impaled itself on her rapier. With a gurgle, it fell back, dead. She glanced up in time to lock eyes with Gormin, who gave her a slight nod of—grudging?—respect.
Yimoul-Za had come up to join them at some point. "Will the crowd riot if we all went into the pit?" He looked down the pit with his eye. "Quick one that looks like bird, are you in there?" he shouted needlessly into the pit. Where else would he be? Kiraz wondered. Ooro’s voice echoed back up from the pit, but the appearance of more margr demanded her attention.
Back to the fight. Kiraz danced forward, her blade a flashing blur. The margr tried to block but its raised arm only created an opening—her sword point plunged deep into its armpit, slaying it.
Gormin got in a cut against his own margr. It howled in pain, then shouted back in a broken, guttural Truth: "You look like us—them hate you. Why you fight me?" it demanded of Gormin.
The crowd was screaming. "Release the hounds! Release the hounds! Release the beast!" Yet another margr thrust its spear at her midsection. She easily avoided it.
She strained to overhear Gormin and the margr shouting at each other over the noise of the crowd. "The fat bald man did not give us a choice. Are you here by choice?" the grey man yelled. "What's in the pit? Someone said freedom..."
Kiraz risked a quick look around. The tongue-tied man was a flashing, twisting blur of motion, his whip whistling through the air around him. He was easily handling three margr. She saw Yimoul-Za fire off another Onslaught from the corner of her eye; it missed. And the cocky younger guy with the scar seemed to be struggling alone against a larger group of margr.
The margr answered Gormin in its raspy, high-pitched voice. "No freedom in pit for margr. Margr fight and die. Margr fight not and still die. Margr die in fighting far from home".
"Die then, beast." Gormin thrust the point of his sword into the margr’s abdomen, killing it.
***
From somewhere high up, through a window, a pair of amber eyes watched the fight unfold in the arena. A second person joined the first, watching the battle.
"They are doing well." There was no response from the first figure.
"They can fight. They have esoteries. They could be the right ones." There was still no response.
"All they have to show now is that they can think."
The first figure gave a slight nod.
***
The bell rang out again and the crowd fell silent, anticipating. The remaining margr disengaged and withdrew back across the arena, towards the hound cage.
The far-side arena gate slowly began to open again.
Yimoul-Za sighed. "May you feed the drit," he said softly to the fallen margr. He turned to the pit. "The light of the sun, reveal all that is hidden," he intoned. Bright yellow energy shone forth from his eye as he peered into the shadows of the pit.
The golthiar nano completed his esotery and turned to his companions. "Perhaps we should enter the pit? I sense no immediate danger. That will deny the crowd their entertainment. If that means they release the bellowheart early then it will have to face the hounds as well. And I am curious what is within."
The tongue-tied man with the whip was at her elbow. "Entertain? Heart Below... Ooro and the drain. Water. Man said was the way in, I mean out," he stammered. He stepped forward and looked down the pit.
"You may be right," Gormin agreed. "One thing first..."
Gormin snatched up one of the margrs’ bone spears and looked toward the audience, turning in a circle. Searching for someone, Kiraz realised. Ptolus?
Gormin reversed his grip on the spear to a javelin-type hold and smiled unpleasantly. Kiraz decided that Gormin smiling was somehow even uglier than Gormin scowling. She followed his gaze; Ptolus was stood in the middle of a semi-circular control booth on the other side of the arena, visible from the waist up. He was turning a wheel slowly. The gate control?
The cocky younger man with the scars had rejoined them. "I'm not sticking around to see how any of this plays out. Oi, Flash! Get ready for some company!" He jumped into the pit.
Gormin let out a wordless shout as he took a couple of running steps. He hurled the crude spear with all his might at Ptolus.
The bone spear was, unfortunately, just the leg bone of some large animal with a sharp stone point affixed to one end—not the best quality weapon, especially for throwing. The spear wobbled through the air across most of the arena but clattered to the metal floor well short of the booth. The crowd laughed.
Ptolus looked up and wagged a finger at Gormin. He pulled a lever. With a roar, water began to cascade out of the metal grilles round the walls, flooding across the arena floor. Within seconds it was ankle deep—and rising fast.
A collective sigh of delight went round the crowd. "Rippy-fish!" They started cheering and whistling.
Kiraz decided not to find out what rippy-fish were. She hopped over the waist-high wall into the pit.
The pit was a slippery metal funnel that quickly narrowed to a spiraling metal tube about six feet wide. She slid down, trying to slow her descent but there was no purchase. The tube opened into the top of a low-ceilinged domed chamber, into which it dropped her unceremoniously.
She scrambled out of the way in case anyone was coming behind her, which they were: Yimoul-Za, then the tongue-tied man, and Gormin last of all.
***
Krystogh
Krystogh watched the opening in the ceiling carefully. The water filling the arena was not coming after them.
Ooro was there. "Greetings, friends!" he said cheerfully once everyone had fallen through the ceiling. "I am so glad you could join me in the pit. Are any of you injured?"
Krystogh stood, wincing from the back-injury he’d suffered in the arena fight. "I took a couple of hits up there, Flash, nothing too bad. I think. What about you guys?" he asked the others.
Gormin grunted and stood also. "Gettin' too old for this drit," he answered. He started to wipe the margr blood from his sword. "I may have prematurely provoked our bald captor. The goat-faces hadn't left the arena when the water started coming out. Those hounds either for that matter. If the rippy-fish live up to their name, it's likely getting pretty messy up there."
Krystogh could still hear the crowd chanting somewhere above them. The pipe seemed to act as a giant speaking-tube. "Rippy-fish. What are they?" He tried to wring the water out of his boots. A puddle of rust-colored water had collected in the center of the room.
He looked around. The domed room was little more than the junction of four pipes: the one in the ceiling that had deposited them here and three other pipes that curved away horizontally. Numerous small grilles in the ceilings and walls let in natural light.
Yimoul-Za was up as well. "Curious indeed," he said. "Why provide the means to escape right there in the middle of the arena? I think the challenges ahead are not quite done yet."
Gormin grinned. "Maybe the referee would have explained the rules of the game if someone hadn't made water on his boot. Right, Krystogh?" He let out a harsh bark of laughter and clapped Krystogh heartily on his injured back. Krystogh grimaced.
"I am glad that you are all well," Ooro said with a smile. "Yimoul-Za, I hope our next challenge does not involve another battle-royale... Unless the battle-royale were on a game board." He paused. "Friends, because we face unknown dangers ahead, I think it wise to marshal our strength for a moment. And, with your permissions, can we begin official introductions?"
"Introductions sound like a good idea, Flipperman," replied Gormin. "I don't know most of your names or what you can do. But I'm Gormin. I may not look like much, but I count myself blessed because I'm in a line of work I am truly passionate about. Which is killing people." Gormin laughed, the kind of person who laughs at his own jokes.
Krystogh spoke up. "I'm not so interested in introductions as I am in getting out of these pipes—and preferably not the way we came in. But, I'm Krystogh, for what it's worth." He wandered away, only half-listening to the others’ small talk. Yimoul-Za was saying something about the virtues of staying together. He scratched at the elaborate Scars of the Vulture on his right arm. Would be nice to get back to the Wandering Walk, he mused.
He became aware of the sound of churning water. The pipes’ odd acoustic properties made it hard to discern where it was coming from, but Krystogh thought it was loudest from the horizontal pipe he arbitrarily designated as "north". Near to the "south" tunnel, the starburst-like symbol of the Order of Truth had been scratched into the wall with some kind of cutting tool, who knows how long ago. The "west" tunnel had nothing special to recommend it.
Ooro was talking rapidly. "…and as you can tell from my stature, and my aesthetically pleasing form, I am of the skeane," he said.
"Concerning our ragtag group, I agree with the photosynthetic one. Fate has thrown us together, and who am I to argue with fate? I suggest that any who are willing should list skills in their possession that may aid our motley crew. For my part, while I am not trained in murder, like my terrifying friend here," gesturing at Gormin, "I specialize in the numenera, and I am trained in swimming, studying, and crafting. I also move quickly. However, as my accidental voyage to this pit proves, sometimes my velocity is a hindrance, not a gift.
"Additionally, I am a nano with knowledge of certain esoteries, and, before you make light of that, please know I have already encountered every ‘The fish is a witch’ jape that can be found in the Ninth World. Only half of them were funny... Calaval's teeth! An unfortunate memory just returned to me. Before our capture, I was in possession of a cypher of immense power that I cobbled together in my workshop over many years. I hope that we recover it soon. If that is not possible, I hope we are not within its radius if someone activates it." He shook his head quickly as if trying to push the thought away.
"Enough introductions. I cast my feathers on the side of an investigation of the pipe marked with the sign of the Aeon Priests. Their order is worthy of respect. With no clear directions, we may as well follow the Order of Truth." He gestured toward the "south" tunnel.
Gormin eyed the Order of Truth symbol. "Yeah, maybe this way leads to the Amber Pope's personal harem." He grinned at his own wittiness. "That's the way we want to go."
The glaive with the curly blond hair spoke up shyly. "Hello, I am Syrus." He drew his whip back out and cracked it against the metal wall to make an echoing sound. "I am… good with this."
Hopefully that didn’t alert any others to our presence, Krystogh thought, but said nothing. But speaking of others… "Oi, Flash, you said something about a powerful device? How powerful?"
But at that moment, Ooro seemed to suddenly notice something about Yimoul-Za. "The Drown! The Drown! Away! Away!" Ooro sprinted away down the northern pipe, spraying orange water in all directions.
"Rather excitable, isn’t he?" Yimoul-Za remarked. He indicated what had frightened Ooro. It was an orange fungus-like growth that covered parts of the floor; some of it had gotten onto Yimoul-Za and seemed to be taking root. "It’s a Flame of the Klang. Very rare. It will suck my strength but can provide sustenance to the rest of you. I think I'll keep it," he said.
Gormin peered warily at Yimoul-Za's new orange growth. "Provide... sustenance? You mean we’re going to be eating from your fungal infection?"
"Yes, don't animals and creatures seek out fungi and mushrooms to consume? Think of it as sharing in a bit of me. We golthiar do so all the time, particularly in the Festival of the Wild Moon, where we feed each other our bark and leaves and bits that you don't have names for," he explained. "I'm sure you get used to it. It'll taste slightly sour and a little bit metallic, but it'll be invigorating."
"Interesting. Well, I have probably eaten worse," he said. Gormin turned and addressed the group. "If we are through exchanging pleasantries, we should get a move on. This way is likely as good as any other."
He marched down the "south" pipe. Krystogh and the others—less Ooro—followed. The tunnel made a long sweeping curve round to the left; after a short distance, on the outside of the curve, they found a large panel of black stone affixed to the wall.
Engraved on the stone in white was a cluster of bright stars, fourteen in total, surrounded by a cloud of smaller stars. Krystogh somehow had the impression that the fourteen stars were running from something. Surrounding the engraving was a tracery of fine script, also in white.
On the floor before the panel was a length of synthrope, a leather helmet, and a small leather case secured by a clasp.
Krystogh studied the engraving’s script. It was a language that pre-dated the Truth. "The Gods came to seek help against the Great Hunter and his dogs. When the help was not there the Gods wept their Tears, so that those who would come later would prevail," Krystogh read aloud.
Gormin snorted. "More writing." He pointed. Another line of script was etched into the tunnel wall, made by the same cutting tool that made the Order of Truth symbol. That line of script was written in the Truth.
I am Loarn and I take up the challenge to find the Tears of the Gods. Look for my journal in the Shrine of the Wing_____
The last part of the message was obliterated by a large growth of Flame of Klang. Krystogh was reluctant to try to wipe it away.
Yimoul-Za picked up the case, a squarish leather-bound box a little more than a handspan long and a finger-width thick. "I wonder what could be in here. And why would someone leave all this behind? Perhaps the previous owner found something better and decided to shed these items here."
Gormin took the helmet and put it on. "Maybe the prior owner was eaten by some ultraterrestrial monstrosity who found these objects indigestible."
The tall woman with the rapier, whose name Krystogh had not caught earlier, spoke up. "Perhaps we ought to follow Ooro to make sure he doesn't run into anything dangerous."
Krystogh looked up from studying the scripts and glanced around. "Yeah, where’d Flash go?"
Gormin grumbled, "Flipperman had a death-wish he had to go take care of. He will be sorely missed. Maybe."
Yimoul-Za popped open the small case and looked inside. "Look," he said as he handed the case to Krystogh. "Quite something."
The case contained a set of cosmetics, facepaints, lippy, sparklepowder, and such. A small panel in the lid showed Krystogh’s reflection. There was something not right with it, though; it took a moment to realise that the panel was showing him as others would see him with the makeup. The results were stunning, bringing out his high cheekbones, hiding his blemishes, yet totally natural-looking.
Gormin looked over his shoulder at the mirror and gasped. Krystogh tilted the case slightly so they both could see. Gormin-in-the-mirror had smooth olive skin and green eyes, swarthy and ruggedly handsome. For a brief, unguarded moment, real Gormin gaped at the mirror and lightly touched his cheek in disbelief.
And then just as quickly, the moment was gone. "A whore's makeup box," he scoffed. "I knew this was the way to the Amber Pope's harem. Haha! Not much further now."
He turned and stalked off alone further into the tunnel.
Yimoul-Za took back the cosmetics case. "Perhaps this will make Ooro think that the fungus is gone. Just don't let him see you plucking bits out of me and consuming them." He started covering up his Flame of Klang infection with the makeup. The process did not take long.
Krystogh looked around. "Come on. Let’s go find Flash," he nodded to the tall woman. "Lead the way."
The group—less Gormin—backtracked to the dome room and down the "north" tunnel. It curved to the right. As they trudged down the pipe, a pulsating green glow became increasingly visible round the bend. "I swear, if he gets me killed looking for his flippered butt down in these tunnels, I going to give him a beating he won't forget," promised Krystogh. "What's your name anyway?"
Before Kiraz could answer, they found Ooro. He was in a room shaped like a truncated cone, with walls of riveted metal. The pulsating green glow was coming from a globe in the ceiling surrounded by a cage of metal. The floor was strewn with more discarded equipment: a glowglobe, a belt, and some other ordinary items. Ooro appeared to be hypnotized by the light.
Krystogh looked up at the globe again… and found himself unable to look away. He felt the light searching his mind, compelling him to reveal some hidden truth about himself.
He resisted. Time stretched out interminably.
He heard Yimoul-Za sigh. "I was young. Just a bud. I did not know the power within me. Of the sun. One day I was amongst the seedlings, taking care of them. It was joyous. My seed-brothers were away, sipping nectar and getting drunk, luring the rainbow bees. I stared at the sun and it seemed to be... staring back at me? I was nectarised and used the power of the Mother/Father sun within me… and when no one was looking, I turned my power to the young seedlings, hoping to make them grow.
"It burnt them. Charred them. They withered and then smoked and turned black. I ran, and when it was discovered the elders said it was an accident. But I know the truth of the matter and that is why I do not enjoy using the power within me in battle," he said softly.
Someone else spoke up. Krystogh was dimly aware that it was Syrus, the tongue-tied glaive, his voice nearly unrecognisable with uncharacteristic eloquence. "When I was a young boy around the age of ten, I saw a horrific crime committed. One that I haven't spoke of before today. My dad was a merchant in the city of Ledon and I would help him out by stacking merchandise or cleaning up around his market. On days when I was not doing that, I would spend it on the docks helping out in any way I could. The extra shins earned was always helpful for the family."
Syrus paused for a moment.
"One day while leaving the docks and heading back to my father's market, I turned down an alley that was a shortcut. As I did I saw two men dragging an unconscious women by the hair, heading into the back of one of the taverns. They both yelled at me, ‘Scram kid or you'll be next.’ As I turned to run, I glanced one more time at the women. Horror struck me. I couldn't run. I couldn't scream. It was my mother! One of the men let go of her and started to chase after me. I then turned and ran all the way to my father, tears running down my face.
"Her body was found the next morning. That trauma is the reason I am unable to speak with any kind of grace. I freeze up when stress levels rise. I don't think I will ever find out who killed my mom, but if I ever do, I won't freeze up this time."
Krystogh heard Syrus lash the wall with his whip, but didn’t see it. The universe was filled with the green pulsating light.
***
Amber eyes spoke. "Where are they?"
"In the Chamber of Truthfulness, your Venerence," came the reply. "They are struggling to come to terms with themselves. All of them except the ugly one."
Amber eyes widened slightly. "Where is he?"
"Here, in the Arechive, your Venerence."
"Send a Level One servitor to teach him. The others… they have until night."
Both pairs of eyes turned and looked out of the window; it was ebb and lights were coming on across the city.
***
Yimoul-Za was pleading with the others. "Unburden yourselves!" To Syrus, he said, "it is good to learn of your past, Syrus, but revenge is so pointless. Eventually, we will all return to the drit. Speaking of which, we should catch up with Gormin."
Krystogh thought he heard Yimoul-Za leave.
Kiraz unburdened her secret then. "I worked with my father for many years. He and I were very close. He disappeared from our house one night, and I've never seen him since. I don't know if he left us or if he was taken by something."
From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Syrus giving Kiraz an awkward pat on the shoulder. "Come on, let's… go find Yimoul-Za."
They both left.
Still Krystogh fought the revelation of memory. The psychic pressure was becoming unbearable. No, not that memory, thought Krystogh.
Apparently Ooro still fought as well. "... my secrets are my own," whispered Ooro. "In truth, I am a diruk disguised as a skeane," he forced out. He's trying to deceive the machine with a false revelation.
Krystogh could resist no longer. "Come on, Flash... lets catch up to the others before they disappear and I'm compelled to tell you about when I had to kill a friend of mine while I was growing up in the floatstone quarries of Milave just to stay alive, making it necessary to find a way out of that life as quickly as I could, before his family took their revenge."
His secret revealed, the pressure in his mind lifted instantly. He looked over at Ooro. Blood was trickling out of one of the amphibian’s nostrils. Krystogh dragged Ooro from the cone-shaped room.
Something seemed different as he helped the barely-conscious Ooro down the tunnel. He realised daylight was no longer shining through the grates in the tunnel ceiling. The only light to see by was the hated green light from the cone room. Night already? How long were we held by that thing? Krystogh wondered.
They reached the dome room. Suddenly, Krystogh heard Gormin’s voice bellowing from the "south" tunnel. "If you can hear the sound of my voice, run this way right now! We have only a few minutes left! Hurry up!"
Krystogh knew Gormin well enough to know he was not one prone to panic. If he said move, moving should be strongly considered. "Gotta pick up the pace, Flash," he whispered to Ooro as he dragged him along. They reached the black panel. Artificial light was visible round the bend up ahead, as from a glowglobe. He could hear the others arguing up ahead as well. "Not much further now, Flash."
A female voice up ahead. "We went after Ooro…" She never did tell me her name, Krystogh mused. They are just ahead.
"Leave them!" That was Gormin. "We have to go now."
"I am here, friends," Ooro called out weakly. Krystogh and Ooro came around the curve and saw the rest of the group.
At just that moment, a heavy metallic crash echoed through the pipes. A door slamming open, perhaps? Krystogh thought it might be from the direction of the "west" tunnel, though he wasn’t sure. Whatever it is, it is probably not good.
Gormin cursed. "Go, go, go!"
The party hustled forward in the direction Gormin had sulked off to earlier. Ooro seemed to recover himself enough to keep up. Nothing like the threat of imminent death to focus the mind, thought Krystogh.
Just then, an impossibly loud bellowing roar echoed through the pipes, amplified by the pipes' acoustic effect to deafening levels and accompanied by the running footfalls of what must be a truly massive bipedal creature.
Everyone picked up the pace. The pipes amplified the sound but that made it hard to judge by sound how close the creature was. It sounds like it’s right on top us. What is it?
They came to a hemispherical room with some kind of mosaic on the flat wall across from them. By the light of Gormin’s glowglobe, Krystogh could dimly make out a dark figure depicted in the mosaic, standing in a peculiar pose. Gormin struck the same pose as the figure: one hand palm-up at shoulder level and one hand palm-down at waist level, with his head turned to look at the palm-up hand. Metal grates slammed shut across the tunnel exit and the entire room rotated 180 degrees.
"Well, you wanted to know what a bellowheart is," Gormin grumbled sardonically once it was clear they were safe. "I hope you are happy."
To be continued…
