Chapter 25: Beneath the Jewel
From the surface of the Jewel City, one could not begin to perceive the devilry of the darkness which lay just beneath the cobbled streets. The golden gleam of the city; the general splendour brought to home the mirage of a thriving land. Yet, that was all the surface remained—a mirage to fool the minds of those who would choose to believe themselves safe.
It was more—much more than mere darkness which inhabited the sewers of the Golden Jewel.
Cordelia grit her teeth as she made her way past moss-covered walls oozing emerald slime and brownish feces. There was no light, save for the mildly-flickering handful of crimson-blue flames she held within the palm of her hand. From the rounded curves of the low, grey-bricked walls came softened whispers—the music of falling droplets amidst an ethereal echoing. The sewers reeked, as was expected; yet the stench was not merely that of bodily excrements and stale water.
The sewers were riddled with the stench of death.
Gingerly, she side-stepped a puddle of bubbling enuresis—or was it blood?—then paused.
The corridor split.
For a moment or two, the sorceress merely stood her ground, flexing the fingers of her fire-free hand. Choices, in her life, were hard to come by—yet this choice in particular was one she had no desire to make.
Left or right?
She took a deep breath, then winced in disgust as the bitter tang of the sewers' air hit the insides of her lungs. Biting back the slowly rising bile, she craned her neck slightly, peering first into one darkened side, and then, towards the other. There was naught different regarding the two. No light, no enemy.
No clue as to where Kei could be.
Cordelia nibbled gently upon her lower lip—then lifted her handful of flames, illuminating her surroundings with perhaps just a little more light. Then, fingers crossed, she turned, and, without a backwards' glance, edged away into the beckoning shadows.
"You look for Deckard Cain. I need the mens' room."
"You look for Deckard Cain. I need the ladies' room."
"I spoke first!"
"Well, it's a rule of thumb that ladies come first, regardless of who speaks first."
"That's no fair at all! You're twice as rude as any man, so why can't you be considered one of us?!"
The amazon blinked once—then tossed platinum-streaked locks from her forehead with a rather well-practiced smirk. "Because I lack your genitals. At any rate, that was very smart of you, Scosglen Wolf. Perhaps if you insult me enough, I'll grant you mercy and talk to Deckard Cain myself."
"I was hoping for that, yes." Despite himself, Saul found himself returning her smirk—he was perfectly content to ignore the finer points of her retort. "I very much doubt your kindness, though."
"Brilliant. Now that we are quite agreed, let's get this over and done with." She tapped a leather-clad foot impatiently upon the ground. "Come on."
He sighed—then thought to make a final attempt. "Are you quite sure you need me there?"
"Why are you so intent on not talking to him? Does he annoy you that much?" Once more she halted, amazonian skin stretched taut across her forehead as she arched a slender brow. "Why are you hiding?"
"I'm not hiding." Saul grunted distastefully. "Its just—I haven't spoken to him since—" He paused, wrinkling his nose slightly. Part of him wished the amazon would understand the reasons behind his reluctance—but even if she did, he grumbled inwardly, he severely doubted her ability to stay out of his business.
He was not disappointed.
She at least had the courtesey to blink, her expression a mask of almost lady-like cluelessness, before speaking. "Why haven't you spoken to him? Are you avoiding him?"
"Well, no, but—"
"Then why?" Araeya had him cornered, now. So willful, the amazon, and so unwilling to consider one's desires for privacy.
He scowled. "I just haven't had the opportunity to talk to him since I got here. In case you haven't noticed, I've been a little busy chasing demons with you."
She fell silent just then, blue-green eyes alit with curiousity and, strangely, something akin to empathy as she studied him. Finally, she spoke, but her tone quite lacked its usual sting. "Did he know the Medjai princess well?"
"Cordelia? Well… they didn't interact much before we journeyed into Aranoch together. And even then, their interactions were at a bare minimum." Saul crinkled his nose slightly, reaching up to rub at the back of his hand. Ebon locks rumpled messily.
Araeya nodded slowly, as though deep in thought. "I suppose your interactions with him, too, were limited. Though I can see very well why you wouldn't want to speak with him." She smirked—then held up a hand to silence him. "He is observant to the point that makes him an annoyance in the eyes of others. I can't say that must be easy for him, but that does not mean I condone his often-infuriating methods of interfering with others' problems. In fact, he annoys even me." Here, she paused, scratching idly at the tip of her nose. "I know, and you know, that he knows how you and Cordelia feel for one another. You're hiding because you don't want to face that—to face him and his interfering words."
"Can't it be that I'm just too bitter and resentful to talk to him? He's annoying, even without his interfering." Saul countered, dryly. He was careful to keep his gaze level with that of the amazon's—he knew she'd think his words false, otherwise.
"I suppose." Araeya arched her shoulders back, wrinkling her nose in an attempt to stem the yawn stretching her jaws—but to no avail. "But if that is true, you should have no problems talking to him, hmm?" She leaned forward, curling her lips in what the druid knew to be an overly-sweet, triumphant smile.
He scowled. "At this moment in time, Araeya, I really don't like you."
The amazon snickered quietly, platinum locks falling limp into her eyes as she rocked back and forth on her heels. "I'm sure you'll live to recant those words."
The city square was, as was the norm, crowded. Saul found himself falling back a pace or two, lingering slowly behind the amazon—where Cordelia's steps were short and swift, Araeya had
the grace of long and lithe limbs which loaned her the luxury of well-paced steps. The comparison made him smile; the former and the latter were so very different.
At length, the amazon halted her steps—then turned to face him, brow wrinkled.
"Why—" She muttered, leaning aside. "—is the air thicker than usual in here?"
He blinked, ebon brows knitting together in mild distaste. She wasn't lying. The locals, as they often were within the city square, sat within groups and circles of their own. Yet, gone was the colourful exuberence with which they usually equipped themselves. They said little enough to one another—but Saul caught the hopeful whispers; the stolen glances. Araeya, too, was not oblivious to their sentiments. She ran a hand casually across her forehead, wiping sweat from her brow. The frown had all but disappeared—but her eyes were riddled with fatigue and wariness.
"…d'you think, maybe, someone else has died?" Saul leaned towards the amazon, lifting a hand to shield the movement of his lips. His voice was but a mutter.
Araeya, thankfully, was equally prudent with her words. She feigned a cough, leaning forwards just a touch as she hissed in response. "I wouldn't know, but I have a bad feeling of this. These people are too grim-faced—too sullen. I feel as if I can't breathe, what with their eyes trailing along the slope of my back."
Saul rolled his eyes. "You speak of them as if they were one being—a man intent upon your bedding."
She laughed. "They are intent upon many things, Saul, and while I don't doubt my general appeal to your gender—" Blue green orbs twinkled in vague amusement as she shook her head back, displaying ivory teeth as she grinned. "—I am quite certain they have better things to think of at present."
"You do delight in making me uncomfortable, don't you?" The druid muttered, dryly—but she merely smirked in response. He'd barely opened his mouth to speak again, however, before a flash of firestorm hair caught his eye—but it was not Cordelia.
Fara.
Nomally, the smith held herself with a quiet grace that stretched to the very ends of her agile limbs. Yet there was none of that within her at present. Her jaw was set taut within her face, and her lips were thin—with anxiety, Saul thought. Hazel eyes wavered slightly in colour. Crimson hair fell about her shoulders in a mass of tangled curls—she obviously held little care for appearances at times such as these.
She reached towards the druid, gripping his arms with calloused hands. "Kei has entered the sewers in persue of his father's murderers."
The druid drew in a deep breath—then swore. "When?"
"This morning." Fara's voice was hoarse with unspoken fear. Her fingers tightened painfully upon the druid's forearms. "Saul, Cordelia went in after him." She swallowed, then lifted her eyes to meet his. "Alone."
The world went silent; but the silence was near defeaning. Saul thought he could feel the eyes upon him—eyes full of curiousity and hope.
Eyes of empathy.
He looked to Fara—she released her hold of his arms, stepping back. In similar fashion, those within the square turned their glances away. One after the other, the dark, desert-kissed faces dispersed into the streets; to a corner, a short, squat old man muttered quietly under his breath, shaking his head. Saul thought he saw Deckard Cain shift upon a wooden stool, thought he could hear Warriv's whispered exclaimation.
He turned—then caught Araeya's eye.
The amazon's arms were crossed over her abdomen. She wrinkled her nose; and in a low, muted grunt—"Well that can't be good."
She was certain that death had come, at last, to claim her defiant soul. She'd been certain of the fact ten minutes ago.
The minutes had stretched through the hours long passed—she'd lost count; yet her certainty had not disappeared. She faced death at the turn of every dark corner, but fought her way through with determination to rival her father's.
And it had been said by many that Oberon of the Medjai was a man of great stubbornness.
She smiled grimly at the thought. At her feet, the charred remains of what had once been a child of Hell befouled soft deerskin boots, knobbly, broken fingers clawing lifelessly upon the skin of her legs—and in the wake of knife-edged nails flowed a slender river of warm, crimson blood.
Stung, the sorceress cried out in pain—and, without quite meaning to, slammed the foot of her staff into the back of the hellish skull. There was a loud crack; clawed fingers fell away from sun-browned flesh, and the broken bone crumbled away into dust and ebon ash.
She swallowed, shutting her eyes as she grasped at her left arm—her right one shook with shock and pain—then dug her nails deep into flesh, biting down a cry of surprised pain. The pain in her leg subsided somewhat; it was her arm which throbbed at present. Her breath came in rapid and erratic gasps.
Had she survived thus far with such stamina?
She shook her head, fingers scrabbling along the cracks of the walls as a wave of dizziness engulfed her being. The world spun around her feet.
Too much fire. Too much magic.
She felt her abdomen tense in protest as she fell to her knees. Teeth gnashed together to prevent the hiss from escaping her lips.
Too much magic.
The rough stone surface was cold beneath the touch of her skin—then slick with the wetness of her blood. She swallowed several times, clenching and unclenching her fingers. Minutes; or was it hours? –passed before she found strength within the muscles of her body once more.
Up you go.
She bit her lip, drawing blood as she got to her feet. For a moment or two, the world resumed its deafening cacophonia of spinning—and then passed.
Cordelia exhalled quietly under her breath, ignoring stabbing pains. Then, clasping her staff within the palm of her hand, she braved a step—and another, and another.
Perhaps, she mused, her lower lip curling ever so slightly, perhaps the next level would bring about the end of the pain.
Just perhaps.
He stumbled along into the darkness of the sewers, as though he were a blind man. Fingers stroked the edges of brick walls, hard and slick to the very touch. The hem of his cloak rustled at his feet, and well-oiled boots of ebon leather muffled his footsteps upon the slippery ground.
At present, he was only just mildly aware of the various emotions throbbing within the deeps of his skull. Anxiety and trepidation were at the foremost—concern for the sorceress he had come to regard as more—so much more than a friend.
The images flooded his mind in a torrent of waves. Cordelia, wounded and in pain, clinging on to the very last vestiges of her life. Cordelia in battle, fighting for her survival, but tiring quickly. In his mind, he saw her falter in her steps—then crumble, limp, onto the ground as staves and daggers were driven in wild abandon through her slender form, breaking through flesh and bone.
And then, Cordelia, dead.
He found he could not bear the thought.
Gritting his teeth, Saul canted his head ever so slightly—then turned to face the man who followed in his wake. "You really should not have come. These conditions aren't precisely suited for one of your station."
Jerhyn scowled. Deep brown eyes glinted beneath dark, straying tresses—he'd abandoned his turban in favor of a platinum, gem-encrusted circlet. Long, ebon hair was slicked away from his face, knotted together at the nape of his neck in a waist-length ponytail. He wore a finely-woven tunic of ringmail above an undershirt of crimson silk; a sword hung from his waist. "Far be it from me to leave a woman in harm's way—and it is Cordelia. I would sooner die than to allow any damage to befall her."
"Because you love her this much." Saul muttered dryly. Tension knotted in the back of his shoulders.
"It just so happens—" The prince retorted, his voice a bland, monotonous cadence, "—that she is my bethrothed. It is only right that her well-being concerns me, rather than some half-feral riff-raff from the woodlands." He smirked, stretching broad shoulders back ever so slightly.
Saul growled—then gnashed his teeth together, eyes narrowing even as he clenched his fists and reached deep into the heart of the earth. The toes upon his feet were roots; binding him, mind, body, and soul with the earth magic. And then, bone became liquid, shifting in size, shape, and place. Knotted muscles and taut-stretched skin melted away to form pale grey fur and slick black muzzle. The fluffy, ebon-tipped tail fell between lithe, wolfish legs—muscles tensed as he arched his back.
He was a wolf.
Soft, leathery paws padded gently upon the ground even as he turned towards the Prince, baring ivory teeth in a deep, husky growl. Defiance rippled through the tips of his ears.
So what if I'm some half-feral riff-raff from the woodlands? At least I don't cower in fear at the mere sight of a wolf.
He was pleasantly surprised to see the startled Prince back a step away. If wolves bore expressions, he had little doubt that his would, at present, betray the smugness within his being. Out of the corner of his eye, Saul thought he saw the Prince flinch—but moments later discovered traces of impropriety in his silent celebrations.
Crimson eyes, narrowly slitted, blinked languidly in the darkness behind the prince. Yellowed fangs were bared beneath the curve of dry and broken lips. The scent of death and decay tickled at the wolfish nose—one so inclined as to catch the stench of evil long before human senses were moved to work.
He hesitated a moment—then pounced.
"By the Gods—" Jerhyn swore loudly as he jumped aside. Saul thought he saw chocolate-brown eyes flashed angrily; then widened as they fell upon the sight of flaying swords and tauted bowstrings clasped in flaming, skeletal hands. The ring of metal upon wood chimed within the darkened sewer corridors, the glint of steel flashing from corner to corner even as the Prince drew his longsword, and leapt to attack.
Saul growled quietly; he felt silver-tipped whiskers upon his muzzle bristle with disgust—then shifted, leaning forward into the face of his prey. Clammy, wrinkled flesh enshrouded over-long limbs, the bones protruding from shoulder to elbow. In the stead of fingers were slender, serrated daggers; and they were poised to strike. The druid was only faintly aware of the stench of sweat and blood as he lunged forward, jaws split to reveal razor-sharp teeth—seconds later, the skin upon the throat was torn away, revealing a thinner membrane of pulsating flesh.
A glint of steel; the harsh whisper of blade against furry thigh.
He yelped in pain—then ripped the throat bare. He tasted blood, but thought it necessary to ignore the slowly-rising bile within the back of his throat.
Turning where he stood, Saul grit his teeth—and found himself human once more. He spat, disgusted, onto the ground, but had little more than a second in which to compose himself. The Prince of Lut Gholein stood his ground well enough, but swords were no match for skeletal archers.
He allowed himself the faintest of smirks before lifting both arms; he could feel the sudden surges of energy through his very veins—and half a moment later, straightened as the grey-stone floors set within the ground corroded away to reveal a flaming river of magma.
"Move, princeling!" Hot dust and soot tickled at his throat as he called out towards the Prince. "Unless you fancy yourself crisped!"
"I'd fancy something else crisped." Jerhyn spat, dark brows narrowing as he leapt to safety.
Saul crooked a wry smile—and in the sheer, heated silence in which boiling lava engulfed demonic entities whole, found himself bostered, that in battle, at the very least, he was that much better than the Prince of Lut Gholein.
She wept.
Having done that, she swore at the shadows. Cursed the Devils of Darkness deep within the chasms of Hell.
On her knees, she bent over. Trembling fingers dug into the sides of her cheeks, where nails were sure to leave marks.
Yet at present, physical pain, to her, seemed nothing short of relief from that which was reality.
She lifted her head. Her eyes were clouded with the mist of tears—her vision, impaired. But she saw—and it was clear.
It was Arhaid's head that stood impaled upon a stake. Eye-sockets, once home to gems of deepest green, lay empty and hollow. Whatever remained of his hair was soiled and matted to the top of his head; awash with the stench of matted blood and stale sweat.
She looked for his chest—arms—legs—and discovered there were none. No fingers, nor toes, nor any other remnants of that which might have belonged to the husband of the woman she called friend. No remains to be returned to those who would give him a warrior's farewell—a husband's farewell.
A father's farewell.
How long she wept, she did not know. When, at last, the world ceased to spin, she chanced another glance towards the gore-driven chaos—and felt her throat constrict.
"I'm sorry, Arhaid. I can't bring you back—not now." She whispered. "Atma cannot see you—not like this."
Crimson flames sparked within the palm of her hand. A single, saltine tear coursed along the length of her ashen cheek.
"Rest in peace, Arhaid Faranghi of Lut Gholein. Beloved husband to Atma Harum of the Medjai—" She swallowed, bowing her head. Within the darkness of the catacombs, her voice seemed to stretch on in echoes of forever; yet they were but whispers. "Beloved father to Keijha Faranghi." Slender fingers traced miniature walls of fire upon the ground, licking upon the edges of the stake and bringing it to life with the crackling heat of crimson-blue flames. "Beloved father to Miavanna Faranghi—"
Several short moments passed in which she was merely content to sit and watch. Wooden stake burned away in a show of deep-grey smog. What remained of Arhaid became dust and ash—and was returned to the earth.
She swallowed her fear, and stomached her grief. It, too, would come to pass in time.
The pain, too, would pass.
It had to.
Hours—or was it days—later, she was stumbling away. Falling through the shadows, only to have her feet touch the ground once more. She was exhausted—yet she would not concede to darkness. The memory of sunlight seemed but millions of centuries away; the walls were closing in upon her. She had little idea as to her own co-ordinates; mere luck had brought her thus far.
She teethered upon the edge of hysteria—and she knew it well.
The scream—a childish, fearful one, brought her to her senses. She ran, now, her footsteps heavy upon the slick stone floor; but she did not slip, nor trip.
And then, she saw him. Bound, and gagged beneath the feet of one who stood at least thrice her height. Surrounded by hordes of bony, hell-spawned demons. His eyes were largened in fear, and every inch of his child-like frame quavered uncontrollably.
And even as the tall one raised his dagger to strike, she lunged forwards, praying that she would make it.
"KEI!"
Author's Note: Holy mackaroon. This chapter sure as hell took a long time. I'm sorry, you guys! Uni has been so very busy for me! But I want y'all to know that no matter how long I take to upload, that I won't ever stop writing this until the very end, mmkay? So stay with me!
Thanks, always, to Ophelion, who's stuck with me through… well, everything. Especially when it comes to my lack of motivation for writing.
Thanks also to Luna and skopde, who are as loyal to this fic as loyal can be. Thank you guys so much!
Triple thanks to Glacio Iceblade, Fallen Dragonfly and Twilight Bunny for the kind reviews! And thanks also, to Another Stranger Me for the fav!
Lots of love to all of you, and hang onto your seats for the next chapter, which is entitled, "The Elder Mummy"! Until then, ciao, and please don't forget to make me happy by reviewing! Bye!