“Then, my sweet, we are going to be visiting the devil very soon.”
“Fie, Nathan!”
“Well, what did you think might happen when we embarked on this mad adventure?”
“Honestly, Nathan, I only try to think a quarter of an hour ahead. Anything longer and things are always unpleasant.”
“Sailing into the Underworld, and here we are, bickering as always.”
They passed the widest place of the underground formation and again a series of tunnels lay before them, of varied width, with layers of rock upon rock, like stone collar pleats folded into a royal fan. There was no other light than the solitary lantern in Amaryllis’s hand, and yet there seemed to be a radiance, a soft, silver phosphorescent light coming up from the waters and reflecting off the cave walls.
“How fortunate that this river flows so slowly, almost like a dream. Here, hold the lamp a while.” And Amaryllis handed the lantern over to Sybil. The lady then placed her fingers into the water over the side of the boat and drew the tips lightly against the current, watching the tiny metallic sparks and spray.
“Oh,” she said. “It is not at all cold as I expected. Rather lukewarm actually, strangely so. Or maybe, neither cool nor warm, but indifferent, like a shadow. . . .”
“Well, I thought it was cold at first,” Nathan remarked. “But you are right; it was not the ice cold of the winter outside, despite the cold of the dungeon chamber.”
“Look in your bag of tricks, Catrine, and hand me that other empty flask,” Amaryllis said.
Catrine fumbled in the satchel and pulled out a small glass vial, then gave it to Lady Amaryllis.
“What are you going to do?” Nathan regarded her with a moment of suspicion.
“I want to capture some of this water,” Amaryllis replied. “Its impossible twilight nature bothers me, and I must investigate it under better circumstances, once we get out of here—for yes, for the next few moments I firmly choose to believe we shall escape.” And saying this she unstoppered the flask and dipped it in the current, then brought it up full of the same clear silvery liquid.
Indeed, it was surprisingly clear in the bottle, almost like normal water, Nathan thought. None of that dark inky hue, or the metallic surface tint—that too had been illusion also, born of play of light and depth and darkness.
However, as soon as the filled flask was brought near the burning lantern, the water inside it faded and the bottle appeared empty. Amaryllis exhaled an “Ah” of delight, then replaced the stopper, and put the flask into an inner pocket of her cloak, watching the water bloom back into being as it was moved away from the light.
Just in time—for they had entered another narrow tunnel and the use of four hands was required to “play” the lantern and keep the river in the physical plane.
At least two hours passed, of dreamlike sailing through soft currents all around, and constantly changing caves and niches and tunnels of variegated stone.
The girls spent the first hour staring at all things around them in constant heightened wonder. But by the second hour, everyone started nodding off.
Eventually, maybe it was but another illusion, but indeed the stately current grew even more slow and sluggish. Nathan barely had to row, only moved the oars gently to keep them away from the rocks on the sides, mostly letting the river carry them along.
They emerged from yet another narrow tunnel into a larger cavern hall. Here, Sybil took her fingers off the lantern to give twilight its full power, and then they were all faced with the strange sight of a panoramic shore up to which the river waters lapped and then simply ended.
It was the effect of having the river pour into a great round basin of a shallow lake.
They gazed ahead, and as the boat moved closer to that final shore, with nowhere else to float, they noticed that the bank before them was smooth, polished, granite rock, or maybe alabaster.
The boat arrived, and then gently bumped the rock of the shore’s edge. There was no place to anchor it, and indeed there was no need. So clear, so silver-shadowed was the river here at the edges, that when they looked down over the boat’s sides, they could see the transparent bottom through the still water, hewn like a stone bowl, curving up to rise toward them at the very lip of the shoreline.
And now that here they were, at the end of the river, they looked beyond at the shore and saw that it was the beginning of a great shadowed hall—not a natural cavern but an artificial structure—and it was formed of perfectly dull grey stone. Instead of walls, there were endless evenly spaced columns and arches, monumental and gothic, and they were lined in rows all the way to the distant horizon where they simply ended in a haze of remote darkness.
“Where in Heaven’s name are we?” Nathan stood up in the boat, then balanced his way to the front at the bow past the seated girls, and leaped onto shore.
One by one the occupants of the boat followed him, stepping carefully on the dull granite floor. When everyone was out, Nathan pulled up the boat and dragged it a few feet unto the bank, even though there was no danger of it floating off anywhere. He placed the long oars inside, and then stood up and stretched, stiff from sitting for so long.
“Curious—there appears to be no end to this hall,” Amaryllis remarked, looking about them.
“Oh, look!” Regata pointed up at the ceiling, and when they all glanced up, there appeared to be a night sky above, littered with pinpoints of stars. But it was so dreamlike, so unreal, that it truly made no sense.
“There’s stars, but I don’t think we’re outside,” said Faeline. “It’s not at all cold!”
“Indeed,” Nathan flexed his fingers. “I no longer see my breath, and the air has grown so still, with not even a gust of wind. We are definitely indoors, likely in the bowels of the earth.”
“So quiet here . . .” Sybil stood holding the lantern. “Where are we?”
“Do you notice, Nathan, that there is a very peculiar general illumination here, coming from everywhere? I don’t think we require this lamp.” And Amaryllis took the lantern from Sybil and quickly snuffed the wick out with her fingers.
The light winked out and the lamp smoked, but surprisingly there was no sudden onset of darkness. The hall remained the same, grey and shadowed and distinctly visible in the vicinity. Only when they strained to look far into the distance did the shadows seem to come together into a thick vaporous haze. Everything was smooth and soft, with no sharp edges, as though seen through an ethereal gauze veil.
“Behold, a soft landscape rendered in sfumato! I have seen its like on cathedral altarpieces and usually renderings of the afterlife and angelic visitations.” Nathan spoke in appreciation, while pacing around the shore.
Amaryllis threw one glance behind them at the softly lapping river. How was it that the waters flowed in, entered this round pool basin, and then had nowhere else to go . . . and yet did not flood and rise above the banks? There was no visible outlet underneath, no precipice to plunge downward and into the underworld. Everything here was transparent, and the bottom of the basin was smooth pale stone.
“I think we ought to go forward into this hall,” said Faeline. “There has got to be a way outside, somewhere up ahead.”
“Agreed,” said Lord Woult, shaking off his unkempt clothing and running a hand through his tousled hair and growth of beard. “Nowhere but forward lies our way—it is surely destiny. So then, dearest Amaryllis, shall we?”
“By all means.” And Lady Amaryllis simply started walking.
They paced for about fifty feet forward, moving past a dozen arches and columns, and then, as some of them looked back, they were presented with a physical impossibility.
Behind them, the river was gone. Not simply the supernatural water born of twilight, but the basin that held it!
Gone too were the cavernous entrance at the shore before the hall began, the round basin with the smooth granite shoreline, the boat they had left behind, and the distant stone tunnel that had brought them floating
here.
In their stead, the same hall with its arches and columns stretched unto infinity behind them. Indeed, they were now in the middle of a hall with no walls, no end, and no beginning.
“Oh, Lordy, Lord!” cried Catrine.
“Stop!” Nathan stopped walking and stood very still, looking behind them with a furrowing of his brow and utter disbelief.
“We couldn’t have gone all that far . . .” whispered Sybil. “How did we get here?”
“I dare say, we must be either in hell or in purgatory, at the very least,” Amaryllis pronounced in a cool voice that had in it just a remote tinge of disturbance. “So, where is your devil, Nathan? I expect he is up ahead, waiting for us.”
“Oh, no! No!” Both Catrine and Faeline whimpered. Regata put one hand up to her mouth, while Sybil just stood motionless.
“Maybe this is indeed the Underworld,” Nathan reasoned. “Or maybe—since we are so far north, and the infernal river has likely taken us into a deep wilderness somewhere underneath the forests—could it be we have arrived at Death’s own realm? His so-called Keep?”
“An interesting notion, my boy. . . .” Amaryllis breathed deeply, tasting the air in her lungs, bland and flavorless, with neither scent nor temperature. “It truly is so dead here. And yet, it is also very peaceful. . . . Somehow I do not sense infernal flames, or foul pitch smoke, or cries of pitiful charred sinners receiving eternal punishments on the ends of pitchforks. Do you?”
“No, not at all. Not even a tiny little scream to properly set the atmosphere.”
“So, then. If this is Death’s own palace and domain, let us go forth and seek the Skeleton himself. Heaven knows, what if I am the Cobweb Bride? Or possibly, one of these girls is the Cobweb Bride? Wouldn’t it be a wonder?”
Nathan turned to stare at her with a very intense gaze of his dark eyes. “Honestly, Amaryllis, do you still aspire to be that doomed creature? I thought we’d gone on an adventure, not a funeral march!”
“I think it’s stopped being merely an adventure as soon as we were detained by the mad Duke and Ignacia turned out to be a treacherous harridan. Now, I rather think it a quest on our part. If one of us is the Cobweb Bride, then, my dear, we might have it in our power to save the entire mortal world.”
“And that would be indeed commendable,” Nathan said. “Only, why must it be us? All I ever wanted was to have my well-done roast! A bit of steak, that’s all! Nothing too outlandish, is it? Must I be a hero in order to eat beef?”
Amaryllis smiled, turning her exquisite yet weary and dirt-stained face to him, and gazed at Nathan with a countenance full of faerie mischief. “Let us find out!”
And then the lady cried out in a loud petulant voice: “Lord Death! If you can hear me, make yourself known!”
There was a pause. The ringing echoes of her voice rebounded lightly in the immense hall, and then softly faded into nothing.
Perfect silence.
And then, a masculine voice sounded, remote and disembodied, coming from every direction in the hall, even from the starlit ceiling and the granite floor. . . .
“Come to me.”
And then, came rushing wind.
Chapter 19
The vanguard of the dead army came upon them softly.
Beltain, with Percy in the saddle before him, and next to him the Duke of Plaimes, had been making their way along the main road leading past occasional settlements and mostly cropland blanketed by snow. As they were further removed from the Silver Court, traffic became somewhat sparse in their direction, with only an occasional peasant cart clattering south, while many more were headed north toward the Silver Court. Bundled pedestrians on foot—usually entire households, by the looks of their large packs of belongings—moved past them rapidly, giving the two great knights and their warhorses a wide berth. More than a few swift carriages flew by, carrying frightened Morphaea aristocrat families toward the relative safety of the Silver Court’s massive walls.
News of the war was spreading like a flame.
At one point, the noise of clanging metal came up ahead, and the length of the road about a mile in the distance shone bright with bristling long steel in the sun. Pikemen were coming in columns, followed by arquebusiers and musketeers, all infantry ranks moving at a running trot march, and judging by their tan and teal uniform coats and their banners they were soldiers of Morphaea.
As soon as the Duke of Plaimes noted their approach, he spurred his stallion forward and rode toward them, then raised his gauntlet in a greeting.
“Formation, halt!” cried the officer in the front, seeing the Duke approach, and apparently recognizing him immediately. “Formation, salute your Field Marshal, His Grace, the Duke of Plaimes!”
And the soldiers came to order, infantry columns stopping one after another along the road.
“Commander, your report!” said Duke Andre Eldon. “What is happening? Have I been misinformed, and has the border been breached?”
“It is indeed so, Your Grace! Regretfully! We are in retreat from the enemy who is in pursuit!”
“Retreat? By Heaven! On whose orders?”
“By orders of His Majesty King Orphe Geroard!”
“Tell me what happened,” said the Duke. “Where were you stationed?”
And the commanding officer told him. Apparently these troops were not from the Balmue border, but were part of the city garrison of Duorma, the capital of Morphaea. About three hours ago, Duorma was attacked from the south by an immense unspeakable horde of entirely dead men. “Not a living man among them! All ranks in normal formations, all bearing the various identifying banners of the Domain elite forces of the Sovereign—the ones known as the Trovadii!”
“The Trovadii are dead? All of them, you say?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“But—how can that be? An entire army! Why?”
“We have cause to believe their condition is self-inflicted. . . . As for reasons, that we do not know.”
The Duke listened with a grave face. “So what has come to pass since the attack? How fares Duorma?”
There was a slight horrible pause as the officer gathered himself before speaking. “Your Grace, there is no Duorma.”
“What does that mean? Was it a complete rout? How bad are the casualties?”
The commanding officer paused again, looking down before speaking. “With apologies to Your Grace, but—worse than a rout. The city was in fact never breached nor overrun. It has disappeared.”
“What?”
“We were out in full force, outside the walls in the pomoerium, readying the line of defense, and the perimeter. His Majesty was with us also—was about to lead the charge. We saw the enemy approach on the horizon, and as they came closer, we realized suddenly that behind us, instead of the city walls and tall battlements with friendly marksmen and bastions of cannon artillery at our backs, there was nothing. The walls and bulwarks had disappeared, and so had the entirety of the area on which Duorma stood, with all that it contained—buildings, men, and beasts.”
“But—how on earth can that be?”
“No notion, Your Grace. Some of us had assumed it was sorcery or ungodly magic! Our formations were thrown into confusion, and while we tried to maintain order with nothing at our backs, the enemy attacked.”
“What of the King?”
“His Majesty was last seen in the heat of battle, with a cavalry brigade fighting to protect him. As soon as the retreat order was given, we have lost track—”
“Dear Heaven. . . .” The Duke of Plaimes sat upon his charger, plunged in thought, considering and weighing impossibilities.
Beltain, with Percy, rode up to him and stopped, observing.
“This is damned unprecedented,” the Duke turned and muttered to Beltain. “I must think, and quickly!”
The Duke then turned back to the men before him. “You say the enemy is in pursuit now—how close behind you are they? How much of their main force?”
“Your Gr
ace,” replied the commander. “If we continue standing here, they will be upon us within a half hour! As for how many, we do not know! During the melee there was much confusion. And as for those of our men who have been slain—in truth, I may not be able to vouch for them or their continued loyalty to the Realm. The dead army may have swallowed them and taken their allegiance—”
“I refuse to believe that!” exclaimed the Duke, speaking in a manner intended to rally the troops. “They may no longer be as sharp or as willing—or even able—to follow orders, but a man’s soul remains the same, no matter what. A loyal soldier will be loyal for as long as he understands what he is fighting for. I don’t expect that even death will twist that!”
“God willing, Your Grace is right. What are your present orders?”
Duke Andre Eldon paused only for a moment. “My orders are, continue your retreat, and make haste. Go and join the garrison at Silver Court. Tell them to prepare for siege! And tell the Emperor that I will return as swiftly as I may, after ascertaining our present situation. Now, proceed, and Godspeed!” And he rode to the side of the thoroughfare, with Beltain following, to allow the formations to pass.
As the pikemen and marksmen saluted, then broke into their ordered trot, the Duke stood at the sidelines watching, his brows drawn in a frown.
“What will you do now?” Beltain asked.
“I have no blasted idea!” Plaimes replied in a frustrated whisper. “You know, I had been on my way to assume command of the border defense. . . . But now—everything has changed. How do you fight a war when the battlefield itself has just shifted under your feet? We had a front, we had a border; by God, we even had a viable fortress in Duorma! And now, what? Where do I return to assess the situation? What lines do I draw? How can I plan strategy when the very map of the military theatre is redrawn?”