The first chain or so had been the worst of it, a vertical hand-over-hand in open air. After that the chasm wall had come back into view and Vhaasa had found another piton. He called a brief halt to get the rope taut from that point. Once everyone was down, he had retrieved the rope with a bit of help setting up a pulley with the men below, then retied it at the new piton. From there it had been a descent in intervals, rappelling and free climbing by turns. Mogrus and Ghetti had worked out their harnesses and seemed no more fatigued than anyone else.
The cohort had descended thirty or so chains, by Vhaasa’s count, when they reached a tiny ledge sheltered from the worst of the wind in the lee of a thick vertical ridge off to their side. They took their first true rest there. That was when they spotted the ledge below, a semi-circle of level ground forming a rough landing against the wall of the chasm. Only three or four chains below them, now. Vhaasa pointed it out and the cohort could have cheered, but instead seemed almost to hold their breath.
A chain or so into the final descent, a few of the men gave an abrupt shout, and Vhaasa looked up quickly to see what had happened. A blur of movement behind him and he whipped his head back down to see a man turning end over end as he plummeted into the chasm. The slowly wheeling figure clipped the outside edge of the low rubble wall on the landing below, sending him into a wild spin down and out of sight. Vhaasa’s heart lurched and his stomach went cold .The impact had surely killed him. He hoped the impact had killed him.
“Who?” Vhaasa called up.
“Bor… Borden,” Someone called back, voice cracking.
If there had been time – energy – to grieve then, Vhaasa surely would have. His arms and ankles burned with effort, and he couldn’t imagine the fatigue of the larger, less experienced climbers. He reached the shelf below, and steadied the rope to ease the descent of the others.
When the rest of the cohort had arrived, Vhaasa dropped onto his backside and sat breathing heavily. His thoughts wandered, grief would not come clear. Looking up again, he half-expected to see Mallock bellowing orders to get moving, but the whole cohort was scattered about the landing, sprawled out catching their breath and rubbing aching limbs. Mogrus was staring back at the wall of the chasm.
Vhaasa followed the maven’s gaze and barely managed to spot the opening there. A cavern led into the wall of Neph’s Chasm, concealed by clever masonry that made it appear as only a fold in the stone. Mallock came into his line of sight, staring into the opening himself. The three looked at each other. The captain glanced around at the rest of the cohort and a look of resignation washed over his face before he started shouting again.
“Up, up! We’re on the move, you stack of corpses! Up!”, Mallock looked more exhausted than any of them, “Sleep on piles of silver when we get back to gods-forsaken Uhl’iir!”
The cohort was moving, stretching, and gathering their kit. Beyond the low wall that ringed the small landing, the dark winds of Neph’s Chasm roared. Vhaasa crossed the shelf to get a better look at the entrance to the cavern, passing Captain Mallock, who whispered as he passed, “Good job on the ropes, rook. You’re a regular hangman.”
Mogrus and Vhaasa stood staring at the portal, an opening into a deeper darkness. Vhaasa glanced at what passed for a sky, whirling grey and black mists, and looked back down into the tenebrous passage before him.
“What kind of shrine did you say this is?” Vhaasa asked.
“The kind dedicated to some wight or other. Vagrant script on Nith’s map calls this one Uhl’Neph. It ain’t no holy place, rooklet,” Mogrus said.
“Aye. Figures.”
Mallock was prodding again and the cohort broke into single-file, this time with Mallock himself in the lead. The corridor twisted, and an unseemly warm breeze emerged from within. The air was humid, and smelled of wet stone and something like mulch. A hundred paces or so into the dark, torches struck and wavering ahead and behind, Vhaasa came out into a chamber behind Mallock and Mogrus. Panic welled up from his core as his senses absorbed the chamber. Urgency thrashing wildly in his chest, trying to escape from his nose and throat. The world reeled; a world all of bones and desiccated flesh. He collapsed retching, but bolted back upright just as quickly, flailing madly to brush the grit from his hands and clothes. He wiped his mouth and saw Mogrus’ eyes on him, widening suddenly, then flicking down.
“What?” Vhaasa shrieked.
Mogrus retrieved a swatch of fabric from one of his old sleeves and mimed wiping his mouth with it, handed the cloth to Vhaasa, who frantically wiped at his face. The cloth came away chalked with bone dust, faintly yellowed.
“Dark-of-rotting-night, Mogrus!” his voice was shrill.
“I did not fashion this place, Vhaasa,” Mogrus said.
Vhaasa trembled with the intensity of it all, trapped between paralysis and hysterical flight. Mallock’s backhand was a gesture of compassion, missing Vhaasa’s ventilated nose as it did. The blow brought the world back into focus nicely. He blinked at the captain and simply nodded. The others filed into the chamber, some dropping to their hands and knees to retch near the entrance, others choking a bit, wearing repulsed and horrified expressions.
“Classy little getaway you’ve got here, Mogrus,” Bandrell said, sneering.
* * * * *