“It would have been very different in the Artisan’s day,” Scriberson said. He moved with pencil and notebook in hand, jotting down a hasty note or sketch whenever they paused. “The buildings more intact, the inscriptions not so faded.” He crouched to peer at something carved into the base of a plinth of some kind, a flat-topped stone so cracked and weathered it appeared about to collapse at any second.
“That’s some kinda writing, huh?” Clay asked him.
“I believe so. There have been examples found at other sites, though never as extensive. These symbols appear similar in form, but no-one has yet found a way of translating them.”
“Maybe the Spoiled can read them?” Loriabeth suggested. “I guess it was their forebears that built the place.”
“Spoiled ain’t got the brains to read nothin’,” Foxbine insisted. “And it’s a certainty they could never have made a place like this. Shit, folks today couldn’t make a place like this.”
Braddon called a halt soon after, standing to regard Firpike in wordless expectation. “The Artisan’s account spoke of a bridge across a broad canal,” he said. “Leading to a great temple of some kind. The hunter maintained the bulk of the treasure would be found there.”
“Can’t see no bridge,” Skaggerhill said, voice rich in impatience. Clay could tell he found their dalliance here a pointless distraction from pursuit of the main prize.
Firpike pointed at something in a swathe of jungle to the south. “But there is the canal.” It was only a shallow depression in the mass of vegetation but on closer inspection it became clear that it extended in a straight line into the depths of the overgrown city. “It was always my plan to follow it to the temple.”
They had to hack their way through in several places, the wall of vines and new-grown trees being so thick. Silverpin and Clay shared the duty, cutting a path with long-bladed knives. Unlike the others, she seemed unperturbed by this place, the prospect of imminent riches failing to enliven her at all. If anything she appeared bored, the fascination that had seized her in the White’s cave back at the Badlands now replaced with disinterested labour.
“You think this is all horse shit, right?” Clay asked during a pause, lifting a canteen to let the water cascade over his sweat-slick face. She replied with only a rueful grin, twirling her knife in a brief but expert flourish before returning to her work.
They found the bridge after what felt like twenty miles of cutting but, in fact, couldn’t have been more than two. Clay surmised it must have been quite a sight in its day; a tall, elegant arc spanning a fifty-foot gap. But now the central span had tumbled into the weed-filled canal below, the remaining structure resembling the stunted and deformed arms of some vine-covered giant. Off to the left the temple rose out of the jungle, the most majestic building they had seen so far. It appeared to be a four-sided structure of five tiers, each smaller than the one below so as to form a huge pyramid. The jungle had claimed the two lowest tiers, making it appear like an island partly swamped by a sea of green.
“Guess you’re not wholly a liar, after all,” Clay told Firpike, though the man seemed not to hear, gazing up at the temple in rapt fascination.
“The Artisan tell of any way in?” Braddon prompted as the archaeologist continued to stare.
Firpike blinked and tore his gaze from the temple with a visible effort. “The hunter’s account became confused when he spoke of the temple,” he said. “He had been confined to an asylum by the time the Artisan sought him out. Much of what he said about the place was rambling nonsense, though he kept repeating the word ‘treasure.’”
“In Eutherian, presumably?” Scriberson asked.
“The Artisan wrote in Eutherian,” Firpike replied, a little stiffly. It seemed to Clay he resented the presence of another scholar at his great discovery.
“But did the hunter speak it?” Scriberson pressed.
Firpike remained silent for a moment, frowning in reluctant consideration. “The Artisan describes him as a one-time Steppe nomad, come across the ocean in search of his fortune in this fabled land.”
“Meaning his primary tongue would have been unintelligible to outsiders, so he would most likely have spoken West Mandinorian to anyone not of his tribe. Probably an archaic form to boot.”
“Failing to see the import of this discussion, gents,” Braddon said.
“Translation,” Scriberson said. “Meanings often become confused due to multiple translations. From the nomad’s tongue to West Mandinorian to Eutherian. Much could have changed in the process. ‘Treasure’ in Mandinorian is often translated into Eutherian as any item of value or importance.”
“You mean,” Clay said, “we may not be finding ourselves knee deep in gold and jewels when we get in there.”
“Indeed,” Scriberson said, regarding Firpike with the same suspicion he had maintained since first setting eyes on him. “Though we do know that whatever the nomad found here eventually landed him in the madhouse.”
A moment’s silence descended, soon stretching into several more as the soldiers exchanged nervous glances and the Longrifles did likewise. “Well,” Braddon said eventually, moving towards the temple with a purposeful stride, “we’ve come this far. Besides, if anything I saw in the Interior was gonna send me mad, it woulda happened years ago.”
—
They could find no way in at ground level, the vines proving too thick and the great expanse upon which the temple had been constructed cracked and sundered in many places by the trees that had grown through the stone. Loriabeth volunteered to climb to the upper tiers, demonstrating how well her leg had healed by scaling the wall of close-packed greenery with a lithe ease. She cast a rope down from the second-highest tier and the Longrifles climbed up one after the other.
“We’d best stay here,” Sergeant Eadsell said, to the evident relief of his fellow soldiers. The sergeant’s face shone with more sweat than could be accounted for by mere exertion and his voice betrayed the strain of a man nearing the limits of courage. “Makes sense to guard the escape route.”
“Sound military thinking,” Braddon assured him, taking hold of the rope.
Loriabeth had already found a way in, a decent-sized gap in the vines on the temple’s north-side. She crouched at it with pistol in hand, peering at the gloomy interior with uncharacteristic reluctance. “Smells funny,” she said as Clay clambered to her side. “Like something old and long dead.”
A quick sniff confirmed it, Clay finding the smell had an unpleasant mustiness to it. He could see a broad beam of sunlight streaming through the darkness beyond the gap, indicating the temple roof had fallen in at some point. He glanced back, finding Silverpin close by and inclined his head at the gap. “Shall we?”
After the clamminess of the jungle the temple interior felt blessedly cool, Clay standing in a void of shadows until his eyes accustomed themselves to the gloom. The floor was uneven in several places, causing him to move with a cautious step, Stinger at his shoulder and Loriabeth and Silverpin close by on either side. This tier was a single space free of walls, the ceiling supported by rows of octagonal pillars. Clay was inevitably drawn to the sunlit centre of the space, the beam streaming down through a wide opening into the depths of the temple. Like the pillars, the hole was eight-sided and ringed by a balustrade. Clay leaned over to glance up then down, confirming each successive tier also featured an identical hole. The base of the temple, as revealed by the bright octagon of sunlight, appeared just a jumble of fallen stone.
“Well, it’s surely big enough,” Skaggerhill murmured, appearing out of the gloom alongside Braddon and Preacher.
“Big enough for what?” Clay asked.
“A winged drake.” The harvester leaned on the balustrade, gazing down. “Red, Black or . . .” He trailed off at a warning cough from Braddon.
“They paid homage to it, here.” Preacher stood back from the hole, keeping to the shadows tho
ugh the light glinted on his eyes. Clay felt his unease deepen at the tone of the marksman’s voice: possessed of the same stridency as when he had quoted scripture. “Bowed down to worship a harbinger of destruction.”
“Don’t appear to have done them much good,” Loriabeth said, kicking a loose stone across the floor so it tumbled over the edge of the hole. It was two full seconds before they heard the faint clatter as it found the bottom.
“Nevertheless,” Scriberson said, “I believe our devout friend may be right. About this being a place of worship, at least.” He had stopped at one of the pillars, playing the light from a small lantern over its surface. Clay joined him, making out the symbols etched into the stone.
“More writing that can’t be read?”
“Partly, but not all. See here.” Scriberson angled the lantern a little, revealing a series of images carved into the stone. They were simple in form but had been crafted with considerable precision; a group of human-like figures stood with arms raised below what could only be a drake, flying aloft with wings spread wide and flame blossoming from its gaping jaws.
“That a Red?” Clay wondered.
“A Black,” Skaggerhill said, coming to join them. “You can tell by the spines along the neck. Reds don’t have so many.”
“They worshipped the Black,” Clay said, exchanging a glance with his uncle. “Perhaps that wasn’t all.”
“Look around,” Braddon said. “Every pillar.”
The inscriptions varied on each pillar, both in length and complexity, but the basic motif remained: people in supplication to a Black drake. “Maybe it’s different on the other floors,” Skaggerhill suggested and Braddon soon had them hunting for a stairwell. They found it set into the western wall, the way down blocked by fallen stone but the way up clear and intact. As before, Clay and Silverpin went first, finding a small chamber with fewer pillars, though once again all identically decorated.
“Guess they just really liked the Black,” Skaggerhill said.
“Got something here,” Foxbine called, lowered to a crouch with her torch held close to the floor. Clay lowered his own torch, revealing a complex arrangement of small, square tiles, many of different hues.
“Mosaic,” Scriberson said, voice pitched a little high in excitement. “We need more light.”
Clay and Silverpin were obliged to return to the lower tier to cut vines for more torches, laying them out on the floor to reveal the mosaic in full. It was similar in form to the carvings on the pillars but much more detailed. The Black had been rendered with an unnerving accuracy, the jet scales glittering bright in the torch-light. The people crouched below in worship were similarly convincing, though their form proved unexpected.
“That ain’t no Spoiled,” Foxbine said, tapping a boot on the figure in the centre of the bowing humans, a young woman in a light blue robe. Like the others, she had skin of bronze and an elaborate mass of dark hair. Though the band on her head set her apart, a spiky contrivance fashioned from feathers, gems and what could only be gold.
“An indigenous Arradsian,” Firpike said, crouching to play a hand over the figure before casting a somewhat triumphant glance at Scriberson. “An unspoilt forebear, just as I predicted in my second book.”
“Merely an expansion of theories already advanced by more accomplished scholarship,” the astronomer replied, though Clay felt his dismissive tone was a little forced.
“You mean the Spoiled weren’t always Spoiled,” Loriabeth said.
“Quite so, young lady,” Firpike said, returning a hungry gaze to the mosaic. Clay noted how his hand lingered on the woman’s crown; the only evidence of treasure they had so far found. “The deformities typical to the native inhabitants of this continent have long puzzled biologists, given that they are found nowhere else on the planet. It has been theorised that their line became corrupted somehow, leaving them prone to deformity and reduced intelligence. A theory never validated, until now.”
“So what corrupted them?” she asked.
“Another great mystery awaiting an answer. But, at least now we know it happened long after the building of this city.”
“Got another one here,” Braddon called from the other side of the hole. This time the torches revealed a different image, though the woman from the first mosaic remained. She stood holding aloft something large and red that dripped a crimson cascade into her mouth. The Black that had been the object of worship lay dead beside her, its chest rent open, whilst another smaller drake emerged from a sundered egg near by.
“Heart-blood,” Skaggerhill whispered, shaking his head. “They drank its heart-blood when it died.”
“Thought that stuff was fatal,” Clay said.
“To us, certainly,” Firpike said. “But perhaps not to them. We know modern-day Spoiled have been witnessed eating raw Drake flesh without suffering fatal consequences. It could be they had some inherent immunity to its effects, like Blood-blessed today.”
“Heart-blood will still kill a Blood-blessed,” Skaggerhill pointed out.
“Not in every case. There are stories of some who survived. Receiving gifts beyond that of a normal Blood-blessed in the process.”
Clay returned his gaze to the woman in the mosaic. “Makes you wonder what gift she received,”
“There’s another stairway back here,” Foxbine called from the gloom.
—
“So,” said Braddon, “I’m guessing this is what the mad fella meant by treasure.”
The pyramid’s summit was open to the elements and featured a single pillar next to the octagonal hole in the centre. The jungle had reached even to this height and the pillar was wreathed in vines but not so thickly as to conceal the nature of its construction. Clay reached through the vegetation to press a hand to the untarnished yellow metal beneath, feeling the indentations of an engraving.
“Half a ton’s worth of gold at least,” Skaggerhill surmised. “Though how in the Travail you’d get it down from here and back to civilisation, I don’t know.”
“There are ways,” Firpike said, gazing at the pillar with bright-eyed agitation. “Now proof has been found, there isn’t a corporation in the world that wouldn’t fund an expedition.”
“You’re forgetting our deal, Doc,” Braddon said. “This don’t belong to you.”
“What?” Firpike laughed in genuine astonishment. “Captain, you must see the value of this discovery. Beyond the mere profit to be had from the gold, the historical importance . . .”
“All up to Sergeant Eadsell and his men to decide. You can make your case for their consideration and I’ll stand witness to a contracted outcome. But, make no mistake, Doc. They decide to throw you in the lake and keep this all to themselves, I ain’t standing in their way.” He turned away as Firpike began to sputter, glancing around at the otherwise barren platform. “Ain’t nothing for us here. Mr. Scriberson, Doc, you got a half-hour to take what notes you can, then we’re climbing down.”
Clay went to Braddon’s side as he moved to the edge of the platform, gazing out towards the blue expanse of the Krystaline to the west. “All Black and no White,” Clay said in a soft murmur.
“It was worth the trip, just on the off-chance of finding another clue. I do wonder if we ain’t missing something here, though.”
“It’s a big city. Could be other temples.”
“No.” Braddon gestured at the surrounding jungle. “Nothing comes close to this in size. Preacher’s right, these people were in thrall to the Black . . .”
He fell silent as a sharp, cracking sound echoed from below, quickly followed by a half-dozen more. “Eadsell,” Braddon said, shielding his eyes to peer down at the base of the temple. At first the soldiers were hard to make out amongst the varying hues of green but then Clay saw them, two clambering desperately up the rope whilst the others maintained a rapid fusillade at the tree-line. He couldn’t mak
e out what they were shooting at but then he heard it, the same piercing scream from when they had first found the city. Greens. He could see them through the canopy, skin flickering as they raced through the patchy sunlight. They came boiling out of the jungle a few seconds later, far more than had been assaulting the tower, too many to easily count.
“Preacher, get over here!” Braddon called, unshouldering his longrifle. He began to fire immediately, the rifle booming out three rapid shots, Clay seeing Greens tumble as they began to scramble down the far bank of the canal. All but two of the soldiers had made it up the rope to the second tier now, Sergeant Eadsell and one other continuing to fire at the onrushing Greens.
“Eadsell!” Skaggerhill called, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Forget it! There’s too many! Just get up here!”
The sergeant glanced upwards and gestured for his comrade to make for the rope, fired a final shot then followed. A Green clawed its way out of the canal and sprinted in pursuit, leaping with claws raised and mouth gaping. Preacher’s shot caught it in mid air, its head snapping back in a red cloud. Braddon and Preacher continued their barrage as the soldiers climbed, aiming with a precision that belied the rapidity of the shots. Clay counted at least a dozen Greens felled by the time both marksmen stopped to reload.
“What in the Travail is this?” he heard Foxbine breathe, gazing down at the tree-line in blank astonishment.
For a second Clay could only see yet more Greens, emerging from the jungle in a seemingly endless tide, but then amongst the rushing drakes he saw them, moving slower though seemingly in equally large numbers. Spoiled.
They came to stand at the edge of the jungle as the last of the Greens charged clear of the trees. Clay had no notion how many, a thousand, two thousand? For a short time they just stood there, gazing up at the temple in silent contemplation. The Greens were roiling about at the base of the temple, still baying out their screams without any regard for the copious prey at their backs.
“I’m guessing this is new,” Clay said, flexing his trembling hands on the Stinger.