Chapter Twelve—Behind the Door

“There,” Shiro said as he and Ali slid the post into the other hole.

“That should do it,” Ali said.

Shiro nodded. The posts weren’t long, otherwise the leverage wouldn’t move the door. “Okay,” he said. “I push down first.”

Ali nodded.

Shiro could feel his heart beating faster, his excitement rising as he wondered what could lie beyond the door. He grasped his post and pushed.

And nothing happened.

“What’s wrong?” Ali asked.

“I don’t know. More weight is needed, I think.” He leaned on the post. Still, the door didn’t move.

“More! “Ali commanded. “I’ll pull up on my post.”

“Okay.”

Shiro jumped, putting all his weight on the post and shimmied his body with the strength of his arms, grunting along with Ali.

“COME ON!” Ali screamed.

And then the door nudged.

“It’s moving!”

“Keep pushing!”

The door nudged, bit by bit, scraping along until Shiro’s weight and the force of Ali’s lifting moved the door completely. It rolled, not smoothly, to the side, leaving an opening like a fat crescent moon.

Breathing heavily, both men peered inside.

“It’s dark,” Shiro said.

“Wait,” Ali offered and turned toward their torches. They had covered them with leather wrappings to keep them from getting wet. He unrolled them, and struck the flint with his dagger.

Once his torch was lit, lighting Shiro’s was no effort as they were joined together. Shiro breathed in deeply as Ali thrust his torch into the dark chamber. It was black. Pitch black with nothing to see but a few steps of squared tiles with strange markings.

The stones that made up the floor were dark, which made the interior seem even more dim. Ali swallowed, looked at Shiro. “We go in now, eh?” He grinned.

Shiro nodded. “Let’s get rich.”

Ali laughed aloud and crouched into the chamber. Shiro followed.

The air inside was surprisingly dry, and definitely stale. It was a strange scent. Both men raised their torches high, getting a look at the small chamber.

There were pots and old rotted furnishings all over. The walls were adorned with chiseled carvings that had been painted and gilded in gold and silver.

“It looks like the old man was telling the truth,” Shiro said.

“Ha!” the other man scoffed, his voice echoing deep into the cavern. “What did I tell you, my friend?”

Shiro said nothing. He was enthralled with the chiseled impressions on the wall. “More of the Three Princes War?”

“Hmm,” Ali hummed thoughtfully. “Some of it looks familiar, but some of this, I cannot say. Look.” He gestured with his torch. “What is this? A magical rite?”

Shiro shrugged. “They’re your histories.”

“I have never known of this. They must be secret histories.”

“Which means more treasure.”

Ali smirked, then turned down the corridor. They walked across the dust-covered tiles. It was thick, like a snowfall.

They came to a door with an angular arch slanted on both sides, narrowing at the top. “And here is the lever,” Ali said. “Why could they not have put one outside?”

“Because,” Shiro said, “that would have been too easy!”

We’re inside. There is no need for clever tricks now?

Ali pushed the lever.

Nothing happened.

“What?” he said, as if someone had just told him a preposterous lie. “What is this?”

Then something sounded deep within the walls, and there was a subtle vibration. The door moved and scraped down before falling into a crevasse in the floor.

“Mmm,” Ali noised, nodding. “I want more of this.”

“That would be too easy.”

Shiro moved up to the sconce on the wall, put his fire to the aged torches. They lit. “The dungeon knows we’re here.”

“Then we must be careful.”

A dungeon that was centuries old, perhaps even older, would not have torches that lit when fire was put to them. These sconces were kept in order.

Something… or someone, knows we’re here.