57

Descend Lower, Descend Only

Candle strode into the darkness with a boldness that was only skin deep. The doorway soon faded into a feeble rectangle light, and then that too, was swallowed by the night. The darkness below the castle ruin was of a different quality altogether from that above ground. There were no stars, no windows, no hint of light whatsoever. The air was dark and heavy and filled her lungs with the suffocating stench of decay. Her breath seemed very loud in that black, quiet place and she had to force herself to take calmer gulps.

Relax, she told herself. Just place one foot in front of the other. The absence of light was nothing to be afraid of. Her path was clear and she knew the way. After all, she had chosen to be here. Rummaging in her bag she drew out her stub of candle and flint. She struck a spark and the wick burst into flame, creating a tight circle of golden light which she held high, staring about her into the scudding shadows. The dark was so intense that illumination cast from the tiny flame was blinding and made it almost impossible to see very far, but what she could see revealed that the layout of the catacombs was the same as those that lay beneath Gwavas. The same that she had memorised during her trip with Jotham. Of course, this time she was alone and these tombs were unlikely to be empty.

Shoving the panic down she set off into the murky depths, shielding the flame with her hands. Remembering the bridge over the deep chasm, she searched for it in the gloom. There was no point coming this far only to fall to her death in the dark. It was good that she was on the lookout for it because the ground dropped away suddenly and without warning. The narrow strip of bridge was just as high and as dangerous as she remembered. The tiny glow of her candle was a beacon beating back the overwhelming dark, and she was grateful for it as she crept across the chasm. The air in the void below sucked and blew at her, setting her flame guttering. Taking her eyes off it, she focused instead on the solid ground in front of her. She had never been afraid of heights. It was as if her body had always known it should have wings, but she did not trust in her shifting abilities without saltwater. Not when she had let herself down so recently.

She made it across without incident and ducked into the first of the many interconnected tombs. The candle illuminated cracking walls and spaces thick with spirits – the ink trailing, many-eyed, many-legged kind. They clustered in the doorways and lurked between the gaps of the burial chambers, stirring as she passed. But they did no more than float in baleful formations, eyeing her as she ducked with haste through each doorway. She wondered if they belonged to the bodies interred in tombs, for unlike the catacombs at Gwavas, these vaults were most definitely occupied.

The vast quantities of bodies were shocking. The remains looked mostly human, in various states of decay and wrapped in linen and rags. Stacked in shelves, side by side on stone slabs, some were mere dusty bundles, some others were skeletal. Every now and then there was one that had rotting flesh, the scent putrid and sickly. Candle clutched the fabric of her shirt to her face as she walked past, trying not to gag.

The sight of so many dead bodies filled her with a deep sense of unease. It seemed dreadful and immoral, obscene even, to see so many remains, all vestiges of life long since extinct from their petrifying limbs. It was simply wrong. Someone needed to burn them all. Someone needed to say the rites to send their spirits across the Highway of Souls. But burning all these bodies might be the work of a lifetime. There were simply too many of them, not to mention the difficulties of lighting funeral pyres so deep underground. So she swallowed her dread and carried on, tiptoeing through the ranks of the dead.

Coming to another section of the tombs she saw this part was piled high with neatly stacked skulls and bones. They were arranged artistically and she was completely unable to appreciate the care and attention to detail so terrifying was the concept of piles of dead people's body parts. Who were they? Who were the people reduced to the patterns and playthings of some morbid artistic hand? There was no way to know. No one would ever know.

Turning a corner, she was presented with the vision of an altar made of yellowing thigh bones. A large dragon skull rested on top, a yard in length at least, its hollow eyes staring at her with sightless malevolence. She gulped and stumbled backwards into a mound of loosely stacked bones that fell on top of her with a crash that reverberated around the room. The candle fell from her hand and its flame was immediately extinguishing on the hard stone floor. The ossuary was plunged into the deepest night.

Candle swallowed a scream and scrabbled for it with her fingers, snatching them away from the many bones that were now strewn across the floor. The black pressed on her eyeballs, suffocating her as she searched. Her fingers closed around the familiar warmth of the wax with great relief. Straightening, she lifted her hand to strike a spark on her steel when a sound made her freeze.

There was a faint skittering noise to her left, and she paused, listening. Perhaps she had imagined it – but no, there it was again. Rats, maybe? She turned towards the sound, but of course, there was nothing to be seen. Not a sliver of light penetrated the fetid gloom of the underground ossuary. Something hard and cold brushed past her leg, and she leapt back, nearly dropping the flint in her haste. Something cold raked her calf in the dark and she swotted at it, her hands meeting only empty air. Fumbling with her flint, she raced to make a flame, fingers shaking. Just a rat, she thought — just a rat. The tiny wick caught alight and she held the candle up, casting precious light across the burial chamber.

A dozen or so eyes reflected back at her at knee height. Small, ugly creatures stood arrayed in front of her, all of them staring at her with wide, hungry eyes of vivid green. Their skins were pitch black, making them hard to see even in the flickering light. Their faces were wide and grotesque, vaguely humanoid but stretched and pulled out of all proportion. Small, sharp fangs hung out of broad mouths. Large bat-like ears, large feet, bony legs and knees with fat distended stomachs – they were not a welcome sight, standing there amongst the dry, old dead. What did they want? What did they eat? Did they gnaw on the rotting flesh of the not so recently departed, or chew the marrow from the ancient bones?

Candle took a slow step backwards, steadying herself against the wall of the ossuary, her feet stumbling over the bones. She knew, instinctively, that if she turned, these creatures would be on her in a heartbeat. Their eyes followed her every movement with avid intensity, as her fingers rested momentarily on the smooth ivory of someone's clavicle. She snatched it away, taking another step sideways towards the doorway. It was only a couple of yards away, but the distance yawned like an open ravine. This time the imps all moved forward as one, mirroring her action. Their eyes gleamed with emerald fire.

Candle's hand lingered on her dagger, and she held their gaze, teetering on the tips of her toes. Fight or flight? If she attacked them – well they looked small, but they were a whole pack, and their teeth looked vicious, and their grabby little hands sharp with claws. Her breath came quicker, and she stood paralysed by her options and afraid to move, lest she chose incorrectly.

From somewhere far distant, a scream rang out. It was a distinctly human sound that echoed along the stone walls and was followed by the sounds of shouting. As if called to action the imps lunged towards her. Candle turned and fled towards the sound, sprinting as fast as she could. Shielding the flame with her hand, she hurtled down the bone strewn corridor, desperately hoping the speed of her passage would not extinguish the candle.

The imps were too fast and they were soon snapping at her heels. One of them leapt on her ankle, sinking razor-sharp teeth into her skin. She stumbled before managing to kick it off. It hit the wall and lay stunned for a few moments before leaping up, gibbering and angry.

Candle turned in the narrow passage, brandishing her dagger, breath coming fast and ragged. An imp jumped for her, and she stabbed it in the belly, the blade slicing easily through its soft flesh. Thick black ichor ran out across the stone floor and the imp collapsed on the ground making an inhuman, high pitched keening sound. The other imps dragged it back, snatching and pulling, snarling at each other and flashing their incisors. They pulled the wounded imp limb from limb, sinking their teeth into the black flesh of their brethren as it screamed, the sound reverberating along the passage in a morbid wail. Candle backed away slowly, her eyes wide with horror as she watched the creatures feast on their own.

Occupied with their bloodlust, the imps did not seem to notice her retreat. Only one looked up at her, the juice of the dead imp running down its chin in a thick trickle. Candle shuddered, and hurried backwards, as fast as she could go without tripping. When there were five yards between them she turned and raced away, ducking through doorway after doorway, and down several twisting flights of stairs in an attempt to put some distance between herself and the awful creatures.

She slowed to a walk, thinking she had escaped and stopped to examine her surroundings. Before she could get her bearings she heard them coming – dozens of pattering feet skittering over the stone floors, and she set off at a loping run, looking for somewhere she could make a stand. By now she was well and truly lost in the maze of the tombs fleeing blindly, with the pack of imps hard on her heels. A large stone archway tugged on her memory and she skidded through it. Unlike the chambers she had recently passed through, it was empty and bare, a stone box devoid of skeletons or any other remains.

The noise of pursuit stopped, and she slid to a halt, glancing over her shoulder. The imps were all clustered in the doorway, staring through it at her, their green eyes glinting with malevolent frustration. They leaned forward, chittering and sniffing, flat snouts in the air, but none of them put a single hairy toe over the line of the doorway. Why? Why were they afraid to step over the threshold? She stared at them and they stared back, their eyes unblinking and eerie in the dim light.

Something shifted in the shadows behind her and the watching imps melted away into the darkness, the patter of their feet giving way to deep silence. Candle turned slowly, her light held high and her heart thudding. The flickering flame cast a dim glow on familiar surroundings. She moved the light slowly across in a wide arc, searching for the source of the movement. A solitary stone altar rested in the centre of the room with a solitary stone chair.

Of course, she had last seen the altar festooned with flowers and candles, surrounding an oil painting of a young girl. The very same altar was now swathed in shadows, the darkness draped around it like curtains of night. Instead of flowers, the chair held a small, odd looking bundle of old rags and bones. A body, ancient and decaying lay upon it, embalmed and wrapped in linen. Candle swallowed and held her meagre light high. Just when she had decided it was nothing more than leftover remains, the bundle moved again.

A desiccated face turned towards her, cracking its bones as the head jerked. There was an exasperated moan as the ragged bundle tried to right itself. Brown, paper-thin skin stretched tightly over the shrunken limbs that were more bone than flesh. A few clumps of dull red hair clung to the brown patchwork of the matted scalp. A dim shimmer stared at her out of the hollow cavities of the eye sockets. There was a final shudder, and the ragged putrid pile rose, as if taking breath.

Candle's hand sought the solid comfort of the wall behind her, as air whispered through the tomb, bringing with it the scent of dust and decay and a hint of something sweet – beeswax perhaps, and linseed oil intermingled with the foul stench of death.

"Can-dle," came a low, rasping voice rattling from a throat that was more bone than flesh. The body stopped moving, and Candle wondered if she had imagined the whole thing. How had it known her name? She took a step towards the doorway, but then the ancient corpse spoke again. "Can-dle," it whispered, so faintly she had to lean towards it to hear. Then more strongly. "Candle! Eis-heth, says ... make ... haste. It is getting late– "

Candle stood frozen to the spot, but the bones ceased to move, returning to their state of inanimation. She backed away slowly, keeping her eye on it and left that strange forgotten temple as quickly as she was able, the words of the Mester's ancestor echoing in her head. For she was sure that the body belonged to the girl in the painting. It is getting late. It is getting late.

The corpse was right. It was time she was done with Belias and returned home. She had been in the Night Nation too long and she was thoroughly sick of the dark.

Walking with purpose, she passed through row after row of stacked bones, and pile after pile of bodies. She made her way past urns full of ash and dust, and corpses in every stage of decay. The imps were mercifully absent and she counted the turns she had memorised, making her way confidently towards the tomb engraved with Belias' name.

Hot wax dripped on her fingers, and she looked at the guttering stump of the candle in some distress. It was so small now she was having trouble holding it. She needed to find it before she ran out of light and lost herself for good. Down a narrow spiral stairway and through two doorways she went, walking with confidence that evaporated as the candle's golden light revealed strange walls she had never seen before. Either her memory had played her false or she had taken a wrong turn.

She turned in a slow arc, candle held high, and swore as more hot wax dripped on her hand. The glow revealed that the catacombs had given way to natural cave walls, some of them hollowed out and inlaid with doors and bars. She walked along slowly, looking for something that would give her an indication of direction or purpose, peering into the empty cells. It was very quiet now, save for the quiet drip, drip of water off the stalactites.

Candle walked on, hoping to see some marker, or something that would jog her memory. The candle guttered and flickered in unseen currents of air, and the wick grew shorter and shorter as the scalding wax dribbled on her hand.

A few minutes later the tiny flame flickered and went out.