*Scene 01* – 4:13 (A Salted Ground)
The pit near Azragoth’s outer wall, filled with sucking mud, as the stream’s embankment crumbled into the hollowing that followed the beast’s descent beneath the massive wall.
The creature normally shunned water, but its objective lay deep within the underside of the walled acropolis. Its outer skin smoked from the wet contact, but its movement through the rock strata and sediments soon dried its plated joints with anhydrous grit and gravel that sloughed away, as it clawed deeper into Azragoth’s underbelly towards the honeycombed voids it sought.
The newly clawed burrow filled with a mix of steam and scree, with large globs of mud expelled out through large bellowing gills, as the monster slither-clawed deeper and deeper into the underneath.
The buzzing in the creature’s head had increased, as if a tuning fork had been struck within its body, vibrating its armored plates, causing the thin lines around its scales to weep. Its thoughts came rhythmically: Water burns… Salt stings… Earth fills… Blood spills… Rock sings… Darkness churns… Its effort to refocus grappling and trying to outpace its rising sense of alarm.
It knew. The Eternal Stone knew… what the beast was seeking. The vibration was a warning, which the monster sensed and remembered from long before. (Num. 16:31-32) After the warning, came the fire, engulfing and sending the greed-driven beast into the void. It’s punishment was just. It had tasted blood and consumed flesh. But its greed had lured, and its hunger had pushed it out of the old world into the spaces between. And there it had waited…for centuries, to find a way into this ‘other realm.’ It knew. This time, if it lost its way once more… The fire would find it again, and its passage into the void would result in chains, bound into the eternal burning dark where time no longer had meaning. But above…
It could smell living flesh. Pumping hearts, oblivious to its presence. A city of houses. A hive of… morsels.
Its cold, blue eye blinked once, then twice, and its hunger became a voice. “If I am destined to eternally exist in unquenchable fire, I shall bring down the house with me.” A defiant voice of thunderous declaration: “FOR I AM THE UNDYING WORM! A LORD OF THE UNDERWORLD!! KEEPER OF THE GRAVES OF THE DEAD!!! I AM SHEOL!!!!”
The roaring boast of ‘The Beast’ rumbled and echoed through tunnels and caves piercing the hollows with spears of sharpened sound. Above, in the ghost city, the sound rolled like distant thunder, beneath the din and chatter of an active and vibrant village.
Once inside the cavern system, the monster entered a large chamber. It cast an echo bounce, sonically exploring the measure and depth of the chamber.
This would do. But first it must consume… a foundation,…before it could raise an army.
*Scene 02* – 17:50 (Cleaning The Baby)
In upper Azragoth, a gray-bearded man stepped up on a raised dais in the center of the courtyard and raised his arms for attention.
The crowds around us began to quiet down as all attention focused upon him.
“This evening we have guests in our midst who are unfamiliar with our customs here. They are here on trial and tonight they will be tested as they join us in this evening’s duty to our citizenry. You all are familiar with this practice, but for the benefit of these newcomers, I will explain it only briefly before we begin.”
Here he looked down among the crowd and Corimanth pointed me out in the congregation to him.
“You there!” he said gesturing to me, “I am told you are called O’Brian.”
“Thanks,” I muttered under my breath to Begglar.
To which he almost cheerily responded, “Don’t mention it.”
In a louder voice, I answered the gray-bearded man, “I am.”
“Do you vouch for these others you are traveling with? And are you prepared to be held personally responsible for their actions in our city, as the one who leads them?”
The eyes of those traveling with me on our shared quest turned to me expectantly.
The pressure was on, and they and the townsfolk and the leaders all awaited my answer.
Never let it be said that leadership is an enviable role when the weight of its implied responsibility is laid heavily and squarely upon one’s shoulders. What the man was asking of me, was a tall order, and would be even for a captain who had led seasoned soldiers into battle whom he knew by experience could be trusted. Those I led in the fellowship were largely unknown to me. I only knew them to be a part of the willing, some of which had already questioned my methods and judgment and had no knowledge of what I was capable of, or where exactly I was leading them. Only four had entrusted me with their names. Five, if you counted Laura, who had left our company to return to the Surface World. One, the young man called Will, had given me his name grudgingly. Lindsey had volunteered her name in trust while we waited in the dried creekbed for Begglar to administer the Shibboleth test, before I was able to take up the Honor Sword–what Begglar saw as a signet of my calling to lead the present Stone Quest.
Three of our company had deserted and turned back, two of these were slain by the Protectorate guards, as we had together witnessed, and the other was presumed dead as well. Only Miray and later Christie had without hesitation given me their names, though with Christie my actions in our confrontation with the Troll had not warranted her trust. It was a hard thing, being asked of me, but one I knew I must be willing to take if I was to lead them any further. I once asked myself if I would be willing to die to protect them. If that is the ultimate stand for leadership, this act of vouching for them was a call to bravery, and a test of my own mettle and my will to commit to what needed to be done.
As I looked from each of their expectant faces, at once nervous, and tense, I then turned to the elder and clearly gave my answer.
“I will.”
It was time that I put some faith in them if I expected them to put any trust in me or the calling to which I strove to fulfill.
“So be it!” the elder answered after a pause.
“You are all witnesses,” he spoke to the citizenry of Azragoth within hearing of his voice.
“Tonight and every night at the close of a week since that terrible sickness that took many from us, years ago, we perform this service to our city and for our posterity, a cleansing of the vile filth that runs beneath us. You among us, unfamiliar with this will learn and participate with us in this cleansing. We have over time come to refer to this process as ‘Cleaning the baby’.”
Citizens around us chuckled as we newcomers looked from one to the other in puzzlement.
“Like any helpless child, an infant naturally soils itself during the course of a day. Some children, more than most.”
Laughter broke out and the crowd seemed to be enjoying their shared joke.
“Corimanth was to have told you how our city came to have been ravaged by a plague of disease-carrying rats. That these vile creatures came upon us from the gullets and gutters of this town. So each night at the close of a week, we observe the following practice before retiring for the evening.”
The man nodded to those carrying the poles with half-moon blades and they fanned out into the crowd coming to stand before each of our party, holding the vile-smelling instruments.
“These men and women who stand before you now, bearing the rakes,” he continued, “will direct you by example to perform the ritual with us down each of the main streets of our city. Watch what they do, and prepare yourselves to take over their duty, alternating upon each street until we come to the walls of the inner curtain. There the gullets deepen and expand below the killing fields and there our evening duties will end in the dead sectors of the city. No one is to go beyond the inner curtain wall. Citizens of Azragoth, you each have your duties. Assist these newcomers as need be, but do not perform the task for them, when it is their turn. You have your orders.”
And then, in a louder voice, he gave the charge to all, “Now. Let them be opened!”
The sudden cacophonous sound of metal striking thousands of stones echoed around us, and the sound cascaded through the streets of the city, startling us as we witnessed the use to which the citizens were putting their long metal hooks. Paver stones lining the gutters were being wedged and levered upward as the flat-bladed of each metal hook was driven into the grooved edge between the mortared and cobbled stones of the street and gutter. A vile, putrescence smell arose from the overturned and exposed gutter running beneath the upended stones.
I winced as I overheard one of my travelers quietly whisper to another, “Oh joy! They’re gonna let us clean their toilets. What a fun and happening place, this is gonna be! So, when are we leaving?”
Before I could turn and respond to the insensitive rudeness, each of our Azragothian guides called us to attention, to watch what they would do next.
The gray-bearded fellow, who had spoken to us from the central dais, descended carrying his own pole with that vile blackened half-moon blade drifting downward as he approached.
“Follow me,” he said, as he neared me, and I made my way after him, as he approached the tapering end opening to the vile-smelling trench. A stream of greenish water ran from a recessed pipeline made of puddled barrel tiling and a sluicing levered gate controlled the flow of water fed into the vile underground trench. The water from the sluice was fairly clear, but as it progressed down the slanted trench the more clouded and greenish it became.
The elder man pivoted and dipped the curved end of his blade into the water so that the edges of the blades fit within the curved bottom of the trench. He shifted the pole in his hands and worked his following-hand further back to grip nearer the end of the pole. He turned to me and with his free hand extended, he formally introduced himself.
“I am called Ezra. I am the head of the council of Azragoth, and also the leader here and mayor of the city. I have a singular philosophy of leadership, not shared by most men and women in places of prominence, and it is simply this: A leader is the first in line willing to do what he expects others to learn by his example. And so I have done, for over fifty-seven years of my life. I have been where I have asked others to go. I have done, what I have asked others to do. These are the things that have brought me success as a leader, and the respect required to maintain it. These are lessons you would be wise to learn if those sojourning with you are to follow you in trust. If you do not first commit to them, why should you expect them to commit to you and entrust their safety to you?”
Time for me to take some of my own medicine, I thought. But there was wisdom in the man’s words, so I took his hand in a clasp of trusting goodwill. There was much I needed to learn, and I was pleased and astounded, that the one teaching me to lead was also the one teaching me humility by his very example.
“Now watch closely.”
He began to scrape the bottom gently, causing the blackened and green sludge to rise and cloud the trench water, as he moved the pole down the gullet way. Water sluiced past and began to carry the vile sludge forward, and the citizens on either side of us flipped and set back each paving stone into place as we passed them, and I learned the skillfully demonstrated technique.
Together we worked the trenches, shoveling and pushing muck further down the gullets, me working the moon-toothed pole and blade he called a ‘Monk’s spade’, and alternating with him when I became fatigued. The knotted and corded muscles in his arms, as he worked the blade through the sludge and muck, sluicing the day’s accumulation down ahead of us, belied his age. This man was not only a leader, but a laborer and potentially a warrior in his own right, so very different from politicians I was familiar with in the Surface World. A doer, not just a talking point. Pavers were turned and then resealed, some individually, some cleverly pivoting upon a hinge and winch system of ropes and wooden pulleys, exposing larger sections of the gullet trench, thereby speeding our progress.
I wondered how the others were faring with their leads. Over the course of our labor, I learned that this duty was performed once per week and that each of the others leading the effort was elders of the city council. I was asked many questions, as I am sure the others were as well, and it seemed to me that this was both a disarming and clever way to both test and discover our commitment, intentions and our individual character in short order. The council could have just as easily, brought us before them and listened to our designated spokesperson, but they would never truly know us until they worked alongside us and made a direct observation on what was an unseemly and very humbling duty.
I better understood the playful metaphor the elder had made about ‘Cleaning the Baby’. This job was a labor of love, just like any mother’s or father’s task would be in cleaning their soiled infant. It wasn’t pleasant, it smelled horrid, and the best thing to do was just to get in there and get it done, but be thorough about it, all the while knowing that the precious child wiggling and squirming about, has no idea what this unpleasantness must be done for them. It is a thankless duty, but a nurturing, loving parent does it in spite of how tired they may feel or repulsed by the extent of it. They may be finely dressed for an evening out, or attired in sweats and a badly faded T-Shirt, they still perform it because their child has a need for it. So too, the city of Azragoth was a town that suffered greatly, but its community of suffering brought its people together in a way nothing else could. Its long-dead former leadership had neglected the upkeep of the city and sought only to become a great commercial center for the area. It welcomed all but forgot that it was regarded as the city on a hill performing an over-watch for the smaller towns below.
When our duties finally led us to the inner walls of the city, we closed up the last paver-stone over the deeper gullet way, and Ezra, the city elder turned to me.
“The Monk’s spade,” he said, lifting the blackened blade from the ground, “serves both as a tool and a weapon.”
He turned the blade slowly as he lifted and pivoted the pole, letting water drain off of its slick black surface. The edge of the blade shown silver despite the darkening twilight, its scraped surface sharpened against the bottom of the gullet pipeline we had followed through our course through the city streets.
“Any weapon you take up, you must learn its duality and how to use it to serve both purposes with equal skill.”
The moon-shaped arcs at either side of the blade hissed as he swung the pole in a slashing arc, then caught the pole in a sweeping motion, it blade gleaming in the lowering sun.
“This blade is now one of the seven deadliest blades in the city. Your people followed the other elders who carried the remaining six.”
He fixed his gaze on me evenly.
“This blade is not deadly because of its present handler, nor because of my skill in its use as a fighting weapon. It is deadly because its blade has been through the sickness and sins of this city. A mere scratch from this blade will kill a man because it is a vile weapon used for the purposes we have served here.”
“Consider well the weapons that may be used against you and your company. Do not rely on your own ability or become complacent in the lack of ability of another. It is the nature of a weapon employed against you that should cause awareness and your plan of countering it or evading it. Many skilled and practiced warriors have been felled by novice opponents. You and your travelers must learn to counter many different types and ways of attacking. So whatever weapon you choose, you must learn the method for which you will counter and turn the danger of another.”
Ezra executed a posture of assault and then defense, spinning the deadly blade this way and that, deftly handling the pole both mid and end ranged along the shaft.
“But most importantly,” he added, with a flourish and then a slash that landed and sliced in the ground mere inches from his own feet, “be wary that your own blade, does not fell you.”
He stepped away from the blade and the pole, now swaying with the force of the impact, its blade drove deep between the stones of the cobbled street.
An attendant came forward and struggled to remove the blade from between the stones, and with some effort was eventually successful.
Ezra extended his arm and guided me in walking with him as we returned to the market courtyard.
“That is enough for the evening. Let us retire. Apartments have been prepared for you and your travelers. Tomorrow, you and your company will learn of the Breathing Sword. Now, it is time, my friend, that we all had a bath and a good night’s rest. There will be much to do in the morning. My captain of the army, whom we call The Eagle is expected to return any day now. He will guide you through to the Lake Country and around the movements of the gathering armies. In the meantime, you and your company will need to learn to see, and I believe you have a highly qualified person skilled in that very thing traveling with you.”
I had heard Begglar speak of this, but now it was coming around from a surprising direction.
“Nell?”
“She is well known in the surrounding parts, even though it has been extremely long since she last visited us here in Azragoth.”
“What does that mean exactly? Learning to ‘see’?”
He smiled and patted my back indulgent, yet not patronizing.
“At the risk of sounding redundant, my boy. You will see.”
*Scene 03* – 09:52 (Fault Lines)
In the early morning hours of the next day, a man of some authority and prominence in the hidden city of Azragoth, rode a donkey along the perimeter of the town’s radiating streets observing the work progress and rebuilding effort of the prior day.
His attendant followed him, carrying a scroll, making notes of his master’s observations and taking dictation for the guidance to be given to those with direct supervison over the specific repairs and rebuilding efforts.
“This wall is off plumb. Whose residence is near this construction?”
“That would be the House of Tekoites, your lordship.”
“Was a foundation dug for the base support here?”
“Yes. Chetsrown and his team assisted in setting the footings all along here running to the northern gate. The existing wall goes down six cubits or more below ground. Height is approximately eighteen cubits but its breadth is ten so the base fill is offset.”
“The weight of the wall must be crushing the lower stones. See that this gets fortified and add a buttress to the balance along here.” He paused, studying the deviating wall, considering what more might be done to shore it up.
“Tell Yadown, we need to quarry more stone for the eastern wall. I could not even ride Yaktan through that area, it was so bad. I believe the Xarmnian’s focused their catapults in the assault there. The area is all in rubble.”
“So noted,” the attendant said, scribbling something on the parchment roll, he balanced on a slate.
“I heard there was some serious damage done along the Fountain Gate near the King’s Pool. That area was supposed to have been repaired a month ago. Now I can’t even take a pack mule down there. What has been going on? I am seeing more and more of this poor workmanship of late. Are the men staying vigilant? Their homes are not far from these constructions. One would think they might do more to protect their families.”
The attendant seemed puzzled. “They seemed to be enthusiastic. I am not sure what might have changed in their efforts.”
“Have Ezra ride the perimeter and periodically visit the work crews unannounced. He has a good sense about people, and a sharp eye. He will know if there are dissemblers. Not much gets by him.”
“I will speak with Erza personally, my Lord Nem,” the attendant responded.
“No,” the man called ‘Lord Nem’, responded dismissing his attendant’s offer. “I will speak to Ezra. I want to personally get his take. We cannot waste anymore time, with the troop movements to the southeast, and Capitalian armies coming down from the northwest. There are even stealthy sightings from The Pan and his abominations. There is a convergent coming and rumors and shrouds of the forests of Kilrane will not hide us forever. We must rebuild this city strong enough to stand against its discovery. Xarmni will not set by and allow us to be reborn.”
Just then a rider came down one of the city streets along the barrier wall near the repair scaffolds and hailed the two, “My Lord Nem!”
The two halted, awaiting the approach of the coming rider.
The man reigned his horse turning it to approach the two men with a sidewise step. “My Lord, more guests from the highland have just arrived. One of The Lehi is with them. You know him well. He begs an audience with you as soon as may be.”
“Another Lehi brings us ‘more company’,” Lord Nem sniffed, disapprovingly. “What part of hidden city, do they not understand?! We are in the midst of a secret rebuild, and all Maeven and her Lehi can think of it to invite outsiders?”
“Which of the Lehi seeks the audience? I would have him answer a few questions of my own!”
“The one called Ryden, my Lord.”
“And what is his message and excuse?!” Nem demanded.
“He would not say. He said he could only speak to you, my Lord.”
“Does he not understand how busy we are while he and The Storm Hawk go galavanting about the countryside stirring up trouble?! We could use their help here!”
The newcomer bowed, unsure of how to answer or assuage Nem’s concerns.
“Seems like we’ve had nothing but distractions since the outworlders arrived. First the trouble with the lazy nobles of the Tekoites failing to assist the supervisors. Now more ‘guests’ to contend with and charge to secrecy. It is time these interlopers were routed out and disciplined.”
Here he turned to his attendant, “Make a note. I will require the Tekoites to perform double duty on the broken section across from the great tower and keep that juts out, as far as the wall of Ophel. Since their nobles cannot stoop to assist their family, their family will bear a greater burden because of it. And pray that I don’t assign them the repair of the Dung Gate as well, helping Malchijah son of Rechab. One word of complaint from them, and their residences will be forcibly relocated there…permanently! It is enough bearing the mockery of our rebuilding efforts that we have endured from Tobias and Sanballat in the resistence, but they have no claims here. I suspect they are playing both sides and enriching themselves in the bargain. Laziness and shoddy workmanship will not be tolerated further. I’m seeing foundational cracks, and fault lines appearing through the city worksites. I want to see these issues addressed. This work is dedicated to The One. I want to see workmen who take this responsibility seriously.”
Presently, a rider came down the corridor along the inner wall. The former messenger turned and quickly identified the approaching man. “Here he comes. It is the Lehi named Ryden, I spoke of.”
Nem looked hard at Ryden as he approached quickly.
“Lord Nem!” he called.
“Lehi Ryden,” Nem acknowledged. “Come to bring more outsiders into our secreted city?”
Ryden blinked, puzzled by the cool reception, and then swung down out of his saddle to stand before Nem. “I apologize for the interruption, my Lord. But I must speak with you in private. There is a very urgent matter, that involves your work here.”
Nem sighed and dismounted, and his attendant did as well, holding the reins of the two animals leading them back a ways, giving the men a chance to speak discreetly.
“Now, what is this urgency all about. What have you come back to the city? Were you followed?”
Ryden’s expression was grave. “Preceded is more likely. We have taken in two of the locals from the hamlet of Crowe. Shimri and his wife Aida. They are part of the resistence working in the highlands. There is a little known and rarely used wooded trail decending from Rim Wood down along the edge of the highland ridge into Kilrane, joining with the hidden backtrail to Azragoth. It is overgrown and there are very few who would even know it was ever there. We Lehi have used it a time or two when there was no way down from the uplands to the main road descent, and we had to skirt the townships to avoid being seen.”
“You mentioned the word ‘preceded’…” Nem reminded him, hinting that he should get to the point. “…by Xarmnians?”
Ryden huffed, shaking his head. “If only it were that… Those could be dealt with in the backwood trails by the tree scouts. Jeremiah trained a few of those personally.”
Nem crossed his arms, “Then what is it?”
“Coming along that trail, the three of us witnessed a depression in the woods. At first I thought it was a small ravine, but the trees within and on either side had been displaced. Their roots sheared away, their trunks canted inward and outward, and the surface vegetation had wilted. Something was coming from under the forest. Something large enough to cause the surface damage to Rim Wood, and to burrow through its underground.”
“Why wasn’t this news brought to me sooner? Crowe is but a half day’s ride from here, and if you were coming by way of this shorter route, you should have been here sooner.”
Ryden shook his head, “The trench was unstable. We couldn’t cross over it without risking falling through into whatever tunnel was below. We had to ride far enough along the ditches until the burrowing creature descended deep enough to leave the ground above unaffected. We had a tough time getting down the trail avoiding the damage path that wound up and down, but soon it became very clear.”
Nem waited and Ryden finished, “The digger was headed directly for Azragoth. It may be under the city even as we speak. We discovered a ragged hole emerging out of the highland ridge, that had collapsed part of the upper rock shelf. Bridges were crushed below, and trees were abraded.”
Nem stiffened, his brow furrowing and his jaw tightening, upon hearing Ryden’s words.
“The creature must’ve entered under the backwall somewhere near The Fountain Gate near the King’s Pool. I am assuming you have already seen the damage done there.”
Nem squeezed Ryden’s arm and said, “Come with me. The council will need to know of this at once. We must address this before further damage can be done.”
*Scene 04* – 13:35 (Morning Reflections)
The evening before had been a humbling and learning experience for most of us, but for some, it had been angering and humiliating. I had heard more than a few muttered complaints from my fellow travelers and a couple of barely veiled threats from two, whom I could not yet tell if their words were seriously meant of in groused jest. One had lost their shoes, in the cleansing exercise. Angry, vigorous use of the Monk’s spade had caused the muck to slosh out of the trench and spattered their footwear. Because of the smell of the vile, putrefying filth, the person’s shoes had to be removed and burned. They were given replacement footwear that was actually better than the shoes they had surrendered to the fire. The person was humbled, apologetic and grateful for the gracious treatment they were given by the elder and Azragothian citizens who witnessed their ordeal and did not remark upon the person’s barely disguised frustration at being asked to perform the cleansing with them. I was told that the elder herself, knelt down and helped them remove their contaminated footwear, and a basin was brought, and to the traveler’s surprise, the elder washed and cleansed their feet, despite their protest. The person was so moved by the gesture, that for the remaining journey through the streets they worked diligently and respectfully alongside the elder and pondered what the work here signified.
After a night spent in reflection, the person, a man in his mid-thirties, came to me at breakfast and introduced himself to me and told me of his experience.
“Mr. O’Brian,” he said, “I want you to know that I am with you in what you are doing here. I wasn’t sure at first, but now I am. There is something about this journey, this quest that I need to be part of, to learn more about. These people here are unlike most of the people I encounter in my waking life in the Surface World. If what you are doing can save some of them, they need to be given that chance. So, I want you to give you my name.”
“Are you certain?” I asked, “What we are involved in will not be well received here. We will be looked upon as interlopers…troublemakers…pot stirrers.”
“I am. I made my decision last night, only I could not find you after the crowds left and they took us to our quarters. I’m James”, he said, extending his hand, “and I wanted you to know you can count on me.”
I was moved and touched, and could not speak for a moment, but took his hand and clasped it in grateful friendship.
“Thank you,” I managed to say, and he nodded his understanding, perhaps seeing in my eyes the more heartfelt, articulate words I wanted to say but left unspoken.
As he turned to go join the others in the breakfast line, I pondered what the Azragothians had shown us as well, something that had a more meaningful dimension to it.
My conclusion was this:
Underneath the surface of each of our lives, buried in hidden tunnels beneath the streets of our daily experience, there is a stream of vile filth that ebbs and flows in the human heart. Many move through life unaware of it, taking no notice until the detritus in the tunnel builds and leaks out unleashing a plague of devouring rats into our lives that wreak havoc and misery. Our illusions of our surface-self break down until we are forced to confront the source of the plague, and deal with it in some fashion, or succumb to its deadly consequences due to our neglect. To deal with it alone makes us susceptible to disease which will ultimately take our lives and destroy us in the process. We require something more than our own efforts. Something that will protect us from the certain contagion. It must be dealt with if we are to survive it. There is no moving away from it, for the outside world has quarantined us, and someone is bound to eventually recognize us if we try to leave it behind. We cannot hope to survive if we do not recognize its danger to our own life as well as to the lives of those around us. Here in Azragoth, the city came together to address their filth problem. They each took part in it, whether high or low. They treated it with sobriety of what their actions were preventing.
My ruminations were suddenly interrupted by several of my traveling companions who joined me at a table.
“We have a few questions for you, Mister O’Brian.”
I sighed, bracing myself for what might follow.
“We don’t know what is going on here. If what we did last night once caused a plague outbreak, none of us want to get sick here. These people are nice and everything, but they are strange. They are polite, but somehow we get the feeling they want us to be gone soon,” Cheryl said.
“Yeah, and any mention of a stone quest makes some of them really nervous. Why is that?” Lindsey asked. “Corimanth hinted at something the other day that you haven’t told us about. We want to know, where are these stones we are supposed to get, and why so far we haven’t found one yet.”
I swallowed and gestured for them to sit and they gathered around on the benches near me.
“First off, I need to do some apologizing of my own.” I cleared my throat.
“Mid-Worlders can see something about us that we cannot see for ourselves. There is no fooling them who we are or where we come from. Residents of this place have adapted to a visual spectrum we cannot see with our eyes aclimated to the Surface World. Our vision is dulled to it. Being a Surtface Worlder myself, I can only attest to this from second hand accounts. Begglar is the only one I know of that has been given that adaptation to see as they do, though, not having grown into it from birth, his clarity is limited.”
“So they see us differently?” Christie asked.
“Yeah. We are foreigners to them. No matter where we go. And Azragoth has suffered greatly because of ‘foreigners’. Some of our former group were hunted here. Whenever we arrive, in their minds, we seem to bring trouble with us.”
“So that is why they are anxious for us to leave,” Lindsey said, her hand gripping the open palm of her other.
“That is part of it,” I answered, “but the other is that we represent the Stone Quests.”
“How is that a problem?” Christie asked.
“It is a problem for those of the resistence, who no longer believe in the Stone Quests. There are two factions resisting the Xarmnian advance, three if you count the zealots, but they are barely held together in a weaking coalition between them: those who still have faith in the old ways and in the mystery of The Marker Stone, and those who merely want to shun the past and thwart the Xarmnians by weakening them and appearing to get along with them until the opportunity comes to undermine them. We represent the old way, and it upsets the tenuous balance between them and their willingness to cooperate with each other. They each know that they need unity to take the stand against their oppressors, but passions are raw and sometimes they cause schisms.”
“So where do the Azragothians stand in all this?” Lindsey probed.
“It has been a long time for me. I would think that the Azragothians lean towards the older ways, but that may have changed. Ezra, whom I met last night, seems to be of the older way faction, sympathetic to the prospect of the Stone Quests. He and perhaps Corimanth, may be the reasons we were not immediately turned away from the city and sent packing. We are short on finding allies here. Tolerance may be only what we can expect.”
“Well at least they are feeding us, even if we did have to clean their mucked up gutters.” Will interjected.
James spoke up for the first time since joining our table. “We are disarmed. Not much we can do, among so many. Others seem to have ready access to weaponry, but all our gear and supplies are elsewhere. These people seem to be tolerating us well, but I would agree, we are not entirely safe among them.”
Others concurred, and Will spoke up again. “If we are now part of the Stone Quest, shouldn’t we know where these stones are? Where we need to go to get them?”
I cleared my throat again. “I do remember speaking about that. By what you are not understanding is the nature of the virtue stones. They are each unique. They embody a concept and a nature. They can be very dangerous in some respects, and very comforting in others.”
“You’re getting cryptic again,” Cheryl lamented. “This place is strange yet familiar. I don’t know why that is. Can’t wrap my head around it. Girls who aren’t little girls. Some squat thuggish being who purports to be a troll that can see into our fears. I don’t know whether we are in Narnia or Mordor?”
I laughed, unable to restrain the chuckle, not wishing to diminish the seriousness of her complaint. “It is perhaps a bit of both, in some ways.”
The group was quiet, reflective.
“When I can seem to grasp something, sometimes I need to take hold of it another way.”
“How do you mean?” asked Lindsey.
“We often come at concepts in the frame of our own experience. But… What if…” I twisted my fingers together, signify a complex concept. “What if… we are not meant to rely on our own frame alone, but allow another perspective to guide us…?”
I let the question linger.
“What if there is a higher way of looking at our experience…through the lens of a codex?”
“The words on The Marker Stone?” Christie offered.
“Exactly,” I nodded. “There is a verse that comes to mind:
“For [as] the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts.” Isaiah 55:9
“For all of my experience here, that codex is the key to understanding. This Mid-World is the imprint of The One, so there will be things we understand here, only in light of what the codex (The Ancient Text) reveals. We have to adapt to a new frame of reference, beyond our personal experience to find out what we can about this place and the things in it. You will find familiar things, but you will also find unfamiliar aspects as well. The Stones follow their nature and we will experience them according to their nature, not our own. That is how we will find them. They will be sort of “looking for” us. Not us looking for them.”
Christie waved a hand over her head, as if directing a blowing wind through her hair. “Whoosh! Did anyone get that?”
Lindsey leaned in, “I the previous quest, when you found the Cord… The other stone. What was it called?”
“The Cordis Stone. We found it only when we came to a point where we were surrounded by enemies. Jeremiah was in a fight on a cliffside. He had to put himself at risk…for an enemy. Unknown to us at the time, that was at the heart of The Cordis Stone’s nature–To love an enemy.”
The others fell back in shock. “Whoah!”
“He saved the man who had fallen down a way and was clinging to a ledge. Jeremiah gripped a rock ledge and hung down, extending an arm to the Xarmnian, and pulled him up. The man would’ve died there if Jeremiah hadn’t done what he did, and none of us would have regretted it. When Jeremiah came back down from the mountain, he was holding The Cordis Stone. It glowed a ruby red with an inner fire in it.”
“And you say this creature, a half-man, half-beast has this Cordis Stone now?!” one of the others, yet unknown to me asked. “You must be out of your mind!”
At that moment, I saw inner conflicts arising on each of faces who had so far given me their names. And I understood exactly what they were feeling. All too well.
Begglar and Nell arrived at our table about that time and Begglar was smiling, and had another couple in their company.
“O’Brian. I’d like you to meet Shimri and Aida, my neighbors from Crowe. They have just arrived and we have some catching up to do.”
Then he noticed the stricken look on the faces of the others seated with me at the table and said, “What’s wrong?”
*Scene 05* – 10:44 (Significance of The Sword)
Word came to the Azragothian council that an emergency secret conclave was being called. Ezra, Maeven and others were not present at the morning breakfast in the large hall. Instead they met in a private chamber in the governor’s residence and were met with grave looks as they entered. Maeven came in with Ezra bearing an oblong, wrapped package enshrouded in a cloak.
When the sentries closed the double doors and stepped back into the hallway, Nem and one of Maeven’s Lehi stood at the head of the table. Maeven smiled recognizing Ryden.
Nem gestured for the gathered to be seated, but he remained standing, his fingers splayed and pressed at the edge of the long table.
“I received distressing news this morning from one of our Lehi Scouts that there is something threatening our beloved city. Ryden, will you tell them what you told me.”
Here Nem took his seat and gestured for Ryden to take the floor.
Ryden recounted what he and his two charges had witnessed coming up the secret path from Crowe to join the back route to Azragoth. He told of the wooded depressions, the uprooted trees, the wilted undergrowth foliage showing that the subterranean destruction was recently done. He told of the collapsed upper shelf of rock and the debris field showing something very large and destructive was tracking and trampling through the forest on a direct path towards the hidden city.
Here Nem stood up, allowing Ryden to once again take a seat.
“There is evidence of this creature doing similar damage beneath our city. I’ve had the outer wall along the backwoods examined, and we believe this creature is now somewhere in the quarry caverns below, undermining the substructure that holds our town above the ancient diggings.”
“We should never have allowed those passages to be quarried,” one of the council women groused. “We have done this to ourselves. Rebuilding Azragoth in a clandestine fashion was foolish.”
Ezra came to Lord Nem’s defense. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten how the region now fares under Xarmni’s fists,” he observed mildly. “How there are others who do not wish to see Azragoth rebuild, no matter how much they hate the Xarmnians. It is probable that they might even alert Xarmni to stop it. Some have even profited having done so. Selling out their own.”
Another answered, “No one need remind us of the mockery we’ve suffered from our ‘brothers-in-arms’.” He said, adding a mocking tone and snarl in stating the latter term.
“They are not a part of us,” Nem spoke up. “I have often warned about letting outsiders in. The present company included.”
Maeven cleared her throat, “Outsiders would include me and our lauded general ‘The Eagle’, in case anyone here has forgotten.”
Nem looked directly at her. “One must question when of late the Lehi that follow you are bringing in strangers.”
“Have I not shown you my loyalties? Have I not served to keep Xarmni and its thugs at bay, chasing us all over the Mid-World highlands, while you and your teams focus on the rebuilding efforts?!”
“It is not your loyalty we question, Maeven Storm Hawk, but your vetting process and acting upon your own volition to bring in these others.” Nem countered evenly.
“It is ironic to have my judgement so censured when I risk my life personally every time I leave this sacred city in its defense.”
“My question is,” one of the other counsel members asked, “what makes you so certain of the intentions of these outworlders who you’ve brought into our midst?”
Ezra broke in, “Let’s table that question for a moment and,” he turned to Maeven raising a placating hand, “…rest assured we will come back to that. What I wish to know is, what you all observed last evening when we took these newcomers into our ritual cleansing. How did they respond?”
The table took turns speaking about their observance of the reactions and participation of the outworlders. Some expressed that their charges were negative and indignant, reluctant to take the Monk Spades and rakes. Some grudgingly acquieced, but there was a tension in how they gripped the instruments, signifying their frustration. Others were more complimentary of their charges, seeing that these guiding them were not just the street sweepers of the city, but members of the upper council, humbling administering the task and not shirking their own participation in it. The questions came around to Ezra and his experience with the so-called leader of this outworld group.
“I was pleasantly surprised, by this O’Brian. He seemed genuine in his efforts, careful to follow the guidance. He was perceptive and thoughtful. Humble and unassuming. He listened to every word and did not evade my questions, even when he knew to what they turned. I believe he lacks confidence. He is hesistant and fearful, and that concerns me as much as if he were self-assured and over confident. He does not know this, but he presents a danger, both to himself and others, if he does not come to terms with embracing his own need for dependancy.”
“An astute observation,” Nem commented dryly. “On balance, what would you say of these outworlders. Should we put them out, or let them stay a while longer?”
Ezra straightened and looked directly at Nem. “I think this present danger beneath our city is connected with these outworlders.”
A murmur of alarm arose at his words, but Ezra raised his hand. “Let me finish. While I do believe our present danger is connected to these outworlders, I do not think we will save ourselves by putting them out of Azragoth. I think whatever is happening below will continue until this hunting creature is dealt with. If the beast is drawn towards the old gates in the dead sector, which it most assurdly would be, it will breach the underground vats of the sewage we purge from our city and expose us to the outside world before we are ready. The Black Tongue is a fail safe measure for desparate defense, not a first line. If the creature breaches that resevoir, the underground quarries will be flooded. The grain silos will be spoiled. The rebuilding efforts will be halted and we are done. We will sink into our own defilement. The secret routes of passage will have to be closed. We will be dealing ourselves our own deathblow.”
Nem nodded gravely. “What you say is true. Sending them out now serves no purpose. What do you propose we do?”
“Have you considered the story of the prophet Jonah?”
Nem’s eyes widened. “I think I know what you are proposing, but lets discuss this later. Jonah was directed. What do we know of this O’Brian? Is he capable of seeing what needs to be done. Of surrendering himself to Providence? How do we know he is the one called to serve?”
Maeven rose and pulled the package she had carried in to the conference chamber. “I think this might answer that question for you, Lord Nem. You may not recognize this man now, but you knew him once before. He was a capable warrior once. Yet he has aged since we last saw him. Imagine what he must’ve looked like twenty-one years ago.”
Maevan unwrapped the package and revealed it’s contents.
It was a sword. And not just any sword.
“I believe you may recognize this,” she said, looking meaningfully at Nem.
Upon seeing the weapon, Nem raised up and moved in for a closer look.
“Where did you get this?!” Nem’s eyes turned to Maeven, a stunned look n his face.
“O’Brian had it in his possession. You know exactly what it means. He is the one who was chosen to resume the Stone Quest and he carried with him Azragoth’s Honor Sword. The very one you brought back from Capitalia from the court of the Capitalian King Artemis Xerxes. Cousin to the former king of Xarmni. You were King Xerxes’ cup bearer, were you not, before getting the king’s commission to rebuild Azragoth. You bear the signet of the Capitalian king to become the regional governor, once Azragoth is rebuilt. You know the this Sword has a history and is the signet of a Stone Quest as well.”
Nem’s breathe released through his teeth and then he straightened. “You are correct. No one could lift this sword from the grip of the Terebinth. Only the one called to carry it again. You have acted properly. If this man is to do what needs to be done, and if The One has chosen him to bear our city’s sword, then he will be protected by The One in doing so.”
Here he turned to Ezra. “Ezra, assemble this company of outsiders in The Warrior’s Court. We will see what mettle of men and women we are dealing with. Let them think this is an additional test. I will take into consideration what must be done about their leader concerning the ‘Jonah’ solution. I still have the scabbard for this sword in my chamber. Let our sword be polished and sharpened. Honed and tempered. We will join the scabbard to it, so that it may be more properly borne. This O’Brian will have need of it very soon. Let us hope he remembers the skill he needs to wield it.”
*Scene 06* – 17:02 (The Warrior’s Court)
After we had finished our breakfast in the dining hall, we were called to assemble in an area known as The Warrior’s Court to stand before the council and hear their verdict decided upon from our actions the previous evening.
Ezra and the six other council members and Corimanth had led us into the Warrior’s Court for yet one more test.
It was to be a test of our mettle and raw, untrained skill. And I was worried.
The Warrior’s Court was itself a kind of field of battle surrounded by high stone walls, and mock structures for simulating in-city combat and elusion techniques. A jousting run served as a half arc track of grass, mud, mound, and stone alternatively, to increase a mounted warrior’s difficulty in riding a galloping stead across uneven and varying surfaces while bearing the weight of a lance or spear, striking interspersed quintain target arms along the run. These formidable target posts were arrayed in torn and ripped clothing, stuffed with straw and bags of gravel and spoiled grain, with a counterweighted swivel post bearing a weighted sack that would spin around at the mounted rider, and strike and unseat him, if the rider’s aim was not true, or they did not move swiftly enough beyond the strike. At times these striking bags could be spiked or hung in chain mail, making the failure of a tilting aspirant rider, that more deadly.
Younger, beginner riders were relegated to the inner ring running in a parallel concentric arc path, under crossbeam arches among a series of dangling metal rings that swung back and forth across the rider’s path at various heights. These were to be collected by the rider along the shaft of their tilted spear or lance but did not pose the threat that the spinning quintains did. The only wounding the novice warrior would receive along the ring path would be to their pride if they failed to collect enough rings on their spears by the end of the run.
Throughout the yard, large wooden striking posts driven into the ground called pells were arrayed across the combat field, allowing young swordsmen to slash and hack at the posts with their blades until their grips and arms could withstand the shock and toughen their hands enough to bear their blades into the melee of a pitched battle. These posts bore myriad gouges and cuts and splinters, signifying that the fighting warriors training within the hidden city of Azragoth had spent many long hours building up forearm and grip-strength at these fighting posts.
Away from the jousting run arc, long narrow channels like grassland hallways, open to the sky above, extended outward, in adjacent channels point outward from the inner exercise fields. Wooden steps and platforms fronted these open halls, and racks of archer equipment lay in brace racks upon these variously heightened and staggered platforms. Within forms of target dummies, also stuffed with sacks of sand and spoiled grain were affixed to moving levered posts to challenge the skills of the novice would-be archers. Some of these bristled with arrows, some were unfazed by the bow and quiver. From the varying platforms, the archery trainees would learn to launch their assault from varying angles, both above and up from trenched furrow pits at both moving and stationary targets.
To the far right of the field, one of these hall chutes bore a wooden target shield, which battlers learning the arm of both knife and ax throwing, attempted to launch their blades accurately enough to cleave into the coveted inner rings.
Before us was a series of five large sparing rings, each with its own set of challenges to develop techniques appropriate for each ring. One sparing ring was graded in the form of a large central mound, outlines by a circlet border of embedded stones. The combatants were expected to fight both around and over the raised dome of the mound each seeking their own particular assault advantage over their opponent. Another rock-lined ring surrounded a depressed bowl, developing combat techniques unique to the terrain in reverse of the mound ring. Another was tilted, with one side raised and slanted and the opposite side depressed. The one immediately before us was a seemingly simple flat ringed surface though I noticed it contained radial cross-section panels of stone, grass, gravel, and sand. The central ring joining the five circles together as a hub was a standard training circle with a raised post in its center and staked lines of rope connecting at various points along the outer ring, lashed securely. The trainer ring was entirely paved with large, flat slate-stone covered in etched lines and grooves and rings with symbols and points upon the lines that ran radially from the central post. Between each of these central circles were large interwoven paths to allow observers to witness the successive sparing taking place within each challenge ring. It was upon these walkways that we were led towards the center of the exercise field within the Warriors’ Court. Ezra stopped and turned towards us after mounting a low rise, raising his hands in a beckoning motion that signified that we should all gather around.
A table, covered by a large cloth was spread out before us, with a large array of weapons laid across its surface. Many of the weapons we had collected from the granary storehouse were there, as well as the packs and rolls we had brought and secured to our horses upon arrival. We had been treated fairly yet warily, as any citizenry living in secrecy might, but we were in no wise ready for gladiatorial sparring, as yet.
What the men and women of Azragoth, did not know, was that in our younger days, both Begglar and I knew far more about warfare than we were telling.
With some reluctance, I had taken the honor sword from the grove, but my hand was not unfamiliar with the feel and heft of a sword. At one time, I had almost vowed never to pick up one again, but that would have been a fool’s promise. I knew that I must, and the days had come again where such timing was ripe for it.
I had seen Ezra deftly handle the Monk Blade the prior night, so I was not in the least surprised when I saw Ezra personally take charge of our training assessment.
Ezra called us to attention, speaking loud enough so we all could hear. “Every warrior who faces an enemy must first learn how to stand. And in doing so, they must be aware of the nature of the ground upon which they are positioned.”
Ezra, the head of the council and the mayor of the city, served more than a ceremonial role in Azragoth’s reason for existence. Azragoth was now more than ever, the chief training grounds for people willing to join the resistance against Xarmnia. It maintained fighting schools and was home to many fine instructors in the art of martial warfare. Azragoth was a veritable hornet’s nest of lethal warriors preparing for the call to arms that they knew must one day come.
I listened more carefully as Ezra continued to speak.
“If you have the ability to choose the ground upon which you must fight, do so wisely. Choose ground even and level, or if only a graded slope is present, choose the higher ground.”
As he spoke he approached the table of weaponry.
“Choose a weapon suited best to your ability, that mitigates your weaknesses. If you are a strong fighter, choose a blade according to the reach of your arm, yet do not select one that is overlong that will fatigue you bearing it forth.”
He hefted a long-bladed rapier
“No sword is more valuable than the hand that wields it. Therefore you must consider the strength and grip and protection you have for your lead hand. Feel the heft of the blade. Get a sense of its balance. It should become an extension of your arm. Consider how your hand fits around the grip. Does the pommel extend too far, such that it binds as you rotate your wrist and the blade?” he said, demonstrating with a slashing motion.
“A rapier is held at length,” he said, extending his arm wrist upward,“Like so.”
“Legs extended,” he leaned backward, bending his front leg at the knee, extending his back leg,“ balancing your weight off-center, with your foreleg taking more load than the back, bracing your stance.”
“Always keep your legs no closer than two feet apart, hip-distance wide, so that you may pivot or cast your weight into the thrust and slash of your attacking blows. Your feet only come together at the recovery or briefly in a pass or gather step.”
He demonstrated the move, shifting the sword into a strike and then an aerial parry while keeping his fore-weight shifted ahead and rounding fluidly with the blade tilted, dipping and sweeping in an upward arc.
“You will want to keep your back foot angled perpendicular to the knee of your front lead leg, maintaining a straight line with your torso and your back leg for stability as much as possible. Your front knee is your direction of travel. Your weight should rest on the balls of your feet, rolling heel to toe with each forward lunge.”
“Precision and positioning are built upon practice and persistence. Every fighter must quickly assess their opponent.”
Then, without warning, or pause he swept a long sword from the table of weapons and threw it hilt first at me.
I reacted on instinct, rather than thought and caught the handle in my right hand, raising the tip of the blade, spinning the hilt so that the crossguard aligned parallel to my thumb, my left hand joining the grip near the pommel.
Ezra noted the fluidity of the catch and addressed me before the group.
“Mr. O’Brian, you have handled a blade before, I see.”
I made eye contact, but only slightly nodded.
“As I have stated before, you have accepted the responsibility as the designated leader of this party. It is by your example, that these who follow you shall be trained. Kindly join me.”
In a side glance, I happened to catch Begglar, grinning from ear to ear as I walked forward from the group. I think he was enjoying this a bit too much.
Armorers came to either side of me, pulling a shirt of mail over my head, snapping and locking rerebrace plates over my upper arms and shoulders and slipping a large brigandine cover over it to hold the pieces in place. I was given gauntlets, with thick leather armguards which I quickly donned and reestablished my grip on the sword I had been given. Ready or not, I was about to demonstrate the further extent of my knowledge and experience, or else be reminded of the limits of my abilities and shown the folly of not keeping in practice.
Ezra, took up the rapier again, and I stood before him bearing the long sword.
“Duel fighting and melee combat techniques differ. The enemies you will face will most likely be in the latter, so you must learn to move in a coordinated fashion, striking for a quick kill, without striking down those who are fighting with you. You will not often fight an armored opponent for most of the armies consist of conscripted warriors, and the steel used for their war equipment is used more in the weaponry rather than in protective vestments. An attack may come upon you at any moment, so you must be ready for it.”
Suddenly, before I could raise my sword and parry the blow, Erza’s rapier slashed out and rang with a metallic snap against my armored epaulet. Instinctively I crouched, but Ezra moved in and turned my bent knee with a swift kick of his foot and I reeled and fell face forward onto the ground, stunned.
“The blade is not the only weapon you bear. Keep that in mind.”
He offered his hand and helped me up again.
“You fight making use of your whole body for combat. Look for a weakened structure. Kick at a knee, punch at and unguarded stomach, catch an elbow and shove upward to throw your opponent off balance. Look for any opportunity to cause your opponent to trip, hyper-extend or lose footing. Few enemies are able to fight from the ground up, so press your advantage if you can gain it. If you cannot pierce the body, or slash at the head of your opponent, let your blade slide the length of your enemy’s blade and attack the off-hand. Work to disable your attacker, and then press your advantages for the quick kill. To longer the fight, the sooner you will fatigue and succumb in the next bout of protracted fighting. Be aware of each other, come to each other’s aid and provide relief when possible. Close ranks and expand ranks around the fatigued or fallen so that they may rest, recover or rise to rejoin the fight. And in battle, you must never fight under your own name.”
That last statement took everyone by surprise.
“What do you mean by that?” the one who had identified himself as Will asked.
“Your names give you presence here in these lands, but there is but one name that gives you power here. And under that name, you will be called sons and daughters, and in connection with that you will be covered by the Authority of the One name that is above every name given.” (* – Psalms 118:10-11)
“You seem to speak in riddles, sir,” added Will, “We do not follow your meaning.”
Ezra looked from me to Will and then to the group gathered, “Perhaps, combat training is secondary and premature. If you and these others do not first understand what it means to live, then how is it that you plan to place yourselves in harm’s way and hope to survive? Have you no knowledge of the Breathing Sword?”
“You’ve spoken of this before. Tell us plainly what you mean by it.”
Ezra looked to me and asked, “You have not spoken to them of the Ancient Text?”
“I have,” I answered, “but being as we are Surface Worlders, it is difficult convincing the modern mind that the key to their survival lies with the Ancients. We all struggle with the idea that we have progressed and have a greater understanding than our forebearers. Our cultural paradigm is breaking with respect for elders and passed on traditions. We are being uprooted and carried by the winds of change, and our kind withers and dies as a result. Family structures are being broken down. Fathers abdicate their responsibilities to their children. Our world is suffering under a pandemic of moral decay. It is difficult to speak of values that sustain a culture when their frame of reference is being broken down. To teach a truth that is other than their own experience. Our world has begun to make concessions for this diabolical phenomenon. When there are differences, rather than seek understanding and resolution, we agree to disagree. We fracture our communities along ideology. We suspect, accuse, justify and cover. We feel the need for civility, yet we build no foundation for it.”
“If that is the case, then no amount of skill will prepare these for the monsters here. They may fight the Xarmnians, but the monsters will subdue them. Those creatures fight the mind and strike at the heart as well as the body. There is no parrying the invisible blades that will cut them down. They need to build up an arsenal of truth.”
Ezra lowered his sword and placed it back upon the weapon table.
“It is time you met Nem our city builder. Before we can build up warrior skill we need to have a foundation upon which to build. He will conduct your training until you are ready for mine.”
“But what is the Breathing Sword?”
“It is not a what. It is a Who.”
*Scene 07* – 02:53 (Digging in The Dungeon)
Deep below the city, the monstrous behemoth lumbered through the honeycombed darkness scraping the walls of the tunnels, loosening lodged stone and weakening the substrate. Mounds and furrows of debris trailed the beast as well as a vicuous slime that webbed the surfaces, almost as if the beast were some kind of massive worm, leaving wet trails in its burrowing wake.
Its jaws huffed dust and crunched rock expelling the debris in a sandblast from armored gills. It musclular scales pulsed and heaved, their tight grooves excreting the mucus-like oil over which it slithered from side to side like a serpent, ramming its hooked jaw into the forefront rock like a chisel, then gobbling up the resulting debris, pulverizing and jettisoning it through its gills like an efficient deep-earth boring machine.
Portions of the underground network of caverns dripped with seeping moisture, others streamed with a shallow running river, over half tubes of flowstone mixed with lime. Some caverns contained rippling pools that oscillated in the darkness, responding to the ponderous movements of the invading beast.
Anger drove the beast. Anger and frustration. The inner cells of the caverns contained something that was affecting its ability to clearly see into the darkness and destroy what pillars and rock pillings it needed to collapse the upper levels above. Something that resonated with the same sort of harmonics being given off by that formidible Marker Stone which had proved inpenetrable to its efforts. There were hollows within. Old places. Places haunted by The Marker Stone, even at so great a distance from the mound itself.
There was only one direction it could approach the inner hollow, for three directions were protected like sharp spines that drove its probing back. As it circled the inner well, it found the break in the probing wall, and saw a brief fissure into the inner chamber. Within was the chamber giving it such difficulty. A fiery red light came from the crack, singing the beast’s peering eyes as if it had looked into a furnace. A shadow of a crudely constructed altar, drenched in blood-red light. Something from atop the altar was emanating both visible and invisible flashes of light, and two shapes surrounded it reflected and carried the light sweeping across the sanctum walls in a radial fashion.
Excavatia 