Book 8: Chapter 3: Depths
The trio continued. In general, the ordinary houses had survived the destruction, more or less; some had the roof caved in, while others had escaped with just a hole or two in the ceiling or walls, and a few stood unscathed. All greater buildings had not fared so well. Here and there, they walked past debris of such magnitude, it suggested a tower had collapsed. Likewise, anything big enough to have been a guildhall, public house, offices, or the like, all lay in pieces.
Now and then, Martel glanced at Atreus. He would have known the city when all these buildings still stood; where Martel saw ruins, he might remember a busy workshop or taverna where he once had his meals. But the spellbreaker revealed nothing on his face, and he only looked around with quick, precise movements, watching their surroundings.
At length, after a few hours of slow progress, they reached a large square. It reminded Martel of the open space in front of the Lyceum with a fountain in the middle. The same could be found here, except it ran dry; any pipes supplying it with water had to be broken, as was the statue that had once adorned the fountain. Half of it remained on the pedestal; the other half lay crushed in countless pieces, scattered close by. From what Martel could make out, it had depicted two or three people in different clothing, but he could not determine more than that.
“This was once the centre of Archen.” Atreus’s voice came so unexpected, it startled Martel.
Eleanor glanced around. “Nobody to welcome us so far.”
Martel followed her gaze; corpses lay here and there on the square, like seeds thrown haphazardly by a farmer onto his field. As before, only their bones remained, though at least these did not move.
Atreus closed his eyes briefly. “No. I don’t sense any danger, not from those poor wretches. At least their rest won’t be disturbed by our presence.”
“Not these ones,” Eleanor muttered. “Give it time.”
“We should not linger,” Martel warned them. The sun was in the sky still; they had timed their entrance to make the most of the daylight, primarily because this would help to suppress the powers of any undead. But time was slipping away, and Martel disliked the notion of sleeping inside the ruined city; even if it would take them hours to walk outside, he preferred that rather than tempting fate in this place. “Atreus?”
The spellbreaker took a deep breath. “I don’t recall where I emerged from the ritual chamber, but I know my fellow spellbreakers and I entered it from within the Conclave.” He gestured towards what remained of a great structure ahead of them. Its size rivalled a castle, albeit a derelict one. Most of the walls lay destroyed. A single tower remained precariously standing, half of it blown away. “The heart of Archen. The strongest place, but also the epicentre of the disaster. Perhaps that became its undoing,” he mused. “So filled with magic, it fuelled the destruction to unprecedented heights.” He looked at his companions. “That’s where we go.” To find a chamber used for a profane ritual that summoned the worst of monsters into this world and see whether it had succeeded. Martel shuddered at the thought, but he understood Atreus’s reasoning. Fiends did not age, presumably, but humans did. If such a creature lay trapped within the magical chaos unleashed back then, better that a spellbreaker faced it before old age caught up to him. Gripping his staff, Martel followed the others past the threshold.
Completely overgrown by grass and with faint sunlight coming through the collapsed roof, the Conclave did not feel like a building anymore. Martel looked at the walls absent-mindedly, taking it in, when he felt the others come to a stop. They had passed through what he assumed to be the entrance hall, but his companions had spotted something to give them pause.
Peering over Eleanor’s shoulder, Martel saw it as well. Ahead, the room expanded into a great circle, as big as the square outside. In the middle, a gaping hole had opened up, and floor tiles lay hurled in every direction. It looked as if a giant fist had punched from below to shatter the ground, pushing through the stories above as well all the way up, letting the sun shine through.
Yet this was not why the trio had stopped. Pushed against the wall amidst debris and broken furniture, like a ring surrounding the hole, lay numerous corpses. Martel guessed there to be several scores. While only their bones remained, most still wore tattered clothing unlike those outside, and the different sizes of the skeletons told Martel that many were children.
“I thought the Conclave was the ruling council of Archen,” Eleanor mumbled, and despite how quiet her words rang, it felt like a bell ringing in a graveyard.
“Yes. But this building, this stronghold, served many purposes. It was the first and oldest structure,” Atreus explained, and as he spoke, the eerie mood became less sombre, chased away by living voices. “Here, we trained our students. This was their dining hall.” He looked up. “Above lay the hall of the Conclave itself, where they had their meetings to rule and guide Archen. Not that it made much difference in the end.”
“Why not?” Martel asked. Between him and Eleanor, she had always been the keenest on history, especially Archen’s, helped by her command of the language. Yet standing in this place, Martel felt the allure, the desire to understand what had led to the calamity destroying a whole city of wizards.
“It fell apart. It had a hundred members and as many factions. Every mage concerned with their own purposes, never working together except when it solely suited their needs.” Atreus exhaled. “I think they all considered Archen so strong, so safe, it required no protection or guidance. Forgive me,” he added, and he sat down on a half-carved rock. “I need to catch my breath.”
“Of course.” Martel did not blame the man for being overwhelmed with emotion; in a way, he found it comforting to know that Atreus still had such human moments. He walked forward, approaching the edge of the enormous hole in the ground.
“Careful,” Eleanor cautioned him.
“Yes, mum.” He stared down, but saw only darkness.
“That’s where it happened,” Atreus interjected. “In dark chambers deep beneath the Conclave. We must be somewhere above where the ritual took place – where it all went wrong. Maybe that’s how I came out,” he considered. “I climbed my way up.”
“Unlikely,” Martel muttered. “It looks too steep.”
“Well, it was three hundred years ago. Maybe the tunnels have all collapsed since then.”
“On guard!” Eleanor called out, drawing her weapon while igniting its fire. While Atreus leapt to his feet, Martel whipped his head around until he saw the threat. The dead had begun to move. All of them.
With creaking spines that had not been used for three centuries, numerous skulls turned towards them. Martel inhaled, readying for a fight. The hole made the battlefield simpler; all their enemies were in the outer ring surrounding it, and if his flame wall blocked off one side, his companions needed only defend the other while he could use his spells on those further back.
An icicle came flying through the air and would have impaled Martel if not for his elemental counterspell; a shield of fire erupted to melt the dagger and keep him safe. Looking across the gap, Martel saw a skeleton with flaming blue eyes filling its empty skull. “They got magic!”