Book 8: Chapter 5: Trio
They all recovered in silence, catching their breaths and inspecting their equipment and themselves. The magical bolts did not necessarily leave marks or wounds, but they left an impact all the same; Martel felt winded and fatigued, his muscles aching, as if overcoming a fever.
Atreus had a few cuts, and Martel pulled out his blood salve, which the spellbreaker applied without a word. He did not seem badly injured, but the Archean was more shaken by this fight than his Asterian companions, Martel surmised, who did not wish to rush him; instead, the battlemage approached the big hole in the ground to once more stare into its depths.
Eleanor joined him. “I keep imagining this was the Lyceum.”
“Same.”
She peered over the edge. “I am not sure what I expected from Archen, but not this. And we have no knowledge of what awaits us in the depths below.”
“Hopefully not worse than this.”
“Doubtful,” Atreus interjected, joining them. Neither had noticed he had gotten back on his feet to stand next to them. “This had to be the biggest gathering of wizards in Archen. Certainly the most in one place. The Conclave was not in session the day of the disaster, so most – most adult wizards would have been spread throughout the city.”
“I’m sorry,” Martel mumbled, feeling the need to express this sentiment without wanting to go into details.
“Should we provide some sort of funerary rites for them?” Eleanor asked with her usual practical disposition.
Atreus shook his head. “It would take the rest of the day to prepare a pyre. Besides being a distraction to us, other dangers surely lurk in this place. Let us do what we came to do and leave such considerations for another time.” “Alright,” Martel conceded. “Where do we go?”
“I remember the entrance to the subterranean chambers. Follow me.” Atreus turned, and the others followed him.
They moved with caution through room after room, if they could be called that. Walls and roofs lay in pieces, hindering their progress; keeping an eye out for enemies slowed them as well. Martel could not recognise the purpose of the areas they moved through, whether dormitories, kitchens, or something else entirely. Nature’s reclamation had happened faster here compared to the big hall, rotting and rusting everything away. “Strange,” Martel muttered to himself.
“What is?” Atreus asked immediately, halting in front of him.
“Nothing of importance. I just wondered at the difference in decay. The – the people in the hall still had rags left, and the wooden furniture had yet to rot away entirely. It seems an exception to the rest of the city.”
The spellbreaker nodded in thought. “A good observation. Perhaps the failed magic lingers stronger, the closer to its origin. Or the remnant of victims with magical talent slows the decay.”
“Does it make a difference?” Eleanor asked. “We have encountered enemies both outside and within this place.”
“Maybe it does, maybe not.” The spellbreaker cleared his throat. “Up ahead is the access to the lower levels. Some of the masters claimed it for their research.”
“Like the outposts,” Martel muttered. He had developed an intense dislike for this feature of Archean architecture. They seemed fond of hiding monsters and traps in the dark, always for malignant purposes.
“Aye. Come on.” Atreus led the way once more.
Going below meant they reached a chamber still intact, more or less, and they finally reached surroundings that looked familiar to Martel, though it did not make him feel better. A large obelisk of crystal stood, undisturbed by the carnage that had torn through everything above ground. The roof had cracks in it, but it remained standing, leaving only a small opening where a moonbeam might shoot down to illuminate the crystal.
As it was day, that did not matter currently, but Martel knew that under the right circumstances, if he touched the obelisk under the moonlight, it would glow up in white. If Eleanor did it, it would be red. “What’s your colour?” he asked of Atreus.
The spellbreaker gave a furtive smile. “Perel.”
“Of course. The trickster. Nothing else would suit you.”
“Is that why you brought us along?” Eleanor asked with a quick glance at the spellbreaker. “You need one of each star to open the passage ahead.”
“I asked you to join me because I couldn’t expect to survive the dangers of Archen alone,” Atreus admitted. “As our last encounter showed. The fact that we mirror the Triumvirate of the Heavens is, if anything, fate helping us along.”
“That or luck,” Martel remarked, less inclined to trust in any higher powers. While he and Eleanor had been able to get past the Archean puzzle in the Nordmark outpost with just the two of them, he doubted they would be able to find something like the small figurine that had enabled their passage, not in the destruction above.
“Shall we?” Atreus continued, leaving the obelisk chamber to enter the one beyond. Martel ignited a flame and let it float ahead, illuminating their dark surroundings. On the floor, three sigils had been carved. A warrior, a rogue, and a sage. Atreus stepped into the middle; after a moment’s hesitation, his companions took position on his flanks.
With an awful sound, the wall in front of them slid into the ground, creaking and complaining. Martel floated his flame forward once more, only to be met by rocks. The tunnel beyond had collapsed. “We’re not getting through there,” he remarked.
“No. The only path would be the open gap in the hall above,” Eleanor considered. “We do have rope to lower ourselves down.”
“Wait. The day is nearly over,” Atreus said.
“Does it make a difference? Going below, the sunlight won’t reach us. Any foes we might find won’t be affected by it.”
“I was thinking more prosaic concerns. The battle in the hall made demands on us all.” He nodded at the destroyed tunnel. “I had intended to simply scout ahead and return, but that’s not possible. If we go down the hole, there’s no easy retreat. We should be fully rested and ready, in that case.”
“There’s sense in that,” Martel acknowledged. “Where do we rest?”
“Not within the city,” the spellbreaker cautioned. “We’ll have to walk outside and come back tomorrow. It’s slow, but…”
“We have no reason to hurry,” Eleanor added. “We shall return tomorrow.”