Sword of the Gods - Bruce R. Cordell [103]
And if he did turn away, he’d resign himself to forever wonder why he’d killed a priest in cold blood.
“Let’s go find our friend,” he announced.
“Lead on,” Chant said, “We’ll follow.”
Demascus unsheathed his latest sword, and grabbed the Veil in his other hand. Just to see if he’d get an answer, he addressed it.
“Veil, what lies beyond this portal? Is it my tomb?”
A single word appeared in pale light in the fabric:
Yes.
Demascus stepped through, and found himself on the shore of a sunless sea.
An earthy breeze engulfed and cooled him. He was underground, in some kind of canyon-sized cave chamber. A ramshackle collection of boulders formed a circle on the cave floor, and he was standing in the center of it.
He stepped out of the stone-bounded area to clear the portal, and to get a better look at the island that lay at the center of the half-drowned vault. Dark wavelets rolled to the island’s bone-strewn shore. Pale cavelight from luminescent growth and faded runes illuminated dozens of wide catacomb mouths along the island’s periphery, providing watery paths deeper inside. The failed majesty of ruins lay heaped above the winding entrances like a crown of broken spires.
He didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but this wasn’t it.
“Where on Toril are we? What’s that?” came Riltana’s voice. She stepped clear of the circle, her gaze fastened on the funerary island. A moment later Chant flickered into view. His eyes widened at the panorama.
“Is that your tomb?” said the thief. “I mean, the tomb of your last … self?”
“I suppose it must be,” he replied. “Except it looks grand enough to be some fallen necropolis. Thousands must be interred there!” The magnitude of the darkling island took his breath away.
“If you say so,” said Chant, who remained in the stone circle where he’d appeared. “How do we get across the water? I’m not swimming, I’ll tell you that for free.”
“There,” said Riltana, pointing at a gondola-like craft pulled up along the shore not far from where they’d appeared.
Chant gave an exaggerated sigh and left the circle. They trooped down to the boats across pocked black rock and inspected the boats. One was more than large enough to carry them all. Demascus was amazed that the boats all seemed seaworthy, despite how ancient they were.
“This one’s got oars,” Riltana noted. “You won’t have to get your clothes wet after all, Chant.”
They pushed the craft out into the cold water and hopped aboard.
“Be ready,” the pawnbroker said. “If this place has guardians, it’s a good bet they live in the water.”
“Then why provide boats?” Riltana asked.
“To lure us into range,” Chant said knowingly. He flipped a crossbow bolt through his fingers as his eyes scanned the nighted waves.
Demascus hoped the pawnbroker was wrong, but didn’t have any evidence to soothe the man’s worry. So he took up the oars and sent the skiff gliding out across the lake.
Except for the occasional splash of ice-cold water from a dipping oar, nothing troubled their passage. No one spoke as Demascus rowed. The sound of keel scraping stone marked their landfall on the cemetery island.
A craft smaller than their own was moored next to a stone jetty.
“There!” Demascus said. “Someone came this way.”
“Kalkan,” Riltana said.
They tied up next to the smaller craft, then searched it. If it had been Kalkan’s conveyance, he hadn’t left anything behind.
“Now where?” Riltana said.
Their choices included walking straight into a gaping catacomb mouth or ascending to the island’s higher elevation via a narrow, wandering stair in the cliff face.
One end of the Veil animated, and threw a beam of light from the tip. In a manner almost like a human’s extended finger, it pointed to the stairs.
“We go up,” Demascus said.
The stairs provided a relatively easy climb to the top of the cliff. From there, a jumble of smashed gravestones, tilted memorial spires, rusted plaques, and half-collapsed mausoleums stretched away across the island.
“Sharkbite, it’s cold