Sword of the Gods - Bruce R. Cordell [83]
“What now?” Chant said.
Leheren and Demascus walked around the central column, studying the relief-carved figures on each face. Two faces were variations of a huge tentacled thing, and the other two depicted entities composed of burning magma radiating steam.
“This is new,” mused Leheren. “Of course, I haven’t been to the Vault for years. I wonder how long the cult has been active down here?”
Demascus said, “Listen. I think Yuriel figured out you’re not part of the cult. We need to move before he decides to call for help. If he hasn’t already.”
Chant said, “I agree. When Yuriel called you ‘Lieutenant,’ your Firestorm Cabal title, it could have been a test. Someone high in the cult is probably referred to as ‘Grand Elemental Invoker’ or something even fancier.”
“Very well.” She turned from the carved idols and made for the large hallway. “Yuriel said Jett was this way.”
“And the pit,” Demascus added. “Whatever that is.”
The hallway was lit with more smokeless torches. Minor passages gave off either side, but the large doors at the end seemed most promising.
Leheren reached them first and tried one iron ring. “Locked,” she said and relinquished her grip.
Demascus advanced to the doors and gave the pull ring a savage jerk. The door only rattled.
“Let me,” said Chant. The human pulled out his set of lockpicks and bent to the keyhole. Ah, Demascus thought, thank the lords of light that one of us has the wit to be crafty. If I’ve got the half-remembered instincts of a grand-class assassin, shouldn’t I be better at the subtle stuff?
Riltana edged forward to watch the pawnbroker work. Half-recalled muscle memories made Demascus’s hands twitch with each movement of Chant’s tools.
A click of the mechanism told the tale. Chant grinned up at Riltana, then back at Demascus as he stowed his picks.
The door swung easily to reveal a passage lined with iron bars. Desperate-looking captives hunched or lay inside small cells, some of them fastened by chains to the bars. A few were so starved Demascus wondered how they were still alive.
Anger, cold and pure, suffused him. Whoever was responsible would pay for their cruelty. Such brutality could never be forgiven. His hands tightened on the Veil.
Farther along the passage, the ceiling had collapsed on a whole bank of cells. A handful of cultists dug at the rubble, shoveling dirt into carts—thunk, thunk!—and levering stones too big to pick up with iron pry bars.
None of them were Jett. That didn’t matter—by their presence, the cultists were implicated. Demascus focused on the nearest figure, a genasi wearing the arm patch of his new faith over his Cabal jacket. You’re mine, he thought, and his fingers tingled with anticipation.
“Stop!” someone yelled, breaking his deadly focus, leaving a swirl of confusion and repugnance at how excited he’d become over the thought of killing.
But who’d shouted? It hadn’t been his imagination, surely … he whirled, and saw Yuriel plus a posse of cultists crowding the mouth of the corridor.
“We’re blown,” said Riltana. She swept out her short sword.
Demascus said, “Inside! Close the door!”
He pushed Leheren and Chant before him past the threshold. Carmenere and Riltana crowded in behind.
Crossbow bolts clattered and thunked on the door as he and Riltana shoved it closed. Chant clicked the lock, and for good measure, Carmenere threw a bar across the doors. Yells of alarm and outrage sounded outside, but they were muffled. Demascus heard Yuriel’s voice screaming, “Who’s got the key? The key! Well, get it!”
“How much time do we have?” he asked Leheren.
She shrugged. “We need to find Jett, and the deputy commander too, and put a stop to this,” replied Leheren.
The cultists already in the cell bank ahead of them had stopped clearing the rockfall. They stared at Leheren in fear and confusion.
The lieutenant barked, “Where is Jett?”
Something heavy banged against