As both Arista and Gaunt slept, Hadrian worked on Mauvin. The count’s side was drenched in blood. A stab wound cut through the meat of his arm behind the upper bone. He had been holding it shut with his hand without complaint such that Hadrian had not noticed until Mauvin staggered.
Together, Hadrian and Magnus, with Myron holding the lantern, sewed Mauvin’s wound. Hadrian was forced to push muscle back in as he stitched, yet Mauvin made no cry and soon passed out. When they finished, Hadrian wrapped his arm. It was a good, clean job and they had stopped the bleeding. Mauvin would be fine even if his left arm would never be as strong as it once had been. Hadrian checked Gaunt’s leg and changed that bandage as well. Then, in the utter silence of the tombs, in the dim light of the lantern, they all slept.
When he woke, Hadrian felt every bruise, cut, scratch, and strained muscle. A lantern burned beside him, and with its light, he found his water skin. They all lay together in the narrow corridor, flopped haphazardly in dirt and blood like a pile of dead after a battle. He took a small sip to clear his mouth and noticed Royce was not with them.
He lifted the lantern and glanced at the pile of rubble where the stairs had once been. The way was blocked by several tons of stone.
“Well, I’m guessing you didn’t go that way,” he whispered to himself.
Turning, he noticed the corridor bent sharply to the left. Along the walls, he discerned faint, ghostly images etched in the polished stone like burnished details on glass. The images told a story. At the start of the hall was a strange scene: a group of men traveling to a great gathering in a forest where a ruler sat upon a throne that appeared to be part of a tree, yet none of the men had heads. In each instance, they were scraped away. In the next scene, the king of the tree throne fought one of the men in single combat-again no heads.
Hadrian raised the lantern and wiped the dust with his hands, looking closer at the images of the men fighting. He let his fingertips trace the weapons in their hands, strange twisted poles with multiple blades. He had never seen their like before and yet he knew them. He could imagine their weight, how his hands would grasp, and how to scoop the lower blade in order to make the upper two slice the air. His father had taught him to use this weapon, the polearm for which he had no name.
In the next scene, the king was victorious and all bowed to him save one. He stood aside with the rest of the men who had traveled together in the first scene, and in his arms, he held the body of the fallen combatant. Still no heads-each one carefully scratched out. On the ground lay bits of chipped stone and white dust.
Hadrian found Royce at the end of the hall before a closed and formidable-looking stone door.
“Locked?” Hadrian asked.
Royce nodded as his hands played over the door’s surface.
“How long you been here?”
The thief shrugged. “A few hours.”
“No keyhole?”
“Locked from the inside.”
“Inside? That’s creepy. Since when do dead men lock themselves into their own graves?”
“Something is alive in there,” Royce said. “I can hear it.”
Hadrian felt a chill run down his back as his mind ran through all the possibilities of what might lie beyond the door. Who knew what the ancients could have placed in their tombs to protect their kings: ghosts, wraiths, zombie guards, stone golems?
“And you can’t open the door?”
“Haven’t found a way yet.”
“Tried knocking?”
Royce looked over his shoulder incredulously.
“What would it hurt?”
Royce’s expression eased. He thought a moment and shrugged. He stepped back and waved toward the door. “Be my guest.”
Hadrian drew his short sword and, using the butt, tapped three times on the stone. They waited. Nothing happened. He tapped three more times.
“It was worth a-”
Stone scraped as a bolt moved. Silence. A snap, then another bolt was drawn. The stone slab shuddered and shook.
Royce and Hadrian glanced nervously at each other. Hadrian handed the lantern to Royce and drew his bastard sword. Royce pushed on the door and it swung inward.
Inside, it was dark and Hadrian held up the lantern with his left hand, probing forward with his sword. The light revealed a small square room with a vaulted ceiling. At the center was a great headless statue. The walls were filled with holes filled with piles of rolled scrolls, several of which lay ripped to pieces, their remains scattered across the floor. On the far side was another stone door, closed tight. Hadrian could see large bolts holding it fast. The ground also contained clay pots, clothes, blankets, and the melted remains of burned candles. Not far away the room’s only occupant was in the process of sitting back down on his blanket. When the man turned, Hadrian recognized him immediately.
“Thranic?” Hadrian said, stunned.
Sentinel Dovin Thranic moved slowly, painfully. He was very thin. His normally pale face was drawn and ghostly white. His dark hair, which had always been so neatly combed back, hung loose in his face. His once-narrow mustache and short goatee were now a full ragged beard. He still wore his black and red silks, which were now mere shades of their former glory, torn and filthy.
The sentinel managed a strained smile as he recognized them through squinting eyes. “How loathsome that it is you that finds me.” He focused on Royce. “Come for your revenge at last, elf?”
Royce stepped forward. He looked down at Thranic and then around the room. “How could I possibly top this? Sealed alive in a tomb of rock. My only regret is that I had nothing to do with it.”
“What happened?” Hadrian asked.
Thranic coughed; it was a bad sound, as if the sentinel’s chest was ripping apart from the inside. He reclined, trying to breathe, for a moment. “Bulard went lame-the old man was a nuisance and we left him at the library. Levy-Levy was killed. Bernie ran out on me-deserted.” Thranic shifted uneasily; as he did, Hadrian noticed a bloodstained cloth wrapped his left thigh.
“How long have you been here?”
“Months,” he replied. He glanced across the room at a pile of small humanoid bones and grimaced. “I did what I must to survive.”
“Until the wound,” Hadrian added.
The sentinel nodded. “I couldn’t sneak up on them well enough anymore.”
Royce continued to stare.
“Go ahead,” Thranic told Royce. “Kill me. It doesn’t matter anymore. It’s over and you’ll fare no better. No one can get the horn. It’s what you came for, isn’t it? The Horn of Novron? The Horn of Gylindora? It lies through there.” He pointed at the far door. “On the other side is a large hall, the Vault of Days, which leads to the tomb of Novron itself, but you will never reach it. No one has… and no one will. Look there.” He pointed to the wall across from him, where words lay scratched. “See the EH? This is as far as Edmund Hall ever got. He turned back and escaped this vile pit, because he was smart. I stayed, thinking I could somehow solve the riddle, somehow find a way to cross the Vault of Days, but it can’t be done. We tried. Levy was the slowest-not even his body remains. Bernie wouldn’t go back in after that.”
“You stabbed him,” Royce stated.
“He refused orders. He refused to make another attempt. You found him?”
“Dead.”
Thranic showed no sign of pleasure or remorse; he merely nodded.
“What is it about this Vault of Days?” Hadrian asked. “Why can’t you cross it?”
“Look for yourself.”
Hadrian started across the room and Thranic stopped him. “Let the elf do it. What can you hope to see in there with your human eyes?”
Royce stared at the sentinel. “So what kind of trick is this?”
“I don’t like it,” Hadrian said.
