Another pair of camping strangers approached the guard. At first, their conversation unfolded much like the one before, but the volume soon increased. Mumbles became shouts. One of the visiting pair broke off and sprinted for the mountain.
“Halt!” the guard shouted, but the vagrant was not interested in listening.
With a few quick bounds, the man reached the top of the stairs. The guard was prepared, and reacted quickly. He snatched a dagger and threw it, catching the stranger in the neck. The man instinctively grabbed at the mortal wound, by which time the guard had already drawn his sword to threaten the surviving stranger. Shrieking at the sight of her companion’s murder, the woman took a final look at the entryway before staggering back and collapsing onto her rear.
The guard sheathed his sword, storming over to the mountain entrance. Darkness partially obscured him as he descended a few steps. We watched in silence. He stepped on the dead man’s face, reaching down to jerk his dagger free before shoving the body down the stairs with the tip of his boot. After he returned to his post, he knelt and produced what looked to be a length of rope, which he tossed at the woman now sobbing hysterically in a mound of snow.
I wanted no part of whatever was before us, and especially what might be down those stairs.
“Mama,” I whimpered, “please let us go home! Please!”
My mother, Queen Amala, the symbol of everything I knew as strength and power, finally turned to me as I cried to flee. Her face was unknown to me. It was contorted, crippled by despair. She was not angry with me. She was lost.
On reflection, I realize I might have come up with some miraculous combination of words to dissuade her from going through what was about to transpire; but then, I only knew to beg, and to be afraid.
She turned away quickly, but it was too late. My plea had broken her focus. For half a second she had shown me her pain, her hesitation. It petrified me. I tried to tug my arm away.
She jerked my hand once again and I stumbled as she dragged me nearer. Only the shimmer of moonlight on her wet cheeks gave any indication that she had no desire to take me inside the mountain. Tighter and tighter, her grip constricted around my hand while I wriggled in futile resistance. I did not want this. I did not want to go in. I would risk any level of punishment if I could only get free and run away—but no.
I squirmed, using my free hand to try and dig out the other, but the clink of the guard’s armor distracted me. I stopped struggling long enough to focus on him. I wanted to hear what he was going to say, or what he was going to ask my mother to present, like I had seen him do with the previous visitors. But we simply walked past. No exchange or pause took place. The guard nodded in recognition and solemn respect. He must have known we were coming, and known not to bring attention to our dark journey.
Once I realized there would be no discussion between my mother and the guard, I once again pried a finger into her clenched fist—only to have my free hand slapped away.
“Please, mama!”
I looked back at the guard. His face was compressed by a sadness that I did not understand at the time. His focus was straight ahead and down as he did everything he could not to look at me. I could not rely on him, or anyone else, for assistance.
Again, I worked to free my hand, but the time had come. The Vacant Grave's mouth was upon us.
A gust of air escaped the depths and choked me with an even more concentrated stench than that which I'd smelled along the trail. I vomited again, but soon transitioned to dry heaving. My mother covered her nose with her free arm, and I did the same.
Her grasp was still too firm. Every sense in my young body, combined with foreboding over the journey and my mother’s silence, was stabbing at my nerves, telling me to kick, fight, scream—anything to get away. Then I lost my footing, and was once again torn from my anger and fear to focus on my feet.
The passage widened unexpectedly, and the steps became shallower. Lit sconces of varying styles grew frequent and bright. As we walked, we passed a dark stranger tending to the sconces. They wore a dark cloak with a white symbol I didn’t recognize at the time. I know it now as the ancient symbol of the extinct Nurudians.
With the light and wider steps came landings, appearing at regular intervals, leading off into the darkness of narrow halls filled with what appeared to be catacombs and crypts. These side passages were crowded with shadows, which I recognized as groups of people similar to those I had seen out along the trail, waiting to enter the Vacant Grave. Whether they had come to visit the remains of departed kin known only to them, or to take part in something more nefarious, I could not say, but I found myself terrified by the prospect of encountering others along the stairs and passages.
That fear eventually dissipated. No one spoke to
