Rows of unfamiliar machines stretched ahead of them. Amaranthe could identify some of the parts- flywheels, pistons, and rotating shafts-but boilers and fireboxes were missing, so they were not steam-powered. Whatever purpose they served, they were not serving it now; they simply loomed, giant metal skeletons. Mazes of pipes ran along the floor between the machines, and some rose vertically, disappearing into the dark depths above.
“What are these machines, Books?” Amaranthe asked.
The men had eased from the tunnel and fanned out, weapons ready.
“I’m uncertain,” Books said.
“Two words I never thought I’d hear him string together,” Maldynado said to Akstyr, who muttered something back and snickered.
“Perhaps they’re powered by the water,” Books said. “Some experimental technology?”
Another bellow echoed from the depths ahead, or perhaps to the side. The walls and tunnels distorted sound. Amaranthe had the sense of a vast subterranean complex within this massive concrete tomb. She frowned, not liking that her mind had chosen that last word.
Sicarius strode toward a dark shape on the floor ahead of them. Amaranthe followed with a lantern. A faint odor of blood mingled with the pervasive mildew smell.
“Dead soldier,” Sicarius said before she drew close enough to identify the shape.
The flickering lantern light revealed parallel gashes across the man’s shoulder and neck, so deep they had nearly torn the head off.
Sicarius crouched for a closer look.
“Why do I always end up stumbling over decapitated bodies when I’m with you?” Amaranthe asked him.
Engrossed in his examination, he did not answer.
“He’s probably responsible for most of them,” Books muttered.
“Have you seen anything in here you can use to get us under the water?” she asked him.
“I’ll look.” Books took a couple of steps but paused when nobody followed him.
Maldynado, Akstyr, and Basilard were watching Sicarius, who was poking at one of the wounds with his knife. Amaranthe’s belly squirmed.
“Company would be appreciated,” Books said.
Maldynado ambled over and threw an arm around his shoulders. “Booksie, you’re not afraid to go off alone in the dark, are you?”
Books shucked the arm. “Of course not. Anything suitable to be used as a diving bell will be heavy. I’ll need someone large, muscle-bound, and brutish to lift it.”
“Maldynado’s your man,” Akstyr said.
“Akstyr is mocking me?” Maldynado pressed a hand to his chest. “That shouldn’t be allowed. He’s barely old enough to show a lady a good time.”
“Go.” Amaranthe shooed Books and Maldynado. “Take Basilard too. Akstyr, you’re with Sicarius and me. I want to know if there’s any magic about. We won’t go far.”
The three men took a lantern and shuffled away. Sicarius had finished his examination of the body.
“Makarovi?” Amaranthe asked.
“Yes.”
“It looks like this fellow was running toward the exit when it caught him,” Amaranthe said. “Shall we take a walk and see where he came from?”
Sicarius’s look reminded her they were supposed to be here for Books’s tools, not a monster hunt, but he led onward. He paused to pick up an army-issue rifle, the hammer uncocked. A bloody knife lay a few meters away.
“Looks like he got a couple of blows in before…” She waved toward the dead man.
“Yes, there are blood drops about,” Sicarius said. “Makarovi are difficult to kill.”
“Good thing we have Akstyr.” Amaranthe noticed the young man’s face had grown pale beneath his unshaven stubble. “Perhaps our fledgling wizard will have a few tricks for them.”
“You should have given me a book on monster slaying if you wanted that,” he said.
More bellows and gunfire sounded in the distance. Sicarius led them through the rows of machinery. Their lanterns reflected off the metal parts, creating tiny eyes in the darkness. Amaranthe found herself wishing for a window, even if it only gazed out upon a night-darkened river or forest.
“Ought to be gaslights in here somewhere…” She trailed off as a new stench came to her nose. Rotting flesh.
“Ungh,” Akstyr grunted.
As they continued forward, the odor grew stronger. Breathing through her mouth did not help as much as Amaranthe wished it would.
Sicarius paused and faced a snarl of pipes and machinery.
“Light,” he said.
Amaranthe handed him the lantern.
He raised it and stepped closer. The light revealed…too much.
A woman in the shredded remains of a city worker’s uniform hung over a horizontal pipe, her back bent in an impossible arch. Her torso was split open, her insides ravaged. No, Amaranthe corrected, feasted upon.
Bile rose in her throat. She ripped her gaze away, turned her back, and bent over her knees. She gasped for air, not wanting to vomit. The sight she could block out, but the stench surrounded her. The air was too close, too confining.
Nearby, somebody retched. Akstyr. She clasped a hand over her own mouth, fighting the reflex to do the same.
Sicarius rested his hand on her shoulder. Amaranthe closed her eyes, and forced calmness into her breaths. Like him.
After a moment she found, if not detachment, control.
She nodded to Sicarius. “I’m all right.”
He went for a closer look at the corpse. Akstyr wiped a sleeve across his mouth. If he had been pale before, he was white now. Though apparently too shaky to make an excuse, he avoided her eyes. She was glad for his presence. While she appreciated Sicarius, especially his support, his unflappability sometimes made her feel too human. Too weak.
“This happened more than a week ago,” Sicarius said when he returned to her side.
“When things were just getting started.” Amaranthe gestured for him to continue onward. She did not want to linger where the stench hung so thickly.
They soon reached another narrow tunnel identical to the one that had brought them into the large chamber. Sicarius paused before the last machine and plucked a tuft of fur off a protruding lever. He sniffed it, then handed it to Amaranthe.
Though smelling fur could do little enlighten her, she obliged him by inhaling. Earthy, musky, and distinct. Her recently riled stomach churned anew at the hint of blood.
“That’s their smell?” she asked.
“Yes,” Sicarius said.
“It sounds like you’ve encountered them before. Personally.”
“Once.”
“On your-” she glanced at Akstyr and lowered her voice, “-mission to Mangdoria?”
“Yes,” Sicarius said.
“Did it attack you? And you killed it?”
He turned his back to Akstyr. “It chased me out of the mountain pass. I sunk several of my throwing knives into its face and torso, but it kept coming. I eventually climbed a cliff where it could not follow to escape it.”
“Oh.”
They need not have worried about Akstyr overhearing. He wore a distant expression and faced away from them, toward some corner or object hidden by darkness.
“How did our ancestors kill them?” Amaranthe asked.
