“So, she went through here?”
Imagine, if you will, a triumphant king after a long war. He is meeting with his allies to decide the conquered peoples and their lands. Who would get what mines. Which cities would pay tribute. Whether captured warriors would be conscripted to border legions, or mass-sacrified to the gods. Imagine how that king must feel. The power, the responsibility. To know he is changing the future of countless lives.
Now imagine he gets a message from his advisor. The head stablemaster is ill, and the horses all need bathing. Could he come back and manage the problem?
That’s how I felt right now.
I was in my breedery, standing before a doorway made from dark green granite. It had faded cuneiform indentations that had been made thousands, if not tens of thousands of years ago. It was no version any scholar had ever deciphered. It was the language of the ruins all over this region. Doorways like this led to treasures and mysteries that boggled even a Hyperborean’s capacity to imagine the fantastic. For thousands of years, tomb raiders had uncovered and entered through doorways like this. They will continue to for thousands of years more, long after Dura was lost and forgotten.
They also lead to frightful and horrific danger. Pockets of toxic gas. Old booby-traps waiting patiently for a careless boot or finger. Loose stones give way to ink-black chasms.
Perhaps most dangerous of all, they lead to more doorways. The catacombs beneath Dura and the surrounding lands made for miles upon miles of unmapped maze. Some exited at hilltops miles away in the dangerous, Carboniferous jungle. Well beyond the trespasses of hunters, trappers, and runaway slaves, it was better, perhaps, to re-enter the catacombs than cross those monstrous forests.
Other passageways went deep underground, connecting with subterranean waterways. Some were natural rivers. Others, it is said in tales handed down from bard to bard, were built by inhuman races that yet lurked there, waiting for their time to return to the surface.
Most of all, though, the catacombs just lead to more catacombs. This, in my opinion, was what made them most dangerous. You did not know they had consumed you until you were lost. Once you were lost, you would never make it out again.
This was why the doorway had been boarded up and had a “keep out” sign in cuneiform. There were only a few boards: hammering nails into granite is no trivial task. The sign kept out any with good sense - if they could read cuneiform. The boards, however, were more to keep me from blundering through if I was drunk or half asleep.
What I had not expected, however, was for one of my most prized slave girls to try to flee through the doorway to avoid being murdered by one of my own harem guards. There I was, experimenting with mass political engagement to check the power and hostile maneuverings of the Burgher Council, and then the call from Whitehall came. Can you come and change a bulb?
“Yes, Burgher,” said the remaining harem guard. This was the one with the tattooed kill count on her cheek. The one who had kept her job. She was all “yes Burgher” and “no Burgher” today. I couldn’t have cared less - I could not believe that she knew so little of what had happened here.
“Do you know when Layla was attacked?”
“I came back on shift upon the sixth hour of the morning. Enyil tried to brand them at the start of her shift. So, about a whole day, Burgher.”
A whole day! My heart sank. One whole day of Layla running around in the dark, becoming more and more lost. She had no food or water. Nothing to keep her warm. No way to mark her progress - if she even knew that she had to.
There was nothing for it but to press on.
I started prying the boards loose using an iron bar. Beside me, the harem guard helped. Once all the boards had clattered to the ground beside me, I held up the lamp to study the forbidden passageway. The walls were faced in tiles of the same green granite that the doorway was made from. The floor stones were rough and uneven. In the thin dust, I could make out the footprints of petite, running feet.
“Go get some lamp oil,” I said, staring into the darkness. “Some rolls of parchment and some chalk.”
“I do not think we should go in there, Burgher,” the harem guard shook her head.
“We?” I turned and gave a hard look. “I think you and your idiot friend had done enough damage, don’t you? Get me some lamp oil, parchment, and chalk - unless you would like to leave my employ well. Not a word to Juskar; he would never understand. Shit, none of you assholes will.”
***
A short while later, and with no one but the harem guard aware of what I was doing, I entered the catacombs of Dura.
Going was not a wise decision. Not telling anyone - because otherwise, they would stop me - was even stupider. Either way, This was something I had to and was going to do. Layla was down here somewhere - my slave. My pet. My breeding stock. No man is rational about such things, on Hyperborea or elsewhere. I would get my woman back, one way or the other!
I made my way through the granite passage. A sphere of yellow light extended from the lantern I held up. Beyond it, behind and ahead of me, was ink-black darkness. The passageway sloped downwards and became narrow. A wave of claustrophobia hit as I had to bend as the ceiling became lower. I froze for a moment and breathed deep, waiting for it to pass. It didn’t. I looked down instead, staring at the floor. There they were: her footprints in the dust. They were closer, spaced. She had stopped running by this point. I focused on the prints and began on my way again.
“Layla!” I called out. My yell echoed down the corridor. I called out again.
I called her name, off and on, for what seemed like an hour now. Down here, I could not tell the passage of time. I was like one of my girls in the damn breeding cages... Disoriented and confused, I stopped to draw another chalk arrow along the wall. If this was how it was going for me, how much worse was it for a simple, naked slave girl, moving in the pitch dark?
I came to an intersection. Five tunnels branched off before me. Which one has she taken? There was less dust here. I went up one tunnel to check for more footprints - nothing. One by one, I checked and found nothing till the very last tunnel. There, I found a perfectly formed footprint in a cracked paving stone that had bent inwards and filled with sand. I followed the print into the tunnel.
There were a few more footprints, but then they changed altogether. They became smudged and spaced out again as if she had been running. But there was no pattern: at one point, I saw the footprints going back the way I’d come. What had happened here? Had she come all the way back down? If so, why didn’t the prints go all the way back to the intersection?
It was then that I saw the marks a boot had made.
Further down the tunnel, a set of boots had come pounding towards the intersection. They became obscured in the same area where Layla’s prints had, as well. Then, the boot marks turned and went back up the tunnel, the way they had come. There were no more of Layla’s footprints.
What was someone doing down here? Whatever it was, they had carried off my girl. By reflex, my hand went down to my sword’s hilt. I’d have my woman back! I turned down the light of my lantern as far as I could and followed the boot prints.
***
Not long after, I heard the sound of running water. It wasn’t a dripping or trickling but a much heavier-bodied sound. More like that of lapping waves in a canal, going bloop as they splashed against hard stone. Was this a subterranean river? It had to be.
The ground beneath me changed. Gone was the green granite. Instead, there were large, black blocks of stone, each about 6 feet wide. A team of oxen would have been needed to even make one budge. The tunnel opened up. I looked upwards: I could no longer see the ceiling. I did not make my lamp any brighter. I became aware that I had stepped into a large, open chamber. The sound of the water grew louder. I saw no more boot prints but instead followed the sound of the water.
That was when I noticed the light. It was the warm, flickering light of a wood fire. It grew brighter till I could make out the space I was in. It was a vast, open chamber. Black, granite arches ran along its sides. Along its center, in a long, straight line, was a canal.
Judging by its flow, I guessed at which direction the River Black was. Where was it taking the water? To some long-buried reservoir that, at the surface, was mistaken for a lake? Or did it run on further, deep under the jungle, feeding a pool no human eyes would ever see?
I stepped around a block of fallen masonry twice my size and saw the source of the fire.
Along the side of the canal was a camp. It was several hide tents arranged in a circle. To one side was a row of barrels. Ringed by the tents, at the center, was a large campfire. Its flickering cast yellow and red shadows.
There were three cloaked men. Two sat around the fire on woven mats. One poked a stick at a row of skewered fish that was browning over the flames. The other picked at his teeth with a finger. The third man sat on a box. Between his legs was Layla. The naked slave was on her knees with her wrists bound behind her back. The man held her by a fistful of her hair. Her head moved back and forth over his crotch, pleasing him.
I felt a sudden wave of possessive rage. Bastards! That was mine!
What was that? I sniffed a foul odor. It was sewage. It had a particular, rancid aspect like that of the cesspits outside the refugee camps if there hadn’t been raining for a few days. How was there sewage here? It was more than the men could have created, but it wasn’t coming from the canal.
Layla gagged and choked. The man gripped her by her head and pulled her against him. She choked again. A few moments later, he pulled her head off his cock. Then, he placed his boot against her chest and gave her a shove. She yelped and went back, sprawling before the campfire. She lay still a moment, then got to her feet, knees apart, ankles crossed, and lowered her forehead to the ground. Good slave; every ready to accept a leash. It is the bargain every Hyperborean slave girl makes with dangerous men.
I put out my lamp and crept closer, hunkering down.
“There is not enough food now,” said the man poking at the grilling fish.
“How is that?” Asked the man sitting on the box.
“The slave has to eat,” said the third man.
“No, she doesn’t,” Box Sitter laughed. “We have five days left. The food will last.”
“She’s good meat,” said Fish Griller, smiling as Layla. “We can just give her fish fat. She’ll live off that fine, won’t she? Nice to have some cunt around!”
“Why do we need to stay the full five days?” Said the man who was picking his teeth. “Can’t we just throw two barrels in on the fourth day and leave? Or all of them, now?”
“That’s not what the high priest said to do,” said Box Sitter. He was frowning. “And we do with the high priest says, by Azathoth!”
Azathoth. The men were pale - were they all Armaneans?
“Of course,” Tooth Picker, “Would be easier though if we knew why.”
“Is not for the likes of us to ask,” said Box Sitter. “Understood?”
He stood and went to Layla. He took hold of her by her hair and made her sit up, tilting her head back. Sweat clinging to her breasts and belly shined in the firelight.
“This one is too small to last five days on fish fat,” he said. “What say we slit her open and have some real meat tonight? Not this bony, tasteless, cavefish garbage!”
The other men cheered.
Box Sitter, with my slave’s hair in one hand, drew a knife from his belt.
I charged, screaming.
They turned, stunned, eyes wide. They did not move till I was upon them, reaching for weapons no longer worn by their sides. Box Sitter let go of Layla and scrambled towards a tent, but he had no chance. I brought my sword down across the spine. Blood sprayed, and he collapsed on the floor, convulsing.
Fish Griller grabbed a flaming brand from the fire. He rushed at me, swinging it at me once, twice, three times.
I stepped back each time - then smashed my lantern in his face. He cried out, shattered glass embedded in his cheek and lip, dripping with oil.
I wrenched the brand from his hand and shoved it at his eyes. The oil caught fire, and the man screamed, flailing. I gave him a kick, and he sprawled over the campfire, thrashing and howling.
Tooth Picker, though had had time to fetch his sword. It was a curved, khopesh-like blade. He twirled it in the air with some skill, holding out a dagger at me with his off-hand. He was calm, his eyes boring into me.
We began to circle around the campfire.
The burning man rose towards me. My eyes went to him for just a moment, but that was too much. Tooth Picker leaped over the campfire at me, bringing his blade down at my head.
I sidestepped but felt a burning pain across my shoulder. I parried his next blow, and we stepped back from each other.
“No!” The fire had gone out on the burning man’s face. He smelled of burnt flesh and fat. “No!”
I kicked him in the face. He screamed.
Tooth’ Picker looked alarmed, then his face twisted in hatred at me. Ha! I found a button. I kicked his wounded friend in the face again.
Tooth Picker could take no more; he snarled and rushed forward.
This time I was ready for him. I parried his sword and grabbed his hand as he tried to drive his dagger into my belly. He cried out as I twisted his wrist, making him drop the dagger.
He wrenched himself free, then tried to strike at me again. He did not change this technique: men do not always think clearly in battle. I parried him with ease, stepped forward, and punched him in the throat.
He gagged and bent forward, clutching at his throat.
I brought the sword down on his neck so hard it chopped right through.
The trunk fell, squirting blood on the burned man. The burned man did not react - he, too, lay still and did not move again. The head rolled across the floor and stopped at the barrels. The smell of sewage was much stronger: the barrels! So that’s what was in them!
I wiped my blade on the headless trunk and walked to my slave.
“Master!” She squealed, rising up her knees, her eyes shining. “Oh, Master! Thank the gods, it is-”
The slap rang out, echoing. Her head was thrown to the side. She looked down, silent.
“Did they use your cunt, Slave? Do I need to mismate you?”
“No, Master,” she kept staring at the ground. “They only used my mouth.”
She had no reason to lie. If they had used her from behind, she would have begged to be mismated.
“It is a pretty mouth,” I reached into my pack and pulled out a leash chain. It glittered in the firelight. She looked up as I held it before her and smiled. Then, she threw her hair back and bared her throat for me.
I fitted the leash chain and locked it.
“Thank you, Master,” she said. “For coming from me. I - I am grateful, Master,” she said the words with difficulty, as one might when finding themselves thanking an enemy. “I’m sorry to have caused you trouble.”
I think she meant every word.
I gripped her by her collar and pulled her to her feet. I pulled till she stood on tiptoe and held her close against me. Her thighs, belly, and breasts were pressed to my skin. She was warm, soft. I felt her breath on her face, her eyes staring inches from mine.
“You ran away, Slave. You will be punished for this. It will be severe. Severe.”
She looked down. I held her like that against me, letting her feel my presence, her powerlessness. Once I let go, she took a step back, her leash chain swinging between her throat and my hand.
“I’m sorry, Master,” she said to the ground.
“I don’t care. Don’t speak again.”
I tied her leash to my belt and then set about studying the camp.
None of the dead men had anything on them that I could use to identify them. There were no tattoos, no prayer scrolls, no coins. Their robes could have been made by any peasant in this world. Even their weapons were without distinction.
They had spoken of a priest, but I found no icons or incense. Whatever their faith had been, the extent of the practice, at least down here, had not extended beyond swearing. The only thing I could tell about them was that they were Armanean, and this only from their accents.
I pried open one of the barrels - though I knew I would regret doing so. The stench of fermented sewage that rose out of it was overwhelming. For a moment, I felt dizzy, and I almost wretched. I shut the lid as fast as I could and backed away from the disgusting thing.
Why were they pouring sewage into the canal? I thought of the wave of waterborne illnesses the city was suffering. If this canal fed Dura’s water supply, then they were (in part; Dura is filthy anyway) the culprits. So, why were they doing this?
And who was this high priest who had ordered it?
In the tents, I found some supplies; more lamp oil, some candles and wicks, rope, and dry rations. There was nothing suitable for a slave girl, so I permitted her to eat some of this normal food. It bothered me that she would receive it as if it were a treat, but I did not want her losing her strength.
“Enjoy it. When we get to the surface, I’ll give you filth instead.”
Layla said nothing, crouching down to lick crumbs off the ground.
In the very last tent, I found a scroll tube. I opened it up and pulled out a thin papyrus scroll covered in drawings. Careful not to damage it, I unrolled the scroll and held it up to the campfire light.
It was a map of this area of the catacombs. Exits to the surface were marked. Several were much closer than the way I had come.
“Get your feet, Slave,” I tugged at her leash. “I will punish you in the fresh air!”