Chapter 21 - The Better Part of Valor

“Treasure belongs to the one who carries it home. The dead carry nothing.”

- attributed to an unknown adventurer.

The cold followed me like a loyal friend.

By the time my Adamantine sabatons struck the first dry stones of Atarantu, frost had climbed almost to the knees of the broken statues lining the causeway. The figures had once depicted men or women, although time and deliberate violence had reduced them to torsos upon weatherless plinths. Some possessed too many arms. Others had narrow, elongated heads turned toward the city, as though still awaiting permission to enter.

I released Freezing Aura, and warmth began its slow return to the world. The frost covering my armor softened into beads of water, while the unnatural pressure upon my maximum Mana disappeared. Improved Entropic Aura followed, withdrawing from the surrounding space until the Trial’s wounded resistance closed behind it.

The lake remained frozen. Magic had begun the work, but ordinary cold now maintained the road I had created, at least for the time being. It would be many, many hours before it melted, if the rule of physics held true. Deep beneath its pale surface, shadows continued to move between trapped clouds of bubbles, though none approached the causeway.

Behind me, the Crimson Blades had finally begun crossing.

Vaska led with his great sword drawn, each foot placed carefully upon the thick ice covering the submerged stones. Jean followed with his shield raised, apparently expecting some aquatic horror to burst through the surface and bite him in half. Clara remained in the middle with Roberts close behind her, while Kristoff and Lorn watched the flanks.

They advanced as a company rather than a collection of frightened individuals; no one broke formation or attempted to hurry ahead. In my opinion, their caution remained excessive, but their discipline was admirable.

Jean stopped beside the corpse I had trapped beneath the ice. The creature’s broken neck and lidless eye remained visible through the clear surface. He stared down at it and shuddered. 

“Keep moving,” Vaska ordered, although his beard shifted with what might have been a suppressed smile.

The adventurers reached the island without incident and regrouped around me upon the broad stone landing. Clara immediately turned to examine the frozen lake, her attention moving between the causeway and the distant shore as though she hoped to understand my method merely by staring hard enough.

Jean struck the ice from the bottom of one greave with his mace. “You could have told us you intended to freeze the whole bloody lake.”

I shrugged with my armored shoulders, the motion nonchalant after the display of power. “I told you that I possessed a solution.”

“You called it trivial.”

“It was,” I said with an open smile.

Jean opened his mouth, but Roberts placed one heavy hand upon his shoulder. “Leave it,” the axeman advised. “You will only encourage him.”

Vaska looked from the frozen crossing to me, then slowly shook his head. “Next time you decide to change the nature of the world, give us more warning.”

I grunted. “That would spoil the surprise.”

With that settled, he turned toward Atarantu.

The city looked different from within its boundaries. Across the lake, it had appeared ancient in the conventional sense: broken walls, collapsed halls, terraces, columns, and narrow streets laid in old blue stone. Close inspection revealed something far stranger.

The stone was only a skin of something more alien.One of the buildings near the landing had lost its entire corner. Beneath the fitted blocks lay smooth ribs of gray metal, each joined to the next without rivets, welds, or any other fastening I recognized. Between those supports were layers of black material resembling glass, pale ceramic plates, and a fibrous mesh.

Clara stepped closer, all caution briefly forgotten. “This is not masonry.”

“Another excellent observation,” I remarked dryly.

She glanced at me, then returned her attention to the exposed structure. “The stone was placed over something else. Or grown around it.”

“Stone does not grow,” Jean remarked, but not one paid him any attention.

Roberts struck one of the metal supports with the butt of his spear. The impact produced a clear, almost musical note that traveled through the building and returned from somewhere beneath our feet.

“No rust,” he observed.

Lorn scraped an arrowhead across the surface. It left no mark. “No scratches either.”

Kristoff had already found a narrow break between two stone panels farther along the wall. He inserted the point of a knife and applied pressure until a section of blue stone shifted outward with a grinding sound. Behind it lay a shallow compartment filled with small metal cylinders, tightly braided strands, and several pieces of cloudy crystal held within delicate frames.

Jean joined him at once. “Anything valuable?”

Kristoff’s reply was an offhand shrug. 

Jean reached into the compartment and removed one of the cylinders. It was no longer than his hand, made from pale metal, and covered in rows of tiny depressions. He turned it over before shaking it beside his ear.

Something clicked within, causing the young Earth Mage moved quickly away from him.

Vaska noticed the activity and released a long breath through his nose. “Put it back.”

Jean looked over his shoulder. “Could be worth something.”

“It is worth precisely nothing,” their leader hissed.

“You haven’t even looked at it.”

“I don’t need to.”

Vaska crossed the street and took the cylinder from Jean before returning it to the compartment. 

“How many times must I explain this to you. The Trial awards us if we clear it,” Vaska explained. “Anything belonging to the Trial remains inside the Trial. You can fill every pocket with gold, pry jewels from the walls, and carry a throne upon your back if the mood takes you. None of it will cross the threshold.”

Jean frowned. “There are always exceptions.”

“Artifacts awarded by the Trial,” Clara supplied quietly. “Or objects recognized as part of its completion. I heard you returned once with an item, but that was what the trial decided to reward you.”

“Exactly.” Vaska pointed his great sword toward the surrounding ruins. “But usually not walls, furniture, ancient metal tubes, or whatever else you lot decide looks expensive. If we succeed, the Trial will decide what we have earned. Until then, all you are doing is wasting time and touching things that may explode in your face, or worse.”

Jean looked toward the compartment and returned the item.

Kristoff offered him an innocent smile. “Perhaps you should shake another.”

“Perhaps I should shake you,” the other man replied, his eyes narrowing in irritation.

“You would have to try,” Kristoff returned evenly.

From their tone, I could hear that it was an exchange well-worn with its exchange. The same scene played over and over, with only different backgrounds and topics being the difference.

So, Vaska ignored them and surveyed the streets ahead. Atarantu rose in uneven tiers toward the center of the island, where the tall structure dominated everything around it. From this distance, it looked less like a tower and more like several narrow buildings twisted together around a hollow core. Portions of its blue-stone covering had fallen away, exposing bands of black metal that curved upward and disappeared into the haze.

“Our goal is the exit,” Vaska declared. “We find it, we clear the Trial, and we return to Meridian preferably with the same number of limbs we brought.”

“And the Guardian?” Roberts questioned.

The leader of the Crimson Blade allowed a serious expression to settle on his face. “We avoid it.”

A grin spread slowly across my face.

Vaska saw it and pointed his oversized sword at me. “No.”

Jean rested his mace across one shoulder. “We did come here to clear the place. To defeat the monster that no doubt resides here.”

“We came here to survive the place,” Roberts corrected. “To win something from it.”

“What is this ‘Guardian’ that you speak of? It sounds interesting. Is strong?” I asked, genuinely intrigued.

Perhaps the creature, this dungeon boss or whatever it was, would serve as a decent diversion. 

Vaska nodded toward the distant central structure. “Every established Trial has a Guardian, or something near enough to one. A monster, construct, spirit, divine servant, or whatever other foul thing was given the duty of preventing people from leaving. We do not know what guards this place, where it sleeps, or what wakes it.”

Clara looked toward the tower. “The tablet said that whatever dwells at the city’s heart does not know abandonment.”

“Yes, and I would prefer that it continue not knowing us,” Vaska retorted.

I laughed softly. “You are afraid of a creature you have not even seen.”

“Good for you, Gilgamesh,” Vaska replied without irritation. “You are not afraid. The rest of us, possessing the burdens of experience and common sense, would like to survive.”

“How small are the flames of your ambition,” I scoffed.

“It has served us well. And better small, and not burnt,” was his weak rebuttal.

He rested the flat of his sword against one shoulder and met my gaze. “Should the Guardian appear and you feel compelled to challenge it, you are welcome to do so. Fight it alone, fight it naked, climb into its mouth and stab it from the inside if that appeals to you. Do not, however, expect too much assistance from us while we run for the exit. Wherever, that may be.”

Jean looked affronted. “We’re running?”

“If the choice is between running and being crushed by something old enough to remember the Cataclysm, then yes,” confirmed their leader.

“I can run quickly,” Kristoff volunteered.

Lorn adjusted the string of his bow. “Jean’s getting fat, he certainly looks like he can barely jog in all of that.”

“I can run faster than you,” the armored man shot back.

“You are wearing plate and carrying a door.”

Jean shook his head. “It’s called a shield, you dolt.”

“It will make a fine marker for your grave,” came the other man’s droll reply.

Despite himself, Roberts almost smiled at that.

I rested my halberd upon one shoulder and regarded them with open contempt. “Escaping without defeating the Guardian is cheating.”

Vaska stared at me for several moments. Then he shook his head in exasperation.

“There is no cheating inside a Trial.”

“Of course there is.”

“No. There is victory, failure, and death. You may call it cheating, but cheating death is winning.”

“The Guardian exists to be defeated,” I stated, and something told me what I said was the truth.

The truth, it is the truth.

“The Guardian exists to prevent us from clearing the Trial,” Vaska countered. “It’s defeat is not a prerequisite. I would rather not draw its gaze.”

Clara nodded reluctantly. “There are records of companies clearing Trials without encountering their Guardians. Some found hidden exits. Others completed a task that caused the Guardian to withdraw.”

“Cowards finding excuses,” I decided, dismissing the bleating of sheep.

“Survivors finding solutions,” Roberts corrected.

Vaska continued before I could answer. “The Divines reward those who use their minds as readily as those who kill. Perhaps they appreciate human tenacity. Perhaps they enjoy watching mortals crawl through whatever cracks they overlooked. Perhaps the Goddess simply finds it amusing when prey refuses to die properly.”

His grin returned, broad and entirely without shame. “Whatever the reason, the reward are considerable either way.”

For a moment, the only sound came from the lake behind us. The ice settled with a succession of deep cracks, each one rolling across the cavern like soft thunder.

Then I laughed. The sound carried through the empty streets, slipped between the ruined halls, a challenge against the dark of this place. Jean tightened his grip upon his mace, while Clara glanced nervously toward the central tower as though laughter alone might awaken the thing within it.

“You need have no fear,” I assured Vaska once my amusement subsided. “I never expected much from any of you.”

Jean stepped forward. “You arrogant little—”

Vaska extended one arm across his path without taking his eyes from me.

“Should the Guardian appear,” I continued, “run wherever you please. Find your hole, hidden door, or divine loophole and crawl through it. I will deal with whatever comes.”

“Generous,” Kristoff remarked.

“I ask only one thing.”

Vaska raised an eyebrow.

I looked at them all, my gaze taking them in. “Do not get in my way.”

The leader of the Crimson Blades regarded me in silence, weighing insult against utility as he had done from our first meeting. Whatever conclusion he reached caused the corner of his mouth to rise.

“Fine,” he agreed. “You do not block our exit, and we will not block your path to glorious suicide.”

I smiled a serpent’s smile. “I cannot die.”

“So you keep saying.”

Vaska turned away before I could correct him and began issuing instructions. Jean took the front beside him, while Clara returned to the center with Roberts guarding her back. Lorn moved to the right flank, Kristoff to the left, although both were ordered to remain within sight. I was placed at the rear again, an arrangement Vaska no doubt intended as either a precaution or an insult.

For the time being, I permitted it. And, like this we advanced into the depths of Atarantu. The streets climbed steadily from the lakeshore, passing between buildings whose broken stone faces concealed their metal bones. Narrow strips of black glass ran along several walls at eye level. Our reflections followed us within them, stretched thin and distorted by the curved surfaces.

Once, my reflection continued walking after I had stopped. It took another two steps before halting. I smiled at it.

The thing wearing my shape did not smile back.