Tales of the Vangen: The Black Ministry's Betrayal (Book 1)

Chapter 33: A Monster in the Dark

The descent into the Deadways was made in awe and silence. Nox kept the pace at a steady march, crossbow at the ready, while the other officers followed close behind with the Greenhorns. Dux kept a thoughtful eye. Civis was sweating despite the chilly, still air. Culter, however, looked almost bored as he flipped his stiletto absentmindedly in his free hand, looking around as if searching for something to kill.

The stairway terminated into a small room where the priests of the Acropolis kept supplies. Torches were lit and passed around, filling the small room with greasy smoke and ruddy light.

The band found a set of hallways after passing the first mausoleum, where the noble dead were ceremoniously buried. Nox chose left, and they followed him with solemn trust.

Every now and then, they passed a mass grave or a mausoleum to an old noble house, the carved stone sigils beyond anyone's understanding.

Stone hallways led down into more stone hallways, twisting and turning with no rhyme or reason, the only constant being the continuous descent down into the earth's bowels. The air grew colder still until every breath became a labored puff of smoke.

"Nido's tits, it's freezing in here." Civis was the first to complain. He pulled his cloak around him, his teeth chattering away in his skull. "I thought the closer you were to Gehenna, the hotter it got. Not the other way around."

That earned a chuckle from Culter, amused by something only he understood. Civis shot him a glare but said nothing. Even he knew not to question the minds of men like him. In there lay only madness.

"Heat rises, and the chill descends," Dux mused. "Simple science."

"Never took you for a learned man," Civis said, a jab that any other man would have taken for an insult. Dux knew better. He merely nodded, his face set into the iron mask—a look he made whenever he felt trouble brewing. There wasn't anything inherently dangerous about the Deadways. The dead do not come back. A simple science, but he was more worried about what may linger with the dead. An ambush maybe or worse, Tyrannus himself. Dux prayed to every God he thought was listening that this would never come to pass. He still couldn't shake the pale green eyes that burned out of Vizith back at the warehouse. An invasion of the mind like that reminded him too much of what the Empress was capable of.

She hadn't appeared to Dux since the rebels' defeat back in Orienta, but the only reason was his avoidance of sleep as much as possible. Even then, once his body had reached its limit, Magus would use his glamour to send him into a dreamless sleep. A service that the old magician had gracefully kept to himself.

But now, with an entire days offensive under his belt, Dux was starting to feel his candle burning at both ends. His eyes were growing heavy. Limbs stiff with fatigue. Every step feeling like his last. And yet the fear of dreaming back into the Palace kept him alert and focused. He had no desire to return to that awful place anytime soon. Say what you will, fear makes for an excellent motivator.

"Captain?" Civis pulled Dux back from his thoughts. He snapped his gaze back up, blinking away the last fatigue.

"Ugh? Oh, right," Dux said, remembering what Civis had said before. "I wasn't traditionally learned. Too poor for something like that."

Civis gave him an odd look but continued. "Always thought you were noble-born, honestly."

Dux gave a weary smile. At last, it felt like Civis was returning to his old self. Perhaps he'd finally forgiven him, not that he was about to ask. Sometimes it was better to keep your feelings to yourself. Helps to keep the mind level.

"What gave you that impression?"

Civis rubbed at his chin. "It's how you carry yourself, I suppose. Normal folk are born keeping their head down. I've seen it before in some of our Greenhorns. Not you, though. You're always eye to eye with everyone, but never really looking down on them."