In the Depths

Tysos realized he was probably the last to arrive at the Grand Library. Initially, he’d imagined he might be the only person the Emperor had summoned at such a late hour, but from the drifting sound of quiet conversation and the number of royal and household guards waiting at the top of the great stair, he imagined the whole council had been called for and maybe a handful of others.

He drew back his hood as he approached the summit of the stair. The night’s chill slapped him across the face and ears like a jealous lover. For just a moment as he presented his badge of office to the imperial guards—who were always sticklers for such procedures even though every one of their number knew the Grand Cleric by sight—Tysos longed not only for another season to be in but another time as well. Summer, certainly, and maybe one of the ones when he still had hair. The guards saluted ceremonially as they waved him and his own sworn shield through to where the Emperor was gathered with a score of others, having what seemed to be casual conversation from the snatches Tysos could catch through intermittent gusts. He bowed low as he came near the gathering.

“My Lord Emperor,” Tysos said.

“It is good you came so swiftly, Tysos. I would have us about our business as soon as possible.”

Tysos rose and drew closer as he was beckoned by the Emperor.

“How may I be of service, Lord?”

The Emperor indicated a low wooden table, probably dragged out here from one of the reading rooms, covered with a pile of animal skins covered in a strange runic script. “I know many runes, old friend, but I’m not sure I recognize any of these. What do you make of it?”

Tysos approached the table and started examining the skins. They were old. From the feel and smell of them, much older than anything he’d ever personally dealt with.

“Where were these found?”

“They were a gift,” Nogol, Captain of the Imperial guard answered. “From one of Obbol’s Thanes.”

“One wonders where a Thane might acquire such a thing,” Tysos said.

“Their house were not always Thanes,” said the Emperor. “These were a fealty gift from the son of the White Fang. It would seem our old adversary has passed on to his ancestors and his son has assumed his seat these last eight moons. Obbol assures me he is a loyal man, not the bitter schemer his father was.”

Tysos considered this. He had his doubts, but the fact that the new Lord Thane of Red Harbor had turned over such a treasure—one his father had obviously managed to keep hidden to himself for nearly three decades—seemed to indicate that he may truly be loyal to the new order, or at least interested in ingratiating himself with it instead of resisting it at every possible opportunity.

He leaned closer, tracing a thick, dark line of ink that twisted across the oldest hide. The runes were archaic, their angles sharp and aggressive, hailing from a dialect that predated the unification by centuries. He couldn't decipher the full text—the grammar was tangled and foreign—but as his fingers followed the ink, a cold realization settled in his gut.

“It’s a map,” Tysos murmured, not looking up. “Or rather, a guide. It doesn't show landmarks, Sire, it gives directions. 'Beneath the salt-vaults, pass the three weeping stones, descend where the air grows heavy.' It’s a verbal path through the deep sublevels of this very library.”

The Emperor’s eyes lit up, that old, dangerous spark returning to his gaze. “And what lies at the end of the path, Grand Cleric?”

Tysos bowed back over the skins, moving slowly across one with his finger and then another. He was fairly sure of his answer already but one must be absolutely certain when dealing with Emperors.

“These runes are not describing a single path. I don’t believe it to be a simple treasure map or a guide to a particular place. I haven’t, of course, been able to study the entire body in detail,” Tysos answered, patting the pile of skins with his hand. “But I would guess from what I’ve deciphered so far and the total volume of the text, that this is a comprehensive manifest of the sublevels—a grand architectural guide. I must confess I’ve never been past the twentieth level myself, though there are Librarians and Great Clerics who have delved deeper, as I’m sure you know. I’m also certain everyone here is well aware that the lower levels of the Library are extremely dangerous. They are filled with old magic traps and artifices. Many evil things were locked away in the depths of this place in the Age of Fracture. I would not personally advise going deeper than the thirtieth level with anything less than a legion, and such a journey is wildly impractical for obvious reasons. This is why I’ve never commissioned a deep survey, Lord Emperor.”

Before the Emperor could answer, the night air was pierced by a horrible wailing bellow. Tysos snapped his hands over his ears, the sound tearing through the stone columns and rattling the bones of his jaw. He half-feared his eardrums had split.

“There is no time,” the Emperor said bitterly. “We will go now.”

“We?” Tysos asked. “Now? I presume you know what it was we just heard.”

“I know nothing, old friend, but as always I suspect much. I sense a great evil from the depths has broken free of its bonds. We will go and bind it again or banish it, if we must.”

Tysos thought for several moments. He had a hundred reasons why this was madness, but he could already hear his oldest friend’s rebuttal to all of them. He turned to the sworn shield by his side and motioned for them to step closer.

“You’ll need to fetch my rod. My wife can find it for you. Two rods, actually. The ebony and steel. Go swiftly.”

#

The morning sun did not bring warmth; it only turned the frost on the Grand Library’s steps into a blinding, cruel silver.

Tysos dragged his boots up the final stair, leaning heavily on the shoulder of the young sworn shield of one of his fallen comrades. Of nearly two score men who’d descended into the depths, only a small remnant walked out. Behind them, wrapped in a blood-soaked traveling cloak of royal purple, four grim-faced survivors carried the broken body of their Lord Emperor between them.

At the summit, the casual late-night chatter that filled the air days before had vanished, never to return, replaced instead by a suffocating silence. The young heir stood among the remaining household guards. He already wore his father’s heavy signet ring on his finger, his posture straight, his expression carved from stone. He did not look weak or unready for the weight of six newly bound kingdoms. Rather he looked like a man who had spent his entire life being raised by the Conqueror.

Ronar stepped forward, his eyes locking onto the purple cloak for only a fraction of a second before lifting to meet the Grand Cleric's weary gaze. His voice was steady.

"Grand Cleric Tysos," the new Emperor said. "Tell me, was your mission a success? Did the abomination take my father?"

Tysos did not bow. He did not have the strength left in his spine to manage it. His robes were stained with the black ichor of the deep sublevels and the red blood of his dearest friend. He fell to his knees as if pushed by invisible hands. He reached into his tunic with trembling, bloodied fingers and pulled out a small, leather-bound diary. Its pages were warped by damp air and stained at the edges, but still perfectly legible if you could manage to read through the occasional speckling of blood.

He placed the journal into the steady hands of the new ruler.

“Look there for your answers,” Tysos whispered, his voice cracking like dry parchment. “I cannot bear to speak of it again. Even by royal decree, Lord Emperor.”

The young Emperor looked down at the stained leather. Without a word, he turned and gestured toward the grand reading room just inside the bronze doors. He walked to a high-backed stone chair, sitting with the practiced grace of a ruler, and laid the book flat on the heavy cedar table. Tysos followed slowly, sinking into the chair opposite him, his eyes fixed blankly on the polished stone floor. The room was utterly silent save for the crisp, rhythmic turning of the pages as the sovereign read.

From the journal of Grand Cleric Tysos, On the mission to the Grand Library’s depths:

Level 24 The air is dank. It smells of rust and rot and mold. The Emperor moves with the manic stride of a man thirty years younger, but Voivode Kaelen’s bad hip is clicking rhythmically in the dark—a mocking metronome reminding us of our mortality. The younger blades have stopped joking. We passed the salt-vaults by torchlight. It felt like something was watching us. We’ve all agreed to double the watch over the sleeping.

Level 31 We’ve broken the threshold. No living man has stood beneath these vaults since the Age of Fracture. The runes on the animal hides guided us past the three weeping stones—gargantuan basalt pillars slick with a foul, oily condensation. The ancient defenses were waiting for us. A hidden pressure plate triggered a granite deadfall. Young Vane was crushed before he could scream. The Emperor did not halt. He looked into the black abyss ahead, still smiling. He is not hunting a beast; he is hunting his youth.

Level 42 The air is so thick it burns the lungs to draw it. We are running low on oil, and three of our warriors are wounded from a skirmish with the shifting iron automatons left behind by the old kings. The walls are made of an ebony stone, slick and ice cold to the touch. It seems to drink the light from our torches as if it has not tasted it in centuries. My ebony rod is nearly splintered from discharging the residual wards, but the steel rod remains whole. The wailing bellow we heard under the stars is now a constant, subterranean thrumming that vibrates through the soles of our boots and makes our teeth hum if we hold them together. We’re deep enough to be buried. Nogol jokes that if we die here, at least we won't have to pay the autumn taxes.

Level 50 Gods forgive us, we found the heart of the rot. It was a remnant of the Fracture—a mass of animated shadow and ancient malice bound in rusted iron and a blackness darker than a starless night. We slew it. We proved we are the vanguard still. But the cost was the Conqueror. The terror was too swift, its defenses impenetrable to a standard assault. Recognizing the stalemate, the Emperor drew the beast's fury entirely upon himself, driving his blade into its armored flank to force an opening. He took a mortal, tearing blow to the chest, but he held the line. Because of his sacrifice, Nogol was able to shatter its exposed core, and Kaelen died delivering the final blow with his great hammer. The Emperor's eyes are fading as I write this by the final light of a dying ember. He is laughing as he bleeds. He whispered to me that he is finally warm. So passes Urthan, first of his name, Imperial Lord of the Six Great Kingdoms and the surrounding seas, his life given so that his Empire may know peace. May he rest with his fathers in honor.

The young Emperor turned the final page, his fingers lingering on the stiff, blood-shadowed parchment. The silence stretched between the two men, heavy and profound. Through the tall arched windows, the silver dawn was finally deepening into a golden morning.

The sovereign closed the book with a decisive thud. He didn’t weep. He simply looked across the table at the broken, exhausted cleric who had helped build the world he now ruled.

"Is it true, Tysos?" the Emperor asked softly. "All of it?"

Tysos slowly lifted his head. His eyes were red-rimmed, carrying the weight of fifty levels of darkness, but his gaze was clear.

"Every word, Lord Emperor," Tysos replied. "He died as he lived."

The young ruler nodded slowly, placing a hand over the journal. "Then let the scribes record it so the kingdoms know the foundations of this continued peace were bought in the deep." He stood up, the signet ring catching the morning light. "Rest now, old friend. The empire stands."