The Pleasure of Memory (51 page)

He’d only climbed up a half dozen rungs before being forced to stop to get his breath. His muscles were screaming for the effort. His leather britches felt like boards against his legs, and his back was on fire from holding the torch in one hand as he climbed. And yet, his thrill was a slave master, and he was soon working his way upward again.

Barely another dozen rungs passed before he had to pause again. As he waited for a refill of breath and strength, he studied the darkness above him. This time, he saw a pale light defining the edge of a landing another twenty steps above him. He was about to sing out his joy and bellow his gratitude to the gods when he was struck by a sorry pang of doubt. How could there be light? A torch couldn’t ignite itself. Someone was up there.

“Chance!” he whispered down to his companion, “Look up there! A light!”

Chance was halfway down between him and the water, hugging the rung with his face buried into his arm wall and panting as if he’d been running for his life.

“Chance, did you hear me? There’s a light!”

The mage waved Beam on with his torch. “It's...it’s okay,” he said with great effort, “It's just…just a torch. Baeldonian. Like…like back at the cave.”

Beam thought about it, thought about the odd metal torches that’d already been burning when they entered Sanctuary, the same torches they now carried. But he didn’t linger on it. In the end, he realized it didn’t matter one difference whether someone was up there or not. Whatever lousy hand the gods had dealt him would just have to be played out, because he sure as hell wasn’t going back to the water.

Still, he locked his torch arm around the rung and slipped the dagger from his boot. He clenched the blade between his teeth and resumed his climb.

When he reached the top, he paused for a careful peek over the edge. The room was maybe thirty feet wide and forty or so feet deep with a smooth floor, but craggy, roughly cut walls and ceiling. Yet, despite the wide breadth of the room, there was barely a fifteen-foot wide path down the middle of it clear enough to allow passage. Scores of chests, heavy bags, and crude wooden boxes piled two and three high lined the walls so densely that they sprawled several feet out into the room like dueling avalanches of junk. Nothing living was in view. It was warm and dry, and he felt such a rush of happiness at the sight he would’ve hugged the mage if he’d only been a few rungs closer.

He rolled the torch out into the open space and scrambled up over the edge. Once secure, he threw a hand down to Chance and heaved him up. Then he turned and walked into the room.

As he walked down the relatively narrow path, he inspected the junk filling most of the space on either side of him. He noticed with some surprise that there were even weapons scattered through the debris. Swords, bows, pikes, and maces were propped against the walls between crates, piled in the corners, heaped in mounds across the bags and boxes, or just spilled carelessly across the floor. Loose clothes overflowed the boxes and bags. Ropes, empty bags, and tools were haphazardly strewn everywhere. It looked as if someone had been caught ransacking the place. He’d seen similar clutter in tombs he’d explored, evidence that previous looters had made their mark before him.

Despite the oddity of the debris, the queerest item in the room was a stone gargoyle squatting at the back right corner. It was several feet tall with wings peaking nearly to the ceiling, which was a good twenty-odd feet high. He wondered how the devil anyone managed to get it in here; the thing must weigh a ton. At least. He was about to ask Chance about it when he saw the statue’s dimly glowing blue eyes.

More
magic
. Perfect! He was far too tired to endure the sermon that would follow any inquiry about the object. Besides, it just didn’t matter. The most important observation about the statue was that it blocked a dark, narrow arch that could only be his beloved doorway to the world.

He ran toward the gargoyle as quickly as his stiff, wet leathers and abused muscles would allow. Up close, he could see the arch behind the statue was indeed a door, and that it led to a corridor of some kind. This had to be the way out. Unfortunately, he soon discovered that the gargoyle was actually wider than the door and effectively blocked any egress. There were gaps around the statue’s form, but none wide enough to allow him to slip through, at least not that he could see at first pass. A surge of irritation gripped him. The statue’s placement was no accident.

Still, there had to be a way through. As he studied the arch of the door rising above the gargoyle, he saw the break he needed. There was a tall, though narrow space rising above the statue just between the head and wings. He’d almost surely be able to squeeze through it if he could manage to climb the gargoyle. Unfortunately, his leathers were like wet splints; he could barely bend his legs, let alone climb with them.

He slammed a fist against the gargoyle’s mantis-like head. “Damn me to hell,” he shouted, “I can’t get past the bloody thing. It's as big as four men.”

“Five, if you're the man.”

Beam threw a scowl back at the mage. “Damn me, Brother, you're a real wit!”

“Not to worry. It can be relocated.”

“So
relocate
it!”

“I intend to. But first we need to dry up and don some warmer clothes”

Beam followed Chance over to a particularly large black chest that was nearly buried under the debris of bags and weapons. “What do you mean get dry first?” he asked him, “We can dry off up there, under the sun.”

Chance dragged a few overflowing bags of what looked like raw wool from the chest and tossed them onto the piles behind it. This exposed a pair of odd wooden clubs with sharp jags of metal mounted in the head. They appeared to be Pendtish in design, crude and created only with the intent of drawing the most blood and bone possible from a target. These he tossed to the side onto more bags of clothing. He pushed the remaining remnants of old, rusting mail and leather tunics to the side and cleared access to what appeared to be the only chest in the room that wasn’t already open. The hinges wept as he raised the huge lid.

“Why don't you strip out of those wets and we'll see if we can persuade them to dry?” he said to Beam.

“They’ll dry just fine outside,” Beam said back. Persuade them to dry. Was he joking?

Chance nodded, but didn’t reply. Instead, he began methodically searching through the clothes.

Beam understood the gesture quite clearly. It meant he might as well be talking to his hand. “You’re a real asshole, you know that?” he said through his teeth.

“Yes, Beam,” Chance said as he worked, “I’m quite thoroughly aware of that, thank you.”

Beam could only look at him. He was too tired, too cold, and too desperate for a single breath of fresh air to engage his baser urges. Instead, he turned back to the gargoyle and looked up at the notch of arch just visible above it.

“Well, tell me this at least,” he said as he studied the gap, “How much farther to the surface?”

He looked back down at Chance to see him holding a pair of leather britches up to Beam’s legs as if he were considering a purchase. Beam cursed and swatted them away.

“Are you insane?” Chance asked him seriously, “What the devil is wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me? Here’s what’s wrong with me. I’ve been waiting days for this! I want fresh air and I want it now. I want you to move that statue. We can change our goddamned clothes later.”

Chance rubbed his forehead with the butt of his hand. “The hatch is about fifty feet above us,” he said with obvious effort, “The tunnel beyond that sentry spirals several rotations up to it. It’s not more than a five-minute walk, but you must manage your way past the sentry first, and only I can move it. And I am not moving it until I’m dry. So pull your britches up and cinch your belt a notch tighter, and try to be an adult.”

“No, I think you’ll move the damned thing now,” Beam said back.

“Is that right?” Chance said, “Well, let me think on that a bit.” He then returned to the chest, pulling out another pair of britches and holding them in the air for consideration.

Debate was clearly futile. What gain came from arguing with a man on the verge of collapse? He seemed to be in the midst of some kind of brain fever, one that only rest and time would likely resolve. It was more than obvious that he wasn’t going to be any help, at least not soon. He likely couldn’t even help his obstinacy, given the state of decrepitude he’d descended to.

No, in that moment, Beam understood he was on his own.

He got up and walked back to the sentry. “Five minutes to the surface,” he whispered as he studied the situation, “Five stinking minutes.”

He examined the gargoyle and its proximity to the door. There was a slim gap near the floor between the outer wing edge and the door jam. Hopeful now, he got down on his belly and tried to squeeze through the gap, but it was more than ridiculously tight. He then moved to the inside of the wing, pushing his way into a narrow gap between it and the creature’s haunch, but was again rebuffed. Cursing, he stood up, stepped back, and reexamined his options. The other side of the statue had no gaps at all. It was too tight against the door’s edge. Egress at ground level was clearly out of the question.

He studied the creature’s wing line where it rose up toward the ceiling. The statue’s wings towered over it, rising to a peak beyond the arch of the door before fanning out to the sides like curtains.

He stepped back another pace.

There it was, that narrow gap near the arch of the door he’d seen originally. He moved a pace to the side, and then he saw exactly what he was looking for. The wings leaned forward into the room ever so slightly at the top. It wasn’t much, but it might be enough.

His wet leathers fought him as he scaled his way up the gargoyle’s height, but anger and desperation can make serious allies. He would not be stopped. Not now, not here, not so close to victory.

When he finally climbed up onto the head and was in position, he saw that the wings leaned further into the room than he’d even hoped. They created a kind of chute through the arch and into the dark hall beyond. The drop would be like sliding through a tunnel and down a steep hill. He’d have to watch that he didn’t clip his jaw on the arch on his way under it. And the landing likely wouldn’t be gentle, but it was absolutely manageable.

“The hatch at the surface was built for Baeldons,” Chance called to him, “You’ll never move it alone.”

“You’ll never move it alone,” Beam muttered, “Watch me.”

Sitting there atop the statue, so close to freedom, so close to victory, he felt like a god-man. He could move a mountain if he had to. He could walk on water. He could pass through solid stone if that’s what it took. One way or another, he was getting out of this hellhole tonight.

He lowered himself feet first into the chute. It was a tighter squeeze than he’d originally estimated. He braced a hand against the wall above the arch, and then carefully slipped one and then the other foot into place. Then he eased his legs down into it. Holding tight against the wall, he maneuvered his body deeper into the hole. When he was in to the level of his hips, he drew a steadying breath and released himself. He’d just started sliding down the chute when his sword snagged the gargoyle’s wing above and behind him.

He jerked to a neck-breaking stop. His jaw clipped the arch precisely as he’d warned. He was stuck, hanging there in that chute by his stinking scabbard, so close to freedom and yet so goddamned far from it. He wanted to scream.

Instead, he repositioned. Bracing himself against the door’s arch, and holding firmly onto one of the gargoyle’s wings, he managed to heave himself back up a bit higher, just enough to brace a knee against the arch and steady himself there. The movement bought him enough slack to loosen his belt buckle. An instant later, his sword and scabbard clattered raucously as they tumbled back over the gargoyle and into the room behind him. He was free. All he had to do now was let go and slide down into the chamber beyond.

“You’ll never move the hatch, Beam,” Chance again called from the room beyond the gargoyle, “It’s a fool’s mission.”

Beam ignored him. He let go and glided into the chute.

He landed on the darker side of the arch and rolled to the ground. Despite the restraints of his wet clothes, he was on his feet in a flash. The narrow walls of this new tunnel were solid stone, carved from the bedrock itself. Mounted on the wall above him was metallic torch burning with a now familiar green flame. He pulled it down and used the light to examine the corridor. Just to his left rose a wide stairway of smooth, wide steps. The stairs quickly twisted into a tight curve and disappeared.

He bounded up the first few stairs and stopped. The stairs continued to twist away upward and out of view. It was just too good to be true. Let Chance flounder about for dry clothes, or a warm bed, or his mother’s tit, if that was what the man needed. But for himself? Food and physical comfort could wait. At long, long last, he was here, rising up this wondrous passage, cycling toward the heavens like riding the stairway to Pentyrfal! He was mere minutes from freedom, and by the gods above, freedom was what he’d have.

With that, he broke into a sprint and quickly made his way up the stairs through the spiraling passage.

∞

Chance rocked back on his haunches and rubbed at his aching head. After a few minutes, he looked over at the sentry blocking the outline of the door. The half-breed was utterly exhausting. It would require less work and patience to train a team of monkeys to map the stars above than guide that fool across a city street. For the thousandth time since he became aware of just what a load of work Beam was, he considered that poor old Brother Dael must surely now be an Arch Santir sitting at the right hand of Calina in the hallowed Halls of Pentyrfal.

He rubbed at his eyes and searched for his center of calm. Just let him go, he told himself. He’s a rogue and a fool, and nearly uneducable. Besides, he’ll never get out by himself. He’s just a stubborn child, and you’re a fool to let him frustrate you. The man’s like a cellar shimlin, all mischief and diabolical creativity. Best just to keep working on their preparations and let the child wear himself out.