Hadrian saw a long succession of men being crowned, with the cityscape in the background; in each one the city was smaller, the crowning ceremony less lavish. Two things caught his notice as they ran. The first was that in every instance, the head of the man being crowned was scratched out, deliberately chipped away. The second was that in each depiction, although the crowd always appeared different, Hadrian could swear the artist used the same model for one figure—a tall, slender man—who appeared in the forefront in each scene. And while in the dim fluttering lantern light it was difficult to tell, Hadrian was certain he had seen the man before.
They came to a four-way intersection. To the left was an incredible door, five stories tall, made completely of gold and inlaid with stunning geometric designs of such artistry each of them expelled a sound of awe.
“The imperial throne room,” Myron said. “In there once sat the ruler of the world.”
“You know where we are, then?” Royce asked.
Myron nodded, looking at the walls. “Yes… I think so.”
“Which way to the crypts?”
The monk hesitated, closing his eyes for a second. “This way.” He pointed forward. “Down two doors, then we take a stair down on the left.”
They quickly reached the stair and Royce led them down. Gaunt grunted, limping along with one arm around Myron’s shoulders, his fist holding on to the monk’s rope belt.
“Oberdaza?” Arista said to Hadrian as they chased the end of the line. “You mentioned them before, when we were in Hintindar, didn’t you? You said they were witch doctors who used Ghazel magic.”
“Scary little buggers.”
“What was that thing they were making?”
“No idea, but it was on fire and growing.”
“I could sense something, something disrupting the rhythm, breaking my pattern, my connection. I’ve never encountered anything like that before. I didn’t know what to do.”
“I think you did great,” he told her. “You controlled it real well too—didn’t even get close to losing you this time.”
In the dim light he managed to catch a little smile on her face. “I did control it better, didn’t I? You helped. I could sense you near me, this warm light I could cling to, an anchor to keep me grounded.”
“You were probably just afraid I’d hit you again.” Behind them, down the corridor, echoed a tremendous boom! The ground shook under them and dust blew off the walls. “Uh-oh.”
They reached another stair.
“We keep going down, right?” he heard Royce ask. “This tomb-thing is at the bottom?”
“Yes,” Myron replied. “The imperial crypt is on the lowest level. The palace was actually built over the tomb of Novron as a shrine to glorify his memory. It became a ruling palace long after.”
They came to still another stair and raced down it, Magnus grunting with each drop. At the bottom lay corridors smaller and narrower, with shorter ceilings. They moved single file now, Gaunt struggling, hopping. A three-way intersection stopped them. Three statues of long-bearded men holding shields stood before them, staring back.
“Well?” Royce asked the monk.
“This is where the map was torn,” he replied apologetically. “The rest is just white space.”
“Great,” Royce said.
“But we should be close. There wasn’t much room left, so it has to be—Look!” The monk pointed at the wall on the right corridor, where an EH was scratched.
“Let’s hope the Ghazel can’t read,” Royce said, pushing on.
“They don’t need to; they can smell,” Hadrian explained.
They ran as best they could, chasing the bobbing lantern. Behind them, the sounds of pursuit grew as the Ghazel gained on them. They passed doors on either side of the corridor, which Royce ignored as he rushed forward. Some were partially open. Hadrian tried to look inside, yet the interior of each was too dark to see anything.
Drums echoed, and the blast of a horn rang down the stone corridors. Gaunt was bleeding again. Hadrian could see dark drops on the floor behind them. If the Ghazel had had any trouble tracking them before, they would have none now.
Again they stopped, this time at a T-intersection at the center of which stood a large stone door beside a stone table. They all saw letters above it, carved deep into the arch.
“Myron, translate,” Royce ordered.
“This is it,” he said excitedly. “ ‘Tread lightly, with fear and reverence, all ye who enter these halls, for this is the eternal resting place of the emperors of Elan, rulers of the world.’ ”
Before Myron finished reading, Hadrian heard the chilling sound of claws on stone. “They’re coming!”
Royce pulled on the door and struggled with it. Hadrian and Mauvin pushed forward. Together they grabbed hold of the edge and pulled to the sound of heavy stone grinding.
The sharp clacking of hundreds of three-inch nails grew louder as behind them a fiery red light appeared and grew. They all passed through the opening and together pulled the door shut. As they did, as the door closed, Hadrian peered out the closing crack and glimpsed the sight of a giant, stooping figure made of flame striding down the corridor at them.
“There’s no way to lock it!” Alric shouted.
“Outta my way!” The dwarf fell to his knees and, drawing his hammer, pounded on the hinges. There was an immediate crack. “That will slow them.”
Ahead was another, very narrow downward stair. Here the stone was different. It cast a bluish hue and was carved in fluid curving lines.
Boom!