Stepping into the hall, Teyla marveled at the engineering required to create such a space in the heart of the living rock. She had seen nothing quite like it in all her travels. Even the subterranean city of the Genii, despite its enormous size, was not quite as impressive. That was a natural cave system which had been appropriated by the people; this bore the look of something created from scratch, honed and carved to perfection.
Miruva looked awe-struck. The silent splendor of the austere hall was mightily impressive. “Who could have created this, on Khost?”
Teyla was going to reply, when a stranger’s voice broke in. Suddenly, Teyla realized that there were figures in the shadows, wreathed in darkness.
“Who says you are still on Khost?” The voice was harsh. “You have been taken by the Banshees, and your fate is sealed. This is the Land of the Dead — get used to it, you’ll be here forever.”
Ronon came round. It felt like he’d been out just a few moments — just a thump on the head, not major trauma. He blinked, watching his surroundings resolve back into focus. He was winded, his head was banging with pain and he saw a whole constellation spin before his eyes. But he was stationary, and alive. That was something.
The cascade of snow around him had ceased. Ronon had come to a halt on solid ground. Apparently solid, anyway. Gingerly, he looked around him. He was on a wide rocky shelf. Cliffs of ice reared up on either side, dark and slick, and the only light was from cracks deep within the glassy surface. Eerily, it glowed blue. For a moment, he thought he’d been transported to a Wraith Hiveship. He shook his head angrily. Now was not the time to hallucinate. The sudden movement send fresh spears of pain shooting behind his eyes.
“Ronon!” An anxious shout drifted down from the gap above. It must have been twenty feet or so. “Can you hear me?”
“I’m OK!” he bellowed back, before realizing that shouting his head off in an unstable ice cave was possibly not the wisest move.
A few moments passed. The chill lay heavy in the crevasse, but at least Ronon was protected from the searing wind. He shifted slightly, trying to take some pressure off his bruised ribs. As far as he could tell, the rock beneath was solid. In fact, now that the adrenalin was wearing off, he could see how fortunate he’d been. Instead of a yawning chasm to nowhere, the entire floor of the crevasse looked like solid granite. It was hard to make out much detail in the gloom, but it looked as if he’d broken through the ceiling of a cave rather than into the mouth of a bottomless pit.
Something brushed against his cheek. He slapped it away quickly, before realizing it was the end of a cord. The Forgotten made their ropes from strips of leather bound together with worked strands of plains grass. It made for a surprisingly sturdy construction. Before Ronon had time to react, there was a flurry of snow. Orand came down the slender lifeline and landed heavily by his side on the rocky shelf.
“Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” said Ronon, ignoring the throbbing in his ribs and head. “You shouldn’t have come down. It’s not safe.”
Orand cast an expert eye around him. He reached deep into his furs and pulled out a small candle. With a strike of a flint and a deft flick of the wick, the candle lit, throwing a weak light across the subterranean space.
“Interesting,” he mused. “This place might just be the safest option we have right now. That storm will kill us if we stay out there much longer.”
He swept the candle around, checking the floor of the cave and scrutinizing it carefully.
“This is good,” he said. “You’re bringing us luck today, Ronon.”
“Don’t feel much like good luck.”
Orand tugged on the rope, and the silhouette of a head appeared at the gap above.
“Make sure the rope’s secure, and bring the lads down,” ordered Orand. “This is a shelter.”
The hunters out on the surface hastened to obey. One by one, they slid down the rope. Even in the dim light of the candle, Ronon could see they were in a bad way. All of them limped, and some looked like the extreme cold had bent them double in pain. Eventually, the entire party assembled in the cave. It still wasn’t warm, but at least it wasn’t lethal.
“You sure about this?” Ronon asked. “That opening doesn’t look too secure.”
“Relax, big man,” Orand said, lighting more candles and passing them around. “If I know anything about this country, this cave will be linked with others. In some places, there are tunnels which go on for miles. Besides, we couldn’t have lasted for any time above ground.”
Ronon looked around him doubtfully. There were dark recesses ahead. Some of them might well lead deeper into the rock. Going farther into the shadowy recesses of Khost was not something that filled him with enthusiasm.
“You’re planning on going down there?”
“Possibly,” said Orand. “This chamber looks stable enough to light a small fire. We’ve got some food, and can melt snow. Unless this storm lasts for long, we can wait it out, but we might have to do some exploring if it’s a big one.”
The rest of the hunters shuffled further down into the cave. There was room enough for the dozen of them, but not much more. Icy blasts came through the serrated opening, and it was still deathly cold. Getting away from the gap caused by Ronon’s descent was in all their interests. Orand moved further down, holding his candle low to show up the uneven floor. Ronon took one last look up, before hauling himself to his feet. He went carefully, feeling for any damage.
He’d been lucky. A few bruised ribs and a headache seemed to be the worst of his injuries. He followed Orand and the others away from the crevasse entrance.
It proved to be a wise move. Seconds after shuffling down into the deeper area of the cave, there was a shuddering crack from above. Part of the hole briefly widened, before a cascade of loose snow slumped down the cliff side.
“Get back!” cried Orand, pushing his men deeper into the cave.
They could barely scramble fast enough. More cracking sounds came echoing down from above and it seemed as if the entire shaft was collapsing. Ronon staggered after Orand, his limbs stiff and unresponsive. More snow and ice tumbled in, dragging the rope after it. There was what felt like a minor tremor, and then the landslide settled.
“Everyone alright?” enquired Orand, his face a bobbing island of light in a sea of darkness. Murmured voices of assent rose out of the shadowy rear of the cave.
Ronon felt his earlier sense of relief evaporate instantly. He looked back, peering at the dark rock against the low light of the candles.
He didn’t like what he saw. The cave walls around them seemed perfectly solid and reliable, but that was no longer his chief concern. The jagged gap to the surface, their only means of escape, had just become choked with snow and ice. He didn’t need to have the skill of the Forgotten to know that there was no digging through that pile of freezing debris.
They were trapped, stuck under the surface of the planet, and there was no way out.
Sheppard looked down at the floor. McKay stood at his side, doing the same. There, discarded on the stone, lay a P90 and a radio. There were scorch marks around the two items, some other artifacts of Forgotten origin, and nothing else.
Beyond the two of them, people still milled in the corridor, lost in their own concerns. They were still gray-faced, but at least they weren’t wailing anymore. Slowly, with difficulty, the settlement was returning to normal.
“That’s hers,” said Sheppard.
“Well, of course,” replied McKay. “Unless the Forgotten have learned how to make their own P90s.” He gazed at the objects thoughtfully. “Interesting. Did she just drop them before she was taken?”
“Unlikely. She wouldn’t have given in without a fight.”