But what about Sharaz Qunai, a voice in him wondered. Who is this ghost the Dravinishmen fear?
“Ai! Ink-fingers!” called Morias. “You going to stare at that thing all day, or are you going to join us?”
Varen snapped back to himself, looking up. The mercenaries were ready to leave, looking daggers at him for holding them up. Swallowing, he gave the serpent one last glance, then hurried to follow.
They found more warped animals as they went: a spider with one staring, bloodshot eye; a lizard with three heads; a blue scorpion with iridescent wings. That last cost them another of Morias’s men, who turned purple and died thrashing while the others looked on. That wasn’t the only sign they were getting close, either: shards of natural glass, translucent and razor-sharp, jutted from sand and stone alike, and the air shimmered with something more than just the desert’s heat. Sometimes, Varen thought, it even sparkled for a moment before fading again.
And then there was the feeling. There was a sharpness to the air-nearly a scent, almost a taste. It made his scalp prickle and the hairs on the backs of his arms stand erect. He could tell Morias and his men felt it too: their glances at the cliffs to either side were nervous, and many had drawn their weapons. Small wonder the Dravinish thought this place was haunted, with all the wild magic running loose.
When he finally saw it, his voice failed him. They rounded a bend in the canyon, and there it was: a dark, narrow cleft in the stone, halfway up the canyon wall. Only one who was looking for it would have thought it more than a shallow crevice: the sell-swords paid it no heed. Varen stopped, however, the air leaving his lungs in a rush. He stood very still, staring at the crack.
“What?” Morias asked, striding near. He followed Varen’s gaze, and his eyes widened. “God’s piss, is that it?” he swore. “It looks so small.”
“What were you expecting?” Varen replied. “If it were bigger, everyone would know of it. That’s the way to Losarcum.”
The old mercenary nodded, then clapped his hands. “Well, then.”
The climb was slow going, for Varen was little good at it, and the rest were weighed down with armor and weapons, but one by one they moved up the cliff. Morias was the first to the cleft, pausing long enough to light a torch before stepping through. Varen listened to him go, half-expecting to hear a bloodcurdling scream. Soon Morias reappeared, frowning with impatience.
“Come on,” he snapped. “What’re you waiting for?”
Varen followed, the sell-swords at his back. A voice in his mind said this was not a good idea-if they meant to kill him, this would be a good time-but he couldn’t wait for the others. His curiosity was aflame, and his heart pounded like a dwarven trip-hammer.
The tunnel was close and difficult, the stone broken on all sides. Deep groans sounded from above, and streams of grit poured out of the cracks. Varen bashed his head on a jutting brow, drawing blood; behind him, the armored mercenaries scraped and clanked and blasphemed. Varen cringed at every noise: if the Staring Ghost was real, they’d given it plenty of chance to hear them. Still, they pushed on, deeper and deeper.
After a while, he piled into Morias from behind. The sell-sword grunted, shoving him back, but he pressed closer again. “What is it?” he asked. “Why are we stopped?”
“Look up ahead.”
At first, Varen could see nothing but rock, lit by Morias’s flickering torch. But then he spotted something else: a second light, a steady golden glow, on down the hall. He stared at it, bewildered.
“Lamplight,” he breathed.
“What I thought,” Morias agreed. “But who lit it?”
Sharaz Qunai, said a voice in Varen’s head. He thrust it aside. “Someone’s been here already.”
“Probably still are.”
“What do we do? We can’t turn back.”
Morias chuckled. “This tunnel only goes two ways.” He dumped his torch on the floor and stomped it out, leaving the passage dark except for the distant glow. Unseen, his sword scraped out of its scabbard.
“Stay out of the way, if things get sticky,” he said. Varen nodded. Then they were moving again, as quietly as possible. The glow grew brighter and brighter, until it was enough to see by. Morias led with the tip of his blade, every step careful. His breath came quick, and sweat beaded his forehead. Varen noted his fear with surprise.
Finally they reached a bend in the passage and stopped, staring in amazement at what lay beyond. It was a huge cavern of shattered, pinkish stone, its roof a natural dome that had formed when the rest collapsed. Huge chunks of rubble littered the ground, but there were only pieces too big to lift. Near the middle of the cave was a pool of clear water, bubbling up from beneath and trickling in a stream across the floor and out a crack in the wall.
The wall. There was something strange about it. Varen squinted, trying to figure it out. The stone there was smoother than elsewhere … as was the floor, now that he looked at it. He froze, sucking in a sharp breath.
“A street,” he murmured.
“What?” Morias whispered, glancing back.
Varen gestured ahead. “This place is a street. We’re in Losarcum-what’s left of it, anyway.”
Then were several lamps close by, they saw as they moved closer: glimmering brass things on chunks of stone that proved to be fallen pillars and the rim of a shattered fountain. Morias went to one as his men poured out of the tunnel behind Varen, and nudged it with his foot. Brow furrowing, he peered around him.
“There,” he said, pointing with his sword. “That opening. It must lead somewhere.”
It had been a doorway once, but the door was long gone, and the lintel had cracked. Someone had shored it up with chunks of stone and wood. More light glimmered from within Varen started toward if, converging with Morias as he drew near. The sell-sword signaled to his men, silently directing six to stand guard and the rest to follow. They did as he ordered, weapons ready. Varen and Morias went through the doorway side by side-and stopped, their breath failing them.
They stood in what had clearly been the entry hall of some grand manor. Its floor was covered with a glittering mosaic of a Kingpriest with a sapphire crown-Ardosean the Uniter. Varen noted absently. The wall to their left was lined with gilded statuary, porcelain urns, and satin arras with jewels woven into them. Most of it was intact and incredibly valuable; they had found the treasure they sought.
It wasn’t what drew their eyes, though.
To the right, things were different. The sandstone there had melted, then fused again, turning to cloudy, rosy-gold glass. It poured down from the ceiling in ripples, and pooled and puddled upon the floor.
“Branchala bite me,” swore Morias, staring into its depths. “Are those people in there?”
A shudder ran through Varen as he approached the glass. He saw them too, six in all-men, women, and one small child. All of them were frozen, encased, their faces twisted into expressions of horror and agony. They had died afraid, and in horrible pain.
“This side of the building was facing the Tower of High Sorcery,” Varen said solemnly. “When it exploded, it must have turned the stone to glass and trapped them inside. They’ve been here like this for nearly twenty years.”