I drop to my knees and scoop up water into my mouth, trusting that any poisonous residue washing from my skin won’t be enough to taint it. After that, I sit in the pool—more of a puddle, less than an inch deep—and carefully scrub myself. Almost weep in relief as the cool liquid removes the last of the burning from my skin. I splash my face and close my eyes without pain. Rest my head against stone. It has been more than a day since I was in the Infernis.
I allow myself several minutes to revel in the complete, soothing lack of unpleasant sensation, then force a breath and begin feeling my way around the pitch-black. I was right; the walls here have tapered outward, and the space I’m in is closer to ten feet across now.
It doesn’t take me long to find what seems to be a tunnel entrance.
It’s as dark as everything else down here, and not large—a cylinder only a few feet across, sloping gently upward—but it’s the only opening I can find, so I grit my teeth and start along it. Slowly, slowly feeling my way. The stone beneath my hands and knees is slick with damp and the slope means I slip more often than I would like, but it rarely sets me back far. I scrape my head a few times as the way twists ahead, but to my relief it does not get smaller.
There’s a smell, after a while. Rancid, sickly sweet, clogging my nostrils. I do my best not to breathe it in, but it only gets thicker as I proceed.
And then, light ahead.
Gaze fixed, I crawl eagerly toward it. It’s dim, not like the light from the garden. Broken by a bronze grate. Finally I reach it and pause, caution chastising me to inspect what’s ahead before simply pushing it open.
Bile rises in my throat.
Bodies. A dozen that I can see from my darkness in the wall, broken and dismembered and rotting where they lie on stone slabs. Dried blood coats every surface I can see. Pipes, like those I saw in Duat, sprout from distended and decomposing stomachs.
There is no movement. I observe in frozen, nauseous horror for almost a minute before finally pushing the grate aside—relieved to find that it’s not fixed to the wall—and then reluctantly climbing from the tunnel.
The stench hits like a physical force when I stand, and I choke, almost heave up liquid I cannot afford to lose. I’m in a cavern, lit like the rest of Qabr by narrow crevices high above. There are tens of bodies stretching away from me. Dark, misshapen forms, each one with the pipes that jut from a now eroded stomach. It’s the same setup as the room from beneath Duat. Dual channels; one side still trickles liquid and though they are not colour-coded, I can taste the burn of extra acid in the air.
I wait until my stomach settles a little, then walk closer. I am here now. I may as well understand what in the gods-damned hell this horror actually means.
I frown as I check the first body. Its lower arms are missing, both ending in stumps at the elbow. So are the next man’s, and then the woman’s along from him. Not dissolved, the way the gaping stomach wounds are, but sliced cleanly.
These were Gleaners.
The realisation makes the butchery no more tolerable, but it does raise a hundred more questions. Was this Ka, or the Qabrans? If the latter, then how?When?I can see suppurating wounds in the chests of every body; I assume the Gleaners’ blades were used to keep them under control. Their counterparts from Duat must have taken the weapons when they did this.
I do my best to replay my conversation about the water source with Caeror, but it is a distant and hazy thing, too far removed for clarity. Still. I remember no hesitation when I asked, and I see no reason he would have kept this from meif he’d known. And even if he was trying to protect me from the knowledge—what does it matter now?Vek. This world has been at war for thousands of years. Perhaps the repurposed Gleaners had been here as long as the iunctii beneath Duat. The Qabrans themselves may not have known of their existence.
I move on but eventually, the bodies blur into one. They bear the same marks, the same poses, the same injuries. The stench is overpowering. The room stretches on. I will not find answers here.
But I still need to fill my waterskin, and to drink my fill before leaving. And the only remaining safe liquid outside of Duat is pooled in these gutters.
My feet unwillingly drag me step-by-step. I drop to my knees beside a puddle and, hands shaking, scoop and drink before I can think about it.
It tastes the same as it ever did. It doesn’t help. My already tender stomach threatens to bring it back up but I refuse to let it, and my body’s need eventually beats the queasiness. I give a little sob and then take another mouthful. Easier, this time. Disgusting but it’s not going to make me sick. I know from long experience that sometimes to survive, that is all you can ask.
I finish and then stand, a little shaky, but more from revulsion than weakness now. My mind is clearing. I fill my waterskin. It will be enough to get me back to Duat.
When I am done I return to the drain, the only exit I can find. Leave the dimly lit slaughter behind.
This, unfortunately, was the easy part. Now I have to do what I actually came here to do.
My dread only builds as I crawl into the darkness.
LXX
THE HOLLOW WEIGHT OF QABR’S THOUSAND ROOMSpresses against me as I ransack them for anything that might be useful.
I search with methodical purpose, glad to have at least now found clothing enough to protect me from the oncoming chill of night. Every new space I enter, I find myself scanning in trepidation for a body. A sign that Caeror didn’t make it. But there is, to my still-tempered hope, no trace of my friend. This section of the catacombs was where we parted, and the one in which most of the Qabrans lived—close to the gardens, far enough from the entrance to be able to conceal themselves if need be—but I wasn’t here enough to know which tombs were being used as quarters. And as was the purpose, unfortunately, there is no obvious way to tell.
But in the rooms which were evidently occupied, I have found a few helpful things secreted away. Clothes. A keenly bladed stone knife with a leather sheath, which I’ve tucked into my new belt. A couple of half-full waterskins, too, though I decide these are to be for emergencies only. I have no idea whether their contents will still be safe to drink after so many months, particularly given their source.
It feels doubly uncomfortable, pawing through the personal belongings of the people I watched die. At one point I think I’ve found a better-quality tunic, only to discover that it’s far too small. I replace it gently. There were few children down here, and the only one I remember who this would fit was Nofret.
I look around the shadowy room sadly. An awful place to live for anyone, but surely a nightmare for a child. Bleak and dark and barren, the only excitement being the terrifying spectre of the Gleaners and all they entail. I’m reminded again of the girl’s desperation in not wanting me to open themutalisdoor, and suddenly I find myself searching the space with extra care. As if, somewhere in here, she has hidden a legitimate reason for me to abandon my plan.
