Read Online Celadonian Tales Vol: 1 Blood and Brass by Walter Shuler - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Walter Shuler
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in the chill waters.
He edged around the pool, gravel crunching softly beneath his boots. The candlelight eventually revealed the entrance to another tunnel, but one far different from the others he had traveled to get here.
The same white stone rimmed the mouth of the tunnel, boasting the same bizarre faces. Many of the faces bore scars, the work of tools wielded with deliberate intent Bran guessed, judging by the gouges that ran across the stones. White stone also made up the interior of the tunnel, the blocks fit tight without any mortar.
Bran stepped into the tunnel, and his candle guttered. The flame bent back toward his hand as air flowed out of the tunnel. It wavered for a moment and then went out. Bran cursed his luck; he had no means to relight the thing. What was he to do now? He stood still, surrounded by darkness, listening to the sounds of the deep earth.
It dawned on him that he could make out the vague shape of the stones beneath his feet, pale ghosts in the murk. There was sight where there had been none before. Bran was mystified, but he accepted it as a small blessing from the gods, capricious as they were. Surely, they owed him some small thing. Moving with as much care as he could muster, Bran made his way deeper into the tunnel, the pale stones beneath his feet the only anchor to the world of sight.
A cracking sound beneath his boot told him that something was out of place. The floor had been so smooth and free of debris that he bent down, trying to determine what it was. The object was just shorter than his forearm, and smooth. His boot had cracked it in half and the broken edges were jagged.
It felt oddly familiar; then it came to him. It was a bone, human by the size of the thing. He flung it down, and it clattered against the stone floor.
He encountered more bones as he made his way down the passage, crunching beneath his boots with increasing frequency. Bran noticed something else, as well. The white stones were more visible now; he could make out the passage floor several feet ahead. Shapes he knew were bones covered the ground, and other shapes, too. He bent to examine one and his questing fingers encountered rough metal – a helm. The passage was littered with bones and armor.
What was this place? What had happened here? He knew nothing of this darksome pit beneath Harron's Keep – none of his teachers had ever touched on anything occurring beneath the very stones of his home.
His questing fingers encountered something more solid than armor, something familiar. It was a hilt; Bran pulled the thing free of the tangled bones in which it was trapped. It was a sword, longer and wider than what was common in Celadon today. The hilt was wire wrapped, the wire blackened with age. The blade was tarnished and rusting, but the edge was still sharp.
Now he was armed. The sword was nicely balanced for all its age and wear, and there was something comforting in the way it felt in his hand. He picked up his pace. There were some pointed questions that he wanted to ask Davin – very pointed.
He was almost running when the passage ended. The floor rose up in a series of steps, reaching higher than Bran's head. The light was stronger here, warmer and brighter. He could make out the chips in each stone riser as he ascended them. Above him, the ceiling receded.
Bran reached the top of the stairs and stopped. Before him stretched an enormous room. The top stair riser marked the end of the white stone. The room that stretched away before him seemed to be a natural cavern, and the stone here was dark grey, not white. Bran was first struck by the blinding light. In reality, it was likely very dim, but his eyes had become so accustomed to the darkness that gazing into the room was like staring into the face of the noon sun.
High, high above was an opening in the ceiling. Beyond, Bran thought he could glimpse blue sky. Through the opening, a beam of sunlight fell unbroken to illuminate the center of the
He edged around the pool, gravel crunching softly beneath his boots. The candlelight eventually revealed the entrance to another tunnel, but one far different from the others he had traveled to get here.
The same white stone rimmed the mouth of the tunnel, boasting the same bizarre faces. Many of the faces bore scars, the work of tools wielded with deliberate intent Bran guessed, judging by the gouges that ran across the stones. White stone also made up the interior of the tunnel, the blocks fit tight without any mortar.
Bran stepped into the tunnel, and his candle guttered. The flame bent back toward his hand as air flowed out of the tunnel. It wavered for a moment and then went out. Bran cursed his luck; he had no means to relight the thing. What was he to do now? He stood still, surrounded by darkness, listening to the sounds of the deep earth.
It dawned on him that he could make out the vague shape of the stones beneath his feet, pale ghosts in the murk. There was sight where there had been none before. Bran was mystified, but he accepted it as a small blessing from the gods, capricious as they were. Surely, they owed him some small thing. Moving with as much care as he could muster, Bran made his way deeper into the tunnel, the pale stones beneath his feet the only anchor to the world of sight.
A cracking sound beneath his boot told him that something was out of place. The floor had been so smooth and free of debris that he bent down, trying to determine what it was. The object was just shorter than his forearm, and smooth. His boot had cracked it in half and the broken edges were jagged.
It felt oddly familiar; then it came to him. It was a bone, human by the size of the thing. He flung it down, and it clattered against the stone floor.
He encountered more bones as he made his way down the passage, crunching beneath his boots with increasing frequency. Bran noticed something else, as well. The white stones were more visible now; he could make out the passage floor several feet ahead. Shapes he knew were bones covered the ground, and other shapes, too. He bent to examine one and his questing fingers encountered rough metal – a helm. The passage was littered with bones and armor.
What was this place? What had happened here? He knew nothing of this darksome pit beneath Harron's Keep – none of his teachers had ever touched on anything occurring beneath the very stones of his home.
His questing fingers encountered something more solid than armor, something familiar. It was a hilt; Bran pulled the thing free of the tangled bones in which it was trapped. It was a sword, longer and wider than what was common in Celadon today. The hilt was wire wrapped, the wire blackened with age. The blade was tarnished and rusting, but the edge was still sharp.
Now he was armed. The sword was nicely balanced for all its age and wear, and there was something comforting in the way it felt in his hand. He picked up his pace. There were some pointed questions that he wanted to ask Davin – very pointed.
He was almost running when the passage ended. The floor rose up in a series of steps, reaching higher than Bran's head. The light was stronger here, warmer and brighter. He could make out the chips in each stone riser as he ascended them. Above him, the ceiling receded.
Bran reached the top of the stairs and stopped. Before him stretched an enormous room. The top stair riser marked the end of the white stone. The room that stretched away before him seemed to be a natural cavern, and the stone here was dark grey, not white. Bran was first struck by the blinding light. In reality, it was likely very dim, but his eyes had become so accustomed to the darkness that gazing into the room was like staring into the face of the noon sun.
High, high above was an opening in the ceiling. Beyond, Bran thought he could glimpse blue sky. Through the opening, a beam of sunlight fell unbroken to illuminate the center of the
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