The statues had survived better than the civilization that carved them.
That irritated Kaylor.
He stood beneath the nearer of the two giants and looked up at a weathered face twenty-four feet above him. The figure had been shaped as a warrior, broadly human but not entirely familiar. Its proportions were close enough to recognize and different enough to make recognition uncomfortable. Centuries of wind had softened the finer details. Cracks ran through the stone armor. One side of the face had been damaged beyond recovery.
The second statue represented something else.
A mage, perhaps.
Long robes had once been carved with elaborate folds. One hand had been raised, though whatever object it originally held was gone. Time had eaten the fingers down to blunt shapes.
Fendor studied them from several paces away.
“So those things contained the smoke creatures.”
“Maybe,” Hexen said.
“They came out of them.”
“That does not prove they were inside.”
Fendor looked at him.
“You have become extremely demanding about evidence.”
“We just died because we went into a crater looking for pieces of a spear.”
“Fair.”
Nethnarel approached the mage statue.
She had expected Oslan to feel alien.
Instead, the unsettling thing was how little of it did.
Human faces.
Human forms.
A city built by people who, according to the books, had possessed magic fundamentally unlike anything she understood.
If the Oslan had looked like monsters, the mystery would have been simpler.
Different creatures had different powers.
That was ordinary.
But if people who looked much like them had once learned to manipulate the world by rules that no longer existed, then modern magic was not inevitable.
It was merely what remained.
Nethnarel touched the worn stone.
Nothing happened.
Kaylor decided to use a more traditional investigative method.
He drew Final Word.
Fendor noticed.
“No.”
Kaylor looked at him.
“We need to know what is inside.”
“We just learned what was inside.”
“Maybe there is more.”
“That is an argument against hitting it.”
Kaylor swung.
Final Word struck the warrior statue.
Stone cracked.
The sound traveled across the plateau.
Hexen closed his eyes.
Nethnarel stepped away.
Isamu said nothing, which Fendor interpreted as irresponsible encouragement.
Kaylor drew the sword back for another strike.
The world vanished.
Not completely.
The plateau remained somewhere beneath him. He could still feel the weight of Final Word in his hands and the thin mountain air inside his lungs.
But something else occupied his sight.
A dragon.
Only the face.
Skeletal.
Ancient bone stretched into the unmistakable architecture of a draconic skull. Empty sockets turned toward him. Horns swept back from the head in patterns Kaylor recognized without understanding why.
The skull moved.
Not like loose bone.
Like a living creature wearing death as its shape.
It turned.
Looked directly at him.
For one impossible instant Kaylor felt the same sensation he had experienced when the shadowed thing behind magic noticed Hexen’s scrying.
Attention.
He had done something.
Something far away had felt it.
Then the vision disappeared.
Kaylor stood beneath the statue again.
Fendor was watching him.
“You stopped.”
Kaylor looked toward the enormous dragon skeleton lying beyond the ruins.
Green.
Ancient.
Dead in battle.
He compared the horns.
The length of the skull.
The shape of the jaw.
Too similar.
Not identical enough for certainty.
Far too similar for comfort.
“What?” Nethnarel asked.
Kaylor sheathed Final Word.
“Nothing.”
Fendor stared.
“That was extremely convincing.”
“The statue is stone.”
“I had reached that conclusion.”
Kaylor walked away.
He did not tell them.
Not because he had decided the vision meant nothing.
The opposite.
He wanted time to understand it before Nethnarel turned it into a research project, Hexen turned it into a theological concern, Fendor turned it into an insult and Isamu wandered off to punch it.
Behind him, Fendor looked toward Nethnarel.
“Something happened.”
“Yes.”
“He is not telling us.”
“Yes.”
“Should we make him?”
Nethnarel considered Kaylor’s back.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because eventually whatever he is hiding will try to kill us.”
Fendor nodded.
“There is comfort in routine.”
They turned toward the shallow cave.
Two of the smoky undead had emerged from it during the battle. From outside, the opening looked deeper than it actually was. The darkness ended only a short distance inside.
Isamu entered first.
The chamber required no torch. Enough daylight reached through the entrance to reveal bare stone walls and a floor worn smooth by age.
At the center stood an obelisk.
It was roughly the height of a man.
Black.
Not painted black.
The material itself seemed to drink the light that touched it, smooth enough that centuries of abandonment had left almost no visible weathering.
Isamu stopped.
“That is different.”
Fendor entered behind him.
“Excellent observation.”
“You may inspect it first.”
“No.”
“You sound worried.”
“I have matured.”
Kaylor stepped into the cave.
Nethnarel followed.
She saw the markings immediately.
Lines covered portions of the obelisk.
Not decoration.
Writing.
Or something close enough.
She recognized its style from the books.
Oslan.
The same language she had been unable to read in the library.
She moved closer.
“I know this.”
“You can read it?” Hexen asked.
“No.”
Fendor leaned against the entrance.
“An inspiring start.”
“I recognize it.”
“That is significantly less useful.”
Nethnarel ignored him.
Near the lower portion of the obelisk was a narrow recessed opening.
A receptacle.
Not large enough for a hand.
Not shaped like a keyhole.
It had been made for something specific.
Something they did not possess.
Kaylor crouched beside it.
“Put something in there.”
Fendor looked at him.
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
“Good plan.”
Isamu approached the obelisk.
He placed one hand against its surface.
Smooth.
Slightly warm.
He frowned.
The cave air was cool.
The stone walls were cool.
The obelisk was not.
Isamu pressed his ear against it.
Fendor watched.
“You hear anything?”
“Yes.”
Everyone quieted.
There was a hum.
Low.
Steady.
Almost beneath hearing.
Not vibration exactly. More like the obelisk occupied the same space as a sound happening somewhere else.
Isamu listened.
Then tried humming back.
The result was terrible.
Nethnarel winced.
Fendor looked impressed.
“I did not know you could miss a note by that much.”
Isamu stopped.
“I was close.”
“You were in the same cave.”
Hexen examined the floor.
No tracks.
No obvious mechanisms.
No sign that the obelisk could be pushed, rotated or lifted. Whatever had powered it remained active after ages, yet the artifact offered no ordinary way of telling them what it was supposed to do.
Hexen reached toward it carefully.
Magic.
Weak.
But present.
Not like an enchanted sword radiating from every inch of its blade. Something quiet lived inside the obelisk.
Waiting.
“It is magical.”
Fendor stared at him.
“It hums.”
“Yes.”
“It is warm.”
“Yes.”
“It has writing none of us can read.”
“Yes.”
“And it is standing inside an ancient cave in a civilization where magic has already stopped our carpet from flying.”
Hexen looked at him.
“I was confirming.”
Fendor nodded.
“Confirmed.”
Nethnarel crouched near the inscriptions.
Light from the cave entrance struck the obelisk at an angle.
She moved.
Different angle.
Nothing.
Again.
The marks changed slightly as the reflection shifted.
Not physically.
Their relationship to one another became easier to see.
She followed repeated lines.
A pattern.
One symbol appeared beside the receptacle several times.
Another appeared near the base.
And beside it—
Heat.
Flame.
Not a word she could translate.
An association she could infer.
Nethnarel stood.
“Fire.”
Kaylor looked over.
“What?”
“I think it wants fire.”
Fendor immediately moved farther toward the cave entrance.
Nethnarel noticed.
“Coward.”
“Experienced.”
Hexen looked at the black stone.
“What kind of fire?”
“I have absolutely no idea.”
“That has never stopped anyone here,” Fendor said.
Nethnarel raised one hand.
A small flame gathered.
Kaylor moved in front of her with his shield.
“If you’re doing this, do it from behind me.”
She smiled.
“Protective.”
“I remember what happened the last time we experimented with ancient magic.”
“Which time?”
Kaylor thought about it.
“That is a fair question.”
Isamu uncoiled his whip.
Fire crawled along it.
Fendor turned.
“Oh, no.”
Isamu looked at the obelisk.
“It said fire.”
“Neth said she thinks it means fire.”
“Close enough.”
The whip cracked.
Flame struck black stone.
For an instant nothing happened.
Then light appeared beneath their feet.
Fendor stepped backward.
“Of course.”
A circle began forming around the obelisk.
Not drawn.
Etched by magic directly into the floor.
The glowing line spread outward until it enclosed an area roughly five feet around the ancient device. Symbols appeared along its edge, bright and precise, far cleaner than anything remaining on the ruins outside.
The obelisk’s hum deepened.
Nethnarel stared.
“It still works.”
No one answered.
That fact was larger than the circle.
Oslan was not simply a ruin.
Something its people built still had power.
Isamu stepped closer.
Fendor saw him.
“Don’t.”
Isamu put one foot across the glowing boundary.
He disappeared.
There was no flash.
No sound.
No collapsing portal.
One moment Isamu stood beside the obelisk.
The next there was empty air.
Fendor stared.
“Kaylor.”
“I saw it.”
“Just checking.”
Nethnarel moved toward the circle.
Kaylor caught her arm.
“Wait.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Isamu is gone.”
“Yes.”
“So we follow him.”
“That is your entire analysis?”
“Yes.”
Fendor sighed.
“She has us there again.”
Nethnarel stepped across.
Vanished.
Hexen followed.
Then Kaylor.
Fendor stood alone in the cave.
He looked at the black obelisk.
“I want it formally recorded that this is how all of our worst decisions begin.”
Then he crossed the circle.
The cave vanished.
Fendor emerged onto stone beneath open sky.
Isamu stood a short distance away.
Nethnarel was already examining the surroundings.
Kaylor and Hexen appeared behind her.
They had not changed altitude.
At least, it did not feel as though they had.
The mountain air remained thin.
The light remained the same.
Fog still lingered in distant patches across the plateau.
But they were no longer beside the dragon skeleton or the giant statues.
The obelisk had moved them deeper into the ruined city.
Or to what was left of it.
Broken walls surrounded them.
Not crude stonework.
The masonry was too precise.
Corners met at angles that seemed unnaturally exact after years spent inside castles whose builders had regarded “straight” as an aspiration.
The ruins had been constructed by people with better tools.
Or better understanding.
Perhaps both.
Nethnarel ran her fingers across one shattered wall.
The stone itself was ordinary.
The workmanship was not.
“If this was built before our civilization…”
Fendor looked around.
“Then ancient people were annoyingly good at corners.”
“That is your conclusion?”
“It is the current one.”
A low wall marked one side of the ruined structure. Beyond it, the plateau cracked open into a narrow fissure.
Kaylor approached cautiously.
Darkness disappeared into the earth.
No bottom was immediately visible.
He looked toward the distant ruins.
Oslan had once been here.
Not a temple.
Not an isolated fortress.
A city.
Buildings spread across the plateau in broken foundations and collapsed walls. Time had erased roofs, roads and towers, but enough remained to show scale.
Thousands could have lived here.
Perhaps tens of thousands.
Now nothing moved.
Isamu noticed the lantern.
It sat alone upon the stone.
Not buried.
Not shattered.
Not corroded.
An ordinary handheld oil lantern would have looked insignificant amid ruins this old.
That was precisely why it stood out.
Isamu approached.
Fendor saw him.
“No.”
Isamu picked it up.
Nothing happened.
He turned the object in his hands.
Metal framework.
Glass.
Ornate.
Dry inside.
No oil.
Yet the lantern was remarkably well preserved compared with everything surrounding it.
Nethnarel walked over.
“That survived.”
“Yes.”
“Which means?”
Fendor answered from behind them.
“That we should leave it where it was.”
Isamu inspected the handle.
“No.”
“Excellent discussion.”
He filled the lantern with oil.
Kaylor looked at him.
“Why?”
“To see if it works.”
Fendor spread his hands.
“There it is. The philosophy of our age.”
Isamu lit it.
The flame caught.
His face changed.
Nethnarel noticed first.
His eyes lost focus.
Not closed.
Empty.
“Isamu?”
He did not answer.
The lantern hung from his hand.
Then he began walking.
Kaylor moved immediately.
“Isamu.”
Nothing.
The monk crossed the ruined courtyard with deliberate steps, heading toward a circular structure farther ahead.
At its center stood another narrow stone form.
Another obelisk.
Smaller.
Or perhaps only appearing smaller because of the ruined platform surrounding it.
Fendor followed.
“He’s charmed.”
Nethnarel raised one hand.
Magic tightened around Isamu.
Telekinesis.
The monk lifted from the ground.
For a moment his feet hung several inches above the stone.
His body continued leaning forward.
Nethnarel frowned.
“Got you.”
Isamu pulled.
Not consciously.
Whatever controlled him wanted him onward.
The sorcerer felt the force fighting her spell.
“That should not be possible.”
Fendor ran past.
“That has stopped being useful information.”
Nethnarel tightened her hold.
Isamu moved anyway.
He tore through the invisible grip by sheer strength and dropped back onto the stone.
Then continued walking.
Nethnarel stared.
“I dislike this place.”
Kaylor ran after him.
“Now?”
The monk reached the circular platform.
Dust began moving around it.
Not from his steps.
Small spirals formed across the ground.
Isamu raised the lantern.
The central structure possessed a place made precisely for it.
He set the lantern down.
The flame changed.
Isamu blinked.
Awareness returned all at once.
He looked at his hand.
The lantern.
The platform.
Then at the others rushing toward him.
“What did I do?”
Fendor stopped several paces away.
“That is an excellent question.”
The ground began to shake.
Black shapes appeared between the ruins.
Not approaching.
Appearing.
The first formed as a wavering outline of a warrior.
Then another.
A horned dead thing carrying a bow.
A third shape shimmered into existence along a broken wall.
Dust rose around Kaylor’s boots.
The circular platform beneath Isamu brightened.
More figures appeared.
Ancient warriors.
Dead warriors.
Things dressed in fragments of a civilization that should have been empty.
Isamu reached for the lantern.
Kaylor drew Final Word.
Nethnarel’s wings ignited.
Hexen changed his stance.
Fendor looked around as the ruins filled with the dead.
He sighed.
“There.”
Kaylor glanced toward him.
“What?”
“The part where touching the ancient object becomes our problem.”
A skeletal warrior raised its weapon.
Another pointed toward Isamu.
The lantern burned between them.
And somewhere far beyond the ruined city, something with the face of a dead green dragon knew Kaylor was there.