Chapter 11
The ravaged gates gaped wide open, a doorway to the city of fallen kings. The full moon shone bright in the midnight sky, bathing the ruins with its pale radiance. Ayana saw no sentinels along the parapet. The high buildings, once rearing in their glory, lay broken, damned by their makers. An eerie silence enveloped the ancient remains, as if waiting in anticipation for their arrival.
"I don't sense a living thing in this desolation," Iezabel's voice pierced through the gloom.
Zelroth chuckled. "Patience, Madame Iezabel."
They continued along the cobbled path, the clacking hooves too loud against the flagstones. Ancient oaks and other strange trees reared over them, pulling and tearing into the foundations of the forsaken city in an attempt to reclaim their territory. A strange odor hung in the air—of mildew and dead soil.
Ayana almost jumped out of her skin when a soundless shadow passed behind one of the dark windows. "What was that?"
Iezabel drew her dagger, her eyes sweeping across the bleak alleyways.
"Must be the watchers," Zelroth said. "Don't pay them heed."
"I'm beginning to question our choice," Iezabel muttered, sheathing her blade.
They followed the main street, making a turn near a cracked fountain. The swirling fog seemed to gather at its base—snakes of mist slithering toward the sculpted crest. Numerous weather-worn pillars leaned on either side, barely supported by the knotted vines that moored them to their caved-in structures.
An hour later, they reached the last building along the crumbling avenue. Across a gentle slope strewn with primeval yews loomed a great cliff, its face carved into two giant pillars supporting an ornate arch. The sanguine moon cast the ancient edifice into an other-worldly contrast, a glowing tribute to the carvers of old.
"This was once a temple to the gods," Zelroth said. "The only structure in this city which remains undamaged."
"Remained," Iezabel said. "Certainly you rebels have defiled it by now."
Zelroth raised his eyebrows. "You believe in the gods?"
"Belief and faith are two different things."
He shrugged. "Faith was never my strong suit." His lips pulled up at her look of annoyance. "Unfortunately, the truth of the yester-era is veiled from us, otherwise we would have known for certain."
Ayana did believe in them, the Algilad as they were called by the Azerians. A chill crept down her spine as Keîn Záka's tales rushed through her mind—bloody sagas of betrayals, uprisings and exiles. Pray to them, and they will grant you good fortune, he had told her. She shook her head, trying to clear her mind. "Sometimes ignorance is better than knowledge."
Zelroth chuckled. "That might be true."
He spurred his horse toward the cliff and they followed.
A brisk wind swept across the grassy expanse, licking it with an icy caress.
Ayana wondered if this city belonged to that bygone era, if her unremembered ancestor once sat on its throne.
The captain stopped his horse near the cliff and announced his arrival to the archway of stone. "It is I, Zelroth Blackwood, Captain of the Fifth Unit."
A man clad in a dark leather armor stepped out of the shadows and surveyed them. "Welcome back, Captain."
He turned and placed his hand on the wall and muttered, "Venta."
With a great rumbling noise, the stone wall parted at the center and the two halves swung inward, letting a pale glow spill out from within—a smoldering maw of some frozen primordial beast.
Zelroth jumped down from his saddle and walked up to the armored man. "Send word to the Commander. She is here."
He nodded, before disappearing behind the door.
"May I escort you inside?" Zelroth asked. "Your horses will be sheltered and fed in our stables."
Ayana nodded and dismounted from her steed.
Iezabel unpacked the saddlebags before handing over the reins to Zelroth's men.
As they entered the threshold, the great doors slid shut behind them, a low thud reverberating through the bowels of stone.