At first, Khalim could see nothing. The evening outside had not been bright, but the mine was black as the heart of the earth. The air was thick with dust and smoke that scraped down his throat as he breathed and made his chest burn. Gradually, faint lights swam out of the darkness—sputtering lanterns hanging at regular intervals, each encircled by a ring reflected from the dust in the air.
It was a dim, filthy, miserable place. The miners, their backs bent and their heads bowed, shuffled down the tunnel under sacks of rock, listless and unheeding. The guards stood straighter, and their eyes were wary, but they were as dirty as the miners they watched.
I have passed into the realm of the dead, Khalim thought with a shudder.
He lowered his gaze so as not to stand out among the others. He could just see Yanlong walking ahead of him, her usual purposeful stride shortened. The ground sloped deeper into the mountain, past branching tunnels on either side, as slow and inexorable as time. If someone had told him that the mine went on forever, he would have believed it.
“Stay close,” Reva whispered. Her voice sounded flat in the close air. “We have to find out where the prisoners are being kept.”
If there was a bottom to this place, an end to the descent, that was where they would be. Khalim was sure of it. He felt as though he were being watched, as though he had attracted the eyes of something old as the mountain. It sensed his presence, and it felt nothing but a base, primordial hatred.
Under this mountain is the worm, he realized, and it knows I am—we are—here.
Reflexively, he pressed a hand to his chest. Watch over me, please.
The presence of his nameless god filled him with a reassuring warmth. His heartbeat calmed. Even here, he would be safe.
Without warning, a rough hand grabbed him by the shoulder. A guard pulled him out of the line of people heading down the main tunnel and shoved a pickaxe into his hand.
“Tunnel four needs another digger,” the man said, gesturing behind him with a nod of his head. “Get moving.”
“But—” Sudden panic seized Khalim. Reva and Yanlong had not noticed him stop, and they were quickly disappearing into the gloom without him. He wasn’t supposed to be separated from them.
The guard raised a fist, his face twisted in anger and disgust. Khalim ducked his head again and scurried off in the direction the man had indicated.
This tunnel was darker, and the dust was thicker. The miners working here were dim, indistinct shapes. The sound of metal hitting rock echoed from wall to wall. The floor was covered in rough gravel, but a lifetime of walking barefoot had turned the soles of Khalim’s feet tough as leather—he was less worried about a cut than he was of stepping off a ledge into the void. He could barely see the pickaxe in his hands.
That meant, however, the guard at the intersection could not see him. He risked a glance over his shoulder. It was difficult to tell, but it seemed that no one was following him. He went a little farther, just to be sure.
Khalim rounded a corner to find a dead end. There were two men here, hollowing out a space at the end of the tunnel with their pickaxes, while a third shoveled the rock they dislodged into a wheelbarrow. A torch was affixed to one wall by a metal bracket, but the light was obscured by more dust.
The man at the wheelbarrow began to cough. He bent over his shovel, gasping for breath. The others looked at him with concern, but they did not stop digging.
Khalim dropped his pickaxe with a clatter and ran over to the man, placing one hand on his back. It was easy enough to feel the dust in his lungs and summon magic to remove it and heal the scarring left behind. The man took a deep shuddering breath and coughed once more, and he spat out something slimy and black.
“Are you all right?” Khalim asked. He was aware that the metal-on-stone sound of the digging had stopped.
The miner breathed a few more times, peering at him. “It’s you—from the arena.”
Khalim nodded.
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m looking for the prisoners who were captured at the end of the festival,” said Khalim. “Do you know where they are?”
“They’ve been taken to the pit,” said the raspy voice of one of the others. He set his pickaxe down on its handle, resting both hands on the head. One shoulder sat higher than the other.
Khalim went over to him, hands outstretched. The man did not move, and Khalim found the injury in his shoulder and set it right with firm push and a flare of magic. Reaching out, he felt the same sickness of the lungs, and pushed that out as well.
Khalim let go of the man. Exhaustion was creeping up on him, settling on his chest and behind his eyes. It was not the same draining that he had felt in the arena, but still, he would have to be careful not to spend too much of his magic before he could leave this terrible place.
“Can you take me to the pit?” he asked the miners.
They exchanged a nervous glance. “We dare not go there,” the first man said. “We are not permitted. The guards fear a rebellion.”
“Then can you tell me the way?”
The miner gestured with one hand back down the way Khalim had come. “There is a tunnel that connects to this one, a little ways back. It will be on your left as you leave. Take it until it joins with a wider tunnel, and then go to the right. But be careful—it is heavily guarded.”
“Thank you, my friend,” Khalim said. “If you will not come with me, then can you leave with us? Reva is here. We’re going to take you to the safe place in the mountains.”
The three men looked at each other again. “But the guards—” the third of them said.
“If enough of you act, they won’t be able to stop us. Gather as many as you can, and wait for us to leave the pit.” This was not, Khalim knew, what he was supposed to be doing here. But he couldn’t leave these people—not when he had a chance to free them. Reva was going to scold him, but he would have to deal with that later.
“We will do this,” the first miner said. “Do not take too long.”
“I will see you soon,” Khalim promised, and he collected his pickaxe and headed back down the tunnel.
He kept his head down as he made his way through the mine, around the working men and the guards, who paid him little heed. He had not traveled very far before he could hear the sounds of a struggle, distorted and echoing, coming down the tunnel. There was light ahead, too, dimly flickering oranges and reds that stained the rock walls.
Khalim glanced around. There were no guards in this stretch of the tunnel. He set down the pickaxe and took off at a run.
He came to a chamber hollowed out of the rock. Hanging from the ceiling was a system of three pulleys, and the ropes that hung down from it disappeared into a chasm in the center of the floor. There was only a fraction of a second to take in the black void that was the pit and the sense of ancient malevolence that flooded the room before flames erupted from Yanlong’s fists. Khalim covered his eyes as searing brilliance burned through the shadowy space.
When he looked again, he saw Reva and Yanlong surrounded by miners carrying picks and shovels, facing off against several of the guards. The guards were led by a man carrying a broad wooden shield and a heavy mace, and beside him stood Heishiro, sword drawn, his face an expressionless mask.
This is not Heishiro, Khalim thought, and as the words occurred to him he realized it was true. Besides the obvious fact that he was wielding his blade against one of his companions from the Dragon Temple, his movements were slow. His skill and alacrity were dulled, and his usual joy in battle was absent. As much as this man looked like Heishiro, the person that Khalim knew was not here.
But where had he gone?
The guard captain charged at Yanlong, his shield raised. She readied her stance, and lines of glowing characters twined up her arms. With a gesture, she sent out two plumes of fire that spread and curled around the shield, catching it alight. The captain cried out and dropped it.
Khalim had to get to Heishiro. He didn’t know if this—whatever had happened to him—was something he had the ability to heal, but he could do nothing unless he could get closer.
Reva got to him first, ducking under the captain’s now undefended side and deflecting a guard’s sword with both of her daggers. “Heishiro, what are you doing?” she shouted over the clash and echo of weapons.
Heishiro’s strange, dull gaze turned to her. He raised his sword and struck downward with the pommel.
Reva twisted out of the way of the first blow, but Heishiro swung his blade around and caught her across the chest. An arc of blood, nearly black in the dim chamber, flew from the end of his sword. Reva staggered backward and fell to her knees.
Khalim ran into the room. The guards turned to him, but another gout of fire from Yanlong captured their attention. Her magic, he knew, was not like his; she had spent the morning preparing it, drawing letters on her skin in ink made of ash, and without a chance to prepare more it would eventually run out. She would not be able to rescue him again if he was careless.
He crept a short distance around the wall and watched for an opening, and then darted across the room toward the pit and Heishiro.
The long steel blade went up again, ready to fall on Reva and finish her off. Khalim ducked underneath it and grabbed Reva by both shoulders. He dragged her aside and the sword whistled harmlessly through the air.
“Where have you been?” Reva asked. Her eyes were unfocused and her voice indistinct. Blood soaked through her clothing.
He had to heal her, but there was no time. Heishiro was advancing, crossing the distance between them in two strides. The edge of his blade glinted in the torchlight as he brought it up for another swing.
Khalim stood up. The sword was poised to slice him in two. He took one step forward, stretched out his hand, and pressed his palm to Heishiro’s chest.
“Heishiro!”
The sword stopped, and so did the man, frozen in place.
The room and the fight fell away. It was as though Khalim looked through a great, swirling tunnel, full of dancing lights and colors he could not name. He was aware of Heishiro—the true Heishiro—somewhere nearby, though he could not see him. Khalim reached out with his magic, as though he were searching for a wound in a body.
The tunnel disappeared. He found himself looking into the unblinking emerald eyes of the Ascended Shanzia, the Emperor’s consort and queen of Phyreios. Her gaze was as merciless and sharp as a blade. There was no human tenderness in it, only calculating recognition tinged with fury—and fear?
Before he could question what he sensed, Khalim saw a flash of color and then was standing once more inside the mine in front of Heishiro.
And it was Heishiro who staggered back in surprise, shook his head once, and looked around the room. He flexed his fingers and hefted his sword.
“Out of the way, kid,” he growled.
Khalim ran back to Reva. He was exhausted, his limbs heavy. His hands shook as he called upon whatever magic he still had to knit up the gash in her chest.
With great cleaving strokes, Heishiro cut his way across the room to Yanlong. Side by side, they made short work of the rest of the guards. Khalim did not look up to see the carnage. He was focused on Reva, and on not losing consciousness himself.
And then it was done. The miners cheered, and they ran to the pulleys and raised a platform out of the chasm. Six more prisoners, dressed in rags with their hands and feet bound by rope, emerged squinting from the darkness.
The sound of an iron bell cut their triumph short. An alarm was being raised somewhere in the mine.
“They will summon more guards,” one of the miners said. “What will we do?”
Khalim helped Reva to her feet. “Gather as many as you can,” he said, fighting back a wave of dizziness, “and leave this place. We’ll lead you to the mountain stronghold.”
Reva looked at him strangely. He had worried she would be angry with him, but this was different—more hesitance and confusion than anything else.
She brushed the dust from her clothes and tucked her daggers back in her boots. “You heard him,” she told the miners. “There’s no time to waste.”
Thanks for reading! Blog content will always be free, but if you’d like to help me feed my cats while I make more stories, you can donate to my Ko-fi.
Space Whales Press 
2 thoughts on “Beyond the Frost-Cold Sea: Interlude Three”