THE BURIED GOD
Chapter 8: The Dark Passage
The passage was narrow.
The walls pressed close on either side, cold and damp, slick with moisture that smelled of iron and old blood. The ceiling was low, forcing Damon to stoop, his shoulders brushing against the stone. The darkness ahead was absolute.
He held his torch high.
The flame flickered.
The shadows danced.
Behind him, he could hear the priests screaming, the heart pulsing, the god waking.
Ahead of him, he could hear nothing.
Nothing at all.
“This passage wasn’t on any map,” Lyssa said. “The priests didn’t know it existed.”
“How do you know?”
She touched the wall.
Her fingers traced a symbol — an eye, a mouth, a hand.
“Because I carved it. When I was running. When I was escaping. When I was leaving the mountain behind.”
“You were here before?”
“I was a novice. I served the priests. I fed the god. I buried the sacrifices.”
She looked at him.
Her green eyes were wet.
“I helped them. For years. I brought them bodies. I held them down. I watched them die.”
“Why?”
She was silent for a long moment.
“Because I was afraid. Because they would have killed me. Because I wanted to live.”
The passage turned.
The walls widened.
The ceiling rose.
The darkness thinned.
And then—
Light.
Not the silver light of the heart. A different light. Pale and gray, filtering through cracks in the stone.
“The surface,” Lyssa said. “We’re close.”
Damon walked faster.
The light grew brighter.
The passage grew wider.
The air grew warmer.
And then—
He stepped outside.
The sun was setting.
The sky was orange and pink and purple, the colors bleeding into each other like watercolors on wet paper. The mountain loomed behind him, its peak hidden in clouds, its slopes dark with shadow.
Vespera stepped out beside him.
Lyssa followed.
They stood at the edge of a cliff, overlooking a valley. A river wound through the trees, silver and bright. A village huddled on the far shore, its chimneys smoking, its windows glowing.
“We need to keep moving,” Lyssa said.
“The priests will find us.”
“Not if we reach the village first.”
“Will they help us?”
Lyssa looked at the village.
Her green eyes were hard.
“They will hide us. They have been hiding people like us for centuries. People who ran. People who escaped. People who survived.”
“People like you?”
She nodded.
“People like me.”
They descended the cliff.
The path was steep, the stones loose, the darkness deep. Damon moved carefully, his torch sputtering, his shovel scraping against the rock.
Vespera moved ahead of him.
Her bare feet found holds he could not see.
Her silver eyes found shadows he could not penetrate.
“The priests are coming,” she said.
“How do you know?”
She looked at the mountain.
“I can feel them. They are angry. They are hungry. They are hunting.”
“Can they follow us?”
“They can. They will. They have been hunting for centuries.”
“Then we need to move faster.”
They reached the village at midnight.
The streets were empty, the windows dark, the doors locked. Lyssa led them to a house at the edge of town, its walls black with age, its roof sagging, its garden overgrown.
She knocked.
Three times.
Then twice.
Then once.
The door opened.
A man stood in the doorway.
He was old — older than anyone Damon had ever seen. His hair was white, his skin was wrinkled, his eyes were gray.
“Lyssa,” he said. “You’re alive.”
“Barely.”
“And your friends?”
“They are the ones who will save us. Or die trying.”