Tales of the Arcane - 1215 Read online

You’re only just embarrassin’ yourself. Seriously.”

  Welsh drops the duffle bag of equipment, and motions for the flashlight.

  “Give it here. You did the nerdy brianiac shit, now it’s my turn.”

  Sylvia sighs and climbs back out. The sensibility of letting the smaller catburglar go first overcomes her curiosity just enough to let her relinquish the lead.

  Welsh takes up the light.

  With the graceful ease of a cat, she climbs into the hole with a smirking chuckle at her “over-legged tomato” companion.

  “Watch out for cannibals,” Sylvia says with a slight smirk to her lips.

  “Oi! Shut up,” Welsh yells, her voice hollow and echoing from the chamber beyond.

  There comes a clatter of noise, then some swearing followed by a yell — a disturbance enough to raise Sylvia’s concern.

  She calls out if everything is alright.

  There is no reply.

  Sylvia listens to the darkness of the cleft, but can’t hear anything over the droning rain outside. This close to the cleft, a draft blows against her cheek. It is cool against the warmer air outside, leading her to suspect the cavern beyond is something much more than just a modest extension.

  She becomes increasingly concerned at the continued silence.

  Caves are rarely flat walkways through a gap in the stone. They have severe twists and hidden plummets to entrap and kill unwary spelunkers. Judging by the natural state of the entrance, this cave hasn’t yet seen the mark of explorers for many years — if at all.

  Sylvia waits a couple more tense moments.

  But the silence becomes unbearable, and she has to determine if Welsh is alright.

  She grabs a second light from the duffle and steps over to clamber up inside the cleft — stumbling back when she’s blinded by a faceful of bright light.

  “Oi, careful there, buttercup,” Welsh says, peering out through the cleft with her flashlight in hand.

  “I have been shouting for you,” Sylvia says, righting herself and trying to recover her dignity.

  “Oh, yeah, sorry. There is some wind in there, and sound is like all over the place.”

  Sylvia nods, her motherly concern wilting away.

  “But yeah. It looks like just more cave. Real nasty one too. All sorts of low hangin’ rocks to scalp you if you ain’t watching and a real big drop that’ll certainly put you out of your misery after you brained yourself.”

  Sylvia frowns. She had no idea what they’d find — but she did hope there would have been something.

  “So, there was nothing else?”

  “I dinnae say that,” Welsh says with a grin. She reaches back and pulls out a dirty, torn sheet of fabric.

  “Donnae ever let me tell you that you ain’t no over-schooled know-it-all smart cookie,” she says, holding up the fabric. It is a field of what used to be white, with the emblem of the flaring red sun dominating the center. Stylistic kanji, the same form Sylvia decyphered, runs in two parallel lines down one of the narrower edges.

  “Found this way back there coverin’ up the plummet of doom. Just about did a header meself, but I got mad skills.”

  Sylvia takes the fabric, gingerly caressing the material in the harsh light of her lantern.

  “Looks old. But then I ain’t the specialist on old shit... unless it’s like made of gold and stuff.”

  Sylvia nods.

  “Yes, you are right. It is old,” Sylvia says. “The silk looks authentic to the Late Shōwa imperial period, perhaps even earlier.”

  “Sure. Cool.”

  Sylvia rolls her eyes.

  “Was there anything else?”

  Welsh shrugs. “A bunch of garbage at the front here. Likely some sort of alarm or trip-trap that fell down in oldie times; then just the flag way at the back. Nothing else but the plummet.”

  Sylvia nods, frowning.

  Welsh steps back inside the gap, holding out her hand.

  “Come on, I know it’s killin’ you not seeing.”

  Sylvia manages to squeeze through the gap with some effort, despite her companion’s aid — aid which mostly involves the redhead chuckling with smug satisfaction at the taller woman’s difficulty.

  “I don’t laugh at your foibles when you... attempt... to do research,” Sylvia growls, finally getting through the gap.

  “Uh, yeah. You do.” Welsh snorts. She mimics an exasperated roll of the eyes, shifting her heavy Cockney-influenced accent into the high brow arrogance of Received Pronunciation. “Honestly. Tha’ is Eblaite script, not Akkadian. Honestly, how many times do I got to explain the dumb subtle-ass inflections?”

  “Was that supposed to be me?” Sylvia snorts.

  “Ya, pretty damn accurate too, me thinks.”

  “As if I would use ‘got to’ in a sentence... ever.”

  Welsh waves her away with a dismissive shake of her hand.

  Sylvia dusts herself off — but given the state of her clothing the gesture is more habitual vanity than beneficial.

  “I kept off the ground after that little trick-trap back there. So, just be careful where you put your feet, ya?”

  Sylvia nods, her eyes turning low to scan the cave floor for any further surprises.

  Welsh shows off the cave beyond. It is little more than a narrow fissure in the rock. The ground is modestly level from gravelly debris fallen from the jagged ceiling some dozen feet overhead. The cavern itself isn’t wet, defying Sylvia’s expectations — though the walls do have a vaguely “melted” look to them. Though not wet at the moment, water has flowed through here at some point to erode the rocky faces — and leave behind a variety of colourful minerals in its wake.

  Welsh leads Sylvia through the winding gap. She points out bits of low hanging chunks of rock before Sylvia cracks her scalp on one them.

  Sylvia estimates it travels back some fifteen meters into the ridgeline — about fifty feet —terminating at second narrow gap that Welsh points out where she found the hanging flag. She walks carefully, her sharp eyes watching the ground ahead.

  Yet not all threats are visible.

  Some lie hidden below the ground in cunningly concealed trickery that even the keenest eyes could never see. A misplaced footfall squeezes on a tiny snap-trap, the jaws closing under the woman’s weight to sever an already age-weakened line. The freed line snaps away, dropping a hidden Type 97 grenade tied at the other end and suspended overhead. An old fishing weight partways along the length serves as a stopper. When the weight hits a narrow cleft, it yanks violently on the sliding line. The grenade’s falling momentum pulls the safety pin loose, dropping the live weapon onto Sylvia’s head.

  Sylvia’s unnaturally sharpened senses alerts her to the unmistakeable ‘ping’ of the weapon’s arming. Her yell of alarm spins Welsh on her heel. The redhead grabs her trailing companion, and shoves her back behind a jutting outcrop of rock just as the half-century old grenade hits the ground. The weapon bounces from the impact, then deflects off the wall

  After lolling and bouncing about, the explosive comes to rest in a pit of gravel — and lies still.

  Several seconds of silence pass. No detonation.

  Welsh peaks her head around their barely adequate covering rock. She shines her light on the inert diminutive iron pineapple.

  “Phew, a dud,” she mutters. “Probably got too old.”

  “Well, whatever happened, it is for the better,” Sylvia grumbles.

  Welsh nods, “yeah. Totally.” She helps Sylvia back to her feet. Welsh decides to leave the neutered weapon where it lies.

  “The drop’s right here,” Welsh says, indicating the split in the rock just ahead. Only a deep darkness lies beyond. “Try not to step in any more shit that can kill us, ya?”

  “You just couldn’t help yourself, could you?” Sylvia says with a growl in her voice.

  “I tried real hard, honest,” Welsh grins back in the harsh light of their electric torches.

  Just beyond the sudden drop, the flashlight
beams bounce off an opposite wall about twenty feet away, the floor is empty darkness.

  Welsh leans over to shine her light down.

  “Looks about forty feet or so,” she says. “Some water down there too. Though not much to tie off to on this end.”

  “Over here,” Sylvia says, her keen eyes lighting on a scraped and damaged section of jutting rock. Even six decades couldn’t mask the tell-tale signs of use. Just around the side, out of sight from the main passage, an iron ring has been hammered into to a split in the rock. The remains of a rotted rope is still tied around the loop.

  Sylvia gives the ring a tug or two. It is still very solidly into the wall.

  “That’s convenient,” Welsh says.

  “Rather so.”

  Sylvia opens the duffel bag to take out a length of nylon dynamic climbing rope. Unwrapping the line, she ties off one end around the iron loop. After a couple strong tugs to make certain it’s secure, she moves to the edge of the lip and glances down.

  Welsh gets in her way.

  “I know it’s like killin’ you to know what’s down there, but if that ring ain’t goin’ to hold, better I go — ‘cause you’ll just flap about like a wounded pelican, then I got to break my ass in rescuin’ you,” Welsh says with a grin, holding her hand out to take the line. Sylvia sighs and passes it over.

  Welsh wraps the line around herself and secures it before dropping over the edge. Easing it out, she jumps down the side of the rock face to the deep, dark pool below. A ledge is just off to the side, covered by about two inches of cold water. It is close enough for her to swing over to reach.

  Once on solid, if soggy, ground, she unties herself and calls up to Sylvia that she’s clear.

  While she waits for