In the Hall of Wept Gold

Hugo stepped into the Hall of Wept Gold. Legend held that it bore the name because when the miners had first cut through the rock here, near-pure gold lined the walls, looking like tear-streaks from above. He wished he could've seen that. Now, maybe a century after the tunnel had been first mined, the dull stone walls were stained with soot from countless fires and oil from countless hands. Some of them watched him now.

The ten minutes felt like an hour, but his tentative steps brought him to a closed door. In Hugo's neighborhood, it would lead to a storeroom with local necessities. Here, a balding man with a cudgel leaned against the wall next to it. Hugo approached slowly, each step smaller than the last until he feared he'd never get there. When he stopped, looking up at the scowling guard, it took all his will to say, "I'd like to see Mr Stern."

The tough didn't say anything, just unfolded one arm enough to pound on the door between him at a measured tempo. The door opened and a small woman beckoned him in. The room was cut to the same measurements as the storerooms back home, but instead of supplies it had been turned into some kind of open office. A couple dozen people spread out across a number of chairs, desks, and lounges. The space quietly hummed with people at work. At the center of it all, a woman sat and watched him. Hugo's guide brought him to her.

"Uh... Mr Stern?"

She looked bored. "Speak."

"Uh, right. My wife. She, um, see, she got caught up in the protests last month and, um—"

"She's been exiled."

"Yes."

"Want to find out if she's still alive? The old tunnels are dangerous, most exiles don't last long. If she's alive—or if you're optimistic—we can get her a letter, or a care package. Most exiles appreciate food."

"Um, I was told you could also get things into the city."

"No."

Hugo's voice wavered and tears sprung to his eyes. "I brought all my money—"

"It's never worth it. Someone finds her, she gets kicked out again, the council starts a headhunt for the smugglers and we have to suspend operations. Too expensive." She shooed him away with a gesture and the small woman began solicitously tugging him to the door by his sleeve.

Hugo took two numbed steps before pulling away from her. Five of the people who had appeared to have their attention elsewhere stood, focus on him. He raised his hands to placate them. "I'd like to send something to her, then."

Now Mr Stern smiled. "Fine. I'm sure there's a lot she'd like to have up there. Torches for light, food, water, clothes... weapons, of course. We have a price list around here somewhere." She waved a hand at someone who went looking.

"I'll take all of those." Zar looked her square in the eye. "And I want you to send me with it."

Not Ever

It was ten feet tall, assembled from smoothed stone with cunning concealed joints, at least a ton, and covered with large, glowing runes. Awl stared up at it, and it loomed over him without even trying. "This? This is what we've been looking for?"

Doya didn't look up from where she rummaged in her pack. "Yup."

"By God Below and all our holy ancestors, why?" Normally, Doya would correct him for mixing unrelated religious concepts, but she seemed preoccupied. Awl ducked under a swing of the thing's fist. It hit a wall, shattering the stone panelling and discharging arcs of electricity.

"It can shock," Awl shouted. "Did you know it could shock?"

"No." Doya paused. "But I suspected."

"Never again, Doya. Never ag—" Awl held his shield firm against a blow he couldn't dodge, and his shield snapped in two. "Again," he finished. On the thing's fist, a rune flared bright.

"There! That's it, keep it busy." Awl wanted to complain, but a glancing swipe knocked the air from him.

"Got it," Doya said. "We should run now."

They ran until the pounding footsteps of the rune-golem's pursuit were distant echoes. Once Awl caught his breath, he muttered, "Never. Again."

In and Out of Disarray

She had asked him to join their expedition. Gone for at least a week, she said, going deep to find tombs that hadn't been looted yet. Garth turned her down after one look. Her armor was dirty, her weapons burred, her gear in disarray. He wouldn't trust his life to someone like that. Garth sat in the cold dust of the empty hall. He'd shuttered his lantern nearly all the way, and the only sound was the whetstone's rasp on his blade. Even in the dim light, his sword gleamed.

She hadn't cared, had said it was his loss. When he heard she'd gone up, he followed at a distance. He wanted to show them what it meant to approach life—and death—with meticulous care.

Putting away his whetstone, Garth tested his edge. He breathed a single, surprised laugh when the blade drew a drop of blood from his pale finger, then slept.

He opened his eyes again on brightness, her lantern filling the hall with light. His gear was all orderly. Hers was not. With great tenderness, she helped him out of the puddle of his blood.

"Doesn't have to be pretty if it works, right? C'mon. Let's go home."

Another Reason

Every time she climbed those steps, she took a small portrait. The kind you can fit in the palm of your hand. She left the underground city of Bastion and its light below her, bringing the weak light of her torch into tunnels that had been abandoned for fifty years. Most people went up in groups. Made it easier to come home alive from where the dead walked and tried to make you one of them. The monsters evangelized with teeth and claws, sometimes with bows and blades.

Most went up for treasure, looting the past and the grave goods of abandoned crypts. Some went out of a sense of duty, to keep monsters from Bastion. A mad few went seeking thrills or to satisfy some fascination with the dead. She went for another reason.

One of the dead lunged at her from a shadow. In one moment, she sidestepped, tripped it, and cut off its head. By her flickering light, she compared the face with her portrait. Even accounting for the mummification, they looked nothing alike. "I will find you, grandfather, and you will know peace." She kissed her fist and gestured to the ceiling before continuing her hunt.

Always Like This

Jordan screamed as the armor-clad skeleton took Ruby's jaw off with an axe. Ruby, his mentor, had used that jaw just minutes ago to tell him to pucker up and enjoy the ride. He had no time to think. The abomination advanced on him, swinging its bloody axe. Only tripping backward over an ancient stone bench saved him. Legs above him on the bench, Jordan flailed madly. He deflected the monster's axe twice, then he pulled his knees to his chest in time to keep them from being severed when the axe cut deep into the bench.

When the skeleton stepped onto the bench to get closer, Jordan frantically pushed himself away. He must've kicked the bench, because the bench fell backward, toppling the skeleton forward. With the creature facedown beside him, Jordan swung his sword full-strength into the back of its neck, severing its spine. It fell still.

He lay there. The cold of the long-abandoned tunnel seeped into his back through the stiff layers of his padded jack. The scent of dust kicked up by the struggle mingled with the rich smell of Ruby's blood. He wished he had someone to tell him it wasn't always like this.

Some Great Gift

She looked out over the pit. It seemed to go down forever, girdled by a stairwell four broad men wide, and even so the stairs were miniscule to the eye even a third of the way around the circle of the pit. The sword was cold in her hand. It wasn't pretty, the edge nicked in a hundred places and the flat gouged with scratches. Grip tight, she looked up. Below her, oil lanterns lit the stairs, a futile effort to light the pit's vast, empty darkness. Above, that light shone dully off the latticework gate that kept them all safe from the monsters above.

Up there, her father had died, and one of his partners had brought back his sword. As if it were some great gift and not a reminder of what the man had preferred over raising his daughter. And that he expected her to follow his footsteps up those unlit steps into ancient tombs and reanimated horrors.

She watched the sword tumble down into the pit. It vanished in moments, but she could feel it falling away from her, like chains. She would live her life, not her father's. The lights of the stairwell warmed her.