Teeth of the Subterranean Vault

The grease on the brass handle was old and rancid, tacky under Doc's leather gloves as he lined the square socket of the crank with the iron nub protruding from the dais. Behind them, the southern corridor remained choked in gloom where the heavy portcullis had dropped like an executioner's blade. Hesrel had not made a sound since the crash, and the silence in that direction pressed against the back of Doc's neck.

"Square fit, Doc," KritKrit whispered, hopping onto the edge of the stone slab with his clawed heels clicking against the terracotta tiles. The kobold wiped a smudge of soot from his snout with the back of an arm, his amber eyes fixed on the joint where ancient mortar had already crumbled to powder. "Push before the soot settles in the teeth. Give it your shoulder."

Doc took a firm stance, settling his heels into the dry grit of the floor. He leaned his breastplate against the lever's curved elbow, caught the cold brass crossbar with both hands, and threw his bulk into the turn. The floor answered with a grinding shriek that set Doc's teeth on edge. Decades of calcified grime gave way all at once in a shower of rust flakes and pulverized stone. The concealed slab lurched upward an inch, shuddered, and then slid back along hidden runners, releasing a stale, chill draft that carried the faint stench of stagnant river silt and damp rot up into the chamber.

Before taking a single step toward the square opening, Doc turned and cupped his hands around his mouth, facing the dark archway to the south. "Hesrel!" his voice boomed into the corridor, flattening against the walls. "Hesrel, can you pull the latch on your side?"

He waited, holding his breath as the echoes rolled away. KritKrit leaned forward, his snout raised, scenting the corridor air. No shout came in return. There was no rattle of an iron-headed mace against the bars, no curse from the broad-handed fighter. The only answer from beyond the dropped barrier was the distant, hollow plink of subterranean water striking stone, steady and uncaring.

"He's cut off," Doc muttered, loosening the grip on his greatsword Asterion and letting the pommel rest against his thigh. "The drop must have carried clear through the ceiling timbers. He won't hear us through ten feet of solid rock."

"Then we go down or we sit with the dead zealots," KritKrit said, already tapping his collapsible hooked pole against the rim of the freshly revealed trapdoor. "And the dead don't share their coin."

Doc took Asterion in his right hand, keeping the heavy blade low, and started down the narrow flight of stone steps cut into the vault floor. KritKrit trailed half a pace behind, his tail curled tight against his calves to keep from dragging across the cold slime coating each tread. The air plummeted in temperature with every step, thickening until Doc could see the mist of his own breath curling against the bronze trim of his breastplate.

At the foot of the stairs lay a long, barrel-vaulted room—the Lower Reliquary. It was flooded ankle-deep with brackish, slow-moving water that swirled sluggishly around symmetrical rows of square stone plinths. Doc's boots sloshed as he waded through the murk, the blade of Asterion held ready for anything stirring beneath the surface. Atop each plinth sat a wide, tarnished bronze bowl, their greenish patina crusted with dried mineral salts. Peering into the nearest vessel, Doc found no gemstones or silver coins, but heaps of fine, gray ash that had remained undisturbed for centuries.