The Black Mausoleum (Memory of Flames 4) Read Online Free PDF

here?’
    ‘Nothing much else to do.’
    ‘That where we are?’
    ‘Canal empties right into it.’
    ‘How far down is it?’
    ‘It was full of water, boss. I got no idea.’
    ‘Get a rope.’ The air still smelled dry. If there had been water here once, it was long gone, same as in the tunnel. They tied a rope in a harness around him and lowered him slowly.
He still couldn’t see a thing but he felt at the wall as he went. Old dry brick or stone. Big slabs with sandy mortar between them. Crumbs of it fell away under his fingers, hissing down the
walls. Too small and quiet to gauge any depth. No sound of hitting water, though. No water meant no people. Maybe no eggs too.
    Meant this was a waste of time.
    His feet touched something hard that crunched under his weight and then he was on solid ground. He climbed out of the harness and gave a few tugs on the rope, sending it back up. They’d
wait for his call now. He felt in his knapsack for the alchemists’ firebox, wrapped in an oiled piece of rabbit skin to keep it dry. A big handle on the top to hold once it was lit, a little
winder to start it burning. Not like the cold smokeless lamps the alchemists made for living under the Purple Spur, this was more the sort of lamp Skjorl understood, with a wick and a warped glass
screen and sweet-smelling oil.
    He had it in his hand, ready to light. Instinct stopped him. Lighting a lamp in a place like this was like crossing a rising river. Once done, there was no return. He’d get to see whatever
was in this chamber, but whatever was here, it would get to see him right back.
    Then again it was that or stand here doing nothing.
    He wound the handle. A small flare plumed between his hands. Dimmed again to almost nothing and then the wick caught and the light rose once more. There was a dragon egg right next to him. Tall
as he was and as wide as a barrel. Under his feet were brittle pieces of shell. Dry, thank Vishmir. Whatever had hatched, it was weeks ago.
    The fire in his hands grew stronger. He looked around. Deep shadows everywhere. Didn’t hear anything except his own slow breaths. But there were eggs everywhere. The most he’d ever
seen in one place. At Outwatch, one of the biggest eyries in the realms, they’d had eighty-six. He’d counted them as his company had smashed them. This – this was something
new.
    He thought for a bit. They couldn’t go on, not with this here. They’d have to go back, all the way to the river where there was water, and they didn’t have time for that, not
before the sun came up. So they’d be in the tunnel, quiet as mice for the whole day, praying to the Great Flame. They could do that. Or they could set to work and do what Adamantine Men were
meant to do. Kill dragons.
    ‘Jex! Vish! Jasaan! Hammers and axes.’ He set the firebox down and swung his own axe off his back. His lady, his lover, and in his hands she felt warm and strong. ‘I serve the
speaker,’ he muttered under his breath as he lifted her. ‘The Guard obeys orders. From birth to death. Nothing more, nothing less.’
Go to Bloodsalt. Look for survivors. Smash
eggs. Kill dragons.
Nothing about coming back again. He brought the axe down on the nearest shell. The brittle outside split and shattered, and the axe bit down into the lifeless hatchling
within. He struck again and then a third time, until he’d hacked the hatchling’s head from its body. The next one was the same. They’d all be like that. Hatchlings, all grown and
ready to break out of their eggs, just sitting inside their shells, quiet and still, waiting for the spark of life.
    Jex was down. No questions; he just got his axe out and got on with it. The quicker the better. Needed to be done before daylight. Dragons mostly left their eggs alone, but you could never be
sure. Vishmir’s cock! There were hundreds of them! You could see that, now Jex had laid his own firebox down and lit a few rags and tossed them in a circle around him. The