Jundag

by Chris A. Jackson

  Spanning the river stood an enormous castle supported by twisted legs that splayed erratically, some embedded in one bank and some in the other, and some plunging into the river. The structure itself loomed like a malformed sculpture, its spires stretching into the sky like the outstretched fingers of a dying man. A wicked barrier surrounded the base, a twisted miasma of wrought iron bristling with spiked cornices. From this distance she could just make out the writhing forms of the impaled damned. Her lips quirked in a smile; she felt right at home.

  Calmarel started toward the keep with determined strides, avoiding the shambling dead. Legions of wan faces looked steadily forward as they trudged toward the river and their eternities of torment beyond. One by one they walked into the River Oblivion, which stripped their souls of all hope and memory, preparing them to nourish the Dark Gods.

  Finally she stood in front of the great gates of the castle. Kneeling, she clutched her unholy pendant—the bloated spider of Xakra and Pergamon’s thorned chain—before her and bowed forward until her forehead touched the ground.

  "Almighty Dark Gods, I come here as a mere mortal to revel in your terrible greatness. I come here to grovel before your might. I come here to learn humility and receive punishment as you see fit. By the Chain of The Punisher and the Web of The Tangler, I humbly beg an audience."

  As the black-iron gates slowly opened, the ground trembled and the hinges screeched an unearthly howl, drowning out the screams of the damned.

  Something approached.

  Calmarel forced herself to remain still. Until this moment, she had felt confident, but now, shivers of apprehension coursed through her, increasing with each moment. She felt the being's power press down on her like a weight, and she fought to remain calm. Now she felt her vulnerability: naked, unarmed, exposed. It took all her will to prevent herself from screaming and leaping up to defend herself. She stiffened as fingers touched her bowed head, then ran caressingly through her hair.

  "Look at me, mortal." The voice was full and powerful.

  Calmarel looked slowly up from the ground. A pair of slender, graceful feet stood before her, extending into lithe legs. A gossamer robe draped the torso, but its sheerness did nothing to hide the feminine physique beneath. Her welcomer’s skin was bone white and flawless. And when Calmarel finally beheld the woman’s face, she thought it the most stunningly beautiful she had ever seen. So absolutely perfect in form and feature; it had to be...

  "Xakra?" Calmarel breathed in wonder.

  “Elestia,” Yenjil whispered in her ear. “May I speak with you?”

  “Of course,” she whispered back with a smile, then excused herself from the guests.

  As she walked toward the study ahead of him, Yenjil noticed that she held her head higher than usual, her hips swaying seductively. She entered the downstairs study and perched herself on the edge of the desk. Bracing her hands on the desktop close to her sides, she leaned forward attentively, providing him with an excellent view of her lovely cleavage. For once, it did nothing for him.

  “So sorry to have missed your friends,” she said, her manner oozing insincerity. “Perhaps they’ll visit again sometime?”

  Yenjil recognized her ploy. He’d observed her manner on so many occasions; sympathetic, caring, always ready with a leading question. It was her way of getting information, which to her equaled power, and she was very good at it. But he was in no mood to play her games.

  “I’ll be leaving on a military expedition for a while,” he said, not giving her the chance to interrupt. “I don’t know when, or even if, I’ll be back. If you choose to pursue a relationship with someone else, someone who isn’t called off at a moment’s notice, I’ll understand.”

  “What?” she said through clenched teeth, her voice quite unlike her usual dulcet tones. “What military expedition? Is this with ‘dearest Avari’?”

  Yenjil’s face hardened. “Have you been reading my correspondence?”

  Elestia pouted and looked down at the desk. “I was just cleaning your study one day, and I found a crumpled parchment—“

  Yenjil sighed. “Elestia, you never clean. The maids clean. But yes, Avari will be one of several going.”

  “You can’t just leave me, Yenjil!” she insisted. “The empress is quite anxious to plan a wedding soon. You know how she loves that. And she thinks we make the perfect couple! Who are we to disappoint Her Highness? And,” she said quickly, her eyes lighting up, “what about that favor I did you? Have you so conveniently forgotten that? It’s only been a few hours—"

  Yenjil interrupted impatiently. “Neither a favor nor pleasing the empress are things to base a marriage on.” He softened his tone and lifted a hand to her lovely face, his knuckles brushing that perfect skin. “You’re very special to me, Elestia. I hope to return, but I can’t promise that I will. If I do, we can see what becomes of our relationship. But right now, I have to go away. I don’t want you be hurt if I don’t come back.”

  Tears welled in her blue eyes, but she blinked them back.

  “All right,” she said softly.

  Yenjil bent to kiss her goodbye, then swept out of the room.

  Jundag stood guard as the baby slept in its tiny crib in Calmarel’s quarters. It had been several hours since Calmarel had left to perform her Rite of Ascension. She had been in high spirits, eager to conduct the rite, to begin her own new life as a mediator. Strangely, he detected in neither her words nor her actions any of the anxiety she had previously shown when discussing the rite. Something had changed.

  He looked down at the baby. That is it! he realized. Ever since giving birth, she has talked of the baby as her gift to the Dark Gods. She thinks they will not refuse her now.

  Jundag chuckled without humor; he hoped her assurance was misplaced, and that the Dark Gods saw her for what she was: a hateful, malicious woman who thought only of her own pleasures. Then he laughed bitterly at himself; his description sounded like just the kind of person the Dark Gods would favor. Well, time would tell. Perhaps...she would not return. For a few minutes, he contemplated a life, or even better, death without Calmarel. He was weary, and now that the purge had started, he was alone.

  A soft gurgle startled him, and he looked down. The baby had drooled. Gently, he reached down and wiped her mouth. No, he thought tenderly, I am not alone. Perhaps there is something to live for. But if Calmarel dies and I die, what will they do with the baby...my daughter? With that thought, he settled down to wait for Calmarel’s return...or not.

  CHAPTER 24

  You presume a great deal, mortal," the beautiful woman hissed, gripping Calmarel's hair painfully. Letting go, she drew her sharp fingernail down Calmarel’s neck, lingered half a heartbeat by the pulsing artery below her ear, then withdrew. "Were I indeed the Mistress of Chaos, your life would be forfeit for your familiarity."

  Calmarel bowed her head quickly, cursing herself for her foolishness; gods do not answer their own doors. But that revelation gave her courage. Slipping one foot under her, she stood and eyed her welcomer critically, then smiled.

  "You’re a demon—a Fargmir."

  "You are astute, mortal,” the Fargmir smirked. "What is your name?"

  "I am Calmarel Darkmist, Second Eldest and Co-Matriarch of Clan Darkmist of Xerro Kensho."

  "Is that supposed to impress me?" the Fargmir sneered.

  "It’s supposed to answer your question.”

  "Very well," the Fargmir hissed with an amused smile as she gracefully waved her hand. "Follow me."

  Calmarel followed the Fargmir through the gate and toward the castle. The moans of impaled souls rose and fell around them, following in a mournful chorus. Calmarel might have stopped to enjoy the effect, but considering her earlier gaff, she considered herself lucky to have not already joined their ranks.

  The dusty earth beneath her feet gave way to a stone surface, black, shot through with veins of white that squirmed on the edge of her vision like writhing maggots. The damned-populated iron framework c
ontinued beyond the gate, becoming an overhead lattice, an arch of torment. The corridor forked and split and twisted, and Calmarel became hopelessly disoriented in the maze. Here and there stone slabs jutted up; these were carved with intricate designs incorporating the unholy symbols of the Dark Gods: the thorned chain of Pergamon the Punisher; the serpent of Seth the Defiler; the bloated spider of Xakra the Tangler; the interlocking crescents of Mortas the Deathless One; and the fiery black sun of Phekkar the Flaming One. The passage ended in a spiral staircase that curved up beyond Calmarel’s sight. Her guide started up.

  It seemed that they climbed the stairs for hours, Calmarel’s thighs aching, while her guide glided effortlessly upward. Finally they reached the top and stepped onto a platform. The platform was in fact the center of a pentagram, and Calmarel gasped as she glimpsed the five infinities of the Dark Gods: the blazing inferno of Phekkar’s Hades; Agonia, Pergamon's endless dungeon of pain; Malorea, Seth's stinking swamp; the deathless yet always dying land of Mortas’ Necrol; and the limitless web of Discord, Xakra's lair.

  The Fargmir stood before the web and spread wide her arms.

  "Oh, Mighty Xakra, Mistress of Webs, Creator of Chaos, a mortal requests an audience."

  Calmarel peered into the tangled skeins of silk and saw movement. Something huge and monstrous scuttled through the web, coming toward them. The tempestuous force emanating from it made the Fargmir’s power seem like a dying breeze. Calmarel’s blood froze in her veins and her limbs locked, immobilized like a fly in a web. Only at the last moment was she able to summon the strength to drop to her knees and bow her head, pressing her face to the ground. Casting one’s eyes upon the Mistress of Webs without permission was tantamount to suicide, with an eternity of suffering as added payment.

  "AH, YESSS," sounded a powerful voice, "I HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR YOU, CALMAREL DARKMIST."

  Her name reverberating in her ears, Calmarel's heart froze in her chest. She felt ill with her conflicting emotions: part of her cowered in terror, part exulted at being addressed by her goddess. The approaching power threatened to crush her, then eased.

  "STAND AND LOOK UPON ME, MY CHILD."

  Calmarel's heart leapt. Her legs, acting of their own volition, raised her off the ground even as she raised her eyes to view Xakra. If she had thought the Fargmir beautiful, Calmarel could find no words worthy of the goddess. Xakra stood nine feet tall, appearing as a woman of flawless beauty: skin like white marble, lips as red as fresh blood, hair as black as night. Strands of black silk criss-crossed her skin like a web, thickening to cover certain areas, and thinning to strategically expose others. Her hands and face were free of the ebon tracery. Only her eyes were inhuman—two large, lidless spheres, each flanked by three smaller eyes arrayed vertically along her temples. Their green glow was so hypnotic, Calmarel couldn’t tear her gaze away.

  "GOOD!" Xakra’s smile was punctuated by two-inch fangs. "YOU ARE BOLD, MY CHILD, AS YOU HAVE ALWAYS BEEN. THIS WILL AID YOU IN YOUR TASK."

  A low chuckle sounded from beside Calmarel, but before she could turn to scowl at the Fargmir, Xakra's claw-like hand shot out. Two of the goddess' fingers pierced the demon's eyes as she grasped its head. Drawing the thrashing figure up to her own height, she slowly bent the neck back until it snapped. The Mistress of Chaos then smiled over the Fargmir's exposed throat at Calmarel, her fangs parting slowly then descending into the soft flesh with a savage snap. Blood fountained, and Xakra licked her lips in pleasure, then tossed the Fargmir’s body into her web. Immediately, several huge spiders descended upon it, quickly covering it in silk until it resembled a large grey pillow. Before vanishing, they hung the Fargmir's corpse from the web to await Xakra's hunger.

  "I DO NOT TOLERATE INSUBORDINATION," Xakra warned, "IN EITHER MY SERVANTS OR MY CHILDREN."

  Calmarel heard the clank of chains behind her, but she couldn’t take her eyes off of the silk-entombed body in Xakra’s web. It unnerved her to think that even her mistress’ demons were so thoughtlessly disposed of. Xakra smiled and looked over Calmarel’s shoulder.

  "AH, PERGAMON. I SEE YOU HAVE COME TO MEET OUR BOLD ONE AFTER ALL."

  Chains rattled anew, and Pergamon, Lord of Pain, hove into Calmarel's view. Thorned chains swathed his hugely muscled body, the barbs digging deep into the bronzed flesh, creating rivulets of blood that streaked the skin from neck to toes. His face was obscured by a black leather hood clamped tight around the bulging neck by a spiked collar. The god’s baleful red eyes, smoldering through ragged holes in the hood, weighed down on Calmarel in silent, screaming commentary. She did not expect him to speak to her; the Lord of Pain never spoke, save to scream out his endless agony.

  “SO, CALMAREL DARKMIST, FOR YOUR ACT OF TRANSGRESSION, DO YOU THINK YOU BELONG IN MY WEB, OR IN PERGAMON’S CHAMBER OF TORTURE?

  Calmarel’s heart stopped. Transgression? Her panicked gaze shot once more to the former Fargmir, then to Xakra’s face.

  “My Mistress—"

  "SILENCE!" Xakra roared. Venom dripped from her bared fangs and hissed like acid upon the floor at Calmarel's feet. "YOU HAVE DIGRESSED FROM OUR PLAN, THOUGH PERHAPS UNKNOWINGLY, AND YOU ARE OF SPECIAL INTEREST TO US, SO WE WILL BE LENIENT. CORRECT THIS ERROR AND YOU MAY YET ASCEND TO BE MEDIATOR. THIS WILL BE YOUR TEST. WHAT SAY YOU?"

  Calmarel's confidence, her surety of purpose, her certainty that she was right, melted away. Confusion tangled her mind, and fear chilled her soul. She felt as she had when she was a small child, when the sacrifices were being chosen. On several occasions, she had survived only by hiding within the deepest and dankest crypts in the catacombs. Only Lysethra, as eldest, was safe from the sacrificial dagger, and how Calmarel had longed for that sanctuary. But even her deepest childhood fears paled before what she felt now.

  "My Mistress, forgive me! Whatever transgression I have enacted, I will correct it immediately!"

  "SO BE IT," Xakra rumbled, her all-seeing eyes turning to Pergamon for a moment, then narrowing as they shifted back to Calmarel. "YOU HAVE DILUTED THE BLOOD OF OUR CHILDREN WITH THAT OF A SLAVE—A WORSHIPER OF OUR ENEMIES, THE GODS OF LIGHT—AND BIRTHED AN ABOMINATION."

  Calmarel's mind reeled. How could this be? She had mated with Jundag to inject strong new blood into Clan Darkmist, to further the glory of the Dark Gods! How could that be wrong? And her child—her child was perfect, not an abomination!

  "Almighty Xakra, I—"

  "YOU WILL END THIS VILE EXPERIMENT AND SACRIFICE BOTH THE CHILD AND ITS FATHER! ONLY WHEN THEIR BLOOD WETS OUR ALTARS WILL WE CONSIDER YOUR ASCENSION TO MEDIATOR. WHAT SAY YOU?"

  "The slave means nothing to me," Calmarel lied, mindful that she couldn’t hope to deceive the deities. "I will sacrifice him to you willingly. But the child has such potential! I implore you, Great Ones, let me raise the child to worship you as I do, and she will serve you beyond even your limitless imaginations!"

  Calmarel cringed as Xakra moved as if to pluck her up as she had the Fargmir. But Pergamon raised his hand, and the two deities stared at one other as if communing. Xakra clenched her fists and hissed, spitting venom, but nodded to Pergamon before turning back to Calmarel.

  "WE WILL GIVE YOU A CHOICE," the goddess seethed. "IF YOU SACRIFICE THE FATHER, WE WILL GRANT YOU AN ETERNITY UNTORMENTED. IF YOU SACRIFICE THE CHILD, WE WILL RETURN TO YOU ALL THE POWERS WE ONCE BESTOWED...AND NOW WITHDRAW."

  Calmarel’s knees buckled as she felt the divine link, her ability to invoke the power of her gods, torn from her. Screaming with the spiritual pain, she crumpled to the ground.

  "IF YOU SACRIFICE BOTH, WE WILL CONSIDER YOUR ASCENSION. NOW LEAVE US, AND THINK WELL UPON YOUR DECISION, CALMAREL DARKMIST."

  The world wheeled around Calmarel, sickening her as she plummeted through a dark tunnel down toward her body that yet sat upon the cushion within the circle of the council.

  Thrust into her flesh, she reeled, knocking over the pot of incense, but catching herself before collapsing. Shielded by the veil of her hair, she closed tight her eyes to preve
nt the tears from betraying her. Finally she looked up and into the mediator’s eyes.

  “I have seen my gods!” she cried, knowing that the woman would mistake her shining eyes for adoration.

  “And have they provided you with a task?” the mediator asked gravely. From the Tome of Rites, Calmarel knew that each supplicant received a task known only to them.

  “Yes, Mistress Mediator,” she answered truthfully as she forced herself to her feet. “Now if you would excuse me, I must meditate to fully comprehend the will of my deities.”

  “Very well,” said the mediator. “When you have completed the task, we shall resume the rite.”

  As Calmarel hurried from the room, she considered her choices, and wondered how her triumph had transformed to such a living hell.

  "An’ I say yer the perfect one ta lead this force," declared DoHurley, slamming his palm on the hardwood table.

  "With all respect due Yer Majesty," DoHeney argued, eying the high-ranking soldiers and the room's few other occupants apprehensively, "I think ye've taken leave o' yer senses. I've no experience leadin' troops whatsoever. If it was takin' a score or so on such a trip, maybe, but we're talkin' about mobilizin' every able-bodied dwarf in Zellohar. I wouldn't know where ta begin!"

  "Bah! If ye can organize a score, ye can organize an army!" the king countered. "Wha'd'ye think these fine soldier types'd be comin' along fer anyways? They're the ones experienced with troops, so ye let 'em do their jobs while ye worry about strategy and tactics. That's what's gonna make this thing work, not keepin' yer rows and ranks straight, or makin' sure all the boots is polished. An’ that's why I'm choosin' ye, DoHeney."

  "Ye ain't been listenin'?" DoHeney squawked miserably. "I know did'ly-squat about strategy and tactics! I'd have me own flanks attackin' one another!" DoHeney stood and regarded his uncle imploringly. "Ye know me, DoHur—I mean Yer Majesty. Ye know I'm more the type ta skulk around in the shadows than stand and fight good and proper. Why, I'd rather trick me enemy inta fallin' on his own sword than stick 'im wi' one! What's more, I figger this li'l mob's gonna number pert' near five hunnert. I wouldn't know what ta do wi' so many. Why, I ain't even comfortable unless I'm outnumbered!"