Descent Into Fury

by Sean Hinn

  Five doors. The five dominant races of Greater Tahr? But what of the orcs? What of the trolls? Different as they were, surely they were human, possessing a soul. Were they all gone, and thus needed no door? No, they could not be. Half-orc families were known to live along the Sapphire coast. The trolls, while diminishing in number, still controlled much of the swampy region south of Mor. It was even rumored that full-blooded orcs still lived west of Eyreloch, though no one had verified this in generations, not since the way West had been closed by the Airies.

  And why doors at all? If the members of each race had their own predetermined destination after their first life, why present a choice? Where but Stonarris, for example, would any dwarf choose to go?

  Mikallis turned to the crystal door, again, for what may have been the hundredth time. Beyond, he thought. Life after life, where one would find the answers to the unknowable questions and mysteries of all things. The elves believed in the Beyond. The choice he expected he would someday make, perhaps this very day, would be between venturing Beyond and remaining behind to serve his people. Surely that was what was needed here… he must remain behind. But how? Through which door?

  Perhaps the clues are not what I suppose them to be. Perhaps this is not the door to Stonarris. Perhaps that is not a door to the Eyre.

  How could it be? If one could travel from death to the Eyre, where then were all the once-dead elves in Eyreloch? They certainly were not within the Elms, and if they were in the heart of Eyreloch, the Airies made no mention of them. And what of the boulder, and the iron gate?

  And what of the sixth door? Mikallis resisted the urge to turn towards that empty space between doors. She is there. I know it.

  He recalled the Father’s voice:

  “…she is lost to me, for now. To us. There is no door.”

  Mikallis shuddered.

  “she must find her way back. When she does, if she does—”

  If.

  “—she will need you.”

  Mikallis set aside the question of Aria, of the sixth door… of where that door might lead, were it there. He felt certain that the answer lay not in where Aria was, in any case, but in where he must go to prepare for her return.

  If this door leads to the Beyond, and this door to Stonarris, then this must lead to the Eyre. Where else? If so, then these…

  He turned to inspect the boulder, then the gate.

  …these must lead to lands meant for the gnomes and men, after their first life.

  Mikallis believed it did not matter which was which. Neither could be his destination. Neither could Stonarris, nor the Beyond. That left only the wooden door, the knocker in the shape of an elm…

  But why? We had all just come from the Eyre. Why return there?

  “There are those who might teach you, but as they guide your path, so you must lead them.”

  The Father’s clue could not mean the Eyre. Lady Lor had already given her life to teach what she could, and she bestowed no such gift upon Mikallis. Lady Lor? She would follow no one.

  But she may have answers.

  Or she may not.

  Incomprehension became hot frustration.

  “‘Choose wisely,’ you say! I cannot! No one could! If this is a test, it is a fool’s test! Why hang the fate of the world on a riddle? This is madness!”

  Mikallis chided himself for his impertinence, his irreverence. This was a holy place, he knew. He should not bring forth anger here. Yet he could not help himself, even as he recalled the Father’s words.

  “…you must choose, young Mikallis.”

  “How? How do I choose!?”

  Mikallis turned the problem over in his mind, again and again. Time passed, or did not, as the dead elf alternately paced, grumbled, and cursed. The more he agonized over his decision, the more impossible it seemed. Every clue was contradicted by the next, every logical conclusion laid waste by a plausible alternate idea. There were only so many clues. Five doors. Varying shapes. No inscriptions. Only the axe and the elm, symbols that may carry obvious meaning, or could as easily carry none. After all, how old were the Doors? Did they not predate the world? No, they could not, or how could they resemble familiar things, things shaped by the hands of humans? So, they came after… but when? And how? By the Father’s hand? Or was he merely a gatekeeper? Was it even the First Father whom Mikallis met?

  “You know how you have come here.”

  No.

  “And you know my voice.”

  I do.

  Father.

  “Of a sort.”

  Another riddle. Was it of consequence, or just another unknowable thing, irrelevant to his choice? Mikallis listened to the windless air, if it was in fact air within which he existed. He heard nothing. Less than nothing. Complete, total silence.

  “Why!? Why be silent? If this choice matters so much, why say so little!?”

  “I can tell you no more, only that you must have faith, and you must choose wisely.”

  “Faith! Faith in what, in riddles? In my ability to make a wild guess? In my superior intellect? Even Neral knew I am a fool!” Every decision I make is folly, from the moment I inserted myself into Aria’s quest… did I bring this about? Is she lost because of me?

  Mikallis discovered then that he could cry in this place, that his body, such as it was, could make tears, that his chest could heave and sob, that he could fall to his knees, though upon what he knelt, he did not know.

  Guilt, shame, sorrow, fear… is this what death was? The bitter realization that one was helpless, flawed, and alone? That one’s deeds in life could never be undone, one’s failures never remedied?

  He had failed Aria, failed his people, shamed himself, and even at the end, in his wild, headlong rush unto death, he accomplished little. The beast endured. Mikallis’ last memory of life was the sound of its roar as darkness narrowed his vision for the last time. It still threatened. How could his friends have survived? They could not, not against such power.

  Mikallis considered the missing sixth door.

  No. She lives.

  Somewhere, Aria needed him, or she would. When? As he dithered here in this timeless place, how much time passed elsewhere? How much time did he have? How much time did she have?

  “Father, please! I cannot do this alone! Help me decide, I beg of you! Before it is too late, before time runs out!”

  Time.

  The thought rang in Mikallis’ mind like a bell.

  Time.

  The hint of a hint worked its way through his mind, not quite taking shape, but drawing nearer.

  Time.

  He recalled his first thoughts when the Doors appeared…

  He turned to his right, to the fifth door. There he saw a huge boulder, perfectly spherical, at least on the side that faced him. Thick, damp moss hung in clumps and strips from the stone. The scent emanating from the door was the first aroma he had noticed since his awakening; an old smell, ancient even. If Mikallis were to name it, he would call it the scent of time.

  Time.

  Mikallis stood, turning towards the fifth door. The old scent filled him, along with something else:

  Faith.

  Without hesitation, in complete absence of doubt, Mikallis placed a hand on the cool, damp stone.

  X: FURY

  SCREECHING HOWLS of hunger and rage echoed through iron passages. The tunnel walls reverberated as if alive, thrumming in appalling, dissonant harmonies as they carried forth the sounds of approaching death. Lucan indulged no illusion on that point; what came was most certainly death itself.

  But not mine. Not ours.

  “Aria! Get beside me, we’ll take the right tunnel!”

  “We’ve got the left!” bellowed J’arn. “Shyla, Wolf, to me!” Lucan saw the dwarf instinctively reach for his axe.

  He shouted a warning. “No blades, J’arn!”

  “Arrgh! Fine!” J’arn’s hand dropped, fist clenching at his side. A skittering, scratching sound overtook the echoing howls in v
olume, an awful sound that could only be claws on metal. The discordant noise came from everywhere; it was impossible to tell from which tunnel their enemies came. Lucan met Cindra’s silvery gaze. The witch understood. She edged towards J’arn.

  “Do as I do, J’arn! Just as I do!”

  J’arn nodded at Cindra, unsure.

  “It’ll be all right. You too, Shyla! As I do!”

  Shyla nodded. Wolf growled, baring teeth, crouching.

  A hand grasped Lucan’s own. Aria. He turned to the princess, suddenly aware that his own hands were clammy with sweat.

  “Stay by my side,” she said firmly. Lucan could not tell if she meant to ask his protection or offer her own. He decided it did not matter.

  “This is not our end,” Lucan vowed.

  “No,” she agreed, the two sharing a memory then, a glimpse of a dream they had shared so many times before.

  Lucan stared into the dark tunnel before them. Only blackness… and noise… So much noise! He could barely think, until, suddenly, the howling just… stopped. The distant cacophony of scrabbling claws diminished as their enemies slowed their approach.

  Wolf let out a whine. Lucan kept his attention fixated on the tunnel ahead, peering into blackness, straining, listening. The silence deepened. He could hear his own rattling breath. Someone behind him—Shyla, perhaps—let out a gasp. Aria turned. Another gasp.

  Lucan whipped around to see what Aria saw. Past the others, down the tunnel… a sickly yellow glow, brightening. Lucan blinked, forcing himself to focus, and then he saw. Hundreds upon hundreds of pairs of lights, mustard-yellow, pulsating… almost blinking…

  Blinking…

  Eyes!

  As if on command—no, surely on command—the eyes began to brighten. The howls returned. Lucan had no doubt… whatever controlled these beings had waited until he and his companions had counted their number before releasing them into battle. Now, they came, screeching unintelligible curses, clambering over one another in a roiling stampede. The companions stood rooted, frozen in fear. Only Cindra stepped forward, arms outstretched from within tattered robes. From where Lucan stood, he could not see her eyes, but the glow they emitted bathed the tunnel before her, washing their enemies in silvery light.

  Lucan had no time to make out their forms before twin gouts of flame erupted from Cindra’s hands. Shyla quickly added her own fire to the deluge, and a moment later J’arn did as well, though he and Shyla together emitted but a fraction of the conflagration that Cindra sent forth. Screams of pain replaced howls of rage as their enemies burned. Lucan had just raised his own hands to add to the torrent when Aria screamed behind him.

  Lucan turned. Twice the number of eyes as before stared back at him. Three times. Aria ignited her own streams of fire. Lucan joined her. Red and orange light poured forth from the pair through the mouth of the tunnel before them, but unlike the left side, their flames did not roll along the walls and fill the breach. Here, the tunnel widened after only a few paces. Here, their combined power was no more effective at stemming the tide than a stone in a river.

  The first few came through burning, smoking, stumbling, their forms still unrecognizable. The scent was vile, nauseating.

  Aria called out. “Cindra! Help us!”

  Lucan knew she could not. He bore down, sending more of his will into the magic, finding more power, sending more flame… it was not enough. He and Aria began slowly walking backwards, their retreat unintentional, their fear absolute.

  With a deafening roar, louder than the already ear-splitting noises resounding around them, a black, lumbering beast came through the flames on four impossibly thin legs—no, two legs, and two arms!—each the length of the other, long, lanky, segmented things, hands ending not in fingers but single, blackened, dagger-like blades, feet a mess of claws with iron talons attached to razor-sharp shins… Lucan turned his flame into the abomination, into its emaciated torso, only then gaining the courage to gaze into its face.

  Here Lucan saw what was perhaps once the skull of a man; that, or a hate-inspired mockery of what a man might be. Elongated facial bones gave only a hint of human cheeks. Thin, impossibly long teeth, sharpened to a point, longer on the bottom than the top, bulging from within a jaw too narrow to contain them. Smoky yellow light emanated from within the black skull, illuminating fissures between its skull bones, pouring out from misshapen eye sockets.

  No flame would have effect on this creature, Lucan knew, this atrocity made wholly of solid iron and pure hatred. Cindra had warned about beasts that might bleed acid. This creature would not bleed at all. This was something else.

  Aria must have recognized the same as she quickly changed tact, but her adjustment in strategy proved disastrous. With a cry she extinguished her flames, reared back, inhaled, and extended her hands forward again, this time sending a gust of wind into the long-skulled beast, clearly hoping to blow it backwards. All she managed to do was extinguish Lucan’s own gouts of flame. The beast dug its rear claws and hand-daggers into the floor of the cavern, and thin as it was, the wind Aria sent forth could gain no purchase. Lucan felt certain the faceless aberration smirked at him then, mocking Aria’s folly.

  “Down!” yelled Cindra. Lucan and Aria dove to their bellies. The beast roared again, lunging for the pair as the gnome witch ran between them. With a heave and a cry Cindra launched herself at the horrid creature’s midsection, somehow driving her own hand directly into the creature’s iron chest. Its dagger-hands swung inwards, training to sever Cindra’s head from her neck. Before they could make the arc, the light in the creature’s eyes went out.

  Lucan lay in petrified awe as the next wave of horrors came pouring through the tunnel. They crossed into the chamber, bathed in a strange red glow that now emanated from the witch. Now, Lucan saw, and what he saw deepened his paralysis.

  Cindra turned as she and the creature fell into a heap, her silver eyes boring into Lucan’s own. “Defend me, dammit!” Lucan sensed something awful there, a sort of lust… an ecstasy… her hand remained embedded in the iron beast’s chest.

  Aria reacted first, a ball of pure, concentrated flame flying from her hands over towards the… things. Time slowed as Lucan’s mind struggled to process what had just happened, what was still happening. A score of six-legged creatures, some the size of rats, some the size of dogs, black as the blackest night but for eyes of yellow fire, racing forward, snapping, snarling…

  … the ball of flame exploded overhead…

  … faces… awful, soulless faces…

  …the red light around Cindra brightened to white, he could see nothing but the glow…

  …a concussion from above, pressing him harder onto the iron floor of the chamber…

  …heat… ringing ears…

  … a scream behind him… his name?…

  “Lucan!”

  A strong hand yanked Lucan up by the collar.

  “We got to go, damn ye! This way!”

  Lucan gathered his wits, enough at least to stumble after J’arn on gelatinous legs. The dwarf led Lucan and Aria down the left tunnel, now cleared of beasts but drenched in a revolting residue of bone fragments, bile, and boiled ichor for a dozen paces. A path down the center of the tunnel had been cleared by some spell, probably cast by Shyla. Wolf barked a warning from somewhere ahead.

  An orb flew over Lucan’s head, lighting the way forward. “Keep running, Shyla!” yelled Cindra. “Run ’til yeh can run no more, then go right!”

  Lucan turned to see Cindra running behind them, slowing to fire off some spell at their pursuers. Whatever it was, it was working. The sounds of howls and snapping fangs became more distant as they ran.

  Lucan ran, his lungs burning. He became aware again of how difficult it was to breathe here. The tunnel took an undulating path, straight for the most part but treacherous, blackened rocks and iron bulges of every shape and size jutting out here and there. The dim light of Cindra’s orb cast odd, moving shadows, exaggerating the slope of the terrain i
n places, concealing dips and trenches in others. He kept to J’arn’s heels as best he could, the dwarf far more sure-footed than he. Finally, J’arn slid to a stop as the passageway ended. To the right, a sloping tunnel led downward. The orb of light took the turn. J’arn followed. A cry from behind turned Lucan around. Aria tumbled to the ground.

  “Aria!”

  “Run, Lucan! I’m fine!” Aria took a step and stumbled again.

  Cindra helped her to her feet with one hand, casting another orb of light with the other. A grimace of pain etched itself across Aria’s face.

  “Twisted her ankle!” said Cindra. “Carry her! Move!”

  Lucan scooped Aria into his arms and raced to follow J’arn, Shyla and Wolf. He turned to the right as the tunnel ended, hearing Cindra’s footsteps come to a halt behind him. He turned to see her gesturing, casting some spell.

  “Just go!” Cindra commanded.

  Lucan obeyed without argument.

  The tunnel here was narrower, shorter, the ground flatter but no easier to traverse. The passage was solid, unblemished iron, its walls and ceiling red with rust, its floor trod smooth as glass. Repeatedly Lucan slipped and slid as he tried to keep up with J’arn.

  Aria spoke through gritted teeth. “Use your magic, Luc!”

  Lucan understood. With a thought, his feet left the ground. He began to float along the passage, following the orb, touching the walls and floor here and there to alter his trajectory. He absently noted that had he not been fleeing for his life, the sensation would have been wonderful. Soon he had nearly caught up to J’arn.

  “Can you heal your ankle?”

  “I’m trying,” Aria said through clenched teeth. “I think I broke it.”

  J’arn slowed. Lucan caught him just as he reached Shyla and Wolf. The tunnel widened into a large chamber. It was hard to tell in the shadowy light, but several passages seemed to branch off in every direction.

  Shyla spoke first, winded. “Where’s my grand… uh, where’s Lady Cindra?”

  “Coming, I think,” said Lucan, setting Aria down gingerly. “She stopped to cast a spell.”