Red Litten World

by Alexander, K. M.

  A deep pit descended down ending at a rough cement floor several hundred feet below. A small group of people were already down there, standing around what looked to be a table near the center. Four figures moved about in torchlight.

  This pit should have been flooded, but only empty air filled the space between the group below and us above. I studied the walls. Sometime in the past, someone had gone to the trouble of sealing this building off from the Sunk. It was a windowless hole cut into the waters, a portion of the city carved into the sea below.

  The second group was moving along a wooden staircase that circled its way down along the walls. Each figure held a torch. I was grateful. Holding a light so close to their faces would make it harder for them to see into the dark.

  Occasionally the second group would hit a landing, similar to the one Samantha and I were currently lying upon. Each one was crammed with crates and barrels of varying ages.

  Voices rose up from the depths, too far and distorted by echo to understand. The bottom of the hole brightened as more torches were brought in. I scooted forward and looked down, catching a glimpse of someone lighting braziers that sat against the wall directly below us.

  “Carter’s cross, what is this place?” I whispered.

  “Looks like it used to be a warehouse,” said Samantha, her voice barely audible. “Someone went to a lot of trouble to build it...”

  “Doesn’t seem like it’s been used for generations,” I said. “Some of those crates look real old. Surprised it’s not crawling with streetfolk.”

  She looked over at me and scooted away from the platform’s edge. “If they’re staying away then there must be a reason.”

  The second group had now arrived at the bottom and was embracing members of the first group. I could hear laughter mixed with a murmur of conversation.

  “Let’s get closer. We need to figure out what they’re doing,” said Samantha.

  She rolled to her knees and, keeping low, set off down the stairs. She was careful, moving slowly, back pressed to the cement as she took each step. I followed, ignoring the ache in my knee as we climbed down. My heart raced. We were close to something.

  The cement wall that lined the interior of the pit was clammy to the touch. Moss was growing around cracks that had broken the surface. It had begun its slow creep across the face of the interior. The wood beneath our feet flexed with each step, sagging a little too much for comfort. The further we descended, the warmer the air became, and the more rank it grew. I felt like gagging, but fought it down.

  When we got to the next platform I saw that the braziers flanked a massive opening several stories tall that had been punched into the wall near the bottom of the hole. It was dark and shadowed. It looked like the entrance to a den...

  I pointed and Samantha nodded, mouthing, “First.”

  Here we were, below Lovat again, moving closer and closer to the lair of a First.

  We passed the platform and descended further, keeping to the shadows, careful not to step in the wrong spot.

  The figures at the base of the hole were now removing their cloaks, hoods, and hats and setting them on crates that were scattered against the arching staircase.

  There were seven of them. Janus Gold was the easiest to spot, his mask catching the light from the torches and braziers and sending it cascading around the base of the pit. Cora Dirch looked as stately as ever. Her hair was done up in an elegant topknot, and beneath her cloak she wore a sensible business suit of burgundy with a white shirt. Caleth dal Dunnel was dressed the most informally in dark jeans and a collared black shirt. With them were four others I didn’t recognize.

  There was the man Gold had called Henry, a human. When he removed his trilby his bald head reflected the light. He was handsome and sported a white mustache beneath an aquiline nose. Next to him stood Melanie, a dauger with a simple mask of a blue-white metal. Another member of the precious families, no doubt. Her brown hair had been pulled back into a ponytail.

  Two maero had come with Caleth. One was a tall thin woman, the tallest of the group, with severe features and pale eyes that caught the light and made them look ablaze. The other was a thickly built maero with gray hair, square features, and a permanent scowl.

  Samantha and I stopped on the last landing. This platform sat opposite from the opening in the wall and about two hundred feet below the platform at the entrance. It was still well above the floor, but close enough to let us see everything, and shadowed enough that we wouldn’t risk being spotted. A perfect vantage point.

  Samantha and I moved toward some wooden boxes and settled in behind them.

  Puddles of water were scattered across the pitted floor, and they dully reflected the light from the torches and braziers. I heard the choking sound of a small engine rumbling in the corner, and could make out a rickety old pump working at an exceptionally deep puddle that had settled around the latticework that supported the stairs. Clearly the building wasn’t as watertight as I had initially assumed.

  “Did we get what we needed?” said one of the maero.

  “Aye, we did,” said Caleth, upending the bag he had been carrying. The contents fell out on the table. It was an odd collection of items: a torn jacket, a pair of shoes, a stack of papers, and a large vial of something dark. Knowing what I knew so far, I assumed it was blood.

  “This is it? This is what she gave us?” said Henry.

  “By the Firsts, she sent us his old clothes,” said another, the maero woman, I think.

  “It was easier when we had Frank,” said Gold with a grumble, his face turned from the table and towards the hole that sat across from them.

  Dirch scowled down at the items. “We paid four thousand lira for this? Shoes? A jacket? No hair? No nails? No saliva or seminal fluid? Just a vial of blood? Kiver’s obsessed with grooming, why didn’t they go to his barbers? His doctors?”

  She looked from Gold to Caleth and then to the others.

  Caleth rocked on his heels. “I didn’t check the bag when the goon handed it over. I assumed it’d be like last time.”

  “We didn’t go through the Outfit last time, you idiot! We had Frank then. Did this... goon say anything?”

  Caleth scratched his chin with a seven-fingered hand. I wondered if he would talk about the shoving and angry exchange we’d seen. He shook his head.

  “No,” he said.

  “Maybe we could find another doctor? Bring them into the fold?” suggested the maero woman who stood to Dirch’s left.

  “Perhaps... though after Frank’s behavior I’m wary to bring in anyone else. There are seven of us now...” Gold ran his hands through his dark hair and sighed. “It just gets more dangerous for us. The city’s turmoil has allowed our plans to thrive. It can’t last long.”

  They all mumbled in agreement and stared at the objects from the bag. Eventually Gold broke them from their malaise. “Come, my friends, we have work to do.”

  Gold moved to a second crate sitting in the space between the first crate and the large opening. Symbols had been carved around its base and on its top. Jagged writing I didn’t recognize. A mortar and pestle sat on top, along with a massive open book. Around the book was an assortment of bric-a-brac: feathers, shells, small cans, and what looked like a jar of small bones. A pile of neatly folded clothes sat near a corner.

  “You see that, around that altar-thing? The writing?” I asked in a sharp whisper.

  Samantha squinted. “Yeah, I can’t make it out. It’s not Aklo. Not Strutten either. It’s... it doesn’t looks familiar.”

  I didn’t press any further. We needed to remain as quiet as possible. Questions could wait.

  Gold rolled his sleeve and held up the vial.

  “The blood,” Gold said, holding it above his head. “May it protect those who call him forth, and mark their sacrifice.”

  “Protection and sacrifice,” the others said in unison.

  Gold dropped the vile into the mortar and began working it furiously, glass and a
ll. The glass crunched as he mixed and ground it with the blood. The others moved about him and formed two lines on opposite sides of the makeshift altar. Three on each side, facing one another.

  As he worked they began to chant. It was an animal sound, guttural and angry. It bubbled up from deep inside their chests and rolled out from their lips.

  “That is not Strutten,” I whispered, looking over at Samantha.

  She shook her head. “I’ve never heard it before. It sounds beast-like, those are almost non-words.”

  Suddenly Gold raised the mortar above his head, holding it there for a few moments while the chanting continued. Then, suddenly, he brought it down with a heavy slam on the wooden crate. The chanting stopped.

  “Xinaián cha hgl mechaus Tsath!” Gold shouted.

  Samantha gasped. She looked at me with wide eyes.

  “The book. Bouchard’s research,” she hissed.

  The others echoed Gold and returned to chanting. He went back to work, adding this and that to his mixture; a dab of wine, a drop or two of water, other liquids from other vials. The solution thickened, becoming almost like a batter.

  Again he lifted the mortar.

  “Esus N'kai tin rondo. Esus Yoth tin rondo. Esus Tsath tin rondo. Esus tin Lovat!”

  Again he brought it down.

  The group echoed his words and returned to chanting.

  “Wal, there’s something in there. Something...” Samantha said, her words drowned out by the chanting. They repeated the words. Each time he shouted his words. Each time he slammed the mortar on the altar. The chanting intensified, rising in volume until the six were shouting at one another.

  Finally, on the eighth slam Gold stepped back. I couldn’t see his face. Only his back, his dark hair, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up above his sharp elbows. He put his hands on his hips and regarded the concoction.

  “What is he doing?” I asked Samantha.

  Samantha shook her head. She continued to stare at the group with rapt attention. Her eyes moved about, catching every movement. She seemed equally horrified and fascinated by it all.

  Gold grabbed the big mortar with one hand and moved around the altar, standing between the two rows of followers. The mixture in the bowl slopped about slowly. It was thick and red, and it absorbed the light in the chamber.

  He stopped first before Dirch and looked down at the bowl and then back up at her.

  “Dabo tin tur rondo,” he said, dipping his hand into the bowl. Dirch braced herself. “Ovartin N'kai, y Yoth, y Tsath, rel choomer.”

  She nodded.

  “Feist!” Gold said, dragging his hand out of the bowl and slapping a dripping open palm onto Dirch’s forehead.

  The liquid slowly rolled down her face, dripped off her chin, her eyelashes, the end of her nose. It caught in the wrinkles of her cheeks and settled next to her lips. Gold didn’t remove his hand, but left it, touching Dirch’s forehead until her eyes rolled back, turning white. She stood stark still.

  He held his hand there until a smile broke across her face. Her eyes fluttered back, and she shuddered violently.

  “Feist,” she said, her tone dark.

  She licked at the liquid with a pink tongue.

  “For protection,” said Gold, reverting to Strutten.

  “Protection,” Dirch echoed.

  They gave one another curt bows and then Gold repeated the rite down the line. Each time he said the same black words. Each time he slapped a bloody hand to the follower’s forehead, letting the liquid drip down their faces, and settle onto their clothes.

  When all were bloodied they began to chant again. Gold walked slowly to the foot of the rows, stopping between the group and the opening to the cavern. There he laid out the torn jacket and placed the papers on top. He laid the shoes atop those.

  “Esus N'kai, esus Yoth, esus Tsath, esus endar rondo. Esus Lovat!”

  He dipped his hand into the mortar and began to spatter the items with the blood, chanting quietly as he did so.

  The voices of those around him rose as he worked, until their growls filled the pit and echoed around us.

  I squeezed the grip of the Judge. I had been in situations like this before. I wanted to be ready.

  “Wal!” Samantha said, her voice strained under the whisper.

  I glanced at her but she wasn’t looking at me. She was looking over my right shoulder, toward one of the other platforms above us.

  I followed her gaze.

  There, on the edge of the platform, was a gargoyle.

  I looked back to the group, wondering if they noticed. Two more gargoyles stood near a brazier, and another had appeared near the foot of the stairs. Their robes billowed around them, moving slowly as if there was a breeze.

  Their heads were cocked and their blank faces were watching Gold and the group perform their ritual.

  “What are they waiting for?” Samantha asked.

  “Their master,” I said.

  Gold had moved to stand before the altar facing the great opening.

  “Thus we call,” he said in Strutten.

  He raised the mortar above his head, and upended it so that the remaining contents poured over his hair, his mask, down his shoulders and back staining his white shirt a deep crimson.

  The chanting stopped.

  Silence now filled the chamber. The small pump choked and went silent, even the fires in the braziers seemed to stop crackling for a moment.

  I heard breathing, and thought it was Samantha at first. But the sound grew louder and I realized it was coming from somewhere else.

  Throom.

  The sound increased.

  Throom.

  The breathing grew louder.

  Throom.

  The platform shook.

  It sounded like the bellows of some great furnace working in the darkness beyond the mouth of the cave.

  I shuddered. Whispers slithered around in the air. Voices like horrible rushing water. Again I found myself teleported between two realities. I was crouched along the edge of the pit but I also crouched in that horrible, expanse of wasteland. A hot wind licked at my clothing, strange voices crackled across a sky the color of rotting flesh. I could see the pit, but I could see the ruin of the distant city and beyond that a broken sun. I ran my hands through my hair, and gripped it hard. Not now. I couldn’t deal with this now!

  My skin crawled and I shuddered. Something was coming. Something horrible was coming. There was a dragging sound coming from the cave, flesh against stone.

  Throom.

  In the wasteland I saw a figure striding toward me. Its several shadows stretched toward me like hungry tentacles. They writhed in the light of the broken sun.

  In the pit the seven bloodied figures now all turned toward the opening and raised their arms in a beckoning gesture, like small children begging their parents to lift them.

  Madness. This was utter madness.

  Then I saw it.

  The vision of the wasteland faded. The figure was replaced.

  I wanted to scream.

  The thing that came forth was the size of a building. Near the top of the cave’s opening the shadowed lines of its face appeared, emerging slowly into the light. It was anurish in shape but horrific to look upon. A gray tongue lolled out between rows of uneven stained teeth surrounded by fat pale lips. The tongue dripped a green ooze that mixed with the puddles on the floor.

  Narrow eyes, like knife wounds, leered down at the gathered group. They were barely visible under the folds of its brow but they glowed a dim red, like the coal-hot eyes of an umbra.

  The thing seemed to lack a nose, but it sniffed at the air with two slashes that seemed to fulfill the purpose.

  Its ears had the appearance of bat’s wings, and they moved and twitched as it came forward, shuddering in the air.

  Its shoulders appeared, then its chest and belly. The creature was covered with matted coarse brown hair. Moss and lichen grew along its stomach, below its wattles, and from its elbows.
It hung in thick sheets, swirling in the air.

  It stank, and as it emerged into the rusty light of the chamber the room began to smell terrible. The scent of rot extended from it like a fog and my eyes began to water. I covered my nose and mouth with my hand and gagged.

  It gripped the sides of the cave with a webbed hand and pulled itself forward. Its girth was immense, its belly dragged along the ground. Its underbelly had been rubbed free of hair and callouses covered its obsidian flesh.

  “Damn...” I whispered.

  The slithering voices were now muffled cries and screams, wavering and dying out as more and more of the creature became visible.

  Stubby legs pushed it forward clawed toes digging furrows into the cement floor until finally it came to rest between the braziers, and before the objects Gold had laid out.

  I looked at Samantha and we exchanged a glance. Her eyes were wide. She looked like she was going to be sick. She reached for my hand and I felt her fingers intertwine with my own. She squeezed, her hand tight against mine.

  The massive creature regarded the offering, snorted, and looked at Gold.

  “He wishes to know what you have brought him,” said one of the gargoyles near the braziers in Strutten. The voice was papery, like the rush of wind, or a loud whisper.

  “His next meal,” said Gold, not taking his eyes off the creature. “As required by our agreement.”

  The creature pulled back slightly, looking down at the dauger and then at the pile of items before him. Its top lip pulled back, showing its stained upper teeth and an expression of disgust.

  “He does not see a meal, only a pair of shoes, some pages, and clothing,” said a second gargoyle. This one was near the foot of the stairs.

  “His meal is the owner of those items, as before.”

  “You brought him more before.”

  “We had a snare.”

  “A snare?” tittered a gargoyle from far above. The laughter sent shivers down my spine. “Now is not the time for snares.”

  “It fulfills the requirements, and it is time for another.”

  “Yes, he supposes it is,” said another gargoyle. This one was directly below our platform, between us and Gold. The dauger turned to regard it. Samantha and I ducked low, hoping he hadn’t spotted us.