by Iain Ryan
‘Yes.’ Erma squeezes her throat. ‘You could have been just like me, Jenny. I would have done everything in this world to help you but you had to go and mess it up.’
Jenny starts to claw at the hand around her throat.
Erma lets her go.
‘I’m getting on a plane to Spain tomorrow. You better have that stuff for me by the time I get back or there will be hell to pay. And clean yourself up. You look like garbage.’
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35
A pulse of light fires down and smoke rockets up the hose. You take a short toke and cough the rest of it out. The ghost shakes his head. His disapproval is the last thing you see before you find yourself melting into the floor, falling down into some hellish new dimension.
The hole they have Erma in is as unlit as the dungeon corridors. It smells of bleach and mould; of damp, dank furniture and fabric. Like a rotten motel. There are no coordinates for this place, no bearings. It’s been pure darkness since the moment the hood covered her face.
You float like a ghost watching over her.
Two days of this nothingness. It breaks her down.
The door opens, and, beyond, there’s a drab hallway, the hum of harsh fluorescent bulbs, the sense of a place underground; then in the doorway, a tall, thin woman in a black dress.
‘If you want to get out of here, you need to learn to kneel when you hear me coming,’ she says as she slops food down on the floor.
The room is tiled in white.
There’s a drain in the centre.
You feel your chest throttled by pain.
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36
The path leads you downwards and the golden light keeps coming, faster and faster, brighter and brighter. During one blinding flash, you lose your footing and fall, shredding your arms and hands as you roll and skid. You tumble down the corridor and free-fall into a vast chamber filled with thick flaxen mist. The mist is heavy and it slows your descent, lowering you to the bottom of what appears to be a tall triangular pit.
Three giant walls rise up around you. They converge to form a small triangular apex. That apex throbs and glows before blasting down a wave of light so harsh it forces your eyes closed. As the room comes back into view, you find that you are no longer alone. A cloaked figure stands in the mist.
‘Who goes there?’
The mist parts. The figure is an old man, feet bare in the sand. He appears completely unafraid. He comes closer and you notice an unusual shimmer to him and recoil. He is transparent. You stab at him with your sword and it passes through him as if dipped in water.
‘Having fun?’ he says.
‘A ghost. This place is without reason.’
‘Yes, yes. I have some bad news for you if you’re afraid of ghosts. There are a lot of us down here. The whole set-up is run by ghosts. Ghosts and demons. All very … er, hold on. Close your eyes.’
You refuse. The triangle above bathes the room again, blinding you a second time. When the blindness recedes, the ghost remains.
‘Life is wasted on the stupid,’ he says. ‘Now, I believe you have something for me. You wouldn’t be called down here otherwise.’
‘I have nothing for the likes of you, unlord.’
The ghost sighs and holds open his hand. A small triangular tube appears in the air above his palm. It rotates slowly in the air. The tube is identical to the yellow vial you’ve carried with you this whole journey, since the orcs slain in the forest.
‘Hand it over,’ he says.
‘What is it? Tell me.’
‘Troll piss. And aged cider. You can have it back, don’t worry.’
You retrieve the vial and hold it out for the ghost to see.
‘Yes,’ the ghost says, studying the vial. ‘That’ll fit.’
‘I was told not to drink it.’
‘And you didn’t drink it, that’s a surprise.’
The ghost sweeps his robes up and walks towards the centre of the chamber. He kneels down beside a bronze panel in the floor and sweeps sand from the surface, configuring a set of dials and switches on the panel. A small hatch opens: a triangular slot precisely the shape and size of the vial.
‘Go on, slip it in.’
You approach the panel and do as requested. The vial goes all the way down without friction. The bronze panel hums. The ghost scratches around in the sand for what at first glance looks like a buried rope. On closer inspection it is a bronze chain-mail hose. At the end of the hose is a moulded mouthpiece resembling the head of a snake.
The ghost says, ‘Now, when the light up there comes on again, this contraption will cook up that vial and push it down this tube. You can either breathe in a little or a lot, the choice is yours.’ The ghost cocks his head, squints up at the ceiling. ‘OK, here we go.’
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37
Dora is the twin with the suitor and you feel an immediate connection with her. Her sense of the world aligns with your own. There is a dark ease with which she deals with obstruction – you sense this – and like yourself, she is trapped. Or feels trapped. At present, her body is damaged from a war you cannot comprehend. Her memories reveal a terrible event: the day Dora rode in the belly of an iron carriage, hurtling through the world with a speed beyond that of the fastest horse, fuelled by some occult power, until a collision of horrifying force: metal bending around her, pinning her limbs, puncturing and tearing at her to the point where she is now bedridden.
Trapped.
Incapacitated.
In her own spiral.
Dora slips in and out of hazy visions and terrifying nightmares of pressure and burn. Day and night blend together. Liquid food. Hot sweats and creatures growling, gnawing at her. And somewhere in there, a faceless figure standing over her bed, naked from the waist down.
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38
You wake and find yourself laid out on a marble floor slick with trickling saltwater. Overhead, a thousand decorative lanterns hang down, giving the room a strangely warm sheen despite the cold.
Am I dead?
You find your strength and get to your feet. The room around you is empty and square. A thin film of water seeps through a portal in one wall, across the floor and out a similar sized drain on the other side. The flickering lanterns above seem to serve no purpose.
There is a door. A set of steps leading up. You climb halfway up the steps and carefully survey the cavernous chamber above. It’s a long space. One wall is straight but the opposing one bows out as if bulging under some godlike force. A pair of strange illuminated poles stand at the far end of this room, past the apex of the bulging wall. The poles are shaped from a white crystalline substance.
It appears safe. The room below you gives you the fear. There is something off about a room that has water flowing across the floor and lanterns above. It’s mismatched. No good could come of it.
You go to the hall.
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39
Lanterns dot the corridor ahead. Timber slats are laid into the flooring. You set out and your footsteps fall into a bracing rhythm, the air around you buzzing with dust and lantern fuel. After a time, you spot a change in the passage ahead. A brighter lantern fixed to the wall. An opening beside it.
‘Who goes there?’ you shout, announcing yourself.
A torso leans out into the corridor and calls back, ‘Stranger, I’ll have none of that kind of trouble in here. This is a place of relaxation for tired travellers. Put that sword away or turn back.’
‘I’ll do no such—’
An arrow thuds into the wall by your shoulder. The force of it suggests a crossbow.
‘A place of relaxation, I said. Now be calm.’
You re-sheathe your sword and walk closer with hands raised.
‘That’s better,’ says the voice. ‘What are you? Man or woman?’
‘What are you?’ is your response.
It steps out of its hole. The creature stands upright on two stumpy human legs but has the tail and face of a reptile. Its eyes are pure evil (thin black pupils surrounded by a pus-coloured yellow iris) and yet the mouth is the worst of it: a garish mess of broken fangs and dripping saliva. A pink forked tongue slides in and out without warning.
‘Pretty, ain’t I?’ says the creature. It holds a crossbow lazily in one hand.
‘What is this place?’
‘This? Why this, my friend, is the best sauna this side of Ulteron. Got the finest hot room in the whole province, if you ask me. You need a rest, stranger? This is the place. If you’ve got the gold, that is?’
‘I’m here for the …’ and you struggle to picture the water from Rohank’s vision. ‘The lake. Is there an underground lake somewhere in this dungeon?’
‘This ain’t no dungeon,’ says the creature. ‘But sure, we’ve got ourselves a lake. I draw my sauna from it every day. How else you figure I run a business down here? Now, you gonna show me that gold or not? Because I ain’t got time to stand out here all day firing arrows and gasbaggin’.’
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40
The sauna is a seamless stone box about the size of a horse’s stable. It’s situated in the centre of a much larger room, every surface of which is slick with moisture. Banks of mist surround the sauna, giving it a gloomy feel. The interior is bracingly hot and as your eyes adjust you notice the place is lit by red molten rocks arranged in a pit on the floor. Sitting on the other side of this rock pile are three figures. There is an old man with a pale beard and a sprawl of dark tattoos running the length of his chest. Beside him is a younger woman built like a pit fighter. Then a full-grown orc sitting apart from the couple.
The woman says, ‘You best put that sword down, if you wish to stay in here. That is, if you call that a sword.’
‘She’s right,’ says the old man, ‘there’s no need for that thing. Besides, Seelap down there has a touch of the mage about him and he isn’t too friendly this time of day, not when it comes to stolen swords.’
The orc grunts.
‘I’m none too friendly either,’ you say.
‘Then get the fuck out of here,’ says the woman. ‘We were here first.’
‘Or you could sit down and be quiet,’ says the man. ‘You look as though some time in here would do you good. We’re easy company in the right circumstances.’
You remain standing.
The orc holds a hand aloft. A bright blue orb materialises around his closed fist. He grunts again.
‘That’s your last warning,’ says the woman. She stretches her neck side to side.
‘Please sit,’ says the man.
There’s no deciding which one of these three poses the biggest threat. The orc is obviously capable of all manner of mayhem but the mage class orcs tend to be less violent. They’re healers. And magic in a confined space such as this would put the whole party in peril. The woman, on the other hand, looks formidable in exactly this sort of place. She could be on you in seconds. And then there’s the old man. He’s the type to have a concealed weapon. An ex-soldier or mercenary. The sort that never relies on luck or goodwill.
You take a seat across from them.
‘Where are you from?’ says the man.
‘Where are you going?’ adds the woman before you can answer.
‘I’m looking for a dark lake.’
‘He has a spiral on him,’ says the orc. ‘On his back. I can see through this one.’
It feels odd to hear the orc speak your language.
‘Where are you from, friend?’ repeats the man.
‘I’m without memory. I could be from anywhere.’
‘Maybe you’re from here?’ says the orc.
‘Maybe you should cease using your demon magic on me or you’ll find your own self in need of healing.’
‘I look but I don’t touch,’ says the orc.
‘Ain’t the first time I’ve heard that down here,’ says the woman.
The man makes a wry smile. ‘You know, one without memory or destination can oft find themselves in a place like this. You should be careful. Might be that such a place is seeking you more than the other way around.’
‘You speak in tongues, old man.’
‘Tell me about it,’ says the woman. ‘Now, if you could all shut the hell up, I want Seelap to get this pit fired up.’
On cue, the orc stands and draws a ladle of water from a chute built into the wall. ‘This is from the lake,’ he says with a smile and, as he pours the water over the coals, the room turns a thick primary red like fresh blood. The heat comes at you, a wave of infernal damnation, a message from the black world. Your skin slides loose from your body.
‘What have you done?’ you snarl.
No answer arrives.
You feel yourself falling, disappearing down through the stone bench as if it were an apparition. You scramble for your sword, catching it just as you tumble down through the floor of the sauna, through the stone and dirt, into the void below. As your body passes through the world, you fall into the thoughts of a stranger.
A woman and her mother sit in a room filled with trinkets and oddly shaped tools. The room is completely foreign, some kind of indoor heaven filled with white surfaces and morning light.
‘You’re what?’ says the mother.
‘Pregnant,’ says the woman.
‘How? You’re not. You don’t even have a boyfriend.’
The girl has drinking pottery in her hand. She stares down into it and says, ‘That’s not important right this fucking second.’
‘Don’t use that language with me,’ says the mother.
‘I think we’re a bit past that.’
‘Oh, you do, do you?’
‘I want to get rid of it.’
‘Jesus,’ says the mother. ‘How did this happen?’
‘Fuck, Mum, the usual way, OK? Are you going to help me or not?’
The mother breathes slow. ‘What are you asking me, Erma? What are you asking me?’
In another dimension, you feel cold, as if immersed in mountain water.
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41
Fuelled only by instinct, you let out a quiet shushing sound, as if tending to an infant. As you make the sound, you slowly back away. The creatures screech again, in unison.
You take another step. And another. The bigger one rolls its shoulders but neither of them moves to attack. You retreat up the stairs and at the top you are so fixated on the danger avoided that you walk backwards another thirty paces before crumpling to the ground and vomiting onto the grey slate floor. Once rested, you turn your attention to the only other thing in the room: the white crystal poles.
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42
As you make your way up the room, the poles start to change colour, from white to a rich throbbing red. You circle them carefully, quite sure that they will shoot fire or lightning or trigger some other calamitous event. You hold a hand out to them without result. They do not emit heat or magic. You look above them to the towering ceiling and find only darkness. Your eyes cannot see that far, not to the top. Perplexed, you head back down the room, stepping between the poles for the first time.
The poles flicker out like blown candles.
The room begins to move under your feet. The walls rumble and dust falls from the seams. You watch as a monolithic wall panel, tall and wide as a dam, slides open. The force of the movement is so immense, so hard to comprehend, that you feel raw adrenaline take hold.
This is the work of inhuman forces.
It cannot be.
What black magic governs this place?
Light erupts from the opening. Birdsong echoes. Then, from the hole, comes a mist of something familiar. It sweeps out on a strong wind and wets your face. It’s rain. How is it raining in a dungeon? You walk into the gale and see towering brown columns rise up. Over the threshold of the giant doorway, the ground becomes soft underfoot. This is foliage. The giant portal leads into some kind of forest that is thick and tall and real. Rain continues to drift down from a white ceiling high above, full of glare and brightness. You cannot see the dungeon walls containing this garden. These are immense trees for indoors. Impossible trees.
