Tartarus Beckons

by Edmund A. M. Batara

  A mere half-day and he comes back with food. He’s going to stick it to our craw tonight, Arn irritably thought as his brother swaggered his way into the compound.

  He glanced at Birke, who was on the other side of the field, back turned to him. His other brother had not yet noticed the arrival of Garth.

  And that kiss-ass brother of mine is going to congratulate Garth and then give me a lecture on how I need to improve my hunting skills, predicted Arn as he swung the implement furiously against the hard and unyielding ground. Envy and frustration marked every blow.

  And this soil! It’s hard as stone. Why couldn’t we have selected a better plot? I heard the ones further out have rich, loamy earth.

  Jotnar and dokkalfr. He remembered the answer of his brothers. The further out, the more dangerous it becomes, they said. Arn argued that the High King had sent soldiers with the settlers. There were detachments every few miles. Never mind that the king’s warriors hurriedly fortified their positions as if they expected an immediate attack by a yelling and bloodthirsty jotnar horde. They’re warriors, trained to anticipate the worst.

  Protests fell on deaf ears. They were Arn’s older brothers, so his voice accounted for nothing. It matters little before, and after that incident in their former village, it didn’t count anymore. He hated not being listened to, he hated this rocky and barely arable land, and he hated being out here. He missed civilization such as in the villages past the heavily guarded frontier outpost to the south. But not the place where they came from. The people there will cut them all to pieces the moment they show their faces.

  Another village, far from where they were born. A town with comely lasses. A place of new prey. He was careless with his last victim. The girl survived the long fall down the ravine into the river. Arn really thought he had strangled to death the girl after having his way with her. Careless. Stupid. He denied the accusation, but the village was not convinced. They had a living witness. With almost every bone in her body broken except that damned mouth, he cursed. Three unexplained murders of young girls. They needed a scapegoat. Him. But they got the right one. Of course, he continued to dispute doing the crime, and his brothers stood by him. Fortunately, a column of soldiers was passing through the village and rescued them.

  But they had to leave everything. Fortunately, the king was looking for new settlers and had offered new land, twenty silvers, a cow, three goats, necessary farming implements, initial provisions, and all the essential items for starting a farm. It was a munificent proposal. A lot of people from all over Skaney accepted the offer. The homeless, people running away from something, the adventurous, and the naïve. The three spears included in the provided supplies were a dire reminder of where they were going. The Barren Lands.

  The Barrens, that’s what people call it. Though after the first fifty or so miles, the blasted landscape, with its blackened soil and petrified trees, gave way to the familiar brown and green of healthy soil and growing vegetation. It was an unexplained physical feature of the land. A belt of dreary and dead terrain. People believed it accursed. It remained so in the minds of those who lived in Skaney even when efforts of the High Kings and Jarls had eliminated the jotnar and the strange beasts found in the border area. Even the normal lands beyond the original borders of Skaney, where the brothers went, were included in that belief. But their dire circumstances and the offer made the decision of the brothers inevitable.

  Never mind, thought Arn. Eventually, in a short time, the homesteads will form a village, a center will be built complete with a tavern and other establishments, and the soldiers will move out when more settlers have been gathered. He will get his opportunity to meet new prey.

  But for now, the rocky ground awaited his attention. His secret pleasures will have to wait. Suddenly, he heard Garth’s voice calling him. Arn looked up in his brother’s direction and saw Birke at Garth’s side. Both had big, broad smiles on their faces.

  Probably got his congratulations, Arn thought sullenly.

  “Arn! Go get more firewood! We’ll need it with this one,” Garth grinned while slapping the carcass of his prey.

  Me again, Arn reflected as he left his hoe stuck on the ground and without a word, walked toward the gate. Arn do this. Arn do that. What am I? Their slave? One day, I’ll show them. I’ll show everybody who Arn is, and what I can do to them.

  As he morosely walked to the distant forest, the resentment faded and was slowly replaced by the realization that he was indeed nothing. Just a mere peasant, a farmstead owner and a co-owner at that, trying to eke out a living on the edge of civilized lands, with death a constant threat. Jotnar, dokkalfr, bandits, wild beasts, and the occasional malignant forest spirit – all were threats continually hovering over their heads.

  No! he wasn’t nobody! The wave of intense anger swept over Arn as he furiously kicked the ground. They all feared him at the end, didn’t they? Right before he slit their throats or crushed their heads. Gone were their dismissive, insulting words and derisive laughter – only abject terror remained. A nobody wouldn’t get such horrific reactions from his subjects.

  There were militia detachments all over the area as the property the brothers had selected was still deemed barely tamed though not that close to the now expanded border touching parts of the Barren Lands, Ymir’s Domain, and the Northern Dvergar Range. It was a region already midway between being part of what could be described as typical human lands, unthreatened by the unknown and the known, and the dangerous areas which were just being settled. The more adventurous, though some say foolhardy, settlers preferred the latter. It did offer the first crack at claiming better tracts of land.

  But that didn’t matter to Arn. As far as he was concerned, they were in barely settled lands. How he wished there were more people, that settlements were larger and closer together, and then Arn would be able to lose himself in the crowds as he indulged in his inhumanly perverse and cruel desires and diversions. Others might say they were incredibly evil acts, but he didn’t care. The extreme pleasure such amusements gave him was beyond description.

  Arn finally noticed he was at the forest, at least where the trees began. A quick glance at his surroundings wasn’t encouraging – not a fallen dry branch in sight. The man cursed at the thought of going deeper into the woods. He cursed his luck as he adjusted the rope slung across his body. It was a friend and a confidant, a witness to his twisted games, it was an item he always carried with him. Deeper and deeper into the thick trees his steps took him. Finally, he halted and again looked around. It had been already several minutes and still not a kindling in sight. Arn lost his temper, and the nearest tree felt the force of another angry kick.

  “Why so angry, my pet?” a soft voice called out. Arn spun around and saw a smiling woman watching him. And what a woman. Her carnal curves, the smooth and glistening tone of her ebony skin, the sensual patrician features, all instantly appealed to the lustful and evil beast lurking inside the man. He smiled back, the expression bordering on a dissolute leer. Then Arn caught himself as the inexplicable reality of encountering such a female deep in the woods rose in his mind. Fear and lust waged their battle in his warming loins, and in a short period, a sense of caution emerged.

  “Who are you?” asked Arn warily.

  “Why, my pet, your Lady, of course,” replied the mysterious visitor as she moved closer. Arn couldn’t help but notice that her feet didn’t touch the forest floor. Dread now spread throughout his entire being as his legs started to shake uncontrollably. Stories of dangerous creatures who infested the woods rose in his mind. Tales during drunken nights about draugr, hangbui, and even the lamia and vrykolakas of Hellas suddenly stood clear in Arn’s mind. The man backed away from the approaching entity, and when an inconvenient tree blocked any further progress, Arn sank to the ground and hugged himself. Lustful thoughts had long disappeared from his mind, and only dark terror remained.

  “Why, Arn, are you afraid of me?” softly laughed the woman. The man’s head was
now snuggled between his legs, and Arn’s were closed, his breathing fast and shallow. He felt cold. Very cold.

  “You’re freezing, my pet. Let me warm you.”

  The words furthered terrified Arn. More so when he sensed that the woman had also crouched before him. The woman was extraordinarily beautiful, Arn remembered, and the graceful movements of her arm as she moved was one trait which caught his attention. The image of the rope tightly binding those smooth limbs was the first thing that rose in his mind. Yet the terror that now engulfed him was instead filling his imagination with the most horrible face imaginable. Wasn’t that how these fiends entice their victims? A beautiful face, a beckoning finger, an enticing smile, all intended to tempt the careless victim into becoming an unwary meal.

  He felt her arms embrace him and to Arn’s surprise, the chill he was suffering vanished, swiftly replaced by a soothing warmth. The woman took hold of his shaking shoulders and slowly lifted him up to his feet. But the man kept his head down, refusing to meet the eyes of the creature. Utter fear had nailed his gaze to the valley floor.

  “Arn, my champion, look at me,” came the softly said yet imperious command.

  Despite himself and the screaming of his addled mind, the man slowly looked up and met the woman’s gaze. It was sincere, wise, and kind. It was not what he expected. He was wrong, and Arn could lose himself in that wonderfully soothing gaze.

  “Now, was that so bad?” said the woman in a delightfully melodious tone.

  The captivated Arn quickly shook his head. A feeling of warm reassurance filled him. An impression that all will be well. Arn finally smiled back.

  “I am at your service, milady,” he stammered as he found a smidgen of courage and an ounce of will. The exquisite creature did call him her champion.

  “Indeed, you are. I am a spirit of the mountains and the woods. Long have I not concerned myself with the ways of men, but recent events have roused my disappointment at the disorderly manner with which mortals conduct themselves. This must be put to right, and a champion shall light the way for greatness, discarding and removing those that pose a threat to such a worthy cause. Are you that man, Arn?”

  Suddenly, a glorious vision came to his mind – he was astride a black warhorse, in shining plate armor, with faithful retainers at his side, watching as a vast army broke through the imposing stone walls of a besieged city. Images of the aftermath of the battle flooded his thoughts – where he proudly presided over the impalement, torture, and crucifixion of those who dared defy him.

  Other glimpses followed – a magnificent hall where Arn the king, the conqueror, held court. A harem of exotic women. A private dungeon for his true desires, where Arn indulged in his pleasures to the fullest, the terrified screams of the dying gracing his ears with sweet music.

  “All that and more shall be yours, Arn. Agree to be my champion, reclaim your legacy, and you shall rule over a vast domain,” tempted a sensuous voice.

  A delighted Arn, ecstatic beyond belief, eagerly nodded his head.

  No more hiding! No more waiting in the dark! I will be somebody. I am somebody! Arn shouted in the deepest part of his mind. A feeling of exultation flooded the man.

  “To seal our bargain, Arn. Your pledge to rule these lands in my name, and a kiss.”

  “I do pledge! And your name, my Lady?”

  “Call me the goddess Uttu. My land is far from here, and like you, I have been wronged.”

  Arn immediately prostrated, his forehead touching the ground.

  “I am and will always be yours, my goddess,” exclaimed the mortal.

  “Indeed. More than your mortal mind will be able to comprehend. A ring of power I shall bequeath to you, my champion. With it, you are invulnerable. My chosen can raise armies from the very ground, bind the loyalty of warriors, and gain the favor of any female he fancies.”

  Arn’s eyes bulged at what he heard. His breathing became faster as it tried to catch up with the beating of his ecstatic heart.

  A glowing ring appeared, suspended in the air before him. Then the mysterious woman kissed him on the lips.

  “You need blood to rouse it from its sleep and animate its might, Arn of Uttu. And only the precious fluid which flows through the veins of those bound to you by filial ties shall serve.”

  That very night, Arn strangled Birke in his sleep, and right after that, the would-be conqueror hacked his brother Garth to pieces.

  ***

  The figure at the edge of the woods turned as he heard somebody coming. By the aura of the approaching creature, the waiting being knew it was who he was waiting for. In a few seconds, a bizarre merger of spider and human appeared, though only the head and the neck were that of a gorgeous black woman. The hideous being quickly scurried its way toward the man, its eight legs scrambling on the wild grass. She bowed as she reached the waiting figure.

  “My Lady Uttu, how did it go? Does he pass?” asked the male outline.

  “He’s a selfish, depraved, and cruel imbecile. That mortal is now in his dreams, covered and protected by my webbing. But his blood and soul are what you said they would be – deliciously flavored with heinous sins and a repulsive mind. Anansi would be pleased with this one. Every part of his body is as it should be – flavor, meat, and soul unspoiled by repentance or fear. You have done well, Lord Loki,” said the spider deity.

  “I aim to please. Always.”

  Story Note:

  Uttu – An ancient Sumerian goddess of weaving and usually represented in spider form. A daughter of the deity Enki, she was raped by her father who had the abominable practice of raping all his daughters.

  Short Story:

  Mad Magus

  (Writer’s Note: The story that follows is not part of the Adar mythos and I thought it might make for a change in pace at this point. It is part of an on-going serialized story available on my Patreon page.)

  Synopsis

  Salemon the Mage. Somehow, the name and the description didn’t fit together.

  But the woodcutter-turned-mage never really was a wielder of magic. He was more of a conduit for the suppressed urges and energies of a collection of almost-gods who had been trapped for millennia.

  They do have ambitions for Salemon. Grand plans. World-shaking schemes. Lofty dark or enlightened ideals to achieve, depending on whose turn it is to talk to, or drive, the woodcutter.

  But first, they all want to have their divinities back. And have fun.

  Salemon stared at the departing coach. He kept looking at it as it became smaller in the distance, gripping in his hand a large semi translucent bottle of a strange design.

  It looked like a tall wine bottle but had handles at its sides. It didn’t have any markings, but the closure at its mouth was neither cork nor clay. He thought it strange, but the material appeared to be some sort of silvery metal, with a design on top, and secured to the bottle’s neck by several strings of the same material.

  When the carriage disappeared from sight, Salemon turned his attention to the bottle. He got six gold quarters from the gentleman for safekeeping the heirloom for a month.

  Six gold quarters, or one whole gold coin and half of another, was an incredible fortune for Salemon. He now counted himself lucky when he chanced upon the carriage with a broken wheel on the road. The ornately decorated conveyance carried an extra one, but with only the coachman, there was no chance of replacing it.

  ***

  The lone passenger was a bearded old man. A noble, Salemon assumed from the clothes he could glimpse. And Salemon didn’t expect his excellency or whatever the title was, to extend any help. Instead, he talked to the coachman, a haughty fellow at that, about the problem. Extending a helping hand to people along the King’s Highway came second nature to him. He didn’t know why, but any action otherwise didn’t seem right to Salemon. It made him feel extremely uncomfortable.

  With Salemon’s help, which meant doing most of the work, the pair finally changed the wheel. The old man didn’t get down from t
he conveyance, staying inside the entire time. After that, Salemon went back to the pile of firewood he was carrying, leaving the snobbish driver to report to the passenger. It was hard work, and required most of his woodcutter’s strength and endurance, and a working knowledge of wood and levers, but the job was done, and the carriage was ready to depart.

  Salemon looked at the road ahead, he was already late for his firewood drop-off, and a mile of walking still awaited him. Typically, he would have emerged right where the buyer would be waiting with his wagon, but a fiercely territorial bear barred him from using the usual path. But he had a cache of firewood already waiting there, and if Salemon was late, then he’ll just have to collect his payment five days from now when the merchant returns.

  There was the possibility of Fat Ferry running away with the firewood and never coming back, but he doubted it. Salemon tried not to assume the worst of any person, and more importantly, Fat Ferry won’t be able to find a better supplier of firewood. What the woodcutter gathered and prepared up in the hills was the driest and finest cordwood available. He had a little secret to that, but he wasn’t telling anybody. So here he was, late and with still some distance to travel.

  He glanced at the carriage. The coachman didn’t even give thanks for his help, but Salemon didn’t mind. To him, some people were like that, and like farts, can’t be avoided. He did notice the old man was now staring at him. Based on the now clearer features he could see, Salemon concluded the man was indeed a noble. He couldn’t observe a single day’s honest work on the imperious face.

  He quickly bowed. There was no telling if the noble would start asking awkward questions. Queries which could lead directly to the town jail or indirectly to the headsman’s block, by way of the village chief.