Tartarus Beckons

by Edmund A. M. Batara

  Salemon didn’t even know who the current chief of the town was. He didn’t care and didn’t want to know. Being inquisitive led to being noticed, remembered, and charged for taxes. He doubted if the town census for the past six years included him. A thankful oversight in his opinion. Aside from the bane of taxes, there was also the possibility of being selected for war duty in one of the numerous and endless little conflicts between domains for glory, gold, and live chess. Salemon deemed such life expectancy impairment exercises as extremely unhealthy; hence he avoided going to town for any reason at all.

  All he needed to do for his modest needs was wait at midday on the sixth day of the twelve-day week, and the regular merchant caravan would pass by, stop, and buy wood from him. Needless to say, the contents of the three-wagon convoy were enough for whatever he needed. A simple arrangement, just the way Salemon liked it.

  And now, a noble was looking at him. Salemon began to feel uncomfortable even as he kept his bowed position. The woodcutter wondered if he was going to regret helping out.

  “You, boy! Come here!” came the command.

  Rat shit. What now? Salemon thought as he hurried to the carriage. Worry gnawed at his gut, but part of him protested at being called a boy. By all the gods, he was already twenty-six years of age!

  “Yes, Your Excellency, sire, milord, Your Nobleness?” said Salemon as he reached the edge of the mandatory distance of five feet, by royal command, from any noble demanding the attention of people lower in social standing.

  It was an ancient rule, enacted when an empire held sway over the lands, but it was still obeyed and stringently enforced especially by nobles with sensitive olfactory senses – which meant almost all of them.

  The edict was part of a voluminous code of ancient imperial laws which also declared that woodlands on the plains shall not be cut for timber or firewood unless by command of the local ruler. Though there is also much to be said about the fact that unus, only local lords had copies of the said tome, and secundus, it was written in an old form of the local language. A style which is only taught in exclusive academies… for nobles.

  Salemon agreed with the wisdom of that rule on wood cutting, though for an entirely personal reason. The law intended to keep such forests as game preserves for royal hunts, while Salemon wanted the woods on the plains preserved so he can continue having a livelihood.

  But now, his knees were shaking. Salemon could imagine the heavy gaze of the old man beating down on his vulnerable, precious neck.

  “You take baths, boy?” came a question.

  “Yes, Your Excellency, sire, milord, Your Nobleness,” he answered in the meekest tone he could manage.

  Salemon tried to cover all the bases, but those were the only formal addresses he knew. Nobles could be picky and irritable about titles and the forms of proper honorifics. But still, he considered the question quite rude.

  “Good. But you don’t look like you shave! You know your letters?” The voice of the old man was loud, to the point of being boisterous. Salemon couldn’t believe such a booming sound could come from an aged throat.

  “I am sorry, milord, sire, Your Excellency, but I do trim my beard and hair. I do know how to read a little.” In his nervousness, he forgot the Your Nobleness part.

  “Good! Good! Now here’s a job for you! Your name! You didn’t give me your name!” the old man exclaimed.

  “Salemon…”

  He never got to add the honorifics, as the old man immediately cut in. Though Salemon again resented the fact that his name was never asked in the first place.

  “What in the name of the seven hells was that name? Your father named you after a fish?”

  “It’s Salemon, sire, milord…”

  The old man didn’t give him a chance to finish his salutations again.

  “Ah, Salemon! Better! You look like an honest man! A true subject of the realm! Helping people in distress! Here’s a job for you. I have an heirloom with me, one dear to my heart! I fear robbers and other dangers ahead on my trip to the capital! I’ll give you six, count that! Six gold quarters to safeguard it for me! It has no value whatsoever except sentimental of course! I’ll pick it up on this spot, at midday, forty days from tomorrow!”

  Salemon was starting to be deafened by the old man’s voice. It had a strange quality to it, one which makes a person dizzy the more it is heard. But the woodcutter knew he couldn’t refuse. The fortune was actually a godsend. If the old man ordered him to do the job without remuneration, he’d be stuck with it.

  “Here! Take care of it! Look up and come closer, young man! How could you get it if you’re looking at the ground and staging that far away?”

  The dizzy and greatly intimidated woodcutter rushed forward and just in time, caught the bottle as the old man let go of it. Then a hand extended one and a half gold coins.

  “Take care of it, Salemon! Or I’ll have your head and nail it to your feet! And my name is Baron Galben! Remember that!”

  A Baron? thought the shocked Salemon as his knees started to shake again. He was now vividly imagining the glinting edge of the headsman’s ax.

  The old man in the carriage laughed softly as the coach drove away. It was not an evil laugh which was usually marked by loudness, melodramatic changes in pitch, and stared with the syllable mwa. No, this laugh was more like an amused chuckle, something which a friendly innkeeper would give at your drunken recitation of how bad your day was.

  “I think you’ll do, Salemon. Yes, I believe you’ll do,” said the being to himself as his appearance changed to that of a clean-shaven younger man with white hair.

  The passenger waved his right hand in the air, and a large circular display appeared, showing Salemon walking along the road, firewood carried on his back. The bottle was strapped with ropes on top of the pile.

  The entity gave an expectant grin at the sight and after a few moments, snapped his fingers.

  The large, ornate glass broke into pieces.

  ***

  “So, it begins,” chuckled the man in the carriage. Then laughter rang out as his self-control disappeared when Salemon’s disbelieving face showed up on the magical display. Crisp and clear, it revealed the woodcutter staring at the broken pieces of glass on the ground, oblivious to the faint streams of luminous and dark tendrils now surrounding him. The airy, thin strands swirled around his form, as if examining the heedless mortal.

  “Is everything alright, my lord?” came the solicitous query from the coachman.

  “Yes, Aril. Something funny came to mind. Let’s go home. A show is better watched and enjoyed in comfortable surroundings.”

  “At once, my lord,” answered Aril as the carriage swiftly vanished, leaving behind an empty and dusty stretch of the King’s Highway.

  Back on the road, Salemon still stared at the disaster. His head was spinning, and the man fought a valiant yet losing battle against fainting due to the shock. In his mind, he could now clearly see the figure of the cloaked headsman and the huge, sharp ax the executioner twirled around his body as he approached Salemon. Unfortunately, the woodcutter had a very vivid imagination.

  As the ax-wielding giant in his mind raised the large blade, Salemon finally fainted. And immediately woke up in a dark space, where dim illumination came from ghostly forms surrounding him. He abruptly realized that he was in the middle of a circle formed by the phantoms. Absolute, miserable terror gripped his bowels as Salemon believed his worst fear had come true – he was dead and in the infernal abyss.

  My gods! Why have you abandoned me? I have not sinned against your commandments, wailed Salemon in his thoughts. Then he stopped, shaken to his core as something important came to mind.

  Yes, there was that dryad, but I didn’t know sexual contact with such beings was prohibited! And I did not have sexual intercourse with her! She did use her mouth, but that was even painful at times, especially during the summer when her sap was low. And her mouth and tongue were hard as wood! Sometimes I even got splinters do
wn there!

  Finally, Salemon couldn’t stop himself and started crying. It began as little sobs, but as the dike was opened, his expression of sorrow leveled up to deafening wails. Then he realized the spectral figures had started talking among themselves, though in whispers which echoed through the dim space.

  “What’s the matter with this fellow?” a voice murmured.

  “Did we get a crazy one?” That question had a woe-is-us tone to it.

  “Kick him in the ass, that’ll put some sense into him! Worked with my worshippers before!” a gruff voice suggested.

  A mumble of protests rose at the suggestion of physical violence.

  “I think we got a wimp!” This time, a scornful one.

  “I believe he just needs care and attention,” said a kindly voice.

  “Therapy?” Somebody answered.

  “Get my whip! Mortals these days! They’ve gone soft!” cried out a booming voice.

  That terrified Salemon even more, and he instinctively glanced at the speaker. A reaction which unfortunately revealed to him the faces and shapes of those surrounding him. With a shock, Salemon also found he couldn’t faint again.

  Around him, a large crowd of apparitions were looking at him, or otherwise clearly discussing him. The ghostly figures wavered in and out of focus, but it was what he saw that petrified the man wallowing in abject misery and fright.

  The crowd appeared to be a mix of human and demonic figures, each shape a distinct individual. They were of all shapes and sizes, of lordly and diabolical bent. Though humanoid and barely humanoid forms dominated, others were of the abstract or tentacled persuasion. And Salemon was the star of the moment, all attention was obviously on him. His balls shriveled in horror.

  “My gods! Why have you forsaken me?” he wailed out loud, tearing at his hair.

  “We have?” came the chorused response from some of the beings in front of the crowd.

  “Well, I didn’t! He’s not even one of mine!” A loud declaration came from the back of the throng.

  An increasing cacophony of agitated voices began to arise as Salemon’s hosts started to ask each other. Despite his extreme distress, the woodcutter could clearly hear some of the discussion among the confused mob –

  “Not mine, either. Yours?”

  “Never seen him nor heard his prayers.”

  “If he was one of mine, he’s the sorriest of the lot.”

  “I only have female worshippers.”

  “Not a eunuch so I’m out.”

  “He’s not pregnant so count me out too.”

  “A mortal. Sorry, I only deal with demons.”

  Slowly, the horror began to succumb to acute curiosity. Though Salemon immediately averted his gaze in panic after discovering what was watching him, he found that the uncontrolled shaking of his body had subsided though he was still terrified. Suddenly, a deep but calm voice cut through the hubbub.

  “My brethren. Calm yourselves. This is not getting anywhere.”

  A chorus of Hear! Hear! arose from the dizzying racket. Salemon found a sliver of courage to take a peek at what was happening. A tall, muscled and bearded individual, of later years and clad in a white robe with gold trimmings, had walked to the front of the circle, facing him. The woodcutter noticed the apparition wore a magnificent crown and had a scepter in his right hand. The ghostly figure raised his rod, and a wave of calming energy washed over Salemon. He found his fear had vanished, and his two-pack returned to their usual slung position.

  “Rise, mortal,” said the spectral form.

  Salemon found himself obeying the command. It was spoken softly and in a reassuring tone.

  “Who are you?”

  “Salemon the woodcutter, Your Highness, milord, sire, Your Excellency,” he answered. Unfortunately, those were the only honorifics he could come up with. Ghostly figures of power were beyond his element and level of preparation.

  “My lord will do, Salemon. Tell me, where are we?”

  “Here? In a dark, scary place?”

  “No, no. What I meant was in what kingdom are we?”

  “The Kingdom of Alfarin, my lord. Near the town of Pusku,” replied the woodcutter.

  “Good, good. Though we’ve never heard of it. Mind telling us the year and era?”

  “It’s the tenth year of the Third Ruler of the Fifth Dynasty of the Thyma Era. We refer to it as Thyma 1035,” answered Salemon promptly. The idle discussions with the merchants now proved helpful. Otherwise, he couldn’t care less about such formal dates. What was important to him was the count of days and weeks.

  “Still doesn’t ring a bell. Tell me, woodcutter. Have you heard of the Empire of Zin, the Dreaded Overlands of the Nagari, the Triple Monarchy of the Hawat? There’s a lot more, but those three were the leading feared domains.”

  “Except for the Nagari, I haven’t heard of the others, my lord. The Nagari was what people used to scare me with when I was a child to prevent me from wandering too far. A myth.”

  “You don’t say!” came the startled reaction. “How about the deity Amilthus? Have you heard of him?”

  “No, my lord,” Salemon said. He was going to enumerate the popular deities of the day, but something told him not to go with that idea.

  “How about the deities Riva? Zamites? Naga-Tharn? Ghul-Naboth?”

  “All unknown to me, my lord.”

  The entire assembly fell silent at Salemon’s answer. Even the speaker was struck speechless. After a few minutes of silence, an incredulous voice from the crowd whispered, disbelief clearly marking the tone.

  “We’ve been forgotten.”

  ***

  “It would seem that’s the situation,” said the imperious speaker after a minute of disbelieving silence.

  Immediately after he spoke, a rising din of discordant voices arose, though Salemon could sense threads of worry and fear running through the gathered throng.

  What a bunch of magpies.

  All the anxious questions and statements from such obviously powerful beings somewhat calmed the woodcutter.

  Heh. They can be worried too, he reflected. The unbecoming reaction was starting to be amusing, especially when loud arguments erupted. Salemon took a peek and saw a few of the more combative among them had started chest-pushing games. The tense air crackled with dangerous magical energy.

  “No magic! No throwing of spells! No powers!” shouted the speaker frantically. The ones in front of the assembly calmed down, though furious stares continued. But those at the back continued their arguments and flashes of magic energy being readied could be seen.

  “Oh, by Us! Calm down, I said!” repeated the being who immediately clapped his hand with a visible display of force. A thunderous blast exploded through the dim space.

  The deafening sound didn’t throw anybody into the floor, nor did it knock somebody senseless, but it had painful consequences on Salemon’s mortal ears. He felt something trickle from his fleshy lugs. Touching it, he saw it was blood. At the sight, an inexplicable fury came over him, dissipating for the moment any remaining shred of fear in his mind.

  These sorry examples of wet branches! Who do they think they are? he thought angrily. Bursting my eardrums!

  To his own baffled amazement, though colored by a touch of terror, the outraged Salemon suddenly found the strength to stand up and face the haughty clapper.

  “Hey! That’s respectfully your Greatness. I know I am but a simple woodcutter, and a mortal at that, and I see that you’re all high and mighty beings, my respects and earnest groveling again, but you broke my eardrums! Did you really have to do that? Respectfully.”

  A strange hush descended upon the gathered crowd as its members looked on Salemon with astonishment and incredulity. A few had amused expressions on their faces.

  “Mortal, do you know who stands before you?” said the speaker, in a tone akin to what one adopts when talking to a child or a particularly intelligence-challenged fellow. Or a recalcitrant tomato-throwing vandal.


  “Probably deities, your Godliness,” replied Salemon, trying to present what he prayed to be the proper amount of humility. “But of what place, I don’t know. Their faces don’t appear in any of the temple idols I have visited in my youth.” He pointed to the crowd and just as suddenly withdrew the offending digit when he realized what he just did.

  “I humbly apologize for my finger, your godly Honors,” apologized Salemon meekly, the bravery which had filled him now quickly deflated, and a sinking feeling rapidly engulfed his new-found confidence.

  Another hubbub arose at Salemon’s statement. A commotion abruptly silenced when the being in front raised his hand.

  “We are deities, woodcutter. Be respectful and watch your tongue. And your finger,” came the stern admonishment.

  “Then why are you here, your benevolent Holiness? And why am I here? Should godly people be out doing, I don’t know – godly things?”

  “A moment. Stay where you are,” said the being as he briefly wove intricate patterns on the air. A flash blazed in his eyes, and Salemon abruptly found himself back in a section of the King’s Highway, though sprawled on the ground.

  The woodcutter picked himself up, spitting dirt and gravel from his mouth.

  Must be the shock from breaking the glass, he concluded. Nightmares in the daytime. What a terrible nuisance!

  Salemon picked up the glass shards as best as he could and gathered the pieces into a small towel which served as his handkerchief. Tying down the bundle on top of the pile of wood again, he lifted the whole thing on his back and started walking.

  I must have tripped, he decided and then lamented miserably. What misfortune! Now, I have to return the gold and face whatever punishment awaits me. Chances are, it’s the headsman’s ax. Oh, my gods! What damned luck! From a penniless woodcutter to a penniless and headless one! All in a few minutes.

  The mind of the panicky and extremely depressed Salemon was focused on a recurring image of a sharp and glinting executioner’s tool dancing its merry, though horrible, way through the air. Try as he might, the woodcutter couldn’t get rid of the animated imagery and the shaking of his legs.