by Scott Hale
CHAPTER XVIII
They woke early and said little to one another. The doorway behind the altar breathed its noxious fumes as belongings were packed and bodies were stretched. Deimos’ and Lucan’s swords met in a short sparring session, while Vrana and Serra watched, too tired to participate. They forced down what little food and water was left and then checked their reserves to ensure they had not spoiled.
Vrana excused herself from the church. The air outside, despite still reeking of rot, seemed so much clearer in comparison that it was euphoric. When he saw her, Blix came down from his roost and nibbled her fingers. She petted him softly, her hand shaking as it ran across his feathers, until she heard Deimos calling her name and telling her it was time to go.
The altar’s doorway opened up to a steep and narrow staircase of rough stone and thick condensation. They descended slowly, one after the other, with their hands pressed firmly against the walls to stop themselves from slipping down the steps. Serra whispered a fire along the top of the staircase to light their way, as Deimos told Vrana in short, agitated sentences that the church was one of many that had been built over sacred sites. Lucan, groaning as the walls narrowed further, so that they couldn’t fully outstretch their arms, whispered that the older sects of Penance thought these places could be used as conduits to communicate with their god.
“When Geharra found out,” Deimos said as Serra’s fire slid past him, “they built prisons down here to desecrate the area. The petty rivalry has gone both ways between the cities.”
“We are almost there,” Lucan said as dust cascaded onto him from above.
“How far did you two go?” Vrana asked.
“Only to the bottom of the stairs,” Lucan said, looking back at her. His voice deepened. “You’ll see.”
And so she did.
The ceiling opened up as they stepped off the staircase and into a wide, unbending tunnel that had been carved directly into the earth. A dirt path lay before them, smoothed over by the thousands of feet that had shuffled down to their deaths. Across the walls were thick smears of dried blood, sticky clumps of torn hair, and pale strips of hard flesh, all of which came together to form a mural of pain. Out of madness or humiliation, shirts, dresses, and pants had been stuffed into the cracks and crevices. Teeth and fingernails rolled and tumbled past Vrana’s feet, as the tunnel continued to push its rancid breath through the hardened throat.
The first room they found was a large, spherical chamber occupied by several long tables, across each of which were stacks of documents, as well as inks and pens. The documents were torn, wrinkled, and waterlogged, and after Deimos pointed the detail out, Vrana saw that they bore the official crest of Geharra. The papers consisted mostly of names and addresses of those who called Geharra home. Vrana surmised that those whose names had been crossed out had been taken over by the Crossbreed and convinced to march into the Northern District. There were those, however, who appeared to have escaped the black line of the inquisitor’s quill. If they made it out of the city, then it wouldn’t be long until the rest of the Corrupted were aware of what Penance had committed here.
The second room they found was farther down the tunnel and smaller. While the death of ten thousand Corrupted was a calamity, the death of hundreds of her own was far worse. In this second room, stacked high in tall cages, were masks, hundreds of masks, bloodied at the neck, as though they’d been cut off from the heads of those that wore them. Deimos fell against the doorway, and Lucan fell against Serra. Vrana covered her mouth and wept harder for strangers than she ever had for most friends. This is not just a tomb, she thought, passing between the rows of iron bars. This is a vault. These masks were the spoils of Penance’s efforts, to be traded and paraded for coin and regard. The venom of hate flooded her mouth as she spotted a severed foot still in its manacle. She knew she was a hypocrite to feel as she did, where she did, but she didn’t care. They all had to die.
In the third room, which branched into several smaller compartments, they found five soldiers hanging from the ceiling, ropes around their necks, and a sixth on the floor whose rope had snapped sometime after he’d vacated his bowels. Out of the pocket of the eldest corpse, Vrana saw a Polaroid photograph, its edges dirty with fingerprints. After they made sure the soldiers were dead, she removed the photograph and saw that it was of a woman in a sundress and a straw hat, sitting with a drink in hand on the hood of a truck. The two had never met, and would never meet, and yet the soldier had fallen in love with this woman from the Old World. She returned the photograph to its place in the man’s worn pocket, did one last sweep of what was now clearly a barracks, and left.
The fourth, fifth, and sixth rooms were cramped pockets of hollowed earth that had been dressed in the symbols of the Holy Order of Penance. They were chapels, places where the people of Geharra could kneel before their captors and seek forgiveness for blasphemy. Each room was fitted with an altar covered in white linen. Sacramental food covered the floor—breadcrumbs, leaves, and seed—filling in the places on the ground that had been worn away by the bloodied knees of prisoners. Toward the end of each room, there was a curtain, and when Serra pulled each one back, they found priests, their stomachs split open, bibles stuffed inside.
Vrana backed out of the room, into the tunnel. The place was taking its toll on her. “They left everything behind. Anyone who finds this will know what they’ve done.”
Deimos followed after her, drawing his sword at nothing in particular. “As I said, something went wrong.”
The breathing grew louder, more forceful as they progressed. Serra’s flame began to falter and sputter, as though the dark were water drinking its light. Somewhere, tiny creatures moved unseen, their feet pattering on the dirt, their teeth grinding away on bones. Just when the passage seemed as though it would never end, it split into two corridors, each identical and without any indication of what horrors they held. They chose the passage on the right, for no reason other than that it smelled worse than the one on the left, and disappeared down the panting gullet.
“This is it,” Vrana said, the stench worsening as they went. They readied their weapons and did their best not to trip over the articles of clothing strewn about their feet. “What if Penance tells them to attack us?”
Serra breathed new life into his spellwoven flame and grunted: Then we have no choice.
They were so close now to the lungs of the labyrinth that there were no breaks between disgusting exhalations. The coppery taste of blood grew even sweeter on Vrana’s tongue. The tunnel continued to split and twist, ovoid doorways hovering beside them like cloaked figures. They didn’t stop, only peered inside them as they passed, finding large chambers choked with snakes of chains and small quarters with splintered beds. Farther on, fledgling roots from the far-off Crossbreed had burst through the walls of the tunnel; from their pointed tips, the roots dripped their signature milky substance into the bowls placed beneath them.
As another light worked its way through the stifling blackness, Serra pointed his finger and said with a grunt: There.
At first there was nothing, and then there was everything. They stepped onto a gently sloping ramp that ran in a spiral the length of the great hollow before them. They steadied themselves as they neared the edge of the ramp, the ground still slick with long ribbons of red, and then, with wide and doubting eyes, looked over the precipice.
A lake of blood lapped against the rocky shore below, the surface choked with hundreds of bodies and thousands of limbs. Teeth and fat formed a chunky film over the sickening mire, only to be broken up moments later by intestines. Men, women, and children, bare and broken, bunched eagerly against one another, as though desperate to show to their onlookers what had been done to them. Heads were bashed in, eyes gouged out, stomachs split open, jaws ripped off; between their legs were bloody holes and stretched flesh, each penis, vagina, and anus torn apart by the pleasures of priests. Breasts had been chewed on and skewered, and mouths filled with sex organs tha
t had fallen off or gotten in the way. Babies were bloated or obliterated—no more than a sum of disparate parts floating aimlessly among the dead. At times, the massive grave would shake, throwing waves of crimson and cruor into the air and onto the ramp. Those bodies that had swollen into veiny sacs of death burst, their guts blowing open and releasing waves of gas into the hollow. Other bodies, the softer bodies slipping into mushy decay, would simply break apart when the vibrations started, unraveling like long strands of pale, wet yarn as their entrails fell out of them in soggy handfuls. And when it seemed all there was to be seen, more corpses pushed their way to the surface; on a bed of shit, piss, bile, blood, and semen, hundreds of corpses, thousands of corpses, mutilated and desecrated, worked their way to the top of the lake, each layer more decayed than the last, until there were only bones.
Vrana pulled herself away, back peddling toward the tunnel as she ripped off her mask and vomited through her fingers. There was no telling between Corrupted and her own: in blood, all looked the same. Questions for which there would be no answers raced through her head. That’s everyone. That’s all of them. That can’t be. Why would they do this? This can’t be right; this can’t be all of them. This is the Crossbreed. This is the Crossbreed showing me what it thinks I expect to see. She continued to puke and then retch. Are they going to do this somewhere else? So many, so many. I can’t, this is… I can’t. She slid down the wall, paying no mind to her companions, who still stood at the edge, stunned. Maybe it was the Witch, or maybe it was the Skeleton. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Vrana searched the hollow for a place to rest her eyes, trying to find something untouched by the blight. Looking up, she noticed a corpse in red robes crumpled at the top of the spiraling ramp. Ten thousand Corrupted. Hundreds of our own. Two more times and there will be nothing left of the world. Images flooded her mind from the lake of the dead—little boys with no lips, little girls with no hair, fistfuls of veins and arteries—and she started to whine and rock and hit the ground. Will the elders even care? How many have we killed over the years? Is this so different? It feels different. Oh fuck. Her eyes fluttered and wandered the hollow once more, stopping at a large gap between two large rocks at the lowest end of the ramp.
Vrana slid the raven’s head over her own and gripped her ax tightly. Without a word, she left her shaken companions and traveled down the ramp. Lucan was the first to follow, with Deimos and Serra close behind. Guttural noises echoed off the chiseled walls, sending ripples of flesh across the lake. A bloody mist sprayed across the hollow, streaking their armor in gore. Vrana fought every emotion and biological impetus to keep moving. Her thoughts turned to home, to Aeson, and her mother, and then she pushed the thoughts out of her head, afraid their memories would be somehow sullied here. No trial could have prepared me for this, she thought to herself. No one should have to be prepared for this.
Vrana found the gap between the large rocks and noticed the makings of a room beyond. Again, as she had in the Western District, she felt vibrations against her leg but ignored them, thinking it to be nothing more than the rumbling of the lake. She gripped the edge of the entryway, her balance wracked by nausea and then pushed herself through, ready to kill whatever stood on the other side.
It was the prison Deimos had spoken of, or at least a part of it. There were hundreds of empty cells that had fallen to rust, with bars bent and missing or broken off so as to impale. No stairs seemed to lead into this place, nor were there any discolored bricks to suggest a hidden doorway accessed elsewhere. This is where they kept Alluvia, Vrana said to herself, noting the feathers and scales from the masks of her people on the floor. She searched each cell rapidly for survivors, but found nothing.
“Did you know this was here?” Lucan asked as the lake murmured behind him.
Deimos shook his head. “No, I’ve never seen this before.”
Serra groaned: What do you know?
“Listen,” Deimos whispered. He tilted his head back to the wooden rafters above.
Vrana stopped and followed the Bat’s example. Something was moving between the supports. Lucan disappeared into the shadows. Serra took to the walls, probing for outcroppings to hold his weight. The Raven circled the bloodstained hall, stalking her prey with murderous intent.
The beams creaked beneath the observer’s weight, snowing wooden shavings onto the masks of Vrana’s companions. Deimos undid his bow, nocked an arrow, and pointed it at the vague shape materializing in the dark. From his perch, Serra whispered a flame onto the arrow’s end.
“Wait!” a girl’s voice cried out.
Vrana’s companions looked to her, confused. She shook her head back at them: She hadn’t spoken.
Suddenly, a shape fell through the air and then landed nimbly on its feet. Quickly, Deimos trained his bow on the shape, the flames on the arrowhead turning white hot. It stood there for a moment, bent over, face obscured by hair, sweating skin glowing in the spell light.
“Stop,” Vrana said, reaching her hand out as though to catch the arrow. “Stop.”
The observer stood upright and its hair fell to its shoulders. It took a step forward, closer to the Bat, and revealed itself. “We have to leave,” the girl said breathlessly. She showed her arms, which were free of Corruption. “We have to leave right now.”
CHAPTER XIX
The girl was no older than fourteen, but her demeanor suggested otherwise. Her skin, in the few areas untouched by dirt and blood, was softly tanned. Her hair was thick, matted; a white scar was traced onto her scalp, running from neck to ear. Vrana knew it had been days since the girl had eaten or drank, for her face was gaunt and lips chapped. She shivered where she stood, eyes like black opals fixed on Deimos’ hideous mask, while her fingers twitched at her side.
“You’re from Alluvia, are you not?” Deimos asked, staring down at the withered child.
She nodded, looking past him to the hollow as though to escape. “I’ve seen you before.” She turned around to address Vrana, Lucan, and Serra. “Are you from Caldera, too?”
“We are,” Vrana said. “How long have you been hiding?”
The girl shook her head. She licked her lips, bit off the dried skin from them. “We have to leave.”
She started for the breach between the rocks, but Deimos stepped in front of her. “What happened here?”
The girl rubbed her face in agitation. “You don’t understand.”
“Help us, then,” Lucan pleaded.
“Wait.” The girl ran her fingers through her oily hair. “My mask.”
Mask? Vrana watched as the girl hobbled on sore, calloused feet across the prison’s floor to the farthest cell. She’s too young for a mask… isn’t she? Stone crumbled at the girl’s touch as she moved loose bricks from the wall to the ground. A gasp, and then a sigh of relief. The girl returned, but not as she’d been: Over her head, she wore the body of an octopus, the tendrils of which ran down her back and chest. It was slightly transparent, with a warm orange hue that flared when light passed through it.
“What’s your name?” Deimos tilted his head as she picked up the dagger she’d dropped earlier.
“R’lyeh…” Her voice trailed off. “It’s from a book. We choose our own names in Alluvia.”
Serra grunted a tired grunt: What happened here?
R’lyeh sighed. After many false starts, she finally found her words. “I still don’t know how they took us. It was late, and I remember waking up. There were horses outside. I felt bad all day. I went to bed early, and the soldiers were there when I woke up. I remember walking across the plains with my people. We were shackled. They treated us well, the soldiers—always feeding us and giving us drink. But that didn’t make me feel better. Made me sicker. I remember Geharra, all the people lined up in the streets.” The girl’s body went limp at the memory of defeat. “I knew something was wrong, but I couldn’t put it together. Someone said we had been betrayed, but I didn’t know what they meant. They led us through that church. Is that how y
ou got here?”
Vrana and the others nodded at her.
“They pushed us past the crowd. No one cared. I thought they would kill us, but they didn’t care. They took our names down, took our masks off. You couldn’t see the bottom of the pit when they threw us in here.” R’lyeh’s voice began to increase in pitch, and the fourteen-year-old who had wanted to appear much older was quickly losing her strength. “I don’t know how many people lived in Geharra, but I thought it would never stop. They just… walked off that ledge.” She pointed to the overlook with the robed figure. “All day, all night. No one said anything, just did what they were told. At first, I couldn’t hear them hit the bottom, but after a few days…”
“What were they trying to accomplish?” Lucan asked. “Did you overhear anything?”
“I, uh, there…”
We need to slow down. She’s going to faint. Vrana opened the satchels at Serra’s side and removed their reserves. She handed her bread and meat and a sealed canister of soup. The girl accepted the food without hesitation, but rather than gorge herself, she ate slowly, methodically, all too aware of the effects of starvation. She’s smart. She had to be to survive this.
Vrana asked R’lyeh how long she had gone without eating, but the girl didn’t hear her. Deimos sat on the floor, and by his example, the girl did the same, with the others quickly following suit.
“T-thank you,” the Octopus stuttered as crumbs clung to her tentacles. “Whatever they were trying to do, I think something went wrong. I don’t know when, but something was stolen from the leader.” Again, she gestured to the corpse on the ledge. “And they sent people to find it. I heard guards talking about how they needed it and that the man—he was a priest, I think—decided to go on anyways. About a week ago, they had… killed most of my village and most of Geharra, and the bottom of the pit was… red. The priest said that their offerings were poor. That’s when…
