by Томас Рейд
The ability to hold himself aloft with magic was his only saving grace. Without that, he would have already succumbed to the terrible strain. He certainly would have been screaming by then. His arms might even have been wrenched from their sockets.
Hot vapors wafted up from below, carrying an acrid odor that burned his nostrils and throat. Even with his natural affinity for heat, the air scorched. Sweat drenched him, ran down his naked skin in rivulets that tickled him maddeningly. The fight to resist twitching wore on him. The longer he remained still, the worse the tickling became, yet every time he flinched, trying to shake the trickles free, stabs of pain filled every strained joint.
Vhok cursed Aliisza for the hundredth time. He saw her face, that cunning, clever smile, mocking him, and he screamed insults at her. Somehow, she had found the strength to escape. He had underestimated her, perhaps. Though he was angry with himself for it, she still bore the brunt of his rage.
No, he realized. Zasian. Somehow, they must have coaxed the priest into healing her.
You cursed, guileful wench, he fumed. I should have killed you when you were down. You're too clever by half, always using those supple curves and that sultry smile to twist men's hearts. Tauran will get what he deserves. His pain will come, when you turn on him as you turned on me. I am a fool for ever having loved you.
The chance had been there to take her life, but he knew he had let his own fondness for her, his weakness, get the better of him. He had also made the mistake of playing his hand too early, revealing his intentions. That had been foolish; it would have been better to lie to them, tell them that he was off to seek help and then return with enough demons to corral the group. It had just felt too damned good to finally, finally be free of that awful, wretched compulsion.
Besides, it's still ultimately her fault, he reasoned. She was the one who changed, let her human side grow too dominant, allowed herself to develop weak, caring feelings. She is the traitor, guilty ten times over, and I hate her.
The rock that lined the shaft was not natural stone, as he had seen within Vhissilka's cave complex before. No, it had been built, crafted from great worked blocks, which was why he imagined he might be in a tower. He was in another's domain, but he did not remember arriving there. He simply woke from unconsciousness to find himself strung up like a piece of smoked meat, awaiting carving.
He had been fighting the cruel torture for time immemorial, it seemed. He alternated between countering his own weight in order to relieve the stress on his arms and supporting the weight below him to alleviate the punishment to his ankles. Sometimes, in between, when his magic gave out, he had to endure the full brunt of the torture.
At those times, it was all he could do not to scream.
I won't give them the satisfaction, he told himself. I'll let them pull me apart before I whimper like a child. And when I rip in half, I will find a way to return from the grave and track down that alu. Aliisza will regret her audacity. So help me, she will.
Vhok's mind drifted off into some pain-filled haze, so it was a moment before he realized that something had changed. Light shone down from above. Fiery red light. Flame.
He tried to peer up, but the glow was too bright, and he winced and blinked.
Vhok felt himself rise. He was being pulled up, and the chains jerked and bounced as whatever mechanism that controlled his ascent ratcheted. The jarring tugs sent new pain
through him. For a moment, he truly did fear he might rip in half.
He ascended from the shaft into a dimly lit room— though it was more than bright enough for his light-starved eyes — dangling from a wooden derrick. He blinked, trying to get his eyes to adjust. He felt motion, sensed someone attaching something to the chains on his legs. Then there was blessed relief as the weight came off. He could not help the groan that escaped his lips.
The derrick swung wide of the pit. Vhok's arms were freed, and he fell to the stone floor like a rag doll. He lay there for long moments, writhing from the pins and needles in his joints as his blood flow returned. Screams echoed in the chamber. Some were still muffled, as though buried, but others were loud, harsh, as though someone very near him suffered immeasurably.
A wet splat accompanied an object tossed near his face. When he managed to focus his gaze, he saw a waterskin, though of what kind of skin, he did not want to speculate. He reached for the container and uncapped it. He drank greedily, letting the water spill down his chin. Before he had even half sated himself, the skin was taken from him and his own clothes were tossed down at his feet.
"Get up," a harsh voice commanded. "Dress yourself. Lord Axithar wishes to speak with you."
Vhok fumbled to put the clothes on, wondering who — or what — Lord Axithar was. They didn't return everything. Only his breeches, shirt, and boots. His armor, cape, and his equipment remained missing.
By the time Vhok was dressed and upright, his vision had returned to normal. He surveyed his surroundings.
One of the ram-headed demons watched over him, though Vhok was unsure if he had met this one before. The beast twirled its oversized spear-headed ranseur, waiting for him to finish. Other figures moved in the dimness of the chamber. He glanced at them and saw that he stood in the middle of a chamber of torture, built of the same stone blocks that had formed his pit — and that was, indeed, where he had been— and the cambion got the sense that he was in the bowels of some great fortress.
A bariaur thrashed within an iron frame nearby, its horned head and fists pinned within one set of stocks, all four of its hoofed feet similarly trapped at floor level. A group of demons, small imps with gray skin and oversized ears, poked and prodded the thing with sharpened iron rods. Dozens of trickles of blood seeped from puncture wounds, and the creature howled in anguish.
Against the closest wall, two dwarves with filth-matted dark hair crouched in cages too small for them. The first prison dangled from a length of chain perhaps two feet above a fire pit filled with glowing coals. The dwarf within panted as he pushed against the wall with his hands, trying to keep himself swaying and not lingering over the searing heat. The second one had his arms thrust through the top, clinging to the iron ring set into the stone ceiling where the chain was attached. He held both his own weight and that of the cage, which rested upon his stout shoulders, up away from a bed of coals. His arms shook from the strain of keeping himself aloft.
"Kill me," the one in the lower cage pleaded. "For the love of Moradin, do not let them roast me!"
Vhok smirked. He spied the waterskin clutched in his guard's free hand.
"May I?" he asked, pointing to the drink.
The demon grimaced but tossed Vhok the skin. The cambion made a show of uncapping the container and tipping his head back, letting the water pour into his mouth. A bit of it trickled down his chin. He swallowed and smiled at the dwarf. "You wouldn't happen to be from Sundabar, would you?" he asked.
The prisoner gaped at Vhok wide-eyed, forgetting for a moment to keep his swinging motion up. His blistered feet and buttocks began to smoke. He screamed in agony and fumbled to get himself moving again. In his panic, he could not get a good rhythm going, and his screaming increased.
The ram-demon yanked the empty waterskin out of Vhok's hands, turned, and led him out of the small room. "Come," it grumbled.
They ascended a large stone staircase, leaving behind the anguished cries of the prisoners. The ram-headed fiend led Vhok through a stout iron door and into a hall. The gloomy, smoke-filled passage led to another staircase, and then another. They climbed up and up, passing other demons along the way, some of them the lowly craven dretches that served as the bulk of the abyssal forces, others loftier, more cunning species. At one point, they passed three mariliths going the opposite direction, but none were Vhissilka.
The pair passed through another, larger door. A howling wind assaulted them, a hot, fetid gale that lashed at Vhok's clothes and hair. It carried upon it the stink of sulfur and death. A gray sky roiled above, and Vho
k could not tell whether it was filled with low-hanging clouds or heavy black smoke. The underside of the seething haze glowed red-orange
in places, and once, Vhok spotted a winged creature in silhouette against the burning light.
He and his guard came to a large balcony. The platform, made of lustrous black stone, clung to the side of a lofty tower. A narrow, arched walkway led from it to a similar porch ahead. Both spires rose from a massive sprawling castle, all of it constructed from the same glossy stone. The two crossed, and Vhok peered over the wall to the ground below.
The land, a broken surface of jutting, jagged rock interspersed with thick, thorny brambles and fields of gravel, was crisscrossed with deep crevasses. Orange light flared from within those trenches, and smoke poured from them, whisked away by the wind. In the flat spaces between the shards of protruding glasslike stone, swarms of creatures moved, shuffling together into groups. Larger demons herded the smaller ones, often with a slash of whip or weapon.
An army was assembling. A massive one. Vhok could see it happening as far as his vision would take him.
"Where are we?" he said to his escort. "Is this the Abyss?"
The ram-headed guard cast a glance back at Vhok and smirked. "Shut up and keep walking, cambion."
They reached the far side of the causeway and passed through another door. Once in the interior again, the roar of the wind vanished. Vhok's guard led him down one last, grand hallway. Prisoners lined it, creatures from every corner of the world and perhaps beyond. Each had been positioned within an alcove, impaled upon a slender shaft from back to front and angled slightly upward, so that the spike held the being aloft in a roughly standing position. Some dangled motionless, perhaps already dead, but others still squirmed and cried out
for succor. None could slip free of their confinements.
Better them than me, Vhok thought. Unless…
A moment of panic passed through the cambion, and he was on the verge of turning and dashing away, back to the balcony outside, when the guard turned and faced a massive door of black. The guard pushed the portal open and led Vhok into a chamber that glowed with the fires of a dozen braziers. A roiling pit of magma bubbled in the center. Numerous other creatures moved through the large room, perhaps attending to some important business or other, but Vhok hardly noticed them. All of his attention was drawn to the lone, towering figure near the pit.
A great horned demon with a ferocious, almost bestial face and terrible gaze stood there, its black, batlike wings spread wide. Flames licked up and down its red skin and its fingers clutched a massive sword with a glowing, fiery blade. In its other hand, the towering demon idly flicked a whip that had tongues of flame snaking along it.
A balor.
Consciousness returned to Kael. The faint tinkling of water splashed somewhere nearby. Confusion and disconcerting fear hit him as he opened his eyes. He did not remember where he was or how he had come to be there. Drawing on his military training, he took a deep, calming breath and examined his surroundings.
He lay upon a soft bed in a room filled with the faint glow of moonlight. He rose up on one elbow and saw that the pale lambency entered through a gauze-veiled archway.
It gleamed on white marble, casting a cool gray hue on the whole chamber. A writing desk sat against one wall along with a small shelf of books. On the near wall a sunken basin big enough to bathe within brimmed with water, and the bright sound of splashing he had first discerned came from there, where a steady stream poured from a fountain set into the wall. On the opposite end from the archway stood a darkened doorway.
We're home, he thought, letting his guard down at last. Then he grimaced. Tauran is safe, but we are at the mercy of the High Council. I hope it was worth it.
Kael sat up and stretched. He expected muscles to complain because of too many nights spent sleeping on hard stone in cold places, but he found that he felt fresh. He shook free of the covers and stood. He was naked, and he took a moment to examine his dark skin, seeking signs of injuries or poorly healed wounds or scars. In wonderment, he found none at all.
Am I dreaming? he thought. Are we truly home?
Yes, he thought. I remember the journey too clearly. The memory of surrendering, followed by the indignity of Garin and Nilsa binding all of them to comply before bringing them to the High Council chambers still left a bitter taste in his mouth. It had happened.
But then, what is this place?
His armor rested upon a stand at the foot of the bed, each piece laid carefully there, polished and gleaming in the lunar light, with fresh bindings, straps, and ties replacing old, worn ones. His greatsword stood there as well, oiled and sharpened.
They left me my weapons? Why would they trust me with
them now, after…?
Nothing made sense anymore.
Kael turned to the archway and padded across the room. He pushed through the flimsy curtains and found himself standing upon a small balcony. The moon, hanging low in the sky, was round and pearly. Its glow illuminated the slopes of great Celestia, along with the clouds that ringed its hidden crown.
It is definitely the Court, Kael thought. But it all feels too… peaceful.
That thought surprised Kael. It wasn't that long ago that he could not have imagined expecting more tumult within the House.
But much has happened since those more carefree rimes, he mused. Everything was… chaos when we returned. No High Council, and Garin and Nilsa behaving so oddly. Struggling to make decisions, as if they weren't quite sure. And then nothing. He could remember nothing after arriving.
What did they do with me? With the others? Is Tauran alive?
Kael turned, walked back into the room, and passed beyond the darkened doorway into the interior area. He saw a cozy divan and more shelves filled with books. A plush rug had been tossed casually across the floor, and dark tendrils draped from bowls became potted plants and ferns when he stared at them fully. A door — shut tight — stood within the wall opposite where he had entered.
Kael crossed the rug and pulled the portal open a tiny bit, peering out. He saw a hall softly illuminated by round globes, glowing a warm, yellow-orange color, spaced periodically down its length. He spotted no one else, nor did he hear any
other sounds.
I must be dreaming, he thought. This definitely looks like the Court, but where is everyone?
Shaking his head, not sure what to make of his own solitude, Kael turned back inside and went to his armor. He donned his clothing and took up his sword. He cast one last look around the room and, satisfied that he was leaving nothing behind, the knight headed out into the hall, pulling the door shut behind him.
In one direction, the passage simply led to more doors like his own, and then it ended at a window. In the other, he could hear a faint breeze stirring wind chimes around a corner. He headed that direction.
He found a courtyard at the end of the hall, a pleasant, inviting place filled with meandering paths, cozy benches, and carefully cultured vegetation. He noted the trees in particular, the leaves of which captured the light of the moon and reflected it.
Or perhaps they glow from within, Kael mused.
The wind chimes he had heard hung from the branches, and the breezes that blew through the leaves carried the fragrance of blossoms. Near the center of the open area, Kael spied a shallow pool. In the midpoint, a statue of an angel rose up, wings spread wide, paying homage to the heavens overhead.
I know this place, Kael realized, moving to stand beside the pool. I have been here before, on a night just like this. Tauran brought me here. To meet my mother. Tauran said I should give her a chance, but I wasn't interested. I did not know her then. How strange that I would end up back here now, wishing to spend a moment longer with her.
Kael gazed down into the water and caught the reflection of overhanging branches in its gently rippling surface. Memories of the strange, disorienting encounter, when Aliisza had changed places with him, stolen his body, and e
scaped, came flooding back into his mind. He remembered waiting in the shadows, listening to her reveal her fears and doubts.
Kael turned to look in that same spot.
A figure sat there, cloaked in those same shadows, watching him. "It's not real, you know," his mother said.
Kael smiled. Aliisza rose, stepped out from the gloom, and crossed the grass to stand before him. She rook both his hands in her own and peered into his eyes.
"It's all just an illusion," she said, her smile sad.
Kael tilted his head to one side, puzzled.
"This," Aliisza said, gesturing around them. "The garden, the Court, all of it. We're not really here."
Kael frowned. "Somehow, I already knew that. But what is it, then? And if it's not real, then am I really talking to you?"
Aliisza's smile widened the tiniest bit. "I would ask the same thing, but for some reason, I know we're both really here."
Kael nodded, but her explanation didn't make him feel any better. "What is this place?" he asked.
She dropped his hands and strolled toward a bench. She took a seat on it and tilted her head to one side as she stared up at her son. Her eyes were intense, watching him. "This was my prison," she said quietly, "when I first came here."
"Ah, yes," Kael said, remembering hearing descriptions of the mirror-place whenever he asked about his mother. "Tauran spoke of it when 1 was young. They said you were happy here."
Aliisza snorted. "They lied." She peered into Kael's eyes again, and the sensation it created, as if she were trying to see deep inside him, was growing unnerving. "Most of the time, I didn't even realize I was here. I was trapped in fictions, forced to learn about the more caring, considerate side of myself."
"You sound wounded," Kael said, turning to sit beside her so that she would stop staring at his face so intently. "Like you still resent it."
Beside him, his mother shrugged. "I do," she said. "Tauran was doing what he thought was right. But the decisions the angels make are every bit as conniving and selfish as any demon's choices. They just cloak it in words like 'honor' and 'justice,' and they codify the machinations into a set of laws so that everyone gets manipulated evenly. Then they can point to it and say, 'See? We're in the right because, it's all equal; everyone has to abide by the same rules.' "
