by Greg James
Some time later, a woman entered the hall.
Sarah’s belly felt like it was full to bursting. She watched as the woman approached. The woman moved without making a sound and seeming to drift towards Sarah, as might a ghost. But she was no such thing. Her snow-white hair tumbled down over her samite robe and Sarah could see that her figure was full and curvaceous. Her eyes never wavered from Sarah, and they were coloured like the dawn, shifting between shades of amber, violet, grey, and clear cerulean. Sarah felt the woman’s hands upon her, and the woman smiled and led Sarah by the hand out through a doorway she had not seen before and into a scented space of hanging silks and pillows that could only be a bed chamber.
Once there, she released Sarah’s hand and took a short step away.
Then she lunged, meaning to have a feast of her own. Her mouth hung open, showing brutish fangs.
Sarah showed the barrow-witch a Fang of her own.
The woman recoiled with a gasp as Fang’s blade sank in. She clutching at her chest and then fell to the ground. Sarah saw a change come upon her and the space around them. She knew that the words of the dying man had been true. She watched as the woman’s beauty withered and receded just as summer turns to autumn and then autumn to winter. Her hair rapidly thinned out into torn, frayed strands. Her skin mottled over. Fine fingers and elegant toes became little more than straggling twigs torn from dead trees. But the eyes, they stayed the same. They never changed, those eyes of dawn. The woman shook, licking her thin lips, gurgling in her throat as Sarah advanced. Tears ran down Sarah’s wasted cheeks as she rested the shining edge of Fang against the woman’s neck.
“How can it be?” the woman asked. “You were in the hall and the spell is strong there.”
“I carry the Flame,” Sarah said. “You know what that means, right?”
The woman gurgled in her throat, nodding fiercely.
Smiling at her, Sarah drew the blade away from her throat and displayed it, turning the blade from side to side. The woman saw how it shone, and it hurt her eyes with its brightness and cleanness. True sobs wracked her and she cowered away.
“Please, don’t kill me, Daughter of the Flame.”
“I don’t mean to kill you if ...”
“Yes, yes, yes?”
“If you tell me the way out of these catacombs and back to my friends. They are in the upper chambers with the Veil of Remembrance.”
The woman snarled and shrank in on herself.
Sarah pressed Fang back against her throat. “You will tell me now, or I will take your head. Your call.”
“Spare me, Mistress. Good girl, good Mistress. I did not know. I would not have tried to feed on you if I had known who you were.”
Sarah took the woman’s trembling chin in her hand and raised her eyes until they met. “You gave me food and drink when I was lost, and I thank you for that. But now, I wish to go, and you will tell me where I need to go to, yes?”
She smiled a cold smile and the woman wept tears of fear as she told Sarah the way out of the lower tunnels and back to the higher halls.
~ ~ ~
Sarah walked for what felt like hours and hours. Her legs ached as she followed the barrow-witch’s directions along passages, through chambers, and up to ledges and crawlspaces. I hope I find the others, Sarah thought, before the Molloi do. Finally, she came out into a smooth passage, much like the ones she had left behind. If I’m not almost there, then I can't be far away, thought Sarah.
Sarah could see gigantic shapes standing around her in the dim light, all formed like men, only as tall as the tallest buildings could be. Their heads resembled those of mighty dragons, tusked elephants, fierce bullocks and sabre-toothed lions. Their unmoving hands grasped blades, axes, and hammers. Beyond them, she could see rusting vats and vast rough-edged openings in the rock walls where iron had once been smelted and formed.
What is this place?
A voice in her head, the same as those she had heard when she was bound up in the Veil, spoke to her.
… These are the Deep Forges. Long ago, the Molloi built the Iron Gods here. And here they are buried because the black fires inside them burn always. Like the Flame, they shall never go out. They sleep beneath the mountains. Waiting to awaken. Dreaming dark dreams of dust, death, and utter destruction …
Sarah crept past the iron giants, holding her breath, her fingers tight around Fang’s hilt. She took care to step softly, as if she were sneaking through the house back home and Mom’s door was open wide. She crept on and on until there she heard a sound. A creaking, at first. And then a grinding.
Then, an infernal howl.
Sarah spun around and looked up into eyes of fire and a mouth that spat tongues of cinder-dark flame. A great crown of black iron was upon the thing’s brow, and the workmanship, its intricacy, was beautiful and breathtaking to behold. It was moving towards her, leaving its place among its fellows, arising from its ancient slumber, grinding and roaring its hatred of life and all living things.
… Kaomos … is awake …
Sarah ran for her life.
~ ~ ~
As she ran, Sarah heard a great din up ahead. The chaos of battle. Swords clashed. Clubs crashed. And feral screams of defeat rang out.
Ossen and Jedda!
She saw them standing amidst the Molloi horde. They were barely holding the surging creatures at bay, but they were holding them all the same. Sarah called out over the cacophony. At least, she tried to. She could not be heard because the Molloi had seen and heard her gargantuan pursuer. Like insects scattering to the safety of their holes, they fled in a jabbering frenzy, leaving Ossen, Jedda, and Sarah to face Kaomos alone.
Sarah looked back at it and froze.
Wreathed in a smog of smoke and foul fumes, the spires of the crown upon its head scraped at the high vaults of the chamber. She could see bright cracks and incandescent lines of heat running like veins and arteries over its sculpted muscles. Steam curled from stunted, boarish nostrils and the fluted fangs that edged its mouth, making the Iron God resemble a colossal raging bull. A hand grabbed the scruff of her neck, dragging her away and Ossen gave a parched cry of, “Fly, blast you, child. Fly now!”
The great black bull charged.
Every step shattered stone and tumbled columns, which in turn let loose crashing avalanches. But even the thunder of falling rocks and debris did not drown out the demonic roar of Kaomos. The Iron God came on, meaning to crush and burn everything in his path. The three fled ahead of the monstrous being, across bridges and passing chasms that each hoped would swallow the Iron God and his fury. But still he came on, relentless as a firestorm, carving a path through the heart of the mountain until Sarah began to fear the stone would crumble down upon their heads before they escaped.
“Ahead, Sarah! Come on, Jedda! The gate awaits, over there, across the last abyss!”
Ossen’s shouts made her smile, and she pushed harder, sprinting to the gate that was in sight. She stopped suddenly when she saw the narrowness of the bridge that spanned the abysmal river below.
“What's down there, Ossen?”
“The depths of the Mountains of Mourning are not to be wondered at, unless you want nightmares for the rest of your life. Come on, enough chatter, he is too close. Across we go.”
Jedda went first.
Sarah watched her go, then took a deep breath before it was her turn. She felt the bridge bend and creak as it took her weight. The second step was going to be the tricky one—that was when she left firm ground behind. She tried not to think of the black waters below. She could see movement down there, under the surface, and it was not fish. Sarah knew what fish swimming looked like, knew the telltale tickling of the currents that fish fins made, the brief, silvery glimmering of scales, and the flash of big black eyes. What was moving down there, stirring in the damp shadows, was not a fish of any kind.
Sarah kept going, one foot before the other, spreading her centre of gravity over the thin, old stone of the bridge,
which creaked and groaned. Her heart beat against her ribs until she was sure there were bruises. Below, traces of foam appeared on the surface of the water, and light eddies were forming bleak whirlpools. She thought she saw the waters break, revealing something soft, limpid, and lime-caked, something that was wriggling with a pulpy, translucent life.
Then it was gone below once more.
It felt like the only sounds were her breathing, her footsteps, and the gurgling of whatever was lurking in the water below. If I fall in, that’s it, she thought. There’s a monster down there, pale and hungry. It wants to chew me up and spit me out.
She was halfway across the bridge. The water’s churning made small waves that spat at her. Sarah saw an eye, a cataract-white sphere flecked with veins of weed and old root. It sank away.
She was three-quarters of the way there.
In her mind’s eye, Sarah saw herself making a heroic leap of faith to the end. Then, missing her footing, madly screaming and scrambling. Falling. Striking her head on the bridge. Tumbling down into the water. Into darkness. Whatever was down there would have her in moments. This was no time for drama. This was the time for patience. One foot after the other.
Don’t look down.
Just keep going.
She closed her eyes, and centred herself, ignoring the roaring of Kaomos as best she could, ignoring the heavy slapping of the disturbed water, ignoring the darkness. Nothing was there trying to grab a hold of her, trying to pull her down, to make her fall. When she opened her eyes, she was across the bridge—on the other side. Jedda smiled and embraced her. Sarah turned, and gasped. Ossen was still standing in the middle of the bride, facing away from them both.
Facing the Iron God.
"Ossen!"
Jedda gripped her arm, stopping her from running back. “It can barely support the weight of one alone, you think it will hold if you run to him now?”
“And what about when that thing comes through?”
Jedda’s face became tight. “He is doing what he knows to be best.”
“But he’ll be killed.”
“And we all will be if the Iron God crosses the abyss. It could do so in a single stride.”
There was a great crash, and it was there. Standing at the far side of the bridge, burning and smoking, its eyes upon them—its prey.
“You shall go no further, Kaomos,” Ossen intoned, barely audible over the roaring of flames, smoke, and steam. “I know you. I know your name, and I tell you to turn back. Your Path ends here. Go back to the Deep Forges. Sleep under the mountain until the last days of this World.”
Kaomos stopped, rumbling. The nuclear fury of his eyes considered the old man on the bridge before him. The fire within him flickered a moment and seemed to die down.
Then he spat out a torrent of magma, sending it searing towards Ossen.
The Wayfarer threw up his staff, sweeping it through the air, striking at the molten fire and scattering it as ashes into the waters of the abyss. Great clouds of steam rose up from the black depths and Sarah flinched as she saw the white, pulpy things that swam there thrashing and writhing from the sudden heat. Kaomos rumbled again, deep and long. Then he heaved one wrought, taloned foot onto the bridge, not yet putting its full weight upon it. Ossen struggled to keep a footing. The bridge was cracking beneath him, sending a fine rain of dust and sand into the deep waters. Kaomos bellowed out peals of thunder that Sarah realised was laughter. Kaomos and the Wayfarer then glared at one another for what seemed like an age.
It knew his kind and remembered, she could see that. It remembered the First Wayfarer who had sealed the Deep Forges and damped the flames in the breasts of the Iron Gods.
Was it me? Sarah wondered. The Flame in me passing by that fanned the furnace of his black metal heart into life again?
“We must help him,” Sarah shouted as she watched Kaomos continue to rock the crumbling bridge under Ossen’s feet.
“What can we do, Sarah? Can you control the Flame enough to bring that beast down?”
Sarah sighed hard. “I can try.”
Like breathing deep, she thought. In then out. Out then in. Let it flow through me from the heart. She tried. She concentrated. She wrung her hands. She gritted her teeth. Nothing came. The Flame escaped her. She opened her eyes and couldn’t meet Jedda’s. “It’s not there. It won’t come to me.”
At that moment, Kaomos raised his taloned foot and brought it down onto the bridge with a snarl, shattering the stone.
"No!" Sarah screamed.
Ossen raised his staff at that same moment. A cord of light lashed out from it, whipping around the throat of Kaomos to lasso the Iron God, making him scream rather than roar. Smelted fingers clattered and clanged against the straining metal of his throat, trying to tear away the tightening noose. His iron feet stumbled with the lightness and dexterity of a mountain falling in on itself. Kaomos was on the brink, over the abyss, and leaning at a great angle. Amid the cacophony of shattering stone and the furious roars of Kaomos, she heard Ossen call out, “If I must fall for the wrongs I have done, for the life I have taken, then you fall with me, O Forged One!”
Kaomos and Ossen fell.
Jedda pulled her away as the mountain shook to its roots as the Iron God fell into the abyss. Everything was blurry. Her ears rang with the howls of Kaomos.
“Help me, Sarah. Now!”
And they were pushing against the gates to the outside, straining and sweating as the old metal fought them every inch of the way. A crack of light, the slightest breeze, a taste of the fresh, outside air. They were out, racing down an incline, half-falling and half-running into rocks and outcrops until they came to a halt in a shallow curve. They looked back up at the gates and at the darkness that could be glimpsed through them. They looked through it all, at the place where Ossen had fallen into that black river, saving their lives. Drowning himself, dragged down by the incredible weight of Kaomos.
The land that lay before them was that of another World.
Great craters were hammered into the earth, turning it into a forbidding moonscape. Sickly white foliage hung limply here and there, diseased and dying. Everything was failing, hurrying on to extinction. There, at the horizon was the lone mountain they sought: the Fellhorn. They trod on through grey days and dismal nights. They drank water that collected in hollows and gnawed on the insects that seemed to be the sole inhabitants of this wasted land. They scavenged for scraps of wood and flotsam in the evenings to fuel weak fires that produced lots of smoke but little heat. They huddled together under starless skies to keep the ever-present cold at bay.
The Fellhorn seemed to come no closer.
They seemed to get no nearer to their goal.
And when the rain fell upon them in the evenings, they thought of Ossen and they wept.
Chapter Thirty
Jedda stared into the flames while Sarah slept. It was cold and lonesome in these wastes, and she could feel no hope kindling in her breast at the sight of the Fellhorn not so far away. The Fallen One had spoken to her through E’blis when she was imprisoned. He had told her there would come a time to choose, and she knew that time was closing in on her. To trust in the words of the dead Wayfarer or in The Darkness That Was Not Darkness. Which would it be? This child from another world who slept before her, or herself? Would this child honour the trust placed in her once she had drawn the Sword of Sighs from the stone of the mountain?
Jedda was born to Seythe and was the daughter of a king. She loved this World and no other. She would fight for it. She would die for it. Would Sarah do the same? Did she feel the same? Jedda doubted it, even though Sarah carried the Flame.
Jedda had listened to the names Sarah spoke in her dreams: Momma. Dadda. Kiley. Malarkey. Woran.
Only one name of this World; was that enough?
Jedda felt her eyes prickling as she thought on it. Storm clouds gathered at the horizon. Jedda did not have to see them; she could feel them. The Fallen-born were almost here, and E’blis
would be at their heels. Her words were her bond to Him, ever since that night in her cell when she had called out to the Fallen One.
Was I blinded by pain? Has rage left me undone?
“What am I to do?”
Darkness gave her no answer.
Chapter Thirty-One
The storm descended with the darkness of evening and showed no signs of abating. The earth about them thickened into a sucking mud under the pounding rain. Brutal winds lashed them like cat-o’nine-tails. Sarah shook violently from the cold and could tell Jedda was doing the same. The mud was growing too deep, and the storm too fierce, for them to go on. Shouts were turned to silence by Nature’s roaring. Sarah fell and Jedda sagged, exhausted, feeling near to death. The rain streamed down their faces until they were walking blind, and every breath made them swallow bitter water. But still they trudged on, filthy, bent, and blind as they were, into the dark heart of the storm.
The Fellhorn was out there.
They had to keep going.
No matter what.
In the shadows of the storm, Sarah clutched at Jedda’s hand, but soon her fingers became so numb she could no longer feel what she was holding. Out of the thunder, she was sure she was able to discern a voice at one point, but it was not speaking to her. At that moment, she felt something change. Something went away. The storm died down a little and Sarah saw that Jedda was no longer with her.
The storm’s voice, she thought, it must have been Him.
He has taken her.
But she was too tired to do anything about it, too tired even to cry as she had cried for Ossen.
Sarah went on to the mountain alone.
