by Anne Perry
The man swung around to glare at him, the sweat glistening on his bald head. “Build?” he yelled back, his face red with exertion and rage. “Build what? A house? Do you want to stay here? You’re the fool! Idiot! Cretin! Why should I stay here? It’s hell! Hell!” And he laughed maniacally and started to fling more rocks around, careless of where they landed.
One hit Sadokhar on the leg, drawing blood. Sadokhar stooped and picked the rock up, weighing it in his hand, then hurled it back, striking the man on the shoulder so hard he lost his balance and fell over, letting out a stream of abuse so violent and filthy Sadokhar was startled. In that moment he realised how hell had taken hold of him also and he had become part of it. The desolation he saw on every side was the reflection of what was within.
It had touched him so quickly he had gone from pity to rage in moments.
But then the greater the light in a spirit, the more rapid the descent into darkness can be. He knew that and he had allowed himself to forget it.
He walked over and held out his hand to the man to help him up. “I’m sorry,” he said. He meant it, not so much in compassion for the man as regret for himself. He had behaved badly, and that was an injury to his own soul.
The man stared at him in stupefaction. No one apologises in hell. For some reason it frightened him. He did not take Sadokhar’s outstretched hand but went a step back instead.
Sadokhar shrugged and walked away.
Some time later—there was no manner to tell how long—he reached another cliff. It was perhaps forty or fifty feet high and jagged-edged, as if once eroded by wind. It stretched as far as he could see to left and right but a hundred yards away there was what seemed to be an opening. In the shadowless light it was hard to be certain.
Still, there was nothing else to do. He had no idea how far hell extended, if there was an end of it to reach. Perhaps it was all a region of the soul, and had no physical existence? That was a thought too hideous to contemplate. He would drive himself mad. The only thing was to keep on moving, past exhaustion or misery or any kind of disappointment. He must imagine there was purpose. Tathea had promised him there was ... He must believe ... There was nothing else.
He trudged on. His leg was sore where the stone had hit it, but not as much as he would have expected. As he had noticed before, physical pain was dulling, as if it were part of a real world that was gradually fading away.
But the break in the cliff seemed to be genuine. He stopped and stared up. There was a steep gorge leading up, easily climbable, and apart from a few outcrops and scree beds it seemed clear all the way to the top. He set out with renewed energy.
Sadokhar was a little more than halfway, stumbling on the loose stones, when he was vividly and terrifyingly aware of a living presence in front of him, blocking the way. There was no shadow, but still a suffocating sense of the light being sucked away.
His fingers lost their grip and he slid backwards, pebbles falling behind him and rattling down the way he had come. His breath rasping in his throat, he lifted his head and looked up.
Towering above him was a creature more hideous than anything he had imagined. It was almost human, and yet it was not. It stood on two massive legs. At first it seemed as if the muscles rippled, then before his horrified eyes the flesh broke open and a new limb emerged, skinless and bleeding, only to be consumed again leaving nothing behind except a putrescent scar.
He tore his eyes away and looked up at the body, which was naked, entrails pulsing, swelling and retracting, forming obscene new shapes, and then losing them again. The skin was scaly, bubbling, purple-dark. A sickly stench came from it, filling the air.
Repulsed and helpless to avoid it, Sadokhar looked at the face, although in his heart he knew what he would see: the fractured, misshapen torment of legion souls locked together in eternal hatred, fighting for mastery of one body and never holding it.
The creatures roared with laughter. More rocks broke loose, crashing down into the gorge and rattling away.
“Where are you going, little man?” it demanded.
Sadokhar straightened up. If this was hell, what had he to lose? The creature, Lord of the Undead he might be, could hardly kill him! Then a hideous thought occurred: he might consume him, and Sadokhar could end up imprisoned in that filthy skin also, never to exist alone again!
He recoiled in terror, his limbs shaking, panic exploding inside him, skin crawling as if covered with maggots. The scream choked in his throat as his legs buckled and he slipped helplessly on the stones and fell backwards.
“Frightened?” the creature said with relish, stepping towards him. “You should be!” Even as he spoke another mouth erupted out of his cheek, gaping open. “I am Ozmander and this gorge is mine!” it shouted, and then retracted and shrivelled up. The eyes skewed round and a third and then a fourth eye appeared, bulging out of bleeding sockets. Another mouth protruded from the neck and stretched wide, screaming. “If you want to pass,” the first mouth yelled above the others, “you will have to pay me!”
“Pay you?” Sadokhar gasped incredulously, scrambling to his feet, careless of the bruising and cutting of his hands. “With what?”
Ozmander curled his lips off broken teeth. “I’m bored! Entertain me!”
It was absurd. If it had not been so obscene it would have been laughable. But Sadokhar had no heart to laugh.
“Climb up that rock face!” Ozmander commanded, pointing to a steep, jutting side with no crevice for even a finger to hold.
Sadokhar looked at it and knew he could not.
“Go on!” Ozmander jeered. “You want to pass me—do as I say!”
“No one could climb up that,” Sadokhar protested.
“Then no one can pass me!” Ozmander rejoined with a leer.
“Then I’ll have to find another way.” Sadokhar started to back down again and when he dared, turned to leave.
“Wait!” Ozmander shouted after him, his voice crumbling the rock and sending pebbles dancing.
Sadokhar stopped. “What?”
“If you can’t climb up the rock, then crawl over the scree there, and get up that side,” Ozmander shouted after him. “You can do that!”
Sadokhar looked at it. It would be tedious and slippery, but as Ozmander had said, quite possible. He climbed back a little way.
“And if I do?” he asked.
“Then I might let you pass!” Ozmander grinned, showing all his jagged teeth. “Or I might not.”
Sadokhar stood still. “Not good enough,” he said. “What’s beyond there?” He pointed. “That could be entertaining for you.”
Ozmander’s face contorted and his body writhed under its skin. Ulcers cracked open and oozed blood.
Sadokhar was sickened. He knew the souls within must have looked on the light, and deliberately chosen evil, cruelty and lies, feeding on the pain of others, and yet still he felt a pity for their damnation, self-chosen as it was. But he knew better than to trust them.
Ozmander strode forward, his arm outstretched.
Sadokhar jerked back so quickly he fell and rolled several yards down the scree, bruising himself and landing hard against a stony outcrop. He was startled by the sharp pain of it, crying out involuntarily.
“It hurt you!” Ozmander said gleefully. “It hurt you! I saw it! You can’t deny it!”
Sadokhar staggered to his feet, feeling warm blood on his back. “Yes,” he agreed, straightening up only slowly. “I can feel. Can you?”
Ozmander’s face twisted, his mouth slack, and in that instant Sadokhar knew he had scored a victory. He smiled widely. “I thought not!” he jeered. “Crawl up your own scree slope! I’m going to find another way around. I don’t care where I go anyway.”
“There’s no other way!” Ozmander yelled, starting down after him. “You’ll not get around! You’ll be stuck here for ever!”
“I’m stuck here for ever anyway!” Sadokhar called back as he slipped and slithered down the gorge. He could hear Ozmander be
llowing after him, but it seemed he was in some way tied to the place, because he did not follow.
Sadokhar walked for what seemed like miles along the base of the cliffs, and nowhere was there more than a crevice here or there, every one ending in sheer walls.
Finally he slumped down in exhaustion, his body aching, his feet blistered raw. He had to face the possibility that the vile Ozmander was right, and there was no way up except through the gorge.
Or perhaps there was no way up at all? What lay beyond, anyway? Everything or nothing? Tornagrain could be anywhere, far ahead of him on the cliffs, or on the plain behind, scrabbling around futilely in the dust like those he had seen, angry, self-pitying, blaming everyone else for their fate. There was no end to the cliff. He could go on like this for days—had there been days or nights in hell—or he might find a path up in the next hour.
But there was one for certain if he retraced his steps back to where Ozmander waited. And who was to say that if he found another way there would not be some other creature of hell waiting there for him?
He had promised Tathea. There was a kind of cleanness to returning, a resolution that had a balm within it, even in facing Ozmander.
He set out walking, this time with purpose and intent. He would do whatever was required to pass him, even submission to his ridiculous demands, if he had to, because it was the way forward, and he was not going to give in, not to Ozmander, not to anyone.
Ozmander was exactly where he had left him, standing in the middle of the gorge, blocking the way. He gave a bellow of jubilation as he saw Sadokhar struggling up, sliding on the shale.
“I knew you’d be back! I told you there’s no other way! Now you’ll do as I tell you ... and more!”
Sadokhar gritted his teeth and kept on climbing. He must fix the purpose in his mind, think of Tathea and the fighting of Armageddon, what victory would mean, and the way back into the world again to be part of it, with those he loved.
He reached Ozmander and stopped in front of him, looking straight ahead.
“I can’t climb the rock face,” he said bluntly. “So that order is a waste of time. I’ll crawl up the scree, if it’s what you want.”
Ozmander grinned. “I’ve changed my mind.” Now his voice was soft, like a score of whispers. “See that pile of stones there?” He pointed to a scattered heap. “Move them over to the other side, one at a time. Pile them up carefully.”
Sadokhar swallowed back his anger and bent to obey. There were over two hundred stones. It took a long time, but he persevered.
“Good,” Ozmander said when he was finished at last.
“Now let me pass,” Sadokhar asked.
Ozmander squinted at him with a bloodshot eye. “I don’t like them there. Put them back where they were. One at a time! Carefully.”
Sadokhar lost his temper and charged forward. Ozmander stopped him with one arm, flinging him back with such force he lay on the ground winded for several moments before he could climb to his feet again, bruised, just as angry, but wiser.
“Why do you want to stop me passing?” he asked.
“It amuses me,” Ozmander answered with a sneer. “Once you’ve gone, I’ll be bored again.”
“If I refuse to obey you, you’ll be just as bored,” Sadokhar pointed out. “Why don’t you come with me?”
“Because there’s nowhere to go, fool! If you want to waste your energy, that’s your stupidity—not mine.”
“Have you ever been past here?”
“No. There’s nothing to see, just more rocks, more dust. Why should I bother?”
“There might be something else ... if you looked!”
Ozmander thrust his hideous face forward. “There’s nothing,” he hissed.
Sadokhar backed away, gagging in the stench. He went a hundred yards or so and stopped to think. Obviously Ozmander was not open to reason; for him this was simply another way to be obstructive, and just as entertaining. Physically Sadokhar could not overpower him, he was immensely strong. There did not seem to be any way to deceive him, and there was certainly no way to bypass him. Perhaps there was some part of his emotions to reach. Plainly he could be angered, or amused. Could he hope?
Sadokhar stood up again and climbed slowly back to where Ozmander was waiting.
“Ready to move the stones?” Ozmander asked with a leer.
“I would, if I believed it would get me past you,” Sadokhar answered. “But I don’t. You don’t know what lies beyond the cliff, so you don’t care.”
“You don’t either!” Ozmander pointed out. “I told you, there’s nothing there ... or anywhere else.”
“Yes, there is!” Sadokhar put all the passion and certainty into his voice that he had felt as he had clung to Tathea in the sandstorm. “There is a way out, and I’ll find it. You can come with me if you want ... or stay here. But I’m going.”
“You’re lying!” Ozmander accused. “There’s nothing out there.”
“Yes, there is. An angel told me.” How else could he explain Tathea?
“Angel!” Ozmander’s eyes opened wide but his face was a mask of derision. “There are no angels in hell.”
“Because you haven’t seen any?” Sadokhar managed to get just as much ridicule and derision into his voice, and he saw the first flicker of doubt in Ozmander. He ploughed on, to make the most of it. “I have. She told me of a way out ... ahead.” He straightened up, holding his head high. “I mean to find it. If you like it here, then stay. I’m going.”
Ozmander’s eyes blazed with hope, and then doubt. Anger suffused his face and his veins bulged. His lips curled in a dozen different expressions as he fought within himself. His body began to twitch, and then within his skin the muscles heaved and the organs began to displace one another.
Sadokhar watched with a sick fascination as it became more apparent that the different personalities imprisoned within his body were attacking each other with ever-increasing violence as rage mounted inside them and exploded uncontrollably, tearing each other apart, some to stay, some to go.
Ozmander’s right arm swelled and the muscles writhed, tearing it out of the socket at the shoulder. His face distended, eyes swivelling wildly, skin purple. His lips curled back off his teeth and a foam of dark blood appeared, dribbling down his chin. His cheek ballooned out and burst open as another head broke through, the half-formed mouth already cursing. He lunged forward as if to grasp at Sadokhar, fingers outstretched like talons.
Sadokhar backed away quickly, stumbling in his haste.
Ozmander let out a howl and began to claw at his stomach, tearing away the skin till the blood spurted in dark gouts. His whole body jerked and heaved, and his head was now on almost backwards.
Sadokhar was moved to pity as well as horror, but he was helpless to intervene. Ozmander started to speak in a dozen different voices, shouting, snarling, lisping as the blood oozed between his lips, arguing that there was hope, there was no hope, cursing as one tyrant wrenched at another within him, each determined to force its will upon the others.
Ozmander fell to his knees. His other arm reached across and tore the dislocated one at the elbow, ripping it off and letting it fall to the stones, blood pumping.
Sadokhar tried to speak, but no sound came from his lips.
Ozmander gouged with his nails and tore his bowels open, spilling them on to his thighs. His right leg swelled and the skin split, showing the bone white, the muscles writhing. With his remaining arm he gripped his other leg and heaved at it, pulling it out at the hip and the flesh broke away. He threw it at Sadokhar, who leaped aside to let it strike the ground with a sickening squelch.
All the while Ozmander was still swearing and fighting with himself: “There is hope! We must go!” “There is none! It’s pointless. Stay here!” “Do as I say!” “It’s all lies!”
Sadokhar could do nothing until at last Ozmander lay twitching on the stones in a dozen bloodied places, organs and entrails ripped out, limbs broken, torn off his trunk,
head twisted on his neck, face blotched, eyes and mouth red, still moving. He should have been dead, but there is no escape from hell, no oblivion.
His stomach clenched with pity and revulsion, Sadokhar sidestepped as widely around the filthy pieces of flesh as he could, scraping himself back against the rock face. All the time he watched in case some dismembered hand could still reach out and grasp him.
Then when he was finally past he turned and scrambled on up the path, careless of bruising himself or tearing his skin as long as he got away from that fearful thing on the ground.
At the top of the gorge where the steep sides fell away, he stared around him, hardly realising he was holding his breath in the agonising hope of seeing something different from the endless dust and the flat horizon.
There was nothing ... nothing at all but more dust and shale and spaces of barren stone, shadowless. It almost broke his spirit.
“There is a way!” he shouted. “There is a way.” And the silence swallowed his cry.
Nothing moved.
Sadokhar set out to walk because there was no point in remaining where he was. He tried to picture Tathea’s face in his mind, clinging on to the vision of it, and the words of her promise. There was no reason or sense to anything. He must believe in miracles, because that was all that could rescue him. Somewhere he had read that there was no height of heaven nor depth of hell where God could not reach. Then He could reach even here! He must!
He raised his face to the flat sky. “Father—help me!” he cried aloud. “Help me!”
The sound did not even echo.
He trudged on in the dust, his feet aching, his back sore. He did not know how long he went on before he realised an extraordinary, incredible thing: it was growing dark! In fact he could hardly see ahead of him. He stopped and turned slowly to stare. It was dark all around! Then dimly over to the left he saw something flicker—a light, a flame, as if someone had lit a campfire.
He started towards it rapidly, increasing his pace until the ever-deepening night forced him to move more carefully. By the time he was within yards of the fire he could see it plainly, and also that there were at least a hundred people sitting around it in a huge circle, but each so close to his neighbour that there was no room at all for anyone to make their way in.
