One by one, primeval rods slid from their housing in the black rock, releasing plooms of dust as the gate was made able to swing free.
Storgen removed the key and gave a tug on the handle. It swung easily, as if it were weightless, even though it clearly weighed several tons. Placing the key back inside his pack, Storgen peered within.
The light coming in from outside gave him a pretty clear view.
“W-what do you see?”
“It looks pretty much the same as out here,” Storgen remarked in surprise.
Storgen swung the door open further so Pops could see.
The cave beyond was fairly unremarkable, dead stretches of sand, no different than the sands behind.
“Are you sure this is the right place?” Pops wondered.
“A big old gate to the underworld forged by the gods? Yeah, I’m pretty sure this is it.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because it says so right there.”
Storgen pointed his thumb to a plaque on the door, which read, “The gate to the underworld, forged by the hands of Ferranus himself.”
“Oh, right.”
They stepped inside, and Storgen swung the gate closed so it appeared as before.
“You’re not going to lock it?” Pops asked.
“It only locks from the outside. You want me to lock one of us in here?”
“Not really, no.”
“We’d better hurry. If anyone tests the door, they’ll know it’s unlocked.”
Storgen perched Gáta atop his head, and the three ventured deeper into the cave.
It was quiet inside. An unearthly quiet. Endless sands interspersed by jagged black rocks rising up like worn bones. Flecks of glowing minerals winked out from the distant cave walls and ceiling, and the further they went, the more it felt like they were outside rather than inside, a sea of starlight above them, cold, lifeless sands beneath their feet.
No shrubs or grass peeked out from the sands, no cactus or stray bird. Not even insects populated the sands. This place was completely lifeless, so silent that Storgen could hear his own heartbeat and breathing as if they were thunderous, his senses dialing themselves up maddeningly in an attempt to find any form of stimuli.
Pops whistled. “This place reminds me of the Shattered Forest Saga. Remember when Beret was searching for the black tree?”
“That’s probably not the best example to use.”
“Why not?”
“Because in the Shattered Forest, everyone died.”
The further in they went, the less the sand behaved like sand. It began to flow, like little streams at first, but later as rivers, winding like snakes through the desert, forcing Storgen to carry Pops on his back as they forded through. The ground gradually became harder, rough rocks with cracks forming a network like a spider’s web. The cracks grew wider with time, a smoldering heat beneath filling the air with a black fume, so much so that Pops had to keep ahold of Storgen’s himotión to keep from losing track of him.
The cracks became wider, the pair forced to skip from rock to rock, floating in a sea of glass. The surface of the stones became softer, giving and crumbling at the touch, and several times Pops lost his footing in the mists.
Moving forward became more and more difficult. Blind to their progress and lacking any landmarks, they journeyed for hours, unsure if they were indeed getting deeper, or simply moving in circles.
The air gradually became thicker; breathing became a laborious gulping process, swallowing down something that was not quite air nor quite water. The crumbling rocks became tiny islands, floating in a void of crimson black. Many times, Storgen had to get a running start, leaping at the edge of his strength, to catch the brittle end of another floating rock. The void beyond felt limitless, the islands now spinning, defying any sense of up and down. Finally, Gáta floated free of Storgen’s head, and he had to grab her to stop the kitten from floating away.
Now they swam, pulling themselves forward through thick liquid air as the mist cleared, clouds and swirls of black and crimson eddying in the distance, stretching on forever in all directions. Milky streaks of glowing light, storms of bilious yellow and light rains of rose that came up from below. Writhing streaks of midnight blue clouds, and black rivers, barely distinguishable against the dim light, invisible except when a patch of color passed beyond them, their dark silhouettes twisting and turning in pretzel-like courses through the void.
It was deathly cold, the kind of cold that seeps into the bones. Several times, Pops begged to stop and close his eyes for a rest, but Storgen roused him each time, worried that if they closed their eyes here, they would never open them again.
They discovered warm spaces within the void. An oasis in the chill. Pockets of space lit by the eternal fires of anger. They darted from one to another, their path dictated by the nearest pocket rather than an ultimate destination.
“It feels like we’re being led by the nose,” Storgen commented as they swam. “But to where?”
“This place reminds me of sherbet,” Pops commented.
A spectral whisp of grey passed before Storgen’s face, startling him.
“Whoa, what was that?”
“Remember that sherbet we had back on Cape Storm?” Pops asked.
A second spectral whisp, the same as the first, passed by. For a moment, Storgen thought it was the same one, but the two danced around one another, until merging into a single stronger version of the same.
“No, I don’t mean the food. Pops, did you see that ghostly thing?”
He scratched his dry bald scalp. “Yeah, but…”
“Think of something else. Quick.”
“Like what?”
“Like, remember that time we won a whole moon melon from that hobo?”
“Oh, that was so good.”
A blue-grey wisp shot out from each of them, swimming around until they found one another and combined.
“I knew it.”
“What does that mean?” Pops wondered.
“I think here, memories are real, they’re tangible.”
The blue-grey whisp darted back. It passed through Pop’s chest, scattering his torso as if it were made of smoke.
“Ahh, what’s happening?”
Pops clawed at the gaping hole in his chest, which slowly coalesced back into form.
“What was that? That thing just flew through me.”
Storgen looked around. “No, I think it would be closer to say that you passed through it.”
“What does that mean?”
“I think here, we’re the ghosts.”
Gradually, they found themselves drawn by a current. Little more than a stream at first, but building in strength until they found themselves drawn along. A squall in the void, a slowly spinning whirlpool reeling them in towards a central point, though the concept of a center was largely meaningless here.
The mists parted and Storgen saw the last thing he expected to find. A costal city on the edge of a great dark sea.
It wasn’t so much a city, as the idea of a city. Memories given physical form. Ethereal constructs, shadowy ghosts of form, nearly transparent at the edges, rippling and shifting, as if they were made of flame.
Gáta hid herself in Storgen’s hair as they passed through the dark, desolate streets. Morose buildings made of lost dreams, melancholy streets paved with flagstones of broken promises. Dreary bushes and trees comprised of grief. The sadness of a million million departed souls forged into architecture.
Storgen turned a corner and found a glowing chain, moaning faces running across its surface. It made him feel cold just to look at it. He noticed a second and a third of the ghostly things, all heading in the direction of the sea, and, motioning to Pops, they began to follow them.
The closer they got, the more chains they encountered, a web of thick flickering bonds, all gathering together on the shore.
At the center, the chains cobbled together, wrapping and twisting themselves in an upr
ight pile. Storgen thought it a bent pole or a twisted pier column until it moved a little, startling Pops something fierce.
The chained being made little attempt to acknowledge them as they drew near, looking out across the black seas.
“Hey, how’s it going?” Storgen greeted warmly.
The being turned to him, the chains hanging off of it like great, hooded robes.
“Eh?” it said, with a voice like it was gargling frogs. “This is the underworld, how do you think it is going?”
Storgen watched as the ashes and soot expelled with its breath sifted downwards. “Okay, fair enough. Anyway, we need to get to the bottom of the first level. Do you know the way?”
The being of chains lifted up its arm, the endless links obscuring the limb and finger entirely as it pointed across the black sea.
Pops grabbed Storgen by the arm. “I don’t like the look of that, lad.”
Some of the water seeped closer, reaching out for them as if with clawed hands.
“Oh, I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Storgen soothed. “Just think of this as a really creepy holiday. A REALLY creepy holiday.” Looking around, he found a ferryboat sitting nearby that looked surprisingly solid. Swimming over to it, he found he could touch it, and with a quick jostle it dislodged from the ghostly sands.
“Is it okay if we borrow this?” Storgen asked.
“If you want to cross the sea and return, you must pay the fee,” it answered with ashy breath.
Storgen raised an eyebrow. “A fee, huh?”
It nodded slowly.
“You’ll forgive me if I am suspicious of a horrible chain monster when it cryptically asks to be paid.”
“Hey, you’re no prize yourself, buddy.”
“So, what’s the fee, pray tell?”
“What else is of value here?”
The being opened its chains as if they were robes, revealing even more chains within, as if its body were actually composed of the links. Around its neck, it wore a single strand with several glowing stones attached. These stones gave off a different kind of light, like drops of sunlight amid the darkness.
“What are those?”
“Those are the cherished memories of those who have wished to cross before you.”
Storgen looked up. “Wait, you mean you took their memories?”
It nodded. “The moment of greatest joy you have ever known, you must give it up forever. That is the price to use the ferry.”
It held out its hand concealed in masses of chains towards Pops. “You have very few moments of joy, they are darkened by grief.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
It swung its hand towards Storgen. He could feel invisible tendrils probing at the edge of his mind. “And you have even fewer, young one. So much pain…wait…there’s something else…”
“Yeah, I think we’re done here,” Storgen said, grabbing Pops.
“What are you doing, lad?”
“We don’t need this thing…”
“Woman,” it interrupted.
“Wait, what?”
“I am a beautiful young woman,” the being of chains insisted.
“Yeesh, well regardless of how this thing identifies, Pops, we can make it fine on our own.”
“I don’t know, lad, that doesn’t look like water to me.”
Storgen swam ahead, floating out above the dark waters. “It’ll be fine. Look, we can just swim over it. What do we need a boat for?”
Suddenly there was a flash of light, and Storgen found himself standing above a woman lying on the street, her blood pooling beneath her. A crowd gathered around as he stood before his carriage, his land dragon snorting in fright, blood on the wheels. A crushing guilt inside. A bitter, sharp feeling in his heart. A terror, eating at his gut. He had taken a life, he had become the thing he most hated in the whole world. A killer. Storgen looked up at the glass of the curio shop, and saw a reflection he didn’t recognize. A thin man with a thinner mustache staring back at him.
The light flashed again, and he was now a young mother, huddled against one corner of a closet. His face grimaced, his skin cold and clammy, his trembling hand trying to muffle the cries of his terrified newborn as centaurs smashed through his house. The screams of his sisters rang out through the walls, pleading for help, but Storgen could only shut his eyes, too frightened to move. He felt like a coward, he felt so guilty, he wanted to die as well, but was too ashamed to admit it.
Another flash, and he was a father standing over his children as they recoiled from him in fear, their faces blue and brown with bruises. He looked down at his bloody fists and the pain seared through his abdomen like a red-hot spike. His mind bent before the torment, unable to complete even a single thought, his body curling into the fetal position.
Storgen gasped for breath as he was pulled back onto the shore, landing heavily on top of Pops. He could still feel it. A thousand thousand moments, the pain of them sharp, like needles in his heart, burning around his insides like boiling water. His very soul felt scalded, the pain cresting in waves, each peak swallowing whole his sense of self.
“Wha…what was that?” he gasped, his eyes tearing from the experience.
“These are the regrets of the dead,” the being of chains explained. “The Sea of Shame. If your friend had not pulled you free, it would have consumed you.”
“You were just going to let me die?”
“You entered its realm of your own free will.”
Gáta mewed in alarm, and Storgen and Pops looked to see two familiar silhouettes drawing close through the phantasmal streets of the city.
The two girls swam up to them. Philiastra looked positively relieved to see them alive, while Erolina looked a bit sheepish. An unusual expression for her.
Storgen put his hand on his chest, trying to rub away the numb sensation. “How did you find us?”
Erolina looked around, distracted. “We didn’t find you. Who do you think ordered the other guards away?”
“So it was a trap.”
“A huntress knows her prey.”
“How did you know I wouldn’t just wait longer?”
“Because I know your ship leaves tomorrow.”
Storgen smacked his lips. “Touché. Well, at least you didn’t bring a gaggle of amazons with you.”
Philiastra clucked her tongue. “A gaggle?”
“A flock, a herd, a pride, a pod? I dunno, what’s the proper term for a group of amazons?”
Erolina scratched at her neck. “A hunter cadre,” she answered, as if she didn’t want to speak.
“Yeah, that.”
Philiastra noticed how oddly Erolina was behaving. “I’m kinda surprised she didn’t take more offense to that.”
Her armband shimmered in agreement.
“It’s not a big deal,” Erolina deflected. “Do you know what we amazons call a group of humans?
“What?”
“A plague.”
Philiastra laughed a bit at that one, but Erolina didn’t seem amused at all. She scratched at her elbow nervously.
“That was very clever of you, by the way, Storgen. We all had powerful magic wards to prevent our keys from being stolen through magical means. It never occurred to any of us that someone might try to just walk up and pickpocket them.”
Storgen floated up, the feeling beginning to come back to his body. “Wait, you had magical wards?”
“You didn’t know?”
“No, I had no idea.”
Philiastra put her face in her hand.
Erolina shook her head in irritation. “Never mind, I take back what I said. It wasn’t clever, it was just dumb luck.”
“Dumb luck is one of my skills.”
“How did you open the coffin? I thought you can’t use magical items?”
“I can’t. Pops opened it for me, right Pops?”
The being of chains stood up straight in surprise and looked at Storgen. “It can’t be...”
Philiastra backed
away a little. “Who is this?”
“Oh, this is a big scary chain monster we met. She’s trying to steal our memories in order to secure passage on her little dingy.”
“Ferry,” she corrected.
“Whatever. The point is, the price is too high.”
The pile of chains reached out and grabbed his arm. “No, wait, I can offer you a better deal.”
“A better deal?”
Philiastra folded her arms. “This is the underworld, so you’d expect people here know how to haggle. Probably nothing but crooked merchants and lawyers down here.”
“And those people who talk during a show.”
The creature of chains held up her hand before Storgen’s face. “You have stored away in you sealed memories. Memories from your previous life. Forgotten to you, but very precious to me.”
“What, was I like a senator or something?”
“You stood up to Sirend. That memory would be more valuable to me than a thousand cherished moments.”
“Wait, you can see what I did in my last life?”
The being looked at each of them in turn. “I can see all pain.” When her gaze landed upon Erolina, she withered before it. “Now I’ve become a parasite, feeding off the joy of others. You can certainly understand that, right amazon?”
Erolina’s eyes flashed with anger. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. The amazons are a proud warrior race, we don’t rely on anyone or anything. We stand on our own two feet.”
Storgen pressed for more details. “What did I do to Sirend?”
“You publicly shamed him before his peers. You put that smug fish-freak in his place.” The being let out a low, rolling ashy sound. It took them a moment to realize it was laughter.
Storgen’s eyes went wide. “Wait is, is that why I can’t…?”
“Yes. There is a curse affixed to your soul. A very powerful and ancient curse. Old magic, from before the Breaking of the Heavens.”
Storgen’s eyes became distant. “So that’s why. I knew it. Somehow, I just knew there had to be a reason.”
Philiastra looked up hopefully. “Can it be removed?”
“No, it can’t,” Storgen said, his voice quivering. “The old magic is all gone now. The power needed to remove it no longer exists…in any realm.”
Ambrosia Page 54
