by Lloyd, Tom
‘More use to me than you,’ the daemon cackled. ‘Leave it here and I shall grant you a long lifetime before you return to me.’
‘The span of my life is in the hands of another,’ Mihn said sharply, ‘and she carries a Crystal Skull. If you cheat her of it, her vengeance will be terrible.’
Once Isak was free of the daemon’s implements Mihn cradled his lord’s massive head in his hands and peered into his eyes.
‘Isak,’ he said piercingly, ‘hear me, Isak.’ The rune on his chest pulsed briefly. The daemon felt it too and whimpered, scrabbling at the rock in an effort to retreat from the light.
Isak’s eyelids flickered and Mihn saw even they bore the scars of damage.
‘Gods, how long have you been here?’ Mihn asked softly, wondering whether Isak would ever be able to stand long enough to be helped out.
‘An age!’ crowed the daemon from the other side of the prison, ‘ten thousand days pass in a heartbeat here, empires fall in a day!’
The figure at Mihn’s feet mumbled something in a ruined voice, still staring into nothingness. He couldn’t make out the words.
‘Then ten thousand days is long enough,’ Mihn declared. He held out a hand to Isak and commanded, ‘Get on your feet, soldier; this is the long walk home.’
Isak’s fingers twitched, but other than that there was no sign he had even heard the words.
‘Brace yourself,’ came Xeliath’s voice in Mihn’s ear.
Before he had time to realise what she was going to do a flood of magic surged through his body. The rune flared white, the daemon screamed and Isak convulsed as though caught in the teeth of the storm.
‘Get up!’ Mihn roared, buoyed by the energising rush of raw power in his veins. He stood and gripped Isak’s arm, pulling with all his strength. ‘Isak Stormcaller, on your feet!’
Somehow he managed to yank Isak to a seating position while crackling sparks of magic raced over the white-eye’s body. At last Isak moved by himself, his limbs wobbling as, with Mihn’s help, he raised his body until he was close enough to upright. The white-eye, swaying, towered over Mihn, but it was only the smaller man’s efforts that stopped him toppling face-first into the void.
As Mihn struggled to steady him, using both hands, he suddenly felt droplets spatter onto his face and he flinched away, thinking it was blood. Then Isak’s head turned and he saw it was tears, streaming from the man’s agony-wracked face.
‘Give me Eolis,’ Mihn demanded, taking Isak’s chin and angling his head so the white-eye was looking him in the face. Behind him the daemon screamed and cursed them both, but he ignored it and put his fist inside Isak’s clawed hand.
‘Give me Eolis,’ he repeated, placing his other hand on the rune on his chest.
Xeliath obliged with another burst of magic, but it was only when he repeated the order again that a spark ignited Isak’s eyes and the prison shook with a sudden crash of light. When Mihn blinked away the dazzling flares dancing before his eyes there was Eolis, lying in his hand: the long single-edged sword with an emerald pommel that had been bound to Isak’s soul.
Carefully, he unpicked Isak’s fingers which had automatically closed about Eolis, trapping his own, and took the weapon.
‘Leave,’ the daemon hissed frantically, ‘you must leave now!’
It darted one way then the other before stopping and waving a limb towards the prison’s exit. The rock groaned and began to move, widening until it was big enough for the two of them to leave side by side.
‘Get out, others have sensed you! Go that way; it will lead you to the gates.’
Mihn took a firm grip of Isak’s hand, leading the huge white-eye forward like a child. He held Eolis held out before them. The tunnel was empty, and there was a far shallower incline than the sheer slope he’d climbed down to reach the prison. He felt no warnings from Ehla or Xeliath, and though he hated the very idea, he realised he would have to trust the daemon - it appeared to have kept its word.
If any do come this way, he thought grimly, Eolis will ensure they keep clear. I intend to keep my vow, even here, but they do not need to know that.
Mihn walked as quickly as he could, with Isak stumbling along beside him and crying out occasionally - but still he matched Mihn’s steps. Mihn knew a white-eye would fight on with mortal injuries that would stop any normal man, the instinct to fight and survive overriding everything else, but these grievous wounds had to be sorely testing the limits.
The tunnel spiralled slowly upward, a long and regular path that Mihn became increasingly certain would bring them to the surface, but as they walked, he could hear daemonic voices coming from all directions. At first they were distant, echoing, but now they were getting closer. At last Mihn realised they were walking parallel to another main tunnel, and through gashes in the rock wall he caught glimpses of a savage battle, like that he’d passed on the way in, lit by dancing flames.
He thought they had managed to get past, free and clear, when an oval eye appeared at one of the larger holes, and in the next moment a daemon had slipped through. It was smaller than the one he had killed, but far more solid, brandishing foot-long claws at the end of its arms.
Mihn raised Eolis and the creature hesitated, but it did not back off. It screeched defiantly at him and the sound provoked a flurry of movement; within moments the tunnel had ripped and distended to accommodate the bulk of a dozen demons, some even bigger than the white-eye Mihn was supporting.
Mihn’s heart sank. He couldn’t hope to fight them all, even if he did break his vow never to use a sword again, but before any of the daemons summoned the courage to face Eolis a distant crack of thunder reverberated through the rock.
The daemons glanced nervously around; that wasn’t the usual booming that echoed through Ghenna but a sharper, more immediate sound. It came again, this time accompanied by a crack of lightning that left them all reeling from the light. In the afterglow stood the image of a brown-skinned girl clad in brilliant crystal armour. At the sight of her, the daemons started squealing and fled as if running for their lives. Mihn started walking again, realising Xeliath was readying herself to step over into the Dark Place. Now daemons melted away into the adjoining tunnels as he approached, content to hiss and glare at him from the dark corners while leaving his path unimpeded.
Every hundred paces or so Xeliath reappeared for an instant, filling the tunnel with searing light, ensuring the denizens of Jaishen were aware of her presence. Without these regular visitations they would have been attacked and overpowered within minutes, but even the most gigantic of the fanged monstrosities kept clear of the savage force at Xeliath’s command. Mihn found himself whispering a short prayer to Cerrun, God of Gamblers: a desperate plea, that not even the princes of the Dark Place would risk fighting someone with such strength. A Crystal Skull was powerful enough to kill Gods and daemon-princes - who, even in victory, might be devoured by their cannibalistic minions if they were badly injured.
Exhaustion started to bite as Mihn felt his legs grow increasingly heavy. The air became denser and hotter the further they walked, and though the daemons made no forays against them, they afforded them only minimal room to pass. When he looked behind his lord he saw those trailing were lapping up the blood that dripped from Isak’s wounds, their impossibly long tongues seeking out the tiniest drop.
At last they arrived at the crossroad where the burning wheel hung up above. Mihn started to press on, ignoring the tortured soul, but he was dragged to a halt by Isak, who stopped suddenly and stared directly up at the shrieking figure, the first time he had properly engaged with his surroundings since the chains had been dragged from his body.
Mihn felt the bile rise in his throat at the cruelties that must have been inflicted on Isak to produce so many scars. The only part of his body untouched was the rune burned into his chest; otherwise the torturer had been indiscriminate. His nipples, genitals and lips all bore signs of vicious abuse, his teeth were twisted and broken, his finger- and t
oenails torn out. The wider expanses of flesh were carved with a jagged script, one Mihn had never seen before, and scars caused by the spiked chains that had bound his body overlaid everything else like bloody shadows.
‘Come,’ Mihn said softly, urging Isak to keep moving.
Now the white-eye needed little encouragement. His eyes started to focus and his mouth was part-open, as though on the point of a sob that never came. As his great limbs started to shake Mihn tightened his grip on his lord.
Escaping the gate itself proved easier than he had expected. The chained beasts might not have been able to see Eolis, but they could sense the power of the sword and as they instinctively backed away, the gate started to lift. Mihn walked Isak carefully between the beasts, quickening his pace to clear the gate as they retreated again, pulling the gate shut behind them.
But there was no time for Mihn to pause and congratulate himself. From the steps of the Mercy’s silver pavilion Mihn could see daemons of all sizes lining the three gates, staring after them with unreserved hatred. A flash of lightning raced across the gates and Xeliath appeared for a second or two, standing halfway between the gates and the pavilion.
She was dressed for battle in glittering crystal armour, and as she surveyed the arrayed armies of the Dark Place she gave a short laugh and spat in the dirt at her feet. The daemons began to clamour and howl furiously, beating at the ivory gates and stamping their feet so hard Mihn felt the ground shaking.
‘Fuck all of you!’ she yelled, directing an obscene gesture towards the largest of the daemons with her left hand, the one that had a Crystal Skull fused to the palm in the real world.
The cacophony increased tenfold, but the Yeetatchen white-eye turned her back and vanished into the darkness. Mihn didn’t wait to see what response this elicited but hurried to the river, where flames were lapping against the bank. Instantly the boatman appeared before him, veiled and silent.
‘Bear us across,’ Mihn commanded.
‘Each must pay with a soul. Will you give your own?’ the boatman asked in a deep, inhuman voice.
Mihn reached into the neck of his tunic, pulled out the two silver coins strung on a chain and held it out to the boatman.
‘I offer two souls.’
The association of souls with silver coins in Ghenna had come from the practice of laying the dead out with a silver coin in their mouth to draw up part of the soul. Daima had assured Mihn that the two men these coins belonged to were already in Ghenna; they would leave the question of ownership to the boatman and whichever daemon held them.
The boatman stared at Mihn for a while, then at Isak. At last it snatched the chain from Mihn’s hand and drew the skiff up to the bank, stepping back to make room. Mihn helped Isak in first, making him kneel for safety before stepping swiftly into the remaining space himself. His caution was well justified as the boatman pushed off the moment one foot had touched the seat; only his superb balance and a firm grip on Isak’s shoulder stopped Mihn from pitching over backwards into the fiery river.
The boatman laughed loudly as Mihn crouched at his feet but he poled the barge around and to the other bank with a dozen languid strokes. As soon as they touched land Mihn leapt out and dragged Isak with him. They set off up the short path to Ghain’s summit, enduring the boatman’s callous laughter until it faded on the wind.
With every step Mihn found himself weakening, the strength seeping out of his muscles as he gradually submitted to the terror inside him. Freed of his chains, Isak had regained a measure of his former strength and at the summit it was he who drove the pair over it. Though he had not spoken, nor really registered Mihn’s presence, the white-eye survival instinct was a force in itself.
Once over the crest, Mihn dragged Isak to a halt. He leaned on the larger man and forced himself to stand upright as he gasped for breath. His hands were shaking, with fear and fatigue. The air was thin up there and it took a minute or more before his heart slowed its frantic beat and his lungs stopped aching. Isak stood motionless beside him, looking down on the desolate slopes of Ghain. He said nothing; Mihn couldn’t tell if the white-eye even saw the empty miles ahead of them. Only the occasional spasm running through his body made Isak look more than a reanimated corpse, but Mihn had hardly expected cheerfulness or laughter.
I walked into the Dark Place and I lived, Mihn thought, using his sleeve to wipe the sweat from his face. He looked back. There was no daemonic army pursuing them; not even the boatman was visible, but he didn’t want to wait around. A daemon-prince might fear Xeliath’s Crystal Skull as much as the rest of its kind, but it wouldn’t be afraid to send others in its stead.
‘Come, my lord,’ he said with a sigh, forcing his legs to take the first few steps down the empty slope. ‘We are not home yet.’
The journey downslope was far easier than the ascent, and the further they got from the gates of Ghenna the faster they moved, ignoring the dead landscape around them The silver pavilions were empty, though Mihn thought he could sense some presence in the air that he assumed was the Mercies. Isak, feeling it too, lowered his head and tightened his grip on Mihn’s arm, but they passed freely, finding themselves a step closer to the Land. Ghain itself appeared abandoned, for they walked a different path to that of the dead, and if there was pursuit, it was far enough behind to leave no trace.
They stopped once, after all of the pavilions were behind them, when Isak began to huff and whimper like a frightened dog. He kept his head down, staring blindly at the ground, but a swirl of wind wrapped around them and he looked increasingly pained and fearful.
Mihn hauled him onward, until he saw the reason for Isak’s terror and dread descended over him too: there, on the horizon, stood the vast black doors of Death’s chamber, set in a huge, weathered stone frame attached to nothing. A great darkness hung above it, black as pitch.
What if I open that door and there is nothing but Ghain’s wilderness on the other side? He shook the thought from his head and upped their pace, his own sheer determination overriding Isak’s shaking reluctance. As he neared the gate Mihn saw the darkness above it start to shift and a loud clanking of chains rolled out across Ghain like discordant temple bells.
‘Now would be a good time,’ Mihn muttered under his breath, ‘assuming you aren’t too tired after insulting every daemon in existence.’
A clap of thunder came as response and Xeliath flashed into existence, appearing at their side and walking in perfect time, as though she had been with them the whole journey.
‘They needed a reminder of how things are,’ Xeliath commented lightly, spinning an ivory glaive in her hand before letting the weapon rest upon her shoulder.
Mihn looked at her. The chestnut-skinned girl was as heartstoppingly beautiful as when she’d spoken to him in his dreams. The visor on her crystal helm was raised enough for Mihn to see a contented little smile on her face.
‘Grandiose insults and the prospect of violence,’ Mihn commented. ‘Bloody white-eyes.’
Xeliath’s grin widened, but any further conversation was cut off as an enormous shape fell to the ground in front of the gate with a crash. They all staggered as the earth quaked underfoot, but not even the cloud of dust was enough to hide the huge dragon now blocking their way.
Mihn faltered, stunned by the monstrous size of the beast. He had never seen a dragon up close before - they were rare creatures in the Land; he’d only ever seen the beasts flying high in the sky. In the Elven Waste he had seen war wyverns go into battle, but they were lesser cousins; this dragon was as powerful, as terrifying, as any that had ever existed.
Measuring more than fifty yards from tail to snarling nose, the dragon was a sooty-black colour. Its torn, ragged wings looked as much smoke as membrane. The wings were crookedly raised, as though shading its body from the sun, and Mihn, remembering the stories of its enslavement, realised the beast could no longer furl its wings properly. Death himself had shattered the bones, and the deep scoring on the stone doorframe indicated it was
forced to climb to its perch.
A curved horn rose from its long snout, and grey tusks swept back from the lower corners of its mouth, past its eyes and over its head. The dragon’s muscular body was ungainly, its limbs twisted and misshapen, and its thin tail, curled like a scorpion’s, finished in a long crescent blade.
The chained beast roared its defiance and Mihn clapped his hands over his ears even as he gagged at the foul stench on the wind: the stink of decay that emanated from the dragon.
Xeliath kept on walking, her arms raised to ensure the dragon’s attention was on her alone. Her hand burst into spitting green swirls of magic and white light flooded the plain. The dragon reared, spreading its torn wings as best it could and beating at the air as though trying to retreat - causing the light to falter until Xeliath snarled and intensified the surging coils of magic around her hands.
She began to speak quickly in Elvish, the air around her shuddering at each syllable, but the dragon, fearless and full of rage, ignored her, advancing until the pitted chain that tethered it to the doorframe was stretched taut. The wind swirled up around Xeliath until she was partially hidden from view by shadows glinting with gold and emerald. As the pressure on Mihn’s ears began to build Xeliath stamped one foot, and long coils of light lanced forward to lash the dragon’s body.
