by Lucas Thorn
Each step sent a thrill up her feet. As though electricity was crawling in waves beneath the floor.
She didn't know what it was that kept her feeling bunched up and poised to strike.
Knew only that the necromancer was right.
Melganaderna was rummaging quickly through the Grey Jackets' discarded packs. Taking their food. Transferring as much as she could to her pack. It was an optimistic act, the elf thought. Clearly the young axewoman expected to survive long enough to eat it.
Echoing the woman's optimism, the elf's stomach growled.
Chukshene hugged his grimoire tight, a look of serenity on his face.
No, not serenity. Comfort. Like a man who'd come home to a warm hearth after spending years trapped in a raging storm.
The elf looked all three over, then turned to the only exit from the room. Jerked her head in the direction of the stairs descending further into the depths. “Reckon it's this way?”
“Yes.” The necromancer grimaced as he pushed away from the wall. Staggered a few steps before being caught by Melganaderna's concerned arm. “We have to move fast. But be careful! I don't know what to expect. We're being led, we all realise that. But I'm not sure if it's her, or the Keep which is leading us. Or even if there really is a difference between the two. This place is practically spewing insanity.”
“You ready, Chukshene?” The elf clenched her jaw.
The warlock grinned, thumb bookmarking a page of his grimoire. “I'm good.”
“Matter of opinion,” Nysta snorted.
“I'll be fast, then,” he said, grin widening. “Will that make you happier?”
The elf spat wetly on the floor and moved toward the wide staircase. “Suit me fine if fast-casting gets fashionable.”
As she made the first stair, the elf wondered what had happened to Willem. And if there were any more Grey Jackets still alive. She didn't think there were too many left, if any.
But Willem would be a problem.
She could feel it. The way he'd moved, though twisted by his obvious scars, spoke of a deadly efficiency she could appreciate.
But how deadly?
And why hadn't he come running when Hyrax was screaming?
The elf touched the freshest strip of cloth to be woven into her hair, and scowled. She didn't like surprises. Especially the kind of surprises which might get her killed.
So she kept A Flaw in the Glass in one fist, and The Sins of Xune in the other. Ready for anything. The smaller blade's edge was jagged and scarred, promising only pain.
She motioned to Chukshene to keep his glowing yellow orb at her back, out of her eyes, and led the way.
The staircase wound down seemingly without end. Each step hewn into the rocky earth.
The going was tough. Made tougher by the fact they couldn't go too fast because the stairs were littered with bones and discarded weapons. Old bones. Old weapons. Relics of a war which had been fought within the Keep when two gods came to kill a being they not only hated, but also feared.
Hidden in the shadows cast by the glowing orb's sickly light, slick puddles of black slime had already sent Chukshene tumbling down a few stairs before crashing into an old corpse.
His curses ripped through the silence and the bones clamoured to get away from him, skittering down the stairs like dice.
The noise made the elf scowl, but she said nothing to him.
Didn't need to.
His reddening cheeks understood everything she might have said, and accepted her fury. He nodded, letting Melganaderna help him to his feet. Smiled reluctantly as Hemlock patted him on the shoulder.
Then rubbed at his ribs which still hadn't healed from the beatings he'd suffered at the hands of his Grey Jacket guards.
“It's not far now,” Hemlock said, voice soft.
“She knows we're coming.” The words, blurted from the warlock's mouth, weren't a question. Just a statement of fear.
“Yes. Yes she does.”
“Then why isn't she laughing at us? Why isn't she cursing us?” Melganaderna's fists were tight around the long handle of the battleaxe as she spoke the question which had been nagging the elf. “Why this fucking silent treatment?”
“I don't know. I don't think she expected us to get this far.” He looked at the walls. Frowned. “In a way, this place is her prison. I don't think she can move around in it like she wants. Like I said, I'm hoping the Keep is leading us to her. If I'm right, then she's just as scared as we are.”
“You sound sorry for her.”
“I don't know about that,” Hemlock said. “Maybe I am. She's been here on her own for so long. Maybe Rule was right to kill her kind. Maybe she was evil. But the two gods killed her family and then left her trapped in here rather than kill her. They left her crazed with grief. That sounds more than a little bit personal to me. Imagine crawling around here for hundreds of years? Knowing in a thousand years, you'd still be haunting the Keep's belly? And knowing it hates you. No wonder she's so insane.”
“I'm still letting Nysta kill her,” Chukshene muttered.
This time Melganaderna said nothing. A light furrowing of her brow was all that she revealed of her own thoughts.
“It's strange,” Hemlock said after the silence had stretched for some time. “But none of this looks real. The walls. The ground. Everything.”
Chukshene rubbed at a few scrapes on his palm from where he'd snatched at the rocky stairs to stop from tumbling down the stairs. “Oh, it's real, Hemlock. Trust me. If you like, I can push you down and you can see for yourself.”
The elf scratched at the back of her neck, where the feeling of slithering insects made her skin crawl. Her violet eyes thinned at the necromancer's fumbled thoughts. But, unlike the warlock, she didn't sneer at him.
She couldn't, because she knew what he was feeling.
She was feeling it herself. She couldn't stop thinking that if she ran ahead as fast as she could, she'd find the stairs were creating themselves just around the corner.
And if she ran back up the stairs, would the rooms still be there? Would she really find their own tracks in the dust?
She tried to shake the feeling that the Keep was unfolding itself.
Tried to shake the feeling it was watching her.
But couldn't, because the buzzing sensation in her feet had reached her belly, and the worms which sometimes squirreled through her body felt like they were on the move again.
Sliding around her ribs.
Spine.
Shoulders.
She tightened the thin line of her lips and kept moving.
Then, just when she was beginning to feel they were doomed to keep travelling the bone-littered staircase forever, they came to a door. Wooden, with dull metal ribs and a series of raking scars which had splintered the face, but not broken through. Scorch marks seared the edges.
One of the hinges had popped free.
But it was still solid.
The elf pushed on it, but the door remained firm. Barred from the other side.
She clicked her tongue in frustration before seating herself on the step in front of it and scowling. Motioned the warlock forward. “Open it, 'lock.”
He raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Instead moved forward.
Glanced at Hemlock, who shrugged.
Sighed.
Then pressed his fingers against the heavy wood.
Feeling it out.
Closed his eyes.
The biting stink of magic made the elf look away. Into the fathomless orbs of an ork's skull. A slim line of black slime drooled from its left eye socket. Wormed between its shattered teeth and had pooled beneath its pale jaw.
Its grinning expression drove her to lift a boot before driving her heel through its forehead.
Crunched it against the wall with a shocked splinter of bone and a moist splash of slime.
“Fuck you,” she muttered to the crushed bone fragments, ignoring the surprised looks from the others.
Ch
ukshene gave a shake of his head and returned to the door.
“It's not magic,” he said. Ran his fingers through his greasy hair. “But it's heavy. Maybe I've got something in here which will open it...”
But Melganaderna bared her teeth and firmly moved him aside. “Get out of the way.”
“But-”
“Out of my way,” she said, voice tight.
He moved, giving her room to swing.
Torment thundered into the wood, the immense weight of it chopping easily through the metal bracing. Splinters of wood and metal exploded outward, flicking against the wall as the battleaxe ignored the barrier. Unchecked, the crescent blade kept going until it buried itself almost halfway into the granite earth.
And stuck fast.
A few sparks shot out of the wounded ground. Bounced twice and were extinguished.
Melganaderna's brow furrowed at sight of the sparks, but when nothing else happened, she released the handle and used a steel-clad boot to send the shattered doors crashing inward. A few loose planks let out a groan as they swung loose, dangling by their last nails.
The young axewoman grinned at the warlock, then spat on her hands before snatching the handle of the massive battleaxe and jerking it free of the stone with a grunt.
“Well,” Chukshene coughed. “That's one way to do it, I guess. Not very subtle. Sure, it was so loud it probably woke the dead who weren't already awake, but it worked. I'll give you that.”
Nysta pushed herself from the stair. Snapped a smirk at at him. “You can go home now, 'lock. Reckon I don't need you anymore.”
“Very funny,” he said. Then skipped to catch up to her. Stopped himself from reaching out to pluck at her sleeve as he waved the glowing yellow orb of light forward down the winding tunnel. “Wait, Nysta. Not too fast. By the look on Hemlock's face, we're getting close. So let's take it easy. We don't want to jump into another pile of shit, do we? Fast, but not too fast, yeah?”
She nodded. An absent nod. Because she could feel the Vampire Queen's presence, though she couldn't say how.
The crawling sensation slithered around her spine and shoulders. Slowly reaching down her arms. Legs.
Threading her guts.
Gul'Se was close.
So engrossed in the sensations flooding her body, the elf didn't notice for a moment that the tunnel had exited into a massive cavernous room. Not until Chukshene let out a thin whistle through his teeth.
Then she looked up.
And saw the high roof. The pillars as wide as small houses, spearing upward into a misty darkness which peered back down at them like the pupil of a sleeping god.
Bodies littered the ground.
Skeletons draped in mould and desiccated flesh. Discarded and broken weapons. Armour torn and mangled. Shredded banners, and mounds upon mounds of skulls piled almost neatly throughout the carnage.
The gelatinous yellow orb probed forward, limping into the gloom.
Revealing more and more signs of a battle the elf could scarcely comprehend. The sheer number of dead was overwhelming. There had to be tens of thousands of dead. The dry stink of death and decay still lingered, coating the air in its greasy scent.
“You know what? I think I want to puke,” Chukshene said casually.
Hemlock's coat brushed against the elf as he stepped up beside her. Shook his head at the sight. “So much death.”
The elf nodded, eyes drawn to the back of the massive hall. “Plenty more where that came from.”
A twinkle of blue light teased their eyes from the far end. Small. Like a frozen candle blooming in the dark. The glint of hunger within a predator's cold stare.
“Umm,” the warlock edged back a little. “Nysta? Is that what I think it is?”
The elf stepped forward, rolling her shoulders and spinning A Flaw in the Glass between her fingers. The enchanted blade flared wicked in the dark, drinking the shadows. She held the knife loose, but turned her wrists, flexing the muscles in her forearm.
Stretched her neck. Felt the squirrel of worms as they drilled through her flesh and wriggled excitedly against her bones.
Because, she realised with the calm which comes from acceptance, that's where they really were.
It wasn't insects crawling across her flesh.
No flies skated across her skin. No spiders lost themselves inside her clothes.
It was darkness. The pure cursed darkness from the Cage. And it was inside her. Swimming in her blood. In her muscle.
Churning her emotions.
Fuelling her hatred. Pulling hard on the string of her rage to let loose arrows of violence.
Driving her forward into the dark when she should be turning back and fleeing toward the light. Toward the safety outside Urak's Keep. Outside the mountain.
Her mouth twisted into a cruel smile.
“Fuck you,” she whispered to the darkness inside. As though thrilled to be acknowledged, the worms slid outward. Finding her muscle. Tightening it. Coiling around bone. A shiver of mute excitement teased her mind.
And the elf strode forward, feeling Melganaderna at her back.
Heard the young axewoman heft the titanic battleaxe called Torment. The low hum of the axe's enchantment as it detected the presence of something it craved to kill.
The walls shuddered, dragging the shadows slowly from the room. Winding them in like a fisherman's nets to further reveal a field of absolute despair.
Even more bones. An endless sea of pale littered with the dull shine of broken iron armour and weapons. And a clear path, once walked by gods, driven through the heart of it all. Leading to the shrouded throne which loomed in the distance.
A throne whose back stood some twenty feet high and was carved from bone. The leather which lined its cushioned seat and arm rests, torn from scaled hide. Impossibly large fleshless wings curled around its sides. Fanged skull hung in defeat at its apex. A skeleton from a creature of legend itself.
A wyrm.
The elf wiped her chin with the back of her hand, feeling the sweat drag across her skin.
The blue light glowed brighter, perhaps echoing the feeling of excitement felt by the approaching fighters. It trickled outward.
Lifted slightly, revealing a hunched figure. Knelt as if in servitude to the empty throne.
Nysta's eyes roamed her surroundings, searching for the first signs of violence she was sure would come.
She walked with the strutting arrogance of a killer. Knew the Vampire Queen was waiting for a fight, and the elf was eager to bring it. The scar on her cheek itched, but she didn't raise her hand to scratch at it. Moved her cold gaze to the hunched figure and waved Melganaderna to circle a little to the right.
The young axewoman knew what was wanted and nodded curtly. Whispered; “Remember, Nysta. She's mine.”
And the elf didn't care. Cared only that here, in the forgotten home of a Vampire King and surrounded by an ocean of death, she could finally admit what was happening to her. Could finally feel the liquid rage burning in her blood and recognise it as something which existed apart from her.
It wasn't her rage she was feeling. She knew that now.
It was something else's. Something dark and seething with malice. Distrust. And maybe fear. Those primal emotions hammered against her heart as it tried to blend itself with her.
As it tried to control her.
But she refused to let it. Refused to lit it bind itself to her soul.
In that moment, as the clarity which had eluded her finally crept into her mind, the elf paused.
Turned slightly toward Chukshene, who was creeping along behind her. Felt the twitch of hatred spark through her body as she caught his eyes, but felt no impulse to send her blades screaming at his head.
“It's inside me,” she told him.
He returned her gaze with one of equal understanding. “I know. I'm sorry. I really couldn't stop it. I couldn't. Believe me, Nysta. Even if I had the power to, I didn't know how.”
“Fair enough,
” she said, accepting the truth of his words. And she could accept them now, because the paranoia spinning the wheels of her mind was fed by a fear which was not her own. She turned back to the huddled figure in front of the ancient throne and sighed. Pushed thoughts of the Cage aside and sucked a breath. Then let out a roar; “Gul'Se!”
“So, it betrays me over and over,” the figure moaned. The voice, though coming from such a small body, filled the cavern with its macabre whisper. “It leads you here in hope of release. But I will not free it. Never free it. It will bleed for me until the end of time. How do you feel now, you rotten shell?”
“We don't want to kill you,” Hemlock said suddenly. “That's not what we came for.”
The Vampire Queen chuckled. A bubbling sound in the back of her throat. “Don't want to kill me? Fool. You can't kill me. I am cursed. Trapped inside its bloodless heart until the sun turns black once more. Oh, yes, it was black. And the world was cold. As it should be. Then she came. She set fire to the sky and changed the world. But fire never lasts. Sooner or later, it dies. And when it does, we shall rise and rise again! We will rule, as we were meant to. The ice will come. Yes. It will come.”
“We're not your enemies,” Hemlock insisted. “We're trying to escape him, too. He's looking for us. Wants to kill us. Maybe if we work together, we can stop him.”
“Why should I care who hunts you, fool?”
“Don't you want revenge? On him? For everything he's done to you? Don't you want your vengeance on Rule?”
At the name, the huddled figured reared up, and the blue light flashed bright, nearly blinding them. It exposed the back wall to reveal three bodies crucified to it. One large, and two small. The elf felt a shiver of fear and pity as she realised who they were.
Gul'Se's husband and children.
Crucified to the wall by a vengeful god.
Rot had denied their flesh, so their tortured expressions were preserved by the ages. Their blood, still crimson, hung like dry curtains from their wounds. They were frozen in their very last moment of life.
Revulsion made the elf pull her lips back to reveal teeth in a tight grimace.
She wanted to get away, but something about Urak's body beckoned her closer.
