Commandment

by Daryl Chestney

  “As you can see, we have brought the tribute promised to your liege,” Bael announced.

  “Three horses!” Lakif emphasized.

  “You have fulfilled the bargain. My master will be very pleased. Come, follow me.” Janus pointed toward the arches. Lakif looked to her friend for reassurance, but Bael too seemed skittish.

  “Fear not, the way is not much,” the leper added. “Half-man, Erebus welcomes you too, for she welcomes all that is broken.”

  With that, Janus limped toward the crumbling arch of the Fornix. With each step his feet slid across the earth, leaving jagged tracks in the dirt. The skids were riddled with crimson streaks, as if his soles were actively bleeding.

  The Acaanan and the Kulthean followed their afflicted guide closely. Lakif didn’t walk directly in his path but slightly offline, fearful of acquiring some contagion that swirled in his wake. Torkoth, palming the horse reigns, took up the rear.

  In moments, they were crossing under the arches. These structures were more than a backdrop for the shady activity in the Fornix. They also delineated the entrance to Erebus, the underworld.

  Erebus was a stygian realm that, unlike the Old City, had never enjoyed the light of day. The infernal district went by different names. Where Lakif hailed from it was called the Under Dark, while in Grimpkin it was Erebus. Such a damned place was the very fountain of the monstrosities that assailed the city by night. Only sunlight, as meager as it was, deterred the infernal war machine during the day. But as Erebus was immured in perpetual gloom, these same horrors freely cavorted in the caverns at all hours.

  Only the most extreme fringe elements found cause to venture here. Criminals found it an eager accomplice, its gloom a perfect cloak to their nefarious activities. Escaped slaves or prisoners found it a welcoming sanctuary, free from the threat of pursuit. Lunatics delighted in its caverns, whose darkly abandoned crevasses mirrored the corridors of their own empty minds. It was said that isolated tribes, the last remnants of Grimpkin’s aboriginal inhabitants, still dwelled there.

  Some things are constant, Lakif thought. Erebus was as abhorred eons past as it is in this day and age.

  As they approached the entrance, a rook cawed out, although from where Lakif couldn’t be certain. This only served to unnerve the Acaanan further. She instinctively reached up to her chest, patting the sprig of centaury plant pinned to the fabric of her tunic. She only felt mildly assured, however. She had insisted on buying the twig from a local botanist the afternoon before, after learning of the potential trip into Erebus. The centaury plant was considered the strongest deterrent to the darkness of the underworld, perhaps because it blossomed only in places with intense sunlight. It was thought to trap some of that light within its petals, projecting it in times of darkness.

  The traffic surrounding the Fornix dropped off precipitously as they passed under the arches and into the seldom tread realm. Within a minute, they were virtually alone. Only a few solitary couples could be seen in the distance. Lakif suspected these were some of the more desperately minded whores who were willing to hump a customer who couldn’t afford a room. The distant mewing of a sick cat drifted out of the darkness.

  Thus, they began their trek into the sunless world. Labyrinthine caverns stretched into the distance. The ground was covered with fine black soil, not unlike coal dust. Lakif noted that despite its powdery consistency, they left no footprints. Stalactites dripped down from above and merged with stalagmites erupting from the floor, forming warped pillars that shouldered the roof. These sequestered remote caverns from their eyes. With the moribund Janus leading them, Lakif felt that they were trespassing into the realm of the dead.

  “Why the face of dread, Acaanan? I imagined that you would frolic here,” Janus noted the Acaanan’s trepidation.

  “Why so?”

  “Acaanans live to skip around the infernal realm.” He resumed his hacking coughs.

  “I am no spelunker,” Lakif corrected him. “How far is your liege?”

  “Cut your wrist, and we’ll be there before you dry up.”

  Lakif didn’t appreciate the lurid measure of time. She turned her attention from the grimy guide to the caverns at large.

  Lichen dotted the terrain. The fungus glowed dimly, providing the only illumination in the lost world. Because of that light, they could see a short distance, perhaps the length of a javelin throw.

  Surprisingly, a bizarre collection of foliage blossomed from the lifeless soil. Lakif couldn’t resist the temptation to ask Janus about the chthonic flora.

  The guide indulged her curiosity, explaining that Erebus was a haven for several species of toxic plants. Lakif’s ears perked up at the news, for she was well aware that poisonous herbs were a commodity in high demand in Grimpkin. Mixed with dinner scraps, they were a time-honored way to eliminate pests that were invariably sneaking into homes. Sprinkled outside of doors, such herbs were a deterrent to unsavory creatures that may come bent on a bloody cocktail.

  In particular, inns such as the Goblin Knight were in constant need of such poisons. Always in short supply, poisons presented a lucrative franchise to those brave enough to scout them out. If Janus was right, Erebus was a grim garden to these pernicious plants. Lakif imagined that only Erebus’ ghastly reputation curbed an army of herb hunters from storming in from above. The guide added that only a few intrepid sorts ventured down here, and even these bold types kept the jaunts brief.

  Lakif had no desire to banter with the leper, for every word from his cracked lips was accompanied by a tubercular cloud of germs. But as the guide was the undisputed authority on the plants, Lakif couldn’t resist soliciting his thoughts.

  A particular crop caught her attention. They clustered in mass under drooping stalactites. Their deep purple, cowl-shaped heads resembled bloody islands, as if gore had dripped from the stony teeth above.

  “What’s that variety?” she inquired of their guide.

  “Monkshood—a staple poison. It’s the very distillation of earth blood,” Janus replied nonchalantly.

  “And that over there?” Lakif pointed to another batch of venomous shrubs in the offing. The patch capped a bluff. The chalice-shaped flowers shone white in the gloom, like tiny marshmallow bells.

  “Thorn apple. That doughty plant leeches the nutrients from sheer rock!” Janus belched out the reply.

  It wasn’t long before another poisonous patch appeared. Lakif immediately pointed it out.

  “Ah, nightshade.” The guide chuckled. “It is the standard against which all poisons are measured. It can only blossom in earth poisoned by a dying breath.”

  As they passed by the deadly ground, Lakif studied it in detail. The five-lobed leaves were a multitude of different colors, and dew speckled the petals. The hypha reeked like carrion. True to Janus’ billing, the serpentine coils wound through skeletal remains. They intercalated through bare ribs and crawled out of bony orbits.

  Lakif found the ghastly garden of Erebus fascinating. But she stopped dead in her tracks at the sight of a bush crowning a craggy knoll in the offing. The sinister shrub needed no introduction from Janus. It was the mandrake plant. Its roots were said to pin a demon into the earth. Lakif had heard stories of neophyte herb-gatherers inadvertently pulling the roots out. As the beast rose from the ground, its deadly wail of freedom was enough to still any man’s heart, and the poor adventurer would drop dead on the spot. Perhaps due to the extreme peril involved in obtaining it, the mandrake root was the acclaimed king of poisoned herbs. She could easily sell this particular plant to Ceric Dumont for several talents. Despite the incentive, the plant’s murderous reputation won the day. She wasn’t about to tempt the root’s wrath. Fortunately, their path veered clear of the malignant bush.

  Such wicked weeds were relatively rare, however. The most common plant by far was a purple-leafed weed with red berries. It tended to grow in plots, sometimes so extensive as to blanket whole dunes.

  “The weed asphodel?” The guide acted surpr
ised at the question. “It is the cardinal plant of Erebus.”

  “Is it toxic?” Lakif was eager to learn all the sinister qualities of the flora.

  Janus shook his head. “It boasts nutritive qualities. This alone sustains us through the tough hours!”

  Lakif wanted the guide to expound on how and why he would feed on such a plant. And who was the us that he referred to? Janus and his master? Although Janus had claimed the weed was edible, the Acaanan would never have put the story to the test. But she noted that during a few times in their march, their horses stopped to nibble on the berries.

  Lakif was entertained by Janus’ dramatic accounts of the various plants. It was clear he took a grizzly pleasure in extolling the murderous capacities of the flora. This forced the Acaanan to muse about what sort of man Janus’ master was. Who on earth would enlist such a miserable cretin into service? And why would he favor such a dismal habitat as Erebus?

  Lakif suspected that Janus’ master was not in fact a real person but an entity from the underworld. Under normal circumstances, Lakif would have been terrified at the prospect of wandering into the lair of such a devil. She couldn’t shake the feeling that the horses were a tribute to the creature—an offering to appease its infernal hunger. But she was in safe company with her two companions. If the monster turned on them, they should be able to escape on horseback.

  They stopped at the crest of a dusty dune. Although the terrain of Erebus was inherently bumpy, this ground before them slanted down at such an angle that Lakif felt they were entering a vale. An arrow’s flight away, the ground rose back up to their present level. The hollow wound to the limits of their sight on either side. Curiously, no stone formations occupied the gully. Only bountiful fields of asphodel blanketed the base.

  The four travelers descended the sooty slope. The terrain wasn’t easily navigated, because the dirt melted away before their boots. A series of blanched rocks snaked through the mats of asphodel at the base. They were set wide enough apart that one could leapfrog from one to the next. Each was etiolated and looked quite out of place amid the canopy of weeds. After following the stones for a minute, another larger stone capped the line. It was smooth and oddly shaped.

  Lakif stopped to examine an oval depression that was about as long as her arm. At the back of the impression a crack split the rock. This crack opened into a large hollow cavity. She realized that she was looking at a large skull. Looking back, she was convinced the parallel stones were the arched tips of ribs breaking through the gravel. The skeleton of a monstrous creature lay buried in the vale. She wondered if they were crossing the remains of a riverbed.

  Lakif seemed to recall hearing once of a mythical river called Gjoll. The waterway was rumored to run underneath Grimpkin—through the very heart of Erebus. If so, that river had met the same tragic end as so many others in the city.

  Their guide led them through the forest of bones and up the opposite bank of the extinct waterway. The trek continued for a brief time thereafter. Lakif was not a little surprised by the dead calm in the underworld. She had imagined that the caverns would have been rife with slithering terrors.

  “Aren’t you afraid of running afoul of some demon?” Lakif asked of their guide. But she already knew the answer. No sentient creature would savor dining on his disease-riddled flesh.

  “Fear not. We won’t be molested by the denizens of Erebus,” Janus informed them.

  “How can you be so certain?” Bael asked from behind.

  “This turf is under the auspices of Eyre Rasp. Our safety is assured. We’re almost there!”

  Despite his claim, Janus continued to plod onward with huffs and spits. Lakif was beginning to wonder if Janus in fact had a real destination in mind. Suddenly, the guide stopped and pointed.

  An inky cleft appeared ahead, fracturing the earth. It was so black as to even stand out against the sooty soil. Janus urged them forward with a tattered hand. Curiously, he didn’t seem to want to skirt the fissure; instead, he shambled directly up to it. Within moments, he reached the edge. Lakif eyed the cleft with dread. It was large enough that a dragon could rise out of it.

  Janus was waiting at the very brink of the chasm. Lakif wondered if the guide intended to climb down into the abyss. But instead he reached into an inner pocket. A second later, he produced a wand. Its tip was shaped like a bird’s talon gripping a translucent sphere. The bauble seemed far too valuable for the derelict to own.

  Janus held the wand at arm’s length overhead and muttered a phrase. Instantly, a dull light appeared deep within the stone. It grew in force until it burned with the ferocity of a torch.

  “What are you doing?” Bael asked.

  “Summoning my liege,” Janus replied.

  Lakif’s attention was drawn to the fissure. She had a weighted fear that the master would rise from there. The abyss was an inky coal hole. What sort of creature would call it home? What had they gotten themselves into?

  “You said he would meet us at a certain Dead Moon Lake,” Bael clarified.

  “We have so arrived,” the leper corrected him.

  Lakif blinked with incredulity. She looked back toward the fissure only to realize that it could in fact be a lake. The water was unnaturally opaque, and not a ripple stirred its placid surface, creating the illusion of a genuine abyss. The lake was extraordinarily dissonant with the Erebus that they had seen up to this point. There had been no trace of water in the nether realm. In fact, the earth was so arid that Lakif felt it sucked the moisture from their breaths. How could a lake possibly endure here? Its existence within the dead realm seemed impossible.

  Furthermore, a supernatural air cradled the site. Judging from the surrounding topography, the water couldn’t be more than a finger’s length deep. Despite this, she couldn’t see through to the bottom. Furthermore, the wand’s light failed to reflect off the water’s surface, as if the water swallowed all light like a black hole.

  Lakif wasn’t awarded much opportunity to puzzle over the mysterious lake. A clamor from behind drew her attention back.

  “It’s a trap!” a voice rang out, although Lakif didn’t know which of her partners had sounded the alarm. She turned to find Torkoth vaulting into Crown’s saddle. Simultaneously, his short sword leapt into hand. Bael backed up to the water’s edge. He was bearing a simple dirk in one hand to balance the cane in the other.

  Lakif wasn’t left to guess at the origin of their alarm. A troupe of riders was storming down from the crest of a neighboring dune. A bilious dust cloud mushroomed in their trail. Spears and swords jabbed the air. The menacing wave rushed them with cries of bloodlust.

  XXVII

  The General

  THE BRACE OF HORSES SKIDDED TO A STOP AND SENT A DEVILISH CLOUD OF soot billowing forward. Lakif choked on the dust. When the cloud eventually dispersed, she again choked, this time with revulsion.

  The troupe’s physical appearance was as startling as their abrupt appearance. The riders were bizarre hybrids of snouts, horns, spines, membranes, and fur. One had a huge eye that bulged out from the side of his face. His arm ended in a knobby crab claw. His neighbor had a pair of pincers protruding from his jaw. Those snapping hooks dripped viscous saliva. Another warrior had a thick membranous plate that obliterated half of his face. This same fighter had an amphibious tail that flopped behind him.

  Although nature had dealt these Half-men a virulent blow, nurture had added its own disfiguring touch. Apart from these congenital malformations, these unfortunates were corrupted by longstanding injury and disease. They wore the remains of past wounds as others wore clothes. Scars mutilated their hide. The scarring seemed to be the result of incompetent suturing rather than purely neglected wounds. Others missed integral body parts from past conflicts. One had a clearly amputated hand while another had a cauliflower-like mass at his ear where it had been chopped off and replaced by extensive fibrosis. It seemed that none enjoyed the full complement of ten fingers.

  Not one seemed to be pro
tected by a bona fide coat of mail. Every suit was a hodgepodge, culled from a potpourri of different types of armor hammered together. One wore a hard leather cuisse to protect his upper thigh and a dented pauldron to protect his shoulder. Even the greaves on each of his shins came from two different hides. Another was protected by a heavy leather breastplate and a dented war helm. Blasted by countless warfare, the pied gear struggled to maintain its integrity.

  True to their billing, the troupe bristled with a myriad of weapons. But all were in poor condition, having suffered through too many battles. The wooden shaft of one spear was bent like a wishbone, suggesting that its use was limited to a melee weapon and never capable of flight. Another bore a short bow in hand, arrow locked and string drawn. The bow looked so rotted that Lakif had no trouble imagining it breaking with a vigorous draw. In addition, the arrow was exceptionally thin, as if a normal arrow had been sliced in half so as to double the available supply. The blade of one halberd was literally strapped to the shaft by rope. The chains of one flail were completely rusted through. It seemed the spiked balls would break off with any stout strike. In fact, two chains dangled freely, implying that this had in fact been the case. The edge of one sword was so thoroughly rusted that the Acaanan doubted it could be of much use as a cutting device. The wounded victim could very well die of tetanus days later.

  As deplorable as their riders were, the mounts were perhaps even more appalling. Ulcers ringed their snouts, from which serous fluid dripped. Black soot from the troupe’s stampede encrusted the discharge. Creamy puss frothed from the maw of one. The eye of another was opaque, like the orb was filled with smoke. Crescent-shaped slivers peeled off their hooves. All were glaringly emaciated, so much so that Lakif could count the individual ribs. She marveled at how the beasts could support the rider’s weight. Even the tails looked frayed and thinned, as if the strands were progressively falling out. A bolus of flies swarmed the miserable mounts, darting from snout to rump indiscriminately.