The Worldwound Gambit

by Robin D. Laws

  Vitta will not be stirred.

  The Abyss won't simply kill her. Crushing her bones is too easy. Hardly worth the expenditure of demonic power required to bring this prison into being. It wants to draw out the torment, to break her as it did Sodevina and her allies.

  To allow her to commit suicide by inaction would be to let her win.

  She calls its bluff. She sits still.

  Her pack rests at her side. Her tools remain within it. It might be the real item. More likely, it is an Abyssal duplicate, accurate to the last chisel-head. Its existence here further supports her hypothesis: she's meant to attempt escape, only to see the possibility yanked away from her.

  She toys with the cage. Vitta will try driving it crazy, and see how it likes that. She opens her pack, withdraws her kit, and removes a thin file.

  She uses it to smooth her dirtied nails.

  The walls move in again. Now it's a six-foot cube.

  Vitta wonders how close they'll come before they relent. They'll make it uncomfortable for her. She makes a bet with herself: they'll squeeze her into a two-foot cube. She thinks about the least painful position to adopt when this occurs, but resists the temptation to practice it. The cube might see what she's doing and work some unpleasant countermove.

  She puts away her file. She warbles an old halfling tune her mother taught her. The sound of her own singing voice has always annoyed her. With luck, it will annoy her jailers more. If jailers there are. She imagines a crew of demons behind the scenes, working gears and pulling cords. The vision is too fanciful, too comical to be correct. Nonetheless she draws amusement from it.

  The cube tightens again. Four feet.

  Two feet. As predicted.

  Vitta pushes her back against the cube. From past experience in confined spaces she knows the neck and spine are the first to give. The longer she can keep her head up, the longer it will take before she succumbs to pain. She pushes her knees up as far as they'll go, pressing them against the opposite wall of the now tiny-cube. To avoid seizing up, she alternates between tensing and relaxing her muscles.

  With a grinding scrape, the walls retreat. The cube increases in size beyond its original dimensions. Her well-honed feel for dimension tells her that it is now a fourteen-foot cube, give or take.

  She is surprised that it gave up this quickly. Like the demons it spawns, the Abyss is evidently impatient. Vitta allows herself the slightest of smiles.

  The walls slam shut, crushing her to paste.

  The perspiring tunnel Fraton's party traverses forks in two. Blackness curls from the tunnel opposite. It reveals itself as the preceding tendrils of an unusually tall, red-eyed shadow demon. The shadows dissipate, flow toward Fraton, and reform. The demon blocks his path.

  "Xaggalm," says Fraton.

  "Fraton," says Xaggalm.

  "Step aside," says Fraton. "I seek audience with Yath."

  The demon speaks in an insinuating trill. "You may attend him after me."

  "My business is most urgent, shadow."

  "As is mine."

  Gad sees a figure hesitating at the far tunnel's threshold.

  "We are infiltrated," says Fraton. "I have brought Yath a prisoner, to show that they are thwarted."

  "I have brought him a thrall," says Xaggalm, "to show the same." He turns to the lurking figure. "Come here, slave."

  Calliard slinks into view.

  Gad steps back, stricken and staring.

  Calliard looks down, unable to return his gaze.

  "What did you do, Calliard?" Gad stammers.

  "Answer him," Xaggalm says.

  "I'm sorry," says Calliard.

  Xaggalm laughs. "What kind of explanation is that?"

  Tiberio is back in the fight ring he left behind in Zharech. He faces Sodevina. Hordes of warriors bunch around the square of chain that separates the ring from the surrounding hall.

  Sodevina smashes him in the face with a spiked fist.

  He spins into the chains.

  She comes at him. He grabs her arm before it can punch him.

  "You're dead," he says.

  "Maybe so," she answers.

  She kicks him in the groin. He falls to the mat. She picks him up by the top-knot and bashes him into a metal pole.

  White spots distort his vision. He slides across the mat, away from her. He turns to face her, arms held up to block her blows.

  "You were sentenced here?" he asks.

  "For what?" she says.

  She weaves around him. Dizzied, he tries to keep up.

  "For killing yourself," he says.

  "This is your Abyss, not mine." She drives a fist into his knee. He drops. She kicks him in the throat.

  "Some Abyss," he growls. He grabs her leg and pulls her down. Skidding quickly over her sweat-slicked back, he places her in a hold. She bucks against his weight; he compensates, keeping her pinned. "This is no different than the ordinary world."

  "In the ordinary world, you never put me down," grins Sodevina. She tries to scrabble out from under him.

  He increases the pressure, halting her progress. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "You are stronger here," Sodevina gasps.

  "Why should I fear that?"

  She rolls underneath him. He catches her. The maneuver places them face-to-face, him on top of her. "Because the part of you that is strong here is the real you." She loosens an arm and uses it to elbow him in the tusk. "The one you tried to hide away." Sodevina grabs his ear and claws at it. A spray of blood spurts into the audience. They roar their approval. "The one that yearns to kill."

  Her knee pounds into his crotch. Then she's on top of him, the spikes of her mailed fists ripping into his flesh.

  His hands find her throat. "You're wrong," he groans.

  "Am I?" she asks.

  He tries to release her. His fingers disobey the command. Tiberio's thumbs press into her windpipe. "No," he says.

  "Welcome back, Tiberio," she says. Her eyes roll back as he chokes the life from her. He shrieks in dismay as her body goes limp and slumps over. He dives onto her, shaking her, begging her to revive.

  The crowd screams his name.

  "No," he says.

  He leaps up, backing away from Sodevina's corpse. "This isn't real. You aren't real. This place knew the real you. It made a copy to torment me with. You're not real. I didn't kill anyone."

  Someone taps his shoulder. "You killed me."

  Tiberio pivots.

  He recognizes his new opponent. It's Emmel Speargate, the first man he ever slew. The one Tiberio tossed into a pit trap. He'd tried to take more than his fair share of the loot. From a mingy score, at that. Emmel was ready to murder him in turn, over this handful of corroded coins. By the law of the rip, Tiberio had every right to do it.

  He remembers, as if it is happening again, the sight of his treacherous partner's impaled body leaking out its last blood. The cruel thrill that crept through him as he stood, coldly observing his slow death. Later, he'd turned the encounter into a funny story he told at the tavern. When recounting it, he'd mimicked the sound of his body hitting the spikes below.

  Emmel has a sword.

  "I'm sorry," says Tiberio.

  "No, you're not," says Emmel.

  "Go ahead and kill me," says Tiberio.

  "If only," says Emmel.

  Tiberio feels his fist fly out. It breaks Emmel's nose. The sword falls into his waiting palm. He tries to drop it, but his fingers curl around the hilt. The blade bounces up to slice through Emmel's neck. The head separates from the body and arcs into the crowd.

  Tiberio tells himself it isn't real, that it takes more force than that to remove a man's head. He decapitated someone once. It wasn't that easy.

 
Then the victim of that attack is upon him, prodding at him with a halberd. Tiberio can't remember the name. It happened on the streets of Egede. There was a dispute. Both of them were drunk. He had it coming, but also didn't. Tiberio could have backed down that day. He chose not to. Back then, he relished any fight. In particular against outmatched opponents who were foolish enough to cross him. He liked being a man's last mistake.

  This time, Tiberio decides, he'll let the fellow kill him. He throws his arms wide. The halberd comes jabbing at his chest.

  Tiberio's sword arm takes command. It slices improbably through the halberd's oaken haft. It razors across the man's neck. He topples, and another takes his place.

  Tiberio gazes into the crowd. There are others there he hastened to their graves, but not so many as to fill a room. Once he's done murdering the people he's slain once already, the Abyss will throw up still more for him.

  A boy, no more than twelve, clambers under the chains. He swings a spiked mace. Matted dark hair falls over his eyes. Hunger marks his skinny frame. "Remember me?" he asks.

  Tiberio shakes his head. His sword arm jitters impatiently.

  "You killed me and my father," the boy says.

  "No," says Tiberio. "Maybe your father, but not you."

  "Not by your hands, but I died all the same," he says. "Without him, I starved."

  "No," Tiberio sobs, sword rising.

  Xaggalm's shadow form flickers angrily at its indistinct edges. "You overstep your bounds, Fraton," the shadow demon says.

  Fraton goes straight as a spear-haft. "The same could be said of you, invidiak."

  "Breathtaking impudence from one made only of flesh." Xaggalm sends tendrils of shadow to twist around the fallen paladin's face.

  Fraton retains his poise. "Shall we take up the matter of precedence with Yath himself?"

  "I would be pleased to do so."

  "Typical demonic arrogance. Yath will rank us by our accomplishments, not by who is man and who is will-o'-wisp."

  "You dare compare your deeds to mine?"

  "I led the mortal army to its doom, clearing the way for our certain victory. As we speak, the forces I have organized marshal themselves to, in rapid succession, smash the fortresses of the Mendev line. What have you done, Xaggalm? I do not speak of ancient history, of the past's failed campaigns, but of the here and now."

  "I'll devour your soul."

  "If you thought it safe, you'd have done it already, shadow-stuff. But to return to my prior thought, what boasts can you make to Yath? That you tried again against Suma Castle, and were repelled? By, if word is to be believed, a fireball-tossing mage and a band of minor criminals."

  Xaggalm's dark substance flickers erratically. "You weave the rope I'll use to hang you."

  "Incidentally, the very same crew of knaves who thwarted you have been captured. By me. Who have you got? The weakest of the lot. The one ruined by demonblood. Some prize."

  Xaggalm wraps his claws around Fraton's throat. The fallen paladins draw their swords.

  Jerisa pulls the fur blanket tighter over her head. A chill pervades her bedchamber. Gradually she stirs to life. The frayed edges of an oddly vivid dream rise through her mind. They lose their solidity and are gone. She gets up, makes use of the chamberpot, and dresses herself. Something about the faded dream tugs at her. Frowning, she tries to call it back.

  Yes, Gad. It has been so long since she dreamt of him, but last night, the spirits—or whatever they are—wove her a good one. He came back, along with a few of the others: Tiberio and Calliard. Along with them they had a mad fire wizard and an abrasive halfling. They fought demons here at the castle, then went into the Worldwound to fight some more. The dream grew tangled then, as would a real adventure with Gad. As dreams do, it got worse as it went on. She can't remember its conclusion, but dredges up the feeling that it was on the way to a very bad end.

  She wonders whom she might tell about the dream. Her father reacts poorly to the mention of Gad's name. Come to think of it, so does the rest of her family. One of the maids, perhaps.

  Hungry, Jerisa pads out the door and into the corridor. A damp draft tugs at her. She slips back into her room for the fur blanket and wraps it around her shoulders like a cape. She heads to the kitchen. Through arrow slits pours the white light of dawn.

  Jerisa stops short. By this hour, the smell of bread should be wafting from the kitchen. There should at least be heat from its oven. The door to her brothers' room hangs open. She peeks inside. The beds have been made up. No one is there.

  Finding the kitchen empty, she calls out for the servants, one name at a time. She gets no reply. She yells for her mother, her father.

  It's wrong here, she realizes. She sprints down the main corridor to her parents' chamber. It too is empty. Neatly abandoned, like her brothers' room, as if its departed occupants knew they wouldn't be coming back.

  Jerisa hastens to the servant's quarters a level below, but they too are tenantless. She stops at the armory to add a short sword to the dagger she always wears. She straps on a leather hauberk and heads out to the parade grounds. Deserted.

  She searches the sky for demonic marauders. Nothing.

  The only creature she finds in the barracks is a buzzing fly caught in a web near the doorway. The sight of it pulls at her thoughts. The buried memory refuses to surface.

  Blankets lie across the cots, folded with precision. Boxes at the foot of each bed, which would normally house the soldiers' few personal effects, along with their battle gear, contain only a thin coating of dust.

  The entire castle, household and garrison, has been evacuated.

  How can this have happened without her knowing? Without them taking her with them?

  They decided she was a liability. Unfit to be with them.

  She goes to the stables for her horse but finds it also bare. So is the chicken coop. Clapping loudly, she calls out for the dogs who come around for scraps. Echoes are her only reply.

  The fortress gates stand open. They dwarf her as she walks through them.

  Jerisa heads down a dirt trail. When it splits in two, she takes the path that will lead her to the closest village.

  It is uninhabited, as is the village after that, and the next, and then the closest town. Long before she reaches the silent, windswept streets of abandoned Nerosyan, Jerisa has concluded that she is alone in the world.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The Audience

  Fraton flushes as Xaggalm's sharp fingers tighten around his throat.

  "I hate it when demons and cultists fight," says Gad.

  The interjection startles the shadow demon enough for Fraton to slip free of his grip.

  Xaggalm's shadowy horns sharpen and bend toward Gad.

  A furtive gleam lights Fraton's face. As if he is pleased to see someone else bear the brunt of his enemy's effrontery. As quickly as it came, it is replaced by a glower.

  "How about I solve the precedence issue for you?" Gad proposes.

  The demon jabs its claws into Gad's abdomen. A whirl of shadow energy courses at the point of impact.

  Fraton pulls on Xaggalm's arm, ending the contact.

  Drained, Gad falls. A traitor paladin catches him.

  "We'll go in together," Xaggalm announces.

  The moment of Vitta's death spans an agonizing gulf of elongated time. Time slows to heighten her perceptions as she is crushed between the iron walls. Each incremental moment of injury blasts through her nerve endings and into her brain. The crushing of her nose. The shattering of her brow. The explosion of skin as it is pushed from her skull. The smashing of her ribcage into splinters; the trajectory of each splinter as they explode through heart, lungs, liver, and gut. The pain reverberates even after there is nothing left of her to feel it.

  Then she is back in
the ten-foot iron cube. She gasps, feels her hands, looks at her legs, finds herself intact. Remembered suffering screams through her like a banshee. Vitta throws herself to the iron floor, hoping to lapse into unconsciousness and thus escape the pain. She can't. An appalling alertness grips her.

  She throws herself up to a sitting position. Reexamines her assumptions.

  Clearly, her personal Abyss can and will kill her. It will raise her from the dead and then, she is sure, kill her again. She must now presume that it will do this over and over until she escapes.

  Until she escapes a prison that is undoubtedly rigged to prevent her from ever escaping.

  She has two choices, then. One, wait and do nothing and suffer this repeatedly. Two, try to get out, despite the near certainty of failure. Doomed inaction or futile action.

  Vitta leaps up. Pulls her toolkit from her pack. Removes a small hammer of shining alloy. She presses herself against one of the walls. Its burning touch reaches through her armor and clothing. She focuses past the hurt. It is nothing compared to her death by crushing. She taps the wall with the hammer, counting out the hits in three-inch intervals. Simultaneously, she counts the minutes, expecting the walls to move in on her every two minutes. This does not occur. The Abyss seems prepared to reward her activity. She has tapped her way along the entirety of one wall and is one-third across another when her ten-minute count elapses.

  The walls slam shut. She dies again. This death, impossibly, hurts worse than the one before.

  Fraton takes long strides to match the shadow demon's speed as it glides toward the center of the tower. Gad notes the quality of the ex-paladin's front. The physical effort must be considerable, but Fraton keeps his face impassive. No sweating, no puffing, no redness in the face.

  As if concerned for their fragile truce, neither general speaks.

  Fraton's men concern themselves less with keeping up than with securing their prisoners. Gad tests them by slowing his pace. They shove him onward.

  Gad tries to catch Calliard's attention. The bard stares straight ahead, or at his shoes, or to the inflamed and feverish corridor walls—anywhere but at his friend.