by Alec Hutson
It seems strange to me; we entered the sewers near the river, close to where the child was abducted, and this isn’t so far from where we cleared out the vrow nest this morning. But it feels like an entirely different world here. More oppressive. Darker. I find myself constantly turning to the shadows, my skin crawling, as if there are things recessed in the darkness, watching us go past.
Finally, after a period of time that might have been a full watch or only a few hundred breaths, Shalloch slows to a stop. We’ve come to a confluence of the ancient tunnels, and he turns slowly, examining each with an expression of helplessness.
“I don’t know which way to go,” he says uncertainly. “There’s no trail that I can see. I can’t hear anything.”
Vesivia adjusts her grip on her swords. She has kept them unsheathed since we entered the sewers, and she looks more unnerved than I’ve ever seen her. “Then we should go back,” she says. “There’s no use wandering around down here. We could be lost for days if we take a wrong turn. Cassus should have arrived at the compound by now – he’ll be returning to the entrance with a dozen muckers and maps of this part of the system. We should meet them and join up.”
“Bright Eyes, what are you doing?” I ask when I catch sight of her.
The kvah is crouched in the muck, her face only a few span above the stagnant black water. Her nostrils flare as she breathes in deeply.
“That’s disgusting,” Shalloch says.
Bright Eyes takes a few steps forward, still sniffing.
“What is it?” I ask.
She straightens, turning to me. “There’s something here; I can smell it.”
“Yes, a shitload of shit,” Shalloch says, and Bright Eyes shoots him a look.
“No. Well, there’s that, yes. Rich and rotting and almost overpowering. But something is layered over it. It smells like . . . like the depths of the mountain. The deepest, darkest caves, down by the roots that touch the soul of the world. It’s old, whatever it is, but the spore is fresh. If that makes sense.”
“It doesn’t,” Shalloch replies quickly, but I can see that what she has said has frightened him.
“Do you think it’s him?” I ask, half dreading the answer. The idea of returning to the sewer entrance and waiting for help is very comforting right now.
The kvah meets my gaze levelly. “Yes,” she says simply.
“We’ve gone so far already,” Shalloch exclaims, speaking quickly. “We’re going to get lost. And what if our lanterns go dark? We’ll be alone in these tunnels, in the black . . .” His voice is close to panicking.
Bright Eyes points down one of the tunnels. “That way. Whatever it is I smell, it went that way.”
We all look at each other. I can see the conflict in Shalloch and Vesivia’s faces. The abyss yawns in front of us, and somewhere within it waits a monster from legend. The impulse to flee this place is strong for me, as well. These people enslaved me, forced me to hunt dangerous creatures with the ever-present threat of having my foot sliced away prodding me along. I owe them nothing. Certainly not risking my life when our commander himself told us we did not have to go.
“I am going after this thing.” Bright Eyes says calmly.
Shame stabs at me. In my mind’s eye I see again the frantic woman desperately clawing at Shalloch. If the child still lives, it is terrified beyond all reason. And if we turn back now, the boy will certainly perish, alone in this horrible place. The shadows clotting the depths of this place seem to roil. Faint – so faint I could dismiss it as my imagination, if I choose – I hear a whispering. What I’m seeing and hearing – this fear I’m feeling – I’ve never experienced anything like it. Is it natural?
“I’m coming as well,” I say, stepping forward.
Vesivia says nothing but she moves to follow me, her mouth set in a grim line.
Shalloch raises his face to the lichen-encrusted ceiling. “Tainted saints, why are they suicidal?” But after shaking his head he joins us as we begin to move down the tunnel, following the kvah.
The sewers here are a tangle of narrow passages, diverging seemingly at random and pocked with small holes that suggest we’ve entered an extensive, rarely traversed warren. Bright Eyes moves with confidence, barely hesitating before choosing her way. The faint whispers that have tickled the edges of my hearing swell louder . . . until I actually stop and listen intently, and then there’s just the drip of water and the sound of splashing boots.
Something I am certain of is that it has gotten colder. Other parts of the undercity are almost humid, but these tunnels are so cold I half-expect to see a film of ice covering the walls. My skin tingles from the creeping chill, and wisps of my breath are visible in the lantern’s harsh light.
A sharp hiss from Bright Eyes returns me to the moment. She’s standing up ahead, framed in one of the many archways that litter these tunnels. There’s something dangling from the curve of stone above her, and when I see what they are, my breath catches.
Dolls, crudely made of cloth and straw, desiccated tufts emerging from where their roughly-sewn-up shapes have burst, spilling forth like viscera. They are held in place by strings wrapped around their waists or necks, motionless. I can’t help but think of a hangman’s gibbet, bodies dangling.
“What is this?” Shalloch whispers, twisting to avoid touching the dolls as he steps between them.
No one says anything. Close up, I can see the haphazard stitching of the mouths and eyes. There’s something odd, though.
“The clothes,” I say, and from Vesivia’s grim nod she notices it as well.
The clothes are far too fine. The dolls look to have been roughly fashioned, twisted together with little care taken. But the clothes they’re wearing, though faded or ripped, were made with care. Some are simply shirts and trousers and dresses of fabric, like for commoners; others are frilled or sewn with little pearls. Some wear tiny wooden sandals, while other feet are encased in delicate, finely crafted shoes and boots.
“Where did these come from?” Shalloch asks, his voice hoarse.
But I think we all know.
“Faster,” Bright Eyes grates, and to my surprise, I hear no fear – only anger.
My first thought when I hear the child crying is that it must be my imagination. But then Bright Eyes slows, and I know she’s heard it as well.
“Can you all –”
Shalloch doesn’t finish his sentence. A wet twang, like a sodden bowstring being snapped, and he’s screaming. I whirl around to see the mucker pinned to the wall by what looks to be some kind of glistening web. One of his arms is free, but the other is lashed to the stone, blood welling around the gleaming filaments pressing into his flesh.
“Shall!” Vesivia cries, rushing towards him.
“Wait!” I cry, but she doesn’t listen, immediately slipping the point of one of her swords under a strand and trying to saw through it.
Luckily, she doesn’t trigger any other traps, and I approach warily where Shalloch is thrashing wildly. Blood is now streaming down from where his arm and shoulder are webbed to the wall.
“It won’t cut!” Vesivia screams, and I grit my teeth in frustration, glancing down the tunnel we’ve been following. So much for taking the Pale Man by surprise.
“Here, let me try,” I say, taking the hilt from her shaking fingers. Shalloch is moaning, his head turned away from us; he has broken out in a sweat, and his long hair is plastered to his face. Straining as hard as I can, I push the edge of Vesivia’s blade against the deceptively thin strand, but it does not break. I’m actually afraid I’ll snap the sword, given the amount of pressure I’m putting on it, so I step back, slipping the blade free.
Vesivia turns to me, her face filled with fear. “What are you doing? We have to get him out!”
Shalloch has lost consciousness, and only the webbing is keeping him from sliding to the floor. He’s still breathing, though. What’s wrong with him? Is it blood loss? Shock? Some kind of poison coating the filaments?
> Vesivia clutches at her lover, pressing against him. I’m about to warn her to be careful, but she’s aware of the danger as she’s staying clear of the web that has ensnared his left arm and shoulder. He stirs, lifting his head.
“How long?” he slurs.
“Moments,” I tell him as Vesivia peppers his cheek with kisses.
“It feels like I’ve been asleep for days,” he says. He is rambling like the injured after swallowing some numbing drug.
“Talin.” Bright Eyes is hovering farther up the tunnel, brandishing her ax like she expects to use it very soon. “The crying, it’s louder. And there’s a light up ahead. We’re almost there.”
I look to Shalloch again, and then back to her.
“We can’t leave him,” Vesivia says, desperation edging her voice. “Please. Please.”
I make my decision.
“Stay here with Shalloch,” I tell her. “Stop the bleeding. Bright Eyes and I will go kill this thing, and then we’ll return.”
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “No. Talin, the Pale Man can’t be killed. He’s some kind of demon. He’ll murder you, and then he’ll come for us, and I won’t . . . I won’t . . .”
I lay my hand on her arm, trying to calm her rising panic. “If Bright Eyes and I went back to find help, we’d still have to leave you here.” I can see in her eyes that she’s following what I’m saying. “We are going to finish the hunt. I’ve killed demons before. And when it’s over we will find Cassus, and he’ll know someone who can free Shalloch. Do you agree?” Vesivia offers a jerky nod, and my fingers give a squeeze before slipping from her arm. “Good. Wish us luck.”
“Good luck,” she whispers.
I offer her a final nod and then jog towards where Bright Eyes is still waiting. I rip my sword free of its sheath, and the kvah’s lips curl at the sound.
“Let’s go,” she says, and before I can respond she is loping away, making for where fingers of spectral light are creeping around a bend in the tunnel ahead.
I hurry after her. “Bright Eyes, hold on!” I cry, but she doesn’t turn back.
She does hesitate, though, just before she turns the corner, and then her jaw clenches and she plunges into whatever awaits. Cursing, I run faster, but I’m quickly brought to a halt as I reach where she has vanished.
I’m standing at the threshold of a huge chamber, far larger than any I’ve seen before in the undercity. It’s dominated by a grotesque stone head emerging from the far wall, its visage twisted into a demonic leer. Pitch-black water is pouring from the face’s eyes and mouth, merging to form a river that cuts through the center of the chamber until it tumbles over the lip of a stone circle cut into the floor. The sickly corpse-pale light comes from a luminescent fungus crawling down the walls; beneath this strange growth I can see the remnants of elaborate carvings. Overlaying the sound of running water is the muffled sobbing of a small child, and in moments I’ve found the boy, curled beside one of several statues arrayed around the hole in the floor. Bright Eyes is already rushing across the chamber towards the child, apparently oblivious to the overwhelming dread saturating the room.
“Wait!” I call out, afraid of what else could be lurking here, but nothing happens as she crouches down beside the boy. The child’s tear-streaked face turns to her, his arms outstretched, but when he sees the kvah looming over him he jerks back, his sobs sharpening into terrified shrieks. Bright Eyes is murmuring something to him that sounds soothing, though what exactly she’s saying is lost beneath the hiss of the black water slipping from the eyes and mouth and striking the small pool at the base of the stone face. I cross the room carefully, my sword at the ready, peering into the shadows for whatever brought the child to this place. I’m also worrying about traps, like that which snared Shalloch, but I reach Bright Eyes and the boy safely. She’s crooning something comforting to the child, who has apparently been swayed by her tone. He’s now clutching at her, tiny fingers tangled in her matted black hair.
My gaze sweeps the chamber. Nothing – it’s like whatever creature brought the child here has fled, though I still feel an unsettling presence filling the space. The stone face watches us with burning malice.
My own eyes are drawn to the statue nearest us, the one the child was cowering beside. It’s a man in a regal pose, his commanding visage surveying the chamber. His mouth is set in a hard line, his eyes squinting into the distance. What’s odd about the statue is that someone has draped an ancient, tattered cloth over its shoulders, and a crown of tarnished silver encircles its brow. The fabric is faded almost beyond recognition, but it looks like it might once have been a deep vermillion, or perhaps purple.
welcome, welcome, the spider says
creeping along the dew-damp threads
I whirl as these words slither through the chamber, echoing strangely. The child moans and buries his head into Bright Eyes’s shoulder. The kvah stands, holding the child with one hand and brandishing her ax in the other as she looks around wildly.
on this morning oh so bright and fair
you’ve come and I have sweets to share
The sibilant utterings are louder this time, as if the thing is drawing closer. My sword hilt is slick in my palm. The water pouring from the empty eye sockets seems to have strengthened; it’s almost gushing now, frothing as it hits the pool to be swept towards the drain in the floor.
The drain.
a maiden’s kiss, a raven’s wing
the last breath stolen from a king
Long, white fingers slowly curl around the lip of the hole. A head appears, hairless and smooth as an egg. Bulging, pupiless orbs above a strange circular mouth filled with row upon row of tiny teeth. A long tongue flickers out, tasting the air. Was it what was speaking? How can it make words?
“The Pale Man,” Bright Eyes breathes beside me, still holding the child protectively. I slip in front of them, getting between the kvah and this creature.
It emerges from the abyss below glistening with moisture. When it finally stands, the thing is taller than any man, and so thin its muscles and bones are clearly etched beneath its fish-belly-white skin. It wears no clothes, yet it has no sex that I can see, just a smooth white absence.
The creature cocks its head and regards us, as if intrigued. Nictitating membranes slide across its bulbous eyes and it brings its hands together, black fingertips tapping excitedly.
welcome, welcome the spider says
it’s been too long since I have fed
The words are coming from the Pale Man, issuing out of its strange mouth like a voice floating up from the bottom of a well.
“Stay back,” I say as the creature shuffles closer. It moves with mincing little steps, almost awkwardly, seemingly unconcerned by the length of tapering steel extended towards its sunken chest.
Whatever this thing is, I think I’m supposed to kill it. I lunge forward, thrusting with my sword, but the creature twists away with unnatural quickness and my blade strikes nothing. The shock of my surprise hasn’t even registered before something hard hits me and I’m sent sprawling, lines of fiery agony opening on my side. My head strikes the stone floor with jarring force and I desperately roll away.
But the expected blow never comes, and when my vision clears the Pale Man is crouched where I stood a few moments before, watching me calmly. It raises its spidery hand and licks at the blood dripping from its black-tipped fingers. My head is reeling – wait, where’s the hole? I glance behind me and see that I’m only a few span from the edge; if I’d scrambled a little farther I would have sent myself plummeting into the void. My sword’s blade is extended out over the emptiness.
With the Pale Man’s attention focused on me, Bright Eyes takes this chance to charge the creature, her ax held high. She’s set the child down, and the small boy is pressed against the base of the king’s statue – it must be a king, from its bearing and crown – watching the monster in horror. I can’t hear the kvah’s footsteps over the child’s hitching cries and the
sound of water, but the creature moves again with blinding speed as Bright Eyes brings her ax crashing down. The Pale Man slides through space, flickering and appearing a few paces to the left as the ax-blade passes through where he was only an eyeblink before.
Then Bright Eyes is stumbling back, holding her face as blood wells between her fingers. I snatch up my sword and stagger to my feet, reaching for the cold precision I’ve grasped before in battle, and even though I no longer have my green-glass sword the world seems to slow around me. The Pale Man whirls again at my approach, and though he’s still lightning quick I can at least see his movements now. My sword lashes out, and as he ripples, I change the direction of my thrust, grazing his arm. A line of red blood – very human-looking blood – appears on his flesh as the Pale Man reels away. I follow, but this time my steel finds only air and another blow strikes me in the chest, sending me stumbling backwards again. My back foot comes down on nothing, and then my sword flies from my fingers as I flail helplessly.
I’m falling.
I throw all my weight forward, my arms crashing into stone as I scrabble desperately for purchase on the edge of the hole. But the ancient and slick rocks give way beneath my fingers, crumbling away.
I’m swallowed by the darkness.
Something is stabbing into my back.
I swim back towards consciousness, forcing my eyes open with a groan. Far away from me, at the end of a long black corridor, a pale blotch of spectral light shimmers.
Everything hurts. My side is matted with blood, and I can’t begin to catalogue how many of my bones ache. There’s a roaring in my ears, and droplets of water spatter my face.
