by Jake Stone
“You helped them?” Atia says, her disdain spilling forth in her words.
The old man looks at her, insulted. “We had no choice. We were threatened.”
“With what?” Atia asks indignantly. “Your lives? The corfew takes in all souls, especially those who’ve suffered.”
“With our families,” he replies in his defense. “Do not think us ungrateful. For your arrival has gifted us freedom, something that none of us ever thought was possible. But now we must ask more of you.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
“Look around you,” the old man says. “What do you see?”
I do as he commands, my brow tightening as I inspect the starving people huddled against the walls. Their hair is scraggly, their eyes are wild. I don’t see what it is that he’s asking of me. But then I realize, there are no young women, only men and mothers and grandmothers, and children. The only young female is Tora.
“Your daughters,” I answer.
“Bantha has taken them from us,” he says, “transported them deeper into the mountain.”
“For what purpose?” I ask.
He shakes his head, eyes empty as he stares at the ground. “We don’t know. But what we do know is that he and his demons are at work. They’re building something, summoning some untold evil that threatens to retake this very planet.”
“How do you know?” Atia asks.
“My dear saint, we’ve been here for a long time,” he answers. “Even slaves can hear and see.”
Chun Hei, who’s just finished wrapping a bandage around a young girl’s knee, rises to her feet and joins us. “It must be a weapon,” she signs.
“No,” Petronelous says. “Sounds like another summoned army.”
“Or a champion,” Zorel adds with an arched brow, excited by the challenge. “Some big old demon with twelve arms and two heads and a cock so giant that it—”
“Zorel!” Atia says, cutting her off.
“We’re not sure,” the old man says, perplexed by Zorel’s enthusiasm. “But what we do know is that Bantha will soon learn of our freedom and we will be punished for it with the lives of our daughters.”
“What about her?” Petronelous asks, nodding at Tora. “Why’s she still here.”
Tora recoils under the redhead’s suspicions, bowing her head and ducking under the protection of the old man.
“Tora is my oldest,” the old man answers, “and, unfortunately, the most beautiful amongst our people. Azafalia kept her for himself, using her whenever he wished. But I have another.”
“Galail,” Tora whispers as she stares off into the corner, a tear streaming from her eye. “My little sister.”
“Please,” the old man says, his voice pleading, his arm tightening around Tora. “Find our daughters and free them before it’s too late.”
I look at Atia, gauging her response. She remains motionless, but inside, I know that the gears are turning. After a few seconds, she answers their request. “I’m sorry, but we can’t.”
Her refusal awakes the crowd’s indignation.
“And why not?” a man declares. He struggles as he comes to his feet, aided by a woman around the same age. The two of them come stomping toward us, empowered by their outrage. “They took my little Calian,” the hobbling man declares. “And I want her back.”
“What about my granddaughter?” another adds.
“And mine too!”
I look around at the crowd of people, their once exhausted and starved appearance vanishing as their rage and entitlement take over.
Petronelous and Zorel try to meet the angry crowd head on, but they’re quickly engulfed by the wave of demanding people like single islands being overrun by a flood.
Before I know it, even I’m engulfed by the madness, surrounded by older men and women demanding that I do something about their children. They’ve been down here for too long, tortured with hard work and no food, terrorized by stinking demons, and haunted by the loved ones who were taken from them. And now all of that has come to this.
“Stop!” Atia calls out, plunging the edge of her spear into the rocky ground.
We all turn, startled by the commanding tone of her voice.
“We are here under the strict orders of Commander Alvarium himself to retrieve important information that will help us in this war.”
“What about our war?” the old man demands. “What about our lives? Doesn’t the Republic care about us?”
Atia says nothing. She’s at a loss. I pull her aside as the other Saints do their best to hold off the demanding crowd. “Perhaps there’s a way out of this,” I whisper.
“Of course there is,” she says. “By leaving this place and continuing with the mission.”
“Perhaps,” I say. “Or maybe, we can use this to our advantage…”
“How so?”
I glance back at the crowd, at the old man, at the starving figures. “Who would know these caves better than these people?” I ask.
Atia follows my gaze.
“Maybe they can lead us through the tunnels faster?”
“Tell me this isn’t about the girl,” Atia says, her eyes filling with rage. “Tell me you’re not doing this for her.”
I see Tora standing by her father, her innocent eyes peeking up at me.
“I can’t say that my heart doesn’t go out for her and her father, but I’m thinking bigger than this.”
“How so?”
“The demons are obviously preparing an ambush for the army. If that’s the case, we need to stop it now.”
Atia takes a moment to consider this. When she’s done, she turns to face the crowd and they quiet under her gaze. “Very well,” she says. “We’ll help you.”
A sigh of relief passes through the crowd.
“But you’ll need to give us something in return,” she adds.
“Anything,” the old man says. “Whatever you need.”
Atia steps aside, giving me the floor.
“A guide,” I say.
The men and women freeze at the word.
“A guide?” the old man echoes.
“Yes,” I say, “someone to help us through the tunnels.”
“But we’re too old, too weak,” one of the women answers.
“And those of us still young enough to brave the journey don’t know the tunnels very well,” another man adds.
“I’m…sorry,” a woman says. “But in that, we cannot help you.”
“There’s something else,” Tora’s father says, drawing them to silence.
“And what’s that?” I ask. “More demons?”
He snorts, the sound dry and mirthless. “No, my son. Something far worse.”
“What’s worse than demons?” Petronelous asks.
“Ghosts,” he says.
At first, I want to laugh. Is he being serious with me? But as I inspect the crowd, looking for someone who’ll join me in my amusement, I see only fearful faces, and I know that he’s being serious.
“I don’t understand,” I say.
“This mountain was once a stronghold,” he explains, “the last bastion of mankind against the monsters who spilled forth from the sky. Many were killed here, their souls locked eternally to this dreadful place. They are still angered by the horror of their deaths, maddened to the point that they attack friend and foe alike.”
“This is ridiculous,” Atia says.
“Is it?” the old man replies. “Did mankind believe in demons before the gates of hell were opened and the monsters of Zendal spilled into our galaxy? This is no different,” he says, shaking his head, “only much worse and more frightening.”
“So that’s a no, then?” I ask, drawing a snort from Zorel.
I sigh, frustrated with this new roadblock. Now, we have no choice but to search out the demons by ourselves, tasked with another mission that could be just as detrimental to the Republic as the first one.
We’ve already lost valuable time here and now with n
o one to guide us in our efforts, we’re sure to lose even more. How can we find the information we need if there’s no one to help us?
“I’ll go,” the old man says.
“Father, no!” Tora says, gazing up at the old man, her arms tightening around his waist.
He looks down upon her in sadness, his eyes cloudy and weak. It takes him a moment to see her. “I’m sorry, my sweet, but I cannot live with the guilt anymore. Why should I be the only father who can still hold his daughter?”
“But you’re too weak,” Tora says. “You won’t make it. You’ll die.”
“And the corfew will take my soul,” he replies, glancing at our captain, who, to her credit, bows her head in assurance.
“I’m sorry,” Tora says. “But I can’t let you do this.” She pulls away from her father, holding her head up high as she turns to Atia. “I’ll go.”
“But Tora—”
“No!” she says to him. “If these saints are willing to put their lives on the line for us, we must do the same. Besides…” She turns to me. “There’s no one here who knows these tunnels better than I do.”
Chapter Fourteen
“The ghosts are cruel,” Tora warns as she pauses at the mouth of the cave. “Do not listen to them. For if you do, they will devour you from within.”
I glance at the other women, finding my worry reflected on their faces.
“Lead the way,” Atia orders, fearless in her words.
“Very well,” Tora replies. “May the corfew see us through.”
We follow closely as exits the chamber, leading us into a narrowed tunnel that gets smaller by the minute. The passages are dark and bleak and without end, but with Tora as our guide we move quickly, making up over a matter of minutes what we’d lost fighting Azafalia and his minions.
At one point, I offer to activate the holographic projector of my vambrace, so that she can examine the map as a touchstone. But she waves me away, seeming annoyed at the prospect.
“No, thank you,” she says. “The walls are my guide, and I will follow them like my memories.”
Tora is an expert in this maze. She leads us down winding passages that twist and turn into seemingly dead ends, only to open up into wide berths large enough for us to walk side by side.
Every once in a while, we’ll come across another drawing, a depiction of some monster killing humans with cruel and savage weaponry. The images are fascinating, and I nearly trip as I come across the representation of a towering demon with long and wild hair, like that of a woman, devouring a child into its mouth.
“They’re horrifying, aren’t they?” Tora asks.
The young woman walks at my side, her sandals slapping against the rock beneath her feet. She studies the drawings with keen interest as if no matter how many times she’s seen them, they still frighten her.
“Who drew these?” I ask.
“My ancestors,” she says. “The men and women who sought shelter here after the Dark Horizon opened and the demons of hell entered our world. They came here believing that the might of these walls would protect them from the great enemy.”
“And did they?”
“No,” she says simply. “Nothing escapes Zendal and his minions. They’re drawn to dark places, holes in the ground where lesser things go to hide.”
I think about her words and picture rats who burrow into the ground to catch insects and small animals. They’re predators but of a lesser sort. They’re not like lions, warrior animals who test their strength against sprinting deer, or mighty rhino. No. These minions of Zendal prey on the weak, and the much smaller who can’t protect themselves.
“If that’s the case,” Atia says, inviting herself into our conversation. “Why would you and your people commit the same error?”
The mockery in Atia’s voice appears to be unnoticed by Tora.
“A fine question,” Tora admits. “Isn’t that the error of humans everywhere? To commit the same action, expecting a different result?”
“The fact is,” Tora continues, “the inhabitants of Korath are a strong and proud people. They fought the best they could when the demons came. But they were no match. No one is. So, out of desperation, they returned to their mountain in the hopes of fending off the demons with one last stand.”
“They were wrong,” Atia says.
“Yes,” Tora concedes in am emotionless tone. “They were. But my people are strong-willed. They fought to the very end—something we’re proud of to this day.”
The passage leads us into an enormous cavern where a bridge of carved stone overlooks a seemingly bottomless chasm. It stretches for what seems to be miles, its entrance a stone archway with the face of a screaming demon carved in the keystone.
Along the sides, hanging from metal chains, a pair of human skeletons, rotted and wearing nothing but the torn remnants of their clothes, stare at us, bidding us welcome.
“By the corfew,” Petronelous says.
“What is this place?” Atia asks, frowning in disgust at the grim spectacle.
“The Bridge of Silence,” Tora answers. “The first passage into the heart of the mountain.”
“Why’s it called that?” I ask.
“Because you have to be silent when you cross it,” Tora says with a smile.
I roll my eyes.
“But seriously,” she says, strolling toward the arched entranceway where she begins to examine the human remains hanging along the sides. “The mountain hears all. Nothing passes unnoticed. Nothing unnoticed passes unscathed, for the ancient ghosts who dwell this unholy place will call forth your deepest and darkest memories.”
“The ghosts?” Petronelous asks.
“Do not pay them attention,” Tora says. “You must remain focused.”
I take a nervous swallow, feeling the hairs along my neck stand. “So we need to be quiet. Okay, got it.”
“That would be well advised,” she says with a reassuring smile.
“How far does the bridge go?” Atia asks.
“Miles,” Tora confesses. “But at the end of the bridge, there is a smaller cavern where we can get some rest.”
“Rest?” Petronelous asks. “In a place like this?”
“There are still a few places protected in this mountain,” Tora replies. “But not many.”
“Very well,” Atia says. “Lead the way.”
We press forward as Tora leads us under the archway and onto the stone bridge that stretches on and on until my eyes can’t see.
The light of Zorel’s sphere is our only comfort. It hovers peacefully above us, like an extra companion protecting us from the eerie darkness, but even its magnificent wild energy dies at the edge of the bridge, where it’s inexplicably swallowed by the seemingly endless void.
Fuck, I hate heights ….
The base of the bridge, from what I can see, is made of rock—a naturally formed structure that suspiciously survived what could only be a millennium of extreme water erosion. But the rest of it is manmade. Solid stone chiseled into squares make up the rest of it, revealing an ancient style of architecture that’s strangely reminiscent of a medieval design.
I gawk, horrified to find a trio of human skulls sitting along the parapet to my right. They stare at me with their rows of teeth as if laughing at my foolishness. “You will join us, soon,” one of the skulls says to me, causing my heart to jump. “You and your friends will never leave this place. Give up now and feel the release of death.” I shake my head, terrified by the hiss of their voices.
Focus, I tell myself, focus and keep walking and you’ll make it out of here alive.
I turn as I see a shadow flickering across the opposite parapet. It stays there for a while, like the dancing flame of a candle, then disappears as if it was never there in the first place. Blinking, I shake my head, trying to clear myself of my confusion. Did I really just see that? Am I okay?
“It’s getting kind of warm in here,” Petronelous complains as she retracts her helmet. Strands of red
hair cling to her sweat-drenched brow, and her face is flushed with red patches.
At first, I assume it’s just Petronelous who’s bothered by the heat, due to her spiking metabolism. But when I see Zorel retracting her own helmet, revealing a face that’s just as drenched, I realize that something’s wrong.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Zorel says. “But my tits are sweating something awful.”
“Agreed,” Atia says, taking a bottle of water from Chun Hei.
Our suits are equipped with padded interiors and thick armor better suited for the harsh winds and bitter cold outside. They’re not fitted with an air-conditioning unit or some coolant gel to spread over the skin of our limbs.
Already I can feel the sweat building over my skin. I follow suit, as do the other women, retracting my helmet into the collar of my armor.
“It gets hotter the farther we venture into the mountain,” Tora says, unbothered by the heat. With just a short skirt and a thin rag for a bra, she’s practically suited to these conditions. She skips over a couple of rocks, her long toned legs shinning in the luminescence of Zorel’s orb.
We, on the other hand, are like walking tanks of armor.
“Why does it get hotter?” Petronelous asks. “Shouldn’t it be the opposite?”
“No,” Tora says. “Not here. Deep in the mountain, there’s a volcano.”
“A volcano?” I ask in surprise. “Are you kidding me?”
“Don’t worry,” she says with a grin. “It’s been dormant for decades. Nothing we need to worry about.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” I mutter beneath my breath.
We continue walking, grateful as the end of the tunnel finally comes into view, promising us only a few more miles to go. The sight of it opens my lungs, and I feel like I can breathe again despite the muggy heat. But then, strangely, from the corner of my eye, I spot the shadow again. Only this time I hear a voice.
It’s low and dark, tinged with the familiar arrogance that makes my skin crawl. Dad? I crane my neck, trying to get a better look at the shadow which is now leaning out of a crevice above us. I haven’t seen him in almost a year, not since the Hadron Collider malfunctioned.
