"Adzel Chapter III" by John H. Blackham

CHAPTER III

INTO THE DARK

Sanadred awoke in a black field, and the reek of charred earth filled his nostrils. The ground was very warm to the touch, and he felt sweat running down his cheeks, and all about him. Rising slowly to his feet, he let out a hiss of pain and fell back to the ground; he had forgotten that his leg was still broken. This time minding his leg, he sat up and surveyed his surroundings. To his astonishment, he saw no sign of the village that had once thrived in the lush grassland by the river, surrounded by evergreen trees. Instead he saw a blackened landscape, barren and featureless, and a vast mound of charred wood still issuing tendrils of smoke into the crimson sunset that was the sky. He had been propelled quite a ways from the village by the explosion; in fact, he lay not too far from the river itself, a steady flow of water still inching by.

            And not five yards away lay an unblazen breastplate with a shard of a sword thrust through it. Black leather sleeves protruded from the metal, amazingly unhindered by the fire and fine leather pantaloons as well. Two gauntlets had fallen by the sleeves’ end and boots at the pantaloons’, but no body lay inside the garments—strangely enough, it was an empty set of armour. Confused, Sanadred looked closer on this oddity, and then it all came back to him in a torrent of unwanted memories. His eyes widened, and he clutched his head, stifling a cry. He raised his head and glanced about himself. His clothes were torn and darkened, but still intact after the fire, and for that he was grateful; but he looked about with more intent, and found this time the sword Kithrus had given him. It was sheathed, he noted with some curiosity, though that was nothing compared to the despair he felt. He looked again to the ruin near him, and saw near it a field of small, black, charred grave-markers. Grapping the hilt of the nearby sword, he hoisted himself to a standing position and balanced himself on his good leg. He began to stagger toward the ruin to search for survivors, but a sudden thought came to him.

            He looked down at Kithrus’ garment and noted the sword Kithrus had used the night before laying at the gauntlet’s palm. After strapping the sword very carefully to his own back with the provided sheath among the amour, he donned the fine gauntlets as well, and found that despite their metal plating, they fit to his skin and left his hands as free as if they were bare. Struggling to his feet again, he hobbled off toward the village again.

*          *          *

He reached the smouldering ruin and choked back tears at the sight of the buildings he had played around as a small child. There was a house almost still erect with a door lying nearby, torn off its hinges, and Sanadred remembered it as Old James Touff’s cottage, where he had tormented the old man’s cat for years. He staggered over as best as he was able, disbelief growing on his face. From inside there came a foul stench, and he heard the hum of festering flies. He could bear to look no longer and turned his head toward the completely destroyed inn near the center of the village. Lying on the ground was his old friend Tom Hollingshead, eyes open and glazed over, no blood in his face at all; it was all gathered in a vast pool around him. His mouth was open in a scream and a short, crooked sword jutted from his shallow chest, dried, black trickles of infected blood staining the shirt around it. Next to his was his wife, Edna—an arrow protruded from her back and her stiff hand was clutching Tom’s while a swarm of insects encircled them both, a cruel parody of a love scene. Not too far from them lay his own mother, a single raven preying on her face. He watched, horrified, for a moment, as if unsure of his ability to do anything about it, to move at all. Then in a rage, Sanadred drew Kithrus’ sword from his back and rushed to her side, ignoring the pain in his leg and the eerie cracking sound it made with each stride. The bird had only a moment to glance over its shoulder before Sanadred decapitated it and cast its body to the earth, where it leaked dark, streaked blood. Sanadred glanced at his dead mother and simply dropped his sword, fell to the earth and wept over her. It was quite obvious that his plan had failed—the beasts had survived the defending fire and attacked the village beyond.

*          *          *

            Sanadred cursed his own stupidity—what had made him think that just because some hero had succeeded in a legend, he would too? All he had succeeded in doing was the burning the field and murder of his friends and family. He wept and cursed himself over and over as the darkness gathered around him until the light glimmered between the branches of distant trees, and failed the sky as Sanadred had failed his family and friends. He paused as he looked up and saw that the crescent, waning moon was only casting a dim silvery light that left too much of the world around him to the imagination. It was because of this that it took a moment for him to see the shapes nearby moving northward, in a slow mournful manner.  There was a long line of them, whatever they were, and moving perpendicular to Sanadred. He turned, and hastily piled some nearby ashes to cover his mother’s body; another tear trickled down his face as he cast one last glance at the mound of black and grey behind him and a lump had formed in his throat. He made the difficult choice to ignore it and began hobbling toward the shapes with some curiosity—they were far too tall to be the creatures that had attacked the previous night, ho noted, and so unless there was another race of humanoid beasts roaming through the accursed forest, it was very likely others of his kind. Some hope flashed through the torrent of despair that had taken his mind, and his heart raced at the thought that some of his friends had managed to escape the slaughter.

            He hurried as best as he was able, but in his surge of fury when he had killed the raven he had cracked his leg nearly in half. Though the pain was nigh unbearable, each stride like a fresh stab from an invisible dagger, he pressed on—he could not fail again, even in this. He needed something to accomplish in his mind…another tear trailed down his face. He had never accomplished anything worthwhile; he had only learned about those who had and wished he were they. When the opportunities came for him to do likewise, he had foolishly leaped to the responsibility. He tripped on the headless corpse of a woman and stumbled, falling over her to find himself staring at her head not too far away. Her eyes were wide with fear and her mouth open in an eternal, silent shriek; fat droplets of black blood spattering her face and drenching her lower lip where the blood had flowed freely from her mouth. Gasping with surprise and wincing in both horror and guilt, he began to weep again. Another of his victims lay before him; had she been married? Did she have children who were off elsewhere crying for their lost mother, or a husband weeping over her as freely as Sanadred was now?

            For as long as these thoughts went uninterrupted, Sanadred felt only sorrow and misery; but when a clawed, scaly hand gripped his throat and twisted his neck, only an animalistic rage filled him. He obeyed the hand and turned to stare into the snouted, fanged face of a massive reptilian creature, eyes red and alight with an inner flame and steam rose from its nostrils. It was girded in plates overlapping one another and cruel, jagged spikes protruding from the shoulders and wrists as its grip tightened.

            “Khealesh olesst,” came the inhuman voice writhing within the throat of this creature in a language that Sanadred only vaguely remembered studying, and the only word he caught from it was Kheal which was an ancient term for a feast. Sanadred’s features contorted slowly in passionate hatred for this beast that soon their faces were not so unlike one another. In an instant, Sanadred’s fist was clenching the reptile’s throat despite the spiked collar it wore. The iron was driven hard through Sanadred’s hands, yet he heeded them not.

            “So this was your feasting ground, then?” Sanadred shrieked, clenching harder. The thing’s eyes widened and small, choking noises were audible from its throat. Its grip on Sanadred’s weakened and the claw like fingers began to tremble. “She was merely a morsel to devour while searching for amusement?” Sanadred cried, gesturing to the headless woman nearby, “Well, then, let me join you in your feasting!” he cried, bringing the reptile’s neck to his mouth where he sank his teeth into its scaly flesh. It screamed in agony, but the cry was weak and without air. Sanadred drew back to see, much to his shock, four neat holes in the thing’s flesh, and cutting through the hide like a hot knife through butter. Black blood flowed from the fresh wounds and Sanadred’s fist closed completely, crushing the thing’s muscular neck as a man would crush a twig. The body went limp in his hands, and he cast it to the ground, laughing with an emotion he had not felt in quite some time: satisfaction.

*          *          *

There was someone still in the ruin, Swagg realized as he heard the shouting. The moon was not bright enough for him to discern, merely by looking, what was going on. The march of villagers halted, and there came more shouting. Not the shouting of combat, though, but one man shouting in fury; a man with an oddly familiar voice. It took a moment for Swagg to realise that voice belonged to Sanadred, and squinting to peer through the darkness, he managed to see two figures grappling each other, each clutching the other’s throat.

            “Malagent! To me!” came Swag’s cry as he reared his horse around and began to gallop toward the ruin, not waiting to see if Malagent was following. The wind whipped at his face, and he forgot for a moment about the lives that were in his hands. Only about twenty or thirty villagers lived yet, and there were still possibly many bestial soldiers in the charred and blackened wood through which the company was marching. All that was gone completely from his mind when the realisation that Sanadred may have lived came to him.

            All of this was suddenly shoved into the back of his mind when his horse bucked beneath him and collapsed, throwing him to the ground with a rather unpleasant amount of force. Forcing himself to sit up, he felt a sudden warm wetness on his forehead. Wiping it away, he saw in the dim light that his hand came away wet with blood. Choosing to ignore this at present, he looked up to see his horse dead in front of him with a bent knife lodged in its throat, a pool of blood gathering around it, spilling smoothly out from the wound all too much like water from a bottle. Standing over the body was young Tom Hollingshead, his face shadowed by the accumulated darkness of night. Swagg cocked his head and frowned curiously.

            “Tom?” he said uncertainly. What appeared to be a fly flew from behind Tom’s head and disappeared into the gloom. “You…but you were dead in the morning, Malagent told me.” As the words left his lips, though, Malagent and his steed soared by in a flash of hooves and dust. As he passed, there was a whistling, and Tom’s head fell to the earth, leaving his body teetering lifelessly; but it did not fall, nor did any blood gush out as Swagg had expected, his stomach lurching at the thought of seeing another fountain issuing from a neck—he had seen too many in the past few days. Instead, it bent its legs and its hands felt around the dead horse’s neck, extracting the knife. Dread filled Swagg and all colour left his cheeks. He slammed his eyes shut, not knowing what would come next and not wanting to. He wanted to run away, but his body would not move. There was the sound of another body falling near his, and then a torrent of hooves. Swagg felt himself hoisted into the air by one, leather-wrapped arm.

            “Open your bloody eyes, Swagg!” came the voice of Malagent above him, with no small amount of strain. Obeying Malagent reluctantly, Swagg saw that he was being held close to the side of Malagent’s saddle by none other than the man himself. Hurriedly, Swagg managed to slide onto the back of the horse and cling to Malagent, who then let go of him with a sigh of relief. The horse was galloping, though, and it appeared to be quite tired and downtrodden, straining itself to recover each bound it took; upon looking about the animal, he saw why. Aside from himself and Malagent, the horse was laden with Sanadred as well, lolling unconsciously with every gallop, straddling the horse’s neck in front of Malagent.

            Glancing over his shoulder to see what had happened, he saw many corpses following them freshly killed from the night before, having had no time to decay and therefore moving as fast as living humans, sprinting in vain after the horse.

            “Fly, my friends, fly to the caves!” Cried Malagent to the long line of villagers, “The dead have risen! Fly lest your lives be forfeit as well!” Swagg did not look ahead though; he was too intrigued by the morbid party attacking from behind. There were some that ran without heads or other limbs, some who he had drunk with only the night before, he noticed with depressed feelings rising in him. A few still had arrows protruding from them or a sword through their sides. None of this hindered them; they ran without heed to the few who collapsed and were trampled, or the other being that was not running. In fact, it was not even visibly moving; just sort of floating with them. Its robes and mantle billowed as it pursued them, though its arms issued not forth from its cloak. It was draped all in black, and a heavy, threadbare cowl was drawn over its head, shrouding all but a thick, blazing jaw that gave no light nor insight to the cowl’s contents, and before Swagg passed out he saw that the mouth was laughing.

*          *          *

There was a light flickering outside his eyelids, the void flashing pink and red.  An intense pain filled his entire torso, or what was left of it.  With an audible hiss, he opened his eyes.  A torch burned not far above him, burning his eyes and filling them with tears.  He blinked and felt a sudden draft wash across him.  Glancing about his surroundings, he saw that he was lying naked atop a splintering, wooden table, in a dimly lit stone room.  A man-sized hole was carved out of the stone to his left, and a door hung off its hinges.  Outside, there was a vast sky streaked grey and black, with hints of blue—a setting sun in a stormy sky.  Standing, he noted that the floor was damp as well as cold, and the world began to spin around him, his eyes going in and out of focus, as a wave of dizziness spread through his head and stomach.  Teetering slightly, he managed to steady himself on the table.  His hair fell in front of his eyes, temporally blinding him.  Cursing under his breath, he tossed his hair out of his sore, puffy eyes and stood, reluctantly letting go of the table.  Again, he found himself barely able to walk, but he managed to stagger to the doorway, knowing what he was going to see.  Sure enough, as he nearly collapsed on the stone by the outcropping that formed the door, he looked out to see the eternal twilight of Spectral Realm.  A surreal purple light glowed faintly under the clouds, and silhouettes of pine trees filled the landscape, backlit against the cruel dark purple that was quite luminous behind the rounded spires of the awe-inspiring temple that was the only portal into the deepest reaches past the Spectral realm, into the last Realm of existence.  Again, he cursed, knowing where he was and why he was there.  He stepped outside the room, his feet slipping in shallow, swamp like bog, grey mist still rising off the surface of the water.  As he slipped, he reached in vain for the building behind him, but he cursed for the third but certainly not final time as he remembered what was to come next.  The building had vanished, leaving him there, defenseless in the Spectral Realm.

            And as always, the expected inhabitants were waiting for him. The swamp like forest around him was teeming ancient, powerful entities that had been banished to the Spectral Realm when they were defeated long ago, during the Sablemehia.  Eyes followed his every move, it seemed.  He stood, dripping with sludge and seething, his eyes lit like a lantern through dark blue glass.  There was movement in the foliage nearby, and without waiting to see what it was, he lifted his left hand and outstretched his fingers.  There was a blinding spark that shot from them accompanied by a sound like a woman screaming, but that was it.  He cursed again and took a step backward as a tall, cloaked thing of darkness slid like ink through the dark, surreal branches and manifested in front of him.  A chill like a frozen knife pierced his back through to his breast, and he looked down to see a black hand protruding through his skin.  Looking up, he saw what appeared to be an arm reaching from the cloaked entity around his back and into him, like a clay doll’s arm stretched beyond what normal clay could bear.  He was suddenly rendered immobile and all sight faded from his eyes. After his sight faded, though, he heard a voice above him: “Kithrus, you worthless worm. I gave you a simple task; you dedicated a mortal life to it, and failed. You shall not have the peace of death, however. You can perhaps prove more useful in what I have in mind for you, and if you do not…” the unsaid threat struck him harder than the promised blow to his mind, and he slipped from consciousness, hearing his master’s words running through his head like echoes in vast room…with cold, blue light coming from forked lightning rather than flame atop four torches, a light that did not reach the high roof of the chamber. Along the center of the chamber ran a long, jagged crack, and a mirror jutted from the bottom of it like a shard of glass from a shattered stained glass window.

*          *          *

            Malagent rode last through the tunnel that led into the mines, the screams of frightened children ahead of him and the eerie silence of his enemies behind him as he urged his nearly exhausted steed onward through the large tunnel. Large as it was, though, it was barely enough room for him to pass while atop his horse. He began trembling, and looked down at the horse. The animal was clearly not going to make it to whatever shelter was hidden at the end of the tunnel, and Malagent dismounted, gingerly lowering the unconscious bodies of Meldin and Sanadred to the damp, stone earth, and drew his sword again. The footsteps and cries of the Narthazelians faded and echoed into surrealism behind him, and he looked back up the tunnel, not expecting to see what he did, which was precisely nothing. There was a faint silvery-blue light at the mouth of the tunnel that he had entered not so long ago, and it was broken only by the silhouette of a man. Being so far away, Malagent could not tell if the man was dead or alive, but he held himself in a different manner than the dead. He almost called to him, but realized before the words could leave his lips that drawing attention to himself was the last thing he wanted. As if Malagent had beckoned to the mysterious man, he entered the tunnel and approached Malagent, who drew his sword, which, given the blacksmith’s lack of expertise in that aspect of forging, was little more than a blade with boiled leather wrapped around the base. When he found his voice, it was too late to say anything but a choked, “Hello.”

            For now the man’s nose was pressed against his. He saw in the little light he had a wild look in the man’s eyes, wide and very light.

            “Hello!” belted the man. His breath smelled either of rancid fish or a mouth that was rarely if ever cleaned, and Malagent didn’t really want to know which. “It’s so glad to meet you here in this wonderful hall,” he continued at the same ridiculous volume, making Malagent jump and look behind the man. To his horror, the shouting had alerted the undead villagers, who were now clustered around the tunnel entrance, watching with blank expressions on their faces, or what was left of them.

            “You mean…this mine?” Malagent asked, not really paying attention to what he was saying. “Now is not the time for such petty talk, can you not see? The dead that hunt us are upon us! We must fly!”

            “No!” cried the man with a mad grin on his face, and he began to sing. His voice was high, soft, and reassuring; Malagent realised that this man could easily have sung in one of the King’s own courts back in Gomthul. The song had an eerie ring to it, becoming more of a chant, and he couldn’t quite understand the words:

Repustesh d’Terre’

Cesechear uten ferrentesh!

            And then Malagent heard thunder. Deafening, roaring, chaotic. Dust filled his eyes, and he shut them, clasping his hands to his ears and shrieking in pain. Rocks began tumbling down, but just beyond him. The fray began to increase, become louder, and seemingly unbearable and then…stopped. He didn’t move at first. He paused, waiting for what he believed to be an inevitable return of the thundering, and then lifted his head, removing his hands. He realised what had happened: the tunnel roof had collapsed, at the command of this man. He was enveloped in total darkness; engulfed in a silence that was broken only by the soft voice of the strange man:

            “Hello, sir. My name is Dirhem Eredane, master of all that dwells in the earth. By what name are you called, sir?” A hand gripped Malagent’s and shook it eagerly. The hand was strong and callused, but the fingers were very thin, and they twitched very slightly as the man shook his hand. He thought he would smell rancid breath or an unwashed coat, but the only aroma he could detect was one of roses.

            “Dirhem?” Malagent asked, and knew he had heard that name before, but it had not been associated with any wizard at the time. The only Dirhem Eredane he had ever met was…“The man who forged the swords for the rest of the Robesmen and me during the War?”

            “Aye! One and the same, Malagent. I remember you…you were the one who asked for an engraving of your wife’s name on the blade! Everiel, was it? How is she?”

            The last thing Malagent had counted on was discussing his family conditions to an old acquaintance of his who had gone mad in a collapsed mining tunnel. “She is with the rest of my fellow villagers, but they went on without us. Do you know the way through this tunnel?” he asked without a glimmer of hope; Lendalan blacksmiths rarely mined for their own ore, especially in the abandoned Narthazelians mines. The mines were left to the marauding mountain men, deserters from the War, but they had all died out since. It was simply a matter of the Narthazelians’ laziness that they had not been returned to working order.

            “Yes, actually, I just locked those pesky dead men out,” came the reply out of the darkness, “and opened the door to the great beyond, to the ocean in the mountain where the Great Lady shall direct us to our goal!” Malagent sighed; the man was madder than he had first supposed. What had caused it? He had suspected that the meteor iron was poisonous to men’s minds for some time. Ivan Hroll had left his son and wife to explore a dangerous forest that no men had ever survived exploring; Kithrus had gone mad and made a pact with a hidden race of demi-humans who, according to Sanadred, worshipped him as a deity; Robert Hollingshead had drowned trying to catch a fish in the river with his bare hands, and after then, his son Tom had to look after the family; Meldin thought his name was Swagg and he drank enough to kill most men every day; and then he himself…

            “Malagent! You are thinking. Thinking is all good and well until someone loses an eye, so let’s get moving!” Dirhem’s voice didn’t echo however, and Malagent’s heart sank: the tunnel must have collapsed on both sides.

            “You fool!” he cried, “You’ve trapped all of us!”

            “Hrm?” came a pained grunt from under him. Swagg had awaken. Sanadred too, apparently, for the sounds of two bodies standing up and breathing heavily reached his ears (and the stench of two unwashed mouths reached his nose with no more mercy). There were a few scuffling sounds as well, as Swagg stood, though Sanadred didn’t attempt to.

            “What happened?”

            “Who’s that?”

            “Meldin! I haven’t seen you since the War! How’s your wife? Everiel, isn’t it?”

            “What? Who is that?”

            “Swagg? Is that you?”

            “Aye! Sanadred? Where are we?”

            “We’re trapped in the mine entrance with an old friend of ours, Dirhem Eredane, who found a delightful way to collapse the tunnel on both sides.” Said Malagent, irritation all too evident in his voice.

            “Dirhem? What’s he doing here?” came Swagg’s loud voice from behind him. There was no immediate reply, and all was silent for a moment.

            “I came to find all of the robe-blades I forged so many years ago…I have…plans…for…them…” came the soft, trembling voice of Dirhem, “I…already have all of them…except for…the ones I made for…you…Malagent and Kithrus.”

            There was a silence again, and this time, it was broken by the gasps of Malagent, Sanadred, and Swagg as their surroundings were suddenly illuminated. A lantern swung near the head of the man that could only be Dirhem, but they could barely recognise him. He wore a very thick, ankle-length overcoat with a high collar the framed his face up to his ears, and his long, pale blonde hair framed the rest. Two long, straight locks of hair slid around the edge of his face on either side, nearly hiding his eyes and ending at his chin, and the rest of his hair was tied back into a long braid that trailed out behind him like a horse’s tail. His eyebrows were thin and made a sharp arch that gave him his slightly fearsome look, and his features were sharp and smooth. He had a very neat beard, braided into two tails at the chin, and a moustache that was very long and also braided. He was so covered in garments that he gave reminded Swagg of a peddler on the road, though Dirhem was surprisingly well groomed, given the fact that he was apparently raving mad. He was tall and well-built, but not large. His face was thin, and his neck was thinner, though it was musceled enough to save him from what would usually be a fatal gash. The man was also carrying far more swords than he could ever use. Four were sheathed and hung in loops on his belt, two were strapped to his back, criss-crossing each other, and another he held in his hand. It was larger than the rest, meant for two hands, and large ones at that. The sword in all measured in height the same as the man himself and on the pommel was mounted a chain, thick and slightly rusty. The rust was a strange gold colour, however, and at the end of the chain was a diamond ball shaped like a lantern, and inside burned the flame that illuminated the room. He seemed to be using the sword as a walking staff, and to a man who could smith better than his master at such an early age, it was probably as easy to handle. He held it with hands wearing gloves that were missing every finger but the smallest one on each hand, and the collars of his sleeves were large and folded back, like those of a sailor. What were most noticeable were his wide, sharp emerald eyes, and his wide grin. He couldn’t have been older than thirty, which meant that he would have had to been only seven years old when he forged the Robesmen.

            “Ah,” he said, his eyes alight with childlike enthusiasm, “Malagent! It is you! I was beginning to worry about you! And Meldin! You look positively lovely tonight!” Malagent took a step back and exchanged a worried glance with Swagg. Dirhem’s eager eyes traveled from Malagent to Swagg and back again. “Lovely,” he said again, and then his eyes traveled to Sanadred, who was lying on the floor clutching his leg. His grin widened, and his eyes narrowed slightly, his eyebrows rising in enthusiasm. “You, there!” he cried in his clear, soft voice, “I know you!” he bent low and kissed Sanadred’s cheek, “You father was a good friend of mine! He stopped my master from beating me when I bested him at his own craft. My master was a cruel one, you know! I made sure he regretted ever beating me.” Sanadred didn’t know quite which was more shocking: that a man he had never met before knew who his father, or that he had kissed him. Dirhem laughed at his shock, though the laughter was almost instantly silenced, like a flutist dropping her tune in the middle of a song. “You’re injured,” he said shortly, and without waiting for a reply, he pulled a long knife from one of the pockets of his rather large tailcoat. Sanadred attempted to stop him, or at least hinder him as best as he was able, though it was in vain, for Dirhem had already but away to cloth surrounding the badly broken leg. Swagg and Malagent observed with curiosity, though ready to interfere should the knife touch anything but the affected region of Sanadred’s leg. Dirhem sighed heavily.

            “You broke it,” he began, “stood repeatedly, walked on it, and even ran on it. Are you mad?” he cried. Sanadred thought this a rather odd question, coming from Dirhem, but the older man ignored this; instead, he reached out with his half-gloved hand and touched his fingertips to the skin above the broken bone. Sanadred hissed as a new stab of pain seared through his leg with each fingertip, until suddenly the pain receded, at first slowly, and then so rapidly that he began to marvel at Dirhem’s strange power over the bones.

“That which your bones are made of,” Dirhem explained when he was finished, “is at least partly metal. I merely had to melt the two broken pieces together to mend them. But now is not the time for such talk!” He cried, standing suddenly, and he lifted his sword-lantern to the far wall of the cave. All around them, giant boulders locked them inside a small room, save on the far side. A short barrier of rubble had formed there, but now that the light shone onto the it, they saw that a portion of the wall of the tunnel had collapsed just beyond it, a hole large enough for one man to walk through. “I’ll go through first,” he said in his soft, airy voice, “and then you three shall follow. If you do not, then I am afraid you will all have to die here, and have the rock eat the flesh from your bones until some miner stumbles upon your mangled, soggy skeletons. So let’s go then, and be jolly!” He stepped through the crack and gave a rather unsettling smile.

            “But where are we going?” cried Malagent. Dirhem did not pause.

            “To the House of the Lady of the Sea! She shall aid us in our endeavor!” This answer did not satisfy.

            “What endeavor?” Malagent shouted into the crack. Dirhem’s voice floated through the crack, chuckling.

            “Escaping this forsaken caved-in mountain!”

            “The mountain that you caved in!” Sanadred cried, but was met with no reply. There was a pregnant pause.

            “What about my house?” Swagg asked, finally.

            “Just leave him there. If you failed to notice, he’s dead, and quite pretty besides.” Came Dirhem’s voice. Malagent looked to his steed and saw, in the fading light, that he was indeed dead. The exhaustion, it seemed, had actually killed him.

            “Quite a macabre fellow, isn’t he?” whispered Malagent, and then stepped through the jagged entrance. The light was now on the other side of the wall, so in the blackness, Swagg saw Sanadred, backlit against the light of the crystalline lantern, step through to the other side, and then move out of side. He stood for a moment in the dark, cursed, and picked up the saddlebags from the horse, then followed.

            The chamber was quite sparse, and very small. There was a passageway that wound like a snake into darkness ahead of them, and Dirhem blinked once before setting off, without a backward glance. Swagg, Sanadred, and Malagent exchanged another incredulous look, then followed, each murmuring under their breath about being led through a mountain by a madman. As they walked, they studied this new, strange addition to their party. He tossed his head when his hair covered his eyes, and before turning, he would pause, and take a long, exaggerated step in the direction of the turn, and then continue walking with much more flourishing, agreed Swagg, Sanadred, and Malagent, than was necessary. They walked for what seemed like days, though was more likely hours, and were afraid to slow down, for if they did, Dirhem would almost certainly go on without them and leave them in pitch-blackness. Soon, Sanadred was complaining about his legs growing sore, and Swagg agreed, but adding that while it was no less painful for himself, that complaining would only result in an unfortunate incident that would leave Sanadred incapable of walking for a large portion of his life. He was quiet after that, but still muttered and rubbed his kneecaps from time to time.

            After hours and hours of this, Sanadred began to notice something that had not seemed to bother him before. Between the scattered conversations of Swagg and Malagent, there came other sounds from behind them in the tunnel. The ground trembled slightly under his feet, and yet there was no earthquake. There was a strong current of water flowing beneath him. Apparently, the Lady of the Sea Dirhem had spoken of dwelt not only in the mountain, but nearby as well.

            Sure enough, within the hour, they reached the end of the tunnel, and all but Dirhem were rather upset by it, for there was not passageway or House, or anything. It was simply a stone statuette carved out of the stone tunnel floor, covered in bits of fallen rock, and the end of the tunnel. Strangely, no one protested to being trapped utterly and completely in an abandoned mine shaft, for there was something eerie about the statuette that silenced them all. It had a vaguely humanoid shape, but completely featureless, for the rock bits and dust covered it too thickly, giving it the visual effect of a mummy left standing erect in the middle of a tomb. To the surprise of all in the tunnel, Dirhem suddenly knelt and laid his sword-lantern in the crook of the statuette’s arm. Before any inquired of him what he was doing, he muttered one phrase that echoed through the tunnel all around them: “My Lady.”

A note: it has been requested of me to provide a translation of sorts for the artificial languages used in this piece. For this reason, I have begun a small translation sheet for all invented language bits in this chapter, which I hope to extend to the rest of my story, at which point I shall add it as an appendix to the final installation. Without further ado:

Khealesh olesst - in the language Rhesspian

Kheal - as described, a feast or party, particularly a dance in when used in the party context. Originated about 3000 years before the story began in the southern reaches of this world (see my maps on my art page for details on the geography.)

-Esh - a suffix conjugation of any regular verb meaning ‘I’.

Olesst - Comprised of the word ‘Lesst’ meaning ‘night’ or ‘sleep’, while prefix ‘O’ provides the setting for present (in short, “this night” or “tonight”)

Repustesh d’Terre’

Cesechear uten ferrentesh! - in the language of Distreppia

Repustesh - Actually, this is a name from an ancient Lay. The described individual apparently ascended to a diety-like state over the Underworld. The name is being chanted much like a prayer.

d’Terre’ - The apostrophes are in fact glottal stops. Terre is a regular verb, “to grant” or “to bestow” or even “to give”. The d’ is a formality used only when speaking to one of higher class, and the final apostrophe is what conjugates the verb in the ‘you’ form.

Cesechear - in short, this means “upon” or “unto”.

Uten - “me”

Ferrentesh - Ferre is a regular verb, “to save” or “to protect”. Tesh means, simply, “us” (exclusive case).