by Rob J. Hayes
I did not mean to drown the Pit. I did not intend to kill everyone in it. There is no doubt I would have killed Prig and Deko and the Overseer, had I the chance. I fantasised about it enough times. But I did not want to murder them all. None of them were innocent. The innocent don't get sent to the Pit. That didn't mean they deserved to die down in the dark. I would have set the scabs free had I thought about it. Liberated them. But then I would have been loosing violent criminals on the world, along with those who just committed the wrong crime at the wrong time. I have no answers for what I should have done, nor excuses for what I did do. All I have is grief, shame, and ghosts to follow me around. To make certain I never forget.
We made the short trek towards the city I had pulled from the earth. Well, the others did. I was carried by Hardt. A few of the soldiers followed us, at a distance, and others ran back towards the Pit, probably to fetch reinforcements. I, of course, already knew what they would find there, but I hadn't the heart to tell Hardt just yet. He knew many of the scabs, considered them friends. It is not easy telling a person you have just killed dozens of their friends. Waves of exhaustion washed over me. I felt off balance, lopsided. My left side weighed heavier than my right. Geomancy rejection, the body turns to stone. Both Aerolis and Ssserakis held it at bay for a while, but I held the Source inside for too long, and drew on it too strongly. From the tips of my fingers all the way up my forearm was cold grey stone, ending just below my elbow. I looked like an arm had been fashioned from countless small rocks. I could feel nothing from it. I could not move my hand or fingers, and it weighed me down. My arm was dead, all but lost. The horror of that realisation had yet to fully hit me. I was ignoring it, as I was ignoring Hardt's attempts to fuss over it. There was nothing he could do, nothing anyone could do. No healer or Biomancer could help me now. Flesh can be turned to stone, but the reverse is not true. Not even the Rand could bring my arm back.
Do'shan moved on. Whatever method the Djinn had been using to slow its progress through the sky was ended. The shadow of that mountain loomed over us as it passed. I imagined Aerolis up there, laughing at me, at the price I had paid for the deals we struck, but in truth that was unlikely. The Rand and Djinn both considered us unimportant, our lives too brief to matter. Chances were, I was already all but forgotten. I never again stepped foot on Do'shan. I do not count that a loss. It never felt like home, as Ro'shan had. No, I never considered Do'shan home. It is a flying grave, a monument to the woman I loved.
The Djinn's part in the spectacle was soon forgotten. Actually, it was never really known, but in the re-tellings of the story, Do'shan was edited out. Soldiers are ever ones to gossip. People like to say that fishwives gossip, that rumour and idle speculation are the realm of women at menial tasks. What a load of shit. Everyone gossips, but soldiers are by far the worst. I have it first-hand from a bard I once knew. He would enter a tavern and look for groups of soldiers, they are usually easy to spot, and either sit close by or insinuate himself into the group with a few rounds of watered ale. That's where he would get most of his stories, from the lips of idle soldiers. Of course, he admitted to embellishing them somewhat. I know for a certainty he embellished my own tales. The soldiers who witnessed my raising of the city soon forgot that Do'shan was there at all. All they spoke of was a woman, a Sourcerer with an arm of stone, pulling a city from the earth. I quickly became legend, a tale spreading throughout Terrelan and beyond, and all it cost me was the use of a perfectly good arm.
Hardt refused to enter the ruined city at first. I couldn't blame him for that, last time we had been there, he lost a brother. I caught him staring towards the closest entrance with a solemn look on his face. So, we made camp outside the city on our first day back in Terrelan, staking a claim but not exploring. I comforted Hardt as best I could, but we had little food and no alcohol, and my words seemed unequal to the task.
More and more of my ghosts began to appear. Some wandered aimlessly, fading in and out of existence, and I barely even noticed them. Others were more volatile. Deko's ghost spent a while trying to attack me before settling for scathing glares. He did not fade away. Along with the ghosts came the refugees. Men and women, soldiers and prisoners, all from the Pit. I had drowned the prison, but there were survivors. Most of the soldiers were stationed on the higher levels where the water took longest to get to, they made it just fine. A couple of hundred people in their uniforms, a little bedraggled, some quite damp. It turned out the soldiers were not as heartless as I had believed as a scab, many of them had stayed amidst rising water levels, attempting to save as many of the prisoners as they could. I do not know the full population of the Pit at the time of my return, only that fewer than fifty of them made it out. Hundreds died. Maybe thousands. Not since the war had I been responsible for so many deaths. The guilt of that weighed more heavily than I realised.
At first the soldiers threatened, postured. They outnumbered us, but none dared get too close to Horralain and his hammer. There were threats of arrest and detainment, royal judgement for the destruction of the empire's largest prison, but threats are nothing without the will to back them. Word was already spreading through the soldiers and prisoners; those who saw what I had done were talking, and there I was at the centre of it. Cloaked in subtly shifting shadow, an arm made of stone, eyes that flashed with the fury of a storm.
There is a power to appearance. You can claim to be a king, but if you do not look the part no one will take you at your word. I sat at the foot of a city that had risen from the dirt. Two of the largest Terrelans I have ever seen stood ready to defend me yet deferring to me as their leader. I was wreathed in power, even without Sources in my stomach it crackled around me. I made no claim to rule, said nothing in the face of those soldiers and their threats, yet my appearance made certain claims for me.
A couple of the prisoners, scabs I might have once known, broke free from the collecting soldiers. They ran towards me, pulling up short as Horralain stepped in the way, hammer held high. Him, they certainly recognised, I could see it in their faces.
"Asylum," shouted one of the scabs, a tall woman with dirt lining her every wrinkle. She dropped to her knees before me, her eyes on me rather than the giants between us. The other scab, a man with a grimy black beard, followed suit. The soldiers chasing slowed to a halt, clearly nervous and rightly so. "Please. Grant asylum. We're…"
"Prisoners," I interrupted. "Scabs from the Pit." The woman's eyes searched my face and found no recognition there. I had been famous in my time down in the Pit, or infamous at least, but I think the changes wrought upon me were too great. I was much older than when I had left, more scarred, harder, and built like a warrior. My eyes flashed and much of the rest of me was hidden in shadow thanks to Ssserakis. Imiko later said that I looked like some sort of dark queen sitting in judgement. I suppose she was not far wrong.
"We're innocent." A bold claim, and a lie.
"Nobody from the Pit is innocent." I said it quietly, yet the words seemed to carry. It was not Vibromancy, but that everyone nearby was straining to listen as though my words held more weight than the swords the soldiers carried. "I know first-hand." I stood, hiding the pain it caused me, and a black cloak of shadow billowed out behind me. I have called Ssserakis many things over the years, but I cannot deny the horror had a flair for the dramatic and it certainly used it to further my reputation. Hardt and Horralain stepped aside as I walked past them. Hardt gave me a nod, a subtle sign of what I should do; north on the moral compass. He had been down in the Pit for far longer than I; he knew many of its inhabitants.
Guilt and innocence are absolutes, but punishment should not be universal. Stealing an apple is the not the equal crime of murder. It was long said that only the worst criminals are sent to the Pit. Murderers, thief lords, rapists, those of us guilty of war crimes. It is not entirely accurate. The Pit was simply where prisoners were sent to be forgotten. Hardt served his kingdom for years as a privateer, a pirate in all but name and employment. He was
sanctioned by the Terrelan Empire, until the crime came to light in the presence of foreign dignitaries, and then he was sent to the Pit for his part in the murders he committed and the ships that he scuttled. Forgotten, and no longer an embarrassment. How many others suffered similar fates for crimes they were ordered to commit? How many scabs were soldiers who deserted their units rather than participate in a war that saw cities razed and civilians brutalised? How many prisoners had served their time down there in the dark?
Asylum. Another word for shelter, protection from persecution. Silva had granted me asylum once. She'd prevented the executioner's blade from ending my life. A life saved, though she never told me what the decision cost her. That was the thought in my mind right at that moment, that Silva had once given to me what these two scabs asked for. She was making me a better person, even months after I had killed her.
"I grant asylum." The words slid from my mouth and the importance hung heavy in the air. Asylum is most often granted by a state, not a single person. Without even realising it, I had just started my own little kingdom, right there in the heart of Terrelan.
"This is treason!" The boldest of the soldiers shouted, rushing forward sword drawn. I couldn't back up, couldn't show weakness or fear, yet I also couldn't fight. It was taking all the will I could muster just to stay on my feet, and though Ssserakis was doing a good job of making me appear sinister, the horror was not strong enough to do much else after holding back Aerolis and the toll the magic had taken on my body. Luckily for us both, Horralain was there.
The thug stepped past me, moving me aside with a gentle push, and stepping into the oncoming soldier. He brushed aside the sword stroke with the haft of the hammer, and pivoted it, slamming the head into the soldier. Shatter lives up to its name. The soldier shattered into chunks of bloody flesh. More than a few people lost their stomachs that day, and I was the only one with Sources as an excuse. To his credit, even Horralain looked horrified with the consequences of his single hammer blow. In the confusion that followed, more of the scabs broke free from their guards and ran toward us. Horralain held his hammer up as a ward, but he needn't have bothered. More men and women threw themselves at my feet and begged for my protection. Suddenly I found myself offering asylum to not one or two, but fifty inmates from the Pit. Some offered meagre belongings in exchange, while others offered their fealty. It made me smile that one man offered a particularly long length of rope from around his waist. Whether he knew it or not, he and his rope had been instrumental in our escape from the Pit years earlier. Perhaps even stranger than the scabs, many of the soldiers came forward as well, laying their weapons on the earth and offering service in return for home and protection. I will admit, this confused me somewhat. It was not until I took the time to speak to some of the soldiers, that I discovered the Pit was as much a punishment for them as it was the prisoners. Men and women of the Terrelan army were sent to the Pit for life, to carry out the full term of their careers underground, or close to it, guarding nothing. The Pit had been run by the inmates, and most of the scabs never even saw a soldier after they were sent into the lower levels. Many of them wanted out, a new career or maybe just a new master.
By the time that day was done, I had one hundred and sixty-two members of my new little kingdom. Soldiers and prisoners, and many had trades they could still remember working. I should have looked more closely at those I was accepting into my service. I would have noticed one of them was off. One of the scabs did not belong. For a start, she was far too beautiful to have spent time down in the Pit.
Chapter 17
In the days that followed I let Tamura take up much of the heavy lifting in regards to organising my new little kingdom. It was more like a collaboration between Tamura and Imiko, as most people needed someone to translate his mad ramblings into something approaching workable orders. The old Aspect was a natural, easily listening to others and directing them where they were most needed, and where they could benefit us most. Before long we had scavengers out for food, foragers picking their way through the forest, people with axes chopping down trees, and small patrols to act as an early warning, should the Terrelan army turn up in force. I hoped they wouldn't, we were not ready for such a conflict. I was not ready for such a conflict. But our enemies rarely wait for us to be ready.
We had moved into the city I raised from the earth, occupying the ground levels and keeping close to one another. There were no windows in any of the rooms and all were interconnected, such is the problem of occupying a city that was built underground and never intended to see the light of day. Luckily for us, the scabs from the Pit were nothing if not experts at digging, so we set about shining light onto the upper levels of the city, while the lower levels would remain in darkness. Most of the city was still buried and unexplored. There were imps down there somewhere, and Damned too. Enemies infesting the lower levels of my empire. I had two choices. Either we sealed off the lower levels as best we could and ignored the problem, or we ventured out into the dark to deal with the monsters beneath us. You can probably guess which option I chose. I've never been very good at leaving a thing alone.
Somewhat predictably, not many of the scabs were willing to join my little expedition into the dark. I couldn't blame them, they had so recently escaped a life without light, most of them spent as much time as possible outside, staring at the sky in wonder. Though there were a few who had a very different reaction. Some of the scabs feared the sky and the daylight. They had spent so long down in the Pit, the idea of freedom, of open space where walls cannot be seen, scared them. I could feel the fear and detect its cause without even being told.
My bond with Ssserakis was deepening, and with it came a deeper connection to my horror's powers. I think it was that deepening bond that allowed Ssserakis to control my shadow more easily. What once had been a draining struggle, was now easy for it. I wore my own shadow like a cloak, hood pulled up so only my flashing eyes could be seen in the depths of that darkness. It was an image I was keen to maintain. Shadow is an odd thing when made tangible by magic. It felt like silk beneath my fingers and flowed easily while also clinging to my form, yet Ssserakis could dismiss it at will and it would simply fade away, my normal shadow returning.
Horralain was, of course, the first to my side when I announced I was heading into the depths of the city. Hardt attempted to join us, but I convinced him otherwise. Isen had died down there, and it was a pain Hardt did not need to revisit. Besides, I knew there would likely be killing involved. The Damned would not be cowed or parleyed with like the feral pahht. They were vicious and animalistic and would attack us on sight. We had no choice but to exterminate them like the pests they are. We terrans share far more than we would like to admit with our ancestors. We are good at making war and confused by peace.
By the time we set off, my little group of explorers was ten strong. Horralain and I, six soldiers eager to do something other than patrol, and two scabs who seemed more scared of the sky than the dark. One of the scabs claimed to be a cartographer, at least in her earlier life, and volunteered to map our progress. We took chalk to mark our way, torches to light our way, and weapons to cut our way.
I went first, much to Horralain's grumbling. It was his job to protect me after all, but he soon relented when I made it an order to stay behind me. Besides, I could see in the dark, he could not. With the torches to my back, I let Ssserakis' sight guide us. My horror painted the tunnels in black and white, details clearly defined but devoid of colour. With that sight I could see dozens of feet down the corridors of the city, far more than any torchlight would reach. I am told Photomancers can achieve a similar effect with their magic; they can sap colour from sight, or bring those colours bursting to life so much more vibrant than before. They see in spectrums the rest of us cannot even begin to understand. It is perhaps why so many of them are driven mad by their magic. Photomancy rejection takes an interesting form. The Sourcerer begins to blur, then their colours separate in seven different versions
of themselves, each cast in a different hue. Eventually all seven of their forms simply shatter, and they become one with the light. I'm not sure what that means, but the result is like any other rejection. They die. Painfully.
Progress was slow as we checked every room, our cartographer making notes as to possible purposes. Some were designated as living quarters, others as places of industry or storage. I'm not sure what qualified each room for its intended purpose, but then it's a ruler's job to delegate tasks to those best suited to them. My own version of rule was not so much delegating the tasks, as allowing others to take them upon themselves. It seemed to work out well in the beginning.
I was not as graceful as I would have liked, especially considering I was ahead of the others with their torchlight illuminating my every move. My left arm was heavy and awkward. Hardt had advised resting it in a sling to take some of the weight off, but I could still move the arm itself, only the hand and wrist and much of the forearm were stone. It was useless, but I would rather have it free than strapped to my chest. I carried a Sourceblade in my right hand, short and perfect for close confines, sharp as a razor. It glowed with an inner light, Kinemancy and Pyromancy mixing together inside. A sword that could burn and cut at the same time.
Sound echoed strangely down there, making it tough to determine the source. Our own footsteps rang back at us, and more than once I had to quiet our party to hear what sounded like whispers so far away they might have been the whistling of the wind. But there were words buried beneath the noise. Old words. A language I didn't know. One so old even Ssserakis did not know it.