by Liara Woo
Halthren bit his lip, thinking. "Because…er… because I intend to sacrifice myself to the beast in the Pit."
Venthain shook his head in confusion. "You're stupid. Why would you voluntarily desire such pain?"
"Because I'm stupid, like you just said," Halthren responded, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes. "Will you help me find McCullough or not? He knows where the entrance to the Pit is."
Venthain sighed. "Come with me, then. I will take you to him."
Halthren dipped his head. "Thank you."
The giant of a man grabbed his forearm and roughly pulled him away from the crowd of villagers. Since that was what Halthren wanted, he didn't struggle and allowed himself to be half-dragged through the small village. As Venthain walked into a dark alley, he asked, "Are all elves as dumb as you are?"
"No, I'm the only one," Halthren answered with false cheeriness. Venthain snorted with laughter.
It wasn't much longer before the giant stopped at a dingy house on the corner of a road. "This is it," he said in his growly voice. He turned and stomped back down the pathway.
"Thank you," Halthren called after him, before turning and knocking loudly on the wooden door. The man who answered had a rather sickly yellow face and drooping features, as if he were a candle that had been set on fire for too long. He had a beard, of course—no man in Soor was clean-shaven, it seemed—and his eyes were small and beady.
"You're dead," he growled.
"Obviously I'm not," Halthren responded icily. "Or, at least, not yet. Now tell me the location of the Pit. Where is my friend?"
"You'll never find him," McCullough sneered. With lightning quick reflexes, he smacked the blade from Halthren's hand and pulled him into the cottage, slamming the door closed with his foot.
Halthren was thrown roughly to the ground. He sprang to his feet, his heart racing. "I literally do not have time for this," he said angrily. "I must get to the Pit." He's going to attack me; I'm sure of it, he thought, his heart racing. He held up his fists in a defensive stance.
"I can arrange that," McCullough snickered. He took a step closer, and Halthren backed away nervously.
"I don't wish to fight," he said, eyes narrowed.
McCullough took another step towards him. "You won't be able to." He looked pointedly at something behind Halthren's head, as if hoping the elf would turn away from him to look at it.
"I'm not falling for that," Halthren responded. With the speed of a viper attacking its prey he struck McCullough in the head and spun around, grasping the doorknob. But it wouldn't turn—the door was locked.
From behind him, McCullough grabbed his head and smashed it once, twice, three times into the brick wall before throwing him to the ground. Halthren struggled into a sitting position and knocked the man's legs out from under him. Then he staggered to his feet and quickly looked around for an exit. But his head, reeling from the blows from the brick wall, spun and his vision tilted; Halthren found himself on the ground. Frantically he pushed himself back up and swung his fist at McCullough's wrist, hearing the bones crack under the impact. The man yelled in pain but kicked Halthren in the neck, sending him back against the wall, grasping his throat and struggling for breath.
Before he could recover, McCullough hit him five times in the chest; unable to breathe, Halthren slid to the ground, his chest and throat aching. McCullough advanced, and desperately Halthren tried to raise his hands to defend himself. The human kicked him brutally in the ribs; Halthren curled into himself into a ball and tried to get his breath back as McCullough pounded his side. I never was good at fist fighting, he thought, dazed, as the man held a net above him. Within seconds he was tied hand and foot, completely helpless.
"Your wish is granted," McCullough told him. "You're going to the Pit." He hauled Halthren to his feet and untied his ankles after stealing his cloak. "I'd take your shoes and belt, too, but you don't have any."
"At least you're sending me to the Pit," Halthren replied hoarsely. "I can only hope that I haven't wasted too much time already." He spoke bitterly; he was frightened and nervous, hoping with all of his heart and soul that he wasn't too late. Will Joran still be there when I reach him?
McCullough pulled several of his floorboards up, revealing a deep stone hole with rough, uneven sides. Straightening, cradling his injured wrist in one hand, he jerked his chin towards the gap. "There you go. Jump."
Halthren swallowed nervously. "Won't you untie my wrists?"
McCullough shook his head wickedly. "That I won't do. But… how old are you?" he asked.
"I turned a hundred a while back," Halthren answered hesitantly.
"So you'd be twenty in human terms, right?" McCullough said thoughtfully.
"No; I'd be eighteen," Halthren responded, confused. "As we grow older, our aging process slows significantly. But what does that have to do with anything?"
"Well…I let the younger elves take weapons into the Pit. If they had one to begin with, of course."
"My sword is just outside," Halthren said hopefully. He'd been expecting no mercy from this man, and now he was being offered a weapon. Perhaps Nashgor doesn't have total control here.
McCullough fetched the sword and tossed it into the black hole. It was at least two seconds before Halthren heard it hit the bottom. "You're next," McCullough grinned. "Go. Now."
Halthren edged closer to the hole. It smelled like death—rotting flesh and bare bones. Joran is down there, possibly unarmed, and I've used up a lot of my time already, he reminded himself. With a deep breath to steady his nerves and another to gather his courage, he stepped off of the edge and into the darkness below, once more facing one of his greatest fears.
He couldn't help but scream as he tumbled head over heels into the abyss, with the darkness surrounding him so thick that it pressed against his eyes. Wind rushed past him, blowing his long hair back. His heart raced as he fell faster and faster, until his left elbow struck the side of the tunnel and slowed his speed a little bit. Then his bound hands hit the rough stone, followed by his knee, his shoulder blades, and his other elbow. The tunnel is getting narrower, he realized with a jolt of uneasiness.
Then his forehead hit the rock, so hard that he couldn't see for a moment—at least, he thought he couldn't see, but with the darkness surrounding him, it was hard to tell. Suddenly his ankle was caught in between two rocks jutting out, stopping his fall abruptly, and swinging him into the wall of the Pit. The back of his head struck the stone wall, and he was certain that he blacked out for several moments. Wincing, he hung by his ankle upside down. Ouch…OUCH! I think it's sprained…probably broken…
Halthren reached up and brushed his wedged foot with his bound hands, attempting to pull it loose. He reached up again, tightening his abdominal muscles, and was able to grab his foot. He wrenched it loose, and with a yelp of pain he fell five feet to the floor of the cavern. For a moment he was winded; when he got his breath back he groaned slowly, vocalizing his discomfort. His entire body throbbed; his skin was scraped and bruised and stung fiercely. He cut his bonds on a jagged stone protruding from the ground and got to his feet, relieved to find that somehow his ankle wasn't broken—although each step was torture.
As his eyes adjusted, he saw a large pool of water before him, lined by an uneven rocky shore that would be painful to walk on with bare feet. Not for the first time, Halthren wished he had shoes.
On either side of the pool, there was only a thin strip of land between the water and the wall of the cave. It looked too narrow to walk on. Beyond the far side of the pool was a weathered, rough-looking wooden door built into the wall, slightly ajar. I'll have to swim, Halthren decided. Joran's probably being held in that room…if he's still alive. He shuddered. Don't think about that. Hold on to hope.
Halthren took a deep breath, focusing on the chance that Joran was alive and well, that the beast in the Pit was no more than a rumor. Then he looked around for his sword. It should have been easy to find, since it was white and everyth
ing else in the cavern was black, but while he wandered around the cave and peered into every possible nook and cranny that could have hidden his blade, it was nowhere to be seen.
"Perhaps it fell in the water," he wondered aloud, his low voice echoing and reverberating in the darkness. The pool was dark and murky; there was no telling how deep it was. For a moment he was tempted to simply sit and wait for his sword to reappear at his side, but he dismissed the idea almost instantly. By then, Joran could be dead.
If he isn't already.
Shaking the thought away, deciding to press onward even without the sword, he walked to the edge of the pool, grimacing as his feet were pierced and scraped by the sharp, jagged stones on the ground. He began to wade into the thick, greasy water, but a sickening feeling of foreboding stopped him. Anything could live in these waters. Sea serpents would be the least of my worries. Krakens, sharks, cannibalistic mermaids…any of them could be waiting for me down there. He peered into the blackness, but even his incredibly keen vision couldn't pierce through the muddy liquid. Mermaids or not, I must get my weapon.
He continued into the thick, cold pool, shuddering at both the stench and the viscosity of the water. If this was Allagandria, the naiad in here would be dead or dying.
He felt something round, long, and thin under one of his feet as the water reached his knees. Bending down, he reached into the pool, grimacing as his bare hand and arm came into contact with the disgusting liquid. Trying not to let his forehead touch the water, his fingers touched what he was standing on. Instantly he recognized it as the hilt of his sword. He took a step backward and slid his foot under the blade; standing on one leg and balancing as only an elf could, he lifted the sword with his toes, reached forward, and took it in his hands. Relieved, he waded back out of the water. Oily residue clung to his leggings. Revolting liquid, he thought. There must be another way to cross. Perhaps the shore isn't as narrow as I thought.
Wincing, he limped around the pool to his left until he came to the place where the shore tapered considerably. It would be impossible to walk facing forwards without his toes meeting the water, but perhaps he could continue towards the door with his back against the wall, sliding against it.
Halthren pressed his spine against the cold, damp stone wall and sidestepped towards the opposite shore, taking care not to lose his balance despite the painful rocks jabbing at his bare feet. He was surprised at how long the shore remained so thin; from where he'd been standing, it hadn't looked very far at all.
As he edged past the middle, something slimy brushed his cheek. Startled, he looked towards it and recoiled in disgust. A slimy pink tentacle stuck out of a hole in the wall, curling towards him. He tried to keep going, to sidle past it, but in the one moment he'd paused, a second tentacle had wrapped itself tightly around his injured ankle, refusing to budge no matter how much he shook it. He drew his sword and sliced it off, but quickly another tentacle bound his sword arm and pinned it to the wall. Desperately Halthren tried to take the weapon into his left hand, but a fourth tentacle encircled his left forearm and pulled it into the wall. He was trapped.
He struggled fiercely, but more tentacles poked out of the wall, squeezing his legs and chest, constricting his lungs. The first tentacle he'd seen wrapped itself around his neck, choking him. If this goes on much longer, I'll lose consciousness, he realized in fear, his heart pounding against his ribcage. His mind swam dizzily, and he couldn't think straight. His vision darkened as millions of tiny black dots danced before his eyes, and he couldn't make sense of anything anymore. Vaguely he remembered that someone was in trouble, someone that he cared about, and that he himself was in danger. Then he blacked out.
The next thing he remembered was hitting the cold water face-first. Quickly he sat up, coughing and sputtering, kneeling in water that was three feet deep.
"Ugh!" he exclaimed as some of the filthy liquid dripped into his mouth. It tasted awful; exactly what he imagined rotting flesh might taste like—unbearably salty and thick, with the metallic tang of blood. Spitting and coughing, he stayed in the water until he had recovered enough to stand. Then, shakily he got to his feet, soaked to the skin and shivering. The water was as cold as the snow in the unicorns' land.
He waded through the oily liquid, giving up on walking across the shore. The tentacles weren't worth it. While indeed they had released him after he'd passed out, he had no idea how much time had been wasted. He'd rather endure the slimy water.
Shuddering, his arms wrapped around his chest, he walked onto the sharp, jagged stones towards the door, wincing as they cut into his feet. Gingerly he walked onwards, relieved when he reached an area of the stony ground that wasn't as rugged. From there, the floor was relatively smooth, and he strode towards the entrance to the next room more confidently, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind him.
Approaching the slab of wood in the wall, he pushed it open, cringing when it creaked loudly. Whatever lived behind the door would know he was there.
Halthren raised his sword high and entered a large cave with bones littering most of the ground, especially close to the walls. It appeared to be mostly deserted besides a small, thin figure with his hands tied to a stalagmite, kneeling on the ground with a bowed head.
"Joran!" Halthren exclaimed, running towards his friend. The young prince looked up, and Halthren couldn't suppress a small gasp of shock. His friend's face was barely recognizable, covered in scrapes and bruises. There was a nasty gash on his cheekbone, and his blue-green eyes were wide with terror.
"Halthren! Run!" he hissed. "Behind you! It's the Enterror!"
Dread filled his heart as he turned back to the door. A huge, furry thing stood in the doorway, soaking wet—probably from hiding in the lake. It had the head of a mean-looking black wolf and the torso and arms of a grotesquely muscular man. Instead of hands it had dragon paws with long, sharp talons. Its lower half seemed to belong to a giant great gray owl, and two scaly dragon wings sprouted from its shoulders. Halthren swallowed nervously, backing slowly away. I can't win against this 'Enterror,' he told himself. But I don't have to. I just need to grab Joran's hand and wish my way back to the unicorn realm. A brief image of returning safely from the Dream Kingdom, with his foster brother beside him, came to the forefront of his mind.
"Look out!" Joran yelled. Halthren snapped back to the present just as a massive clawed fist collided with his head, knocking him to the cave's floor and slicing his face. He shook his pounding head, trying to clear it, and the Enterror jumped on his ribs so hard that he felt several of them crack. The creature leaped back off and spun around, ready for another attack.
Clutching at his chest, Halthren staggered to his feet, gritting his teeth against the pain. The Enterror was charging again; Halthren raised his sword and chopped off one clawed paw. The beast roared in anguish inflicted not only by the injury—swords enchanted by elves emanated a fierce white glow to the eyes of all Dark creatures, and the Enterror had just gotten the light directly in its eyes. It was blinded for several moments.
"Get back!" Halthren shouted angrily. He swung his sword in front of him and sidestepped towards Joran. All I have to do is touch his hand…I'm almost there! I can do this! I can bring Joran home!
Instantly white-hot agony seared Halthren's heart, and with a long, drawn-out scream of anguish, his knees buckled. He collapsed to the cold stone ground and his sword fell from his trembling fingers. His eyes widened from shock and pain. What's happening to me?!
You are dying, the voice of Kylaras answered in his head. Your three hours are up. Remember, I told you that if your Light was stolen, you would only be able to stay in the Dream Kingdom for three hours.
"I'm such a fool," Halthren gasped through tightly clenched teeth.
"Halthren! You have to get up!" Joran exclaimed. There was a note of panic in his voice. "He'll kill you if you don't!"
The Enterror was advancing again. Halthren knelt where he was, his eyes closed. His heart and chest were still b
eing attacked by the most intense pain he'd ever experienced. I can't, he wanted to reply. I can't get up.
The Enterror reached down and squeezed the elf in its massive arms; Halthren instinctively opened his mouth wide, trying to inhale. For several moments he couldn't breathe, and the agony in his chest increased. Then the Enterror lifted him above its head and hurled him to the ground.
"No!" Joran yelled in anguish. Halthren closed his eyes, his breaths steadily growing weaker. Pain racked his limp body as the Enterror held him up again and tossed him into the wall, where he slid motionless to the ground. Halthren felt his heartbeat slowing down. Each breath became a struggle. A cloud descended upon is mind. Even as he lay dying, though, his eyes flickered open for what he was certain would be the last time. To his surprise, Joran was right next to him, watching over him with intense fear and sorrow. The Enterror approached them, a large boulder in its furry hand. It hurled the rock down on Halthren's chest, crushing his lungs and pulverizing his backbone.
"My…prince…" Halthren managed to say on the edge of a barely-audible breath, reaching out with a shaking hand. Weakly he wrapped his fingers around Joran's ankle. A shining thought pierced through the fog of agony clouding his mind. There are still a few seconds left. I can still save him. He grasped his friend's ankle tighter and closed his eyes again, imagining them both back to the unicorn land. Darkness closed in on them. Moments later Joran was wrenched from his grasp. "No!" Halthren cried out, although in the strange space between places he felt only a vibration in his throat, and he was instantly astonished that he had enough strength to cry out.