Pages of Pain p-1

by Troy Denning

  "You what?'

  Karfhud shrugged. "It was a mistake – but I warn you, I will eat the other one if you do not quiet yourself."

  Tessali fell silent, but made the mistake of reaching for the charred hand. Karfhud pushed the elf to the ground, then stuffed the appendage back into his satchel.

  "I will keep this one, to insure your cooperation – and your silence." Without awaiting a reply, the fiend turned to Silverwind. "Bariaur, you will prepare your healing magic."

  The fiend's command seemed to jolt Silverwind out of his confusion, at least for the moment. "Healing magic – for what?"

  "We must change the Thrasson's brick foot for a flesh one." Karfhud removed his back satchel, then opened it and pulled an enormous wineskin from inside. This he held out to the Amnesian Hero. "You may drink your fill."

  Jayk quickly intercepted the skin. "That idea, she is a very bad one. When he drinks-"

  "I know what happens." Karfhud jerked the wineskin away, then thrust it into the Thrasson's hands. "Drink. I will clean your sword for you."

  The Amnesian Hero accepted the skin and yielded his sword, which was still coated with Sheba's saplike blood. The Thrasson pulled the stopper from the wine sack and took a long swallow. The stuff tasted like stump water, but it was powerful, and it quenched his thirst. Without asking the fiend's permission, he poured a long draught into Tessali's mouth, then passed the sack to Jayk and Silverwind.

  Karfhud made no comment on the Amnesian Hero's generosity. Instead, the fiend slashed open one of his own veins, then dribbled his blood over the Thrasson's star-forged sword. The foul-smelling stuff hissed and bubbled and instantly dissolved the sticky black gunk that Sheba's wound had left smeared over the blade.

  "Tanar'ri blood: the best cleansing agent in the multiverse." Karfhud dried the star-forged blade, then took the wineskin from Jayk's hands and passed it back to the Amnesian Hero. "Drink; this will hurt."

  "What?" The Thrasson demanded.

  Karfhud ignored him, instead motioning Jayk to sit down in the middle of the passage. "Tiefling, you will hold the Thrasson – and no biting."

  The Amnesian Hero was beginning to understand the fiend's plan. "Karfhud, I am not going to-"

  The fiend whirled on him. "Did I not swear I would cause you no harm?"

  "Yes, but-"

  "I warn you, if you are lame when you enter Sheba's lair, you will not leave again." Karfhud let out a long breath, then calmed himself and stepped back. "But the choice is yours. I will not force you."

  The Amnesian Hero thought for a moment, then lifted the wineskin and began to drink.

  "Good." Karfhud turned to Silverwind. "Are you ready?"

  The bariaur nodded, then kneeled close to Jayk and began to lay out the components of his healing spells.

  "Is there anything I can do?" Tessali cast a glum look at his wrist stumps, then added, "I used to be a healer."

  Karfhud studied the elf for a moment, then motioned him over. "Perhaps you would do me the honor of standing at my side. I may have need of advice."

  The fiend spoke with such compassion that, had he not been a tanar'ri, the Amnesian Hero would have sworn he was trying to make Tessali feel better. As it was, Karfhud's kind words only puzzled-and worried-the Thrasson.

  "Karfhud, I'm sure you know-"

  "Drink up, Thrasson!" Karfhud's eyes flashed like forge flames. "And do not worry about Tessali. Helping will do him good."

  "Indeed it will." The elf went to the fiend's side. "I am glad to offer what little I can."

  The Amnesian Hero raised the skin and took another drink. The wine had already filled his head with sweet clouds, but not so thickly that it had befuddled him as much as the fiend's flattery seemed to befuddle the elf. Karfhud kneeled beside the Thrasson. Then, when Tessali had come over to stand at his side, he grabbed the brick foot and, without ceremony, brought the sword down.

  The Amnesian Hero had not expected it to hurt – not really – but he had never been so wrong in his life. Even before his brick foot had clattered to the ground, a ferocious ache was shooting up his leg to his very heart, so paralyzingly painful he could not even scream. He noticed Jayk's fingernails digging into his shoulders, then felt his own fingernails clawing at the ground, then began to yell for more wine.

  Silverwind picked up the skin and poured a long draught down his throat, and that was when Karfhud grabbed Tessali's ankle. With a quick yank, the fiend jerked the elf off his legs, then raised the Thrasson's star-forged sword to strike off a foot.

  The Amnesian Hero pushed the wineskin aside. "No!"

  Karfhud's head snapped around. "You must have a foot!"

  "Not… not someone else's!" The Thrasson shook himself free of Jayk's grasp and sat up-then nearly blacked out when he saw the muddy slime oozing from his ankle stump. "Not… Tessali's!"

  "But he will be no use in Sheba's lair!" Karfhud objected. "He cannot fight. He can cast no spells. He cannot even cany our weapons."

  Tessali, lying on the ground very still, said nothing.

  "I won't… have it!" The Thrasson turned his tattooed palm toward the fiend. "I… will… die first."

  For once, Jayk did not inform the Amnesian Hero that he was already dead. Instead, she leaned forward and placed her lips upon the Thrasson's throat, then whispered, "We die together, Zoombee."

  "That won't be necessary." Karfhud released his terrified captive, then pulled his back-satchel over and removed the elf's blackened hand from a side pocket. "We can make do with this."

  "A hand?" gasped Silverwind.

  "It seems to be all we have." Karfhud tossed the appendage to the bariaur. "I suppose you have a spell of enlargement?" Name

  In the Thrasson's sleep, two disembodied hands-charred hands, with long black talons and black flakes peeling off to expose the mottled pink flesh beneath-brush along his naked body. They are cold against his skin, and scaly, and they leave a trail of moldering reek wherever they touch: his cheeks, his neck and shoulders, his armpits, down to his stomach, over his hips and back again to that area of dark tangles and darker cravings, along his thighs, past his knees to his feet, even to his toes; wherever they roam, he feels his flesh rising up in welts, swelling into thumb-shaped lumps that sprout tiny hooked spines and start to pulse. The blisters grow large as melons. They turn emerald and gold and ruby and jet, and ooze ichor, and throb like hearts, and so heavily do they weigh upon the Amnesian Hero that he cannot me. He cannot sit upright to look at his pod-palled body; he cannot lift so much as his finger to flick the fetid husks away.

  It is the beauty of dreams to reveal what is true without betraying what is real-or so I have heard. In truth, unless this endless watching is a nightmare, I cannot say. It has been so long since I dared to sleep that I have forgotten what it is to dream, or even to rest. Always must I be on guard, lest some god think to storm my ramparts; always must I survey those who come and those who go, lest one is the spy who leaves open the gate. To slumber is to surrender, for then my enemies will surely come and prevail.

  And it is the same for the Thrasson. As he slept away the wine and the pain. Ruin has come stealing along, to hold his head in her lap and tickle her soft touch over his body high and low; she has folded him gently in her arms and hugged him close, and it is her hands that he dreams of even now, each caress drawing forth another of the heaving pods that have been slowly ripening since first he entered Sigil.

  In his dream, the disembodied black hands sprout a pair of ivory arms from their severed wrists; the arms begin to grow, slowly stretching up to connect with the shoulders and torso of a naked woman. This is all the Thrasson can see, for he remains pinned beneath the heavy, throbbing husks-but it is enough. The woman has the full figure of a goddess and the smooth skin of a statue, and her humming voice is as sweet as a trilling flute.

  Slowly, it returns to him: the terrible shock of Karfhud lopping away his brick foot, the horrid searing of Silverwind melting the huge blackened hand onto his ankle, th
e dark sick tide rising up to swallow him, the shadowy fingers digging into his shoulders as Jayk struggles to hold him down.

  "J-Jayk." He tries to crane his neck back to see her face, but the bloated throbbing husks hold him down. Still, through the lingering haze of wine and pain, it seems to him something is wrong with the color of her skin. "Jayk? It's me-Zoombee."

  "Zombie? You mustn't say such things." The voice is female and familiar, but it does not belong to the tiefling. "You're far from dead, my love."

  His wine woman!

  She lays her palms upon the Thrasson's cheeks; her hands still feel scaly and charred. Her lap shifts beneath his head. She leans down, bringing her face close to his, her bosom flattening the bloated pods that cover his chest. The Amnesian Hero sees a visage classic and narrow, an aquiline nose, a cold, callous gaze – a halo of many-styled blades.

  He dreams the woman is me.

  An emerald husk, squeezed too tightly between their close-pressed bodies, bursts; green ichor oozes down his flank, oily and full of bitter stink. Wherever the stuff touches, he bristles with a chill nettling; cold needles of agony pierce his skin, then drive deeper with agonizing languor. So slowly do they sink that he suffers before he suffers. His dread deepens faster than the anguish itself.

  The Thrasson tries to push the woman away, but he cannot raise his arms. He screams, frightened by his immobility. All of the green pods burst, and the ichor paints him emerald head to foot; he burns with that slow, terrible scalding and shrieks and wails, anguished more by what he fears than by what he feels. The Amnesian Hero has succumbed to the first Pain.

  "Sssshhhh! You mustn't draw the others to us! I have waited too long for this." The voice remains that of his wine woman. She smothers his cries with a kiss, then whispers a trio of soft syllables: "Theseus."

  The word plucks a harp string inside the Thrasson's breast, sets his whole being to thrumming. Suddenly, he stops dreaming. Theseus was somebody's name, he remembers.

  It was his name.

  His eyes snapped open, and the Thrasson found himself lying on the hard brick pavement, looking up not at the Lady of Pain's face, but at that of his wine woman. She was beautiful as ever, with olive skin and emerald eyes and high, proud cheeks.

  "Theseus?" he croaked. "I am Theseus?"

  "You remember!"

  The wine woman gave him a moon-bright smile and hugged him close to her breast, and that was when the Thrasson – no, Theseus-that was when Theseus remembered the throbbing husks of ichor dinging to his breast.

  "No, wait…"

  A trio of yellow pods burst, filling the air with the stench of spoiled meat. A pasty yellow ichor spread down the Thrasson's breast Belts of crushing agony tightened around his chest; the pain began to sink, dropping through his sternum and slipping down between his ribs, settling deep into his torso. A blanket of grim wet pain fell over his lungs, and Theseus found himself fighting to draw every anguished breath. He felt cold fingers around his heart, not squeezing so much as holding, thwarting the swell of each beat so that his entire chest cramped with every pulse.

  As the pain deepened, the reek of the yellow ichor grew stronger and more bitter, until the smell grew so overwhelming that Theseus could not prevent himself from gagging. The convulsion caused more yellow pods to burst; more golden ichor spilled over his body, and crushing bands of agony began to tighten around his stomach, his legs, even his throat. The rancid rotten-meat stench grew overwhelming, and he knew he could not keep himself from retching.

  The wine woman barely had time to push Theseus's head off her lap. She jumped up and glared down at him, her mouth twisted into an expression of distaste.

  "Is the scent of my bosom so sickening to you, Theseus?" Her emerald eyes" betrayed no hint that she smelled the stench of the awful ichor that covered his body, nor that she saw the bloated pods clinging to it. "Has our love grown so repulsive to you?"

  Theseus shook his head, and a painful ringing echoed through his skull. "No. Our love is well – I am sure."

  "Then prove it." The woman raised her chin. "Tell me."

  Now that the green and yellow pods had burst, Theseus was not so heavily burdened. He managed to raise his head so that he could look his wine woman directly in the face. "I love you."

  Tears welled in her eyes. "You're lying! How can you declare your love without even knowing my name?" She began to back away, her lips trembling. "I thought you would remember if I told you your name-but you've forgotten me!"

  "No!" Theseus stretched a hand toward her, causing the last yellow husk to burst. His arm went limp and dropped to the ground, feeling as though Karfhud had stomped on his elbow. "Can't you see? I'm in pain!"

  "So am I!"

  With that, the woman spun and ran out of sight.

  "Wait!"

  Theseus gathered his strength and rolled onto his side, intending to rise and go after her. Instead, he smashed two red pods clinging to his flank. The husks burst, filling the air with a smell so cloying and sweet it dizzied him. The red ichor did not spill over the ground, but spread upward over his body, drawn into his flesh as lamp oil is drawn into the wick. His skin began to bum, then went strangely numb. He suddenly felt hollow and broken inside. A vague nausea welled up someplace deep in his belly, and what little strength he had been able to muster abruptly drained from his limbs. He rolled onto his back, crushing more red pods; he felt the ruby ichor rising into his flesh, stinging his skin with that strange burning numbness.

  Theseus thought the hollow feeling would start expanding again; he expected to grow weaker, to feel even more broken within. Instead, he experienced a fierce longing to hold the wine woman in his arms, to fill the emptiness inside him and feel her lips pressed to his, her bosom crushed against his chest, her loins grinding into his own. He could think of nothing but her, of his desire for her and how unfair she was to desert him. He would have her; he would hunt her down and seize her and make her understand that he had forgotten her through no fault of his own.

  The Thrasson's strength rushed back to his limbs. He pushed himself upright and saw that the wine woman had dragged him away from his companions. The passage was flanked by the rusty red walls of the iron maze and paved with the same dark bricks, but he was sitting in a small dogleg passage he did not recognize, and there were no signs of his four companions.

  It did not matter; nothing mattered except catching his wine woman. Theseus started to draw his legs up, and that was when he saw the hand.

  The thing was flopping there at the end of his leg, just below the inflamed, crudely stitched seam where it joined his ankle. About twice the size of a normal hand, the appendage was still ugly and charred and covered with scaly black flakes and mottled patches of bare skin. The pinky was where his big toe should have been, and the thumb was on the outside where the little toe should have been. The long fingers, seared and slender as they were, made the thing look more like a fiend's claw than a man's foot.

  Theseus tried to bend his big toe. The blackened pinky started to curl, and that was when his last red pod burst He had done nothing to squeeze the husk or jar it. The thing had just grown too full and split, spilling ruby ichor down his breast.

  Again, there was that cloying sweet smell and the strange numbness sinking into his skin. Something shattered inside, and a terrible, overwhelming grief filled Theseus. He would never catch the wine woman with that ghastly thing on his foot! And, even if he did, how could she ever return his love? If not a monster, he had become at least a monstrosity – hardly worthy of the adoration of someone so beautiful as his wine woman!

  Theseus let his body slam back to the ground, barely noticing as his skull smashed onto the hard bricks.

  "Karfhud," he cried, "what have you done to me?"

  The Thrasson had barely uttered the fiend's name before a blocky, homed shadow fell over his face.

  "There you are. I was beginning to fear you would not think to call my name." The ground shuddered beneath the fiend's steps, th
en Karfhud's yellow-fanged muzzle appeared over Theseus. "I cannot imagine how you wandered this far. Silverwind said you would be in too much pain to walk."

  "It was my beloved," the Thrasson explained. "She brought me here."

  "That cannot be. Jayk is still-" Karfhud stopped in mid sentence, reading the Thrasson's next thought even as it formed itself. "I shall have to keep a careful watch for this wine woman. It is a rare kidnapper who can steal a caper – comrade while my back is turned."

  "She did not steal me." As the Thrasson stared up at Karfhud's face, he was surprised to notice a thick coating of yellow ichor and a golden, goiterlike pod throbbing on the fiend's neck. "Had I been awake, I would certainly have gone willingly. I would do it now."

  "And miss the battle with Sheba?" Karfhud scoffed. "I thought you wanted to recover your amphora and steal my maps-or have you lost your ambition, now that you recall your name?"

  "There is still enough I do not recall." Theseus was surprised to notice another yellow pod, much smaller, dangling beneath the fiend's pointed ear. He wondered if Karfhud was aware of the two husks. "And whether I recover the amphora or not, I will never lose interest in finding the exit to this place."

  "Then let us return to the others; Silverwind must ready you for battle, and then we will attack."

  Karfhud stepped around to Theseus's side and kneeled down to pick him up. The fiend's body was coated in yellow ichor, and there were at least ten golden pods, ranging in size from no larger than a thumb to as big as Sheba's head, dangling from his body. The Thrasson saw no husks of any other color hanging on the tanar'ri.

  Before taking Theseus into his arms, Karfhud hesitated and glanced down at his body. "What are you looking at? I see no pods!"

  "Here."

  Theseus tried to pluck a husk off the fiend's body. He might as well have tried to grab a bubble; the pod burst the instant his fingers touched it, and a fresh wave of golden ichor spilled down the tanar'ri's chest.

  Karfhud hissed in pain, then glared at the Thrasson with yellow flames licking in the pupils of his maroon eyes. "Whatever you did, do not do it again!"