by Greg Curtis
Maybe if she had been a warspell. A wizard with the cast of weapons at her fingertips. They were said to be terrifying in their power. But they were also very few in number, maybe half a dozen in all the realms. And the other wizards, their poor cousins, they could scarcely throw a spark at another. Besides, as powerful as the warspells were, they could not match the greatness of the Mother. No wizard of any stripe could. Trekor clung to that as she approached the nearest guard.
“Halt.” The man called out to her as Trekor approached. She could see the look of horror and disgust on his face as he saw her and realised that she was of mixed blood. But worse than that she could feel the dark poison slowly eating at his soul. The hatred and disgust wasn’t a natural part of him. It was a disease of lies slowly consuming the goodness within him. He truly was a victim even if he didn’t know it.
“Everything is as it should be.” Trekor softly uttered the words as she let the magic of the Mother flow though her, and it seemed to work. The guard who had looked to be about to deny her, instead simply stopped where he stood. He shook his head a little, as if trying to clear the insects from it, and then a moment later he waved her through. Something dark might be poisoning his soul, but still there was enough left of the man that the Mother could reach him. For the moment. But if he continued down that path, in time there would be only an abomination.
She and the cats strode past him, while he stood there seemingly oblivious to them. And one by one she did the same with the other watchmen. All of them still had enough of their souls left to hear the Mother’s commands, and they couldn’t refuse her.
Surprisingly quickly she stood at the entrance to the prison. It felt more like the mouth to the underworld though. A dark yawning chasm leading to death and unspeakable evil. A place no one wanted to go. But she had to.
Taking her courage in hand, and letting the presence of the Mother fill her to the very limit she could hold, she entered the prison.
The moment she did so, Trekor knew a very powerful urge to leave. Quickly. The smell when it hit her was overpowering. Stale sweat, urine, blood and disease, all somehow rolled together into one hideous concoction that attacked the nose. And the noise, the cries of the damned as they suffered, tore at her heart. But worst of all was the assault on her psyche. The horror of undiluted evil and suffering that threatened her very soul. This place wasn’t of death. Death was good and clean. It was a natural part of life. Of the Mother’s cycle. This was something far worse.
Trekor took a moment to calm herself. She had to. It was as though the very walls of the mine were steeped in evil, that the whole thing was a gigantic monster and she was stepping into its very maw. The cats felt it too, and they growled uncertainly. But this was something she had always expected, and something she could deal with. It was just a matter of holding her nerve and keeping the Mother close. In this place the Mother was her only hope. And with her, she was completely safe, even here. As long as she kept her close.
So what was it like for those who weren’t of the faith? Those who didn’t believe? Those who were completely helpless? She shuddered at the thought.
“Calm yourself sister. We are with you. The Mother is with you.” She felt Yossirion’s message of calm deep within her and was grateful. He might be in the grove with the others, praying, and he might be a cantankerous old mule, but he was always with her. That helped her to get her feet moving again.
After all she had expected this. It was only that it was more than she had expected that troubled her.
Further in, and it was surprising just how far in to the broken mountain she had to go to find someone, she met another pair of guards, and they challenged her just as had the guards outside, drawing their spears and stepping towards her. But they yielded quickly to the Mother’s commands, and in any case they weren’t what bothered her. It was the sound coming from up ahead. The sound of people crying. Moaning in pain. Calling out in fear. The sound of people still living but already dwelling in the underworld. She’d reached the prisoners.
Trekor walked on until she found the first crossway and another pair of guards, and after they had yielded to her authority, she turned left to head towards the sounds of bitter torment.
Fifty paces in she found it. A dozen cells, in sooth little more than carved out holes in the walls sectioned off from the rest by cold steel bars, surrounding a central chamber where equipment of unspeakable evil stood waiting for them. Chains, racks, a brazier with pliers glowing orange on them, and a man hanging upside down from the ceiling high above. But as terrible as that was, it was the grey robed figure in the middle of the chamber that held her attention.
“Who are you? How did you get in here?” He immediately advanced on her hurling questions as he did so, and he seemed angry at the intrusion. He raised his whip towards her, threatening her, and the cats growled in warning at him. But there was no need. The anger was a mask. Underneath it was fear. She could feel it flowing from him. Complete and utter terror, possessing his heart and soul. It was from that that the endless hatred and anger flowed. It was because of that horror that he could commit unspeakable acts. He would do anything for his master, simply to avoid that terror.
“Cease.” She stopped him with a word, and despite his fear it worked. But she knew that it would not hold him forever. Not for very long at all. He was of the sort that had to be hurting someone. Because all the time that he wasn’t, he was living in fear. Inflicting pain upon others was his only release. And he had only a tiny fraction of his soul remaining to him. A tiny piece for the Mother to work with. But still she held him for the moment.
“Release that man, open these cells and follow me.”
He did as she commanded, unable to resist the Mother’s authority, and soon the man was cut down and all the cells were open and the people inside free to leave. But they weren’t able to. The beatings they had endured had left them broken in both spirit and body. Most of them just lay there, helpless, and she knew that they would have to be carried out. So too would the bodies, and though it was hard to make out the details by the gloom of the torches, she could see in the most distant cell, at least a dozen bodies stacked up in a pile like firewood.
And this was only one chamber in the entire prison. There were likely dozens more, maybe many dozens, and hundreds more dead and dying.
“Dear Mother.” She whispered the prayer to bring her hope in the darkness, before calling the still frozen guards to her and instructing them to help carry the wounded outside. Even with whatever darkness of the demon possessing them, they obeyed her. But then no demon was a match for the Mother. That was why the Reaver always worked through others and never dared to attack the Grove directly.
Strengthened by the sight of them obeying her, by the knowledge that the victims were being released, she marched on into the darkness, her new servant following her. And if the time came when his master regained control of his soul, she had two brave cats beside her. Even these foul inquisitors with their whips and weapons would not last long against Talos and Vir.
Chapter Sixty Two.
“Come child. Time to greet the Mother outside.” Herodan woke at the woman’s words, recognising the gruff tones of the elder immediately, but not understanding it. She could not be there. Not in this cold dark place. This underworld dug into the very heart of the city. This was not a place for the Mother or her servants. It was not a place for the living.
Still he looked up to see her smiling face. An unusual expression for a woman with such prominent tusks to wear.
“I’m dreaming.” It was the only explanation, though why he spoke it aloud he didn’t know. Perhaps because he’d been speaking a lot out loud of late. As the hours and days and maybe even weeks had passed, there was no sun in this dark place to tell him of the passing of time, he had started talking to himself a lot. After all there was no one else to speak to, and he had to distract himself from the pain of his wounds.
Herodan wasn’t alone in that. Often he hear
d the murmuring of others speaking, and knew that they like him spoke to no one. There was no one to speak to. Their voices just echoed through the darkness. Many more he guessed, had stopped speaking. They let their lives pass from them in silence.
“If you’re dreaming boy then it is a bitter dream indeed, and you are far from alone in its dark embrace.” She became firm with him, a mother scolding a naughty child, and something about her tone said that she was real. Somehow. “Now rise. Get dressed and rise.”
Somehow he did as she asked, clambering awkwardly to his feet. But there were no clothes to wear save the blood soaked rags on the floor, and he did not want them touching his flesh. They stank of corruption and disease. He smelled the same. So he left them, choosing instead to let the darkness clothe him.
The elder said nothing about his decision as he stood there before her, just told him to follow her.
In the main chamber it was a picture of madness that met them. The craziness of those who had eaten the strange spotted toadstools. That was the only way Herodan could explain what he was seeing, and even that didn’t make a lot of sense.
The inquisitors, eight of them, and some of the guards as well, were all busy whipping each other. Standing in a circle and sending their lashes flying at one another as if it was some strange ritual that had to be observed. But there was no ritual like that that he knew of, and regardless, no one would willingly allow themselves to be whipped to death. But that was exactly what these dozen people were doing.
The didn’t retreat or back down, they didn’t try to defend themselves. They didn’t draw their weapons and try to kill those who were harming them. They just stood there and let their whips fly at one another. And when they got hit, as they often did, they cried out like hurt children, sometimes fell down, but they didn’t stop. They just got up and kept on whipping each other with everything they had.
“Elder, I do not understand.” And no more did anyone else, and the prison was somehow full of people, staring at the spectacle in front of them just like him. Staring at the guards and inquisitors slowly killing themselves. More were staring at the bodies of the fallen, and so many of the cells were occupied by the dead. Bodies were stacked up like firewood. The smell of their rotting flesh was a part of what had made the dungeon so terrible.
But a few had survived like him. It was likely that they hadn’t been here that long, again like him. And some few others were attending to them, helping them stand. Hopefully soon to help them leave. And he truly wanted to leave this place.
“I simply suggested to these people that instead of whipping innocent elves they might like instead to whip each other.” She said it as if it was the simplest thing in the world. Maybe for her it was. Herodan stared at her, stunned by her power. She was an elder not a warspell. Wasn’t she?
“Elder, you are a very dangerous woman.”
What mattered in the end though wasn’t her power. It was that there were survivors. People that had witnessed first hand the barbarism and cruelty of Y’aris’ dungeon. They would talk. They would speak of things that could never be a part of Elaris. And they would bear the scars to prove it. They would demand answers. Questions would be asked, and the high lord would have to answer. Finell would be humiliated. And Y’aris would be destroyed.
And then he thought of something else. That he needed a very dangerous woman. There was something he needed for her to know. For all of Elaris to know.
“Y’aris is seeking the Heartwood Throne.” He blurted it out like an ill-disciplined child. But it didn’t seem to surprise her.
“It was always his plan.”
“But he is close.”
“No longer child. His plans are in ruins.” She smiled at him. “In the morning Finell will go to stand trial in the Grove, a couple of days ahead of time. Y’aris will flee before then.”
It sounded so good. He wanted to believe her. But her words made no sense. The Grove could not stand in judgement of a high lord. It was one of their most ancient laws. The Throne and the Grove, they could not stand against one another. Confused and perhaps even a little frightened by what her answer might be, Herodan asked the elder. He was more worried when he saw her face fall.
“I’m sorry child. Finell is no longer high lord. He just sits on the Heartwood Throne thinking he is because no one has yet challenged him.”
“Then Y’aris has won? He has taken the throne for himself?” That would be a calamity for all of Elaris.
“No. He has lost. He will flee shortly, and he still has too many soldiers at his command for us to stop him.” That sounded like a good thing, but the look on her face said it wasn’t.
“Finell is no longer high lord because he is no longer of House Vora.”
“He was disowned?” It was an incredible step to take, to disown one of their own, especially when that one was also the high lord. And there would be repercussions for the house, and for his father who was the only one who could have taken the action. There would be court cases, hearings and compensation paid by the house to both Finell and Elaris. It would be seen as an embarrassment to House Vora, and they could even lose their status as one of the seven great houses. But it was still a ray of sunshine in this terrible dark place.
“No. Tenir could not do that. Y’aris would have used you as a hostage to kill your father and the rest of your family, while Finell continued to sit on the throne. He had to take a far more desperate action. He seceded House Vora to the Grove.”
Herodan was tired and cold and hungry. He ached all over and his skin burned. His mind was nowhere near as sharp as it should be. And so for a moment he wondered if he had heard the elder correctly. Then he looked into her eyes and saw the truth there. The pain and sorrow etched deep into her soul.
“Sweet Mother!” Suddenly he didn’t want to leave. He didn’t want to move. His house gone. His life gone. Everything was gone. Death would be kinder. He would have fallen down if his legs could remember how to do that.
“Child your house is gone, but your family survives. All of them. The Grove has taken them all in and kept them safe. That is truly what matters. Your father made a courageous decision to save your life. To save all your lives. To save even Elaris itself. And he succeeded.”
“House Vora is no more, but its children live and they can rebuild it. What has been lost can be found again. But the dead cannot be returned to life.”
Herodan heard her words, but he couldn’t listen to them. They just weren’t important enough. The only thing he heard were the words in his head. Two of them, repeating themselves over and over again. ‘No name. No name.’
Was anything worth that? Was even living worth that? Maybe death would have truly been kinder.
Maybe there was still time.
Chapter Sixty Three.
“Damn!” It was only a whisper but it conveyed perfectly everything Y’aris was feeling as he looked down upon the prison. As he saw all of his plans coming undone before his eyes.
“Commander?” Y’aris waved the young watchman to silence with a quick flash of his hands, not wanting to answer any questions. The watchman had been right to come to him in the night, to tell him what was happening, but it didn’t help. Nothing would help any more.
Not when he could see the people gathered outside of the prison. Hundreds maybe thousands of elves, gathered outside of the prison, all in stony silence save for the forlorn cries of the women as they found the bodies of their loved ones. But that silence would quickly turn to anger he knew.
As the bodies were being carried out of the prison one by one, and the priests intoned their foolish words over them, he could feel the hurt and pain slowly turning to something darker. And there were so many bodies. Even more than he had realised. Hundreds, maybe even a thousand lay on the grass, each one even in the darkness showing the signs of the work of the inquisitors. His inquisitors.
For their part the inquisitors stood tied and bound in front of the assembly, and showing the signs of battle. Torn
uniforms, cuts and tears in their flesh, blood dripping down on the grass. Obviously they had put up a fight, but they had been outnumbered. Y’aris knew a small moment of pride in them for that, even though they were really just his master’s priests. And then he remembered that they had failed both Y’aris and his Master. They should have fought to the death. That would have been the right thing to do. If he could have killed them then and there, he would have.
And still the rescuers entering the prison were returning from its depths carrying more wounded and dead.
“Sir.” The watchman annoyed him again, and this time he didn’t seem to want to be quiet. “You should speak to them. Address them. Make them understand that this is all for the safety of the realm. For the glory of the people. That these people were traitors.”
The watchman was a true believer. Y’aris knew that, and he applauded the sentiment in the elf. There were too few who understood his dream, and he could see the light of understanding shining in the elf’s eyes. But he also knew that this was not the time. To go down there now would be to die. The people would tear him limb from limb. That was the wisdom that came with age, to know when to stand up, and when to seek a strategic retreat.