The Summoner

by Layton Green

  He moved the rest of his body across it, almost in disbelief. He wavered for the briefest of moments, tempted to see if he could wave his hand back through the line, and then stepped away.

  He didn’t have time to stop and ponder the impossible. He heard intermittent screams, and each one tore away a piece of his soul. He grabbed the wallet and sprinted down the corridor.

  He darted through the serpentine tunnel, hands up and ready, eyes straining for movement. Before long he found himself at the beginning of another long passageway, with the outline of human shapes at the end of it.

  He slowed to a trot, panting, and edged forward until he could get a better view. He didn’t have to go far. A scene of unimaginable horror, the physical embodiment of his worst fears, awaited him at the end of the tunnel.

  The tunnel opened into a sizeable cavern. Halfway down it, against a wall, Nya lay spread-eagled on an altar, hands and feet attached to leather bonds, covered only with a loincloth. The N’anga hovered over her, knife in hand. He reached down to Nya’s blood-smeared torso, made a swift wrenching motion, and Nya’s scream careened through the cavern.

  My God, Grey thought, mygodmygod, that monster is actually doing it. He’s performing the two hundred cuts on her.

  Grey’s eyes moved to the left. Viktor hung from the cave wall a few feet from Nya, head lolling and limbs slack, exposed flesh coated in some sort of brown dye. His torso was trapped in a devilish leather harness, attached to the wall by chains and iron rings. What did the N’anga do to him?

  There must be another entrance, and the N’anga must have surprised Viktor and taken him here. If he’d overcome Viktor so easily…

  Grey shrugged the backpack off and began to run. He didn’t care if the N’anga had seen him yet or not. There would be no more thinking. No more opportunities to twist his mind.

  As he ran he thought of Nya, the days and nights she’d endured in this vale of horror. His rage grew to an unbearable level, coursing through him like a drug, and this time he urged it on, he let it flood his mind and drown all thoughts of what had just happened in the corridor.

  Thirty feet to go. The cavern was too big for any blood-pouring tricks; Grey knew he’d be on him before the N’anga could surround him.

  The N’anga straightened and turned. He watched Grey, unmoving, and then turned back to Nya. The knife moved higher up her chest. Nya noticed Grey, and her eyes widened. She moaned his name.

  Twenty feet, and Grey lost his mind. There would be no fight; he would rip the fiend’s head off his body. He’d never hated someone so much in his life, and he knew he was going to kill him.

  Ten feet, and Grey fell through the floor.

  He hit the ground with a thud, with time only to twist his shoulder to absorb the impact. He grunted; he’d probably dislocated his shoulder. He pushed off the pain and jumped to his feet.

  He’d fallen into a circular pit, maybe twenty feet in diameter, with smooth rock walls. He’d only fallen about fifteen feet, but it was far too high for him to escape on his own.

  “Nya!” he yelled. “I’m here.”

  “Grey, no,” she sobbed. “You have to get out of there.”

  Grey started to respond, then fell silent. The pit was too high, too smooth, too solid. He’d been careless, and the price of his carelessness was high, higher than anything he could imagine.

  He was going to have to listen to her die.

  “Grey?” Nya called out again, voice shrill. “Are you still there?”

  Grey moved to the edge of the pit and placed his palms on the rock wall. He’d claw his fingers to the bone.

  He heard a noise and looked up. The N’anga was standing at the rim of the pit, staring at him.

  “Damn you! If you don’t get me out of…”

  Grey’s useless words died on his lips. The N’anga had started to chant, and he was pressing both hands against his left breast, over his heart. He was repeating a single word, over and over, in two guttural, ancient syllables.

  E-su.

  A thin mist rose from the floor of the pit. Grey started to back away, but he had nowhere to go. The mist slithered to his ankles.

  Grey looked up again. The N’anga now held a large jar in his hands. He tipped the container and blood cascaded into the pit. The N’anga poured it around the perimeter.

  E-su, he chanted. E-su!

  Grey moved to the center, cringing as the foul liquid splashed him. The N’anga walked around the pit until he had circumscribed Grey’s prison with the blood.

  The mist rose to Grey’s waist. The N’anga set the jar down and chanted faster. Despite his own whispered denials, Grey started to shake.

  He was about to find out what happened inside the circle.

  61

  Nya had ceased calling his name. Grey couldn’t hear anything except the powerful voice of the N’anga. He cast wary glances around the pit as the mist crawled up his body. He began to sense something—a thickening of the air around him, a presence—was it in his mind?

  He heard Viktor’s voice in his head, telling him not to believe. He heard the voice of his own reason, telling him he’d lived for thirty years and seen nothing that would cause him to even consider, for the briefest of moments, that this was real.

  But the immediate reality of the N’anga’s voice overrode those voices, as did the images in Grey’s mind from the past few weeks. He had seen. His mind spun and rested on that first ceremony in the desolate bush where he’d watched the N’anga perform impossibilities. He saw the victim trapped in the fog—the same fog that surrounded him now, behind the same barrier of ensorcelled blood that, just five minutes ago, he hadn’t been able to cross.

  As much as he told himself otherwise, he knew, deep in the nameless dark of the soul, he’d come to believe.

  The mist rose to his eyes. He stood on his toes, straining to keep his head above it. An unreasonable fear of being alone in the mist overtook him. But it rose higher, sealing him off, and his last image before the fog imprisoned him was that of the N’anga, arms raised and calling to Esu.

  The sense of a presence in the pit grew. Grey’s throat constricted and his chest felt heavy, as if a great weight bore down on him from within. He thought of everything he could—his training, his past, Nya—anything to take his mind away.

  But the only two things filling his mind were the chanting and the sense of oppressive weight in his chest, which increased with every moment.

  He’s here. Esu is real, and he’s answering his servant’s call. He’s here in this pit. With me.

  His heart hammered as fear pushed the limits of the embattled organ. Grey clutched his chest and backed against the wall. He was sweating, his heart was a bowling ball pounding inside his chest.

  Esu! the N’anga roared.

  Esu!

  Grey tried to gasp, but he couldn’t catch his breath. It wasn’t real, he kept repeating to himself, it wasn’t real—then why couldn’t he breathe?

  He tried to yell, even though he knew it was futile, but he couldn’t get the words out of his mouth. His chest was too constricted.

  Esu!

  Esu!

  His chest grew tighter and tighter, his toes and the tips of his fingers went numb—Jesus, he was having a heart attack! He stumbled about the pit, frantic, eyes roving.

  Esu!

  Esu!

  Grey’s breath came in short, ragged spurts—he couldn’t fill his lungs with enough air. He pressed his hands against his heart, trying to hold it together. He tried to relax his mind, but panic consumed him, reason a forgotten ideal.

  He crumpled to the floor. The pounding of his heart increased in tempo every second, thump thump thump thump thump thump thump.

  Something brushed the back of his head, and he scrambled to get away. Something’s in here. Something not of this world. He skittered on his knees, spider-like, and turned to look.

  He had to blink to believe what he saw.

  Angling down into the fog, swaying in midair
, hung an inch-thick strand of knotted rope. The rope from his backpack.

  He followed the rope and saw the mute teenage boy from the village, the missing girl’s brother, bracing himself at the top of the pit. Heart pulsing, Grey grabbed the rope and climbed out. Pain lanced through his shoulder and hand.

  His chest felt heavy, taxed, but the suffocating weight had subsided to a tolerable level, the numbness in his limbs had already started to recede. He backed out of the mist, which obscured everything on the other side of the pit, and turned to the frightened but determined boy.

  The boy handed him Lucky’s gun. He must have watched the fight and seen where it had fallen.

  “Go to your sister,” Grey said, his voice sounding like a croak. He took a few steps away from the edge of the pit, then ran and jumped as far as he could, into the mist. He landed with a thump on the far side.

  Grey saw the N’anga as soon as he stepped out of the mist. He was standing over Nya, not twenty feet away.

  Grey started towards them, this time toeing the ground. He raised the gun, then dropped it. The N’anga had seen him, and had his knife pressed against Nya’s throat. He held his other hand out, palm up and turned towards Grey. No words were needed. Grey knew the N’anga would kill Nya without hesitation, then move on to the motionless form of Viktor hanging next to them on the wall.

  The N’anga reached down beside Nya and picked up a scalpel with his other hand. He sliced through the thick strap that held Nya’s right arm. He raised her arm, then let it fall. It flopped limply to her side, deadened from disuse. She was whimpering. Grey noticed her legs had already been cut free.

  He’s going to take her out of here.

  Grey moved forward. He wasn’t letting him leave with Nya. The N’anga pressed the knife into Nya’s neck, and a thin line of blood appeared below the knife.

  Grey seethed and began to pace, watching them. Nya wasn’t moving or speaking. She was in no shape to walk anywhere—did the N’anga plan to carry her out? He’d never make it.

  The N’anga cut Nya’s other arm free. He reached down, picked her head up and moved her to a sitting position. As he raised her chest, Grey got a full view of what had been done to her. Her thighs and entire torso were a morass of flayed flesh and seeping blood. He gagged and looked away.

  Pure, elemental rage overwhelmed him. It was all he could do to keep from rushing straight at the N’anga, but this time he controlled himself.

  The N’anga stood behind Nya and cradled her head against the midsection of his robes. Nya tried to raise her arms; they managed a few feeble inches, but nothing more.

  The N’anga set the scalpel on the altar, the knife still pressed into her throat, and reached up to the ledge. He brought down a syringe capped with a long needle.

  Grey knew what needles that size were used for. The N’anga was going to give her a shot of adrenaline. He’d give her just enough life to walk out of there. Who knew what awaited them on the outside? More worshippers, more bodyguards, an escape route—whatever it was, it would involve more torture of Nya.

  Grey couldn’t let Nya leave these tunnels with him. But he didn’t see how he could get close without losing her. The N’anga jammed the needle into Nya’s thigh, and she jerked upright.

  She flailed, then calmed as the N’anga held her from behind. He shoved the blade tighter against her skin and said something in her ear. Nya’s eyes found Grey, pleading for help. Tears ran down her cheeks.

  The N’anga shoved her hands behind her back and held them tight with one of his own. He’d given her life, but not enough to resist someone his size, especially with a knife at her throat.

  The N’anga stepped back to slide Nya off the table. He got her to her feet and began to walk with her along the wall, towards the tunnel on the far side. His knife-hand never left her neck, his eyes never left Grey. He kept his own body shielded with hers, to further frustrate any thought Grey might have had of using his gun.

  Grey took a few steps toward them, but the N’anga cut into Nya’s throat, drawing more blood. Grey stopped, rigid with despair. If they made it out of the cavern, Nya was lost.

  He’d found her, and now the N’anga was going to take her again. Grey caught another glimpse of her shredded midsection. His stomach lurched. He couldn’t let him take her. She’d rather die than be tortured to death at his hands.

  The N’anga and Nya had only taken a few steps away from the table. Grey raised his gun again. The N’anga saw him, and Grey saw the arm holding the knife tense. There was no way he could shoot the N’anga without hitting Nya. He would have to try to shoot the N’anga through her, but that was almost an impossible shot, and in her condition, probably fatal.

  Nya looked straight at Grey. Her eyes met his, her warm beautiful eyes. “Shoot him,” she said.

  The N’anga took a step, and Grey stepped with him. Grey couldn’t let him go far; there was too much risk of another trick. This had to end now. He would have to try for a thigh shot, and hope the shock of the bullet would cause the N’anga to drop the knife. Grey pointed the gun, numb, his hand steady and his mind elsewhere.

  What happened next was a blur.

  A large hand wrapped around the N’anga’s neck, and another hand grasped onto the wrist that held the knife against Nya’s throat, slowly pulling the knife away. The N’anga struggled to regain control of the knife, but he couldn’t budge the hand that had appeared as if disembodied.

  It took Grey a moment to process what had happened, because the N’anga’s large frame covered most of the form hanging behind him, and Grey had been concentrating on the N’anga and Nya.

  Grey’s eyes followed the arm around the N’anga’s neck up to a huge shoulder, and then to Viktor’s face shadowed behind the N’anga, straining with all his might to hold the wrist that threatened to end Nya’s life.

  The N’anga had backed too close to Viktor, and Viktor was far from unconscious.

  Grey still had no shot. He ran straight at the N’anga, ready to grab the knife out of his hand and thrust it back into him.

  He arrived too late. As he approached, the N’anga’s eyes bulged in pain and disbelief. Grey’s eyes moved downward. One of Nya’s hands was holding the scalpel, and the scalpel was sticking halfway out of the N’anga’s abdomen.

  Nya made a vicious sideways movement, jerking the scalpel across the N’anga’s midsection. The N’anga sagged and clutched at his stomach as his insides spilled out.

  Viktor held the N’anga aloft with the arm around his neck, and rammed the N’anga’s own knife into his back. The N’anga slumped, and Viktor let him fall. He collapsed at Grey’s feet, crimson robes stained an even darker red.

  Grey pointed the gun at the N’anga’s head.

  “Not yet,” Nya said.

  Grey held his shot and toed the N’anga with his boot. He didn’t speak or cry out. Grey kept a wary eye on the still form, and reached out to touch Nya lightly on the shoulder. She stiffened.

  “It’s your call,” he said.

  Her eyes remained fixated on the crumpled form. “How long does he have?” she said, her voice flat.

  “An hour at most, probably less. He’ll die a terrible death.”

  “Is there any chance he’ll survive?”

  Grey eyed the wounds, took in the exposed organs and dark hues of the lifeblood pumping onto the cavern floor. “Absolutely none.”

  “Then leave him to die alone.” She pointed at the pit. “In there.”

  62

  They gathered two weeks later, at Viktor’s request. It was the first time Grey had seen Viktor since the night they left the N’anga to die. Nya sat on the loveseat in Viktor’s study, wrapped inside a modest-hued sari to conceal her bandages, her second day out of the hospital. She gave distracted replies when engaged, but for the most part stared straight ahead, her mind, perhaps her heart and soul, in another place. Grey’s interaction with her since that night—his constant visits and calls to the hospital—had been stilted, cold.
>
  What she’d been through, a horror which she had yet to discuss, clung to her like a shroud. Occasionally she would murmur something about her father and Nigeria, but Grey hadn’t pressed her. He had a brittle hope that, with time, they might pick up where they’d left off before the N’anga had taken her.

  Muse in hand, Viktor sat in his customary chair by the window. He was staring at two leather-bound tomes, aged the color of yellowed tobacco leaf, resting ominously on the coffee table in front of him. The Awon Iwe.

  Grey sat across from him in a hardback chair, remembering.

  After they’d taken Nya and the captive village girl to the hospital in Masvingo, Viktor and Grey returned to the cave. They stood above the pit and gazed upon the N’anga’s corpse with their own eyes. Grey had approached the pit with hesitation. Part of him expected for the proverbial tomb to be empty, for the man who had nearly managed to transcend mortality to have overcome death and risen to walk the earth once more, a lich among men, cursed and soulless and terrible.

  But he was there. He lay on his back, mask strewn at his feet like a forgotten relic. His face was tilted upwards, as if straining to escape the pit, his mouth fixed in an expression of pure terror Grey would never forget.

  What had terrified this man before his death—this man who had tortured and killed others, who had made this dank hole his own, who had stalked the corridors of evil each and every day? At the last he had looked upon death and trembled, but why? Had he seen inward at the final hour and shuddered? Had a vision of his eternal future presented itself, a last insidious whisper of where he was going and who or what he might meet when he arrived?

  Or had the source of his terror been external—had he called something into that pit, something that remained to see him off?

  They’d seen him, and that was enough. The N’anga would never leave that cave, at least not in a mortal capacity.