by Tom Lloyd
Twice he had to backtrack to find another route that avoided the enormous caverns. The first cave of torture had been horrific to look at even from afar, and the sounds that he heard echoing out from them left him trembling. Several times distant footsteps forced him to sit motionless in the darkness, trusting to the witch’s tattoos to keep him hidden - and he did trust them; the daemon he had killed by the torture cave had not smelled him until it was very close, and it hadn’t seen him at all until he moved.
For long periods Ghenna appeared empty, as he passed through desolate tunnels bigger than any lord’s halls, trying to ignore the loneliness and misery that suffused the air, then he would hear something stop and sniff around, as though guessing he was near - but each time the daemon would move on eventually, leaving him able to breath Ghenna’s foul air freely again.
Suddenly the sound of hammering hooves drove him to seek a hiding place further up the wall. As he clung, pulse pounding loud enough to disturb even the tormented, dozens of daemons poured into the tunnel, racing swiftly towards him and he found himself watching a gruesome running battle between enemies he couldn’t differentiate.
The daemons were appallingly violent in battle, ripping limbs off as if for sport, then Mihn had to swallow his nausea as the victors settled down to feast on the dead. Eventually the last warriors had eaten their fill and dragged off the remaining bodies, leaving in their wake only a handful of broken weapons and a carpet of black, viscous blood.
Mihn waited, shuddering, until the last sounds of the retreating daemons had faded into silence, but this time, when he resumed his journey, he felt a sudden glimmer of hope, like the first rays of dawn breaking across the sky. He started to pass fissures in the rock, and for the first time he felt a slight breeze stirring the stifling air. It stank like a charnel house, and did nothing to cool his sweat-soaked body, but it was more than welcome after so many hours of the choking still air.
Mihn realised the breeze must be coming from the abyss beneath Ghenna - and since even a gale would not penetrate far in this unnatural place, he must be getting close. Hope gave him renewed strength, and the next few miles passed quickly, punctuated only by solitary screams and moans that made him wonder whether the tormented down here had been left all alone. He saw no more great caverns of punishment or halls of the infernal, and almost without meaning to, he found himself searching the side-tunnel entrances for markings. The deepest pit of Ghenna was supposed to be reserved for Aryn Bwr, the last king of the Elves, called the Great Heretic by the Knights of the Temples.
It was said his name was inscribed above the place where he would be imprisoned for eternity - his true name, excised from history by the remaining Gods of the Upper Circle when he had been cursed, and condemned to the Dark Place, before his final defeat. His true name remained in Ghenna for it was a place outside the power of the Gods. Mihn wasn’t sure he believed that, and he certainly didn’t intend to waste time looking for it, but he expected to be heading there or somewhere close. Whatever path Lord Styrax had created into Ghenna, there would have been one waiting for seven thousand years to open up for Aryn Bwr’s soul.
Now the wind was blowing harder, and Mihn had to force himself to continue in the face of what was turning into a full-on gale. Ehla’s light was fading too, and increasingly Mihn was traversing tunnels with only his ears to protect him and his hands to guide him. Then the red tint would return and the coils around his heart would relax again, but he was reminded that the witch’s magic was no guard against the daemons of Ghenna. If they detected his presence, he would be there for eternity - there would be no last judgment for him, no Mercies to absolve him of his sins, only the unending horrors of the torture pits.
He slipped around another corner - and this time he felt an immediate change as the immense presence of rock all around him unexpectedly opened out, altering even the small sounds his hands and feet made.
The going was harder now, as Mihn found himself almost slipping down the rockface. A dull ache permeated his body, and the thought of the return journey started to sap his will, until he found himself at an entrance conspicuously edged in Ehla’s dull red light, glowing like a fire’s embers. Mihn touched the rock gingerly, but it felt quite normal. He checked around carefully - this was not the time to be surprised - and went through . . .
His hand closed on instinct, as if reaching for the staff he’d left behind. The chamber itself was small, anonymous, lacking the immensity he expected of Aryn Bwr’s prison. it was no more than fifteen yards long and only a few arm-widths across, no fitting prison for a soul that called storms and left its mark on Gods and nations - even though most of the floor was open to dizzying emptiness.
Mihn peered down the length of the cave and felt his breath catch. At the far end a figure was hanging. He was chained to the wall, his broken, inward-bent toes barely brushing the floor. He was naked save for the tattered remains of a cape he’d favoured in life. Though he was slick with filth and gore, still Mihn could see the terrible network of scars that covered most of the skin, testament to the horrors that had been inflicted upon him, and open wounds, some with implements of torture still protruding from the gashes, that dripped black blood. Even the left arm was patterned with shadowy scars, all the more obvious for the unnatural pallor of the skin, which had been burned white by the storm in Narkang. Isak’s face was hidden by hair grown long and matted, as though he had been here years.
Mihn looked around. There were a few thin paths snaking across the room, but he realised the daemon possessing Isak’s soul had little need of them, for there it was, clinging to the roof near its prize. Each of the six limbs ended in a splayed foot. Most were hooked into crevices; one was raised, covering its eyes from Ehla’s light. It had a sinuous, scaled body, and a frill of spines protruded from its neck. Other than a mass of raised, pointed scales and a pair of very pointed lower canines, Mihn couldn’t make out much of the face.
‘Jailer,’ Mihn called softly.
The daemon whipped around with frightening speed, but Mihn had not moved and it couldn’t get a fix on him.
‘I smell a soul,’ it said, its voice an oily, bubbling sound. It used Mihn’s own dialect fluently.
‘But no inmate of this place,’ Mihn said firmly.
The daemon moved a step towards him, one leg still up to protect its eyes. ‘That matters not. Soon your soul will be mine. This light will not hide you.’
‘I have other light to employ,’ Mihn warned it.
As he spoke the rune on his chest lit up, a sudden white shaft that stabbed at the shadows. The daemon stopped its advance. It faced him as best it could, but made no further movement forward.
After a moment Mihn looked down. The rune no longer shone so brightly, but even through his tunic he could see its outline. ‘I seek the release of the soul you have imprisoned here,’ he said boldly.
‘No! It is mine, my prize!’
‘Release it to me,’ Mihn ordered, ‘or there will be more light than all of Ghenna has ever seen. Release the soul, or I will blind you, and when others come, drawn by your cries, you will be helpless against them and you will lose both this soul and your life to them.’
‘It is my prize,’ the daemon insisted, sounding rather pitiful, ‘and of no use to you. You will never escape Ghenna with it. You will die a thousand deaths if you bring light to the Dark Place.’
Mihn recognised bluster, and realised his threat really was frightening the daemon, however much truth lay in what it said. Losing the soul to another daemon would hurt it, no matter what happened to Mihn. This way the creature would be grateful enough for anything it got in return . . .
‘You underestimate me,’ he said ‘I made it here without being detected.’
‘You cannot carry my soul all the way up to the ivory gates, little mortal,’ the daemon hissed, looking at him properly for the first time. ‘Better you leave it here than risk the hordes tearing it apart — ’
‘I have a better solution,�
�� Mihn interrupted. He looked at the white-eye chained to the wall, but Isak had not moved. He hung from his chains like meat on a hook.
‘This place does not obey the rules of the Land but the commands of its inhabitants. With your help the path to the ivory gates can be level enough to walk rather than climb.’
‘I cannot keep the others from finding you,’ the daemon snarled; ‘they will scent his blood long before you reach the gates.’
‘That is my problem. Will you help me?’
‘What do you offer?’
Mihn took a deep breath. ‘I offer my soul. To release this one and aid my path to the River Maram I offer my soul. I will be your prize once I am dead.’
‘You are not so great as this one!’ the daemon protested, but Mihn saw it edge forward and sniff the air hungrily.
‘Not so great, no, but you smell power on me nonetheless. My name is Mihn ab Netren ab Felith; I am the Grave Thief, slayer of a white-eye queen, the bondsman of Nartis’ Chosen. What claim I have on my soul I offer to you, and when my deeds here are known by the Land my soul shall be a worthy prize.’
He saw the daemon shiver in anticipation, and he knew he had won; it could barely contain its pleasure at the prospect. Finding a sharp edge on the wall Mihn scraped a finger down it, breaking the skin. He squeezed his finger, letting the blood well up for a while before flicking it in the direction of the daemon. It scuttled forward, snuffling at the ground until it found a droplet and delicately touched its tongue to it.
‘A bargain is made,’ the daemon gurgled, sounding like a drowned man in its eagerness.
It gave a twitch of the head and the cave twisted a quarter-turn around Mihn, so that Isak was now chained to the floor. Mihn, still gripping the rock himself, barely avoided falling himself. Isak’s head snapped back and for the first time Mihn saw a sign of life as the white-eye’s mouth opened and a weak moan of pain came out.
He hurried to Isak’s side, slipping a hand into his pocket to retrieve the leather gloves he had brought for this purpose. All of Elshaim’s paintings of Ghenna had included chains that were covered in biting mouths, and Mihn could not risk his tattoos being ripped from his skin, now of all times. The chains binding Isak were sharp-edged, shredding Isak’s skin where they touched, but as Mihn ripped them off him he saw the flow of blood quickly slow and the wounds start to scab over. Mihn looked at the palms of his gloves and was not surprised to see them already badly scratched.
‘Isak,’ he whispered as he freed the white-eye, ‘can you hear me?’
Mihn could sense the daemon’s evil delight as Isak did not respond. Though it kept its distance, watching them, its forked tongue tasted the air as though lapping up the last few scraps of Isak’s torment.
Isak’s white eyes were open, but staring at nothing. Mihn gripped one of the shards of iron protruding from Isak’s body and yanked it out, eliciting a low howl of pain. That wound continued to bleed as Mihn worked on removing the other bits piercing his skin, adding to the covering gore on Isak’s skin.
‘More use to me than you,’ the daemon cackled. ‘Leave it here and I shall grant you a long lifetime before you return to me.’
‘The span of my life is in the hands of another,’ Mihn said sharply, ‘and she carries a Crystal Skull. If you cheat her of it, her vengeance will be terrible.’
Once Isak was free of the daemon’s implements Mihn cradled his lord’s massive head in his hands and peered into his eyes.
‘Isak,’ he said piercingly, ‘hear me, Isak.’ The rune on his chest pulsed briefly. The daemon felt it too and whimpered, scrabbling at the rock in an effort to retreat from the light.
Isak’s eyelids flickered and Mihn saw even they bore the scars of damage.
‘Gods, how long have you been here?’ Mihn asked softly, wondering whether Isak would ever be able to stand long enough to be helped out.
‘An age!’ crowed the daemon from the other side of the prison, ‘ten thousand days pass in a heartbeat here, empires fall in a day!’
The figure at Mihn’s feet mumbled something in a ruined voice, still staring into nothingness. He couldn’t make out the words.
‘Then ten thousand days is long enough,’ Mihn declared. He held out a hand to Isak and commanded, ‘Get on your feet, soldier; this is the long walk home.’
Isak’s fingers twitched, but other than that there was no sign he had even heard the words.
‘Brace yourself,’ came Xeliath’s voice in Mihn’s ear.
Before he had time to realise what she was going to do a flood of magic surged through his body. The rune flared white, the daemon screamed and Isak convulsed as though caught in the teeth of the storm.
‘Get up!’ Mihn roared, buoyed by the energising rush of raw power in his veins. He stood and gripped Isak’s arm, pulling with all his strength. ‘Isak Stormcaller, on your feet!’
Somehow he managed to yank Isak to a seating position while crackling sparks of magic raced over the white-eye’s body. At last Isak moved by himself, his limbs wobbling as, with Mihn’s help, he raised his body until he was close enough to upright. The white-eye, swaying, towered over Mihn, but it was only the smaller man’s efforts that stopped him toppling face-first into the void.
As Mihn struggled to steady him, using both hands, he suddenly felt droplets spatter onto his face and he flinched away, thinking it was blood. Then Isak’s head turned and he saw it was tears, streaming from the man’s agony-wracked face.
‘Give me Eolis,’ Mihn demanded, taking Isak’s chin and angling his head so the white-eye was looking him in the face. Behind him the daemon screamed and cursed them both, but he ignored it and put his fist inside Isak’s clawed hand.
‘Give me Eolis,’ he repeated, placing his other hand on the rune on his chest.
Xeliath obliged with another burst of magic, but it was only when he repeated the order again that a spark ignited Isak’s eyes and the prison shook with a sudden crash of light. When Mihn blinked away the dazzling flares dancing before his eyes there was Eolis, lying in his hand: the long single-edged sword with an emerald pommel that had been bound to Isak’s soul.
Carefully, he unpicked Isak’s fingers which had automatically closed about Eolis, trapping his own, and took the weapon.
‘Leave,’ the daemon hissed frantically, ‘you must leave now!’
It darted one way then the other before stopping and waving a limb towards the prison’s exit. The rock groaned and began to move, widening until it was big enough for the two of them to leave side by side.
‘Get out, others have sensed you! Go that way; it will lead you to the gates.’
Mihn took a firm grip of Isak’s hand, leading the huge white-eye forward like a child. He held Eolis held out before them. The tunnel was empty, and there was a far shallower incline than the sheer slope he’d climbed down to reach the prison. He felt no warnings from Ehla or Xeliath, and though he hated the very idea, he realised he would have to trust the daemon - it appeared to have kept its word.
If any do come this way, he thought grimly, Eolis will ensure they keep clear. I intend to keep my vow, even here, but they do not need to know that.
Mihn walked as quickly as he could, with Isak stumbling along beside him and crying out occasionally - but still he matched Mihn’s steps. Mihn knew a white-eye would fight on with mortal injuries that would stop any normal man, the instinct to fight and survive overriding everything else, but these grievous wounds had to be sorely testing the limits.
The tunnel spiralled slowly upward, a long and regular path that Mihn became increasingly certain would bring them to the surface, but as they walked, he could hear daemonic voices coming from all directions. At first they were distant, echoing, but now they were getting closer. At last Mihn realised they were walking parallel to another main tunnel, and through gashes in the rock wall he caught glimpses of a savage battle, like that he’d passed on the way in, lit by dancing flames.
He thought they had managed to get past, free
and clear, when an oval eye appeared at one of the larger holes, and in the next moment a daemon had slipped through. It was smaller than the one he had killed, but far more solid, brandishing foot-long claws at the end of its arms.
Mihn raised Eolis and the creature hesitated, but it did not back off. It screeched defiantly at him and the sound provoked a flurry of movement; within moments the tunnel had ripped and distended to accommodate the bulk of a dozen demons, some even bigger than the white-eye Mihn was supporting.
Mihn’s heart sank. He couldn’t hope to fight them all, even if he did break his vow never to use a sword again, but before any of the daemons summoned the courage to face Eolis a distant crack of thunder reverberated through the rock.
The daemons glanced nervously around; that wasn’t the usual booming that echoed through Ghenna but a sharper, more immediate sound. It came again, this time accompanied by a crack of lightning that left them all reeling from the light. In the afterglow stood the image of a brown-skinned girl clad in brilliant crystal armour. At the sight of her, the daemons started squealing and fled as if running for their lives. Mihn started walking again, realising Xeliath was readying herself to step over into the Dark Place. Now daemons melted away into the adjoining tunnels as he approached, content to hiss and glare at him from the dark corners while leaving his path unimpeded.
Every hundred paces or so Xeliath reappeared for an instant, filling the tunnel with searing light, ensuring the denizens of Jaishen were aware of her presence. Without these regular visitations they would have been attacked and overpowered within minutes, but even the most gigantic of the fanged monstrosities kept clear of the savage force at Xeliath’s command. Mihn found himself whispering a short prayer to Cerrun, God of Gamblers: a desperate plea, that not even the princes of the Dark Place would risk fighting someone with such strength. A Crystal Skull was powerful enough to kill Gods and daemon-princes - who, even in victory, might be devoured by their cannibalistic minions if they were badly injured.