Concern for my own well-being isn’t usually what garners a response from me. And Tobias knows this. So he quickly switches tactics. “They’re coming, Solomon. They’ve found us!”
I’m listening, but I’m still far from moving. “They’ve found them. Em and Luca. If you don’t get up—” He doesn’t need to finish. I’m up and running, concealed by the cyclone, but this time I sustain the opening and double my pace. I’m not doing this for me. I’m doing this for them. For Em. For Luca. For Aimee.
And for Tobias.
Get up!
I chose to be here.
Get up, Solomon!
For them.
“I’m up,” I say.
I look to my right, and then to the left. Left, I think. That’s where I was headed. As the biting chill, held at bay by the book’s distraction, settles in around me, I put my book away, turn left, and run.
4
I grow tired almost immediately. But I focus on the true voice of Tobias, urging me onward, and I push forward. My effort must be considered a crime in this place, because the weight on my shoulders becomes palpable. I can feel something—a force—pushing down on me. Holding me back. Like I’m in a dream.
Maybe that’s it, I think. Maybe this is all a dream?
In a strange sort of way, it would make sense. After passing through the gate, into the darkness, the traveler falls asleep. Then maybe someone, some kind of caretaker, drags your sleeping body deeper underground where aging is slowed so much it’s actually stopped. And then, in the pliable world of the sleeping mind, the prisoner is forced to grapple with his own self-doubt, fears and weakness. This place is barren. All stone and orange sky. My mind could have easily conjured the image.
And if this is all in my mind, I can control it. I once read about something called “lucid dreaming.” Essentially, the dreamer recognizes they’re dreaming and then controls the dream, bending it to their will. People routinely realize they’re in a dream, but typically wake very quickly when they do. Lucid dreamers use various techniques to stay in the dream. Dream spinning (spinning in circles) or physical contact—rubbing your hands together or touching the ground—supposedly work well.
But I’ve also learned to control the reality my mind creates thanks to Xin. So, I should be able to manage it here.
I pause my running. Each labored breath accentuates the cramp twisting in my side.
It certainly feels physical.
But dreams can, too. So I focus on the world around me and try to change it.
Nothing happens.
Wait, I think. I’m warmer. Then I realize that I only feel slightly warmer from running. Everything else is the same. Can’t say I’m surprised. This might all be in my mind, but inside Tartarus, whatever it is, I can’t control things. And I can’t wake up.
The angry weight settles heavier. It strikes so suddenly that I pitch forward. I catch myself against the wall of the gorge. My foot lands hard, but not on solid stone.
There is a squishing sound as something lukewarm oozes up between my bare toes. The mush gives way to something hard and splintery. I feel, more than hear, the tiny things snap under my weight. All of this happens in a fraction of a second. Before I’ve put all of my weight down, I flinch back, and fall over.
The gravity inside Tartarus seems to increase suddenly. I fall hard, harder than I should from a standing position. And my body lacks the strength to slow me down. I hit the stone floor hard, knocking the air from my lungs. I wheeze and for a moment, I fear I won’t be able to catch my breath.
I can’t die, I tell myself. Relax. Breathe. Focus.
My chest expands a little more with each breath and my thoughts clear. My foot is wet. I stepped in something. After looking at my elbows for wounds and finding none, I push myself up and draw my foot in close. There is a smear of thick red fluid on the sole.
Blood.
But it’s not mine. There’s too much and I don’t see a wound.
Well, that’s not entirely true. There seems to be a large splinter of something jabbed between my first and second toes. It’s a small, curved spear of white. I take hold of it and tug gently. The inch long splinter slides cleanly out. A bead of blood emerges from the wound, but that’s it. I can’t even feel the sting. I’m far too cold for that.
I look at the spine up close. Is it a quill? No, I think, it’s not barbed. Images of high school science books and dissection diagrams come to mind. It looks like a rib. Like a mouse rib.
Curiosity pulls me up onto my hands and knees. I lean forward searching for the spot where my foot fell.
It’s not hard to find.
The small body is surrounded by a syrupy pool of blood and other, oddly colored bodily fluids. As for the creature, I can’t say what it is. Or was. It’s been brutalized. Torn to pieces. And it looks like the whole thing is here. Four legs. Two small arms. It must have walked like an insect, but also had functional arms. The skin is green, and slick with slime, like a frog.
The torso looks like it was torn open, not cut, and the skin has been peeled back. The organs are gone. I find them splattered against the wall nearby, glued to the surface by the drying fluids. The exposed ribcage has been snapped open on either side, the small spiked ends pointing skyward. One rib is missing.
I look at the small rib clutched between my fingers, then toss it down on the ground and turn my attention back to the mutilated corpse. The lungs, like the other organs, have been torn out. They rest on the cavern floor nearby. When I see the heart, I have no doubt that whatever did this was evil. The grape-sized heart rests in the center of the exposed ribs, still attached to the body by several arteries. But the organ has been crushed, and burst open.
This creature did not die peacefully.
I have killed small creatures in the past. If I had come across it living, I would have killed it now. But for food. And swiftly. Not like this. This was…
Torture.
But why? This small thing couldn’t be a Nephilim.
A realization strikes. This is real. This creature, the likes of which I have never seen before, once lived. And was killed by something else living. Something other than me.
This is not a dream, I think as I stand up. I wring my hands together and begin to shiver, as much from fear as from the cold.
I’m not alone.
And whatever else lurks in this gorge with me, likes to torture things.
But I’m not defenseless. I place a hand on Whipsnap. Its presence reassures me. But my withered body betrays me. Could I even lift Whipsnap? I don’t think so. Be prepared, I think, quoting the Boy Scouts jingle I grew up with. The tune plays in my thoughts.
Are you ready to get involved?
Be prepared! Are you ready to take the lead?
“No, and no,” I say.
But what choice do I have? I’m here. I’m stuck here. Forever. So what’s the point in going the other way? I might be physically weaker, but I’m not a coward. Not any more. I’ve faced my fears before. I can do it now.
I reach into my hip pack and take out my climbing claws. I created them myself, fashioning them from feeder leather and teeth. The big triangular teeth are serrated, like sharks’ teeth, and they can cut through most any flesh with ease. They’re based on the ninja climbing claws in Justin’s old ninja magazines, but these are more functional as weapons. When I slide them on my hands and cinch them tight, I’ve got three triangular blades on the palm side, but I also have three more spiky blades over my knuckles. My hands are now lethal. And they don’t weigh much, so even in my weakened state I should be able to use them.
When I step out into the gorge and look down the winding tunnel, I’m not so sure.
Ten feet further is a second body. Like the first, it has been mutilated beyond recognition.
Beyond that is another.
And another.
The trail of blood and guts covers nearly a hundred feet before disappearing around a bend. I step forward, careful to avoid the blood
and organs littering the floor. It’s slow going, but at least the sight of carnage and the smells of new decay distract me from the chill. A surge of guilt strikes me. What an awful thing to think. I look down at the small body. Still… “At least you found a way out,” I say to the creature.
I round the bend and find another passage littered with death. Growing accustomed to the sight, I quicken my pace. The wind has picked up, and I think I must be nearing the end of the chasm. Bright light stretches into the natural hall around a bend fifty feet ahead. I hurry forward, now eager to escape this place.
A wet cracking and slurping sound whips my head up. Not watching where I’m going, I step on a small set of lungs that turn to paste beneath my weight. I slip back and fall again.
The pain is intense, but I don’t cry out.
A wet splat, followed by an agonized howl, rolls down the gorge.
I’ve found him.
The torturer.
He’s just ahead.
I pick myself up without making a sound and slip toward the bend. All I need is a peek. If it’s a thirty-foot monster, I’ll head in the opposite direction. I’m downwind. If I’m careful not to be seen or heard, I can escape without being discovered. I’m pleased to find that I haven’t lost all of my skills. I might be weak and burdened, but my skills as a hunter haven’t abandoned me yet. I creep up to the bend in silence.
Two sharp cracks tell me the thing has just opened yet another small ribcage. The lungs will be removed. And then the heart crushed. For a moment, I wonder if the small creature might actually have survived up to this point.
Would I?
The horrible image nearly turns me around, but I’m too close to turn back. I slowly poke my head out around the bend—
—and instantly wish I hadn’t.
5
The thing has its back to me, so I can’t see its face, but the full head of red hair tells me this is a Nephilim. I expected as much—this place was designed to hold Nephilim—but the sight makes my insides twist with fear. It’s crouched at the flat stone shore of a large lake. Or an ocean. I can’t really tell because the orange liquid stretches to the horizon.
I duck away, breathing hard. There is nothing I fear more than the Nephilim. I have fought them. Killed them. But they broke me. Made me serve them. Respect them. Maybe even love them. And the remote possibility that I could be bent in that direction again horrifies me.
But could it happen here? In Tartarus?
I’m not sure, but if it did, I would regret it for all eternity.
In a flash, my course of action is reversed. I need to get away from this Nephilim. Bearing my burden on my own is hard enough. I take a step away from the lake and am stopped in my tracks by a high-pitched squeal. The dismantled creature is still alive, and shrieking in pain with its last breath.
A wet pop silences the creature.
Its heart has been crushed. I close my eyes. The poor thing.
A wail rips through the air. It’s tortured, like the small creature’s final scream, but louder and full of something else.
Anger.
Rage.
Confusion.
The tone and pitch of the voice fills me with a strange kind of understanding. The thing around the bend doesn’t want to kill. It’s compelled to. And it’s tortured by that compulsion. This realization makes me reevaluate the situation. I gasp as a detail flies in the face of my assumptions.
The red hair coupled with the fact that this is Tartarus made me assume the killer is a Nephilim. But the height is all wrong. It—he—didn’t look much bigger than me.
He’s human, I think. A hunter. But why would another hunter be here in Tartarus?
Before I think too much about it, I slide back to the bend and take a peek. He’s still there, crouched by the water, but he’s not moving and his head is turned to the side slightly. Listening. To me.
He heard my gasp.
I’m sure of it.
There is no turning back now. No running. My only hope to avoid conflict is to make the first move a peaceful one.
I step out from hiding, doing my best to stand up straight and look tough. But my words are soft spoken and kind. “Are you all right?”
The question sounds ridiculous as it floats through the air. He sniffs with a single sharp intake of air. Is he smelling me? Or just surprised by my voice? Or my words?
“Do you need help?” I say.
The man’s head spins toward me in a blur. Long tendrils of red hair whip around his face, concealing it from me. “Help!” he screams, sounding both offended and desperate. “Help!”
Then his hair falls away and I see his face.
My face.
“Ull?” The word flies from my mouth. Revulsion spreads through my body like thick, rotting syrup.
He’s just as surprised as I am. “Solomon!” He falls backward and crab-crawls away from me until his hand slashes into the liquid lake. He screams in pain, lifting his now smoldering hand from the liquid. Not water.
Confusion sweeps across Ull’s face, as I’m sure it does mine. This is a physical world. Ull has only ever existed in my mind. He’s an aspect of my personality, not a living, breathing person. This makes no sense.
But he’s still me. A part of me. And what he’s doing is vile. “Why are you killing these creatures?” I ask.
He shakes his head quickly, eyes darting back and forth. He looks at everything but me. His breathing speeds up. He grinds his teeth.
“Ull!” I shout.
“Can’t…stop!” he screams. The shaking grows worse, like he’s about to explode. “Don’t…want…this!”
“Ull,” I say, feeling compassion for the violent me.
“Don’t…want…to kill…” His eyes lock on me. “You.” He’s quick to his feet and I notice that unlike me, Ull is strong. Very strong. All sinewy with muscle and taut skin. His face is covered in stubble. While I retained all of my mental abilities, he retained our physical prowess. While we’re both clearly dealing with emotions, Ull was never good at controlling his and the weight of this place must be crushing him—pushing him deeper into madness, to the point where he wants to kill me.
“You can’t kill me,” I say. “We’re in Tartarus.”
His eyes dart around again. He’s trying to understand, but I suspect he’s too far gone.
When he turns his head toward the sky and lets out a Nephilim howl, I know I’m right. He opens his hands, hooks his fingers into talons and charges. He’s weaponless, dressed only in ragged leathers, but he’s far quicker than I am. The best I can do as he closes the distance is raise my hands up.
Our hands collide first. Fingers entwine. A moment of resistance is followed by the tearing of flesh as his hands push down hard on the three blades of the climbing claws. He screams as the blades slip through flesh and bone before poking out from the back of his hands.
Then our bodies collide and I’m slammed into the stone wall behind me. My head collides with the wall and I hear a crack. I’m dazed, but conscious, and still pushing against Ull’s arms with everything I’ve got. His strength has been sapped by the pain of the teeth piercing his hands, but he’s still more than a match for me.
He roars at me, coating my face with spittle and blood. His mouth is bleeding. He must have bitten his tongue when we collided, I think. I feel pain in my mouth for a moment. Why am I worried about him? He’s trying to kill me! “Get off me!” I scream.
“Die!” he shouts back. “Must die! Kill!”
I twist my hands, shifting the blades buried in his flesh.
He screams and then spews a few indiscernible lines.
My lips begin to quiver. Tears drip from my eyes. I’ve seen what he did to the small creatures. The pain he is about to inflict on me will be beyond comprehension. My arms weaken. “Please,” I say. The word sounds more like a whimper. “Why are you doing this?”
“No!” he shouts. “No, no, no! Choice!”
No choice?
He
doesn’t want to kill me.
He didn’t want to kill those creatures.
My arms lose the battle and slap back against the stone over my head. He’s in my face now, his teeth chattering. He’s going to bite me. I can see it in the way his head is turning. He’s going to bite my nose off! But he’s fighting it. Resisting.
“You can stop!” I shout back.
“C—can’t!” His desperation matches my own. I’m shocked to see tears in his eyes, too. He doesn’t want to hurt me. I am him. We are each other. And he’s anything but self-destructive. “Need!”
His mouth opens, baring his teeth just inches from my nose. “Need!” he screams again.
I’m too terrified to speak now. The true pain of Tartarus is about to begin.
“Need…help!”
Help.
The word flashes into my mind.
Help.
I beheld in my dream, that a man came to him, whose name was Help.
I’m not the burdened traveler, I realize. I…am Help. Ull is in the Slough. But how can I help him?
Christian sank in the Slough of Despond because it amplified the burden he carried. The weight of the darkness of his heart overpowered him. I think about the awful things I’ve done. Most…were Ull. The weight on his shoulders must dwarf mine.
Escape from the Slough only came with Help’s aid. Give me thine hand: so he gave him his hand, and he drew him out.
I look at our hands, bound by bone and blood.
The same blood.
The same burdens.
They do not belong to Ull alone. They are ours to bear.
I clench my fingers around Ull’s hands, pulling him closer.
His head snaps back like he’s been slapped in the face. “What are you doing?”
We look at our hands, no longer bound by fingers and bone, but by actual flesh. Our bodies are merging. The sight of it sends him into a panic. He draws away and manages to yank a hand free. But I hold on tightly and catch him around the base of his neck. He grinds his teeth, fighting to pull away, but I can feel his strength fueling my grip.
The Last Hunter - Ascent (Book 3 of the Antarktos Saga) Page 3