Cerberus Slept

by Doonvorcannon

  Whoever planned this, whether Gwydion or Apollo, I knew what drove me forward was my own will. The pure will aimed true, always. Surrendering to the torrent of time and letting it rush you into greatness was how to taste its delicious decay without succumbing to the dusty ashes of its banks, beached into obscurity. One couldn’t forget oneself either in this surrender as then the temptation to sink into time’s depthless waters and not work through and with its ceaseless surge, would end in nothingness. To let oneself go into the eternal, that was the powerless power that all great men drew deep from. The well of pure will. The well of true singlemindedness. The mind set on the blazing sun. Time’s river forever surges into the sun’s fire, water shining forth as rays. The sun the beginning and the end.

  I rolled both my shoulders and stretched my arms. I dusted the ash from the ground off my pants. The ground was made up of gray soot that smelled similar to that sulfurous nightmare, Tartarus. Within the limits of this enclosed space, a hulking and elegantly carved wooden building like an upside-down ship stretched for what looked like a mile. No doubt this was the cursed Valhalla, or at least a portion of it. Around the building there were four circles of stone, all equidistant from each other and the center.

  I walked straight towards the hall. As I neared, sounds both merry and vigorous, like a whip urging on a horse already in the lead, echoed through the hollow wood. Large interlocked doors barred my way, covered with gilded carvings of prancing white stags that shimmered with a magical, ghostly glow, alight with life. I lifted the latch and thrust my way inside. While the outside had been impressive simply by scope, the inside was twice as magnificent. Like the inside of a whale, the wood crisscrossed above like that of a monstrous spine.

  And the men inside these halls—the men! Heroes abound from all ages and kind; men who’d died heroic deaths and lived heroic lives. Some were in armor as magical as mine—shimmering white here, silver there, gold elsewhere, and every shade in between. There were other men in various states of undress, some wearing nothing at all. There was rusted armor, bloody armor, some of leather, some of rags. Regardless, each man I could see had the gleam of glory exuding out from his spirit. If only I could spend time here in fellowship! The tables ran along the hall the whole mile, men filling every seat with good cheer and drink. They lifted their mugs at my arrival, their greeting rising with the merry music already resounding inside. To partake in the pleasures of the flesh again! How I missed feasting with friends. But my body remained tethered to this fate, and Wyrd’s song was the only one that seemed worth dancing to. How else could I truly live again? But the sumptuous and sweet scent of succulent food made my mouth water all the same.

  “Rangabes has arrived!” a familiar voice yelled. “I’d hoped you might have somehow persisted. How fares our great city?”

  I gaped at the humble emperor. Even in this glorious hall, even as the last emperor of Constantinople, Constantine XI Palaeologus still remained clothed in the same plain banded armor worn over the white robes of the penitent. A holy man who had given his all to his people, fighting amongst them, praying amongst them, living amongst them, and dying with and for them. I stumbled forward. Constantine’s jaw was as square and strong as ever. His crystalline eyes were pools of mercy. His brown hair of medium length framed his manly stature with regal strength.

  “They breached our walls. Our unbreachable walls. I was overcome,” I said with my voice cracking.

  “We were holding them at bay where I stood. Truly, us mere hundreds at our stretch of the wall slaughtering thousands of their men. God was on our side. But Satan struck and the worst of misfortunes befell us. Someone—we’ll never know who—left the gate open. They stormed it, pushing through the outer walls like rats through sewage.” He shook his head, his fist clenched at the irresponsible fool who’d cost us so dearly. “Yet even still, we held them back at the inner walls. Great Giovanni Giustiniani Longo, the fearless man from Genoa, marched along the walls like a god, St. Michael holding him aloft. But then, Satan’s luck came again and Giovanni was struck in the head by cannon fire. The man somehow survived, but in his stupor—his wound causing him fear when nothing else had—he called for aid and a singular retreat. Only for him, not the others!” He shook his head and sighed. “But his men panicked and abandoned us once they pulled him away... and our wall fell. If he had somehow stayed or his men hadn’t fled their post, we might have held. I truly think it might have been prolonged. The Sultan’s men were losing their lives and fervor the longer we endured.” He sighed deeper and rubbed his chin. “I stood with my men, cutting the heathens down as they stormed through—but alas, I was overrun.” Tears brimmed in his eyes and he breathed deeply. No doubt he’d often thought about the loss of our people and the evils that occurred afterward.

  I embraced him and wept. We wept for our glorious home forever lost; our women and children manhandled, dishonored and profaned by those foul heathens raping in the name of their demonic god. The hall grew respectfully quiet as voices lowered to murmurs. The heroes and warriors in these halls knew what it was to sacrifice themselves for their people.

  I grabbed Constantine by his shoulders and stared into his clear eyes. “You must know, I’ve been given the holy task of carrying our spirit into new lands. This light that unites us will shine again. We will carry the spirit of Rome—East and West. United. United. Yes, we won’t leave either side to die alone. I promise.”

  He nodded at me. “Go then, Rangabes. Both of us were kept from Heaven for reasons unique to our paths. Once you cleanse this cursed realm, and these hallowed grounds return to where they belong, I will sleep. When I awake, as it is prophesied, it will be to return triumphant to my city and reconquer it. However far off that might be, however long I slumber, it will be mere moments, for I live and die for that holy place. But you, you carry not merely a place within you, but a people and—even greater—a spirit. Go forth on your noble task and free me from this place, as jolly and glorious as it is, it is not for me.”

  “I will, my dear emperor.” I released his shoulders, crossed my arms to my chest, and bowed my head.

  “And Rangabes, if you come across Giovanni somehow in your travels, I ask that you forgive him. He sacrificed much for a land that was not his. He did not need to come to our aid. His retreat was more from his own men’s fear than his coherent command. He should be remembered a hero, but I fear he’s been forgotten and maligned as a coward. I pray you come across his troubled soul.”

  “If I see him.” I nodded.

  Constantine gestured at the heroes behind him. “Another king wishes to speak to you,” he said, returning to his seat.

  And there, further down along the table, a man of powerful stature sat, his spread of food and drink more glorious than any other I could see. In front of him was a large golden goblet filled with scarlet wine, a roast duck and pheasant on a plate of silver, and an assortment of all kinds of other meat along with plums and chocolates. I licked my lips and forced myself to look away and at the man. He stood up and smiled at me. He was tall with a commanding posture and broad shoulders. His hair went down to his neck and it was a gentle golden-brown color. He wore a three-pronged crown of gold, each point encrusted with a different gem—one emerald, the other ruby, and the last a diamond. His eyes were green and intense like my own. His nose was straight and strong, and his jaw was blunt as a hammer. His face was hard and sharp, and his scythe-like cheekbones only added to the severity of his appearance. His garb was fitting for a king; a gold and green collar encrusted with more emeralds covered his thick neck. He had a violet mantle over his shoulders that draped him in waves of velvet finery. He wore a rich blue shirt that hung low over his burgundy trousers. Three golden crowns glittered on his chest, made from what looked like golden serpent scales. This was the kind of man that made people bow without saying a word. A man that mortals wanted to worship. I stared at him in awe, anxious to know who he was and what he wanted.

  “I am King Arthur,” he said
.

  The uncertainty twisting the folds of my face collapsed like a sink hole. “My friend has your mantle,” I murmured.

  “It was I who gave it to him. I could hear his glory from this place and I sent it forth. This bleeding effect allows for such strange connection, but it must be resolved. Many of us do not belong to this realm. The realms, they all bleed into one now. Only when there is one to stop the bleeding by drinking it as his own, only then can we all return to our rightful places. We need you here, brother. We are all worthy folk, but our spirits are hemorrhaged in this wound,” he said with deliberate annunciation, sounding like someone who was used to having a person record his every word.

  “What must I do to heal this wound?” I said, nodding and crossing my arms.

  “At each circle of stone, there lies a challenge. This bleeding realm requires a show of prowess and victory. You must compete in the Ichor Games—like the great games Aeneas held while honoring his father’s funeral. Only, the Ichor Games are an inversion. It is what happens when what belongs to the light is twisted in the dark, when degeneracy is propped up and honor is maligned. These games, these four events in each circle must be won. And then the dark lord who is the cause of this abomination will come and challenge you himself.”

  “Fine. But who is this lord?”

  “I cannot say, for I do not know. It is something you must seek out alone.”

  “So be it.” I nodded at the legendary king and headed out the gilded doors without a look back at the heroes behind me. They had their place and I had mine.

  The closest circle of stone was not much to look at. I walked over to it eagerly, its smooth black rocks mere rounded spheres that circled out from the center in a spiral pattern of black, each boulder increasing in size as it got further away. There were four paths of stone spiraling out from the center, and at the edge of the paths was a thin line of smaller boulders making a circular rim that contained the spiral inside. I didn’t see how some sort of challenge could be held in such a small space—one I could cross in perhaps twenty paces. Seeing no indicator of what I should do, I simply stepped into the circle and as soon as I did, my sight flashed gray and I stood in an entirely new place.

  “The Impalement Game,” a sultry, feminine voice cooed out from somewhere deep in the wooded area.

  A fog drenched forest surrounded me. I took a step forward, trying to breathe through my mouth as this place stank of death and decay. Like spoiled meat in the hot sun, this was a place of rot worse even than the chthonic realms I’d left behind. I looked closer at what I’d assumed were dead, branchless trees—the haze made everything appear uncertain and mirage-like. I gasped as I realized what the trees actually were. They were stakes with writhing bodies impaled on them, their still living forms twitching like crushed cockroaches. My cleared sight seemed to unlock the silence of the surroundings, and sounds of suffering crashed over me. Groans reverberated, a haunting melody blowing about like a wind of plague and death.

  I walked up to one of the stakes and looked closer at the man there. His body was swollen and bloated, his purpled skin pierced from his rectum and up through his skull. Yet his hands each held black plums. He clung to the strange fruit as it seeped a liquid just as dark and thick as his clotted blood. The man’s eyes were battered but he blinked at me, his blue mouth wheezing and coughing.

  He groaned, “You’ve heard of those who throw the javelin, you’ve seen those who throw it far. But here, instead of competing to see who can throw the javelin the greatest distance, one competes to see how far the javelin can throe you. Birth and death.”

  “I will not do what the rest of you have done, piercing myself with the hope that my selfish pain might win this challenge.” I shook my head and squinted at the dying man. “No, for you and all those here do it for yourself, not for all nor for the many. There is another way, and I will find it. It is somewhere here in this forest of decay.”

  “You must find Miseria. You must eat her fruit.” He extended his hands holding the sopping plums, but I ignored him and headed straight for the heart of this decrepit wasteland of wood.

  Voices called out to me from their places of impalement. A chorus of woe and weeping, their gnashing of teeth deaf to my forward focused ears. So, I needed to find Miseria? There had to be more here than just these barely living kebabs. An Olympic Game, inverted. So, the javelin pierced the man in his own throes? How was one to win a game turned on itself? By not playing it. By forcing the hand of the gamekeeper and severing her corrupting touch. I would win by being right. But where was she? There was nothing here but fog and death. Everything the same: the bodies, the pain, none of it differed to one detached from weakness.

  And then off to the left I saw something that caught my eye. Not a dull gray stake, but a golden javelin glittering and bright in the gloom of the forest. It stood alone with no javelins nearby. I ran towards it and leaned close to inspect. An unclothed and healthy-looking man was impaled perpendicular on it with the stake through his stomach. His body faced upwards and he twisted his neck to look closer at me. The man had a protruding lower lip with a thick and straight barred moustache shadowing over it. He had deep-set brown eyes so dark that they seemed black, almost appearing as though they were without iris. His hair fell all the way to the ground, dragging in the dirt like black tasseled cloth.

  “I’ve impaled many during my days. Most deserved it. I fought to keep them out of my land,” he said, his voice measured and sharp.

  “Who are you?” I asked. I looked closer at his face. “You look familiar.” I frowned. I reached out my arm and left it lingering in the air. I’d seen his look before. I knew I had. When there’d still been hope of resisting. A Wallachian. This man’s people had aided us when they could—the last bastions of a dying and unified Christendom. “Did you visit Constantinople? Or was it your father? I am unsure of how much time has passed.”

  “Perhaps, but Constantinople is long gone. Time continues. I kept the hordes at bay. I kept them away while the rest of the so-called Holy and united Christian Empire left me to fend for myself, just like they left you and yours to die.”

  “You know me?” I said.

  “You are a Roman, that much is obvious. Oh that East and West were whole, but now that is forever lost. I became the east once you fell, and we were left mostly alone. I fought the Turks, that same Sultan Mehmed II who ruined your people. I was kept his prisoner as a youth so that my father would be forced to do his bidding. Their oh-so holy slave army. A truly wicked empire that we never should have let flourish. Yet that all changed, and eventually I ruled my throne with a fist of justice.”

  “So, you came after me. After Constantinople had fallen.” I paused, staring at the pained expression of this man. Could it be? How much time had passed since I’d died and been set on this quest of unliving myth?

  “I reigned with terror, for that’s the only thing those inbreds know and respect. I forced the German grifters from my land, whether through impalement or banishment. I fought valiantly with my men, leading charges and defenses alike. I’ve fought alone against the best of men, and have come out victorious. Valhalla should be where I dwell. But I chose this stake, my penance for a terror too strong. For I cannot lie and say I did not enjoy the pain I made others feel. Their scent of rot, their screams of agony, I thrived off it. I even impaled rats out of joy. Torture was a part of me, so now I experience the torture myself to tear away that wicked skin. For excess is always unjust when wrought for pure pleasure and nothing but.”

  “Your name?” I said.

  “Vlad Dracul, son of the dragon. Most called me the Impaler. I saved my country and died for my excess. I shouldn’t be here, but I was pulled from purification by Wyrd at our Lord’s command, an extra penance that I so truly desire. For she told me of what is to come and what is promised, and that you would come too. So, I am here now in this inverted game as if it had sprung from my own mind. A forest of impaled souls with my own stake gold and gilded to m
ock my prideful madness.” He sighed, and he grabbed the shaft of the stake and grunted as he pulled himself slightly up, adjusting his position to speak easier to me.

  “You hold no fruit like the others,” I said.

  “I’ve eaten it and await its caustic effect,” he said.

  “How do I win this first game?”

  “Throw this javelin at its own throes.” Vlad vanished as he nodded, his body blown away in a sudden cloud of ash.

  I clasped the golden stake, pulling it up with all my might. It broke free from the ground and split in half, its golden wood glowing in splinters as it fell apart. Letting my light course through my arms, I surged the energy into the remaining half of the shaft and threw it straight at the forest of impalement, exploding the stakes all in a burst encompassing the full spectrum of light—a solar-flared rainbow. All that remained were shards, broken and weak like spindly toothpicks, the bodies once inhabiting them gone.

  A roar resounded from the heavens. Soaring mightily above, a maroon dragon with golden wings flew out from the gray. On its back a bare breasted woman with a dark cowl covering her face sat, a skirt of shadowy fog misting below her waist. Her pale skin shined with a moon-like glow as the dragon crashed downwards and landed close by me in the remains of the shattered forest.

  The dragon glared at me, a sparkle of righteousness in its eye and I stared back with recognition. Vlad the dragon flew away to where it was that he truly belonged. I smiled and nodded up at him as he disappeared into the gray. I hoped he’d find peace in his penance. I turned my attention back to the strange shadow woman. Her head was covered in the black abyss of her cowl. She sauntered over to me as her breasts swayed with her hips, her skirt of smoke leaving a trail of ash behind. Her skin that wasn’t doused in shadow, was pure and pale; a soft sheen of moonlight seemed to emanate from her smooth flesh.