Nether Kingdom

by J. Edward Neill

  Unctulu tramped into the mud between him and the riders. “What to do? What to do?” The fiend put a finger to his misshapen mouth. “Master won’t like this. Or will he?”

  With a twisted smile, the fiend squatted in the grass beside Atra’s corpse and tugged the blade from Atra’s neck. “Here,” He handed the dagger over after swiping it clean upon his moldering shirt. “You might need this. There’ll be more than one Atra, to be sure.”

  If he had ever felt anything less than loathing for Unctulu, the moment is now. He snatched the dagger and slid it into his boot, all the while watching the riders. “What game are you playing?” he said to Unctulu.

  “How easily you forget,” whispered Unctulu. “Your hope is mine, Pale One. What the Master says, I embrace. Whoever must die to give me my rest, I’ll not weep for. Besides, if they kill you, Thresh and I will raise you up again. Though the second time hurts more, I hear.”

  Unctulu shambled toward the riders, many of whom had nocked and leveled their crossbows. “No revenge for you lot today.” The vials at the fiend’s waist clinked like funerary charms. “You all remember. You were there when Master sent me out into the night. This fine specimen is the Pale Knight, the deliverer of sorrow. Hate him if you like, but Master would have him unharmed. I’ll not be able to stop you, but Thresh...well…we all know what Thresh likes to do.”

  The riders looked to Thresher, who stood in the very same place as he had during the entire encounter. Thresher’s mask forbade any man to move, his sword like a headstone to every man’s grave.

  “Just as well,” grunted Atra’s second-in-command, a lanky, dusky-eyed soldier. “Never much cared for the bastard anyway. We’ve an idea. The twilight’s coming, and we’ve this here spade. We’ll call it even if the Pale One buries him. Let him dig a hole for Atra and we’ll be on our way.”

  “Well and good,” said Unctulu.

  Better if it were two holes, though Archmyr.

  The Master

  On a cloudless summer morn, Archmyr entered Romaldar’s capital.

  This will be interesting.

  Scowling atop Atra’s horse amid a pack of Wolfwolde soldiers, he trotted through Archaeus’s gates. He expected hails of crossbow bolts or storms of Romaldarian swords to fall upon him. When nothing came, he knew why.

  Unctulu. They’ll not kill me so long as he’s near. Who’d have guessed it?

  During the last two days, the pack of wolf soldiers escorting him had swollen to nearly a hundred. They rode into the city behind and ahead of him, their gazes always on him. They hated him, so he imagined. They despised him not for slaying Atra, but because of the stories preceding him, the tales of what he had done during the war.

  Beyond Archaeus’s vaulted, heavily-guarded gates, he took in the jewel of Romaldar. The city, many-towered and mightily-walled, perched upon a hill overlooking Romaldar’s vastest lake. He prodded his steed, gazing upon the white stone streets and ivy-shrouded mansions. The city folk greeted his arrival with guarded hearts and fearful glances. They cleared the streets and watched him from alleys, from barely-open doors, and from behind windows. Terrified, he knew. They’ve all been waiting for me.

  No matter Archaeus’s beauty, the glares of the Wolfwolde, and the gazes of his fearful watchers, he steered his warhorse along the street as though he were the only soul in the city. I’m not here to bond with Romaldar or aid its renaissance. I’m here to meet the Master, to secure a peaceful sleep.

  So let’s be done with it.

  Sinking low in his saddle, he let the wolf soldiers lead him deep into the city. There was no denying it; Archaeus was magnificent to behold. The buildings seemed to flow together, almost liquid in their gracefulness, painted white against the dawn as if by an artist’s brush. Towers were joined by archways and slender coils of pale marble stairs. Dwellings were tall and domed, capped with smooth, pearlescent marble. No street was unpaved, no courtyard unmarked by at least one statue of a Romaldarian hero. Graven from a single slab of marble, he imagined the city. Elegant. Artistic. A lucky thing the Furyons didn’t make it this far.

  After a while of guiding his horse down the city’s widest street, he wondered just how Roma had fallen from its former prominence in the world. Here was perfection, an idyllic seat from which to rule an idyllic land, and yet the very presence of the wolf soldiers, the Wolde, hinted at darkness lying just beneath the light.

  It showed itself soon enough.

  At the city’s highest point, the Master’s fortress stood stark against the dawn. Following Unctulu’s lead, he dropped down from his horse and walked to its outer gate, beyond which black towers and smoking pits scarred the city’s heart.

  “The Wolfwolde lair,” Unctulu murmured. “Doesn’t quite fit in, does it?”

  “No.”

  Unctulu shambled up beside him. “The Romaldarian king used to live here. He and the garrison for the royal Roma army, but no longer.”

  “The Master lives here now.”

  “Yes.”

  Whatever Archaeus’s fortress used to look like, he could but imagine. On this morn, it stood in contrast to the rest of the city, its sooty walls climbed by no ivy, its windows barred like prison cells. The outer gate was a spined fence, the black bars knifing into the dawn. When the wolf-maned men admitted him into the courtyard, he felt as though he had entered a different world, for instead of grass, gardens, and trees, I see only preparation for war.

  He marched behind some twenty soldiers. Black-bannered tents and crude stone huts dotted the dry, dead earth. Every surface seemed covered in ash. He saw furnaces, pits, racks of weapons, and piles of scaly, ugly armor. The Wolde milled all about, grunting greetings to their returning fellows, gazing hatefully in his direction.

  Thousands here, he reckoned. Doubtless thousands more inside.

  “So,” he said to Unctulu, “these are Roma’s usurpers.”

  Unctulu clucked his tongue. “Yes. The king is slain. His court is buried with him. These grounds should look familiar to you, no?”

  They do, he realized. Ashes, pits, and corpses soon to be. Looks not unlike the afterlife…like the Nether.

  Ushering him into the fortress, the soldiers searched him and stripped his dagger away. Most of the Wolfwolde men left him, but the four grim-faced guards who remained took him through a portcullis and into a dark, dank hallway. Unctulu and Thresher shuffled behind him.

  Whatever beauty outer Archaeus possessed fell to dust within the fortress. The corridors were narrow, the walls unmarked, the floors covered in fine layers of ash. Long rows of hot torches breathed a ragged red light, threatening suffocation, bathing all surfaces in shadow. No matter his tension, he made no display of discomfort as he walked the long, smoky hallways. He moved as though the fortress were his home, as though he knew exactly what lay in store.

  “You make a good show,” Unctulu whispered. “Lykaios will be pleased.”

  Lykaios. The Master. My awakener.

  He entered the fortress’s main hall. He saw no more furnaces, no pits, and no host of wolf men waiting to murder him. Save for a wolf soldier’s torch, no light existed in the grand, empty void. He looked, but he saw no ceiling, no walls, and nothing alive.

  “Wait here,” a wolf soldier grunted.

  “We shall,” answered Unctulu.

  The four guardsmen strode ahead, leaving him alone with Unctulu and Thresher. My favorites.

  “Lykaios put great trust in me, Pale One,” Unctulu said once the four guardsmen were out of earshot. “Thresher’s loyalty was guaranteed, but to allow me this privilege…”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Don’t disappoint us.”

  “How will he do it?”

  “You mean how will he give us our sleep?” Unctulu grinned. “You’ll see. There’re secrets in this world, places and things beneath and between. There’s magic, too, though rare and disbelieved. Master’ll explain it to you if he wants. If not, you’ll just have to wait and see.”

&nb
sp; “Waiting and seeing,” he muttered disdainfully.

  “Only eight years for you,” gurgled Unctulu. “Hundreds more for me.”

  The four guardsmen returned. He noticed their swords were unsheathed, swaying in their grasps the same as pendulums.

  “All this way just to kill me?” he quipped. “Would’ve been cleaner to bring my bones here in a bag.”

  “You and you.” The lead guard pointed to him and Thresher. “Come with us. Unctulu, remain here.”

  “Enjoy this, Pale One.” Unctulu backed away. “It’s only the beginning.”

  He followed the four guards. Thresher clanked along behind him, a dubious comfort. Though somehow he believed the iron knight would more likely slaughter the Wolfwolde grunts than lay its cold, gauntleted hands upon him. Staying in stride with his escorts, he crossed the vast chamber. Only after some thousand steps did he halt before a door.

  No ordinary door. The Master’s door.

  Wrought of cold, black iron, rising from the floor to heights unknowable, the door seemed not to fit in with the rest of the fortress. It’s older, he knew. Brought here from somewhere else. Considering its vastness, he wondered how the door had been made, and how many men it had taken to bring it to Archaeus. He gazed across its rough ebon surface, and he saw no keyholes, no handles or hinges, and no obvious way to enter from the hall. The only way to open it is from the inside.

  The lead soldier sheathed his sword and removed his gloves. Fearful, the man rapped his bare fist five times against the door.

  Boom.

  Boom.

  Boom.

  Boom.

  Boooooom.

  “Lykaios!” the soldier called out. “Lykaios, Wain of Wolfwolde, Master of Roma, open your door. Thillria sends tribute. The knight of the Moor’s Eye has arrived.”

  Five knocks. He narrowed his eyes. Practiced words. It’s a password. The Master is in hiding.

  The short silence broke. He heard iron grinding against iron, the groans like ghosts keening in the dead of night. The door creaked inward, raking great gouges in the stone floor. The shape of a man appeared in the darkness. He wore a cloak and hood, pooling black on the floor behind him. Two swords in rotting scabbards hung from his waist, a sight which brought the slightest smile to Archmyr’s lips.

  “Welcome,” rumbled the man. The darkness shrouded his face, though Archmyr swore he saw the pallid whites of his eyes.

  “Greetings, Lykaios.” The four guardsmen proffered deep bows.

  Lykaios extended his pale palm out of the shadows. “Before aught else, give me the Needle.”

  The Needle?

  Thresher stirred. The guardsmen backed away. Voiceless, his armor clanking, Thresher reached beneath the greave upon his left leg and withdrew a black tine, the Needle, and presented it to Lykaios.

  “Thank you, Sarco Numinous,” said Lykaios. “You’ve done well.”

  Lykaios stepped fully out of his dark hallway, at last becoming visible in the guards’ lone torchlight. Who is this man? Archmyr wondered. Is he my age, or a thousand years older?

  Lykaios was neither handsome nor homely, neither powerful nor meek. He was fair-skinned, his cheeks chiseled as though from slate, his gaze impossibly calm. A braided rope of black hair dangled out of his hood, and his cheeks, never mind how long he’s been hiding in the dark, looked as smooth as the marble domes atop Archaeus’s towers.

  Lykaios passed the tine several times between his hands, toying with it much as he might a blade. A swordsman. Archmyr secreted a smile. And a good one. But what is that thing?

  “A moment, Pale Knight.” Lykaios recognized his impatience. “And then we will speak.”

  What happened next was horrific, even to Archmyr. Lykaios gazed to the floor and lifted the Needle above the back of his neck. A red-rimmed scar was visible in his flesh, a punctured pock of skin just to the left of Lykaios’s black braid. With a soundless shudder and a clench of his jaw, Lykaios tensed.

  And sheathed the tine into his skin.

  The guardsmen looked away, but Archmyr could not. He watched as Lykaios pushed the tine into his body, its dark length following his backbone. He saw little blood, but sensed Lykaios’s agony, powerful enough that any other man would surely have collapsed and died on the floor. Still, Lykaios finished it. With a last shiver, he rolled his neck and wiped the sweat from his brow. The Needle was inside him.

  What’s this I’ve awakened to?

  “Ah, such sweetness.” Lykaios flexed his fists. “Pain and the pleasure. I’ve not made you sick, have I?”

  For all Archmyr’s cold courage, all the death he had visited upon mankind, he felt somehow inferior in Lykaios’ presence.

  He should’ve died just now. I would’ve. Any man would’ve.

  This is no man.

  “Guards, be gone,” said Lykaios. “Pale Knight, remain.”

  One of the Wolfwolde handed Archmyr his torch. In moments they were all gone, slinking into the darkness.

  “Never speak of this,” Lykaios addressed him once the others vanished. “Keep this small secret to yourself. You’ll be grateful you did.”

  “Aye,” Archmyr’s voice sounded smaller than he remembered.

  Lykaios walked to Thresher and placed his hand upon the iron knight’s breastplate. He rolled his neck again, gazing into Thresher’s eyeless mask as though he could see the visage beneath. “In three days, Sarco Numinous, return to me. Until then, you are to go as the Pale Knight goes. See to it that the wolves let him be. Should any of my soldiers trespass, make an example.”

  If Thresher understood, he gave no sign.

  “You sent your men away,” said Archmyr. “You’re not afraid of me?”

  “No.”

  “Am I to learn what you wish of me? Will you explain this Needle, this thing you’ve impaled yourself with? And what about Thresher? What is he?”

  “In three days’ time, you will learn more.”

  “Three days? I’ve walked and ridden thirty to get here. I’ve crawled out my grave, skulked across Graehelm and Roma, and played nice with the maggot you sent to pry me from the Nether. Three days is too long.”

  “Three days,” Lykaios calmly repeated. “You will stay in a tower outside the fortress. Come the hour, Sarco Numinous will bring you back to me. You may call him Thresher, of course. That is the name Unctulu prefers.”

  “You have your swords. When will I get mine?”

  “Soon enough,” Lykaios circled him. “You’ll not need them just yet.”

  “That’s it? No answers? You resurrected me, yet you give me nothing.”

  The way Lykaios looked at him stunned him to a rare silence. “Go now, Archmyr Degiliac, and remember this; I am Master here. Do not think to flee, rebel, or turn my men against me with your morbid wiles. Speak to none. Wander nowhere. Ask for nothing. For although you are my chosen, you are also my servant. Three days. That is all you must wait. A small thing to do, and so very rewarding.”

  * * *

  An hour later, Archmyr stood in the topmost chamber of a white tower. Sunlight cut through the windows, burning away his memory of the Master’s dark hall. Soft carpet squished between his dirty toes while silken curtains danced in the wind. He smelled wine and fresh bread, summer and warm stone.

  But none of it mattered.

  In the tower’s widest window, he lurked like a ghost, restlessly surveying the streets below. He relished nothing Lykaios had arranged for him. His bed was tidied with fresh linens, his table stacked with newly-sewn black shirts, breeches, and boots, but he hardly noticed. He locked his gaze out the window, roaming like a raven’s flight across all things below.

  He witnessed many things in Archaeus.

  Empty streets. More Wolfwolde than civilians.

  No sounds of city life. No merchants haggling. No wagons rolling. No children. Few women.

  Odd that such a city should be so empty. Or am I dead again, and the Ur waiting for dusk to reclaim me?

  For hours, he haunt
ed his windows, paced his floors, and dreamed of death. Only an hour before twilight, when a young woman entered his room and laid a platter of stew, spiced apples, and more wine on his table, did he emerge from his darkness.

  Who’s this?

  She was the prettiest woman he remembered seeing since long before his death. She came to his door with the platter on her arm, her dark curls bobbing upon her tanned cheeks, her shoeless feet pattering as she set his supper down. He stared at her, no doubt frightening her. It was not that he was ugly; he was not. It was the emptiness of his gaze, the hollow, inhuman impression he unconsciously projected onto everything he looked upon.

  He attempted a smile, but the girl shied, scurrying from his room far quicker than she had entered. In his first life, he would have been angry. He would have hauled her back to his bed and ravaged her until her sweetness was broken. Now is different. He watched her leave with a feeling of shame for ever having set his haunted eyes upon her.

  For two days, he remained imprisoned in his room. He knew Wolfwolde men lurked at the base of his tower, and he sensed Thresher in the stairwell outside his door.

  Three days, Lykaios says. Unctulu should’ve dug me up and brought only my bones. Would’ve been easier.

  From dawn until dusk, he paced his room. He gazed westward through his window onto the great, dark lake beyond Archaeus. He gazed eastward upon the Master’s fortress, its courtyards smoking and its towers manned by Wolfwolde. He observed the city folk, who scurried from place to place, so obviously fearful of Lykaios’ men.

  Whenever not pacing or standing at his windows, he sat in monkish solitude upon his bed and thumbed through the stack of books left for his amusement. He found tomes of recent Romaldarian history, volumes filled with tales of the war between Graehelm and Furyon, and even a book which made several mentions of his own deeds, derisively naming him the Pale Knight and listing the many cruelties he had inflicted upon Graehelm.

  Cities burned. Prisoners tortured. Women hanged. Children buried alive. Rape. Murder. Suffering. Betrayal.