“Settle down,” commanded a woman whose uniform was slightly more embellished than the others. A captain, I supposed, or something to that effect. She sounded irritated, though whether her annoyance was with her subordinate or with the fact that she could not join in, I could hardly say. It had been some time since I had been to Dromir, and my experience with its people was stunted by my need to escape. I could not say if Dagan, his brother, this woman, and Osenna were the sex-crazed norm or the sex-crazed exception to an otherwise chaste and pious nation. Repression would certainly explain a thing or two about Dagan himself…
We were led through the snow along a stone path—one buried to the knee in powdery white that the demons likely knew only by memory—and through the wall surrounding the city by way of what I can only describe as a back door. It blended thoroughly into the rest of the wall, appearing only when tapped with one of their electric barbs.
The door swung outward into the snow, exposing a dark tunnel within. The wall did not seem as thick as this tunnel would imply; but, as has been mentioned already, demons are rather fond of illusions. If they were not so keen on killing every non-demonic thing to happen across their dimensional borders, Dromir could make a worthy go as a tourist town.
The tunnel—a pervasive darkness which could only have been achieved through a heavily micromanaged spell—led forward for sixty seconds of brisk walking, then turned to the left and began a troubling descent into the frozen earth.
And all around us was lava.
“Okay, how… how does this work?” asked Quillan.
“Lava,” replied Vander. “That’s lava.”
“Why, yes, yes it is,” I said. “Bravo, good sir. What would we do without you?” I pretended to consider a moment. “Oh, yes, throw confetti in the air and celebrate your merciful absence.”
“We are in the lava-filled bowels of an actual dungeon,” Quillan pointed out. “Can we please skip the dick-measuring contests?”
I smiled at Vander and spread my hands. “I believe I have already won that competition.”
“Move, or it’s the lava for all of you!” ordered the demon in charge, with the cadence of a C-list actress who knows she has been handed an irredeemably terrible script and is trying desperately to rescue the dialogue from itself. I suspected it was, in fact, a scripted line, undoubtedly written by some proxy government intern to service the dungeon’s aesthetic.
You see, if one were to dip a toe into the magma, one would discover two things: firstly, that it was incredibly hot; and secondly, that their toe was still firmly attached to the rest of their foot. There was likely something genuinely corrosive underneath it all, but the lava in these dungeons—and truly, these were the stone cells of ancient and merciless kings—was not, in fact, lava. It was one of perhaps a thousand cleverly crafted illusions clinging to the walls and floor of the place to frighten incoming prisoners. If it had been anything else, the heat would have collapsed the lungs of those among us who needed to be concerned with such things, and I myself would have been severely uncomfortable.
Vander, being a Loki, might have survived. A disheartening thought, indeed.
We were herded—through a series of pokes, prods, and vulgarities—into cells of stone and something the illusionists had fashioned to resemble rusted iron. The stone walls were, to the naked eye, worn and scorched dry, supposedly by the heat of the imaginary lava; but underneath the illusion, the stones were new, the mortar fresh, and everything had a vague plasticky smell. These facilities were new, and they reeked of mass production.
The locks, to credit the aesthetics, were good, old-fashioned padlocks. Laced through with various enchantments, obviously, to ward against any lock-picking, lock-destroying, or otherwise lock-tampering magic.
Each cell was meant to house one or two persons for an extended period of time. There was a bed—or rather, a cot of straw and cotton masquerading as the great-great grandchild of something that was perhaps a mattress in another life—a small table (absent of a chair), and the kind of questionably-stained porcelain toilet one might find at a rest stop along the highways of middle-America. The ceiling was perhaps an inch too high to touch without jumping. A false window was embedded in the far wall, through which I could see shadows with many eyes and hear the distant but grating screams of what sounded like small children.
Quaint.
“Homey,” I commented. I turned a circle in the center of the space and grinned at the demoness in the door. “Needs a little something, though.” I bobbed my fingers against my lips. “Perhaps one of those motivational posters to encourage one to believe in themselves enough to break free of this odious prison?”
Her expression remained impassive as she slammed the door. It clanged shut with a calculated echo, one that repeated and multiplied down the line in every other cell. The last of the clangs was preceded by a sharp electric buzzing, and the gritted-teeth groaning of someone being thoroughly zapped. Dagan, I suspected.
“Get the fuck off me,” the zappee sputtered.
Vander. Even better.
There was a grunt and a thud as he was thrown to the ground, and the closing of his door was like a bullet ricocheting around the inside of a nuclear reactor. The noise bounced and crashed against every surface that would receive it. My bones vibrated—or rather, a clever, if juvenile, illusion convinced my body that a sound that did not exist was passing through me with such intensity that my very marrow was quaking in its shoes.
The cells, so far as I could gather from the unhappy mutterings of the people now inside them, were laid out in a hallway, seven across from seven. Our merry band was all on the same side, peering across a raised red sidewalk and two lanes of impressive false magma. The cells across the lane appeared at first glance to be empty; but on further examination, there was something held within each. Masses of shadows, humanoid and clumped in the corners, stared out at nothing in particular with glowing red eyes. They made soft whimpering noises that carried despite their distance. If I did not look at them directly, they seemed to be burning, as though hot coals were being rolled across their skin.
Delightful.
The demons assembled single-file and marched away. The fire reached up as though to caress them, and they passed through it unharmed. Most likely a tactic to dissuade prisoners from attempting the return journey themselves. Clever, and irredeemably tacky.
“Come back for me,” suggested Dulcie to the last demoness in line. The creature blew a kiss over her shoulder and winked, drawing an uncannily long tongue across her lips.
I had to admit, I was quite pleased Dulcie was in a cell of her own and not within reach of Vander. And, on the contrary, I was disappointed she was not sharing a cell with me, as I believed the two of us could make our time here pass quite enjoyably.
“Well,” remarked Dagan. I could hear the grin in his voice. “That went well.”
“Did it?” I asked. “Did it really?”
“We’re in, aren’t we?”
“In, yes, but we’re in cages,” Quillan continued.
“Cells, Quillan, cells. There are only bars on the one wall.”
I appraised the space and nodded once. “So there are. But the sentiment stands. We are in confined spaces in which there is no ready exit. I would hardly consider this as going well.”
“You say potato and I say pah-tat-oh,” Dagan replied, rather annoyingly.
“So, what now?” asked Quillan.
“Now?” repeated Dagan, as though the thought had simply not occurred to him.
“Yes, now. How do we bust out?” Quillan continued.
“Bust out?” Dagan echoed, and he laughed. “Oh, we don’t.”
There was a pause. “What do you mean, we don’t?” said Quillan.
“I mean, we don’t bust out. You don’t bust out. I don’t bust out. He, she, and it doesn’t bust out,” Dagan elaborated.
“Okay! I fucking get it!” Quillan roared at him.
“There is simply no way to e
scape the dungeons of Dromir,” the highly vexing demon finished.
“No way at all?” Quillan pressed.
“Well, they wouldn’t be very convincing dungeons if you could just get out of them, would they?” Dagan pointed out.
There was a thunk as Quillan, or perhaps someone else, dropped his or her forehead hard on the bars. “No. They wouldn’t.”
“So, what, we just wait?” asked Vander, in a voice that suggested he detested the very thought. Not that I was especially keen on spending much more time in the Motel Demonio, myself. Of course, I had an answer up my sleeves but I decided to allow my compatriots ample time to stew in their own concern.
Regardless, Vander’s voice unruffled my feathers. The sound of it was most irksome. It was bad enough that I could not wipe clean from my memory the image of Dulcie and Vander discussing their… relationship, for lack of a better word. Vander’s admission to his love for her had been nothing less than cringe-worthy. I was pleased she had not allowed him re-entry into her heart. He did not deserve it.
“We could play guessing games,” ventured Dagan.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” responded Quillan.
“Dagan, don’t tell me that you dragged us all here to save the alleged love of your life with no semblance of a plan?” Vander asked.
Dagan made a high, disinterested popping sound with his mouth.
“Well?” Vander demanded.
“You said not to tell you.”
“Oh, for the love of all that is unholy,” I muttered.
“And, for the record, I dragged you nowhere. Dulcie did that part for me—thank you, love.”
“Sure, honey,” crooned Dulcie, speaking with the cadence of a Hollywood prostitute from a bad eighties movie.
“And I didn’t see any of you leaping forward with a plan?” Dagan added.
“So, what do you recommend?” Vander asked.
“Die before they come back, I suppose.”
I laughed for it was a humorous response.
“You must be joking,” Quillan said.
“Hardly. There is no fate Darion can visit upon me that I would prefer to death.”
“Even in service of saving Osenna?” I asked.
“How would giving myself over to the nightmarish fantasies of my brother service Osenna?”
“That depends,” I answered. “What are his fantasies?”
“Bram, dude,” interjected Quillan. “Not cool.”
“Yes, because that is what we should be concerning ourselves with now,” I retorted, mostly to myself. “Being cool.”
“How about being fucking civil?” Vander demanded. “And, Dagan, what was the point of coming over here to save Osenna when you knew we’d just wind up in prison?”
“I didn’t know. This has taken me by surprise as much as it has you.”
“I can’t say I’m that surprised,” Vander grumbled.
“I need…” Dulcie suddenly cried out. “I need… I need a man. Now.”
Dagan sighed. “Ah, my dear, you must be patient, for none of us are able to service you at present.”
“Ever,” I corrected him. Then I sighed. “I suppose now the only thing left to us is just to lean back against these most comfortable stones and wait for eternity to pass us by.”
“Bram, for the love of fuck, this isn’t helping,” Quillan groaned. I had a feeling his constant whining would begin to grate on my nerves quite soon. It was a good thing I had a way out of this most discouraging of situations. For now, though, I was immensely enjoying everyone’s discomfort.
“It was not my intention to be helpful,” I replied.
“Then why did you come?” Vander demanded.
“To keep Dulcie safe,” I responded.
“I could have kept her safe,” Vander said.
“Great job you have done so far.”
“Guys,” Quillan warned.
“Great job you’ve done so far!” Vander railed at me.
“We need to put our heads together and figure a way out of this!” Quillan continued, carrying on as if he were Captain America.
“I am all ears.”
“Don’t you want to get out of here?” he continued.
“I’m quite enjoying the ambiance.”
“For fuck’s sake!” he railed at me. “We’ve literally been locked up in a volcano and you still can’t be serious?”
“No, we haven’t been locked up in a volcano,” I explained. “The lava isn’t real. Everything in this place is an elaborate illusion, with the exception of the walls, the bars, and the existence of the floor.”
“Very good, Bram,” said Dagan.
Quillan was quiet for a few seconds. “So, we could just walk through it if we could get the doors open?”
“Possibly, though I suspect there is something genuinely dangerous under the false lava. Acid, perhaps, or spikes.”
“Spikes?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me, actually,” agreed Dagan. “Darion is a fan of the classics.”
“Darion built this prison?” I asked.
“Darion amended this prison,” Dagan corrected me. “The foundation is old but Darion just keeps making it bigger. And worse.”
“Via illusions.”
“Illusions are cheaper than full-scale underground renovations.”
“Fair enough,” I concurred.
“So, what’s the plan?” Quillan pressed. “We’ve got nothing, let’s get something. What do we do?”
“We could persuade the ladies to do something,” ventured Dagan.
“What kind of something?” I asked.
“Something with lots of grunting and touching. They could give us a play-by-play.”
“How thoroughly vulgar,” I remarked, almost wistfully. I had to admit, though, that the idea of watching Dulcie with one of the demon women was growing on me. Perhaps it was a close second to seeing myself with her.
Vander snorted.
“Is something funny?” I asked, irritated at the disruption of my visual of Dulcie one-on-one with another woman.
Vander remained silent, and I was almost disappointed. I would have loved a good verbal row just then. Something to ease the tension.
“What’s the matter, Vander?” I asked, leaning against the bars and resting one arm on the cross-brace that ran at chest-level across them. “Did Dagan’s idea assault your sense of chivalry?”
“Fuck you, Bram.”
“The only person I am interested in fucking happens to be imprisoned between us,” I responded and motioned to Dulcie.
There was a harsh rattling noise as Vander threw his fists against his cage, like the thrashing of a wild dog in a trap, snapping its fury at a trapper just out of reach.
“Don’t hurt yourself,” I cautioned with a laugh.
“You know what? I’m sick and tired of listening to you pretend you’re better than me.”
“Oh, but I am better than you,” I insisted. “You raped your girlfriend on the side of the road in the dark. I don’t know what on Earth you think I could do to top that.”
“I didn’t know what I was doing!” Vander insisted.
“Please,” I scoffed. “You knew. Even in the throes of a violent glamour, some part of you knows; sober you has no excuse.”
“Neither does sober you.”
“No, I am sure sober me does not, either,” I agreed. “But I believe I have had this conversation with Quillan already. Something about—” I waved my hand absently “—my inherent lack of morality or my innate depravity or something similar.”
“Something similar, yeah,” said Quillan.
“I am slightly self-aware, you know,” I continued.
Vander spat his laugh against the wall. “Are you?”
“In small bursts, yes,” I replied. “There is nothing of which you can accuse me that I do not already know.”
“Taking advantage of Dulcie?”
“Of course, often and with fervor but never to the extent that you took a
dvantage of her. I have only ever taken advantage of her time and her kindness. You took advantage of her body and her trust.”
“Nothing changes the fact that you’re the scum of the Earth,” Vander continued.
“I take great pride in such title, actually. I think I have one of those little plastic trophies titled ‘World’s Best Scum’ sitting atop my fireplace mantle in one of my many chateaus. Or perhaps there is one sitting atop each mantle in all of my chateaus.”
“Can we maybe focus on getting out of here and finding the hostage we’re here to rescue?” chided Quillan.
“Yeah, great, break out, why didn’t I think of that?” Vander snapped. “I was just gonna sit here and listen to Bram whine for the rest of my life, that sounds way more fun.”
“I do not whine,” I argued through my teeth. “If anyone here is being self-indulgent, it is you.”
“Knight, for fuck’s sake, can you be professional for ten seconds?” barked Quillan. “Now is not the time. At all.”
“What good is being professional going to do us down here?” countered Vander, voice ringing like a struck gong. “What do you mean, be professional—we’re in a dungeon in Dro-fucking-mir. What do you think they’re gonna do? Call our parents?”
“Knight, dude, take a breath—” Quillan continued.
“I don’t need to take a breath! They’re gonna come back down here with fire pokers and needles and bone saws, and being professional isn’t going to stop them.”
“That’s not what I meant,” huffed Quillan. For all his faults, the little elf-man was exercising commendable patience. Vander was no longer his direct superior; in theory, nothing was stopping Quillan from saying anything that came to mind, however scalding.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Bram
“You just want me to shut my mouth and behave, because I’m the fucking Devil, aren’t I,” Vander continued, his tone of voice raised and angry. “But Bram is just fine, isn’t he, perfect upstanding citizen!”
“I am guilty of many things, but my numerous crimes pale in comparison to your one,” I replied. “Congratulations, Vander, you have outdone yourself and me at once.”
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