Shadow Phantoms

by H. P. Mallory

“A way out,” I said as I eyed the mouth of the cave with renewed interest.

  “No!” Scrote nearly yelled. “Not a way out!”

  “Why?”

  He began shaking his head with severity. “If ye go into Fatalia, you’ll never come back out again.”

  “Why?”

  “There are horrors within the belly of this land,” Scrote responded, his dour yet knowledgeable expression one I had not seen upon his face before. ‘Twas almost as if some other person embodied his form. “The wicked roam the endless caverns an’ the good are lost… forever.”

  His story seemed dramatic and based on anything but fact. “Ye dinnae know that for sure, do you?” I asked, eyeing him with one brow drawn. He scratched the thinning patch of hair upon his head as I chuckled in spite of myself. “Ye are just repeatin’ what you’ve been told, aye? What the numpty neepheids have long been tellin’ ye.”

  He nodded. “I…I… I admit I haven’t been to Fatalia, but the stories I’ve heard are enough for me to k…k… keep my distance.” He paused. “It’s the land of the Unseelie.”

  “Stories you’ve heard?”

  “Yes,” he began nodding enthusiastically again. “Stories of death an’ monsters an’ imprisonment an’ creatures that defy logical explanation.”

  Unlike Scrote, I was not easily convinced by stories. No, I did not regard the cave as anything other than a possible way out of this forsaken place and a way back to the mainland. A way back home.

  ###

  Two Hours Later

  The only approach to the cave was through the forest and up the mountainside. No matter.

  “Morse, I must repeat this… is madness!” Scrote called out behind me even as he daintily gripped hold of the face of a rock, pulling himself up behind me.

  “Ye dinnae have to come with me if ye dinnae care to!” I hollered back, not bothering to glance behind me. We had already had this conversation mayhap an hour ago and Scrote had decided to take his chances in the cave rather than with the inhabitants of Mayhem. I believed it a wise decision.

  Of course the wallopers had had other ideas. As we left Mayhem, they threw their insults at us and bits of decaying and rotted meat as they danced and carried on in the way of madness, creating quite the carfuffle.

  “Where you goin’?” one of them yelled. “To Fatalia? You’ll never come back!”

  “Fools!” someone else called. “Ye’ll be captured an’ sold by the Unseelie!”

  “Or eaten by monsters an’ ghosts!”

  “Aye, good riddance!” another yelled.

  I paid them no heed.

  “W… what if we…we… we don’t come b…b…back?” Scrote started, his voice soft.

  “Dinnae fash yourself,” I said, facing him with stern reserve. “Ye dinnae want to leave this place a feartie, do ye?”

  “I… I don’t… don’t know what… that is.”

  “A coward.”

  He did not respond as he caught up with me. The second moon was starting its descent in the sky, basking the land in dark rays of milky blue. We both had packed as many rations as we could within our knapsacks, including dried forest meat, salted and dried fish and water. The water was carried within the cleaned intestine of the same forest animal that had provided our meat. Our knapsacks, which were simply worn pieces of clothing we had snatched from two dead bodies before they joined the pyre, were filled to the brim.

  “The rock face is somewhat loose here,” I called to Scrote. “Proceed carefully!”

  Holding my knapsack far above my head, I hoisted my arm back and then released the bundle, watching as it flew through the air and landed at the mouth of the cave. Scrote caught up to me and handed me his bundle in order that I should do the same with it. I had fastened two intestine jugs around my sporran and there they remained.

  “Right b… behind you!” Scrote shouted.

  “Are ye right?” I asked as I eyed him. This trip would either toughen him up or it would kill him. I was not sure which.

  He nodded and facing forward, I gripped a large rock ahead of me and throwing my foot round to the other side, I pulled myself up the steep incline. Standing atop the rock, I leaned over to my companion and reached out my hand. Scrote placed his dainty fingers in mine and I pulled him up its craggy face.

  “We are here,” I said as I turned to face the opening of the cave. I glanced down at the green goo that continued to drip but decided not to investigate it. “Now we have only Auld Nick to fear, the devil himself.” I turned back to my companion. “Dinnae say a word whilst we are within the cave,” I started as I stared down at the much smaller man. “Sound carries.”

  He nodded, the expression of fear within his eyes. “B… but what if I need to… to ask you somethin’? Or… what if… I hear somethin’ an’ need to… alert you?”

  “Whisper,” I answered and then turned my back on him as I faced the cave. Inside ‘twas black as the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat but I did not allow that to frighten me. Blackness could not hurt a person. And, furthermore, a possible way out was a possible way out.

  I took a step forward, into the cave and stayed close to the jagged rock walls. Another few steps and the smell of sulphur was thick in my nose. Mixed along with it was the musty, salty scent of a damp enclosure that had not seen fresh air in far too long. Another ten or so steps and my eyesight began to suffer. I found myself blinking repeatedly as my eyes attempted to make sense of the darkness. The brightness of the dying moon outside became nothing more than a pinprick, the further we voyaged into the recess of the cave.

  “It’s… dark,” Scrote whispered from behind me as he tripped over something. “I can’t… barely see a thing.”

  “Wheesht!” I scolded him whilst I turned around and held my index finger to my lips. I was not certain if he could see me. But he nodded and continued to follow behind me. Our momentum was slow, owing to the cave floor which was littered with rocks, algae and other undefinable debris. I lost my footing more than once.

  As my eyes slowly adjusted to the near blackness, I found I was able to view more of the cave. Inside, it was immense, with walls that spanned nearly fifty feet in height. Atop the ceiling of the cave was a forest of sharp and pointed stalactites. Water dripped from their spikes, forming small pools upon the floor. Stalagmites rose up from the floor, making our procession slow and difficult. Upon them grew fungi that glowed green within the low light. This same fungi grew alongside the walls and ceiling of the cave, the glow casting an eerie light across the cavern. Here the air tasted and smelled metallic and the dripping of the water off the stalactites made no echo.

  “Do you…s…s… suppose there’s b…b… bats?” Scrote whispered, not an inch from my ear.

  “I dinnae know,” I answered with a shrug.

  My feet faltered as they encountered uneven terrain. I glanced down and found myself standing atop a small hill of countless bones. I had no explanation for the bones, so I did not attempt one. Instead, I continued forward, Scrote at my heels.

  We marched up an embankment and suddenly the smell of rot was thick in the air. I glanced down the other side of the small ridge and found a depression within the cave floor that interrupted our progress. Within the pit were numerous fungi of various colors and heights. The pit extended mayhap ten feet east to west and fifteen feet north to south. I was not certain how we should traverse it.

  “Morse!”

  I heard Scrote’s scream but not fast enough, for I felt the sting of an arrow puncturing my neck. The poison made quick work of spreading through me and after another second, I found I could not see clearly and my head felt heavy. I collapsed against the wall of the cave as a face came into my view.

  ‘Twas a woman. Her skin was orange and her hair was white and long. Her eyes glowed yellow in the low light, her lips opening to reveal a victorious smile.

  “Mmm, he’s a big one.” A woman’s voice.

  ###

  My head felt heavy and my eyelids even heavier. I tr
ied to move my head and a terrible pain accosted me in my neck.

  “Are you certain he is adequately restrained? I shall be very put-out if we are forced to tackle the brute.”

  The woman’s voice again.

  I opened my eyes.

  I did not know my surroundings. I was lying against the cold and damp earth. When I attempted to sit, I heard the clanking of iron upon iron and felt the cold weightiness of the metal tight about my throat, wrists and ankles. From what I could decipher, I was within a pen inside a cave. There was a heavy iron gate bolted into the stone floor before me. And a lone clay chamber pot stood in one corner of the sparse room.

  I was collared and shackled. This did not bode well.

  “Where am I?” I demanded, my voice scratchy.

  “You are in the slave pens of Demondis,” a woman responded. It was the same woman who had spoken earlier. She stood before me, robed in silken garments of deep purple that brushed the ground. She wore velvet trousers beneath the robes, of the same aubergine hue. She was tall and thin, almost gaunt.

  “What are ye?” I demanded, having never seen her kind afore.

  She laughed, but the sound came out as a hiss. “We are the Veits. The original inhabitants of Fatalia.” She was flanked by two male Veits, one younger than the other. The elder of the two was missing multiple fingers on his left hand and bore the scars of a blade across his face. His scar had disfigured him, taking a good portion of his nose and the flesh of his cheek. The skin of the male Veits was as orange as the woman’s, but the younger male possessed white hair while the older had black. Both shared the same physique as the female—tall and narrow.

  The two male Veits were dressed as if for combat, wearing black leathers and metal chainmail atop. Their ears rose to tall and narrow points, much longer than the female’s.

  “I am your mistress,” the woman continued, eyeing me with pleasure. “You may refer to me as Mistress Ermolai. I am the commander of this outpost.” She paused as she inhaled deeply. “If you are intelligent, you will heed my command and accept your fate as my prisoner. Your life now belongs to me.”

  “Where is mah companion?” I demanded, remembering Scrote.

  “He is alive,” Ermolai responded with little interest.

  “Where is he?”

  Her eyes narrowed slightly at my tone. “In another of my slave pens.”

  “I wish to see him.”

  “Your wishes are not of interest to me,” Ermolai nearly spat at me, her bright green eyes wide with anger. “Attach him to the floor,” she instructed the younger Veit. The elder moved as if to obey her, but she turned her fiery gaze on him and stopped him cold. The younger male approached me and gripping the chain attached to the collar about my throat, yanked me down. He fastened the manacle to the floor and I was forced to sit upon me arse.

  “Mistress?” he asked.

  “Come, Brottor,” she responded with a clipped nod. She said nothing to the other male, but simply turned on her toes and started for the iron gate that separated my cell from the rest of the cave. They both followed her.

  “You will be fed shortly, slave,” Ermolai announced, holding her small nose up in the air. “I suggest you finish your rations as you will only be fed once daily.”

  I did not respond.

  THIRTEEN

  MORSE

  My supper arrived mayhap an hour later. It consisted of a thin, tasteless broth served in a red clay bowl. Some form of mushroom floated in the broth and while the taste was not offensive, neither was it enjoyable.

  The elder of the two Veits I had seen earlier brought me my rations.

  “What are ye called?” I asked him, wanting to learn as much as I could about my jailers in order to ascertain what their weaknesses were.

  “Adrik,” he responded. When he spoke, his mouth appeared pinched on one side, owing to the unforgiving scar that passed through it.

  “What is my fate?”

  “You will be moved into a pen with the other prisoners shortly,” Adrik responded.

  “And after that?”

  Adrik shrugged. “The mistress will most likely sell you when we reach Voltare.”

  “What is the distance to Voltare?”

  “Perhaps three days from here,” Adrik said. I found it curious that he was responding to my questions with such ease, but I was not entirely surprised. There was something lacking in him—a certain melancholy I imagined was born from his wounds. As the scars along his face still retained their pink hue, I could deduce he had received them not long ago.

  “And when shall we make this trek?”

  Adrik shrugged. “I know and care not.” Then he faced me squarely before dropping his gaze to the clay pot at my feet. “Have you finished?”

  “Aye.”

  “Kick the bowl to me. I’m in no mood to come after it.”

  I nodded, not wanting to make waves with this one. Aye, this one would come in handy at some point. Hopefully in the near future. He would aid me, either intentionally or not. In the time I had been doomed to walk the lands of the Abyss, I had learned how to become a good judge of character.

  I placed the clay bowl before my right foot and kicked it toward the iron gate, close enough that Adrik was able to retrieve it through the bars.

  “Do as your mistress says and you will find your time here as good as it is possible to be,” Adrik said in a low tone. There was something defeated about his overall demeanor. It was a weakness I would use to my advantage. When the time was right.

  I nodded, saying nothing. Adrik took the clay bowl and left.

  I remained in solitary for perhaps an hour more. At the sound of light footsteps, I looked up to find Ermolai standing before me. She was accompanied by Brunor, the younger Veit.

  “You will be put to work starting today, slave,” Ermolai announced, a smile accompanying the statement. “Stand.”

  I did as I was instructed and watched as Ermolai unlocked my prison door and Brunor entered. He eyed me narrowly, clearly wary of me.

  “I willnae attack ye,” I offered, holding my handcuffed wrists out before me.

  “That’s right,” Ermolai said with a quick nod. “To do so would be foolish as you would be outnumbered and outmanned in seconds. I have hundreds who follow my command.” I could not say whether such was the truth or mere bluff. “And, furthermore, you do not want to put yourself on my wrong side.”

  I believed this was truth.

  Brunor approached me and released the shackles around my ankles. Then he proceeded to lead me from my cell, pulling on the chain that connected to the iron collar about my neck. I followed Ermolai down the narrow dirt path that wove in between the immense stalactites, doing my best to take reconnaissance of my surroundings. The cell in which I had been housed sat at the top of the cavern and was accessed by one pathway only. Beneath my cell were numerous other cells, each inhabited by at least five creatures.

  “You shall begin your labor here, slave,” Ermolai said as she stopped short and Brunor pulled against the iron chain, yanking my neck upward. I stopped walking. “You will empty the chamber pots of both the prisoners and my guards,” Ermolai began, the twisted smile upon her lips stretching. “Then you will assist in the filling and hauling of the water barrels.”

  “They are extremely heavy,” Brunor added.

  “Yes, and owing to your physique, this job is well suited to you,” Ermolai continued as her eyes roved my uncovered chest to my legs and back to my chest again. “Do a poor job and you will be forced to redo it.”

  Scarce a few minutes later, I found myself retrieving overfilling chamber pots from each of the prison cells. The offensive things were handed to me by a selected prisoner who passed them through an opening in the prison gate, barely wide enough to fit the chamber pot itself. Consequently, dung and piss splashed over the rim of the clay bowl and landed upon my hands and lower arms.

  “Do a better job,” one of the prisoners piped up. He was sitting inside the prison and was
shackled such as I was. There were five other inmates beside him, each stationed to a position upon the ground.

  “I ain’t gonna clean the ground after you,” another one added as I glanced down and found I had spilled the excrement upon the cave floor.

  After retrieving each pot of misery, I carried it, as instructed, to a cesspool that was not twenty feet from the cells. The pool was mayhap five feet wide and seven long. It was bordered by thick rock on each side and sunken into the ground. The pool was darkly colored with feces and the stench of it was near unbearable. I was surprised I had not smelt it from my prison at the top of the cavern. I dumped the contents of each chamber pot into the pool before returning them to the prison cells.

  On my third trip (of mayhap twenty), I noticed something unsettling about the cesspool but curious, all the same. There appeared to be something frothing from the midst of the pool, bubbling up as if a creature were breathing from beneath.

  “What is it?” I asked of one of Ermolai’s guards who happened to venture past me.

  “The Greorken,” the Veit responded. “You will clean up your spills once you return to your post,” he added. I figured he was referencing the piss stream from my unartful carrying of the latrine pots.

  “What is this Greorken?”

  “A creature that feeds upon our waste,” the Veit responded and then gripping my chain, yanked on it and forced me back to the walkway leading to the prison cells upon the second floor of the cavern. There, I was to clean the feces that had sloshed from the chamber pots whilst my fellow inmates threw crude epithets in my direction. I did not bother to notice them, but did my job in silence.

  When I had finished this duty, I was then instructed to fill with water each of ten wooden barrels that stood as tall as my waist, though half as wide. The fountain from which I was to take the water was a ten minute hike through rough and loose terrain, up a sheer cliff and through a forest of stalactites and stalagmites. A good portion of the way was bathed in darkness, owing to the missing phosphorescence of the fungi that lit the rest of the cavern.