“If I accept your help,” Nikomedes said after a lengthy silence, “I must assume you have plans to claim the prize I seek after I have secured it.”
Nazoraios waved a hand dismissively, “I have no interest in the Land Bride of Messene, Adonia Zosime.” He then paused deliberately and feigned realization before continuing in a hushed voice, “Oh…the prize you meant is King Lykurgos’ lost blade? I admit the thought had crossed my mind,” he said with a serpentine smile, “though I sincerely hope it serves my goals better in your hands than those of any other.”
“Why not claim it for yourself?” Nikomedes asked bitterly, surprised at how angry he felt at having his worst suspicions confirmed by the elderly warrior’s reply.
“I prefer acquiring friends to acquiring trinkets,” Nazoraios explained all-too-patiently. “And if friends are unavailable for some unforeseen reason, I’m only too happy to exchange favors with those I would have gladly made my friends.”
“A favor for a favor?” Nikomedes reiterated with a scoff, making clear how he felt about the duplicitous Nazoraios as a prospective friend.
Again Nazoraios shrugged lightly, “If that is Men’s will.”
“Then what favor do you offer that would be worth defeating Kapaneus—and not only defeating him, but ending his life?” Nikomedes demanded coldly.
“The chasm where you must go is not a natural place,” Nazoraios explained, “as such, your knowledge—vast as it may be in the ways of the kraken and mountain cats—will prove unequal to the task of reaching the resting place of your prize. My knowledge, however,” he said emphatically, “extends well beyond the natural realm, and could prove instrumental to your surviving long enough to successfully return from the temple.”
Nikomedes looked around the nearly empty library, noting only a pair of scribes working furiously to copy the contents of clay tablets onto cloth scrolls.
“They are quite deaf, I assure you,” Nazoraios said with open amusement, “and there are no others within earshot of our private exchange.”
“Others have reached the temple,” Nikomedes said challengingly.
“You have missed the operative word,” Nazoraios said with disappointment, “you say ‘reached the temple’ while I offer to help you ‘return from the temple.’ Or were you unaware of why Kephus’ forefather scrawled that little map on a scrap of cloth—a scrap he guards more dutifully than most men guard their daughters?”
“You have seen it?” Nikomedes asked in surprise.
“If I had, I assure you we would not be having this pleasant conversation,” Nazoraios replied easily. “But I am content with this particular turn of events since it allows me to accomplish several tasks—the details of which I will not bore you with—by extending you this single favor. First, however,” he said, his eyes boring into Nikomedes’ own, “we must reach an agreement.”
Nikomedes considered the proposal for several minutes, and the silence which hung between them was broken only by the soft dabbing of quill in ink by the scribes working at their assignments on the opposite side of the library.
In truth, he had long suspected he would need to kill Kapaneus in order to cement his position at Akantha’s side. But accepting this offer seemed more like the act of a mercenary than that of an honorable warrior, and Nikomedes was no sellsword. Even when he had fought for Kratos, it had been to satisfy a debt of honor—a debt which had bought the lives of his surviving comrades at Felix’ last battle.
“I will not murder him,” Nikomedes said stiffly.
“I would never dream of asking you to do so,” Nazoraios said dramatically behind a cunning smile. “Rest assured that by the time you return, Kapaneus will be ready to intercept your claim and the only choice available to you will be to surrender the sword or fight him to the death—honorably, of course,” he added, as though honor was nothing but an afterthought or possibly a convenient aspect of the outcome.
“You will pit him against me while I quest?” Nikomedes growled.
“As the saying goes,” Nazoraios said with a knowing nod, “’iron sharpens iron.’ This is the only way to ensure that none but the ablest of men stand at my warlord’s side—and that they are properly equipped for the post.”
“I am not one of Nykator’s lackeys,” Nikomedes said with an adamant shake of his head.
“Of course not,” Nazoraios agreed soothingly before adding, “at least…not yet.”
That last comment was nearly enough for Nikomedes to refuse and take his chances with the chasm without Nazoraios’ supposed help. But he doubted this particular exchange would have taken place on the back of a bluff, so he reluctantly sighed and said, “If Kapaneus refuses to surrender after I have bested him…then I will kill him in accordance with tradition, but I will not agree to murder him if he honorably submits.”
Nazoraios’ eyes flashed with anger for a brief moment before softening as a smile creased the corners of his eyes. “Good man,” he said approvingly.
Chapter XIX: The Chasm
Nikomedes marched day and night, stopping only to sleep when it rained overly much or when the light from the moon was insufficient to safely show the patch of ground before him. Even with such extraordinary measures, it still took him the proscribed three weeks to reach the chasm—a distance which easily took him outside the furthest reaches of Argos’ borders.
As he approached the chasm, a foul stench grew in the air which was similar to rotten krytzu eggs. But it also contained a deeper, sharper sensation which seemed to infiltrate his skull via his nostrils.
Taking out his training mask—which he had significantly modified following Nazoraios’ surprisingly detailed explanation of the chasm’s deadly air—he secured it around his mouth and nose. He drew several long, deep breaths to test the seal which the mask made around his freshly-shaven face and found it to be every bit as tight as it was meant to be.
He had enjoyed wearing his long, full beard since defeating Kyrillos, but the mask simply would not function with even a few days’ growth of stubble on his cheeks. He breathed deeply, taking in breaths of Nazoraios’ pungent herbal blend which he had applied to the makeshift air filters attached to the mask’s exterior, and felt the foul vapors penetrate deep into his lungs with each labored, but somehow comfortingly familiar, breath.
Each breath reminded him of his far-too-long time at Blue Fang Pass, and the measure of focus he felt as he trudged toward the chasm was rivaled only by that he had felt while preparing to free himself of Kratos’ grip—and, of course, by the weeks spent preparing for the kraken.
As he approached the chasm’s edge, he was awestruck by just how massive the tear in the surface of his world was. He had heard tales of it, but none dared venture too close to the edge since the foul odors emanating from the chasm were not the only dangers which the great crack in the ground might employ to kill would-be explorers of its murky depths.
The chasm plunged well over two thousand meters from where he stood at its edge to the very bottom of the gorge itself, and it ran for as far as he could see in either direction. It had clearly not been created by the relatively slow process of water erosion, since water tends to wind this way and that as it seeks marginally weaker layers of rock sandwiched between the more stalwart formations of bedrock.
This particular gorge, however, was shaped in an almost perfectly straight line, with a barely perceptible crescent-shaped curve to it that suggested it was unnatural in origin—or, if it had indeed been natural, it was unlike any other formation in his people’s records.
Gripping the Spirewood spear at his side, which he had used as a walking stick to probe the ground before him—revealing more than a few deadly pitfalls which quite possibly would have ended his quest before he ever reached his target destination—he scanned the gorge’s ledge for the path described in Kephus’ kerchief, which according to Nazoraios had been scribbled during Kephus’ forefather’s final breaths before the chasm’s deadly fumes claimed his life.
The fog was thick within the chasm, making the bottom invisible in most places, but he knew this was as clear as it was likely to get. The seasonal winds were soon to turn from their current northeasterly direction to a western one, and the noxious fog would then settle in at least twice as thick until half a year had elapsed and the northeastern winds returned.
He eventually found the formation described in the kerchief’s note and trudged toward it, and knew that the path to the gorge’s floor was nearer than he had originally expected. He kept a weather eye out as he did so for the deadliest dangers ever recorded within the chasm itself:
Demons.
Nikomedes climbed down the edge of the chasm for several hundred meters before arriving at the bronze chain described in the note Kephus had given him. It was coiled behind a rock perfectly described by Kephus’ ancestor, and Nikomedes also found the piton and hammer which had been left there.
The piton was in working condition, but the hammer’s haft had rotted away many years earlier, leaving only the head. But Nikomedes knew he could just use a head-sized rock to drive the piton into a seam between two giant slabs of rock which formed the chasm’s wall. He did so and dangled the chain—which measured nearly a hundred meters, and was clearly the only route to the ledge below that did not require a deadly climb down the sheer rock of the gorge’s wall—over the edge, testing its strength with a few sharp tugs and finding the piton and chain ready for his use.
His field plate armor, which he had worn throughout the journey to the chasm, was less awkward than he had expected as he climbed down the chain with his spear and shield strapped across his back, and Kephus’ blade dangling from his belt.
The descent ended as he touched his feet to the ground, and he found his breaths deep and labored when he finally reached the bottom. In many ways, lowering one’s self down a length of chain is more difficult than climbing up it, and Nikomedes’ mask still heavily restricted his breathing while also—hopefully—serving as a barrier to the poisonous fumes of the chasm.
He took out his spear and peered around the long, narrow ledge as he scanned for signs of movement. A few shrubs existed down here, and they even bore greenish-brown fruit of a kind Nikomedes did not know, but aside from their sparse number he saw no life of any kind within the foul chasm.
He unfastened his shield from his back and gripped it firmly before setting off on the narrow, dangerously steep ledge which appeared to lead all the way to the bottom of the chasm itself.
The march took him most of the day, and when he finally reached the bottom the last rays of the setting sun were all that lit his way. He knew it would be dangerous to travel at night on the chasm’s floor, but Nazoraios had suggested that the demons which were rumored to inhabit the chasm floor would be less active at night compared with during daylight hours.
So he followed the general directions laid down in the note, stopping regularly to listen for sounds of pursuit or activity of any other kind but finding none.
The moon was full above him, though he could not see it through the fog. Its light, however, diffused through the fog and created an eerie, pale yellow light which was surprisingly bright. It allowed him to see several meters ahead as he walked between the slick, jagged rocks which adorned the chasm’s floor, and he made better progress than he had anticipated he would while traveling at night.
Then he heard something ahead of him and he cocked his head while freezing the rest of his body. It sounded like a clacking noise similar to that made by a cloven-hoofed animal walking on a cobblestone path, but the timing and irregularity of it suggested the author of the noise bore more than four legs.
He peered around the rock which stood between him and the source of the noise and saw what could have only been a young demon. Its body was low to the ground, shaped like a crab’s, and in many ways it resembled one of the large, half-meter diameter crabs he and his brother would eat after moving away from Argos, though this particular creature had a dozen legs while those Nikomedes had eaten bore six and a pair of pincers.
This creature, however, had no pincers which seemed odd to Nikomedes. It stood beside a pool of some kind which reflected the hazy light on its murky surface, and seemed to be drinking at the edge of the pool as its legs clacked up and down with what seemed to be nervous tension.
Nikomedes gripped the spear in his hand and moved as quietly as he could toward the creature, checking the nearby rocky ledges for signs of motion as he crept up on the unnatural looking beast. It appeared to have no eyes, and its oval-shaped shell was remarkably smooth at its edges, which was also a marked difference between it and the crabs with which Nikomedes was familiar.
The creature ceased drinking and turned its body, presumably toward him, and Nikomedes struck out with his spear before it could make another move. The spear’s wavy tip pierced its surprisingly soft shell and the creature’s legs clacked against the stones violently as he wrenched his weapon sideways, flipping the animal onto its back.
Once there, Nikomedes withdrew his spear from its carapace and saw that the demon creature appeared unable to right itself as its legs flailed in the air helplessly.
Deciding after only a few seconds that it was no threat, Nikomedes decided to end its suffering by plunging his spear near the creature’s mouth-like orifice. The beast did not die at first, so he repeatedly stabbed it in slightly different locations until it eventually stopped moving.
After he had slain it, he saw the tip of his spear was smoking and he drew it nearer for inspection. As he watched, pits and what looked to be boils appeared on the metal and he quickly doused the spear’s tip in the pool from which the creature had drank.
But that only seemed to worsen the degradation of his weapon’s tip, and he scowled as he drew a rag from his belt and tried to wipe the spear’s tip clean before the damage became too great. He feared he had failed in that particular regard, as he saw that the weapon’s edge had already dulled significantly and its surface was now covered in small pits while its previously shiny surface was now dark and likely ruined forever.
“Foul demons,” he cursed under his breath as he tested the spear’s tip by wedging it between a pair of rocks and flexing it side to side. It was not overly brittle, so he decided to keep it as his primary weapon as he advanced through the gorge.
He trudged throughout the night and encountered no more unnatural creatures—or natural ones, for that matter. The shrubs which had existed higher in the gorge were now completely absent, and the only features worthy of note other than the sharp, slick-looking, jagged rocks were the occasional pool of yellowish acid like the one from which the demon had drank. Oddly enough, there was the occasional tree standing here and there, though they looked sickly and twisted as well they should from existing in such a hellish environment.
Then he heard something that made him stop once again. It had come from behind him this time, and he immediately had the distinct impression he was being stalked. He resumed his pace more quickly than he would have liked, since he knew that whatever stalked him was two things: first, it was not human and second, it was clearly a skilled hunter.
The sound had come from just a few meters away, and he had kept his ears open for the sounds of pursuit. How a creature could sneak up on him in this terrain was difficult to for him to comprehend, but he gripped the spear tightly in his hand as he slowly tensed his muscles in preparation for the fight to come.
He heard another sound, and this time he whirled just in time to get his shield between himself and the savage-looking creature which fell upon him. It had apparently leapt at him from atop one of the rocks, and the weight of its body was surprising for a creature of its size.
It seemed no larger than a boy of ten or twelve years, but its body was covered in a thick, brown carapace like that of an insect—and the shape of its head seemed to bolster the validity of that particular comparison.
It had mandibles to either side of its spine-filled mouth, and a pair of multifaceted eyes with ant
ennae behind them. Its abdomen flared out like a bee’s, but tapered to a delicate point at the creature’s rear, and a handful of legs spread beneath its entirely-too-delicate looking body.
But its arms ended in almost human-like hands, and Nikomedes found those hands reaching for his eyes as the creature’s sneak attack caused them to crash to the ground.
Unable to get his spear up in time, Nikomedes released his grip on the weapon and reached up to grab the creature’s equivalent of a neck before it could bring its razor-sharp mandibles down on his face.
The creature was quick, and it eluded his first grasp as its legs skittered for a purchase on the rim of his shield. But Nikomedes kept his shield between his body and that of the demon as he turned his grasping hand into a fist which he battered into the creature’s legs just as they took purchase on his shield’s edge.
The leg snapped between his mailed gauntlet and the metal-bound rim of his shield, and Nikomedes followed up with a blow to the beast’s flank which nearly saw it thrown from the shield. Slipping his arm from the shield’s strap, he slammed the shield down on the ground with enough force to break the binding rim of metal, but in doing so he dislodged the creature and followed up with a brutal kick to its abdomen.
The demon’s carapace cracked and a dark, foul-smelling ichor issued from the wound as Nikomedes kicked it again, trying—and failing—to keep the ichor from his boot.
In fact, the ichor splashed so much farther from the beast’s armored shell that some even found its way to his pauldron and breastplate, where it began to hiss and smoke while emitting a strong, acrid odor that he could smell even through his mask.
The creature attempted to flee but its legs were too badly broken and Nikomedes picked up his spear before quickly skewering the thing through its midsection, nearly bisecting its body with the precise thrust.
The spear’s tip began to hiss after coming in contact with the creature’s foul innards, but Nikomedes knew he needed to kill this thing before more of its ilk came to its aid, so a few well-placed hacks from his spear reduced it to a pile of its constituent parts.
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