Absence_Mist and Shadow

by J. B. Forsyth

  As they faced off, he felt the God of Battle descend. It was said Toragin kept a gold framed painting of all violent contests upon the walls of his infinite halls. Battle was art and Toragin its artist. But he wasn’t the sort to stay behind his easel. Toragin liked to influence his creations, reaching into the scene to twist an ankle here or cramp a sword arm there. Sometimes he favoured daring and flair and sometimes he punished them. But mostly he let the art guide him; falling into a creative trance so deep, he didn’t know how his work would turn out until it was finished. It was a notion about which Kring had always been fond and as his senses brightened for battle, he imagined a fresh canvas stretching over the cavern.

  Karkus upended the table onto Suula with the tip of his sword and moved to the centre of the space, kicking the stools away. The little tracker had stabbed him where his chest knitted to his left arm and the wound was bleeding profusely. But he came straight at him, huge blades whispering through a series of savage, tree-felling arcs. Kring met each squarely, the muscles of his forearms singing with each bone jarring collision. He was forced back again, but this time Karkus didn’t push his advantage. He sidestepped instead, stealing a glimpse around the bend of the tunnel for more would be assassins.

  But Kring learnt something from the exchange. The wound Suula dealt him had gone deep. Karkus was an upper- left- hander and hundreds of sparring sessions had taught him to expect a devastating onslaught from that side. But Karkus’s blows were significantly weaker on the left and as they squared up, he saw a corroborating sign: the tip of his left sword positioned lower than the right. He lunged with a flurry of blows and Kring turned them all away - six whooshing questions met with six jarring answers. Fierak light streaked and spiralled around the blades in ghostly trailers that seemed to worship their swordsmanship.

  Kring countered with a ferocious combination that forced Karkus into several high parries with his injured side. Metal rang in a series of colourful shrieks; each successive note silencing the last. He finished with a vicious overhand and a cross body swipe he threw his whole body into. Karkus blocked both, but his injured arm collapsed and all four blades slid together – Shhhhhyk.

  With their steel locked, their fists flew like pit fighters. Kring took three hammer blows to his torso, but it was tensed like iron with the strain of the brace and he was only distantly aware of the thudding impact. He got two of his own through, both to Karkus’s injured side. But then, out of nowhere, an explosive uppercut to his jaw sent him reeling away. He thudded against the wall, losing all sense of his surroundings. But to his surprise Karkus didn’t follow up. He came to his senses and saw Ormis brandishing his sword in the entrance of the tunnel – threatening to attack. The stubborn fool had ignored his instruction – a decision that had drastically reduced his life expectancy.

  He stepped away from the wall and swished his swords. The fieraks were left hanging for a second then settled back on the greased blade; creating a flame that ran up and down as he angled the steel. If there had been spectators to the contest, one of them might have suggested the little flies had judged the swordplay and decided their allegiance. But Kring had no such thought. He knew it was the whim of Toragin that counted. The God of Battle was elbow deep in paint and the look of his finished canvas was far from decided.

  He was breathing hard now, but Karkus was too. Torucks were built for strength and power, but were quick to tire. His brother was younger and fitter and the longer this went on, the worse his chances. His injuries were usually muted in the heat of battle, but Karkus had done a good job on his jaw and it was grating like broken glass. He was encouraged to see the last exchange hadn’t been completely one sided though. His shoulder was hunched in a protective spasm and the tip of his left sword was now pointing downwards.

  Karkus’s spare hands went to his hips and whipped out a pair of daggers. It was a significant move and one he couldn’t replicate - his own daggers in the seat box of a distant wagon. Swords above and daggers below. It was how his countrymen fought in full battle mode. The Dance of Eight was usually a short one, for there was just too many moving parts and skill had to give ground to luck. But to raise the weapon count when it couldn’t be reciprocated was a cowardly act - one his countrymen would spit over their shoulders at.

  He knew how it would go now. Karkus would try to get close so he could put his daggers to use. His only chance of staying in the fight was to keep his distance. But Karkus surged forward like a cavalry horse; forcing another brace with a flurry of blows that culminated with a pair of diagonal down strokes. As soon as they were locked, Karkus stabbed with his daggers. He slapped one of them away, but wasn’t so fortunate with the other. It pierced his forearm between two bones and came out the other side. He knew his brother’s next move was to yank it, so with a roar of pain he turned his forearm, taking the blade with it and forcing Karkus to lean sharply to stop his wrist from breaking. He took a sidestep and stood on a broken stool leg which slid away beneath his boot. He lost his balance and the brace collapsed, leaving him wide open. Kring didn’t hesitate. He turned the tip of his flaming sword and buried it in his chest.

  Karkus dropped to his knees and his weapons clanged to the cavern floor; blood gushing like water from a punctured dam. He fell and the twelve inches of steel projecting from his back scraped across the stone. Kring yanked the dagger from his forearm and dropped down beside him. He turned his head so they were face to face and spoke his name in a splintery voice. But the light in Karkus’s eyes was already fading. Despite his broken jaw he roared his name; roared it until his brother’s pupils were dead moons. In a fit of disgust, he pulled his sword free and threw it across the cavern. The wound he had inflicted was right in the centre of a large tattoo: a soaring eagle with the sun in its mouth. It was the Krogan family emblem and he had the same one on his own chest. His name was under one wing and his brother’s the other. He lifted one of Karkus’s limp arms and held it against his own, aligning a special set of symbols: Brother I love thee. Then he enveloped him in a four armed bear hug and started to wail.

  When news of the brothers’ battle reached the toruck homeland it was this scene they imagined on Toragin’s canvas. All agreed it was one of his saddest works. They had expected the God of Battle to paint many great canvases of the brothers Kring and Karkus. But never one like this. They said when he was done, Toragin took the tragic canvas and hung it in a place he rarely chose to walk – a dim and dusty corridor in a quiet corner of his endless halls.

  Gomsa

  Kye and Ormis watched the fight from the shadows of the tunnel, rushing into the cavern when Kring started to wail. Ormis went to Suula and Kye to the gaping hole in the wall. They had ignored to giant’s signal to stay back - creeping forward in time to see Della disappearing into the hole and to hear Kring asking where it went. A fate she has earnt, Karkus had told him and as Kye peered in, the words repeated in his head.

  The hole was the top of a narrow chute that fell away into complete darkness. It offered little to his eyes, but it gave richly to his nose. An invisible odour boiled over its rim, speaking to him of spoilt meat and excrement. He reached in with his flaming sword, chasing the darkness further down its throat and calling her name. But there was no answer.

  He turned to Kring who was now rocking back and forth with his brother across his lap; the eerie creak of their leather the only sound in the cavern. Kye wanted to comfort him, but he didn’t know how. He had felt the same need to comfort his mother when they lost Emilie. For weeks after she just rocked in her chair; body wasting away and eyes more sunken with each passing day. He went to her once – slipping an arm around her waist and laying his head on her shoulder. But she pushed him away so hard he knocked a table over and broke a vase. So now, he stood there as a bystander to Kring’s grief – wanting to comfort him, but not daring to.

  Ormis bent over Suula and put an ear to her mouth. ‘She’s alive,’ he said, rolling her onto her side. He went to listen at the wooden doors th
en joined him at the chute.

  ‘I could climb down after her,’ said Kye.

  ‘No. We’ll find another way and go together.’

  ‘But it might be too late then.’

  ‘Remember how she was when you last saw her.’

  ‘But I got through to her –’

  ‘- Enough! We’ll go down together.’ The exorcist hadn’t recovered from his battle with the water spirit yet, but he was getting there. He whirled away and went back to Suula who was beginning to stir. Kye watched him go and with a surge of indignation, he grabbed the iron hinge and heaved himself into the chute. Ormis raced back to pull him out; but he shuffled down out of reach.

  ‘Come out now! You don’t know what’s down there.’

  ‘Della’s down there.’

  The exorcist thrust himself in to the waist, grabbing at his collar. But Kye slipped his grip and moved further down. ‘Go then, if you must. But don’t touch her and don’t even think about calling out. Wait at the bottom for us to find you.’

  He started down, feeling blindly with his boots. The gutter of the chute was slippery with slime and its steep angle promised a rough slide if he lost his grip. In places the slime was so tacky he had to peel his hands free and his skin was soon sore with it. When his left foot slipped he braced against the wall, ripping his shirt and scraping ribbons of skin from his forearms. His heart jumped into his mouth and for one terrible moment he imagined he was falling through a toothed worm. The idea was so strong that once his boots found purchase again, his shredded nerves propelled him several feet back up the chute. He came to rest in a cold sweat and considered going back up. But he thought of Della and brought his panic under control. He forced himself down again – a miserable decent during which his muscles burned like fiery knots and his flimsy resolve threatened to buckle. But then the chute levelled off, delivering him into a deep dark expanse. He straightened his cramped body and swished his flame through the shadows…

  The smell of meat woke it up.

  It unfurled six intestinal feelers, oozed from its crack and flowed across the cavern top until it was suspended over its feeding chute. There was a body on the floor. The darkness was too complete to see it, but it was able to pinpoint its exact location by smell alone. It sniffed deeply through its many cavities and released a longing gurgle. This one was different to the quaggar they normally threw down. And it was female – most likely a girl. Her sweet smell infused its tubules; teasing its empty stomach sacs and drenching them with anticipatory secretions.

  When it heard clashing metal echoing down the chute it flinched away, sliding several feet into its crack. It listened for a while, wondering what the sounds meant, but it wasn’t long before the rising aroma enticed it back again. It lowered itself until it was connected to the top and bottom of the cavern like mucus stretched between fingers; then it detached its suckers and slopped down beside her. With no thought to consequences it licked her face. The salty taste of her sweat exploded on its tongues and a hunger of enormous proportion raged through its body. And only with a tremendous call on its waning will power did it stop itself from enveloping her.

  It had to think about this…

  This could be another test and it didn’t want to fail again…

  The last time Izle threw a quaggar man down, it was ordered to let him escape. It was a test of discipline it hadn’t been equal to and in a spasm of excitement, it tore his leg off when he started running for the light. Izle had expressed strong disapproval, leaving it to reflect on its failure and nurse its grumbling stomach sacs. This time it would try harder. Pleasing its master brought great tranquillity to its mind and great peace to its dreams. And Izle had promised it could go back to the surface once it passed his tests. It longed to move through the trees again and to hunt its prey through the jungle canopy.

  But it shouldn’t have tasted her. Resisting would be twice as hard now.

  It was about to whip a tongue out for a second taste, when it heard voices in the chute and someone climbing down. It thought about sliding up to see who it was, but then it remembered the time it reached through the hatch at the top and snatched one of the quaggar without permission. Izle had punished it for doing so – reaching into its mind and stirring things around until it was sick. So, tempting as it was to go up and take a peek, it slid up the cavern wall instead and expanded across the ceiling.

  The sound of descent grew closer and soon it could hear the puffing of breath and the occasional grunt of exertion. A faint green glow appeared at the base of the chute; growing in strength until a figure backed out with a flaming sword. It was a boy and his scent suggested his flavour was similar to the girl’s. The flame on his sword was painfully bright after the long darkness and when he began swishing it around, it retracted its most sensitive eyes and shrank into one of the larger cracks.

  As it watched, it remembered how Izle used fire to capture it - setting its lair alight and channelling it into his trap. It had burnt six of its feelers trying to escape and it didn’t want to experience pain like that again. It felt the tightness of those old burns now as it stared at the boy’s flickering flame. The colour of its dancing tongues was green, but it expected they would hurt just as much as the orange kind. Perhaps worse.

  It wondered why Izle had sent these new people and why he allowed one of them to bring fire. Until now they had been dropped down the chute and left to grope in the dark. All it usually had to do was make itself known, then follow them through the tunnels; perpetuating their terror with the occasional slimy caress. Fear seasoned their blood and if it held off long enough their flesh was delicious. So why did this boy have fire? Was it another punishment for its previous failure? Or another test? It decided the best thing to do was to wait and see what happened.

  Kye thought he saw movement in the shadows above him and flinched down, raising his sword to cast weak light on the rocky ceiling. He saw nothing on the cracked and fissured surface to justify his fright, but he studied it for some time before lowering his blade. The deep crevices had a starved feel and as darkness reclaimed them, he imagined them yawning open.

  He took two steps away from the chute and found Della lying motionless on the floor. Her eyes were closed and her hair was stuck to her face in matted strands. Her clothes were shredded and torn; gaping wide enough in places to reveal wounds beneath. She looked terrible… she looked dead.

  He dropped to his knees and shook her. But her shoulder was bony and cold and he snatched his hand away; convinced he was shaking a corpse. He steadied himself then remembering how Ormis listened for Suula’s breath, he leant forward and did the same. At first there was nothing; but as he brought his ear closer to her mouth he felt the gentle currents of her breath. Alive! he thought with immense relief. He shook her with more confidence and whispered her name. But she didn’t respond.

  Somewhere in the darkness in front of him something spattered onto the cavern floor. He jumped to his feet in one giant pump of his heart and thrust his flame at the ceiling. But there was nothing to see. His first thought was that it was water - seeping through the rock and dripping down from cracks in the ceiling. But it didn’t sound like water. Whatever had splatted onto the floor was thicker - perhaps even a droplet of the tacky substance that lined the chute. It was not a comforting thought. He stared into the thick sediment of darkness beyond his trembling sword, trying to see what his beating heart insisted was there. Ormis had told him not to move Della, but the black hemisphere above him had taken on the feel of a gaping mouth and all at once he felt vulnerable. He bent, grabbed her legs and pulled her to the wall next to the chute, knowing he would feel better with solid rock against his back.

  When he straightened up he saw markings on the wall – extending away on either side of the chute as far as he could see. Some were carved or scratched and most were filled with some kind of paint. But the scrawl was so erratic, it proved difficult to read. He studied a small area and eventually picked out a few words. In one place
was written, Help me; and in another, I am a man. And there was one word that appeared all on its own, over and over again: Gomsa

  He followed the scrawl a few paces along the wall and found another tunnel. But as he thrust his flame in another sound made him spin around – that of a thousand fish slopping around in a giant bucket. He raised his sword in reflex and this time saw something glistening in the retreating shadows. He remained there for a time, frozen – not daring to lower his sword. He looked at Della and knew they couldn’t stay. Ormis had told him to wait, but they couldn’t stay here with some anonymous horror lurking in the ceiling. He decided to carry her into the tunnel. It was next to the chute and he thought there was a good chance it led to one of the doors at the top.

  He sidestepped back along the wall to Della and realised there was a problem. Hours spent humping corn sacks for Mr Febula had built strength into his frame, but he reckoned he would still need both hands to hoist her against the wall and position her on his shoulders. And that meant putting his sword down. It would only be for a few seconds, but the idea of lowering his light and bending his back to the slime-dripper appalled him. So for a while he just stood there, staring into the darkness and summoning the courage to make his move. When he was ready he stepped away from the wall and swished his sword through the air; casting light around the cracked ceiling and hoping to drive back whatever was hiding there. It seemed to work. In one deep cavity something shrank back with a thick gurgle – the sound of bubbling snot, sniffed up a giant nostril.