by Greg James
Sarah heard flesh and cloth tearing, along with a series of wet, guttural shrieks. Then, there was silence. Dust settled. When she looked out, the animals were all still, returned to frozen stone. The Mind-Reavers were punctured sacs covered by tattered robes. Gasping for breath she didn’t know she had been short of, Sarah crept away from the scene.
What had happened there? What had brought the animals to life?
There was no time to stick around and wonder. In the night sky, she could see Malus circling over the city, vast and more fearsome than any of the smaller forms she had seen trying to track her since Highmount.
He would see her again soon enough.
Where can I go?
Sarah crept over to a grating in the street and drew the hilt of the Sword of Sighs from her belt. She used it to hammer at the corroded bars and the clashing of metal on metal sounded loud in the street. Chancing a look up, she saw Malus banking and turning in the sky. He was diving towards her.
She struck at the grating repeatedly.
She could hear the roaring of Malus as he approached.
Then, a final blow rewarded her with the creaking sound of old metal splintering. With one last glance at the gaping jaws opening above her, and at a gout of flame flickering across a barnacled tongue, Sarah jumped through the hole into the damp darkness below.
The sewer waters were foul and cold. The accrued detritus formed a silt on the bottom and let loose a ripe, rising stench as Sarah trudged through it. The tunnel was a tomb with no light to guide the way. She crossed through the blackness with her hands out, keeping the walls within reach of her trailing fingertips. Bones broke under foot. Softer clusters and clumps collapsed in on themselves, leaving a dire odour lingering in the air. Sarah’s progress was accompanied by the charnel house music of starving rats crying. Then, there was an inhuman hooning coming from behind. It came again. From not so far away came the sound of a great weight dragging itself along, scraping over the walls and sloshing through the rancid, boggy waters. Sarah ran for her life as the sound echoed out of the tunnels once again.
What the hell was that?
Chapter Fifteen
Mikka retired to his chambers. The mirror was there, as ever, shrouded for the moment by black cloth. But he could hear it calling to him, or rather he could hear the voice from beyond the mirror—the voice of his master, the fallen creator of men.
After drawing a breath and then pausing to pour himself a goblet of Brindan wine from a flagon, he approached the mirror. He swallowed the wine in one gulp, but it made no difference. He could still taste disease at the back of his mouth as he placed the goblet to one side and reached out to strip away the cloth. It made the sound of a slithering snake passing over old stone as it fell to the ground, revealing the way into sick and twisted darkness. At the back of his throat, the last dregs of the wine’s flavour evaporated. His eyes were tearing up and his forehead was breaking out in what felt like cold, thick oil.
He did not want to do this, but he had no choice. He was here because of His Shadow. He owed his fealty to the Black Lord Under the Mountain. But the more he did for the Fallen One and for E’blis, the more he wondered what awaited him. Mikka Wyrlsorn had not been bought by money or promises of power—such things did not interest him, although he enjoyed using and abusing them as much as any man. No, that was not why he had done what he had done.
Mikka wanted to know who he was.
He had never known where he came from. Who his father was. Who his mother was. He was found, decades ago, as a child wandering through a Nightland storm. He was taken in by one of the tribes that dwelled on its borders. He remembered the secrets they taught him: ones he wished he could forget. How to prepare the brains and blood of one’s enemies so as to divine the future. How to make dry jerky from the skin and flesh of the dead and the slain. In the Nightlands, nothing could be wasted, because nothing grew nor prospered there. Everything was used, and the dead were worn as garments and ornaments by the living.
At night, Mikka had terrible dreams. Dreams of the hills and mountains of the Nightlands where he carved the sigils of death, darkness, and the void into ancient worship-stones. The crying and wailing his tribe made as they prayed to the black snow and the storms. Hearing the torn-throat screams of those sacrificed: babies, the lame, old men, and old women. None were spared by His Shadow.
And that knowledge gave him the most fear as he gazed into the mirror before him. It shimmered and flickered from grey to black and then he saw through it into the inner sanctum of the Fallen One’s tomb. E’blis was waiting for him. He could feel the presence of the fallen Creator even now, before he stepped through the portal gate. He could hear his voice like the rustling of dead leaves, whispering in the language of mad and dying men. He wished he never had to feel that voice near him again. But there were questions Mikka wanted to ask, even though he feared the answers so much. Because none were spared, bargains were made and promises were broken by the Darkness that was Not Darkness. But Mikka had to know who he was, and so he would continue to serve until that day came.
He stepped through the mirror. Blackness burst open before him, forming around him, as cold as ever. Then it was swallowing all of the light, and the surface beneath his feet was crunching dust and tomb sand, no longer the polished marble floor of his chambers. The echoes of his footsteps in this space became oscillating booms that reverberated away and then bounced back to him.
There, in the sepulchral gloom, was the Fallen One’s idol, hunched and hooded on its throne of stone, seeming to creak and breathe as something too ancient to live might do. The darkness beneath the idol chuckled to itself like a long-buried body uttering its last breaths. Then, E’blis drew himself apart from the shadow and moved closer to Mikka.
“You come late to us, Mikka Wyrlsorn. What tidings do you bring?”
Licking his lips, Mikka spoke, his words stumbling out, frightened and quick.
“The Flame is in Yrsyllor. Two of the Fallen are with her. They have a ring with which to bind her and take away her power.”
“And then they will take her life?”
“Malus will do as he promised, I have no doubt.”
“Then you should learn to doubt, Mikka Wyrlsorn. You understand what will happen to you if you are no longer seen as worthy by His Shadow?”
“I do, O E’blis. I do.”
“Then be sure of those you have sent to extinguish the Flame. She carries power that was once equal to mine. A goddess is not easily cowed and destroyed. What else of the Three Kingdoms?”
“They are falling under His Shadow, O E’blis. Soon, they will be ready to receive Him. Those who do not resist are made Fellfolk. Those who resist become the playthings of the Drujja and Dionin.”
“Very well. You may return whence you came. When you are next summoned, we expect some token of the Flame to prove her extinction.”
“Some token?”
“A piece of her body, Mikka Wyrlsorn. An eye, her tongue, perhaps her heart. You may decide.”
Mikka swallowed hard, knowing what he would have to do. He was swaying like the windblown grass of the plains as he turned, feet unsteady, and moved towards the portal, leaving the lightless pit of E’blis and the Fallen One behind. As he crossed over, he felt darkness come rushing in around him, a darkness that chattered incessantly, rattling its bones and champing its teeth.
“Do not falter, Mikka Wyrlsorn. For you well know the price of failure.”
Chapter Sixteen
Sarah ran on into the sewers. There had to be miles of them below Yrsyllor.
I could be down here for weeks, she thought, but if I go back above ground, they will catch me for sure. Then I’ll never be able to save Momma. Guess I’ll have to find my way as best I can.
A dim glow up ahead seemed to be coming from the end of the tunnel.
It could be daylight.
Sarah ran towards it. It grew brighter and brighter. It was coming towards her. Sarah sloshed to a halt
and backed away. It reminded her of seeing the lamp of a lighthouse through the fog when she was very small. Standing on the cliffs, near enough to the precipice to feel the exhilarating pull of danger. Through crawling sea fog, she had seen it: the pulse of the lighthouse’s beacon. Then Momma had shouted and dragged her away from the edge, telling her not to be so stupid.
A similar exhilaration was coursing through her blood now as the glow deepened, growing more intense. A wave of sound boomed out and the tunnel shook and rained dust and debris down on Sarah. Low, then rising up high, the sound rolled on, a despondent, primal call. Its origin was a bulbous shape, coalescing out of the tunnel’s darkness and light. It was huge, slow and ponderous, filling the circumference of the tunnel, dragging its great weight over wood, metal, and brick with a dry, organic hiss. Loose stones fell from the tunnel’s roof, dislodged, spattering the creature as its bulk passed through. Its segmented, muscular hide glistened with countless shimmering cilia, and its head was a livid swelling. Raising up the throbbing bulge of its head and arching its body, the creature began to tremble from end to end, writhing in time to a strange internal rhythm.
The call Sarah had heard earlier sounded once more from the thing’s cystic nub of a head: a funereal echo that shook her to the core with its deafening vibrations. Then the creature fell silent, stopped trembling, and settled itself back into the sewer sludge.
Was it looking at her? Did it know she was there?
Sarah turned and ran before she found out.
~ ~ ~
Sarah collapsed against a tunnel wall, wheezing hard, her face beetroot in colour. She had never run so hard, so far, and so fast in her life. Everything was hurting. Her temples pounded. Her calves were tight, the muscles aching so much she thought they were going to burst. She was truly lost in the sewer tunnels of Yrsyllor now, and it was as dark as it gets, except where those creatures cast their light. Sarah went on, though she couldn’t see where she was going. She wondered if those things were in some way related to the Mind-Reavers. If so, they could be hunting for her.
She groped her way along the sewer walls until she felt a slight sloping and curving. She was going down, into the dark. She could not see. She was treading in things that she was glad she could not see. She felt thin bones crunch under her heel and heard a human moan. With a cry, Sarah jumped back. Then, crouching down, peering into the gloom, she saw that she had been treading on a human hand, and that its fingers were twitching.
“Please, can you help me?” came a voice in the dark.
The words came from a ravaged throat. The old man was alive, but he should not have been. Flesh and muscle were missing and clean white bones showed through his wounds. His face was sticky and wet. His nose was gone.
“I will try. Can you tell me what happened here? What those things are?”
“Yes. I can. The Fallen came. I was sheltering in the crypt of my Prayer-House with the children; I was looking after them, trying to save them. The Dragon came and tore apart the Prayer-House. The light of his fire, it was terrible, a ghost light that burned so cold. It burned through everything. I heard them screaming, the children. Every one of them—screaming and screaming. I couldn’t do anything. I was alone. They were gone, and I was found alive. They came after me, these vile things. They ate me. Swallowed me. I burned again. Then, they left me here. Help me, please. You must.” His words drowned beneath a thick gurgle of coughs that wracked his entire body.
Sarah reached out to the man. “What do you want me to do?” she asked, although she already knew the answer.
“Please ... kill me ... please ...”
The man slumped over, coughing and hacking once more.
“Please, do you know what these things are? How I can get by them?”
The old priest’s voice became distant and weak as he spoke. “The Book of Ka’aron says they have no name. They are the Great Larvae, guardians of the deep. They consume you, and then they excrete you whole, leaving you as I am now, to drown in the juices of your own decomposition. Then they consume you again ... and again ... and again. Never digesting you enough to kill you, keeping your mind alive while your body rots around you. They will come back for me soon. Please, kill me. Save me from this fate.”
Sarah said, “I’m sorry. I can’t. I have nothing to kill you with.”
“Please ... my neck is weak already ... it will snap like a twig.”
Sarah got to her feet and felt the ring biting into her finger. If she had the Flame, she might be able to do something for this man, heal him as she had healed Sula, perhaps.
If I did heal him, she thought. He was Malus all along.
But she could not do that now.
I couldn’t kill that boy.
Sarah walked away from the priest into the dark ahead, swallowing tears, biting her lip as she listened to his cries begging her for mercy.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I’m so, so sorry.”
~ ~ ~
She followed the cavernous coils of the sewers, passing others who were like the priest. Lying where the larvae had left them, they writhed in acidic waste and screamed as the flesh came undone from their bones. All of them listened in fear for the hooning of approaching larvae, the dreadful summons of the nameless things, calling their brothers to feast again on human minds and bodies. The damned people of Yrsyllor begged Sarah for help; pawing at the air, weeping entreating tears, and she wept because she could give them none.
The air soon grew humid and stale. Sarah’s clothes stuck to her and she tugged her collar away from her throat every minute. It made little difference to comfort, as she was already slathered in sweat and grime. She did not know how long she had been trudging through the sewers, or how far she was from the surface or from a way out. The nature of the tunnels around her seemed to be changing. Stone and mortar were giving way to layers of knotty, fibrous tissue, which were in turn broken up by numerous cocoons of the same tissue binding the bodies of men and women into place. Now Sarah understood why the city above had been so empty and where all of the people had gone to. They had tried to escape through the sewers, but instead walked straight into the larder of the Great Larvae. Occasionally, eyes peered out at her from the cocoons. Hands and feet struggled against the hard shells that bound them. If she’d had the Flame, Sarah was sure she could have burned the cocoons away and saved them, but without it she was a little girl with a sword hilt and nothing more. Sarah made slits of her eyes as she went onwards, trying to ignore what was around her. If she died here, trying to free these people, what good would that do?
How can saving them all be down to me, she thought, just one person?
The living, breathing tableau she was navigating reminded her of a famous painting she had once seen. It showed Lucifer, brilliant and vile, his arm out-thrust, receiving the screaming, never-ending tumble of the damned into Hell. Sarah felt the suffering of the people of Yrsyllor and was unable to do a thing for them. Every step she took was a faltering one. She had no more tears to shed. Her nerves were numb. Her heart was dead.
It was then that she heard it approaching.
One of the larvae, its cry making the tunnel’s skin ripple and quake. The ground shook from the undulations of its body. Sarah pressed herself into a space between two of the cocoons to hide. She felt the skin that coated the wall sigh and pucker under her weight. The sound made her stomach turn over. She felt the skin crackling as she sank into it. To feel stone bracing her would have been reassuring, to know that the world, as it had been, was still there—underneath. She took hold of the ring on her finger, feeling the metal growing hot and then cold as the larva came closer and closer. It let out its carrion call so near to her that she felt a bead of blood running out of her nose. The echo of the bellow vibrated through her skull, making it feel as frail as an eggshell.
Then it stopped.
As the deafening sound died away, Sarah felt the ring around her finger giving an answering vibration. That was how they were hunt
ing her. Sarah dug her fingernails into the skin and knuckle around the ring. It was not moving. It stayed put. The larva pushed itself towards her. She could not stay here. Once again, she would have to run. And, as she ran, she heard voices coming from the cocoons, creating echoes that resounded with the cries of the pursuing larva.
“She is here! She is here! She is here! The Living Flame is here!”
They were hoping that their betrayal of her would earn them some respite, no doubt.
She came to a gate. It was locked and barred, a rusty, cross-hatched grille with ancient chains looping through it. She leant against it, pushing it, trying to open it. No good. Whatever was coming from behind was getting closer. Her teeth grinding, she shook it hard back and forth. Back and forth. Her sweat became as sticky as plaster. The old chains banged and banged but did not give way. Then, with a shriek, a rusty gasping, the chains burst and dissolved into grains. The gate cracked against the walls as Sarah flung it open. The damp dragging, the wet wallowing was so close now. Sarah peered ahead into the tunnel beyond the gate. The air was seamed with rust. The arches overhead were picked out in hues of a sickly green. Flotsam and jetsam, crusted over with carbon, occupied the space. Vermin crept and crawled about. For a moment, she turned back to face the thing as it arose from the waters, blind, seeping slime from its crusty hide studded with the skulls of dead men. Sarah dived through the gate and slammed it back into place. The great, wheezing bulk heaved towards her, pushing itself up against the gate. It extruded its slippery, finger-like cilia through the gaps in the gate’s grille to grasp at her with glistening barbed tips.
Sarah backed away into the darkness of the sewer, now pursued only by the melancholy hooning of the creature on the other side of the gate. She started walking. The only way now was ahead. She could feel it.