Tar

by Taylor Hohulin

  It was footsteps, but not really.

  The sounds were too sharp. Rather than scrapes and slaps of shoes on stone, these were thin sounds, a chittering series of clicks—too many to be footsteps.

  Far, far too many.

  Brendan knew the sound of dozens of people running along a hard surface. He’d spent enough time hiding while roving salvagers ran through what they thought was an abandoned site to know this was something else entirely. Even in the chaos of footsteps, a sense of unity prevailed.

  Krystal screamed. Brendan placed an arm on her shoulder, signaling for her to be quiet, but he couldn’t blame her. Because as she swept her light around the room, she found the source of the clicking sounds. At first, she passed right over it, but they saw it. They all saw it.

  And when she brought the beam back to the thing before them, held it unwaveringly except for the tremble in her hand, Brendan’s heart dropped into the pit of his stomach.

  He didn’t scream like Krystal, but he did let out a long, horrified groan.

  14

  “It is a guardian of some sort.”

  Samson didn’t bother to whisper. Brendan’s body grew more tense with every word, though there was no need to keep hidden. If they had ever avoided this creature’s notice, that time had passed. Now the monstrosity loomed before them, bathed in the light of Krystal’s mod. It was horrifying, and it was grotesque, and it was wrong.

  Its eyes glowed a sickly yellow, and no matter which direction it turned, that empty gaze remained trained on him. Its head was misshapen, like a pumpkin left to rot. It had no mouth, no nose, and the sockets holding its glowing eyes were as distorted as the head they occupied.

  This thing had been humanoid once. Brendan could identify a neck and shoulders, if only barely. Appendages that once were arms hung limp at its sides, but they seemed to lack bones or joints or anything remotely solid. They were fleshy tubes ending in fingers that sagged and stretched into wispy tendrils that grazed the floor. The thing’s torso hunched over, compressing at one end and stretching too far at the other, to the point that the flesh tore. Ragged strips of flesh revealed the thing’s innards, a confusing blend of flashing blue lights and pulsing red tissue.

  The guardian lurched closer, and Brendan saw the source of the clicking sounds. A dozen mechanical legs sprouted from the creature’s misshapen waist. The legs were all rusted metal, pistoning up and down in an erratic pattern. In the center of all the mechanic limbs hung two legs in the same state as the arms. They dangled in the mess of insectile mods, toes stretching so far they dragged along the floor.

  As the creature shambled closer, Brendan was struck by its overwhelming size. It was a tall, wide abomination, and simply looking at it made him sick. Maybe Samson was right. Maybe this thing was a guardian. Something Ansel had built or assembled out of thin air to guard whatever he’d hidden down here. But now it lived in the room he’d forgotten. Ansel’s guiding power was absent here, and this creature was the product of his neglect.

  Samson lifted his gun and fired two shots into the thing, one right after the other. Two holes opened in the creature’s torso. Sparks flew from its innards, and even in the faint light of Krystal’s mod, Brendan saw chunks torn from the strange, red tissue.

  If the monster felt the bullets, it gave no indication. It only kept skittering ahead, sick yellow eyes fixed on all three of them at once.

  Brendan rocketed his mod at what passed for the guardian’s head, but it straightened its rusty legs, lifting itself a few extra feet. The simple gesture pushed its head out of reach. Instead, Brendan’s fist sank into the guardian’s chest. A tearing sensation traveled along his mod, and he realized, in a split second, that his fist would rip through the creature’s entire body, just as Samson’s bullets had. Its flesh was soft from all those years away from Ansel’s attention.

  But that didn’t matter.

  Brendan pulled his mod from the creature’s torso, spattering flecks of artificial tissue and synthetic machinery, but the monster only kept advancing. Three holes gaped wide in its body, and it showed them no regard.

  Samson fired two more shots. A pair of massive holes appeared in the creature’s neck, large enough that only thin strands of tissue secured its head to its body. The misshapen head lolled to one side, bounced in place, and pulled free. It hit the ground with a wet smack.

  But the guardian’s body didn’t halt its approach.

  The three of them backed away, and bile rose in Brendan’s throat. How could they fight something like this? Even if they kept attacking, kept mutilating, the nightmarish creature wouldn’t stop.

  As if to prove the futility of the situation, the creature’s head shook. At first, Brendan thought it was a trick of the light, that the dancing shadows covering the severed head deceived his eyes.

  But then, just before the darkness swallowed it, Brendan watched the head sprout legs.

  Not flesh legs. These were the same metallic limbs that extended from the guardian’s waist. At least twenty, all chittering beneath the head which melted like a rotten pumpkin. Had Ansel created his guardian this way? Had he envisioned invaders trying to dismember their attacker, and so concocted a contingency plan that involved each piece of the guardian becoming a new guardian the moment it was severed from its host?

  It was a smart solution, Brendan had to admit.

  The headless creature lunged forward, swiping across its body with a withered hand. Samson dove out of the way, but Brendan wasn’t so lucky. One of the long, boneless fingers caught his ankle. It wound around his foot and up his shin, curling and squeezing like a sick python.

  And then it pulled, slowly yet powerfully, and Brendan fell.

  He landed flat on his back, and Krystal let out a shriek. Brendan himself didn’t have the breath to react. He reached with his mod, meaning to tear away the fleshy tentacle, but his frenzied yanking did no good. The creature’s finger only stretched at the show of force, growing longer and wrapping around Brendan’s leg. Samson fired his gun, once again blasting two wide holes in the creature. These appeared in the creature’s hand, severing the finger coiled around Brendan, but it was already too late. The other fingers had found him. They covered his other leg, his arms, his face. The tentacles dangling from its legs wove between the skittering metal legs to find purchase on Brendan’s body, sliding over him and squeezing tight.

  More gunshots echoed off the stone walls, likely in response to the creature’s head sprouting its own tentacles. The head reached for Samson and Krystal in its own pitiful way, though Samson’s bullets kept the fleshy tendrils at bay.

  Suddenly, the guardian stopped pulling. Its tentacles loosened, and Brendan wriggled free. He staggered away from the monstrosity, ready to fight again, but when he got a good look, he realized the guardian’s body had frozen. Its head had stopped advancing. Both parts had lost interest in the task at hand. Their tentacles dangled at their sides, pooling in untidy mounds.

  Silence permeated the entire passage for a moment. Brendan stood, knees bent, waiting for the guardian to renew its advance. A few feet away, Samson held one protective arm in front of Krystal and the other forward, clutching his shotgun and ready to put more holes in the guardian.

  But nothing happened.

  Finally, there was a small sound behind them—the careful clearing of a throat. Ansel stood a few yards away, looking around the area with discomfort.

  With one hand at his side, he held the Book of Memory.

  With the other, he gestured at the guardian with a flicking motion. The creature jerked, fell over, and melted into the ground. It grew wider and flatter and more deformed, and soon no trace of its presence remained.

  Ansel thought a while longer before speaking.

  “I’ve read your book,” he said. “It was very...interesting.”

  “Interesting,” Samson grunted. “It’s true.”

  Ansel nodded, staring do
wn at the book. “So you say. A shame I remember none of it.”

  “It’s because the—”

  “The power consumes my mind, yes.” Now Ansel looked at Samson, his brow knotted. “Am I mad? Is that what I am meant to understand of this?”

  Samson shook his head. “If you are mad, then you are no worse than I. I remember little of what is written there.”

  “And you trust it?”

  “Every word.”

  “Why?”

  Samson paused, but never dropped his eyes. With a show of effort, he said, “The handwriting at the end is my own. And yet I have no memory of writing it, though I must have.”

  “It could be a forgery.”

  Samson nodded. “If so, then it is an elaborate one. It explains too many things too well. Perhaps I am the victim of a great deception, but that book is all I have to guide me. If I cannot trust the Book of Memory, I have no anchor. I have no purpose.”

  Ansel stood still, considering, before tucking the book into his waistband and approaching the group.

  “I do not know if I believe your story,” he said. “But I believe your intentions are pure. I will come with you as you search for this portal. Whatever aid I can lend, I am happy to provide.”

  Without waiting for a response, he pushed through them, leading the way into the darkness.

  15

  “I cannot remember how long I have lived in this castle,” said Ansel. He walked a few paces ahead, on the edge of the light from Krystal’s mod. Brendan didn’t understand why he didn’t light the tunnel the same way he did the rest of the castle, but he kept his questions to himself. Ansel already seemed so volatile, and after their encounter with the guardian, he wanted to avoid scaring off their new ally.

  “I do not remember much at all,” Ansel continued. “I can recall a few days if I truly set my mind to it, though anything before this morning is hazy. I know if I lose focus on this place, it will fall to pieces. I do not understand why—at least, I have not understood for several days—only that I cannot let go.”

  “You didn’t want to remember,” Samson said, his voice flat.

  “Oh?”

  “There are so many terrible things we had to endure. You wanted to forget all those stories, so you built a palace so complex it would ruin your mind. Your fortress wipes it clean every day.”

  “You are certain of this?” Ansel cast a glance over his shoulder. His face was almost completely covered in shadows.

  Samson was silent for a moment before softly answering, “No.”

  “And yet you act so confident it is true.”

  “You read the Book of Memory. You saw what it says about you. What you wrote about yourself. You never wanted to act. You wanted to research, not to mount an attack on Merovech. So now, all these years later, you’ve devised another scheme to prevent yourself from acting, even as the blight seeps into this world and Merovech escapes the curse we placed on him.”

  “Watch your tongue, Samson,” Ansel said.

  “You watch yours!” Samson’s voice was sharp and loud in the echoing tunnel. “Had you been willing to fight with us, we might have succeeded in our first battle against Merovech. Merlin might still be alive.”

  Ansel whirled to face Samson. His eyes blazed. “And what do you care of Merlin? Is he anything more than a name on a page to you? Do you have any real memories of him? Because I do not. Neither do I have memories of you. I have no reason to care for either of you.”

  Ansel’s shouts echoed until all sound died out and the silence itself became an audible thing, beating in Brendan’s eardrums like a drum.

  Head bowed, Samson spoke. “He was our mentor. He understood more of this than I ever will. Have you never wished for someone to explain all of this to you? Have you never wished you were not alone?”

  Ansel tried to hold his look of fury, but it broke quickly. He placed a hand on Samson’s shoulder.

  “I am not alone,” he said, squeezing Samson’s shoulder. “And neither are you.”

  Samson pulled back, but some of the fire dissipated from his face.

  Ansel looked at his old friend. Where once there had been a clouded, unfocused expression, his eyes shone with clarity. It was the most lucid he’d been since welcoming them to his castle.

  “I may never understand why I built this place,” Ansel said. “I may never remember why I created it to be a prison as much as a fortress, and whether the decision was noble or cowardly. If it was the latter, then I apologize, because that means my fear has isolated both of us all these years.

  “But the day I built this place is behind me. I tell you today I plan to move forward, and I plan to do it with you.”

  The wizards stood, eyes locked, for an eternity. Then, after a long sigh, Samson nodded.

  “All right.”

  Brendan heard the effort it took Samson to keep his voice unaffected by emotion.

  “Let’s go.”

  After some time, the tunnel widened into a larger cavern. Krystal tried to follow the walls with her mod, but the deeper they traveled, the less her light chased away the darkness. Brendan was relieved to be past the claustrophobic tunnels they’d entered through, but now he feared there might be another guardian hiding in the shadows. He half-expected to see another pair of sickly yellow orbs appear in the darkness.

  “We’ve arrived,” said Ansel’s voice, and a ring of torches lit the cavern, one after the other. Flames burst into existence in a circle around them, and soon flickering orange light bathed the room.

  The torches revealed an empty room—with no guardians, much to Brendan’s relief. It was a wide space, one hundred feet across and almost perfectly circular. The floor was unadorned stone.

  In its center lay the remains of the portal.

  Each torch along the walls was barely bright enough to illuminate the room to its center, leaving the suggestion of shadow around the portal, as if the remnants were so plagued by tar that darkness seeped from the portal and into the room. A hush fell over the group as the reality of what they’d found hit them.

  Krystal broke the silence first.

  “Is this...is this it?”

  Samson approached carefully, crouching beside the ruins. “It has to be.” He pointed into the center of the remains. “Look.”

  The mess of parts didn’t resemble anything Brendan had ever seen, though he saw a few pieces that looked familiar. There were long, flexible cables joining panels that had been shattered in ages past. There were frayed wires, ripped to shreds by long-ago attackers. In the center of it all was a rectangular piece. It had been broken in half, but Brendan recognized the symbol which had been split in two.

  “I’ve seen that before,” Brendan said.

  Krystal and Ansel both looked at him curiously, but Samson didn’t turn. He knew what Brendan would say. He’d seen it, too.

  “It was in Merovech’s notes. All over the place.”

  “What does it mean?” Krystal’s voice trembled just above a whisper.

  No words came to Brendan’s mind in response. Only a series of images.

  A vast, crumbling expanse.

  A dark substance bubbling through cracks.

  A human eye turning black.

  And a face which could only be Merovech’s, twisted by hate and streaked with tar-filled veins.

  Brendan shook his head, trying to dispel the images.

  “What does it mean?” Krystal repeated.

  Brendan swallowed, “Nothing good.”

  16

  “Did you know you’d need a mechanic to put the portal back together? Is that why you let me come along in the first place?”

  Krystal sat cross-legged on the stone floor, surrounded by shards of the portal. She’d organized the remains in neat rows around her. Now she ran her hands over the pieces, imagining how they should fit together and what might be the best way to reassemble
the portal.

  When Samson didn’t answer, Krystal tried again. “It’s not like you needed me for anything else. I bet with all your power you could’ve fixed your car when you needed to. I bet you even could’ve fixed Brendan’s arm every time it went bad. And I’m sorry, but you don’t strike me as a nice enough guy to care about letting two friends stay together when you need to save the world.”

  As she spoke, her eyes stayed on the portal’s remains. She rummaged through pieces, setting different ones side-by-side and cocking her head, considering the possibilities.

  But now she looked up at Samson, holding a cable as big around as her arm.

  “I’m right, aren’t I?” she said.

  “In a world like this, a mechanic is valuable in many situations,” Samson grunted.

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  Samson dropped his eyes, but didn’t respond.

  “So you did know.” Krystal returned to the pieces, sorting through the mess of cables and panels. “Or at least you had a pretty good hunch. Why didn’t you tell me? Why make me feel like I had to beg my way into things? Do you have any idea how useless I’ve felt? I actually got a little excited every time Brendan’s mod acted up. I kept hoping something else would break down in your car. Not because I wanted things to go wrong, but because at least then you’d need me for something. And all this time, you were keeping me stored away for this. Why didn’t you just tell me from the start?”

  Samson didn’t respond, so Brendan answered for him.

  “Because then he’d have to tell you the same thing he didn’t want to tell me.”

  The weight of Brendan’s statement settled over the cavern. Krystal stopped sorting through the remnants of the portal and rocked back, pursing her lips as she thought. Brendan didn’t need to see Samson’s reaction to know he was right. Samson had never trusted either of them. He was certain if he told these two strangers he planned to open a gate between this world and Tir Anhrefnus, they’d never go for it. So he waited until they’d been through too much to back down before telling them what it would cost to destroy the tar.