Deepest, Darkest

by William Ritter

  It left.

  As fluidly as they had found him, the Thing’s shadows slipped back around the bend in the corridor.

  IT IS NOTHING, they heard its haunting voice say. VERMIN.

  Tinn let out the breath that was beginning to burn in his chest. What had just happened? The Thing had him. Had he turned invisible? He glanced down—no—still the same bruised elbows and scraped knees, fully visible. Even if he had vanished, the Thing had smelled him. It knew him. What was it up to?

  “Kobolds,” said one of the acolytes. “These paths are crawling with them.”

  YES, said the Thing.

  “Then let us proceed to the Low Altar,” said the priest. “There will not be many more sacrifices before the great awakening.”

  The sound of footsteps and the whimpering of the hob grew quieter and quieter as they withdrew.

  “Come on,” whispered Evie. “We need to follow them. They’re going to kill that hob.”

  “Yeah,” said Tinn. “They are. And I don’t want that to happen any more than you do, but us getting killed alongside her won’t make her any less dead. We need to get out of here.”

  “Do you know what the Ancient One is?” said Evie.

  “No,” said Tinn. “Some creepy cult thing.”

  “Okay, how about the great awakening?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to?”

  “Not particularly. I’d like to be not buried in a hole with monsters.”

  Evie crossed her arms. “Those creeps are paying tribute to something even scarier than that shadow monster, and they’re getting ready for something huge to happen. I’d rather find out what it is and how to stop it than find my way back to the surface and be stuck wondering when it’s going to pop out of the ground beneath my feet. I’m going to follow them.”

  Tinn shook his head. “You’re going to get caught.”

  Evie considered this for a moment. “Yeah,” she said. “I am.” In the dark, Tinn could almost believe he saw her lips turn up in a smile.

  Eighteen

  Cole, Annie, and Old Jim followed Tommy through one narrow passage after another. “What does the symbol mean?” asked Cole for the dozenth time.

  “You’ll see for yourself,” Tommy answered patiently. “It’s not far now.”

  “Why a tree?” Cole pressed. “Is it a nature thing?”

  “Tree?” Tommy glanced back to Cole. He narrowed his eyes. “Not a tree.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “It’s . . . the world.”

  “How is it the world?”

  Tommy walked a few more paces before he turned and faced Cole. He held up his own sigil and ran a slim finger along the curve at the top. “Your home,” he said. “Above.” He pointed toward the middle of the symbol—to what Cole had considered the branches. “Us. Now.” He pointed at the bottom—to what Cole had seen as the base of the trunk. “The pillar.”

  Cole stared at the etching. “Oh! So the lines sticking out are like tunnels, and there’s one big tunnel going right down to the bottom?”

  “Not exactly,” said Tommy, continuing through the underground pathway again. “Those lines aren’t the empty bits, they’re the solid bits. Support columns.”

  “You’re saying the surface world—where we live—is like a shell resting on a big, empty earth?” said Cole. “And the whole thing is held up by just one column?”

  Tommy nodded. “More or less,” he said.

  “That’s nonsense,” said Annie. “The earth isn’t hollow.”

  “Not the whole earth,” said Tommy. “Just our bit. Almost there.”

  “Miners dig down all the time,” said Annie. “We would know if the ground beneath us was hollow.”

  Tommy chuckled. “Delvers dig. Miners scratch. We listen to them scratch, scratch, scratching, all the time. Do you know how deep the deepest tunnels at your Echo Point run?”

  “Hundreds of feet down,” said Annie. “My husband worked in those mines.”

  Tommy smirked. “Mm. Exactly. Hundreds of feet. Maybe a whole mile? Hm? Your husband scratched a little deeper than a few hundred feet.” He rounded a corner, and light began to filter along the corridor. “Wanna see what he found?”

  They followed Tommy around the bend, and the space suddenly yawned open before them.

  “Whoa,” breathed Cole.

  Annie put a hand on his shoulder, unable to find words for what she was seeing.

  “Sweet sassy molasses,” Old Jim mumbled.

  Cole had only ever seen the Grand Canyon in photographs at school, but he imagined standing on its ledge would feel a lot like looking down into these mind- boggling depths. The entire town of Endsborough could have fit between them and the far side of the cave—a distance Cole could only barely make out, thanks to a faint reddish glow lighting the fog that appeared to be thousands of feet beneath them. It was anyone’s guess how far below the fog the pit continued to descend. Cole glanced up. The cave continued upward another thousand feet at least. It hurt his eyes to try to make out any details in the dim distance.

  In the center of it all, running from the shadowy heights of the vaulted ceiling to the fathomless depths of the cloudy floor, was a thick column of deep gray stone. It was hard to comprehend the size of the pillar from so far away, but it had to be hundreds of feet around. Cole couldn’t tell if it got thinner at the bottom or if that was just a trick of the perspective—either way, it made his stomach spin just looking at it. Massive marbled columns jutted out from the central pillar like support beams under a bridge.

  “Okay,” Annie managed. “You win. This part looks pretty hollow.”

  Tommy ignored her. A wide steel rod had been bolted to the wall beside him, running up into the shadowy heights above and down into the foggy distance far below. Next to this, a rusty chain hung from a series of pulleys and big, slowly turning cogs. Tommy began tugging the chain, and a muffled rattle echoed up.

  Cole leaned his head out over the edge to peer down, and Annie instinctively tightened her grip on his shoulder. “What’s below the clouds?” he asked.

  “Answers,” replied Tommy. He continued to pull on the chain. A metal cage about six feet tall was rattling upward on the other end.

  “Straight answers?” asked Annie. “You keep giving us pieces. What aren’t you telling us?”

  Tommy did not stop hauling on the chain. The box had nearly reached their platform. “You ever ridden an elevator?” he asked. “Marvelous things, elevators. Gnomish design, this one, with some goblin craftsmanship. The thing about elevators, though, is that they only go two places. Up. Or down.”

  “Where are you taking us?” asked Annie.

  “You tell me.” Tommy locked his eyes on her. “You want to go up? Say the word. Sunlight and blue skies. Easy.” He scratched behind his leathery ear. “But I’m pretty sure you’re going to choose down.”

  “Why would we—”

  “Because you’re looking for the boy’s father, and I can take you exactly where he went.”

  Annie fell silent as Tommy gave the chain a final tug. A brass cage with a door right in the middle hung in front of them, swaying slightly in space while the knocker secured its chain.

  “I was there,” said Tommy. “He chose down. How about you?”

  Annie swayed a little, and Cole held her hand.

  “I’m with you either way,” said Old Jim. “What do you say?”

  Cole looked at his mother. Her eyes were pained.

  “Mom?” he whispered.

  “We are going to find your brother,” she said. “And our friends, and—Lord help me—your father, if he really is down there. But I need you to be safe, Cole.” She shook her head. “I can handle losing my husband—I’ve done that before—but I can’t lose you or Tinn. So if we’re going to do this, I
need you to promise me something.”

  “Of course.”

  “This isn’t a game. We’re not playing heroes. If things go badly, you run away, fast as you can. Do you understand?”

  Cole nodded, earnestly. “I promise.”

  Annie took a deep breath. “Okay,” she said. “Down.”

  Tommy opened the cage’s door with a squeak. The elevator swung and creaked as they stepped inside.

  “You sure this is safe?” said Old Jim.

  “It was designed by gnomes,” said Tommy, as if that sorted the matter neatly.

  “Gnomes weigh a lot less than people do,” Old Jim grumbled.

  “It will hold your weight,” Tommy assured him.

  Once they were all inside, Tommy followed, clicking the door shut and pulling a lever by his side. The box trembled, the gears on the wall above them clanked, and they were descending, slowly at first, then faster and faster. Cole’s stomach felt woozy almost at once.

  “It’s easier if you focus on a single point,” said Tommy, as if reading Cole’s thoughts.

  Cole stared at the base of the central pillar. It did look a bit like a tree, after all. How much was resting on that single trunk? What would happen to the world above if it were to crack or crumble? Somehow that line of thought only made his stomach turn in tighter knots.

  The mist was drawing nearer. Tommy adjusted the lever and their descent slowed down a fraction. “How are there clouds underground?” asked Annie.

  “Same reason there are clouds above.” Tommy shrugged. “Moisture. Heat. Room to form. These clouds are special, though. They form from the waters of sacred underground springs.”

  The mist rose up to meet them now, and the world went white. It was warmer than Cole had expected, and the tiny droplets tickled his throat as he breathed them in.

  “There are twin rivers that circle this whole place under the ground,” Tommy went on. “Did you know? They open out above and feed a lot of the lakes and springs and swamplands in your Wild Wood.”

  Cole blinked, watching the mist spin and churn around them as they slipped through it. Something about the way it moved felt strangely familiar.

  “The River Truth and the River Lies,” Tommy said. “The old delvers found ways to use the waters from the River Truth. They drank it, brewed it in powerful teas, even diverted it over magma to form a vapor that would give them divine clarity. It’s how they made their prophecies.” He patted the flask on his hip. “Potent stuff.”

  They were in the thick of it now. Everything around them was white. Cole’s head didn’t feel very clear.

  “Of course, later delvers found they could manipulate the River Lies, too. They spent decades getting the mixture just right. Mixed in all kinds of things. Lotus leaves, asphodel, finfolk weed . . . they developed the cloud layer you see today. Clever. And effective.”

  “Wait. You said swamplands. You mean the Oddmire?” Cole asked—or at least he meant to. What actually came out sounded droopy and wrong, like the words were melting as they left his lips. The Oddmire—that’s what the swirling shapes reminded him of. They looked just like the mists hanging over the Oddmire. Only these ones came straight from the source, which meant . . . which meant . . . What did it mean? Cole’s head felt as if the fog had rolled right through it and clouded up his whole brain.

  Suddenly the strange clouds were above them and the elevator was slowing as it neared solid ground. Cole lifted his head and blinked. His body felt like it was made of taffy. Tommy was saying something again, but the words tumbled around in the air like addled butterflies.

  Cole blinked again, and when he opened his eyes this time, the elevator had come to a complete stop. How long had they been stopped? The door was already open, and Tommy was helping Cole’s mother out of the cage. Cole’s fingers felt funny. He glanced down at his hands and saw that he was holding a fistful of crumpled yellow flowers. That was important for some reason. He had been about to . . . about to . . . what?

  And then they were walking. How long had they been walking? Where was the elevator? Tommy’s voice rang through the fog like a bell: “Follow me,” he instructed, and those two words were everything Cole knew. He would follow Tommy. Following Tommy was the answer. Somewhere in the back of Cole’s head, a different voice was also telling him to chew. Chew what? Chewing was not following Tommy. He needed to follow Tommy. But perhaps he could chew and follow at the same time.

  He bit down experimentally, and a burst of bitterness flooded over his tongue. Cole grimaced. The flowers— right—he had put them in his mouth. Why had he done that? He chewed the vile plant as he stumbled forward.

  “New converts,” said Tommy, ahead of them.

  Cole forced his eyes to find focus. In front of him, his mother and Old Jim had stopped walking and were swaying on their feet as they waited. Two creatures in dark red robes stood in front of them, speaking to Tommy. Like Tommy, each of them had leathery skin and dark, beady eyes that sat on either side of a nose so flat it looked like it had been pressed up by a rolling pin.

  “Three at once?” grunted one of the robed figures. “You trying to impress somebody?”

  “These ones did the work for me,” Tommy replied with a shrug. “You know the one who got away during that darkling mess a few months back?”

  “The worm sneaking around in the unused passages?”

  “Yeah. These ones are related to him. If we use them right, we might finally get a chance to flush him out. There are more of them, too, still lost in the tunnels. I’ll track them down.”

  “I’d be quick about it,” the second robed figure said. “The Low Priest is not happy that we still haven’t caught the last one. The order are on their way to the altar right now with the latest tribute.”

  “All of them will be tributes, soon enough.” Tommy turned back toward Cole and the grown-ups. “All right. Go with the nice acolytes,” he said firmly.

  His mother and Old Jim shuffled forward, their shoulders slumping like marionettes with broken strings as they plodded ahead.

  “Wait,” Cole groaned.

  Tommy turned to look at him. “I said go with them,” Tommy repeated. The command pulled at Cole. It would be so easy to just do as he was told—but no. No, this was wrong. Cole resisted. He swallowed, feeling bitter herbs rush down his throat and bitter clarity rush over his mind.

  “No!” he yelled. His own voice sounded hollow in his ears. “It’s a trick! Mom! Snap out of it!”

  His mother did not turn her head. Her feet shuffled along the rocks as she trudged forward.

  “Mom! Mr. Warner! Wake up!”

  “Seven sleeping hells, Tommy, how did you manage to botch a basic conversion?” the first acolyte snapped. “Shut that kid up before one of the Lowest hears him. It’s nearly time for the offering! If he interrupts a sacrifice, the priest will make you wish it had been you they were feeding to the Ancient One.”

  “Mom!” Cole screamed. But it was no use. She couldn’t seem to hear him.

  “It’s fine. I’ll take care of him,” Tommy grumbled, and stalked toward Cole. His fingers twitched as he rounded on the boy. Cole backed away. “Hold still, kid.”

  Tommy lunged, but Cole ducked out of the way at the last second. Tommy stumbled, but managed to catch his footing after a few steps. Cole spared a glance at his mother, but she just stood there, glassy-eyed. She had made him promise not to play the hero—not that it made it any easier. Cole swallowed hard. He would come back for them, but first, he would do as he had promised. He would run as fast as he could.

  And so he did.

  Nineteen

  By the time Fable had rekindled her spark, the mysterious Madam Root was gone and she and her mother found themselves alone again.

  “We need to keep moving,” Raina said. Fable stayed close behind her as they pressed onward.

  Maintaining a
glowing ball of flame was getting harder and harder. Using magic was like flexing a muscle—it might be easy enough to pick up a hefty rock, but it was something else entirely to hold that rock out at arm’s length for hours on end. Fable’s mental magic muscles felt like soggy bread, and her light pulsed and sputtered weakly. Her mother seemed to be having no better luck with her own. When her mother’s went out, Fable put in extra effort to keep hers going, and when hers went out, her mother did the same.

  It was hard to tell if they had made any progress upward at all, or if—as Fable silently suspected—they were actually sloping farther into the earth. The uneasiness only made it harder to focus on her flame, and for the dozenth time, she lost it. As luck would have it, her mother’s light chose the same moment to expire, and they both drew to a halt as darkness swept over them again.

  Fable sighed. “I’ll start the next one,” she said, and lifted her hands to clap out a new spark.

  “Wait,” her mother said. “Look. Do you see something?”

  Fable squinted. Ahead of them, the faintest warm glow defined the opening to a tunnel ahead. With their fires lit, they might have missed it.

  “Do you think it’s sunlight?” Fable could not remember a time when she had been away from fresh air and the open sky for so long.

  “I think it’s something. Stay close to me.”

  They trod slowly toward the source of the glow. The light grew brighter around every turn they took, until soon they could make out waves and eddies of mist spilling around their feet. In the light of the eerie glow, the clouds of mist looked blood red.

  “It smells . . . magicky,” Fable said.

  “Magicky is not a word,” her mother answered.

  “Well, that’s what it smells like,” Fable said.

  “Yes.” Raina crinkled her nose. “It does.” It was a familiar magic, not entirely unlike the nature magic of the Wild Wood. But this was not the queen’s magic. It would not obey her, as the forest did.

  They trod a little deeper, and the billowing mist grew thicker. Now it reached Fable’s knees, always moving, spinning, twisting. She reached down and drew her fingers through it, watching the particles churn at her touch. She didn’t notice that her mother had stopped, and she plowed right into her back.