Issue #2 – Chthane

The bird was blue with white streaks through its tail. It peered over the side of the hole, one small black eye staring at the two boys. Both of them stared back, utterly silent, not breathing, holding the bird with a gaze steadier than any hands. They thought it was a very special thing to see that bird. It stayed hanging over the edge, small talons gripping the cracked edge of the dome that curved above them, obscuring everything except for one perfect circle of light. With a jittery stillness, it pranced a few spaces, resetting its grip and affirming its curiosity. Both boys prayed, though neither of them had a god. One boy prayed the bird would jump down, and glide closer, maybe land on the cold floor in front of where they lay. The other prayed it would not. He prayed with all his being that it would fly away, flee far from here and never come back. It did something in between both wishes. It stayed clutching that edge, watching them, until they both ran out of patience.

“What do you think it wants?” Whispered the boy on the left. It was a fierce whisper, filled with dangerous curiosity. 

“Does it have to want something?” The boy on the right whispered back, seeing no deeper wisdom in the observation. He let out a little cough and grimaced. It hurt to breathe. He idly scratched at his shin.

“Don’t itch, it makes it worse.”

“I can’t help it, legs are the worst.”

“You’re making it slip.”

“That’s okay.”

The boy on the left sighed. He reached down and gingerly tightened the bandage around his friend’s leg, careful not to disturb his own. Legs were the worst. He had his arms, both shoulders, and most of his side wrapped up. It was still better than his friend, who had thick winding bandages around the entirety of both legs. 

The boy with the ruined legs watched him tighten the bandages and grimaced at the pain. “Yours is still bleeding.” He had noticed new, bright red seeping through multiple spots on the left boy’s shoulders.

“That’s okay. That means it’s working.”

“You don’t know that.”

“It has to mean something.”

“Maybe.”

They glanced up at the bird they’d momentarily forgotten about. It was still there. But then, as if it had been waiting, it took flight and disappeared over the dome. 

“Do you think it’ll come back?” The boy on the left asked.

The boy on the right snorted. “If it’s stupid.”

“Wouldn’t you want to see it again?”

“I can’t imagine being free and choosing to come back.”

“Maybe it’ll bring us something.”

“I don’t think it could bring us anything.”

The boy on the left scowled. “You’re no fun today.”

“I’m sorry. Legs are the worst.” 

They fell silent again. Without the bird hanging over the edge, the hole produced a cone of uninterrupted, violent light. Usually they would wander around the dome, spending most of the time directly in this halo, scouring the ground for anything that could have fallen through the hole. But when legs were done, there could be no running and hardly any walking. So instead they sat. It was cool and now that the bird was gone they preoccupied themselves with studying the walls. They were cracked and shaken, as if the stone was crumbling. But in the many hours they’d spent running small hands over nooks and crannies, they’d never found a way to climb more than a foot or two off the ground. And rarely were they in any shape to try. There was no smell in the air, and the only sound was the occasional deep thrumming vibration of a cosmare taking off, or flying by overhead. Both boys had tried, many times, to see one, but they never flew over the dome.

“Did you hear the girl last night?” The boy on the right asked. The boy on the left shook his head. With learned mercy, he didn’t elaborate. There weren’t a lot of words to say. It was especially hard, when they couldn’t explore, or trick themselves into thinking the dome had changed. They’d been here so many times. Everything they could have said was already used up; not that there was a lot in the first place. Neither of them had memories beyond the steel beds, the biting pain and the cracking dome. There was the sound of metal against stone. The boy on the left shuttered.

“It’s okay. It’s not time yet.”

“I know. But I still hear them coming. All the time. While sleeping.”

“I know. Me too.”

There was a pause. “When we get out of here…” The boy on the left started.

The boy on the right groaned. “I can’t…”

“Come on, there’s nothing else to do. When we get out of here…” The boy on the left repeated, quieter this time, like the sentence was fragile and he needed to be careful not to break it. 

The boy on the right sighed. “Fine.” He shifted slightly, wincing. “When we get out of here, I want to find a lake. A big one. So big you can’t see the end of it. I’ll float on my back and let the sun burn my face.”

“You said that one before.”

“No, last time I said river.”

“Okay. Then my turn.” He took a breath.“When we get out of here, I’m going to eat something warm. Something with spices. Something that hurts the mouth.”

The boy on the right frowned. “Why would you want that? What does that even mean?”

“I don’t know. But it’s real. The last man I could hear through my walls kept babbling about it.”

“That’s crazy. Why would anyone want to eat something that hurts?”

“He sounded sane.”

“Well then sure. Something that hurts the mouth.” The boy on the right leaned back, closing his eyes. “When we get out of here, I want to sleep on something soft.”

“You’ve said that a million times.”

“I do though.”

“Cheating, new thought.”

“Whatever.” He took a moment, smiling faintly. “When we get out of here, I’m going to find the bluest thing in the world and stare at it until my eyes hurt.”

“Like the bird?”

“Bluer than the bird.”

“That’s not possible.”

“I’ll find something.”

“What if the bird is the bluest thing in the world?”

“Then I’ll find it and stare at it.”

The boy on the left shook his head. “You’ll go blind.”

“Better than going blind down here.”

They let the silence stretch again. The circle of light above had shifted enough. It was no longer a perfect cone. 

“When we get out of here,” the boy on the left said, “I want to hear music. Not humming. Singing.”

The boy on the right opened one eye. “Like the twins used to?”

“Yeah. Like they used to.”

“You didn’t like that sound.”

“It’ll be better out there.” He scratched lightly at his arm, and they both watched a flake of dried blood fall to the stone.

“Are you still bleeding?” the boy on the right asked.

“Always.”

“Then it’s working.” He said, without any humor in his tone.

“You don’t know that.” The other boy said.

They didn’t look at each other. The dome echoed with nothing. Then a distant metallic rattle. A shift of weight. A mechanism unlocking. Both boys stiffened.

“Is it time?” the boy on the left whispered.

The boy on the right didn’t answer.

Rostan opened his eyes to Chtharren’s wide sky. It was a deep shade of midnight blue. Not quite blue enough, he thought. The stars looked as if they had bled into the sky, casting smudges rather than pinpricks against the burning horizon behind which the sun never quite set. He was high up, and the wind that tousled his hair was cold and dry. Below him, nestled in the cracked ribs of the desert, was a city.

Chthane. He knew it, even though he had never told Othul where he needed to go. The demon had known, the second he accepted the pact. It had discovered many things about him. Rostan shook, not quite a shudder, more a voluntary tremor, as if to assure himself the stink of the demon’s pit was not clinging to his clothes. He realized Othul had provided him with a new shirt. A thick material, similar to what Farnell had worn, wrapped tight to his skin and left no part of him exposed. He stamped his feet on the ground. New clothes, the same boots. The demon gripped his heart now, or so it had said. He felt no different. He went forward. There was nothing else to do. 

Chthane was built into the cracks and crevices of the valley, high on stilts rising from the ground like bone-white reeds. It swayed gently against wind that rushed across the open flat into the mouth of the canyons. He couldn’t see the end of it, only that it continued deep into the ground. The buildings were sharp angles, jutted without pattern, piles of misshapen metal and stone. Bridges stretched above the sand, stitching the crevices together like separated tissue. Lights flickered behind slats and windows, outlining shadowy shapes and the whisper of a dull murmur that spoke to the presence of many beings. 

Rostan began walking toward it. It was steep, the slope long and treacherous, loose shale sliding freely beneath his boots. He walked slowly, with a careful pace of someone who’d nearly died. The wind bit into his joints and the back of his throat. He became aware of the feel of metal on his hip. Somehow, Othul had returned his knife. Rostan wondered briefly if his whole encounter with the demon had been a bad dream. Heat exhaustion that stretched from before his rest underneath the shademaw until a few moments ago, when cold air finally roused him. It was an interesting thought and, even without reaching for Farnell’s small cube, he knew it wasn’t true. He thought of the loud voice, coming to him unannounced in the dark, and its absence since the rithe captured him. He thought of what the demon had said: "Your soul… does not flicker." He thought, too, of Farnell. The way his eyes had looked, pale and empty. The way his small body had jerked from each bite.

Rostan descended in silence.

As he neared the outskirts of the city, the path flattened into a broad expanse of pitted red stone. A ramp rose from the ground ahead, folding up into the city’s first tier. Two long banners flanked it, dead despite the wind. They weren’t blank, but he couldn’t make out any details of the sigil that lay hidden behind dust and soot. No guards. No gates. Just a ramp into the dark, open mouth of a city that needn’t bother being suspicious. The ramp angled up, then split in two, curling around either side of a leaning tower of copper-stained stone. Rostan didn’t know where he needed to go, nor where he was. He took the left path.

The city surrounded him. Buildings rose with no symmetry, constructed from mismatched metals and bolted strata of local rock. The walkways bent at odd angles, jutting over sheer drops before realigning into tight corridors barely wide enough for one man. There was no clear line between structure and earth. Naked flames sprouting from metal spouts flanked both sides of the canyon. He’d seen the same type of contraption in Chthar, and found a dry kind of humor in the light source’s hot harshness. They cast sporadic shadows reminiscent of a late evening campfire, simultaneously banishing and creating pockets of darkness under the dim sky. 

Around him were beings of every shape and pace. Most were rithe, of course, but they were far from the only inhabitants of the city. Two tall, cloaked figures stood against a doorway. Rostan glanced up at them as he passed and was met with four large, insect-like eyes. A few steps later, a figure pushed past him, dragging four limbs after itself. Underneath one of the fire spouts a wide mouthed pair of humanoids, with tangled, wire-like limbs, traded a fluid filled vial between themselves with lazy casualness. No one said anything to him. None of them looked at him. Or if they did, they looked and then looked away. Rostan wondered if they’d seen a human before, and whether he’d be a curiosity or a violation. He’d hardly formed this thought before getting an answer. 

A hand clamped on his shoulder, a thick and calloused appendage. Rostan pivoted instantly, elbow rising, hand going to his knife. Whatever grabbed him was squat and pale, skin like blanched fungus, with black goggles embedded directly into its skull. It reeked of dust and copper. What Rostan thought was an attack quickly showed itself to be something else. The creature reached for the sleeve on his right arm, roughly pulling it up to the elbow. 

“You’re not stamped,” it said, speaking in a rasp that sounded painful.

Rostan answered without thinking, his voice calm. “I don’t need to be.”

The creature shook its head. “You’re not stamped.”

A second being stepped out of the alley to his left. Taller, thinner, holding a long hooked staff made out of twisted rock. It wore a banner on its chest, as faded as those on the ramp into the city. At first Rostan thought it was a rithe. It had the same dead grey skin. But it was much too tall, its limbs too straight. The head was different too, dark pooling eyes, but a mouth with no teeth. Its voice was a whistle, closer to the wind than words.

“No stamp,” this tall one hissed, not a question.

“I’m passing through.” Rostan glanced around. A few rithe scuttled here and there. A few larger figures across the gap, on the right side of the canyon, opened a door and disappeared into a building. There was no one else. His hand moved closer to his knife.

“Not without the mark you’re not.” The tall one tapped the staff to the ground. Rostan realized it was impatient. “Where are you from?”

“Chthar.” Rostan answered. The shorter one moved to the side, slightly behind him. He didn’t like that. The tall one tapped again.

“No. You are not from Chtharren. Where are you from? What world?”

“Eden.”

There was a breath of silence. Rostan realized the creatures were confused. The short one spoke first. It came up closer behind him, to speak to its tall companion. “Humans should not be in Cthane.”

“They are not.” It hissed back. 

“How did one escape the metal beasts?” The short one seemed agitated. They both did. Rostan decided not to let them follow this line of questioning. 

“I didn’t escape,” Rostan said quickly. “I arrived in Chthar two days ago, on the back of a pirate’s cosmare. It took me that long to make it here, where I hope to find someone.”

A pause. The short one shifted, uncertain. The tall one frowned. Or at least, Rostan thought it did. The face was half melted, hard to read. It clicked its staff once again. The silence became uncomfortable. Rostan’s fingers twitched toward his knife.

Don’t.

The word wasn’t his own. It echoed in the back of his skull like a dropped coin, sharp and sure. It came again.

Tell them you’re not a slave.

Rostan’s breath caught, but only for a moment. He relaxed his hand, letting it fall away from the knife. “I’m not a slave. I’m from the free territories of the remnant kings, on the north shores of Eden.”

Hesitation. His apprehenders didn’t believe him, but there was doubt. The voice returned, harder now. 

Grab the small one’s head.

What?

Do it now.

Rostan moved before he could second guess. He reached out, fast as a snake, and grabbed the shorter creature by the side of its skull. Its skin was cold and rubbery, like dried mushrooms. It tried to pull away.

For a moment, nothing. Then he saw it.

Something moved across Rostan's vision, not in front of his eyes, but within them. A flicker, like static. Behind it, he sensed the shape of a creature not bound by skin, a coiling presence pressed flat along the inner lining of his mind. And then it moved. It surged forward, into the contact point between him and the squat enforcer. The creature stilled. Its limbs tensed and its jaw slackened. And then came the words.

Warlord Thasek is expecting you. You were marked for the pit, but you burned the mark off. There was a bribe involved in getting you on world. The hollow you bribed carries the old mark on the underside of his hindarm. Say it.

Rostan blinked. He released his grip on the creature.“I was marked for the pit. I burned it off. Thasek himself is set to receive me."

The tall one took a step back. “You lie.” Its voice was as thin as a needle.

“I do not. I bribed a hollow to bring me here. The underside of his hindarm carries the old mark.”

This garnered a clear reaction. The short one recoiled, clearly nervous. If it had thought Rostan grabbing it was strange, or an act of aggression, it made no sign of retaliation. It started to back away. The tall one stared hard, then clicked its tongue, a sound that echoed oddly through the canyon-turned city. “Go to the palace then. Our leader is not patient.” It turned and followed the short one, who had fully fled.

Rostan stood still and watched the pair go. Once he was sure they wouldn’t turn around, he walked away, rapidly. Another hundred meters along and he found a blocked stairway that twisted down behind a shattered pillar. There he stopped, leaning against the mix of stone and metal.

“Who the fuck are you?” He asked the voice. He spoke aloud, though he knew it heard his thoughts.

The voice stirred. It was behind his eyes again. Static in the edges of his vision.

I was called Cernunnos, once upon a time.

Rostan did not hear the name so much as see it burned in his brain. He was still reeling. “What the fuck was that?” The question was directed at a number of things. Cernunnos chose to take it as a general challenge.

That was me saving your life. Again. I warned you not to draw your knife. That would’ve ended with your spine on a wall and your skull turned into a vessel for incense.

Rostan took a few steps down the stairs, reaching the barricade. Dust shifted beneath his boots. There was no one in sight.“It’s not about… I want you the fuck out. I want you gone.”

I can’t.

“I didn’t ask if you could. Get out of me.”

It’s not that simple. I need a host.

“You’re a parasite.”

A harsh word. And inaccurate. Parasites harm. I’ve done no harm.

“Yet.”

I can tell you don’t believe me. 

“I don’t trust you.”

That is obvious.

Rostan didn’t respond. Not immediately. His left hand curled reflexively. The metal in his arm ached. The old pain had been oddly subdued since his meeting with the demon. It came back now. “I want to see you,” Rostan spoke finally. “If you’re not a parasite, if you’re not hiding, if I can trust you, then come out. Show yourself.”

A brief silence. Then: Very well. Hold out your hands.

Rostan knew what it meant. He brought his hands together, cupped them in front of him like a bowl. The skin on his palms rippled. It was surreal, there was no feeling to go along with the sight and Rostan felt his stomach turn over. Then something began to form.

At first it was nothing, shapeless. A sludge of gray slowly stretching itself out of his body. Then it flexed, and collected in a pool. It tightened, congealed, condensed. A shape emerged, small, not more than the size of a child's fist. Humanoid, but barely. It didn’t have limbs and looked instead like a small man wrapped in a large cloak. There were few defining features, its head was nothing but a slate with a mouth and eyes that glowed in the flicking light, two slivers of burnished silver. Last grew a pair of spiraling antlers, too large for the body beneath. Rostan stared. Cernunnos stared back, emotionless.

“Nice to meet you, Rostan.” It spoke aloud and inclined its head.

“What are you?”

Cernunnos’ empty mouth curved into a mocking smile. “I am nothing now. What I was? Now that is worth asking.”

There was a strange tone in the creature’s voice. Despite his words, Rostan got the distinct impression Cernunnos didn’t want him to ask that question. At least not now. “Where did you come from?”

“I was buried in the shademaw. Caught there. Trapped. I’d been there for so long… barely alive. Barely anything at all. It was not meant to be a prison… That creature could not sustain more than the barest form of existence. When you fell in, I latched on. You were…” It wavered faintly. “I needed to survive.”

“How long were you a part of the shademaw?”

Cernunnos seemed to shrug. “Anywhere from a hundred years to a millennium. I know not. But Othul’s decline tells me it was long.”

“You knew him?”

“Yes."

Rostan watched him, delicate and alien in the space between his hands. Silver eyes met his and glinted.

“I knew Othul well.” Cernunnos finally added. “And him me. We are lucky he didn’t sense my presence. Very lucky. Had he, Othul would have ripped you apart. Not just your body either. He would have torn at your soul to scatter me completely.”

“So you were enemies?”

“We were… incompatible here. This place was once much different. I fear Chtharren is a product of our battle. But it did give me great pleasure to see Othul as ruined as I am. Neither of us escaped our fate, it would seem.” The silver eyes narrowed. “You made a pact with him,” the disdain in his voice was sharp. “You invited Othul into yourself. Voluntarily. That’s impressively stupid. In the way a child stabbing out their own eyes might be.”

Rostan frowned, but didn’t take the bait, letting the accusation drop between them. “Would you rather I let myself die? Would that not have been your doom as well?”

“More than likely.”

“And that would have been better?”

“It might have been.”

“How? What did Othul do to me?”

“I’m not sure. I can feel a part of him in you now. And it can feel me. Which means it isn’t connected to him, not consciously. Or you would be…”

“Scattered. I get it.”

 Cernunnos scowled. “Our claims on you are split, it would seem. And neither of us is built to share.”

“I can find someone else,” Rostan offered. “Someone better suited to you. If you need a host, I’ll help you find one. But not me. Not anymore.”

Cernunnos shook his head once. “No.”

“No?”

“I will not leave you,” he said. “Not until I know what Othul plans with you. Not until I know what he planted… grafted to your soul. Not until I am sure what he intends.”

They regarded each other in silence. Rostan felt the broken pillar against his back. The thing in his hands watched him. It didn’t retreat, nor press forward. It waited. Or maybe Cernunnos was thinking through their shared reality himself. Rostan couldn’t know. What he did know was that he could think clearly again. There was no longer a second conscious sharing the space behind his eyes, lining the layers underneath his skull. When Cernunnos took physical form, Rostan’s thoughts had privacy. He could feel the difference. It was oddly soothing. And in that space of silence, Rostan considered. He had one demon holding his heart. What was one more ghost on his shoulder? 

He exhaled, slow and deliberate. “Fine.”

Cernunnos tremored in his palms, listening.

“You can stay,” Rostan said. “But not in me. Not like before. You stay out of my thoughts. Out of my brain, out of my body, out of my blood. No exceptions. Unless I say otherwise.”

Cernunnos seemed to consider this. Then he spoke, his tone wry. “You would make another pact? It seems like a habit of yours.”

“It would seem.”

Cernunnos smiled. “One amendment.”

Rostan questioned with his eyes.

“I will stay removed, in some physical form, unless you say otherwise, or either of our lives are threatened.”

Rostan hesitated for the briefest moment. “I accept.”

“Then so be it.” The creature whispered. 

The words hung in the air. Rostan thought he felt a ripple, a wave of power. Perhaps the wind. Perhaps not. Something unsettling tightened in Rostan’s chest. He didn’t like how formal it felt. How final. How similar to the pact he’d made with the thing underground. 

“Are you a demon?” Rostan asked the thing in his hands.

Cernunnos was quiet for a long time. “No,” he said finally. “At least, I wasn’t.” A pause. “I’m not sure what I am now.”

Rostan nodded. He didn’t press. “You need a shape,” he said instead. “Something that lets you stay near.”

Cernunnos gave the impression of a shrug, as much as a thing with no arms could. “I should be close to your ear, it is what you humans hear from, yes?”

Rostan nodded.

“You should be able to hear me, you and only you. I could access your thoughts, but from what I gather that would be in breach of this deal we have so formally made?”

Rostan nodded again.

Cernunnos paused to consider. “In the past,” he said, “I rode on the shoulder of a friend. A weak host, but brave. I wore the form of a hat.” He sounded almost fond.

“A hat?”

“Yes.”

“What kind?”

The creature distorted, its shape melting and warping in Rostan’s hands. The head folded in on itself, while the body flattened then stretched. With a twist of gray, it became a wide brimmed hat. The crown rose, high and rounded, with faint ridges that hinted at the hidden antlers. The band was a deep black weave, frayed in places, and the underside of the brim shimmered faintly when caught by the low flames of the city lights.

Rostan lifted it in one hand. It was light. Light and warm. He put it on.

“Acceptable,” he muttered.

A faint whisper reached his ear, smug and quiet. “I thought so.”

“Cernunnos is a cumbersome name.” Rostan said, adjusting the brim.

“I’ll ignore the slight,” the hat sighed. “And you mispronounce it. It has a harder sound. The same friend who first saw this form called me Kern.” Kern put emphasis on the hard K.

“Alright Kern. You wouldn’t happen to know your way around this city would you?”

“I didn’t. But that wretch of fungus did. And if we are to find the great Kaelen, the palace seems a logical place to start.” Kern sensed Rostan’s tension at the statement. “I had the better part of two days in your mind, and you are not guarded about your thoughts. I know whoever this Kaelen is, he is why you are on this planet. And I know you have no better plan to find him.”

Snorting, Rostan pushed off the wall and started walking. The corridor narrowed, then widened into a view over a lower plaza. Smoke drifted upward from a vent. Somewhere below, someone screamed, or laughed. The difference wasn’t clear.

“So you know everything about me then?” He asked his new companion.

“No, far from it. Only what bubbled to the surface during your exchanges with Farnell, and then Othul. And part of a strange dream, while Othul’s powers brought you here…” Kern paused. Rostan set his mouth in a hard line and said nothing. Their conversation died after that.

They moved through the canyon city like insects down a throat. Kern pointed the way with quiet direction in Rostan’s ear. The change was gradual. Subtle at first. Buildings grew tighter, their jagged chaos giving way to heavier, more deliberate structures. Not elegant, no that word had no place on Chtharren. Rather refined, arranged with purpose. Edges no longer fought each other; they pressed together, compact, uniform in their unevenness. The lights were fewer here. And it was cooler, too. They were lower, closer to the ground.

“This is the Palace District?” Rostan asked quietly.

“You’re still a tier out,” Kern replied, voice low in his ear. “But getting close. The spires are further in.”

“Hard to tell in a place with no sun.”

“Look at the groupings of the buildings,” Kern said. “And the spacing between paths. This part of the city is made to withstand siege. Not sandstorms.”

Rostan said nothing, but noted the change. The walkways were angled now, and less occupied. The crowds thinned. Rithe still scurried at the edges, ducking through cracks and flitting between overhangs, but the other species had faded from view entirely. The only other figures now were the hollows. Tall and thin greater rithe, with ritual scars and exposed plating along their torsos, their mouths sewn shut or missing. Most wore banners, wrapped around the chest or shoulder. All carried staffs.

“They look like priests,” Rostan muttered.

“Monks, in a sense,” Kern answered. “Once the lower caste, Thasek gave them authority. A power move, but not unwise.”

“And you know this all because you what, read that fungus creature’s mind?”

“In a sense. It’s more like I was him, for a second or two.”

“Like you’re me?” Rostan asked.

“Different. I wore that creature as you would a glove. You’re more like a whole new limb.”

“I don’t know how I feel about that.”

Kern chuckled. “The analogy maybe, is not the best one. It implies more control, I mean it by way of familiarity.”

“If you say so.”

A flight of stairs led down again, wider this time, sloping into a canyoned plaza. At the center, carved across a sheer stone wall, stretched a massive mural.

Two beings, each monstrous in scale, faced one another mid blow. Their forms were immense in size and weight, they seemed to pull on the cliff itself. One hunched low, its limbs long and spindled, more bone than flesh, arms splayed like broken branches. From its head rose a crown of tangled antlers, too many and too wild to be natural, carved with dark deep grooves into the rock. The other loomed broader, wrapped in swollen muscle, wings unfurled but warped, dragging across the mural’s edge. Neither had a face, both heads shrouded in carved shadow. The two did not strike. Not quite. Their limbs stretched toward one another, but there was a space between them, a gulf of uncarved stone left bare. Around their bodies, the mural writhed. Lines and patterns curled into themselves, twisting in great looping spirals and swirls.

Rostan stopped, his eyes caught by the magnificent display.

“Kern?”

“No,” Kern replied immediately, sharp and certain. “Not now. Keep moving.”

“I have a question.”

“Which you already know the answer to. But to answer the ones that come after, we’d need time we don’t have. We are not supposed to be here and must keep moving.”

Rostan had noticed the increase in guards, all hollows, and the way their eyes had followed him with interest. Reluctantly, he turned away from the carving. The path narrowed again. There were even more hollows, but none stopped him, and all at once they found themselves at the palace. The city dropped away without warning. There was no grand avenue, no fanfare, no final arch. Nothing but an opening and the front of the palace.

The palace wasn’t a building. It was a boundary. The unnatural end of the canyon. A monolithic wall of fused metal and stone, stretching from the floor of the valley to some point high above the cliffs. It did not gleam. It absorbed light, a dull Chtharren copper, drinking it into itself and giving nothing back. The surface was rough and beaten, covered in dust. There were no windows, and at the base of the wall stood a gate. It was at least six times Rostan’s height, twin slabs of black alloy stained by the desert. The left side was cracked open just enough to allow single file entrance. On either side, two huge banners unfurled themselves, and on these he could finally see the sigil.

It was a bursting sun, a bleeding sun, like something cracked the surface of a star and found flesh within. A hollow stood under each one, both holding ash gray spears. One stepped forward and Rostan saw it wore a metal grate across its face. 

“Speak,” it rasped.

Kern’s voice filled Rostan’s ear, poised and sure.

“You are marked for the pits,” he whispered. “Say it like it is fact.”

“I am marked for the pits,” Rostan said aloud. “Warlord Thasek expects me.”

The hollow nodded. “The human.” It stepped aside.

A third figure approached. A rithe. Their surroundings made it look tiny. It was quick. Limbs scuttling across stone in twitchy rhythm. It gestured for Rostan to follow, turning quickly. 

“Word got ahead of us,” Kern said.

“It would seem.” 

Rostan followed the scuttling aide through the monstrous gates. He found himself stepping onto polished black tile, his boots echoing dully in a dim expanse. The aide moved ahead at an uncomfortably fast clip, limbs clicking out a staccato rhythm as it darted left, then right, then down a set of narrow stairs. Rostan followed without asking questions. Kern was silent. Rostan expected an audience. A throne and a warlord upon it.

Instead, they were taken deeper.

The hall twisted again, then dropped into a broad chamber of dark stone. A pair of figures stood waiting. Neither spoke. Their faces were hidden behind burnished masks carved to resemble twisted, screaming visages. They flanked the aide, who gave a final chitter and disappeared. One of the masked figures gestured at Rostan. It was their turn to lead. Neither said a word. They led them down again, past corridor doors, to another staircase. This one was cramped, claustrophobic, and it sent off alarm bells in Rostan’s mind.

“Go along with it for now.” Kern’s voice came as if he’d felt Rostan’s nervousness. “We have seen nothing we can’t escape from.”

Rostan showed his agreement by stepping forward onto the stairs. In the distance there was the faint rhythmic pulse of something mechanical. When the descent ended, they left him in a room. They didn’t lock the door. Just closed it behind them and were gone. It was not a cell. But it was not, not one. The room was round. Quiet. A bench carved from the wall. A dish of pale food that steamed slightly. A tin cup of water that smelled faintly of fungus. Rostan understood now. Calmly, he ate and drank. The food was strange, bitter and chewy. The water was worse. But he swallowed it. He knew why it was being offered.

Kern’s voice came, slower now. “You were supposed to be taken to Thasek.”

“I was,” Rostan said.

“No. This isn’t an audience.”

“No,” Rostan agreed again.

“That stout creature with the goggles, he had an emotion in his head. Great reverence for those who are of the pit. It was a certain level of awe, fear even. He also saw them closely linked to the warlord. So I thought ‘one of the pit’ was something honored.”

“It is.” Rostan said simply.

Kern was quiet for a moment. “You’ve been here before?”

“Not here. But a place like it.”

“I have been less than a thing for a long time. I was hasty in my assessment.” 

Rostan thought that sounded almost like an apology. Though, more likely, it was Kern scolding himself. The door opened again. One guard this time. It looked at the empty plate, the empty cup. This seemed to please it. It didn’t gesture this time, it turned and left, leaving the door open. Rostan followed without hesitation. They passed under another arch, then another, into a larger space. Wide and domed, with a ceiling lost to shadow. Along one wall sat a long rack of weapons: spears, swords, axes, jagged hooks carved from black rock and stone staffs a plenty. Rostan’s eyes tracked the rack for one long moment. He became aware the guard was watching, waiting. Rostan turned to him, and reached to his hip, touching the hilt of his knife slightly. That was enough. The guard grunted and left through another door. Once again, Rostan knew to follow. 

They walked a long hallway. Light danced around them from the naked flames of the metal spouts bore deep into the walls. A sound began to rise. Only a pulse at first, low and slow, trembling through the floor in a steady rhythm. Drums. The drums grew louder as they walked, low and deliberate, a sound that belonged to no instrument made by human hands. There was no melody. No lift or joy. It was a sound made to beat, to flatten. Then came the chanting. Faint at first, not words but drawn out susurrus, the hum of many throats speaking nothing at all.

The hallway straightened into a wall of steady red light. Dawn on Chtharren. Rostan squinted against it, the first natural light he’d seen since being in the grip of the shademaw. As his eyes adjusted, he saw that the path ended in an opening. The guard led him through and they emerged into the pit.

It was a small arena. A flat space ringed in tiered stone. A proving ground more than a stadium. A circle of dust. The audience didn’t roar. It watched. The sound of the drums, the chanting, they came from somewhere else, somewhere further along. The stands were mostly empty. A few hollows, draped in ceremonial banners. Guards, some of them rithe, others more twisted forms of hybrid beings that watched with blank anticipation. Above them on a high stone platform sat a figure that could only be Thasek.

The warlord was enormous. Not rithe, a different species altogether. His form was vaguely humanoid, but stretched out. Bulging arms framed a chest that looked like a slab of cracked granite with skin the color of old blood. Bone protrusions curved upward from each shoulder, not horns, more like exposed ribs that grew outward. His face was bare, unmasked, deeply scarred, the jaw set in a brutal, quiet line. His eyes were a muted orange, yet cold. Immovable. He radiated malice. The guard had not followed Rostan out into the arena. Metal bars were lowered behind him.

“Speak to him.” Kern said, urgent in Rostan’s ear. “Appeal. If we can get someone to come down, or cause confusion, I need only brief contact to know what we might need to say.”

“He won’t hear me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” Rostan said. He looked up at those orange points fixed steadily on him. “He won’t hear me until I give him a reason to.”

Kern said nothing more.

The drums pounded louder in the distance, reaching a fever. Rostan took out his knife and stepped forward into the dust. Chtharren’s furious sun was rising behind the wall. Shadows stretched long across the pit. He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. Whatever they put in front of him, he was sure he could beat. He must. Impatient for it to start, his eyes traced the edge of the platform above. And that was when he saw him.

A figure. Standing just off to the side from the warlord. Shrouded by shadow and stone, but unmistakably human. Old, his hair was gray and cropped close, framing a face thick with wrinkles and a scarred jaw. Despite his age, he stood straight and tall, his arms crossed with practiced stillness. One of his legs was different. It was wood, carved and functional, but solid like a pillar. Wood of a deep amber. His eyes watched Rostan without interest.

There, in the warlord’s shadow was not a prisoner, not a corpse, not a myth.

There stood the great hero. Kaelen, Vicas’ Fury.