Somewhere in the Chtharren wasteland

Rostan’s arm hurt. He gripped his forearm, grimacing as he tried to steady the shaking. He felt the unevenness of the scars, mixed with the cold metal embedded in his skin. Slowly his adrenaline dissipated and the shaking stopped. The pain stayed. It never went away. 

He looked down at the dead rithe with disgust. Rithe had squat, angular bodies, between a meter and a meter and a half tall. They were sinewy, covered in dry gray skin. There was no difference between their arms and legs – they used all four of their long limbs interchangeably. This one's head was a rectangle, its four slitted eyes open and staring, black and dead with no visible pupils. Its mouth lulled and Rostan could see at least three rows of sharp teeth.

Flexing his finger joints, he gave the corpse a kick with his boot, flipping it over. He crouched and began to riffle through the creature's clothes. The thing was dressed in loose fitting cloth of a material he didn’t recognize. With few pockets, he found his shards quickly: paper thin black stone with runes denoting value. Rostan had been skeptical whether they’d be considered proper payment on the notoriously lawless Chtharren, but the rithe had been more than happy to take them. In exchange it was supposed to guide him to Chthane. Instead it had brought him to the middle of nowhere and tried to kill him. Unfortunately for the rithe, Rostan wasn’t the helpless, crippled human he appeared to be. 

Slipping the shards into his pocket, he looked around for his knife. What should have been over quickly had turned into a brutal, choked struggle. The rithe nearly ripped out his throat before carrying them into the slanted ditch. Rostan had ended it with a desperate move that saw the rithe’s midsection opened and his knife ripped from his shaking grasp. The ground was covered in a dusty, copper colored residue, and it took some sifting with his feet. The residue put a foul stench in the air as he disturbed it. Pulling up his shirt in an effort to breathe through the fabric, a muted glint finally caught his eye. Picking up the weapon he turned and scrambled out of the ditch, leaving the rithe where it lay.

The beast they rode was gone. Scared off during the fighting. Rostan frowned. Similar to a horse, the animal was much larger, with long and thin stilt-like legs that provided a high safety from the toxic ground. It moved surprisingly fast, skipping along with an adept agility. Though traveling for but a morning, they had covered quite the distance. There were deep indents where its peculiar legs struck the ground and, knowing the direction they’d come from, he knew the direction it had run. He considered giving chase, but dismissed the idea quickly. He didn’t know how to call the thing nor have any idea how far it could have gone. He cursed. It’d been rash to follow the rithe. Rostan knew that. But he was impatient. He’d thought the chance it could get him to the outer city was worth the risk. If it tried anything he was confident he could handle it. A correct assumption. However, now he was stranded in the middle of one of the most environmentally hostile planets in the cluster.

Chtharren’s massive sun hung low in the sky, an impossibly hot sphere of angry red. Their transport’s saddle had come with a canopy that protected its passengers from the searing rays. Rostan was feeling himself begin to burn. He looked around and saw nothing but barren wasteland, stretching out across the horizon, the ground jagged and rusting. They’d been traversing an extensive valley and on either side of him, in the far off distance, he saw sloping cliffs dotted with black spires. Around a few of the smaller peaks swirled ominous looking clouds. It was a desolate place. There was no life that he could see and he had no idea where he was. He cursed again.

There was little to do but turn around and go back toward Chthar. While it would be easy to continue in the direction they’d been heading, Rostan knew there was little chance the rithe had actually headed toward Chthane. He peered at the sun. It wasn’t smart to move in the heat, but he had no supplies, what little he’d brought carried away by the mount. It was either start walking in the sun or risk prolonging the journey past the point of possibility. Rostan turned and slid back down into the ditch with the dead rithe. A few minutes later he climbed out again, this time loosely wrapped in the native clothing, nearly all his previously exposed skin covered. Taking a second to get his bearings, he scanned the horizon once more, hoping he might see the runaway mount. He didn’t and so started walking back the way they’d come. 

The heat was brutal. Drenched from his struggle with the rithe, Rostan’s skin stayed sticky, sweat pouring from his brow to soak the cloth he'd wrapped around his forehead. Soon the ditch where he’d left the corpse disappeared into the homogeneous landscape. There was a heated haze in the air that made it unpleasant to look ahead and difficult to judge progress. The unchanging nature of his surroundings began to weigh on him. He knew they entered the long valley at some point, not always being surrounded by those distant cliffs, yet after a few hours of trudging in the heat he saw no end, no vague familiarity signaling having been this way before. His mouth was dry and his head was beginning to hurt. Rostan wondered how long he’d be able to go without water in these conditions. The question had a grim answer. He was beginning to think he had made the wrong choice, that it might have been better to wait out the heat. It was then he saw the shade.

Far off to the side of the path he was following sprouted a broad trunk. It rose many meters from the ground before expanding out in all directions in a thick entanglement that created an inviting pool of darkness below. Rostan was in need of a break and relief from the sun was too important to pass on. He staggered toward it, quickly seeing that it was not a tree, as had been his first assumption. There were no leaves, no branches, the canopy created by a flat disc-like continuation of the same gray material as the trunk. A nagging bit of sense in the back of his mind puzzled over why he’d not seen this on his way through with the rithe. He was too tired, too desperate to be suspicious of the uniform structure, if structure was the right word for it. 

Reaching the blessed shade, he collapsed in exhaustion, sinking with his back against the trunk. He stared out across the barren landscape. Back home, on Eden, he’d been to one of the great deserts, seen the endless rolling hills of sand. This was somehow worse. There was nothing but caked dirt and protruding rocks that contributed to an unnatural harshness. Rostan watched the shadows move around him as he caught his breath, shielded from the sun. There was no breeze, not even the wind lived here. He knew now that he was in trouble. Even as the heat of the day slowly retreated from its zenith, without water or food of any kind he doubted he could make it back to Chthar. Sitting under this strange tree, shaded from the painful red of the sun, he supposed there wasn’t much of a chance someone would come along. He had no other option but to continue walking. Rostan almost laughed at himself. He was no stranger to confronting death. He’d always thought he would die in battle, whether in the arena or at the hands of a zyrma bounty hunter. He never thought death would find him on a wasted planet in a canyoned desert, in the form of dehydration and exposure.

Determined to at least walk until he collapsed, Rostan made to stand, only to find he couldn’t move his leg. Slightly confused, he looked down. The ground under the canopy was moving. He blinked rapidly. Perhaps the heat had gotten to him. He tried to move his leg again and realized it was not simply stuck, it was numb. There was no feeling from the hip down. The ground continued to move. Becoming significantly more panicked, he pushed himself off from the trunk, trying to claw his way into a more upright position. Doing so got him a better look at his leg. It was bleeding. Rostan felt dizzy, not from the sight of blood, but from the knowledge that it was his own and he felt nothing. Taking his thigh in his hands he pulled at it, and the ground directly under his leg moved violently, shaking off enough of the copper dust to reveal the long, razor thin needles sunk deep into his calf and foot. Startled, Rostan drew his knife and sliced through them on both sides, before noticing the same feeling had begun on his other foot. Dimly aware that the needles seemed to come from a hole in the ground that hadn’t been there a second before, he turned and sliced off the few on his other half. Free, he used the trunk to pull himself up on his one good leg as the ground continued to shake, revealing dozens of holes like the two he’d sat over. Not holes, he realized. Mouths. Small dark expenses with long sharp needle teeth that secreted some type of numbing sedative. Rostan felt the trunk moving too and knew then that it was all connected. He’d been taking shelter under some sort of monster.

Terrified of what might happen should he wait until both feet were equally numb, Rostan lurched forward. He found his initial estimation of the feeling in his leg had been exaggerated, and through movement he could wake the sedated limb enough to stand and drag it along. The mouths filled the space under the shade provided by the flat disc, which was rippling and rupturing into a great moving thing, and it took an enormous amount of focus not to step into the teeth lined holes. Rostan noticed the trunk was lowering into the ground, bringing its canopy with it. He realized the creature was trying to trap him. This realization gave him new motivation. Best not to die to a fucking plant.

Near the border, where the peaceful safety of untoothed ground awaited, Rostan slipped. His left arm fell almost directly into a mouth. Some of the needle teeth shattered against the metal that ribboned through his flesh, but others stuck fast into his arm. One went so deep he heard it scrape bone. It was peculiar, seeing the foreign thing so deep in his body but feeling no pain. These needles had a gray, sludge-like substance sticking to them. He cut again, the hard metal of the knife slicing easily through the barbs until he was free again. The mystery sludge clinged to his arm, seeping in between the metal and torn flesh. Struggling on, Rostan found he could hardly crawl. Something touched his back. The canopy had reached him. Straining forward, he extended his right arm into the sun, clawing for purchase on anything he could use to pull himself out from under the deadly dark. The pressure on his back steadily increased as he found nothing to grab, and when he felt the pain in his breath he knew his ribs would be crushed. All those grand ideas of revenge, of purpose, of resolve. And this is how I die. Rostan probed with his free hand one last time, knowing it was hopeless. 

Three talons, each longer and thicker than a broadsword, reached under the canopy. The closest missed Rostan by centimeters. There was a tearing sound, a ripping that came from sickeningly deep within the earth, and then light was streaming over him as the monster plant was flung aside. Looking up, Rostan was met with the visage of a mammoth bird. It looked unnervingly like a crow with four wings. A black eye larger than his head stared right at him. Or rather he thought it did. After a few harrowing seconds it turned away and its beak started tearing into the now uncovered mouths. Rostan didn’t waste the opportunity the predator had given him, pushing on the ground under him and expending the last of his energy to roll off of the deadly teeth. Finally on solid ground, he continued to crawl until he couldn’t anymore, collapsing into the foul smelling ground, no longer having the energy to cough when sucking the dust into his lungs. He’d gone only a few meters. He wondered briefly if the colossal bird would eat him. Rostan’s last conscious view was of it flinging the mouths, which when pulled out of the ground looked like long sacks, high into the air before catching and swallowing them whole. He decided he hated this horrid planet and blacked out.

Miraculously, Rostan woke up again. It was pain that caused him to regain consciousness. The leg that had been stuck through was no longer numb, instead it burned painfully. Similar to when a limb falls asleep; pins and needles on steroids. And he felt a nudge on his arm. And another one. Something was poking it. Turning his head he saw something that was perhaps more extraordinary than the fact of him being alive. A short stout man. He was a dwarfish fellow, with round features, dressed in heavy fabric and leather. And he was fiddling with prongs, trying unsuccessfully to pull the precious metal out of Rostan’s left forearm. Rostan attempted to speak and found his throat too dry. Rasping, he took a deep breath and cleared his throat.

“Fuck! Shit.” The startled little man exclaimed, jumping back and dropping the prongs. Rostan tried to speak again and this time managed a groan. “Holy black void, you’re alive?” His surprise gone, the little man came close again, peering at Rostan with small, curious eyes.

Rostan met them weakly and tried to speak again, but instead inhaled a large amount of the planet’s dust and began coughing violently.

“Hmm, won’t be for long down there.” The little man moved out of view. Rostan tried to keep him in sight, but was horribly weak. He tried to move his left arm, but it was even more damaged than his leg and felt all but dead. After a second the man came back. He was leading Rostan’s missing mount. 

“This must be your cthilt?” He asked.

So that’s what they’re called. Rostan tried to nod. His face twisted under a new wave of pain.

“Let’s get you out of the sun.”

Rostan felt being lifted into the air. He was surprised at the short man’s strength. He passed out again.

It was dark and cool. Rostan was laying on a flat piece of stone. He was naked from the waist up  and the feel of rock on his bare skin was soothing. His limbs no longer burned, but when he tried to move they felt overly heavy, as if weighed down. He groaned. Images came back slowly, hazy red soil and unbearable heat. He groaned again. There wasn’t much light to see by, but Rostan got the feeling he was in some sort of cave. Despite the cool air there was a distinct staleness, and no breeze. Blinking a few times, he gritted his teeth and tried to sit up. A dull ache sat in the back of his head and dark spots appeared in the corners of his vision. 

“Careful there.” The voice came from somewhere to his left. Rostan managed to prop himself up, cautious about the pain in his arm. He hadn’t yet been able to determine if it was worse than the usual pain. He blinked a few more times, his eyes adjusting. 

The short man sat a few meters away, cross legged on a chunk of stone, a large traveler’s pack leaned against the makeshift seat. His eyes were on Rostan while his hands fiddled with a contraption, a small wooden cube. In front of him glowed a pile of embers left over from an earlier fire. They were the only source of light and did little to illuminate their surroundings. A shoddy rack above the coals held an odd collection of metal tools, some of which were covered in blood. 

“You woke up.” He said, continuing to stare. 

Rostan wondered if he imagined the disappointment in the man’s voice. He grunted in response.

“I’ve never seen anything take that much shademaw venom and live.” The short man put the wooden cube in his pocket and stood, reaching into the pack. He noticed Rostan tense and chuckled. “You’re not safe here, I won’t lie about that.” He took out a waterskin and held it out to Rostan. “But I mean you no harm.”

Rostan hesitated, but his body didn’t allow him to refuse. He took it and drank greedily. The short man went back to his rock. When the skin was empty, Rostan leaned back and took a few deep breaths. Life was returning to his limbs and he could feel his muscles again. He turned back to his savior. 

“Where are we?”

“Inside the cliffs.”

“And you are?”

“My name is Farnell.”

“And who are you?”

“You know, normally a thanks might be expected.” Farnell gave him a grim look. “At least before the interrogation.” 

Rostan’s eyes narrowed. “Why’d you help me?”

Farnell regarded him for another second before tossing his head in a dismissive gesture. “Eh, I didn’t bother to check your pulse, or whether you breathed, because nobody survives that. Figured if you lived there might be a good reason. And if not…”

“You cut the arm off.”

Farnell gave him a look of perfect innocence. “Never seen that much visceronite in my life.”

“You wouldn’t be able to do anything with it. It can’t be forged by anyone but the zyrma.”

Farnell shrugged. “Good souvenir.” He paused waiting for the next question. When Rostan didn’t have one, he kept talking. “You’re lucky. A lot of things out there you don’t want finding you.”

“Lucky,” Rostan echoed bitterly. He flexed his fingers on his left hand. It shook. The arm was covered in stained bandages, the dull gleam of the visceronite poking out here and there. More bandages covered his legs. “No one ever accused me of that before.”

Farnell watched him. “I did my best to clean you up, after I realized you weren’t gonna die on me, that is.”

“You’re not from Chtharren.”

“Clearly, neither are you.” Farnell smiled then. “You really aren’t one for thank yous.”

“I’m used to being in a position where they’re not needed.” Rostan paused. “Or immediately regretted.”

“Not unfair.” Farnell gestured to Rostan’s arm and disfigured left hand. “You’ve got an issue there. You do that here?”

“No. It was done to me back home.” 

“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me how a human happened to become embedded with the rarest metal in the cluster?” Farnell asked. The question caused Rostan pause. He saw stale, pale rooms. Spidery forms clicking around him and the white hot pain of cold metal scraping across bone. He clenched his shaking hand. Farnell waited for an explanation. Rostan offered him nothing. Farnell grunted. “I thought not.” 

There was a stretching silence between them. Farnell thought he’d offended his guest. Rostan was simply exhausted. Exhausted yet unable to relax.

“You probably won’t tell me why you’re here either,” Farnell said. “But if you didn’t already gather as much, Chtharren is no place for a human. Even one with your unnatural constitution.”  

Rostan gave him a look. “You’re not–”

“I'm danu.”

“A wanderer.”

“I’ve lived on Chtharren for some time, as it happens.”

“And has it been kind to you?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

Farnell shrugged. “We don’t always do things because we want to.”

Now it was Rostan’s turn to wait for an explanation that wasn’t coming. Farnell took out the wooden cube again. “Based on where I found you, I figure you were in Chthar?” Rostan’s expression was still one of distrust. Farnell shrugged. “I’m being glib. You were in Chthar. It's one of only three cities cosmare land these days. But why leave? The city isn’t safe, but it's not the death trap the wastes are. Where were you going?” 

Rostan waited only half a second. “Chthane.”

“And why?”

Rostan shook his head. Farnell sighed in exasperation. “Look, you’re some great warrior, yes? Confident in your abilities, eh? I bet you’re even pretty damn good. For a human. But out here...” He swept a hand toward the dark expanse beyond their faint firelight. “Out in the cluster, this is no place for humans. Never has been. And I’m not the best at telling how old you lot are, but you seem young. So, likely your first time off Eden? I’ll say it again. You’re lucky. Many die visiting the civilized worlds, let alone a planet like Chtharren. It doesn’t matter who you are back on your home planet. It doesn’t matter how many other humans you’ve beat, or how hard and long you think you’ve trained. You should be dead. Without me, you will die. And I think I’ve been more than patient. If you valued your life, you’d run back to Chthar and catch the first cosmare off world. But something tells me you won’t do that. So, I’ll ask you again. Why Chthane?”

Rostan stiffened, his jaw tightening. He fixed the small man with a glare, his eyes burning. Farnell met the look without emotion. After a few moments, Rostan turned away, instead casting his anger toward the embers. “I’m looking for Kaelen.”

Farnell’s face lit up in surprise. “The great hero? Vicas’ Fury?”

Rostan’s nod was slight, almost imperceptible.

Farnell let out a low whistle. “Now that, I didn’t expect.” He scratched his head, clearly skeptical. “But Kaelen here? On Chtharren? They say he never leaves Eden. And honestly, the liberation of Vicas was some time ago, even for me. I didn’t think he was still alive. You heard this rumor where exactly?”

“I didn’t hear it. I read it.”

“Read it?”

“In Kaelen’s journal.”

That left Farnell speechless.

“Can you get me to Chthane or not?” Rostan asked, his voice edged with impatience.

“I can.”

“Will you?”

“If what you say is true, then I would go there out of pure curiosity.”

“It’s true.”

Farnell nodded. “Then rest. We’ll leave when you’re ready.”

“I’m ready now.”

The danu laughed. 

“I don’t have time to waste.” Rostan growled.

“You don’t have time to die either,” Farnell snapped. “Cthane is a way off. Even with the cthilt you were so kind to bring me, we will keep to the caves. It’s out of the sun and more importantly, away from the wastes. I can’t carry you, and as ready as you might feel, you’re far from strong.”

Rostan frowned but said nothing. He hated how often the little man seemed to be right. 

“Sleep. I’ll make something to eat and wake you when it’s ready. We’ll not rush. No, it is never good to rush, not here.” Farnell glanced around in the dark. “Believe me when I say, however fast we move will be fast enough. And you’ll thank me before this is over.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Rostan muttered.

Farnell chuckled again, the sound eerie in the large space. “We’ll see.”

Rostan leaned back onto the stone slab, finally allowing his eyes to shut. As stubborn as he was, his body needed rest. Farnell hummed softly to himself as he resumed fiddling with the wooden cube. 

WAKE UP

The voice was loud and came from within. Rostan jerked suddenly, seized by the sensation of falling. His eyes flew open. There was no more light, the blackness of the cave complete. He was still on the slab, but the soothing cool had turned into a bitter cold. His instinct was to call out, but he stopped himself. Something was wrong. Rostan held his breath and, staying very still, strained his ears into the oppressive dark. He hadn’t been mistaken. It was distant and faint, but unmistakable – a wet, smacking sound. A chill ran down his spine as his body filled with adrenaline. Moving slowly, he pushed himself off the stone slab and onto the floor of the cave, feeling in the darkness. He extended his arm cautiously, going off what he remembered from before he fell asleep, hoping it was still there. Soft leather touched his fingertips and he let out a quiet breath of relief. Farnell’s pack. His torn shirt lay on top of it, and he put it on. Continuing by touch, he felt around in the external pockets. Sure enough, his hand closed around a few spark sticks. He took a deep breath, looked away briefly, and snapped one. It exploded with a sudden flare, bathing the cave in a flickering light. 

Rostan found himself in a surprisingly tight space, the walls closer than he thought. The sense of scale he’d felt was from the expanse above, which swallowed the light from the spark stick effortlessly, without the hint of an end. There were three tunnels connected to the cave, two on either side of the slab he’d slept on, and one behind where Farnell had sat. It was from there that the sound of chewing came. It continued, slow and deliberate, accompanied by the occasional wet crunch. Rostan’s throat tightened. He glanced around. There was nothing except the fire pit, embers now cold, and Farnell’s pack. Moving swiftly, he grabbed up one of the metal tools from the rack over the dead fire. A small hammer, it felt awkward in his right hand, but was better than nothing, and his left hand was shaking more than normal. On the ground next to it, he noticed Farnell’s cube. He bent down and picked up, slipping it into his pocket without thinking. Then bracing himself, he ventured into the tunnel from which the sound came.

Two steps in he heard voices. Rasping and clicking, he recognized them as belonging to rithe, though they seemed different from the one that’d tried to kill him. 

“Leave it. You’ve had enough,” one said.

There was a distinct pause in the chewing. “This is fresh,” came the reply. “Fresh fresh.”

“I smell something sweeter.”

“Greedy. Greedy.” The chewing resumed. It was loud now. 

The spark stick was flickering out. It didn’t matter, there was light coming from the direction of the voices, enough for Rostan to see by. His grip on the hammer tightened. He wondered if Farnell had found his knife. He should have looked for it in the bag. No time now. Focused on silence, he took a few steps forward and peered around the corner. 

He saw Farnell first. The danu was sprawled on his side, his face pale and slack. Blood pooled beneath him, its dark stain strangely reflective against the rock. One of the rithe squatted over him, its head tilted as it tore into his back with sharp teeth. The other stood watching, clearly annoyed, its four slitted eyes staring as it made clicking sounds. Their gray skinned forms were unmistakable and Rostan was disgusted at how the one feeding cycled between its limbs, picking and ripping indiscriminately. The hammer in his hand felt pitifully inadequate. Common sense told him he should go back to the pack, look for his knife, or at the very least a real weapon. Farnell’s body was shaking in irregular and unnatural looking fits as the rithe tore out his organs. Rostan stared into his blank eyes. He took a deep breath. He let the hammer hang, intentionally relaxing his grip until it was almost loose. Taking out another spark stick, he stepped around the corner.

The feeding rithe saw him first, looking up, maw agape and dripping red. It hissed at him, and dropped Farnell’s intestines with a wet plop. 

“A human.” Its voice was filled with what could only be described as glee.“More meat! Sweeter! Sweeter!” 

The one standing turned to look at him too. “Human. No. Humans save. We must save for him.”

“No.” The feeding one spit and turned toward its companion in clear anger. “No. Human for feast. He not know!”

“He–” 

Rostan didn’t wait for them to finish their argument, nor did he wait for them to make the first move. Sensing an opening, he sprung forward. Swinging the hammer in a wide arc, he aimed for the head of the one squatting. It moved fast, long limbs pulling away in a hasty dodge, but not fast enough. There was a crunch as the blow landed on the side of its head and the rithe screeched in pain, reeling backwards. The move was reserved, defensive even. But Rostan’s limbs were tired and the damage done by the shademaw bothered him. He barely recovered from the swing before the standing rithe was on him, its claws slashing for his throat. He dodged and they raked across his chest, causing instant, burning pain. Paying it no mind, he swung his hammer again, aiming for the midsection. He struck it dead on, but the pitiful tool delivered little force and the rithe hardly flinched. It grabbed him by the shoulders, claws sinking into his flesh, and banged him against the wall, knocking the hammer from his grasp. Mouth open, it bared its teeth and went for his throat. Forcing his left hand between them, Rostan pushed down with his thumb and snapped the spark stick. 

The rithe screamed at the sudden light, releasing him instantly and stumbling backward, clawing at its seared eyes. Rostan held the light high as he pushed off the wall. He failed to see the other rithe recovering. It spotted the bandages on Rostan’s left arm, and saw its opening. With an erratic, desperate lunge, it hissed in triumph, sinking its teeth into the weak spot. They shattered. The visceronite embedded in his forearm turned them to glass, and the rithe howled in agony and confusion as pieces of its teeth dangled and fell from its mouth. Without hesitation, Rostan grabbed its head in both his heads and slammed it against the cavern wall. Once. Twice. Three times. Until he felt it crack. He let it go and the corpse slumped to the ground. The other rithe was wailing on the floor. He’d blinded it. Looking around, he noticed his knife lying next to Farnell’s motionless hand. Unhurried, he walked toward it. 

RUN YOU FOOL

Rostan gasped. He whirled around, sure the thundering voice had come from behind him. There was no one there. Shaking his head, he took another step toward his knife. 

LISTEN

The voice came again, and Rostan realized three things, nearly simultaneously. First, it was the same voice that had woken him. Second, it was coming from within him, from the same place as his own thoughts. And third, the rithe wasn’t simply crying in pain.

“Come!” It yelled, over and over again. “Come!” It was crying for help. And Rostan realized too late. He managed one more step toward his weapon, and then rithe were flooding into the room. 

They argued for a while. Rostan thought he was about to die. The creatures surrounded him quickly, a few stepping over Farnell, his weapon and only chance at salvation trampled under their feet. But they didn’t strike. The rithe he blinded screamed for his head, but the others regarded him with muted, almost disappointed resignation. Then the arguing started. While they were talking, Rostan realized what the difference was in their voices compared to the rithe who’d been his fake guide. They weren’t speaking common. They chittered in their native language, and he understood them. Had they not been arguing over what to do with his life, he might have found this intriguing. As it was, Rostan danced on the balls of his feet, determined to go down swinging should the conversation turn bad.

“He should die.” The one he blinded seethed. “He killed.”

“No, not for us.” Another said. “He must be taken.”

“To him.” This reverberated through the chatter. To him. To him. It carried weight and reverence. It made Rostan’s hair stand on edge. He realized that they said it with respect, with fear. One of them made a final, decisive sound, a deep guttural clicking, and the rest fell silent. He noticed one of the rithe stoop, plucking the fallen knife from the dust with a flick of its clawed hands. Rostan tensed, but it barely spared him a glance before slipping the weapon away. Then rough claws grabbed his arms and dragged him forward. Farnell’s body lay still, half-buried beneath shifting feet. None of them so much as looked back. 

The rithe moved fast, dragging him along in a lurching, unrelenting march. His boots scraped against the rocky ground as he stumbled to keep pace, claws digging into his arms whenever he lagged. The air grew steadily colder, thick with damp earth and something stale. Buried decay. Rostan lost all sense of direction. There was nothing but the press of bodies around him and the rapid click of claws on stone. He tried to count steps, measure the twists and turns they took, but it was futile. Without a sky nor light, without anything around which to orient himself, there was no way to tell how far they traveled, or for how long. Time unraveled, stretched thin by the monotony of movement. Occasionally, dim blue light flickered from the walls, coming from veins of some bioluminescent fungus. It cast the rithe in eerie, shifting silhouettes, their elongated limbs flickering in and out of focus like stunted spectres.

They didn’t speak. The only sounds were their breathing and the rustle and click of movement. Sometimes one would stare up at him, but their alien features were unreadable. Rostan wondered if he was going to die. He was used to the feeling. He hadn’t thought his death would come underground, but supposed it was as good a spot as any. Just as enough time had passed to prompt his wandering thoughts, the march ended. The rithe in front of him made space, and he was pushed forward and sharply to the right. There wasn’t enough light and he missed the step. Tumbling down, his knees hit the stone ground hard. He caught himself before collapsing completely. The rithe didn’t follow and there was a grinding sound. A cage of rock surrounded Rostan, more of a pit than a cell, a stone door at the top of the stairs he’d been pushed down. Above he caught glimpses of the rithe watching, their slitted eyes gleaming in the dark on ledges he couldn't see, before they melted back into the shadows. They left him alone.

His arms ached, but strength was returning. He flexed his fingers, clenched and unclenched his fists. He was alive. For now. A quick survey told him there was no way out. Whatever they planned for him, there was nothing to do but wait and see. Rostan sank down against a smooth wall, the rock cool against his back. He sighed, and shut his eyes. If he had been able to get his knife, he’d stand a chance. Not an overwhelming one, of course, but a chance. When they came for him, he would’ve been able to run. Though that seemed as much of a death sentence as doing nothing, a good way to die of starvation, many kilometers underground. His mind turned to the danu wanderer, his cold corpse lying defiled and forgotten. He hated to admit it, but he’d not expected things to go this badly. Everything Farnell had guessed had been right. He’d never left Eden before. If he was honest with himself, he’d never really thought about leaving.

Thinking about Farnell made him remember the cube. Opening his eyes he fished it out of his pocket and tried to make out details in the dark. It was smooth, a perfect six sided block of wood that fit comfortably in the palm of his hand. Rostan let it dance between his fingers. It was entirely unremarkable. Probably nothing but a trinket, something meaningless to fidget with. He wasn’t sure why he picked it up. Reflex, he supposed. Moving it from one hand to the other, he cursed Farnell for saving him. It had, whether directly or not, resulted in the danu’s death. That wasn’t a trade he’d asked him to make. Rostan didn’t know much about the danu, only that they were one of the few species who traveled throughout the cluster. When he was living in the north, before his search for Kaelen, a danu couple had come through his town. They’d seemed nice enough, though he’d not made an effort to befriend them. He usually didn’t.

And then there was the voice. First shaken off as the remnant of a dream, it had come again as a clear warning. And watching the rithe as they’d marched, something told him they didn’t move well in the dark. The tunnels were not their chosen home. Had he ran, while still lost, he would be free. The voice had been trying to help. But now, in the stillness, when he strained to hear it again, there was nothing. Only his own breath, the dull ache in his muscles, and the weight of the unknown. Rostan exhaled steadily. Another matter for later, when and if he survived. In less than three days on the planet, he had already managed to kill two of the natives, get near fatally injured, lose what few belongings he had, and get imprisoned. And if not for a stranger, who he’d gotten killed, he’d be dead himself. Farnell had been wrong about one thing. He had no illusions about humanity’s place in the cluster. Rostan’s left hand shook violently. He let it. 

They came for him. When the stone door above ground open, he didn’t move. Only when the claws seized him again did Rostan react, wrenching against their hold. It didn’t matter. They dragged him from the pit without a word. There were many. The rithe were thick as ants, lining the tunnel in both directions. Resigned, but not yet condemning himself to death, Rostan let them lead. The air changed as they moved, thickening with a scent so strong it made his stomach lurch. Rot. Something deep and organic, something old. He clenched his teeth, breathing shallowly through his mouth as they continued ever deeper. They didn’t have far to go.

The tunnel opened up and they entered the heart of the cliffs. It was no grand hall, with no decoration or signs of life. Just a cavernous expanse of damp stone and the cloying presence of decay. The fungi that clung to the walls lit everything a sickly, dying blue. The floor itself was uneven, pitted with erosion, and the further they went the worse it became, the stone becoming crumbly and spongy underfoot. It was as if the very ground was tainted by the thing that ruled this place. At the chamber’s heart was a great throne. Or what was left of one. Rostan recognized bones, of what animal he knew not, they lay piled around the base in heaps. The throne itself was a different, unnatural color, as if caked in a thick filth. And on it sat him. And whoever he was, he looked near death. 

It was curled within itself, a massive figure hunched and twisted upon a throne of rot. Everything around had blackened, eaten away by the filth that pooled at the base. Six shriveled limbs that might’ve once been strong sprouted in seemingly random directions, its darkened flesh stretched thin over too large a frame. The surface of the skin was cracked like parched earth, with deep fissures seeping something too thick and dark to be blood. Its chest rose and fell in slow, deliberate breaths, each one rasping in a wheeze that rattled into the echoey gloom. Its head lifted as Rostan was forced to his knees before it, and where he expected eyes, there was only darkness. Where a face might have been there was nothing but the vague impression of one, a ridged brow above a hollow void. The scent of death had become so strong Rostan struggled to breathe, as if the air itself was shortening his life. To his surprise, the rithe handed him his knife. Before he could react, they pushed him onto his back, onto the festering earth, a color green no stone should be. Then another came forward and set an alien skull on the crown of his head. There Rostan lay, cut and bleeding. Only then did the thing speak. And when it spoke to him, the voice that emerged was a deep rasp, air and sound and nothing more.

“You are the first human I have seen in many, many years.”

Rostan swallowed hard. He looked around at the rithe that had brought him. They looked nervous, shifting back and forth, keeping a careful distance. He didn’t know what to say. “You’re the first dead thing I’ve ever heard speak.”

A wet, grating sound… laughter? “Bold.” Another deep, rattling breath. “When your kind first arrived, the mere sight of me was enough to drive the bold ones to madness. And now…”

“You are to kill me then?” Rostan asked, impatient. “I prefer that to madness.”

“You are not afraid?”

“No.” Rostan wasn’t.

“When I was younger, I would have torn you apart, but cradled your heart, so it still beat while I ate it.”

“If I’m to be eaten,”  Rostan spat at the feet of the throne. He made to get up but the rithe pushed him back down. “If I’m to be eaten, let it at least be by the king rodent.”

More wet grinding. Rostan was sure it was laughing. “I am not king of these creatures. I am not of their kind. They do not love me and they never have.”

“But they obey.”

“Because they must.” 

“If you are not a rithe, then what are you?” The question layered with disgust, but Rostan couldn’t help himself. He figured talking was better than dying.

“In your tongue, the word that comes closest is demon. But as a god is unique, so is a creature such as me, and my name is Othul.” The demon, Othul, took another breath. Rostan waited. Othul exhaled again, long and slow. "You are an odd one, human. No pleading, no weeping. Not even a desperate lie."

Rostan flexed his fingers. "What would be the point?"

“Life.”

“I don’t expect to live.”

A low, grinding hum reverberated through the chamber. Not quite laughter this time, something more considerate. "No," Othul said, "I would not allow it."

A silence stretched between them. Rostan could hear the rithe shifting and clicking behind him, restless. They didn’t like this. He dared not take his eyes away from the mass on the throne.

 

“Humans are fragile.” When the demon finally continued, its tone changed, not quite curious, not quite pitying. “But flexible. That is your strength. A tree sways lest it break. A river bends and carves mountains.”

Rostan clenched his jaw. “You sound impressed.”

“I am intrigued. And curious. I am bound by what I am. I do not change.” Its limbs twitched. “My kind and what few of them that remain endure only through suffering. But your kind…”

“We understand suffering.”

The laughter again. “You understand pain, human. But not suffering.” More rattled breathing. The words hung in the air. The silence grated on Rostan.

“You toy with me.”

“Impatient. You are young, human.”

“I’m bleeding on your floor.” Rostan gestured sharply with his chin. Farnell’s bandages had come undone and there were stains of red on the ground. The hum sounded again, so deep he felt his bones vibrate.

“You have spirit.”

“For how long?” Rostan meant to rib the creature. Demon or not, he would die with dignity.

“When you entered my domain, I meant to kill you. That is true. I still may. But now that you are here…” Another long breath. Rostan felt the tension in his back. “Now that you are here I sense something. Something I did not expect.”

Rostan frowned. “What?”

The demon did not answer immediately. One of its limbs shifted, dragging against the throne. “A human soul is like an infant flame. It flickers, it burns, it can be smothered.”

“Insightful.” Rostan was unimpressed.

But Othul did not seem to hear the sarcasm. “Others who have been brought before me, others who I met, even before I was here, I could feel the flicker of their souls. Some bright, some dim, but always fragile. Easy to smother.” The demon on the throne tilted its faceless head slightly. “But yours does not flicker.”

A strange chill crawled up Rostan’s spine.

“I had a theory… no, less than that, a notion… that humans endure because of their souls. The structure is not unique, not like the thing that resides in me. But each one still remains… different. And this structure that continues to produce individuality, it intrigued me. I never found a use. They were too fragile. But you are not like the others.” Rattle. Slow exhale. “I was going to kill you. But now, I think I would rather make a deal.”

Rostan’s mind raced. “What kind of deal?”

“I am dying, human. But I would rather not.”

“I’m not much of a healer.”

“I cannot be healed. There is nothing left to repair. No, this form fails me,” Othul rasped. “A slow death, but death all the same.”

Rostan felt an unease creep into his gut. “But you want me to help you live.”

The thing on the throne let out another of those grinding hums. “Yes. But not as you imagine.”

“Then how?”

Othul shifted, one of its withered arms pressing against the armrest. “Humans bend where others break. Perhaps that is true in more ways than one.”

“Speak plainly.”

“I have existed for longer than your kind has had names. But my body cannot endure forever. I am bound by what I am.” A pause. “But you are not bound. Your kind changes. Adapts. Survives.”

The unease sharpened. “Are you saying you want my body?”

Othul let out something between a chuckle and a cough. “No, human. I have no need for a fragile shell. But there are other ways to persist. A root may graft onto another. A parasite may burrow into its host. And a soul… a soul may share its space.”

“You want my soul?”

“No, nothing so banal. And not so trivial. Your soul, even yours, would flicker and fail under the weight of what I am. What I ask of you is much less.” 

Rostan paused. He was beginning to understand. “You’re saying you want to put your soul with mine.”

Rattle. Breath. “A crude descriptor. But yes. But a piece.”

Rostan stiffened.

“A whisper, a fragment,” Othul murmured, the darkness where its eyes should have been fixed upon him. “A tether. Others, their structure is too weak. But yours… it might, it could, hold.”

“And?”

“And then I persist. I exist as long as you do. Until I find a way… back.” The last word was a hiss. A promise. An omen. Another chill went down Rostan’s spine.

“Will I… know? You’re there?”

“The part that goes with you is not conscious. It is not a thing. It is a catalyst. It is action. You will not know it is there any more than you feel a single hair on your head.”

“What’s in it for me?”

The answer came smoothly. “Strength. A power beyond anything your kind could dream of.”

“And you’ll let me go?”

“You are free to do as you like. I still have some power, not enough to get you off planet, but wherever on Ctharren you may wish to go.”

Rostan’s heart pounded in his ears. “I don’t suppose I could refuse?”

“You can. Even in my prime, I had not the power to take a soul from one unwilling,” Othul said, voice as hollow as a grave, “But if you do, then you will rot in this place. You will rot here as I have. And in time, you will beg me to allow you to reconsider.”

The silence between them was heavy. Rostan’s hands curled into fists. He could feel the weight of the cavern pressing in around him, the gaze of unseen watchers in the dark, the scent of death thick in his lungs. The thought of dying did not scare him. Even a slow death, at the hands of a monster with nothing to do but torture him. And he knew the hollow allure the offer held. Power did not come without a cost. Yet, he couldn’t shake the gnawing thought that had been worming its way slowly into the front of his mind. He was helpless here. Not here, as in the cavern. No, ever since arriving on this hellish planet, Rostan had felt helpless. There was only one other being that made him feel helpless. And he hated them. What hope did he have against the metal legions if a trip to Chtharren leveled him so utterly?

Rostan looked back up at Othul. The demon rattled and waited. Dying he might be, but Rostan could sense his power. It was like the echo of a thunderclap. Or the mud after a flood. He wondered at what great evil Othul had done. He wondered at what great evil he could do again, if he were restored.

“When you say find a way back, is that through me?”

“You will not perish. You are but a host. A conduit. I take only what I need and give much more than that.” Othul spoke quicker now, his excitement clear. “Once I find a lattice strong enough to hold me, I will leave as easy as shedding a single tear.”

The demon was more animated, its distorted limbs twitching regularly, the dark liquid seeping to the ground with greater flow. It was deeply unsettling. Rostan hesitated. He had one more question.

“And if I die?”

“I will not let you die.” Othul’s tone was frustrated now, anxious.

“But if I die…” 

“Then I will die. A soul cannot hold onto death. It is untenable.”

Rostan nodded slowly. It was simple then. A clear solution to the twisted bargain. All he had to do was keep breathing long enough to achieve whatever goals he had. Whatever goals he could. And when the time was right, he would end it all. No more deal, no more power, just the clean break of finality before the demon could resurface. A chill settled into his chest, cold and sharp. The decision was made.

“Then I accept.”

The demon’s excitement grew to a climax. The air around them seemed to tighten, the very weight of it shifting in an unnatural way. A low, gurgling hum resonated through the chamber, vibrating the bones in his body, and Rostan could feel the creature’s twisted presence drawing closer, even as the broken form on the throne stayed still. The rithe clicked fervently, and he heard some of them scatter out of the cavern.

“Wise choice human.” Othul rumbled, the demon’s voice smoother, its breathing steadier. “You will accomplish much with me behind you.”

A storm had entered the room. The air moved in a flurry and the fungus on the walls pulsed vigorously. Rostan reached into his pocket and gripped Farnell’s small wooden cube. Rotting stone flew into the air and the demon continued to hum. Rostan shut his eyes against the stench and the debris. When he opened them again he was no longer underground.