TR: 29

Chapter Twenty Nine: Mother

“No man is poor who has a godly mother.”

-Abraham Lincoln

***

The Squad Commander’s boots echoed off of the polished stone floors as he made his way purposefully down the hall, his jet colored armor gleaming in the torch light. The bloody shade that was cast upon the world by his goggles reminded him of the immediate severity of his situation, the pact made in his own blood. Strangely enough, his situation gave him a newfound sense of calm, perhaps in the same way that a terminally ill patient knowing their final prognosis brought with it peace. When minutes mattered every hour was an achievement; now, he only needed to convince three hundred thousand others of the same thing to buy him some more minutes. But he didn’t think that would be a problem now, now with what he had found. As if to remind himself that it was real, he reached back and touched the haft of the weapon attached to his back.

Dyskoliat.

Legendary. Revered. Feared.

Those were some of the adjectives that came to Zock’s mind with regards to the relic. Not a true ax but not quite a blade either, Dyskoliat was what was known as a scud–an object or device that, until imbued with the flows, was useless. When imparted the proper workings, a brilliant purple blade formed between the apex of the shaft, which comprised the body of the weapon, and the stunted epicondyle-like process which protruded out of the pommel. When inert, the thing could have passed for an over-sized vegetable peeler. But Zocks knew better; Dyskoliat was an instrument of death. In fact:

It was the very weapon that was the instrument of his death.

Zocks contemplated the paradox of wearing the headsman’s ax responsible for his own past demise. While he couldn’t recall all the details of his death he could certainly remember enough to know what it was he carrying on his back. Dyskoliat had belonged to Mokul’s Arch Headsman Synas, one of the top generals of the Knights of Vertiaxx, Mokul’s most trusted retinue. Synas was only called upon for the most important executions, such as those of treason, important POWs and war heroes, and any personal slights to the great wizard himself. Usually, they would be very public displays, attracting thousands and any such rituals attended on by Synas (or any of the Veritaxx for that matter) were very pointed messages to both insurgents and the enemy abroad: do not cross Mokul.

Of course, Zocks had crossed the wizard, and that was how he had gotten to know Dyskoliat so intimately. So, to see it lying there in an unmarked, derelict tomb collecting dust on the lap of a long-degraded corpse of what once had been a global terror, brought up many mixed emotions. Zocks couldn’t be sure at the time what he was seeing; in the center of that room was a single, empty sarcophagus, attended on by the late executioner who sat withering away in a chair in the corner. Whatever had caused the foul stench had been removed long ago but, for some reason, it had lingered long past its expiration date. The magick too seemed to have outlived its necessity, perhaps vestigial spells that once served a purpose to protect what used to lay within… It was readily apparent that the tomb was not Synas’s, though it was of clear importance if Mokul had assigned one of his foremost elite to personally watch over it. Until their death, as it turned out. Zocks had never met the executioner prior to their last fateful encounter, which was likely a good thing considering Synas was only called upon for headsman work. In actuality, meeting one of the Knights of Vertiaxx was a rare thing indeed; it took a special kind of perversion of the rules for one to warrant the attention of Mokul’s generals.

But now, Dyskoliat was his. In a sense, gifted to him by the very man who had ordered his execution three thousand years prior. And while it probably should have disgusted or shocked him to wear such a thing on his person, he felt a strange kind of power in bearing the weapon, like a kind of…reclamation. And while the wizard had requisitioned him for the task, Zocks had no intention of becoming his little head chopper. No, Zocks had bigger plans, and it all began with them–the roaring, churning, restless crowd whose bellows and chanting could be heard reverberating through the stones of the fortress around them, having grown into a din.

Soon, they would be chanting his name.

He grinned sardonically as he passed by a pair of guards glaring at him with a look of blatant distrust. Zock’s didn’t care what the wizard’s minions thought of him, so long as they obeyed. Distrust could easily be segued into fear, if need be, and that was a powerful motivator to listen. But Zocks wasn’t about to make the same mistakes that Mokul had. The Wizard’s ruthless and rampant attitude had been the very thing that had brought him down. Though he had not lived through it, he had bore witness to the aftermath of Mokul’s fallen empire. The battle of Crimson Eve, that famous and fateful day where he was to be defeated at sea, would not have been possible had not the remaining nations banded together to fight the Wizard’s army. Mokul had counted on the world’s long-running animosities to continue to drive them apart and had thus devoted an entire facet of his campaign to sabotaging their relations even further. What he hadn’t counted on were the Masters’ abilities to unify their people and bring them all together in a common cause, casting the light on the true enemy.

At least for a short time.

Following Crimson Eve, global shenanigans had ensued as before as if Crimson Eve was, ironically, just some kind of pause button on the war remote. Yet all of this did not dissuade Zocks from his mission; if anything, he now had a wealth of information to draw upon on how not to run a campaign. That and the fact that Rynn had changed so much in those three thousand years. Global tensions had never been so high, as the last major war—the Parting of Synestryan, the long overdue skirmish that divided the Ladryan and Toryan elvish races—had been over six hundred years to the date. Zocks knew that were one to ask any historian with any clout if the protracted period of calm was a good thing and they would have told you that fact was not as promising as it sounded; social theorists had long recognized that intelligent lifeforms—at least as far as they could tell from the only ones they knew of on Rynn—would inevitably come to blows. This equated to a perpetually demanding equilibrium where pressure would, inevitably, have to be released. The fact that it hadn’t in over half a millennium was a telltale sign that something big was coming, like a fault line grinding and grinding, waiting to unleash a devastating earthquake. But Zocks knew this, as did anyone with any kind of political acumen, and he wouldn’t allow his name to end up on the wrong side of the tragic outcome that was sure to befall his species.

This time, he would be on the other side of the chopping block.

His boots echoed against the stone walls, his shadow casting a demonic caricature on the wall. He stopped at the final archway, obscured by thick curtains hanging there—the only thing dividing him from the hordes that waited patiently beyond. He could hear them: the crowd, growing restless as they chattered and bellowed, disgruntled from the sudden abandonment of their reincarnated deity. Judging from the commotion, word had likely already spread of the strange intruder’s presence and his subsequent claim to their ranks. Surely this piqued the curiosity of those who had come to witness the birth of a new leader. Perhaps it enraged them. Either way, Zocks had their attention before he had even begun.

It was perfect.

A wall of pandemonium began to rise up beyond the curtains; Zocks could hear them as they began to stomp their feet in unison, chanting like the cult they were. The wave of sound pierced him
on a psychological level and he suddenly began to question himself. Could he convince three hundred thousand fanatics to worship, in essence, another god?

If you can convince the dark lord Mokul himself, you can convince a horde of mindless idiots. He told himself.

But it was their master they wanted and they were about to find out that they would not have him. At least not for the near foreseeable future. He did not know the full extent of the creature’s
condition, only that, even in his deteriorated state, he was among the most powerful gifted that had ever lived. This alone gave Zocks hope that the wizard, if it truly was him, would be healthy in short order. It also struck a chord on a deeper level, as it didn’t give him much time; much time to rally the troops, nor to achieve his endgame. The wizard absolutely could not–must not–revitalize to full potential. To do so would mean sure failure, and this would nullify his contract. Though Zocks was a survivor, Death would only be forgiving so many times before it called in its due, and Zocks owed it a debt that could not be overlooked.

In his experience, Death kept a very accurate ledger.

Zocks took in a deep breath and drew the curtains aside, stepping into the immense wall of sound. He gasped at the sea of bodies before him. What had been supposedly three hundred thousand
or so bodies in the courtyard when he had first arrived had now grown exponentially; beyond the castle’s courtyard, which had already been packed to the brim, waves of milling crowds extended out beyond the castle walls where they vanished into the dawning landscape. Beyond the sheer numbers, Zocks was also impressed at the diversity of the attendants to the black masse. There were cren from all different nations; Ogres, Nymphs and Sprites and other Fae folk; the Kal’lalumati from the Tropical Islands of Argoth; the Poio, emerging from the depths of their mysterious sea kingdoms. Even the Minotaurii had descended from their fortresses of bedrock on heaven high, hailing from the Strays. Beyond that there were many other races that Zocks could not put a name too, all varying in size and shape, all come to witness the rebirth of a legend. He approached the edge of the stone balustrade, coming into full view of the audience. Fingers began to point in his direction and the uproar increased, a surge of revolt spreading across the crowd.

“I have a message!” Zocks yelled to the mass, but his voice was stifled by the ruckus.

Already he was met with resistance. He grit his teeth and began to feel the blackness swelling within him. He had hoped it would not come to this but things were beginning to slide out of
control. A Minotaur in the audience roared in fury as it grabbed a torch on a stake, ripping it out of the ground. It turned and hurled the spear straight at Zocks. The flaming pole flew with dead
accuracy, straight at Zocks’ chest. Zocks watched as the incoming spear, lurid with a trail of flame, careened towards him with the force of ten able men. Zocks slowed his breathing and
focused inwards. It began as only a drop in a pond but soon the blackness was spreading, consuming him as he drowned in its depths. Suddenly his sense of self dissolved and he was watching one as all. He felt himself standing there, floating slightly off and above, witnessing the flaming spear as it approached the body standing idle on the balcony. He could feel the flames as they flickered through time and space, playing out their chemical reactions as the universe had determined them. But a reaction could go many ways if persuaded and so Zocks integrated himself into that equation–into the flames. The fire fed into the well of black which grew in him and suddenly the anxiety of being burnt—or impaled—was no longer a threat. The spear sailed towards his chest and Zocks shot his arm out in front of him in embrace. The torch surged toward the opening at his midsection and, as it neared, the stake rapidly began to dwindle away into nothing. The flame at the end of the torch slammed into Zocks, knocking him slightly backwards from the force, and his body went ablaze. He stepped up to the edge of the balcony and raised his hands to the sky, laughing into the night. His gaze averted to the crowd below and he launched himself off of the balcony, a flaming trail following him to the ground far below. The ruckus died off suddenly and the crowd watched in stunned silence as Zocks fell six stories through the air, a blazing comet. He landed in the courtyard, shattering the flagstones from the sheer force of his weight, cracks rippling outward . The fire subsided and sizzled into nothing and Zocks slowly stood up, adjusting his goggles as he blew a cloud of smoke out of his mouth. His gaze panned over the fleet before him, now cast in a glowing red hue. The Minotaur who had thrown the stake exchanged incredulous looks with the man beside it.

“I have a message”, Zocks continued. “From the Dark One himself.”

A murmur arose in the audience, many suspiciously eyeing the strange newcomer.

“Due to his current…condition, he will require some time to convalesce. As such, he has taken refuge in his chambers until he is fit to address you.”

Here it comes. Zocks thought.

“He has not specified exactly how long this will take, but I can assure you that he will not disappoint upon his…official return.”

As Zocks had predicted, there was an uproar and angry shouts began to be lobbied at him. A strange creature resembling a tree with humanoid features—a Sprite, Zocks thought—pointed
at Zocks with an accusatory gesture.

“And who in Endabarron are you?” It yelled over the din.

Zocks placed a hand against his throat. “Silence!” He boomed, his voice suddenly magnified as it echoed out across the courtyard, past the walls and into the hills and forests beyond, reaching the
ears of even the furthest of them.

Silence came indeed.

“I am your new commander, as appointed by the Dark Lord himself. My name is Zocks…” He paused, thinking back to something Mokul had said.  “Squad Commander Zocks. I will be your master’s proxy during his stead. Until such time, he has appointed me as the Commander of Operations. I will be in charge of overseeing the formation of his army.” Zocks panned his hand across the crowd.  “You. At least, that is only what I can assume you have come to do—to pledge your allegiance to the Lord Mokul. But be warned: any oath sworn to the Dark Lord is an oath bound in both service…and blood. Being the devout followers that you likely are, I am sure that I do not need to remind you that he does not do anything….halfheartedly.”

Zocks fought back a grimace. “This…Order…” The word tasted bitter in his mouth. “…has been a slight on the great Lord’s name. Let it be known from here on in that this cult, that claims to uphold our great Lord’s best interest, is to be no more.”

There was a wave of concerned murmurs in the crowd, especially among the remaining Oblitarii. Zocks ignored it as he continued on.

“Why, you ask? Lord Mokul never sanctioned any such thing. This is no mere club which one may willingly join; this is the makings of a revolution! Revolutions are fought by soldiers and soldiers must be proved.”

“How do we know it’s really the lord himself?” shouted an angry wolf-like creature in the audience. “With all the crazy things happening these days, anything could come out of the ground like that!”

Others nodded their approval around it and a general unrest began to settle over the audience again.

“Yaaaah! I’m not going to listen to no corpse!” bellowed an Ogre.

The crowd roared their agreement.

“Our ogre friend here has a point.” A Poio interjected. “And it raises another one: why on Rynn should we listen to you? You think just because you put on a fireworks display and jump out of a building that entitles you to rule an entire army? I don’t claim to know every word of the scripture, but what I do know is that nowhere in it does it say anything about a prophet. I, for one,
will certainly not fall for such pond-scum, let alone bow to a nobody cren.”

A farmer beside the Poio gave the fish-man a shove. “Oh? And who is gonna make the calls then? You? How long can ye hold yer breath, mer?” he retorted.

The Poio grabbed its arm and shot the man a perturbed look. “Our civility in the seas has remained steadfast and unbroken longer than the Order itself. In fact, your species was hardly walking upright while we were reinforcing our great cities’ walls and authoring treatises that your kind would adapt over ten thousand years later. If anyone was to rule it should be…”

A gelatinous creature with tentacles on its face interjected, raising a gooey appendage triumphantly in the air. “Us. Too long have we squabbled with your kind, for nought but a fair share of the ocean floor. It’s due time that the Makimu’uk ascend from the depths and reclaim the land, as our ancestors did, and retake our watch over these lands so that we may look down upon its waters and rid the ocean of pestilence such as you.”

The Makimu’uk spat blue goo in the Poio’s face and immediately two of the Poio’s comrades were on the creature, jabbing it with lances that merely became engulfed by its gelatinous body. As that battle began, more and more arguments spewed forth and altercation turned to fighting turned to all out blood brawling. In mere moments the entire crowd had formed an uprising against itself and Zocks found himself stepping away from the mass of crazed creatures that swarmed just beyond the fortress perimeter, which was beginning to feel more and more like a glass wall than one made of stone and mortar. An ogre stood up amidst the tangle of brawlers and pointed at the main door of the fortress, yelling something that Zocks could not make out over the noise of the crowd. The ground shook beneath him and he saw the sea of people parting as something large proceeded toward him. A giant bearded troll emerged from the crowd, sending people flying in every direction as it swung its massive barbed club to clear a path. It stopped short of the barricade hemming in the staging area and roared into the sky as two ogres held it at bay by reins tethered through rings pierced into its saggy jowls. A clearing formed around the creature as it swung its gaze side to side, as if looking for any challengers. As its head torqued back and forth, viscous brown slime spewed out from a large orifice in its face that was most possibly its nose. It let out a nasally bellow and charged forward, dragging the two ogre enforcers along with it, despite their vocal protests. It plowed through the series of gates set around the altar, the steel snapping as if made of cheap poly. As objects shattered and flew in every direction in its wake, the troll bulldozed across the altar, heading straight for Zocks, snorting and huffing in ire. Zocks stood passively, staring at the hulking beast as it careened towards him. He reached over his shoulder, wrapping his hand around Dyskoliat’s haft.

 It has come to this then. Good. A demonstration may just set them straight.

Zocks reached out into the void once more and found the space in between—that space that both divided and bound all things together. Within that space he could sense a pulling–a magnetization between he and another. Dyskoliat: it wanted it too. Zocks fed the void there, nourishing it with the light that was not light, feeling it grow and condense until it was palpable–a living form. Dyskoliat blazed to life, the purple energy of condensed voidlight emanating across its terminals, creating an ebbing blade which crackled and hissed like the lethal predator it was. The troll roared as it came at Zocks with it huge muscular arm grasping raised club overhead, poised for the kill. Zocks let himself fall to the side, sliding along his knees as he dodged beneath the veritable tree trunk of a weapon swiping downward, at the same time ever so gracefully reaching out with Dsykoliat (or had Dyskoliat reached out with him?), the radiant blade making contact just above the troll’s left kneecap. In the very same motion, Zocks span around in an artful arc, swiping the weapon across to the other side, severing the other leg mid-shin. The troll screamed in horror and agony as it fell face-first into the stones in a bloody, stumpy mess. As the troll slid to a stop, Zocks did the same in the other direction, looking back over his shoulder at the writhing, screaming creature bathing in its own blood, its legs like discarded meat spewed about the courtyard. He almost felt pity for the thing, were it not trying to kill him. From his position on his knees, he launched himself up in the air in a massive back flip, landing right in the middle of the troll’s shoulder blades. Dyskoliat’s crackling was feverish, hungry. Zocks span the blade around until the end was pointing down and he plunged the weapon through the creature’s thorax, straight into its heart. Blue, arterial blood welled up around the wound, like a volcano that had been stoppered. The troll let out one last wretched call which echoed through the now silent courtyard and it collapsed beneath him, unmoving, as a lake of blood formed around it, seeping into the flagstones.

“Nooooooooooo!” cried one of the ogre attendants, as they got to their feet to find their pet dismembered and worse.

All had become silent in the courtyard as hundreds of thousands (millions?) of eyes locked onto him. Zocks could feel the power radiating through him, not just from Dyskoliat but from the sheer rush of being the center of so many’s fears.

So this is what it feels like to be a god.

Zocks looked over at the glowing weapon in his hand. He raised it in the air.

“I see it in your eyes, now: you know what this is. So you know I am not lying to you. Mokul has chosen me to lead you, and more will be chosen, should you choose to follow.”

He hopped down off the fallen troll’s back, walking up to the precipice of the veritable sea of onlookers, stepping over the debris from the troll’s rampage. Dyskoliat discharged and Zocks sheathed it on his back.

“Before me, I see a great many eyes yearning for something more. For as long as you can remember, you have suffered; oppressed by those forces which you do not control and that would see you buckle beneath them. But no more. With our great Lord’s guidance you will rise up against that which would see you dwindle and you will become something greater than they could have ever possibly imagined you would become. You will be more than just a soldier in the wizard’s army: you will also be family. Family to others who are oppressed, for you shall liberate them from their foes. Family to those who have no other, for you shall be a friend. And most of all, you will be family amongst yourselves: the family you never had and were so wrongfully denied.”

There was a small murmur of consent among the crowd though Zocks got the sense that most were still unconvinced.

He continued. “You have come here today seeking answers and, I assure you, you will get them in time. While our master is powerful like no other, indeed, he is not limitless. As time has taken its toll on his physical form so too will time be required to undo its own effects. The great lord has requested that, in his stead, I guide you to your full potential, just as Synas and his generals did to his kin so many, many years ago. And like those bold knights before us, we shall ride on the winds of change and take the world by storm, completing our Master’s legacy!”

There was a roar of approval from many. A good sign. And then came the question–the twig breaking in the calm of night:

“When will we get to see him?” Someone called out.

Zocks paused, looking out at the questioning eyes, as if they all too had asked the words.

Should he lie? A lie at this point would be dangerous as he had little to improvise on and surely someone in the thousands of bodies before him would root out the rotten in it. The embattled question of the wizard’s whereabouts destroying his momentum was a case in point. The truth then. But that was hardly innocuous; he himself had no idea how long it would take Mokul to heal. It could be a week or a year, both of which were likely long past the crowd’s expiration date. So he was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t. Zocks took a breath.

“I do not know.”

The crowd became restless again, frenzy beginning to brew once more. Zocks held up his hands to assuage them.

“But I do know that our master is powerful and that he is capable of miraculous feats. If you would but give me your time…”

“How much time?”

“Yeah! What kind of general are you if he doesn’t even tell you that?”

“Do you even have a plan?”

The crowd went into an uproar as protests began to build and build, a cauldron of wailing and chanting boiling up.

“It is my charge to see that you realize your full potential in our Master’s army…”

A particularly pugnacious looking orc pushed through the front of the crowd, raising a mace at Zocks. “You want to talk about charge, huh? Well army here now and they not happy with general mystery man. Here your charge: CHARGE!”

The crowd roared and like floodgates opening, bodies pushed forward, storming the fortress. Zocks knelt down, placing a hand against the ground as he summoned a force-field around him, bodies deflecting off of it like stones to a spinning blade. But the bodies kept coming, so many over and over and over, it seemed endless. He could feel the flows of his Ydra shield waning with each passing blow that they absorbed and he knew he wouldn’t be able to resist much longer. He looked around him for any kind of out and his eyes settled on the master balcony of the late archbishop’s personal chambers–now his own–and he launched himself out of the courtyard, landing on the polished stones of the terrace. He ran over to the balustrade, looking down as he watched the crowd siphoning into the ritual area. In no time, a battering ram appeared seemingly out of nowhere, and the once ancient cedar caromed viciously against the fortress doors, the castle quaking with each successive assault. There was a loud crash as the door splintered and Zocks cursed as he watched bodies disappear through the puncture. He pushed himself away from the ledge and ran back into the halls. Frantically, he made his was back to the throne room in attempt to beat them there. He could hear them–on the lower levels–like a tumultuous drone, a distant panoply of chaos, as zealots marched and rampaged. There was no reasoning with them at this point. But what had he honestly thought would happen? He didn’t have a plan. The accusations weren’t false. How he could have ever thought to control that many people without first hashing out a strategy was sheer folly. With every step he ran he chastised himself more and more, realizing that his plan-less plan was doomed to fail. He also thought about what the wizard had said: anyone who opened the door to the throne room would be dead upon entrance. If Mokul had set up some kind of fail safe—a trap of some sort—there was no telling what kind of destruction would be unleashed. In his current mental state–which was as yet to be determined–it was entirely possible Mokul had no reservations about leveling the entire fortress should he be disobeyed as such. It was entirely possible that three thousand years locked away in no man’s land had put some distance between he and his old home and that the emotional bond just wasn’t what it used to be. And that would spell bad news for them all.

Zocks kicked open a pair of bi folds in the hallway and rushed down the various passages of Bleaklook in hopes that his head start would allow him to beat the throng to the throne room. If he was to have any hope at convincing Mokul against summoning the apocalypse on them, he had to get there first!

***

The door flew open and dust fanned out in every direction. Brian peered into the dim room, the light from outside casting ominous shadows about the entryway. He walked apprehensively into
the building, into a vast open room. While most of the windows in the place were either shuttered or boarded up, the paltry light filtering in from outside illuminated the room enough to provide some ambient detail. From outside, the house hadn’t looked that impressive but now that Brian found himself taking it all in, he realized just how amazing the place was. The main area alone was larger than most people’s entire home and despite the layer of soot covering nearly every pinch, the glitter of gilding sparkled through everywhere one looked, like there was a small layer of hope underneath it all. Brian figured that the mansion must have once been some kind of aristocratic estate, likely owing itself to a long line of patronage or nobility of some sort. He was no historian but he recognized some of the architectural features which seemed to place the structure all the way back to the Second Era, perhaps even earlier. He walked along a giant embroidered throw rug which ran from the entrance to the foot of a stunningly ornate mahogany staircase which split off in three branches as it diverged among the upper levels. As Brian slowly ascended the main staircase, his gaze moved up to the giant black chandelier that hung high above from chains with links as think around as a man’s forearm. The thing appeared to be made of wrought iron and probably weighed an ingon. He wondered how the ceiling could bear its weight, let alone in the building’s current condition. Tiers of what were probably hundreds if not thousands of black diamonds glistened along its curves, the meager light from the outside playing across the facets in the stones. As he slid his hand along the banister, he looked down to see that strange faces had been carved into each of the rails, depicting indiscernible creatures with mouths agape in torment. Brian made a face and took his hand back as if he had touched something that he hadn’t meant to. He wasn’t sure if it was all the creepy little faces in the staircase or not but he couldn’t help but feel that someone was watching him. He recalled having the same feeling when he first came into town. He could remember it vividly.

***

After the fat man had left them in the street, Brian had seen a young girl staring at him from an adjacent alleyway. She appeared to be homeless, with matted black hair and nought but a nightgown and bare feet against cold stones, and didn’t seem to be the sort to want to give help but rather need it. Brian sighed and moved on. As he made his way into town holding Kade in his arms, the feeling of her gaze on him never ceased, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end the way that sixth senses did. Eventually, he swiveled around to confirm his suspicions but found an empty alley behind him. Continuing into town, it wasn’t long before he saw her again, staring at him from between two buildings, her eyes pleading. Reluctantly, he made his way over to her side of the street but, instead of asking for handouts, she suddenly darted out of sight, disappearing into a nearby alley. Brian called after her, running over to the place where the girl had disappeared. When he rounded the corner he saw her there at the other end of the alley, standing in wait. She pointed at him.

“I can help your friend.” She had said.

With that, she giggled and ran around the corner out of sight again.

“Wait!”

Brian chased after her, compelled by the chance to save Kade. She led him through what seemed like a maze of alleys, the buildings nearly cheek-to-jowl as the openings between them narrowed. Somehow she always seemed to be just ahead, turning a corner so he could never get a good look at her. A glimpse of her white nightgown—just enough to know where she had gone to next. Finally, after nearly ten minutes of that, they had come out into the abandoned boulevard with the strange mansion at its helm. He remembered looking in all directions but the girl had completely disappeared. Cursing himself for being sidetracked by a child and wasting precious time, Brian turned back the way he had come but the way had suddenly become sealed off with a solid brick wall lined with barbed wire at is top. On its face was a weathered sign: KEEP OUT: QUARANTINE ZONE.

“Quarantine? Was there some kind of disease or something?”

Brian’s heart skipped a beat as he realized that the area may still be contagious. Suddenly, he had the heavy feeling of very much being where one should not and the urgency to leave overtook him. But he was not about to climb over barbed wire, especially holding Kade, so he moved on. He proceeded down the boulevard, holding his friend in his arms, as he searched for a way out. Half way down the eerie road he heard a laugh to his side and the young girl sprang out from behind a hedge in front of one of the many tenements like a feral animal. He yelled after her as she ran down the road towards a large, burnt house at the end. She ran up to the rusted, wrought-iron gate and it swung open on its hinges as if bidding her welcome. She ran up the drive and onto the porch where she turned and waited for him in the shadows of the large portico framing the entryway. Brian proceeded through the gate and stopped at the base of the stairs leading up to the main entry. He stared up at the girl who stood obscured in shadow, staring at them silently. It seemed that he could never quite get a good look at her, as if she continually positioned herself in such a way as to not reveal herself.

“Who are you?” Brian yelled up at her.

“I can help your friend.” She said in a pleading voice. “Through here.”

She turned and ran at the front door of the house, passing right through the wood, vanishing. Brian blinked as he struggled to restrain the sluice of thoughts that began to pour out in his mind.

“‘Cause that’s not creepy…”

He stared at the house for a moment then looked back over his shoulder, reconsidering. He turned back and yelped as he saw the girl standing at the base of the stairs not a blade away.

“You must hurry before it’s too late to save him!” The girl warned, an urgency in her tone.

“Um, what…who are you?” Brian asked.

The girl just stood, staring at him, her hair draped over her face, obscuring her features. Brian looked her over; her skin was so white it looked bleached, and her toes were black with grime.

“You must be an outsider. Everyone knows me here.” She said, a hint of annoyance in her voice.

Though he could barely make them out, something in her eyes glimmered; Brian didn’t like the feeling that he was getting from her.

He shifted, uneasy. “Listen, I think I’ll just go back into town. Someone there might know…”

“You can’t talk to them! They won’t help you!” She said frantically.

“I know how to help your friend.” She pointed at Kade. Brian glanced down.

“He’s been poisoned.”

Brian shook his head. “No, he hurt his arm in a fall and…”

“It has nothing to do with that.” She interjected. “Whatever evil he has been subjected to has blackened his mind. His mind is poisoned. Corrupted.”

She leaned forward, touching Kade’s forehead with the back of her hand. There was a sizzling sound and she yelped in pain, withdrawing her hand quickly, a tiny tendril of smoke drifting off the flesh. She cradled her hand against her body, her lip curling up in a snarl.

“He is hot!”

Brian frowned down at Kade, the young boy’s eyes closed but the muscles in his face tense as if fighting a tiny battle that he was slowly losing. What had he just witnessed? A person couldn’t get burned by touching a feverish person. Either that was one hell of a fever or Kade was going through something else entirely. That, or the girl…

Brian winced down at Kade’s forehead as he saw something strange on the skin. It was a tiny imperfection, barely a blemish, but it looked like… small globules of ice had formed, right where the girl had touched him. He leaned in closer…

“Inside! Quickly, there isn’t much time for him!”

Brian jumped, looking up to the girl who stood clearly impatient, still cradling her hand as if it were wounded. She half turned to the door and it slowly creaked open on its own. Brian stared at the door, slightly ajar, and turned to the girl.

“Did you not just see that?”

“See what?”

“The door! It opened on its own.”

The girl put her hands on her hips. “Of course it didn’t open on its own. Doors don’t do that. Have you ever seen a door open itself, silly?”

“Up until now, nope. And I’ve never seen anyone walk through a closed door. So, what is this? Some kind of…magick then?”

The girl leaned over, hands on hips. Brian couldn’t tell if she was examining him or not, given that he couldn’t really make out her expression behind the mop of hair covering most of her face. She leaned back upright and laughed.

“Oh we don’t call it that. There aren’t any tricks here!”

“We?”

“Mother and I. We are the only ones who live here. There used to be others, but they… They’re gone now.”

“I don’t understand… Why are you trying to help me? I don’t even know who you are.”

The girl stamped her foot. “My! Do all men have to be this stubborn? My name is Sarin. I am the daughter of the late Varrias Tolnubium, and this was his estate. I do my best to maintain it in his
absence.”

Brian glanced at the dilapidated house.

Fine job you are doing.

The girl frowned as if she had heard his thoughts.

“If you would just come in, I’m sure mother can tend to his illness.” The girl’s expression lightened again. “Mother is good with these kinds of things. There are not many others who can help him here.”

Brian looked down at his friend. He had to do something. Perhaps the girl was right: normal illness didn’t make people hot enough to the touch to burn another. If there was even the slightest chance that Kade had some kind of… other problem, what was he to do? He certainly didn’t know any witch doctors, nor did he have the luxury of time, judging by Kade’s current condition. Brian
nodded. The girl grinned and Brian followed her into the house.

The rest of what he remembered was disjointed, and a lot of it a blur. He remembered following the girl to the fourth floor, amazed at how large the edifice really was. He remembered
the black chandelier in the reception area and the feeling of something always watching him. He remembered passing by a large painting but couldn’t make out the imagery. If there were signs,
as the girl had said, he didn’t remember any, but eventually they had come to an old wooden door and the girl had produced a large, ornate, brass key from inside her gown. She unlocked
the door and before them was a hallway as black as tar. The girl ran by him, disappearing into the blackness. He hesitated, looking into the void before him. The lighting in the room seemed to dim
slightly, as if the hall were draining it of any of its scant remaining light, feasting on the remains.

“Come on! It’s just up ahead.” The girl’s voice echoed out of nowhere.

Brian swallowed and followed after the girl. “Where are you?’ He shouted.

There was just silence. Brian stopped and looked back at the open door, considering.

“Here!” A voice said.

Brian turned to see a small blue flame far ahead. The flame sat waiting for him. Brian turned back and jogged towards the flame, his feet thudding against hardwood floor. The flame disappeared around a corner. Brian turned the corner just in time to see it round another corner. He chased after the flame, though he could not make out any figure in the darkness.

Great, this again.

“Almost there.” The voice taunted.

Brian picked up his pace, anxious as the darkness suppressed him. The void seemed to be closing in around him, tighter and tighter. Brian had begun to realize that following the girl had been a very stupid decision. But he was committed at that point and finding a way out was likely as hard as finding one in, so he could only continue to run onward. Kade’s breathing had become raspier as if he too could feel it, despite his condition. Lost in thought, Brian skidded to a halt, almost running right into the five-blade hole before him. On the other side of the jagged pit, Sarin stood holding a lantern in one hand, the source of the blue flame. Brian stared down into the hole, the bottom nowhere in sight. The edges of the floorboards were jagged, as if taken out by shrapnel from an explosion.

Brian panted furiously. “How did you get across?”

Sarin giggled and ran off into the darkness on the other side, the lantern light fading into nothing. He leaned forward, judging the distance. Maybe without Kade he could make such a jump but he wasn’t about to risk it with his friend in his arms. He peered into the darkness but Sarin was nowhere to be seen. There was only one option at that point: he would have to head back into town after all. Brian turned around and the girl stood before him, the blue glow of the lantern casting sinister shadows across the wicked grin on her face. Brian stared, speechless.

“How did you…”

Sarin reached out with her free hand, striking Brian in the midsection. Growing up being raised as a boxer, Brian was used to gut shots but the kind of force Sarin struck him with nearly knocked the wind out of his wind. His body recoiled and he stumbled backwards into the hole, falling into darkness, his screams consumed by the silence of the derelict halls.

He awoke sometime later, fading in and out of consciousness. He was lying on a dirty floor, somewhere deep beneath ground level, judging from the cold, stuffy air. He could barely make out the poorly lit room though it seemed nondescript. He slowly raised his head, straining against what felt like the weight of the room itself. He saw the girl sitting in a chair off in a corner, swinging her legs back and forth, her attention fixed on something else across from her. He strained his head to the right. Blackness began to take him. A bed…and…something else. A horrific creature—its features mostly obscured in shadow—stood over the bed, waving its grotesque arms in circles above an unmoving figure. Strange protuberances stuck out of its body like malformed organs on the outside instead of in, and spikes ran up the length of its spine which was nearly visible through its skin. Its flesh was nearly translucent, even in the wan light, and it glistened with what could only be mucus. Any fleeting thought that the thing must have once been human was dashed by its atrociously deformed skeleton which gave it a severely hunched posture, more monster than man. It made disgusting grunting sounds as it worked, as if it were choking on its own tongue.

Blackness began to take Brian again.

The girl spoke. “How is he, Mother?”

The monster nodded its misshapen head. “The darkness spreads.”

Its voice was like no ‘mother’ Brian had ever heard; deep and unnatural, as if the words were produced using anatomy not typical of speech, and thick with the labor of phlegm. The creature’s body convulsed, strange sucking sounds coming from it. It wasn’t until it spoke that Brian realized it had been laughing.

“He fights, but we will have him.”

The girl laughed gleefully. “Oh yes, mother! We will have so much fun with him! And the others will be so excited. They have been waiting for a long time for one like him.”

“We have all been waiting a long time.” Corrected Mother.

The darkness won over him.

Brian had awoken on the street in front of the house to a gentle breeze ruffling his hair. After he had gathered himself, he attempted the mansion door again in the hopes to find his friend but the door was locked. He attempted to punch it down as he had the fire door at Falkner’s but the wood easily resisted the strike, as if protected by some strange force. In the end, he nearly broke his hand and ended up turning back to town, seeking help. The alleyways were open once more, as if they wanted him to leave, and he followed them back into the market with little hassle.
***

And now he was right back where he had started, cast back into the nightmarish scene of his own volition. As He reached the top of the staircase, a giant canvass painting spanned nearly the length of the entire wall before him. The frame was wrought in gold with ornate filigree, and Brian guessed that it alone was probably worth more than most people’s houses. The painting was done in acrylic, and it depicted a dusking sky overlooking a field, perhaps a prairie. Although the landscape evoked a pastoral kind of setting, there was little bucolic about it. There was a woman in a grey dress, fashion from a bygone era, on her knees with her face in her hands, presumably weeping. A dire looking man in armor stood with sword in hand, pointed at the woman’s throat. The other held up a bloody fetus dangling from its umbilical cord which the soldier gripped fiercely.

“Jandros Crusp. That’s lovely.”

There was blood on the ground and on the woman but, somehow, the soldier was unmarked. Brian guessed it was meant to be some kind of symbolism. In the background peasants watched from high on the downs, many clearly shouting and cursing, their faces rictus snarls of contempt. In the horizon, Brian could make out over-sized caricatures of men’s shoulders and heads like busts painted half-opaque into the sky. Their expressions were ones of extreme unction, as if they were judges presiding over the scene before them. At the periphery of the scene, past the throngs of angry onlookers, piles of withered bodies littered the valley as far as the eye could see, where mist had been painted near the vanishing points, as if to consume the rest of them. As Brian’s eyes played over the astonishing detail of the bodies, he gasped as his gaze locked on to a particularly coincidental detail: there, shrouded in the mist and almost indiscernible, stood a lone figure among the leagues of the dead. Little more than a dark silhouette but its form was unmistakable and the austere lighting from the setting sun added just enough fidelity to the deadly shadows:

“Mother.”

Brian looked down to the engraving on the bottom of the frame, inlaid in a gold plaque.

RENAISSANCE

Was all it said. No information about the painting or even a date. He shook his head as the metaphor eluded him. Whatever kind of enlightenment the people in the painting were supposed to be having, Brian was sure glad that he wasn’t a part of it. He continued on up an adjoining staircase, eerie portraits on the walls seeming to follow his every motion the way front-facing portraits tended to do. When he arrived at the fourth floor, immediately Brian knew something was both the same and different. It was the same strange door that Sarin had led him to—the one which led to the dark halls and that sightless pit into…well, perhaps he had stepped into Endabarron for a moment and not known it. Yet, this time the door was open and near-blinding day light shone through, obscuring whatever was on the other side. The light was serene, yet foreboding, as if it were blocking out something not meant to be seen. Brian could hear bells tolling from the other side and the low murmur of a crowd of voices.

He raised his hand to shield his eyes and he stepped into the light.