15: A Place Between

Chapter 15: A Place Between

The Time: Present Day (720 A.E.)

The Place: ???

In an untrodden corner of the Unlit Roads is a prison.

It has no walls, no cells, no chains, no guards. Really, it’s almost featureless: there is a false sky overhead, lightless and contused, and covering the expanse of hard ground below is a few inches of frigid black water, but excepting these two dubious calling cards there is little to separate this penitentiary from the howling void surrounding it. Only a single pulsing golden orb, suspended far above like a lone polestar, provides any luminance or warmth. Beyond its reach is a darkness that appears to stretch endlessly—though any unfortunate soul who ventures into it will soon discover they can run as long and hard as they like without gaining any distance from that golden orb.

As Ari slumbers peacefully in the comfortable new bed built just for her, another figure slumps much less comfortably in the stagnant chill of that caliginous water. Looking upon this lump of charred and shattered flesh, any rational person would assume they’ve stumbled upon a corpse. In a way, they would be correct: though it rattles with pained breath and occasionally twitches or moans, this broken body is as much a prison as the dark. The soul within is bound to it inexorably, no matter how much the flesh containing it degrades.

A melted, dented mass of plate mail ensconces the meat like a clam’s shell, its enchantments burned away. The knowledgeable might recognize the make and purpose of such armor—dragonbone coated in the dried and shimmering blood of the Sun Unvanquished, tailored for a dragonrider.

The silence and solitude here would be overwhelming, if the prisoner could not occasionally discern sounds besides the ambient drone of open space. Little snuffles and splashes, grunts and odd whistles and heavy thuds—something large and unwieldy moving anxiously outside the edges of the orb’s light, circling it but never drawing too near.

The prisoner hopes that whatever it is, it is hungry, and strong. She hopes it overcomes its fear soon and scrabbles close enough to swallow her whole. Maybe then she can finally die.

It’s hard to say how long that lump of flesh shivers in shallow water—hard to say if time passes in this place at all. But eventually, something interrupts the oppressive stillness: from the clumped shadows outside the orb’s corona of gilded light, a figure takes shape, dressed down somewhat from the royal finery it had worn the last time the person-who-is-no-longer-a-person saw it.

The prisoner struggles to muster any more fear in the face of the consuming agony whiting out her thoughts, but what remains of her body’s nervous system floods her desiccated veins with useless adrenaline.

That figure—tall and regal, and every bit as cold as the bleak shadows surrounding them—moves soundlessly nearer, the soles of her leather boots never quite touching the water. She doesn’t speak. She circles the prisoner once before drawing to a halt, close enough that the lump curled in on itself can make out only the fine hem of her dark robes.

The prisoner swallows on instinct, though much of the biological machinery necessary for such an action has been crushed or else scalded away.

She should not be able to speak, but when she opens what is left of her mouth she finds that the words escape her anyway, crackling and bitter. “Filthy… scavenger…”

Her captor does not respond, or give any other indication that she heard or cares to hear. There’s only the faint rustle of cloth and a far less faint quaking in the aether—the telltale sign of great magic being called to bear.

Though she has no interested audience, the prisoner speaks regardless, slow and labored. “Knew… knew we were right. All this time… searching. Archons… lied... Fell Empress… dead. They tried to… hide it… But She… fell here.” She takes a breath that sears her. “Where…?”

Of course there is no answer. She doesn’t expect one. “Stole… Stole Her blades. Her blood. Holy… not for pests… like you…”

Those swelling tides of magic flow higher, higher, higher still, until even the act of breathing is fraught. The air, once so still, churns and stings; its weight twinges her brittle, shrunken tendons. The prisoner wheezes out her next words in a tumble: “Throne can’t—can’t be empty… Someone will come… Someone righteous… Come take Her away… wear Her crown…”

It’s the last coherent thing she’s able to say. A hand reaches down and grasps her skull, indenting the layer of hair and skin melted to the bone, and from it a pulse of raw, screaming force pierces the prisoner’s mind: a howling steel bolt, a jagged blade, a smoking toothy maw. Her will is strong, but it’s not enough. That force fractures her consciousness and pries it apart, exposing the steaming, writhing nest of her thoughts to the figure crouched above her.

Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

Beneath such an onslaught, what is left of the prisoner’s sense of self unravels, until the meat in the damaged dragonbone shell really is just meat, screaming and weeping naught but salt.

And all the while the God-Queen of Saimr gazes down with frozen detachment, rifling through the open mind before her, scarfing down whatever information interests her and discarding the rest. When she is finished she stands and steps away, cleaning the bloody soot from her hands with a flick of her fingers.

For a moment, she simply stares down at the quivering, wailing lump in silence, digesting the contents of its psyche—and then her lip curls in disdain and she steps away, fingers steepled in front of her abdomen.

“Gunul,” she calls, “Come. Eat.”

The snuffling thing in the shadows hesitates for only a few heartbeats before it trundles forth, the dark water sloshing as it drags itself along.

Any casual onlooker would be hard-pressed to identify this creature (or, truly, to look at it for very long without screaming). Perhaps it’s a demon. Perhaps simply a nightmare. It’s large—tall and broad as a bull—and wetly fleshy, like a beast turned inside out. There is no rhyme or reason to the conjunction of withered misshapen limbs to lumpy, worm-like torso, nothing to delineate the head from its body. A mouth, or mouth-like structure, gapes between flaps of loose skin; a single, startlingly human-like eye—colored an incongruously lovely brown, like good rich soil—stares unerringly forward above it; and only two brutish arms remain hale enough to allow the monster to slosh through the water.

“Gunul” makes soft, thick, eager little sounds as it moves. It’s very careful not to wriggle too close to the queen—the way it cringes from her despite her blatant disinterest would be almost comical, under different circumstances. When its lone eye spots the lump of flesh, it moans and whuffs, dragging itself forward faster. As it approaches, it raises one many-fingered fist, only to stop dead as the queen hums in quiet dissatisfaction.

“Gunul,” she says mildly, though the way the creature whimpers and frantically tries to curl in on itself gives her bland tone a sharper edge. “That’s not right, is it? I told you to eat.”

The monster pants and slavers, frothy drool spilling from its mouth as it regards the lump.

And then, very carefully, it opens the black abyss of its gullet, ringed with conical white teeth, lowers itself to the ground, and begins to eat.

The noises of crunching bone and tearing flesh and agonized groans replace the lump’s sobs. The queen doesn’t bother to watch. Instead, she waves her hand lightly and calls, “Suyan, come.”

It takes a few minutes longer for this beast to answer her summons, but in time a second figure takes shape in the shadows—still clad in its coat and feathered tricorne, a silvery shortsword belted to its hip. She’s spotlessly clean, sharp-eyed and fresh-faced.

Lord Suyan bows at her waist, flawlessly elegant. “Dareja.” At the queen’s nod, she stands, casting a contemptuous glance at the bloody feast behind them.

The queen clears her throat expectantly. “Well?”

Lord Suyan needs no elaboration. “The Garden is coming along nicely, as is Varul’s recovery. We should be back before the ceremony begins.”

Velnyr studies her for a breath. “Ensure that you are—and do bring some fruit from the Garden with you, when you return.”

Lord Suyan frowns minutely. “If Dareja wills it…”

“It won’t bruise,” Velnyr says impatiently. “Bring enough for the wedding, at least. Two should suffice.”

Lord Suyan bows again. “It will be done.” She scowls at a particularly loud screech from the… from what’s left of the prisoner.

“Can’t you shut that thing up?” she snaps at Gunul, who shies back at her tone, part of a blackened arm dangling from its maw.

“Peace, Suyan,” Velnyr tells her. “Focus on aiding Varul. The future consort will require an adequate weapon.”

Lord Suyan’s scowl only deepens. “...Yes, Dareja.” As she watches the carnage, her grimace transforms into a thoughtful furrow. “Did you get anything useful from the rat, then?”

Velnyr tips her head. “Mm. The situation in the Heavens is as I expected. Useless children—they squabble endlessly over scraps and then call themselves gods.”

“It won’t be long, then,” Lord Suyan muses, “before the next incursion comes.”

“No,” Velnyr agrees. “It won’t. All the more reason to tend to your duties quickly.” The flat line of her lips curls slightly into a smile more mocking than mirthful. “My consort will be thrilled to have her blade returned, I’m sure. Perhaps in her gratitude she’ll find fit to show you her favor.”

Lord Suyan recoils, the gray skin of her high cheekbones darkening in a blueish flush. “True Sun’s light guide you, Dareja,” she snaps, and then she’s gone in a huffy swirl of shadows.

Velnyr’s smile lingers as she turns to regard that golden orb hovering high above. When she lifts her hand, the orb floats slowly downward until it alights upon her outstretched palm. Its light is warm and brilliant; the faintest touch brings with it a sense of serenity.

The beast Gunul lifts itself with an anxious trill, blood smearing its hide and scraps of flesh hanging from its teeth.

Velnyr closes her fist around that orb. For a moment it flares hotter, brighter, and then it dims to almost nothing—when she unfurls her fingers, what’s left behind is no longer an orb, but a necklace of sorts. A thick band of shining gold engraved with swirling vines has been shaped into something like a collar, attached to a loop of more delicate chain that ends in a beautifully delicate frosted glass ball. The orb’s remaining light winks inside it, reduced to a firefly’s flicker.

In an instant, Velnyr disappears that necklace, plunging the prison into darkness so total it falls upon the monster like a shroud.

Just as quickly, the queen is gone. In her absence, the beast called Gunul screams in panic, thrashing and writhing in the gore left behind by its meal—howling a song of mourning for the only light it remembers.

***

PRONUNCIATION GUIDE

Gunul: Goo-NOOL. Heavenstongue. A feminine given name meaning “beauty”.