The Crystal Mountain (20 page)

“They trapped us here and left,” he said. Anger at finding himself trapped yet again filled him. His grip upon his sword hurt, he clenched it so hard. “Thar is not the way of Tyr. At least not the Tyr I thought I knew. Tauran was right. The Maimed One has strayed from the laws that defined him.”

“They are nor far,” Eirwyn replied. “They know we must choose to surrender to them sooner rather than later. It’s all very cunning, leaving us here, where we are constantly beset by these apparitions. They truly leave us no choice but to comply.”

Not if 1 have anything to say about it, Kael thought. “If they were to be slain, would that break the binding?” he asked. A part of him regretted asking, but the rage he felt at their imposed impotence burned within him.

Eirwyn turned to the knight. “Do you truly mean to ask me that?” she asked. “Do you think Tauran would allow you to do such a thing?”

“How is that any different from their decision to condemn us to death here among these walking spirits?” he retorted. “It’s as if they slew us by their own hands.”

Eirwyn’s expression softened a bit. “In their minds, we perish not through their cruelty, but through our own pride. We always have the option of accepting their offer.”

“What, to be led back to the Court in chains?” Kael said. “To be paraded before the High Council and mocked? I think not.”

“Even if you are innocent?” Eirwyn said, her voice gentle. “Even if doing so might mean saving your mentor’s life?” She nodded in Tauran’s direction.

Kael tried to release the anger building inside him. “I’m sorry,” he said at last. “Nothing is simple and straightforward anymore. I always believed—Tauran always taught me—that if I followed the path of goodness and righteousness, no matter how hard that was, that justice would prevail.” He looked down at the unconscious angel. “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

Aliisza knelt beside Tauran, one hand upon his brow. She looked up at Kael and shook her head. “He’s getting worse,” she said. “Even now, getting him away from that awful place, he’s so far gone he can’t fight the taint. We have to.”

Kael felt helpless. He turned his gaze on Pharaun. Though it was Zasian Menz’s face he saw, Kael could see a twinkle of something kindred there, a flash of a knowing smile. The stranger shrugged at him.

Kael drew a deep breath, trying come to terms with the

decision. “Then we all agree?” he asked, looking from one face to another. “This is what we want to do? This is what we think is best for Tauran?” Every head nodded.

“Fine,” Kael said, casting his sword to the ground. He couldn’t really blame them for their decision. He agreed with it, in fact. It just felt so dirty to him, giving up. It was not a feeling he much cared for.

“We surrender,” he said.

Vhok couldn’t stand the pain any more. He relieved the pressure on his arms by levitating his weight and grunted in relief. His ankles still ached, but he no longer felt as though he would be pulled in half. He cursed softly and heard the echo of his own voice within the shaft.

The half-fiend dangled in what he imagined was the inside of a tower or perhaps a round pit in the ground. Chains connected to shackles on his wrists rose into the darkness overhead, holding him in place. More chains on his ankles anchored a great weight hanging somewhere below him. Every shift, every tiny movement sent him swaying. When he held very still, faint howls or screams sometimes reached his ears, deeply muffled.

He had no idea where he Was, or how long he had been there.

The ability to hold himself aloft with magic was his only saving grace. Without that, he would have already succumbed to the terrible strain. He certainly would have been screaming by then. His arms might even have been wrenched from their sockets.

Hot vapors wafted up from below, carrying an acrid odor that burned his nostrils and throat. Even with his natural affinity for heat, the air scorched. Sweat drenched him, ran down his naked skin in rivulets that tickled him maddeningly. The fight to resist twitching wore on him. The longer he remained still, the worse the tickling became, yet every time he flinched, trying to shake the trickles free, stabs of pain filled every strained joint.

Vhok cursed Aliisza for the hundredth time. He saw her face, that cunning, clever smile, mocking him, and he screamed insults at her. Somehow, she had found the strength to escape. He had underestimated her, perhaps. Though he was angry with himself for it, she still bore the brunt of his rage.

No, he realized. Zasian. Somehow, they must have coaxed the priest into healing her.

You cursed, guileful wench, he fumed. I should have killed you when you were down. You’re too clever by half, always using those supple curves and that sultry smile to twist men’s hearts. Tauran will get what he deserves. His pain will come, when you turn on him as you turned on me. I am a fool for ever having loved you.

The chance had been there to take her life, but he knew he had let his own fondness for her, his weakness, get the better of him. He had also made the mistake of playing his hand too early, revealing his intentions. That had been foolish; it would have been better to lie to them, tell them that he was off to seek help and then return with enough demons to corral the group. It had just felt too damned good to finally, finally be free of that awful, wretched compulsion.

Besides, it’s still ultimately her fault, he reasoned. She was the one who changed, let her human side grow too dominant, allowed herself to develop weak, caring feelings. She is the traitor, guilty ten times over, and I hate her.

The rock that lined the shaft was not natural stone, as he had seen within Vhissilka’s cave complex before. No, it had been built, crafted from great worked blocks, which was why he imagined he might be in a tower. He was in another’s domain, but he did not remember arriving there. He simply woke from unconsciousness to find himself strung up like a piece of smoked meat, awaiting carving.

He had been fighting the cruel torture for time immemorial, it seemed. He alternated between countering his own weight in order to relieve the stress on his arms and supporting the weight below him to alleviate the punishment to his ankles. Sometimes, in between, when his magic gave out, he had to endure the full brunt of the torture.

At those times, it was all he could do not to scream.

I won’t give them the satisfaction, he told himself. I’ll let them pull me apart before I whimper like a child. And when I rip in half, I will find a way to return from the grave and track down that alu. Aliisza will regret her audacity. So help me, she will.

Vhok’s mind drifted off into some pain-filled haze, so it was a moment before he realized that something had changed. Light shone down from above. Fiery red light. Flame.

He tried to peer up, but the glow was too bright, and he winced and blinked.

Vhok felt himself rise. He was being pulled up, and the chains jerked and bounced as whatever mechanism that controlled his ascent ratcheted. The jarring tugs sent new pain

through him. For a moment, he truly did fear he might rip in half.

He ascended from the shaft into a dimly lit room— though it was more than bright enough for his light-starved eyes—dangling from a wooden derrick. He blinked, trying to get his eyes to adjust. He felt motion, sensed someone attaching something to the chains on his legs. Then there was blessed relief as the weight came off. He could not help the groan that escaped his lips.

The derrick swung wide of the pit. Vhok’s arms were freed, and he fell to the stone floor like a rag doll. He lay there for long moments, writhing from the pins and needles in his joints as his blood flow returned. Screams echoed in the chamber. Some were still muffled, as though buried, but others were loud, harsh, as though someone very near him suffered immeasurably.

A wet splat accompanied an object tossed near his face. When he managed to focus his gaze, he saw a waterskin, though of what kind of skin, he did not want to speculate. He reached for the container and uncapped it. He drank greedily, letting the water spill down his chin. Before he had even half sated himself, the skin was taken from him and his own clothes were tossed down at his feet.

“Get up,” a harsh voice commanded. “Dress yourself. Lord Axithar wishes to speak with you.”

Vhok fumbled to put the clothes on, wondering who—or what—Lord Axithar was. They didn’t return everything. Only his breeches, shirt, and boots. His armor, cape, and his equipment remained missing.

By the time Vhok was dressed and upright, his vision had returned to normal. He surveyed his surroundings.

One of the ram-headed demons watched over him, though Vhok was unsure if he had met this one before. The beast twirled its oversized spear-headed ranseur, waiting for him to finish. Other figures moved in the dimness of the chamber. He glanced at them and saw that he stood in the middle of a chamber of torture, built of the same stone blocks that had formed his pit—and that was, indeed, where he had been— and the cambion got the sense that he was in the bowels of some great fortress.

A bariaur thrashed within an iron frame nearby, its horned head and fists pinned within one set of stocks, all four of its hoofed feet similarly trapped at floor level. A group of demons, small imps with gray skin and oversized ears, poked and prodded the thing with sharpened iron rods. Dozens of trickles of blood seeped from puncture wounds, and the creature howled in anguish.

Against the closest wall, two dwarves with filth-matted dark hair crouched in cages too small for them. The first prison dangled from a length of chain perhaps two feet above a fire pit filled with glowing coals. The dwarf within panted as he pushed against the wall with his hands, trying to keep himself swaying and not lingering over the searing heat. The second one had his arms thrust through the top, clinging to the iron ring set into the stone ceiling where the chain was attached. He held both his own weight and that of the cage, which rested upon his stout shoulders, up away from a bed of coals. His arms shook from the strain of keeping himself aloft.

“Kill me,” the one in the lower cage pleaded. “For the love of Moradin, do not let them roast me!”

Vhok smirked. He spied the waterskin clutched in his guard’s free hand.

“May I?” he asked, pointing to the drink.

The demon grimaced but tossed Vhok the skin. The cambion made a show of uncapping the container and tipping his head back, letting the water pour into his mouth. A bit of it trickled down his chin. He swallowed and smiled at the dwarf. “You wouldn’t happen to be from Sundabar, would you?” he asked.

The prisoner gaped at Vhok wide-eyed, forgetting for a moment to keep his swinging motion up. His blistered feet and buttocks began to smoke. He screamed in agony and fumbled to get himself moving again. In his panic, he could not get a good rhythm going, and his screaming increased.

The ram-demon yanked the empty waterskin out of Vhok’s hands, turned, and led him out of the small room. “Come,” it grumbled.

They ascended a large stone staircase, leaving behind the anguished cries of the prisoners. The ram-headed fiend led Vhok through a stout iron door and into a hall. The gloomy, smoke-filled passage led to another staircase, and then another. They climbed up and up, passing other demons along the way, some of them the lowly craven dretches that served as the bulk of the abyssal forces, others loftier, more cunning species. At one point, they passed three mariliths going the opposite direction, but none were Vhissilka.

The pair passed through another, larger door. A howling wind assaulted them, a hot, fetid gale that lashed at Vhok’s clothes and hair. It carried upon it the stink of sulfur and death. A gray sky roiled above, and Vhok could not tell whether it was filled with low-hanging clouds or heavy black smoke. The underside of the seething haze glowed red-orange

in places, and once, Vhok spotted a winged creature in silhouette against the burning light.

He and his guard came to a large balcony. The platform, made of lustrous black stone, clung to the side of a lofty tower. A narrow, arched walkway led from it to a similar porch ahead. Both spires rose from a massive sprawling castle, all of it constructed from the same glossy stone. The two crossed, and Vhok peered over the wall to the ground below.

The land, a broken surface of jutting, jagged rock interspersed with thick, thorny brambles and fields of gravel, was crisscrossed with deep crevasses. Orange light flared from within those trenches, and smoke poured from them, whisked away by the wind. In the flat spaces between the shards of protruding glasslike stone, swarms of creatures moved, shuffling together into groups. Larger demons herded the smaller ones, often with a slash of whip or weapon.

An army was assembling. A massive one. Vhok could see it happening as far as his vision would take him.

“Where are we?” he said to his escort. “Is this the Abyss?”

The ram-headed guard cast a glance back at Vhok and smirked. “Shut up and keep walking, cambion.”

They reached the far side of the causeway and passed through another door. Once in the interior again, the roar of the wind vanished. Vhok’s guard led him down one last, grand hallway. Prisoners lined it, creatures from every corner of the world and perhaps beyond. Each had been positioned within an alcove, impaled upon a slender shaft from back to front and angled slightly upward, so that the spike held the being aloft in a roughly standing position. Some dangled motionless, perhaps already dead, but others still squirmed and cried out

for succor. None could slip free of their confinements.

Better them than me, Vhok thought. Unless…

A moment of panic passed through the cambion, and he was on the verge of turning and dashing away, back to the balcony outside, when the guard turned and faced a massive door of black. The guard pushed the portal open and led Vhok into a chamber that glowed with the fires of a dozen braziers. A roiling pit of magma bubbled in the center. Numerous other creatures moved through the large room, perhaps attending to some important business or other, but Vhok hardly noticed them. All of his attention was drawn to the lone, towering figure near the pit.