It was so quiet before the storm. with mucus water from the bog, the atmosphere smelt of putrid sludge and sulfuric fumes.
Dreariness held sway over those seeking refuge in the Stone Respite, a refuge made of natural stone, bricks and mortar, all built inside a large cave.
Furnished, paved, and insulated, it was the only place one could rest for miles in the Sinful Hills. A despicable place filled with sorcerous misfortune, and unnatural, disastrous weather.
Humid ice storms, frigid heat waves, and now skin burning rain, that makes the desolate landscape even more deadly.
Brigands, caravans and their guards, and wanderers huddled around the many hearths in the refuge. Smoking deep the opium pipes, and drinking thick foamed beers, from rough clay mugs.
As soon as they felt the earthquake thunder and the cascade of rain, none of those in the refuge expected to see anyone else come in from the rain.
So when the heavy doors swung over, bringing in the scalding rain, and terrible wind, everyone inside was stunned to see three figures in hoods and cloaks come in from the rain.
The largest one closed the doors behind them, and sealed it shut with a heavy wood beam used to bar the door. Wary and estimating eyes glanced at the three strangers, waiting with agitated curiosity had who they were to be so resilient to the sulfuric rains?
The first one to lower his hood and remove his cloak to hang up to dry was a figure that dazzled brilliantly even in the gloom of the refuge. Eyes carved from sapphire starlight, he had the long, pronounced nose, and pointed ears of a elf, Lords Of The Fairylands.
Adorned with many precious stones on rings, silver headdresses, and necklaces, he was unmistakable glowing with the magic of his race. Adorned with enchanted jewelry was akin to a man warrior, carrying arsenal of swords and bows, each stone was etched with incantations whose purpose was for their master to understand.
Platinum hair was kempt, and long, appearing almost woman-like, but he had the lean, trim psyche of a man, and had the pronounced lump in his codpiece.
Searching, the elf choose the table near the back of the room, away from the fires, since it was the only one that wasn’t crowded with others.
Merchants eyed the jewels, as the gems reflected in their covetous stares. Next of the three to remove his hood and cloak was not as rare as an elf, but was quite a frightening surprise.
‘Lark.’ a swordsman muttered aloud, instantly cupping his mouth, fearful that even uttering the dreaded name would cause bloodshed.
The half-masked harlequin looked coldly at the swordsman, his eyes as sharp, and lethal as a ice pick, just one slight push into a artery. Despite the clownish makeup, the Lark’s face was a fearsome apathy, that seemed uncaring whether he took offense to the man’s words, or if he’d stride over and slice his throat.
The bells on his fool’s hat jangled softly, making only a slight ringing sound, as he passed the swordsman giving a warning glance at him, before joining his companion at their table. Lastly, the largest man, was the most frightful to look upon, for as soon as he removed his hood and cloak, they all saw he had the Devil’s Curse upon him, that showed on his face.
A tall, muscularly fit, with giant ancestry was there, flowing, golden lion’s main hair, and ivory teeth, set into a dignified jaw. However his eyes, and tormented expression were fear inspiringly dreadful.
Instead of eyes in their sockets, there was a empty, blackness, one devoid of everything living, they were the Cursed Marks Of Asmodeus. Whoever he was, the Good Lord has seen it fit to punish him by branding him with the Mark Of Evil, to show all his evil deed had cursed him to be forevermore doomed to be cast into the Furnaces Of Damnation.
No prayers, blessing, or worldly force could dissuade this terrifying fate, his life is eternally linked to the ultimate doom, damnation. The rain chilled refuge instantly started to heat up, a uncomfortably, sweltering humidity that made them cower, as they instinctively knew it was a fragment of hellfire singeing their bodies and soul.
Holding a sheath less claymore at his side, the crimson blade, with the charged hilt and grip, made it look as if a blacksmith left it in the forge for far too long. Dragging the tip of the blade across the floor, it left a trail of scorched stone right to the table, where he joined his companions.
‘Tis’ a miserable season.’ Spearcon sighed, as he rested his head on his fist, that wrapped around the pommel of his sword.
‘Tis’ a miserable land.’ Rimmendale the Lark reminded his comrade. ‘God has seen this land pay dearly for its sins.’
‘God must have some high standards for mankind than he does for my own.’ Ostpure teased, as he scraped their table with his dagger sharp claws.
‘Don’t test my faith.’ Spearcon requested as his voice sounded worn and almost whimpering. ‘I feel it wavering with each grim day…hope is being eaten away as if it were an apple.’
‘Must be a bitter fruit.’ the elf teased, and winced when a sharp kick struck his leg. ‘You’ll pay for that Lark.’ he hissed back as if he were a scorned woman, as he tried to strike back with his claws, he felt a tip of a dagger brought to his neck, but his own sharp clutch was at the other’s throat.
Ostpure and Rimmendale were in a deadlock, broken only by the insistence of their longtime companion and Moon Brother.
‘Do not rob me of the last hope I have for this miserable existence.’ the cursed man, tried to call a waiter to take their order, but the landlord and his staff refused to even look in their direction. ‘Perhaps we should leave…when the storm passes.’
‘Without a even a drink to soothe our travel wear souls? Never.’ Ostpure sneered at the waiter, and with a snap of his fingers shot a beam of light to the closest young man, his dark Sun-Born skin almost went pale as he was spirited to face the forsaken table. ‘I am glad you were able to take our order.’ the elf spoke in hateful sarcasm, as he placed pricked the young man’s chin with his claw.
‘What…wh—’ the young man was fear struck and was shivering as if he was caught out in a snowstorm naked.
‘A pitcher of beer, two bottles of wine, the good kind, loaf of bread baked today, and something warm and filling.’ the elf didn’t allow the waiter to leave till he saw him nod in acknowledgment of their request.
Released from the restrictive enchantment, he ran to the counter, his employer giving him a concerned but chastising look, as he began to prepare the order.
‘Try and get them into a private room.’ the landlord’s voice carried more than he intended in his eerie quiet establishment. Despite the savage storm outside, it seemed muted by the tension within.
‘We’ll take a private room.’ Spearcon told the Youngman as he returned to the table to deliver a platter for their drinks. The large, eyeless warrior took the tray, and despite being horribly blinded, was able to follow him as they were led to a dark, windowless cave in the back.
Sealed away by a flimsy piece of wood, the waiter had to lit a candle for them to see inside, the ceiling was expansive, but it was cramped. Ostpure had to take a sit in the middle of the large, round stone table, as his companion to the seats to either of their side.
Spearcon put the tray on the table, and sniffed the air, the bitter, cold air. Neither of his comrades wanted to change tables, but he believed it best, since it would ease tensions, and the likelihood of a fight.
‘I’ll bring your food in a moment.’ the youth told them, as he put the wooden door back in place, and after a few tenuous moments, chatter could be heard on the other side.
Ostpure was put off by the bigotry of man, despite his own races bias hatred for those outside their kind, he was more perturbed by their fear. Rational or not, their actions showed low breeding that made violet sparks, run down his fingers.
‘We’d have more room if we expel the inferiors.’ the elf’s eyes had a nasty look to them, that made Spearcon nervous, and earned a silent ambivalence from Rimmendale.
‘I bet, stay your anger, we need not make more graves in our journey.’ Spearcon’s voice was pleading, yet carried a firm command, poised as a suggestion.
‘Why deprive the vultures of their next meal?’ the elf responded, his voice cold, firm, and coiled as if he had a rattlesnake in his throat.
‘Vultures wouldn’t survive in these lands, even if you leave a pile of carrion for them to feast upon.’ Rimmendale retorted, unaware of the verbal fencing match going on between his two friends.
Ostpure gave the Lark a cold look, and scoffed, thinking himself far superior in his understanding of social etiquette and maneuvering. His temper was sated, and in his sweetening mood, opened a bottle of wine, and smelled deeply its aroma.
‘Excellent, a fine Rose Sarnia.’ he poured the bottles contents into a water stained glass, and drank deeply. Despite the filth on the glass tainting the flavor, it was too exquisite to be fully ruined. ‘This is a rare blossom in the valley of death.’
‘Your flowery prose speaks plainly the truth of our desperate mission.’ Spearcon lowered his head, and shook it, he was crestfallen with the doom they seemed to heading towards.
‘Spearcon, my friend, drink your beer, it’ll go flat, and isn’t so bad.’ Ostpure poured his friend a mug, and smiled, trying to assure him on their mission.
‘I find my stomach not as empty as it once was.’ the waiter returned to their secluded room, he hurriedly placed down the tray, and bowed deeply.
Before he could hurry and leave, Ostpure stopped him with a sharp sound from his smacking lips. ‘You leave so soon, are you certain we are satisfied?’
The Youngman turned around, trembling with fear, as his eyes widened with shock. ‘Please…beg…my par…pardon, is there anything else you need?’ he forced those words out in a high pitched squeal.
‘Go boy.’ Spearcon interjected, he did not like the torture his comrade put the innocent through, but before the boy left, he put a silver sovereign on the table for the boy to retrieve. However he was sullen to see the boy leave without even considering taken the coin.
Letting out a harsh sigh, he waited for the door to be put in place, before he started to berate the elf. ‘Your glee at the misery of others is grating on my sense of nobility.’
‘To say your senses are challenged is akin to this glass being challenge by falling from my hand onto the ground and shattering.’ the elf smugly smirked as he drank deeply from the glass. Surprised by the sudden harsh strike on his hand that caused him to drop the glass onto the ground, shattering it, and spilling its contents on the bare stone floor.
Rimmendale’s eyes met the elf’s, anger evident in them, as he held up his dagger menacing his long time companion. ‘You best curb your nasty tongue, or I’ll cut it out.’ that threat was blunt, but was met immediately with claws at his neck.
As soon as he felt the elf’s claws sticking into his neck, he held his dagger and his dirk at Ostpure’s side and neck.
The elf smirked and narrowed his feminine eyes, as he flashed his sharpening fangs, in his suddenly distorting face, he looked as if he was a sheep casting off its meek façade, revealing his wolfish nature.
Rimmendale didn’t show any sign of distress or worry, he was stern and stoic, unafraid of killing or to die as long as his blades were coated in freshly spilt blood. Both had a underlining hostility with one another, one finding the other a repulsive appendage that needed amputation from the traveling trio.
Trying to muster strength to force his comrades from slaying one another, Spearcon felt a sharpness in his side, and found breathing a laborious task. Jolting as he tried to rise, he let out a gargling gasp, and collapsed onto the ground, knocking over his mug of beer onto the ground.
‘Spearcon!’ both the elf and lark called out, fearful that they have added lethal stress onto their bosom comrade.
***
Dreamless rifts between the psychic dream-world and the burdensome world of reality was gone with Spearcon’s mind. All that was left was a purgatory of scrying for the possible futures, and the metaphoric realities that lay beyond him, dice rolls, moving pieces, all where at his control but a heavy finger was on the Scales Of Fate.
Moving through the haze of the black limbo, he saw a brilliant light, a dazzling illusion of a past sunny day. Through grand windows in a ornate palace the memories of sunlight streamed in, he looked outside the windows, and saw acres of a gorgeous garden, not since Eden had such a gloriously kept haven was maintained.
Soldiers wearing dignified raiment’s dyed with a rainbow of noble colors patrolled the grounds, as well as finely dressed nobles who laughed and relished in the sun, as their children joyously played.
‘Pyraniss.’ Spearcon remembered its name as if it were lyrics to a song.
Glorifaun was there, in her bed, sleeping as peacefully as a princess could, awaiting for a charming prince to kiss her, and break the enchantment. Sadly that day would never come.
She was in a deathly slumber, and materializing on the foot of her bed was a nightmarish phantasm came, the corpse-like form of the maiden, coming back as a Wight, to torment him for his sins.
Those moonlight-amber eyes looking at him, and slowly reaching towards him, as if to pull his heart from his chest. The world went a blinding white, as he let out a horrible scream.
***
Spearcon awoke with his sword at his side. He was laying on a stone bed, that was softened by a hay filled mattress. Rising from the bed, he was surprised to see his comrades sitting on a not too far off table, eating a breakfast on a early morning day.
They were in a finely furnished room, with stone walls covered with heavy tapestries depicting great battles and reign of dynasties.
‘Lord, what happened?’ he trembled as he sat up in the bed.
‘You passed out.’ Ostpure answered as if he was trying too much to sound nonchalant. ‘Come eat with us, we wasted enough of the early morning, all of the other patrons have already left.’
Spearcon sat at the table, and silently ate, not realizing how hungry he was, as he devoured the cooked meat, and eggs.
After eating they gathered their belongings and prepared to leave, as Rimmendale and Ostpure went to the door, Spearcon stayed at the counter, waiting for the landlord to come forward so he can pay the bill.
‘He won’t come out.’ Rimmendale told him. ‘Ostpure killed some sell swords and it scared it so badly he refuses to come out of the pantry—’ Spearcon looked at the elf with a bewildered, disappointment on his face. ‘—they did start hostilities.’
‘And the lark here drew first blood, he sliced one’s neck open, you can see the blood still on the floor over there.’ Ostpure stated, pointing to a large crimson, still moist stain on the ground.
A howling sigh came out of his mouth, as he was obliged out of honor and dignity to retain some sense of moral right, to leave a purse filled with precious silver coins on the counter.
‘I bet no more blood spilt, until we reach the island.’ he begged, as he followed them out of the refuge.
***
Days the trio passed through the Eyes Of Khan, the desert area beyond the Sinful Hills. Called so, for the narrow trails that run parallel on a range of jagged, sheer cliffs, that were nearly impassable to even a master of rock climbing. Even if they sprouted wings and can fly over the peaks, winged devils fluttered around the sky, their shrieks echoing across the land, and would tear apart any who’d challenge their tyranny of the skies.
Surviving on dwindling food, and no water, they were thankful to find pools of water, but found it was soured by Mountain Bile. The greenish slime wasn’t poisonous, but was a chore to swallow. Some devils flew at them from their roosts, but they were frightened away when Spearcon swung his sword at one that got too close.
Crimson flame erupted, covering the sword and instantly devoured the heinous imp, that was instantly reduced to cinders and ash. Fearful of the ‘Flame Bane’ as they called it, the devils stayed far away out of reach of the trio and the enchanted sword, though periodically they hurled rocks at them, which angered Ostpure.
After one got closer than he’d like, the elf let out a banshee scream and raised his hangs, violet lightning streamed from his fingertips, and enveloped dozens of the devils. Convulsing, and contorting the imps fell down dead, as their forms smoldered as if they were struck by a vengeful bolt of lightning.
That was when the surviving devils flew off, leaving them alone. Not hearing their jeers and cackles made them aware of the evil wind, whistling high above their heads.
‘The devil is whistling.’ Spearcon said, as he shuddered at the ghostly sounds of naturally emanating deviltry.
Ostpure whistled back at the sky, as if mocking the unseen tormenter of his friend.
‘Don’t be so shaken.’ Rimmendale encouraged the cursed warrior. ‘We are but a day and a night away from Stone Mountain.’
Fear left his face, and the warrior had a contemplative expression on his face, as if he hadn’t realized something he was always aware of since they began the journey.
‘Are we truly that close?’ his empty sockets look at the way ahead, as if he could see the end of the their journey, and he was filled with dread as the forlorn mountain came into his mind’s eye. ‘God truly has no mercy for the blighted.’ he wished he could cry, but his eyes were long stricken of tears.
‘Come.’ Ostpure went back to take hold of the shaken warrior’s shoulder. ‘You will not go one alone.’ and till they reached the end of the pass, the elf stayed by his side.
***
Once eons ago, a wicked king was buried alive in his underground domain, in the roots of a lone mountain, on a land that had grew more desolate, as if the King’s body poisoned the very land itself. Leagues of land had succumbed to the rot and petrification the ground around the mountain had suffered, and it expands as time passes, further outward.
Many realms have died to this curse, and it still continues driving living civilizations further away. Stone Mountain itself is untainted by the curse, and stands erect, narrow and crooked, as if it were a skeletal finger of a giant, trapped underground.
The trio had emerged from the pass, and all suffered Spearcon’s bewilderment at the sight, for they felt the soul-crushing evil within the mountain. Locked away, hidden but festering, spreading its corrosive curse.
Ostpure pulled out the rolled up map bundle from his sleeve pocket, undoing the leather tie, he undie the leather roll, and unveiled the carefully illustrated map. Much of the ink had faded, but it revealed the direct route, cutting through the maze of tunnels and chambers within the mountain.
‘Colossian can be found taking the aqueduct passage, on the eastern side of the peak.’ checking the map carefully, he memorized how the passage bent, diverged, and spiraled down to the lowest part of the mountain. Rolling up the map and returning it to his sleeve, the elf looked carefully at his comrades, gauging their resolve.
Rimmendale was reserved, and betrayed no anxiety, he was in control. Spearcon however was shaken, verging on the edge of panic, he would not survive a life threatening encounter.
‘You should stay on the surface.’ Ostpure told Spearcon, but he immediately regretted those words, when instantly a bear-like hold wrapped around his neck, and was a inch away from strangling shut his breathing.
‘Don’t say that again, I may be able to control myself, and I don’t want your death on my conscious.’ the warrior let the elf go, who barely had enough strength in his legs from stopping himself from falling over. ‘Now let us go on, the day will fade quicker than expected.’
Spearcon showed no more cracks in his resolve, and Ostpure wondered if his doubts had spurred on a boldness in him, but he still feared he may fall to a weakened resolve.
Sharing a worried stare with the lark, both of them realized that their Moon Brother may not survive their mission. As the cloudless sky darkened, they reached the base of the mountain, just managing to reach the eastern side, where the ancient culvert was dug into the mountain. A long barren streambed ran away from the mountain, into a crater that was formally a lake.
Setting up camp for the night, the weary trio sat in silence, in the darkness, allowing the stars and four moons to light up the sky. Ostpure looked to the heavens and used his knowledge of astrology to plot their course through the treacherous trek into the mountain.
Stars showed dismay, a possibility of success through a gauntlet of utter doom. However out of the Four Moons, Karnāx, The Scarlet Moon obscured their way with its blood red glow. Karnāx was the antithesis of elfkind, it was a as lethal a poison as the elf moon is to those born under the Scarlet Moon.
Unsatisfied with their course, he slept fitfully aware that Spearcon didn’t sleep all throughout the night.
***
Dawns light burned the elf’s eyes, which flittered open, and to his surprise he saw Rimmendale was already awake, and preparing his kit for delving into the mountain’s innards. The lark tossed him some tough jerky for a meal, as the elf gnawed on it, he noticed Spearcon had moved closer to the grim opening of the mountain.
As he ate he went over to stand beside the warrior, who rebuffed a gentle touch of his friend’s hand on his shoulder. Without eyes he glared at him, still scorning the lack of confidence he had with him the previous day. There was a want in those vacuous holes, to reclaim old pride, that had been concealed by a wavering spirit.
Without a word the warrior strode into the darkness, and at his back was the elf and lark, preparing for the worst, all silent as they became surrounded by gloom.
***
Vicious vampire bats, with long, needle-like fangs flew over their heads, Spearcon raised his sword, and the darkness dissipated to the brilliant fire that erupted over the blade. The blood crimson burnt the bats, and the searing strikes cleaved apart their bodies, leaving their bodies severed and smoldering.
Ostpure had lit a blue candle, using the sacred flames to dispel shadows enough to see, but not to irritate the eyes of the denizens of the mountain who were irritated by intrusive lights. Having passed through the canal with ease, they came to the sewers of the mountain’s inner city, only to reach a collection of listless miners.
Minders of the mountain, gnomish slaves have surrender themselves to keeping the mountain passages open and clear, as they maintain it with their labor. No master’s whip cracking, no threats of violence, just a instinctual will to keep the underworld realm from falling into disarray.
Ostpure and Rimmendale wished to continue onward, and leave them to their toils—but Spearcon filled a frenzy heaved his sword, without igniting its flame, and slew all of them. All that were there, were apathetically slain, dying to the bone rending sharpness of the claymore sending their limbs flying in all direction, and their black blood pooling around their corpses.
Stunned at what he saw, the elf wanted a reasoning for the carnage, but was rebuffed by his intimidating, hateful expression. Blood covered his face, and it was clear, he had the bloodlust within his heart.
When evil was abound in great influence, Spearcon would go into a remorseless rage, slaying all that were tainted by the wickedness of utter unholyness. Despite being harmless slaves, the gnomish creatures were corrupted beyond redemption, thus compelling the warrior smote them dead.
Further they descended Spearcon would kill more creatures and denizens, till he lit his sword to slay bats that were swooping at them from the dark.
Within the shadows, suspended upside down on a hanging stalactite, the Dwrɨmɨckle awoke, its eyes irritated by a eye stinging illumination that had intruded in its lair. Looking neither bat, human, or demon, its face was spotted with writhing appendages without digits or solid form. Eyes that covered its torso and face, and a long rodent maw that split in three ways when opened, filled with wriggling, sharp teeth.
Letting out a cawing screech, the Dwrɨmɨckle flew towards the source of the light, its massive auburn form clashed against the flame, and quickly kicked out much of the flames brilliance. Flying away from a counterstrike, it flew around in the darkness, invisible to the trio, whom two of them had flanked around the one holding the fire.
A distracting echo filled the cavern, and none of the three could discern where it was originating, the sound made their inner ears throb with pain. Cringing at its sound, it went silent, and they knew the creature they disturbed was keen to attack. Stale air was kicked up by the flapping of its wings, as it circled around them, silent if not for the sounds of its gliding.
Encircling them, and finally it dove towards them, its claws poised to strike, the claws dug into the back of the flame wielder, as he let out a gargling cry of pain, the winged creature sighed with pleasure. It was pleased it brought pain to its foe, and was preparing to tear out flesh from beneath the flimsy fabric its victim wore over his torso.
Stab, an impactful strike hit it in its side, digging under its thorn sharp furry hide, it tried to flee but was held in a tight lasso, as some figure continued to stab it, unmercifully. Sharp icy slices into its flesh, chilling its flowing blood, frostbiting the edges of its slit open wound, and freezing the heat in its body.
Letting out a desperate cry, it flung its assailant off its form, and flew off into the darkness, dropping gallons of its lifeblood, as it sought refuge in the darkness. Whether it went off to die or lick its wounds, the three of them couldn’t say.
Ostpure applied a ointment to Spearcon’s back, as Rimmendale retrieve the dagger he enchanted with frost to chill the creature’s blood.
‘Do not light that fire again…not till I say so.’ the elf scolded the warrior as he dressed the wounds.
Spearcon said nothing, his temper cooling but the shame turning into a sullen defeated expression across his face.
‘Still a ways to go yet.’ Ostpure stated, as he finished applying the bandages, and urged them onward, his candle lighting the way forward in the deliriously vacuous blackness.
***
The Dwrɨmɨckle would’ve been the least of their monstrous encounters under the mountain. Living skeletons of giants, formless hydras with countless eyes, and dragons slumbering in the frigid darkness, all would’ve be alerted to their presence if Spearcon lit his sword again.
The blue candle hid their presence, making them seem as one with the abyss, bringing no shunning light into the dark underworld. Saying not a word, they passed through the canals of the city, into the old mine passages, bypassing the underground Temple Of Sacrifice, all the way to the Heart Of Stone Mountain.
A chasm larger than any in the known world, stretching leagues upon leaves, with only a narrow walkway, whose support pillars vanish in its fathomless depths. From where the cave system ends, the chasm begins, and by Ostpure’s careful navigation, they were not too far away from the bridge.
No railings, no wider than your natural legs width apart, it was all just a sudden drop into near endless darkness. Sweat rolled down the elf’s face, he was terrified of such heights, and couldn’t fathom crossing it, not that he intended to do so, as his comrades came to the beginning of the bridge, he wordlessly passed the candle to Rimmendale.
‘If I knew I could overcome this fear, I would come with you, but I am not as strong as I expect others to be.’ he shamefully lowered his gaze, but Spearcon put his hand on his shoulder and squeezed with manly vigor.
‘I wouldn’t ask you to make such a attempt, even if you could. This is not something I would have either of you face, what lies beyond this bridge.’ the warrior tried to take the candle from the lark, but he refused to surrender it, and pulled it away, then walked onto the bridge.
Standing firmly on it as if sudden death didn’t exist either side of the narrow walkway, the acrobatic harlequin gestured for his friend to follow. ‘I may not come with you all the way, but I will see you cross this bridge.’
Ostpure watched as his blue candle light became distant along with the two of his trio. Left alone in shadows, the elf knelt on the ground, and waited in the shadows.
***
Spearcon felt as if all he could do was move one pregnant step at a time, trying to follow Rimmendale’s pace. Every time his foot touched the stone of the bridge, his heart thumped hard against his chest, making his stomach squirm in utter fear.
Breathing was labored and stressed, as he followed the blue light, keeping balance with his arms outstretched and his boots pressing against what precious little ground he had underfoot. Time moved excruciatingly slow, and his chest became nauseated with anxiety, as in truth he feared heights as much as Ostpure, but he was the one who had to surpass the challenge.
Sweat nearly blinded his eyes, and the silent moans of the pit beneath him, seemed to invite him to fall into its open mouth, so he could be swallowed in shadow. Death by the fall seemed to be a pleasant relief, compared to the strenuous task of crossing it alive. Breathing became loud, and it was harder for him to keep his eyes open, as he saw the blue candle become farther ahead.
He wanted to call out to his comrade to come closer, so he could rely on the other’s companionship in his task, but he didn’t want to throw his balance off. Finally it seemed the candle would disappear into the distance, and the nervousness of being left behind made his legs shake. Feeling himself lose balance, and after a hard inhale, let out a desperate cry as he fell—and landed on hard stone.
Wide awake, he saw the blue candle was closer than ever to him, and Rimmendale was standing over him, with a stoic expression on his face. Looking the way he came, he saw utter darkness, seemingly give chase to him, though it never moved.
‘It felt shorter than it actually was.’ the lark commented, making Spearcon irritable at his flippant remark, that seemed to make light of his trepidation.
‘There are times old friend, I believe you say things unaware how nasty they actually are to others.’ the warrior stood up and continued onward, walking past his friend, who looked at him dumbfounded.
‘You assume I aim to wound you with words, knowing I prefer my blades.’ Rimmendale was disappointed his words had no more retorts, leaving him confused as he followed closely behind.
***
The silent stroll into the darkness was relatively short compared to the bridge, and after the it, the blue candle’s cerulean light revealed what they were searching for—The Door Of Exodus.
Upon its strange metal surface, the door glimmered in the light as if it were carapace of a venom filled wasp in the sunlight. Upon the door was a dreaded insignia of the visage of the hateful Demon, whose mere existence brought such havoc on the world. Who if left be would eventually doom all the world and all life on its surface, and perhaps beyond.
‘This is my task Rimmendale. Return across the bridge, I don’t want you a trapped here—’ before he could use his sword to pry open the door, a rough grab held him back.
‘Do you think I would leave you behind? Alone?!’ the lark spoke with anger, which was unusual for his typical apathetic attitude.
‘I don’t think I will return from beyond this door. If I prevail there may be a turbulence that will collapse the bridge and trap you here forever. I am not begging you, I command you to cross that bridge, if not as a friend then as a prince. Do as I say.’
Sadness was in the lark’s eyes, he didn’t want to let his friend walk into doom whether it was a certainly or otherwise.
‘Please…’ he tried to find the words to convince Spearcon to now go on alone, but a rough shove forced the lark away from his Moon Brother. Who used his immense strength to pry open the door with his sword, and go through The Door Of Exodus, who then sealed it shut behind him, preventing any interference.
Rimmendale incensed slammed his fists on the door, demanding to be allowed entrance, when denied, he tried to pry open the door with his dagger, but it broke. Snapping in two as soon as he applied pressure. Crestfallen, he did as he was told, but remained at the beginning of the bridge, hopeful that his friend would return.
***
Beyond the door, Spearcon found he was inside a chamber of lights, many colorful lights. Inside bulbs of glass, and in crystalline ribbons, he saw a string of weird vines strewn about, but all woven to meet at the far end of the chamber.
There, he saw the demon, a grinding, metallic monstrosity of cube shapes, and hexagonal producing limbs. Within its, its many circular eyes spun about, as it spun a ebony thread within its exposed eye sockets. Crackling, and heat came from it, so did a sizzling sound that made him fearful of what alien entity would make such a sound.
‘You…you are BIBLE, the root of all evil.’
The entity said nothing, it only made a terrible sound that was both shrill, yet deep.
‘I was told of you, you have twisted mankind's destiny, you must be destroyed.’ he raised his sword to strike, but hesitated, fearful if his blows would merely bounce off the demon. Was it bound to mortal frailties? This blasphemous abomination of metals and unnatural life, could he kill it, or would it vanquish him from the world, dooming the world and all of God’s creation.
It was then he saw something on its form, kneeling, he looked at one of its cube shape appendages, to looked on the odd runes tattooed on its metallic flesh.
Ostpure was a far better scholar at ancient writings, but he knew these letters. The messiah taught his ancestors this language.
‘Basic…Analog…Bioelectrical…Living…Eletromaton…IBX corps. Thinking Machine… …—’ there was a short silence for him to fully realize what he had just read. ‘—machine! The tower and chariot of the devil. You…you are not just a demon…but the right hand of the devil himself. By whatever holy will the almighty invested in me to bring me here, I hereby—’ the warrior rose to his full height, and raised his now blazing sword high above his head, ‘—VANQUISH YOU WITH HOLY RETRIBUTION!’
The heat of his blade’s flame melted into the demon’s body, and as soon as it sliced through part of its body, so did the rest of it start to combust into a explosion of flame and lightning. Heat inside became dangerous high, as its grinding became louder and more shrill, as smoke began to pillow out of its form.
Black, toxic smoke that irritated his lungs, and burned his throat. Fire erupted all around him, and he had little recourse but to flee to the door. Using his sword, he pried The Door Of Exodus again, and just as the chamber became engulfed in blue flames, managed to open it, and once outside the chamber, sealed away the dying demon and the sanctifying flame.
***
There was no great earthquake dragging Stone Mountain and all evil denizens inside into the lowest bowels of Hell. No great atmospheric miracle that killed all evil in the world. No purge of demons and devils, neither a utter end of misery, bringing peace and prosperity for generations to come.
No what was left was Spearcon, who met Rimmendale who waiting at him on the bridge. A long, nerve taxing walk over the narrow bridge to meet Ostpure on the other side. After a break for hard bread, salted meat, and sour water, they spent most of the day climbing back up the mountain’s tunnels and caverns to reach the outside.
Once outside it was night, none of the moons were out, and it was raining terrible, soaking them to the bone, in sour, but non-acidic rain. Camping in the mouth of a cave, they awoke to a gray dawn, the world seemingly unchanged by their actions beneath the mountain.
‘Was it worth it?’ Ostpure stated, after hearing what happened. ‘There was no great purging of evil. Was this excursion, and that final confrontation with the ultimate evil truly worth the journey here and of course back again?’
The elf’s cynicism was understood by Rimmendale, and seemed to carry weight with Spearcon.
‘Whether BIBLE was evil, or used for evil purposes, or was neutral, whether it stopped the spread of this worldly rot, or stalled it, or did nothing to it at all, I’d say it was neither worth it or a complete waste.’ Glumly the warrior started toward the way they came, feeling no wiser, stronger, or braver for his actions.
However the three of them agreed in their on minds that this was most likely a fool’s quest.
This is a great story. Keep writing—I really enjoyed reading your words! 🖤-Ceylan from OBA