Piers Anthony - Chthon

Not until I sought her out, torn by such frustration and such doubt from the fruitless search that she was unable to resist. She tried to savor me secretly, close but disguised. Until the Xest picture penetrated the Captain and revealed the minionette…

…And doomed us both.

“Come, Misery,” he said. “I will inflict on you a love you’ve never dared dream of before.”

Ninety-nine men and a hundred and forty-two women began the terrors of the Hard Trek. Not with courage and boldness, not seeking destiny with consummate determination; but frightened, desperate, driven—driven by the certain knowledge of hunger and pain behind.

The revolution of the lower caverns had been betrayed, and every one of them had to pay the price of failure. No food came down from the upper caverns any more. Tally’s people had ample reserves, many stones hoarded for just such an emergency: they would not relent.

The fragment of Framy’s blue garnet might have purchased time, had it been known to exist before. Instead, it was proof of doom, showing that they had denied what the upper cavern leaders had known to be truth. The revolt had never had a chance, in the face of that; it had been no more than a convenient pretext to abolish the entire nether population.

The trek began with fatalism. No one could doubt that the majority would soon be dead, and not cleanly.

The legend of Doc Bedside guided them. He had set off five years before, downwind, homemade pack and kit bound to his wiry body, a sharp stone in his hand. He had disappeared into the land of the chimera and never been heard from again—until Aton brought the confirmation that he had won through. Bedside had emerged the other side of sanity—but could such madness take two hundred and forty-one experienced and fore-warned travelers? They followed his route, searching for the tokens of his passing, if they existed; it would be easier, this second time.

They were wrong, of course.

Aton marched in the vanguard for ten hours, or what he thought of as that length of time, following the spacious caverns and passages up a gentle but steady incline. The walls spread farther apart, the ceiling grew higher; as the space increased, the wind diminished and cooled. The journey became almost pleasant. But for the total lack of food, the outer caverns were far better for human residence than the ones they had known.

They rested for an estimated six hours, hungry bellies growling. No one stood guard. Everyone had to travel together, and the fearsome pit creatures never approached so large a party. Almost, they hoped for an attack—because concerted action might trap and bring down even the chimera, and there was sure to be meat on its body. Starvation would halt the journey at its beginning unless something edible was located soon. Bedside must have eaten from the caverns.

On the third march the first people collapsed from exhaustion and hunger. They were methodically butchered and eaten.

Aton stood in the faltering circle as Bossman showed the way: he severed the warm limbs with his axe as other men pulled them away from the trunk of the first corpse. The blood spattered and covered the blade, poured over the stone floor, thickened as it flowed morbidly back down the trail they had taken.

Hastings made fire, burning a few of the old, dry, useless water-skins; the smoke and stench were nauseating, and the meat scorched and dripped and did not cook well. Future preparations would have to be raw.

Bossman’s axe did further duty, reducing the limbs to smaller sections and breaking up the trunk. Individual knives and stones were pressed into service to finish the job. “Whoever is hungry, eat,” he said.

Not many did, that first time. Usable portions were wrapped in the remaining skins and assigned to surly porters, since Bossman didn’t believe in waste. The bones and other refuse were left for the chimera. During later marches more and more people broke down and ate, gagging over the rawness of it but finding it preferable to starvation.

In time, every surviving member of the party was eating—by definition. Those who had been unable to surmount their scruples, starved.

Scruples were not for the Hard Trek.

During the fourth march the attacks began. Stragglers screamed and were found with their innards strewn. A clean-up crew was organized to salvage usable portions. But the main party was not approached, and the chimera remained unseen by any eyes not inside it.

For the fourth sleep Bossman found a use for their traitor. He bound Framy to a projection a little beyond the camping area. “Sing out if you see the chimera,” he advised. “Sleep if you want to.”

Aton listened.

“…I know I done wrong. I lied all the time. Aton, he was smart, he only lied when it counted. Must’ve figured we’d both get canned if they knew. I wonder who found that other chunk of blue? Somebody picked it up and smuggled it up the hole. But I guess I’m paying for all them little lies now. ’Cause I can’t make up for the real ones, they’re part of me. But I know I got to pay, and the only way I can do it is that way he showed me, by taking it out on something else, like Garnet did. I got to be punished for the lie I didn’t tell, and maybe that makes good the ones I did tell and can’t take back.

“Who’s that? I hear you, you can’t hide from me, I hear good.

“Don’t try to fool me. I hear the—the tread of your foot, and—and the bellow of your breath and the swish of your tail and…”

The choking screams brought the men running from the main group, to stand sickened at the sight of what remained. Blood dripped from empty sockets and from a mouth where a tongue had been and down between scratched legs.

Bossman studied the living body and hefted his ax. One blow severed the cords of the neck. “I made him feel a little easier,” he said, apologizing for his weakness.

Another man cut the corpse free from the projection. “Maybe that’s what separates the men from the chimera,” he said. “We kill before we take the delicacies.”

Do we? Aton wondered. Do we really?

Early in the sixth march they encountered the river, perhaps a hundred miles from their starting point. Narrow, but deep and swift, the clear water cut across the wind cavern, forming a small chasm of its own. It was the first flowing water they had seen in Chthon, and the sight was miraculous.

“The lots,” Bossman said. “If we can drink this—”

The collected garnets were produced and shuffled. Hastings handled the routine. He plunged both hands into the skin of stones and withdrew two closed fists while Bossman shaped the others into a rough line. Hastings put his fists under the nose of the first person, a dour woman. She slapped the left one; it opened to reveal an ordinary red garnet. She took it and flipped it disdainfully back into the cache and drifted away unchallenged.

Hastings returned the empty hand to the bag and brought it out again, closed. The next person in line selected the same fist: a second red garnet. He also left, relieved.

Aton was third in line. He chose the same hand—and the fatal blue fragment was his.

“One,” Bossman said. “Better take one more, to be sure.”

A woman stepped out of line and came up. It was Garnet. “I’ll do it,” she said. “Might as well move up my turn.” Bossman frowned, but let it stand.

The line disbanded. It would reform at the next crisis, with the man following Aton at the head, in fixed order, until every person in the party had drawn. After that it would begin again. The garnets were put away.

Bossman pointed to the stream. “Drink,” he said. “Good and deep. Fill your skins, too.” He spoke to the others. “Stay on the ’denser. We ain’t sure yet.”