Michael Stackpole - The New World

“No, anything but!”

His mind would have summoned the ants, but a gangling figure clawed its way over the edge of a nearby rise. The Viruk started to run, but he’d developed a limp. A cast-iron mask covered his face, blinding him. His ears rose through the metal and he swung his head side to side, listening for pursuit.

A half dozen Fenn came boiling after him. They snapped and hissed, totally feral. They’d shifted into a shape perfect for killing Viruk. Long claws would slice flesh. Their teeth-longer than he’d ever seen on Shimik-would punch through bony armor. Their shape even changed with the terrain, their limbs growing longer to speed them.

Being chased by Fennych was torture for a Viruk, but it would be paradise for the Fenn. Something was not right. The punishment was totally out of keeping with Tolwreen’s nature.

What’s happening here?

Facts cascaded together. Jorim cupped his hands around his mouth.

“Talrisaal, this way!”

The Viruk and his pursuers turned toward him. Jorim looked up and smiled. He imagined the sky looked the color of rice beer. Let’s make Tolwreen work for us.

Thunder cracked and sheets of the liquid sloshed up around his ankles. The Viruk slipped and slid past in the beer pond. The Fenn all happily dove into it, plunging their muzzles in deep. They greedily sucked up the frothy liquid then flopped onto their backs. Their little distended bellies pointed skyward. They opened their mouths, drank themselves insensible.

Jorim splashed over to the Viruk. “Let’s get the mask off.”

The Viruk held still while Jorim checked the mask. No seams. He applied magic, looking for the mask’s truth.

Very clever! He smiled. The mask didn’t really exist. It consisted entirely of resistance to Viruk magic. Talrisaal could never have removed it. Jorim rebalanced the mai and the mask vanished.

The Viruk stared at him, then rolled over and buried his face in the mud. “I thought hearing your voice was another illusion of this place. You have saved me again, Wentoki.”

“I’m not Wentoki, Talrisaal.” Jorim frowned. “I have been Wentoki, but now I am just a man, trapped just like you. Do you know how long…”

The Viruk looked up. Rice beer washed mud from his hair and face. “A long time. Nessagafel consigned me to this place. I betrayed him to you. He made your creatures my torment.”

Jorim glanced over his shoulder. “They’re not real Fenn, just demons. Nessagafel doesn’t understand real Fenn.”

Thunder cracked again and viscous sheets of rain poured down. The Fenn melted into skeletal demons with hooked horns and gnashing incisors designed to strip flesh from the bone in seconds. Another blast of rain completely drowned them in a quagmire.

The Viruk slowly stood and the rain tapered off. “If you are not Wentoki, how did you come to be in this place?”

“You and I have a common enemy. Nessagafel.”

The Viruk bobbed his head. “A nasty enemy.”

“None worse.” Jorim looked up. “No more rain. I think that’s because we’re not thinking about ourselves anymore.”

Talrisaal’s honey-colored eyes tightened. “This may be true. Self-centeredness is punished here.”

“If acting selflessly is all it takes to get out of here…”

Even as Jorim spoke, the landscape changed. Cool green grass grew beneath their feet and a small, spring-fed pool formed. A small stream began to trickle out of it and back toward the rise over which Talrisaal had run. It eroded the ground and created a massive mud slide. The purple wave cut a swath through the valley nearly a mile wide. Bodies bobbed and sank. People screamed and, for a heartbeat, the unaffected escaped their torments. Demons evaporated. Flames vanished. Chains fell away and the sticks impaling so many evaporated.

Drowning people begged to be saved. Many just watched. Then one heaved a heavy stone at a drowning person. The stone rebounded from the target. It accelerated and snapped the thrower in half. His torso landed in a tangle of crystalline cactus while his lower half crawled aimlessly across the ground.

Talrisaal held a hand out. “If they would just help one another, they could escape.”

“It won’t happen.”

“Why not?”

“Look at them. They have so long used the power of magic that they think themselves gods. You see, that’s the ultimate jest here. They all thought to rival the gods. When Tsiwen created Tolwreen she made it a place where you had to fight yourself. The only way you win that battle is to admit you can’t win. You accept your limitations, work to change them, and move on. They will never escape.”

The Viruk slowly nodded. “But we are not trapped here?”

“No. A god put you in here to punish you. You’re not part of this.”

“And you?”

“I got here by accident.” Jorim pointed toward the ground. “I’ve got to return to Heaven and get Nessagafel back under control. But first, I have to go through seven more Hells.”

“Might I accompany you, Lord Wentoki?”

“I’d be glad to have the company.” Jorim smiled. “When we get to the Fifth Hell, we can hunt down the demons who were chasing you.”

The Viruk grinned and, for the first time ever, Jorim could appreciate the display of sharp teeth. “This would please me.”

“Good. By the way, my name is Jorim.” He pointed to the pool. “I think we dive in, swim all the way to the bottom, and we’ll come out the other end in the Seventh Hell.”

The Viruk scratched at his chin. “That is the one we call Icsdayr. For us, it is the land of predators.”

“Mungdok is what we call it.” Jorim shook his head. “Blasphemers, murderers, politicians, and dishonest merchants are what we have there. Predators sums it up pretty well.”

“We shall not be prey.” The Viruk leaned forward and dove into the water. A few bubbles rose.

“No indeed, not prey.” Jorim smiled, dove, and escaped the Eighth Hell.

16th day, Month of the Eagle, Year of the Rat

Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th Year since the Cataclysm

Imperial Road North, Moriande

Nalenyr

Nelesquin caught himself on both hands. Weakness would not prostrate him. Sweat coated him and stung his eyes. He tried to raise his left knee from the carpet. He failed and sank back, taking most of his weight on his shins and thighs. His arms still threatened to buckle, then another jolt of pain ripped up his spine.

A cough wracked him. Lightning shot through his vision. His eyes threatened to burst. He gasped, gulping air. The pain drained and muscles quivered, but he still refused to collapse.

I will not have them find me thus. He licked his lips, tasting salt.

He forced himself to breathe normally. The drumming of his heart gradually faded. He resisted the urge to thrust himself to his feet. He’d faint. He’d done it twice so far on the trip and would not repeat the mistake.

The outer tent flap snapped open, splashing dawn light over the thin inner curtain. He forced himself up and caught the edge of his cot, but couldn’t summon the strength to pull himself onto it.

Kaerinus slipped quietly into his sleeping chamber. “Another spell, my lord?”

Nelesquin nodded, then shifted to sitting on the edge of the cot. “I know why they are happening, but I do not understand why they become more debilitating as we move closer to Moriande. I did not suffer at all on Anturasixan.”

“Proximity means nothing, my lord. You have been parted from your soul for a very long time. You seek reunion with it. Your body, your spirit, they reach out constantly, and this drains you. The sooner we reach Moriande and take it, the sooner we can locate the vessel and reunite you with your soul.”