Richard Byers - Prophet of the Dead

“We need light”-by the Keeper, how they needed it! — “but I don’t want you to squander all your strength making it. I can do my share.”

“When you conjure sunlight, it truly does use up some of your magic. Whereas when I just let the fire come out of me, it makes me feel better.”

“So would wine, but you wouldn’t drink yourself insensible with enemies nearby, and this maze is as dangerous as any battlefield. If we don’t keep our wits about us, it will hurt us.”

“Why, sunlady, what a distressing thing for an honored guest to say about my home.”

Startled by the new voice, Cera jerked around. Sarshethrian sauntered out of the darkness.

As always, his vileness set her teeth on edge, and her separation from the Yellow Sun, barely discernible even as a spiritual presence, made his proximity even harder to bear. But on this occasion, curiosity distracted her somewhat from her reflexive loathing. That was because he had a prisoner tangled in the cloud of his writhing shadow tentacles, which were apparently capable of hauling such a burden along without slowing or otherwise inconveniencing him.

The captive was a ghoul, with the gaunt, stooped frame; gray, rotting flesh; and protuberant, fanged jaws of his kind. But unlike the average graveyard scavenger, he wore a clean leather jerkin, breeches, and boots fit for a courtier. A curved line of oblong silver studs defined a reversed S shape above his heart.

“This,” Sarshethrian said, “is Gosnorn, an old acquaintance of mine who joined the Eminence of Araunt early on, long before Lod decided to betray me. He’s a resourceful fellow, and so his master uses him to carry messages.”

“Messages to and from Rashemen?” Cera asked.

“It’s a distinct possibility,” Sarshethrian said. “We’ll know when he sees fit to enlighten us.”

Gosnorn made a savage, snapping, flailing attempt to rip his captor with fang and claw, but the shadow bonds kept him from even getting close. “I won’t tell you anything!” he snarled.

“Oh, I think you might,” Sarshethrian answered. “You must have noticed that my new allies here differ considerably from the vermin who caught you. The woman with the mace is a servant of one of those ‘gods’ you’ve surely heard tell of. She can make holy sunlight shine anywhere, even here. Her friend with the staff has a similar connection to fire. All of which is my roundabout way of saying that if you thought your numb, dead flesh could withstand any excruciation I could bring to bear, you were mistaken.”

Cera glowered at the fiend. “Hold on. Jhesrhi and I aren’t torturers. That was never part of the bargain.”

Sarshethrian sighed. “Must I argue with you about every little thing? If you encountered a ghoul wandering around in your own world, you’d smite it without a second thought.”

“I’d lay it to rest as quickly as possible. I wouldn’t cause it needless suffering.”

“Well, then, let me put it to you this way. How badly do you want to help Rashemen? Or return there before your bond to Amaunator rots away entirely, and your mind and spirit rot along with it? Because actually, you were right before. Mortals don’t belong in the deathways and can’t afford to bide here for long.”

Jhesrhi stepped forward with flame dancing on her hand and flowing on up her staff. “You don’t have to do it, Cera. I will.”

She probably could too, and perhaps without it troubling her conscience. Aoth commanded the Brotherhood of the Griffon with a disdain for gratuitous cruelty that he chose to think of as “professionalism.” Still, Cera was certain that, first as the child slave of marauding giants and then as a sellsword, Jhesrhi had watched if not conducted torture before.

Yet eager as she was to be excused, Cera didn’t want Jhesrhi tormenting the ghoul in her place, especially if it wouldn’t bother Jhesrhi. The thought of the wizard feeling nothing as Gosnorn shrieked and thrashed, or perhaps if she even enjoying the dance of the flames, was disquieting.

“Thank you,” Cera said, “truly. But if it must be done, I’ll do it. Maybe divine magic will get it done faster.”

Sarshethrian leered. “Excellent. Then perhaps the fey can hold Gosnorn while we question him.” He likely didn’t want to be close to the ghoul while Cera evoked the Keeper’s light lest it sear him as well.

Jhesrhi spoke to the stag men in Elvish. They gingerly approached the pale demon in his haze of writhing, ragged shadow; gripped Gosnorn; wrestled him down on top of a sarcophagus; and held him spread-eagled.

Cera told herself she had to do what she was about to undertake for the sake of countless decent, living people, and had to do it too, to be reunited with Aoth. She silently asked the Keeper’s forgiveness, anyway then poised her mace over Gosnorn’s body.

“Please,” she said. “Just tell us. Spare yourself the pain.”

The undead messenger spit at her, but thick and brown in the wavering light of Jhesrhi’s fire, the spittle fell short.

“Do your worst, sunlady ,” Gosnorn said, and sarcasm turned the title into a jibe. “By all means, do it to oblige one who’s more of a foe to your kind and your god than I’ll ever be.”

Cera took a breath, then reached out through what felt like an infinity of frigid darkness for the warmth and light of the Yellow Sun. It was difficult to draw down even a modest amount, but in this grim circumstance, maybe that was good. She didn’t want to unleash too much power at once and burn the prisoner to ash.

The spiky gilded head of the mace glowed from within, and even that was enough to make Gosnorn avert his face and close his sunken eyes. When she sent the magic blazing down at him, he howled and bucked, and the stag men nearly lost their grips on him. Mottled with spots of rot and mold, his skin smoked and charred.

He cursed and reviled her afterward, though, and for several flares after that, until his hide was riddled with black-edged holes, the air stank of burned flesh, and she felt too sick to her stomach and full of self-hatred to continue. Then she realized he’d finally stopped straining to break free of the stag men and spit sludge onto her vestments. Instead, he was simply shuddering.

“Now then,” Sarshethrian said as, his withered arm cradled to his chest, he approached the prisoner, “tell us all about it.”

Gosnorn hesitated. “Promise to set me free.”

The pale man gave Cera a crooked smile. “I thought you had him convinced, but I see I’m too impatient. Please, continue your ministrations.”

“No!” Gosnorn said. “I’ll tell! It’s Lod! I’m supposed to tell Uramar the prophet is coming to Rashemen!”

His single eye widening, Sarshethrian hesitated. For the first time since he’d accosted Cera and Jhesrhi, the fiend seemed genuinely surprised, if not astonished.

After a moment, he said, “You can’t mean across the ocean by ship and then overland. That would take forever. If he wanted to come, Lod too, would journey via the deathways.”

“Yes.”

“And that’s how I know you’re lying! He hasn’t entered my domain since the night I escaped his death trap. He’ll send fools like you to sneak and scurry through, run his errands, and perish when their luck runs out, but he’s too cowardly to come himself.”

Despite the agonies he’d undergone and the pain that surely lingered, Gosnorn managed another snarl. “He’s not a coward! He’s our champion! Our liberator!”

“What a sad misreading of history. But I don’t suppose it’s worth the time to rebut it. We should stick to the business at hand. Convince me that Lod is on his way. Otherwise, this lady will bring back the sunlight.”