Tom Lloyd - The ragged man

It was said his name was inscribed above the place where he would be imprisoned for eternity – his true name, excised from history by the remaining Gods of the Upper Circle when he had been cursed, and condemned to the Dark Place, before his final defeat. His true name remained in Ghenna for it was a place outside the power of the Gods. Mihn wasn't sure he believed that, and he certainly didn't intend to waste time looking for it, but he expected to be heading there or somewhere close. Whatever path Lord Styrax had created into Ghenna, there would have been one waiting for seven thousand years to open up for Aryn Bwr's soul.

Now the wind was blowing harder, and Mihn had to force himself to continue in the face of what was turning into a full-on gale. Ehla's light was fading too, and increasingly Mihn was traversing tunnels with only his ears to protect him and his hands to guide him. Then the red tint would return and the coils around his heart would relax again, but he was reminded that the witch's magic was no guard against the daemons of Ghenna. If they detected his presence, he would be there for eternity – there would be no last judgment for him, no Mercies to absolve him of his sins, only the unending horrors of the torture pits.

He slipped around another corner – and this time he felt an immediate change as the immense presence of rock all around him unexpectedly opened out, altering even the small sounds his hands and feet made.

The going was harder now, as Mihn found himself almost slipping down the rockface. A dull ache permeated his body, and the thought of the return journey started to sap his will, until he found himself at an entrance conspicuously edged in Ehla's dull red light, glowing like a fire's embers. Mihn touched the rock gingerly, but it felt quite normal. He checked around carefully – this was not the time to be surprised – and went through…

His hand closed on instinct, as if reaching for the staff he'd left behind. The chamber itself was small, anonymous, lacking the immensity he expected of Aryn Bwr's prison. it was no more than fifteen yards long and only a few arm-widths across, no fitting prison for a soul that called storms and left its mark on Gods and nations – even though most of the floor was open to dizzying emptiness.

Mihn peered down the length of the cave and felt his breath catch. At the far end a figure was hanging. He was chained to the wall, his broken, inward-bent toes barely brushing the floor. He was naked save for the tattered remains of a cape he'd favoured in life. Though he was slick with filth and gore, still Mihn could see the terrible network of scars that covered most of the skin, testament to the horrors that had been inflicted upon him, and open wounds, some with implements of torture still protruding from the gashes, that dripped black blood. Even the left arm was patterned with shadowy scars, all the more obvious for the unnatural pallor of the skin, which had been burned white by the storm in Narkang. Isak's face was hidden by hair grown long and matted, as though he had been here years.

Mihn looked around. There were a few thin paths snaking across the room, but he realised the daemon possessing Isak's soul had little need of them, for there it was, clinging to the roof near its prize. Each of the six limbs ended in a splayed foot. Most were hooked into crevices; one was raised, covering its eyes from Ehla's light. It had a sinuous, scaled body, and a frill of spines protruded from its neck. Other than a mass of raised, pointed scales and a pair of very pointed lower canines, Mihn couldn't make out much of the face.

'Jailer,' Mihn called softly.

The daemon whipped around with frightening speed, but Mihn had not moved and it couldn't get a fix on him.

'I smell a soul,' it said, its voice an oily, bubbling sound. It used Mihn's own dialect fluently.

'But no inmate of this place,' Mihn said firmly.

The daemon moved a step towards him, one leg still up to protect its eyes. 'That matters not. Soon your soul will be mine. This light will not hide you.'

'I have other light to employ,' Mihn warned it.

As he spoke the rune on his chest lit up, a sudden white shaft that stabbed at the shadows. The daemon stopped its advance. It faced him as best it could, but made no further movement forward.

After a moment Mihn looked down. The rune no longer shone so brightly, but even through his tunic he could see its outline. 'I seek the release of the soul you have imprisoned here,' he said boldly.

'No! It is mine, my prize!'

'Release it to me,' Mihn ordered, 'or there will be more light than all of Ghenna has ever seen. Release the soul, or I will blind you, and when others come, drawn by your cries, you will be helpless against them and you will lose both this soul and your life to them.'

'It is my prize,' the daemon insisted, sounding rather pitiful, 'and of no use to you. You will never escape Ghenna with it. You will die a thousand deaths if you bring light to the Dark Place.'

Mihn recognised bluster, and realised his threat really was frightening the daemon, however much truth lay in what it said. Losing the soul to another daemon would hurt it, no matter what happened to Mihn. This way the creature would be grateful enough for anything it got in return…

'You underestimate me,' he said 'I made it here without being detected.'

'You cannot carry my soul all the way up to the ivory gates, little mortal,' the daemon hissed, looking at him properly for the first time. 'Better you leave it here than risk the hordes tearing it apart – '

'I have a better solution,' Mihn interrupted. He looked at the white-eye chained to the wall, but Isak had not moved. He hung from his chains like meat on a hook.

'This place does not obey the rules of the Land but the commands of its inhabitants. With your help the path to the ivory gates can be level enough to walk rather than climb.'

'I cannot keep the others from finding you,' the daemon snarled; 'they will scent his blood long before you reach the gates.'

'That is my problem. Will you help me?'

'What do you offer?'

Mihn took a deep breath. 'I offer my soul. To release this one and aid my path to the River Maram I offer my soul. I will be your prize once I am dead.'

'You are not so great as this one!' the daemon protested, but Mihn saw it edge forward and sniff the air hungrily.

'Not so great, no, but you smell power on me nonetheless. My name is Mihn ab Netren ab Felith; I am the Grave Thief, slayer of a white-eye queen, the bondsman of Nartis' Chosen. What claim I have on my soul I offer to you, and when my deeds here are known by the Land my soul shall be a worthy prize.'

He saw the daemon shiver in anticipation, and he knew he had won; it could barely contain its pleasure at the prospect. Finding a sharp edge on the wall Mihn scraped a finger down it, breaking the skin. He squeezed his finger, letting the blood well up for a while before flicking it in the direction of the daemon. It scuttled forward, snuffling at the ground until it found a droplet and delicately touched its tongue to it.

'A bargain is made,' the daemon gurgled, sounding like a drowned man in its eagerness.

It gave a twitch of the head and the cave twisted a quarter-turn around Mihn, so that Isak was now chained to the floor. Mihn, still gripping the rock himself, barely avoided falling himself. Isak's head snapped back and for the first time Mihn saw a sign of life as the white-eye's mouth opened and a weak moan of pain came out.

He hurried to Isak's side, slipping a hand into his pocket to retrieve the leather gloves he had brought for this purpose. All of Elshaim's paintings of Ghenna had included chains that were covered in biting mouths, and Mihn could not risk his tattoos being ripped from his skin, now of all times. The chains binding Isak were sharp-edged, shredding Isak's skin where they touched, but as Mihn ripped them off him he saw the flow of blood quickly slow and the wounds start to scab over. Mihn looked at the palms of his gloves and was not surprised to see them already badly scratched.