Dire Sparks (Song of the Aura, Book Five) Read online

Chapter Three: Beginning

  As a small child, Gramling had often thought the Golden Sepulcher the worst place on earth. It had been early on in his life, and he had still been in fear of the terrifying new world which had opened up for him… one in which the strong survived, the weak died, and there simply were no heroes.

  Or were there? Walking the lower halls now, feeling the ache of his face wounds, Gramling was no longer sure.

  He had overcome his fear of the Sepulcher the day in his tenth year he had strangled the High Doomcleric, right in the middle of a ritual. That was when the Golden One had accepted him, and stopped sending the assassins. He had always lived with that: the constant fear of poison in his drinks or a shadow with teeth… the kinds of things that scarred his small mind… until he found that his gifts made him strong enough to kill.

  It had all been a test, the Golden One had assured him. And from then on, he had been the favored Pit Strider, the first invader of Vast… anything and everything he wanted. But now… now he felt something else.

  No, he no longer feared the Golden Sepulcher. But he was uneasy, all the same. And it was all the nymph girl’s fault.

  She had not broken under torture. He had hurt her more than he had hurt anyone, even the Doomcleric. She should have snapped, should have told him it all… but she hadn’t. His experience told him that no one could stand that strain: all the fallacies of “humility” and “loyalty” would break, because they were all lies. Everyone had a motive for being “good,” just as they did for being “evil.” So the Golden One had taught him, and so he had believed.

  But Elia seemed to defy that. Elia. Her name made him shiver, though he couldn’t decide why.

  He had broken her at last… but it had been through a mask of love. He had pretended to be his fool of a brother, and that had made her fall apart.

  Why?

  Love had beaten her, when pain had not. Did that make love stronger than pain? He did not believe it… he would not.

  He entered a dark, vaulted chamber with pillars lining the sides and a great stone throne at the far end. Immediately he shut all such dangerous thoughts away. It was hard to hide your mind from the Golden One, but he had learned it was possible to obscure the vision and keep a small sliver of privacy.

  He’d need his whole mind intact if he was to solve this intriguing, frightening puzzle. But for now…

  “You take your time, Son of Shadows.”

  Sheolus’s movement was barely visible at the far end of the darkened hall. Gramling willed himself part of the shadows, feeding the strain on his power off the Golden One’s immense dark aura. A display of obvious strength would convince his master of both his subservience and his undaunted strength… he hoped.

  The world shifted in twenty shades of black and gray, and the next second he was at the foot of the throne, kneeling with a flourish of his black cloak.

  “You have my apologies, Master of Shadows. I have learned much from the Treele called Elia, and it is that which delayed my coming.” He still stumbled over the high form of speech the Golden One preferred… hopefully his stiffness would not be sensed in the Golden One’s eagerness for information.

  He hoped.

  “There is nothing she could tell you that I do not already know,” rumbled the Golden One. His red eyes glinted from behind the golden skin-mask he had fashioned for himself to replace the one Gribly- curse him!- had ruined.

  Gramling licked his lips. “Then why-?”

  “Do not question your god,” said the Golden One, low and threatening. Gramling gulped; was there nothing he could do right anymore? “Nevertheless,” the Golden One continued, “Tell me all you have reaped from the nymph’s mind. Earn your title, Son of Shadows.”

  Ah, Gramling thought, careful to mask his satisfaction under a layer of not-so-faked uncertainty. So you are not so omniscient… not so godlike, after all.

  Gramling told the Golden One the entirety of what he had learned, leaving out only the description of just how he had learned it. He, unlike Elia, knew the value of submission to the right authority. And what greater authority was there than self-preservation?

  He would always have said none… before. Now, though…

  …He would to talk to Elia again. He had to know… what, he wasn’t sure. But he would find out.

  He would.

  ~

  Elia no longer cared that she was chained. She no longer cared that the manacles hurt her, or that her body still ached from the constant tortures and equally painful healings Gramling had given her. She no longer cared… about anything.

  But it would be nice to see Gribly’s face again… even if it was fake. Not really him.

  That red shaft of light had not shone for a while now. She wondered if it was punishment, taking that small half-joy from her; in revenge at how long she’d held out. It frightened her how little it mattered to her anymore… or would have, if she had had enough feeling for fear. Everything just seemed… dead. It didn’t matter. She had lost. Betrayed Gribly. It didn’t matter. The Enemy knew it all, now. It didn’t-

  The wall rippled, shook, and tore. The door was opening again. Metal flowed like wax, and soon she was sitting above a floor again.

  What more can you take from me? She wondered listlessly. Did she even have anything to give? She longed for death, to ease the pain of apathy.

  It was Gramling, and he had not come to torture her. Instead he stood staring at her, for a minute on end, saying nothing, just looking on. She surprised herself; it was she who broke the silence first.

  “Gloating?” The word came out as barely more than a sigh.

  “Yes,” the Pit Strider answered, and fell silent again. After a while, though, his expression seemed to change. Elia had nothing more to do than watch him, after all, and she noticed without caring much when his expression shifted from smug to calculating. Finally he nodded to himself, and waved a hand much as he had when controlling the metal walls.

  Elia’s bonds melted away, and she tipped forward off the ledge, falling to the improvised floor with a painful thud.

  “You’re free,” Gramling said, sounding for all the world is if he was really telling the truth. Elia stayed where she was, unmoving. “You aren’t going to try an escape?” he asked. She didn’t answer.

  “Listen closely,” he continued, dropping down silently beside her in a crouch. “He’s chosen you. I don’t know why, but he has. You know who I mean. You’ve broken, and that’s good, but he won’t stop there. You’re to be re-made, now, in his image. As a Pit Strider.”

  Elia jerked her head up in quiet horror, but Gramling ignored her reaction, and kept talking urgently. “You won’t survive, and if you do, you’ll go insane… unless you listen to me. Do what I say. Say what I tell you. Live by my word… and maybe you’ll make it. I can’t promise you more.”

  He got up, brushing off his knees, and his cold stare returned. “You have this one chance, Elia. Live through this, and perhaps you’ll have a chance at… whatever you wish. But you need to trust me.”

  “I’ll never trust you,” she spat, struggling to her feet. She was almost standing when her legs gave way and she fell. But Gramling was there in a moment, catching her and steadying her against him.

  “Then trust him,” Gramling whispered. He kept a hold on her for a few seconds more, until she felt strong enough to struggle against him; then he let her go and stepped back.

  Elia felt shocked. Him? He couldn’t mean Sheolus… the “him” he’d clearly meant before. Could he mean Gribly? It seemed likely… but… Could he have possibly meant something more?

  Creator, give me strength, Elia pleaded silently, and to her relief he seemed not to hear her thought. Who knew what was possible in this hellhole of a prison? Gramling smiled coldly again, but there was the slightest twinkle of amusement in his eyes. What game was he playing?

  Elia straightened a little, a trickle of hope invading her dead heart. Perhaps, even broken, she could still find ways to figh
t. Ways neither Gramling, nor Sheolus, nor even herself had thought of yet. She gritted her teeth.

  “I’m… ready,” she said.

  ~

  A lengthy tramp through the endless labyrinth of metal corridors that formed the lower parts of the prison soon tired Elia beyond belief. Gramling healed her once, to keep her going, with a quick burst of scarlet sparks to her neck… though he did it far more roughly than she thought necessary. He seemed worried when he did, glancing unconsciously over his shoulder as if he feared someone might come and see him.

  But for the most part, they were alone. Gramling whispered things to her during the walk; slivers of advice on how to deal with the coming ordeals. At first she could hardly believe her ears: not just because she was apparently to be given no rest before it began, but because Gramling really seemed to be sincere in his overtures. She hated him, still… but it seemed that for now, at least, she needed him.

  Then, too soon for comfort, she found that they had climbed to the higher levels of the prison- Gramling called it the Golden Sepulcher- and were entering a darkened room with blood-red runes carved in a circle around its edges. “You know what to do,” he said, and Elia let him escort her inside. Then he left, shutting the door behind him, and a lock clicked into place.

  She was left alone, in total darkness.

  After a moment, she put out her hands, feeling for any clue as to where she was. Her touch met metal, and she realized she was in a cramped hallway of sorts, that went on ahead of her for an indeterminable distance. There was a tenseness to the air that frightened her, but she pushed on ahead slowly, feeling the walls on either side of her for comfort, occasionally putting out a hand or foot in front to make sure she did not walk into any doors.

  Then, suddenly, the walls gave way on either side of her, and she tumbled from blackness into blackness. She yelped in fear as she lost her balance, tumbling down a small drop into an open space of unknown proportions. She skinned her knees beneath the ragged blackcloth shift she’d worn in the prison chamber, and her arms felt a painful jolt as she hit what felt like wet pavement.

  Elia froze, shuddering in fear. This was worse than any torture: this not-knowing, this blindness in a place where Gramling had said any kind of fatal trap or deadly creature could lurk. It’s all a test, he’d whispered, smirking like it was funny. You have to prove yourself. There was a dripping, dribbling sound from far off and lower down. How big was this place? And what was it?

  Then, there came a long, low sound, halfway between a nervous insect-chittering and the purring of a great cat. Elia sucked in her breath, tensing violently in fright, as it continued on for half a minute. When it finally tapered off and died away, she was far more frightened than before… but something felt hardened in her, too. Weak as she was, she felt ready to fight for survival once again.

  Prove yourself. This time, it was her father speaking, breaking the barriers of memory and death to give her the courage she needed. Elia bowed her head, still lying where she’d fallen, and issued a small prayer Heavenward.

  Then she cupped her hands in front of her face, as if cradling an invisible ball of air. She didn’t know if being able to see them see them would matter… she hoped not. Before she faced whatever was in this dungeon, she needed light.

  She closed her eyes, navigating the maze of glass that was her mind’s connection to Striding. She reached past her barrier, through the glass itself, and tugged on the Power of Sea as hard as she possibly could. In her weakened, beaten state, that wasn’t much… but it was enough.

  In the physical world, her hands began to sweat. Each bead of water, though her eyes could not see it, was like a prism of purest crystal to her mind’s vision. She strained her gift as far as it would go, taxing her strength beyond anything she had ever attempted before.

  …She heated the sweat to an impossible degree, bending the element to a function it could never have accomplished on its own…

  …And pictured a flame in her mind, tiny, but expanded by her view through the steaming prisms of water…

  Sparks leaped from every solitary bead of sweat, crashing together in the middle of her cupped palms. Light flashed, and a stream of the brightest flame she had ever seen gushed from her grasp, spreading out a searing arc of light that illuminated the entire cavern- for cavern it was. The chittering returned, and grew louder, until it was a throbbing pulse that drowned out the roar of her impromptu torch.

  Elia stumbled back, screaming. She couldn’t help it: coiled before her, raising its head out of a honeycomb-formation of stone, was a massive, freakish creature. It had the long, lithe body of a giant serpent, but with the blackened carapace of a thousand enormous beetles armoring its leathery hide. Hundreds of bulbous black eyes flared suddenly scarlet in the light of her flame, as the monstrosity wheeled its toothy, mandible-clad head toward her. It opened its maw, a mass of slithering spines and retracting teeth… and screamed.

  Chapter Four: Bleeding

  The sound was like a woman’s scream, broken and melded with the shrieking of eels and the formless mutterings of centipedes.

  Father of us all, Elia thought… It was a demon from the worst nightmares of nymphkind… and what was more, she knew it. The Cjathrier was a legend, but she knew it as well as any Treele… when she had first found the remains of her village, she had almost imagined that beast was the cause.

  The Cjathrier gathered its swaying coils and lunged at her with a second shriek. Without thinking, Elia thrust her arms forward, yelling and pouring all her strength into the flames from her hands. Fire met shadow, and the Cjathrier screamed, flailing its burning head in agony. Elia’s limbs were shocked into motion by the adrenaline that danger had always brought her, and she sprinted to one side, out of harm’s way.

  Her hands separated, but she willed the flames to stay… and they did. Her way lighted, she sped to one side of the Cjathrier, desperate to find her way to the far end of the room. Going back would be death, and straying too far would be disaster… she had to be quick. The cavern was vaulted and its floor was wide, pockmarked with holes and stalagmites that formed a grim honeycomb. The perfect lair for a monster, and the perfect deathtrap for her.

  Dodging between rock formations, Elia skirted the reach of the Cjathrier until she had passed it. It was smashing its flaming skull against rock after rock, trying vainly to put the blaze out… but how long would it be slowed?

  Even as she glanced back, thick slime began to ooze from the thing’s eyes and the bony crests on its head, drenching the fire and putting it out with a smoking, pungent stench. Elia ran faster, but it was almost impossible to go quickly through the maze of the cavern floor.

  If only I was a Stone Strider, like Gribly, she thought, but it was no use to gripe. The next moment the Cjathrier was slithering after her, moaning and grunting, and she yelped in terror, throwing a ball of flame backwards to ward it off and missing entirely. It seemed to frighten the monster, however… and the farther she ran, the more often she was forced to turn and throw flames at it, in order to stop its advance.

  Run, hide, burn, run… the cycle of flight repeated, over and over, until her energy was entirely sapped away and her limbs felt like lead. Her flames began to sputter when she threw them, and flicker when she wanted them to hold steady. Several times, as she ran on, they went out completely, and she had to strain herself horribly to summon them again before the Cjathrier could take a snap at her.

  She burned it again and again, and fled from it again and again, but it never seemed to tire or bore of the deadly chase. The only thing that kept her going was the mind-searing horror she felt at the monster’s very existence: that was no way to die.

  Then, just when Elia thought she would lie down and die before the thing even set its mandibles in her, another unexpected drop came, and she plummeted off its low edge into a pool of thick red liquid. Quick thinking saved her balance, and she flailed her arms, stumbling forward onto her knees and one hand, but stopping herself fro
m plunging below the surface. The flame on her submerged hand was extinguished immediately, but the light from her free hand was more than enough to see by.

  She screamed, leaping up with a splash, and the flame in her hand blazed bright from the force of her emotion…

  …The pool smelled like blood, and a single white skull floated in the midst of it.

  The Cjathrier shrieked as it slithered towards her from behind, lightning-fast.

  Elia threw herself to the right, falling in the blood up to her elbows. Her last flame died, but the monster that barreled past her was still partially ablaze from their last clash, and she could just make it out as it splashed, skidded, and slipped onto its back, wailing and chittering. Its heavy body slammed into the stone wall of the cavern, rising up from the far end of the wide pool, and a shuddering shiver ran up the stone.

  The wall cracked once, twice, and a thousand times as the Cjathrier thrashed against its base, trying to find stability amid the crimson liquid. Elia scrambled to her feet with a heavy effort: it felt as if she were in an earthquake. Flaring flames in her hands again, she watched in horror as bones of every conceivable shape and size poured rattling from every crack, drowning the Cjathrier in a sea of destruction.