The mountains’ shadows spread as they neared the Ilyzian Ridge, a craggy black wall less than a day to their south. The sun had set. Knobby brush and yellow grass were sparse; darkening hills of red clay sprawled in all directions.
Garet lit a lantern. “We’ll press on to the cave’s mouth. We’ll need to get used to nighttime travel for the Ashes.”
Their lamps cast enough light to illuminate the dark places beneath and around them, but would not have been strictly necessary, due to the nearly full moon. The road, a mostly straight ribbon through otherwise impassable badlands, continued to descend as they approached Switch Cave’s northern mouth, indistinguishable from rocky shadow until they were ten yards away. When they did set camp, hungry and exhausted in the middle of the night, they set no fire; the site was exposed to all lines of sight, and the temperature was near seven flags.
“Sleep well,” Garet said. “We’ve got a long day tomorrow.”
“Today,” Farisa said after a glance at the gold watch Merrick had given her.
“Is it midnight already?”
“One fifteen.”
“Ha,” said Garet. “I made it to a round sixty-four."
“Happy b—I mean, congratulations.”
“I hope no one objects if I light a cigarette. It’ll only be my second.”
“You don’t need my permission,” said Farisa.
Mazie reached in her pack and produced a shot glass.
“I’d hold off on the booze, though,” said Garet. “We enter the cave in six hours.”
“Drinking’s not what I propose.” She handed the glass to Farisa. “Throw it as hard as you can.”
With a body turn and a flick of the wrist, Farisa hurled the object into the air. Mazie’s pistol fired; the glass cracked and fell to the ground.
“Something my people do for good luck,” Mazie said.
Kanos said, “Whatever your people do for good luck, I suggest we do the opposite.”
Farisa started to respond, but Mazie touched her arm.
Mazie said, “Garet, would you like to?”
“The glass? I’ve done it a hundred times. I’ll finish this.” He removed the lit cigarette between his lips. “Then I, too, will catch what sleep I can.”
“I’d like to try it,” Farisa said.
“Of course,” Mazie said as she handed Farisa her gun. “Let me know when you’re ready.”
“Now.”
Mazie threw the glass; Farisa fired. It seemed for a moment that time had slowed down enough to let her see the moonlit fracture lines, spreading through the goblet’s hull. Glittery shards dusted the desert floor.
“Nice fucking shot,” Mazie said.
“Beginner’s luck,” Farisa said. “I suppose I should also turn in.”
The sand was hot to the touch, and her sleeping bag provided some insulation, but was too warm for comfort. Although she fell asleep quickly, she woke several times in a puddle of her own sweat. She tried to sleep atop it, but this left her exposed to wind. Around five, she realized she had slept all she would, and walked out of the tent. Dawn was breaking, but stars were still visible in the western sky.
She saw Garet standing alone in the distance. She walked up beside him.
He said, “ ‘Autumn of the worlds; the sun fastens south.’ ”
Farisa added, “ ‘Blind children play at the river’s mouth.’ ”
Garet: “ ‘The mountain’s withers pale, what for?’ ”
Together: “ ‘What dreams behind a winter’s door?’ ”
“Behind?” Garet said. “I always thought it was beyond a winter’s door.”
“It might be,” Farisa admitted.
“Do you know the second verse?”
“I used to.”
“We’ll leave it unfinished for today. Something to complete at a later time.”
“Of course.” Farisa looked at her watch. “I almost forgot.” She’d borrowed one of Garet’s star charts, so she could true the device’s time to the heavens. “It’s a few minutes off.”
“You are Kyana’s daughter,” Garet said.
Farisa adjusted the watch’s crown. “You knew her?”
“By name only. The best of her generation, and of mine, are gone.”
“ ‘What dreams beyond a winter’s door?’ ”
“Aye, Farisa. We can ask, and we do.”
“I’ve heard that time speeds up as you age. Is that true?”
“If you’re not attentive to it, it does. People come and go. Friends die. Siblings die. Lovers die.”
“Do you ever wish you were my age again?”
Garet laughed. “Hell no. You think I want this world to be my problem for half a century more?”
Farisa smiled. “Be serious.”
“There are times when I think I would enjoy it, to be young with the benefit of experience. But, I’ve been young. I know what that feels like. I know what it looks like. I’m more curious about the next bend.”
Farisa looked south. “The other side.”
“I’m in no hurry to go.” Garet laughed. “But we all do.”
#
By seven, all were awake. Claes had cleaned and loaded their guns. Runar and Saito, both of whom had trained before with bladed weapons, were practicing swordsmanship. They tore down their camp, loaded their wagons, and made sure everything their animals would carry was fastened properly.
Claes stood at Switch Cave’s entrance. “Is everyone ready?”
No one said they weren’t.
“Good.” Claes spread his feet. “The first thing to know about Switch Cave is that it’s full of flashfire. The expensive lanterns we got in Portal don’t cast as much light as an ordinary one, let alone a torch, but they won’t explode if we wander into flashfire.”
"It has been said that the mythology of dragons comes from this place,” Garet added. “People took torches into caves, or they used gunpowder in the wrong place and got a bit more flame than they had asked for.”
“Farisa will carry a torch. As soon as she detects the slightest hint of flashfire, she’ll put it out.”
Talyn said, “And how will she know?”
“I have an excellent sense of smell,” Farisa said. She was not lying; although most people could not detect flashfire in small amounts, she had brought a gift from Nadia, back in Exmore: a vial of the scent-enhancing potion. She had diluted it twenty-to-one; this heightened scents enough that she could detect trace vapors, but not so much as to make her ill. "It stinks like rotting cabbage.”
Claes said, “So, if you see Farisa’s light go out, holster your pistols and switch to safety lamps.”
Garet looked inside the cave. “The road from here to the other side is twelve miles long. It’s a switchback, hence the name. It's straight then it turns then it's straight then it turns. You get the idea. On the other side, when we see the sky again, we'll be six thousand miles lower in elevation. It will be cooler inside the cave than it is here, but the rising heat will tell you when you’re getting close. If you’re separated from us—please, do everything you can to prevent this—then find the main road. Are there side alleys and corridors and staircases? Yes, but the people who explore those tend to get lost and, if it needs to be said, die here. There are only two known exits: this one, at the top, and the one at the bottom. If you’re lost, go down.”
Garet said, “We’ll be going at a slow pace, because we’ll need to watch where we’re going, but every eye open improves our chances. If we stick together and keep to the main road, we may come out alive.”
Claes added, “If we do get split up, the rest of us will wait outside for two days. That’s all we can afford.” He looked at Kanos. “We’re not here to be treasure hunters.” Farisa wondered if he was trying to stoke Kanos’s defiance, so he would go off looking for gold or gems and leave the rest of the group in peace. “Engage no orcs or drampfs unless they are a direct threat to life. If we’re unlucky enough to meet a troll, avoid it at all costs.”
“Trolls appear slovenly, but they’re much stronger than they look, and their vision in the dark is even better than an orc’s. They are also notoriously skilled at tricking their prey into coming to them.”
“Any questions?”
Farisa laughed. “You guys should become tour guides. You’d be good at it.”
Claes smiled. “Aw, go to hell.”
“That’s where we signed up to go, isn’t it?”
#
Small stones crunched under their boots as they entered the cave. Farisa looked back every hundred paces; the entrance shrunk to a weak white sun, then a twilight star, then into nonexistence, leaving their own light as all they had. Farisa held her torch high, when she could, both to give more light and distance herself from the flame’s heat. She looked back at the animals from time to time, to be sure none had become timid or strayed.
Compared to so many of the trails they had used, Switch Cave’s main corridor was wide and flat. There were no roots, no steep slopes, no streams. This was, in truth, the first mile in several hundred on this Mountain “Road” to feel worthy of the name. On the other hand, the Cave’s moist heat grew suffocating in the still darkness, and the cave’s odors, amplified by the potion Farisa had consumed, were quite foul.
She could sense fungi, almost certainly inedible, hidden in the cracks between stones. The stairwells and side alleys at their flanks smelled like open sewers, as some of them probably were. As an odor like that of a spoiled potato swelled, a form—like an obese naked man, with patchy hair on its back—ran across their path. Farisa shuddered at the sight.
“There’s our first drampf,” said Garet. “He won’t be our last.”
Runar said,“ At least orcs have the decency to wear clothes.”
“They’re unsightly, but light scares them off. As far as the dangers of Switch Cave go, they’re a minor concern. They're only dangerous when cornered.”
They walked on. They had covered a mile or so when the cave’s ceiling grew low; Farisa had to lower her torch, and sometimes Claes or Runar would have to duck to avoid a stalactite. A second drampf, half a mile or so on, nearly collided with an unta, causing the animal to panic. Farisa gave her torch to Mazie, then went back to soothe the creature. Eric began to struggle with the heat. Claes told him to drink as much water as he needed, as they had found a spring the day before.
“We’re going into a place where there’s none," Kanos said.
Garet said, “It is hard to find water in the Ashes, but we will.”
Confirming to Farisa that Runar did in fact have the Eye of Sophya, he fired into the darkness at something no one else saw, though he missed. The coppery onion scent of the cave doubled in intensity; one could hear running footfalls. Runar fired again. A small orc, carrying a mace, fell forward. Blood poured from its mouth.
“You killed a child, my friend,” Garet said.
“An orcish child,” Runar said. “One that meant to assault us.”
“I didn’t say you did anything wrong. It’s them or us, often.”
#
They were on the switchback’s third limb; they had turned around and changed direction twice and, each time, the odors and heat were a little bit worse. Morbid curiosity led Farisa to look down one of those forbidden side alleys, where she saw a steep rubbled slope that would be usable, in desperation, as a staircase except for its inhospitable odor mixing the scent of sewage with the chalky chlorine stench of skrum gas.
“Everyone looks once, ” Garet chuckled. “Most people, just once.”
“I sure don’t need a second glance,” Farisa said. “People willingly go into those things?”
“There are a lot of greedy bastards out there.”
From one such alley, fifty yards ahead, an orc ran toward them. Mazie fired her pistol. The orc collapsed; its body was seven feet tall and it held a rusty sword. An unta, scared or confused by the echoes of Mazie’s shot, had wandered off and back up the corridor; Farisa went back to retrieve it.
Circumspect, slowed by skittish animals, and exhausted by sweaty, milky heat; they nevertheless progressed. Farisa doubted their pace was in excess of a mile and a quarter per hour. She wondered how the orcs and drampfs were able to run so eagerly through this place; she could barely walk at a full pace without getting winded.
They reached the end of the switchback's third limb and turned around again, to start down the fourth. She retched as an odor of corruption struck her face—a wall of flab and sweat crashed into her; gelatinous perspiration licked her face like a demented dog; force knocked her about and the cave’s floor struck her hips and ribs. The ululating creature tumbled down a side alley before she could react. Farisa’s torch rolled down the cave floor.
“Farisa!” Garet yelled. “Are you—?”
“I...” She got up and chased after the torch, finding herself a hundred yards ahead of the others when she caught up with it. “I’m not hurt.” As she walked back, she touched her face; she would be eager to wash the sweat-slime off, even though they would have to be spare with it in the Ashes. “It’s just rather disgusting.”
Garet chuckled. “A trip through Switch Cave with only one drampf hit is considered fortunate.”
Farisa groaned. “I’d hate to make an unfortunate one, then.”
The cave's bats seemed to dislike the drampfs as well; she had discovered by ear a sense of this place’s inner workings. A drampf’s high-pitched giggle would erupt a quarter mile up the way; hurried flapping of leathery wings would follow as the animals tried to escape the malodorous ugly thing that looked like a gigantic human baby. As this place had few natural sounds—no birds, no insects—it was easy to listen for such noises, and soon they were everywhere. She therefore learned that she could slow down in anticipation of a drampf coming her way.
Alas, this didn’t mean they couldn’t be flagged. They were near the end of the fourth switchback when she heard an unta scream. A drampf had crashed into the rear of their formation, caught itself between two huskers, and panicked. The drampf’s meaty hand grabbed one husker by the ear; the other one took a defensive crouch and bucked its head, ready to charge. Saito, rather than let one of their animals be maimed, ran back with his sword and decapitated the drampf, and its body fell like a sack of flour and snot. The head tumbled downhill, axis of rotation unsteady like a top’s, picking up speed until it dropped out of sight.
Kanos walked over and crouched over the fallen body. “It’s a male.” He raised the knife he would use to take a trophy.
“Please don’t,” Garet said.
#
Out there, in the world that had a sun and trees, it was lunchtime. Farisa had lost count of the hairpin turns and long corridors; they had all blended together into one colorless slog. Their lanterns and her torch seemed to give less light, the further they went, as if the cave air had the capacity to spread darkness.
The usual sounds—drips and drops, screeching bats, footfalls and echoes—required no explanation, but there were noises unaccountable, bringing to mind images of gnashing gears and clattering wrenches. Moisture had ceased to leave the skin, but the corridor's aromas were so strong, body odor made no difference.
A hot wind flashed over Farisa’s face, and the sweaty hide hair of a yoogling drampf abraded her skin. The creature, at least eight feet tall, grabbed Farisa’s torch mid-staff and yanked it, twisting her wrist, out of her hand. The thief had already disappeared into a side alley—she could tell by the direction of its echoing laughter that it had gone down a steep grade—before she could react.
“Flashfire?” Runar asked.
“No,” Farisa admitted. “Lost the torch, is all.”
“Of course you did,” Kanos said.
Orange light erupted from the alley and they heard an explosion, a few hundred feet below. “I think that was flashfire, though.”
“I’ll go to Claes and get you another one,” Runar said.
“Thank you, Runar.”
Kanos put two fingers in his mouth and whistled, in a pretense of helpfulness but so close to Farisa’s ears that, in the dark, she felt a total loss of sensory control—so loud, I can’t see, so loud, I can’t see—and was unable to spot any of the others’ lamps. Have I fallen? It’s black here, as black as eternity. The cave’s smells and sounds—scurrying orcs, pooling vapors, doubling echoes—were still present but had lost their semblance of isolation; she realized these were an orchestrated process of digestion and that she had been outwitted by someone or something to crawl inside it. We could all die here and never be found, never be found, never be found. The ground rumbled. It would be nothing at all for the billions of tons overhead to bury them alive. She could hear the Marquessa’s howls of triumph. We’re dying, we’re going to die here; the mountains above us know we have violative intent, and will crush us like bugs. Her head crashed into something hard; she looked up to see a ghost, a girl no older than eight, mouthing the words: I don't want to be here I don't want to be here I don't want to be here. The child’s neck had been torn to pieces, and blood poured from her eyes.
Shrill laughter filled the void. A hundred faces were laughing at Farisa, and they were all Kanos. He knew her body and mind were failing; to see it was giving him joy. Is he killing me? Is he taking the opportunity? Or is that what I know I should do to him? Am I making a mistake by not...? It didn’t matter, she realized, because though she felt the impulse to act, she could not be sure which ways were up and down, and even tiniest motions caused bolts of tightness, shocks from the center of her chest, to pin her back.
Her neck was bent. She had fallen over a boulder and the inside of her elbow cradled her eyes. There was no light here but purple, the aura of that horrible woman, nine feet tall with the skin peeling off her skull, that woman who was the true face of this cave, the true face of life...
No, she’s not.
Breathe, Farisa. One, two, three, in; one, two, three, out—that’s one. Just breathe.
Breathe, Farisa. One, two, three, in; one, two, three, out—that’s two. Just breathe.
Breathe, Farisa. One, two, three, in; one, two, three, out—that’s—
Garet handed her a lit torch. “Farisa?”
Farisa touched her neck; her heart was still beating faster than she could count, but she could see by torchlight and she could stand. “It’s nothing. Thank you.”
“It doesn’t look like nothing,” Garet said. “We’re more than halfway. You’re doing great.”
Mazie took Farisa’s hand. “Are ya...?”
“Marquessa,” Farisa said.
“Ye’ve beaten ’er ass a ’undred thousand times, and she keeps coming back.”
“She does.” Farisa shook her shirt to cool her skin. “It’s so hot down here.”
“Aye, it is.”
“Back home, it’s perfect this time of year.”
“September, isn’t it?” said Kanos. “We never did celebrate Global Company Day.” He whistled the tune of “Work Makes Us Great.”
“Don’t joke about that,” Runar said.
“Relax. If you can't have fun down here—”
“Weren’t you—?”
“Company Youth?” Kanos laughed derisively. “For one reason and one only. I needed that half-grot per day.”
“You were wasting your time,” Farisa said. “You’d never get an office job with them. Just as I have the wrong skin color, you have the facial structure of a working man.”
Kanos spit on the ground five feet in front of her.
“I’m only being honest, Kanos.”
“What, you don't think there are brutes twice as dumb as me who joined at twenty and are Z-4s now?”
“There are, but it's not about that, and you know it. Maybe, if you took assignments no one else wanted, you could get yourself to Z-5. Beyond that, you could do a job perfectly and someone would find fault with it. You must know how those people work. Wealth is not a signifier of merit. Your birth and breeding either attract it or do not, and you are in the latter camp.”
“At least I’m not a fucking—”
Talyn, speaking for the first time in hours, said, “Shut up, both of you. Whatever you’re trying to prove, there’s no audience for it down here but drampfs, orcs, and about a million corpses. None of this matters. For good or bad, Hampus Bell will never hear it.”
Runar said, “I hope that’s the case.”
“Smitz and Cyril might, though,” admitted Claes. “This place doesn't feel like it's far from where the Almighty put them.”
#
“The last switchback is straight ahead,” Garet said. “We’ve made good time.”
Farisa looked at her watch; it was late afternoon. They had been underground for nine hours. The Ivory Ashes would be unimaginably hot, she knew, but her eyes were longing for outdoor light even still. It would be good to have this place at her back.
A booming voice, loud and low enough to thump Farisa’s chest, called out.
“Qrunnvizzsra ploroovreis!”
“That’s a troll,” Garet said. “He’s speaking Drampfish, so we know what he's hungry for.”
Farisa said, “Something eats drampfs?”
“Trolls eat anything.”
From the darkness: “Cunty cunt cunt vyrim bitch bag!”
“He knows some Ettasi,” Runar said.
“Twat salt table ass salad bag smegma shit wine farts!”
Farisa asked, “Do you think he understands the words he’s using?”
Garet laughed. “Not sure.”
“Tarsha queer coming near, walking slow, wracked by fear!”
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Farisa shook her head. “Of course, it picks a woman first. If Switch Cave wants gender equality, it better handle its troll problem.”
The creature seemed to be dancing as he hollered taunts. “Charlatan corporate cunt! Cyclops dick stain! Geriatric wank bucket of chicken!”
Runar lifted his gun. “Shitter’s really pissing me off.”
“Don’t,” Garet said. “I’d rather be called a ‘wank bucket of chicken’ than die here. Trolls are cowardly, but they weigh more than a thousand pounds.” As cowardly as trolls may be, they weigh half a ton.
“Butt butt butt butt farts!” the troll shouted.
Mazie asked, “Where does he get this stuff?”
Farisa said, “It must be like—”
“Butt butt butt butt farts! Butt butt butt butt farts!” The troll made a wet, flatulent sound that echoes molded into something ineffably more sinister.
“He seems to have some sense of comprehension,” said Mazie. “He understands that concept.”
Farisa said, “Lucky guess?”
“Lose the beard, you hedge knight faggot!”
Claes lifted a sword.
“Ignore,” Garet said. “I know it’s hard.”
“Trauma-faced fake-mama’s boy!”
“Not you,” Mazie said to Eric.
“Thanks for bringing it up,” the boy said.
“Sirent yerrow clossbow queer biscuit!”
“I have a wife,” Saito said. “And I’ve never once considered—”
“Don’t worry,” Garet said. “We believe you.”
Farisa added, “And even if.”
“Bats is nyrrits, cats is dumb, bites her sister on the thumb!”
Farisa put her hands on her hips and tilted her shoulders forward. Under her breath, she said, “You’re bad at this.”
The troll took on the voice of an opera singer. “Pessima pessima pessssssimmaaa!”
“Troll’s hitting everyone but Kanos,” Mazie whispered to Farisa.
“No soul to read,” Farisa whispered back.
“We want no trouble,” Garet said loudly. “We’ll pass in a few minutes. You’ll never see us again.”
“One of you will soon die! One of you will soon die! One of you will soon die! One of you will soon die!
“Yerrow man fear the brack wind?
“One of you will soon die! One of you will soon die!”
Farisa could hear the troll’s movements; it was hopping on one foot, then the other.
“Hey, One Eye! See me any better with that thing? See my big dick yet?”
Farisa said, “I am getting so sick of—”
“Flabby tarsha cunty cunt, witchy bitch that no man wants!”
They had nearly stopped. The troll was coming closer to them; the grip of Farisa’s gun was warm in her hand.
“Wish-be vyrim, ghetto blood; mix of wine and mud’s just mud.”
Farisa closed her eyes. “I dare you to insult Mazie again. I’ve all of a mind to—”
“Cool it,” Claes said.
“Pussy pussy everywhere, strongest one’s got all gray hair.”
“Claes is no pussy,” Farisa said.
“Ouragan,” Mazie said.
“I see him now,” Runar said.
“Don’t fire,” Garet said. “He may kill us if you do.”
“None shall pass, none shall pass, till Brownie takes me up pink ass!”
Farisa bit her knuckle, then spat on the ground.
“Flashfire tampon Global Company ass dildo on a tarsha curry-fried cunt stick!”
“Slight talent there,” Farisa said. “Just slight.”
“Gwobal Company Day! H’vast Hampus! Gwobal Gwobal Company Day. Don’t you wish you could don’t you wish you still did. I love to love my taint I do I love my Gwobal Company taint I do.”
A stone flew through the black expanse, grazing an unta.
“I don’t see how to get around him,” Runar said.
A second rock flew overhead. Obese footfalls landed closer. A third thrown stone, the size of a human head, tore Farisa's denim pants at the knee—a direct strike would have ruined her leg. Instinct told her that to flee or advance would be equally deadly, so she looked at the others for a signal, but a fourth stone whizzed by Eric and a fifth crashed into their husker wagon.
Farisa entered the blue; Mazie, not usually one to cry, folded up in tears.
“Born so poor, one-eighth true—not much of a Vehu!
“Pessima, Exmore trash. Dated up till man got cash!
“Run away, run away. Bad at men, girl turned out gay!”
“Sorry, Maze,” Farisa said.
Her friend had been the bait; then, the mage brought on herself fifty times the pain she’d thrown upon Mazie. I’m a mage, so if he tries to enter me, he’ll likely die. She cycled through her life’s worst memories. The orphan’s school: the time Boof caught her swimming barefoot in a lake, the time they surrounded her and tried her for witchcraft, the time she realized she had been rejected by other rejects, and always would be. She remembered the Marquessa’s attacks—they were always fresh and new, but also the same, as all had happened through some topological perversion at the same point in time that happened to connect to everywhere else, leaving no escape. The madhouse, the madhouse—had she truly left? Droning sadness enveloped her; she gave herself up full to Switch Cave's darkness—the void pulled her eyes out of her head—this pain and panic would never end—the ghosts and ifnyri and dybhuki of hell circled—she had caused a fire that had killed twenty people—nine more would die today—and she was at fault, at fault, at fault for everything. Why had she come here? Why had she brought these eight others on this insane journey to the edge of the world, where they would all perish? She would have caused less death, had she had the decency to perish in that Exmore madhouse, or to die in Cait Forest’s fire where she could have laid down in the blanket of carbon monoxide smoke and never awakened. Had she really believed... that her father could be alive? ... that she might outrun the most powerful and thorough military in the world’s history? Stupid, stupid Farisa. She had caused so much pain and so much death already and, because of her, none of these people would ever see sunlight again, not even Nadia’s cat. She had done this; she had led them all here.
The troll, aroused by the woman’s misery, clapped his hands. An odor, redolent of beef tallow and bread mold, filled the corridor.
“Covered feet Lorani pure! Tarsha tarsha, insecure!
“Never lets man see her soles! Can’t even stand socks with holes!”
Farisa shouted at the troll. “You can do better!”
“Raqel, first to make her cum, now is an abused mum!”
She bit the inside of her mouth. Raqel and I never... it never... and abused? Where’d that come from? No, Farisa. Don’t listen to him. Keep your fucking focus.
“RAN FOR MILES, HUNDRED TEN, TO VYRIM SHE WON’T SEE AGAIN!”
Nadia and Merrick. Farisa insisted, “I will see them again, you piece of trash. They're alive, you sack of knob snot.”
Claes said, “Don't feed him.”
She whispered, “I’m giving him exactly what he wants. It’s the only way—”
Echoes intensified the troll's booming voice. “MEMORY, CANNOT TRUST. LOST HER JOB AND NAME FOR LUST. WITCHY GIRL, PARENTS DEAD, MURDER SPELL HAS WHACKED HER HEAD!” Laughing and farting, he shook with glee.
Farisa cried. There was truth in some of this. She had lost Raqel; you only got one best friend. Kyana was dead. Dashi was dead, truly dead; they had come this far and found no sign of him. She had spent her whole life taking out the deaths of her parents on the wrong people, and now these people would all die in this dark cavity, except perhaps for Kanos, whom the troll would let live for long enough to jerk off on her corpse. She realized, just now, that she had filled her parents—her own childish antics had led to the whole affair, her mother’s imprisonment, her father’s immolation, an entire continent beset by witch trials. I try to love, I do. I fail. Raqel? Married. Erysi? Scandal. Mazie? She might walk on my side of the street for now, but only because so many men have failed her. I have nothing, I am nothing, I am chubby little Fay, a used-up mage, a spent mage, a mistake—madness is all that’s left for me, so it’s for the best that I die here and cease to burden the world with my existence.
The troll, now visible, had stopped about five yards ahead of them, naked aside from a loincloth. His arms flailed overhead, between ten and two on a clock face. He laughed and he coughed and he bit his own lip and sucked on the blood.
“I know exactly who you are, Farisa La’ewind, born October 1st, 9973, to Kyana La’ewind and Dashi Zevian, and you are an ass biscuit a cunthorse a titstain a shiterella fucksnort onefortyfour pwrniizaa frloolp rrazaghar!”
Farisa could feel the troll probing her mind; she could feel his ravenous curiosity as warm, sickly bubbles of his intrusion erupted in her head. His arms swung from nine to three. He tore off his loincloth and his penis swung as he jumped from one foot to the other.
“Your parents are dead, your parents are dead! I shit on a tit and I tit on my shits. I always tit my shits I always tit my shits I do!”
The troll’s arms flailed from eight to four, swinging up and around erratically. His eyes twitched and snot poured from his nose. He scratched one leg with the misshapen toenail of the other one. He smacked his massive thigh, enraptured by his own hilarity, then slammed his back into the cave wall.
“Kazzu-ga wyetz lisha wy ganem spa!” (Lyrian: “You killed twenty people and you meant to do it.”)
“Pwrniizaa frloolp rrazaghar!”
“Orcish,” Garet said. “He’s regressing to what he’s used to.”
“Blaginaa quoffirate teshttoria quonviizaki moo! Sha-sha one-forty-four! Mooo! Pwrniizaa frloolp rrazaghar! Mooooooooooo!”
The troll’s eyes spun, and his head, rolling off center, seemed too heavy for his neck. He continued screaming, but his sound lost coherence; it did not sound like any language. His beefy arms flailed from seven to five, and then...
... his body took a hard six.
Bats flew away and down the corridor.
They stood in silence for a minute. No one seemed eager to move past this hideous creature that might be playing dead or have fallen asleep.
“He’s gone,” Runar finally said.
Claes said, “Are you sure?"
“No pulse. I could see it leave him.”
Mazie asked, “What ’appened?”
Farisa glared at Kanos. She spoke loudly enough to make sure he would hear what she had to say. “Arrogance killed him. He tried to enter a mind stronger than his own, and look what it fucking did to him.”
They stepped carefully over the obese naked body to avoid contact with it. Farisa led the animals around it, and she noticed, as left it behind, that blood was pouring from its nostrils.
“Fatal nosebleed. Such a damn trope.”
#
One of their husker wagons had been struck by the troll’s thrown stone, with two of the carriage’s upper ribs shattered, but the creature had only been startled. They stopped to repair the vehicle, and moved along.
This final limb of the serpentine road was much longer and flatter than the previous ones. Farisa's legs and sides and shoulders ached. She stopped every few seconds to listen to the cave, still unsettled by the troll’s taunts to such a degree that danger and, worse, insult seemed to come from all angles. When there was too much noise, her mind built from stray sound the troll’s cackling laughter.
Once they had been moving for about thirty minutes, Farisa put an arm around Mazie. “I am more sorry than words can express.”
“That was you? A spell?” Mazie's twang was back in full intensity. “It fucking ’urt.”
“I know it did. It hurt me too. It was a gambler’s hustle. The troll went for you and liked what it found, so it got greedy and it tried to enter me.”
“You didn’t put me in danger, did you?”
“No,” Farisa said. “I did not add to the danger we were in.”
Mazie put a hand on Farisa’s arm. “Then I thank you.”
“He got more out of me than I thought he would. Perhaps I wear too much on my sleeve? I don’t know, Mazie.”
They walked together in silence.
“The word tarsha is Lorani,” Farisa said. “Did you know that? It comes from my own culture. Where I was born, dark women are pessimae.”
Mazie stepped aside and gave Farisa that raised-eyebrow look. “Ye’re not considered beautiful in your own culture? That I don’t believe.”
“It’s preferred to be light. My mother was Ettasi, but my father was very dark. I got his color, which would cut a dowry in half.”
“Man, they’ve got it wrong over there.”
“They sure do.” Farisa smiled as they kept walking. “Fuck it all.”
“I’d rather fuck someone else,” Mazie said.
Their arms locked together. “Same here.”
“I feel bad.”
“Why?”
“I used that word all that time as a child,” Mazie said. “I didn’t know what it meant.”
“It’s not the word that’s evil. It's the injustice behind it.”
“If we make it where we’re trying to go...” Mazie said before stopping.
“Then?”
“We’ll ’ave an amazing story to tell the world. Perhaps that’ll help us slay the old bigotries and pull the world’s working people together to tear down the Company.”
Farisa smiled. “I like the way you think, Maze, but I haven’t yet found a way to enter a million minds at once.”
#
One of the untas had begun to lose speed, so Mazie dropped back to check on it. At this time, Claes pulled Farisa aside. He looked around before he spoke.
“What the troll said, about the murder spell. Is there any—?”
“Not that I remember,” Farisa said.
“If you do, let us know.”
Garet had been listening. “I’m sure, if there is anything to that, it was in self-defense. It’s just that if you used magic to kill, there’s a risk of—”
“I know,” Farisa said. “I’ve read all about that.”
#
Garet remembered Switch Cave’s monotonous descent as being tough on the knees and ankles, but it had been especially painful this time through. Claes and Saito didn’t seem to be minding it, but age was pulling him down. There had been a hundred climbs and scrambles more taxing than this; here, the source of pain was repetition, the use of the same muscles and joints in the exact same way for more than ten thousand steps on a constant downward slope. He held his lantern away from himself so no one would see him massaging his aching flank with the other hand.
In spite of his pain and exhaustion, though, he had no regrets about coming here. If the Mountain Road could be conquered, this would be the team and time. One could not have met these people twenty years ago; he would have come back with no one else.
Farisa sniffed the air and smothered her torch. “There’s flashfire.”
“Guns away,” Garet said, placing his weapon in one of the wagons, hauling out a sword and iron buckler. The others did likewise.
Safety lanterns didn’t spill half the light of a regular oil lamp, let alone a torch, so they couldn’t see nearly as far as before, and adjusting to the low light left them circumspect as they inched forward, making sure the animals were all together behind them. Garet would be glad to be out of this place, and he knew the others felt the same way. Switch Cave’s eerie sounds and lack of color were bad enough, but those arched side alleys and chutes, out of which nothing good came, gave his old heart a stretch whenever he walked by one.
Garet spotted a forked crack on the cave floor; it looked like a crudely-drawn hand with three long fingers, one curled. He had seen it decades ago, and visited this place in dreams of late. Everyone’s nighttime imagery had grown more vivid as they moved south. Saito seemed to dream often about someone named Sayuna—“Sayuna, draw white”—although, when asked about the name while awake, he would insist he had never heard it. Farisa’s nocturnal ramblings were often in Lyrian, which he didn’t recognize, although on a recent morning he had heard, “Your mind is the place you make it.”
Dreams, though, were peacetime puzzles. In this place of brightly-waking darkness, one had to put most attention on one’s senses, as tedious as they were to listen to.
“I know this place," he said. “We’re half a mile from the exit.”
“I don’t see any light,” Talyn replied.
“The sun’s probably down by now,” Farisa said. “Or close to it.”
Claes heard the sound first: an orc swinging a makeshift flail charged. Claes’s sword cut the rope and the stone at the weapon’s head crashed into a cave wall. Runar slashed the assailant’s belly, causing blood to pour as it crumpled. The orc, on its way down, grabbed Runar’s collar and kneed him in the sternum. Mazie’s sword struck the orc’s neck, resulting in partial decapitation and ending the threat.
Garet never saw the one that lunged and shoved him. He tumbled down a steep chute and came to a stop in total darkness. His fingertips felt the ground. It was unnervingly smooth, like a dinner plate.
#
Garet called out. “Who else is down here?”
He could tell by the spreading hot pain that several bones were broken. He touched the ground again; the stone was too smooth to be a natural surface. As he stood himself up, using his sword for balance, the pain was unyielding and, for a moment, he wondered why he had risen at all.
“I’m here,” he heard Farisa say.
“Also here,” said Runar.
Nothing could be seen in this darkness, but Runar had the Eye. “What do you see, Runar?”
“We’re in a circular room. Two staircases on opposite ends.”
“Both of you, come to me.”
Runar’s strong arms slid under his. “We’ll help you.”
“We’d never leave you,” Farisa said.
He loved and hated to hear her say this.
Sounds—footfalls and shouts and murmurs—came from above.
“Farisa,” Garet said, breathing heavily due to the pain. “Light.”
A bubble of whiteness appeared between her hands. She let it float, brightening the chamber just enough to see its outline. Oblique hexagons tessellated the marble floor of a large space shaped like a bowl. The floor, except for an alcove similar to a fireplace, was oblong and flat here but, at its perimeter, curved gradually upward into a wall that was vertical at the upper rim, some ten stories above them, where a narrow balcony circumscribed them. As Runar had mentioned, two stone staircases on opposite sides of the long axis rose to meet wooden doors twenty feet high.
Garet pointed to the closer one. “That would be the way out.”
Both doors flew open at the same time. Farisa’s light disappeared; the two supported Garet as they crept toward the nearer staircase. The orcs chattered and quarreled as they spread along the balcony. He could tell by their volume that there were more than a few of them; at least twenty had come into the chamber, and more were arriving.
Braziers lit up above them, casting enough light for the whole room, and he could see the orcs—some emaciated and furious, others obese and lumbering—as they came with their crude weapons, a mix of rusty blades and wide clubs. Less than a minute had passed since the doors had opened, and there were fifty now. Firearms would be no option; Garet could smell the thick flashfire.
He handed Farisa, who had no shield, his buckler. “Leave me here.”
“What? Garet, no.”
“Get up there safely.”
The mass of orcs had increased; their lips were open and loud whoops were coming from their ugly mouths. They were hungry, and they had come for a meal.
“We can’t leave you,” Farisa insisted.
“There’s no way all three of us survive, but the two of you can.”
#
Farisa refused to believe what she had heard. “There must be a way we all survive this.”
Garet was panting; he was injured, and bodily pain seemed to be clouding his thinking. “If you stay here with me, you will die.”
Runar said, “Farisa, you have a weapon?”
“Revolver.” She knew it would be no use. The odor of flashfire was so thick, she could barely smell the orcs.
Runar handed her a hunting knife. “Here.”
She took it. “There has to be a way to get him out of here.”
Garet shook his head. “The two of you: stick together, no matter what.”
She looked up the stairs. The sight filled her with face-crushing dread. Orcs, tussling on the staircase in a rush to get down to them, were pouring in faster than physics should allow, in such number she would have felt hopeless, had they not survived Globbos and skrums and orcs, though in smaller number, better-armed and more disciplined than this rabble. Yovah-gehemnit, they were going to survive this.
“Come on, Garet!”
“I have lived,” he said as he backed into the alcove, a position that, although defensive on three sides, would leave him surrounded without escape.
Farisa’s heart pounded, sending waves of pressure into her neck and jaw. “Stop speaking nonsense and come with us.”
“Defeating them is impossible, but I can give the two of you an even-odds chance.”
“Nonsense.” Farisa stepped toward him and grabbed his arm. “We’re going to get all of us out, three out of three. You’re hurt badly, I see, but I can heal you. I can fix anything.”
Garet unsheathed a machete—he was fighting two-bladed now—and relieved a charging orc of its poleax arm. “You can’t.” Another orc came, and Garet bashed it with his buckler before slashing open the orc’s chest. “There are just too many. Save the two of you.”
Runar clocked a blue-skinned orc with a shield before slicing open its pelvis, exposing bone. As the orcs’ hunger had left them too impatient to use the staircases, some were now sliding down the room’s convex wall. An orcling ran for Garet and attempted to bite his leg, though Garet deftly swung a machete into its neck, causing blood to spurt.
“We can’t let him die, not this way,” Farisa said. “They’re going to eat him.”
“Look out!” Garet yelled.
An orcling, bounding off the staircase’s bottom step, charged Farisa. She blocked it with her buckler, hoping someone else would do the killing, because while she had fired guns, she had never slain anything in close combat, but Runar was fending off two other orcs, and Garet’s position, though defensive, was increasingly hopeless for the throng that had worked its way between them, so she would have to do this herself. She tore open the orcling’s leg above the knee, it snarled and swung a fist, which she dodged before severing its hamstring.
Runar, with a broadsword in hand, took advantage of an opening to get to the first step and shouted, “Garet knows what he’s doing.”
Farisa stepped on the first stair; Runar had taken the second. About a hundred vertical feet separated them from the top of this place, and the staircase had become a pressing river of orcs, and she realized, as much as she hated the fact, that he had been right. They were three against more than a hundred and, even counting the orcs’ indiscipline and lack of armaments, escape was unlikely and possibly hopeless. Runar, in taking the third step, severed an orc’s head and used the body to block the swing of a staff that would have shattered his ribcage. Farisa felt a small orc’s hand on her blouse and slashed its wrist as it grabbed. Runar grabbed a long-haired orc by the mane; he and Farisa smashed two orcs’ heads together, stunning them. They took the fourth stair, then the fifth. She slit a throat; he severed an arm, then a head. They reached the sixth stair; there were only about a hundred and sixty steps to go…
Like a waterfall of warm sewage, orcish bodies continued to press down. The stairwell had railings on both sides, which Farisa and Runar used to protect their backs, but the rotting fixtures couldn’t be leaned against, because there was no chance that either one would support their weight. As an orc swung its fist, she sliced open the back of its hand, revealing bones; Runar's sword entered the same orc’s massive chest, and when he withdrew the blade, the body slumped, leaving a temporary defensive barrier that deflected a few more down the stairs. They took the eighth step. The sight of the hungry orcs no longer filled her with despair because there was no room for it; the spirit of her fight had switched from survival to hatred—she could die here, could be eaten alive here, and the thought of being cannibalized made her want to kill, kill, kill as many of these adversaries as she could. She screamed in fury as she slashed and stabbed.
Garet shouted, at a volume she would have thought only possible from a younger man, “Pwrniizaa frloolp rrazaghar!”
Had she heard that right? Or had fury corrupted her senses? Her eyes locked, on the ninth stair, with an orc that, although unarmed, was the biggest they’d faced yet, a seven-foot she-orc with a child suckling at her breast.
“Pwrniizaa frloolp rrazaghar, you worthless motherfuckers!”
Teeth bared, the mother kicked Farisa in the stomach. Knowing she could not defeat the orcess in fair combat—a single blow from the obese opponent would end the fight out of her favor—she grabbed the infant and threw it over the railing. The she-orc fled after the child, allowing Farisa to claim two more steps. Runar stabbed and sliced and shield-bashed his way up three.
“Pwrniizaa frloolp rrazaghar, whatever that means in your shit-cunt language!”
Garet, she now understood, was trolling the orcs. His insults seemed to be working, because several of the orcs had removed the staircase railings in their race to reach the old man shouting at them. Although terrified for Garet’s sake, Farisa was glad for the lessened pressure, because her arms were beginning to tire and her white leather jacket, though it had absorbed enough blows to leave her certain it had prolonged her life already, had been torn to pieces.
“Pwrniizaa frloolp rrazaghar, you husker-fucking shit stains!”
The orcs were so enraged now that quite a few were jumping from the staircase, even at a height of twenty feet. Runar and Farisa, for those, only needed to avoid blocking their way. On occasion, they could see the top of the stairs.
“Pwrniizaa frloolp rrazaghar, you snot-eyed drampf-ugly cum clods!”
Farisa took four quick steps up. A leather-clad orc tried to bludgeon her with an iron club; she dodged and sliced open its thigh, then cut its neck. Runar had driven his sword into an orc’s belly and was struggling to get it out; she held the body while he pulled. Looking back, she saw Garet, pain on his face as he swung his machete, severing orcish heads and limbs with the skill of a maestro, but with so much pain on his face she was sure he was getting exhausted..
Once it is safe, I will go into the blue and help him. He’s one of us and he must live.
She and Runar were two or three stories high now. A small orcling, barely a hundred pounds, charged at Farisa and clamped its teeth on her exposed forearm. She slammed the hilt of her dagger on its ear, to no effect, then sliced the flesh above its collarbone. Its teeth disengaged and it yelped in pain. She grabbed it by the arm, used a leg sweep to turn it off balance, and hurled it off the staircase. Its body hit the cave’s floor; it was not dead, but its legs were bent in a fashion incompatible with it standing ever again. A much larger orc followed. Farisa swung her knife overhead, stabbing it in the side, but the muscle was tough and her weapon got stuck. A massive knee collided with her chest. She felt dizzy and nearly lost her balance.
“Pwrniizaa frloolp rrazaghar, you piss-fucking dildo-slut taint gobblers!”
The large muscular orc, angered by the insult, seemed to reach a split in its resolve; Runar used this moment of delay to sever the right arm. Farisa extracted the knife she had put in it, causing blood to fly everywhere. Combined efforts, hers and Runar’s, were necessary to push this one, alive but stunned, over the stairwell. Its heavy body landed on the small orc below, causing the latter to squeal.
They had reached eye level with the balcony. Garet’s screams had become more inarticulate. Runar was panting. Farisa, starting to realize what bodily pain she was in, looked back and could no longer see the old man in the thick of the fight, one who would surely need her help soon. Runar reached the top step, but Farisa’s way was blocked by a one-handed orc—a green-and-white cravat, both trophy and tourniquet, had been tied around a stump made some time ago—that swung a short iron club; Farisa blocked the blow with her buckler, side-stomped its knee, and found herself unsure of what to do next—Garet, we have to help Garet—in a moment of indecision that would have turned the fight against her had Runar’s sword not severed its head, which flew with enough force to strike the chamber’s curved wall, leaving a trail of neck blood as it rolled down to the floor.
To reach the balcony, she took assistance from Runar’s outstretched arm. The chamber was still teeming with orcs—hundreds—but most of them had gone around the other staircase, making a faster path to the old man who continued shouting insults. Pain was spreading through Farisa’s chest now and she hoped her ribs were still in their right places. Runar stepped toward the large open door.
Farisa could see Garet now, still in the alcove at the bottom of the bowl-shaped room. "Wait! We can—” We can do something, I can do something. We can still save—
Garet’s leg had been torn open; broken bones were visible. Orcish teeth had shredded his jacket and undershirt. He’d lost so much blood that the smaller orcs, unable to compete with their larger brethren for a live meal, were lapping it off the floor. So many massive bodies surrounded the old man, the situation appeared hopeless... which it cannot be, because I am a mage, and as I am a mage, I will solve this.
“Farisa!” Garet shouted. "Go now before they close the doors!”
She heard the squeal of movement; indeed, the large wooden door was swinging back shut, so she sprinted, catching up with Runar, both of them barely past it when she heard it slam.
“We have to—” Farisa could not catch her breath. She noticed bruises and cuts all over her arms. Tears from pain clouded her vision. “We can’t let—We have to go back, and I’ll go into the—I’ll think of something—Runar, if we don’t figure something out, Garet’s going to—”
On the other side of the heavy wooden door, the old man lit his third cigarette.
A hot pulse singed Farisa’s skin. The corridor turned red, then yellow. A shock wave slammed into the studded door with the force of a battering ram. Orcish shrieks mingled with the crackles of fire. Frantic fists pounded as the chamber where five hundred orcs had come to feed turned as hot as a kiln.
“He’s—”
“He did it for us,” said Runar.
“I can’t believe...”
They walked, but it felt as if Farisa were floating, because she could not believe she was walking away from Garet, because languor in motion might protest in some useful way the now completed fact of the man’s death, because she and Runar were still alone in the bowels of a place that had no right to exist.
The corner of her eye caught motion. An orcling, no more than four and a half feet tall, in a child-sized suit of armor with a sword too large for its arm, had come late for the feast. It looked at the closed door, beyond which there was still a hot bright light that must have been confusing to it, because then it looked at Farisa, and she saw something in its beady eyes that immediately put her into the blue, in a state of fury, that had her lifting it by its armor plates to swing its body horizontal, like a battering ram, before she slammed its skull into the sacrificial chamber’s shut door. The little creature, unable to see the invisible hands that had taken control of it, squealed in terror as its head met studded hardwood a second time. Garet was worth more than a hundred million of you, so fuck you and your shitpiss clan, fuck you to death you piece of fucking.... On the third collision, its scalp broke open, causing blood to fly.
“Farisa.” Runar had put a hand on her leather-clad shoulder—the one with a scar on it. “Stop.”
She stamped her feet and screamed. “Why?”
“The door to that place is closed. Don’t open it.”