Denor was not a man burdened with the luxury of introspection or an overwhelming abundance of options. The concept of retreat was off the table, because Harg was on the other side of it. And Harg was not the sort you simply sidestep, unless you really wanted to end up in a crumpled heap. Even Denor knew better than to attempt that. With the ladder now sealed off by Litarn, this left him in quite a quandry.
Gella, bless her foolish heart, was in dire straits too. She was back in the evil sorcerer’s clutches, a villain who had a questionable number of legs in his various storerooms and a whole dungeon full of slaves to back him up. Denor didn’t care to dwell on that thought too much.
Once the old man’s footsteps finally faded into the distance, Denor darted back into the darkness of the narrowing tunnels, his mind a map of remembered horrors. There was that one dead end, the one with the smell so rancid it could contend with his own bedroom—a sure sign he was on the right path. The stench hit his nostrils, and yes, there it was. The plan he had concocted, if one could dignify it with that word, was simple, the only one he was capable of. He had to lure the beast towards the exit using strategically placed rotting carcasses. Not the most elegant of solutions, but Denor had learned that elegance rarely helped when dealing with nightmare creatures. So he got down to it, and it wasn’t pretty work and didn’t need to be detailed here.
With the last carcass in place, Denor wiped his hands on the wall, because when you’re up to your elbows in rot, a bit of grime on your hands is the least of your worries. He approached the grate, the place where his monstrous associate resided—a creature with a muzzle like a handful of rusty garden tools and a disposition to match. The jaws clacked, the sound like nails on a particularly determined chalkboard.
“Hey there you beautiful beast,” Denor said, his voice almost cheerful in the face of impending doom. “Fancy giving a me some help? Seems that sorcerer’s gone and made life difficult for both of us.”
The creature turned its many eyes on him, with an expression that might have been quizzical if its face had been designed for expressions. “Beauty?” it echoed, more confused than offended. “I didn’t think you saw me like that, but hey, I’m open-minded. Let’s get out of here.”
Denor forced himself to keep talking, partly to distract the creature and partly to keep the fear from crawling up his spine. “Been cooped up here long? How about stretching those six fine legs of yours?”
“Sure thing, boss,” it replied, all too eager. “You’re the one with the opposable thumbs.”
Denor, swallowing his apprehension, pulled back the bolt and heaved the grate open. The creature paused, as if pondering whether freedom was worth leaving behind its grim but familiar cage. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, it stepped forward, its claws scraping against the stone floor, the noise grating on Denor’s nerves. It found the first carcass and, with a satisfied click of its jaws, picked up the pace.
“Oh, this is just perfect! Finally, a decent meal!”
Denor kept a close eye on the beast, he wasn’t entirely sure what he was supposed to do if the giant ant turned on him, which was an admitted downside to his plan. Finding a small alcove, he pressed himself against the wall, trying to become one with the shadows.
“Oh yes, that’s the good stuff,” the creature murmured between bites, relishing the taste. “Nothing like a bit of well-aged rot to hit the spot.”
The monster, an insect the size of a small horse, reached the exit from the dead-end corridor only to find itself wedged like a particularly stubborn cork in a bottle. Its metal plates scraped against the stone walls with all the grace of a badly tuned violin, sending blue sparks skittering into the gloom. The smell that followed was like a portable generator malfunction, which added to the olfactory assault in a most displeasing manner. It let out a noise that sounded suspiciously like the ghost of a bagpipe being squeezed, sending shivers down Denor’s spine.
“We might have a teensy-weensy problem here,” the ant grumbled. “I wasn’t exactly designed for such tight spaces, you know…”
“Come on!” Denor hollered, showing all the patience of a man trying to move a stubborn aurox by shouting at it. “Get that thorax of yours through! Push, you great armored buffoon! Try!”
“Alright, alright! I’m pushing, I’m pushing! But how about a little less nagging and a little more believing in your friendly neighborhood insect?”
With what could only be described as an ant equivalent of an eye-roll, the creature finally wriggled through the passage, albeit at a pace that suggested it was in no rush to impress anyone, least of all Denor. The boy, not one to let a little thing like wounded pride slow him down, sprang onto the ant’s back, which, in the dim light, looked like the world’s least comfortable saddle. With dramatic flair, he grabbed hold of the ant’s antennae as though they were reins and yanked them with a confidence that suggested he’d done this a thousand times before—or at least once in a very vivid daydream.
“Onward!” Denor declared, tightening his grip. “To glory, my steed!”
“Oh, not this again,” the ant muttered, twitching its antennae in what might have been annoyance if ants were prone to such things. “You really don’t have to pull, you know. I’ve got legs for the whole locomotion thing.”
Nevertheless, the ant lumbered forward, its body scraping along the walls like a particularly irritable accordion, until finally, with a mighty heave, it broke free into the passage beyond.
“Well done, noble steed!” Denor exclaimed, patting the ant’s back with what he hoped was encouragement but probably came across as condescension.
The ant trudged onward, no doubt contemplating the unspoken indignities of being treated like a four-legged taxi service. They were barely ten paces from the copper-clad door when Denor suddenly yanked on the antennae again.
“Whoa! Stop! Did you hear that?”
The ant sighed, a sound halfway between resignation and the distinct impression that Denor was making this up as he went along. “Hear what? The sound of us almost escaping, maybe?”
Denor, caught up in the thrill of the moment, laughed, the sound echoing around the passage in a way that would have made a master of stealth groan out loud.
“Where’s Gella?” he shouted at the copper door, his voice brimming with bravado. “Let her go, or my hungry horse here will tear you apart!”
The ant, who up until now had considered itself a peace-loving creature, was less than thrilled with this sudden promotion to ‘rampaging beast of doom.’ “Wait a minute, let’s think this through! I’m not exactly battle-ready!”
Litarn, the old sorcerer who was indeed on the other side of the door, was momentarily taken aback but quickly rallied. “To me, my loyal followers!” he called, and the sound of feet—lots of them—scuttled toward the passage.
The ant began backing away with a beeping sound, a move that in any other situation might have been considered sensible. “Nobody mentioned weapons! This is a terrible idea!”
Denor glanced behind him to see a crowd of Litarn’s obedient slaves cramming into the passage. One of them, probably Simon, held a blaster, and all of them wore the same expression—one that said, ‘Seen one giant monster, seen ‘em all.’
Litarn laughed, the kind of laugh that suggested he had all the aces, and maybe a joker or two, up his sleeve. He winked at Denor as if to say, "Let the games begin."
"My lads aren’t the sort to be scared off by a few flashy tricks, my boy. They’ve been knocked about and patched up more times than I can count, and they know that if things go south, I’ll put them right again with my beautiful lovely gems. My marvelous, loyal minions, they don’t fear a thing! Now then, boys! Simon, teach this impudent young fool some manners! But remember, leave his head intact—I’ve still got plans for it!"
Before Simon could let loose a blast, Denor flattened himself against the smooth, chitinous back of the ant and loosened his grip on its antennae. The creature, sensing freedom, scuttled forward as if it had been late for a very important date. Litarn, in a surprising move of accuracy, slammed the door behind him, vanishing into his lair.
"Come on, you dawdling insect! Put some hustle in those legs!" Denor hissed.
"I’m scuttling as fast as my legs can go!" the ant seemed to complain, antennae twitching irritably.
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A blast zipped past Denor, close enough to give him a sudden interest in advanced evasive maneuvers. Another shot singed a patch of hair just above his ear, filling the air with the unmistakable scent of ‘almost-toast.’ But with Denor’s frantic encouragement and Simon’s terrible aim, the ant picked up speed, darting ahead like a startled cat. Behind them, Simon and the other minions stood like confused statues—no one had told them to chase, after all. As for Harg, who’d been standing guard like a particularly ugly gargoyle, he wisely flattened himself against the rock wall, not keen on becoming roadkill. The ant shot past him, sprinting into the green expanse of the cemetery.
Denor gulped down the fresh air, relishing the sensation of wind in his face. For a fleeting moment, a wicked idea danced in his head—he could charge straight into the village, bellowing and laughing like a madman, watching the townsfolk scatter before him. The mere sight of him, astride a monstrous ant, would probably send old Hevath into hysterics. But with a weary sigh, he dismissed the notion. As much as he hated to admit it, he had to return to Litarn’s infernal domain.
“We have to stopped!” Denor snapped, yanking on the ant’s antennae yet again.
"You want to go back? Have you completely lost your mind? We only just got out of that madhouse!" the ant’s body language seemed to say, as it spun in circles, digging furrows deep enough to plant trees in.
It took a bit of coaxing and a fair amount of yelling, but at last, the ant seemed to get the idea. Harg, displaying the good sense of someone who enjoys living, scuttled ahead of them this time, not even bothering to plaster himself against the wall. He fled with the calm dignity of someone who knows better than to argue with an oncoming train.
“Run all you want, Harg! We’ll catch you!” Denor whooped after him with a grin, feeling giddy from the mad ride and the sheer absurdity of it all. The ant’s relentless grinding and clattering filled him with a reckless sort of joy—he wanted to wave his arms, leap about, and laugh just for the fun of it. Now this was ant riding!
Harg threw down his weapon as he reached the throng of silent slaves, who promptly turned and disappeared into the dungeon’s depths like rats abandoning a sinking ship. Denor, with a twinge of regret, slid off his ant just as they reached the copper door, arming himself with the blaster. The moment its burden was gone, the ant scuttled forward even faster, as if keen to be rid of the entire affair. The slaves continued their silent retreat, too busy fleeing to spare a moment for screaming or cursing.
Now armed and dangerously ignorant, Denor yanked the copper door open, barreling into the room with all the subtlety of a landslide. His eyes darted around until they landed on Gella, sprawled face down on the table. In one swift motion, he scooped her up, just as Litarn managed to rise from his table of enchanted stones. With a determined scowl, Denor unceremoniously dumped Gella on the floor and leveled the blaster at the man, finger tightening on the trigger.
Denor had never raised a weapon against a human before. But then again, was Litarn even human? The vile sorcerer was something else entirely, a creature wrapped in flesh like an ill-fitting coat. "Come now, my boy, drop the blaster," Litarn said, with the casual indifference of someone ordering a starter. Denor’s stance screamed defiance, but Litarn didn’t seem to care one bit.
Litarn's voice was a soft whisper, the kind that slips under doors and through keyholes, yet somehow it sliced through the air like a razor-sharp scythe. His pale eyes drilled into Denor’s, and for a fleeting moment, Denor felt a sneer rising in his throat—only for it to fizzle out, like a firework on a rainy day. "Drop it," Litarn said again, his tone heavy with inevitability.
Denor’s head shook, though he desperately wished to look away. He attempted to shut his eyes, but his treacherous eyelids refused to obey, as if they too were under Litarn’s thrall. Those eyes of the old sorcerer didn’t just look at you—they dug in, like a badger setting up home, and sapped your strength at great speed. Denor’s grip on the blaster loosened against his will, his fingers relaxing as if they were answering to some unseen master. Any moment now, the blaster would clatter to the floor, and Denor would be just another puppet, like the poor Charan.
The room around them wasn’t helping matters, either. Dark, metallic walls, floor, and ceiling, all embedded with crystalline structures that hummed with energy, feeding Litarn’s power until the old man seemed something far more dangerous than human. "Gella!" Denor croaked, each word dragged out of him as if from a great distance. "Run! No one's at the door! Warn the village!"
Gella stirred, but Litarn’s gaze snapped to her like a hawk spotting a rabbit. "Sit down!" he commanded, and Gella froze, stiff as a statue. But in that fleeting instant, Litarn’s eyes had left Denor’s, and the spell broke like a brittle twig. Denor’s grip on the blaster tightened. He willed his finger to pull the trigger, to end this nightmare—but Litarn was quicker, dodging the shot that never came and seizing Denor’s hand, his eyes boring into him once more.
"Run, Gella! I’ll hold him!" Denor shouted, though his voice wavered as Litarn’s stare clawed at his willpower.
Gella bolted for the door. Litarn, realizing that even he couldn’t keep both of them under his gaze at once, switched tactics. With a swift shove, he sent Denor crashing into the table, the back of his head meeting the edge with a resounding crack. Pain exploded in Denor’s skull, and for a moment, the world spun like a drunken top.
As Litarn lunged for Gella, something stopped him in his tracks. Standing in the doorway, metallic skin twitching like a disturbed anthill, was Sulas. His head, now level with the old man’s chest, shook disapprovingly. "Out of my way, slave!" Litarn barked. "Move, you earthworm!"
But Sulas wasn’t having it. "Not a slave," Sulas corrected, each word punctuated by the strange throb of his segmented body. "You forgot, Litarn. Until now, I helped you... voluntarily. Now it’s time for my segment."
"Oh, Sulas! What impeccable timing!" Denor exclaimed, overjoyed by Sulas’s appearance, though perhaps not the pun about his disgusting body.
Litarn, losing his temper like a toddler denied a sweet, let go of Gella and lunged at Sulas, his hand suddenly aglow with something white-hot and terrible. But Sulas was ready. His segmented body coiled around Litarn’s legs and torso like a particularly vindictive snake, squeezing with all the strength he could muster. The old sorcerer thrashed, his blazing hand striking at Sulas’s coiled form. With each strike, thick brown blood splattered the floor, but Sulas held on grimly. It was a battle of wills now, and for the first time, it seemed that Litarn might just have met his match.
Sulas laughed, a sound that danced in his eyes as if they were positively fizzing with glee rather than agony. He made a valiant effort to transform Litarn's vicious onslaught into nothingness, all the while keeping the sorcerer's attention away from the nimble-footed Gella and Denor as they made their timely exit.
And then, in an entirely unplanned burst of enthusiasm, the boy threw himself into the fray. The plan, if it could be dignified as such, was to heroically grab the old man's flailing arm. What actually happened was more of a stumbling headlong dive, which concluded with a dramatic and rather uncomfortable headbutt against the villain. The sound was something akin to a pumpkin meeting a particularly unforgiving doorstep.
Sulas relaxed his grip, letting Litarn crumple to the floor in a rather undignified heap of jangling amulets and clattering rings. "Sulas, Sulas! You're amazing!" cried Denor, clearly teetering on the brink of a mild concussion and utterly oblivious to his own contribution to the chaos. "I searched everywhere for you!"
Sulas grinned at the now decidedly unconscious sorcerer. "Litarn? More like lights out!" he quipped with a grin so wide it might’ve split his face in two.
Gella managed a polite chuckle, while Denor let out a laugh so hearty it nearly knocked him off balance. "You're really funny, Sulas!" he proclaimed, his admiration for the man evidently unscathed by the events.
Then, with a sobering jolt, Denor's gaze landed on Sulas, sprawled on the floor like a collapsed marionette, his grotesque form leaking blood from an assortment of grievous injuries. The star-shaped necklace Sulas wore, once a proud ornament, was now shattered, its colorful stones scattered across the blood-slicked floor.
"What are you staring at, Gella?" Denor barked, his panic flaring. "You’ve got to save Uncle Sulas! I don't know how, but you’ve got to!"
Gella clutched a length of fabric as if it were the answer to all the world’s problems but seemed hesitant to touch Sulas’s bloodied skin. Denor, lacking both patience and tact, snatched the cloth from her hands with an exasperated huff.
“Don’t scold her, Denor,” Sulas murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper. His face was ashen, his eyes half-closed, but still twinkling with that signature mischief. “She didn’t faint or turn into a stone statue at the sight of me—that’s what I call bravery. She’s got a strong heart, that one.”
“I’m sorry, Sulas,” Gella whispered, her voice quavering despite her best efforts to stay composed. “I’ll bandage you up now. Move aside, Denor.”
“That’s very kind of you, dear, but I’m afraid I’m a bit beyond bandages now, even if you try to... mummy me,” Sulas said, wincing as the effort of talking made him painfully aware of every cut and bruise.
Denor giggled, promptly losing his balance.
“Don’t you mean ‘mother’ you?” Gella asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I know what I said,” Sulas shot back, winking at his tiny audience of one as though they were sharing a private joke.
With a weary shake of his head, he dislodged the makeshift bandage, causing the wounds to reopen with a fresh burst of crimson. “Besides, those lovely eyes of yours shouldn’t have to witness such unsightly business. Turn away, dear, and keep your dreams peaceful.”
“Why are you doing this, Sulas?” Denor lamented, tears threatening to spill over. “Why won’t you let Gella help you?”
But Sulas offered no answer. Instead, Denor scrambled to gather the scattered stones, attempting to reassemble the shattered necklace as though it might somehow piece Sulas back together. The copper thread, however, was beyond his skill, and the stones had no intention of staying put. In a fit of frustration, Denor attempted to remove his own identical necklace, but the clasp refused to budge.
Sulas's laughter, despite everything, shook his entire frame. “Oh Denor, a chimp would have a better chance at building a spaceship than you reforging that necklace.”
“I don’t need to be better than a chimp!” Denor declared with all the defiance of a boy who had never been outsmarted by many a clasp before. “Gella, help me! There’s no time to lose! He’s slipping away!”
“You’re not that badly hurt. You’ll recover!” Denor stated with the kind of confidence that defied all medical knowledge.
Sulas’s smile turned soft, almost wistful. “Not this time, lad. Some wounds can’t be mended with stones or stitches. But your heart, your spirit—those are what really matter. Keep them strong.”
Denor’s eyes welled with tears as he worked with feverish desperation, but Sulas’s breath was growing faint. Gella knelt beside them, her hands steady now as she took Denor’s hand in hers.
“Thank you, Sulas,” she whispered. “For everything.”
Sulas grinned one last time. “Just remember me for who I was. I was hilarious, and you will quote everything I say.”
And with that final, mischievous wink, Sulas’s eyes closed, his body settling into stillness. Denor and Gella sat in the quiet, holding fast to the memory of Sulas’s laughter and his unapologetically awful jokes.