Rattick slid the knife deeper into Relan’s belly, then pulled it out. The brave Farm Boy collapsed to the floor, trying to hold his guts in.

Asarah screamed until her lungs were out of air. When she paused to take a breath, she could still hear the far off echoes of Boltac’s body crashing into the sides of the pit. She screamed again, but with very little air in her lungs her cries degenerated into a cycle of shallow, choking sobs.

“Hmm, yes, thank you Rattick, for taking care of that minor nuisance.”

“I live to serve, my Lord.”

“It would be nice to believe that, wouldn’t it, Rattick?”

“Well, whatever humble reward you see fit to bestow on my unworthy person…”

“Oh, Rattick. Oh, Faithful Rattick,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Your job was to see that no Adventurers disturbed me.”

“And for that, my cut was whatever loot they had on them,” Rattick said, eying Boltac’s Magic sack greedily.

“Yes, but you see, I have been well and truly disturb–”

“Geh,” said Relan, as the last of his life leaked out across the stone floor.

“Oh, good Lord, man, just die already and get it over with.” Dimsbury looked at Asarah, collapsed in a heap on the ground. “You’ll clean this up! I swear to the Nether Gods you will. They’re your rescuers. This is your mess. Now, where was I? Oh yes, Rattick. I know not what to do with you.”

“I just saved your life, Master.”

“You saved my robe, Rattick. You think he had a chance?”

“Eeeh…” said Rattick.

Dimsbury bent over and addressed the dying boy directly, “You never had a chance! Do you understand? Not a chance.”

Relan made a gurgling noise.

“So, Rattick, I will allow you to take as much gold as you can gather and carry from Boltac’s sack. Is that acceptable?”

“Quite acceptable.”

“Excellent. And I trust I will never see you again.”

“Not in this or any other lifetime,” Rattick said, with a courtly bow of his head.

“Very well. Samga, take the sack to the UnderHall, gather the horde, and dump the Merchant’s gold for the feast.”

“As you command, Master.”

“But,” Rattick interrupted, as gently as possible, “I take mine first, right?”

“Oh, no Rattick. Where is the sport in that? No, you can scrabble and claw for your reward with the rest of my creatures. Conduct him to the UnderHall and give him the place of honor,” Dimsbury said with a smile. Rattick was quickly surrounded by Orcs and led from the room.

As he left, he had just enough time to say, “You are too kind, Master.”

Dimsbury dismissed him with an annoyed wave.

“What shall I do about this one, Lord?” asked Samga, nodding at Relan.

“Leave him to die slowly. Kill him not. But when he is done, you may feed him to whatever Orcs you deem worthy of reward. Or keep him for yourself, Samga. You deserve it for keeping this rabble in line.”

“They will be so pleased, Master,” said Samga.

“I am a good and gentle Master, am I not?”

“The finest Master,” said Samga.

“Now I am off to my chambers. I simply must rest. And the first creature to disturb me will not remain a creature. Am I understood?”

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

Samga nodded. Dimsbury left. Samga remained for a moment, considering the horrible scene before him. Beneath Asarah’s choking sobs, he could hear the labored, gurgling breathing of the dying lad. He twitched his head once, then hurried off to his duties.

Boltac awoke to more pain than he’d realized the world could hold. It was a universe of pain, a cosmos of pain, and he was at the center of it. In the darkness there was only pain. He tried to open his eyes and there was pain. He tried to close his half-opened eyes and there was pain. His body made the mistake of trying to cough. Then the darkness took him again. He didn’t even have time to ask how it might be that he was still alive.

An age, a time, or a moment later, he awoke again. There was a soft rustling in the darkness beside him, and he felt the touch of many creatures he could not see. It was not comforting.

“Wha–” he tried to ask, but too many ribs were broken for him to speak. He wheezed in pain. The soft touches–were they hands, or something else?–migrated to his side. Under their strange caresses, the pain eased. As he controlled his loud and labored breathing, he became aware of a low, whispered song all around him. It disappeared into the blackness with no echo, as if he were in a room so vast as to have no walls.

After a time, the pain in his side was soothed. His breathing came more easily. Unexpectedly, his body was wracked with sobs. In that place of dry darkness, tears streamed down his face and some infinite softness blotted them away. “I should be dead,” Boltac said at last.

“Someday, you will be,” said the voice in the darkness.

“Is this Magic?”

“Magic? We are merely flawed creatures caring for one of our kind. But there is a Magic in that, yes.”

The voice said nothing else. The silence made Boltac nervous, so he joked, “I guess this bottomless pit had a bottom after all.”

“There is no such thing as a bottomless pit,” said the voice in the darkness.

“No such thing as a free lunch either,” said Boltac. “So, who are you and why are you helping me?”

“We are the fallen ones, the discarded ones. The ones that were made, but not unmade.”

“En-henh,” Boltac said, trying to sit up and immediately regretting it.

“Be still. Your kind was also made, once. And you, as broken as you are, are not beyond salvation, if you will allow it.”

“Ho-oh boy. What is going on here? Am I dead? Did I have to pay for my own funeral?”

“We have been shaped and have learned something of the shaping of life. We are the forgotten ones. The made and discarded.”

“Wait, wait, you are…”

“The Wizard’s forgotten sons. The ones he made and thought to unmake by discarding us in this place.”

“So, uh, forgive me if this is a rude question, but why aren’t ya dead? For that matter, how come I’m still here?”

“When he made us, he did not weave a full spell. He did not allow for the possibility of death. So we must go on for eternity.”

“Wait? You mean you can’t die?”

“A horse can die, for it is alive. But we are like the carriage. We are not alive, but we function. We cannot die. Only fall apart for all eternity. Unless…”

The singing stopped.

“Unless what? What’s the catch? There’s always a catch,” said Boltac.

“We have done all we can for you.”

“And thanks for that. I don’t feel good, but I don’t feel dead either.”

“No life should be discarded.”

“You don’t get around much do you?” Boltac asked the voice. “Who are you? Not the plural you, not youse, but you in particular.”

“I am the UnderKing, First among the Broken.”

“Oh, sorry about that, your honor, my liege, whatever. I didn’t realize your kind had nobles.”

“We did not. But in the darkness, nobility is called forth by need.”

“En-henh? Come again?”

The UnderKing paused for a long time before continuing. “The Flame, the one the Wizard worships.”

“You mean the ‘Source of All Magic’?”

“The very one. We do not know how he came to hold it. We only know that it makes him powerful beyond all those who have come before him. When once his Magic is depleted, one touch of the Flame restores him.”

“But there’s a catch,” said Boltac, “There’s always a catch. No such thing as a free bottomless pit.”

“The Wizard’s Magic–ALL Magic–draws from the source. If the Flame of Magic is extinguished, Magic and everything that it has wrought will end… and we will be released.”

“So, ya telling me there’s a way to snuff out Magic? Like a candle?”

“Yes,” said the UnderKing, “but only a Hero, a true Hero, one Chosen by fate and circumstance can overcome the Wizard and quench the torrent of Magic. That is why you–”

“Wait a minute. Wait a minute! You’re saying I’m the Chosen One? Like Chosen? Look buddy, no offense, but I’m just a guy trying to make a coin in this world, you understand?”

“In your heart, there is Love.”

“Yeah. Love of coin.”

“There is more,” said the UnderKing. “Do not lie to me. Do not lie in this place, of all places. There is no bargain you can make with the final darkness.”

“There’s always room to negotiate.”

“Not at the very end.”

“C’mon, all the stories and the sagas and the miracle turnarounds…?”

Silence.

“Look, I’m not your guy. I’m sorry. The guy you wanted, your Hero, is lying up there in a pool of his own blood and entrails. He was an idiot, but he was the better man. No thought for himself at all. What a jackass! I wish I could be like him, but I’m not. I’m not your Hero, so…”

“What of the girl?” the UnderKing asked.

“What, Asarah? Okay, look, I love her. I do. And I figured it out too late. I blew it. So now I’m here, wherever the hell here is. I got the kid killed and there’s nuttin’ I can do about any of it. It sucks, but that’s business. I can’t save her. I… can’t…”

Wise in the ways of patience, the UnderKing said nothing.

“I can’t even save myself. I thought I was a smart guy. I thought I had a clever plan, but now… none of my plans are clever. I’m just a fool. So, you know, kill me or whatever you’re going to do.”

“You are a broken thing,” said the UnderKing.

“Yeah. Broken. No resale value whatsoever. So what do I do now?”

“When in darkness, follow the light,” said the UnderKing as his voice retreated from Boltac.

“What? There’s no light down here. It’s the bottom of a bottomless pit!”