measured_words (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
measured_words) wrote2007-01-04 06:02 pm
measured_words) wrote2007-01-04 06:02 pm
Shadows 7 (Complete)
I like to think of this as the Matteo Chapter. So hopefully you like Matteo. Or if you especially *don't* like him, this'll be good for you too :o
Shadows 7
Gordon watches as two red-robed figures manhandled a trio of terrified Southerners through the passage in the ruin. Even to his shadow-clouded sight, this place seemed twisted and dreary. All colours were faded to him, even the vibrant red of the crimson Cultists, but this land was blighted, unhallowed, and nearly real enough for him to touch.
Sounds were likewise distorted as they filtered into the edges of the Plane of Shadow, but the gist of the captives’ please for help and mercy rang through the barrier clearly enough. He recognized the older woman – she’d been tending Matteo at the empty camp house on the edge of the woods. She limped fearfully after the others – a young man hand in hand with a girl of about twelve. The boy bore his circumstances with the stoicism expected of all Southern males, though he’d clearly been wounded as well. His eyes lingered on the tree line, for which he received a sharp blow to the ear from his captors as the troop disappeared inside.
This was the second group of captives he’d seen. The first consisted of four young men, also peasants by the look of them. They’d come through the day before. When he’d returned to his vigil that morning, he’d heard nothing but the typical ominous quiet of the Shrine. They weren’t being tortured at the moment, then, though he knew Geron was present within.
The place was heavily warded, and Gordon hadn’t been able to learn anything when he ventured inside. It was strange – the place was close to the shadows, but it was closer to the infernal planes, and that was all he saw. It was unsettling. Most people even inside, even the cultists, appeared indistinct to him. But there were other creatures standing ready, waiting to be called forward. The only person who’d been at all identifiable was Geron, whose connection to the infernal was apparently quite strong. He’d glowed with it, a greenish luminescence emanating from an otherwise ghostly figure.
Gordon hadn’t stayed long. There wasn’t much he could do or learn, or at least little of use. He wasn’t sure what Atremi would do, in any case. He was a resourceful kid, but he had a lot to deal with. Gordon could imagine, but only that. He’d been caught in Exia, true, but the cult hadn’t held him long enough to torture hi,. No. They’d caught him, feared he would escape, and executed him before he’d had the chance. It all seemed far away now. Details faded everyday, but he remembered what was important. The cult was still out there, and looking for Atremi. Hey hadn’t found him yet, and all Gordon could do was watch, and wait for the call. It would come soon, he was sure, and he would be there when it did.
-----------------------------------------------
From his home, the tracks led back towards the lodge. Two adults, two children. Setting aside his apprehensiveness for the moment, Chang dismounted and checked his bow. Rain from a few days prior still soaked the ground and the impressions were easy to find. Four had come, five had left. The fifth limped, favouring their right leg. A small person, fairly light. It could be the Elf. The tracks were partially obscured – the red priests had kept their captives between them. He dreaded going inside. The vision of his hanako was still fresh in his mind. Shuang was no more deserving of such a fate. bracing himself for another grisly scene, Chang entered the lodge.
All the furniture was smashed. Splinters of lacquered tables and cabinets littered the floor, interspersed with sherds of fine porcelains, shredded scraps of painted paper and and silk screens and other ruins of what had been a finely appointed manse. The barbarians had knocked down walls where they could, and the smell of smoke hung in the air. Chang paused, but he’d seen no sign of fire from the outside. Besides, the house would have burned down to a ruin now, it if was gong to catch.
The smell was stronger as he moved towards the servants’ quarters, where he’d stationed Shuang and her charge. There was blood spattered among the detritus. He picked his way carefully through the mess, seeing no sign of the healer. Finally, he approached the Elf’s room. Had she made a last stand here the way Hanako had did outside Mei-Li’s room?
He stopped before entering, and considered the wreckage more carefully. The pattern of destruction did not, as he’d first surmised, lead to this room. It led from it. The door screen had been pulled back from the outside initially, but everything else – discarded furniture, splinters from the door frame itself – radiated outward. He turned and looked back the way he’d come, confirming his assessment.
Less certain of what he would find, Chang stepped inside. Like the rest of the lodge, the room was a disaster. The bedding had been cut to shreds, the brazier of coals overturned, the low table and walking stick Shuang had produced for the elf broken and splintered. There was no body, but there were signs that someone had been hurt. Not the Elf, though – someone who’d come in the doorway under guard. Shuang had limped her way towards the Shrine of the fallen, then, and the Elf had disappeared. The red priests had torn the place apart looking for him and failed… so where had he gone?
Chang moved towards the overturned brazier. Someone had smothered the embers with scraps of a kimono. Hours ago, now. His children had been kidnapped, and his wife murdered only hours ago. What was he doing here when every minute might matter? The Elf clearly did not need him.
Something behind him shifted and he turned quickly, hand reaching over his shoulder for an arrow. It was the Elf, leaning in the broken doorway. He was pale and drawn, his lips pinched together tightly. His good eye blazed with determination, and the other was covered with a strip of green cloth. He wore a pair of lose-fitting hakama pants Chang had brought for him, and a short haori coat. It looked strange with no kimono underneath, but the garment had clearly been put to good use. The elf stepped back into the hallway, leaning heavily against the wall watching him.
Chang stood, recovering quickly from the surprise. Where had he been hiding?
“The red priests have taken my children.”
The Elf nodded slowly, then surveyed the destruction and returned his gaze to Chang.
“If you are alright, I must go and help them if I can.”
He frowned, and his eye narrowed. He looked around the room again, and drew the stub of his thumb across this neck.
“They are my children.” Chang straightened, fueled by his own determination. The Elf nodded again, turned to face the way out, and looked back over his shoulder.
“If you can help…”
Once again, he nodded.
“Then come.” Chang wasn’t sure just how much help he could expect from a cripple, but he was clearly skilled in the arts of stealth despite his injuries. At this point, he would take anything to improve his chances of rescuing, or avenging, his family.
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Chang reined his horse to a stop. Matteo grit his teeth and carefully slid off with a controlled fall. He landed on his back on a cushion of pine needles and soft earth, and lay there for a moment. The southerner stood over him with a look of apprehensive concern. After the hard forty minute ride, perched precariously on the back of a small horse, his leg was killing him. The muscles had been seizing for that last half of the trip, and the effort to stay mounted and not cry out had left him short of breath. His eyes were watering like mad, and it felt good to stretch out for a moment. Or maybe until the spasms stopped and he could breath without feeling like someone was stabbing him in the chest. He balled a fist, trying to beat some of the pain out into the ground, but the impact just set the stubs of his lost fingers to throbbing. At least it was a bit of a distraction.
“Will you be alright?”
He nodded. Chang seemed dubious, but his main concern was probably for his children and not his crippled ally.
“Stay here.”
Like he was about to head off anywhere. He’d have killed for some of the bitter white drug Shuang used to slip into his food. Of course, then he wouldn’t be able to think very clearly, and the point was moot in any case. He propped himself up on his elbows to get a better view of what Chang was up to. Nothing in the area looked at all familiar.
The warden had drawn his axe and seemed to be looking for something just off the path. A few minutes later, he stopped and cut down a straight-trunked sapling. He trimmed the top and branches, and presented it to Matteo when he returned to the clearing.
Matteo smiled and pulled himself up. The staff was fairly heavy, and could probably stand up to use as an improvised quarterstaff as well as a walking aid. He felt a little better for having some kind of weapon. When the cult had come to the lodge, he’d been in a deep drugged trance. He’d barely snapped out of it in time to hide. They’d already had Shuang and Chang’s kids. He hadn’t been entirely sure what was happening at the time…. But he’d make up for that now, if he could.
Chang led the way, picking his way carefully through the woods. He was clearly impatient, looking back constantly over his shoulder to judge how far Matteo was lagging behind. They were still making pretty good time, and presumably the Shrine of the Fallen couldn’t be much further. I less than ten minutes, they hit the transition to the blight. Matteo considered himself more worldly than many Aldryn, but he was nevertheless bound some cultural conditioning. The overwhelming wrongness of the forest’s desecration stopped him dead in his tracks and made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. The trees looked dead – should have been dead – but somehow seemed to thrive on the decay that infected them. Mottled grey leaves curled on branches covered in sickly white fungus. It covered the ground in patches, bleeding into black spoor covered moss. The air was heavy with the cloying smells of mildew and rot, and he choked back a coughing fit as the foulness filled his lungs.
“Be careful of your footing – the moss is treacherous and conceals pits in the earth.” Chang signed a ward in the air before crossing into the blight. Matteo followed, using his staff to test the ground before as he progressed. It was easy to stay concealed, at least, in the long and shifting shadows.
Chang held up his hand as the trees thinned near the edge of the Shrine’s clearing. A red-garbed guard stood near the passage through the ruin, fingers drumming boredly against the hilt of her sword as she stared out into the blighted wood. The warden reached for an arrow, but Matteo stopped him by holding up a hand. They wanted to give as little warning as possible, after all. Instead, he indicated for Chang to hold where he was, and crept closer alone.
He’d already learned to spot firmer patches of ground, and the fungus helped cover the sound of his approach. The guard looked his way, but saw nothing until he was in striking range. He clocked her once in the side of the head to stun her, then whirled the staff down to sweep her feet out from underneath her. She slipped backwards, fumbling for her weapon as two arrows sprouted from her chest and cut off her cry of warning. She tried to rise, but Matteo knocked her down again, and ended her struggles with a solid jab to the throat.
Chang gave him an inscrutable look as he crossed into the clearing, but said nothing s he proceeded cautiously into the passage. Sparsely spaced torches provided dim lighting, and Matteo removed the cloth covering his right eye. Everything on that side was blurry, but it was better than nothing. The pair crept along carefully, keeping alert for traps or additional sentries. It was fairly quiet at first, but as they advanced they heard footsteps and other signs of people moving up ahead. The passageway opened into a wider, better lit, area. As they entered the hall, the screaming began.
“Mei-Li!”
A look of horror spread across Chang’s face as he turned towards the sound. But something was wrong. Matteo’s instincts screamed at him, warning him to be on alert for an unknown danger. The Southerner was too far ahead to reach, and ignored or didn’t hear his grunt of warning. It might not have mattered, he reflected as he limped cautiously down the corridor after his companion. Whether or not it was a trap, it was hard to get past the idea of a little girl getting tortured.
Despite his sympathetic horror, however, the idea of progressing towards the screams filled him with dread. He didn’t like to think of what might happen if they were caught here, but he’d always had an active imagination and it was hard to suppress. Where were the other cultists? What about the prisoners – were they already dead? It was hard to hear anything over Mei-Li’s wailing, but was that accompanying shriek of manic laughter just his imagination?
Chang was fairly far ahead now – close to where the hallway split off. He paused there, looking back and waiting for Matteo to catch up. His face was pale and grave, eyes brimming with concern. Matteo placed a mangled hand on his shoulder and gave what he hoped was a stern look. They couldn’t afford to go running into this situation so blindly – their odds weren’t great as it was. Chang nodded, but his attention was clearly fixed on the left hand passage from where the sounds emanated. A thick wooden door blocked their progress.
Chang listened at the barrier, quietly drew his bow. He nodded to the door, then stepped back into the shadows close to one of the guttering torches. Matteo took his cue, leaning his staff against the wall in easy reach, and crouched to check the door. It wasn’t locked or trapped that he could tell – again, it was too easy. He got into position, and when Chang gave the signal, he pulled it open. The door swung back towards him with a slight groan, but the sound was lost in the increased volume of the screams. They had to be close now, but he couldn’t see from his vantage point.
Grabbing his staff, he slipped back out into the hallway just in time to see Chang step into the room and launch a volley of arrows at an unseen target. A familiar voice rang out, calling in the arcane tongue to summon his evil magic. He air before Chang shimmered and the warden joined his scream to his daughter’s chorus as he keeled over, dropping hs bow and clutching his chest.
Shit. What now?
Matteo flattened himself against the wall, calling the shadows to cover his presence. He was paralyzed, heart pounding, lungs suddenly feeling close to bursting as a new jolt of adrenalin shot though him. He had to get away. If Chang wasn’t dead, he would be soon, and there wasn’t anything he could do.
Geron stepped into view, flanked on his left by a tall Southerner in red robes, his entire face covered in arcane tattoos. An unmasked Mask, then – Matteo had heard descriptions from the Fall of Trylith. Its eyes darted around wildly, and its mouth was covered with blood and gore. An arrow shaft protruded from its shoulder, though it seemed oblivious. The screaming from the room beyond had dulled to sobbing cries. Geron scanned the corridor more carefully, but his gaze passed over the wall where Matteo hid.
“I know you’re out there.” He flashed a satisfied smile, reaching into the sleeve of his own Crimson robes. “But if you want to hide in the darkness…” He broke again into the language of magic. In response to the torturer’s commands, the hallway shadows lengthened and condensed. They blocked out the light, the magic overriding Matteo’s ability to see though normal darkness. And then, he was enveloped in a black cocoon of evil which penetrated painfully into his core. This was something worse than a normal Darkness spell – Geron had somehow summoned the cruelest elements of the Plane of Shadow.
He staggered back along the wall, trying to escape the area before the malignant power overwhelmed him, but he could hear the Mask coming for him. Just as he slid out of the blackness, red robed arms reached out and grabbed him, shrieking in laughter as they wrestled him to the ground. He fought back with panicked vigour, but the demon granted its host unnatural strength. It cackled, running its rough tongue across his face. Its breath reeked of blood. It wasn’t armed, but the longer it trapped him inside the spell, the more of his life bled into the unholy shadows. As his consciousness began to fade, he saw a figure, blacker than the blinding evil, reaching out its hand to him.
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Preparing the Shrine was busy work. Geron had a lot to do ad to oversee. He would have liked to have one more mask before they took the village – a shame the woodsman had died so quickly. He didn’t want to give up Matteo either. He had invested so much into the Elf already. It would probably be overkill in any case, but he felt that three was an inauspicious number. But all they were really waiting for was for the processing facilities to be in order. They were nearly complete, even with the loss of Aresella, and Geron felt that he could spare time for his other projects.
He stopped to listen outside the thick iron doors of Matteo’s cell. Sometimes the Elf hummed to himself, and the sound could be heard, faintly, by anyone listening outside. These sounds were the only ones the prisoner heard, save for the shifting metal on metal of the little slot that swung back to reveal the basic sustenance they provided. It was designed not to admit any light when opened in order to enhance to isolating effects of the cell. Geron hadn’t designed it – it was part of the original structure, and centuries old – but he’d been keen to have it repaired once the Church had provided him with more resources. The feedings came at odd hours too, just to mix things up. Geron took his little pleasures where he could.
He took a sunrod instead of a torch, for the extra contrast the magnesium flare would produce in the dark room, and prepared his spell before he opened the door.
Geron was jolted when Matteo punched him in the jaw, but not phased enough to prevent him casting the Hold Person spell he’d prepared. The look of desperate frustration fixed on his subject’s face was gratifying, and the taste of blood in his mouth amusing. He knew he didn’t have much time, however, and set about fastening the restraints he’d brought. Once his arms and legs were cuffed to the iron spacer bars, he fed the attached chains through some ringbolts, pulling Matteo up against the wall.
As soon as he was able, the Elf was testing his bonds. Given time, he might well be able to escape. It might not even take him all that long if he were thinking more clearly but he was just one of those types who hated to admit defeat. And cocky too, to sneak into the Shrine. If he hadn’t been with that woodsman, who’d been drawn in so easily, it would have been much harder to track him down. Even with the alarms.
“Stop that, Matteo.” He turned to set the sunrod in a brace. “You know what would happen if you were to escape now. And am I not supposed to keep you alive?”
He half-hissed, half grunted in response, keeping his eyes averted from he brightness of the light. Geron could fairly feel the waves of hate radiating off him. Everything was going so well. He could bring Matteo’s suffering to maturity, continue to harvest his pain, and it would all serve to strengthen the Shrine and his Lord.
“But don’t worry. Today we’re going to try something new. You might even like it.” He smiled as he produced the syringe, and Matteo shrank back. There was so much you could do with needles. He wondered how much the Elf even remembered from his previous captivity. In this case the syringe was filled with a drug distilled from Matteo’s own pain. Geron was looking forward to the experiment. The drug itself worked on the premise that pain and pleasure were intrinsically linked, but he wanted to see just how far that connection could be pressed. Could you eliminate one person’s ability to fell either end of the scale? It was an exciting idea. He injected the drug directly into his subject’s neck, where it would take effect more quickly. His body relaxed, and geron waited until all signs of resistance disappeared.
“You see? Of course you do. Now… I am going to ask you some questions. And I’m not Saviya and I *will* know if you are lying to me.” The drug would weaken his resolve, and confound any other mental defenses he might try to employ. He was a spy, after all. He’d have some training. Geron took the extra efforts to increase the potency of his Detect Thoughts spell.
At first there was nothing but impressions of pleasure and relief from pain provided by the drug. Deeper in, however, was a voice screaming out to resist, trying to put together the defensive rotes developed to screen out such mental invasions. The training had surely never used as dangerous an aid as actual Agony however – the drug was incredibly expensive, and dangerously addictive. Matteo was far from weak-willed though – it was what made him a more interesting subject than the Southern girl he’d given to the Masks. Some swore that the pain of the innocents was the sweetest, but Geron preferred subjects who had a more complex understanding of what it could mean to truly suffer.
“How did you lie to Saviya?” he asked mostly out of curiosity. Lots of people lied under torture, and Geron didn’t generally find that, on its own, it was a very effective method of obtaining information. Few managed to lie so convincingly. Her inability to follow up on any of the information provided by the Elf had given as to the location and plans of the Loyalists forces had lost her a lot of standing with Church superiors. She’d been left in charge in Shinkyo but, at least for now, the action had all moved out of that theatre. She might have a chance to prove herself later, but for now she’d been left behind.
Matteo was trying to fight back, pushing his thoughts away from the question. He had, apparently, a very active imagination, and the drug encouraged some very wild fantasies.
“Saviya,” he repeated. “How did you lie to her?”
His question was rewarded with some rather lurid impressions of the austere red-haired priestess. Fantastic. Geron laughed. “Lie to her, not on her. Lie.” He waited, learning the quirks of his subject’s mind, how he tried to lose himself in pointless escapism, or bury his thoughts under Elven meditation exercises and litanies. Eventually, his imagination would betray him, or the drug would overwhelm his concentration. But it didn’t hurt to keep him off guard.
“Have you had any contact with the Loyalists?” This question was actually important. If the answer turned his Elf into a liability, however, he’d be highly disappointed.
The sudden change of attack on Matteo’s drug-addled concentration succeeded. A memory slipped though – hearing Volaris’s voice in his head. A Sending spell, used to communicate over long distances, received while he was convalescing at the lodge. He expected further contact. The thought was hopeful. That was probably how it slipped past his defenses: the drug heightened his perception of all positive sensations and emotions.
The Shrine mission was too important to jeopardize, but Geron was surprised at his own bitterness. He honestly enjoyed his service to the Church and the Crimson King. He didn’t seek personal advancement like Saviya and so many others in the hierarchy, nor did he nurture delusions that any greater power awaited him once their King was free and his kingdom restored. He had no illusions of what his fate would ultimately be, yet he was content to put his particular talents to use where his superiors thought best. He had no pretensions of special humility – he just knew his place. If he were one of the rare few who’d been twice blessed with their Lord’s power, he believed it was because of this lack of ambition. He asked very little in return, mostly to be left to his own devices…
He held his knife to Matteo’s face, pushing the tip up against his good eye.
“How long. How many days? Tell me me how many days, or I’ll kill you right now.”
In the wake of the drug and conflicting stimuli, Matteo’s mind was confused. Geron stepped back, sorting through the thoughts his subject could not. He wanted to lie, but he wasn’t honestly sure how long he’d been held captive this second time. He’d forgotten – no that was another lie. Eventually, searching even deeper, Geron found the answer. Volaris had given him a week to try and find more details of his location so that the Loyalists could bring him to their new location. This memory was part of a cast-away regret that Matteo hadn’t taken the High Wizard up on his offer of daily contact.
Good enough. They had three days, by his calculations. Two if he wanted to be safer. He could manage with two, though it would mean delaying the raid. The peasants weren’t going anywhere. And it would be easier to get answers out of the Elf tomorrow anyway, once his cravings for more Agony set in. Geron remained in control. He smiled. Maybe he would even learn how he’d lied so well. He left Matteo’s thoughts.
“And with such issues resolved, we turn to the matter at hand.” He traded his knife for a scalpel he’d sharpened earlier. Its edge was so fine its deepest cuts could scarcely be felt: a perfect beginning to today’s experiments in sensation. Where to begin? He’d left the Elf to pretty the last time. Would the woodsman have been so eager to save the live of someone whose mutilations were more aesthetically offensive? When he came back later, he’d bring some burning pitch, perhaps. For now he wanted to focus on more sensitive areas…
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Matteo had a strong spirit. Even here, even after everything he’d been through, he seemed to glow with an internal light. Gordon had known that he was a rare case for some time. On Keth, those who could draw upon their own power alone to cast magic were rare. Piove could, but she was a half-spirit to begin with. Drulenth was another touched with this ability – he’d sensed it while he was still watching the Loyalists. Most magic users were wizards, and studied spells form books. Sorcerers like Piove and Drulenth drew their power from purely internal forces. Geron could do this as well, though he suspected that his power had been granted, or awakened, by the Crimson King. Matteo expressed his magic through music – primarily through his voice. Silenced through Geron’s cruelty, he had little access to that power. Gordon believed he might be able to draw on it to save himself. At this point, it might be his only hope.
He was still under the effects of the drug, but it would wear off soon. Geron had been called away before he’d been able to do much permanent damage. As fortunate as that was, if Matteo didn’t get out now, he’d probably never survive. Geron couldn’t afford to have his location revealed to the cult’s enemies, and there was only one sure way to guarantee that he’d remain hidden.
Gordon had a plan. While he was drugged, Matteo’s consciousness was more open and receptivbe to his communication attempts, as he was while he was unconscious. The initial effects of the ironically named agony had worn of some time ago. Now the elf hung, half awake, but as he had when Gordon had left to make sure that the Shrine’s guardians were well occupied with other tasks. As far as he could tell –it was difficult for him to track the progress of the lesser cultists – all was well.
“Matteo.”
The Elf lifted his head, searching the darkness.
“This is Gordon, do you understand?”
His brow furrowed in confusion. His mind wasn’t as clear as Gordon would have liked.”
“Gordon Fenning. I need you to listen to me, Atremi. You need to get out of here. Nod if you understand.”
He did.
“Good. It will be easy to get your hands free. Work on that and listen to me.”
Gordon waited until he saw Matteo ball what was left of his hands into fists to try and slip free of the bonds. They were already lubricated with blood from where Geron had been working on the fresh scar tissue there. He winced as the pain cut through the haziness in his head, then worked more carefully to free one hand and then the other.
“The connection to the Plane of Shadows here is strong – that’s how you can hear me now, like you could during the Spirit Festival. This connection should also allow you to circumvent the wards on this place and summon me to you.”
Matteo’s strength as a Shadow Dancer had been growing quickly since hat night, as had Gordon’s connection to the Elf. The summoning was almost a technicality now. It would call him permanently into the prime material Plane until he was dismissed or destroyed. He’d be able to communicate more freely with Atremi, but it might also muddle his own thoughts and perceptions. It didn’t matter – he owed this service as a Shadow Dancer himself, and would perform it willingly. When it was over, he’d finally be released from all duty.
“Once you are free, you will summon me. I’ll explain everything else then.”
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It was hard not to let his mind wander, though he knew his thoughts couldn’t lead anywhere good. Rest and wait. Keep alert. He’d fallen into a fitful trance after he’d listened to Gordon’s plan. Matteo huddled against the cell wall and tried to focus on controlling his breathing. The wheeziness had abated for now, but his lungs still felt tight. T could hinder his escape if he wasn’t careful about it – not that he was going to be heading anywhere in a hurry.
At least he wasn’t alone now. Knowing Gordon was around and looking out for him kept him from falling back into despair. It refreshed his confidence. He might make it out of this yet. He might not die, lost and alone, sacrificed to an evil god with his spirit cut off from his people and condemned to an eternity of lonely wandering. In two days or less, he’d hear from Volaris, and someone would come. He knew where he was now – the first contact he’d had with the Loyalists after his capture had come before he’d met Chang. The prince’s people could rescue him. They might even be able to heal him, and if not they’d find someone who could. He’d be able to speak, sing, dance, and see again. No more pain from geron’s latest cuts, no more joints aching for severed digits. No more feeling lke he was close to starving even when there was food in front of him. No more of the craving, he hoped, that was taking root at the back of his mind for the ecstatic overwhelming pleasure – release form all pain and cares – that the Crimson Priest had injected him with. Everything that came after had been worth that initial feeling of utter bliss. The thought of dying and becoming Lost was barely incentive to abandon the possibility of forsaking a chance for another dose. Without Gordon, he wasn’t sure he could have managed. It was getting stronger as time passed, and he wasn’t sure how long he could hold out, or what would happen when it finally overcame him…
He tried to concentrate on breathing, and on the plan.
Eventually, he heard someone draw back the thick bolts of the cell’s door. Following Gordon’s directions, he drew on his connection to the Plane of Shadows, bending the darkness in his cell to his hill. An image coalesced out of the black, creating an illusion of himself hanging where he’d been left. He drew the shadows about himself more thickly, and shielded his eyes incase Geron tried the trick with the sunrod again. He was too adjusted to the perfect dark of the cell, and even weak light pained his injured eye.
His captor stepped inside, a spell at the ready. Seeing his subject still in bondage, he bracketed his torch and swung wide the cell door. He retrieved a small cart covered in familiar and disturbing instruments. There was a selection of syringes, anyone of which might contain more of the drug from the day before. Or not. They could hold any number of horrible compounds, and he’d never know the difference. It wasn’t worth the risk – not quite.
Geron pushed his instruments towards the hanging shadow and paused. The image was stationary, and Geron was discerning enough to note this and other discrepancies, though he might not immediately suspect the truth. There was barely enough room for Matteo to pass, but he hobbled outside as quickly and as quietly as he could. He swung the door closed, quickly fumbling for the bolts. He saw Geron stagger back before Gordon’s black form, and heard a muffled cry. His time was limited – the priest could probably free himself or summon aid quite quickly. Following Gordon’s instructions, he hobbled down the corridor towards the shrine’s center, and beyond to freedom.
Along the way, he found the staff Chang had cut for him along with the warden’s bow, and took them. He also found, by her quiet moans, the warden’s daughter. She’d been left naked and untended in the central chamber, her exposed flesh bitten and torn as deep as the bone in places. She rested limply against a cold stone slab, half dead eyes starring blankly into nothing. Unable to help in any other way and unwilling to abandon the girl to the cult, he sent her to join her father with one of his arrows, and hoped that her ancestors could find her spirit in this cursed place. He took whatever else he could find that might help bring this place down. The shrine seemed empty, but he knew that it was dangerous to linger – not when he could barely walk and when he knew his lungs would soon be laboring with the effort of escape. He already felt weak and shaky, and was glad when Gordon caught up to him. He’d left Geron weakened but not incapacitated. The priest was too resourceful, and Gordon’s powers as a Shadow were limited.
Outside, the sky billowed with distant black smoke. It lay in the direction of the village, and the only road Matteo knew of. He headed towards it, stumbling just past the limit of the blight before he was seized by a fit if shaking so violent he couldn’t stand. Gordon talked him though it. Had it only been a day? He’d never heard of a drug this strong, but he couldn’t imagine living long without it now. He focused his shattered will to draw himself into a hypnotic trace, leaning against an oak, humming quietly and watching the smoke through the forest canopy.
The suggestion he gave himself helped. The feeling of the drug was strongly imprinted, and he let himself be tricked. It didn’t have to work for long, just until he heard from Volaris.
Shadows 7
Gordon watches as two red-robed figures manhandled a trio of terrified Southerners through the passage in the ruin. Even to his shadow-clouded sight, this place seemed twisted and dreary. All colours were faded to him, even the vibrant red of the crimson Cultists, but this land was blighted, unhallowed, and nearly real enough for him to touch.
Sounds were likewise distorted as they filtered into the edges of the Plane of Shadow, but the gist of the captives’ please for help and mercy rang through the barrier clearly enough. He recognized the older woman – she’d been tending Matteo at the empty camp house on the edge of the woods. She limped fearfully after the others – a young man hand in hand with a girl of about twelve. The boy bore his circumstances with the stoicism expected of all Southern males, though he’d clearly been wounded as well. His eyes lingered on the tree line, for which he received a sharp blow to the ear from his captors as the troop disappeared inside.
This was the second group of captives he’d seen. The first consisted of four young men, also peasants by the look of them. They’d come through the day before. When he’d returned to his vigil that morning, he’d heard nothing but the typical ominous quiet of the Shrine. They weren’t being tortured at the moment, then, though he knew Geron was present within.
The place was heavily warded, and Gordon hadn’t been able to learn anything when he ventured inside. It was strange – the place was close to the shadows, but it was closer to the infernal planes, and that was all he saw. It was unsettling. Most people even inside, even the cultists, appeared indistinct to him. But there were other creatures standing ready, waiting to be called forward. The only person who’d been at all identifiable was Geron, whose connection to the infernal was apparently quite strong. He’d glowed with it, a greenish luminescence emanating from an otherwise ghostly figure.
Gordon hadn’t stayed long. There wasn’t much he could do or learn, or at least little of use. He wasn’t sure what Atremi would do, in any case. He was a resourceful kid, but he had a lot to deal with. Gordon could imagine, but only that. He’d been caught in Exia, true, but the cult hadn’t held him long enough to torture hi,. No. They’d caught him, feared he would escape, and executed him before he’d had the chance. It all seemed far away now. Details faded everyday, but he remembered what was important. The cult was still out there, and looking for Atremi. Hey hadn’t found him yet, and all Gordon could do was watch, and wait for the call. It would come soon, he was sure, and he would be there when it did.
-----------------------------------------------
From his home, the tracks led back towards the lodge. Two adults, two children. Setting aside his apprehensiveness for the moment, Chang dismounted and checked his bow. Rain from a few days prior still soaked the ground and the impressions were easy to find. Four had come, five had left. The fifth limped, favouring their right leg. A small person, fairly light. It could be the Elf. The tracks were partially obscured – the red priests had kept their captives between them. He dreaded going inside. The vision of his hanako was still fresh in his mind. Shuang was no more deserving of such a fate. bracing himself for another grisly scene, Chang entered the lodge.
All the furniture was smashed. Splinters of lacquered tables and cabinets littered the floor, interspersed with sherds of fine porcelains, shredded scraps of painted paper and and silk screens and other ruins of what had been a finely appointed manse. The barbarians had knocked down walls where they could, and the smell of smoke hung in the air. Chang paused, but he’d seen no sign of fire from the outside. Besides, the house would have burned down to a ruin now, it if was gong to catch.
The smell was stronger as he moved towards the servants’ quarters, where he’d stationed Shuang and her charge. There was blood spattered among the detritus. He picked his way carefully through the mess, seeing no sign of the healer. Finally, he approached the Elf’s room. Had she made a last stand here the way Hanako had did outside Mei-Li’s room?
He stopped before entering, and considered the wreckage more carefully. The pattern of destruction did not, as he’d first surmised, lead to this room. It led from it. The door screen had been pulled back from the outside initially, but everything else – discarded furniture, splinters from the door frame itself – radiated outward. He turned and looked back the way he’d come, confirming his assessment.
Less certain of what he would find, Chang stepped inside. Like the rest of the lodge, the room was a disaster. The bedding had been cut to shreds, the brazier of coals overturned, the low table and walking stick Shuang had produced for the elf broken and splintered. There was no body, but there were signs that someone had been hurt. Not the Elf, though – someone who’d come in the doorway under guard. Shuang had limped her way towards the Shrine of the fallen, then, and the Elf had disappeared. The red priests had torn the place apart looking for him and failed… so where had he gone?
Chang moved towards the overturned brazier. Someone had smothered the embers with scraps of a kimono. Hours ago, now. His children had been kidnapped, and his wife murdered only hours ago. What was he doing here when every minute might matter? The Elf clearly did not need him.
Something behind him shifted and he turned quickly, hand reaching over his shoulder for an arrow. It was the Elf, leaning in the broken doorway. He was pale and drawn, his lips pinched together tightly. His good eye blazed with determination, and the other was covered with a strip of green cloth. He wore a pair of lose-fitting hakama pants Chang had brought for him, and a short haori coat. It looked strange with no kimono underneath, but the garment had clearly been put to good use. The elf stepped back into the hallway, leaning heavily against the wall watching him.
Chang stood, recovering quickly from the surprise. Where had he been hiding?
“The red priests have taken my children.”
The Elf nodded slowly, then surveyed the destruction and returned his gaze to Chang.
“If you are alright, I must go and help them if I can.”
He frowned, and his eye narrowed. He looked around the room again, and drew the stub of his thumb across this neck.
“They are my children.” Chang straightened, fueled by his own determination. The Elf nodded again, turned to face the way out, and looked back over his shoulder.
“If you can help…”
Once again, he nodded.
“Then come.” Chang wasn’t sure just how much help he could expect from a cripple, but he was clearly skilled in the arts of stealth despite his injuries. At this point, he would take anything to improve his chances of rescuing, or avenging, his family.
--------------------------------------
Chang reined his horse to a stop. Matteo grit his teeth and carefully slid off with a controlled fall. He landed on his back on a cushion of pine needles and soft earth, and lay there for a moment. The southerner stood over him with a look of apprehensive concern. After the hard forty minute ride, perched precariously on the back of a small horse, his leg was killing him. The muscles had been seizing for that last half of the trip, and the effort to stay mounted and not cry out had left him short of breath. His eyes were watering like mad, and it felt good to stretch out for a moment. Or maybe until the spasms stopped and he could breath without feeling like someone was stabbing him in the chest. He balled a fist, trying to beat some of the pain out into the ground, but the impact just set the stubs of his lost fingers to throbbing. At least it was a bit of a distraction.
“Will you be alright?”
He nodded. Chang seemed dubious, but his main concern was probably for his children and not his crippled ally.
“Stay here.”
Like he was about to head off anywhere. He’d have killed for some of the bitter white drug Shuang used to slip into his food. Of course, then he wouldn’t be able to think very clearly, and the point was moot in any case. He propped himself up on his elbows to get a better view of what Chang was up to. Nothing in the area looked at all familiar.
The warden had drawn his axe and seemed to be looking for something just off the path. A few minutes later, he stopped and cut down a straight-trunked sapling. He trimmed the top and branches, and presented it to Matteo when he returned to the clearing.
Matteo smiled and pulled himself up. The staff was fairly heavy, and could probably stand up to use as an improvised quarterstaff as well as a walking aid. He felt a little better for having some kind of weapon. When the cult had come to the lodge, he’d been in a deep drugged trance. He’d barely snapped out of it in time to hide. They’d already had Shuang and Chang’s kids. He hadn’t been entirely sure what was happening at the time…. But he’d make up for that now, if he could.
Chang led the way, picking his way carefully through the woods. He was clearly impatient, looking back constantly over his shoulder to judge how far Matteo was lagging behind. They were still making pretty good time, and presumably the Shrine of the Fallen couldn’t be much further. I less than ten minutes, they hit the transition to the blight. Matteo considered himself more worldly than many Aldryn, but he was nevertheless bound some cultural conditioning. The overwhelming wrongness of the forest’s desecration stopped him dead in his tracks and made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. The trees looked dead – should have been dead – but somehow seemed to thrive on the decay that infected them. Mottled grey leaves curled on branches covered in sickly white fungus. It covered the ground in patches, bleeding into black spoor covered moss. The air was heavy with the cloying smells of mildew and rot, and he choked back a coughing fit as the foulness filled his lungs.
“Be careful of your footing – the moss is treacherous and conceals pits in the earth.” Chang signed a ward in the air before crossing into the blight. Matteo followed, using his staff to test the ground before as he progressed. It was easy to stay concealed, at least, in the long and shifting shadows.
Chang held up his hand as the trees thinned near the edge of the Shrine’s clearing. A red-garbed guard stood near the passage through the ruin, fingers drumming boredly against the hilt of her sword as she stared out into the blighted wood. The warden reached for an arrow, but Matteo stopped him by holding up a hand. They wanted to give as little warning as possible, after all. Instead, he indicated for Chang to hold where he was, and crept closer alone.
He’d already learned to spot firmer patches of ground, and the fungus helped cover the sound of his approach. The guard looked his way, but saw nothing until he was in striking range. He clocked her once in the side of the head to stun her, then whirled the staff down to sweep her feet out from underneath her. She slipped backwards, fumbling for her weapon as two arrows sprouted from her chest and cut off her cry of warning. She tried to rise, but Matteo knocked her down again, and ended her struggles with a solid jab to the throat.
Chang gave him an inscrutable look as he crossed into the clearing, but said nothing s he proceeded cautiously into the passage. Sparsely spaced torches provided dim lighting, and Matteo removed the cloth covering his right eye. Everything on that side was blurry, but it was better than nothing. The pair crept along carefully, keeping alert for traps or additional sentries. It was fairly quiet at first, but as they advanced they heard footsteps and other signs of people moving up ahead. The passageway opened into a wider, better lit, area. As they entered the hall, the screaming began.
“Mei-Li!”
A look of horror spread across Chang’s face as he turned towards the sound. But something was wrong. Matteo’s instincts screamed at him, warning him to be on alert for an unknown danger. The Southerner was too far ahead to reach, and ignored or didn’t hear his grunt of warning. It might not have mattered, he reflected as he limped cautiously down the corridor after his companion. Whether or not it was a trap, it was hard to get past the idea of a little girl getting tortured.
Despite his sympathetic horror, however, the idea of progressing towards the screams filled him with dread. He didn’t like to think of what might happen if they were caught here, but he’d always had an active imagination and it was hard to suppress. Where were the other cultists? What about the prisoners – were they already dead? It was hard to hear anything over Mei-Li’s wailing, but was that accompanying shriek of manic laughter just his imagination?
Chang was fairly far ahead now – close to where the hallway split off. He paused there, looking back and waiting for Matteo to catch up. His face was pale and grave, eyes brimming with concern. Matteo placed a mangled hand on his shoulder and gave what he hoped was a stern look. They couldn’t afford to go running into this situation so blindly – their odds weren’t great as it was. Chang nodded, but his attention was clearly fixed on the left hand passage from where the sounds emanated. A thick wooden door blocked their progress.
Chang listened at the barrier, quietly drew his bow. He nodded to the door, then stepped back into the shadows close to one of the guttering torches. Matteo took his cue, leaning his staff against the wall in easy reach, and crouched to check the door. It wasn’t locked or trapped that he could tell – again, it was too easy. He got into position, and when Chang gave the signal, he pulled it open. The door swung back towards him with a slight groan, but the sound was lost in the increased volume of the screams. They had to be close now, but he couldn’t see from his vantage point.
Grabbing his staff, he slipped back out into the hallway just in time to see Chang step into the room and launch a volley of arrows at an unseen target. A familiar voice rang out, calling in the arcane tongue to summon his evil magic. He air before Chang shimmered and the warden joined his scream to his daughter’s chorus as he keeled over, dropping hs bow and clutching his chest.
Shit. What now?
Matteo flattened himself against the wall, calling the shadows to cover his presence. He was paralyzed, heart pounding, lungs suddenly feeling close to bursting as a new jolt of adrenalin shot though him. He had to get away. If Chang wasn’t dead, he would be soon, and there wasn’t anything he could do.
Geron stepped into view, flanked on his left by a tall Southerner in red robes, his entire face covered in arcane tattoos. An unmasked Mask, then – Matteo had heard descriptions from the Fall of Trylith. Its eyes darted around wildly, and its mouth was covered with blood and gore. An arrow shaft protruded from its shoulder, though it seemed oblivious. The screaming from the room beyond had dulled to sobbing cries. Geron scanned the corridor more carefully, but his gaze passed over the wall where Matteo hid.
“I know you’re out there.” He flashed a satisfied smile, reaching into the sleeve of his own Crimson robes. “But if you want to hide in the darkness…” He broke again into the language of magic. In response to the torturer’s commands, the hallway shadows lengthened and condensed. They blocked out the light, the magic overriding Matteo’s ability to see though normal darkness. And then, he was enveloped in a black cocoon of evil which penetrated painfully into his core. This was something worse than a normal Darkness spell – Geron had somehow summoned the cruelest elements of the Plane of Shadow.
He staggered back along the wall, trying to escape the area before the malignant power overwhelmed him, but he could hear the Mask coming for him. Just as he slid out of the blackness, red robed arms reached out and grabbed him, shrieking in laughter as they wrestled him to the ground. He fought back with panicked vigour, but the demon granted its host unnatural strength. It cackled, running its rough tongue across his face. Its breath reeked of blood. It wasn’t armed, but the longer it trapped him inside the spell, the more of his life bled into the unholy shadows. As his consciousness began to fade, he saw a figure, blacker than the blinding evil, reaching out its hand to him.
---------------------------------
Preparing the Shrine was busy work. Geron had a lot to do ad to oversee. He would have liked to have one more mask before they took the village – a shame the woodsman had died so quickly. He didn’t want to give up Matteo either. He had invested so much into the Elf already. It would probably be overkill in any case, but he felt that three was an inauspicious number. But all they were really waiting for was for the processing facilities to be in order. They were nearly complete, even with the loss of Aresella, and Geron felt that he could spare time for his other projects.
He stopped to listen outside the thick iron doors of Matteo’s cell. Sometimes the Elf hummed to himself, and the sound could be heard, faintly, by anyone listening outside. These sounds were the only ones the prisoner heard, save for the shifting metal on metal of the little slot that swung back to reveal the basic sustenance they provided. It was designed not to admit any light when opened in order to enhance to isolating effects of the cell. Geron hadn’t designed it – it was part of the original structure, and centuries old – but he’d been keen to have it repaired once the Church had provided him with more resources. The feedings came at odd hours too, just to mix things up. Geron took his little pleasures where he could.
He took a sunrod instead of a torch, for the extra contrast the magnesium flare would produce in the dark room, and prepared his spell before he opened the door.
Geron was jolted when Matteo punched him in the jaw, but not phased enough to prevent him casting the Hold Person spell he’d prepared. The look of desperate frustration fixed on his subject’s face was gratifying, and the taste of blood in his mouth amusing. He knew he didn’t have much time, however, and set about fastening the restraints he’d brought. Once his arms and legs were cuffed to the iron spacer bars, he fed the attached chains through some ringbolts, pulling Matteo up against the wall.
As soon as he was able, the Elf was testing his bonds. Given time, he might well be able to escape. It might not even take him all that long if he were thinking more clearly but he was just one of those types who hated to admit defeat. And cocky too, to sneak into the Shrine. If he hadn’t been with that woodsman, who’d been drawn in so easily, it would have been much harder to track him down. Even with the alarms.
“Stop that, Matteo.” He turned to set the sunrod in a brace. “You know what would happen if you were to escape now. And am I not supposed to keep you alive?”
He half-hissed, half grunted in response, keeping his eyes averted from he brightness of the light. Geron could fairly feel the waves of hate radiating off him. Everything was going so well. He could bring Matteo’s suffering to maturity, continue to harvest his pain, and it would all serve to strengthen the Shrine and his Lord.
“But don’t worry. Today we’re going to try something new. You might even like it.” He smiled as he produced the syringe, and Matteo shrank back. There was so much you could do with needles. He wondered how much the Elf even remembered from his previous captivity. In this case the syringe was filled with a drug distilled from Matteo’s own pain. Geron was looking forward to the experiment. The drug itself worked on the premise that pain and pleasure were intrinsically linked, but he wanted to see just how far that connection could be pressed. Could you eliminate one person’s ability to fell either end of the scale? It was an exciting idea. He injected the drug directly into his subject’s neck, where it would take effect more quickly. His body relaxed, and geron waited until all signs of resistance disappeared.
“You see? Of course you do. Now… I am going to ask you some questions. And I’m not Saviya and I *will* know if you are lying to me.” The drug would weaken his resolve, and confound any other mental defenses he might try to employ. He was a spy, after all. He’d have some training. Geron took the extra efforts to increase the potency of his Detect Thoughts spell.
At first there was nothing but impressions of pleasure and relief from pain provided by the drug. Deeper in, however, was a voice screaming out to resist, trying to put together the defensive rotes developed to screen out such mental invasions. The training had surely never used as dangerous an aid as actual Agony however – the drug was incredibly expensive, and dangerously addictive. Matteo was far from weak-willed though – it was what made him a more interesting subject than the Southern girl he’d given to the Masks. Some swore that the pain of the innocents was the sweetest, but Geron preferred subjects who had a more complex understanding of what it could mean to truly suffer.
“How did you lie to Saviya?” he asked mostly out of curiosity. Lots of people lied under torture, and Geron didn’t generally find that, on its own, it was a very effective method of obtaining information. Few managed to lie so convincingly. Her inability to follow up on any of the information provided by the Elf had given as to the location and plans of the Loyalists forces had lost her a lot of standing with Church superiors. She’d been left in charge in Shinkyo but, at least for now, the action had all moved out of that theatre. She might have a chance to prove herself later, but for now she’d been left behind.
Matteo was trying to fight back, pushing his thoughts away from the question. He had, apparently, a very active imagination, and the drug encouraged some very wild fantasies.
“Saviya,” he repeated. “How did you lie to her?”
His question was rewarded with some rather lurid impressions of the austere red-haired priestess. Fantastic. Geron laughed. “Lie to her, not on her. Lie.” He waited, learning the quirks of his subject’s mind, how he tried to lose himself in pointless escapism, or bury his thoughts under Elven meditation exercises and litanies. Eventually, his imagination would betray him, or the drug would overwhelm his concentration. But it didn’t hurt to keep him off guard.
“Have you had any contact with the Loyalists?” This question was actually important. If the answer turned his Elf into a liability, however, he’d be highly disappointed.
The sudden change of attack on Matteo’s drug-addled concentration succeeded. A memory slipped though – hearing Volaris’s voice in his head. A Sending spell, used to communicate over long distances, received while he was convalescing at the lodge. He expected further contact. The thought was hopeful. That was probably how it slipped past his defenses: the drug heightened his perception of all positive sensations and emotions.
The Shrine mission was too important to jeopardize, but Geron was surprised at his own bitterness. He honestly enjoyed his service to the Church and the Crimson King. He didn’t seek personal advancement like Saviya and so many others in the hierarchy, nor did he nurture delusions that any greater power awaited him once their King was free and his kingdom restored. He had no illusions of what his fate would ultimately be, yet he was content to put his particular talents to use where his superiors thought best. He had no pretensions of special humility – he just knew his place. If he were one of the rare few who’d been twice blessed with their Lord’s power, he believed it was because of this lack of ambition. He asked very little in return, mostly to be left to his own devices…
He held his knife to Matteo’s face, pushing the tip up against his good eye.
“How long. How many days? Tell me me how many days, or I’ll kill you right now.”
In the wake of the drug and conflicting stimuli, Matteo’s mind was confused. Geron stepped back, sorting through the thoughts his subject could not. He wanted to lie, but he wasn’t honestly sure how long he’d been held captive this second time. He’d forgotten – no that was another lie. Eventually, searching even deeper, Geron found the answer. Volaris had given him a week to try and find more details of his location so that the Loyalists could bring him to their new location. This memory was part of a cast-away regret that Matteo hadn’t taken the High Wizard up on his offer of daily contact.
Good enough. They had three days, by his calculations. Two if he wanted to be safer. He could manage with two, though it would mean delaying the raid. The peasants weren’t going anywhere. And it would be easier to get answers out of the Elf tomorrow anyway, once his cravings for more Agony set in. Geron remained in control. He smiled. Maybe he would even learn how he’d lied so well. He left Matteo’s thoughts.
“And with such issues resolved, we turn to the matter at hand.” He traded his knife for a scalpel he’d sharpened earlier. Its edge was so fine its deepest cuts could scarcely be felt: a perfect beginning to today’s experiments in sensation. Where to begin? He’d left the Elf to pretty the last time. Would the woodsman have been so eager to save the live of someone whose mutilations were more aesthetically offensive? When he came back later, he’d bring some burning pitch, perhaps. For now he wanted to focus on more sensitive areas…
-----------------------------------------------
Matteo had a strong spirit. Even here, even after everything he’d been through, he seemed to glow with an internal light. Gordon had known that he was a rare case for some time. On Keth, those who could draw upon their own power alone to cast magic were rare. Piove could, but she was a half-spirit to begin with. Drulenth was another touched with this ability – he’d sensed it while he was still watching the Loyalists. Most magic users were wizards, and studied spells form books. Sorcerers like Piove and Drulenth drew their power from purely internal forces. Geron could do this as well, though he suspected that his power had been granted, or awakened, by the Crimson King. Matteo expressed his magic through music – primarily through his voice. Silenced through Geron’s cruelty, he had little access to that power. Gordon believed he might be able to draw on it to save himself. At this point, it might be his only hope.
He was still under the effects of the drug, but it would wear off soon. Geron had been called away before he’d been able to do much permanent damage. As fortunate as that was, if Matteo didn’t get out now, he’d probably never survive. Geron couldn’t afford to have his location revealed to the cult’s enemies, and there was only one sure way to guarantee that he’d remain hidden.
Gordon had a plan. While he was drugged, Matteo’s consciousness was more open and receptivbe to his communication attempts, as he was while he was unconscious. The initial effects of the ironically named agony had worn of some time ago. Now the elf hung, half awake, but as he had when Gordon had left to make sure that the Shrine’s guardians were well occupied with other tasks. As far as he could tell –it was difficult for him to track the progress of the lesser cultists – all was well.
“Matteo.”
The Elf lifted his head, searching the darkness.
“This is Gordon, do you understand?”
His brow furrowed in confusion. His mind wasn’t as clear as Gordon would have liked.”
“Gordon Fenning. I need you to listen to me, Atremi. You need to get out of here. Nod if you understand.”
He did.
“Good. It will be easy to get your hands free. Work on that and listen to me.”
Gordon waited until he saw Matteo ball what was left of his hands into fists to try and slip free of the bonds. They were already lubricated with blood from where Geron had been working on the fresh scar tissue there. He winced as the pain cut through the haziness in his head, then worked more carefully to free one hand and then the other.
“The connection to the Plane of Shadows here is strong – that’s how you can hear me now, like you could during the Spirit Festival. This connection should also allow you to circumvent the wards on this place and summon me to you.”
Matteo’s strength as a Shadow Dancer had been growing quickly since hat night, as had Gordon’s connection to the Elf. The summoning was almost a technicality now. It would call him permanently into the prime material Plane until he was dismissed or destroyed. He’d be able to communicate more freely with Atremi, but it might also muddle his own thoughts and perceptions. It didn’t matter – he owed this service as a Shadow Dancer himself, and would perform it willingly. When it was over, he’d finally be released from all duty.
“Once you are free, you will summon me. I’ll explain everything else then.”
---------------------------------
It was hard not to let his mind wander, though he knew his thoughts couldn’t lead anywhere good. Rest and wait. Keep alert. He’d fallen into a fitful trance after he’d listened to Gordon’s plan. Matteo huddled against the cell wall and tried to focus on controlling his breathing. The wheeziness had abated for now, but his lungs still felt tight. T could hinder his escape if he wasn’t careful about it – not that he was going to be heading anywhere in a hurry.
At least he wasn’t alone now. Knowing Gordon was around and looking out for him kept him from falling back into despair. It refreshed his confidence. He might make it out of this yet. He might not die, lost and alone, sacrificed to an evil god with his spirit cut off from his people and condemned to an eternity of lonely wandering. In two days or less, he’d hear from Volaris, and someone would come. He knew where he was now – the first contact he’d had with the Loyalists after his capture had come before he’d met Chang. The prince’s people could rescue him. They might even be able to heal him, and if not they’d find someone who could. He’d be able to speak, sing, dance, and see again. No more pain from geron’s latest cuts, no more joints aching for severed digits. No more feeling lke he was close to starving even when there was food in front of him. No more of the craving, he hoped, that was taking root at the back of his mind for the ecstatic overwhelming pleasure – release form all pain and cares – that the Crimson Priest had injected him with. Everything that came after had been worth that initial feeling of utter bliss. The thought of dying and becoming Lost was barely incentive to abandon the possibility of forsaking a chance for another dose. Without Gordon, he wasn’t sure he could have managed. It was getting stronger as time passed, and he wasn’t sure how long he could hold out, or what would happen when it finally overcame him…
He tried to concentrate on breathing, and on the plan.
Eventually, he heard someone draw back the thick bolts of the cell’s door. Following Gordon’s directions, he drew on his connection to the Plane of Shadows, bending the darkness in his cell to his hill. An image coalesced out of the black, creating an illusion of himself hanging where he’d been left. He drew the shadows about himself more thickly, and shielded his eyes incase Geron tried the trick with the sunrod again. He was too adjusted to the perfect dark of the cell, and even weak light pained his injured eye.
His captor stepped inside, a spell at the ready. Seeing his subject still in bondage, he bracketed his torch and swung wide the cell door. He retrieved a small cart covered in familiar and disturbing instruments. There was a selection of syringes, anyone of which might contain more of the drug from the day before. Or not. They could hold any number of horrible compounds, and he’d never know the difference. It wasn’t worth the risk – not quite.
Geron pushed his instruments towards the hanging shadow and paused. The image was stationary, and Geron was discerning enough to note this and other discrepancies, though he might not immediately suspect the truth. There was barely enough room for Matteo to pass, but he hobbled outside as quickly and as quietly as he could. He swung the door closed, quickly fumbling for the bolts. He saw Geron stagger back before Gordon’s black form, and heard a muffled cry. His time was limited – the priest could probably free himself or summon aid quite quickly. Following Gordon’s instructions, he hobbled down the corridor towards the shrine’s center, and beyond to freedom.
Along the way, he found the staff Chang had cut for him along with the warden’s bow, and took them. He also found, by her quiet moans, the warden’s daughter. She’d been left naked and untended in the central chamber, her exposed flesh bitten and torn as deep as the bone in places. She rested limply against a cold stone slab, half dead eyes starring blankly into nothing. Unable to help in any other way and unwilling to abandon the girl to the cult, he sent her to join her father with one of his arrows, and hoped that her ancestors could find her spirit in this cursed place. He took whatever else he could find that might help bring this place down. The shrine seemed empty, but he knew that it was dangerous to linger – not when he could barely walk and when he knew his lungs would soon be laboring with the effort of escape. He already felt weak and shaky, and was glad when Gordon caught up to him. He’d left Geron weakened but not incapacitated. The priest was too resourceful, and Gordon’s powers as a Shadow were limited.
Outside, the sky billowed with distant black smoke. It lay in the direction of the village, and the only road Matteo knew of. He headed towards it, stumbling just past the limit of the blight before he was seized by a fit if shaking so violent he couldn’t stand. Gordon talked him though it. Had it only been a day? He’d never heard of a drug this strong, but he couldn’t imagine living long without it now. He focused his shattered will to draw himself into a hypnotic trace, leaning against an oak, humming quietly and watching the smoke through the forest canopy.
The suggestion he gave himself helped. The feeling of the drug was strongly imprinted, and he let himself be tricked. It didn’t have to work for long, just until he heard from Volaris.