<html> <body> --------- Metamor Keep: Divine Travails of Rats by Charles Matthias and Ryx Pars IV: Infernus (u) Saturday, May 12, 708 CR As they stepped past the next pair of reeking piles of stone and metal, Charles caught sight of something new in the distance. Beyond the stretch of plating covering the ground he saw a patch of rough earth that glimmered with faceted crystals in a profusion of colors. Even in the gloom they sparkled with an inborn radiance that whispered of a magnificent castle for the Narrows and the softest garments, the most succulent delicacies, the finest entertainment, and diversions of every sort to suit any whim. Charles closed his eyes and shook his head back and forth, whiskers drooped, until the images were gone. When he looked up again he saw more than just the gems valuable beyond all reckoning. There were people stationed throughout the field of jagged crystal. They, like Agemnos, were attired in expensive silks and furs, each showing the wealth they'd once possessed. But now their garments were threadbare and worn from decades and centuries spent swinging picks to break apart the crystals. Other creatures, vile looking things that in the distortion of light Charles could not make out well, struck them with whips even when they were freeing the gems and working themselves into a lather. Despite how close they appeared at first, Charles realized as he turned his large, scalloped ears to listen, that they made no noise at all. He twisted his from side to side and saw the image distort as if he were staring at them through an immense lens. They and the field of crystal were out there, but both impossibly beyond his reach to aid. Somehow, Charles knew the gems were not beyond the grasp of avarice, but suffused himself in his master's confident and focused presence to silence such temptations. They continued on their way and with reluctance Charles turned his focus back to the road. For once the rat wished he were something else so that his eyes could not see to either side. The gems sparkled and the greedy slaved for each and every one that they could never keep. His heart beat wearily and for a moment he wasn't sure which he actually wanted to gather. He grabbed Qan-af-årael's robe in his left hand, tightening so that his claws dug into the soft, white fabric as thin as gossamer but as unyielding as steel, and shut his eyes tight. He would not be tempted by riches. He would not! He felt his master's hand cup around his back and gently urge him forward. The rat kept pace, trusting that the road would remain straight and that he would not stumble so long as he held the robe. His tail lashed behind him with all of his frustration as he fought and struggled against the allure of wealth. He knew he needed money if he were to support his family. The Long Scouts paid well enough, but had it really been enough? He now had land to tend. In time, with care and good seasons much wealth could be produced from that land, but what of his family in the interim? And how was he to afford the construction of a keep to watch over that land? How could he clear the woods enough to even build a road to carry that potential produce to markets where it might fetch a good price? He needed wealth for this. No! He needed nothing from this place! Just a handful from this place and he would have enough and vast sums to aid the poor, hungry, and homeless of Metamor, just as he had once aided his friend James. Charles ground his incisors together. No! He would not take even the tiniest fleck of gold from this hell! Without money his wife and children would starve. It was wrong to make them suffer want. His tongue shaped words and repeated them against the tendrils of greed. Seek ye first the kingdom of Eli, and all these things shall be added unto you. Into that inner turmoil snapped the crack of a whip. The rat stood upright, swinging the Sondeshike to his right through empty air, eyes blinking open in alarm. On either side of the road, only a handful of paces away, were fields of ghastly rock from which the gems protruded. Not a single one in all their facets, colors, and uncut glimmering was smaller than the rat's head. Between them and the rat were more richly-dressed souls, their faces a mix of callow struggle and toadying cooperation. They stared at the gems they fought to free from their rocky prisons with almost raw need. Bloody welts stained their garments all across their backs. One of the guards seemed within reach of his Sondeshike. It was a thing of shadows that did not seem to possess substance. It was formed by black veils that shifted this way and that as if covering a body his eyes could not perceive. A whip, long, red from blood, but filled with golden thread, lifted high over the immaterial guard's substance, and then lashed outward to score a young man's back. His mouth opened and face contorted in a scream. But even though the snapping leather was clear, no sound came from the man. Charles tightened his grip on the Åelf and forged ahead, trembling as the figures seemed to follow him for several steps before the strange lens-like distortion made them appear much further away. The rat swallowed and tried to close his eyes again. The presence at his side touched his mind gently and for the first time he felt as if he could see his friend and now liege in the ephemeral mists drifting over the walls of his consciousness. His white garments, unblemished and simple in their elegance, were a stark contrast to the gaudy wealth that dripped from every mote of fabric in all the beings he saw here. But their wealth was a ruin, and even Agemnos' had been chicanery, a convenient illusion that suited him but would not last beyond the time for which it served. The rat knew, as he saw within his mind his friend, protector and lord take shape that he had made the right decision. Their steps continued unerring for what felt several minutes though it could have been hours before he felt Qan-af-årael pause. Charles stopped and blinked open his eyes. Even as dim as the twilight had become in the lee of the massive building stretching high above, he still had to squint after holding them shut for so long. The road ended at the open doors of one of the strange buildings gushing smoke. The iron doors stood twice the Åelf's height and were wide enough for a team of four horses to prance side-by-side as they entered. There was no decoration to the door or the walls of the building, no heraldry to mark its owner, and no windows to permit light; nothing brought any color to the sullen metal and barren stone before them. Beyond the doors they could hear the grinding of gears and the slow, squeal of iron scraping against steel. Charles flicked his ears back and lifted his right arm to shield his snout and chest. The remnants of his cloak fluttered against his legs and tail though he felt no wind. The rat in him felt as though he cowered before the maw of a giant snake. What little light penetrated the building revealed only that the passage beyond the door was fashioned from the same perfectly smooth stones as the road. There were no walls to support the massive edifice; only the yawning void of shadow awaited them. Qan-af-årael laid a slender hand upon his back and nodded. Charles glanced up at him and, whiskers drooping, nodded. His master raised his left hand and from the tips of his fingers sprang a quintet of witchlights which raced over their heads to dance in a tight circle, casting a pale, silver glow around them. Charles felt cheered by such a little thing and together they stepped through the massive portal into the building. He half-feared the doors would swing shut behind them, but they remained fixed in place as if they were contemptuous of all trespassers. The exterior walls did not appear to be supported beyond their own weight and the ceiling was lost beyond the glow of the witchlights. But around them Charles saw many puzzling things. Strange constructions from iron forged into long beams and vast pits surrounded them on all sides and in rows as far as the light penetrated. Bridges thin as a blade and yet perfectly stiff stretched overhead from one vat to another and from one contraption to the next. Cylindrical chambers sealed with the clearest glass Charles had ever seen abounded on every side, and in each of them he saw one of the victims of greed trapped, all still donned in their rotting finery. Their faces were contorted with anguished screams that did not penetrate the glass. At the bottom of each chamber thin tubes descended toward larger vats beneath in which pistons churned a black tar-like substance as if it were butter. The rat swallowed heavily as he saw the bodies crushed, squeezed, sliced, and pulverized from every side in those vats and narrow cylinders, the essence of their spiritual flesh oozing from them as a thin gruel into which they sank and suffered before it was sucked down the narrow tubes to join the tar beneath. Not a single one of the dark Lord of Avarice's minions was there to mete out punishment. Every ounce and every mote of soul-crushing anguish was administered by soulless machines. These souls who had mercilessly crushed others in their ascent to mortal power and wealth were now in turn reduced to mash by something which was incapable of pity. Although the road was gone, a path between the machines continued before them and down this Åelf and rat walked. Charles glanced up at Qan-af-årael every dozen paces, but could not keep his eyes from wandering across the vast array of chambers into which souls were ground in misery. Men and women of every race and every age filled the chambers and of that alone there seemed no rhyme or reason. Charles wondered if any of the youths he saw were Keepers but was grateful he did not recognize any. And then his eyes alighted upon one of the larger vats into which dozens churned and he swallowed heavily, heart tightening in his chest. The first one he saw was a hound of some kind, with short fur and angular features that struck him as somewhat familiar, though no name would come. But after him came a dozen other Keepers, clad in fur, scales, and feather, their bodies shriveled and bent in ways no mortal could endure, twisted and rolled like a lump of dough until they too began to leak the black tar. It surged and pulsed at the bottom of the vat, sucking and sloshing around paws and tails, suffocating and squelching as they struggled against it and to find any purchase from which to escape their unending torment. His eyes lingered until one of the avian Keepers was thrust against the glass chamber, its black-feathered wings, tipped white beneath, spread outward, while its bald, blotchy head was battered back and forth. For a single moment one dark eye flicked toward them before the Keeper was yanked away by the machine. Charles choked back a cry and hurried on. Machine after machine lined the passage and in each vessel was a mortal soul in the process of reduction to tar. Agonies and violence abounded on every side. Charles crouched low, huddled next to the noble Åelf who noted all with a disapproving moue in his otherwise inscrutable expression. The path remained straight and turned neither to the right nor the left. And though the building had not appeared so large from the outside, the ceiling was lost in the gloom above, and the walls were only a faint memory. All that there was to see and know was the churning, crunching, gurgling sound of the machines. So it was that Charles hissed in surprise when the path came to an abrupt end before a wide pit that dropped into a funnel at whose base twisted a series of gears with serrated edges. Only a pinprick of light was visible between them, and it cast a faint shimmering glow upon the gears. The metal screeched against metal, and the rat felt an involuntary shudder cascade through his fur. For several seconds he stood at the lip of the pit staring down in stupefied horror. A satirical and vile little voice piped from above them. It sounded male, but so strained as if he were speaking while tearing flesh apart with his fangs. “So you are here, the living mortal looking for a way out!” Their eyes lifted and reclining on a metal pipe through which sloshed rivulets of black tar as the souls above were pulverized was a blue-skinned imp. His ears were long and pointed, short horns dotted his hairless head and protruded from his elbows and knees, and a curling tail that ended in a series of quill-like spikes flicked back and forth. Cruel nails scraped the metal pipe, sending a shiver of pain through the rat's ears. Rubies and sapphires glimmered in rings set on his fingers, and one even sparkled where it had been drilled into the side of one of his fangs. Apart from those he bore no other garments. Vicious red eye regarded them with hunger. Qan-af-årael stretched out his left hand and from it sprang the tree blade, its deep, violet sheen making the tar glisten with an eerie light. The imp leaned back from the blade's touch but did not lose his leering smile. “Your master has a message for us. Speak it.” The imp wrinkled its nostrils and spat on the blade. A wisp of smoke was all that gave evidence to his spittle as it disintegrated. The imp slipped back through the pipes and then spread hidden wings as it descended to the path behind them. The Åelf tracked him with the blade. Charles took a step to the side to put distance between himself and the pit. The imp cackled and stretched its thin lips across its fangs. “The bridge lies beneath the funnel. To get to the bridge you must first remove the gears. The gears are sealed and can only be removed by forcing a mortal soul through them.” Charles flicked back his ears. “And what happens to the soul? Will it be destroyed?” The imp dropped his lower jaw in a hungry laugh. “Destroyed? Fool mortal. My master would never destroy a soul when it can harvested. The soul will be processed, of course. The tar will fetch him much in the hells. You will help my master with his harvest on your way out. Or you will be part of his harvest.” The tree blade swelled in size, the tip jabbing within inches of the imp's face. It scowled at the blade but did not flinch. Qan-af-årael's voice was powerful and full of ice. “Your master already processes more souls than you could count. These machines deliberately prolong the suffering of their victims. You know it is done so to obtain the purest potency of each soul. Your master assured us that passage through the bridge would doom my Núrodur to this place. What lie have you spun?” The blue-skinned tilted back his head and laughed. His eyes seemed to burn like iron in the forge. “These souls are processed by machines. If your rat wants out of this trap, he must push the soul in himself. He will process the soul. He will take the place of the machines. His hand will be stained in tar, his work in this place begun! No matter where he goes once he leaves, that mark is indelible. He will return and never leave!” Charles unfurled his Sondeshike and shook his head. “Never! You will never claim my soul!” “Claim it?” The imp stood taller and spread his bat-like wings. “You will give it to my master!” Qan-af-årael motioned for Charles to remain where he was. With his other arm he made another feint with the blade. “Is there any more your master bid you tell us?” The imp took a step back, stretched its jaws wide, bent over at the middle, and vomited up something black and long. It clattered as iron against iron upon the path but did not move further. The creature stroked it with one hand, claws unable to mar it. “My master bid me give you this. With this you can draw a single soul of out the machines. It will only work once. Whichever soul you free from the machine you must push into the pit or you will be trapped here. And that is all my master bid me to say to you!” His eyes glimmered, ravenous as he turned on Charles. “I will enjoy welcoming you back, rat!” “You won't.” Qan-af-årael flicked his wrist and the tree blade swelled another ten feet in length, its multiple spires reducing the imp to sizzling strips of flesh before it could even flinch. Charles twitched his whiskers and then lowered his head in admiration and gratitude. The Åelf smiled to him and rested his free hand upon the rat's head for a moment, before returning to the pit. “It did not lie about the gears. They will only open if a mortal soul is fed through them.” “Can you destroy them?” “I can, but the magical weave that Agemnos has sealed them with is intricate and so convoluted that even Klepnos would approve. I fear any tampering with the gears will destroy you if not the bridge itself.” “I will not murder anyone for this!” “I told you not to feel pity for the souls in this place,” Qan-af-årael reminded him. “Agemnos cannot indelibly mark you for this, Núrodur. You have already sworn yourself to me.” Charles nodded and then his eyes fell upon the black rod on the path a few feet from the meaty remnants of the imp. “What if... what if I didn't push the mortal soul? What if they went willingly?” Qan-af-årael gestured to the device left for them and offered a wan smile to the rat. “I see what you intend. Try it. But do not blame yourself if it does not work.” Charles offered his master a grateful smile and bob of his snout before bending down to lift the metal rod. It was stronger than iron but lacked the shine of steel, black as obsidian it was still a metal alloy though he could make no guess as to its composition. The haft was shaped in a square two inches to a side, and it felt heavy in his grasp, the edges digging into the tough flesh of his palms. Apart from its mysterious composition and dark hue there was nothing remarkable about it at all, nor was there any indication as to how he was to use it. Tightening his grip on the rod, Charles let out a sigh and started walking back along the path at the side of his Åelf. A part of him hoped that he would see another soul in those perfidious vats whom he would recognize, but despite the rush of faces in that banquet of souls, not a one of them was familiar. Charles looked to each and even lingered for a moment before the larger vats so that all of the shredded occupants might pass before his eyes. He knew not a one of them and so left them to their torment. His steps and his attention carried him, despite himself, to the vat filled to overflowing with Keepers. His whiskers drooped as he lifted the rod and tapped it against the glass. It made no sound but there seemed to be a distant rumbling from all around as if an echo. The glass rippled like a fish breaking the surface of a calm lake as it ate a fly. The rat's whiskers trembled as the tip of the rod slipped through the glass; the machine shuddered and the turbulent churning stilled. For a moment the many Keepers within continued to flinch from their anguish, but after a few seconds of stillness their eyes opened and as one they turned toward the rat and his Åelvish master. Furious clawing, kicking, scratching, and gouging ensued as they struggled one over another to reach the tip of the rod that had pierced their prison. Charles almost recoiled but for a strong, steady hand at his back and a warm assuring presence in his mind. The struggle lasted only moments before the short-furred hound tore out a ferret's nethers to gain the prize. His hand, short claws beaten and bloodied, wrapped about the end of the rod. The air inside the vat seemed to thicken and the other Keepers struggled vainly to dislodge the red-furred hound from his place. Charles gasped as words flowed through the rod, and both indignation and anger toward so many that despite Qan-af-årael's support the rat still felt his knees begin to buckle. The howling fury of a blizzard seemed to surge through those thoughts, and for a moment the rod they held seemed to be a dark blade limned with volcanic light. I have a destiny! I was to see him die! I was to be important! But I have been betrayed and cast into this place! Draw me out and give me my revenge! Charles took a deep breath and shook his head. His thoughts return cold and implacable as stone. No. Not you. I am here for only one of you. But you must free me! I have been wronged! The fire and ice drove deeper against the rat but he felt a well of strength enter him from his master. He would be as the stone. The Keepers here were not victims of anything but their own greed. His voice swelled with power as ancient and unconquerable as the mountains. I am here for only one and it is not you. Back in the vat with you, slave of Agemnos! Get back and suffer the fate your misdeeds have purchased! The hound paled, his eyes wide and white, and then his battered body flinched and he collapsed backward into the midst of Keepers all eager to claim freedom for themselves. But the rat's thoughts stilled them all; none made any move to advance, though the yearning in their eyes and claws was unmistakeable. Charles stared past them, nostrils flaring with breath, until his gaze settled upon the one Keeper who had not rushed forward. I am here for Baldwin. The condor shifted, the black feathers of his wings ruffling as he stepped forward. Beady, dark eyes glowered at him down the fat curve of his beak. For several long seconds the Keeper stared at the tip of the rod piercing the glass; contempt filled its gaze but for what was not clear. The other Keepers frothed hungrily, their muzzles opening and closing as if they begged the rat to free them instead. Charles ignored them and kept his gaze on the condor. The Keeper's wings hunched a moment and his chest sagged as if he were resolving himself to some loathsome task. One wing-claw stretched out and brushed against the square tip. The voice that struck the rat was not the convivial squawk he'd known in those first few months of his life as a Long Scout. Rather it was one filled with acrimony and bitterness, burdened by resentment, and laid over with a veneer of disgust. Have you come to spew your venom at me too? I am dead! Betrayed by Nasoj's men as I betrayed the Longs! What anguish could you give to me that I do not already receive in this place? Charles tensed under the acid. One hand gripped the hem of his tattered cloak and pulled it tight across his chest so that the heraldry was plain. His thoughts, once stern and angry, were now quiet, as of a mountain breeze gently disturbing pine branches. I am not here for any of that, Baldwin. I... I know that you had voiced suspicions about my past allegiances and my penchant for secrecy. I had hoped the few times we had been out drinking together could have helped us know each other better. It was a terrible pain to learn that I had not known you at all. I did not want to believe it of you but here I find you. You have found me. What do you want with me? If you do not speak plainly I will let go and you may as well let this machine reduce us to paste. I want to help redeem you. The pause that filled his mind was so potent that he feared for a moment even Qan-af-årael had recoiled from him. But his master's presence was also there; it had never moved. The condor shifted behind the glass, turning his beak from side to side as he regarded Charles with one gleaming, coal-black eye and then the other. The wing claw wavered against the end of the rod before his thoughts finally returned, incredulous and bewildered. Redeem me? I am damned. I betrayed the Long Scouts, men and woman who called me friend, for a pittance that I will never enjoy. I let Metamor's enemies within her gates. You cannot redeem me. Charles swallowed, but did not allow his thoughts to betray either ire or impatience. I too betrayed Metamor. I too brought one of her enemies within her gates and saw him safely out again. And I did it for no reason greater than my pride. The condor shifted closer, one wing pressed against the glass, the other touching the tip of the rod but refusing to grasp it. Did you kill a fellow Keeper because of your pride? Wessex. The name came to him suddenly, but in a way he knew it was true. His refusal to admit what he knew of Zagrosek after Loriod had been cast down had led step by step to the boy mage's murder. He did not thrust the knife but he'd help guide it. He shuddered and shook his head, his thoughts as still as the mountain. I helped kill Wessex. His wing draped across the rod. And they let you live? I was exiled. But I also repented and dared not make the mistake that led to my betrayal again. Come with me and I can help you. You don't have to spend eternity being destroyed by this machine. The condor's eyes narrowed. How did you kill him? The rat could only grimace. With my secrets. I always knew your secrets ran deeper than Misha would admit. Charles twisted his end of the rod in his paws, his grimace descending into a glower that made his whiskers stand out on either side. His eyes narrowed for a moment, and then he released the breath he held and let the anger melt from his face. His thoughts resumed, even quieter than before. And I was a fool to keep them. I do not keep them any longer now. I want to help you. Please, grip the rod and I will free you from the machine. And if I refuse? I will not threaten you. If you refuse I will choose somebody else to free. I want it to be you. The condor sneered, squawking inaudibly with his beak. The thoughts that returned through the rod were angry and full of resentment. Me? So you can prove that you redeemed me? Or to assuage your conscience by proving that I was a lost soul and that there was nothing you could do about it? Or is it merely to believe you can be redeemed as well? You do not care about me! Charles ground his molars together but kept all other signs of frustration buried deep within. He felt the hand at his back slip up to his shoulder. A certainty, a sense of authority, was conveyed by that touch. You will come with me. I cannot prove to you my intentions here. It is only when you see where I take you that you will know I speak true. Do you wish to spend ages beyond reckoning being mercilessly destroyed by this machine or do you wish one last chance to make amends and prove that you are worth more than currency for dark monsters? The condor stared at him for a long moment, dark eyes piercing above the edge of his yellow beak. Slowly, but inexorably, they slid down across the glass until they touched the rod upon which only a single feather remained. Those eyed bored into the metal rod as if they could pierce its very substance to the will of its maker. Still hardened and dubious, the condor lifted one of its legs and wrapped a talon about the edge of the rod. The thoughts that touched him were filled with pain. I am worth more. Draw me out. The other Keepers wailed and beat at some imaginary wall even as Charles pulled the rod out. The glass shimmered and rippled, though now the waves rose and fall as if a vast rock had been tossed within. For a moment Charles felt sure the machine itself would buckle and break, but the metal, no matter how the glass moved, remained fix and inviolate. Through the glass the condor emerged, the many wounds from which he had been leaking unrefined potency all sealed again. Behind the condor the glass reasserted itself, bowing inward once before resuming its normal shape. And then all of the furious souls still trapped within were battered about once more as the machine resumed its pitiless course. The bird Keeper glanced back at it and stared for several long seconds before spreading his wings and shaking them out. His red-skinned bald head twisted from side to side as if trying to decide what to preen first. But no bird Charles had ever seen had looked at their own bodies with so much disgust that they couldn't decide. The rod in the rat's hand and the condor's talon, once so strong and heavy, for a moment became as light as a wooden twig. The next moment it narrowed and withered with little flakes tearing away as if eaten by a gale wind. In surprise both Charles and the bird Keeper dropped their end. The rod did not even bounce, for it had been reduced to a mist that scattered in every direction. Agemnos' dismembered servant had spoken the truth that this was a tool that could only be used once. ---------- May He bless you and keep you in His grace and love, Charles Matthias </body> </html>