The Underworld

  The Past

  In the heart of Abyssyn, a desolate, scarred realm, stood a violent volcano. The mountain, a giant smoking hunk of solid black rock, was in a constant state of eruption. Lava continuously flowed from its peak, sometimes at a lazy, meandering pace and at other times with explosive force that sent it soaring and scorching far across the surrounding valley. The eruptions never completely stopped, ebbing and flowing for all time, providing a natural protective shield around itself that repealed even the most sturdy creatures. For miles around there was nothing but smoldering, charred land, marred with deep vents that let out noxious steam from the magma flows below the surface. The only sources of water were boiling pools of runoff from the mountain itself, filled with toxic levels of volcanic gases, polluting the deceptively serene blue ponds to deadly levels. It was chosen, for these reasons, as a fortress.

  Below the surface of the volcano were rooms carved straight from the black stone. They were crafted with precision, avoiding the lava pathways and chambers that were the circulatory system of the mountain itself. The twisting maze of a palace took centuries to complete and, even now, was occasionally expanded deeper into the ground to add space for whatever its master required. The construction was complex, designed to avoid disturbing the volcanic activity and also prevent deadly leaks of gas or magma into the living spaces. Woven into the polished rock walls, like veins of gold in the floors of marble, was a magic so old it transcended most other things in Abyssyn. It was the supporting structure to the labyrinth that was House Versellis. It’s what made the palace’s existence possible within the volatile interior of Mount V’lynis. The magic was transfussed into the stone to keep out the scouring heat. Abyss was always hot, especially during the day under its three suns. Somehow it managed to get even hotter under the volcano. The magic also couldn’t keep out the fetid, omnipresent smell of sulfur that permeated every corner of Abyssyn.

  The middle of the complex housed the dungeons, purposely built close to a large magma chamber. The temperature inside was beyond sweltering. It was not uncommon for prisoners to frequently die from heat stroke within hours of being brought in. The next most common cause of death was dehydration. Though, that was just fine with the master of the house. When you went deeper into the dungeons, closer to the wall that was dug closest to the magma, came a large cell that was more like a cage. It was here that they kept what was known simply as Thing. It was a creature so foul that the stench of it frequently caused its caretakers to vomit or, sometimes, lose consciousness. The prisoners who were put into the cells closest to it sometimes went mad. The Thing shrieked a horrible, grating cry day in and out that sliced into the ear no matter what you tried to block it out with.

  The dungeons had been the most recent place of expansion, a specialized cell built next to The Beast’s that contained a complex, twisted snarl of chains and locks, all wrapped together into a device of inescapable horror. Within this jumble of iron lay a small boy child, nearly invisible amongst the clumps of metal that were heaped and tied around him. He appeared to be a human child by all features except for his eyes. He had eyes of blackest night with no sclera or pupil distinguishable. Just depthless, endless black. Only his head remained visible from under the chains and this served two purposes. First, it allowed the servants to easily feed him and give him water, which they did on shifts. Same times, every day.. The second was so he could clearly hear The Thing’s shrieks and the cries of the other prisoners in the cells around him.

  Yet, as he sat there, day after day, the boy himself didn’t cry. The servants came and let him relieve himself, helping him to stand and move to the bucket under the weight of all the chains. If he had to go before they came he didn’t dare, knowing he’d be left to sit in it for a long, long time. Occasionally, though it was hard to tell how long went in between due to the solid walls around him, they would come and begin the long process of unlocking all the chains. This meant that it was time for his training. As terrible as being locked in his cell was, at least it was predictable. But the training… that was the only time he showed fear.

  His little body shook uncontrollably as the two servants set about the task of unlocking all the heavy mechanisms that kept him locked in place. Then, they forced him to drink the terrible liquid that made him drowsy. He followed them incoherently to whatever destination he was called that day, practically dragged along by his chains. Sometimes it was just to the large library for reading lessons or to make him scrape the nasty, molding cookpots left behind from some great feast. Those were the times he breathed in relief.

  The times he feared were the trainings with the master in the large, cavernous spaces carved for gatherings of some sort. All the information he gained about the palace was from the servants and guards who tended the dungeons. They whispered amongst themselves, often forgetting he was there, tucked away in his cell.

  Today was a training day with the master, he realized somewhere deep in his subconscious. As they neared the large hall, the spell began to wear off and his hands began to shake again. Through the shaking, his face remained emotionless and calm. The servants unceremoniously shoved him inside and slammed the doors closed behind him. The boy, taking one steadying breath and then another, walked slowly forward until he stood in the middle of the room, the drowsiness from the potion still affecting him.

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  It was dark, only one torch lit the entire space. As he stood there, ears strained and ringing from being removed from the noisy dungeons to the silence of the hall, he noticed movement to his left and dove to the side. He rolled, turning his head back to see that a huge serrated knife stuck up from the floor where he had just been standing.

  He didn’t dare stop moving, being well aware of the consequences of being struck by one of those knives. He rolled to his feet and began running the perimeter of the room as more knives flew out of the shadows at him. He rolled and ducked, never slowing as the onslaught kept coming though he stumbled a few times.

  The master didn’t care that the potion wasn’t worn off. The master accepted no excuses.

  A well timed throw, aimed to sink a knife in the center of his chest, forced him to block with a shield. He mentally threw up a thin wall of magic, watching the knife thunk into it and letting the wall drop a second later, the knife falling away with it.

  So it went. The boy ran and dodged with the occasional shield. The knives flew out faster than the average person could ever track, a mere blur streaking from the shadows. The boy saw and evaded every single one. They started coming faster and more numerous, an almost endless frenzy of knives flying around the room as he avoided them all. Soon, they stopped flying and the boy stopped running, peering around at the shadows as he panted, a thick layer of sweat covering his thin body. There were hundreds of knives scattered around the floor and embedded deeply within the rock. As he looked around they vanished. Every last one of them. It was as if they’d never been there at all.

  But he knew they had.

  A low growl came from the corner of the room and the boy turned his gaze toward it. A tall man stepped out from the shadows, almost seeming to emerge from the shadow itself. In the dim light, it looked as though the man were made of nothing but shadow, his dark clothes blending in so well. The boy knew better. A smile curved at the corner of the man’s thin lips.

  “Well done,” He said in the strange, churning language of Abyssyn. His deep, rumbling voice was flat with boredom.

  The boy said nothing, trying desperately to control his shaking hands as he still panted, trying to recover. The man stepped up in front of him, towering over the boy and frowning down at his hands in undisguised disgust. The man’s face was human but he had two long horns sticking out of his forehead. They were black, nearly matching the shade of his hair and twisting back so they pointed toward the back of his head, naturally holding his long, sleek hair back off of his face. His eyes were the same endless black depths as the boys.

  “Again,” He said, turning away and melting back into shadow. “This time with flame.”

  The boy's eyes widened as he began running in earnest, black flames shooting after him from where the master had disappeared once more. He shielded, knowing it to be futile, as the flames bore down on him and went straight through the shield. He rolled and the ball of flame sizzled past, passing so close to his arm he felt the hairs curl. He tried to shield again, willing his own flames to life to infuse the shield with them. He managed a small flickering flame as he ran, casting the shield along with it. A flame hit the shield and sizzled for a second longer than before but still broke through. The boy gritted his teeth in concentration as he tried again and again to get the flame to infuse.. Before long his energy began to wane and he felt his power run low. Still, the flames kept coming.

  He tried to dodge a particularly large streak of fire but it caught him on the arm, sending him sprawling to the floor. For the first time since entering the hall he cried out in pain, holding his hand to the scorched skin near his shoulder as he writhed on the ground. The dark flames burned hotter than normal fire, burning deeper and biting into flesh easier, like a well honed blade.

  “Pathetic,” Came a voice from the shadows. The man materialized once more, stepping up to the side of the injured boy and frowning down at him. “Nine years old and unable to manage a decent shield. I should have let the flames consume you.”

  The boy cried out again, whole body shivering with the pain of his wound. He looked up into the man’s emotionless face as tears streamed out of his eyes in agony.

  “F-Father,” The boy pleaded, his voice crackling and broken from his dry mouth..

  “You are no son of mine,” The man said, sounding disgusted once more. “Stand.”

  The boy tried to obey, rolling onto his knees and pushing up with his good arm. He barely managed to stagger to his feet as his arm burned ferociously. He willed his tears to stop as he looked into the master's face expectantly.

  “Five lashes,” The master said, motioning to the wall with his chin. The boy turned to the wall, head hanging, resigned to his fate.

  _____

  Hours later he sat chained up in his cell once more, arm bandaged but unhealed. His back was raw and dripping blood from the lashing but he knew the servants would only step in to heal him if anything got infected. Otherwise they’d ignore him as usual.

  He sat under the weight of the chains, feeling sick from the pain when a familiar voice met his ears. He looked up to see the woman in the cell across from him peering through the bars. She offered him a sad smile that didn’t reach her eyes. He didn’t smile back, fighting to stay conscious through the pain.

  “Ari,” Came the woman's beautiful lilted voice, nearly drowned out by the cacophony of the dungeon. “It’s going to be ok. You’re strong. Listen to my voice and know you will be alright.”

  The woman began to sing in a hushed cadence, leaning against the bars of her own cell door. Unlike the boy, she was unchained. The boy blinked at her slowly, letting the other sounds around them fade away until even the beast’s shrieking was unnoticeable and only the quiet song remained. He let it carry him into oblivion as he finally succumbed to the pain, the song his only company in the darkness of his mind.