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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
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