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Metamor Keep: Divine Travails of Rats
by Charles Matthias and Ryx
Pars IV: Infernus
(w)
Saturday, May 12, 708 CR
The rat landed on his hands and rolled to his
haunches, tail sweeping out around him before
bending against his flank when the tip struck the
invisible boundary. His master stepped through
the gap between worlds behind him, long fingers
brushing across the tip of the rat's tail as they
let go. Still he felt the warmth of the Åelf's
presence within his mind and it helped sooth his
trembling heart. The sight of Baldwin's body
chopped and chewed dwindled in his thoughts until
all he could see was the black coating his arms.
From just above his elbows all the way down to
the tip of each narrow claw there was no hue to
be glimpsed. The pink flesh of his hands was
obscured by the darkness wrenched from the
condor's spirit. The brown fur that covered his
arms had been swallowed by the tar so seamlessly
that it no longer appeared he had fur beneath the
black. He flexed his fingers, turned over his
arms, and apart from the lack of fur could feel
nothing different. He rubbed his hands over his
arms and felt a smooth texture to rival silk and
a warmth therein greater than his flesh.
Will it come off? Why speak with his tongue when
his master knew all of his thoughts already?
When you wake from the dream and your spirit
rejoins your mortal flesh, Núrodur. Nothing of
your mortal flesh has been harmed.
The rat twitched his whiskers and then grimaced
as he stood. Flecks of the tar had struck his
chest and snout as well, and as he moved he could
feel them with the fur surrounding them. He
lifted one hand and found a spot beneath his
chin, another streak along his left cheek, and
even a splotch on the inside of his right ear.
His shoulders and upper chest had been peppered
with dollops no larger than one of his claws, but
those dollops had burned through his tunic,
leaving little holes in the cloth where they had struck.
His dark eyes narrowed at the gray span of stone
stretching to an infinitesimal point before him.
There is only one more, Master?
Only one more, Núrodur, and then we reach Beyond.
Charles ground his molars together, wrapped one
tar blackened hand about the middle of his
Sondeshike, and strode forward. With a flick of
his wrist he extended the staff, the brass
ferrules glimmering in the sullen shadow of the
bridge. He felt his master's presence following
close behind, his thoughts touching his mind so
tenderly that for a moment the rat felt certain
he could see his own back, with scalloped ears,
brown fur, red vest and beige tunic, long, scaled
tail, and crook-shanked legs in a way no mirror had ever shown him.
The bridge narrowed as it always had. He did not
hesitate; he anticipated the moment and lifted
the staff before him as he crossed the threshold.
Charles recoiled as he saw his hands wrapped
about a long stiletto. Before him laying in an
exquisite canopied bed were Lord and Lady Avery.
He thrust the stiletto into their necks, blood
gushing everywhere as they writhed for but
moments. He stabbed and stabbed until the entire
bedchamber was one large crimson stain.
And then he was standing next to a cistern. His
donkey friend James was at his side, drawing out
water with a ladle. His hands grabbed the donkey
about the shoulders and shoved his head into the
cistern. The equine thrashed and kicked with
hooves, but Charles pressed him firmly down,
ignoring every blow he was able to land. The
struggles weakened after several seconds; after
several more they ceased all together.
Charles laughed as he swung a massive blade back
and forth, chasing down Lutins as they fled
before him. The village around him burned and
screams were everywhere. He lifted mailed boots
and savored the crunch of bones as wailing Lutin
children fell beneath him. Their backs bent and
broke beneath his boots, and their heads bounced
from the tip of his blade. Even the shaman's
lithe, ghost white hound shrank away from him in
fear before he cornered it and crushed its skull
bodily with his gauntleted fists.
He gasped as the images bombarding him were
thrust away, and the presence of his master and
guardian swelled within him. Piercing stabs of
hate, malevolent cries, inordinate pleasure in
pain, and all other manner of evil breached the
wall for mere moments, and the rat could only
flinch from them, trying to find his center,
vainly seeking a calm that could never be in this
place. He was dimly aware that he collapsed and
that hands, but not his own, kept him from
bashing his skull against the ground.
Focus, Núrodur! I am here! Focus!
The words penetrated and for a moment shut out
the din of crying voices in numbers beyond
counting pressing aginst him to show him the sins
committed by the owner of each tortured voice.
The cacophany crashed against him with the
relentless force of a flash flood overtaking a
cricket. He was deaf with them, but for the
powerful, singular voice within his mind that
muffled them finally to silence and bulwarked
sanity until he could grasp it once more. Charles
blinked and for a moment could see, though there
appeared to be nothing to see. He breathed,
looked upward, and saw the Åelf shrouded with a
nimbus of light, darkened by everything else.
Shadow stretched from hm and in this the rat
huddled. In every other direction a blackness
deeper than death cloaked a world barren, flat,
and utterly freakish. Pale embers limned bodies
strewn in every direction. Their forms did not
move, locked forever within their own minds,
sharing with one another their foulest misdeeds
until any smidgen of decency was eradicated.
Listen to my voice. See me all around you. They
have no hold on you. You have sworn yourself to me, Núrodur.
Charles listened, and swallowed. He felt strength
return to his legs and carefully eased himself
up. His hands rested in the Åelf's own, the
Sondeshike pressed between them. Within his mind
he felt the Åelf surround him, his presence a
barrier against the evil. Like a watchman at the
gate, Charles sensed his mind enclosed within his master's gentle grasp.
I in you. And you in me, Núrodur.
He thought nothing for long seconds as he took
several deep breaths. The air felt thin, but it
did not choke him as the red dust had, nor did it
gag him as the ice of Kilyarnie had. It was not
the physical that was impossible to endure here,
so, apart from the near absence of any light that
made it difficult for even his rodent eyes to
see, he felt no discomfort of any kind. Each
breath with his mind free to think brought back a
measure of strength and composure.
The jarring images still came, but they were mere
wisps, and none lasted long enough to unfold
their evil. The mere memory of the few he had
glimpsed on his arrival was enough to make him
yearn to vomit, but what had he consumed in the
countless ages he had spent battling his way
deeper and deeper into the hells apart from the
vicissitude of the unlamented Loriod? Another
emotion sprang forward in his heart as his spirit
reclined in his master's protection
indignation. How many souls here now in the taste
of death still sampled the evil deeds for which
they had been damned and felt no sting of
remorse? How many took pleasure in endlessly reviewing their crimes?
Where was the contrition? Where was the justice?
Contrition? There was a sadness to that thought
that only vivified the rat's sense of disquiet.
In this place there will be none. Justice? Is it
not enough that they are here? What more would you do?
Charles closed his eyes for a moment as he
finally stood to his full height. When he opened
them he gazed upward into the face of the Åelf.
Ageless and filled with a grace beyond words, it
alone of all things was limned by a white light.
His flesh seemed darkened like all else, but the
radiance was still there, merely inverted as if
true colors refused to be shown. His lips offered
a twinge of a smile, and his eyes provoked a sense of urgency.
Where must we go?
Nowhere. Our arrival in this realm was expected.
Even now, the Lord of all Daedra sends his
champion to meet us and bring us. We need only wait for his arrival.
Alarmed, Charles lifted his ears and flicked his
eyes to either side. In the perpetual moonless,
starless midnight of a burned-out world there was
nothing to see. Not even a glimmer or shuffling
of shadows to suggest that anything even moved in
this place let alone approached. In his fear an
image slipped through the walls of his master's
presence and he saw for a split second a young
hooded rat-child gazing up at him in fear, while
his darkened arms grasped the boy's shoulders.
A shifting of the presence within him silenced
the vision. Charles breathed a sigh of relief,
and then focused his thoughts. Do we want to
wait? Surely this champion will try to bring us harm!
The champion will only do as his master bids and
no more. I sense the Lord of Daedra's purpose in
this. He waits at the door to make his bid for
your soul. We must brace him one way or another
if we are to reach Beyond and reclaim your son
Ladero. It is simpler and brings less anguish to
you if we wait for the champion.
What will the Lord of Daedra do?
The Åelf gazed down at him and then stretched out
one hand, fingers running across the back of the
rat's head and ears as one might pet a beloved dog. He will tempt you.
Charles felt the fire of indignation return.
Tempt me? Have they not already tempted me?
Klepnos with false visions! Revonos with the
glory of battle unending and the veneer of my own
life? Suspira with the satiation of any desire I
could possess! Even Agemnos offered me riches and power! I spurned them all!
The fire in you is good, Núrodur. The Åelf
counseled as he let his hand rest on the rat's
shoulders. But do not trust in your own strength.
Had not the Beast of Revonos recognized your
allegiance you too would be a collared beast
entertaining in the pits. Had not I arrived and
provided a doppelganger, you would have bent the
knee to Suspira. The Lord of the Daedra is
stronger and viler than them all. He will strike
you where you are weakest. Do not listen to him.
I won't. The anger in his thoughts covered a
quivering fear. Could, after all the anguish of
the hells, he actually falter mere steps from his goal?
As if in reply he saw his son again, now
apparently five or six years in age, a child
beautiful with black fur covering his head and
down his back and with a white underbelly,
struggling to get away from grasping hands that
held him tight. Charles flinched at the image,
his head turning from side to side as if
expecting to see the damned whose yearnings pierced his master's veil.
But neither his eyes, nor his ears, nor even his
whiskers spoke to him of any sign of the beast
whose thoughts had reached through the Åelf's
barrier to quicken his gorge. Frustrated, Charles
turned the Sondeshike over in his hands. The
familiar motion was a comfort even if his ears
turned forward in surprise when the whirling
blade made no whistle through the air. Was there
even any air for him to breathe? How much of what
he saw was merely a vision for his mind?
A warmth touched his heart and for a moment the
bleak eternal night of the hell was no longer
before him. He could smell the pine needles
littering the forest floor and the fragrance of
Spring blossoms drifting in the air. He felt the
warmth of the sun filtering through the trees and
basked in the soft susurrus of a gentle breeze
rustling fresh leaves. A soft hand touched his
shoulder, and he felt whiskers brushing against
his cheek fur. He half turned his head; another
rat with soft green eyes and light tan fur gazed
at him. His wife, Kimberly. Her muzzle opened,
and on her tongue he saw a song spring forth. His
ears turned to hear but it was so faint that not
even the contour of notes reached him.
A profound sadness struck him in that wordless
melody. It was both call and plea though for what
he could not discern. To that tune he placed
words of his own. Eli, help me to hear. Help me hear the one I love.
But Kimberly closed her mouth, placed her hand
over the purple stone at her heart, and stepped
backward into the trees. Charles stretched out
his arm even as shadows closed over her form. Her
green eyes met him, vibrant as jade, a wordless
promise within, and then they too disappeared.
The forest with all its scents and sounds, faded
into black. In its place he saw his son again.
The boy screamed and squirmed, tail lashing, head
whipping form side to side, little claws digging
at the arms holding him down. Charles thrust his
own head side to side to escape the vision. One
hand clasped Ladero by the neck as the other roved down.
The Åelf pushed his shoulder, jarring him from
the vision. Charles snarled, swiping the
Sondeshike into the darkness, incisors grinding
together deep and painful. Only one thought filled his mind. Where is he?
His master understood. The one whose sin you see? He is not far.
Master, take me to him.
For a moment he feared that his master would
refuse him this, but after a second of quiet
regard, the Åelf nodded and gently turned the rat
by his shoulder. The long-fingered hand, once
pearl gray but now a dark silhouette like
everything in the realm, remained on his shoulder. Ware your step, Núrodur.
Charles walked forward, gripping the Sondeshike
with both hands. The metal felt malleable beneath
his tar-coated hands. The ground beneath his paws
crumbled like hardened dirt with each step.
Beneath him he could see the outlines of human
and semi-human shapes. Several lay in his path;
he stepped over them being careful not to touch
them. The bodies did not move and as his eyes
traced their contours he wondered if they were
even capable of movement. A presentiment assured
him that to even brush their form with his claws
would join their thoughts to his regardless of
the barrier his master had erected. He moved
slowly, determined to touch none of them.
His steps proved true. But as he walked images
continued to jab him. Always it was of a rat
Keeper as he imaged one of six or seven years to
be. Most of the time the rat was hooded like his
lost Ladero. Other times the fur patterns
resembled his other two sons, little Charles and
Erick. Always one of these three, and each time
they were struggling in vain, for the arms that
always seemed to be his own over-powered them.
Each vision lasted but a moment but even so short
a time was enough to steel him. His fingers
tightened their grip on the Sondeshike. The fiery
warmth in the tar seemed to glow a red deeper
than the blackest crimson. No muscle moved in his
face; fixed and set the rat had become on the
direction his master had pointed him.
And then the hand on his shoulder drew him short.
Charles did not blink, but listened for the
presence in his mind to speak. The one you seek is at your feet, Núrodur.
Charles glanced downward and even though there
was no light to illumine features, he recognized
the outline limned with the faintest effulgence
from the smoldering tar on the rat's arms. The
man beneath him bore no clothes to mark the rank
he'd once possessed in life. Nothing remained but
for his handsome features locked in perpetual
gloom. This man who had been servant to Nasoj,
Suspira and Lilith but had betrayed them all for
his own ends, now locked in constant reenactment
of his disgusting predilections, this man who had
once gutted a wolf Keeper and smeared himself
with his body fat to survive the cold, this man
who had led the Long Scouts into a trap that had
nearly cost them their lives, this man who had
brutally murdered thousands of innocents without
the slightest twinge of conscience was now immobile at the rat's feet.
Baron Garadan Calephas.
For all this I now give you my justice.
If the man heard his voice there was no
indication of it. No slight twitch of his body
showed that he was aware of the rat's presence at
all. Charles lifted the Sondeshike above him and
then drove it downward into the body. The form
collapsed beneath him and sporadic images of
agony, murder, and other sins he refused to give
name to flickered like a storm bolt through his
mind. Charles smashed the ferrules down again and
again and again. Each strike brought fresh
images, of sins that had long ago passed beyond
counting, all committed or directed by the dark
figure before him. He felt splatter across his
legs and arms, sizzling against his flesh as the
tar had already done. The outline buckled,
breaking into pieces. He crushed these too.
After but seconds he dropped the Sondeshike and
tore through Calephas's spirit with his claws,
rending every mote of flesh from every other. The
images of his sons became disjointed and finally
ceased altogether. Charles drove his snout into
what remained of the flesh, tearing with his
incisors as well. All he could think were four
words over and over again. My justice for you! My justice for you!
At some point the rat realized that he was
kneeling with nothing before him. With a rush of
elation he tilted back his head an unleashed a
wordless shriek of satisfaction that echoed from
his throat only to be lost in the endless expanse
of night. The presence stilled the ever circling
ravings with a single clear thought. He is gone.
Even Oblivion denies that one; his soul has been
riven from existence entire. By you, my Núrodur, and no other.
Charles took several deep breaths as he knelt in
the cold dirt. He could feel the tar covering his
legs and chest, soaking into his fur and burning
through his trousers and tunic. They each clung
to his body by narrow strips which had escaped
the fountain of processed soul. One hand lifted
to his face which simmered, and he felt the
smooth blackness stretched across his snout, both
cheeks, and over his eyes. The scar the Shrieker
had left around his right eye had been smoothed
over by the tar so that he could not feel a
difference between either side of his face.
He lifted that snout, hands falling to find the
Sondeshike at his knees. Do I have any flesh left, Master?
Yes, Núrodur.
His hands rove across his shoulders and felt both
his tunic and vest and the fur beneath. Most of
his chest was lost to the tar, though a thread of
both tunic and vest circled beneath his
shoulders. His back where he could reach, and the
half of his tail nearest his spine, were still
free of the tar. He grimaced but could not bring
himself to lament. After he had his son he would
have flesh again too. It would not be the first
time he had lost his flesh. He would endure.
Where is the champion?
He is nearly here. Stand close to me.
Charles, hands wrapped about the Sondeshike,
stood and shifted his paws on the barren ground
until his shoulders brushed against the Åelf's
middle. A heat suffused his front as if he were
sitting by a roaring fire. His tongue and the
inside of his mouth also felt the strange heat,
and as he ran his tongue along the inside of his
mouth he discovered the smoothness of the tar
coating the inside as well. Had he eaten Calephas
like he'd eaten Loriod? He could not recall.
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May He bless you and keep you in His grace and love,
Charles Matthias
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