Hello, this is a repost of my short fantasy/horror story that was published in “Strange Lands”, which you can find here: https://blog.flametreepublishing.com/fantasy-gothic/gothic-fantasy-successful-submissions-strange-lands
Enjoy!
Wondrous Grot and Secret Cell
As the last sliver of sunlight disappeared behind the battlements, the king glanced around warily at his advisers and then waved one gnarled finger in the air.
“Open the gate!” he commanded.
Iron chains protested the strain of lifting the great portcullis. Hinges screamed and gears turned in a shuddering, rhythmic clang as the mouth to the castle dungeon opened for the first time in months. A gust of foul air expelled from the darkness smelling of piss, rancid meat, and wet animal fur. The guards around the entrance held their ground but most turned their faces away, grimacing.
Malak adjusted his cloak and watched the portcullis rise. He glanced up and saw the stones of the gatehouse tremble and shake. The ancient castle was on its last legs. It was an old, dead thing. A rotting corpse of a once great dragon that could easily have been taken apart by one strong storm from the Cerulean Sea, had it not been so far inland.
The king waited until the gate was open halfway and then waved his hand, signaling the men at the winch. When the grinding stopped, he gripped the arms of his wooden throne and started to pull himself up, his frail frame protesting, joints creaking. Two of his advisors moved to assist him, but he snarled and slapped their hands away.
Once he was upright, he hobbled the few steps to the edge of the platform and addressed the three standing in the center of the courtyard. A fine sheen of sweat had broken out on his sallow forehead, and spittle clung in tiny white balls to the spiderweb wisps of his beard. When he spoke, yellow teeth flashed between cracked lips, and a voice like dry leaves rattled up from his throat.
“You have until the morning—that is of course, if you survive that long. If you do manage to kill it, I want you to bring me its head. That monster killed my son, you will give it no quarter.”
Malak looked at the two standing at his right and left. The man was a mercenary, tall, lumbering, with a greataxe strapped to his back. The woman was a huntress, thick with muscle and covered in scars. She carried a crossbow and a long sword.
They would probably be dead in a few minutes.
Malak turned back to the king. The old man was twitchy, nervous, and despite the glassy quality of his eyes, his wildly shifting gaze put everyone around him on edge. Silence permeated the courtyard for a moment before the king stamped his foot and barked, “Well? Are you just going to stand there!? Off with you!”
The woman moved first, pulling the crossbow from her back and holding it at a low ready as she made her way toward the dungeon’s entrance. A guard stepped forward to hand the mercenary a lit torch and the big man took that in favor of pulling out his greataxe. Malak followed the two silently, his daggers hidden in secret places no one would understand.
As the three moved under the stone gatehouse, Malak glanced down at painted symbols of purple and gold on the cobblestones. The colorful shapes flickered under the torch like jewels in candlelight. All of the symbols were familiar, but he did not recognize their exact meaning.
“The hell are these?” the mercenary asked.
“Magician’s wards,” said the huntress. “Keeps the thing below from coming up here.”
They left the symbols behind and started the descent. Soon the cobblestones gave way to gravel, and then to dirt that was wet and smelled of blood and feces. The mercenary made a noise in the back of his throat and covered his mouth with his hand, but the huntress pressed on, seemingly unfazed.
Further down, a thin, translucent slime covered every surface, making clusters of ultramarine mushrooms that grew along the floor on either side of the passage shimmer faintly. Strange colored moss lined the walls and hung from the low ceiling in delicate, green-blue curls. Malak marveled at the moss, it reminded him of mermaid’s hair. Such a strange and beautiful thing to find in the middle of this dank, foul-smelling place.
When the walls widened out into a larger chamber, the three of them stopped to take in the new surroundings.
The space was long, with a stone arch ceiling, and a row of small cells sat at close intervals along each wall. The moss was thicker here, the mushrooms larger. The glow from the strange slime was brighter, illuminating most of the chamber with blue light, or maybe pink. It was hard to say. When Malak turned his head, the colors shifted.
Most of the bars on the cell doors had been bent or broken entirely; snapped in half. Malak knew only a creature possessing extraordinary strength could have broken solid iron bars like those, but that was only one in many interesting things he noticed with his keen eyes.
A few pillars held up what was left of the stone arch, but most of the old structure was on the floor, crumbled and broken from the fall. There seemed to have been twelve pillars at one time. Now there were only three, two on the left and one on the right, all standing aegis over this concrete graveyard.
There were pieces of machinery among the debris, wooden benches attached to large iron gears, long metal tables with strange grooves along the edges fitted with small, rusted filtration systems. There had been pain here, and death; years of violence created and conducted by these contraptions of engineering and science, but now they were all rotting away, slowly swallowed by nature and all its terrible beauty.
There were bones strewn about, ribs, a few feet, a skull or two. Parts of corpses peered out from beneath the larger pieces of broken stones while others were the soil for the largest of the moss beds. Some of the dead were clad in rusted armor, and some had tattered remnants of magician’s robes clinging to what was left of rotted joints. No doubt these had been the adventurers that had come before Malak and his party. They had come looking for fame and glory by slaying the monster trapped beneath the castle, but they had never left, and were now reduced to nothing more than plant food.
The mercenary took a squelching step forward into a thick puddle. When he pulled his foot back, the mess on his boot was more red than brown.
“Ah,” the big man growled low, “this is such shite.”
The huntress nodded. “Let’s just find the thing and kill it so we can get out of here.”
The mercenary scraped the bottom of his boot on a piece of stone and made another noise in the back of his throat.
“What is all this? I mean, what’s down here?”
The huntress had moved ahead to the right. She shrugged. “I heard it was an evil spirit that found its way into the castle during the celebration on Underlife Night. It took over one hundred of the king’s knights to corner it in here, and ten magicians to trap it.”
“Well,” the mercenary chuckled as he made his way left, “that’s a lot of bullocks. I heard whatever it was, was posing as a servant in the castle. It put an evil spell on the prince, bending him to its will and such. One night, the queen hears the prince screaming and finds the poor bastard in his chambers, guts ripped out and this thing sitting on his chest, feasting.”
“Damn…”
Malak listened to their conversation but stayed quiet and unmoving. His left hand hovered over one of his daggers; his eyes watched the ceiling.
“I heard something like that too,” the huntress said as she edged around a large fungus cap and toed open one of the broken cells. “It used to be a girl, and she was a servant here in the castle. But instead of her putting an evil spell on the prince, I heard he fell in love with her on his own and tried to take her by force. Supposedly, the violence awoke some evil thing dormant inside of her.”
The mercenary threw back his head and laughed a great guffaw at the ceiling that rattled the loose pieces of stone at Malak’s feet and shook the hanging moss.
“What a romantic story!”
The huntress growled. “It sounds like some bullshite a man made up. Although, if that is what happened, I hope she really did rip out his heart and eat it. Serves the son of a bitch right.”
The mercenary laughed again. “I don’t care how it happened; I just want that reward. Three-thousand silver pieces will keep me swimming in tits and booze for a year.”
Malak slowly lowered himself into a crouch and his cloak brushed the floor with a soft scrape. While his companions had been inspecting the edges of the room, distracted by their conversation, Malak had been waiting. There, at the highest point in the ceiling where the carved stones had fallen away, a nest of sticks, fungi, and bile had been shaped into something resembling a beehive. It was not large, but big enough for a child, or maybe a small woman to fit inside. Two tiny pinpoints of light had reflected in the torchlight but had disappeared as quickly as they had come. At first, Malak wasn’t sure if he had truly seen them.
Now, he watched as a small, white hand slid out from the nest, followed by a slender wrist. A small, oval face with wide, dark eyes appeared in the opening and Malak shivered with excitement.
Slowly, gracefully, she climbed out of the hideaway, her talons gripping the ceiling. White, leathery wings unfolded, their talon tips stretching silently, readying for flight.
Malak remained where he was, barely breathing. Waiting.
“Hey,” the mercenary said as he heaved a broken stone aside, “you see this?”
“You’ve got the bloody torch on the other side of the room!”
The mercenary sighed and straightened. “But the light from the mushrooms… never mind. Get over here, woman. There’s a—”
A shriek pierced the air and a white shape fell from the ceiling, landing on the mercenary’s shoulders. He cried out, dropped the torch, and flailed his arms trying to reach his greataxe.
“Damnit!” the huntress cried. She lifted her crossbow but the creature was wrapped around the big man so intricately, there was no way to shoot and not hit them both.
The creature tore at the mercenary’s chest with her long talons, her sharp, brilliantly white teeth snapped at his face and neck. The man’s screaming turned wet, and within moments there was so much blood, Malak couldn’t tell exactly what was happening. Fans of crimson rained in perfect arcs across the stones, splashing ribbons of color onto blue mushrooms, turning them a dark, dripping purple.
The huntress unsheathed her sword and sprinted across the chamber to help the mercenary, but Malak knew it was no use. As she neared where he crouched, he braced himself and thrust out his leg. The huntress’ foot caught on his heel, and she went down hard, her face slamming into the dirt. Her sword fell from her hand and slid through mud into the darkness underneath a cluster of fungus and stone.
Sputtering, she turned and looked at him, her dark eyes wide with fury.
“You!” she hissed. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Malak folded his cloak back and pressed a single finger to his lips.
“Wait.”
There was a crash, followed by a wet thud, and both Malak and the huntress looked up to find the mercenary on the ground, greataxe nowhere to be seen. The creature perched on his chest. One last guttural cry bubbled up from the mercenary’s lungs before she reached into his mouth and tore out his tongue.
The huntress’ lips pulled back in a terrible snarl and she pushed herself up on her hands. “Crone’s eyes be merciful! We have to—”
Malak’s hand shot out and grabbed her by the jaw. He used just enough pressure to stop her from speaking, but not enough to truly hurt. Her body stiffened. Fear started to creep into her features and her eyes frantically searched for her sword, or perhaps an escape.
Again, Malak raised a finger to his lips.
“I said… wait.”
The huntress looked at him again, eyes wide and terrified. Malak felt the tension in her muscles, the coil of the spring in her core. She was either preparing to fight or getting ready to flee as soon as he took his hand away.
“She will feed now,” Malak explained quietly. “She will grow calm and it will be easier to communicate.”
The huntress opened her mouth to say something and Malak let her. He released her jaw but put his finger up to his lips one last time as a warning.
“You want to communicate with it?” the huntress hissed. “What the hell is wrong with you? It’s eating the big one—whatever his name was! It tore him apart—”
“They’ve left her down here for months with nothing but rats. What did you expect?”
“I expected we were going to kill her—it!”
Malak shook his head. “That was never my intention. Now listen, I like you. You seem—despite your profession—to be a good person so I will tell you this: Make no moves, make no sounds. Whatever happens, you stay silent and still until I say otherwise. If you do that, you will live. If you don’t, you will die. I give you my word.”
The huntress blinked at him stupidly. “What?”
“Swear you will stay still and silent!” Malak growled.
“Okay!” the huntress cried and shrank back. “Okay, all right! I swear!”
Malak nodded and watched as she slid underneath the broken remains of a table. He really did like her. There was no way she could have known what she was getting herself into. She was not at fault.
When Malak straightened and turned back to the unfolding carnage in the center of the chamber, he thought about the mercenary and winced. The man was collateral damage yes, but even though he had been a crass, rude, and generally unpleasant person, Malak still felt a little guilty for leading him to his death.
Blood soaked the crumbled remains of stone pillars. It pooled in thick, dark puddles that reflected the shimmering glow from hundreds of colorful mushrooms. Strings of flesh had joined the hanging moss along the stone wall, and a large chunk of something hung caught in the broken bars of the closest cell door.
She was still there, crouched on what was left of the mercenary’s chest, pulling away bits from the awful and slipping them into her mouth. Her chewing was quiet, almost dainty, as if she were at tea with her friends, snacking on cakes of flour and fig. Pieces of lung went between her lips like plump dates dipped in gravy.
Malak took a few steps forward and her eyes lifted. They met his gaze and she froze; a slice of intestine halfway to her mouth.
He stopped moving and put up his hands. The last thing he wanted to do was frighten her.
She was very small, but from the swell of her breasts, to the curve of her hips, all the way to the graceful lines of her ankles, she was a woman. Her hair was dirty and matted, but long and thick. Her skin was the pale, shimmering pink of a deep-sea pearl, dotted with tiny blue stones the color of the ocean. Her eyes had been deep pools of black during her attack, but now they were gray, almost human. They shone brightly in the blue-pink light, watching him with something that was neither fear nor apprehension, only curiosity.
Malak felt he couldn’t breathe. She was nothing like he had expected, nothing like he had ever dreamed. Carefully, he opened his mouth and spoke in a series of clicks and hums at the back of his throat.
“Don’t be afraid.”
Her eyes widened and she bolted upright. Her wings came out wide and she made a noise like a reed of grass whistling in the wind.
“How do you speak like me?”
At the sound of his birth language on her tongue, Malak felt tears in his eyes.
He smiled softly and clicked, “How do you think?”
His cloak unfolded from his shoulders. The worn, leathery skin, scarred and stiff from disuse, stretched out wide for the first time in years. Shoulders protesting, Malak shook himself, and flapped his dark wings once, testing the joints for motion and strength.
Her lips and teeth were still bloody as her mouth slid open in shock. Her eyes darted back and forth, side to side, taking in the size of him, the idea of him. His wingspan was half again wider than hers, but he was taller than she was; it was to be expected.
“You are...” she whispered, awed.
Malak smiled. “Yes.”
There was only a moment of hesitation, and then she ran to him. She threw herself into his arms and wept. The mercenary’s blood mixed with her tears and ran down Malak’s neck, collecting at the collar of his jerkin. He held her close, heart aching, wishing he had heard about her sooner, wishing he could have come to this place years ago.
“I thought I was the last,” he murmured. “How were you trapped here? What happened?”
“I lost my mother,” she said into his throat. “I wanted to play with the children, so I came through the gates. They chased me, caught me, and brought me down here. Their magic sealed me in, and they did things to me, terrible things! I didn’t want to hurt them, I asked them to stop! I begged! But they kept hurting me! And I was so hungry! When the science men were all gone, they left me all alone. All alone for so long and I was so… so hungry.”
Malak stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head. “You don’t have to be alone here anymore. I know how to unseal their terrible symbols. You can leave if you want.”
She pulled way and looked up into his eyes. “Can I go with you?”
He nodded. “Of course. You can go wherever you want now. But first,” he put his arms on her shoulders, “let us put an end to the evil people that have done this to you.”
Her smile was wide and bloody, and she giggled as she flapped her wings and danced away from him toward the tunnel entrance.
Malak followed, but stopped where he knew the huntress lay waiting.
“Wait here until the screaming stops. It’ll probably be sometime after dawn.”
The Huntress said nothing, and Malak didn’t wait for an answer.
In the gray morning light, two figures emerged from the city gates. Both were small, and slight. The man was dark-skinned with even darker hair, and he was wearing a brilliant black cloak of scaled leather. The woman was lovely, pale skinned with midnight black hair, and piercing gray eyes. She wore a dress of shimmering white that trailed behind her like smoke on the water.
“Where shall we go?” the woman asked.
Malak smiled and took her hand. “I have a home on the other side of the continent. It’s a long journey, but it’s on a cliff by the sea. You can fly with wyvern children in winter, and in the summer, you can swim with mermaids in the ocean.”
“Will we be safe?”
He nodded. “I will show you how to live like them. Humans aren’t all bad, I promise.”
She looked back at the castle. Smoke billowed from the burning keep, the broken edges of windows winked at her in the morning light. Even from this far away, she could see the blood running from the walls of the battlements. The evil men were dead, they all were dead. The terrible things that had been done to her had been avenged and now she could start anew.
“I think…” she turned back to him and squeezed his hand. “I think I would love that.”
“What do I call you?” he asked.
She frowned and shook her head. “My name was taken from me. I wouldn’t mind if you gave me a new one.”
He looked at her, at the stone gray of her eyes, the black of her hair, the lovely pink of her skin.
“Pearl,” he whispered.
She smiled in a way that made her seem very young. “I like that. What is a pearl?”
Malak pulled her around and took her in his arms. He wiped a single drop of blood from the corner of her mouth with his thumb and then slipped his thumb between his own lips.
“When we get home to the ocean, I’ll show you.”
END
[JSS1]Changed “She” to “The huntress” for clarity.
Sam Stark 