Tallin could hardly breathe.
He left behind his short sword in fear that he could not fit with it, or that it would cut him as he crawled. He was beginning to wish he had stripped off his armor; he could hear precious iron being scraped and torn away as the cavern pressed in on his chest, back, and sides. He heard his breath come and go in short gasps as he tilted his head so his cheek dragged against the stone beneath. His only source of light was the enchanted bead of glass given to him by Karlisle, casting a dim yet unpleasantly sharp whiteness to the column around him. If anything, the light just confused his bearings with the unnatural contrast of white to pure black shadow.
He knew he could not turn around, and yet he must at some point, or he would die so far beneath the surface. He could not expect the others to attempt a rescue – they were bigger than him, and they would never get as far as he did, even with Karlisle’s magick. So, his fate depended entirely on the prospect of this column widening ahead. He could only push toward this coin flip that would determine whether or not the end of his life was imminent.
Tallin found that, within the depths of many expeditions, a person’s sense of time would utterly fail. These were often unnatural places to be, after all – and so our basic instincts begin to fall apart. At some point, he stopped, stifled a sob before realizing it did not matter, and allowed the tears to flow. Shortly after that, he tried to sleep, but the cavern did not allow him regular breathing, so he only stopped for some time with his stinging eyes shut tight. Every muscle in his body screamed, but you would be surprised how easily a person pushes through that fatigue when they fear a slow, agonizing death between walls of stone. Still, every fibre of him cried, somehow simultaneously needing both room to stretch and move, and not wanting to move at all. Some part of his mind expected that Karlisle and Andear had abandoned him, thinking him stuck or dead. Such a thing was of little worry though. All his thoughts were of getting out.
Every black void that was not caught by the light of his bead was, at one point, a glimmer of hope. That was some time ago. Now, when he scrabbled a clawing hand into that darkness, hoping to find some space, it was an act of habit and hardly conscious routine. He did not expect there to be an opening. He hardly could expect anything.
When he bumped the top of his head against the cavern wall, he realized that his eyes had been shut for some time. The light of the bead was useless, and he felt it easier – or at least, less painful – to feel his way through the passage. He opened his eyes, and looked up. What had looked sickeningly like a dead end was before him, but horizontally across its center was a fissure, like two lips that had begun to open. He forced an arm through it, felt leather tear but kept pushing. Then, feeling some amount of space beyond it, he began waving his arm around within it, trying to find the void’s limits. He found none.
Licking his lips and groaning with the effort, he brought that arm back and forced it beneath his belly, needing to exhale and hold his breath, as he rifled through the tattered remnants of his jerkin. His rope was long gone, but he found the splintered handle of his little pick, retrieved it, and was halfway able to fill his lungs again.
The lip was slowly fractured as he picked at it with the tool, and over a long, indeterminable period of time it evolved from a lover’s kiss to an open, jagged maw. He could not see what was beyond it, which was a good sign. He did not wish for hope to sway his heart, but it did, and as he held his breath and began forcing himself through the fissure, he hardly comprehended that his jerkin was totally torn away, leaving him only in his sweat-stained ruin of a tunic. When he was shimmying his waist through the fissure, his weight won through and he fell several feet out of the opening to a damp ground, fuzzy with lichen and mold.
When Tallin lifted his head, and pushed his tingling body up on his hands, he saw the chamber that he would – one day – come to know as the Chapel of Eichtouair.
As if reacting to his presence, a few white subterranean plants began to glow, casting a dim blanket of light over the chamber. Moisture glittered on every surface, and Tallin became aware of the sound of liquid dripping from stalactites high above him. Looking upward, he saw regularity among the stone. Brickwork, nearly entirely overtaken by stone that molded around it like clay. At the far end of the chamber, hidden in darkness, was an altar.
Some of it had fallen into crumbled debris, and it appeared somehow sunken, as if the altar had… appeared here, but had misjudged its destination, and buried half of itself in the earth. Tallin had heard of magick akin to that going awry, and he found himself wishing for Karlisle to see this.
“You have found the aperture.”
Tallin heard himself shout at the voice coming from above him, lost his balance and fell hard onto his back. He had no weapon. He knew a silly little spell of flame, but that was naught but a trick he’d use at bars to impress whores. On his back, he saw a large form of protrusions. Like the spines of a long-decayed insect, splayed out across the chamber’s ceiling, yet at the end right above him was a human skull, staring with empty sockets. He searched his mind, but could not summon any memory or description of such a creature. Especially not one that could speak.
The skull tilted, bony spines cracking against one another in a horrid imitation of curiosity. “You know not where you are?” The voice was familiar, though off somewhat.
Realization hit Tallin, then. He attempted to speak, coughed, spat, then attempted again: “You speak with my voice.” The uncanny similarity was undeniable, but while the creature spoke in calm, slow words, Tallin’s voice shook and whimpered.
“I do not have my own, so I must borrow it,” the skull said. Its form began to move – certainly insectoid in nature, like the long length of a centipede with arms that resembled giant pale rib bones. Its limbs clacked against the stone as it crawled across the high ceiling until it met the far wall, and settled itself near the altar. “You have entered a timeless place. Beyond these walls exists void in its purest sense: the complete lack of anything.”
Tallin thought he remembered Karlisle once mentioning something like pocket dimensions, but he knew nothing about those matters, so he kept silent.
“Your body will never leave this place.”
Tallin let out the breath he had been holding. So, this was it. Not to be starved or crushed within the confines of a tunnel, but to be preyed upon by some ancient thing. “Do not toy with me then,” rasped Tallin. “If you torture me I will dash my head on these walls.”
Again, the soft clicking as the skull twisted in its socket. “That would be unfortunate. I will keep your corpse. But the our transaction will be instant, and infinitely more preferable to you than suicide. When you die, I will close the aperture, and be physically alone once more. Still, I shall whisper in your ear.”
Tallin forced himself to his feet, heart pounding with terror, but he closed his fists and faced the thing. He had nothing outside this cavern. Karlisle and Andear would soon forget about him, and the world would be unchanged. “Then do it!” he screamed.
…
The embers sparked dimly as Tallin poked at the meager campfire. Chilly night air hugged his tattered form, and he heard insects chirping through the trees. Above was the night sky, stars dimming and brightening as wispy clouds moved across the expanse. Tallin took a deep breath, and heard footsteps come from the lean-to behind him.
“Who the fuck?” Andear’s ragged voice broke the peace. Tallin turned his head, looked at the large bulk of Andear over his shoulder, and saw an axe glimmering in the firelight. It took Andear a moment, his bearded face turning from aggression to shock to astonishment.
“Tallin?” his voice came out shrill, as it did when he was excited or nervous or ever caught off guard. “We… we waited for you. We camped for days!”
Tallin wrinkled his nose at that. Days?
Andear spun, dropping his axe. “Karlisle! Get your lazy arse up! Tallin’s here!”
Karlisle’s youthful, freckled face peeked out from the heap of blankets beneath the lean-to, groggy unfocused eyes squinting toward the fire. “Tallin?” he asked, squinting even harder. As if the word had finally hit him, he exclaimed: “Tallin! Tallin? What?” He threw off the blankets, his form adorned in an awkward and shabby linen sleeping dress, and stumbled toward them. “You…. I.… you were fucking dead!”
Andear cuffed him on the back of his shaggy head. “Well, clearly not!”
“Clearly,” Tallin murmured.
Karlisle stumbled closer, kneeling close to where Tallin sat by the fire, and studied him. “No, no, Tallin, you don’t understand. I scryed for you.” His voice was trembling, unsure. “I… I burnt an emerald for it – you could have been romping around in Old Anchaven and I would have seen you!”
Andear huffed. “It is apparent that you’re a shittier magicker than you think.”
Karlisle suddenly stood. He unsteadily took several steps backward, his expression shifting from shock to something else, and he shook his head several times before speaking. “You’re not Tallin. You can’t be.” His voice raised after that. “Who are you?” he cried.
Tallin felt the gravity of that. He stood, raised his arms from his sides carefully. He could see Karlisle’s hands already begin to darken, as he pulled the heat and light out of the air. “It is me – I swear it, Karlisle,” Tallin said softly. “The last thing I remember is finding a chamber, and in it -”
“Liar!” Karlisle screamed. “You are puppeting Tallin’s body!” Flames began to flicker from his hands.
Andear was behind him, and had picked his axe up – though, he was looking at Karlisle. “Easy, Karlisle. Don’t be foolish,” he grunted.
Karlisle raised a hand. Some red-gold molten energy was now dripping from his fingertips. A man who knew less might not take the mage seriously, considering the frailty and youth of his build and the ridiculous, thin dress he wore. Tallin knew better than that. “Please, Karlisle,” Tallin cried, “I speak the truth, do not hurt me!”
The drips of molten energy began to float, and Tallin closed his eyes tight, awaiting obliteration. Instead, he heard a hollow smack. Opening his eyes, he saw Karlisle tumbling to the ground like a limp doll, and Andear wrenching his axe free from the mage’s head.
Andear spat, said: “Never trusted magickers. Always a penchant for losing their minds, methinks.”
Tallin looked over the frail corpse of Karlisle, his youthful face now dominated by bulging eyes. He had fallen strangely, his legs bent and feet trapped below his waist, his arms splayed out at his sides.
Say one thing about Karlisle, call him cautious. But, as Tallin stared at the body, he could not call the mage insane.
Tallin lifted his hand, held it in front of his face.
Why did he not tremble?
Adam K. Gardner 