Dragon Heartstone > Chapter 34–The Land of the Damned

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Riasean watched Gall trim off the extra branches, then turn back to the door. “I see no handle. How do we get inside?”

“That is the easy part,” Gall replied. He touched the entrance and spoke in the old tongue, “Aperite ostium in terra damnatorum [open the door in the land of the damned].” The portal opened inward with a grinding sound. A long corridor extended before them, disappearing into the darkness. He looked at Riasean. “Once we step through, the door will shut and cannot be opened. Only the door on the other end can.”

Gall stepped inside and motioned for him to follow.

Riasean stared into the darkness. An uncomfortable feeling crept across his arms, and he had to battle his fear for once. But as Gall moved further in, he followed. With an ominous groan, the door ground shut, plunging them into complete and impenetrable darkness.

“Let’s have some light,” Gall said from the inky blackness. “Lumen [light],” he said, and a brilliant flare erupted from his hand onto the tip of the branch he carried. The glow penetrated the darkness but left shadows in its wake.

Riasean looked around and saw only a long, rough-hewn corridor filled with dust and fragments of the rock ceiling.

Gall looked back at him. “Stay close to me. It is easy to get lost, and whatever you do, do not listen to anyone except me.”

Riasean’s skin prickled. Who else would they find in here? But he quickly decided against voicing that thought. The older man felt it necessary enough to mention, so he had better listen. Gall walked quickly, so Riasean had to exert effort to keep up. Dripping sounds of ceiling moisture echoed around them, and the rough scruff of their boots marked their progress. The featureless bare walls stared back at them, and he felt the floor begin to slip downward. Time passed slowly, or so it seemed. The monotony of their journey began to erode his sense of urgency. Maybe the concerns and warnings that Gall spoke of were overblown.

The passage opened into a much larger one, such that Riasean could not see the walls in the dark. He could have easily gotten lost if Gall had not stayed with sight. He focused on the older man and the light he carried. Splashing came from their boots as they passed near a water source in this boundless section. Riasean glanced downward to see that the puddles were not random or haphazard but had the consistency of shape and form of bare human feet. Perhaps these were the ‘others’ that Gall referred to. But how could anyone exist down here? At that thought, Gall stopped, and Riasean nearly stumbled into him.

“Why are we stopping?” Riasean asked.

“We must wait,” Gall replied simply.

Riasean looked over his shoulder and saw a vast lake extending into the darkness. Small, sightless cavefish broke its surface. He cleared his throat, “What exactly are we waiting for?”

“A ride,” Gall said.

Riasean clenched his jaw. The man was maddeningly vague about this. “How long will we have to wait?”

“Not long. He will be by shortly.” Gall turned and handed the young man a flat silver coin. “Take this, and be ready to put this under your tongue. Make sure the side with writing faces up.”

Riasean looked at the coinage. It was flat and featureless on one side and had some spidery script on the other, but it was impossible to read in the low light. “If I may ask, what does this coin say?”

“Solum mortuis potest transire,” Gall murmured in reply. “Only the dead may pass.” Sounds of water moving reached their ears, and out of the darkness, a small flat-bottomed barge appeared, being pushed along by a very tall, thin figure, heavily clothed in long robes. Thin, bony arms snaked out of the robes. Almost skeletal hands clasped a heavy wooden pole, which moved in a slow, rhythmic fashion from front to back, causing the barge to glide across the dark waters.

“Quick, put the coin in your mouth.”

Riasean did so, trying not to gag at the metallic taste filling his mouth.

The ferryman lifted the pole from the water and allowed the barge to run aground. Gall stepped forward until he stood on the shore, directly opposite the figure. “We ask for passage to the Land of the Damned.”

The figure looked at Gall, turning its head so slightly that the robes encapsulating it barely moved. A low and resonant voice came from the hood. “Do you have the payment?”

Gall nodded and slipped the coin under his tongue. The ferryman reached with his long fingers into Gall’s mouth and pulled the token from it. After lifting it toward his cowled face, the figure slipped the coin into his robes. “You may pass.” Gall stepped forward onto the barge and motioned at Riasean.

Riasean stepped toward the barge and stood in front of the ferryman. He peered into the shadowed face but could see nothing. The long, spidery fingers moved toward his face, and the boy nearly recoiled. The figure’s hands were grayish green, covered with black spots. Riasean resisted the urge to gag.

The ferryman’s long fingers pushed back Riasean’s tongue and closed on the coin. After inspecting it, he announced, “You may pass.”

Riasean stepped onto the barge, and it moved slightly in response. The ferryman followed, turned, pushed his pole into the water with a sighing gurgle, and leaned into it. The barge slid off the shore and moved out onto the lake.

Movement in the water caught his eye, and Riasean looked down at it. Beneath the surface, just before the light vanished into the depths, were sickly white faces, eyes wide and pleading, mouths moving as if asking him something.

Gall grabbed his arm, and Riasean suddenly realized he had been leaning over the edge.

Drawing him back, Gall whispered in his ear. “Keep your focus off the waters. Many have been drawn in by what they find. Those that fall in drown but never die.”

A shiver ran down Riasean’s spine. Drowning for eternity? What a horrible thought.

The wind whipped at them, causing the water’s surface to ripple and crest. Cold and dry, the air poked and probed at them, sending shivers through Riasean’s limbs and drying out his lips. The ferryman kept poling the barge, ignoring the two men on it.

“Here,” Gall said, pushing a water skin into Riasean’s hands. “Drink from this and nothing else when we are here. The water here comes from the river of forgetfulness. Sipping from it will cause you to forget everything, including who you are.”

Riasean took several large swallows and handed the skin back to him. A mist enveloped them so entirely that they could only see a few feet. Scraping rumbled from under the barge as it slid onto the rocky shores. Turning his hooded face toward them, the ferryman extended an arm and pointed ashore. Gall nodded at Riasean, and they stepped off. With the same dull scraping noise that heralded their arrival, the ferryman pushed off from the shore and disappeared into the mist.

Gall unrolled a length of rope, tied it around his waist, and handed the rest to Riasean. “Tie this around you; you will need it.”

Though Riasean did not see the need for this, he did as he was told. Gall tugged on the rope to ensure it would hold and began walking. The illumination spell on his staff probed the fog but didn’t reveal more than a few feet ahead of them. For several minutes, the grayish mist passed around them. Clammy fingers of moisture worked their way through his clothes, making him cold and uncomfortable.

Something in the mist moved, but details escaped him when he tried to focus on it. But as they went further, sounds confirmed something was there, moving. Feet scraped across the rocky ground, accompanied by dull whispers of voices, low and almost moaning. Fingertips, white and outstretched, appeared to either side of them, reaching toward them but not touching. The voices grew louder, and Riasean could understand them—calls for help, appeals to relieve pain, cries of hunger and thirst.

He peered into the fog and found the lined and etched face of a young woman, her eyes a solid white and mouth open plaintively. “Help me escape, young man. Please help me …” Her fingers touched his robes and crept toward his face. Then he realized her eyes were not white but that her pupils were as gray as the ashes of a long-extinguished campfire. He stared, ignoring a tug on the rope as the specter approached. A vicious jerk pulled him sideways, and hands seized his shoulders.

Gall had ahold of him. “We cannot tarry here,” the man said, then looked over Riasean’s shoulder. “You can do nothing for them. Their souls have already been taken. But if you let them, they will take yours.”

Riasean swallowed, and they continued walking. The fog began to lighten within minutes, and the ground started angling upward. They passed large rocks with a slimy coating that incessantly stuck to his fingers. After what seemed like hours, Gall stopped where the path flattened out, and the ground dried out.

“Why are we stopping?” Riasean asked.

“I need to talk to someone,” Gall replied, untying the rope that bound them.

Riasean looked around but saw no one. “Who exactly are you going to talk to?”

“Someone who can answer questions.” Raising his hand, Gall closed his eyes. For a few minutes, Riasean watched the man speak in low tones, in an unintelligible manner. A gust of wind swept by, tugging his robes and chilling exposed skin. His voice rising over the wind, Gall repeated the words, “Manes mortuorum. Septimus voco ut mecum loquatur. [Ghosts of the dead. I call Septimus to speak with me.].” Winds shifted, rose, and fell in a harsher, more deliberate fashion. A figure appeared out of the mist and stepped into the clearing. A man, bent and gaunt, bearing a tall staff, shuffled forward, his long gray beard swaying from side to side. His eyes swept across them, and Riasean shivered. The man’s eyes appeared black as a moonless night sky, with no visible whites. He smiled thinly. His wide space teeth were small but pointed.

“Who summons me?” came a voice between a hiss and a snarl.

Gall’s eyes snapped open. “I do, Septimus.”

A flash of recognition shot across the apparition’s face, and his eyes darted from Gall to Riasean and back again. “Is this one mine?”

“No,” Gall said firmly.

Septimus’ face twisted, “Bastard. Leave me be.”

“Not before I ask a question,” Gall replied.

“You offer me nothing. I give you nothing.”

“I will give you me,” Gall said, his voice dry.

The hair on Riasean’s arm prickled. What was he talking about?

Septimus looked at Gall suspiciously, “You? I cannot have you. Your life thread is protected.”

“I will give you what I can. Will you agree to that?”

The old man studied Gall before grinning ravenously. “Yes, I agree. Approach.”

Gall stepped forward, but Riasean moved to stop him. “No, don’t do this.”

The older man pushed Riasean back. “It is quite all right.” The younger man backed off.

Septimus seized Gall’s arm. The Brin Shar cringed, eyes shut, gritting his teeth in pain. A blue glow surrounded the specter, and his eyes drifted shut. Color shot into his face and skin. His glowing hair gained vibrancy. Gall’s hair whitened, his skin grew sallow, and he shuddered and coughed. “No … no … more.” He ripped the apparition’s grip off his arm and stumbled backward, falling to his knees.

Riasean looked down at Gall, but he was no longer the man he once was. His hair was nearly all gray, skin the color of parchment. On the other hand, Septimus looked much younger, with vibrant blue eyes and a bright white beard.

“Ah,” Septimus said. “I have not felt this good in centuries.”

Gall struggled to his feet, some color slowly seeping back into his features. “Tell me, how are we to find Larah, and where will we find the Heartstone?”

Septimus wagged a finger at him. “That is two questions, not one. Which do you wish me to answer.”

Gall gritted his teeth. “Tell me where Larah is.”

“Go into Wolfbern. She will find you.”

Gall clenched his fists, “That is a half answer.”

“Then here is another half. The Heartstone is in Landros.”

“But where in Landros?” Gall asked. But as he spoke, Septimus’ appearance changed again, shifting back to its ghostly form.

“Too late,” Septimus said, flashing his pointed grin. With an echoing chuckle, the specter faded and dissipated in a breeze.

Gall looked at the ground and sighed. “Well, it was worth a try.” As he said this, more color crept back into his face, and his hair darkened.

“Who was Septimus?” Riasean asked.

“The High-King’s Druid that preceded Faline.”

“But why is he here?”

“She devoured his soul, leaving only his shadow behind to roam in the Land of the Damned for eternity. The punishment she saw fit for the man who dared to oppose her attempts to enslave Kerigahn.”

The names rattled around in Riasean’s head. He had heard these names before but only in the context of legends and fairy tales.

 “It does not matter; we are done here. Let’s go,” Gall said. He turned and began walking, Riasean trailing behind. Time snaked by, like their trail upward, and cave walls appeared as the passage narrowed until it ended in a blank wall.

Riasean looked around. “Where is the exit?”

“Here.” Gall placed a hand on the wall and pushed. A stone door ground open, letting in pale moonlight reflecting off the western slopes of the Krador. Nearly a half-mile away, the squat rooftops and scattered lamplight of Wolfbern lay below them.