Inferno 7005

6 THE BLIGHTED PALACE

When Greg woke up his first thought was that he'd never felt so dead. Then he remembered getting stabbed in the gut with a spear, and realized that he was dead.

Nonetheless, he could still breathe and look around. Maybe being dead wasn't so bad after all. On the other hand, he was in a cell of pitch-black stone, the walls of which dripped with poisonous ichor, and he was also chained to a wall and naked. That wasn't so good.

"Hello?" he called. "Anyone there?"

"Quiet!" someone hissed.

Greg thought the voice came from nearby, but it was hard to tell. The cell was extremely dark. "Hello?" he said. "Who's there?"

"Ithuria, Priestess of the White Heights," came the reply. "Who are you?"

"Um, Greg," said Greg. "I'm a great warrior, only I think I'm dead now."

"Yes, I think so," came the reply. "Were you in the Blighted Forest when you perished?"

"Yup. You?"

"Yes, I was. I was fleeing the agents of the Duke of Filth, who enslaved me, but - alas - I seem to have ended up in an even worse place."

"Oh hey," said Greg. "Do you know a guy called Corvel the Burnt?"

"Yes, of course!" The first hint of hope crept into the maiden's voice. "He was my friend and companion, and helped me escape from the Duke. I do not know what happened to him. The tribals of the Forest have some kind of dark power that prevents magic from working... none of my spells could save me from their spears, but Corvel escaped with his life. I am sure he will find me in the country of the dead, and we will be reunited, where the Duke can never find us."

"That is absolutely inspirational," said Greg. "So, um, there's no way back to the land of the living, then?"

"I know not."

"Huh."

Greg ruminated on this for a while.

"Well," he said at last, "maybe we could escape from here?"

"I doubt it. These chains are very strong."

"Hm. Good point. Just let me try something though. IN THE NAME OF THE PRINCESS KITRA!"

He waited. Nothing happened.

"Oh well," he said, "worth a try. Um, are your chains loose at all?"

"No."

"Mine either."

He struggled for a while. It felt like a fairly pointless endeavour.

A moment later a green light filled Greg's cell, seeping in through cracks in the wall. He realized that there were no doors or windows in the cell, which made him wonder how he'd ended up there in the first place.

"Oh no," moaned the voice of Ithuria, Priestess of the White Heights. "It's one of the torturers!"

"Ooh."

"Yes. Horrible creatures that come to punish us for their filthy amusement."

"Oh jeez."

The wall opposite Greg glowed a fierce green for a moment, and then the wall faded and disappeared. Greg had a moment to be impressed by the trick. Then he saw the thing standing in the doorway: a creature formed of black bones, dripping with venom, its eighteen arms bearing whips, pokers, needles, and knives.

"Oh boy," said Greg. "Um. Hello, sir."

The torturer took a step towards him. Greg could see no discernable face to the thing: it appeared to consist solely of charred bone and instruments of pain. The green light emanated from a lantern hung from one of its appendages. Greg screwed his eyes shut.

"Okay listen," said Greg, as the thing drew closer. "Look, man, I'm not even supposed to be here, this was all Sofia's goddamn stupid idea and aaaaaaghh..."

He trailed off. Instead of excruciating agony, he'd felt only a faint prick of something slapping his skin and falling to the ground.

He opened his eyes. The monstrosity lay on the floor, shattered into twelve pieces. Behind it stood Dalile, stark naked, holding what looked like a bent iron bar.

"AAAARRRRRRRGGGHH," she said.

"Dalile!" said Greg. "Wow! Your eyes are really red!"

She smashed the iron bar against the wall. His chains shattered and he fell to the floor.

"Aaack," he said. He'd fallen right into a pile of blackish-green muck, which he didn't want to think about too much but which was now all over him. "Aaaaack."

"GREG," Dalile roared. "I AM... IN THE THROES... OF... MAAAAAADNESS!"

"Oh man," said Greg. "Can I just say, you look great. Thanks for the rescue. Are you okay?"

Dalile banged the rod against the cell wall. The sound was deafening. "I NEED BLOOD!" she screamed.

Greg was starting to feel uncomfortable. He scooped up the green lamp from the floor. "Come on," he said, "let's get out of here!"

"Are you free?" came the panicked voice of Ithuria. "Um, could you give me a hand?"

"Hang on!" said Greg. He hurried out of the cell and found himself in a black corridor that led into the unseen distance in one direction, and to a staircase in the other. Coming down the staircase was a horde of black skeletons. Unlike the last one, these had faces, and glowing green eyes. They were also carrying jagged swords. They looked angry.

"Oh shit," said Greg. "Dalile!"

"DEATH!" Dalile shrieked, and charged at the skeletons. Greg took a few steps back. As he did the lamplight shifted, and the wall of his cell re-materialized.

"Hm," he said.

Ahead of him Dalile was busily laying waste to the mob of skeletons. Greg shone the lamp at the wall beside him. It dematerialized slowly, and he saw another cell before him. On the wall hung a beautiful girl with milk-white skin and jet-black hair, naked.

"Ithuria?" he said.

"Greg!" she said, her eyes wide. "Help!"

"AAAARGH!" yelled Dalile. Greg looked to see how she was doing. The skeletons had been reduced to a pile of rubble; she was standing over them, holding the iron bar aloft.

"DEATH!" she screamed. Then she fell to the floor.

"Oh shit," said Greg. "I think she said the battle trance could kill her."

He dashed over to Dalile, who was still breathing - though shallowly. "Come on, Dalile," he said. "Stay with me, baby. We're gonna get out of here. Hopefully. I hope."

He heard a sound in front of him. He looked up. More skeletons were trooping down the stairs.

"Okay," he said. "Okay, okay. Fuck. Come on, let's go this way."

He hoisted Dalile over his shoulder and started down the corridor. Another throng of skeletons was coming from that direction.

"Oh fuck," said Greg. "Oh fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck."

He had only half a second to think. He rushed into Ithuria's cell, dumped Dalile on the ground, picked up her iron bar, and smashed the green lantern. The light vanished. The wall rematerialized.

For a moment the only sound was that of the skeletons banging on the wall.

"It's no use," said Ithuria sadly. "Soon another torturer will come, and then we will all be subjected to incomprehensible agonies."

"Hey now," said Greg. "Let's try to be optimistic, okay? I'm sure I can think of something."

His first plan was to try to wake Dalile. But she did not want to wake up. In fact, her breathing was getting even more rapid and shallow.

"You White Priestesses know any cool magic spells?" he said hopefully.

"None that I can do in Hell," said Ithuria sadly, "separated from my gods by an immeasurable distance."

"Right."

Greg had always considered himself a pretty good problem-solver. He thought about the problem for a while.

He couldn't think of anything.

"I think we might be fucked," he said.

"Just as I feared," Ithuria moaned.

Green light began to seep into the room.

"Gods of the White," mumbled Ithuria, "please, please, hear my prayer..."

Greg could hear a distant rumbling coming from somewhere far above.

"Lords of the Sacred Havens," said Ithuria desperately, "come to me in my darkest hour, free me from this hell unending..."

Greg picked up Dalile's iron rod. It was absurdly heavy, but he intended to go down swinging.

"This one's for Kitra, I guess," he said.

The wall disappeared. Greg stared at a mob of skeletons and another looming torturer, its array of whips and knives upraised.

The ceiling exploded.

"Wow," said Greg. He stared up at the ceiling. There was a hole torn in the roof, and in the layer of cells above that, a hole that stretched up through the endless floors of the abyssal palace into the unseen distance.

It was approximately sword-shaped.

Greg looked at his hand, and at the obsidian blade it held.

"Wow," he said. "That was a long journey for you, wasn't it, old buddy?"

They got to work.

*

Shortly thereafter, the hallway was full of shattered bones, and Greg was panting, covered in sweat.

"That was impressive," said Ithuria.

"Thanks." Greg dropped her a wink.

"Do you think you could get me down now?" she said.

"Oh," said Greg. "Yeah, probably."

He dragged the sword over to where she hung, muttered "Kitra!" and smashed her chains to pieces. She rubbed her arms.

"Phew," she said. "I'd forgotten the feeling of freedom."

"How long have you been here?" said Greg.

"I don't know," said Ithuria. "Time is strange in the lands of the dead. What will you do now?"

Greg looked at Dalile, who was lying very still.

"Are there any doctors down here?" he said. "Or, y'know, magical doctors?"

"You're unlikely to find anything apart from necromancers in the halls of the Blighted King," said Ithuria. "As to what lies beyond - I don't know."

"Hm." Greg tapped his forehead. "So could a necromancer bring us back to life? Y'know, get us back on the mortal plane, get our old bodies back, that kind of thing? Because I don't like it down here at all."

"They could," said Ithuria. "But why would a necromancer in the service of the Blighted King help us? He would only turn us over to the torturers."

"Well," said Greg, hefting his sword, "let's see if one of them will talk to us, at least."

He scooped up Dalile, throwing her over his shoulder. "Ooof," he said. "At least she doesn't weight too much."

"You intend to carry her out of here?" said Ithuria doubtfully.

"Yes, that's correct. Let's go!"

*

The journey that followed was deeply dispiriting. The Blighted Palace proved to be a dismal place, an interminable dungeon filled with ichorous slime and the stink of death. Apart from a few brief skirmishes with packs of skeletons, nothing exciting happened at all.

Greg checked every cell as they passed, holding up his green torch, but the most any of them contained was a rotting corpse or two. "Doesn't the Blighted God keep any living prisoners?" he wondered.

"These dungeons are larger than the entire world," Ithuria explained. "Doubtless there are living prisoners elsewhere."

"Whew," said Greg. "Pretty lucky we ended up next to each other, hey?"

"Yes." Ithuria frowned. "Now that you mention it, that does seem like a pretty strange coincidence."

"Holy shit," said Greg. "That guy is alive!"

Indeed, one of the cells contained a man - a scrawny skeleton of a man, his bones pressed tightly against his skin, his face a death-mask, clad in a tattered grey robe, his hair grey and wild. He sat in a corner of the cell, staring blankly at the wall.

"Hey there," said Greg.

The man stared at them.

"At last," he mumbled, "my hallucinations have brought me benevolence! I thank thee, Great Mother! Praise Be!"

"We're not hallucinations," said Greg.

"Good Lord!" The man was gazing intently at Ithuria's naked body. "Praise Be the Great Mother! She has granted me an incredible vision toay!"

"We're real human beings," said Greg.

"Sure, sure!" The man grinned. "Why not! I'll play along! My name is Wendick, pilgrims, and this is my cell, in which I have languished for eight thousand years, a prisoner of... whatever awful god rules this place. I can't remember."

"The Blighted God," said Greg.

"Ah, right." Wendick looked thoughtful. "No doubt that realization emerged from my subconscious. Incredible what the mind can do... I wonder," he looked at Ithuria hopefully, "if you would complete this extraordinary dream and pleasure me orally? It would be a nice change from my eternal suffering."

Ithuria frowned. "Such acts are not common to Priestesses of the White Heights."

"No, I didn't think so." Wendick sighed. "The Great Mother will not grant me such a boon today, I suppose..."

"We're looking for a necromancer," said Greg. "I don't suppose you've seen one around."

"No." Wendick sniffed. "But I used to have a pretty good nose for necromancers. So long as I'm dreaming, I might as well put it to good use."

"You can smell necromancers?" said Greg. It sounded weird, even for this place.

"Yes," said Wendick.

"Huh. Okay, lead the way."

Wendick scrambled to his feet and dashed out of the cell with surprising speed. "All right," he said. "Try to keep up, my imaginary friends! We have a long ways to go!"

*

For a long time Wendick did indeed make sniffing sounds, and he led them through the winding mazes of the dungeon until Greg had completely lost track. He was starting to think that Wendick was actually just crazy, and had no idea what he was doing, when their surroundings changed utterly.

They emerged through a black archway and onto a vast bridge that arched across a chasm of unspeakable depth. Above them was a black sky; on the horizon, a range of mountains blotched with sickly green, their peaks jagged and distorted. Rivers of noxious slime ran across the blighted landscape, and a stink of decay rose from the ruins.

Before them, at the bridge's opposite end, stood a tower that rose for what seemed like miles into the sky. To their right and left the blighted palace sprawled, apparently without end.

"There," said Wendick, pointing with a satisfied smile. "That's a necromancer's tower, or I'll cut off my own damn nose."

"Incredible." Greg whistled. "So should we, um, knock?"

Wendick shrugged. "Necromancers are not known to be polite," he said. "Or friendly. In fact, they're usually insane."

"Right," said Greg. "Well, I guess I'll just knock, then."

They crossed the bridge and paused at the imposing marble door that guarded the entrance to the tower. Greg knocked. The sound echoed into the distant canyons.

"Try the bell," said Ithuria.

There was a small silver bell hanging by the door. Greg rang it.

The doors swung slowly open.

"Nice," he said.

They went inside.

The room within looked like someone had taken a library, trashed it, and then murdered a bunch of people in it and scattered bits of them everywhere. In the midst of the carnage sat a man who looked surprisingly similar to Wendick, except that his robes were less tattered, he looked better fed, and his hair was jet black. He was holding a misshapen skull in his hand and muttering something.

"Azarak," said Wendick cheerfully. "It's me! I'm having a hallucination!"

The necromancer looked up and glared. He picked up a lens from the table, peered through it, and snorted.

"Not a hallucination, Wendick, you fucking idiot," he said. "How'd you get out of that cell? You've been there eight thousand years."

"The hallucinations let me out!" said Wendick.

"Hm." Azarak stared at Greg, at Dalile draped over his shoulder, and at Ithuria, who was trying to hide behind a bookshelf. "In your delirious state, you believe that three naked people freed you from your cell and brought you to me."

"I brought them here, Azarak," said Wendick. "I thought we could enjoy ourselves, just like old times."

"Wait a minute," said Greg. "Now wait just a minute. You didn't tell us you were a -"

Azarak muttered something and snapped his fingers. Greg dropped dead.

*

In fact he was not actually dead. Well, he was, but he wasn't dead twice. He was still alive in Hell. When he woke up, he was chained to one of the walls of the necromancer's room, with a slight headache but still very much alive.

"Owww," he mumbled.

Wendick and Azarak seemed to be hard at work on something. Dalile was lying on a table that looked as though its former contents had been hastily dumped onto the floor. They'd drawn a series of arcane symbols on her body, and Azarak was chanting something and waving a tiny set of chimes. In one corner, Ithuria was kneeling, her hands behind her back and her mouth open.

"Kitra!" Greg yelled. His sword flew across the room and into his hand.

Azarak and Wendick both swivelled to look at him.

"Impressive trick," said Azarok admiringly.

Greg stared at the sword, which was twitching uselessly in his hand. Apparently it couldn't break chains if they were currently chaining him.

"What are you doing?" he said indignantly.

"Oh, relax," said Azarak. "We're trying to rescue your friend. She's in some kind of trance that has rendered her highly resistant to mind control."

"Oh good," said Greg anxiously. "She went into a Battle Trance and almost died. Wait, did you say mind control?"

"Oh yes," said Wendick eagerly. "It's a trick we've both been working on. Necromancy gets boring after a while, you know!"

"But why mind control?"

Wendick rolled his eyes. "Isn't it obvious?" he said. "Look!"

He marched over to where Ithuria was kneeling and, with a flourish, pulled aside his robe to reveal a dessicated set of genitals. Ithuria put her lips around them and immediately began to suck loudly.

"See?" said Wendick. "If it weren't for mind control, she'd probably bite my dick off."

"That is totally unethical," said Greg.

Wendick frowned. "Ethical?" he said. "Never heard of it. Anyway, shut your mouth, we'll get to you in a minute."

He returned to Dalile, and the two of them kept muttering. Greg occupied himself with attempting to escape from his chains. It didn't take long to realize that all his attempts were futile.

"If it's a Battle Trance," Azarak mused, "we should be able to use Glorrik's Seventeenth Precept, yes?"

"Ah, brilliant idea," said Wendick. "I'll get the tomes."

He crossed the room and started sorting through a pile of books.

"I must say, it's a pleasure to be working with you again, Azarak," he said, "even if it's just an incredibly detailed hallucination."

"Likewise." Azarak grinned. "Imagine! Once we get this one awake, we can finally make up for all those years of digging in graveyards and fooling around with flaming demons and so on."

"Absolutely." Wendick cracked his knuckles. "I've received more oral sex in the last hour than I have in my entire life. Speaking of which, get back over here, priestess."

Greg watched helplessly as Ithuria crawled over to Wendick and set to work with her lips. A few moments later the necromancer let out a dull groan.

"This really is the life," he said. "Is it working?"

"No." Azarak frowned. "Wendick, I'm afraid that this maiden may not physically exist on this plane at all."

"What?" Wendick reeled.

"She was probably summoned by the Blighted God for impregnation, but not actually killed. This is only a spiritual manifestation. Her physical manifestation remains suspended in the Un-World. We won't be able to bring her here without a counterbalance."

Wendick jabbed a finger at Greg. "What about him?"

Azarak shrugged.

"I thought we were going to melt him down for spare parts," he said. "But yes, I guess he would work."

The two of them walked over and stood in front of Greg. Azarak dipped his finger in a vat of dark red paint and began to draw symbols on Greg's chest.

"Aaagh," said Greg. "What are you doing."

"Simple," said Azarak absently. "If we want to pull her over to the Land of the Dead before her time, we need to send someone back. So we're just going to pop you back into your human body, drag her manifestation over here, and then perform a series of perverse sexual acts involving her and the other one and each other and who knows what else. It's going to be incredible. I'm just sorry you won't be here to witness it.

"Anyway," he said, "I'm ready, are you, Wendick?"

"Ready!"

"Good. OMINUS CORPUS MANIFESTUS TRANSITUS. GLORIA MUSIKA. PRAISE BE TO THE GREAT MOTHER WHO DEVOURS THE WORLD."

Greg un-died.