Escape From Tenebrae

A Fantasy One Shot

Castle in they Sky by M.C. Excher

Mould flourished in the corner, a great deal of mould. Green and yellow and dark brown. A healthy colony, well suited to a gaol deep in the earth. A faint sheen of moisture sat upon the heavy stone blocks that made up the walls and floor and ceiling, an unending sameness broken by rotten mortar, the aforementioned mould, and roots of some unseen forest menace. A neglected place, ancient and forgotten.

Icatha awoke in that damp abandoned ruin with a head full of fog and scattered memories. He had his sword and shield, a chain mail shirt, a worn pair of leather trousers, and a tabard with an eagle crest he could not identify. He rose and headed for the door to his cell, a vague recollection he had done it all before but that feeling vanished hastily. The round brass handle turned with a heavy click and the door swung inward. His was the last in a long corridor of cells at the base of the dungeon, a place for unwanted things to become lost, forever.

Icatha drew his sword, he would find his way to freedom, one way or another.

He stepped beyond the walls of his cell uncertain of how long he had been held captive and ignorant of the reason. He did not look back on what he felt had been his home for good long while. How long? He could not know as neither sun nor moon penetrated into the depths of his prison. The first steps he took were greeted by the cries of other prisoners. A man, far beyond his youth, huddled in the corner of the first cell Icatha came across, right next to his own, weeping into his matted grey beard. Icatha did not stop, did not help, for all the man had to do was stand up and open the door. Icatha knew that now. How long had he lay in his cell not doing that? Next there was a woman, nails so long they curled back and pricked her palms, her hair swept the stone floor, her eyes piercing white. She did not weep nor blink, only stared through the iron bars of her cell, lost to time.

The other prisoners were much the same. Lost. Defeated. Withered. Time had been stolen from them and time had stolen from them. A cruel fate, a fate they were given, a fate they chose. Icatha prowled on, the only one willing to risk freedom.

He came to the end of the corridor of prisons and found a double door of thick wood black with age. There was no keyhole, no bar across it, no iron bars in the way. It was simply a door. He pushed it open. A dark abyss greeted him, welcomed him, beckoned him onwards. He stepped through and a rush of air and flame sucked from the far end, torches burst to life along the wall illuminating the long stretch of empty, mouldering corridor. The rot was in the soul of the place, as if it had always been a festering ruin, a part of the land like the hills and the trees.

Icatha walked, sword and shield in hand, for there was naught else to do. Each step, he told himself, was one foot closer to his escape, to his freedom, and near the end of the long flame lit corridor he began to wonder if any guards remained.

He reached the end of the corridor, the curved ceiling blocks weeping with last years rain. The smell of damp stung his nostrils and the wet air clung to his throat. The torches gave way to braziers and the corridor to an open room with crumbling pillars supporting the ceiling, part brick, part overhead rock. Sweat ran down his arms and made his palms slick as he stared into that poorly illuminated abyss.

Shrieks ricocheted off the walls and pillars, curling around the stone and wrapping Icatha in a blanket of terror. From the darkness emerged three dessicated hags. Their flesh poked and peeling, their hair dry as hay, eyelids eaten by maggots, they came at him with their nails that resembled claws, shrieking and braying.

Icatha raised his shield and bashed into the one on the left. A satisfying crunch of bone brought a smile and he slashed at the two on his right. One dodged, hissing, but the other was caught across the neck. The skin parted to reveal bone and calcified tissue but the hag did not fall. A flurry of nail swipes flashed from the darkness and he stumbled backwards, blood dripping from his forehead. Icatha cowered behind his shield as the risen hags surrounded him, the one he had bashed was left with a broken arm but still she came at him. Icatha raised his sword, swiping and thrusting with all his might. Flesh slapped against the stone, thin bony fingers too, but still the vile crones came at him. Their shrieking and hissing sent rippling pain through his mind and into his soul. He fought off an ache in his veins and swept the hags with his shield, the edge caught each of them on the arm, the chin, and in the chest. The last fell down and Icatha pounced, piercing the creature in the gut and slamming the rim of his shield into its neck. The skin ruptured and her spinal column chipped from the force. The pale white light of her eyes dimmed. He turned to face the remaining two, the pain of their shrieking nestled behind his eyes and blurring his vision.

He could not stop.

Stopping meant death and death meant imprisonment.

Driven by his need for freedom Icatha fought on, even as his bones burned and his mind grew tense. He slashed at one and kicked at the other. Flesh parted with a spit of dust and the second fell down, dead. The third slumped over and in that moment of weakness Icatha took the hag's head, her leathery skin flaring at the stump.

Icatha did not wait to see if more rose to capture him, nor did he search the bodies of the decaying shrews, instead he laboured onward deeper into the unknown passageways beneath the earth.

He came to another corridor of cells, the iron bar gates all locked tight and their inhabitants bathed in pitch black darkness. Only a light at the far end of the corridor kept Icatha going. A man's voice thundered down the corridor, screaming and shouting wordless nothings with a rage fit for a betrayed warrior. Icatha slowed but the faint ramblings of those others in the cells around him helped him to quicken his step until he could spy the rageful man gripping the bars of his cell and throwing himself back and forth. The iron clattered in its stone harness, loud and harsh, yet still his voice boomed over it.

'You there,' the man called out, his eyes twitched and struggled to focus on Icatha in the gloom. 'I need a way out. I need to get out. If I don't Iw ill surely go mad like the rest of these poor sods. Get me out of here. There are keys, I know there are, in the next room. It's not far. Not far,' his left eye twitched and roamed revealing a thick bloodshot beneath the pupil. 'Save me, you have to save me, before I end up like everyone else. You got out, how? HOW! TELL ME HOW! DON'T YOU DARE KEEP IT FROM ME!' the man lunged through the bars at Icatha, his blood stained fingers grazing Icatha's tabard. Icatha threw himself backwards, slamming into the iron gate opposite the crazed man's. He quickly righted himself and shuffled on, sword held up. 'Where are you going? For the key? Yes, yes, of course. The key. Get the key. I need the key,' he threw himself against the bars again. 'GET ME OUT! GET ME OUT! GET ME OUT!' he did not stop bellowing and even when Icatha reached the illuminated doorway he could still hear the madness pouring out of the man, madness and grief.

Icatha stumbled into a pool of brilliant light. A well lay at the centre of the room, the water softly trickling over the edge. Someone sat hunched on the far side, only his shoulders visible to Icatha, he approached, noticing his footfalls made no sound on the crystalline floor. Rounding the well he raised his sword. His mouth went dry and the aches from the hags, driven worse by the crazed prisoner, still plagued his mind, but he could not stop. Could not go back. He rounded the raised pool and fountain and found what he thought was a dead man was no man at all.

Before him sat a six armed beast with a two-faced head, the mouth conjoined yet filled with two distinct sets of teeth that merged. Three eyes were closed, its chest heaved. Stitches crawled along the things skin, the flesh a variety of shades and some thick with fur. Icatha attempted to move past the monster without waking it but as soon as his foot stepped past him it awoke, its three eyes snapping open. The monster whacked Icatha with its three right arms sending him careening into the nearest wall and forcing the wind out of him. Icatha groaned and slid onto his left side, the trim of his shield digging into his ribs. He opened his eyes in a haze to see the monstrous beast standing on four legs, the back two shorter with reverse knees jutting out awkwardly from an elongated torso of matter fur and overstretched skin. The amalgamated beast lumbered towards Icatha, a forked tongue, thick and meaty, emerging from its twisted teeth and peeled back lips. The faces were close to human but fused in such a way that the noses and eyes were stretched and thin. No hair grew on the monsters bulbous head.

Icatha scrambled to his feet. Breathing hurt but that faded when the beast barrelled at him. Icatha raised his shield and then, too late, decided to dive. The monster caught him by the ankle and roared, a horrid guttural sound that made Icatha's bowels quiver. Two hands wrapped around his ankle and Icatha was throw into the wall. His back slammed into the stone and the fountain room spun. The beast lifted him up and opened its maw to chew on his leg. Icatha panicked and swiped his sword, hacking with it like an axe into the monster's back legs. Slivers of flesh and clumps of fur came away with beads of blood. He felt the wetness of its tongue slither beneath his trouser leg. Icatha backhanded the beast with his shield, catching an arm and a deformed ear. The beast shrieked and dropped his meal. Icatha scurried towards the fountain, his sword clattering with each frantic movement. He spun and rose to stand as the monster turned and chased him. His leg began to burn.

The beast of many skins charged with unnatural speed on its mismatched legs. Icatha hurried behind the fountain, limping slightly, and eager to keep the solid stone and water between him and whatever thing he had awoken. The searing sensation around his ankle worsened but he could not take his eyes off the monster as it prowled around the fountain trying to finish its meal.

Icatha circled the flowing water until in a burst of energy the amalgamated monster leapt up into the water and dashed across, smashing the fountain, and dousing them both in stale water, putrid and thick with algae. Icatha fell back, his shield blocked the monster's arms. The wood split from the impact and he cracked his back against the crystalline floor, silent as the night. The beast pinned him down with four arms and grabbed his head with its remaining two. Icatha struggled as an immense pressure built in his head and the steel of his helmet crumpled inward. The monster roared and salivated over him, the drool leaving pock marks in his tabard and chain mail. Icatha kicked and kicked again until he heard something snap. The monster wailed and released its grip for a moment. Icatha wrangled his sword arm free and thrust the blade into the monster's open maw. The roar was silenced and he was left with the dulcet tones of trickling water.

The beast of many skins slumped against Icatha's sword. He slid the blade free, thick with gore and pitted from its acidic spit. He stepped away, the beast a tangle of limbs on the crystalline floor. He lifted his trouser leg to find a ring around his ankle red and raw, the skin devoured and the muscle going with it. He limped towards the water freely flowing out onto the floor but never running dry in the fountain and dipped his foot into the chill for some measure of relief. The water became cloudy, the searing burn faded, and when he removed his leg the damage was gone. He lowered his sword into the water but the pitting remained. Removing his helmet, battered and useless as it was, he cupped his hands and poured some water over his head. The pulsating headache remained. He dried the sword on his filthy tabard and continued on towards a patch of darkness at the far end of the illuminated fountain room.

Icatha stood at the portal of darkness. The light from the fountain did not pierce it and nor did the shadows beyond the threshold venture onto the crystalline. He stepped across the line of white and black knowing it was his only path to freedom. The sound of trickling water vanished the moment he passed into the dark. There was no light. No wind. Only a scent. He inhaled and was pleasantly surprised by the smell of cooked meat well seasoned and ready for eating. Following the smell he delved into the darkness with caution. He slid his feet across whatever he trod on to avoid tripping and reached out with his shield arm to find a wall. There was no wall nor anything in his the path of the scent.

He walked for what felt like hours, the smell only growing in intensity and others joining it. Rosemary and garlic wafted through the darkness, and freshly brewed beer, and then later a hint of mustard. The last odour was of burning wood and with the sound of metal hitting wood again and again with a faint slush just before. Icatha swallowed, his mouth watering and his stomach growling. He had not expected hunger to plague him in his escape and his aching mind began to think not of freedom but of a warm meal and a fresh mug of ale. He refocussed his mind and continued toward the smell of freedom and comfort, eager to sort one from the other.

A blur of orange light scorched the inky world, a silhouette of a man within. An arm rose, a knife fell, and metal struck wood.

Icatha slowed to a prowl. He licked his lips on instinct rather than want and readied his sword to pierce the man, or beast, there and then but before he could the silhouette halted mid swing and turned. 'You are far from your cage little man,' a rasping voice slunk through the dark. He turned, the flare of the cooking fire catching on his butcher's blade. The fire roared hotter and brighter to reveal the blood on the butcher's apron, the scars across his pate, and his sheer gargantuan size. Carcasses hung from meat hooks around the fire, those of animals – cows, pigs, sheep – but also birds, and people. To one side of the butcher's table was another surface piled with limbs and torsos and heads, with skin and fur on, some of which were stitched together to resemble some as yet unknown beast.

Icatha raised his sword and shield. The shield was splintered down the middle, the shards jabbing his hand in the leather strap. His sword was pitted, the steel weakened, and an aching pain drove like a screw through his head but he knew freedom was close, all he had to do was defeat the butcher.

A knife flew through the air, glancing the rim of his shield and flicking up to gouge his ear. Icatha winced. The butcher ran at him, cleaver as long as his forearm high in the air. The blade shone as it blurred through the air. Icatha deflected the first blow with his sword, the impact making his arm tremble. The second swing he blocked with his shield, the cleaver getting stuck in the wood. The butcher growled and twisted the blade free, cracking a hole in Icatha's shield. The butcher howled with laughter and punched Icatha across the jaw.

Icatha span and fell, his head light and woozy. The throbbing pain in his head was growing and thinking had become a chore.

'I see my wives left you with a gift,' the butcher towered over Icatha.

'I killed them,' Icatha said. He rested on his elbows staring at the coal black floor that he could only feel.

'Doesn't matter, they'll rise again. They always do,' the butcher reached for Icatha's collar and hoisted him up till his legs dangled. 'I'll be sure to use the best parts of you, and don't worry, it will be soon, wouldn't want you wasting away in your cell.' The butcher smiled, his putrid breath rolled crawled up Icatha's nostrils and made him gag.

Icatha lifted his shield arm and slammed the rim of it into the butcher's shoulder. The giant man flinched as the shield shattered against his brawn. Icatha stared in disbelief at the butcher's smile and then swung his sword at his thick neck. The butcher blocked the blow with the flat of his cleaver. The sword shattered too. Icatha let the hilt drop to the abyss.

The butcher laughed, 'You are not the first to try and escape. You will not be the last. None will succeed.'

Icatha bit down on the butcher's knuckles until he tasted blood and then continued until he felt bone grinding against his teeth. The butcher hissed and hacked into Icatha's arm. The cleaver carved through flesh and then jammed against the bone. Icatha continued to bite down until his teeth slipped between knuckle and bone and there were a few little pops. The butcher howled and released his grip but the bitten finger wouldn't release and was ripped free by Icatha's weight. Icatha landed with a stumble, the butcher's finger dangling from his tabard, and pulled the cleaver from his arm. Blood sluiced free to splash against the blackness but he didn't care, couldn't care. Icatha charged at the giant who'd imprisoned him and buried the butcher's blade in his neck. His podgy scar riddled face grimaced, teeth clamping down to stifle a scream, and Icatha took a second swing. The butcher's head hung to the side, held on by an artery and wedge of muscle and flesh. He keeled over, his life pooling about him.

Icatha limped toward the fire and the smell of burnt meat and charred potatoes. There, in the blackness, was an iron stove in a brick chimney with a pot atop the stove billowing thick black smoke of what was once a succulent meal. He stared glumly at what he had pursued, recalling the scent that had led him to the butcher.

The wound on his arm wept, the blood droplets catching the light of the fire in golden crescent moons. He had followed the smell for another reason. Icatha circled the chimney and as he passed around the corner the void retreated and he stepped foot inside a cottage, the fire burning with a kettle steaming atop its stove, a pot sat beside it bubbling away. A table was set for six with wooden bowls and spoons. A deerhound was curled up in front of the fire, asleep. Icatha looked behind him but there was only the limewash wall of the cottage with a shelf holding a few old stuffed dolls and wooden toys coated in dust.

'Staying for dinner?' a woman appeared through a doorway leading to another room. 'Oooh that wound's bad, if you leave it you might not survive. Take a seat and I'll see what I can do.' She trundled off back into the room she came from.

Icatha took a seat on one of the benches either side of the table set for dinner. The woman wasn't old, but nor was she young. Her figure suggested a life with many children but her ring finger was bare, though there was a shadow where a ring once had been.

The woman reappeared with a box and a bottle of some clear fluid. 'Right, this'll hurt but you'll be better for it,' she uncorked the bottle and doused his wound. The stinging brought tears to his eyes. In a flash she'd threaded a needle and was pinching his skin, 'Loosen up and remember to breathe slow and steady.' The needle pierced the skin and Icatha thought he might faint.

The front door opened and another woman entered, this one younger and slimmer than the one stitching Icatha. 'A guest for dinner? The others will be pleased.'

Icatha's expression betrayed him before he had even said a word.

'Oh you'll like them, just you wait and see,' the young woman smiled.

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