The Burning Man

2

Darkness so intense, Veitch could see nothing. Thin air, cold and dusty-dry and filled with the stench of decay. With an effort he overcame the slowly fading paralysis that had infected him since he had been dragged down into the Underworld, and tore off the shroud that was clinging to the lower half of his face.

Tentatively, he felt around. Bones rattled next to him, along with some minor grave goods. Stone was hard against his back, on either side, just above his face. Breathing slowly to remain calm, he realised he was in a box, perhaps a tomb. The sword was still with him — he could feel its dark whispers in his head — but there was not enough room to use it.

‘Miller!’ he called out. Then: ‘Etain?’ There was no response. ‘All right. You’re on your own.’

An image of being buried far underground crashed into his mind and claustrophobia swelled in his chest. ‘Stay calm, you wanker,’ he snarled. He rammed the balls of his fists against the stone over him. The pain reduced the constriction growing in his throat, but there was no movement from the lid of the box. The dull thud told him that there was no space above him, and despair curled in his stomach.

Quickly, he hit out at the four sides. The wall to his left rang hollow. With relief, he felt along the edge and was convinced there was a join: a door of some kind.

Forty minutes later, the stone burst outwards and a thin, icy light leached in. His fists were torn and bloodied and the mess that had been his left elbow protruded from his tattered shirt. But the pain was already lost beneath his fierce determination to get to Ruth before the Libertarian did; the possibility that he might already be too late was instantly rejected.

Letting his eyes grow accustomed to the light, he swung his legs out of the shattered door before a rush of vertigo forced him to grip onto the edge. The ground was at least fifty feet below, at the foot of a wall of coffin-sized tombs that reached another hundred feet above his head. Stretching out before him in the vast cavern was a monumental necropolis of tombs and mausoleums constructed of dull, grey stone or set into the rocky walls, slumbering under an oppressive atmosphere of dust and age and uneasy stillness. Yet for all its enormity, Veitch knew it was only the suburbs of the Grim Lands. What lay beyond this crumbling fringe of the Underworld was a place as immeasurable and unknowable as death.

On the crepuscular limits of the cavern, he could just make out the tunnel that led to those Grey Lands, now sealed by iron gates that reached from floor to roof. No chance of hiding away amongst the vast ranks of the silent dead, who had accepted him in a way he had never wholly experienced in the living world.

‘Miller!’ he called out. ‘Etain?’ The way his words dropped like stones across those silent buildings unsettled him, and he recalled the dry, grasping hands that had pulled him into the Underworld; not the dead, but something stronger and more dangerous. He resolved to remain as quiet and silent as that place.

With an effort, he found handholds and deep cracks in the tomb-wall that would allow him to climb down. Pausing to check the tombs on either side, above and below for signs of movement, he began his descent without looking down.

The cracked, ancient flagstones of the street between the towering mausoleums were covered with a fine layer of dust. Most of it was undisturbed, but there was a trail where he had been brought to the tomb-wall. Following it, he came to a large area of tracks and scuffs on the edge of a frozen river that bisected the cavern. One trail led up a slope towards the tunnel where he had been brought in. Another went to the river’s edge.

Cautiously, Veitch approached the ice, white with hoar-frost, and wondered why it was frozen when the air temperature was well above freezing. The query came and went as he put one tentative boot on the ice. It took his weight without cracking, and he strode out a few feet, noticing that he left footprints in the frost. There were no other prints, so Miller had not been taken across to the far bank.

As he scuffed the ice with his boot, he noticed something glimmering in the dark depths beneath. Dropping to his knees, he frantically scrubbed the frost away to reveal a surface like glass. And just beneath it lay Miller, floating, his body unmoving but his eyes wide and alive and pleading.

The ice flew up in diamond-hard shards as Veitch repeatedly rammed the sword down, the black flames hissing as they met the cold. After ten minutes he was slick with sweat, but he had broken through almost six inches and the water beneath had begun to seep through the ice. Miller continued to drift around mysteriously in one spot, not drowning, un-moving, alert and awake. An almost pathetic gratitude was etched in his features.

Gentler strokes shattered the final half-inch, and Veitch carved a big enough hole to drag Miller out. When Veitch immersed his hands in the water, a dreamy lethargy came over him. He fought its seduction and it faded when he had Miller lying on the ice.

Veitch shook him roughly. ‘Come on, you fuck-wit. We haven’t got time for this.’

Life gradually returned to Miller’s limp body. A smile spread across his face. ‘You saved me. Thank you.’

‘Stop talking. Don’t do anything but follow me. We’re going to find Etain and the others and get to Ruth.’

‘You love her.’

‘I told you to shut the fuck up.’ Veitch clipped Miller roughly around the ear.

As he ran back up the bank, he realised Miller wasn’t behind him. He turned to see Miller poised on the edge of the frozen river, one foot hovering above dry land.

‘What are you doing?’ Veitch called.

Miller was disoriented. ‘I don’t remember who put me in there, but … there are words in my head. A warning. If I walk again on the land I-’

‘Just do it!’ Veitch snapped.

Startled into action, Miller put his foot down. In that instant, a sonorous tolling echoed across the still city of the dead. The bell’s tones had a toxic effect on Veitch’s emotions, poisoning him with the first wash of dread.

Miller was locked in place, terrified. Veitch ran back and grabbed him. ‘Run!’

‘What’s that bell?’

‘Run!’ Veitch dragged Miller up the bank and thrust him so hard he almost fell. Within seconds, they were both sprinting up the steep street towards the tunnel leading out of that place.

At a crossroads they spied a collection of statues, apparently ancient from the thick layer of dust that blanketed them. From one of them stared a pair of unblinking eyes that Veitch recognised instantly.

Brushing away the dust revealed Etain’s charred, damaged face, the beauty still evident to him in what remained. ‘Thank God. I was worried I’d have to leave without you, darlin’,’ Veitch muttered.

Etain was in the same kind of trance that had gripped Miller, but as Veitch pulled her cold form into an embrace, she gradually came round. Her eyes made a mechanical movement towards Veitch when he planted a kiss on her cheek.

Miller watched queasily until distant echoes distracted him. ‘Ryan, hurry! People are coming. Lots of people!’

‘Give me a hand, then.’

Sickened, Miller helped Veitch scrub the dust from Branwen, Tannis and Owein, and from their otherworldly mounts. ‘Can’t we leave them?’ he said anxiously. Further down the street, past the towering mausoleums, the sound of many feet could now clearly be heard.

‘You don’t leave your mates!’ Veitch snapped.

Miller watched the dead Brothers and Sisters of Spiders clamber onto their horses and felt a twinge of concern for Veitch’s sanity.

The swarm rounded onto their street at the foot of the slope near the frozen river, hundreds of grey bodies, more joining them every second. They were naked and hairless, their limbs lithe and powerful, but their skin sickly and purple-veined. Their yellow eyes were fierce. They looked like a tribe of relict humans, barely human at all, and they carried as weapons human thigh bones that had been picked clean.

Miller was rooted to the spot, one hand half-raised to his mouth. Veitch caught the back of his shirt and dragged him into action. They ran up the street, the dry air searing their throats. The tolling bell continued to chime, and the sound of feet became thunder, yet their pursers were eerily silent.

The tunnel was already in sight when Veitch accepted they were not going to make it. More grey figures were beginning to emerge from side streets ahead.

‘There’s no end to them,’ Miller whined.

The Brothers and Sisters of Spiders were already at the tunnel mouth. Etain reined in her mount and drove it back down the slope, trampling the grey men under hoof; they died as silently as they lived.

But then the wave of pursuers closed off the street ahead, washing down towards Veitch and Miller as quickly as the ones approaching from behind.

‘What are we going to do?’ Miller sobbed.

‘Two options: die or live.’ Veitch gripped his sword in both hands, comforted by the flaring black flames.

Across the city came a loud voice, the words alien, with an unreal quality that jumbled Veitch’s thoughts. Blood trickled from his ears.

On the top of a tower on the other side of the frozen river stood a figure radiating such power that Veitch knew it could only be a god. The figure swam as if in a heat haze until Veitch’s mind settled on a form it could comprehend: sable robes and a pale, bald head. Even at that distance, Veitch could tell the flesh was covered with the black markings that signified control by the Army of the Ten Billion Spiders.

Contemptuous, he turned back to the fray, neither knowing nor caring what god might rule that twilit world bordering the land of the dead.

Black lightning crackled as Veitch tore into the rushing enemy with his sword. Heads were cleaved, limbs fell away and thin blood the colour of gruel splattered across the dust.

The tunnel to the upper world was tantalisingly close, but the grey swarm appeared endless and not even the ferocity of the Brothers and Sisters of Spiders could dent their numbers.

And over it all the god of the underworld continued to wail his song of despair and decay and the winding down into nothing.