Chapter 6

Everything began happening too quickly and all around him. Scorio raised both hands and tried to shrug off the grip on his shoulder, but he might as well have tried to knock off his own arm.

The woman who had taken hold of him was imposing, her face strikingly handsome but now cast in an expression carved from granite. There was a self-possession in her gaze that clearly made her more than a simple brute.

“Wait,” said Scorio. “I don’t know what any of that meant!”

The chancellor’s stare was chilling; all humor and geniality had fled from his face. He raised his chin so he could stare at Scorio down the length of his aquiline nose. “Your statement is nuncupatory. The Archspire has told us enough. Instructor, please remove this… filth… to a holding cell below.”

“I’m not going to unleash any chaos or horror,” said Scorio, wrestling against the woman as she bent Scorio’s arm behind his back with irresistible strength. “Ease off!”

The chancellor had turned back to the crowd, however, and was now ignoring him utterly.

The instructor began to drag Scorio across the stage, the other notables having drawn back, eyes narrowed, most of them looking as if they’d just sucked on a putrid lemon.

“Get off me,” barked Scorio, but his arm was wrenched to such a degree that he had to tiptoe across the stage, his back arching painfully to avoid having his shoulder completely dislocated.

The Great Souls below were alert; many had stood, faces tense with confusion and shock.

Scorio saw Leonis striding toward the stage, Lianshi in his shadow. “What’s going on?” shouted the large man, his voice surprisingly authoritative and demanding. “There’s been a mistake. Let him go.”

Even as gratitude blossomed in Scorio’s chest, he knew it would do no good. A slender man with a shock of black hair, clad in the gray robes of the instructors, leaped down off the stage to land lightly before Leonis and Lianshi, his manner cold, calm, professional.

“Sit back down, brother,” he said. “This isn’t your concern.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” said Leonis, tracking Scorio as he was marched down the steps. “Step aside, my friend.”

Scorio’s mind raced. Frustration, horror, embarrassment—all of these emotions burned within him but were obscured by his growing rage.

“I didn’t do anything,” he growled over his shoulder.

“Even so,” said woman, voice matter of fact.

Her grip was expert, her strength and leverage unbreakable. Scorio tried to jerk free and felt the woman’s grip on his wrist tighten, the bones therein grinding against each other.

Scorio hissed in pain and was forced to keep walking. Forced up onto the balls of his feet, so that he couldn’t even bring his heel down in a stomp on the woman’s foot. Couldn’t twist around to drive an elbow at her face.

Nothing.

“Scorio!” shouted Leonis.

He cast a look back at his friends just as Leonis stepped forward, looking to press the poised instructor back. Who simply stood firm, as immovable as the Archspire.

Lianshi, however, had ducked down and run around the biers to come around and emerge in the channel before him. She straightened, expression wild, tall and gangly, unsure but clearly trying to think of a plan.

“Step aside,” said the woman escorting him, voice confident but edged with a threat. “There is nothing you can do to stop this.”

“Still have to try,” said Lianshi, and Scorio’s heart swelled in response.

“I applaud your loyalty, but it’s misplaced.” The woman didn’t slow down. “Last chance to step aside.”

Lianshi settled herself into a combat stance, legs bending, fists raised, moving to stand in a three-quarters profile.

The instructor released her grip on Scorio’s shoulder and extended her hand toward Lianshi.

She immediately withered, collapsing to the ground as if under immense pressure, shaking and fighting the whole way till she was pressed to the ground under an invisible load.

“Lianshi!” bellowed Scorio, and he flailed, fought to break free, and felt something tear in his shoulder as the instructor maintained her grip.

“Relax,” said the imperious instructor. “She’ll be fine.”

“What did you do to her?” barked Scorio, sweat prickling his brow from the pain that was shooting down his arm and into his back.

“You’ll never have the chance to learn,” said the instructor.

On they marched. The Great Souls were watching him pass, expressions ranging from alarmed to inscrutable, but nobody else moved to help him.

“My apologies, everyone,” called the chancellor, tone affable once more. “This happens but rarely, and when it does it’s best to move quickly and remove the stain. The odds of another Red Listed soul appearing amongst you is vanishingly small, so please, relax. You have nothing to worry about. In due time you’ll learn about what just took place, and the necessity of our actions, but for now, let us remain focused on the Revelator and your own successes. Now, the next worthy soul who managed to enter the Chamber of Balance…”

Accepting that he couldn’t break free from the woman’s grip, Scorio did his best to avoid wrenching his shoulder further. On they marched, to the basilica’s far side, and then into a colonnaded walkway that encircled the floor. Vines and greenery clothed the cream-colored rock, and the shadows were cool and damp.

They passed into a large hallway, tall enough for giants to march down, one side lined with ancient banners and tapestries, the other open to an old courtyard with uneven pavers and a resplendent tree growing from an earthen well in its center, all of it bathed in syrupy amber light from above.

“Tell me where we’re going,” asked Scorio.

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

“This Red List, what is it? You can tell me that much?”

“I could,” said the other. “But I won’t. Now be quiet or I’ll break your arm.”

Something about the instructor’s tone convinced Scorio she wasn’t bluffing, so he clenched his jaw and decided to wait for an opportunity to break free.

They turned off the walkway into another hallway, and passed numerous doors till they reached a broad stairwell. A couple of men stood at attention there, clad in rose- and gray-colored robes, and Scorio saw their eyes widen when they caught sight of him.

No, he realized, at the sight of the woman escorting him.

“Easy, men,” said the instructor, tone suddenly strangely playful. “This poor bastard is on the Red List.”

Both drew back as if Scorio had suddenly started venting bilious green fumes.

“Can we be of assistance, Instructor Helminth?” asked one.

“I think I can handle a Char,” she replied and escorted him down the steps.

The steps descended for a while before leveling out. Below, the air was as cool and damp as it had been in the shadows of the basilica; the occasional half-orb of illuminated glass projected from the wall and gave a soft, lambent glow to the stark hall.

On they marched, through intersections, past closed wooden doors bound in black iron, then descended a second set of steps into the bowels of the earth.

Scorio felt a helpless panic threatening to sweep through him, a furious sense of outrage. “I didn’t do anything.” His words sounded pathetic in his own ears. “How can I be punished for things I’ve no memory of?”

“First thing you learn,” said the woman, tone almost sympathetic, “is that nothing’s fair about this world. Here we are.”

They turned off into a new hallway, startling two new guards who leaped from their seats to salute the instructor. The hall’s length was lined with ponderous metal doors. Each looked absurdly reinforced and strong, and when an attendant guard rushed to open one, Scorio saw that the metal was easily over an inch thick.

Helminth marched him into the square chamber. Scorio thought she might release him, but she walked him right to the wall where she finally released his arm and spun him about, shoving him hard in the chest so that he fell back against the stone.

Efficiently, handling him as if he were a child, she raised first one wrist, then the second, and clamped them in manacles bolted to the wall. The very act of having his shoulder wrenched up brought tears to Scorio’s eyes; the joint had become numb, and pain radiated out from it in every direction. He felt manacles close about his ankles and realized he was completely bound.

“There.” She stepped back and wiped her hands with distaste. She scrutinized his bindings as if seeking some fault, then gave him a reluctant nod. “Would that this were otherwise.”

Scorio wanted to beseech her, ask her to stay, to answer a question, any question, but the hard glint in her brown eyes stopped his tongue. He straightened where he stood and just glared at her.

No more words. A final, cursory look up and down his body, then she turned and left the chamber.

The heavy iron door swung closed behind her, plunging him into darkness.

Scorio stood still, breathing harshly, mind reeling. What had just happened? It didn’t make sense. A Red List? He was Proscribed? By whom? For what? Had he done something in the Gauntlet he shouldn’t have? Was it his anger at being so manipulated? No, there had to be other Great Souls who were that resentful. Then what?

No answers were forthcoming. He couldn’t resist straining against the bindings, not because he thought he might escape, but because he had nothing else to do. When he finally desisted, he leaned back against the wall and listened.

Nothing.

The walls were too thick.

Time became meaningless. With no memories beyond what had happened in the Gauntlet, he played those moments over again and again. Thought on everything the chancellor had said above, searched for some clue, some way to understand what had befallen him.

Nothing made sense.

Perhaps hours later, he finally heard footsteps. The large lock slid back in the door, and light flooded into the chamber as the chancellor entered the room.

Gone was his ceremonial clothing, his bejeweled hat, his heavy robes and marks of office. Now he wore a severe set of black robes, belted at the waist with a cord of gold. A second man entered next, holding a lantern which he set upon the floor. This man was subtly deferential to the chancellor, dressed in simpler white robes, his face ascetic, his lipless mouth pursed.

Scorio’s gut churned; he wanted to lean forward, to immediately start asking questions, but instead, he bit his tongue.

The man in white spoke. “Scorio, once known as The Scourer, Lord of Nagaran, Master of the Black Tower, The Bringer of Ash and Darkness, the Shadow of Spurn Harbor, the Abhorred, Quencher of Hope and Unmaker of Joy.”

Was it a question? Scorio glanced from the speaker to the chancellor, who stood with an expression of severe distaste. “I don’t know what any of that means.”

“Of course you don’t,” said the man in white, his voice nasal, grating. “How could you? It matters not. You are marked as Proscribed and have been set down on the Red List for heinous actions against Bastion, the Archspire, the collected Great Souls, and our hopes to return to Ettera. For that, you are condemned to be cast through the Final Door.”

Scorio looked wildly from one man to the other. “How can I be punished for what I didn’t do?”

“Easily,” said the man in white, his lips carving themselves up into a smile. “The seeds of sins past ride upon the soul and never fail to bloom. It takes particularly terrible crimes to make the Red List, and given your titles, you must have accomplished them without much effort.”

“This is ridiculous,” said Scorio, jerking at his manacles. “Release me. Now!”

“You poor, pathetic beast,” said the chancellor, breaking his silence at last. “You are in no position to make demands. Already you have taken far too much of my time, alarmed the other Great Souls needlessly, and now you make spurious demands?” The cold disgust in the chancellor’s voice froze Scorio where he stood. “You are nothing more than an obligatory duty that I must execute. A problem just begging to be nipped in the bud. Your spirit is filth. Your mind will inexorably tend towards violence and depravity. A beast that must be put down before it can spread its spiritual disease.”

These words were spoken without emotion. Cold, clinical, and utterly with mercy, the chancellor stared at him from under half-lidded eyes.

“There’s been a mistake,” Scorio heard himself say faintly. “This can’t be right.”

“But it is. Great Souls like you are the reason we’ve yet to anoint an Infernarch. That we’ve failed to realize our destiny, and sacrificed in vain for almost a thousand years. Your crimes, if I could be bothered to look them up, would no doubt surprise even my jaded mind.”

Scorio sagged back against the wall, a terrible pressure building in his chest that made it hard to breathe. He could feel the burn of bile in the back of his throat, and stared, transfixed, at the older man.

“I simply hope that you haven’t already corrupted those poor souls who joined you in your Gauntlet run. I’ll have to watch them carefully for signs of… weakness. But you? Filthy, wretched, traitorous scum that you are?”

And with that the chancellor stepped forward, palm outstretched.

Scorio wrenched himself back, from one side to the other, but he couldn’t get away.

“You will pay for inconveniencing me.” The chancellor’s voice grew soft as he placed his hand upon Scorio’s chest.

“Get off!” shouted Scorio, thrashing again. “Get your hand off me!”

“Hmm.” The chancellor closed his eyes, his brow furrowing, and a slight smile appeared on his lips. “Let us see… there it is.”

And without warning, Scorio felt shards of pain tear through his chest, as if he’d birthed ragged knives of crude iron in his heart. He opened his mouth to scream, but the pain was so intense that he could only let out a strange wheezing gasp as his every muscle spasmed.

Something precious flowed out of him, a source of vitality, a power, he didn’t know what—but it flowed from him, and in his mind’s eye, he saw that ragged chunk of black stone once more, saw streams of crimson light pour from its facets and into the chancellor’s palm.

The moment was infinite while it lasted, and when the chancellor at last removed his hand, he dropped, knees giving way, to hang from his wrists, head low, gasping in horror. It felt as if the chancellor had taken a razor to the inside of his skin and scraped every ounce of flesh away, had sucked the marrow right out of his bones, had violated him in a way he couldn’t even understand.

“There,” said the chancellor, stepping back and drawing in a shuddering breath. “I shall take that as payment for the inconvenience you’ve imposed upon me.”

Scorio could only fight for breath; his strength fled from him, his body grew cold as if he’d been held in icy water for an hour.

“Compose yourself,” snapped the man in white. “Try and meet your end with just a little dignity.”

“Have him cast through the Final Door,” said Praximar, smoothing down his black robes. “I shall ascend to my quarters and cleanse myself. Report back when you are done, Petros.”

“Yes, Chancellor.” The man in white bowed his head reverently as the chancellor made his way out, and once he was gone barked out with curt impatience, “Guards, toss this filth through the Final Door. Be wary. He placed eighteenth out of this year’s incarnates, so don’t take any chances, even if he’s mewling like a wretch now.”

And with that, he strode out of the holding cell.

Both guards entered right after, their expressions hard. “All right, Red List,” said one of the men. “Let’s get this done.”

Scorio’s mind felt shattered. His core, some place deeper even than his beating Heart, felt ravaged and bereft. He tried to raise his head, but it was all he could do to glower at both men through his own hair.

They released him from the manacles and half-dragged him out into the hallway. Back to the stairway and then down again they went, both men impossibly strong, almost carrying him between them so that his feet barely touched the ground.

Down they went, the stairs seeming interminable, down into the darkness, the orbs of light growing rare, so that they passed through seas of darkness between the occasional island of light. Down, down, until at last, they stepped out into a crude corridor that led to a massive iron door.

“Wait,” rasped Scorio, the sight of the doorway sending a cold bolt of fear into his innards. “Tell me what’s going to happen. What’s on the other side?”

“You’re about to find out,” said one of the guards. “That’s the Final Door. Once you go through it, you never come back out. If it’s of any comfort, you won’t last long. Nobody does.”

“Damn you!” His cry echoed off the walls, and now he did buck and kick, hauling at his arms with everything he had.

It was like trying to pull iron spikes out of stone. His strength was completely gone, and the little resistance he managed made him want to vomit.

The rusted door was ponderous, massive, and gave a sense of crude strength. Its surface depicted interlacing bands as tall as Scorio’s hand, as if some impossible weaver had knitted the door together, under and over, again and again.

One of the guards clamped a hand around his neck and drove him to his knees while the second approached the door, drawing a massive, golden key from under his robe. There was no keyhole, but the guard simply pressed the head of the key to a shallow rectangular groove in the door’s surface.

Immediately the outlines of every band glowed red as if an inner furnace had been lit, and the door swung outward, exhaling a great breath of musty, mineral dampness and rot.

Scorio stared at the darkness beyond. For a moment he’d thought it was like the Gauntlet, a magical wall he’d have to pass through, a portal perhaps to another location, but no—it was just a cavern on the far side, lit only by the faint light stemming from the hallway.

There was no point in arguing further. No point in proclaiming his innocence. All he could do was struggle futilely as the guards picked him up and dragged him to the open door. Struggle and kick and grunt as they lifted him and hurled him into the darkness.

He fell hard, crashing down onto his side, but with supreme effort turned and began crawling back toward the door.

He was too late.

It swung closed with a slam that shook the ground and caused dust to fall from the hidden ceiling above.

Scorio fell against it, pressed his brow and palms to the pitted surface. “Damn you!” He hammered his fist against the door. “Damn you all!”

No sound filtered through. No distant echo of footsteps retreating, nothing.

The only sound in the silence was his harsh, ragged breathing, and the booming beat of his heart.

“Damn it,” he whispered, turning around and sitting against the door. He rested his elbows on his knees and stared out into the darkness. He’d caught a glimpse of a cavern, large but not impossibly so. Large enough not to echo, at any rate. But with the door closed, he couldn’t even make out his own body.

Scorio’s mind raced even as his soul ached. Those indolent moments spent on the bier with Leonis and Lianshi seemed a vanishing dream sandwiched between the horrors of the Gauntlet and the anguish of the holding cell. Would his friends come for him? They’d tried to intervene. Or would they give him up for lost? Even if they wanted to help, would they be able to find a way to open this door, to pass those guards? Not at their current level of strength. That instructor alone would have no trouble stopping them cold.

Perhaps when they gained some power, then.

The hope felt faint even to Scorio.

He sat there, brooding and shivering, staring out at nothing, not thinking, just turning his rage over and over as if it were an object he held in his hands.

A Red Lister. A villain. Scorio the Scourer. What else had he been called? The Abhorred? Bringer of Ash and Darkness? He frowned, considered. Did he have it within him to earn such titles? Be called the Quencher of Hope and whatever else?

A deep, fundamental part of his spirit rejected the very idea. No. There had to be a mistake. Especially when you considered the other information the Archspire had revealed. He’d not reincarnated in two hundred years? What was that about? And only six total incarnations?

It was all off. How could nobody else see that? There had to have been a mistake. Every one of the other seventeen Great Souls had all died within the last six years. Been reincarnated over a hundred times.

It made no sense.

He grimaced, fighting to control his anger, to keep it locked down, but he couldn’t—he let out a bark of fury and pounded his elbow into the door.

The damn thing was so heavy, it didn’t even shiver.

Fine. If they wanted to create an enemy, they were on the right track. Slowly he levered himself back up to his feet and stood, irresolute, staring out into the darkness. Whatever the chancellor had done to him had sapped Scorio of his strength, and on some deeper, more profound level, of his vitality. He felt not just weak, but delicate; the cold seeped into his flesh, and he couldn’t stop shaking.

But he wouldn’t just sit here moping. The first order of business was to explore this cavern and see if there were any exits.

Reaching out with his hand, he pressed his fingertips to the door and began walking to the left, brushing the wall as he went. His steps were slow, hesitant. The ground was rough, with natural dips and the occasional chunk of rock waiting to catch his boots. More than once, he tripped and crashed down to his knees. The wall itself undulated as it went, bowing in then falling away, but slowly it curved around.

He forced himself to breathe quietly. To listen. But all was silent.

The wall suddenly disappeared. He froze, groped around, found a corner, paused again. A tunnel? And if it was? Should he follow it, or keep going around the cavern?

He’d follow it. Keep taking every left he came upon.

Heartened by his own plan, he set off down the tunnel, which proved narrow enough that he could reach out with his other arm and touch the far wall. It meandered, turning back and forth so that he soon lost all sense of direction. The air tasted stale. The walls began to close in, and before long he was insinuating himself ever deeper into a crack, turning sideways, the rocky walls rubbing against his chest and back.

Another dozen paces and he stopped. There was still a way forward, but he’d have to really wedge himself in there to keep going. And if he got stuck?

Heart hammering, he considered.

No. He’d see if there were any other options before forcing his way farther. The thought of getting trapped, held tight in a claustrophobic and absolutely dark space, was too grim to imagine.

Back he went, hand on the other wall now, only to find another tunnel splitting off from the first. He went down it, jaw set, staring balefully out at nothing.

The act of walking soon became monotonous—the turns of the tunnel, the occasional opening.

His mind began to wander, to consider everything he could remember. He played the events in the Gauntlet over in his mind. Asha’s death. The nature of each chamber. Lianshi’s wry smile. Awakening in the basilica. The chancellor’s words. The information he’d imparted.

Scorio stopped, still lost in complete darkness. Was there anything he’d learned that he could use now? An Igneous Heart. The chancellor had to have been referring to the block of black stone he’d sensed before. He’d spoken about lighting it, and upon doing so discovering his powers.

Scorio sat down, brow gelid with sweat, back to the rough stone wall, and closed his eyes. He inhaled deeply, then slowly released his breath. Igneous Heart. His Igneous Heart. All right. Time to try and set it on fire.

But his focus kept slipping away. Whatever the chancellor had done to him seemed to have banished that floating chunk of black rock. All Scorio could feel now was a dull, throbbing ache within his soul.

Had the bastard consumed his Heart?

Scorio dismissed the thought before the anger and fear could consume him.

If he was so dangerous, why hadn’t they just killed him? Why give him the chance to wander around down here?

Was there some kind of monster in here that they fed with Red Listers to? Or were they too high and mighty to deign to kill him themselves?

Scorio frowned and tried to focus again. The Igneous Heart. He tried to visualize it. To picture it hanging within his chest, dark and gleaming, vitreous and sharp-edged.

Almost… he felt it just outside his reach, but each time he thought he was getting close, it slipped away, and the pain in his core would redouble, till he was left bent over and wheezing, sweat dripping from the tip of his nose and soaking into his robes.

Eventually, he sighed in disgust and climbed to his feet.

Which way had he been going? For a second, he hesitated, then clamped down on his fear. That way.

On he walked. Tunnels dead-ended, others grew too narrow, a few plunged too precipitously into the ground for him to follow without falling. Occasional cracks opened treacherously underfoot, so that he nearly plunged into them before catching himself, and he soon adopted a gliding step to avoid further perils.

How long had been down here? An hour? Three? His throat was growing dry. The air was damp, which meant there should be some water around here somewhere, but everything he touched was gritty and slick. No puddles underfoot.

Nothing but the need to go on.

One by one every tunnel ended in some fashion or another until at last, he emerged into what he thought might be a cavern but which a few cautious steps revealed to be a wider tunnel. He kicked some manner of light branch that rolled away from him, and thoughts of creating a torch danced in his mind. He dropped to his knees and groped around till his hand closed over it.

Not a branch. Too smooth, with a slight curvature to its length, porous, and ending in a strangely knobby protrusion.

Bone, he realized, and dropped it quickly, skittering back to the wall.

Made sense. Made sense that he’d come across the corpses of other Red Listers down here. It was called the Final Door for a reason, right? They wouldn’t call it that if everyone escaped.

To be expected, really. Nothing to get excited about.

Scorio didn’t know for how long he sat there, fighting to control his emotions, but eventually, he stood, breath shaky, and resumed walking the perimeter. The tunnel grew broader, or so he thought from the subtle echoes, and then opened up into a large cavern or the like.

Scorio stopped. He could hear a distant, thready sound. The wind? It was constant, a susurrus that seemed more echo than anything else.

An underground river?

Moving quickly now, he continued along the wall and passed a tunnel mouth in order to keep moving in the sound’s direction. He accidentally kicked his way through another mass of bones but pressed on, determined.

The ground began to slope down, and the wall grew ever damper. Was that a light ahead? No, his eyes were playing tricks on him. On he walked, struggling to maintain his caution, then decided that there was a light ahead, a vague, bluish glow that looked like a cloud.

He moved faster, striding now, breathing powerfully, until at last the wall ended and he stood upon the rounded stone banks of a stream, rushing past under the soft, cerulean glow of moss that grew across the ceiling.

Scorio wanted to rush forward, drop to his knees on the wet stone bank, and drink deep of that rushing water, but forced himself to hang back. That Gauntlet had taught him that much. So he waited, listened, and to looked around.

The river was less than a yard wide and ran along a channel it had carved into the pale rock. It looked to have been larger once, for it had carved a broad tunnel that intersected with Scorio’s—or perhaps it was prone to flooding. There was a high ledge on the far side, with what looked like a trail leading up from the far bank along the steep wall to it, though perhaps that was fanciful thinking on his side.

No movement. The light from the moss was constant and soft, a gentle, candlelight glow that caused the wet rock to glimmer with star-like flecks. For how long would the moss glow if he harvested some?

Then he saw that someone had obviously thought along the same lines, for the moss along the upper end of the river was scraped down to the rock, revealing flaking dirt and ashen strands of roots.

Other people, perhaps? Or the grazing of some chthonic beast?

Scorio licked his dry lips. Edged forward, moving carefully on the slick rock. The ground sloped down treacherously, and soon he was forced to sit and slide forward, bracing himself on the occasional bulge of stone.

Again he paused and scrutinized the shadows. No movement. Nothing from the shadowed region above the ledge. Looking up and down the narrow river, he saw that it curved out of sight in both directions after only a dozen or so yards, the blue moss continuing to grow in a thick canopy above it.

He wished Leonis and Lianshi were here, then smiled ruefully. Would a good friend wish his comrades imprisoned with him? Probably not.

He reached down to the fast-flowing stream and cupped his hand in the frigid current.

A strand of white cord burst from the water and wrapped around his wrist a half-dozen times, squeezing so tightly that he felt his skin split. Scorio let out a cry of shock as his arm was hauled down toward the current, where he saw a mass of webbing begin to shift and unfurl, detaching from the rocks and rising toward the surface.

Grunting, he pulled his arm back, but then his braced foot slipped off the damp rock and plunged into the water to the knee, immediately snagged by three more milky-white tendrils that wrapped cruelly about it.

Panicking, Scorio yanked at his arm and reached back with his free hand to clutch at another bulge of rock, but failed to find purchase. The tendrils began pulling him into the water, their strength tenacious, each strangely muscular and elastic, so that they gave a little when he pulled, then tightened again the moment he ceased.

He wasn’t going to get out of this by strength alone.

Turning back to the water, he anxiously studied the mercurial surface. Shadows played just beneath the surface. Did this thing have a body? A head? Was it just a mass of decentralized tendrils?

A dozen more burst out of the river to lash around his upper thigh and waist.

Gasping, the freezing water numbing his leg, he lost purchase with his other foot and slid all the way in, the current strong enough that his feet had trouble finding the bottom of the river. Floundering, cursing, he struggled against both the tendrils and fast-flowing water, and pushed away from the bank to stand knee-deep in the middle, his weight helping him plant his feet.

The tendrils were cutting into his flesh, tightening like garottes. Scorio heaved back on them, saw those attached to his arm grow thin against the tension, then reached down swiftly to grasp them in his fist and keep on hauling.

Another half-dozen lashed up out of the water, flinging spray, and one of them wrapped around his neck, or tried to—he dropped his chin just in time to catch it, and immediately felt its abrasive edge cut through his skin.

His anger, which had been momentarily displaced by his panic, came roaring back. He released the tendrils and plunged both hands into the stream, following the tendrils down, dropping to one knee as he did so that the water began to crash about his waist. He felt something rough and soft, like a sponge wrapped in sandpaper, and wrested it out of the water.

He couldn’t tell what he was holding, but it was horrific. It split in two, opening a mouth that was lined with thousands of slender needles, and let out a hissing, gurgling screech as it began to contract its tendrils, trying to bring its nearly translucent and bloated sack-like body closer to Scorio’s face.

No eyes. No features. Just a gelatinous mass that was all mouth and stomach.

Scorio tried to adjust his weight, lost his balance in the current, and fell into the water. He sought to bury his thumbs into its body, to pierce the slick surface, to tear it apart.

But the skin was surprisingly thick, and there was no internal resistance against which he could work. The water washed over his head, and he felt the tendrils binding his limbs together, pulling his legs tight, bringing his elbows to his ribs.

Still, he squeezed, then in a fit of abandon, he shoved a hand into that gaping mouth to crush its innards from within.

The creature spasmed and released him, the tendrils all uncurling at once, but still, Scorio kept kneading and pounding at it. Hundreds of needle-like teeth sank into his wrist as it bit at him, but he refused to stop, a perverse, bloody-minded desire filling him, controlling him.

Gasping, he brought his head above the water level. He floundered some more, finally wedged his legs, and stood. The gelatinous mass in his hand had gone still, its formerly clear interior now a clouded mass, with what looked like hundreds of slender threads hanging from its side into the water.

Shivering, Scorio used his free hand to peel its mouth open, the needles sliding free from his wrist, and was about to hurl the monster away in fury when he stopped.

He’d not come across anything else he could eat.

The thought turned his stomach, but before he could change his mind, he threw the sickening object up onto the bank. He stared mutely at his wrist. A perfect bracelet of holes went all the way round, blood welling up continuously.

Not knowing if it was the right thing to do, he put his hand into the freezing river and held it there for a spell, then clambered out, sat on the silty bank, and tore a strip off his white robe.

Doing so brought memories of the Gauntlet back, of Lianshi, and his very being seemed to quiver with a pang of loneliness.

Carefully, using his teeth as much as his fingers, he wrapped the wound tightly and tied it off, then sat there staring at the rushing water.

Were there more of those monsters? Would getting a drink always prove to be as perilous?

For a while he sat, as if in a stupor, staring at the swift-flowing water, then he recalled, as if it were an academic footnote, that he’d come here to drink. He edged down, cupped the water to his lips, and drank deep of the delicious, mineral-tasting water. He filled his belly, then scooted back once more to sit against the wall.

He had to get up and keep going. But his body felt lethargic, a dull, abused thing. And it was strangely soothing to just sit and stare at the glowing moss. To enjoy how its soft, azure luminescence was being reflected back up onto it from the stream below.

Exhausted, Scorio shifted his weight, found a slightly more comfortable spot in which to rest, and closed his eyes.

He slept poorly. Every few moments he startled himself to wakefulness, expecting lashing tentacles to be reaching out for him. Each time he groaned and resolved to abandon the river and its perils.

But the soft blue luminescence was a lure he couldn’t resist; the thought of returning to the dark was too much. So, again and again, he slipped back into his fitful sleep.

“Down there, look.”

The voice was terse, guarded. Scorio pushed himself upright, having half-slumped over, and bit back a groan at the pain that pulsed in his wrist and the stinging cuts that lacerated his body.

“Not dead, at any rate.” A man’s voice. “Unless he’s in the act of dying?”

Scorio looked across the river and up at the ledge, where two figures stood in the shadows, one of them with a cheroot of some sort clenched between his teeth, its tip cherry red.

“Hey,” he called, but the sound was an unintelligible rasp. He coughed and tried again. “I’m not dead. Not yet, at any rate.”

“What do you think?” The first speaker was a woman. “Strong enough to open the door?”

“Could be, could be,” hedged the guy. “He looks a little worse for wear.”

Scorio grit his teeth and pushed himself up the wall. His wrist was badly swollen, the outline of the bones lost to the puffy red flesh. “What are your names? I’m Scorio.”

“Scorio?” The man moved forward so that the soft blue light played across his face. He was short, stocky, his face framed by a square-cut beard, a rough cap on his head. “There been a reincarnation cycle just now?”

“Yes,” said Scorio, forcing himself to stand straight. “I didn’t pass muster. Something about a Red List.”

The man scoffed. “You and me both. My name’s Havert. Come on up. Careful crossing the water. Lashers frequent this spot.”

“Yeah, I know.” Scorio made his way back to the water’s edge, moving carefully, watching for the dance of webbing beneath the surface. “I killed one before taking a nap.”

Havert let out a low whistle. “Good on you. You get bit?”

“On the wrist.” He took a sharp breath and leaped across the flowing waters. “Looks like the wound’s gone bad. You wouldn’t happen to know how to treat it?”

“That we do,” said Havert. “Though nothing down here’s free.”

Scorio made no response, and instead focused on carefully scaling the steep path up to the ledge. Both strangers had drawn close to a narrow tunnel at the back, their expressions wary.

Scorio held up both palms. “Honestly. Last thing I’m looking for is trouble.”

Havert stroked his beard, cheroot tilted upward between his clenched teeth, and finally gave a slow nod, but the woman didn’t seem convinced.

She was even shorter than he was, her body lost in a formless coat with sleeves hanging down past her hands. Her hair was a greasy brown and locks of it wound down over her pale, heavily freckled cheeks. Serious brows, a full mouth pulled into a frown, and with all the tense flightiness of an animal on the verge of startling and racing away.

“How long you been in here?” asked Havert, tone gruff.

“I’m not sure,” said Scorio. “A few hours? Half a day?” He forced a smile. “To be honest, I’ve lost track of time.”

“The warren’ll do that to you. You’re lucky to have found the bright stream, though. And to have had the wits to sit and wait.”

Scorio’s smile turned bitter. “Wasn’t much of a decision after the Lasher.”

“Fair enough, fair enough.” Havert wiped his hands nervously on his thighs. “But fortune’ll carry you just as far as wit and good looks, if you don’t lean on it too hard.”

“True enough. Were you both on the Red List? How long have you been down here?”

“A year, both of us,” said Havert. “Almost exactly, seeing as you just reincarnated. Hestia and I were thrown in together, had the fortune to run into Salamander after only a couple of days. He’s been here the longest, going on five years.”

“Five years?” Scorio’s heart sank.

“You should be impressed,” said Havert, tone defensive. The tip of his cheroot danced with each word. “Takes real strength to last that long. But come on. He’ll be wanting to meet you, and if we don’t tend to that wound, you’ll lose the arm and then you’ll be of no use to anybody. Hestia and I’ll collect our moss, and then we’ll take you back to the camp.”

“Hestia said something about a door,” said Scorio, as both strangers reached back to take up rakes with broad sacks affixed under their heads. “That the Final Door?”

“Nah, not the Final Door. What Sal calls the Brass Door.” Havert extended the rake and began scraping at the moss, causing great clumps to fall into the sack.

“What’s that?” asked Scorio, heart rising in his chest. “A way out?”

“Nah.” Havert spoke around his cigar, eyes narrowed as he continued to scrape. “Only death comes through the Brass Door. Opens once a month to let in fresh hell. Great big bloody thing, it is. We’ve never been able to open it ourselves.”

“Not till now,” said Hestia, speaking at last. She paused at her scraping to looked at him over her shoulder. “We’ve been waiting for one more person to be banished down here and join our crew.”

“Why’s that?” asked Scorio, his pulse picking up with excitement.

“’Cause Sal’s got a plan,” she said, turning away again. “He’s rigged up something special, and with your help, we mean to make a run for the surface or die trying.”