“L-Lauri.”
“Lauri, follow Jak to the store-room and grab as many jugs of oil as you can, then bring them back here. Otherwise, we’re all going to die. Do you understand?”
“What is that thing?” he asked, shuddering.
“It’s death. And it’ll take all of us, if we don’t move.” Dagan let him go and followed Jak. Hopefully they’d come too; he couldn’t grab any of the others without distracting the dark creature.
Thankfully, Lauri and Silja’s extensive training, which must’ve been the same as Hendrik’s, came through, and the four of them ferried several large jugs of fragrant oil to the cavern. Dagan sent the other three back for another load, then crept into the cavern, a medium-sized jug under his arm.
In the circle of flickering torchlight in the furnished center of the cavern, the dark creature stood tall and angular, head back, like a horrific king admiring its domain. Everyone else knelt before it, heads bowed. Hendrik had somehow gotten to Kajja’s side, and Innan had moved forward in line; Bartolo and Gareth had dropped to their knees, torches still in hand.
The dark creature’s eyes flashed, fixing on Dagan as he approached. The oil sloshed in its jug, and he winced. As if the scent didn’t betray its contents, sweet and flowery, then rotten and sulfuric. But if the creature noticed, it didn’t seem to care. It merely said, “Ah. I thought you’d run in fear, child. Come, kneel with your siblings before your Founder.”
“I—I was drawn back,” Dagan stuttered a little but obeyed. He knelt between Innan and Kajja. “To your side.”
“You long to nourish me,” the creature said, the warmth of approval moving into its voice. “A shame you cannot. Though, I could tear your throat out anyhow, if you wish to be a symbolic sacrifice. All of you would be welcome.”
“Do we have a plan?” Gareth asked suddenly.
“Oil,” Dagan said.
The dark creature’s liquid black gaze fixed on each of them in turn. “No oil is necessary. Such offerings may be useful to the priests but not to me. You may approach, one at a time.” It held out its arms, as if to welcome them. And then it pointed at Hendrik. “You first, child. You’ve already felt my touch. Come to me, and I will accept your worthless blood as recompense for your insolence. Find absolution in my arms, and your blood will flourish in the City.”
Hen grimaced and pushed to his feet, then staggered dangerously. His right leg seemed to buckle beneath him, but he fought to stay standing, mostly on the left. “Is that what you tell them? When you claim to make your children into gods?”
“I make no such claims,” the creature replied easily, almost casually.
“Your priests do,” Hen replied, jaw flexing, hands fisting murderously.
“They know that without me whole and nourished, the City falls. They do what they must. And you should be grateful for it.” The creature sounded almost amused at that. As if it couldn’t even fathom an actual threat to its existence.
“You should go fu—”
But before Hen could seal his own fate, stone groaned and shuddered all around them, as if the cavern itself gave a great yawn. Stalactites snapped and fell, exploding against the ground on impact, and Hen jumped out of the way with surprising dexterity. Dagan staggered backwards, looking for Innan instinctively; they gripped the earth now, fingers sunk deep into it, gaze alive, hot, and fixed on the dark creature. “Innan—?” he started toward them.
“Get back!” they shouted. More stalactites fell, and the ground before them crumbled, as if being swallowed from beneath.
So, of course, Dagan did precisely the opposite and ran to them, determined to shield them from falling death. Even if they were Innan’s doing, which seemed likely. Chaos erupted all around, with screams and shouts and exploding earth.
And then, a high, keening wail echoed off the walls of the cavern and his skull simultaneously. The earth dropped out from beneath the dark figure, and it disappeared in an instant, as if magically transported elsewhere.
“The oil!” Piret yelled, running for the entrance-hole.
Dagan suddenly realized what was happening. He staggered toward the hole where the dark creature had been, jug still securely under his arm, as the rumblings beneath him stilled.
“You will bleed!” came the screeching protest from the hole, from all around. “Your blood will paint my dreams for centuries, fresh and useless!”
Dagan hurled the clay jar into the blackness of the hole. It fell away soundlessly. Footsteps all around him, but no crashing sound from below. And then, finally, a far-off shatter and splash.
“You will all bleed for this insolence! Willful children, ungrateful brats!” it howled.
Several other jars went into the hole.
“Get out!” came a shaking cry from Innan, still on hands and knees clutching at the ground. “Everyone out! Now! I can’t hold it!”
Somehow, amidst the chaos, Hendrik had staggered to Gareth. He wrenched the lit torch from him and threw it full-force after the jars. He howled, a plaintive, wordless sound like that of a dying animal, all rage and pain and defiance.
Finally, Dagan could see some of the depths below: another large cavern, unlit, unfurnished. Then the flash of inky eyes, reflecting the spiraling torchlight. The swipe of a dark limb, shadow-on-shadow.
And then, with a great whoosh and a rush of hot, percussive air that knocked everyone back from the edge of the hole, it exploded into white-hot fire.
“Go!” Innan’s voice was ragged.
Everyone rushed to obey, this time. Everyone, that was, except for Hendrik, who was desperately clawing his way back to the fire-spitting hole in the earth. Dagan glanced at Innan, whose lips glistened with a trickle of something dark and red.
Their nose was bleeding profusely. Fuck.
Dagan looked back to Hendrik, who had nearly reached the lip of the hole. Everyone else had gone, or was trying to go. “Fuck!” he said aloud this time, rushing to Hendrik’s side. The heat from below was so intense, like a wall of spectral force, he reeled back from it about halfway there. “Hendrik! It’s hotter than the hells! Come on, we have to go!”
Hendrik clawed at the lip of the chasm, pulling himself forward. “I have to make sure it’s dead!”
The ground shuddered beneath them again, and Dagan fought through the waves of pure pressurized heat and hot burning scent. “This whole cavern is about to collapse on it! It’s fucking dead!”
“Go!” Hen waved at him, as if to shove him away. “Get out of here! I can’t run. My leg is broken!”
“What?” But even as Dagan asked, he ran a practiced eye over Hen’s lower half. His right leg was twisted, a bone poking from his leathers halfway down his shin. Dagan fell to his knees, pulling at Hen. “No! No, come on, you have to.”
“Get out of here,” Hen repeated. Whether it was the heat, the pain, or the emotion of the moment, his red-rimmed eyes, their bright blue dimmed to a smoky black dancing with flame, welled with tears. Pale tracks appeared against his dirty cheeks. “Please. I love you so much, Dagan. Please, go. For me.”
