《Tomb of the Willing》


 Introduction: The Altar

    Calder wrapped his scarf tighter around his face. The howling wind cut into him like a knife, the skin around his eyes red and raw and bleeding, his muscles stiff, his fingers and toes numb. He saw no trees, no rocks, no shelter for miles in front of him; only a barren, snow covered wasteland.


    Calder cupped his hands in front of his face and focused his will into creating fire. He could almost feel it, a great bonfire that would warm him to the core. What he got was a small spark that singed a few threads on his glove. His mana had run dry. His time was almost up.


    So cold. He was so cold.


    "Halt."


    Calder stopped mid-stride. A jolt ran through him. He was alone, he was certain of it, but he was also certain that the voice he had heard was real. He couldn''t have imagined a voice like that. The sound of it reverberated in his skull, rattled his bones. His hand reflexively went to the sword at his hip.


    The snow in front of Calder began to bubble with a red liquid, dark as blood and thick as oil. It sizzled and hissed and as Calder watched, the shape of a woman began to grow in the center of the pool.


    Calder took her in, fully formed now, the waxy chrysalis she had emerged from melted away. Her eyes were a deep amber, the same color as the glowing veins that flowed across her ebony skin. They shone through the sheer black tunic she wore, traced across her stomach and chest, snaked across her arms and legs and up the curving horns that sprouted from her temples. Her waist length hair was the same deep red as the boiling liquid that pooled around her feet, and as she quirked her mouth in a sneer Calder could see the barest hint of a fang peeking behind her lips. She was beautiful and monstrous and completely, unmistakably who Calder had been searching for.


    Tears welled in Calder''s eyes, freezing as they tumbled down his cheeks. He fell to his knees, pressed his hands to his forehead and bent at the waist until his shaggy hair hung down and brushed the snow.


    "Lady Iacadi, I have come to-"


    "Silence,¡± Iacadi hissed. Calder''s stomach lurched. Her voice, projected from a physical form and not an ethereal one, radiated power. If she wished it, she could kill him with a thought. ¡°How did you enter my realm?¡±


    Calder lifted his head, laid his hands on his legs. "With a key. Keskila gave it to me.¡±


    Iacadi frowned and reached out a hand. ¡°Show me.¡±


    Calder produced the key, dangling it by the thin chain that looped through it. The key was black and gold and red and all sharp edges, like Iacadi herself. Iacadi snatched it and ran her fingers over the markings that were etched into its smooth surface.


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    ¡°You have the mana capacity of a gnat. Is this a joke?¡±


    "No," Calder said, setting his jaw. ¡°Keskila tells me that I have the potential to become more powerful than her.¡±


    Iacadi scoffed. ¡°Keskila is a Scion of Aurus, boy. As am I. None are more powerful than us.¡±


    ¡±Even the Archons?¡±


    Calder regretted saying it as soon as it left his tongue but the bell could not be un-rung. Iacadi, all tooth and nail, took a step forward and sent a wave of mana into him that writhed around in his chest, squeezing and burning his insides.


    ¡°Get out,¡± Iacadi hissed, her voice animal and dangerous.


    This was going all wrong. He needed to do something, needed to salvage this before it was too late.


    As the pain began to subside, Calder slowly stood and met Iacadi¡¯s fiery gaze. He raised his hands in a placating gesture and cast aside as much fear as he could.


    ¡°Forgive me, lady,¡± he said. ¡°I let my anger get the better of me. It¡¯s just that I did not make it this far to be mocked and dismissed. Not even by someone as great as you.¡±


    A bit of the rage that twisted Iacadi¡¯s face left her and her snarl returned to a sneer. Calder pressed on.


    ¡°I am here in earnest. I know my mana is weak but my will is strong. And I have a hatred for the Archons that no matter how many years have passed, no matter how much I''ve tried to let it go, will not leave me."


    "You and the rest of Ifera," Iacadi said. Calder kept speaking, undeterred.


    "I had given up on seeking revenge, resigned myself to the fact that I would never be powerful enough to claim it. Then I met Keskila. She saw my hatred, saw some hidden potential in me. Suicidal though it may be, she has offered me this chance and I would be in your debt if you allow me to take it.¡±


    Iacadi relaxed her posture and sighed. ¡°It is completely suicidal, ridiculous and a waste of energy. It¡¯d be a mercy for us both if I just let you freeze to death.¡±


    She turned and gestured for Calder to follow. He hurried beside Iacadi as she strode through the snow, outpacing him as if he were a child trying to keep up with his mother. ¡°My sister is a wide-eyed dreamer,¡± she began. ¡°She believes that if we throw enough of you mortals into the Tomb, that one of you will eventually emerge our equal. I believe it¡¯s complete and utter horse shit.¡±


    As they walked, the snow in front of them melted away to reveal a winding path made of loose and jagged slate, a dark streak that stained the otherwise perfectly white landscape. After some time, Calder couldn¡¯t be sure how long, they reached the end. There stood an altar, made of that same dark slate. It stood almost as tall as Calder did, and was perfectly smooth and free of weathering.


    ¡°Do you know how many times I¡¯ve walked this path, little gnat?¡± Iacadi asked. ¡°How many like yourself I¡¯ve led to the this altar, only for them to never return?¡± Iacadi asked


    ¡°I don¡¯t want to know,¡± Calder said, swallowing the bile rising in his throat.


    ¡°No, you don¡¯t,¡± Iacadi agreed.


    Calder stared at the altar. At it¡¯s perfect, black surface. He should¡¯ve been able to see himself in it, glassy as it was. But there was nothing. It was as if it was completely void of light.


    ¡°Last chance to turn back.¡± Iacadi said, breaking his trance.


    ¡±No,¡± Calder said. ¡°I¡¯m ready.¡±


    Iacadi gestured for him to lay upon the altar. He did.

 Chapter 1: Blood Brothers

    Months Before the Altar


    Calder lay on his cot staring at the sandstone brick ceiling. He rubbed at the spots on his wrists where the manacles chafed them, picked at the perpetually peeling scabs that weeped a sickly green puss. The sun was beginning to rise, shining through the many small cracks in the back wall of the cell. It cast a speckled pattern of warm orange light on the floor.


    "Another day in paradise, eh?" Byron said.


    Calder''s cellmate was an older man with a healthy gut. How he maintained that gut in prison was a mystery, but it hadn''t seemed to shrink at all since the day they met those many months ago. Byron''s cot creaked as he clumsily sat up and cracked his neck to the left and then to the right, his morning ritual. "Wonder what they got for grub this mornin''?"


    "I heard they''re serving steak,¡± Calder said. "And some cold ale to go with it."


    Byron laughed and rubbed his stomach. "I can''t wait! How generous of them!"


    "Well we earn it with all that hard labor, you know? it might hurt morale if they didn''t treat us once in a while."


    Byron laughed again and stood, stretching his back and scratching himself like a plump house cat. "Is it just me or are the holes in the wall here getting bigger?"


    "It''s just you."


    "Are you sure?"


    "When I''m bored I count the little spots of light. They''re the same as they''ve always been."


    "Damn. I was hoping this place might finally be starting to crumble. On top of me or around me, I wouldn''t much care at this point. Least I¡¯d be free." Byron scratched his beard. "And you need something else to occupy your time, boy. Maybe write a poem or two."


    Calder sat up, rubbing his tired eyes. "I didn''t take you for a poet."


    "I''m not," Byron said. "I''m far too manly for that. You on the other hand, you look like you''d be great at it." Byron winked.


    "Shove it," Calder said, grinning. Calder had come to enjoy Byron''s company, forced as it was. They were not fast friends; Calder full of rage, Byron full of weary resignation, their first weeks together were dark and silent. Calder especially wasn''t willing to give an inch, shutting down all of Byron''s attempts at conversation. Turns out all it took was a bit of blood shed to bring them together.


    Of all the jobs assigned to prisoners, digging graves was by far Calder''s least favorite. Urmalia''s summers were brutally hot and the heat created a miasma of rot that clung to the battlefield like a thick, sickening cloud. It seemed to permeate Calder''s skin, the stench clinging to him for days afterward. One evening some weeks ago, after hearing the horn that signaled the end of shift, Calder threw his shovel down and began to make his way toward the prisoner caravan.


    "Hey shit stain!" Dragna yelled. Calder had to shield his eyes to see the man approaching, his slender frame silhouetted by the setting sun, but he recognized the man''s baritone immediately. This was the last thing he needed. Calder had mouthed off to Dragna during supper once and Dragna had targeted him ever since. He did his best to keep his distance, but Calder knew it was only a matter of time before the two of them came to blows.


    "Piss off," Calder said, turning his back to the man. Calder heard Dragna''s clomping foot falls get faster as he yelled, "Don''t you turn your back to me!"


    Calder ignored him, kept his steady pace toward the caravan. He couldn''t see it yet, couldn''t see the guards waiting with their crossbows, but he knew he wasn''t far. If he could just get within their range of view he would be fine. Not even Dragna would risk taking a bolt through the heart.


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    The back of Calder''s neck prickled as Dragna''s shadow darkened the ground beside him. Dragna clamped onto Calder''s arm and he nearly lost his footing as Dragna spun him around mid-stride. Dragna''s greasy hair was matted to his scalp, thick with sweat. His beard was patchy, his skin pock-marked with acne scars. "Don''t turn your damned back to me, boy," Dragna spat. Flecks of brown phlegm splattered Calder''s face.


    "What is it you wanted?" Calder asked, trying to keep his anger at bay. Dragna had at least a head on him and half-again as much muscle, and if the iron grip he had on Calder''s arm was any indication there wouldn''t be much Calder could do to defend himself.


    "I was tryin'' to ask if you wanted to play dice with the boy''s an'' me," Dragna said. "I was startin'' to think ya weren''t so bad, but I guess I was wrong. You''re still a disrespectful little shit."


    "Just let me go Dragna. The guards will come looking soon." Calder failed to keep his voice from quavering. He was right, the guards would eventually come looking for them. But not before Dragna beat him to a bloody pulp. All Calder could do was hope someone else came along and intervened or make the first move.


    Calder felt one of his knuckles break as his fist cracked into Dragna''s jaw. The grip on his arm loosened, and Calder stomped down hard on Dragna''s ankle, spinning away as he did. Dragna howled with pain and rage, cursing and swiping for Calder, trying to grab hold of him again. Calder sprinted in the direction of the caravan. He was about to cry out for help when something slammed into his back and sent him sprawling forward. He landed face down, blood-churned mud filling his nose and mouth. He tried to lift his head, to spit it out and take a breath, but Dragna shoved his head back down into the slop.


    "You shhtupid son of a bitch," Dragna slurred. Calder clawed at Dragna''s hand, gasped for air but none came. Nothing but blood and filth and pain. He pushed with all his might, kicked and thrashed, but he couldn''t break free. He heard Dragna''s ragged breathing, heard a ringing in his ears. He felt the strength start to leave him, his thoughts starting to slow down. He was going to die here in the muck among the rotting dead.


    The next thing Calder knew he was laying on his side retching and sucking in mouthfuls of humid air. He wiped mud from his eyes, drool and bile from his mouth. He rolled onto his back and clutched his heaving stomach to see Byron standing above him, reaching out a hand. "Easy now, boy. I''ve got you."


    Calder took the man¡¯s rough hand and was jerked to his feet. His head pounding, he struggled to keep his balance as Byron hurried him along. "Come now. We''ve gotta get moving."


    "Dragna..." Calder said. "What..."


    "He''s dead, boy. Poor bastard had his skull caved in with a shovel. Hate to be the one who did it, catch my meaning?"


    Calder nodded. "Good," Byron said. "Now let''s get to the caravan. Got a nice cozy cot callin'' my name. And you need a bath, you smell like ass.¡±


    That night, they had their first conversation.


    They had both been mercenaries, their bands hired to fight for the same side in the war between the kingdoms of Brismore and Urmalia; the losing side. When Brismore surrendered, any remaining soldiers were either executed, conscripted or imprisoned, mercenary or no. Calder didn''t know what happened to the rest of his band, but if any of them had survived they weren''t locked up in here with him.


    Recognized for their skill on the battlefield, Byron''s band were all recruited by the Urmalian army. Byron refused. His blade was his own, coin his only master. He would not be a pawn for a king to move about the board as he saw fit.


    And so, here Calder and Byron found themselves. Living out their days together in an Urmalian prison.


    ¡±Byron?¡± Calder asked, rising to stand beside the older man who moving his hands back and forth through the small sun beams.


    ¡°Hm?¡±


    ¡±If this place were to crumble, assuming it was around us and not on us, where would you go?¡±


    Byron kept moving his hands but his eyes went somewhere else, unfocused. After a few moments, he spoke.


    ¡°I¡¯d go home to Owncree, I think. It¡¯s a small village and it¡¯s not in the domain of any king, least it wasn¡¯t when I left. It was a nice quiet life, something I didn¡¯t want when I was a lad like you, but now I think it¡¯d suit me.¡±


    ¡±Do you have family there?¡±


    ¡±A daughter,¡± Byron said with a sad smile. ¡°Though she never knew me. She was only a year old when I set off to be a mercenary. Gods, she¡¯d be past 30 now. I said she¡¯s in Owncree like she never would have left and made a life for herself.¡±


    ¡°Maybe she liked the sound of a quiet life from the start,¡± Calder said.


    Byron smiled, his usual mirthful smile now. ¡°Maybe, boy. Perhaps one day I¡¯ll find out, if she¡¯ll have me.¡± Byron¡¯s eyes got misty and he turned his head away just slightly.


    Calder smiled, a lump forming in his throat, and lay a hand on Byron¡¯s sturdy shoulder. ¡°She¡¯d love to meet you, Byron.¡±


    Byron patted Calder¡¯s hand, nodding a few times and clearing his throat.


    The stomping boots and jangling keys of the guard outside their cell stole the smile from Calder''s face. Byron turned to him, his eyes bloodshot and his cheeks rosy.


    "Hey, don''t look so glum boy," Byron said. The steaks must be here!"

 Chapter 2: The Pyre

    Weeks Before the Altar


    Clang. Clang. Clang. Thunk.


    Calder swung his pickaxe, sinking its point into the ground. He tried to stretch his seizing back but every muscle tightened further like a tangle of knotted cord. He winced and bent over, resting his hands on his knees. Sweat dripped down his nose and into the dirt, disappearing as the arid earth drank it in. Calder thought he''d get used to Urmalia''s climate by now but he hadn''t, especially in the quarry. The harsh sunlight soaked into the sandstone ledges, turning the already unbearable heat truly hellish.


    "Break''s over, let''s go."


    Calder stood up and wrapped his calloused hands around the handle of his pickaxe, shooting a dark look at the passing foreman. The foreman smirked, patting the studded club that hung from his belt.


    "Smug bastard," Rog said, spitting what little saliva he could muster in the foreman''s direction. "If we weren''t chained up he''d be singin'' a different tune."


    Calder glanced at his own manacled feet and traced his eyes down the line of men he was chained to. Rog was closest to him, and then there was Sid and three others Calder didn''t know. Calder and Byron normally worked together, but Byron was on kitchen duty today; the foreman had separated them for talking too much.


    "You''re damn right he would be," Sid said. He turned to Calder, a gap-toothed grin spread wide across his face. "Rog ''ere is the best boxer I ever seen."


    Calder couldn''t be sure since Rog was already red faced and sweating, but he could''ve sworn the brute of a man blushed. "Ah, I ain''t that good, just got lucky a few times is all."


    "He''s bein'' modest Calder. I swear, I never seen anythin'' like it. This one poor fella thought he''d-" Sid was cut short as the ground behind him erupted with fire. The three men Calder didn''t know were completely engulfed by the inferno and burned to ash in moments. Sid tackled Rog to the ground, dragging Calder with them. Calder landed square on his back, the wind knocked from his lungs.


    "What in the hells is going on?!" Rog yelled over the roaring flames. "We''ve got to get up, move!" Calder yelled. The flames were conjured; Calder could feel the mana emanating from them. They were consuming anyone and anything they touched in an instant. Conjured flames would only last as long as the mage could will it, which for most mages was only a few seconds at a time. These flames, though, were not going away. They were growing hotter, larger. This told Calder that more than one mage was behind them, keeping them kindled as a unit. This wasn''t merely an attack, this was a cleansing.


    Calder pushed to his feet and pulled Rog up beside him, who yanked Sid up by his shirt. "We need to move quickly but carefully, do you understand?" Calder said, looking both men in the eye. They were terrified. Calder did his best to swallow his own fear, to look like the leader they needed him to be. They all had to hold it together if they were going to survive this. Rog nodded. Sid didn''t get a chance to respond.


    A flame like a forked tongue flicked out and licked Sid''s arm, devouring flesh as it travelled across the rest of his body. Sid flung himself to the ground, rolling and burning and howling as the fire greedily ate him whole. Rog let out a yell and began trying to stomp out the fire burning his friend. Calder tried to stop him but he was too late; the fire would consume anything it touched, and very soon the fire would jump from Rog and onto him. And if he didn''t burn to death he might suffocate first; the whole quarry was filling with thick, acrid smoke. Time was running out and he was attached at the ankles to two panicked animals.


    Calder pulled his pickaxe from the dirt and swung at the chain connecting he and Rog. It writhed wildly as Rog began to kick dirt onto Sid, who was no longer moving.


    "Rog!" Calder yelled. "Rog, stop! It''s too late! Rog!"


    Rog didn''t stop. Calder couldn''t hit the chain. It was too small, moving too fast. Calder hefted the axe and with a guttural yell he swung again.


    A dull thud.


    Rog jerked forward, went stiff.


    Calder wrenched the pickaxe from Rog''s back, a sucking, squelching sound. Blood trailed behind the point of the axe, spraying in an arc across the ground and splattering Calder''s shirt. Rog fell face first onto Sid''s burning corpse, causing the flames to roar and surge like a frenzied beast. Calder could feel his skin start to blister from the intense heat of it. He backed away from Rog and Sid as far as he could, pulling the chain taut, and brought the axe down once more. It cracked through the chain and the sudden release of tension sent Calder stumbling backward, but he quickly righted himself and started running.


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    Smoke burned his eyes, his throat, his lungs. The agonized screams of men and the roaring of the flames filled his ears. He was completely disoriented, had no idea if he was headed for the exit, but he kept moving.


    He skidded to a stop as he was met with a wall of flame. He spun to the left and to the right but he was in a narrow walkway of nothing but stone, much too tall and too smooth to climb. He turned to go back from where he came, hoping to find another way through. A burning, crackling tower of wooden scaffolding collapsed, crashing down and blocking his path. He was surrounded with nowhere to go. A cold jolt of fear ran up his spine and into his chest where it sat, vibrating, wanting an escape but finding none. It made him start to shake, to pace back and forth looking for an exit, unwilling or unable to accept that there wasn''t one.


    The smoke. So much smoke. He couldn''t breathe, couldn''t think. He was dizzy, his legs felt wobbly and unresponsive. He fell to the ground wheezing and choking and crying and reaching out for something, anything, to save him. His breathing slowed, his sobs choked off. He closed his eyes.


    Then, he was on a cliff''s edge overlooking a dark, calm ocean. It was night, a full moon high in the cloudless sky. He should''ve been able to hear the gentle breaking of the waves on the rocks below, should''ve been able to feel the cool breeze run over his face and through his hair, but the scene was ethereal to him, as if he were in a dream.


    The pyre. It appeared as if from thin air, assaulting his senses.


    It was wide as a house and twice as wide, built of neatly stacked wood. Every few levels the skull of an oversized lizard was mounted as if in decoration. They were untouched by the fire save for the glowing embers that rested in each of their eye sockets and filled their gaping, jagged-toothed maws.


    Calder felt that cold fear begin to rise in him again just as it had in the quarry, but before it could take hold something caught his eye; strands of crystalline rivulets flowed toward the pyre from every direction, dissolving into a fine sparkling mist just as they reached it.


    Mana. They were strands of mana.


    Calder walked up to a strand close enough to the ground for him to reach and tentatively put out a hand. The mana didn''t feel like anything physical, but emotional. He felt the will behind it, singular in purpose and resolute, knew its purpose; to keep the pyre burning.


    Calder told it to stop. It did. The mana strand disappeared.


    He moved to the next, and the next. Each disappeared like the first, and with each missing strand the pyre grew weaker. When he reached the next strand, he told it to come to him instead. Give him the power it was giving the pyre. It did.


    Calder was mana sensitive; not gifted enough to be a full-fledged mage, but enough to do a few minor conjurations. The mana he felt flowing through him now was unlike anything he had ever experienced. It was a sharpness, a clarity of mind he had only dreamed of having. With this small surge of mana he felt like he could do anything. Just think of what he could do with more.


    He extended his will to the other strands and sent his newfound mana to carry his intent. The strands responded, lending him their power just as the first one had. He had been a fool. His mind was not clear before, his senses not sharp. He had been as a drunkard stumbling his way through life. No, this was clarity. This was sharpness. He could sense anything and everything around him. Every insect, every blade of grass, every current of air was his to command, his very word was law. He was a god, was the god, of this domain.


    He turned his focus to the pyre, who''s flames were burned down to cinders. He reached his will to the ocean below and with a simple thought made it his servant. A spout of sea water shot into the sky and crashed down onto the pyre, extinguishing it with a hiss of steam and cracking wood. The water rushed over Calder''s feet and into his face and he choked on it, the pungent taste of brine filling his mouth. He felt his grasp on the mana loosen and as it did so did his power. He desperately reached for it but it slipped away as quickly as it had come. The sea was no longer his servant; the spout he had summoned raged into a torrent that threatened to wash him away.


    A woman dressed in simple white robes was standing next to the ruined pyre. She was mouthing something but Calder couldn''t hear what she was trying to say. Another rush of water, another taste of the ditch water. The woman still stood there, mouthing over and over. She was to blame. She was trying to take this place from him.


    Calder strained his will, tried to grasp at the trees, the rocks, anything he could use to attack the woman and make her stop, but he couldn''t fight the steadily increasing deluge of water. Another spout shot from the sea, this time aimed directly for him. It crashed over him and with a jolt, Calder awoke.


    He spluttered, flinched at the painfully bright light as he opened his eyes. He was himself again, burns and bruises and all. He wasn''t a god at all. It was all in his head, some sort of fever dream brought on by near death. He lay at the bottom of a muddy ditch, soaked and filthy. How had he gotten here? He should''ve been burned to death in the quarry. He sat up and sitting on a rock a few feet away was the woman in the white robe from his dream.


    "Welcome back," she said. "We have a lot to discuss, you and I."