Chapter Five: Red and Blood

  The tunnels twisted endlessly beneath the earth, their paths coiling and crossing like the roots of some ancient, dying oak. It was a labyrinth forged in shadow and sweat, and even if Ember had wanted to turn back, he couldn’t have. Down he went—deeper, hotter the air thickening with every step until it clung to him—sticky, humid—it was like breathing the steam straight from a boiling kettle. Sweat beaded on his forehead and dripped from his brow, rolled along his nose and ran into his mouth, salty and bitter with the taste of iron and rot.

  He passed miners often—wraithlike fingers coated in grime, their faces tired, haggard and hollowed by heat and hunger. Filthy rags clung to their backs like shedding skin and scabbed hands bled against the shafts of their picks. They barely noticed Ember as he moved past, their eyes dulled to the colour of coal, too far gone into their work of their weariness. Many muttered under their breaths, a sound like a prayer, rocking back and forth as if babies back in their mothers embrace, but they didn’t look up. Ember swallowed hard. Down here, in the bowels of the mine, the men looked like they had forgotten what sunlight felt like. Why don’t they leave, he wondered.

  The sense of helplessness clawed at Ember’s gut, a sickening ache he couldn’t quiet. Yet, he kept his eyes darting from face to face desperate for any resemblance. Desperate for him. Any indication of Fern. Every miner’s face was a variation of the same exhaustion. Too tired, too broken. But still Ember searched, minutes, maybe hours. His heart leaped when he spotted someone familiar in the dim light, and without thinking he grabbed the man by the shoulder, whirled him around shouting in excitement.

  The man’s eyes were not Fern’s. The resemblance was a cruel trick of the mind. The man broke down crying instantly, trembling, his arms wrapped around his knees cradling himself as rocked back and forth. He had one bony finger pressed to his lips in a silent plea for quiet, as he whispered a haunting chant, like a broken prayer.

  “No noise, they come, no noise they come.”

  Then he heard it. The noise came out of nowhere —a sickening, insect-like clicking that echoed through the tunnels, reverberating in Ember’s chest like the death rattle of some unseen creature. The sound crawled under his skin, sending icy tendrils of fear up his spine. The strange chanting man, now crumpled to the ground in utter terror, curling into himself. His body trembled uncontrollably, whimpering like a wounded animal, and from his lips came the same broken words, a mumbling protest.

  “No. No. No,” the man pleaded, as if begging the darkness to spare him.

  That was all the warning Ember needed. He didn’t think, he just ran. His feet pounded the slick stone floor, tripping and stumbling with each frantic step. The dim green, fluorescent hue and the flickering lanterns blurred around him, his vision spinning as he veered left, then right, then left again. Turn, after turn everyone felt like another twist in an endless maze. Ember’s breath became ragged gasps, his pulse racing as the clicking noise continued to chase him, now abating, fading into the distance, but no less menacing.

  The wooden beams supporting the tunnels groaned in protest in his imagination as he passed them, and his heart lurched as he thought of them giving way. The weight of the world above crushing him. Yet still, he pushed forward, desperate determined. He wouldn’t look back, he couldn’t afford to, Not yet.

  Then it stopped.

  Ember halted to catch his breath and get his bearings. For a moment, everything felt suspended like time itself was caught in a net. His lungs burned, but the desperate need to stop and think drove him to a halt. The faint light from a nearby lantern barely pierced the dense gloom surrounding him, and he could hear the relentless echo of his own heartbeat drumming in his ears.

  He wiped a sleeve across his brow, grimacing at the mix of salt and grime that smeared his face. Just breathe. Focus. He thought, but each breath felt more laboured than the last. The walls seemed to close in on him and he felt panic seeping in. Not again. Not now. His mind kept spinning with intrusive thought. The clicking sounds had stopped, but the dread remained, like a living thing taking root in his thoughts. Somewhere far off in the depths, that thing —whatever it was —was still there, waiting.

  Then —

  The scream came. A sickening scream. It wasn’t a sound he could dismiss it reverberated through the tunnels. It wasn’t the scream of a man in agony, though it had the same primal guttural edge. It was a death scream. Sharp and agonising. The terrible wail of someone torn from life, the final cry that echoed through the tunnels sinking into the very marrow of his bones. The silence, suffocating.

  The blood drained from Ember’s face. Was that… was that that the man I left behind?

  His fingers trembled as he clenched them into fists, clutching at his tattered tunic. The guilt was sharp, painful and gnawed at his insides like a rodent trapped in a metal bucket. He thought back to the man he had yanked around in his desperate search for Fern. Had it been my fault?

  His stomach twisted with the thought. But there was no time to second guess himself. I have to be more careful, he found himself thinking as he set his feet in motion again, his breath still ragged. He had to find Fern, He had to.

  Carefully he began walking again tracing one source of light to the next. The tunnels shifted downwards again, another sharp turn, and suddenly, he found himself stumbling into a cavern. The stone under his feet was slick with moisture and it seeped up into his toes, wet and sticky. The walls themselves were sweating, and he could see the flicking flames reflecting off the wet surfaces, setting the wall ablaze. Gods below, it smells worse than anything I’ve encountered, Ember thought breathing in, wrinkling his nose at the overpowering scent of urine and decay that hung thick in the air.

  His gaze snapped to a dozen rusty iron cages that lined the far wall. Each one held a figure, decrepit, hunched and broken their dull eyes lifeless. Some muttered softly to themselves in hoarse voices. Others rocked back and forth, faces locked in expressions of resignation. Others Ember feared had left this world.

  This is it. This is where they keep the prisoners. He thought, moving closer to the first cage, breath quickening searching for any sigh of Fern. The sense of dread knotted tighter in his chest. Please, let him be here.

  The smell of blood became overwhelming as he moved down the row, nearing a small cell squeezed into the row, as if they didn’t know what else to do with the space. And there, among the stench and filth, was a figure—pale, gaunt, wearing a tattered remnant of plum robes. The man’s back was to him, a ragged mess of open wounds and scarring exposed a bony frame. Ember’s heart leapt in his throat.

  “Fern!” Ember called, just above a whisper, careful not to draw the attention of whatever still hunted in these tunnels. The man didn’t stir. Not even a twitch. Panic flared in Ember again, the familiar pang of loss. His voice cracked, “Fernan!” He tried again, louder this time, casting a hesitant glance over his shoulder toward the only exit while swallowing down an audible gulp. At the second shout, the old man stirred, and with a groan turned to face the bars. His face, despite the haggard appearance was a picture of utter disbelief like a man waking from a cruel dream.

  “Ember?” The word came out of Ferns lips hoarse, confusion clouding his eyes, as if unsure whether he was seeing a phantom of his past. Fernan spoke again, his voice cracking painfully “Is that really you?”

  “Yes,” he breathed, tears threatening to well up, but Ember swallowed them down. “I thought you were dead...”

  Fern’s face was hollow, almost unrecognisable, but there was still that flicker of recognition in his eyes. The familiar, worn, yet caring gaze he had once known so well, long before fate has twisted them both into this nightmare.

  “The keys.” Fern’s voice cut through the moment like a knife, sharper than expected. His blue eyes locked onto Ember’s frantic. He raised the rag-wrapped stump on his right arm, what remained of it, and pointed toward a hook on the far wall. “The keys. They’re on the wall. Go.”

  Ember stared in disbelief at the bloodied stump, The sight of mangled flesh made his stomach churn, and his fingers clenched around the bars to steady himself. “Your arm… what happened?” His voice broke, and the words stumbled out in a horrified rush, his eyes fixed on the bloody bundle of cloth where Fern’s hand should have been.

  “Not now” Fern growled, a cough ripping through his chest. “The keys, Ember. Focus.”

  A sharp, chittering click rang through the tunnel like the ticking of some grotesque clock. Fern flinched visibly, his whole body recoiling in instinctive fear. Its close, Ember thought, heart pounding. Too close.

  “Okay, the key” Ember muttered under his breath, motivated by the renewed fear tightening in his gut like a twisted cloth. In a heartbeat he was across the room, the ring of keys rattling in his trembling hands as he fought to steady them enough to fit one into the rusted lock.

  “Hurry, boy,” Fern urged, his voice trembling with a mix of urgency and barely contained dread. There was a crackling undercurrent to it, like someone used to giving orders, now forced to beg.

  On the fourth try, the lock gave a reluctant click, and the door creaked open. Fern stumbled forward, using the bars for balance, the motion carrying him out as through the cell itself had spat him out.

  “Click. Click. Click. Click”

  The insectile sound returned, twice as loud now, sharper reverberating through the jail room like a sword dragged over stone. Fern flinch hard, then collapsed to his knees with a grunt, one hand clutching the bloodied stump of his arm.

  “Curse it!” Fern spat, though the strength had already bled from his voice. He swayed there on his knees, teeth clenched against the pain.

  Ember caught him by the arm, before he hit the ground fully, then slung Fern’s arm over his shoulder supporting his thin frame. The old man was surprisingly light, like lifting a child. His bones pressed through skin, his weight a testament to long malnutrition. And yet… Ember felt something else beneath that ruin of a body. A tension coiled and waiting. There was strength still buried in Fern-old quiet but dangerous.

  Stumbling forward, Ember guided Fern through the jagged exit. The tunnel beyond yawned quiet and empty. No clicking. No shadows. Just humid air and dripping stone. He exhales slowly, tension releasing slightly. For now, they were alone.

  “Do you know the way out?” Ember asked, not expecting an answer.

  Fern didn’t answer straight away. He planted his hand against the stone wall and with a quiet grunt, pushed himself upright. No complaint escaped his lips. No show of pain. Just motion, measured and stubborn. He just tilted his head, eyes scanning the dark. Then, with a grunt, he lifted a hand and pointed into the gloom.

  “That way,” he said, voice low but steady. “Stay close.”

  He’s not as broken as he looks. Ember swallowed, as horror seeped into his gut. He pressed a hand to his mouth as the warm breeze drifted over him carrying the same putrid scent of rotten egg, willing back the rising bile. From somewhere deeper in the stone, the clicking returned —sharp and far too close.

  Then came the voice.

  No…”This way.”

  The first word wasn’t spoken. It brushed against his mind like a soft-fingertips—subtle and ethereal. Not a warning. A suggestion. The second followed, softer and firmer, threaded with an otherworldly pull. It’s still here. Still watching. Ember thought. Why me? Why help?

  Ember reached to steady Fern stepping toward the direction of the mysterious voice, but Fern brushed his hand away with surprising speed.

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  “I can walk,” he muttered, low and taut. “And that’s the wrong damn way.”

  Ember paused, startled by Fern’s astuteness. “I know. Just… trust me.”

  Fern studied him for a long heartbeat, something wary flickering in his eyes. Suspicion. Maybe recognition. Like he was seeing something Ember didn’t mean to show.

  But then he gave a single nod, and followed.

  The clicking sound echoed behind them, louder now. Ember felt like he was being cornered. We’re being herded like cattle. Pushed. Like Prey.

  They moved forward. Left, Then right. Right again. Then up.

  Finally, up, Ember thought. The ethereal pull guiding from ahead. The eerie clicking from behind.

  The incline steepened fast. Mildew-slick gave way under Ember’s feet as he leaned forward, one hand on the wall another reaching back for Fern.

  “I’ve got it,” Fern muttered, swatting the air near Ember’s hand, but his breath was thin now, laboured.

  Ember sighed at the old man’s stubbornness and pushed on, higher and higher, the echoing clicking still loud in the dark depths. There was no light now, not a flicker. Just the wet scrape of feet, the rasp of laboured breath, and the ever present reminder of movement behind them.

  Soon the path angled so sharply that Ember and Fern had to crawl, each step scraping their palms, cold slime clinging to their skin.

  Why isn’t it catching us? Ember panicked, his thoughts spiralling as his boots slipped on the wet rock. Its not chasing. It’s stalking. Waiting.

  He didn’t dare say it, but the creature had been behind them since the prison. Keeping its distance. Waiting for its moment.

  Still, he pressed on, refusing to go back and confront it. Still guided by the whisper that brushed his thoughts, curling in his mind.

  Yes. Yes. Your close now. So close, the voice whispered, soft like a line pulling him up, reassuring him.

  After what felt like a mortal age, the tunnel finally levelled out. Ember stumbled forward and found himself in a wide cavern, his breath catching at the sudden shift in space.

  A single beam of light stabbed down from a narrow slither high above, casting the chamber in a pale, ghostly glow. The stone walls shimmered with damp, as though the walls themselves were sweating. The air was thick with the smell of stale water and old blood —metallic, sour, clinging to the back of his throat. Something died here, Ember realised with horror, his gaze shifting upwards.

  A wide stone basin sat in the centre of the room. It was ornate in a crude way, chiselled stone twisted out of the ground wrapping around the bowl supporting it, as if the earth had curled up around it possessively.

  Ember stepped closer, all thought of danger pushed to the recesses of his mind he marvelled at the colour of the stone, a deep burgundy like blood, he realised with horror. The scent hit him hard, the familiar tang of metallic copper, yes — but beneath that something foul and familiar. The stench. This is where it came from. The rotten egg smell. All this time… it was leading here. The realisation hit him. Whatever this place was, it had been calling him, waiting.

  Blood…

  The whisper drifted through his mind, softer this time. A gentle suggestion. A promise.

  Ember swallowed down the lump in his throat, his eyes flicking to the basin and back to the dark tunnel they came from. I know what it wants, Ember realised with horror, and… I think… I know what to do.

  “I know what to do, Fern,” Ember repeated out loud his voice cracking as he spoke.

  “Ember,” Fern said sharply, his voice urgent. He grabbed a fistful of Ember’s tatty tunic, tugging him back. “We need to leave. Now”

  Ember didn’t move. The air had changed.

  In response to Fern’s protest, somewhere in the dark tunnel behind came a soft chorus of clicking. Dozens of sharp little clicks echoing off the stone—feet, claws—something shuffling in the shadows just out of sight. Waiting.

  The presence made it self-know again, louder this time, brushing against his thoughts.

  Blood… Freedom.

  Without really thinking, Ember picked up a sharp piece of stone and dragged it across his forearm. The cut welled red, slow, then faster—hot and wet.

  “Ember. Don’t,” Fern protested sharply, stepping forward. “That’s exactly what the Scorth wants.”

  But he didn’t try to stop him. Just stood there, jaw clenched, eyes flickering to the tunnel behind them. The clicking grew intense. Impatient.

  A Scorth? Ember thought, was that the monster at out backs. The thought was fleeting.

  No time. No options.

  Ember held his arm over the basin.

  Deep ruby drops of blood struck the stone basin. They hissed. Like water drops on glowing steel.

  He heard Fern shift his weight behind him, but said nothing else, just watched.

  Then the blood began to swirl and seep into the rock. Drinking the crimson fluid greedily like the stone itself was starved. And beneath his feet Ember felt the ground vibrate like the very earth was taking in a deep breath.

  Yes, the mysterious voice hissed barely audible in his mind.

  The ground shuddered.

  Stone groaned as something massive shifted before Ember’s feet. He staggered back from the basin as a hairline fracture snaked across the floor, tracing a path to the far wall. A crack split open, on the far wall, then cracked widening into a jagged seam of light.

  For the first time since finding it, the talisman in Ember’s pocket began to tremble violently. It was repelled by the chamber, he realised, desperate to escape. He clutched it, feeling heat radiate through his palm and seep through his arm.

  Far ahead, the squawking cry of a bird, distressed and wild, echoed down through the rock.

  Fern looked up, cocking his head. Then two huge slabs of rock heaved apart, slow and thunderous, revealing a second chamber.

  The white stone from earlier stretched along the walls, but now it pulsed with a faint luminescence, not from torch light or flame, but deeper. The rock itself shimmered with veins of silver and deep violet, like twilight and starlight forced into the stone itself.

  The floor mirrored the walls but polished smooth as if glass, twinkling like crystal.

  At the far end of the chamber, Ember’s eyes fell on a alter which stood, framed by silver water spilling behind it like a living veil. The slab was cradled by a cloaked statue, its arms splayed open, offering the alter to the room.

  A linen cloth lay atop it. Undisturbed.

  “My dream,” Ember gasped as overwhelming glee touch his consciousness, not his own, but something deeper. The guiding force inside his mind brightened as if a binding had been undone. The sense of freedom was sharp, almost joyous. Its clearer now, Ember thought almost able to touch the consciousness with his thoughts. Like it’s been waiting for this. For me.

  Feeling a nervous chill settle in his chest, Ember reached for Fern’s arm to drag him forward, but the old man planted his feet.

  He didn’t budge.

  His eyes glowed — bright, unnatural, a fluorescent navy burning.

  “There’s power here,” Fern murmured, voice low and distant. He lifted a hand, feeling the air as if searching for something invisible. “Great Power.”

  Then, like snapping out of a dream, he turned to Ember, gaze still burning. His posture straightened, head held tall. Ember thought he could see it, the power Fern had spoken of—seeping into him, bolstering him.

  His skin glowed faintly. His eyes burned like sulphur.

  And then… nothing.

  But still Fern had changed. Somehow, he looked renewed.

  “Your eyes…” Ember breathed, shocked by the sudden shift.

  “Not now. Go,” Fern snapped, sharper than before, “I think, we have served our purpose here”

  Ember didn’t argue. He turned and stepped fully into the chamber, drawn towards the sound of water, praying it might lead to an escape.

  Then were almost there, only a stone’s throw from the gushing water, when—quite by accident— his gaze caught something.

  The white cloth.

  A tiny pearlescent object sat upon it glistening in the dim light with an unnatural shimmer.

  His steps slowed. He didn’t mean to stop, didn’t mean to turn, but the pull was there, guiding him, not physical but magical. Just “destiny,” he murmured, inaudible. He drifted towards the alter, drawn by the shimmer atop the cloth.

  The glistening object was ring.

  Bone white. Simple. An ink black engraving swirled around the band at an offset angle. But straight, almost like it had been carved by expert hands.

  Her ring.

  The thought struck him harder than the Juggernaut. Images of his mother’s hand flashed through his mind’s eye, the peculiar bone white ring that once curled around her finger, eluded his memory.

  This couldn’t be it, he puzzled. This is another ring old, but not his mothers.

  He stepper closer. Hesitantly he stretched out his shaking hand, nervous sweat forming on his brow. The pull wasn’t forceful. But it was constant. His fingers hovered inches away, the ring guiding his hand, pulling him in. Like gravity.

  Then the presence slammed into his thought. Familiar, but changed—evil, sour and with menacing force.

  NO.

  Ember and Fern froze. The old man had heard the voice as well that time and grabbed Ember by the collar with surprising force. “Take it” Fern hissed, voice scared and urgent. “We can’t let… Roth… have it”

  Ember noticed he said the name cautiously as if expecting the very word to strike him down. Without thinking, Ember reached out and snatched the ring from the alter squeezing the cool metal tightly in his clenched fist.

  Click. Click. Click. Click.

  The sound echoed around them—louder than ever. Closer. Faster.

  He spun about, heart hammering, just as the thing from the tunnels stepped into view.

  He had expected something inhuman. A large insect maybe. Some tunnel-dwelling nightmare ripped straight from the childhood stories.

  But this was not that.

  Framed in the opening stood a towering humanoid figure, cloaked in black, oil-slick robes that hung in tatters. It loomed at least seven feet tall, was long-limbed, gaunt, and crooked as if corpselike. Rotten scaly flesh covered its long fingers and peaked through gaps in its robes. Its face was malformed sunken and stretched. Where its eyes belonged, mucus-coloured skin lay stretched over hollow sockets. Its tongue, long and red, flicked out between sharp, black, decaying teeth—clicking against them in a slow, rhythmic pattern.

  Click. Click. Click.

  And then it stopped. The creature tilted its head, and though it had no eyes, Ember felt it looking directly at him.

  Gods below… what is that? Ember, thought is breath caught in his throat. A sickening, rising horror rose from the depths of his soul as the thing stepped closer. I need to get out of here, he glanced toward the falling water, is that the way out…

  “Ch…ild,” the creature spat with its decaying mouth guttural and wet. It raised one long scabby hand and pointed a long finger at him. “Give… the Fracture… or he… friend die”

  Each word landed with evident effort. Slow and broken. Like the words couldn’t escape or didn’t fit in his mouth.

  Fern shifted beside him. “A Scorth,” he muttered under his breath, almost to himself, but Ember heard it.

  “Don’t worry about me, Ember.” Fern said louder now, his voice clear and stronger than it had sounded in hours. “Go.” He pointed at the falls, “I’ll slow it down.”

  The creature let out a crackling laugh, wet and rattling like shacking rocks in a bucket,

  “No... old man,” it wheezed, tilting its head again. The words came slower now, laced with maniacal malice. “Not… you.”

  It lifted a scabby hand. And Ember noticed, for the first time, its rotten fingers were clenched around a frayed length of rope.

  It yanked with surprising speed. Something stumbled forward behind it, dragged like a fish on a line. A figure, thin and scrawny with red hair matted and soaked fell hard onto the floor.

  Toby.

  “No!” Ember’s scream tore from his throat. He lunged forward towards the creature, every part of him aimed at Toby.

  But arms wrapped around him with unnatural strength, crushing. He twisted and kicked trying to break free, but was like trying to break stone with his bare hands. Fern was too fast, too strong.

  The Scorth grinned, wide and gleeful the smile spread ear to ear on its ghoul-like face. Its blackened teeth parted as it repeated the phrase, slower this time. “The… Fracture…” Its rotten hand extended toward Ember. It was confident, it already knew.

  Ember stopped struggling. How is the old man so strong, he thought, heart pounding.

  “Let him go,” Ember gasped. “Please. I’ll give it—”

  “No, you won’t” Fern cut in, sharp and final. He starred the creature down with renewed fire his eyes ablaze again. “Your mother…. she—”

  Click. Click.

  The creature cut Fern off mid-sentence with the sickening noise, cutting the air like a blade. The Scorth tilted its head again, another grin spreading across its ruined face.

  “Motivation,” It croaked. “I. Think…”

  With one slow movement, it reached inside its robes and drew out a rusty blade, jagged, already dark with old blood. It pressed it against Toby’s pink throat, a drop of blood, ruby red, ran down his neck.

  Ember froze.

  Watching the blade against Toby’s neck, but them—movement.

  A flash of motion. Toby’s hand shot up, clenched around a jagged shard of rock.

  He drove it hard into the Scorth’s side.

  The creature let out a sound between a screech and a hiss, staggering slightly as thick, tar-black blood oozed down its robes.

  “Fool,” Fern muttered under his breath, the word flat and heavy.

  Ember’s gut twisted as the creature’s screech shifted—transforming into something worse.

  Laughter.

  Unhinged, full of glee.

  “No!” Ember screamed.

  In a blur, the Scorth’s hand snatched the back of Toby’s neck.

  The other arm swung.

  The rusted blade slid across Toby’s throat with a wet hiss. Swift and practiced.

  A thin line of crimson.

  Then blood flowed freely. Too fast.

  Toby’s knees buckled first. Then his body folded. His head hit the stone floor with a sickening crunch. A pool of dark red spreading beneath his flame red hair.

  Ember screamed.

  The sound gut wrenching, laden with grief and anger. The skin at the back of his throat tore. Something inside gave way—blood, bile and gagged. Then vomited, collapsing to his knees.

  He was just alive. Right there. Right there—

  “Boy,” Fern said, softly now—almost gentle as if he were speaking to a young child, scared waking from a nightmare.

  Ember turned his eyes flooded with tears, his stomach clenched from the pain of screaming. He opened his mouth looking Fern directly into the eyes… nothing came out.

  Fern grabbed his tunic with both hands and with a mighty effort threw him.

  Hard.

  The world rotated as Ember was lifted clean of his feet.

  He hit the stone with a sharp slap, momentum carrying him as he slid across the wet slimy floor toward the veil of water.

  His senses blurred, disorientated, the rushing of water getting closer.

  Behind him, the Scorth let out a ferocious feral scream.

  Ember managed to twist mid-slid, just in time to see the creature lunge at Fern.

  Then slipping, clutching the edge gave out.

  Cold slammed into him like a fist.

  The world vanished, and he felt the gut wrenching feeling of gravity.

  Water. Darkness.

  He slammed into the water hard, flat and jarring like hitting a stone wall. Every nerve screamed as he was plunged, dazed, into the icy frothy water. The cold ripped the breath from his lungs. Coughing, kicking and spluttering he thrashed desperately clawing for an anchor, anything to break free from the mindless erratic churn of water.

  Nothing. An endless void of just water.

  He surfaced—gasping, choking—but the churn dragged him down again, spinning him end over end.

  Don’t breathe. Don’t. His mind screamed. His body betrayed him.

  He inhaled. Powerless against the involuntary spasm.

  Icy water rushed into his lungs. He gagged, coughed, swallowed more. Something solid, maybe a stone, lodged in his throat, round and hard forcing him to heave.

  He swallowed it.

  What—what was—

  More water. More pain.

  Then nothing.

  Only Dark.