Текст книги "Black Halo"

Автор книги: Sam Sykes

Соавторы: Sam Sykes
сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 41 страниц)

She blinked, then shook her head briefly.

‘No one,’ she replied. ‘The netherlings were busy with the demons, as you say.’

‘And likely the same can be said of the other fish-things,’ Lenk replied, rolling his shoulders. ‘So what’s the problem?’

‘Well, basically, everything,’ Asper interjected. ‘Between the presence of the longfaces, the demons, the lizardmen and the noted absenceof the presences of the tome, our clothes-’

‘The gold,’ Denaos added, ‘our dignity, and so forth …’

‘Point being,’ Asper said after shooting the rogue a silencing glare, ‘things certainly don’t lookover.’

‘Because you’re not looking at it with the proper perspective,’ Lenk replied. ‘What you’re seeing is the broth, not the meat.’

‘The what?’

‘I wrote about it earlier.’

‘How does that help any-’

‘ As I was saying, you’re only seeing what we don’t have: the tome, the gold. We didn’t have a lot of dignity to begin with, so that’s no great loss.’ He offered a weak smile around the circle. ‘But we do have each other. We have our lives. We should hold on to them.’

Kataria wasn’t quite certain what he expected, be it a raucous chorus of cheering approval or a weary sigh of resignation and agreement, but she could guess by the sudden narrowing of his eyes that he wasn’t expecting the choked snort Denaos forced through a crooked grin.

‘You girl,’ the rogue cackled and held up his hands for peace. ‘No, no, sorry, I meant to say something far less insulting to our female cohorts and far more insulting to you, but … you girl.’

‘Don’t feign bravery now, you roach,’ Lenk snarled at him. ‘You were the most eager to run when we started this.’

‘And I still am. I agree with your philosophy, but not your reasons. Let’s not go acting like you give a damn over everyone’s lives at this point, not after we’ve nearly died … how many times now?’

‘Roughly thirteen since we left the Riptide,’ Dreadaeleon interjected. ‘Those are only the potential deaths by injury, of course. Taking into account factors such as accidents, disease and premeditation sans follow-through, the tally rises considerably.’

‘All of which you remained conspicuously silent through until now,’ Denaos said, scratching his chin. ‘What’s changed?’

Lenk made no reply for the rogue to hear, nor did he offer one to anyone. Still, Kataria saw it in the brief flash of blue as he cast her a sidelong glimpse. It was only the barest sliver of azure, but she could see his answer in the sudden softness of his stare, the quiet thaw of his eyes. Something had changed; what it was, he would not say to her or any of the others.

And so, as he stood silent, she ignored the feeling that she should follow and spoke up.

‘The longest-lived rat doesn’t ask why a crumb comes his way,’ she snarled at the rogue. ‘The fact that thisone standing in front of me is suddenly so interested in why he’s notgetting stepped on should be more questionable than anything else.’

She had expected anything from the rogue: a sneer, a snide comment, a veiled threat, even the sudden appearance of a dagger he had somehow unnervingly concealed. These she was prepared for; these she had retorts for. Thus, when he angled his eyes away from her stare and said nothing more, she was struck dumb.

‘As always,’ Lenk continued, sighing, ‘I don’t expect anyone to follow me where they don’t want to. If any of you wish to stay here, carve out whatever life you care to amongst the lizards and count the days before something – purple, black or otherwise – rips off your head and eats it, feel free to.’ He sniffed. ‘Anyone else is free to listen to my plan.’

Another chorus of begrudging coughs brought a grin out on his face.

‘How swiftly the tide turns, eh? Was it the mention of escape or the promise of having your head digested, then?’

‘I’m more curious about how, exactly, you plan to get off this island, given our circumstances,’ Denaos interjected. The sullenness from his face was banished and reinvigorated with snidery. ‘Did we or did we not miss our trip back to Port Destiny?’

‘We haven’t missed it.’ Kataria looked pointedly at the ground. ‘Sebast might still show up.’

‘If he doesn’t arrive soon, I still have a plan,’ Lenk replied.

‘Does it include a way to leave the Owauku,’ Asper began sharply, ‘who, I feel the need to point out, saved our livesand who, I feel again the need to point out, we are about to abandon as they are caught in the cross between the netherlings and the demons?’

‘Yes,’ Lenk said. He coughed discreetly. ‘In a way.’

‘In whatway?’

‘If we tell them, they’re not going to help us escape, so I figured we’d … I don’t know, leave a note or something.’

‘Good,’ the priestess said, nodding. ‘Maybe they can use it to stanch the blood when their intestines get spilled out on the ground.’

‘They took our stuff,’ Lenk replied with a shrug. ‘Seems a fair trade.’

She blinked. ‘They made us slightly sunburnt and uncomfortable … so we’re being reasonable in condemning them to a slow, agonising death.’

‘Stop being dramatic,’ Denaos said. ‘You know as well as we do that the longfaces kill their prey quickly.’

‘Oh, so now you’re forthis?’ She whirled, snarling at the rogue. ‘What was that momentary conscience growing out of your mouth a moment ago?’

‘Indigestion, probably,’ he replied. ‘Upon further consideration-’

‘You mean three breaths long?’

‘ Furtherconsideration,’ he replied forcefully, ‘it’s rather clear we aren’t going to make any money or avoid an imminent disembowelment any longer by staying here. Prudence dictates we leave, maybe come back later when everyone’s dead and sift through the innards until we find something.’

Kataria glowered at the distant gohmn herd sipping from a pool. ‘If there’s anything left.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Well, it’s all moot, isn’t it?’ Dreadaeleon suddenly chimed in. ‘I mean, we can’t just leaveyet.’

‘At least someone has a sense of decency,’ Asper muttered.

‘Not a person in this circle is in a position to lecture anyone on decency, young lady,’ Denaos replied. ‘He probably just wants to stay as long as he can to catch a glimpse of all the flesh on display.’

‘Clearly,’ Dreadaeleon said, sneering. ‘But I was more referring to the fact that we’re, as yet, incomplete.’ His expression was half-beseeching and half-curious as he swept it about the circle. ‘I mean, what about Gariath? If the rest of us are alive, he probably is, too.’

‘He seemed fairly determined not to be when we last saw him,’ Asper said.

‘He’s alive,’ Kataria said softly.

‘How do you know?’

The shict felt a sudden unease as the human eyes turned toward her, scrutinising her slowly. She felt the urge to flee, to escape both their stares and the memory of her encounter with Gariath. She had done a good enough job over the past days, she thought, trying to trick herself into thinking that the dragonman was dead and her secret was safe.

In her heart, though, she knew he was alive. There was no way she could be so lucky for anything else to be true.

‘She knows because she’s not an idiot,’ Lenk replied before she could. ‘He’s stronger than all of us. He would survive. And I suppose we can delay our plans until we find him.’

‘A thought occurs,’ Denaos interjected. A thoughtful look crossed his face and he inhaled sharply, as though about to deliver a stirring conclusion. ‘Why?’

‘What do you mean, why? He’s part of our group, isn’t he?’

‘Well, we’re not really a “group”, are we? And he’s really more of a hanger-on that chose to insinuate himself into our loose coalition … a parasite, if you will.’

‘Parasites don’t so abruptly try to kill us,’ Kataria muttered.

‘Well, he’s been doing it for the past year,’ Dreadaeleon retorted. ‘I thought we were past holding that against him.’

‘Yes, but he came awfully close this time,’ Asper said. ‘It’s probably wiser to abandon him now after his … what, eighteenth try?’

Denaos chuckled. ‘Stick up for the lizardmen that you just met, but abandon the one you’ve known for ages? Is that sort of behaviour condoned in the Talanite faith?’

‘I sleep easy,’ she replied. ‘Do you?’

‘I’m sure there’s some lovely backstory that I don’t care about between you two,’ Lenk interjected, ‘but I’ll have to interrupt to put this to a vote.’ He swept a careful stare around the circle. ‘Acknowledging full well what it means to say so … how many of you want to leave Gariath behind?’

Denaos’ hand shot up with swiftness, Asper’s followed with only enough hesitation to display a minor internal struggle. Dreadaeleon glanced at them both with a frown that went slightly beyond disapproval. It wasn’t until Lenk looked to his side and saw the pale, slender arm in the air that he quirked a brow.

‘Really?’ he asked Kataria. ‘I would have thought you to be his only supporter.’

‘Wouldn’t be the first time you were wrong, would it?’ she growled at him.

He frowned. ‘I … guess not.’ With a sigh, he rubbed his eyes. ‘Well, that’s that, then, isn’t it? If he is alive and we go through with this, I suppose we’ve got one more thing that can and will kill us.’

‘All the more reason to leave,’ Kataria agreed.

‘Which you still haven’t explained how you intend to do,’ Denaos pointed out.

Whatever Lenk had to say in response was suddenly drowned out by the sound of a heavy breathing, heavy footsteps and a heavy stick being dragged through the sand. It was hard to ignore the sight of Bagagame approaching the group, and outright impossible to miss the sight of the screeching writhing roach he dragged by its antennae alongside his stick.

‘Okay, cousin,’ he gasped, pulling his twitching prize before Lenk. ‘Ol’ Bagagame got you covered. Took some whacking, but m’found you a nice slab to chew on.’ With a grunt, he hurled the insect forward. ‘Eat hearty.’

‘That’s … nice?’ Lenk said. ‘But there’s something else you can do for us.’

‘Ah, right. Rude.’ The Owauku’s tiny muscles strained as he hoisted his stick high above his head and brought it down in a shrieking splatter of foul-smelling ichor. His tongue flicked out from behind his grin to slurp up a glistening gob on his mouth. ‘Juicy enough for a king, eh?’

‘I was thinking the same thing,’ Lenk said as he turned his smile from the lizardman to his companions. ‘Bagagame, show us to Togu.’

Nineteen

MEN OF VIRTUE AND THE NOOSES THEY SWAY FROM

He crept quietly through the city’s backstreets, hood drawn up, cloak held tightly about him. He navigated them quickly, quietly, the sins of his memories still embedded in the stones when he walked without webs on his feet, when he could bear the sensation of earth on his soles. He once had done so. He once had walked among them and they had called him neighbour.

And what do they call me now, I wonder, he thought. Monster? Heretic? Betrayer? Demon worshipper. He paused at the mouth of an alley, glancing about before sliding through the sunlight and back into shadow. And what slurs I could level at them. Sheep. Cattle. Blind, ignorant masses that feed themselves into the furnaces stoked by the lies of the Gods and their servants. If they want it so bad, they deserve to die. They deserve to-

No, no, he chastised himself. Remember what this is all for.

He glanced down at the vial in his palm, the thick, viscous liquid swirling with a nebulous life all its own. Mother’s Milk. The gift of Ulbecetonth. The agent of change.

Change, he reminded himself, was what it was all about. Change needed to lift the blinders from mortalkind, to show them that their gods were deaf and uncaring. It would be violent, he knew. People would die. More would live, guided by a matron that heard them and spoke to them in return. But they would never understand.

They would call him a monster.

He called himself the Mouth.

But before that, he had called himself something else, he recalled. He’d had a name. He’d had a home. He’d had memories; he still did. The Prophet was cruel to keep him from being absolved of them, but perhaps there was a point to their withholding. Perhaps he needed to remember why he forsook name, home, land and sky alike.

And so, when he came to the rotting doorframe of a house long abandoned, when he felt his heart begin to ache as he laid a hand upon the splintering door marked with a large red cross, he fought against the urge to turn away. He pushed it open. He went in.

Shadows greeted him. They still knew him. They had been around for a long time, ingrained into the wood of the house itself. They had seen all. They remembered all. And he read their lightless testimony as he drew his hood back and walked across the rotting floorboards.

He walked past a doorway; the shadows told him of a kitchen that had never been stuffed, but had enough to make stew every night. He walked past a rotting table; the shadows spoke of three bodies seated there, breaking a single loaf of bread to share. He walked to the decrepit stairs at the edge of the house.

And the shadows asked him to turn away. They remembered what happened. They told him he would not want to see again.

But he went up, regardless. The stairs knew him, offering the same creak of complaint they had offered him for years. He paused beside them, staring at a barren spot upon the wall where the shade was a tad lighter than the rest of the decay. A holy symbol had hung there once, the great cresting wave of Zamanthras, the Sea Mother, as a ward against the woes of life and an invitation for the goddess’ boon.

He remembered that symbol. He remembered when he had hung it up. He remembered when he had taken it down. He remembered when he had screamed questions at it, demanded answers and received nothing. He remembered when he had hurled it into a dying fire. He had forgotten to stoke it that night. Someone else usually did that.

But there had been no one else left that night.

He glanced back to the door, frowning. A lesson learned, he told himself; he knew that the Gods were impotent and did not care. Surely, nothing more could be gained from venturing farther upward.

Nothing …

But he went, anyway. The shadows lamented his return and told him of the long hallway he had once paced back and forth across. They warned him against going to the room at the far end. But he went, anyway.

And he saw the shadows in a small, decrepit room. And he saw the shadows of a small, decrepit cot. It had been a tiny thing, one that he had built hastily when the girl who lay in it grew too big for her crib.

He smiled. The shadows did not have to remind him of when he sat beside that cot and told stories. He remembered them all on his own: the Kraken and the Swan, Old King Gnash, How Zamanthras Stained Toha’s Sand Blue. He remembered the promises made beside it: how the girl who lay in it and he would go to Toha one day and she would see the blue sand, how she would one day captain a ship that would dwarf his little fishing skiff, how he would build her a bigger bed in a few months, at the rate she was growing.

But it was only a few days later that the girl who lay in it stopped growing altogether.

The shadows didn’t have to tell him that. He remembered it all on his own.

But the shadows were not silent. The shadows spoke of the healer who had knelt beside the little cot. The shadows spoke of heads that shook, eyes that closed, condolences offered and arrangements advised. The shadows spoke of threats, of pleas, of prayers he had offered to the healer, to their Talanas, to his Zamanthras, to anyone who would listen.

No one answered. No one ever answered.

The shadows spoke of the day when that little cot lay empty. The shadows spoke of the day when he sat beside it and cradled his head in hands. The shadows spoke of the day when he pressed his hands against his ears to drown out the sound of the waves. The waves that the girl lay in.

That was where their memory stopped. That was where his stopped. That was where he was no longer neighbour, no longer father, no longer slave to the Gods.

He narrowed his eyes; that was the day when, in the silence, he had heard the voice of Mother Deep. That was the day when he forgot his name. That was the day the Mouth had left the shadows and the wood and the city behind entirely, swearing he would not return until he could change the world.

And now, he had. And now, he could.

He stared down at the vial of Mother’s Milk, narrowing his eyes. This was what it had come to. This was how the world would be changed. The Mother would be free. But for Her to reign properly, to guide mankind from their blind darkness, She would need a consort.

The Father must be freed.

And this was the key, this was what would draw Daga-Mer from the prison he had been so cruelly cast into. This was what would call to Mother Deep, to free Her from the Gate, to let Her guide her children and through them mortalkind. And this would all happen … through him.

He knew where Daga-Mer’s prison lay; he heard the Father’s call, he heard the distant beating of his heart as he slumbered. He closed his eyes, let the memories slip from his mind, let the sound of the heartbeat, the sound of change waiting to happen, fill his thoughts.

And all he heard was a door slamming shut, feet across the floor.

Fool, he scolded himself. They know. They’re coming for you. You wasted too much time. Run!In his other hand, the weight of a bone dagger made itself known. No … no, you can’t run. If anyone knows you’re here, they must be eliminated. They can’t tell anyone you were here. They can’t know … not yet.

With the blade in his hand, he crept to the stairs, narrowed his eyes. He was unrepentant as he searched for the life he would snuff out; change was violent, after all. He saw the intruder now: a mess of wild black hair atop a thin body clad in a poor person’s linens. A spy, maybe? A beggar, probably. No matter; he was going to die, regardless. This was no sin. If one had to die so that the others might live, then that was just …

His thoughts were interrupted by the deafening sound of the stairs offering their familiar creak.

The intruder’s head snapped up. Wide, brown eyes took him in. A thin, dark-skinned face went slack with fear at the sight of him. And he could feel his own face go slack, his own eyes go wide, his own lips speak words.

‘A … girl?’

‘I’m not doing anything!’ she spoke up. ‘No one’s lived here for years.’

‘I used to,’ he replied without thinking.

And her response was to turn swiftly and bolt, the door swinging in her wake.

He was leaping over the railings in a moment, following after her. It was only after a hundred paces that he realised he had dropped the knife back in the house. It was only after a hundred fifty that he realised he didn’t mind. He didn’t want to kill her. He just wanted to …

To what, he asked himself. Look at her? Think of duty! Think of change!

But he could think of nothing else, he realised, but her face. Her thin face, her wide eyes. He had to see her again. He had to look into her face again.

He saw the back of her head as she twisted through the alleys, trying to lose him. His cloak flew wide open as he pursued, trying not to be lost. His body, pale white and fingers webbed, was plainly visible. He did not belong amongst these dark-skinned island people. They would know him. They would call him monster. His mission would be over. Change would never come.

But he had to see her.

‘Wait! Wait!’ he called after her. ‘I’m not angry! I just want to talk!’

She said nothing. She twisted down an alley, disappeared. He followed, twisting down the same alley and coming to a sudden halt as he slammed into a broad, leather-bound chest.

He looked up. Fierce, dark eyes looked down. He saw himself reflected: ghostly white, black-eyed, hairless. He panicked, turned about and fled down the alley.

And Bralston stared after him.

‘Does Port Yonder have a habit of degenerates running unrestricted through the streets without a care for whom they collide with?’ he asked his guide.

‘Port Yonder, of late, is no longer a city of habits.’

Mesri was his name, priest of Zamanthras and speaker for the tiny abode. He had met Bralston at the docks, he had explained, out of custom. Bralston gave him a quick glance: portly, robes that had once been nice now frayed at the hem, a thick dark moustache and a bright, cresting wave medallion hanging about his neck. All in all, he looked like the type of man that a fishing city would send to meet a man who arrived on a giant, three-masted ship.

‘Granted, we usedto be,’ Mesri explained. ‘But since the fish have stopped coming around, the sight of people running in and out of the back alleys have become more common.’

Bralston glanced up, surveying the decaying, crumbling buildings that rose up around them.

‘And these?’

‘Have always been here,’ Mesri replied. ‘Long ago, someone discovered that the fish migrated through these waters. Yonder was founded shortly after and enjoyed a brief time of ostentatiousness, back when we had a lord-admiral of our own.’ He chuckled, smoothing out his robes. ‘Said lord-admiral gave these fine robes to me, in fact. But the fish caught wise and the merchants shortly thereafter. These homes were abandoned, but most of us get by … well, I mean, not lately, but we did.’

‘You no longer have a lord-admiral?’ Bralston quirked a brow. ‘Then the Toha Navy does not govern this city?’

‘Not actively, no. A patrol ship still comes around every month, if you’re concerned about our capacity to deal with the prisoner you’ve come to speak with.’

‘I am.’

‘What? You don’t trust a tiny, impoverished shell of a city commandeered mostly by women, children and men with pointy sticks to take care of a titanic, bearded Cragsman?’ Mesri chuckled. ‘I suppose wizards have their reputations for a reason, don’t they?’

Bralston simply stared at the man, stern-faced. Mesri cleared his throat, looking down. A distinct lack of a sense of humour was another reputation wizards had earned, one that Bralston did absolutely everything in his power to nurture. The priest shuffled his feet, waving for the Librarian to follow as he continued down the winding streets of the abandoned section of the city.

‘Truth be told, it was our pleasure to take the Cragsman,’ he said. ‘If only to keep him away from decent society.’ Mesri looked thoughtful. ‘Further truth, he’s been remarkably docile, considering his reputation. I like to think we might have encouraged that. We did what we could for his wounds, but-’

‘Wounds?’

Mesri paused, giving no indication that he had even heard the Librarian. A shudder, small and clearly not intended to be seen, coursed through his body. After a moment, he resumed his pace, Bralston keeping up.

‘What manner of wounds?’

‘You’re going to see him,’ Mesri muttered. ‘See for yourself. Perhaps it’s more common in the cities. But cities have Talanites to deal with it. I’m a Zamanthran. I can deliver children and tell where the fish are going. Not handle …’ He sighed, rubbing his eyes. ‘Any of this.’

Bralston did not inquire; he did not have to. Even for a city half-abandoned, he had noticed the scanty population of Port Yonder. Most accredited it to poor fish harvests, though few could explain the lapse in the seasonally bustling migrations. Some explained it as most of the population being ill from some manner of disease, a very select few raving about shicts being behind the whole thing.

Those not ill or in exceeding poverty were doing well enough, Bralston had been told, but his concerns were not for this city and its people. He had a duty that went beyond poor fish harvests, illnesses or anything that a priest might claim to be able to cure.

They emerged from the abandoned district, setting foot on sand. Undeveloped beach, marred only by scrub grass and two small buildings stretched as far as the cliffs where the island ended entirely. Apparently, when development of Yonder had stopped, it had stopped swiftly.

‘The prisoner is in the warehouse,’ Mesri said, pointing to the closer of the two buildings. ‘I guess it’s a prison now? We had to move a few spare skiffs and a crate or two … or three. He’s an immense man. Ask the two boys we assigned to guard him if you require protection.’

‘It will not be necessary,’ Bralston said. He glanced to the more distant of the buildings, a crumbling work of stones and pillars to which a small, beaten path of haphazardly laid stones led. ‘What’s that, then?’

‘That?’ Mesri followed his gaze and sighed. ‘That is our temple.’

In that instant, as much as he might have loathed to admit it to himself, Bralston knew he liked the man. As far as priests went, it was difficult to find fault with him beyond the obvious. He was a man who clearly cared about his people; that much was obvious by the manydelays they had suffered on their trip through the city, Mesri insisting on stopping to hear every problem and plea. He had considered them all carefully and offered each one, from a sick child to a broken net, a clear and logical answer. Never once had the man even uttered, ‘The will of the Gods.’

Bralston had suffered each delay, each problem, in silence, no matter how trivial he had considered it. But it was only now, now that he saw the crumbling, run-down temple, barely any more noticeable than the buildings of the decayed abandoned district, that he deigned to look at the man with admiration.

‘Is it not an insult to your gods that it remains in such a shape?’ he asked.

‘I wager They’d be more insulted if I used the few coins it would have taken to feed one of Their starving followers on a new rug.’

Bralston clenched his teeth behind his lips, looking thoughtful. After a moment, as if in defeat, he sighed.

‘The Venarium has a policy of paying stipends for research purposes,’ he said. ‘If we are forced to repurpose a settlement without its own standing government for our means of research’ – he paused, coughing – ‘such as studying the cause for a change in fish migrations … we are bound to offer a stipend.’

‘Such as one that might put food in hungry bellies and blankets over cold shoulders,’ Mesri replied, a smile curling beneath his moustache. ‘The offer is appreciated, Librarian.’

‘We do, of course, insist on a policy of extreme secularism,’ Bralston said, eyeing the decaying temple. ‘Given the general laxity of upkeep, though, I don’t foresee this as being too objectionable an-’

‘It is,’ Mesri answered, swift and stern. ‘The offer wasappreciated, Librarian, but I must decline. I cannot ask the people to part with their matron.’

‘It’s a simple request,’ Bralston muttered, heat creeping into his voice. ‘Worship in your own homes, if you must. Simply keep it out of sight of the Venarium and no one needs to know. It’s a generous offer.’

‘It is, sir,’ Mesri said. ‘But I must decline, all the same. We are men of Yonder. Men of Yonder are followers of Zamanthras. She is a part of the city and us.’

‘Faith cannot feed the hungry.’

‘Money cannot define a man.’

‘So you say,’ Bralston sneered. ‘I will never understand your profession, Mesri – you or the priest who guided me here.’

‘No one mentioned a priest.’ Mesri’s brows furrowed. ‘Who was he?’

‘Evenhands. Miron Evenhands. Lord Emissary, so-called, of the Church of Talanas.’

‘Evenhands?’ Mesri’s face nearly burrowed back into his skull, so fiercely did it screw up. ‘How is that-’

‘ Mesri! Mesri!’

The priest’s attentions were seized by the young, dark-skinned man that came barrelling out of the poor district. He did not even look at Bralston as he rushed up to the priest.

‘Another fell ill,’ the young man panted. ‘Swears it was shicts.’

‘Of course,’ Mesri sighed. ‘It’s always shicts … or ghosts … or whatever fell spirit has been thought up.’ He turned to Bralston. ‘Sir Librarian, please-’

‘Time is limited,’ the Librarian replied curtly, shoving past young man and priest alike. ‘Those endeavours that cannot be pursued must settle behind those that can.’

Mesri was calling something after him, he realised, as he walked toward the warehouse. But he shut his ears to the sound, all the same. It was foolish to have offered; a stipend would require paperwork, endorsements, evaluations. He had a job to do.

One that led him into a dark, dank place.