An Arsonist and a Necromancer Walk into a Bar

Chapter 27 – The Brooding Abyss

Palmira stared into the Abyss.

The Abyss did not stare back.

That’s because it was too full of things.

Of things which weren’t people, and people which were things. Of dark Fey and black Demons and tortured Giants. Of a city sprawling endlessly down, and down, and down.

Creatures with too many eyes which were hunted by serpents bereft of the sea which were hunted by dead things that weren’t yet dead which were hunted by knights who’d long since fallen which were hunted by creatures with too many eyes.

There was no bottom to the Abyss. But there was a top. And it crushed down on everything within oppressively.

Palmira stopped looking down, overwhelmed by the everything that threatened to consume her. Instead, she turned left, then right, but found herself standing on nothing at all.

But that wasn’t right? Everything was here. She couldn’t be standing on nothing.

She was standing on something.

It was wet and burned to touch. Her feet dug in deep, and she walked across it with ease.

She did not go where she was going, so she ventured where she always went when lost. She stepped into the city, the darkened alleyways and crumbling infrastructure already making her feel at home.

But in this city more than any other, things lurked around dark corners and beneath crumbling homes.

Palmira stopped walking, and something else stood up, standing before her. A smile was carved into its marble face, contrasted by the molten tears which ran rivulets down its melting cheeks.

She knew what it was instinctively, an ancient memory slowly unearthing itself from her psyche.

It was a Horror.

The Horror looked up at her, short enough that it’s head didn’t reach above her chest. A hand stretched forward slowly to touch her, cold and hot all at once. Then another Horror appeared, and another, and another, until she was surrounded.

The Horrors poked and prodded her, stone hands grasping at her flesh and tearing it asunder.

But she had no flesh. For she was made of Fire.

The Horrors did not move away, even as she burned them. Instead, they simply dug deeper. And no matter how hot she forced herself to become, she couldn’t melt their granite flesh.

“That is enough of that.”

Suddenly she was far away from them, an old man standing between them and her. She recognized him, the fake old man, and in doing so realized something important.

“I’m dreaming,” she declared.

“Indeed you are,” the old man chuckled, starry eyes twinkling with barely controlled rage, not looking away from the Horrors for even a moment. “But that doesn’t mean much down here. I suppose it’s my fault—I didn’t expect the Abyss to tug at you so strongly. Are you alright?”

Palmira tugged at her flames and took a deep breath of stale smoke. “I think so. Nothing important is missing.”

“That’s good to hear!”

“HUMANS,” the Horrors suddenly spoke, their voices echoing through the tunnels as one. They grated against her brain, making her flames twitch and flail erratically. “YOU TRESSPASS ON SACRED GROUND. FOR THAT YOU WILL DIE. CEASE RESISTING, SO THAT WE MAY KILL YOU QUICKLY.”

The old man scoffed. “Well aren’t you all a lovely bunch of bastards. No wonder we tried to kill you all off. But don’t worry, we’ll be leaving now.”

“YOU CANNOT. YOU HAVE ALREADY COMMITED TOO GREAT A SIN TO LEAVE UNPUNISHED.”

“Please, I’ve committed far greater sins unpunished.” The old man rolled his eyes, before gently grabbing her arm, his flesh cold and artificial to the touch. He waved the Horrors off with a flippant smile. “Ta-ta! May we never have to witness your ugly mugs ever again!”

“DON’T YOU DARE—!”

--

Palmira’s eyes fluttered open calmly, revealing the basalt roof of their room. The cracks and seams were near impossible to make out in the darkness, if not for the faint glow from the lava canals through the window. The quiet of the night was only broken by the rhythmic snores of Chiara, sounding like the tinkling of crystal chimes in the wind.

It was quiet and peaceful, and yet Palmira couldn’t help but feel frustrated.

“This isn’t working,” Morte agreed with her, and she imagined if he had a brow it would currently be furrowed. “You can’t just keep wandering off in your dreams every night. Especially not in a place like this. And yet, nothing I’ve tried to keep you in place has worked. It’s almost infuriating.”

Palmira frowned. “What’s even happening?” she whispered, grunting as Chiara rolled over in her sleep and slapped her in the face. They were sharing a bed to save money, but the other girl tossed and turned so much it made her want to shove her off the edge. “Why are my dreams like this?”

“It’s my fault,” Morte admitted freely. “Normally, your soul would naturally protect you when you sleep, keeping you in one place while you dreamed. But back when I was younger, I tore open the veil that protected my soul in order to obtain esoteric knowledge of things long forgotten. Specifically, to enter the dreams of dead gods and bargain power from their corpses.”

Palmira blinked slowed, too tired to process that right now. “Huh.”

“It appears, unfortunately, that the more you use me as a staff, the more you tear your own veil in turn. This was not a problem for me, since I was a powerful mage with a powerful soul and the training to utilize such a skill to its fullest extent. You, on the other hand, are only just getting into the more esoteric arts, and lack the ability to control your dreams.”

“Is there any way to undo it?”

“Not as far as I know, no,” Morte grumbled, frustrated. “I imagine that if you stopped using me, your soul might heal its veil on its own. But that would take who knows how long, and you’d probably get your soul devoured by some otherworld creature without me there to protect you.”

Palmira sighed. “So it’s something I just have to live with, then?”

“…Yes. No. Maybe. If I had a body and could use my own magic, I’m sure I could figure out a way to heal your soul. But I don’t. Maybe in a couple years, after you’ve delved enough into cosmology, you could figure it out for yourself.”

Grimacing, Palmira considered her options, trying to ignore Chiara’s sharp elbow digging into her gut. Finally, she nodded to herself, and said softly, “Well, no time like the present to work on it. I don’t really want to fall back asleep any time soon anyway.”

“You’ll need to get back to bed at some point,” Morte told her sternly. “You aren’t capable of going without sleep. Well, not yet, at least.” Then his voice softened, just a bit. “And don’t worry. I won’t let you lose yourself so easily. You’re my apprentice, after all. You’ll become the greatest mage in the world even if it kills you.”

“Kills me?”

“Well, it certainly won’t kill me!” Morte cackled. “I’m already dead!”

Palmira rolled her eyes, shoving Chiara’s foot out of her face (when had she even flipped around?) and got out of bed. Rubbing the last of the sleep out of her eyes, she stumbled over to the window, grabbing Morte and setting him against the opening next to her. Leaning out the window, she took a moment to breath in the humid, smoggy air, before turning her gaze up toward the stars.

The stars were difficult to see, with the city smog, but some shone through regardless. Even the moon was still visible, smog and clouds alike parting around it so that the thin silver sliver of divinity could shine down on her even here.

And yet, she scowled.

“They haven’t moved,” she squinted up at the night sky, tracing the few stars she recognized. “We’ve come so far, but they’re all still in the same place they were in Firozzi.”

“Of course they are,” Morte agreed, sounding amused. “If you measure using the scale of the cosmos, we haven’t moved even an inch. You could travel the distance from Firozzi to Iscrimo a hundred times, and you wouldn’t even make it to the moon, much less a distant star.”

Palmira stared up at the sky, trying to comprehend such a distance, but found that she couldn’t. “That’s… so far.” Then she frowned, realizing something. “Wait, but the stars move, though. Not much, but as the seasons change they move through the night sky, don’t they? Why do they move while we’re standing still, but not when we move ourselves?”

“I should have known this is what caught your attention,” he chuckled to himself. “Maybe I’m going about training you the wrong way… hm. Something to think about later. But to answer your question, do you remember how I said before that if you traveled from Firozzi to Iscrimo a hundred times, you wouldn’t even make it to the moon?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Well, the world we live on is hurtling through the void so incredibly fast that every single day it travels about a hundred times as far as that. That’s why the stars look like they’re travelling across the sky every year, you see. They aren’t moving—well, they are—but so are we.”

Palmira turned to stare at her mentor. “What. That’s… wait, the world moves!? I thought it was the center of the universe!? And wouldn’t we feel it, if the world was moving that fast!?”

“Hah! You’d think so, wouldn’t you! But no, this world is nowhere near the center of the universe. And as for why you don’t feel it, that’s because the scale we’re working with is so unimaginably vast. I told you when we started, didn’t I? Greater men than us have gone mad trying to comprehend the cosmos.”

Palmira grimaced. She understood what he was saying in theory, but found she couldn’t begin to comprehend how far such a distance truly was. It frustrated her. Why did everything have to be so big?

Taking a calming breath, Palmira dropped that line of thought, applying one of the first lessons her mentor had taught her.

If you don’t get it yet, then drop it and come back to it later. The stars are willing to wait.

Deciding she wasn’t going to think about that right now, Palmira moved on, igniting a small flame above her hand. “I’m going to work on my divination tonight,” she told him, much to his amusement. “I think I had a breakthrough a couple days ago.”

“Then by all means, go ahead. I’ll be here, if you have any questions.”

Nodding, she focused on the flame in her hand, trying to shrink it while forcing it to produce more smoke than it should. If she was right, and it was a combination of smoke and stars that gave her some ability to see the future…

The smoke wafted out the window, mixing with the natural smog of the city. She grimaced, trying to aim it towards a small cluster of bright stars that signaled the torch of the Herald. It almost worked, and as she focused, she could slowly see the stars begin to shift in the sky, warping into vague lines which ever so slowly formed a shaky shape.

Palmira squinted at the smoke. It was… an elf…?

The door to their room slammed open, causing Palmira to grab Morte on instinct and Chiara to jerk out of their bed with a scream.

“Wake the fuck up you two!” Johanna shouted, snatching the crystal bird that was trying to attack her out of the air without even looking. “We need to get our asses to the courthouse right fucking now.”

“Johanna!?” Chiara hissed, squinting through the darkness. “Do you even know what time it is? What could be so important that we’d need to go there at this ungoddessly hour!?”

The elf grimaced, a look of uncharacteristic somberness on her face. It was enough to even cause Chiara to falter, seeing the woman so serious.

Then she told them what happened.

--

“Now presenting, Dante di Firozzi, guildmaster of the Firozzi Adventurer’s Guild!”

Dante nodded in thanks to the servant who introduced him, hiding his exhaustion as best he could.

For six hours he’d been waiting for the invitation to meet with the Duke. Six. Hours. He was aware he was a foreigner and all, but surely there was a difference between some polite power plays and whatever this was.

He was (formerly) of the Cadorna Famiglia! Did that name really mean nothing to anyone anymore!?

Regardless, going about his business in the city without at least greeting the Duke would be the height of impropriety and, more importantly, harm their chances of making any business in Iscrimo. So he waited. For six, goddess forsaken hours.

And finally stepping into the Duke’s solar, he couldn’t help but feel the man would have needed another six to get even mildly presentable.

Duke Aretino Visconti, son of the late Aventio Visconti, was a mess.

His hair was long and unkempt, dirt and oils visible even against his dark and fraying locks. A well embroidered coat of red and black was haphazardly thrown over his shoulders, stained near brown by how unkempt it was. His black eyeliner was running freely down his face, mixing horribly with the white makeup the aristocrats of Iscrimo for some reason preferred. And scattered across his desk was a half dozen bottles of the most expensive wines he could name, one of them knocked on its side and freely spilled onto the Duke’s lap.

The only thing even somewhat well-kept in the room was a massive portrait of the previous Duke hung up behind him, so well-polished the reflection of light off the frame almost made up for the fact it was blocking the windows.

Dante glanced around at the servants which stood ready in the corners of the room, but not one of them could look him in the eye.

This was the Duke? Really?

“Are you the one who keeps trying to bother me?” Duke Aretino rasped, his voice as pleasant as a cat hacking up a hairball. “Well? Out with it. What do you want?”

“I… apologize, Lord Duke,” Dante replied slowly, completely thrown off. “I hadn’t expected to be… interrupting something?”

“Well, you are. I was planning to spend all day mourning, and you interrupted me.”

Ah. Well, now he felt a bit bad. It must be someone important to him, if he was this out of sorts.

“I apologize again, then. If I’m not overstepping myself, may I ask who passed away?”

The Duke’s eyes lit up, and by the quiet groans of the servants behind him, Dante knew he had messed up.

“Of course!” his mouth stretched into a wide grin, while tears began to freely flow from his eyes. “It was my father! My wonderful, glorious father! He perished unjustly so many years ago, but even now, my heart feels empty without his sterling presence by my side!”

Dante blinked, tuning the man out through years of practice. Instead he focused on who the man was mourning, feeling even more off balance than before.

His… father. The previous Duke of Iscrimo. A man who had died eight years ago.

Was this man seriously still in mourning? And so badly, at that.

Wow. It was a wonder Iscrimo was still functioning.

See, this was why republics were so much better than monarchies. You didn’t have to roll the dice every time your leader died.

And it seemed he’d rolled poorly today, because the Duke just kept going on, and on, and on. He couldn’t tell how long had passed, but he was certain that when he’d entered it was still light outside.

And yet, the man across from him just would. Stop. Talking!

Dante had met with many clients in his time as guildmaster. From pompous aristocrats to poverty stricken peasants, they all had at least one thing in common.

None were quite so pathetic as the Duke of Iscrimo.

“You agree, yes?” The Duke practically begged him, making Dante clock back into the conversation. “Please, you must agree, nobody else does!”

“Of course. His death was a great tragedy, and we all mourn him,” Dante agreed, lying through his teeth. Aventio Visconti’s ascension to power following the Pumilios Wars made him the most hated man in the south, with countless people celebrating his death.

It did make him wonder, though, at the fact his son mourned him so strongly. Had he been such a good father? Aventio Visconti, the second greatest traitor in recent memory? Or…

Dante ran some quick mental math. The current Duke was twenty-one, and the old one had died eight years ago…

Huh. The man in front of him would have been around thirteen when his father died.

Dante felt himself become just the slightest bit more sympathetic.

Not much. Maybe he’d feel more sympathetic once he was allowed to leave.

“He was such an amazing warrior, you know?” the Duke moaned drunkenly, snatching another bottle off his desk. With a flick of one of his dirty, overgrown nails he quickly yanked out the cork, before he began chugging straight from the bottle. “He was mah idol. Taught me everything I know! If… if he was still around, I’m sure I’d be the best warrior in the world~”

Dante nodded, turning to look at the servant closest to him with pleading eyes.

‘Please,’ he begged them silently. ‘Get me out of this hell.’

The servant looked back at him with tired eyes. ‘It’s too late,’ their eyes replied. ‘All that’s left is to suffer with us.’

“My heart hurts so much with him gone!” the Duke wailed. “Especially now! It hurts! It hurts so, damn, much…!”

The Duke began choking, slamming a fist against his chest.

“Hurts…! Hurts…! Hurts so much!” he moaned, suddenly falling out of his chair. The suddenness of it shocked the rest of them into silence, even as he curled in on himself on the floor. “Hurts… father, it hurts…!”

“Duke Visconti!?” one of the servants finally broke out of her stupor, rushing forward. “My Duke, are you alright?”

“Father… father…!”

“Quickly!” she shouted at the others. “Go find the healers! Now, before he gets any worse!”

Dante couldn’t help but stare at the downed man with wide eyes, shocked stiff by what he was witnessing.

“Fa…ther…” the Duke rasped, reaching to the servant, clutching at her robes. “I see you now… father. Don’t worry… I’m coming…!”

“No my lord!” the servant screamed, shaking him in a vain effort to keep him grounded. “Don’t go there! Your father isn’t—I mean, you should go towards the light, not your father!”

“…”

But her words had no effect.

By the time the healers and the guards arrived, it was already too late.

The Duke of Iscrimo was dead.

And Dante, as the last outsider to see him, was taken into custody.