"I'm not supposed to be here."
There was no one to answer a terrified Caroline Bigfellow.
She was standing underground, in a twisting and turning corridor roughly hewn from solid rock. It was narrow and the ceiling hung low, forcing her to stoop down. The rock itself shed forth a reddish glow that gave dim illumination but no comfort.
It was hot. It was too hot.
She abruptly realized that she was wearing only her grey yukata robe. She was barefoot, and the rocky floor underneath her made her feet ache from the heat, and from numerous small abrasions, cuts and scrapes every time she took a step.
How did I get here?
It was a question Caroline couldn't answer. She couldn't even remember where she had been before she suddenly realized she wasn't there anymore. The Brass Dragon? Her cabin?
She did know one thing, however. She had to get out of here.
She had to get out of here fast.
The pain in her feet was getting worse. After what seemed like only a few minutes of walking in an awkward bent position, they were already swollen and festering with angry red blotches. It was getting almost impossible to keep going.
Caroline sank down to a sitting position on the unforgiving floor and kept her feet raised above it. She had to give them a moment's respite, despite the pain already starting to build in her backside.
There had been nothing but more tunnel. Not even a side passageway.
Caroline Bigfellow hung her head and started to cry for her husband. Her tears filled her eyes and her ears until she thought they must surely quench the infernal heat, but they didn't. Even when she stopped crying, she could still hear the echoes of her sobs-
No. They weren't echoes.
Someone else was crying.
Caroline whipped her head to both sides, but there was no sign of anyone.
She glanced back at the wall behind her. It almost seemed as if the crying was coming from inside the stone.
She frowned. Could there be a chamber on the other side of a thin stone wall? And might it be cooler there?
Caroline pressed her ear aginst the rock- and immediately pulled black, crying and rubbing at the burn blisters already forming there. She cursed herself for her stupidity, then turned her head around and put her other ear as close as she dared to the surface.
Despite the heat, she shivered. The crying she could hear the most pitiable she'd ever heard. It was a cacophony of moans, wails and sobs. Caroline couldn't make out any specific words.
Whoever was on the other side was suffering worse than she was, and Caroline wasn't so eager anymore to find a way to join them.
The breeze Caroline felt on her cheek was little more than a whisper, but it was enough for her to peer down the corridor the way she had come.
The wind picked up slightly and a voice came, carried aloft by it.
Death and oblivion.
How often mortals confuse the two.
We of course know better, but how they yearn to escape the inevitable.
How often have we laughed at them?
How often have we indulged them?
Given them the bitter taste of unlife?
And how damned must a soul be, when denied even their own self-inflicted agony, to pine for their private Hell over ours?Is it not their own proverb which states how misery loves company?
So be it. Folly and determination are close enough kin for our purposes.
One more chance for this one- or at least let him think so.
The following are to be assembled under the auspices of their Most Dread and Awful Presence;
Let thirty generations pass from home. Every vestige must suffer at least a while.
The hair of his children. A reminder of the pain of ungrateful offspring- of any species.
The soul shell of a servant. What is a ceremony without a feast?
The blood of his slayers, for he himself has only dust to offer.
The eye of a descendant, so that he may see clearly what he has wrought.
Memories among the stones, so no sin be forgotten.
The power behind his mirror, for his reflection already rests here with us.
And the soul itself, born again into the Joy of the twice-damned.
The wind passed by, taking the words with it.
These are the words of Dispater, Lord of The Second.
With a moan of pain, Caroline Bigfellow rose up back to her feet, and began limping down the corridor again.
She didn't want to follow those words, but she knew there was nothing the way she had came- and she'd never even make it back to her starting point in her condition.
She hadn't gotten very far before Caroline realized she could now hear the wailings and lamentations even without being next to the stone.
They were following her.
She had to stop.
The fire in Caroline's feet was traveling up her legs.
She pressed a hand against her stomach, willing the heat to go down with her mind, even though she knew it was an act of hopeless desperation.
She had to survive. Now of all times, it was essential that she survive.
Was it her imagination, or did the temperature drop just a little?
She concentrated again. Sweat from the effort joined the perspiration from the heat, drenching every inch of Caroline's skin that wasn't already soaked. Hot, salty sweat dripped into her eyes, and all she could do was try to wipe it clear with a hot, wet hand.
The temperature might have stabilized- it was hard to tell. It was still hotter than Caroline could stand, but she didn't seem able to make it any cooler with her mind.
The corridor here had widened a bit, and the ceiling was high enough so that she no longer had to duck or bend down, but there was still nothing but stone and the cries of agony that came from it.
And then Caroline Bigfellow heard The Voice.
No wind carried The Voice, and although it seemed to be coming from the direction she was traveling, it also seemed to come out of the very air around her at the same time. This was not telepathy- she could feel The Voice, listen to it bounce off the red-hot walls.
The Voice was deep. Very deep; more so than Aslan's, and even lower in pitch than Sir Davos Rahldent of Chendl.
The Voice held anger. White-hot anger. Hot enough to melt rock. Hot enough to burn souls.
The Voice held contempt. It carried in it the distance from an emperor to the lowliest slave; or even from a god to a flea.
The Voice only spoke one word, but in that one word the most terrifying aspect of all about The Voice became instantly known to Caroline Bigfellow.
The Voice was familiar.
"Greetings."
The Voice was also a liar.
There was nothing welcoming about that word; two meaningless syllables floating in a sea of molten rage.
And as the barely controlled fury of The Voice swept over here, Caroline Bigfellow knew that fear once again; the kind she hadn't felt in years.
It was a rigid fear. A terror that instantly locked up very muscle in her body. Even her lungs refused to work for fear of inhaling that anger that was coursing against her skin like a lava bath.
It was a fear that had its closest cousin in the most horrific torture; a pain that one would gladly die to escape from.
And the only reason Caroline Bigfellow did not beg for death from the fear engulfing her was that there was more at stake here than just her.
Eventually, slowly, the fear began to subside. Gulping for breath and wincing from her dry, cracked throat, Caroline managed a one-word hoarse whisper.
"You."
The Voice laughed, but again it lied. There was no more mirth in that laughter than there was water in the midst of flame.
"You remember me, Caroline Bigfellow? While certainly no one exists- or did exist, I should say- who was more memorable; I am still surprised when a mortal manages the most rudimentary of concepts."
The reality, if it was reality, of what she was hearing was too much for Caroline. Her back up against the side of the tunnel, she slowly slid down until she was sitting on the floor.
"It can't be you," she whispered again, shaking her head wildly as if she might literally fling the horrid thought out of her mind. "You- you're dead."
"I was dead when you first met me."
Caroline clenched her fists. A small trickle of anger tamped down on her fear, if only a little.
"You know what I mean!"
There was a short pause.
"Ah, but Caroline Bigfellow; you don't know what I mean."
Caroline was about to retort when suddenly a freezing cold injected itself into her back.
She screamed, hurling herself away from the wall, and saw a hand protruding from it.
It was spectral; transparent. Caroline watched as the ghostly fingers twisted, seeking the warm flesh they had just been ensconced in.
Shrieks and caterwauls came from what sounded like just inside the stone.
Caroline winced. The cold had offered no relief- in fact; it had fatigued her worse than the heat. Her insides felt stiff, and the skin on her back felt like it was hardening, as if from either a burn or severe frostbite.
She was sitting on her calves now, and they were turning red from the heat.
And as she looked around for some sign of escape for the hundredth time, it finally occurred to Caroline with some certainty that wherever she was, she was going to die here.
"You must forgive the specters of Dis, Lady Bigfellow. They do so hunger for the embrace of the living."
Caroline was about to utter a wordless wail of torment of her own when a new thought burst its way into her head with a startling clarity. It was so strong, and yet so simple an idea, that it even distracted her from the crippling heat.
"A dream. This is just a dream!" Caroline said, rising to her feet again, watching as the specter's hand withdrew into the stone wall.
The Voice actually sighed.
"Yes, Caroline Bigfellow. This is indeed, as you say, just a dream."
Bolstered now, Caroline began to limp forward again, ignoring the screams still following her from the walls.
The Voice was silent, and it suddenly occurred to Caroline that even though this was only a dream and she would wake up eventually, there must be some special significance to it, and it might be a good idea to gather as much information as she could in the meantime.
She smiled to herself. Argo would be proud of her.
"Those earlier words," she asked The Voice aloud. "Was that…"
"Dispater himself?" The Voice responded disdainfully, which seemed natural to it. "No, mortal; few even among the natives here have ever directly heard the Iron Lord speak. A maggot such as you would certainly never receive such an honor. The speaker's name, although I am certain this is meaningless to you; was Titivilus, his herald and messenger, enumerating the Iron Lord's instructions."
"Maggot, eh?' Caroline used her knowledge of the unreality of her situation to boost her courage. "Don't think much of us mortals, do you?"
The Voice laughed a lie again. "What is there to think about? What deep, cosmic thoughts run through the minds of most mortals? What can I find to eat today; will I have enough coin to buy what I need; what shall I wear to the festival; does this man or that woman love me; will my children be safe today; will troops pillage my farm as they pass through; will our king's negotiations yield war or peace; are my dear departed parents sharing the paradise of Celestia?"
"Mortals are fit for three things, Lady Bigfellow," The Voice continued, the very air temperature in the tunnel dropping slightly from its cold words. "To be ruled, to die, and to be damned."
Another thought came to Caroline.
"Yet you yourself were once a mortal."
The Voice sighed again.
"True. The most powerful in history, mind you- but still mortal all the same. It would be truth to confess that at the time I considered myself the most powerful being in the multiverse. I am, of course, not."
The Voice hesitated. "Yet."
Caroline stumbled on, wondering when the dream would end.
She had come across a cave, but the red glow from the walls only penetrated a few feet. Keeping close to one wall, she could see the other wall receding further and further away as she walked on until only a faint red glow could be seen in the distance.
The cries of the specters had faded away, but new sounds were starting to impinge on Caroline's ears.
The squealing of rats.
Bat wings fluttering overhead.
Shadows danced just outside her vision. Occasionally, one or more pair of small, glowing red eyes would peer at her from somewhere in the cavern's central darkness.
"So, what are you now?" Caroline asked The Voice, which had not spoken in a while.
"Now? Only a memory, Caroline Bigfellow. A hostless memtat, if you would ever read and believe the rubbish that is The Book of Rolex. A vestige, as arcane scholars of Oerth might postulate. A bodiless soul, denied its rightful place in this universe, some Aardian sages might say. Answers always depend on who is asked the questions, do they not?"
"Speaking of rubbish, what was Dispater talking about, anyway?"
The Voice suddenly laughed again. It was so loud that it made Caroline stop and cover her ears.
"Why Lady Bigfellow- haven't you ever wanted to revive a pleasant memory?"
Caroline's newfound courage floundered, and she began to stagger along as fast as she could. Either the heat was getting worse again, or her burns were finally becoming too severe to be ignored.
Why aren't I waking up, dammit? Do I need to find something first? How can I be in this much pain and not wake up? Please, Argo, my love; I don't want to dream about this anymore. I want to dream about you.
Tears filled Caroline's eyes again.
I want to dream about you.
Every step was turning into torture again. Her knees buckled.
About us. About all three of us.
"And now," The Voice interjected itself past her thoughts; "I do believe it is time."
Caroline's head snapped around. Ignoring the searing pain, she pressed one palm against the rocky wall to keep her shaking legs upright.
The Voice was different. It was no longer omnipresent.
It was very definitely coming from in front of her now.
"Time for what?" she croaked.
"Why, Caroline Bigfellow," The Voice responded with some surprise. "It's time for you to die."
Caroline screamed and hobbled away from the wall towards the center of the cave.
Away from the burning walls, it was noticeably cooler here, and even in her panic she cursed herself for not getting away from the heat as soon as she had entered the cave.
Then she remembered why she hadn't.
A rat-maybe- brushed past her leg as it scooted past. Bat wings far too large to be those of ordinary bats were flapping too close overhead.
"You can't!" Caroline screamed. "I can't die! This is only a dream- you said so yourself! This is only a dream! YOU SAID SO!"
There was another short pause, and then The Voice spoke again from somewhere off to her right.
"My dream, Caroline Bigfellow; not yours."
"Argo!" She shouted out, changing her course to the left. "Aslan! Elrohir! Cygnus! Tojo! Anyone, please help me!"
From in front of her, a little closer.
"Did you think that I could even for a moment tolerate the presence of one of you- the mortals who enjoyed the greatest stroke of undeserved good fortune in all of creation? Who took my one moment of distraction and turned it into the most unearned victory in all of history? Did you think the simple fact of my not yet existing could save you from me? You confuse death and oblivion, Caroline Bigfellow- but I will show you the difference."
Caroline shrieked again and whirled around, but she was completely lost. The red glows in the distance had vanished. The rats and other creatures had gone silent. Only the faint sound of a dog barking from somewhere far, far away could be heard.
Unlike all the other sounds, Caroline found that one comforting, and she began to limp towards where she thought it was coming from, but she was only guessing.
She was in the complete black of the void.
From her left, further off.
"I give you this one small comfort, Caroline Bigfellow. Know that your friends if they survive, or others if they do not, will learn an invaluable lesson from what they find of you."
Caroline staggered. She ran in circles. She cried out- to the dog, to Zeus, even to The Voice.
"No, please don't!"
From her right, closer now.
"If you would ever seek to kill one who would be a god, you had best finish the job-"
Right behind her.
"-OR IT'LL FINISH YOU!"
She spun around.
It was Him.
The rigid terror engulfed Caroline Bigfellow like a tsunami of stone. She completely froze up, unable to scream for an instant that seemed to last forever.
The dead hand shot out, piercing through Caroline's robe and into the skin of her stomach like it was a sheet of dried parchment.
And the fires of Hell erupted inside Caroline Bigfellow.
Caroline's blood attacked her.
It came gushing out of the wound as the hand withdrew, but the hot fluid leapt upwards, covering her body, her face, seeking her eyes, ears and nostrils.
She tried to scream again, but her blood poured down her throat and she swallowed it, and it came out through her belly and attacked her again.
Gagging, retching and flailing, Caroline collapsed to the ground-
-and fell off her bed in her cabin.
22nd Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY
The Brass Dragon Inn, Furyondy
She was still incoherent, but suddenly there was something in her arms, and Caroline threw her arms around Grock.
The wardog stopped barking and began licking Caroline's face furiously. The young woman hugged Grock even more fiercely and buried her face in the dog's short tan fur.
"I heard you, Grock. I heard you," she sobbed. "Thank you, thank you. You saved me. Lord Zeus told you to find me, didn't he?"
Grock simply continued to lick Caroline everywhere he could reach, and allowed his mistress to keep on hugging him until she was able to slowly sit up and draw in a huge breath.
She immediately pulled up her yukata robe and examined her stomach.
Unblemished.
She had no burns, cuts or other wounds. Only her mind still carried the scars.
Caroline exhaled what she reckoned must have been five pounds of air, and looked around her.
Her little home had never looked so good.
Caroline stood up, but her legs were still rubbery, so she sat back down on her bed. Keeping one hand on Grock at all times, she began to consider the situation.
That was it. That was that feeling I've had all these months. It all makes sense. I don't see how it's possible, but this was no mere dream. Let's see, who's at the inn now- Sir Dorbin, Monsrek, Fee Hal and Flond, I think. I'd best let them know about this.
She stood up and headed for the front door.
Maybe I can ask Monsrek for a sending to-
The fires of Hell erupted inside Caroline Bigfellow.
Her body spasmed into rigidity again, and she toppled like a statue to the floor, Grock barking and dancing around her all the time.
From somewhere outside, she heard the screaming of horses.
The pain was consuming her from inside. It was worse than the dream, it was happening, it was real, she was-
Caroline Bigfellow forced her mouth apart even as she felt her blood boil inside her.
"MOOOOONSREEEEKKKK!"
And Caroline Bigfellow began to bleed.