Dreadlands

Astril landed on his feet with his sword in his hand. The fall had been an instant and an eternity — a feeling familiar to one who had crossed existential barriers as often as he. In his many, many, many eons of life, he had slipped between the folds more times than he could remember, but always with good cause: an ally in need of rescue, a people in need of defending, a villain in need of vanquishing.

In this crossing, however, he felt different. The nobility of his cause had yet to be seen, as its outcome was yet to be written. He knew in his heart there was no other way — the bargain had to be struck. The stakes were too high. The price, costly as it was, would be worth paying. His only hope was that, upon arriving back home from this latest quest, there would be some parcel left he hadn’t mortgaged away for the chance at another tomorrow. That some piece of what he was fighting to hold on to still remained. And that it remained worth holding on to.

But something else felt different, too. The Ancients, immortal and immense as they are, don’t know how to speak with fear in their voice. There are few things in this reality that would give them pause, and even when they do, they learned long ago to welcome fear as a harbinger of worthy deeds. Fear, to the Ancients, was not a feeling to be shunned or suppressed, but something to be relished and welcomed. After all, if one never felt fear, then one could never truly be tested.

And the Ancients, immortal and immense as they are, love to be tested. So long ago, they simply forgot how to speak with fear in their voice.

And that is how Astril found himself short on words. This world, whatever it was, was not the Dreadlands of Dusk that await all Ancients when they pass from this world. He had come prepared to meet the shades of his ancestors, their funeral coverings torn from their shivering bodies to reveal the secrets they carried to this frigid, dark grave. He had steeled himself to meet whatever great sins his family’s legacy was built on — or whatever great monsters had come to rectify them — but was finding his steel suddenly and sorely lacking.

For he did not find his naked forebears, nor the dust he had been told would accompany his soul along its passage. The Twilight Coachman was not waiting with his lamp, nor did the skies rain tears. In fact, nothing about this hot, acrid world was like anything he had read about the dreary, lifeless Dreadlands.

These were not the Dreadlands at all.

“Where are we, deceiver?” Astril stood to his full height as he took in his surroundings. “I may be immortal, but even I know I will one day face my finality. This is not it.”

Larith, the strange imp that had sent his courtroom reeling upon his sudden apparition before the throne yesterday, smiled. “Deceiver? My lord Astril, whose immensity is imperiled by naught but his immortality, you wound me!” He half-floated, half-danced through the air as his sing-song voice slid into Astril’s ears.

“I am no fool, Larith. These are not the Dreadlands of Dusk.”

“Well, my most magnificent magnate, I have bad news, and good news, and then even worse news. The bad news is: yes, you’re right, these are not the Dreadlands. However-”

Larith was cut short by the point of Astril’s golden blade pressing against his throat. “No games, no jokes. Just tell me straight, vile one.”

It was only a moment, but it was unmistakable. The wee green liar’s face froze for an instant in fear before melting and twisting back into its grin. “I was just getting to that. If you would?” He tapped the flat of the amber blade. Astril did not move it.

“Very well. As I was saying: the bad news is that these are not the Dreadlands. However, the good news is that these are not the Dreadlands because the Dreadlands don’t exist.”

Astril cocked an eyebrow in confusion. “Don’t exist? What are you talking about? I have communed with my foregone ancestors and sought their wisdom. Where else would they be communing from if not the Dreadlands?”

Larith’s sing-song cadence continued, even from behind the blade. He was enjoying this. “Did you see these Dreadlands for yourself? Did you ask your ancestors if they were actually there?”

Astril may have forgotten how to speak with fear, but he had never let confusion leave him wordless before. “My mother taught me all I know of the Dreadlands. She spent weeks at a time in her chambers charting its terrain. There were none wiser than she, none who knew more of this world. She knew the Dreadlands, and she knew I knew the Dreadlands. When I communed with her, she said nothing about the Dreadlands not existing.”

Larith eyed a spot on the blade, rubbed it with his index finger, and brought it to his face to inspect it more closely. “Your mother, yes. And what did you ask her? And what did she say?”

“Her answer was for my ears alone, but I asked her of this great terror you say is coming for our world.”

He laid his fingers back upon the flat of the blade. “You asked your mother this?”

“Yes, damn it,” Astril growled. “I just told you, and I do not waste my words.”

Larith’s eyes widened as his fingers danced and twirled upon the blade.

“And you’re sure that was your mother?”

Astril recoiled in surprise. “What do you-”

Larith’s hands sprung forth to grip the blade before Astril could back away. Its edges dug into his palms; the fabric of his gloves was quickly saturated and blood ran down the blade toward the hilt. He pulled himself closer to Astril, his grin a twisting, growing slit across his face.

“I said I had bad news, good news, and even worse news, prince. That was the good news. Would you like to hear the even worse?”

Astril stammered, but nothing coherent came out. For once, surrounded by sulfur, smoke, and screams, the Ancient found himself without words.

“The bad news is that these aren’t the Dreadlands. I have tricked you. The good news is that the Dreadlands of Dusk, the finality of all the Ancients where their worst secrets are revealed and the monsters come and they are locked in eternal struggle with their demons and blah blah blah etcetera etcetera etcetera — all of it isn’t real. It’s made up. Your hell doesn’t exist.”

Astril had forgotten how to speak, for his voice was filled with fear.

“However — and here’s where it gets even worse — there are many other kinds of hells.”

Larith stood up to his full height — a great deal taller than Astril’s. In a flash and a pillar of smoke, the imp was gone, replaced by a towering figure twice Astril’s size. Huge horns spread out from the fiery crown on his head and great leathery wings sprouted from his shoulders. He snapped Astril’s blade with his fingers and snatched him up in his hands. Astril attempted to free himself, but was overpowered by the hulking brute. Larith’s breath was hot, and smoky, and laced across the prince’s face, drawing thin lines of blood as it did.

“And this hell… is mine.”

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