CHAPTER FORTY

STAIRWAY TO HELL (PART II)

FLOOR FOUR

Here lies a great golden door ornamented with jewels in the shape of two intertwined dragons.

“It is locked!” Tyr says trying to open it.

“Move aside,” Noname adds approaching the door with a smirk.

Drawing out her lock pick set, she gets to work. With a few moves here and there, she steps back.

“Did you unlock it?” Ulric asks.

“Are nobles stinky?” Noname asks.

“No?” Ulric answers, unsure of the question.

Noname thinks for a moment. They are stinky, but do they stink? She does not know.

“It is unlocked,” Noname answers at her moment of thieving triumph.

The first glance of this floor is denied by a blinding light. It takes a while to adjust their eyes. Hoarded gold, silver, precious jewels lie scattered on the ground; various rooms filled with many more. In some, the entry is barred from the stockpiled treasures.

“Is dis heaven?” Noname blurts out running to the nearest gold as she unconsciously grabs it. There is no room in her bag and pockets as the gold sips out.

“What are you doing?” Shaphas angrily asks.

“Wat it look like? Taking gold,” Noname responds by filling her pockets.

“We don’t have time for this!” Ulric yells.

“This could buy all the drinks in the world,” Tyr adds, gleaming over it.

“Are you two serious?” Shaphas adds, visibly annoyed as the party argues.

Melione walks away drawn to a silver necklace; she remembers.

When she was a young girl, she wanted her parents to buy one like this from a traveling merchant but they didn’t for it was too expensive. She can take it now. It is close. Her hand moves towards it as it stops.

She remembers the words she was told that quenched her tantrum.

“There is only one wealth in this world and that is love,” Melione says out loud as the party stops their bickering and looks at her with confusion.

“Love?” Noname repeats as she bursts out laughing.

“Listen here girl wealth can buy you everything,” Tyr says approaching her.

“Can I buy back the dead?” Melione genuinely asks, looking at him for an answer.

Tyr and Noname remember the ones that died as their expressions turn from a smile to a sour look.

“Let’s go,” Tyr adds.

“Ya,” Noname concurs.

Can it buy the dead, Melione thinks, looking at the back of her companions? They pass the gold, and silver as they head upwards.

FLOOR FIVE

The melody of the fifth floor sounds. Screams. Filled with fighting pits the mystics wail on each other as flesh bleeds and bones break. Their eyes focused on the battles as they wait for their turns; eyeing with a ferocious expression yet also a delightful one. Those that lose are taken out with their broken bodies as the soulless masked men attend to their injuries only to be sent back as soon as they can barely walk. There is no mercy, only combat.

“This is inhumane,” Shaphas adds as the party sneaks past them, avoiding standing out as much as possible. Each scream and bone crack draws their gaze draws, hard to ignore.

“Is it?” Tyr asks, hiding that this is a genuine question.

“No wonder they are unnatural,” Ulric adds.

“Come on! The sooner we finish this, the sooner we go home,” Noname adds.

Tyr remembers his youth, he remembers training for the Black Knights. It is similar. He once broke a young girl’s arms as the other children cheered from above. He can still see vividly see her expression and hear the scream she made. There was no choice. It was him or her.

I had no choice, Tyr thinks to himself! Did I?

Remembering the joy he felt for his victory, he felt immense pride. He did indeed; now shame.

Broken bodies, blood, and open wounds are an all-to-common sight here.

They hear another yell. Tyr turns to it as if fear gripped him, but it isn’t fear. No. He fears nothing, not anymore. Only shame.

They reach the next stairway drawing no attention. Too easy, they think. Almost as if those mystics are not living; focused on becoming less and less human until no trace of humanity remain.

Tyr drops for a moment as his legs fail him.

“Tyr, what is wrong?” Shaphas asks, rushing to him.

“It is nothing,” Tyr stands with a helping hand.

“Ya shouldn’t have drunk all dat,” Noname adds.

“The wine?” Ulric adds.

“Yeah. I guess I shouldn’t have,” Tyr says, moving along; his hand tightly gripping his sword.

FLOOR SIX

The dim glow of candle flames gently stands on the ever-encompassing darkness; emanating a slight warmth throughout the cold. Hymn’s in the dark chant deeply in an unknown language. They bring chills to the newcomer’s skin as strands of hair rise, electrified. The small lights illuminate an enormous statue of a man standing with a book in his right arm and a staff in his left. Candles on the statue and candles on the ground shine brightly.

Shaphas observes the blasphemy of the mystics worshiping a false deity. He cannot help but feel admiration for the beautiful sentiment, even though he knows this is an act of heretics. Beautiful and dark. What would Aion say to this simple act of betrayal? Would he forgive the fleeting emotion and the inability to control them in this situation or would he harshly judge such an act?

The motionless kneeling mystics remain inhumanly focused even here. There is no doubt in their eyes or their chants. Can he say the same for as strong as his faith is it is still not flawless? He feels something swelling inside him; is it admiration? No, it cannot be that.

I refuse to believe it, Shaphas thinks, clenching his fists.

“The darkness will help us to...” Ulric gently speaks as he gets cut off.

“Don’t!” Noname adds.

“Don’t?” Ulric asks.

“Do not jinx us,” Noname says glancing left and right.

Always do your best, for mistakes are too costly.

The party walks through the pathway of lit candles, treading carefully not to make too much sound or to step on one. Further ahead, on the candle road, more scenes of prayer unravel before them. Kneeling and chanting mystics in front of various idols under the candle lights in the darkness.

“This gives me the creeps,” Noname murmurs to herself.

“Some search for something greater to follow, for they have no path of their own,” Tyr answers.

Ulric and Shaphas throw a grin at him, but they do not speak. Silence is key. Melione looks around trying to think about herself, her journey, and her revenge... nothing comes to mind. The more she tries, the blanker her mind goes. No path of their own?

Do I have one, Melione thinks?

She takes a deep sniff around in hope her nose will lead her like it always has, but there is nothing. Follow your nose? What if there is no nose to follow? Ulric appears near her, grabbing her hand as he leads her forward. This isn’t so bad if nothing else, at least I have fun.

Having fun is good, Melione thinks. This is her way.

They reach the stairs for the upper floors as, suddenly, two mystics appear in front of them. The party stops. Paying no attention to them they haul a young, whimpering girl in chains. Body too broken to struggle or scream the only strength she has is to gently weep. They pass the party not paying attention to them; they sigh in relief. The path before them is clear but something keeps them from moving onwards.

Bringing the chained girl the two mystics put her on a table.

“This one has failed,” the female mystic says.

“She is not worthy,” the male mystic adds.

“Not worthy! Not worthy!” the other mystics repeat.

Back at the stairs, the party observes the spectacle.

“What is this?” Shaphas rhetorically asks.

“I think we should move,” Tyr adds.

“What will happen here?” Shaphas asks.

“Nuttin good,” Noname adds.

“Look!” Ulric says, pointing at them.

The mystics lie the girl on a ceremonial table as they tie her up; she tries a single struggle to break free but gives up.

“You have been given a great honor of being in the presence of God Boreas but you have failed,” the female mystic says.

“Please,” the young girl barely lets out her cry for mercy.

“Do not be afraid for you will still be allowed to contribute,” the male mystics says smiling at the girl.

“Please,” the young girl repeats, barely audible this time.

“Praise be Boreas!” the female mystic says.

“Praise be Boreas! For he is the way from mortality to immortality,” the kneeling mystics chant raising their hands in the air.

“Praise be Boreas,” the female mystic raises a dagger in the air.

“This is the time,” Shaphas asks.

“Let’s do it,” Ulric adds.

“Ya,” Noname adds.

“Quickly,” Tyr says.

Melione nods. They make eye contact with the little girl who spells P-L-E-A-S-E one more time. One last time.

The female mystic plunges the dagger in the girl’s heart as she takes one last breath; she dies. Blood pours from the wound as the mystics grab it and smear it on their faces. The stairway to the upper floor lies empty. They turn and proceed up, some with a heavy heart others less.