Sunk

Freedom from illusions lies only in not believing in them.

A master courier and his apprentice observed an abandoned cabin that slumped in the thick mire like a rotting carcass. They anticipated a signal from their decoy any moment now. Gregory, the apprentice, adamantly detested coming this far west into Cawgmunt territory for a mission. The trees sweat out the muck and bile from the sweltering heat of the mid-day sun, and the flying pests were more than unruly, they were outright dangerous. It’s no wonder the groaken natives were so driven to violence.

“Damn bugs,” Gregory sighed, swatting at the blood- sucking vagrant that attached to his neck.

“Quit your whining, boy,” his master said.

The master sat on the broad root of a bog-tree, while Gregory kept watch. Bog-tree bark was excellent for carving so his master had collected samples when they arrived a week ago. He was an odd man, but not the strangest courier Gregory had ever met in his short tenure.

Scars covered the master’s face and his hair hung like silver snakes from his cap. Bits of whittled bark fell at his side while he carved the bog-tree wood into a mask. The second of a pair.

Master Pharis’ gaze was numb. When speaking to him he always seemed to be looking through you rather than at you, and his eyes reflected a deep pain. If asked how he was doing, he’d always say the same vacuous phrase, “While the light’s on, I’m doing fine.” It was infuriating to someone as perpetually curious and witted as Gregory to be chained to such a ghastly and dull man.

Carving was a form of meditation for the fifty-year-old master. It kept him content. A state of emotion that provided Gregory a modicum of sanity. When the memories of his master’s tormented past surfaced is when things went south.

Pharis’ fingers slipped and his knife severed a chunk of wood from the mask and sliced into his palm. The chunk fell and splashed muck-water up against his long, black topcoat. He grimaced, swatting the water from it, and tied a small bit of cloth around his wound.

“Still prefer this over transporting—what did you call them again—privileged political peonies, that have a spoon so far down their throat that they’re shitting silver?” Gregory asked.

Pharis scoffed. He tucked away his knife and sunk back against the tree.

“The swamp waters don’t bicker about who’s got the largest vineyard, nor do the trees fill the gullible with false promises. No, I’d much rather be here than spend another minute in a cramped carriage with those idiots.” Pharis said, wiping the sweat from his brow.

“At least we could sleep in the carriages. Staying up all night in a swamp trailing babbling lunatics isn’t much better.”

Gregory yawned and cast his emerald eyes back down his binoculars. He was a handsome man for a courier. Most ended up with mutilating scars and missing appendages by their late twenties, but he was unblemished. He proudly bore the title of “Pretty boy,” from his superiors when they returned to Luxmel between missions.

An owl swooped past the men and landed on a weak branch that looked like a crooked finger. Pharis beamed at the peculiar bird. Its wide, amber eyes glowered at him for a moment before losing interest. He squeezed the crimson sash that clung to his waist and took a deep breath.

“Does it end well for us?” Pharis asked the owl.

The owl, ignoring the two men, pecked at its wing, cleaning out bits of debris. Its feathers were speckled black and purple like a twilit sky.

“Did you say something master?”
“Do you see that?” Pharis pointed at the owl.
“Do I see what?”
“An owl, just above us in that tree.”
“What about it?’ Gregory turned back to scan the perimeter of the cabin again. It would be any moment now, no more distractions.

“It’s the middle of the day.” Pharis said, marveling at its distinct feather pattern.

A moment later the owl took off, snapping the branch when it left.

“Quiet master, I think that’s him.” Gregory whispered. A faint candle-light cast its glow on the inside of the second- floor window. The light dimmed and grew brighter—three times.

“Three flashes, he’s not alone.” Gregory said. He armed himself with his Garenthal flint-lock pistol. A firearm fashioned specifically for the dangerous encounters couriers often find themselves in. Pharis pulled his own pistol from the holster on his pant leg and and followed suit.

“You remember the plan, son?”

“Yes, master.” Gregory said, “Clear the bottom floor, you’ll stay behind to cover the rear while I extract our informant.”

“And?”

“And-” Gregory looked at the cabin and then back at his master, “And what?”

“Is it on?” Pharis pointed at his neck. Gregory nodded and pulled a thin necklace with a small stone tablet hanging from it. Etched into the clean white surface of the tablet was the symbol of the Rokotisi. The lines glowed a faint a turquoise.

“That’s odd.” Gregory said inspecting it, “Thing must be defective.”

Pharis grunted and tossed Gregory his own necklace charm.

“Just in case.” Pharis said.

“There aren’t any reports of afterlight in Cawgmunt, master. I don’t think I’ll be needing-”

“Put it on.”

“Yes, master.” Gregory sighed and strapped the trinket around his neck, tucking it under his coat.

Swirling globs of mucus-colored water splashed around the men’s legs with each step they took. Bubbles formed from the heat and popped, splattering their heavy coats. Gregory looked down and stopped. Bits of dead animal floated to the surface, dragging against his shin as it festered in the sunlight. He put his hand over his mouth to keep from vomiting. Couriers were used to the smell of death, but nothing so putrid had ever breached his nostrils.

“Quiet. They’ll hear if you retch in the bog, boy.” Pharis whispered as he passed by. Gregory nodded and continued on. It wasn’t much further to the dock-like infrastructure that separated the cabin from sinking into the bog. A flash of cold air gave Gregory goosebumps, and made his sweat feel like a splash of arctic rain. They hurdled themselves up the side of the deck and pressed their backs against the soggy oak wall of the cabin. It’s loose boards felt like the whole thing would collapse on them if they pressed to hard.

“Do you see that?” Pharis whispered.
“What is it?”
“Your breath, I can see it.”
Pharis looked up into the sky, past the trees. The sweltering

sun that had covered them with the sweat and stink of summer was still sitting atop it’s throne watching over them.

“First whiff of sulfur, we leave.” Pharis whispered back.

They passed each window slowly. Gregory loved this part. It reminded him of when he was young: he and his brother would play games of hide-and-seek in the countryside pastures. Little Benjamin would always spend so long looking under obvious places that it gave Gregory time to scurry from hiding spot-to-hiding spot.

The cabin entryway had marks along the floorboards up to the base of the door like someone was dragged away by their nails. Pharis pressed his fingers against the marks.

“Human hands. Traces of blood, no sign of the rot. They wanted to get in to the cabin, but something kept it out, something large.”

“A groaken maybe?” Gregory asked.

“Doubtful, I don’t see any footprints. Groaken are too heavy and dirty to not leave a mark.”

Gregory pressed his ear against the door. A quiet whisper thrummed beyond the threshold, but he couldn’t make out what it said. He motioned with his hands, indicating that he had heard something to his master. Pharis simply nodded.

He opened the door slowly, his eye focused down the barrel of his pistol. It was dark inside; the only light came from the windows. Scanning right-to-left with his finger tightly pressed against the trigger, he entered the room. There was no one there.

The stench of soaked logs and rotting animal flesh pierced Gregory’s nose. Heavy piles of wood were scattered across the floor, shards of broken glass splintered throughout it, and a dark fluid dripped from parts of the ceiling.

“Rom bless us, can the smells get any worse?” Gregory covered his face with his shirt.

“Is it clear, Gregory?” Pharis whispered.

“Yes, master. Watch your feet, there’s shattered glass everywhere.”

Pharis crept inside, shut the door behind them, and fixed a loose board against the handle to keep it from opening. He pointed to the staircase leading to the second floor and motioned for his apprentice to stay quiet. Gregory nodded and lightly pressed the first stair with his foot. An audible creek.

The two shared a glance. No murmurs or taps came from upstairs, not even a creaking board from a footstep nor a cough. Gregory knelt down and tapped a rune carved into the heel of his leather boot. It let off a little glimmer of green light. He pressed his foot back down soundlessly and became weightless like a feather as he stepped the rest of the way up.

Pharis took roost at the base of the stairs and waved his hand at Gregory to continue on alone, as planned. Pharis wasn’t nearly as agile as his apprentice since the incident with the grundleworts. The vicious little biters had taken a good chunk of his ankle on their last trip through Rookshire Vale. He pointed his pistol at the front door and leaned against the wall for support. Something felt off. Gregory watched over his shoulder as his master stumbled over to the door. It was unusual behaviour, even for Pharis.

Gregory turned the corner to stare down an open hallway. His fingers and toes immediately grew numb and his nose runny. The thick, pungent, sulfuric odor he’d been taught to associate with afterlight passed through his nose. There was no haze though, no reflective strains of bending light, in fact this shack felt remarkably calm for it to be covered in haze. His breathing quickened with his heartbeat.

Turn back. His head told him. Listen to your master, the sulfur. No. Gregory had seen afterlight at least a hundred times now, and wasn’t it. Pharis is just having another one of his episodes.

He started down the musty hallway. Each doorway was a threat. He pressed his back against the wall, took a deep breath, and span around pointing his pistol at whatever greeted him beyond the threshold. The first door, there was nothing but a shattered bed-frame. The second, was an empty closet. The third, a spread of three rat carcasses being eaten by bugs. Fortunately, each room hid no secrets. When he made it to the room with the dim light, he kicked the door open. A delicately crafted wooden chair stood in the center of the room facing the window. Its texture unblemished and legs unbroken.

The informant sat in the chair holding a teacup on his lap, a lit candle placed inside it. Beneath the chair was a pool of sam viscous ooze that was dripping through the floorboards on the first floor. Gregory clutched his pistol tightly and took one step at a time towards the man.

“Peter,” Gregory whispered, “where are the others?”
Peter didn’t respond, his head hanging limply to one side. Gregory came around the front to see if his old friend was

asleep or unconscious. The figure didn’t move as he circled around him, but what Gregory saw made his jaw drop and his heart freeze.

Peter no longer had a face.

Gregory shook and fell backwards, dropping his pistol to the floor. Peter’s features: his eyes, nose, and mouth, were gone. It was a blank slate. Peter’s body held the teacup delicately in its fingers.

“Az- Aza- Az,” Gregory said, choking on his words, “No-”

Gregory watched in horror as Peter’s head melted down like water, bits tumbling to the floor, bursting into large umber moths that covered the walls of the room. Their tymbal squeaks filled the room—cackling madness. Gregory plugged his ears but it was too late. The The teacup shattered and the candle rolled along the floor, lighting the pool of black fluid ablaze.

“Leave now!” Gregory screamed as he flew down the staircase, “Master, we’re in afterlight. We need to leave!”

His master was silent, with his back pressed against the front door. His eyes lifeless. A trail of blood spilled from his nostril down his mouth. Gregory frozen in place before him.

“It’s over.” The master said.
“Master, it was Peter. They—it took his face. It was Aza-” “You did great, son.” Pharis said calmly.
“What?”
“I couldn’t have asked for a better apprentice, Gregory.” Pharis pressed his hand against the door, his body was nearly limp like an unmanned marionette. His voice as his, but it also wasn’t. Gregory looked into the man’s eyes. They looked hollowed out, like they were hiding back near the center of his skull. Pupils dilated He was losing it.

“Master—I’m not leaving you.”

“I gave you my necklace. It’s too late for me. The beasts are just outside this door, waiting. And, they’re very hungry.”

Gregory pulled the necklace out that was tucked under his coat. The symbol carved into the white stone that hung from it glowed a faint blue and lightly shook.

“We couldn’t have known, we would have seen it—noticed something.”

“Go, now.”
“Not without-”
The master pressed the barrel of his pistol against his temple.
“I’ll see you on the other side, son.” “No-”

Pharis pulled the trigger, and with a pop, the man that Gregory had trained under for the past three years was gone. Just like that, his blood painting the door.

The front door creaked open. Beyond the threshold there were no monsters or fanatics. Just an owl, perched on a nearby tree, watching Gregory collapse to the floor in grief.