The Cat Who Knew How to Cry

13. BODY, SOUL AND SPIRIT (part 4)

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The battle was coming to an end. Like an iron broom, Inon's troops swept through the corridors of the ancient labyrinth, cleansing its dank corners of every manner of undead. There were jumping undead, undead crawling and flying, biting, undead stinging and spitting foul-smelling venom. Undead with souls and without...

Leaving his companions to deal with the semi-intelligent creatures spawned by death magic, Inon focused on those whose dead flesh concealed dim yet still quivering lights of captive souls. Unlike regular priests, Inon had neither armor nor symbols of the Merciful that protected those who wore them with an invisible shield. He had no weapons of any kind – he was a weapon unto himself, "a life-giving sword in Veindor's hand." With imperious strokes, Inon tore the souls from the bodies of the undead with the ease of a farmer deftly yanking carrots from the rich black soil. The priest breathed evenly, his heart beating slowly, rhythmically, as he strode forward to the beat of this internal metronome toward the center of the labyrinth, where, like the decaying carcass of an elephant, sprawled the House of Eternal Being. Their goal. The live lair of their current Enemy.

What from far away looked like the skeletons of ships piled in a heap, draped with thick faded pink vines and covered with ragged shreds of dark sails, up close appeared to be an amorphous creation, stripped of skin, like those hideously deformed monsters perforated by their own bones into which overly thrifty tourists are transformed as a result of cheap, defective portals.

It wasn't the first time Inon was seeing a creature like this – a "triumph of the flesh" lovingly assembled by necromancers from the corpses of thousands of their victims, but all the same his heart ached with pity and disgust. Just like the very first time...

He stopped to offer a short prayer to Veindor. It was not appropriate, after all, to administer justice while overflowing with hatred. The Merciful heeded him, and tranquility again descended on his faithful servant. Approaching the unnaturally small gates, which resembled the neck of a pink sack drawn tight, Inon even chuckled, thinking to himself, I wonder if the locals simply call them "doors," or do they use some anatomical term like "sphincter?"

It was hot and dank inside. Inon's soles parted from the floor with a crackle every time he lifted his feet – the floor was sticky and covered with dark streaks, like in a slaughterhouse. Beyond the bumpy living walls, something was roaring, bubbling, growling, buzzing, moaning, muttering – a muffled and nasal cacophony. From time to time he heard squishing claps, as if hunks of raw meat were being slapped over and over against a metal sheet.

Almost unopposed, the priests of the Merciful reached the central hall. Through the glass of its flat roof they could see the colored abdomens of huge beetles, devouring one another in the deathly light of the moon. Their innumerable feet scuttled along the smooth surface, among fragments of crystal, rusty nuts, bundles of hay, dandelion heads, scraps of posters and pieces of gilded furniture.

Hideous bas-reliefs stretched all along the walls, woven from glowing innards. Cat-shaped shadows raced across them – angular, broken, coal-black. Their insane dance hypnotized the priests, while the vibrating, hysterical, hungry cries made them grind their teeth. Inon looked down. He was now walking on a carpet of dirty, matted black fur, as if someone had dug up the body of a gigantic cat and ripped off its half-rotted skin. Small cemetery flowers were even stuck to it here and there.

In the center of the room, on a scaly stump bathed in blood, which looked like the stub of a dragon's neck, sat the master of the house. He was tall yet stooped, and tightly wrapped in a dirty, brownish, shapeless leather garment, traditional for members of his profession. Three bone golems stood before the necromancer, backs to their lord. At the feet of the first golem – long-necked with a flat, python-like head – lay a pile of thin sacks with buckles made of snake teeth. The second – black as a firebrand – was like a cat with disproportionately long fangs, clutching a basket containing dark waffles, collapsed in a tube. The third skeleton, also in the form of a cat, glimmered with chipping gold plating. It sat on the floor, ankles crossed delicately, with a glass bowl of animal bones resting on its lap.