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The Gates of the Underworld - Prologue
By Dac
Diabor fell, screaming, into the very bowels of the planet, sword in one hand, the other scrabbling at the side. His futile efforts seemed pitiful; he was dead, skewered upon the spear of the despicable triseerraquad, a demon of the swamp. He was dead, and from death there was no return. He fell for hours until he landed on a ground of brimstone, aching all over, and climbed unsteadily to his feet.
He was a vaguely human-like person, belonging to a race of people known as Lubbs. Lubbs always had straight hair, commonly black, or sometimes brown. He was one of these exceptions, with brown hair so light it seemed almost dark yellow. His eyes were a deep, deep blue, so piercing he seemed extraordinarily strong for his size. He was actually more peaceful than he seemed, though when he needed to, he would fight with a sudden ferocity that could nearly surpass the power in his eyes. It was he who struck down a large goblin that threatened the lives of his people in a village in Lubbland, homeland of all Lubbs. When a goblin force under Thragglor the Snarler appeared, Diabor did not hesitate to leap into the fray. After a horrible battle, Diabor had decapitated Thragglor, stuck his head on a pike and given it to the stunned remnants of Thragglor's force. The goblin's body was tossed into the murky forest Suthan Kar, for the rhino-like Gorls to rip apart and devour. In his hand he now clutched the same sword that had met Thragglor's neck: Durabsil, the blade of an ogre Diabor's father had once killed.
He put his guard up and readied his sword. He saw a large gate in the distance with a figure perched atop it, and he stumbled towards it. Cautiously, he approached it and looked up at the figure. It appeared to be a large human, covered completely in a large black cloak. No part of its body was visible, save for a menacing pair of lights, narrowed into slits, under the very hood of the cloak, like a cruel pair of eyes. These eyes were now trained on him, unrelenting. A horrible feeling filled his body, but mustering all the strength he had, he spoke to it.
"Good day to you," he began, with as much civil in his tongue as he could bring up. The figure looked at him and replied with a voice, such a voice as soft and menacing as the hiss of a snake, which instilled triple the fear in him of before.
"Good day yourself, master Lubb, for you need not worry about being polite after death."
Diabor looked at it, then at his feet.
"Then I truly am dead."
The figure laughed, a sound which chilled Diabor so much his hair stood on end and his bones went numb.
"Oh yes, it's impossible to live here. No living being comes here. People without a strong will go straight to the Underworld. Those who have a relatively strong will come to the Gates, the first of which you now stand at. Here the strong-of-will face the first trial: attempt to pass the gate with as much determination as you can muster. If I topple, you win, and then...we shall see. You may or may not advance to the second gate, though no one has yet."
"The second gate?" echoed Diabor. "How many of these gates are there?"
"Ten in all, and then the fortress of the Orakiermars. Each gate has a guardian like myself upon them. We are the Orakiermars, the spirits of Dacthar in the After World. Each of us carry our own weapons with us in case we need them, and there are eleven of us. Our lord, Orak, the 'Silent Spectre', rules the fortree in which we dwell. I am Targash, and my name means 'Wild Card', as I am the spirit of the eleven who is most unpredictable."
"You mention one named Orak...is your group named for him?"
"Oh yes, he is the mightiest of us, and is thus the sword slinger of us. My weapon is the great spear Delaglas."
As Targash said all of this, a horrible glint sparked to life in his cold merciless eyes. Diabor noticed this, and his terror increased fivefold. Targash continued to glare at him, and Diabor could find nothing to do but ask more questions; he didn't feel quite ready to advance upon the gate at that point.
"The spirits of Dacthar...what are they, if you don't mind my asking?"
"Is this really the time or place to ask of our history?"
"Why not?"
"Because...well..."
Targash trailed off and fell silent. The spark in his eyes, which had flared up at Diabor's question, diminished and smouldered now.
"Oh, very well. Billions of years ago, before Lubbs, ogres, trolls and the other various creatures of your world had emerged, there was a group of spirits called Indatios. The head of this group wa called Ilthodel, and he desired other life in among the stars. so he created a vast planet the size of a star. Onto this he poured his soul and thoughts, which became all of the people and animals and plants of today. The planet he name Liatt, on which you lived before today, your demise hour, as we say. Now, there were sixteen of these spirits, but over time, they eventually separated into two groups: Fledar and Dacthar. The Fledar, of which there were five, including Ilthodel, created all the joyous things in existence. The Dacthar, of which there were eleven under Dactyl the Silent, pried into and awoke things that make life hard, like pain and war. Ilthodel knew vaguely of our doings, but he didn't know enough. However, when a fight broke out on Liatt between creatures, he grew suspicious of us, and when the early ancestors of humans and goblins, the Bridlings and Lepgorgs, erupted into a war, he cast us away completely with a terrible rage. We fashioned ourselves our weapons and guard this world for eternity; Ilthodel set us guarding what we created, for indeed, without us death would be nothing. And now, you too, master Lubb, are dead."
Diabor pondered this when something Targash had said clicked.
"You said no living thing can survive down here, did you not?"
"I did indeed. Why do you ask?"
"Does that mean you and your friends are dead?"
Targash fell silent, and his eyes flew wide.
"How dare you! You...what are you doing?!"
Diabor had seized his chance. While Targash had been spluttering at such insolence, the Lubb had drawn his sword and was charged at the gate. He burst through and looked back at the wild card. The spirit shook unsteadily upon his platform...and fell, landing on the ground. Diabor glared at the fallen bundle of cloak and spirit, which soon climbed to its nonexistent feet.
"You insolent little rat! Do you not know who I am?!"
"I know all too well who you are, and I don't want to know. But I know that I have defeated you, so I must press on to the next gate."
He turned to go, but Targash wasn't done yet.
"Defeated me, have you? I think not, little Lubb. Come back and face me. Did I not mention, in the rare case that I fall, you must fight? You won't run to Flaarorg now, you shall face Delaglas with your sword."
And from within his cloak, he drew his spear Delaglas.
It had a long black shaft which seemed to shine in the dank light. At the head was a ring of bright red, which seemed to blaze with a flat fire. And the point was formidable; it was made of Leach, the hardest metal in existence, which could only be shaped by a flame long thought extinguished.
'Obviously not, if he keeps it in pristine order,' thought Diabor, but only a day before he had been impaled upon a spear. That would not happen again.
"You made a mistake, bringing me to your gate, Targash."
"Why is that?"
"I died upon a spear. Never again shall one pierce me, Leach or not."
"So you recognise this metal. And foolish yet admirable sentiments. But you fell me, something not done before. This will be a fight not to be forgotten."
Diabor let out a roar and charged at Targash, who lunged in and tried to stab the Lubb. Diabor knocked the stab away, striking the black spear shaft. He slashed endlessly at the spirit, who had to use the shaft of his spear to block the blows as fast as possible. Targash had clearly underestimated his opponent to a large extent, but he was learning fast. Suddenly, he leapt backwards. Diabor blinked, but Targash had something to say.
"That is no ordinary sword. Yes, that is no doubt one created in the days of the Dark Wizard, who had one wish: to destroy the warriors of times long past. He made a thousand and three of those swords, but all bar five were destroyed when the Wizard rebelled against Orak, his creator. Orak unleashed a deadly bombardment upon the Wizard's fortress near the Black Volcano, and created the canyon you know as the Open Doom. Then he sent down Gohodt, bearer of the battle-axe Golbur, and Gohodt cast down the Wizard. Well well, a Dieguito sword in the hands of a Lubb. That leaves four to be accounted for."
"Less talk, more fight," said Diabor simply.
"Very well, but I shall have that sword when you lose."
Diabor growled.
"No spear shall pierce me."
"Very well. I'll save your head. Orak can hang it in his fortress."
Targash drew back his arm and threw his spear with all his might. The spear flew at Diabor...and clashed with sword. The Lubb struck it away, and it slammed into the crumbling remains of the gate, which had collapsed shortly after its guardian, who was now defenseless, and he knew it. Diabor gripped his sword.
"I shall enjoy this..." he growled.
He sprinted at the spectre and, without hesitation, plunged his sword right between the glowing lights. Targash let out a raspy scream, but it cut off abruptly; the cavern roof suddenly cracked apart and a huge hole appeared, and through it shone a bright light. The light flashed upon Diabor, and suddenly, by some unseen force, Targash was thrown sideways into the broken gate. A ragged piece of cloth was left clinging to Diabor's sword, which he tossed away disdainfully.
A booming voice from light years above rang out in deafening tones.
"TARGASH. YOU HAVE TWICE BEEN DEFEATED BY THIS ONE LUBB. THUS HE HAS EARNED A DESOLATION."
"No, Ilthodel, no!" cried Targash.
"YES, WILD CARD. YOU HAVE FAILED AGAINST ME ONCE MORE. HE NOW LEAVES THE AFTER WORLD."
And despite the endless screams of objection by Targash, Diabor found himself floating upwards, away from Targash and the gate, towards a world where all thought him dead.
10/25/2003 3:12:59 AM
(Updated: 10/25/2003 3:22:01 AM)
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