The Angler

Carl Ellis

(Originally printed in Gwyllion Magazine Issue 8, May 2024)

Gargoyles stared across the thin and winding path, cast in the harsh glow of torchlight, their mausoleums silent and stretching into the midnight pitch. I wrenched open the rusted iron gate, sending a screech of red-brown hinges echoing down the steep, winding stairs before us. A maw with metal teeth and a gullet of stone sinking to the levels below, the layers upon layers of ancient dead, each necropolis built upon a foundation of the past, as the city of Iber sank slowly, inevitably, into the swamp.

“Down here, three levels deep to the tomb of a Glanfan boatmaster. An hour’s easy delve”.

The two adventurers I had acquired, Ivy and Boyd, looked skeptical at the descending stairs. I opened my pack before them, showing the fist-sized chunk of diamond, the book, and the small packet of spices. The diamond caught the torchlight, reflecting an amber glow back onto the hungry faces of the pair.

“You’re saying there’s enough gems to fill up whole sacks? Why didn’t you grab more the first time you were there?”

Boyd revealed yellowing teeth as he spat to the side.

“My friends, the last time I was here I was fleeing for my life and grabbed what I could. A beast caught the priest with me and his life paid for my escape. Why risk it again when I couldn’t haul them out even if I wanted? Besides, I hear you two are trustworthy and brave if there is coin to share.”

Ivy’s rusty chainmail clinked as she laughed.

“For a sack full of gems, and that one in your bag if we fail, you can trust us more than your mother.”

They shared a furtive glance, filth-smeared faces showing their intent as clearly as the bright birds who dance upon the upper floors, where the sun still shines. I kept my face innocent, pliable, and led the pair down the stairs.

Through ancient chambers we stalked, down naked staircases clinging to sheer walls—a lower floor far beneath in the dark—under silent ancient vaulting archways, forded streams sourced from leaks in the outer walls, the swamp trying in earnest to claim the dead of the city. Three more levels we descended, the last down a spiral stairway more water than stone, a constant boot-high torrent eating the steps which lay before us like an endless ramp.

Boyd and Ivy would on occasion check a grave, a mausoleum, or a barrow to find all looted and empty. The lack of bodies made the presence of spirits more palpable, for they huddled close to my torchlight—hands upon weapons.

Upon the final floor of our journey we were set upon by a half-score of bulbous misshapen rats, vomiting with the effort of chasing us. Ivy swung her mace, rupturing them like rotten melons. We moved on, the survivors slurping on their fallen brethren, chase abandoned for a fresh meal.

After much more than an hour, I brought them to the longboat with stone sails that rode upon a marble wave. The door to the captain’s cabin was smote upon the deck, which I told the pair was the work of the priest on our last visit.

“This sailor was a pious and suspicious man, for there are many wards and rituals required to pass into his internment. Salt to ward our spirits, pepper to burn away malevolent essences, and stories to distract the guardians.”

As I spoke, spice packets in hand, I sprinkled us all with salt and pepper, patting the book in my satchel at my side. Within the cabin we found a broken stone coffin, which I declared a decoy, and so led the pair to the ship’s hold, filled with stone barrels, bolts, all carved as if made of living wood. At the back stood a circular stone portal, surrounded by runes, angels, and scrollwork.

I touched each rune in sequence, spoke a prayer to Amanet—they who ward the dead—such that with my final note the portal mirrored my singing open mouth, revealing a long passageway towards gleaming diamonds, catching our amber light. Boyd and Ivy, like children before sweet rolls, grinned and pressed forward. I followed, tasting the salt, pepper, hope, and wonder upon my tongue.

They came to the chamber of diamonds after a short run, its jet-black walls bulging close, the piled gems having tumbled from a crack in the ceiling. I lingered just outside, placing a book onto a hidden shelf. A new recipe book to ponder, to dream of. The black chamber shook with my hunger, more gems and brittle black bones tumbled onto Boyd. He picked up a blackened pelvis, breaking it like charcoal between his fingers. Eyes wide with fright, a deer tumbling into the trap, full knowledge of his mortality wrapped him like a veil.

“Careful now Boyd, stress and fear taste awful, fill your sacks, make for the bright surface. Eat the sweet meats and dance the fast songs, chase the …”

Ivy interrupted me with a swing of her mace, removing most of my head above the ears. I didn’t need my eyes here though, for I know all which happens within myself. They would grow back. I moved towards the pair, who stood with weapons raised and sacks full. Ivy struck her mace across Boyd’s knees, took his sack, and fled.

I caught her body in stone teeth, but let her mind wonder, seeing the city of graves outside. Hope would balance the dread, would season her soul. The joys of fresh hot food were new to me, but worth the effort, for the cold bland dead held no feelings.

What luck, that the bright rocks made from those crushed within my gut hold such a pull to my meals: a delectable cycle. My eyes were growing back now, soon they would be able to read again. I will sit, browse my new book, giving in to intemperance and gluttony with the screaming mewling Boyd. I’ll let Ivy simmer in delusion, for hope takes longest to blanch.