Sinkhole
It came in the night, that deplorable abyss...
Darnby, by all accounts, was a forgettable town. The few who traveled the roads between Karnth and Vildebrand paid the village no mind. No one in Darnby had any money, nor did they have anything worth trading. Socks with holes and roofs with bigger holes were the norm. Even recruiters for the Dominion’s army avoided the town, knowing they’d find nothing more than cripples and malnourished boys who could barely hold a shovel right, let alone a magrifle. Life simply passed Darny by, leaving it to rust in the passage of time. Nothing interesting ever happened in that dingy old hamlet, and nothing ever would.
At least until the Sinkhole showed up.
It came in the night, that deplorable abyss, silent as the grave and deeper than hell was dark, out on the far side of town where the drought had drunk the last bit of fertile soil. Hardly a soul knew of the pit’s arrival, for it did not come in a flash of lightning, nor in a quake of the earth. Were it not for the curious wanderings of two orphan boys beyond the outskirts of town, the Sinkhole and the secrets it contained would have been allowed to fester in peace.
But it was not so.
***
Peint loved his older brother, but Layrn shared no such affections. Love was for girls and soft-bellied saps, not rugged men of the wilds like himself. Peint disagreed, which is why he feared for his brother’s life when Layrn volunteered to be the first to explore the Sinkhole.
Peint chewed on a tough bite of bread as he watched Layrn scramble over the pit’s ledge, dirtying his pants and hands in the process. He’d gotten the bread from Brother Kaiphas earlier that day. Monks weren’t supposed to give orphans bread, as Peint understood it, especially not ones who made a habit of skipping mass, but Kaiphas had struck a deal with them. As long as Peint promised to say his prayers, then Kaiphas would ensure to leave out the baker’s defects for him each day. True to his word, Kaiphas had left a fresh bowl on the back porch that morning.
Peint still neglected his prayers, even as Layrn gambled his very life, teetering on his belly over the lip of the Sinkhole. Layrn searched beneath himself with a foot, finding a loose stone in the process. Peint’s heart leapt into his mouth as Laryn’s fingernails bloodied trying to keep him from falling completely.
“Careful, Layrn!” He hissed in the faint light of the autumn moon.
“Shut it, Peint. You gotta let me focus.”
Layrn made use of a gnarled tree root woven through the dirt walls, sliding down its length and laughing as he went. Before long, Peint lost sight of Layrn entirely and could only hear his brother down there in the darkness. Soon, an unsettling silence crept its way up the abyss and filled Peint’s ears like water after a dive into the lake.
“Layrn?”
No response.
Peint ground another nervous bite of bread between his molars. He swallowed. There was a shout, then the sound of more rocks tumbling.
“Layrn!”
Peint was on his feet now, bread crumbled in the palm of his hand. He tried peering down into the hole, edging as close to the precipice as he dared. There was nothing. Just a frigid breeze from below that sent chills up his arms. Peint imagined Layrn’s body twisted and bent in the wrong angles, bleeding from bones that poked through skin. He’d never seen a dead body before, not unless you counted Sister Louinda’s visitation with the open casket ceremony. That had been a much less gorey affair than Peint had anticipated, and if you asked him, Louinda had it coming to her.
Just as Peint was about to follow after Layrn, he heard his brother’s voice call up to him.
“I’m okay! Just a bit of a fall is all.”
“Are your bones okay?” Peint yelled back down. There was a pause.
“My bones? What would be wrong with my bones?”
That was one question answered.
Relieved, Peint finally let himself take a breath. A few sharp clicks followed by sparks echoed up from the bottom of the Sinkhole. An orange flame burned to life, illuminating Layrn’s crooked face down below.
“Good thing I got my lighter! Can’t see anything down here.”
“Does it go any deeper?”
Layrn looked to his left, then to his right. “Yeah, I think I see something. I’m gonna check it out.”
“Do you need me to come too?”
“No! Stay up there, Peint. I’ll need you to call for help in case something happens. I’ll be right back.”
“Do you promise?”
“What?”
“Do you promise?”
“Oh. Yeah, yeah, I promise. Now sit tight!”
Layrn and his lighter disappeared, once again leaving Peint alone with his imagination. Seconds dragged on like minutes, and minutes like hours. Peint avoided the nearby forest’s edge with his eyes, trying not to imagine dark shapes stalking along the treeline. He found it easier to peer into the heart of the pit, waiting for any hint of Layrn’s return. No one knew they were out there, and no one cared. How would Peint know if something bad happened to his brother? For all he knew, some troll could be cleaning the meat off Layrn’s bones right now.
No, Peint told himself. Trolls aren’t real.
The night had grown old. So old that even the field crickets had retired off to bed. The black moon of Candahr reached its zenith in the sky, bathing all of Qadash in its ghastly glow. Peint’s stomach gnawed at him, begging for more bread that he didn’t have. Layrn had taken the rest of it.
Peint chewed on the edge of his shirt collar instead, hoping it would appease his fussy stomach.
Something called to him from within the Sinkhole then. The fuzz on his arms and neck stood on end, pulling the skin into tiny mounds like goose-flesh. Was it… whispering his name? The sound drew nearer, synonymous to that of ragged breathing and feet scuffing across dirt. Peint bit his lip, holding in the urge to call to his brother. There was no light, no lighter. No Layrn?
“Peint.” Another whisper, one that could not be ignored. “Peint? You there?”
“Who is it?”
A rock flew out from the bottom of the pit, nearly hitting Peint in the head. “Who the hell do you think it is?”
“Layrn?”
“No, Brother Kaiphas. Of course it’s me, you idiot.”
“Don’t call me that!”
“I’m coming up.”
More scuffling and grunting. Eventually Layrn’s dirty face poked up from beneath the Sinkehole’s lip. He stuck a hand out and Peint grabbed it, pulling his brother over the edge.
“My lighter ran out of fluid,” Layrn said.
“Did you find anything down there?”
Layrn flashed a devilish grin. “You won’t believe it.” He fumbled around in his pockets, hands coming up empty after checking each one. “Damnit, where’d it go?” He remembered, smirked again, then shoved a hand down his trousers.
A piece of treasure came out.
A bracelet. Circular, with two ends that didn’t meet, leaving a gap for a wrist to slip through. Gold, by the looks of it, and bespectacled with gemstones that reflected glints of starlight. Peint gasped, then reached for it. Layrn yanked it away.
“Careful!” The older brother scolded.
“What is it?”
“An artifact,” Layrn said, eyes fat with greed. “I found it on some old bones.”
“Bones? What kind?”
“Giant bones, Peint. Bigger than any man I’ve ever seen!”
Peint frowned. “How do you know it was a man?”
Layrn shrugged. “Its pelvis was too small.”
Made sense.
“You wouldn’t believe how much of this stuff was down there,” Layrn continued. “Tons of it! This was all I could carry back with me.”
“What should we do with it?”
“I got a plan, Peint.” Layrn always had a plan. “We’ll come back tomorrow night, me and you, and we’ll grab as much as we can!”
Peint didn’t particularly like that idea, but he did like seeing his brother’s excitement. “Okay. And what about the bracelet?”
“We’re gonna sell it, then get fat and rich.”
“Sell it to who?”
“I know a guy.”
***
Farnan Brost.
He was the kind of man who’d swindle the shirt off your back then turn around and sell it to you for triple the price, all while managing to convince you it was a good deal. Brost made his fortune running a fence on the edge of town. He’d take just about any trade for a bottle of his firebrand – a noxious liquor which he brewed himself in shiner dens hidden around Darnby. The drink was nothing more than rat poison, hardly able to hold a flame up to finer spirits like those from the vineyards in Vildebrand. It was swill, but the poor folk of Darnby drank it nonetheless. Dogs and their vomit, as the sayings go.
Farnan was a parasite. He’d sunk his teeth deep into the bellies of the townsfolk, growing fat as a tick off their meager possessions. Men and women alike would come each morning with whatever belongings they could muster, eager to exchange it for a taste of that firebrand. Brost took shoes, socks, table legs, and even teeth, on the rare occasion. It mattered little to him. Everything he conned off the sad, drunken saps he would later peddle to any passing caravan willing to swap chits for the junk.
King of the junk heap, ol’ Farnan Brost was.
Peint and Layrn found his lair in the early morning, while the sky was still bruised and the town was still sleeping. A young girl, just older than Layrn, was scrubbing the deck out front beneath the light of a crackling bug lantern. The girl’s eyes were heavy with bruise-shaded bags. Her frail arms barely made a dent in the porch’s grimy patina.
A lanky man in a collared hoodie lounged behind the front counter, shaving his calluses off with the same knife he’d just used to pick a bit of food from his teeth. A small droid rested atop the counter, replaying a holo of last week’s scramball game. He startled when he saw the two orphans approach the window.
“Starting them early, eh?” The man said. “Aren’t you two a little young to be fire-sick?”
“Shut-up, Pey Lan,” Layrn said. The man hadn’t recognized them.
“Oh, it’s you. Should’ve known. And who’s this? Your brother?”
Peint, not fond of the acknowledgement, hid himself behind Layrn’s arm.
“Don’t worry about who he is,” said Layrn. “Where’s Farnan?”
“He ain’t got time for kids, Layrn.”
“Tell him to make time.”
Pey Lan scoffed, spitting into an empty booze bottle. “Oh yeah? And why’s that?”
Layrn, with a courage unbefitting of his age, stepped up onto an empty bucket and got eye-level with the thug. He slammed a fist onto the table, the sound of metal on wood betraying what was tucked away behind his fingers. Pey Lan adjusted his posture, eyes growing interested. Layrn flipped his hand, letting the gold sparkle in the lamp light between his knuckles.
Words battled for space on Pey Lan’s lips, though none were actually spoken.
“It’s real,” Layrn said. “Tell Farnan.”
Pey Lan, in a moment of greed, snatched at Layrn’s wrist. Layrn, ever so perceptive, pulled away before getting grabbed.
“Tell. Farnan.”
Pey Lan spat on the counter this time. “Damn kid.” He stormed off, disappearing behind a sliding steel door.
They heard Brost coming long before they saw him. The cleaning girl, aware of the ensuing storm, took her sponge and disappeared around the back of the building. Soon, Farnan’s hulking frame darkened the porch. Beady white pupils atop tattooed scleras peered down at Layrn.
“What you got there boy?”
“Pey Lan didn’t tell you?”
Peint was shaking. He noticed his brother’s legs doing the same beneath the counter, yet somehow he kept his composure.
“Show me the gold, brat.” Farnan drummed his squared fingers along the countertop, unaware of the wet spot where Pey Lan had spat. Layrn opened his hand, revealing the piece within. The man’s breath caught. “Now where’d you get that?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Layrn said. “What matters is what I want for it.”
Brost’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t give fire to kids. They’ll burn themselves.”
Pey Lan snickered at that.
“Don’t want your drink. I want chits.”
“Bah!” Brost snorted. “Don’t work like that, sonny. I don’t get paid until I sell, and I don’t know if that little trinket of yours’ll sell.”
Layrn sighed, then slid the bracelet back into his pocket. “So you came out here to waste my time?”
Brost slammed a fist and drew his face up to Layrn’s. Much to his credit, the boy didn’t flinch. “You insolent little stray!”
Layrn stepped down from the bucket, taking his brother’s hand in his. “C’mon Peint, let's go.”
For a moment, the two boys thought they were going to leave without getting paid. They’d managed to make it off the porch before Farnan stopped them.
“Wait.”
Layrn flashed Peint a grin and squeezed his hand.
“What do you want for it?”
Layrn turned, eyes cool. “A twenty-mark.”
Pey Lan let out a hyena’s laugh, then caught a backhand from Brost that nearly put him through the wall.
“Fifteen,” Farnan growled.
“Eighteen.”
“Twelve.”
Layrn gave Peint a look, then smiled. “Make it a tenner.”
Before Layrn could take it back, Brost slapped the counter with a laugh and shouted, “Deal!”
“Layrn, you idiot,” Peint muttered beneath his breath.
“Shut-up, Peint.”
Farnan pulled a pouch from his belt and counted ten chits for the boys. Layrn, legs heavy with regret, climbed up to the counter once more and left the bracelet. The two made an exchange, and Brost sent the boys on their merry way.
The brother’s made sure they were out of earshot before celebrating. It was the most money either of them had seen in their lives. Their cheers filled the air like coyote calls, causing a stir amongst the local population of stray dogs. Howls and shouts alike rose with the dawn, and two orphan boys had stumbled their way into a beggar’s fortune.
***
The next week of Peint and Layrn’s life was a revolving door of spelunking, bargaining, and spending. Layrn hauled treasures up from the Sinkhole in sackloads, unbothered by the corpses he desecrated along the way. It was sweaty, dirty labor. Despite his brother’s cajoling, Peint refused to go down into that stinking hole. It didn’t matter if they could double their efforts, Peint wasn’t going anywhere near those bones.
Brost paid a five piece for every artifact they found, lowering his prices once he realized the bracelet wasn’t such a rare commodity. With their newfound fortune, the brothers had forgotten all about Brother Kaiphas and his bread, or his pleading for them to come to mass. Soon, they were growing fat on goat cheese, smoked meats, and bean-filled pastries. Nothing like the finer foods you’d find beyond Darnby, such as chocolates, toffees, and the likes, but enough to make a vagrant’s mouth water at the thought.
Layrn had been able to use some of his money for a new pair of shoes; ones without soles that leaked water when it rained. Peint was reluctant to spend his share, opting to stash it away instead. For the first time in their lives, those two boys were experiencing the thrill of affluence.
That was until they found a body at the bottom of the Sinkhole. A fresh one.
Layrn had been the one to discover the corpse. Peint heard his brother’s shriek in the dark, shrill enough to turn his blood to ice.
“What is it, Layrn?” Peint called down the hole, legs dangling over the edge.
“It’s Pey Lan! He’s… He’s dead!”
***
Farnan, not satisfied with the trade agreement, had sent Pey Lan to follow the brothers after one of their larger exchanges. Brost thought the boys would have run out of riches at some point, but when the gold continued to flow, he decided it was time for something to change.
“Those brats are playing me hand over fist!” Brost had said. “It’s a crime watching my coin fill their dirty pockets.” The man was ready to tear what little hair he had out of his scalp. “Lan, you follow those boys. See what they’re up to, and find out where this crap is coming from.”
Pey Lan, not one to get on the boss’s bad side, gave only a silent nod of agreement before slinking away into the night.
***
“What do you mean dead?” Peint called down.
“Dead is dead, Peint.” If Layrn knew how to spell it, he surely would have.
“Are you sure it’s Pey Lan?”
“I’m sure. You need to come down here.”
Peint’s heart crawled up his throat then. “Me? Down there? Layrn–”
“Just listen to me for once! Would you?”
Layrn rarely ever used that tone with his brother. It was reserved for only the most dire of situations. Peint, not willing to disobey, took hold of the rope they’d fastened to a nearby tree and slid down it. His feet soon hit dirt, and he was greeted by the contorted face of a dead man, awash in the faint glow of Layrn’s lighter.
Peint screamed.
Layrn smothered his brother’s mouth. “I told you he was dead, Peint.”
Peint only shook his head, eyes wide with trauma. It was worse than he’d imagined. The body was undoubtedly Pey Lan’s, judging by the choppy black hair and tattoos that covered his neck. He seemed so… lifelike. Minus the blood, the broken bones, and the awful smell, Pey Lan looked just as he did back at Brost’s. Peint held his breath, afraid Pey Lan might wake and curse them for his death.
He never did.
“He must have followed us,” Layrn said, his voice cold. “Probably fell down here by accident.” He spat on the corpse.
“Layrn!” Peint yelled, mortified.
“Serves him right. C’mon Peint, we need to get rid of him.”
Peint tried to protest, but Layrn socked him in the stomach. “Shut-up, Peint! We can’t leave him here, or they’ll find him and think we did it. And stop your crying, or else I’ll tell everyone that it was you who pushed Pey Lan down here.”
“No Layrn, no! Don’t!”
“Then help me!”
Peint shut his mouth, choking down the sobs that tried to escape, and did as he was told. They drug Pey Lan deeper into the Sinkhole, looking for a place to hide him. He was heavy, and his corpse made sickening sounds when they dumped it down a narrow fissure in the rock. Peint watched with numb disdain as his boyhood innocence followed Pey Lan down the abyss.
Once the body had settled, Layrn prodded them deeper into the cavern. Peint kept his eyes down, ignoring the skeletons Layrn had been defiling to secure their fortune. There must have been near a hundred; bones double the size of any living man’s, with hollowed-eyed skulls that wore dead smiles. Gold glittered in the lighter light, draped around necks, wrists, and ankles. They’d already dug a fortune out of this Sinkhole, yet more remained.
“Drink this,” Layrn said, passing a cup to Peint. Liquid the color of blood swirled within it. He’d tapped it from a nearby barrel, which stood amongst several more like it. “It’s wine. It’s good.”
Peint hesitated, but Layrn threatened to hit him again if he didn’t drink. The wine promised sweetness on the first taste, but soon turned to flame once it hit the tongue. Peint gagged as he sipped, while his brother downed glass after glass. Layrn got drunk that night. He rambled on and on about his plans for their wealth. “We’re gonna be rich, Peint, I know it. We’re gonna take every last bit of Brost’s money, then kick him out of town for good.”
Peint couldn’t hear it. Wouldn’t. He only nodded with his brother as he watched wine circle the rim of his cup. Something shiny caught his eye. Not silver, nor gold. No, it was steel. A small switchblade, which had fallen from his pocket. It was Pey Lan’s. The same one he’d been holding that first night at Brost’s; the same one Peint had taken off his corpse while Layrn wasn’t looking.
He’d never owned a knife before; never even held one. Peint flipped the blade open, running his fingers over the edge. The blade did not scare him as it had before. No, something about it excited him. He didn’t even flinch as it bit his skin, drawing out a tiny droplet of blood.
***
Brost found them two days later. The brothers were pestering the local baker after having been turned away by the butcher, the innkeeper, and the woman who ran the supply store.
“What use is this to me?” The baker cried. “Your gold is cursed! Surely no one will buy it. No one trusts it! I’d be a fool to pay for something like that.”
Before the boys could realize they were in danger, Brost had them both by the wrists and was dragging them down the nearest alleyway. He pinned them against the bakery wall, snorting heavily through a nose that had been broken too many times.
“Where’s Pey Lan?”
“Dunno,” Layrn shot back, sticking his chin up.
Brost smacked the boy then, turning his face red. “Don’t lie to me.”
“I don’t know!”
` Another smack.
Tears welled in Layrn’s eyes now as his defiance turned to pleading. “I swear I don’t know!”
Brost turned to Peint. “And what about you?”
Peint shook his head, not meeting the man’s eyes.
“Lies.”
Peint anticipated the blow, but it didn’t come. Instead, Farnan hauled them off towards the edge of town, his grip like a vice.
“You’re gonna take me to that gold, or I’ll kill you both.”
A broken whimper escaped Layrn then. “We will. I swear we will.”
That made Brost laugh. “Not so confident now, are you?”
Before they could get far, Peint found the hilt of Pey Lan’s knife. A wild idea took hold of him. While Farnan wasn’t looking, he flipped the blade from his pocket and plunged it into the man’s thigh. It went straight down to the hilt. Brost wailed, letting go of Peint long enough for him to scramble away. He broke free thinking Layrn would follow, but he hadn’t. When he turned back to check, Brost still had his brother by the arm.
***
Layrn, true to his word, led Brost all the way to the Sinkhole. Peint had followed them, not willing to leave his brother behind. He watched as Farnan threw his brother down the hole, then followed down the rope. Peint counted to twenty before he tried to go after them.
“Peint?”
The boy froze, startled by the sound of his own name. A hand took his shoulder, and soon a familiar face appeared before him. A bald, weathered, bearded face.
“Brother Kaiphas?” Peint exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
“I could say the same to you,” Kaiphas answered. “I’ve been looking for you. You haven’t been by the monastery in a few days.”
“How did you find me all the way out here?”
Kaiphas gave a knowing smile. “An old man never shares his secrets. Where’s your brother?”
Peint glanced towards the Sinkhole, and Kaiphas’s countenance soured.
“I see.” The old monk shambled up to the edge of the pit. “He’s down there is he?”
“Yes.”
The man grumbled his dismay, then took hold of the rope. “Come, let us go pluck poor Layrn out of whatever mess he’s found himself in.”
Peint tugged at Kaiphas’s sleeve. “We can’t! It’s not safe.”
“Calm yourself, boy. We’ve nothing to fear of death and darkness.”
“I’m not scared! You don’t understand. Layrn’s down there with Farnan Brost.”
The monk’s frown deepened. “Is he now? Then we must not delay. Come.”
Carrying Peint on his back, the two of them ventured down. Kaiphas’s sandals hit dirt at the bottom of the pit, then stone where the hole led further into the cavern. The monk kicked something just inside the mouth of the cave, where darkness awaited further within.
“Layrn’s lighter…” Peint said, his gut sinking.
Kaiphas scooped it up, then gave it a click. There was some flame left. They delved deeper, taking care not to disturb the bones of the once-living.
“Kaiphas?” Peint’s voice echoed.
“Hmm?”
“What is this place?”
“A tomb,” said the monk. “An old one. From before we settled this land.”
“Giants?”
“Mhmm,” Kaiphas nodded. “Not a place for young boys.”
Shadows swirled like mist before them, a noxious fume, trying to penetrate the lighter’s dim glow. Signs of a struggle marred the earth at their feet. A figure appeared in the shadows against the cave wall. Large, though not quite giant. The flame’s glow revealed Brost’s pale face, his chest heaving for air. Sweat dappled the man’s brow, and his hands were dyed red.
“Farnan?” Kaiphas called out.
“Aye,” the man drawled, nonplussed by the monk’s appearance.
There was a pause as Kaiphas studied the man’s palms. “Whose blood is that?”
“My own, you daft twat.”
“What happened?”
Brost aimed a wilting finger at Peint. “That mongrel stabbed me.”
Peint flinched. He noticed a swatch of red where he’d got Farnan’s leg; the blade was still in. Kaiphas knelt to examine the wound.
“Indeed he did. Nicked an artery too. You won’t last long without help.” Kaiphas undid his belt, then fastened it around the man’s hip. “That should slow the bleeding.”
When no response came, Peint’s eyes drifted to meet Brost’s. The man was no longer there. The life had been drained from him, bled through the knife wound in his leg, and left him for the rats down in that God-forsaken tunnel. A knife, similar to the one in Farnan’s leg, tore through Peint’s heart. Now he was a murderer too.
Kaiphas whispered a prayer and closed the man’s eyelids. “We need to find Layrn. I shouldn’t have let you boys find this place.”
Peint only nodded, then climbed back onto Kaiphas’s back. He hid himself behind the monk’s collar as the guilt of what he’d done weighed upon him. Hiding Pey Lan’s body; stabbing Brost. It tasted bitter in his mouth, like the wine Layrn had forced on him.
The tunnel opened to a larger chamber within – the same one that Layrn had gotten drunk in. Not much could be seen past the curtain of black that hung beyond their faint flame.
“Layrn!” Peint called with a whisper.
A silence hung between them and the abyss. Then, a voice came creeping in from beyond.
“Peint?”
It could only have been Layrn, but the voice sounded too… sick to belong to him.
“Layrn? Is that you, boy?” Kaiphas stepped forward. “Come out now, it’s alright.”
“What’s he doing here, Peint?” Asked the strange voice. “Did you bring him here?”
“He’s here to help us,” Peint said.
A hiss answered. “No! This is our place, Peint. Our secret. No one can take it from us!”
“Layrn… you’re scaring me.”
From the darkness came a hand, small and pale. It swiped at the lighter, knocking it to the floor and plunging them deeper into the blackness. Kaiphas let out a wail as Peint fell from his back. The boy began rummaging along the cold stones below, his hands grasping for the lighter.
Nothing. There was nothing
Kaiphas struggled against something in the darkness.
Peint continued to search, bloodying his knees in the process. The dead faces of Pey Lan and Brost taunted him from the shadows, laughing as he wept. He yelled at them to leave him alone. His hand grasped something in the dark. Blocky, metallic. The lighter!
He flipped the cap and began to strike the sparkwheel. Flashes of white faintly illuminated the chamber beyond, revealing glimpses of Kaiphas wrestling with a beast reminiscent of Layrn. A violent altercation; a fight of tooth and nail.
The lighter caught flame, and soon its light graced Peint’s eyes with sight. The creature that clung to Kaiphas hissed at the glow and scrambled back into the shadows.
Peint pursued.
“Layrn! Stop this now, boy!’ Kaiphas yelled, regaining his breath.
They found Layrn huddled against the cave’s wall atop a mound of hoarded gold. Scratches marked his arms and face, red and vibrant against his pale skin.
“He’ll take it from us! Peint, kill him! Kill him like you killed Brost!”
Peint sobbed, shaking his head at the monster that had taken his brother’s body over.
“You can do it, Peint, you can! I’ve seen you do it.”
“No, Layrn….”
“That’s enough, Layrn!” Gall dripped from Kaiphas’s voice like iron chains.
Layrn spat back “You can’t have it!”
“I’m not here to rob you, boy! I’m here to help you!”
“You lie!” Layrn lept for the man’s face.
Kaiphas made an odd symbol with his hand, then thrust it towards the boy. “Leave him!”
Like a downed bird, Layrn crumpled at the monk's feet. Peint ran to his brother, taking his head in his lap.
“He’s going to be okay, Peint.”
“What did you do to him?”
“Only what I had to.” Kaiphas took the lighter, still burning on the ground, and found his way to the barrels of wine. Peint cradled Layrn in his lap as he watched the monk uncork a cask and began pouring its contents over the floor.
“Wh-What are you doing?” Peint asked through sobs.
“What I should have done before you two ever found this place. Come, we need to leave.” The monk tossed the lighter as he scooped the two boys into his arms.
Peint watched over the man’s shoulder as their fortune burst into flames. The heat felt good against his face, banishing the cold that had gripped his heart. Kaiphas, reaching the end of the tunnel, stopped a moment to consider the fire he’d left within. Peint noticed a look of relief wash over his face.
“It’s done.”
***
Smoke wept from that festering hole for three days, shrouding Darnby in a cloud of ashen haze. On the third day, the Sinkhole collapsed, burying its smoldering secrets deep within. The townsfolk seemed to care little.
Even years later the scar still remains, nothing more than a swatch of charred earth in the fields beyond the town’s limits. No one pays it any mind, for no one knew it was really there to begin with, save for the three that emerged just after it went aflame. The townsfolk seemed to care little of them either.
Ask any of them about what had happened and they’d call you mad. It isn’t polite to meddle in places where one shouldn’t. But, if you pried hard enough, and you kept the firebrand flowing, well then they might tell you a story. One of two gentlemen who return to the site once every fortnight.
Why? Well, none can say for sure. Some might say it’s nothing but monkish superstition. Others would wager they were warding off the evil within, but they don’t know. Not truly. All anyone knows is that the pit never returned.
Not under the watchful eye of Brothers Peint and Layrn.
Brilliant.
This is so good! The relationship and dialogue between the brothers felt very real.