Burning Road

The Cooking Pot- Part II

Wesley Prince spent his life searching for clues that would lead him to a cure for his family's curse. He'd passed the cause on to Moses Jeffers, not a Prince by blood but by circumstance. Moses passed it onto an unenthusiastic protege in Khouri, but, despite his reluctance, fate saw fit to guide the young man to all that they'd sought. With his own eyes he watched his ancestors' exile and heard the words of blight cast upon his people. He'd also heard that there was no cure, no way to put a stop to the endless grief and suffering. Khouri had found the answers his grandfather desperately longed for, and instead of a sense of accomplishment he felt hollow.

He felt defeated.

They marched across the icy bowels of Hell and the only light he could see was helping Mimi save her family and then tracking down Littlehawk Locklear. The dark thoughts warmed his cold extremities as if the darkness was rewarding him. Yet The Aura of Understanding gave him clarity of thought, allowed him to see the truth of things. The Dark wanted him to feed into the negativity, wanted him to embrace the very darkness that was freezing his soul. The darkness provided a false warmth, a fire he could wrap around himself for comfort but at the cost of forever needing that warmth to live.

He couldn't let despair into his heart or he would be permanently marked by the darkness that hungrily craved his fall. Khouri realized then that even a living soul could become a darkling. It was only a matter of time before the corruption crept inside.

Miminda looked back at him over her shoulder and the cold returned. Counter to the discomforting chill gripping his fingers, he felt happy. They were connected through a shared past and a bond he still didn't understand. It filled him with joy and chased away the false warmth. He embraced the cold and held tight to the furball in his pocket. He held tight to his cloak and what positivity he could find in such a bleak place.

The marsh ended and the hills continued for a mile before a sheer drop. Below was a basin peppered by a collection of geysers belching out steady pillars of septic gases that filled the air above. At the center of these chimneys was a complex resembling a rock quarry surrounded by a wall of brimstone and barbed wire. The Cauldron was every bit the prison for fallen souls they were led to expect.

Khouri thought of his years going to church with Aunt Maurine and Charlotte Chapman, and the inner conflict he had between belief and cynicism toward the church. At that time his faith waxed and waned, and as an adult he hadn't given it much thought. Yet there he was staring into the face of Hell, the enslavement and torture of souls. Hell was real, so Heaven was real and all that that implied. They were there to save Mimi's family, but something inside of him wanted to save them all, each and every damned one of them.

"That's The Cauldron?" Golan asked. His tone was complainant as always.

"That looks doable," Mimi said with confidence.

"There are four guard towers and no way of knowing how many are inside." Cyril observed. "I think we can get past the perimeter with minimal difficulty, but if The Heir is bound to this place, there's bound to be greater darklings guarding it."

"Do we have the weapons for this?" Prince asked. He knew they were woefully outnumbered so he didn't ask the obvious.

"I have a few dozen arrows, and an assortment of melee weapons."

"I have my axe, it's all I need."

"Two Daggers, a knife, and my teeth," Mimi boasted. "More than enough for a bunch of imps. A soul collector or two, might be a problem."

"My pistol has about thirty rounds and after that I'm improvising. Do you have an extra bow in there," Khouri said jokingly. It hadn't slipped his notice that Cyril hid an arsenal in his robes.