Crack! Chips of wood flew from the blade of Marek’s hatchet as he split into an oak log. Salty sweat drenched his body and stung his eyes and the little cuts on his fingers. Crack! The ax came down again, embedding itself once more into the wood, one wedge at a time, breaking it into firewood for the approaching winter. Soon it would be time for the harvest, and all hands would be needed. Crack! There would be no time for splitting firewood in the weeks ahead. Snap! The old tool had broken suddenly, a fracture running down the wooden handle. It had also given Marek a splinter. He tossed the useless thing aside with a frustrated sigh. Wiping his brow, he took a short rest against the ancient stump that served as a chopping block. He would have to explain this to his father when he returned from the fields. While this accident would slow his work and meant he had to go into town for a new ax, Marek looked forward to seeing some of his friends there. 

A sharp gust of cold air bit his exposed skin, bringing him to his senses. Newly fallen leaves and loose dirt whirled around Marek as he got to his feet. He shielded his eyes. Squinting into the mounting wind and dust, he could make out a line of dark clouds. They were coming fast, hurrying toward him across the sky. Marek noticed something else, too. Another dark shape had appeared in the distance—a lone rider. He advanced swiftly, his horse’s hooves flinging clods of dirt and grass in their wake. Apprehensively, Marek reached for the damaged ax and waited as the horseman approached.

The clouds were getting nearer, the wind stronger, and the sky darker. It occurred to Marek that he should head back to the farmstead, but his curiosity kept him rooted to the spot as he tried to get a better view of the dark form that grew larger by the second. The wind had really begun to howl. Dead leaves hissed and rasped over one another as a rotten branch on a nearby tree snapped and crashed to the ground. Transfixed, Marek remained where he stood. He could see his father and brothers running in from the fields, hunched low to dodge the wind. Karloff, his younger brother, noticed him standing by the woodshed. He shouted something to Marek, but the howling wind stole his words from the air. His father started toward him with a harried look, yelling some unheard warning and motioning him to head inside. Marek ignored this. His attention was on the rider.

Tiny drops of rain spattered the ground, sending chills down Marek’s spine as they sprinkled his arm coldly. The rider was nearing the barn as a finger of blinding light shot through the air, licking the sky with white-hot tendrils. The horse spooked as deafening thunder answered, throwing the rider to the ground where he lay motionless. Marek sprinted to help the fallen horseman in a rush of instinct, letting the ax thud to the ground. He pushed through violent twists of air as they buffeted him from side to side, but soon, he arrived before the crumpled figure. Marek tried to lift the man, but he was quite heavy and groaned loudly in protest. He would have to drag him.

Soon, after a good deal of grunting and puffing, Marek managed to get the man inside the barn. The wind roared against the timbers, and the whole structure shuddered as bits of dust and splinters fell from the rafters. Marek took one last look outside at the almost night-black sky. A jet of white fire shattered the heavens. Marek thought he saw a line of dark horsemen in the distance, but the lightning vanished as quickly as it appeared, plunging the farm back into that otherworldly night. Marek closed the barn door, latched it, and braced it with an old wooden chest. He would have to wait out the storm with this stranger.

The young man sat across from the injured rider for some time, the wind hissing and squealing through every gap in the boards. He had found a small lamp and tinder box in the old chest, its tiny flame the only illumination in the darkness of the barn. Worried that the man might be dead, he crept over to him. Marek heaved a sigh of relief—he was still breathing, though quite unconscious. The man’s features surprised Marek. He had expected a man in his twenties or thirties, but this man was at least sixty or seventy. It was a wonder he had survived the fall at all. And the smell! Oh, it was almost unbearable! Like a mixture of expired ale and swampy water. The man's clothes were torn and tattered and caked in mud. Marek thought he must be some sort of outlaw. He began checking the smelly man for any stolen goods that might betray him, and his hand closed around a fist-sized leather pouch that hung at the man’s side. He reached inside and felt a hard object wrapped in fine cloth. Pulling it out and holding it close to the light, he unraveled the fabric to reveal… a beating heart!

Marek shuddered at the sight and nearly dropped it, but it was no ordinary heart. It was hard as stone and looked almost wooden. Marek’s breathing quickened as the heart quivered and skipped around in his hand, emitting a soft blue glow. His own heart lurched as a great knocking pounded the barn door, and angry voices shouted unintelligibly outside. The horseman woke with a start as the doors burst open, sending splinters flying as half a dozen cloaked figures barged into the room. All eyes fell on the faintly glowing heart, and a look of utter terror seized the old man’s face. Seven pairs of hands lunged for the heart, but all were too late. There came a brilliant flash of cold blue light. Then total darkness enveloped them. They were falling, tumbling downwards through a sea of inky black.

After what must have been hours, Marek blinked awake, his face pressed into something soft and spongy. It was wet, too, and he recoiled instinctively. He couldn’t make out anything in the surrounding darkness, but the dank, oozy smells of the place overwhelmed him. He choked back a gag and tasted bile.

“Finally awake, I see,” sneered a voice to his left.

Marek swung around but saw no one. “Who are you? Where am I?”

“I am Nuallán, captain of the seventh imperial legion. Your foolishness cannot be understated, peasant.” His voice quavered with mingled rage and despair. “We were so close to reclaiming the heart, and now, thanks to you, we’ve all fallen into the Bleak!”

“Th-the Bleak?” asked a confused Marek.

“Yes, you stammering provincial! The Bleak!”

“Hold on, Nuallán,” another voice spoke. It came from a woman to Marek’s right, much calmer and gentler than Nuallán’s unhinged spattering. “The boy can’t see a thing in this darkness. Here, take this.”

Marek felt the lip of a bottle pressed to his mouth. He jumped at the sudden touch, but he was quite thirsty and let the contents pour into his mouth. It was bitter and medicinal, but it masked the foul odor of his surroundings. He spluttered and coughed as the liquid passed down his throat, but the potion had already taken hold. The impenetrable blackness before Marek began to ripple before his eyes, and, slowly, he began to make out dim shapes. First were the forms of Nuallán and the woman, then the others a few paces away, and then the cavern’s dizzying expanse filled his vision. He groaned.

The shape that was Nuallán knelt close, and his elfin features swam into focus. “Welcome to the Bleak, boy. I hope you like it here, ‘cause you won’t be getting out in a hurry.” 

With that, Nuallán yanked Marek to his feet, gripping him hard by the arm, and marched him towards the rest of the group. The ground was soft and springy, and Marek’s feet sank into it with every step. The others looked up as they approached, and from what he could tell, they were not at all glad to see him.

“So this is the idiot that brought us here!” one of them scorned. “This is what happens when you expect too much of humans. Filthy mulderi! What do you think, Prince Albareth?”

“If he were any more than a simpleton, I’d have him tried for treason like this old swindler.” He gave the thief, who sat bound and gagged, a light kick in the side, followed by a muffled grunt.

Marek furrowed his brow. “Treason?”

Albareth stepped forward, scowling. “Yes, boy. Your friend here took something very precious from my father. An artifact from a bygone age when the Titans walked the earth. Few know the true extent of its power,” He seized Marek’s wrists, “only that it should never fall into the wrong hands.” He squeezed hard, and Marek let out a yelp of pain. “Now, thanks to you and that filthy horsethief, we may never find it.”

Marek rubbed his aching wrists, “You mean you don’t have it? Didn’t it fall down here with us?”

Nuallán let go of Marek’s arm and began to pace. “No, that artifact which you most unwisely touched did not fall down with us. It may be fathoms above us, sitting quietly on the floor of that barn.”

“But how will we get back?” Marek asked as the first pangs of real despair sank ice-cold into his chest.

Nuallán turned to him, a sly grin creeping across his face. “I think you mean, how will you get back.”

“What do you mean?” Marek cried,

Nuallán continued pacing, a renewed sense of confidence in his stride. “A fitting punishment, I should think. You see, all of us,” he gestured to his comrades, “were given seals of recalling at the start of this venture. All we have to do is break the seal, and we’ll be sent back to the Emperor’s palace. After that, it’s only a matter of getting back to your village and reclaiming the heart for his majesty, and our mission will be through. You, however, will be trapped down here with that lunatic until you starve or, more likely, are eaten by some foul beast.”

“That can’t be!” Marek whimpered. “I didn’t even know what I was doing! Can’t you take me with you?”

“Even if I could, I doubt his majesty would take kindly to your presence. No, I’m afraid it’s one-per-seal.”

With that, Nuallán took a small, round object from his belt and the other mele did likewise. In an instant, Nuallan’s haughty face vanished, but his evil grin stuck in Marek’s mind like a cruel barb. The boy let out a wail of anger and despair, then collapsed to the spongy ground as hot tears streamed down his face. He would be lucky if he ever saw light again, much less his family and home. His body shook with sobs and adrenaline for what seemed like hours until a voice spoke nearby.

“Well, are you going to cry forever, or are you going to help me find a way out of this place?”

Marek looked up, startled. It was the prince.

“Don’t ask too many questions, and I won’t hurt you. We’re going to get out of this place,” Albareth said.

Marek got slowly to his feet and wiped the tears from his eyes. Although the potion helped a good deal, the cavern was still horribly dark, and he could only see in blacks and grays. It took him a moment to collect himself, but then he spoke. “There’s a way out?” he asked.

Albareth sighed and hoisted the bound thief to his feet with a grunt. “Supposedly, there is a mountain somewhere down here with an entrance to the surface at its peak.”

“What do you mean there’s a mountain down here? That’s ridiculous!”

Albareth sighed. “I see you simple folk have little knowledge of the vast caverns that lie beneath your lands. The halls of Venkarach are enormous and as varied as the lands above. The Bleak is but one of many caverns in this forsaken place.”

Marek’s stomach turned, thinking about it. He had never heard of such deep places, and he doubted anyone in his village had the slightest clue about them. Perhaps the village priest knew of such things, but Marek had always feared to go near the man.

“We should get going,” Albareth said. “We need to get to someplace with light before the potion wears off.”

“Before it wears off? How long is that?” Marek asked nervously.

Albareth pulled a small bottle from his robes. “This potion was brewed specifically for traveling at night for long stretches. I suppose, with what’s left in my bottle, we have a few days before we’re totally in the dark. I suggest we start now.”

He stowed the bottle between the folds of his robes and started off with the poor thief limping after him. Marek, however, stood where he was.

The prince, noticing this, paused abruptly. “Oh, what’s the matter with you, peasant? Do you want to die down here?” he scorned.

“I–I was just going to ask you… why didn’t you go with the rest of them?”

Albareth’s face hardened, and he remained silent for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “I have my reasons, but they are none of your business. It certainly wasn’t out of pity for you. I will remind you once more not to ask too many questions. You really don’t want to be alone down here.”

With that, Albareth set off once more into the darkness, the thief stumbling after him and Marek following close behind.