Under the Crimson Sun (Abyssal Plague) by Keith R.A. DeCandido

Author:Keith R.A. DeCandido [DeCandido, Keith R.A.]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9780786959181
Publisher: Wizards of the Coast Publishing
Published: 2011-06-07T00:00:00+00:00

Rol’s hands hurt.

That was the worst part.

No, the worst part was the headaches. They were awful.

No, the worst part were the horrible lesions that kept sprouting on his skin and would not go away.

No, the worst part was that those lesions would sometimes pop and smear red ooze all over everything.

No, the worst part was constantly being forced to fight for the pleasure of other people instead of being paid for it like a sensible person.

No, the worst part was that Rol was starting to forget who he was.

Yes, that was definitely the worst part.

He tried not to think about it too much.

Besides, that was only sometimes. Most of the time he knew damn well that he was Rol Mandred, that he was a human, that his best friends were Fehrd Anspah and Gan Storvis, that he hired himself out as a rent-a-thug, and that his parents were named—

He couldn’t remember his parents’ names.

But he tried not to think about it too much.

His hands hurt.

Some nights, when he slept—on those rare occasions when he could actually sleep, not toss and turn in the “cubicle” that Calbit and Jago had put him and Gan in—he dreamed about the red liquid. But in the dream, the red liquid was swirling madly in a whirlpool. Unfamiliar images crashed onto his consciousness like dunes overflowing during a sandstorm: a large golden vortexlike eye, a strange creature with gray skin but with shoulders covered in red crystal, a female wizard turning a tiefling into stone …

Plus phrases he did not recognize: the Elder Elemental Eye, Bael Turath, Voidharrow.

That last one he heard a lot in his dreams.

But then he woke up. And he tried not to think about it too much.

Sometimes he thought that he was better off not thinking at all. Just giving in to all of it.

That would make life easier.

“Rol, you okay?”

For a moment, Rol panicked. He knew the voice, knew it, as certain as he knew his own name was—

What was his name?

Gan. That was it. No, Gan wasn’t his name, Gan was the name of the person talking to him. His own name was Rol Mandred. He knew that.

He always knew that. Except when he didn’t.

“Rol.”

“I’m fine.” His voice sounded weird. “My hands hurt a little, but I’m fine.”

He looked around the cubicle, but couldn’t see Gan.

Maybe he was imagining Gan. Maybe he was imagining all of it. Maybe Gan didn’t exist. Maybe it was all a dream and he’d wake up from it soon.

Maybe the red liquid was the reality and Gan was the fantasy.

Yes, embrace the Voidharrow …

“Rol, listen—”

“Shut up.”

“What?”

He shook his head. “Not you. The other voice.”

“There is no other voice, Rol. It’s just me.”

After a second, Rol realized that he couldn’t see Gan because Gan was in the cubicle across the hall. Now he remembered—once they became the new main event, Gan and Rol were each given their own cubicles. That was just a stupid name for what was really a cell, just like any other.

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