THE passage quickly darkened as they made further inside. Tūmbṃār, Iḷēhaḥ, Feyūnhaḥ, and Nakthaḥm lit torches, illuminating the path before them. Yūrmatṛtha talked at length with the group, asking about various things of their journey and talking about his life as a prince. It seemed he was to become king soon, with his father to retire deep into the caverns of where, in hope, he would ascend. In preparation, his father had sent him abroad to see the various realms across the continent and speak with the lords and ladies. Good timing it was that he should have returned upon the group’s departure, for he and Hvesykhiḥ proved to be invaluable guides. Even with the torches, hardly much could be seen, and so they laid their trust in the eyes of the snakes.
They soon became silent as they walked onward. The path descended, and a rush of heat came their way. The air stifled them and prickled their skin more intensely than it did in the city. It was not long after that the dryness parched their mouths and chapped their lips as they began to sweat. Hvesykhiḥ stopped and looked to the others, seeing them wracked in exhaustion. She moved her body toward them, tapping them lightly. The others, noticing this, quickly got upon her back and rested, as she made her way deeper through the trail.
The path turned and twisted all about. At some point, they felt as if they were going in circles. But it was not long before they emerged from an entrance, and came upon a path high above a magma basin, where the heat waxed greater than ever before. This made the group feel even more weary, but Tūmbṃār out of all the others, kept his eyes open as he turned his head side to side to take in the sights.
The magma poured far from them on all sides, and the heatwaves danced in the air, blurring much of what the boy could see. From what he could make out, it seemed they were on a wide stone path lined with broken pillars on either end, some much taller than the others. The ceiling was so high that it vanished into the darkness above. Soon, they came on a series of bridges that spiraled upward on what looked like broken platforms.
As they ascended, the haze of the heat thinned and the burning of their lungs and skin soon came to vanish. Tūmbṃār sat upright, looking forward as the snake slithered up the bridges. When they became level again, one last bridge stood before them, and it was straight, with a series of immense arches holding its base. Tūmbṃār looked down and he could see no sign of the bottom-most foundation, as it seemed sunk far into the depths of the molten rock past the haze that obstructed his view. He also noticed that the surface of the bridge glowed and, looking closer, he could see the gems of circular cut were inset along the edges as if made to light their path through the haze.
When they had passed the bridge and came upon a lofty entrance arched with a shining jewel at its center, Tūmbṃār was left amazed at the multitude of carvings upon the face of the wall, depicting what he was sure to be the snake sacrifice: the Gazhigam fleeing toward the top of the arch where a lone snake stood circling the jewel with his tail and holding his hands toward the Heavens from where the Gods descended and put a stop to the King that stood between.
“Hey! Hey! Snake! Is that supposed to be Athizhska?”
Hvesykhiḥ lifted her head and said:
Yea! That King of old whom stands between, is one whom King Ashphaḥhyēma derideth ever so greatly. Unlike him, I shall speak his name: he is Frajhaḥspaṃār, for he is One who makes the Ṃārhaḥn Tremble. Ashphaḥhyēma does not know this, but the reason for the sacrifice was not due to the Gazhigam siding with the Yavhaḥṃār, though that did play a part.
The blame can be laid on Athizhska’s ancestor, the Great Gazhishrahaḥ, Thvarekṣhaḥ, One who cuts of That One, felled the father of Frajhaḥspaṃār, Vṛikhishṭa, He who spreads his Domain, by way of biting his foot and poisoning him. A cowardly tactic, it was, but Thvarekṣhaḥ did as such for Vṛikhishṭa burned down his home, the Hadeṇvarhteka, the Forest of Sweets, so as to make a clearing for him and his army to pass through to subjugate the Yavhaḥṃār.
Many burned in that village, not least the majority of Thvarekṣhaḥ’s kin. Great were the wails and cries during that time, of how the unceasing volley of arrows and the great spread of the Immortal Flames of Zayagñavhaḥ consumed those within. And when the deed had been done, the forest was no more, yet at the very least a portion did survive, of whose domain we shall in time encounter.
If one looketh far enough into the past, they will see all ill that has come to pass on Ārhmanhaḥ was in part due to the Dehaḥṃār’s mistake. Such are the things that have given rise to our present situation, and as the ages pass, I should think it will only get worse. Many names and places I have given; I hope I have not bored you, child.
Tūmbṃār shook his head and said, “Nope! But why don’t you tell this to the King and the rest of the Gazhigam? Wouldn’t it be better if they knew?”
What then do you think they shall do? They have not the wisdom nor the temperament to calm their rage. These words should fall on deaf ears; I had hoped when the sacrifice was halted, Athizhska would let his malice be foregone, for what the King neglected to mention was that he too was a Zūryashhaḥ. But like many sages in many tales, he could not stave his rage. In silence, he cursed the God of the South, Eruhaḥ, to have to suffer a fate far worse than his people, and that has led to many a tragedy in the years that have since passed. I shall not speak more on it, for it is long and very troublesome to hear; and it is not a thing a child like you should have to listen to at this moment.
And so Tūmbṃār remained silent, not pressing Hvesykhiḥ for any more details, as they passed through the arch back into darkness, leaving the hall of deathly heat behind.
