The rope slipped another inch, burning into the flesh of Corbin’s palm.
Saard! the young man cursed. His uncle would never forgive him for losing his best net. Not that it made any difference at this point. The woven hemp writhed and twisted against his forearm like a python with slithering, slicing scales.
Whatever he had caught was large–much bigger than Corbin. And apparently annoyed to be wrapped in one of the very few remaining Unbreakable Nets of Raa.
The operative word being unbreakable. As in, Remember, Corbin. No knife can cut this. Or, tie the end of the rope to a big rock, Corbin. Or maybe even, Whatever you do, Corbin, don’t wrap the damn thing around your body!
In his excitement to try it out, Corbin may have neglected to heed his uncle’s advice. And with no slack left to give, he realized he was going wherever the net went. Which probably meant over the cliff and into the Chasm of Souls.
A colossal tug from the depths lifted Corbin bodily.
His foot met a rock.
Pain stung the side of his face and he tasted dirt mixed with blood.
Corbin rolled, spinning on his back to brace his heels against the rocky outcrop. It slowed his approach to the edge, but only just.
It wasn’t supposed to go like this, Corbin thought. Cast-netting the Chasm of Souls was a (slightly taboo) right of passage for demons like him. The chasm being full of all kinds of useful junk – powerful weapons from ancient wars (somewhat broken), priceless treasures (slightly cursed), politicians, and the occasional snarling god of chaos.
Corbin guessed he’d snagged one of the latter two. What were the odds?
Teetering on the brink of oblivion, it crossed the young demon’s mind that the dwindling number of Nets of Raa may have been due to this exact scenario, played out again and again over the centuries.
How many others had come to this same stretch of cliff on a similar sacred night? How many young demons didn’t actually fall, but were dragged into the fiery jaws of Chaos to burn for all eternity?
His footing slipped.