Luckily, he knew the tower’s main corridors, entrances and most of the rooms well enough to travel in the dark. A bit to the right-hand side from the entrance, were the main stairs that led upwards which could only be seen if one knew of their existence, since they were concealed behind a tall wall of brown and yellow stones, which bulged outwards.
Easily enough, he found his way and was carefully moving up the spiralling steps. After the first two floors, light increasingly penetrated the unobscured arched-windows. When he reached the sixth floor, he stopped to catch his breath while glimpsing outside.
Accustomed to the wild settings of his childhood in Grora, the imp had never considered Arkhanthï to be a beautiful place. Yet, in the silent, cold night, under the soft white-light of the moon, everything seemed different; there was a stillness of life and a sense of tranquillity that never before had occurred to him. He sighed and moved away from the window determined to reach the highest floor.
The citadel’s main tower had been built with a tall, spiralling staircase. Unlike the other four smaller towers, the main one allowed access to every floor’s rooms, the entrances to which were nested in a circle around its core. Between them and the outer walls was a narrow corridor big as two people’s hands-span, that went round from end to end in a full loop. For the width of the tower one could say there weren’t that many windows, but the light that penetrated from outside, if the shutters were opened, was more than enough to illuminate the floor in its entirety.
Nuuk reached the fifteenth floor without a break, rather swiftly. His lungs, strained by the effort, were taking in so much cold air that his throat started to ache. He stopped to recollect his strength, taking advantage to inspect the last of the floors he was allowed to serve on. There were no signs of any soul and the eerie silence of the outside seemed to have moved inside as well. He took a slow walk through the corridor that circled the tower’s perimeter to check for any signs of activity. No candlelight could be seen under any of the seven doors. The wizard was not in any of these rooms.
He concluded the pathway and arrived back at the stairs, and just as he did, a faint sound came from above. He rushed to the stairs and started ascending to the next level, careless of his master’s warning; never to venture onto the floors he was not allowed to.
I am clearly beyond a mere rebuke at this point, he considered.
As soon as he completed the steep steps with two-by-two leaps, he entered through the aperture that led to the sixteenth level and turned instinctively to the right. The sound was coming from that way.
Someone was there; dull, yellow candlelight was flickering behind the curve of the rooms that formed a corner, giving away the presence of another being.
Could Felduror be there? Nuuk was almost convinced it was not the case, as he leaned his head as close to the wall as possible in a failed attempt to see further ahead.
A moment of hesitancy distracted him; his hands were sweating and for the briefest of moments he considered to move the sceptre from his clutched tight-fist of his right hand to the left one, though he decided it was not the moment.
He moved ahead briskly instead.
The being ahead of him was mumbling something undistinguishable and Nuuk, sure it was not the wizard, was curious to understand who was allowed to walk that freely at the higher levels.
He soon recovered the distance that the blind-spot of the curvature of the rooms prevented him from seeing and found himself following in the footsteps of the whistling, whispering creature. Marvelled to say the least, Nuuk hastily covered his mouth with his free hand afraid he could not contain his astonishment.
Another Iprorim?
He was too scared to surpass the slow-walking imp and look him in the face, so he followed from a safe distance, confident he could not be seen nor heard.
The short imp in front of him was walking listlessly around the corridor, checking each door’s knobs to see if they were locked for the night. At every stop he’d bang hard on the door’s solid wooden-panels with his tiny fist and an enigmatic mumbling, and every once in a while a kick would take the place to his aching hand. All sorts of bruises and cuts could be seen across his neck, shoulders and hands, which were unprotected by the old shirt that he wore; a dirty rag worthless even as a pavement duster. Though his wings were not bound and looked rather healthy.
When he next stopped, Nuuk spurred himself forwards and stepped sideways so he could have a better look at the imp’s face. The awkward muffled sounds he made, Nuuk now comprehended were not coming from his mouth but from his throat, as his wide opened mouth, agape as a chicken’s beak in summer’s heat, was displaying a tongue cut in half.
Nuuk almost lost his balance and fell, instinctively retreating at the sight of the smaller imp’s mutilation. He hit his head on the corner of the wall, where the door’s framing sat, and issued a moan while knocking the sceptre loudly against the door. He froze with pain in the awkward position he found himself into, afraid that he had been heard, but the older imp merely turned his head and blinked sadly at the nothingness he perceived.
A loud kick to the double-door followed and with another throat-mumble the imp toddled on, soon swallowed by the darkness of the corridor ahead.
Nuuk stood there considering what he had just seen. Another of his kin, an elder Iprorim, maybe from the same island of Grora where he had been born, was at the citadel and, like himself, had been tortured and forced into a miserable life, a life of servitude.
He pushed himself straight again, leaving the door on which his back was propped, and started chasing after the other imp. Inquisitiveness overwhelmed the many other sensations that were animatedly traversing through his mind and body. He was not sure about revealing himself to the helpless creature. Yet, the thought prevailed; he desired so much to be able to talk with one if his kinfolks, almost as if exchanging few compassionate words and glances could bring him back on his childhood’s lands again, or remediate to his lost youthful years. Though he was afraid the other imp might run or ask for help.
What if he uses magic and vanishes? What if he’s more scared of me than of our master?
Of the many thoughts, few had found their way to the forefront of his mind. He dismissed them quickly, the sight of the sad imp’s eyes, tired and dejected, making him feel even worse. It was a face of raw sorrow, an old wrinkled face of sufferance, underlined by a dispirited dragging of his weight along to the next door – an arduous task Nuuk himself had to carry out regularly.
Nuuk had to think of something smarter than simply revealing himself out of thin air. And so he thought to use a bit of magic, after all the spell he had used in the armoury hadn’t been perceived so far.
He went ahead of the old imp, in front of the next set of doors that he’d have to check, and with a murmured spell he stooped over the floor with an extended hand. As if his finger was soaked in a sparkling oil, letters started to form on the dusty surface of the pavement, magically dripping from his pointed finger. A few words, carefully and masterfully crafted in ancient Iprorim tongue; markings that for any human would look more like drawings, than anything meaningful, but to any imp would unmistakably remind of home.
When the old imp approached the doors where Nuuk was crouched and followed towards the candle-torch, he instantly stopped his mumbling. The split tongue moved disagreeably up and down as he hurried to crouch himself by the markings. He appeared incredulous of what he was seeing and moved his head disapprovingly, tossing the big key-chain he was carrying on the hard floor. With a brisk movement of his free hand, he rushed to clean the oily surface, smudging the markings with more dust in the attempt to cover it. He looked around afraid and shaking while continuing to brush the floor with his dirty hand of sludge. He looked everywhere in an attempt to see where the markings had come from.
Nuuk did not understand what was happening. He would have expected surprise yet, what the older imp revealed was more concerning. However, he did not give up.
Certai
n it was a misunderstanding, he continued scribbling with the oily substance crafted from his finger, “I am Nuuk, an Iprorim of Grora!”
The other imp stopped from his frantic cleaning, his hum turning into a gasping gulp. His eyes were glistening as he looked straight ahead.
And for a brief moment, the two stared right into each other’s eyes. Nuuk shuddered, lost in the sadness that pair of dark irises exposed as he witnessed pure fear and sorrow. He knew what he had to do then, he decided to reveal himself.
The other imp appeared more distressed now, struggling to voice a word but impeded by the lack of a complete tongue. He appeared to be forcing himself to issue a word with his bulging eyes.
And just as Nuuk was about to place the sceptre on the floor, the older imp managed to force a whirr from his throat. His word come out as clear as it could under the circumstances. “Rrrun!”
Nuuk felt blood deserting his face, leaving him even paler than before. In that brief and confused moment, he understood the seriousness of the situation in which he found himself, and the mistake he had made. Without one moment’s hesitation he readied himself by concentrating on the place he would shift to; back to the cave.
Alas, he failed. Stunned.
The sceptre dropped heavily to the floor, exposing him to the astounded old imp in front of him, who just like him, understood what had occurred.
From the dark shadows behind them, Felduror revealed himself. “Going somewhere?”
Call for Action
Lorian
“Something has befallen him!” Ghaeloden’s surprisingly frayed voice put an end to the small row that had broken out between Naghnatë and myself.
It had been a day and a long and sleepless night since Nuuk was expected to return and we were really concerned about him. All of us had the nerves on an edge. While at first it has been a small delay of a couple of hours, reasoned to be caused by the imp’s shifting inexperience, had soon transformed into a worrying sensation that expanded until it finally turned into a strong opinionated discussion. The witch was convinced that the imp had fled straight to his master while I, and clearly the Drakhahoul, were convinced that something had occurred that prevented him from returning.
“I have my own reasons to think as you do, Naghnatë,” the dragon continued, “but I like to believe he’d cherish relative freedom here with us more than having his wings freed but still being under the wizard’s service.”
“I considered that myself. Still, you do not know how devious and cunning the wizard can be!” Naghnatë replied. “His lulling voice can make the most futile of things seem like a good bargain. Imagine what poor Nuuk has endured being unable to fly for so long? Do you think that flying on your back aided his spirit more than it hurt it? And I’m not really convinced he’d be able to fly ever again; those wings of his have suffered too much, his muscles are all torn and degenerated!”
“I have noticed! Still I’d like to think he would not betray me for just that. None of us has spent enough time with him to consider him a friend – heavens know I almost betrayed him myself. Yet I have seen his mind and soul and I have heard his fears and joys. If he did such a thing it would be under duress and I, for one, would consider helping him rather than accusing him,” Ghaeloden insisted.
“I agree with you, master Ghaeloden,” I added, not sure that my opinion held weight in the matter. “I do not know him. Actually, I don’t know any of you as much as I’d like. What I do know is that Nuuk wouldn’t hurt anyone. Are we forgetting that he does not even allow us to cook meet? Where would he find the strength to cause a human being or a Drakhahoul any harm? It’s not in his nature.”
A twitch at the corner of Naghnatë’s mouth betrayed a faint smile. I felt she was in two minds herself which made me more determined to convince her that we were right.
“And what if indeed he’s in serious trouble?” I continued.
“Where I’ve sent him there is no trouble…” the witch curtly paused for a moment, as if distracted by another concern, “… nothing of a serious nature that would be. Unless,” she lifted herself from the chair which she had dragged near the stove, “he thought to shift to Grora or to the citadel, for whatever unfathomable reason he might want to do that.” Her obvious disappointment caught us by surprise and we took a moment to deliberate on the possibility of her account.
Why would he want to go there alone? I wondered, gazing at the flicker of lights the moving flames projected on the grey surface.
Because he might think he’d be smarter and quicker than the wizard with Bilberith’s sceptre, young master! Ghaeloden’s voice took me by surprise, just like every single time when his voice had invaded my mind.
Why would he do such a thing, master Ghaeloden? Is there a way for you to talk to him from here? I asked worriedly.
I’m afraid we are a bit too far away, Lorian. And if that weren’t the case, I’d still think twice before trying to use magic! Arkhanthï is not like these barren lands. There, even the walls have mouths to whisper and ears to listen to everything that is said! His reply reminded me of how little I knew about magic.
The idea of Nuuk being at the citadel appeared the only reasonable explanation for his delay.
“Would he go back to Grora?” I asked out loud.
“Would you go home to see your family if you could be there in a trice?” came Naghnatë’s sharp reply. “Of course, you would. But I don’t think he would have wasted all this time to check on his family. Not while the reason for his departure was something that would aid you!”
“I see only one solution to this,” broke in the dragon. “I shall return to the citadel! If captured, Felduror won’t wait for Nuuk to willingly tell him why we’ve been delayed and he’ll want to know exactly what happened to the both of us. Most likely he will be very angry that Nuuk has stolen the sceptre from his armoury. I don’t dare to think what he would do to the poor imp if he found out he used magic as freely. I can only try and lessen his penalty.”
“Oh dear! I wouldn’t want to be in his poor skin either!” added Naghnatë.
“With some luck, my arrival will distract him long enough to find out what happened to the imp and perhaps I can devise a way out of it and fly ourselves outside the walls. Although, I would not count on it; too many dragons are willing to prove their loyalty to the king and all hell would break loose if two of us fought in his name!” Ghaeloden said.
His head was propped on the ground at the entrance, making his words puff their way inside the cave with thick clouds of moisture. Outside the trails of a dying nocturnal blizzard were making the lands crack under its gelid winds.
“You are right to go, master Ghaeloden…” Naghnatë finally admitted, before pausing mid-sentence, “… as there is another, more urgent problem!”
She sighed. With a quick sequence of thuds against the pot, she cleaned the wooden-ladle she was stirring the broth with, and hooked it on one of the many nails arranged randomly in the wall near the stove.
“I only hope Felduror won’t understand that Nuuk is capable of shifting as he’ll demand to know where he learnt it from, as clearly the Iprorims do not use such spells. If that is the case, then I am afraid the poor imp is doomed,” she concluded.
“So I say we make haste and stop wasting time!” I grabbed the coat that was hanging on my bedside while I jumped to my feet, forced to hold back the pain that the landing has caused in my still-swollen knee.
“And where do you think you’re going with that leg of yours? Without Nuuk’s help and the sceptre’s, going to the citadel will have to wait!” Naghnatë almost barked at me, yet I was pleased about her consideration.
The reprimand added to my annoyance, and resonated with the acute pain in my knee, making everything worse.
Let me reason with her, young master. It’s for our mutual benefit that we be in accordance, Ghaeloden directed his thought to me before I could reply, his tone soothing my anger.
“We appreciate your effort, Lorian,
” he then said out loud, “though, you are not in good enough shape to accompany us!”
“See!” The witch grabbed the ladle from its place while interrupting the dragon.
“Neither of you are! I’m afraid you aren’t entirely fit to travel either, Naghnatë. And I’d rather go alone than with you lacking your full power.” His words made her stop stirring. “I consider that the both of you should stay here while improving on your health. There is no need to endanger our goal so frivolously. I’ll find my way out of there with or without him.”
If at first his words have made her stop, now they seemed to have agitated the witch even more. She sat herself on the stool and dropped her head on her hand, apparently thinking about her options in silence.
I dared not say a word.
“Very well then! I shall prove I am fit!” Her reply came suddenly, and she vanished with a click of her tongue, her stool falling backwards with a dry clunk.
She left us confounded and speechless.
The sun timidly started casting intermittent rays of taciturn light in the dark of the cold morning. Its orange haze could be perceived here and there, between the fast-moving mass of clouds, fog and snow. There was less turmoil as the retreating blizzard trailed away, carried by the shrill gusts of wind.
Ghaeloden took advantage of the moment to stretch his limbs and go hunting while I remained in the cave with a soup I had yet to finish making.
Lost by rearranging adorable wooden-boxes that contained herbs and spices of various scents, shapes, consistency and colour, many of which I didn’t recognise, I spent many minutes rummaging and deciding how my soup would be concluded. If I had some eggs, I would have done just as Nana often liked doing; beat two eggs in a bowl and mingle them with a couple of generous spoons of white vinegar and pepper and add it all to the soup in the last minutes of cooking; a perfect mix of flavour and colour, neither sweet nor sour, just perfect. But I had to settle for whatever I had at hand instead; it didn't turn that bad.
Winterhorn (Tokens Of Benevolence Book 1) Page 31