Riddle In Stone (Book 1)

by Robert Evert

  A deeper voice replied. “Perhaps, Mr. Kravel. However, I am more interested in seeing how long he lasts. Don’t forget. I still have three and a half days in our new wager.”

  Kravel and Gurding stepped out of a niche in the wall, followed by the two missing guards.

  “Patience, Mr. Gurding,” Kravel said. “First things, as they say, are first. Master Filth,” Kravel called to Edmund, “would you do us the pleasure of joining us?”

  What do I do now?

  Vomit pushed him to his feet. “Don’t keep them waiting. Go!”

  “Do whatever they say,” Pond Scum whispered. “Don’t think! Just do.”

  Edmund hurried to the waiting goblins, his hands smoothing his unkempt hair and straightening what was left of his clothing.

  Producing a small coil of rope from his pocket, Gurding formed a noose.

  “I don’t believe that will be called for, Mr. Gurding. Wouldn’t you agree, Filth?”

  His head bent, Edmund twitched like a man being shocked. His hands fumbled together and then touched one of the purple bumps on his dirt-smeared forehead.

  “It’s certainly wonderful to see you again. You look splendid, I must say.” Kravel went on. “I hadn’t anticipated such a reunion so soon; however, as you’ll soon learn, events have produced an outcome different than what I had originally expected.”

  “You’ve lost weight,” observed Gurding. “But you’re still fat.”

  “Ah! That’s just like you, Mr. Gurding. Always seeing both sides of the matter.” Bowing, Kravel motioned to a passage. “If you please, Master Filth.”

  Edmund recoiled, darting a fleeting look at the two guards who were reading a piece of paper with great interest.

  “Not to worry. Not to worry,” Kravel said, dismissively. “Your guardians here understand that your presence is required elsewhere. They have their orders and we will be responsible for your well-being. Come. Come. You don’t want to be late. I can assure you of that. It would be very detrimental to your present good health.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “He’s certainly quiet this time,” Gurding said as they strolled up a well-lit passageway. “Much better than before. All that stuttering.” He looked back at Edmund following close behind. “Honestly, if we had to be around you for another day, I would’ve snapped your neck, orders or no.”

  Keep your mouth shut! Don’t say a word. Don’t say a word and do whatever they say!

  “The Questioners do work wonders,” admitted Kravel. “Still, I miss the witty banter we had, don’t you? Not to mention Filth’s endless crying. There is simply something about a sobbing fat man, would you agree, Mr. Gurding?”

  “It depends upon how they are cooked, I suppose.”

  “Ah! Indeed. There is that wit of yours. You’re a treasure, Mr. Gurding. A treasure.” Kravel turned around. “But Mr. Gurding is correct. You certainly are a quiet one, Filth. Or have they cut out your tongue?”

  “That would make this afternoon rather difficult to say the least,” Gurding mused.

  Concerned, Kravel halted and told Edmund to open his mouth, which Edmund did, his tongue twitching in the torch light.

  “Well,” Kravel said, relieved. “That gave me quite the start! Could you imagine what would have happened if we brought him up to the tower only to find that he had no tongue?”

  Gurding shuddered. “It would not have been pleasant. Not in the least bit.”

  They entered a chamber with a wooden platform connected to four thick chains extending upward into darkness. Two human slaves, haggard and bloody, stood like plow horses ready to grind corn at a millstone.

  Maybe I can escape! They aren’t paying any attention to me.

  Don’t be stupid. They’d run you down before you took three steps. Just do what they say. And keep your wits about you!

  Edmund followed his captors onto the platform.

  “To the top, if you would be so kind,” Kravel said to the guard.

  The guard flicked his whip.

  Running in a circle, the slaves began turning a large wheel. Gears whirled. Chains creaked. The platform lifted unsteadily off the ground.

  “I suppose you are wondering where we are headed, my dear Filth,” Kravel said as they rose off the ground.

  Below them, the whip cracked again. Somebody cried out as the platform surged upward.

  “I’m not too sure I like him like this,” said Gurding. “Not that I like all the stuttering. It drove me crazy just listening to him. It took until now to get his squawking out of my head at nights. But at least he had personality.”

  “Well said, Mr. Gurding. However, perhaps it is best that Master Filth here rest his convulsive tongue while he can.”

  Edmund watched the wall of the shaft through which they were rising.

  “You see, Master Filth,” Kravel said, “we’ve found some . . . shall we say, irregularities in the information you provided us earlier.”

  “You lied,” Gurding said.

  Uh oh! What did I tell them?

  “That is a succinct way of phrasing matters, I’m afraid.”

  “We aren’t particularly fond of liars.”

  “No indeed. You are quite correct, Mr. Gurding. And I have to say that, in one respect, I am disappointed that you hid the complete and utter truth from us, my dear Filth. I thought that we were friends, you and I. Then again, it would seem that you are going to help promote our standing considerably—Mr. Gurding’s and mine, that is. So I’m inclined to overlook your little indiscretion for the time being. However, given that you have foiled the astute questioning of both ourselves and the Questioner you met when we arrived home, somebody else wishes to have a word with you.”

  “A very important somebody.”

  “Now you are understating things, Mr. Gurding. That’s unlike you.”

  Trying to remember to breathe, Edmund continued to stare at the wall while the platform rose higher and higher up through the mountain.

  “You see, Filth,” Kravel went on, “you will have a remarkable pleasure that very few Hiisi have ever had, and perhaps none of your kind.”

  “At least none of your kind who have survived the experience.”

  “Quite possibly. However, Mr. Gurding here is merely speculating. Such knowledge is not available to us, you understand. You see, Filth, you will be meeting somebody who has taken a personal interest in you.”

  Personal . . . interest . . . ?

  Icy sweat began trickling down Edmund’s sides.

  That doesn’t sound good.

  Just keep your mouth shut, don’t look at them in the eye, and do whatever they say!

  Gurding’s yellow teeth appeared in a kind of grin. “And he will make sure that you’ll tell us everything you know. He may even cure your stutter.”

  “One can only hope, Mr. Gurding. But let us not make any promises on His Majesty’s behalf.”

  His Majesty?

  Edmund’s head lifted.

  What have you gotten yourself into now, Edmund, you fool?

  “Yes, indeed, my dear Filth,” Kravel said in response to Edmund’s horrified expression. “You will soon have the honor of meeting our magnificent and benevolent King! I trust you have brought something appropriate to wear? No? Never mind. I am sure he’ll like you for who you are, as we do. Isn’t that right, Mr. Gurding?”

  “I never said I liked him. In fact, I’m still mystified about this whole affair. Why His Majesty would want to meet with the likes of him is beyond me. Personally, I hope His Highness kills the fat fellow, or allows us to do so.”

  “Interesting possibilities, no doubt. I suppose such outcomes would depend largely upon how well Master Filth here answers questions.” Kravel shook Edmund’s shoulder playfully. Edmund blanched, pain coursing through his stiff body. “What do you think, Master Filth? Will you be in a talkative mood tonight?”

  “I bet you that he’ll be screaming more than talking.”

  Kravel thought about this. “I’ll take th
at bet, Mr. Gurding. I believe Master Filth here will do splendidly. I’m quite sure that he will tell all that he knows about anything His Majesty asks him.”

  Gurding laughed. “If he doesn’t . . . ”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “I’m terribly sorry for not greeting you sooner,” a kind voice said from the impenetrable shadows surrounding Edmund, “but I wasn’t aware that you had joined us until earlier this morning. It is an oversight that has been severely reprimanded, I can assure you.”

  Edmund rotated his head slightly, attempting to detect where in the ring of darkness the voice was coming from. He was in a room—that much he could discern. Further, given the mortared stone walls and the wonderful mountain-scented air, he guessed that he was in some sort of above-ground structure, maybe a fortress or castle.

  Directly in front of him, a man was strapped to a metal table. Bound with heavy chains, the man’s feet dangled over a small, but growing fire—the only source of light in the chamber. He had been beaten. One of his eyes appeared to be dead, staring lifelessly in a completely different direction than his other eye. Blood seeped out of his clenched lips and broken nose. But, like a seasoned soldier, the man’s demeanor was defiant, even as his legs strained to keep his feet above the leaping flames.

  Edmund shifted uneasily in his wooden chair.

  “Are you comfortable?” the voice asked.

  What’s this all about? What am I doing here?

  It’s not going to be pleasant, that’s for sure. Keep your wits about you, Ed! Or you’ll be on that table soon.

  Something struck Edmund across the side of his head, knocking him to the blood-splattered floor.

  “Answer His Majesty,” a guard demanded.

  “Now, now,” the voice admonished softly, “that isn’t called for. Not yet. Our guest here is merely attempting to acquire his bearings. I can imagine that all of this is exceedingly disorienting for him. We have all the time in the world to have our pleasant conversation.”

  Pleasant conversation?

  “I’m, I’m s-s-sorry, sir.” Edmund felt the growing lump above his right ear as he climbed back onto his chair. “I’m . . . I’m sorry. Wh-wh-what, what was the, the question?”

  “I asked if you were comfortable. Would you prefer a different chair? A cushion, perhaps? You will be sitting for a while, I’m afraid. I’d like you to be comfortable.”

  Comfortable? If you want me comfortable, let me go home!

  “N-n-no. No, s-sir. Master? Sir? No. No, I’m . . . I’m fine. Th-thank you. Thank you, sir.”

  “Ah, they said you had difficulty speaking. I once had a sister with a similar infliction. She’s dead now.” The voice paused as if recalling a pleasant memory. “What is your name by the way?”

  “F-F-Filth. Filth. It’s . . . it’s Filth, sir.”

  The voice laughed. “No, you misunderstand me. I mean your real name. For the moment, consider yourself human again.”

  “My, my . . . my real, real name?” Edmund’s body tensed, ready for another blow. “M-my, my real name is . . . is Ed-Ed-Edmund, sir, master.”

  Another chuckle bubbled out of the darkness. “No need to use either ‘sir’ or ‘master.’ Just do your best to answer my questions completely. Imagine that we are two old friends talking on your front porch or in your kitchen, just chatting the autumn evening away.”

  “Yes, yes, sir.” Edmund slapped his hands over his mouth, realizing he said ‘sir’ again.

  More chuckling floated to him.

  “Now, Edmund, would you care for some tea?”

  “What? Tea? Yes, yes sir . . . I, I mean. Yes. Yes, that would be lovely. Thank you. Thank you very much.”

  “Splendid.”

  Why am I here? What do they want from me?

  Just stay alert and, for the love of the gods, don’t upset him!

  From the darkness to Edmund’s right, a goblin guard appeared. He attached a kettle to the soldier’s legs, the added weight dragging his feet further into the rising flames. His face contorting, the man fought to keep them out of the fire.

  “If you lift it too high,” the guard said, “it won’t boil, now will it? So put your legs back down or I’ll pop your knee caps off with this.” He held up a knife.

  The man strapped to the table glared at Edmund, curses in his watering eyes.

  Edmund mouthed a silent apology. But the tormented soldier turned away, biting his bloody lip as he strained to keep the kettle close to the crackling fire without burning himself.

  “It should be ready momentarily,” the voice said. “Perhaps we should begin. You’re of the northern human race, or am I mistaken?”

  “What? Oh, y-yes. Yes, I’m, I’m of northern stock, as they say. Yes. Yes, sir.”

  “Excellent. Now, where are you from?”

  “R-R-Rood. Rood, sir. I mean . . . ”

  What are you doing? Don’t tell him that!

  Why? What could it possibly matter? Tell him anything he wants to know!

  “Rood . . . ” the voice repeated thoughtfully to himself. “Rood. I don’t believe that I am familiar with it. Where is it from here?”

  Edmund shrank in his chair. “I-I-I don’t know . . . sir. I mean, I mean, that is to say, I, I . . . I don’t know where here is, if you understand me. So I don’t know. I’m . . . I’m sorry.”

  “Very good. And quite correct of you, I am sure. Let me restate the question differently. What direction is your home from the tower in which you were found? Tol Helen, your people used to call it, though it has other, more appealing, names.”

  “East.” Edmund jolted. “No! No, west! West. It’s west. I’m terribly sorry. I’m sorry. I’m, I’m just, I’m just a bit confused. I’m sorry.”

  “No need to apologize. Slips of the tongue and all. I understand. You are doing fine. So this Rood is west of the tower. Good. Due west?”

  Why does he care about Rood?

  He’s just trying to make you lower your guard. Don’t think. Just answer whatever questions he has or you’ll end up with your legs in the fire.

  “W-west and a little south. More west than south, that is.”

  The kettle’s lid jingled. Glancing at it, Edmund expected the water to be near boiling, but found that the man’s struggling legs were causing the noise. Scarlet flames climbed higher, licking the kettle and the man’s calves. There was a sizzling sound and the scent of scorched hair and burnt skin.

  “Rood,” the voice said again to himself. “No, I can’t seem to place it. Does it have another name, perhaps something out of the distant pages of history?”

  “P-people used to, used to call it Rut, as, as, as in ‘Rut in the Road.’ It’s a very small town, you understand. Village, really. Insignificant to, to you, to anybody, I’m sure. Two hundred and forty-three years ago it, it became officially known as, as, as Rood. But, but that, that wouldn’t interest you.”

  “Actually, it does. I am fascinated by such things, languages in particular, and how they change over time. In fact, I once studied to be a philologist. Let’s see. ‘Rut in the Road’ would be Skutilsbraut, in the older dialects of your original tongue. Maybe Raufbraut, ‘hole in the road.’ However, neither is striking a chord in my memory.”

  A growing fountain of grey steam arose from the kettle’s spout, billowing around the man’s blistering ankles. A soft whistle grew into an unnerving, high-pitched scream. A guard unhooked the kettle from the chains binding the man’s feet. Exhaling with relief, the man lifted his legs higher above the fire.

  “Is Rood by any geological landmarks? Bodies of water? Or perhaps old ruins?”

  Don’t tell him!

  “It’s . . . ” Edmund watched as the guard set an exquisite ivory- and gold-trimmed teacup and saucer on the man’s bloody chest. It heaved up and down as the man labored to breathe.

  “If you make me spill,” the guard told the soldier, “I’ll become very angry.”

  He carefully poured the hot water into the teacup.

&
nbsp; This is insane!

  “Edmund?” the voice prodded.

  “Wh-what? What? I’m . . . I’m sorry. What, what were you saying, sir? What were you asking?”

  “I was just trying to place this Rood of yours. I was once well-traveled in my youth. I particularly enjoyed the lands where you come from and I cannot recall any such settlement. Is it by any geological landmarks, such as bodies of water? Is it by any ruins from the Elder Days?”

  Don’t tell him! Be vague. He doesn’t need to know where Rood is.

  “It’s, it’s by Tower Hill. Does that, does that help, sir?”

  “No. No, I’m afraid not. But it is not of any importance. I was merely curious. Why don’t you try your tea? It’s batwing, if you are familiar with it. If not, don’t let the name deter you. It doesn’t actually contain bat wings or any other portions of bats, for that matter.”

  “Yes. Yes, I know. It’s . . . it’s made from the black leaves of the Manglorn Vine, which look . . . which look like little bat wings.”

  “Very true. How did you know that?”

  With trembling hands, Edmund lifted the delicate teacup from the man’s chest. The man glared at him again. Edmund winced another apology.

  “M-m-my, my mother owned an, an apothecary shop. She taught me about such things, herbs and the like.”

  Shut up! Don’t reveal anything else. He’s learning too much about you.

  How would that possibly matter? Mother is dead. We’ll be dead soon too if we don’t cooperate.

  Edmund sniffed the wisps of steam rising up from his teacup. It smelled like batwing tea. He tasted it. It seemed sweeter than he remembered, but it was good. Anything tasted better than the dirty water the goblins gave them.

  “Your mother was an apothecary?” the voice said, mulling over this information. “Interesting. Oh, I’m terribly sorry. Would you like some cream?”

  “What? Oh . . . oh, no. No, thank you.”

  “Honey or sugar?”

  “N-n . . . no, no, sir,” Edmund said, trying to sip the tea again without spilling it all over himself. “I’m . . . I’m f-fine. Fine. Thank you.”