The Lost Codex

by Lyons, Heather

  “You did what you must.” A hint of a tremor strains my voice. “We will find him together.”

  The Spider dips into a bow of sorts.

  “You spoke of the Piper’s departure?”

  “He hunts for a codex.”

  “Did Mary and Jack escape?”

  “If they were apprehended, word of the deed has yet to reach me.”

  At least there is a bit of confirmed good news.

  “And Victor?” The last I saw Finn’s brother, he was beaten senseless by a creature and dragged into a room safeguarded by a disappearing door.

  “Alas, I was unable to determine the Doctor’s location, Your Majesty.”

  Finn will never depart this mountain without his brother, of this I am sure.

  “What do you know of the thirteenth Wise Woman?”

  Another cough wobbles his body. “You must always be on your guard around her, Your Majesty. She is not right in the mind.”

  If my most feared assassin fears the lady in question, she must be formidable, indeed.

  “I beg forgiveness that the information I am to present you is incomplete.” Grymsdyke bows the best he can, considering his leg, and I wave off the gesture, assuring him it is unnecessary. “Once Prince Finn and Your Majesty were apprehended, word quickly spread that a codex was missing. This sent both the Piper and the Wise Woman into rages. The Piper gathered a group and departed to track the stolen item.” He rubs a leg against his injured one. “The Wise Woman left a trail of victims in her wake. She is in her room, conjuring, while orders are sent through lieutenants.”

  I creep to the edge of the cell and peep past the bars. No one in sight. “Are we to assume the codex to be the book Finn asked Jack and Mary to take back to the Institute?”

  “I believe so, Your Majesty. No book rests between the thrones any longer.”

  Which means the Institute is now under threat.

  I glance around the cell. “Weapons?”

  “There is an armory one floor up, toward the southern end of the structure. It is constantly guarded.”

  “What about security monitors?” When he offers a Spider’s equivalent of a blank look, I clarify, “Moving pictures that are recorded by machines hung in corners. The Institute utilizes them.”

  “If they are present, I have yet to see them, Your Majesty.”

  I rifle through my former jailer’s pockets for anything of use. I am rewarded with a small blade and a set of keys. Something akin to a cell phone is also discovered, although I am unsure of how such a device would work in a land such as this.

  I do not risk it possessing tracking devices similar to those my own possess. Best to smash the device with the heel of my boot.

  “Very well. We must push forth and pray that we do not come up against such preventatives.”

  Grymsdyke settles upon my shoulder. “Where you go, I shall follow.”

  “Let us show these fiends what it means to come up against Wonderlanders.”

  I do believe that if spiders could grin, Grymsdyke’s would be most fierce, indeed.

  THE WIND IS STRUCK clean from my lungs when my back slams into the wall. No reprieve is given, as the child who barreled out of one of the cells charges me once more, his teeth blackened and body blanketed by the stench of death and rot. I duck just in time, rolling to reclaim a blade lost far too easily.

  Days of sleep do not do a lady any favors in battle.

  A guttural growl tears from the child a split second before ragged nails shred the back of my dress. Son of a Jabberwocky! He’s carved uneven lines into my flesh. Swallowing the unexpected sting, I give no outward satisfaction. Instead, my arm swings, my blade digging into a soft belly. Growling transitions to pained grunting and then to soft cries. I scramble to my knees, and when I face my attacker, purpling skin greets me.

  The child writhes on the ground as blisters form. His lips form an “O” in a silent scream before all light fades from his eyes. “I have scouted ahead,” Grymsdyke announces from his perch on the child’s neck.

  Standing is more painful than I would prefer to admit. Breathing, as well. Staring down at my attacker, I harbor no pity. He may resemble a child, but chances are, as one of the Piper’s minions, he had lived through seven centuries, making him far older than myself. “Any other surprises ahead?”

  Grymsdyke eases off the still-twitching corpse. “I ceased the suffering of one prisoner with a perchance toward shrieking. She was clearly insane from torture. Her eyes were black, her skin riddled with poxes and open sores. My apologies for failing to identify this particular threat beforehand.”

  “Apology unnecessary. There are two of us and hundreds within the mountain. It will be impossible for us to ascertain the locations of all beforehand.” Careful exploration informs me that my dress is torn scandalously low and my wounds deeper than I’d initially estimated.

  Frabjous.

  I am disheartened to discover only a teeny gun upon the child’s body. Finn is the sharpshooter, not I. My talents lie with blades, not bullets.

  “The childling is stupid for not using the gun against you,” Grymsdyke remarks.

  The little fiend had emerged from a foul-smelling room, wielding a bloody scalpel. I shudder to think what we might find once we peek into the chamber.

  I spin the gun’s barrel open and look within to find a sufficient reason for its lack of use. “No bullets.” I return the weapon to his body. “What I would do for a decent blade.”

  Inside the nearby cell is a young man, his body riddled with missing strips of skin. His stomach is torn open, his intestines strung into a filthy bucket below. He is strapped upon a scarred, bloody table. I wander closer, only to find his eyes, swarming with fear, trained on me.

  German is not my best language, but I give it a go anyways. “Have no fear.” I stroke the youth’s sweaty, matted hair. “We are not here to harm you.”

  And yet, he whispers, he chokes in English, “Kill me.” Blood bubbles from his lips. “I refuse to—to be one—” Pain leaks from his eyes.

  My heart hardens as I take inventory of his wounds. What is the purpose here? Why such malicious torture? Is this what the Piper does to those he cannot control?

  From the nearby wall, Grymsdyke murmurs, “Time left the lad behind long ago, Your Majesty.”

  My fingers sweep across the youth’s stained cheeks. “Sleep, then. Know no more pain.” Grasping his head, I quickly snap it.

  Although unnecessary, I unbuckle the straps. I wish there was time to properly take care of his body. To sing a farewell song, to find flowers and soft earth to welcome him to sleep. Shaken, I rub my forehead. What if this is what was done to Finn?

  “We are clear to move on,” Grymsdyke says.

  I nod, and we leave the youth behind. My assassin is meticulous when it comes to scouting ahead, ensuring no further surprises. But our journey is akin to crawling when all I wish to do is storm.

  Forever and a day passes before we make our way to the end. I dispatch a child guard with little difficulty, as this one reeks of strong ale. He, however, possesses a switchblade, and I am delighted to relieve his corpse of the burden.

  And then Grymsdyke and I begin anew across another floor.

  Her braids are brown and smooth, as if she spends much time lovingly tending them. The ribbons binding the ends are velvet—rich, midnight blue to match her extravagant gown of lace and velvet. She is pretty, this girl no older in appearance than ten or twelve.

  And she is the fiend from the dungeon, the one who gleefully spoke of Finn’s punishments.

  She is currently in a heated discussion with an older youth with a chin covered with downy scuff. Between them is a much older man, bruised and nude and on his knees. A satiny pillow bearing a sleek whip rests upon his back. From my position just around the bend of a corner, I watch them warily. Intently.

  When the girl departs, she snatches the whip from the cushion and storms away, spewing in her wake words no child ought to know.
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  The youth vents his frustration on the man, who squeals and collapses against the slick floor’s tiles. Grymsdyke does not wait for me to rectify the situation. Silken threads fly past my face as he swoops forward, a blur of brown and blue bristles. I wait until fangs meet flesh before addressing the injured man.

  His eyes are brown and filled with all that is wrong in a society that abuses people in just such a way. I hold a finger before my lips, asking for his silence. And then I throw my body upon the youth’s purpling one, clamping a hand over his mouth just as his maw opens to scream.

  As his life drains from his bite and the fight evaporates, I drag his corpse into a nearby room. I am pleasantly surprised at how it just so happens to be meant for storage. I shove the body behind trunks and barrels and make my way back out to where Grymsdyke and the naked man are waiting.

  I crouch down, my hands raised in goodwill. I ask in broken German, “Are you all right?”

  Defeated eyes widen. “My—my lady?”

  He thinks me one of them. “What is your name?”

  I wonder if anyone has ever asked him this question, he is so taken aback. “Har-Harry, my lady.”

  “We have little time to chat, Harry. We must find our friends, but I wish to assure your safety first. Is there anything we might do for you?”

  Wariness keeps his muscles taut alongside fragile emotions ready to form hairline cracks. “You are . . . one of the prisoners.” His attention flicks toward Grymsdyke. “And you are the spider they hunt.”

  They. Not I, not we. There is no disgust. No hostility. No call to arms. His eyes are clear. A bit dull, but not black.

  Perhaps there are still those within the mountain, outside of the dungeons, who do not fanatically follow the Piper.

  I throw my dice and pray my odds are good. “We are, yes. Do you perhaps know where our friends are? There was a man with me when I was taken. He has golden-brown hair. There is another man with much darker hair, who fought with a creature who appeared to be stitched together.”

  Harry’s gaze darts around before mopping his blood and the youth’s pus up off of the floor with the satiny pillow. When voices surface at the end of the hallway, he ushers us to the room next to the storage closet. The walls are rock, the floor is dirt.

  It is a true piece of the mountain.

  I glance around the area. There is little but wooden barrels stacked upon one another. Harry shivers in the cool air, his bare, sagging skin riddled with scars and pockmarks. I wish I had clothes to offer him. “I have not seen the dark-haired man you speak of,” he whispers, “but if he is with whom I believe you speak of, I urge you to not seek him out. He will be forbidden, protected. The other one, yes. I know of his fate. He is not too far—Frau Magrek is on her way to where he is now.”

  Beneath my skin, my blood boils like oil readied to pour over walls during a siege.

  “My lady. . .” He trembles, his attention shifting to the assassin perched upon my shoulder. “Even if you were to liberate your friend, they will never allow you to leave. No one leaves this mountain, not even in death.”

  Grymsdyke hops off my shoulder, onto a nearby barrel. Harry steps back, wringing his hands.

  “Do not worry for our safety,” I gently assure him. “And do not worry about my Arachnid associate. As long as you mean us no harm, we offer the same in return. What can you tell us of the room our friend is in and those within it?”

  Hesitation stretches between us, sticky with long held fear. But Harry tells us what we wish to know.

  Grymsdyke lifts a leg out of a crack running through one of the barrels. “This powder is meant for warfare, Your Majesty.”

  I pry one of the lids off. Glittering black powder fills the barrel. Gunpowder. This container’s contents alone could wreak devastating havoc upon a battlefield, destroying hundreds of lives.

  “Did you know this?” I ask Harry.

  “No, my lady.” The stringy muscles tying his bones together tense. “The debased are not allowed to touch what is not ours without permission.” His gaze flickers toward the door. “The consequences for disobedience are never slight.”

  “Who are the debased?”

  When his chin lowers, the fight leaves him. “Those who are unworthy to be Chosen.”

  “Do you wish you had been so?” I ask. “Chosen?”

  Now his chin lifts. “I would rather die as myself than anyone else.”

  I turn this over as I scope the contents of the room. By my estimation, there are nearly two-dozen casks.

  “Check what barrels you can,” I tell Grymsdyke. “Discover if they all hold the same contents.” As my assassin does as requested, I ask Harry, “How many so-called debased are within Koppenberg Mountain?”

  He knows what I ask. How many are held against their will?

  “I do not know the exact number, my lady.”

  “Are the so-called debased constantly monitored?”

  “We are constantly in service, my lady. But there are times during which we must leave our assigned masters in order to fulfill their wishes.”

  Questions pile up faster than answers. “Do you serve more than one master?”

  “While our lives are given to a singular master, we are never allowed to disobey any of the Chosen.”

  He is more than a mere capture. Harry is a slave. The contents of my stomach roil unsteadily. In Wonderland, slavery is outlawed and considered barbaric. “Are all of the Chosen gifted one who is supposedly debased?”

  My stark disdain is all too evident. Although the Caterpillar taught me to hide my emotions well, I do not think that even he could contain his horror over such a situation.

  “No, my lady. Only those who are in the Lord and Lady of the Mountain’s inner circle.”

  Grymsdyke calls out from the other side of the room, “The malodorous powder fills many barrels.”

  A plan curls into existence. According to the conversation I overheard in the dungeon, the Piper may not be present within the mountain . . . but the thirteenth Wise Woman is. And so are a vast number of the Chosen, all to come together for the convergence. I may not know what the convergence is, but I cannot assume it innocent.

  The Piper is no longer within my immediate reach, but there are many others just as capable of destruction who must be dealt with.

  I turn to the bowed man unfairly labeled as debased. He is still strong. He still strives to be himself, which is all any can ever do in the face of such adversity.

  “Do you know the time?”

  “The morn is still upon us, my lady.”

  I offer a slight incline of my head as I process that. “You say that you wish to die as yourself, Harry. But I ask for you to consider to fight to live. Dying is unfortunately too easy. Let us, instead, fight for your freedom, for the opportunity where life may be lived as you desire. You are not debased. You are a man, a soul who deserves respect and dignity.”

  He chews upon a flaky, blood-crusted lip as my face, my seriousness, is all thoroughly, slowly examined.

  “The Chosen within this mountain have done more than enslave people,” I tell him. “They have eradicated the existences of trillions of souls over the last year. Blood stains all of their hands.” My step forward produces a small flinch, a furrowed brow, but he does not withdraw. “I cannot allow this to continue. I must do everything I can within my power to cease these unforgivable acts. I would ask for your help.”

  He says nothing, but he still does not withdraw. The plan within me finds sunshine and spouts through the soil taller and stouter.

  “You have no allegiance to me, no reason to believe or aid me if you do not wish. But if you are the man I think you are, the man you cling to in the face of such depravity and despair, I ask that you gather as many of the non-Chosen as you can.” I glance about the room, relieved when I find what I am looking for. A kind fate, perhaps, has not abandoned me yet. There are strands of rotting rope on the dirt-packed ground several feet away.

  “Fill pouc
hes with powder within these barrels—as much as you can without being caught—and take them to important rooms within Koppenberg Mountain. Strategically place them where they will not immediately be seen, and lay lengths of rope in the powder so that they stretch a good distance, hidden. An hour before dawn, you and your brethren must light the ends furthest from the pouches and then hurry back to this room. Start on the furthest floor and work your way here. I will find us a way out by then. You will not die in this place, Harry. Not if there is still breath within my body.”

  His eyes settle upon the still open barrel. “What does the powder do, my lady?”

  When I tell him, the first smile I have witnessed upon his face surfaces.

  “You do not ask for my allegiance, my lady, but,” his knees creak as he lowers to the floor, “I offer it anyway.”

  When I touch him, another flinch rolls across his loose skin. I take no offense, though. Not when the scars and scabs across his flesh inform me he has good reason to shy from contact. “There is no need to kneel before me. All I ask is that you hold firm to yourself this day and night. And know that there are those who now stand beside you.”

  He rises, and the dullness that once glazed over his eyes has been buffed away. “My lady, if you truly seek the man I think you do, you must hurry. Frau Magrek is not kind to those who fail to bend to her will.”

  “I thank you for your assistance.” I incline my head. “You will leave Koppenberg, Harry. And when you do, it will be as yourself.”

  It takes several minutes for Harry to pull himself together. He rubs at his face so that any trace of tears disappear. All of the youth’s blood is scrubbed away. A breakdown of what we might expect from Frau Magrek and her compatriots is delivered. When the man departs, Grymsdyke comments, “Pain governs many a soul.”

  “So does hope.”

  “If he turns, I will bite him.”

  “I would expect nothing less,” I tell my assassin.

  Between the two of us, we have fangs and a switchblade. Inside the room Harry believes holds Finn, there ought to be at least three Chosen: a master torturer, an apprentice piper, and Frau Magrek, who is well known for her love of pain. Considering her whip, I do not doubt the rumor.