And it was in this way the two small creatures traveled on and on. And it was nearly the whole way they had traveled in utter silence. After squeezing through narrow passages and cracks, Grizlok halted. Biddledur, after his eyes finally adjusted to the new sources of light, felt a strange sense of relief upon reaching their ominous destination. Though, not to be mistaken, the halfling still shook with fear. The two, demon and halfling alike, stood on the edge of a descending path that made the cliffside outside—the one Biddledur had nearly taken a plummet from—look like a small hill.
The pathway winded sharply down into what looked to be a man-made chasm. The bottom of the pit looked entirely different from when the halfling first removed his blindfold and saw the great spire sitting at the base. The spire stood as the necromancer’s quarters and was nothing more than a massive stalagmite that he’d hollowed out. Had the halfling not been petrified with terror at the sight of the necromancer, perhaps Biddledur could’ve admired his creation.
Now, as Biddledur and Grizlok descended the crumbling path, a horde of goblins filled the base of the chasm, and their clank of steel echoed through the hollowed mountain with each practice strike of their swords, with each swing of their pickaxe. Goblins hung from ropes up and down the mountainside, mining precious materials for the necromancer. To Biddledur, they looked like dangling spiders hanging from their webs. Sporadically positioned on the walls were a few dirty, soot-covered dwarves, shouting commands at the goblins in a guttural tongue that Biddledur could not make out.
From the edge of the path, Biddledur tripped forward as if he’d stubbed his foot, nearly toppling over the cliff—again. Stepping back, he realized his right foot was caught, and, looking down, saw a stubby, hair-covered hand gripping his boot. He let out a high-pitched shriek and began stomping the hand with his free foot.
Over the cliffside came a pain-filled shout, and a dirty face came peering over the ledge. The dwarf had matted black hair, and his beard was clipped unevenly just below his chin as if he’d taken a jagged dagger to it. “Don’t ye be makin’ me climb up there and toss ye over the ledge,” he growled to the halfling, the dwarf’s green eyes burning with anger.
Biddledur put his back to the rocky wall as the dwarf released the halfling’s foot.
The dwarf turned his gaze towards Grizlok and lowered his gravelly voice. “Finally come back, did ye, Grizlok?”
The demon snickered. “I come back when the master desires,” he said. “You may return to your job.”
“I’ll be returnin’ soon as—” Though Grizlok did not allow him to finish his brash comment. The demon hissed at the hanging dwarf, and Grizlok’s green eyes shone brighter than Biddledur had ever seen. A mist of green, caustic breath stole from the demon’s lungs and plunged into the dwarf’s nostrils like it had been commanded to do so—and Biddledur assumed that it had been. While the dwarf fell into a fit of coughing and choking, Grizlok gave him a swift nudge with his taloned foot and sent the dwarf spiraling from the cliffside.
Though the dwarf was fastened to the rock wall by his harness, he collided with the wall over and over as his body weight sent him swinging. When his momentum came to a halt, the dwarf’s body went limp, and he dangled from the cliffside high above the base below.
That will be a sight to wake up to, if he ever does, Biddledur thought.
A few of the hanging goblins stopped their mining to see the commotion, a few even snickering. But when they caught a glimpse of Grizlok’s green, fiery eyes, they immediately were back in full swing.
Grizlok turned back to the halfling. “Keep moving now,” he said, “unless you wish to join the dwarf. Grizlok has no preference over what you choose.”
And move Biddledur did indeed. Though, he considered again how falling from a cliff would so quickly end this nasty mess he’d found himself in. He also considered running. Where? That didn’t matter. He could run back the way they’d come, hopefully outrunning the flight of the demon’s frayed wings. He could run past Grizlok, shoving him over the edge and hoping that the demon couldn’t carry his own weight—he’d topple down like the dwarf had.
He shook the thoughts from his mind and followed the demon before him. There was no escaping, especially not now that he was deep within the mountain.
Down and down they went, and, slowly, the goblins at the base did not seem so small any longer. Little creatures they were, but not so much compared to the halfling’s stature. And Biddledur had come to learn the violent, selfish nature of the goblins all too well.
As their feet planted firmly at the base of the chasm, a heavy anxiety began to bubble within Biddledur’s stomach. He wished that he could blame it on his hunger—which he surely was—yet, he was only moments away from once again being face-to-face with the necromancer; and that was the true cause. He knew he hadn’t any other options, so he trudged forth through the base of the hollowed mountain, following Grizlok.
The sea of goblins did not make way for them as they passed through. Luckily for Biddledur, Grizlok feared none of them, and forced his way through as violently as he had with the now unconscious, dangling dwarf.
Biddledur winced as a few of the goblins, their swords drawn as they sparred with one another, halted their training to hiss at the demon. They showed no fear for the green-eyed creature, and Biddledur knew that it was only because they were too stupid to know what the demon was capable of.
A few groups of goblins sat around small fires cooking wolves and deer that had been hauled in from outside the mountain. Biddledur thought these groups had the easiest job: cooking the meats for those doing the more tedious work. Though most of the goblins would have eaten the carcasses raw, the dwarves were slightly stingier with their consumption. The heat from the fires felt comforting to Biddledur. What he wouldn’t do to sit beside the crackling heat and rest his weary feet!
As the hordes of goblins thinned, Biddledur’s focus was consumed by the black tower ahead of him and the demon. From the halfling’s new vantage point, the tower seemed to have grown. Its sharp point stretched nearly to the top of the jagged path that the two small creatures had descended. The necromancer’s tower was gleaming, smoothly coated like the outside of the Black Rock Mountains.
Strange adornments wrapped around the outside of the tower, spiraling up the sides like snakes, until they reached the top. There were a few windows, few of which were lit. Even the ones that were produced such little light that they merely looked tinted yellow with dust and muck.
Biddledur thought it strange: the necromancer had acquired an army of goblins to harvest these mountains, surely to fund his secretive task. Had they mined the stalagmite that he had transformed into his tower, it mostly likely could have funded the entire escapade. That was neither here nor there for Biddledur; this was not his adventure. At least, not by choice.
At the door of the tower, fitted with enchanted iron bars, two burly dwarves met Biddledur and Grizlok.
“Look who finally returns.” The red-headed dwarf spat, his beard nearly curling down to the ground. He held a large, poorly-crafted axe with both hands across his chest.
“Look at ye,” said the black-haired dwarf, appearing odd with a clean-shaven face. “The master’s little pet.”
At this, both dwarves chuckled.
Grizlok began leading the halfling up the few black rock steps, but the dwarves sidestepped towards one another to block their path.
“I be awaitin’ orders for yer arrival,” said the red-headed dwarf. “And I’ve heard no news meself. I’ll be guessin’ ye can wait here on the steps ’til the master gives the word.”
Again, the two dwarves eyed each other.
Even from behind the demon, Biddledur could see Grizlok’s eyes glow brighter, creating a green aura around his head.
The dwarves clenched their axes tighter between their fat fingers and widened their stance, excited at a chance to slay the wicked creature, regardless of the repercussions.
From behind the dwarves came a
metallic clank, and the five iron bars blocking the door fell into their respective holes at the base of the landing. There was a brief pause; an awkward moment of silence, only the clashing of swords and cracking of rock under pickaxe from behind, and, with a spine-tingling crack, the black rock doors of the tower opened slowly.
A frigid draft rushed past the dwarves and ruffled the halfling’s curly brown locks, sending remnants of the demon’s acidic breath that he began to exhale back into Biddledur’s face. It burned his lungs and his eyes, making them water like the peppers he’d picked in his mother’s garden as a young halfling. He shook away the pain, for he feared it was nothing compared to what was to come from within the necromancer’s tower.
Surely, it was the black-cloaked master that had willed the opening of the door; which meant he was aware of their recent arrival.
Despite Biddledur’s deep, quivering breaths, he could not stop his body from shaking, as if he stood stranded in the middle of a blizzard. He had failed his quest, failed his master’s bidding. What use would the necromancer have for such a cowardly halfling now? “This may surely be your end, young one,” Biddledur whispered to himself.
Though it didn’t go unnoticed—Grizlok turned his head back in approval, showing his yellowed teeth through a wicked grin, dripping with his breath.
With that, Grizlok led the halfling through the tower’s doors.
Inside, even through his debilitating fear, Biddledur marveled at the drastic changes of the master’s tower. The room was chilled, as if some magic spell prevented the stuffy heat inside the mountain from penetrating the tower. It was almost too cold, and Biddledur thought that, had he not been shivering from his fear, he surely would’ve been from the temperature.
The foyer of the tower was clean, not a spec of soot from outside had been allowed entry. There were only a few goblins pacing to and fro, situating a few paintings that their master must have imported (in actuality, were stolen). This sight gave Biddledur a false sense of hope that there was at least a small amount of human left within the necromancer.
As they passed through, the goblins within the room did their best to avoid eye contact with the demon. (Goblins may have been stupid, vile creatures, but these at least knew their place within the chain of command, unlike the rowdy dwarves.)
At the end of the room stood another door. The last time the halfling had seen it, so long ago, it had been nothing more than a rugged hole carved into the black rock. Now, Biddledur could see that it was much like the front door to the tower. At the foot were five small holes, where the metal bars could protrude, creating yet another obstacle for unwelcome guests. Unfortunately, Biddledur was indeed welcome. And, though he was nowhere near well-versed in the ways of magic, he could feel a depressing aura lingering about the door frame, etched with strange runes; one of which caught his eye, though he couldn’t guess why. It looked as if it were some kind of key, directly in the middle of the top of the frame, with two small lines, one longer than the other, to its left.
He couldn’t quite explain the feeling, had he tried, but it tugged upon his heart, and the halfling felt as if it would be ripped from his chest.
Once Biddledur had followed Grizlok through the door, the feeling faded, but his fear did not. Yet again, the halfling found himself in the chambers of the necromancer. Like the rest of the tower (that which Biddledur had seen) it was much more organized that his previous meeting with the dark master. The walls were now lined with bookshelves of a deep red wood. Trees of Castrolyl, Biddledur thought. Surely the necromancer’s imports were stolen, for the elves of the west would not allow one to cut down a single sapling from their sacred forest. There wasn’t a gap to be found on the newly formed library shelves. The necromancer had gone to great lengths, filling them with black-spined books end-to-end.
Biddledur shuddered at the thought of touching one.
At the end of the room, upon a raised platform, sat a red-leather chair, the only thing of color in the room other than the red shelves and a few beautiful paintings. Cloaked in a black robe, veiled by the shadow of his hood, sat the halfling’s master. The necromancer held an open book in his hand and did not raise his head as he spoke.
“I have long awaited your return, my minions.”
Grizlok bounced from the ground and let his shredded wings float him to his master’s side, perching himself atop a wooden stool.
The halfling was left standing alone in the center of the necromancer’s chambers. Not once had he considered missing the comfort of having a demon at his side!
The necromancer stood and removed the hood from over his head. His black hair had all vanished, leaving his scalp as pale and gaunt as his sunken cheeks, and his eyes had turned a darker shade of burgundy.
“It seems on most unfortunate terms we are meeting again,” he said, scowling down from his throne at Biddledur.
Biddledur’s mouth fell open, but the words didn’t follow.
The necromancer walked slowly down the steps and closer to the halfling.
Biddledur hadn’t meant to, but he couldn’t keep his feet from stepping backwards. With each step closer the necromancer made, those deep, red eyes pierced his soul ever so greatly. Biddledur found that he could not move any longer; an aura much like the one he had felt outside the doorframe rooted him to the black rock floor.
“Now there,” continued the necromancer. “That shall make things much easier, wouldn’t you agree?”
Again, Biddledur could not muster his voice.
The necromancer dropped to a knee. In his hand floated a ball of green fire, much like that of Grizlok’s eyes. Biddledur could feel the small hairs on his chin singeing away, and it became harder and harder to swallow.
“Wouldn’t you agree?” This time the necromancer shouted through clenched teeth, sending flecks of angered spit splattering on the halfling’s face.
“Yes,” answered Biddledur. “Yes, Lord Daen.”
With that, the flame within the necromancer’s hand seemed to dissipate, and his eyes calmed.
Biddledur could see the demon dancing, giddy with anticipation, over Lord Daen’s shoulder.
“That’s all that I ask,” Lord Daen continued. “Your unending fealty.”
The weight holding the halfling in place left and he fell to his knees, unable to control their buckling.
“No, dear halfling,” said the master, turning his back to Biddledur. “You have not yet failed me. Sure, you have not succeeded either. But we have not lost all hope of finding the stone.” Lord Daen whipped back towards the halfling, sending a ball of green flame at the ground next to Biddledur (now only toying with his spastic emotions).
“Allow me to show you my new toy!” Lord Daen wandered near the west bookshelf. Biddledur hadn’t noticed upon his entry, but there stood what looked like a large, circular mirror. Around the edge was a shining, silver border, fitted with blue gems dazzling in the light, spaced perfectly apart.
“Any moment now,” Lord Daen whispered.
As if on cue, the blue gems began to pulsate, glowing brightly. In the mirror, Biddledur could see ripples, as if the glass were liquefied, and quickly an image formed. It was that of a forest; a beautiful day under the bright sun, reflecting off the stunning trees.
“The forest of Castrolyl,” Biddledur said under his breath.
Still, the master had keen ears. “You are well-versed in the world, young one. That is why I must keep you around.” He looked back at the halfling with a smile and then at the mirror again. “For now.”
“Is this where the stone lay in wait, then?” asked Biddledur.
“No, no,” laughed Lord Daen. And, as he did, through the mirror came a row of dwarves in single file, hoisting an entire redwood tree on their shoulders. “This is merely for pleasure.”
Well, that explains the master’s new amenities, thought Biddledur.
“Though,” Lord Daen continued, “once the stone has been found, this will lead us directly to it.”
***
Lit only by a few candles and a window high up the grey stone wall, the library was dim. Catastrophe may not have been the correct term, for the state of the library was much worse: books lay upside down and backwards upon the shelves. They lay dusty and scattered across the wooden tables cluttering the room, spread half-open and unfinished. Even the dark, wooden floor was covered, leaving a trail between the tables.
“When was the last I left this room?” The old man really couldn’t remember. He sat at his corner table and shuffled through the pile of books in front of him. “Now, where did I leave off?” He shoved a pile and it fell to the floor with an echoing thump, creating a cloud of noxious dust in the room. The old man waved the cloud away, coughing. A large book with a royal blue binding lay in front of him, engraved with the etching of a strange symbol, nearly diamond in shape.
“Ah, yes. That’s it.” Talking to himself had become customary. These books were his few friends. Opening this one, it seemed to find itself landing on a specific page roughly three-quarters of the way through. Sitting in the worn crease of the inner binding lay a thin piece of smushed bread. “There you are,” the old man said, his blue eyes brightening as he stuffed the bread into his mouth, crumbs landing in his fuzzy grey beard.
As he chewed the stale bread, the old man gazed down at the pages, attempting to sort through the broken language. He ran his fingers across the faded lettering, and he came upon a word, passed it, and quickly came back.
“Ezroch,” the old man whispered; chills climbed his spine, tingling like the legs of thousands of tiny spiders upon his back. He looked over his shoulder, though no one was there. “No!” he gasped.
A Flutter In The Night (Kyrn's Legacy Book 1) Page 3