by Aaron Gansky
“Better?” Oliver asked. “You look better.”
“Maybe she should sit out the next passage,” Erica said.
“I’m fine.” Lauren stood up, steadied herself, and held out her hand. “Want to see a magic trick?” She blew Ullwen a kiss, and fire sprang from her palm.
Ullwen’s face split in a wide grin.
“Someone’s feeling better,” Erica said, “and I don’t mean Lauren. Let’s go before they start kissing for real.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
The nar’esh eradicated the dwarves. They swarmed over them like wasps over a carcass. But Gilbur cried out to Adonai to save his people. And Adonai heard his cry and allowed a remnant to persevere the plague. These that survived left Alrujah and fled to the Otherlands.
—The Book of the Ancients
THE WEST PASSAGE WENT much faster than the east. Likely because he, Erica, and Aiden had already made it most of the way down when they realized Lauren was hurt. Also, he moved with increased strength and speed, which must be tied to an incremental improvement, like a level-up. Judging by the way Aiden’s movements became more intricate and involved, the way he strung his combos together, Aiden benefited from the same evolvement. Erica and Lauren, too.
The intensity of Lauren’s flames burned Oliver’s face as they shot by. The cold cave heated fast when she started launching fireballs and crafting flame-whips. Instead of iceboxes, the narrow passageways became microwaves.
And Erica. She moved with the fluidity of a ballerina. Except most ballerinas didn’t dance with a dagger and didn’t splatter nar’esh blood on cave walls. Still, her wounded shoulder made her graceful movements choppy. She held her left arm close to her as she spun and ducked, kicked and stabbed. Aided by the dense cloud of bats for distraction, she moved like a deadly shadow.
But even with their enhanced skills, they struggled against the constant waves of nar’esh. With every spidery beast that fell, two took its place. The creatures gave them no time to think, and they became more aggressive the longer the battle in the west passage progressed. They moved closer to the torches. They did not scurry away from Lauren’s flames or Aiden’s sword. They met them straight on.
“We’re close now. We’re almost done,” Oliver said.
“Do these things ever stop coming?” Aiden asked. A nar’esh dropped on his back. He backed into a wall and crushed it between his armor and the slick black rock. He swung his right arm and sliced one in half. Another leapt at him. He had time enough to extend his barbed elbow. The dagger-like extension sank into the beast’s stomach. Aiden pulled free and kicked its head into the wall next to the other smashed nar’esh.
Two nar’esh surrounded Oliver. He jabbed one end of his prayer staff into the chest of the one in front of him and the other in the chest of the one behind him. As both took a step back, he twirled the staff around and cracked the first on the head, then brought it low and took the back creature’s legs out from beneath it. He finished it off with a quick smash of the end of his staff in the face of each nar’esh.
He didn’t like killing, but he didn’t have much choice.
Ullwen had no problem killing the nar’esh. He fired arrows so fast it was like he was using an automatic bow. A split second after an arrow twanged off his string, he’d strung another. “I’m running low on arrows,” he said.
Erica grunted, swiped at the extended arm of a nar’esh. “I’m guessing the sterling sword on your hip isn’t for show.”
“Aye, but I prefer my bow.”
“You’re not exactly in a position to pick and choose,” Lauren said. She twirled a thin stream of fire around her head like a whirlpool. Several nar’esh moved back. They leaned in and out, timing their movements, waiting for her to falter to make their attack.
“Bro, these guys are getting way old,” Aiden said.
The nar’esh shrieked and squealed, clicked and clacked. “Chatty, aren’t they?” Erica said.
Ullwen shouted, “Stay strong! Their numbers are thinning!” He switched from bow to sword as quickly as changing a channel. The long blade sliced through the air with startling speed. Ullwen used the blade not to dismember, but for quick, precise strikes, as if he’d written the manual on tactical defense against cave-dwelling monsters. Fast stabs to bellies, to chests and eyes, and remarkably, even to armpits. Each creature staggered back before collapsing, their chests heaving slightly and arrhythmically.
Oliver had to be careful not to tangle his robe in the corpses falling around them. He spun, searching for his next target. Only one nar’esh stood. The rest lay collapsed in heaps around the corridor. Apparently mesmerized by Lauren’s spinning flame whip, the final nar’esh took a few moments before it realized its pack had been cut down. Its tarantulan eyes surveyed the carnage in the slim passageway, and it turned to run.
Erica didn’t hesitate. She squeaked a few times and sent the bats after the monster. While its progress slowed, she flipped her remaining dagger, caught the blade, and hurled it at the beast. The resulting thunk echoed down the corridor.
“Wow,” Lauren said.
“Fine blade work,” Ullwen said. “I may have misjudged you, m’lady. You may speak as an Otherlander, but you fight as an Alrujahn.”
“You’re not so bad yourself,” she said.
Oliver wanted to sit down, but the corpses of nar’esh covered near every inch of the floor. “Let’s keep going. We’re close to the switch.” His voice sounded strained, as if he’d just come back from an amusement park. “Anyone touched?”
Amazingly, no one was. Weary and bloodied, he stepped over the sinewy remains and various disembodied appendages until they cleared. The flickering light of the torch fell on something semi-rectangular and wooden.
The treasure chest. “You kidding me?” He remembered putting it in the code but had forgotten about it until now.
“What’s that?” Erica asked.
“A box of goodies,” he said.
Lauren’s eyes brightened. “Please tell me there’s some water in there. I’m so thirsty.”
“Better. Some pretty sweet equipment. Some scrolls, too.”
Lauren suddenly smiled. “Yeah?”
“Good ones, too, if it’s still the way I designed it.”
Ullwen stepped over the last of the nar’esh. “Let us gather our treasure, engage the switch, and get back to the central chamber. I could use a rest.”
“You said it, bro.”
Oliver walked to the worn chest and hit the clasp with his staff. His arms shook up through his elbows and to his shoulders, but the lock snapped. He knelt down and opened the lid.
The inside smelled of dust and cedar shavings. The hard wood had been painstakingly fashioned from the rognak tree—a breed native to the highlands of the Dragon’s Back Mountains that eventually fell prey to disease when the dwarves moved underground and failed to cultivate them. The hearty trees weathered several decades of the tree disease that nearly destroyed the Cerulean Woods. Only the meticulous care of the Monks of the Cerulean Order had saved the harspus trees.
The chest should have a dwarven prayer staff carved from rognak wood—fabled for its lightness and resiliency. Nearly hard as steel, no wood proved more durable. The dwarves made a living out of crafting furniture, wagons, yokes, and other goods from it. Their craftsmanship lasted for centuries. The creations of the dwarves, ironically, outlasted the creators themselves. He hoped the same would not be true for all of Alrujah.
“Any goodies for me?” Erica asked.
“Yes,” Oliver said, distracted by the absence of his staff. Far too big to fit in the trunk, it had to be nearby. He held the torch up a bit and checked the corner of the passageway. Sure enough, it stood upright resting against the wall.
How many years had it stood untouched by the nar’esh? It didn’t make much sense, but he didn’t question it. Right now, he just thanked God he found it. He snatched it up, thought about dropping his other staff, but decided against it. It might be better to
have a backup. Part of him wondered if he could use both at the same time, but their length, six feet each, made it an impractical thought.
“So?” Erica prompted.
Oliver reached into the trunk. Several scrolls of rolled parchment rested on top. He handed those to Lauren. “Let me know if you get anything good.” He pulled two gold bracelets from the trunk and handed them to Erica. “Ma’att’tal bands—forged by the dwarves and enchanted by the elves. The thinner bracelet should increase how many animals respond to your calls. The thicker should increase the range in which you can call them.”
“Sweet.” She slipped them both on her left arm and ran her fingers over them. “They’re cold.”
“And beautiful,” he said. He wanted to add, “like you,” but decided against it. Too much, too soon.
“Do I get anything from the magic box, bro?” Aiden asked.
Again, Oliver reached in and extracted two gold items, but this time, instead of bracelets, he pulled out a sword and a shield. “Same deal as Erica’s bracelets. Forged by dwarves, enchanted by elves.”
Aiden took them. He sneered at the sword. “What is this, a toy? It’s like half the size of my silver sword.”
“Stick it in a nar’esh,” Oliver said.
“Wow. Rude,” Erica said.
“No, seriously. Stick it in a nar’esh.”
Aiden shrugged, walked the few feet back to the pile of carnage, and sank the blade into the flesh of a dead creature. Instantly, it caught fire. He pulled the blade away quickly, but the blood on the sword continued to burn. “Sick.”
Lauren asked, “Sick as in gross, or as in cool?”
“Both.”
Ullwen said, “Dwarves are short. They need shorter blades. If you are displeased, I would be honored to carry such a weapon.”
Aiden thought about it for a minute. “I’ll keep it.”
“Then may I carry your Alrujahn blade?”
“It’s a bit messy.” He tossed it to Ullwen, who caught the handle deftly. He took Aiden’s scabbard, slipped the blade in it, and fastened it around his waist.
Aiden surveyed the small round gold shield. “This thing is so tiny, it’d be like fighting with a dinner plate strapped to my arm.”
Oliver stood up. He weighed his staffs, each in one hand. “What it lacks in size it makes up for in enchantments. It’s resistant to elemental attacks, which is nice if we ever face a fire-breathing dragon.”
Laruen rolled her eyes. “You didn’t put that thing in the game.”
Oliver shrugged. “Didn’t you want me to?”
“When we were in North Chester. Now, I don’t think I’d be too eager to see it.”
“If we keep a low profile, we should be able to avoid it,” he said.
Erica spun the bracelets around her thin forearm. “A dragon? For real? Please tell me I’ll be able to call it to fight with us.”
Oliver smiled. “That would be something else, wouldn’t it?” He turned and took the last item out of the trunk—a black diamond-studded collar for Sparky. He handed it to Erica.
“Nice. My baby’s got bling.” She took Sparky’s old black leather collar off and wrapped it around the same wrist she wore the Ma’att’tal bracelets. Classic Erica fashion. “Let me guess, forged by the dwarves and enchanted by the elves?”
“Enchanted by elves, yes. But the dwarves didn’t make this.”
Aiden asked, “Who did?”
“Me,” Oliver said and shot Erica a wide grin.
“Is that everything?” Ullwen asked.
Oliver nodded. “Sorry, man, but I didn’t program anything for you in here. You weren’t supposed to be with us at this point.”
He said, “I’m well with what I have. But we should return to the central chamber. We will need rest before going to Margwar. And I need some time to collect what arrows I can. I’ll need to repair them for tomorrow.”
Arrows. Oliver should have put some in the chest. He made a mental note. Even though none of the primary characters began the game with a bow, Erica’s and Lauren’s characters had skill with them. He’d make the revision once he got home, but it wouldn’t do them much good now.
Erica snatched a torch from Ullwen. “Rest sounds good to me. I could go for a nap.” On her way back down the corridor, she snatched the dagger from the dead nar’esh, wiped it on the thigh of her dress, sheathed it, and disappeared into the dark.
* * *
Though she’d pulled the covers up under her chin nearly an hour ago, Bailey Renee was no closer to sleep than she had been when she finished brushing her teeth and getting into her pajamas. Her mind would not shut up.
It had little to do with Franky’s economics project, which Bailey finished just after nine. Granted, she could have finished much sooner if he hadn’t insisted on helping. He stopped her every ten minutes to strum a few chords on his guitar and sing some stupid song about compound interest. But she figured he might as well learn something from his project, and if she had to pause long enough for him to put it to song for him to remember, she did so. Besides, it let her hear him sing, and that helped her forget, even for a minute at a time, the itching pain at the back of her brain.
Now, without his voice, staring up at the ceiling, the silver moonlight gliding over her skin, she jumped from one thought to the next—the economic downturn of 2008, four missing teenagers from North Chester, Sarah the Skeleton, going back to school the poor, wretched sister of a lost girl.
What would the other students think? Would they assume Lauren died and pity Bailey? Would they think Lauren ran away and pity Bailey for being related to a troubled teen? In the long run, she told herself, it didn’t matter. She didn’t want pity. She wanted Lauren back.
She rolled over in bed, turned the pillow to the cool side, and closed her eyes again.
Images marched in her mind: Franky gluing charts to a poster board, Lauren writing in her journal, Sarah the Skeleton’s face laughing derisively, Oliver typing about a million words a minute in some stupendously complex code, her mom scrubbing grout with a blue toothbrush, Mrs. Price sobbing on the floor, Franky holding Mrs. Price like a son holds a mother, his voice soothing her with some church song she couldn’t place, every face of every Hall she’d met that day, drawn up into frowns or contorted into clown-like caricatures.
She wanted to smack the sympathy right out of them.
Opening her eyes to escape the visions, she checked the clock. Midnight. She needed to be up in four and a half hours. She sighed, kicked the covers off, and went to the kitchen. She warmed up some water in the microwave and made another mug of honey chamomile tea. It helped to relax her on most nights, but her first mug, which she’d had about two hours ago, proved to be a complete waste of a tea bag. Hopefully this mug would be different.
She sat on the couch and pulled a blanket over her legs while she sipped the tea. Being in the living room made it a little easier for her, but, when she closed her eyes, her brain still exploded in images and memories.
She put the mug in the sink and resolved to try one last thing.
Standing outside Lauren’s closed door, Bailey told herself she could do it. She could get to sleep in Lauren’s bed. She could relax there. She had to. But opening the door felt a little like digging up a grave.
She turned the knob. No moonlight came in her window, but the light from the hallway showed scattered homework on the floor. She stepped over it, climbed into Lauren’s bed, and closed her eyes again.
No images of Franky flashed in her mind. None of Mrs. Price or the Halls or of economics projects. Instead, she saw sweeping landscapes—vast expanses of plains and dense forests with blue-leaved trees. Horses galloping across the world on worn dusty trails. They carried knights and elves. Medieval weapons—bows and arrows, long swords and short swords, daggers and wooden staffs—dotted the tiny hands of the strange people.
She took a deep breath and smelled Lauren’s shampoo, Mountain Breeze. She wrapped the covers around herself tightly
, a Bailey Burrito, Lauren would say whenever she’d done it as a child.
Her hand slipped under Lauren’s pillow and she felt something hard. She pulled it out and stared at Lauren’s worn leather journal. On the cover, imprinted in gold letters, were the words The Book of Things to Come.
She didn’t remember this journal. She opened to the first page and read about four weary world jumpers and their adventures journeying to a monastery in the middle of the Cerulean Woods.
She’d never bothered to read anything Lauren had written. She’d always dismissed it as childish fantasy, but Lauren’s writing demonstrated control and subtlety. And Bailey couldn’t shake the feeling that this journal may hold some clues.
She lay back down with a sigh. Of course she wouldn’t find a clue. Unless Lauren broke story and wrote about running away, how could a work of fiction reveal any truth about the real world?
Bailey Renee closed her eyes and fell asleep within minutes.
In her dreams, she soared like a bird over a colorful fantasy landscape.
Like a bird.
Or like an angel.
Chapter Twenty-Three
In those days, Alrujah will forget the ways of the Ancients. They will cry out for relief, and they will find none until the final battle is done. “But my people should not be discouraged. They should not lose heart. Let them be encouraged and know their perseverance will be rewarded after the last days,” declares Adonai.
—The Book of Things to Come
ULLWEN WOKE LAUREN AND the others early, and she liked him a little less for it. She wanted to go on sleeping. She wanted to be back in her bed. She wanted, amazingly enough, to see her mother and her sister again, to hug them both, and to spend a day at the mall with them. But she would have settled for twenty more minutes of sleep, even on a bone-cold stone floor.