Night Rune (Prof Croft Book 8)

by Brad Magnarella

  “Goblin engineering,” he repeated. “Tighten your laces, ’cause we’ve got a hike ahead.”

  “Anything I need to worry about down here?” I asked, drawing my sword from the cane.

  “Naw. Only goblins know about the secret tunnel and hatch. And after the city’s attack, there’s not much of an appetite these days for getting napalmed.”

  I nodded but kept my weapons drawn as Bree-yark led the way into a small chamber. Dried cement flowed in from a corridor to our left, but the way ahead was clear.

  We continued down a network of corridors, Bree-yark remarking proudly on this or that feature of the tunnel complex, but I was too fixated on our destination to follow his narrative. Several times I was tempted to ask if he knew where he was going—he’d never been down here to my knowledge—but goblins had powerful homing instincts. If there was a portal to Faerie, he would find it.

  We eventually entered a chamber with a sizeable stone well at its center. Beside it sat a coiled rope and a wooden bucket large enough to bathe in. Bree-yark approached the well and peered inside.

  “This is it,” he said. “Faerie’s on the other side of the water.”

  I came up beside him. Dropsy hopped from his pouch and stood on the well’s stone wall. When I looked down, I expected to be face-to-face with a shimmering surface, but the well was dry for as far as I could see.

  “What water?” I asked.

  Bree-yark dug into his pouch and came up with a coin of some otherworldly mint. He dropped it over the mouth of the well, and we waited. Eventually, from far below, came the faintest kerplunk.

  “That water,” he said. “You ready?”

  “Wait, you’re not planning on jumping?”

  “Relax.” He chuckled. “We’re heading down in the bucket.”

  “Of course,” I said dryly. “The bucket. Why didn’t I think of that?”

  I reached for one of my neutralizing potions, an incantation on my tongue, before stopping myself. If I downed the potion, I risked canceling the very magic we would be counting on to get us into Faerie.

  Dropsy hopped aside as Bree-yark used his considerable strength to heave the bucket onto the wall ringing the well. A rope trailed from the bucket handle, and Bree-yark began fussing with the rest of the coiled stack. It was only when he pushed it to one side that I saw the pulley system bolted into the ground.

  “Goblin engineering?” I asked.

  “Damn right,” Bree-yark grunted. “All right, go ahead and climb in. I’ll push you out.”

  “In the bucket, you mean?” I looked at the proposed conveyance.

  This is frigging crazy, I thought. But if it’s the only way… I checked that my pockets were sealed before climbing onto the stone wall. Very gingerly, I set one leg inside the bucket and then the other.

  “You too, Dropsy,” Bree-yark said, taking the lantern and placing her beside me.

  Moving my pack around to my front, I squatted low, knees jutting up to my shoulders. It was a tight fit.

  “Everyone in?” Bree-yark called, and shoved us into space. The bucket plunged several feet—holy hell!—before stopping suddenly. We swayed side to side, knocking against the walls. At one point we nearly tipped over. When we steadied again, I blew out my pent-up breath while Dropsy glowed excitedly.

  Above us, Bree-yark was standing on the stone wall, holding the rope that suspended us. It looked as if we’d have to take two trips. But no sooner than I’d formed the thought, the goblin dropped the rope’s slack into the emptiness below and began walking down the side of the well like a mountaineer.

  “Hey, I’m not sure there’s room in here,” I said.

  Bree-yark turned and planted his taloned feet on the bucket’s rim opposite me. Our conveyance rocked dangerously before settling again. When I looked up, his sharp, smiling teeth were glinting in Dropsy’s light.

  “Next stop, the Fae Wilds,” he announced like a proud host. But all I could feel was a nervous foreboding.

  The pulley system creaked and the bucket swayed as he began lowering us down.

  10

  Bree-yark’s echoing grunts provided an offbeat to my pounding heart as we descended. The opening of the well had long since disappeared, isolating us in Dropsy’s orb of enchanted light. After several more minutes, I had to know how close we were to the water. But as I reached toward Dropsy, she shrank back.

  “It’s all right,” I whispered. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

  When she relaxed, I grasped her brass handle. Then I lifted her slowly, craning around until we could both see over the side of the bucket. Some distance below, Dropsy’s glow caught a wrinkle of water. Before long, the dancing wrinkle became a round, glittering sheet. Dropsy seemed to transfix on it too.

  Oh, this is fae water, all right, I thought.

  When it was close enough to touch, I anticipated the splash, wondering what would follow. But no splash came. The water was falling away. I turned toward Bree-yark. “Why are we going back?”

  “We’re not,” he grunted, despite that he was drawing us up hand over hand. “We’re through.”

  “Through?” I peered back down. The glittering circle of water looked the same as when we’d been descending. But the sides of the wall were made of smooth stone now, not the jagged granite from earlier. And when I looked up, I could make out the opening. It wasn’t distant at all, only fifteen or twenty feet away.

  Well, holy crap.

  When we reached the top, Bree-yark stepped from the bucket. Bracing the thick rope between his teeth, he pulled our conveyance onto the well’s rim. Still holding Dropsy, I climbed out and stepped into a cavern whose ground was strewn with pretty autumnal leaves. Natural light entered from an opening a short distance away.

  I didn’t have to ask if we were in Faerie. The air was unnaturally fresh and clean, everything in my vision several degrees sharper. And beneath it all flowed the magic of the realm: subtle and seductive.

  I clapped Bree-yark’s thick shoulder. “Well done, sir.”

  He bowed his head modestly. “Well, I promised to get you to Crusspatch’s, and we’re not there yet.”

  “How far a journey are we talking?”

  “About a day’s march, if memory serves.”

  “Then let’s go ahead and potion up.”

  I set Dropsy down and retrieved two potions from my coat to cancel fae magic and then two more for stealth. I’d packed ample quantities of both, my coat practically dragging with their weight.

  Outside, a bird began to sing. The lilting song brightened my mood, and I caught myself smiling. My coat felt lighter too. Hell, if I flapped my arms, I might even take flight. I snorted a laugh at the thought. Bree-yark, who had been organizing his pouch, looked from me to the approaching song.

  “Oh, crap,” he said, “that’s a satyr’s panpipe. Quick, Everson—cover your ears!”

  It now dawned on me that for the last several seconds I’d been smiling stupidly at the potions in my hand when I should have been activating them. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except merriment and mirth.

  “A satyr’s what?” I asked, giggles spilling around the words.

  “Panpipe. It’s an enchanted instrument, and you’re falling under its charm.”

  The word panpipe, especially in Bree-yark’s gruff voice, was suddenly the most hilarious thing I’d ever heard. Laughter seized me, and I doubled over. When I struggled to inhale, the ridiculous word floated through my head again, plunging me into another fit of hysterics.

  This is serious, I thought distantly. I’m losing all control.

  “Say it again,” I managed, my voice a high whine. “Say p-p-pan…”

  But the word was buried beneath another eruption of laughing. Could you die from mirth? I didn’t know, but white spots were beginning to float around my tear-blurred vision, while a goring pain took hold in my lungs. I clamped my knees, vaguely aware I was no longer holding the potions.

  When I tried to bring my hands to my ears
, my arms felt like a pair of soggy noodles. They wouldn’t obey. I concentrated toward my casting prism—I needed to invoke shields over my ears. But the image of myself in little magical earmuffs was too much, and I lost it even more. No air was coming in now.

  Oh, God. This could actually kill me.

  In the next moment, Bree-yark jammed his thick fingers into my ears. Through my tears, he looked like a shapeless blob. The image was comical, but not in the sidesplitting way it would have been just a moment before. With the song blocked, my laughter idled back down to gasps and gurgles, and I could breathe again.

  “Thank God you clipped your talons,” I managed.

  I wiped my eyes and searched around for my fallen potions. I spotted them off to the right. Concentrating into the closest neutralizing potion, I uttered, “Attivare.”

  Tiny gems flashed inside, transforming the liquid into an active potion, one that would cancel the effects of the cursed song. Bree-yark, being a creature of Faerie, must have had some inbuilt immunity. He was singing a song of his own, I realized, drowning out any enchanted music that might be slipping past his fingers.

  “Row, row, row your boat,” he barked. “Gently down the stream…”

  That got me chortling, but I nodded for him to continue as I reached for the potion. I had the warm tube in my grasp when, in a savage battering of dark wings, something collided against Bree-yark.

  He fell away, his song breaking off mid “merrily.” His fingers uncorked from my ears. The music of the panpipe rushed in, more charming than ever. I popped the cap from the potion and brought it toward my lips, but my body was convulsing with giggles again. The potion went everywhere except inside my mouth.

  Out in front of me, Bree-yark was rolling across the cavern with whatever had attacked him. It wasn’t until they came to a stop, Bree-yark on top, that I could make out the part-man, part-crow. A tengu.

  Bree-yark pummeled its face with his fists, sending the creature’s thick beak canting one way and then the other.

  “Knock him out,” I gasped between laughing fits.

  “You screwed with the wrong goblin,” Bree-yark grunted.

  He seized the creature by its throat and drew his blade, but more tengu were gliding down from recesses in the cavern above. They landed in a flapping of winged arms and surrounded Bree-yark. I felt a faraway urge to help him, to blast them off, but I was shrieking laughter now. The spectacle of a gang of birdmen in ragged loincloths raining blows on my teammate was the funniest thing I’d ever seen.

  Wait, we might have a new contender…

  I choked back my laughter long enough to take in the new creature entering the cavern.

  He was a small man with a ginger beard and an impressive set of ram’s horns that curled around his pointed ears. An instrument of eight or so slender wooden flutes moved beneath his pursed lips. And he was skipping, his furry brown goat legs kicking a little jig in time to his song. I didn’t know if it was the dancing or his bright red vest and leather loincloth, or the whole package, but I was suddenly back to dying. I struggled upright and tried to mimic him, but I could only stagger deliriously.

  The satyr winked at me above his panpipe. His bright blue eyes cut from my spilled potions to the tengu standing over Bree-yark. My teammate was out cold, and they were picking through his pouch. I looked around for Dropsy—I wanted to get her in on the dancing—but the lantern must have slipped off somewhere.

  When one of the tengu stalked toward me, the satyr shook his head as though to say not yet. He hadn’t stopped kicking his feet, and I hadn’t stopped kicking mine, or trying to.

  “Hey,” I managed between spurts of laughter. “Where can I get a good pair of goat legs?”

  The satyr lowered the panpipe from his lips and regarded me with a smile and friendly tilt of his head. “Welcome to Faerie, boyo,” he said in a thick brogue, his music continuing to reverberate from the cavern’s stone walls.

  I was gathering my breath to thank him, when he lowered his head and charged. His ram horns plowed into my gut. My air went out in a dull grunt, and something cracked in my right ribcage. But the thought that I’d just been rammed by a satyr beat everything. Even before I landed, I was dry-heaving more laughter.

  “Hope ye enjoy your stay.” The satyr was standing over me now, his grin curling into a malicious sneer.

  I mouthed more than said, “Think you could teach me how to play—”

  His cleft hoof descended toward my head.

  “Everson,” Bree-yark called in a husky voice.

  My right eye wouldn’t open—it was crusty and swollen—but my left one filled me in. I was suspended, wrists and ankles bound to a pole overhead. A pair of tengu carried one end of the pole at a trotting run, and I imagined another pair behind me. We were outside, the stalks of a sun-drenched field whacking my back and sides.

  At the sound of the satyr’s voice, pain speared through my ribs where he’d rammed me. He was somewhere ahead, swearing at the tengu to pick up their pace. The scrubby creatures had stripped me to my boxers. My cane, pack, and coat with all my potions and spell implements were gone too.

  I wasn’t laughing anymore.

  “Everson,” Bree-yark barked again.

  When I turned my head, I could make out the bottom half of his trussed-up body. I tried to answer, but a paste filled my mouth. I couldn’t move my tongue, much less force out the gummy mass. Which meant I couldn’t invoke magic. I remembered the way the satyr had looked at my potions. Must have figured me for a wizard.

  Seeing I was awake, Bree-yark said, “They cleaned us out, but they weren’t happy with the haul. They’re taking us to an ogre who lives nearby. Gonna see what kind of price they can get for our flesh.”

  Even better.

  “So if you can cast,” he said, “now might be a good time.”

  I shook my head to tell him it wasn’t possible. I could gather the realm’s abundant energy around my mental prism, but without the ability to form words, I couldn’t channel or shape that energy. Voiceless casting remained years away for me—assuming I got there. I tested my wrists and ankles. The ropes securing them had been cinched tightly enough to turn my fingers and toes numb.

  “Gnarl twine,” Bree-yark said. “Not even sure my blade could hack through it. If I still had it,” he added in a mutter.

  I sagged back into my restraints.

  “Some guide I turned out to be, huh?” he said.

  I shook my head, this time to tell him it wasn’t his fault. I should have downed the potions when we were ascending the well instead of having a mental orgasm over the fact we’d arrived in Faerie.

  “If the ogre doesn’t butcher us right away, I might be able to negotiate our release,” Bree-yark said. “I’ve still got contacts in the goblin army.”

  I nodded my head. That was promising.

  “Then again, his full name is Humbert the Hungry.”

  “No speaking unless spoken to!” the satyr shouted. He dropped from his lead position and fell in beside Bree-yark. I couldn’t see him, but I could hear his cleft hooves trotting to keep pace. The sound sent a spot throbbing above my right eye, no doubt where he’d stomped me. “Got it, ye putrid goblin?”

  “At least my dad didn’t bang a goat,” Bree-yark muttered.

  I winced at the sound of my friend being struck.

  “Keep it up,” the satyr said. “Plenty more where that came from.”

  “Oh, did you do something?” Bree-yark asked. “I must not’ve been paying attention.”

  I wanted to tell the stubborn SOB to shut it as two more blows landed.

  “I’d hate to waste valuable greamaigh on the likes of ye,” the satyr said, referring to the crap in my mouth. “But keep flappin’ yer lips, and I’ll fill ye to yer eyeballs.” He landed a final blow, this one causing Bree-yark to grunt.

  The satyr must have seen me straining because he came around to my side. The first thing I noticed was his damp mustache, then the scatter of crumbs down hi
s beard. When he leaned nearer, I smelled coffee and ginger.

  The little shit ate our refreshments.

  “Have something to add, laddie?” he asked, cocking a hairy fist.

  I glared at him another moment before shaking my head. He grinned beneath his hard blue eyes.

  “Then relax and enjoy the journey.” He lowered his arm. “We’ll have ye to Humbert shortly.”

  Deep down, my magic shifted suddenly, as though trying to tell me something. I stopped wishing for the satyr to choke on one of his own horns so I could focus.

  Soon, my magic seemed to be saying. Soon.

  As the satyr moved away from me, he glanced toward the rear of the pack. Then he did a doubletake, his mouth forming a hole in his crumb-littered beard. Resetting his jaw, he galloped to the front.

  “Move your asses!” he screamed. “Faster!”

  By now the tengu were peering back too, several squawking in alarm. I tried to crane my neck around, but I couldn’t see anything beyond the rush of grass and tengu feet. The creatures behind me dropped their end of the pole, and my head thudded to the ground. The ones ahead dragged me for several more yards before ditching their end and fleeing after the others.

  I came to a painful rest on my side.

  “What are ye doing?” the satyr screamed. “Pick them up!”

  But his voice was fading too. I lifted my head to the sight of scattering bird men. The flapping creatures couldn’t lift off—they were gliders—but the wings spanning the undersides of their arms gave them an extra speed. I turned my head the other way just as shadows passed over us and enormous birds swooped low. Tengu caws and shrieks sounded followed by the wet snapping of bones.

  Bree-yark, who had landed somewhere off to my left, grunted, “Rocs.”

  I scooted around until I could see him. His face was lumpy from the beating the tengu had dealt him, and dried blood trailed from one nostril. Charmed or not, I felt horrible for having laughed at him earlier.