The Other of One: Book Two

by Brian G. Burke

  “Here ya go, lad!” said he, handing Stell his arrow. “Make it count.”

  Firing with fine accuracy, the Elf actually split the previous arrow and, owing to its extreme force, had drilled into the fissure good ‘n’ deep.

  “NOW HEAVE!” he ordered, and they all tugged a second time.

  Dust and rubble spilled down on top of them. The whole face of the ceiling buckled out. Not long thereafter, the first glorious segment of stone was about to drop in front of them, and more was to follow. So far Stell’s plan was working even better than he’d anticipated.

  The Elf dropped the line, and as it slid, bit by bit, he was saying, “Wait for it! …Wait for it!”

  Wren took the Poppum underarm. William pocketed the leprechaun.

  Lolling their tongues like feral hounds, the next wave of Goblins were almost topside.

  “Waaait for it!” Stell said, holding the others back with his arms, as they shared in glances of dread and doubt.

  Then, as he’d calculated, a mighty sarsen came plummeting down not far from them. Another slid loose close after. Then another, and another after that one, and so on; all getting entangled up in nests of chains as they dropped. But they didn’t hold them for long. It was now or never.

  “JUMP!” Stell shouted, as one of the Goblins just missed swiping him.

  All at once they leapt for that falling stone, landing well. But they had no time to rest, for it smashed through the rusty mesh, forcing them to make a hasty vault for the next one, then the next. It all sounded so much easier in theory. No sense in arguing about it now.

  They sprung from one to the next. Adrenaline cranked up their senses another fifty notches and then some. Each plunging platform supported their weight well enough, allowing them just enough time to make it to the next before falling completely out of reach. Flawlessly they hopped; bits of debris whipping past their faces. Even Icrick was doing peculiarly well, fair play to him, all thanks to hellish terror.

  One more stone to go, then the window. This particular boulder, however, plummeted faster than all the others, for most of the chains had already been snapped. It would also take a hefty hop to reach it, and then another swift bound to reach the window itself. Making the most of their luck thus far, they made a run for it, all at the same time.

  Stell skipped across without effort and was already at the window, ready to help whoever was next, which was Wren, who was then joined by Icrick. William was to be next, but a sharp stone whizzed down and pelted him across the cheek just as was about to jump and it cost him dearly.

  Gravity pulled him down at a gut-turning rate. Their faces sped upward, not stopping. Khrum was bawling out with arms waving. William, on the other hand, was not. It just didn’t seem real to him, to be plunging to his end like this. Suddenly, he felt a sharp tug on his wrist. He was dangling.

  “I am not going to let you go,” cried his rescuer, and William looked to see who it was.

  Lying flat on her tummy, with her arms drawn tautly over that jaggedly pinching sill, was Wren. She could barely hold his weight. She was in so much pain that her face had changed from being rose-cheeked to blood-red, and then to ill-blue. An uncomfortable dizziness ensued, then a faint feeling. But there was no way she was going to let him go.

  In her anguish, she said again, “I swear, I’m not going to lose you!”

  For a second, all William could think of was, Perhaps she will learn the errors of her ways before the final curtain is drawn. Then again…perhaps she will not? and if this didn’t prove her innocence, then nothing would. Because if she was anything like the way she once was, then she could just as easily have left him to his fate. Something, however, urged her to help. A fear of losing him, perhaps. Or maybe it was guilt which did it. Who knows? The only matter of importance here was that she’d saved him, and, at the same time, William’s concerns could finally be put to rest.

  Swaying from side to side, he gazed up at her in a sort of admiration. Speechless, even. Wish I could say the same for Khrum.

  “Aaah, Be-Garra!” cried he, from the sporran, having just grappled with death and survived it. “May the Lord bless ya ‘n’ save ya, child! An’ God bless this sporran, too. Makes a fine loo!”

  Then, in his excitement, he suddenly had the bright idea to look down, only to find himself nose-to-nose with a most hideous Goblin. Khrum’s first reaction was to let out a titter of laughter and shake his head.

  Then, upon realising exactly what was at stake here, he bellowed out at the top of his little voice, “WHAT ARE YE WAITIN’ FOR?! GET US THE HELL OUTTA HERE!!”

  The Goblin’s face creased with a lustful rage. Baring its gums it snapped down on where Khrum’s head would have been had he not quickly been hauled upwards by a timely group effort from above.

  Icrick had taken William by his pack, and was helping him over the sill, when he felt his own baggage sliding into an inevitable drop.

  “No!” he shrieked, and down fell the Symphogram again.

  It may have flown past the boy’s reach, but thankfully Khrum was there to grab it.

  “Ara, Icrick!” he shouted crossly, with the Symphogram dangling a hundred feet from Lythiann’s ruin. “Ya’d want ta watch this bloody thing! You’re useless at keepin’ ahold of it.”

  A particularly fat Goblin came scuttling from out of nowhere. He clawed at the leprechaun, making him drop the Symphogram a second time. The Goblin was then thrown from the precipice by one of those corpses. Two seconds too late.

  Khrum couldn’t watch as this most precious artefact sailed downwards, amongst the last of the falling debris, where it would face its own destruction. What could they do? Nothing. The moonlight haloed in from the outside world as the rain rushed in all the harder, giving a final farewell sparkle to the horn of the Symphogram. Clouds rolled across its face, leaving them once more in the darkened light. Not even Stell could conduct a plan fast enough. They all watched in despair, waiting for all of their hopes and dreams to burst, like a window pane, upon the cobblestones below. They’d always assumed their fate to be decided during the final conflict with the Pooka. Not like this.

  Into the rising dust of the deep it faded. All was at an end. They’d failed. Or had they?

  A curious little shape suddenly whooshed down in pursuit of it. It flashed right over their shoulders in such a momentary blur that they couldn’t even tell what it was. Not, at least, until it spread out its little wings. Down swept the incredible little Poppum, into crowds of birds and beasts, to retrieve their dear Symphogram. Wren ordered him to return, for the good of his hide, but he heard her not. Not that he’d listen to her anyhow. Outside, the rains worsened; then the wickedest of lightning came. Yellow, blue, and white it flashed. Then a gust snuffed out all the torches, and they were left alone, in darkness, in fear, with just the sudden strikes of the storm-light to go by.

  Watching Pew gliding into the pit was like watching still pictures as the lightning attacked the darkness; Goblins reaching out at him upon every fading flash, with their disgusting paws. The only reassurances they had of the Poppum’s safety was his prolonged, sinking squeak, which, ever plummeting, was soon muted entirely by the depths.

  Hell-bent on giving the Poppum the chance he so desperately needed, Stell deployed his bow. No way are they going to get their hands on him, he thought, and so began shooting. Outside, prongs of lighting lit up the skies, adding fierce theatrics to each kill. Stell flickered white with each strike, string drawn to his ear, only to vanish back into the blackness with the loosing of each arrow. Goblins were then seen to tumble, like stop motion, down along the walls with arrows in their faces and backs. Many times the Elf did this, smiting them in strobes, every time hitting his target. He was memorizing their precise positions, from one flicker to the next. It took split-second timing, but our Stell seized it faultlessly, being a true marksman.

  The Goblins scattered. Some made for that futile shelf, hoping to find safety upon it, which some did. Others fell, breaking t
heir bones. A hunk of pointed rock blocked Stell’s view of the ledge, though it did not stop him from firing. He needed to keep them distracted from the Poppum.

  Some arrows hit true, others did not. They simply deflected off the bricks, causing them to chip away. The Elf’s quiver ran low. There were more Goblins than he had ammunition. Meanwhile, there were still no signs of Pew, but they couldn’t lose faith.

  Stell had all but two arrows spent. He needed to use them wisely. With one already loaded, he aimed steadily in the direction of the ledge, waiting. Just then, with no thunderous warning, a bolt spat from the heavens, and Icrick thought he saw a Goblin’s snout poking out from behind the rock.

  So, Icrick being Icrick, he squawked out of turn, “There’s one there! Look! See! The nose!”

  Together with the unexpected flash, this gave Stell a shocking jolt. Mistakenly he gambled another of his arrows, which didn’t even come close to hitting what actually turned out to be a stone, not a Goblin. But it wasn’t a total loss. For his arrow broke off a nice chunk of wall and a couple of rats came tumbling out. Those same leprous vermin from before. They’d been squashed tightly inside, and they weren’t the only ones. Hundreds, it seemed, were nesting inside the walls, scratching and clawing, as rats do.

  Stell loaded his final arrow, with a steadying out-breath. For the last time, he took aim. This time, aiming at a new target. But he couldn’t fire yet. He was awaiting the Poppum’s return, whenever that would be.

  The Elf was a master of his bow, there is no denying, but the longer he stalled, the more his arm trembled. No indications of the Poppum’s fate came, worrying them gravely. His chances seemed far too slim to begin with, never mind now. It was so dark down there. Overrun. How could he even know where he was going?

  Snorts, scraping, and cawing claimed whatever peace was left by the storm. No squeak of a Poppum chirped. Seconds passed with nothing to show for it. Stell’s fingers numbed under the stress of his drawn string, but his composure held out.

  Chancing their luck, the Goblins abandoned their cover, and, one at a time, started upwards again. They knew it was safe to come out now.

  “Where is he?” asked Wren, shaking her fists. “Is…Is he gone? Is he…dead?”

  Dead, indeed. He’d been gone for a long time. Longer than it should have taken. Icrick felt the most to blame, as it was he who’d dropped the Symphogram in the first place. He felt he’d sentenced Pew to his death.

  “It’s all my fault.” he sobbed. “Had I not been so damned clumsy, then he would still be here.”

  They had no response. Not that nobody blamed the Grogoch. They were just too overcome to speak; to deem it true.

  Tears surged in the Grogoch’s eyes. Wren embraced him as a mother would her child. Their tears met and dripped into the callous shadow beneath. The very stuff which had since claimed their dear friend forever.

  Then, a response.

  A delicate whistle rang out. They first thought it to be another rat, or a crow, until they heard it a second time, to deduce that it wasn’t so much a whistle as it was a squeak. A very distant squeaking noise. Afraid to trust their hearts so freely they, singly, looked over the ledge. From the dim unknown it sounded again, this time louder. Then again after that, louder still, until they were virtually trembling with expectation. All of a sudden, in a flight of sheer gallantry, the Poppum glided from the molasses with the Symphogram clutched in his feet. They cried out with joy and punch the air when they saw him. But trouble remained hot on Pew’s heels.

  Those dreaded, black birds were chasing him down. Our Pew flapped like the wind, but he wasn’t built for such speed as those crows were. An entire flock, one hundred strong, were catching up on him. Had they the chance, that sable mist of feathers and talons might have captured the Poppum, and that would be the last of him. But no such chance was so, thanks to a final arrow.

  Stell lined up his sight with extra tension, and in one last effort to assist his friend, he blasted the arrow forth into the wall just shy of that rat-infested void, taking it apart completely. Out flooded a river of rodents, spilling from that hole into a massive mound on one side of the tower. Thousands of them, whose favourite dish was anything of a feathered variety. That’s why they’d gathered in that place. In the hopes of one day tunnelling through to a bountiful feast. Those crows never could have prevailed. Not while those rats were hungry.

  As for the Goblins; the rodents piled over them in a pink, rolling avalanche; screeching, swarming, and scampering, until every last Goblin had been smothered. How awful it must have felt, to have hundreds of lukewarm, fleshy bodies scuttling over their faces and in through their fur like that.

  Pew, ever more vigorously, climbed as high as his little wings would carry him. The window was mere metres from his reach. His friends beckoned with encouragement, ready to catch him in open arms. However, after wriggling free of the pileup, a Goblin, who’d been half-devoured, with rats still clinging to his neck and face, made a pounce for the Symphogram. Next thing they knew, the whole tower was flushed through by an unexpected surge of magnificent, orange light.

  A line of fire drove down upon that Goblin, replacing his bristly fur with a coat of flames. He tumbled down that fetid mound of rats and Goblins, setting it alight as he trundled into where he would end up a mere pile of ashes. Then there, hovering heroically in the pouring rain before the halo of the growing moon, was a figure whose hands smouldered from the fire he’d just cast.

  Relieving Pew of the closing feet of his climb, Redmun swooped in, with trails of clear heat sweeping behind him like a phoenix. He then docked himself on the window’s ledge next to the others.

  They were thrilled to have Pew back safe and sound, of course. But to have Redmun back too almost had them jumping for joy altogether. He certainly was fond of his impromptu arrivals, was old Redmun.

  “Well, well,” he said smiling, regarding this new mess they were in. “You can’t seem to get a moment’s peace on this journey at all, can you?”

  “If ya only knew!” Khrum sighed. “So…did your little jobs, did ya? Or, whatever it was ya had ta do?”

  “My ‘jobs,’ as you call them, have been taken care of, Khrum, yes. From here on in my service lies with you, and I shan’t be leaving again until this job’s done!”

  Such great news. To have this Erethaoí fighting with them once more should surely balance out the odds.

  “And how’s the boy?” he asked, ruffling William’s hair as usual. “Current quandaries notwithstanding, you keeping your guard up and your nose clean?”

  William noticed that, on his right forearm, Redmun was wearing an outlandish-looking apparatus. Besides resembling that of a simple vambrace, it was otherwise crafted from thick steel, on which grooves were scored. Tracks, to be more precise; which had a subtle white glow to them. These tracks wound in and out of one another like roads in what looked to be a miniature map of some fashion. One particular track had a small bronze pin in it. Icrick, who’d also taken a keen interest in it, even thought that he saw it moving up a notch, like it was clockwork-operated or something. When he asked him what it was, Redmun told him that it was a type of compass, then left it at that, which was fair enough.

  Just happy to see him again, William replied, “I’m glad you’re back, Redmun…again. For good!”

  Obliged, the man bowed his head, and as he did, Wren spotted something over his shoulder that made her scream with fright, “Redmun! Behind you!”

  Halfway up, on the opposite side of the tower, a Goblin waited upon the wall, limbs outspread like a tarantula. Caring little for his deep gashes and bated breath, he glared at them, stonily, with an arched back, as if preparing to do something. Then, rippling from his forehead to feet, every last hair on his being stood on end. Rigid, like quills. He then rattled his coat in a flurry, showering them on all sides with a bombardment of poisonous spines.

  Redmun flung the Poppum under his coat as quickly as he could. Throwing his back to the darts, with
some hasty words, he then manifested a type of translucent screen to shield them, whereby most of those hairs but touched it then wasted into cinders.

  The sheer insolence of this cast Redmun’s mood from the knife-edge upon which it had always rocked. He was so infuriated that his eyes glowed to that of smelted steel, as he glowered at the Goblin. The brute even poised himself for a second attack, and yet he couldn’t match the speed of an Erethaoí. Redmun’s fingers were spread in his direction. Five orange streaks then merged into one as it seared a perfect hole through the Goblin’s gut and, like his dead brothers, he tumbled down onto the ash-covered cobbles.

  “Is everyone all right? Was anyone hit?” asked Redmun, gathering his strength. “Check each other’s clothing to make sure. Last thing you want to find in your hood is one of those thorns!”

  They did as he asked, but they were clean. No darts.

  Once ready, Redmun insisted that he take point again, given what little more he knew than any of them about those canyons ahead. A valid reason, so no one objected. That settled, he upped and took off down that tight chasm path; a way where the tops of those red cliffs were enshrouded in an entrancing mist, whilst the road itself faded into a dispiriting stretch. They were about to follow his lead, when Redmun stopped suddenly. They weren’t sure why, at first. And then they saw.

  His shoulders were slouched and his head dangled. He was looking into his arms.

  “Redmun? What is it?” asked Stell, trying to see.

  Redmun, falling to his knees, had the look of a man before a headstone. The Poppum whom he had cradled, hung lifelessly after a thorn had found its way in under his armour.

  “I…wasn’t…quick enough.” Redmun whispered sadly.

  Wren deadened a gasp beneath her hands. She couldn’t tell if he was just sleeping or not, for he seemed so at peace with himself.

  Then, from over Redmun’s shoulder, William spoke, almost doubtingly, “P-Pew? Are…Are you awake?”