Lessek's Key

by Rob Scott; Jay Gordon

  Two thousand Twinmoons of accumulated wisdom and experience couldn’t compete with feelings of guilt, sadness and regret. ‘This should have been me as well.’

  ‘Like the woman in your room?’

  ‘Yes, like her.’ Gilmour drew a sleeve across his face. They had all come too far for him to collapse, blubbering, beside what was left of a farmer’s son he had sent to his death. He couldn’t allow his guilt to debilitate him now, not this close to the end. If he died in the spell chamber, battling Nerak for control of the Fold, then so be it. Harren, Pikan and scores of his friends and colleagues had died doing their duty to Eldarn; he would do the same.

  Gilmour rested one hand gently on the largest identifiable piece of Harren’s skull. ‘We’re done, my boy. It’s been a long time, but we’re done.’ He stood, ushered Rodler gently out of the way, and kicked what was left of the spell chamber door, which fell from its final hinge with a dusty, resounding crash.

  As he stepped across the threshold, Gilmour felt a renewed sense of purpose, and confident determination – despite his recent failings – that he would see this through to its end. He stood for a moment in the spell chamber, taking in the small room, before his knees gave way and he collapsed unconscious to the floor.

  The Larion spell table was gone.

  ‘Holy shit!’ Steven cried, ‘Gilmour!’ He knelt by the old man’s side.

  ‘What happened?’ Garec asked, joining them on the floor.

  ‘Look,’ Steven said, gesturing into the empty room.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Garec said.

  ‘This is it. This is the spell chamber, and there’s no spell table.’ Steven slapped Gilmour gently, trying to startle him awake, but he remained unconscious.

  ‘Oh rutters, no, this is one of your hideous jokes. Isn’t it—?’ Garec stood in the centre of the small room and turned a full circle, somehow expecting to see the stone table tucked away in a corner, or maybe artfully camouflaged with some clever cloaking spell. ‘Gods, please tell me we did not come all this way for nothing.’

  ‘I’m afraid we did,’ Steven said, glancing up at Mark, who simply shook his head.

  The laughter began as a hollow rhythmic vibration, barely audible above their voices. It was joined by a clattering sound, like marbles dropped down a stairwell.

  ‘Hahahaha!’ The amused chuckle was insidious, terrible. ‘What a creative spell that was, Steven. I am impressed. I assume it was you; I would have known if Fantus had been cloaking your little party all this time.’ It was Nerak, though Steven couldn’t see him. His voice felt as though it was coming from everywhere at once. Then the clatter came again, louder this time, and Steven turned towards the door.

  The hundreds of shattered bits of Harren’s broken body, enshrouded in a tattered robe, began to pull themselves back together. Scraping and clattering against the cold stone of the north tower stairwell, the long-dead Larion Senator rose awkwardly to his feet, his ribs misplaced, one shoulder dislocated, and his skull askew above his spine.

  Shuffling into the spell chamber, the pieced-together skeleton focused its vacant gaze on Steven. ‘Did you really think I would just have left it here? You are fools for following him. Look at him, Steven. He’s finished, beaten, and he knows it. Give me the key now, and I’ll let you go home. Give me the key now, and I’ll let Hannah go home as well.’

  Steven stood, the hickory staff alive in his hands. ‘How did you enjoy Traver’s Notch, Nerak?’ he said quietly. Not expecting that one, were you? Did it hurt?’

  The dark prince ignored him. ‘Right now, she and her friends are moving north towards Welstar Palace, my palace. Can you believe that? She hopes to find you and go home. Would you like that? Give me the key, and you can go.’ Harren extended a bony hand.

  Steven’s stomach turned at the thought of giving in. Not today, Nerak,’ he said as he nudged Gilmour with the toe of his boot. ‘Gilmour, wake up. Wake up now.’ When the old man still didn’t stir, Steven tapped him in the ribs with the hickory staff, sending a bolt of lighting juddering through his body and shocking him back to consciousness.

  ‘Rutting whores!’ the old man shouted. ‘What was that?’

  ‘Get up, Gilmour,’ Steven hissed, ‘on your feet, now!’

  Harren’s empty eye sockets glowed amber for a moment, then faded to black. ‘Hello Fantus, so good to see you again,’ Nerak said through his skeletal mouthpiece. ‘I am so very glad you came all this way for nothing. Was it a hard journey?’ Harren’s jawbone hung open as the dark prince laughed. ‘It’s been gone for a long, long time, Fantus, and you’ll never find it. Eldarn itself wards the spell table for me, Eldarn and Eldarn’s most ruthless gatekeepers. Forget the spell table, Fantus. It’s mine. It has always been mine.’

  Gilmour’s gaze fell to the floor; he couldn’t summon the courage to look at Harren’s ruined body, now Nerak’s prisoner.

  Nerak was enjoying the moment immensely. He turned on Mark Jenkins. ‘And you, my prince, you have everything figured out yet? If you believe you do, you’re wrong. Keep at it, though, because our day is coming.’

  Grimacing, Mark stepped towards the skeleton, his battle-axe drawn and raised to strike. ‘Stop calling me that.’

  ‘My prince? Oh, that? Enjoy it while you can. I have a special place for you in the Fold. It’s dark in there, Mark. I hope you’re not afraid of the dark.’

  With a cry, Mark attacked the skeleton, hacking away one arm. Nerak grabbed him by the throat with Harren’s remaining hand; its grip was impossibly strong, and Mark tugged hard at one bony finger until it snapped.

  His friends were still frozen in shock, but finally Rodler moved, swinging his fist like a cudgel to break through the bones of Harren’ forearm. As they snapped, Nerak’s vice-like grip was released and the remaining fingers fell away. They disintegrated to dust when Mark, in disgust, cast them against the chamber wall.

  Armless, Harren turned back to Steven. ‘Give me the key, and you can go home, you and Hannah. I regret that I can’t let Mark Jenkins go with you, for he and I have other plans, don’t we, Mark?’

  Mark rubbed feeling back into his throat and growled, ‘Any day, sister. I’m right here.’ He threw the axe and it crashed through Harren’s ribcage and clattered on the floor behind him. Nerak was unfazed.

  ‘The key, Steven. It is up to you.’ With that, what was left of Harren’s skeleton collapsed in a dusty pile.

  ‘Cover your wrists!’ Mark yelled. ‘Jesus Christ, cover your wrists!’ He folded his hands under his armpits, not really believing that would keep the dark prince from taking him.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Steven said, ‘he can’t attack us.’

  ‘How do you know?’ Garec asked, staring at the backs of his wrists, waiting for the skin to discolour.

  ‘Because he’s not really here,’ Steven said. ‘Did you see the eyes glow yellow? He’s not here. He may not even be in Gorsk, never mind the palace. That was a phone call.’

  ‘A what?’ Rodler asked, his hands shaking and sweat streaming from his face.

  ‘We’re safe.’ Steven wrapped an arm around Gilmour’s shoulders, trying to comfort the weary old man.

  ‘Safe? I can’t say I feel safe.’ He looked at Mark, who nodded silent thanks. Rodler punched him softly in the upper arm, and both men smiled, grateful to be alive.

  The first drops to strike the floor went unnoticed, then Garec said, ‘What is that? Rain?’

  Mark shook his head. ‘Nah. It’s too cold for rain.’

  ‘Maybe it’s snow, melting on the roof. Those torches are throwing off a little heat now.’

  Rodler reached out and caught a droplet with a celebratory cry. ‘Hah, got one!’

  Mark wheeled on him. ‘Wipe it off! Wipe it off now!’

  ‘What? What is it?’

  ‘It’s acid,’ he said, ‘it’s eating through the roof. We have to get out of here, now.’

  Rodler yelped as the acid bubbled its way through the skin on his palm. Rubbing hi
s hand against his cloak, he looked to the others for some explanation, his eyes wide with terror.

  ‘The Windscroll,’ Steven said, ‘Gilmour, where is the third Windscroll? We have to get it, fast.’

  ‘I— I don’t… I’m not sure I know which—’

  ‘Gilmour!’ Steven swatted the old man again with the hickory staff and another bolt of fire lanced through his body.

  ‘Gods rut!’ Gilmour bellowed, ‘I wish you wouldn’t do that!’

  ‘Then pay attention. We need the third Windscroll, now, before this rain kills us all. Go!’

  Finally fully conscious again, Gilmour hustled across the spell chamber and disappeared down a short flight of stairs into an adjacent room: Lessek’s scroll library. He watched as more droplets smoked their way through the ancient wood and slate of the tower ceiling.

  ‘It’s those clouds,’ Mark said redundantly.

  ‘The clouds from Orindale,’ Garec agreed. ‘Gita and her men described them: acid in a living cloud. What kind of twisted animal comes up with something like that?’

  A low hissing sound filled the chamber as wood and stone disintegrated above them: the entire structure was gradually being eaten away. Soon they would not need to dodge periodic drips; before long the deadly fluid would rain down on them in torrents.

  A shingle gave way and a thin stream of deadly acid began running into the spell chamber, a harbinger of what was coming. ‘Hurry up, Gilmour,’ Steven shouted, ‘things are getting bad out here.’

  ‘I think I have it – ah!’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine. A drop fell on the back of my neck – it burns, but I’m all right for now.’ Gilmour appeared in the doorway, his feet skidding on the stone as he tried to avoid charging headlong through the acid stream pouring through the ceiling. He had several scrolls tucked under one arm. ‘Let’s go.’

  As they started down the spiral staircase, the ceiling of the Larion spell chamber gave way with a crash and what was left of poor Harren’s bones dissolved in the flooded room. The trickle of almost living liquid grew moment-by-moment into a steady stream, running down the stairs behind the fleeing party.

  Rodler, disconcerted at the size of the burning wound caused by just one droplet of the noxious fluid, shouted, ‘We have to hurry, boys. It’s coming down behind us!’

  Steven looked back as well. ‘Holy shit, look at that! Everybody, keep to your feet – we can’t fall. If we fall, we’re dead. Don’t think about anything but quick feet and keeping your balance. Run, now, move it!’ As they pounded down the worn staircase, the river of acid gained ground on them with every step.

  ‘Keep your feet! Keep your feet! Move it! Move it! Move it!’ Steven chanted in rhythm to encourage them.

  Rodler hesitated long enough to check back again, and cursed himself for doing so: the acid was right on his heels, just five steps back, then four. It was coming too fast, and he was last in line. How in the name of the gods of the Northern Forest did he end up last in line?

  ‘You have to run, boys. Jump down the gods-rutting stairs if you have to – we’re losing this race,’ he screamed.

  They picked up the pace, trying to avoid slipping, loudly cursing the Larion Senators for building such a tall tower with such smoothly polished stone steps. One tumble, one mistake, and they would all be bathed in deadly acid.

  Three steps back, then two. Rodler, realising the poisonous stream was hugging the insides of the steps, was running on the outside of the spiral staircase. That makes it faster, he thought. He could hear the hissing, like ten thousand angry snakes, coming up behind him, eating away at the very foundations of the tower. When he looked down again, the acid was keeping pace with him, running on the inside of the same steps he traversed on the outside. It was too late; he would be the first to step in it. He wondered how much protection his boots would actually provide and was horribly afraid of the answer: not much.

  Finally he heard Garec burst through the doorway, and a moment later he too was outside and the acid river was flowing past them, down the remaining stairs to the tower’s basement. Gasping, he collapsed on the stone walkway. ‘That was too close, my friends. I was just on my way to work when I ran into you. Never saw you – that was a rutting good spell you cast, Steven. I never saw you … and I wish with all my heart I had never stumbled into you …’

  Beside him, sprawled out on the stone bridge, Mark began to laugh. ‘That certainly wasn’t your day, was it?’

  The others joined in. Garec said in an effeminate voice, ‘So dearheart, how was work today?’ Even Gilmour roared at this, his thin frame doubled over. They had lost. He had given up; the stress was too much for him to bear. He laughed inanely until he couldn’t catch his breath, then lay down beside Mark, the cold of the nearly frozen stone chilling the acid burn on the back of his neck.

  ‘Wait,’ Steven said, ‘wait!’

  ‘Catch your breath first, Steven,’ Mark said. ‘We’re still trying to get over the last one.’

  ‘No, wait. It’s no joke. Look up there.’ He pointed towards the top of the north tower where grey-black clouds were dissolving much of the tower’s uppermost level in their unholy acid bath. Even the outer layers of stone had grown discoloured and it was only a matter of time before the peak collapsed.

  What alarmed Steven was not that the Larion spell chamber and scroll library had been destroyed, but that one of the clouds had broken away from its partner and was dropping down on them. He rolled to his feet and screamed, ‘Move!’

  He raced to the doorway and tugged on the latch. Nothing happened – he couldn’t budge it. It must be locked from the inside. The cloud fell towards them, an acrid bath of death descending from heaven like an Old Testament nightmare. He grasped the latch and tugged, hoping to break the ancient clasp with muscles and the sheer strength of his will, but it was as solid as a mountain.

  He peered over the side of the causeway and wondered if they would survive the jump, if perhaps there would be water, a deep river or maybe a lake far below. But his hopes were dashed: all he could see were rocks, trees and forbidding cold ground. It was too far to jump; it would kill them. He reached for the staff; he had five seconds to think of something to save them – but nothing came to mind. He was too terrified. He held the staff over his head, praying it might act of its own volition, generating some miracle to keep them safe.

  Then Gilmour was beside him, throwing his hands up to the door and chanting. It opened. Garec and Rodler dived past him and down the few stairs to the corridor below, then Mark grabbed his roommate by the collar and heaved him through the archway to tumble down the unforgiving steps. Steven was glad there were only five or six of them as the two friends landed painfully on the hallway floor. Gilmour dived for the protection of the corridor and shouted; his spell caused the door to slam shut and the hollow thud resonated out into the palace.

  In the instant before the door closed, Steven saw the acid cloud strike the causeway with a vengeance, raining noxious fluid and for ever cutting off access to the north tower. The stone bridge dissolved like a paraffin taper.

  Rodler looked around at the collected members of their company. ‘I need to find a fountain. My hand is burning,’ he said, matter-offactly.

  ‘I do as well.’ Gilmour regained his feet with a groan. ‘I took a thick drop on the back of my neck. I think I’ll feel it boring in there for the next Twinmoon. Come on, Rodler, there’s one down the hall. The aqueduct is a long way from those clouds, so the water should still be clean.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ Mark said. ‘I need something to drink.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s just water, Mark.’

  ‘Yes, but with Nerak out and about somewhere and those clouds slowly eating this place as a snack, I figure we’ve plenty of time to raid your wine cellar.’ He started down the hall. ‘Don’t forget your scrolls.’

  Gilmour gathered up the parchment rolls and turned to follow Rodler and Mark down the corridor to
a small fountain, a delicate trickle splashing into a carved stone basin.

  Rodler reached the fountain first, but he gestured for Mark to go ahead of him and drink his fill.

  ‘Don’t be silly. You just saved my life, and for your efforts you were burned – you’ve got the honours. ’ Mark gave a bow, and ushered the young man forward to wash his injured hand.

  ‘All right,’ Rodler said as the water washed over his wound, ‘thanks Mark. I appreciate it.’

  ‘My pleasure—’

  The almor struck with such ferocity that Mark was knocked off his feet and into the opposite wall. The demon took Rodler Varn of Capehill and he was dead in an instant, as dead as Bridget Kenyon there in the deep end of the Air Force Academy pool—

  Mark heard Gilmour shout from somewhere behind him, and felt the Larion sorcerer’s magic blast by him like a mortar round to slam into the creature and rip the fountain out of the wall. Flailing in the almor’s grip, one of Rodler’s hands came forward; Mark seized it and began to pull – but instead of tugging the smuggler free, Mark felt his own life siphoning away. Rodler’s fingers collapsed and shrank to bony twigs, as unnervingly brittle as Harren’s when clasped about his neck.

  Repulsed, Mark finally gave up, released Rodler and watched as the milky creature retreated back into the palace wall. It all happened in an instant; there had been nothing anyone could do. Falling to his knees in a puddle beside the ruined fountain, Mark Jenkins began to cry.

  Steven stared in shocked disbelief for several moments before he rose to his feet, peeled off his jacket and ran down the hall towards his friend. By the time he reached Mark, he was in a rage, his eyes dancing with anger and the hickory staff glowing red.

  ‘No!’ he roared, raising the staff. ‘No! No! No! You did not just do that! You did not just kill him!’ Steven struck the wall above the broken fountain and the foundations of Sandcliff Palace seemed to quiver.