“How long has this been happening?” he asked. The boy's eyes grew even wider, fear and horror mixing together until Saerus was sure the poor boy would go mad.
“Don’t say another word,” Kharisi warned Saerus without making a sound. He repeated Saerus’ question ignoring the other voice as if it had never happened.
“Long as I can remember,” as he bent over to pick up his shirt, Kharisi noticed the scars on his back as well.
“Listen well, you know the inn where I sometimes stay?”
“Everyone does,”
“Tell the keep I sent you, tell him I asked for my cock’s comb, then take it to get out of here,”
Before the boy could ask why Kharisi felt the sharpened point of a sword at the back of his neck.
“He ain’t going nowhere,”
Another sword found a point in his lower back, and yet another at his side, while a fourth was directed at the boy. “C’mon you lot, it’s into the dungeon with you,” the four guards laughed in unison, as the boy was pushed to hurry him along. When he tripped and fell, Kharisi bent down to help him up and a boot struck the side of his head, sending him onto the stone floor.
“Get up you two,” one of them roared, and Kharisi recognized him as one of the guards he played sticks with, who was even worse at the game than Kharisi. He stood, grabbed the boy’s arm and kept him close as they ambled to the dungeons. They approached the empty cells, two of the guards whispered to one another and the boy was whisked away. Kharisi tried to go after him but the swords that appeared as sudden as a summer storm prevented him from going very far.
“Where are you taking him?”
“The King wants a word with him,” one said.
“Some sharp words,” the other added which made them both laugh once more. The guard opened a cell that reeked of every fluid known to be contained in a person, and Kharisi was thrown in with such force he fell to the straw laden floor.
“No trouble from you, ya pointy-eared bum plunger or I’ll have you chained to the wall.” The jailer spat at him and missed by a wide margin. Kharisi laid there, eyes closed listening to the rusty metal door shut and echo all around him.
“Well, get up Kharisi, we need to get out of here,” Saerus said trying to mask the panic in his voice.
“And do what, hm? Save that boy? Death may be the best thing to happen to him now.”
“I was thinking more about getting my body back!”
“Saerus, and what then? Do you have the ability to reverse this? You said you can’t even tap into his mind, so what good will getting your body back?”
Saerus said nothing, though Kharisi could sense him thinking, what he was plotting, remained shrouded from his view. He paced in the meantime, stalking the cage like one of the wild animals caught and put on display during the celebrations. Kharisi feared he’d meet the same end, dead with his head hanging on a wall as decoration. As he looked between the bars that were spotted with rust or blood, maybe both, he watched the pallid, corpulent jailer sitting in a chair leaning back against the wall. Strapped on his right side was a stiletto that looked like a child’s toy in comparison to his heft. On the right was a loop of leather and chain stuffed in a pocket, which contained the cell key.
“We need to find Petram, find that Druid and hopefully get my body back. We need to rescue that boy first.”
Kharisi nodded needlessly, and said, “Leave it to me, I’ll have us freed quicker than you get your plows out.”
16: The Locked Room
The funeral wrapping came off in strips, dribs, and drabs, creating a cloud of antiquated dust as it did so. Da’Nel waved it away and continued to unwrap his ancestor. The skeletal arms draped in moldering red linen were crossed over the broad ribcage. He could see some parchment-thin skin and blinding white bone beneath the fabric that was either very thin or disintegrated altogether. Clutched in the hands was a book that looked to be in such good condition it could have been placed there that morning.
Da’Nel moved each hand away with care, not wanting to desecrate the body more than necessary, and took the leather-bound tome in his hands. As he did so, the deceased’s hands snapped back over Da’Nel’s preventing him from absconding with it. He tried to move his own hands but the corpse’s fingertips, sharp as broken glass dug into the back of his wrists. “A bit of help,” he said, as he tried to free himself. The harder he pulled away, the deeper the bones sunk into his flesh until they were buried to where the beginning of the dead hand’s cuticles would be. “Now, damn you!” Da’Nel yelled mostly out of pain. Blood began seeping from the wounds, as the dwarves fell into action, each going to a different side.
Petram reached in and took a hold of the forearm and gave a violent yank. Both went flying back with the skeletal hand still sunk into Da’Nel’s own. Petram fell against a tomb and when he heard a crack wasn’t sure if it was his back or the stone. Da’Nel landed next to him, the length of arm bone attached to the hand flying into his face before falling to the ground. The bone disintegrated into dust as well as those remaining embedded. As they did so, the wounds on his hand began closing on their own accord until there was nothing left, not even a scar, however slight. Kiandra still stood by the opened tomb staring into it as if in a daze. As she reached in, Da’Nel yelled at her not to, but it was too late. As her hand disappeared to grab the book, a bolt of energy issued forth from the remains and blew her into the wall with such force the stones shattered creating a hole.
Petram stumbled over to her, the pain in his back still burning his spine, and he went to grab her hand and saw there was nothing to grab but a burned, cauterized stump. “Kiandra!” There was no reply no matter how many times he called her name. Da’Nel came to his side still feeling dazed and looked at the remains of her arm. He took her other wrist in his hand and felt a faint pulse. While much weaker than what it should have been, it was at least there and that was a good sign.
“She’s alive at least, and the wound is clean, so there should be no infection.” Petram nodded but Da’Nel could tell he wasn’t listening and saying much more wouldn’t do any good. “Stay with her,” he added as if Petram would do anything else. Da’Nel stood and placed a hand against the wall to steady himself as a wave of dizziness washed over him. His stomach began growling, and he wondered how long it had been since they’d been down there, and more importantly how long it had been since he’d eaten. Food had been one of his lone vices in life, and he’d grown very fond of his set routines of multiple meals. He could certainly conjure something, but it never tasted right to him, as if the trade-off was the taste for quickness. Besides, he thought, it would be in bad taste to do that with Petram hovering over Kiandra.
Da’Nel peered into the sarcophagus and saw the book still intact, though the rest of the skeleton had turned to dust. Stuck to the cover was the remains of Kiandra’s hand, nothing more than an imperfect ball of charred flesh. He placed his hand over it and could feel the heat emanating from it. He picked the book up from the other end, letting the remains of her hand slide from it, leaving a small trail of slime as it fell into the dust with a sickly thump. Da’Nel wiped it off on the back of his pants so Petram wouldn’t see, then opened the book.
At first, he was confused, as the thick bound pages were blank. A stray drop of blood that hadn’t dried from his earlier wounds landed on the page, and after it did so the writing began to appear. “It’s a grimoire,” he said more to himself than Petram or Kiandra who was still unconscious.
“A what?” Petram asked, his eyes not leaving Kiandra for a second more than it took to blink.
“A grimoire, a book of how to summon spirits amongst other things. Very powerful stuff. Moreso as these were transcribed by the original earthen elves. It’s bound by some very powerful protections so none but a descendent may even touch it.”
“Anything about restoring body parts?” the dwarf asked with hope. Da’Nel shook his head.
“It’s magic, not miracles, though I have to shed blo
od to even read it.” He sat on the cold floor next to Petram (who was holding and stroking Kiandra’s hair with her head resting in his lap), took his dagger and made a small cut on his index finger and allowed the blood to fall onto the page. He watched as the blood soaked into the page (made from Elven skin by the feel, but dare not wonder whose), and the writing in a tongue so ancient not even Da’Nel could read it all began to take shape. It was a mixture of a dead language and pictographs. The crude pictures drawn in a cramped style seemed to be moving. Wavy downward lines representing water seemed to flow into a very simple cup. Da’Nel marveled for a moment then turned to the very first page and squeezed a few more drops from his finger. The droplets didn’t so much as soak into the page as they appeared to be swallowed like the book was a living thing.
“Petram didn’t you say you came here for a book about me?”
“Somethin’ like that had no idea really what we were lookin’ for, just a way to find ya.”
Da’Nel grunted in response and stared at the page as the words began to form and take shape. This still was a different language, almost as ancient as what he’d seen. That can’t be, he thought. How could...?
He stopped in mid-thought as the first word became clear. It was his name. Written in the ancient tongue, but it was his name as sure as he was sitting there. Still, the fact it was written in a language more recent than what he’d already seen, still struck him as odd. Da’Nel squeezed out a couple of more drops, the last until he made a fresh cut, to hasten the completion of the page. Only when it was complete did he begin to decipher and read what had been revealed.
Da’Nel,
You are indeed the last of our race, even this far in the past it is known, as is the future. We must, however, keep that shrouded, as no good would come from revelations you are not yet meant to know. With you are two dwarves, one of whom has lost her hand from attempting to touch the book. You are also looking for a way out, and that you will find behind the hole in the wall that was made. All of this was seen in the reading of the embers, as were the instructions to give you this grimoire. Only you can read it. Only your blood can decipher it. Only your hands can touch it.
And only your mind can hear it. Yes, as you thought, this tome is alive, a living history if you will. The path you are taking with your dwarven brethren is only incidental. You will help them, and with our help, you will succeed. If you do not heed our advice, you and your lands are doomed.
Da’Nel closed the book and shut his eyes, he could feel a very faint pulsation from the cover, could even feel it radiate heat as a body would. As he started to rise, Kiandra started to awaken.
“What in the devil’s name happened?” Her voice was strong and sure, though understandably confused. She looked down at where her hand should have been and gasped. Kiandra raised it and stared with the intensity of a sun, then looked at Da’Nel who was trying to hide the book behind his back and scowled. “You!” Her voice echoed through the chamber, loud enough to wake those present from their eternal slumbers. “This is your fault!”
“I didn’t tell you to touch it,” he said, trying to remain calm.
“You didn’t tell me not to either you Elven cock monger! What good is this?” She waved the stump in his direction as if it were a weapon.
“It would make a handy pestle if you had a large enough mortar.” His words slipped out faster than he’d thought them, and Da’Nel regretted them the instant they left his mouth. Kiandra rose, her face a mask of red hatred. Petram tried to hold her back, but she broke free from his feeble effort.
“I’ll kill ye! That’s what I’ll do!” To back her threat up she reached around her side and grabbed the sword she had. It felt clumsy in her wrong hand, and even when she swung it, Kiandra had the strength and grace of a child. Da’Nel stepped back as she inched forward, nostrils flaring, breath heavy and foul.
Instinctively, Da’Nel held the book in front of him as a shield. Kiandra took one look at it and swung her sword once more at the book. As she did so, a shield of mist appeared, and her sword fell from her hand as it hit the defensive weapon. Kiandra watched it evaporate like the last wisps of a campfire before she collapsed to the ground, weary and exhausted. Petram went to her side, kneeled down and tried to console her, but she pushed him away, as she attempted to control the tears that were coming.
“I didn’t know that would happen, but we should get out of here before anyone else gets hurt.”
Kiandra stood, put her sword away and helped Petram up as a way of an apology. “How?”
Da’Nel pointed to the hole in the wall and said, “I believe that is our way out.”
“Ya sure?” Petram asked, not relishing the thought of crawling about in the dark.
Da’Nel was about to say that the book said so, then thought better of it. It had caused enough problems for one day. Best to keep that little fact to himself, for now. Instead, he shrugged, placed the grimoire in the folds of his shirt and took the lead. Getting down on his hands and knees, he created a small light that hovered in front of him and crawled into the hole. The dirt walls were damp and held the stench of decay and dead flowers. Whoever carved this tunnel, must have worked hard to dig it out, he thought.
“No,” a voice whispered. “It was made for you.”
Nonsense, he thought, how could they have known?
“Don’t be a fool, they knew everything from creation to the end of time. You aren’t worth the shit on the bottom of their feet.”
“You don’t need to be so rude, and who are you anyway?” As if in response the book began to burn, and the cloth next to it, began to smolder, then as quick as that happened, it began to freeze.
“Should have known,” Da’Nel muttered.
“Yes, you should have,” the grimoire said with poisonous contempt.
Da’Nel sighed. Why is it every talking object has to be so ill-mannered,? he thought once more.
“You would be ill-mannered as well if you were being carted around by some fool who has never heard of a bath, apparently.”
“Who are ye talking to?” Petram asked from the very rear.
“Myself,” Da’Nel lied.
“I told ye he was mad, I told ya!” Kiandra whispered loud enough for Da’Nel to hear as well. He smiled and said nothing, he wasn’t sure she was wrong. Even from the viewpoint of a Druid, what happened to him over the past several hours would tax even the most open-minded of his elders, and would have earned him several blows from a calloused hand as well.
The trio continued on, the knees on their pants wearing thin until they came into an opening of yet another crypt. This one was empty save for an empty coffin with no lid, and a stairwell that led to the outside with only a gate at the top standing in their way. There was still light left in the sky, so Da’Nel extinguished his orb and walked up the steps to find the gate was unlocked and ajar.
They were finally free.
17: The King
The fake King Saerus sat on the throne licking blood from his fingers as if it was honey. The limp body of the stable boy lay at his feet, and though he might have been mistaken for dead, he was indeed clinging to life. Once the King had cleaned his fingers, making sure to suck every bit from the creases around his fingernails, he used one barefoot to turn over the partially clad body of the stablehand. The superficial cuts over his chest and legs were already drying up, though all he had to do was press his toes against one of the wounds for it to break open and start leaking that crimson ambrosia that would help bring his true form out. It was so close, and he had thought this body would be enough, but it wasn’t. Or at least his transformation wasn’t happening fast enough to suit his needs.
He’d learned many useful things since awakening from his slumber once his vile twin had been able to spill his seed. Getting him to stop spilling it had proven to be all but impossible. As much as Saerus loved his twin members, Offa (for that was the name he had given himself), was repulsed by them. Even thinking about them, knowing they hung
like thick sausages between his legs sickened him. Yet, at the same time, they also fascinated him, for reasons he couldn’t fathom. Even now as he looked down at the boy’s near lifeless body, they engorged themselves on the blood he’d drank only moments before They rose and tented his nightshirt, demanding attention. No matter how he tried to ignore them, their stiffness wouldn’t abate.
Offa couldn’t bear to touch them, even to relieve himself he found it easier holding his nightshirt and let them do their business. Thinking about that gave him an idea, lighting his face up with perverse delight. He stood, straddled the body and pulled his garment up, and watched as the foul liquid spurted forth like a fountain, the two streams going in different directions yet both landing on the boy, burning his wounds.
The stable boy started to come to, a weakened cry slipping through his bloody and torn lips. He tried to speak but his throat was so raw and dry, only a slight croak came out. Offa positioned himself a bit so the stream would fall on the boy’s face, wetting the cuts and chapped lips. Offa’s enjoyment diminished however as the boy seemed to lap it up, opening his mouth and hoping to swallow the golden liquid. The acid burned him, and the pain on his face was plain to see, but the quenching of his thirst proved greater.
Offa’s erections drooped almost at once at this. The mixture of disgust and having his fun spoiled deflated them as if they were balloons that had been popped. “Guards!” he yelled. Two of the King’s protectors ran into the throne room awaiting their orders, both sets of eyes bulging at the King’s exposed double monstrosities. “Take him to the dungeon with the others, tell the jailer to be especially on his guard-ha!-they aren’t to be trusted.”
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