by Jess Lebow
The Claw nodded. “I see. Thank you, my lord. I will not fail.”
“Good luck, son. Good luck.”
Without looking back, King Korox Morkann left his private reading room, closing the door behind him. Crossing through the circle of pillars, he sat down on his throne and waved over a junior scribe.
A young man of no more than eighteen years scampered over, his arms full of parchment, a quill and ink gripped in his hands.
“Take this down.” The king cleared his throat. “By official decree, I, Korox Morkann, King of Erlkazar, do hereby order the Magistrates of my realm to find and capture the man known as the Claw. He is to be returned to me alive and with all haste.” The king paused. “Use all force necessary to retrieve this man. Spare no expense. The fate of Erlkazar depends on it.”
Korox nodded. “Have that posted on all barracks and delivered to the commanders of each unit.”
The young man looked up from his writing, his eyes wide. He swallowed hard, then nodded, shuffling off to do as he was told.
Korox slumped back in his throne.
The Claw stood in the king’s private reading room. This was the first time he’d been here alone, and the room, although small and packed with furniture, felt very empty.
He turned the magical, colored disk over in his hand. He wasn’t sure he wanted to find out what was on the other side. The Cellar, from all accounts, was a terrible place. But that wasn’t what bothered him.
It was the princess. She’d been missing for three days now. If she’d been in the Cellar all that time, there’s no telling what sort of foul evil had befallen her.
The Claw wasn’t frightened by much, not even the thought of his own death. But finding the woman he loved torn to shreds on the floor of the Cellar would be more than he could handle.
He placed the disk on the floor and readied himself. There was only one way to find out if she was still alive. And the faster he got there, the more likely he could save her. Giving the disk a spin, he watched the colors blur and melt into one another. They lifted off the surface, seemingly knitting together in midair.
A shimmering portal formed beside the disk. It swirled, a giant replica of the spinning trinket, suspended over the ground by nothing at all. Picking up the disk, the Claw stepped through the portal—out of the palace and into the Cellar.
As soon as both feet touched the ground, the portal winked out of existence behind him. The chamber he had entered was completely dark. It smelled damp and musty, like the mineral caves under the ruins of Castle Trinity, and the only sound was of dripping water, somewhere off in the distance.
The Claw slipped the portal disk under a flap of fabric beneath his belt then unfastened his left gauntlet.
“As you wish, Princess Mariko,” he said, and the sigil on his palm lit up.
The Claw found himself standing inside a long, narrow room. Patches of fuzzy yellow mold covered the walls and floor. The few flagstones still visible were worn and broken, missing altogether in many places. Pools of dirty water had collected in the divots. The light from Princess Mariko’s magical gift reflected off their surfaces, illuminating the dripping cracks in the ceiling.
The Claw took in the whole chamber, swinging his palm from one end to the other. The portal had brought him to the inside of a sealed room. There didn’t appear to be any doors or windows—no way out at all.
“First things first.”
Kneeling down, the Claw retrieved a small dagger from his boot. Using it to puncture the leather on his off-hand gauntlet, he cut a square hole in the palm—the same size as the illuminated sigil. It took him some time. His gauntlets were well-crafted, and the leather resisted being severed. But eventually he succeeded. Satisfied with his work, he returned the gauntlet to his left hand and made his way down to the far end of the room.
The stones on the floor moved and shifted under his weight. It seemed they hadn’t been walked upon in some time. As he drew closer to the end, it looked as if there had at one time been a door leading out of this chamber, but it was now all bricked up. The yellowish mold seemed thin here, giving way to more of the foul water. A large puddle flooded most of this part of the room, growing ever bigger from the slow drip in the ceiling.
Stopping at the edge of the puddle, the Claw scanned the bricked-up doorway with his illuminated palm. The brick was a different color than the rest of the wall, but it wasn’t new by any means. Turning his attention to the ceiling, he scanned the crack that seemed to be the only way in or out of here.
The puddle below him thrashed violently, splashing filthy water in every direction. Something wrapped around his legs, and he lost his balance, pulled from his feet. One moment he was standing, the next he found himself looking up, his body soaked, lying flat on his back in the puddle.
The water rose from the ground around him, forming into a pair of huge hands, and they swung down on the Claw, hitting him squarely in the chest. The air rushed from his lungs.
Rolling to one side, the Claw scampered to his feet, turning to face the black, watery hands. Around those hands, a humanoid formed, lifting itself straight out of the puddle as if using the water to create a body. Its features were dull and ill-defined, slowly taking on more shape. Finally, standing in a pool of water only half the size that it once was, the Claw faced what looked like a drow woman.
Not yet having caught his breath, he took a feeble swipe at the newcomer. Without moving, the woman’s body turned liquid, dripping away from his strike and avoiding the attack. The Claw stumbled, his momentum moving into his swing, and he was rewarded with another pair of vicious blows, this time to the head.
The counterstrike from the watery creature sent him tumbling to the corner of the room. Tucking his head, the Claw rolled with the fall, coming up against the wall with his feet and stopping himself from smashing into the mold. Kicking away, he quickly got back to his feet, circling away from the creature.
Though it had the form of a female dark elf, this was no drow. The creature’s body was fluid, oozy. Not quite water, but it could reorganize itself as if it were liquid. The Claw had heard of such beasts, but he thought they were just the ramblings of drunken adventurers, telling tall tales over an ale at the inn.
The watery thing lunged, reaching for his right hand. The Claw backed away, bringing all four blades of his left gauntlet squarely down on the creature’s shoulder, severing its arm from its body. The arm splashed to the floor into a puddle of goo that resembled a jellyfish washed up on a beach.
The creature screamed and pulled away, grasping at its stump. It spouted off some words that he didn’t understand—all hisses and clicks. Whatever she was saying, he was certain it meant she was not happy with him.
As he watched, the creature regrew its arm. Then the rest of its features solidified, turning from slimy ooze into fabric, metal, flesh, and leather. It wore a steel breastplate, polished to a high shine, with copper chain sleeves. Underneath its armor, the drow creature had formed a purple velvet shirt that shone through the sides of the breastplate and the rings of the chain. Below that, it sported a thick leather belt that held up a single short sword in a metal scabbard. And of course, its skin was a shiny, onyx black.
The Claw shook his head. He found himself looking into her dark eyes as she stared at him. Funny how charming she seemed, even though he didn’t understand her language.
The creature came at him again, punching her fist at his left gauntlet. Though she had a sword, she hadn’t drawn it, and the barehanded attack caught the Claw off guard. He tried to pull back, but the drow woman was quick, and her fist collided with his. When it did, her hand flowed out, becoming little more than a blob of gelatinous gunk enveloping his entire left hand—bladed gauntlet, wrist, and all.
The room grew dark, as the magical light on his palm glowed through the drow beast’s flesh, illuminating her face and chest but little else. The Claw shook his arm, trying to break free, but it was no use. She had him. The ooze around his hand seeme
d to dry up, hardening to an almost leather-like state, trapping his weapon inside the creature.
Struggling for a moment longer, the Claw finally gave up. “Won’t let it go?” he growled, pulling his right hand back into a fist. “Fine. I’ll cut it out.”
The Claw yanked the creature forward with his left hand, and buried the blades of his gauntlet into its gut with his right. Though it appeared to be wearing polished steel armor, it gave way like oozy flesh. Unable to dodge in time, the beast was pinned, and the Claw pulled his arms apart, tearing the drow woman in half. She screamed as her body came apart, then she slumped and sloughed off, dripping away from the Claw’s gauntlets and splattering on the floor like chunks of uneaten food.
The Claw shook his hands to clear all the ooze from between his blades. Bits of the creature slipped slowly from his weapons, raining down on the ground and splashing in the filthy water. Kicking at the chunks of the creature’s remains, he satisfied himself that it was indeed dead.
“Now,” he said to himself, “to find the princess.”
Reaching into his belt, he pulled out a small compass. Lifting its lid, he examined the needle. Unlike most compasses, this one didn’t have the cardinal directions inscribed on its surface. In fact, there were no markings on it at all, just a glass top, a black bottom, and a silver needle—which pointed toward the corner of the room.
It was brighter now that his palm was no longer encased in ooze, and he followed the direction of the compass to the mold-covered wall. There were two footprints on the wall from where he had pushed off after being knocked on the head by the ooze creature. The mold had come away where he had hit, revealing something other than stone underneath. He tapped at it with the tips of his blades, and it made the low, solid thump of wood.
Taking a step back, he let loose with a kick, right above the footprints. The wood behind creaked under the blow, and the mold flopped from its surface, exposing an arched door with black iron bolts holding it together. Wet and covered in mold, it didn’t give the Claw much trouble. With just a few more kicks the wood came apart, crumbling into rotten splinters, sending a million tiny spiders scattering in all directions.
The Claw’s skin crawled at the sight of it. “I hope none of you get any bigger,” he said as he leaned down and slipped through the door. “Nothing I hate more than spiders.”
chapter sixteen
Genevie walked across the drawbridge and through the portcullis into Klarsamryn. She waved to the guards as she passed, trying to smile. It made her nervous to see so many armed men at the gate. She couldn’t remember the last time there were so many Magistrates in one place.
Crossing through the great hall, she hurried her way through the palace’s stone hallways to the princess’s chamber. Retrieving her key from the pocket of her robe, she slipped it into the lock and let herself in.
The room was mostly dark, but her half-elf eyes could see clearly. Obviously, no one had been looking after the princess’s chamber. Chairs were out of place. The linens on the bed were unmade. And the doors of the wardrobe were wide open. Even the lid of the wooden chest where they kept the winter blankets was askew. It appeared as if someone has ransacked the place, looking for something.
This just wouldn’t do. Weaving her way through the disheveled furniture, Genevie went to the window and threw wide the drapes, letting in the late afternoon light.
“You’ve got a lot of explaining to do,” growled a voice from behind her.
Turning around, Genevie dropped to one knee. “My king,” she said, following it up with an elaborate bow.
A single hand wrapped around her left arm and dragged her to her feet. Genevie tried to pull herself from the soldier’s grasp, but the Magistrate’s powerful hand held her tight.
Genevie twisted in pain. “My lord, make him stop. He’s … he’s hurting me.”
“Oh,” said the king, crossing his arms over his chest, his eyes growing dark. “These men haven’t even begun to hurt you.”
The Magistrate dragged Genevie out of the princess’s chambers. Just outside the door stood six armed guards and a court wizard, all of whom drew their weapons and fell into step behind Genevie as she was dragged away. Stopping at the end of the hall, the king himself kicked open another door and pointed.
“In there,” he ordered.
The Magistrate not-so-gently threw the handmaiden into the room, following behind. The king entered as well.
Genevie crashed into a set of wooden shelves against the far wall and collapsed to the floor. She had been in this room before. Little more than a closet, this was where the servants and staff who took care of this floor kept their buckets and mops. There were no windows here—no light and no way out except through the open door into the hallway—both of which were blocked by the king and the Magistrate.
Genevie pulled her legs into her body and covered her head with her hands. “Please, my lord, don’t hurt me. I—”
“Where have you been, Genevie?” asked the king. He was pacing back and forth between the walls of the tiny room. “We’ve been looking all over for you.”
“I-I-I—” Genevie stuttered. Her whole body was shaking, and she was gasping for air between giant sobs.
“Out with it, Genevie,” said the king. “You go missing on the same day my daughter disappears. Were you with her when she was taken?”
Genevie shook her head, unable to get out any words.
“Then where were you?” The king bent down, placing his huge face in front of hers. “Well?”
Genevie kept quiet, just lying on the ground, her arms curled around her body as tightly as she could draw them.
“Answer me!” shouted the king. He grabbed her by the front of her robes, lifting her into the air. “You were my daughter’s closest confidant, and you sold her out, didn’t you? You and Whitman, you did this together. You were the only other person who could have known where she was going to be. You knew about her late nights. You knew when she came and left the palace. And you sold her out!”
“No! No, it’s nothing like that. I would never hurt the princess. Never.” Genevie spat out the words in desperation, trying to get free.
The king slapped her across the face with the back of his hand. “Then Whitman comes back with an offer from the Matron. And you conveniently show up.” He let her go, dropping the half-elf to the floor.
Genevie scampered into the corner, curling herself up into a ball.
“On the same day, no less.” Korox continued his pacing. “You disappear without a trace. No word from you. Nothing for three full days. In the meantime, the entire kingdom is looking for you and the princess. This is more than a little suspicious.”
“I was … I was … with my grandson. He … he’s sick. And … and he needs medicine, and I couldn’t—”
Korox interrupted her. “You know what I think, Genevie? I think you’re lying. I think you helped Whitman concoct this whole plan, and that you were in on it from the beginning.”
The king grabbed a wooden bucket from one of the shelves and slammed it to the ground. It shattered as it hit the stone floor, pieces ricocheting all over the closet. Genevie tried to pull herself up even tighter into the corner, tucking her head into her lap and covering herself with her arms.
“You know what else I think?” shouted the king. “I think you might actually be the Matron. I think all of this is some sort of plot to take over my kingdom. And I think that you just might try to hurt my daughter if it meant you could seize control of Erlkazar.”
From out in the hall came a great commotion. People were running back and forth, and there were shouts.
The king turned his attention away from Genevie. “What’s going on out there?”
He stepped away, and the half-elf could see one of the soldiers at the door shrug. Then someone arrived, shouting for the king.
“King Korox! My lord! You must come quick. Another obelisk has arrived.”
Genevie couldn’t see the messenger, but she w
as thankful for the reprieve.
“Watch her!” ordered the king, his meaty fist poking in from out in the hall, one of his sausage-like fingers pointing down at her. “Don’t close the door. Don’t take your eyes off of her. Ward the room against any of her magic, and if she tries to escape, cut her arms and legs off. I need her head still attached, so she can answer questions, but the other limbs are expendable.”
King Korox didn’t know what to think.
He marched down the hallway to the great hall.
None of this made any sense. Where had Genevie been? A sick grandson as an explanation? She disappears as the princess is kidnapped, and her excuse is that her grandson is sick? Perhaps Korox’s instincts were right. If she was conspiring with Whitman, and her returning now, of all times, was all part of their plan, then they had miscalculated. If she was the Matron, it would explain how Mariko was seemingly so easily captured. But why would Genevie come back here? She had what she wanted. Did she get nervous when she didn’t hear from Whitman? That wouldn’t make any sense either. Why risk coming into the palace without guards or mages? Wouldn’t she want to negotiate the terms of her offer to help? Was she here to kill the king? The Claw had overheard the Tasca brothers talking about a plot on his life, and so far they hadn’t seen any attempt. Then how did Mariko’s disappearance factor into all of this?
There were just too many questions and not enough answers.
The messenger led him to the front gate, where a group of people was once again gathered.
“Make way for the king!” shouted the messenger.
Storming out onto the drawbridge, Korox tried to pull himself together. Twice in one day he’d raised his hand against people whom only a few days before he had considered trusted allies. His confidence in the people around him was eroding quickly, and he was starting to act like a desperate man—not a commanding, confident king.