by Kay L. Ling
Her feet echoed dully on the thick wooden boards and she pulled her jacket tighter about herself, staring at her feet as she walked. In a few more strides she reached the end. Remarkably, she was still alive. Even now, she expected guards to appear or arrows to rain down from the watchtowers.
Feeling increasingly wary, she walked through the courtyard and skirted the front of the castle. How long could her luck last? When would guards show up and haul her away? But none appeared and she continued unchallenged. Not one to argue with good fortune she kept going, and turning the corner, started down the side of the castle, looking for an entryway. There had to be a way in, other than that terrifying front door.
At last, along the rear wall, she finally found a door—a small, partially open wooden door, half off its hinges. It couldn’t be more than two-and-a-half feet wide and four feet high. Where could such a tiny door lead? She pushed it gently inward, then stooped and squeezed through. Although it was too dark to make out much, she didn’t need her eyesight to discover the limited headroom. She rubbed her bruised scalp and moved cautiously forward.
What I wouldn’t give for my flashlight now.
On a whim, she decided to see what would happen if she unsheathed the Challenger’s knife. Maybe it would glow like before. She pulled the blade from its sheath. At first nothing happened, and then it began to glow. The blade’s light revealed another small door, thirty feet away at the end of the narrow room. She must be in part of the cellar. The walls were made of stone blocks and the room smelled musty. Whole timbers supported the low ceiling. Dust-covered shelves, holding wooden kegs, tools, and covered clay pots lined the walls.
Just as she started forward, the blade’s light began to dim. She’d find herself in total darkness if she didn’t hurry. It was hard to run in her stooped position. Darkness enveloped her before she reached the door. “Rats,” she muttered as she stumbled forward.
Then she heard something. Whispered voices? She cocked her head and listened. Yes. She was certain of it. Holding her breath, she inched forward. She could barely make out the words, but it sounded like someone said, “Huh? Someone there?” Another voice replied, “Might be looking for us. Shhhh! Let’s go.”
It might not be safe to leave, but she couldn’t stay here forever. Groping for the door, she fumbled with the latch. The door creaked open on stiff hinges.
Let’s try this again. Feeling for the sheath at her waist, she inserted the knife and then drew it out again. The blade began to glow. Standing in the doorway, she looked around. This room was bigger than the last, and thank goodness the ceiling was normal height. The floor was filthy and she saw patches of dark stains that looked suspiciously like dried blood. Cautiously she stepped inside. Doors barred with heavy timbers lined the perimeter, but one stood open. Ahead on the right, a stone stairway curved upward, disappearing in the shadows.
Two choices. And not long to think before I run out of light.
Not fond of cellars, especially this one, she chose the stairway and climbed several steps before being plunged into darkness again. She kept climbing, feeling her way along the wall with her right hand, the useless knife in her left. The angled steps and curving wall were a challenge in the dark, and her heart beat faster as she climbed blindly with no way to know what lay ahead.
Maybe she should turn back now while she still could. Sheamathan was a powerful being who would never give up her ambitions without a fight. She’d insist on a face-to-face meeting with the Challenger—or whoever this new person was who could supposedly destroy her. Showing Sheamathan the knife and making veiled threats would never work.
A sudden premonition of danger, like a cold, restraining hand, broke in on her thoughts. She froze in place, and suddenly her blade began to glow. Her eyes widened. She had nearly reached the top of the stairs. Looking up, she saw a stone passageway. And something else—a pythanium, curled around a stone support column at the head of the stairs.
The winged serpent looked down at her with a near-human expression of hatred, and let out a long, angry hiss.
She almost dropped the knife. Her heart raced. Show of strength, she reminded herself. Don’t look afraid. Maybe if she spoke in a calm, soothing tone, the creature wouldn’t attack. “Hello. I’m looking for Sheamathan.”
“Ssseee her you ssshall,” it answered. Lana gasped and stepped backward, nearly falling down the stairs. An unsettling, awareness had shone in the serpent’s yellow eyes, but she hadn’t expected it to speak.
The creature unfolded its upper set of wings and spread them tentatively, but the other two sets remained tucked against its sides. Lana stood motionless. Any movement might prompt an attack. The pythanium studied her shrewdly, as if assessing her. A pair of short, muscular legs that had been folded against its body appeared beneath its upper wings, and she stared apprehensively at its clawed feet, which could easily pick up small prey or gouge out her eyes. She stood a little taller and met its gaze. Did she see a flicker of apprehension in its eyes?
The creature moved further up the pillar and from that safer distance looked down at her and her glowing blade. Summoning her courage, she climbed the last few steps.
Approaching footsteps clomped on the stone floors and echoed from the walls. She stiffened. It was probably too late to run, and besides, she had a message to deliver. From a connecting corridor, a light shone into her passageway. She blinked into the torchlight, momentarily blinded.
Above her, the pythanium hissed, “Breghlinssss will take you.” Her attention snapped back to the hideous serpent. Weaving its head slowly, as if in time to some ghastly tune that only it could hear, it added, “You will like breghlinssssss.” Its yellow eyes mocked her.
Yeah, I bet I will.
Four breghlin, two carrying torches, two holding iron pikes, marched toward her, swords at their sides. Taller and more muscular than gnomes, they were even more frightening than she had imagined. Her fingers tightened around the knife hilt.
All four breghlin had deep-set brown eyes, pocked, bulbous noses, sagging jowls, and wide mouths with thick, protruding lips. She caught a glimpse of broken stumps of yellowed teeth when one of the breghlin leered at her. Their skin looked lumpy, like something festered underneath, and their dark hair and beards were tangled and matted. Their gray uniforms were little better than filthy rags. They smelled like urine and rotting meat and the stench was nearly overpowering. She knew she should say something but she was too busy trying not to gag.
“It isss human,” the pythanium announced helpfully, “and it wishesss to ssseee Sssheamathan.”
At last she found her voice, but she was so nervous she couldn’t keep from babbling. “You must be breghlin. I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m Lana. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“Come with us.” If they were curious about her or her strangely glowing knife, they didn’t let on. They formed ranks around her, one on either side and two behind. Off they marched. She sheathed her knife. It would be best to hide it until her meeting with Sheamathan.
This place must be ancient. The gray stone floor had been rubbed smooth, probably through centuries of wear. She looked up. In the flickering torchlight, the stone ceiling looked dark with soot, and cobwebs hung like dismal garlands from the ceiling and upper walls.
Her guards stopped at a majestic pillared doorway that opened to a torch-lit room. Inside, weird shadows danced along the walls. When the breghlin prodded her forward she swallowed her fear and walked inside, head high, trying to look unconcerned even though her heart was hammering.
Her eyes flicked around the throne room, avoiding its occupant. Huge stone columns with capitols shaped like coiled serpents supported massive ceiling beams. The serpents looked disturbingly realistic. Had they been made of stone, or turned to stone? The walls, built of square stone blocks dark with age and soot, looked ancient enough to have witnessed the dawn of time. Torches in iron brackets lined all four walls, and their wavering flames cast a shifting orange glow over the
breghlin guards who stood six abreast on each wall.
I’m surprised she needs guards if she’s so powerful.
At last, Lana forced herself to look at the woodspirit. Sheamathan sat on a throne on top of a stone dais, dressed in a gown so black it absorbed the torchlight. Her eyes bore such evident malice that Lana broke into a cold sweat. Braziers filled with burning coals surrounded the dais. Curling streams of smoke wove around Sheamathan like dark, cavorting spirits.
Fingers bit into Lana’s arms. The guards marched her toward Sheamathan’s throne.
What demented artist would design such a throne? Elaborate carvings covered every inch—pythanium, giant insects and hideous malformed birds and animals. Jewels imbedded in the creatures’ eye sockets seemed to watch her—jewels with malevolent powers, no doubt. They flickered ominously in the torchlight.
Her small store of courage seeped away. She should never have come here. As if in agreement, stone gargoyles behind the dais leered down at her.
“You again,” Sheamathan said with obvious distaste.
Grasping at anything to bolster her confidence, she reminded herself that the woodspirit hadn’t paralyzed her this time. Her mind was clear even though she was frightened. She met the woodspirit’s eyes and said as calmly as she could, “I came to deliver a message.”
Sheamathan smiled condescendingly. “What could you possibly say that I would want to hear?”
“I’m sure it’s nothing you want to hear.” Her tongue felt too thick to speak and her mouth had suddenly gone dry, but she forced out the words. “There is a Challenger, a defender of the Fair Lands, who will not allow you to destroy my world. I warn you, release the gnomes you’ve enslaved. Stop destroying their world and stay away from the Fair Lands.”
Sheamathan sat forward in her throne, her face pinched with anger. “Who sent you with this message? The Challenger is gone—powerless.”
Lana lifted her chin defiantly. “Your power will be challenged again. The gnomes sent me here with a warning, and with proof.”
Sheamathan’s hands moved restlessly over the arms of her throne. “Show me your proof.”
Drawing the Challenger’s blade from its sheath with a flourish, Lana held it up and prayed that Sheamathan would react as Raenihel hoped.
The woodspirit’s eyes widened briefly, her mouth twitched, and then she mastered herself and her face became a frozen mask.
The Challenger’s blade began to glow.
The glow brightened to a near-blinding white light. For a terrifying instant, Lana almost let go. Clutching the hilt tightly, she held on for all she was worth, shielding her eyes as she continued to watch the woodspirit. The gemstones under her fingers grew hot. Energy burst through her in an unexpected explosion that set every nerve on fire. A tumult of emotions nearly overwhelmed her but after a moment they subsided, replaced by an unnatural calm. She looked into Sheamathan’s startled eyes. You’re powerful, Sheamathan, but you’re not invincible. Right now you’re feeling uncertain and a little afraid, and you’re not used to that.
With new courage she looked at the throne’s hideous carvings. The jeweled eyes flickered with power, but she wasn’t afraid. Shifting her fingers on the hilt she turned her mind inward, surprised and confused. Before, she hadn’t experienced anything of this magnitude. Did the blade’s response depend on the danger?
Sheamathan broke in on her thoughts as the blinding light slowly faded to a more bearable intensity. “Why should you be the gnomes’ messenger?”
“They protected me from your breghlin once. And we have similar objectives.”
“You owe the gnomes a favor. How touching.” The woodspirit’s lip curled in disgust.
“So, what’s your answer?” Lana demanded, not backing down. “What do you want me to tell the gnomes?”
Sheamathan’s eyes flickered with hatred. “Tell them this!” She swept her arm in an arc.
A wall of energy slammed into Lana, lifting her off her feet and hurling her backward. Grunts and curses rang in her ears as the guards went down in a tangled heap, breaking her fall. She clung to the knife despite the chaos, determined not to let go of it. Scrambling to her feet, shaken but resolved to get the upper hand, she glared defiantly at Sheamathan. Apparently I’m not the only one who believes in a show of strength. “Very impressive,” Lana said coldly. “I see you enjoy using your power to intimidate others.” Hot anger surged through her. This evil being had terrorized the gnomes and destroyed their world because they were defenseless and couldn’t fight back. It was Sheamathan’s turn to feel defenseless.
“Power comes in many forms,” she told the woodspirit. “For instance, this is a remarkable weapon.” She waved the knife menacingly and its light began to intensify. “Maybe you would like to hold it yourself.” Before the guards could stop her she walked to the dais.
When she reached the first step, Sheamathan turned her head from the brilliant light and lifted a warning hand, her face contorted with pain. “The gnomes have entrusted the knife to you. I would not think of touching it.”
Because you can’t. Now I have proof. At least one of Raenihel’s legends is true.
“Take our guest to the Waiting Rooms,” Sheamathan ordered.
The guards may have been frightened, but they did as they were told, regrouping around Lana.
“Make sure she arrives safely.”
As Lana and her guards neared the entrance, more breghlin fell in step behind them.
Waiting rooms? Why do I have a bad feeling about this?
She glanced over her shoulder and smiled in spite of herself. I must be really dangerous to need this many guards.
They led her to the same stairway she had climbed before. The pythanium had left the safety of the column and lay along the wall at the head of the stairs. As she approached, it rose up, thrust its head forward and hissed angrily. Lana nearly laughed. The serpent was a lot braver when there was a troop of breghlin surrounding her. The light from her blade had faded to a soft yellow, but it hadn’t gone out. One long stride brought her within striking distance. She thrust her blade within an inch of the serpent’s face and said, “You’d make a very nice pair of shoes.”
The pythanium jerked back with an unmistakable look of fear. It hissed again, but with less conviction.
Fingers closed around Lana’s arm and yanked her away. “There now,” the breghlin growled. “Enough of that.” When she dropped her knife-hand, he let go of her arm.
Another breghlin let out a low whistle. “A darin’ move, threat’nin’ Sheamathan’s pet.”
No one spoke as the group passed through endless rooms and passageways on their way to the Waiting Rooms. A number of escape plans ran through her mind, but none seemed promising. She had the Challenger’s blade, but she didn’t like her odds. How could she take on all of the guards at once? She might kill one or two but then what? Before she could get away, the others would run her through with a sword or split her skull with a pike. In Raenihel’s hands, the Challenger’s blade had created a hypnotic pulsing light, but how had he done that? Quite possibly, he didn’t know, either. Lana frowned. The knife didn’t come with an owner’s manual, and its behavior changed every time she used it. In time, she would learn its secrets, but that didn’t help now.
Even if you could escape, you haven’t learned anything about the missing gnomes. Are they in prison? Or in work camps?
The breghlin descended a flight of stairs and continued further into the bowels of the castle. Their boots thumped heavily on the stone floors, and the clank of their weaponry echoed off the low ceilings, reminding her that she had no hope of escape.
Cold seeped through the floors. The breghlins’ torches illuminated patches of black moss on the walls. The familiar oily moss managed to thrive here despite little moisture or light.
Her throat felt raw from the torch smoke. The breghlins’ stench in this confined space was unbearable. By now she was sure that “Waiting Room” was a euphemism for dungeon. Until
today, she had never expected to see a real dungeon, much less find herself a prisoner in one.
Her guards turned a corner and herded her into a low-ceilinged room where two breghlin prison guards, dressed in grimy blue pants and shirts, sat on a ledge across from a row of empty cells.
“What have we here?” one of them asked, standing. His deep, raspy voice echoed mockingly off the walls and his dark eyes slithered over her, raising the hair on the back of her neck.
“Dunno,” one of her escorts said. “Calls herself Lana. When we found her, she says to us nice as can be, ‘You must be breghlin. Pleased to make your acquaintance.’”
She flushed as both prison guards roared with laughter. Around her, her escorts joined in the merriment. The breghlin who was still sitting on the ledge gleefully pounded his metal cup on the stone, spilling its contents. “Pleased, is she? Ya shoulda cut out her tongue!”
“Like to see you try,” a gruff voice behind her replied. “She tried to stab Sheamathan’s favorite pythanium. Threatened to turn its hide into a pair of shoes.”
The prison guards looked at her with new interest. Their eyes dropped to her knife, which was still glowing softly.
The gruff voice added, “Spoke to the woodspirit, bold as ya like, and didn’t cower a bit.”
“Well, ‘magin’ that.” The seated breghlin rose, walked to one of the empty cells, and with a key attached to his belt, opened a cell door. “Bring ‘er here.”
“Come an’ get her,” two of her escorts taunted in unison.
No one moved. Both sets of guards stood glaring at one another. This was ridiculous. She stepped forward and walked toward her cell. As soon as she passed through the open door, the prison guard slammed it shut behind her, looking relieved that she was safely inside.
With great dignity, she walked to the rear of the cell and sat on a stone slab covered with straw. This, apparently, was her couch, chair and bed. She rested her back against the wall, drew up her knees and wrapped her arms around them. Here she was in a castle in another world, locked in a dungeon. Today she had faced down a pythanium, a host of breghlin, and even the woodspirit. Already, she was getting used to being in danger and having her life threatened. A few weeks ago, in a situation like this, she would have given up hope of escape and waited for someone to rescue her. But rescue wasn’t coming. Raenihel, the only one who knew she was here, was too terrified to come. It was up to her to think of a plan and rescue herself. And maybe she could actually do that.