Firestone Key

by Caroline Noe

  As he turned it over in his hands, the useless metal pieces seemed to stare up at their owner with accusing eyes, as if to say, “Traitor…”

  * * *

  Had her father, or indeed anybody, bothered to ask her, Serena would have told them that she had no intention of marrying any man, barring the one she loved. With his daughter remaining silent and subservient on most matters, Styrx had made the mistake of believing that Serena was pliable. In fact, he had not yet come up against the strong will of the young woman; a will that he would soon find to be implacable.

  The object of her affection had, for many years, been an eminently unsuitable hairy brute of a farmer, going by the name of Drevel. The hirsute child had broadened into a strong, muscular bear of thirty years, but, whilst he had changed in physical aspect, he had not, unfortunately, become more fragrant. No-one, not even Serena, could explain why beauty should fix her heart on such a beast, except that he was the personification of fidelity.

  Harlin had not helped matters. Like Myrrdinus, he harboured a crush on the angel and viewed Drevel’s loyalty to Serena as an irritating, if amusing, anomaly. In an attempt to be humorous and gain favour with his peers, Harlin initiated the use of the older man’s name as a description of all things tawdry, much to Serena’s disgust.

  When Styrx, already teetering on political anxiety, found himself faced with a daughter who had suddenly turned against him, the tribal leader let rip with a string of colourful expletives, announcing, “Never! Never be ye marrying that dog! Never!”

  As domestic strife echoed through the walls of the domain and Harlin stared with futile desire at a lifeless relic, a boat was returning from distant shores…a boat carrying a traitor.

  Chapter 15

  Few would have recognised the hooded woman as she stood on the deck of the boat, staring at the forbidding coastline. Had she been fully revealed by sunlight, very few would have recognised her as woman. She had changed in all the ways a person can change. This bitter, deformed hag was filled with hatred and consumed by obsession. Powerful and driven, she had become the greatest threat to peace ever to approach these shores.

  It had all been very different when Leila fled the domain, almost a decade earlier. She had been different. Riven by guilt at the death of Morden and her own depraved addiction, she had wept tears of remorse as the boat carried her away from her home, across the sea and towards the dark unknown. She had counted Morden a friend and, although his demise was accidental, was unable to forgive herself. As the years passed, she failed to achieve forgiveness for herself or for others. Escalating madness deprived her of the need for such things.

  Carrying the Firestone, Leila had fled from Gawain’s men in a tiny vessel, amounting to little more than an aged boat. Few still undertook this voyage, so the crew was nervous and the vessel rickety. In ages past, those who had wished to travel to the distant Farlands, in search of a better life, were forced to endure passage through the infamous Darklands. Of those who were lucky enough to have successfully reached the legendary Farlands paradise, none had ever returned. Those who now undertook this particular voyage were either tenacious in the extreme or up to no good.

  It had taken all of the money Gergan had provided to bribe the crew, but, such was their fear of the Darklands, all that his wealth could buy was an unceremonious dumping on the shingle. In the dead of night, Leila found herself alone on a foreign shore, watching the boat disappear back into rolling surf. Dawn’s light had bathed the shoreline before Leila moved from that spot.

  When hot tears were forced to give way to cold pragmatism, she searched her surroundings, trying to get her bearings. The voyage had been short and had begun south of where the Project used to be; therefore, as far as she could work out, she had probably crossed the English Channel and was currently situated in what would become modern day France. Gathering up her meagre belongings, she bravely shoved aside fear and loss and, at the age of forty three, went in search of a new future.

  What she found was a long way from modern day Europe. Seemingly having flung away every ethical restraint, the population of the Darklands shocked and appalled the unprepared Leila. Finding herself surrounded by slavery, depravity, child prostitution, incest, murder, torture, demon worship and even human sacrifice, Leila quickly realised that she must protect herself or die. In this hell on earth, to be weak was to be used, abused and discarded. One brave soul had once tried to introduce laws to this anarchic society. He had been murdered for his lunch before the ink was dry on his manifesto.

  With no protection, other than her ability to do a little magiking, Leila accordingly created enough of the toxic, searing potion to defend herself from attack. Fifteen men and women died, horribly, before the locals decided to give her a wide berth. Discovering that the banned art was highly prized, she began to search out other practitioners, hoping to form a protective alliance. Unfortunately, other magikers were both paranoid by nature and hungry for power. Every approach resulted in a duel to the death.

  The initial bouts were dangerous and left Leila with scars, but the strength of the Firestone soon enabled her to prevail. Subsequent kills became easier and far less disturbing to a fading conscience. With each death, the aspiring witch inherited the manuscripts and spells of the deceased and soon built a vile library, second to none. Absorbing evil through every pore, the once beautiful blond began to change: her hair thinned and fell out, skin creased and wrinkled, bones folded in on themselves.

  Her powers grew so strong that she developed the ability to alter people, changing them into animals at the slightest provocation. She continued, even though this act drained her of energy, hoping that she would discover how to transform herself and heal her disintegrating body; however, this power remained resolutely out of her grasp.

  News of her malevolence spread throughout the area. She achieved a status almost that of a god, albeit one loathed and feared. Having attained such an advanced level of magiking, she gradually became aware - like a virus creeping through her blood - that the Firestone was still not operating at full capacity. Massive power lay within the stone, power that all of her sullied learning could not release.

  With frustration driving her to travel, Leila passed through all the Darkland realms, searching for a way to unlock the mystery of the Firestone. Devouring myriad depravities and killing all who opposed her, she eventually got wind of an arresting rumour; someone existed who had the ability to see beyond time.

  It took more than three years for Leila to track down what had once been a man. She found him gibbering inside a cave, the walls covered with an unholy slime that was breathing in time with his shrunken chest. Kept alive by his own malevolence, ‘the Seer’ was a warning to all that would countenance magiking. Driven mad by his internal sight, he sat on a rock, cackling his lonely visions into the darkness.

  As a deformed Leila approached the inhuman spectre, he raised a bony hand and pointed straight at her, his roving eyes reading the far away pages of an internal book.

  “Foul, foul, witch be ye!” he screamed. “Witch, yay yay be ye!”

  “Oh, shut up,” Leila snapped, singularly unimpressed. “Just tell me what I need to know.”

  The Seer stopped his gibbering and almost managed to focus on her face. Then his eyes began to flicker again; a page of that book turned.

  “Firestone,” he cackled. “Ye be wanting Firestone to live.”

  “Good guess,” Leila replied. “So, how?”

  “Why be I telling ye?” the Thing asked, his eyes disconcertingly moving in opposite directions.

  “I’ll kill you, if you don’t,” was her brutal response, “and it’ll be slow.”

  “Ye be doing one thing for me, then be telling. Give me desire of me heart.”

  “Fine,” Leila replied, not bothering to ask what that might be. “Now, what do you see?”

  The Seer cackled and coughed, allowing more mucus to dribble from his open mouth. Despite her own deterioration, even Leila felt disgust a
t this display. The Seer’s eyes rolled madly and he rocked back and forth. The pages of the book flew past and settled on one particular leaf: a page soaked in the blood of…

  “Blood,” he moaned. “Firestone needing blood. Sacrifice…”

  “Rubbish!” shouted Leila. “It’s been soaked in so much blood that I can barely get it clean these days.”

  “Not animal, nor man blood,” the Seer dribbled. “Blood of one, lone.”

  “Who?” Leila asked, her voice dripping with suspicion.

  “That of yer own…”

  “I just knew you’d say…”

  The Seer cut her off, finishing his pronouncement with “…son.”

  “What? What’d you say?”

  “Heart’s blood of yer womb’s fruit. This be bringing Firestone to life.”

  “No,” Leila muttered, shocked at his words - and nothing had shocked her for years. “I…No, there must be another way.”

  A tiny wisp of dormant conscience uncoiled and wriggled within her thoughts.

  “Only way,” reiterated the spectre. “Be doing and Firestone have power to restore ye to youngly and beautily.”

  The gentle wisp began to fade.

  “Firestone be giving ye great power,” the temptor continued. “Power to change time.”

  The wisp lay still.

  For years, ever since her exile to this terrible place, Leila had nursed a secret dream. Whilst cutting a swathe of death and depravity through an already despicable land, the memories of Caleb and a time of innocence had filled her dreams and eventually leaked into her waking thoughts. Longing for a time when beauty was hers and love enfolded her life, she recalled an ideal past that may never have existed. With the answer to the Firestone riddle now within her grasp, the obsession that had created the Project mutated and gestated into a malevolent plan.

  “What for yer promise!” screeched the Seer, when Leila, having obtained what she needed, prepared to leave.

  “Oh, yes,” she muttered and plunged a dagger into his heart.

  “What?” the Thing gurgled, surprise registering in those roving eyes.

  “It’s the desire of your heart,” Leila told the Seer, “to die.”

  Had he been alive, he would probably have agreed. Within, the last page of the book was finally turned.

  * * *

  Armed with her extraordinary abilities, the Firestone and the most cold-hearted of plans, Leila, warped and aged beyond recognition, paid another crew a huge sum of money to take her to a once familiar shore. This crew was equally as fearful as the one that had sailed with her, ten years previously. This crew was terrified of the hag.

  With all conceivable haste, they rowed away, leaving the hooded witch alone on the shore. She had disappeared into the forest before they had time to regain the open sea.

  Chapter 16

  To Gawain’s consternation, Harlin had taken to wandering alone, outside the castle, in a fit of moody peak. Although eighteen and supposedly a man, he was seemingly in the throes of delayed adolescence and refused to eat, sleep or listen to advice from anybody, even Bert. Feeling betrayed by his father and the entire domain, the young man confided in no-one. He preferred riding in the forest until twilight, at which time he would gallop back over the drawbridge, moments before it was raised for the night, thoroughly annoying the Gatekeeper.

  The night in question was no different for that loyal servant. Having spent the day dutifully supervising the comings and goings of people, livestock and wares through the gate, he ordered the raising of the drawbridge at sunset, as usual. The great iron platform was slowly cranking its way upwards when the sound of horse’s hooves caught the Gatekeeper’s ear. Murmuring profanities under his breath, he was about to halt the raising of the drawbridge when Harlin made the order redundant.

  Without slowing the mad gallop, Harlin raced towards the drawbridge, which was now some four feet off the ground, and urged his horse into a dangerous upward leap. Vaulting the widening gap, the mare clattered onto the iron platform, but, with the bridge at such an acute angle, was unable to retain her footing. She fell, throwing Harlin over her head and rolling towards him. With guards scrambling to avoid the mare’s flailing hooves, it was left to the Gatekeeper to save the heir apparent. He grasped Harlin firmly by the scruff of his neck and dragged him clear.

  “Pilt. Rack, fool arnus,” muttered the Gatekeeper, hauling Harlin to his feet. “Ye may have hurted that horse.”

  “She be fine and mind who ye talking to,” Harlin snapped, dusting himself down and stalking away without a single backward glance. Another string of profanities followed him inside the castle.

  The Gatekeeper only ceased muttering when he received a nudge in the back. Harlin’s mare was up on her feet and unhurt. He gently patted her on the nose and then noticed the guards’ amused expressions.

  “Be getting horse in stable,” he told the nearest, impatiently, “and gate closed.”

  The drawbridge jolted into place and the great iron portcullis began its slow grind downward. He always breathed a sigh of relief when the defences were set.

  * * *

  Unfortunately for the conscientious Gatekeeper, the danger that he wished to keep out was already inside the castle. Perceived as no threat, a frail old woman had experienced no trouble passing by the guards during daylight hours. They hadn’t even bothered to search her, not wishing to rifle through the layers of dirty rags that covered her body and most of her wrinkled face. Had they carried out a search, they would have found nothing; the old woman had a talent for concealing things. With the rest of the peasantry, she had been ushered into the courtyard that, three times a week, substituted as a marketplace for the surrounding villages.

  Sometime during the late afternoon, when the hustle and bustle of commerce began to die down, one of the guards noticed that the old woman was no longer present in the courtyard. He assumed that she must have hobbled home and forgot her.

  * * *

  Harlin regretted leaving his horse to fend for herself. Trust might have been lost with regard to every person he knew, but the mare had been unfailingly loyal and deserved better treatment. Too proud to go back, he could only hope that the guards would return her to the stables, where she would be treated with more respect than he had bestowed on her.

  Stalking through the castle, Harlin spoke to no-one and hardly even exchanged a glance. He didn’t care that he had missed the evening meal. Food meant little to him these last few days. Nothing meant much, except wallowing in self-loathing and self-pity.

  Reaching his bedchamber, he quietly closed the door behind him, not bothering to lock it. The relic stayed hidden that night; his gloomy mood was beyond that meagre show of rebellion. Removing his outer coat and flinging himself onto the bed, Harlin closed his eyes and willed sleep to interrupt his spiralling thoughts. The torment eventually ended in the dead of night.

  * * *

  Hiding in lengthening shadow, the haggard old woman waited for the castle to grow quiet. She had once lived there and knew every darkened corner, every hiding place in which to remain concealed from former friends. Crouching low, she listened as the gaggle of happy, cheerful voices thinned and footsteps faded away into descending night. At last, it grew quiet, with only the distant pacing of guards disturbing the stillness.

  Creeping out from her hiding place, the malignant hag began her slow climb towards murder, her crooked fingers playing with a pebble that lay concealed beneath layers of filthy rags. The Firestone gave her strength; strength to climb the stone staircase; strength to carry out her vile plan. The Firestone needed heart’s blood and blood it would get.

  She knew where he would be sleeping - her victim. She knew the room, even the pillow on which his young head would be laid. Standing outside the door, she barely hesitated. No thought of pity or love must be allowed to cloud her purpose. She didn’t desire his death, but without his heart’s blood, her own must soon follow. She had spent too many years conjuring and the price must
now be paid. The mother was already dead, only the witch remained.

  Carefully turning the door handle, the old woman hobbled into the bedchamber and closed the door behind her. It was dark within. Summer’s sultry heat pervaded the room and the fire remained unlit. Harlin had left his shutters open, allowing a gentle breeze to occasionally stir the drapes. The gentle swish of the fabric, the ripple of water, far below, the whistle of wind through trees, beyond, the occasional rustle of nocturnal animal life; these were the only sounds - the soft harmony of peaceful night.

  For the first time, the old woman allowed the Firestone to drop back into her pocket as she drew an ornamental dagger from the folds of her ragged clothing. Hobbling to the bedside, she raised the blade and looked down on her slumbering victim.

  Wispy cloud drifted across the moon, casting faint shadows on Harlin’s face, as though creeping fingers of death caressed him. Indeed, his breathing so was light, so silent, that for a brief moment she wondered if he had already passed from this world to the next. It had been ten years since she last saw the face of her son. He had developed the dark hair, olive skin, height and build of his father, yet the facial features were undoubtedly hers. The curve of the nose, the wide set eyes, the full mouth; all reminded her of the face that she used to see in the mirror. But that was long ago, before conjuring and advancing age ruined her beauty.

  For the briefest of moments she hesitated, a sudden flash of memory, or maybe a glimpse of what might have been, staying her hand. The hunger for power, the many murders she had already committed and the depravity of her conjuring were, for one blessed interlude, soothed by a ripple of forgotten love. The dagger arm dropped to her side as her long buried conscience fought to hold the darkness at bay. Perhaps, just perhaps, it might have won a miraculous victory, had not a cruel twist of fortune intervened before the battle was concluded. Deeply moved, she uttered a single sigh and the eyes of her son popped open.