Firestone Key

by Caroline Noe

  * * *

  Bert had been a fighter all his adult life, and most of his teenage years as well, but he had never faced a situation this dire. He slashed and thrust his way through overwhelming numbers of adversaries, fighting to reach the side of his horrifically tortured boy. The arrival of Baal rendered war obsolete. Whoever was unlucky enough to remain in the vicinity was incinerated, their weaponry and swordsmanship utterly unable to save them. Desertion was the only option available to these otherwise brave men. Bert was the last to leave the field alive, having stayed long enough to witness Myrrdinus’s rescue of Harlin.

  Racing through the forest, barely ahead of the lumbering beast, Bert found himself alongside Asher, though neither could take the time to acknowledge the other. With all survivors making for the castle, it occurred to the two men that they were leading the beast back to those sheltering there, with no guarantee that the castle defences would hold against such a monster. There was, however, no way to reverse the direction of the stampede. They sprinted onward, straining to reach Melith and young Gwyneth before the beast.

  * * *

  Appalled sentries watched from the castle battlements, surrounded by terrified villagers. At this height above ground, they could clearly see that fire was spreading through the forest, accompanied by the bending of trees, as though subject to a tremendous and moving force. Then the men raced into view, fleeing from something that must have been unleashed from hell; fleeing towards the only sanctuary left to them.

  Bravely, not a person sheltering in that castle questioned whether to lower the drawbridge. These were their men who were fleeing: brothers, fathers, husbands and sons. Burnt and exhausted men staggered over the iron bridge and assembled in the courtyard. At the last possible moment, seconds before Baal thundered up to the moat, they hauled up the drawbridge, leaving the hundreds left outside to their fate.

  Women closed their eyes and covered the faces of their children, knowing what horror must follow. Strangely, the beast didn’t choose to incinerate those left exposed. Instead, it lumbered around the castle and headed up the slope to the upper sluice gate. Tragically, for those sheltering inside the castle, the beast, as a product of Leila’s subconscious, had also inherited a little of her genius. The ground shook as it stomped on surrounding rocks and earth, blasting them with red hot fire until molten lava poured down on the gate, burying it beneath tons of cooling rock and damming the moat from the river.

  Devastation complete, Baal lumbered back to the lower sluice gate and blew fire onto the wood. The gate collapsed, allowing the water to flow downhill and join the river. Jumping into the now empty, slime covered moat, the beast advanced on the outer wall of the castle and used its tiny wings to elevate itself. It managed to fly just high enough to fix its claws on the raised drawbridge. Climbing the wall, it blasted fire through every exposed loophole and window on its way to the battlements.

  With fire raining down on their heads and decorations burning around them, the people inside were left with no alternative, but to seek escape from the furnace. Lowering the drawbridge again, they fled the castle, stamping on one another in their headlong flight.

  This was the scene of horror that greeted Asher and Bert’s arrival. Fighting the flow of terrified fugitives, they struggled over the rapidly warming drawbridge and into the inferno.

  “Melith? Melith!” Asher hollered over the roar of the fire. The heat was unimaginable. Burned bodies lay everywhere. “Melith!” he screamed again, frantic with terror. The possibility of the deaths of his wife and daughter threatened to overwhelm him.

  “Look inside!” Bert shouted dragging his friend in the direction of a doorway.

  Once inside, they sprinted up the stone steps, two at a time, and almost ran into Gwyneth. With the luxury of time past, Asher would look back on this moment as one of his daughter’s finest. Though only sixteen years old and rather plump to boot, Gwyneth was engaged in dragging her unconscious mother down those steps, fighting not to be overcome by the smoke. When she saw her father, she threw herself into his arms.

  “Gwynie,” he whispered, trying not to cry with relief. “Ye taking her,” he told Bert. “I carrying Melith.”

  Down the steps they staggered, coughing and spluttering. Out in the open air of the courtyard, Melith groaned and shifted in Asher’s arms.

  “Stay still, Melith. I have ye,” he told her, picking his way through the smouldering bodies. “Gwynie, be not looking!”

  Bert was already doing his best to shield the teenager from the horror surrounding her. At the sizzling drawbridge, Asher wrapped layers of material around their leather shoes. By the time they reached the other side, the rags had been completely burnt away.

  Beyond the empty moat, survivors were scattering in all directions, having no idea where to flee for safety. Baal dropped off the castle wall, back into the muddy moat and climbed out, intent on pursuing the survivors. He emerged directly behind Asher’s family.

  Asher and Bert threw their arms around Melith and Gwyneth, instinctively trying to shield them from the inevitable blast…that didn’t come. Tentatively raising his head, Asher witnessed the approach of the youthful Leila and watched her concentrate her attention on the beast. It duly dropped back into the moat and sat there, awaiting her further orders.

  Allowing Melith only the briefest of glances with which to recognise the return of the hated Leila, Asher sprinted for the trees, dragging his family and friend with him.

  * * *

  When the castle erupted in flame, Grain reacted as he had his entire life: he did his duty. Knowing what his leader would require of him, he risked his own life in gathering every stray and terrified soul he could find and guiding them out of the inferno. He was still engaged in searching through the flames when he came face to face with the conquering demon.

  Leila was inclined to let the old man escape. He posed no threat and she had seen more than enough death that day. Unfortunately, Grain asked the one question that could seal his fate.

  “Where be me Gawain?”

  “Your Gawain?” thundered Leila. “Yours?”

  Without even initiating a conscious thought, Leila’s rage activated the Firestone and transformed the poor man into the annoying creature she had always believed him to be. The greying Squirrel poked her squarely in the eye with a tiny fist before launching himself out of a window. He spent the next decade perfecting his aim.

  * * *

  As though sensing the supremacy of the Firestone, summer died in Gawain’s former realm. Rain poured down on the land, dousing what remained of the fire and leaving behind a smouldering wreck. Leila wandered through the castle, alone. Memories, both good and bad, competed for her attention with the charred and molten remains of furnishings and artwork. She hated this place. Only one objective was keeping her here.

  Ten years had passed, but she knew her son, knew what he would have done, back then. He would have recovered the relic from their conjuring room and would not have relinquished it to his father - just as he didn’t give up the Firestone when it was within his grasp.

  Entering the ruins of her son’s bedchamber, Leila searched what remained of drawers and chests, but found only ashes and a charred wooden sword. Holding the Firestone before her, she scanned the room. Her supernatural eye noticed a strange discolouration in the stone face of the wall. Scraping and pulling at a loose stone, she uttered a grunt of success when it gave way and slid out of place. In the cavity behind, she found what she was searching for.

  Removing the material wrapped around the two parts, Leila uncovered the relic and felt the Firestone quiver within her hand. Sensing danger, she laid the pieces on the floor and backed away, allowing the Firestone to flood her with power.

  “Destra!” she announced, channelling the full force of the Firestone down onto the relic.

  There was no reaction. Not even a tremble.

  She tried again. Still no effect.

  After working her way through every spell of destruct
ion that she had ever learned from a decade in the Darklands, Leila was eventually forced to admit defeat. The Firestone had immeasurable power, but, for some reason, was not able to destroy this…this old… Key.

  Wrapping the Key in as much material, burnt or otherwise, that she could find, Leila left the castle. A man was waiting for her at the drawbridge, bearing a face she had never expected to see again.

  “Hello, my Queen,” said Gergan and bowed.

  She rather liked it.

  * * *

  Rain soaked what was left of Gawain’s body. It had been burned and torn apart by animals, but Serena could not bring herself to leave him. He had saved her life and paid with his own. He deserved a hero’s burial, a parade, a monument to his memory. He would receive none of these.

  “Be coming away,” a bear of a man whispered in her ear. “Let him be.”

  Serena allowed Drevel to lift her into his arms and carry her away.

  Chapter 17

  The alliance territory emptied overnight. Survivors of Baal’s holocaust fled to the mountains, along with those who had only heard rumour of it. With the castle fallen, there was nowhere else left to go. Operating a warped sense of pragmatism, all those who had followed Adam transferred their allegiance to Leila, once it became known that she had the beast under her control. In their minds, the choice whether to bow to Leila or starve in the mountains was no choice at all. One morning, the displaced villagers awoke to find that their numbers had suddenly depleted. Fellow survivors, men that they had assisted on the difficult journey into the mountains, had become their bitter enemies, again.

  Even worse for the people of the alliance, Gergan had overcome his previous reticence with regard to Leila’s talents and sent word north.

  This realm be safe for magikers! Come and bow to yer Queen.

  Every closet magiker, from one end of the island to the other, would be flocking to deserted alliance territory, unless Leila could be stopped, now.

  * * *

  Inside the mountain cave, Harlin refrained from begging for death, but it was a close run thing. Only the searing grief of the bereaved, sharing the cave, kept him from lamenting his unbearable lot. His father was dead, murdered by his degenerate mother. The castle was taken, lands ransacked. The pain emanating from his scarred and broken body was unbelievable, yet this was not the hardest thing to bear. The guilt in knowing that he could have prevented this catastrophe by a single word to his father; this is what truly shattered his spirit and rendered him useless. The refugees, in trying to comfort him, only added to his burden. They located the caves in which to shelter and tried to ease his pain, all whilst reassuring him that there was nothing he could have done.

  Only Myrrdinus suspected that Harlin was harbouring a terrible secret. Deep in his heart, Myrrdinus knew that Harlin had recognised his mother that night in the castle. Reasoning that Harlin had paid a cruel price for silence, Myrrdinus kept his own. To reveal the young man as a traitor would help no-one and only heap more suffering on the broken. In truth, he, like everyone else, expected Harlin to die from his wounds. Better he be allowed to pass in peace.

  Melith had other ideas. Once the mountain air had cleared the smoke from her lungs, she set to work on his wounds as gently as she could. Harlin bit down on a piece of wood as she dressed the burns and tried to set the shattered bones in his hand. When she moved on to the setting of his leg, he slipped into merciful unconsciousness.

  * * *

  He struggled to move, but could only raise his head. A man approached; a man with lifeless eyes, showing no mercy. He was carrying a sword, red-hot from the fire. The blade came so close that the glow filled his vision...

  Harlin awoke from the nightmare with a start. A hand gently wiped his brow and checked on the makeshift dressings covering the right side of his face.

  “SSShhh,” the voice softly intoned. “Ye safely here.”

  It was now dark, so he must have been asleep for hours. A fire was burning close by, its flames staving off the chill and illuminating the face of the ministering angel. As Harlin’s eyes focussed on her, Serena smiled, carefully edging his covering blanket a little higher.

  “Water,” he mumbled. The burns made it difficult to speak.

  Serena fetched the skin of water and poured a little into his mouth. He swallowed as much as his dry throat would accept, but some dribbled from the corner of his lips. He turned his head away from her, ashamed of what he had become and, even more so, of his attempt to force her into marriage.

  “Ye be healing,” she soothed, but didn’t believe her own words.

  “Sorry, Serena,” he told her, his eyes filling with tears of guilt. “Shamed of what…”

  “Hush, not now,” she whispered, her eyes checking that no-one was listening to them. “None know of it and I never telling.”

  Harlin’s gaze scanned the cave. Amidst the shivering multitudes sat Myrrdinus, pressed up against the cave wall, a mutinous expression on his face. Melith was trying to sleep, with Gwyneth beside her, but neither could close their eyes. Harlin looked back at Serena.

  “Where be Drevel?” he asked. The man had fought bravely beside his father and he owed him an apology for the past. If nothing else, at least he could set that right.

  Serena didn’t answer; neither would she meet his gaze.

  “Serena?” His uninjured left hand caught hold of her arm. The movement sent ripples of pain through his body. “Talk to me.”

  Serena delivered a sigh, heavy laden with worry, and glanced over at Myrrdinus. That young man promptly rose to his feet and left the cave, arms crossed.

  “Asher telled Myrrdinus he must be taking carely of us. He not happy for it,” she told Harlin, by way of explanation. “They not let him go.”

  “Go where?”

  “Yer mo...,” Serena began. She discreetly changed the word to, “Leila be holding alliance land. If magikers flocking here, we never be free again. They goed to kill her, now, ‘fore be too lately.”

  “Who?” Harlin asked, cold fear gripping his heart.

  “Asher, Bert and Drevel,” Serena replied. “Leila not expecting, nor seeing, only three men... we hoping.” The last was added with another sigh.

  “No. Serena, no,” Harlin mumbled. “Firestone…”

  “Fire what?” Serena asked, glancing at the nearby fire.

  “Stone. Ye seen it in Adam’s hand. Be source of her power,” Harlin told her, forcing the words through damaged lips. “Relic. Only relic, I finded, be breaking stone. Two pieces, black metal, twisted together. Nothing else be working. They must destroy Firestone or her power be too strongly!”

  “How ye knowing this?” Serena asked. When Harlin looked away, unable to meet her eyes, Serena had her answer. “Ye knowed.” She kept her voice low for fear of being overheard. “Ye knowed she been here. That she have this Firestone and ye not telled. What people say be truly. Ye magiker yeself. If I telling tothers, they killing ye,” Serena muttered, more to herself than to him. She couldn’t countenance that outcome. Yet to do nothing might mean the death of Drevel. “Stay quietly,” was all she told Harlin, having decided on her course of action.

  When Serena left the cave, Harlin knew that she was going after Drevel, to warn him. He kept silent anyway.

  * * *

  Asher, Bert and Drevel approached the castle separately, disguised in the leather and fur of Adam’s former warriors. Each had a job to do. If one failed, the other two would continue. None of the three savoured their task. They were men, not assassins, but they had little choice. If Leila consolidated her power base in the region, flooding the land with magikers, there would be no freedom for them or their families.

  Of the three, the hirsute and filthy Drevel looked the most authentic rebel. He had experienced little trouble in passing across the iron drawbridge and entering the charred castle. Most of Leila’s followers were far too busy getting drunk to care about another man amongst them. They feasted, safe in the knowledge that their witch queen w
as powerful. Fear would keep opposition at bay.

  Bert took a little longer to make his way over the drawbridge, being mesmerised by the sight of Baal, sitting in the empty moat, calmly chewing on what remained of a villager. Least he cooked his food, Bert thought. His own joke made him sick to the stomach.

  As Bert entered the courtyard and Asher made his way across the drawbridge, Drevel was quietly climbing the stone steps, heading for the upper levels. He had always wanted to spend more time inside the castle, having tended to be banished outside to the same earth that coated his clothes and body. Unfortunately, the castle wasn’t much to look at anymore. Everything that he had once wanted to view, to touch, was a burnt or molten ruin. Forcing himself to focus on the job in hand, he continued to climb, inexorably heading for a showdown with the witch.

  * * *

  “Who be ye?”

  Bert ignored the voice and continued to move across the courtyard. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Asher pass through the gateway and enter the same courtyard.

  “Who be ye?”

  This time the question was shouted, raising heads and peaking curiosity. Drunken men looked from the pointing Gergan to Bert and back again. Those of a more sober disposition moved towards him, threateningly.

  “Ye been with Harlin!” the narcissist spat.

  Bert knew that the game was up. Spinning on his heel, he sprinted for the gateway, almost knocking into Asher en route. Their proximity provided the perfect opportunity for Gergan to promptly identify the second intruder.

  “Nother one!” he shrieked, pointing at Asher.

  It had been a source of constant debate between the two friends as to which was the faster runner. Asher proved, beyond a shadow of doubt, that it was he. Sprinting through the gateway, he was across the drawbridge before Bert set foot on the iron platform.

  Disturbed by all the shrieking and running, Baal dropped the bone he was gnawing and let loose a roar of annoyance. Unfortunately, for Bert, who was only half way across the drawbridge, this included a blast of flame, heading directly for him. He had two choices: drop and let the flame pass over him or keep running. Luckily, he chose the latter, for the former would have resulted in complete incineration. Unluckily, he was not fast enough to escape the flame’s perimeter and received a red-hot blast to his lower right leg which burnt flesh from bone. His sprint reduced to an agonised limp as he cried out in pain. Asher, seeing what had happened, checked his headlong flight and reversed course.