Firestone Key

by Caroline Noe

  “You look like your father,” remarked the Queen, “and Anne.”

  “Not talk of me parents,” Myrrdinus spat.

  “They were my friends, once,” the Queen continued. “You’re a traitor. I can’t let you go, but, for sake of your father, I’ll not feed you to Baal.”

  “Not wanting yer mercy,” Myrrdinus told her. His voice was low, but ominously clear. “Ye murdered me father and Melith childlin. Tortured yer own son. Ye bringed nought but misery and evil to this land and all who knowed ye. Ye not woman, ye foul stinking thing that die soon, if there be God. Firestone one day betraying ye and we be rid of ye!”

  These were the words that Gwyneth and her mother had always desired to launch at their enemy. They had rehearsed them, often and publicly, in their village. To hear them coming from the mouth of Myrrdinus brought Gwyneth only anguish, for they had become the signature on his death warrant.

  “If that’s what you want,” hissed the Harpy, in response to his tirade. “Join your father in hell. But before you go, tell me where else Elaine might be hiding and it’ll be a quick death.”

  “Not knowing,” Myrrdinus replied. He spoke the truth, but his demeanour indicated stubbornness.

  The Harpy smiled - a hideous, jagged thing, laden with evil – and stroked his hair with gnarled fingers. Despite his courage, Myrrdinus could not prevent a shudder.

  “You are very beautiful,” she snarled. “But not for long. Take him to the Torturer!”

  Myrrdinus was dragged through the crowd of priests, passing within a hair’s breadth of a distraught Gwyneth. Thankfully, he never saw her face. The danger of her presence would only have added to his terrible burden.

  * * *

  Another, rather taller and slimmer, white robed priest had been tiptoeing around the castle, scanning every room for her prey. Feeling fairly certain that the lower level didn’t currently entertain the presence of Gergan, she began the climb to the upper levels. Hearing the sound of a commotion coming from above, she secreted herself in an alcove, pulling her hood further over her features. Turning, she peered out of a loophole cut into the castle wall. It wouldn’t be long before the first dim rays of dawn would appear on the horizon. Soon there would be little shadow in which to conceal her identity. She must take more risks in order to speed up the process of locating her enemy.

  A group of priests entered the corridor and bundled past her on the way to the stone staircase, dragging someone in their midst. Peeping out from under her hood, Serena caught a brief glimpse of Myrrdinus and, a few moments later, Gwyneth following. Torn between trying to assist her friends and completing her own mission, Serena opted for the role for which she was raised. She was the daughter of Styrx and would carry out her duty to the people, first and foremost.

  Continuing on her upward journey, Serena followed Gwyneth’s earlier route, joining herself on to the back of a small group of priests as they entered a suite of rooms. Unfortunately, she found little in the various rooms except more priests. Wherever Gergan lurked, she couldn’t find him. Hearing the voice of the Harpy and knowing that she would be recognised by her old nemesis, Serena darted inside one of the other rooms and closed the door behind her. It was dark inside, the window shutters being firmly in place.

  “Help!” came a strained voice, followed by a chorus of others, equally strangulated. “Please!”

  Serena nearly passed out with fright. “SSShhhh,” she pleaded, trying to locate the source, “somebone be hearing us.”

  The voices dropped to a low whisper. “Here, in cage.”

  Serena opened one of the shutters a few inches, allowing a little moonlight to shine through the crack and pierce the darkness. Something huge stood in the farthest corner of the room, haphazardly covered by a large piece of roughly woven material. Serena yanked on a corner of the cloth which slid onto the floor, revealing an iron cage. Squashed inside were an array of people of all shapes, sizes and ages. The only thing they had in common was that they were all stark naked.

  “Ye been animal, too?” Serena remarked. It was less a question than an observation.

  “Aye, squirrel,” squeaked one of the occupants, principally because nodding of the head was currently impossible. “Ye letting us out?”

  “Where be key?” asked Serena, fingering the giant padlock.

  “On wall, over there,” answered one of the unfortunates. Luckily he still had a finger free with which to point.

  Serena quickly availed herself of the long iron key, hanging from a nail. Having dealt with the lock, she opened the door. Not a soul moved. They were too squashed in, even to twitch. Scanning the motley bunch, she eventually decided that boldness was in order. Grabbing the nearest free foot, she yanked, hard. A young woman shot out from the cage like a cork from a bottle of champagne. The resulting release of tension caused a cascade of limbs, pouring forth from their prison with bump and thud.

  “SSShhh.” Serena renewed her plea for quiet as she gracefully recovered her footing. Opening the door, just a crack, she saw priests and servants continuing to pass along the corridor. None seemed to have heard the muffled commotion, within. Letting loose a sigh of relief, she closed the door and turned back to her new friends, all of whom were blissfully stretching their compressed limbs. “Listen,” Serena said, “we all enemy of Harpy, rightly?” Nods and snarls gave the ascent. “Need to find High Priest. He have Key of Old.”

  “Be real?” remarked one of the new escapees.

  “Aye, and he have it,” Serena replied. “Be needing it, to break Firestone.”

  “Helping ye,” stated an old woman. The others readily agreed.

  “Firstly needing fetch ye clothes,” Serena decided. “How ye feeling for white robes?”

  * * *

  The latest soldier to be granted the dubious honour of leading his relieved comrades was standing in the middle of a ruined village, lamenting his lot. Failure was not something that the Queen was apt to receive well and this constituted a large one.

  The first clearing had been located and found to be as deserted as this village. News was filtering in to him that, apparently, every village had emptied. He knew that he should order the soldiers to return to the castle, but going back without Elaine would be the end of his short-lived career and probably his life as a man. Still, the decision would have to be made and soon.

  * * *

  The village exodus had begun on the word of Harlin and ended in the middle of nowhere. Sitting in a randomly chosen area of forest, huddled around camp fires, the villagers were engaged in swiftly exercising the details of Elaine’s preposterous plan. They laughed, moaned and made cynical jokes, but still they worked, sewing pieces of leather into a huge patchwork quilt.

  Chapter 21

  A heart sore Elaine watched Harlin spring further to life with every passing minute as her extraordinary and crazy plan swung into action. Although happy that he was shouldering the mantle of leadership with such energy and enthusiasm, she desperately missed the scarred young man who had once lain beside her and held her hand. He clearly had no time for her now, and she had no time at all.

  Forcing herself not to watch his every move, Elaine worked alongside the hoard of villagers, feverishly bringing her special creation to life at the point of a sewing needle. She was safe, hidden within her endeavours, until Melith insisted that she eat. Unfortunately, supper constituted roasted rabbit and Elaine vehemently refused to consume so much as a mouthful, citing a loss of appetite due to excitement.

  Melith was many things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. The realisation that Elaine was lying to her set in motion a train of thought that led her to a stark truth: either the younger woman was refusing to eat, or she was unable. Grasping her charge firmly by the arm, Melith guided Elaine to one of the few unoccupied areas of nearby forest and thrust her down on a log.

  “Be telling me truly,” Melith insisted, keeping her voice low, but firm. “Be ye sickly with disease from yer time?”

  The question
was so direct and accurate that it undid Elaine, leaving her too shocked to concoct a convincing falsehood. The silent response and the turmoil in her friend’s eyes gave Melith the answer she had been dreading.

  “How sickly be ye?” Melith asked, gently lowering herself beside Elaine and placing an arm around her thin shoulders.

  “I can’t eat solid foods, especially meats,” Elaine told her friend, a flat monotone belying the raging emotions within. “I’ll be able to eat thin vegetable stew for a while, then only water. After that, I won’t have long…”

  Melith’s mouth opened and closed again; she didn’t trust her voice to remain steady. She wrapped both arms around Elaine and hugged her to her ample chest, rocking back and forth as though comforting a small child. Moved beyond measure, Elaine did something she had never done before: she laid her head on Melith’s shoulder and allowed herself to be consoled. After a long moment, Melith suddenly released her grip and pulled away, peering directly at her patient as though a light had gone on inside her brain.

  “The Firestone,” said Melith. “Must be having power to heal ye. Be healing Harlin.”

  Elaine sighed and looked away. To her shame, the thought had already occurred to her. “No, Melith. I know you mean well, but there are only two people who can wield it: Leila…”

  “…and Harlin,” finished Melith.

  Elaine stood and looked back at the villagers, still beavering away at her idea. “He’ll never use it again.”

  “Be thinking he would for ye, to save ye,” Melith told her.

  “I don’t know what’s worse,” Elaine admitted, “that he would do it, or that he’d refuse.” She turned back to Melith, dismissing the thought. “No. He can’t use it. It would destroy him. You can’t tell him. Promise me you won’t tell him, or anyone else.”

  “Not making promises may not keep,” insisted a stubborn Melith. “Beside, not likely anybone living past the morrow.”

  * * *

  The iron cage was full, once again, only now it was occupied by a group of priests. They were residing in their new home, sporting only their underwear and sizeable lumps on their heads. They would have protested at their treatment, except that gags prevented any sound, bar a muffled ‘argh’. Throwing the cover back over the hapless occupants, Serena viewed her newly attired comrades.

  “Much betterly,” she commented, more in appreciation at the covering of their nakedness than in approval of their wardrobe. “Now, where be Gergan? I looked everywhere.”

  “Have ye tryed lowly level?” a white-robed old woman ventured. “Torturer be downly.”

  Serena shivered at an unbidden flash of memory: Harlin, body broken, screaming for mercy. “Ye not coming with me,” she told her new friends. “Be dangerly, and ye been through nough.”

  “Oh, hush, girl,” replied the old woman. “Follow me.”

  With those words, the old woman shuffled out of the room, followed by her former cage-mates. Serena smiled with pride; Gawain’s people were nothing, if not spirited.

  * * *

  In a horribly ironic twist of fate, the Torturer had chosen to ply his trade in the same room that Leila and Harlin had once used for secret conjuring. Back then, Gawain had ordered the destruction of every potion, manuscript and stick of furniture that remained. Following that purge, the room had been locked and boarded up. Years later, having survived the new Queen’s wrath with regard to her son’s treatment at his hands, the Torturer had been granted the re-opening of her old haunt. The Queen might have been angry, but she was ever practical; she prized his rare skills.

  Upon moving in, the Torturer had, like any proud new owner, proceeded to decorate his home. All manner of knives lined the walls: long, short, serrated, smooth, cleaver, ice pick, dagger, sword and every variation on each. In one corner stood a furnace and open fire to heat, clean or modify the metal devices. Currently, a poker, sword and hook were attaining red heat.

  As a result of the furnace, the only major modification carried out to the room had been to introduce a flue system, enabling hot air to escape the Torturer’s harsh working conditions. High up in the wooden rafters, a passage had been knocked through the walls, joining the storerooms together and allowing free flow of air between the lower level and the castle wall.

  The fixture of which the Torturer was most proud was his wooden table, having designed and constructed it himself. It stood in the centre of the room, adjusted to the correct height for optimum comfort. Years of leaning over bound victims had given the Torturer an annoying backache and the relief was most welcome. The treatment of the wood and the use of high quality leather binding made the table easy to clean and convenient to use. He would have attempted to market the marvel, had he not been the only torturer capable of appreciating the genius of his creation.

  The table’s latest occupant made the Torturer’s lips moisten with anticipation. It was a long time since he had been allocated a recipient of calibre for his talents and, to make matters even more stimulating, the victim was young and in fine physical shape. The Torturer lifted up a prayer to the god of pain, asking that the young man be inclined to hold out for a very long time. He would be most disappointed if the required information was divulged with only the first implement.

  Since being strapped into the device, Myrrdinus had been unable to move. The priests had left the room, satisfied that he was never going to escape. They knew that when they returned, the feisty rebel would be in no shape to resist, ever again. Myrrdinus was duly left alone with the cold-eyed monster.

  Although the body was restrained, the table was constructed in such a manner as to allow the victim to move his head, enabling sight of the fate awaiting him. Myrrdinus watched the Torturer test the temperature of the red-hot poker and knew what must follow. Strangely, despite his terror, a vision of Gwyneth arose, unbidden, before him. He hoped that she would find happiness, but also derived comfort from the knowledge that she would mourn his loss. Her plump form sashayed through his thoughts and planted a passionate kiss on his lips.

  Wish I bedded her, ‘fore dying, he thought. Myrrdinus, ye be died man here. Best ye thinking on pure things ‘fore meeting yer God.

  Myrrdinus ceased straining his neck to see what the torturer was doing and laid back. As his head came to rest on the table, his gaze lifted to the rafters… and locked onto another pair of eyes, staring back at him.

  * * *

  Gwyneth had followed Myrrdinus down stone steps to the dank lower levels of the castle. The priests entered the Torturer’s domain, delivered their victim and left two of their number to stand guard at the outer door. Sassy though she was, even Gwyneth could not hope to overpower two heavily armed men. She had to find another way in to that level or suffer Myrrdinus to be tortured. She raced back up the flight of stone steps and entered a room. Opening the shutters, she leaned far out of the window, her feet off the floor, surveying the level, below.

  Rack! No windows nor loopholes downly. Two priests it be, then.

  Dropping back into the room with a thud, she searched for a suitable weapon. The only thing available was pitifully inadequate, but, armed with a rather ugly bust of the Queen, Gwyneth headed back down the stone steps, prepared to die in defence of her wayward beloved.

  Approaching the turn that would bring her face to face with two exceptionally tall and muscular priests, she suddenly noticed that warm air was gently caressing her face and billowing into the hood of her white robe. She drew to a halt, trying to locate the source. Raising her eyes, Gwyneth spied the flue system, cut high into the wall above, and had an idea.

  Dropping the bust and grabbing any piece of sturdy looking furniture that she could find, Gwyneth built an unsteady tower of table, chair and desk. Wobbling her way upward, she climbed ever higher until she reached the level of the flue. Unfortunately, her tower was swaying so violently, ominously creaking and juddering, that manoeuvring herself into the hole called for an extraordinary feat of acrobatics.

  Riding the wooden to
wer over to the left, she waited until it slowed and changed direction. At the zenith of its arc, Gwyneth launched herself at the aperture. The tower, unable to sustain the angle of leaning any further, promptly gave way and fell with a clatter. Any other human being would have slipped straight out of the hole and fallen onto the shattered remains of the tower. Gwyneth, however, was gifted with an ample posterior that wedged into the flue, leaving her legs dangling in thin air.

  Coughing and spluttering within the spider-web and dust laden flue, Gwyneth strained her ears for the sound of pursuit. Miraculously, the collapse of the tower seemed to have gone unnoticed. Unfortunately, the saving width of her nether regions was also blocking any light from reaching her eyes.

  Ah well, she thought. Be only forwardly. Please God, not let me die in here; be too shamely.

  Stretching her arms ahead of her, Gwyneth pulled and strained, edging her backside further into the hole. When her plump knees reached the level of the aperture, she was able to add her feet to the exercise.

  “Be like squeezing sausage through straw,” Gwyneth muttered to herself. “Myrrdinus rightly. I be too portly.”

  The barest mention of Myrrdinus’s name brought tears to her eyes and colour to her cheeks, but she edged her way along, relentlessly passing room after room, the air growing hotter and hotter, until she eventually arrived at the torture chamber. Poking her head out of the flue, she surveyed the room.

  On a level with the flue, high in the rafters, was a heavy wooden crossbeam and an array of smaller beams, stained with soot. Peering down, she saw the Torturer, gleefully testing the temperature of his implements. Strapped to a table in the centre of the room lay Myrrdinus, his eyes following the Torturer’s every movement.