Obsidian Ridge c-2

by Jess Lebow

"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 gabbed 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 was 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 k
ing? 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.

  Stepping out onto the wooden slats, King Korox looked up once again at a huge obsidian obelisk.

  One of the soldiers standing by greeted him. "King Korox," he said, bowing. "Unlike the last one, this stone appeared right in front of our eyes."

  The king nodded, approaching it and placing his hand on its side. The jet black stone was slick and warm to the touch. Two words were chiseled onto the face of the stone.

  Moonrise tonight.

  "The first message said four days," whispered the king. "It's only been three."

  The crowd behind him let out a collective gasp, and several people pointed off to the east, toward Shalane Lake. The king turned too, watching in horror as the Obsidian Ridge moved. It swept past the docks, gliding to a stop over the fields at the low point of the valley, not far from where it had first appeared. The arched portals on its sides slid open, and from them, the black beasts began to pour out.

  The creatures fell from the sides of the floating citadel. They dropped to the ground, rolling then unfurling, collecting in the shadow of the Obsidian Ridge.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The needle on the Claw's compass led him into a long dark corridor. The floors were damp, the stone walls worn, and the passage he traversed wound around a long curve, gently sloping downward as it headed deeper into the Cellar.

  Staying against the outside wall of the curve, the Claw moved quickly but cautiously. He had already passed the bodies of several dead cloakers, cut to shreds in the hallway. Whatever had done that was presumably still roaming free. Unless it had run into something larger. Either way, he needed to stay sharp.

  The compass pointed ahead and to his left, but the corridor curved to the right. The needle apparently didn't account for walls. The farther he went, the more the needle swayed, and he began to worry that he wasn't on the right path. His only hope was that there would be another passage or a large chamber at the end of this hall.

  His worry was cut short by the sound of heavy metal armor clanking down the passageway. It was close, and it picked up speed, heading right for him. The Claw closed his palm. His magical light went out, and the hallway went completely dark.

  Crossing to the other side of the passage, the Claw pressed himself up against the inside of the curve. Pulling his cloak tight, he blended in and held still. The noise grew closer, sounding like a single man wearing heavy plate.

  Then, suddenly, the sound stopped. The passageway grew silent except for the ringing memory of the clanking metal. The Claw squeezed his hands into fists. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest. Had he been spotted? He couldn't take the chance.

  Pushing himself away, the Claw rolled into the middle of the hall and took a fighting stance.

  "As you wish, Princess Mariko."

  The magic lit up the passage-illuminating a huge, gleaming suit of armor standing right in front of where the Claw had been only a fraction of a heartbeat before. Its surface was inscribed with hundreds if not thousands of tiny, intricate runes. It filled most of the hallway with its massive bulk and floated almost a full foot off the ground; its heavy boots no longer touching the stone floor.

  The helm turned toward the Claw, as if it were looking at him. A faint purple light began to glow inside, beaming out the eyes and mouth of the visor. It grew in intensity, as if awakened by what it had found. The seams at the elbows, knees, neck, and feet also began to glow, and the Claw could see right through it at the joints. There was nothing inside this armor-no human, no creature, no nothing, just magic and malice.

  A helmed horror.

  This construct had to be over a thousand years old. The horrors were the first denizens of the Cellar, placed here as guardians by the wizard who had created the place. There were legends of these ancient things protecting a rare and powerful treasure. The stories had them wandering the halls of the Cellar, keeping out greedy adventurers and fortune seekers. But that was from another era, a time before the Cellar became a prison and a punishment.

  The construct cast its floating purple shadow on the ceiling, the floor, and both walls. Then it lifted its right hand, the hilt of an ornate sword gripped in its gauntlet. The blade suddenly sprang to life-humming and vibrating as it came into existence. It appeared to be made from a dull, gray metal. The surface was inscribed with long, thin, even lines that spread from the tip to the hilt. In between each of the lines were a series of circles and dots. To the Claw, they looked like notes on a piece of sheet music, but they were more sinister.

  The construct pointed the sword at the Claw and advanced, taking steps but making no sound as its feet walked magically upon the air. The Claw took a step back, not sure how to attack a creature that was nothing more than protective armor and magic.

  The horror swung with a metered purpose. The Claw slapped the blade aside with one of his gauntlets. The metal made a melodious screech as it slipped harmlessly past.

  The construct attacked again, swiping its sword level to the floor and crossing the entire passageway with its long reach. The Claw continued his retreat, tossing himself into a back flip like an acrobat, landing on his hands and continuing over until he stood on his feet, two full body lengths away.

  The horror broke into a run, charging down the hall. Its magical blade came down, and the Claw dodged away. Diving forward onto his belly, he skidded along the stones, narrowly squeezing through the space under the ancient defender's floating feet. Rolling over onto his back, he slashed at the creature's legs as they ran past. His sharpened gauntlets screeched as they bit into the metal, sending sparks flying but doing apparently little other damage.

  The Cellar guardian stopped its charge and turned around, lowering itself to the ground. Taking its sword in both hands, it came again, its heavy feet clanking as it did. Bearing down with all of its might, it filled the confined space with magical steel. The Claw didn't have time to get to his feet, so he rolled to one side, smashing himself into the base of the wall.

  The horror's blade clipped the edge of his cloak but missed the rest of his body. The sword slammed into the wall with tremendous force, which was followed by a cacophonous roar.

  The impact had released some sort of magic from the blade, and the passageway shook. The Claw covered his ears with his hands, feeling as if he were in the very center of a huge thunderstorm. The sound echoed down the hallway, crumbling stone and sending debris flying.

  The Claw could feel the ground under his shoulder moving as the flagstones shifted from the tremendous noise. Then the ceiling started to collapse. Handfuls of dirt rained down on him, and he scampered to his feet, trying to cover his head with his cloak to keep the dust out of his eyes.

  Taking off down the passage, the Claw attempted to escape from the fight. Right behind him, the horror yanked its blade out of the wall where it had buried itself into the crumbling brick. Then it gave chase, its metal frame pounding the vibrating floor.

  There was a tremendous crash as the ceiling continued to cave in. A crack shot through the stone, running in every direction, and huge boulder-sized chunks dropped to the floor, shaking the walls as they collided with the ground. The Claw ducked into a crouch, running at full speed down the corridor. The horror was right on his heels. Behind both of them, rocks fell from the ceiling, chasing them down the hall as the pas
sage filled in.

  The corridor continued to curve down and to the right. The Claw followed, having no other choice, hoping that he wasn't running from one terrible fight into another. The ground shook, and the ceiling fell. The crack spread faster than the Claw could run, and dirt rained down ahead of him. Pieces dropped at his feet, and he hopped over them while he made his escape. Behind him, he could hear bits of stone clanking off the metal hide of the ancient construct. They sounded like huge hailstones bouncing off the iron rooftops of the shanties just outside the Llorbauth docks.

  Coming around the next corner, the passage straightened out and widened into sort of a crossroads-four passages heading off in opposite directions. The Claw launched himself forward, hurling himself out of the hallway and into the open space. Landing in a ball, he somersaulted once, came to his feet, and spun around, his gauntlets out like the claws of a tiger, ready to fight.

  The helmed horror appeared at the end of the hall, its blade clutched in its huge hand. Stones rained down around it, denting the creature as it tried to escape. The advancing crack in the ceiling shot out over the archway that led from the room into the hall. The keystone crumbled, and the end "of the passage collapsed, dropping to the floor in a collective mass, sending dirt and the sound of crushing metal spewing out into the room.

  The Claw cowered back, covering his face and protecting himself from the floating debris. The crossroads, brightened by mage-lit stones in sconces along the wall, went dim from the cloud of black dust. The Claw coughed through his cloak, sucking air through the fabric to block out the floating filth.

  There was a light tinkling sound as the heavier particles settled back to the ground-the last sprinkling of the stone rain. The Claw moved toward the mouth of the hallway he'd just come from. His eyes burned and itched from the dust, but slowly the air cleared. Where the archway had been only a few moments before, there was now a huge mound of crumbled stone.

  He couldn't see the construct, even a piece of it, through the pile, but he was certain nothing was going to make it out of there alive-or still moving. He checked the ceiling, wary of having to dash away from falling stone. But the cave-in had stopped at the end of the passage, and the crossroads was spared.