Misthaven: The Complete Trilogy

by J Battle

  He’d known that Anders’s guide would only take him so far, to the starting point for his own search for the Wellstone that would change everything for him.

  He turned back and doused the pale flame on his candle, to save it for later.

  Then he took a deep breath to steady himself. When he was ready, he set off across the cavern, which turned out to be much smaller than it had seemed by the weak light of the candle.

  Soon he was at the far wall, where he found another passageway that seemed to glow brighter than the cavern behind him.

  Without hesitation, he moved along, finding that the tunnel sloped as he walked further. Within 10 paces or so, the tunnel narrowed. He tried to carry on, twisting his body sideways as he went, but it soon became too tight and he was worried he’d get stuck and die there within the mountain’s unforgiving hug.

  With a grunt of annoyance, he squeezed back the way he came and walked up to the cavern.

  Moving along the wall, he came to another opening, narrower and taller than the last.

  ‘Best try it anyway,’ he muttered, as he turned and went through sideways.

  The tunnel twisted and turned, going up and down, with places where he had to duck his head to carry on. It never grew wider, but then again, it didn’t become narrower.

  After an hour or so, he came to another cavern, and for this he had no need of a candle to see the great expanse before him. For, to his dark accustomed eyes, the place seemed as bright as a spring day.

  He gasped as he moved out, away from the constrictions of the tunnel, and he spun around in his eagerness to take everything in at once.

  The great arched ceiling was far above his head, making him feel dizzy as he turned. The walls were rough and bulging, and glistened with the reflection of the light from the floor. Across the length and breadth of the floor of the cavern were scattered dozens of dull brown stones. But the light came from just a few of them, a couple of yards from the tunnel-mouth. And as he watched, more sprang to life, going from brown to orange to red in a matter of seconds.

  They were Wellstones, and they knew that he was there.

  'Oh, now,' he whispered, because it was a place for whispers, ‘ain't that something?'

  He knelt before the first Stone. It was perhaps a hand's width across, and two along. As he watched, more and more Stones responded to his presence, as if they were all hungry for his touch.

  'Per id nus...' he whispered, speaking the eldritch words of power as if he was born to them, 'el nis dat per sum.'

  The Stone before him seemed to hum as it awaited his touch.

  Without stopping to consider what would happen, he jerked his hands forward and gripped the Stone.

  For a half-second, there was nothing; just the cool hard surface of the Stone. Then it began to feed, and Gorge began to scream as the agony roared through his young body. He couldn't say the words, because he couldn't stop screaming; his sounds echoing back and forward across the red-hued cavern.

  He couldn't say the words, but he could think them. 'Per id nus.'

  It was enough. The Stone ceased feeding, whether it was satiated or not, and it began to give back more than it had taken. For that is the way of the Wellstone.

  Gorge felt it surge through him; the strength, the power, the vitality.

  Then his hands fell away from the Stone, and he sprang to his feet and began to run around the cavern, dodging the Stones as he moved past them. As he drew close, each one seemed to glow brighter, as if eager to draw him to it, to get a taste of him.

  But he kept on running, for how could he stop when there was so much power rushing through him?

  Chapter 79 Rootheart

  Rootheart tramped across the glacier, and he hated every step, for he was half a Giant, and Giants don't like the cold.

  He'd been able to add to his wardrobe in a tavern along the way, earning his gifts with a couple of songs and more than a couple of drinking contests, but they'd not had the boots to fit him. He could never find boots to fit him.

  But he would not be diverted by the cold, or the wind, or the ice. For his mind was made up, and he was never one for changing his mind.

  The way he'd reacted to the touch of the Stone when struck by BobbyJ prayed on his mind as he climbed the steep slope, slipping and sliding as his heavy feet broke through the crust.

  When he’d first recovered after being locked in the pain of the flaming beacon, his one thought had been to find Anders and rip his head off, for what he’d done to him. But that was taken away from him with the Mage’s untimely death.

  He was lost then for a few days, unsure what to do with himself. Then he’d happened upon Cavour and found a new purpose; it seemed the natural thing to do - getting rid of the instrument used to cause him such pain.

  He’d assumed that he’d put the effects of the Wellstone far behind him, but that was obviously not the case. Not if the very touch of the Stone could set him aflame once more.

  So, here he was, working his way across the terrible cold of God’s Saddle, bare-foot and bare-headed, as no-one had a hat to fit his head, with one single intent in mind.

  He may not be the only one who guessed that the Wellstone that Cavour had escaped with was not unique. But he was the only one who knew, if other Stones existed, where they could be found.

  He knew because he’d been with Anders when he found his Stone, and he’d been ridden like a horse across the glacier for his trouble, and then imprisoned in fire.

  If he trusted Cavour to put Anders’s Stone beyond the reach of men, then it was his task to ensure that no new Stones were recovered.

  He slipped and slid for another day, and then he was there, where the bare rock was exposed; an island amidst a white sea of ice. Almost at its centre was the shadowed opening to the cave.

  He stopped then, and lowered himself to his knees, now oblivious to the cold.

  There was danger here, he could see that plainly. He had to be careful not to get too close to any of the Stones that might still be hidden in the depths of the mountain, for it wouldn’t do to be caught once more by the flames.

  But he knew the layout beyond the cave’s entrance, and he could see what had to be done. Again, there was danger in what he intended to do, but only if he succeeded in his task. If he managed that, then he would take the consequences, whatever they were, and consider the price worth paying.

  Decision made, and with his knees growing numb, he climbed back to his cold feet and walked onto the rock.

  He ducked his head a little to enter the cave and walked immediately across the dim space to the entrance to the tunnel. There was little light back here, but he could see that it was exactly as he remembered. Thick wooden supports to either side holding up an even thicker crossbeam. Above that was the cracked and seamed roof of the cave.

  With a grunt, he kicked at the support to his right. It shifted a little with the first blow. He kicked again and again. Then he bent and wrapped his massive hands around its base and heaved with all of his strength. There was a ripping sound and it came away in his hands, along with a burst of dirt and dust.

  He stepped back and threw the log to one side.

  Nothing happened, beyond another fall of dirt and small stones.

  He took a deep breath and grabbed the remaining support. With a mighty roar, he pulled it from its place in one smooth movement.

  Above the tumble of small pieces of rock, he heard the crossbeam groan in protest. It seemed to shift a little in the dim light.

  He waited to see what would happen next, but that was it. A little groan, and a little dust, but the beam held its place.

  He gripped it and pulled, but it was just about shoulder height and it was difficult to get purchase.

  He dropped his hands and studied the rock above the beam. There was a great vertical crack, and what seemed to be a massive boulder to its side.

  Had that crack widened?

  It was obvious what he must do, but he hesitated for a moment, bec
ause the cause and effect was clear to him.

  Then he sighed and took a step forward, bending slightly and setting his broad shoulders against the base of the beam.

  He took a deep breath, and then he held it for a moment.

  ‘No, no, you fool,’ he muttered, as he released the breath. ‘You’re facing the wrong way.’

  Shaking his head, he turned to face the cave, and then he set himself again. When the rocks came tumbling down, he wanted to be running out of the cave, not into the tunnel.

  With his legs braced, and his hands pressing against the side of the tunnel, he began to push upwards. He groaned, and so did the beam. He pushed harder as he hissed through gritted teeth, and the beam moved, just a little.

  With a roar, he straightened his legs and his back, and he felt the weight of a mountain across his shoulders. The human part of him wanted to give in then, and slip away. But he was half Giant; obdurate and unthinking and uncaring of consequences, and he pushed again, and the beam came away with a creak and a snap and he staggered into the cave, the great lump of wood still across his shoulders.

  His momentum carried him to the cave entrance, but he couldn’t get through with the beam across his shoulders. He let it fall backwards with a crack and a thud as it hit the bare rock of the cave floor. But the sound continued as he emerged into the cold mountain air, with more bangs and cracks and thuds and finally a developing roar as the walls came tumbling down.

  Rootheart staggered away from the cave, followed by a cloud of dust, slightly bemused that he was somehow still alive.

  Chapter 80 Lydorth

  ‘Bring her to me,’ he said at last, his voice resonating across the Rulehall.

  ‘What, now, my Lord?’ asked Harld, with a worried frown.

  ‘Did I say next Tuesday, Harld? Or mayhap I accidently said bring her at the end of summer, or whenever it might suit you?’

  Harld ducked his head down, lest it be sliced from off his neck by the sharpness of the Trytor’s tongue.

  ‘No, sir. I’m sorry, sir. I’ll fetch her now, sir.’

  He bowed as low as his back would allow, and then he turned and left the Rulehall, with his old friend panting at his heels.

  ‘Do you think this it?’ Orther whispered, as soon as they were out of earshot.

  ‘Well, he’s got that there Wellstone that Mr Cavour brung him.’

  ‘I don’t like that fellow. He looks at you all sharpish, as if he can see you ain’t that clever, and that ain’t polite; it aint.’

  Harld nodded in agreement. ‘Well he’s off again, and barely stayed an hour, so we won’t be getting his fierce looks. And the Trytor, he’s got one of them urns down, and I don’t know what he’s planning to do, but it won’t be nice.’

  ‘That’s as sure as wet feet in the winter.’

  Lydorth sighed as he listened to their ramblings, for his ears were sharper than a man’s, and he didn’t miss much.

  One day, he thought as he waited, I’ll find servants as clever as Dryan to manage my business, and I won’t have to rely on that half-witted pair.

  A little over 10 minutes later, they returned, with Esmere between them, her chains dragging along the floor.

  ‘Take the chains off her, for goodness sake. She’s not going to run away.’

  She lifted her head and her beautiful green eyes held his. He could see that she was trying to be brave, and he expected cutting words to put him in his place, but she remained silent, as if she had some idea what was coming her way.

  Then she spotted the double set of manacles newly bolted to the floor, and she began to struggle, and a cry escaped her lips.

  With a great deal of difficulty, Harld and Orther forced her to lie on her back on the hard, stone floor whilst they struggled to secure the manacles on her wrists and ankles.

  After much cussing (from her) and pardon me’s (from them) they stepped away, panting and flustered, and she lay struggling against her restraints.

  ‘You should have stripped her first,’ said Lydorth as he stared down at her, hunger building in his eyes.

  ‘What, naked, sir?’

  ‘Yes. She needs to be naked for what is about to happen.’

  Harld pursed his lips as he considered the situation.

  ‘We…we can’t get that dress off her; not with the manacles on her wrists, my Lord.’

  ‘You can cut it away. It won’t be needed again.’

  Esmere renewed her struggle at his words.

  ‘Ay, my Lord, that would work fine, I think. Have…have you got a knife, sir? ‘Cause I don’t carry one, and Orther here, he’s not allowed, ‘less he cuts himself.’

  Lydorth sighed, and then he bent and tore the clothes from her body with his bare hands.

  At the sight of her quivering naked flesh, Orther and Harld turned their eyes away.

  The Trytor stood over her and his eyes took in every inch of her pale body. He felt his lust building up inside him and, at any other time, he would have taken her there and then, and not cared that Harld and Orther were watching.

  But not today.

  Today was too important to be sacrificed for the satiation of the flesh.

  From his belt, he took out a small, short-bladed knife.

  ‘Shush now, my dear,’ he said, and Harld thought that he heard a hint of compassion in the Trytor’s voice.

  He could have been wrong; he was often wrong.

  With a swift movement, Lydorth ripped the knife across her stomach in a diagonal strike, then again, the opposite way. Esmere began to scream then, full-throated and desperate, and he continued to cut.

  Eventually, with her body crisscrossed with shallow bloody cuts, he stood away from her, and studied his work as she sobbed away.

  He nodded then, and picked up Teldorn’s urn.

  With a quick turn of his wrist, he removed the lid from the small container.

  Harld gasped as Lydorth allowed the contents to drift from the urn, covering the whole of Esmere’s bloody body with a grey coating of ash.

  She spasmed into rigidity, her back arching and her mouth wide in a silent scream.

  Harld turned away with a quiet sob; he couldn’t bear to watch anymore. Orther remained still as a stone; his eyes fixed on the horror before him.

  Lydorth nodded and took the bag Cavour had given to him from beside his throne. He ripped the bag asunder and held the Stone up for all to see in his seven-fingered hand, though no-one else was looking.

  The Wellstone sprang to life, from brown to red in the space of a couple of seconds. Lydorth smiled then, and it was a terrible smile; with nothing of mirth or joy in it.

  The hunger of the Stone meant nothing to him, and his flesh was impervious to its fire.

  He wrapped both of his hands around the Stone, and took a deep breath. Then he pressed his powerful hands together and crushed the friable stone to powder.

  Then he opened his hands and glowing sparks fell slowly towards the rigid ash covered body below. As each fiery particle landed on the ash that had been his brother, the light died and the Stone dust became invisible against the grey background.

  The motes of fire seemed to take an age to leave his hands and complete their journey, but eventually the last of the light was gone.

  Esmere sighed, an impossibly long exhellation of breath, and then her body relaxed, and her mouth was left half-opened, with all of the air gone from her frail body.

  For a moment, they all remained still, the inert girl, the expectant Trytor, the horrified men.

  Then a ripple ran along Esmere’s body, from her head to her feet, and the ash seemed to darken, and contract, becoming denser until it was no more than a black film clinging to her slim body.

  Lydorth waited until the first quiver began to run through her limbs, then he unshackled her wrists and ankles.

  When the body was free, he dragged the flat edge of his blade across its abdomen, cutting away the black film, revealing not the pale soft flesh of a human female, but the hard, re
ddish skin of a male Trytor.

  Orther moaned quietly at the sight, and Harld decided that there were better places for him to be.

  Lydorth scraped away at the film, exposing the impossibly wide rib-cage, the narrow hips, and elongated limbs of the inhuman creature. As he worked on the torso, he could see the skull stretching, and the mandibles expanding, and shoulders working their way out to their normal width.

  At last he stepped away and looked down at the newly clean body. It wasn’t yet his brother, for a 100-pound girl will not easily be turned into a 500 pound Trytor. But the skeleton was already there, and the basic musculature was in place.

  Then the long head turned his way, and the eyes opened.

  Lydorth looked into his brother’s red eyes and smiled.

  The creature’s jaw moved, from side to side, and then up and down. Then he spoke.

  ‘Feed me,’ he croaked, and his eyes left those of his brother and fell on Orther. ‘Feed me.’

  Lydorth flicked out one hand and knocked his servant towards the hungry grasp of his brother.

  Orther stopped screaming hardly before he’d started.

  **********

  Richard watched the display of horror from the doorway to the Rulehall.

  He‘d met no-one on his way into the Trytor’s home, as Agnis had told him. ‘The Trytor keeps few servants, for it is hard to find those willing to work for him. And he has no force of arms, for who would attack a Trytor?’

  He had smiled at that. ‘If only you knew,’ he had whispered as he turned away from her.

  He’d heard the noise and the screams as the girl was dragged to the floor by the Trytor’s men, and he should have acted then. But a peculiar fascination held him in place as the last of the monsters went to work. He couldn’t explain why, but he just stood and watched.

  The spell was broken when he heard the figure that had once been a girl speak. ‘Feed me,’ it had said, and though its voice was little more than a croak, it had carried along the Rulehall, and Richard had recognised it.