by Unknown
Look around you.
The stucco buildings vanished, and he let the pixie steer him as he half-ran through a rocky pass, searching the outcroppings and shadows for agents of the Goblin King.
He gathers his forces.
The mountains fell away and he entered a wide valley, wondering if he’d lost time again as he looked back and saw the peaks far behind. Ahead, the valley opened up into a sparkling lake, a glowing red oval like an open maw hovering at its edge, dripping light.
The veil.
Signs of what must have been a pitched battle surrounded him: blackened earth, and the bodies of armored goblins. He expected the pixie to explain but the voice in his head had gone silent. There were other people around him—what looked to be a human warrior in dark mail and a woman in a light leather tunic. There were others, as well, wandering the battlefield. He approached the woman. Close-up, she looked to be in her middle fifties with long, dark hair and glasses.
“Um…hi,” he said, the words sounding foolish as he spoke them aloud, “are you here to help close the veil?”
She peered at him through narrowed eyes and he wondered what she was seeing. “I’m here for the angels,” she said. “Are you one of the angels?”
“I don’t think so.”
He turned away, pondering the pixie’s silence and his own lack of urgency as he headed towards a young Asian girl dressed all in white. He wondered what she would say if he asked her why she was here but then a sudden pain twisted in his gut and he dropped to his hands and knees, tasting hot cinnamon, a burning sensation in his mouth and cool sand under his palms.
His body felt numb, as if his blood had touched something hot and pulled back. He felt movement and a tickling, scraping sensation in his chest. It occurred to him that he was dying. He flexed his jaws, his body convulsed and something flew out of his mouth.
When he opened his eyes again he was on his knees in the sand. The world around him had contracted, narrowed to the size of the creature that hovered a few feet in front of him: insectoid, eyeless, wings beating with a steady hum. He felt it in his mind—a tenuous connection but still there as it clicked its mandibles.
Where the veil had been a ship hovered, lined with blinking lights. Up and down what he realized suddenly was a beach, other creatures like the one in front of him hovered and buzzed in the moonlight and then moved as one towards the ship. He felt the connection between him and the creature severed as the ship rose into the air, a spinning machine the size of an SUV that hung against a carpet of stars, and then vanished.
His feet and hands tingled. His throat felt like rubber but he sensed the edges of coming pain. Ahead of him, the woman who had been in the tunic lay on her side, curled into a tight ball. He crawled over to her and she opened her eyes.
“There never were any angels,” she whispered. “There’s nothing. It was all a lie.”
“Was it?” he said as he fell back onto the sand and the pieces of what had happened began to spin slowly in his mind, jostling and bumping against each other, struggling to fit.
The Pixie Copyright © 2014 by Steven M. Long. All Rights Reserved.
Illustration The Bug Copyright © 2014 by Derek Benson. All Rights Reserved.
The Jester
by Michael J. Sullivan
The choices we make determine how we live, and sometimes how we’ll die.
Hadrian discovered the most fascinating thing about plummeting in total darkness wasn’t the odd sense of euphoria from the free fall or the abject terror from anticipating sudden death but that he had the time to contemplate both.
The drop was that far.
The four had plenty of time to scream, which they’d done the moment the rope snapped. Hadrian wasn’t sure if Royce yelled. He didn’t hear him, and doing so wasn’t in his partner’s nature, but Wilmer’s cries drowned them all out. The pig farmer was so loud, his shrieks ricocheted off the stone walls and bounced back before any of them hit the water. A vicious slap and suffocating cold drove any remaining air from their lungs.
The impact would have hurt anyone and was worse for Hadrian given his broken leg. It was possible he blacked out from the pain, if only for an instant, but the plunge into ice-cold water woke him.
Just deep enough, Hadrian thought as he pushed off the bottom with his good leg, hoping to reach air in time. Normally weighed down by three swords, this was the first time he was happy to have lost two. Well, not so much lost as having one shattered and the other devoured. Still, the two-handed spadone strapped to his back was the largest and heaviest he owned.
He broke the surface with a gasp.
“Hadrian?” Royce called.
Turning, Hadrian could barely make out his friend. A soaked hood collapsed over his head, as if a bat hugged his face.
“Still alive,” he yelled back—less a reply than an inward thought that burst out.
The nearby flurry of splashing suggested neither Wilmer nor Myra could swim. Wilmer had never impressed Hadrian as athletic in any way. Given that walking had proved difficult for the pig farmer, swimming might be as impossible as flight. As for Myra, Hadrian imagined her experience with submersion in water would have been limited to lying in a brass tub while servants added scented oils and refilled her wine cup.
“There’s a blue light behind you,” Royce pointed out, after peeling off his hood. “Looks like the pool’s edge is just ten feet or so. Can you make it?”
Hadrian turned and saw an eerie glow coming from the cavern wall. Royce was right. The edge of the little lake was close, but the bottom was distant. The subterranean pond was less a basin and more a stone fissure filled with water—likely with straight sides. The ice-cold pool sapped Hadrian’s strength, freezing his muscles and strangling his breath. A death trap.
“I can try,” Hadrian replied, still struggling to keep his head above the surface. Over his shoulder he called out, “Myra? Wilmer? You okay?”
“Forget about them,” Royce said. “Get yourself out.”
Hadrian struggled to see in the dim light. He could hear both Wilmer and Myra gasping, coughing. “I don’t think they can swim.”
“Not your problem—not mine either. Get to the edge.”
“If you won’t help them, I—”
“You’ll what? Drown with them?” Royce asked. His friend was somewhere behind Hadrian, somewhere in the dark, hardly making a sound. “You’ll be lucky to get out alive on your own.”
Royce was right, but when had that ever mattered? “I’ll do what I can.”
“All right, all right!” Royce barked, the familiar frustration in his voice. “I’ll help them. But get going. I can’t save everyone.”
Hadrian swam as best he could, happy to be wearing leather and wool rather than chain mail. His left arm hung limp, numb and useless. The distance wasn’t far, just a few kicks away, but still a challenge with only one good arm and leg. At least the cold soothed the burns on his back and, if the water wasn’t putrid, it might help clean the claw marks raked across his chest.
Hadrian reached the edge and hung there a moment, catching his breath. Then, using his elbow for leverage, he lifted and rolled himself onto the stone floor, carefully avoiding the burns on his back and the cuts on his chest. He lay on his side, panting and listening to the water drain from his clothing.
Looking around, he saw they were in yet another massive chamber of the never-ending complex.
How many rooms are there? How deep does this cave run? How long can we keep going?
They must have been underground a week. All the food they’d brought was gone. Thank Maribor, Royce still carried some of the wolf meat.
They never would have survived this long if it hadn’t been for Royce. Not that his partner cared about Wilmer or Myra. Those two had lost all importance when the level of danger surpassed the value of the twenty-five gold tenents Myra had offered them for escort. After only the first night inside, Hadrian had become convinced Royce would have abandoned the fee, and Myra
and Wilmer as well, if doing so would have caused a magic exit to appear. As it was, Hadrian worried what would happen when the wolf meat ran out.
We must be at the bottom, Hadrian thought. The roots of the mountain—that’s what’s written on the map. That’s how the jester had described the heart of the Farendel Durat Range. Hadrian had always considered mountains beautiful—but he learned that was only true from a distance. Up this close, and from the inside, they proved terrifying.
The others crawled out of the inky pool, shivering in the faint glow emanating from a cluster of gems embedded in the wall. Myra looked dead, the blue light draining her skin of color, thin hair plastered flat. Upon first meeting, she was as lively as a rabbit and had spoken so quickly, they needed her to repeat everything. The trip had taken its toll. Lying on the stone, coughing and shivering from the wetness, the widowed wife of a candle merchant looked more her age. Somewhere in her thirties, or maybe older, she was finally sapped of the insatiable drive that had powered her. The exhaustion showed in her eyes, an unfocused stare. She was a dormouse caught too far from her hole in daylight. She wanted it to be over—they all did.
Wilmer lay facedown a few feet away. Never more than a rag, his thin, homespun tunic, blackened on one side and bloodied on the other, became the shredded and stained chronicle of their trip so far. Wilmer was still coughing, still spitting. His scream must have cost a lot of air. He likely swallowed a lot of water.
“Nice place, this,” Hadrian said, then grunted while trying to shift position. “I think we should stay awhile.”
Royce knelt beside him, vigorously rubbing his hands. “I’ll ask the innkeeper for extra pillows and blankets.”
“Tell him I’ll have the special—the special is always the best.”
Royce pulled up Hadrian’s shirt to examine the burns and claw marks. He grimaced.
“Oh—nice bedside manner, pal. Why don’t you just pull my cloak over my face and recite something religious.”
“If I knew anything religious, I might.”
Of the group, Royce showed the least wear. His hood and cloak had survived without a tear, although he did have a nasty looking cut across his forehead. His expression was sullen, but that was normal for Royce. It was only when his partner smiled that Hadrian worried.
“Did we get away?” Myra asked.
No one answered.
Hadrian was afraid to—afraid to jinx what little luck they’d found by hitting the pool instead of jagged rocks. Gods looked for hubris when deciding where to step, and so far, good fortune had been scarce.
Royce turned and cocked his head, like a dog listening. Always the first sign, the early indicator life was about to get ugly again. Over the course of their underground journey, Hadrian had come to see his friend as a canary in a mine. He wished he could have been surprised to see his expression darken, but by then he would have been more astonished to discover they were safe. A few heartbeats later Hadrian heard the distant banging for himself. A long, familiar, striding rhythm that sounded like a god beating out a cadence using rolls of thunder.
“Nope,” Royce finally answered Myra’s question, as he helped Hadrian to his good leg.
“Why don’t it stop?” Wilmer cried. “Why don’t anything in here ever stop?” He was slapping the floor with his palms, fingers spread out.
The banging became hammering and then pounding as the sound grew nearer.
“Go! Go! Go!” Royce shouted, and they were up and running again. Hadrian limped, using his friend as a crutch.
Wilmer also struggled, his side still bleeding. A stain around the snapped arrow shaft had spread up to his armpit and down to his hip. In contrast, Myra made better time. Wet skirt hiked to her thighs, she abandoned modesty in favor of survival. The four ran the only way possible, the only way they could see—toward the light.
“Door!” Royce shouted. Abandoning Hadrian, he raced ahead. Reaching it first, he knelt, as if proposing marriage. Of course it was locked. No point expecting anything else in such a miserable place.
Hadrian had never seen a lock Royce couldn’t pick, but this time he was in a race. The once distant bangs of giant footfalls had become terrifying booms. Hadrian chanced a look behind but couldn’t see anything. The creature was still in the darkness, and he hoped reality would prove less terrifying than his imagination.
“Open!” Royce announced, and they raced through. Shoving the door closed behind them muffled the thunderous steps but also blotted out the light. Hadrian heard Royce twist the lock, followed by the sound of a board sliding into place.
“We need a light,” Myra said.
“You’re the candlemaker!” Wilmer shouted.
“Everything’s wet.”
“Give me a second,” Royce said.
Outside, the beast closed in.
Sparks flashed several times before a flame developed, revealing Royce. Kneeling on the floor, he blew into a pile of gathered debris. Myra pulled candles out of her pack and began lighting them.
She must have a hundred of them in there.
Before setting out, Myra had possessed eight separate bags of luggage—some with hats, another with makeup, and several filled with luxurious gowns. One entire bag had been devoted to impractical shoes. Hadrian had persuaded her to leave most of it behind. His argument became irresistibly convincing when everyone refused to help carry her load. She kept only a single knapsack with food, water, the map pieces, and candles. As she opened her pack this time, Hadrian realized all that remained were the pieces of the map and candles.
Flickering light revealed an octagonal chamber. Chisel marks revealed the room had been carved out of the mountain—the handiwork of the jester.
Did he do this all himself?
It seemed impossible anyone could hew a hall from solid stone. Dwarves were legendary for their mastery of such things, but Hadrian was convinced the jester hadn’t worked alone. Even so, it must have taken years.
In the center of the room, a chest the size of a wagon sat on a stone dais. Built of steel with brass corners and coin-sized rivets, it was secured by a formidable padlock. On the far side of the chamber stood another door. Also cast from steel, it too had its own massive lock. The last remaining item was an iron lever and thick chain that connected it to a keystone holding up the arched ceiling.
Royce was busy shoving another brace across the door they’d entered. With the light from Myra’s candles, Hadrian could see the wood was old and rotted. The door itself was an even bigger concern. The iron hinges were rusted, the wood grooved from worms and termites. As the pounding grew closer, they all backed away, staring with anticipation at the rickety door that had become their castle gate.
“Better open that other door, Royce,” Hadrian said.
“Wait!” Myra shouted, and all of them froze. “It’s another choice.”
Hadrian looked to Royce.
“I think she’s right. We’ll get to pick only one,” his partner said, shaking his head in disgust. “By Mar, I hate this short bastard. First Manzant prison and now this—I’m really starting to develop a dislike for dwarves.”
“It’s another trap?” Hadrian asked.
“What are we gonna do?” Wilmer’s voice rose a few octaves. The man was a human teakettle always on boil.
BOOM!
Something hit the wooden door, and it shook, kicking up a cloud of dust.
Wilmer screamed.
“Shut up!” Royce ordered, and Wilmer clamped both hands over his own mouth.
“This is all his fault,” Myra said, pointing at the farmer. “We were doing fine until he screamed and announced us to everything in the area. He screams at everything! We should never have brought him.”
“We had to,” Hadrian said. “He had the last piece of the map. Besides, Wilmer only started screaming because you turned that statue to the left and made the floor drop away.”
Myra smirked. “I didn’t have a choice. Have you forgotten about the snakes? And Royce wasn’t
doing anything about them.”
“I was busy trying to stop the walls from closing in,” Royce said absently. His attention was focused on the chest and, if Hadrian were to guess, the lock. Anything requiring a key must have been like a loose tooth to his partner. “And stopping them was more important than a few snakes.”
“A few? Where’d you learn to count?”
BOOM!
Hadrian felt the impact through the floor that time, and it made one of Myra’s candles wobble. “We’ve got a choice to make, people.” Hadrian leaned against one of the carved walls. “Door, chest, or lever?”
“We came here for the treasure,” Myra pointed out. “We have to open the chest or what was the point of all this?”
“How can you even think that?” Wilmer shouted. He alone faced the wooden door. “That—that thing is out there. A tiny door won’t hold it! But that one might.” He pointed across the room. “We gotta get to the other side, now!”
“You’re just panicking.” Myra dismissed him with a wave of her hand, which the farmer didn’t see. Nothing could pry his sight from the entrance.
“’Course I’m panicking!” Wilmer balled his hands into fists. “Panicking is what a body does at a time like this!”
“Why did you even come?” Myra shook her head in disgust and moved away from Wilmer—or was it the door she was getting distance from? Perhaps she was heeding the old adage that one doesn’t need to outrun a beast, just the terrified pig farmer and the guy with the broken leg you paid to deal with such things. Whatever her motives, Myra followed Royce as the thief approached the chest. She was careful not to pass him and stepped only where he had. She wouldn’t make that mistake again.
“And here I thought you was a smart lady,” Wilmer responded to Myra’s rhetorical question. “You said you had the rest of a map which led to amazing treasure. Why in Maribor’s name do ya think I came along?”
Hadrian ignored the pair. “Royce?” he called. “What’s your choice?”