by Gray, C. M.
‘Mr Hawk, I’m confused. If you know who the thieves are, why am I not sitting here with my belongings in front of me? I am, we agreed, paying you for results, not moonlit meetings in this Source-forsaken gutter hole.’ He cast around quickly to be sure he had not been overheard.
He’d spoken briefly to Blake upon arriving and had decided that Blake was not a person he wanted to upset. A nasty common man with an obvious aversion to bathing was how he’d summed him up. To Bartholomew’s horror, Blake had leaned in close to whisper in his ear about where the ‘Awk’ was sitting. Bartholomew had watched the unshaven face with its black stinking mouth and rotting teeth come close to his ear and had barely suppressed a shudder of revulsion. He feared Blake had picked up on his dislike and it was quite possible he was now feeling offended.
‘I know who the thieves are,’ rumbled Matheus, forcing Bartholomew to lean in across the table to hear him. ‘I know where they were, and I know where they’re going,’ he leaned in even closer to Bartholomew, obviously, because he knew it was upsetting him. ‘I also know that this is more than a common petty house theft. I need to know what was in your safe other than the money.’
Bartholomew mopped his brow again and gathered his thoughts. His main concern had been, and still was, the money and papers.
‘There were papers, some old books, deeds and contracts, er…some trinkets…Oh I don’t know!’ he spluttered. ‘I want my money back and the papers too! Why can’t you just get them, I can pay you, then we can put this whole sorry story behind us and move on?’
Matheus smiled. ‘Unfortunately, Mr Bask, it’s not that easy. You see...my friend here believes that you had something else in that safe of yours, something extremely precious. There was a knife in there, and a book, and my friend wants those two things very badly. In fact so badly does he want them that he’s willing to help me find your thieves and even get your money back.’
‘What friend is this - is he here?’ Bartholomew glanced around uncertainly, seeing only the same group of rowdy drinking parties he’d seen moments earlier. He noticed Blake staring across at him and he quickly broke eye contact. ‘Who is this friend of yours? If he can help us I want to meet him. I care little for the knife; if he can help, then it will be his.’ Bartholomew was now extremely uncomfortable and was becoming more and more desperate to end the meeting and be away.
Matheus glanced to his side and Bartholomew noticed for the first time that another figure was seated at the table with them. He was well hidden in the shadows of the nook, but even so, Bartholomew was sure that he hadn’t been there moments earlier.
This was all becoming too upsetting for Bartholomew. He was a merchant of standing in the community, and here he was meeting with trackers and cutthroats in the seediest drinking house in town. Where had it all gone wrong? Hildy! He was sure that damn cleaning woman had something to do with this.
Hildy's departure had left Bartholomew in a pickle and no mistake. The house had run down quickly after she had left and Bartholomew wasn’t having any luck replacing her. None of the normal methods of employing a maid had turned up anyone suitable - it was most distressing.
Bartholomew jumped, as he realised that he was being spoken to, and noticed also that the stranger had moved closer into the candlelight.
‘Merchant Bask, may I present my good friend and acquaintance Mr Belial.’ Matheus indicated the shadowed stranger. A nervous twitch appeared in Bartholomew’s cheek as he studied the figure that was slowly raising hands to remove the hood of his cloak. A mad impulse to run filled Bartholomew, his hand with the scented hanky came unbidden to his mouth and he chewed on his knuckle.
‘Bartholomew Bask, what a pleasure to meet you at long last, I know so much about you.’ The stranger spoke in a smooth velvety voice and his features, when the hood was lowered, were … beautiful!
This wasn’t a term that Bartholomew used often, especially to describe another man, but this man wasn’t handsome…he was beautiful. Bartholomew reached across to shake the stranger’s hand in nervous relief. He had expected anything, anything at all…but not this, this incredible person.
‘A real pleasure, Mr…I’m sorry, your name again?’ asked Bartholomew, smiling and plainly relieved.
‘Belial,’ said the stranger in a voice that promised trust, friendship and understanding all at once.
Please call me Belial or Mr Belial, whichever you feel most comfortable with,’ he smiled. ‘For we shall be friends and I shall aid you in any way that I can.’
Bartholomew positively beamed. ‘Oh, Mr Belial, I can’t tell you how relieved I am to meet you and find you’re working with Mr Hawk here. As I’m sure you know, I have been wronged and rightly seek regress.’ Bartholomew felt he had at last found a sympathetic audience and relaxed. ‘Belial, that’s not a Freyan name, nor is it from Sterling or Minster if I’m not mistaken, may I ask where you’re from?’ Bartholomew picked up the tankard of ale that had, until then, remained untouched in front of him. This was turning into a far more pleasant occasion than he had ever thought possible.
‘Oh Belial is an old name, Mr Bask, a very old name. I am in fact a king in a place far, far from here, but have also played the part of ambassador to courts and parliaments before this in many lands. Until recently I was regretfully imprisoned, but our good friend Mr Hawk here came to my rescue and…well here, as they say…I am.’ He smiled a beautiful smile across the table at Bartholomew.
‘Splendid, splendid, can I buy you an ale or a brew or some such thing?’ returned Bartholomew happily as he cast around for a serving maid. A king and nobleman! Now this was the kind of person Bartholomew had dreamed of meeting. A career could be made on meetings such as this, and in Blake’s of all places! Bartholomew smiled to himself at the irony of life.
‘A king no less, my goodness, Mr Hawk, where have you been travelling to in our service?’ Bartholomew smiled good-naturedly while Matheus Hawk stared back at Bartholomew, a thin sneer breaking his lips.
‘Why I have travelled down to the deepest depths of hell, Mr Bask, for this is the great Demon Lord, Belial. King and commander of eighty legions of demons and second only to Lucifer himself. That is where I have travelled to on your behalf, and this is whom I have brought to our cause.’ Matheus sat back in triumph, having played his trump card, and regarded Bartholomew with keen interest.
Bartholomew gazed at the two people across the table from him and a strange croaking noise came from his open mouth.
‘I-I-I am sorry, gentleman, but I could swear by the Source that you said…’
Belial winced at Bartholomew’s words.
‘I would be awfully obliged if you could possibly refrain from swearing by the…well, no swearing if you please,’ said Belial good-naturedly, and then added as if as an afterthought. ‘Or I may have to roast you over a fire pit for all of eternity.’ The Demon laughed and a deeper timbre seemed to enter his voice.
The tankard Bartholomew was clutching clattered noisily on the table.
‘Only joking, Mr Bask, only joking,’ he added. Yet his eyes showed that he might not really be joking at all.
‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ mumbled Bartholomew, and he was; much to the delight of Matheus Hawk.
****
Chapter 8
The Towers
Inside the darkness of the doorway, it was dry, and the wind reduced to a low ominous moan of anguish at their escape. Remains of a great archway were strewn about the entrance, a few rotten scraps of timber the only evidence of a door, the rest having long since rotted or blown away, along with much of the surrounding stonework.
As their eyes became accustomed, the crew of The Griffin could see they’d arrived in a large entrance hall. A flash of lightning illuminated everything for a moment as they shook water from their cloaks and they were left with the impression of two huge staircases sweeping in graceful curves from both the left and right-hand side and meeting in the darkness of unknown levels above. In the centre of the hall,
under bits of stone and more remains of the wooden door, they could just make out what had once been an ornamental fountain. An old chandelier was perched on top having fallen centuries past, scattering its crystals across the ground, leaving the hall sad, cold and decayed.
With nothing dry between them they had no chance of making torches, so it was left to Loras to provide the light. He proudly muttered a few words and sent two glowing blue globes ahead to light the way; shadows flickered about them as they started to climb.
‘The lower levels were where the students, servants and soldiers lived,’ explained Mahra. ‘But I think our search should begin above with the masters’ levels and the towers. The council occupied the four towers, and as we’re looking for the skull that links to Magician Pew we should head to his tower first, which is the East Tower.’ The gloom fled back upon the approach of the globes and they could see that where paintings and tapestries had once been hung in decoration, now only strips of mildewed cloth and broken frames remained. Loras led, with Mahra pointing out things as the memories returned to her. The two flights of stairs finally met at a wide landing in front of large closed doors.
‘As a student, this was as far as you could come without a master. It feels strange to be here now. I would ring on this bell,’ she held out her hand to where a chain was hanging from the wall then pulled it; a bell tolled inside making everyone shuffle nervously. They all stood for a while, staring at the door.
‘I don’t think we’re going to get a master to come,’ pointed out Pardigan nervously, ‘shall we just go in?’ they waited patiently for Mahra.
‘Yes, I think maybe we should,’ said Mahra, reaching for the handle.
‘Stop!’ yelled Tarent, running forward. Mahra froze hand outstretched. ‘Something’s not right,’ Tarent pushed to the front. ‘I can sense some sort of energy coming from the handle. I can feel it as if it were glowing, yet my eyes tell me it isn’t, I think it must be a trap of some sort.’ Mahra withdrew her hand and they all stepped back.
Tarent crouched down peering at the doorknob. ‘I think it’s some sort of spell that’s sensitive to heat - can you tell anything, Loras?’
Loras shook his head. ‘No nothing, but if it’s sensitive to heat, maybe I can use magic to turn the knob.'
Retreating down the staircase several steps, they watched while Loras muttered some words then turned an imaginary knob in front of him some distance from the real one on the door. The knob rattled, the door creaked and then swept open with a waft of ancient learning and decay, but without anything exploding or going wrong. Tarent reported that the strange feeling had vanished; the spell must have dissipated as soon as the door opened. The glow globes slipped inside and the group followed one by one.
‘This is the main corridor of the masters’ area,’ whispered Mahra, indicating the long straight hallway that the globes were illuminating. It was cold, dark and as still as a grave. Lurking in the shadows, either real or imagined, was an ominous presence, as if something was biding its time, content to wait through eternity for the moment it could awake - they could all feel it.
Mahra shuddered. ‘Chambers and other corridors lead off all over the academy. Over fifty masters led their lives here with their sleeping quarters, laboratories and libraries all on this level.’
They set off down the corridor, their feet making strange crunching sounds as they went.
‘What is that?’ exclaimed Pardigan in disgust. With the globes ahead of them it was hard to see what they were treading on, it sounded like eggshells or sticks or...
‘They’re bones,’ said Loras staring down. ‘Thousands and thousands of bones…I don’t like it here,’ he added in a small voice. ‘Something is…evil.’ They peered down as Loras lit a smaller, brighter globe to show them.
The hall was indeed covered in bones, human bones, and not in small skeletal piles where someone may have died, but evenly scattered all along the corridor, giving the impression of a long narrow crypt where the dead had been disturbed as they lay at rest.
‘No skulls,’ pointed out Tarent in a hushed tone. ‘There are lots of bones of all sorts, the larger ones broken, but there aren’t any skulls.’
‘Are you all right, Mahra?’ Pardigan asked quietly. Mahra was making small mewing sounds and tears were gently sliding down her cheeks.
‘These were my friends,’ she said gazing at the floor. ‘It’s not as if I can recognise them, but I remember them now after forgetting them for so long. Some homecoming, isn’t it?’ She sniffed back her tears and wiped her face with the back of her hands in an extremely cat-like way. With a shudder she pulled herself together. ‘Come on, let’s get on with this.’ She strode off, crunching along the corridor.
‘Go slowly and let me keep to the front,’ warned Tarent pushing forward. ‘If there was one trap, it stands to reason there’ll be others.’ He and Mahra walked side by side down the corridor.
As they passed open doors they peered in. The globes revealing the remains of furniture, pots and bottles all covered with a thick layer of dust and ancient cobwebs. Other rooms held row upon row of books, desks and chairs; time had stood still. Loras tried to pick a book up but it crumbled in his hands.
‘So much knowledge gone,’ he moaned. ‘Unless I can somehow stabilise them, I wonder?’ he walked on, lost in thought.
‘Come on, Loras,’ Pardigan hurried his friend along with a nudge. ‘Let’s get this skull thing and get out of here - this place is creepy.’
As Tarent moved on, slowly scanning for more traps, his hands were playing with his staff, constantly twisting it open and closed with a click. Pardigan began absently tossing a knife in the air and Quint walked with a scowl, his hand on his sword ready for anything. Loras was the only one not on edge and having a wonderful time. He walked along in his own little world muttering about stabilising paper and peering with interest into every room.
‘You’ll get your nose blown off if you’re not careful, Loras,’ warned Tarent. ‘Stay with us.’
At last they reached the bottom of the corridor where it split into two directions.
‘That way leads to the West Tower and this way leads to Magician Pew’s rooms in the East Tower,’ explained Mahra leading them east. They passed more and more rooms before a sharp snapping sound brought them to an abrupt halt. It echoed along the passages and the group glanced around wide-eyed.
‘What was that and where’s Loras?’ hissed Quint. Distant shuffling sounds were coming from both ends of the corridor, accompanied by something like a long drawn out sigh - the vibrations of which were sending up little white clouds of dust from the bones at their feet.
‘He was behind me a moment ago,’ whispered Pardigan, peering around in the gloom. ‘But now…he must have wandered into one of these rooms; he’s been poking around all over the place.’ Moving towards an open door, some way back down the corridor, he peered inside, Tarent started checking further on.
‘Go carefully,’ warned Quint, pushing to the front again. The sounds were getting closer. It was the same crunching of bones that they had been making, but the sigh had changed to a strange rustling sound. They glanced at each other nervously. ‘I think we’re going to have company,’ muttered Quint reaching for his sword and drawing it clear with a loud ring.
‘He’s in here!’ yelled Tarent, from one of the rooms. They ran over and gathered at the door. Quint and Pardigan took a quick look in at the hapless Loras, before turning back to guard the corridor from whatever was about to emerge from the dark.
Loras was trapped inside a large bubble. He didn’t seem to be hurt, and was actually smiling and waving happily at them from inside. They could see him moving his lips, talking, but couldn’t hear anything he said.
Mahra groaned. ‘It’s a bubble trap. The magicians would often use these to discipline students or to do exactly what this one has done and trap unwanted intruders. They’re really hard to…’ a loud pop echoed round the room and Loras was standing beaming at them.
>
‘Wasn’t that fantastic, thousand year old magic and still working; amazing? I wonder what it was guarding.’ He started to move further into the room before Mahra brought him up short.
‘Loras, I don’t know how you got out of that thing, but we have company, we have to get going, its best we explore later.’ She pulled at the sleeve of his robe, ‘Please, Loras, come on!’
‘Too late!’ they heard Quint yell, as the clash of metal upon metal echoed in the corridor. Dashing out of the room, they found Quint and Pardigan furiously fending off attackers from both directions. Quint was slashing his sword from left to right in the confined space, keeping three skeletal warriors at bay, while Pardigan faced the other direction with a knife in each hand. He was facing two skeletons, keeping them back with his blades, whilst also managing to send bolts of lightning crackling through the air at the same time. Unlike the skeletons that had attacked them on the boat, these were armed with swords and axes and were fighting in a strange disconcerting silence; their sightless eyes, flickering windows to a world of horror. Further along the corridor, more skeletons were approaching accompanied by small black creatures, skittering along on their hind legs. They resembled large rodents with pinched, rat-like faces filled with evil yellow teeth. They squeaked and chattered amongst themselves as they scuttled along. Metal armour covered their chests and gripped in human like hands was an array of wicked black knives.
‘Oh Source!’ yelled Mahra. ‘They’re Ratten - creations of Magician Bleak. Loras, heat their armour and don’t let them get close.’ A black knife came flashing past Pardigan and one of the Ratten screeched in triumph as it found its mark in Quint’s arm. He let out a yell and fell to the ground, writhing in agony.