The Prince

by K. C. Herbel

  “I could wring his bony neck.”

  “And what good would that do?”

  “It would make me feel a whole peck better.”

  Billy smiled and patted him on the back. “Be patient, my friend. First, let’s see where this takes us. Then, if it’ll make you feel any better, you can try to kill a dead man.”

  “Good.” Shaldra glared up at the captain. “I don’t like the way he’s been looking at me.”

  Billy, Sylvys and Shaldra went to the railing to have a better look at the cave. The ship again made a wake in the liquid beneath them, a welcome sight to all, but it was hardly what any of them would call water. The light from their lanterns, even when lowered, failed to penetrate the inky, brackish liquid, and its smell was without life.

  All around them, the cave echoed with a plaintive moaning sound. It seemed to originate from smaller caves, which were no more than black gaping holes in the distant walls. In addition, a number of noises—most of them drips or clicks—scurried across the surface of the lake to their ears.

  They sailed for hours into that gloomy winding cave. The only light came from their lanterns and what part of that light winked like tiny rainbow colored stars off the jeweled ceiling.

  Despite its unbelievable size and strange beauty, Billy felt claustrophobic. He examined the distance to the ceiling and walls several times to assure himself that the cave wasn’t shrinking. Much to his surprise, it grew larger instead of smaller. But then this, too, worried him.

  Sylvys came to the railing next to Billy. “What is it?”

  “I was just thinking.” Billy tried to act natural.

  “About what?”

  “Nothin’.”

  “I was just thinking too.”

  “Oh?”

  “I was thinking that only a tiny creature can live in a tiny cave ...”

  “Well … that doesn’t mean that only a giant creature would live in a giant cave.”

  “Oh, no. Absolutely not. Why, there might be a few medium sized creatures …”

  “Or even many small ones.”

  “Yes, quite. There mightn’t be any at all.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Billy spotted Shaldra sitting across the deck, sharpening arrows and staring at the dark elf. “You think he’s afraid of Drif?”

  Sylvys scoffed. “Nothing frightens that boy; he’s fate-born.”

  “What?”

  “Shhh!”

  “Shaldra is one of the fate-born?”

  “It’s very personal. If he hasn’t told you, it’s not my place.”

  “But – “

  “Shaldra’s not afraid, Your Highness. He’s just sizing up Drif in case they have to tangle.”

  Shaldra walked across the deck. “What are you two whispering about?”

  “Nothing,” Sylvys and Billy answered.

  “Good. I thought maybe you saw something.”

  “No. You?”

  “Well, a moment ago, I thought I saw something moving in the lake, but really, what could live in that stuff?”

  When Shaldra crossed back to his post, Billy and Sylvys moseyed back from the railing. Sylvys tried in vain to tighten his helmet strap without drawing attention, but he fumbled with the buckle and dropped his spear. Then he waddled forward to pick it up, and his helmet came down over his eyes. Meanwhile, Billy leaned his back against a spar, casually ran his finger over Lura Zahn’s grip, and snickered politely at the nervous satyr’s antics. He was thankful that, for once, he was not the one playing the fool.

  At last, another light glinted on the horizon. From a distance, it looked like a large bonfire, spitting forth occasional sparks at the stony roof. However, as the Gyldan Mene approached, they saw that it was no fire at all, but a huge pale palace perched on the peak of an island. The island itself erupted from the center of the greatest part of the black lake, where the ceiling of the cave soared upward higher than a hawk’s flight.

  The dead captain steered his ship nearer and nearer to the island. Now, all four members of the quest party went to the bow to stare, unblinking, at the approaching chimera.

  Beneath the ivory palace, rugged yellow bluffs tumbled down into a narrow gorge. Here, the black waters of the lake became a jagged ribbon, just wide enough for the ship to pass. A lonely dock waited at the channel’s terminus, and a torchlit path wound its way up the mountain.

  The Gyldan Mene coasted into the dock and came to a gentle stop. A skeletal sailor tossed ropes over the mooring spars while his mates finished with the ragged sails. Once the gangplank rested on the dock, the crew became motionless.

  Billy approached the captain. “What is this place?”

  The captain glared dumbly at him.

  Billy remembered to whom he was speaking and rephrased his question, “Is Finvarra here? Will I find Finvarra here?”

  The captain nodded and pointed to the shore.

  After a long dialogue, Billy was still unable to persuade Sylvys to depart the ship. Only when he feigned seeing something move in the lake did the satyr volunteer to go ashore.

  Shaldra, on the other hand, was no trouble at all. After the proud elf saw Drif stroll down the gangplank without a word, it was all Billy could do to keep him from running ahead.

  They left the dock behind and started up the chalky trail. All around them a soft, sulfurous stone made up the cliff face and ground they walked upon, and the smell of it stung their noses. The torches seemed to brighten when they passed. Billy slowed to examine them as they climbed.

  The head of each torch was an intricately carved iron cage, with no two being alike. Inside these cages, tiny fiery balls darted about and reminded Billy of the faerie hand-fire Elzgig had shown him in Tirn Aill. However, these seemed to have their own will. They flew around their iron cells, sometimes chasing, sometimes clashing, but mostly they would move to the side closest to Billy and hover. Then one of the little fireballs slipped through the roof of its prison and shot straight to the dark, distant ceiling of the cave. It twinkled there briefly before disappearing. A moment later, another blazing sphere appeared in the cage and thrashed about, banging into the black iron bars.

  Billy looked over the edge of the trail and saw the Gyldan Mene below them, looking like a toy boat in a puddle of ink. The hair on the back of his neck prickled and he turned to find Drif not two feet behind him. He forced a smile and reminded himself that Malkry’s warrior could very well be an assassin, and that he should be careful not to make himself an easy target. He stepped away from the edge and continued uphill.

  Shortly, the party of four arrived at the top of the bluffs. An armored guard stood on either side of the path, silhouetted against the wondrous palace they had seen from so far away. It was the color of bone and illuminated in scintillating shades of red and amber. Billy looked for the large fires that must surely be the source of such lighting, but there were none—only a flat, barren limestone plain.

  He hailed the guards, but they made no response. He took a few paces forward and tried again.

  “I seek an audience with King Finvarra. I am Billy, son of Eleanor, the High Queen of Faerie.”

  The shadowy armored figures remained motionless.

  Shaldra stepped forward and marched up to the guardians. “Are you deaf? This is William, heir to the throne of Tirn Aill, and your …” Shaldra stopped just short of shoving the guard on the right. He drew his long sword and spun around to face the other guard. Then he backed away from the guardians until he was next to Billy.

  “What’s wrong, Shaldra?”

  “More skeletons.”

  “More skeletons?”

  Drif walked from their midst and passed between the two guards. Both armored fists shot out from the elf warrior’s shoulders and leveled the scarecrow-like guards. They went down with a crash that sent broken bones and armor skittering over the hard ground.

  Shaldra crossed his arms. “I could’a done that.”

  “How long do you think they’ve been ther
e, Your Highness?” Sylvys asked.

  “A long time, I’d wager.”

  The satyr smirked. “Someone should have told them to come in to dinner.”

  “Say …” Billy rubbed his belly. “I think someone forgot to tell us it was time for dinner.”

  Sylvys pointed to the huge edifice. “Maybe they’ll feed us in there.”

  “Yeah,” Shaldra said. “But what will they feed us to?”

  With that said, their appetites shrank to a manageable level, and they continued.

  Billy nodded to Drif as he passed. “Well done.”

  The close-lipped warrior acknowledged the accolade with a nod.

  They crossed the open, rocky plain and headed towards the palace. With each step, the edifice seemed to grow larger until it loomed over them in staggering proportions.

  Forty-nine steps separated them from the entrance, and on each step, there stood a skeletal warrior. All were girded in armor, tooled by the finest artisans—although now in ill repair, half rusted, bent, and sometimes hewn.

  Now, up this stair the intrepid company went. One step at a time, they passed the motionless, dead guardians. All bore blank eyes and no expression except, perhaps, the same bony grin. With the memory of the Gyldan Mene’s crew still set in their minds, the party kept their distance.

  Carved on the riser of each step, in deep relief, was the “dance of the dead,” as Billy had seen in the catacombs of Cyndyn Hall. The small chiseled skeletons, depicted in lively dance steps, blew horns and waved banners. Billy read the banners while they ascended, and found that the first seven steps were dedicated to sloth, the next seven to anger. Following these were envy, gluttony, lechery, avarice, and pride at the top.

  A row of six thick columns rested ten yards from the last step and rose up like great towers to the gigantic eaves. Beyond these stood a wall of pale red marble, so expertly crafted that the seams were almost undetectable. A broad, intricate knotwork pattern sprawled across the wall. It unraveled in the middle to twist its way around two columns, one on either side of a dark inset doorway. Two massive doors, no shorter than thirty feet tall and hinged on opposite sides, hung in the gloomy orifice. They were forged from black iron, with the sweat, soot, and grease of manufacture still anointing them.

  Shaldra grabbed Billy’s arm. “I don’t like this! This is the sort of place a ghoul would live.”

  Billy looked up at the edifice and chuckled. “Maybe the king of ghouls.” When he looked back to Shaldra, the elf was gaunt. Billy grinned. “It’ll be fine, Shaldra. Finvarra is here.”

  “I am not so sure.”

  “You can stay here if you like, but I must go in.”

  Shaldra clenched his teeth and then said, “Where you go, I go also, Your Highness.”

  When they approached, the doors swung open. Inside, the light was dim, but Billy could see a forest of red pillars spaced in rows, supporting a ceiling that gleamed with gold. The pillars and ceiling were reflected in a glossy ebony floor, giving the illusion of an equal space beneath it.

  Billy looked at his shrugging companions, then entered. They allowed him to proceed several paces onto the mirror-like surface before following. Sylvys brought up the rear. When the satyr was ten yards from the entrance, the doors began to swing closed. As swift as he could, the satyr sprinted back to the doors, but he slipped on the smooth floor and crashed into the doors as they came to with a final clank. He pushed and hammered on them, but to no avail.

  “Open up! Let me out!”

  A light from his left drew Billy’s attention from the hysterical satyr. He turned. A grey figure shambled toward him, led by a solitary thin light. As it approached, Billy could see that it was a single candle burning bright as twenty, but the figure carrying it remained grey and hazy as if wrapped in dusty gauze.

  Now Drif and Shaldra turned to see what had stolen Billy’s focus. They watched as the creature approached. Shaldra stepped in front of Billy and slipped his dagger from its sheath.

  The phantom stopped several feet from them. The scent of rot and mold was on the air. Sylvys, finally turning from the doors, gasped upon seeing the specter and dropped his spear. Drif picked up the weapon and handed it back to the quivering satyr while keeping an eye on the figure before them.

  “Thanks.” Sylvys pressed his back against the large iron doors.

  Billy peered around Shaldra. “I seek Finvarra.”

  The figure made a beckoning motion with its free hand and backed away in the direction from which it had come.

  “Will you take us to Finvarra?”

  The figure continued to beckon and retreat.

  Shaldra glanced back at Billy. “No offense, Your Highness, but you don’t honestly think she’d tell us if we were the main course for some ghoulish feast, do you?”

  “I suppose not. But what choice do we have?”

  “We could turn around and get our bushy tails out of here,” Sylvys said.

  Shaldra shook his head. “I think not.”

  “And why not?”

  “First, you’re the only one here with a bushy tail; second, I don’t believe those doors are gonna open for us anytime soon; and third, you are the biggest—”

  Billy nudged the elf. “And third, I don’t think they are going to give us another choice.”

  Sylvys and Shaldra stopped their bickering. On all sides of them, grey, skulking figures crept from the dim shadows surrounding the pillars. They approached, and the air grew thick with their fetid smell. It was hard to breathe.

  “Come on!” Billy rushed through a gap in the shambling mob of specters to follow the candle bearer.

  Drif and Shaldra shot after him, but Sylvys hesitated for a moment and only just escaped the grasp of the phantoms. Once the entire party had caught up to the candle bearer, the mob fell behind and ended its pursuit.

  “Who were they? What was that all about? Where are we going?” The nervous satyr shut up only after Shaldra flashed him an angry glare.

  “As if we should know.”

  “I was only speaking my mind.”

  “Well, don’t. Your continual babbling is driving me insane.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  Drif elbowed both Shaldra and Sylvys in the gut to quiet them. This was the first physical contact either had received from the mysterious dark elf, and that alone seemed to carry weight enough to hold their tongues.

  Billy concentrated on their guide as they marched through the endless red pillars. He caught a glimpse of bone and grey, crumbled flesh protruding through a rough hole in the creature’s garb. He shivered at what horrors might lay farther beneath its wrappings.

  At last, a well-lit doorway appeared ahead of them. Two gigantic iron doors barred the way, identical to those they had passed through at the main entrance. Their phantom guide stopped some distance from this doorway and motioned for them to continue. It then turned and disappeared into the shadows with its candle.

  Billy walked toward the doorway, feeling oddly reluctant to leave behind the ghostly figure that had led them this far. Ordinarily, he would have thought it strange to desire the company of a corpse, but under the circumstances, it only seemed natural. Again, he spotted figures moving in the shadows around them, and all desire to stay put evaporated.

  Much to their relief, the doors opened when they neared. Bright light burst out from the room beyond the doors, forcing the party to squint to see inside.

  A grand dining hall lay within. Ancient war relics and tattered flags decorated its white walls. Intense white flames licked the air from a wide hearth at the far end and the numerous torches set along each wall. The black and white checkered floor was empty, with all the tables and benches stacked to the sides except for one set just before the great hearth. Four empty chairs waited at the table, their backs to the door. Across from them sat a large, dark throne of oak.

  The party entered the hall and approached the only standing table. They each found themselves behind one of the empty chairs, staring
at the table and each other.

  “Looks like someone’s been expecting us.” Billy indicated the five place settings.

  “Aye,” Shaldra said. “But where is our host?”

  “And who is our host?” Sylvys asked.

  Shaldra looked around the vast chamber. “Aye, who?”

  “King Finvarra,” a voice bellowed from behind them.

  They spun around and beheld a grim procession, which had entered the rear of the hall. Three-score of the grey shambling figures marched in three columns. Those in the middle ranks shouldered a large palanquin of gold.

  Upon this lustrous platform, nestled among crimson pillows, reclined a sharp-eyed man with a grey beard. He wore a red cape over a long blue tunic with gold trimming, and his lower extremities were wrapped and sandaled in the fashion of ancient warriors. Unadorned copper jewels of plain but bold design wrapped each wrist, as well as his waist and neck. The only visible gem on him sparkled from the brooch that clasped his cape about his shoulders. Billy observed all this in detail; however, his eye clung on the simple, thin crown, which crossed the man’s high forehead on its circular path around his head.

  The silent grey spirits lowered the palanquin, and the man—who seemed most colorful against them—descended, using the backs of some as steps. As soon as he was off, the procession bowed to him, then exited with the palanquin.

  “Welcome.” The man stood tall and proud. “I am Finvarra, your host.”

  “I am Billy, son of Queen Eleanor, and I am here to—”

  “Yes, yes, yes.” Finvarra strutted across the floor. “I know who you are. Please, sit. Feast with me, and then we shall discuss your request on full stomachs.”

  The party glanced at each other, but none moved.

  “Please. It’s so rarely that I receive guests here who can enjoy a good meal.”

  Now Finvarra was upon them, and Billy could see what a large man he was. He towered above Billy at more than six feet tall and, though time had engraved deep lines across his features, he did not look feeble in the least. His broad shoulders and ruddy skin were those of a healthy, fit man.

  He clasped Billy by the forearm. He had the grip of a blacksmith. “Indulge me, and I promise you a great feast!”