Alexa Drey- the Veils of Lamerell

by Ember Lane

  He threw his hands up. “Who really knows—maybe we could press Star to tell us.”

  “So, the day Sakina fell?” I asked.

  “A horde came, a thousand strong, with beasts like I had never seen—not of this land. But Sakina seemed to know, and she just said "Morlog." She ordered us all away, and went out to face them alone. They had to restrain Petroo, but he broke free in the end.”

  “What happened?”

  Zybandian shrugged. “Best ask Petroo that. She’d barred my way from the fifth tier with a gate made of golden light—a shimmering lattice. I prayed it would stay in place forever, and that I’d die in that keep.”

  “Because,” I stuttered to say. “Because while that magic endured, so did she.”

  “Exactly. Back to the point of it all. She left me there with a wax-sealed note, and a promise that if she were to fall, I was to follow her instructions.”

  “And they were to stop me seeing her body?”

  “That was one of them. Another was to bring you here. To give you the letter was the third.”

  I sensed there was more, and so I waited.

  “She also wanted me to show you the places where she fought, to show you the bowels of this place. She wanted you to understand.”

  “Understand what?”

  “Them, those who attack us. The dungeons that cry, and the way of our warfare.”

  I nodded, and gritted my teeth. “I am ready,” I said.

  “The reason,” Zybandian said, grabbing my arm, “is different to what you imagine. Sakina releases you from any that would say it is your duty to defend Zybond—you have the mark of the veils—King Muscat for one will demand that you remain here.”

  “If it is—”

  “No. Do not train to die down there.” His voice was loud, and final. “She has woven banes into the very rocks, threaded enchantments across the paths and tunnels. She has released beasts from the bowels of the earth and forged a will with them to face south and south only. Sakina did all of this and then sealed every way in from the battlefield, before she marched out to face Morlog’s unholy hordes.”

  “Why?”

  “To give you time. She asked me to tell you one last thing before I take your hand and show you where she fought. She wanted me to say it, and so stress its importance.”

  “Say it, then,” I said, softly.

  He looked up at the clouds and composed himself.

  “Know this, my fledgling successor, the banes I have cast, the souls I have tied, will not last forever. You have seven veils to complete, and seven times four seasons to complete them. If Castle Zybond falls, all falls.”

  It made no sense. Why just here? “What is so special about this castle?”

  “Let me show you.”

  Name: Alexa Drey. Race: Human. Type: Chancer.

  Age: 24. Alignment: None. XP: 7500. Level: 6.

  Profession: None. Un/Al pts: 0. Reputation: Named.

  Health Points: 500/500 Energy: 120/120 Mana: 180/180 Shadow Mana: 0/180

  HP Regen: 50/Min EN Regen: 12/Min MA Regen: 5/Min SMA Regen: NA

  Attributes: (Level, Bonuses)

  Vitality: (12, 38), Stamina: (12, 0), Intelligence: (18, 0)

  Charisma: (6, 0), Wisdom: (5, 0), Luck: (7, 5)

  Humility: (2, 0), Compassion: (3, 0), Strength: (3, 0)

  Skills: (Level, % to next level, Boosts %, Level Cap)

  Running: (5, 16, 25, 12), Perception: (3, 78, 0, 15), Commerce: (1, 0, 0, 6), Magic: (5, 1, 0, ∞), Concealment: (5, 40, 0, 15), Night-vision: (4, 6, 0, 10), Blades: (4, 10, 0, 25), Spell Casting: (2, 5, 0, ∞), Close-Q-fighting: (3, 17, 0, 25), Archery: (4, 56, 0, 28), Swordsmanship: (4, 22, 0, 20), Staff-fighting: (5, 56, 0, 60), Horseriding: (3, 23, 0, 8)

  Talents:

  Tongues of Time. The Veils of Lamerell.

  Quests:

  Seek out the Legend of Billy Long Thumb. Status: Incomplete. Reward: Unknown.

  The Veils of Lamerell. Status: Incomplete. Reward: Death.

  19

  Stranger Creatures

  I grabbed Zybandian by the arm.

  “Death,” I muttered, a little confused. No, a lot confused. “To be honest with you, not over enamored with the reward for the veils quest.”

  He looked at me, the way folk did when you were letting them look over your stats. Instead of shock, his face filled with a reticent smile.

  “Best guess,” he said. “Fate is playing with you—testing your resolve.”

  “Testing…my…resolve?” I scratched my hair. “By killing me for doing a quest?” I shouted.

  He wagged his finger, and a fire came into his eyes as if he enjoyed the conundrum. “But,” he said. “Nowhere does it say your death.”

  Hmmm.

  “It could mean anything,” he pressed. “The demise of evil, the end of the mists—how about the death of ShadowDancer?”

  Hmmm.

  “But it could mean me…” I replied, at little less sure.

  His eyebrows arched and he stroked his drooping mustache. “I suppose, but hardly likely.”

  “Hardly still leaves a smidge of a chance.”

  “Really, Alexa, you’re fretting over something that has an infinitesimal chance of happening anyway. And why would Sakina reward your trials by killing you at the end? Especially when she has given you a scabbard that greatly reduces its chance. Sounds like poppycock.” He sighed and grinned. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  I stamped my feet and said through gritted teeth: “It’s not on your stat board. I’ve got to look at that word every day.”

  He popped his arm around me and drew me close. “Why worry about something you have no control over?” He hugged me close. “Besides, the chances of you surviving to even collect the reward are pretty slim.” Mounting his horse, he began to laugh. I stood there, stunned. “Plus,” he shouted over his shoulder, “you lot only die-die if you give up, as far as I know…”

  Hmmm.

  We left the vale after that and carried on down the cliff’s trail to the third keep. Each keep seemed to defy gravity to cling to the rocks. I don’t mind saying that I looked up toward the clouds a few times and wondered exactly how safe it all was. When we arrived at the keep, we tied our horses to a hitching rail outside, and I followed Zybandian as he marched through the keep’s doors.

  Though new, the sword and its scabbard molded to me like I’d always worn them. I felt a bit of a faker wearing it, but it did draw some admiring glances, and so I stuck my chin out and put on a grim face, and I marched through the keep with swagger. I had done some fast thinking on the way down. I needed to up my strength—that was for sure.

  I wondered who to ask. Flip wasn’t overly muscle-bound, nor Petroo, nor Cronis. Greman was just plain stocky. I guessed he had once been strong, or even was—though I didn’t know if he was average for a beggle or just a fat one. Nope, Marista certainly wasn’t hulking, Shylan maybe. I made to catch up with Zybandian and tapped on his broad shoulders…ohh…

  “How do I increase the strength attribute,” I asked.

  He stopped in his tracks. “Do you know any dwarves? Strong as ox’s, dwarves.”

  That ruled that out. I still wasn’t sure about my relationship with the dwarves, having killed their king and all. True, they’d given me a staff, but still…I didn’t think I’d be invited to a stalagmite warming party any time soon.

  “Kinda dubious territory for me.”

  “Yes, I heard. I would feel a bit awkward about that. Plus, dwarves—wouldn’t trust them as far as I could throw them. I’ll see if anything springs to mind.”

  He carried on marching through the keep’s gray-stone hallway. “We’re about eight hundred yards up from the start of the land drop.” He looked around and grinned down at me. “Luckily, I have a…” He twizzled his mustache. “Can you imagine being winched down into a well just sitting in a bucket?”

  More than you know, I thought. “I can picture it,” I replied.

  “Well,” he sai
d as he ducked into a chamber. “Look what our Petreyen friends crafted for us…before it all went wrong for them, of course. Has anyone explained to you what a DeVulk is?”

  His question drifted over me as I surveyed the room. What looked like a large well’s head took up its center, complete with a stout rope bound around a large platform and wound over a horizontal trunk above, from which a series of pulleys, cogs and levers seemed to sprout. At their end sat a rather peculiar creature upon a three-legged stool.

  The creature was around the build of Petroo, but slightly shorter, and green—lime green, not a deeper shade, with a slimy, black bonnet where hair would be. A frog-like face emerged from a flouncy, white shirt that was in turn tucked into a pair of britches. It looked a little like a swordsman or fencer, except it had a brown cigarillo hanging out of its mouth and a peculiar bored expression painted on its face.

  “Up or down,” it said, the gruff voice making me conclude it was, in fact, a he, and then it made an odd noise, like a foghorn going off. Zybandian’s laugh boomed around. “Good one, Grog,” he said, and he turned to me. “It can only go down from here,” he explained.

  I forced out a laugh.

  “Is Grog a DeVulk?” I asked.

  “No I’m bloody well not,” barked Grog, and he sucked on his smoke. “Do I look like one of them damn things? For a start.” He got up and loomed over me, his legs bowed in the middle, much like his arms. “For a start, I’m not covered from head to foot in dirty, gray hair with just my bobble of a nose poking through. Look at these.” He held up his…webbed hands. “Look at these. Are they shaped like shovels?” He plucked the cigarillo out of his mouth and blew a funnel of smoke in the air. “No. Slender, green-black and with suckers on the end. Suckers, I’d point out, that come in mighty useful if you have to scale down walls in the dead of night to retrieve bodies.”

  Grog slumped back down.

  “Sorry?” I ventured, and Zybandian burst out laughing again.

  “Grog,” he said. “Meet Alexa Drey.”

  Grog’s face paled to yellow. “The killer of the dwarf king?” His mouth dropped open and his long, pink tongue unrolled onto the floor and then back up. “My apologies. No offense. I just…” He shook his head, spittle flying everywhere. Grog cleared his throat. “No madam, I am not a DeVulk, easy mistake. I’m a Mantilee. At your service.” He swept me a bow.

  “To answer your question,” Zybandian interjected. “Down please, Grog.”

  “Be my guests,” he said. “Fast or slow?”

  “Slow, I think,” Zybandian replied.

  “Slow it is.”

  We hopped onto the platform. I grabbed at the ropes that hemmed us in and watched as Grog went to the levers. “Fast, wasn’t it,” he said, lurching for the farthest of the three.

  “Slow, Grog,” Zybandian insisted.

  “Slow,” he repeated, and his suckers drifted to another lever. “Slow it is,” and he pulled it.

  The world fell away from my feet, and my stomach spilled out of my open mouth, mixing with my scream. We fell, and my squeals screeched down the shaft, and I smelled burning rope, and we jerked to a halt.

  “Sorry,” Grog shouted down. “Wrong lever. Give me a mo.”

  We soon began to descend at a leisurely rate, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

  Zybandian leaned in. “I think he did that on purpose.”

  “You think?” I griped, but I wasn’t annoyed, just glad to be alive. Even if it was only for so long… Yes, that quest reward was still playing on my mind…

  I took a few more breaths to steady my pounding heart. We were descending a shaft carved out of the mountain itself, but not hewn like, say, the dwarf’s tunnels. It was nearly completely smooth, and each of its four sides tucked neatly into a right-angled corner. I reached out and let my fingers trail down it.

  “DeVulk,” Zybandian said, “are one of the strangest creatures you will ever come across.”

  “Stranger than Grog?”

  He scoffed. “Grog is a simple creature. Like most, he values his importance, and like most, he values an easy life. Humor gets him through the day, and he has his little vices, his pet hates and his loves. He will ridicule you in one breath, and fight to the death for you with his next. He’s not unlike us in that. No, a DeVulk is creature with no good traits.”

  “None?”

  Zybandian pursed his lips. “None,” he said. “But, a pair of DeVulks would have carved this shaft, and they’d have done it solely with their razor-sharp claws. They would only have rested to feast on a freshly slaughtered carcass, or to drink specially collected puddle water. Evil, evil, beasts.”

  It didn’t make sense. The shaft was perfect. Even the lateral ones that led away were symmetrical—for a few feet, as though that was the end of their commission. “Why would they do it?”

  “Why?” Zybandian shrugged. “From what I gather it was for the price of a debt. Petreyens, and only the bravest, would snare them with wit and use them to build these types of commissions—often bringing a sorcerer along to charm some glowspheres to light the way. The ones in this shaft have long spread their last light. The DeVulk’s fury at being tricked powered them. Like I said, they have few good traits.”

  “I’m not surprised,” I muttered. “Captured and chained and forced to chisel away a mountainside.”

  “Chained? You could not chain a DeVulk. The Petreyen hunter would have to trick the DeVulk into accepting a quest.”

  “How?”

  “Oh, he’d get himself captured—perhaps wait until the cooking pot boiled, and then he would lay down a challenge.”

  “What,” I scoffed, “like, dig a tunnel right down a mountain?”

  “Apparently, it’s all in the phrasing. A true baiting master can con a DeVulk into near enough any feat of tunneling or mining. Mind you, I’ve heard that it is preferable to be a good few miles away when they realize they’ve been duped.”

  A frog that smokes and makes fun of you, and what sounded much like an overgrown rat that carves perfect elevator shafts. If possible, this world was getting even stranger. We descended the rest of the way in silence, apart from an eerie rumble like faraway horses stampeding and the odd bone-chilling scream. I began to doubt my courage. The platform banged to a halt.

  We faced one tunnel, pockets of light bloomed into it from one side, the tunnel tapering away without end.

  “Are you ready?” Zybandian asked.

  I wasn’t. I nodded.

  Like the others, the tunnel was symmetrically carved for a couple of feet, and then it turned into a roughly chiseled corridor. The rock was the color of burnished copper, with sprays of black soot staining it. Water dripped from a sodden ceiling, pooling and then filtering away.

  Then a scream shot through the dank air, shoving it along and almost pushing me back. I missed my step, but steeled myself and continued. Zybandian glanced at me out of the corner of his eye.

  Ahead, I saw a soldier dressed in black and white back away from a shaft of light spreading over the corridor. He had a long spear in his hand and was shouting unintelligible words.

  “The curses,” Zybandian said, “the charms, the banes, and soul reapers, they do not stop the creatures trying. But it is rarer than before, seems we have an adventurous one, just for you.”

  We closed on the soldier, and I saw him bid us forward. He took a few steps back into the center of the tunnel.

  “He’s a lively one,” the man said. “Something’s riled them. They’ve been quiet since…”

  He didn’t have to complete his sentence.

  The soldier was standing in the light, but it danced with erratic, black shadows. That scream rang out again, followed by a stench so foul it made me retch—a mix of burned meat and charred hair. I edged into the light and peeked out, following the point of his spear.

  At the end of the hollowed rock lay a thick, iron grate. Curling around the bars were strands of crackling gold light—Sakina’s charm, I assumed. Beyond the gate
was a beast like I’d never seen before.

  It had the head of a bear, except its eyes were black. From its head trailed a hulking body, the size of a rhinoceros. That was the impression I got, but looking closer I saw the truth. Its face was a maze of scars and lesions, the hair matted with blood. Parts of its hide had been ripped asunder, some stitched roughly back together. Teeth, dripping with saliva, sprayed its gob all around, and it clawed at the soil of a dead land. Beyond the grate, there was no grass, no undergrowth and no trees, just a bone-yard and those that had not yet accepted death.

  There were soldiers out there too, but not like the one on this side of the grate. They looked like the walking dead, their skin similar to the husk of a coconut, their fangs halfway to their chins. Dead eyes hovered above two holes for a nose, and the husky texture of their skin grew longer atop their heads. They were rangy beings, like skeletons with just a heavy skin stretched over them, and they were mounted on huge horses, twisted beasts, beasts from my nightmares. I was sure each horse was a demon, red eyes, bloodied fangs, and razor-sharp hooves.

  “Forbane cavalry,” Zybandian hissed.

  The Zybond soldier cursed and spat. “New this past night,” he said, and turned to me accusingly. “They seek something new here, my lady, and that something is you.” Just as he finished speaking, the bear-hippo-mutant burst forward—that piercing scream its battle cry, and the soldier thrust his spear through the grate, parking its end in a stone holster on the tunnel’s floor. The beast crashed against it, the spear bending before it pierced its thick hide. The golden threads erupted, the beast lashing around as it fought to break free of the spear. The acrid stench of burning flesh filled the tunnel.

  The soldier moved forward, his hand up, deflecting the beast’s spraying saliva. I saw him pick up a chain and fasten it to an iron eye in the spear’s shaft. He soon backed away.