Alexa Drey- the Veils of Lamerell

by Ember Lane

  “All for a ball?” I questioned.

  “Oh no, my dear,” said Zybandian. “Not all the dungeons have been conquered. Many are left, but I just can’t spare the men.” He looked at Star. “Or women— spies included.”

  Flip winked at me. “I get a free pass. Zyb, here, doesn’t care if I live or die.”

  Zybandian fluttered his hands dismissively. “One less thief, one less pirate, one less adulterer in the world. I certainly won’t lose any sleep over that.”

  Flip’s golden eyes glimmered with mischief. “But you’d hate it if I got the loot.”

  Zybandian spat on his hand and offered it to Flip. “Not for fifty percent.”

  “My life?” Flip questioned.

  “My dungeon,” Zybandian told him.

  “One day, Edge-Lord, we will unlock that place together.”

  It hardly seemed worth it to me.

  “So, Alexa, are you looking forward to your first?” Flip asked.

  Secretly, I was and I wasn’t. It sounded daunting, scary, and in my case, all for a ball. But then part of me was saying "yes, yes, yes."

  “Meh,” I muttered, “I think so.” What with the wine and ale, I was feeling quite heady.

  “Then what say we get you started?” Zybandian said. “Grog, take her to a level ten, that should be a good enough test, and if she likes it, we’ll venture together to a harder one.”

  “Why ten?” I asked.

  “One to nine is for children, Alexa,” he said, and smirked, and that got my goat up. I stood and waited for Grog, but he was just staring at Zybandian. “Ten, you sure?”

  “Ten,” he stated.

  Grog shrugged and stood, rounding the table and beckoning me to come. I fell in beside him. “What’s up with a ten?” I whispered out of the corner of my mouth.

  “The demons,” he replied. “They can be quite temperamental.”

  “Temperamental?”

  “Indeed, you’ll see.”

  I wasn’t quite sure I liked the sound of that.

  We ducked under one of the arches and into what resembled a prison, in so much as there were a load of iron-grill doors all stretching away on both sides. Most had the stone hands that Zybandian had told me about, some with balls in their palms, others not.

  “What are all these?” I asked.

  “One to nines. Hardly childrens' dungeons, but orders are orders. Now, when you get inside the 10, watch out for anything that looks normal—it might not be. Definitely watch out for anything that looks abnormal, though sometimes it can be normal, and look for the trick.”

  “The trick?”

  “Remember, there is always a way in and a way out.”

  We arrived at a row of larger doors. I say larger, they were about seven feet tall and a couple wide. These were made of thick wood braced with iron and bolted with numerous studs. Each had an empty palm outside. I looked at Grog with questions on my mind. “Don’t get used so often, do they?”

  If possible, he blushed slightly, his cheeks becoming a dirty brown. “No, like I said, temperamental.” He pulled the hand down, and a sharp click rang out. The door creaked open. I took a breath and stepped in. No way were they going to see me chicken out. I was fairly sure this was what it was all about. Some sort of dungeon initiation. Damn schoolboy tricks, I thought. I’d show them.

  The door slammed shut behind me, and my heart stopped.

  A corridor led away; no different really from any other down here. I stood on a central stone flag, and on one side, a torch burst into life and lit the way. Looking behind me, I saw the door had no handle, but there was a hole in the wall just above where the upturned hand was. I guessed returning the ball would open it, as would placing it where it was supposed to be.

  What next? I quickly looked at my stat board and noticed a tab blinking red that I’d never seen before. I pulled it down.

  Dungeon Level 10. Beware. As dungeons increase in difficulty, so their level increases. It is widely agreed that the best place is to start at the beginning and work your way up.

  This dungeon: Beware the scene that invites. Remember the spider—even evil can have good pulsing through its veins.

  Hmmm, I thought. That didn’t help. I took a step forward, easing my weight onto the next stone slab, holding my dwarven staff in front of me. I made to grab the torch with my free hand but hesitated, wondering if it was a trap, then grabbed it anyway. Trouble was, I’d get nowhere by standing still. The staff felt awkward in my hand, and I thought about the sword. Had Sakina foreseen this test and given me it for that reason? One of the studs in my ear pulsed, as though it liked the way I was thinking.

  Though I had not trained as much in staff fighting, it felt more natural to me than the sword. Yet rather than just focus on the staff, Flip had done the opposite and favored the sword. His reasoning was simple, I would default to the staff, and so it would grow in time. My mind made up, I unslung my sack and stowed the staff in it. Grabbing my sword, I pulled it from its sheath. Its thring rang around the corridor announcing my presence.

  Then, I heard the faintest of cackles, like an echo. It grew and then faded, grew and then faded. It turned my legs to lead. I felt sweat bloom on my brow. Apart from the dread cackle, I could only hear my breath. Though cold, the dungeon’s still, dank air made it clammy—even close. The first fat drop of sweat blinded me in one eye. I rubbed it away with the back of my gauntlet and took a careful step forward. The cackle rang around again.

  Torch in one hand, my sword in the other, I was three steps in when I decided to use my perception. While I could see no creature, nor any plant, I wondered if it could pick anything else up, maybe a trap, a monster hiding, something—anything.

  A cold breeze filtered around me, almost slovenly, making my skin pimple, my neck cold, yet damp with sweat. I steadied my step and took a breath. Nothing, there was nothing to fear here—it was just another stone corridor, deserted, empty, nothing to fear here, nothing to fear here. The cackle whispered to me, getting louder, then fading again.

  Ahead, I saw more torches in a line, the corridor seemingly endless. I dropped the one I was holding, and used both hands to hold my sword in front of me, as if its mere presence was enough. The tip of the sword shivered, my fear leaching into it. My breaths were shallow now, my eyes wide, my heart pounding. I crept on, torch lit shadows dancing around like darkened ghouls.

  “Nothing to fear here,” I muttered, the sound of my own voice faintly reassuring.

  With each step, I tested the next stone flag to make sure it wasn’t an illusion. With each step, I studied each mortar bed to make sure there wasn’t a demon squeezing out of it. With each step, I looked up and scanned the ceiling for spiders that might drop on my head, mouths open, fangs glistening. I truly understood what Flip had been telling me, just this corridor was draining me of courage, and this was just a play dungeon. What must his have been like? Step after draining step, I walked on.

  Up ahead I saw the corridor’s end, and end it did. No door, no crisscrossing corridor, just a dead end, and hanging on it, a copper plaque. The letters etched on it were swirling around, as if trapped in some kind of opalescent vertical pool. They were of a scribe that I hadn’t seen before. The strokes of each letter were stiff, angular and yet ornate in their own way. Once more, I was grateful for Greman’s gift Tongues of Time, as they were from no alphabet I’d ever known. I knew the sound of each swirling character and understood the form their words would make. All I had to do was figure out how to make them stop moving around.

  If shamans and demons made these dungeons, then surely it followed that the language these words would make up would be theirs. If a shaman was to be able to communicate with a demon, then it would seem logical that the spells the shaman would use would be the tongue of the demon. Maybe that’s where the graveling words had come from. I’d already used that for magic, and yet I didn’t know how I’d learned it. I reasoned that as I only knew that single phrase, it was worth a stab using it, even
if it was a curse, as it clearly was—according to Flip.

  I stood, feet apart, sword raised and ready to strike, and bellowed the words, “Ga farag a’tweeth.”

  At first, nothing, nothing more than silence that seemed to grow heavier, nothing more than the air turning from clammy to cloying, my courage faltering from fragile to none.

  Silence.

  My breath the only sound.

  And then I heard it, distant, dread.

  A cackle sounded from beyond the wall to my left, from deep in the rock. It grew louder, closer, soon screaming in my mind, and then it was in the corridor with me, all around, and then to my left, fading, finding a home deep in the rock on the other side.

  The stone behind the plaque faded to midnight. I heard the distant beat of drums, the sound of soldier boy’s flute, and then the gallop of hooves in the distance. I saw a castle keep, cowering soldiers ducking down behind its battlements, the rage of war all around. Mages streamed green bolts down upon a boiling army of dire creatures, and red magic cracked back, the stone crenellations exploding, and the castle’s defenses crumbled. Then I saw the beast.

  It was half as tall again as the castle walls, and striding through the attackers, each step crushing them as the beast fought to decimate the castle. I saw the green mages fall, one by one. A man appeared on the battlements, a great man with a shocking-red beard and long, red hair. He held a flaming sword in his hand and made to meet the beast head-on. He lasted no more than a few blunted strikes before he fell.

  The scene vanished.

  Somehow I knew that I held that man’s sword in my hand.

  A whisper, like curling fingers of mist, haunted my mind, growing like the cackle but saying just six words—deep, throaty words bubbling up from the pit of a rancid stomach, “I have bested you once before,” it croaked, and then tapered with another laugh that faded to silence.

  The sound of hooves on flags began again, and every torch in the corridor went out. Now, the only light was from the copper glimmer of the plaque and its swirling letters. A moon appeared above me, yet not a shining white one, but crimson red. It lit a line of black silhouettes—trees bordering a road, a road that tapered away to naught. Riding down that road was a horseman, black cape flowing in the wind, hunched over, sword outstretched ready to strike. Mesmerized, I watched him come, and yet I could not see his face, covered as it was with a heavy hood. Two beads of red glowed from under it, and I feared they were his eyes. I saw my breath misting as the corridor grew colder. My body tensed.

  “He’s going to trample me,” I thought, I knew, and yet I stood rooted. The clip of hooves on stone grew louder, the bulk of the rider and horse impossibly close now. His sword drew back and then swept toward me, and I felt it slice my neck.

  By then, I welcomed my death.

  22

  Dungeon Run

  Fully expecting to wake up in the catacombs with Billy rowing past me, I opened my eyes. The torches were flickering back into life, the gray stone was back, mortared into place, and the letters were swirling slowly in the translucent copper pool held within the bounds of the plaque. They slowed further until they settled, and the liquid hardened. I sat up, checked my neck and was shocked when I withdrew my hand to see a lash of blood across it. Was this all a vision, or was there some truth in it all? Pushing myself up, I stood before the plaque once more. Four lines of text awaited me.

  What has dominion over the land, yet fails to rule?

  What boasts the largest army, yet fails to win a war?

  What binds the earth, yet lets forth the shadows?

  What bides its time while the heart-twin grows?

  It was clear to me that somehow I had to solve this riddle. I slumped back to the floor and sat and stared at it. I wished I had a pipe like Shylan’s. Somehow, I figured it would help me mull over the puzzle, but the puzzle made no sense.

  What had dominion over land? Man? Even though I’d seen little of Barakdor, there was no doubt in my mind that man, in some form or the other, ruled. So, it had to be something else. Something that should rule but didn’t. The largest army, yet fails to win a war? I shrugged my shoulders. All I could see was an ant…really?

  Binds the earth, lets shadows forth? I thought that must refer to ShadowDancer. As for biding its time—that was no clue at all.

  I sat there for an age.

  Eventually, my palm began to pulse, and I looked down at it. An idea formed in my mind, memories of the vale, of Greman’s garden, of being crowded out of the forest. I jumped up.

  “The jaspur tree,” I stated, and the plaque milked over, the words breaking up once more.

  Silence.

  The squeal of a wound rope.

  A dry grind to both my right and left assaulted my ears, and I looked to one side and then the other. On both sides, a section of wall about three feet wide was falling, getting swallowed up by the floor, and I half expected a hoard of ravenous zombies to burst out of each. Instead, I saw two identical views. Both entrances led to a flat, paved area surrounded by an arched parapet and resembled the top of Shylan’s tower. Beyond those battlements, stars twinkled in a deep-blue night. Then, the screams of the dying rang out, and soldiers and mages appeared, green magic crackling around on the heavy air. The stench of blood and burning bones assailed me.

  I stifled my breath, knowing I was in the midst of the battle I’d already seen. I made to venture onto the first balcony, but hesitated on its threshold. I reached out with the tip of the sword, tracing the doorway’s edge, then pressing on the first stone. A mage turned toward me, desperation etched on his face.

  “Quick,” he barked. “The beast approaches.”

  But I hung back, something felt wrong. I swung my sword around, then edged one of my feet through. The grind of iron on stone rang out, and a great iron portcullis fell down, crashing into the stone, shattering it. The balcony crumbled and fell away, swallowing the mages and all the soldiers. Then I heard the groan of scraping stone and jumped back. The wall rose back and slotted into place. I turned and faced the other scene.

  “Quick,” another mage barked. “The beast approaches.”

  This time, I stepped onto the balcony, the battlements, the defenses of a castle whose name I did not know. I felt hot breath on me, and smelled the tang of blood, sweat and fear. The mage beside me sent a bolt of green down, and I watched it fall onto the vile, upturned faces of the attackers below. Their expressions were twisted in evil anger, husks like hairy coconuts, Forbane, I knew that now, and others too, dire, twisted creatures. Our ballista’s fired their deadly bolts, trebuchets flinging rocks down on them. Boiling oil, flaming arrows, all from the battlement that I could now see all along. A cry of defiance went up as the beast closed in on us, but that defiance was tainted by the tremor of fear.

  It was vast, a living, breathing hell-thing, with horns that curled, erupting from a head shaped like a wolf. Wet hair matted over its snout. Saliva dripped from its wet mouth, from fangs the size of an elephant’s tusk. Its eyes were pits of black. Now I could see its mass. It rose above me by ten or twenty feet. Arms that ended in taloned claws shook as it roared its defiance, now no more than twenty feet from the keep. It beat its leathery chest, its bellows thrumming through me.

  My ear pulsed, and I knew the beast’s name.

  “Alastor,” I shouted, and heads turned toward me.

  “You name the beast?” the mage asked.

  “I name it, Alastor,” I said.

  The mage knelt before me, and then the soldiers followed one by one.

  “So named,” said the mage. “And so it is your beast to fight.”

  My heart dropped as I looked at the raging creature. Hatred filled its blackened eyes as it turned its attention on me. Looking around, the doorway was gone, the soldiers and the mage had all skulked back, and I was alone. Then a man bounded along and toward me. He had a shock of red hair and a long, red beard.

  “I will stand with you, brave soldier. What is your name?
”

  “Alexa Drey!” I screamed above the rising cacophony below us, and the beast clawed at the battlement.

  “Darwanic,” the man shouted back, “and a grim time it is to meet.” He raised his sword and brought it crashing down on the beast’s outstretched claw.

  Damage! Darwanic has dealt the Beast Alastor 66 damage. Strike enh 46%. All hail the king of Irydia! Alastor’s health is now 1933/1999.

  Shattered nails, and pumping, black blood erupted, and the beast howled, its other arm coming around in a great, sweeping strike. It smashed into me sending me clattering across the stone.

  Damage! Alex Drey has received 46 damage. Beware the power of the beast! Health 454/500.

  Darwanic ducked, and jumped atop the battlements slashing at the beast’s head, hurdling the its arm as it streaked back.

  Damage! Darwanic has dealt the Beast Alastor 323 damage. Strike enh 46%. All hail the king of Irydia! Alastor’s health is now 1610/1999.

  I scrambled up, sword in hand, and jumped side by side with the red-haired man. We fought together, matching blow for blow against the vicious demon. It struck with its arms, bit out with its fangs, its tail flailing, far below. The red notifications came thick and fast—our health fading faster than the demon's.

  But Darwanic was too quick for it, a true master with his sword, aided only by my clumsy efforts. He thrust into its breast, he parried talons, evaded surges, and ducked biting fangs. All the while, I was at his side, though getting banged, clattered and bitten. Blood pumped from my wounds, too numerous to count, my tunic, pants and cloak in tatters.

  Red blinked in my vision, I was sure it was blood from my forehead. Health 105/500, the warning flashed up. I was taking too much damage. Soon I would fade, soon I would die, die in this cursed dungeon.