by Ember Lane
Quaiyl took off, scaling the wall. The man shouted, “No! No, no!” and disappeared from the window. Billy pulled Frank up, and they ran into the keep.
Merl’s guardians were nothing if not thorough. They hunted down all. They killed all.
“What next?” Desmelda asked as she swept into the keep’s great hall. “And I only enquire because a keep usually has a suite for its lord, and it would not be uncommon for that suite to have a bath, bed, and a nice warm fire. Now, it’s afternoon, and we’ve pretty much navigated our way right across a city. We could carry on fighting, or we could enjoy Rourke’s suite and search his keep for some clues as to what is going on.”
“I think we need to plan.” Frank said. “These zombays are extremely fierce compared to the ones in Three Valleys. If they keep getting more aggressive with each passing day, we’ll never get through to Erreden.”
“But I’ve already sent the bird,” Billy protested.
“That’s why we need time to think,” Frank told him.
Merl followed Billy, whose lantern licked the close, curving walls. Steps led down in a spiral. A pool of black cloaked their destination. Merl gulped. Only his shallow breaths and an echoing drip punctured the silence as they crept forward. A hint of rot flavored the dank air. It was not the punchy stench of turning zombays but the smell of neglect and drying sewers.
“Are you sure it’s down here?” Merl hissed.
“Sure as eggs is eggs and tha sky is blue,” Billy said. “Desmelda said to go search the pantry, and go search the pantry is what we’re gonna do. You wanna go back t’witchy witch empty handed?”
Merl considered it, but he was both hating and enjoying their exploration. “Na, not really. She’s just bathin’ an’ all. She’ll fall asleep, wake, an’ get all grumpy. Don’t like her so much when she’s grumpy.”
“Anyways, don’t you wanna see what’s down these steps?”
Merl highly doubted the kitchen was this far below ground. The one in Walinda Alepuller’s tavern was on the same level as everything else. He couldn’t see any reason why you’d put a kitchen where it was all damp. Billy was up to mischief—Merl had no doubt about that—but mischief was a good bit more fun than Frank trying to burrow inside Merl’s head and pull out his secrets.
Merl didn’t really want to see what was at the bottom of the steps, but he also didn’t want Billy to know that.
“Kinda,” Merl lied. “But you gotta remember, we used t’get up to mischief coz we was bored. Ain’t had time to be bored since I met up with Frank. Mischief finds us now, Billy. We don’t have t’go chasin’ it.”
“We’re lookin’ fer the kitchen,” Billy snapped, but he turned and grinned, and Merl saw the devil in him. “’Sides, Merl, you think we’ll ever get another chance to explore a haunted castle?”
“Haunted?” Merl gasped, and Billy’s laughter echoed around him.
Haunted castles weren’t up to much if you asked Merl. They were way too quiet and went too far down into the guts of the land. It was wet and horrible. It was all echoey, and Merl was sure he could hear the distant chink of chains.
“Dungeons,” Merl said. “Bloody dungeons.”
“We could find us a locked-up prince, or a beautiful princess.”
“Or a blinkin’ murderer ready t’strangle us to death.”
Billy blurted a laugh. “What ‘ave you gotta worry about? You got Quaiyl watchin’ yer back. Ain’t nothin’ gonna get close to you, let alone kill you, like.”
Merl knew Billy had a point. Quaiyl was his customary yard away, following Merl with Gloomy Joe close by. It still didn’t settle Merl’s heart none. Quaiyl would have a job stopping an arrow hitting him in the chest, or a ravenous mushroom with a bad attitude. He’d never stop Merl falling into a pit of spikes, or a rolling boulder from squashing him. He’d heard tales of ancient dungeons, their traps and their riches. He’d heard of the way that normal folk went in them, then came out all twisted and mad. Quaiyl couldn’t stop Merl from going bonkers, could he?
“Quaiyl ain’t everything. No offence, Quaiyl. Is it getting’ colder?” Merl was getting distinctly uncomfortable. The area around him made him itchy.
They eventually spilled onto a stone-flagged corridor. Billy’s torch lit up a dozen yards in each direction. The place was filthy, the flags broken and uneven. A table lay on its side, and a body slumped back on a chair, its insides missing. Rats scattered in every direction as they launched themselves from the soldier’s guts. Merl recoiled back up the steps, gasping a revolted breath.
“You sure about this, Billy?”
The fleeing rats had disturbed a terrible stench. Merl heaved as he stepped back into the corridor and Billy’s safe pool of torchlight. Heavy doors punctured sodden, stone walls. Barred hatches allowed them to see into small cells. Billy ran over to the first, pressing his face against the bars and looking in.
“Nothing!” Billy cried.
“Are you sure about this, Billy?” Merl repeated, but Billy was too far down the mischief trail to turn around and was already skipping to the next door. He shoved his face close again before saying, “Nothing,” once more.
Merl chanced a glance in one, but Billy’s torchlight was behind him, so all he could see was black. Billy scooted to the next but cursed and moved on. Merl gathered his courage and peeked again, yet he was greeted once more with nothing but black. Then a face appeared, wide eyed and pale. Merl screamed. The man screamed. Billy screamed and dropped the torch.
The torchlight waned, nearly snuffed out by the wet floor. Gloomy Joe quickly darted over to it and picked it up in his mouth. Merl grabbed hold of it, raising it out of harm’s way.
“What ya scream for?” Billy barked, clearly embarrassed at having screamed himself. “Nearly filled me pants.”
“Pris’ner,” Merl blurted. “Pris’ner in that there cell.”
“For real?” Billy asked, darting to the door and looking in.
Billy screamed again. The prisoner screamed again, Merl, though, didn’t. He scrambled back to the steps, taking the torch with him. Billy got up and coughed. He pulled his tunic back in place and cleared his throat for good measure.
“What are you hiding fer, Merl? He can’t hurt you. He’s all locked up, like.”
“Coz he’s a prisoner.”
“I won’t hurt you,” the prisoner’s raspy voice sounded out. “Just get me some water. What happened to the bastard guards? Heard a commotion. Heard screams. Heard rats. Then… I heard nothin’.”
“That’s coz they’re all dead,” Billy said. “The whole lot of ‘em.”
“All dead? Hmmm. Dead? Can I have some water?”
Merl waved the torch around and found a bucket right by the steps. A wooden mug floated in it. He scooped up a mugfull, but then peered into it to make sure it had no guts bobbin’ about in it, before he passed it to Billy.
Billy grabbed the torch from Merl. “There you go.” Billy passed the water through. “Any other buggers down here?” he asked.
“Just me. I heard they weren’t good at anything but stringing folk up after they locked me down here.”
Billy tapped his boots on the wet, stone floor. “Oh well. Come on, Merl, let’s go find the kitchen.”
“Hang on,” the prisoner said. “If everyone’s dead, you can’t leave me down here.”
Billy looked at Merl and shrugged. “He’s got a point.”
“He might be a killer,” Merl protested. “Then again, he’ll starve.”
Merl was in two minds what to do. He’d heard prisoners were bad, but some of the folk in Morgan Mount had fallen foul of the law at one point or the other, and some of them were stand-up folk.
“We’ll get ‘im to promise not t’kill us,” Billy proposed.
“Look,” the man said. “I’m not a killer. Daemon Mercer’s men locked me up an age ago. I’ve been here ever since.”
Merl dithered on the stairs. “So you’re Daemon Mercer’s enemy?”
“All day
long—if I ever see the day again. Look, keys are hanging on the wall right by where you are. I know where the kitchen is, and I also know where the wine cellar is. How come everyone died? Everyone? You mean the whole keep? Sorry, it’s been a while since I talked to anyone. Me words keep slipping out.”
“Might as well ‘ave been the whole city. They all zombays,” Billy answered.
“What tha’ hell’s a zombay?” the prisoner asked. “The snarlin’ thing that beat up the guard?”
“Yep,” Billy rattled the key in the lock and kicked the door open. “Now you looky here, Mister Friend, Merl’s got himself a construct, an’ I’ve seen that construct twist a man t’burstin’. So you—” Billy stopped in mid sentence and movement and just gawped at the man.
“Name’s Rourke.” The man darted out of the cell, stopping and staring at Quaiyl. “Is that a demon?”
Merl gasped, seeing what appeared to have frozen Billy in place. Rourke was stick thin and mostly naked apart from rags. His hair was as long as Desmelda’s, but as filthy as a zombay’s. Merl had never seen a ghost before, but Rourke looked just how Merl would picture one. The man had more bones than flesh, and his eyes were as wide as a hen’s eggs.
“His name’s tha’ same as tha’ zombay they threw outta the keep.” Billy scratched his head. “Oh well. Where’s the kitchen, then?”
Rourke approached Quaiyl. He looked him up and down. “If not a demon, is it a zombay?”
“Nope,” Merl said, pleased he knew something more than someone else for once. “It’s a construct.”
“What’s a construct?”
Merl thought it a strange question, seeing as he’d just told Rourke.
“That is,” Merl told him, pointing at Quaiyl. “Now, the kitchen?”
Rourke gave Merl an odd look, sidled past him, and climbed the steps. Billy explained to Rourke about zombays and all that had happened, but Merl could tell that Rourke thought Billy was spinning him a yarn. The tale took them all the way to the kitchen which was on the castle’s ground floor. They rifled the room for everything it had, and then grabbed a few bottles from the wine cellar before they returned to a rather flabbergasted Desmelda and Frank where they introduced Rourke.
“You’re the Rourke?” Frank asked. “Then…”
“I take it you have a tale,” Desmelda said. “But first, you need a bath. Frank, conjure me your fire pit and my cauldron.”
Once Rourke was fed and bathed, Frank asked him his story. Rourke rested back in an armchair right by the hearth. A now roaring fire spread a warming glow over him. He looked old, Merl thought, now that his hair fell straight rather than ranging around like unruly brambles, and his face appeared even more wrinkled, like his skin had become comfortable. He looked older, yes, but he also looked at home. Rourke matched his hearth. He fit his chair, and Merl decided that if he left his chair for any reason, the room just wouldn’t look right. The old man took a savoring sip of ale and then began his tale. “Talis is corrupted, and from Talis springs The Word. If The Word is no longer true, then Alaria cannot be true. Rot, young Merl, a rotted root will wither the highest leaf.”
Merl wondered why Rourke was addressing him and not Frank or Desmelda. He assumed he must have just heard Merl’s name when they were down in the cells. Everyone stared at him, like he was supposed to answer or something. “Highest leaf,” he said, and nodded intently. “Who’s Talis?”
Rourke stared at the fire. He grunted. “Who’s Talis indeed? After what they did to me, I begin to wonder. How long do you think I was in those cells, Merl? How long? Of course, I ask you questions that no simple farmhand would know the answer to. I wouldn’t even expect you to know.” Rourke darted a look at Frank, “though quite what you are I do not know. You aren’t a Warrior of Tintagel anymore and you aren’t a true Wizard of Quintz yet, either. You are both and yet neither. You know of Alaria, you’ve trod its valleys and vales, but you don’t understand its caverns and caves. He doesn’t understand Alaria’s nuance, Merl.”
Merl didn’t have a clue how Rourke could know that Frank was a Wizard of Quintz: in fact, he seemed to know a whole lot more about Frank than he had any right to. Merl didn’t understand Alaria’s nuance either, but then he didn’t know what the heck nuance was, doubted anyone did.
“Doesn’t he?” Merl replied. He took a darting look from Frank for his trouble, though he did note Frank flashing him a grin.
“But,” Rourke continued, raising a bony finger and pointing it in the air, “I would expect a witch from Wormelow Tump to understand the heraldic significance.” His bony finger pointed at Desmelda, who shifted uncomfortably.
“Your isolation has affected your ability to judge the length of your nose, old man. You should take care not to stick it where it isn’t welcome else Merl’s cleaver might chop it off.”
Merl wondered how he was managing to barge his way into every part of this conversation, even though he had nothing to do with anything and fully intended to keep it that way. Billy was clearly following a similar train of thought, except he appeared to be eager to be involved.
“What about me?” Billy asked, clearly ready for Rourke’s judgement.
Rourke cast his beady eyes over Billy, regarding him for a long time. He took a steady sip of his ale while Billy squirmed and wriggled under the old man’s gaze, before he puffed up ready for Rourke’s pronouncement.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know who you are,” Rourke finally said, and all the puff fled Billy.
Frank was still staring at Desmelda. “You are from Wormelow Tump?”
Desmelda peered down her nose at him. “Wizards aren’t the only once that can sense shifts in the land. My sisters detected it long before your Ricklefess. Long before.”
“So that was why…” Frank said.
“Why I was close enough to be observant, but far enough away to be discreet. I visited Morgan Mount every season’s turn to keep an eye on the boy, nothing more, nothing less.”
“Scary Mary!” Billy blurted out, pointing. “Scary Mary the tooth fairy!”
“No!” Merl gasped.
Desmelda furrowed her brow. “I most certainly wasn’t that horrible piece of work! I merely pedaled my wares—elixirs and potions. Merl’s dad was one of my biggest customers. We chatted every time I set up my stall. He bought… Well, never mind.”
Billy beamed. “Throbbin’ potion, he bought throbbin’ potion off you. Aye, I know you now, you’re the old hag that always brought a smile to Walinda Alepuller’s fizzog, like.”
Desmelda clasped her hands together and sat back. A smile stretched her lips. “I was that hag.”
“When you’re all done reminiscing,” Rourke said. “I’m older than the hills, you know. I might drop down dead before I reveal all my secrets. Talis, woman, what import is Talis?”
Desmelda brushed her lips with an outstretched finger as she mulled her response. “Talis, Merl, is the summit of the structure of all things Alarian. Talis is the ruler, and the code he must abide by is called The Word. The Word is simple. It is the rule of one, five, and four. One rules five, but five can rule one as long as four might are together.”
“Exactly,” Rourke said. “Exactly. I couldn’t have said it better myself. So, you see, Merl, if Talis himself takes no note of four, then everything falls apart. One man rules five, but four combined can overthrow him, see? No-one’s power is absolute. For me to merely be usurped, to be replaced, means the rule of one, five, and four is no longer functioning, because I can tell you categorically, none of my five plotted to overthrow me.”
Merl wanted to say, “Well, that clears that up,” but felt it needed more explanation, and he hoped beyond all hope that he wasn’t around when it happened. He chose, instead, to take a stab in the dark and hoped it would pay off.
“Your king has been corrupted?”
It was a safe bet. In every conversation he’d ever heard his dad partake in, someone in charge of something was corrupt, and that usually—in Merl’s experienc
e—made life crap for everyone else. He waited with breath bated.
“Exactly, Merl, exactly.”
“How do you know my name?” Merl asked.
Rourke thought long and hard. “Must be the prophecy,” he muttered.
Merl’s heart leapt. “You’ve read the prophecy?”
“I’ve heard loads of prophecies. I’m sure one mentions a wizard, a sheepherder, and a witch.”
Desmelda rolled her eyes. “Every prophecy worth its weight in salt has a bloody witch, farmhand, and wizard in it. Show us the one that mentions Merl.”
“Show you? Prophecies aren’t written, they are handed down from one to another until the time passes and the act is done. Now, let me think. It went something like…” Rourke’s eyes slowly closed. His head drooped, and he began to snore.
“Rourke!” Frank shouted. “Rourke!”
Rourke spluttered. “What? What?”
“The prophecy. Merl!”
One of Rourke’s eyes opened wide. “It went like… It went like… When the smoke hangs low around the skirt of the three-faced. When man eats man. There’ll be a wizard that greets him. The Witches of Wormelow Tump will know him. He’ll see numbers and letters where numbers and letters have no mind to be, and his name is—”
Rourke’s other eye snapped open. A look of terror fixed on his face. His mouth gaped open as his hands grabbed at his chest. His cheeks became hollow, and blood began dripping from his nose.
“His name!” Frank shouted, though Merl suspected he knew and waited for his own name’s inevitable uttering. “His name!” Frank yelled, reaching Rourke and grabbing him.
“His name is…”
“Yes?”
“Duran,” Rourke said, then promptly died.
“Well that’s a bugger,” said Billy.
23
“This way,” Billy crowed.
Merl knew his friend was pleased as punch to be important again; he was also over the moon that Merl hadn’t been named by Rourke. Billy was a simple soul. Merl understood Billy didn’t care that Rourke didn’t even know him, just as long as he didn’t know Merl either. Experience had taught him that Billy only needed his ego massaged every now and then. Mostly when he’d taken a body blow like Rourke had delivered when he’d said he didn’t know him. So Billy needed someone else to be pulled down so that he could get back up again. That was why Merl had agreed to go exploring once more, and that was how they’d found the castle catacombs.
