by Greg Curtis
The odd thing though, was that as he stared at the huge construction and imagined what it must have been like when it was new, he found himself missing his cottage. It wasn't huge and impressive. The gardens had been torn apart by wild boars. It said nothing about nobility or importance. But it was truly his home and he loved it.
“Remind you of home?” Peth asked unexpectedly.
Manx was confused for a moment. How did the druid know what he was thinking about? And how by any of the gods did this huge, decaying great house remind him of his little cottage? But then he understood.
“Oh, you mean Clairmont Hall!” He paused for a moment to think. “I haven't been there in over twenty four years. I scarcely remember it at all. But one thing I do remember was that everywhere you went there were gargoyles and grotesques. Here I don't see any. Not a single one.” Of course they could be lurking among the overgrown bushes or might have fallen off the roof parapets. But he doubted it. It just wasn't that sort of a place.
That seemed to be enough conversation for the druid and he fell silent once more. Manx did the same, choosing to spend the long stretches of time staring at the decaying monolith and wondering as he waited for something to be decided.
Meanwhile the shamans continued their meeting with the owners of the estate, standing out on the terrace, engaged from what he could tell, in some sort of vigorous debate. Or at least there was a lot of waving of arms involved. And the rest of them simply stood around by the gliders and watched and waited. They couldn't hear what was said. But it had been a lengthy conversation.
The strange thing was that he didn't know why. Apparently the window was in the basement of the folly and while that didn't make a lot of sense to him – follies were usually small structures and he couldn't imagine why one would have a basement – he also couldn't understand why the current owners of the estate would care. The window was a religious article. An artefact of faith. And unless they followed Freda, there was no advantage to them in keeping it. They couldn't sell it after all. And even if they could it wasn't worth anything. It wasn't made of gold or silver. Nor could they show it off. Not unless they wanted to be hung. In fact there was a very definite disadvantage to having it. They didn't own it. They could never claim to own it. And no noble would want to be accused of holding stolen property. It was a quick way to lose a title. And judging from the condition of the estate, the family title was all they had left.
“Gods this is boring!” Whitey piped up from his shoulder. She'd made herself comfortable in the hood of his great coat. “It's like watching sheep eat grass! And there's no food!”
“You didn't have to come,” he reminded her.
“And what sort of trouble would you get yourself into without me?!” she purred in his ear. “The spiders might attack and who would save you?”
Manx groaned quietly. He knew there was no point in arguing with her. And besides he suspected that the real reason she came with him everywhere, was that she was worried he might run off and leave her. She would never admit that though.
Eventually the discussion on the terrace came to an end and the shamans descended down the grand stairs and headed over to them. Manx waited impatiently to hear what had been decided. He didn't know why this window was important to anyone other than those of the faith, but he was sure it was. And besides, he also followed Freda in as much as he followed any of the gods. The Goddess of Knowledge was also the Goddess of the Written Word, which mattered to him.
“Lord Penny Farthington has granted us permission to search the folly – though he informs us repeatedly that there is no basement underneath it,” the leader of the small group informed them. “It's just a gatehouse, no longer in use.”
Manx could see that last for himself. The small two story building was almost completely covered in ivy and lichens. And as for the drive itself, it had devolved into little more than a track over the years. But still he had hope as he set off for the folly. But he didn't even know what he was hoping for. Adern was back at the inn, awake and slowly improving according to the healers. But he would never recover his youth or full strength. Least of all if he started working on unravelling more dimensional gaols. His days of doing that were past.
Larissa was there too, resting and hopefully recovering her strength. She might be able to continue on their journey in time, but he hoped she wouldn't. Maybe one of these shamans of Freda could take her place for a while. Shamans all had similar magical gifts as far as he knew.
The spiders were still in their city nests, not stirring from them. But he feared they would in due course. Not to start a war, but rather to seek out food. They needed to have spell-casters at full strength for when that happened. But he doubted that that would happen.
And he had been informed that many of the spell-casters were now in negotiation with the Court. But what they were actually discussing he didn't know and in the end it didn't matter. If they didn't find an answer to their condition, there would be none left in due course.
It was a lengthy walk to the folly. The estate was a large one. But that gave him plenty of time to study the building. And to be surprised by it.
Follies were normally small buildings built in the style of the main house. But here the main house was built in a grand style with fluted columns and spires and lots of marble. Whereas the folly was a much more simple affair. It could almost have been a small brick two story house, save that its footprint on the land was too small for anyone to live in. It probably wasn't even large enough for an internal staircase. It likely had a ladder instead. And why red brick when the main house was built of stone?
It could be of course that it was one of those follies built purely for the indulgence of the owner's whims or to show off a family's wealth. But there was nothing about it that looked aesthetically pleasing to him, and neither did it look expensive. It looked like a giant red brick standing on its end if he was honest.
But as he draw closer one thing did strike him. It was too plain. Too boring. As if it had been built specifically to repel the eye. Or not repel so much as simply not interest the viewer. Why?
Of course, he realised, there was only one reason for doing that. To discourage visitors. To make them want to go anywhere else. So maybe this place did have a secret it was hiding. But he couldn't imagine what it might be. Not until he got close enough to spot the firewood box on the side of the building.
The folly had a flat roof and no sign of a chimney. So why did it have a firewood box? As the others all headed inside the building hunting for a stairway leading down to the basement, he headed for it instead.
At first he found himself just as disappointed as everyone else. The wood-box looked exactly like any other wood-box he'd ever seen. But then the discrepancies started to make themselves known to his eyes. The first was when he lifted the lid up and let it rest against the side of the building, and immediately realised that it was made of highly treated hardwoods. This was no wood-box built from rough timbers and offcuts which would rot away in a matter of years even when it had been painted crudely. This was something that had been built to endure throughout the centuries. It even had bronze screws and hinges holding it together. Metals that wouldn't rust.
Then he studied the stone base on which the box stood and realised that there was more strangeness here. The first was that there was not only no wood in the box, there was no evidence that any wood had ever been stored in it. But why would there be? The folly had no fireplace. But of more interest to him, the stones looked to have been randomly placed and set in mortar. But when he looked more closely he realised that there was a pattern. And the mortar itself was odd. It almost shrank back a little from the edges of the stones.
He pushed down gently on one, just to test it, then heard a click and yanked his arm back quickly, just as a blade flashed out from a cleverly concealed crevice in the wood. It just missed his fingers by inches.
“Shite!” Manx stared at his fingertips just to make absolutely sure that th
ey were all still there, and then breathed hard as the shock hit him. That had been too close!
“You idiot!” Whitey scolded him. “You could have lost your hand! Then how would you feed me?!”
Manx didn't answer her. She wouldn't have liked it if he had. Instead he just crouched there over the wood-box and wondered what other traps it might conceal. And it occurred to him belatedly, there would probably be others. He called to the others and told them to back away from the building.
Then while they did that he grabbed a branch from a nearby bush and got into position. He wasn't going to risk his fingers a second time! He grabbed a good solid rock as well.
In time the others were all out of the building and standing well back, and he knew he could start work exploring the stone base of the wood-box. He brought the end of the stick down on another of the stones, and watched unsurprised as another blade shot out and very nearly cut right through a good inch and a half of wood.
“Balls!” He wasn't surprised that the blade had shot out. But he was surprised by the impact. After four hundred years the springs powering the steel blades were still strong. They hadn't lost any of the coiled tension in them. That was good quality metallurgy.
Unfortunately for whoever had built the booby trap, he wasn't about to fall prey to it. He just kept bringing the branch down on the stones and let the blades spring out and chop great gashes into it. And then when they were out, he deactivated them with the rock. Dropping it on top of the extended blades broke the mechanisms and in time the blades came completely free. Eventually he pulled them out and the stone base was once more safe to play with. But he wasn't going to take any chances.
“Can someone go and get some garden tools please,” he called out. “A sledge, a rake and a broom should do.” He heard the sound of someone leaving but didn't turn around to see.
“What are you doing?” Peth asked.
“I think this is the way down to the basement. But I don't plan on risking my fingers and toes finding out,” he replied. “So I'm going to deactivate the traps properly.”
He knew that that wasn't what would be expected of him from all the heroic tales of intrepid thieves that he'd read as a child. He was the agile thief. They would expect him to carefully deactivate the traps with a knife, a cunning wit and a steady hand, all while dancing out of the way of those that sprang shut on him. But that was why they were stories. He intended to take things more carefully. Spring the traps one by one and then smash them.
Ten minutes later one of the sorcerers returned with the tools, and Manx began work, using the sledge to destroy the entire wood-box and the rake to pull the pieces off the stone base. It didn't take long. But then he began the hard part, smashing the base with the sledge.
“What are you doing?”
“There's probably a secret pattern to this. Push the stones in the right order and the traps deactivate and the way down opens. But I don't know it. So I'm just going to smash the whole damned lot to pieces.” It was crude, but it was safe. And strangely it was easier to do than he'd expected.
The stones were supported by a metal framework. Push the stones in the right order and the structure would come apart and you could lift it up in two parts, like a hatch. But hit the stones with enough force and they smashed right through the metal structure leaving a hole. And once all of them had been punched through, what was left was a stairway leading down into the darkness.
“Ohh! You think there's food down there?” Whitey asked.
“I think there's death down there. And you aren't going.” He lifted the cat out of his hood and put her down on the ground. “You stay over there where it's safe.” He pointed at a nearby tree.
“But I'm quick and light!” she objected.
“Those knives might or might not have taken my fingers off. But they would have taken all four of your legs off and left you rolling around on the ground. How adorable would you be then?”
“Monkeys!” she grumbled. “Always chattering!” But she did as he said, and Manx breathed a sigh of relief. That was one less thing he had to worry about.
“Danvers,” he called to the sorcerer, “think you can send some light down there without putting any part of your body in harms way?”
“Watch me!” The sorcerer replied. Then he gestured with his hands and a heartbeat later half a dozen globes of light flowed from them and floated down into the darkness, illuminating the entire stairway.
By the gods he looked like a wizard should! At least that was what Manx thought as usual. But how was it, he wondered, that the man had finally managed to buy some new clothes and yet still managed to look dishevelled? Maybe he liked that look. Trousers creased, vest crumpled and long coat streaming tails as it had too many slits in it. And now he'd added to it with a knitted woollen scarf that trailed almost down to his feet. If he ever had to run, Manx thought, the man would be in danger of tripping over his own clothes!
For the moment though, he had to concentrate on what was in the basement and not the sorcerer's strange choice of attire. Unfortunately what the globes of light revealed wasn't what Manx wanted to see, and he cursed quietly.
“What's wrong?” Peth asked.
“More traps. A lot more traps.” Manx could see the same stones set out in the slightly strange mortar on every step leading down. Every step on the way down would be deadly unless you knew exactly where to put your feet. And he didn't know that. But just to be sure he lifted the rock above his head and dropped it on the top step. A blast of fire ripped out across the step, causing him to have to jump back in a hurry.
“Balls!”
Seeing the flames jetting out across the step Manx realised two things. First that this wouldn't be the only trap ahead. The basement was likely full of them. And second, that this had been designed by a Smythe. One of his ancestors had created this death trap. This would not be easy to get past.
But he also realised in time, that he didn't have to go through the traps. He could go around them. For a while he thought about going over them, but then decided that that would be too dangerous. Someone could fall – he could fall. Or he might drop something on the floor below that would set off a trap that would kill him. It was better to go in from the side.
“You standing there like a statue for a reason?” Whitey called out from her place by the tree. “Because you look like you've seen a ghost! But don't worry. It's probably just your reflection!”
Manx groaned, but didn't reply. He had more important things to deal with.
“Danvers,” he called the sorcerer over to him. “How are you and your friends at digging trenches?” He explained what he wanted to them, and they swiftly started work, using invisible knives to cut great cubes out of the ground and then float them away to form a pile in the distance.
They were surprisingly quick and fifteen minutes later they had a ten foot deep trench running parallel to the stairs and exposing much of the side wall. After that it was only a matter of crumbling the mortar in the outer wall and the stairs and then pushing the freed stones into the trench. Naturally there were more traps triggered. More fire was released, more blades came flying out of walls. There were even spikes rising up from the stairs themselves. They would have hurt! But after that there was only an empty trench where the stairs had been, and a pile of rubble beside it.
“So now can we go in?” Sigrid, one of the shaman of Freda asked.
She was looking impatient. Manx guessed he couldn't blame her for that. One of the most important, perhaps the most important physical artefact of the faith was supposedly inside that basement. And he was curious to see it too. To see if you really could see an image of the Goddess as she had been as a mortal before she'd ascended, caught in the glass. And he wanted to know why the window was so important to everyone else. Or at least to the Goddess Ao. But he wasn't foolish.
“Gods no!” he replied. “There'll be more traps inside. This place is riddled with them.” And whoever had built this place – he guessed it
was one of his ancestors – had been absolutely determined that no one get what was inside, out. Unfortunately for them, he had a plan.
“Peth,” he called to the druid, “is there a hose on the side of the building?” He was sure there would be. There was a water tank on the other corner of the building after all.
“I'll get it,” the druid called back.
Then while Peth did that, Manx lowered himself into the trench that had once been a stairway, and risked peeking into the basement.
Inside the light from the sorcerer's globes revealed that it was more or less what he'd expected. A stone walled basement. But it had no internal walls. Nothing of interest to catch the eye. Just four stone walls, and a lot of heavy wooden beams supporting the stone roof and the rest of the folly above. But that wasn't what was important. What was was the object right in the centre of the room. The window, he assumed.
It was about the right size and shape for a window, but he couldn't actually see it since it was covered with a heavy canvas sheet. Something about that bothered him. The way that the sheet so perfectly covered the window. And given everything else they'd seen, he suspected it was a trap. The final trap.
