Heaven Fall

by Leonard Petracci

  “I have ready a special essence,” Merrill continued for Valen, next to him, in tones that told Draysky this was rehearsed. “One that will drag them straight to hell, to where they deserve to be. We just need someone to administer it—someone who we can slip among them, until the time is right to act.”

  “You, Draysky, are who we have chosen,” completed Valen, and he shifted. These were not the Keepers he sought his revenge against. And she sensed his hesitation.

  “After all, that demon is the very one who owns your outpost. Who manages it, who reaps the crystal. Who else is more responsible for your misery than she?” Valen whispered, and Draysky stiffened.

  “She’s the one who stole from my Grinder?” said Balean next to Draysky, his voice inaudible to the others, his face unseen. “Revenge it is, then.”

  But Draysky was not listening. He was intent upon Valen as she continued to speak.

  “Just as she took your parents from you, we take Lady Falstor’s spawn from her. Lucille.”

  Draysky nodded, his eyes hard.

  Heavenfall, the day was called. The day, legend had it, that the Keepers would perish.

  As the four of them waded back through the crowd to begin their schemes, the clock in the square struck noon, the bell tolling.

  And its ticking continuing.

  Epilogue: Clave

  Clave pushed away his annoyance at his twin brother as he inspected the cups along the cavern wall. Today he fulfilled his duty deep beneath the Tower, filling the cups from the inky black pool at the cavern’s center. Once a week they were supposed to be tended, yet already they were almost empty. It had been ten days since Clave and his brother had last switched positions, and Clave had filled them to the brim before leaving. Good thing, too—had they emptied, the tremors would have begun again.

  After the burning of the city, a tremor would knock buildings over like dominoes. Even months later it still would, as some would never be repaired, and the Keepers would be busy with the long process of patching the hole in the Tower's side.

  He diligently walked the circumference of the pool, taking his time to ensure each cup was filled, the inky liquid flowing to renew its mark on the dark runes encircling the walls. As he reached his last cup, he frowned, his pot pausing just before it dipped into the water.

  Perhaps it had been an illusion, a trick of the light in the already dim cavern. Had that been a ripple he had seen? A slight disturbance, like a fin underneath the surface. Never before had the surface of the water moved.

  He frowned but continued to make his way around the edge. Here, some of the cups were so empty that only a thimbleful of liquid remained. He quickened his pace, rushing back and forth. Soon he would be back where he had started, then he could rest.

  Then Clave arrived at the final cup, the one marked with a charcoal streak on the wall, and carried his empty pot to the first he had filled that day. He hung the tool on the wall, and out of habit more than anything else, checked the first cup’s contents.

  Half empty.

  Clave froze, staring at the liquid as if he expected it to rise on its own. But instead, it seemed to be shrinking away from him, draining. He dropped to his hands and knees, searching for a hole in the cup, or a leak anywhere on the wall. But there was nothing besides a steady heat that emanated from the runes on the wall. A heat from stone usually cool to the touch.

  In the corner of his eye, Clave saw the ripple again.

  He spun, hands going to the pot on the wall, as dark water started pouring back from the center of the pond. Something hemispherical rose there, like a bubble, only half a foot above the rest of the water. Then the smooth edges trickled away, revealing a black liquid skull as wide as Clave was tall, its jaw working as it spoke to the ceiling.

  “Someone has stolen from me,” it slithered. “What’s mine has been plundered. This I know.”

  A presence overcame Clave. Suddenly it was all he could do to keep still. He felt as if he were being squeezed from two directions at once and the only way to escape was to dart forward, like a marble caught between two fingers. Before he knew it, he was speaking, his thoughts trailing after his words.

  “W-what has been stolen?” he stammered, shocked his mouth had moved.

  “My place,” the figure spoke again, and its eyes flickered toward Clave. If he could call them eyes; rather, they were bulging pits of darkness that peered out from the skull. “Keeper of the Dark, I have come a long way to reach you. Even now, I barely brush the tips of this world, and not for long. Why must you hold me chained, Keeper?”

  “I’m not a Keeper." The words came out like an excuse, a shield raised in self defense.

  “Oh, but you are,” said the face, as it started to slide back into the water. “Know your history, Keeper of the Dark. Ask yourself what your ancestors would have wanted.”

  A thin tendril of dark water leapt up from the surface of the lake, splashing against a stone door set into the wall. It rewet where the runes had dried from the now drained cup, and as it fell away, dark stones fell to the floor. Stones that seemed to pull in light, as Clave felt his feet marching toward them.

  “Prepare the way for me, and you shall be rewarded,” the voice said, now gurgling, as it slid beneath the surface. “The gift of knowledge, I present to you.”

  Then it was gone, and Clave gasped as the presence departed, falling to his knees. Ahead of him, the stones glittered—three of them, each the size of his pinky nail.

  I will have nothing to do with this, he thought, and he snatched them up, preparing to throw them back into the pool. But when he took them in hand, a coolness washed over him, and he felt a draw. A pulling toward the door, where the freshly wet rune still glistened, drawing him into it.

  From the dark rocks, a small power surged. It flowed through him and touched the rune as if he had brushed it with his own fingertips.

  Stone grated as the door slid aside, splitting down a center he had not known existed, for moments before it had appeared seamless. Within, the same low lights as the rest of the cavern glowed, though more concentrated. A hundred more of them, at least, though the room was far smaller.

  It was enough light to read by, he realized, as he made out the rows of bookshelves that awaited. From that light, he just made out the word scrawled on the floor, in dark lettering that matched the inky pool.

  Burden One.

  The doors waited for him, open, as he felt himself drawn inward. But first, there were cups to refill.

  Already, every one of them was empty.

  END OF BOOK 1

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