Fire Keep

by J. Scott Savage

  “They sssspeak the truth,” he hissed with a wise and knowing look on his face. “The only way out of Fire Keep is through magic. But there is no magic here. I’m afraid you are trapped in Fire Keep forever.”

  13: A Meeting

  Marcus held his breath and listened. Something was in the room with him. He could hear it skitter across the damp floor, pause, then move again. He strained to see into the darkness, but it was no use. Barely enough light came through the crack under the door to suggest a vague outline of the cell he’d been locked in since he was dragged here.

  The sound came again. Clitter-scratch. The sound of tiny claws on stone. Clitter-scratch. It was getting closer. He could imagine something with sharp teeth and furry skin touching his bare feet any minute.

  Instinctively he reached for fire to light the room. Instead of magic flowing through him, something slick and revolting attempted to force its way into his body. It was like taking a drink of cool water, only to discover that the glass was filled with vile, black sludge. He choked and tried to spit the taste out of his mouth, but his parched tongue and lips were unable to gather enough saliva.

  He had no idea how long he’d been in the cell, but it had been this way since he’d been captured. Every time he called magic, something sick and revolting attacked him instead. He had the feeling that if he kept trying, then eventually whatever was working at getting inside him would succeed.

  The sound came again. He rattled the chains stretching his arms above his head and pinning his ankles to the wall. Arcs of pain raced up his shoulders and into his nearly numb hands.

  “Help! Someone let me out of here.”

  Footsteps sounded outside the room, and a moment later, the lock clicked, and a twisted figure with wide eyes and a beak-like nose that made him look like an owl stepped through the door. Light flooded the cell, and Marcus squinched his eyes shut. But not before he saw a spider with a hairy, black body the size of his fist, and spiny legs lifting it a good six inches off the floor.

  Less than a foot from Marcus, the spider froze for a second, then scuttled toward a hole in the wall. The owl-faced creature was too quick. It raced across the room on bent legs, snatched up the spider, and crushed it with a sound like breaking egg shells.

  Green goop leaked from between the creature’s fingers as it shoved the spider into its beak with a muffled crunching and smacking sound.

  Marcus’s stomach rolled over, and if he’d have eaten anything in the last twenty-four hours, it surely would have come back up.

  “Please.” Marcus’s voice cracked. “Let me out of here.”

  The hunched creature turned to study him with unblinking gold eyes the size of saucers.

  Marcus tried to ignore the line of green spider ichor dripping down the side of its beak. “If you help me, I can get you anything you want.”

  “Quarg,” the creature squawked. Was it agreeing to help him, refusing, or just making noise? For all he knew, it couldn’t understand a word he’d said. It shuffled to the door, and he braced himself to be plunged back into darkness. Instead, the owl-faced man went outside the cell and returned with a weathered wooden bucket. Water splashed over the rim as the creature carried it across the cell.

  Marcus’s mouth, which had been too dry to spit a moment earlier, began to salivate at the thought of a drink. It was only as the figure drew the bucket back and swung it toward him that he realized what was about to happen. He barely had time to open his mouth before ice-cold liquid splashed across his face and body.

  “Stik,” the owl-man said in a hooting kind of voice that was difficult to understand.

  Marcus licked as much of the water trickling down his face as he could. The drops felt incredible on his cracked lips, but there weren’t nearly enough of them.

  “Stik,” the creature repeated.

  Marcus stuck out his tongue to lick the last of the water from above his chin. “I don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “Stik. Was.” The owl man pointed to Marcus then rubbed its gnarled hands over its body.

  “Stick was what?” Marcus asked. If the words held some kind of meaning, he was too tired to figure it out.

  With an angry caw, the creature stepped forward, patted a hand in the puddle of water at Marcus’s feet, and wiped its palm across its body.

  All at once, Marcus understood what the little creature was trying to say, and despite his pain and exhaustion, he couldn’t help laughing. “Stink, wash,” he said in a hoarse voice. “You’re telling me that I stink and need to wash, aren’t you?”

  “Quarg, quarg,” the man squawked excitedly.

  Apparently, Marcus had gotten it right. “Try hanging in this stinking wet hole for a few hours then see if you stink.” Sniffing, Marcus realized the man didn’t need to hang around here to stink. The stench of rotted meat flowed off him like some foul perfume.

  “Was,” the man repeated.

  Marcus shook the chains, grimacing at his aching arms. “How am I supposed to wash with my hands chained above my head?”

  The expression on the owl face was priceless. Its already big eyes opened wider still, and it cocked its head. It reached into a pocket with bent fingers and pulled out a key ring. With surprising dexterity for someone with such crooked limbs, it unlocked Marcus’s arms and legs. The moment the chains were released, Marcus collapsed into the puddled water. Barely able to move his arms, he wet one palm and licked his fingers.

  “Was!” The owl man darted forward and kicked him in the ribs.

  Marcus hissed and jerked away. “Don’t touch me.” He balled his hands into fists. As weak as he was, though, and with no magic, he might not be able to fight something even as weak as this creature. Marcus scooped what little water remained in the bucket into his hand and used it to scrub off as much of the dirt and sweat from his body as he could.

  The owl man watched for a moment before limping out of the room.

  Marcus eyed the open door, wondering if his legs were strong enough to make a run for it. Before he could decide, the man returned and tossed Marcus’s robe and staff on the floor. No words were needed for Marcus to know what the creature wanted. Using the staff to hold his weight, he forced himself painfully to his feet and pulled the robe on over his head. He had barely gotten his arms through the sleeves when the creature jabbed him in the back.

  “Out.”

  Marcus glared at the bird-like man. “When I get my magic back, Thanksgiving is coming early and you’ll be the main course.”

  The creature hooted what might have a laugh.

  The tunnel was lit by only a couple of torches. Still, after all the time he’d spent in the darkness, Marcus was forced to cup a hand over his eyes until they adjusted.

  “Did he wash?” a voice asked.

  Marcus turned to find another owl man standing beside him. Although this one was as twisted as the first, and its body seemed to be coated in some kind of green mold, it emanated a sense of authority.

  “Stik,” the first owl man said.

  “Yes. It stinks. But no amount of water will wash that off. Its kind all smell that way.”

  “Look who’s talking,” Marcus said. “You smell like someone rubbed you down with gopher guts and left you in the sun to rot.”

  “You would be wise to watch your mouth.” The moldy creature snapped its fingers, and a pair of two-headed dogs—each with eight legs—came around the corner. The dogs’ ribs stood out like fence posts from their emaciated bodies. Saliva dripped from their twin tongues as they panted hungrily in Marcus’s direction. “I was commanded to bring you. Nothing was said about how many pieces you had to be in.”

  The creature turned and started down the tunnel. With the dogs close behind him, Marcus hurried to follow.

  “Who are you taking me to?” Marcus knew he’d been captured by the Dark Circle, but he wasn’t sure where they’d taken him.

  “You’ll find out soon enough,” the creature said, swiftly climbing a twisting staircase.
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  “Hold up,” Marcus said. “I can’t walk as fast as you.” With his bad leg, and after hours in chains, he could barely walk at all, but that wasn’t the only reason he wanted the creature to slow down. “Get me out of here, and I’ll get you whatever reward you want.”

  “A reward?” the owl man asked.

  “Sure. You don’t have to get me out. Show me the way, and I’ll go on my own. You can say I hit you over the head and escaped.” Marcus eased up next to him, trying not to gag from the smell. “I know an air elemental who can make diamonds and gold out of nothing.”

  “Do you?” A voice asked from the top of the stairs. “That’s quite fascinating. Tell me more of these mystical powers.”

  Marcus looked up to see a figure made of colorful gemstones. As he watched, the figure changed from gems to gold coins, and then to glittering jewels. It was the same thing he’d seen Divum do dozens of times. But this wasn’t her. It was her partner. The one who had sided with the Dark Circle.

  Marcus limped up the stairs. “Calem.” He muttered the name like a curse. “You’re the one who had me captured?”

  The Aerisian chuckled merrily. “If this was my plan, I’d have made it much more amusing, like having you delivered one limb at a time, or impaled on the beak of a gryphon.”

  “I’d have had him drowned the moment I found him,” another voice said. A large man with a heavy, gold crown came into view as Marcus reached the top of the stairs.

  Marcus hadn’t seen Tide in over a year, but his stomach clenched at the sight of the former king of the water elementals, who had tried to have him and Kyja killed. Close behind came Nizgar-Gharat, the land elementals Marcus had taken the scepter from after they’d stolen it and trapped Cascade and the rest of the Fontasians inside Water Keep.

  “Drowning is a ssssuperb idea,” hissed the purple lizard head. “Then boil him to make sure he’s really dead.”

  All three of the elementals were behind this. He should have known that somehow they were the ones blocking his magic.

  “I don’t know why we’ve kept him alive this long,” said the green head of Nizgar-Gharat, its tongue flickering.

  “He is alive because the Master commands it,” the owl-headed man said.

  At the word Master, icy bumps formed on Marcus’s skin. The head of the Dark Circle. He tried not to let his fear show, but how could he not be terrified at the thought of a being powerful enough to control not only an army of dark wizards but Summoners as well?

  The elementals must have been as frightened as he was at the mention of their leader’s name, because they all went silent.

  “You spoke of a reward,” the owl man said to Marcus. “A reward is in store. But it will be for you, not for me. The Master has been looking forward to giving it to you.”

  Marcus couldn’t help himself; he turned to run back down the stairs, but the two-headed dogs were blocking his way. Tide grabbed one of his arms, and Calem took the other.

  “Let’s help you along, shall we?” Calem said, turning his body into a swarm of wasps, scorpions, and other stinging creatures. “I have a feeling this will be more entertaining than spearing you on a gryphon beak would have been.”

  Locked between the two elementals, Marcus was dragged down a hallway lined with all manner of weapons. Several of the weapons’ tips were dark with what looked like dried blood—as though they’d been recently used. Is that what the Master planned on doing to him? Would the Master kill him right away, or would he be tortured first?

  Cold sweat soaked the back of his robe. Why would Graehl bring him here? He still couldn’t believe that the man he’d come to think of as a friend had betrayed him. He hoped Riph Raph had managed to escape. Marcus hadn’t seen the skyte since one of the dark wizards hit him with a lightning bolt.

  At last they stopped in front of a gleaming red door. Tide took Marcus’s hand and forced it toward a brass latch. As his fingers neared the metal, a pair of talons that were mounted at the center of the door snapped close on his hand.

  Marcus gasped, but felt no pain. A second later, the talons released him and the door swung open revealing a smoky interior. As the elementals pushed him forward and stepped away, Marcus’s legs shook so hard that it was all he could do to keep from falling to the ground.

  Two red eyes blazed through the smoke, and a dry voice said, “Come in, Marcus. I’ve been waiting a very long time to meet you.”

  14: The Only Way

  Clinging to his staff like a piece of driftwood in a raging ocean, Marcus limped through the doorway. Smoke curled around his head so thickly, it was impossible to make out anything more than a foot away. His thoughts swirled with the smoke.

  How many times had Kyja told him that he was too impulsive? How much trouble could he have avoided by stopping to think before taking rash actions? And now, he was here, unable to do anything to help her because, once again, he thought he knew more than anyone else. True, he’d been trying to save her. But what did that matter when he’d failed so miserably—again?

  Not only that, but despite his hope that Riph Raph had escaped, there was a good chance that the skyte was dead. Marcus was responsible for that, as well. Whatever happened to him here, he’d failed everyone who’d put their trust in him. He deserved whatever he got—torture, death, unimaginable pain. He deserved it all for what he’d done, but his legs trembled at the thought.

  Steeling himself against what waited for him, he pushed deeper into the room. The smoke grew so thick that his eyes began to water, and his lungs burned. What this it? Was he sent here to suffocate? Maybe the clouds were poisonous gas. He thought about turning back but had no idea which direction was back.

  Gasping for breath, he stepped forward, and the smoke disappeared. It didn’t thin or fade; it was simply gone. He wiped his eyes and stared, unable understand what he was seeing. He’d expected a torture chamber or a dark pit where he’d be beaten and questioned. Instead, he was standing in a candlelit banquet hall. Chandeliers cast a cheery glow, gold mirrors and silk tapestries covered the walls, and a huge table in the center was filled to overflowing with food.

  A hooded figure at one end of the table waved a hand. “Please, make yourself at home. Eat. Drink.”

  This was obviously a trap of some kind. Marcus shook his head and remained where he was. “I’ll stand.”

  “Sit,” said a voice to his right. Marcus turned to find Graehl at his side. “You’ll need the strength.”

  “Get away from me.” Marcus stumbled from the man, unable to believe that the traitor would dare show his face, let alone act like he was still some kind of friend.

  Graehl shook back his long hair and sighed. “It’s not what you think.”

  Marcus bared his teeth. “You lied to me. You said we were going to recue Kyja. By now she’s gone for good, and Riph Raph’s probably dead too.” He reached for magic but again gagged at the blackness that nearly overwhelmed him.

  The man at the table chuckled. “You told me he was a feisty one.”

  Graehl reached out a hand, but Marcus slapped it away.

  “You have every right to be angry with me,” Graehl said. “I know you think I lied. But I brought you here because it’s the only chance to save Kyja. I would have brought the skyte, too, but he recovered and flew away before we could catch him.”

  Marcus knew it was all a lie, and yet, as he stared into Graehl’s eyes, he was almost positive the man was telling the truth. But how could that be? How could kidnapping him and bringing him to the Dark Circle help Kyja?

  “Hear what I have to say,” the Master said. “If you still want to leave when we’re done talking, I’ll let you go.”

  Marcus glared at him. “How am I supposed to trust a man who won’t show his face?”

  Graehl sucked in a breath; Marcus wondered if he’d gone too far. He stared at the dark features inside the cloak.

  “You can see me. Why can’t I see you?”

  Graehl began to answer. “It’s not—”
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br />   But the Master cut him off. “He makes a valid point. A wizard needs to look another wizard in the eyes if he is to take him into his trust.” He reached up with two wrinkled hands, grasped the sides of his cowl, and slowly pulled it down.

  Marcus stared. He’d expected to see almost anything—a monster, a skull, features twisted into a shape completely unrecognizable. What he hadn’t expected was a face almost as familiar his own. “You look just like . . .”

  He couldn’t complete the sentence, because what he was seeing was impossible. But the resemblance was too hard to miss. Except for the long scar that ran from this man’s right eye to the corner of his mouth, everything else—the strong jaw, gray beard, and twinkling eyes—might have belonged to . . . Master Therapass.

  The bearded face broke into a smile. “I’m afraid he doesn’t like to admit that we’re related.” He took a knife from a silver platter in front of him and cut a leg from the large, roasted bird. “You’d think he’d be proud that his younger brother is the only other living master wizard.”

  “I don’t believe it.” Marcus turned to Graehl, who looked as stunned as he felt. “Did you . . . ?”

  Graehl shook his head. “I had no idea.”

  The Master bit into his chicken and smacked his lips. “Come, eat. It’s quite delicious.”

  None of this was what he’d expected. Graehl took Marcus’s arm, and they walked to the table in stunned silence. He and Graehl sat beside one another at the table. Although Marcus didn’t trust the wizard, he couldn’t stop his stomach from rumbling at the smell of hot meat, fresh bread, and roasted vegetables.

  Graehl filled a goblet with water, and Marcus gulped it down greedily.

  The Master nodded. “Much more civilized.”

  Marcus tried to ignore the basket of rolls, which looked as soft and fluffy as clouds. “How can you be brothers? You’re enemies.”

  The Master took a bite of what looked like a spiky yellow melon and patted his chin with his napkin. “That may be true—now. But that wasn’t always the case. We were quite close as youths. He taught me some of my first spells.”