The Eleventh Ring (Bartholomew the Adventurer Trilogy Book 1)

by Tom Hoffman

  Morthram’s master plan revolved around a rather esoteric shaping procedure. It was a technique he had never attempted, and would require Fen’s assistance. Fortunately, Fen had enthusiastically agreed to help him.

  On the day Oliver’s green thought arrived, Morthram and Fen retreated to one of the practice rooms off the main Guild hall. Morthram locked the door and shaped a sphere of silence around the room. As Fen watched, Morthram formshifted into a ragged looking Grymmorian. His previous disguise as a lowly servant in Oberon’s castle would have been successful if not for his betrayal by Thaddeus Rabbit, so Morthram decided to use a similar form to enter the Fortress. He would become Cindar, a vagabond muroidian who was down on his luck. The first step was formshifting into Cindar, and the second step was learning to speak Grymmorian. Rather than project thoughts to Grymmorians he met along the way, Morthram wanted to actually speak fluent Grymmorian. The new shaping technique he would use required him to read the language center of Fen’s brain, then duplicate it in his own brain. If it worked as planned, he would be able to speak both Grymmorian and Lapinoric.

  Morthram handed Fen a book written in Grymmorian. “Read this out loud while I locate your brain’s language center.”

  Fen began speaking in a series of squeaks, squeals, and clicking noises. Morthram sent out a pale yellow translucent sphere which enveloped Fen’s head. He watched closely as different sections of the yellow sphere began to glow brightly, finally motioning for Fen to stop reading. He placed one paw on Fen’s head and the other paw on his own head. Waves of shimmering light traveled from Fen’s head through both of Morthram’s arms and up into his own head. When it stopped, Morthram moved to a nearby chair. He lowered his head, paws covering his eyes. A dim red glow surrounded his head, then dissipated. He stood up and faced Fen.

  “Can you understand what I am saying?” A series of clicks and squeals came out of his mouth.

  “If I met you on the street, I would think you had spent your entire life in Grymmore.”

  “Excellent. It appears to have worked. Oh, before I forget, I wanted to ask you about something.” Morthram reached into his coat pocket and removed the six sided silver medallion they had found in Mr. Ferillium’s office.

  “Bartholomew and I found this in Mr. Ferillium’s vault and thought it might be important. Can you understand the writing on it? I thought it could be Grymmorian.” He handed the medallion to Fen.

  Fen studied it carefully. “You’re right, it’s Grymmorian. Take it with you. It says the bearer of the medallion is allowed entrance to King Oberon’s palaces. I don’t know if that includes the Lost Fortress, but it might.”

  “I’ll take it. At the very least it says I am a trusted friend of the King. Thanks for your help, Fen. I’ll be ready to leave once I shape clothing and gear suitable for a wandering unemployed muroidian.”

  Morthram departed in the dead of night without telling anyone. He arrived at the Grymmorian border gatehouse just as the sun was rising.

  “Name?”

  “Cindar.” Morthram still was not used to the strange squealing noises coming out of his mouth.

  “Fruits, vegetables, or insects?”

  “None.”

  “Shaper?”

  “Wish I was. I’d shape me a bag of gold, a gallon of ale, and a rich princess.”

  The guard snorted.

  “Occupation?”

  “Unemployed carpenter.”

  “Try Grymssteir. I hear they’re hiring.”

  “Thanks, I’ll do that.”

  “Pass.”

  Morthram nodded to the guard and walked across the border. He headed north along a well traveled dirt road. Dozens of Grymmorians were traveling in both directions, many of them taking goods to market in wooden push carts.

  The path to the Lost Fortress was relatively straightforward. Morthram would continue north on this road for four or five days, then head east through the wilderness for another two days until he reached the Fandor Mountains. The Fortress was built into the side of the range. The trip would be far easier if he could use shaping, but this way there was almost no chance of his being discovered.

  He walked as many as ten hours a day. When the sun began to set he would put up his tent and crawl inside. His meals were simple, and he left no clues behind that might reveal his identity.

  On the third day of his journey, a Grymmorian strolled up alongside him and began to chat.

  “Where you headed?”

  “Maybe Grymssteir. I’m a carpenter looking for work and I heard they might be hiring. Haven’t had much luck so far though.”

  The Grymmorian gave him a sympathetic look. “Hmmm, too bad. Work’s hard to find these days.” He didn’t need to say why – the outrageous taxes demanded by King Oberon had put thousands of Grymmorians out of work. “Tell you what though, I run a small mill along the Farlo River. My wife has been nagging me to repair a few things around the house, and I’m not much of a carpenter. I could pay you a little something to fix it up. I’ll even throw in a few home cooked meals.”

  Morthram looked at the Grymmorian. Something deep inside told him to say yes.

  “Sure. I’d appreciate that. The only thing worse than having work is not having it.”

  “You got that right, my friend. I’m Lithar, by the way.”

  Morthram put his paw out. “Cindar.”

  Several hours later they arrived at Lithar’s mill. It was a modest operation, but grinding wheat for the nearby farms provided enough income for the family to get by. Lithar led Morthram into his house and introduced him to his wife. There were two young muroidians lying on the floor reading.

  “These must be yours, I’m guessing. You’re lucky to have a couple of healthy young pups like that.”

  Lithar’s wife looked at her husband, her eyes welling up with tears.

  “Did I say something wrong? I’m sorry if I did. I didn’t mean–”

  “The fault is not yours, Cindar. Our third young one, Eftar, was taken from us by a gang of local bandits to be raised as one of their own. Most of us live in fear of them. I am a miller, not a warrior, and if I had gone after him I would more than likely have lost my life, leaving my family worse off than before. We sent a rescue party several years ago for another pup who was taken, but none of them returned.”

  Morthram had a strong feeling that Eftar was the real reason he had been drawn here. It was part of the chain of events leading to the return of Clara and the downfall of Oberon. He had to find Eftar.

  “Where did they take him?”

  A spark of hope appeared in Lithar’s eyes. “There’s a place they call the old silver mine. I don’t know if anyone ever found silver there, but that’s what they call it.”

  “Can you draw me a map?”

  Lithar disappeared into another room, returning a short while later with a roughly drawn map.

  “You are only one muroid against a gang of bandits. Do you truly think you can bring Eftar home safely?”

  Morthram smiled. “I will do the best I can. I have not always been a carpenter.”

  Lithar nodded but said nothing.

  Lithar’s wife prepared the evening meal for them. There was no talk of Eftar, but as they sat around the table Morthram listened to their tales of life on the river and how they had come to own the mill. It made Morthram sad to think about the blind hatred some rabbits had for Grymmorians.

  Morthram shook paws with Lithar the next morning, and Lithar’s wife gave Morthram a hug.

  “I cannot thank you enough for what you are doing. Do be careful.”

  “I will do my best to bring Eftar back to you.”

  Morthram followed the path shown on Lithar’s map and by late afternoon found himself peering through dense foliage at a dark opening in the side of a hill. It didn’t look much like a silver mine, but that’s what Lithar had called it. He stayed hidden in the brush, keeping a sharp lookout for bandits. There was no activity other than one scruffy looking muroidian who exited th
e mine and headed south on the dirt road. Morthram decided to enter the mine, but first he had to break his own rule and do some shaping.

  When he was safely concealed, Morthram shaped a battered old pickaxe and a heavy wooden bucket containing a few chunks of rich silver ore. Gathering them up, he headed into the dark mine. The tunnel was about fifteen feet tall and twenty or thirty feet wide. Something about it didn’t seem right – it wasn’t like other mines he had seen. He stopped several times to use his pick on the tunnel wall, knocking off dirt and rock, but found no trace of silver ore. Glowing lanterns hung down from the tunnel ceiling, casting eerie flickering shadows through the dark tunnel. He came to a set of descending stairs. Stairs in a silver mine? He was kneeling down to inspect them when he heard a voice.

  “Name yourself.”

  “I am called Cindar. I was told about this old silver mine and thought I would explore it. I had hoped I might find silver ore the old miners had missed.”

  A muroidian stepped out of the shadows and looked Cindar up and down. With an undisguised threatening voice he said, “These old mines can be dangerous. Plenty of muroids have been lost in them, never to be found again.”

  “Mines don’t scare me. I’ve been in plenty and I’ve found plenty of rich ore in the old ones. Found some already. Is this your mine?”

  “It is. We laid claim to it. You found silver here?”

  “I did. I have a knack for it. Not sure why, but I can always find it.”

  “Show me.”

  Morthram brought the bucket over and showed him the silver ore.

  “You’re right. That’s rich ore. Don’t belong to you though.”

  “I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll search the mine and find what I can. Then we’ll split it down the middle. Half to me, half to you.”

  The bandit’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Fair enough. I’ll tell my friends you’ll be coming through the mine. You won’t last ten minutes without me telling them so.” A dark gray thought floated out of the bandit’s ear. Morthram pulled it over to him. He was filled with an intense greed and simmering rage. He heard the bandit’s voice in his head. “How about this plan – we take all the silver and throw you down the shaft where the demons live.”

  “We have a deal then. I’ll move deeper into the mine and keep looking. Where can I find you so we can split the silver? You have a camp here?”

  “Four forks in the tunnel. Left, left, right, left. That’s our camp.” The bandit turned and disappeared around a curve.

  Morthram made a point of hitting his pick loudly against the rocky wall several times while the bandit was still within earshot. Large chunks of earth and rock chipped off, revealing a smooth pale green surface beneath. What was this? He examined it carefully. It was obviously not a natural formation. He tried to scratch it with the pick but could not. Who had fashioned this tunnel?

  He moved farther into the mine. Rather than turn left at the first fork, he went right. There were no lanterns, but there was a slight glow emanating from the walls. After a while his eyes became accustomed to the dim light and he could find his way without lanterns. The tunnel exited into a square cavern which had two tunnels leading out, each one in the center of a wall.

  He followed one tunnel almost a half mile farther, drawing a map of his route so he wouldn’t lose his way. Reaching another square cavern, he examined the walls for any hint of who the builders might have been. A slight rectangular indentation about twelve feet high and five feet wide caught his eye. He hit it with his pick, knocking some dense layers of earth off it, and kept chipping away at it until a smooth blue surface was revealed. It also revealed a glowing violet disc. He touched it to see if it moved. There was a low grinding noise and one side of the twelve foot rectangle cracked open about an inch, then stopped. It was a door. Morthram pushed with all his might but couldn’t open it. After he returned Eftar to his parents he would come back and shape the door open.

  He shaped another half dozen pieces of silver ore, then headed back towards the bandits’ camp. He wanted to make certain Eftar was still with them. He tried to project a casual air as he strolled into the bandits’ den. It was an enormous rectangular room containing four wooden shacks and ten or twelve large canvas tents. He could see several dozen bandits, some sitting by campfires drinking, some playing cards. He noticed a young muroidian carrying a pitcher of ale to a group of the bandits. He looked about the age Eftar would be.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you had ale here? Boy, what’s your name?”

  “It’s Eftar, sir.”

  “Bring me some ale, Eftar.” Eftar looked at the bandits for permission.

  One of the bandits looked up at Morthram. “You the miner?”

  “I am.”

  “You find any silver?”

  “I found plenty. Just have to know where to dig. There’ll be lots more in the back of the mine. That’s the part they always leave. Tell you what. Give that boy a lantern and send him with me. I can dig twice as fast if he holds the light for me.”

  “You heard him boy. Get a lantern and go with him.”

  “How about that ale?”

  “You’ll get ale when we get silver.”

  “Fair enough. Don’t drink it all before I get back.”

  Eftar took a lantern from the wall and walked over to Morthram.

  “We go through there to the back of the mine, sir.”

  “Lead the way, boy.”

  Morthram followed him through at least four more square caverns. Finally, Eftar stopped and turned around. “The is the last big room. There’s a deep shaft over there the bandits are all afraid of. Sometimes noises come out of it. I heard them say they cave demons live down there, but it’s probably just some kind of little critters or something.”

  “Thanks, Eftar. I’m tired, I need to sit down for a bit.”

  Morthram sat down and leaned back against the wall. Eftar did the same, setting the lantern on the ground in front of them. Morthram pointed to the lantern.

  “Always liked to watch flames – the way they move back and forth like that makes me sleepy.” He could see Eftar staring at the flame, his eyes beginning to droop. A blue thought cloud floated out of Morthram’s ear and over to Eftar. Moments later Eftar was sound asleep. Morthram stood up and held out his paw. Eftar vanished in a small flash of yellow light, reappearing in his front yard a split second later with no memory of how he had gotten there. There was a shriek from inside the house when his mother saw him walk through the front door.

  Morthram sat down next to the lantern. As he watched the flame, a smile slowly spread across his face. He had a good idea how to permanently clear the mine of bandits. He leaned back, waiting and listening for the bandits. It wasn’t long before he heard the slight scrunching noise of paws on gravel and whispering voices. He would make it easy for them. He stood up and walked over to the edge of the shaft. Holding the lantern over it he could see a hundred feet or so down, but after that it was pitch black. The shaft was a perfect circle about twenty feet across, and was not a natural formation. He set down the bucket of silver ore and the lantern near the edge of the shaft.

  The bandits were clumsily creeping up behind him. He waited for the push from behind. When it came, he toppled into the shaft, disappearing into the darkness. The bandits heard a terrible shriek, then seconds later a distant thud and a crashing of rocks.

  “Take the silver.” One of the bandits picked up the bucket and they turned to leave. When they were halfway across the room a low raspy gurgling rose up from the shaft. The bandits looked back, terrified at what they might see. A monstrous spiky purple lizard head poked up out of the shaft. The beast clawed its way out onto the mine floor, its eyes burning red, its gaping mouth filled with rows of razor sharp yellow teeth. There was a great shrieking roar and a ball of flame shot out of its mouth towards the bandits. It was debatable who shrieked louder, the lizard or the bandits, but the bandits definitely ran faster. They were gone from the room in less than a sec
ond and every bandit was gone from the mine within fifteen minutes.

  As soon as the bandits exited the room the lizard faded away. Morthram sat at the bottom of the shaft and laughed until tears ran down his face. He had transformed his physical self to a thought cloud halfway through his fall down the shaft. When he reappeared at the bottom he shaped a large sandbag speeding towards the ground, the dreadful thudding sound the bandits had heard. This was a story Morthram would tell for years to come, and each time he told the tale the bandits screamed louder and ran faster.

  Chapter 26

  The Birth of Edmund

  It was pitch black at the bottom of the shaft, but Morthram could feel the floor was flat and smooth. He shaped a small sphere of light several feet above his head, illuminating a pale green floor made of the same material as the walls in the mine tunnel. He noticed a dim glow near the far wall. When he examined the area he found two glowing discs just like the one next to the door he had tried to open. One was yellow and one violet. He touched the violet disc and a round section of the floor silently slid open, flooding the dark shaft with light.

  Morthram peered down through the opening and saw another room below, the same size and shape as the shaft. The room had four glowing discs on one side, each a different color. There was a ladder descending into the room, which Morthram quickly climbed down. The instant his foot touched the floor the circular opening above him slid closed.

  There was a recessed doorway on the far side of the room, and next to the door were the now familiar glowing discs. A push on the violet disc opened the door. Morthram looked through to a tunnel that dwarfed any he had seen before. It stood at least two hundred feet tall and three hundred feet wide, flat on the bottom with a wide arching roof. Six rows of gleaming silver tracks ran off into the distance. Hovering silently above the tracks were two sparkling transparent cylinders about seventy feet long, each with four rows of seats running the length of the tube.