‘Not while I draw breath it won’t.’
‘Fortunately, that won’t be for very much longer.’
Almost apologetically, Kettifer opened his hands. The red light between them balled into a spinning, spitting mass and streaked across the space between them, burying itself in her chest. Cassandra grunted at the impact, brief fear giving way to confusion. In front of her, Kettifer frowned.
‘Is something supposed to be happening?’ she asked.
‘It is the soul-taker,’ said Kettifer. ‘No human can resist its pull.’
Cassandra nodded and began walking towards Kettifer. On the way past she lashed her boot into Alderion’s groin one last time.
‘Well, that explains it, then.’
‘Explains what?’ Kettifer backed up a pace, biting his lip and looking down at Alderion’s mewling and writhing.
‘Why your spell isn’t working, traitor.’
Cassandra put her hands to her brows and pulled hard, feeling adhesive give way. Kettifer’s jaw dropped open. Cassandra discarded the mask and yanked the material that was covering her ears.
‘Wow, feels good to have the air on my face again.’
Around her, demons were screaming. Some ran, others just stood and pointed, unable to move.
‘Elf,’ managed Kettifer.
‘Yep,’ said Cassandra.
Pandemonium reigned outside the quadrangle. In the sea of panicking minions, Grincheux was an oasis of relief. Cassandra had thought to slay Kettifer there and then but another, better plan was there if they took the chance now.
‘Grincheux, run!’ He didn’t react. ‘RUN!’
Grincheux felt detached while he watched Cassandra’s blistering speed and surprisingly fiery hands. He saw her behead the lizardy one after she’d chopped a wing off the one he didn’t think had wings. The lizardy one had a long neck. Not sure where that came from although something Kettifer had said was filtering back into his mind.
And then someone was shouting at him. A woman’s voice. He looked out into the quadrangle and as he did so, hoots and calls of alarm grew louder and louder. He was dimly aware too, that the talons on his shoulders had slackened their hold.
Cassandra was rushing towards him and she could certainly rush when she wanted to. She looked different somehow although the straight punch with which she decked Kettifer was classic Swiftblade ferocity, he felt. Her face. That was it. Altogether more angular and her eyes looked a little more oval and a good deal larger and slantier than he remembered, but then he didn’t know her all that well. And her ears. They had a pointy aspect he didn’t recall from earlier.
Denizens of evil seemed to be scattering. There was a roaring in Grincheux’s ears. He felt confused. He’d thought he was about to die. And Cassandra too. It had all seemed terribly logical and now this.
Cassandra’s face thrust right into his. He stared back.
‘Run.’ She pushed him. ‘Are you deaf or something?’
‘Which way?’ he said vaguely.
Cassandra pointed behind him and began to move.
‘Down the corridor,’ she said.
He looked round. ‘That’s up the corridor.’
‘All right, up the bloody corridor. Come on!’
Cassandra dragged his left shoulder down. The three-taloned claw of a demon swished by his head, parting his hair. Everything came into focus. Minions running in every direction away from Cassandra and what she was. Kettifer climbing groggily to his feet. Alderion with his knees drawn up to his chest, still lying on the ground of the quadrangle. Bloodchild shouting for the Gallers.
Cassandra pulled him along a slight incline. The passageway was narrow and running with damp. Grincheux bumped and bored his body as he went, impelled by the irrepressible force that his Hero appeared to be.
‘Could have told me,’ he said, gasping at another impact on the rough wall.
‘The subject never came up.’ said Cassandra. ‘Keep running.’
They fetched up at a t-junction. Cassandra headed left, continuing the gentle incline. From behind, the bellows of fury echoed up to them allied to definite sounds of scampering pursuit. Gallers. Quick, filthy elf-killers. Things that did the dirty work any decent minion would not touch with a thirty foot pike.
‘How was it ever going to come up?’
‘I don’t know,’ she snapped with a note of irritability. ‘Idle chatter or something. Hurry.’
‘Of course, how silly of me. Normally my second question is: “oh, by the way, are you an elf in disguise? Are you demon-bane born again?”.
He could hear slathering and scratching closing fast. Grincheux ran as hard as he could. They burst into a much larger passageway. To the right, the incline steepened. Left, it was down into the pit.
‘Which way?’ asked Cassandra.
‘That’s a trick question, is it?’
‘No. Which way?’
Grincheux did not answer at once, preferring his feet to do the talking, or sprinting to be less metaphorical. By his side, Cassandra appeared to be walking, to a large extent. Strolling, if you like.
‘On balance, I think this way increases our chances of survival just a tad,’ he said. ‘We need to get to the Vault of Deeds. Get my draft into permanent record.’
‘Is it not a dead-end?’ she asked.
‘Sanctuary,’ managed Grincheux. ‘And…blessed. Evil…not…threshold.’
‘Oh, I see.’
The entrance to the Vault of Deeds seemed impossibly distant though it had to be very close since they’d just run past the stairs back up to the Academy. Grincheux could feel the pull of the millions upon millions of words that spilled from the pages of countless tomes of heroes living and legends long turned to dust. While behind, heat grew by the moment, demons and dark things roared and spat as they closed on him. He heard the lash of a whip along with deep-chested evil laughter. You had to hand it to them, they certainly knew how to put on a show.
‘Keep running,’ said Cassandra.
‘Thanks for the tip, I—’
But she was not beside him any longer. From the rear, he heard a squeal and a tumbling thud. He heard rage and, quite clearly the hiss of a blade.
‘Sorry, I didn’t catch what you just said.’
Grincheux started and almost fell on his face. Cassandra’s hand steadied him. There she was again only this time, grim dark fluid was dripping from her sword.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ panted the scribe.
Two things happened almost simultaneously. Well, three. Sort of. Something sharp and distinctly talon-like snagged his heel, tripping him. Cassandra caught him in a rather uncomfortable place just as his nose was scraping the smooth stone floor. There was the sensation of flying. Not unpleasant. There was an impact and some sliding though any pain was lessened by blessed calm.
That was four. Or five. It depended on your definition of “almost simultaneously”. Counting anything more complex than the severed limbs of a higher demon wraith had always been tricky for Grincheux. Words. They were the really important ingredients in any tale.
Grincheux rolled on to his back and smiled the smile of a man who had leapt from the frying pan to discover the fire below had been extinguished. He gazed up lovingly at the great arches and stunning murals of the Vault. He’d spent many a visit feeling slightly disconcerted at the vastness of it all. The Vault was, after all, far too immense to occupy the position it apparently did, y’know, just forty feet down a staircase and twenty yards left.
The Vault existed outside of the normal rules of physics and all that, so one of the senior magicky types had told him once. Or twice. Maybe three times. Terribly complex concept to grasp. The point was that he always half expected someone in the classrooms above to step in the wrong place and fall a couple of hundred feet. Anyway. Whatever. It made him twitchy when he was flicking through his or some other scribe’s pages. Like he was about to be struck on the head by some greasy student.
Today though, right now to be more pr
ecise, the apprehension was gone. He drank in the beautiful carved arches that fled into shadow above his head. The great ceiling paintings of battles lit by an ethereal light that made them seemingly close enough to touch. And he drank in the odour of the Vault, ancient paper, stone and leather, like a long cold draft of ale.
Grincheux could feel the words of millennia surround him, comfort him and inspire him. Here, he, Grincheux, would formalise his thoughts and his knowledge into a gloriously beautiful and utterly damning passage of Goedterre’s history. It would see the respectability of the highest echelons torn apart by the betrayal of one of their most beloved. And he might just save the world in the process.
He, Grincheux—
One of his feet was being kicked in the arch. Not hard but insistently and repeatedly. Grincheux dragged his eyes from his dreams and the clauses floating in his mind ready to coalesce into searing script and looked at Cassandra.
‘Yes?’
Cassandra pointed back towards the entrance to the Vault.
‘Evil is without.’
‘Indeed.’
‘So we cannot lie around grinning at the ceiling. We must escape. We must fight.’
Grincheux sat up and looked out into the corridor. It was crowded with confused-looking demons and other malign shapes. The Gallers, drooling and cursing, their multi-legged globular bodies striking the entrance again and again, leaving sticky ooze behind. The great mound of Orgascz the Bloodchild was behind them.
‘No rush, my hero. There is evil without and it cannot step within. For them, the door to the Vault does not exist. To them, we have run through solid rock.’
Cassandra eyed him a little sceptically then proffered a hand to help him up. He found himself upright altogether too quickly.
‘But evil can break down walls. They will get in, won’t they?’ she asked.
‘No, they won’t. Trust me on this. The spells surrounding the Vault are particularly robust. This place just does not exist for them.’
Cassandra relaxed. Sort of. She pointed a little further down the corridor.
‘What about the Principal?’
‘I have every confidence that you can hold him off should that be necessary.’
‘Hold him…can’t he just show them how to get in?’
Grincheux shook his head. ‘No. You can’t go where you cannot even conceive.’
‘So what do we do?’ asked Cassandra.
‘Well, I write Kettifer’s shame into the annals and you do whatever you want. Look for another way out, if you like.’
‘Is there one?’
‘Nope.’
‘So how do we get out of here when you’re done?’ asked Cassandra.
Grincheux shrugged. ‘You’re the hero. That’ll be your job.’
Cassandra squared her shoulders. Grincheux had to hand it to her, there was no lack of courage there.
‘I will not fail this task.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
Kettifer came to Bloodchild’s shoulder. Or, to be more accurate, his elbow.
‘Him gone,’ said Orgascz above the bedlam of his minions.
‘This is not a good situation.’
‘Where he go?’ Bloodchild sniffed. ‘Scent leads here. Him disappear.’
‘Only for you.’ Kettifer looked into the Vault and saw Grincheux and Cassandra chattering away and pointing at various parts of the great structure. ‘And though you cannot see him, he remains a big thorn in your thick hide.’
Bloodchild grunted and the chittering and squawking of his multi-hued, multi-limbed, many fanged minions stilled. The peace was momentarily blissful.
‘Your problem,’ said Bloodchild, evenly.
‘Our problem.’
Kettifer smiled and spread his hands in what he hoped was an inclusive gesture. Bloodchild’s jagged bony eyebrow rose an impressive distance. Another grunt. Kettifer found himself surrounded by slathering minions. Claws scraped together. There were sparks.
‘You fix. We insist.’
Kettifer sighed. ‘All right. But I need you, some of you, to stay here. I can get you in but I need time. And this remains the only way out. Do you understand the gravity of the situation?’
Bloodchild’s eye was unblinking.
‘Stupid question, really.’ Kettifer sucked his lip. ‘If he formalises what he has heard, our whole deal is at risk. Our cover will be blown. You will be at great risk of defeat.’
‘Then be quick.’ Bloodchild glanced at the rock wall he saw. His mouth curved up to reveal a dripping fang. ‘Him go this way?’
Kettifer nodded. ‘Yes, of course. You saw him, didn’t you?’
Bloodchild grunted a third time. ‘Maybe. Need more proof.’
His taloned fist closed on the back of Kettifer’s robes at the neck, lifting the irritable Principal from the floor. Minions cackled.
‘Oh, dear.’
‘This place is amazing,’ said Cassandra. ‘How does it work?’
Grincheux allowed himself an indulgent smile. After all, heroes didn’t tend to come here. Most merely wanted to know their deeds were recorded and could be read in the Temple of Deeds attached to the Academy. Cassandra was gazing at book after book. Most were dormant, their scribes not with their heroes. Some were whispering, scribes were seeing events which were instantly recorded in draft within their pages. And others, pitifully few, were glowing with the bright white light of heroic deeds as their scribes wrote into legend, the events they had witnessed.
Grincheux, who was midway towards the book of Gethen, the scribe murdered in the Academy, paused and gestured around him. Each book was identical but for the name of the hero and scribe to which it belonged.
‘Every hero has a book. Every scribe has a hero. Should either perish, that book will close and another will open with a new partnership inscribed on the cover,’ said Grincheux, knowing his tone was absurdly reverential but being able to do nothing whatever about it. ‘The annals of history are always complete. No deed is left unmarked.’
Cassandra was staring at the pages of a book. Grincheux couldn’t tell whose. The pages were glittering, words swimming, re-ordering and glowing. Pages turned, turned back. The whole book rippled. And with a sigh, it lay still once more.
‘Another deed written into history,’ whispered Grincheux. ‘And precious few end well.’
‘How do you know this one did?’ asked Cassandra.
‘When a hero dies, the book slams shut on the instant. Any deeds can only be epitaph and should be formalised in shadow. So it was with Lord Vittore.’
Grincheux nodded at a closed book nearby. Cassandra walked over to it and tried to open the cover.
‘It’s stuck,’ she said.
‘Closed until the anniversary of that hero’s death when it will open for that day alone.’
‘It’s never going to be that way with me until my strength and speed are vanquished by age,’ said Cassandra.
‘I sincerely hope that’s true,’ said Grincheux. ‘It doesn’t look good on me if I get through too many heroes. You can get a reputation as being bad luck, if you see what I mean.’
Cassandra’s face was suddenly very close to his, her eyes alive with excitement.
‘So where’s my book. Our book?’
Grincheux smiled. ‘This way.’
He led her between dusty rows of books on plinths. Beneath the ranks of tomes that soared high into the shadows of the Vault. He paused when he reached the cracked stone and split leather of Gethen’s book. The plinth was surrounded by shards of stone and the cover of the work carried deep scorch marks.
Grincheux sighed and muttered a quick prayer for the soul of a great scribe. His anger blossomed anew. He tugged experimentally at the cover. Naturally, it wouldn’t budge and the fused leather, iron and parchment suggested a closure of complete permanence.
‘That’s quite a mess,’ said Cassandra.
‘Yes, and what’ll happen to my…our book if Kettifer has anything to do with it.’
‘He’ll have to get through me first.’
‘That is more comforting than you can possibly imagine,’ said Grincheux, surprising himself by the warmth of his smile and what lay behind it in his heart.
He moved on down a short connecting corridor bedecked with portraits of scribes of legend and myth and into a yet larger chamber. It smelled of pure history. Cassandra gasped.
‘This is the main Vault,’ said Grincheux, his voice quiet. ‘Impressive, isn’t it?’
‘Errr.’
Grincheux pointed away to the left and hurried on, suddenly very keen to see that his book was in working order. The Vault reflected his every footstep. The light encasing the few books currently in draft cast a curious mix of light and shadow. From somewhere, he thought he heard a dripping sound, which was odd in a place where rain could never penetrate. Still.
He slowed well before he reached his book, his relief making him shudder. He could see the gentle light about his pages, testament that his draft was working and that he was standing with his Hero. It was a rare good moment today. Next to his and Cassandra’s book stood another upon which light would never shine again. Grincheux stopped and placed both his hands on its cover, feeling the warmth of familiarity. He traced Vittore’s name and crest with his forefingers.
‘I will avenge you, my Lord,’ he whispered.
‘As will I,’ said Cassandra.
Both bowed their heads. A dull clang echoed through the Vault sounding incredibly close. Cassandra was turned and poised ready with her sword in her hand before Grincheux had taken his hands from Vittore’s book.
‘We are attacked,’ she said.
‘I very much doubt it. You’d be surprised how well sound travels in here. You could whisper to me from the entrance to the Vault and I would hear you standing here.’
‘It’s something we should try,’ said Cassandra and she began to stride back towards the first vault. ‘Get formalising or whatever you call it. I don’t want you to get choked before we’ve hung Kettifer out to dry.’
‘I would prefer “unjustly slain at the hands of dark evil before the fallen Principal was confronted with a fate befitting his betrayal of the forces of light.”’
Barclay, J [2008] Vault of Deeds Page 6
