Barclay, J [2008] Vault of Deeds

by James Barclay

  Cassandra shrugged. ‘You’re the scribe. Get scribbling.’

  ‘Scrib…’

  But he was complaining to her swiftly receding back. Grincheux turned to his book, placed his hands upon it and let the draft words surround him. The thoughts and visions and conversations sank into his skin. He drank them down deep too and they tasted like the exuberance of a fine young wine. All that he had experienced he let settle inside of him. Now he could formalise without missing out a single detail. And as each sentence was set in perpetuity, so would the draft be erased. After all, a story can only truly be told in one way. The scribe’s way.

  ‘Can you hear me?’

  ‘Loud and clear,’ said Grincheux. ‘And you don’t have to whisper, I was just saying it was something you could do.’

  ‘I know, but it’s really cool isn’t it?’

  Actually, it was pretty impressive. Assuming Cassandra was at the entrance, she was several hundred feet away but he could have been feeling her breath on his neck…best not pursue that thought.

  ‘So, er, how are things at the door?’

  ‘Well, not terrible. There are many Gallers without. And Bloodchild, assuming it is him like you say. And Principal Kettifer is within.’

  ‘He’s what?’

  ‘Within.’

  ‘Yes I heard you.’ Whispering did seem more appropriate.

  ‘Then why did you—’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Just answer me this quickly then let me work. What is he doing and are you preventing him from doing it?’

  ‘I don’t know. And no, I’m not.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because he’s in some sort of magical bubble and he’s all crouched down and making gestures with his fingers and my sword won’t burst the bubble. I think he’s casting a spell.’

  Grincheux felt that horrible crawling sensation allied with a sudden weight trying to push its way out of his large intestine. Best not pursue that one either. He had no change of clothes. Anyway, his fear was surely irrational.

  No one living can dismantle the portal spells for the Vault.

  He heard a man’s laughter.

  ‘Oh, Grincheux, I really thought you were smarter than that.’

  Bugger, I said it out loud.

  ‘And that,’ said Kettifer. ‘I know what you are trying to do. All very laudable. But you are too late. Even killing me cannot stop what is coming. Dear Cassandra cannot hope to break through the dragon shell I have placed about my person though I must say the constant thumping on it is quite irritating. Please stop dear.’

  ‘Don’t you “dear” me, traitor. I am Cassandra the Swiftblade and I will strike you down.’

  ‘That’s nice. She won’t of course, Grincheux. She has no investiture on her blade. Once the portal spells are dismantled, the Gallers will take her and Bloodchild will take you. Your draft will flutter to dust alongside your soul.’

  ‘Write quickly, Grincheux.’

  ‘I’ll go as fast as I can. Quality takes time, you know.’

  ‘TRY.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Kettifer. ‘Someone to keep you busy, my dear elf.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Cassandra let out a short laugh. ‘Got a stouter codpiece on, Alderion?’

  ‘You should have killed me while you had the chance,’ said Alderion, wheezing a little.

  Grincheux experienced another of those chilly feelings. Time was against him. Never a good thing for a scribe. He wandered away from his book, letting the force of every book in the Vault imbue him with the words to create genius from his draft. Like drinking a flagon of pure inspiration. It sent him a little giddy and the next words that drifted in from the other chamber were lost to him as he settled in front of his book and began to write.

  “Hear me, good people of Goedterre, as I relate with heavy heart, the tale of the falling into darkness of one of your best loved sons. I speak of none other than our beloved Principal Kettifer, a man whose blood, once fused to the very walls of our great Academy, now runs cold into the gaping maw of greedy evil…”

  ‘It is fitting, that the pair of you should suffer your final defeats in this place,’ said Cassandra. ‘Here where my scribe is even now penning the damning events we have both witnessed. No old man can fell me. No number of Gallers can tear my elven soul from my body. Bring them on.’

  Alderion walked towards her in the manner of a man who had spent too much time on a horse recently. Cassandra felt no fear though she knew his reputation. A peerless sword warrior. The man who invented most of the Academy’s successful battle and fight tactics. A tricky adversary but old and slow these days. And a traitor.

  ‘You are not a qualified hero, are you?’ wheezed Alderion.

  ‘It makes no difference to what I shall do to you,’ said Cassandra.

  ‘Ah, but there you are wrong.’ Alderion drew a long slender blade from the scabbard at his waist. It shone with a cloying golden light. ‘You are not conferred with the right to strike with a bladed weapon.’

  ‘Ridiculous. I slew your former students with this blade while you lay clutching at your insignificant groin.’

  ‘Any born to the service of Goedterre may combat evil with any weapon at their disposal. But do you think we are stupid enough to grant such rights to students who may or may not be conferred the title of Hero of Goedterre? Those that fail are typically very unhappy. Bitter, even. Murderous. Can’t have such folk wandering about with a blade now, can we?’

  Cassandra bit her lip. Surely he was lying. Surely all she had to do was step forward and strike him. Alderion smiled as if reading her thoughts.

  ‘Please, attack me. I will raise no defence.’

  Cassandra ran forward five paces and thrashed her blade through at waist height. Before the edge connected with Alderion’s armour, it slid to the right, unbalancing her. She stumbled. Alderion hammered the hilt of his sword into the back of her neck, sending her sprawling. She slewed into the base of a plinth. The toe of one of Alderion’s boots caught her in the side jabbing up under her ribs.

  She gasped for breath. A gauntleted hand grabbed her hair and pulled hard. Cassandra bit down on a scream. She was hurled to slither toward the entrance to the Vault. She scrabbled to turn and face him, getting her legs beneath her. Her sword was lying on the floor too far away to grab. Her ribs were afire with pain, her hair felt as if it had been torn out at the roots. She was bloodied and bruised.

  But still very much alive.

  Alderion came at her, walking with as much of a swagger as his swollen crotch would allow. His sword was poised to strike her down.

  ‘No student ever really pays attention to the vows they take and the blessings conferred upon them when they join the Academy. You all think they are merely protocol. They are so much more than that. A pity you have to find out in this rather terminal fashion.’

  Cassandra surged from her kneeling position, running just to Alderion’s left side. For Cassandra, everything was perfectly clear. But she could see in the older man’s face that he could barely follow her movement. His blade moved reflexively and he began to turn but it was all in the slowest of motion. Cassandra planted one foot, swivelled and kicked hard into the back of his left knee. Alderion swayed backwards, over compensated and pitched forwards, dropping his blade to break his fall with his hands. His armour struck sparks from the stone.

  ‘You should listen to your own lectures,’ said Cassandra. ‘You talk too much.’

  Cassandra walked quickly up Alderion’s back and kicked the base of his skull. His forehead and nose smacked into the floor. He twitched and lay still. Blood pooled under his face. She should kill him, she knew but she had neither the will nor the heart to do so. It was not a scalp she needed on her résumé, either. Hardly a good start to be bumping off famous Academy faces, no matter their crimes. No, like Kettifer, Alderion should be forced to face his peers in a courtroom for justice to be served.

  Then his slaughter would be legal.

  ‘How are you doing?’ she whi
spered, dabbing at a cut lip and trotting over to retrieve her sword.

  ‘Are you talking to me?’

  ‘No, Grincheux, I’m checking with Kettifer that his diabolical act is progressing smoothly.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right then.’

  ‘GRINCHEUX.’

  ‘Just fine. Better without interruption. What about you?’

  ‘Alderion is having a nap. And I think…’

  An extraordinary crack resounded through the Vault. It was laden with the power of ages, a bough breaking under the sheer weight of history. It echoed from every shadowy corner. It bounced from every plinth, ruffled every cover and dislodged the dust of millennia to fall on the living and the soon to be dead. The air shimmered from the top of the Vaults all the way to the floor and behind it came a rush of air. An ancient exhalation. Cassandra felt violated. A hand thrust deep into her being to squeeze her soul. A threat to end everything that was good and pure in this world she had sworn, but had not yet qualified, to protect. Every elf would feel it keenly. Indeed she was counting on it.

  ‘I think…’ she began.

  Gallers, minions and demons flooded into the Vault.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The profoundly evil laughter of Kettifer and Orgascz froze Grincheux’s blood but at the same time, he could respect the drama it conferred on a truly pivotal moment. He continued to write, sending a prayer that Cassandra could hold them off just long enough.

  “Great engines pounded in the deeps of the pit. Steam and smoke coiled up, hands to grab at the unwary. Cassandra the Swiftblade bade her scribe be courageous and he did respond, drawing every ounce he could from the memories of his Hero lost and the grand stature of his Hero present.

  “On they drove, deep into the fiery black heart of the evil kingdom that sought ascension into the sacred places of light. Down, down they strode, the mighty heart of Cassandra undaunted, the skill of her scribe honed fine. And at the base of that dread way to hell, spied they their quarry.

  “And yet, and yet doubt still remained. For standing proud before the minions of the dark, his armour polished to a blaze, his blessed blade strong in his hand, and his face carrying every battle in which he had cast down evil, was such a man as never thought to be seen walking the earth again. Surely a man the Gods had spared for one last, great challenge.

  “Alderion. Alderion stood there. Oh, blessed light, the moment’s exhilaration banished fear and brought hope galloping on her unicorn into our hearts. Oh, the sorrow that there followed. The pain of betrayal. The truth of a traitor. For he did not stand against them, he stood shoulder to scaled neck with them. It was a sight to devastate hope. To slay the unicorn and drench the heart with the chill blood of evil unchained.”

  [A sick thud of metal on leathery hide].

  [A revolting screech followed by the sound of wet sludge falling on stone].

  Grincheux could also hear footsteps running his way. More than two, which meant that although Cassandra’s feet might be among them, she was not closing in on him on her own. Grincheux could all but see the sand in the hourglass rushing through as if impelled by an unfairly firm hand.

  “Yet worse was to greet the eyes of Cassandra the Swiftblade. Her speed unmatched by the fleet gods, Susurro singing with the joy of anticipation. Fell beings would feel that keen edge. Confused were these vermin by her purity, her speed and her determination to ascend to victory.

  “Her grace, so fine in one of such tender years, allowed her to spare Alderion while her blade whispered the glory of the good and bled the cursed souls of evil…”

  ‘I hope you’re nearly done.’

  ‘My dear hero, this is not a task that can be rushed.’

  ‘The blood on my blade is already dulling its edge, so slow are you. Hurry up.’

  ‘Ah, indeed the pen is mightier than the sword.’

  ‘Don’t be so stupid.’

  [The singing of metal through the air].

  [An unearthly wail, cut off sharply].

  [A bouncing and rolling as of a ball dropped from, say, head height].

  “Deep in the shadows, cowering from the pure exuberance of a new breed of hero stood—ow!”

  ‘Grincheux, I do hope you are not about to describe me as “cowering”.’

  Cassandra backed quickly away towards the ornate passage which connected the two Vaults. Behind her, somewhere, Grincheux was picking his words with ridiculous and insensitive care. In her opinion. Ten Gallers advanced on her, trying to flank her on both sides, their sick stench causing her to gag. Beyond them, the Bloodchild and his minions urged them on while Alderion was stirring once again. She’d lost sight of Kettifer. He could move quickly for an old man.

  A Galler flashed in from her left. A dozen legs generating quick acceleration, soul-reaving tentacles reaching out towards her, beak clacking. Cassandra took a pace to the right but from the corner of her eye, saw the two Gallers moving up to anticipate her move.

  The passageway was just too far to reach this time. Other Gallers in the centre of the vault picked up their pace. Her quick slaughter of two of their number had given them pause but not lessened their hunger. She backed off. New ranks of books stood either side of her. The attacking Galler leapt atop a plinth, leering down at her. Cassandra let her anger at the defilement take her momentarily.

  She crouched and sprang up and forward, her movement too quick for her foe.

  ‘Tread not on the deeds of our heroes,’ she grated.

  Her blade smashed down on its skull, splitting it in two. Gore splattered across leather and stone. She landed, spun on her heel and sprinted towards the passageway, the skittering run of the Gallers loud in her ears. At the end of the passageway, she caught sight of Grincheux and her heart sank. She slithered to a stop and turned to face the Gallers, not knowing if her fight would have any worth and indeed whether it would ever be committed to the Vault of Deeds in which she stood.

  The Gallers gathered in the passageway. The great mound of Orgascz the Bloodchild filled the space behind them. Chittering, hooting and shrieking echoed about the Vaults. Cassandra licked dry lips and held her sword two-handed before her. She made herself breathe deep and slow.

  ‘You are a hero of Goedterre. This is what you were born to do. Evil must be cast down,’ she said softly and then she raised her eyes and locked gaze with Orgascz.

  ‘End game,’ she said.

  ‘Tick tock, tick tock.’

  Kettifer rocked a forefinger from side to side.

  ‘Yes, time sure is short,’ said Grincheux, forcing a smile onto his lips and hoping it might quell the fear that was swelling inside him. It did not.

  ‘Yes.’ Kettifer’s own smile was not at all encouraging. ‘Finished your formalisation yet?’

  Grincheux briefly considered lying but abandoned that in favour of pressing thumb and forefinger together and holding them in front of his face.

  ‘Just a few tiny amendments to make to the early passages—’

  ‘- and you haven’t even begun the really damning stuff, have you? Oh dear, but you should have listened to your hero.’

  ‘You know better than anyone that formalisation cannot be rushed if the hero’s deeds are to be correctly enshrined.’

  ‘Yes. And I also know that your latest and last work will not be set until the turning of the hour, should you live. That’s about fifty minutes after your unfortunate death, by my reckoning.’ Light flashed between Kettifer’s hands. ‘Step away from the book, Scribe Grincheux.’

  Grincheux gathered all the courage he had. It didn’t take him long.

  ‘I must finish my work,’ he said. ‘So I must respectfully decline. I’m sure you understand.’

  Kettifer nodded and scratched at his nose, letting Grincheux see the line of light he traced there.

  ‘I commend your dedication, loyalty and professionalism. I question your pragmatism, however.’

  Kettifer stepped towards him and opened a palm. Jagged forks like miniature lightning fizz
ed out and rattled into Grincheux’s face. Grincheux’s hand flew up to his cheek to cover the burning pain. He staggered back, his heart thumping away and his mind clouding with fear.

  ‘I cannot let you stop me,’ said Kettifer, moving towards him, his palms open and menacing, lightning crackling between them. ‘I cannot let you keep from me what is rightfully mine.’

  ‘And what’s that?’ asked Grincheux, his words slightly muddled by the mild numbness spreading across his cheek. ‘A place in history as the man who brought darkness to the kingdom of light?’

  Kettifer’s face pinched and his cheeks reddened. He strode up and slapped Grincheux across the cheek. Pain flared anew and spread across his skull, singeing his eyebrows and threatening his hair.

  ‘Do you know what our great rulers had planned for me when I stepped down, o righteous scribe?’

  ‘A comfortable retirement and a place in the annals of the great and loved of Goedterre?’ ventured Grincheux.

  ‘If only,’ hissed Kettifer. ‘If only. But you see, there was a downturn in income. I was a victim of my own success. Unbeatable heroes means no room for the new generation of hero or scribe. No money in magicking, oh no. Despite the obvious benefits. No real talent offering itself anyway.’

  There was a strange light in Kettifer’s eyes. Mirroring that still bouncing between his hands which were clenching and unclenching as if squeezing an invisible stress ball. It didn’t seem to be reducing his stress level much. Grincheux didn’t know how to respond. He was fairly sure that Kettifer didn’t require him to respond. From the passageway, he heard a screech and a booming roar. Both in anger. Neither elvish.

  ‘But surely producing unbeatable heroes is the keystone of the Academy,’ said Grincheux trying to appear both sympathetic and intelligent.