Bad Apple (The Warner Grimoire)

by Clay Held

  “Think you’re a strong one, do you?” Never breaking his stride, his free hand shot out, pointed right at Sam. His fingers locked into a claw as he twisted his palm upward, closing tight into a fist. Sam shuddered and collapsed against the wall.

  Simon screamed. “SAM!”

  Sam’s head snapped up, then dropped back down. When he lifted his head again, the mist had returned, now misty green and swirling like a violent summer storm.

  “Sam?” Simon’s voice was a hollow echo. “Ex luce--”

  Sam’s arm shot out, striking Simon hard in the shoulder. The blow sent him tumbling backwards onto the floor. Too shocked to even yell, he fell into the pile of dead leaves and trash on the floor, stunned. A dark shape mewed and bolted past him and out the open window.

  “I’m impressed,” Boeman said. “There’s much will in you, but it will take much more than that to break my hold over your uncle.” Boeman dropped the shovel next to Simon. Its clang sent another wave of creatures scurrying into the shadows. “Nasty gremlins,” he said. “Pick that up. You’re going to need it.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? You want to see your parents, don’t you? Well, that right there is the key.”

  He stared at the shovel, caked in dirt. Was it for digging graves? Nausea crept into Simon’s stomach, squeezing him until even his eyes hurt. “Are you telling me they’re--”

  Boeman chuckled. “Dead? Nothing of the sort. Better than that. Come on, let’s not keep everybody waiting.”

  * * *

  Simon stood in the graveyard from his vision. “You knew we’d be coming here, didn’t you?”

  “Not at all,” Boeman said. “Though I must admit I am very, very glad things have turned out like this.” Boeman led Simon through row after row of decaying tombstones, whistling that same haunting, four-note tune over and over. Around them the graveyard stretched long and low into the forest, and the moon was barely visible for all the entangled branches above.

  “What are we doing here?” Simon carried the shovel awkwardly. It was heavier than it looked. “Why didn’t Sam come with us?”

  “Your parents are lost, Simon. Lost in a very dark place. The key to reaching them is here.” They came upon a rusted iron fence. Boeman shoved open the gate and kept going.

  “It’s buried here?”

  “Under the headstone of one of the founding Archmancers.” Boeman said. He stopped and turned his head, listening to the darkness that engulfed them, and smiled. “Once we have it we’ll be able to open the way, and then it’s happy mommy and proud daddy and you and your uncle and everyone’s a big, happy family again.

  Simon’s hands hurt. “But--it’s buried, right? Somebody buried it for a reason, didn’t they?”

  “A greedy old man with a lust for precious things,” Boeman snapped. He slammed through another metal gate and continued. Simon’s neck tingled as they passed. “Like most of the Freemancers he was just as greedy, just as willing to hoard his treasure, when they could have been helping others.” The rage on Boeman’s face flickered, and his voice dropped low and quiet. “They never help, not really,” he said, almost to himself. “Not even once.” Sadness slipped over Boeman’s face.

  “Wouldn’t help who?”

  Boeman collected himself, quickened his step. “Hurry up, Warner.” He walked several feet in front of Simon, bursting through a third gate. Another tingle across his neck, and Simon felt faint for a moment.

  Simon began to struggle with the weight of the shovel--it seemed to grow heavier the further they went. They passed through another gate, and then several minutes later another, and several minutes after that another one. Each one left its tiny pinprick on Simon, and the shovel grew heavier. The forest grew quieter after each passing, until the only noise was theirs, and even it began to seem flat. Simon felt alone, more alone than he had ever felt, even with Boeman up ahead. Boeman moved quickly ahead, stopping suddenly before a large white wall, where he waited for Simon. Drawing closer Simon realized it was not just a wall, but a wall made of statues--large ones, short ones, human, animal, creatures he didn’t even recognize. Hundreds, maybe even thousands of them, all in a line that stretched far off into the darkness. Every last one of them, from the statue of the large man with the humongous belly, to the tiny statue of a fox, every last one seemed frozen in an expression of complete and utter agony. Simon tried to tell himself it was only an illusion, a trick of his eyes and the light, but they all seemed to be reaching out directly at them, clawing over each other, a tangled mass of frenzied stone all trying to seize him. Boeman stood just out of reach of the statues, and Simon stood back farther still.

  “Six gates in, one gate down.” Boeman held out his hand. “The shovel,” he said. Simon’s entire upper body ached and he was grateful to hand it over. Boeman took it in both hands and held it level with the ground, never taking his eyes off the wall of tangled statues. Simon wondered who could have even carved it, and, more so, who would have even wanted to? Boeman raised his arms up in front of him and closed his eyes, and red lines and patterns began to appear on the shovel, glowing dimly. It reminded Simon of blood. He looked at his hands and realized he was bleeding from both palms--blisters had formed and burst on his palms from carrying the shovel, and he hadn’t even realized until that moment.

  “Thank you for carrying this for me,” Boeman said. “It’s been a very, very long time since this place could be opened, but I think your blood will finally do the trick, apple of a good man.”

  Simon tried to back away but his feet were stuck firmly to the ground. He looked in horror as the shovel glowed brighter, the lines and patterns smoldering. Burning symbols appeared on the statues, spiraling out along them like glowing tattoos. Boeman uttered a few words quietly, then turned suddenly, striking at the head of the giant statue with the shovel.

  The wall exploded with impossibly harsh light. Simon shielded his face as a painfully loud crack broke the silence all around them. When he opened his eyes the wall of statues had ruptured. The statues that remained seemed to have moved--the statue of the giant man, which Simon had seen right where Boeman had struck, now seemed to be off to the side, revealing an innocuous metal gate behind him. One of the giant man’s arms was missing, and its face was a frozen mask of agony and rage, staring straight at them.

  Boeman tossed the broken shovel aside. “All done with that. Follow me.”

  Simon flexed his hands. “You said nothing about bleeding.”

  “First lesson,” Boeman said, “is always negotiate all the terms. Consider your blood the cost of learning.” Boeman stepped through the hole in the wall of statues. “Now follow me.”

  Simon began to protest. “I--”

  A wave of sickness hit him. He was pulled uncontrollably forward.

  “That’s what happens when you don’t obey. Unless you want to end up like Sam, I suggest you start listening.”

  “But, I--”

  “Shut up.”

  Simon’s mouth locked closed. Surprised by this, he stopped walking, until his legs began to move, painfully, on their own. Slowly, he moved forward, almost spasming through the hole in the wall, feeling the stare of a thousand pairs of eyes upon him.

  The air was unnaturally still inside the wall. Boeman led him deeper, down a slope until they were in the very heart of the graveyard. There were no tombstones here. Simon finally felt the tension in his jaw slack, and he managed to talk. “Why is it empty here?”

  “None are welcome here, living or dead.” Boeman held out his hand. “The very air is like a curtain, everything holding back that which sits beyond the Moat.” His tone was reverent. “Can you feel it? Can you hear it?” He fell silent. “Whispers, Warner. Always whispers.” Boeman tilted his head. “The Old Ones yearn for this world again.”

  Simon began to hear a faint humming. At first he thought it was his ears grappling with the quiet, or his imagination, but the humming swelled for a moment, just on the edge of real noise, then quickly died aw
ay. Silence, true silence, settled over them again. Boeman resumed walking, pulling Simon forward as he went. The muscles in Simon’s jaw tensed up again.

  The ground leveled out beneath them as they reached the bottom. A small tombstone, like a small gray pyramid, stood in the middle of a wide circle of stones, bathed in clear moonlight. “Whateley’s Rest,” Boeman said. “Come here,” he said, and Simon had no choice but to obey. “We need what is under the stone.” Boeman’s voice frosted over. “Speak to it.”

  “I don’t know how,” Simon said, genuinely confused by the command.

  “Do not play games with me,” Boeman said. Simon felt the muscles in his throat relax. “You were born to do this. Your very heart beats with the knowledge of how to do this. Call to the keystone,” he repeated.

  “The what?”

  “The keystone!” Boeman snapped. “Summon the Key of Algul! Call it from the grave and let us be done with this world!

  Simon hesitated. “I don’t think I want to--”

  Boeman’s face twisted with sudden fury, and his voice filled with rage. “Call it! Apple of a good man!” The tombstone shuddered, rattling the ground beneath them. Boeman whipped a clawed hand at Simon. Simon convulsed, and his arm flew up in front of him. The feeling burned. Boeman screamed an incoherent scream, his eyes burning wild, and Simon’s thoughts fell into shambles. Boeman was in front of him, and something--something else--was moving, slinking around in the shadows beyond the stone circle. Simon’s arm convulsed again, but he did not collapse, he did not scream.

  Against his will, Simon stretched his arm out to the tombstone, his fingers curling into a fist as he felt the pull of Boeman’s influence. He did not want to do any of this, but the pain was too great, too strong. The ground beneath the tombstone shuddered, and fear struck Simon at the thought of what could possibly be trying to emerge, but there was nothing he could do to fight it. Desperately, he fought to move, to run, but he could not. He was frozen in place, an unwilling pawn, completely under the control of Boeman.

  Just like Sam.

  Boeman continued to shout, his words utterly drowned out by the searing pain that blossomed in Simon’s hand. It moved up his arm, across his shoulder, slowly making its way up his neck, over his face, and finally to his temples. He fought as hard as he could against Boeman’s control, to no avail. His body began to feel heavy, and all the while his eyes remained transfixed on the tombstone. With a sick, sucking noise, the tombstone began to heave, throwing aside dirt and moss as it slowly rose. An obelisk grew through the muck and the moss, and on the front the Silver Leaf of the Freemancers glowed brightly in the moonlight. The base of the obelisk was carved black stone, and below the leaf was a small opening just large enough for someone to slip a hand inside. The obelisk settled into place, and every muscle in Simon’s body relaxed as he collapsed to the ground.

  Boeman turned to a shadow just outside the circle of stones. “I told you it would work.” The shadow moved through the edge of Simon’s vision, then slowly it came forward, its movement fluid and sinister. It moved on all fours, circling around the stones, until it came to a stop right in front of the two of them. Simon lifted his head to see two glowing green eyes staring back at him.

  Streaker.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THE SECRET SIGIL

  Simon stared blankly into the green eyes of the hellhound. “How?”

  “Simon, Simon, Simon.” Boeman clicked his tongue. “So many little questions,” Boeman said. “Sam raised you well, that he did, but I’m afraid he left you with a little too much curiosity.”

  Streaker paced around the circle of stones, a low growl rumbling in his throat.

  “Nathan killed him,” Simon said. The dog growled louder at Nathan’s name.

  “The correct term is banished,” Boeman said. “Might have been permanent on a lesser hound, but crossing the Moat is nothing for him. Our boy here is made of thicker stuff. Aren’t you boy?” Boeman reached out a hand towards Streaker, but stopped when the dog snapped his jaws.

  “How did you bring him back?” Simon asked. “Is that what the sacrifice was for?”

  Boeman laughed “There never was a sacrifice, Warner. My lies out of Sam’s mouth.” He smiled. “You can make a thrall do just about anything. That’s the power of holding one’s soul in the grip of your fist.” He knelt down over the grave as Streaker growled again. “We ARE well enough along,” Boeman said. The dog moved away slowly, sliding back out to the edge of the darkness. Simon stood transfixed on the spot.

  “What is it?” Simon asked. “What’s in the ground? What did you bring me here for?”

  Boeman stared at him. “The keystone,” he said. His knelt down, his fingers fishing along the ground. “Tonight is a powerful night, the lines through time and space are carrying massive currents of a strong power this night. More power than you could ever imagine, and my master bids me tap into those currents. Tonight I will fulfill my master’s wishes, and we shall peel away the gateway to the Moated Veil.”

  “To where?”

  “To where?” Boeman snapped. “To the World Next Door, Simon. Shining, glorious Algul, across the black emptiness above the sky. Our ancient lands beyond the Moat of empty space, to the glorious Empire above the stars.” Incandescent green flickered across Boeman’s eyes. “Tonight we welcome back into this world the darkest and most powerful of the Old Ones, those who seized our world from the cosmic dust and forged it anew, from empty rock and space they created our world, this world, the Crucible of the Sun. Your precious Greencloaks speak only of the kingdom of Par Adhara and their dead city of Thule, but there was another kingdom, a glorious kingdom--Par Jabbah, the Empire of the Shroud! We know of them only in the whispers of ancient shadows, hidden in terrible nightmares that seize us as we drift through restless sleep. The first men of this miserable little world called them monsters, beings older than Life and more terrible than Death, but they are not monsters. Tonight, we reopen the last remaining bridge to their world. We will open the way to the Shrouded Ones of Par Jabbah--the first true masters of magic in all the cosmos, worn from time and more powerful than anything you have ever seen. Across the Moat they will come back to this world.” He closed his eyes in reverence, throwing his arms open wide. “Darrow has foreseen this in his Waking Sleep. The Timeworn will come. They will be our blessed way to salvation!”

  Simon listened carefully, backing away slowly, hoping to disappear into the dark, but Boeman’s eyes opened and locked onto him.

  “Stupid boy!” Boeman howled. He reached out his hand, and with it came an unyielding force against Simon, like glaciers, bidding him to hold still. He fell awkwardly to the ground, his body locked solid. He struggled against Boeman’s will until his blood almost ignited from the effort. White-hot agony seared through his temples, and slowly he could move his fingers, and draw a fist. It was a start, a small one to be sure, but a start nonetheless.

  Boeman was on him now, his gangly form looming over Simon, his thin arms hanging like branches of a dead tree. “Obey,” he commanded, his eyes and hands focused on Simon. His eyes flickered green one last time, then the emerald energy died away, leaving only bone white eyes. His pupils were gone. “Obey and become as you were always meant to become. Obey, and feel the cold embrace of the Dark Old Ones, the Ones who Conquered Thule...”

  Darkness swam swiftly over Simon, choking him, filling his lungs with ice water. Everything around him grew dim, and his vision began to blur. In the void that filled his head, shapes began to move: odd, unfamiliar forms that erupted, slithered violently, flowing into every corner of his mind, washing over him. It was exhausting. His blood which had burned so hot a moment ago ebbed with cold, and a blizzard of pain dragged over him as his ears filled with a low, continuous humming. Dizziness boiled in him, and his stomach ached and spun as the forms continued their assault from within, vague shadows folding and bending into long arms, and emerald eyes exploded into being all around him. The coldness grew. It was num
bing, almost enough to push back all the dizziness and the pain, and Simon welcomed it. In the space of a heartbeat, a way to escape had blossomed within: the coldness, the chilled path of the grave. In that instant he welcomed it, welcomed the release it meant, welcomed the escape from all the agony and the pain. He would give in. He would not fight. The shadows pressed down on him harder, the coldness deepening, beckoning him with its ink black promise of relief. Almost he thought. Almost free.

  The icy waters rose up to him, the same he felt when he almost drowned at the spillway. He wondered idly if this was how it would have felt if Sam hadn’t pulled him from the water and breathed life back into him while Molly and Zoey stood by, both of them crying.

  Sam.

  Molly.

  Zoey.

  The thought of losing them strangled him, and somewhere deep down, far in the very recesses of his heart, he felt something odd. Some wall inside him began to crack, and finally, excruciatingly, painfully, it broke.

  Electricity sizzled inside Simon, burning deep within. An explosion happened, a passionate swell of feeling erupted inside him, filling him, warming him. The ink black promise of relief retreated, fleeing in the rush of adrenaline and heat. His blood pumped furiously, pushing white-hot fire through him again. His muscles relaxed. His bones unfroze.