The Vanishing Castle_An Epik Fantasy Short

by William Tyler Davis

  The Vanishing Castle

  The Great Ranger Book 2

  William Tyler Davis

  Copyright © 2017 by William Tyler Davis

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  For my mother

  ‘Over the Mountains

  Of the Moon,

  Down the Valley of the Shadow,

  Ride, boldly ride,’

  The shade replied,—

  ‘If you seek for Eldorado!’

  Edgar Allan Poe

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Epilogue

  Thanks for reading

  Also by William Tyler Davis

  Prologue

  The thief watched the mountain. He camped, and he watched it by day. And at night, he watched the embers of his fire until his eyes blurred with smoke and exhaustion. The mountain was small by the standard of most, little more than an outcropping of stone and ice above a sloping tree line.

  The summer season turned to fall in the blink of a literal eye—the thief only had the one eye. Nights and the mornings were crisp and chilly now, making the hairs on his forearm bristle. The fire that he kept burning both day and night had become a warm and inviting friend to the thief. On the mountain, the ice at the peak grew steadily, almost daily now, slowly descending into fissures and crevasses unseen until the white snow was packed inside them.

  One morning, the thief woke and had all but forgotten to look up at the mountain. His stomach rumbled with hunger. He set out to look at the traps that he’d set along the hillside, hoping for a rabbit. No, he longed for a rabbit. Its oily dark meat would do him some good, he knew. And rabbits would get nice and fat this time of year in preparation for winter.

  Please make there be a rabbit, he thought.

  There was nothing in the first trap, nothing at all, and nothing in the second. But as the thief came upon the third trap, he heard a rustling, scurrying sound against the leaves and the brush. An animal was trying to escape the trap. He smiled, and in that instant, his belly rumbled with a sort of glee. But the closer to the sound, the scurrying, the more his stomach became skeptical as the smell of whatever it was caught told him there was no rabbit in the trap.

  The possum was a dull, chalky gray. Black eyes stared at him with no fear. Its pink nose scrunched as it hissed toothily at him. Bonking it over the head with his hammer, the thief took the possum by its thick tail and carried it back to camp. After he skinned and gutted it, he put the possum over the fire.

  It was only then that he looked up at the mountain, sluggishly remembering his duty.

  And there it was—a castle appearing from nowhere. If the thief had only seen the mountain that day, well, then the castle would have looked as natural as any other of it’s feature. Each turret, the curtain wall, the castle keep, were all made of the same stone, a sandy beige. In fact, the casual observer may not notice the castle there on the mountain at all.

  But he was no casual observer. The thief gathered his things and hastily made for the mountain. The possum and the fire were all but forgotten.

  1

  Coe looked down at his hands. They were his hands, weren’t they? From his deep-set eyes, he could see these hands were attached to wrists and to arms that went up to shoulders, and from this vantage point, it all was connected to him. His body. Except, it wasn’t his body. Not really.

  These were not Coe’s hands. Wrinkled and knotted, each knuckle looked as if it wanted to protest its role in the movement of the fingers below it. The sparse hair on each knuckle was gray. And perhaps strangest of all was the skin, as if someone had poured a heap of cream into the coffee color of Coe’s own skin. Blue, purplish veins ran just underneath the thin layer, and he could trace their comings and goings if he wanted.

  “What did you do to me?” he asked the halfling, Epik.

  “What you asked—”

  “No, this isn’t what I asked for.”

  “Oh, quit yer bellyaching,” Two-finger said. The dwarf chuckled, unapologetic. “Ya might not be as pretty as you once were, but ya sure don’t look like a ranger anymore.”

  “I didn’t ask to be turned into some old man.” Coe flexed his fingers, expecting arthritis—or worse. But all of it was an illusion. The skin, the hands, they felt the same. His body was the same underneath; only the appearance had changed. “Him next,” Coe said, pointing a finger to Two-finger.

  Get you some, he thought maliciously. But as he thought it, Epik pointed the wand at the dwarf, and the stout figure of Two-finger stretched to Coe’s own height—or his old height. He was a bit hunched over now. The magic coursed over the dwarf. His leathery face rose into chiseled cheekbone. His great beard transformed into a straight mane of red hair. His bulbous and pocked nose shrunk to a minuscule point at the center of his new face. He looked… He looked handsome, striking enough to be desired by any maiden that came within a hundred feet.

  Coe grimaced. “I definitely didn’t ask for that.”

  “Whoa,” Two-finger said, wobbling. He bobbled at his waist and knees as he struggled to get used to his new height. Finally, he steadied. “Is… Is this what the air smells like up here?”

  Rotrick laughed. “You dwarves always walk around at ass height. Imagine the wind you get is a different kind of wind.” But Rotrick didn’t have to imagine long as he began to shrink into a rather Rotrick-looking dwarf with a dark beard and a dark complexion.

  “You can’t just make him go and look like me!” Wellspoken, the most well-spoken of the dwarves, argued.

  Epik pursed his lips. He waved the wand in Wellspoken’s direction. The dwarf grew even a bit taller than Two-finger. His skin, like Coe’s, had lightened considerably. His black beard became a long black braid of hair. And his ears became pointed. Oddly, it didn’t take him long to find his elf legs. He leapt spryly in the air, then dangled from the branch of a large Willoak tree above them.

  “Always wanted to do that,” he said, swinging to another branch and climbing over to stand on it.

  “Wish Bill was here,” the handsome man that had once been Two-finger said. “Bet he’d be a right pretty princess the way these spells have gone.”

  Epik gave Coe a side-eyed look but didn’t speak a word.

  The ranger dug through his pack and changed quickly out of his usual garb, putting on an old linen shirt, canvas pants, and a scratchy brown cloak in its stead. The dwarves, or what used to be the dwarves also needed a change. And Rotrick was practically swimming in his jerkin and pants.

  “I still don’t understand why you needed me to do this.” Epik pocketed his wand. “Or why I’m helping you,” he muttered softly to himself.

  “You know why,” Coe said dubiously. “For now, the less you know of our mission, the better.”

  “And you’re sure you won’t come with us?” Epik asked. “We may need you.”

  “I’m sure,” Coe said. “I have issues of my own concern. Besides, you’ll do fine. You always seem to manage.”

  Coe smiled at the halfling, though he didn’t mean to do it.

  Epik shrugged and pocketed his wand. The halfling protested no further.

  They left Epik and the rest of their companions there by th
e road in the gray morning light. Splitting the party had never been part of the arrangement, and Coe would likely pay dearly for not letting King Epiman in on his plan. He’d likely pay in all connotations of the word. He would no longer get paid at all, not by the king, but that was fine. He and his companions had enough money to live on now after their part in saving the kingdom from first the trolls and then the old Grand Counselor, Nacer, who had tried to steal Epiman’s throne.

  Coe wondered what King Epiman would do or have done to him when this news reached his ears? He worried briefly for his wife and kids, for his new daughter and his sons. The eldest two were more than capable of defending the rest. The time for worrying was passed. Coe had made his decision. And this was something he had to do. Wasn’t it?

  “The boy’s got good,” Two-finger said, playing with his hair, examining it. He looked too big for his pony now, and the nag protested this new situation.

  “He has,” Wellspoken agreed. The golden skin of the elf sparkled when the sun hit it just right—a divergence from the ragged pony beneath him.

  They trotted down the weathered road, and Coe eyed them. It was like having to learn new names and faces all over again. Perhaps this was what it was like to be Sergeant, that is Captain Todder. The old watchman wasn’t so good with names. But he had been helpful in battle, Coe thought. Todder was among the party he’d left with Epik.

  But they were right. Epik was getting good. He looked down at his knobby hands.

  “We’ll see how long these spells last. Could be back to our old selves again before we even reach the castle.”

  “And what’s the plan when we do reach this castle?” the dwarf that was Rotrick asked.

  “When we reach the castle we won’t be able to see it. That, I’m sure of. We’ll make camp and wait for it to manifest. Once it does, you will stay back at camp while the rest of us go inside.”

  “I’ll stay in camp?” Rotrick asked, stricken. “Are you serious?”

  “I’m serious,” Coe said, sighing briefly. “I need your skills as a ranger. You’ll be of no use to us on the inside. You see, once we’ve won the Great Ranger over, he will lead us out of the castle and deep into the mountains on its other side. That’s where I need you. It’s where I lost him the last time.”

  “Last time? But that was years ago,” Wellspoken said. “How are you so sure this king is the Great Ranger?”

  “He makes a good point,” Two-finger said. “Was less than a year ago, you two, you three dueled. Only then did he say he would set these next traps.”

  “No,” Coe shook his head, “he didn’t say these were new traps. He said he would test me two more times. I know this is him. It's the same as that foggy bay, a trap set for rangers or talented thieves. It’s a game to him. His calling card if you will.”

  Not a year before, Coe had walked into a trap, not knowing exactly what he was up against. Though he had known that men of his kind, rangers, were going missing. But what he hadn’t known was the trap was also set by a ranger, a man that was supposed to be a myth or a legend—a ranger who was talked about above all others in their lore. All rangers knew of the Great Ranger, knew at least one story of his triumphs.

  But what most rangers didn’t know was that those triumphs had come at a cost. Early on in the Great Ranger’s career, he had taken in with a witch. She had made him all but invincible. Immortal. And with every victory, whether over a dragon, a troll, or a whole kingdom, the Great Ranger grew more wicked… and strong. Now, only the most worthy opponent could defeat him and end his madness.

  The Great Ranger had seen something in Coe, a chance to finally rest in peace. But the man, if he could really be called a man, wouldn’t go down so easily. He couldn’t, really. The spell didn’t allow for that. The Great Ranger granted Coe three meetings, three chances for Coe to finish the Great Ranger for good. In their first battle, Coe had come away licking his wound. But now he was better prepared.

  “And so you go to this castle, unannounced. And then what?” Rotrick asked. He was offended, Coe knew. Rotrick had lost in combat to the Great Ranger as easily as a field mouse gets scooped up by an owl. “I thought you said you had a plan.”

  “I do.”

  “And my part is to stay well away from everything.” Rotrick kicked his horse to ride level with Coe’s. “You’re trying to protect me, but I don’t want to be protected. Sure, he bested me. But he beat you, too. And we’ve both sharpened our skills. We can defeat him. Together.”

  “Rotrick,” Coe said. “Your part is the most important. You’re what he won’t see coming.”

  Rotrick could see through him. They’d worked together so long. Even with him looking like an unknown dwarf, Coe could see the hurt in the other ranger’s eyes.

  “I don’t need your protection,” Rotrick said, allowing his horse to fall back in line.

  But he did need protection. Coe knew he did.

  2

  The castle was as barren as the mountains around it and ghostly. Most kingdoms had outcroppings of farms or whole villages around them while this castle had nothing but rocks and a smattering of vegetation that had become less and less dense as the thief had made his way up the mountain. The silence was hard on the ears as if he expected the commotion of a grand hall or courtyard.

  He found the castle gate open. There wasn’t a moat or portcullis. There was barely any door, just a wooden flap with no locking mechanism.

  Inside, there was a coolness to the air, so damp it made the thief’s skin crawl. This was something more than cold air leftover from the night. The thief’s friends had always liked to say that he was good at going down deep dark caverns, perhaps thinking he was unafraid. But no, he knew better. A cave, a tunnel, a hole, it didn’t matter, hardly anything lived down a black hole worth being afraid of. What his friends had failed to understand was something didn’t have to be dark to be scary.

  The halls were empty. With the noon sun still high in the sky above, the castle was flooded with light through its high windows. Dust hung like smoke in the air, lazily blocking stray beams of light.

  He crept along the walls, feeling as if he was being watched. He probably was.

  Most castles shared some semblance of the same design. It wouldn’t take long to find what he was after. Nobles always thought they had the best defenses, the best hiding spots—like a hidden compartment behind a tapestry was a novel concept.

  The castle was bigger on the inside as if part of the mountain had been carved out to hide its inner depths. Hours crept faster than the thief who was no longer creeping at all. Where was it hidden? he wondered. There was no other sound than his footsteps, not even that from a bird or a mouse. The silence wasn’t deafening, but instead, it amplified the sounds of his heart, of his lungs breathing in the dust-filled air. He wheezed slightly.

  Finally, he found the chamber.

  But this was different than he imagined. The gold, well, the gold wasn’t hidden at all. He stepped further into the chamber, halfway to his objective.

  Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap.

  The sound came from behind him. It reverberated everywhere, replacing any sound his body could make. He turned, and a lone figure stood at the entrance to the chamber behind him.

  Clap. Clap. Clap

  The king applauded him slowly.

  Mounds of gold flickered in the torchlight as the evening had turned the sky outside a murky gray. He kept one eye on the gold, and well, he only had the one eye, so it darted back and forth from the gold to the king and back again. There were bars stacked neatly in rows, making a pyramid almost head height. Coins, necklaces, and rings—there were jewels the thief had never seen before. But it was a golden chalice that attracted him most.

  “It’s magnificent, isn’t it?” the king said.

  “It is,” the thief croaked. It had been so long since he’d spoken to anyone.

  “Magnificent. Yes.” The king put his hands behind his back. “What if I told you this is just a taste? There is
a mountain full of such wonders… not so far away from here.”

  “Then,” the thief spoke, “I would say you are probably a liar. And madder than those who speak of you say.”

  The king chuckled. “Well, that part might be true. But I am no liar. What I speak is truth. There is more gold, more than you can imagine. And even though I’ve seen it, my memory, when I try to recall it, fails to recreate the majesty.”

  There was a stirring in the thief’s mind. The conversation was ringing some bell or bells as if he knew what the king said was true. But more pressing, there was this longing. He wanted to reach out and touch the gold. The king was a liar, he told himself. And wasn’t this more than enough gold for a lifetime? For several lifetimes?

  “What does it matter if there’s more?” the thief asked. He inched toward the center of the room. “I only need a little. If you know of this gold, then I say you can replenish what I’ve taken, when I’ve taken it.”

  The king was only one man. And the thief was strong. He was willing to take one life for this gold—more if necessary.

  “I wouldn’t—”

  “You wouldn’t what?” sneered the thief hastily.

  “Listen,” the king said softly, “I’m willing to offer you a chance. One chance. You can help me procure more gold. But you can’t have any of what’s here in this room. You cannot touch this gold. This is mine.”

  A smile curved at the edges of the thief’s mouth. The king was stalling, wasn’t he? And the thief could reach out and touch the gold. He was so close.

  Again, something echoed in the back of his mind. Some part of the thief begged him to listen to the king. But it was the gold. It glittered. And he longed to take it.