by Lucas Thorn
Caspiellans. She had to remind herself that's what they were. The enemy.
Not friends.
Yet, she could remember Melganaderna's terrifying axe as it swept the Grey Jackets back. Protecting her from their swords.
They'd fought together.
Bled together.
Surely that's not what enemies did.
She shook her head, squeezing eyes shut until she could see stars glittering inside her eyelids.
Nothing was making any sense. Life had been simple, once. But since opening Talek's Cage, everything was confusing.
She slowly pulled herself to her feet. Swayed a little as dizziness combed her brain. Reached out and leaned against the wall of the Keep. Heavy stone walls with mould gripping its sides. The same dark mould which clung to the stones beneath her boots.
And stained her jacket.
The elf pulled her hand from the icy slickness and looked around. Wondered where she could go from here. Didn't want to get back into the awful river.
Looking around, she could see a small grate a little further down. It looked to be clinging on by its hinges.
Hinges eaten by rust.
Grimacing, she headed for it. Rubbed at a stream of mostly-dry blood which dribbled from a gash on her forehead. A gash she didn't know had healed faster than it should.
Her thoughts continued to be muddled with emotions she was struggling to maintain. They turned over the same thoughts. The thirst to kill Hyrax. The need to kill the traitorous elf. To kill Chukshene. Maybe even the two he travelled with.
Hemlock and Melganaderna. A strange couple, even for Caspiellans.
She'd known many Caspiellans.
She hadn't killed every single one she'd met. The Deadlands, after all, knew no loyalties. But she should feel more hate for them. Especially Melganaderna. A spoiled princess, even by her own admission.
Yet she found more rage inside for Chukshene. A man who'd saved her life more than once.
A spellslinger, she reminded herself. A mage.
Then why not feel the same incandescent rage toward Hemlock? He was a Caspiellan spellslinger. She should have buried A Flaw in the Glass in his guts ages ago.
The elf sighed, battling to stop the whirlwind within from tearing her apart.
Closed her mind to her emotions and instead tried to focus on one thing at a time.
Everyone she wanted to kill was either entering or already inside Urak's Keep. Those who'd survived, anyway.
Her violet eyes thinned to slits. Her plan was simple. Get inside.
Then kill. Kill them all.
Her skin crawled as something wriggled between her flesh and the bracer on her left arm. Absently, she tugged on the laces to tighten it.
Yeah, she thought. Kill them all. Maybe that would be easier than putting up with the storm inside her head.
She found the grate gripped stubbornly to the wall. Had to give it a few good kicks to force it to let go. It gave a squeal of metal as the last hinge wrenched from the stone.
A few sparks stuttered from where the metal popped loose, sending her skipping back with a frown. But when no more were ejected, she returned to reach out and tear the grate free with a grunt. Tossed it into the river where it landed with a heavy splash.
The elf squinted down the narrow pipe which looked big enough for her to crawl through on her hands and knees. Wondered if this was the best option, before accepting it was the only one she was willing to entertain right now. For more reasons than she could put words to, she really wanted to get away from the glowing river of slime.
So she lifted herself into the opening and wrinkled her nose at the stench of decay which greeted her. A thin trickle of water dribbled down the pipe, carrying rancid filth in its wake. Now and then her hands touched something soft and cold and she was grateful there wasn't enough light to see what she was touching.
The narrow pipe angled upward for a distance, then seemed to fork.
She kept moving, doing her best not to absorb more filth into her clothes than she had already. Feeling repulsed with every movement she made.
Yet, despite the disgusting nature of the pipe's innards, the elf's relief increased the further she moved away from the river.
At a fork, she chose to take the left side, hoping it would lead deeper into the Keep. Also trusting her instincts which told her the left side's air was a little fresher. Which might hint at an opening somewhere along the way.
She paused a few times, catching her breath. The feeling of worms gripping her bones still hadn't abated, and she felt heavier than usual. As though her limbs were made of stone. Weariness threatened to make her lay down and give up, but it was revulsion at her surroundings which kept her moving.
The desire to escape the pipe's rotting grasp.
Finally, as her hope was beginning to dribble away, she caught sight of a subtle glimmer of light. A bare flicker which promised the comfort of a candle, or a torch.
Her vigor renewed, the elf shuffled quickly forward, mouth drawn back into a humourless grin as she advanced on the light. Found another grate.
Looking through, she could see she was high above the ground. Could see the room below. Its furnishings had long since given way to the ravages of time. A small torch flickered in the corner of the room, held in its place on the wall by a cobwebbed iron clasp.
She positioned herself against the grate and once more used her feet to kick it free. It sprang loose with a sharp tearing of metal and bounced along the stone ground below. Rattled itself to a halt against one wall.
The elf waited, ears straining for sign of anything disturbed by the shockingly loud sound, but heard nothing.
She backed out through the small opening, hanging from the pipe with her legs dangling. Realised only then just how high she was above the ground, but dropped anyway.
Landing painfully, the elf's roll was clumsy. Clumsy enough that she jarred her shoulder as she slammed down onto the ground.
“Shit,” she spat between her teeth, clutching at her upper arm. Slowly sat up, eyes flicking this way and that as she took in her new surroundings.
The walls were clean. The floor made of cracked tiles, some of which had worked themselves loose. Draping much of the rotten furniture were thick laces of cobwebs and more than a few layers of dust. The wall in front was stained. Mould scarred its damp face. Behind her, the pipe still drooled, leaving an inky stain beneath the opening she'd just dropped from.
Dark runes brushed the walls.
A language she couldn't read.
A language similar to those which adorned the box she carried.
It was only then that she noticed something which made her heart begin to race.
“No,” she breathed. Looked behind her. Left. Right. “Oh, fuck, no.”
She climbed to her feet. Felt pain stab her thigh as she hobbled quickly around the edge of the room. Began rubbing at the dust and debris which hugged the walls. Searching for something she knew she wouldn't find.
Hysteria writhed like an army of snakes between the bones of her spine as she realised this was a room with no doors. The pipe's meagre opening mocked from a place now too high to reach. The walls, too slick and smooth to climb.
She was trapped like a mouse in a glass box. This room would be her cell until she died.
Thought she could hear Gul'Se's ghostly giggle travelling through the room as she slumped again. This time against the wall. Gripping her aching shoulder, the elf closed her eyes and tried to stop the anger from taking the last shred of her sanity.
How could she be so stupid as to jump down without even looking for a way out?
“Reckon I should look on the bright side,” the elf growled bitterly, biting back tears of frustration. Scrubbed at the blood which stained her forehead and cheek. “On account of at least I won't be taking any more knocks.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The elf remained where she was, eyes moving slowly over the room's strange contents. How much time pa
ssed, she didn't know. Certainly more than a few hours.
The torch which hung in its place on the wall continued to burn. She had the feeling it would burn for many more centuries yet. Figured it'd been burning for twice that already. The thin acrid fumes betrayed its magical origin.
The walls continued to stare back at her. Implacable.
Unmoving.
No sign of any hidden doors. Just smooth wall.
And ancient runes in an alien tongue. Familiar only because they were similar to those which danced across Talek's Cage. Runes smeared along the wall opposite by the ravages of mould. But what they said was as much a mystery to her as the Cage itself.
“Cages,” she muttered. “Boxes. Rooms without fucking doors. Story of my fucking life.”
Closing her eyes for a moment, the elf wondered if she was destined to die in this room. Was it a trap meant to catch unwary trespassers such as herself? A prison?
It didn't feel like either.
Yet, if it wasn't, who would build a room with no doors? Why go to the effort of furnishing it?
The runes would tell the story, she thought. Maybe they even told how to leave. She'd heard of magical rooms which needed a special phrase to open their mysterious doors. Heroes often found themselves in such places.
They'd examine their surroundings.
Search for clues.
Then something would trigger, and they'd know as if by instinct. As if the answer had always been with them. A phrase told to them by an old wizard, perhaps. Whispered to them by an ethereal presence.
Dropped into their skulls by a god.
But all Nysta's gods were dead.
Veil, whom the elfs still mourned. Then Grim, the Dark Lord. Both fell to the Lord of Light. Both now had nothing to offer, so she offered no prayers.
And given Rule's hatred of elfs, she couldn't see him dropping anything into her skull other than a heavy stone.
She spat at the ground between her feet. Rested her arms across her knees and scowled so hard at the runes she almost thought they'd crumble in front of her.
After a while, she frowned. They really did look like the runes on Talek's Cage.
Drawing the small box from her pocket, she compared the spidery writing. So similar. But still so meaningless.
She opened it again, peering into the dark recess.
Again wondered what had been released. Remembered clearly the moment it had opened. The click of it. Gacket's dark tendrils of spearing into her flesh, then the wave of frozen darkness which followed.
She could remember the war being raged inside her as Veil's Gift struggled to dominate the contents of Talek's Cage.
Remembered Chukshene's face when she woke.
He'd said there was nothing he could do.
The bubbling rage which surged suddenly within her heart nearly crippled her. How could he have just stood by and watched? He should have done something.
Spellslingers were beings of awesome power. She'd seen Chukshene raise a demon. Seen him pull gremlins from the sky. Fireballs which melted his foes. Yet, he'd sat and watched as two breeds of darkness fought for control of her body.
Did nothing.
Just watched.
Her knuckles cracked as her fists tightened so hard it felt for a moment that her fingers would burst through her palms and out the back of her hands.
“Fucking bastard,” she growled.
And then, like the stories of old, her salvation came to her.
Just like that. As though dropped into her head from a dead god.
Could almost hear its laughter as she climbed to her feet. Eyes burning in her sockets, the elf stepped toward the rubble. Picked among the dust-bound debris until she found the metal grating she'd kicked off the pipe. It wasn't very large, but it was still heavy.
Returned to her position by the wall.
Looked up.
The pipe grinned down at her, daring her to try reaching for it.
Her violet eyes narrowed to thin slits. Pupils glistening. Jaw clenched.
She eyed the mould which spread across the wall.
Spat out through the corner of her mouth.
“Fuck you,” she said through her teeth.
Lifted the grate, holding it against her shoulder.
And charged forward with a roar.
A few steps. Hard slap of her boots on the loose tiles.
Then the bone-crunching impact as her shoulder, pressed against the metal grating, smashed into the mould-draped wall. The force spread outward and in that shuddering moment, the wall gave a resounding shout of surprise as its face cracked. Split. Then belched outward as the stone, weakened by moisture flowing within, crumbled beneath the elf brutal determination to run right through it.
Heavy slabs of rock tumbled down onto her as she burst through. Sparks scattered like incandescent diamonds which fizzled and died as quickly as they were born. Her knee hit something hard, but she kept moving. Kept driving forward, mouth screaming curses.
Two more steps beyond the shattered wall and she tripped to a sudden stop among chunks of stone and a powdery cloud of plaster.
She pulled her leg free with a snarl. Blood slithered down her face and from her leg where her pants had been torn open. Her shoulder and head were throbbing, but numb. The pain would come soon.
But, as she reared up from the shattered rubble, Nysta's expression was one of profound satisfaction.
“Well,” a familiar voice said softly. “That's not what I expected to see.”
She spun, Seams Between the World in her fist, ready to strike. The instinct to kill the owner of that voice poisoned her thoughts even as her eyes caught the warlock's face behind the greasy yellow orb floating in front of his outstretched hand.
“Chukshene,” she hissed as he took a step back.
“Nysta?” Melganaderna pushed past the warlock. Took in the debris and grinned at the elf. Looked almost like she was about to hug her, but quickly changed her mind and instead settled on slapping the elf's shoulder with a heavy hand. “It's good to see you. We thought we'd lost you.”
“You scared the shit out of us,” Chukshene said, still wary of her reaction to him. “Again.”
The elf sheathed the small knife and her smile was cold. “Reckon you should be used to being afraid, 'lock. You do it often enough.”
“I didn't expect you to break down a fucking wall,” he retorted. “Not right in front of me like that. Don't you have any idea where you are? You're kind of lucky to be alive, you know. Hemlock here was about half a fucking second away from turning you into a smouldering pile of ash. If I'm a little on edge in a place like this, it's not because I'm a coward. It's because, unlike you, I'm fucking smart enough to know I should be. This isn't an ordinary fortress, you know.”
Melganaderna licked her lips. Torment hung low in her hand, but something about its angle suggested she was also wary of the elf's malevolent expression. Could sense the hatred building in the elf with every word Chukshene uttered. The young axewoman was puzzled, but eager to move on. “Maybe we should keep moving?”
“We think there's a way out,” Hemlock said. He looked more distracted than before. Lost in his own thoughts. “The old stories of Rule and Grim never mentioned the caverns. It's said they entered Urak's Keep from a pass in the mountains. We think the Keep must open out there somewhere. If we keep going, we might get lucky and find the door. Chukshene, do you want to try the next one?”
The warlock nodded, stepping past the elf. He shot her a smirk as he held his hand before some of the spidery writing which ran along the hall. Uttered a few words and the runes nearby glowed brightly for a moment before the wall began to tremble. Light flickered from deep inside the rock itself and, as though the stone was yawning, it opened with a shudder of heavy stone to form a smooth, yet crooked, doorway.
Feigning a casual attitude he wasn't feeling, Chukshene glanced at the rubble still scattered around the elf's boots. Smiled. Said; “See? That's how civilised people
use a door. Impressive, right?”
Nysta shrugged. “If there's an elf word for friend, then I didn't know it,” she said cryptically. Then grinned, showing bloodstained teeth. “But I reckon I still made the more smashing entrance.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“There are dead things in here,” Melganaderna said, moving up beside the elf. She kept her voice low. The sound of her words resonated heavily, causing Nysta to suppress a shudder. “Lots of them. And they're not staying dead. We had to fight a few just before you busted through that wall. To tell the truth, I nearly split you in half thinking you were more of them. Hem's been trying to figure out where they are. Or at least what's controlling them. But since we made it into the Keep, he's been out of it. He's trying, though. It's not easy for him. He needs rest.”
Nysta nodded absently, eyes searching the new room.
It was large. Had once been a hall, perhaps. A few pools of thick black slime speckled the uncertain ground. Ground which showed evidence of the carnage which had wrought when Rule and Grim brought their armies deep into the Keep.
Ruined benches and a heavy feasting table which had once taken up almost half the hall. It now lay in splinters, its broken skeleton mingling with chunks of stone. A few ribs of bone jutted from the mounds of dust-layered rubble.
Heavy cracks in the plaster rippled like black lightning frozen against the wall, striking through heavy stains. Thick black scorch marks streaked across the room, burnt into both the walls and the floor. Sign, she figured, of spellslingers and their cursed magic.
The ceiling drooped in the centre above her head, the chandelier hanging precariously on its last few threads of rope.
A few rotting banners draped the walls, alien sigils of ancient clans slumped in defeat.
Did vampires have clans?
She frowned, careful of the shifting ground as she moved forward. Her mind consumed by questions of how the world must have been when the Vampire Lords ruled the world during the Night Age.
“Must've really been a world of darkness,” she said to herself.
“We should be careful here,” Hemlock wheezed. He sounded affected by the dust and stifled a sneeze as if to prove it. “She's watching.”
