by Nick McNeil
Bertly could not contain himself. He let out a monstrous laugh. “I will get camp set up, sir. Even if we do open this door, I’m not sure you’ll be ready to fight. You’ve won against the ghouls, sir, but you’ve lost your battle with that door.” Bertly continued to chuckle as he shuffled away.
“Are you going to laugh, or are you going to be kind and help your master up?” Alestar groaned.
***
Bertly and Alestar sat across from each other, warming their hands over a fire. Two thin blankets were laid out side by side not far from them.
“So, after we get the warblade tomorrow, how are we getting out of this place?” Bertly washed the blood out of his hair with the little water he had left.
“Supposedly, Cordelia will show the way. But my studies haven’t been proving to be completely accurate.” Alestar scowled at the golden door. “We should get some rest. We have a long day tomorrow.”
“Shouldn’t one of us stay up and keep watch?” Bertly asked, stressed over the whole situation.
“No need to worry. Giants are very light sleepers. We can hear a spider crawl across its web a quarter league away.” Alestar snapped his fingers and the flames from the fire darkened.
***
Bertly opened his eyes, an idea having occurred to him. He snapped his fingers, reigniting the fire.
“Give a warning next time,” Alestar hissed.
Bertly stepped in front of the golden entrance. He plucked a hair from the back of his head and placed it against the door. A vibrant red light blasted through the center crack of the door. Bertly took a step forward, and suddenly the door slowly creaked open on its own.
Alestar sprang to his feet. “How did you know to do that?”
“It’s the same way Polly and I open the door to our dormitory.” Bertly shrugged and his mouth curved into a smile.
Inside the room, there sat a pedestal on which rested a rather large straight blade made of mammoth ice. It was held by a grip plated with dragon scales. The sword had a jagged, curved cross guard. A carefully engraved pommel was forged into the shape of a dragon’s head. Bertly took a step into the room.
Alestar grabbed Bertly by the collar. “Wait, it’s too easy.”
“Sir, I hardly think cracking the riddle to the door was too easy. After all, you certainly struggled with it,” Bertly responded.
“Plucking a measly hair is too easy.” Alestar scoffed and tucked a lock of hair behind his ear.
“True, sir, but you needed a hair from me or Polly. Someone could spend a lifetime down here and never open the door if they didn’t have one of the chosen ones, like me.” Bertly gave a half smile. Alestar let go of Bertly’s collar, and the two slowly approached the sword. Alestar jerked his head in the direction of any noise he heard.
“Do I just grab it?” Bertly asked.
Alestar shrugged, clearly unsure. Bertly was surprised that his master didn’t know. Bertly inspected the sword. He clutched the dragon-scale grip and lifted the sword off the pedestal.
The moment Bertly grabbed the sword, he and Alestar crouched and studied the large hallowed room.
Bertly held the sword above his head and smiled triumphantly. “See? Nothing to worry about, sir.” He sliced the sword through the air. “It’s as light as a feather.” It had just enough weight on each side that it balanced perfectly in Bertly’s hand.
Bertly heard feet trampling across the ground. The sound was loud enough that it echoed across the entire dungeon. Bertly looked to the golden entryway, where a horde of ghouls was stampeding through.
“Bertly, the sword!” Alestar shouted.
The sword that grows. Bertly gripped the sword tight with both hands and lunged back. As the sword rounded his body, the tip of the blade burst out, extending the length of the room. In one fell swoop, the protracted mammoth ice carved through the bodies of hundreds of ghouls. They dropped like canaries in a coal mine.
“Sweet Cordelia,” Alestar blurted. “Let me see that thing.”
Bertly handed Alestar the warblade, which suddenly retracted, completely disappearing.
“Interesting. It only obeys your commands. This helps confirm my theories. We need to get back to the Academy.” Alestar tossed the blade back to Bertly. “Cordelia is supposed to show us the way out, but how?”
“Cordelia, reveal the way back.” Bertly held the sword out in front of him. A bright light shot out from the grip.
“Well then, Mr. Cordelia, please lead the way.” Alestar bowed and extended his arm in the direction of the golden gates. Bertly kicked dirt in Alestar’s direction as he walked past.
***
Bertly led Alestar through unknown rooms and twisted, dark pathways. It was only an hour before they stumbled upon the spiral staircase in the well.
“It seems Cordelia’s way is much quicker than ours,” Alestar commented. “Shall we?” He gestured toward the stairs.
Bertly putted his way up the steps, with Alestar just a few feet behind him. When they reached the top, an army of thousands of Rotters awaited, swords and shields in hand. When they caught a glimpse of Bertly emerging from the staircase, the Rotters banged their swords against their shields in unison, drowning out all other sounds. The rhythm of their march caused the ground to shake.
“Too easy,” Alestar said.
VIII
Bertly, with his knees shaking, stood at the top of the staircase overlooking the largest group of individuals he had ever seen. Rotters filled every open space in the village streets. The humid air coupled with Bertly’s anxiety made it hard for him to breathe.
“Maybe we should go back into the dungeon, sir.” Bertly lifted his eyebrows. Alestar turned back and after one step came to a halt. The bottom of the well was quickly filling with sand.
“It seems the dungeon’s only entrance is no longer an option.” Alestar turned back to Bertly. “Let me go ahead of you.”
“Sir, it’s a death trap out there.” Bertly placed his hand across the railing, blocking Alestar’s path.
“I think I can reason with the beasts. Something is controlling them. Rotters are not this orderly. If they were thinking on their own, they would have already swarmed us.” Alestar squeezed past Bertly and stepped onto the ash-filled street.
Alestar approached the Rotters with his arms up to show the creatures that he carried no weapons and was not a threat to them. “We know where the warblade is. Kill us now and you will never find it!” Alestar shouted louder than Bertly had ever heard him shout. The army rested their weapons and lowered their shields. “I wish to speak with your leader.” The undead army stood so still they appeared to be frozen in time. “Your master? Ruler? Commander?” Alestar listed many synonyms for leader, Bertly assumed in hopes that one of the words would prove recognizable to the Rotters. There still came no response from the army.
“I don’t think they have a master, sir,” Bertly shouted.
“Nonsense. Who gave them all the weapons and armor?” Alestar replied.
An unfathomable scream tore through the air as the undead army parted down the middle.
“I hope that isn’t their leader, sir,” Bertly exclaimed, gravely concerned with the source of the noise.
Another scream echoed through the air, and Bertly was acutely aware of the pain of the crying beast; its scream had infiltrated Bertly’s mind and lodged itself deep within his heart. The creature’s agony spread through his body.
From the parted sea of soldiers emerged a horselike creature, which was fused with a humanoid. The skinless creature pulsated with black blood that coursed through its translucent veins. Bertly could clearly discern every muscle fiber and tendon that held the sickening abomination together. The humanoid rider had no visible legs, and it pulled harshly on the gray mane of the horse to control its movements. The rider grasped the horse tightly with its sharp claws, which were attached to long arms. The horns atop the rider’s head curled in so tightly that the points o
f each nearly touched.
Alestar let out a forceful whistle. The creature, standing only a tad shorter than Alestar, screamed. Blood shot in a projectile from its mouth as it thrashed its head. The monster stretched out its slender arm and extended its claw, suggesting that Alestar immediately hand over the warblade.
“I don’t have the warblade on me, you see.” Alestar took a step toward the beast. “But I know where it is.”
The monster let out another scream. The entirety of the undead army focused sharply on Alestar. The soldiers postured their bodies like they were ready to strike at a moment’s notice.
Alestar grabbed the hilt of his sword. “No one needs to act rashly. I can give you what you want.”
The creature’s soulless eyes peered at Alestar as it let out another horrid shriek. The decayed soldiers marched toward Alestar.
He drew his sword, and with his open hand, he made a fist and pounded the ground. Upon impact of the giant’s fist, a massive dense dirt wall sprang from the soil, blocking the path of the rotting army.
Sand poured over the tops of Bertly’s feet. He climbed out of the well and stood next to Alestar. Sword in hand.
“Is there a plan B, sir?” Bertly asked. Dirt started to drop from the wall.
“Unfortunately, we did not have much of a plan A.” Alestar placed his hand on Bertly’s shoulder. “You need to tell the Elders what we have seen here today. When they do not believe you, show them Cordelia’s warblade.”
“Why can’t you tell them, sir? And how do you plan on getting us out of here, anyway?” Bertly pressed.
“If Clia had stayed put as I instructed her, she should have been here by now,” Alestar replied. A decomposed arm punctured the dirt wall, causing a massive crack to run up the side. “You have to make a run for it, Bertly. I will hold them off.”
“I’m not leaving until Clia arrives,” Bertly cried out. A parade of arms and heads burst through the barrier, causing it to collapse.
“The air may be thick enough.” Alestar took a deep breath. “Get ready, Bertly.” Alestar gripped his sword with both hands and aligned it vertically with his nose. The air turned cold and dry. Rotters funneled in from all directions. At that moment, a layer of ice formed over the Rotters. “I used the water in the air to freeze the Rotters momentarily. Hurry, take them out, Bertly!”
Bertly gripped the warblade tight. In one fell swoop, he decapitated over half a dozen rows of Rotters. Their frozen skulls cracked as they crashed onto the ground. Blood poured out of the veins that had been disconnected from their heads. Their lifeless bodies slumped over, leaving in their wake an echo of cracking bone that rattled through Bertly’s ears.
Alestar whistled again. Bertly looked to the sky for Clia, but she was nowhere in sight. The back rows of Rotters crawled over the pile of headless elves. Alestar postured up as the air grew colder once more. The Rotters could barely move their legs, but this time, they were not frozen.
“I must have sucked too much water out of the air last time,” Alestar hollered.
Before Bertly started swinging, the blade on his sword extended on its own to accommodate the task at hand. He cocked the sword back and swung the blade faster than the wind. Every Rotter standing between Bertly and the nearby homesteads dropped to the ground.
A pool of blood formed under Bertly’s feet as the slaughtered bodies bled out. He took a moment to catch his breath. Bertly heard another painful screech, and he turned toward the noise. As quick as lightning, the skinless horseman carved through the pile of corpses and got within one stride of Alestar.
Alestar wound his sword to strike, but before he could lunge forward, the beast pierced its claw through his chest. The creature’s arm completely punctured the giant’s body. The abomination wiggled the claws that stuck out of Alestar’s back as it screamed in his face.
“Alestar!” Bertly cried. He stuck the tip of his sword in the direction of the beast. The mammoth ice extended far enough to pierce the creature’s rib cage. Smoke and black blood poured from its shredded side.
Alestar gripped his sword and drove it through the head of the horse. The skinless monster let out a revolting cry and collapsed to the ground. Its arm tore out of Alestar’s chest, bringing a river of blood along with it. Alestar fell to his knees. Bertly tried to take off running toward the giant, but a Rotter grabbed him by the ankle, bringing him to the ground. Bertly smashed the heel of his boot repeatedly into the monster’s nasal cavity, causing its face to collapse. He scurried to his feet. Rotters were climbing up Alestar’s back.
“Alestar!” Bertly shouted. Alestar threw the Rotters from his back, but there were too many, and they quickly overcame him. They poured in from all sides. Alestar swung his blade to keep the Rotters as far back as possible.
Bertly gripped his sword and drew his arm back. He lunged forward to strike, but was unable to move his arm. Rotters had him restrained. Bertly jerked his arms and body, but even with great effort, he could not break their grip. Bertly peered back at Alestar, who was looking straight at Bertly, his eyes filled with affection. Rotters had ahold of every inch of Alestar’s body. His arms were stretched until they were spitefully ripped from his body. Fingernails burrowed into his skin like bugs.
“Alestar!” Bertly cried again, his voice cracking as he felt the cold teeth of the Rotters pierce the skin of his back. He gripped Cordelia’s warblade until his nails dug into his skin. His arm would be torn off before he turned his sword over. Sweat poured down his face; he could practically feel his arm detaching from his body already.
A loud squawk tore through the air, causing a momentary pause in the ongoing battle. Bertly looked toward the source of the squawk, but before he could identify the creature, a set of talons gripped each of his shoulders and lifted him into the air. Clia had come for him. She flew low to the ground toward Alestar, but the Rotters pried at her face and wings. Clia called toward him. The pitch of her shriek made Bertly’s head throb. A couple of Rotters climbed up Bertly’s chest. Clia shook her wings, breaking free of the Rotters. As she flew into the air, a few gripped onto Bertly’s limbs, but they did not manage to hold on for long.
Bertly stared helplessly at the quaint town of horrors as it drifted into the background. Thoughts raced through Bertly’s head, and he tried to slow them down so he could breathe, but was unsuccessful. His heart pounded through his chest and he felt horribly sick. Every time he closed his eyes, his head spun faster. His vision blurred, and then all went black.
***
Bertly opened his eyes to a blurred gryphon standing over him. Clia’s beak was nearly touching his nose. His vision returned gradually, and once he could see well enough, he looked around and recognized the light red stone surrounding them—they were in the courtyard where Bertly had first met Clia. His memory rushed back.
Alestar.
Bertly went cold. He felt as though he were submerged underwater and he couldn’t swim back to the surface for air. Bertly heard Alestar’s words echo through his head. You need to tell the Elders what we have seen here today.
Bertly picked himself up with strength he didn’t know he had. He patted his pockets, which were empty. In a panic, he repeatedly searched them all again. Clia let out a soft caw, and within the cavern of her mouth, Bertly could just make out the glint of Cordelia’s warblade. “Thanks, girl.” Bertly scratched Clia behind the ear and sprinted for the top floor of the highest tower.
Out of breath, Bertly stood, bent over with his hands on his knees. The lavish blue door stood between him and the Elders. Bertly gazed at the door. “Damn.” He tried his best to recall how Alestar had managed to open the door when he’d brought Bertly and Polly there. He stepped up to the door and took a deep breath, but was in no mood to sort out the puzzle of prying it open. He viciously pounded on the door. “Open up!” He struck its wooden frame with both hands. “Please open the door!” His hands turned red from his efforts, but he continued thrashing.
The door creaked open, and out hobbled an old dwarf, Master Quinric. Quinric looked Bertly over from head to toe. “You’re an absolute mess. Where have you been?” Master Quinric grabbed his nose. “And what is that pungent smell?”
“Sir, it’s Master Alestar. We went to the Decomposite,” Bertly exclaimed.
Quinric’s expression hardened. He looked around the corridor, to ensure no one was eavesdropping, Bertly assumed. Satisfied that they were the only two in the corridor, Quinric grabbed Bertly by the collar and pulled him past the blue doors and into the room. “Where have you been? Where is Master Alestar?” A vein popped from Quinric’s neck.
Loud footsteps echoed through the hallway—their pace was slow. Quinric let go of Bertly’s collar and turned in the direction of the footsteps. Rounding the corner was a giant with short red hair. He moved much slower and firmer when compared to the elegance of Alestar’s gait. This giant dragged his feet when he walked, and he stood slightly crouched over. “How may we help you today, Bertly?”
Bertly was taken aback for a moment. He had never met this giant.
“Sir, I think the Blight has returned,” Bertly shouted.
The giant straightened. “Do you know what these statements mean, human apprentice?”
Bertly wished he could lie. “Yes, sir. And I can prove it.”
***
Bertly stood front and center before the Council of Elders, in an empty courtroom that was large enough to hold a thousand observers. He felt like he was on trial. Bertly studied the Elders and noticed there was not a single human among them. He did, however, recognize Master Quinric, Master Dova, and the old elf from orientation.
Master Dova leaned forward. “You have caused quite a stir here today, Bertly. What do you have to tell us?” The Elders sat quietly, waiting for Bertly’s reply.
Bertly filled the council in on every detail. From riding Clia, to the ghouls in the dungeon. He mentioned he was close enough to smell the breath of the Rotters. He wasn’t sure which was worse, Rotter breath or the smell of burning corpses, since the two carried a similar putrid aroma.
