by Ember Lane
Flip patted him on the shoulder. “Come on, it couldn’t have been that bad. Treachery is part of the game. You just have to readjust your pieces, and you’ll soon be back on track.”
“Some pieces are bigger than others,” Lincoln pointed out.
“But not irreplaceable.” Flip heaved him up.
They all gathered by the door, an ominous red glow seeping under it. Each appeared to be holding their breath, Lincoln thought he could hear the beat of their hearts.
“Are we ready?” Cronis whispered.
Griselda drew her ax. Lincoln unsheathed his sword. Jin readied his bow, and Belzarra coaxed a ball of magic onto her palm. Crags rubbed his hands together.
Flip and Swift pulled the doors back.
The red light burst out, blinding them. Griselda screamed and dropped her veil; Swift darted in, his bow primed. Flip scampered after, crouched low, sword drawn, ready.
Lincoln shielded his eyes with his forearm, squinting, trying to see through the red haze. He could make out faint objects. A line of banners protruded from the wall opposite spreading across its length, another ran above him. Two squares of pews, laid out like a church, led away on either side, and over a central isle, another set of two. Lincoln edged in, coming to the room’s middle. Flip and Swift flanked him, Griselda just behind.
Silence filled the air, an ominous still like the center of a storm. Lincoln thought he could smell burning coals and ash—like the stench of Thumptwist’s forge. Wide-eyed, he scanned the room. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, his heart pounding. He looked over the rows of the pews and saw they were all facing a raised dais, not plain like his own town hall’s. This was grand, sculpted stone and had an intricately carved table running its length with seven high-backed chairs facing him. Behind them, a great silver throne, gleaming scarlet in the now mist-like light. Floating above the throne’s seat, a fist-sized ruby spun around, and Lincoln understood that its glow wasn’t mere illumination, but a presence—a conscious.
“Hello.” The Warrior Stone’s words floated into Lincoln’s mind.
Lincoln’s heart beat faster still, nearly bursting from his heaving rib cage. Sweat fell from his brow. The onrush of a dire feeling of utter dread slammed through him as the pews vanished.
The floor erupted, cracked flags exploded out crashing through the room. The force of it sent Lincoln sprawling, skidding along the floor, sliding away from the devastation. Masonry rained down on him, and he covered his head with his feeble arms and hoped for the best. The scatter of falling scree washed over him like a wind-driven storm. Then silence. Lincoln rolled over, reaching out for his sword. He felt its reassuring grip and pulled it close. Springing to his feet, checking his notifications; pleased he had only taken a few hits. He saw the others had faired no different. All were edging toward a five-foot-wide chasm in the center of the floor.
“Spread around it,” Swift barked.
They circled it, weapons in hand. Only Belzarra and Cronis held back.
Griselda sniffed the air. “Goblins,” she hissed.
“Step back a little,” Belzarra called. She had a large, mauve ball of light in her palms. She let it float up and then tapped it, sending it drifting through the room’s red haze and over the gaping maw. Clicking her fingers, the ball of brilliant light dropped like a stone.
Screams, deep, guttural screams of surprise and fright billowed up from the cavernous breech. A pop and a fizz, and the screams became cries of pain and desperation. A column of mauve soared up to the ceiling, billowing out like rolling fire and turning the room’s crimson hue a dirty brown. Lincoln saw hideous faces, terrible faces trapped in those flames, screaming in the agony of Belzarra’s tumbling magic, until the hole sucked it back and it was no more.
Silence fell like a blacksmith’s hammer.
They all looked around. Lincoln wondered what was next.
A clank of metal, a scrape of armor, the mutter of plans hastily remade filtered up from below. The tips of a ladder clatter against the broken flags, then another, then another. The goblins spilled into the room like a plague of locusts, streaming toward them.
“Goblins!” Griselda spat again, and her ax blurred as she burst to meet them.
Lincoln froze trying to comprehend the foulness of the creatures. Hideous, round, dirty-green heads adorned with sharp grimaces and great, pointed ears, sprouted from thick shoulders covered in scraps of chainmail. Evil, glowering, red eyes matched dripping fangs that looked like they’d been stained with the flesh of a thousand innocents. They shuffled rather than ran, a billowing stench swirled out, shoved forward by the fast breaths of strangled screams. Some had short axes, others stubby swords. Ragged cloth covered them where their armor ran out, stitched together with bones, adorned with tiny skulls.
The first rushed at him with a rusty blade raised. Lincoln parried its viscous swipe with a steadier, more crafted stoke, and stepped aside, letting the wretched thing stumble on. On pure reflex, he drew one of his knives and stabbed the goblin for good measure. He turned to face the next, blocking its blow, and bringing his knife to bear on its gut, wrenching it up, tearing it open. He pulled the body around, and flung it at his first attacker, lunging forward to slice down with a critical strike.
He felt fluid, smooth, his skills and agility all dovetailing together, working as one, and strong too, he felt strong, the extra boost from his rings clearly working. He jumped straight back into battle, bringing his sword down in a devastating swipe. Griselda was making havoc with her ax, Jin firing flaming arrow after flaming arrow.
Another goblin made a dash for him, this one stronger, more powerful. Lincoln blocked the thing’s mighty ax stroke, his sword chopping through its wooden shaft. The ax’s head glanced his shoulder as it flew off, slicing him for forty damage. The goblin hesitated for a mere second and then burst forward in a dive, its arms outstretched and aiming for Lincoln’s throat. Lincoln fell back, his head smashing onto the stone flags, but he jabbed his sword up as the goblin plunged down on him, and he pulled his feet in, skewering the thing on his blade and launching it into the air in one fluid movement.
Damage! You are bleeding. You will receive 40 damage per minute until healed.
Forty a minute? That didn’t give him long. A goblin’s head flew past his own, severed by Griselda’s ax, yet still they came, spilling from the hole like hornets from a hive. He saw Crags blurring like a little whirlwind, surging through the goblin hordes, taking a leg here, an arm there, and opening one gut after another. Swift darted from one fight to the next, holding back the tide, stopping them from breaking through.
Another came at Lincoln, a clunky-looking sword in its hairy hand. It launched right away, the ferocity of its attack taking Lincoln by surprise. He tried a sidestep, but caught a stab to his gut instead. Anger coursed through him, his health already dropping fast. He spun, slicing at the same time, opening up a gaping welt in his attacker’s back, sending it skittering to the floor.
Red blinked in his eye, his health desperately low, but a warm, tingling feeling instantly flowed over him, and he saw he had a green glow on his skin.
Health restored! Belzarra has used Earth Magic to restore your health. You have been healed.
Lincoln turned to thank her, but saw she had another mauve ball of magic above her palms. She sent it straight to the hole, and the crazed screams rang out again. Lincoln staggered back, nearly retching at the sight of the goblins desperately clawing their way out of the flaming hole, only to be cut down, put out of their misery by Griselda’s ax, Flip’s sword, or the ball of blades that was once Crags. The gaping maw sucked in the column of mauve again and silence fell, only broken by the crash of a dropped ax, the hiss of an exhaled breath.
Then a mighty growl rang out that shook the hall itself, followed by the grate of a piled chain being drawn tight. As one, they all backed away from the gaping hole. The fallen goblins began to fade as the land consumed their spilled guts. Scattered loot lay on the stone
flags, ignored.
The groan came again, a dread wail, a lament of the broken, and a huge, gray hand reached out of the blackness and crashed down on its edge making the banner room’s floor shiver once more. Another hand reached up and came crashing down. The chain grated again, and Lincoln watched in horror as a gray-stone head emerged.
Stone, Lincoln was sure of that. It resembled a gruesome carving, a gargoyle, a dread demon. The beast’s angular face was devoid of expression; its carved mouth was clamped shut, yet Lincoln knew the dire bellow had come from inside it.
“A graveling,” Flip gasped.
Lincoln was both scared and fascinated by the beast. It was impossible, yet right in front of him—a living stone. Its head swiveled around, the grind of rock on rock grating down on Lincoln’s spine, making him shiver. Fear flooded him.
How in hell do you kill a stone beast?
It reared, the chain links ground, and the graveling rose up, its mighty body somehow squeezing out of the hole. They all backed farther away. It pulled itself up, a thunderous stamp as its feet slammed onto the stone floor, and Lincoln saw the chain ran down from an iron collar, then vanished into the black.
“Fall back,” Swift barked. “Let’s see how long its chain is.”
Lincoln didn’t need asking twice and backed away. Their circle widened slowly, but the graveling burst forward, smashing into Griselda, sending her flying through the air, and crashing against the hall’s stone wall. She bounced down, lying in a motionless heap. Flip darted forward, slashing his sword at the dread beast, but it just bounced off. The graveling swiped at him, catching him in his midriff, sending him sliding across the floor.
“My magic’s useless against it!” Belzarra cried, and rushed toward the fallen dwarf.
“Never, never have I felt so useless!” Cronis shouted.
The graveling looked straight at Lincoln. The Builder saw something in its dead-stone eyes. “No, no, not that,” Lincoln muttered under his breath. He hesitated. The graveling burst forward, sprinting straight toward him. Indecision riddled Lincoln’s veins, late—too late—he turned and ran. Deafening steps pounded the flags behind him, getting ever closer. At the end of the hall, Lincoln saw a mighty set of closed doors, almost gates, rearing up thirty feet plus toward the banner room’s vaulted ceiling.
In that instant, he knew it was futile, knew he stood no chance, but he had no choice. He turned and faced the onrushing beast. His eyes wide, his jaw drooping open in bone-sapping fear, Lincoln raised his feeble sword and muttered, “For Joan.”
The graveling sprinted toward him, shoulders down, impassive head up, its expression one of cold-hearted indifference, and Lincoln knew he was about to be crushed by something that had no soul, no reason, just anguish, just hatred.
It came to within a spit of him, its mass blocking out the red-sprayed light. Lincoln screamed in defiance, his spittle flying at the beast. At the last moment, he closed his eyes and accepted his fate.
He heard the chain snap taut, the dry scream of stone on stone, the explosion of a mighty crash, and he opened his eyes in time to see a stone hand, its fingers stretched out, taking a futile swipe at him. Pain erupted across his chest as it was riven open with three horrendous welts.
Damage! The graveling has dealt you 100 damage. You have 260/360 health left.
Lincoln collapsed backward, slumping against the door. The graveling roared its defiance, its head darting around, looking for its next victim. Belzarra rushed to Lincoln’s side, casting her emerald healing magic. Goblins began to crawl out of the hole, headed for the end of the hall and the red light.
“They’re going for the stone!” Lincoln shouted, as everything seemed to come to a head.
Flip, Swift, and Crags were on the other side of the beast and ran for the goblins, the graveling turning and appeared to discount them. Lincoln realized they were hopelessly outnumbered. He edged around the room toward Griselda, Belzarra, Cronis, and Jin. The elf had an arrow nocked, imbued with an orange flame, and it flew toward the graveling, bouncing off, and falling useless on the cold floor.
Jin threw his bow down, snatching out his sack of holding. He pulled out a coil of rope, tossing it at Lincoln.
“It seems focused on you. Grab the rope’s end and bait it on.” He made a twirling motion with his hand. Griselda jumped back up, bringing a pick-ax and a long rod out of her sack. She threw Lincoln what resembled a lengthy wrecking bar and shrugged as if to say, “It’s all I’ve got.” Lincoln tied the rope around his waist, making a slipknot, thankful for his rope law. Raising the wrecking pole in the air, he tested its weight, roared a defiant scream, turned and faced the graveling. He danced in close, letting it swipe for him, but blocking with the bar—using it as he would his staff.
The beast’s arm arced down on him, smashing into the bar with an earsplitting crash. Lincoln had braced but was still forced to his knees. Shards of stone exploded from the graveling’s rocky flesh, and it bellowed in frustration. An inkling of hope pounded in Lincoln’s heart, and he jumped up, swinging the bar with all his might against his attacker’s open flank. It smashed into it with a terrible thud, but did little else other than bringing its head down close until Lincoln could just about hear the wheeze of its almost nonexistent breaths.
He saw Jin ducking under the graveling’s body, rope in hand. He saw Griselda swing her pickax, its point thudding into the graveling’s calf, rock scattering under the impact. Lincoln swung his wrecking bar again, smashing it into the graveling’s cheek, but he didn’t spot the stone fist as it thumped into his side.
It sent him flying across the floor, thumping into the corner of the banner room. Lincoln saw that Crags, Flip, and Swift were getting overrun, all three standing on the knight’s table, protecting the stone. He screamed at Belzarra to do something.
The witch turned away from him, the healing spell in her palm instantly swallowed and replaced by another mauve ball. She sent it on its way, plugging the hole with its dire magic. Then she aimed her bony fingers at the swell of goblins by the table, and streaks of golden lightening danced from one dread head to the next, the stench of burning flesh filling the hall, the screams of the dying goblins assaulting Lincoln’s ears.
Jin slid along the floor, coming to a stop right by Lincoln. “When I run to the other corner, you run toward the front.” He slipped Lincoln’s knot and handed him the rope. Griselda backed away, readying her pick. Belzarra took hold of Lincoln’s wrecking bar, sending him a look that brokered no argument.
Without a count, both Jin and Lincoln darted away. The rope came taut, wrapping around the graveling’s legs. The beast howled as the rope tightened. Lincoln darted across the room, passing Jin as the elf ran the opposite way. The graveling flailed around, appearing confused at what to strike at next. Lincoln saw Griselda darting in, jumping the circling rope, and bringing her pick crashing into the back of its rocky knee.
The stone exploded again, its leg gave way, the rope snapped tight, and the graveling toppled over. Belzarra was on it in a second, bringing the bar crashing down on the graveling's head. Its skull shattered, and the stone fell away from the beast’s body. Lincoln looked in horror to see a cloaked man laying in the rocky mess—dead.
With only time for a glance, he turned his attention to the raging battle at the hall’s head. Belzarra was already running toward the melee, swinging the vast wrecking bar as if it weighed nothing. The squelch of its sickening impacts thumped around. Lincoln searched for his scattered sword, collecting it, and ran forward. But the battle was already won. The last of the goblins fell, and the eerie silence returned.
Lincoln fell to his knees gasping for breath. He saw Griselda’s hand reach out and put his in hers. She pulled him up. “See, I told you it was a sturdy metal,” she said, holding up her pick.
“Idonelll?” Lincoln asked.
“You better believe it,” Griselda said, and gave him a heartwarming smile.
They picked their way through the goblin corps
es and approached the table.
“The table of The Knights Of Estorelll,” Cronis muttered. “And what do we have here?” the old wizard grumbled, looking at the spinning ruby. “Just who do you belong to?” he asked.
Lincoln heard giggling in his mind. He saw Flip look past him, a curiously intrigued expression on his face. He saw Swift gasp and felt a familiar, yet forgotten, feeling run through his own body.
He turned, slowly.
A bright speck of light hovered just in front of the gaping hole. It elongated and fell to the flags, thickening and then tore open. A head poked through, then a body of a boy, faint, flickering, surrounded by a blue aura. Lincoln’s heart shot into his mouth as the boy burst from the portal, hurdled onto the dais, vaulted the table, and scooped up the stone.
“Stalker!”
“Warrior!”
“Where’s Unity?”
“He’s Unity. He’s ready!”
Pog spun around.
“Pog!” Lincoln shouted, and Pog’s gaze briefly rested on him. A look of devastation burst onto the boy’s face, then it evaporated as a fresh resolve seemed to grip him. “Lincoln,” he whispered, his gaze ranging over Lincoln’s companions. Pog jinked around on the knight’s table as if unsure, as if working out the best path to avoid an inevitable attack.
Lincoln noticed the he had the box in his hands, and understood he must have subconsciously pulled it out of his sack. He threw it toward Pog. “It’s for Alexa,” he said, suddenly understanding everything.
Pog lent him the faintest of nods, then darted forward as though to wait would mean he’d never move. Lincoln looked after the little boy, tears already welling.
He saw Crags dart toward the portal, following Pog, a knife in his hand.
“No!” Lincoln shouted, and jumped from the dais, but both Pog and Crags vanished into it. In two minds, Lincoln darted toward it, ready to jump, ready to help Pog, but Flip and Jin held him back as the portal began to fade.
