by Gregory Heal
“No.” The Grand Mystra shook his head, frowning gravely. “But he thinks he can with the help of the ShadowCrystal and its dark magic.”
“Do we know who the real Light Bringer is? Did Merlin leave us any clues?”
Cindergray turned toward Jen, facing her straight on and pulling her from her trance. “Unfortunately, no . . . it’s rather enigmatic. He disappeared before anyone could ask. No one knows for sure how—or why—Merlin disappeared. Some say he went into hiding, waiting for his prophecy to come true. Others say he was trapped in a cave-in somewhere in the English countryside. Still others believe he was imprisoned in a giant tree, left to watch the world change around him for eternity.”
Jen pursed her lips. “It looks like our work is cut out for us, huh?”
Cindergray chuckled. “Indeed . . . though there is another reason why I brought you down here, Jennifer.” He clasped his hands behind him, as if waiting for something from her.
“Okay . . . what else do you have to show me?” Then she followed Cindergray’s gaze. He was staring at her necklace; Jen touched the ring, not quite sure what to expect.
“I understand that you’ve had the ring ever since you were born, but we need to keep you safe. As long as you have the ring on your person, your life will continually be in jeopardy,” Cindergray said. “For that reason, I am asking if you would allow me to store the ring here in the Sacrarium.”
Jen had not expected him to ask her to give up one of the few things she had left to her name—the only thing that reminded her of her most cherished memories; the only thing that mattered to her.
“I wouldn’t forgive myself if anything ever happened to you, Jennifer.” He slowly reached out, opening his hand.
After gazing at the ring, taking in all of its fine craftsmanship, its brushed silver etchings, she slid it off her necklace and, with hesitation, gingerly placed it in the Grand Mystra’s outstretched hand.
There was an empty display case to the left of the glass room, and she watched as Cindergay pushed the Ring of Lancaster into it and shut the lid. A cylinder of glass dropped from the ceiling to encase the ring.
Cindergray walked back to her and laid a strong hand on her shoulder. “Don’t fret, my dear. No one else knows of this room, and that glass is tempered with the wild sands of Oxhualta, known for their strong bonding properties. The ring couldn’t be under better guardianship.”
“But I will be able to get it back . . .” She looked longingly up at Cindergray. “Right?”
Every second after Jen had handed her ring to the Grand Mystra, she felt like a another part had been ripped from her very being; she felt completely and utterly naked—depressed and alone. The ring was the last vestige that connected Jen to both her past life on Earth and her newfound connection to her true lineage. Her heart wanted her to grab that longsword hanging on the wall to her left and break the glass to retrieve it, but her brain convinced her that it needed to stay guarded in the Sacrarium.
“The Ring of Lancaster is your birthright. It is, and will always be, yours,” Cindergray said, trying to soothe her pain. “But until then, you will need another totem.”
Jen looked down at the orb she still held in her hand, running her thumbs across its smooth surface. “Another totem?”
“I know nothing can replace your family’s ring, but you are going to need a new totem for your training,” Cindergray said.
Jen let out a sigh and sheepishly smiled, looking away and blinking rapidly to fight back tears. It made sense—of course she’d need something else. Until she could get her ring back, of course.
Leading her back to the Sacrarium’s entrance, the Grand Mystra said, “While you think about it, let me give you the rest of the tour, as promised.”
Chapter Nineteen
Beth Smith was startled from a sleep that left her drowsier than before when she heard the loud, reverberating clang of metal keys opening up a rusted cell door.
CRREEEEEEAAAAAAKK!
She opened her eyes, then quickly shut them against a sudden light; it was faint, but her eyes hadn’t seen light for a few days, so they were extremely sensitive. She softly stirred Richard awake, and he instinctively ducked under her shoulder to protect his unprepared eyes from the same light.
Beth squinted to near blindness, but she was able to take in some of her surroundings. It looked worse than she had envisioned: columns of haphazardly stacked food trays along the sides of cells, gaunt prisoners scraping and clawing toward the light like delusional flies, and a motionless inmate—the friend who had talked to them—in the fetal position.
“Oh my . . .” Richard whispered—loud enough for the guards to hear.
“What’s that?” said the taller of the two guards, and shone the light directly at Beth and Richard, who closed their eyes and pretended to sleep.
A few heart-racing seconds later, the light was directed back at their friend in the next cell over. They didn’t know his name, just that he’d wanted to be their friend . . . whatever that meant in a place as hopeless and friendless as this.
“Come on, you rat. It’s your time again,” said tall guard, and the shorter one snickered.
The tall guard held the light while the other grabbed the inmate’s emaciated arm. The short guard dragged their friend out of the cell and Beth cringed, hoping that his arm wouldn’t snap. The light receded and the dragging sound got softer and softer until both were replaced by the hungry dark and overwhelming silence of the Lair of Despair.
Beth curled up and put her head on Richard’s arm, wondering where they took him. Richard hugged her closer, trying to keep warm in the unlivable conditions and wondering the same thing.
“Let’s hope they don’t do that to us,” he said.
“I’d hate to get separated from you,” she replied.
Over the next few hours, Beth dozed in and out of sleep until she heard footsteps approaching, the noises deafening in the echoing abyss.
JINGLE-JANGLE!
CLANG!
SCREEEEEEEEKK!
The dim light returned as Beth, with blurred vision, saw a gray shape fall to the dense, wet floor and sit, unmoving.
“Next time be more cooperative,” reprimanded the tall guard.
The short guard said, “Like he’ll listen to you. He’s been a pain in the ass for years.”
The tall guard sniffed. “Yeah, I know, but maybe next time he’ll finally give in and realize that this will never stop as long as he’s alive.”
“True, though prisoners who put up a fight keep it interesting,” the short guard commented as they locked the rusty cell and walked away. Their words seemed calculated, meant for the prisoners’ ears.
The first guard snickered and turned off the light. That was the last Beth and Richard heard of them until a few days later, when they returned to drag their friend away again.
Chapter Twenty
Just kill me now, prayed Malcolm. Every time he moved a muscle, even just to breathe, an incendiary burst of sharp pain traveled through his body.
After Draconex had so considerately destroyed Malcolm’s first totem, he hadn’t wasted time in preparing him for his first true instruction, which felt more like a punishment. Draconex insisted on dueling Malcolm so he could identify areas of weakness and correct them. Malcolm quickly realized that Draconex didn’t give advice through words, but spells that would, more often than not, land him on his back.
“You still default to the basic approaches Victor has drilled into you,” Draconex reprimanded. “We’re going to have to erase them from your memory, boy.”
Boy. There was that word again.
As his temper rose, Malcolm pushed through the pain and threw a spell that would have sunken Draconex up to his kneecaps in the floor like quicksand—if it had hit its mark. Like a psychic seeing the future, Draconex swiftly jumped into the air as the spell fizzled through the ground; then, with blinding speed, he covered the space that separated the two sorcerers.
With
a quick turn of his neck, his ponytail whipped around and the metal dragon’s tooth on its end grazed Malcolm’s cheek. It was so subtle, so sharp was its tip, that he didn’t even feel it until the poison kicked in.
Malcolm lost all strength in his legs and dropped to the ground, catatonic. Draconex didn’t catch him to break his fall, instead letting him slam into the ground.
Just like that, Malcolm knew he’d lost the duel. Again.
Draconex laughed derisively. “Your strategy is ineffective, boy. You are still rooted in the Guild’s teachings. That will get you killed in the real world.”
He dropped to his haunches, slid Malcolm’s only ring off his finger, and stared at it. “Remember this: you’re only as good as your weakest trait.” He stood back up, sliding Malcolm’s ring onto a free finger. “Part one of your lesson is done. Let’s commence with part two.”
There came a faint hissing sound as Draconex straightened his right arm to let out an anaconda that had scales as black as night. It poured out of his long sleeve and slithered to the ground, sniffing the air for any food nearby. Its forked tongue intermittently flicked out as it searched for living prey with its eyes and nostrils.
“Your poison will wear off in ten minutes. By then, Quickfang here”—he gestured at the large snake—“will be on the brink of starvation. Your test is to kill it before it kills—and eats—you.”
Malcolm started to sweat and tremble as his fear receptors went berserk.
Quickfang slowly slithered into Malcolm’s field of vision, then started to slide over his prostrate body. He shut his eyes as he felt the heavy, slimy anaconda roll over him.
Draconex let out a deep chuckle. “Oh, and to make sure Quickfang doesn’t escape, I’m going to lock this door. You’ll find the key inside of him.”
Malcolm would have whimpered if his vocal cords worked.
Draconex slammed the heavy door shut.
CLANG!
As the anaconda started to straighten itself out, preparing for its feast, sheer terror gripped Malcolm’s body and mind.
Nine minutes to go.
Draconex is insane! thought Malcolm.
He couldn’t speak—partially from the poison in his system, partially from pure fear—as he watched Quickfang stretch out in front of him. The snake had been doing that for the past eight minutes. Malcolm thought the anaconda was playing mind games with its prey.
But something switched inside the serpent just then. It turned still and glared at Malcolm.
A shiver shot up his spine as he realized what was about to happen.
The poison was still coursing through his veins, so Malcolm couldn’t instinctively tense up as Quickfang coiled around his body, which apparently tricked the anaconda into thinking its prey was already dead; it only slightly tightened its hold for good measure, but that was enough to snap a few of Malcolm’s ribs and collapse half of his left lung.
With sweat dripping down his face, he felt the anaconda release its hold. It was positioning itself right above his head. His ears twitched at a soft popping noise as Quickfang unhinged its jaw, preparing to eat Malcolm whole.
A rush of adrenaline cleared out the remaining effects of the poison and activated his fight-or-flight response. He forced himself to roll to the side as the anaconda bit through empty air where Malcolm’s head had been moments before, hissing angrily after realizing its food was still alive.
Malcolm rolled all the way to the nearest wall and stood up, not feeling the pain from his badly injured chest thanks to the adrenaline rush. He drew his small but sharp ankle blade and twirled it in his hand, awaiting Quickfang’s charge. He knew an anaconda’s venom was one of the deadliest kinds—Draconex had taught him this himself—so he needed to take out its fangs.
Inversely, Quickfang got lower, glaring at its prey with slitted eyes full of insatiable hunger. Its forked tongue flicked silently in and out of its mouth as it waited for the opportune moment to strike.
Malcolm moved, feigning left, which was enough of a cue for the serpent to launch for a killing strike. He ducked right before Quickfang rushed at him, flying over his head and headbutting the stone wall.
Dazed, Quickfang slid to the ground, giving Malcolm an opening. He rushed to the anaconda’s head, stabbed his blade into its eyes, and yanked its two front fangs out with his one good hand, flinging the snake across the room for good measure. He didn’t want to worry about an unlucky bite as he was killing it.
The snake hissed in pain as its thick, muscly body writhed and whipped where it lay, trying desperately to strike Malcolm, but he had discarded the fangs and sprung back to the snake, straddling Quickfang and raising his blade for a final strike.
CRUNCH!
The blade penetrated the top of Quickfang’s scaly head, digging deep into its brain. In its death throes, its body writhed before going straight . . . then limp.
Malcolm tried to yell in victory, but all that came out was a cry of pain. Giving in to his exhaustion, he slid off the snake and fell to the ground. He needed to get his breathing under control, but it was getting harder and harder as his adrenaline wore off, bringing with it the throbbing agony of a partially collapsed lung.
With increasing effort, he propped himself up and looked at his kill.
“Where’s the key?” he wheezed in desperation.
He still held his ankle blade, so he gripped it and punctured the skin near the base of Quickfang’s skull, pulling it down the length of the anaconda—all twenty feet of it.
The smell that affronted his nostrils stunk of stomach acid and bile buildup from the lack of food in its system. Nausea hit Malcolm like a bag full of bricks—but he needed to remain conscious so he could find the key.
With disgust, he wiped the blade on his cloak, slid it back into its holster, and dug his hands into the serpent’s innards. Malcolm was so tired, he couldn’t even gag as he pushed around hot, squishy muscle and fat. Finally, he felt something dense and hard, so he grabbed it and pulled the key out of Quickfang’s intestines.
Covered in fresh snake juice, Malcolm limply moved his neck to view the locked door at the other end of the chamber. His heart was thumping in his chest as he tried to get up, but his legs felt like rubber.
Whimpering, he stayed on his right side and crawled with his right arm to the door; the left side of his rib cage was splintered and part of his left lung was collapsed—any attempt at moving his left arm was met with shooting pain that almost caused him to faint.
After what seemed like an eternity, Malcolm finally reached the door and slid the slimy key into the lock with a shaky hand. Letting out a breath of accomplishment, he turned the key, and the door opened to a blast of fresh air, giving Malcolm’s brain fresh oxygen to stay awake.
Nothing moved on the other side of the door, so Malcolm dragged his broken body across the threshold—to the utter surprise of Lord Draconex.
In his mind’s eye, all he could see was the anaconda wrapping itself around his motionless body, coiling, writhing, squeezing . . .
Malcolm opened his eyes, fighting the urge scream. There he was, still alive—but barely—and unable to fall asleep on his itchy cot.
He didn’t even try putting his shirt over his bandaged chest; it hurt too much. Even breathing put him in a tremendous amount of pain—but that was what a half-collapsed lung and a few fractured ribs would do to a person. Malcolm was lucky it wasn’t worse, but he still resented Draconex for refusing to heal him. Especially after he passed the stupid “lesson” and made it out of that torture chamber alive.
He’d never forget that moment, clawing his way out of the torture chamber and straight to his torturer’s feet. With his eyes bleeding from Quickfang’s bind and his body covered in snake guts, all Malcolm could do was force himself not to faint as Draconex had said, “Your next lesson is how to deal with physical pain. You may have escaped my anaconda, but you now have to function with the punishment your body sustained. Every duel in which you find yourself will have consequ
ences that you have to push through to claim victory—no matter what.”
“I can barely breathe . . .” Malcolm had slurred. He was on the brink of blacking out.
Draconex had knelt down and clamped the sides of his face in a vice-like grip. “Make no mistake, boy, my intention is to make you wish that you were dead. I need you to feel like you are dying so you realize how much you want to live. The lengths you must take to ensure your enemy is the one who will never breathe again . . . those are the costs of victory.”
That was when Malcolm’s body decided to shut down. His vision blurred and his face went numb. The next thing he remembered was waking up on the floor of his chamber in a pool of blood. He somehow managed to claw his way to his closet, slide out of his bloodstained clothes, and temporarily set his broken ribs in pieces of a torn-up blanket to keep them from piercing his bruised skin.
Now, Malcolm just lay there, blankly staring at the ceiling, ruing the morning when he had to face Draconex and his next potentially fatal lesson. He was in for another sleepless night, since every time he would let his eyelids droop down, Quickfang would appear, with its hungry eyes and sharp fangs dripping with venom.
The night kept ticking away as Malcolm filled his quiet room with sobs.
Chapter Twenty-One
Back at Watercress, before Victor returned to Skarmor, he found Mystra Chen with the other Elders and took her aside. He thanked her for helping him get an audience with the Elder Synod. He believed it was Chen’s persistence to the Elders that made it possible for him to return and bring in an unknown candidate for testing. He also expressed his thanks for her staying during the whole meeting, watching Jen undergo the Chimera Course, and helping during the violent ambush by Paladin Blake. Chen remained reserved throughout their entire exchange, telling him that it was only because of their history that she had decided to help him at all; she knew that he wouldn’t contact her or the Guild if it wasn’t important. Victor was slightly disappointed in her indifferent reaction, but expected as much; their falling out was hard on both of them.
