by Bryan Davis
Prescott slept on the huge bed with his wife, Lady Moulraine, who was snoring loudly at his side. That helped. Obviously Prescott had grown accustomed to sleeping next to a human sawmill.
As Jason pushed the door open the rest of the way, the hinges squeaked, but not loudly enough to overcome the snores. After easing the door back in place without allowing it to latch, he walked on the balls of his feet until he stood at the bedside. Prescott clutched his key ring against his silk nightshirt, open in front and exposing a hairless chest that rose and fell with his steady breathing.
Jason wrinkled his nose. Prescott’s breath reeked of garlic, but it wasn’t as bad as usual. Extending his hand slowly, he reached for the ring. This would take the skill of a thief, and he hadn’t stolen anything since the time he snatched a cookie from his mother’s baking sheet when he was eight years old.
He curled a finger around the ring and began to pull ever so slowly. It moved a fraction of an inch. Prescott’s grip relaxed, but his meaty hand still weighed down the keys.
As Jason pulled again, the ring slid a bit more, uncovering a raised patch of skin on Prescott’s chest. Jason stared at it. The size and shape of a finger, the patch throbbed with yellow light, its luminance pulsing between dim and bright.
The bedroom door’s hinges squeaked, pulling Jason’s attention away. A lantern pushed through the gap, and a man’s head appeared.
Leaving the key ring on Prescott’s chest, Jason ducked and slid under the bed. The guard, probably a lone sentry who made regular rounds through the castle, walked in. Extending his lantern, he moved it slowly from left to right, sweeping its glow across the bedroom.
Peeking out from behind a dust ruffle, Jason studied the guard’s unfamiliar face. He didn’t seem worried. If this check was part of his normal rounds, he would probably leave soon. Then again, if finding the door unlatched raised a question in his mind, he might conduct a more thorough search.
As the light drew nearer, Jason slid farther under the bed and held his breath. The guard’s boots came into view, the toes pointing directly at Jason. With Lady Moulraine’s noisy buzz still drowning out all sound, it was impossible to tell what was going on. A few seconds later, the guard walked away. The lantern’s light faded and disappeared.
Jason slid back out and rose to his feet. The door was closed; no sign of the guard. Now he had better hurry and grab the keys. Who could tell when the next bedroom check might be?
As his eyes adjusted again to the darkness, he turned toward Prescott and reached for the key ring, but his fingers struck something else, something long and thin. He squinted. Soon the object took shape: a long dagger protruding from Prescott’s chest. Blood covered his night clothes and dripped to the sheets.
Jason gasped. He staggered backwards, barely catching himself before he fell. While Lady Moulraine snored on, he grasped the hilt of his sword. A murderer was in the castle!
Drawing his blade, Jason rushed to the door and jerked it open. A man stood there, blocking his way. Lifting a lantern, the man cast a light across his face.
Jason gulped. Drexel!
Drexel’s cool voice rose and fell in a mocking sort of way. “Have you finished delivering your message to the governor?”
Showing his sword, Jason hissed, “I have to catch a murderer! Someone has killed the governor!”
His face stoic, Drexel let out a sarcastic moan. “Oh, dear! The governor has fallen! And it seems that the only person who entered his bedroom was a certain peasant boy who spoke petulantly to the palace’s sentry. He must be an Underground Gateway conspirator who sought revenge on the great governor who forbade his nefarious practices.”
Jason set the sword’s point against Drexel’s chest. “You’re the murderer!”
“Oh, not I.” A smirk rising on his lips, he gestured with his head. Another guard appeared in the light, the keys in one hand and a sword in the other. “I have already entered my suspicions in the official log,” Drexel continued, “so killing me would only double your crime. Perhaps you would like to reconsider your offensive posture and join us.”
“Join you?” Jason lowered his weapon. “What do you mean?”
Drexel turned to the other guard. “Bristol, show us what you retrieved from our dear governor.”
The other guard extended the key ring and a short, bent cylinder that pulsed with a bright yellow glow.
“Take them,” Drexel said, his voice calm and smooth. “You will find what you’re looking for in the lowest level of the dungeon, at cell number four.”
Jason opened his hand. Bristol laid the key ring and cylinder in his palm. The two bends in the cylinder made it look exactly like a finger. As it continued to pulse, Jason’s mind flashed back to Prescott’s chest. Bristol must have cut this out of the governor’s skin!
“Before today,” Drexel continued, “we dared not take this bold step, but now that you have come, we have the means to proceed. You see, when you leave, we will blame you for the murder, and you will be forced to carry out the mission. We have both a warrior and a scapegoat.”
Jason’s cheeks flamed. He was trapped. Maybe he could fight past both guards and run, but he would still be branded a murderer, and two “eyewitnesses” were ready to send him to the gallows.
“And your answer?” Drexel prompted.
Jason slid his sword back into its scabbard. “It seems I have no choice.”
“Ah! Very good! You have learned the art of political maneuvering.” Drexel pulled Jason into the hall and closed the door. “You have two hours to flee before I alert the new Counselor of your deed. The dungeon guard is one of us, and he will allow you to enter. When you find her on the lower level, you will learn what you must do.”
“Her?”
Drexel pushed him down the hall. “Just go!”
Clutching the keys and the finger, Jason hustled toward the rear of the castle, slowing as he approached the door. He nodded at the sentry, glad the guards recognized his uniform and allowed him free range.
Ahead, the tall gallows post stood in the moonlight, casting a long shadow over an expanse of bare ground where onlookers gathered for hangings. As the rope swung in the breeze, the noose’s oval shadow swayed eerily.
Jason shivered. Never in a thousand years would he have expected to fear that sight. The noose was for murderers and thieves, not for a son of Edison Masters.
When he spotted the dungeon’s night guard standing next to the gate under the glow of a pole-mounted lantern, Jason waved to signal his approach. The guard unhooked the lantern and held it out.
“Jason Masters?” he whispered.
Jason’s heart began thumping again. He slid the glowing finger into his trousers pocket and held up the key ring. “I understand that you’re expecting me.”
“I am.” The guard pulled a key ring from his belt, produced a long brass key from the midst of several shorter keys, and turned a lock in the gate on the ground. Grabbing an iron bar, he swung the gate upward and nodded toward the descending stairwell underneath. “You will find a torch and flint at the bottom. We have no energy channels down there. Stay on the center path.”
“Thank you.” Jason descended the steep, narrow stairs. As the moonlight faded, the steps darkened, forcing him to slow his pace. Above, the gate closed, and the lock clicked.
He looked up. The jailer wasn’t in sight. Realizing he’d just walked into the dungeon as an accused murderer, Jason stifled the urge to panic. Locking the gate is just a precaution. He’s one of us. He’ll let me out when this part of the mission is complete.
Now in darkness, Jason ran his hand along the wall, searching for a torch mount. When his fingers touched metal, he ran them up the bracket and grasped the torch. If the jailer followed normal practices, the flint stones would be in a box on the floor immediately underneath.
After finding the stones, he lit the torch’s oily rags. As the orange tongues of fire crawled over the top, he dropped the flints into his pocket and guided the flam
e from left to right. He stood in an anteroom with stone-and-mortar walls and a wood-beam ceiling. Three corridors led into the darkness, one angling to the left, one straight ahead, and one angling to the right.
Again waving the torch, Jason marched down the center path. The air smelled of mildew and human waste, and the sound of dripping water echoed from somewhere in the distance. Heavy wooden doors lined the sides of the corridor, each one with a small, barred window at eye level and a thick crossbar wedge in iron brackets blocking escape.
Jason glanced briefly at a window, but the darkness inside made it impossible to see anything. At this time of night, any prisoners within would likely be asleep. Even if they noticed his passing, wouldn’t they think he was a guard making the rounds and not an accused murderer searching for someone to set free?
As soon as the thought entered his mind, a movement caught his eye. Three doors ahead on the left, probing fingers reached between the bars. Easing to the right to avoid them, Jason stopped and looked at the gray-bearded face pressing against the window’s grating. Long strands of greasy hair spilled down the sides of his head, and his smile revealed wide gaps between sparse teeth.
“You are finally here,” he said with a cackle. “I knew you would come! I knew it!”
Jason set the flame closer to the door and read the number on a metal plate just above the crossbar. Cell number twenty. “Who are you?”
“They call me Tibber the Fibber, but my real name is Tibalt Blackstone. I survived the Great Plague, I did.”
“The Great Plague! Then you must be over ninety years old.”
“Oh, yes. As old as the hills and older than rust, my bones are all brittle, and my brain’s full of dust.” He cackled again. “My pappy locked the gateway to the dragon world and founded the resistance against the plucked chickens who still hide its presence. I can help you find it.”
Jason stifled a laugh. This man was trying to talk his way out of prison, but how could he have known to mention the dragons and the gateway? “You said your name is Blackstone. Are you related to—”
“Uriel Blackstone. He was my pappy. He showed me the gateway before they locked him up, but I remember where it is. Yes, I do!”
Jason gazed at the old man’s wild eyes. “Tibber the Fibber, huh? Does the name fit?”
Tibalt winked. “Oh, yes. I am a liar, to be sure. It keeps things interesting for me. Even if they catch me in a lie, what does it matter? I am already locked up, you see.”
“Yes…I see. But how do I know you’re not lying to me now?”
“You don’t!” Tibalt pointed at Jason with a long, bony finger. “But you are the chosen one, and you will release me. I can help you on your great mission.”
“The chosen one? What are you talking about?”
“You bear the litmus finger.”
“Litmus?” Jason withdrew the finger from his pocket and set it in his palm. “You could see it?”
“Not see it. Sense it. But it will do you no good in your pocket. It must be embedded in your skin. My pappy told me stories about it, so I know. I know very much. He told me that I would need it to find the gateway, but since I am in here, and you are out there, you will have to be the one to embed it.”
“I don’t have time to get a surgeon to—”
“No need for a surgeon.” Tibalt snatched the finger. “Open your shirt.”
“Hey! Give that back!” Jason swiped at the finger, but Tibalt jerked it away.
“Unbutton that fancy shirt, and I’ll give it back in a place you can use it. You want to find the gateway, don’t you?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Then pop those buttons, boy, and I’ll give you a personal pointer to truth.”
Jason set the torch down and unfastened his shirt’s top three buttons. When he pulled the plackets apart, exposing his chest, Tibalt whispered in a hypnotic cadence, “Come closer…closer…”
Jason glanced at his sword as he inched toward the old man.
Suddenly, Tibalt thrust out both arms, grasped Jason’s neck, and pressed the finger against his chest and held it there.
It burned, sizzling like a hot poker drilling into his chest.
“Augh!” Jason’s cry echoed from one end of the corridor to the other. He tried to pull away, but Tibalt’s wiry arms held him in place.
Finally, Tibalt let go. Jason staggered back and slammed into the cell door on the opposite side, then slid to the floor. A string of smoke rose from his chest and brushed his face, smelling hot and foul. Pressing his chin against his chest, he looked at the throbbing finger under a patch of cauterized skin. Still glowing yellow, it burned with every rhythmic pulse.
Jason blew on his skin to cool the fiery sting, but it did no good, though the sizzles were dying away.
Looking again at Tibalt, Jason scowled. “So now what?”
“Now you can go on your great mission.”
Jason climbed to his feet and buttoned his shirt. “What do you know of my great mission?”
The old man’s words breezed like a solemn chant. “A hero comes to rescue those who flew to realms afar. With sword in hand and youthful heart, he slays the dragon star.”
“Star?” Jason repeated.
Tibalt nodded vigorously. “It was my pappy’s rhyme, not mine, but it works, don’t you think?”
“Uh…sure.” Jason picked up the torch. This poor guy was obviously addled, but maybe his experience in the dungeon could help. “Can you direct me to the lower level?”
Tibalt’s eyes grew wide again. “If you take me with you, I will show you how to use the litmus finger. It is a guide to truth and direction and wisdom, but if you don’t know how to use it, it is worthless, and you will never find the gateway. When I first laid eyes on you, I knew you were a dragon believer, so I know all about your quest. No, you can’t fool an old fooler like me. And I can handle a blade with the best of them. Take me along, and the litmus finger and I will lead you to the gateway.”
Jason looked at Tibalt’s pleading face. Obviously he knew something about the gateway and the finger. Then again, he was a liar; he could be an old Underground Gateway member who murdered someone and would spin any lie he could to get out. “I’ll tell you what,” Jason said. “You direct me to the lower level, and if my contact there says I am allowed to release you, I will.”
Tibalt stared at him for a long moment, his gray eyebrows squeezing together. “Well, then, young man, since I’m locked up, I don’t have much choice, do I?” He pointed down the hallway. “At the end, you will find stairs to the left and to the right. Beware of the left! Oh, yes, beware of the left, for you will become lost in a maze of crooked halls and rat-infested rooms. Not that I mind the rats, you see. Some of my best friends are rats, but without me guiding you, you might never find your way back.”
“So I turn right,” Jason prompted. “And then?”
His cadence became singsong. “Beware of the left and descend to the right, or forever be lost in the dead of the night.”
“Thanks. I get the picture.”
“When you reach the end of the staircase, turn right again. That path will lead you farther downward to a corridor like this one. There you will find the forgotten ones, the deserted ones. Governor Feedor wants no one to know they exist, but he still keeps them alive, locked in heavy chains, for they hold valuable information. Oh yes, very valuable. He wishes to extract it through torture or deprivation.”
“Governor Feedor? He was two governors ago.”
Tibalt rolled his eyes. “Well, thank you very much for that information. The heralds never come here with the latest news.” His head tilted to the side. “Who is the governor now?”
Jason almost said, “Prescott,” but the image of the dagger protruding from his chest snatched the word away. “It doesn’t matter,” he finally said. “I have to go.”
As he hurried toward the far end of the corridor, his torch leading the way, he looked back. Tibalt’s hand waved frantically. “Bew
are of the left!” The words bounced around, fading with each echo.
When Jason reached a wall, he turned right and descended a long flight of stairs. The stench increased. The dripping water grew louder. The air felt wet and oily.
Again finding a wall, he turned right. A faint aura of green surrounded the torch’s flame, sometimes sparking, as if flint stones were trying to light it. As he marched down the path’s slope, he kept glancing at the torch. Could flammable chemicals be hovering in the dank air? Maybe. The corridor seemed to be filled with something unusual, but he had to risk keeping the torch ablaze. It would be impossible to find cell number four without it.
After another minute, doors appeared on both sides. Jason read the plate on the first door on the left—cell number one. On the right was cell two. He hurried to the second door on the right. This was it—cell number four.
Lifting the torch, now sparking wildly in green and orange, he peered into the window and called, “Is anyone in there?”
A female voice sounded from the back of the cell. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll extinguish that torch immediately.”
Jason looked at the flame. The sparks were popping and dancing. “Then I won’t be able to see.”
“If a pocket of gas drifts by,” she said calmly, “and the entire mining tube explodes, you won’t be able to see for the rest of your life, if you survive at all. If that’s your choice, then so be it.”
Jason dropped the torch. After stamping out the flame, he peered in again, but the darkness made it impossible to see past the bars. “I’ve come to get you out.”
“What?” Her voice spiked with excitement. “Why? Who are you? Your voice is familiar.”
“Jason Masters.” He fumbled through the keys on the ring. “Your voice sounds familiar, too.”
Her voice quivered. “It should, Jason. I am Elyssa.”
