Obsidian Ridge (17 page)

There were just too many questions and not enough answers.

The messenger led him to the front gate, where a group of people was once again gathered.

“Make way for the king!” shouted the messenger.

Storming out onto the drawbridge, Korox tried to pull himself together. Twice in one day he’d raised his hand against people whom only a few days before he had considered trusted allies. His confidence in the people around him was eroding quickly, and he was starting to act like a desperate man—not a commanding, confident king.

Stepping out onto the wooden slats, King Korox looked up once again at a huge obsidian obelisk.

One of the soldiers standing by greeted him. “King Korox,” he said, bowing. “Unlike the last one, this stone appeared right in front of our eyes.”

The king nodded, approaching it and placing his hand on its side. The jet black stone was slick and warm to the touch. Two words were chiseled onto the face of the stone.

Moonrise tonight.

“The first message said four days,” whispered the king. “It’s only been three.”

The crowd behind him let out a collective gasp, and several people pointed off to the east, toward Shalane Lake. The king turned too, watching in horror as the Obsidian Ridge moved. It swept past the docks, gliding to a stop over the fields at the low point of the valley, not far from where it had first appeared. The arched portals on its sides slid open, and from them, the black beasts began to pour out.

The creatures fell from the sides of the floating citadel. They dropped to the ground, rolling then unfurling, collecting in the shadow of the Obsidian Ridge.

+++++

The needle on the Claw’s compass led him into a long dark corridor. The floors were damp, the stone walls worn, and the passage he traversed wound around a long curve, gently sloping downward as it headed deeper into the Cellar.

Staying against the outside wall of the curve, the Claw moved quickly but cautiously. He had already passed the bodies of several dead cloakers, cut to shreds in the hallway. Whatever had done that was presumably still roaming free. Unless it had run into something larger. Either way, he needed to stay sharp.

The compass pointed ahead and to his left, but the corridor curved to the right. The needle apparently didn’t account for walls. The farther he went, the more the needle swayed, and he began to worry that he wasn’t on the right path. His only hope was that there would be another passage or a large chamber at the end of this hall.

His worry was cut short by the sound of heavy metal armor clanking down the passageway. It was close, and it picked up speed, heading right for him. The Claw closed his palm. His magical light went out, and the hallway went completely dark.

Crossing to the other side of the passage, the Claw pressed himself up against the inside of the curve. Pulling his cloak tight, he blended in and held still. The noise grew closer,

sounding like a single man wearing heavy plate.

Then, suddenly, the sound stopped. The passageway grew silent except for the ringing memory of the clanking metal. The Claw squeezed his hands into fists. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest. Had he been spotted? He couldn’t take the chance.

Pushing himself away, the Claw rolled into the middle of the hall and took a fighting stance.

“As you wish, Princess Mariko.”

The magic lit up the passage—illuminating a huge, gleaming suit of armor standing right in front of where the Claw had been only a fraction of a heartbeat before. Its surface was inscribed with hundreds if not thousands of tiny, intricate runes. It filled most of the hallway with its massive bulk and floated almost a full foot off the ground; its heavy boots no longer touching the stone floor.

The helm turned toward the Claw, as if it were looking at him. A faint purple light began to glow inside, beaming out the eyes and mouth of the visor. It grew in intensity, as if awakened by what it had found. The seams at the elbows, knees, neck, and feet also began to glow, and the Claw could see right through it at the joints. There was nothing inside this armor—no human, no creature, no nothing, just magic and malice.

A helmed horror.

This construct had to be over a thousand years old. The horrors were the first denizens of the Cellar, placed here as guardians by the wizard who had created the place. There were legends of these ancient things protecting a rare and powerful treasure. The stories had them wandering the halls of the Cellar, keeping out greedy adventurers and fortune seekers. But that was from another era, a time before the Cellar became a prison and a punishment.

The construct cast its floating purple shadow on the ceiling, the floor, and both walls. Then it lifted its right hand, the hilt of an ornate sword gripped in its gauntlet. The blade

suddenly sprang to life—humming and vibrating as it came into existence. It appeared to be made from a dull, gray metal. The surface was inscribed with long, thin, even lines that spread from the tip to the hilt. In between each of the lines were a series of circles and dots. To the Claw, they looked like notes on a piece of sheet music, but they were more sinister.

The construct pointed the sword at the Claw and advanced, taking steps but making no sound as its feet walked magically upon the air. The Claw took a step back, not sure how to attack a creature that was nothing more than protective armor and magic.

The horror swung with a metered purpose. The Claw slapped the blade aside with one of his gauntlets. The metal made a melodious screech as it slipped harmlessly past.

The construct attacked again, swiping its sword level to the floor and crossing the entire passageway with its long reach. The Claw continued his retreat, tossing himself into a back flip like an acrobat, landing on his hands and continuing over until he stood on his feet, two full body lengths away.

The horror broke into a run, charging down the hall. Its magical blade came down, and the Claw dodged away. Diving forward onto his belly, he skidded along the stones, narrowly squeezing through the space under the ancient defender’s floating feet. Rolling over onto his back, he slashed at the creature’s legs as they ran past. His sharpened gauntlets screeched as they bit into the metal, sending sparks flying but doing apparently little other damage.

The Cellar guardian stopped its charge and turned around, lowering itself to the ground. Taking its sword in both hands, it came again, its heavy feet clanking as it did. Bearing down with all of its might, it filled the confined space with magical steel. The Claw didn’t have time to get to his feet, so he rolled to one side, smashing himself into the base of the wall.

The horror’s blade clipped the edge of his cloak but missed the rest of his body. The sword slammed into the wall with tremendous force, which was followed by a cacophonous roar.

The impact had released some sort of magic from the blade, and the passageway shook. The Claw covered his ears with his hands, feeling as if he were in the very center of a huge thunderstorm. The sound echoed down the hallway, crumbling stone and sending debris flying.

The Claw could feel the ground under his shoulder moving as the flagstones shifted from the tremendous noise. Then the ceiling started to collapse. Handfuls of dirt rained down on him, and he scampered to his feet, trying to cover his head with his cloak to keep the dust out of his eyes.

Taking off down the passage, the Claw attempted to escape from the fight. Right behind him, the horror yanked its blade out of the wall where it had buried itself into the crumbling brick. Then it gave chase, its metal frame pounding the vibrating floor.

There was a tremendous crash as the ceiling continued to cave in. A crack shot through the stone, running in every direction, and huge boulder-sized chunks dropped to the floor, shaking the walls as they collided with the ground. The Claw ducked into a crouch, running at full speed down the corridor. The horror was right on his heels. Behind both of them, rocks fell from the ceiling, chasing them down the hall as the passage filled in.

The corridor continued to curve down and to the right. The Claw followed, having no other choice, hoping that he wasn’t running from one terrible fight into another. The ground shook, and the ceiling fell. The crack spread faster than the Claw could run, and dirt rained down ahead of him. Pieces dropped at his feet, and he hopped over them while he made his escape. Behind him, he could hear bits of stone clanking off the metal hide of the ancient construct. They sounded like huge hailstones bouncing off the iron rooftops of the shanties just outside the Llorbauth docks.

Coming around the next corner, the passage straightened out and widened into sort of a crossroads—four passages heading off in opposite directions. The Claw launched

himself forward, hurling himself out of the hallway and into the open space. Landing in a ball, he somersaulted once, came to his feet, and spun around, his gauntlets out like the claws of a tiger, ready to fight.

The helmed horror appeared at the end of the hall, its blade clutched in its huge hand. Stones rained down around it, denting the creature as it tried to escape. The advancing crack in the ceiling shot out over the archway that led from the room into the hall. The keystone crumbled, and the end “of the passage collapsed, dropping to the floor in a collective mass, sending dirt and the sound of crushing metal spewing out into the room.

The Claw cowered back, covering his face and protecting himself from the floating debris. The crossroads, brightened by mage-lit stones in sconces along the wall, went •dim from the cloud of black dust. The Claw coughed through his cloak, sucking air through the fabric to block out the floating filth.

There was a light tinkling sound as the heavier particles settled back to the ground—the last sprinkling of the stone rain. The Claw moved toward the mouth of the hallway he’d just come from. His eyes burned and itched from the dust, but slowly the air cleared. Where the archway had been only a few moments before, there was now a huge mound of crumbled stone.

He couldn’t see the construct, even a piece of it, through the pile, but he was certain nothing was going to make it out of there alive—or still moving. He checked the ceiling, wary of having to dash away from falling stone. But the cave-in had stopped at the end of the passage, and the crossroads was spared.

He was safe—for the moment.

+++++

King Korox stepped back into the storage closet where Genevie was being held. Upon seeing him, the half-elf recoiled in fear.

“I have very little time for this,” said Korox. His head hurt and he rubbed his temples. “So I’m going to ask you some simple questions, and you’re going to answer them.” He looked right at Genevie, his tone threatening, his words sincere. “Do you understand?”

The handmaiden nodded.

“Good. Then we will start.” The king paused, looking for the right way to phrase his first question. “How many mages can you gather before nightfall?”

The half-elf woman looked puzzled. “I don’t… I can’t gather any.”

The king slammed his fist into a wooden shelf, shattering it and sending the pieces dropping to the floor. “I don’t have time for your games. I know you’re the Matron, and I’m willing to make a deal with you. That is what you offered, isn’t it? That was what you sent Whitman here to tell me. That you wanted some sort of an alliance? So name your price. What is it you want to release my daughter and help me defeat Xeries?”

“My lord, please forgive me, but I am not the Matron. I don’t know any mages or about any deal, and I do not know where Princess Mariko is.” She stood in the corner, looking at the king with wide, wild eyes.

“Damn you!” he shouted, pointing at her with one thick finger. “I will have no more of this! You will deal with me now, or you will die.”

“I told you,” Genevie sobbed, terror on her face, “I have no mages. I don’t know where the princess is.”

There was commotion behind the king. It sounded as if the guards were holding back someone who wanted to get into the closet.

“Let me pass!” came a voice. “The king is making a terrible mistake.”

Korox stopped shouting and lowered his finger. “Vasser? Is that Vasser?”

“Yes, my lord,” came the voice. Then, “You see. I told you the king would want to see me.”

The guards stepped aside and into the closet came Vasser. He lifted his very large hat from the top of his head, and swung it out before him as he gave the king an elaborate bow.

“Before you get carried away, my king, allow me to tell you what I know.”

Korox nodded.

Placing his hat under his arm, Vasser slipped past the king and stood beside the half-elf woman. “I have been following the princess’s handmaiden—among others—for some time. Three days ago, however, she managed to give me the slip, and I’ve been looking for her on your instruction ever since. This morning I discovered that she has been in the south, purchasing medicinal herbs to give to her grandson.” Vasser looked down on the terrified half-elf, her cheek swollen from where the king struck her. “He has a rare disease that will require a very expensive spell to cure. In the meantime, Genevie has been getting a copper weed poultice from a druid in Duhlnarim, to soothe her grandson’s symptoms while she collects the coin to pay for the spell.”

“So you’re telling me that her disappearance was a complete coincidence? That it had nothing to do with the princess’s kidnapping?”

Vasser nodded. “That is what I am telling you.”

“She…” The reality of the situation hit King Korox, and a heavy pang of guilt set in. “You’re telling me she’s innocent?”

“Not entirely,” said Vasser. “She is guilty of stealing candlesticks and bits of silverware from the princess’s chamber.”

“I was going to repay her. As… as soon as I had the coin.” Genevie held her face in her hands. “I’m so sorry, my lord. I’m… I’m ashamed of what I have done, and I should be punished.”

The king was completely deflated. “I am the one who should be ashamed.” He dropped to his knees in front of the handmaiden. “You’re not the Matron, are you?”

Genevie shook her head. “No.”