Riddle in Stone (The Riddle in Stone Series - Book One) (15 page)

“Which is it? Yes or no?”

His face nearly gone, the bound man screamed until he had no breath, inhaled, and screamed some more. Goblins hooted and cheered.

“He, he, he sells antiques! Armor . . . armor and weapons. He has a lot. Oh god! Make it stop! Make it stop! For the love of god, make it stop. Mercy! Mercy!”

“Does he have more weapons like this one, Edmund?”

As another piercing shriek filled the room, Edmund peered though his fingers, aghast. A rat was clinging to the wire cage, the man’s eyelid in its mouth.

“Does he have more—?”

“I don’t know! I . . . I didn’t, I haven’t see any! He has a barrel . . . a barrel! He has a barrel of swords. In his front room. Oh, dear god! Mercy. Mercy, please. Give him mercy!”

“Where is Rood, Edmund?”

“South of Azagra. South of the old ruins. Three days walk from Lake Nuvelle. By the crossroads of the old north-south and east-west roads. Please! Give him mercy!”

“You give him mercy,” the voice from the shadows replied, calmer. “Take your sword and end his suffering.”

“What?”

“End his suffering.”

“I, I, I can’t. I can’t. Oh, god. Give him mercy!”

Another shriek stabbed at Edmund. One of the rats found the man’s eyeball.

“Thank you,” the voice said, gently. “Your assistance is greatly appreciated. I’ll have the guards bring you some food. You have certainly earned it. Soon we’ll meet again.”

Retrieving the short sword, a guard wrapped it in a clean, white cloth.

“You really are a heartless bastard, aren’t you?” the goblin said to Edmund, as he watched the man convulse. A rat was snout-deep in his eye socket. “I would have killed him. But that’s just me.”

A door opened. Red torch light streamed in.

Edmund leapt in that direction. But a guard blocked his path.

“Have a seat.” He shoved Edmund to the overturned, blood-splattered chair. “We’ll bring something to eat in a little while. In the meanwhile,” he said, amused, “enjoy the show.”

The door closed, darkness returning to the room.

Falling to his knees, Edmund bawled while the soldier begged him to end his life.

Edmund scratched his beard. He had always wanted one. He thought it would make him appear more attractive and scholarly. But he could never tolerate the itchy stage when it first started coming in. Now that he had one several inches long, he wanted nothing more than a pair of scissors and a razor. He picked a louse from his chin. Its plump, pallid body twisted between his dirty fingernails. He ate it.

“I’m not going to take this anymore,” Turd said. “You haven’t spoken to us since they brought you back. Now, I don’t know what happened, and I don’t care. But either you’re going to help us get out of here or you won’t, which is it?”

“Turd,” Pond Scum said, gently. “Give him time. He came back covered in blood.”

“It wasn’t his blood!” Turd replied.

“I’m inclined to agree with Turd,” Vomit said. “I can’t keep doing this, day after day, year after year. I want to go home or die trying. I say we start making plans.”

Crazy Bastard hopped in a circle.

Pond Scum tossed a small stone into the middle of the pit. “But there are three guards watching us now.”

“And why is that, I wonder. When they brought him back, everything changed. They’re suddenly watching us more closely.” Turd jabbed a finger at Edmund. “I want to know what he told them!”

Edmund didn’t respond. He didn’t know what to say anymore, so he said nothing. How many days since he watched a screaming man’s face be ripped off and devoured by rats, he couldn’t tell. Time was slipping away like smoke in the breeze. He got up when he was told, did what the goblins said, and then returned to the pit where he laid on his back staring up into darkness. For the days he was able to perform a full day’s work, Vomit gave him some food. It was never enough, but it didn’t matter. In the darkness, as the others slept, he made his own food. The magically created biscuits weren’t flavorful. They were actually rather dry and tasteless. But they cured his hunger pains and gave him the strength to go on for yet another day.

“Look . . . Filth,” Vomit said, crawling closer to Edmund’s area of the pit. “They’ve questioned all us from time to time. We understand what they must have done to you. But you have to decide whether to give up or go on. We want to go on. We want to get out of here and go home. But we need your help. We need your—your special abilities.”

“Magic!” Crazy Bastard chuckled, spinning around like a top.

“Can we count on you when the time comes?” asked Vomit.

Edmund let his head fall in their direction. He was tired. He was exhausted to his soul. And there were images that wouldn’t leave his mind. They plagued him even when his body found fitful sleep. He stared at his pit mates’ haggard faces. They were just as bad off as he was. Plus they had been captives longer—much longer.

“Filth!” a guard’s voice bellowed into their hole.

The Pit Dwellers went rigid. They hadn’t heard the goblin approach. How long had he been listening? Had he overheard anything?

A ladder slid into the pit.

“Get your worthless ass up here,” the guard shouted.

Forcing himself to his feet, Edmund tightened the makeshift belt he used to keep his pants from falling. He climbed up the ladder, one rung at a time.

“Move that slow tomorrow and you’ll feel the kiss of my whip,” the guard said. “But for now you’re in the hands of these gentlemen.”

Edmund lifted his unblinking eyes and found Kravel grinning at him.

“There he is, Mr. Gurding, looking splendid as always,” Kravel said, radiating with pleasure.

“I’m not sure that I like the beard,” Gurding mumbled. “But at least he’s not fat anymore.”

“Yes, there’s nothing like good hard work to whittle away both the body and the mind, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Gurding?”

“I prefer the use of knives.”

“Ah! So true. But we’ll converse more about such things later. For now, His Majesty would like to have another enlightening conversation with you, my good Filth. This way, if you please.”

In a daze, Edmund followed Kravel and Gurding through a myriad of passages and climbed flight after flight of stairs, the walls around them changing from hewn rock to mortared stone as they entered the bottom cellars of some fortress or castle.

They kept ascending.

Fresh air, tinged with the fragrance of damp pine needles, brushed Edmund’s face. Only a wall separated him from being outside. The torment was so great, he wanted to cry—but he didn’t have the energy, or the tears, left.

Try to memorize the layout of this place.

Why bother?

Climbing a circular stair, Edmund saw above them a set of gilded double doors, blocked by two guards in polished breastplates.

His captors stopped.

“Here we go,” Kravel said, merrily. “As much as we would like to join you, we’ve been instructed to wait here. So . . . good luck to you.”

“Yes,” Gurding added. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

Edmund examined the huge double doors.

“Come! Come!” Kravel said, pushing Edmund forward. “You don’t want to keep His Majesty waiting!”

Edmund trudged up to the landing, his tired feet dragging on each exquisitely crafted marble step.

“He’s going to do something stupid,” Gurding muttered to Kravel. “I know it.”

“Quite possibly,” Kravel replied. “That’s the fun of humans. You never know how they’ll get themselves killed.”

When Edmund reached the landing, a guard opened one of the doors. The aroma of roasted meat rolled out to greet him. His tight stomach rumbled like an approaching thunderstorm. He inhaled deeply.

Heaven!

He peeked cautiously into the room.

He was high up in a tower, staring into what appeared to be a formal dining hall. Along the far wall were seven slit-like windows, open, and looking out into the black night. Through them a breeze blew, chilled and damp. To his left, an inviting fire crackled and popped on the hearth. But it was the long table laden with lit candles and covered with serving trays that drew his immediate consideration.

I don’t know which is better, the fresh air or the food.

You can’t eat fresh air.

Edmund hobbled forward, drawn in by the wonderful smell. Behind him, the door closed with decisive thump. He surveyed the table again.

There’re probably severed heads underneath those covers. Or bloody rats.

Whatever it is, let’s hope it’s dead . . . and well-seasoned.

A familiar voice called out gaily, “Edmund!”

Edmund shivered, but not from the cool air. His stomach twisted, momentarily forgetting the food in front of him.

“Please,” it said as if in mid-song. “Please, come in. Have a seat and enjoy! Consider this meal as just part of your reward.”

Reward?

“Where are you?” Edmund found himself muttering as he scanned the chamber. On either side of the hall, two doors trimmed with gold stood shut. Yet the voice seemed to be coming from nearby.

“Ah. Always the inquisitive one!” the voice said. “I can’t tell you how happy I am that you have survived this long. Happy doesn’t even come close to what I’m feeling, I can assure you. Please, have a seat and eat. You must be hungry. Or, if you wish, feel free to look out the windows. It’s a splendid view, especially this time of year.”

Stumbling to the table, Edmund sat down, more to rest his exhausted body than from the desire to eat the meal waiting under the silver covers. He was hungry, painfully hungry. But he would cure that once his pit mates fell asleep.

“Tell me Edmund, do you believe in what your kind calls magic?”

Edmund’s back stiffened.

“M-m-magic? Magic?” His hand instinctively reached for the bottle of wine, almost knocking it over in the process. “No. No, I don’t. Sir.” He laughed, as if the idea of magic was ridiculous. But the sound came out forced and cackling.

“Interesting. I would have anticipated a different answer altogether. However, that merely shows that you are indeed full of surprises, as Mr. Kravel and Mr. Gurding have learned. At any rate, to answer your question then, I’ll just say that I am close by and leave it at that. I hope you don’t mind eating by yourself. Please, try the wine. It’s one of my favorites. A very old vintage. Exceptional for its flavor and body, as you’ll undoubtedly appreciate. After you have finished, we’ll have coffee, if you are so inclined.”

Expecting the worst, Edmund lifted a lid off one of the serving trays and found sautéed mushrooms with wild onions and sage. He stomach murmured again.

Oh, that looks so good.

Remember where you are.

He lifted another lid. Steam swirled around baked apples dusted with cinnamon. His mouth watered.

Remember where you are. Remember what he did last time. You can always make your own food.

He reached for the third lid—a golden brown chicken glazed with honey. His stomach jumped over itself.

“Do you approve?” the voice asked.

Edmund nodded. Then, realizing that the voice might not be able to see him, he said, “I’m sure it’s sp-sp . . . splendid.”

He sniffed the wine.

My god that smells incredible.

Edmund sniffed it again and moaned in delight.

“Don’t worry,” the voice reassured him. “It hasn’t been poisoned or tampered with in anyway. Believe me, I want you to enjoy yourself this evening. I think we are going to become good friends, you and I.”

Edmund sipped the wine, his palate rejoicing. “Friends?”

Don’t drink too much. That’s probably his ploy, to get you drunk and extract information out of you.

What information? Besides, being drunk would be wonderful right now.

“Yes, friends,” the voice went on. “Indeed, I might even flatter myself to consider you a student or a mentee at some point. We, after all, have a great deal in common.”

Edmund lifted the cover of the final serving tray and found warm bread.

“Common?” he repeated doubtfully, stuffing a buttery roll in his mouth.

“You’re an antiquarian, I am told. And I have a particular fondness for books, though . . . I must say, probably for different reasons. Tell me, what is your favorite subject of inquiry?”

Edmund’s soiled fingers wrenched off one of the chicken legs. He bit into it.

“History.”

“Ah, yes . . . one of mine as well. Tell me, who is your favorite historical figure?”

Edmund added a couple of mushrooms to what he was chewing, gulped the wine, and swallowed what he could.

“Iliandor.”

He bit into the chicken leg again, tearing off most of the tender meat from the bone.

“Iliandor?” A tenseness materialized in the voice as he pronounced each syllable. “Yes, well. Being a child of the North, that would be logical, I am sure. It is interesting that of all the fallen leaders from your culture, you selected him. Extraordinarily interesting. Tell me, Edmund, do you believe in fate?”

Edmund shrugged, pushing a piece of soft roll and then another mushroom into his full mouth.

“I certainly believe in fate,” the voice went on. “And I believe that you were brought to me for a purpose, a purpose that will serve us both well, very well if you permit me to be dramatic.”

What is he talking about?

Who cares? Eat as much as you can before he takes it away.

Edmund drank some wine and swallowed hard. He reached for the hot mashed apples.

“I have a question for you, Edmund. If you lie, well . . . I’m sure you can imagine the consequences.”

Rats in a cage . . .

Don’t lie. Tell him whatever he wants to know!

Tilting the bowl, Edmund spooned the apples directly into his waiting mouth.

“Why were you in Tol Helen?”

Just tell him. Tell him everything!

Edmund drank an entire glass of wine in one long swallow.

“I, I . . . I wanted to be something that I wasn’t,” he said, having thought of the very same question many times over the past few months. “I wanted . . . I don’t know . . . to be well thought of, I wanted to be a hero, I suppose.”

He took another bite from a buttery roll, then took two more.

“Interesting. You realize, don’t you, that heroes rarely die of old age in the comfort of their own beds.”

At least they do something with their lives.

He’s going to kill you. Or worse. Don’t you understand? Sooner or later, you’re going to have a cage of rats over your head. You’re going to die . . .

Edmund ripped a chunk of meat from the chicken’s side, bit into it, pushed the food into his cheeks, and shoved the rest into his mouth. He refilled his goblet.

“So you wanted to have more power among your people. More influence. I understand completely. But why go to Tol Helen of all places? Were you . . . searching for something? Something . . . in particular?”

He knows. You might as well tell him.

Draining his wine glass again, Edmund rocked back in his chair with a contented sigh. He dabbed his lips with the formerly white napkin, now covered with a mixture of food and dirt.

Don’t keep him waiting!

“Our . . . our new king, King Lionel, he . . . he issued an edict. Whoever finds the Star of Iliandor will be given lordship over his former fiefdom.”

“And you thought that the Star was in Tol Helen? Why?”

“I have Iliandor’s diary. Or I did, back in my library.”

Edmund pulled off one of the chicken’s wings, wondering whether he could somehow hide some of the food in the remains of his tattered clothing.

“The diary hinted that the Star, his sword ‘Druil,’ and some . . . and some of his other belongings were hidden there,” Edmund went on, eating as fast as he could. “I got as far as the tower, but Kravel and Gurding captured me before I could search it.”

“So you want to be a lord? ” the voice asked, amused. “To govern over others?

Edmund nibbled nervously along the bone in the chicken wing, his teeth extracting every piece of meat they could.

“I don’t know. I just . . . I just wanted something I didn’t have, I suppose.”

He shoved several mushrooms in his mouth, hoping that having his mouth full would decrease the amount of talking he had to do.