Riddle in Stone (The Riddle in Stone Series - Book One) (17 page)

“I am disappointed, I must say,” the voice said.

“I’m, I’m . . . s-s-sor-sorry, sorry, sir,” Edmund repeated for the third time.

“I’m sure you are.”

“What would you like us to do with him, Your Highness?” Gurding asked, his fingers caressing the curved blade of his knife. “May we check the length of his intestines?”

“No, Mr. Gurding,” the voice replied. “You may have an opportunity to do that later. And if you do, allow me first to place a wager. But for now, I’d like to try a different tack.”

He’s going to kill me! This is it!
I’m dead!

“You know, Edmund, there is an old saying among my people—‘If you want a dog to eat, take away its water.’”

What the hell does that mean?

It can’t be good.

Edmund opened his mouth, closed it, and swallowed hard.

“Mr. Kravel,” the voice said, “I think it is time to have another series of Games, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I would indeed, Your Majesty. It’s been a few weeks. Shall we enter Filth in them and, if so, what should the game be?”

“No. No. You misunderstand me. I think that we should have Edmund select one of his colleagues to play in the Games. After all, if he is to fill Iliandor’s station someday, he’ll need to be able to make difficult decisions. And selecting which of his friends should face death will be one of many difficult decisions that he’ll have to start making.”

What’s he talking about?

He’s going to kill one of your pit mates. You have to choose which one.

I can’t—

“Edmund will keep putting his pit mates in the Games, one by one,” the voice continued. “When they all have expired, it’ll be his turn. Hopefully he’ll have come up with a satisfactory answer by then.”

My turn!

Fighting in the Games?

“So, what do you say, Edmund? Who is going to go first?”

They’re all going to die if you don’t figure out the riddle! Think!

“Edmund?” the voice said.

Edmund dragged his moist palms across his bare chest. “I’m . . . I’m sor—”

“Yes,” the voice replied, its tone growing frigid. “You’ve said that more than once. Frankly, I am growing weary of hearing it. Which of your colleagues do you wish to see play in the Games?”

I can’t.

Edmund looked wild-eyed at Gurding and then at Kravel.

“I’d go for the big fellow,” Gurding whispered. “He’s your biggest threat.”

“Mr. Gurding . . . ” the voice said sternly.

Bowing, Gurding took a step back.

Turd?

You may need him in the future.

This is insane! I can’t kill anybody.

You wouldn’t be killing them.

I might as well be . . .

Edmund looked at Kravel again.

“Edmund?” the voice prodded louder.

“I’m . . . I’m s-sor—” He stopped, not wanting to irritate the disembodied voice more than he already had.

“Perhaps, Your Eminence,” Kravel said, stepping forward, “it would help Master Filth to select the proper competitor if he knew what the game was.”

There was a grumble of frustration.

“Very well. We’ll have armed combat between one of Edmund’s friends and Gra’ Runda.”

Kravel waved a hand as if Gra’ Runda were a pushover.

“So,” the voice said, “who will it be? Of course, I won’t accept anything but an answer. Unless you want to go yourself.”

I can’t kill somebody!

“Edmund? I am getting angry . . . ”

Opening his mouth, Edmund heard a name pop out. “Crazy Bastard!”

Kravel and Gurding whistled, impressed.

“It’s not going to be much of a battle,” Gurding lamented.

“Crazy Bastard?” the voice repeated. “Is he still alive? Interesting. However, I believe you two are missing Edmund’s intentions. It’s quite fascinating. On one hand, he is hoping to put the elderly fool out of his misery, which makes him feel noble and righteous. On the other hand, he retains anybody who can be of assistance to him later on. Further, those individuals will owe him a bit of gratitude for not selecting them.”

“He is a crafty one, as I have indicated before,” Kravel said.

“Crafty indeed,” the voice said. “Mr. Kravel, set up the Games. And escort Edmund to one of the upper cells. He won’t be returning to the mines.”

Edmund lay awake on a double bed, the lambskin blankets under him rather than covering his mostly naked body, despite the icy draft rattling the windowpanes. The cell that Kravel had escorted him to was actually a small bedroom, pleasantly furnished with a three-drawer oak dresser, a sapphire blue porcelain basin where he could wash his hands and face, an elegant rug, and a formidable door that locked from the outside. Along the door’s edge were many deep claw marks, as if a dog had tried to dig its way through the wood. Some of the trim was stained red.

Edmund stared out the narrow window, his breath appearing ghostly white in front him. Wisps of milky clouds partly obscured the bright moon and shivering stars.

He was in a lofty tower, standing isolated among the many peaks and crevices of what he guessed was the northern-most portion of the Haegthorn Mountains. Below him were the tops of green pine trees, which stretched down until they disappeared into the bluish night. Three inches of snow covered his windowsill.

He found Panis, the Guiding Star. Shimmering yellow, it was much lower in the night sky than he had anticipated.

It must be later in the winter than I thought.

Time is meaningless here.

Depressed, he studied a painting on the wall that depicted a flower-speckled field of gently rolling green hills. It reminded him of the farms around Rood.

I wonder if I’ll ever see them again . . .

The lock clattered and the door swung open, its hinges screaming like somebody being eaten by rats.

“Filth!” Kravel exclaimed, coming into the cell. “Wonderful. You’re still here.”

“Where would he go?” asked Gurding, perplexed.

“Have you answered the riddle to His Majesty’s satisfaction?”

Edmund mumbled, “No.”

“Well then . . . ” Kravel motioned to the hallway. “Shall we proceed?”

Proceed where?

They’re not letting you go, that’s for sure.

Edmund followed the goblins down a wide circular flight of stairs as it looped around the tower’s central stone column. Every couple hundred feet they passed landings where guards normally stood, blocking iron-reinforced doors with their pole arms and stern expressions. Now the landings were empty.

They descended below the tower, into a labyrinth of squalid subterranean chambers, gathering halls, and dimly lit meandering passageways. Only a few goblins could be seen running here and there, as if they were all late for an important appointment.

This would be the ideal time to attempt an escape. Nobody’s around.

Edmund’s eyes slid to his left. Gurding was fingering his knife, his lips moving in rhythm to some internal dialogue. His eyes slid to the right. Kravel grinned at him, winking as if he were in on some secret.

There’s no hope. I’m never going to get out of here.

Then solve the damn riddle! What’s in the buildings of wise men?

Somewhere in front of them, a deep rumbling was growing, like the pounding hooves of hundreds of racehorses.

Rapids? A waterfall?

Whatever it is, it isn’t going to be pleasant. Brace yourself for the worst.

The roar grew louder as they approached.

Strolling ahead, Kravel entered a grand archway. Edmund took two steps through it and stopped.

Before him was an immense oval stadium, ringed with countless blazing torches and scores of magnificent chandeliers hanging from the vaulted ceiling by black chains. Along the elevated sides of the chamber were goblins, thousands of them, sitting on row upon row of stone benches—cheering, screaming, and stomping their feet. Their stench was overpowering.

There . . . there must be twenty thousand of them! The goblins in these mountains were supposed to have been eradicated. How could there be—?

Kravel propelled Edmund forward. “Mustn’t be late.”

“Yes, I have wagers on the outcome,” said Gurding.

“Wagers?” Kravel replied, surprised.

“If the old guy makes it longer than two minutes, I double my money. If he draws blood, I triple it.”

“His own blood?”

“We never specified.”

“Ah.”

Kravel guided Edmund around the uppermost lip of the stadium. Across from them, three tremendous openings, like great windows large enough for several men to walk through, were cut into the wall. Just beyond them, a solitary figure sat in a high-backed chair. The distance and cloud of black smoke from the torches obscured any other details from Edmund’s eyes.

Kravel pointed to an unoccupied bench at the very top of the horde. As Edmund sat, a tremendous clamor erupted around him. Everyone stood, Edmund and his captors following suit.

At the bottom of the chamber, Crazy Bastard flew into the arena as if physically thrown. He skidded face first onto the sand-covered floor as a barbed portcullis slammed behind him, blocking his escape. Running to the gate, Crazy Bastard shook its iron bars, looking in every direction at once. Letting go, he slumped to the ground, drawing his knees to his chin.

Many of the goblins threw refuse at him—rotten pieces of food, balls of excrement, dead rats. Whenever something hit him, the crowd jeered wildly. Through the ordeal, Crazy Bastard sat motionless, like a child unable to leave his bed for fear of the monster in the shadows.

From high over head, a wooden table with an array of weapons, shields, and armor descended into the arena by a series of ropes. Crazy Bastard bounded onto the table and attempted to shimmy up the ropes, kicking many of the weapons off the table in the process. When he fell sprawling on the sand, the crowd laughed en masse. Scurrying under the table, Crazy Bastard started rocking, his arms wrapped around his knees. Even louder jeers erupted from the crowd. One by one, the goblins took their seats.

Edmund started to cry.

Oh . . . Crazy! I’m so sorry! Please forgive me!

Gurding shook his head. “I’m going to lose a lot of money on this one.”

“I don’t know,” Kravel said, cheerfully. “He might surprise you. Look at our friend Filth here. He’s still alive.”

Gurding glowered at Edmund. “Yes, and he’s cost me a great deal of money as well.”

A restless murmur began rustling through the stands. Off to their right an elderly male goblin with one arm missing stood up and shouted, “Gra . . . Run . . . da! Gra . . . Run . . . da!” Others around him took up the chant. Soon the entire stadium shook with each syllable.

“Gra . . . Run . . . da! Gra . . . Run . . . da! Gra . . . Run . . . da!”

Leaning closer to Kravel, Edmund hollered, “What are they saying?”

But Kravel couldn’t hear him.

“Gra . . . Run . . . da! Gra . . . Run . . . da! Gra . . . Run . . . da!” The chanting quickened, twenty thousand goblins of all ages stomping their feet and clapping in unison.

At the far end of the oval arena, colossal gates were thrown open. Through the shadows strode a gruesome figure, several times the height of even the tallest human, and much broader. He had an enormous bald head, a pushed up nose like a boar, and short tusks that swept up from his bottom jaw.

“Gra . . . Run . . . da! Gra . . . Run . . . da! Gra . . . Run . . . da!”

Sobbing, Edmund shook his head in disbelief. “An ogre? He’s expected to fight an ogre?”

“Don’t feel guilty,” Kravel shouted, clapping with the rest of the multitudes. “At least the old fella will die quickly.”

“But hopefully not too quickly,” yelled Gurding.

This is all your fault. His blood is on your hands. Turd would have at least had a fighting chance.

The ogre stepped into the pulsating stadium. He raised his massive arms to the crowd, a spiked club in one hand, a net in the other. He flexed his bulging muscles, tattoos rippling. Everybody but Edmund screamed. “Gra . . . Run . . . da! Gra . . . Run . . . da! Gra . . . Run . . . da!”

“I can’t watch this,” Edmund said, sitting down.

“Suit yourself,” Gurding said. “But it won’t change the outcome, you know. You might as well watch the show. You might learn something useful.”

This is horrible. Poor Crazy Bastard. This is all my fault!

“Gra . . . Run . . . da! Gra . . . Run . . . da! Gra . . . Run . . . da!”

Kravel nudged Edmund’s shoulder. Wiping his tears away, Edmund looked up at him.

“It’s always interesting to see how far Gra’ Runda can knock somebody’s head off their shoulders.” Kravel shouted. He pointed to the opposite end of the cavern. “Once he got an entire skull to reach the back row!”

“Gra . . . Run . . . da! Gra . . . Run . . . da! Gra . . . Run . . . da!”

Edmund put his face in his hands, tears streaming down his cheeks.

The poor old guy. He managed to survive in the mines for years, maybe even decades, only to be butchered for their wicked amusement.

“Gra . . . Run . . . da! Gra . . . Run . . . da! Gra . . . Run . . . da!”

He’s getting butchered because you put him down there.

What was I to do? I had to pick somebody . . .

“Gra . . . Run . . . da! Gra . . . Run . . . da! Gra . . . Run . . . da!”

Turd could have fought back. With those weapons, he might have even won.

Against an ogre?

The ogre bellowed at the crowd.

The crowd bellowed back.

“Gra . . . Run . . . da! Gra . . . Run . . . da! Gra . . . Run . . . da!”

I can’t believe this!

Like Kravel said, he’ll die quickly.

That’s no consolation.

The ogre howled again, the net whirling over his head.

Pretty soon you’ll have to send Vomit and Pond Scum.

Thinking about causing Pond Scum’s death intensified his torment.

What am I going to do?

Solve that damned riddle!

The crowd roared. “Gra . . . Run . . . da! Gra . . . Run—”

And then, to a goblin, everybody fell silent. A throaty gurgling sound filled the stadium, followed by a heavy thud, and twenty thousand goblins inhaling. Edmund leapt to his feet.

At the far end of the arena lay the ogre, sprawled out on the sand, club and net beside him. On his mountainous chest was the tiny figure of Crazy Bastard, jumping up and down and kicking like a spastic monkey. The ogre wasn’t moving.

“What the . . . what the . . . what the hell happened?” Edmund asked.

“You should have been watching,” Gurding replied.

“What the . . . ?” Edmund sputtered.

The goblins began hollering and cursing. A blizzard of debris rained down into the pit as goblins threw whatever they could get their hands on. A deep horn blew three times. The portcullis withdrew up into the ceiling. Crazy Bastard bolted into the open tunnel.

“What the . . . ?” Edmund repeated.

“We better leave before this turns ugly,” Kravel said, ushering Edmund out of the cavern.

“Wh-wh-what happened?” Edmund asked, trying to get a glimpse of the prostrate ogre through the surging crowd. It looked as if blood was spurting from his neck.

“Life happened, Master Filth,” Kravel said, pushing him quickly toward the exit, the shouts behind them rising to even greater heights. “And life is full of surprises, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Gurding?”

“Surprises?” Gurding repeated. “I believe you are understating things again, Mr. Kravel.”