Riddle in Stone (The Riddle in Stone Series - Book One) (18 page)

“I am a man of my word, Edmund,” the voice said. “I want you to understand that.”

Edmund fiddled with the knobs and dials at the end of the telescope. As instructed, he trained it on a rocky path that wound from the tower’s gate and into the pine forest filling the white valley below. Something came in and out of view. He twisted more knobs. He saw it again—Crazy Bastard darting down the path, his arms waving above his head as if his hair were on fire, his bare feet kicking up a cloud of snow as he ran.

“He’s free. As per the rules of the Game,” the voice said. “Although, technically, he attacked poor Gra’ Runda prior to the actual start of the match. Still, as I indicated, I always keep my word.”

Edmund watched his pit mate dashing erratically down into the rocky foothills until he disappeared amongst the snow-laden spruce and cypress trees.

“Won’t, won’t you just re-recapture him? I . . . I mean, that is, what’s stopping you from just going after him?” Edmund asked, surveying the view from the open window. The frosty wind whipped into the tower, biting his exposed skin. He wrapped his arms around himself, but didn’t move away or close the shutters.

“Oh, make no mistake. There will be a hunt. Thirteen young warriors who have yet to come of age have been selected for the event. It’ll be a good experience for them. But I can assure you, your friend will have a sizable head start, until dusk, in fact.”

Edmund peered at the sliver of sun rising above the frozen mountain peaks.

He has a good ten hours, maybe more. Perhaps he’ll get away.

It isn’t as if he’ll be able to get any help. You’re hundreds of miles from civilization. And even if he met somebody, who would listen to him even if he could make any sense? He’ll probably just starve somewhere or fall in some hole.

Maybe it would have been more humane to just have him die in the arena.

It would have been better if he were still alive in the pits.

Would it?

“How did he do it?” Edmund asked. “What happened? With, with the ogre, I mean.”

“Weren’t you at the match?” the voice asked. “I specifically instructed Mr. Kravel to bring you to the stadium.”

“He did,” Edmund admitted. “But . . . I had my eyes closed.”

“Perhaps you should keep your eyes open from now on. Live and learn, Edmund. Or die in ignorance. The choice is yours.”

Edmund turned back to the telescope. He scanned the valley for any signs of Crazy Bastard, but a green and white wall of snow-covered spruces blocked his view. He began examining the nearby mountain peaks, attempting to gauge how far north his captors had taken him from Tol Helen.

That mountain might be Rogorth . . .

“Let’s turn our attention back to the riddle, shall we? Have you made any progress in deciphering it?”

Edmund noted an ice-covered river stretching southwestward from the mountains a couple miles away.

Which would make that river the Laudrum. If so, I could follow it to the River Celerin, and then—

And then what? You have to get out of here first.

“Edmund?”

“I’m, I’m sorry. N-no . . . no, sir. I haven’t.”

The voice exhaled, disappointed.

“Edmund,” it said, “I think that I have misjudged you. I do not believe that you are putting forth much effort. And that disappoints me far more than you can ever imagine. I’m afraid that I will have to try other methods of motivating you.”

The frigid room grew even colder. Edmund’s breath appeared in hazy puffs, fogging up the window’s frosty glass. Withdrawing from the telescope, he took a step toward the fireplace and stopped short. Kravel was kneeling by the hearth, jabbing a poker into the sizzling fire. He winked at Edmund. The poker was glowing.

“I . . . I,” Edmund began. He swallowed. “I, I can . . . I can, I can assure—”

“Yes, yes,” the voice interrupted, its tone becoming increasingly hard, “you can assure me that you have given it a great deal of thought and reflection, I am sure. But you see, Edmund, what I have failed to do is convince you how important this matter is to me. It is extremely important, I can assure you. Extremely . . . important.”

Smiling, Gurding took a step in Edmund’s direction. He had a tattered leather bag in his hand, and a coil of rope dangling from his belt.

Edmund retreated, even though he knew that there was no place to run. “I-I-I-I . . . I-I und-understand—”

“No,” the voice said, his anger now readily apparent. “No, you do not . . . understand. You . . . could not possibly . . . understand!”

Gurding closed the distance between him and Edmund with three quick strides. Edmund put an upholstered footstool between him and his pursuer. Kravel withdrew the poker from the blazing coals and blew on its tip. It changed from deep scarlet to a reddish white.

“I have been looking for something since before your miserable kind even appeared in these lands.” The voice was now approaching a shout. “Something . . . extremely . . . important. You could help me, Edmund . . . but you don’t!”

Edmund staggered back, about to collide with the far wall. There was no escape. No doors. No windows. Nothing that he could get to before his captors got to him.

Gurding stepped over the footstool.

Kravel, glowing poker in hand, followed close behind.

“You have wasted my time. And that . . . that makes me angry,” the voice said.

From the corner of his vision, Edmund saw the tasseled fringes on one of the priceless tapestries billow out slightly from the wall, as if an unseen figure had just brushed up against it.

He’s invisible. He’s a magic user!

Seeing his distraction, Gurding lunged forward and throttled Edmund’s throat, slamming him against the wall. “You’ve cost me a great deal of money,” he whispered in Edmund’s ear.

Edmund squeaked, “Sorry!”

“Now, Edmund,” the voice said, regaining some of its composure, “I am fond of you. I mean that sincerely. I honestly appreciate having you with us. I could even consider you a pupil, as I have indicated before. But I’m afraid I need to try something else to increase your motivation in this matter.”

Kravel stopped right behind Gurding. He blew on the poker again. Tiny red sparks fell from its crimson point like shooting stars.

“Mr. Gurding,” the voice commanded, “the bag.”

Gurding lifted the leather bag to Edmund’s face. Flinching, Edmund squeezed his eyes closed, tensing every muscle of his body. When a couple of seconds had passed and nothing happened, he cracked open an eye.

Gurding scowled. “Take it.” He thrust the seemingly empty bag into Edmund’s hands.

Still pinned up against the wall, Edmund took the bag and stared back at Gurding, his heart convulsing in his chest, his throat collapsing under Gurding’s tightening grasp.

“Open it,” Gurding said.

His hands fumbling, Edmund opened the bag and then looked back at Gurding.

Gurding punched Edmund’s ear. Edmund’s head snapped to one side.

“Reach in it.”

Gasping for air, Edmund slid his trembling hand into the leather bag and felt around. Frightened and puzzled, he was about to take his hand out. The bag seemed empty. But then his fingers grazed against something thin and cold—something metal. He pulled it from the bag.

His open mouth went dry.

I can’t believe it!

It . . . it can’t be.

It is. I’d know it anywhere. It’s exactly like in his portraits.

In his sweaty palm was the Star of Iliandor.

“It’s yours,” the voice said. “Solve the riddle and I’ll let you go free. Completely free. You will be blindfolded and escorted back to Tol Helen and we’ll never cross paths again.”

Edmund gazed at the blue star-shaped gem, twinkling in the firelight. He studied the worn silver threads that once bound it to his hero’s brow.

Is that one of Iliandor’s hairs? His actual hair?

I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it. It’s magnificent!

It’s more than magnificent. It’s, it’s—

“And if you become lord of Iliandor’s old fiefdom, I will also relinquish claims to the portions of Iliandor’s lands that used to belong to us. None of my servants will ever step foot in your realm. Your Rood will be safe. I give you my solemn oath. All you have to do is solve the riddle.”

Edmund caressed the gem with his thumb.

“Now,” the voice said, “burn out his eye.”

Edmund looked up.

My eye! My eye!

Edmund tumbled through the air, his spine smacking against something hard and damp. His body landed on a slime-covered metal grate that smelled like an overused outhouse. Still screaming, he pressed his hands harder against the burning hole where his left eye used to be.

“Why did you do that?” Kravel asked.

“That’s what His Highness said to do, ‘Throw him in a wet cell,’ that’s what he said,” Gurding replied.

“I don’t believe that he meant it literally.”

“Maybe. But he’s really angry, and I’m not going to make it any worse. If he says ‘throw,’ I throw.”

“Perhaps you have a point. Always better to be safe than cut open, as they say. Excellent judgment, my friend.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Edmund said, rocking back and forth, holding the left side of his face.

“What did he say?” Gurding asked.

“I believe he informed us that he is going to end our lives, Mr. Gurding. Interesting turn, don’t you think?”

“I’m going to kill you,” Edmund screamed louder, still holding the blistering hole where his eye used to be. “Do you hear me? I’m going to kill you!”

“I wonder which one of us he means.” Gurding stuck his head in the small, cave-like cell. “Hey, Filth, which one of us do you mean?”

Curled into a fetal position, Edmund rolled around the slimy metal grate comprising the cell’s floor, crying out in agony. “I’m going to kill you! Do you hear me?”

“Yes, yes,” Gurding replied. “You said that part. But who exactly are you going to kill?”

Kravel tapped his chin. “Notice how he isn’t stuttering, Mr. Gurding? Remarkable improvement, don’t you think? Simply remarkable.”

“Perhaps we should have a wager on who he plans on killing,” suggested Gurding. “I’ll give you three to five odds he means you.”

“Me?”

“You burnt out his eye.”

“Good point.” Kravel leaned into the cell. “You aren’t cross about that are you? It was only business, you understand. Orders and all. We’re still friends, aren’t we, Master Filth?”

Edmund stopped rolling and glared up with his remaining, tear-filled, eye.

“You bastard!”

He snarled and lunged at Kravel, but the goblin’s fist sent him reeling back, his head cracking against the rear wall of the cell. Edmund crumbled to the metal grate, blood pouring out of his broken nose.

“I don’t think he likes you anymore, Mr. Kravel.”

“Quite possibly, Mr. Gurding. It’s a shame when friendships die. However, maybe his disposition toward me will improve when he sees what we plan on giving him when we get back.”

“You’re joking, aren’t you? I mean about him enjoying our little surprise.”

“I don’t know. It’s so difficult to tell with humans.”

“They’re not very appreciative,” Gurding agreed.

“I’m going to kill you,” Edmund said again, holding his left eye socket, his nose bleeding. “I’m going to kill both of you!”

“Well, that certainly clears things up,” Gurding said.

Kravel clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “At any rate, Master Filth, we have to be off, errands to run and all. You won’t be seeing us for a few weeks, I suspect. Perhaps longer. But I am quite sure you’ll appreciate me and Mr. Gurding here more when we return. Enjoy your new environs. They aren’t as pleasant as the high cells, but at least you’ll have plenty of time to think about your task. Take excellent care of yourself!”

The cell door closed with a heavy clang.

“Do you really think that he’ll enjoy our surprise?” Gurding asked, the echoes of his voice diminishing as they walked away. “Wouldn’t that kind of defeat the purpose?”

“Who can say?” Kravel replied. “At the very least, we are giving him hope, now aren’t we, Mr. Gurding?”

“You really like the fat bastard, don’t you?”

“Filth? Of course! He makes me laugh. Besides, he’s no longer fat. In fact, he’s gotten quite muscular. Hard work in the mines and all. Why, for a moment there, his charging nearly unnerved me. He can be a ferocious one, that Filth.”

“I believe you are pulling my leg again, Mr. Kravel.”

“Quite possibly, Mr. Gurding. But time will tell.”

There was a sharp clank of another metal door closing. Other than a faint trickle of water and a soft sloshing sound far below him, all was quiet and absolutely dark. Edmund, gasping through the pain, wiped away the blood that was pooling above his mouth, and put both hands over his missing eye.

I’m going to kill them, the bastards. Them and that damned voice, whoever it is. I’ll make them pay!

Cursing and crying in the echoing blackness, he cast his healing spell. When he was finished, he cast it again and again and again.

Edmund whimpered, sniffed, and then threw up.

Rolling over, he gagged again. “Ugh!”

“You will get used to it,” an almost feminine voice said from somewhere in the impenetrable blackness.

Edmund stiffened. “Wh-what?”

“The smell.” The voice cracked as if it hadn’t been used for many days. “You will get used to it.”

Edmund covered his mouth, careful not to touch his sore nose, but the stench of feces, urine, and rotting corpses was as thick as paste. He could taste it in the back of his throat. He crawled in random directions, hoping to get away from the assault, but every few feet he hit a slime-covered wall.

“You are in a cell in the deepest levels of Thorgorim, directly above the sewers, if that helps you become orientated.”

Edmund felt around while he coughed and spit. He was on a slippery grate of thick interwoven metal strips. Between each strip was a hole the size of his fist. To his right, he touched an algae-covered, roughly hewn wall. Oily water trickled over his searching fingers. He reached to his left and quickly found the same thing.

“Thorgorim?” Edmund choked, his flailing hands finding the metal door to his cell in the darkness. He threw himself against it. It didn’t budge.

“The fortress of His Royal Majesty, Kar-Nazar.” The disdain in his voice was nearly as palpable as the malodorous air.

Edmund’s remaining eye watered. His stomach wrenched.

“What’s that smell? It’s horrid.”

What was left in his stomach surged upward and spewed somewhere in front of him.

“As I indicated, we are directly above the sewers. But, of course, you might be smelling Morgan in the cell directly across from you. He has been dead for a couple weeks now.”

Edmund’s stomach churned.

“This is horrible!”

He gagged again.

“You will get used to it.”

“I don’t believe you.” Edmund opened his mouth. His throat expanded. His stomach heaved, but only a retching sound came out.

“It will take time, but your sense of smell will eventually cease. Be thankful that you aren’t in the cells high up in the tower. That is where Kar-Nazar pays closer attention to his captives.”

Edmund raced his hands over the dripping walls, praying that he might have missed something, a hole to crawl through, an open hatch, anything to get away from the throat-burning reek.

“You are human, are you not?” the voice asked. “Northern race? Would you prefer me speaking in Dunael? When they brought you here, you cursed at the guards in the Common Tongue. I interpreted that as being your native language, but perhaps you were just speaking so that they could understand you.”

“What? No. Nobody speaks Dunael anymore.”

The voice seemed to ponder this.

Grimacing, Edmund touched the puffy blisters where his left eye used to be. He could feel the pus seeping out of his eye socket. Then he felt something cold hanging around his bare neck. It was the Star of Iliandor. Kravel had tied it there like a necklace.

Strangely, as he clutched the Star, the overpowering reek seemed to subside a bit, though it might have been his imagination.

I need to get out of here.

Then solve the riddle.

I’m not going to solve it because it isn’t a “riddle.” It’s just meaningless garbage.

Why would somebody carve something meaningless into a cave wall?

Edmund untied the Star of Iliandor.

Maybe this can help somehow. Maybe it has powers like the legends say.

Maybe, but unless it can open the cell door and kill every damn goblin in this place, it’s just a worthless piece of jewelry.

Edmund clasped the Star around his head, the gem pressed against his brow. He didn’t feel any different. He vomited a third time.

I have to get out of here.

“You . . . you said something about somebody,” Edmund said, spitting out chunks of regurgitated food. The reek was so bad he couldn’t taste what he had just thrown up. “Whose fortress is this?”

“As I indicated before, we are in Thorgorim, the fortress of Kar-Nazar.”

Gagging again, Edmund coughed on the pungent air.

“Kar-Nazar? That, that sounds like the elven names in the old faerie tales.”

The voice laughed; the rolling echoes made him sound like a specter.

“You are clearly educated. But I had already surmised that. Incidentally, you should not invoke that healing spell so frequently. Your mind is not yet strong enough to cast it more than twice without rest.”

Edmund froze.

He knows!

“I . . . I, I don’t know what you are talking about,” he said too quickly to be convincing.

“Yes, you do. You are a Maûa. But do not worry. If it is a secret, nobody will learn it from me.”

“A . . . a . . . Maûa?”

“Users of what your kind calls magic.”

My kind . . . ?

“I am one of sorts as well, but that is no secret to any here. It is the reason why I am being imprisoned.”

Edmund coughed and retched again, but his stomach had nothing left to purge.

“And you? Your guards mentioned something of a task they would like you to perform.”

“You’re, you’re a . . . a magic user?” Edmund asked, lowering his voice.

“Indeed, though not a purebred. I was an alchemist in my youth. So I understand well what happens if you invoke an incantation more frequently than your mind can handle. But perhaps losing consciousness was what you had intended.”

You shouldn’t be talking to him, whoever he is. He could be a goblin or a spy!

“What is your discipline? Are you a healer?” the person in the neighboring cell asked.

“Discipline?”

Don’t tell him a thing. This is a trap!

“The Maûan path you undertook. I assumed you were a healer, but given how easily you were overcome by such a minor incantation, perhaps that supposition was an erroneous one.”

I have to get out of here . . .

Edmund reached above his head. He couldn’t feel any ceiling to his cell. He jumped up. He still couldn’t feel a ceiling.

Ask him questions. Get him off the topic of magic. Find out who he is!

“You, you mentioned a . . . a name, Kar-Nazar,” Edmund said, pacing the five feet that separated each wall, his hands searching for something he might have missed. “Have you heard his voice?”

There was a disgusted grunt. “Yes, I have heard his voice. I hear it whenever I let sleep take me. He has other names that you might have heard. Your people call him
Konge Spøkelse
in Dunael—the Undead King in the common tongue.”

Edmund choked, but not on the stench around him.

The . . . the . . . Undead King?

Impossible!

“You’re . . . you’re . . . joking. Iliandor vanquished him. He killed him!”

“Vanquish means to completely subdue in battle,” the voice replied, “which is inaccurate. At the most generous analysis, they fought to a draw, though victors of battles are rarely revealed until well after the histories are written. As for killed, that is obviously an error. Did Iliandor say he killed Kar-Nazar? That would be a bold statement even for his ilk.”

Edmund opened his mouth, but couldn’t find the words.

He’s lying. All of this is just a lie. He’s testing you. Trying to confuse you.

“What is your name?” the voice asked. “Or what would you prefer that I call you? Hopefully we will be together for a while; I enjoy the company, though it never lasts as long as I would like.”

“N-n-never, never mind that,” Edmund said. “What makes you think that the Undead King is alive?”

“What makes you believe that he is dead?”

“I, I have read . . . numerous, hundreds, of first-hand accounts of the Battle of the Ice Fields . . . all in their original texts!”

“Read? Well that is promising.”

“And how could this Kar-Nazar person still be alive if he were the Undead King? The final battle with Iliandor and his knights was 481 years ago.”

“Indeed? Interesting.”

“He can’t be alive,” Edmund reasserted. However, part of him had begun considering the horrific possibility. “He can’t be!”

“First of all, there are many things under the sun and stars that live well beyond 481 years. Trees for one. The great sea turtles are another. In fact, many of the Hiisi live well over five hundred years, the women especially, though they are few in numbers. To many, 481 years is merely a blink of the eye, as is the case with Kar-Nazar.”

“Impossible!”

“Then why do your people call him the Undead King if not due to the length of his existence?”

He can’t be alive. He can’t be the same one.

Then how did he have Iliandor’s Star?

Edmund touched the Star again.

None of this makes any sense.

The voice went on. “I envy your predilection for reading. It is a feat that I will never again undertake, I am afraid. It is one of the many things that I miss about my previous life. Perhaps you can share with me some of what you have read. Boredom, as you will learn, is the most effective torture of our hosts.”

“It’s impossible,” Edmund repeated, more to himself than whomever was in the darkness with him. “He can’t be the Undead King.”

“‘Impossible’ is a word of a closed mind.”

Iliandor slew the Undead King. He knocked him to the ground, took his dagger, Narcrist, and drove it into the Undead King’s throat. He chopped his head off and left it on a pike, just like the Undead King did to Iliandor’s father—

“Am I correct in assuming that you have only read accounts from your countrymen?” the voice asked. “Or have you read authors with other perspectives?”

“Other perspectives?”

“Yes, the Hiisi, for example. They have a lengthy literary tradition. Prior to your people coming to this continent, they had extensive libraries and institutions of learning. Scribes were prized more highly than warriors.”

Edmund snorted. “The goblins? Impossible.”

“I would appreciate it,” the voice said with some pain, “if you would not use that word. And it is becoming increasingly evident to me that you are not as educated as I had hoped.”

A faint burbling sound echoed above them.

None of this makes any sense. Iliandor killed the Undead King. How else would the war have ended? Iliandor came back—

Iliandor came back dead and whomever this Kar-Nazar is, he had Iliandor’s Star.

Edmund touched the gem on his brow. Its smooth surface seemed to be slightly warmer than before.

“If you do not wish to entertain the things that I say,” the voice said, “that is your prerogative. I had hoped for an enlightening discussion. It has been a long time since I had one.”

The burbling grew louder.

“However, if you wish to find my knowledge of any value to you, I suggest that you move against the wall of your cell and do not peer upward.”

“What? Why?”

Edmund looked up, mouth slightly open. A wave of sewage fell on top of him, driving him to the metal grate. For a moment, he was pinned to it, unable to move as the torrent of feces and waste pummeled him from above.

When the assault was over, the voice spoke. “You peered upward, didn’t you?”

Getting to his knees, Edmund spit repeatedly. He wiped his mouth, only to realize that his hand, indeed every part of him, was covered with fecal matter, urine, and heaven only knew what else. He kept spitting.

“I have met many of your people over my lifetime,” the voice said. “Their reputation for stubbornness is well earned. If you wish to survive here, I advise that you attempt to acquire what others have already learned rather than attempting to discover everything by yourself.”

Edmund spit some more. He drew his hands across his face, but merely replaced the sewage that was on his face with the sewage on his hands.

“Are you harmed?” the voice asked.

“How—” Edmund began and spit some more. “How often, how often does that happen?”

“Every three days or so.”

He shook himself like a miserable dog. “Ugh!”

“It will get a lot worse. Whatever reason they have you here, they mean to make you suffer. Would you accept another piece of advice?”

“Yes . . . yes, by all means. Please.”

“Do not lean up against the walls for extended periods. Vihrea’s Gift grows on it, it’s an alga that is noxious to humans. Further, the water will eventually rot your skin away.”

Edmund sat up and moved back to the center of his cramped cell, spitting repeatedly. “What, what . . . what else can you teach me?”