Riddle in Stone (The Riddle in Stone Series - Book One) (36 page)

Sitting in the cramped crawlway in which they had set camp, Edmund turned another page of Iliandor’s diary, the crinkling of its ancient parchment echoing around him.

He knew the diary by heart, word for word, backwards and forwards. But this was the original that Pond had brought back from Rood and something told him that it held the answer to the riddle written in the cavern under Tol Helen. Somehow, it held the answer to everything.

It’s just a book. It can’t help us.

Then why would Vorn make me promise to destroy it?

Vorn . . .

Pains of regret stabbed at him as he pictured the legless elf dragging himself out of his wet cell, begging for Edmund to end his life.

Perhaps there is something that I missed, some clue that wasn’t necessarily in the words used, but how they’re arranged on the page.

He turned to the last entry of the diary, the one scrawled by Sir James of Windright as the bandits closed in around Tol Helen. Edmund re-read it yet again. He examined the beginning letters of each line and of each sentence, hoping to find some sort of code or pattern. Then he looked at the last letters of each line and sentence. But there simply wasn’t anything meaningful.

There’s nothing here. It’s just words.

Just words . . .

The salvation of humanity can be found in buildings of wise men, doubly so in optimism of the learned, and in knowledge that is written on a daily basis.

What’s found in the buildings of wise men?

Forget about the riddle. It doesn’t matter anymore. All of this will be over by tomorrow night.

If we can’t rescue her with force or trickery, you’ll need the answer to the riddle. It’s what the Undead King really wants.

He wants the secret to Iliandor’s metal.

Somehow the riddle and Iliandor’s secret metal are connected. Think! What is in the building of wise men?

The riddle is meaningless. If we can’t rescue Molly, I’ll exchange my life for hers. I’ll rescue her one way or another. If she’s still alive . . .

Edmund listened as yet another heavily-armed company of goblins stormed through one of the nearby tunnels, shouting obscenities as they ran. The goblins had certainly been stirred up after finding the bodies in the guardroom. If the commotion didn’t die down, Edmund didn’t think they’d be able to sneak into the tower.

At least Kravel and Gurding haven’t been around, taunting me.

Kravel . . .

What? Are you going to come back to this hellhole to find Kravel and Gurding? Why stop there? Why not kill the Undead King as well? Evidently Iliandor couldn’t do that. What makes you think a stuttering librarian from an insignificant village can?

He pet Thorax as she slept next to him. With her quick ears, no goblin was going to sneak up on them. But Edmund worried about her limited mobility. She could hop quickly for brief periods, but with her lifeless hind leg, she wouldn’t be able to keep up if they had to run. She also had to be carried every time they climbed into a crawlspace or mineshaft.

Remember what Edith said, there’s more to Thorax than meets the eye.

Edith’s a nut.

She’s also a fellow magic user. Perhaps she could teach you some new spells after this is over.

After this is over? Chances are I’ll be dead in a few hours.

He studied his companions as they slept, especially Pond. Regret stabbed at him.

Chances are we’ll all be dead in a few hours.

I shouldn’t have let them come with me.

Edmund stroked Thorax’s side. Her three functioning paws twitched as if she were chasing something in her dreams. She snarled, her upper lip rising to reveal her long white canines.

He yawned.

Get some sleep.

I’ll sleep later.

Edmund returned to the last pages of the diary.

This has to have the answer. Why would they send Isa away with a book while all the others fought the bandits? Why would they all sacrifice themselves for a diary?

It was Iliandor’s personal diary. It was destined to be a relic.

But what about the Star? Or his sword and armor? They’d be destined to be relics as well. Why send only the book away and not everything else? What makes this so precious? It’s just a book. It doesn’t even say anything terribly interesting.

He took the Star out of his pocket and fingered the stone.

Was it worth it?

Caught in Edmund’s discouraged exhale, the candle on the ledge next to him fluttered, its cream-colored wax dribbling along its side. Dark shadows bobbed around the crevices of their tight confines. Far off he could hear the ringing of metal on stone. Yawning again, Edmund rubbed his dirty forehead, wondering when the last time he had a full night’s sleep was.

All right, think about this logically. There has to be an explanation for all of this. What exactly do I know?

You know that they could’ve saved the Star, but elected to save the diary instead.

Why? It doesn’t seem to say anything other than clues about the location of the cave under Tol Helen.

So why is the cave under Tol Helen important?

It had the riddle.

So maybe the diary is nothing more than a map, a way of finding the riddle. Which brings me back to: what is in the buildings of wise men?

He rested his head against the wall, tired of thinking about buildings of wise men. The phrase gave him headaches. He needed a different approach, a different way of thinking about the problem. But what that way was, he hadn’t a clue. Then, somewhere in the dim recesses of his mind, another phrase began to repeat itself like an annoying song that he wanted to forget.

“Knowledge that is written on a daily basis,” he muttered to himself.

Diaries are written on a daily basis.

Edmund closed the diary and stared at it.

This holds the answer. It has to. Why else would Vorn want me to destroy it?

“What makes you so special?” Edmund whispered to the diary, his weary voice echoing around him.

He turned the book over in his fingers, examining it from different angles.

Why would Vorn want me to destroy the original when the Undead King already has an exact copy?

Maybe he doesn’t think it’s an exact copy. Maybe he thinks you left something out when transcribing it.

Maybe . . .

Bringing the candle closer, Edmund examined the diary’s binding.

It was intact; a bit loose perhaps, but still in splendid condition for such an old text. Other than that, there was nothing unusual about it.

Nothing . . .

He examined the cover.

It was made of thick leather that might once have been black, but was now the color of dry dirt. It too was in remarkable condition. There were a few places where the leather was worn thin and cracking, but that would be expected for such a well-traveled artifact.

Edmund continued rotating the diary, looking at it from different directions.

Nothing . . .

“What makes you so special?” he whispered again.

He sighed, causing the candle’s flame to flicker and dance.

His fingers found a small crack in the cover.

Maybe . . .

He picked at it.

The crack widened.

He slid a finger underneath the leather.

Nothing.

He probed deeper. The ancient leather split.

Well, now you’ve ruined it.

I couldn’t care less what happens to it. I wish I never laid eyes on the damn thing.

He lifted the torn cover.

As he suspected, there was a second layer of leather beneath, which was not uncommon for books of great importance. A second layer protected the book from potential wear and damage from heat or water.

Edmund scratched the underlayment.

That’s not leather.

It’s . . .

He tore at the cover, ripping it almost completely off the book’s spine. Into his hands slid thirteen sheets of age-worn vellum.

What the—?

Unfolding them, he began reading, the pulse in his neck quickening as he flipped the pages.

It’s . . . it’s . . . the formula to make Iliandor’s secret alloy!

Edmund crept down the darkened passageway, his ears straining to detect any noises other than Pond and Norb’s labored breathing behind him.

“What do you think?” he whispered to Thorax. “Is anybody around?”

Thorax sniffed, her black nose twitching in the air. She looked up at Edmund, panting. Edmund stroked her head.

“What would I do without you?” he asked her.

She winked.

You better hurry. Who knows when the patrols will return?

They were nearly out of the mines now, stalking into the well-maintained tunnels directly underneath the tower. Thus far they hadn’t seen a single guard or passerby.

This is just like when Kravel tried to trap me with the smell of roasting venison.

Keep alert!

He examined the notes he copied from the book lender’s tome, but he didn’t need them. They only highlighted the layout of the tower, not the caverns or passageways below it. Further, he had memorized everything that they showed. Still, checking and rechecking them expelled some of his nervous energy.

The stairs that Kravel and Gurding used to take me to the tower are over this way. I’m sure of it.

They snuck along in single file, bunched together in the red glow of their small candle.

“Where’s everybody?” Norb whispered. “I thought you said this place was crawling with goblins.”

“It is,” Edmund said, urging them to hurry.

“Then where are they?”

“They’re at the Games.”

“How do you know?”

“There’re no slaves working. The mines are completely quiet.”

“So?”

“The only day we didn’t work,” Pond said, “was when the goblins had their little party.”

“Plus, see those sconces?” Edmund inclined his head in the direction of the wall next him. “Notice how the guards haven’t replaced the burned-out torches. That’s because they won’t be down here until after the festival is over.”

Which will be very soon. So hurry!

“Okay,” Norb said, gripping his battle ax even tighter. “So what do we do now?”

“Shut up and follow me.”

And hope whoever is fighting in the arena lives long enough for us to do what we came to do.

They came to an intersection of three passages with smooth walls and floors.

Peeking cautiously around the corner, they found that the passage to their left had an alcove.

That’s probably a guard’s station.

They wouldn’t post guards just anywhere. We must be getting closer.

Edmund motioned to the left and beckoned for everybody to follow him.

Up ahead, dim scarlet light flickered.

Blowing out his candle, Edmund pressed his back up against the passage wall and waited.

“Why did we—?” Norb began.

Edmund shot his hand over Norb’s mouth and listened.

He didn’t hear anything. “Follow me.”

They edged their way through the blackness toward the light. Soon they could see two dying torches flanking an opening in the wall, their oily smoke lingering in the still subterranean air.

I bet that’s the way up to the tower.

Edmund signaled for Pond and Norb to stay where they were.

“Come on, Thorax,” he whispered.

They snuck up to the opening and listened again. From up above, there was a faint rumble, like a distant avalanche that continued unabated.

The Games are already underway. We don’t have much time!

Edmund stole a glance around the corner. Beyond the opening was a wide stairway spiraling upward in a tight corkscrew.

This is it.

“Do you smell anything, girl?” he whispered to Thorax.

Thorax looked up at him.

“Good. Lead us to fresh air. Okay? Can you do that, girl? Lead us to fresh air.”

Thorax limped up the stairs.

Edmund waved for Norb and Pond to hurry. Scrambling out of the shadows, they dashed through the intersection.

“Where to?” Pond asked.

“Up to the top!”

They followed Thorax up the dark stairway, the heavy tread of their boots echoing in the closeness around them. Soon the noise above them was unmistakable, tens of thousands of goblins clapping and cheering en masse. The walls shook with each syllable of their chanting.

“Ga . . . Ram . . . da! Ga . . . Ram . . . da!”

This might work! Everybody is at the Games.

Yes, but as soon as the Games end, this place will be swarming with goblins. We don’t have much time to get to the top, find Molly, and then get back down.

Edmund grabbed Thorax.

“Sorry, girl. But we have to go quicker.” He readied his scimitar in the other hand. “Follow me and stay close,” he said to Norb and Pond over the commotion.

They jogged up the passage as it revolved in a tight circle up through the mountain. The noise got louder and louder, until it was nearly deafening.

Ahead and to their right, an archway appeared. Through it, they could see a wide hallway lit by blazing torches. Above them, the passage kept spiraling upward.

Edmund stopped.

“I know where we are,” he shouted through the noise. “We’re right across from the arena. Up these stairs to the tower. Then to the bedroom where they kept me.”

“How do you know Mol is there?” Norb called back.

Good question. Pray that Kravel wasn’t lying about where they were keeping her.

“They w, w, wouldn’t put her in the pits where she could get killed,” Edmund replied, hoping that he was right. “The Undead King would want her close by.”

Close by . . . And do what to her?

Gritting his teeth, Edmund forced the image of the Undead King molesting Molly out of his mind. He urged the others onward. Now running up the stairwell, they passed the opening to the arena.

“Do you smell that?” Norb asked over the fading clamor of the cheering goblins.

Fresh air!

As he ran, Edmund turned to the others behind him.

“Keep your voices—”

Something coming down the stairs plowed into him.

Dropping Thorax and his scimitar, Edmund flew backward. He toppled end over end down the stairs. Something was grappling him, holding on to his left arm and chest. When he came to a stop, he was lying sprawled on his back, eye to eye with a stunned goblin.

There was a mad rush of shouting voices. Pond attempted to kick the goblin, but kicked Edmund instead. Thorax growled and snapped. Norb raised his ax. The goblin screamed for help.

Seizing the goblin’s neck, Edmund attempted to heave him to one side.

There was a body-jolting crush as the goblin shrieked in pain. Norb imbedded his ax in the goblin’s shoulder.

Blood coursed over Edmund. Norb yanked his ax free. The goblin continued screeching. Suddenly the point of Pond’s rapier appeared through the goblin’s chest, nearly stabbing Edmund in the process. The goblin gurgled, floundered, and went limp.

Breathing hard, Edmund clambered out from underneath the dead goblin, warm blood covering both him and the stone floor.

“You . . . you two, you two could have killed me!” Edmund shouted. “You could have cut my head off!”

“Sorry,” Norb said, panting. “I . . . I panicked.”

Calm down! Everything is fine!

“No,” Edmund said, trying to catch his breath. “You . . . you did the right, the right thing. I’m, I’m sorry. I’m just a bit unnerved. That’s all.”

Pond helped him to his feet.

“Thanks.” Edmund considered all the blood splattered about the stairwell.

Now they’ll know we’re here.

“We have to hurry,” he said, grabbing Thorax and his scimitar.

“What about the body?” Norb asked.

“No time. We’ll have to chance it. Follow me!”

Leaving a trail of bloody footprints in their wake, Edmund led Pond and Norb up the stairwell as it revolved through the heart of the Undead King’s tower. Taking two at a time, they sprang up rutted steps, worn from centuries of climbing feet. Far below, the chants of goblins began to disperse.

The Games are ending!

With Thorax tucked under one armpit, Edmund charged up the spiral stairs, Norb and Pond desperately trying to keep pace. They passed narrow windows looking out into the moonless night. They passed an unoccupied landing, then several more. They continued sprinting up the steps as they circled around the tower.

We’re getting to the top.

Molly, here I come!

“Wait!” Norb called to Edmund, sucking in air. “I . . . I need a break. I have to rest!”

But Edmund didn’t wait. Like a rampaging troll, he barreled around a corner.

Above him appeared the set of metal double doors that Kravel and Gurding once lead him to. On the landing in front of the doors stood a guard holding a shining polearm. Seeing Edmund, the guard smiled and took a step forward.

Then Pond and Norb lumbered around the corner, weapons drawn.

The guard’s gaze went from Edmund’s scimitar, to Norb’s ax, to Pond’s rapier, and back to Edmund again, his smile dissolving. He hollered for help.

Still carrying Thorax, Edmund charged up the remaining stairs.

Ducking under the whistling blade of the polearm, Edmund launched himself into the goblin’s chest, driving him against the double doors. He smashed the pommel of his scimitar into the side of the guard’s helmet.

“Where’s Molly?”

The guard cried out and swung his polearm again, but Edmund blocked the blow.

“Where’s the female prisoner?” Edmund asked, slamming his knee into the goblin’s thigh.

The guard crumpled to the ground. Edmund hit him again.

“Where is she?”

Winded, Norb and Pond reached the landing.

Never mind this. I’ll find her myself!

Lifting his scimitar, Edmund brought it down with all his fury, splitting the goblin’s head and helm open. Blood poured over the landing and dribbled down the stairs.

Hurry!

Leaping over the body, Edmund yanked on the door handles.

Locked!

“Search him,” he commanded. “Get his keys!”

Pond and Norb riffled through the guard’s belongings.

“He doesn’t have any,” Norb said, alarm seeping into his voice. “What now?”

“Never mind.”

Setting Thorax on the landing, Edmund placed a hand on either door.

“
Forstørre nå
.”

The metal doors vibrated like a harp string stretched to the breaking point. The stone surrounding them cracked.

“
Forstørre nå!
” Edmund repeated louder.

The metal shuddered. The arches above the doors fractured. Chunks of marble crashed to the landing around them and bounced down the stairs. The doors began to crumple like someone wadding up pieces of paper.

Norb stammered, “How, how is he—? Oh god, he’s . . . he’s a . . . a witch!”

“He’s a magic user,” Pond said. “But he’s not going to hurt you. Let him do what he needs to do.”

“
Forstørre nå!
”

The doors squealed as they strained to expand. They shuddered and then buckled inward, crashing into the room as if battered down by a herd of elephants.

Gulping air, Edmund staggered, cold sweat trickling over his ashen face. Pond caught him as he collapsed.

“It’ll . . . it’ll pass,” Edmund said, wearily. “Just, just find Molly.”

Keeping a wary eye on Edmund, Norb climbed over the twisted doors, ax in hand.

“Thorax,” Edmund said. “Go. Help him . . . go help him find her.”

But Thorax wouldn’t leave Edmund’s side.

“Mol?” Norb shouted. “Molly?”

A voice answered him, high and piercing. Racing down a hallway, Norb disappeared out of view. There was yelling and the sound of splintering wood.

Molly?

Pond and Edmund found Norb, cleaving a door with his ax. A woman was screaming from the other side.

Edmund lifted his reeling head.

“Do, do you hear that?” he said to Pond, as if in a dream.

“I hear her,” Pond replied. “Now just rest for a moment.”

Molly!

Norb hit the door again. Through two gashes they could see the frantic movements of a naked woman running back and forth, screaming Norb’s name.

Molly! Oh, my Molly! Finally! Finally!

Edmund began weeping as he clung to Pond.

Norb swung again, the door shattering into a shower of slivers. He raced into the room.

Molly!

Pond leaned Edmund against what was left of the doorframe.

Molly leapt into Norb’s arms. She kissed him over and over again, saying his name in between sobs.

From the doorway, Edmund could see red rope burns across her wrists. Then he noted the cords dangling from the bedposts.

Oh . . . Molly . . .

As she turned, her left hand came into view. She was missing her ring finger.

Those bastards. I’ll kill them for what they’ve done to her. I’ll kill them all.

Edmund let go of Pond. He teetered.

“Molly!” he said, wobbling into the room, his arms open wide.

But she didn’t leave Norb.

She doesn’t know who you are. You’re missing an eye. You’re fifty pounds lighter. You’re a complete stranger to her.

Norb swung Molly in the air, each saying the other’s name repeatedly.

“Molly?” Edmund said, weakly. “Norb?”

“Norb,” Pond shouted. “We have to get out of here.”

Norb stopped, Molly still in his arms, her bare feet dangling above the floor. He looked at Edmund standing confused in the entryway. His joy dimmed.

“Mol,” he said. “Mol, this is Ed . . . this is Edmund.”

She stopped kissing the side of Norb’s face.

“What? Ed?” She swallowed. “Ed? My god! What . . . what happened to your eye? And . . . and you’re so thin! What happened to you?”

Taking off his cloak, Norb wrapped it around Molly’s naked body.

“Here,” he said, pulling a bundle out of his pack. “I brought you a few of your things.”

He brought her clothes? And shoes?

I should’ve remembered to do that.

Quickly, she slipped on what Norb had brought her. She kissed him again, her arms wrapped round his neck.