Riddle in Stone (The Riddle in Stone Series - Book One) (14 page)

“I’m terribly sorry for not greeting you sooner,” a kind voice said from the impenetrable shadows surrounding Edmund, “but I wasn’t aware that you had joined us until earlier this morning. It is an oversight that has been severely reprimanded, I can assure you.”

Edmund rotated his head slightly, attempting to detect where in the ring of darkness the voice was coming from. He was in a room—that much he could discern. Further, given the mortared stone walls and the wonderful mountain-scented air, he guessed that he was in some sort of above-ground structure, maybe a fortress or castle.

Directly in front of him, a man was strapped to a metal table. Bound with heavy chains, the man’s feet dangled over a small, but growing fire—the only source of light in the chamber. He had been beaten. One of his eyes appeared to be dead, staring lifelessly in a completely different direction than his other eye. Blood seeped out of his clenched lips and broken nose. But, like a seasoned soldier, the man’s demeanor was defiant, even as his legs strained to keep his feet above the leaping flames.

Edmund shifted uneasily in his wooden chair.

“Are you comfortable?” the voice asked.

What’s this all about? What am I doing here?

It’s not going to be pleasant, that’s for sure. Keep your wits about you, Ed! Or you’ll be on that table soon.

Something struck Edmund across the side of his head, knocking him to the blood-splattered floor.

“Answer His Majesty,” a guard demanded.

“Now, now,” the voice admonished softly, “that isn’t called for. Not yet. Our guest here is merely attempting to acquire his bearings. I can imagine that all of this is exceedingly disorienting for him. We have all the time in the world to have our pleasant conversation.”

Pleasant conversation?

“I’m, I’m s-s-sorry, sir.” Edmund felt the growing lump above his right ear as he climbed back onto his chair. “I’m . . . I’m sorry. Wh-wh-what, what was the, the question?”

“I asked if you were comfortable. Would you prefer a different chair? A cushion, perhaps? You will be sitting for a while, I’m afraid. I’d like you to be comfortable.”

Comfortable? If you want me comfortable, let me go home!

“N-n-no. No, s-sir. Master? Sir? No. No, I’m . . . I’m fine. Th-thank you. Thank you, sir.”

“Ah, they said you had difficulty speaking. I once had a sister with a similar infliction. She’s dead now.” The voice paused as if recalling a pleasant memory. “What is your name by the way?”

“F-F-Filth. Filth. It’s . . . it’s Filth, sir.”

The voice laughed. “No, you misunderstand me. I mean your real name. For the moment, consider yourself human again.”

“My, my . . . my real, real name?” Edmund’s body tensed, ready for another blow. “M-my, my real name is . . . is Ed-Ed-Edmund, sir, master.”

Another chuckle bubbled out of the darkness. “No need to use either ‘sir’ or ‘master.’ Just do your best to answer my questions completely. Imagine that we are two old friends talking on your front porch or in your kitchen, just chatting the autumn evening away.”

“Yes, yes, sir.” Edmund slapped his hands over his mouth, realizing he said ‘sir’ again.

More chuckling floated to him.

“Now, Edmund, would you care for some tea?”

“What? Tea? Yes, yes sir . . . I, I mean. Yes. Yes, that would be lovely. Thank you. Thank you very much.”

“Splendid.”

Why am I here? What do they want from me?

Just stay alert and, for the love of the gods, don’t upset him!

From the darkness to Edmund’s right, a goblin guard appeared. He attached a kettle to the soldier’s legs, the added weight dragging his feet further into the rising flames. His face contorting, the man fought to keep them out of the fire.

“If you lift it too high,” the guard said, “it won’t boil, now will it? So put your legs back down or I’ll pop your knee caps off with this.” He held up a knife.

The man strapped to the table glared at Edmund, curses in his watering eyes.

Edmund mouthed a silent apology. But the tormented soldier turned away, biting his bloody lip as he strained to keep the kettle close to the crackling fire without burning himself.

“It should be ready momentarily,” the voice said. “Perhaps we should begin. You’re of the northern human race, or am I mistaken?”

“What? Oh, y-yes. Yes, I’m, I’m of northern stock, as they say. Yes. Yes, sir.”

“Excellent. Now, where are you from?”

“R-R-Rood. Rood, sir. I mean . . . ”

What are you doing? Don’t tell him that!

Why? What could it possibly matter? Tell him anything he wants to know!

“Rood . . . ” the voice repeated thoughtfully to himself. “Rood. I don’t believe that I am familiar with it. Where is it from here?”

Edmund shrank in his chair. “I-I-I don’t know . . . sir. I mean, I mean, that is to say, I, I . . . I don’t know where here is, if you understand me. So I don’t know. I’m . . . I’m sorry.”

“Very good. And quite correct of you, I am sure. Let me restate the question differently. What direction is your home from the tower in which you were found? Tol Helen, your people used to call it, though it has other, more appealing, names.”

“East.” Edmund jolted. “No! No, west! West. It’s west. I’m terribly sorry. I’m sorry. I’m, I’m just, I’m just a bit confused. I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize. Slips of the tongue and all. I understand. You are doing fine. So this Rood is west of the tower. Good. Due west?”

Why does he care about Rood?

He’s just trying to make you lower your guard. Don’t think. Just answer whatever questions he has or you’ll end up with your legs in the fire.

“W-west and a little south. More west than south, that is.”

The kettle’s lid jingled. Glancing at it, Edmund expected the water to be near boiling, but found that the man’s struggling legs were causing the noise. Scarlet flames climbed higher, licking the kettle and the man’s calves. There was a sizzling sound and the scent of scorched hair and burnt skin.

“Rood,” the voice said again to himself. “No, I can’t seem to place it. Does it have another name, perhaps something out of the distant pages of history?”

“P-people used to, used to call it Rut, as, as, as in ‘Rut in the Road.’ It’s a very small town, you understand. Village, really. Insignificant to, to you, to anybody, I’m sure. Two hundred and forty-three years ago it, it became officially known as, as, as Rood. But, but that, that wouldn’t interest you.”

“Actually, it does. I am fascinated by such things, languages in particular, and how they change over time. In fact, I once studied to be a philologist. Let’s see. ‘Rut in the Road’ would be
Skutilsbraut
, in the older dialects of your original tongue. Maybe
Raufbraut
, ‘hole in the road.’ However, neither is striking a chord in my memory.”

A growing fountain of grey steam arose from the kettle’s spout, billowing around the man’s blistering ankles. A soft whistle grew into an unnerving, high-pitched scream. A guard unhooked the kettle from the chains binding the man’s feet. Exhaling with relief, the man lifted his legs higher above the fire.

“Is Rood by any geological landmarks? Bodies of water? Or perhaps old ruins?”

Don’t tell him!

“It’s . . . ” Edmund watched as the guard set an exquisite ivory- and gold-trimmed teacup and saucer on the man’s bloody chest. It heaved up and down as the man labored to breathe.

“If you make me spill,” the guard told the soldier, “I’ll become very angry.”

He carefully poured the hot water into the teacup.

This is insane!

“Edmund?” the voice prodded.

“Wh-what? What? I’m . . . I’m sorry. What, what were you saying, sir? What were you asking?”

“I was just trying to place this Rood of yours. I was once well-traveled in my youth. I particularly enjoyed the lands where you come from and I cannot recall any such settlement. Is it by any geological landmarks, such as bodies of water? Is it by any ruins from the Elder Days?”

Don’t tell him! Be vague. He doesn’t need to know where Rood is.

“It’s, it’s by Tower Hill. Does that, does that help, sir?”

“No. No, I’m afraid not. But it is not of any importance. I was merely curious. Why don’t you try your tea? It’s batwing, if you are familiar with it. If not, don’t let the name deter you. It doesn’t actually contain bat wings or any other portions of bats, for that matter.”

“Yes. Yes, I know. It’s . . . it’s made from the black leaves of the Manglorn Vine, which look . . . which look like little bat wings.”

“Very true. How did you know that?”

With trembling hands, Edmund lifted the delicate teacup from the man’s chest. The man glared at him again. Edmund winced another apology.

“M-m-my, my mother owned an, an apothecary shop. She taught me about such things, herbs and the like.”

Shut up! Don’t reveal anything else. He’s learning too much about you.

How would that possibly matter? Mother is dead. We’ll be dead soon too if we don’t cooperate.

Edmund sniffed the wisps of steam rising up from his teacup. It smelled like batwing tea. He tasted it. It seemed sweeter than he remembered, but it was good. Anything tasted better than the dirty water the goblins gave them.

“Your mother was an apothecary?” the voice said, mulling over this information. “Interesting. Oh, I’m terribly sorry. Would you like some cream?”

“What? Oh . . . oh, no. No, thank you.”

“Honey or sugar?”

“N-n . . . no, no, sir,” Edmund said, trying to sip the tea again without spilling it all over himself. “I’m . . . I’m f-fine. Fine. Thank you.”

“Splendid. Then, let us move to other . . . more important matters, shall we?” A sliver of annoyance crept into the voice. “It would seem that you misled your captors, Mr. Kravel and Mr. Gurding, when they questioned you at your first meeting.”

The fragile teacup and saucer rattled in Edmund’s trembling hands.

What did I tell them?

You were mainly babbling in between sobs.

Reappearing from Edmund’s right, a guard set something across the bound man’s bloody torso. The man moaned a protest. In retaliation, the guard seized his feet and shoved them deeper into the flames. The man stifled a cry and then screamed. The smell of cooking flesh found Edmund’s nostrils. He became very hungry.

Averting his eyes from the man’s burning feet, Edmund realized his father’s unsheathed short sword was on the man’s chest, its smoky steel glinting within arm’s reach.

Edmund leaned closer.

Maybe I could—

Don’t! Don’t even think about it! They’d be on you before you could swing your first blow.

“Where did you get this, Edmund?” the voice asked flatly, its musical quality gone.

“I-I . . . ”

What did you tell them before?

I don’t remember.

They know you lied. Just tell them the truth. It doesn’t matter now. None of it matters now.

Two guards appeared. One forced a wire box over the soldier’s head.

The soldier yelled. “No! Don’t! Don’t!”

As he thrashed his head helplessly from side to side, the other guard dropped two half-starved rats into the cage.

“No!” the soldier screamed again.

“Where did you get this, Edmund?” the voice repeated.

The rats grabbed ahold of the man’s face and scalp. He tried shaking them off, but their curved black claws dug deeper into his flesh. One rat looked at Edmund, its pink eyes winking in the growing firelight. Sharp teeth appeared and then bit into the man’s cheek. He screeched.

“Where did you get this, Edmund?”

A goblin stepped out of the darkness. He was holding another cage.

Edmund cried out.

“M-m-my, my father! My, my, my father bought it . . . traded for it! Years! Years ago! Traded for it!”

As if digging a tunnel, one of the rats shredded the screaming man’s check, tearing aside skin until it hit white bone.

“Where did he get it, Edmund?” the voice asked.

Another rat tore away a clump of the man’s hair. Blood spurted from his scalp. More screaming, high and shrill.

Oh god! Oh god!

“Who did he trade with to get this sword, Edmund?”

“Tom . . . Tom . . . Thomas!”

“Who is Thomas, Edmund?”

Edmund choked on air, unable to turn away as the other rat bit off the shrieking man’s earlobe.

“Who is Thomas, Edmund?”

The rats tore strips of flesh from the man’s head. More blood flowed to the floor. The man screamed louder, his body flailing, his legs snapping wildly in the air as if he were having a seizure.

The voice got louder. “Who . . . is . . . Thomas, Edmund?”

Edmund’s breath came in short, panicked gasps. “Rood!” he forced out. “He, he, he . . . he lives, he lives in Rood. He sells them!”

“He . . .
sells
. . . swords like this?” the voice said, doubtfully. “If you are lying to me, Edmund . . . ”

The guard with the empty wire cage stepped closer.

“Oh god!” Edmund cried.

A rat found the soldier’s already bloody and swollen bottom lip. Wailing, he tried to arch his back, but the straps held him fast to the iron table.

“I’m, I’m, I’m . . . I’m not! Dear god, I’m not. I’m not lying,” Edmund sobbed. “Please!”

The rat tore away part of the man’s bottom lip, revealing teeth awash in blood.

“And this Thomas has more weapons like this one?”

The other rat, its fangs and fur now stained completely red, lifted one of the thrashing man’s eyelids, revealing a brown eye twitching in all directions. The rat bit down. The man’s shrieks hit an even higher note, his feet kicking above the dancing flames.

Edmund stood up, shards of his teacup and saucer shattering across the floor. Several hands gripped his neck and heaving shoulders. They forced him to back into his chair. He covered his eyes.

“Oh, god! Oh, god! Oh, god!”

“And Thomas has more weapons like this one, Edmund?”

“Yes!” Edmund cried out. “No! I-I-I-I . . . ”