Riddle in Stone (The Riddle in Stone Series - Book One) (20 page)

The steel door at end of the corridor was cracked open, a dim reddish light seeped in from around its edges. Edmund listened, but all he could hear was his own panting and pounding heart. He held his breath and peered into the guardroom. It was unoccupied. He opened the door wider.

Don’t panic. Remain calm and think . . .

To his left, an expiring torch sent ribbons of thick black smoke wavering above a small table and chair. Directly in front of him, a narrow flight of stone stairs rose upward out of view.

That leads back to the tower.

To his right stood a dilapidated wooden door, boarded over and blocked with a crate.

There!

Edmund crept into the room and pushed aside the crate as quietly as he could. Cautiously, he tugged on one of the planks barring his way.

Next to him, the torch hissed. He jumped, ready to run.

Idiot. Hurry up! You have to get out of here. Just rip the boards down. They’re half-rotten anyway. What are you waiting for?

Edmund yanked harder. The worm-eaten wood snapped in his hand.

Hurry!

Forgoing stealth, he began grabbing boards with both hands and pulling with all his might. Soon, a terrific clatter arose, rotting wood crashing to the floor around him. When they had all been torn away, he put his shoulder to the door and pushed it in, its hinges tearing from the wooden frame like well-cooked meat from a bone.

He cast the door to one side.

Beyond it was a tunnel, crisscrossed with tufts of silver cobwebs that billowed toward him like the hands of ghosts. In the guard’s chamber, the torch crackled to life, burning the clouds of dust now floating in the air. Faintly, Edmund could hear voices.

“Did he do something?” a goblin said from up the stairwell.

They’re coming! Go!

“Naw,” another goblin replied. “He’s a queer one, fell down or something. It’s the dampness. It makes them stick.”

What are you doing? Run! Run!

I need supplies!

“This should pry it open,” the first voice said. “Or we can take the pins out of the hinges. Pop the door right off.”

Come
on!

Edmund wrenched the sputtering torch from its holder.

That won’t last more than ten minutes. Hurry!

Think . . .

He glanced around for anything useful. Nothing.

He kicked the top off the crate. Inside was a stack of torches. He grabbed one. Then he grabbed an armload more. Pushing through the spider webs, he ran down the tunnel, his bare feet slapping on the dusty stone.

Edmund peered down into the cavern he had found a quarter mile or so from the boarded over door. His wet body shivered uncontrollably with cold. His teeth chattered, echoing in the tight confines of the crawlway in which he was hiding.

Be quiet! They’ll hear you!

I can’t!

Below him, as many as thirty goblins with ropes and nets dashed this way and that, their rushing feet splashing through the shallow pools of frigid water covering the cavern’s floor. Others were examining a small waterfall where Edmund had hastily scrubbed the sewage from his body moments earlier. Their torches hissed and popped as water from countless stalactites dripped on them. Eerie shadows danced along the walls pocked with tunnels and fissures.

Stay calm. They won’t find you up here. Just stay calm!

Two figures strolled into the cavern like an old married couple admiring a colorful garden. They halted beneath Edmund.

“What makes you think he’s still here?” Gurding asked, his echoing voice melding with the commotion created by the searchers. “If I were him, I’d be long gone by now.”

“Ah!” Kravel exclaimed, surveying the guards darting from passageway to passageway, hunting for clues. “Because, my friend, I know Master Filth. He is a wily one, as I have said before. Exceedingly intelligent and resourceful, as I have also previously mentioned. He won’t go far.”

“Why?”

“Because, Mr. Gurding, this cavern has three things that he needs. First, it has water. We’ve already seen evidence of him using this pool here, evidently to bathe himself so that we couldn’t track him by his smell, no doubt. However, he’ll also need water to drink.”

“But there’re other pools in the mines.” Gurding pointed out. “Streams and rivers, too.”

“Yes, but he doesn’t know where they are. Which leads me to my second point. He knows how he got into this cavern and he knows how to get out. All he has to do is return the way he came and he’ll be back by the cells. From there he might even be able to find the city where he could steal food and supplies. But if he strays too far—”

“He’ll get lost and starve.”

“As always, Mr. Gurding, you cut right through to the heart of the matter.”

Gurding grumbled, “I’d like to cut through to his heart.”

“Yes, yes. I can appreciate your frustration. But consider yourself thankful that he did not escape while we were with him.”

“He wouldn’t have escaped if we were with him.”

“Possibly. Possibly. But don’t underestimate our good friend. Who knows what he is capable of?”

“You said that this cavern has three things that Filth needs.”

“Ah, yes. Good of you to be keeping count, Mr. Gurding. The third is that this cavern has a multitude of places in which he can hide. Look around. There are literally hundreds of passages, tunnels, crawlways, nooks, and assorted places where he could be concealed. We’ll never be able to search them all, and he knows that. Why, I bet you anything that he is in within earshot as we speak.”

Gurding glanced up at the cavern walls behind him. Edmund, nearly a hundred feet above them, pulled back to the deep shadows, praying they couldn’t hear his shivering.

“All right everybody,” Kravel said, clapping his hands. “Could you all stop what you are doing for the moment?”

The goblin searchers crawled out of the various holes they had been investigating.

“Splendid.” Kravel strolled to the middle of the cavern. “Edmund!” he called. “Edmund, let me first say how extraordinarily impressed I am with your escape. Truly impressed indeed, as is Mr. Gurding here.”

“Impressed?” Gurding muttered. “I’d like to hang him by his spleen.”

“However, my dear friend,” Kravel went on, shouting to the shadows, “you have merely traded one cell for another, I’m afraid. Look around you. Do you honestly believe that you will find your way out of here? Even our most experienced miners have gotten lost in these tunnels, dying slowly of starvation, their bodies gnawed on by rats and other delightful creatures you will soon meet. Do you honestly believe you can find a way out?”

I’ll get out. Or I’ll die trying.

“No, Edmund. I believe that you saw an opportunity and you took it without considering your next move. Even now, as hunger begins to stab at your stomach, I bet you are reevaluating your actions, perhaps even wishing you were back where you knew you’d get meals on a regular basis.”

Edmund gritted his chattering teeth, trying to stop his body from trembling. After untold miserable weeks coated with rancid filth, he was finally clean. But his wet skin was numb, and lying on the cold stone of the crawlway didn’t help matters any.

Talk all you want, Kravel. You’ll never take me prisoner again. You’ll have to kill me.

“I suspect that this logic will not persuade you to return with us,” Kravel continued. “But I believe that we have somebody who will.”

Edmund wanted to laugh.

The echoes of Kravel’s voice gradually dissipated.

“Did you find our little present that we left for you in your stew?” Kravel shouted as he ambled around the cavern, inspecting its numerous rock formations. “Were you able to discern whose it was?”

I don’t care in the slightest . . .

Edmund exhaled into his hands, trying to warm them.

Be quiet! They’ll hear you!

Then Kravel said, “Your wife is very pretty, Edmund.”

Wife?

“I think she’s rather fat.” Gurding said.

“Eye of the beholder, Mr. Gurding,” Kravel said. “Eye of the beholder.”

“It wasn’t my eye that was complaining,” replied Gurding. “It was my back. I had a devil of a time getting her fat carcass up over that wall.”

What the hell are they talking about?

Ignore them. They’re just trying to rattle you. They probably assume you are married and are trying to get you to reveal yourself.

Married . . .

Edmund’s thoughts drifted to Molly. If he ever saw her again, he was going to walk right up to her and ask her to marry him. He wouldn’t hesitate any longer. He wouldn’t care if the moment wasn’t perfect. He’d just come out and finally reveal his heart.

No more regrets . . .

“You really should put a taller wall around Rood,” Gurding called out.

“Yes,” Kravel shouted to the shadows, “and you really should cut down those trees that grow alongside of it. It didn’t take very much to climb up them and jump down on the other side. Perhaps that is something you can attend to once you become lord of that region.”

Wait . . . There are trees growing up against Rood’s walls. Maybe they’ve—

Don’t be stupid. They’re just guessing. What small village doesn’t have trees growing up against its walls? There hasn’t been a goblin attack in the north for nearly five centuries. They know that. So there’s no need to clear the trees. They know that as well.

“We have your wife with us, Edmund,” Kravel said.

Well, I’d love to meet her! Ha!

As if drawn by curiosity, Edmund found himself creeping toward the opening, wondering who the hell they were talking about.

What are you doing? Get down! Lay still. Don’t fall for it. They’re just trying to get you to reveal yourself!

“She is up in the tower,” Kravel yelled.

See! They’re just making things up. They don’t have anybody, let alone your ‘wife.’

“She’s in the same room you were in,” Kravel went on. “You could be with her. You could be with her right now if you like, sleeping together in a warm bed, eating the excellent food that His Majesty provided you before. You can solve the riddle and both of you could go free. Every lord needs his whore by his side. Am I correct, Edmund?”

Edmund closed his eye, praying that the goblins would just go away. He was cold and tired. He wanted to light one of the torches he stole and huddle over it until his skin baked.

“Of course, Edmund,” Kravel said, “if you wish to remain here . . . we honestly have no need for your pretty woman.”

Gurding laughed. “But I’m sure we could think of something to do with her.”

“Why Mr. Gurding, what are you implying?” Kravel asked, as if he didn’t know. “We’ll take excellent care of your woman, Edmund. Eventually, she may even not wish to leave.”

There was a long silence, the dripping of the stalactites echoing with the restless movements of the waiting searchers. Lying in the darkness, Edmund breathed into his shivering hands again.

“Very well, Master Edmund,” Kravel shouted. “I suspect that you need time to consider your predicament. Fair enough. Consider well. In the meanwhile, we have some company for you.”

Something was being dragged into the cavern. Several goblins were cursing as if pulling a great weight. Whatever it was, it was fighting back, but losing the struggle. A wailing screech ricocheted around the rock formations. Covering his ears, Edmund couldn’t help himself. He had to look.

Off to the side of the cavern, in front of the passage leading back to the wet cells, the goblins had erected a tall spear, standing upright, point high above the damp cavern floor. On it was the guard who left the key in Edmund’s cell door. The spear’s gory point glistened in the wavering torchlight as the screaming guard slid further and further down its shaft; the pools of water below him turning bright red with his blood.

“We’ll leave you here with your accomplice,” Kravel yelled above the guard’s echoing wails. “I’m afraid that he won’t be of much help to you soon. We inserted the lance a little too high in his abdomen. He’ll probably only live for a few hours.”

The searchers began filing out of the cavern. Kravel and Gurding were the last to leave.

“I hope that we have the pleasure of your company again, Master Filth,” Kravel called out. “We have a great deal to discuss. Rood is an exceptional village. Very quaint.”

“We’re thinking about relocating there,” added Gurding.

“Yes, indeed. It would seem that your library is going to be up for sale soon. What do you think, Mr. Gurding?” Kravel asked as they strolled out of the cavern. “Can you picture me as a business owner? A librarian like our friend Filth?”

I’m not a librarian!

“Would you get to kill people?”

“Quite possibly. If they didn’t return a book, I suppose. Or if they bent the pages or some such offense.”

“Then I can see it,” Gurding said. “As for me, I would like to own that inn, what was it called?”

The screams of the guard sliding down the widening spear shaft obliterated Kravel’s answer.

Get out of here.

No! That guard has clothes and boots. I need to get warm.

Are you stupid? That’s just what they want you to do. There’re probably a dozen goblins hidden in the shadows down there. Just go before they start searching again!

Tucking his knees under his chin, Edmund turned around. Facing the other way, he crawled deeper into the tunnel, his hands pushing a bundle of torches in the blackness in front of him.

Let’s see where this goes.

Edmund stepped even closer to his unsuspecting prey.

Cast the spell again. It needs to be bigger. You can’t afford to miss.

“
Forstørre nå
.”

The brass ring that he found on the severed finger grew to the size of a fat man’s belt. After weeks of practicing in the cold darkness of the abandoned mines, he was now able to cast his spells at will.

That should do nicely.

Is this really necessary?

Yes! You need that sword and lantern.

He stalked within twenty feet of the lantern light.

“That’s good,” the adult goblin said. “But you still need to follow through. Remember, they’ll be taller than you. So swing high and down. Go for their head. Force them backwards and then use your momentum to lunge forward with the second strike. Just like this . . . ”

This was the third time that Edmund had come across this father teaching his young son how to fight with a wooden sword. Why they were in the mines, he couldn’t guess—perhaps for privacy, perhaps so the young goblin child could concentrate better. Edmund didn’t care. Now he was ready for them.

Closer . . .

“Good,” the father said. “But remember, you have to be prepared to block as well. Don’t overexpose yourself. Stand like this.”

Take your time . . . Don’t rush . . .

Holding his breath, Edmund inched through the shadows.

Stick to the plan. You need the lantern and weapon. Just drop the ring over his head and yank it back. Then cast the counter spell. Easy as getting out of bed . . .

The father parried his son’s wild blows and countered with a soft jab to the boy’s midsection. The boy doubled over, the air knocked out of him.

“See,” the father said, disgusted. “You aren’t listening to me. You left yourself open. Now pay attention or you’ll lose the next tournament as well. Is that what you want? Do you want to be a loser? Or do you want to be a warrior?”

“A warrior,” the child managed to say as he rubbed his stomach.

“That’s right! Now don’t forget that the enemy has many more weapons than what he’s holding in his hand. He can kick, bite, hit—throw dirt in your face. They’re animals. You have to protect yourself for all possible actions. Understand?”

The boy sucked in air, nodded, and resumed the fighting stance, his wooden sword held high.

Stones crunched beneath Edmund’s bare feet.

You’re close enough. Just rush him and jump on his back.

No. Get closer. You’re no match for him if he reaches that sword first.

Edmund waited for them to begin swinging again, the reverberating clash of wood against wood and the grunts from the boy concealing the sounds from his footfall. He stalked closer and closer.

Patience . . .

The father’s wooden sword connected with the boy’s left ear. The boy dropped his mock weapon, tears flowing as he clutched the side of his head.

“All right,” the father said. “None of that! Warriors don’t cry. If you want to cry, I can arrange it. Is that what you want? Is that what you want me to do? Do you want me to make you cry?”

Sniffling, the boy shook his head.

“Okay then. Let’s get back to work. Remember the proper stance?”

Edmund edged within ten feet behind the father. He raised the enlarged ring.

Glancing in Edmund’s direction, the boy’s watery eyes went wide.

“What now?” the father said, beginning to turn his head.

Go!

Springing from the darkness, Edmund leapt on the father’s back.

The father fell forward, tumbling face down on the ground. He cried out and then twisted, throwing his elbows and kicking wildly.

“Get off me!” he shouted.

Edmund plunged the enlarged ring over the goblin’s head and jerked back.

The father choked, clawing at the shining brass around his throat.

Straddling the goblin’s shoulders like he was riding a bucking horse, Edmund recited the counter spell. “
Abnormitet nå
!”

Suddenly, the ring returned to its original size.

The father’s head rolled on the ground by his son’s feet, completely severed from its body. The horrified boy gaped at it as his father’s eyes continued to move, his mouth forming words but creating no sound.

Hurry!

Breathing hard, Edmund leapt up and snatched the scimitar leaning against a rock outcropping. With both hands, he thrust it at the boy.

Now what?

His heart pounding, he stared down at the goblin child.

“Pl-pl-please,” the boy whimpered. “Pl-please!”

Kill him.

He’s just a child!

He’s a filthy goblin. They all deserve to die. Think about what they did to your eye! Think about they did to Thorax! Think about all the atrocities they’ve committed over the ages.

Edmund and the boy glanced at the decapitated body lying in a growing pool of thick dark blood, then at each other.

“Please,” the boy repeated.

Kill him. Do it quickly and get it over with. Don’t think!

The curved blade of the scimitar approached the boy’s neck, just below his sniveling chin. Edmund’s knuckles whitened.

“Get out of here,” Edmund heard himself saying. “Go on. Go!”

The boy blinked, tears tumbling down his white cheeks.

“Go!”

The boy took two quick steps, turned, and beheld the remains of his father again. The head was now still—its mouth open, its eyes staring unfocused at where his son had been standing.

“Go!” Edmund shouted, his voice echoing down the passage.

The boy fled into the darkness, crying.

As Edmund searched the decapitated body, the boy screamed at him. “I’m going to k, k, kill you!” The sound of running resumed.

You should’ve killed him. Letting him live will come back to haunt you.

I’m not going to murder a child.

But you will murder his parents?

Edmund stripped the blood-soaked clothes off the corpse, searching for anything of use, anything that could keep him warm.

Take everything and get out of here.

The boots won’t fit.

Take them anyway. You never know when you can kill somebody with a giant boot.

What should I do with the body? Hide him?

No! They’ll find him anyway. Just take his stuff and get out of here.

Edmund ran deeper into the mines—lantern in one hand, sword, boots, and bloody clothes in the other.

Watch the blood. They’ll follow the trail.

Let them. They’ll never suspect where I’m hiding. They couldn’t follow me if they tried.

Turning a sharp corner, Edmund shot into an intersecting tunnel and kept running.

Passing several other openings, he entered a chamber with a crumbling aqueduct and a paddlewheel lying partly on its side. He plunged the bloody clothes in the water gathered in the aqueduct and thrashed them around. The water turned pink.

Far off, a horn blew, its echoing blasts rolling through the mines like an avalanche.

Hurry!

Taking the clothes out of the aqueduct, Edmund spun them over his head. Bloody water sprayed in all directions. Dashing around the chamber, he flicked the clothes down each of the nearby passages.

Come on! You don’t have much time.

I have to confuse my trail.

Then hurry!

Edmund slid the scimitar into its sheath and buckled the weapon belt around his near-naked waist, his entire shirt and most of his pants having been used for kindling over the preceding weeks. Knotting the laces together, he draped the boots over the sword’s hilt. Tying his newly acquired clothes around his battered knees, he gripped the lantern’s handle in his teeth and began scrambling up the side of the rusty paddlewheel.

A steady stream of cold water poured down onto the paddlewheel from a vertical mine shaft in the ceiling. Standing on top of the uppermost rim of the wheel, Edmund shivered, gauging the distance to the narrow opening above him.

You can do this. You’ve done it a hundred times before. Concentrate.

Edmund crouched and then sprung upward, his hands finding the familiar holds in the wet stone. He pulled himself up into the shaft. His legs and back pushing against opposite walls, he shimmied higher above the chamber below. Icy water cascaded over him, numbing his skin. The lantern sizzled.

Another horn blared, this time closer.

Reaching over his head, Edmund set the brightly burning lantern into a fissure. Unbuckling his weapon belt, he slid the scimitar and boots next to it. He then flung himself into the opening, pulling the rest of his body inside.

Shoving the lantern, boots, and sword in front of him, Edmund slithered down the tight passage, thankful for the goblin’s clothes cushioning his knees. When the crawlspace widened, he turned and wedged a large rock behind him, blocking the way he came. Sitting up, he pulled himself through a break in the low ceiling and into a small cavity. Reaching down through the hole, he retrieved the sword and lantern.

Muffled voices echoed from the way he came.

Let them shout. They’ll never find me here. Even if they did, they could never get in.

Using an old board that he had found weeks earlier, Edmund covered the hole in the floor and rolled a sizable boulder on top of it. He listened over the stones plugging his other two escape routes. All was quiet.

Setting the goblin’s clothes and boots in a pile by a dented helmet full of clear water, three unused torches, thirteen burnt out torch stubs, a pile of rotting wood, and a broken handle from a mining pick, Edmund put his head in his hands and began crying.

I just killed
somebody
.

You killed a goblin. You’re a hero, just like that storyteller at the Rogue.

I don’t feel like a hero. I feel like an animal . . .

In the cavern below, a goblin hollered.

Edmund drew the scimitar from its scabbard.

At least now I can defend myself.

You’ve never swung a sword in your life. You don’t have a clue how to use it effectively.

I know how to use it on myself if they ever corner me.

Another horn blew. It shook the stone beneath Edmund’s tired feet. There was more shouting.

I have to get out of here.

How? Going up the tower is too dangerous. There are thousands of goblins. Even with a sword, you can’t fight them all.

There has to be another way out. All of these tunnels have to go somewhere. They have to exit the mountains, don’t they?

Maybe . . .

Sobbing, Edmund pushed the wet hair out of his eye, his fingers grazing across the Star of Iliandor on his brow. He unclasped its chain and examined it. The damp stone shimmered blue in the lantern light. The silver chains were worn with age, but the intricate runes carved on them were still easy to see. He traced them with his fingertips.

So much for my first adventure.

There was more shouting in the cavern below. Somebody was calling for Kravel.

Edmund yawned as he fastened the Star of Iliandor back around his brow.

Get some sleep.

Sleep? I can’t remember the last time I slept.

Then practice your spells again until you lose consciousness.

No. I’m tired of practicing. I’ve already mastered the four spells I know. I can’t get any better at them.

Then try to solve the riddle. What is in the buildings of wise men?

I just don’t care anymore. I just don’t care . . .