Riddle in Stone (The Riddle in Stone Series - Book One) (35 page)

Edmund and Thorax crouched behind a moss-covered boulder halfway up one of the forested foothills in the northern Haegthorn Mountains. He drew forth his scimitar. Norb and Pond had brought many weapons from Rood—bows, swords, knives. But, in the end, Edmund decided to keep his goblin blade.

It’s served me well enough thus far. No need to go changing now.

From behind the boulder, he studied the shallow dell a hundred yards beyond the trees. In it was the black iron door through which Edmund would have escaped from the goblin mines had it not been for the bitter cold. All seemed still and quiet. Even the birds seemed watchful. The shadows deepened as the evening sky slowly turned a darker shade of indigo. Stars started to twinkle.

He hooted like a horned owl.

Norb ran up, throwing himself beside Edmund, clutching the hefty battle ax that he stole from one of the knights occupying Rood. It was an impractical weapon for the close confines of the mines. But Norb wouldn’t listen to reason. He kept muttering how he was going to split every goblin he met in two.

Edmund hooted again.

Pond ran up the slope next, waving a gem-encrusted rapier that was more ceremonial than functional. The entire fortnight since leaving the River Celerin, Pond kept prattling on about how pretty and light it was.

As long as he doesn’t get himself killed, he can fight with a pillow for all I care. It’s all up to me, anyway.

Up to me . . .

“What do you think, girl?” Edmund asked Thorax. “Is anybody around?”

Sniffing the air, Thorax growled silently.

Let’s hope there are only a few guards.

And that they don’t suspect anything. If they’re waiting for you, all is lost.

Edmund inspected his companions through the growing darkness. Holding his ax like he was throttling somebody, Norb appeared to need a stiff drink. Humming next to him, Pond polished the sapphires on the hilt of his sword with his sleeve.

They’re going to get killed. Both of them.

Then you won’t die alone.

“Leave the packs here,” Edmund whispered.

Nodding, they unslung their shoulder straps.

Edmund signaled for everybody to huddle together.

“Remember,” he whispered. “Stick to the plan. I’ll knock the first one down and push into the room. The two of you have to finish him off quickly and come in for the rest.”

“All right,” Pond said.

Norb snarled as if summoning the courage to go through with something he’d rather not think about.

“If they have shields,” Edmund went on, “swing low. Clip their legs out from under them. Then finish them off. Above all, make sure nobody is able to escape or blow a horn. Do you need me to draw you the diagram of the guard’s chamber again?”

They shook their heads.

“If you’re scared,” Edmund said, “if you don’t want to do this—”

“Let’s kill them,” Norb muttered.

“Yes,” Pond said. “They took ten years of my life. Let’s kill them all.”

Surprised by the anger in his voice, Edmund turned to his pit mate.

“You saved my life,” Pond said. “I’m with you on this, no matter what.”

I’ll never forgive myself if he dies . . .

“Thanks, Pond. That means a great deal to me. You too, Norb. Thanks to both of you. At the very least, we’ll kill a few goblins.”

Edmund scanned the hill above them.

It’s dark enough. Come on, let’s go!

Closing his eye, Edmund pictured what he could remember of the guardroom on the other side of the black iron door. He imagined three, maybe four, guards sitting around the wooden table, unprepared for the assault that he was about to unleash. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his scimitar as he envisioned how he would burst in, cut off any chance of retreat, and begin killing every goblin he found.

He exhaled.

“Let’s go save Molly.”

Scrambling up the slope, they left the fragrant fir and cedar trees and darted into the shallow dell. Closed, the iron door stood black and imposing in the starlight.

Edmund pointed to where he wanted everybody to be. Taking a deep breath, he pushed gently on the door’s handle.

It was locked, but Edmund had anticipated that.

You better hope this works.

If it doesn’t, I’ll find another way in.

Touching the narrow visor through which the guards could view the outside, Edmund cast his enlargement spell. The visor swelled, its metal crinkling as it became jammed inside its track. At the same time, Edmund pounded on the door with the pummel of his scimitar as he guessed an angry goblin would, returning from a long hunt.

There was movement on the other side.

“Password,” a goblin voice said from inside. Somebody tried to open the visor and cursed.

Edmund kept hammering as if he hadn’t heard.

“All right! All right!” The goblin cursed again, fumbling with the door.

Readying himself, Edmund looked at Thorax and then Norb and Pond. Holding their breath, they tensed, weapons held high. Edmund continued pounding on the door.

It opened.

“All right! I said. No need to—”

Edmund seized the startled goblin by the throat and yanked him into the dell.

Norb’s battle ax swung down.

There was a crack of a skull splitting in two as Edmund bounded into the guard chamber.

Inside, three guards clad in full chain mail sat at a wooden table stained with dried blood. Shouting, they sprang to their feet and snatched their weapons. Jumping in front of the tunnel leading to the goblin city, Edmund cut off their escape, as Pond and Norb stormed in.

One of the goblins reached for a horn hanging from a peg. But Thorax bit deeply into his knee. Falling to the floor, the goblin howled. Stomping on his chest, Pond stabbed him through his neck with his rapier. Blood spurted up in the air as the goblin flailed and gagged. Pond stabbed him again and again, cutting open the goblin’s throat.

A second guard charged at Edmund with a spear. But Norb leapt behind him and buried the blade of his ax deep in the goblin’s back, his spine and ribs snapping. The guard fell lifeless to the blood-splattered floor, his chain mail cloven asunder.

In a far corner, the third goblin dropped his scimitar and shrieked for mercy. Norb flew at him, yelling, his gore-covered ax raised.

“Wait!” Edmund commanded. “Norb! Hold it. Wait! We need a prisoner. Don’t kill him!”

Norb skidded to a halt, barely able to control himself. Breathing hard, his face contorted in rage, he reluctantly lowered his ax.

The remaining goblin fell to his knees, hands above his head. “Spare me! Spare me!”

“Where’s Molly?” Norb demanded.

The goblin shook. “I . . . I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“I’ll take care of this, Norb,” Edmund said. “He’s just a lesser guard. He wouldn’t know anything about the important prisoners up in the tower.”

He motioned to the darkened passageway leading from the chamber. “Pond, you and Thorax go listen up the tunnel. Make sure nobody else is coming. Be careful. Don’t step in the blood. We can’t leave tracks.”

“Aye! Aye!” Pond said, disappearing into the darkness with Thorax.

Edmund returned his attention to the goblin cowering on the floor in front of him.

You might as well kill him now. Like you said, he won’t know anything.

Yes, but he might be able to help us anyway.

Putting the point of his scimitar under the goblin’s quivering chin, Edmund asked, “When were the last Games?”

The goblin trembled. “What?”

“You heard me.” The tip of Edmund’s scimitar dug into the goblin’s bobbing throat. “When were the last Games?”

“Three . . . three weeks ago or so. Maybe four or five. I, I don’t remember exactly. But we’re having Games for the Ithil Mereth. Lots of Games! And, and a feast! Please, don’t kill me!”

“The Ithil Mereth?” Edmund repeated. “The elven Lunar Festival?”

“Yes! Yes! Exactly. The elven Lunar Festival. We celebrate—”

Norb cursed. “Who cares about damn games?”

Edmund ignored the stable hand.

“When is it? When is the Festival?” he asked the goblin.

“The, the first . . . first new moon after the equinox,” the goblin said, his hands still upraised.

That’s tomorrow night.

We don’t have much time.

“Please,” the goblin begged. “Give me mercy.”

“No.” Stepping back, Edmund nodded to Norb.

The guard screamed.

Norb’s ax swung down.

There was a thwack as the goblin’s head rolled at their feet, blood pouring over the floor, thick and red. Horror filled the stable hand’s eyes as he watched the goblin’s headless body twitch and thrash, trying to get up.

“I . . . I can’t believe it,” he said. “I just killed two—”

“Don’t think about it,” Edmund said to him. “Just think about Molly.”

His face pale, Norb nodded.

I should have had them bring some wine. He’ll need a drink before all this is over.

I could use one myself . . .

“Take your boots and stockings off,” Edmund told Norb. “Run through the blood and go get our packs.”

“What?” Norb asked, averting his gaze from the flailing body. “Why?”

“Just do it. We don’t have much time. And make sure you don’t leave a blood trail back to the dell. Also, untie Blake and the donkey. Spook them westward. We need them to be as far away from here as possible in a couple hours.”

Taking off his boots, Norb ran out of the guardroom, leaving a track of bloody footprints headed outside. Edmund opened all of the crates, stole an armload of provisions, and stripped one of the guards of his clothing and weapons.

“Pond,” Edmund said in a hoarse whisper, “is anybody coming?”

Pond’s jovial voice floated up the tunnel. “All clear here!”

Well, this actually went better than expected. Who would have thought Norb could actually swing an ax like that? He may be helpful after all.

Maybe . . .

“Okay,” Norb said, returning to the guard’s chamber carrying their three bulging backpacks. “What now?”

“Walk around the blood,” Edmund told him. “Go up the tunnel to where Pond and Thorax are and put your boots back on. And hurry. They’ll be ch-ch-changing guards in a couple hours.”

Norb eyed the darkened passageway doubtfully. “Where does it lead?”

“It leads back to the goblin stronghold,” Edmund replied. “But first we have to find a defensible campsite. Tomorrow, we’ll enter the tower.”

Still clutching the ax like he was about to bury it in somebody’s head, Norb took an uneasy breath. “Okay. Let’s go!”

He ran into the darkness of the passageway.

Edmund stayed a moment longer, surveying the battlefield.

Let’s hope the goblins will think an escaped slave did this.

If they don’t . . .

If they don’t, we’re all dead.

Leaving the carnage, Edmund walked toward the goblin city as if he had come home.

Edmund, Norb, and Pond stared through the shadows, down into a dimly-lit quarry not far from where they had set up their new camp. A hundred feet below, seven human slaves grunted and toiled as they broke stone with rusty picks. Edmund could smell their sweat.

A whip cracked.

Shrieking, one of the men arched his back, blood trickling down his spine.

The guards jeered.

“Get to work, you sniveling bag of shit. Or you’ll feel the kiss of my whip again!”

Weeping, the wounded slave struggled to raise his pick over his head. He let it fall on the rock in front of him with a lifeless thud.

Edmund was about to signal for everybody to crawl back to their campsite when another slave came into view. He was a gaunt man with a big man’s frame. The bones in his broad shoulders were evident as he labored to carry a small boulder. He dropped his load on the pile around which the other slaves were swinging their picks, teetered for a moment, and flexed his hands. As he turned, Edmund saw his battered face.

Next to him, Pond nearly cried out.

Edmund put his finger to his lips.

They both stared down into the cavern, watching Turd hobble to get another rock, his shoulders bent, his left leg dragging behind him.

I should have saved him. I should have let him join us.

He wanted the goblins to capture you.

He was doing what he needed to do to escape. He was trying to cause a distraction.

He didn’t give a damn about you.

I didn’t give a damn about him, either. He did what I would’ve done had our positions been reversed.

A whip cracked above Turd’s head. His hobbling quickened.

He’s lost a lot of weight.

He looks like death. He won’t last much longer.

That’s probably good. Death would be a relief for him.

I should’ve helped him escape.

He would’ve never fit down the crawlway that led to the subterranean city. He wouldn’t have escaped if he was with you.

I didn’t know that at the time. I could have at least given him food.

He took Pond’s sword. He threatened to kill him. Remember?

I would have done the same thing.

Turd lurched out of view, a look of desperation growing in his exhausted eyes.

Edmund shook his head. It felt like his heart was shriveling.

I always thought that I was a noble man, like the knights in the tales of old.

Perhaps the knights of old weren’t any better.

I should’ve done something. I should’ve helped.

Pond and Norb were looking at him. Edmund motioned for them to return to their campsite. Reluctantly, Norb crawled to where their supplies were hidden. The rhythmic echoes of metal hitting stone and the grunting of men trailed after them as they retreated.

“Shouldn’t we do something?” Norb asked.

Tearing a piece of dried pork in half, Edmund handed some to Thorax. She wolfed it down without chewing.

“There are only two guards,” Norb went on. “We can kill them and free those men. Then we’d have eleven with us. That would improve—”

“No,” Edmund said, eating his portion of the pork. He stared at the cavern wall, trying to get the tortured images of Turd out of his mind, trying to forget what it was like hitting solid stone for twelve hours straight.

“But Ed, we could—”

“No.”

“How can you let them suffer like that? We could free them!”

Edmund massaged his callused hands. Thorax put her head on his lap. She was covered with dirt and stank. They all did. But Edmund didn’t notice. He stroked her head lovingly.

“You knew one of them,” Norb said, an accusation in his tone. “Didn’t you? The tall one who looked like a skeleton.”

Edmund and Pond stared at the ground.

“How could you just let him live like that?” Norb asked. “How could you?”

“Life is full of hard choices,” Pond said quietly. “We could rescue them, yes. And they may or may not help us with getting up into the tower. But what about the hundreds of other slaves? We can’t rescue them all.”

“Maybe,” Norb said. “But we can rescue them!”

“And what about Molly?” Edmund shot back, his voice echoing in the surrounding passages. “If we start freeing slaves, don’t you think that would ruin our chances of saving her? Don’t you think the goblins would become more alert or increase the number of guards?”

The lives of Turd and seven strangers versus Molly’s life . . .

“Look,” Edmund said, rubbing his temples. “Let’s . . . let’s just stick to the plan. When the Games begin, we’ll try to sneak up to the high cells. If we get Molly home safe and sound, then . . . maybe we could come back and see what we could do.”

Would you really come back to save Turd and those men?

I’m tired of feeling like a savage.

But would you really come back?

I don’t know.

“You’re right,” Norb said. “I’m sorry. It’s just . . . it’s just seeing them like that, it’s-it’s—inhumane, you know?”

I know.

“I wish we had brought some wine,” Norb said as if to himself. “Just a bottle or two,” he added under his breath.

So do I . . .

For many moments, they sat listening to metal ringing on stone. A whip cracked. A voice cried out. As the eerie echoes died in the surrounding crawlways, Norb chuckled to himself.

“What?” Edmund asked, puzzled and angered by the stable hand’s amusement.

“I was . . . I was just thinking,” he said. “Remember that time Mol spilled soup all over Old Man Sveltsen’s head?”

I remember. I paid Sveltsen a gold piece not to get her fired.

Norb chuckled again, a tense mixture of mirth, stress, and nervous guilt. “I . . . I was the one who accidentally tripped her,” he said, staring at the wall in front of him. “I never had the guts to tell her it was my fault. I meant to, you know. But I never did. I never apologized. Never . . . ”

“You can tell her tomorrow,” Edmund said.

Norb looked at Edmund through the deepening shadows.

“What?” Edmund asked, not returning the stable hand’s gaze.

“You’ve changed, Ed,” Norb said. “You aren’t the same guy who was chased screaming out of The Rogue by that storyteller.”

“Storyteller?” Pond repeated, pulling the cork from his water skin.

“I wasn’t screaming,” Edmund said.

“Maybe. But you’ve changed,” Norb said. “Nobody back home would deny it.”

I have changed.

Yes, but the question is—have you changed for the better?

“Get some rest,” Edmund said, still staring at the floor. “All of this will be over tomorrow night, one way or another.”