Rob Scott - Lessek_s Key

‘Get up, Gilmour,’ Steven hissed, ‘on your feet, now!’

Harren’s empty eye sockets glowed amber for a moment, then faded to black. ‘Hello Fantus, so good to see you again,’ Nerak said through his skeletal mouthpiece. ‘I am so very glad you came all this way for nothing. Was it a hard journey?’ Harren’s jawbone hung open as the dark prince laughed. ‘It’s been gone for a long, long time, Fantus, and you’ll never find it. Eldarn itself wards the spell table for me, Eldarn and Eldarn’s most ruthless gatekeepers. Forget the spell table, Fantus. It’s mine. It has always been mine.’

Gilmour’s gaze fell to the floor; he couldn’t summon the courage to look at Harren’s ruined body, now Nerak’s prisoner.

Nerak was enjoying the moment immensely. He turned on Mark Jenkins. ‘And you, my prince, you have everything figured out yet? If you believe you do, you’re wrong. Keep at it, though, because our day is coming.’

Grimacing, Mark stepped towards the skeleton, his battle-axe drawn and raised to strike. ‘Stop calling me that.’

‘My prince? Oh, that? Enjoy it while you can. I have a special place for you in the Fold. It’s dark in there, Mark. I hope you’re not afraid of the dark.’

With a cry, Mark attacked the skeleton, hacking away one arm. Nerak grabbed him by the throat with Harren’s remaining hand; its grip was impossibly strong, and Mark tugged hard at one bony finger until it snapped.

His friends were still frozen in shock, but finally Rodler moved, swinging his fist like a cudgel to break through the bones of Harren’ forearm. As they snapped, Nerak’s vice-like grip was released and the remaining fingers fell away. They disintegrated to dust when Mark, in disgust, cast them against the chamber wall.

Armless, Harren turned back to Steven. ‘Give me the key, and you can go home, you and Hannah. I regret that I can’t let Mark Jenkins go with you, for he and I have other plans, don’t we, Mark?’

Mark rubbed feeling back into his throat and growled, ‘Any day, sister. I’m right here.’ He threw the axe and it crashed through Harren’s ribcage and clattered on the floor behind him. Nerak was unfazed.

‘The key, Steven. It is up to you.’ With that, what was left of Harren’s skeleton collapsed in a dusty pile.

‘Cover your wrists!’ Mark yelled. ‘Jesus Christ, cover your wrists!’ He folded his hands under his armpits, not really believing that would keep the dark prince from taking him.

‘Don’t worry,’ Steven said, ‘he can’t attack us.’

‘How do you know?’ Garec asked, staring at the backs of his wrists, waiting for the skin to discolour.

‘Because he’s not really here,’ Steven said. ‘Did you see the eyes glow yellow? He’s not here. He may not even be in Gorsk, never mind the palace. That was a phone call.’

‘A what?’ Rodler asked, his hands shaking and sweat streaming from his face.

‘We’re safe.’ Steven wrapped an arm around Gilmour’s shoulders, trying to comfort the weary old man.

‘Safe? I can’t say I feel safe.’ He looked at Mark, who nodded silent thanks. Rodler punched him softly in the upper arm, and both men smiled, grateful to be alive.

The first drops to strike the floor went unnoticed, then Garec said, ‘What is that? Rain?’

Mark shook his head. ‘Nah. It’s too cold for rain.’

‘Maybe it’s snow, melting on the roof. Those torches are throwing off a little heat now.’

Rodler reached out and caught a droplet with a celebratory cry. ‘Hah, got one!’

Mark wheeled on him. ‘Wipe it off! Wipe it off now!’

‘What? What is it?’

‘It’s acid,’ he said, ‘it’s eating through the roof. We have to get out of here, now.’

Rodler yelped as the acid bubbled its way through the skin on his palm. Rubbing his hand against his cloak, he looked to the others for some explanation, his eyes wide with terror.

‘The Windscroll,’ Steven said, ‘Gilmour, where is the third Windscroll? We have to get it, fast.’

‘I- I don’t… I’m not sure I know which-’

‘Gilmour!’ Steven swatted the old man again with the hickory staff and another bolt of fire lanced through his body.

‘Gods rut!’ Gilmour bellowed, ‘I wish you wouldn’t do that!’

‘Then pay attention. We need the third Windscroll, now, before this rain kills us all. Go!’

Finally fully conscious again, Gilmour hustled across the spell chamber and disappeared down a short flight of stairs into an adjacent room: Lessek’s scroll library. He watched as more droplets smoked their way through the ancient wood and slate of the tower ceiling.

‘It’s those clouds,’ Mark said redundantly.

‘The clouds from Orindale,’ Garec agreed. ‘Gita and her men described them: acid in a living cloud. What kind of twisted animal comes up with something like that?’

A low hissing sound filled the chamber as wood and stone disintegrated above them: the entire structure was gradually being eaten away. Soon they would not need to dodge periodic drips; before long the deadly fluid would rain down on them in torrents.

A shingle gave way and a thin stream of deadly acid began running into the spell chamber, a harbinger of what was coming. ‘Hurry up, Gilmour,’ Steven shouted, ‘things are getting bad out here.’

‘I think I have it – ah!’

‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes, I’m fine. A drop fell on the back of my neck – it burns, but I’m all right for now.’ Gilmour appeared in the doorway, his feet skidding on the stone as he tried to avoid charging headlong through the acid stream pouring through the ceiling. He had several scrolls tucked under one arm. ‘Let’s go.’

As they started down the spiral staircase, the ceiling of the Larion spell chamber gave way with a crash and what was left of poor Harren’s bones dissolved in the flooded room. The trickle of almost living liquid grew moment-by-moment into a steady stream, running down the stairs behind the fleeing party.

Rodler, disconcerted at the size of the burning wound caused by just one droplet of the noxious fluid, shouted, ‘We have to hurry, boys. It’s coming down behind us!’

Steven looked back as well. ‘Holy shit, look at that! Everybody, keep to your feet – we can’t fall. If we fall, we’re dead. Don’t think about anything but quick feet and keeping your balance. Run, now, move it!’ As they pounded down the worn staircase, the river of acid gained ground on them with every step.

‘Keep your feet! Keep your feet! Move it! Move it! Move it!’ Steven chanted in rhythm to encourage them.

Rodler hesitated long enough to check back again, and cursed himself for doing so: the acid was right on his heels, just five steps back, then four. It was coming too fast, and he was last in line. How in the name of the gods of the Northern Forest did he end up last in line?

‘You have to run, boys. Jump down the gods-rutting stairs if you have to – we’re losing this race,’ he screamed.

They picked up the pace, trying to avoid slipping, loudly cursing the Larion Senators for building such a tall tower with such smoothly polished stone steps. One tumble, one mistake, and they would all be bathed in deadly acid.

Three steps back, then two. Rodler, realising the poisonous stream was hugging the insides of the steps, was running on the outside of the spiral staircase. That makes it faster, he thought. He could hear the hissing, like ten thousand angry snakes, coming up behind him, eating away at the very foundations of the tower. When he looked down again, the acid was keeping pace with him, running on the inside of the same steps he traversed on the outside. It was too late; he would be the first to step in it. He wondered how much protection his boots would actually provide and was horribly afraid of the answer: not much.