Rob Scott - Lessek_s Key

Finally he heard Garec burst through the doorway, and a moment later he too was outside and the acid river was flowing past them, down the remaining stairs to the tower’s basement. Gasping, he collapsed on the stone walkway. ‘That was too close, my friends. I was just on my way to work when I ran into you. Never saw you – that was a rutting good spell you cast, Steven. I never saw you… and I wish with all my heart I had never stumbled into you…’

Beside him, sprawled out on the stone bridge, Mark began to laugh. ‘That certainly wasn’t your day, was it?’

The others joined in. Garec said in an effeminate voice, ‘So dearheart, how was work today?’ Even Gilmour roared at this, his thin frame doubled over. They had lost. He had given up; the stress was too much for him to bear. He laughed inanely until he couldn’t catch his breath, then lay down beside Mark, the cold of the nearly frozen stone chilling the acid burn on the back of his neck.

‘Wait,’ Steven said, ‘wait!’

‘Catch your breath first, Steven,’ Mark said. ‘We’re still trying to get over the last one.’

‘No, wait. It’s no joke. Look up there.’ He pointed towards the top of the north tower where grey-black clouds were dissolving much of the tower’s uppermost level in their unholy acid bath. Even the outer layers of stone had grown discoloured and it was only a matter of time before the peak collapsed.

What alarmed Steven was not that the Larion spell chamber and scroll library had been destroyed, but that one of the clouds had broken away from its partner and was dropping down on them. He rolled to his feet and screamed, ‘Move!’

He raced to the doorway and tugged on the latch. Nothing happened – he couldn’t budge it. It must be locked from the inside. The cloud fell towards them, an acrid bath of death descending from heaven like an Old Testament nightmare. He grasped the latch and tugged, hoping to break the ancient clasp with muscles and the sheer strength of his will, but it was as solid as a mountain.

He peered over the side of the causeway and wondered if they would survive the jump, if perhaps there would be water, a deep river or maybe a lake far below. But his hopes were dashed: all he could see were rocks, trees and forbidding cold ground. It was too far to jump; it would kill them. He reached for the staff; he had five seconds to think of something to save them – but nothing came to mind. He was too terrified. He held the staff over his head, praying it might act of its own volition, generating some miracle to keep them safe.

Then Gilmour was beside him, throwing his hands up to the door and chanting. It opened. Garec and Rodler dived past him and down the few stairs to the corridor below, then Mark grabbed his roommate by the collar and heaved him through the archway to tumble down the unforgiving steps. Steven was glad there were only five or six of them as the two friends landed painfully on the hallway floor. Gilmour dived for the protection of the corridor and shouted; his spell caused the door to slam shut and the hollow thud resonated out into the palace.

In the instant before the door closed, Steven saw the acid cloud strike the causeway with a vengeance, raining noxious fluid and for ever cutting off access to the north tower. The stone bridge dissolved like a paraffin taper.

Rodler looked around at the collected members of their company. ‘I need to find a fountain. My hand is burning,’ he said, matter-offactly.

‘I do as well.’ Gilmour regained his feet with a groan. ‘I took a thick drop on the back of my neck. I think I’ll feel it boring in there for the next Twinmoon. Come on, Rodler, there’s one down the hall. The aqueduct is a long way from those clouds, so the water should still be clean.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ Mark said. ‘I need something to drink.’

‘I’m afraid it’s just water, Mark.’

‘Yes, but with Nerak out and about somewhere and those clouds slowly eating this place as a snack, I figure we’ve plenty of time to raid your wine cellar.’ He started down the hall. ‘Don’t forget your scrolls.’

Gilmour gathered up the parchment rolls and turned to follow Rodler and Mark down the corridor to a small fountain, a delicate trickle splashing into a carved stone basin.

Rodler reached the fountain first, but he gestured for Mark to go ahead of him and drink his fill.

‘Don’t be silly. You just saved my life, and for your efforts you were burned – you’ve got the honours. ’ Mark gave a bow, and ushered the young man forward to wash his injured hand.

‘All right,’ Rodler said as the water washed over his wound, ‘thanks Mark. I appreciate it.’

‘My pleasure-’

The almor struck with such ferocity that Mark was knocked off his feet and into the opposite wall. The demon took Rodler Varn of Capehill and he was dead in an instant, as dead as Bridget Kenyon there in the deep end of the Air Force Academy pool -

Mark heard Gilmour shout from somewhere behind him, and felt the Larion sorcerer’s magic blast by him like a mortar round to slam into the creature and rip the fountain out of the wall. Flailing in the almor’s grip, one of Rodler’s hands came forward; Mark seized it and began to pull – but instead of tugging the smuggler free, Mark felt his own life siphoning away. Rodler’s fingers collapsed and shrank to bony twigs, as unnervingly brittle as Harren’s when clasped about his neck.

Repulsed, Mark finally gave up, released Rodler and watched as the milky creature retreated back into the palace wall. It all happened in an instant; there had been nothing anyone could do. Falling to his knees in a puddle beside the ruined fountain, Mark Jenkins began to cry.

Steven stared in shocked disbelief for several moments before he rose to his feet, peeled off his jacket and ran down the hall towards his friend. By the time he reached Mark, he was in a rage, his eyes dancing with anger and the hickory staff glowing red.

‘No!’ he roared, raising the staff. ‘No! No! No! You did not just do that! You did not just kill him!’ Steven struck the wall above the broken fountain and the foundations of Sandcliff Palace seemed to quiver.

An explosion knocked the others off their feet and tumbled Mark from his knees into a foetal position, looking so vulnerable that Steven reared back and struck the wall once again. When the smoke and dust finally cleared, a hole big enough to accommodate the small party comfortably had been opened in the blocks between the corridor and an apparently abandoned chamber beyond. Running down through the masonry was a makeshift tube – broken now beyond repair – that Steven guessed was connected somehow to the palace’s central aqueduct. The fountains weren’t magic; it was a simple system of pressure and abundant supply that kept the water flowing at Sandcliff. Jabbing the hickory staff into the cracked ends of the ceramic pipe, he released a devastating blast of destructive energy that tore through the palace.

Hoping he had done enough to frighten the almor away, or at least stun it, Steven kneeled down beside Mark. ‘Are you all right?’

Mark choked. ‘I hate it here, Steven; I really do. Clouds of living acid, water demons – how are we supposed to fight?’

Steven had no answer. He stared at the shattered fountain lying on the stone floor beside the leathery sack that had been Rodler Varn of Capehill.

‘That was supposed to be me,’ Mark went on through his tears. ‘He wanted me to drink first. That was supposed to be me. I insisted he go first. Can you fucking stand that?’

Steven was already on his feet. Stepping over the body, he reached out with two fingers and wiped them gently around the spout that had carried water through the tiny sculpture and into the marble bowl. Rubbing his fingers together, he said, ‘Sonofabitch. Look at that.’