Montoya Valley, chapter 6

Flynn's face was stuck in a grimace of horrible pain. He didn't know why, but the wooden spike, from the lute's neck, had hurt him. It was enough that he couldn't wrap his hand around the weapon to pull it free. In a silent whimper, he managed to get the tuning pegs trapped in the wrought iron fence of the graveyard. The ghoul braced himself, mentally more than physically, then jerked backwards. The wooden neck pulled free with a slight tear, and Flynn pressed his free hand against the side of his chest. It didn't hurt now, of course. But on the other hand, he didn't know how long it would take to heal, or how much real damage had been done.
The ghoul stumbled into the graveyard, and perched on one of the headstones. One of the ghosts appeared, and floated near, to get a better look at Flynn. But he made a silent snarl, and waved his talons menacingly, and the ghost prudently decided to haunt someone else. The hole in his chest was smaller, but it would take all night, and perhaps longer, before he would be back to full health.
The moon rose, midnight came and went, and still Flynn perched on the stone. Caine was still alive, that much he could tell. Had the exile been successful in hurting the folk of the town? The ghoul was jealous, and angry, that he had been driven off with only a single kill. But the pain had been beyond his control.
He saw movement, and held perfectly still, like a gargoyle of sorts. Caine pushed past the rusting iron fence, and leaned against a headstone across from Flynn. His armor was scratched and dented, his face and arms showed the scratches and minor nicks from the fighting. In response to the ghoul's silent question, Caine nodded. "Yes, they won. They destroyed my Night Gaunts, and I left before they tried to capture me."
Fury boiled up in Flynn's face, and only the power of the brand kept him from leaping forward to try and kill Caine himself. Though he could not speak, his thoughts were loud enough for the exile to guess what they were. Caine threw back his head and laughed, a deep, quiet laugh, as Flynn looked on in confusion.
Caine smiled thinly, and hooked one hand into his belt. "You think I was driven away. I left on my own accord. You see, the townsfolk now think that their strengths and powers are enough to defeat me in a straight battle. I never intended to win." Comprehension started to dawn. "They will be confidant now, thinking that my powers are limited to summoning you and a few Night Gaunts. Easy enough for them to defeat." Caine pulled his hand free of his belt, and held his arm straight out.
"But my powers are much stronger than that. And when I defeat them, it will be a total, complete defeat. They will know no hope and no mercy, as their strength and magic fail them." He slowly lifted his hand, moving his fingers as though he was playing with a puppet. The ground shook and shivered, and Flynn realized that every corpse in the graveyard, from the freshly dead guards, to century old skeletons, was Caine's to command. If he could raise an entire graveyard, what else might the exile be possible of?
Flynn's smile turned to pleasure, as he thought of all the death, blood, and pain that the undead army would generate.

Lenk clung carefully to the old, worn stone. It had been rather difficult to convince the guards to let him out to the privy. He guessed how bad it would be, but escape still seemed better than staying as a captive under Gerard's watch. He had jumped into the privy, and had spent the past two hours finding his way out. The walls were mostly rocky, a hard patch of granite rock, perfect placement for the castle.
Ahead, somewhere, there was a faint glitter in the darkness. The way out? The goblin scrambled carefully, handholds slipping away when he moved too fast. Indeed, he could see a small hole to the surface, but the glitter was closer than that. He was only eight feet away, and the spot beneath his foot broke away. He clawed at the rock, barely halting before he fell back into the sewage and muck. He breathed carefully, though his nose had long sense stopped telling him what the foul place smelled like.
Closer he inched, purposely not looking at whatever it was, and concentrating on the slimy rock wall. He inched higher, carefully testing the rocks that jutted out. Then his hand closed over something that felt alien, after the rock wall. He looked up, and saw the hilt of a sword. The scabbard had gotten jammed into a crevice, and eventually the effect of all the sewage and waste had closed over it. Yet the hilt of the sword was free of the wall, glimmering and sparkling in the faint light from the moon.
Lenk wondered why the sword would be untouched by the corrosion of all the sewage. But it didn't stop him from climbing a little higher, and tugging on the blade. It stuck for a moment, then slid free of the rotting scabbard. The blade was completely clean, the edge still sharp as ever. Something shimmered and danced along the blade, faint etchings that somehow reminded Lenk of flames. With one hand grasping tenuously onto the wall, he managed to put the blade under his belt.
Carrying the unblemished sword, Lenk climbed up the wall towards the surface, and his freedom.

Jack watched from his place near the ceiling, listening to the same servant conversation as Diego. His back felt twisted, his hands were scratched and rope burned. It was a serious effort to keep his breathing silent, as all his muscles cried out for more air. But that would give him away.
I never should have gone respectable, thought Jack. It's made me weak. Back in El Marid, I did this every night, and never felt an ache. But that was almost ten years ago.
Jack stared down, keeping a scan of the hallway. Back in the direction that the scout had come from, was the stairs down into the cellars, where the treasure rooms were. It was a nut he had never dared to crack open, mainly since it would strongly implicate him. But after the events at the tavern, Gerard was insisting that Kiwin and Canaan stay in the castle. Under guard, though they probably wouldn't realize it. And that was all the excuse he needed.
Jack would break into the treasure vault. A small, but sizable portion, of his loot would be hidden in various spots around the castle. Another portion would be planted on Kiwin, in his room. The rest, of course, was Jack's reward. It would take him quite a while to spend it all, since some of it might be recognized around the valley, but leaving at a time like this would make no one suspicious. It might be days before the robbery of the vault was detected, and by that time Jack would be long gone. No one would suspect him; after all, he had been a successful and honest workman around the village, fixing just about anything.
Movement caught his eye, and Jack watched the scout duck back into the main hallway, out from behind the suit of armor. Carefully, he crawled down the wall. The hallway was empty, as most of the servants were in bed by now. Fortunately, he could still move fast and silent, just like he used to. Hallways passed by almost in a blur, stopping at each crossing to check for any people. Then he was at the door to the stairs. His lockpicks were already in his hand, and the lock opened itself in less than two seconds. On the other side, he locked it again, and pulled the shielded lantern from under his cloak.
Flint rasped, and a spark caught the wick. The small flame flared up, barely pushing back the darkness. Jack had designed the lantern himself; the interior was entirely mirrored, and only a small door opened to the outside, admitting the light in a bright, focused beam. He crept down the stairs. The stone was sharp, barely used. Dust had started to collect, but Jack's passing left no marks in the dust.
It opened out into a hallway, lined with several doors. Jack looked at the mental map he had, and started forward, keeping to the left side of the hallway. He stepped over a fine wire, carefully avoided a pressure plate, and reached the door to the main treasure room. His lockpicks were ready, and he used them to disarm the needle trap inside the lock before opening it.
He nudged the door open slowly, catching sight of the loaded crossbow inside. The door's movement stopped, and Jack traced what he could see of the trap. A small string, attached to the door, and something just inside. He pulled out the small, polished metal mirror, and looked on the inside of the wall. A pressure plate, obviously designed to be pressed. Jack smiled; he had found the way to disarm the crossbow. Reaching over, he pressed the plate.

Marco jerked awake. He wasn't in the barracks, he wasn't quite sure where he was. A fire burned low, under a small cauldron. Jars, bowls, and vials littered the nearby table. For a brief moment, he thought it was just a nightmare. Then his head throbbed, and he gasped in pain. Movement came from the next room, and Charmain stepped in.
"Well, you've awakened now, have you. How does it feel to be a practicer of the magical arts, Marco?" He held still for a moment, trying to remember what she was talking about. Then the memories came back to Marco -- Caine breaking down the door to the tavern, Kiwin driving away the ghoul, and the Night Gaunts, and then he, somehow, summoning fire from his fingers to destroy the spectres. He couldn't remember how he had caused the fire, just that it had happened. He shook his head slowly, trying to keep the pain from his headache down.
Charmain smiled, and walked back to the table, puttering around with the different things on the table. A smell hit him, smelling like strawberries, and Marco felt *hungry* like he never had before. "Is there something I can have to eat, Charmain? And what happened to me? Last thing I remember was being outside the tavern ... " The healer smiled warmly at him, and picked up a small mug.
"Here you are, dearie, drink this. I'll get you some bread and soup." Marco took the mug hesitantly, and sipped from it. It tasted like apples and cinnamon, and he took a larger gulp. It seemed to burn on the way down, and filled his stomach with warmth. His headache eased away, and by the time he finished the mug it was gone completely. Charmain came back in, carrying a larger mug and a roll of black bread. She sat quietly while he drank the thick broth, and chewed on the bread. "Well, dearie, here's how things are.
"Apparently, you've got magical powers! I'm sure you realized that on your own." She smiled, and Marco nodded. "Well, Caine summoned up some Night Gaunts. Your new magic helped to take out a few of them, but the strain made you faint. You over-reached yourself, dearie. But anyway, that bard had some kind of magical flute. He drove off the rest of the Gaunts, and your scout Romero brought you here for healing." She patted his hand comfortingly.
Marco thought it all over for a moment, and felt somewhat worried. His father -- and, in fact, almost everyone he knew! -- said the only way to be a real man was to be strong in body. Magic was something to be feared, unless it was healing magic, like Charmain's. Irini was respected, of course, but even more was she feared by the common folk. She used her magic for the good of the people, but of course not all magic users did that. The legends and tales stretched on without end -- Baba Yaga, Ad Avis, among others -- wizards and magical creatures with no morals, no scruples, no mercy or kindness.
Marco realized that most of the townsfolk would come to connect him with those tales, simply because he could now use magic. His family would be scared of him, and he would probably never get to see his younger sister again. He fought back tears, clenching his hands around the wooden soup mug. Charmain patted his cheek, and kissed his forehead. "Now, now, it'll all be alright. Having magic doesn't make you a monster. Now, there's someone here to see you."
The young scout looked up in surprise as Cirra stepped forward into the room. Charmain stood up from the side of the bed and curtsied, and Marco started to get up. Cirra raised a hand to stop him, and walked over to the bed. "So, you're the young scout with magical powers? You might not know me. I am Cirra, cousin to Irini and Gerard." Marco watched her face as she spoke. Her eyes were a dark green, and her blond hair was tied back into a simple ponytail. She seemed too ... normal to be a lady of high station.
"Marco, I realize you are probably frightened, both of the magic powers you have, and what the other townspeople will think of you. I would be quite willing, and happy, to take you as my apprentice, and train you in both the magical and healing arts." She smiled again, and only then did Marco realize that Charmain had vanished.
"Ap-p-prentice?" His voice cracked, and he blushed with shame. Cirra wasn't laughing at him for it, at least. "For how long? And what about my duties with the Scouts?" He was almost holding his breath.
"I can talk with Gerard, but I think he would be happier if you left the Scouts, to become my apprentice. I am both a magic user and a healer, and both are badly needed here in Montoya valley." Marco nodded slightly; somehow, he knew that he could never stay in the Scouts. He sighed, softly. Cirra watched him, waiting for an answer.
"I .. I suppose, if Lord Gerard will let me." She smiled broadly, and gave him a sisterly hug. "Does it always give you a headache, when you use magic?" His question just blurted out, curiosity getting the better of him.
Cirra's eyes sparkled, and she fought down a giggle. "No, only when you try to use spells beyond your ability. Or when you use too much magic in a short time. But don't worry, with proper training, you won't need to worry about it." She waved a small goodbye, and brushed out of the room. Marco scarcely noticed, his eyes awhirl with thoughts. He was going to be a wizard, like any of the famous ones, Erasmus or Erana. As he settled off to sleep, he wondered if maybe he should change his name to something starting with an 'E.'

"Hmm, so this is where I find you Caine?" a voice almost laughed behind him. Taken by surprise he swung around, his fist going right though a young man who stood there. "What? Huh? Oh yeah, it's you."
It took a moment for Caine to regain himself and he asked the smiling man, "Where have you been? I told you I would need your help here and what do you do, but run away?" he snarled.
The young man shrugged, "It has been nearly a thousand years since I was awakened. I had to catch up on things. Magic has changed since then. There are new forms out. No one practices my magic anymore, but that is a good thing." The edges of his smile raised up a bit, his eyes gleaming.
"Damn you! I awoke you! You still have to obey me!"
The young man bows deeply and says, "But of course, Master." The last word has a touch of mockery in it that infuriates Caine.
*Calm. Must act calmly.* Caine thinks. To the other man, "I need you to do something about Erana's Peace. They'll converge there to protect themselves and you know as well as I that I cannot do anything while in there."
The man nods, "Ah yes, Erana. Quite a powerful mage. Don't worry, I will take care of it." With that the man dissolves into nothingness.
A moment later he appears right next to the Erana's Peace nearby. In the center Diego slept again for another night, though the man didn't see him.
The young man chuckled and talked seemingly to nothingness, "Well, I see you've done quite well for yourself. A pity I have to tear it apart." He reached inward into himself drawing upon his ancient magic and attacked the wards and magic that protected Erana's Peace. A small sweat trickled down his forehead. *This can't be. Someone's helping her. Even being this out of shape I shouldn't have to strain myself like this. Oh well, I guess I'll have to release my hold on this area as well.*
Suddenly the world around him changed. A nearby river dwindled and dried up, the land rising up leaving only a bridge over grassy ground as a reminder it was ever there. A lake nearby formed where none was before. The forest behind him shrank back and grew sparser, though it still was far from gone. With that tied up energy as a boost he destroyed the bonds holding Erana's Peace.
Suddenly Diego awoke from his dream, a cold wind blowing around him. *This can't be.* he thought, *Something's wrong.* Nearby he heard someone talking.
"I'm sorry I had to do that to your place, but it was necessary. You see, Caine needs to feel like he can win, and for a time he must. Then some hero will come along and kill him, finally releasing me from my prison completely so I can roam this world once again. I really didn't want to do this, but it was just in the way. Hey tell you what, when he's dead I'll set the wards back up and even bring you back to life again if you want. Not as an undead, but as a living creature. How's that sound?" He sighs, "Anyway, breaking the wards on this place has left me drained since I'm still partly bound. I have to go back and rest." The man got up and walked away, as he did so, he slowly dissolved into nothingness.
Diego stood there for a moment still in awe of what he heard. Then he raced away as fast as he feet could carry him. He had to tell someone this news, this changed everything.

Lenk crept silently along the corridor. The hole he had climbed out of led into some forgotten corner of the cellars underneath the castle. He wasn't quite free yet, but at least he wasn't under guard now. He had managed to clean off most of the filth from the privy, and the sword was still as unblemished as ever. He had a strange feeling about the sword, as though it didn't want him here creeping around in the dark passageways like a criminal.
He peeked around the corner, his pointed ears straining to pick up sounds. Somewhere, nearby, he heard soft footsteps, and the slow lifting of a latch. He moved down the corridor silently, his years of training as a goblin lookout and the scout spy at use. He leaned against the wall and listened, hearing a human walk down the hall, skirting from side to side, walking with exaggerated care. Must be traps, Lenk thought.
The human stopped at a door, and kneeled. The goblin heard the faint scuff as his trousers brushed against the stone, and the soft clicking of lockpicks. Another latch clicked softly, and the door swung inward just a little bit. Lenk leaned forward, the edge of his face looking down the hallway. The human thief was leaning just barely inside the door, then reached inward, stretching his arm. Lenk heard a louder click, and the thief cursed, throwing himself backwards. The crossbow bolt swerved, even as the thief threw himself to the side of the door, and the bolt stabbed deep into his leg.
Lenk's hands gripped the stone tightly. Even if the human was a thief, he couldn't just leave him here like this. But if he somehow managed to turn in the thief, the guards would catch him again, and he was not going back into captivity again. The man was gritting his teeth, holding his leg tightly above the wound. Lenk must have sighed softly, or made some kind of noise, because the thief whirled his head around, still grimacing at the pain.
"Oh, by Loki's eyes! What are you going to do, goblin? Kill me or help me?" Jack sat on the floor, waiting. The bolt had ripped most of the way through his leg, barely missing the bone, but tearing at least one muscle in half. He would be a long time healing from this. Jack had to give credit to whoever designed the treasure room trap, he had never expected something like that.
Lenk slowly stepped out from behind the corner of the wall, and started off towards the thief. The sword, still stuck through the back of his belt, slipped free, and fell to the floor with a clang. They both winced at the noise, and Lenk quickly snatched it up, and started towards Jack again. The thief watched warily, his eyes flicking back and forth from the sword to the goblin's face.
Lenk was watching Jack as well, noting the well-kept clothes, the general air of competence, and trying to place the familiar face. He stopped walking, on the other side of the still open doorway. "Just what am I supposed to do with you, human?" His voice surprised him; Lenk hadn't meant to sound so tired, dispirited, and downtrodden. Then he placed the face, and felt even more let down. "What's wrong, Jack, didn't the Duke pay you well enough for your part in destroying my family and tribe?"
Jack almost jumped in surprise. How the heck did this goblin know who he was? Then he noticed the brand, mostly hidden over by the ill-fitting shirt Lenk wore. Seeing that, Jack couldn't stop the look of surprise and despair that came over his own face. "Lenk. Long time since I saw you. I suppose you still blame me for your capture the first time?"
The two faced each other down. Jack had managed, more through luck and accident than skill, to capture the goblin lookout almost nine years ago. The Duke, Gerard's father, had broken Lenk's spirit, and used his knowledge of the goblin caves, and their movements and habits, to nearly wipe out the entire tribe. Another had soon moved in to take its place, but was far more wary of the Duke and his soldiers.
Lenk looked at Jack wearily. Some small part of him did hate the man, but mostly, he didn't care. "It's the past, Jack. It's not worth my time. You're not worth my time." Without another word, Lenk turned around. There were many passages in this area, and he knew at least one had to lead outside. Jack called his name, twice, but the goblin never hesitated or slowed.

Jack watched the goblin's back as he vanished around the corner, the glimmering sword still held tightly in Lenk's hand. He couldn't believe his luck. Jack breathed deeply, then considered the bolt, still stuck in his leg. With one hand still squeezing his leg, he snapped off the main part of the shaft, and pulled it free. Cursing in his mind, he dropped the piece to the floor, withdrew his reserve healing potion, and poured a few drops over the wound. The bleeding slowed for a moment, and he gulped the rest down. It was cold, it hurt, and he spent another moment doubled over in agony, still holding his leg tightly to keep back the blood. The cold spread to his leg, and the blood slowed more, then stopped. The wound was still raw, he doubted he could walk on his leg, but at least he wasn't going to die down here alone.
Bracing himself against the wall, he managed to stand on his good leg. He tested his leg easily, and it could hold his weight standing up, but there was no way he could climb stairs with it, let alone a wall. Simply walking would be a problem. He sighed under his breath, then pushed the door open. He doubted he could finish the way he planned, but he had to try something.
The treasure room wasn't a large pile of coins and gems, like tales always paint them. Lock boxes and chests were stacked atop each other in one area, while valuable tapestries, documents, and books lay rolled up and stacked inside glass cases. A large statue, some exotic marble of green and black, stood a silent watch in another corner. Jack noted quickly the trip wire, and two pressure plate traps on the floor, and hobbled towards the chests. With great effort, he took the top lock box off, and lowered it in stages to the floor. Then, sitting with his legs outstretched, he pulled out his lock picks. He disarmed the needle trap in that lock, and sprang the lock open.
Inside, when he slowly pulled back the layers of cloth, were several large gems, carefully nestled in the pockets of the cloth sash. One was a bright blue stone, a topaz he thought, with a white starburst in the center of the stone. He remembered stories of the late Duchess complaining about how the gem was wasted in the treasury, when it ought to be the center of her ceremonial crown. He slipped the stone into his hand, and lifted it to look through the stone. Beautiful, he thought. Worth five thousand gold crowns, I'd bet my life on it!