A muffled creak came to Basil’s ears, or perhaps it was more of a squeal. Fearing his runes of silence had gotten smudged, the verbeeg stopped and looked down at his feet, then cursed himself for not bringing a lamp. The keep corridors were as dark as caves at this hour of night. He could hardly see his boots, much less determine whether the sigils on the insteps were intact, and he still had two squeaky staircases to ascend.
The sound returned, and this time the runecaster heard it more clearly: a sort of muffled, gurgling squeal coming from the corridor on his right. Basil sighed in relief. He had heard similar noises in Castle Hartwick often enough. They always came late at night from behind closed doors, when people seemed to believe darkness would smother their sounds. Foolish humans.
Tightly clutching the folio he had taken from Cuthbert’s library, Basil started forward again, running one hand along the wooden ceiling to keep himself from banging his head. He had already skimmed the volume once and knew it told the story of Twilight’s creation. There had been no mention of Arlien, but the folio did list all of the giants who had been present. With a few hours of study and contemplation, the verbeeg felt confident he would find the connection between the prince and Twilight.
The ceiling ended at a horizontal corner. The verbeeg ran his hand down the wall to an oaken door, then reached down around his knees to find the latch.
“Noooo!” The cry came from the same corridor as the squealing earlier. The voice sounded like Brianna’s.
A muffled thud came next, then the muted growl of an angry man. “Drink!”
Basil rushed back down the hall. Although the floor trembled under the impact of his heavy feet, the runes on his boots allowed him to move across the planks in utter silence. He heard no more sounds from the side corridor. He turned down the narrow passage, squatting down to listen at each door he passed. The verbeeg heard nothing but the rumbling of a few snoring sleepers.
At the end of the corridor, Basil came to a small stairway curving up one of the keep’s exterior walls. By the purple midnight blush pouring through the arrow loops, the verbeeg could see that this passageway had been built strictly for humans. It was barely large enough for a single man.
Basil peered up the corridor, trying to gauge whether his hunched shoulders would fit between its walls. In his mind appeared the unwelcome image of a verbeeg youth trapped in a cramped tunnel, and the runecaster felt runnels of hot sweat pouring down his brow. He wondered if he couldn’t find another, larger staircase that led to the same place. His shoulders would barely fit into this passage, and the corridor might grow narrower ahead. Besides, he couldn’t even be sure Brianna was up there, or that she needed help.
Brianna’s voice murmured down the stairwell, “Bastard!”
The word sounded thick and slurred, as though the queen had been drinking. Basil pondered going for help, but rejected the idea. If he embarrassed Brianna by calling the guard when she had only drunk too much wine, the verbeeg felt quite sure the rest of his time at Cuthbert Castle would be spent in the dungeon.
A sharp clatter rattled down the stairwell.
Basil slipped the folio inside his robe, then dropped to his hands and knees. He turned sideways and wormed his way into the narrow stairwell. The step edges dug into his bottom arm, and the walls squeezed his chest so tightly that he could not draw a deep breath. He worked his arms past his head and pulled himself into the gloomy passage.
The walls squeezed his chest more tightly, filling his body with a dull, throbbing ache. His breath came in shallow gasps, whether from panic or inability to expand his lungs he did not know. He squinted up the passage. The purple night glow was too dim to see whether the corridor grew wider above.
Basil reached farther and dragged himself farther up the stairwell. The passage narrowed slightly, and he found himself wedged in place. When he inhaled, his chest filled with crushing agony. The verbeeg pulled harder, twisting his shoulders back and forth, and felt the folio digging into his waist Then, for no obvious reason, his throat began to close up.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he gasped. Basil heard his pulse pounding in his ears, and he felt his eyes bulging in their sockets. “I’m panicking, that’s all.”
Basil’s body did not care. It wanted out of the dark corridor, and it wanted out now. The verbeeg found his arms pushing at the wall, trying to force his large mass down the stairway. Through the thin cloth of his trousers, the bottom of the folio snagged on a stone block. He pushed harder, driving the top edge into his stomach.
Only then did it occur to Basil to ask why he had tried to save Brianna. Strictly speaking, he wasn’t even one of her subjects, and even if he had been, no verbeeg had ever suffered the compulsion to perform his duty to a liege.
Perhaps it was her library, the runecaster thought. If Brianna perished, the new monarch would name a new librarian, denying Basil access to the thousands of ancient and obscure volumes in the Royal Archives. But what good were all those books if he failed to work himself free?
A loud thump rolled down the stairway, followed by a pained groan. Suddenly it no longer mattered why Basil had crawled into the stairwell. Brianna needed help, and verbeeg or not, the runecaster could no longer turn his back on a friend in need.
“I’m starting to act like a firbolg,” Basil grumbled.
The runecaster braced his feet against the walls and dug his fingers deep into a seam between two blocks of stone. He exhaled until he was certain all the air had left his lungs, then he forced himself farther up the stairway. He felt each separate rib grating against the wall, flexing inward and racking his body with pain. An anguished grunt escaped his lips and softly rumbled up the corridor.
Basil redoubled his efforts. His vertebrae and ribs shot sharp pangs of protest through his torso. He ignored them and pushed with every muscle in his body. The verbeeg heard a muted crackle and felt a series of pops run down his spine. He came free and bumped up the stairs. His lungs filled themselves with a sharp gasp, then he spied a sliver of yellow light less than ten steps away. It was dancing beneath a closed door on a small landing above. The runecaster pushed himself to the platform and listened at the door.
From inside came a scratching sound, such as rats make as they gnaw through wood, and the gurgle of flowing liquid.
Basil gently undid the latch, then pulled himself to his feet. He used his toe to push the door open. He could feel the hinges grating against their pins, but the runes painted on his boot kept the portal from making any sound.
Inside lay a modest chamber with a vaulted ceiling and a granite altar at the far end. Standing before this platform, with his back to the door and still wearing his enchanted armor, was Arlien of Gilthwit-or rather, Arlien of Twilight. He had Brianna’s feebly struggling form pinned to the altar, with his armored elbow resting on her sternum and his fingers holding her jaws open. The other hand was pouring the contents of a large silver flagon into her mouth.
Brianna seemed lethargic and half asleep, with glazed eyes and drooping lids. The prince was pouring faster than she could swallow, so the fruity-smelling concoction dribbled down her cheeks in runnels. One arm hung limply off the altar. Her other hand waved languidly in the air, the fingers curled into ineffectual claws. Her gown had been torn half off.
“That’s better, my dear.” Arlien’s voice was a mockery of gentleness. “Drink it all. You’ll feel much better.”
The runecaster crawled through the door on his hands and knees, moving slowly and carefully to avoid making any noise. Once he was inside the room, where the vaulted ceiling allowed him to stand upright, he pulled the folio from his trousers. He considered smashing the heavy book over Arlien’s head, but could not bring himself to destroy such a priceless treasure. Basil leaned the volume beside the door, then calmly walked to the altar. The prince continued to pour, oblivious to the angry verbeeg standing behind him.