Chapter 7

The melodic chanting echoed from wall to wall in the dank blackness of the great chamber. The low groaning voice repeated the chant for the third time, “Maelstrom mach, trochilics and gyre, vortex to swirl, then to tire.”

Every candle in the great hall wavered in unison from the change in air pressure outside. The huge swirling cloud descended upon Blackgloom’s courtyard, its funneled vortex slowly spinning to dissolution. The Boozer’s wagon and all that had been picked up with it dropped abruptly to the black cobblestone surface. Horses, people and wagon became a tangled mess as the cloud disappeared, leaving them all in a confused, disoriented pile.

The Boozer smiled inwardly. He shook off the effects of the dizzying delivery and looked around him.

The horses were first to move, clambering to their feet out of instinct. Cale was the first to notice the ring of fully armored paladins surrounding them, each guarded by a massive, drooling animal held in check by heavy chains. Daynin wrinkled his nose at the awful smell of the place. Sabritha gasped at the eerie yellow darkness of their surroundings. One of the soldiers cringed in terror at the whole spectrum of events to which he had unluckily been made a part. The other soldier lay motionless, having been crushed under the weight of two horses and a wagon wheel. Only the Ferret seemed to relish his new surroundings.

“I don’t know where this is, but it beats the lash, that’s for sure,” the diminutive Toobar said, breaking the otherwise tomb-like silence.

“Dinna judge too quickly mah friend,” Cale advised.

“Nor would I move too fast,” the Boozer warned. “These ogrerats are deadly.”

“Ogrerats!” Daynin moaned. “I thought they only existed in legends.”

“This is the place such legends come from, I fear,” the Boozer said.

Sabritha shook off her initial dizziness and peered from under the wagon cover. She stared at the ring of magnificent paladins, each adorned in black polished armor. “Well, well,” she purred in mock-heroics, “there’ll be no want of men here.”

The Boozer shook his head and whispered, “I do not believe these are men. They are specters, controlled by the master of this dark place. Legend says they have neither body nor soul. They do not relish life as do we, nor have they any compassion for it.”

“What is this place?” Cale demanded.

“As near hell as mortal man will ever view,” a hard, graveled voice answered from the air around them.

The Boozer stood up to see whence the answer came, but was quickly admonished by the voice. “Make not a move you’ll regret, old man. My ogrerats will make quick work of one as skinny as you. Now! All of you, and I say this only once—you will do as my minions bid, or your flesh will feed my pets for supper. Simple. My house—my rules. No others apply. Cooperate and you may yet see your precious sun again. Refuse, and you will forever dwell in a black pit of pain.”

The Boozer hesitated, then to help make his charade a success, demanded, “Why did you bring us here?”

“Quiet, old man!” the graveled voice boomed, its words coming slowly and ominously. “You have something of great value to me. If it pleases me, you may live. If not, then you will satisfy me in other ways. Take them!”

Upon that order, the paladins moved as one. The ogrerats snarled and drooled at the prospects of fresh meat, pulling hard on the binding chains held fast by their keepers. The paladins formed a column and urged their captives forward with the points of their lances toward the gates of the inner keep. None of the prisoners resisted, though Cale had to be held back by Boozer’s strong hands and knowing gestures.

The prisoners were disarmed and led down a series of steep, winding passages to the very bowels of the Blackgloom Keep. Sabritha was quickly separated from the men and shoved into one of the upper cells of the dungeon. Daynin, too, was taken from the group and locked in an upper cell. The rest ended up in a deep, circular pit, surrounded at the top by a narrow catwalk. Accessible only by rope ladder from the catwalk above, there appeared to be no way out of the pit. Three of the half dog, half giant rat “pets” of the Seed had been left unchained by the paladins, free to roam the catwalk and the nether reaches of the dungeon. Remains of the pit’s previous inhabitants lay scattered all about the straw covered floor. Light from a single slit of a window high above the pit gave the prisoners just enough of a view of their surroundings to horrify them.

Toobar did a quick reconnaissance of the dark pit, then said to no one in particular, “Damned poor hospitality in this inn, I must say.”

“We’re lucky to even be alive,” the Boozer snapped.

The Duke’s soldier shook uncontrollably, barely able to keep his sanity. He began to whimper and utter Latin prayers under his breath.

Cale immediately began trying to scale the slimy pit walls, but without success. “This is a bloody long way from Donnegal to die—for nothing,” he whispered.

“We’re nowhere near death yet, my young friend,” the Boozer offered. The magician removed two small pellets from the lining of his cloak and rubbed them slowly. His palms began to glow a warm green color, its light spreading out gradually to illuminate the whole lower pit.

“There, now we can see what we’re up against. Toobar, my little thief, find me a long, stout bone—one that won’t break under your weight. Cale, take my cloak and tear it into long strands, then tie them together end on end—long enough to reach that window.”

“Aye, then we’ll climb out,” Cale responded. “But what of the beasts?”

Toobar produced a tiny flute from inside his shoe and brandished it in the air as if it were a broadsword. He smiled and said, “Those creatures be no match for this little gem. Watch ‘ere!”

He huffed and blew hard into the flute, but not a sound could be heard. Immediately, the ogrerats began to stir above them. Toobar blew again and this time the ogrerats snarled and growled and shuffled around angrily on the catwalk. A third blow and all three of the horrible creatures took off up the stairs into the upper realm of the dungeon.

“They hear what we cannot,” Toobar explained triumphantly. “Many a watch dog have I dispatched with this little tool. Makes thievin’ a good deal easier, as you might say.”

Cale slapped the Ferret on the back, practically knocking him down. “Ya dinna earn the name ‘Ferret’ without good reason, eh?”

“Quickly now, we’ve no time to waste,” the Boozer ordered. “Make fast those strips. Hurry. Daynin and Sabritha are in great danger.”

As Cale worked, a nagging question came to mind. “Boozer,” he finally asked, “how is it that you know so much about this place?”

“I cannot answer that. You just have to trust me. And you must do exactly as I tell you. We will have but one chance to escape from here alive.”

Cale couldn’t contain his curiosity. “It’s that stone in the back of your wagon, isn’t it? That’s what this is all about. That’s what we’ve been brought here for.” He threw down the cloth shreds to confront the Boozer face to face. Grabbing the old man’s tunic and jerking him around he growled angrily, “You knew this would happen, didn’t you?”

The magician maintained his composure and said quietly, “I told you not to come with us. I knew something like this could happen. That Stone is of greater value than you can begin to imagine—especially to the keeper of this place. He will do anything to possess its power. We are not important at all. The Scythian Stone is.”

Cale backed off and stared in angry silence. “I’ve heard the legend of the Stone. I’ve also heard that it was destroyed by Norsemen because they feared its power. How is it that you came by it, old man?”

“We are here. It is here, and that is reality. If you do not help me, all of us will remain here forever! And that is no legend. Now, can I count on you, or do you wish to argue more while our chances of escape dwindle?”

Toobar stepped between the two to separate them. “Count on me,” he boasted. “I’ve no wish to rot in this filthy hole.”

“What is Daynin’s part in this?” Cale demanded. “He is the reason I am here. For his sake, I will spend my life if that be the price of his freedom.”

“I cannot tell you that, for I do not know. But if we don’t get out of here now, his life will mean nothing. Nor will yours. Now, let’s get to work.”

* Blackgloom, Upper Floors *

The upper reaches of the dungeon reeked of the smell of death from the cells below. Daynin’s only escape from the nauseating odor was a small crack in the stone masonry that allowed outside air to penetrate. He leaned against the wall and pressed his face to the crack. He thought of home, and of the spicy porridge his grandfather made on Sundays. He could almost smell the flat bread cooking in the fireplace. Then he thought of Sabritha.

His mind jumped instantly to the wagon and his embarrassing episode in Sabritha’s lap. He jerked his head from the crack, for a moment reliving that mysterious and wonderful event. He could feel the passion building in his stomach as the memory of her smell and of her soft, supple thighs engulfed him. Suddenly the room seemed less dark, less foreboding with her images all about him.

“Sabritha!” he cried out, his voice echoing time and again through the maze of narrow passageways outside the iron mesh gate. An ogrerat heard the cry and growled angrily somewhere in the darkness. In an adjoining passage, a much more intuitive pair of ears made note of the boy’s obvious desires.

* Sabritha’s Cell *

Exhausted from days without rest, Sabritha collapsed on the stone platform that lined one side of her tiny cell. She didn’t hear the two paladins approach until the creaking of her cell door brought her quickly back to reality. “What do you want?” she asked angrily.

The paladins clanked over to her in unison and swept her off the platform. Their cold iron gauntlets on her skin sent shivers throughout her body as she was lifted and dragged out of the cell.

“Where are the others? Where are you taking me?” she demanded.

There was, of course, no answer. The paladins dragged her up the steep, winding passageway toward the upper realm of the dungeon. There, in a well-adorned room with a large bed and a fireplace, they dropped her in a heap on the floor.

While Sabritha sat there pondering the warmth of the fire and her fate, an old woman entered the room. “Is there anything you require?” the scraggly voice asked.

Surprised by the visitor, Sabritha could think of nothing else to say, except, “Uhh—well, do you know where my friends are?”

The old woman put her serving tray down. Steam rose from a pot of tea as she poured Sabritha a cup. “Honey in your tea?” the woman offered.

“Uhh—yes, that would be nice,” Sabritha replied, bewildered by the sudden show of hospitality. “Who are you?” she asked.

“Gretchin’s my name, m’lady,” the old woman purred. “I am here to serve you while you are our guest. I will be staying here with you for now.”

Sabritha gulped down the cup of tea, quickly gesturing to Gretchin for another. “What about my friends?” she asked again.

“I know not of them, my lady,” the old woman whispered plaintively. “But please. I have so few human visitors. Tell me of life outside these walls. Tell me how you came to be here. Tell me of sunshine and flowers and of all the wonderful things I’ve not seen these fifty years.”

Completely taken in, Sabritha told Gretchin everything, including her growing desire to see Daynin again. By the third cup of potion-laced tea, she had told the Seed all he would need to know.