Prince of Thorns
“And here we are!”
With my best courtly flourish I pointed the way, then stepped through.
We entered an antechamber to the vault I sought from my map. The door that blocked the way from our chamber into the vault stood maybe ten foot tall, a huge circular valve of gleaming steel, set about with rivets thick as my arm. Damned if I know what Builder spells kept it from rusting away like the rest, but there it was, big, shiny, and implacably in my way.
“So how’re you going to open that?” Rike’s words came out mumbled. I’d mashed his lips up pretty good.
I hadn’t the slightest idea.
“I thought we could try knocking it down with your head.”
I named him Liar the day I put a knife through his hand. The knife came out, but the name stuck. He was a mean bit of gristle wrapped round bone. Truth might burn his tongue but his looks didn’t lie.
33
“Looks pretty solid to me,” Makin said.
I couldn’t argue. I’d never seen anything more solid than that door. I could hardly even scratch it with my sword.
“So what’s the plan?” Red Kent stood with both hands on the hilts of his short-swords.
I held the gleaming wheel at the centre of the door and leaned back. The door loomed above me. It looked like silver, a king’s ransom in silver.
“We could dig through,” I said.
“Builder-stone?” Makin raised an eyebrow.
“Try anyway.” I released the wheel and pointed to Burlow then Rike. “You two. Start over there.”
They moved forward with shrugs. Rike reached the spot and kicked the wall. Burlow held his hands out before him and studied them with a speculative pout.
I had picked them for strength, not initiative. “Makin, give them your flail. Row, let’s put that war-hammer of yours to good work.”
Rike took the hammer in one hand and set to pounding on the wall. Burlow took a swing with the flail and nearly got both the spiked iron balls in his face as they bounced back.
“My money’s on the wall,” Makin said.
After five minutes I could see we’d be there a while. The wall fell away not in chunks but in scatters of pulverized stone. Even Rike’s furious attack left only shallow scars.
The brothers began to settle, leaning back against their packs. Liar set to cleaning his nails with a small knife. Row put down his lantern, Grumlow took out cards, and they hunkered down to play a hand. Lost most of their loot that way, Row and Grumlow, and practice never made them better. Makin pulled out a stick of dried meat and set to chewing. “We’ve a week’s rations at most, Jorg.” He got the words out between swallows.
I paced the room. I knew we weren’t going to dig through. I’d given them make-work to keep them quiet. Or at least as quiet as men wielding hammers can be.
Perhaps there’s no way through. The thought gnawed at me, an unscratchable itch, refusing to let me rest.
The hammering made the room ring. The noise struck at my ears. I walked the perimeter, trailing the point of my sword along the wall, deep in thought. No way through. Gog crouched in a corner and watched me with dark eyes. Where the brothers lay, I stepped over them as though they were logs. As I passed by Liar, I felt a change in the texture of the wall. It looked the same, but beneath my blade it felt like neither stone nor metal.
“Gorgoth, I need your strength here, if you please.” I didn’t look to see if he got up.
I sheathed my sword and pulled the knife from my belt. Moving in close, I scratched at the strange patch and managed to score a line across the surface. It left me little wiser. Not wood.
“What?” The torches threw Gorgoth’s shadow over me.
“I hoped you could tell me,” I said. “Or at least open it.” I struck my fist on the panel. It gave the faintest hint at some hollow behind.
Gorgoth pushed past and felt out the edges. It was about a yard by half a yard. He struck it a blow that would have caved in an oak door. The panel hardly shook, but the edge on the left lifted ever so slightly. He set the three thick fingers of each hand to the edge, digging in with dark red talons. Beneath his scarred hide the muscles seemed to fight each other, one surging over the next in a furious game of King of the Mountain. For the longest time nothing happened. I watched him strain, then realized I’d forgotten to breathe. As I released my breath, something gave inside the wall. With a snap and then a tortured groan the panel came free. The empty cupboard behind it proved to be somewhat of an anti-climax.
“Jorg!” The hammering had stopped.
I turned to see Rike wiping sweat and dust from his face, and Burlow beckoning me over.
I crossed the room slowly, though half of me wanted to run, and the other half not to go at all.
“Doesn’t look like you’re through yet, Burlow.” I shook my head in mock disappointment.
“Not going to be neither.” Rike spat on the floor.
Burlow brushed the dust from the shallow hole their labour had forged. Two twisted metal bars showed through, bedded in the Builder-stone. “Reckon these run through the whole wall,” he said.
My eyes strayed to the knife I held clenched in one fist. I have, on occasion, punished the messenger. There are few things more satisfying than taking out your frustrations upon the bearer of bad tidings.
“Reckon they might at that.” I pushed the words through gritted teeth.
Quickly, before Fat Burlow could open his mouth again and earn himself the name Dead Burlow, I turned and went back to the secret compartment. Just enough space to hold a folded corpse. Empty save for dust. I drew my sword and reached in to check the back of the compartment. As I did, a strange chime sounded.
“External sensors malfunctioning. Biometrics offline.” The voice came from the empty cupboard, the tone calm and reasonable.
I looked to either side, then back to the space before me. The brothers looked up and started to get to their feet.
“What language is that?” Makin asked. The others were looking for ghosts, but Makin always asked good questions.
“Damned if I know.” I knew a few languages, six fluent enough for conversation and another six well enough to recognize when spoken.
“Password?” The voice came again.
I recognized that. “So you can speak Empire Tongue, spirit.” I kept my sword raised, looking all around to find the speaker. “Show yourself.”
“State your name and password.”
Beneath the dust on the back wall of the compartment I could see lights moving, like bright green worms.
“Can you open that door?” I asked.
“That information is classified. Do you have clearance?”
“Yes.” Four foot of edged steel is clearance enough in my book.
“State your name and password.”
“How long have you been trapped in there, spirit?” I asked.
The brothers gathered around me, peering into the compartment. Makin made the sign of the cross. Red Kent fingered his charms. Liar pulled his self-collected from beneath his mail shirt.
A long moment passed while the green worms marched down the back wall, a floos of light beneath the dust. “One thousand one hundred and eleven years.”
“What’s it going to take for you to open that door? Gold? Blood?”