The Darkfern Lexicon Book 2 - Sanctorium Read online

  Chapter 3

  The fear of wolves

  The silvery clouds, covering the dark night sky, had been avidly-watching the rapidly-unfurling story. They all felt very lucky indeed to have happened upon the tale’s beginning. No word had come their way of such an unusual event taking place. This meant the happening was doubly-rare, even more reason to get excited.

  They witnessed the girl, dressed in mundaine-clothing and a magical cloak, come through The Webway. Without a doubt a human arriving via a web was a rare occurrence. Unless, that is, you counted the mundaine used in the tournament; which the clouds did not.

  An unconscious, trussed-up human being dragged through The Webway was one thing. Conversely a mundaine entering by choice was something else entirely. The clouds had only seen this kind of occurrence a few times before, and it never ended well for the human.

  They had also watched, whilst holding their collective breath, as the girl hid from the emerging howler. She had cleverly chosen to hide behind the leg of The Great Lion, Leoracle. The mighty elder lion in turn scared off the rancid wolf and then swallowed the girl in a single bite.

  The clouds concluded this to be a sad tale with a somewhat-predictable end. As such they scattered from the lion's booming roar and raced to catch up to the scurrying wolf.

  He seemed, to the clouds, the most likely candidate to entertain them.

  The wolf ran on. The rhythmic drumming of his paws on the ground was his only distraction from the thoughts plaguing his mind; judgments of what had happened and theories of what was still to come.

  He had found the girl so easily. She’d made so much noise even one of his pups could have tracked her. It was her din that led him to the secret room.

  Sadly it was within the hidden-chamber that his plan went astray, a wrong turn which could not be undone. His carefully formulated strategy went up in flames, just like the cottage.

  His mission was to locate and secure the relics for his queen. At first glance this was a simple task but then disaster struck. The old woman caught him snooping around and attacked him. She nearly bested him too but luck allowed him to escape with his life.

  Unable and unwilling to return empty handed he waited in the forest until someone found where the relics were hidden. Sadly for him it was that wretched mundaine-girl who came to open the door. That blasted-child had ruined everything.

  If she’d just stayed still he could have killed her and claimed the objects. He had more right to them than she did anyway. All she had to do was drop dead and let him have them. Then he wouldn't be in this mess. Regrettably this was not to be. She ran away and, to make matters worse, she even had the cheek to use the cloak against him. The little blighter kept vanishing from sight whenever he managed to catch up with her.

  At least The Webway was not his fault. That fact relieved his rapidly darkening thoughts of the biggest burden. No, he would never be stupid enough to leave a web open and unattended. That really would be a costly mistake for whoever had made it.

  There had been a very distinct scent in the air; the smell of Stiltskins. He would be only too happy to pass on that piece information. Perhaps his queen would be more lenient toward him if he blamed the twig-men?

  Likewise her current location wasn’t his fault either. He followed her back into Darkfern and picked up her trail easily but then the lion showed up and scuppered his attempt to slay her. Definitely not his fault, not even his queen would dare to fight The Timber Lion alone. However, an opinion such as that was best left unspoken. Higher ranks than he had lost their heads for even daring to suggest she feared the old cat.

  The running wolf felt some solace in the realisation; his only real failing was not retrieving the cloak and rope. To be honest what did they matter really? An old cloak that makes you hard to find and a dog-eared bit of rope, what use were they? Their only real value, in his opinion, was measured in sentiment. Their loss was nothing when compared to the crime of leaving a web open. The stupidity of letting a mundaine through was unforgivable; a mistake resulting in death for the culprit.

  He entered Queen Nocturna’s realm. The vista became as dark and sinister as she who reigned over it. A rotten stench filled the air; putrid and malign. The wolf looked out over Withersoul Marsh, an expanse of bog more treacherous than a god’s tempest.

  Dark and dead, twisted trees reached from the bubbling, rancid mud. Like undead hands emerging from beneath the ground to claw at the cloud-speckled sky. Ghostly, black shapes swirled in the skies and scoured the marshland lining the black road. The creatures resembled ragged, tormented vultures. Each had a cruel, faceless, twisted mouth. An endless scream ripped from their throats; a continuous heralding of their mournful and everlasting anguish.

  The wolf did not like the wailing of the wraiths. Their calls of remorse at crossing the dark queen did not make him pity them. It simply confirmed to him that they got what they deserved. He was incapable of compassion anyway. Like most of Queen Nocturna's creations, he had no heart.

  The road ended abruptly and the wolf stopped at the edge. He raised his head to the clouds above and howled a blood-curdling cry.

  The dark, bubbling bog began to rise and then part. A bulging mound of slime and mud rose from beneath its foul surface. The rounded bulk quaked and shook. Suddenly a huge pair of coal-black eyes opened, the hillock of mud was a huge face. The eyes blinked and then focused on the little creature before them.

  “WHO DARES CALL ME?!” boomed the massive head.

  “Just open up and let me in already!” snapped the wolf.

  “Well, I never. That's gratitude for you,” the face blustered. His voice bore a stony-lisp and it differed greatly from his initial greeting.

  “Gratitude?” the wolf snorted.

  “Just a hint of manners is all I ask. A little thank you, or even a, how are you today? Any of those might be nice,” the gate continued. “I spend all my time up here, guarding the likes of you. I’m completely deprived of a proper, stimulating conversation…”

  “You have the wraiths,” the howler pointed out helpfully.

  “Wraiths are very single-minded. They’re far too murderous and angry for an intellectual debate,” the gate replied glumly. “My only chance to talk to anybody is when I ask the 'who dares' thing and you can't even give me the time of day.” The golem head stopped talking and stared at the wolf, waiting for a response.

  “Ugh. Ok. Go on then,” he relented. The wolf shook his head wearily.

  “Thank you. Right, here goes,” the gate thanked before clearing his throat. “WHO DARES CALL ME?!”

  “Geltrum. Loyal minion of Queen Nocturna,” said the howler impatiently.

  “YOU MAY PASS!” thundered the head. He gave a wink of appreciation and opened his mouth wide. His tongue rolled out and formed into a flight of steps.

  Geltrum shook his head again. What good was a Golem Gate if it just let anybody through? Surely a password or a key would be more effective security?

  He decided it really wasn't his job to contemplate the feeble defences of Nocturna’s citadel. Any suggestion on how to improve them would likely end in the execution of whosever job it was. No, he had to concentrate on keeping his own head.

  Geltrum ran through the golem's open mouth and into the wide, winding tunnel beyond. The entrance closed quickly and the ominous slamming-click of the massive, stone teeth sealed him in.

  The tunnel was completely dark excepting a faint, red glow emanating from around a corner. He ran forward and rounded the bend. A brief flicker of calm flashed across his turbulent mind as his home came into view.

  The passageway opened out into a vast cavern which rose to a peak like the innards of a hollow mountain. The glow stemmed from enormous magma-red crystals. The clusters pierced the stone floor and walls in large nodes. They cast out enough light to force most of the blackness to retreat into the far distance.

  Geltrum lived with
his pack in the army camps at the foot of a gigantic web spanning one half of the cavern. His dark queen, Nocturna, resided in the immense black tower suspended in the web’s centre.

  He ran on towards the foreboding stronghold and his unknowable fate. He did not slow any as he ran through the fighting ranks of her amassed militia. The combatants squabbled and bickered to relieve the boredom of the never ending war. Oddly enough the unrest in the camp had caused more deaths than the war itself (an unfortunate side-effect of cooping up murderers and monsters together). The term bored-to-death had been given a whole new meaning to those who lived beneath the swamp.

  Over the years Nocturna’s army had grown so large it sprawled out across the cavern floor. A landscape of pitch-black tents housed the darkest and most deadly scum this world had to offer. A sea of canvas canopies and hastily constructed buildings washed across the cavern floor. Through the centre of the throngs a lonesome road, bordered by the rotting losers of fiercely fought fights, led to the tower and the web.

  The dark stronghold, with its glass-like surface and vicious web covered spires, forced a deep sense of foreboding to swell inside Geltrum. Such was its power that even a beast with no heart would cower at its very sight.

  The deafening noise coming from the heaving throng of soldiers echoed around the vast hollow. Its reverberating-onslaught did nought to calm the beast as he neared ever closer to the bridge.

  A woven pathway connected the tower to the ground. The conduit was preceded by a skull-shaped entrance; almost as terrifying as the tower it protected. Carved from Noir Obsidian (the blackest of black crystals) the ornate jawless structure had to be passed through if he were to appear before his queen. The route was blocked by a thick web covering the mouth of the skull. Two giant spiders, perched in the empty eye-sockets, stood guard.

  They sprang into life as he approached. Each of the titanic arachnids scurried down from their roost in a lightning fast manner. Their bodies scuttling and pincers clicking as they moved. As he approached the gate their long and fearsome limbs struck out to block his path. They raised their front legs threateningly, warning him they would attack if he moved any closer.

  He halted just short of their deadly reach. The thick hairs on the monstrous spider legs twitched and rubbed against each other, making a high-pitched whine that alerted the nearby soldiers. Hundreds of faces looked at the wolf as it raised its head and began to howl.

  Black smoke swirled around Geltrum as he howled. The acrid smog eddying and twisting around his frame as his body began to warp and morph. The wolf stood on his hind legs as they stretched and straightened. His front paws snapped out to the side and elongated, fingers sprouting from the pads with a painful cry. His fur shrivelled and exposed pale, mottled skin.

  A few seconds later a man, of sorts, stood where the wolf had just been and, even though he still had a tail and some tufts of fur down his back, his limbs and face were almost human; albeit an ugly one.

  “Geltrum. I’m here to see Queen Nocturna, The Darkest of Majesties.” His voice was a quiet, croaky whimper and he bowed low as he spoke.

  The spiders retreated and allowed him to lumber forward. He did so with notably less grace than his wolf form. Geltrum was unused to this feeble shape and its clumsy two-footed body. Sadly the power and speed of his howler guise was not permitted inside the tower. ‘No beast may tread these halls’ – this was yet another law which would see the one to break it sentenced to death.

  The arachnid guardians delicately moved the dense silver web aside, allowing him entrance to the long path leading to the menacing tower. Geltrum hobbled along the bridge as quickly as his two legs would allow. He tried not to look at the other spiders as they moved all around him. Busily repairing and tending the web, they clicked their pincers as he scurried past, whimpering to himself.

  He was quickly beyond the path and he began climbing the steps splayed before the entrance; he was almost at the tower… His time of reckoning was at hand; fate approached with each step he mounted.

  The large, black, iron doors began to open. A thin sliver of light appeared as they retreated. He glanced over his shoulder, seeking one final look toward home before he faced his destiny. With dread in his stomach (and his stomach in his mouth) he entered the black tower.

  Beyond the iron doors lay a vast, circular chamber. Geltrum had never entered the tower before, but whispers of the interior were common amongst the amassed fighters. The chamber he stood in was known as The Sway. This was where she kept her enemies. He looked up toward the rafters. High above him large, web-cocoons hung from the ceiling. They swayed like crystals on a chandelier; delicate and silent.

  Were it not for the fact the pods contained living people, one may have found them pleasant to behold. Each guest of the Queen was wrapped in dense-webbing, only their eyes remained unbound.

  This punishment was known as The Waking Death. A wickedly-cruel curse applied to any enemy Nocturna deemed too dangerous to simply kill. The victim lived a long life, nourished by the magical webbing. It was said that some would never die; entangled for eternity.

  The scraping of metal echoed round the chamber as several guards watched his movements. Geltrum’s attention was drawn to their helmets. Each head covering hid the wearer’s face behind a silver mask depicting a sleeping child. He shuddered as the sentinels lavished him with their attention.

  Geltrum crossed the room as quickly as he was able. Though, he cut short of breaking into a full run. He paused on the threshold of a dark, wooden door. Music and chatter seeped from beyond the robust barrier. A gathering of significance was underway; a party to which he held no invitation.

  This day marked the anniversary of Queen Nocturna’s greatest achievement. Today the entire Queendom celebrated the weaving of The Rift; the boundary separating Mordinary from Mundaine. A wonderful festivity indeed and one he feared he was about to ruin with his news.

  He pushed the door open and stepped into the cavernous chamber. For a moment no one seemed to notice him. He skulked at the edge of a large congregation. The party guests numbered in the hundreds. He could tell instantly that they were from the richest and most respected families loyal to the dark queen. Each reveller was dressed in the finest outfit money or magic could provide. As per the custom to Nocturna’s parties, each guest completed their ensemble with an elaborate mask, unique to the wearer.

  The celebrators chatted and laughed as they greedily drank from silver goblets, spilling the excess onto the floor with abandon. Geltrum’s belly rumbled as he eyed countless tables laden with food. The banquet surpassed even his wildest dreams. All around him, guests stuffed exotic delicacies into their mouths; gorging and feasting to excess.

  Overcome by hunger, Geltrum neared a table and reached for a piece of roasted meat. There was plenty for everyone, more than enough to feed Nocturna’s entire army for at least a week. One little scrap of meat wouldn’t be missed. He lifted a morsel of meat from the burgeoning platter.

  Without warning a hand clamped down onto his shoulder. The grip was so hard he was sure it would leave bruises. He looked up at the assailant, his identity concealed by an unpleasant mask depicting screaming face. The veneer was undoubtedly carved from bone. The bone of what was thankfully not in question. Geltrum felt a chill shiver down his spine as the masked man glared at him. The un-gentleman wore a long, black cloak. A dark hood was hoisted to obscure any features the mask could not.

  The only detail Geltrum did noticed was a ring the man wore on his wedding finger. A ruby-red snake encircled his long, bony finger. The serpent consumed its own tail in an eternal race.

  Geltrum thought he recognised the symbol, though he lost the will to think of where from as the hand started to push him through the crowd.

  The music and chatter stopped abruptly and the guests parted, like a biblical sea, to form a clear path for the tall, dark figure. Without offering thanks he led the howler-m
an to the foot of Nocturna’s throne.