The Lord of Necrond

The huge square being, no taller than a man but twice as wide, dipped slightly at the waist and shouldered his weight against the door, the sodden timbers tearing easily away from the rusted bolts and hinges. He punched aside the door with his closed fist and, in the light of the flickering torch, they saw before them a low-ceilinged room filled with vast barrels. Beyond that, through an arched opening, Caspar saw the unmistakable brightness of daylight spilling down a flight of ascending steps.

Caspar was about to sprint for the steps at the far side but leapt back, pressing May behind him. The floor before him bulged, slits in the flagstones cracking open. Runa, the white wolfling gave out a low and blood-curdling snarl, while Trog bristled and growled from behind Caspar's legs.

Panting heavily, the others stood at the youth's shoulder, all staring in horror.

Caspar knew now that he had made all the wrong decisions. So long as he was guardian of Necrönd, he was a danger to them all, a danger to May whom he loved deeply. He must go on alone.

"Trog stay! Guard May! Get back to Reyna, all of you," he yelled and ran. The ground moved beneath his feet but he kept running, Ursula's cries of protest loud in his ears.

"No, Master, no!"

One of the great wine barrels burst up into the air and crashed down onto the heaving floor. It split open, filling the air with a yeasty aroma and sending a pink wash rippling across the floor. Something moved fast through the periphery of Caspar's vision but he focused on one thing alone - the steps at the far end of the low hall. His footing gave and he stumbled onto one hand. For a second, he looked down into a widening fissure in the floor. An eye glistened in the dark beneath him and a hooked paw snatched up at him. He didn't know what it was but he wasn't prepared to wait and find out.

Falling to his knees, then scrambling up and leaping, he raced on, the horrendous sound of splintering rock hammering around him. The screams of the others pierced the roar around him.

"Master, no! Come back!" Ursula shrieked.

"Don't leave me - not now!" May's forlorn cry made him cast back over his shoulder and he stumbled as he twisted to look back. To his amazement, Trog had actually obeyed his commands and stood at her side, a ball of furious muscle bellowing and snarling at the creatures below the floor. He was not surprised that Runa, who had always been devoted to May, stood on her other side, her thin body taught, ready to spring at anything that attacked.

The creatures that Perren had appeared so frightened of were not vast by any means but only half the height of a human, hairy and stooped with vast eyes, giving them a curiously babyish look. A few were turned on him and the rest faced the stonewight who pressed the two women behind him.

Caspar punched up his fist, a flash of silver in his hand. "This is what you seek!" he cried knowing that Necrönd would draw these creatures to him. Gnomes they were, he decided, still having no notion as to why Perren feared these small, fur-clad cave-dwellers.

Like moths to a light, they swarmed to him, their large eyes flashing greenly. He stared for a split moment, wondering how such small, silly-looking creatures had managed to erupt through a stone floor, before turning to run. Their footfalls came, pattering and scratching up the stone steps behind him like rats. They sought him; they wanted him for the Druid's Egg that was known by its ancient name of Necrönd.

Ever since the First Druid captured the breath of life of the ancient and savage beasts of legend within the Egg, so banishing them to the Otherworld, the less dangerous beasts had, for a time, freely roamed the Earth. But as man grew in strength and cunning, they retreated to Earth's darker realms where they lurked, half forgotten, licking their wounds and cursing mankind. Now they stalked Caspar, longing for the power that had swept them aside for the swelling civilisations of man.

The steps split before him and Caspar had no thought as to which way to turn. After hesitating too long, he decided that the steps leading to the right were narrower and so would lead to quieter rooms. Instinctively, he chose those.

But the gnomes, like rats escaping a flooding sewer, were soon at his heels. A door! He saw a door. He fumbled at the looped handle, kicking out at the first of the creatures that grappled for him. Their spindly bodies folded under his blows to be trampled beneath the rush of the others following. The hasp was rusted up. He rattled it violently, struggling to stay on his feet.

Should he wield Necrönd and summon a beast that might protect him? In desperation, his mind leapt eagerly at the thought but a core of inner reserve warned him not to do so. He was tired and, with so much chaos about him, there was no knowing how much control he might have. In an hour of need, he had summoned hooded wolves to drive back the invading Vaalakans from his father's castle, and, three years on, those same wolves had multiplied into a plague. He knew he must never wield Necrönd again.

The door gave and he fell through onto more steps that spiralled upwards. He slammed the door on the arms of several gnomes and turned to attack the stairs, leaping up them, his muscles screaming with the effort, his legs like lead. His breath rasped in his pounding ribcage and his head swam giddily.

Soon, a gnome caught him up and clung to his leg. He turned, grabbed it and hurled it at the others behind. They toppled back down the stairs, landing in a twisted knot of flailing limbs from which they would take some while to right themselves. Caspar laboured, struggling to lift his legs high enough for each step.

This wasn't right. Something was weighing him down. He had the curious notion that it was the Egg itself, loath to let him escape.

The rough stone walls became fine brickwork and then plaster painted a chalky white. One gnome caught him and clamped itself about his calf. He stamped his other boot down on its head and staggered on. Over his rasping breaths, he could hear women screaming. An open doorway in the stairs led him to a corridor and he chose the first door, managing to squeeze through and hurl back a half dozen of the little beasts so that he could close and bolt the door behind him. He was left with no more than three of the wretched creatures clinging to him.

They had apparently no language but screamed with a thin breathy note whilst flinging themselves up and clawing at his neck. He scrabbled frantically to rid himself of them. One bit him, long teeth hooking deep into his flesh. With another still wrapped about his hand, he hauled the third off his neck and was revolted to feel its flesh tear in his grip. The first then sprang for his throat, teeth raking through his skin.

With one slash of his knife, he cut through its body. The legs and hips fell away but the top half still clung to him as watery blood and foul-smelling entrails fell from its stomach. It was a full minute before he managed to unclamp the teeth, needle-sharp like those of the wolfling, from his neck. Fortunately, the teeth had pierced skin and tendon only, missing any major blood vessels.

The door held and Caspar sighed with relief, pondering his next move. He found himself in a long gallery and guessed he was right in the heart of the palace. The palace servants were unlikely to pay him any heed with all the commotion that he could hear outside. It sounded like a stampede raged through the city.

He tiptoed out into a sumptuous hall, the panelled walls clad with tapestries and the floor soft beneath his feet. He looked down in surprise. Woven carpets! He had heard that some of the grander palaces in the countries surrounding the Caballan Sea had woollen carpets on their floors though he wondered at the practicality of it. Straw and reed matting had always served them well in the halls of Torra Alta.