Apple of Discord: Chapter 4
You risk a quick look up the staircase to get the Dracecana’s position.
At that moment a spear shaft whizzes past you and embeds itself in the wall, right next to your head. It goes deep in the wall a good two-and-a-half feet.
The serpent-woman above you laughs. “Target practisssssss… erk!” The chuckle is cut short and is followed by a small current of golden dust.
You risk another look only to find the landing above empty and the door to the fourth floor closing with a soft click. Moats of golden dust swirl and settle.
A voice from further up the staircase hisses out in annoyance.
“Keep quiet, Patrissssssia!”
“Is sssshe goofing off again?” comes another echoey hiss.
“You remind me of one of thosssse little human children who pretendssss to catch fly balls in the outfield during their little league gamesssss when they ssssshould be paying attention,” comes the first voice again, decidedly scathing.
“Mmmmmm. Sssssuch tender little morselssss. Not a fan of those cleatsss. Hard to digessst,” comes a third voice from further away.
“All of you, sssshut up!” the first voice hisses in anger.
There is another ‘erk’ and the click of a door on one of the landings further up. Then silence.
Something is taking out the Dracaena on the landing, one by one. Interesting. This time, you decide to move up slowly, cautiously.
As you get to the fourth floor landing you see a bit of torn fabric on the ground. You bend down to look at it. It’s a tattered section of a cloth name tag that reads ‘...whopass’. You grin so wide, your face hurts.
Tree is sending you a message.
He must have gone up the elevator ahead of you.
He’s clearing the way.
You move with more confidence now. The fifth, sixth, and seventh floor landings are all clear. Getting careless could still get you killed but not moving with speed may mean losing the Watcher, Cat, and Master Da’Mon too.
The stairwell between the seventh and eighth floors is short.
Above the landing, about three feet above the floor is a short rectangular door, painted the same off-white as the wall. The door is made of thin metal with a single turn-lock.
You can see flashes of cool white light coming from somewhere inside as if something was sparking.
“Fulgar,” you mutter to yourself.
You look around for any sign of Tree. You’d love to coordinate this bit of recklessness, but he’s nowhere to be found.
You can do this, the fate of the world rests on your shoulders. It’s simple, really. Stop Fulgar and don’t die in the process, you think.
Two things. You can do two things.
Getting into the narrow opening is a bit awkward, but you manage it.
You sort of drag and sort of roll into the space.
You stand as quickly as you can manage while drawing your sword.
You can feel the fine grit of sand in your teeth as your head hits the low ceiling of the space above. You have to bend at the waist in order to fit in here. That or crouch.
It’s dark in here with occasional patches of lamp light provided by trouble lights clipped to wooden posts and daisy chained together with orange extension cord.
You can see the old floor plan of the garden laid out below you. At some point someone tried to cover some of the low crumbling garden walls with thin strips of wooden decking.
It was probably to create a level walking surface, but judging from the rot and decay it hadn’t been used since sometime in the 1920’s. Huge sections of wooden flooring are missing, and the sections that look reasonably safe creak and groan dangerously as you step on them.
The air is cool and still smells of dust, old tar, and burnt rubber. It looks as though more recent work crews created some hastily built wooden planking to mark the safest path across the floor. The path is narrow, but you’re grateful for it.
The trouble lights flicker and brighten for a moment.
You hear laughter before a disembodied voice speaks from somewhere in the dark.
“You must think you’re pretty clever, don’t you?” Fulgar’s voice sounds agitated.
“Compared to what? You?” you ask.
“The Watcher isn’t in here,” Fulgar says accusingly. “Come on. Level with me. Where’d you hide him?”
It’s then you remember the runic key that the Hotel-guy gave you in your dream. He said something about it opening a doorway.
If only Fulgar knew he already had the key with him in your backpack.
“Sorry there’s nothing in here,” you reply, turning to try and locate the source of Fulgar’s voice.
“Yeah. That seems to be your thing. Nothing,” Fulgar says with a drawl. “Neat trick back in the hotel. Had me fooled, not gonna lie.”
What was he talking about? What trick? You walk further into the space, feeling for the safest path along planks with your feet.
“It’d be a shame if you became bored,” you say, stalling for time. Where was he? His voice seems to be coming from everywhere and nowhere.
“Oh, you’re not boring, little hero,” Fulgar chuckles. “I also don’t want you to think there’s nothing in here. There’s plenty for you to play with.”
It’s then that you hear the sound of tiny claws scraping and clicking against stone and wood from the inky blackness.
Instinctively, you reach for a trouble light, tearing it from a nearby post. Your heart is racing as the extension cord powering the light falls on to your shoulder from above. As you move the light the scratching noises stop only to resume as the light passes by.
It’s just kittens. Sweet, cute little furballs of joy, you tell yourself.
It’s then the shadows seem to stretch into the edges of light as if testing its strength. You can’t bring the light you’re holding now with you any further. The electrical cord won’t stretch any more than it already has.
The lights in the room crackle and spark as you turn back toward the door. At least you thought the door was this way. The small hatch you entered through has been closed.
The darkness is disorienting as your fear grows. Laughter crackles and sizzles all around you now. You follow the planking.
“You won’t make it to the door,” Fulgar says in mock sadness.
Yes I will, you think. It can’t be much farther.
Having to crouch and move at the same time makes you feel even more prone to attack. You pass an exposed steel beam overhead with another trouble light clinging to it, but only barely.
The light is a relief.
The light is safe.
The light is hope.
The cord attached to the light has a long section of exposed wire where it looks as though the rubber casing has cracked or melted away. The smell of burnt rubber is stronger here. Maybe a result of Fulgar sending too much energy down the line too often.
As if reading your thoughts, Fulgar says, “Ah ha. No light for you, little hero. Maybe you end up a ghost, eh?”
The lights flash, and all the bulbs shatter with a loud pop.
You’re plunged in darkness now with all the hungry scratching noises.
You’ve got to think quickly.