The Darkest Dungeon
Prisons exist for a reason
Without his armor, Lóegaire felt unnaturally light. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been outside the castle walls unshielded by iron and bronze.
But this was an extraordinary rescue mission. Stealth, not strength. The King commanded Lóegaire to leave their home, Bodiam Castle, at dusk and arrive at Waleran Castle after nightfall when their enemies were asleep. King Bartholomew said there was a feeble stone on the northwest corner of Waleran Castle’s walls in line with a crenel, and Lóegaire could sneak into the castle by removing that stone.
A cold wind whistled through the inky woods that separated the two fortresses. Mushrooms sprouted in the hollows left by Lóegaire’s footprints.
As the King had requested, Lóegaire reached Waleran Castle moments before the crescent moon dipped behind the turret.
Followed only by the darkness, Lóegaire descended the stairs to the cold, damp dungeon. The dungeon’s single torch illuminated a wall of books of varying sizes and thicknesses. Some of the books’ spines bore images of skeletons and dragons; others were imprinted with ancient words in red or black letters such as fír, fire, Eóten, once used to summon Grendel, and mære, nightmares.
Lóegaire aimed his sword at the old man sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the dungeon’s door. The man had a long, snowy beard and a tall funnel-shaped hat. He was holding a Scapini card, the tower.
He is Waleran’s sorcerer, Lóegaire thought.
“Move aside, old man,” Lóegaire commanded. “I’m not afraid of you.”
“I suppose not,” the sorcerer replied. He retrieved a silver wand tipped with a gold griffin from under his robe and laid it on the ground. He opened his hands. “I am Nechtan. I will do you no harm.”
The door shook as myriad limbs and heads banged against the wood. Piercing moans and screams stung Lóegaire’s ears.
“Release our prisoners.” Lóegaire pressed the sword’s tip against the wizard’s neck. Drops of blood sizzled where they fell on his purple robe, like oil on a hot iron pan.
“Prisoners. Is that what your King, Bartholomew, told you?” the wizard hissed. “They're not soldiers, and certainly not your soldiers. Entombed in that chamber are the devil's words, words that belong to demonic spells and incantations. My King, the great King Eduart, banned evil magic. We captured every dark word and imprisoned it here.” The wizard extended his arm toward the rattling door.
“Then what is that racket?” Lóegaire asked, pointing. “Lie to me, and your death will be painful.”
“Time whittles away magic like a river carves stone and the wind reduces mountains to dust. Over the centuries, the dark words reverted to their primordial state: hideous, monstrous beings, the physical manifestation of those evil spells. Now your King would release them and try to steal their power.”
Lóegaire cocked his head. “And you sit here guarding the dungeon all day and night?”
“I have guarded it since the year of our Lord six-fifty-two.”
"That’s preposterous!" The air popped as Lóegaire waved his sword over Nechtan’s head. “That’s over five centuries. No one can sit in the same place for so long. You’re crazy, old man.” Without waiting for the sorcerer's response, Lóegaire sliced the lock and yanked the door open.
A skeleton's bony hands encircled Lóegaire’s throat. His sword clattered to the ground, and his legs and arms flailed for a minute until he stopped breathing.
Nechtan looked at Lóegaire’s lifeless body. “That was Æsgwen,” he said. “It creates storms with winds so strong they flatten entire forests.” He slid his hands into his robe’s pockets in a futile signal to the monsters that he was harmless. “Fyrong, no!” Nechtan screamed a second before a creature made of granite and ice pierced the sorcerer’s heart with a stalagmite finger.
The horde of monsters scrambled out of their prison, transforming from corporeal beings into angular and curled lines as they ran into the books. As the words affixed themselves to the pages, the books shook as though they were in the grip of a violent earthquake. Orange and blue flames erupted around the books, but they did not burn.
A minute later, the books quieted. A few pages rustled, but after a time, those stilled, too, except that now and then, one or another book quivered with the anticipation of somebody opening it.
If you enjoyed The Darkest Dungeon, I think you’ll like my story, The Bleeper.
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Evil knows the power of words. Well done, Bill.
When I saw the title, I thought this was about the video game “Darkest Dungeon”. Though I was wrong, tone-wise this short story is very similar to that game in terms of how dark it is.
Anyways, this story feels like it could be the beginning of a fantasy novel about someone hunting down the devil words and sending them back to prison.