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  Simian’s Lair

  A Tale From the Land of Verne

  by David H. Burton

  Into the Lair

  Spring, a time of renewal and rebirth – when winter’s frozen grip upon the world is loosened. And, as it is in our world, it is also true for another one called Verne; a world of magic, marvel, and mayhem.

  Four orphans stood about on this spring morning; a fine morning by most standards, with the singular exception that a Dragon had swooped over the city. And Dragons, as most people knew, were an ill omen.

  At least, such things had been told to Sari, the ten-year old whose mother was a Sylph. She floated along the ground in a shimmering dress, as was the nature of her kind. In her wake was Widget, a lad of mixed heritage, half-Gargoyle, half-Human. He, too, was bored of watching Mount Simeon in the distance, to where the Dragon had flown.

  At his side walked Roden, or Roe as most called her. She also wore ten summers upon her head, and a bow across her shoulder. She was Widget’s distant cousin, and as pure a Gargoyle as there could be. Like Widget, spiky, black hair adorned her head and she had a set of wings that spread when she was afraid or angered.

  Rounding out the quartet was Maddock, a headstrong lad of eleven. And no one, not even Maddock himself, knew his true heritage. Yet something about him, especially his oversized feet and bulbous nose, made most think that Troll’s blood flowed through his veins.

  He followed, after one last look to the skies.

  The four children made their way through the newly cobbled streets, avoiding the strange contraptions that rolled past them – horseless carriages that used something called absinth to drive them. It was an invention from the Southlands; one of many that was beginning to show up throughout the lands.

  They ambled towards a building with charred walls, a sad imitation of a manor. Perched along the ramparts were stone Dragons, much like other manors, but these were far too lifelike — the details in their scales and claws a little too close to the real thing. The building had many names, depending on the land of one’s birth. It was sometimes called the Unknown Manor, because its centuries-year-old origins could only be speculated. But mostly it was referred to as Simian’s Lair.

  Not all was gloom here. The City of Harkness was starting to grow once more, building on top of an old city that had lain in ruins for centuries. And newcomers from all over were migrating in, bringing with them their newfangled gadgets and carefree demeanor.

  The four orphans had found a few items among the refuse that the new inhabitants had tossed into the gutters. Widget had found himself a pair of goggles that gave him night vision. Sari had a rod that let her summon fire and Roe possessed a mechanical crossbow that never missed. Maddock didn’t trust the contraptions from the Southlands. He would have nothing to do with them. Even his one mechanical eye he tried not to rely upon. It was an implant. One that he never remembered receiving. It was like that for the others as well, none of them remembered receiving their mechanical parts: Sari’s hand, Roe’s wing, and Widget’s ear. Those parts were also the reason Humans could see them now. Normally they could remain invisible to the Human eye, as most of the Unseen could choose to do, but the absinth parts made that now impossible. That part made Maddock wish even harder that he could rid himself of his unnatural eye.

  He studied the manor with his real one. There was nothing obvious. Then, despite his reservations, he employed his mechanical one. It showed him that the building was generating heat, far more than the others in the city. He wasn’t sure what to make of it, but he knew it did not bode well.

  His eye slid to the building next – a regal, white-stoned splendor that was attached to Simian’s Lair. There were finely crafted gargoyles upon its walls, a testament to the winged beings who were now finalizing its construction. It was ordered there by Magus Nimrel, a man thought to be a powerful wizard from a far off land, but he never acknowledged those rumors. He simply smiled and nodded at such whisperings. He had a hard-angled jaw and rather prominent nose which he would twitch and rub on occasion. It was thought he could smell dark magic.

  And around Simian’s Lair he twitched and rubbed his nose until it was red.

  He faced the Lair, but none could speak to the blank expression that had descended upon his face.

  “Are you ready?” he asked. His voice was dry and harsh, like the desert winds of Seeto.

  All four children nodded. They were to stand guard at the entrance, preventing any from entering the manor while Magus Nimrel and some others ventured in.

  The four orphans, eldest among all the children that amassed here, were all he had at his disposal. The City Magistrates wanted nothing to do with the old manor. In fact, they were prepared to wall it in. It was only due to Magus Nimrel’s insistence that they abstained. Besides that, none of the inhabitants of Harkness had the courage to come within ten yards of the place. Mad cackling had sometimes been heard coming from the manor in the night.

  Magus Nimrel pulled out a green reed. He broke it into four pieces and gave one to each of them.

  “What is this for?” Maddock asked. He turned up his nose at it. It smelled like bad cheese.

  “It is called strall,” said Magus Nimrel. “Chew that and spit it out when it begins to foam. It will rejuvenate you. Use it only if you need it.”

  They hoped they would never need it.

  “Be at the ready!” commanded a gruff voice that startled them. It was Master Rickett, a man of wild, gray hair that looked as if a windstorm had swept through it. He carried a heavy sword. Unlike the City constables with their long, thin dueling swords, his was like a mighty oak among elms. He also carried pouches of powders at his belt, and was renowned for studying the children with one eye squinted.

  He focused that eye on Roe. “Remember what I told you,” he said. “If anything comes out of that blasted manor that doesn’t look like the seven of us, shoot it.”

  Roe nodded, but gulped down the knot in her throat. She could shoot almost anything, but this was different. The question wasn’t if she could shoot —the question was what she would shoot. What could possibly come out of Simian’s Lair that she would have to shoot? The wings on her back shivered.

  Master Rickett departed, but not before he offered a one-eyed scowl to a peculiar creature that was bound to a lamppost twenty yards from where they stood.

  “Mimick,” it said, and examined the shackles and rope that held it. It was a fur-covered mishmash of animal parts. Its face was somewhat flat, except for its monkey-like lips. Its fur was spotted on one arm, striped on the other. Tufts of hair stood up on the top of its head, white as snow, and it had little black eyes that stared at them with a rather blank look. It had an extremely long tail that coiled around behind it, swaying in a slow, hypnotic motion.

  It shook its chains and repeated, “Mimick.” That seemed to be all it could say.

  Master Rickett had found the creature lurking around Simian’s Lair a few days prior. They did not know if it was male or female, nor did they know if it could say anything other than what they called it.

  The man might have run his sword through it had it not been for his companion: Madam Patrice. Seemingly ageless, she was a white-haired woman of poise and presence. It was said she was of royal birth from ages past, perhaps from the Dominion of Harland, but no one knew for sure. She stayed Master Rickett’s quick hand and suggested they study Mimick rather than kill it.

  She strode towards them and they all lowered their gaze.

  “This will not be an easy chore for any of us,” she said. “Be prepared for anything, for we do not know what lives in these walls and whether we can cleanse it of darkness.” She turned to Maddock. “Remember what I have taught you in these last few days. Keep your head about yo
u, keep your wits, and most of all, keep together. Each of you has your own talents, but together you are a force to be reckoned with.”

  Sari sneezed at Madam Patrice’s mothball-like smell and drifted backwards with the force of it. “How long will you be in there?” she asked.

  Madam Patrice’s face pinched and she cleared her throat. “As long as it takes.” Then she turned on her heel and strode over to meet with Magus Nimrel, Master Rickett and the four City constables that had been volunteered for the job.

  They did not wave or wish anyone farewell. They simply made their way into Simian’s Lair disappearing into the gaping entrance that swallowed them in darkness.

  The four friends watched for a time, unsure of what to expect. Eventually they passed the time with a game called Witch’s Switch and another called Runes. The sun journeyed through the sky and there was not a sound to be heard except for the occasional sigh from Mimick.

  Twitching his wings in boredom, Widget wandered over to the funny creature. It cocked its head to the side, studying him. Widget jumped at it and roared. He stretched out his Gargoyle wings as if to turn it to stone. Widget was too young for that talent, but he thought he’d try to scare it.

  Mimick didn’t budge. It just simply said, “Mimick?”

  Widget leapt about the tree to which the creature was tied. The other children rolled their eyes and shook their heads. Mimick didn’t seem to mind Widget’s antics and a long, pink tongue dropped out of its mouth, hanging loosely past its rounded chin.

  “Mimick,” it said again.

  The others laughed.

  Encouraged by his friends’ attention, Widget leapt about like a frog, and then ran around on all fours imitating a dog.

  “Mimick,” repeated Mimick, its head still cocked to the side and pondering Widget as if he was the oddest thing the creature had ever met.

  Sari floated over to it. “Mimick, where are you from?”

  “Mimick,” it said.

  “Can you understand me?” she asked.

  “Mimick,” it said again and nodded its head.

  The others jumped up from the cobbled sidewalk. “Woah!”

  Maddock took a furtive glance towards the manor to make sure all was in order and then nudged Sari to continue.

  She pointed south. “Are you from the Southlands?” she asked.

  It shook its head.

  She continued with the cardinal directions, and learned that Mimick was from somewhere in the north-west.

  “Are there others like you?” she asked.

  An explosion behind them whipped them about.

  Screams followed, and not human ones. All four youths retrieved their weapons in swift, practiced motions: rod, bow, dagger, and sword.

  The four constables fled the manor. Their faces were ashen and their hair had turned white as the full moons. The men’s mouths were open to scream, but nothing escaped their lips.

  Another explosion sounded, carrying with it a howling rush of air. It reeked of death and refuse.

  There was movement inside the entrance, just on the edge of the darkness, and they saw a creature jumping about, waving to them. Its tail was swaying in a hypnotic motion.

  “Mimick!” it called.

  The four friends all looked back to the lamppost where Mimick was tied, or rather, where it used to be tied. The chains and rope lay in a heap on the ground.

  “Mimick,” it called again, and disappeared into the shadows of the entrance.

  “Mimick!” yelled Sari and Widget. They raced towards it, into Simian’s Lair.

  Maddock and Roe screamed after them to wait, but their calls went unheeded. Then they, too, ran in.

  When they stepped inside, the doors snapped closed behind them, and Mimick had a strange twinkle in its eye.

  The Path of Fear

  The inside of Simian’s Lair was like a festering welt upon the land. Its walls were coated in a slime that seemed to slither by itself. The halls were littered with bones, some of which the children could not identify. Sari shivered as she passed a painting of an old man in a gray suit. She could swear he was looking at her.

  They jumped at the high-pitched scream of a Razorbill – a black bird with a serrated beak that was meant to cut flesh. It swept past them and then down the long, dark corridor.

  Maddock pushed against the massive doors with all his strength. It creaked, but refused to budge.

  “Now what do we do?” Roe asked.

  Maddock shook his fist at Mimick. “This is all your fault!”

  “Mimick!” called out Mimick. The creature bounded through the hall. All four chased after it.

  They paused at an arched entrance, pondering if they should enter. Maddock was more hesitant than the rest. The place was silent and still, like the entire stronghold held its breath. Maddock knew it was waiting for them. He stepped back.

  “Mimick!” called Mimick from within the darkened entrance and they heard the grating of stone against stone. Mimick waited in the dark, but the outer surface of the creature undulated with a green glow.

  “I don’t like this,” Maddock said.

  “Neither do I,” said Roe, shaking her head.

  “Mimick,” Mimick said, and disappeared.

  Widget and Sari chased after it. “Mimick!”

  The other two rolled their eyes and followed as Mimick bounded down a spiraled staircase. They yelled for Mimick to come back. Along the way, Widget nearly tripped on an old torch on the ground. Sari lit it, summoning the fire with her rod.

  The torch lit up with a bright orange flame. It offered them a sliver of comfort.

  “Mimick!” called Mimick again. The four friends clambered down the stairway after it, practically stumbling on top of each other. A heavy grinding sounded behind them. A click followed. Their escape had been sealed.

  Maddock called them to a halt. “Quiet. Listen.”

  There was a shuffling from the stairs above.

  “Something is following us,” he whispered.

  Faint laughter descended from a few flights up, an evil-sounding cackle that tingled their spines. They continued on the downward spiral, sweating palms gripping sword, dagger, bow and rod.

  Without warning they hit the end of the staircase, each of them grunting as they bumped into the other before them. Two dismal tunnels waited.

  “Which way do we go?” Roe asked.

  “And where is Mimick?” Maddock said.

  “Mimick!” it said.

  They all turned to find it perched, now behind them, upon the staircase.

  Sari floated forward, holding her glowing rod up. “Mimick, which way do we go?”

  “Mimick,” it said, pointing at Widget.

  “Me?” he asked.

  “Mimick,” it repeated.

  “What does it want?” he asked.

  Mimick continued to point.

  “Widget, you decide,” Sari said. “That’s what it’s saying.”

  The screaming laughter echoed above.

  Widget closed his eyes and waited. Sometimes his gut told him things, like which way to run. It was how he had survived without parents for so many years.

  He exhaled. “That way.”

  He pointed left.

  Mimick bounded ahead of them down the leftwards corridor, glowing once more. The orphans raced after it.

  They weaved their way through the tunnels, the laughter following closely behind.

  Maddock brought up the rear and yelled out to the others. “Don’t look back! Keep running!”

  Mimick remained ahead and would pause only to wait for Widget to shout out directions such as: “Left!”, “Right!”, “Down!”, “Forward!”.

  They finally paused in a small cavern, each struggling to catch their breath.

  “Chew the strall,” gasped Roe. The laughter was getting closer and they could barely lift their legs.

  “But it smells like feet,” Sari said, scrunching up her face.

  “I don’t care if it smells like Ma
ster Rickett’s feet. Chew it!”

  So all four chewed on the strall, but did not have time to think about its wretched taste. The menacing laughter was now around the corner and they were forced to charge forward. But as they stumbled, a sudden burst of warmth coursed through their limbs.

  The four orphans now sped through the corridors, trying to pay little heed to the claw marks scored into the stone walls. Though each wondered what would have the strength to leave such marks and, worse, what such a creature might do if it found them.

  They descended countless stone stairwells and raced through darkened entranceways. The air was colder here and the stench of something sinister and wet fouled the air. Sari pinched her nose as they ran.

  Tunnel after tunnel, staircase after staircase, they fled, ever the dark laughter chasing them. They had no knowledge of how far they had come and how they would ever get back. They knew only to run, for whatever chased them had wicked intent.

  The four orphans and Mimick spilled into an enormous cavern with old ruins. The walls rose above them, ending in a ceiling of stalactites that stretched down like stone fingers. They each felt a foaming in their mouths and spat out the strall.

  They heard a shout and peered further into the darkness. At the far end of the cavern they could barely make out Master Rickett, sword swinging. He was wounded, and surrounded by four stick-like creatures with crooked limbs and backward joints. They moved with a calculated swiftness — short jabs and fast swipes. Their eyes were small and cunning, recessed into faces that were long and narrow, appearing as if they were crying.

  “Weepers,” muttered Maddock. His stomach churned.

  “But they live in the Ruins of Seeto,” Sari said.

  One of the Weepers picked up a rock and crushed it with its gnarled fingers.

  Master Rickett struggled to fend them off. Three more appeared from the shadows, as if they were peeling from the darkness that surrounded them.

  “We have to help Master Rickett!” Sari yelled, and swept forth with her gleaming rod.

  “Mimick!” cried Mimick and bounded after her, its body now surging with a brighter green.