The Descent into the Kineser’s Lair

“I can’t see! Treant! The light’s gone!”

“Nah, look, Turnpike, it’s right over there. Behind those cobwebs or whatever they are.”

“Where’s his lordship? I’m going to run ah-AaAaAAaaaaa,” Treacle’s scream faded into the distance. A loud splash followed a minute later.

“That’s why you never run to the Kineser’s abode me lads. Stairs are as like to be above you as below you. Slipperier than a pig covered in eels,” Bidden slapped his knee, “Ha! Now there’s an expression. Remind me to tell you boys the story sometime.”

“Here?”

“No, there. See? Poke about with your spear a bit.”

There was a squelch, a moment’s resistance, and then something damp and probably contagious fell from the ceiling.

“By the Black Banner! It’s on my face!”

“That’d be a ‘Splorcher’. It’s what we used to call them back in the day, anyway.”

“It’s quivering!”

“Yep. They do that.”

“You cleared the torch at least. I reckon we should hurry and see if Treacle is alright.”

“You don’t want to hurry on these stairs lads. Lord Glove’s the only one crazy enough to make it. The old dog’s got the hooves of a goat and fingers covered in spiders.”

“The splorcher is crawling towards my eyes!”

“Yep. They do that too.”

“What do I do?”

“You get a splorcher in your eye, typically.”

Half an hour, two splorchers, and a ‘direspore’ later, the three men discovered something they couldn’t walk around, poke with a spear, or even attach to their face.

The being in front of them looked like a girl’s clay sculpture. Its eyes were lumpish. Its mouth drooped and its lips had run down its face. It had no legs. Instead, its torso clung to the steps like a half melted candle. Beyond that, it was shapeless.

“What is that?”

“Is it one of Rebeka’s?”

“She’s never made something so awful.”

“That don’t fill me with awe. Makes me want to get a very large mop.”

“And a bucket. Not much good without a bucket.”

“Good point. Some water too.”

“It goes without saying.”

“Quiet lads, it’s moving.”

The creature’s jaw slid down its face. Bubbles formed at the back of its throat and burst wetly in the simulacrum of speech.

“Bloppen. Blep. Blurp-pop. Belp.”

“What do you want fiend?” demanded Treant, “What have you done to Rebeka?”

It shook its head and tried again.

“Get… me… bubble. Plop. Can’t… bop… borp… legs.”

Treant squinted at the oozing lips, “That you, Treacle? Thought you might be dead.”

“Pull. Borp. Arm.”

Treant grasped Treacle’s slime covered arm and pulled. Treacle didn’t move. Treant looked back at the others, “Well? What are you waiting for?”

Bidden slapped Turnpike on the back, “Get in there lad. Put those young man’s muscles to work.”

Turnpike stumbled forward to help. The clay was reluctant to give up its prize, but had little choice once he joined Treant’s efforts. Treacle’s waist appeared, then his hips. As his knees emerged from the steps there was a ‘Slurp’ like a tooth leaving its socket, and then he was free.

“Good work lads. That’s why me and Grady convinced Jorgmund to keep you around.” Bidden stumped over to Treacle, who was wiping at his eyes, “Don’t go running off like that again. What if you’d broken your neck? We don’t have the funds for proper armour let alone a widow’s pension! You should be setting an example for these young lads!”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Treacle began to defend himself, but Bidden cut him off, “We’ll do reprimands and excuses later. There’s more pressing matters at hand. Did you see Lord Glove? Or Rebeka?”

“Yeah,” said Treacle, “He passed me and went around that corner about ten minutes ago. Didn’t even notice me calling for help. Never seen him like this.”

“That’s because you’ve never seen him scared,” said Bidden. “There’s a lot more than a grumpy old woman at stake here.” He pointed down the stairs, “Do you remember the path he took? Where he stepped?”

Treacle grunted in affirmation.

“Good. We’ll be following you. Lead the way.”

It was only a few minutes to the bottom of the stairs. There, around the corner, they found Lord Glove. He had slumped against the mossy door at the end of the tunnel. He only acknowledge their approach with a weak lift of his head.

“I can’t get in,” he said, “I pushed on the door, but it didn’t even budge when I kicked it. I tried pulling, but there’s no handle and I couldn’t wedge my dagger in the crack,” he gestured to the mess of scratches surrounding the latch, “I’ve tried everything.”

Turnpike pointed to the door’s lead knocker, “Have you tried knocking?”

“Knocking?” Lord Glove blinked, “Yes. Yes, of course,” his eyes brightened. “Yes!” He leapt to his feet and began striking the knocker, “Why didn’t I think of that?”

Turnpike rolled his eyes. The older guards were still. Turnpike was new, but Bidden and the others had served Lord Glove for a long time. Sometimes the old lord needed a prod, that was all. Once he got going he was as quick as a quarrel.

On the third knock a high-pitched voice filled the air.

“Who seeks the Kineser?”

Bidden winced. Each shrill syllable felt like a rusty fish hook tugging at his vertebrae. Lord Glove shivered for a moment, but managed to maintain his composure.

“I am Lord Glove, Conor to the king and Rebeka’s master. I received a summon claiming she was in danger. I demand you allow us entry.”

“Lord Glove, master of this dom, razer of Seshthiem, lord of the Burned City, betrayer of Rebeka’s love; enter.”

The door swung inward with a sound like a man drowning in a quagmire. The revealed room was a scene from one of Bidden’s fever dreams.

The walls of the room were coated in a mossy membrane. Bronze brackets punctured the organic skin haphazardly, causing thick mud to weep from the wounds. Set in the tarnished sconces were smoking torches which occasionally gave off a choking puff of light. Workbenches lined the walls below, beside, and in several cases, above, the torches. The benches towered high with every sort of tool and material imaginable. Some of the materials were flammable. Many were acidic. Most were both. One table held a mound of skinless bodies. A tall stack of leather-bound books sank into it, mocking them all the way down. Two paces along the wall, and six down, a jar of grey-green liquid bubbled grimly in time with the staccato whispers of a sourceless clock.

The rest of the wall, indeed the rest of the room, was much the same. One could as easily find a maze of tables set with strangely shaped vegetables as a pack of quivering globules or a mound of glowing jade. Black rain fell from the ceiling, grey mist rose from the floor. Candles atop tall stacks of scrolls illuminated both with pale blue light where they met. Boxes dominated the room. They oozed ink, leaked bile, cried blood, and seeped other liquids which could only be described as “unpleasant”- quotation marks and all.

Before Bidden could even begin to comprehend the wide variety of potential respiratory assailants and the lesser, though no less concerning, circulatory impairments, the wall to his right spoke. Crude lips carved into its surface parted with a sigh and a moaning gale issued forth. Bubbles rose rapidly in the rivulets of mud streaming across the wet abrasion and then popped sadly in harmony with the wall’s depthless despair.

“Lordship… you are here?”

Lord Glove strode to the wall, hand on his dagger, “Who are you? Where is the Kineser? What have you done with her?”

“I… am Emet. The Kineser has died,” the wall’s wailing dropped to the whisper of a powerless girl, “Time… illness… lack of sun… I know not the cause.”

“Where is her body?”

“She realized she was fading… she gave me as much of her knowledge… as she knew how. As much as she could… in the time she had. You will find an heir.”

Lord Glove set his jaw, “Where is her body?”

Hollow eyes opened on the wall. Bidden put a hand to his heart. There was something terrible in them. Anger? Hatred? He could not tell.

“Her body… rests in her private chamber,” Clods of earth fell as Emet’s face turned, “You need only speak… her name to the north wall. It will deliver her to you.”

Some walls towered, others leered. The wall behind Bidden sent clods of dirt tumbling down the back of his collar as it crumbled. Emet was alive, and beside the golem the wall oozed outward in an ever-spreading pool. The north wall was different yet again. It was a waterfall. Mud slid over moss and around broken stones before crashing down into the earth and vanishing without a trace.

Lord Glove ducked a low hanging alligator and navigated his way past several towering stacks of broken pottery. He placed his hand on the wall, “Rebeka.”

The mud slid over Lord Glove’s hand and ran between his fingers. Nothing else happened.

“Rebeka. Rebeka!” Lord Glove struck the wall, causing mud to splash across his coat, “Rebeka!”

Emet’s lips split, letting free a whispering vesper, “You must speak truth, not lies.”

Lord Glove placed his hand once again against the wall. Then he closed his eyes and was silent. Bidden sensed his mood and stopped shuffling to stay dry. The other guards followed suit. The room went still. The only sound was the pattering of mud as it landed on the guards’ helmets. Twin stars ran down Lord Glove’s face; torchlight reflecting off his glistening cheeks.

His lips trembled, “I’m sorry… I am terribly sorry, Averse.”

A hand met Lord Glove’s own through the wall. An arm emerged. Lord Glove caught the body a moment later. She was small, and caked in mud. He straightened, holding her delicately in his arms. She had been a hard woman. Bidden had mostly been afraid of her. Now she simply looked old and frail. Bidden looked at Treacle, tossing his head in their lord’s direction.

The towering guardsman got the hint once Bidden kicked him in the shin. He stepped forward, “My Lord, would you have me carry her?”

A tear fell onto Rebeka’s face, clearing a streak of mud from her cheek. It almost looked as if she had been the one crying, “No. I will see her to the surface. I ask instead you to go to Rezel and tell him to make ready for the funeral. I must stay a while to speak with Emet. Leave now my friends. Please.”