the same place. His shoulders would barely fit into this passage, and the corridor might grow narrower ahead. Besides, he couldn’t even be sure Brianna was up there, or that she needed help.
Brianna’s voice murmured down the stairwell, “Bastard!”
The word sounded thick and slurred, as though the queen had been drinking. Basil pondered going for help, but rejected the idea. If he embarrassed Brianna by calling the guard when she had only drunk too much wine, the verbeeg felt quite sure the rest of his time at Cuthbert Castle would be spent in the dungeon.
A sharp clatter rattled down the stairwell.
Basil slipped the folio inside his robe, then dropped to his hands and knees. He turned sideways and wormed his way into the narrow stairwell. The step edges dug into his bottom arm, and the walls squeezed his chest so tightly that he could not draw a deep breath. He worked his arms past his head and pulled himself into the gloomy passage.
The walls squeezed his chest more tightly, filling his body with a dull, throbbing ache. His breath came in shallow gasps, whether from panic or inability to expand his lungs he did not know. He squinted up the passage. The purple night glow was too dim to see whether the corridor grew wider above.
Basil reached farther and dragged himself farther up the stairwell. The passage narrowed slightly, and he found himself wedged in place. When he inhaled, his chest filled with crushing agony. The verbeeg pulled harder, twisting his shoulders back and forth, and felt the folio digging into his waist Then, for no obvious reason, his throat began to close up.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he gasped. Basil heard his pulse pounding in his ears, and he felt his eyes bulging in their sockets. “I’m panicking, that’s all.”
Basil’s body did not care. It wanted out of the dark corridor, and it wanted out now. The verbeeg found his arms pushing at the wall, trying to force his large mass down the stairway. Through the thin cloth of his trousers, the bottom of the folio snagged on a stone block. He pushed harder, driving the top edge into his stomach.
Only then did it occur to Basil to ask why he had tried to save Brianna. Strictly speaking, he wasn’t even one of her subjects, and even if he had been, no verbeeg had ever suffered the compulsion to perform his duty to a liege.
Perhaps it was her library, the runecaster thought. If Brianna perished, the new monarch would name a new librarian, denying Basil access to the thousands of ancient and obscure volumes in the Royal Archives. But what good were all those books if he failed to work himself free?
A loud thump rolled down the stairway, followed by a pained groan. Suddenly it no longer mattered why Basil had crawled into the stairwell. Brianna needed help, and verbeeg or not, the runecaster could no longer turn his back on a friend in need.
“I’m starting to act like a firbolg,” Basil grumbled.
The runecaster braced his feet against the walls and dug his fingers deep into a seam between two blocks of stone. He exhaled until he was certain all the air had left his lungs, then he forced himself farther up the stairway. He felt each separate rib grating against the wall, flexing inward and racking his body with pain. An anguished grunt escaped his lips and softly rumbled up the corridor.
Basil redoubled his efforts. His vertebrae and ribs shot sharp pangs of protest through his torso. He ignored them and pushed with every muscle in his body. The verbeeg heard a muted crackle and felt a series of pops run down his spine. He came free and bumped up the stairs. His lungs filled themselves with a sharp gasp, then he spied a sliver of yellow light less than ten steps away. It was dancing beneath a closed door on a small landing above. The runecaster pushed himself to the platform and listened at the door.
From inside came a scratching sound, such as rats make as they gnaw through wood, and the gurgle of flowing liquid.
Basil gently undid the latch, then pulled himself to his feet. He used his toe to push the door open. He could feel the hinges grating against their pins, but the runes painted on his boot kept the portal from making any sound.
Inside lay a modest chamber with a vaulted ceiling and a granite altar at the far end. Standing before this platform, with his back to the door and still wearing his enchanted armor, was Arlien of Gilthwit-or rather, Arlien of Twilight. He had Brianna’s feebly struggling form pinned to the altar, with his armored elbow resting on her sternum and his fingers holding her jaws open. The other hand was pouring the contents of a large silver flagon into her mouth.
Brianna seemed lethargic and half asleep, with glazed eyes and drooping lids. The prince was pouring faster than she could swallow, so the fruity-smelling concoction dribbled down her cheeks in runnels. One arm hung limply off the altar. Her other hand waved languidly in the air, the fingers curled into ineffectual claws. Her gown had been torn half off.
“That’s better, my dear.” Arlien’s voice was a mockery of gentleness. “Drink it all. You’ll feel much better.”
The runecaster crawled through the door on his hands and knees, moving slowly and carefully to avoid making any noise. Once he was inside the room, where the vaulted ceiling allowed him to stand upright, he pulled the folio from his trousers. He considered smashing the heavy book over Arlien’s head, but could not bring himself to destroy such a priceless treasure. Basil leaned the volume beside the door, then calmly walked to the altar. The prince continued to pour, oblivious to the angry verbeeg standing behind him.
Basil grabbed the collar of Arlien’s backplate and pulled. The prince did not even budge. Instead, three buckles popped loose and his backplate swung free.
Basil’s jaw dropped open and his bushy eyebrows came together. He blinked rapidly, squinting and shaking his head, absentmindedly allowing his fist to open.
Arlien had a second face.
It was where the prince’s right shoulder-blade should have been, hanging upside down with its dull eyes glaring at Basil. The face was ugly and brutish, with pale skin, a pug nose, and a double-chin encrusted with dried food. The thing’s thick lips formed a spiteful sneer.
“Bad plan, Ugly!”
As the head spoke, Arlien spun around, smashing the flagon into Basil’s cheek, then driving an elbow deep into his groin. The strength left the runecaster’s legs. He dropped to his knees, in too much pain to do anything except gurgle. Arlien grabbed a handful of the verbeeg’s thin gray hair and jerked his head up, driving a knee into the runecaster’s face.
Basil’s nose shattered with a sickening crunch. His head erupted into throbbing pain and his vision fell dark. He tumbled onto his back, blood gushing from both nostrils. A sharp crack reverberated through his skull as it slammed into the floor. Something huge and heavy landed on his chest. He felt fingers-impossibly long fingers- clamping around his throat.
Still blinded by the pain of his broken nose, the verbeeg clutched at the arm above his neck. The thing was so big he could hardly close his hands around it, and it seemed to be growing larger in his grasp. He tried to push the limb away. He may as well have been trying to topple a full-grown spruce. His windpipe grew scratchy and raw. He ached to cough, but that was impossible with the fingers around his throat pinching it shut.
Think, Basil told himself. Only Arlien could be kneeling on his chest. The verbeeg did not understand why the prince weighed so much, and why he seemed to be getting larger. At the moment, that wasn’t important. All that mattered was getting that enormous hand off his throat. He could not accomplish that through force alone. To free himself, he had to apply his strength to his opponent’s weakness.
Basil considered the structure of the opposable thumb, then knew exactly what to do. He reached across the back of Arlien’s hand and grasped the base of the thumb, then pulled straight back, using the heel of his own palm like a lever against his attacker’s forearm. The prince’s grip came loose, his wrist unable to twist in the direction Basil was bending it. The runecaster’s breath returned in a long wheeze.
The verbeeg bridged on his shoulders and thrust his knee into the middle of Arlien’s back. The blow sent the prince pitching over Basil’s head. The runecaster rolled away and leaped to his feet. The sudden movement siphoned a wave of pain from his shattered nose, but the runecaster did not care. His vision was clearing, and he could see Brianna’s blurry form, trying to prop herself up on the altar.
The verbeeg grabbed the small bench that sat before the platform and spun around. Through his hazy vision, he found himself peering at the murky form of what appeared to be a two-headed giant. The brute stood so tall that he had to stoop over even in the vaulted temple. His twin necks were so short that the pair of heads seemed to sit
