Seeing Hadrian miss with both swords was like seeing a drunk miss the floor. In that instant, Royce recalculated their odds of success to be less than half what they had been a moment before. This was bad because on a scale from inevitable to doomed, it pegged their chances at a solid unlikely, except for two things.

By the time Hadrian preformed his dodging dance of retreat, Royce had maneuvered behind Falkirk. He timed his advance as best he could. The Gingerdead Man had proven himself to be extremely dangerous—not quite as fast as lighting, but not much slower, either. He also didn’t seem stupid, which really irked Royce. Most of his past adversaries had tended toward the skull half-empty side as thuggery and brilliance were paired about as often as polkadots and plaid. Royce was about to play the part of a fly, slapping a mantis on the back, but the risk was worth the reward—at least he hoped so.

Royce got as close as he dared and lashed out at Falkirk’s midsection with Alverstone catching only the black leather belt. He didn’t wait, didn’t look, he ducked. As expected this saved him from having his face removed as the Gingerdead Man spun with claws out. Royce retreated as Falkirk made a series of rapid attacks, but the thin black blades on the end of those fingers caught only Royce’s cloak.

Then the fight stopped.

Falkirk looked first to the floor, where his severed belt lay, then at Royce who did his best to appear as innocent as he could. Finally, Falkirk spun to see Hadrian holding the diary, having picked it up off the floor while the Gingerdead Man had wasted time pursuing Royce. “Give it back!”

Royce sprinted toward the exit. He was halfway to the doorway by the time Falkirk rushed Hadrian. With an excellent wrist flip, Hadrian threw the book to Royce who caught it without slowing down, and made for the stairs.

There was a grunt and a clang. Then with a booming voice that echoed in the chamber, Falkirk shouted, “Leave and he dies!”

Royce stopped and looked back.

Hadrian lay on the floor, one sword spinning across the stone, the other trapped by a foot as the pale, ginger-headed corpse crouched over him, back hunched mouth wide, teeth dripping. Black claws touched Hadrian’s throat.

“Dost thou suspect we did not view the murals?” Falkirk said. “Bring it back to me now, or he dies.”

The room was silent enough for Royce to hear the beat of his heart, Hadrian’s panting breath, the hissing inhalations of the Gingerdead Man, and the faint, distant clicking of little gears. In that still moment Royce felt as if the world teetered on some high ledge. He usually liked high places, but not this one. Only a few years ago, Royce wouldn’t have stopped.

Is it possible the idiot couldn’t find the rope?

“Why’d you do it?”

“What?”

“Come back. You were safe. You were at the rope. Why’d you come back?”

“Same reason I’m not leaving you here.”

Royce remembered calling Hadrian an idiot for not abandoning him on the Crown Tower, and yet now…

The silence was broken by the unlikely sound of laughter. Royce could have expected as much from a maniacal demon-creature, who believed he’d won…only it wasn’t Falkirk that laughed.

Hadrian had started with a snicker that quickly shifted into a giggle and then rolled right on into a full blown guffaw. “Oh, did you ever pick the wrong guy.” Hadrian struggled to get out between breathing and laughing. “What are you offering him? To let me go so you can kill us all? Good plan. He’s not an idiot. And he knows he can’t kill you. So, what kind of choice is that? Go ahead and slit my throat, then you two can see who can run the fastest. You’re quick in a fight, but no antelope I suspect. So, my money is on Royce.”

Falkirk looked from Hadrian to Royce, then back.

He was going to kill Hadrian. He had to. Falkirk couldn’t afford to leave anyone alive in that room who could throw the lever. Royce couldn’t get back to Hadrian before Falkirk slit his throat, and even if he did, they would both likely die. Also, time was on the corpse’s side. Any delay granted him the win. Whatever Falkirk was he was more than a match for Riyria, and this would be the end of the game except for the second thing.

The diary had been the first thing. It gave Royce and Hadrian a chance at success. After all it had been featured in the mural. Falkirk knew it, which was why Royce imagined he strapped the book to his waist thinking it was the safest place. As Royce had already cut Falkirk’s head off to no effect, fighting the Gingerdead Man was pointless. But if he could fulfill the prophesy and burn the book. This he hoped would somehow make Falkirk die, or become vulnerable, or do something to improve their odds. All of it was a full step-and-a-half outside rational, but so was Falkirk’s audacity at walking around after decapitation, so Royce was willing to play by new rules.

Turned out, Royce appeared to be only half right. The diary did appear to be the Gingerdead Man’s weakness, only the trip to burn the book would cost Hadrian’s life, a cost Royce only then realized he was unwilling to pay. This is where the contest might have ended except that Falkirk had mentioned the name Villar. That one word had reminded Royce how he had once survived a similar confrontation with an equally impossible foe. The whole affair had been just as bizarre as this, and in many ways seemed an extension of the events that occurred in Rochelle just shy of one year before. And if it had worked on the roof of a cathedral why not here?

So, Royce employed the second thing.

He drove the white blade of Alverstone into the face of the book piercing it straight though the cover, pages and out the back. Falkirk screamed in utter anguish. His body shuddering, he let go his hold, and in that unexpected opportunity, Hadrian threw him off.

“Go, Royce!” Hadrian’s words caught up to him only after he was already starting down the stairs. The flat, shallow steps were easy to take four and five at a time. Royce was able to gauge his depth and the distance to the finish line by the circumference of the master gear that remained visible the whole way down. Royce clutched the diary to his chest, and left Alverstone spiked into the book.

Racing as he was, Royce reached the bottom in no time at all. Instead of a fiery pit as he had been promised, Royce once more faced a massive—and of course locked—pair of dwarven doors.

“I hate dwarves!” he shouted, pulled Alverstone from the book, and spun expecting to see Falkirk right behind him, but the steps were empty.

Royce was gone before Hadrian got back to his feet. He grabbed up his lost sword, then turned to deal with the aftermath of Royce’s genius, which turned out to be a Gingerdead writhing on the floor. Falkirk lay on his side jerking and shuddering so fast the movements defied the eye’s ability to follow appearing as mere blurs. His distorted and disturbing twists of arms, legs and head appeared to ignore the very concept of joints and muscles.

Maybe I should cut his head off while he’s thrashing, but would that help?

The way Hadrian saw it, all he needed to do was buy Royce time to burn the book. If that killed Falkirk, Hadrian would then need to climb the gear and throw the lever. To this end he backed up and positioned himself between Falkirk and the exit.

What happens when Royce burns the book? Will it kill him outright, or just make him vulnerable? How will I know? How much time do I have before the moon—

The floor beneath Hadrian’s feet jumped as the whole tower shuddered so violently he was thrown to the floor. The room suffered a shower of dust and pebbles. Slabs of fractured stone, previously part of the ceiling, fell and burst on the floor. Shards came off the walls and toppled like great trees. An axle holding one of the overhead gears, the size of a small house, snapped and let fall the cog. The big gap-toothed wheel hit the floor and rolled halfway across the chamber before slamming into the far wall where is toppled with a terrible crash.

Hope we don’t need that one.

Maybe waiting isn’t such a good idea.

Hadrian started toward the master gear when he heard it; he felt it, too—the pounding. Something was hammering from down below. And for a moment, Hadrian thought he heard voices. Distance, but deep, powerful, and not at all human.

Then Falkirk stopped his contorted thrashing and sat up, his eyes sharp, his mouth set to a vicious snarl. Without a word the Gingerdead Man got to his feet and charged Hadrian. In a way, this was good. Better he came at him then go after Royce. Hadrian held no illusions of winning the fight. If Royce was fast enough, and if burning the book killed Falkirk, Hadrian might still survive. Either way Hadrian hoped Royce had enough time remaining to burn the book and then return and pull the lever before the big boom.

The Gingerdead Man attacked with a fury. All Hadrian saw were claws and those yellow teeth flashing, but there was a change. The swings and jabs were not as fast as before.

He’s wounded.

Hadrian couldn’t see it. No blood dripped, no cut oozed, but the Gingerdead Man was noticeably slower and weaker, but not so much as to make Hadrian believe he could win. It would just take a little longer to die. Falkirk was unlike any adversary Hadrian had ever fought. He couldn’t anticipate Falkirk’s moves because his body didn’t work normal. Forecasting him was like trying to read another language with only enough time to skim the pages. The storm of claws held Hadrian’s blades on the defensive. The few attacks Hadrian tried were dodged with such ease that Hadrian’s confidence plummeted.

What is this thing?

Royce turned back to the huge ornately cast, solid metal doors. It took me eighteen hours to open the last one! In frustration and rage he slammed his palm against the metal and heard a rattle. Looking down partially hidden by a beautiful set of horizontal handles, Royce noticed an ordinary chain and a padlock.

Are you kidding me?

In a flash, it all came clear. This door didn’t lock. None of the doors inside Drumindor appeared to—although a few disappeared—but Falkirk had seen the mural. He kept the book in the safest place possible—on his person. Then he took sensible precautions to prevent anyone from accessing the forge. He just didn’t know who was coming to visit. A chain and a lock would have stymied most anyone else. As it turned out, the Gingerdead Man could have delayed Royce more by setting out a glass of milk and a plate of cookies. Royce popped the lock in record time. The chain fell free, and he kicked the doors wide. Inside was another world.

Heat blasted Royce the moment the doors opened and revealed a vast chamber brilliant with the orange and yellow glow of molten lava. From the entrance, more steps went down to a bridge that crossed a molten lake and churning pools that bubbled, spit, and popped. At the far end of the walkway, that terminated at the center of the chamber, was the great forge, the Haldor Gigin, which was carved to looked like a dragon’s open mouth. Overhead, blackened chains swayed and massive crucibles hung on suspended tracks. More rails ran the length of the bridge, and several heavy duty carts were set off to one side. The place looked as inviting as a cookfire to a rabbit.

The sheer breath of the space was far larger than the tower could afford, and Royce guessed he was below sea level where the magma bubbled up. This couldn’t be the genuine mouth of the volcano. Nothing held pressure here. It had to be some sort of overflow holding pond. Whatever it was, the lake reflected the volcano’s irritated temperament by roiling and occasional spitting plumes of liquid rock dozens of feet in the air. This was an angry and violent room—a wild animal furious at being chained up. Still, this wasn’t the core, but it was close as Royce would get, and that was fine with him.

Awe didn’t quite encompass what he felt as he took his first few steps down the long, dark aisle that spanned high over the burning lake of liquid stone, which frothed and splashed the walls like ocean waves crashing a rocky coast in a hurricane. The sensation was more a concoction of horror mixed with equal parts of this-cannot-be-real, and why-would-I-expect-anything-less. Then the ground shimmied such that sections of the cliff walls sheered away and fell throwing up a massive plume of burning rock. Seeing this, feeling the intense heat, Royce descended the steps to the bridge, moving at considerably less than a sprint.

He was halfway to the Haldor Gigin when he heard the voices. In the chamber they sounded like screeching metal, the sort of noise that made people cringe, but in his head Royce heard words, or thought he did, but it made no sense because the voices spoke to him by name.

It took less than a minute for the inevitable. Hadrian finally guessed wrong, which left him late to block Falkirk’s next blow. He managed to avoid the claws, but Hadrian lost balance and fell. And he didn’t just fall, he fell with his back to Falkirk, leaving him exposed and blind to the next attack.

It’s over. He realized.

The claws would enter the back of his neck, or he could be stabbed in the lower back. Hadrian wasn’t certain if the claws were capable of decapitating him, but that was also a possibility.

Behind him, Falkirk made a muffled grunt, but Hadrian felt no pain. He didn’t feel anything. Then Falkirk cried out.

Hadrian managed to twist around, and saw the Gingerdead Man laying on the floor halfway across the room. He howled in rage and struggled on his back as if pinned to the floor, only nothing was there. A moment later Falkirk appeared to shake off his invisible restraints. He focused on Hadrian and once more charged. This time the Gingerdead Man raced at him on all fours scraping the stone like a leopard.

Hadrian raised his swords and braced himself for the impact.

While still twenty feet away, the Gingerdead Man was thrown sideways across the room as if hit by something. Falkirk rolled, then slid to a stop among the shattered debris created by the fallen cog.

Are you doing that Royce?

Once more Drumindor shook. More stones fell, and Hadrian smelled sulfur and felt tremendous heat. At first he figured he was hot from exertion, but realized he was wrong when he saw the walls were glowing red.

Time was running out.

Hadrian ran for the master gear.

He climbed the first and second teeth, which he was surprised to find covered in fresh blood. Reaching out for the third, something caught his boot and yanked. Hadrian was pulled down and fell to the floor on his back knocking the wind out of him. A weight landed on his chest as his arms and legs were pinned. Over him, Falkirk grinned. “It’s too late. The spirits from the book may have destroyed my little pile and they can annoy me, but they can’t pull the lever. And the moon is up. It’s over.” The grin opened revealing yellow teeth on black gums. “Such a pretty face.”

Over the hunched back of the Gingerdead Man Hadrian saw movement on top of the master gear.