Becoming P.T. Lyfantod - 60
A serial fantasy novel
What follows is Part 60 of Becoming P.T. Lyfantod
If you missed Part 1, start there:
No matter how fast we ran, no matter which clever shortcut we took, there was that fiery glow. There was no lumbering pursuit. No reckless destruction. Only that omnipresent voice, reminding us it could end our suffering whenever we wanted. All we had to do was ask.
The steps appeared out of nowhere. Wide and straight, leading up to a grand facade carved from the cavern wall itself. Ghast’s chuckle was a rockslide. “IS THAT WHERE YOU’RE GOING, FILLIWICK? OUT OF THE FIRE AND INTO THAT BLACK POT?” He laughed and laughed.
We climbed in a gasping line, spurred on by terror. At the top a doorway waited—passage back into the dark. I mounted the final step and staggered the final stretch to safety. Ghast couldn’t follow where we went, but his laughter did.
We’d scarcely caught our breath when Filliwick, disembodied once more, said, “Now our real test begins. Sing like you mean it. And whatever you do, you mustn’t let the light go out.” His words were punctuated by a faraway howl, coming unmistakably from somewhere deeper in.
“What—”
“Sing!”
He began his song again, with feeling, and one by one we joined him. The darkness lay as thick as ever. But as we rounded out the second chorus, a soft golden glow bloomed around us. Merry’s face left no doubt who was responsible. Filliwick nodded grimly and started down a dusty corridor fit for elephants.
I watched with mounting frustration as our sphere brightened, and looks of unexpected delight replaced the fear on my friends’ faces. I willed my spell to work with the fraction of consciousness left over from following Filliwick’s words and wondering what horrors waited out of sight. We must’ve sung a dozen different verses before a smile bubbled unbidden from somewhere in my chest. It was a slippery feeling, but I grasped at it, till suddenly, like blinds thrown open in a dark room, light burst forth around me, the honeyed sunshine of my soul.
I was feeling strangely ebullient when a seventh booming voice joined ours, and we rounded the corner to find Cyril Lightfoot smiling at the center of a miniature sun, hands raised in welcome. We sang the chorus together one final time, and as Lightfoot fell silent, so did we. Darkness enveloped us like a cloak. Someone screamed, but I’m certain it wasn’t me.
Scritch scritch. Flame blossomed in Lightfoot’s hands. He held up a candle. A candle.
“Don’t you have… magic for that?” asked Tom.
Lightfoot smiled apologetically, weak candlelight glinting off his silvery cheeks. “An unfortunate downside of bardic magic. It’s extremely difficult to sing and carry on a conversation at the same time. You’ve no idea how often I’ve wished for a second head.” His moustaches twitched. “I’m very pleased to see you five.” He raised his taper. “And you, Filliwick. Fine work, as ever.”
We goggled as he shuffled forward, offering Lightfoot a deferential bow. “Merely honoring our agreement.”
Agreement?
“And admirably. I expect you’ll be wanting—”
Filliwick nodded. “Yessir. If it please you.”
Lightfoot turned and inclined his head. “It isn’t far.”
Trailing them through the eerie halls, it wasn’t long before I spied a familiar cool flicker playing on an approaching wall. Expecting Godwyn, I nearly fell over when we came instead upon a tiny skeleton, dressed in Filliwick’s clothes, gold coins spilling from a tattered sack in his lap, and… a burning candle on his head. Filliwick watched eagerly as Lightfoot bent, cupping the unnatural flame, but the bard paused, glancing back at him fondly. “Until we meet again.”
“Aye, till then,” Filliwick agreed, and Lightfoot blew. As flame died, our smiling guide winked out of existence as if he’d never been.
“He—he was dead?” mumbled Tom.
Iain gaped. “You mean this was all—”
“BUUUUAAAAAGH!” Spectral light flared behind us. Merry screamed. Stuart shrieked. Even Lightfoot cried out. I shut my eyes and waited for the end. If Cyril Lightfoot was afraid, we were surely doomed. Any moment, some monstrosity would bury its teeth in my stomach. Blood thundered in my ears. Then, from somewhere overhead, the unmistakable sound… of laughter.
I opened my eyes.
“Godwyn!” Lightfoot barked, hawthorn sprig wobbling. “How many times have I told you not to do that?” The imp floated past clutching his sides, candle flame quivering as he rocked back and forth with mirth.
“What?” Godwyn wheezed. “I’m merely demonstrating how frightful Fomorians can be.”
Lightfoot waved us closer, forcibly softening his grimace. “Gather round, all of you, that I might look upon your shining faces. I am pleased to see you. It’s no mean task, getting here. Conquering your fear—”
“Conquering?” Godwyn scoffed. “They’ve no more conquered fear than old man Fizzledorf conquered the Green Mountain! I need but pound my drum and—”
“I knew it was you!” Tom shouted, and Godwyn beamed.
“Yes, well. It's really the only instrument he can play,” Lightfoot said. “You’d think he’d take naturally to the lyre, given his cherubic appearance—”
“Got no interest in your stinkin’ harp!” Godwyn spat. “Besides, the big drum is fun.”
Just then, a strident crowing echoed through the halls. The grin slid from Godwyn’s face, and our heads swiveled toward the sound. “What was that?” Merry whispered.
“The reason we’re here,” Lightfoot replied. “Follow me.”
Chapter Twenty:
A Familiar Song
“What’re you writing?” Rudy asked.
“It’s the song, stupid,” answered Coira.
“If I’m to teach you the notes, I need you to remember the words while I play. Now hold on…”
“There. Now I’m going to run through a couple verses on my trumpet. Just read along for now.”
“Go on then.”
“Have you fixed it in your minds? Good. Now sing along as I play. As you do, will the light to appear, with all your might. On three. One, two…”
“Good, Rudy! Good, Coira! You’ve almost got it, now once more. With feeling!”
“We’re doing it!”
“It’s working! Hey—where’d the light go?”
Lightfoot’s bare feet slapped against the floor as he led us down a maze of twisting tunnels, deeper into the heart of… wherever we were. “Fear is one of the most formidable adversaries you’ll ever face,” he told us as we walked. “There’s no escaping it. And as you have perhaps begun to see, we who fight for the light must sometimes walk blindly into the dark. But you’ve shown perseverance, even in the face of uncertainty. I could not teach you that.”
“The song,” said Iain, “you wrote it?”
The bard nodded. “It has seen me through many a shadowed place.
“And Filliwick…?”
“Agreed to assist in my search for worthy disciples in exchange for aid I provided him long ago.”
“What sort of aid?”
“That must remain between me and him.”
Out in the darkness, something roared. “Earlier…” said Stuart, “Filliwick told us we mustn’t let our light go out. Should we be… worried?”
“Not at all—” Lightfoot frowned. “Where the devil has Godwyn got to?”
Looking around, I discovered that Godwyn had, in fact, vanished. When had he gone?
Lightfoot shook his head. “I should’ve known. He doesn’t like it down here.”
“I don’t like it down here,” muttered Iain.
The path branched and Lightfoot stopped, stroking his moustaches. “Bards are supposed to have good memories,” I whispered to Stuart. “You don’t think he expects us to find our way out of here…?” Stuart’s eyes went wide, and I immediately regretted the question.
Something mewled from the tunnel on the right. “Ah. It’s this way.”
The longer we walked, the louder the noises grew. Though still distant, they were getting closer, till in the middle of a rubble-strewn corridor, Lightfoot stopped us with a raised hand. His candlelight revealed a fissure, a jagged crack in the wall just wide enough for a grown man to squeeze through. That’s precisely what he did.
