Ok, so this is an idea I came up with for a RPG site I'm on that was having a contest. It was supposed to just be a short story but it kind of spiraled out of control...It just had so many Treasure Island (which I adore, by the way) parallels that I thought I would be at home here. The contest had three requirements:
An ivory key
An underground house of some sort (may vary)
An abandoned village
Please read and review...I want to know what you think!
Contrary to most of my stories here, this one is almost entirely MINE. Do not steal, oryou will have to retrieve your plagarizing head from an inappropriate location.
Enjoy!
"Gerroff!"
"Say uncle!"
"Never! Ow! Gerroff, Lana!"
"Say UNCLE, Robbie, and all of your pain can end…"
"Uncle! Uncle!" Robbie moaned, and she tossed him back into the mud. He rubbed his arm, gazing at his cousin in contempt. He stood, trying to shake the cold, stinking mud of the millpond off of his clothes.
"You've got a bit of dirt, Robbie. Just there," she said teasingly, putting her finger on her nose.
"Oh, go to hell," he muttered, chucking a clod of mud at her. Lana caught it full in the stomach and grunted, doubling over. He waded over to her, concerned. "Lana? You alright?" He bent down, trying to look at her face to see if she was crying.
"Gotcha!" she hollered, and wrapped her arm around his neck in a tight headlock. The pair rolled back into the mud, laughing and tussling until both were thoroughly covered in muck.
"Robert! Lana! Gods above, children, you're a mess!" came a voice, just as Lana was shoving Robbie's face back into the mud.
"Iron Annie," Lana hissed, pulling Robbie to his feet. "Come on, quick!"
The two hurried out of the pond and up the hill towards their aunt, sister to Robbie's mother and Lana's father. She was a big woman, almost as big around as she was tall, and the fiefdom of Caceril had been her home since she was born. She was a powerful voice in the village…no one disagreed with Iron Annie for long.
She beckoned them quickly, rubbing her hands nervously in her skirt. "Come on! He wants to see you. No, don't go change, he might not last much longer," she choked, a tear coming to her eye. Robbie and Lana glanced at each other; surely Iron Annie wasn't crying?
They shuffled off after her, heads bent. Great-grandpa Lymo's fever must be getting worse.
The walked silently into the healer's hut, blinking against the fragrant smoke rising from the fire pit. The village healer, Tharnad, shook her head as they passed, dipping another rag into the boiling water. She placed it up under his chin, but he flung it away. It spun across the hut, landing with a wet slap against the Elanwood walls. The children glanced at each other, grinning. Grandpa wasn't gone yet.
"Annie? Did you bring them?" he grunted, his blind eyes covered by a steaming rag. The fever had taking many things from the old man; his temper was not one of them. He was one of the few people in all of Caceril (maybe even all of Merderon) that Aunt Annie was afraid of; her grandfather was the oldest man in the village, and certainly the most dangerous.
He had outlived his own sons by twenty years; he had retained his strong, masculine body for nearly all of them. It was rumored that he had fought the Jaragon Marauders at the battle of Killagi Hill, which had taken place nearly one hundred years before. If pressed, Grandpa Lymo would tell you not to be ridiculous and probably throw something. If he liked you.
"Yes, Grandfather," Annie said, ushering the children forward.
"Then get out. You, too, healer. But don't think I'm finished with you, Annie Fletcher!" he grumbled irritably, and Annie and Tharnad scuttled out, leaving Robbie and Lana alone with the old man.
"Robert? Lana?" Grandpa Lymo whispered, clutching their hands. He scowled, feeling their arms until he was sure they were his great-grandchildren, muttering to himself. Then, reassured, he smiled, pulling them in close. "Robbie, Lana…I have something to give you. But first you must promise that you will keep it a secret…promise!" He tugged gently on their arms, and they quickly acquiesced. His toothy smile widened and he released them, clutching his hands together in child-like glee.
"Lana, there, on the table. A jet box, about yea long. Bring it to me," he whispered, his voice low and longing. Lana rushed to do his bidding, while Robbie stood stock-still, excited as to what his ancestor could possibly want of them.
Lana pushed the box into the old man's shaking hands, and he stroked it gently. "Yes…open it, open it!" he commanded, and the girl pried the top off of the case.
Black velvet lined the interior of the little box, the most expensive fabric the children had ever seen. Nestled in the center of the cloth was a long, bone-white ivory key with a single, blood-red ruby on the grip.
"Amazing, isn't it? It was given to me by the captain of the Jaragon Marauders…yes, I was there," he said, nodding briskly. "One night after the battle, when I was on guard, he started talking, telling me a story. About Opialus." He nodded proudly. "Yes…he claimed to have a key, a key to the fabled burial chamber of King Harriam, who was ancient even before my father's time." Robbie brushed the key with his fingers, ever so lightly.
"Do not touch it!" the old man exclaimed, as though sensing his offspring's actions. "There is a spell laid on it, of a power I cannot understand…though I was once proficient in magic." He shook his head sadly. "You must keep it in the box, unless you can find a way to lift the spell…" He broke into a fit of coughing, his thin body racked with pain.
"Grandpa?" Lana asked, grabbing a boiled rag and dabbing his face with it. "Grandpa, are you alright?"
The fit subsided. He sighed, trying to catch his breath. "Sweet Lana…always have you been good to me. You and Robbie. That is why I chose you. Never pestering, never chastising. You are good kids," Lymo said, patting her on the cheek. "It is under the Elanwood tree, Lana. Next to the mews. You will know it…by the light of Cantrell," he continued, his breath coming in gasps now. "The map…take it!"
"What map? Take what map?" Robbie pressed, holding the old man's hand tightly.
"Under the pillow…take it!"
Robbie reached gently beneath Lymo's head, his hand closing over a worn strip of vellum. He drew his hand out, placing the map in his pocket.
"Soon, children! Soon! Cantrell…only now…the map…" Lymo murmured, the rag slipping from his eyes as he moved, the unseeing pupils fixed upon the door. "Go! You must hurry!"
"We will wait with you, Grandpa," Lana said, patting his forehead with the cloth.
"There is no time! Go! Run into the forest!"
Someone pounded on the door. "Master Lymo, are you alright in there?"
"They are coming! Quickly, out the chimney!
"What?"
"Go! Go now…" Grandpa Lymo mumbled, his voice trailing off. Then he stopped moving, his uncovered eye glaring at the ceiling.
"Lymo! Lymo, open up in there!" The voice was unfamiliar, coarse, and accented. "Lymo!" The door began to shudder, as though something (or someone) large was slamming itself against it.
Robbie and Lana glanced at each other. "What are we going to do?" Lana whispered, clutching the box. Robbie glanced around, and began dragging the small table towards the center of the hut.
"Robbie, this is no time to rearrange the furniture! Somebody's trying to get it in here; I certainly don't know them…"
"That's because they're not from around here. That's a Jaragon accent; I've heard them at Market with my Da. Help me!" Robbie growled, dragging the heavily table over the fire pit. "Come on we're going."
"What are you doing? Where are we going? Jaragons!" Lana whispered angrily, hardly noticing as her cousin hauled himself up onto the table.
"We're going after the treasure, of course. Through the chimney."
"What?"
"That's what Grandpa Lymo said to do…unless you're planning on hacking your way through a Jaragon. Come on, gimme your hand," he said, reaching down for her. She dropped the box into the pocket of her dress then jumped up on to the table.
"Grab the thatch, there. Quickly, the door is splitting!"
And indeed it was. A long, splintering crack spider-webbed across the thick Elanwood door, threatening to give way at any moment. Lana gave it one fleeting look before pulling herself up into the roof of the hut.
"Come on, come on!" Robbie muttered, pushing her feet up through the hole. Then he reached up into the straw, grasping Lana's hand as she pulled him up.
A great echoing crash signaled the demise of the door, and three Jaragon Marauders rushed into the healer's hut, swords drawn.
"He is dead," said the largest, poking the warm corpse with his scimitar. The others crowded around the bed, gazing at their deceased quarry. A fourth Jaragon strode in, an air of command hovering about him like a foul smell. He gave the bed a single glance from under his bushy black eyebrows, then drew a knife from his belt and hurled it into Lymo's still chest.
"Now he is dead," he murmured, brushing a small bead of blood from his captain's cloak.
Tharnad stood at the door, holding back the rest of the village. She buried her face in her hands at this proclamation, sobbing.
"He is dead! They have killed him!" she cried, turning to face the crowd. The hushed whispers that had accompanied the arrival of Merderon's former allies exploded into a collective wail of lament as the news spread through the village, the cries of "Lymo is dead!" growing louder with every moment.
"The children! Where are the children?" shouted Annie over the anger of the crowd as she pushed her way up next to Tharnad. "Robbie and Lana, where are they?"
"It's not here, sir," said one of the Jaragons, cutting her off. The captain gazed around the hut, signaling for Annie to be silenced. One of the Marauders held a knife to her throat, and she quieted.
"Children…" the captain said to himself, his eyes resting on the large table. A scattering of hay lay in heap in the center, directly below the smoke hole.
"The rooftops. Find them, and bring them to me," he commanded, gesturing for Annie to be released. "Lieutenant, you and your men round up the villagers and begin the selection. I will join you momentarily."
"As you command, so shall it be, Captain Kelior," the lieutenant saluted, forcing Annie and Tharnad away from the door.
Kelior closed his dark eyes, waiting until the door shut behind him. He then approached the bed, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
"Well met, Lymo the Wilder. But sending your offspring after the staff will only prolong the inevitable. Remember that." Reaching across the dead man's stomach, he wrenched the knife from Lymo's breastbone. "And your magic won't save them this time."