Oli stared at the iron gates, half-drawn, a case of clinking bottles in hand. The wine was rare for the season, but he’d managed to find a merchant willing to part with a private stock. It had taken most of the day.

  Now he stood before a curious problem: the half-drawn gate.

  The castle yards followed strict routine. Gates lowered with the sun and rose at first light. No exceptions. The lesson had been carved into law after the rebellion that brought the present king to power. One he would never allow to be used against him.

  Which left Oli’s mind spinning. Intruders? A signal? Some kind of ploy?

  He hesitated until he saw the guards along the upper walls, facing outward. If something were wrong, they would be turned inward toward the yards.

  “I suppose I’ll proceed then,” Oli murmured, ducking beneath the gate. He twisted sideways, studying the mechanism as he passed, wondering if some hidden fault had jammed it.

  Khsk!

  One bottle slipped from the crate and shattered against the silence of the yard. Oli winced and crouched to gather the mess. As he did, he slowed, waiting for a barked curse from the walls.

  None came. The guards did not move.

  “And here I could be some barbarian stumbling through the gate—,” he whispered, “—sword and bottle in hand.”

  He continued across the training yard, the sun’s last light fading behind the stone walls. Darkness settled quickly, bringing new unease.

  The yard was far dimmer than usual. Only a handful of torches burned where there should have been twenty. The path toward the main halls became a journey of blind faith.

  The silence pressed in on him. Still, with that clinking crate, anyone approaching would be heard long before they reached him.

  He stopped before the pitch-dark corridor ahead.

  “Okay, Oli,” he muttered. “You’ve got this. Down the corridor. Through the main hall. Past the throne. Then the war room. There’s always light in the main hall. Get there and the rest is easy.”

  Something was wrong. The castle was a well-tuned machine. Every person bound to purpose and routine. The gate alone was a warning, but an unlit corridor?

  That was neglect. Or worse.

  Yet if disaster had struck, wouldn’t there be chaos? Runners sprinting. Knights shouting.

  The absence of that was the only thing that kept him moving. He was near the end of the corridor when a musical tune drifted from the corner ahead.

  “A ball. . . of course.” Relief loosened his shoulders as he turned for the main hall.

  It wasn’t fully lit, but a ribbon of gold stretched across the floor from the glowing ballroom beyond. Oli lingered only long enough to glimpse the moving silhouettes of dancers before continuing toward the marble stairway to the throne room.

  The towering doors stood shut.

  Oli set the crate down and pressed an ear to the oak. Nothing.

  He waited another long moment, dreading the horror of interrupting the king.

  Silence.

  At last, he pushed. The hinges groaned and stopped. The door opened only a handspan. Something blocked it.

  “What is it with this night?” Oli grunted, pushing harder. The gap widened another inch, just enough to drag the crate through.

  He sighed, then gave into stubbornness, yanking the crate this way and that until his grip slipped and fell flat onto the marble.

  He lay there a moment, exhausted, then turned his head to see what barred the door.

  Oli scrambled upright and slammed himself against the opposite door in horror.

  The knights. All of them. Strung up like Sir Dennemon. Frozen mid-battle. Some facing one another. One caught fleeing, arms outstretched. A few positioned as if in pursuit, legs lunging, weapons raised.

  Oli’s body trembled. His mind emptied. Only raw terror remained, waiting for whatever horror had done this to come claim him next.

  Then he saw the corridor to the king’s war room, jammed tight with more headless knights.

  “M-My. . . king,” Oli whispered.

  Courage crawled through the paralysis. He was no towering knight, but if there was even the slightest chance the king lived, he had to know. To abandon him would be treason.

  Oli stepped forward on the balls of his feet, careful not to brush the bodies. They were clearly dead. All heads gone. Yet their poses were too alive. Full of motion. He half-expected a sword to swing if he so much as breathed too loudly.

  Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  The throne chamber itself was easy enough to cross. But facing the war room, doubt tightened his chest.

  It was barely five strides long, wide enough for two knights shoulder-to-shoulder.

  Oli froze. The light leaking through the cracked doorway flickered.

  “Y-your—”

  He clamped both hands over his mouth as four knights turned. Not on their own. The steel wires had tightened around their limbs. Springs stretched. Metal rattled.

  Oli glanced back toward the throne room. Every knight there had turned to face him, then gone still again. His eyes fixed on the wires fastened into their armor.

  Was Osric right? Was this truly the Chuckle Grim or some cruel ruse?

  Another crash sounded from within the war room. Furniture scraping. Something striking stone.

  The throne knights lurched toward the doorway. The corridor knights tightened together. His escape was vanishing.

  Oli clenched his fists. No, I must see the king.

  Using the clatter of the knights’ jerking movements as cover, Oli ran for the corridor.

  A sword swung. He ducked, dove, then rolled through the doorway, slamming it shut and notching the wooden brace in place.

  Weapons hammered the other side. Then silence swallowed them once more.

  “Oliander,” came the king’s frail voice.

  Oli rushed around the map table.

  The king stood by the hearth, propped upright by his sword, blood pooling beneath him.

  “No,” the king barked, raising a bloodied hand.

  “Your gr—”

  The king slammed his blade tip against the stone. “Quiet, boy. This evil still lurks. It has taken everyone.” He coughed.

  Something was wrong. Oli stared. The king’s skin had. . . hardened.

  Where weathered-flesh once sagged, wood-grain lines now ran. Dark seams threaded through them.

  Wood. . . like the marionette. . .

  The king groaned. Steel wires coiled around his limbs. One catching the hilt of his sword before it could fall.

  “Run, boy. Flee. I command it.” The king choked as a wire looped around his throat.

  Oli spun wildly, searching for a weapon.

  A giggle whispered from the rafters. The wires lifted the king into a nest of shadows.

  “Your grace!” Oli cried.

  The king jerked once. “Flee boy, flee!” His lips forced the words out before the wood sealed them.

  The rafters shifted and a collection of wooden masks dropped.

  Oli’s soul nearly fled his body.

  They were the missing heads. All turned like the king’s. Sir Dennemon. Gillian. Their smiles twisted in frozen agony.

  Pop. Clack.

  The king’s head snapped free and struck the stone. The strangled wires finished their work.

  Another giggle rippled through the rafters. This time the knights’ heads joined it. The laughter swelled.

  Then it appeared. Chuckle Grim descended.

  Its jester garb had become a living shadow, darkness curling and breathing across its form. Only its wooden mask and ruined feet remained bare.

  It bent to lift the fallen king’s head.

  Oli knew he needed to move. To run. Anything to get as far away as possible. He glanced around.

  To his front: Chuckle Grim, hearth, and stone. Behind, the marionette’s collection of dead ends. The corridor sealed and throne room lost. Left, stone wall. Right—

  The balcony!

  He’d forgotten. The war room had once been the living chambers of the previous king, but the latest had made many enemies with his rebellion. Enough to demand the war room. One entry, one exit. It was a simple and practical solution, bolting off the balcony’s doorway with a bookshelf. Plenty enough to stop assassins, but not a wizard’s apprentice.

  Oli gripped the onyx jewel in his pocket.

  A blasting spell will leave me vulnerable. . .

  He looked back. The Chuckle Grim was threading shadow through the king’s head. Soon it would join the others in the rafters.

  Fear steadied into calculation.

  Use the fire from the hearth. Guide it instead of create. That should leave me enough to survive the jump. Then I’m out of here.

  For a foolish heartbeat, he considered blasting the creature. One look at the scorch marks around its ankles and the thought had fled.

  No. It’s clear others have tried and failed. Just survive, Oli.

  He counted the steps. The motions. The timing. He played it through and rehearsed his flight.

  The Chuckle Grim was still distracted, now arranging the king’s body.

  Now or never!

  He willed magic through the jewel and ran. Flames tore from the hearth, compressing into his palm. The jewel hissed, burning flesh as magic roared through it.

  Behind him, the Chuckle Grim giggled then wretched like someone had stolen its food straight from its gullet. Boots slammed and swords dragged closer.

  “Farewell, your grace,” Oli whispered, then unleashed the swirling gob of fire.

  The bookshelf exploded, the black smoke escaping into the open air.

  First step. Now, the leap.

  He burst through the smouldering wall, vaulted the railing, then fell.

  Woosh. Thump.

  The hay kept him alive, but the wood floor of the cart left him gasping.

  He looked up. The war room burned, but the Chuckle Grim did not follow.

  Relief lasted but one breath.

  Clomp-clomp. Clomp-clomp.

  “The guards. . . ” Oli grumbled. They were on the move.

  The main gate was the obvious direction. One he’d expect most to choose, but once more, there were benefits to being the wizard’s apprentice.

  He limped toward the back of the castle. To the stables. There, under the pile of hay in the last stall, was the old tunnel. A smuggler’s path.

  Oli scrambled to clear the door, then paused.

  With another hobble, he unlatched and freed the horses. All but the runt. The one that could weasel the tunnel with him. With luck, the others would buy him time.

  Hooves thundered against cobblestone and metal clashed in the yards behind him. He lifted the old door, horse in hand. The hinges creaked, then fell silent.

  His breath fell mere feet before him. The underground stifling sound and light. The horse nipped at his tunic. Fear settling into it as much as him.

  Then, there was a giggle.

  Far behind him. Quiet. Almost imperceptible, like his mind was playing tricks on him. He wasn’t entirely sure what was and wasn’t real. His head woozy from his spell and escape.

  The horse nudged him, urging Oli on and out of his head.

  “You’re right,” Oli nodded. “Keep moving.”

  They hurried on, then light finally glimmered ahead. Freedom.

  Oli sagged in relief until something growled behind him. It brooded, then belted into laughter.

  The Chuckled Grim had found him.

  He looked back to the last sliver of hope, the light dangling at the end of the tunnel. The horse neighed, fighting him to flee. He released it, more dangerous to keep it reined, then turned.

  Flames crawled and blistered up his arm as he forced one last spell through the cracking jewel. “Just leave me be, damn you!”

  He roared, then unleashed the spell. The firelight revealed the Chuckle Grim back in its jester attire, dragging the king’s sword.

  Oli ran for the light. The warmth of the waking sun brushed his face.

  Then the blast struck and the tunnel collapsed.

  Dirt, ash, and mud smacked against Oli’s back, then buried him beneath. Darkness fell. The light at the end of the tunnel snuffed out.

  here.