The Gray Tower (Being Rewritten as The Erstwhile Druid)

Chapter 9: Shadowy Whisper

Luke entered the tower and promptly stepped to the right, leaning against the stone wall. It was cold to the touch, sucking away his warmth. The thumping wouldn’t stop, rhythm erratic. He felt sick, both mentally and physically. Take a couple deep breaths. Inhale, exhale. Think good thoughts.

Master, I didn’t know you could get scared, Silver said, ivory orbs peering through his facade. She could see right through him, past the brave front he'd erected for Noelle.

“I’m not scared. I’m just nervous,” Luke muttered. “How can you talk anyways? And if you could why didn’t you say anything the whole two years we’ve been together?”

Silver continued staring. I was always talking. You just didn’t hear.

“Are you saying that it was my fault, that our bond wasn’t strong enough?”

No, something has changed. I can feel it. The way I perceive myself and you is… different. I have a will, and each thought connects coherently to the next.

Luke snorted. “You’ve always been fairly smart. Else you wouldn’t have been able to sneak treats from my pack when I wasn’t looking.”

I promise you this is different. All your treats now belong to me. The wolf licked his hand. Be careful, Master. Whatever attacked those two guards may still be here.

Luke silently answered with a nod. A minute in the darkness had allowed time for his eyes to adjust. He walked forward, down a long, lonely hallway. Something squeaked in the shadows. Rats.

The hallway continued, leading him deeper into the unknown; if this wasn’t a straight path, it would’ve been possible for him to get lost.

Soon the hallway ended, extending into a large room. He could make out bookshelves on the far wall, and a weapon rack on the left. In the middle was the faint outline of a table. A shape lay upon it, though Luke could not make out any details. To the right was a spiral staircase that likely led to the gate's ramparts. Next to the staircase was a door, tendrils of light seeping through cracks in the material.

There was a constant dripping that was starting to drive Luke to madness. It continued, like a leaky faucet that couldn't be fixed. The beat was steady, as if a composer was leading the infernal sound.

I need a light source. Luke held out his hand, still moist with anxiety. He scoured his mind for an image, this time of fireflies dancing in the night.

Almost immediately a glowing jar materialized in his palm. Within the jar were three orange glimmers, each giving off a warm radiance.

“And let there be light,” Luke whispered, bemused. His whisper echoed, spiraling toward the top of the tower, barely audible to the human ear. The druid removed the cork with a pop. Twirling mischievously, the three fireflies left their home and hovered about Luke, illuminating the vicinity.

The lighting problem solved, Luke decided to take in the surroundings, which he instantly regretted. A quick glance at the table invited a heaving fit. Silver daintily toed away from the puke splattering against the floor. The sour smell remained, mixing with the strong stench of iron and old air.

“What happened to him?” Luke wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, fighting the urge to spew again.

A gruesome scene awaited. On the table lay a body completely covered in blood. He couldn't make out the skin color, nor the type of armor the dead man wore. Crimson liquid trickled from the table, drops congealing into pools of sticky scarlet.

Hesitantly, Luke approached the table. Gross. Luke gingerly stepped around the pools, strategically avoiding the gore. He stuck out two fingers and placed them on the man's neck. Please, let him be alive.