Free The Death of Yorik Mortwell by Stephen Messer

carried. “It’s the middle of the night.”
    “I made Lord Ravenby eat something,” retorted Susan. “He is ill, and no one else has brought him any food.”
    The Matron laughed. “Do as you like. But youshouldn’t stay here, you know. You should flee the Estate with the others. Wicked ways are afoot.”
    “No,” said Susan. “Someone must care for Lord Ravenby, whatever else might happen.”
    The Matron’s lip curled as her Dark Ones whispered. For a moment she leaned over Susan. Then she pushed past the girl and stomped away.
    Yorik slipped into the shadows behind Thomas.
    “Thomas,” he said, laying a hand on the boy’s shoulder.
    Thomas turned, startled. “Yrk!”
    Susan hurried away toward the kitchens, the supper dishes clattering on the tray.
    Thomas started after her. “Szz.”
    “No,” said Yorik. “Thomas, listen. I spent weeks watching out for Susan too, just as you did before you died.”
    Thomas stopped and looked at Yorik.
    “Yes, I saw you,” said Yorik. “I’d been told you were going to murder her. But I realized that was a lie.”
    “Blb!”
    “I followed her everywhere,” said Yorik. “TheDark Ones told her terrible things. They told her Lord Ravenby was going to turn her out into the snow, and she should slip poison into his drink.”
    “Glg,” burbled Thomas angrily.
    Yorik shook his head. “None of it worked. She is strong, like your father. Maybe even stronger.”
    “Fa—” croaked Thomas, lurching toward the study.
    “Wait,” said Yorik, grasping his arm. “Thomas, there is only one way to help them now. We have to find a way to defeat the Dark Ones. I believe you know something more about them.” He gave Thomas a searching look. “I need to know what happened.”
    “N—!” said Thomas, shaking.
    “You must tell me!” ordered Yorik sharply. “Little time remains.”
    Thomas shrank away.
    Yorik paused, thinking of the Princess’s terrible shame. “I know it’s hard,” he said, more gently now, releasing Thomas. “But you must tell me, for your father. And for my sister too.”
    Thomas nodded. His broken neck turned thenod into an odd bow. And then, his face grim, he shuffled forward, leading Yorik along halls and down narrow stairways, into the depths of the Manor.
    Down, deep down, below the servants’ quarters, below the wine cellars to the cold rooms where meat was stored. Down, to unlit passages where old things lay hidden under layers of dust, to deep levels of the subterranean Manor basements where no one had set foot for years. Or so Yorik thought at first. But as the dust thickened, Yorik discerned a trail of footprints. Here in the still air of these rooms, the footprints were undisturbed.
    In a dank passage at the dead end of the deepest basement was an antiquated iron door, rusted and ajar. Beside it in the churned-up dust were tools—scattered mallets, pry bars, and expired torches. Someone had recently pried open the door.
    As Yorik puzzled over this, he heard sounds: hammering, the groans of protesting iron—and a boy crying. The sounds came from directly in front of him.
Dead echoes
, he realized. Echoes of what had happened here, not long ago.
    Behind the door was a stone wall. On it was an inscription too old to read. Some of the stones had been smashed away, and behind them a narrow passage veered deeper down.
    Yorik looked at Thomas. He could only imagine how this must have seemed to a living boy—the depths, the cold darkness, the utter silence—as he worked long, dark hours to open these sealed paths.
    They moved through the stone wall and walked along the passage, followed by the dead echoes of whispers and tears and crackling torches. Soon they passed windows in the walls. The windows had bits of shattered colored glass in them.
    “I saw this building before,” said Yorik. “Ten thousand years ago.” He told Erde’s story to Thomas as they went.
    Thomas, nodding, pulled Yorik farther down the passage. In an alcove, Thomas