Inch by inch, Oak dragged himself and Geezer atop the base of the tower. He panted for breath and wiped the sweat from his brow as he let Geezer loose from the harness and stowed the ropes away to his rucksack.

That was not too bad, but I am not looking forward to doing it again anytime soon.

The climb had gone smoothly enough, and they had not run into any surprises on the approach. A strange foreboding apprehension had built as they got closer and closer to the palace, but the compulsion to turn back had not taken hold.

Ashmedai had warned him of the enchantment around the palace. The demon had assured it would not cause trouble, since he was a Warlock and had demonic essence flowing through his soul. Geezer was not affected either, for similar reasons. Enchanting a hellhound was a fool's errand.

It was calm, peaceful even. In a way, they were currently in one of the safest places in the entire city, since the enchantment kept the monsters away from the palace.

They walked up the shining crescent, towards the middle section of the complex. Below their feet was the favorite summer palace of Empress Aoibheann in all of its glory, a stunning statement of the wealth and splendor of ages past, sticking almost vertically out from the wall of the sphere that was Ma’aseh Merkavah.

Gardens dotted with wooden pavilions, seven white towers and more columns and arches of silver glass than the rest of the city put together. Or so it at least felt, looking at it up close. Oak could admit to himself that he was a bit uncomfortable. This was very far from his usual locale.

Climbing through the front door had felt a touch too brazen even for him, and so he had decided it would be best to enter from above and search for a convenient window at the back of the palace. Oak knew little about ballrooms, but he had figured that if the summer palace had one, it stood to reason it might be a big room indeed. And who wanted to have a ballroom without windows?

Now that they were walking on the back wall of the palace, Oak could see there had been no reason to worry about gaining entry. There were large open windows everywhere. When they reached the base of the central tower, he chose one that led to a large side room next to the ballroom, and lowered himself inside. Geezer was not far behind.

The palace was almost utterly silent. Almost. There was a faint drip of water somewhere below them, maybe close to the main entrance to the ballroom. With their eyes peeled for trouble and ears open for the tiniest sound that might disturb the stale air of the palace, Oak and Geezer climbed downwards.

They passed through rooms in different states of chaos and disrepair. A painting room filled with stands and different brushes and pens. A tea room with pink walls, small cute tables and couches, and pillows that had surely been sinfully soft three hundred years prior, now all piled up on top of each other against the wall that had become a floor, when everything up here turned sideways.

There was even a bathhouse with luxurious looking tubs and pools on the first floor of the palace, but sadly there was no water anywhere inside, which was a shame. Oak did not dare to sniff his own armpits, but he was surely in need of a bath. Or two.

In no time at all, they were close to the source of dripping water. Drip, drop, drip, drop. The sound had only grown louder as they approached. Oak opened a door which led to the ballroom itself and looked down. It was only about a six-feet drop to the wall of the ballroom, so after making sure the coast was clear, he hopped down and Geezer followed.

Right in front of the main entrance, sticking straight up from the white marble wall, was a large pillar of black stone. And imprisoned inside the stone so that only their head was sticking out into the open air, was the oldest elf Oak had ever seen. Not that he had seen many elves, but he had never even heard of an elf that looked old, and this one did.

The only reason he was sure the man was an elf in the first place, despite his wrinkles, were the pointed ears framing his bald head.

In front of the elf was a stone basin filled with water and the black stone covering his body curved over the basin, droplets of water dripping to the basin from the stone in a steady rhythm.

Is the bastard even alive? Oak furrowed his brow as he stared at the unmoving face of the prisoner. Does he draw breath? Did I really climb all this way only to find a stiff corpse?

“Hello,” Oak said. “Hello!”

The elf was as still as a statue. He did not even twitch.

Oak walked closer and shouted again. There was no response. He stepped up, leaning closer to get a better look at the imprisoned elf, and sniffed. It did not smell like rotting meat, but he was no expert on what dead elves were supposed to smell like.

Slowly, and carefully, he poked the elf in the cheek. The skin felt like dry, cold parchment. The denizen of the stone did not wake.

“Damn it all.” Oak cursed. The elf was dead.

He sat down on the wall, head in his hands. Everything he had discussed with Ashmedai had relied on the fact that the soul he was here to save was still alive. What was he supposed to do now? How was he ever going to find a way out of the City of God without a guide?

Geezer stood up against the black stone pillar on two legs and sniffed the corpse.

“Let the dead elf be,” Oak said, and turned to shoo Geezer away. “We should not disturb his rest further.”

The hellhound licked the elf’s nose, and the prisoner's gray eyes opened wide in shock.

“Oh, sweet baby Samael!” Oak shouted, and scrambled back from the pillar.

It seemed the elf was alive, after all. Geezer had earned an extra large dinner portion. The hellhound wagged his tail, clearly pleased with himself.

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“Well, this is certainly surprising. You are not one of my jailors,” the elf whispered. His voice was as dry as the desert wind, and the mere act of speaking seemed to cause him great pain. His lips were horribly chapped, and they bled as he talked, blood staining the needle sharp teeth in his mouth.

By the Hells. I am glad that he is still alive and kicking, even if he looks like a desiccated cadaver.

“No, I am no one's jailor,” Oak said. “In fact, we are here to free you. My name is Oak and my four-legged companion is called Geezer. What is your name, so that I might address you properly?”

Despite the pain it had to cause him, the elf smiled. He was so thin that for a second Oak feared the mere act of smiling might push his high cheekbones right through the wrinkled skin.

“Oak. Hmm. A savage of the Northlands, are you not? How delightful. I always found your kind a straightforward lot.”

Oak raised an eyebrow and scoffed. “Who are you to call me a savage, skeleton?”

The elf giggled, but it sounded like he was coughing up a pile of sand. “Where are my manners? You are, of course correct, I am in no position to offer insult. Apologies. I am Ur-Namma of the tribe of Shara, brother of Empress Aoibheann,” the elf said. “The general of her armies.”

Oak swallowed. “Well met, Ur-Namma of the Tribe of Shara.”

The elf nodded. “Well met indeed. Now, what type of man sets out to save a soul whose name he does not know?”

“We are here to fulfill an oath,” Oak said. “Ashmedai’s oath to aid you in your hour of need, to be precise.”

“Huh. It certainly pays to have friends in low places,” Ur-Namma whispered. “It is delightfully ironic that it would be Ashmedai of all demons who frees me from this stone.”

“Now that you mention it, I see the irony.” Oak shrugged. “Maybe his own stint banished inside a rock made him sympathetic?”

He stood up from the floor and examined the stone pillar for any weak points. There had to be some way to get Ur-Namma out of his prison.

“You mentioned jailors. How much time do you think we have before someone comes to check on you? And do you have any ideas about how we might get you out of that stone?” Oak asked, rubbing his beard as he wracked his brain for a solution. “Ashmedai told me freeing you would be very easy, but now that I am here, it does not seem easy at all.”

“You need not worry, warrior of the North,” Ur-Namma replied. “My jailors are elves, though I would not call those traitors and fools my kin. Yam-Nahar gave the task of guarding me to Namtar, Dumuzi and Gestianna, and they were fairly dutiful for the first fifty years of my torment. After that, even the threat of the dragon's wrath, should I somehow escape, could not keep them in their task.”

“Nowadays one of them comes to check on me rarely and it has been a couple of years since they last came. I have been a prisoner here for over three hundred years and we elves grow easily bored.”

Ur-Namma had to pause as he coughed, clearly unused to talking.

“Elves?” Oak asked in surprise.

“Sadly yes. The one hundred traitors, now ensnared to Yam-Nahar’s will,” Ur-Namma whispered. “Just like my fool of a sister was.” Sorrow entered his gaze, and the elf looked away.

“As to how you might free me, that is indeed easy to do,” Ur-Namma said. “What do you know about curses?”

Oak frowned. “Not much, I am no spellsinger.”

“Then we are in luck, since no magic is required. As a rule of thumb, the easier it is for someone else to break a curse afflicting a person, the harder it will be for the person afflicted to break the curse without aid,” Ur-Namma whispered, and coughed again, his wrinkled features twisting in pain.

Oak truly felt for the elf, but he did not quite know how to express it, so he stayed quiet and let Ur-Namma gather himself.

“Yam-Nahar cursed me to languish inside this stone until someone gives me water from that basin in front of me,” Ur-Namma said. A feverish look of longing had now replaced the earlier sorrow in his eyes. “Please, give me water. I have not drank or eaten in over three hundred years. And every single day my salvation has been right in front of me, but out of my reach.”

Ur-Namma shuddered. “Oh, how my jailors tortured and debased me at first. Promising to give me just a little water if I amused them. Sometimes I broke, even though I knew in my heart of hearts that they would never give me what I wanted. It was a relief when they grew bored with me.”

Hearing the elf’s plea, Oak stepped forward. He cupped his hands and dipped them into the basin. The water was pleasantly cool and impossibly clear. Using his hands as a container, Oak brought water to Ur-Namma’s chapped lips and poured it into the elf’s mouth.

Ur-Namma shuddered in ecstasy and relief. Oak figured out he wanted more without asking, and brought him another mouthful. And another. With every sip of water Ur-Namma drank, more of him flowed free from the stone until the black stone pillar finally relinquished its hold on the elf. Ur-Namma collapsed on his knees, for his feet could not hold even the weight of his skeletal body.

The elf was so thin every bone inside his body was showing through the skin. Filthy rags covered his skeletal form in patches, and the result left him looking so pitiful that being naked might have been an improvement.

Oak lifted the elf on his shoulder like a bag of flour and started looking for a suitable resting place, since it looked like they might need to stay put for at least a short while so Ur-Namma could get his feet under him.

Geezer seemed to find the events of the last few minutes strange, since the dog was looking back and forth between the black stone pillar and the elf, turning his head sideways like dogs were wont to do when they were confused.

“Thank you, Oak.” The elf wept and tried to unsuccessfully wipe his tears with arms that did not seem to remember how they were supposed to work. “I will remember this, no matter what lies ahead.”

A blush crept on Oak’s cheeks, and he was glad the elf could not witness his discomfort. He had never been good at accepting thanks or praise. “Don’t mention it, though I am truly glad me and Geezer could be of assistance. I doubt you could find many in all of Pairi-Daeza who would deserve your rotten fate.”

“Maybe,” Ur-Namma said, and his voice had a nasty edge to it. “Some names do come to mind.”

“I think I can guess the first three,” Oak muttered, a grin slipping on his face.

“Oh, do you perhaps want a parade in your name for that spectacular piece of deduction?” Ur-Namma asked. “Truly, I am being carried by a genius, a specimen whose intellect is only dwarfed by his untarnished honor and witty sense of humor.”

“I resent the implications of your tirade. By the way, did you know that sarcasm is widely considered the lowest form of wit these days?” Oak asked, grin widening. “I thought an old-timer like yourself should know.”

He opened a door to a room that had maybe once been a lady’s dressing room and decided it was good enough for their purposes.

“My age is nothing but a tremendous accomplishment,” Ur-Namma hissed.

Getting them all through the sideways door almost five feet off the ground was a bit of a challenge, but Oak managed it and, in short order, they were all inside the dressing room. He set Ur-Namma on the ground so he could take a candle or two and some food and water out of his rucksack.

Geezer took the opportunity and licked Ur-Namma’s face, utterly unbothered by the elf’s feeble attempts to ward him off.

“Please return me inside the stone. I was happier there,” Ur-Namma whispered, but Oak could see he was trying very hard not to smile.