Chapter Fifteen
The three men entered a small, compact dining room roughly fifteen paces in length and half as wide. In the center of the room an old mahogany table stood, surrounded by five wooden chairs. Atop the table, on opposite ends, two web-covered candelabra were placed. An old stone fireplace filled the far wall nestled between two cracked wooden doors, and a large mirror hung on the side wall, capturing the reflections of the table, the fireplace, and one door on its surface. A large crack ran the length of the mirror, giving the image a bizarre, distorted view, like a picture of a world splitting at the seams.
Coragan stepped into the room, the torch blazing above his head.
“Shall we use this as a base of operations?” the bounty hunter asked. “We can break up the chairs for firewood, and the table too if needed. If we adjust the mirror, one man ought to be able to guard all three entrances with relative ease while the others sleep.”
“Do you expect something nasty sneaking up on us?” Galladrin asked. He took a careful look around before stepping into the room. For the life of him, he could not shake the uncanny feeling that they were being watched.
“Someone or something killed that man, Rufus,” Coragan replied. “Also, if Arcalian is wandering about and he is deliberately making himself scarce for the other wizards ... he might not take too kindly to our arrival.”
“Ah, I see.” The rogue approached the table, slid his fingers across the ancient wood, feeling the numerous pits and cracks. Reaching out, he gingerly touched a web-enshrouded candelabra, then recoiled as part of the webbing moved. A large grey spider crawled along the tenuous fibers toward the point where the rogue’s fingers had touched, then stopped, blending into the web. The rogue shuddered; he hated spiders. He touched the web again and watched as the spider moved several more inches, then stopped a second time. He drew his rapier, squinting to make out the leggy creature. With blade leveled, he drew a deep breath then thrust. His aim was good, and the spider fell apart in halves; its many legs convulsed spasmodically within its web.
Coragan stepped up to take a look. “Are you bullying the local critters again? It seems a little unfair, a rapier against a spider.”
“You’ll thank me when you have a comfortable sleep,” Galladrin replied, then began twirling his rapier in circles. The spider web clung to his blade, wadding up as it pulled the candelabra over. Soon the bulk of the web hung in a ball on the end of his weapon. He wiped the cottony mass on the leg of the table and then stepped on it for good measure. Reaching down, he wiped the last strands of webbing from the candelabra, and examined the glittering object in the light.
Coragan watched the rogue’s actions the whole while, then spoke. “Comfortable? In here? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Hey, this is silver!” Galladrin exclaimed; he lifted the candelabra closer to the torch.
“Silver?” Coragan asked.
“Yeah. Quick, go wipe off the other one and check it,” Galladrin said. “Be careful, though ... it might have another spider.”
“They’re just spiders—”
“Yes, but they are deadly spiders.”
All three men looked to the source of the voice. A woman stood in one of the far doorways with her hand resting on the door frame. About her head, her hair swirled in a mass of golden locks.
Borak studied the woman, then took a cautious step forward. He sensed something odd about her. She seemed relaxed, yet tense ... like a predator prepared to strike.
“You!” Galladrin said in surprise, then started over toward her. “What are you doing here?”
Coragan laid a restraining hand on Galladrin’s arm, then took a cautious step himself. The bounty hunter too, seemed to sense something amiss. “Who are you, woman? And what are you doing in this castle?”
“Her name’s Clarissa,” Galladrin said. “She’s one of the ones we’re looking for.”
“That is strange,” the woman said. “I don’t remember giving you my name, sir ... especially since I do not recall yours.”
“It is Galladrin, my lady.”
“Well, Clarissa, you still haven’t answered my second question,” Coragan said. “What are you doing here?”
“I go wherever I wish. The castle halls are open to me,” she said, then trailed off to a whisper, “ ... unlike most.” She took three more gliding steps forward into the room, then stopped at the table corner, just four paces from where the rogue and bounty hunter stood. Borak’s breath quickened as he watched; there was definitely something odd in the way she walked ... something fluid, almost unearthly. He strolled casually around to the other side of the table, feigning disinterest. It was a calculated move. Now, he stood on her flank, capable of rushing her from the side if trouble started. Although she appeared to be unarmed, he knew this woman was a warrior. Unlike many men, he was not one to underestimate a woman in combat.
He caught his leg on something as he moved, and his hip protested with a stab of pain. He took a quick glance down. It was the stake of wood, the one Coragan had handed him in the courtyard. He had shoved it through his belt as they walked, and now it rubbed sharply into his flesh. He reached down and pulled it out, and found himself surprised as the woman darted her eyes his way. They seemed ... wary. He paused, uncertain. There was something about the stake that unsettled her. If only he knew what.
Galladrin frowned. It was the same woman, of that he was certain. Yet she seemed ... different. She had been odd before, but now she seemed tense, like a coiled viper priming itself for the kill. I’m imagining things, he thought. She’s just a woman ... a warrior, yes, but nothing more.
“We are searching for a wizard named Arcalian,” Coragan said. “We understand that he hired you to come here.”
Galladrin took a gamble. “Yes, he wanted you to find the Sceptre of Morgulan, correct?”
The woman paused, her brows arching. She licked her lips in a strange, almost reptilian fashion that sent a chill down Galladrin’s spine.
“You search for Arcalian, do you?” she asked. “Why?”
“We were hired to find him,” Coragan interjected. “The guild he headed has noted his absence of several days. They request that he surrender himself to us so that we can escort him back.”
The woman did not look impressed.
Roses, Borak thought. There was something about roses ... and garlic. Roses, garlic, wooden stakes, ravens and bats. Bats?
In the far off distance, Borak heard a sound, a sound blunted by walls of stone yet still distinct as it echoed down empty corridors. Somewhere, outside, a wolf howled, like a nocturnal beast from some forgotten child’s nightmare.
The legends of his youth flooded back to him and Borak felt his heart go numb. For the first time in his life he knew fear. No, not fear, but stark, raving terror. Ever so slowly, he turned his head and looked.
The mirror, although cracked, still held a reflection of the room; it showed the further half of the fireplace, the old wooden door, the corner of the table, and the webbed candelabra still sitting undisturbed. Galladrin and Coragan stood just to the right of the candelabra on the pane of glass. They stood and talked, but before them there was nothing. To the mirror, the woman was just empty air.
“By the Scythe-Bearer’s Sickle,” Borak gasped, surprising the other men. “The woman ... the woman has no soul!” Galladrin turned shocked eyes to the warrior. He had been with Borak several years now and in that time he had seen the man single handedly attack half a pack of goblin wolfriders, two trolls, and a giant hyena. Not only had the man wrestled four other men into submission in a bar in Alderia, he had once succeeded in tackling an escaped gorilla in a crowded town fair. With all the chaos of an ever-changing world, there was one thing Galladrin had always been certain of—Borak simply did not know fear. Suddenly, that too had changed. The man who had marched on through fire, flood, and snow, the man who could laugh in the face of the Scythe-Bearer himself was ... trembling.
Stunned, Galladrin simply stared for a moment. Then h
e tried to register the strange scene. The warrior’s finger pointed to the mirror on the wall. Observing it, Galladrin noted that the mirror harbored a mysteriously incomplete picture of the room beneath its surface. Galladrin started in surprise. He and Coragan were there, but Clarissa was not. Even as he turned to confront her, he saw the woman’s gaze shift to the mighty warrior. Her eyes lit upon his finger, then followed it to the wall.
A bestial scowl erupted across Clarissa’s features, and a hiss tore itself from between her lips. She snarled at the mirror, and her blood red lips parted to reveal a pair of sharp canine teeth.
Dumbfounded, Galladrin stared in astonishment and confusion over the transformation that had taken place. But even as he stood in complete bewilderment, his confusion quickly changed to horror; the woman cast an inhuman glare his way, then stepped forward into the table. Her leg passed through the cracked wood as if it had no more substance than mist. She reached forward with her right hand, ignoring webs and spiders both, and grasped the candelabra. She drew the object back, then hurled it with incredible strength.
The candelabra struck sideways across the crack and the mirror erupted in a fountain of raining glass. Its sharp fragments scattered about the room; some pieces clinked lightly on the table wood while others scattered across the stony floor. Amidst the flying debris, Borak stood, shaking. He held the blunted wooden stake awkwardly in his hand, like a dagger carved from a living tree.
Clarissa leapt toward him with the ease of a jungle cat, landing but a single pace from the warrior. She smiled at him slowly, and Borak trembled. Suddenly, she snarled, peeling back her lips to reveal her deadly teeth.
Borak retreated, thrusting the wooden stake before him. She caught it with ease, yanked it from his grasp, then hurled it to the side, straight at Galladrin. Galladrin ducked and the shaft of wood whipped past his head. Regaining his feet in a heartbeat, the rogue tumbled forward. He rolled across the table top and landed nimbly behind the woman. He drew his rapier, then stopped, stunned, as a woman a quarter Borak’s size wrestled the warrior to the ground like he was little more than a child.
“Get her off of me! Get her off of me!” Borak screamed, his voice rising in hysteria as he tried to shield his throat with his arm.
“Let him go, Clarissa,” Galladrin said, then stabbed her in the shoulder. That is, he tried to. His rapier passed through as easily as if she was formed of mist.
Clarissa placed her knee across Borak’s stomach and her left hand across his throat. The huge warrior struggled uselessly beneath her, wrapping one hand about her wrist and vainly trying to force it from his neck. His other hand stretched out behind him, desperately groping for a piece of broken glass. The woman turned her head; her golden locks fell down about her shoulder and her blue eyes ripped through Galladrin’s soul. Snarling like a rabid wolf, she reached out and gave the rogue a violent push with her free hand.
Even with Borak’s helplessness as warning, Galladrin was still surprised by the strength of the shove; it propelled him bodily across the room. He stumbled, rolled over a chair, and came to rest by the far door.
A click of a crossbow bolt being set echoed in the small room. “Woman.” Coragan’s tone was one of deadly warning. “I suggest you let him go.” The bounty hunter’s small crossbow, now loaded, pointed directly at the woman’s breast. “I don’t know what you are. But rest assured, I never miss.”
Clarissa snarled, her fangs extended. Beneath her, Borak struggled for breath, his face going from red to an ugly purple. Galladrin lay on his back across the room. He shook his head, then started as he saw a man approach the doorway.
“Who the Hell are you!” he cried, leaping to his feet. His rapier whipped around to point at the man, faster than the eye could follow.
The man smiled as he stepped into the room, his short dark hair framing his pallid face. Galladrin felt his pulse quicken when he saw the pointed teeth. “My name is Lucian ...” the strange man said, “and I’ve come to claim you.”
Coragan whirled to face the new foe, his crossbow waving back and forth between woman and man. Borak’s fingers closed over the shard of broken glass.
“Galladrin, kill the bastard,” Coragan said. “I’ll take the wom—”
The man moved, fast. Faster than even Galladrin was prepared for. The strength of Clarissa had knocked the rogue clear across the room, but hers was the strength of a summer breeze and the newcomer’s that of a hurricane. With but a single hand, the strange man hurled Galladrin through the air as a child might throw a rock. The rogue launched backward, his legs slamming into the back of the table making him spin like a wheel; he crashed back first onto the top of the table, and rolled in a heap off the other side onto a chair. The ancient wood cracked, then gave way with a loud crash.
“Shoot him ... in the heart!” Borak gasped from the floor.
Coragan took aim and fired at the man’s chest, but to no avail. The man’s hands flashed before him with impossible speed and the crossbow bolt skittered against the nearby wall. Coragan’s eyes widened with shocked disbelief.
Suddenly, Clarissa screamed, then recoiled, a hissing cauldron of fury. Borak stumbled to his feet, holding the mirror shard before him. The woman retreated, snarling.
From the floor, Galladrin groaned.
“Get up,” Borak said, coughing. “We are leaving. Now!”
Galladrin staggered to his feet, his shirt soaked in blood. He stumbled, dropping heavily on one knee. The man called Lucian walked toward him, ignoring the table as if it were nothing more than smoke. Galladrin stood up, panic in his eyes, and he scrambled toward the doorway. Near the exit, Coragan reloaded his crossbow.
“Give greeting to the Scythe-Bearer for me,” Coragan said and fired from only ten feet away. The man turned, and the bolt whizzed past to shatter against the far wall.
“The Scythe-Bearer cannot touch me,” the man called Lucian said, then proceeded forward, grinning. “He has lain his sickle at my feet.”
Borak backed slowly to the door, the shard of mirror held out before him. The woman hesitated, but followed, a sword’s reach from striking distance.
“Time to leave, Coragan,” Borak said. He reached out and grabbed the bounty hunter from behind with his free hand and catapulted him toward the doorway. “Galladrin, get your roses ready.”
“Roses?” the rogue asked, perplexed. He fumbled at the flower in his shirt.
Coragan gathered himself in the doorway, then set another quarrel in his weapon.
“Roses?” the man called Lucian asked, stepping forward. Borak turned to face him, holding his mirror out as he backed closer to the door. Lucian’s hand was a blur of motion striking the warrior’s arm. There was an audible sickly snap and Borak screamed. The mirror shard careened against the wall, then exploded into dust.
Borak stumbled through the doorway, cuddling his injured arm. He collapsed in a heap. Coragan took aim and fired, but again failed to find his mark.
“Put the rose on the floor,” Borak gasped. “Now!”
Galladrin opened his hand, and the flower floated gently to the stones.
The man lunged toward the doorway, but came up short as the companions fell back. He stood, palms braced on either side, just two paces from Galladrin. He peeled back his lips and snarled, canine teeth jutting forth from behind the blood red folds of skin. The rose Galladrin had dropped lay on the floor in front of him, somehow barring his path.
Pale-faced, Borak stumbled to his feet. A quick glance told Galladrin the warrior’s wound was serious, far more so than the simple scratches on his own chest. Borak's arm hung at an awkward angle and a streak of white marked where bone had broken skin.
Lucian turned to Borak and spoke through gritted teeth. “You seem exceptionally clever for a brute who wields an axe.” Galladrin noted the struggle in the man's voice and face. He was in pain, exerting himself. As for Borak… he simply backed away in silence. Coragan scowled, pulled out another crossbow quarrel and began to load his
weapon. “Haven't we seen enough of that ... Coragan,” the man said. “You seem slow in admitting your impotence.”
“I’m going to send you straight to Lubrochius,” Coragan said, fitting the bolt in place. “It will be an appropriate place for one the likes of you.”
“I would do so soon ...” Lucian replied. “Your time is running short.” The strange man motioned to the ground before him. The rose on the floor started to smoke and burn, sending a thin tendril of grey spiraling in lazy circles toward the ceiling.
Coragan glanced at the rose, then locked stares with the man. He lifted his crossbow, leveled it at the stranger’s breast, and said, “To Hell with you—”
“Coragan,” Lucian said, “shoot Galladrin.”
Galladrin jumped as the crossbow swiveled his way. He slapped it from the bounty hunter’s hand, and the bolt discharged, shattering against the hard stone wall.
“Coragan, what ...?” the rogue asked.
Coragan shook his head in confusion. His eyes glazed over once, then returned to normal. He drew his hand to his head and slowly began to speak. “I’m all right ... I think.”
“Clarissa,” Lucian said, glancing back, “take the passage through the kitchen. Cut them off.” The woman disappeared in the room behind.
Galladrin’s eyes met Coragan’s. “Let’s get out of here,” he said, and the bounty hunter nodded in agreement. Coragan retrieved his crossbow from the floor, then they turned, and fled back the way they had come.
Morcallenon set the jar down and rubbed his eyes. He had been poring over books for the past eight hours, trying to decipher the mysterious sigils. He was making little progress and was growing frustrated.
Drasmyr (Prequel: From the Ashes of Ruin) Page 25