“Does the xiatami god truly exist?” said Tyrcamber.
“There is only one God, Sir Tyrcamber,” said Olivier.
“I know that,” said Tyrcamber. “But the xiatami might pray to a demon. Or some sort of powerful creature that styles itself as a god. The Dragon Imperator made some of his subjects worship him.”
“I do not know,” said Rilmael. “The xiatami are no more native to this world than the humans or the cloak elves. Their religion teaches that Xophiramus is sleeping, but with enough blood sacrifice, he will awaken and conquer the world for the xiatami. Whether that is true or false, I know not. It is my opinion that Xophiramus was a powerful creature on the native world of the xiatami, but I cannot prove that.”
“Damned snakemen,” said Olivier, casting one last glance at the altar and the silver serpent rising over it. “Pity we haven’t converted them. They might be less truculent if the followed the Dominus Christus like sensible men.”
“The Imperial Church has tried, repeatedly,” said Rilmael. “The xiatami either send the missionaries home, or sacrifice them upon the altars of Xophiramus, depending on their mood. Many martyrs for the Imperial Church were made upon the altars of the xiatami.”
They kept moving, past the silent xiatami dead in their niches and tombs. Several times Rilmael stopped and scrutinized the floor in front of them, watching something that only he could see. His power of the Sight let him perceive traps of magic invisible to mortal men. When it did, he scraped the end of his staff over the floor in front of him, moving it in a specific pattern. Rilmael cast no spells, but the staff seemed to have some power against dark magic. There was a flash of blue light, and they continued onward.
Tyrcamber was glad the Guardian was with them. He thought that he could have found his way back to the crypt beneath the church, but he could easily have gotten lost. Additionally, there were miles of jade passageways down here. It could have taken days to explore them all. Though their progress was slow, Rilmael knew where he was going. The Sight was leading him towards the source of dark magic where the Dragon Cult had raised their shrine.
They turned a corner, and Tyrcamber came to an abrupt halt, as did the Guardian and Sir Olivier.
The jade stone of the walls and floor and ceiling stopped a few yards ahead. For a short distance the corridor became a tunnel of rough-hewn rock, and then terminated in a wall of pale white stone. The wall had been broken, chunks of white rock lying strewn across the ground, and beyond Tyrcamber saw a high corridor built from the same white stone. Red crystals gleamed in the arches of the ceiling, casting a bloody glow over the walls and floor.
“Ah,” said Rilmael with some satisfaction. “I was right. This way will lead down to the second level, to the dark elven area of the catacombs. Likely this was the original way from the dark elven city, and the xiatami simply sealed it up and built their own catacombs here.”
“A ruin of the dark elves,” said Tyrcamber. “Evil creatures often lurk in such places.”
“That they do, sir,” said Olivier with good cheer. “Fortunately, you have a dark elven sword to smite such beasts, to say nothing of our own magic. Where did you get that sword, by the way? Dark elven steel isn’t easy to obtain.”
“I took it from an umbral elf I killed,” said Tyrcamber, “on the day that I met the Guardian.”
“Be ready,” said Rilmael. “If there are any creatures of dark magic in the catacombs, likely they will await us here.”
They climbed over the debris and through the broken wall, and then made their way down the corridor. It ended in a stairway that circled down into the earth, and Tyrcamber and Olivier followed the Guardian. The stairs opened into a large pillared hall of white stone, and Tyrcamber looked around warily. Something about the angles of the room seemed…off, somehow, in a way he could not quite articulate. The dark elves’ sense of aesthetics was alien to humans. Niches lined the walls, and in the walls stood statues of dark elven lords in armor or robes, staffs and swords in their hands. Cruel, haughty expressions covered their faces, and their cold stone eyes seemed to stare at Tyrcamber.
“Ugly damned place,” muttered Olivier, holding his dwarf-lance in both hands. The light from the glyphs on the blade and the shaft seemed harsher in the red light, almost sullen. The dwarves of Khald Akkar had been bitter enemies of the dark elves long before the first Emperor Roland had founded the Frankish Empire. Perhaps the mighty magic of the dwarf-lance sensed the dark power of its foes.
“The dark elves prefer their architecture to look unsettling,” said Rilmael. “Their addiction to cruelty, you see. They like to watch other kindreds suffer, and even the mere unease of a human seeing a place like this is a petty pleasure to them. We…”
He fell silent and a frown went over his face, his silver eyes moving back and forth.
“Guardian?” said Tyrcamber, tightening his grip on his sword.
Then he saw the ripples.
It was cool so far underground, almost chilly. But Tyrcamber suddenly saw the air near the pillars to his right rippling, like stone heated by the harsh glare of the sky fire on a summer’s day. In addition, the ripples were moving closer, and a cold chill of recognition blazed through Tyrcamber’s mind, accompanied by the black memory of that awful hunting party when he had been a boy, when urvaalgs had killed so many of his fellow squires.
“Urvaalgs!” shouted Tyrcamber.
He called elemental power and worked magic, hurling a Lance spell of blazing fire across the hall. It slammed into one of the rippling distortions, and the urvaalg appeared, wreathed in flame. The creature looked like a ghastly, twisted hybrid of ape and wolf, its black claws rasping against the stone floor. Tyrcamber started to step forward, intending to take off its head as it struggled with the flames, but the rest of the ripples vanished, and four more urvaalgs appeared.
“Defend yourselves!” said Rilmael, and his sword burst into snarling elemental flame.
Tyrcamber raced forward, intending to intercept the urvaalgs, but Olivier shouted and stabbed his dwarf-lance forward. Lightning snarled up the length of the weapon’s shaft as he cast a spell, and a net of lightning leaped from the spear and crashed into the urvaalgs. The creatures reared back with screams of rage and fury, and the vile smell of burned urvaalg fur and flesh filled Tyrcamber’s nostrils. The lightning spell didn’t hit the creatures hard enough to kill them, but it did stun them, and Tyrcamber seized that opening.
He charged and attacked, sweeping his sword down and working a spell as he did so. Tyrcamber’s attack hammered into the urvaalg, and his blade slashed into the creature’s neck. The razor-edged dark elven steel cut through flesh and bone, and the urvaalg’s head fell to the ground and rolled away, spurting black slime from the stump. Two more urvaalgs lunged towards him, jaws opening, but by then Tyrcamber finished his Armor spell. Charged with elemental flame, the spell wreathed him in burning fire, and the urvaalgs reared back from the flames. Tyrcamber stepped into their hesitation and stabbed, his sword punching through an urvaalg’s ribs and finding its heart.
He ripped his sword free as the creature died, wheeling to face the second, but Rilmael was there. The Guardian moved with the grace of a striking hawk, and his staff struck across the urvaalg’s muzzle, snapping its head to the side, and his burning blade opened its throat.
Tyrcamber turned to see Olivier stab an urvaalg, his lance’s blade of dwarven steel plunging into the creature’s side. The spear’s head stabbed into the creature’s heart, and the urvaalg went limp. The remaining urvaalg sprang at Olivier, and Tyrcamber cursed and ran faster. There was no way that Olivier could get his spear loose before the urvaalg killed him.
Yet Olivier jerked his hands, and the shaft of the dwarf-lance telescoped into itself. Suddenly the weapon was half the length it had been earlier, and the head ripped from the dead urvaalg. Olivier recovered his balance and lunged, and his weapon extended back to its previous length.
Between his momentum, the urvaalg’s speed, and the s
trength of the dwarf-lance, the blade plunged into the creature’s side. Olivier skidded backward, his boots scraping against the floor, but the urvaalg’s own weight and strength drove the creature onto the dwarf-lance’s blade.
The urvaalg let out a furious gurgle and then went limp, black slime leaking from the wound. Olivier grunted and wrenched the dwarf-lance free.
“Ah, that’s always hell on the shoulders, isn’t it?” said Olivier. “Is that all of the devils?”
“I believe so,” said Rilmael, turning in a slow circle. “Likely the urvaalgs were preying on tomb robbers that made their way down here.”
“Dying in a trap of dark magic would be a quicker death,” said Tyrcamber.
“Aye,” said Rilmael.
“That was a neat trick,” said Tyrcamber. “The thing with the extending spear shaft.”
Olivier rapped the end of the dwarf-lance’s shaft against the floor. “It’s useful, isn’t it? Those dwarven smiths are clever bastards. This lance was forged to kill dragons, but it works just fine on urvaalgs.”
“Come,” said Rilmael. “If we hasten, perhaps you will not be forced to use the lance on a Dragonmaeloch.”
They continued into the silent white corridors of the catacombs.
***
Chapter 6: The Fallen Order
Tyrcamber’s eyes swept the high white corridors, his ears straining to hear the tap of claws against stone, his sword ready in his hand.
No sounds came to his ears, nor did he see anything moving save for Rilmael and Olivier. They walked through the silent corridors, past lofty halls with arched ceilings. In the halls, statues waited in niches, more images of cold, cruel dark elves. In the corridors, portions of the walls had been carved into elaborate bas-reliefs, displaying scenes of the dark elves conquering and torturing cloak elves. Tyrcamber could not read the dark elven script, but the images conveyed a clear meaning. They showed the cloak elves fleeing to this world through a magical gate and building cities, only for the dark elves to follow them and destroy their realm.
Though the reliefs failed to show, Tyrcamber noted, the umbral elves rebelling and splitting away from the dark elves.
The halls of the dark elven catacombs were silent, but it was clear that Tyrcamber and Rilmael and Olivier were far from the first to come here. In places bones and rusting weapons covered the floor. Tyrcamber saw the skeletons of goblins and gnolls and in places spotted a few muridach skulls, the chisel-like teeth jutting from their jaw. Some of the slain looked to have been killed by sword and axe, to judge from their damaged armor, but many of the scattered bones bore claw and fang marks.
“I have a question, Guardian,” said Olivier as they entered another hall lined with statues.
“Shouldn’t we be quiet?” said Tyrcamber. “Sound will carry far in this place.”
Olivier shrugged. “You’re right, but it doesn’t really matter. Some of the creatures dwelling in places like this can hear a man’s heartbeat from a hundred paces off. Or they hunt through magic.” He shrugged. “Silent or speaking, we’re in just as much danger either way.”
His logic made sense, but Tyrcamber still didn’t like it. Some instinct deep within screamed for him to remain silent. It was the danger of the situation, he knew. Tyrcamber was reasonably sure that the urvaalgs and the Dragon Cultists were not the only things down here.
“What is your question?” said Rilmael.
“If this place was once a city of the cloak elves,” said Olivier, “why didn’t you cloak elves return and reconquer it? Seems to me the island is a good place for a city.”
“It is,” said Rilmael, “but the cloak elves and the dark elves destroyed each other in millennia of battle. The surviving cloak elves abandoned their kingdoms and withdrew to the city of Cathair Kaldran, ringing it with their most powerful defenses. The dark elves built an empire ruled by the Dragon Imperator and his dragons but spent most of their time losing wars against the xiatami. Then humans arrived on this world and threw everything into chaos.” He smiled. “You’re rather good at that.”
“True,” said Olivier without rancor. “Doesn’t explain why the cloak elves never reclaimed this city.”
“In answer to your question,” said Rilmael, “the cloak elves never returned because they felt no need to do so. They decided to fortify themselves within Cathair Kaldran. The city is impregnable and can be defended against any number of powerful foes.”
“If the city is so impregnable,” said Tyrcamber, “then why does it need a Guardian?”
Rilmael snorted. “A good point. Let us say instead that the lords of the cloak elves think the city is impregnable. But reality is not obliged to support one’s opinions.”
Olivier grunted. “There’s God’s own truth.”
Rilmael went motionless, his eyes going hazy and unfocused. Tyrcamber had come to recognize that expression, and he realized that the Guardian was drawing upon the Sight.
“Is something wrong?” said Tyrcamber. “Other than the obvious?”
“We should follow Sir Olivier’s counsel and remain silent for now,” said Rilmael. He pointed at an archway on the far side of the chamber. “I think there is a source of dark magic ahead. Different from the shrine of the Dragon Cult.”
“Something the dark elves left behind?” said Olivier.
“Maybe,” said Rilmael. “The aura of this place makes it hard to determine. Yet…it seems too young for that, somehow. Be on your guard. And best to remain silent.”
Rilmael walked towards the archway, sword and staff in hand, and Tyrcamber and Olivier fell in on either side of him. They walked through another corridor and entered a lofty hall with a vaulted roof. Pillars rose towards the ceiling, and a score of stone biers rested in two orderly rows on the floor, ten on either side.
Atop each stone bier lay a dead goblin.
Tyrcamber looked at the dead creatures. They were desert goblins, with the familiar yellowish-green skin of the creatures, though now leathery and mummified. The dead goblins were armored identically in shirts of steel ring mail, sheathed swords resting at their sides. A strange chemical reek hung in the air, and as Tyrcamber moved closer, he saw that the dead goblins’ mouths and eyes had been stitched closed.
“Embalmed?” muttered Olivier. “Why would anyone embalm a dead goblin?”
Rilmael lifted his sword before him, and again the blade burst into howling elemental flames.
“Because the necromancer would not wish his undead servants to rot to uselessness,” said the Guardian, his voice grim.
Tyrcamber blinked. Necromancer?
In one identical movement, the dead goblins sat up and turned their sightless heads.
Their movements were stiff, jerky, as if invisible wires had been strung through their flesh. Ghostly blue fire began to dance around their shoulders and foreheads, and the creatures got to their feet, drawing their swords.
“Defend yourselves!” said Rilmael. He lunged forward, his staff striking an undead goblin across the forehead. The creature reeled back, and before it could recover its balance, the Guardian slashed with his burning sword. The golden blade sank deep into the goblin’s neck, and the flames spread from the weapon and into the goblin’s flesh. It should have screamed, but its mouth had been sewn shut. Perhaps the undead thing felt no pain. The undead goblin went up like kindling, and Rilmael knocked it over with a blow from his staff.
It seemed that the undead creatures were vulnerable to fire, and Tyrcamber was a Knight of the Order of Embers. He stepped forward, summoning as much magical power as he could hold, and cast one of the secret spells that the Order had taught him. Magic blazed in his left hand, and Tyrcamber cast the Fire Torrent spell. A bar of blazing white-hot flame burst from his hand, and Tyrcamber swept it across the chamber. The goblins went up in flame when the bar touched them, their withered forms transforming into pyres. The burning goblins went down, the elemental fire canceling the necromantic magic that held them bound.
The Fire Torren
t spell was powerful, and it took all of Tyrcamber’s magical strength to work it. He could only hold the spell for a few seconds, and the bar of flame winked out of existence. A wave of fatigue rolled through him, and for a moment the black fingers of the Malison danced at the edges of his thoughts, threatening to sink deep and claim his soul. But Tyrcamber fought off the fatigue and charged, drawing back his sword to strike. The effort of the Fire Torrent spell meant he would not be able to use magic until his stamina recovered, but his sword arm would work just fine.
Rilmael dueled a pair of goblins, and Tyrcamber rushed to aid the Guardian. He swung his sword with both hands, taking off the head of an undead goblin. The creature’s head rolled across the white floor, and no blood came from the stump of its neck, just a puff of gray dust. The undead creature collapsed, and Rilmael finished off the other one with a quick slash of his blade.
Olivier fought the undead goblins, wielding his dwarf-lance as both a spear and a quarterstaff. The blade stabbed out, the shaft extending to its full length, and the weapon punched into the torsos and necks of the undead goblins. Or Olivier whipped the dwarf-lance around in a two-handed swing, using it to knock the creatures from their feet. Tyrcamber and Rilmael seized the opportunities Olivier created, cutting off the heads of the goblins before they recovered their balance. One by one they cut down the remaining undead creatures, and silence fell over the hall once more.
Tyrcamber lowered his sword, breathing hard, but saw no further enemies.
“Are there any others nearby?” said Tyrcamber, looking at the Guardian.
Rilmael hesitated and then shook his head.
“Damned things,” muttered Olivier, prodding a goblin head with the butt of his dwarf-lance. “And they reek like the back room of an apothecary’s shop.”
“The dark elves must have left them behind,” said Tyrcamber. “To defend their catacombs from any intruders. Pity they didn’t attack the Dragon Cultists.”
Malison: Dragon Fury Page 8