by Paul S. Kemp
Cale quickly jumped the gate as well. Dodging debris, they continued forward. Two more gates—empty holes in reality—blocked their path, one in the floor, easily jumped, and one in the wall, easily sidestepped. They reached the short flight of stairs that descended to the lower level of the guildhouse.
“Down here,” Cale said.
Jak nodded. “I don’t smell it anymore,” he observed softly. “The rot, I mean.”
Cale nodded. He didn’t smell it either. The smell of decay had become so commonplace to him that he no longer noticed it.
That’s why I don’t feel afraid, he realized. Fear, too, had become so commonplace for him over the last two days that he noticed it only rarely.
A soft growling from down the twisting stairs interrupted his reverie. He looked questioningly at Jak. The little man nodded grimly. He had heard it too. Cale covered the cool tip of the wand with his palm so that only a little light trickled out between his fingers. In hand cant, he signaled to Jak, I lead. Be cautious.
Jak nodded and they silently descended the twisting stone stairs. When they reached the landing at the bottom, they discovered the source of the growls.
A ghoul dressed in green tatters sat at the base of the wall and stared dazedly into the emptiness of a gate. A slowly swirling mix of gray and black, the gate pulsed periodically, and with each beat of the unholy heart the spider web tracery of purple veins beneath the ghoul’s translucent gray skin beat in time. The dazed horror rocked back and forth, rhythmically growling softly into the emptiness. Its yellow eyes looked as vacant as the hole into which it stared. The ghoul, oblivious to the pain and purple blood that coursed down its arms, mindlessly dug its claws into its own rotted flesh.
Jak gave a slight gasp and Cale signaled him to stop and stand still. Cautiously, blade before him, he walked toward the ghoul.
Enthralled by whatever it saw in the gate, the creature showed no sign of noticing him. It simply kept rocking and gouging itself. Cale moved directly behind it. It continued to mutter and stare, oblivious to all but the void.
Up close now, Cale could make out muttered words interspersed with its bestial growls. “He is among us, among us.”
Cale swallowed his disgust. Though twisted and warped, he recognized the skinny body and short brown hair of Willen Trostyn, a boy the Righteous Man had recruited no more than a month ago. Willen couldn’t have been more than twenty, and now Cale had to kill him.
Without further thought, he raised his long sword high to strike. He stopped in mid-stroke and looked at Jak. Eyes filled with horror and disgust, the little man met his gaze and gave him a short nod of approval. Willen showed no sign of noticing anything. He rocked, dug his claws deeper into his arms, and muttered mindlessly.
“Among us. Among us—”
With an overhand chop, Cale laid open Willen’s head. Purple gore sprayed the wall and soaked the floor. Willen died instantly, collapsing into a stinking heap at the base of the gate.
Seemingly of its own accord, the gore flowed toward the void. Like the mouth of some unimaginable beast, the emptiness drew Willen’s blood within and devoured it. Swirls of purple intermixed with the black and gray of the gate and spun toward nothingness. Cale turned away to find Jak. The little man’s face had turned white.
“Dark,” mouthed the halfling soundlessly, as he stared at the wall. He looked as though he might lose Matilda’s fish stew at any moment.
Cale stepped forward and gripped him by the shoulders. “Don’t look into the gates, Jak. Don’t look.”
The little man peeled his eyes away and stared at Cale with eyes full of horror. “It’s hungry, Erevis. The gate. It’s hungry.”
“I know,” Cale replied. “It’s empty. Emptiness is always hungry.” He gave the little man a slight shake. “Jak! The demons are the same way. You see? They’re always hungry and they’ll never stop. That’s why we have to stop them. You see? Jak!”
The little man gave a nod, seemed to come back to himself some. “I see,” he said, and clutched for his holy symbol.
He’s close to losing it, Cale realized. He placed a gentle hand on Jak’s shoulder. “Go back, my friend. Right now. Go back and get out. Get Brelgin and—”
Jak shook his head and pushed Cale’s hand away. “I’m not going back, Erevis. I just …” He waved his blades to indicate the guildhouse. “Trickster’s toes, it just takes a moment to digest all of this.” His eyes fell on Willen’s corpse, then returned to Cale. “I’m not going back. I’m here until this is over.”
Cale accepted that. “Then let’s get to the armory.”
Growling suddenly erupted behind them and died away. The scratching of clawed feet on the hardwood planks of the floor was loud to Cale’s ears.
“They must have come up from the basement,” Jak calmly observed.
Pleased to see Jak in possession of his faculties, Cale nodded agreement. “Yrsillar must know we’re here. Let’s move.”
With Cale leading, they sped down the debris-strewn hallway until they reached the armory. The open door hung crookedly, having been torn loose from its upper hinge.
“Here,” Cale said, and ducked in. Jak followed.
Weapons lay cast about the floor, many broken or chipped, but some intact. Comically, a few broken swords had been replaced on their wall mounts after being destroyed. All the wooden tables and weapon racks had been turned over and the legs broken off. Loose sling bullets covered the floor. Of the six suits of leather armor and three suits of studded leather that hung by their straps from the wall, all had been torn into uselessness by ghoul claw. A stack of broken crossbows lay piled in the near corner. Against the right hand wall, the large wooden chests and barrels that had once held the crossbow ammunition had been broken open and the quarrels scattered. Shanks of silk rope, crowbars, and lock picking tools had been tossed about randomly.
Cale’s heart sank when he saw the thorough destruction. They had to have enchanted weapons! He scanned the wreckage for the pair of long, thin, iron strongboxes that once had held the guild’s small store of magical weapons—
Growls again sounded from the hallway behind them. It rose to a crescendo and then devolved into wet gibbering. Cale shared an alarmed glance with Jak. From the sound, many ghouls had come up from the basement.
“Probably feeding on the body of the one we killed,” Cale softly observed. “Let’s get this door closed. Quietly.”
Ashen faced, Jak gave a nod. “Right.”
With Cale reaching over him to hold the heavy oak door in position near its broken upper hinge, Jak carefully pushed it closed.
“We’re looking for two iron strongboxes,” Cale whispered to Jak, and started to kick through the debris. “Hurry. They’ll finish with that body soon.”
Jak began searching the debris.
Cale quickly found the boxes against the far wall, buried beneath an overturned weapon rack, a wooden stool, and a pile of broken broadswords.
He gave a short, soft whistle to get Jak’s attention. “Here.” The little man hurried over. Cale could no longer hear the sounds of the feeding ghouls.
He saw right away that ghouls had been at the strongboxes. The surfaces had been scratched with claws and beaten with something heavy. The lock and hinges had been pried at but they hadn’t been opened. He felt a flash of hope.
“I don’t have a key,” he said to Jak. “Can you get them open?”
Jak eyed the locks professionally and nodded. “I don’t have another spell for it, but I should be able to do it the hard way.” He reached into one of his pouches and pulled forth a small leather case. After loosing its strap, he unfolded it to reveal a bewildering array of lock picking tools—from a bent copper wire to a hardened steel pry for tumblers. He pondered for a moment, selected a tool Cale did not recognize, and set to work.
“Tough lock,” Jak observed after working on it for a moment. He exchanged the first tool for his tumbler pry. “But I’ll get it.”
Tense, Cale said no
thing. He could hear the growls of the ghouls from somewhere down the hall.
“Hurry, Jak.”
“Mmhmm.”
The growls grew louder. Through the thick door, Cale could hear the thump and scrape of clawed feet on wood, closer now.
“Jak …”
“I know.” Jak’s fingers worked rapidly. Cale heard click after click in the lock but the damned thing didn’t open!
The maddened snarls of the rampaging ghouls drew nearer until they sounded right outside the armory door. There had to be ten or more! Their footfalls sounded like a stampede of market cattle. Heart thumping, Cale stood over Jak and turned to face the door, blade ready.
“Hurry up, godsdammit,” he whispered over his shoulder. He would rather face ten ghouls with an enchanted blade than without.
“Almost … got … it …” replied the little man. “There!”
He lifted the lid of the strongbox just as a ghoul body thumped into the door. Jak gave a start and dropped the tumbler pry. The sound of the tool clanking on the wood floor made Cale wince. Surely they had heard that. He expected a flood of ghouls to rush the room in seconds.
“Cale—” whispered Jak.
Cale waved his hand sharply. “Hssst.”
The little man popped his mouth closed, drew his blades, and stood beside Cale, waiting.
Seconds passed and the door stayed closed. Gradually, the sound of the growls began to grow fainter. The ghouls were moving past them! Cale could not believe their luck!
They waited in nervous silence as the sounds of the rampaging pack grew fainter and fainter, until finally the growls disappeared altogether. They exhaled as one.
“Dark,” Jak whispered.
“Dark indeed,” Cale said, and shot him a hard smile. “We got lucky there.”
Jak returned the smile with a grin and tapped the luckstone that hung from a chain at his belt. “The Lady does favor the foolish, Cale.” He turned and knelt before the open chest. “Here, look at all this.”
Lined with black velvet, the first iron strongbox held two long swords, a gilt mahogany case, and a small, plain maple box. Each long sword had a large onyx set into the pommel, a hilt wrapped with silver wire, and a flawless, shining blade.
Cale reached for the blades but Jak stayed his hand.
“Let me check for magical traps,” he said. “I’ll also confirm that they’re enchanted.”
“Good idea,” Cale replied, then added some good-natured ribbing. “Must be nice to have spells at your disposal on a job.”
Jak winked at him as he pulled forth his holy symbol. “Very nice. The Trickster takes care of his own.” He looked up at Cale sidelong. “Mask does too, I suspect.”
While Cale thought on that, Jak softly intoned the words to a spell. Afterward, he carefully scrutinized the chest.
“No traps,” he said with assurance. Still holding the bejeweled cloak-clasp, he mouthed the words to a second spell. “The swords are magical, plus whatever is in the box and case.”
Without further ado, he lifted out the case and popped it open. Within its red, felt-lined interior sat four silvery sling bullets, each inscribed over their entire surface with tiny, intricate runes. He set that aside and pried open the maple box. Three glass vials sat within, cushioned by packing rags. The translucent liquid within the vials shimmered azure in the blue light of the wand.
“Potions,” Jak announced, followed quickly by, “No good to us now though, unless you know what they do.”
Cale shook his head in the negative. “Bring them anyway,” he said, and knelt to pick up one of the enchanted long swords. He tested its heft. Though somewhat wider than his normal blade, the enchanted long sword felt lighter and perfectly balanced. He smiled appreciatively, though he knew it mustn’t be too powerful a weapon or the Righteous Man would not have stored it in the common armory. Even a weak enchantment was better than none. Thazienne’s dagger had wounded the shadow demon and he did not think it had been particularly powerful. He discarded his own ordinary blade and sheathed the enchanted one.
Jak pocketed the potions and placed the magical sling bullets in his ammunition pouch. He slid over to the other strongbox, pulled out his tools, and set to work on it.
While he waited, Cale paced apprehensively. His eyes fell on the open strongbox.
“Jak …”
“Hmm?” The little man didn’t turn around. “Nearly got it.”
A tingle ran up Cale’s spine. He knelt before the first strongbox, throat constricted.
Within, nearly invisible against the black velvet, lay a black felt mask, the symbol of Mask the Shadowlord. Cale stared at it, motionless, afraid to touch. Was this a sign? He felt himself standing on the edge of a cliff. Touching the mask would be to step off and fall, or fly. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to fly.
We must have overlooked it, he thought, but didn’t really believe it.
Beside him, Jak popped open the lock on the other strongbox. “Got it,” he said, and lifted the lid.
Cale grabbed the mask and stuffed it into his cloak pocket. He told himself he did it for the sake of Jak’s safety, but knew it to be untrue. For the first time in his life, he was hoping for help from a god. The events of the last two days had changed him. Yrsillar had to be stopped. Tonight, Cale would take help from wherever he could get it.
“No traps,” Jak said. He whistled and pulled out a wide-bladed, mundane looking short sword. “Looks plain, but the aura shows it as enchanted. I’ll use it.” He lifted out another maple box like the one they had found in the first strongbox. “Nothing special.” Liquid dripped from the seam between the lid and the bottom. “The potion vials must have been broken when the room was tossed. They’re no good.” He pulled out a small leather bag, loosed the drawstring, and dumped the contents onto his palm, two rings, one a plain electrum band, one a silver band inset with three small black opals.
“No way to know what these do, either,” said Jak. “You take this one.” He tossed Cale the bejeweled silver ring. “I’ll keep this one.” He slipped the electrum ring into a belt pouch. “We’ll figure them out later.”
Cale pocketed the ring. When he did, his hand brushed the felt of the mask and a charge raced through his body. He had difficulty deciding whether he had imagined it or not. For an instant, he felt a part of something larger than himself. He felt a newfound confidence. Maybe they would get out of this alive.
Jak stood and took a few practice stabs with his new short sword, seemed satisfied, and looked at Cale. “Let’s get moving.”
Pleased to hear the confidence in Jak’s voice, Cale nodded and moved for the door. He knelt and placed his ear against the door. The ghouls were gone.
Knowing that the loosely secured door would fall if he simply released the latch, he sheathed his blade, gripped the handle with both hands, and used his strength to steady the door while he opened it—
The instant he turned the handle, something flew into the door and blew it open, nearly knocking it entirely loose from the wall. Cale staggered backward, stunned. Savage snarls and bestial growls filled his ears. Ghouls! The smell of rot filled his nostrils as ghoul after ghoul poured into the room.
“Cale—” Jak screamed. The growls of the ghouls drowned out the rest of what the little man said.
Cale fumbled to get his sword clear of its scabbard. Gray bodies milled around him, snarled and tore at his flesh. He couldn’t distinguish individual creatures. The whole pack seemed a single mass of gray flesh, black fangs, filthy claws, and wretched sewer stink. Beside him, invisible through the press of rotted skin, he could hear Jak shouting defiance.
Claws and teeth thumped off Cale’s enchanted armor. Tatters of his blue cloak came loose and floated to the floor. Snarls filled his ears, surrounding him on all sides. He grabbed one ghoul by the throat while jerking his blade free with his left hand. Another jumped on his back and nearly bowled him over.
“Arrgh,” he grunted. He ran his blade through the sternum o
f the ghoul he held by the throat. It screamed and died but others instantly rushed to replace it. The damned things were everywhere! He threw the rabid creature from his back and swiped wildly about with his blade. They pressed him so closely that he couldn’t help but strike a ghoul with every blow. Again and again the enchanted iron chunked into ghoul flesh. Squeals of pain joined the savage growls.
A multitude of raking claws bloodied his arms and face. He ignored the pain and chopped. Purple blood sprayed the floor to join the red of his own.
A claw tore across his chest, penetrated his armor, and bit into flesh. Terrifyingly, his body began to grow sluggish, the venom of ghouls’ gashes doing its work. He continued to swing his long sword while he tried to fight off the poison. His body grew heavy, slowed. He wanted to call out for Jak but his tongue weighed a hundredweight. Claws tore into him. He couldn’t move. Ghouls pressed closer, bit into his flesh and fed on him. He felt their fetid breath hot on his skin, felt their foul saliva mix with his blood as they tore loose morsels of his exposed flesh. The excruciating pain set off a spark shower in his brain but he could not move or scream, could not even blink, could only watch helplessly as ghouls fed on him and he died.
Not like this, he desperately prayed. Mask, not like this! If the Shadowlord heard his plea, he made no response. Cale thought he was dead.
Jak suddenly leaped into his field of vision, bloody blades held high. The little man snarled challenges and lashed out with both blades at the ghouls biting at Cale. They pounced after him, but the little man ducked, whirled, and ran one through the chest with his dagger and short sword. It squealed and fell over dead. Jak had his blades free in an instant.
Three ghouls surrounded the little man. They lashed out with claws and teeth. Jak whirled, dodged, fought like a rabid badger. Cale could do nothing but watch. Jak bled freely from many wounds—the little man wore no armor—and Cale knew that if he succumbed to the paralyzing poison they would both die.
The three remaining ghouls charged the little man at once.
Like a red-headed whirlwind, Jak ducked, spun, and rolled. Claws flashed and tore into his exposed back, but he rolled away and retaliated with an upward dagger thrust through the groin of one ghoul. It screamed in agony and fell writhing to the floor. The little man jumped to his feet, jerked free another dagger, and rushed the last two. Rushed them!