by T. H. Lain
Yddith did hear the piercing cry of the war boar as Alhandra slashed the boar's underbelly with the tip of her long sword, but she couldn't pinpoint the sound because the entire street was filled with blood and confusion. She saw the druid drive his cart through the midst of the armed townspeople, trying to slash them with the spikes on the wheels. She watched the townspeople wave their unfamiliar weapons valiantly at the onrushing cart, but sadly realized that none were able to score any damage on wolf, druid, or cart. The worst sight was Bisfel, the baker. His leg was sliced by one of the spikes and instantly he was paralyzed. The spikes were tipped with poison and it was readily apparent to anyone watching that the druid only needed to scratch his victims in order to incapacitate them.
Fortunately, Yddith was heartened to see that Krusk was winning his battle. Bleeding profusely and weakening by the moment, the ferocious orc simultaneously shouted syllables of praise to Gruumsh and tried to turn his mount and retreat. The boar refused, happily feasting on the poor miller's leg as the miller struggled to slice through the boar's hide with his axe. The distraction gave Krusk the opening he needed, and his greataxe sliced through the orc's flesh and spine. The broken body toppled from the boar's back in a spray of blood.
Yddith smiled coldly as Krusk pulled the huge axe free of the orc's ribcage and smashed it like a hammer against the boar's brainpan. The monster dropped in its tracks. The smile froze, however, as she saw the druid cut the harness from the dire wolf and order it to attack Krusk. Yellow fangs ripped away a hunk of both Krusk's armor and thigh.
Yddith winced as the wolf ripped into Krusk. She knew she needed to do something, but she learned only two tricks from the traveling sorceress and she had already used one. Frantically she looked for anything on the street that she could levitate to distract the beast. She saw no weapon light enough and no debris that looked useful. Then a bizarre inspiration took hold. Yddith breathed a soft prayer to Pelor and pointed her finger at a wet pile of road apples left on the street by Jozan's incontinent mule. She watched the lumps of manure rise into the air, then she waved her finger toward the wolf. Even Riedel sidestepped the floating stench with amazement as he advanced behind the other orc.
As Riedel maneuvered behind his enemy, Yddith dropped the mess on the wolf's head. She had heard that even blind wolves could fight by scent alone, but she hoped that this trick would both temporarily blind Krusk's foe and block its sense of smell. The manure plopped onto the wolf at the very moment that she saw the blacksmith bury his axe in the orc's back and Jozan unleash another spell.
Jozan was furious. Not only had they knocked Alhandra onto the ground in an unchivalrous charge, but the orc druid was obviously using some kind of poison on his cart's spikes. The cleric pulled a short, straight piece of iron from his pouch and lifted it toward the sun. He invoked the name of Pelor and brought the metal back down. Turning the iron piece horizontally, he grasped an end in both hands and thrust it in the direction of the last remaining orc warrior. The ceremonial gestures caused the orc to look up from his relentless hacking at the paladin and, for a moment, his eyes locked with Jozan's. A blinding flash as brilliant as sunlight erupted from the iron piece. The illumination engulfed the orc's sensitive eyes and snout, rendering the warrior helpless and unable to move.
Jozan was mesmerized by a combination of events. His flash held the monster, Riedel's fierce assault caused the orc to topple, and Alhandra thrust upward from underneath the boar. The orc's limp body landed face down in the street at the same moment as the boar's stomach opened above the paladin, dumping a mixture of blood, bile, and partially digested food onto her. Jozan ran to help the paladin, but Alhandra proved his aid unnecessary. She rolled out from under the still biting, snorting boar and managed to shove the beast's legs and throw it off-balance just as its tusks and snout burrowed into the spot where her head had been a moment before.
The rest of the townsfolk converged on the remaining orc soldiers. Though not very intelligent, the orcs were smart enough to realize that their leaders were dead. They were perceptive enough to know that their drummer no longer played the rhythm that made their blows effective. They were observant enough to see that one compatriot was retreating with a blade in his back and to realize that it wouldn't be long before it was the druid and the animals against half of the town. Simultaneously, they made a tactical decision far beyond their military experience. When the first orc moved, the others followed-each trying to catch up with the fast retreating drummer and mortally wounded fellow before the others could.
Had the orcs remained a moment longer, they would have seen what might have been an amazing reversal of fortune. Though it was the last thing Jozan wanted to see, he watched in amazement as the druid waved his hands in a circle and the branches of trees swayed with his motion. The wind began circling with the same motion and, quickly, a dense mass of gray cloud descended on the half-orc.
Krusk felt beads of grease forming on his skin, armor, and weapon as though he had worked in a charnel house for days without bathing. The cloud's sickening smell of mold and decay filled the barbarian's nostrils and nearly choked him before he could respond to the druid's approach. He doubled over briefly from the power of the stench and sensed that the presence of the greasy gray cloud had weakened him with some type of supernatural blight. Fortunately for the half-orc, the cloud's nasty effect weakened the dire wolf as well. Its coat was beaded with the sickening mist and it also coughed up some of the foul cloud. The barbarian used all of his concentration to connect, albeit somewhat weakly, with his target. He injured the wolf slightly, but he didn't kill it outright with one slice of the axe the way he expected to do. The partially blind wolf snapped at the air. The druid laughed.
Yddith could still hear the druid laughing when the cloud of unholy blight began dissipating. She no longer heard him laughing when the paladin charged. Yddith watched Alhandra run toward the druid waving her bloody, befouled sword in ferocious overhead circles. Yet, before the paladin reached him, Yddith observed an incredible transformation. The druid's face quivered. His muscles rippled, his body contorted, and his bones cracked. Hair covered his body thickly at an impossibly fast pace. Where the druid had stood before, a large wolf stood in the cart. As Alhandra closed on the wolf, Yddith saw it leap from the cart and run away.
Before anyone could ready a bow or crossbow, the druid-turned-wolf fled into the forest and all that remained of the assault force was the angry, blind dire wolf that continued slashing and biting at Krusk. As the wolf snapped, Krusk stepped nimbly to the side and brought the axe down with enough force to separate the animal's head from its body.
Yddith breathed a word of thanks as she saw Krusk's life spared. She ran out the door and into Krusk's arms as quickly as possible, paying no attention to the one-eyed citizens of Pergue dragging the boar carcasses to Imel's butcher's stand. She completely missed the healing miracle performed by Jozan.
Jozan had moved instantly to the fallen miller's side. He pulled the flesh of the mangled leg together as well as he could and applied pressure to stop the bleeding. The basics completed, he quickly intoned his supplication to Pelor. The god's golden glow surrounded the wounded flesh and anyone observing could easily see healthy flesh replacing the ravaged wound. Lovan's eyes opened and he looked up gratefully into Jozan's face.
"I dreamed I was headed for Pelor's plane," mumbled the miller.
"Quiet, now," replied the cleric. "Drink this," he commanded and poured a healing potion between the miller's dry lips.
Lovan's pale face gained color and the tear in his leg healed before the amazed eyes of the townsfolk. Jozan breathed a prayer of thanksgiving.
Yet, Yddith did see a miracle. When she reached Krusk, the half-orc was bleeding from two wounds and his skin had taken on an unnatural hue from the dismal cloud. Hacking pieces of cloth from the curtains of the tavern, Yddith obviously intended to staunch the half-orc's bleeding and wash the foul residue off his skin. When she started to touch the barbari
an, however, she pulled up short. The paladin was waving a wand and softly singing a short chant. Jozan and Yddith saw one wound healing and observed the paladin repeat the ritual. Indignantly, Yddith turned on her heel and would have stormed back to the Boar's Tusk in an angry fit if she hadn't overheard the cleric speaking to the townsfolk.
"The druid spoke of you as slaves," observed Jozan. "I wonder if he was taking you to Calmet?"
"Calmet?" asked some of the bystanders.
"The one-eyed priest we're seeking," answered Jozan.
The miller whispered so that only Jozan could hear. "I heard the orcs talk about someone they called 'Bad One Eye'," said Lovan. "He might be the one."
Jozan nodded and assumed his best oratory posture. He raised his arms and spoke with such power that Alhandra turned to him in amazement, as did the townsfolk.
"People of Pergue," he began, "I come in the name of Pelor. My companion and I seek the source of your troubles-an apostate, a heretic who has so twisted the loving message of Pelor that his insatiable lust for power is bringing havoc and horror both far and near. We pledge to find him, and in the name of all that is good, we pledge to end your living nightmare."
The paladin's mouth dropped open. Certainly, Alhandra preferred forceful action to strong words, but she seemed surprised at Jozan's newfound confidence. She added her voice to Jozan's pledge.
"As Heironeous is my witness," responded the paladin in her battlefield voice, "we will see this through."
Then, to the welcome surprise of cleric and paladin alike, a harsh voice rang out and offered additional assurance. "I'll help," growled the barbarian, "if it means killing that druid."
"And I'll kill that miserable cleric if it takes my dying action to do it!" asserted Yddith with a force and purpose she surely never knew she had.
11
Calmet was frightened. He was frightened more than he'd been since the night Laud removed his eye and introduced him to the Power. He didn't feel like a priest who represented the Power, not right then. He felt weak, frightened, and angry.
Something had gone wrong. Both Naargh and Hassq had failed to deliver the new group of slaves. It had been weeks since the Black Carnival had performed the ritual. Why weren't the slaves there?
The cleric looked again at the number of side tunnels that jutted off the main shaft. He'd once asked Laud why so much of their limited slave labor was used to dig so many tunnels away from the main vein, so many false passages and empty chambers. Laud had responded that there were other treasures in the earth, many of which could not be deemed natural. As Calmet passed one such junction, he decided he was grateful for all of Laud's strange passageways. He wanted to stay as far away from Laud's alchemical laboratory as possible.
He noticed two orc guards bringing an injured slave toward the surface. For a brief moment, he looked at the filthy wound so certain to become infected and was tempted to heal the limping slave. Then, he remembered his mantra of power: "Cull the weak to be the strong!"
Calmet motioned to the guards and told them to bring the slave and follow him deeper into the shaft instead of continuing toward the surface. The guards looked confused, but didn't question the cleric's order. That was one of the things Calmet liked about serving Gruumsh. No one questioned his orders. There were no philosophical debates among the servants of Gruumsh. Avenues to power were clearly established. If you performed the rituals, you gained the power. There were no mysteries associated with the nature of Gruumsh. He was raw power and he despised weakness. Of course, that was one of the things that was bothering Calmet at that very moment. The failure to complete the mine and finish the sanctuary would likely fall on his own head. He was the one responsible for dealing with the orcs, so their failure was ultimately his failure.
The shaft became steeper and Calmet smelled the difference between the moist earth of the deeper regions and the dryer dust near the top of the shaft. Oddly, he became aware of water dripping and the sounds of picks penetrating the obstinate rock lower down. He didn't usually take time to notice scents and sounds. He must be avoiding the issue at hand.
How could they possibly complete the sanctuary before the solstice without adequate help?
Calmet and his followers approached a junction where a seldom-used passage jogged to the left. He motioned his strange entourage to follow him and turned into the smaller passage. After ten or fifteen paces, he pulled up abruptly. His eyes adjusted to the deeper darkness of the smaller passage, and he focused on the side of the wall where the passage twisted once more. Standing out slightly against the darker shadows, the small group saw a shadowy figure. Larger than a human, it made them uneasy. Their eyes could make out the winged monstrosity that seemed to guard the passage, but they didn't quite understand why a stone statue would affect them in such a way.
Calmet lifted his amulet, a silver eye with a hole to represent Gruumsh's missing eye, that a long-dead orc had fashioned for him from his sun symbol. He whispered an Orcish word of power across the top of the infernal symbol. The whisper gained in intensity as the very sound traversed the surface of the amulet until the gutteral word exploded on the statue with unexpected force, echoing back onto the small party with an even louder, eerier sound. As the echoes trailed back toward the main shaft, Calmet proceeded down the passageway. The guards looked at each other and followed. Neither one liked the uneasy feeling that energy was surrounding them, prodding them, and testing them as they turned to follow the cleric through the twisting passage.
Ten paces farther down the passage, Calmet performed another ritual. Pulling a piece of dried dung from one of the pouches tied to his belt, Calmet turned to the guard closest to him, growled another gutteral syllable in Orcish, and rubbed the dried substance on the guard's bare skin. The dung quickly disintegrated into dust, but the guard exhaled with a triumphant grunt as his body tensed and he sensed a power he had never experienced before. His eyes grew wide and perspiration fairly flooded down his entire body. Where the cleric had touched him, the veins in his arms bulged and the muscles expanded to huge proportions. Moments later, the phenomenon coursed all the way through the guard's body, vein after vein and muscle after muscle reaching phenomenal proportions.
Calmet ordered the transformed guard to take the slave by himself and follow him precisely. Calmet sidestepped to the extreme left of the small passage and took two steps with one foot carefully placed in front of the other. He sidestepped to the extreme right of the passage and took one step forward. The sideways motion was repeated several times more; then he stepped at an angle to the very center of the passage and turned to motion the guards forward.
Vurrgh was the guard affected by the spell. He easily grabbed the wounded human slave, pulled the unfortunate across his shoulders, and repeated the simple pattern.
Calmet heard the guards grunting behind him, but he continued to lead the small party in this odd pilgrimage without explaining himself or even looking to see if his fellow was successfully navigating the pattern. He assumed his compatriot could figure out the easy little dance and be able to avoid triggering the trap. If his minion happened to trigger some nasty snare, it must be the will of Gruumsh to cull the weak.
Calmet raised his amulet again and spoke another gutteral word, bringing forth a sickly green glow from the pendant. The glow pushed aside the deepening darkness in the passageway, and Calmet looked with amusement at the tunnel as it seemed to twist and turn for no obvious reason. He sensed, rather than heard Vurrgh and the other orc come up behind him, but he offered no acknowledgement of the minions' presence.
The tunnel jogged briefly toward the left then back to the right. As the passage opened up into a small, natural cavern, Calmet ducked quickly through the opening. As if on cue, a horrendous scream pierced the quiet. The sonic force of the shriek caused dirt to sprinkle down from the tunnel's ceiling, but Calmet knew exactly where to stand in order to be spared the earthen rain that dropped in clods atop the guards and the injured slave.
The shriek continued, sounding in every way like Calmet imagined a howling demon would sound. Yet, the evil priest stood watching and waiting for the inevitable movement that would follow the piercing shriek. One of the mushrooms, one with a more violet hue than its shrieking companion, moved toward the priest, crawling forward on a writhing root structure. It reached out with its four frantic tentacles flailing, but Calmet stepped back quickly enough to avoid the threat. He turned to Vurrgh and gestured for him to throw the wounded slave in front of the slowly moving violet fungi that was inching toward them.
The evil priest smiled grimly as Vurrgh used his bull's strength to catapult the ill-fated slave within tentacle range of the fungus. The frightened slave tried to stand and limp to safety, but one of the tentacles tapped his bare back, causing the unwitting sacrifice to jerk in an involuntary spasm. The slave was immediately paralyzed. Calmet and the guards watched in fascination as the plant wrapped all four tentacles around the slave's motionless body. The fungus pulled the body in and cradled it in a disturbing embrace of death as acid from the fungus began to devour it.
Immediately, Calmet intoned the liturgy of sacrifice. With his face lit by the frightening green glow of his amulet, he voiced the heartless words pronounced by priests of Gruumsh throughout the centuries.
"The powerless we give to the source of power," recited the priest over this latest atrocity. "We sacrifice the powerless to partake of power. So be it!"
After speaking the infernal words, he motioned for the guards to follow and moved toward a second opening. He glanced disinterestedly at the violet fungi dragging the slave's corpse next to the shrieker. As the parasitic fungi oozed onto their victim, the shrieker mercifully stopped its sonic assault, leaving Calmet and his followers with aching ears.