The Return of Cathos (Tales of the Silver Sword Inn, Complete Collection One)

by Wilson Harp

  Calaran whispered something to the other elf and they both started laughing. Baldric ground his teeth together.

  “Yes, my dwarven friend. I memorized it. We will find it safely,” Calaran said. “I do apologize; I forget that dwarves are sometimes very sensitive about things.”

  Baldric sniffed in disbelief. Dwarves weren’t sensitive. About anything. Maybe their beards. And their clan’s reputation. And their mothers. But who wasn’t sensitive about their mothers? He bet even ogres were sensitive about their mothers. Maybe dwarves were sensitive about their fighting prowess as well. And their ability to drink beer.

  “Let’s get moving,” Baldric said as he hurried past the elves. He wasn’t sensitive beyond reason; that was certain.

  Calaran had told them that this underground city had lain undisturbed for centuries. The ruins of the great elven city of Kol Edroth had been rebuilt as the human city of Balcchor, but the humans had avoided the underground city. He didn’t even know if the humans had suspected how vast the complex was.

  Baldric would have said that it was undisturbed except for the set of footprints that they were following now in the thick dust. The small blue gem hanging from the chain around Calaran’s neck provided the dim light that the elves needed to see. He was sure that they could see the footprints as clearly as he could.

  “I’m hoping that your elven friend takes us in a different direction than these footprints,” Baldric said.

  “I do as well,” Calaran confirmed. “If we have to face Delacour without the scepter, we will be hard pressed to stop the ritual. If he has acquired the scepter for himself, it may prove to be impossible.”

  Baldric shuddered as he thought of that. He liked the adventuring life, but he was fairly particular on the life part. He was sure that the adventuring death was something he wanted to avoid. He pushed forward just ahead of the elves. When he reached a crossing corridor, the footprints went to the right. He waited for a few seconds and wished fervently that they would go either straight or to the left. They made a turn to the right as well.

  On and on they traveled through the dark tunnels. Humans might have called the layout complex and confusing, but Baldric felt right at home in a city like this. Main avenues crossed side roads on a regular basis. Doors that were tightly packed together showed where living quarters were, while long stretches of corridor with only an occasional door were where storage rooms were located. They traveled through a few large plazas where Baldric could almost see the elves meeting and conversing in the quiet hallways that they had hired the dwarves to craft for them.

  The set of footprints they followed was heading in the exact same direction the elves were leading. Baldric asked several times if they could actually sense the scepter, because he suspected after a while that they were just following the trail left a few months earlier. Calaran was firm in the fact that not only could the other elf sense the scepter, but he could as well.

  “So what’s his name again?” Baldric asked for about the tenth time in an hour. There was more than a little satisfaction when Calaran turned a frown onto the dwarf and said “His name is Filvan. Does that satisfy your curiosity?”

  Baldric grinned at his victory over the elf and nodded in reply.

  The next several hours had them winding through a series of stairs and ramps that took them up and down the levels of the underground city several times. Once, they heard the sound of chanting in the distance. Calaran motioned for them to stop for a few seconds as he listened at a crossing passageway. Baldric looked ahead and saw a large group of footprints in the dust. It appeared to have come out of the passageway that Calaran was listening at and headed down the passageway in front of him. Baldric pointed to the disturbed dust, and Calaran grimaced but said nothing. He led them a few hundred feet down the path before he spoke.

  “The chamber of Kerin Kor is very close to that crossing. After we get the scepter, we will head back that way. The ritual is still ongoing. I don’t think they have finished summoning the portal to Cathos yet. We have several hours if we are lucky.”

  Baldric looked back to the hallway the sound had drifted up from. “How close are we?” he asked.

  “I don’t think too far now; the pull is getting stronger. I think we will have enough time.” Calaran turned and started following the trail left in the dust.

  Baldric knew that there were cultists ahead of them. He lifted his warhammer from his belt. Filvan had his hand on the handle of one of the long knives, as well. Baldric prepared himself for some sort of fight.

  The slight glow of light ahead announced the group of cultists before Baldric and the elves turned the corner. Filvan pulled both of his knives and ran forward without a sound. Baldric was just a half step behind him. A dwarven battle cry led the dwarf forward as the young elf raced ahead of him. There were around twenty cultists in the hallway, including two wizards. One of the wizards was raising his hand to cast a spell when one of Filvan’s blades sank deep into his throat.

  The elf disappeared as he approached the armed men. Baldric couldn’t think of anything else to say about it. He just disappeared. The men who had set themselves to attack the elf were befuddled, but the screaming, charging dwarf still headed at them gave them steely resolve.

  Unfortunately for them, steely resolve does nothing to stop a warhammer swung at your shins. Two of the cultists collapsed at Baldric’s first swing. He raised his warhammer to strike again when a mass of sticky, white strands threatened to hold him fast. He realized that one of the wizards must have cast a spell. This one covered the entire area in strong strands of what appeared to be a spider’s web. Baldric pushed himself forward, snapping the strands like dried vines. The cultists who had also been caught in the spell had terror in their eyes as they were immobilized by the strong web.

  Baldric grinned at the men as he waded past them. His belt carried a strong enchantment that gave him great strength—enough strength, it appeared, to not be held fast by the webs of this spell. He pushed forward to strike down the wizard with his hammer, when the wizard suddenly lurched forward and fell face-first. Baldric growled as he saw Filvan slide away behind another soldier and slice his throat.

  The dwarf started swinging his warhammer at the cultists around him. They were in a panic, some trying to cut away the web and escape, others fighting back to back in a desperate hope that they could stop the slaughter that was quickly eliminating them. In just a few minutes the fight was over. One of the cultists had managed to give Baldric a nasty slice across his cheek, but other than that he had suffered no wounds of note.

  Filvan, of course, was not even touched by one of the cultists’ weapons. He also seemed as fresh as the morning, no heavy breathing, no sweat on his brow. Baldric knew that wasn’t natural. Calaran had watched the whole battle like it was something to be studied. Leaning against the side of the passageway, his arms folded in front of him, he looked like he might have yawned at any moment.

  “Way to get in there and help,” Baldric said to Calaran as he stepped over the dead cultists. The dwarf was sure the elven bard was worried about getting blood on his shoes.

  Calaran smiled at him. “I wouldn’t want to get in the way. And besides, I’m not a great warrior; I’m a simple story-teller and singer of songs.”

  Baldric snorted at that. He had seen the bard in action and had heard stories of his prowess in battle. Calaran might be able to pass himself off as a simple bard to those who didn’t know any better, but any adventurer with a little experience under his helmet would see that of everyone heading to stop the cult, Calaran was the most dangerous. Baldric looked over at Filvan and reconsidered his assessment. Calaran was the second most dangerous.

  “Besides,” Calaran said while looking at the dead men in the hallway. “I just had to hold your cloaks while you two did all of the work. I would have looked bad in comparison.”

  Baldric shrugged as he decided to take the bard’s words as a compliment and not as a patronizing attempt at a subtle
insult. True, Filvan had killed both of the wizards and about ten of the men, but the rest had been killed by the strong blows of his warhammer.

  Calaran motioned them forward but Filvan stopped him. They both spoke in Elvish for a few seconds while Filvan pointed to the torches that the cultists had carried. They had been tossed down by the men when they were attacked. One was just smoldering as it slowly died, but the other two still gave good light as they burned strong. Calaran spoke firmly to the young elf and finally got a nod from him.

  “What was that about?” Baldric asked as he and Calaran followed Filvan down the corridor.

  “He wanted to extinguish them, but I told him to leave them burning.”

  Baldric nodded. “If any others came, they would see the light first and move slower until they were sure who held the torches.”

  “Exactly. Filvan is a great warrior already, but the tricks of the adventuring trade take years to develop.”

  The trio continued down the passageway. Calaran had Baldric take point, and when he asked why, Calaran pointed to the trail behind them. The elves were stepping in Baldric’s bootprints. Whoever might follow them would only see a single set of prints. This might give them the advantage if Delacour sent another group of wizards and warriors to search for the scepter.

  About a half hour later, the elves started whispering. Baldric was about to ask what they were muttering about when he saw the dusty trail turn into a room. This was the first time the path had deviated from one of the main passageways. Baldric looked at Calaran and pointed at the doorway that stood open. Calaran nodded and smiled.

  Baldric stepped through the door into a large chamber. He realized immediately that it was a burial chamber, with high rows of graves carved into the sides of the walls. There were eight graves in each row, from the ground to close to twenty feet high, and there were dozens of rows in the room. Three large piles of bones were in the middle of the room, and as Baldric approached he realized that whoever had come here before them had been set upon by skeletons that had been animated by magic.

  “It’s a good thing these folks cleared the skeletons out,” Baldric said as he poked at a skull with his boot.

  Calaran raised his hand. “Don’t disturb the bones.”

  “Why? You think they might rise up again?” Baldric asked as he stepped back.

  “No. Don’t disturb them because they are likely some of my ancestors. They were set here to guard the high priestess of the city.

  “We still would have had to fight them,” Baldric said.

  “Likely not—we have a right to be here,” Calaran answered as he looked around the room.

  “What right?”

  “A birthright. Both I and Filvan here are descended from the last high priestess of this city,” Calaran said.

  “Both of you? He is related to you?” Baldric was shocked.

  “Yes, he is my nephew. Can’t you see the family resemblance?”

  Baldric never knew when Calaran was reveling in a joke or telling the truth. Often it was both at once.

  “Well come on then; let’s get this scepter of yours so we can stop the evil necromancer from coming back and killing us all,” Baldric said. “But remember, if we have a choice, I get to kill that little weasel. Delacour left me face down in the muck to be eaten by worms.”

  “If I have the choice, I will let you wreak revenge. But remember, Mirari had her father killed by Delacour. She might have a strong claim,” Calaran answered.

  “Worms, Calaran. He left me to be eaten by worms!” Baldric said.

  “It’s very close; maybe fate will let us decide.” Calaran pointed to a door in the far corner of the chamber. “Through there, I believe.”

  He led the trio to the doorway and peered within. Filvan said something to Calaran in Elvish and appeared afraid to move forward. Calaran nodded, replied to Filvan, and stepped forward.

  Baldric wasn’t sure he wanted to go where the young elf warrior was afraid to, but he walked in after Calaran. It was a short hallway that ended in a small chamber. The wall on the right had revealed a secret door. Baldric recognized it as a particularly good design, one that would have been impossible for a human to find without knowing precisely where to look. The footprints headed into the secret opening.

  Baldric started to step past Calaran into the secret door, when the elf motioned him to stop. Baldric looked at Calaran only to realize that the elf was staring at the far wall.

  “What is it?” Baldric asked.

  “Can you really not see her?” Calaran asked.

  Baldric looked at where Calaran was focused. Maybe he had missed a sketched picture, or some image in the tapestry that seemed to be falling in shreds.

  “Sorry, I can’t see anything,” the dwarf said.

  “Her name was Ratarah, and she was the High Priestess here when Kol Edroth fell. An army of orcs and ogres invaded these lands and destroyed all there was. She held the scepter of Alamalis until the end. She summoned the ancient elven spirits in the Chamber of Kerin Kor until they were finally overwhelmed. Her brother, King Dedirius, arrived a few hours too late to save the city and his sister. He brought her back to her quarters and buried her in a sealed tomb with the scepter of Alamalis resting on top.”

  “And she is here now?” Baldric asked. He wasn’t afraid of an elven spirit. In fact, dwarves couldn’t see human or elven spirits and those spirits couldn’t interact with dwarves, either to help or hurt them.

  “Yes,” whispered Calaran. “And she was hurt. Injured a few months ago. She came here to stop those who would disturb her tomb and they sent evil spirits to attack her.”

  Calaran looked at Filvan and spoke sharply. Filvan turned pale, and Baldric watched as the young elf backed away from the entrance of the secret chamber.

  “Baldric,” Calaran said. “We need you for this. The evil spirits that attacked Ratarah still prevent her from reaching her tomb to rest. Can you go and retrieve the scepter for us?”

  Baldric cursed under his breath. He had been told that the elves needed him because he would be able to help them navigate the underground city. They didn’t need him at all for that, but now, at the end, they needed him to retrieve the scepter because there were ghosts.

  “You knew this might happen, didn’t you?” he asked.

  “There was a possibility, and I knew that if we had a dwarf along, you would be able to retrieve it for us.”

  “What if there is a dwarven spirit in there? Did you think about that? If a dwarven spirit is in there, he can kill me.”

  “Then run fast when you get the scepter.”

  Baldric grumbled and then looked at the doorway leading down to the tomb of Ratarah. He moved forward and stuck his head around the corner. A soft blue glow shone down the long hallway. A part of the passageway had collapsed about a hundred yards in. The chamber at the far end wasn’t large. It held what looked like an altar with a bronze scepter sitting on it. Baldric assumed that it was a tomb and not an altar from what Calaran had said, though.

  There was also a body sitting against the front of the altar and what looked like another body lying in the middle of the room. Baldric didn’t see or hear anything, but he imagined that the spirits that guarded the tomb and prevented Ratarah from resting were thinking up all sorts of malevolent things to do to him. He just steeled his nerves and kept walking.

  It was obvious to Baldric before he reached the collapsed section of floor that it had been a simple deadfall trap. He reached the edge and peered over the side. A large, half-rotted body lay at the bottom of the pit. Sharp, rusty spikes pierced the corpse every several inches. Baldric shook his head at the foul stench and noted that there was a narrow edge that remained intact. He didn’t always trust the masonry around a trap, though, so he was very careful as he made his way along the side of the pit.

  The footing was solid and he found himself on the other side in a few seconds. The room beyond the pit was covered in blood. There was a woman lying on the floor, her hea
d twisted in an unnatural position. It was clear that her neck had been snapped. A hand lay near her, and Baldric could see that it was her left hand, severed from her wrist.

  He looked at the man sitting against the altar. He had a large sword laid across his lap and looked like he was on watch. Well, he would have looked that way if the skin and flesh on his face weren’t rotting off. Baldric noted that both the warrior and the woman on the ground wore clothes and had tattoos that identified them as Padashites of the Reytrus clan. This was the clan that had attacked the Silver Sword Inn and besieged the town of Black Oak in the last few days. Delacour must have sent them for this scepter months ago, but why would he have waited until the day of the ritual to try to get it again?

  Baldric shrugged at his own musings. They had failed, and he was about to succeed at recovering this powerful magical item. He was stepping up to the altar when he sensed movement beside him.

  The dwarf threw himself backwards just as the blade that had been sitting on the dead warrior’s lap came slicing through the air. Baldric rolled to his feet and pulled his warhammer from the belt as he raised his shield. The sword glanced off the steel banding of the shield as Baldric saw who had attacked him. It was what he feared; the warrior resting in front of the altar had been reanimated somehow. Likely one of those spirits that Calaran had indicated still lurked in the area.

  Baldric blocked another swing of the sword and realized that the zombie, or whatever it might be called, was slower than a Padashite warrior should be. Whether the spirit who ensorcelled him was out of practice with a blade, or the body had rotted enough not to be as skilled as it once was, Baldric had no idea. He did know, however, that he could likely outrun this thing at least the length of the corridor. He slid his warhammer back into his belt as he darted out of the way of the undead warrior’s next swing. He lifted his shield and twisted so that the spirit-controlled warrior drove him back to the altar. When he was close, he snatched up the bronze scepter.

  A deep moan came from the warrior he faced, and he noticed the body of the woman on the floor start to rise. Baldric drove forward and slammed into the warrior’s legs. He bowled over the undead creature and dashed toward the pit. He leaped over it, the scepter held before him. In the middle of the jump, he felt something close around his ankle and he landed hard. His legs hung over the edge of the pit, and he was being pulled backward. Baldric turned his head and saw the rotted hand of the barbarian who was in the pit holding onto him. He swung the scepter at the hand and heard it connect with a wet thump.