by Wilson Harp
The hand let go and he pulled himself out of the pit. The zombie with the sword was starting to edge his way along the narrow lip that Baldric had used to bypass the pit going in. Baldric got to his feet and started running down the corridor.
“Calaran,” Baldric yelled, “I have your stupid scepter, but I have zombies coming after me!”
Filvan and Calaran turned the corner of the corridor and raced toward the dwarf. Baldric saw slashes and cuts appear on the two elves as he came closer. The spirits that had been so frustrated that they could not hurt the dwarf directly were apparently venting their rage on the two elves.
Filvan reached an empty hand toward Baldric. The dwarf instinctively knew what the elf wanted and tossed the scepter to him.
When the scepter touched his hand, the elf glowed with a great blue light. A sense of peace and rest came over Baldric as he slowed his run and came to a stop next to the young elven warrior. Calaran was down on one knee. Blood dripped off of his face, and he struggled to catch his breath. He raised his eyes and looked down at the chamber that held Ratarah’s tomb.
“What’s happening?” Baldric asked as he looked back. The zombies that had been coming for him lay still in the corridor.
“Ratarah was able to use the power of her scepter again. Filvan opened himself as a conduit and she was able to connect through him. She brought forth the elven spirits that attended her in life, and they have destroyed the spirits that prevented her from finding rest.”
Baldric could sense the restoration of the sacred place as he rested there. He looked in amazement as the cuts and rips in the flesh of both of the elves were magically healed.
Calaran looked at the nearest former zombie. “Padashites. I bet the woman in the robes was one of their diviners.”
Baldric nodded. “That’s what I figured.”
“They failed, and that is all that matters. But I would bet that Delacour has several other Padashite diviners with him in the ritual. This was a good decision to recover the scepter.”
Filvan turned back to them and said something. He held the scepter like the most precious object he would ever see. Then he held it out to Calaran.
Calaran shook his head and spoke to the young elf. He motioned that Filvan should hold on to the scepter.
“What was that?” Baldric asked. “I thought you were going to be the one to use the scepter to help disrupt the ritual.”
“I was, but Ratarah wishes Filvan to hold it for her. She will be the one who leads the fight of spirits against Delacour and his diviners. Filvan’s elven blood allows her to use the scepter, but his other blood gives her even more power.”
“His other blood?”
“Yes. I didn’t understand how it might have been important, but it is. I think Delacour is in for a couple of surprises,” Calaran said. “Come, let us find the Chamber of Kerin Kor.”
“What is the chamber and why does the ritual to bring Cathos back need to be held there?” Baldric asked.
“The chamber is built over a place that used to be an ancient grove where the first elves buried their dead. As a place with thousands of years of burials, the fabric between this world and the spirit world thinned a bit. When this city was built, it was as a necropolis. Elves for hundreds of miles would be brought here to be buried. The High Priestess would care not only for the bodies of those buried here, but for their spirits as well. The Chamber of Kerin Kor was where she would speak with the spirits and bring them comfort. Sometimes they would tell her things that would impact our world, but for the most part she just comforted those who had died.”
Baldric nodded. “So the thinness between the worlds is still there. The Chamber would be the easiest place for Delacour to begin a ritual that would allow Cathos to escape his spiritual prison and bring him back to this world.”
“Correct,” Calaran said. “Now, we must go to the chamber and hope that Donal and the others have found their way in time.”
The trio moved out of Ratarah’s quarters and through the antechamber. They reached the corridor again and started back to the passageway where Calaran had heard the ritual. It appeared that Delacour had not yet sent another group to seek the scepter, as the first group’s mangled bodies had not been disturbed as they passed the site of the battle.
Baldric smiled. The fight ahead would be perfect for him. While all of the others would have to face spirits and blood related fights, he just had to use his warhammer and shield to wade into the fight. And he would find that little rat and put his hammer into his skull.
Just thinking about killing Delacour was enough to make him forget that it had been close to twenty hours without a taste of beer. When the day was over, they would travel back to the Silver Sword Inn and he would finish off that half keg that Croft had made him buy.
His thirst and vengeance both slaked. This would be the best day of adventuring ever!
The Ritual
Horas watched as Donal moved back to the group. Orias had placed an enchantment on Donal that would allow him to see clearly in very dim light. When they could hear the sounds of the ritual, Donal had slipped forward by himself to scout out the chamber. Each second was tense and fraught with terror. But he had turned the corner and was back to tell them what he had seen.
“Delacour has opened up a portal on the central dais,” the woodsman said. “There are a group of wizards holding it open, a cauldron filled with the blood of sacrifices, and a handful of Padashite diviners summoning spirits. This is in addition to the forty or so cultists that form an armed ring around the others.”
Martel nodded and looked over at Ermine. Horas felt his stomach sink as he realized that both of those veteran adventurers had resigned themselves to the fact that they wouldn’t make it out alive.
“I will set up a spirit snare to stop the spirits,” Orias said. “It should give you time to kill as many of the fighters as possible.”
“Me and Lendin will try to take out the diviners with our bows,” Donal said. “If we can take out those two groups, then we might be able to kill or at least distract the wizards. If we can do that, the portal might collapse,” Donal said.
“Mirari, when you get in there, hold up your mother’s locket,” Orias said. “I think the magic in the locket might be activated in the presence of the ritual. It was one of the keys used to lock Cathos in his prison.”
Mirari frowned but nodded. She didn’t like being told what to do, but she did see when it was needed.
Donal turned to Horas. “You follow Martel and Ermine in. We need those cultists dead before they can get to Orias and Mirari.”
Horas nodded. There were forty cultists and only three assigned to kill them. He wished Baldric and the elves were back. That one elf alone would be able to kill twenty of the cultists.
Orias turned to his apprentice Medrick. “You use that staff if you can. Target the cauldron and see if the staff can disrupt the ritual.”
Horas looked back at Lendin. He was checking the arrows in his quiver, a habit he had whenever he was exceptionally nervous. Horas tapped his friend on the shoulder and smiled at him. Lendin smiled back, but his eyes were watery and he was shaking.
Donal came over to them and pulled his bow off of his back. “You men ready for this?” he asked as he strung his bow.
Lendin nodded but didn’t meet his uncle’s eye.
“I’m ready,” Horas said. He adjusted his helmet and pulled his axe from his belt. “I can’t wait to talk about this in the Silver Sword Inn when it’s over.”
Donal clapped Horas on the back. “It will make a grand tale. Calaran might even work your name into the song.”
“When do we begin?” Ermine asked. Horas still thought she looked a little weak. She had taken a nasty cut in her arm the night before when the Silver Sword Inn was attacked. Magda, the inn’s cook, had patched her injury, but she still seemed weak and lethargic compared to what Horas remembered from the last time he had seen her.
“We’ll give Calaran a lit
tle more time. I don’t think they are ready to open the portal yet. If they haven’t returned by the time Delacour starts the last incantation, we go in,” Donal said.
Orias and Medrick started casting spells of protection on the group. Some would protect them from foul magic; others would boost their reflexes and strength in battle. Horas had been in several large battles before, but until Baldric, Lendin and he had attacked the orc tribe in Ronsell’s Cave, he had never considered that a small group could take out a much larger group.
The problem was that the cultists were anticipating an attack. The orcs in the cave had been taken by surprise, and as a result panic and terror were among the weapons that were brought against them.
Horas spun the axe lazily in his hand. He was at the point where his mind and body just wanted to charge into the action. Mirari was bouncing on the balls of her feet. She wore that fancy dress like a suit of armor, and Horas had no doubt that she would have loved to go into the fight with her beloved knives in her hand. But instead, she held on to her mother’s locket as she had been instructed.
Lendin and Donal were softly talking as were Orias and Medrick. Last minute encouragement from master to apprentice was what Horas figured. Martel and Ermine just leaned against each other back to back. They had fought together for so long, it didn’t seem like they needed to talk.
There was a change in the sound coming from the chamber. A low disturbance seemed to upset the steady chanting that Horas had been hearing since they arrived.
“Calaran is here,” Donal said. “It’s time.”
“Let’s go, Horas,” Martel said as he and Ermine started trotting forward.
Horas caught up with them by the time they made the first turn. It was dark and Horas didn’t trust his own feet, even though he had not seen so much as a crack in the stone flooring since they entered. A deep purple glow shone around the next corner, and Martel and Ermine started running in earnest.
“I’ve the center,” Martel said. “Ermine take the right; Horas take the left.”
Horas shifted his position so he would be on Martel’s left as they turned the last corner. He was at a full run trying to match speed with Martel and Ermine. Footsteps behind him said the rest of the group would burst into the chamber as soon as the warriors engaged the cultists.
Horas turned the corner and almost missed a step. It was only about fifteen feet before the corridor entered the chamber. But the chamber was unlike anything he was expecting. It was at least forty feet high and there was a giant, burning, amber colored opening hovering in the middle of the room. Purple and amber lights swirled around in a maelstrom of wind and color. Spirits, hundreds of them, surged toward the right side of the room, and they seemed to be engaging other spirits near an entryway.
Most of the cultists were on the move toward the entryway where the spirits were fighting, but some saw Martel, Ermine and Horas rush into the chamber. A dozen or so cultists, all armored and wielding swords and shields, turned toward the warriors and yelled a battle cry.
Horas was able to swing wide and flank several of them who had moved toward Martel. He neatly chopped two down and was able to duck a blow from behind him.
He spun to get away from those who had come from his back and caught a sword with the spike on his axe. An arrow took the cultist in the neck, and Horas let him drop and moved back toward Martel.
A Dwarven battle-cry echoed through the chamber and Horas smiled. Baldric was likely killing as many cultists as the rest of them combined.
Ermine screamed as one cultist kicked her shield, causing pain to shoot up her injured arm. She was hard pressed by two of the evil warriors, and Martel had his hands full with three cultists working him back to the entrance.
Another cultist jumped in front of Horas as he moved to help Ermine. Both men were shaken, though, when a bolt of lightning shot through the room and thunder rolled along the ground.
Horas recovered first, and the cultist’s head rolled on the ground. Ermine had managed to kill one of her attackers but looked exhausted. She was backing toward the wall as she slashed wildly at the cultist, who seemed eager for the kill. Horas considered throwing his axe, but he was sure that he would miss his target that far away. An arrow took Ermine’s would-be killer in the side of the head and he fell dead. Ermine backed up to the wall and slumped down. If she was lucky, none of the other cultists would take notice.
“Horas, help us,” Donal shouted.
Distracted by Ermine’s fight, Horas had allowed several of the evil swordsmen to slip past him.
He turned to where Donal and Lendin were and saw the older woodsman fighting three of the cultists with a sword and dagger. Lendin was behind him, still picking out shots with his bow.
Horas raised his axe and charged forward. One of the cultists went down as Horas chopped into his back. Donal was able to skewer a second. The third one, however, slashed wide and hit Lendin across the right arm. Lendin fell with a yell, and Horas drove his shield into the back of the man who had hurt his friend.
Donal’s dagger flashed out and cut the man’s throat.
Horas started to kneel and help Lendin, but Donal stopped him. “I’ll tend to him; guard us,” he said.
Horas nodded and looked back into the chamber. The wizards were still focused on whatever they were doing. A glowing sphere seemed to stop any number of spells that Orias and Medrick were casting.
Mirari stood behind Orias, her hands at her side. She looked frustrated and angry. Horas knew that she wanted to be in the battle, but instead she was being held back because of the locket she wore. Martel had finished killing the cultists that he had charged into, but he was on a knee, using his sword to steady himself. Several lines of blood showed through his armor and his leg was bleeding profusely.
Ermine was lying still against the wall where she had slumped. Her eyes were closed and Horas wasn’t sure if she had seen her last battle.
Off to the far right of where they had entered, the battle still continued, although it seemed to be slowing. Calaran and Baldric, both wounded, still fought against a handful of cultists.
The young elven warrior held the scepter aloft, the battle of the spirits raging above him. His clothes and face were torn at different places, as if he had been mauled by some great beast. But the spirits that he seemed to empower were defeating those dark ghosts that the Reytrus diviners had summoned.
Three of the diviners lay with arrows in their backs. Donal and Lendin had helped turn the tide in several of the fights. Horas was desperate with hope that his friend would survive this day. The slash across his arm had been deep, and he had seen men die of the loss of blood days later. Another diviner went down with a knife in her throat. Even wounded, Calaran was dangerous with his blades.
The purple and amber light that had lit the chamber went to a deep red suddenly. The wizards who had been so focused within the glowing sphere turned to look at the rest of the chamber.
The amber portal that had seemed so dominating when Horas entered the room suddenly doubled in size and turned blood red. Delacour was chanting in front of the cauldron of blood.
“Now, Mirari!” Orias bellowed.
Horas looked over and realized that she was going to be the focus of the final battle. The glowing sphere around the wizards and cauldron vanished, and Delacour turned back to look at Orias.
Magic flew from the hands of the wizards and Horas felt a pain like a massive burn in his legs. The protective shielding that Orias had put on all of them wasn’t enough to stop all of their magic. He realized that he had to make it to Mirari to protect her.
Orias shot jets of flame at the wizards. The twang of a bowstring behind him let Horas know that Donal had finished doing what he could to help Lendin. Martel was hovering over Ermine with his shield covering both of them as much as he could.
Horas hobbled over to where Medrick stood firing bolts of lightning with his staff. He was sliding behind Medrick and Mirari when he saw a vision of a beautiful
, powerful woman appear beside Orias. The vision and Orias smiled at each other, and then the woman turned to the portal. Horas limped behind them, watching as he went.
Pure beams of white flew from this woman’s fingers and killed the remaining wizards. She then spoke. Horas couldn’t understand what she said, but a man appeared inside the portal. He was powerful to behold and terrible in his visage.
His voice rang out in the chamber and Horas fell to his knees in fear. The man seemed to be death incarnate; all of Horas’ nightmares rolled into one. Horas broke his eyes away from the image, and the fear seemed to ease.
He saw that the spirits had finished their fight and only a single Reytrus diviner still stood where Calaran, Baldric and the other elf had started their assault.
Horas could only believe that the beautiful woman who shimmered like a vision must be Alinor in some way. The man in the portal must be the horrible necromancer Cathos, still trapped inside his prison. Horas had believed that once the cultists had been destroyed Cathos would be helpless even if he escaped from his prison. He now realized what folly that was.
Cathos’ escape would be disastrous for everybody and everything. His presence, still imprisoned, was so overwhelming that Horas felt like giving up hope. He realized that his eyes had been pulled back to the man. Delacour continued his chanting. He needed to be stopped. The cauldron needed to be destroyed. Horas shut his eyes and the fear faded again.
He turned his head before opening his eyes to avoid the fear that Cathos instilled in him. When he opened his eyes he saw a Reytrus diviner running toward him. Calaran and the other elf were following as quickly as they could.