by T. H. Lain
After he finished emptying his stomach, Clemf lifted him to his feet.
"Someone's approaching," murmured Tasca in a loud whisper.
Whitman tumbled into the heavy brush beside the path.
Clemf grabbed Regdar by the back of the arm and shoved him behind a large tree.
Tasca crouched down into a squat, then jumped into the air. He caught a branch nearly three times his height off the ground. Then, swinging his feet, he lifted himself into the canopy of the tree, out of sight.
Not more than a heartbeat later, three black-clad soldiers, all wearing the same spiked scale mail as the men who attacked Duke Ramas's keep, entered the swamp from the plain, following the same path Regdar and his companions had used. Though it had been difficult for Regdar, these men made it look easy, as if they had done it many times before and had no fear of the giant eels.
They passed the hidden comrades without any indication of noticing them.
An arrow sailed out of the treetops and nailed one of the soldiers in the neck, dropping him to his knees.
Whitman somersaulted from the brush, back-flipping to a stop before the stunned soldiers. His hammer barred their path.
Clemf stepped from behind the tree, longsword leveled, blocking their escape back through the swamp.
Regdar stepped into clear view, his ornate longbow pulled taught, an arrow nocked and pointed at the trapped men.
"We can do this the easy way," Regdar chuckled, "or you can make it hard on yourselves."
The black-clad soldiers stood completely still.
"We've come looking for a woman," said Regdar, moving a bit closer. "A wizard named Naull."
The two soldiers still on their feet turned to glare at Regdar with malice in their eyes.
The man on his knees pulled his helm from his head. Tasca's arrow was lodged in the side of his neck, and the wound bled freely. Regdar could see that he would bleed to death before long without aid. The wounded man threw his helmet at Whitman and drew his sword, still on his knees.
"I thought so," said Regdar through gritted teeth. He let his arrow fly. It connected with the kneeling man's ear, knocking him stiffly sideways and pinning his head to the ground.
The other two men drew their swords, then both lunged forward at Whitman. The dwarf bashed away one attack but suffered a cut to the shoulder from the other. Reversing the head of his hammer, he used the momentum from his swing to wind up for another attack. The head of his dwarven-forged weapon collided with a bone-splitting crack against one man's shins. The soldier dropped to a crouch, clutching his obviously broken leg.
Clemf rammed his longsword into the back of the other man's ribcage. The scale mail separated before the sharp point, and the man gasped, arching his spine. The man stumbled away from Clemf's blade on his toes. He ran blindly into Whitman, who refused to give ground.
With a half step forward, Clemf held the man pinned on the end of his blade like a giant bug.
"Drop your sword," he growled, "or I'll saw this blade right down through your guts."
Regdar nocked another arrow. "You've heard of the woman Naull?"
The two black-clad soldiers remained still.
Regdar stepped up and kicked the soldier's broken shin.
The man collapsed to his side, whimpering. His face wrinkled up, and the ridges faded into white as he clinched against the pain.
Clemf twisted his sword, the tip still lodged in the other soldier's back. The man moaned and gripped the hilt of his own sword tighter. Whitman nudged him with his shoulder, pushing him farther onto Clemf's blade.
Regdar kicked the downed man again. "I'm going to keep asking you until you tell me," he said, exaggerating each word and pausing after each one to land another kick.
The standing soldier inhaled deeply, with much pain. Then he lurched forward and slashed with his sword toward Whitman. It was a stroke of defiance-he hadn't the strength remaining to be truly dangerous.
In a blink, however, four men moved.
An arrow launched down from the treetop, slicing into the back of the man’s neck, missing the helm entirely and sinking into the soft flesh below the head.
Clemf lunged forward, twisting his blade with all of his considerable strength.
Whitman jammed his shoulder deeper into the pinned man's gut, shoving him hard onto the sword in his back. The tip of Clemf's blade burst from the man's chest, just above Whitman's head.
A second arrow, fired from ground level at point blank range, slipped through the eye slit in the man’s helm to penetrate midshaft into his eye.
The soldier's sword slipped from his hand and hit the wet ground with a light splash. His limp body followed a moment after.
Regdar dropped his bow and grabbed the remaining soldier by the neckline of his breastplate. Lifting him to his feet, the big fighter shook the man.
"Tell me what you know about Naull."
The man cringed, trying to hold his broken shin. Beads of sweat dribbled down his forehead, and his eyes squeezed tightly shut.
Holding the man up with only one hand, Regdar knocked off his helm with the other.
"Talk to me, you slavemonger."
"Regdar-" started Whitman.
Regdar ignored the dwarf. Bending slightly at the knees, he lifted the captive into the air by his neck.
"I said talk!" He shook the man.
The soldier gurgled. He let go of his leg to claw at Regdar's hands.
"Regdar," shouted Whitman, "he couldn't talk now if he wanted to."
"Oh no?" shouted Regdar, still looking at the man he held more than a foot off the ground. He felt the dwarf's hand on his shoulder.
"You're killing him," insisted Whitman.
The soldier's clawing hands slowed, then dropped limply to his sides.
Regdar shook him one more time, then with a tremendous grunt, hurled the man into the air. The soldier flew backward and landed with a clatter a few feet from his fallen comrades. Regdar doubled over, breathing hard from the exertion. He looked at the tangled mess of a man lying still on the muddy ground.
Clemf bent down and put his fingers to the man's neck, then announced, "He's dead."
7
A cultist, wrapped from head to toe in black splintmail, pushed through the door to the blackguard's chamber.
"They've arrived at the edge of the swamp, my mistress," he announced.
The blackguard, hunched over a figure lying prone on a waist-high table, didn't bother to turn away from her work.
"That's good news," she said. "Keep me informed of their progress."
Tasca dropped softly down from the treetops, bow already stowed on his back.
Regdar straightened up. "Those men looked an awful lot like the ones who attacked the duke's keep."
Whitman scratched his beard, looking at the dead soldiers. "Maybe we should head back and inform the duke."
"No," shouted Regdar. He put his whole hand across his face, aware of how loud he had been. Then in a quieter voice, he said,
"You saw how they reacted when I mentioned Naull. She's here somewhere, and I'm going to find her."
Clemf stood up, finished with his inspection of the dead men. "Nothing," he declared, raising empty hands. "Not even a few coins."
"Professional soldiers," remarked Tasca. "Well-trained, well-outfitted, organized, and no nonsense. These aren't mercenaries. They have a purpose, a mission." He looked to Regdar, then to Whitman. "Even if we did return to alert the duke, then what? We'd just have to come back here, where the enemy is. Maybe we can kill two birds with one stone."
Regdar slapped the elf on the shoulder and nodded his agreement.
Clemf grabbed the first soldier by the arms and dragged him back toward the eel pool.
"If these soldiers are who we're looking for, and this is their swamp, then it's a good bet that we made enough noise killing these three to bring more of them." He looked up at his comrades.
Whitman and Regdar grabbed the other two and dragged the
m into the water as well. Tasca followed behind with a tree branch, sloshing mud back over their tracks and smoothing out the drag marks.
When the bodies were submerged, the group struck out again. The path they followed wound deeper into the swamp. Though it was mucky, it seemed to be the firmest patch of ground in the smelly wetland. Around two more bends, the dense vegetation gave way to a small clearing at the base of Mount Fear.
Seemingly built right out of the mountain, on the edge of that clearing, climbed an imposing black tower fortress. The walls rose from the base of the mountain up to the height of two storm giants. It jutted out of the mountain as if it were emerging from a deep slumber, stepping out into the swamp for the first time in hundreds of years.
Spires at the top leaned out, then angled back toward the mountain at the bottom so the fortress appeared unbalanced, as if it were surging forward, trying to break free of the restraining mountain.
A single door, wide enough to admit an ox cart, broke the smooth stone-the only opening on the ground level. Above that, Regdar counted twenty-four arrow slits cut into the wall, perhaps the height of two men from the ground. And at the very top, a wide balcony jutted out and overlooked the clearing before the fortress.
"Well, well, well," said Regdar. "What do we have here?"
"My money says somebody evil lives here," quipped Tasca.
"It certainly has an unwholesome look about it," agreed Whitman. "Look at all the spiky, jagged bits along the top edges."
"Black stone construction," added Clemf.
"Improbably placed in the middle of a dreary swamp with no safe access," confirmed Tasca.
"Yep," agreed Regdar. "It sounds like something out of a legend."
"Probably well guarded, too," cautioned Whitman.
"Maybe," replied Regdar, "but maybe not. Who do they expect to come prowling around, way out here? Anyone have a suggestion on how to proceed?"
Whitman hefted his hammer onto his shoulder and smiled. "I say let's do what we always do," replied the dwarf. "Kick down the door, kill whatever's inside, and haul away whatever's worth taking. Or in this case, rescue the girl. It's worked so far."
Tasca unsheathed his rapier. "That's the smartest thing you've ever said. We have a plan." He started toward the tower.
"Just one problem," interrupted Whitman.
Tasca stopped and turned around.
"They'll be able to smell you coming," said the dwarf. "Better let me lead."
"Planning on tunneling in?" quipped the elf.
"Only if I can use your pointy nose for a pick." Whitman pushed past and strode down the path.
"Oh, that was clever," replied Tasca. "Did you think that up all on your own, like the plan?"
"That's enough, you two," said Regdar. "Whatever we find in there is likely to be powerful enough to survive on the Elemental Plane of Fire. I can't be sure, but I'd say that's beyond anything I've ever killed." He turned to Whitman. "Do you honestly want to just march right up there, in the light of day, barge in, and hope they didn't see us coming?"
Whitman scratched his beard. "In a nutshell, yes."
Tasca quietly slipped his rapier into its sheath. "Only a dwarf would think up a numbskull idea like that."
Whitman smiled. "But only an elf would follow a numbskull." Then he turned to Regdar. "What do you propose we do?"
"We wait here until nightfall," said the fighter. "Then we go in, covered by darkness."
Clemf spoke up. "What about the guards we killed?"
"What about them?" asked Regdar.
"They're going to be overdue."
Regdar rubbed his chin, thinking. "Well," he said finally, lifting his fingers away from his face. "We kill two birds with one stone." He turned and headed back toward the pool. "We take their armor and sneak in, in disguise, assuming the eels left the bodies where we put them."
Whitman hefted his hammer over his shoulder. "I liked my idea better."
Regdar pulled one of the dead soldiers out of the water by his ankle.
"Nasty business, stealing a dead man's armor," he said, bending down to unfasten the first of many leather straps.
"Hey, look at this." Tasca had already removed most of one man’s armor, exposing the dead soldier's upper body.
Regdar looked over the elf's shoulder as Whitman bent down and examined a large tattoo on the man’s chest.
"These guys don't look like slavers," said the dwarf. "More like cultists."
"What makes you say that?" asked Regdar.
Whitman pointed to the tattoo.
"That's the mark of Hextor," he said, indicating the fist and arrows. "And those-" he pointed to three words inscribed above the image-"are words in Infernal."
"What do they say?"
The dwarf shook his head. "I don't know, can't read Infernal."
Tasca just shrugged.
"This one's got it too," said Clemf, having stripped down another of the dead soldiers.
Regdar returned to the man he'd pulled up. "Let's hope they're not checking tattoos at the door."
"Yeah," said Tasca. "Let's also hope we don't end up as sacrifices to the god of destruction."
"Cultists of Hextor don't sacrifice elves," said Whitman, putting on the first part of his stolen armor.
"Why not?" asked Tasca.
The dwarf smiled. "Waste of a good meal."
Newly outfitted in at least some pieces of black scale mail, Regdar and crew came hesitantly back to the edge of the clearing. Standing so near the tower nearly drove Regdar mad. Here he was, outside, while inside, he felt sure Naull was being tortured or worse. As far as he was concerned, they couldn't get inside fast enough.
"Do you think this is going to work?" asked Tasca.
Regdar shrugged. "Do you have a better idea?"
"Yeah," said Whitman. "We stop all this sneaking around and bust in."
"After you then." Regdar checked the hilt of his sword. "But no busting anything until I say the word. Remember, we want them to think we're on their side for now."
"Right," replied Whitman with a snort.
The dwarf marched toward the tower, and Clemf fell into step beside him. Regdar and Tasca followed close behind. The path they had been following led right up to the front gate. Heavy, wooden doors were held open by movable iron spikes along the entranceway. The pointy, sharpened ends of a portcullis hung above. Below that, a heavy darkness descended, as if light itself were afraid to enter such a place.
"Here we go," whispered Tasca.
Regdar only nodded.
As they crossed the threshold, the man's eyes adjusted to the dim hallway. A handful of sconces holding dimly flickering torches lined the walls, which were made from the same black stone as the outside. The floor was covered in fine stone tiles alternating in dark and light shades, forming a checkerboard pattern.
The room they entered was long and wide, a grand foyer. It reminded Regdar of the duke's reception chamber or the entryway in the Church of Pelor back in New Koratia. It was the same, but different-designed for greeting newly arrived dignitaries but tainted with darkness. It seemed almost to mock itself, as if the whole room were simply a joke, a parody of good corrupted by evil.
There were no guards on duty, no reception party, and Whitman and Clemf continued on toward the wall at the far end of the long room. Regdar followed behind, focused on every detail, his senses aware of the light draft blowing in through the open door behind him and even the slight smell of swamp gas hed all but grown accustomed to over the past few hours.
"I don't like this," he whispered. "Too easy."
Whitman nodded.
Tasca pulled out his bow.
A loud, skull-splitting, clanging sound echoed down the chamber. Regdar yanked his enchanted sword from its sheath and spun around.
Wrapped around a wooden wheel to the right of the chamber, a heavy chain was unwinding, and quickly. The portcullis thundered down to seal the entryway. Tasca took two quick steps toward the open door. Regdar f
linched, knowing the elf would never make it through the gate in time.
As if the elf heard Regdar's thoughts, Tasca skidded to a stop. The portcullis hit the ground with a crash. Tiles cracked where the gate's sharp points slammed into them, and chips of stone were thrown in every direction.
"What have you done, elf?" shouted Whitman, his hammer already braced and ready for battle.
Tasca nocked an arrow to his bowstring, his eyes scanning every brick of the hall. "I followed your bumbling ass into a trap."
"Stop it," interrupted Regdar. "The disguises didn't work. Clemf, you're with me. Tasca and Whitman, stay together."
They nodded and paired off.
"And Whitman," said Regdar.
"Yeah?" replied the dwarf.
"Bust whatever you want."
"Right."
A grinding noise, sounding like stone on stone, echoed down the chamber. The wall at the far end parted. Regdar watched in amazement as the bricks slid back and disappeared into darkness. When the grinding stopped, the sound of heavy, marching boots filled the room.
Regdar looked to the other men. Whitman slapped his hammer against his hand with obvious impatience. Tasca sighted down his drawn arrow, watching the far wall. Clemf stood with his longsword held casually at his side, his eyes intently focused, his knees bent and ready to charge.
Regdar tested his grip on his greatsword and whispered a prayer under his breath. "Grant me the strength to vanquish my foes and carry my brethren through to safety," he said, stretching his neck to one side, then the other. "Woe be to those who oppose Pelor."
The darkness stirred, and from out of the newly formed portal in the wall poured a flood of black-clad soldiers.
Tasca let his arrow fly, and the first man to step into the flickering torchlight fell dead. Whipping his hand over his shoulder, he drew another arrow and fired again, dropping a second soldier.
The rushing enemy barely paused, however, and the room continued filling with black-armored warriors, like water gushing into a sinking boat. They marched uncaringly over their fallen comrades, flowing constantly forward.