"Cadderly guessed that the mist pushes a person to what is in his heart. The gluttons eat themselves to death. The suffering priests cut each other apart in religious frenzy. My own druid brothers revert to animal form, losing themselves in altered states of being. Why, then, is Newander not running with the animals?"
Danica recognized that the druid's last question was a source of great and sincere anguish. They had discussed this once before, but Newander had offered little explanation for himself, focusing his responses on why Cadderly might have escaped the curse.
"My guess is that the curse has found no hold on my heart, that my own desires are not known to me," the druid went on. "Have I failed at my calling?" Tears rolled openly down Newander's face and he appeared on the verge of a breakdown, a dear sign to Danica that he was indeed being affected by the red mist. "Have I no calling?" Newander wailed. He crumbled to the floor, head in hands, his shoulders shuddering with heavy sobs.
"You are mistaken," Danica said with enough force to command the druid's attention. "If you have failed in your calling, or if you have no calling, then why do you retain the magical spells that are a gift of your god, Silvanus? You brought the vines in my window, and the moss to life against the ghouls."
Newander composed himself, intrigued by Danica's words. He found the strength to stand and this time did not look away from her.
"Perhaps it is the truth in your heart that has led you to defeat the curse," Danica reasoned. "When did you first feel the curse acting upon you?"
Newander thought back a couple of days, to when he had returned to the library to find Arcite and Cleo already in the throes of their shape change. "I felt it soon after I returned," he explained. "I had been out in the mountains, watching over an eagle aerie." Newander recalled that time clearly, remembered his own insight concerning the su-monsters. "I knew that something was out of sorts as soon as I came back in the library's doors. I went to find my druid brothers, but, alas, they were deep into their animal forms by then, and I could not reach them."
"There is your answer," Danica said after a moment of thought. "You are a priest of natural order, and this curse is certainly a perversion of that order. You said that you can sense the presence of undead―so, I believe, did you sense the presence of the curse."
How had he known that the ghouls were coming? Newander wondered. There were spells to detect the presence of such undead, but he had not enacted any and still knew that they were there, just as he had known that the su-monsters were evil creatures and not just predatory animals. The implications of his insight nearly overwhelmed the druid.
"You give me more credit than I deserve," he said somberly to Danica.
"You are a priest of the natural order," Danica said again. "I do not think you alone have resisted this curse, but you were not, are not, alone. You walk with your faith, and it is that sincere calling that has given you the strength to resist. Arcite and Cleo had no warning. The curse was upon them before they knew anything was wrong, but their failure forewarned you of the danger, and with that warning, you have been able to keep true to your calling."
Newander shook his head, not convinced, not daring to believe that he possessed such inner strength. He had no rebuttals against Danica's reasoning, though, and he would not deny anything where Silvanus, the Oak Father, was concerned. He had given his heart to Silvanus long ago, and there his heart remained, despite any curiosities Newander might hold for the ways of progress and civilization. Was it possible that he was so true a disciple of the Oak Father? Was it possible that what he had perceived as failure, in not transforming into animal form, as Arcite and Cleo had done, might actually reflect strength?
"We lose time in asking questions we cannot answer," he said at length, his voice more steady. "Whatever the cause, both you and I found the way clear."
Danica looked back to the stone wall with concern. "For now at least," she added. "Let us be off again, before my will wanes."
They crossed under several archways, Danica holding the torch far out in front of her to burn the unrelenting cobwebs from their path. Neither of them had much experience with travel underground, or with the common designs of catacombs, and their course was a wandering one; they chose tunnels more or less at random. Danica was thoughtful enough to scratch directional marks at the more confusing turns, in case they had to retrace their steps, but still she feared that she and the druid would become lost in the surprisingly intricate complex.
They saw some signs of previous passage―torn webbing hanging in loose strands, an upset crate in one corner―but whether these had been caused by Cadderly, by other monsters such as the ghouls, or simply by some animal that had made its home in the catacombs, neither of them could say.
Their torch burned low as they entered one long passage. Several side corridors ran off this one, mostly along the right-hand wall, and Danica and Newander agreed that they would stay the course this time and not continue to wander in circles. They passed by the first few passages, Danica entering just a few feet with the torch to get a quick glimpse of what lay down each, but stayed in the main tunnel and meant to until they reached its end.
Finally they came to a passage they could not ignore. Danica went in, again for a quick perusal. "They have been here!" she cried out, the realization drawing her farther down the tunnel. The sights there confirmed Danica's suspicions. A battle had been fought here; dozens of bone piles lay strewn about the floor and several skulls, forcibly removed from their skeletal bodies, greeted them with sightless eye sockets. Two lines of piled crates formed a defensive run farther in, a place where Danica soon reasoned that Cadderly and the dwarves had made their stand.
"The bones agree with my sensing of the undead," Newander said grimly, "but we cannot be certain that it was our friends who fought them here."
The confirmation came even as he spoke, as Danica moved her torch slowly about for a wider view of the battle-torn area.
"Pikel!" the woman cried, running to the fallen dwarf. Pikel lay cold and still just as Ivan had left him, his burly arms crossed over his chest and his tree-trunk club lying at his side.
Danica fell to her knees to examine the dwarf but had no doubts that he was dead. She shook her head as she studied his wounds, for none of them seemed serious enough to fell one of Pikel's toughness.
Newander understood her confusion. He knelt beside her and uttered a few words as he waved his hand slowly over the body.
"There is a poison in this one," the druid announced grimly. "A wicked brew indeed, gone straight to his heart."
Danica cupped her hands under Pikel's head and gently lifted his face to hers. He had been a dear friend, possibly the most likable person Danica ever had known. It occurred to her, holding him, that he had not been dead for very long. His lips had gone blue, but there was no swelling at all and there remained warmth in his body.
Danica's eyes widened and she turned on Newander. "After we fought the ghouls, you told me that you had a spell to counter any poisons I might have contracted," she said.
"And so I do," Newander replied, understanding her intent, "but the poison has done its work on this one. My spell cannot undo the dwarf's death."
"Use the spell," Danica insisted. She moved quickly, propping Pikel under the neck with one arm and tilting his head backward.
"But it will not―"
"Use it, Newander!" Danica snapped at him. The druid backed off a step, fearing that the mist had again taken hold of his companion.
"Trust me, I beg," Danica continued, softening her tone, for she recognized the druid's sudden caution.
Newander didn't understand what Danica might have in mind, but after all they had been through, he did trust her. He paused a moment to consider the spell, then took an oak leaf from his pocket and crumbled it on top of the dwarf, uttering the proper chant.
Danica opened Pikel's cloak and unbuckled the breastplates of his heavy armor. She looked to Newander for confirmation that his spell was complete.
"There is any poison left in this one, it has been neutralized," the druid assured her.
It was Danica's turn. She closed her eyes and thought of Grandmaster Penpahg D'Ahn's most prized scroll, the notes of physical suspension. Penpahg D'Ahn had stopped his breathing, even his heart, for several hours. One day Danica meant to do the same. She was not yet ready for such a demanding trial, she knew, but there were aspects of Penpahg D'Ahn's writings, particularly those involved with coming out of the physical suspension, that she knew would be of help to her now.
Danica thought of the steps required to restart the suspended heart, in the writings, these were internal, of course, but their principles might be duplicated by an outside force. Danica laid Pikel back down flat, unbuttoned his vest, and pulled his nightshirt up high. She could hardly see the details of his chest through the virtual sweater of hair, but she persisted, feeling his ribs and hoping that a dwarf's anatomy was not so different from a human's.
She had found the spot―she thought. She looked back to Newander for support, then, to the druid's obvious surprise, turned back suddenly and rapped her free hand sharply into the hollow of the dwarf's breast. She waited just a moment, then rapped again. Danica's intensity multiplied; all her heart went into her work on Pikel, and that only encouraged the cursing mist to creep back in.
"Lady Danica!" Newander cried, grabbing the frantic woman's shoulder. "You should show more respect to the dead!"
Danica whipped her arm around and back, hooking the druid behind the knees. A sudden jerk sent Newander to the floor, then Danica resumed her work, furiously pounding away. She heard a rib crack but wound up for yet another blow.
Newander was back at her, grabbing her more forcefully this time and tearing her from the corpse.
They wrestled for a moment, Danica easily gaining an advantage. She put Newander flat on his back and scrambled atop him, her fist coming up dangerously over the druid's face.
"Oooi!"
The call froze both Danica and Newander.
"What have you done?" Newander gasped.
Danica, as surprised as the druid, shook her head and slowly turned about. There sat Pikel, looking sore and confused but very much alive. He smiled when he gazed upon Danica.
The woman rushed off Newander and tackled the dwarf, wrapping him in a tight hug. Newander came over, too, patting both of them heartily on the shoulders.
"A miracle," the druid muttered.
Danica knew better, knew that reviving Pikel had involved some very logical and well documented principles in the teachings of Grandmaster Penpahg D'Ahn. Nonetheless, Danica, too amazed by what she had done and too relieved to see Pikel again drawing breath, did not find the resolve to answer.
"This is a fortunate meeting," Danica reasoned after the hugging had ended.
"Oo oi!" Pikel was quick to agree.
"More than for you," Danica started to explain.
Newander cast her a curious look.
"This is our first proof that the tunnel we entered connects to the area that Cadderly went into," said Danica. "Until we found Pikel, we were lost."
"Now we know," added Newander, "and we know, too, that we have crossed Cadderly's path. Perhaps now we shall find a clearer trail to follow." He bent low with the torch, studying the floor for some signs, but came up a moment later shaking his head. "It is a tiny path if it is one at all," he lamented.
A smile widened on Danica's face. "Tiny for us, perhaps," she said. "But maybe dear enough for Percival."
Pikel sat confused, but Newander's smile surpassed Danica's. The druid uttered a few sounds to Percival, asking the squirrel to lead them to Cadderly. Percival hopped about for a few moments, scratching at the ground and searching for some pattern, either in the scuff marks or the scent.
He caught the trail and set off down the passage, Newander right behind. Danica helped Pikel to his feet. He was still unsteady, and still thoroughly confused, but he called upon the two most prominent dwarven traits, toughness and stubbornness, and made his way beside the young woman.
* * * * *
Sleep had been such a pleasant thing, but somewhere deep in his thoughts Druzil realized that he was dangerously vulnerable lying in a crack in the wall of a deserted corridor. The imp pulled himself out of the cubby and shape-changed back to his more customary, bat-winged form. Somewhere in his slumber, he had lost the concentration necessary for invisibility and could not sort through the fog that remained in his mind enough to recover it. That sleepy fog was heavy, but the imp kept one thought clear: he must get back to Barjin, back to the safety of his magical gate connection to Castle Trinity. He knew that someone recently had exited this passage and, having no desire to meet any enemies, he took a roundabout, meandering course.
He stopped and held very still a short while later when the crazed mummy came storming by, smashing anything and everything in its path. Druzil realized that something had gone terribly wrong, recognized that the mummy, scorched and blasted in many places, had gone out of control.
The monster was gone then, slamming down a side corridor, growling and bashing things with its heavy arms with every step.
Druzil's wings flapped slowly as he half-walked and half-flew back toward the altar room.
Yes, Barjin would help him, and if not Barjin, then surely Aballister. With that thought in mind, the imp sent out a weak, sleepy message to his master back at Castle Trinity.
Face to Face
Ivan hit the loose-swinging door with a terrific impact, jolting it free of one of its hinges. Cadderly's fears were proved true, for several fiery explosions went off in rapid succession as Ivan crossed the threshold. If the door had stopped, or even delayed his charge, he would have been roasted.
As it was, Cadderly was not certain if the dwarf had survived. Ivan skidded into the room on his face, wisps of smoke rising from several points on his body. Cadderly rushed in right behind to get to his friend; he could only hope that no glyphs remained.
The young scholar didn't quite make it to Ivan, though. As soon as he entered the room, squinting in the brightness of the several torches and blazing brazier, he saw that he and Ivan were not alone.
"You have done well to come so far," Barjin said calmly, standing halfway across the room, beside the altar that held the ever-smoking bottle. Torches lined the wall to either side of the priest, but the brighter light came from a brazier along the wall to Cadderly's right, which Cadderly correctly guessed was an interplanar gate.
"I applaud your resilience," Barjin continued, his tone teasing, "futile though it will prove."
Every memory came rushing back to Cadderly in clear order and focus when he saw Barjin. The first thought that crossed his mind was that he would go back up and have a few nasty words with Kierkan Rufo, the man who had, he believed, kicked him down the stairway from the wine cellar in the first place. His resolve to scold Rufo did not take firm hold, though, not when Cadderly considered the dangers before him. His eyes did not linger on the priest, but rather on the man standing next to Barjin.
"Mullivy?" he asked, though he knew by Mullivy's posture and the grotesque bend of his wrecked arm that this was not the groundskeeper he once had known.
The dead man did not reply.
"A friend of yours?" Barjin teased, draping an arm over his zombie. "Now he is my friend, too.
"I could have him kill you quite easily," Barjin went on. "But, you see, I believe I shall reserve that pleasure for myself." He removed the obsidian-headed mace from his belt, its sculpted visage that of a pretty young girl. Next, Barjin pulled on the conical hood hanging in back of his clerical robes. This fit over his head as a helmet might, with holes cut for Barjin's eyes. Cadderly had heard about enchanted, protecting vestments and he knew that his nemesis was armored.
"For all your valiant efforts, young priest, you remain a minuscule thorn in my side," Barjin remarked. He took a step toward Cadderly but stopped suddenly when Ivan hopped back to his feet.
Th
e dwarf shook his head vigorously, then looked about, as if seeing the room for the first time. He glanced at Cadderly, then focused on Barjin. "Tell me, lad," Ivan asked, swinging his double-bladed axe up to a ready position on his shoulder, "is he the one who killed me brother?"
* * * * *
Aballister wiped a cloth over his sweaty brow. He could not bear to continue peering through his magical mirror, but he had not the strength to turn his eyes away. He had felt Barjin's urgency when first he sent his thoughts to the distant altar room, unable to hear his inability to contact his imp. Aballister worried for Druzil and for the cleric, though his fears for and of Barjin were double-sided indeed. For all of his ambiguity, though, for all of his fears of Barjin and the power gains his rival would enjoy, Aballister honestly believed he did not want to see Tuanta Quiro Miancay, the Most Fatal Horror, fail.
Then the enemies had revealed themselves―himself, for Aballister hardly took note of the stumbling dwarf. It was the young scholar that held the wizard's thoughts, the tall and straight lad, twenty years old perhaps, with the familiar, inquisitive eyes.
Aballister sensed Barjin's mounting confidence and knew that the evil priest was back in control, that Barjin and Tuanta Quiro Miancay would not be defeated.
Somehow that notion seemed even more disturbing to the wizard. He stared hard and long at the young scholar, a boy really, who had come in bravely and foolishly to face his doom.
* * * * *
Cadderly nodded at Ivan. The dwarf's eyes narrowed dangerously as he glared back at the evil priest. "Ye shouldn't have done that," Ivan growled in a low and death-promising tone. He held his axe high and began a steady advance. "Ye shouldn't have―"
Waves of mental energy stopped Ivan in midsentence and midstep. Barjin's spell broke the dwarf's thought patterns, holding him firmly in place. Ivan struggled with all his mental strength and all the resistance a dwarf could muster, but Barjin was no minor spellcaster and this was his evilly blessed altar room, where his clerical magic was at its highest. Ivan managed a few indecipherable sounds, then stopped talking and moving altogether.
Canticle Page 25