by T. H. Lain
The noise grew louder, and Regdar squeezed the hilt of his sword. A shadow tumbled into view, skewed by the flickering torches. Regdar could hear the other men suck in their breath, then a long, brown, serpentine object unraveled at their feet.
Clemf lunged forward, smashing the thing with his sharp blade. His attack hit its mark, slicing right through. Sparks flew off the stone. A piece of the creature before them came off.
It wasn't a creature.
Tasca lowered his rapier. "It's a rope."
Clemf's cheeks flushed, and he sheathed his longsword. He opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it and closed it again.
"Hurry up, will you," came Whitman's voice from down the chute. "We don't have all year."
Tasca sheathed his blade and grabbed the rope. He climbed up hand over fist, jamming the toe of his boot into the corner where the wall met the floor. In a few steps, he disappeared from view.
Regdar held his hand out and bowed his head. "After you."
Clemf glared up the twisting passage for a moment before grabbing hold of the rope and pulling himself up.
Regdar followed a few moments later, and shortly the entire group was reunited at the top. Whitman wound up his rope, shoved it in his pack, and slapped Regdar on the arm.
"This time, I'll lead." He smiled.
The dwarf led the party down another narrow, well-lit hallway. They took their time, examining the floor and the walls meticulously as they went. Though they were careful, they found nothing except a door at the end of the passage.
Unlike the dark hallway they explored below, this one didn't afford them the luxury of spreading out and taking cover while they opened the door.
"How does this go again?" asked Whitman, hefting his hammer to his shoulder. "Kick down the door, take the treasure, and kill the monster?"
"You got the door part right," said Tasca, nocking an arrow to his bowstring, "but you have to kill the monster first, then you take its treasure."
The dwarf smiled. "Maybe that's how you do it." Then he turned and kicked the door with all of his substantial might.
The wood and iron slammed away from the group, hinges protesting as it swung. Inside, a large, lighted room greeted them. At the back, a spiral, blackened-iron staircase wound up through a round hole in the ceiling. On the stairs stood a gnarled, hunched-over man wearing a green robe. His hands were curled around a long, wooden staff almost as gnarled as he. A narrow, purple bruise crossed his forehead. He was smiling, showing the few yellow and black teeth left in his head.
In front of the robed man stood five more black-clad cultists, each carrying a battle axe at the ready. The moment the door burst open, the soldiers bolted forward. Metal rang on metal as Whitman and Clemf took the charge.
Tasca's bow twanged, and his arrow shot over the heads of the advancing soldiers, winging through the air toward the gnarled man. It struck its mark, piercing the man in his breast. As soon as the projectile hit, however, it vanished, seeming to disappear without any fanfare into thin air.
The robed man rubbed his twisted fingers over the polished surface of his staff. He seemed to be caressing the gnarled length of wood with as much care and attention as he might lavish on a beautiful woman. Looking down at the group from his perch on the spiraling stairs, he pointed the head of the staff at Tasca and nodded once, whispering something into the air. A ghostly white pair of magical manacles shot out, tracing back along the exact path traveled by the elf's arrow.
Tasca shrieked as the magical energies bore down on him. He tried to dodge the spell, but it was no use. The manacles encased his entire body, flaring once when they hit before disappearing. The elf took one more step, then froze in place, eternally dodging away from a spell that he couldn't escape.
Whitman's hammer connected with a cultist's helm, making a satisfying sound like a bell tolling. The man’s head flopped back across his shoulders on his broken neck, looking almost like a turtle retreating into its shell.
The four remaining men swung their battle axes. Whitman blocked one with a well-placed hammer blow, but a second got past his defenses. The blade bit into his beard. A long strand of graying hair flopped to the ground with a thin line of blood rimming the outside edge.
The other two men attacked Clemf. Their blades swung in at the same time, one high, one low. Clemf leaned away from the strikes by arching his back and pulling his chest away from the higher of the two axes. The razor-sharp edge whispered past his chestplate, barely missing.
With a desperate, off-balance swing of his sword, Clemf swung at the low weapon. His longsword whistled down and crashed into the hilt of the battle axe. Metal bit into wood, and Clemf's blow managed to push the soldier's attack off target. The second blade kissed the edge of his shin, slicing into the leather bands that held his armor in place. The long, metal plate that protected his lower leg dropped to the floor with a clatter.
The attacker twisted his wrists and yanked back on his weapon. Clemf's sword, still stuck in the wooden shaft of the battle axe, came free of his hands, and he stumbled forward off balance.
Regdar watched Clemf lose his blade and then his balance. Not wasting any time, the big fighter leaped over the tattooed man's bent-over frame, greatsword held high over his head. With a savage cry, Regdar smashed his blade down on the soldier's shoulder. The magical blade beamed brightly for a brief moment as it sliced through metal, leather, flesh, and bone. The soldier screamed, and his arm dropped to the ground with a clatter. Blood from the freshly opened wound spilled out over his severed arm, his battle axe, and Clemf's sword still embedded in its handle.
Regdar let go of his sword with one hand and jammed his fingers into the other soldier's helm. Slipping through the eye slit, his extended digits poked the soldier in his right eye. Regdar felt something soft and slippery at the tip of his metal gauntlet. With a vicious jab, he thrust his hand farther into the helmet. The soldier screamed and stumbled back, streaming blood and viscous matter from his faceplate.
Clemf got to his feet and scrounged for his sword. He shoved the armless man to the ground and then spied his weapon, now covered in blood. He snatched it up and rose to his full height in the middle of the room, sword in hand.
The gnarled man on the stairs looked down from his perch at the tattooed fighter. Narrowing his gaze, he wiggled his fingers in the air, ending with a shout and several jerking motions with his wrist.
Regdar watched as Clemf's knees shook and his shoulders slumped. He dropped the sword he had just picked up, and he let out a scream that made the tiny hairs on the small of Regdar's back stand on end. Then Clemf turned and bolted from the room, pushing past the immobile elf and crashing haphazardly into the doorframe on his way out.
Whitman hefted his hammer and struck with a bone crunching blow.
"That's for my beard," he shouted.
The soldier before him shook from the blow. He'd managed to block the mighty weapon from striking him, but the shock of the impact vibrated through his body. The dwarf wound up and struck again. This time he managed to slip past the soldier's axe and hit him on the forearm, knocking the weapon from his grasp. Whitman rolled the momentum of his swing into another, follow-through attack. The third blow hit the same forearm with a distinct popping sound.
Though he was grievously injured, the black-armored minion still stood, and he pulled a dagger from its sheath with his good hand. His injured arm swung loosely at his side as he crouched, holding the blade out before him, taking short steps away from the ornery dwarf.
"That's right," shouted the dwarf. "Be afraid. Be very afraid."
The only uninjured soldier remaining took one look at the angry dwarf and turned his attention on Regdar. Winding up as if he were chopping wood, he bent his knees and swung his axe down, meaning to split the big fighter in two. Regdar swiped his blade up with both hands. The two weapons collided with a gut-wrenching clang, and sparks flew in the air. Both men were knocked back by the impact. Regdar sighted down
his blade, never before having seen fireworks issue from his weapon.
The greatsword was untarnished, its shiny finish still polished and bright. The soldier's axe, however, was a different story. The impact with Regdar's magical sword took a huge bite out of the axe. If he hadn't known better, Regdar might have thought the soldier's weapon had been some monster's afternoon snack.
The armless soldier still lay on the floor, unmoving, where Clemf had knocked him. His counterpart still struggled with his ruined eye. He had removed his gauntlets and now was gently probing the gory hole in his face where his eye had been.
Regdar lunged at the uninjured soldier. Feigning to the left, he drew out the man’s parry and changed directions at the last second. The edge of his blade slipped past the notched head of the man’s axe, expertly angling between metal plates to strike home. The big fighter pushed the blade deep into the soldier's chest.
Regdar held tightly to the hilt of his greatsword and twisted the weapon in the wound. The big fighter then wrenched it out and watched the soldier slump to the floor.
The robed mage eyed the two remaining intruders. Shifting his glare from Whitman to Regdar and back again, the gnarled old man began reciting another spell.
Regdar saw the green-robed man, his eyes closed, sprinkle dust into the air. A large, brilliantly blue magical cloud appeared, obscuring the gnarled man from view. The cloud drifted across the open room and sank to the floor, where it surrounded the dwarf.
The soldier with the dagger and broken arm backed away from Whitman, taking advantage of the spell to open the distance between him and the dwarf. Retreating all the way to the far wall, the man braced himself, holding his puny weapon menacingly before him.
Whitman was completely gone from view. Tasca was frozen solid, holding the same pose that he had through the entire encounter. Clemf was nowhere to be seen, fleeing in panic.
With a loud shout, Regdar charged across the room toward the wizard. Though the fighter was strong and quite fast, his heavy armor slowed him down enough for the spellcaster to begin chanting the words of another spell. His stubby fingers wiggled at the oncoming fighter.
Halfway across the floor, Regdar realized that he wouldn't be able to reach the gnarled, old man before he could cast the magic already forming on his hps. Twirling his sword overhead, Regdar pointed the tip of the blade at the stairs, planted his front foot, and hurled his magical greatsword like a javelin.
The well-made weapon hung in midair for a brief moment. Though the blacksmith who crafted it never intended it for throwing, the blade carved a perfect arc as it plunged away from Regdar's hand. Its tip descended, and the magically sharpened sword pierced the hood of the green robe, then clanked as it hit the stair behind the wizard.
Regdar stumbled forward, trying to catch his balance. He looked up at the spellcaster, bracing himself for whatever magical malady or monstrosity was about to strike him. The old man raised his hands, his eyes glaring down at the fighter.
Then he gasped and reached for his throat. Blood flowed out through his fingers as he clasped them tightly around his neck. The spell he had been forming slipped from his hps and was gone. His attention turned to stopping the flow of blood from the tremendous sword wound in his neck.
Regdar charged the stairs once again. When he reached the old man, he grabbed him by the front of his garment and hefted him over the railing, pulling him down to the floor and smashing his face against the stone tiles. The impact knocked the old wizard's head sideways, tearing the wound in his neck open further. Blood rushed out, and the spellcaster's body shuddered once, then fell still.
Leaving the gnarled old man in a heap on the ground, Regdar retrieved his sword and took a look around. The cloud surrounding Whitman was gone, and the dwarf lay on the floor, obviously breathing but otherwise unmoving. Tasca remained stationary, and Clemf hadn't returned.
Regdar turned his attention to the two living but badly injured soldiers. The man whose eye Regdar had gouged out had fallen to the floor. His face lay in a puddle of his own blood and vomit, and blood continued pumping from his ruined eye socket. The other man still stood with his back against the wall. He had removed his helm, and his face was a ghostly white. The arm Whitman had smashed was tremendously swollen, and the man was obviously in a lot of pain. Sweat rolled down his forehead, and he had a hard time keeping his dagger pointed out in front of him.
The injured soldier shook his head, trying to focus his eyes on Regdar. He struggled to keep them from rolling back in his head.
Regdar took a couple of steps toward the man. "I don't suppose you're going to tell me what you know about Lindroos and her plans for New Koratia."
The cultist steeled himself and thrust his dagger out toward Regdar as far as he could.
"Come on now," coaxed the big fighter. "I don't want to kill you." He lowered his sword and began fishing around inside his backpack. "Tell me what she wants with Naull and what evil she's up to, and I'll take care of that wound for you." He pulled a pearly, opalescent flask from his bag and shook it. The liquid inside made a satisfying sloshing sound.
The soldier looked at the flask with wide eyes. He turned to Regdar, lifted the dagger to his own chin, and plunged it into his throat. A rush of blood spilled to the floor, and the cultist collapsed beside it.
Regdar rushed over to Whitman. The dwarf lay on his side, breathing easily, his hps flapping a bit as they let out a breath of air, a small drip of drool running down the side of his face. The human grabbed his prone friend by the shoulder, and Whitman let out a long, snorting breath.
"Huh?" Whitman shook his head and rolled to his side, startled alert.
"Are you all right?" asked Regdar.
Whitman wiped the drool from his beard and sat up. He looked up at the big man and nodded.
Regdar slapped him on the arm and went to check on Tasca. The elf still stood frozen in place, his eyes moving side to side, alert but unmoving. Regdar tried to shake him as he had the dwarf, but it did no good. Tasca remained magically stuck, as if a statue.
While Regdar examined the elf, Clemf returned. He had a sheepish look on his face, and he poked his head around, surveying the room.
"They're all dead or dying," said Regdar, standing up straight. "You okay?"
Clemf straightened up and nodded hesitantly. "Yeah." He pointed to the dead wizard with his chin. "You kill him?"
Regdar nodded.
Clemf looked to the floor. "Good."
Soon Tasca's rigid form began to soften, and he slowly stood up straight as the spell expired.
He rubbed his neck. "Damn. I hate it when that happens."
Whitman led the way up the spiral stairs, and they reached the top without incident. The floor spread out in a small, square room around the hole where the stairs entered from below. There was one torch on each of three walls and a door in the third.
"Kick, kill, take," said Whitman, gently probing the smooth spot where his beard had been partially cut from his face.
Tasca and Regdar nocked arrows to their bows. Clemf stood beside the dwarf, sword at the ready.
Whitman looked at the other three men, nodded, then took two running steps forward, lifting his leg and kicking the door near the handle with a powerful thrust.
The door creaked open, resisting Whitman's forceful entry but giving way all the same. Inside, the room was filled with natural light. The wall opposite the door was made of a series of pillars and arches. The space between the stone supports was open to the outside. The walls to the east and west were solid stone like those the group had encountered below. Unlike the rest of the fortress however, the floor was made from slatted wooden panels. Many, many feet had passed over these boards, wearing them thin in places and leaving the floor smooth and shiny.
In the middle of the room, backlit by the light coming in from the overcast sky, stood a petite figure, hands grasped tightly around something, face pointing toward the floor.
Regdar pulled his arrow tight agains
t his bow string, then relaxed.
"Naull," he said with enough inflection to make it sound somewhere between a question and a summons.
The figure didn't look up.
The men entered through the open door and spread out. Tasca looked at Regdar, holding his bow taught.
The big fighter shook his head. "It's her," he said. He lowered his bow and crossed the floor.
"Naull," he said again, this time a little louder. "Naull, it's me, Regdar."
Naull looked up from the floor. Her mouth moved, and she was whispering something Regdar could not hear. In her hands she held a partially unraveled scroll. The arcane markings on the rolled vellum flared and disappeared, and Naull's hps stopped moving, curling up into a smile.
The light pouring into the room wavered then disappeared. The gray, overcast sky slipped away, replaced by speckled black stone. Torches flickered along the walls, illuminating the outlines of a dozen or more black-clad soldiers. All of them held longswords at the ready, and they surrounded the four fighters.
Lindroos stepped out next to Naull, accompanied by four bald, burly men with purple vests and scimitars tucked into orange sashes at their waists. They were all quite large and resembled the efreeti Regdar and company had bested on the lower level.
"Hello, Regdar," said Lindroos with a smile. "It's time you met my companions. This is Shirzad—" she pointed to one of the burley men and continued around—"Parviz, Hebola, and Tam."
The four burly men each bowed.
"They are jann from the court of Vizier Haleh," explained the blackguard. Then she turned to Naull. The fallen paladin ran her finger along the slight wizard's cheek, caressing her skin. "You already know my close friend Naull."
Regdar dropped his bow to the floor and pulled his greatsword from its sheath. His heart pounded in his chest, and the skin on the back of his neck tingled where the hairs stood on end.
He squeezed the hilt of his sword. "What is it you want from me, Lindroos?"
"I want what I've always wanted of you and those of your kind," she said, pacing closer to the big fighter. "I want all of you to die."