Shadowtrap: A Black Foxes Adventure

by Dennis L McKiernan

  “The feel?” Lyssa cocked her head at the thief.

  “I don’t know how to explain it,” replied Arton. “I’ve always had this, um, instinct, I suppose you would call it . . . or special talent—a sense for finding things hidden and opening things locked and other such, er, necessary activities of my trade. And believe me, my special talent tells me there is no way out”—he pointed—”but through that portal yon.”

  “Where lie four more lethal wards,” said Rith.

  Lyssa arched a brow at the bard.

  Rith smiled. “Remember Pon Barius’s words: the first and last of the seven are not deadly.”

  Lyssa nodded. “Ah, but those five in between . . .”

  Kane unwrapped the bandages from his now healed wounds. As the last came off he closely examined his skin. “From the looks of it, we’ve been here a bit over a day.”

  “Seems more like a week to me,” growled Arton, “trapped as we are.”

  Concurrence grumbled among the Foxes, but Arik held up a hand and said, “Be that as it may, now that Kane is awake let’s hold a war council and see if we can figure a way out of this snare.”

  Kane nodded and got to his feet, saying, “All right, but first I have to . . .” He looked about the chamber, a slight frown on his features.

  “The privy is one of our small cook pots. Over there,” said Rith, pointing. “Throw the slops out the door; they’ll not reach the other side. But take care—the door ward is deadly. Stand well back when you cast.”

  In moments, Kane returned to the circle.

  As the big man slowly slipped into his leathers, Arik said, “Let’s review what we know for certain.” He held up a hand and began ticking off the facts on his fingers:

  “Pon Barius is dead.

  “Ky is missing.” At this, a look of rage flashed over Kane’s face, quickly replaced by stoicism.

  Arik continued: “Horax is gone.

  “The silver dagger is gone.

  “We are trapped.

  “We have a couple days of food and water.”

  Arik glanced at Arton, then said, “Our best judgment is that the only way out is through that door.”

  He looked about. “Did I miss anything?”

  Lyssa cleared her throat. “If all are reactivated, there are five deadly wards between here and freedom, each of which we must pass to escape.”

  Lyssa fell silent, but Rith added, “On the way in, Pon Barius declared that without his aid we would all die. I suppose if he were still alive, he would say the same on the way back out.”

  Arik nodded and then asked, “Anything else?”

  Kane, now dressed, said, “Two petty things: first, you all yet have minor wounds, but those can wait until we win free; and second, if my guess about how long we have been in here is correct, then night has just fallen outside.”

  “Anything else?” asked Arik, looking from person to person. Shrugs and headshakes answered him. “Well then, does anyone have any suggestions as to just how we might escape this trap?”

  For long moments they looked at one another without speaking.

  Arik sighed. “All right, let’s set that aside for a moment. Instead, given that we do win free, what’s our next move?”

  “Find Ky,” gritted Kane. “And if that cur Horax has harmed her—” He smacked a fist into palm.

  Agreement muttered ’round the circle.

  “Likely he’s holding her hostage in case we pursue,” said Arik.

  “Huah!” exclaimed Arton. “How can he do that? How can anyone hold a Shadowmaster hostage?”

  Arik shrugged, but Rith said, “Drugs. He could keep her drugged. She was unconscious when he took her, and so, if he keeps her that way, he keeps her captive.”

  “She might be loose by now,” said Lyssa, “though if that were so, I would expect her to show up.” At a puzzled look from Arton, Lyssa added, “If anywhere near, she could simply step through shadow to reach the hallway outside.”

  “We must consider the possibility that she is dead,” said Arik.

  “Aaargh!” shouted Kane, leaping to his feet and pacing like a caged beast. “Then we go after Horax and kill him.”

  Rith nodded. “We need to go after Horax regardless. He has the gem.”

  “If we can find him,” said Arton.

  “If it takes the rest of eternity, I’ll find the bastard,” rasped Kane, still pacing.

  “Oh, I think I know where he is,” said Rith. The others looked at her in surprise. “Don’t you remember what Pon Barius shouted? ‘Go back to your Drasp and squat in that swamp like the bog spider you are!’”

  “That’s right!” declared Lyssa. “I remember now. And the Drasp is just west of here, two hundred miles or so.”

  “But the Drasp is a great mire and filled with vile creatures,” said Arik. “An enormous, perilous area to search.”

  “I don’t care how big the Arda-damned place is,” growled Kane, “nor how many monsters it holds. We’ve got to find Ky, even if it takes years.”

  “And the silver dagger,” added Rith.

  “Hold on a moment,” said Lyssa. “I don’t think it will be that difficult to locate Horax. You see, the bog spider spins a circular web and then sits at its very core. I suspect we’ll find Horax’s covert precisely at the center of the Drasp.”

  Arton stood and walked to the blanket-wrapped remains of Pon Barius and bowed. “Thank you, wizard, for telling us how to find your ancient foe. We can only hope that Ky is safe and sound so that we can rescue her when we come to Horax’s lair.” Arton then gestured toward the witchfire burning in the doorway. “I don’t suppose you would tell us though just how to get past that ward. Well . . . I thought not.”

  While the other Foxes slept, Arton sat with his back to the pillar, the thief on watch. Over and again he turned the crossbow quarrel in his hand, berating himself for not having shot Horax. Finally he took up a cast-aside bandage and began polishing the silver tip of the bolt. As he did so, his eye strayed to the silver block, the chest now closed and still sitting on the slab of crystal. He then looked at the blanket-wrapped corpse of Pon Barius. “Should I put it back in its crystal cage?” he whispered. “Ah, but what for? I mean, you aren’t here to lower it back into its pool of sto—”

  Arton’s words chopped off, and he looked at the white granite below him, at the crystal panes, at the silver chest, and finally at the warded doorway. He held up his quarrel and gazed at its tip and whispered, “Oh, Pon Barius, perhaps you did tell me how to get out the door. This calls for an experiment, then we shall see.”

  The thief rolled to his feet and stalked over to Arik. Touching the warrior on the shoulder, he said, “Wake up, glorious leader. I have a plan.”

  Arik, instantly awake, disentangled himself from Lyssa, the ranger waking as well. “A plan?” asked Arik.

  “If it works, we may be able to get free,” replied Arton. The thief stood and headed for the door.

  “Careful,” cried Lyssa.

  At this call, Kane and Rith awakened, both rolling to their feet, weapons in hand.

  “Don’t worry,” called back Arton, his voice raw with nerves. “I mean, what can it do but kill me?”

  “What’s going on?” demanded Rith.

  “Arton has a plan,” replied Arik, now following him to the doorway.

  “Which is?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Arton!” cried Rith.

  “It’s something Pon Barius said,” he called over his shoulder as he squatted within easy arm’s reach of the witchfire ward. In his right hand he held the quarrel. For long moments he merely looked, while the others gathered on either side. He glanced up at Kane. “I might need you,” he said, then with trembling hands reached out with the quarrel.

  No! Don’t! Arton! cried several voices simultaneously.

  But it was too late, for the quivering tip of the quarrel had already entered the witchfire.

  Sparks flew, and the tang of lightning filled
the air . . . but the quarrel did not vanish in a flare of light as did urine and feces and the remains of skelga. Arton looked up at the others, a tight grin forced on his face. Then he peered closely at the ward. “Look! See?”

  All around the tip of the quarrel, tiny flashes sputtered. Arton jerked back but then reinserted the point, this time managing to hold it there.

  “What? See what?” demanded Rith.

  “There’s a small area around the point where the ward doesn’t touch,” replied Arton. “It’s the silver, you see. The witchfire ward cannot touch the silver quarrel point.”

  “Argh!” spat Kane. “And I supposed we’re going to crawl through that minuscule hole? I mean, how is a silver crossbow bolt going to get us out of here?”

  “Oh,” replied Arton, withdrawing the quarrel and examining the tip, “this won’t get us out”—he turned and pointed at the ornate chest—”but perhaps a two hundred and fifty pound block of silver will.”

  “Ready?”

  All eyes swung to Arik, and one by one they nodded.

  Kane squatted and placed his hands on the silver cube, ready to move it the last few inches into the witchfire wall.

  “Wait a moment,” said Arton nervously. “I’m not certain you should be touching it when you push it in.”

  “You were touching the quarrel,” replied Kane.

  “But not the silver of the tip,” said Arton, “just the wood of the shaft.”

  “Well, I don’t have a big piece of wood to push it with,” responded Kane. “Hold it—there’s my spear. I could push it with the butt of my spear.”

  Rith looked over her shoulder. “How about one of those crystal slabs instead? I mean, I wouldn’t want you to break your spear; we’ll need it when we get to Horax . . . if we get to Horax, that is.”

  Kane looked up at Arton. The thief shrugged and said, “Seven hells, Kane, none of us knows what we are doing. All we have are the words of a dead wizard: when I asked him about the crystal vault, he told me it was to keep the silver from coming into contact with the stone pool. He specifically said ‘That wouldn’t do, you know.’ I think he meant if the silver touched it, it wouldn’t allow the magic of the pool to work. But I don’t know about witchfire. I mean, we’re fooling with lightning here.”

  The big man glanced at Rith and then back to Arton. “All right. Let me try the crystal slab.”

  Arik fetched one of the panes from the pile and gave it to Kane who pressed it flat against the side of the silver block. “Ready?” He looked up at the others. “Then step back.”

  When they had moved to what he assumed was a safe distance, Kane pushed the block into the wall of witchfire—

  —Krack! A bolt of lightning crackled across the doorway and seared the chamber with light and sound and fury.

  “Waugh!” cried Kane, scrambling backward, the crystal slab crashing to the floor and shattering into myriad fragments. Arton, too, cried out in fear and backed away. Suddenly the chamber filled with the sound of a thousand enraged bees as the crystal fragments began to furiously shake and stutter on the floor, driven by an unseen force.

  Arton pointed at the door and shouted, “Look, look! there’s a—”

  —Krack! Another bolt split the air of the chamber, this one leaping across the portal as well.

  “—a hole in the witchfire!” yelped Arton.

  And all the Foxes saw that the blue witchfire had withdrawn from the mass of silver, though the opening made was no more than a three-foot-high arched cleft in the ward—Krack!—a cleft across which lightning flared.

  “Come on!” cried Arik, scooping up his pack. “Let’s go. I’ll try it first to see if it is safe.”

  But Arton had anticipated him. “No, Arik. It was, after all, my idea, and if anyone gets killed, it ought to be me.”

  Sweating with fear, the thief stepped to the portal . . . and crouched and waited as the others queued up behind, each with their gear in hand, Rith’s including Ky’s black blade, Kane’s including the syldari’s pack.

  Again crystal hummed and bounced and danced on the floor.

  —Krack!

  Lightning flashed across the space, and the instant it vanished, Arton threw his gear through the slot, then dove after, shouting in terror and then in glee as he came up in the hallway.

  “Wait for the next bolt,” he called. “Right after the shards dance and sing.”

  One by one they dove through the opening: Rith, Lyssa, Kane, and finally Arik. The only one suffering damage was Kane, who burned a heel on one boot as the big man’s foot grazed the witchfire.

  And as Arik came through, Arton looked back at the corpse of Pon Barius. “Thank you, wizard,” he whispered.

  Grinning, they looked at one another, until Rith said, “Now it’s the bedamned maze. Anyone got any ideas?”

  They moved a small way down the corridor, then sat in council. In the near distance behind, lightning cracked now and again.

  “All right,” said Arik, “what do we know about the maze?”

  “The walls move,” said Kane, “and when they do, the only safe place is at a junction.”

  “The maze senses our fears,” said Lyssa, “and presents them to us—sometimes as illusions, sometimes real.”

  “All ways are deadly but one,” added Rith, “and that one an illusion.”

  “When an illusion is presented,” said Arton, “that’s when we have to run pell mell to the next junction and wait . . . wait for another illusion, and then race onward.”

  “And we only get one chance at each junction,” said Rith, “which sometimes comes quickly and at other times after a long while.”

  Silence fell on the group . . . krack! flashed a bolt across the chamber door.

  “Is that it?” asked Arik. “Nothing to add?”

  Rith cleared her throat. “Pon Barius said we’d not survive without him to lead the way.”

  Arik held up a hand. “I think he would have said that about the door, too. So, let’s not get discouraged.” He turned to Lyssa. “Using your powers, can you find the path through?”

  Lyssa turned her hands palms up. “I don’t think so. I mean, I am able to find trails. But as to the maze, it alters from moment to moment, with all paths shifting. I can try, but I don’t think it’ll work. Besides, for all we know, every way may lead to the exit, except we’ll all be killed on the way there.”

  “It would seem,” said Rith, “that the real secret is in detecting reality from illusion . . . actually, the reverse. That is, when we sense an illusion, that’s when we go.”

  “We can test them physically,” said Arton. “Throw something at them.” He held up a piton.

  Rith nodded. “That might work, though I suspect it’s too simple a plan. I would think the Circle of Wizards would have protected against that in some fashion.”

  “Perhaps the ceiling collapses if the maze detects something thrown,” said Lyssa, glancing overhead.

  Arik looked at her wide-eyed. “What an evil mind you have, my dear. —I love it.”

  “But you know,” said Arton, “she just may be right.”

  Arik looked at the thief. “Arton, will your talents help us here?”

  “I don’t see how. No locks to pick. No chests to open. No hidden doors to find, or secret panels. Besides, on the way inward, I tried to guess which way. I couldn’t do it.” Arton sighed. “I think I’ll be crazy by the time we get out of here.”

  Arik turned to the black bard. “Rith?”

  She looked at the warrior. “Let me see. I can sing, dance, tell tales, play instruments, recite poems and odes, and create and control soun—” Rith’s eyes flew wide. “Damn! That’s it! Arton, you’ll not be crazy when we pass through the maze, but I will certainly be bats.”

  Lantern lit, they followed the arched corridor back to the dead end, and only blank rock stood before them. From beyond they could now and then hear the rumble of stone grinding on stone.

  Rith took a deep breath and said. “We’l
l do this just as did Pon Barius, only this time I’ll be the guide. Stand ready and when I say move, move! Follow me swiftly, no matter what you see. We must all of us face our worst fears.”

  Suddenly, grinding, the stone before them slid to one side, revealing a corridor running to the right and one straight ahead. “Move!” snapped Rith. Quickly she stepped over the threshold to stand at the far side of the juncture, the other Foxes following on her heels.

  Again all about them was the chaos of sound: massive hammering and horrendous clattering, the roar of water, the shriek of wind, and tumults unidentifiable.

  And amid the uproar, the Foxes waited.

  A moment later, stone ground against stone as the door behind slid closed, and walls moved. Three corridors were revealed: one sharply to the left with spikes protruding from the walls; one angling rightward, a pit in the floor; one sharply right, seemingly empty. Quickly, Rith faced each one, her mouth open wide as if in a silent scream, a hand cupped behind each ear. “Wait!” she cried. “These are all exactly as they seem.”

  Again there came grinding on grinding, and four ways opened: one filled with whooshing fire, one with a deep abyss yawning, one with roiling dark water, and the last empty. “Wait!” she cried again above the clatterous noise.

  Once more the walls shifted, corridors disappearing, new ones appearing. Now the sides slowly ground toward one another in one corridor; a black void filled with whirling stars gaped in the second; a pellucid pool lay in the third, and great bubbles rose up from abyssal depths. “Move!” cried Rith, and she darted into the corridor where the side walls ground shut to crush intruders. Lyssa howled at the top of her lungs and dashed after Rith, only to pass the black bard on the way to the next junction, where she collapsed in sobbing terror. Arik hauled her to her feet when he arrived, for she had to be poised to run at a moment’s notice, ready or not. He stood with his arms about her as she recovered.

  Moments later the stone walls slid anew. And once again Rith waited, selecting none of the choices offered, her unheard batlike shrills of echolocation telling her that all were real and none an illusion. And she waited again on the next move, once more selecting none. As she waited she called out above the noise, “Stand ready.” Again the walls slid and once more they waited. But on the next move it was Arik who shouted in fear as he waded waist-deep through quaking bog water swirling with unseen shapes, the warrior stabbing down into the liquid muck with his silver-plated falchion, and lo! each time he did so, the waters immediately about the blade narrowly disappeared, showing white granite below.