by Paul S. Kemp
The guide stiffened; his intake of breath was as sharp as a keen blade.
“What is it?” Cale said.
With visible effort, Magadon relaxed.
“The caravan did pass this way,” he said, a bit overloud, and pointed up the tunnel.
Before Cale could ask a question, Magadon projected, Azriim is looking upon us right now. Do not turn around.
Invisible, Azriim crouched on a ledge slightly up on the wall of the tunnel and eyed the four humans. Until just moments before, he had not yet known whether the woodsman was a psionicist or a mage. But the telltale nimbus of white light that had just flared around the human’s head bespoke the manifestation of psionic power. Azriim imagined that the taste of the woodsman’s brain would be particularly sweet, flavored as it was with the spice of mental magic.
He grinned, and almost laughed aloud. The priest of Mask certainly had assembled a ragtag group of fools to follow him across and under Faerûn. Had any of them understood the scope of the Sojourner’s power, they would have long ago curled up in a dark hole to hide.
No matter, he thought. Soon, they will all die in the dark.
He licked his lips, eyeing the back of Erevis Cale’s bald head while the woodsman confirmed for them that the caravan had traveled up the corridor. They had followed along behind the duergar, just as Azriim had expected.
I have located the humans, Azriim projected to his broodmates.
Absently, he pawed at the teleportation rod in his hand.
Dolgan and Serrin projected an acknowledgment.
Of Serrin, Azriim asked, Do you see the lights from the caravan yet?
Not yet, responded his broodmate.
But the caravan is getting near to the ambush point, Dolgan added.
Azriim allowed himself to feel satisfied. Everything was working out exactly as he had foreseen. Certainly the Sojourner would reward him.
Serrin’s voice sounded in his head, Perhaps you should kill one now?
Azriim flexed his claws, powerfully tempted. He could reach Cale in a single step, and could tear the human’s head from his shoulders with but one swipe.
Despite Magadon’s admonition, Cale tensed. The shadows around his skin swirled, animated by his agitation. Beside him, Riven’s hand drifted to his saber hilts. Jak’s breath came faster.
Where? Cale asked.
“The caravan is not far,” Magadon continued. On a ledge on your sword arm side, perhaps ten paces back the way we came. In slaad form. He holds the teleportation rod in his hand.
Cale’s mind churned.
Kill him now, Riven said.
Cale considered it, and soon gave in.
Follow my play, he projected.
“The caravan could not have come this way,” Cale said to Jak with affected frustration in his tone. “If it had, we’d have already caught up to it.”
Jak looked startled for an instant, but quickly took to the play. The halfling shook his head and let anger creep into his eyes.
“The Hells it didn’t,” Jak spat back as he drew his short sword, offering Cale an excuse to unsheathe his own blade. “You keep questioning our competence. I’ve had enough. If you think the caravan didn’t come this way, then go back the way we came. You won’t find it down another tunnel.”
Cale pulled Weaveshear, pointed its tip at Jak’s chest, then at Magadon.
“You’re both out your shares. And only our past friendship is saving your life, halfling.” He gave Jak a final scowl and turned to Riven. “Riven, you’re with me.”
Jak made an obscene gesture.
Cale answered him with a glare, and he and Riven turned to stalk back up the tunnel. Cale saw the ledge immediately, imagined Azriim crouched atop it.
He’s looking at you, Magadon projected.
You tell me if he moves, Cale answered, still holding Weaveshear bare. The blade, sheathed in shadows, seemed to want to pull him toward the ledge.
Riven rested his hands on his sabers as they walked.
Three paces … five … seven … and they were right next to the ledge. Cale could almost feel the weight of Azriim’s gaze. His hands were sweating.
We go on my mark, he said to Riven.
Azriim could have reached out and touched Cale. He tensed the thick muscles of his thighs, imagined a pounce, but fought down the impulse to kill. He wanted to draw Cale and his companions into the battle with the caravan. Their presence there would increase the intensity of the combat, drawing the Skulls to the site even sooner.
To his broodmates, he projected, No, I will not kill one. We must get the caravan to the ambush point and begin the combat. The humans will hear it and rush ahead. They can die there.
His broodmates projected an acknowledgement.
Serrin said, I see the lights from the caravan now. It is near. The dwarf’s forces are preparing.
Azriim smiled, mouthed a “good-bye” at Cale, and began to activate his teleportation rod.
Now! Cale projected, and sprung into motion.
He spun toward the ledge and leveled Weaveshear in a cross cut designed to take Azriim’s head, even as Riven whipped free both sabers and lunged at the ledge with the points stabbing low.
They hit nothing.
“Gone,” Magadon said aloud. “Teleported out.”
“Blast,” Riven said.
Frustrated, Cale slammed Weaveshear back into his scabbard.
Magadon said, “He’s … he’s back near the caravan. I can see it ahead. I think he’s changing form back into a duergar.”
“Cut it, Mags,” Cale said. “Let’s keep moving. We’re close to that caravan now.”
THE CARAVAN
The duergar on point whistled for a halt and the caravan creaked to a stop. Two of the gray dwarves who had been on point were jogging back to the main body of the caravan, their armor and weapons clanking. Dolgan, Azriim (who had just returned from the rear), and the duergar leader stepped forward to meet them.
“A large open cavern is just ahead,” one of the two dwarves said in Undercommon. Scars crisscrossed the gnarled duergar’s bald head, and dirt caked his beard. “It’s flat as an orog’s head and riddled with side tunnels. Ideal for an ambush.”
The duergar leader, his dusky skin pockmarked with the scars of a past disease, turned to Azriim and said, “I know that cavern. It’ll take the wagon a hundred count to cross it, and that’s pushing the lizard. We should scout it out first.” The duergar leader looked to Dolgan, who the slaadi had represented to them as the client paying their wages. “That cavern’s the equivalent of an exposed valley on the surface. Very vulnerable to attack from the heights, or in this case, from all sides. We should be cautious.”
Dolgan nodded, but unwilling to respond without Azriim’s prompting, he projected to his broodmate, What do I answer?
Instead of responding to Dolgan directly, Azriim sniffed, pulled his beard, and shook his axe.
“Bah! If you’re concerned, the mages can prepare wards for as many of the men as possible.” Azriim-the-duergar looked to Dolgan and added, “We cross quickly, with axes ready.”
Make a show of considering it, Azriim projected, then agree. Have the mages cast protective wards on the men. It will make the combat last longer anyway.
Dolgan did exactly as he was told, and when the duergar mages had cast a variety of protective wards on many of their guardsmen, the caravan again moved out. They were heading directly into the cavern, where Ahmaergo’s ambush awaited.
Here we come, Dolgan projected to Serrin.
When the caravan had crossed half the cavern the ambush was sprung.
Enjoy, Serrin projected to his broodmates.
From four of the side tunnels that opened onto the main cavern, crossbow bolts whizzed. Most skittered harmlessly on the stone floor or thumped off of sturdy duergar armor, but a few found homes in flesh. One sank into Dolgan’s shoulder. He grunted and jerked it free, his flesh regenerating the damage almost immediately. Two bolts sank into the p
ack lizard, causing the creature to rear up and roar in pain. Its sudden movement caused the wagon to lurch forward.
“Ambush!” Dolgan shouted, barely able to contain a grin, partially because of the pain he felt in his shoulder, and partially because Azriim’s plan was working well.
He answered the crossbow fire with a trio of magical bolts fired from his wand into the mouth of a side tunnel, where he saw shadowy figures cowering.
True to Kexen’s representation that they were veterans, the duergar guardsmen reacted quickly. The mages ducked behind the lurching wagon and began to mouth the words to still more powerful protective wards. The warriors jumped behind the wagon or fell prone, plying their own crossbows.
Shouts and bestial roars erupted from the side tunnels. Huge, lumbering figures formed out of the darkness and loped forward, their great strides eating up the distance.
“Trolls,” shouted the duergar in Undercommon, and those nearest the onrushing trolls leaped to their feet.
Calling upon the magical attributes native to their race, several of the duergar grew to twice their normal size, nearly matching the onrushing trolls in stature. Several others vanished from sight, masked by invisibility spells.
Dolgan watched with satisfaction as the combat began to unfold. A force of a score or more human warriors poured from the tunnels, following the charging trolls.
Beams of green energy and swarms of magical darts arced over the onrushing humans and trolls to slam into the duergar force, all fired by Xanathar mages emerging from the mouths of the side tunnels.
“Use your wands!” Dolgan shouted at the duergar mages. “These are Xanathar troops!”
The duergar mages, some of them protected by visible fields of magical force, leveled the wands Azriim had provided to them, and fired lightning bolts into the charging forces. Men screamed, stumbled, and fell. Their comrades leaped over them, still charging.
Duergar warriors met the charge, returning to visibility at the instant their hammers crushed the heads of some of the Xanathar’s troops. A fierce melee began halfway between the side tunnels and the caravan. Hammers and axes rose and fell, and swords and shields cut and bashed. Men and dwarves alike screamed in rage and pain.
A globe of brilliant light flared to life, illuminating the cavern, limning the violence. The light-sensitive duergar recoiled and shielded their eyes, temporarily blinded. Trolls and human warriors took the opportunity to press the attack against the gray dwarves, forcing them back with a fierce onslaught. Thinking quickly, one of the duergar mages dispelled the light’s sustaining magic, and the dim luminescence of the Underdark again took hold.
Near Dolgan, Azriim plied his own wands, alternately firing lightning and a transmogrifying beam at anything that moved: duergar, human, or troll. Dolgan did likewise. They didn’t care which side won the fight, only that it continued for a time and involved powerful magic.
The combat quickly turned into a series of pitched battles scattered all across the cavern floor, with mages and archers supporting from a distance. Spells and counterspells flew. Lightning bolts sizzled from the wands of the duergar mages, leaving a spray of stone splinters, burned flesh, and screams in their wake. Xanathar mages answered, and fireballs blossomed in spherical infernos all over the cavern. Some exploded near the cart, roasting the pack lizard, two duergar, and setting the cart aflame. Giant spiders summoned by the duergar mages prowled the battlefield, pouncing on the wounded and dying.
Wedges of multi-colored magical force ripped through the air, knocking warriors from their feet. Beams of green and red energy laced across the cavern. Globes of darkness formed and were dispelled. Walls of ice and fire appeared from nowhere to burn and freeze. Waves of magic turned stone to mud, set flesh melting and flowing like water.
Throughout, roaring trolls and shambling spiders rampaged across the battlefield, claws and fangs dripping blood and shreds of flesh. Duergar axes and hammers rose and fell as the doughty dwarves fought in isolated groups of two and three. Sword and shield clashed in answer. Archers patrolled the perimeter of the melee, picking targets. Their crossbows twanged again and again. Quarrels sprouted from the flesh of combatants with the suddenness of lightning strikes. Ahmaergo himself stomped through the battlefield, wielding his huge axe and bellowing challenges in the name of the Xanathar.
This ought to serve to draw the Skulls, Dolgan projected to Azriim.
Even as he completed the thought, a series of magical bolts seared into his flesh. He grinned, reveling in the exquisiteness of the pain.
And Cale and his companions as well, Azriim answered, discharging a lightning bolt into a troll. It’s nearly time to take our leave. Be ready Serrin. You know the location.
From ahead, Cale heard the shouts of men and the clash of metal.
“A battle?” Magadon said.
“A big one, to judge from the sound,” Jak said.
All four of the comrades readied blades, holy symbols, and bows.
“We move quickly and quietly,” Cale said. “No one gets involved except on my say-so.” He looked pointedly at Riven as he said that last. The assassin made no response and Cale decided to take the silence as agreement. “The slaadi want us caught up in this, and that’s reason enough to stay out,” Cale continued. “Mark the slaadi as quickly as you can. Mags, I’m going to need you to show me what Azriim sees, so stand ready.”
The guide nodded.
“Let’s move,” Cale said.
Hurrying through the darkness, the four approached the scene of battle. Cale intensified the darkness around them slightly as they drew closer. From the tunnel ahead came the flash of fireballs and lightning. Metal rang on metal. Sounds echoed down the corridor: men shouting, beasts roaring, and stone cracking. It sounded as though the ceiling was falling down.
Stay out of it, Cale reminded them again, and all of them nodded, even Riven. Crouching low and hugging the wall, they hurried forward.
Before them opened a wide, open cavern. All around it, a battle roiled. Trolls, men, and duergar fought in pockets, fierce little battles of horrible violence. Hammers, swords, shouts, curses, and roars rose toward the ceiling. Corpses lay scattered across the cavern like so much driftwood.
The caravan’s wagon lay on its side, burning. The pack lizard lay on its side too, still yoked to the wagon and hissing in pain, crossbow bolts protruding from its charred flesh. Magical energies arced across the cavern from the side tunnels, the casters hidden by darkness and distance. Duergar mages answered with shots from their wands or spells of their own. The amount of magic flying in the cavern caused the hairs on Cale’s arms to stand. Weaveshear fairly hummed in his grasp, bleeding shadows.
“Follow me,” Cale said.
He darted off to the side of the cavern a good distance away from the combat. There, Cale saw a protruding ledge of rock sticking out of the stone about eight paces up on the wall. It would offer a good view of the battle, and some small cover from the missile fire and spells.
“There,” he said, pointing.
The others nodded and they raced to the wall and began to climb. Behind them, a troll roared in pain. A ricocheting lightning bolt ripped into the wall near them, sending splinters of stone spraying. They reached the ledge, breathing hard, and crouched low.
“Trickster’s toes,” Jak said. “This is chaos.”
“Find the slaadi,” Cale said, scouring the battlefield for any telltale sign of their quarry.
He saw only indistinguishable duergar, mercenaries, and trolls.
“I can’t see well enough to find anything,” Riven growled.
“There!” Jak said.
Cale followed the halfling’s pointing finger and saw a large fat human and a duergar slipping toward the far side of the cavern.
Could be them, Magadon projected. I can confirm.
Cale replied, Do it.
Motes of light flared around the guide’s head and his eyes rolled back in their sockets. For a moment, Magadon said nothing and Ca
le, Jak, and Riven waited in anticipation. Below them, the battle raged, reaching still greater heights of violence.
“It is Azriim,” Magadon said.
“Stay with him,” Cale said. “When they leave, we follow.”
“Leave?” asked Jak.
Cale nodded. He thought he understood the slaadi’s play.
“The slaadi engineered this entire battle,” he said. “And now that it’s going full on, they’re backing out of it. It’s a distraction.”
“Who are they trying to distract?” Riven asked. “Us?”
Cale shrugged, but before he could form a reply, an orange luminescence formed at the mouth of the main tunnel that led back toward Skullport. It grew brighter and brighter, as if someone or something carrying a giant torch were moving closer to the cavern.
“What is that?” Jak asked.
“Find a hole,” Riven said, “and stay low. This is bad.”
Cale and Jak shared a look. Weaveshear fairly shook in Cale’s hand. The shadows around the blade whirled as if in excitement.
The luminescence grew brighter still and the combatants in the chamber seemed to notice it for the first time. Duergar, troll, and human backed away from each other. Weapons were lowered, and gazes turned toward the tunnel mouth.
Cale pulled down Magadon, who was still connected to Azriim, and willed the darkness around them to deepen.
A murmur of curiosity ran through the chamber, and quickly turned to one of concern, then fear. The combatants saw what was coming. Cale and his companions, off to the side of the tunnel mouth, could not yet see the source of the light.
Stay with Azriim, Cale projected to Magadon. No matter what occurs.
“Goddess,” Magadon oathed.
Through Azriim’s eyes, he too saw what was coming.
A voice louder than a thunderclap and deeper than the Moonsea shook stalactites from the ceiling as it pronounced, “Cease!”
Other than the moans of the wounded and dying, an eerie silence reigned.
“The Skulls,” Riven said softly, as six glowing human skulls whizzed in through the tunnel and rapidly circled the battlefield.