“Come over here,” replied the thief in a subdued voice.
Kiril turned and joined Gage among the trees. He used a dagger to scrape away a recently piled mound of earth. More digging revealed a shallow grave in which lay an ashen wood elf, wearing a uniform of green, gold, and dun.
“Blood!” exclaimed Kiril. The wood elf had been hewed nearly in two.
“The ground’s been disturbed all through here. It was a big fight, with many deaths.”
“Many deaths?”
The thief held out his gauntleted hand, the one with the disturbingly toothed cavity. He said, “My gauntlet can smell many more corpses buried all through the area, though this one was the most lightly covered.”
They dug up a few more—each was an elf or half-elf, and all wore the same colors. None of the elves were star elves, Kiril was relieved to discover. “These colors indicate some sort of uniform, I think,” said Kiril. “I’m not familiar with the rangers of Yuirwood. Why did they attack Stardeep?”
Gage shrugged.
Kiril shook her head, looked down at the blade sheathed at her side. No more idling. She returned to the Mere’s edge and tried to recall the access keys. Only one Stardeep function extended from the dungeon’s core to the edge of the Mere, and Keepers were trained in accessing it. She mentally probed across the water, calling on skills she’d forsaken a decade earlier. Contact! Though Stardeep lay across a planar veil, she could trigger a connection …
The mist churned and rolled away from the Mere’s center. A narrow land bridge slowly resolved, as if always there beneath the mist. Perhaps it always was. The blue sky above slowly darkened, and stars came out, strange to the sky of Yuirwood forest, but familiar to Kiril. She’d memorized those constellations as a child.
A horn sounded, pure and glorious. Xet chimed, dug his crystal claws painfully into her shoulder, then launched himself straight up. Kiril jerked her gaze down from the darkening sky to see chargers plunging across the Causeway—Empyrean Knights! The defenders of Stardeep. Not a danger, despite Xet’s swift departure—merely a welcoming committee.
She raised both hands and waved, yelling. The Knights were a doughty crew, if formal. Their training demanded no less—theirs was a duty every bit as demanding as a Keeper’s. Despite her anxiety over Nangulis, her spirits rose at seeing the Knights in their flashing hauberks and military poise. The Knights in the lead, halfway across the narrow bridge, lowered their lances to point. Their speed did not slacken.
The swordswoman frowned and called, “It is me, Kiril Duskmourn, a Keeper. Slow your steeds!”
The full-throated braying of horns split the air. The forest boughs rang with the echo. Arrows burst from the rear of the charging column. Most clattered harmlessly from Kiril’s mail, their force spent and tips blunted or shattered. A few, however, bit flesh. The swordswoman let out a wounded howl, as much in pain as disbelief.
The Knights didn’t recognize her, didn’t believe her, or didn’t care. Kiril dodged left, just avoiding the barb-tipped lance of a scowling Knight.
She scrambled to avoid falling backward into the Mere, spewing obscenity. “Pox-faced rats on a bender! What the Hells are you doing? Look at me! I’m a Keeper, gods roast your blood-flecked souls!”
Five elves on horseback charged off the end of the narrow causeway, wrenching their mounts around in a tight arc to face her. The two in the lead, who’d nearly skewered her, dropped their lances as they wheeled their mounts. Kiril’s back was to the dark, wintry Mere.
“Where’s Commander Brathtar? By your rutting gods, bring me the Commander, he’ll know who—”
One of the Knights raised his long sword and spoke. “The Commander is indisposed—we take our orders from the Keeper of the Outer Bastion, who commands that imposters and liars be slain.” The man spurred his mount, which reared, its steel-shod hooves flashing. Kiril ducked beneath the hooves. The man’s sword flashed down and she dropped flat into the frozen mud.
Stamping hooves and sword tips harried her into the water’s cold grasp. The near-freezing chill shocked her as she dipped into the Chabala, but even half-submerged, she heard the sudden high-pitched scream of a horse and the clatter of metal on metal. It sounded like a mounted Knight being brought low—had Gage revealed himself?
Kiril didn’t know to what depths the Mere plunged, nor did she wish to personally plumb it. She got her feet beneath her and stood up off the soft bottom. The water reached only to her waist, but the slope dropped steeply away. Water streamed from her hair and face. The cold shock of the biting liquid sought to freeze her muscles, reminding her of a creature she’d once fought whose breath was winter itself.
Blinking water from her eyes, Kiril saw that a Knight was down and still, a dagger butt protruding from his neck, his horse rearing. Five Knights wheeled away from her, bringing their weapons to bear on the threat materializing on their flank. Gage. The crazy thief stood just within the soft cover offered by a copse of trees tufting a small rise, his hand with the disturbing gauntlet raised high. The gauntlet’s demon mouth screamed forth a terrible, mind-punishing keening. The Knights advanced, bringing their barbed lances low, deadly tips toward the thief.
One Knight remained intent on Kiril. His horse stood at the water’s edge as he regarded her, denying her access to dry land.
The Knight’s attack made no sense! She tried diplomacy as her aggressor stood silently. “You’ve made a terrible mistake! I was once a Keeper here—I’m no threat! If you force me to draw my weapon, your life will end here, in the sun! You’ll never see Sildëyuir’s stars again!”
The Knight hesitated, looking back to his brethren who now occluded her view of Gage, then back to her. She saw by the insignia on his shoulder the Knight was a captain.
The captain explained. “Telarian foresaw you to say exactly that. He said if you give up your sword without a fight here and now, you’ll be allowed to enter Stardeep, where we can discern friend from foe, imposter from the genuine. Hand it across to me.” He extended one palm, open and waiting.
Kiril sought to gather her wits to understand the captain’s request, but the hellish screaming of the thief’s demonic gauntlet rattled her. Despite wondering if she would regret it, she replied, “I give up my sword to no one!”
The Knight looked surprised. He said, “Are you sure? Keeper Telarian was certain you’d give up the blade to gain entry. He sees all futures …”
Over the yowl of his hellmouth, Gage called, “Kiril! They want the sword, that’s all! They want Angul—this is a trap!”
“What?”
A gap in the crowding Knights briefly revealed the thief. He extended his gauntleted hand higher above his head, and the hellmouth’s scream redoubled in volume, a soul-grating shriek promising insanity.
Stardeep’s defenders, closer than she to the hellish sound, shuddered and cringed, their eyes suddenly wild with supernatural dread. Some moaned, others dropped their weapons, but most importantly, they allowed their discipline to fail. Kiril bolted from the water, boldly ducking past the one who’d offered parley, then through the mounted, milling Knights nearer Gage.
One Knight, perhaps harder of hearing than the rest, lowered his lance and charged the thief. Gage ducked to the side, but howled as the horseman thundered past and down the other side of the rise. A moment later, Kiril reached Gage’s side.
The thief had taken a lance strike to his right shoulder. His gauntleted hand hung limply, and the hellmouth was silent. Blood flowed down the front of his creased leather armor. His eyes were full of amazement. He mumbled, “I think he landed a good one …”
Kiril put off questioning the bleeding thief about the “trap.” She said, “They’ll flank us, but we can hold them. I’ll take your right.”
Gage nodded and drew a long knife into his left hand.
She unsheathed her weapon. A spark of well-being stole through her, but Angul failed to burst into blue flame.
What?
“Angul, aid me!” she
ordered.
These Knights Empyrean are aligned with the cause of righteousness, the sword imparted into her mind, and I will not destroy them.
“You bloodstained monster, help me or these brainwashed Knights will slay your wielder!” The sword remained adamantly unlit. Nor did it attempt to overpower her sense of reality …
The Knights most affected by the hellscream were shaking off its effects. They began to separate, intent on spreading out around Kiril and Gage.
Before they could implement their strategy, a pebble of flame skipped into the midst of the Empyrean Knights and exploded, briefly silhouetting them against a field of boiling red light before enveloping elf and horse alike.
Someone was throwing fireballs! And that someone had attacked the Knights, not herself and Gage, thank the Sign.
Kiril scanned the perimeter of the clearing. She spied two figures. One figure … a human male, she saw, was gesticulating as if preparing to cast another spell.
Gage cried a new warning. She whirled to see the same Knight who’d skewered the thief retracing his path, this time his lance aimed at her.
She dropped into a crouch as she raised Angul in a vertical line, pointed at the earth. Her blade clashed along the lance shaft, deflecting the tip sideways then into the ground. The Knight held his seat despite the terrible jolt, but his lance remained behind. The impact nearly caused her to drop Angul; the blade was staying true to its promise, and provided her not one drop of supernatural strength, speed, or solidity of frame. At least it wasn’t actively inhibiting her from using it as an ordinary weapon.
Gage flipped his grip from hilt to blade in a blink, then threw the knife after the Knight. His aim was off, and his target cantered forward, undeterred.
“What’s wrong with your sword?” he asked, his voice weak. Blood continued to run from his wound.
Before she could answer, two of the Knights upslope launched their lances as if they were javelins. Gage stepped left and avoided the one aimed at him. Kiril stumbled, and the sharp pole plunged into her right leg, driving right through flesh and into the ground. An unfamiliar tug pulled through her entire body and she gasped in surprise.
One of the newcomers broke from the encircling eaves, moving from a standstill to full sprint instantly. The fire thrower remained partially hidden, his hands aflame with another spell.
The sprinter was a human—no, a half-elf in a black, tattered silk jacket. A slender sword was strapped to his back. He charged the closest Knight. A full ten feet before reaching his target, who failed to realize he was under attack, the newcomer leaped into the air, spinning as he did so, and delivered a flying kick straight into the mounted Knight’s chest. As the newcomer landed gracefully, the Knight tumbled from his saddle and smashed limply to the ground.
Another Knight spurred his mount forward and slashed at the stranger, missing completely—the half-elf rolled beneath the mount’s prancing legs, came up on the other side, and jerked the man off his horse. The unseated Knight crashed to the ground, and the half-elf followed him down with a brutal elbow to his windpipe.
With her left hand, Kiril pulled the lance from the earth, freeing her right leg. The shaft of wood still protruded from her flesh, and she could barely walk. Even with the unexpected aid from the strangers, she wondered if she would survive the day. She advanced, stiff-legged, down the slope, Angul held high but still nothing more than dumb metal in her weakening grasp.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Stardeep, Throat
Delphe stood on the Well’s lip. Unsettling reflections played on her face. A stagnant wind blew up the shaft, tousling her hair and cooling her skin. A wind where none should be.
Something stirred below.
“Cynosure, initiate primary containment!” She glanced up at the idol of stone, iron, and crystal. The figure stared unblinking into the containment fires, as always. But from it, no answer came.
“Cynosure?” Delphe’s stomach fell away as sweat broke on her brow. The wind up the shaft turned colder.
A crash, as of crystals breaking, or perhaps reality tearing, echoed through the Well. If Cynosure were somehow disabled, a full-scale containment breach could be moments away!
Delphe shrugged away the panic prowling her mind. Time to work. She extended her arms over her head, calling on her connection to the Cerulean Sign. An arc of silvery blue fire spanned her reach, then dropped into the Well, broadening as it fell toward the interface. She watched her magical quelling fold into the sun-bright chaos of the containment layer.
A green-gray burst of energy bounced back, flaring brightly before resolving into a ropy loop of phantom matter. The object gyrated and spun, almost like something alive, as gravity grabbed and pulled it back toward the scalding boundary layer.
One end of the spiraling phantasm flailed wildly and managed to touch the smooth side of the Well, and stuck.
Delphe gasped. Whatever had just emerged, or been projected from the Well, wasn’t mere illusion, as sometimes happened when the Traitor dreamed. Whatever its origin, this sluglike entity had to be sterilized. Immediately.
Like an obscenely thick snail, the grayish thing began to inch up the concave wall of the Well. The light of the boundary layer failed to fully illuminate its sickly gray flesh.
“Cynosure, burn it!”
Nothing. The mind of Stardeep was focused elsewhere, if not worse. “Stars guide me,” she murmured. Cynosure’s wardenship had failed again.
The thing on the wall crept higher.
Delphe channeled the Sign. Blue fire warmed her chest, then burst out upon her arms, hair, and palms. Her eyes blazed, and she saw deeper into the slowly rising aberration.
Beneath its gray skin, the creature continued to modify itself, trading possibility for strength, raw energy for tissue, and dreadful desire for fell ability. It pulled mass from tiny particles in the air, and magical energy from the very spells meant to contain that which lay below it. It was fortifying itself, empowering itself …
The longer it was allowed to persist, the more difficult it would ultimately become to defeat! She couldn’t wait for Cynosure to wake from its somnolence.
Delphe pointed down, recalled the proper key phrase, and spoke the awkward syllables. The dozens of glass slabs protruding from the Well’s concave wall, spiraling down the sides, swiftly and silently retracted. The tentacle-like head of the creature, which had been reaching for the bottommost step, now found only a slippery, smooth surface, like the rest of the Well. At least Stardeep’s manual functions remained accessible, despite Cynosure’s absence. If that obscenity wanted to escape, it would have to inch the entire way.
Which should provide her with more than enough time to incinerate it, Cynosure be damned. Only one way to test her hypothesis.
Ragged words burned her throat. Arcs of energy trailed her gesturing hands as she wove an arcane discontinuity, a discontinuity shaped like a scythe. It burned with cerulean fire. The spellscythe neared the height of her magical arsenal, and cost her a large part of her strength.
For its part, the slender monstrosity continued to heave its way up the vertical shaft. As it moved, it shed streamers of gray flesh, like dead scales, revealing a larger, appalling bulk beneath. Silvered now, and sleek rather than stringy, the entity bounded an entire body length upward with a single leap, slapping onto the wall only fifteen or so paces beneath Delphe’s protruding toes.
As it gathered itself for another, stronger jump, Delphe hurtled the spellscythe down the Well shaft, directing her weapon’s motions with an outstretched hand. The aberration scuttled sideways. The spellscythe just missed the fleeing creature, and smashed instead into the Well’s glossy side. Oh, shards!
An explosion hurtled up the Well’s shaft, expanding as it breached the lip. The abjurer was battered, but kept her feet. Her ears rang in the aftermath, but through the cacophony she heard snuffling and growling down in the well. A terrible, hacking cough, chillingly similar to how a man might clear his throat of ph
legm. Something was straining to speak, perhaps, or more likely seeking to sing forth dark sorceries all its own.
She rushed back to the edge, gazed down through the explosion’s residual haze, and saw the remnants of her spellscythe unraveling. Near it was the entity, rent and smoking from the near miss, but already scabbing over with nacreous flesh even tougher and more spell-resistant than that which had burned off.
One of the rents remained, a gap which protruded greenish fangs even as Delphe watched. The flesh around the opening flexed, elongating to become an obscene organ. From this orifice echoed the coughing. Soon it would be capable of uttering terrible words of power, if it could evolve the capacity before Delphe eliminated it.
The abjurer desperately clutched at the threads of the dissipating spellscythe. Quicker to salvage its energy than attempt to summon a new tool.
Words floated up from below, stinging the elf’s flesh with their magical import. “I … call … call upon the Final Pact of—”
Delphe jerked her spellscythe to the left, despite her lack of complete control. It sliced into the creature’s roiling skin. Where it touched, the entity hazed away like mist, and its words collapsed into a basso scream of transcendent pain.
Three pseudopods burst from the creature’s sides, each tipped with an ebony spike. Two of these scrabbled for a better hold on the Well’s side. From the last emerged a cloudy green beam aimed at the spellscythe. Where it struck, portions of the abjurer’s weapon boiled and failed, as if touched by the putridity of rot.
Delphe palmed her amulet with her right hand. Lifting it high, she chanted hoary words older than some races that now walked Toril. Her amulet took on the hue of the limitless sky. In its glow, the spellscythe was fortified.
The creature was only moments from cresting the lip.
“Delphe! Delphe!” Cynosure’s voice, strident with alarm, blared suddenly from overhead. “Category two breach in effect, on the cusp of category one!”
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