by Drew Hayes
* * *
In comparison to the multitude of plans that had been hatched throughout the history of their world, it was not a great one. In comparison to the ones created just in that year, it still fell pretty far short. In comparison to the drunken ravings of men soaked through with mead about how they would slay a dragon and become the new king, however, it was downright coherent.
As they crept into the caverns once more, Salve of the Owl smeared beneath each of their eyes, every member of the party knew their roles. Talcia and Ferdy were waiting for the signal that would come from Eric, who had the keenest eyes of the group, at which point they would both begin binding the undead until all were stopped. Then, Ferdy would keep the spells going while Talcia joined the others. Grumph and Thistle had the simple job of rushing forward when Eric gave the signal, sprinting downward headlong into danger, trusting the mages to contain the army of undead that would surely rip them apart if not subdued. Eric, of course, was to watch for an opening in the wall so he could give the all-important signal, and then join Grumph and Thistle in their near-suicidal charge. Timuscor would make the descent alongside Eric, ensuring that, if anything slipped past their first wave, the rogue still had some protection. Fritz planned to hang back, watch the show, and perhaps pick up a trinket or two from the bound corpses, though she didn’t share this last part with the others.
Only Gabrielle had a unique role to play, and though she’d be waiting on the signal too, when she heard it, there would be no time to think. She would be leaping directly into the fray, which, truth be told, was exactly what she’d have requested if she were the one coming up with the plan.
All of that action would come at once, but until then, they were stuck waiting around for the wall to actually break. Once they reached the cavern where the tunnels connected, Eric went on ahead by himself to scout the situation. If things had changed or the priest was on watch, he had the best chance of making it in and out without tipping their hand. They had very little working in their favor so far; losing the element of surprise might cripple them completely.
Grumph settled into as soft a place as he could hope to find in a cavern and tried to rest. Between the time in bed, the healing, and the meal, he’d managed to regain a fair bit of his mana after the day’s trials, though he was far from full capacity. Every minute he managed to relax and recharge meant another step closer to more spells, so despite the tense situation, he forced himself to stay calm and gain genuine rest.
Ferdy and Talcia seemed intent as they reviewed their spells, both closing their eyes and muttering under their breath as they mentally prepared for the coming battle. As sorcerers, they called forth magic in a different manner than the book-bound wizards, and while they lacked the expanded spell arsenal of said wizards, they more than made up for it with larger mana pools and versatility in combat.
Gabrielle sat at the far end of the cavern, gently pressing her hand to, and then pulling it away from her new axe. Each time, the pain greeted her, and with every gripping of the weapon, she grew more accustomed to it. When the battle started, she couldn’t afford to be caught off guard by the magical burning across her fingers and palms. Even a second of hesitation could be the difference between life and death. With so much riding on her, the least she could do was wield her weapon well. Hopefully that would prove to be enough.
Thistle prepared in silence, as he usually did before they headed into a dangerous situation. He checked his daggers, tried to think through parts of the plan that might go awry, and braced himself for the very real possibility that this might be the adventure that killed him. Death was not a thing Thistle feared anymore, at least not on an intellectual level. After all, his service to Grumble essentially assured him the world after this one would be pleasant, and besides that, he dearly missed his wife. No, what scared Thistle was losing the others, or leaving them on their own. Without his healing, and perhaps a touch of guidance on needed occasions, they would be facing a far more difficult road ahead. So Thistle plotted, planned, and prayed that when the sun next rose, it would be on all of them, alive and well.
Timuscor watched the others going through their pre-battle rituals and considered tending to his—mostly just stretching and warming up a little so he didn’t jump into a fight cold—but then changed his mind. Slipping off down one of the dead-end tunnels, Timuscor made his way carefully through the carved out sections of rock until he was far enough away that he hoped the others wouldn’t be able to hear him. Digging his sword into the ground, he used it as leverage to slowly lower himself to his knees. It was the first time he could remember ever taking such a position, the slurry of his half-formed memories providing no prior occasions that he could recall. Releasing the sword and lowering his head, Timuscor began to whisper into the darkness.
“There is no god in particular that I dedicate this prayer to, though I have no interest in serving those of wicked or evil intentions. I am Timuscor, a knight of no small experience, a dedicated warrior, and a man who wishes to join the ranks of paladins. I am not a devout man, and I do not anticipate that changing any time soon. Even so, it has always been my dream to be a champion of virtue and decency. Thus, I offer my services to any of the righteous gods that will have me. I will not dedicate my life to you or your teachings. I will not put on false airs and act as though I have always been a devout man who has not made mistakes. I will not be a pawn in whatever godly games you might be playing. But I will do my part to make this world a better place. I will wield my sword against those who are cruel and dark, while protecting the innocent with my shield. I will fight, to my last breath, against those that would see evil done upon this world. If that is enough for you, any of you, then I will join your service. If you cannot welcome me as a paladin on those terms . . . well, then perhaps it is not the calling I thought it was.”
Gripping his sword and pushing himself back up, Timuscor looked around the pitch-black tunnel he could still magically make out, waiting to see if any sign was coming from a particularly enterprising divine presence. Nothing happened, which lined up well with Timuscor’s expectations, and he moved quickly back down the tunnel and into the cavern. There was no way to know if the gods had been listening, or even if they cared; yet Timuscor still felt better for having said the prayer. He’d laid his terms out in the open for any who were interested. He’d taken a genuine step toward his dream, and it felt unexpectedly freeing.
Timuscor entered the cavern only a few minutes before Eric emerged from his tunnel, eyes wide and breath just the slightest bit labored. He quickly motioned for everyone to gather around him, and the party wordlessly did as they were told. Within seconds, Eric was encircled by the motley arrangement of races and classes that comprised his group of friends. At last he began to speak, his words whispered and hurried.
“It’s close. I mean, really close. I’m honestly not sure if we’re going to have time to get everyone in position, but it’s worth it to try. We need to move, though, starting right now.” He paused, glancing around to make sure all were in attendance. “Anyone need to do anything or cast any spells? Once we step into that tunnel, it’s all stealth and silence until they crack open the door.”
Ferdy and Talcia both nodded, stepping over to Gabrielle and beginning to mutter different spells under their breath. They laid their hands upon her while the others started following Eric down the tunnel. There was no more time to rest or prepare. Soon, the bloodshed would begin, and each party member had no doubt that a fair share of the crimson liquid ultimately staining the ground would belong to them.
Chapter 29
Eric had not exaggerated the door’s severely deteriorated condition. The constant, ceaseless pounding from a town’s worth of undead villagers had taken a slow but steady toll. Looking on from their respective positions, even those with the weakest eyes could make out the large crack that had formed directly in the door’s center, just underneath where the pillar was being driven into its alabaster face. Only Eric and Talcia co
uld tell that it didn’t go all the way through, however, meaning they still had a precious little amount of time to work with.
From the corners of his eyes, Eric kept track of the others’ movements, hoping that they would be ready when the undead broke through to the other side. He dared not look away, even for an instant, for once the door was breached, every second they had would be crucial. Still, using peripheral vision and some mental mapping, he felt confident that nearly everyone was in position. Gabrielle was the only unknown, as, by virtue of her role, she was impossible to track. Despite the fact that she was the most important piece of their plan, she was also the only bit that no one could be sure was ready. All they could do was have faith that she’d manage.
A loud crash filled the air as a hunk of white rock broke off from the door and tumbled to the ground. The others tensed, ready for action, but Eric held up a hand to steady them. It was close, but they hadn’t quite broken through yet. All they’d really managed to do was widen the crack to where a human-sized adult could pass through, whereas before, only Thistle would have been able to make it without contorting. Grumph was still going to have to duck and turn sideways unless they broke off more from the side, but the rest would be able to pass through easily. Eric considered that to be good and bad news, as it meant the evil priest tucked away somewhere in the shadows would have an easier time slipping in as well.
The undead went back to their work. The constant racket had started to cause a headache behind Eric’s almost-unblinking eyes. He ignored the pain and focused on watching for a particular piece of movement. It was a skill he’d learned and perfected during his guarding days: a telltale rustling in the bushes, shadows scampering across a courtyard, all were signs of an impending goblin raid. Often, catching those small motions was the only way to gain any warning whatsoever, and Eric had worked tirelessly to learn to watch for them. Now, he pushed the rest of the world away and let the eroding door fill up the entirety of his mind, every chip, nick, and scratch carefully documented in his brain as they were being formed. Nothing went unnoticed. Then, after several more minutes of pounding, he finally saw what he’d been waiting for. The deepest section of wall within the crack splintered and began tumbling backward. Eric couldn’t make out exactly what was on the other side, aside from a stone wall, but it was enough. He was seeing what lay beyond the door. The time for watching had come to an end.
Eric let out the loud, piercing whistle once used to alert the other guards of impending goblins. This evening, under the mountain adjacent to a deserted town, it signaled his friends that the way ahead was clear and the battle had begun.
* * *
It was not dignified, fun, or enjoyable for either adventurer, but necessity had demanded a compromise of dignity when the plan was being formed. Thus, as Grumph barreled forward, charred sword gripped firmly in his right hand, his left was clutched around the belt of Thistle, who swung to and fro in the half-orc’s powerful grip. To his credit, Thistle didn’t let the embarrassment of being handled like a child show on his face, focusing instead on the enemies’ reactions and trying to figure out if the plan had gone awry yet.
All plans eventually fell apart; it was in their nature. Reality never complied with expectations, and one who expected plans to be pulled off perfectly was often left unprepared when chaos overtook the calculated order. By Thistle’s estimates, the greatest strategists he’d ever met or seen could make a plan that lasted five steps. His own works, on the best of days, usually made it to three. Step One had been sneaking in and watching for the break in the door. Step Two was the mages binding the undead so they didn’t swarm and murder everyone. Step Three was stopping the priest, ideally through non-lethal means, but given that he’d slain an entire village, no one would feel too bad about putting him down for good. Step Four was, of course, recovering whatever artifacts lay beyond the door, and Step Five was really hoping that Grumble gave them some direction, or the others came up with something. Thistle didn’t imagine wandering between kingdoms as wanted fugitives holding a cache of cursed artifacts was a solid long-term strategy. He’d neglected to share Step Five with the others, for obvious reasons.
From what Thistle could see as Grumph hurtled across the rocky terrain, hurriedly driving them closer to the door and the hundred or so undead guarding it, Step Two seemed to be going well. Bright green light was wrapping around the townsfolk of Briarwillow en masse, pinning down whole groups of them, one after the other. Talcia and Ferdy were living up to their claims so far. Thistle made a mental note to write them a proper thank you letter if they, and he, managed to survive this insane errand.
As Grumph rounded another bend, putting him on the direct slope toward the door, a fresh figure finally came into view. He had simple gray clothing, a bag slung over his shoulder, and a wand gripped tightly in his right hand. In the left hand, so dark that Thistle almost didn’t see it against the backdrop of shadow, was the skull. Even without having previously glimpsed it for himself, Thistle knew this had to be the item that had started Briarwillow’s misfortunes: it seemed to pulse with dark energy, power rippling through the arcane runes etched across the black bone.
The priest looked at them and smiled. Despite seeing him head-on, the smile was the only thing Thistle could manage to make out on his face. He could see the other features, but in his mind, they instantly became muddled and unremarkable. Blade to his throat, Thistle couldn’t have picked this man out of a crowd. It was all he could do to keep focusing on him as Grumph barreled closer. As they drew near, the priest lifted his wand and began to mutter under his breath. Thistle didn’t know what sort of divine power this servant of a wicked god was calling upon, but he had a feeling it wasn’t going to be an enjoyable to experience. Step Three should have kicked in by now. If the plan had gone awry already, then this would be as far as they got. Thistle refused to look away from the man who was likely trying to conjure a hex of death as they sprinted toward him. He would be ready for when Step Three began.
Thistle would have faith in their barbarian.
* * *
Eric’s whistle had come so suddenly that Gabrielle nearly went tumbling from the wall she was slowly climbing across. Only the magic of the spell and her reflexive grip kept her from going bouncing down the sheer edge of the vertical rock surface. Much as she wanted to swear under her breath at the signal coming before she was ready, Gabrielle instead focused on scrambling down as quickly and quietly as she could.
Having the mages use spells to make her invisible and able to climb rocks had seemed, in the moment . . . well, actually, the idea had struck Gabrielle as at least half-mad. For their group, though, half-mad wasn’t so bad, which was why she’d agreed to her role in the plan. What she hadn’t counted on, what certainly no one had anticipated, was that climbing down a wall was tough, spell or no. Doing the same task while invisible, unable to see where her hands and feet were going, compounded the effort tremendously. Ferdy’s magic was certainly all that allowed her to climb into position unattacked, but it was also slowing her down. By the time Eric’s signal finally came, she was close to being in position. Just not close enough.
Hustling across the slick surface, sticking to it only by the grace of Ferdy’s wall-climbing spell, she began to prioritize speed over silence, especially since Grumph and Thistle were making a commotion as they began charging down the long, sloping path. She watched as the priest slowly rose to his feet from his seat on the ground, seeming more amused than bothered by the interruption. He plucked a wand from somewhere within his robes, but never once allowed the skull to leave his possession. A half-folded piece of parchment fluttered from his lap, knocked into the air as he stood. She had no idea what it was; she just hoped that it didn’t dispel invisibility or climbing magic. Not that it would matter if she didn’t hurry. Soon, Thistle and Grumph would be directly in his sights, at which point they’d be sitting ducks for whatever foul spells he called down from Kalzidar.
Angling herself diagonally s
o she drew nearer to his position while still getting closer to the ground, Gabrielle moved hand over hand as quickly as she could. All thoughts of stealth were gone from her mind as she scrambled to get to her target, the sounds of her movements easily covered by the wailing of the undead as they were blasted by binding magic. For a man losing his army, the priest seemed oddly unbothered. Indeed, as he raised his wand and began to mutter, aiming at Grumph and Thistle, who were now in plain view, he almost looked cheerful for the distraction.
There was no time left, and she wasn’t nearly close enough to scurry down and mount any sort of attack, not before he’d be able to get off a shot or two at her friends. Gabrielle let the image of her friends being burned by some imaginary magic fill her mind, kindling the ever-ready anger that dwelled inside her. Even the mere idea of her friends being hurt made her angry, and she embraced that rage like a long-lost lover. Fury began to pump through her veins. She was going to need every scrap of it to get through the next few seconds. Her anger had proven a potent weapon many times before, and the way it helped her fight through pain and injury could not be overlooked.
Gabrielle just hoped she was angry enough to block out what was coming, because it was going to hurt like hell.
* * *
Nimble as he was, Eric couldn’t match the head start or raw leg power of Grumph as the half-orc tore across the steep terrain. It was all the lithe rogue could do to catch up with Timuscor, whose heavy armor stole speed from his well-trained feet. The two men rounded the bend of the final slope well behind Thistle and Grumph, unintentionally giving themselves a spectacular view of what would be a very confusing few seconds for a cocky priest on the verge of finishing a spell.
On the wall directly above the priest, Gabrielle suddenly blinked into view as she drew her axe and kicked off from the rock she’d been magically bound to only seconds before. Even from as far away as he was, Eric could tell she was too high. Something had gone wrong; she hadn’t had enough time or had gotten into the wrong position. Either way, this wasn’t a fall she could roll through on landing and come out unscathed—all the more so because it was clear that she had no intention of trying to avoid injury. Gabrielle was coming down with all her weight on the blade of her axe, a dark-bladed weapon that was quite different from the one Eric had last seen her fight with. If it found its mark, the priest was going to be in for a very unpleasant surprise, but no matter how things went, Gabrielle was likely to crack a few bones on landing. Not the biggest issue, since Thistle could patch those up, except for the fact that she’d then be injured, possibly defenseless, and next to the priest of a wicked god whom she’d just hurt and pissed off.