by Drew Hayes
Gabrielle smiled, even as she began to fall forward. A pair of friendly hands caught her by the shoulders. Eric stood next to her, staring down at the body of the man who’d taken so many lives as they waited for signs of stirring. Neither was so inexperienced that they were going to turn their back on a mage until they were sure he was dead.
“Good shot,” Eric said, nodding at the axe-shaped hole in the man’s back.
“You swing a pretty mean sword yourself.”
“Meh, second time today someone’s cut his arm off. At this point, it’s just imitation.”
“Then consider me flattered,” Gabrielle replied. “Also, consider me worn to sh—”
“Attention everyone currently in the catacombs: this is Thistle, your friend and fellow adventurer.”
Eric and Gabrielle both turned their heads, scanning around the room to see where the voice was coming from. The answer, as it turned out, was from everywhere. It seemed to emanate from every inch of the stone surface.
“Though I don’t quite have time to explain how, I’ve found what we were looking for, and the time has come for us to leave this place. Very quickly, in fact. As soon as I finish talking, the whole place is going to start coming down, so everyone please hurry toward the surface. I’ve turned off all the traps, so it should be a straight shot. Just run for all you’re worth. Thank you, and good luck.”
There was scarcely enough time for Eric and Gabrielle to exchange confused glances before they heard an unmistakable rumble come from the floor below them. Neither knew exactly what Thistle had gotten them into, but it seemed he hadn’t been messing around.
With no other real option, they turned toward the exit and began to run with all the strength they had left, falling into line a few steps behind Fritz, who’d bolted as soon as she was told to.
Chapter 37
Talcia, Timuscor, and Mr. Peppers (who was still around despite Talcia being almost positive the spell’s time had run out) were not engaged in any life or death fight when Thistle’s announcement blasted through the catacombs, and thus wasted no time in immediately racing back up the tunnel they’d come down. For a moment, they feared they would get lost as the multitude of pathways that intersected on the treasure room began branching off again. But then Timuscor noticed that only the torches in one tunnel were still lit, so they decided to hurry through that route. It stood to reason, after all, that if Thistle could somehow magically turn off the traps and start collapsing the entire structure around them, he could probably set the torches to act as guides without much trouble.
They barreled along, moving far faster than they’d dared on the trip down, egged on by the creaks, groans, and rumblings coming from deeper in the labyrinth. When they reached the room filled with trapped tiles, the first visible evidence of their predicament became clear.
All along the walls and floor, cracks were splintering through the pristinely decorated tiles, sending several tumbling to the ground, where they shattered into fragments, often starting more cracks with their impact. It was daunting enough to give the group pause, save for Mr. Peppers, who kept right on running like the building was coming down, which, of course, it was. Timuscor and Talcia followed the boar’s plan, bolting through the room nearly as quickly as they had the first time.
It was on the far side that they heard the howl ripple through the air, a dark, foreboding wail that seemed to bubble up from the catacombs’ depths. Their feet, already moving with ample motivation, managed to find a bit more speed as they fled for the relative safety of the exit.
* * *
Grumph was clearly in a bad mood as he sprinted through the crumbling stone building, carefully clutching Thistle to his chest, who, himself, was holding the still-beating heart as though it might shatter at the slightest glance. Watching Thistle touch the heart and then pass out, eyes white as a soft summer cloud, had been worrying enough. Hearing the gnome’s plan once he finally snapped out of the trance had almost been enough to make Grumph wish they hadn’t found the damned heart in the first place.
The half-orc leapt over a chunk of crumbled white stone, entering the room with the altar to Grumble set in its center, the first clue they’d had that things weren’t quite as straightforward as they’d seemed. It was splintering into pieces as Grumph raced by it, the foremost corner gone as the altar started to tip forward. Soon it, like the rest of this place, would be nothing more than rubble: rubble . . . and several corpses if they didn’t hurry and find their way out of there. Grumph surged back into the tunnels, wishing with all his heart that he’d demanded Dejy teach him a teleportation spell.
He was rounding a bend when he heard the same otherworldly wail as Talcia and Timuscor, a noise so horrific he actually slowed down so he could look at Thistle.
“Your thing?”
Thistle shook his head, wide eyes darting about as though a clue to the sound’s source would be in immediate view. “No, I wasn’t warned of any horrifying monsters tucked away or cursed, screaming banshees to watch out for.”
“On our own, then.” Grumph picked his speed back up, racing for all he was worth toward what he hoped was the entrance. A collapsing temple and heart containing stolen god-magic were more than enough on his plate; some unknown, ancient monster wailing from the depths was simply more than Grumph could accommodate.
He was a firm “one catastrophe at a time” kind of wizard.
* * *
As the sound of fleeing footsteps filled the room, the bloody, one-armed-once-more priest stirred from his prone position on the ground. This was no miraculous resurrection or sudden spell kicking in. They’d killed him, those adventuring bastards; there was no doubt in his mind about that. He’d seen death enough times, often as its dealer, to know when the inevitable moment had arrived. It would be soon, perhaps less than a minute or so, before the last vestiges of life drained from him like blood through cupped hands. A lifetime measured in seconds. Most would have laid their heads down, said a prayer, and tried to think happy thoughts. Most did not serve the god Kalzidar, or know of his punishments for those who failed to see his will done.
He could not succeed, that much was clear, but perhaps he could stop his opponents from winning as well. It wouldn’t ameliorate Kalzidar’s wrath entirely—nothing short of success did that—but it might buy him at least a touch of mercy. Besides, the priest was a spiteful man; it was part of why he’d sought the power Kalzidar offered in the first place. If he had to die, he would gladly sacrifice what precious little time was left if it meant revenge on his killers.
Flipping himself over—a strained, gruesome ordeal—the priest managed to lie on his back, staring up at the steadily cracking ceiling. He reached into the satchel at his side, filled to the brim with folded paper creations, and jammed his bloody hand in all the way to the bottom. Animating even one would take more mana than he had left, but a wily mage knew there was more than one way to wring magic from the world. Life had a magic of its own, and the force that was animating his dying body was no less powerful for the broken vessel housing it. Soon, it would dissipate when his body failed entirely—soon, but not quite yet.
Closing his eyes, reaching deep into his mind for the forbidden magic given to him by Kalzidar, the priest’s arrogant grin returned to his lips one last time as he began to mutter the ancient arcane words. Pain beyond anything he could have imagined flooded his body as he literally began tearing himself to pieces, yet still he pressed on. This was the last thing he could do with his life, and he would either die trying or see it through. With every syllable, the torture increased exponentially, enough to have driven him mad if he weren’t there already.
The last word was not so much said as it was screamed, a throat-tearing wail that rose up from the chamber where his corpse would rest to terrify all those hurriedly fleeing the falling catacombs. His work done, the priest’s body slid lifeless to the ground, marked only by a soft thump as his head bounced off the stone.
Around him, however, life
teemed as creature after creature poured from his satchel, growing in size as soon as they hit the open air. The room filled with the scraping of paper claws, the gnashing of paper teeth, and the clacking of paper claws. Fast as they left the bag where they’d been born, they poured into the tunnel, following the same line of torches as the others, following the only command that lived in their magically animated minds:
“Kill them all.”
* * *
Strange as it was to admit, Gabrielle was actually thankful that the axe’s curse had taken its toll on her arms and back. If her legs hurt as bad as her upper body, there would be no hope of escaping before the catacombs came crashing down on them. As it was, running was a nearly hellish experience, as her cumulative wounds screamed through her brain, their presence no longer beaten back by battle-fog and fury. She made careful note of them, acknowledging they existed and requesting they kindly mute their protests until she and Eric were out of harm’s more immediate way. Healing, likely both magical and mundane, would come later, at a time when she wasn’t dodging small pieces of falling debris.
Eric, loyal as he was, stayed by her side as she mustered what was currently counting as a sprint. He was faster than she—always had been, in fact—but he refused to abandon her, even if it meant he would end up being crushed too. Gabrielle would have chided him, urged him to run ahead and save himself, but she didn’t have the free breath to waste, not with her ribs groaning in protest. And it would be a waste, because Eric would no more abandon her than she would him, or Thistle, or any of the others. They were in this mess together, and only through relying on each other had they managed to survive so far.
Fritz, to her credit, was keeping pace well, though she seemed to keep turning periodically to look at what was going on back in the direction they’d come. It was possible her elven ears were picking up on happenings their human ones were missing, but since she said nothing, Gabrielle trusted it couldn’t be that important. Or else it was, and Fritz was also too out of breath spare the words.
When the wail hit everyone’s ears, they were only a few steps across the thin stone bridge, now mercifully unbothered by the swinging blades which had lodged themselves into the walls. None lost their balance at the horrendous sound, but Eric and Gabrielle exchanged a simple look that said it all: they’d forgotten to finish off the priest in their hurry to leave, and it was possible he’d had a final trick or two up his sleeve.
They hurried across the bridge, going faster than was either wise or prudent, yet, thanks to luck and training, they both made it to the other side unharmed. Eric was about to step into the tunnel that would lead them out of this deathtrap when a sound like pages rustling reached both their ears. Turning around, they witnessed a menagerie of paper beasts exploding into the room, pouring in one after the other, quickly filling up the platform that stood before the bridge.
“You have to be fucking kidding me.” Gabrielle’s eyes were wide as she took in the sight: dozens of animals and monsters, more numerous than she’d ever seen grouped together, all bursting out and staring at them with hollow, folded eyes.
“We should be running.” Eric smacked Gabrielle’s shoulder, causing her to wince but also kicking her into gear. He grabbed Fritz by the hand and began pulling the elf along, dragging both into the tunnel and urging them to move as fast they could.
Monsters or no, the paper beasts would still have to cross the bridge to get to them, and hopefully that would buy enough time to at least warn the others. As they ran forward, following the torches and desperately hoping that each turn would be the one that brought them back to the main entrance, their ears were assaulted by the constant sounds of rustling paper. It was so bad they almost didn’t notice the rumbling and cracks of the crumbling catacombs.
Almost.
* * *
Thistle and Grumph were the first to make it back to the main entranceway, but they’d scarcely been there for more than a few seconds, scanning around to see if the others were there, when Talcia, Timuscor, and a pig Thistle didn’t recognize barreled out of their doorway. The trio was moving so fast they nearly slammed into Grumph, who quickly spun to the side, taking the chance to set Thistle down before any of the others could see he’d been getting carried.
“Why are you holding a heart?” Talcia demanded as soon as he got a good look at Thistle and Grumph.
“Long story, but it’s causing this place to collapse. We have to get it into the sunlight. Well, I do: has to be a paladin of Grumble, you see. As I said, it’s a bit of a long story.” Thistle checked both men to see that they were uninjured, and then his curiosity, so well-restrained with his fellow paladin, got the better of him. “What’s with the pig?”
“Mr. Peppers,” Timuscor corrected.
“It’s a summon that I used to help find traps,” Talcia said. “Though, at this point, I feel like it should have long ago dissipated.”
“Perhaps all the magic in this place is sustaining it. You have no idea what kind of power is concentrated in these walls.” Thistle turned away from the two men and their pig, searching for the rogue, barbarian, and trader that completed his group of friends. When he found no trace of them, the gnome’s face began to fall. “I’d expected at least Eric to beat us here.”
“He probably stayed with the other two,” Timuscor suggested.
“Or whatever made that horrible screech caught up to them, and they’re dealing with it,” Talcia added. “Either way, we need to get clear of this place.”
Thistle glanced down at the beating heart in his hand. He had a duty to fulfill and a promise made to a brother paladin to keep, but leaving the others to whatever fate had befallen them . . . Thistle didn’t know if that was in him. Luckily, this was not the day he would be tested on the issue, as the sound of footsteps began to echo from the final doorway. Unfortunately, behind those footsteps was a tsunami of strange scurrying sounds.
“Paper monsters!” Eric yelled, bolting out of the doorway with the elf in hand and Gabrielle only a few steps behind.
Thistle suppressed a gasp when he saw the bloody, sliced up woman, as well as some very unpaladin-like thoughts about what he’d like to do to whomever had inflicted such wounds. Concern was brushed away by pragmatism, however, as Eric’s words and the cavalcade of sound behind him fit together and explained their predicament.
“How many?” Grumph asked, already turned around and running for the exit.
“Hundreds, at least,” Gabrielle called back. She, Eric, and Fritz had never stopped running, making a line straight for the crack in the massive door. The others took the cue, and the race to escape resumed once more.
“’Hundreds, at least’?” Thistle turned back over his shoulder, waiting to see the first folded creature emerge from the tunnel’s depths.
“We didn’t really have time to get a good look.” Eric reached the exit ahead of all the others, and then whirled Fritz, whose wrist he was still gripping, forward and into the narrow exit ahead of himself. “But if I were to guess, I’d say there’s as many coming as pieces of gold in a dragon’s hoard.”
“Right then, so we’re running,” Talcia agreed. He quickly followed Fritz through the exit, squeezing as best he could into the narrow gap. Though Gabrielle tried to resist, she was more or less shoved through next, as no one else was willing to leave her in danger given how injured she was.
Her once-more-blonde head had just disappeared into the crevice when the sounds of movement reached a crescendo and out burst the first of what appeared to be countless paper monsters. Grumph, however, had been waiting for this, and no sooner did the paper ogres and trolls appear than he released the spell he’d readied, dousing the paper creations in a blast of magical fire. They screamed as their bodies burned and sizzled, folding backward and momentarily blocking the doorway.
“Don’t suppose you can do more of those, can you?” Eric asked.
Grumph merely shook his head. “No mana left.”
“You bought us some
time, old friend, and that might just be enough. Now go; you need the most time getting through there.” Thistle nodded to the crack, and Grumph complied. He’d barely managed to recover enough mana for two small spells after the day’s trials; it was best he left the floor to those who still had arrows in their quivers.
“Timuscor, you go next; then Eric and I will follow,” Thistle continued. He happened to notice the pig grunting about under Timuscor’s feet and added, “Mr. Peppers can leave when he wants, as I suspect he’ll have no more trouble than I getting through there.”
“With all due respect, I have to decline,” Timuscor replied, staring at the smoldering remains of the monsters Grumph had slain. “You, Eric, and Mr. Peppers go ahead of me.”
“We can get through a lot faster than you,” Eric said. “I’m nimble, and Thistle’s small, while you’ve got all that armor. It makes more sense for you get through first.”
“Perhaps it would,” Timuscor agreed. “But that’s only if I intended to leave.”
Chapter 38
Despite all the strange things Eric had borne witness to since leaving Maplebark, that moment in time would always stay with him as one of the more surreal: the sounds of slowly dying flames being fed by murderous paper monsters serving as the background to a knight—a pig at his side—staring down a paladin whose stature was closer to the pig’s than the knight’s, neither seeming willing to budge.
“Those things will swarm us in the open area of the mountain,” Timuscor said. “If there’s as many as Eric and Gabrielle say, we’ll be overwhelmed long before we can reach the surface, and even if we do, there’s no guarantee they’ll stop. These things die easily, but their attacks can still wound. We can’t face that many.”