Shadowkeep

by Alan Dean Foster - (ebook by Undead)

  “It could be a trap, designed to lure unwary intruders, but I think we have no choice,” Maryld replied. “Dal’brad would not imprison Gorwyther close by the main entrance to Shadowkeep where any casual passerby might stroll in and free him. We will find the wizard on one of the fortress’ upper levels.”

  “Yes, but which one?” Sranul asked.

  By way of reply Maryld closed her eyes and seemed to fall instantly into a deep, soundless sleep. Her three companions waited respectfully until she emerged from the self-induced trance.

  “It’s no use,” she said sadly. “I cannot tell what lies directly above us. There have been so many spells cast and so many magics worked in this place that I cannot sense a clear path toward Gorwyther, the demon king, or anyone else. We will just have to go up and search the place floor by floor, room by room.”

  “All of Shadowkeep?” Sranul groaned.

  “What did you think?” Praetor struggled not to sneer. The roo was a good soul. He was just a bit naive. “That we would just walk in, help ourselves to the treasure with one hand and free Gorwyther with the other?”

  Sranul wasn’t in the least perturbed by the human’s tone. “Sure, why not? Hope for the easiest.”

  “Oh, come on,” snapped Praetor, thoroughly frustrated by the roo’s cavalier attitude. He started up the stairwell.

  Four corridors led away from the stairs on the second floor. All were empty. At least there was none of the trash they’d encountered below. Which implied that someone had been keeping this part of the fortress clean.

  “Nothing,” he told his companions. “There are more stairs nearby, leading upward.” He stepped clear of the stairwell and started toward them, followed by his companions.

  They were halfway to the first step when the spiked club bounced off the rock and fell to the floor. Praetor had heard it whistle when it passed close by his skull.

  Chapter VIII

  “Hurry!” Maryld yelled, “run for the next level!” Sranul turned toward the dark advancing shapes. Eyes glowed in the dim light and soft, ominous mutterings sounded. “Listen, we’re not here to cause trouble. We haven’t…” he ducked barely in time to avoid a spear. It slid across the floor behind him.

  Hargrod emerged from the stairwell. “You two go ahead. We’ll hold them off until you’ve reached the top.”

  “We will?” Sranul squeaked. He pulled spears from his back quiver as Praetor and Maryld began to climb.

  Their attackers were not demons, but neither did they belong to any known race. Their movements were slow and deliberate, but there were many of them. Standing and fighting was out of the question. Hargrod kept them from reaching the stairwell to pursue man and thaladar while Sranul picked them off one at a time with his spears.

  Praetor and Maryld reached the third floor, found themselves standing in a deserted six-sided room. There were tables and sideboards lining the walls. Without hesitating he rushed to the heaviest piece and began wrestling it toward the stairwell. The wood was old and heavy, but need gave strength to his arms. Maryld tried to help, but the massive furniture was too much for her slight thaladar muscles. She rushed to peer down the stairs.

  Sranul and Hargrod were being forced upward. Praetor pushed the sideboard into position, turned, and began tugging on a huge table. As soon as Hargrod and Sranul stepped out onto the floor, he turned the table on its side, let it crash down on the head of the nearest of their assailants.

  While Hargrod used his ax to keep what remained of the opening clear, Sranul hurried to help Praetor. Together they shoved several more pieces of furniture over the stairwell opening. Hargrod put his ax aside then, and in short order every table and cabinet in the room had been piled over the gap.

  Something began pounding on the tables from below. It went on for several minutes, then ceased.

  “Too much weight for them,” Praetor declared, panting hard.

  “Are they gone, then?” Sranul asked.

  “I should think so or they would have broken through by now.” Maryld, too, was breathing with difficulty.

  “What were they?” the roo asked her. “I know I stuck at least four of them, but they didn’t even bleed.”

  “Servants of Dal’brad, surely. Less than demons but more than men.”

  “I would have ssworn that the floor below uss was desserted,” said Hargrod. “They appeared ass if from nowhere.”

  “That may be exactly where they appeared from, my good Zhis’ta,” she told him. She moved to stand next to the pile of furniture, staring at the blocked stairwell. “I do not think they will chase us further. I don’t believe they have the intelligence to mount a concerted pursuit. Strictly lower-grade servants of the dark forces, suitable for eliminating most intruders. I fear that from now on we will have to be prepared to deal with more sophisticated defenders. Besides, demons dislike repeating themselves. They feel that if one ploy fails, there is nothing to be gained by repeating it. We must be on our guard now more than ever.”

  “In any casse, it would sseem that our coursse iss clear.” Hargrod nodded toward the stairwell. “We cannot go back now.”

  “Why not?” wondered Sranul. “If those down there are as stupid as Maryld says, won’t they get bored after a while and leave?”

  “No,” she told him. “They know we are up here. They will wait for us to return, for the stairs to be unblocked, or for directions from elsewhere. But they will not leave.”

  “Then we’re trapped up here.”

  “It does not matter. We will leave with Gorwyther’s aid or not at all.” She turned her attention to the room in which they found themselves, checking the corners, inspecting the draperies and remaining furnishings. “This way.”

  They followed her down the hallway leading off to the left.

  “What are we looking for?” Sranul asked her.

  “I don’t know. A sign, a marker, perhaps a clue Gorwyther might have had time to leave before he was imprisoned. We will know it when we find it.”

  “Suits me,” said the roo. “I’m always willing to search.” He patted the pouch holding the three goldens he’d found below.

  “Looks like we’re not the first ones to come searching in here.” Praetor pulled aside a curtain to reveal a pile of old bones. “Whoever this was didn’t find what he was looking for.” He kicked at the pile.

  Several of the bones went flying, bounced off the wall. The single skull rolled over a few times, steadied itself, rose slowly into the air and stared straight back at Praetor.

  Sranul jumped backward. Hargrod hissed, while Praetor quickly drew his sword.

  “Maryld—I think I may have found the sign you were looking for.”

  The skull did not rush at him, jaws agape. No lightning lanced from its mouth, no poison, not even a threat. It simply continued to hover before him, as if waiting to see what he would do next. Maryld moved to stand next to him.

  Seeing that there was no immediate danger, Sranul and Hargrod came forward. “My, my, would you look at that,” the roo whispered in awe.

  “What iss it?” Hargrod asked her.

  “A litch,” she told them. “A guard, a watch-thing.”

  “Guard for what?” Praetor wondered. “It’s just floating there.” He stepped to his right, then walked around to his left until he was stopped by the wall. The skull pivoted to follow his movements with empty sockets, but did nothing to hinder him.

  “See? It’s not trying to stop me.”

  “Because you’re not threatening whatever it was set here to guard,” Maryld told him. “A litch is charged with protecting or watching over a specific thing. Not like those fortress guards we encountered below.” She knelt and searched the bones which Praetor’s kick had failed to disturb. “There, see?” She pointed.

  Sure enough, buried within the bone pile was a suggestion of white: a book bound in cream vellum.

  “It must be important,” she murmured, “else this litch would not have been placed here to watch over it. It may
be useful.” She glanced to her right. “Sranul?”

  “No thanks,” said the roo, taking a step backward. “I’m not that desperate for something to read.”

  But Praetor was already edging his way closer to the pile. When Maryld had knelt, the skull had shifted to watch her. But as soon as he’d begun to move, it turned to focus on him.

  “Maybe it’s only designed to scare,” Praetor murmured as he reached out with his left hand. “Maybe it’s harmless.”

  His fingers were inches from the book when the empty eyes of the skull flared. Praetor yelped and clutched at his arm as he fell backward. At the same time Hargrod’s arm moved forward faster than anyone could have believed possible. The massive battle-ax shot toward the skull, which tried to dodge. But the litch had been preoccupied with Praetor and it failed to turn in time. The ax split it cleanly in half before burying itself in the wall beyond.

  Hargrod permitted himself a satisfied grunt, stepped forward, and nudged the shattered skull with his right foot. The fragments of bone showed no sign of life.

  “Sso much for magic,” the Zhis’ta commented quietly.

  “No human could have done that,” said Praetor. He was holding his left arm.

  “Nor thaladar,” agreed Maryld, “but do not dismiss magic so quickly. It is not an opponent to be taken lightly.”

  “I take no opponent lightly,” Hargrod assured her. Suddenly he frowned and squatted before the remnants of the skull, staring. “What could thiss be?” He removed something from the fragments.

  Meanwhile Maryld was examining Praetor’s injured arm. It had turned pink and tingled steadily, but the damage was not serious.

  “An instant sunburn,” she told him, rising. “You’ll be all right.” She looked across to Hargrod. “What is it, what have you found?”

  “I do not know.” He straightened, gazing at something in his hand as he moved to join them. “It wass insside the sskull.”

  It was a beautiful little jewel, bright yellow and exquisitely faceted.

  “The life-force of the litch,” Maryld told him. “It’s yours, Hargrod. You won it.”

  “Better perhapss than a couple of goldenss.” He slipped it into his pack.

  “Maybe,” muttered a jealous Sranul.

  “Let’s not forget this.” Praetor turned and walked over to extract the vellum-clad book from the bone pile. He flipped through it. Maryld joined him, looking around his shoulder.

  “Worthwhile?” he asked her.

  “Too soon to say. I can only understand a little of it.”

  Praetor handed it to her. “You take charge of it, study it when you can.” He looked back toward the stairwell. “Maybe those things won’t try and break through, but I don’t want to wait here to find out.”

  “Wait, wait a moment!” Sranul had been searching the far side of the room.

  “Now what?” Praetor muttered as they walked over to see what had excited the roo.

  “See?” Sranul pointed proudly at his discovery, a long translucent box lying on the floor. “A sword case! Whoever cleaned this place out forgot this one item of value and left it behind.” He grinned at Hargrod. “Better still than even a fine gem.”

  “I don’t know.” Maryld eyed the box uneasily. “I’d be suspicious of anything lying out in plain sight like this.”

  “Of course it’s out in plain sight,” Sranul argued. “Someone was leaving here in a hurry, set it down intending to come back for it, and forgot to. Or wasn’t able to. Besides, what else could it be? See, it’s even in the shape of a sword. Oh, it’s a case, all right, and a fine one. It must be made for an exceptional weapon.” Reaching down, he began loosening the latches that lined both sides of the box.

  “Maybe it belonged to the wizard himself, or some great warrior of ancient times,” Sranul whispered excitedly. “It may be studded with fine jewels. Or perhaps it’s only a ceremonial sword, fashioned of solid gold.”

  Praetor watched dubiously. “Don’t you think it would be better, Sranul, if first we…”

  Too late. The last fastener had been unlatched and the roo was shoving the top half aside.

  There was something inside, all right, but it wasn’t a sword, ceremonial or otherwise. The bright orange gas that billowed out into Sranul’s face was as dangerous as it was colorful. The roo’s eyes went wide as he bent over and clutched at his chest.

  Having more presence of mind and faster reactions than any of them, Hargrod immediately grabbed the roo under both arms and began carrying him away while holding his own breath. Praetor got a whiff of it before he held his own air, and it started him choking. The thick, cloying smoke expanded with frightening rapidity to fill the whole room. Fortunately, its effects diminished the farther one was from the box.

  “Which… which way?” Praetor gasped.

  “Follow me!” Either the gas wasn’t affecting Hargrod as severely as the rest of them, or else the Zhis’ta had moved out of its range.

  But how could they follow if they couldn’t see him?

  “Link hands,” Maryld said loudly. Fumbling through the orange cloud, he found hers—small, soft, and warm. She began moving purposefully forward, which meant she must have a firm grip on Hargrod. As for the Zhis’ta, Praetor didn’t doubt he could carry Sranul with one arm while holding gently on to Maryld’s hand with the other.

  “Can you see anything ahead of us?” he called out to their reptilian guide.

  “Very little. Maryld, what sshould we do?”

  “I don’t know. If we go up another flight of stairs the gas may simply follow.”

  Suddenly Praetor, who was stumbling up against the thaladar, heard a banging and pounding ahead.

  “I have found a door,” Hargrod announced. Maryld was pulled away from Praetor and an instant later he was himself yanked forward.

  To find himself standing in a narrow hallway blissfully free of orange fog. Ahead, Hargrod was easing the coughing, wheezing Sranul to the floor. Praetor turned and shut the door behind them: A few orange wisps seeped under the door, dissipated in the clean air of the hallway. Praetor watched the barrier warily, but nothing tried to force its way through. The orange cloud had been nothing more than an orange cloud, which was quite enough.

  He turned to glare down at Sranul. “I think it’s time we came to an understanding. From now on, nobody goes poking into anything unless Maryld first gives the word. You stay away from anything you don’t recognize.”

  “Don’t recognize?” Sranul coughed, swallowed. “It was just a box, a sword case. It was a sword case!”

  “Nothing in Shadowkeep is ‘just’ a box, just as nothing is what it appears to be,” Maryld told him. She put a hand over her mouth, coughed delicately. “We owe our lives to Hargrod, and you especially, my large-footed friend.”

  “Yeah, well,” Sranul grumbled, glanced up at the Zhis’ta. “Thanks.”

  “Do not hope to be ass lucky a ssecond time.”

  “There won’t be any second time. I’ve learned my lesson.” He climbed to his feet, stared down the hall. “Anyway, we’re safe now.”

  “You certainly are, aren’t you?”

  Praetor frowned. “Who said that?” Hargrod began sniffing the air while Sranul shook his head. The voice was too deep to be Maryld’s.

  “I said it.”

  Slowly they started down the hall. There was a door leading off to the right, into a room that appeared to be an office or some kind of meeting place. It was not impressive. There were a few cheap furnishings, some peculiar drawings on the walls, and a huge rough-hewn desk.

  “I’m glad you came,” said the creature behind the desk. “My lunch is late and I was getting hungry.”

  Praetor stared at it with more interest than concern. He’d never seen a real troll before, though he knew what they looked like from the stories he’d overheard in Sasubree’s marketplace. They lived underground, away from the upper world of men and thaladar and the other civilized races. But what place could be darker and more iso
lated than Shadowkeep?

  He appeared to be alone, which was fortunate since another of him would have filled the room to bursting. His appearance upheld the trollish legend quite well. He was very big, very strong-looking, and exceedingly ugly. Even so, his true size didn’t become apparent until he rose from his chair behind the desk.

  Seven feet tall at least, Praetor thought, and as heavy as Hargrod and himself together. It started to edge around from behind its desk.

  “Look, I’m sorry if you’re upset, but we’re not the ones responsible for the lateness of your lunch,” he told it.

  “I did not say that you were. Those who are will suffer for their tardiness.” The troll smiled, displaying an impressive array of twisted, broken teeth. “But I am hungry. So you will have to be my lunch.”

  Sranul let out a final, desultory cough as he backed hurriedly toward the doorway. “I know how you feel, sir. Why, I’ve been hungry once or twice myself. But I’m nobody’s lunch.”

  “Listen,” Praetor said even as he was backing toward the exit, “can’t we strike some sort of bargain?”

  “You mean a deal?” asked the advancing monolith. “I do not deal with scum like you.”

  “But you eat scum like us? Strange taste you have.”

  That finally wiped the smile from the troll’s face. Demonstrating unexpected agility, it pulled out its long sword and struck. Praetor dove to his left while Sranul leaped six feet straight up. The huge blade cut nothing but air.

  At the same time Hargrod parried with his ax. The sound of the two massive weapons connecting was numbing in the enclosed space of the office. Hargrod gave ground beneath the blow, but the sword slid cleanly off his ax, and he was not injured. The Zhis’ta was strong enough to slow the troll but not to defeat it.

  “Which way?” Praetor asked Maryld as soon as they were outside in the hallway again. The troll answered the question for her.

  “Take them!” it roared. A horde of smaller trolls appeared behind their master, and others emerged from a door behind the intruders. There was only one uncontested avenue of escape: down the hall. With Hargrod fighting a delaying action all by himself, they began retreating.