by Annie Bellet
She jammed her shield into the wall and kept upright as I dropped to one knee. The wight descended and behind him in an eerily silent procession came at least four others. I scrabbled sideways, reaching for another arrow.
The first wight, my arrow still sticking out of his arm, jumped from the last step straight at Makha. She turned aside his body with her sword, severing his slashing arm. The wight hissed again, this time breathing out a thick white mist. It coated Makha’s breastplate like hoarfrost but she threw her head back and this time her sword severed its head.
Two more wights left the steps and headed for Makha. Moving backward still, aiming to put the hearth at my back, I shot one underneath its arm as it clawed at the champion. My arrow found its heart as black dust exploded from it in a puff and then the wight disintegrated.
Drake and Azyrin closed on my right, encircling the entrance to the steps as more of the wights streamed down. The steps were clogged with them.
“Fireball?” Drake called to Rahiel.
“Don’t think I can manage another, working on something,” Rahiel gasped out. I spared a quick glance at her and saw that she had a scroll in one hand and a blue crystal wand in the other. Sweat beaded her brow and her tiny green face was scrunched in concentration.
Makha screamed and stumbled back. Spreading cracks opened in her armor and spikes of unnatural frost speared off the metal as it creaked and groaned.
“Makha! Get back,” Azyrin yelled.
She came away from the wall too slowly and another wight leapt onto her. I shot it through one glowing red eye, showering her in black ash.
“C-c-can’t b-bbreathe,” Makha stuttered as she trembled and collapsed to her knees, dropping her shield. “T-t-too c-ccold.”
“Killer, keep them off us,” Azyrin yelled in Orcish as he grabbed Makha’s pauldrons and dragged her backward.
Two rapid arrows dissolved another of the uncanny creatures. Drake moved like a serpent, dodging and striking out with his rapier, the blade dancing in the dimmed light of Azyrin’s sword. A wight lunging for Azyrin’s back as he crouched over his wife took one of my arrows in the face, the steel broadhead crunching through its husk of a nose and smashing into whatever passed for its brain.
Makha’s normally fair skin had taken on a bluish pallor that almost matched her half-winter-orc husband’s coloring and frost coated her normally fiery red hair. Azyrin used a knife to slice through her armor, warm golden light spilling from his hands as he chanted under his breath.
“Anytime now, sprite,” Drake said, ducking the swipe of a wight’s claw.
The wight opened its hideous mouth and white mist gathered around its ugly teeth. I loosed any arrow that flew right through the open mouth, severing its spinal cord. The creature collapsed into ash before it could breathe all over Drake whatever was wrecking Makha’s armor.
“Thanks.” Drake didn’t spare a glance but resumed slicing up the next wight. I could see five more on the steps above, slowed only by the narrowness of the stairway. At the bottom, one engaged Drake while I turned another to ash with two rapid shots that punched through the weakened, aging armor and into its dry chest.
“Got it!” Rahiel exclaimed. A swirling ball of blue flame, hot enough to immediately raise sweat on my skin and force me to squint, shot toward the choke point at the base of the steps. The ball had begun about the size of my head, but it rapidly expanded as it moved across the room so that by the time it hit the first wights on the steps, it completely obscured the stairs from sight.
The wights died in a sizzling hiss. Rahiel guided Bill forward with her legs, the blue crystal wand extended and a feral grin on her face. She cleared the steps and Drake and I fell in behind her, ready for any wights or other dangers that might escape her fire.
We passed the second floor landing and I noted a door off to one side. A wight had tried to crawl into the slightly more open space off the steps but it couldn’t escape my arrows. I paused only long enough to snatch the arrow out of the pile of dust.
The stairs ended a story above, at a landing four or five paces wide that led to a huge, heavy iron door which stood slightly ajar. Rahiel’s spell fizzled out here, but there weren’t any wights left, just ashes and a lingering scent of charred leather and dust in our wake.
“Makha,” the pixie-goblin said, sagging in exhaustion over Bill’s pink mane.
We turned away from the door and made our way back down. I picked up my fallen arrows on our way, clutching them in a nervous fist.
“Stop babying me, dolt.” Makha’s words brought a sigh of relief from all of us and Drake and I exchanged a small smile. If she was swearing, she was probably all right.
Her color had returned, and her red braid was merely damp instead of frosted. Her armor lay in ruins around her though, only her greaves undamaged from the wight’s spell. Her gambeson was sweat stained, but the brown quilted material seemed intact. She smiled at us and pushed Azyrin away, getting to her feet unaided.
“I’m fine, which is more than can be said for my armor.” Makha kicked the shattered pile of metal with one booted foot. The remains of her breastplate, or perhaps her helm, whined and fractured further. She let loose a string of curses in three languages that made even Drake raise his eyebrows.
“Didn’t know you could do that with an orc, cooking oil, and ten mice,” he murmured.
“When we get to a proper city, you can find a whore and see for yourself,” Makha said with a glare. “Oh, buggers and buckets. It’s going to be an age before I can commission armor. There goes the damn nest egg. Again.”
“It’s all right, love,” Azyrin murmured in Orcish. “We will get our farm in due time.”
Makha grunted and retrieved her shield, her movements still stiff. “Enchantments seem to have held.” She hefted the shield with a sigh and slid her arm through. “Won’t fit right or feel good without my gauntlets.”
This was as close to pouting as I’d ever seen in our gruff champion. Thinking about the bracers I still hadn’t replaced from our encounter with a witch back in Strongwater Barrow, I felt some of her frustration. Fighting without proper gear was annoying at best and stupidly dangerous at worst.
“We should go back to monks, rest and recover.” Azyrin picked up his falchion from the floor and the light from it brightened, banishing the creeping shadows of the room.
“There’re rooms to explore,” Drake protested. “Might be some of that dragon’s hoard around if the mage raised it from a barrow nearby.”
“Mage! Please.” Rahiel snorted. “Necromancy is not real magic. It’s lazy and wrong. Any village idiot can raise the dead if they have the right books and ingredients. Even the man-child here could manage.”
“Even me, eh?” Drake stroked his chin and took on a mockingly contemplative expression.
Rahiel was right. Necromancy was foul and unnatural. Dead things belonged as they were. Even my people had no song for bringing back the dead. Not that it would matter, since death magic required a piece of the once-living to remain in the physical realm. Elemental Elves disappear from all physical realms when we die.
I will meet you at the crossroads where all things end and begin again. Words long ago whispered flitted through my mind and I slammed the doors of my memory shut against a black wave of despair.
“I can go on,” Makha said, quelling Azyrin’s protest with a steel-eyed glance. “’Sides, we should make sure the place is clear or those robe-wearing insect lovers won’t be safe.”
“I agree. Those wights are here for a reason. If the necromancer has left any items behind, they have to be destroyed lest someone like Drake gets their hands on them.” Rahiel made a face at the rogue.
“Next time we fight a dragon, let’s toss her into its craw and hope it chokes.” Drake started forward toward the pixie-goblin, but Bill’s snort and warning wave of his tiny but very sharp golden horn backed the rogue off.
I eyed Makha, decided she looked well enough not to get us all killed, an
d turned back to the stairs. Faint wisps of smoke hung in the air but the unnatural chill was gone. My vision didn’t require the shaman’s light, so I strode up a little ahead of the rest of the group. I paused on the second story landing and glanced back.
“Leave that door for now,” Drake said. “Let’s see what’s behind the top one, eh?”
We made our way up to the large iron door. It was still ajar and a faint breeze wafted forth, tasting of rotting wood, decomposing leaves, and old blood. I nocked an arrow and kicked the door fully open as beside me Drake brought his rapier up into a guard position.
The room was a half-moon in shape and about half the size of the large room on the first floor. Two squat tables dominated the space, their surfaces piled with paper and books. Dim red light gleamed from gems tucked into sconces on the far wall. The metal door fetched up against the edge of one of the tables with a thwack.
Nothing stirred in the room. I lowered my bow, my eyes piercing the shadows of the room, hunting for movement. If one of those wights breathed on my armor, I’d be more sad than Makha. My elven scale couldn’t be replaced by any craftsman in the mortal realms. I wasn’t sure if whatever foul magic the wight had used would harm my hauberk, but I didn’t intend to ever find out.
“Looks clear,” Drake said.
We searched the room quickly and Rahiel gave instructions for destroying the glowing red gems which were apparently vessels of necromantic power. Smashing the bits of red glass, as they turned out to be, was simple enough, though they gave off a stench like burning hair when shattered.
“Aha!” Rahiel exclaimed, standing on one of the books on the table. The tome was huge, nearly as big as the pixie-goblin. She bent and pointed to a scrawled word on the inside of the cover. “Arrogant ass signed his name. Master Ziarnys. Think this will be proof enough for the town council?”
“Yes,” Azyrin said. “That is good.”
“Any of this stuff worth much, you think?” Drake picked up a handful of papers.
“Yes. To an evil necromancer. Want to go make a deal with one?” Rahiel hopped off the table and back onto Bill’s back as Azyrin took the book and tucked it into the embroidered bag at his waist. The rest of the books and papers we hauled down the stairs and dumped in the hearth. Some of the pages crackled as though wet when Drake struck sparks and torched them. Others moaned. I shivered. Unnatural magic, indeed.
Finally nothing was left but ashes and smears of dark liquid that sizzled on the stone hearth even after the flames died down to embers.
The second door was firmly locked but had no magic on it. After swearing at the lock, an intricate circular design I’d never seen before, Drake let Makha bash it open with her shield. Beyond this door was a corridor that led to the second tower I’d seen from the outside.
There were stairs going down. They had once gone up as well, but the tower roof had caved in, held off this portion only by the upper floor. The debris had been moved recently from this portion of the stairs and stuffed in with the rest of the detritus above. Red light, brighter than the glass in the sconces had been, shone up the stairs and cast bloody shadows in the ridges of the stone walls.
I glanced at Drake and he shrugged. The stairs here weren’t wide enough for us to go abreast, so I took point again, drawing my bow to full pull as I moved. My bicep cramped as I slipped down the stairs, protesting the held shot, but I ignored it. The odd creeping cold that had heralded the wight attack was back here, along with a stronger rotting loam scent.
“Elf,” said an eerie, hissing voice, “you will die.” The voice’s owner appeared at the foot of the steps. Another wight, this time an orc, holding a halberd whose blade dripped with black liquid that hissed and cracked on the stone steps. He had a grizzled black beard and jagged tusks which also dripped black ichor.
I loosed my arrow, the fletching brushing past my mouth as it took flight. The wight whipped his halberd up a fraction too late, the undead creature caught by surprise with my readied shot. The arrow punched into his unarmored throat, tearing deep and cutting off anything else he might have hissed.
Unlike the other wights, that shot didn’t end it. The orc-wight lunged forward, wildly swinging the poisoned halberd. I ducked under the blade and flinched as stray drops of black liquid hit my skin, burning me with a frostbitten chill. I caught the return swing on my bow, blocking and knocking away the halberd’s haft. I drew my dagger and sprang forward, thinking on the morning’s lesson with Drake.
Use my speed. Use my long arms. Use the height advantage of the steps. Aim for something vulnerable.
I slashed the dagger across the underside of the orc-wight’s extended arms, cutting deep into tendons and stringy flesh. Pressing forward, I shoved hard with my bow, knocking the halberd from its weakened grasp. It clattered on the floor and I kicked out hard, shoving the orc-wight down the steps. The creature convulsed as it slammed into the stone floor, red eyes burning.
“Sever the head,” Rahiel called out.
“Killer, move!”
I pressed myself flat against the curved wall of the stairs as Drake sprang past me and sliced deep into the orc-wight’s injured neck, severing its head. The orc-wight dissolved, leaving a black shadow burned into the grey stones of the floor.
“That was different.” Drake stepped aside and we moved down off the steps. “Killer, you hurt?”
I rubbed at the raw patches on my face and neck where the drops of stinging fluid had fallen. The pain was fading and no blood came off on my hand, so I gave a tiny shake of my head.
“Saar’s balls. I think we found the dragon’s treasure,” Makha said, walking past us.
The room at the base of the steps was lit by a glowing red chandelier made of glass like the globes in the library we’d trashed. A weapons rack holding two ornate hand-axes with half-rotted wooden shafts and a long sword decorated one wall. Along another were two large bronze and iron chests covered in bits of earth and leaf mold, the metal pocked with age and half-rotten with rust.
“Let’s have us a look.” Drake grinned.
“Careful! What it they are trapped?”
“Oh, sure, dipwing. Just incase someone gets past the dragon, the army of wights, and whatever the hell that undead orc thing was?” Makha shot the pixie-goblin a condescending look.
“Carry on, then,” Rahiel said. She folded her arms and both she and the unicorn retreated to the far side of the room.
“Careful, love,” Azyrin murmured. He walked over to examine one of the chests, holding his amulet. “But I sense no evil in this.”
Makha cracked open the ancient lid and gasped. I moved closer, peering around her broad shoulders as she lifted something heavy and dark from within. She shifted and the scale-mail shirt she held shone in the light. It was exquisite craftsmanship, made from a material that shimmered like glass with the midnight-blue scales overlapping perfectly. I raised an eyebrow, recognizing it. Not everyday that one found a Saliidruin maille shirt.
“Ooh. There’s gauntlets, too, and some kind of hood.” Makha shook the shirt out as she looked into the chest. The scales rippled and gleamed but made no sound as they moved. “Needs straps and buckles replaced. Wonder if it’ll fit.” She unbuckled her belt after handing the armor to Azyrin.
“You cannot just put on random armor you find in an ancient chest,” Rahiel sputtered. “What if it’s cursed?”
“I feel no evil in this,” Azyrin said, turning the shirt in the red light.
“She has to find the shiny stuff. All this chest has is some moldering silver and what might have been a couple books. Might be some gems I can salvage from it, though.” Drake looked up from where he knelt next to the second chest, a delicately wrought but highly tarnished plate in his hands.
Makha slid into the maille with Azyrin’s help. Silvery threads extended from the sides of the armor, binding together and the whole shirt shifted slightly, adjusting to fit her broad shoulders, muscled arms, and ample chest perfectly.
“Whoa
, that’s different,” Drake said.
“It doesn’t hurt,” Makha said. “Feels. . . perfect. Guess I don’t need straps.” She grinned and reached into the chest for the rest of the armor. The gauntlets adjusted to her hands as well. “Feels like the smoothest leather ever on the inside. Hope it’s strong.”
Strong? Silly humans. I smiled and walked over to the weapon rack. Taking one of the axes from it, I moved back to Makha and smashed the blade down on her chest before anyone could react. The ancient steel shattered while Makha barely had to adjust her balance to take the blow.
“Hey, elf, a little warning before you do that?” Makha glared at me. I watched as realization hit her grey eyes and her glare turned into pleasant surprise. “That does answer that question, don’t it? I got me some new armor, I think. Anyone here object?”
“Not me,” Drake said.
“Are you even sure you can take it off?” Rahiel asked.
Makha caught the bottom edge of the maille where it draped her thighs and tugged upward. The silvery threads holding the sides together unknit as she rolled it upward. She let it drop back into place and reseal itself. “See? Just fine.” She hooked the maille hood onto the claps on the shoulders and tugged it up over her head. The scales seemed to grow, extending over her face until just her eyes showed.
“Can you breathe?” Azyrin asked, worry tingeing his voice.
“Yeah,” Makha said, her voice muffled by the scales. “Warm in here but comfortable enough.” She tugged on the hood and it receded. She let it drape down her back and bent to reattach her belt and sword sheath.
“All ooh and ahs and look at my new armor until the day it comes alive and kills us all in our sleep,” Rahiel muttered.
“Cheer up, sprite. I found a wand, I think.” Drake held up a foot-long, thin copper rod inlaid with purple stones.
Caution abandoned, Rahiel zipped across the room and swiped it from his hand. She concentrated, muttering a spell. The wand glowed faintly purple and she smiled. “Mine. Any objections?”