by David Combs
“Even for you,” muttered Tyrell. Nestor shot him a dirty look.
“Gentlemen, compared to the time I’ve spent hunting Darian and his minions, I would expect your involvement to be brief. Now, if there are no further questions, I’ll have Lorelei show you to your chambers. In the morning you will begin your quest to help me avenge my family.”
“This just keeps getting worse all the time,” muttered the barbarian.
Ambrose pulled a cord near the fireplace, and Lorelei soon appeared in the doorway. The young woman had changed from her waterlogged gown into a soft white night robe with fur trimming. Galen leaped from his chair, following on her heels like a fawning puppy.
“Won’t you gentlemen please follow me upstairs,” she asked. Her smile remained warm and hospitable despite the fright she had already suffered tonight. She turned and led the way up the stairs. Galen chatted with her, and her laughter echoed in the grand hallway.
“Seems our young ally has found something he enjoys about this mess,” whispered Nestor to Tyrell. “Shame he probably won’t survive long enough to enjoy the rewards of our labor.”
“Would you try to show some sort of hope for us all about this mess, Canaith,” whispered Tyrell.
“All I’m saying is that if the hangman doesn’t get us, this vampire chase probably will. The walking dead? Please! You’re an intelligent man. Isn’t our best option to leave town tomorrow, and then ride as far away from Tarnath as fast as we can?”
“I hope you remain this cheerful for the entire trip. Necromancy is seldom practiced magic but it is rumored that there are dark powers that can bring the dead back to the living world. You shouldn’t be so quick to scoff.”
“Here are your chambers, gentlemen,” said Lorelei. She waved her hand to three open doors along a short hallway at the top of the stairs. “Should you require anything during the night, you may ring for one of the house staff.” Each man peered into his respective room. The chambers were each lavishly decorated and furnished with a luxurious feather bed, ornately carved chests, and gold fixtures all around the room. Tyrell smiled to himself as he wondered how much of the room’s adornments would leave in Galen’s pockets come morning.
“Thank you, lady,” replied the mage as he entered his room. Nestor and Galen each went to their indicated chambers, and closed their doors. Tyrell threw the lock on his own door and sat down on the bed. His head ached from all of the night’s events. How did I get myself into this, he thought? “More importantly,” he asked himself softly as he blew out the candles, “how do I get myself out”.
***
Shattering glass woke Tyrell from his sleep. A hoarse cry and a thumping noise from somewhere downstairs soon followed. Tyrell ran into the hall, just in time to see Nestor already dashing down the stairs with a huge sword in hand. Galen’s door was open, but the thief was nowhere to be found. Noises of battle echoed up the stairs, and another crash boomed from Kellen’s study. Tyrell raced down the stairs and through the doorway to the study. He gaped in horror at the sight before him.
Ambrose fought desperately against four attackers, while Nestor took on three more just inside the door. The smell of death and musty earth filled the room, and Tyrell noticed that the opponents showed little reaction to pain, even when one was impaled by Kellen’s sword. The mage had never actually seen a zombie before, but as he had told the warrior just a short time ago, he had heard enough tales of evil necromancers and their grisly servants to recognize the horrors they now faced.
Nestor hacked through one of the undead monsters, shearing off the thing’s limbs. His backhand swing tore away half of his foe’s face. Though it might not feel its wounds, the zombie proved less effective when it couldn’t see its prey, and it didn’t have arms to swing at them. The barbarian saw Tyrell standing motionless in the doorway.
“What the hell are you waiting for? Get in the fight!” Nestor took a mighty swing, but felt his blade snag on bone. He yanked on his sword but it was stuck fast. A second zombie bashed him in the side of the head and knocked him off balance. The barbarian lost his grip on his weapon as he struggled to stay on his feet. Meanwhile, Kellen was backed up against the chamber’s rear wall. His vicious cuts could do little more than hold his attackers at bay.
Tyrell knew he had to act fast or all of his new allies would be overwhelmed by the tireless undead. His eyes swept across the littered room for any sort of weapon when an idea suddenly sprang to his mind. He closed his eyes and reached his awareness into the realms of magic. He felt the warming lull persistent in even the lowest realm of power, as magical energy flooded into his being.
Nestor groaned as another solid punch hammered into him. “Help us, for gods’ sake!”
Kellen’s huge desk began to tremble.
“Do something, dammit,” cried Ambrose. The nobleman kicked a zombie’s feet out from under it, then spun his way to help defend Nestor from another of the beasts. “We can’t hold the back forever!”
The desk rocked back and forth. Sweat beads ran down Tyrell’s brow as he fought to bend the magic to his will. The arcane power assaulted the desk, burning Tyrell’s mind as it tried to resist his will. He felt as if his head was about to split open.
Nestor lashed out, his punch knocking the jaw of one attacker completely off of the rotting thing’s face. “Join in anytime, wizard,” he snarled in anger and disgust. The sounds of battle were suddenly overcome by a terrible, cracking noise from Kellen’s desk.
Abruptly, shards of wood exploded like a thousand arrows, ripping the zombies into a gory, tattered mess that sloughed to the floor. Ambrose and Nestor dove for cover as the deadly slivers buried themselves into the walls and other pieces of furniture. A cry of pain came from the darkened corner near Kellen, and Galen spilled out of the shadows with a twelve-inch splinter through his arm.
“Did you have to wait so damn long,” growled Nestor when the hail was over.
“Sorry. That desk was a lot stronger than it looked. What was it, ironwood?”
“Thelvenin oak,” replied Ambrose as he jerked the splinter from Galen’s arm. The thief howled.
“Just as strong,” replied the mage with a nod.
Nestor whirled on the thief. “And what in Alhambra’s Hells were you doing skulking around in the dark while we were getting our skulls bashed in? As if tonight hasn’t been bad enough, now we’ve got allies who won’t join the fighting.” He threw his hands in the air and went to look for his dropped blade.
“I was about to backstab one of them, but then Tyrell made toothpicks out of the desk. You need to work on your aim, by the way.”
“Enough,” said Ambrose. The nobleman knelt down to examine one of the decaying corpses.
“So how long have you been getting midnight visitors,” asked Tyrell?
“Darian has never acted so boldly before. It can only mean that somehow he knows that I’ve recruited help, but it also suggests that he is scared.” He sighed. “That puts us all in even more dire circumstances than before. Don’t be surprised if he begins hounding you every step of the way now. You must remain alert at all times.”
“Great,” said Galen. He lifted his wounded arm. “We’d hate for this to seem easy.”
“Or sane,” added Nestor.
“My friends, all I can say is that you must now be even more careful. You absolutely must be able to work together without hesitation or hostility. If you can’t do this, then we’ll all die.
“Prepare yourselves, gentlemen. You leave at dawn.”
CHAPTER FOUR
A cold rain fell as the men rode out of the city gates the next morning, which did nothing to improve their already short tempers. The arrival of dawn had come without diminishing the horrors of the previous night. Breakfast was served by a quiet servant whose only comment was that Lord Ambrose had left earlier on business, but that all of the gear and supplies that the three of them would need for their trip was already prepared.
Their departure was completely wit
hout fanfare. Rolling thunder set the tone in their minds that the trio ventured into exile as punishment for their crimes. None of them felt like heroes who now risked their lives in an attempt to save the city from a ravaging monster.
Nestor grumbled all morning while Galen continued to taunt and bait him, which only made the barbarian’s foul mood even worse. They were barely an hour away from the city walls when their shaky alliance had nearly fallen apart. An ill-timed quip from Galen regarding Nestor’s mother being overly friendly to a horse had Tyrell barreling between the dodging young man and the warrior’s drawn steel, ready to cleave the young thief’s skull.
“Look at us,” he screamed as he shoved the barbarian away from Galen. The young thief lay on the ground where the warrior had backhanded him off of his mount. “Darian won’t have to face us. We’ll have killed each other long before he gets his chance.” Tyrell studied his companions. “You’re naive and reckless,” he snarled to Galen. “And you,” he growled to the barbarian, “your explosive temper gives you about as much subtlety as a charging bull.” The mage shook his head. “And then there’s me,” he muttered as he thought of his own shortcomings. His eyes dropped to the gloves that covered his scarred hands. Screams from the ghosts of his past echoed in his mind. “What chance do we possibly have?”
“Ambrose thinks we can do it,” said Galen softly. Tyrell was startled for he didn’t realize that he had spoken his thoughts. Galen smiled at him. “Don’t count us out until we’re all dead.”
The next few days were not much better. Tempers flared time and time again, and it was only through blind luck that no brawls erupted between them. No one trusted anyone else enough to stand guard alone so they were forced to double their watches.
One morning, Tyrell awoke to a rough shake. Galen knelt beside him, and the wizard immediately knew something was wrong from the thief’s grim expression.
“Nestor’s gone,” Galen said.
“What do you mean gone? Where did he go? Maybe he just went for a piss?”
“I don’t think so. His stuff is gone. He was here one minute, and not the next. I was out scouting around, and when I got back to camp, he had disappeared. No tracks anywhere.”
“Maybe we should turn back, and tell Kellen about the damn double-crosser. Ambrose could set Knarya’s men after him.”
“Or he might just send us to the gallows instead for wasting his time. Not to mention that it would undoubtedly cost us our window to confront Darian’s minions. We need to get that list of lairs.”
“Dammit! Nestor said at Kellen’s house that we should all just ride off once we were away from town. We were supposed to go into the fen today, and start our preparations against the cultists.”
“Let’s go ahead with the plan then,” said the rogue. “We just won’t go as deep into the swamp as intended. Give us a chance to spend more time fortifying a good spot. There’s only one road they’ll use, and if we set the ambush site properly then we will even the odds. We won’t get another chance like this one, Tyrell. If they get any closer to Tarnath, Darian could warn them about us.”
“If he hasn’t already.” Tyrell nodded. “You’re right though. It’s now or never. To hell with Nestor Canaith. Let’s get moving.” The two men quickly broke camp and rode off.
Within the hour, they found themselves in the black marsh of the Karghome Fen. The Fen was a place where countless legends of fierce monsters and fallen adventurers had been born. A road ran through the bog, but it was thick with viscous claylike mud that dragged against a traveler’s boots and slowed travel to a painstaking crawl. Tall reeds slapped at their legs while the foul-smelling mud constantly threatened to drag them to a suffocating grave. They were plagued by swarms of buzzing insects. The air was filled with the growls and shrieks of creatures that called the swamp their home.
They soon found a relatively dry place in the road and rested. “How about right here,” asked Tyrell. “This is the most solid ground we’ve seen all morning. We’ve got plenty of trees to provide cover, or set snares in.” Galen appraised the glade with his keen eyes. As a thief, he was naturally more inclined than the mage to laying out an ambush site, and he surveyed the surroundings for potential. Finally, he grinned.
“Yes. This will be perfect. We can set up some deadfalls to herd them into the deeper mud to slow them down, and then we should be able to take them out quickly. Let’s get to work.” The companions set to their task with the thief directing Tyrell on how to set different types of traps. Soon the area was filled with concealed trip lines, log traps, and other nasty surprises. Galen’s coup de grace was made up of two huge logs positioned on either side of the road that would swing together, and pulverize anyone caught between them. The battlefield was set. The rest would be up to the thief and mage.
As they waited, Tyrell’s mind turned to their missing warrior. Ambrose had said that success depended on a concerted effort between all three of them. Already, their alliance had broken apart. He and Galen would probably get killed in this dismal swamp by vampire worshipping cultists, while Nestor rode off to gods knew where.
The sound of approaching hooves brought the wizard from his reveries. He signaled to Galen, but the thief had already vanished into the shadows of the nearby foliage. Tyrell watched as four men in black cloaks cautiously rode towards the fallen limbs that he and Galen had planted in the mud. The glint of armor flashed from beneath their robes that were held closed by bright red sashes that wrapped around their waists. They spoke in low voices and kept their hands on their weapons.
Tyrell knew the time to strike had arrived, and he found himself smiling. He opened himself up to the flow of magic and drew upon the very image that was always a crowd-pleasing success when he conjured it forth at dinner parties.
From behind a grove of trees echoed a thunderous bellow followed by a monstrous yellow skinned karg. The beast stood half again as tall as a man and drooled over its wicked tusks. It smashed a nearby tree to kindling with a casual backhand blow then charged at the riders. Two of the horses panicked and ran into the tree limbs. Their riders were thrown into the mud as the unfortunate horses impaled themselves on stakes he and Galen had camouflaged within. The other two riders controlled their mounts, however. They drew their weapons and grimly moved forward into battle.
Galen hid in some bushes off the road and released one of his log traps. A heavy tree trunk smashed into the head of one of the men. The cultist died instantly as the log crushed his skull in a spray of blood and bone. The remaining rider charged the brutish monster and plunged through it before Tyrell could make the image react.
“It’s just a damned illusion,” called the man to his companions. The other two cultists had regained their feet, and, at their comrade’s words, their courage.
“But I’m not,” said a voice from the shadows. A thin-bladed sword snaked out of the bushes and stabbed into the rider’s neck. Galen rolled out of the falling man’s way, coming to his feet beside Tyrell. They grimly faced the two remaining cultists.
“Fair odds,” called one of the fanatics.
“We can’t have that now, can we,” cried a red-haired, buckskin-clad blur. Nestor dove from a concealed place in the sheltering trees and tackled one of the cultists. He snapped the man’s neck with a twist of his mighty arms.
The final foe had seen enough and knew he couldn’t defeat the trio. He turned and bolted for the marsh road he had come by. Suddenly, another growling karg lurched out of the trees right in front of him.
“You won’t fool me with another phantom, wizard!”
Nestor and Galen were puzzled as Tyrell gasped in shock. “That one’s not mine,” he shouted. The cultist fully expected to run through the mirage as his companion had done. His surprise was complete when he bounced off the creature’s fleshy thigh and collapsed in the mud. He shrieked only once as the karg pounded the man’s head into the mud with a single strike.
“Maybe we should be going now,” said Galen. He looked expect
antly at his two companions only to see Nestor draw his sword, and Tyrell fall into a magical trance.
“Karg would just run you down,” said the barbarian. “Wear you out, and then tear you limb from limb.”
“I don’t have to outrun the karg. I’d only have to outrun you.” Nestor ignored the thief’s joke and assumed a battle stance.
The beast slowly advanced on the three men. Then, with a surprising burst of speed, it cleared the remaining 10 yards between them with one powerful leap. It took a broad swing at Nestor and struck a glancing blow to the dodging warrior’s chest. The barbarian sailed across the clearing, smashing into a tree. Galen dashed frantically into the bushes while Tyrell backed away. He tried to think of how any of his feeble powers might affect the beast.
The wizard remembered the single time that he had seen a karg before. He had been a mere apprentice, and the monster he had seen was in a cage and magically sedated. Even if that one had managed to break free, Tyrell’s mentor would have been able to stop the monster with a wave of his hand. The mage wished he had that kind of power at his command.
Tyrell moved behind a tree to keep something, anything, between him and the enraged monster. The trunk above his head exploded into kindling as the karg bashed through the tree, and hurled it into the swamp. The beast roared and raised its arms high above its head, ready to deliver a killing blow to the wizard. Before the fists could fall, however, the karg shrieked and stumbled as Nestor twisted his sword into the beast’s leg. The warrior was still dazed, but his face was a mask of fierce determination.
Furious and in pain, the karg grabbed the barbarian’s shirt, easily lifting the warrior into the air. With a snarl on its lips, the beast hurled Nestor through the air like a rag doll. Although the barbarian landed with a squish in the mud, he remained very still. Tyrell raced through the trees to the warrior’s side. Nestor was still alive, but the karg’s ensuing bellow made the mage wonder how much longer that would be the case.