by David Combs
“Of course not,” sighed Nestor. “That would be too convenient.”
“Step aside then, and give me some light,” said Galen.
“If those riders have made it into the tunnel then they’ll be on us seconds after we throw up a light,” said the warrior.
“Would you rather fight vampire worshippers in total darkness? Light a damn torch, and let me see if I can figure out how to get us inside.” Nestor fumbled for a moment, then pulled some oily rags from a pouch that he kept for just such an emergency. He wrapped them around the end of a long dagger and struck a spark to it.
“Hurry, lad. Don’t know how long this will burn.” Galen examined the gray stone wall before them that blocked their way. Runes etched in mysterious patterns scrawled across the surface. Galen moved methodically from section to section, his trained eyes searching for telltale signs of hazards that might await the unwary. As he concluded his investigation, he dusted off his hands and grinned at the barbarian.
“Hold that dagger straight out in front of you facing the left wall.” The thief positioned the barbarian exactly as he wanted. Galen moved back to the worked stone wall, stomping hard on a rock in the floor. “Get ready,” he said with a chuckle.
A half-moon shaped blade shot out of the wall towards the barbarian. Nestor held up his dagger in feeble defense, but it protected him nonetheless. The great blade sheared through his knife but was harmlessly deflected away from the big man’s body.
“I thought that locking bar looked broken,” said Galen with a wink to his friend.
“I could have been diced, you crazy little. . . . Why didn’t you just tell me to stand aside?”
“Consider yourself fortunate that the other locking mechanisms all held. From where you were standing, getting diced would have been pleasant by comparison.” Kershaw giggled, which did nothing to improve Nestor’s mood. Galen grinned at Tyrell, who just shook his head as his shoulders shook with silent laughter. The thief twisted a root near the wall, and the stone face noiselessly opened on well-concealed hinges allowing the group entrance into the cavernous, gloomy chamber beyond.
Even Kershaw remained quiet as they entered the room. The vaulted ceiling of the place was lost in the shadows above. “This place feels like a church,” whispered Galen reverently.
“Kaariken Tel’duina,” said Tyrell.
“Gods bless you,” quipped the thief.
“This is the Cathedral of Starlight. I read about this place in one of Kellen’s books. This was the holiest place in Khasharsta.”
“See,” said Galen as he punched Nestor lightly in the arm. “Told you it was a church.
Nestor made a sign of warding as he walked through the sanctuary. “Just don’t touch anything,” he whispered. “Elven gods probably still watch over this place.”
“Well, aren’t we here for the purpose of stealing a sword?” Nestor said nothing but glared at the young thief. Kershaw destroyed the solemnity of the moment by cackling gleefully, then dashing off into a nearby hallway. Tyrell closed the secret portal behind them, jumping back in alarm as ominous clicks and whirrs sounded when the stone fell flush against stone.
“The trap mechanism just reset itself,” said Galen. “That should slow up our pursuit even more.”
“So what do we know about this place?” Nestor started to sit down on a stone bench but thought better of it when he saw a spider as big as his hand scuttle away. “How are we going to find Shadow Reaver?”
“There’s supposed to be a library near the cathedral. Elven historians kept chronicles of everything. I suggest we go there and do some research about Gilgorad. He died before the city did, so there should be records of him somewhere.”
“Then let‘s get moving,” said Galen. “I want to look around, and I don’t know how long those traps will occupy the riders behind us.” The three men made a quick check of their personal gear, hurriedly moving out into the hall where Kershaw had vanished. The only traces of the elf were his footprints in the ages-old dust upon the floor. Tyrell figured the elf was better off in the city than they were, so the men moved past the side passageway, and proceeded instead through the massive double doors of the cathedral.
A cool breeze blew over them as they stood on the steps that led down to the street. Twilight had just begun to settle over the forest, and the ancient trees cast long shadows along the cobblestones. The companions looked around, taking their first real look at the lost elven city of Khasharsta.
They were a little disappointed.
Centuries of neglect had left many of the once majestic buildings crumbling into disrepair. Once graceful spires now lay in fallen ruins on the ground. The forest had pressed forward to reclaim the city as weeds, thorns, and brush overflowed once elegant gardens. Tall grasses grew up through the cracked and broken paving stones of the streets and walkways.
“Not exactly my idea of paradise,” murmured Galen. The trio stood still for a moment, and quietly absorbed the scene. “So,” said the thief at last,” where’s the library?”
“I’m not sure. We may have to do some searching around.”
“That sounds safe.” replied the rogue. “Cultists behind us, and gods know what within these buildings.” Nestor lightly cuffed the younger man on the back of the head, then moved towards the nearest ruin.
Damn, Galen,” growled the warrior,” why do you think we brought you along? It’s not as if Tyrell and I would come into a place like this without someone to send ahead as bait.”
“Will you two stop,” snapped Tyrell. “I can’t concentrate on the buildings with you two bickering.” He sighed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so sharp. Why don’t we spread out a bit? We’ll cover more ground that way. Just be careful though. We don’t have any idea what else besides the forest may have claimed the city for its own.”
The three men fanned out, poking through some of the various tumbled down buildings along the wide street. Tyrell made his way through the undergrowth to the crumbling steps of a once magnificent building. “I found it,” he cried out a moment later. “This is it.”
Nestor and Galen hurried to his side. “How can you tell,” asked Nestor. He whistled at the obvious grandeur the building before them had once possessed. The stone and woodwork were crafted together with such skill and artistry that it seemed as though one sprang forth from the other. Delicate columns spiraled into the air holding aloft intricately carved archways. The entire structure looked so impossibly fragile to support the canopy of the forested roof. “This place looks more like a palace.”
“The elves valued knowledge above their kings. Their academies and libraries reflected that in their design. You could say that this was a palace of sorts to them.” He pointed to a moss-covered inscription on the archway. “Harleith Malachor.”
“I wish you’d stop doing that,” said Galen. “Pretend for one moment that some of us here don’t speak elvish.”
“Seeker’s Hall. This was the great library of Khasharsta. Come on.” Tyrell moved carefully over the broken steps towards the door that hung askew from its hinges.
“I think the only thing that could kill us in here is boredom,” griped the thief.
“Maybe you’ll find a rabid bookworm. Let’s go, lad,” replied Nestor. Galen sighed, and nimbly picked his way over the rubble. He passed Tyrell who struggled to balance on a few precarious pieces of masonry and approached the doorway. As he peered into the darkness, the young cutpurse gasped when he realized that shining eyes peered back at him.
“Be care-,” he began to yell, but a rat the size of a mastiff plowed into the young thief, bowling him over. A second rat scurried from out of the dark portal, hissing angrily at Nestor and Tyrell. Pure luck saved Galen from having his throat torn out as he and the giant rodent tumbled down the staircase. The thief clamped his hands tightly around the rat’s muzzle as they rolled. There was a satisfying crunch when they hit the bottom as his knee drove hard against the beast’s ribcage.
Nestor siz
ed up the second rat. “This mouse is a little too big to stomp. Have to do this the hard way,” he said as he drew his sword. He scooped up a handful of small rocks and threw them at the rat to make sure he had its full attention. “Tyrell, see to Galen. I’ve got this one under control.” The barrage of pebbles did no damage, but they infuriated the rat. Recklessly, it charged across the broken steps towards the barbarian.
Tyrell ran to Galen’s side just in time to slam his dagger into the back of the struggling rodent. It squealed in pain and snapped at the mage, but Tyrell leaped back out of reach of the foul bite. The rat’s attack gave Galen a chance to reach his own dagger. With a snarl, the thief drove his blade up through the rat’s jaw, and deep into the creature’s brain. The rodent shuddered once, collapsing on the thief.
Nestor’s rat perched on some broken stone, swatting its filthy claws at the warrior. The barbarian deftly parried, and his keen-edged blade sheared off the first knuckle of the rat’s paw. More furious now than ever, the rat lunged forward to bite at the warrior. Nestor’s foot lashed out at the rock the beast sat upon just as it poised to spring. The cracked stone broke free, sprawling the rat on the ground directly in front of the mighty warrior. With a fast downward swing of his blade, the fight was over.
“Too easy,” called the barbarian to his friends. He wiped the blade of his sword on the rat’s hide. He smiled as he saw Galen crawl out from beneath the body of the second beast. “Still think going to the library is going to be dull, boy?”
Galen looked at his friend and then grinned. “I take it back. Forget I ever said it.”
Tyrell laughed, slapping the thief on the shoulder as Nestor sheathed his weapon. “Just wait until you see the bookworms,” he said.
CHAPTER TEN
Seeker’s Hall was in little better condition than the rest of the city. Many of the ancient bookcases had rotted and collapsed. Their brittle contents were strewn all over the dusty floors. Tyrell winced as Galen poked at one open tome only to see the pages crumble, then blow away beneath the thief’s light fingers. The thief shrugged apologetically, dusting off his hands.
“Is anything here even usable,” said Nestor as they looked at the ruin before them.
“There has to be something,” insisted Tyrell. The mage gingerly lifted a scroll from an ancient table, but the paper broke into fragments that drifted lazily to the floor. He sighed. “I don’t understand it, but I can sense that there is something here that will help us. We just have to be careful with what we touch.”
“Tyrell, perhaps we should search the rest of the city first,” suggested Nestor. “There have to be some crypts or graves somewhere. If Gilgorad died before the city fell, then maybe we can find his tomb on our own.”
“Sure,” snorted Galen. “Or maybe we can find something even nastier than the bloodsucker we’re trying to stop.”
“Just don’t go crying to your mummy,” returned the barbarian. He ducked the book that Galen hurled at him. Tyrell shook his head, and all three men couldn’t resist having a laugh.
“Why don’t you two go on ahead,” said the wizard. “I don’t feel like leaving here just yet. Besides, I’m the only one who can read their language anyway. I still feel as though something here is calling to me. I just have to locate whatever it is.” He looked back at his two friends and shrugged.
“We’ll stick to the closer buildings then,” said the barbarian as he clapped Tyrell on the back. “Are you certain you don’t want to come along? This place may hold more surprises than wolf-sized rats.”
“I’ll be fine. Nothing here but me, and the bookworms,” he said with a grin. “You two go. Just stay within shouting distance, and be careful.” The thief and barbarian both nodded, then left through the rubble-filled archway back into the darkening street. Tyrell waited until they had left, and then pounded his fist on a desk in frustration. The already fragile piece of furniture collapsed in a cloud of dust and splinters.
Something was here. He knew it, but he couldn’t tell where it was calling to him from. Where was he supposed to look? He had felt a subtle power from the moment he had crossed the threshold of the library. It had begun as nothing more than a tickle at the back of his mind, but something with powerful, ancient magic had drawn him into this place as if it knew who he was, and why he had come. Tyrell swore that he wasn’t going to leave until he found the source of the summons.
A rickety staircase led up to a balcony, where more rows of moldering books and scrolls sat on rotting shelves. Tyrell carefully made his way up the stair, praying silently that it held together. Floorboards groaned in protest with every step he took, but they reluctantly carried his weight. Tyrell stepped into a dark alcove to go around a huge pile of debris when his senses came alert.
It was close. The powerful magic presence that he had sensed was somewhere near this alcove. The power was centuries old but still stronger than any dweomer he had ever encountered before. The longer he stood in Seeker’s Hall the stronger he felt the pull of an awe-inspiring, and somewhat frightening, presence beckoning him onward. Tyrell considered only for a moment that the siren call that pulled him towards the darkened alcove before him was not benevolent, but his curiosity was too keyed up to resist an opportunity to discover a source of magic so old and yet still so powerful.
The wizard gritted his teeth and stepped forward, letting the lengthening shadows embrace him.
***
“So, just out of curiosity, where do you think that the old elf went,” asked Galen. The two men had wandered back towards the cathedral entrance, having found no evidence of Gilgorad’s passing in the other nearby ruins.
“I’m a little more concerned on the whereabouts of those cultists who’ve been dogging our steps. If they’ve managed to bypass those traps, then we could easily walk into an ambush. I’ll tell you straight up that I’m not anxious to face that big, blond brute who leads them.”
Galen looked at Nestor in surprise. “You never cease to amaze me, Nestor. I always thought your people lived for their next fight. Honor, glory, and death in battle. You seem reluctant to even draw your sword sometimes.”
“My people are ferocious by necessity. Their lives in the hills are rough, and they must likewise be as tough in order to survive. We wandered after the food we hunted. Oftentimes, that would often take us into territory that others had claimed. Kargs, other clans, and dangerous predators. I learned to fight because it was expected of me to help defend ourselves. I do it well, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy it.
“The only fights I have ever looked forward to are against those who have wronged me in some way. Even in most of those, the battle was not to the death. I take no pleasure in taking another life without cause.” He chuckled. “Besides, since I’ve gotten thrown in with you and the mage, I’ve been pounded on by knights, soldiers, zombies, kargs, and even my own companions. Frankly, I’m getting a little tired of it all.”
***
Tyrell studied the arcane symbols that seemed to crawl along the back wall of the alcove. There was a doorway here, made and hidden by ancient magic. The wizard fell into a meditative trance, gently pushing and probing against the runes that protected the hidden portal. He smiled to himself as he discovered the impression of a subtle yet deadly trap. The rune was still active, but he was sure that the power of the thing was not what it once was. It was possible that he could just trigger the spell, and hope that the runes had weakened enough with the ages to not be fatal. He snorted. And if he was wrong, then perhaps his friends would still find enough of him left to bury.
Tyrell examined the doorway for a few moments longer, then sighed. There was no way around the trap without the word of command created by whoever set the ward. He had no choice but to set off the warding spell and take his chances. Tyrell concentrated on the weakest part of the symbol’s pattern. Disrupting the sigil would break the magical circuit of energy, releasing whatever stored potential remained. The thing could quite literally blow up in his face, but he saw
no other options. Bracing himself for the magical backlash, Tyrell mentally tore apart the rune.
The resulting explosion of energy hurled the wizard across the library. He slammed through three bookshelves, pulverizing both them and their contents to powder. Tyrell thudded against a wall, rebounded away, and fell face down on the dusty floor. The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth, and his head throbbed as if he had been kicked by a dragon. His back ached, and he felt numerous splinters of wood digging into his flesh. That’s going to leave a mark, he thought as he pushed himself from the floor. All in all, I’m pretty damn fortunate to be breathing.
Tyrell slowly regained his feet. As he dusted himself off, a glimmering light caught his attention. A shimmering doorway now dispelled the shadows that had previously filled the alcove. The siren call that the mage had felt since entering now pulled screamed at his magical senses urging him to explore the space that lay behind the door. He limped over to the portal, took a deep breath, and pushed through the wavering magic before him.
After a moment of disorientation, Tyrell found himself in the long unused laboratory of some elven wizard. A thin skeleton with tattered bits of once fine cloth slumped over a book lying on a high table. Tyrell studied the room, recognizing the telltale dusty jars and bottles full of ingredients found useful in arcane research. He also noticed with surprise, however, that the book on which the skeleton rested was the only written work to be found in the entire lab. Tyrell slowly approached the corpse and looked at the pages beneath the dusty skull.
The pages, unlike anything else in the entire city, were perfectly preserved. The entire book looked as fresh as the day it was bound. No dust settled on the open sheets, and the writing looked as crisp as if it were just off the quill. The ink itself shimmered with a rainbow hue, and the script seemed to dance across the open page.