by David Combs
“And in the tombs of their greatest heroes,” said Drayton reverently. He gave a slight bow to the sarcophagus.
Tyrell frowned. “Well, let’s get this grim business over with. There’s something about this place that I don’t like.”
“Well, the guests of honor aren’t exactly great on conversation,” quipped Galen. The thief knelt to examine a stacked pile of armor at the foot of the stone slab. He noticed a second identical suit at the far end as well. Their style was ancient and bore such elaborate trim and markings that the suits gave the clear impression that they belonged to no common soldier but were more likely those of an elite honor guard.
Nestor and the knights lifted the heavy stone lid from its place, revealing an ancient coffin within. Krieger reached in and knocked on the wood, drawing scowls from Drayton and the barbarian warrior. “Anybody home,” he asked with a chuckle. Nestor started to open his mouth to rebuke the Shadow Lord when a Galen interrupted.
“Wait. Do you hear that?” A faint scratching noise came from beneath the exposed lid of the coffin. “Something is alive in there.”
“It couldn’t be. No one’s been here for centuries,” said Tyrell. “It has to be insects or something.”
“Krieger, get that lid open, but be cautious,” ordered Drayton. “Something seems amiss here.”
Krieger took a pry bar and leaned over the coffin. Splintered wood blew outward as a rotting hand punched through the top, and clamped down on his wrist. The sound of crunching bone was only drowned by the knight’s howl of agony. A rattle of armor drew everyone’s attention to the suits at each end as they suddenly rose from the floor. The spectral eyes of long-dead elven warriors could be seen through the visors, as they drew wicked looking swords.
Drayton and Nestor immediately squared off against the armored ghosts as Berthis tried to break the iron grip of the monster that held Krieger. The captured knight screamed in agony as the bones of his wrist snapped with an audible crunch. The lid suddenly blew upwards with a powerful blow, stunning both of the knights but knocking Berthis away from the horrifying monstrosity that rose from the tomb.
“It’s a ghoul”, yelled Tyrell.
“Great,” yelled Galen. “How do we kill it?” He saw that Tyrell’s eyes had already closed as the mage went into the realm of magic to seek that very answer. The ghoul snarled at the thief then turned back to Krieger. The knight smacked the undead monster on the side of the head with the pry bar he still held, but if the ghoul even felt the blow, it didn’t show it. With blood encrusted black talons, the fiend ripped through the knight’s breastplate, spilling Krieger’s innards onto the floor. Berthis had regained his feet but stood in mute terror as his friend fell lifeless to the floor.
Tyrell’s eyes snapped open, and he grabbed Galen by the arm. “That thing is not Gilgorad. It just took up residence in his crypt. I sense some very powerful magic within that tomb. It has to be the sword. We have to get Shadow Reaver.”
The ghoul stepped past the body of the fallen knight and stalked Berthis. It hissed and spat, waiting for the knight to make some foolish move. Meanwhile, the ghosts of Gilgorad’s elite company showed their formidable swordsmanship against Drayton and Nestor. The two men fought frantically but were soon frustrated as their attacks were repeatedly turned aside by the skilled undead.
Galen raced around the room careful not to draw attention to himself as he leaped into the sarcophagus. As he pulled away a piece of the shattered coffin, he felt a strange chill run up his spine as he crouched within the tomb. He quickly discounted his uneasiness as adrenaline, as he began digging through the debris. His keen eyes found a hidden catch that he triggered with a flip of his thumb. When a panel slid open in the bottom of the casket, the thief was amazed to see the perfectly preserved body of a middle-aged elf. The body was clad in the most elegant armor that Galen had ever seen, but the battle scars and gouges that ran along it told that it was far more than ornamental. Across the corpse’s chest, his hands resting upon the hilt, lay a sword of glittering elvensteel that the thief knew in an instant could only be Shadow Reaver.
The thief snatched the sword from the dead elf’s hand and jumped out of the sarcophagus to land behind the ghoul. The beast didn’t notice Galen’s approach as it batted Berthis’ sword aside, and ripped open the poor man’s throat with a backhand swipe of its filthy claws. As Galen raised the sword to slash across the monster’s exposed neck, the shimmering sword flared with a sudden brilliant light. The ghoul shrieked and shielded its eyes as Galen’s stroke sheared through the creature’s forearm like paper. The ghosts that pressed against Nestor and Drayton staggered as the sword flared like a noonday sun in the young thief’s hand.
Drayton attacked with renewed vigor as his foe faltered. His sword rang as it struck the ghost’s armor, but the blow only drove the specter back a single step. The ghost recovered too quickly and batted aside the knight’s defenses. It howled in victory as it slammed the point of its blade deep into the Shadow Lord’s shoulder, and then backhanded the wounded knight. Drayton fell to the ground as his weapon skittered across the stone floor. He clutched at the bleeding wound in his shoulder, glaring defiantly into the ghost warrior’s gleaming eyes behind the ancient visor. As it towered over him, it slowly raised its sword in a two-handed grip high above its head.
Nestor had been forced back into a corner of the room by his opponent but fought with the fury of a caged animal. Tiny cuts covered his body from the relentless assault of the undead guardian. As Shadow Reaver flared, Nestor took advantage of the momentary weakness of his attacker. He knocked the ghost’s sword high, spun about, and slashed hard and fast across the neck of his foe. He snarled in frustration as his blade met little resistance. He lashed out with a ferocious kick to the creature’s breastplate, though, opening a path to the middle of the room. The barbarian saw the second ghost raising his sword against the downed knight, and threw his shoulder into the back of the unsuspecting creature. With a crash of metal, the ghost slammed against the sarcophagus of Gilgorad.
Galen feinted at the ghoul, which caused the beast to lunge forward in a futile grasp. The thief brought the elvensteel blade back in a flashing arc that sliced a deep wound across the beast’s chest. The ghoul shrieked in agony as the weapon burned it with a pain unlike any it had ever known. It turned to run from the dangerous weapon, but Galen moved faster. He reversed the sword and drove Shadow Reaver into the fleeing ghoul’s back.
The sword shrieked in triumph as it sent purging flames through the ghoul’s innards. The monster thrashed back and forth as greasy smoke rolled from its mouth. Its screams were hideous as its pallid skin burned to ashes. In seconds, the ghoul crumbled, and Galen snatched Shadow Reaver before the enchanted blade could hit the floor. It was surprisingly cool to the touch and pulsed within his grasp.
Nestor fell into a defensive stance beside Drayton as the two tomb guardians turned to face him. “Do something,” growled Nestor over his shoulder to Tyrell. The barbarian raised his guard although he knew it would do him little good against his insubstantial opponents. Galen closed in with Shadow Reaver at the ready drawing the attention of one of the guardians.
Tyrell raised his hands, and cried out, “Su ne niala arken’duisa. Su vorcara fev’amish.” The wizard prayed that he had spoken the phrase correctly. Their only chance to survive this encounter was if the guardians realized that their group was not an enemy to the elves. He sighed with relief as the two warriors turned to face him.
“Et morak’tha viellin dorush?” The voice of the guardian spirit sounded like wind howling through a deserted catacomb. Galen swallowed hard, clutching Shadow Reaver’s hilt a little more tightly. Nestor remained unmoving but alert, and ready to spring. His eyes flicked only once to Drayton who had fallen unconscious. Blood flowed freely from the knight’s wound, and the warrior knew that he had to help the man soon or he would die.
Tyrell bowed deeply to the spirits. “Su ne tianalin Gilgorad qui’ellis.” The mage spok
e haltingly. The twisted inflections of the ancient tongue made it difficult for him to get his point across. One misspoken syllable, and he could go from explaining that he was an ally to Gilgorad’s cause to calling the general a thick brained pig. Happily, he noticed that the ghosts took no offense at whatever he had managed to say.
One of the specters lowered its sword, reaching out a hand towards the wizard. A low buzzing sound began to drone in Tyrell’s mind. He could feel the presence of an otherworldly consciousness contacting his own. The mage forced himself to quell the natural reflex to defend against such an invasion, though, and opened his mind to allow the ghost to see the truth of the group’s intentions. He let his mind fill with the thoughts of Kellen’s lies and deceit. He thought of the suffering that so many had faced at the vampire lord’s hands.
The buzzing presence abruptly disappeared, and the ghosts backed away to their positions on either end of the sarcophagus. With a clatter and crash, they collapsed back into neatly piled suits of armor. All three men let out a sigh of relief. Nestor dropped his blade beside him and immediately knelt to check on Drayton.
“Will he live,” asked Galen.
“He’s injured badly,” replied Nestor. He took some rolled cloth bandages from a pouch and began to clean and dress the Shadow Lord’s wound. “He’s going to need rest and far better attention than we can give him here though.”
“We have what we came for,” said Tyrell nodding to the glittering sword in Galen’s hand. “Will he be well enough to ride back to Del Torac?”
The barbarian shrugged. “He’d better be. That’s the closest place where we can find any help.” He continued his work on the knight’s wound.
“What the hell happened with those ghosts,” asked Galen.
“I told them that we were not evil men or common looters. I tried to show them that the ancient evil had returned and that we needed Shadow Reaver to defeat Kellen. I think they drew a large piece of our tale directly from my mind. Once I convinced them of the sincerity of our intentions, they backed away.”
“So they’ll let us take the sword out of here?”
“As far as I can tell. Honestly, I believe the power of that blade would have destroyed them even though their intentions weren’t evil. It’s as if they knew it was time for the sword to drawn for noble purposes once again.”
Nestor stood up and brushed off his hands. “Fine by me. If they want us gone, then I for one say we should take their advice. I’ve had enough of tombs, ghosts, and things going bump in the night. Let’s get back to Tarnath with this weapon, and stick it all the way to the hilt in Ambrose’s gizzard. We can put this whole nightmare behind us.”
“Nobody would like to finish this more than I, my friend,” said Tyrell. “First, however, I think we could all use some rest, even if only a short one. We’ve been run ragged lately, and we lose any advantage we might have should we go against Kellen weakened and exhausted. Secondly, as you pointed out, we need to see to Drayton’s care. I believe his part in all of this is at an end now. Finally, I would like some time to examine this book that I found. There are secrets of magic locked away in here that haven’t been seen for centuries. I might even find the key to unlocking my own mental block. Maybe figure out how I can draw upon some magic that will really shake Kellen up.”
“Then let’s get our gear together, and set out for Del Torac as soon as possible,” said Galen. “The sooner we leave here the sooner we can all get back to living a normal life. I miss lifting coin purses, and breaking into aristocrat’s homes.”
“That’s your personal definition of a normal life, then,” asked Nestor wearily.
“Galen’s right,” said the mage. He took Shadow Reaver from the thief, and carefully examined the blade. “We’ll get going, rest up briefly, and then show up on Kellen’s doorstep with a surprise in hand for him. He’ll never know that we’ve succeeded in finding the sword. By the time he knows it, we should be driving it through his black heart.” He handed the sword back to Galen who had found a cloth to wrap it in. “Nestor, I’ll help you carry Drayton. We leave immediately for Del Torac, and from there to Tarnath.
“We have some unfinished business to settle.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Their departure from Khasharsta was without further incident. Galen easily bypassed the reset trap mechanism in the Cathedral of Starlight, and the four men made their way into the cool evening breeze of the Thelvenin Woods. They rode as hard as they were able, considering Drayton’s condition, setting camp a couple of hours later. The Shadow Lord regained consciousness while Nestor sat beside the injured man to check the bandaged wound. The barbarian proceeded to tell of the remaining events of the battle, including the tragic deaths of Drayton’s brother knights.
“They fought as well as they were able,” he said. “They fell in battle, and no doubt sit in a far fairer place than we have ever seen.”
“They are two more tally marks against that devil, Ambrose. Two more lives that bastard will answer for.” The knight struggled to sit up, but Nestor gently pushed him back to the ground.
“And if you start trying to jump up and down too soon, you’ll be the next. Your wound won’t take that kind of excitement right now. Hell, we’re all lucky to be out of there without some sort of grievous injuries.”
“How did you escape?”
“Tyrell, talked the spirits out of hacking us to bits,” said Galen, “and we found this.” The thief unwrapped the scintillating elvensteel blade allowing the knight to see the reflected campfire dancing like a rainbow across the weapon. After it was passed around among them, Galen carefully and reverently covered it again, cradling the magnificent sword in his arms, as if afraid to put it down.
“He couldn’t have tried doing that before I got stabbed then,” quipped Drayton. Tyrell hadn’t heard the jibe though, as he was lost in study over his prize tome liberated from the Seeker’s Hall.
“All I know is that I don’t want the responsibility of using Shadow Reaver on Kellen. I mean, whoever is going to use this needs to get a lot closer to Kellen than I find comfortable.” The young thief looked back and forth at the two swordsmen with a raised eyebrow.
“Then give it to me,” said Nestor. “I’ll be more than happy to give Ambrose the business end of it after all of the tricks he has played on us.”
“We must still be careful,” said Drayton. “Having a magic sword won’t counter the centuries of experience and cunning tricks that Kellen has mastered. I warn you that when the time comes to face Kellen Ambrose, you will find yourselves hard pressed.” The wounded knight was seized by a fit of coughing that wracked his entire body. When it passed, Nestor saw flecks of blood on the Shadow Lord’s lips. Nestor dipped a cup into a foul-smelling brew that he had placed on the fire and lifted it to the knight’s mouth.
“Here. Drink this. It smells terrible but it cures quite well,” he assured Drayton.
“It certainly won’t cure bad breath,” said Galen who backed away from the mixing pot. Nestor flipped a cupful into the face of the young thief. Galen’s look of surprise and revulsion even brought laughter from Drayton. The thief stripped off his shirt and threw it away from him.
“Now I’ll have to go wash that,” he complained. He glared at Nestor, who only grinned. The thief picked his shirt back up and walked towards the nearby creek while a steady stream of muttered curses rolled back to the barbarian.
“That lad will scare away skunks for the next day or so,” he mused.
Tyrell sat away from the others, silently watching his bantering friends. As his mind swirled around with thoughts of their upcoming battle, he wondered to himself if his companions were taking the approaching dangers seriously enough. Or perhaps, he was simply taking everything too seriously. He smiled a wistful smile. He longed to share their enthusiasm and enjoy their raucous behavior, but he hadn’t been able to escape the terrible sense of foreboding that had been with him since leaving Khasharsta. Some great tragedy still loomed be
fore them. You’re being foolish, he chided himself. The last thing we need now is a doomsayer among us. He closed the book on his lap, and finally joined in Nestor’s raucous laughter when Galen fell over into the stream.
The next day’s journey was slower than they had hoped for. Drayton’s wound had turned an ugly shade of grey, and the blood that seeped from the cut was cold and thick. A fever had taken hold of the knight, and he thrashed about so fiercely that they had needed to tie him to his horse.
“He won’t survive another day like this, Tyrell,” said Nestor during a rest break. “You and I have both done all we can for him, and he’s getting worse.”
“There is something unnatural about his wound that is draining his life force. This is something beyond a simple infection.”
“Some side effect from the guardian’s weapon perhaps? But why then wouldn’t I have suffered the same from all of the minor wounds that I received.”
“I can’t say. Perhaps there was something that the spirit consciously did or channeled into Drayton that the other apparition didn’t get a chance to do to you. Maybe you’re more resistant. All I know for sure is that we are going to have to stop long enough to cure this sickness, or else we’ll bury him before we reach the town.”
“Can’t you use some kind of magical healing on him to keep him from getting worse,” asked Galen. “You patched me up pretty well the night that we were in jail together.”
“This is something much more complicated though. You suffered from natural injuries. His wounds are caused by a mystical energy not from this world. That makes them more difficult to drive from the body. It’s harder to direct his natural defenses to fight against whatever’s making him worse.” He sighed. “A powerful wizard could easily heal him, but . . . .” The mage looked at his friends helplessly and shrugged. The three men sat in silence around their campfire until the knight thrashed and groaned.