by David Combs
Shadow Reaver’s light played over the contents of the tiny room. Spider webs ran from corner to corner of the small cell. On the far wall across from the door, bones shrouded in tatter rags hung from chains fastened to the stone. A skull on the floor grinned up at him.
“That one was a foolish traveler who sought refuge for the night,” wheezed a thin reedy voice from behind Nestor. The warrior spun around with Shadow Reaver at the ready to face the speaker. The barbarian saw a withered old man leaning on a crutch standing in the doorway behind him. “Master didn’t much care for the lad’s conversation though. Going on and on about making his fortune in the world, and what a difference he was going to make, and blah, blah, blah. Master grew bored and threw him in here. Sort of forgot about him after that. Of course, once the master started making plans to build his legions in the south, he stopped receiving visitors at all.”
“And just who are you, old one,” Nestor asked. The barbarian was wary, for although the old man looked brittle enough to snap over his knee like kindling, Nestor knew that anyone serving Ambrose could not be taken lightly.
“Name’s Falloran. I’m caretaker of the dungeons down here.” He looked around the room. “Although there’s not much care to take in this old place.” He smiled a toothless grin at the warrior. “Main job nowadays is to feed the snake. Have you seen my pet, by chance? Raised him from a hatchling, I did. Slither, Guardian of the lower levels, I call him. It’s actually feeding time anyway. Why don’t you come along with me, and I’ll show you. You’ve never seen the like, I promise.” The old man started back down the corridor towards the stairway.
“Actually, friend,” replied Nestor, “I did catch a glimpse of your pet already, and a fine beastie he is. However, I truly need to go and discuss some business matters with your master.”
Falloran cackled. “And how did you plan to find him? You haven’t got the key to the upper reaches. Come on, I’ll show you to the master after we’ve fed Slither.” He eyed the barbarian up and down. “Assuming, of course, that Slither doesn’t take a liking to you first.” A maniacal giggle shook the man’s small frame. “Feeding time, feeding time,” he sang. He grabbed Nestor wrist with a surprisingly strong hand.
Nestor jerked his arm away. “Your damn snake is already dead. Take me to Ambrose now, or you’ll join him.” Falloran’s insane grin faded suddenly. His bushy brows furrowed.
“Slither…is dead?”
Nestor sighed. “I grow tired of your games, old man. Where is Kellen?”
Falloran’s shoulders first sagged, then he began to tremble. Nestor took a step back as he brought Shadow Reaver between him and the deranged old man. Suddenly, Falloran shrieked and lunged at the barbarian’s face with his long crusty fingernails.
Nestor slapped away the feeble old man’s attack, shoving him against the stone wall. Falloran’s frail body slammed against the stone, but he leaped forward again in his blind rage. A dagger appeared suddenly in his hand from some hidden sheath inside his sleeve. With a quick backhand slash, he cut a deep line across Nestor’s shoulder.
The barbarian had reached his limit. He had been pummeled by zombies, kargs, vampires, and a giant snake. He was not going to put up with this any longer. Nestor’s fist flashed out, crushing Falloran’s jaw. The hallway echoed with a crunch of bone, and the aged servant of Kellen Ambrose crumpled to the ground.
The old man lay unmoving. Cautiously, Nestor rolled the man over with his foot. Sightless eyes stared up at the ceiling. Falloran’s dagger jutted out from the old man’s chest in a spreading crimson stain of blood. “Dammit,” Nestor swore. “I only wanted you knocked out, you old fool.” The barbarian spied a leather cord around the dead man’s neck with a key on the end of it. Nestor snapped the cord and took it.
Nestor moved down the corridor, letting Shadow Reaver’s urge’s guide his steps through the dungeon. Abruptly, the hallway ended in yet another winding staircase that led up to a single door. A heavy iron padlock held the door shut. The lock looked brand new and well oiled in stark contrast to the rest of the dingy surroundings. As Nestor unlocked the stout lock with the dead man’s key, he couldn’t help but wonder what else Falloran might have kept locked away in the dungeon that wasn’t meant to get into the castle proper.
A short corridor opened into a grand hallway that was lavishly decorated with gold and polished brass. A huge portrait of Kellen Ambrose hung on the wall opposite the great double doors that led out into the keep’s courtyard. Massive stairs of polished marble climbed up the side of the hallway to an archway that led deeper into the fortress. Shadow Reaver sent him a gentle push towards the stairs, and Nestor obliged.
Through the archway, another extravagant hallway of plush carpeting and ancient paintings stretched out before him. Nestor moved softly to an open doorway and peeked into the room beyond. Smashed furniture littered the study. Great bookshelves lay overturned and smashed. The warrior’s trained eyes could see the scars where sword blades had slashed not only the furnishings but the very walls themselves. On the floor near the doorway, Nestor spied an ornate paperweight stained with blood. He silently prayed that it hadn’t come from his friends.
Shadow Reaver thrummed in his grip, as a wicked hiss from behind drew Nestor’s attention away from the ruined library. Out of an adjoining corridor stalked two male and two female vampires. Dressed as elegantly as courtiers in a royal palace, they strode towards the barbarian. All were possessed of an unearthly beauty, but for the glistening fangs that betrayed their true nature. Their eyes gleamed with hatred as Nestor brought the elvensteel blade around to guard. Shadow Reaver pulsed with a power as if it was as eager to taste the vampire’s blood as they were to taste Nestor’s.
“The Dark Lord has already dealt with your friends, warrior,” said the lead female. Her long auburn hair seemed to dance around her face as if caught in a summer breeze. “How sweet that you have been left for our own amusement,” she purred.
“You’ll not find easy prey here, bitch.”
Her seductive smile fell away, into a ferocious snarl. “We smell your blood, mortal. We can hear the drumming of your heart. Share it with us willingly, and your death shall pass far easier.”
“I haven’t come this far to fall at the hands of the help,” snarled Nestor. The barbarian warrior leaped forward swinging the elvensteel blade in a flashing arc. So fast and so unexpected was the warrior’s attack that the vampires were caught flat-footed. Shadow Reaver cleaved the head from the shoulders of one of the males, and Nestor’s backswing cut the other female from hip to shoulder. Shadow Reaver howled as it tore through vampire flesh, and the two fiends burst into flames as the blade drove them back to the grave.
The other male, a hulking fellow with sandy blond hair, grabbed Nestor's shoulders from behind and threw him to the floor. However, the soft carpet cushioned the warrior’s fall. The lead female dove at him, but Nestor kicked out at her, his boot heel splattering the fanged woman’s nose across her face in a spray of dark blood. A quick slash of Shadow Reaver found her arm, forcing her back.
Nestor jumped back to his feet and clubbed the male across the side of his face with the hilt of his blade. As the creature staggered, he grabbed the front of the vampire’s fine tunic, and hurled him into a hallway table, smashing it to pieces. He followed in closely with Shadow Reaver, narrowly missing the scrambling monster’s neck with the heavy swing. Nestor kicked out again, catching the male vampire squarely in the chest, and dropped him back to the floor. Nestor reversed Shadow Reaver in his grip, plunging the blade down through the fallen creature’s chest. Another scream of victory from the sword as the big male burst into ashes. Nestor spun around to see the female vampire standing alone against him.
“The master will destroy you! His torment of you will last forever as he damns your soul,” she snarled at him. Nestor stomped his foot on the shattered hallway table causing a splintered shaft of wood to leap into his hand. With practiced ease, he whipped the wooden stake into the vampir
e’s chest, impaling her black heart. Before she could scream, she burst into ash.
“Damn you, too,” Nestor growled. Shadow Reaver urged him on towards a ruined side hallway. Nestor realized that this corridor led away from the heart of the keep towards one of the corner turrets. The barbarian looked in bewilderment at the condition of the hallway as he carefully stepped past the burned and blasted rubble. Great holes in the once near impregnable walls now allowed the pale moonlight to bleed into the passage. Spent arrows, darts and spears littered the narrow walkway. The warrior’s nose burned with the faint traces of harsh gases that had recently filled the hall.
Cautiously, Nestor pressed himself tightly against the side wall to get around an open pit in the stone floor. As he glanced ahead to the far end of the hallway, he spied a short rise of stairs that led into the turret. The barbarian’s heart leaped when he heard the clang of steel and the sounds of battle coming from the chamber. With a howl of delight, Nestor quickly jumped over the remaining distance of the pit and bolted for the end of the corridor. It had to be Galen and Tyrell! They’ve got the bastard cornered! In his hand, Shadow Reaver buzzed with anticipation. Nestor’s elation vanished as he then saw Galen’s battered and bloody form fly across the room, slam into the wall, and fall to the floor, motionless. Then, Kellen Ambrose walked over to the young man’s body and prodded him with his boot.
“No, no, no,” screamed Nestor. “You bastard!” Nestor charged forward again.
Kellen stood over the fallen thief. He started to turn when he heard the furious roar of the enraged red-bearded barbarian behind him, but it was too late to react. Nestor exploded into the room, tackling Kellen from behind. His speed and power carried the two of them sailing over Galen’s body into the wall beyond.
“You son of a bitch,” roared Nestor as he hammered his fists into the side of Kellen’s head in what could only be described as a berserker fury. Kellen, still shocked and surprised that Nestor was alive, lashed out blindly. He caught a glancing blow on the barbarian’s chin with just enough force to knock the warrior away from him. The two men scrambled to their feet and faced off.
“Next time, lead with the blade, Canaith,” spat Ambrose. “You might have stood a chance against me. Now you will only meet the same gruesome fate as your young friend.”
“That remains to be seen, you bastard.” Nestor lunged forward with the elvensteel blade, but Kellen’s supernatural speed carried him out of the barbarian’s reach. Nestor’s intent, however, wasn’t to injure, but rather to drive the master vampire back into the corner. The barbarian had played this game before with many other opponents. It was just a matter of patience.
Kellen’s cruel smile told Nestor though that the vampire knew the tactic also. “We both know the rules to this little game, Canaith, but I am not some simple-witted mortal fool.” Nestor lunged again with Shadow Reaver. He had to finish Kellen when the vampire had no room left to run.
Ambrose felt the stone wall against his back but the vampire lord was not without resources. His fingertips found the tiniest cracks in the masonry and as Shadow Reaver plunged forward, Kellen went straight up the wall and across the ceiling like an insect. He dropped to the floor behind Nestor, as Shadow Reaver dug a deep groove into the wall where the vampire had stood only an eye blink before.
Nestor whirled around as Kellen leaned casually against the balcony doorway. “You fools just don’t know how to give up. All you shall accomplish here is dying. Painfully, and slowly. Had you left well enough alone, I might have let you and your friends live out the rest of your days in peace.”
“Knowing that after we were dead and gone, you’d be free to return and try building your city of the dead again? You know damn well that we would never live with such cowardice.”
“My but your sense of honor is touching,” Kellen quipped. “I hadn’t thought such a trait existed among thieves. You do still realize that you would have already been dead long before now, were it not for my own intervention?”
“Forgive me if I don’t feel particularly grateful today. I hope you’ll overlook my rudeness.”
Kellen laughed. “I expect nothing less from a backwoods simpleton such as you. You should have remained with your people in your little mud huts in the foothills, covered in gaudy feathers and beads while plunging your hands into horse excrement to predict if this shall be a good year to go raiding.”
Nestor’s eyes narrowed. “You mock forces that you don’t understand.”
“No,” shouted Kellen angrily. “I mock you, and these feeble attempts at defeating a veritable dark god!” Kellen darted forward with his inhuman speed and punched Nestor hard across the jaw. The barbarian staggered, but Kellen didn’t pause to see the results of the blow. The vampire unleashed a furious barrage of fists, bashing Nestor from all angles. The barbarian tried to block and counter, but so fast were Kellen’s attacks that he was never long in the space where Nestor anticipated him to be.
A ferocious backhand slap drove Nestor against the wall. Ambrose stood in the center of the room, crouched like a cat ready to spring as the warrior brought Shadow Reaver around in a defensive posture between him and the vampire. Kellen’s eyes followed the tip of the blade back and forth as if mesmerized by the wickedly deadly blade.
“You shouldn’t have let up,” spat Nestor. “Never give an opponent a chance to get their second wind.”
“Who said that I did,” snarled Kellen. The vampire lord lashed out, but Nestor proved the quicker this time and Shadow Reaver flashed across Kellen’s brow in a blinding arc. Ambrose screamed in pain as smoke rose from the sword wound.
“There is nowhere that you can run that we won’t hunt you down, Kellen.”
“Your friends are dead, you fool. It is only a matter of time until you join them.”
“Then I’ll just have to finish the job before I go. If I go to Alhambra’s halls tonight, I will not leave until you are dead first.” The barbarian slowly advanced, Shadow Reaver’s tip leveled at Kellen’s chest. “There will be no vampire city. No more Dark Lord Ambrose. It all ends here. It ends tonight,” Nestor thrust the blade at Kellen, but his heel slipped in a puddle of blood on the floor. The warrior caught himself before he fell, but the single moment cost him his advantage.
Kellen dashed forward and slapped Shadow Reaver out of Nestor’s hand. The blade clattered to the stone floor next to Galen’s still form. With one powerful punch, Kellen threw Nestor to the floor against the balcony railing.
“Yes, mighty warrior. It ends tonight.” Kellen grabbed the warrior’s shirt and hoisted him high into the air. “But not for me.” With a mighty heave, Kellen Ambrose hurled Nestor over the balcony’s edge into the cool, night sky.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
A young Tyrell Amalcheal smiled as pale blue light blossomed around his hand to illuminate the practice corner of the wizard’s lab. His grin grew wider still as his mentor, Rialligen the Old, clapped his hands in approval.
“Well done, Tyrell! Your skills grow in leaps and bounds. Doubtlessly, one day you shall be one of the greatest of our brethren.”
The apprentice closed his hand, snuffing out the magical light. “Master Rialligen, you flatter me,” replied the young apprentice. “My skills could never contest your own.”
“Ah, Tyrell, the next lesson you need to master is one of self-confidence. A wizard must believe in his power if it is to serve him. Failure to do so can lead to disaster. If you fear that your power might be unleashed accidentally to the peril of innocent bystanders, then you will never learn to control the higher abilities to which you are entitled. Control your fears, or they shall control how far you are able to progress in our arts.” The old wizard smiled kindly at the young man.
“I understand, master.” Tyrell flashed a quick smile of his own. “But I still wouldn’t dream of contesting you.”
“Besides,” called a sneering, nasally voice from across the lab, “I’ll never let you surpass me.” Tyrell turned to see Arimasthene
s, the other apprentice under Rialligen’s tutelage. Tall and lanky with greasy black hair, Arimasthenes looked as much like a dirty weasel as he portrayed himself. The foul-tempered older boy had done everything he possibly could to steal away Tyrell’s pleasure, tormenting the younger student with everything from embarrassing pranks to rough shoves whenever the master’s back was turned. Several times Tyrell had found his dinner plate dropped on the dining hall floor. If Rialligen was a father figure with his kindness and encouragement, Arimasthenes was the jealous sibling who felt shunned after having squandered his share of the family fortune.
“Why do you hate me so much, Ari,” asked Tyrell bluntly. Rialligen settled back in his chair, his eyes pretending to inspect an ancient scroll, but the young boy knew his master wished to see how they settled their differences.
“I hate you because you come strolling in here, and are suddenly being held forth as the great and mighty Tyrell Amalcheal,” Arimasthenes said mockingly. He poked Tyrell in the chest with a long skinny finger. “I am the rightful successor to Rialligen’s power and station here. No swollen headed upstart is going to have me cast aside. All this knowledge and power are mine by right.”
“Do you even listen to yourself? You speak of our master as though he has already passed along to Alhambra’s Halls. He should disqualify you from further advancement simply on the grounds of the disrespect you show to him and his position.”
“Disrespect? I have slaved for that man long before you ever showed your mismatched eyes around these grounds. I followed his every instruction and direction while you stood in the streets learning how to dance a coin across your knuckles to buy your bread.”
“You mistake obedience for respect. You are nothing more than a trained dog, doing as you are told until someone throws you a scrap. You’ll not become a wizard with that mindset. Do you even listen to Rialligen’s instruction, for he teaches us more than just step by step drills on how to light a candle from across the room? A real wizard would learn from such a great man. You are no wizard, Arimasthenes. With your attitude, you’ll never be worthy of more than dusting bottles of newt eyes and bat wings. You will never be as great as he is!” Tyrell stopped suddenly for he saw the look of pure hatred and rage that blazed in the older boy’s eyes. Often times, Ari’s rage preceded a beating. This time, however, his look was even more malevolent.