The image in his mind resonated with three other Light runes that poked at the edge of his awareness. Curious, he fed them power, and three orbs burst into dazzling radiance.
He released the spell, but the three glowing globes shone on after the power stopped.
Bertus stirred, sprawled across the stairway on the far side of the chamber.
“Good morning,” Kevon offered, smiling.
Bertus nodded, eyes still mostly closed. He yawned and stumbled to the washbasin that seemed to grow out of the floor and wall behind it.
The Seeker followed Bertus, and examined the basin as his friend washed up. Water sluiced in from an opening in the wall, down a gentle slope bordered by low sidewalls. The water filled the inner ring of a double basin, before spilling into the outer basin through a notch near the top of the rim separating the two. Water overflowing into the outer basin flowed around both sides to disappear in the back, underneath the ramp that fed the water in the first place. Kevon whistled appreciatively.
The youth nodded. “She said she’s done this quite a few times. It didn’t look like it was any effort at all.”
Kevon remembered the apparent ease with which Mirsa had closed off the other end of the chamber, without even a sound. When Bertus finished, he washed up, then drank a few handfuls of water scooped from the inlet above the basin. He leaned over it and formed Earth and Water runes to examine the construct more closely. He swept his senses about, and traced the inflow of water through a sandy channel that cut directly over from the river nearby. He followed the outgoing water as it drained straight down into an underground lake.
Behind them, even though he could not hear it, he sensed the dividing wall flowing apart. He felt footsteps entering the near side of the chamber before he heard the voices. Kevon pushed the runes aside in his mind and turned to greet Waine and Mirsa.
“Good morning,” Kevon offered, nodding to Waine.
“Sun’s up, we’re still breathing,” Waine agreed.
“For now,” Mirsa added darkly. “The path to the Tower and the surrounding valley is clear, as far as I can discern. The Tower itself, I cannot say for sure.” Mirsa frowned, continuing. “It appears that the corruption has spread. The Elements are of no use below ground, any closer to the Tower. I can feel the weakening even here. We will not be able to create shelters as we have been.”
“Will that change any of our other plans, then?” queried Bertus. “With your magical abilities reduced, I mean.”
Mirsa’s haughty glare returned briefly before melting into understanding. “I suppose these two would understand as much as any uninitiated, traveling with you,” she said, glancing toward Kevon. “I don’t know,” she confessed, looking uncharacteristically unsettled. “I haven’t felt this useless since I was a Novice.”
“That’s why we’re here,” Bertus said, handing her a strip of cured fish. “You’re an amazing addition to our little band, but no one expects you to carry us through our mission.” Bertus finished doling out provisions, and the companions ate quietly.
“There’s obviously a way in, if creatures are getting out,” Mirsa said, finally. “It’s just a matter of finding the passage and navigating it safely.” She frowned. “Without Elemental magic, it might prove difficult.”
Bertus chuckled. “Difficult, perhaps. With these two…” he pointed to Waine and Kevon, “Interesting would be a better word.”
The Wizard nodded. “I’ve been wrapped up in the Arts for so long, I feel unable to judge what can be accomplished without them.” She ruffled Bertus’ hair. “Wisdom springs unexpectedly.”
Bertus and the Warriors collected their gear, and Mirsa opened up the stairway to the surface. Waine and Kevon led the way out, and Mirsa brought up the rear, closing their temporary sanctuary behind her.
The midmorning sun climbed steadily, following the four as they neared the ruins of the tower. A mile or so from their destination, Mirsa slowed, and after a few more steps, stopped completely.
“The corruption worsens here,” she announced, closing her eyes. “It’s not as complete as it was beneath the Tower, so I may still be of some use before we reach the Barrier.
They resumed their trek toward the shattered tower, and before long, Kevon could feel the effects that Mirsa had spoken of. It was as if a part of his magic, and with it, part of his spirit, had been drained away. Each step required more willpower to take than the last, each heartbeat in his chest felt a little hollower. He glanced at Mirsa, who continued on, expressionless, perhaps a shade paler than normal. Kevon clenched his jaw and trudged ahead, heartened that their journey was reaching its conclusion, but as weary as he’d ever been.
A fly buzzed around Kevon’s face, and he swatted at it before realizing it was the first one he’d seen in over a week. Another fly circled the group, and flew back in the direction of the tower. The wind shifted, and Kevon suddenly smelled something that made him forget about the wrongness in his head.
Waine and Bertus groaned in disgust, Mirsa dropped to her knees and vomited. Kevon followed Waine’s lead and tore a strip of cloth from his tunic to fasten around his head to cover his nose.
“What is that?” Kevon asked after a few mouthfuls of air.
“Death,” Waine answered, helping Mirsa to her feet. “Old death.”
The four pressed on, and at a quarter-mile distant from the tower, entered the marsh. The road dipped into a brackish pond, and Waine guided them around the edge, boots squishing loudly in the mud.
They quickly abandoned the fragments of road, navigating back to them was more time-consuming than the few yards of clear travel was worth. Instead, their winding path took them across most of the drier high spots, as well as slogging through some of the shallower bogs. Only once did Waine make them turn around and retrace their steps because the way ahead was too deep to cross.
The flies seemed to grow thicker with each passing yard. Kevon was unsure if they were converging on the party, or if they just swarmed thicker nearer the tower. Twice, he had to spit out flies he’d inadvertently inhaled, and he finally resorted to breathing through his nose again, doubly thankful now for the masking cloth.
At last, they reached the drawbridge. It seemed the only part of the entire structure untouched by the foulness that surrounded the tower. Broken timbers and refuse clogged the moat, which seemed to be the source of the marsh.
Waine advanced c cautiously, sword drawn. Bertus followed with his crossbow readied, edging to the side to get a better view of what lie ahead. Mirsa stumbled forward, and Kevon resisted the urge to steady her, wary of the iron in his ring and the steel at his hip.
The Mage fell to her knees, nearly pitching off the side of the bridge, face inches from the fetid water. She gasped, and scrambled backward, eyes wide with horror.
Kevon looked closer at the twisted twigs that protruded from the littered moat, and spotted a fingernail hanging from the end of one. Realization flooded over Kevon as he swept his gaze across the landscape with newly opened eyes. The mossy rock he’d nearly stepped on before reaching the drawbridge had a shriveled edge of an ear exposed.
Kevon’s eyes darted about. Now every crooked branch was a knee or elbow, every splintered plank a sun-bleached bone. Disgusted, he turned back to the bridge, and Mirsa’s trembling form.
“It’s going to be all right,” Kevon assured her, extending his left hand to help, keeping his left hip pivoted away to distance the Mage from the sword.
Mirsa smiled weakly as she retook her feet. She turned to the entrance that Waine and Bertus had already passed through. “I’m sure that…”
“Kevon!” called Bertus. The young man’s cry was punctuated by the muted twang of his crossbow firing.
The Seeker stepped around Mirsa and advanced, keeping himself between her and the threshold to the ruins. He stalked forward, the runes for Light, Movement, and Illusion forming in his mind while his hand hovered inches from his sword-hilt. He passed through the broken arch and saw Bertus
crouched behind a boulder, reloading his bow.
The Adept stood nearby, scanning the jumbled terrain.
“Get down!” Bertus hissed, peering over the rock. “They’re…”
“Not going to hit us, at this range anyway?” Waine asked. “That’s what you were going to say, I assume.”
Two small orcs leaped from behind a standing slab of wall embedded in the middle of the courtyard. They screeched and fired their bows wildly before jumping back behind their cover. One arrow glanced off a rock twenty yards ahead of the party, the other landed ten yards farther back.
Waine sighed. “Take your time, we have range and position on them,” he explained as the orcs jumped out for another shot. “Unless…”
A young bull orc stepped into view around the slab, flinching back as Bertus’ bolt toppled one of the scouts.
“Unless that.” Waine groaned. “I didn’t really want to…”
Kevon paid no attention to the Adept’s complaints, as he dropped the Illusion and Light runes to focus on Aiding the Movement rune he felt Mirsa beginning to use. He felt the power build, then release suddenly as the slab toppled over on the orcs that hid behind it.
Nearly a dozen orcs scrambled out into the open, less than eager to share the fate of their brethren. Kevon gaped as a female orc herded five children away from the party, leaving three scouts, one young male, and the largest Bull Kevon had yet seen.
Kevon felt the magic build again. “Mirsa, no!” he barked. “Keep watch behind us.”
The Mage’s spell ebbed as Kevon poured power into his own, hurling three medium-sized boulders at the old Bull before his reserves gave out.
“I’ll take the other one, then,” Waine snickered, flourished his sword, and stalked over toward his target. Bertus felled one of the scouts with a crossbow bolt and started reloading.
The Warsmith grasped the hilt of his sword. Mirsa’s sharp intake of breath made him smile, and as he drew the blade, he turned to nod at her before advancing toward the Bull.
Waine reached his adversary first. The beast howled in rage and brandished a rusted longsword. “Are you sure you don’t want to use that club there instead?” Waine taunted, pointing at the nearby weapon with the tip of his blade.
The orc ignored Waine’s suggestion and charged, slashing wildly. The Adept parried one of the swings and whirled past, almost successful in his attempt at hamstringing his foe.
What the orc lacked in finesse, it made up for in strength and natural speed. It turned to face Waine, sword transferred to its left hand, already slashing. Waine rolled under the attack and leaned in close as he regained his feet, trying to disembowel the orc. He ducked the orc’s right cross, kicking at the already bloodied right leg to leap away.
The orc grunted and flung the sword at Waine, and the flat glanced off the Adept’s ribs, slowing his recovery. Seeing its opportunity, the unarmed orc charged at Waine. Two steps away from tackling the Warrior, the orc hesitated, back arching. The brief pause gave Waine the moment he needed to finished the disemboweling stroke and leaped to the side.
The beast crumpled to the ground where Waine had been, a feathered bolt shaft buried in its back.
“Help Kevon!” Bertus shouted, scampering around the corner of a boulder to shield himself from the remaining scout, who was well within bowshot range by now.
Bertus readied the crossbow again, arms shaking from exhaustion as much as fear. He peeked over the boulder to look for the scout. Seeing nothing, he stepped out to get a better look.
The orc fired its last arrow from ten yards away, striking Bertus in the left side below his ribcage. The youth’s reflexively triggered shot caromed off the boulder he had been using for cover. The bolt wobbled in midair and stuck into the ground halfway to the orc.
The small scout shrieked gleefully, cast aside its bow, and drew a long, cruel looking knife as it leapt forward to finish its prey.
Bertus clutched at the shaft of the arrow and with his left hand, and fumbled for his knife with his right. He backpedaled to buy a few seconds more to prepare, but it looked like it was not going to matter.
The orc leapt atop the boulder that had sheltered Bertus, and sprang high into the air.
Bertus drew his knife free of its sheath, and took two more pained steps back to avoid being landed on.
The scout landed, and lunged forward.
It fell, flat on its face, legs tangled in a tree branch that Bertus could not remember stepping over.
Bertus fell forward, pinning the orc’s arms down with his knees. He plunged his knife into the creature’s back and twisted until the struggling stopped. He pulled the knife free and wiped the blade on the orc’s tattered leather as he rolled gingerly off into a seated position.
The youth grunted in pain and frustration as he heard the sounds of continuing battle behind him. He sheathed his knife and had just begun checking his wound when Mirsa reached him.
“It’s deep,” she mused. “Too deep to pull out.” The Mage knelt and eased Bertus onto his back before turning him to the side, tracing her finger along the protruding arrowhead. “This will hurt,”
With a swift motion, she pushed the arrow through and broke off the end before drawing the stone tip and the rest of the shaft out of the exit wound. Mirsa placed Bertus’s hands over the bleeding wounds before standing and looking toward the last orc still alive in the courtyard.
Kevon and Waine had the bull on the defensive, but the pace of the conflict was starting to slow. The Warriors circled and darted several more times before they separated themselves enough for Mirsa to unleash the spell she’d been preparing.
The arrow-shaft Mirsa held sped from her hands to strike the bull squarely between the shoulder blades. The orc bellowed and reached back to try and pull out the arrow that pained him so. It clawed at the spot the arrow had entered, but the broken shaft was buried completely.
Kevon and Waine reacted the moment the orc’s guard was down, slipping inside its reach, and cutting swiftly at the brute’s neck.
The orc lunged forward, flailing ineffectively. The Warriors stepped aside as it fell. It gurgled, twitched, and was still.
The Warriors hurried over to where Mirsa knelt by Bertus.
“Bind his wound, quickly!” the Mage commanded, tearing a strip of cloth from her robe, and handing it to Waine. She grabbed at Kevon’s shoulder. “Come with me!” she snapped.
Kevon followed Mirsa deeper into the broken tower, alert for danger, but crawling over broken walls and rotting timbers where his sword would be less than useless, had he even time to draw it. Mirsa muttered to herself, climbing over obstacles seemingly at random, until they arrived at a mound Kevon could not distinguish from several others around it.
“What’re you…”
“Wait!” Mirsa scolded, closing her eyes.
Kevon formed an Aid rune in his mind and offered what little power he’d regained in the short time since the fight. He felt the energy drain away over the next few seconds, and Mirsa gasped.
“Here!” she cried, rushing to the rubble and straining to lift a timber that jutted out of the pile.
Kevon took hold of the beam and nudged the Mage aside so that he would have room to lift properly. His muscles were weary from the encounter and the climbing, but the wood groaned and creaked upwards, levering aside a slab of stone. The rubble shifted, and several smaller chunks tumbled into the opening where the slab had been. Kevon heard a hollow crack.
Mirsa gasped and rushed to the opening, thrusting her hands in, oblivious of Kevon still straining to keep the slab from sliding back into place. She carefully withdrew a cracked bowl, half full of liquid.
Spent, Kevon dropped the beam and sat down. “All that for a bowl of…” Kevon got a closer look, and then understood. The bowl was too rounded, a few of the jagged edges curved back over the top. It was, instead, half of a potion bottle. A healing potion.
Kevon climbed to a safe spot, and Mirsa handed him the broken bottle. She clim
bed around him and down, and he handed the delicate vessel back. The two repeated this process carefully until they reached open ground, only once spilling a few drops of the precious liquid.
Kevon hurried across the last few yards with the remains of the potion. Bertus coughed and his breath rasped softly in his windpipe. Flecks of blood-tinged foam hung at the corners of the youth’s mouth.
“Drink,” Kevon directed his friend, holding the broken vessel to Bertus’ lips. Bertus choked down half the liquid between coughing fits, then as the potion started to take effect, swallowed the rest.
A few minutes later, when Bertus’ breathing had eased somewhat, Mirsa spoke.
“We need to hurry,” the Mage said, pressing the back of her hand to Bertus’ forehead. “He’s not feverish yet, and we don’t want to leave him out here in the open.” Mirsa stood and looked around. “The entrance to the passage should be right over there,” she gestured. “It has to be open, as many orcs and other creatures as we have seen. Maybe there is someplace nearer the passage he can rest safely.”
Kevon and Waine helped Bertus to his feet, and supported him as he limped after Mirsa.
The entrance was not difficult to find. It was a shallow pit with a rounded stairwell leading down into darkness. Kevon and Waine helped Bertus over to a mound of rubble where the injured youth could lean back against a slab of stone and watch the stairway, yet still stay partly concealed. Waine loaded Bertus’ crossbow and handed it to him.
“Keep quiet, stay alert,” Waine ordered softly. “This shouldn’t take long.”
Bertus smiled and nodded, grin giving way to grimace as he shifted to try and get more comfortable. “Good luck.”
Waine led the way down to the stairway through the refuse-strewn pit. He took one more sweeping glance around the wreckage of the tower, drew his sword, and started downward.
The Master Mage followed. She called two small globes of Light into being, directed one in front of Waine, and one between herself and Kevon.
The Warsmith lingered, watching Bertus until the others were nearly out of sight. He made his way down, following with his sword sheathed. He navigated by the dim light from above and ahead. He refrained from using magic, even to Aid Mirsa’s spell that danced at the edge of his awareness.
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