Story HourPost your ongoing tales from your campaigns, and read those from others for inspiration. Lots of other RPG boards post "Story Hours", but this is where it started!
I've been asked to guest-DM a 3.0/3.5 game in January; should be interesting, as it's been quite a while since I've run a tabletop session. I'll take notes in case it ends up as story fodder. Since I'm inserting an adventure into an existing campaign, I was thinking of running "Chadranther's Bane" from Dungeon magazine #18.
I now have 8 posts drafted for KotS (although a few are still a bit rough). I hoping that I can get the rest of the story done during the holiday week lull. Assuming all goes as planned, I'll post M-W-F until it's done.
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Chapter 58
Devrem’s assumption proved to be true, as they encountered no organized resistance moving further into the complex. They found several rooms that had obviously been quarters for hobgoblins; these showed signs of having been hastily vacated and looted, a confirmation that the surviving hobgoblin guards had decided to cut their losses and depart. At one point they were attacked by a giant spider that leapt at them from a darkened corridor, but the adventurers had been expecting an attack, and the creature was cut down before it could do more than punch a few holes in Mara’s cloak with its fangs. After cleaning their weapons, they moved on, leaving the bloody carcass lying in the passageway behind them.
They finally came to a set of double doors decorated with grim designs that looked to have been marked with charcoal upon the faded wood. Devrem stared at them for a moment, but said nothing. Finally Mara stepped forward and tried the handle on the nearer door; it gave with only slight resistance, revealing a large chamber beyond.
The room was dominated by its central feature, a massive stone plinth that supported a kneeling stone figure of a warrior, clad in breastplate and helm in an archaic style. The depicted fighter bore a sword that he held in a ready position, as if frozen in the instant before a strike. The statue occupied the center of the room, under a domed ceiling that rose up to an apex a good twenty feet above the floor.
There were other, smaller statues in the far corners to the left of the doors, gargoyles or dragons or somesuch, resting on smaller pedestals. Beyond the central statue they could just make out a deep alcove or annex, which looked to be occupied by several additional carvings that were not quite distinguishable at this distance.
For a moment the companions just took it all in, then Mara shifted her swords at her hips and started forward. But Beetle, who had slipped into the forefront of the group, held up a hand to forestall her.
“What’s this, now?” the fighter asked.
Beetle didn’t respond or even turn; he took a step forward, but kept his hand up as if it were a barrier to keep them back.
“Let him go ahead,” Jaron said in explanation. “This is his thing.”
Mara shook her head, not quite understanding, but she remained with the others as Beetle walked alone into the room. As the halfling drew apart from them the room he seemed to grow smaller, or maybe it was the room and its statues that seemed larger and more menacing by comparison. Beetle walked straight toward the large statue of the warrior, until he suddenly stopped a good ten paces from the base of the plinth. He stood there for almost a minute, staring up at it in silent appraisal.
“What is he seeing that we’re not?” Elevaren asked.
Mara, still looking dubious, opened her mouth to retort, but before she could respond Beetle suddenly took a step forward. The reaction was immediate. The statue twisted and pivoted, its sword lashing out in a deadly low arc that would have cut the halfling in two. But even as it surged into motion Beetle retracted his step, moving back to where he’d been a moment before. The tip of the stone blade passed close enough to lift his cloak in the gust of his passage, but it did not connect. Beetle simply stood there and watched the stone giant as it recovered from its swing, and fell back into the same ready position it had been in when they had first entered.
“It seems we have reason to be grateful for your cousin’s instincts,” Devrem said.
“What’s he doing now?” Mara asked. And indeed Beetle had turned away from the statue—after dragging the toe of his boot across the spot on the floor where the range of the warrior’s sword extended, noting the edge of the “safe” zone with a scuff mark—and started toward the dragon statues on the far side of the room.
“There are potent magical forces at work here,” Elevaren noted, but that much was obvious to all of them.
Beetle slowed slightly as he approached the nearer of the two dragon-statues. The thing was tiny compared to the stone warrior, but still it loomed over Beetle, its lifeless eyes seeming to monitor his approach.
“Be careful,” Jaron whispered, almost to himself.
None of them were surprised when the dragon statue turned out to be a trap. But all of them were caught off-guard when the head of the statue shifted slightly, and it breathed out a gout of brilliant scarlet energy, a deadly stream that washed over Beetle, obscuring him from the view of the others.
“Beetle!” Jaron yelled, but he was too late and too far away to intervene as Beetle vanished within the pyrotechnic surge.
Lazybones,
I discovered the Doomed Bastards and finished them about the time you finished writing them. Thank you. I thank you, particularly, for your thoughtful writing of the _experience_ of faithfullness on the part of your clerics - I've been lurking for a while and not seen that done well very often.
Anyway, thanks for the reliably good story - well written and real characters. I'm enjoying your Keep on the Shadowfell and looking forward to more.
Voyeur
The companions hastened forward, giving the stone warrior a wide berth. For a moment they couldn’t see anything clearly, as the dragon’s breath had flared in their vision, like a sudden ray of sunlight breaking through the clouds.
When they could finally see, there was no sign of Beetle where the stone dragon’s breath had struck.
“It obliterated him,” Elevaren began, but Jaron pointed and said, “No, look!”
They followed the halfling ranger’s finger and saw Beetle, clambering up atop the back of the statue, coming into clear view as he pulled himself up onto the crest where its neck met its head. The statue did not react, although a ruddy glow was still visible in the opening of its mouth, waiting for another opportunity. Beetle almost gave it that chance as he leaned precariously forward from its neck, his weight balancing on one hand clinging to the statue’s ear. His other hand shot forward, and then he flipped ahead, landing easily on his feet a few feet ahead of the statue.
Almost as soon as his shoes touched the floor, the statue’s head turned to track him. “Look out, Beetle!” Mara warned, starting forward to pull him out of the way of another energy discharge. But Beetle did not even look back as the red glow flared, and streaks of energy erupted around the hilt of the dagger that the halfling had wedged into the dragon’s mouth. For a moment the statue was surrounded by a blazing corona of streaking crimson, and then the head exploded in a shower of stone shards and dust. Mara lifted a hand to shelter her face from the debris, but Beetle merely stepped out of the chaos he had created, walking forward to rejoin the group.
“You really are crazy, aren’t you?” Mara asked, shaking her head to clear away some of the particles that had clung to her. Beetle merely grinned up at her.
There seemed little reason to test the second dragon statue, so they gave it a wide berth and made their way across the room to the far alcove they had noticed earlier. They could see a door now, on the far end of the alcove, which extended for a good twenty feet ahead of them. There were also more statues, which the companions regarded dubiously as they approached. There were four of them, carved into the semblance of cherubs, plump human-like infants with small wings and carrying large stone jugs in their stubby arms. They stood at the four corners of the annex, affixed to low platforms that merged into the walls, set at around chest-height for the taller of the adventurers, almost too high for the halflings to reach.
“All right, even I can tell that this is a trap,” Mara said. They all watched Beetle, who walked back and forth before the alcove a few times, studying the statues, the floor, and the far door in turn. Finally, with the same deliberation he’d used in dealing with the warrior statute, he took a step forward into the alcove.
In response, a shimmer flickered into being in the air just behind him. Beetle turned and tapped a dagger against it, revealing that the vague distortion was in fact a nearly-invisible barrier of force. Jaron and Elevaren moved quickly to test its edges, finding that it stretched between the two closest cherubs, extending across the entire face of the alcove. Beetle was trapped.
“We’ve got to find a way to get him out of there,” Elevaren said. Beetle looked unconcerned, and he started toward one of the statues. He managed only a few steps before all four of the statues shifted slightly, turning their stone jugs forward and down. They had barely finished the motion before a gout of water erupted from inside each container, splashing onto the floor of the annex in a powerful and apparently unending stream. Beetle, caught by the force of the deluge, was driven back, fumbling to keep his footing as the impact of the water drove him toward the center of the annex.
“The statues!” Jaron exclaimed, pointing to the one that had knocked down his cousin. The two nearest the entrance straddled the force barrier, leaving a part of them accessible to those outside. Mara drew her longsword and hurried toward it, but Devrem was faster, thrusting his staff against the stone carving and unleashing a torrent of divine magic. The silver flashes flickered brightly as they flared out around the stone, which withstood them without cracking. But the attempt drew a reaction.
“Look out!” Elevaren warned, as the intact dragon statue in the corner released a pulse of crimson energy toward the companions. Mara dove out of the way, but Devrem was not quick enough, and the blast struck him solidly in the chest, knocking him to the ground. The cleric blinked, dazed by the impact.
Meanwhile, within the magical trap, the flood of water continued, and had already risen to the level of Beetle’s hips. Without anywhere to escape, and with the cherubs’ jugs continuing to pour out their deluge, the water began to swirl in the direction of the flood, forming a whirlpool that picked up the hapless halfling, carrying him in a spiral that left him little opportunity for escape.
Merry Christmas to all my readers, regular posters, long-time lurkers, and newcomers alike!
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Chapter 60
“He’ll drown in there!” Jaron yelled, as Elevaren helped Devrem back to his feet.
“We have to find a way to destroy those statues,” the cleric growled. “Without getting hit by that damned stone dragon!”
Mara looked from the cleric to the trapped halfling, then at the dragon statue. “Let me worry about the dragon. You three get that field down!” Without waiting for a response, the fighter turned and started toward the stone dragon.
Devrem and Elevaren shared a quick look, then turned together back toward the cherub statue that the cleric had attacked moments ago. The two summoned their magic, hurling the silver flares of divine power and the twisting multicolored strands of fey magic at the statue together. Both currents flashed bright against the stone, but it was difficult to see what effect, if any, they were having.
“Hold on, Beetle!” Jaron yelled. He fired an arrow into the statue, the steel head chipping off one of the ears of the cherub.
Once again the dragon statue responded, flinging a bolt of energy at those attacking the cherub. This time Mara stood in its way, and she intercepted the blast with a parry from her long blade. The force-bolt passed around the steel as if it wasn’t there, and hit Mara on the arm just below her elbow. The impact spun her around and numbed the entire limb; Mara gritted her teeth against the sensation and grimly pressed forward. I can’t absorb too many of those, she thought to herself.
Within the trap, Beetle was being swirled around by the whirlpool, which was growing stronger as the water continued to rise. It was now deeper than he was tall, and he kept vanishing below the surface as the current spun him wildly about. He caromed hard off one of the pillars, but there was nothing for him to hold on to, no shelter from the increasingly dangerous waters.
Finally, as he came back around toward the front of the annex, he vanished underwater, kicking hard off the floor and coming up right under one of the cherubs. He lunged and hooked his hand onto the edge of its jar, barely keeping his grip against the still-powerful rush of water coming from it. His other arm hung limp at his side. Grunting with the effort, he pulled himself up under the flow of water, hooking his legs around the statue’s body. The flood continued to pull at him from behind as he hung there, and he nearly lost his tenuous position as he released his grip on the jar, relying on his legs to hold him in place. But he did hold on, and he drew a knife with his good hand, and started chipping away at the stone arms holding the jar in place.
More magic blasted into the other statue, as Devrem and Elevaren kept up their assault. Jaron rushed over to the other side of the alcove in an attempt to help Beetle. But while his cousin was less than a foot away, the shimmering barrier that separated them meant that he may as well have been on the other side of the world. Frustrated, Jaron fired an arrow point-blank into the side of the cherub that he could reach, but the missile only shattered on the hard gray stone.
Mara blocked another force-bolt with her body, and charged to attack the statue before it could strike again. But the stone dragon could defend itself, and it unleashed another blazing cone of energy as its cohort had against Beetle earlier. Mara was not nearly as nimble as the halfling, and she could not avoid the surge, which blasted her back several feet and launched her hard onto her back. Groaning, she tried to get up, but the room seemed to sway around her, making movement difficult.
The water level rose steadily, and soon it engulfed Beetle anew. But the halfling somehow held on, and his dagger still flashed within the surging floor, carving at the cracks that were now visible in the statue’s stone arm. The statue on the other side of the alcove was showing signs of wear, now, with spiderwebs of cracking where Devrem and Elevaren continued to lash at it. With Mara down an energy bolt from the stone dragon got through, hitting Elevaren hard on the shoulder and knocking him down to his knees. Devrem, roared in defiance and thrust his staff into the densest part of the damage marking the cherub, releasing a final surge of magic into it. Opposite him, Jaron fired another arrow that struck the neck of his target, at the same time that Beetle’s dagger finally bit through the statue’s damaged arm, and everything seemed to come apart at once.
A wall of water surged outward from the annex. Devrem and Jaron were knocked off their feet, and Elevaren was caught up and spun around, finally ending up tangled with the priest back toward the center of the room. Jaron, closer to the edge of the barrier, was not launched quite so far, and as the flood eased he quickly crawled toward his cousin, who was lying on his back a few paces distant, not moving.
“Beetle! Beetle!” he yelled, shaking the waterlogged halfling. When that yielded no response he knelt and breathed into his cousin’s mouth. Suddenly Beetle shook and coughed, spitting up a considerable quantity of water. He moaned as he shifted onto his injured arm. “Your shoulder is dislocated,” Jaron said. “Hold on… Devrem!”
But the cleric was not in an immediate position to help. As the cleric started to rise, reaching down to help the battered Elevaren, he heard a groaning noise above and behind him.
He turned to see the huge stone warrior swinging his massive blade down toward them.
As if that wasn’t enough, the doors at the far side of the alcove burst open, and a horde of zombies surged forward into the room.
Devrem was frozen by the sight of the huge blade coming down toward his body, but Elevaren, lying prone at his feet, grunted and thrust forward against the back of the priest’s knees. Devrem fell forward, and while the tip of the sword still clipped his torso, it was a glancing blow rather than a killing strike. Elevaren crawled forward after the priest, following him out of the killing zone around the statue.
Jaron looked up to see a surging knot of undead bearing down on him and his companions. There was no time to think about what to do; his bow was lost, carried off by the flood, and Beetle was lying at his feet, still virtually helpless.
“I’m sorry,” he said, as he grabbed Beetle’s arm and yanked hard, pulling it back into its socket. Beetle cried out in pain, but there was no time to tend to him, as Jaron stood and stepped forward to keep the oncoming zombies at bay.
There were over a dozen of the undead monsters, foul, rotting things that left bits of decaying matter behind them on the damp and slippery floor as they moved forward. But their numbers gave them strength, and even as Jaron lunged at the first, several others were reaching for him with their mangled claws. His stroke bit into the meat of one of the zombies’ thighs, but while the blade carved through the rotting flesh, it did no real harm to the creature. One of the others drew its claws across his face, and he staggered back, blood trailing from gashes above his left eye. Another seized him by the collar of his cloak, and yanked him off his feet into its violent embrace.
Mara’s battle cry echoed through the room as she leapt into the fray, bringing her longsword down in a deadly arc that reduced the skull of the zombie holding Jaron to fragments of bone and gibbets of meat. The zombies pressed on her from all sides, but she held her ground, giving Jaron a chance to regain his feet.
“Fall back!” she shouted at the halflings, as zombies clawed at her armored body. Several zombies that were more intact than the swarming rotters had appeared in the midst of the group, and were pressing forward toward her.
“We won’t leave you!” Jaron yelled, but even as he spoke, a zombie came up behind Mara and smashed her hard across the shoulder blades. The fighter staggered forward and nearly fell, stumbling away from the two halflings. Several zombies surged into the gap, and rushed toward Jaron. The halfling was nearly overwhelmed again, but a knife flew over his head and buried itself to the hilt in the eye socket of the lead zombie, and it fell, delaying the advance of its companions.
“Run, Jayse!” Beetle yelled, pulling at his cousin’s sleeve. With a reluctant look at the zombies swarming all around his companions, Jaron followed his cousin back in retreat, four zombies shuffling along behind them.
Mara was nearly overwhelmed. The fighter had taken a beating from the dragon statue, and the zombies were strong for all their decrepit condition. She tried to cut one down, but her sword got fouled in the zombie’s arms, the creature paying no heed to the gashes the weapon cut in its flesh. Three zombies came at her before she could recover, grasping at her with their probing claws, seizing hold of her cloak and the sleeves of her tunic, their nails tearing the fabric as they tried to find the vulnerable flesh beneath. Thus far her armor had kept her intact, but with the zombies pressing hard it was only a matter of time before they were able to tear her apart.
Devrem stepped boldly into the midst of the press, the tip of his staff shining with silver fire. The cleric was seriously wounded, the tear in his shoulder where the stone warrior’s sword had struck oozing blood that soaked into his tunic. But the power of his goddess was with him, and the zombies fell back from that blazon, their bodies crumbling against that radiance. Fully five zombies, including those three holding Mara, came apart before his turning. But the two stronger ones surged ahead, defying the will of the Raven Queen, and in the doorway a still darker shadow materialized, creeping forward with a stink of decay coming in its wake.
Jaron started to turn as the zombies began to close the distance behind him and Beetle. But his cousin grabbed him and thrust him ahead. Beetle followed almost languidly, letting the zombies close the distance behind him as he veered off to the left.
“Beetle, what are you doing?” Jaron yelled. He started to come to his cousin’s aid, but Beetle’s slight smile forestalled him. The halfling rogue came to a sudden stop; the four zombies surged forward to take him.
Even as their claws extended out to grab him, Beetle stepped slightly over to his left.
The stone warrior shifted; his blade swept around in its broad arc. Beetle slid subtly to the side; the tip of the sword sliced the air inches from his face. It continued through the zombies, cleaving the first three like a scythe cutting overripe wheat. The three zombies fell to the ground in pieces. The last one, by chance a step out of range of the trap, tried to grab Beetle, but the halfling leapt nimbly out of its reach. It was almost trivial for Jaron to lunge in and cut it down with a single stroke of his sword.
In the center of the room, the battle still raged. The weaker zombie rotters had been carved away, leaving a pair of the stronger creatures, and the last arrival to the battle, and the strongest. This new foe was a ghoul, which surged forward and leapt upon Devrem, tearing with its claws and biting with powerful jaws full of jutting yellow teeth. Devrem tried to counter, but his staff proved a hindrance in such close quarters, and the silver flashes of radiant energy flickered past the creature without harming it. Its own dire power was imparted through its attacks, and the priest began to stiffen as a magical paralysis began to creep up on him.
Mara was in no position to help. The last two zombies were much stronger than the first ones, and the fighter was grievously injured. Elevaren helped her with blasts of fey magic, but the power that animated these zombies was durable, and the shimmering colors splashed over their bodies with little effect.
Mara fought on, delivering a heavy chop that severed one of the zombies’ arms at the elbow. That affected it, but the other one lunged forward before she could recover, dragging one arm around her neck. The other one yanked at her arm with its remaining hand, pulling her off balance. She tried to twist away, but the zombie holding her only tightened its grip, dragging her into a neck lock that she could not escape. Her struggles grew weaker as it cut off her supply of air.
Even as the fighter succumbed, Devrem found himself in increasing trouble against the ghoul. It knocked his staff aside, absorbing a surge of radiant energy that only drove it to a greater fury. Grabbing onto the priest, who was already moving stiffly because of the creeping paralysis from the ghoul’s touch, the undead monster dragged him close, seizing his neck in his jaws and biting down hard. The ghoul’s bite tore flesh even through the cleric’s coif, the thin metal links parting before the monster’s ferocious strength. Devrem issued a strangled cry of pain, one that faded as the ghoul pulled him to the ground in a thrashing pile of limbs and blood.
Good grief! Fantastic stuff, sir! Pure, nail-biting awesomeness!
Thanks! I aim to please.
Friday we'll get a look at what the bad guys have been up to. Happy New Year, everyone!
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Chapter 62
With Devrem and Mara both incapacitated, and the others injured to some degree, the situation looked grim for the adventurers.
Jaron yelled as he charged the zombie holding Mara. The one-armed zombie turned to intercept him, sweeping with its remaining arm, but the halfling ducked under the limb, and stabbed his sword deep into the zombie’s side. The undead monster did not loosen its grip on the fighter, but the distraction gave Elevaren the opportunity to step in close and flare a searing discharge of witchfire into the zombie’s face. The zombie was not capable of feeling pain, but the burning white flames tore into the necromantic energies animating the creature, and it collapsed, falling with Mara’s limp form still clutched in its arms. Elevaren immediately bent to help her, yanking away the zombie’s rotting arms and pulling her free of it.
Devrem was now barely conscious, but he somehow managed to summon the strength to lift his hand and place it on the ghoul’s forehead. A white pulse of sacred flame erupted from his fingers, searing the ghoul’s clammy flesh. A blacklash of positive energy radiated from the attack, which Devrem channeled into Mara a second before the ghoul, driven to a violent rage, pummeled him into unconsciousness.
Jaron paid for helping Mara as the last zombie standing pummeled him hard across the shoulders with its remaining arm. But Beetle was coming to his cousin’s aid, and before the zombie could manage another strike the halfling leapt onto its back, pulling himself up onto its shoulders in a maneuver that belied the pounding he’d taken in the water trap just a few moments ago. He’d barely gained his high perch, the zombie just starting to shift to dislodge him, when he jabbed a dagger into its ear, the blade crunching nastily as its edges wedged into the gap in its skull. The zombie jerked and staggered into a blow from Jaron’s sword, which severed its spine and sent it crashing to the ground. Beetle sprang free easily, landing softly on his feet a few feet away.
The ghoul roared as it rose up over the battered form of Devrem, blood trailing from its claws and teeth. The companions met it with a barrage of steel and magic. Elevaren, still cradling Mara in his arms, flung an eldritch blast at it that burned a glowing swath across its chest, the fey magic reacting violently with the dark necromantic energies that animated it. The ghoul sprang at him, but both Jaron and Beetle were there to meet it. Jaron took a claw hard across his face that tore ugly red gashes across the side of his jaw, but he thrust hard with his little sword, burying it in the creature’s side. Its other claw swept at Beetle, but the halfling rogue ducked under the swing and sprang into the air, flipping forward before he landed on the ghoul’s back. The sudden weight caught the ghoul off guard, and it fell forward, landing in an awkward heap on the floor. It tried to flip over and dislodge Beetle, but the halfling held on, driving another dagger into its back to give him a handhold. As the ghoul spun Beetle kicked off and flipped it again, putting it back on its stomach and keeping him out of reach of its deadly claws. The ghoul was stronger and larger, and likely would have won free in another instant, but Jaron was there, and with a thrust that pierced its neck at the base of its skull, the ghoul fell limp.
Jaron wrenched his sword free—the tip had buried itself into the stone of the floor—and staggered back. He stared around him, trying to take in all that had happened to them in the last minute. Beetle sprang up off the ghoul’s back; he kicked the creature’s head once for good measure, then went over to check on Devrem. Elevaren was tending to Mara’s wounds.
“Is she…” Jaron asked.
“She lives. Devrem did something to her, healed her some, before the ghoul…”
Jaron looked over at Beetle, who was holding his fingers up to the priest’s mouth. He flashed Jaron a thumbs-up; the priest was alive, although it was obvious that he was grievously wounded. Mara seemed to be stable now, and was starting to come around, so Jaron went over to help his cousin with Devrem, sparing one glance toward the double doors on the far side of the alcove, where the zombie horde had appeared just moments ago. The portals gaped open, the space beyond shading toward blackness just a few feet beyond the doors.
Somewhere in there, Jaron knew, Kalarel was waiting for them, preparing the ritual that would, if successfully completed, spell doom for the Nentir Vale.
Dark powers caressed the priest of Orcus, impinging upon his consciousness like the soft touch of a lover. Kalarel lost all awareness of his body as he floated within that wave of pure sensation, a darkness that pulsed in rhythm with the core of his corrupt soul.
A voice drew him back, tore him from that black embrace into the harsh confines of his flesh. Around him the surges of the ritual continued, undiluted, slowly building in intensity.
He let the annoyance he felt touch his face as he turned toward the intruder. Drathek was still a young man, powerfully built, but touched by that certain hungriness, that slightly gaunt look that came to haunt all followers of the demon god. Sinister fetishes and unholy icons decorated his mail, decorations that Kalarel no longer felt necessary. One look into the eyes of the senior priest was sufficient to identify his commitment to his cause, he needed no physical augments to reinforce that.
Now those eyes fixed upon Drathek, and the younger priest could not suppress a shudder. Kalarel’s lips twisted into a slight smile.
“Forgive me, great one,” Drathek said. “But the intruders have won through to the second level. They defeated the traps and the zombie guardians, although the clay scout reports that they have retreated for now, back into the complex vacated by the hobgoblins.” Drathek’s mouth twinged at that last; he had been responsible for the hiring of the goblinoid mercenaries, and he felt both anger at their desertion and some fear that he might be held accountable for their failure.
Kalarel waved a hand. “It is of no matter. Soon it will be too late, both for these champions of the light, and for Nentir Vale. And then, the lands beyond will feel the touch of the Shadow upon the world.”
“They will stop you,” a faint voice said from nearby.
Kalarel and Drathek both turned to view the speaker. He was affixed to the wall nearby, bound with wires that had bitten deep into the flesh of his wrists, ankles, and neck. His clothes hung in a wreckage from his torso, and failed to hide the marks of torture upon him. There was something slightly odd about his features, which gave him a slight air of mystery until one noticed the faint hints that indicated a mixed human-elven ancestry. A black mark of a skull with broad horns had been burned into his forehead, but a hint of fire still burned in his eyes.
There were five other captives sprawled out on the floor in front of the half-elf, unconscious and bound with simple ropes that pinned their arms and legs. They had not suffered the same degree of abuse as the half-elf, but their tattered clothes, the remains of simple peasant garb, were dirty and soiled with blood. None so much as stirred as the two priests of Orcus approached the half-elf bound to the wall.
“You may as well kill me,” the half-elf said, the words clearly taking an effort to get out. He seemed to be on the verge of falling into the unconsciousness that gripped the other captives. “I will never betray my god. The Lord of Light will claim my soul, once it is free of this corrupt place.”
Drathek’s expression darkened, and he started to take a step forward, but Kalarel merely shook his head. “No,” the elder cleric said. “No, I think not, Kevan. Now it is time for the Light to succumb to the Shadow.”
Kevan’s head lowered, and for a moment it looked as though he’d passed out; after a moment, though, the clerics could hear him muttering to himself under his breath, no doubt a prayer to his faraway god.
“He is strong in his faith,” Drathek said.
Kalarel smiled. “It is that which will make him useful to me.”
Drathek turned to face his superior. “Let me take the berserkers up and finish off the intruders. They are weakened, now, and will be vulnerable.”
“No,” Kalarel said.
“But…” Drathek began, only to trail off as Kalarel raised an eyebrow. “Say what you wish to say,” the older priest finally said.
“I know that the ritual is paramount, great one. But our forces are depleted. I will defend the upper shrine to my death, of course, but I only have the two warriors at my command. If they should get past me…”
Kalarel smirked. “Still you doubt my power?”
“No, great one!”
Kalarel had turned back to the great portal, at the shimmering field of dark within the ancient stone arch. He walked over to the design etched upon the floor before it, and stepped within. Frissons of magical power flared around the ancient markings, until they seemed almost alive. “Bring the prisoners to me,” he commanded. “Lay them here before the Shadow.”
Drathek obeyed. The cleric was strong, and he had no difficulty with the peasants; a few of them groaned when touched, but none of them regained full consciousness. The cleric of Pelor, Kevan, struggled when Drathek unfastened him from the wall, but he was too weak to do more than annoy the priest of Orcus. Drathek finally smashed him across the face with a gauntleted fist, and the half-elf subsided into a dazed stupor. Drathek deposited him upon the rune-carving with the other prisoners, who formed a ring around Kalarel.
The senior priest paid no heed; he was lost in some sort of a trance, his arms slowly coming up and spreading as he stared into the dark portal to the Shadowfell. Uncomfortable sounds came from his lips, forming a jarring chant that caused ripples to swell within the portal. Even as Drathek dropped the half-elf and stepped back, Kalarel shrieked a command, and the portal obeyed. Dark tendrils of shadow-stuff tore free and probed out into the room, twining out toward the evil cleric. Drathek darted back hastily, giving those filaments a very wide berth, but Kalarel was unconcerned, resuming his chant, a look of exultation spreading across his face as his power waxed. The tentacles continued to swell, and as they passed over the rune-circle they seemed to take on a more solid substance, their surface glistening like a slick of oil. For a moment it looked as though they would envelop Kalarel, but the cleric held them in thrall, and after a momentary hesitation they dipped down toward the bound prisoners. As the tips of the black tendrils passed into the body of each of the captives their bodies tensed, and their skin grew flush for a moment, before fading to a pale, waxy gray.
The last to succumb was Kevan, the priest of Pelor, who had watched the entire scene with a growing horror. Bright red blood trailed from his wrists and ankles as he tried unsuccessfully to part the wires that bound him. As another black tendril extended toward him he tried to squirm out of the rune circle, but he was too weak to do anything more than roll over onto his back. A prayer froze on his lips, and as the dark probing member of shadow-stuff drew closer, filling his vision, all he could do was scream, a hollow sound that filled the cavernous interior of the temple, echoing off the walls until it faded into a silence full of terror.
You know, LB, I lurk way too much and don't encourage you nearly enough. I love your stuff. If you're not my favorite fantasy author, you are awfully close. Solidly in the company of Martin, Salvatore, Lovecraft, and Glen Cook.
You know, LB, I lurk way too much and don't encourage you nearly enough. I love your stuff. If you're not my favorite fantasy author, you are awfully close. Solidly in the company of Martin, Salvatore, Lovecraft, and Glen Cook.
Much thanks, that's an elite company with which to be included.
On a more general note, the story is finished, so there will be no difficulty managing 3/week posting until it's done. I do have an outline for a story for Thunderspire Labyrinth, but nothing actually written. I haven't decided for sure what I want to tackle next.
* * * * *
Chapter 64
Devrem came awake suddenly, screams echoing in his mind. He tried to get up, but found that his body was reluctant to obey his commands. He was lying in a bed, a coverlet that had blanketed him falling askance at his sudden movement. A stink of old blood and stale sweat filled his nostrils. A dull ache seemed to pour into his body with full awareness, and he groaned. Grimacing, he tried again to get up.
“Better take it easy for a few minutes, until your body adjusts. That ghoul tore into you real nice, and while you heal faster than any man I’ve ever met, I wouldn’t bet against those cuts tearing open again if you try to dance around just yet.”
Devrem blinked and looked up at Mara, who was sitting on the end of another bed just opposite him, her expression somewhat lost in the deep shadows that covered that side of the room. The only light was a fitful flame from an oil lamp set on the table in the center of the place; the glass surrounding it was streaked with old lines of dirt, creating long lines of shadow that stretched out across the room like fingers.
“Where is this place?” he asked, his voice cracking. He felt as though it had been a month since he’d last taken a drink.
Mara noticed and grabbed a waterskin hooked on the end of the bed next to her. She handed it to Devrem, who nodded gratefully and drank deeply. He tried again to get up, and managed to achieve a sitting position on the edge of the bed. Attempting anything more seemed wildly optimistic at the moment, so he left it at that for now. He took another drink from the skin, and then looked up to see Mara staring at him. He said nothing, just waited.
“I know who you are,” she finally said.
“I wondered if you were going to say anything.”
“You knew that I know?”
Devrem placed the nearly-empty waterskin onto the bed next to him. He noticed that his armor and weapons had been laid against the foot of the bed, conveniently—or deliberately?—out of reach. He sighed. “It was obvious from the hostility in your eyes. It goes… well, it was beyond the normal antipathy felt by most toward the servants of the Raven Queen.”
“Ravens are creatures of carrion, and death. You expect people to welcome such, when they appear in their lives?”
“Death cannot be escaped by denial. It is a part of what we are.”
“Your friend learned that.”
Devrem shook his head. “Haron was not my friend. He returned to your cabin, after we left with your uncle?”
“Yes. A few weeks later. You didn’t know?”
“He spoke of it, but he was young, and a fool. As was I, back then.”
“You were soldiers.”
“A generous term.”
“He tried to rape me. I had to kill him. If he’d taken me seriously, I wouldn’t have had the chance. I suppose there’s that to be thankful for, that his stupidity was as great as his lust.”
“When a dog goes feral and tries to maul its master, it must be put down.”
“That’s all you can say?”
Devrem fixed her with a hard look, but he said nothing.
“Do you know… were you there, when my uncle died?”
Devrem shook his head. “We did not serve in the same unit. Although I heard, afterward, that he fought bravely.”
“And what of you, Devrem?”
Devrem met her eyes, and for a moment Mara could see what lay beyond the hood of iron self-control that the cleric wore about him. “I died on the battlefield, and was reborn,” he said. “I caught a glimpse of what lay beyond the veil, and the sight of that cannot help but change a man.”
Mara shuddered.
Only about fifteen paces away, Jaron looked up as the door to the antechamber opened and Elevaren stepped out into the corridor where the halfling was keeping watch. The eladrin looked as he always had; his expression immune to the tired circles that lingered under the eyes of the rest of them, his pale skin sparkling slightly, as though impregnated with tiny bits of diamond. His long golden hair was bound with a simple leather throng, and again his clothes seemed to somehow defy the wear and grime that was causing the rest of them to slowly take on the look of hardened beggars.
Elevaren looked down the corridor into the large open chamber beyond. They’d found a cache of torches and had refreshed those burning in the sconces along the walls, enough to brighten the area sufficiently to minimize the chances of someone or something creeping up on them. “Where is your cousin?” the warlock asked.
“He’s keeping an eye out, in his own way,” Jaron replied. The halfling ranger had tried to caution his cousin against wandering off on his own, but he may as well have been ordering a stream to reverse its flow. “He’ll let us know if he finds something.” Or if something finds him, he didn’t add.
“Devrem is awake,” Elevaren said. “Mara is tending to him.”
Jaron nodded. “I suppose we’ll be resuming our course toward the cleric, then.”
Elevaren nodded. He seemed distracted.
“I had meant to ask you…” Jaron began. He trailed off, but the eladrin smiled slightly. “You may ask. You will not offend me.”
“It’s just that… you don’t seem like you belong here.”
Elevaren nodded. “I am of a place known as the Feywild. You know of it?” At Jaron’s nod, he continued, “I was not a fighter, or a spellweaver. In point of fact, I was a scholar… of musical forms, mostly, but also of history, religion, and languages. Our people are long-lived by your terms, and we tend to spend our lives entwined in obscure matters of lore, and the exploration of beauty.”
“But… you possess a powerful magic. I’ve known wizards before, and while what you do isn’t exactly the same, it’s more than ninety-nine percent of the people of our world can manage.”
Elevaren looked at him. “The magic…” he trailed off, and for a moment there was a subtle shift in his expression, a wistfulness that Jaron was surprised to see. The halfling waited until the eladrin continued, his voice now sounding far away.
“Magic was all around us, in the Feywild, but I never sought it. To me, the perfect beauty was in a sequence of notes, in melodies that came together into an exquisite pattern of understanding. I had friends who were players of one instrument or another, and there were times that I felt frustrated at my inability to relate what I heard in a way that they could understand, and represent in song. On a few occasions I would spend days in a trance, lost in a wild rapport of inner music, perceiving such… beauty… that I lost all track of the world around me. Once my friends found me so lost in such a state that they were barely able to bring me back.”
“I had no idea you were musical,” Jaron said. “I’ve never heard you so much as hum a few bars.”
Elevaren nodded, sadly. “One day, I became aware of a new melody, a whisper of music that I could only barely sense, like the faint notes of a flute carried over the walls of a castle with the breeze. At first I thought it was real, and I eagerly sought the musician, but he or she continued to escape me, despite my increasingly hasty pursuit. I would enter a room where the music seemed to originate, only to find the notes fading away, the place empty. And yet, soon again the sounds would begin again, trickling upon the edges of my perceptions.”
“I quickly realized in speaking to my peers that I alone could hear the music. Such things were not unheard of in the mysterious Feywild; even we eladrin do not know all of the secrets of our home. I spoke to a magister and a diviner; neither were able to help me.”
“One night, I awoke to hear the song again, stronger than before. I rose from my couch and followed it. I did not expect to find anything, but instead of fading the notes grew still clearer. They led me out of the settlement, into the surrounding forest. It felt as though I was walking in a dreamscape, the only real thing the pure essence of the melody that filled my ears.”
“I came to a clearing. The song was coming from there, though no musicians were present. The only thing in the clearing was a huge and ancient tree. It… it was singing to me, and only me. I could almost understand, the message in those notes. It wanted something, needed something. I was not thinking clearly, you understand. The song was everything, filling a gap inside me I had not realized existed until that moment. I came to the tree, and the song swelled around me. There was only myself, and the tree. I reached out to touch it…” The eladrin extended a hand, as though reliving the moment again in his mind. He trailed off, lost in the reverie.
“What happened?” Jaron asked.
“I… I am not certain. The next thing I knew, I was waking in a farmer’s field, in your world. The music was gone, as was the tree. But burning in my mind was the fey magic. I have long sought a way to return to the Feywild. I can touch it, briefly, for that is where my magic originates. But that is as close as I can get to my home.”
“That must have been difficult. Finding yourself alone, in a strange place, not knowing why you are there.”
“Indeed. I continue my search. I have not found a way back, but I have come to believe that I was sent here for a reason. I just do not know what it is.”
“Maybe it’s stopping Kalarel. To keep him from opening the gate to the Shadowfell.”
“Perhaps. I…”
The eladrin trailed off as Jaron raised a hand in warning. He hefted his bow and darted off down the corridor, the warlock trailing behind him. He paused on the threshold where the passage met the outer chamber.
Both of them could hear the noise that had alerted the ranger; it came again, a scuffle punctuated by a brief, sharp cry.
“Beetle!” Jaron hissed, rushing off toward one of the exits on the far side of the chamber. Elevaren followed along close behind, his longer legs letting him keep up with the charging halfling easily.
But before they reached the far passage, Beetle appeared, bearing something with him. The halfling was somewhat disordered, his cap missing and his hair darting every which way, and a streak of bright red blood running along the left side of his jaw. He limped slightly, but that didn’t stop him from dragging his burden along with him.
“Beetle, what happened? What is that?” Jaron asked. He and Elevaren slowed as they approached the rogue, but even close up it wasn’t immediately clear what the other halfling was holding.
Beetle grinned, and tossed his burden onto the floor. Pieces of it broke and clattered away across the floor. Jaron bent to examine it more closely. It looked almost like a small clay sculpture, a gargoyle or similar ugly thing. Chunks of it were missing, but Jaron could make out tiny claws, the stubs of wings, part of a tail. Its face was a web of cracks; one eye was a dark opening.
And glistening drops of blood on those claws.
“It’s a clay scout,” Elevaren said from behind him. “An animated construct, stealthy, often set to keep watch.”
Jaron looked up at him. “Better get Mara and Devrem,” he said. “It’s a good bet that Kalarel knows we’re here.”
The heavy iron-banded doors at the foot of the stairs creaked open. Ahead of them, the companions could see stone walls to the left and right that partitioned off a small landing, but they could see that it was just part of a much larger space further ahead. A sick stink that was one part rot and one part the coppery tang of fresh blood filled the air, filling the space like a miasma. The landing was unlit, but from the space beyond a steady blue glow issued, giving the shadows coming off the walls an odd, surreal look.
A noise greeted them; a rasping of metal on stone, and a faint but diffuse chant, distorted by the odd configuration of walls until it was not clear if its origin was in fact a human throat.
The companions shared a grim look; it was obvious that they had come to the right place.
Devrem led them forward. The priest of the Raven Queen did not hesitate, and his step betrayed no doubt. Bits of something that was perhaps best not identified crunched under the hard soles of his boots.
Beyond the walls the chamber opened up onto a large central space. Three intact crystalline pillars forming an incomplete square around the center of the room were the source of the blue glow; the fourth lay on its side, broken into jagged shards. A platform topped by a massive statue of the demon-god Orcus stood opposite them, the unholy stone visage staring down at them with malevolence captured in its lifeless eyes. Trails of fluid, black in the odd light, ran across the floor, gathering in the middle of the room, where an open pit gaped in the center of the floor. Long chains set into the ceiling sank into the pit.
The chamber was occupied. A pair of hulking human warriors armed with greataxes stood flanking the pit, adjacent to the nearer set of pillars. Their vacant stares noted the intruders but they did not react. A third man knelt before the demon statue on the far side of the room. He was clad in loose robes that were drawn back from his raised arms, revealing flesh marked either with scars or tattoos, it was impossible to tell which in the weird light. His back was to the entry, but as the companions passed into the place he rose slowly, and turned to face them. He was bald, and they could see that a design of a horned skull had been graven upon his features. Even thirty feet distant they could all see the madness in his eyes.
“We have come to put an end to you and your evil plans, Kalarel,” Devrem said, raising his staff to punctuate his words.
The marked man laughed. “You face Drathek, fools! Even now, my master opens the doorway to the shadow realm. He awaits your coming, but first, you must get past me!”
“So be it!” Devrem shouted. Silver fire flared around the head of his staff, but before he could unleash his power, several things happened.
Perhaps it was the underpriest’s challenge, or Devrem’s reply, but the two human berserkers suddenly came alive, lifting their axes above their heads as they went from quiescence to full-on charge in a matter of two steps. Jaron had an arrow readied and lifted his bow to fire, but before he could shoot, he caught a hint of movement out of the corner of his eye.
“Look out!” he yelled, as he looked up to see several dark-shrouded forms, clinging to the walls like bugs, creeping swiftly toward them. On being seen, they snarled and leapt to the attack, the blue light shining on the long fangs that protruded from pale faces, the faces of the one-peasants transformed into the hideous visages of vampires.
A vampire sprang off the wall, its clawed hands extended toward Elevaren as it hurled toward the eladrin’s back. The warlock, already focusing his magic upon the human berserkers, never even saw the creature coming, but in the scant heartbeat before collision Beetle flipped a knife into the creature’s heart. The once-farmer, transformed by the power of the Shadowfell, shrieked and dissolved into a plume of vaporous mists. The only thing left of it was Beetle’s knife, which clattered noisily to the floor.
But there were more of the creatures, which sprang down off the walls flanking the entry, descending onto the embattled companions even as the berserkers surged into the front of their line.
Three vampires sprang upon Devrem, but before they could get a solid grasp on him or bite with their long fangs, the priest raised his staff, and unleashed a pulse of positive energy that tore through them like daggers. All three vampires dissolved into a vile mist.
The last vampire dove at Mara from behind as the fighter stepped forward to engage the two berserkers, but Jaron intercepted it, piercing its heart with an arrow that destroyed it as effectively as Beetle’s dagger had done just a moment before.
Thus far, the battle had been entirely one-sided, but that changed a moment later as the berserkers laid into Mara. They were utterly silent as they closed and lashed out with their axes, attacking in unison like mirror images of each other. Mara fell back and raised her swords to parry, but she could not avoid the full force of the assault, one axe coming off her longer blade to painfully dent her greave, while the other hit the shorter sword with enough force to drive the weapon into her own torso. The latter impact was hard enough to cut flesh, even through the layer of metal scales protecting her. She avoided being taken down in that initial exchange, but she’d been bloodied, and she had no opportunity to counter as she was driven back before the sheer frenzy of their attacks.
The odds evened somewhat as Elevaren unleashed his power, clouding the mind of the first berserker with the curse of the dark dream. The dazed warrior staggered back to the lip of the pit, where he slipped and tumbled over the edge into the darkness below. Even then, not so much as a whisper escaped his lips, although they could all hear the sick thump that announced the end of his journey.
The loss of his companion only seemed to drive the remaining berserker to a greater fury in his attacks, although his expression remained slack and neutral. Mara fell back again and narrowly avoided the blade that sliced through her tunic across her gut, ringing softly as the tip scraped the scales of her armor. She thrust with her longer sword at her foe, but while the tip drew blood, the wound was barely a scrape, and he ignored it as he pivoted back into his ready stance in anticipation of another attack.
The halflings had started to go to Mara’s aid, but a scream from Elevaren drew their attention back. A dark figure had emerged from the shadows behind them, escaping their notice in the initial tumult of the melee. Now it stepped back from the eladrin, its dagger glistening bright red with the warlock’s blood. As the blue light penetrated its hood they saw that it was a goblin, or at least it had been. Its face now bore the taint of Shadow upon it, and darkness seemed to flow around its body like a cloak as it moved, shifting with a speed and grace faster than any of them had ever before seen.
“Careful, Beetle!” Jaron warned, as the younger halfling sprang at the creature. The dark creeper slipped aside, and the rogue’s initial attack met only empty darkness. Likewise, Jaron’s shot, though seeming to be right on target until the very last instant, flew past and bounced off a nearby wall. A sinister cackle came from the depths of the creeper’s cowl, and it twisted its dagger through the air before it, as if taunting the halflings with it.
Beetle responded by flicking a knife up at its face; while the knife vanished into the darkness within its cowl, a startled hiss indicated that he’d gotten its attention. The creature flung itself at the halfling, leaping upon him in a tangle of arms and legs and stabbing blades. Jaron had another arrow ready, but he held his shot, unwilling to risk hurting his cousin in the confusion of the grapple.
Devrem was not able to assist Mara or the halflings, for he had no sooner recovered from the vampiric assault than he felt a clinging darkness descend upon him, needles of negative energy penetrating into his body and sapping his strength. He turned to see the underpriest of Orcus facing him, the source of the attack upon his very soul. He responded with a silvery lance of faith, but the evil priest merely lifted a hand, and deflected the stream of divine power as though it had been a stream of dandelion tufts flitting in the wind.
“Your pathetic powers are naught before the might of the True God,” Drathek cackled.
“You can tell him that when you see him,” Devrem said, tightening his grip on his staff as he started warily forward, coming around the pit to face the cleric directly. Behind him, he heard Mara’s grunts as the fighter continued battling the remaining enemy berserker, their fight accompanied by the ringing clash of steel on steel. But he could not spare her any attention at the moment; this foe would take everything he had to master.
The underpriest raised his hand again, and Devrem tensed, ready for an attack. But instead, the flow of divine magic went elsewhere, and too late he realized that the cleric was bolstering his ally, the berserker. He glanced to the side to see the warrior—now bearing a few wounds, as Mara had not been completely ineffective—suddenly swell up, and lunge forward to strike with a renewed vigor. Mara took a hit hard across her armored chest, and fell to the ground, one of her swords clattering across the bare stone tiles of the floor as it fell away from her. The warrior stepped forward to finish her off; Elevaren was there, but Devrem could not see how the warlock could hope to stop that insane enemy.
He did not get a chance to find out; a hint of motion out of the corner of his eye warned him that he’d let himself become too distracted, and he barely lifted his staff in time to partially deflect the mace that came crashing down toward his head. Drathek struck him solidly, and Devrem felt a painful jolt as the weapon glanced hard off his shoulder. The man seemed unnaturally strong.
But Devrem had his own power, and his faith was as strong as that of the corrupt servant of Orcus. He hit the priest with a burst of sacred flame, directing the backblast of positive energy that flowed from the spell back toward Mara. The underpriest hissed as the flickers of silver power flared around his face, but he was far too durable an adversary to fall to such an attack. His counter came quickly, and the head of the mace came under Devrem’s guard to crash solidly into his gut. The critical hit drove the air from the priest’s body, and Devrem staggered back, sinking to one knee as he fought the stabbing pains that radiated out from the center of his body.
“If this is the best that they can send, then the Nentir Vale will fall quickly indeed,” Drathek said, chuckling as he came forward to finish what he had started.
Beetle and the dark creeper tumbled about upon the hard floor of the upper temple, each seeking advantage in their deadly grapple. Knives flashed with each twist of bodies, and as they rolled they left bloody smears behind them on the stones. Beetle was fast, and possessed of a certain wiry strength, but the creeper was empowered by the dark powers of Shadow that had transformed it from a mundane goblin into something more powerful and malevolent. As they caromed off one of the nearby stone walls the creeper seized hold of the halfling and slammed him into the ground with enough force to stun him. Tearing its knife-hand free, it lifted the blade to finish him.
Had Beetle been alone, the shadow-thing would have had him then, but Jaron had been waiting for a clear shot, and as the dark creeper raised its knife he fired an arrow point-blank solidly into the center of its back. The creature let out a high-pitched shriek and reared up, clutching in vain at the shaft that penetrated its body. Beetle recovered quickly from his momentary vulnerability and took advantage, pulling another knife from his belt and sinking it to the hilt in the creature’s side. The creeper stiffened and fell forward. Beetle caught the body and kicked it free. He sprang to his feet, but staggered to the side and nearly fell, obviously a little woozy from the beating he’d taken.
Elevaren hurled a curse of fey magic upon the berserker as he stepped forward to finish off the battered Mara. The warlock’s witchfire erupted from the warrior’s eyes and ears, searing his flesh and blasting his senses, but again failing to draw so much as a groan from his lips. The berserker, half-blinded by the attack, lunged forward and swept his axe in a broad arc that likely would have cut the eladrin in twain, had it connected squarely. But even the glancing hit that tore across Elevaren’s shoulder was nasty; the warlock staggered back, blood seeping from a broad tear in his leather tunic. Elevaren could have transported himself away from the immediate danger, but he looked down at the prone woman lying next to both him and the berserker, and he held his ground. The berserker, still unable to see clearly, followed the sound of Elevaren’s cry of pain, stepping forward as he lifted the axe to try again to put an end to his foe.
Mara, lying on her back and critically injured, was not in a position to do much to intervene. But as the berserker stepped toward Elevaren she managed to summon the strength to lash out with one foot, the hard heel smashing into the berserker’s right knee. The knee buckled forward, and the warrior toppled over, landing with a clang of metal on stone as the blade of his axe scraped against the floor tiles. A plume of multicolored light washed over him as Elevaren hit him with an eldritch blast, but the warrior seemed barely fazed by the attack, moving with deliberation as he planted his hands against the floor and pushed himself up into a crouch before rising, taking up his axe again in both hands, an implacable foe that would not be denied.
Devrem roared and hurled himself up into the enemy cleric, smashing into the big man’s body with his shoulder while his hands grabbed the wrists holding that deadly mace. Drathek was in better shape, but as the sheer weight and momentum of Devrem drove him back, his booted feet slipped on the treacherous slicks of blood that trailed across the floor of the chamber. The pair struggled there for a moment, neither able to gain the immediate advantage. The head of the mace gyrated between them as they spun in a circle, then Devrem tore a hand free and tried to grab his foe’s face, the silvery flashes of his sacred flame flickering from his fingers as he sought to repeat the tactic he’d used on the ghoul earlier. The underpriest screamed as the flaring energies seared his skin, but Devrem hadn’t been able to get a solid grip, and Drathek was able to bat his hand away with a sharp strike from an armored elbow. With a surge of raw strength the priest brought a bracered forearm down hard across Devrem’s face, breaking his nose and driving the pair apart. Devrem tried to come at him again before he could bring the mace into play, but this time Drathek intercepted his charge and caught him in a hold that used his own momentum against him, spinning him around and then unbalancing him with a trip that sent him careening to the floor. Only blind luck kept Devrem from falling into the open pit, though for a moment he balanced there precariously on the lip, blood pouring down his face from his shattered nose.
The berserker lunged at Elevaren again as he thrust himself back to his feet, but the warlock was wary now, and he darted back, narrowly avoiding the deadly blade of that huge axe. The warrior nearly lost his balance for a moment, but he used the impetus of the backswing to shift back toward Mara, who’d managed to roll over onto her stomach and was now trying unsuccessfully to get to her feet. Her smaller sword had fallen away when she’d been knocked down, but she still had the longsword, its hilt clutched tightly in her right hand. Seeing the berserker coming for her, she tried to bring the blade up into a defensive position, but the sword may as well have been an anvil for the strength that she was able to summon, and its tip barely came up to the level of the warrior’s knees.
“Bastard…” she said weakly, able only to watch as the warrior came at her, his axe coming up high above his head. She heard a solid thud as something hit the warrior from behind, and he faltered for a half-step, offering her a moment of hope. But again the berserker recovered, and with one final step forward he loomed over her, and the axe started to come down.
A blur of motion from behind the warrior culminated with a collision that struck him hard in the back of his right knee, at almost the same spot that Mara had kicked him just moments before. Again the knee gave way, and the warrior fell hard forward, his axe whistling through the air scant inches away from Mara’s exposed face. He fell onto her, his heavy body landing across Mara’s legs, and she could feel his weight pressing down upon her, a crushing burden that should have hurt, but she only felt a heavy numbness in her limbs as the loss of blood from her wounds began to steal away her consciousness. She was aware of the warrior struggling again, trying to get up, but then she heard a high-pitched, familiar laugh, followed by a spray of hot blood that splashed all over the side of her face, accompanied by the abrupt end of her foe’s movements.
A wave of power washed up out of the open pit, an invisible yet somehow tangible surge of magical energy that each of the companions felt as a weight pressing against their consciousness. Each of them felt a flickering within their minds, a rush of discordant images of things that were only partially perceived, but which would give them nightmares for long years to follow. The disorientation that followed lasted only a few seconds, and as it cleared they could see the underpriest of Orcus standing over the battered form of Devrem, a look of exultation on his face. The cleric of the Raven Queen was still conscious, but pain twisted his features, and it looked to be all he could manage to keep himself propped up on his arms, vainly trying to summon the strength to face the evil cleric on his feet.
“You are too late!” the underpriest laughed. “The day of reckoning has come! The Shadow rises triumphant!”
“Never!” Devrem hissed, slumping down onto his side as he thrust out his left hand, and channeled the last of his strength into a lance of faith that struck the priest solidly in the chest. Drathek grunted as the divine power hit him, but the attack only seemed to fuel the insane intensity that flared in his eyes. “Your blood shall be an offering to the true god!” he shrieked, lifting his mace as he rushed forward to finish off his enemy. Devrem could do nothing more to intervene, his limbs trembling weakly as he tried in vain to get up.
An arrow whistled over the fallen cleric, slamming hard into the underpriest’s thigh, penetrating the skirt of mail protecting the limb. Drathek stumbled, and was hit by a blinding spray of magic that flashed around his face. The eldritch blast disoriented him only for a moment, but it in turn was followed by a gleaming blade, barely a hand-spawn in length, that tore mercilessly into his head just above his left eye, the razor-sharp steel tearing a long gash that cut to the bone. Drathek screamed and clutched at the bloody wound. His momentum carried him forward, and he collided hard into Devrem, lying at the edge of the pit. Both clerics were tumbled forward into the gaping opening, Drathek still screaming as he went over head-first, his yell echoing from below before it ended abruptly in a sick thud.
Jaron ran up, not expecting to see anything but an empty darkness, but as he reached the edge of the pit, he saw Devrem dangling just a few feet below the lip, clutching to one of the trailing chains with some desperate reserve of strength. He looked up and saw Jaron. “Help… me…” he managed to say.
On friday Devrem would be hanging by his fingernails, from under him would be coming crap golem (see doomed bastards) and no one would be in (apparent) position to help...
Today's more setup, Friday the cliffhanger, of course.
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Chapter 68
They were beaten, battered, and all around in pretty tenuous shape. Once Beetle and Jaron had pulled Devrem from the pit, the companions fell back to the comparative safety of the stairwell, where they bound their wounds and tried to catch a collective breath. Devrem used his magic to bring himself and Mara back from the brink of death, while the rest of them relied on more traditional remedies, cutting bandages from the clean cloths they carried in their mix of supplies. Most of the wounds they’d suffered were not as bad as they’d first looked, but Beetle had a deep puncture wound in his left hip where the dark stalker had stabbed him, and the gash across Elevaren’s chest, while not deep, was long and continued to seep fresh blood into the bandage that Jaron bound into place with strips of cloth torn from an extra cloak. “This is going to need a needle, and soon,” the halfling said, while the warlock looked vaguely into the distance, distracted by some internal concern.
“Once I have had a few minutes to recover my strength, I can use my magic to treat him,” Devrem said. The cleric sagged against the wall at the base of the stairs, looking… deflated. But the fire in his eyes was still there as he looked at Jaron. “That was just the outer temple, and the underpriest. The portal to the Shadowfell lies below, down that pit. The ritual is being completed… we don’t have much time left.”
“That pulse of power, that we felt near the end of the battle?” Jaron asked. Devrem nodded.
“I’m not sure what you expect us to do about it,” Mara said. The fighter sat on one of the broad steps, her head sunk almost against her knees. She did not look up. “We got our asses kicked, and we’re in no shape to take on Kalarel.”
“We have no choice,” Elevaren said, turning suddenly from his reverie and fixing his otherworldly eyes on his companions. His movement causes a twinge of pain that passed across his face for a moment, making him look almost human. “He must be stopped.” There was a renewed determination in him that seemed almost like an echo of Devrem’s fixation on his mission.
“Just getting down there is going to be a challenge,” Jaron said. “Those chains are slick with blood.”
“Rope!” Beetle said. The younger halfling had taken a pounding at the hands of the dark creeper, but his enthusiasm hadn’t waned, even with a wound in his side and a slight concussion from having his head smashed against the floor. Without waiting for a response, the halfling shot up and ran up the stairs, back toward the hobgoblin quarters. He wavered a bit negotiating the stairs, but he was gone before even Jaron could warn him to caution.
“You’re all insane,” Mara said, finally looking up, her expression grim, a smear of blood running down her check unnaturally bright against her pale skin.
“We could use your swords down there,” Devrem said, grimacing as he pushed off against the wall and tentatively rose to his feet. He’d recovered his staff, and leaned heavily against it as he looked down at her.
“We will understand, either way, my friend,” Elevaren said. He too stood, accepting Jaron’s help as he pulled his torn vest back into place over his bandaged shoulder.
“We may not succeed, but at least we will have tried,” Jaron said, taking up his bow from where he’d laid it against the wall nearby.
The three men stood there, watching Mara. Finally the fighter stood up, her face tight with pain. Elevaren moved to help her, but she shook away his offered hand. The warlock drew back, and waited. Mara looked at each of the men in turn, before her gaze settled on Devrem.
“We do this, and then I’m done with being a hero,” she said. She walked past the three of them back toward the chamber, limping slightly, and did not look back once she was past them.
The chamber was cavernous, a massive cyst hidden deep under the surface of the world. And it seemed smaller than it was, its furthest edges hidden in a blackness that seemed to gather, waiting.
The central part of the room was illuminated fitfully by a half-dozen flickering flames that burned in huge clay jars. Most of the light was gathered at the southern part of the chamber, where a crude but massive stone depiction of the demon god Orcus sat bloated upon a broad flat granite plinth. The flames cast the statue’s features in stark relief, the twisting shadows adding a measure of menace to its unchanging expression. Several cloth mats lay spread out before the statue, tangled and filthy.
The chamber was longer on its east-west axis, and in each direction a raised platform rose up off the floor. To the west a pair of lamps flanked a stone altar upon which a book rested, spread open to reveal text marked in spidery, alien runes that seemed to crawl across the pages. The opposite platform culminated in a small pit from which a fetid odor rose, flanked by smaller stone representations of Orcus, these carved in a standing pose, the demon’s hallmark mace clutched against its body.
And to the north… there, the portal to the Shadowfell stood.
It was a broad arch, easily wide enough to allow a pair of wagons to pass through without crowding. It stood slightly off from the wall, and a courageous, curious fool might have looked behind it, to see that the wall there was solid, unbroken. As one looked upon it from the center of the room, the arch was full of a sinister black plane, one that seemed to take on substance and definition the longer one looked at it. Ripples occasionally twisted through that impossible surface, and impressions of something more tangible, as if something were pressing against the portal from the other side.
In the center of the room, trails of red liquid, of the color, consistency, and odor of freshly spilled blood, fell in uneven sheets from a shaft above. They gathered in a shallow pool there, before breaking off to drain through huge metal grates that formed the corners of a square around the pool. Iron chains, slick with blood, dangled from the shaft, the only apparent means of entry or egress from the place, save the black portal.
The chamber was occupied; on both the eastern and western platforms, a solitary humanoid figure stood. The one to the east huddled in the lee of one of the Orcus statues, a vague shadow among shadows, while the one to the west stood facing the book, a long cloak failing to fully conceal the hard lines of his form, or the heavy armor that protected him from head to toe.
A faint drone filled the air, its origin not quite distinct.
The strange scene seemed unchangeable, static. Thus it was somewhat jarring when a pair of ropes suddenly appeared from the shaft, uncoiling in long strands that trailed off into the shallow pool of blood below. They were followed almost immediately by a third, which turned out to be a collection of what looked like blankets, wound up and tied together end to end to form an improvised line. This last strand descended far faster than the first two, as a small figure was attached to its end, drawing it down at a rather precarious speed. The blanket-rope extended as it drew taut, and a sound of ripping cloth came from it as its burden taxed the cheap cloth taken from the hobgoblin quarters. The entire rope quivered and started to come apart, but even as that happened Beetle launched himself free of it, flipping almost effortlessly through the air to land on his feet scant inches from the edge of the blood-pool. The halfling looked at his sleeve where a spot of blood had marked the fabric, and frowned.
Meanwhile, Devrem and Mara were coming quickly down the ropes, if not quite as rapidly as their companion’s descent. Their clothes were stained bright red from the fluid cascading down all around them, and their faces were grim as they negotiated the descent. Unlike Beetle they landed right in the center of the pool, the collected liquid splashing around their boots, rising to the level of their ankles. They avoided two limp heaps lying in the pool, the bodies of the berserker and cleric they’d defeated in the battle above.
No sooner had Mara touched down than Jaron became visible, sliding down her rope after her. Elevaren took a more direct route; the eladrin materialized via fey step at the edge of the blood pool, emerging from the fading sparkles of his magic, stepping away from the trailing streamers of falling blood.
Mara drew her swords; she looked left and right, noticing at once the two shadowy forms upon the platforms. “Which one is the cleric?” she hissed. “Which one is Kalarel?”
As if in response to the speaking of his name, the figure on the western platform turned slowly to face them. Kalarel’s face, visible within the open front of his helm, was gaunt and pale in the flickering light. His eyes were closed, and as he turned he slowly lifted his arms, his mouth moving in a silent incantation. They could see the scales of his mail coat under his cloak, and the iron rod topped with a ram’s skull, thrust through his belt within easy reach.
The priest seemed unaware of them at first, but as his chant came to an end he opened his eyes, and smiled. “Welcome,” he said to them, and it was as if all the menace in the world had been condensed into those few syllables.
“This ends now, priest of Orcus!” Devrem shouted, holding up his staff. Silver flickers of divine energy flared around the iron-shod end.
Kalarel’s expression twisted into a slight smirk. “You are wrong, false prophet of Death. No, this is where it begins.”
“Enough chatter!” Mara yelled, charging forward through the blood pool toward the priest. Sprays of red sheeted up around her, splattering in bright smears across her armor, sticking in fat droplets to her helmet as she ran.
Devrem was right behind her, or at least he started to follow; even as he took his first step the dark figure on the eastern platform lifted a claw and summoned a sinuous blast of writing black energy that streaked across the room. The blast hit Devrem in the small of the back, and tendrils of power flared around him, stabbing into his limbs. The cleric stiffened, and he grimaced as the muscles in his legs locked, freezing him into place.
“What in the hells is that?” Jaron cried, dropping down off the last length of chain to land in the middle of the blood pool. Even on him, the sucking fluid barely came halfway up to the tops of his boots, but it made for a treacherous footing. No sooner had he landed was he reaching for an arrow, drawing the bow out from the straps holding it across his back in a quick motion. He quickly scanned the area for Beetle, but the halfling had disappeared from view.
Devrem could not move his legs, but he twisted his body to look back. The creature that had thrown the immobilizing bolt was moving along the edge of the eastern platform. As the light from the firebowls caught its features, they could see that it was a fearsome parody of a man, clad in the remnants of what might have once been clothing. There was little about it to indicate that it had once been a man, its current state a mockery of the cleric of Pelor whose body it now inhabited.
“It’s a wight!” the cleric yelled, struggling against the effect that held him. He looked back to see that Mara’s charge had likewise been interrupted, as a pair of skeletal warriors had emerged from behind pillars flanking the approach to the western pedestal to block her route to Kalarel. At first she’d simply tried to thrust past, but the skeletons proved far stronger and faster than the rotting undead monsters they’d faced before. Tendons and strings of ligament still connected the pale white bones, binding them together, and giving the creatures a fearsome appearance. The fighter was forced back as one of them slammed its sword heavily into her side, and she barely turned in time to parry the attack of the second, their blades sparking as they clanged loudly together.
“Your defiance, while amusing, is ultimately futile,” Kalarel said, drawing out the rod from his belt. He pointed it at Mara, and a glowing red beam erupted from the head of the artifact, playing over the fighter’s body like the light from a bullseye lantern. Mara shrank back from that radiance, which lasted for only a heartbeat, but her companions could see her limbs sag, her strength fading as she struggled to hold her weapons up in a defensive stance. The skeletons moved forward to take advantage.
Kalarel shifted his rod to point toward the black portal. “You shall witness the beginning of the end of your world,” he said.
As if in response, the black sheen began to distort, and bulged out into the room, probing tendrils forming in the surface like dark claws, grasping at the living intruders into its sanctum, promising a fate worse than death with their touch.
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