Lazybones's Keep on the Shadowfell/Thunderspire Labyrinth

[Lazybones]

Chapter 35


“PULL!” Jaron yelled, desperation tearing at his muscles as he put his words into action, yanking on the handle of the iron door. Opposite him, Beetle had worked a dagger into the jam, and was using it as a lever to try and pry the heavy portal open.

Jaron heard the hiss of the wights behind him as they rushed forward; only seconds separated them.

The door creaked open a mocking inch. Beetle dropped his knife and thrust his grubby fingers into the crack, grunting as he pulled. With a last groan the door suddenly gave, sliding open a full foot. Beetle shot through, grabbing Jaron and pulling him after him. The pair tumbled forward into a narrow passageway beyond, thick with dust and cobwebs.

Behind them, the door shuddered as the first wight slammed into it. The heavy iron door jerked halfway shut from the impact. Even as the halflings fumbled back up to their feet, a pale gray arm appeared in the crack, probing hungrily.

Drawing another knife out from somewhere, Beetle stabbed it into the wight's elbow. The razor-sharp blade penetrated deep into the creature’s wiry flesh, and it let out a strangled hiss. The arm drew back, and in that scant moment of reprieve Jaron took the handle on this side of the door and yanked it shut. He shot the bolt even as the wights started pounding on the door, their nails creating a terrible sound as they scratched at the metal.

“They won’t get through that easily,” Jaron said, his heart pounding in his chest. “Are you all right?”

Beetle lifted a thumb, and grinned.

Shaking his head, Jaron turned to explore this new area.

The corridor led straight ahead, and was evidently long-undisturbed. Ancient carvings decorated the walls, depicting horned humanoid creatures engaging in activities it was impossible to clearly discern. Cobwebs hung over everything, and the two halflings could hear vermin skittering away from them as they made their way forward.

“Creepy,” Beetle said, pausing to step on a bug. The crackling noise as its shell broke made Jaron’s skin crawl. “Don’t do that,” he whispered. “There might be someone up ahead who could hear.” The warning seemed unnecessary; they’d made a lot more noise getting through the iron door. But Beetle complied, or at least didn’t kill any more bugs as they pressed further ahead. The sound of the wights at the door died away behind them; either the creatures had given up, or they were waiting for their prey to return.

Either way, the two of them had few options left.

They passed several side tunnels that ended quickly in bare stone walls. The place had the air of an ancient crypt, but if there were remains interred here, they were well sealed away from prying eyes.

They entered another hall that crossed the passageway. A large statue of a minotaur stood here, looming over them like some terrible guardian, a broad-bladed axe held ready in its massive fists. A trick of its construction seemed to make its eyes follow the cousins as they approached. Jaron was wary of a trap, but Beetle did not appear to be intimidated by the hulking thing. Or at least, if he was, he concealed it well, springing up onto the statue’s leg, then jumping off to catch the stone handle of its weapon, flipping forward into a somersault that reached its apex some eight feet off the floor. Jaron rushed toward him in alarm, but Beetle landed lightly on his feet, turning with a broad grin on his face.

Jaron opened his mouth, but closed it, the words left unsaid. What was the use?

“Light,” Beetle said, drawing Jaron’s attention down the side-hall in the direction he’d jumped. The two halflings rushed forward, and quickly came to another door. This one looked as ancient as their surroundings here, slabs of old wood bound in iron that was crusted with rust and decay. The light came from a thin crack under the door. Beetle didn’t wait, dropping to the floor to put his eye on the same level as the crack. Reluctantly, after looking at the dirt that covered the floor, Jaron copied him.

The two watched in silence together for a long minute. Then Jaron finally drew back, and sat up against the wall next to the door. Beetle pulled up a moment later, a black streak of grime marking the entire left side of his face. Jaron drew out a cloth and rubbed at what he imagined was a similar mess on his. He looked at his cousin, and shook his head.

“Now what are we supposed to do?” he asked quietly, his expression that of someone in way over his head.

Beetle pointed to the lock in the door. “Open?”

“And then what? You saw what I saw, cousin.” He lowered the dirty rag and lowered his face into his hands. “We’re trapped.”

 

[nwjavahead]

Along time...

LB,
I know it has been along time since I ventured back onto these boards/SH - however, I just want to say thanks. It is great to come back to ENWorld and see a new SH from you.

djordje

 

[Lazybones]

Hey, glad you're still following along, djordje! Not many readers left from the "good old days" of Travels.

* * * * *

Chapter 36


The campsite was good, with a nearby source of water, relatively close proximity to the main tunnel, and best of all, defensible. A crevice just too wide to jump bisected the small chamber, and a natural battlement of weathered stone formed a rampart in front of a hollow space maybe six paces across on the near side of the gap. Carzen looked around and saw signs of others that had used the place before; black streaks along the walls where lamps and torches had left marks, small bones and other detritus scattered in corners, and the faint but familiar stinks left behind whenever travelers lingered at a place for any length of time.

His body whispered the need for sleep, but he knew that Vhael wouldn’t let them linger too long here. The warlord was closeted with his war council over near the gap in the wall that formed the exit. Gral and Surina attended to his every word; Carzen didn’t bother trying to listen in.

He walked over to where Terrlen was sitting. The guide was wrapped in a cloak that seemed to cover him like a shroud, his weathered features just visible in the faint light of the miner’s lamp that illuminated their shelter. He glanced up at Carzen’s approach.

“Tough gig, eh?”

The man shrugged. “I’ve seen worse,” he ventured, when Carzen didn’t shift his gaze.

“So how far were we? To this Well of Demons, that is.”

“Not far. I’ve never actually been inside,” Terrlen admitted. “But it’s a well-known site in the Labyrinth.”

“Oh? Any idea on what we’ll face there? Other than demons, of course.”

Terrlen shook his head, but said nothing. Carzen tried a different tack.

“What do you think of our fearless leader?” he asked.

“He seems to know his business.”

“Oh, sure. He’s led us out of a few scrapes, I suppose. Nasty business with those gnolls, eh?”

The man flinched and shot up so quickly that Carzen almost ran into him. “Excuse me. I need to… I need to take a piss.” He hurried over to the far edge of the camp, where a gap in the rampart offered access to the chasm.

“Right,” Carzen said, to his back. He glanced over and saw that Vhael’s little conference had ended; the dragonborn was standing alone by the exit, sipping something from a small cup that looked ridiculously fragile in his clawed hand.

“Hey, general! That isn’t coffee, is it? Been holding out on us?”

Vhael’s expression was inscrutable but Carzen was starting to be able to read the dragonborn’s looks. Not that there are that many, he thought, forcing his smile against the warlord’s cold stare, just to annoy him.

“It is a mild stimulant derived from the bark of the wilanthas tree,” Vhael said. “I believe it is somewhat toxic for humans, causing chills, muscle spasms, and riotous diarrhea. Would you like me to brew you a cup?”

Carzen smacked his lips. “Sounds delicious, but I think I’ll stick with my more familiar poisons.” Gods, he would have murdered someone for a flask of brandy. Leaning in closer, he said, “I think we might have a problem with Terrlen.”

“Oh?”

“There’s… something wrong with him. I can’t quite place it, but I get a feeling around him…”

“Indeed. Gral believes that he may be suffering from a lycanthropic curse.”

“A what?”

“Lycanthropy. A magical disease that causes the victim to experience involuntary transformations into a were-creature. I believe that werewolves are the most common example with which you might be familiar, but there are literally dozens of varieties.”

“Were—” Carzen began, but he cut himself off when he realized that his voice was too loud. Clenching his jaw, he began again. “And you just let him stay with us?”

Vhael drained the last of his beverage. “Do you know how to get to the Well of Demons?”

Carzen did not back down. “This is… reckless. I can’t believe it, you ditched the halflings for less than this, and we could have actually used their help. For this kind of thing…”

Vhael’s stare was like iron. “I did not ask for your counsel, lieutenant. I have made provision for Darkseeker, if it comes to that. Once he has helped us reach the Well, we can be done with him. Until then, you will obey orders and do your job, do you understand?”

“Oh, I understand, general,” Carzen hissed. Turning away, he strode over to where he’d left his pack. But he couldn’t help looking over at the chasm, where Terrlen stood, a vague outline at the edge of the lamplight.

Wonderful, he thought grimly.

 

[nwjavahead]

LB,
I noticed that things have changed a bit that is for sure on the boards. Hades, I had to change my screen name cause it had been so long.

The good-old-days of Tales and such. I can say that i will continue to read all your SH - they are very good works.

What are your "IMHO" of 4e currently? Somethings I think I might like, however, I believe I am going to stick with 3.x

Hear anything on old Wulf?

djordje

 

[Neurotic]

Hey! I'm still reading. I just don't find 4e interesting enough to comment. Characters are well rounded and developed as usual, it just lacks certain flair. Might it reflect your own uninvolment with the system?

 

[Lazybones]

Well, I've stated in the past that 4e, while introducing some interesting concepts like the powers system, isn't really drawing me in the way that 3rd edition did. I can't really tighten it down to something specific, maybe it's the lack of "flair" that Neurotic described. Or maybe I spent too long with 3.0/3.5 and just don't want to invest the time in a new system. I haven't bought anything besides the core books and the first two modules and have no intention of doing so.

My next story won't be based on 4th edition, although I'm still enjoying writing this one, and I don't regret taking the time to learn the new ruleset.

* * * * *

Chapter 37


The door opened with a creak that sounded like the end of the world, filling the chamber with the sound. It instantly drew the attention of the duergar guards, who had been dicing at their table along the far wall of the chamber, and of the two spined devils, who had been arguing in their own foul tongue from their perch high among the rafters of the chamber.

The door swung open ponderously, continuing the scream of tortured metal from its hinges. Beyond, only a dark tunnel was visible, gaping malevolently.

The duergar guards exchanged a look, and then one of them hurried to the door on their side of the room. The other one drew out his weapon, a big warhammer with a striking head fashioned out of a slab of black metal. The dwarf gestured to the devils, who dropped free of their perch and glided toward the dark opening. One of them flicked its tail, dislodging a number of spines that flew into the gap.

“Hold yer blasted darts!” the duergar said. “If’n there be someone in there, take ‘im alive!”

The devils hissed something less than flattering at him in Infernal, but they flittered aside as Framarth arrived, the other guard at his heels. “What is the meaning of this?” he asked the other guard.

“Don’t know, yer lordship,” the dwarf replied. “Door just opened. Nobody’s s’posed to be in there. Was going to send the devils in to have a look.”

The theurge’s eyes narrowed as he regarded the dark opening. Abruptly he lifted a hand, and conjured a spell.

An eruption of green flickers materialized in the tunnel beyond the door, followed by tendrils of olive vapor that trickled out into the great chamber. The fumes hung cloyingly in the air, twisting slightly as some invisible gust of wind shaped them.

And then the smoke cloud parted, as a small horde of wights burst into the room, screeching as they eagerly sought out warm flesh.

Jaron was greeted to a scene of chaos as he tentatively peeked out from behind the heavy door. So far their plan had worked, with Beetle opening this door and he the one leading to the room holding the wights. The two of them had hidden behind the minotaur statue while the situation progressed naturally. He’d agonized over which door to give to Beetle, knowing that his cousin was likely to get into trouble no matter which one he chose, but for once Beetle had done exactly as he’d said.

A violent battle raged in the chamber directly in front of him. There were three duergar, currently being swarmed by the five wights in a violent close-quarters melee. Thus far the defenders were holding their own, but the wights seemed to shake off the pounding from the dwarves’ hammers, snarling before leaping back in to try to grab hold of their living foes with their claws. A bright flash of fire blinded Jaron for a moment, and he realized that one of the dwarves was a spellcaster. The wight the mage had hit staggered back, trailing wisps of black smoke from his charred chest, but the monster came in again, forcing the dwarf back onto the defensive.

A form out of nightmare streaked down from above, flying low over one of the wights. The flying thing was not much larger than the dwarfs, but as it shot past Jaron could see a forest of dark spines jutting from the wight’s back, and it began to flail wildly as tendrils of smoke rose from the nasty wounds.

All in all, chaos. And they had to go out in that…

For a moment, Jaron’s resolve faltered, then Beetle shot past him, and started running around the room to the right, toward one of the open pits they’d spotted earlier, when looking under the crack in the door. They’d recognized this place as the slave pits that Rendil had described to them, and they knew that if the Grimmerzhul still held Mara, they’d likely find her here. That had given birth to Jaron’s desperate plan, to set the wights against the defenders, and hopefully find their friend in the confusion.

But as he ran after Beetle, that part of his brain still capable of reason started whispering to him all the ways that the plan could go wrong. Another burst of fire that sounded like it was right on top of him added urgency to his movement. But as he approached the pit, he felt a new sensation of dread overcome even that surging terror.

The pit was empty.

Or more precisely, empty of prisoners; he could see the shackles bolted to the walls, the foul slicks of waste, the tattered scraps of clothing that spoke of slaves now gone.

Beetle was already running ahead, around the perimeter of the pit toward the next one. Jaron followed, but as he glanced over across the room, he saw another pair of duergar guards appear through the far door, these two clad in heavy mail, and visored helms that shielded their features but which allowed the wiry forest of their beards to protrude out beneath. One of the wights was down, its thrashings abruptly ended as a duergar warrior brought his hammer down upon its skull with hard finality. The dwarves had been driven back, but now, as they saw the reinforcements coming, they surged ahead once more, the theurge summoning fire and brimstone to blast the undead before him.

They couldn’t stay here much longer without being detected, Jaron saw. As he drew close enough to the second pit to see that it too was empty, he tried to signal to Beetle, to warn him. But the other halfling had already surged on ahead, and as Jaron watched he leapt down into the last pit, vanishing from view.

Jaron swallowed his fear and followed. A fearsome warcry swept through the room, and he turned to see with amazement one of the duergar newcomers smite one of the wights with his hammer. The duergar, through some magical faculty, had expanded to a size that rivaled that of an ogre. His armor and weapons had likewise grown in size, and Jaron felt an involuntary twinge of sympathy for the wight as its broken body was hurled into one of the empty slave pits.

They didn’t have much time…

An instant later, he realized they had none, as an angry cry drew his attention back over his shoulder. He looked up to see one of the spined devils diving toward him, a hissing sound issuing from it as dozens of deadly needles hurtled out from its body toward the halfling.

 

[Lazybones]

Posting this late due to the site being down for a few days.

* * * * *

Chapter 38


Jaron hurled himself forward, rolling into a crouch as he heard the ragged pings of the devil’s spines hitting the stone floor behind him. His momentum almost carried him over the edge of the open pit, and he had to roll his arms for a moment to recover his balance. Behind him, he could hear the devil shriek as it swooped around for another pass.

His gaze passed over Beetle twice before he recognized his cousin, pressed up against the wall in the deep shadows that filled the open pit. “We have to get out of here, now!” he hissed.

Beetle glanced up at him, but returned his attention to whatever he was doing down there in the slave pit. Jaron looked up to see that the devil had completed its circle and was coming back around toward him. The duergar had dropped another of the wights, its struggles fading even as the theurge continued to blast it with tendrils of bright fire. One of the guards had been knocked onto his back, but even as Jaron turned his head one of the enlarged shock troopers bashed the wight tearing at him, knocking the undead monster off before it could get a good hold with its claws. The last wight had taken a pounding from the other trooper and the last guard, but it continued to attack even as it absorbed hammer blows that would have left a living creature lying in a broken heap on the floor.

The devil dove, and before it could launch another barrage of spines, Jaron swallowed and leapt into the pit.

He landed lightly on his feet, coming up in a roll that absorbed the shock of impact. The stink was even worse down here, but like in the other pits, the shackles set into the walls dangled empty. Or nearly empty, he realized, as Beetle came away from the wall and moved toward him. His cousin was carrying someone, a prisoner.

With a start, Jaron realized that the captive was a goblin. The wretched thing was in poor shape, but he was conscious, and found his footing as Beetle dragged him toward the narrow ramp that led up out of the pit. Jaron got there first, and led the way up.

He was almost at the lip when the devil dropped down from above to block his path.

“Going somewhere?” it hissed at him.

Jaron started in surprise, but something flashed past his head and caught the devil on the side of its face, drawing another furious shriek and staggering the thing. Jaron didn’t hesitate and rushed past before it could recover, Beetle and the goblin close behind. A pain exploded in his arm, and he looked down to see a pair of five-inch spines jutting from his sleeve. He didn’t stop to pull them out, only glanced back to see that Beetle was still with him as he ran toward the door.

The only problem was that they weren’t the only ones.

The wights were down, and the shrieking of the devils had drawn the attention of the dwarves, who’d belatedly spotted the halflings trying to escape with their last remaining prisoner. Jaron spotted more duergar coming into the room through the far door, but his more immediate concern was the two ogre-sized shock troopers that started lumbering toward him, their heavy boots causing the ground to shake with their coming. Behind them, the wounded theurge was shouting orders, punctuated by a bolt of flames that thankfully flew wild, striking the wall a good five paces above the diminutive raiders. Beetle shouted something taunting that thankfully Jaron could not make out; his full attention was on the door ahead, ten paces, eight, five…

The second devil dropped out of the air ahead of him like a rock, intent on blocking their escape. But through some instinct Jaron jerked aside from the sweeping claws, unbalancing the devil as it landed with a hard thrust of his shoulder. He felt pain again as the blow drove several spines through the leather of his tunic, but then the reassuring bulk of the doorway was there, and he was through. He glanced back to see Beetle stomp on the devil’s face with both booted fee, knocking it over onto its back, laughing as he sprang through the opening a step behind the panicked goblin. Beetle kicked the door shut behind him a scant instant before it shook with the force of a heavy impact from outside. The door held; they’d rigged the lock earlier so that it would engage when the door was closed again. But as the door rang again, this time from the blow of a duergar hammer, Jaron knew that it wouldn’t stop their pursuers for more than a few seconds.

“Hoot!” Beetle exclaimed, leaning forward with his hands on his knees as he caught his breath. The goblin sagged against a pile of crumbling stone, his body trembling with fear. But Jaron wouldn’t let them linger. “Come on!” he said, drawing Beetle and the goblin after him as he led them back down the passage they had navigated earlier, back to the room where they’d narrowly escaped the wights. The dusty chamber was as they had left it, save for fresh tracks left by the undead where they’d gathered around the iron door. Jaron hoped that there weren’t any more of those foul things lurking around the chamber, but he didn’t let that fear slow his steps as he ran toward the other side of the room and the door that led back out onto the battlements. Behind him the pounding grew louder, and he could hear the ugly sound of wood cracking.

The door leading outside resisted his tug, but it gave way as Beetle added his strength to Jaron’s. Creaking open, it revealed the empty balcony bounded by the jagged stone teeth of the battlement. Jaron let out a relieved breath—he’d half expected to find a dozen dwarves waiting for them here.

As if summoned by the thought, the door on the far end of the battlement burst open, and three armored duergar warriors emerged.

“Beetle, no!” he said, as his cousin turned toward them. The duergar spotted the fugitives and lifted their weapons, confident that their foe had no way out. Jaron saw another pair of dwarves emerge from the citadel onto the bridge, these two carrying massive bolt-throwers that were cocked and loaded.

Jaron found that he was running, not toward the duergar and certain death, or back toward the slave pits and an almost equally certain fate. He was running straight ahead, toward the low wall of stone teeth that separated them from a vast chasm, and a darkness that seemed to go on almost forever…

Beetle was running beside him, all but carrying the goblin between them. The dwarves were almost on top of them, and Jaron saw that there would be no time to stop, no time to think about this as the pair on the bridge lifted their crossbows, took aim…

Oh, gods, I’m not going to do this, he thought, even as he shouted, “Grab onto me!” and the three of them leapt forward, onto the top of the battlement, then over. Jaron felt something pluck at his cap, then it was gone, and he was falling, falling…

The rope was there, right where he’d left it. He almost forgot to grab it until it was too late, and only the fact that he’d all but fallen directly onto it gave him the chance to take hold of the narrow strand with both hands. The loop he’d tied around the stone jut to anchor it couldn’t hold against the sudden weight of two halflings and a goblin, and as it tore free the three of them went plummeting downward, picking up speed as they were catapulted through empty blackness. The rope creaked under their weight as they reached the bottom of their arc, still accelerating, and Jaron offered a prayer to whatever gods might be watching that his pitons held. Their downward momentum was turned into forward flight, and they started to slow—incrementally—as they were flung forward toward the far side of the chasm.

“Woohoo!” Beetle screamed in triumph, as the duergar peered down into the chasm, trying to figure out exactly what had just happened.

 

[Lazybones]

Chapter 39


Mara’s thoughts were black. There was nothing she could do about her circumstances at the moment, but she swore to spend her life at as dear a cost as she could, before ending up as a bound sacrifice on the altar to some slimy reptilian god.

Thus far, the duergar had been careful not to allow her that opportunity. The iron bands around her wrists and ankles were heavy, the chains binding them designed to only give her the barest minimum of motion necessary to shuffle along with the other prisoners. The duergar, perhaps respecting her obvious strength, had fastened her wrists behind her back, and her shoulders were already burning from the strain. She was connected to the prisoners ahead and behind by another length of chain. At least all of the prisoners ahead of her were halflings, so she could see where they were going.

There wasn’t much to see. The duergar seemed to recognize that their captives needed at least some light in order to march, but the odd lamps they wore strapped to their helmets cast a faint, uneven light. Mara’s feet were bruised from the dozens of times she’d stubbed them on rocks she hadn’t seen, and her bare soles were already crisscrossed with gashes from sharp edges she’d trodden upon. Their progress was slow, but the duergar did not seem to care about the harsh cost of the trek on the bodies of their prisoners.

It wasn’t as if they were going to have to worry about marching them back.

She heard a heavy tread coming up behind her, and flinched involuntarily. But Rundarr walked past without paying her or any of the other prisoners any heed. The duergar was big for his kind, coming up almost to Mara’s shoulder, but he radiated a sense of danger entirely out of proportion to his size. It was him, more than the duergar scouts or the orc guards that drove the slave train onward, that gave Mara pause, and killed any hope she had for escape before they reached their destination. She feared him, and hated herself for it.

Behind her, one of the other human prisoners stumbled, suddenly drawing the chain trailing behind her taut, and Mara nearly fell before the others in line helped him regain his footing. She knew almost nothing about the other captives, save that the other three humans were all prospectors, likely captured from the slopes of Thunderspire above by the Bloodreavers. The halflings she knew of, although she had not recognized Jaron’s cleric friend among them. The ten halflings that were here were showing the strains of their captivity, and while Mara had to admire their spirit, they were farmers and herdsmen, and she knew she could not rely on their help if—when, she told herself—an opportunity for escape presented itself.

But with each painful step forward, it seemed as though that chance was becoming more and more remote.

“Here they come,” Jaron whispered, drawing back from the edge of the ledge that gave them an unobstructed view of the broad underground highway that stretched out below them. Beetle lingered another second, staring at the distant but slowly growing specks of light that surrounded the slave caravan. They were at an intersection of sorts, where the main corridor met a number of smaller tunnels, some sized to accommodate a rat, and none large enough for an adult human to navigate without some difficulty. Most of them, Jaron knew from his admittedly limited experience in the Labyrinth, went nowhere. Others might stretch for miles, connecting to similar tunnels throughout the complicated underground warren. It would take a lifetime to even begin to know this place, Jaron realized.

He crawled back down to the level of the tunnel below. The natural curve of the passages would conceal them from direct view of the slaver party for a good while yet, but he was careful to keep his miner’s lamp almost completely shaded. The light was mainly for their companion’s benefit, as neither of the halflings needed it with their magical goggles.

“How long?” Gru asked.

“A few minutes, at most,” Jaron replied. The goblin looked more than a bit skittish, Jaron thought. Beetle had already managed to cow the freed slave in that special way that he had, communicating menace without having to resort to overt threats. But Jaron knew that Gru would vanish the moment that he and Beetle were too distracted to keep an eye on him. But that was all right; the little creature had already helped them considerably.

After their wild and desperate swing across the chasm, evading the duergar pursuit from the citadel had been almost easy. Jaron had worried about the devils coming after them, as their ability to fly would have enabled them to cross the chasm after them with ease, but the monstrous fiends had not made an appearance. There had been parties of duergar scouts and orc warriors that had emerged from the towers on both sides of the chasm, but the halflings, aided by their magical goggles, had been able to slip away without being seen. When his own life was on the line, Gru had been more than up to the task of keeping up with Jaron and Beetle; the goblin was almost as adept at remaining unseen as the two of them.

Gru’s knowledge had made his rescue worthwhile. He’d been able to tell them that they’d only missed Mara and the others being carted off by the duergar by the better part of an hour. Jaron had silently cursed at having just missed the prisoners, but he’d quickly put that failure behind him, focusing instead on the reality they faced. Once Gru had told the halflings of the deep dwarves’ plans for their captives, Jaron had convinced the goblin to help them find a route through the Labyrinth that would enable them to overtake the slavers. Gru had an extensive knowledge of the smaller, less-used side tunnels that riddled throughout the network of main corridors under the mountain, and while he had to be prodded several times to take them in the direction of a new danger, they’d ultimately been able to get ahead of the slow-moving slaver party. Gru’s focus had been on making good his escape, and he urged Jaron and Beetle to accompany him someplace far away from the duergar and the Hall, but Jaron had other plans. Once he’d told Gru what he was looking for, the goblin grew even more resistant, but Jaron would not be swayed from his course. Reluctantly—very reluctantly—the goblin had helped him find what he needed to attempt the rescue he hoped to achieve.

Jaron felt exhausted. He and Beetle had been almost constantly on the run since they’d left the Horned Hall, and breaking in had been anything but relaxing to boot. Gru had spoken at lengths about the capabilities of the Grimmerzhul in an effort to dissuade him from his plans, and Jaron had already gotten a first-hand look at their effectiveness. The slaver party would likely be heavily guarded, and they were just two worn-down halflings and a panicky goblin. He certainly wouldn’t have minded having Vhael, Gral, and even Carzen Zelos with them right now.

But wishing was for children and dreamers, as his father had often said. Having fought in a war and seen a lot of the world outside of his home village of Fairhollow, Jaron knew it was true.

He turned as Beetle dropped down onto the passage floor next to him. They’d picked their ground, and now they had to make the most of it. “You know what to do,” he said to Beetle. “Remember, draw them, but don’t let yourself get caught. I won’t be able to help you.”

“Stab an’ run,” Beetle said, miming the former with a thrust of his fist.

“Be careful.”

Beetle grinned, and darted into a side passage barely larger than he was.

“This is madness,” Gru said, grimacing as he scraped something slimy off his foot with a piece of stone. The goblin was speaking his own language, which Jaron understood more or less fluently. “This is the trouble that a wise hunter gives wide berth, but you two go looking for it!”

“If we’re lucky, two troubles will cancel each other out,” he said, thinking back to the Horned Hold.

“It never work. They no need ears, eyes… they feel steps, through stone. Never sneak up on them!”

Jaron turned to him in alarm. “What? Why didn’t you warn me of this earlier?”

The goblin threw up his hands. “I not stop warning! I say this crazy, bad idea, all of it, you not listen!”

Jaron had taken a step toward the low opening where Beetle had vanished before he stopped himself. A faint glow was just becoming visible down the passageway where he knew the Grimmerzhul party was fast approaching. They were out of time; he could only hope that Beetle was able to take care of himself, and do what he had to do.

“Get back up on that ledge,” Jaron commanded. “Stay out of sight.” They’d lent the goblin a knife, but it was too much to hope that he might actually be of help in the coming fight. Sliding the cover on his lamp shut, he darted across the tunnel to his own chosen ground. It was another small tunnel mouth, opening a good nine feet above the floor of the main passage, the crevice behind it quickly narrowing within a few paces until even a mouse would have been hard-pressed to slip through. It was a dead end, if it came to it… Jaron harshly suppressed the thought. He crawled up the wall and gained the opening without difficulty, and laid out everything that he was going to need.

He was not a moment too soon. The lights carried by the slaving party were coming into distinct view, the prisoners and their guards visible now ahead. With the goggles, he had no difficulty spotting the two duergar in the vanguard, a good fifty paces ahead of the main body. The two scouts—lightly armored, and carrying loaded crossbows—scanned their surroundings intently, although Jaron knew that they would be unable to see him from his relatively high vantage.

The rest wasn’t good. There were three more duergar at the head of the slave train. These were clad in mail, and one of them was a monster of a warrior whose sheer physical presence Jaron could sense even a hundred paces away. The slaves, organized into a line, were further guarded by at least four orcs that Jaron could make out, ugly brutes who carried longspears. They looked to have crossbows slung across their backs, which could mean trouble, he thought.

But his eyes were drawn back to the slaves, chained together in a single line, separated into two distinct groups by size. His heart clenched as he recognized those in the front ranks as halflings. They were still too far away to see clearly, or to make out individual faces, but he could feel the pain that linked them to him. He wondered if Yarine was amongst them, her head low, struggling to summon the courage to continue to lead her people. The thought of her in those filthy pits back in the Horned Hold, tormented by devils and the foul dwarves, filled him with an almost blinding rage. He had to hold it down, however, forced himself to lie utterly still, only the top of his head showing over the lip of the ledge that overlooked the passage below. He’d used some dust to blacken his features, but he need not have bothered; the slaver party was only using a few weak miner’s lamps carried by the orc guards, their glow penetrating barely beyond the immediate area of the chained column. Jaron reminded himself that the dark dwarves needed no light at all.

The duergar scouts approached, moving with cautious deliberation. Jaron realized that the entire group was slowed by the progress of the chained slaves, who he could now see were in poor condition. His gaze was drawn down the length of the halfling prisoners to the first human, ten spaces down the queue, who as he watched stepped into the glow of the lamp carried by one of the orcs, temporarily brightening her features enough for Jaron to identify her.

It was Mara, of course. Jaron had expected to see her, but it was still a shock to see the fighter there, chained like an animal, and he had to deliberately loosen his fingers where they’d tightened around the shaft of his bow.

The scouts came closer, until they were almost on top of him. Careful not to move more than his eyes, Jaron shifted his gaze toward the side passage where Beetle had disappeared. It hadn’t been much more than a minute since they’d parted, Jaron realized, but it felt like hours had passed.

His skin prickled as one of the scouts passed directly beneath his hiding place. He looked across the passage to the ledge where he’d sent Gru, but there was no sign of the goblin. Once again, his eyes dropped to the side passage. He could now hear the clink of the chains as the queue of slaves drew closer. If the slaves were walking past when Beetle returned…

The thought fed fire into his muscles. There was no more time, and he could not afford to hesitate. Rising into a crouch, he fitted an arrow to the string of his bow and drew in a single silent motion. The duergar champion shifted slightly, maybe catching a glimpse of the movement out of the corner of his eye, but he wasn’t Jaron’s target. He released the shot, the faint strum of the bowstring sounding cacophonous to Jaron’s ears.

The orc guard staggered as the arrow slammed into his chest. Jaron knew at once that the shot hadn’t penetrated to a vital organ, but he was already putting his second arrow to the string, shifting his aim to a second orc on the far side of the chain of prisoners. The orc, just starting to turn toward his stricken companion, took the arrow in his side and let out a ragged scream of pain.

The relative quiet that had ruled just moments before exploded into a chaos of noise and confusion. A number of the prisoners cried out, and several fell to the ground as the instinct to flee ran up against the limits of the shackles and chains. The orcs clutched at their weapons, scanning the surrounding tunnels in vain for the source of the attack. The one that had taken the first arrow turned a full circle before settling on a more immediate target for his outrage. Snarling, he lifted his spear toward the string of panicked captives.

The duergar were quicker to recover. The leader had recognized the twang of Jaron’s bow and the subtle whistle of the flying arrow, and by the time the second shot was released, he had tracked the path of the missile back to its source. Lifting his hammer to indicate the sniper’s hiding place, he shouted an order to his companions, pausing to bark a harsh command at the orcs to remain with the prisoners. Ignoring the chaos behind them, the duergar warriors started forward toward the perch where Jaron had taken shelter.

The halfling flinched as a crossbow bolt caromed off the rim of the tunnel mouth less than a hand’s span from his head. The duergar scouts had marked him as well, but all Jaron could see was the wounded orc lifting his spear, and the shrieks of the halflings cringing helpless at his feet, unable to do anything to stop him.

Ignoring the duergar closing in on his position, Jaron drew, aimed, and released.

He cursed as the shot, perhaps marred by some subtle warping in the shaft of the arrow, began to dip almost immediately. He lost it in flight for a fraction of a second, then heard the cry from the orc guard that said the missile had somehow managed to find its target despite the bad shot. The orc’s thrust went wild, the steel head of its spear scraping sparks off of the stone floor. As he spun away, Jaron could see the feathered shaft protruding from the back of the orc’s ankle. The other orcs, perhaps more wary of the anger of the duergar leader, were gathering the prisoners back together in line using the butts of their spears, all too aware of the price that would be extracted from their hides if one of their charges managed to escape.

Jaron started to turn, to look one last time for his cousin, but all he saw was a pair of hands that materialized on the lip of the ledge directly in front of him. Before he could react, even to reach for another arrow, the hands were followed by the fearsome visage of one of the duergar scouts, his beard bristling like a forest of red quills.

With a sudden lunge, the duergar reached out to grab him.

 

[Lazybones]

Chapter 40


Trying to avoid the grasp of the duergar scout, who had a huge advantage in size and weight over him, Jaron sprang back into the cramped mouth of the tunnel behind him. With the passage shrinking down so rapidly to a mere crack within a few paces, there wasn’t much space to retreat, and he hit his head on the low ceiling as he tried to evade the duergar’s attack. The dark dwarf took advantage of the opportunity to pull himself more fully up onto the ledge, blocking any possible route of retreat.

“Yield,” he hissed.

Jaron’s answer was to reach for the hilt of his sword, but before he could draw it he felt a sudden stabbing pain in his arm. He looked down to see several of the thick quills from the duergar’s beard embedded in his skin; they gone through his coat like darts. Almost instantly a fierce burning sensation spread out from the wounds, crawling up his arm.

The duergar saw his distress and smiled, reaching for him again.

Down below, Rundarr and his guards converged below Jaron’s perch. Seeing the enemy sniper apparently contained, the duergar champion turned to make certain that the slaves were under control. The orcs were being free with the butts of their spears, and the duergar bristled at the delay that would follow if any of the slaves earned broken bones.

Neither he nor his men spotted the tiny shadow that emerged from one of the low side-tunnels and slipped to the side. But they heard the scraping noise that followed a few seconds later, rapidly growing in intensity until it seemed to reverberate off the walls.

“Ware!” Rundarr shouted, in the same instant that the first kruthik burst from the crowded tunnel into the open space of the intersection.

Mara’s head swam from where an orc had batted her across the temple with the haft of his spear. Struggling with the pain of her wounded feet and the despair of her circumstances, it had taken her a few seconds to realize that the slaver column was under attack. She’d reacted quickly then, trying to tackle the nearest orc guard, but the chains linking her to her fellow prisoners had caught her as several of the captives had succumbed to panic and tried to scatter in a dozen directions at once. The orc easily evaded her off-balance lunge, and his counter with the butt of his spear had finished the job of sending her to her knees. He followed that with his boot, ruthlessly driving her onto her back. The orc seemed intent on battering her into unconsciousness or worse, and any thought of attack was quickly replaced by a need to protect her already battered body from the creature’s harsh kicks. With her wrists bound behind her, there was little she could do to defend herself.

In that instant, she felt helpless, and was transported back in time to that little girl who’d found herself alone in the world, everything she’d ever had stripped from her by the merciless hand of fate.

Are you just going to lie there and let them kill you? came a voice in her mind, so clear and stark that she was startled into awareness, opening her eyes to see the orc looming over her, his piggish face twisted into a snarl, his boot lifted for another brutal kick.

Penned in by the larger, stronger duergar, Jaron did the only thing he could; he attacked. Pushing off from the wall at his back, he sprang at the evil dwarf. The duergar was waiting for him and had a meaty fist ready, coming across in a hook that would have likely left the halfling missing teeth, had it connected. But with his first step Jaron dropped and dove under the dwarf’s swing, coming up into a roll that planted his bottom right in front of the duergar’s crotch. Drawing his knees up almost to his chin, he snapped his legs out, driving both booted feet into the dwarf’s codpiece.

Jaron was stronger than he looked, and now it was the dwarf that was unbalanced. The duergar stumbled back a half-step, his arms windmilling in an almost comical gesture as he balanced precariously on the very edge of the tunnel opening. For an instant, it looked as though he would recover, but then momentum and gravity conspired against him, and he tumbled over backwards. It was dramatic, although Jaron knew that a fall of nine feet was unlikely to finish off a foe as hardy as a duergar.

Scrabbling for his bow, the halfling pulled himself back up to a crouch and looked over the scene of utter chaos before him.

A violent melee raged in the middle of the intersection. Skittering kruthiks, their spiked limbs clattering on the floor as they moved, were everywhere, shifting and darting as they launched violent attacks upon the embattled duergar. Jaron couldn’t count them immediately, but there had to be at least a dozen, ranging in size from tiny things barely larger than a housecat to armored nasties as big as a wolfhound.

The duergar leader loomed over all other combatants, swollen to almost twice his size by the same inherent magic that Jaron had witnessed in the Horned Hold. As the halfling watched, an adult kruthik launched itself at one of the duergar warriors, and the leader caught it mid-flight with his hammer, delivering a titanic blow that launched the insectoid thing clear across the intersection, caroming off one of the walls before it tumbled at least twenty paces down one of the larger passages. The duergar, moving faster than Jaron had ever seen, reversed the momentum of his swing and caught a second creature with his backswing, flipping it over onto its back. It hissed terribly as it fumbled to recover. A third kruthik sprang up toward the duergar’s legs, stabbing with its sharp foreclaws, but he merely shifted and kicked it away, bringing the heavy hammer up for another strike.

Jaron looked down at the ground directly in front of his perch, where the duergar scout he’d knocked off the ledge was trying to get up. A hint of movement out of the corner of his eye resolved into another kruthik, this one barely half the dwarf’s size, which skittered forward with incredible speed, launching itself onto the duergar before he was even aware of the threat. The dwarf screamed and fell back onto the floor again as the creature slashed at his face and arms, while he struggled to keep it away from him.

Jaron would have preferred to be anywhere but down there, but what he could see of the struggle going on further back down the passage told him that he didn’t have much time to intervene with the slaves. He had no idea where Beetle or Gru were, and couldn’t spare either of them more than a passing thought. Taking a deep breath, he stepped off of the ledge, into the chaos below.

He grabbed the edge of the ledge with one hand as he fell, holding on just for a second before he let go and dropped easily to the floor, transferring his momentum into an all-out run. He gave the struggling duergar scout and kruthik a wide berth, dashing along the near wall, trying not to flinch each time he passed one of the low, narrow tunnels that crisscrossed the entire area. No more kruthiks emerged, and neither the ones already there nor the duergar seemed to notice his passing. From what he’d seen, it didn’t look like the ones already here would last much longer against the duergar; he didn’t have much time.

Then a loud crumbling noise drew his attention to the far side of the intersection, toward the small tunnel where the kruthik had originally appeared. He almost tripped over his own feet as the wall surrounding the tunnel mouth exploded outward, and another kruthik, this one the size of a horse, stepped through the debris into the intersection. It let out a shriek that seemed to shake the walls, and started forward. To Jaron it looked like it was coming straight for him, but as the duergar champion shifted to meet it, he saw that he was fortunately too small to be noticed by either side as a threat.

Then he was past the melee, and the column of slaves was ahead, jumbled into a crowded circle, surrounded by the orc guards. The orcs were all turned away from him, either focused on their prisoners or on the battle between the up-sized duergar leader and the kruthik hive lord. Jaron reached for an arrow, intent on striking before the guards were even aware he was there.

But even as he drew the arrow out of his quiver, a low-pitched hiss from behind him sent a cold chill down his spine. He glanced over his shoulder to see another kruthik charging at him from behind. The thing was barely larger than he was, but it looked no less deadly for that, its claws digging at the floor hard enough to scratch the stone. No doubt they’d pierce his body like daggers, he thought.

A shout from ahead answered the creature’s hiss from behind. Jaron turned back to see that one of the orcs had in fact noticed him, and as he drew closer, the warrior lowered his spear, the steel head coming down to intercept the halfling’s charge.

Caught between a steel point on one side and a set of vicious claws on the other, Jaron found himself suddenly without any good options.

 

[Lazybones]

Chapter 41


The voice in her mind stirred Mara to action, even as the orc slammed his booted heel down once more at her battered body.

With her hands bound behind her back, and the chain still binding her to the other prisoners, there was little she could do to evade. But she twisted her body, taking the kick on her shoulder instead of her vulnerable torso. Pain shot through her body, but she forced herself to ignore it, turning her body further and snapping up her bound arms. There wasn’t much give in the chain, but she managed to hook a loop of it around the orc’s boot, and jerked her entire body forward to pull him off balance.

The orc grunted something and tried to pull free, yanking hard enough that Mara thought her arms would be pulled out of their sockets. But now the tangling chain served as an anchor, holding the orc in place. She knew it wouldn’t hold him long, and bent her legs back to deliver a blind kick toward where she thought the orc was standing. Her bare foot clipped the shin of his other foot hard, but her momentary sense of triumph died as two hundred and fifty pounds of armored orc tumbled onto her. Her breath was blasted from her lungs, and new pains erupted as the hard edges of the orc’s armor and gear poked her.

Without her hands, she couldn’t fight him off, and he was too heavy for her to wriggle free. She fought for a breath, gasping as the orc’s struggles continued to batter her. At least he wasn’t kicking her any more, she thought, as the stink of the orc’s body filled her nostrils. His squealing sounded like shrieks in her ears.

Then, abruptly, she felt the orc stiffen, and a new, familiar stench filled her nostrils as a trail of hot wetness ran down along her neck. The orc moved again, but it was only to roll off her.

Sucking in a welcome breath of air, Mara pulled herself up to find herself eye-to-eye with Beetle. The halfling was holding a knife covered in blood.

“Hi, Mara!” he said with a grin.

While Mara fought for her life, Jaron faced off against a spear and a charging kruthik. Without time to think over options, and remembering all too well the image of the kruthik jumping all over the fallen duergar scout, he simply acted. He was too close to dodge out of the way of the spearhead, so all he could do was jerk to the side as the steel blade came at him. He felt the hot pain of the blade as it tore a crease along his side, but it didn’t penetrate, didn’t catch on his flesh or his clothes, and then he was through, and inside the guard’s reach. The orc tried to bring his weapon back up in time to strike the halfling, but Jaron was far too quick, and he darted between the orc’s legs before the warrior could do anything to stop him. The orc started to turn after him, but then the kruthik, charging forward, was on him, and he found his hands more than full with sixty pounds of insane reptilian violence.

The other orc guards were quite occupied as well. Another was barely holding off a small kruthik with his spear, shifting wildly as it skittered back and forth in an attempt to get at him. Another guard was wrestling with a pair of human miners for control of his spear; a third human lay bleeding out his life at their feet. The last orc lay in a bloody heap next to Mara, his throat cut; Jaron saw the reason for that a moment later as he skidded to a halt next to her, and saw Beetle, helping to pull the long chain out from the shackles connecting the woman warrior to the panicked halflings cowering nearby.

Jaron didn’t stop for conversation; he lifted his bow and sighted on the orc fighting with the human miners. He was just in time, as the orc tore free, knocking both men prone and lifting his spear to skewer the nearest. Unfortunately for him, Jaron’s arrow beat him to the punch, and he fell to his knees, the spear clattering from his grasp. The men were back on him in a second, pounding at the crippled orc with their manacled wrists.

“Nice to see you,” Mara said, grimacing as she thrust her bound wrists under her feet so they were in front of her. While Beetle freed her from the chain, she stood unsteadily. She was in bad shape, Jaron could see, but that didn’t stop her from reaching down and picking up the orc’s fallen spear. She could barely keep a grip on it with the shackles pinning her hands together, but she looked no less fierce for it.

“We have to get out of here!” Jaron hissed. Mara nodded, taking up a guarding position as Beetle released the last of the slaves from the linking chain. Their wrists were still shackled together, but there was no time to free them from the iron bands now. The battle raging just a few paces away was still going strong, but there were only a few kruthik still moving, and even as he watched the duergar leader delivered a powerful blow to the hive lord that knocked it over onto its side, its limbs flailing in every direction as it tried in vain to recover. One of the duergar was down, but the others had taken up warding positions around him, surrounded by the pulverized carcasses of a half-dozen kruthiks of varying sizes.

“Go, go!” Mara warned, holding the spear clumsily as she warded their retreat. The surviving orc guards, distracted by their own enemies, paid them no heed. The one that had been poking at the kruthik with his spear finally pinned and impaled his foe; he might have noticed the escaping prisoners, except for the arrow that Jaron fired into his back. He sagged against the wall of the tunnel, trying in vain to grab the shaft jutting from his body.

The other orc, the one that had nearly stabbed Jaron, was faring less well. The kruthik barely came up to mid-thigh on him, but it was ripping madly at his legs with its long claws, leaving the orc bleeding from several serious wounds. The orc was trying to push it away with his spear, but the creature was too dogged, springing up at him in an attempt to simply overpower him. It was an odd thing, watching the little monster hacking fearlessly at a foe several times its size, and for a moment Jaron just stood there, an arrow nocked to his half-drawn bow.

It was Mara who finally shook him out of the momentary reverie. “Let’s go!” she hissed in his ear, yanking him back with a hand on his shoulder. Turning, Jaron saw that the others were already gone, heading back down the passage, the weak light from a miner’s lamp already growing dimmer as the freed slaves fled.

With one last look at the bloody mess behind him, Jaron turned and fled after them.