Lazybones's Keep on the Shadowfell/Thunderspire Labyrinth

[Lazybones]

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.”

 

[Lazybones]

Chapter 65


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.

 

[Lazybones]

Chapter 66


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.

 

[Lazybones]

Chapter 67


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.

 

[carborundum]

YIPES!!!

Awesome update again, Lazybones! Do we really have to wait DAYS for this cliffhanger to be resolved? It's so unfair!

 

[WetWombat]

Friday's cliffhanger day! Isn't it?

THE Wombat! (Wet)

 

[Neurotic]

Yes, friday

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...

Go, Lazybones!

 

[WetWombat]

Ah yes, Friday is Make 'em SQUIRM All Weekend While They Wait To See What Happens Next Cliffhanger Day! I forgot!

Go Lazybones, Kliffhanger KING!

THE Wombat! (Slightly Damp)

Edited to fix my smileys

 

[Lazybones]

Thanks for the posts, guys!

Today's more setup, Friday the cliffhanger, of course.

* * * * *

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.

 

[Lazybones]

Chapter 69


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.