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<blockquote data-quote="Lazybones" data-source="post: 4802091" data-attributes="member: 143"><p>Chapter 39</p><p></p><p></p><p>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. </p><p></p><p>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. </p><p></p><p>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. </p><p></p><p>It wasn’t as if they were going to have to worry about marching them back. </p><p></p><p>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. </p><p></p><p>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—<em>when</em>, she told herself—an opportunity for escape presented itself. </p><p></p><p>But with each painful step forward, it seemed as though that chance was becoming more and more remote. </p><p></p><p>“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. </p><p></p><p>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. </p><p></p><p>“How long?” Gru asked. </p><p></p><p>“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.</p><p></p><p>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. </p><p></p><p>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. </p><p></p><p>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. </p><p></p><p>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. </p><p></p><p>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.”</p><p></p><p>“Stab an’ run,” Beetle said, miming the former with a thrust of his fist.</p><p></p><p>“Be careful.” </p><p></p><p>Beetle grinned, and darted into a side passage barely larger than he was.</p><p></p><p>“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!” </p><p></p><p>“If we’re lucky, two troubles will cancel each other out,” he said, thinking back to the Horned Hold. </p><p></p><p>“It never work. They no need ears, eyes… they <em>feel</em> steps, through stone. Never sneak up on them!” </p><p></p><p>Jaron turned to him in alarm. “What? Why didn’t you warn me of this earlier?”</p><p></p><p>The goblin threw up his hands. “I not stop warning! I say this crazy, bad idea, all of it, you not listen!”</p><p></p><p>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. </p><p></p><p>“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. </p><p> </p><p>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. </p><p></p><p>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. </p><p></p><p>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 <em>feel</em> 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. </p><p></p><p>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. </p><p></p><p>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. </p><p></p><p>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. </p><p></p><p>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…</p><p></p><p>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. </p><p></p><p>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. </p><p></p><p>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. </p><p></p><p>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. </p><p></p><p>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. </p><p></p><p>Ignoring the duergar closing in on his position, Jaron drew, aimed, and released. </p><p></p><p>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. </p><p></p><p>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. </p><p></p><p>With a sudden lunge, the duergar reached out to grab him.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Lazybones, post: 4802091, member: 143"] 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—[i]when[/i], 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 [i]feel[/i] 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 [i]feel[/i] 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. [/QUOTE]
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Lazybones's Keep on the Shadowfell/Thunderspire Labyrinth
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