Lazybones
Adventurer
Book VII, Part 53
With an angry yell Benzan blasted into the chamber, tearing into Delem even as the sorcerer turned his head toward the onrushing tiefling. The two collided in a violent rush that barreled both of them toward the center of the chamber. Both remained standing as they broke apart and turned toward each other, Delem staggering as he clutched a red gash in his side where Benzan’s sword had cut into him.
“I’ll kill you, you bastard,” Benzan hissed, coming in again without hesitation, his steps moving in a smooth dance, his sword cutting a deadly swath.
Delem dodged aside, too slow to avoid the strike, but the blade met resistance as it hit again, deflected by a magical field of force. The sorcerer had not neglected his defenses.
“Fool!” he hissed. “I am already dead!” Benzan spun into another attack move, but Delem darted back a step, and called upon the power of a spell. A roaring wave of fire erupted from his fingertips, washing over the tiefling. Benzan could not avoid the flames, but the innate resistance granted by his otherworldly heritage helped him withstand the force of the burning hands.
“Is that the best you got?” Benzan yelled, leaping into another attack. This time the sword struck deep, piercing Delem’s defenses and stabbing several inches into the meaty thickness of his shoulder. The sorcerer fell back again, but did not cry out. He raised his hand to cast another spell, but Benzan was faster, lunging again in a thrust focused on the sorcerer’s heart.
But before he could connect, pain exploded through his back. He plunged forward, his muscles stiffening, his limbs jerking uncontrollably as he staggered past Delem and fell. He managed to use his momentum to roll, knowing that remaining still was death, and did not stop until he felt the hard stone of the chamber wall against his back. Struggling against the waves of pain that continued to echo through his body, he fought to get up, without success.
Delem’s chuckle drew his attention up again. The sorcerer was standing beside a second figure, a vague form wreathed in dark garments. As he watched, Delem took a strange staff from the newcomer, a thick pole with a bulb of dark metal at each end.
“I hope you enjoy the touch of the kabbak-johr,” Delem said, flourishing the strange weapon. “Its caress is a lesson in pain that few mortals get to experience.” The shadowy figure remained behind the sorcerer, not moving, and to Benzan’s eyes there seemed to be something strange about him, something unnatural that he couldn’t quite place.
Delem noticed his attention and glanced at the stranger. “I believe that you already know my companion,” he said, with a dark laugh. With a wave of his hand he called a cantrip, a pair of hovering flames that drove back the unnatural darkness enough to clearly illuminate the stranger’s face, highlighting features that had been too vague to identify with his darkvision.
Benzan sucked in a breath, surprised. “Guthan!”
The dark cleric showed no reaction, but Delem chuckled once more. “Yes. Strange, how the currents of fate draw us back around to where we began, connect the many disparate threads of our lives.” He walked around the silent figure, drawing his hand across the man’s shoulder as he passed him. “He would greet you, have many things to say to you, no doubt, but sadly, his rebirth has shattered what little remained of his mind. Still, he has provided a valuable service, acting as the conduit that brought us here...”
He laughed again, but Benzan paid little heed to his words. Already the pain caused by that strange weapon was beginning to fade, and he felt control over his muscles returning. His gaze was fixed beyond Delem, at a limp form near the entrance of the chamber, her convulsions faded, now lying there unmoving, lifeless. A red haze filled his vision, and a fury beyond anything he’d ever felt added fuel to the fire burning inside him, a fury that he fed until it seemed that his body would burst with it.
Delem turned back to him, and suddenly he saw it, too, his eyes widening with surprise. “And now you too must die, Benzan,” he said, his hand coming back, his hand wreathed with eager flames.
“Garrrrr!” Benzan roared, leaping up into a full charge. A bead of fire erupted from Delem’s hand and streaked past the charging form, exploding against the wall where he’d been standing a moment before. Benzan hurtled forward even as the fireball opened into its full size, its force adding to his leap as he landed in a smooth roll and came up, sword swinging at Delem’s torso.
The sorcerer leapt back, but not quickly enough to avoid another deep gash across his midsection. Clearly Delem had to be hurting, now, but the man seemed to be immune to pain, powered by whatever unholy connection had restored him to life, and his skin had taken on the thickness of old leather, making the cuts less damaging than they would otherwise have been. Benzan, lost in a rage, pressed his attack, but as Delem gave ground the undead Guthan leapt into the gap, forcing the tiefling to divert himself from his target. Benzan ducked the undead cleric’s first attack, a clumsy but powerful attack from his bone-handled mace, but before he could bypass him a series of magic missiles slammed into his body from Delem’s outstretched fingers.
“Kill him!” Delem shrieked, and the Guthan-creature came in at him again, while Delem hefted his demon-weapon in both hands, coming in from the other side.
But before they could reach him, Benzan called down a sphere of darkness, wreathing them all in an utter blackness that even the strange visual aura of this chamber could not penetrate. Using the power of his sword, he silently lifted himself into the air, emerging from the darkness and rising swiftly to the ceiling, using the power of his ring of shadows to hide himself from view. Quickly he used his leverage against the ceiling to move toward the nearest wall.
But before he got far, another fireball streaked out of the darkness, straight up toward the ceiling. Unable to dodge this time, Benzan cried out as the hot flames exploded around him, blasting his flesh, searing him with a pain almost as great as the touch of the kabbak-johr.
“I know all your tricks, Benzan!” Delem shouted from below.
The force of the blast knocked him roughly to the side, slamming him against the wall, and then he was falling, barely able to control the magic enough to keep himself from impacting with full force against the hard stone floor. As it was, he barely clung to consciousness, sprawled all but helpless against the cold stone, only vaguely aware of the presence that was drawing nearer.
He managed to lift his head enough to see Delem’s legs a good ten paces away. Too far to do anything about it, even if he could manage to lift the sword that still rested in his limp hand. The blade had not abandoned him, but it looked as though it would soon find a new owner.
Delem spoke a word of power, and a glowing shaft of fire erupted from his hand, forming into a lance of solid flames. The point extended until it was just an arm’s length from Benzan’s face.
“Time to die, ‘friend’.”
* * * * *
Monday: the conclusion of Book VII
With an angry yell Benzan blasted into the chamber, tearing into Delem even as the sorcerer turned his head toward the onrushing tiefling. The two collided in a violent rush that barreled both of them toward the center of the chamber. Both remained standing as they broke apart and turned toward each other, Delem staggering as he clutched a red gash in his side where Benzan’s sword had cut into him.
“I’ll kill you, you bastard,” Benzan hissed, coming in again without hesitation, his steps moving in a smooth dance, his sword cutting a deadly swath.
Delem dodged aside, too slow to avoid the strike, but the blade met resistance as it hit again, deflected by a magical field of force. The sorcerer had not neglected his defenses.
“Fool!” he hissed. “I am already dead!” Benzan spun into another attack move, but Delem darted back a step, and called upon the power of a spell. A roaring wave of fire erupted from his fingertips, washing over the tiefling. Benzan could not avoid the flames, but the innate resistance granted by his otherworldly heritage helped him withstand the force of the burning hands.
“Is that the best you got?” Benzan yelled, leaping into another attack. This time the sword struck deep, piercing Delem’s defenses and stabbing several inches into the meaty thickness of his shoulder. The sorcerer fell back again, but did not cry out. He raised his hand to cast another spell, but Benzan was faster, lunging again in a thrust focused on the sorcerer’s heart.
But before he could connect, pain exploded through his back. He plunged forward, his muscles stiffening, his limbs jerking uncontrollably as he staggered past Delem and fell. He managed to use his momentum to roll, knowing that remaining still was death, and did not stop until he felt the hard stone of the chamber wall against his back. Struggling against the waves of pain that continued to echo through his body, he fought to get up, without success.
Delem’s chuckle drew his attention up again. The sorcerer was standing beside a second figure, a vague form wreathed in dark garments. As he watched, Delem took a strange staff from the newcomer, a thick pole with a bulb of dark metal at each end.
“I hope you enjoy the touch of the kabbak-johr,” Delem said, flourishing the strange weapon. “Its caress is a lesson in pain that few mortals get to experience.” The shadowy figure remained behind the sorcerer, not moving, and to Benzan’s eyes there seemed to be something strange about him, something unnatural that he couldn’t quite place.
Delem noticed his attention and glanced at the stranger. “I believe that you already know my companion,” he said, with a dark laugh. With a wave of his hand he called a cantrip, a pair of hovering flames that drove back the unnatural darkness enough to clearly illuminate the stranger’s face, highlighting features that had been too vague to identify with his darkvision.
Benzan sucked in a breath, surprised. “Guthan!”
The dark cleric showed no reaction, but Delem chuckled once more. “Yes. Strange, how the currents of fate draw us back around to where we began, connect the many disparate threads of our lives.” He walked around the silent figure, drawing his hand across the man’s shoulder as he passed him. “He would greet you, have many things to say to you, no doubt, but sadly, his rebirth has shattered what little remained of his mind. Still, he has provided a valuable service, acting as the conduit that brought us here...”
He laughed again, but Benzan paid little heed to his words. Already the pain caused by that strange weapon was beginning to fade, and he felt control over his muscles returning. His gaze was fixed beyond Delem, at a limp form near the entrance of the chamber, her convulsions faded, now lying there unmoving, lifeless. A red haze filled his vision, and a fury beyond anything he’d ever felt added fuel to the fire burning inside him, a fury that he fed until it seemed that his body would burst with it.
Delem turned back to him, and suddenly he saw it, too, his eyes widening with surprise. “And now you too must die, Benzan,” he said, his hand coming back, his hand wreathed with eager flames.
“Garrrrr!” Benzan roared, leaping up into a full charge. A bead of fire erupted from Delem’s hand and streaked past the charging form, exploding against the wall where he’d been standing a moment before. Benzan hurtled forward even as the fireball opened into its full size, its force adding to his leap as he landed in a smooth roll and came up, sword swinging at Delem’s torso.
The sorcerer leapt back, but not quickly enough to avoid another deep gash across his midsection. Clearly Delem had to be hurting, now, but the man seemed to be immune to pain, powered by whatever unholy connection had restored him to life, and his skin had taken on the thickness of old leather, making the cuts less damaging than they would otherwise have been. Benzan, lost in a rage, pressed his attack, but as Delem gave ground the undead Guthan leapt into the gap, forcing the tiefling to divert himself from his target. Benzan ducked the undead cleric’s first attack, a clumsy but powerful attack from his bone-handled mace, but before he could bypass him a series of magic missiles slammed into his body from Delem’s outstretched fingers.
“Kill him!” Delem shrieked, and the Guthan-creature came in at him again, while Delem hefted his demon-weapon in both hands, coming in from the other side.
But before they could reach him, Benzan called down a sphere of darkness, wreathing them all in an utter blackness that even the strange visual aura of this chamber could not penetrate. Using the power of his sword, he silently lifted himself into the air, emerging from the darkness and rising swiftly to the ceiling, using the power of his ring of shadows to hide himself from view. Quickly he used his leverage against the ceiling to move toward the nearest wall.
But before he got far, another fireball streaked out of the darkness, straight up toward the ceiling. Unable to dodge this time, Benzan cried out as the hot flames exploded around him, blasting his flesh, searing him with a pain almost as great as the touch of the kabbak-johr.
“I know all your tricks, Benzan!” Delem shouted from below.
The force of the blast knocked him roughly to the side, slamming him against the wall, and then he was falling, barely able to control the magic enough to keep himself from impacting with full force against the hard stone floor. As it was, he barely clung to consciousness, sprawled all but helpless against the cold stone, only vaguely aware of the presence that was drawing nearer.
He managed to lift his head enough to see Delem’s legs a good ten paces away. Too far to do anything about it, even if he could manage to lift the sword that still rested in his limp hand. The blade had not abandoned him, but it looked as though it would soon find a new owner.
Delem spoke a word of power, and a glowing shaft of fire erupted from his hand, forming into a lance of solid flames. The point extended until it was just an arm’s length from Benzan’s face.
“Time to die, ‘friend’.”
* * * * *
Monday: the conclusion of Book VII
Last edited:
), and there will be an epilogue that reveals something of the ultimate fate of the survivors of the little band that first met at a lonely crossroads out in the empty vastness of the Western Heartlands. 
