Side by side, the trio pressed back down into the gloom.
Their departure had been without ceremony, a whispered command from Jardon to the rearguard had seen them slip quietly down the stairs, unfollowed by prisoner or warden. It had taken the old jailer a moment to reconcile his abandonment of his charge with duty, but his current belief was that the enemy would be found below. So long as he remained between peril and his wards, he could not fault himself too fiercely.
For his part, he found himself gripped by a sense of excitement long absent. It wasn't simply the thrill of action after a long abatement, this was deeper. It reeked of the divine, the blessing of his God. How rare are the times in a man's life, how precious, when he can say without hesitation or doubt, without the possibility of refutement, that he is doing the right thing. He felt the approval of Morrow within, a certainty, an ineffable sensation. He was a tool in the hand of one who was more than mortal, a hand that would not slip.
Sansa, by contrast, appeared riddled with doubt. She glanced up the stairs, into every crevice and chasm. She'd always been a dour creature, now she seemed on the verge of panic. The invasion of the monsters of the Nightmare isle had transformed her from jailer to prisoner, if only of fear. Her paranoid soul whispered within her, demanding a sense of safety that was simply not in the offing. Alone of the three she clutched her weapon, carrying a blade before her where the other two bore torches. Jardon thought to comment on it, but something deflected his impulse. Perhaps it was a reverence for the silence.
Solomon Brucker moved with an obvious excitement. Taking steps two or three at a time with a released prisoner's enthusiasm and verve. He looked for all the world as though they descended into the earth to pick up treasures, or receive the adulation of the masses. Unless you knew the man the last thing you'd associate his demeanor with was a prelude to battle with a vile foe. If you knew the man, you'd guess that immediately.
Their encounter was almost an anti-climax. Jardon had been steeling his nerves for another of the sudden rushes from the night which had characterized his earlier battle. He was prepared to lash out with the torch, to leap into the enemy or to fall back, as their numbers dictated. Instead, they ran into the foe in a far more typical fashion.
At the bottom of the stairs, in the same defensive position initially occupied by the Ordic forces, the enemy had left a platoon of their vile thralls, ten in number. They didn't lurk in the shadows, didn't dart about or hide, they simply stood. Obedient to whatever commanded them, Jardon had no doubt they would so stand until they rotted.
He half expected Solomon to simply run towards the enemy, torch waving, and he wasn't that far off. Before they moved out, however, the Warcaster moved his hands in a curt gesture and said something under his breathe. Jardon felt the power surge and recede, he was no sensitive, but neither was Brucker terribly subtle. He'd ensorceled the trio, and, that done, he fulfilled the Jailer's expectation, leading them down the last stairs and straight into the enemy's midst.
The enemy's ***** lack of motion came to an end the instant a living being set foot off of the stairs. Too late it occurred to the warden that they might have been able to simply pick the thralls off from beyond their instructed range. He cursed softly, breaking at last the unnatural stillness that had gripped them, and nearly costing Sansa her life as her head snapped around to bring him into her sight.
As the first thrall approached him Jardon discovered what the Warcaster's spell had done. He felt the enemy's potential, could visualize the path's its attacks could take and pick and choose his responses with a master's calm and precision. The theurgy bestowed upon the trio the defensive prowess of master duelist's. He quelled the concern that he felt at the thought of a man manipulating such power without the mitigating power of the traditional Warcaster armor. Then he had no time for such thoughts, for the battle was upon him.
His foe struck at him with it's left arm, and ranging hook intended to draw a response, not on a trajectory to actually strike. With his enhanced perceptions he ignored it completely, bringing his torch up in a two handed blow to the enemy's grinning skull, a shower of embers lighting the air as the thrall toppled into the embrace of it's compatriots.
A pair of the animated corpses had been following closely on the heels of his first opponent, and it's toppling form hampered one of their approach, and let him take on the next one without interference. He needed the time, as it wasted no time with preliminaries. It attacked with a pair of blows, one high and one low, and while the jailer's perceptions were enhanced his old body lacked the flexibility necessary to counterstrike and avoid injury. He was forced to step back, giving ground and waiting his chance.
As he stepped away he saw a bright flash from Solomon's position at the front of the wedge, and a pair of thralls toppled back, singed and smoking. The blast had been poorly controlled however, and the unarmored caster was caught in it's backdraft, tossed like a ragdoll to the ground.
Jardon had no more time to observe his comrade's plight, however, as the pair advanced together. He strode into their reach before he could question the impulses of the enchantment, and watched in amazement as the left hand foe's hook intercepted the back of it's comrade, blasting through the corpse's back with a spine shattering crack. He took advantage of it's impaired balance with a torch thrust to the chest which set the creature ablaze.
Suddenly, and without visible cause, everything seemed to speed up. The blazing thrall rushed towards him, and his suddenly unaided perceptions told him naught. It's arms spread wide, flames halo-ing it's attacks like a rippling vestment, and a sharp steel tongue protruded from it's skull.
It slumped limply forward, the "tongue" revealed as Sansa's blade. She stood behind the thrall, the rest of the enemy were crumpled and scattered about, felled and shattered by spell and steel. His glad smile was cut short as she made a curt gesture over her shoulder, to where Prisoner of Consequence 413 lay still and silent.