Inside their dwelling, Danil was taciturn as ever concerning what he had
read in note. That is, until the maid had cleared the table and departed to
her own quarters. Duragon looked up attentively as his cousin began to
speak.
"T'is a simple letter from the last of my rangers. He has located the lair of the accursed sorcerers, but they have taken his companions. At present, he says he can enter the lair and save them, but requests that we summon aid from without - either the tower of the mages, or the Order of the Silver Hand."
"As things are, I cannot leave the town. Ere the morn comes however, I shall send off a messenger to the north. Mayhap we shall hear some reply within a day or two."
So saying, Danil arose and headed for the door to the dwelling. Turning at the last moment, he regarded his cousin. "Pray to the gods that we obtain some help." He hastened through the doorway. Duragon nodded absently, picking up the note from where it lay upon the table and perusing its contents. Stroking his beard, he secreted it among his clothes before heading out to the house of the record keeper.
* * * * * * *
With silent skill and precision the shadow flowed through the great and ancient halls. Of a time, this had been a great dwelling of the good and pious, devoting themselves to betterment of others. However, ancient minds had turned from others to themselves. Of their end it was recorded, though not how they died. Now others followed their evil ways, seeking to resurrect the evil powers that had brought so much devastation.
Time here however seemed to all but stand still. No hurry pervaded the ancient corridors, even though the shadows made haste in their paths. Of solid rock they were carved, and though containing no magic, they yet radiated a modicum of magics cast long ago.
Many passages he tried, failing still to find that which he sought. Fits of despair threatened to overshade. He tired of the feeling of helplessness that wandering here seemed to bring. Still he pressed ever onward into the seeming labyrinth of gloom. Finally he stilled his feet and listened.
Of a first, there came no sound to where he stood silent and unmoving. Minutes passed, and he, already chafing at the delay, made to move on again when a rustle of silken fabrics came to ear. Unmoving, the ranger praised the God of Light for the protection of his concealment. Presently a dark form swept along the way, pompous in it's stride. Forward it pressed, seeming to be in eager haste.
Once more did he take up the trail; but this time with a guide.
* * * * * * *
Dark mind full of evil thoughts, the dark elf Garrel walked the stone corridors of the dark fortress. What mattered it that he was the least of the dark ones? He could therefore enjoy himself more - though truth be told, he did more work than any of the others. His last catch was the most noble so far, and he intended to have his use out of them before he lost them to the dark experiments of the other wizards. He walked unawares of the shadow that he had picked up. His intentions served to cloud his senses.
A hurried pace he kept throughout the darkened passages, till he came at last to the door of a holding cell, deep under the ground. Pausing for a moments span, his dark eyes gleamed with an unnatural light. Speaking the word of command, he eased open the door. There upon the floor lay the objects of his desire.
Fierce and smoldering were the gazes that fixed upon his visage as soon as he stepped foot in the room. The two were bound hand and foot, and even now as he laughed, a certain fear began to creep into their hearts. "Begone fiend!" Nassiel spat as he drew nearer.
"Nay, I shall not." An amused glance over the prey. "I have other things in mind. Perhaps, if you allowed yourselves, you might find it pleasurable."
Valia shuddered at the passions which lay behind his gaze, even now his intentions clear. "Never. We would die first, than be so disgraced." Her eyes blazed cold fury, causing the dark elf to back a step. "You would, would you? Alas that you should find it so. Yet I shall give you cause to regret your rash decision. I take your apprentice firstly."
"Nay, shalt not lay one hand upon her."
A clear voice rang out from behind him, and Garrel spun on his heel to confront the intruder. A tall elven ranger stood framed in the doorway, sword in hand, grim death in his eyes. As the dark elf raised hand and voice to cast a spell, the foe lunged forward. Fire flew from Garrel's fingertips, scorching the ranger's side as he twisted away from the attack.
Yet still he pressed inward, his blade glowing white as he plunged it into the wizard's heart. The dark elf stiffened, then plunged forward on his face. Burned and bleeding, the ranger crawled over to the captives and cut the cords that bound their hands. Nassiel bounded to her feet and retrieved the sword of their rescuer and stood guard at the door, whilst Valia tended to his wound. With his side firmly bandaged, Thallien finally arose and took from under his cloak a second short sword and passed it to his elder.
Valia took the familiar weapon almost reverently, then led the way into the hall. Silent stood the one and twain; still as the breathless morn. In noiseless, unmarked way did Valia Riversong lead her pupils; ever and anon upward. But once did she pause in the journey, to retrieve the weapons that had been taken and stored in a chamber just off of the gate. Melting into the shadows of the forest, the three took their path southward.
T'was eventide, and the rangers had lain in their encampment for the span of about five hours. Thallien lay in a deep slumber, whilst Nassiel kept constant watch to the north. Valia merely meditated, while her hand still gripped her blade, ready for action. That their escape should pass unnoticed was unthinkable, for the ancient fortress bespoke of magicks unknown, and mayhap a spell of revelation would speak of events as they had availed themselves.
"We return to Undermane."
Nassiel turned towards her elder, questions unasked hanging upon her brow. Valia arose slowly from her seated posture, grey eyes glinting in the remaining light of the setting sun.
"T'is time. Naught more can we here than what is already accomplished. And he," gesturing at the remaining member of the party, "needs rest. Also the ministry of a cleric or healer, if one is available; none of which pertain to remaining."
Even as she spoke, Thallien arose, wincing nigh imperceptibly at the pain from his wound. Though healed enough to allow travel, their skill fell short of one trained precisely in that art.
"Enough. While we still have light, let us forge ahead."
With the swiftness common to their race, camp was broken, and by sundown no trace remained of their presence in that place.
* * * * *
A lone rider approached the forbidding mass that was the tower of the mages. His horse was lathered with sweat, and the man atop looked weary nigh unto death. Nevertheless, he would not be dissuaded from his mission until he had presented his case. Therefore, council had been called and the messenger allowed to state his purpose.
Behind the closed and assuredly locked doors, rose a murmur of voices. At times a purvey of silence alluded to the fact that the messenger was speaking his piece, mayhap those summoned were reading some parchment that he had brought. To those outside the chamber, speculation was a trite way of passing the time while waiting for the news to become general. Most of the mages in the tower wore blue robes, but for the tall man by the window, it made for a dull showing.
Bertrand, (called by some, "The Bold") disdained to walk quite in step with his fellow mages. Which is why he opted for a patterned cloak of yellow and gray. And also why he sat by the window and calmly viewed the open sky, understanding immediately why the messenger had come. Someone, somewhere, needed help. Of the arcane sort, to be sure. Otherwise they wouldn't have sent to the mages. Of course his fellows could conjecture and lecture about whatever they liked. The tidings were of little consequence at present. Only that the messenger would likely ride to the south again with little or no hope of help.
The creaking of a door interrupted his mental ruminations, and the messenger came staggering out, head hung low and guided by one of the younger apprentices. Bertrand frowned. Doubtless they would be heading to the sparse guest quarters, where the unfortunate rider would get a few hours sleep before heading back from whence he had come. With a quiet whisper of fabric, the mage arose and followed. He soon found that his long experience had stood him in good stead as the apprentice entered the guest wing and led the man into a small, but tidy room. In a few moments, the lad appeared again in the hall, shutting the door soundlessly whilst shaking his head.
"Young Hawkeye."
The young man turned, regarding the older mage with care. "Yes? How may I be of service, sir?"
Bertrand waved his hand. "None of that stuffiness around me. You have a knack for seeing things..." (It was true, the lad had earned his name by one such feat. It was now embroidered into the front of his robe as his symbol.) "Tell me, what do you know of this man, and what was his message."
The apprentice looked thoughtful. "Aye. Of him I know precious little, save that he is a messenger from the south. News from there suggests that they are in a battle to keep the lands cleared of demons that keep showing themselves more frequently nowadays. However, his was a mission that did not deal with that."
The lad paused momentarily, considering. "Whatever his message dealt with, it caused great consternation amongst the elders. However, as is their wont, they declined an answer, and I heard it whispered that we must look to our own defenses first. I fear that no good answer will leave with our rider." He glanced at the door. "One glance of the parchment reveals that it is written by a knight, and a second that he fears that 'these beings, if arisen again, be beyond his power - seeing he has no training in wizardly arts.' I assume that he is dealing with enemy sorcerers of some type, perhaps ancient."
Bertrand chuckled warmly and nodded at the youth. "My thoughts exactly. You are using that head of yours well. Keep on my dear sir, and you shall rival me yet." Then growing serious. "But whatever happens, detain the messenger until I have a chance to speak with him. I fear that his mission requires haste, and I would know for an exactment what it entails. For though the mage tower refuse aid, when has that ever stopped Bertrand the Bold?"
"No answer is required, lad." As Hawkeye struggled to think of an answer. "Think of your charge. I have inquiries to make."
"T'is a simple letter from the last of my rangers. He has located the lair of the accursed sorcerers, but they have taken his companions. At present, he says he can enter the lair and save them, but requests that we summon aid from without - either the tower of the mages, or the Order of the Silver Hand."
"As things are, I cannot leave the town. Ere the morn comes however, I shall send off a messenger to the north. Mayhap we shall hear some reply within a day or two."
So saying, Danil arose and headed for the door to the dwelling. Turning at the last moment, he regarded his cousin. "Pray to the gods that we obtain some help." He hastened through the doorway. Duragon nodded absently, picking up the note from where it lay upon the table and perusing its contents. Stroking his beard, he secreted it among his clothes before heading out to the house of the record keeper.
* * * * * * *
With silent skill and precision the shadow flowed through the great and ancient halls. Of a time, this had been a great dwelling of the good and pious, devoting themselves to betterment of others. However, ancient minds had turned from others to themselves. Of their end it was recorded, though not how they died. Now others followed their evil ways, seeking to resurrect the evil powers that had brought so much devastation.
Time here however seemed to all but stand still. No hurry pervaded the ancient corridors, even though the shadows made haste in their paths. Of solid rock they were carved, and though containing no magic, they yet radiated a modicum of magics cast long ago.
Many passages he tried, failing still to find that which he sought. Fits of despair threatened to overshade. He tired of the feeling of helplessness that wandering here seemed to bring. Still he pressed ever onward into the seeming labyrinth of gloom. Finally he stilled his feet and listened.
Of a first, there came no sound to where he stood silent and unmoving. Minutes passed, and he, already chafing at the delay, made to move on again when a rustle of silken fabrics came to ear. Unmoving, the ranger praised the God of Light for the protection of his concealment. Presently a dark form swept along the way, pompous in it's stride. Forward it pressed, seeming to be in eager haste.
Once more did he take up the trail; but this time with a guide.
* * * * * * *
Dark mind full of evil thoughts, the dark elf Garrel walked the stone corridors of the dark fortress. What mattered it that he was the least of the dark ones? He could therefore enjoy himself more - though truth be told, he did more work than any of the others. His last catch was the most noble so far, and he intended to have his use out of them before he lost them to the dark experiments of the other wizards. He walked unawares of the shadow that he had picked up. His intentions served to cloud his senses.
A hurried pace he kept throughout the darkened passages, till he came at last to the door of a holding cell, deep under the ground. Pausing for a moments span, his dark eyes gleamed with an unnatural light. Speaking the word of command, he eased open the door. There upon the floor lay the objects of his desire.
Fierce and smoldering were the gazes that fixed upon his visage as soon as he stepped foot in the room. The two were bound hand and foot, and even now as he laughed, a certain fear began to creep into their hearts. "Begone fiend!" Nassiel spat as he drew nearer.
"Nay, I shall not." An amused glance over the prey. "I have other things in mind. Perhaps, if you allowed yourselves, you might find it pleasurable."
Valia shuddered at the passions which lay behind his gaze, even now his intentions clear. "Never. We would die first, than be so disgraced." Her eyes blazed cold fury, causing the dark elf to back a step. "You would, would you? Alas that you should find it so. Yet I shall give you cause to regret your rash decision. I take your apprentice firstly."
"Nay, shalt not lay one hand upon her."
A clear voice rang out from behind him, and Garrel spun on his heel to confront the intruder. A tall elven ranger stood framed in the doorway, sword in hand, grim death in his eyes. As the dark elf raised hand and voice to cast a spell, the foe lunged forward. Fire flew from Garrel's fingertips, scorching the ranger's side as he twisted away from the attack.
Yet still he pressed inward, his blade glowing white as he plunged it into the wizard's heart. The dark elf stiffened, then plunged forward on his face. Burned and bleeding, the ranger crawled over to the captives and cut the cords that bound their hands. Nassiel bounded to her feet and retrieved the sword of their rescuer and stood guard at the door, whilst Valia tended to his wound. With his side firmly bandaged, Thallien finally arose and took from under his cloak a second short sword and passed it to his elder.
Valia took the familiar weapon almost reverently, then led the way into the hall. Silent stood the one and twain; still as the breathless morn. In noiseless, unmarked way did Valia Riversong lead her pupils; ever and anon upward. But once did she pause in the journey, to retrieve the weapons that had been taken and stored in a chamber just off of the gate. Melting into the shadows of the forest, the three took their path southward.
T'was eventide, and the rangers had lain in their encampment for the span of about five hours. Thallien lay in a deep slumber, whilst Nassiel kept constant watch to the north. Valia merely meditated, while her hand still gripped her blade, ready for action. That their escape should pass unnoticed was unthinkable, for the ancient fortress bespoke of magicks unknown, and mayhap a spell of revelation would speak of events as they had availed themselves.
"We return to Undermane."
Nassiel turned towards her elder, questions unasked hanging upon her brow. Valia arose slowly from her seated posture, grey eyes glinting in the remaining light of the setting sun.
"T'is time. Naught more can we here than what is already accomplished. And he," gesturing at the remaining member of the party, "needs rest. Also the ministry of a cleric or healer, if one is available; none of which pertain to remaining."
Even as she spoke, Thallien arose, wincing nigh imperceptibly at the pain from his wound. Though healed enough to allow travel, their skill fell short of one trained precisely in that art.
"Enough. While we still have light, let us forge ahead."
With the swiftness common to their race, camp was broken, and by sundown no trace remained of their presence in that place.
* * * * *
A lone rider approached the forbidding mass that was the tower of the mages. His horse was lathered with sweat, and the man atop looked weary nigh unto death. Nevertheless, he would not be dissuaded from his mission until he had presented his case. Therefore, council had been called and the messenger allowed to state his purpose.
Behind the closed and assuredly locked doors, rose a murmur of voices. At times a purvey of silence alluded to the fact that the messenger was speaking his piece, mayhap those summoned were reading some parchment that he had brought. To those outside the chamber, speculation was a trite way of passing the time while waiting for the news to become general. Most of the mages in the tower wore blue robes, but for the tall man by the window, it made for a dull showing.
Bertrand, (called by some, "The Bold") disdained to walk quite in step with his fellow mages. Which is why he opted for a patterned cloak of yellow and gray. And also why he sat by the window and calmly viewed the open sky, understanding immediately why the messenger had come. Someone, somewhere, needed help. Of the arcane sort, to be sure. Otherwise they wouldn't have sent to the mages. Of course his fellows could conjecture and lecture about whatever they liked. The tidings were of little consequence at present. Only that the messenger would likely ride to the south again with little or no hope of help.
The creaking of a door interrupted his mental ruminations, and the messenger came staggering out, head hung low and guided by one of the younger apprentices. Bertrand frowned. Doubtless they would be heading to the sparse guest quarters, where the unfortunate rider would get a few hours sleep before heading back from whence he had come. With a quiet whisper of fabric, the mage arose and followed. He soon found that his long experience had stood him in good stead as the apprentice entered the guest wing and led the man into a small, but tidy room. In a few moments, the lad appeared again in the hall, shutting the door soundlessly whilst shaking his head.
"Young Hawkeye."
The young man turned, regarding the older mage with care. "Yes? How may I be of service, sir?"
Bertrand waved his hand. "None of that stuffiness around me. You have a knack for seeing things..." (It was true, the lad had earned his name by one such feat. It was now embroidered into the front of his robe as his symbol.) "Tell me, what do you know of this man, and what was his message."
The apprentice looked thoughtful. "Aye. Of him I know precious little, save that he is a messenger from the south. News from there suggests that they are in a battle to keep the lands cleared of demons that keep showing themselves more frequently nowadays. However, his was a mission that did not deal with that."
The lad paused momentarily, considering. "Whatever his message dealt with, it caused great consternation amongst the elders. However, as is their wont, they declined an answer, and I heard it whispered that we must look to our own defenses first. I fear that no good answer will leave with our rider." He glanced at the door. "One glance of the parchment reveals that it is written by a knight, and a second that he fears that 'these beings, if arisen again, be beyond his power - seeing he has no training in wizardly arts.' I assume that he is dealing with enemy sorcerers of some type, perhaps ancient."
Bertrand chuckled warmly and nodded at the youth. "My thoughts exactly. You are using that head of yours well. Keep on my dear sir, and you shall rival me yet." Then growing serious. "But whatever happens, detain the messenger until I have a chance to speak with him. I fear that his mission requires haste, and I would know for an exactment what it entails. For though the mage tower refuse aid, when has that ever stopped Bertrand the Bold?"
"No answer is required, lad." As Hawkeye struggled to think of an answer. "Think of your charge. I have inquiries to make."
