The door at the other end of the hallway splintered, then broke inward with a crash. A pair of Black Lions tumbled into view, scrambling over one another to get back on their feet. Mheren and Poiniard glanced at each other, wondering what foe the Dark Lady's guardsmen faced. They soon had their answer. A troll lumbered into the doorway and stood snarling at its two mail-clad opponents. In seconds, the two soldiers were dead, and the troll turned to face Mheren and Poiniard.
Suddenly, Poiniard felt Wyrding almost spring into his hand. He held the glittering blade before him, could almost feel it pulsing with rage. It was like the fight in the alleyway all over again. His vision seemed hazy somehow. The hallway dimmed to his vision, and the vast, dark bulk of the troll seemed to fade and blur- all except for the thing's eyes. Those blazed like a pair of fiery coals, and Poiniard couldn't take his eyes from them. He knew Mheren was beside him, moving towards the troll like a panther, but she, too, was indistinct- only Monarchal was clearly visible, gleaming like a white-hot iron.
Poiniard followed her movements, closing with the troll. He knew he should flee, and for the briefest moment wondered how it was he could move at all. He should have been paralyzed with fear, not charging with the movements of a skilled warrior.
Monarchal leapt out and down, a white blur before his eyes, and Poiniard swung Wyrding in a sure arc which somehow echoed that of Mheren's blade. The two Swordbearers moved almost in unison, as if the blades themselves were orchestrating the battle.
The troll growled, and for a moment Poiniard caught a glimpse of a fanged maw leaping at his face, but Wyrding was there to meet it. The troll's roar of fury turned to a howl of anger and pain as Wyrding bit through the scales and bone of the monster's head. Monarchal swept up again, severing a huge, clawed arm. In a few more moments, the dismembered troll lay inert on the floor, body parts still twitching in a spreading pool of stinking troll- blood. Poiniard stepped back, afraid to touch the viscous stuff.
"Are you all right?" Mheren asked. She, too, was breathing heavily.
"Heh, I can hardly believe it, but I guess I am." His vision was suddenly clear, and he noticed that Mheren was smiling at him. With Monarchal in her hand, the magical blade dripping with green ichor, she managed to look the part of an elven warrior-maiden of old, even though she was clad in an immodest gown. Was that pride and respect in her eyes? Poiniard looked away, gesturing at the motionless body of the troll with his sword. "What about the curse? Is that thing going to stay dead?"
"Nothing we can do about it now," answered Mheren. "We'd better go while we've got the chance."
The Dark Lady leaned against the wooden table. The Hall of Records, the most secure chamber in the guild network, was dim and dark, lit only by a single bullseye lantern. She knew things were going badly, and turned to her two lieutenants. "Well, Megwen, what have you learned?"
"The attackers are indeed your rival, the one they call Oracus..."
Shespi, still clad in her red dress, though her auburn hair was let down, scoffed and rolled her eyes. "You needed magic to tell you that?"
"Let him speak," the Dark Lady said, holding up a black-gloved hand.
The wizard swallowed, struggling to maintain his composure. "My divinations have also revealed they are after more than just the destruction of the guild. They seek something, a magical artifact of some antiquity."
The Dark Lady frowned, and focused her brown eyes on the mage. "An artifact? Of what sort?"
"The visions were unclear, M'Lady," he apologized, spreading his hands. "Oracus has allied himself with a sorcerer of some power, who shrouds much of what they do. Still, my scrying was able to penetrate his wards to learn at least the outward appearance of this thing. They seek a pendant."
"Hrm, it must be that swordswoman Poiniard was with." The Dark Lady nodded to Megwen to continue. "What else?"
"This sorcerer has trolls at his command, my Lady. They've had little trouble dealing with our mercenaries, and I don't see how the rogues of the guild will fare any better."
"Don't underestimate my thieves, Megwen. A pity about the Black Lions, though. All that gold, wasted. But it takes magic to defeat magic. You must go and face this sorcerer."
The handsome wizard paled, and fingered the silver amulet at his neck for a moment. "As you wish, M'Lady. I have sworn to serve you, and I must fulfill my compact." He turned and quickly left the room.
Shespi reached under the table and drew out a weapon belt that was hidden there. "You know you've just sent him to his death," she said, buckling the dagger around her waist.
The Dark Lady was silent for a moment. "I know. Just like I have doomed Lithome and all my rogues, but it has to be done. Every moment they buy is worth a life."
"Those are moments dearly bought, Lhora."
The Dark Lady shrugged. "Megwen is College-trained. Perhaps he will surprise us."
"He is a diviner, not a sorcerer," Shespi said, loosening her dagger in its sheath.
The Dark Lady chuckled. "So, do you still want to be Guildmistress after me, Shes? It's not as easy as you thought."
"Yes, M'Lady, I still do. I would count it an honor to be your successor. But there is still so much more you haven't yet taught me. I hope that day is still far off."
The Dark Lady laughed. "So do I. Don't worry, that day is not yet come. We'll come out of this, you and I, though everything I've built here may soon lie in ruins. I still have a few tricks left, and rest assured, I'll have my revenge for this."
"Shall we go to the secret tunnel, then?" Shespi turned towards the door, but halted when her mistress did not move to follow her.
"Not you, Shespi. I have one last little task for you. A very special task."
