CHAPTER TWO: THE INNKEEPER'S DAUGHTERS

Maskyr's Eye, the Vast, 15 Flamerule, DR 1361, the Year of Maidens

"Do you really think we ought to be doing this?" asked Pinter.

"Of course, boy" exclaimed Shalea, giving the bard an elbow in the ribs. She called him boy, but in truth, he was no younger than she. Shalea was bristling with excitement. "We're adventurers now, this is what we do."

The boy peered skeptically over the edge. The trap door they'd found covered a stone-sided well which lead down, with neither rung nor handhold, into the darkness. Nearby stood the crumbling, empty ruins of an ancient tower. Shalea was kneeling beside it, peering intently into the shadows. Her older sisters, Carine and Andryl, stood behind her, also looking down. They did not seem quite so excited.

"This is probably part of old Maskyr's tower," said Carine. She knew a bit more about sorcerers than either of her sisters, but not much. Everyone in Maskyr's Eye had heard the legends of the archmage who had given his name to their village and then disappeared. Carine had heard them often enough, as had her younger sisters, while working in their father's inn, the Wizard's Hand.

"We all know that Maskyr is long gone," said Jhenta. She was an acolyte from the nearby temple to Chauntea, and was a friend of all the Orlsyr sisters, although especially Carine, to whom she was closest in age. Jhenta and Carine were almost inseparable- when their duties allowed. When Carine and her sisters had decided to go on this adventure, Jhenta found she could not pass up the chance. Her own life in the temple had grown as tedious as their lives in the inn.

"And we all know the old legend," said Pinter, "the one about a curse falling on those who go nosing about in his ruins. Right, Bunker?" He turned to the old dwarf who was standing behind him, who only shrugged. Bunker, too, knew the tales, and many others besides. He didn't much care for nosing about in old ruins, but he had insisted on coming along to look after Carine and her sisters. Pinter looked to the other members of the company, hoping for some more support.

"These ruins look to be old indeed," said Drannamon, the gruff-looking woodsman. He didn't seem too concerned, either. Drannamon looked over at his travelling companion, the paladin Aendar.

"Old, but not evil, I don't think," said Aendar.

The final member of the group strode to the edge of the hole and looked in over Shalea's slim shoulders. He was a handsome, mysterious bard named Inven Burlisk, the travelling minstrel whose tales had finally convinced them all to leave the Wizard's Hand. He put an arm around Pinter.

"Cheer up lad," he said. "The lass is right. We're adventurers now, all of us. What would the tales say if we turned back now?" He grinned, but Pinter didn't look any more enthusiastic. "They would say, 'Poor Pinter and his brave companions, who missed their chance to be heroes,' if they mentioned us at all. Why, who knows what treasure we may find down this old well? Into the chasm leapt the fearless," he quoted. "What say you all? Do we turn aside, as young Pinter would have us, or do we brave the unknown, and trust in our wits, and our swords, and our Art (such as it is,) and perhaps a bit in Lady Luck? Such ways are true heroes made, 'tis said."

Inven could be very persuasive when he put his mind to it. Aendar nodded his agreement, as did all of the others, except poor Pinter. They listened to Inven, in part, because he had already been on an adventure. They'd all listened to his tale the night before, in the common room of the Wizard's Hand, had even asked him to tell it again. His tales of adventure and daring had inspired them all, even though his own adventures amounted to little more than battling against wolves and brigands in the wild.

"Well," murmured Pinter, "Since you put it that way."

"Truly," said Aendar, "I can see little harm in just looking around." Drannamon agreed. Where his friend went, so would he.

"I suppose so," said Carine. "A few hours delay will not matter. And who knows, perhaps we may find some old item of Maskyr's lying about where none have yet stumbled upon it." She dared not hope that was true. Perhaps the archmage had left behind a powerful wand, or even one of his own spellbooks, at the bottom of this well- and that it was just waiting for some brave young wizardess to claim after all these years.

"That's it then, we are all agreed!" said Inven, rubbing his hands together. "In we go. Now, Bunker, you grab the rope from the pack mule, and tie it tightly around that tree there. Good Aendar, I think twould be best that you go in first. I'd hate to have you fall on top of anyone wearing all that chain mail." Aendar consented without hesitation. "And Dran, you'll want to go next."

In short order, they had done as Inven suggested. They lowered Aendar into the well until his boots touched bottom. It was dry.

"I can't see a thing," he called up. "About thirty feet or a little more. I think there's a passageway here, but it's dark." Before Drannamon went in, Carine cast a spell on the brooch he wore at his cloak so that it gave off a magical light. By the light of Drannamon's enchanted clasp, they could see the passageway lead southward. It was easily tall enough for them, and just wide enough for two to go abreast. From the bottom, Aendar called up the good news. "There's a passageway down here, all right," he said.

"Me next," exclaimed Shalea. She skittered nimbly down the rope. Soon, her sisters, their friend, and the dwarf joined her.

"You next, lad," said Inven, helping Pinter swing his feet over the edge. "Keep a tight grip on the rope, and don't look down." The younger bard was sweating nervously, and the lute on his back kept banging into his elbows as he tried to clumsily get a footing on the sides of the well. "Here, lad, not like that," said Inven. "I'm a better climber. Let me take your lute, and I will bring it down for you." Pinter nodded gratefully, and let Inven take the instrument from him. It was a fine lute, made by the elves, with silver filigree and graceful lines. Pinter had spent his life savings on it when he'd decided to become a minstrel.

"Thank you, Inven," he said. "It will be much easier for me to climb without my lute on my back. You can give it back to me when you get down." Inven nodded.

"Of course, lad," he said. "Fear not. Now, take hold of the rope."

Pinter suddenly felt a crushing pain to his temple, and lost his grip. His stomach lurched, and he felt himself falling. Looking up, he saw Inven looking down into the well from above, still holding his beloved lute. Pinter wondered why Inven had that evil look on his face. But he only wondered for a moment, because then he hit the bottom of the well.

Above, Inven chuckled to himself and slammed shut the trapdoor, locking the metal clasp.

***

At the bottom, things suddenly became much darker as the light from above went out. Pinter's body hit the stones with a sickening thud, and the rope came trailing down silently.

"What the bloody flux?" exclaimed Bunker.

"What happened to the light?" asked Andryl.

"What in the Nine Hells just happened?" demanded Carine. "Drannamon, bring that light back here."

Jhenta knelt down beside Pinter. "By the Lady," she gasped. "It's Pinter! Let me get a look at him." When Drannamon came closer with the light, she was better able to see. "Oh, poor Pinter. The fall has killed him. What could have happened?" Andryl and Carine stared in disbelief at Pinter's twisted corpse, and Shalea covered her face in her hands.

Bunker reached down beside the fallen boy, and picked up one end of the rope. "Can't you see? The rope's been cut."

"It wasn't just the fall what killed him," Drannamon muttered. "We've been betrayed."

Carine scowled, then looked up into the darkness. "Inven, can you hear us?"

"That bastard Inven!" cursed Andryl. Shalea was sobbing.

"We're going to need more light," said Aendar. "I've got a torch here in my pack. Give me a moment and I'll get it lit."

"How are we going to get out of here?" asked Jhenta, looking up.

"These walls are too slick to climb," observed Drannamon.

Aendar's torch spluttered to life. Its flickering orange glow mixed with the steady pale radiance from Drannamon's brooch.

"Well," Aendar said, "we are just going to have to follow this passage and hope it leads to a way out. Jhenta, are you sure the boy's dead?"

"His neck is snapped, Aendar," she said.

"Well, put a cloak over him."

"Surely, we can't just leave him here?" Jhenta said, mortified.

Aendar gave her a stern glance, gave everyone a stern glance. Bunker put a comforting hand on the priestess' shoulder. "Nay lass, we'll not leave him here for good, but Aendar's right. We can't carry him with us. We'll come back for him once we've found a way out, and give the lad a good proper burial."

Drannamon looked back at the others. Of the innkeeper's daughters, Andryl looked to be the strongest. He took his spare shortsword from its scabbard and tossed the weapon to her. "Here lass," he said. "You're going to need it."

Aendar drew his longsword, and led the way down the tunnel.

***

Aendar sensed something ahead that he did not like. He raised his hand, bringing the party to a halt. Peering ahead, he could see that another passageway crossed theirs. Two guards stood in the four-way intersection. They were not human, though each was about the size of a man. Their skin was grayish, their black hair was sparse and lanky. Their legs were short and slightly bowed, and their arms seemed a bit longer than should have been. They had snouts with tusks, and darting black eyes. Each guard wore armor of boiled leather plates and held a curved sword with a jagged-edged blade.

"What ARE those things, Aendar?" whispered Shalea.

"Those are orcs," he replied. "Cruel, evil creatures from the mountains to the east."

Bunker overheard. "Orcs? Where?" He came forward for a look.

"Up ahead there, guarding the passageway," answered Aendar. Bunker narrowed his eyes and pulled his old battle axe from his belt.

"We have little hope of surprising them now," Drannamon said quietly to Aendar. "See, already they are looking this way. They have seen our lights, or heard our movements."

"That leaves us with only one choice then, doesn't it," said Aendar. "We must kill them before they can go for reinforcements." He handed his torch to Andryl, who looked back at him wide-eyed, admiring the man's bravery. The paladin and the ranger nodded grimly to each other. This would not be the first time they'd fought orcs together. The two friends quickly closed the distance on the orc guards, weapons raised. The orcs seemed surprised to see the intruders, but they snarled and rushed to meet them.

One of the orcs raised his sword overhead, and brought it down against Aendar, a bit clumsily but with a crushing strength behind it. The paladin parried the blow, then twisted at the waist and with a deft crosswise slash cut underneath the orc's chest armor. Blood splattered from the creature's torso. The orc's counter was slower. It managed to do little more than clang its sword harmlessly off the side of Aendar's mail. Aendar kept his concentration, and brought his own longsword across again, this time slashing deep into the orc's unprotected throat.

Drannamon defeated his own opponent with equal skill. With the shortsword in his left hand, he parried the orc's initial slash, and with the longsword in his right hand severed one of the thing's arms at the bicep. The orc twisted in pain, allowing Drannamon to thrust his short sword through its belly.

The two orcs fell two the ground. The two friends wiped the orc-blood from their swords as best they could, but did not sheathe their weapons.

"How d'ye like that, tuskers?" said Bunker, rushing forward with the others. "Got what ye deserved." He kicked one of the dead orcs, and spat on the other.

"Bunker," said Shalea, "I had no idea you hated these things- these orcs, so much."

The dwarf turned toward the girl and shrugged. "Lass, d'ye think I spent all me life workin' fer yer father in his stables?" He shook his head so that his beard waggled. "Nay! I'm a dwarf, an' I've lived a long life as ye would a-count it. I've done much that no one e'er thought ta ask me about, an' even some what yer father din't e'en know." He looked down at the two dead orcs. "Them tuskers're the enemies o' my people. Always 'ave been, an' always will be."

"None have a greater loathing for orcs than do the Stout Folk, save perhaps the elves," added Aendar. "And for good reason."

"It has been many, many years since an orc horde came down out of the mountains," said Drannamon, sheathing his short sword. "Maskyr's Eye would be in terrible peril if that were to happen again." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Shalea suddenly looked a little more frightened and drew back. The other girls came forward to get a closer look at their new enemies.

"Have we stumbled on a tribe of these evil things," asked Carine, "Living right under our very noses, less than a days ride from Maskyr's Eye?" The prospect was chilling.

"Where there's one orc, there's always more," Bunker said in a grim voice. He stuck his axe handle between his knees with the blade on the ground and gathered his beard into a long braid. He stuck it through his belt before taking his axe up again.

"Perhaps," said Aendar.

Drannamon shook his head. "Most likely, we've just come upon a raiding party, or some miners or foragers. They couldn't move a whole tribe here without folk noticing. Orcs are wont to living in mountain caves, not delving in dungeons. Someone or something must have brought them down here."

"Could it be Maskyr," Shalea wondered aloud, "Still down here after all these years?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Shal," snapped Carine. "The archmage has been gone for centuries." Shalea glared at her older sister, and wanted to punch her in the nose. "Does no one but me listen to the tales in the tavern? Why, this could be a secret lair of the Zhentarim, or the Cult of the Dragon, or even the Red Wizards of Thay!"

"Girls," interrupted Bunker. "We kin discuss this all later. Right now, we'd best not stand around 'ere any longer. This ain't an outing in tha country," he warned. "If anything should 'appen ta any of you, why ol' Lhullbannen will 'ave me 'ead." Then, they heard noises coming up the passageways from the west and from the south.

Drannamon drew the shortsword from his scabbard and tossed it to Andryl. His expression was dark and grim. "Here lass," he said. "You're going to need this." He and Aendar braced to meet the oncoming orcs.

***

Jhenta backed into the eastern passage, the way they had come, panting. She huddled together with Shalea and Carine. She silently prayed to the Earth Mother to defend them all. Shalea and Carine were both white with terror.

The floor was becoming slick with the spilled blood of orcs. Carine saw Aendar stumble. Facing two opponents, the young knight's death would come quickly if one of the orcs could take advantage of his momentary loss of concentration. Carine stepped into the passageway and began to cast a spell. Her hands were shaking in fear, and her heart was racing, but she managed the correct words and motions. It was not a particularly difficult spell for her. She pointed her right hand at an orc who was about to strike down Aendar. Two bolts of pure magic appeared and flew unerringly to their target.

More orcs arrived to aid their fellows. The ranger and the paladin, standing back-to-back where the corridors came together, were unable to hold them all. Three of the creatures made their way past the swordsmen, and came charging at the innkeeper's daughters. Bunker, wielding his axe, tried his best to stand against them. Andryl, with her sword, came up to stand beside the dwarf.

Yet, as fast as they could cut them down, still more orcs came. The company found themselves surrounded on three sides. Only from their rear, the passage which lead back to the well, were their no enemies. Carine stepped forward and cast an enchantment of sleep on their foes coming at them from the west, and three orcs slumped to the ground. Taking courage from her example, Jhenta, too, came forward, and, calling upon the giving power of the Earth Mother, healed the wounds of Drannamon and Aendar.

They managed to fight their way out, though, and quickly followed Aendar through the door at the end of the north passage, and found themselves in a larger room with torches all around. There were two other entrances to the room, one to the east and one to the west. But the adventurers had no time to rest, for four orcs came snarling out of the eastern door. Drannamon, Aendar, Bunker and Andryl leapt to meet them.

Orcs are not known for their intelligence, but they can be cunning at need, especially in battle. Two crafty tuskers, seeing that the other orc- soldiers were being cut down by the human intruders, decided to try a different sort of attack. They approached with stealth, and, grinning cruelly to one another, slipped quietly into the room through the western door. Shalea stood closest to them. She was small, for a human, and the two would be easily able to overpower her. They grabbed Shalea and she screamed. That earned her a sharp crack on the skull from one of her captors. She slid into unconsciousness before the orcs dragged her through the side door. Bunker and Andryl were already busy fighting a great orc, and Aendar was desperately engaged with another. Drannamon had just felled his opponent, and was about to come to the aid of the young lord.

"Dran, go after the girl," Aendar ordered. With a nod, the woodsmen set off down the passage, grimly tracking down the orcs who had captured Shalea.

***

Drannamon killed the orc that was carrying the girl, and his captive dropped to the ground. The other orc turned on the ranger. The sound of swords clashing brought Shalea from her stupor, and she was able to hide in the shadows, for the moment forgotten. Another orc came up on Drannamon from behind, forcing him to fight two at once. Shalea, still dazed, looked at the body of the first orc Drannamon had slain. By the light of his enchanted brooch, she could make out that there was a dagger at its belt. Shalea took it, and with all her strength drove the knife into the back of the orc who had come up behind Drannamon. The woodsman killed the last orc.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

Shalea trembled, but still held the orc-knife in her hand. It was dripping. Her head was bleeding from the blow the orc had given her. But Drannamon had surely saved her life. Shalea nodded. "Yes, I think I am in one piece," she said weakly.

"Good," he said, but did not smile. "Now, let's get back." They left the three orc-corpses. "That was very brave," he said. Shalea did not feel very brave, but she was glad Drannamon had said it of her. Together, they hurriedly made their way back to the torch room.

***

"We can't take much more of this," said Andryl. Slain orcs were everywhere. The girl was breathing heavily, but she still held a tight grip on the shortsword Drannamon had loaned her. Already, it was caked in the blood of orcs, and nicked in many places along the blade. In her other hand, she held a wooden shield she had picked up from one of the slain orcs. Her heart was racing, and she was bleeding from a good many scrapes and cuts. Fortunately, none of her wounds were bad.

"How many more of them can there be," Carine wondered aloud. She leaned heavily against her wooden staff. The spells she had hurled during the battle had taken a lot of her strength, but she felt a strange sense of pride. She had not fallen or fled, and she had seen the fear her magic could inspire in the eyes of the orcs. Such was the allure of the Art.

"Holy Mother preserve us! We are all going to die down here," whimpered Jhenta. The girl was on the verge of collapse, and perhaps only her faith kept her on her feet.

"Quiet, girl, before I cuff you," snapped the dwarf. He glared at the frightened priestess, and she calmed down a little. Priestess or not, Bunker was not about to let her get hysterical. Fear could be infectious. "All of you, quiet. We must keep our wits about us, or we surely WILL all die here, or worse." The dwarf looked fierce and fearless. If he was unable to lift the girls' spirits, at least he would keep them from complete panic. He looked to the paladin.

Aendar's face was grave, and pale, his expression was full of concern. A lucky thrust from an orc spear had pierced his mail, and he was bleeding badly from the wound in his side. But he kept his feet, and tried to ignore the pain.

"Be of stout heart," he said to the others. "These orcs need some way of getting to the surface, so there must be another way out. We have only to find it. Helm the Protector will see us through, if we put our faith in him. But we need to find a place to rest." The paladin knelt then, for a moment. To the others, it seemed as if he was merely catching his breath, which, in truth, he was. But he was also regathering his inner strength. With closed eyes, Aendar whispered a prayer to Helm to guard over them. He felt a pang of guilt, but offered up a second quiet prayer- to Tymora, the Lady of Luck. They were going to need her help as well.

At last, Aendar looked up. From the corner of his eye, he noticed the youngest, Shalea, had made her way to a dark corner of the room. The paladin smiled to himself. "Lass, have you found something?"

"Why, yes I have," she answered. "It almost looks like a door. A secret door!"

"Touch nothing, girl!" shouted the dwarf, bounding over to her. "There might be a trap." Suddenly alarmed, Shalea practically jumped backward. Aendar got wearily to his feet, and went over to examine Shalea's find along with the others.

"By Moradin's Bloody Orbs," exclaimed the dwarf, "She's right! It IS a door. Step aside, lass, let me get a closer look." The secret door must have been made by dwarves, because, once he'd spotted it, Bunker had no trouble finding the catch. It swung silently open, revealing a staircase.

"Aww," said Shalea, disappointed. "It goes down."

Cautiously, the company made their way single file down the spiral staircase. They pulled the secret door shut behind them. On each step were carved runes. Carine thought some of them might be arcane, but others Bunker insisted were ancient dwarven letters. Since neither could make out the words, Aendar would not permit them to stay long to decipher them. The stairs led them down to an even darker, colder part of the dungeons, to a place which had not been touched in centuries.

No one noticed that one of the rune-markers glowed faintly for a moment, then faded.

***

A cold wind stirred the dust in a silent chamber, deep under Maskyr's Bluff. The Guardian awoke, and reached out with its senses, searching cautiously. For uncounted winters, it had lain there, asleep in the darkness. The Guardian was bound to the spot, doomed to guard these ancient halls for eternity, or until its Master should return and release it. Now, it sensed something, faint and far off, yet unmistakeable after centuries of silence and emptiness. It sensed warmth, and light, and blood and life. Anger grew within it. Slowly, like a shadow among shadows, it moved.

***