CHAPTER THREE: THE FALLEN HARPER
Maskyr's Eye, 15 Flamerule, DR 1361, the Year of Maidens
Inven chuckled to himself and slammed shut the trapdoor, locking the metal clasp.
"Disposing of them was so easy," he thought. After gathering up the horses, he stowed Pinter's lute and set out for Ulcrimmon Alskayl's place. He briefly considered riding south first, skirting Maskyr's Eye, then dismissed the idea. It would look too suspicious if he were seen leading three riderless horses across country. Better to go boldly through the town, using the road, looking as though nothing was amiss. He even nodded to the peasant sweeping the path to the apothecary shop as he passed by the gate. The handsome bard unconsciously fingered the pommel of his sword as he went.
The Alskayl boys were half-orc. Some of the Maskyrvians considered them all orc, but they never really caused any trouble, so they lived there in peace. The whole clan lived together in a crude, one-room longhouse on the eastern side of Maskyr's Eye. They were hunters and woodsmen, not farmers, so the old barn on their land was rarely used. Inven made his way there, and found Ulcrimmon and one of his brothers waiting for him as planned.
"Keep her quiet, and hidden," he told them. He tossed the brothers a sack of coins. "Half now, half when I am well away from here." Both nodded. They turned and headed towards the hayloft to wait for nightfall. Their backs were to the bard. Inven briefly considered killing the two then and there, but decided against it. Better to wait. He took his hand from the pommel of his sword. The two half-breeds went up into the loft, each carrying a flask of sund, the cheap local vintage. Soon after nightfall, they would all be well away from here.
Inven turned to his captive, who lay on the floor of the barn, bound hand and foot. Sshansalue Wonderharp glared up at him over her blood-stained gag. He'd cut out her tongue, and broken her knuckles. Her leather armor, what was left of it, hung in tatters. Her golden hair was cropped short. Cuts and bruises showed she had been beaten.
The treacherous Dalesman grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him. She winced. Sshansalue wanted to look away, but could not. "I bet you'd like to know why I've done this to you," he taunted, "And what I plan to do with you." Inven may have broken her body, but he had not yet cowed her spirit. He could see that much in her eyes. She did want to know. She still hoped to escape. "Well, you will find out soon enough," he said. He released her, and smiling, went out to bring in the horses.
There was a bounty on Harpers, and Inven Burlisk, the Fallen Harper, knew where to find quite a few of them.
***
Sagor the Speaker sat fuming on his makeshift throne. His jaw was clenched and a vein stood out on his forehead. His knuckles grew white, so tightly did he clutch the ancient, magical scepter in his hand. He smoothed his purple robes, and tried to restrain himself.
Before him stood Ghalluk, a huge orc chieftain, leader of the Clan of the White Tusk. His armor was battered and slashed. His black cutlass, once the scourge of his tribe, was notched and dull. Ghalluk wore a crude bandage about his head, and the side of his face was covered with dried blood- his own, and that of his fellow orcs. His left arm was broken, so he carried his shield on his back. The bone protruded visibly from his forearm. The wound had been quickly cauterized by his tribe's shaman. It was a horrible disfigurement, one which would jeapordize Ghalluk's leadership of the clan in the near future. If the clan HAD any future. The human adventurers had come upon Ghalluk's orcs suddenly, and cut through them with shameful efficiency. The chieftain's heart burned black, eager for vengeance. But the Speaker had summoned him, and Ghalluk had come.
The orc lord shifted his weight nervously, and bowed before Sagor, as informally as he dared. He knew things had gone badly, and he would be blamed. At that moment, Ghalluk knew mostly fear, and pain, and anger, but he was also proud, and would not allow his fear to show. Especially to the purple-robed Sagor.
"Have you captured these interlopers?" demanded Sagor.
"Not yet, Wise One," answered Ghalluk. The very act of speaking caused the orc a blinding pain, though, but he gritted his teeth and did little more than wince. "But we have them trapped on the Second Level, below the Spiral Stair." His mastery of the Common Tongue of men was very good, for an orc.
The Speaker snarled. "Trapped?" he shrieked. "I want them captured, or dead! They have disrupted our plans, and there can be no delay. Do you understand me, you fool? No delay. I want them dead!"
Ghalluk simply bowed his head. "It shall be done, Wise One," he said.
Sagor leaned back and dismissed Ghalluk with a contemptuous wave of his hand. As soon as the wounded orc-lord had left the audience chamber, a slim figure emerged from hiding behind a curtain. She wore purple robes, not unlike Sagor's, though not so opulent. Hers were a good deal more fitting and revealing as well. While Sagor held a scepter, she carried only a simple wand of beech. The woman looked at Sagor, sitting furious on the stack of crates he liked to think of as a throne. The Speaker glared at her, and beckoned her over.
"He spoke no lies, Speaker," she reported quietly, "Nor did he think any treacherous thoughts towards you."
Sagor the Speaker nodded impatiently. He could have guessed as much from simply looking at the orc-chieftain. He beckoned the lovely, dark-haired young wizardess still closer.
"Our excavations must not be delayed," Sagor commanded. His voice sounded shrill in the torchlit underground chamber. "The scrolls of the archmage Maskyr lie somewhere in the collapsed tunnels of this level. We must find them, for the glory of the Cult of the Dragon. With that ancient knowledge, we could." The woman raised an eyebrow.
The Speaker leaned back in his throne. He drew a folded map from one of the sleeves of his robes. "Here is a copy of our map," he said. "It shows the upper levels of these ruins, and where we have already dug. The chief miner has the only other copy. I entrust this to you, now." He eyed the wizardess cautiously, then handed it to her. She took it reverently, as if it were a thing of great value, and tucked it into the front of her robes.
"That incompetent Ghalluk will have to pull more soldiers from digging to pursue these meddlers," Sagor continued. "I want you to take the acolytes and gather any orcs you can find- shirkers, the wounded, even their fool shaman- and continue the work." He looked into the woman's eyes. "Can you do that for me, Neske?"
The woman leaned closer to Sagor. His age was beginning to show. Soon, he would be no match for her. She smiled seductively. "Of course, my master," she whispered.
***
Jhenta looked puzzled. "Why are we going down? I want to get out, not go further in!"
"I know, lass," said Bunker, "But we cannot go back that way. The tuskers are too thick, and too angry."
"The dwarf is right, Jhenta," added Aendar. "We've dealt the orcs a major blow, but they will soon regroup and come after us. We must find a place to rest where we can better defend ourselves."
"It looks as if the orcs have never been down here," said Drannamon. The ranger knelt down and examined the flagstones at the base of the stairs more closely. "In the woods, I can track a bear for leagues, but in here, I am not sure how well I can read the signs. Still, it does not look as if this area has been disturbed in some time. For whatever reason, I don't think the orcs have been down here before." He spoke the truth. No tracks other than their own marred the dust. Yet, they all wondered why the orcs did not come here.
"That may mean we can find refuge down here," said Aendar, "though it may be only for a while. I think it would be best if we stayed down here for a while. We need to find a place to rest." The others looked at him like he was mad. Shalea moved over to stand beside Drannamon.
"At this rate," said Carine, "we are never going to find that other exit." Aendar scowled, but did not reply.
At the bottom of the spiral stair, they came upon a passageway. It was very similar to the passageway they'd first encountered at the bottom of the well. That seemed so long ago, now. By the light of their torches, they spotted a wooden door on the right wall of the passage, just a few paces from where they stood. Rather than venturing further down the passage, they decided to see what lay behind the door.
"It looks to be nothing more than an old storeroom, untouched for many winters," said Aendar. "We can rest here."
Jhenta followed him into the room and looked around. "Must we stay here? It smells like a middens," she complained.
***
The Guardian did not smell blood, but it did sense the living, in its own way. The scent was faint, and distant. Silently, invisibly, it made its way through the halls the dwarves had delved for its Master, seeking the intruders. But it was puzzled. From two directions, now, it could sense beings which were not permitted. Here in the Lower Halls, the source was faint and weak. But farther on, up the stairs to the upper chambers, the traces were stronger. There, the Guardian did not often go. The Guardian turned its head, this way and that, unsure. Up the stairs it must go, upward toward the stronger. Stronger meant more- more attackers, more prey. The ones here, the weaker ones, could wait. The creature made its way to the Spiral Stair, and crept up, towards the sound of orc voices.
***
Carine scowled at Aendar. "We are fools to sit around down here any longer," she said. "We should be looking for materials to make a ladder, and climb back out the way we came in."
Aendar turned away. "There must be another way out," he insisted. "I've said it already- orcs cannot live without food. And besides, it is foolish to risk going back now. The orcs know we are here, and they will be watching for us. Even if we could fight our way back to the well, a ladder might not work. Inven could have piled rocks on top of the trapdoor by now."
"Well, we cannot stay down here forever," Carine said. "The orcs are sure to discover soon where we have gone."
"We are not going to stay down here forever, my lady," said Aendar, clenching his fist. "Only until we find another passage leading out. If it makes you feel any better, Drannamon and I will stand watch."
"Oh, you have decided that, have you?" She looked at Andryl and Shalea. "Well, my sisters and I will take our turns at guard duty as well. We are equal members of this partnership."
"As you wish, my lady" said Aendar. "Perhaps you would like the first watch?"
The wizardess glared at him for a moment, trying to detect if there was any sarcasm in his voice.
Drannamon would take the first watch, Bunker the last. Aendar himself took the middle watch, while Jhenta Sulpir and the innkeeper's daughters would each take an hour in between. The others settled down, to get what sleep they could.
Aendar came over and sat down next to Carine, who was reading from her spellbook. He took a whetstone from his pouch, and began to sharpen his sword.
"I apologize if my words were too harsh, earlier," he said.
"Not at all. We just had differing opinions," she replied, coolly.
He looked over at Carine. "Why is it that you wish to become a wizard, my lady?" he asked.
She closed her spellbook and set it on her lap. She took the spectacles from her nose, and wiped the dust from them with her sleeve.
"Many bands of adventurers come to my father's inn," she began. "One such band called themselves the Six Swords of Sevencho. It was an evening, perhaps a year ago, when they came to stay at the Wizard's Hand. They began asking about guides, and trackers- anyone who was familiar with the Giantspike Mountains, and if there was any way up into them. They had heard the tales of Maskyr's tower, and planned to visit the ruins in hopes of plundering them, but that was not why they had come."
"I asked what brought them to Maskyr's Eye. 'We have a treasure map leading to a ruined dwarven city,' one of them said. They were on an expedition to the Glacier of the White Worm."
"Too well do I remember them, though I have forgotten most of their names. There was a beer-drinking dwarf, a huge barbarian, a crafty halfling, a staff-wielding friar, and an elven wizard. They wore fine clothes and shiny armor and outlandish gear. Their gold and magic fascinated me and my sisters."
"As the evening passed, they drank as quickly as I could bring it to them- first brandy, then my father's good ale, then finally sund by the skinful. They became drunk, and started behaving badly. My father would have thrown them out, I think, but he was too busy that night to deal with them properly. So instead, they went on, bragging about their exploits, flaunting their wealth, insulting the people of Maskyr's Eye. They called us peasants and dirt farmers."
"That night, they asked me to come away from the Wizard's Hand, to the top of Maskyr's Bluff, for a little adventure. So I followed them. But their idea of adventure was not the same as mine, and they tried to have their way with me. Luckily, Shalea had followed me in secret, and when she saw what was happening, ran back to fetch my father."
"He was furious. He organized a group of villagers and led them to the top of Maskyr's Bluff. Somehow, they managed to save me from the Six Swords. Things nearly came to blows, and I fear that if they had, my father would not have survived, and many good young Maskyrvians would have perished as well. But the adventurers backed down- I think because they were so greatly outnumbered, or perhaps because most of them were too drunk to fight. The elder ordered the Six Swords to leave Maskyr's vale and never return. They were exiled, and left the next day, and have not been heard from since."
"I vowed I would never again be taken advantage of, and set out to become an apprentice wizard." She scowled, and took up her spellbook. "Now, leave me be. I must study."
***
Time had little meaning for them, in that cold, dank, windowless room, so they measured their watches by a little candle which Jhenta had brought. Andryl was awake, sitting by the door. It was slightly ajar, so she could listen out into the hallway for sounds approaching. She had heard nothing, so she sat, clutching tightly to her drawn sword, watching the candle burn down. Too slowly. Bunker was closest to her. The dwarf sat hunched up in his cloak, his back to the wall. His eyes were closed, and his breathing was slow and regular. He held his battle axe against his chest with both hands. In the far corner, Carine was also awake. Her nose was stuck in her spellbook. Shalea stirred, and came over to sit next to Andryl.
"It is not your turn to watch, yet," Andryl said. "Why don't you go back to sleep?"
"I cannot sleep in here," answered Shalea, "Even though Aendar and Drannamon say it is safe. It is too cold, I am too frightened."
"I cannot sleep either," conceded Andryl, "though I have never felt so tired. I ache all over." The salve Jhenta had put on her wounds was beginning to itch.
"I am so hungry." The younger sister rubbed her stomach. "You don't have anything to eat, do you?"
Andryl shook her head. "No, nor any water, either. I am dying of thirst." She sighed. "There's no telling how long we will be down here."
"It is so cold down here," Shalea complained. "I wish I'd brought another cloak."
"We left them all up on the pack mule with the rations." The two Orlsyr sisters were quiet for a moment. They huddled next to each other, taking a little comfort from the others presense. Across the chamber, Carine finally closed her spellbook and lay down to sleep. Bunker was snoring.
"This is no adventure," said Shalea after a while. "We are fighting for our very lives."
"The only way we will stay alive and escape is if we stay alert and guard one another."
"I wish we'd never come down here. I don't WANT to be an adventurer any more."
Andryl nodded in agreement. "The only thing that keeps me going is the thought of finding that traitor Inven and running him through."
Shalea did not know what kept her going, so she laid her head down on her sister's lap. Her mind just was not working properly. She looked over at the sleeping form of Drannamon, but said nothing.
***
The Guardian crossed the Rune of its own Making, and the etched symbol pulsed. That meant nothing. Ahead was a door. The narrow space under the door was a mere crack, but it was enough. Portals meant nothing. It's senses screamed, now- LIFE, WARMTH, BLOOD! But also, DANGER, INTRUDER, ENEMY! So close now, just beyond. The Guardian flowed under the door, silently, and into the light. Light burned the Guardian, but it was not afraid. It must remain in the shadows. It WAS a shadow, in a sense. And from the shadows, the Guardian brought death. Many orcs were crowded in the room. Swords and spears were out, held ready, as if they were preparing an attack. But there were also many torches, so each of the invaders cast many shadows. That was how the creature struck- through their shadows. Chaos erupted. The orcs flailed blindly, striking without aim, hacking and slashing an invisible foe. The Guardian fed, and the orcs fell.
***
Nekse held her breath as she surveyed the carnage of the torch room. The wreckage caused by the human adventurers was nothing compared to this. In the flickering torch light, she could see there was very little blood. In fact, the corpses looked- dessicated, dried. That was not all she found strange about the scene. Something in the way the orcs lay fallen struck her as out of place. Most seemed to have met their end with their backs to a wall, or near to one. She'd seen the aftermath of enough orc-battles in confined spaces to know that they had not been using their usual tactics.
"Stay back," she commanded. Two warriors from the Cult of the Dragon had accompanied her. They wore cloaks of purple, with veils of a similar color drawn up to cover their faces. They were clad in black ring mail and carried large, curved swords. They were her assigned bodyguards. "Remain just outside the room," she ordered. "I need to examine this, to learn what has happened." They complied without question, standing silently, alert, swords drawn.
"What would cause orcs to abandon their tried-and-true fighting style," she asked herself. "And what would shrivel a corpse- so many corpses- like this?" She shuddered. "Perhaps we have underestimated the humans trapped below." She glanced nervously at the wall, where she knew a hidden door stood. "No," she thought. "Those humans could not possibly wield this much arcane power. This would take an archmage. But if there were an archmage here, the Cult would have informed Sagor. It must be something else."
Something stirred, and the wizardess swung her wand about to face it. It was one of the orcs she had taken for dead. "Ghalluk yet lives," she marvelled. "But not for long." She went over to him. The orc-chief opened one eye, and it seemed that he recognized her. He tried to speak. "Probably his last words," Neske thought, without compassion. Unfortunately, the orc was no longer thinking clearly, so he spoke in the orcish tongue rather than Common.
Neske knew some orcish, but not much. She relied on spells to translate for her. Unfortunately, she hadn't anticipated this, so she had to try to understand what the warrior was saying using more mundane skills. Ghalluk seemed delerious. The only words Neske could make out in his ramblings and cursings were "shadow" and "demon" and "death." Death repeated many times over. But nothing about the humans. She would have recognized that word, had Ghalluk spoken it. Then Ghalluk collapsed, and with a final shudder, he died.
"That's it," Neske thought. "The humans unwittingly released something from below. That means they are probably dead now, too- drained, shriveled corpses like Ghalluk and his orc soldiers." She looked around carefully. A chilling thought occurred to her. "Where is the thing now? Has it gone back?"
The sound of screams coming from Sagor's audience chamber answered that question for her.
***
The guests at the Wizard's Hand were interrupted by an ear-piercing shriek from the kitchens.
"Now, calm down, Maefi," urged Lhullbannen. Aarrisson, the old constable, stood by the door.
"How can I be calm, husband," she wailed, "when three of my daughters are gone missing? They've not been about all day! This is all your fault, you and your ADVENTURES!" The big woman lapsed into a fit of tears.
Her accusation wasn't fair, but it may have had some truth to it. Lhullbannen closed his eyes, and tried to remain calm. He had to think. There was some mystery here, and it had the makings of something truly sinister. It was not only Carine, Andryl and Shalea who had disappeared.
"Everyone's gone, Lhull," said Aarrisson. "Bunker, the Lady Sshansalue, her minstrel friend from the Dalelands, even the boy Pinter. Not a one of them's been seen since dawnfry." Both men looked worried.
"What about those two men who rode in last evening," Lhull asked. "What were their names? Aendar and Drannamon. The nobleman and the scruffy- looking fellow?"
Aarrisson rubbed his short grey beard and thought a moment. "Them too, I think," he answered.
The burly innkeeper looked over at his distraught wife. "Maefi, we must prepare ourselves," he said calmly. "I am going to go upstairs and get my things. Don't worry," he added, "we'll find them."
"Where is Jhesycha," Maefi cried, suddenly even more alarmed. "I am not going to let her out of my sight!" Maefi Lhullbannen ran out of the kitchens, hysterical, looking to find her youngest- and for all she knew, her only- daughter.
After she had gone, Lhull looked over to his old friend. "It's true, Sshansalue is gone, too?" he asked. Aarrisson nodded. That was indeed grim news. "Lady Wonderharp said something to me last night," Lhullbannen continued. "When she'd first arrived, and before she and that other bard performed. Something about evil coming to Maskyr's Eye."
Aarrisson looked puzzled. "That's a bit cryptic. Typical Harper talk. Did she say ought else?"
Lhullbannen shook his head. "Nay. We did not have time to speak further. Whatever it was, I figured it for Harper business, and I'd hoped it would remain that way." He sighed.
Aarrisson put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "We might still find them," he said, trying to sound comforting. "Your girls are always wandering off." Lhullbannen shrugged out from under his friend's hand. Saying nothing, he went upstairs to don his armor and sharpen his axe.
Then it occurred to Aarrisson that he had not yet checked the stables. Going around the back of the inn, he opened the two great wooden doors and went inside. Three horses were missing that he knew of- Aendar's light warhorse, Drannamon's stallion, and one of Lhull's pack animals, a black- hair. The two Harpers had left their animals still in the stable.
"That's passing strange," he muttered to himself. "It's going to take a sharper head than mine to sort all this out. Still, whatever's going on, I don't much like the looks of it."
The guardsman climbed up into the loft that served as Bunker's sleeping quarters. The place was in disarray, but it didn't quite look ransacked. It did look as if a good deal of his belongings were gone.
Then, he heard the horns. The horns of the dwarves sounding in the distance, announcing their approach at last. The Hornmoot was about to begin after all.
***
Maskyr's Eye, 15 Flamerule, DR 1361, the Year of Maidens
Inven chuckled to himself and slammed shut the trapdoor, locking the metal clasp.
"Disposing of them was so easy," he thought. After gathering up the horses, he stowed Pinter's lute and set out for Ulcrimmon Alskayl's place. He briefly considered riding south first, skirting Maskyr's Eye, then dismissed the idea. It would look too suspicious if he were seen leading three riderless horses across country. Better to go boldly through the town, using the road, looking as though nothing was amiss. He even nodded to the peasant sweeping the path to the apothecary shop as he passed by the gate. The handsome bard unconsciously fingered the pommel of his sword as he went.
The Alskayl boys were half-orc. Some of the Maskyrvians considered them all orc, but they never really caused any trouble, so they lived there in peace. The whole clan lived together in a crude, one-room longhouse on the eastern side of Maskyr's Eye. They were hunters and woodsmen, not farmers, so the old barn on their land was rarely used. Inven made his way there, and found Ulcrimmon and one of his brothers waiting for him as planned.
"Keep her quiet, and hidden," he told them. He tossed the brothers a sack of coins. "Half now, half when I am well away from here." Both nodded. They turned and headed towards the hayloft to wait for nightfall. Their backs were to the bard. Inven briefly considered killing the two then and there, but decided against it. Better to wait. He took his hand from the pommel of his sword. The two half-breeds went up into the loft, each carrying a flask of sund, the cheap local vintage. Soon after nightfall, they would all be well away from here.
Inven turned to his captive, who lay on the floor of the barn, bound hand and foot. Sshansalue Wonderharp glared up at him over her blood-stained gag. He'd cut out her tongue, and broken her knuckles. Her leather armor, what was left of it, hung in tatters. Her golden hair was cropped short. Cuts and bruises showed she had been beaten.
The treacherous Dalesman grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him. She winced. Sshansalue wanted to look away, but could not. "I bet you'd like to know why I've done this to you," he taunted, "And what I plan to do with you." Inven may have broken her body, but he had not yet cowed her spirit. He could see that much in her eyes. She did want to know. She still hoped to escape. "Well, you will find out soon enough," he said. He released her, and smiling, went out to bring in the horses.
There was a bounty on Harpers, and Inven Burlisk, the Fallen Harper, knew where to find quite a few of them.
***
Sagor the Speaker sat fuming on his makeshift throne. His jaw was clenched and a vein stood out on his forehead. His knuckles grew white, so tightly did he clutch the ancient, magical scepter in his hand. He smoothed his purple robes, and tried to restrain himself.
Before him stood Ghalluk, a huge orc chieftain, leader of the Clan of the White Tusk. His armor was battered and slashed. His black cutlass, once the scourge of his tribe, was notched and dull. Ghalluk wore a crude bandage about his head, and the side of his face was covered with dried blood- his own, and that of his fellow orcs. His left arm was broken, so he carried his shield on his back. The bone protruded visibly from his forearm. The wound had been quickly cauterized by his tribe's shaman. It was a horrible disfigurement, one which would jeapordize Ghalluk's leadership of the clan in the near future. If the clan HAD any future. The human adventurers had come upon Ghalluk's orcs suddenly, and cut through them with shameful efficiency. The chieftain's heart burned black, eager for vengeance. But the Speaker had summoned him, and Ghalluk had come.
The orc lord shifted his weight nervously, and bowed before Sagor, as informally as he dared. He knew things had gone badly, and he would be blamed. At that moment, Ghalluk knew mostly fear, and pain, and anger, but he was also proud, and would not allow his fear to show. Especially to the purple-robed Sagor.
"Have you captured these interlopers?" demanded Sagor.
"Not yet, Wise One," answered Ghalluk. The very act of speaking caused the orc a blinding pain, though, but he gritted his teeth and did little more than wince. "But we have them trapped on the Second Level, below the Spiral Stair." His mastery of the Common Tongue of men was very good, for an orc.
The Speaker snarled. "Trapped?" he shrieked. "I want them captured, or dead! They have disrupted our plans, and there can be no delay. Do you understand me, you fool? No delay. I want them dead!"
Ghalluk simply bowed his head. "It shall be done, Wise One," he said.
Sagor leaned back and dismissed Ghalluk with a contemptuous wave of his hand. As soon as the wounded orc-lord had left the audience chamber, a slim figure emerged from hiding behind a curtain. She wore purple robes, not unlike Sagor's, though not so opulent. Hers were a good deal more fitting and revealing as well. While Sagor held a scepter, she carried only a simple wand of beech. The woman looked at Sagor, sitting furious on the stack of crates he liked to think of as a throne. The Speaker glared at her, and beckoned her over.
"He spoke no lies, Speaker," she reported quietly, "Nor did he think any treacherous thoughts towards you."
Sagor the Speaker nodded impatiently. He could have guessed as much from simply looking at the orc-chieftain. He beckoned the lovely, dark-haired young wizardess still closer.
"Our excavations must not be delayed," Sagor commanded. His voice sounded shrill in the torchlit underground chamber. "The scrolls of the archmage Maskyr lie somewhere in the collapsed tunnels of this level. We must find them, for the glory of the Cult of the Dragon. With that ancient knowledge, we could." The woman raised an eyebrow.
The Speaker leaned back in his throne. He drew a folded map from one of the sleeves of his robes. "Here is a copy of our map," he said. "It shows the upper levels of these ruins, and where we have already dug. The chief miner has the only other copy. I entrust this to you, now." He eyed the wizardess cautiously, then handed it to her. She took it reverently, as if it were a thing of great value, and tucked it into the front of her robes.
"That incompetent Ghalluk will have to pull more soldiers from digging to pursue these meddlers," Sagor continued. "I want you to take the acolytes and gather any orcs you can find- shirkers, the wounded, even their fool shaman- and continue the work." He looked into the woman's eyes. "Can you do that for me, Neske?"
The woman leaned closer to Sagor. His age was beginning to show. Soon, he would be no match for her. She smiled seductively. "Of course, my master," she whispered.
***
Jhenta looked puzzled. "Why are we going down? I want to get out, not go further in!"
"I know, lass," said Bunker, "But we cannot go back that way. The tuskers are too thick, and too angry."
"The dwarf is right, Jhenta," added Aendar. "We've dealt the orcs a major blow, but they will soon regroup and come after us. We must find a place to rest where we can better defend ourselves."
"It looks as if the orcs have never been down here," said Drannamon. The ranger knelt down and examined the flagstones at the base of the stairs more closely. "In the woods, I can track a bear for leagues, but in here, I am not sure how well I can read the signs. Still, it does not look as if this area has been disturbed in some time. For whatever reason, I don't think the orcs have been down here before." He spoke the truth. No tracks other than their own marred the dust. Yet, they all wondered why the orcs did not come here.
"That may mean we can find refuge down here," said Aendar, "though it may be only for a while. I think it would be best if we stayed down here for a while. We need to find a place to rest." The others looked at him like he was mad. Shalea moved over to stand beside Drannamon.
"At this rate," said Carine, "we are never going to find that other exit." Aendar scowled, but did not reply.
At the bottom of the spiral stair, they came upon a passageway. It was very similar to the passageway they'd first encountered at the bottom of the well. That seemed so long ago, now. By the light of their torches, they spotted a wooden door on the right wall of the passage, just a few paces from where they stood. Rather than venturing further down the passage, they decided to see what lay behind the door.
"It looks to be nothing more than an old storeroom, untouched for many winters," said Aendar. "We can rest here."
Jhenta followed him into the room and looked around. "Must we stay here? It smells like a middens," she complained.
***
The Guardian did not smell blood, but it did sense the living, in its own way. The scent was faint, and distant. Silently, invisibly, it made its way through the halls the dwarves had delved for its Master, seeking the intruders. But it was puzzled. From two directions, now, it could sense beings which were not permitted. Here in the Lower Halls, the source was faint and weak. But farther on, up the stairs to the upper chambers, the traces were stronger. There, the Guardian did not often go. The Guardian turned its head, this way and that, unsure. Up the stairs it must go, upward toward the stronger. Stronger meant more- more attackers, more prey. The ones here, the weaker ones, could wait. The creature made its way to the Spiral Stair, and crept up, towards the sound of orc voices.
***
Carine scowled at Aendar. "We are fools to sit around down here any longer," she said. "We should be looking for materials to make a ladder, and climb back out the way we came in."
Aendar turned away. "There must be another way out," he insisted. "I've said it already- orcs cannot live without food. And besides, it is foolish to risk going back now. The orcs know we are here, and they will be watching for us. Even if we could fight our way back to the well, a ladder might not work. Inven could have piled rocks on top of the trapdoor by now."
"Well, we cannot stay down here forever," Carine said. "The orcs are sure to discover soon where we have gone."
"We are not going to stay down here forever, my lady," said Aendar, clenching his fist. "Only until we find another passage leading out. If it makes you feel any better, Drannamon and I will stand watch."
"Oh, you have decided that, have you?" She looked at Andryl and Shalea. "Well, my sisters and I will take our turns at guard duty as well. We are equal members of this partnership."
"As you wish, my lady" said Aendar. "Perhaps you would like the first watch?"
The wizardess glared at him for a moment, trying to detect if there was any sarcasm in his voice.
Drannamon would take the first watch, Bunker the last. Aendar himself took the middle watch, while Jhenta Sulpir and the innkeeper's daughters would each take an hour in between. The others settled down, to get what sleep they could.
Aendar came over and sat down next to Carine, who was reading from her spellbook. He took a whetstone from his pouch, and began to sharpen his sword.
"I apologize if my words were too harsh, earlier," he said.
"Not at all. We just had differing opinions," she replied, coolly.
He looked over at Carine. "Why is it that you wish to become a wizard, my lady?" he asked.
She closed her spellbook and set it on her lap. She took the spectacles from her nose, and wiped the dust from them with her sleeve.
"Many bands of adventurers come to my father's inn," she began. "One such band called themselves the Six Swords of Sevencho. It was an evening, perhaps a year ago, when they came to stay at the Wizard's Hand. They began asking about guides, and trackers- anyone who was familiar with the Giantspike Mountains, and if there was any way up into them. They had heard the tales of Maskyr's tower, and planned to visit the ruins in hopes of plundering them, but that was not why they had come."
"I asked what brought them to Maskyr's Eye. 'We have a treasure map leading to a ruined dwarven city,' one of them said. They were on an expedition to the Glacier of the White Worm."
"Too well do I remember them, though I have forgotten most of their names. There was a beer-drinking dwarf, a huge barbarian, a crafty halfling, a staff-wielding friar, and an elven wizard. They wore fine clothes and shiny armor and outlandish gear. Their gold and magic fascinated me and my sisters."
"As the evening passed, they drank as quickly as I could bring it to them- first brandy, then my father's good ale, then finally sund by the skinful. They became drunk, and started behaving badly. My father would have thrown them out, I think, but he was too busy that night to deal with them properly. So instead, they went on, bragging about their exploits, flaunting their wealth, insulting the people of Maskyr's Eye. They called us peasants and dirt farmers."
"That night, they asked me to come away from the Wizard's Hand, to the top of Maskyr's Bluff, for a little adventure. So I followed them. But their idea of adventure was not the same as mine, and they tried to have their way with me. Luckily, Shalea had followed me in secret, and when she saw what was happening, ran back to fetch my father."
"He was furious. He organized a group of villagers and led them to the top of Maskyr's Bluff. Somehow, they managed to save me from the Six Swords. Things nearly came to blows, and I fear that if they had, my father would not have survived, and many good young Maskyrvians would have perished as well. But the adventurers backed down- I think because they were so greatly outnumbered, or perhaps because most of them were too drunk to fight. The elder ordered the Six Swords to leave Maskyr's vale and never return. They were exiled, and left the next day, and have not been heard from since."
"I vowed I would never again be taken advantage of, and set out to become an apprentice wizard." She scowled, and took up her spellbook. "Now, leave me be. I must study."
***
Time had little meaning for them, in that cold, dank, windowless room, so they measured their watches by a little candle which Jhenta had brought. Andryl was awake, sitting by the door. It was slightly ajar, so she could listen out into the hallway for sounds approaching. She had heard nothing, so she sat, clutching tightly to her drawn sword, watching the candle burn down. Too slowly. Bunker was closest to her. The dwarf sat hunched up in his cloak, his back to the wall. His eyes were closed, and his breathing was slow and regular. He held his battle axe against his chest with both hands. In the far corner, Carine was also awake. Her nose was stuck in her spellbook. Shalea stirred, and came over to sit next to Andryl.
"It is not your turn to watch, yet," Andryl said. "Why don't you go back to sleep?"
"I cannot sleep in here," answered Shalea, "Even though Aendar and Drannamon say it is safe. It is too cold, I am too frightened."
"I cannot sleep either," conceded Andryl, "though I have never felt so tired. I ache all over." The salve Jhenta had put on her wounds was beginning to itch.
"I am so hungry." The younger sister rubbed her stomach. "You don't have anything to eat, do you?"
Andryl shook her head. "No, nor any water, either. I am dying of thirst." She sighed. "There's no telling how long we will be down here."
"It is so cold down here," Shalea complained. "I wish I'd brought another cloak."
"We left them all up on the pack mule with the rations." The two Orlsyr sisters were quiet for a moment. They huddled next to each other, taking a little comfort from the others presense. Across the chamber, Carine finally closed her spellbook and lay down to sleep. Bunker was snoring.
"This is no adventure," said Shalea after a while. "We are fighting for our very lives."
"The only way we will stay alive and escape is if we stay alert and guard one another."
"I wish we'd never come down here. I don't WANT to be an adventurer any more."
Andryl nodded in agreement. "The only thing that keeps me going is the thought of finding that traitor Inven and running him through."
Shalea did not know what kept her going, so she laid her head down on her sister's lap. Her mind just was not working properly. She looked over at the sleeping form of Drannamon, but said nothing.
***
The Guardian crossed the Rune of its own Making, and the etched symbol pulsed. That meant nothing. Ahead was a door. The narrow space under the door was a mere crack, but it was enough. Portals meant nothing. It's senses screamed, now- LIFE, WARMTH, BLOOD! But also, DANGER, INTRUDER, ENEMY! So close now, just beyond. The Guardian flowed under the door, silently, and into the light. Light burned the Guardian, but it was not afraid. It must remain in the shadows. It WAS a shadow, in a sense. And from the shadows, the Guardian brought death. Many orcs were crowded in the room. Swords and spears were out, held ready, as if they were preparing an attack. But there were also many torches, so each of the invaders cast many shadows. That was how the creature struck- through their shadows. Chaos erupted. The orcs flailed blindly, striking without aim, hacking and slashing an invisible foe. The Guardian fed, and the orcs fell.
***
Nekse held her breath as she surveyed the carnage of the torch room. The wreckage caused by the human adventurers was nothing compared to this. In the flickering torch light, she could see there was very little blood. In fact, the corpses looked- dessicated, dried. That was not all she found strange about the scene. Something in the way the orcs lay fallen struck her as out of place. Most seemed to have met their end with their backs to a wall, or near to one. She'd seen the aftermath of enough orc-battles in confined spaces to know that they had not been using their usual tactics.
"Stay back," she commanded. Two warriors from the Cult of the Dragon had accompanied her. They wore cloaks of purple, with veils of a similar color drawn up to cover their faces. They were clad in black ring mail and carried large, curved swords. They were her assigned bodyguards. "Remain just outside the room," she ordered. "I need to examine this, to learn what has happened." They complied without question, standing silently, alert, swords drawn.
"What would cause orcs to abandon their tried-and-true fighting style," she asked herself. "And what would shrivel a corpse- so many corpses- like this?" She shuddered. "Perhaps we have underestimated the humans trapped below." She glanced nervously at the wall, where she knew a hidden door stood. "No," she thought. "Those humans could not possibly wield this much arcane power. This would take an archmage. But if there were an archmage here, the Cult would have informed Sagor. It must be something else."
Something stirred, and the wizardess swung her wand about to face it. It was one of the orcs she had taken for dead. "Ghalluk yet lives," she marvelled. "But not for long." She went over to him. The orc-chief opened one eye, and it seemed that he recognized her. He tried to speak. "Probably his last words," Neske thought, without compassion. Unfortunately, the orc was no longer thinking clearly, so he spoke in the orcish tongue rather than Common.
Neske knew some orcish, but not much. She relied on spells to translate for her. Unfortunately, she hadn't anticipated this, so she had to try to understand what the warrior was saying using more mundane skills. Ghalluk seemed delerious. The only words Neske could make out in his ramblings and cursings were "shadow" and "demon" and "death." Death repeated many times over. But nothing about the humans. She would have recognized that word, had Ghalluk spoken it. Then Ghalluk collapsed, and with a final shudder, he died.
"That's it," Neske thought. "The humans unwittingly released something from below. That means they are probably dead now, too- drained, shriveled corpses like Ghalluk and his orc soldiers." She looked around carefully. A chilling thought occurred to her. "Where is the thing now? Has it gone back?"
The sound of screams coming from Sagor's audience chamber answered that question for her.
***
The guests at the Wizard's Hand were interrupted by an ear-piercing shriek from the kitchens.
"Now, calm down, Maefi," urged Lhullbannen. Aarrisson, the old constable, stood by the door.
"How can I be calm, husband," she wailed, "when three of my daughters are gone missing? They've not been about all day! This is all your fault, you and your ADVENTURES!" The big woman lapsed into a fit of tears.
Her accusation wasn't fair, but it may have had some truth to it. Lhullbannen closed his eyes, and tried to remain calm. He had to think. There was some mystery here, and it had the makings of something truly sinister. It was not only Carine, Andryl and Shalea who had disappeared.
"Everyone's gone, Lhull," said Aarrisson. "Bunker, the Lady Sshansalue, her minstrel friend from the Dalelands, even the boy Pinter. Not a one of them's been seen since dawnfry." Both men looked worried.
"What about those two men who rode in last evening," Lhull asked. "What were their names? Aendar and Drannamon. The nobleman and the scruffy- looking fellow?"
Aarrisson rubbed his short grey beard and thought a moment. "Them too, I think," he answered.
The burly innkeeper looked over at his distraught wife. "Maefi, we must prepare ourselves," he said calmly. "I am going to go upstairs and get my things. Don't worry," he added, "we'll find them."
"Where is Jhesycha," Maefi cried, suddenly even more alarmed. "I am not going to let her out of my sight!" Maefi Lhullbannen ran out of the kitchens, hysterical, looking to find her youngest- and for all she knew, her only- daughter.
After she had gone, Lhull looked over to his old friend. "It's true, Sshansalue is gone, too?" he asked. Aarrisson nodded. That was indeed grim news. "Lady Wonderharp said something to me last night," Lhullbannen continued. "When she'd first arrived, and before she and that other bard performed. Something about evil coming to Maskyr's Eye."
Aarrisson looked puzzled. "That's a bit cryptic. Typical Harper talk. Did she say ought else?"
Lhullbannen shook his head. "Nay. We did not have time to speak further. Whatever it was, I figured it for Harper business, and I'd hoped it would remain that way." He sighed.
Aarrisson put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "We might still find them," he said, trying to sound comforting. "Your girls are always wandering off." Lhullbannen shrugged out from under his friend's hand. Saying nothing, he went upstairs to don his armor and sharpen his axe.
Then it occurred to Aarrisson that he had not yet checked the stables. Going around the back of the inn, he opened the two great wooden doors and went inside. Three horses were missing that he knew of- Aendar's light warhorse, Drannamon's stallion, and one of Lhull's pack animals, a black- hair. The two Harpers had left their animals still in the stable.
"That's passing strange," he muttered to himself. "It's going to take a sharper head than mine to sort all this out. Still, whatever's going on, I don't much like the looks of it."
The guardsman climbed up into the loft that served as Bunker's sleeping quarters. The place was in disarray, but it didn't quite look ransacked. It did look as if a good deal of his belongings were gone.
Then, he heard the horns. The horns of the dwarves sounding in the distance, announcing their approach at last. The Hornmoot was about to begin after all.
***
