I'm back, finally, and I've got a few more chapters before the end of this
story; I promise I've got some more twists and turns in store for the final
parts! Where does the pit lead? What can possibly defeat a spider demon
king?
Damathodor the knight fell for ages, blindly in the burning darkness. Forcing himself to turn in mid-fall, he twisted, terrified in the pitch- black emptiness, searching for up or down in vain as he continued to fall. Heavy breezes swept upwards into his face, cooling him and drying the sweat into crust on his wearied visage. Despite the breeze, Damathodor felt the heat rising all around him. Thinking quickly, the knight ripped hard towards the direction he felt the most heat. Straightening out, he felt the air rushing upwards and realized he had straightened out.
Spreading his limbs and leaning slightly forward, he slowed his descent. Bracing for a sudden impact his mind searched frantically for what to do next. He could think of nothing but hope for the best. Just as he felt a slight halt in the updraft, his feet contacted hard with stone, and he felt his legs brace and quickly crumple beneath him with a jolt of crushing pain. He rolled forward and the impact shifted from his legs to his shoulders and down his back as his armor clanged metallically into the blackness. He slid and rolled for some time in the darkness and he finally felt his head smash brutally into a rock wall somewhere to the left of his landing spot. He lost consciousness and drifted further into darkness.
The demon creature miles above faced Durags charge on braced claws, shifting nimbly to one side and swiping a dripping poisoned claw over the Necromancers head. Bometh brought his staff wildly down to crack over the creatures bent neck, but the mighty oaken weapon shattered on the blackened demon hide and left the startled priest face to face with an angry demon and a broken stick.
"AAAAARRRGGG!" screamed something behind the creature, and a blue blazing sword-point burst through the wretched monsters abdomen, sending greenish blood spattering over the dumbstruck priest. Durag ripped the kris from the rough hide and brought it slicing down through the tough skin along the creatures spine. He felt rigid bone resist his blade, and the spider-human bucked backwards and swatted the backs of his lower claws against the sorcerer, sending him flying into the far wall with a thud and a crack as his bone armor shattered.
Bleeding profusely from its midsection, the wounded beast turned fully back to its first adversary, the weaker one. . .Bometh had not been dazed long, as Durag shook his head free of pain on the wall, Bometh had leapt towards the opposite wall, on which hung some ancient weapons for decoration. Lifting a heavy carved bow from the display rack, he sent an arrow from his reserves whistling into the advancing demons face. Recoiling with an inhuman scream of pain and horror, the putrid monstrosity swung its poisoned limbs frantically as it reeled backwards, covering its face with its higher claws. Bometh knocked a new arrow, and, taking aim, sent the shaft with a sickening thud into the dry skin folds directly below the monsters third eye.
"The lowest eye! The lowest eye! The heart lies behind the lowest eye!" bellowed the Necromancer behind the flaming, furious beast. Too late, Bometh readied his next, killing arrow, but one of the flailing arms sunk its deadly end violently into the priests side. The monster took two great steps forward and opened its gaping mouth, preparing to rend and rip the helpless priest to pieces. "A GIGHAD! ELBERE A GIGHAD!" screamed a deep, magic voice, and a splintering, gleaming explosion of white sealed the demon from his prey. Bometh safe behind a wall of bone, the demon whirled angrily on the taunting figure behind him. Durag ripped the useless armor from his body, and, spitting blood onto the stone floor, sneered at the hell spawn.
"You've hurt my friend." He panted, his eyes blazing green in inhuman fury, "Now I shall hurt you. . ." The demon, despite its rage, shuddered as the darkness surrounded it and cut off its vision from the rest of the room. The entire passage seemed to grow cold and lifeless as the creature challenged its nemesis, stepping forward into the gloomy light. "So be it. . ." whispered Durag, and he summoned his darkest spell.
Slowly the Knight in the darkness lifted the lids of his throbbing, bloodshot eyes. He moaned, and, twitching his arm in the hazy blackness, searched feebly for his sword. A scratching, like claws on stone, echoed nearby and a demon grunted into the chasm. Damathodor's eyes flickered open and focused, squinting through the uniform nothingness. He saw a gleam a foot away, the hilt of his sword.
The scratching was coming closer, and the creature in the blackness was sniffing now, searching for the source of the scent of human blood. . . Damathodor felt a cold metal bit in his hand, and he closed his eyes as his fingers found the groove of the hilt of his old blade. The demon stopped its snuffling and twitched its head, hearing a soft clicking and scraping sound in front of it. Looking with fascination, it saw a dark form, gleaming slightly rise from in front of it. Its shocked expression remained on its face even after the blade of Athos had torn its head from its body.
Creeping silently along an invisible wall in the total darkness, Damathodor suddenly noticed ahead a faint glimmer of reddish light flickering off a far wall. Some minutes later, he came upon a downward slope and the glow became stronger, no longer flickering but distinct and steady. He presently heard several different voices garbling some unknown dialect ahead, in the source of the light. Not being able to make out what was being discussed, the Knight, keeping his sword up in the growing red haze, wiped the dripping sweat from his forehead and kept on. Minutes passed and he finally reached to source of the light; a pair of torches, blazing silently at the end of the sloping corridor. A great steel door stood, blocking the Knights way, and, glowing red as it was, the Knight hesitated to touch it, even with a mailed hand. Peering close, he made out several distinct words in some long lost and hell-born language:
Tiramor Drag-Halbe Nithalaka Bi Teotanhitan
Timos DEL GEREBETH FORTENITH
The door read. Damathodor squinted and wished silently the Necromancer were with him, he would be able to read it, no doubt. Sighing in confusion, the mighty Knight shrugged his armored shoulders and lifted his sword to drive a wedge between the two doors and pry them open. Suddenly the doors swung open with a loud swoosh and the Knight, not caught off guard, brought around his shield from his back and leapt back with his sword leading into the room beyond. He promptly eased his guard.
In the opened room a gentle, relaxing trickle sounded as several small streams of water seeped through the walls and into a circular moat running around the edges of the room. Veils of pearly gems hung singly and in groups from a well shaped and carved ceiling and several torch posts, alive and flickering, jutted from the walls. The lovely smell of incense from a million spices assailed the Knights nostrils, and, perhaps most shockingly, a tall beautiful woman stood waiting for him in the center of the chamber. Damathodor lowered his shield warily, and took a step into the room. The woman looked up, her soft black eyes following his movements closely and her lips smiling ever so slightly.
"Welcome, worthy Knight." She said to him, her words full of gentle and melodious tones. Her hands moved to indicate the room about her. "Welcome to the Holy Springs of the Earth." She sung. Damathodor stepped now fully into the room and looked about him, then at the woman. She stood tall, almost six feet tall, but not quite as tall as he, and wore very little on her soft, tanned skin. A circlet of gleaming metal rounded the base of her neck and from its front ran a small chain holding up her scant breastplates. Her stomach, delicate and sloping, lay open for the Knight until just before her thighs where another chain draped a still cloth covering halfway down her slender legs. She wore no shoes, but had circlets of gold about her ankles and wrists. Feeling dumbstruck but not wanting to be rude or invasive of her stunning form, the Knight jerked his lingering eyes to the woman's face. Her hair was Black, like her eyes, and fell about shoulder length, kept back behind her ears by a small band of gold.
"I," Began Damathodor, not knowing how to speak to this mystical being. "I am the Knight Damathodor, of the Holy Lands, chosen to undertake the quest. . ." He began, but trailed off as the woman stepped towards him with a quizzical look on her face and began running her fingers along the inscriptions on his shield.
"What strange clothing is this?" She asked of him, her eyes holding his in their inquisitive gaze. "So cold and hard; and weapons? What need do you have of weapons? This is a soft place, Knight." She told him softly. Damathodor could smell the fragrance of her breath and the closeness of her form. He was becoming distracted, he realized, but he almost didn't care. "Softness, sir Knight. . ." She whispered drawing close to him. He shut is eyes as he kissed her lips, and his blood heat, his hands reached to hold her to him, and she grasped him tightly.
NO! screamed a voice, somewhere inside of his dazzled brain. He suddenly noticed the coolness of the air around him, and the utter beauty of the place, fringed as it was with haze. He pulled away with some effort and the woman looked at him, fear and wariness in her eyes. He looked closely at her and away again.
"What is it?" She asked him quietly, menacingly, almost.
"Something is not right in this place." He breathed, feeling the heat rise and the lights fade into a slight reddish tint. The trickling of the fountains slowed and the scent of incense gave way to something else. . . "You are not right. . ." he said, looking again at her. She stepped quickly away and spat at his feet.
"You dare insult my hospitality in this place of beauty!" She screamed, her voice now shrill and malignant. She seemed to grow in height and her features changed. Her eyes glowed red, from her fingers gleamed nails, then claws, and her back arched convulsively as two dark, leathery wings grew from her now pale and deathly skin.
"There is naught but death here!" Cried Damathodor, bringing up his sword and shield, gritting his teeth in the growing hellish light. The torch posts were made of bone, and the streams emitted red blood from the mouths of white skulls into a moat of blood and fire along the floor. The stench of death pervaded the place, and as the demoness evil lips parted to show two gleaming fangs, the Knight realized fully his danger. Stepping back slightly, the door clanged shut behind him, and a voice, high and evil called out to him;
"Stand, oh Knight of the Holy Land! Stand and face your death! None shall pass the keeper of the Gates of Hell!!!"
Damathodor the knight fell for ages, blindly in the burning darkness. Forcing himself to turn in mid-fall, he twisted, terrified in the pitch- black emptiness, searching for up or down in vain as he continued to fall. Heavy breezes swept upwards into his face, cooling him and drying the sweat into crust on his wearied visage. Despite the breeze, Damathodor felt the heat rising all around him. Thinking quickly, the knight ripped hard towards the direction he felt the most heat. Straightening out, he felt the air rushing upwards and realized he had straightened out.
Spreading his limbs and leaning slightly forward, he slowed his descent. Bracing for a sudden impact his mind searched frantically for what to do next. He could think of nothing but hope for the best. Just as he felt a slight halt in the updraft, his feet contacted hard with stone, and he felt his legs brace and quickly crumple beneath him with a jolt of crushing pain. He rolled forward and the impact shifted from his legs to his shoulders and down his back as his armor clanged metallically into the blackness. He slid and rolled for some time in the darkness and he finally felt his head smash brutally into a rock wall somewhere to the left of his landing spot. He lost consciousness and drifted further into darkness.
The demon creature miles above faced Durags charge on braced claws, shifting nimbly to one side and swiping a dripping poisoned claw over the Necromancers head. Bometh brought his staff wildly down to crack over the creatures bent neck, but the mighty oaken weapon shattered on the blackened demon hide and left the startled priest face to face with an angry demon and a broken stick.
"AAAAARRRGGG!" screamed something behind the creature, and a blue blazing sword-point burst through the wretched monsters abdomen, sending greenish blood spattering over the dumbstruck priest. Durag ripped the kris from the rough hide and brought it slicing down through the tough skin along the creatures spine. He felt rigid bone resist his blade, and the spider-human bucked backwards and swatted the backs of his lower claws against the sorcerer, sending him flying into the far wall with a thud and a crack as his bone armor shattered.
Bleeding profusely from its midsection, the wounded beast turned fully back to its first adversary, the weaker one. . .Bometh had not been dazed long, as Durag shook his head free of pain on the wall, Bometh had leapt towards the opposite wall, on which hung some ancient weapons for decoration. Lifting a heavy carved bow from the display rack, he sent an arrow from his reserves whistling into the advancing demons face. Recoiling with an inhuman scream of pain and horror, the putrid monstrosity swung its poisoned limbs frantically as it reeled backwards, covering its face with its higher claws. Bometh knocked a new arrow, and, taking aim, sent the shaft with a sickening thud into the dry skin folds directly below the monsters third eye.
"The lowest eye! The lowest eye! The heart lies behind the lowest eye!" bellowed the Necromancer behind the flaming, furious beast. Too late, Bometh readied his next, killing arrow, but one of the flailing arms sunk its deadly end violently into the priests side. The monster took two great steps forward and opened its gaping mouth, preparing to rend and rip the helpless priest to pieces. "A GIGHAD! ELBERE A GIGHAD!" screamed a deep, magic voice, and a splintering, gleaming explosion of white sealed the demon from his prey. Bometh safe behind a wall of bone, the demon whirled angrily on the taunting figure behind him. Durag ripped the useless armor from his body, and, spitting blood onto the stone floor, sneered at the hell spawn.
"You've hurt my friend." He panted, his eyes blazing green in inhuman fury, "Now I shall hurt you. . ." The demon, despite its rage, shuddered as the darkness surrounded it and cut off its vision from the rest of the room. The entire passage seemed to grow cold and lifeless as the creature challenged its nemesis, stepping forward into the gloomy light. "So be it. . ." whispered Durag, and he summoned his darkest spell.
Slowly the Knight in the darkness lifted the lids of his throbbing, bloodshot eyes. He moaned, and, twitching his arm in the hazy blackness, searched feebly for his sword. A scratching, like claws on stone, echoed nearby and a demon grunted into the chasm. Damathodor's eyes flickered open and focused, squinting through the uniform nothingness. He saw a gleam a foot away, the hilt of his sword.
The scratching was coming closer, and the creature in the blackness was sniffing now, searching for the source of the scent of human blood. . . Damathodor felt a cold metal bit in his hand, and he closed his eyes as his fingers found the groove of the hilt of his old blade. The demon stopped its snuffling and twitched its head, hearing a soft clicking and scraping sound in front of it. Looking with fascination, it saw a dark form, gleaming slightly rise from in front of it. Its shocked expression remained on its face even after the blade of Athos had torn its head from its body.
Creeping silently along an invisible wall in the total darkness, Damathodor suddenly noticed ahead a faint glimmer of reddish light flickering off a far wall. Some minutes later, he came upon a downward slope and the glow became stronger, no longer flickering but distinct and steady. He presently heard several different voices garbling some unknown dialect ahead, in the source of the light. Not being able to make out what was being discussed, the Knight, keeping his sword up in the growing red haze, wiped the dripping sweat from his forehead and kept on. Minutes passed and he finally reached to source of the light; a pair of torches, blazing silently at the end of the sloping corridor. A great steel door stood, blocking the Knights way, and, glowing red as it was, the Knight hesitated to touch it, even with a mailed hand. Peering close, he made out several distinct words in some long lost and hell-born language:
Tiramor Drag-Halbe Nithalaka Bi Teotanhitan
Timos DEL GEREBETH FORTENITH
The door read. Damathodor squinted and wished silently the Necromancer were with him, he would be able to read it, no doubt. Sighing in confusion, the mighty Knight shrugged his armored shoulders and lifted his sword to drive a wedge between the two doors and pry them open. Suddenly the doors swung open with a loud swoosh and the Knight, not caught off guard, brought around his shield from his back and leapt back with his sword leading into the room beyond. He promptly eased his guard.
In the opened room a gentle, relaxing trickle sounded as several small streams of water seeped through the walls and into a circular moat running around the edges of the room. Veils of pearly gems hung singly and in groups from a well shaped and carved ceiling and several torch posts, alive and flickering, jutted from the walls. The lovely smell of incense from a million spices assailed the Knights nostrils, and, perhaps most shockingly, a tall beautiful woman stood waiting for him in the center of the chamber. Damathodor lowered his shield warily, and took a step into the room. The woman looked up, her soft black eyes following his movements closely and her lips smiling ever so slightly.
"Welcome, worthy Knight." She said to him, her words full of gentle and melodious tones. Her hands moved to indicate the room about her. "Welcome to the Holy Springs of the Earth." She sung. Damathodor stepped now fully into the room and looked about him, then at the woman. She stood tall, almost six feet tall, but not quite as tall as he, and wore very little on her soft, tanned skin. A circlet of gleaming metal rounded the base of her neck and from its front ran a small chain holding up her scant breastplates. Her stomach, delicate and sloping, lay open for the Knight until just before her thighs where another chain draped a still cloth covering halfway down her slender legs. She wore no shoes, but had circlets of gold about her ankles and wrists. Feeling dumbstruck but not wanting to be rude or invasive of her stunning form, the Knight jerked his lingering eyes to the woman's face. Her hair was Black, like her eyes, and fell about shoulder length, kept back behind her ears by a small band of gold.
"I," Began Damathodor, not knowing how to speak to this mystical being. "I am the Knight Damathodor, of the Holy Lands, chosen to undertake the quest. . ." He began, but trailed off as the woman stepped towards him with a quizzical look on her face and began running her fingers along the inscriptions on his shield.
"What strange clothing is this?" She asked of him, her eyes holding his in their inquisitive gaze. "So cold and hard; and weapons? What need do you have of weapons? This is a soft place, Knight." She told him softly. Damathodor could smell the fragrance of her breath and the closeness of her form. He was becoming distracted, he realized, but he almost didn't care. "Softness, sir Knight. . ." She whispered drawing close to him. He shut is eyes as he kissed her lips, and his blood heat, his hands reached to hold her to him, and she grasped him tightly.
NO! screamed a voice, somewhere inside of his dazzled brain. He suddenly noticed the coolness of the air around him, and the utter beauty of the place, fringed as it was with haze. He pulled away with some effort and the woman looked at him, fear and wariness in her eyes. He looked closely at her and away again.
"What is it?" She asked him quietly, menacingly, almost.
"Something is not right in this place." He breathed, feeling the heat rise and the lights fade into a slight reddish tint. The trickling of the fountains slowed and the scent of incense gave way to something else. . . "You are not right. . ." he said, looking again at her. She stepped quickly away and spat at his feet.
"You dare insult my hospitality in this place of beauty!" She screamed, her voice now shrill and malignant. She seemed to grow in height and her features changed. Her eyes glowed red, from her fingers gleamed nails, then claws, and her back arched convulsively as two dark, leathery wings grew from her now pale and deathly skin.
"There is naught but death here!" Cried Damathodor, bringing up his sword and shield, gritting his teeth in the growing hellish light. The torch posts were made of bone, and the streams emitted red blood from the mouths of white skulls into a moat of blood and fire along the floor. The stench of death pervaded the place, and as the demoness evil lips parted to show two gleaming fangs, the Knight realized fully his danger. Stepping back slightly, the door clanged shut behind him, and a voice, high and evil called out to him;
"Stand, oh Knight of the Holy Land! Stand and face your death! None shall pass the keeper of the Gates of Hell!!!"