4. Viconia
Surface dwellers. Cha'kohk mina jal: a curse on all kivvin. These mines were a mere mockery of the glories of the Underdark. It was difficult to rank the surface-dwellers by degree of her despisal. The arrogant servant of the vile Helm was certainly lowest in her estimation, a slave not fit to clean her boots with his tongue; Shar-Teel she detested the least; but the subtle gradations between Edwin's nasal whine, Imoen's foolish optimism, Garrick's simple foolishness, were quite difficult. Her drow senses had begun to die, she thought, sniffing the air; had she entirely lost her ability to feel the underground? Home welcomed her no longer.
She searched the tunnels, moving quietly and quickly beneath her cloak. She could see clearly in this familiar darkness. The rivvin slaves did not dare approach her, and the grace of her form was sufficient to preserve her silence in motion. For guards she would run to the safety of the group, however much it was beneath her dignity after the power she had once wielded.
The patterns of cave-draughts hit her skin. She slowly blinked her eyes, concentrating. Down to the presumed inner sanctum. A drow would design a stronghold to avoid the possibility of becoming trapped like an animal in the bowels of one's own domain; but if the rivvil master of these mines believed it safe enough, it was perhaps wiser for him to wait at the very bottom rather than risk falling in the first attack. Humans could not be credited with excessive sensibility. Viconia opened herself to the caresses of the dank air, and felt the stiller, mustier strain within. She travelled through a down-running trail—past several, in fact, because the design was clearly foolishly done by the surface scum—and saw a large door set below a series of steps, heralded by a long slope.
She reached out like the quick-striking snakes of the surface deserts, her hand curving about a lone slave's neck, her nails ready to slit its throat.
"Down there," she hissed in the slave's common tongue. "That is where your master hides, is it not?"
"A drow—!" Her grip tightened; she glared into the male's shocked face, praying for a small degree of Shar's holy power to illuminate her own presence. "Davaeorn—yes, below the prisoners—please, I know nothing, I beg—"
She released him. Their leader Shar-Teel would not object to her killing a male, but he would perhaps be the enemy of his master given sufficient incentive; Viconia preferred her bloodshed with a touch of meaning and purpose. "Go and tell that the Drow—and the Man-Slayer, if that has any meaning—seek to destroy your master," she ordered.
She returned to the scene of fighting, following her ears; there cacophony, there a large knot of those clumsy guards. When she was near, Skie grabbed her wrist and pulled her into a side-tunnel.
"You're back. Good. We flank them—"
"Our path is there, surfacer," Viconia said.
"And the others are cut off back there," the ligrr, girl-child, whispered in the tunnel. The male wizard and the infant bard she had also with her; and, of course, the sword of Viconia's goddess. "I try fighting, you cast, we can reach them."
Over a pile of dead rivvin bodies. Viconia quite approved.
"Now." In another circumstance, Viconia would have told the little craz that she could not presume any kind of command and punctuated it with suitable expression of her power; but Skie was hastening toward the battle, half-cloaked in shadows, and Viconia readied her sling. Behind the gathered foes Viconia could hear the sounds of Shar-Teel and the Helmite in battle.
Skie reached the hindmost guard, and stabbed him in a way...that would have shamed a novice drow assassin, but did some duty on the human before her. Turning, he attacked her; but Viconia's own excellent aim with a sling cut through the narrow space and her stone hit soundly to his forehead, below his helmet. Unwisely enough the bard neared the area of battle, aiming his crossbow at close range; it took some time for Viconia to recall the weak vision of humans. Skie slashed wildly and broadly enough, but the fear of attack on both sides was itself sufficient to panic the guards. When Edwin at last finished reading a scroll, panic truly spread. Viconia saw Skie stab downward, through the neck of a fallen guard attempting to flee; the little human was improving in ability. There was something in her that could be compared to the sharp, quick teeth of a rat trapped in a corner, perhaps.
The guards had possessed the same idea of surrounding, Viconia thought, striking out with the shining morningstar gifted by the fallen male. A fine-crafted weapon with a feeling of some slight power to it, easier in her hands than Tenhammer's weapon of strict strength. Shar-Teel and Ajantis killed their way through, pursued; the boy attempted to guard their commander's back, while she left a trail of corpses they stepped through. Imoen and the bard Skie believed was her male, inconsequential compared to Shar-Teel's blood-soaked glory, hastened between the fighters. From somewhere Eldoth had taken a spear; a useful weapon in the confined space. He fought another guard grasping a similar weapon, quite well; and a spell from his fingers had the killing blow. Imoen flung herself to the ground, shrieking; an arrow whistled over her head, one of many-more-than-one. Viconia felt piercing pain bloom in the flesh of her right arm. She fell to the slight shelter of the tunnel wall.
Shar— She had faced far worse in the Underdark. She forced herself to dig out the shaft with her left hand, ignoring the flow of blood that gushed freely. Her goddess would heal her; she was careful to conserve her calls upon Shar's favour as yet. Her lips formed the chant; there would be loss and suffering in this place, and let it redound to the goddess. The pain drew softly into the air, and she was released to flee with the others to break past that door. She ran from human pursuers.
Stone stairs twisted below them. She and the children with magical aid could see more easily than others, it appeared; Ajantis hardly kept his balance in that improvised armour. She could smell blood here older than the fresh slaughter they had committed, and the distant stench of undead.
"Comefriends." Garrick panted, leaning against the door closed behind them; he nervously shifted from foot to foot at an incredible pace. "Wherearewenowwhat'rewedoing?"
"Their little prison," Viconia said; and suddenly a bolt of lightning lanced through the air.
Their little trap. Viconia flung herself to the ground in time; the screams of male wizard and bards were almost indistinguishable. The ricochet caught the edge of Shar-Teel's armour, though the Helmite male was fortunate; the young harp-player, the foolish infant, did not stop screaming whilst the tide of bright blue whistled about the room even after it had passed by him.
Then the guards were upon them. A faint taste of alcohol hung in the air alongside roasted meat and fouler fare, and the spellcaster's laugh was not completely steady; but nonetheless the battle was no simple matter. No drow with the least wit could ever make that assumption; at any moment a single piece of luck from an enemy—or betrayal of an ally—could kill. Viconia wove between the guards to Shar-Teel, prepared to heal their leader as necessary. Arrows from the young females, fired from the stairs behind, whistled above her head in the general direction of the caster, who gathered a bright shield about herself. Her chants grew still louder.
Shar-Teel charged; Viconia found herself flanking alongside the Helmite. Her drow grace was supreme above the surface-dwellers; they would not dare to hit her. The enchanted weapon struck true in one or two cases; and yet—pain followed her. Bleeding, Viconia dedicated it to her goddess.
At last the spellcaster cried out; Shar-Teel's spider-blade had found its way through. Viconia could not spare a moment for thoughts of others; she sweated, she a proud drow, she struggled against the enemies; guards defending their caster encircled the three of them, spilling nearly to the steps of Viconia's own temporarily-allied wizards. Fire cut a temporary path before Viconia; she used the opening as any drow would. The paladin gasped and panted no less than she; and Shar-Teel trampled a richly embroidered wizard's robe underfoot.
The number of surfacers remaining to stand against them was marginally improved, Viconia thought. She faced a male—not a boy by a surfacer's lights, beginning to age in the way of drow slaves in the Underdark, coarse-faced and spewing futile speech at her. Besides his sword he wore a bow strapped over his shoulders. A strong male; he blocked her with comparative ease, and she was obliged to sidestep rather than parry his attack. She called quickly for a dark blessing from Shar. Centuries ago she had learned combat from the best mistresses Menzoberranzan offered; Viconia DeVir would not fall to this human filth.
(However little, granted, that she had need to personally practice combat in the intervening centuries, when males would cross lava to kiss a dog that had licked her hand.)
The morningstar made its hit, though Edwin stole victory from her with violently coloured acid. Viconia did not care. She sheltered behind Shar-Teel's back, and began the casting of a healing spell whilst the last of the surfacers were dealt with.
"As entirely tedious as this all is; as useless and shallow as his assistance proved to be—Garrick ran using boots of speed. The first to be lost," Eldoth said; the spear he carried was heavily bloodied. Skie stood beside him, a body near her feet.
"Then go find him," Shar-Teel said. "Slave dungeons here, isn't it?"
"Yes." Viconia finished her casting; it closed the more important of the warrior's wounds. Shar-Teel took a healing potion from her belt.
"One of this lot might have the keys. Well done volunteering yourself, male. Don't bother coming back without the stripling."
You're a funny man, that's why I'm going to kill you last had apparently given their leader a better impression than Shar-Teel, your lot in life is to bake cookies and bear children. Eldoth looked somewhat stunned.
"She's right. Make the slaves fight back," Skie said; she didn't even trouble to look at the male, the sharpness of a trapped rat's teeth still bound to her slight human frame.
Viconia gave Eldoth a ravishing, confident smile that lasted until she and the others had rushed into the next narrow passage.
For the Lady of Loss.
—
5. Garrick
—
Coward. The stone blurred horribly around him and he couldn't stop running. He burned—his stomach, his arms, charred black if he looked down, which he wouldn't dare to do—
Some clinking behind him runrunrun—!
Traps—exploding behind—
Thick door slamrunescape—
Foot after foot after foot after foot echoesrunningawayaway—
Run for hoursminutes fast tearlegsapart—
Nobreathforscreaming—
Toofasttoofast—
Doorandstoneand nowhereandtears—
Strawawallfirmdoorbehindhim—
Running; falling.
Ricocheting against stone wall. Bump the size of an egg crack your skull open like an eggshell it hurts everywhere
Stone door swung shut behind alone in rotting straw
Failing alone down abandon away skin scraping
Garrick curled around himself and sobbed.
Tears and snot soaked through his breeches, his knees moist. He could not stifle his wails. His body would not move, his legs jelly. The rock was harsh against his flesh. The blue lightning whirling—the guard stabbing into him—couldn't stop it— However long the screamed whimpers came from him, it was impossible to make it end.
There was a sound of knocking on the stone behind him. He continued to weep loudly.
"Laddie?" A voice. They had come for him at last. He did not cry for mercy. Grief; shame; the end of it all. He had no will left to restrict the sobs tearing through his throat.
The knock on the wall repeated itself.
"Ye'd be new here, I'd imagine." The voice was low and gentle, a man. It reminded him, strangely, of his mother. Singing a lullaby. She would never know what had happened to him here—
His tears did not stop.
Two calm, steady, taps.
"They'll hear ye, lad, and silence ye," the voice said. Garrick took in a sobbing breath, between cries. The howls and sniffs forcing themselves from his mouth and nose had become hoarser. His voice was taken from him.
"Hush, laddie, I canna hear meself think. Can ye speak of what they did?" the voice from the wall said.
Only an incoherent cry came from Garrick's mouth. He tasted salt and blood, pain from where he had bitten his tongue at some point. He still whimpered in the dark.
"Breathe, lad," his voice in the wall told him. It was quiet and calming; kind. "Easy now. Ye've all the time ye need. One breath at a time now."
The air Garrick drew into his mouth was cold, and came out in a series of sniffles. He quietened slightly, but that was because his body was losing the strength even to weep.
"In and out, lad. Take it one by one," the gentle voice said. "Here ye'll be safe enough—for now."
Another ragged breath seared into his throat. His friends—how long had it been since he'd left them? What would have—
"There be no dank holes Clangeddin's might and mercy can't find its way to. I'd heal ye if I could, but there be no way between us."
There was a broken bottle on the floor next to Garrick; sharp fragments had cut into his elbow. A waste of what could have helped him. He found himself gasping for more air between his teeth, his nose blocked.
"What's your name, laddie? I be Yeslick, once of clan Orothiar."
The ability to form words hardly made it out of Garrick's mouth. But at last it came from him in a series of hoarse sobs. "'S Gar..garrha...rick. Garharick."
"Garrick, then?" The voice did not quite say it as he normally did, but Garrick managed a faint syllable that sounded like yes. "And what be causing you to take up the cell behind mine, eh, Garrick?"
Hearing his name—having someone kind to talk to—it started spilling out of Garrick, alongside his damp tears. "L—lightning bolt. Lightning bolt and before, they—they stabbed me, Edwin—I went with them then—and then I came here."
"A lightning bolt at ye? Aye, they've mages with that gift, curse the bastards. 'Tis Clangeddin's blessing ye live tae tell of it."
Clangeddin was not a human deity, some of Garrick's mind returned to him. "Are you a...dwarf?" he asked slowly.
"That I be, Yeslick Orothiar. Ye'd be a longlimb, I've no doubt," the voice said.
"That I be...am," Garrick said, sniffling.
"Merchantfolk, are you? 'Tis where most of their slaves are gained from. I won't be lying and saying it won't be bad as ye think, for 'tis more so; but it is Clangeddin's word to face with strength such times," the dwarf called Yeslick said.
Garrick slowly took another breath of the dank air. "No. I'm...I didn't come here like that. We didn't come here like that. We thought—we thought we could do... I was running away from them because they hurt me. I left the others." He still felt too weak to move; he didn't know if he was dying or not. The shards of the potion bottles were the strongest pain he could feel.
Yeslick's voice suddenly took on an urgency rather than its previous kindliness. "Ye mean you're no slave, lad? Ye came with others seeking to end the Throne?"
"Yes," Garrick said simply. He remembered Edwin helping him to his feet, urging him to carry on; and then he had run away again. That horrible moment—the mage-lightning sparking against the rock bouncing straight for him—how it had hurt him— "I ran for...s-somewhere safe—"
"And are ye even locked in there?" Yeslick asked fiercely. "By Clangeddin's twin axes, lad, answer me now!"
"...n-no. I don't think it's locked. Just shut..." Stone between him and the people who were going to hurt him. He despised himself, but could do nothing about it.
"Then it's up and at 'em, Garrick!" Yeslick shouted. "No layin' about here when there's battle tae be done! Return right to your friends and give the blaggards an axe in the face from me! Ye'll not stand by why this happens!"
Yelling at him; as the others would do for his cowardice. Though Skie and Imoen didn't yell. He wanted to cry again at the hopelessness of it all.
"I can't," he said resignedly.
"Ye shameful—ye longlimbed worm—" Yeslick cried, telling Garrick only the truth about himself. "Nay—'" Yeslick said more softly, as though speaking to himself—"Come now, we'll see a chance yet—"
"No," Garrick whispered.
"Yes, tell me about those friends o' yours, young lad; say what brought ye here; I'll give it my ear. Speak of it, Garrick."
It came spilling out in Garrick's misery, almost without thought from him. "Skie's beautiful—she was beautiful, but in the troubles—we're all dirty and exhausted. She's a friend, I followed her—she's been my friend." Perhaps that was all that mattered, in the end. "Imoen—she's funny and she's clever with magic, she's Skie's best friend. Then there was Edwin, he calls us all monkeys. But sometimes he needs help." A long cough tore its way out of Garrick. "And Shar-Teel, she's scary and only laughs when I'm not trying to sing comedy. Viconia can heal people when she wants to. Ajantis is a knight, and Eldoth is horrible and he treats Skie like she's nothing. They...I..."
"These friends o' yours, lad, the beautiful longlimb," Yeslick said. "Ye care for them as much as all that?"
"S-sure," Garrick said. "But I—they maybe don't even need me—I'm useless—"
"Lad, listen to me; and I'll tell you one thing at a time. Ye'll help them all and your beautiful lass. Ye must stand, boy, open your door first. Take—thirty paces, it'd be, to a longlimb—to your right, 'till ye've made it from the cells. Five more paces to your left and it's a guards' storeroom ye'll come to; an' up on the door to the right is a hidden alcove near the second brick, which is where the bastards keep a set of keys. I haven't been there meself, but Rill was sure. 'Twill no be guarded if the mines are under attack. Then all ye must do is find your way back down to me in the hole behind this cell, unlock the door—and I'll heal ye. Think you can manage that, lad? A few steps to open your door again, that's all ye must do, ye saw no lock there."
"The magic boots," Garrick said. "They'll make me run too fast. I feel it'll rip me apart again—"
There might have been a sigh from the other cell. "Right, laddie, then take off the boots. Laces first, good and slow and steady. One thing at a time and ye'll be safe."
When Garrick rose to his feet at last the pain of the lightning bolt hit him again. His clothes were stuck to his flesh, blackened; and he tottered, sickened, feeling ready to collapse again at any moment. He ran a hand across his wet eyes, the dark cell blurry before him.
"But a few paces there; slow and steady, like I say," Yeslick said quietly.
One bare foot in front of the other. Garrick staggered, once; fell to his knees; only a few steps away, he told himself. Crawl forward; open that door. It hurt. Yeslick's gentle encouragement reached him. One painful movement at a time. Three paces to the door. Two paces. One, and he was pulling himself up against its weight, using it to labour to his feet again. It was heavy, and he feared that his strength would fail at the task of moving it.
"Easy, now, lad. It'll come open," Yeslick said quietly. "Then all ye must do is walk down the hall; lay hands on the keys; and down the second passage. Soon we'll have you iron-sided as ever you were, fit to take on the blaggards. The door, lad."
The door. Garrick felt each breath he took, his burns and spilled blood crying for him to stop. Pull. Open the door and that's all you have to do, he told himself. Open the cursed door, Garrick.
He heard a small scraping of stone. It wasn't fastened. That slight noise meant it was budging after all.
"Bit by bit, if it's heavy for ye," Yeslick said.
He pulled back; leaned against the frame near it. You don't even have to push it all the way, Garrick told himself. Just enough to fall through.
His knees shook, and he fell into the narrow distance he had opened. He touched, at his fingertips, the cold of the opposite wall.
"Up and at it," Yeslick told him; and halfway to his feet, Garrick moved into the first pace down the corridor, clutching his wounds.
A long passageway. He thrust his left hand against the cell doors, hardly propping himself up on the long stumble. There were other prisoners in there that he had failed to hear on that wrenching run; someone moaning; someone begging for water; someone calling for help for a fellow prisoner—
He stumbled further on his way. Thirty paces, Yeslick had said; three hundred and he might have felt the same. Only one further each time.
Faint images seemed to float before him, as if he was drowning in something. Perhaps his own body.
You are a poisoner now, cruel Viconia taunted him, floating in the air, her dance inhumanly graceful.
Garrick, we have to kill Sarevok, Skie told him; slender as an assassin's blade, blood staining her deft hands, her sharp cheekbones like the set of a skull. He had seen her troubled, had known nothing to do to help her from that ruthless pit.
I thought you a man of honour and integrity, but your cowardice betrays what you truly are. Ajantis the noble knight stared at him, his pink face rippling into the darkness.
Garrick took a final step, collapsed against the door sealing the guards' storeroom, and put up a hand to the right as it let him through. A brick and a ring of keys fell on him.
He continued to almost fall to the floor; his shambling steps seemed slower and more laboured than ever. This passage was near to but not quite where he had come from. In the far distance he thought he heard someone screaming, or perhaps it was memory. Something sharp cut into his bare feet, though the pains in his body had stopped being so strong. Instead it was almost as if he cast some spell of oblivion, singing himself above and away from this. The stone was numb and blurred.
Somewhere there was a keyhole, at the very end; a narrow door, narrower keyhole. Once in the Duke of Hlath's Beloved, he had played a manservant, a small part, unlocking an intricate chest of drawers on the stage as part of a magical trick—the memory made him all the more light-headed—and then he fell forward into a muddy, confined pit.
A whispering voice not far away, Clangeddin. Blue-tinged hands were near him; not far from the blue of the lightning, and at first he wanted to cringe back. Not that his body cared much to obey him.
"Near squashed me flat, ye did!" That was...slightly better. He could feel his chest now, but everything was coming back to him. It hurt. "Now, this'll cause pain; but lie still and it'll be over. Bite this."
It hurt. He tried to scream over the thick, muddy bit of cloth in his mouth. Someone was digging into his body, scraping away flesh—burned flesh, the clothing that stuck to it—scraping—it wasn't his will to lie still under this—
This is the fourth time you've made that mistake in the chords, Garrick. Really, darling, try harder, Silke told him, tapping her long fingers impatiently, her silver hair a fine, loose cloud about her head. Some days I don't know why I trouble at all with apprentices. Allen-of-the-Dales turned quickly and kicked a wall in temper, his scowl dark and his black eyes flashing: Arrogant puppy! It's a living we make here, how dare you threaten to give us up to the guards— This was probably the part where his life flashed before his eyes, Garrick thought.
"By Clangeddin's might!" As if—as if a catapult thread had suddenly snapped, flinging him back to this world. He looked down at himself, and saw dirt and ragged clothing rather than torn flesh as the reminder of what they had done to him. He lay in mud, near a grey-bearded dwarf with him in the small—it would be called a hole, rather than a cell; behind him was the stone wall. The earth was damp underneath them.
"Give me a hand up, lad, it's a prison for longlimbs they made here. I'll fetch the other prisoners out. Rill's sure-and-certain to be amongst them, though I've not heard from him in a tenday—and you get those magic boots. Seems we'll need all help we can muster."
"Y...yes sir!" Garrick managed, dizzy.
Six prisoners of the Iron Throne; all somewhat wounded, gathered about a small alcove, where perhaps they would not be seen. Garrick suddenly felt as if he were flaunting himself among them, his thick clothing and weapons, the fact that despite their exhausted chase after the Iron Throne he had neither starved nor been whipped. (Flippant comments about Viconia would be entire planes from appropriate.)
"My name is Rill," the man in the centre of them said; he was as emaciated and sickly-looking as the others, and things crawled in his beard. He stood alone in their small circle, and something in his feverish stare reminded Garrick of a priest of Cyric he had once seen in the streets: piercing, burning. "For now, I speak for the others. There is a price on the head of a woman named Sky; do you travel with her?" Garrick nodded. "We don't have much time. There is a captain on the first floor not known for his loyalty. I can bribe him to look the other way while I escape, and the other forces will be preoccupied with you. I need a hundred gold. Will you do it?"
"I have fourteen gold and some coppers," Garrick said blankly. Deeply inadequate. Shar-Teel carried several hundred gold pieces in that enchanted bag—gold was heavy—and to fail because of that—
"Perhaps you could bribe the captain with fourteen gold and a magical object someone smuggled in," he said. Garrick rummaged for the heavy, ornate silver ring lodged halfway to the bottom of his pouch, and held it carefully in the palm of his hand. It might have been the cause of the death of that boy, in the spiders' nest... "You've no idea how difficult it was for me to convince the wizard not to wear it." Edwin refused to believe it wasn't a ring of great power that Garrick was keeping for himself, and it certainly had a strong enough enchantment to it...of folly. "Also, we set a fire on the surface—and we took down the bridge, or rather Shar-Teel did—and our passage through the first part of the mines wasn't exactly secret—so there's going to be enough going on to slip away in but something might've happened to your first captain—"
"I'll offer the bribe to the first captain coming my way, then," Rill said, "and if he won't take it one way he'll take it another."
"I can follow. I know spells to charm people, I can help—" Garrick said.
"And I've black-hearted rats to drown and heads to bust," Yeslick said.
"Drown?" Garrick asked Rill, travelling with him up to the mine—the slaves were kept near where they worked, Rill said, and many guards would also be.
"There is an enchanted plug holding back the river. The dwarf thinks if it's released, the entire mine will be flooded—and I've no reason to doubt his word. Far better we bring an end to this whole stinking operation," Rill said. "Into the back with you now, there's a squad of them coming this way. Hurry, or they'll suspect something."
Garrick could not see where he crouched; but he heard the voices.
"Good cap'n." Rill spoke softly; then there was a sound of metal hitting flesh.
"Don't you know orders are to get to your quarters, slave? Dangerous mercenaries running about, as if we didn't have problems enough!"
There was pain in Rill's voice. "Sorry, s...sir. It's m' legs, sir, not what they used to be, slow as a snail they are, might be all that pushing carts, sir—"
"Silence!" Garrick ran the syllables he'd use to cast spells in his mind. Silke had taught him the chords and soft melody of a charm; it had actually worked once, to bring Viconia from the hamadryad. Perhaps if he tried he could reach for raw magical missiles as well, or even a song potent enough for the same horror he had felt fleeing from the bandits, when they had forced his own concoction down his throat— His throat still felt hoarse, blocked by his fear.
"As you say, sir. Just, m'lord, I've information might be better for your ears only, m'lord—" Rill's tone became more servile and ingratiating.
"Sir!" Another guard. "I know this one. Troublemaker named Rill. Can't trust him, sir!"
Could he cast the spell in stifled whispers? Wrap his hood about his face, sing only to himself, and make the magic work?—and make them obedient to Rill their leading rebel, at that?
Hums began low in his throat, ragged and soft; he felt the glimmerings of a spell start to sparkle through his fingertips. It wasn't that the sound did not exist, just that he was too soft for their ears to know—so a powerful spell would fail, of course, he suddenly thought, let it be something subtle enough to change them—
They would kill him if they caught him, Garrick thought. But is this not the second time they have nigh done so? He let the brightness of the melody begin to flow into the back of his mouth, surprised at himself.
"Yeah, I've seen this one around."
Garrick slipped his head briefly around the passageway and cast carefully. Thou art tempted for green-eyed jealousy, lest the captain raised to a lion—
"I'll make sure he doesn't run off on the way back to the pits, sir, if you wish," the guard said. Garrick wasn't sure if that meant his spell had worked or not.
"Please, sirs, please not the whip," Rill pleaded. It was wrong that he should have to grovel in such a way; Garrick hated listening to it, and enduring it was no doubt worse. "I'll tell you everything, I will—"
There was a very faint clink; and Garrick peeked around the corner just in time to see the captain place a boot over a fallen copper piece.
"No need, Nahal. Get back in place. I'll deal with the troublemaker myself. Follow to your posts. Move!"
Where the guard captain was taking Rill—was in the way where Garrick would be seen by the remainder of the patrol. How to follow? The mine passages confused him; Garrick tried to think—if he went to the left, perhaps that would lead him up and around—
"So this is the home for lost lapdogs. I'm shocked to find you other than deceased," Eldoth's voice said near him.
Garrick stared at...nothing but a bare passageway. "What? Where are?—Is this?—"
"Not all of us quite plumb the depths of your tedious lack of wit, boy. It's a simple invisibility spell."
He hated the man and how he treated Skie. "Rill—a Ring of Folly, a guard—what are you doing? Are you running away from her—" As Garrick himself had done.
"Raising up a slave rebellion to serve the purposes of a distraction," Eldoth said.
"Come on, Eldoth, we need to go left, I think, need to catch up to Rill," Garrick whispered back. He couldn't tell whether Eldoth was following, but made his way as quietly as he could. If Rill was harmed—
"A slave? There's enough of the fools loosed already; I acquired keys from the bitch of a mage. Now I may as well see what wealth lies free at the bottom of the mine."
"No. We have to save the people," Garrick said, "so you can help me—"
"Spare me from brainless ideals, boy," Eldoth interrupted. "So let us..."
It was Rill, and the guard captain. Drool ran down his chin and he stared vacantly at Garrick, the ring on his hand.
"It's done," Rill said. "Can you charm him to speak well?"
"That I can," said Garrick, not certain but willing to try. He started softly—
"Delightful. All the appeal of an unbroken adolescent's voice—" Eldoth muttered. Garrick continued nonetheless. The song built; the person for which it was designed turned to stare at him with mesmerised gaze.
"Your orders are," he said as firmly as he could, "...Ah, Rill...?"
"To release all he can find, tell them to go to the surface, and order the guards to protect the iron stores on the second level," Rill said.
"Stop drooling and repeat exactly as I say all the orders from—-Davaeorn," Garrick said. He felt the magic running through his voice; and some beginnings of what might be called hope stirred inside him. "Davaeorn has commanded you to take all the slaves to the surface—"
—
6. Ajantis
Evil; true evil; wherever he set his clear gaze as granted by Helm. Still further through this vile and fetid place. Many spells had bound guards unconscious and horrified; the drow's dark magic had commanded obedience to some of their enemies; and still their foes outnumbered them.
Hastening through the twisted passageways, they had clambered down another set of long stone stairs to a chamber, where human and hobgoblin guards faced them alongside a vast ogre-mage and a second wizardess. The deception he had practiced for the cause of destroying this sorry nest wore on him, in a manner most tangible: the chainmail was weak compared to plate, and abraded away some parts of his body even below his clothing where the fit of it was narrow. Not that that discomfort ought to be compared to the wounds he had received. The Iron Throne tabard was at least principally torn from him so that he no longer masqueraded under its evil.
"Helm!" he prayed. The divine power came to him, rushing through his wounds; he began to believe he would have strength enough to end this fight. At least the sword he carried was his own, strong within his hands. The men he fought and shielded against—evil in each one of them, and yet still not quite as foul as the ogre chanting some abominable spell behind them, too far a distance for him to strike holy and true.
Dark magic flared from the Red Wizard; an answering chant grew from the evil witch. Send evil to battle evil if they must, but Ajantis had ensured the Red Wizard knew that his influence would not be tolerated to spread within the party.
"Kit, behind you!" Aquerna frantically called, and he turned in time to parry a villain's attack. He saw the squirrel, briefly, her red-brown fur behind Imoen's neck, the witch casting bright fire from her hands. There were many times he regretted the companion given as a penance and the meddling approach she invariably took to what ought to have been his business—but he felt concern for her, in this dark and evil place.
"Simians! Back to me!" Edwin called out; he seemed in no immediate danger, the drow and Skie near to the two spellcasters, fighting with the bright-coloured morningstar and the evil sword—
Ajantis carefully smote at his foes with all the strength his knight's training had granted him. One man hammered against his shield, the other he used his sword against—he must succeed in this battle, do duty as a squire and purge evil wherever he found it—
Shar-Teel was stepping back from her fight with a soldier almost as tall and strong as she—less 'stepping back', really, Ajantis saw from the corner of his eye, as 'allowing him to overreach and running him through', but others were surrounding her, and acid from the ogre-mage burned one side of her helm—
There were four of the female wizard, though Imoen had already reduced that number considerably, and she was chanting again.
Then around him was fire, and it burned him deeply even as he called for Helm's aid.
"Die here and now!" Edwin cried, though he might have been panting. "(Yessss. And now I should like to lie down and be tended by half-naked concubines.)" Ajantis was half-blind, in pain—his prayers were weak, he had exhausted himself—
"You—you horrible rat of a wizard! Look at what you've done to him!" Aquerna screamed.
And still the battle was not done. Like him, the men he had fought were roasted in their armour, but the ogre mage yet stood—Ajantis half-saw it, in his blindness, the walls blackened, what was probably the female wizard on the ground. The ogre, shielded in a blue bright enough for even him to see, readied its sword for him. It faltered, slightly, when more untrustworthy magic whirled through the air.
A tall figure aiding him; matching a sword against the ogre—matching its strength, perhaps. Shar-Teel. Ajantis had sunken to his knees—the burning—
"Come on!" Skie's voice. A hand on his seared neck he did not know was a hand until after the feeling began to return to him, as though she had cast a spell of healing—
"Potion off some guard. I need you to drink." She took a place at Shar-Teel's flank, aiding her perhaps—
Potion bottle; smelling right. Ajantis placed it to his lips; forced himself to swallow. The magic acted and his vision and wits started to return to him, though he knew he still bore the marks of the wizard's shameful spell. He stumbled to his feet; he sensed evil intent in the still-moving female wizard, merging with Shar-Teel's own corruption when the warrior drove Spider's Bane through her. There were few of the depraved guards breathing still.
The Red Wizard was seated on the foul ground, slumped, his back against the wall. "Be grateful I instructed the inbred imbecile to move! (I ought not to argue with a squirrel, of all things. Let me alone.)"
"No," Aquerna said, as fiercely to Ajantis' recollections as her voice had ever been. "You tried to murder my boy! Your disgusting spells—"
"Hey, come back!" Imoen reached down for his animal; she was away and racing across the ground.
"—Are more important; or did you somehow fail to see I won the battle? (It no longer matters whether the chimps behave or not—)"
"Are not more important than his life!" She leaped to his face and...clawed; the wizard struggled clumsily.
"Gah! Get it off—get it off!" Edwin bled; the scratches were deep-clawed. Imoen grabbed Aquerna by the scruff of the neck and tried to hold her away.
"Ha. It...hurts." Edwin tapped at a cheek, torn open. "I want to rest here. Catch my breath; plead for healing from you fools."
"You deserve nothing, you bastard!" Aquerna screamed within his head. She could be impulsive like this, at times; hurried conduct that was not what Helm demanded of proper holy steeds. Even though the wizard had goaded her to it.
"Quiet," Ajantis bade her.
"I am exhausted; I do not think I could heal without rest and prayer," Viconia said.
"Find the door," Shar-Teel ordered tersely. "Viconia, with me. Skie, Imoen: take the other direction. Boy, go with them. Wizard—do as you wish."
The hidden door to the chamber of the master of the mines was somewhere near, though only a few of this place were permitted to know of it. Viconia had interrogated a guard trying to run from them; the sight of the drow using her vile power against the will of the human had been utterly repulsive. Ajantis took the northward passage behind the young girls. There was much evil to be fought here.
"Sarevok isn't here," Skie said irrelevantly; it seemed that the man called Davaeorn was the principal figure of this dark place.
Imoen jiggled the handle of a rough door set in the passage they traversed.
"Nobody here either," she announced. She and Skie bent down together over what passed for a lock, and sprung it open; thieving was evil, but to explore an area in the service of good acceptable. An empty room, luxurious by standards of a place such as this, a plain bed and two locked chests.
"D' you think there'll be anything useful in them?" Imoen pointed.
"It's not worth our time," Skie said softly. "Im? How would you kill a powerful wizard?"
"I would smite him, of course. Helm would grant me the strength to rid the land of his evil," Ajantis said. This Davaeorn was a more powerful wizard than the Red Wizard, quite probably; but it was his duty to meet such foes.
"That's very clever, boy, and I mean that in the most sarcastic way possible!" Aquerna said. "Stop rushing into things!"
"Edwin's face, for example?" Ajantis supplied, wanting an end to her pestering.
"My brain's startin' to run a bit empty now, it's hurting just to think of magic," Imoen said. "Arrows, arrows're easier, s' long as he doesn't have missile-dodging boots like mine. Then we're in more trouble."
The young women pried open the second lock; this room was less tidy than the first, but similarly unoccupied.
"What about wizard protections? They always stop if you hit them enough, don't they?" Skie pressed.
"Yeah. Yeah, reckon they do," Imoen said. "Sometimes these things called triggers, contingencies, I can't do 'em and not even Edwin can, Mr. G mentioned them a couple times. Lots and lots of spells go off at once."
"But if you hit a wizard the right way he dies," Skie said. "Before he's much of a chance to cast."
"Yeah. I guess. But—calm down, all right? Let's just get out of here."
"When we're finished," Skie said; and Ajantis found himself saying almost the identical phrase.
A high-pitched scream broke through the air; a trifle north of them, it seemed.
"A damsel in distress!" Ajantis said almost instinctively, and ran toward the sharp sound.
"Yes, and it may well be your other friends causing that distress!" Aquerna lectured him.
Two rooms further up the passageway, was a door ajar; and just within was a stiff booted foot almost protruding from it. Skie and Imoen raced after Ajantis, but he was first to reach the scene. He saw the body of the man lying on the ground; the victim wore a guard's armour, and would have been tall and muscular in life. His mouth was frozen open in his final scream; his eyes gaped in horror; and his throat and a good portion of his chest were a gaping mess of blood and trailing organs. The cause was immediate: an undead wolf stood over the corpse and lapped at its meal. Its eyes glowed a bright red; its yellow teeth dripped a darker colour; and there was a dreadful macabre cracking noise as it began to crunch at a bone, extracting the marrow from it.
"Silvanus has sent you to me," a female voice said; and Ajantis took one step further into the room to see a young maiden clad only in a bedsheet.
"I—ah—er," he said. Seemingly unconcerned for her modesty, the damsel crossed the room toward him; her brown hair hung loosely down her shoulders, and her deep-set eyes gazed up at him.
"And you are not with him?" She pointed down at the corpse; her wrists were marked, as though she had been recently bound. The armour he wore; Ajantis stepped back, trying not to appear as a threat.
"No, he's not Iron Throne, just dressed that way," Imoen said helpfully, appearing behind him.
"Then my visions from Silvanus were correct that assistance would come to me," the maiden said. "I am Faldorn; I was sent by the druidic henge west of here; and I shall put an end to these men of the Iron Throne who defile sacred woodlands." She put two fingers to her lips, and called softly through them; the wolf bounded away from its prey to join her, submitting to her petting of it. A druid's summons, then.
"I...er—I am Ajantis, a paladin...squire paladin...of the Order of the Most Radiant Heart, servant to Lord Helm, and a son of the noble family of Ilvastarr." Ajantis gave the words of his introduction; as a squire, he had practiced introducing himself in full formality...
"Yeah, that's important right now." Imoen softly kicked him in the leg. "You all right there, Falwhatsit?"
"Nature will rejoice at the moment we finish destroying this evil mine." Faldorn knelt by a chest-of-drawers, roughly opened it, and began throwing clothing to the floor; when she located a brown-coloured jerkin and breeches that seemed the smallest available, she flung away the sheet. Ajantis closed his eyes as a gentleman.
"Er." He kept his eyes clasped tightly shut. "How did...how did you come to this foul place, miss? That man on the ground—"
"He was the chief bodyguard to Davaeorn, the leader of these abominable despoilers of Nature," Faldorn said. "The druids arranged that one from our order drawn by lot should travel to this place, and with blessings bestowed by Silvanus dismantle these. I was the one fortunate to be assigned to the task. They felled me not far from the entrance and took my weaponry, and there I briefly felt I was lost. But then this man ordered me taken to his dwelling, and thus Nature works for the destruction of the mine."
"The man—he defiled you, then?" Ajantis said. Curse that such foul evil existed.
"Not a tactful question!" Imoen hissed.
"No," Faldorn said levelly, an answer that relieved him. "My wolf is never far from me. It is a sign that Silvanus favours our efforts."
"You can open your eyes now," Aquerna told him.
"A companion animal," Faldorn said, now more decently clothed. She raised her fist and uttered a few words; several glowing blue berries appeared in her hand. "Would you like some?" She made several squirrelly noises.
"Trying bribery? I think I'll have to like you." Aquerna scuttled up to her; willingly took the berries.
"One more's useful," Skie said. "Do you have any idea where Davaeorn is, Faldorn?"
"No, but we shall find his lair." Faldorn declared calmly. Her dedication to their just and noble cause was deeply admirable; so many Ajantis had met fell short of such ardent purity of mind. "I shall heal you. Follow with me, friends."
She led them past the long corridor, past a room bearing a table covered in a red cloth; and then a dark and bolted door proved to be a torture cellar. Someone had committed acts abominable beyond imagination. Ajantis would have offered his responsibility to enter that place smelling of blood and worse, but Skie had darted in—none still lived, she said, and he did not look himself. A further reminder of the necessary destruction of the mine.
It seemed they had walked lower through the earth; the passageways turned and wove further, and Ajantis prayed they would shortly discover the secrets of the lair. A broad passage led to the right, illuminated by closely placed bright torches, the brackets which held them carefully engraved.
"Are you mercenaries come for my temple?" demanded the deep bass of a man's voice. He wore black, Ajantis saw, and to his belt was bound a twisted figure that resembled a darkened sun.
"Yes, Sarevok hired us from the Gate, all hail Cyric," Skie lied. She ought not to commit these sins—a due reprimand and the holy smiting of a Cyricist was shortly to follow, by Ajantis' vows. Even to briefly feign the worship of a god as evil as Cyric—
"You must come to the shrine. I have something for you," the cleric said; Ajantis stepped forth.
"She lies—"
"My god told me that already," said the priest. "Do follow anyway."
"By Helm—!" Ajantis lunged forward; Imoen had her bow, and loosed an arrow pointlessly into the walls; but the image of the Cyricist had seemed to dissolve in the slight shadows between the torches—
"A trap," Skie said. "Literally, Ajantis; so stop moving, or you really will. Forever." She half-laughed to herself; he felt the nonchalance of it disturbing. He allowed her to bend down to a flagstone near him that seemed indistinguishable to others around it. Skie pushed it up slightly with a dagger, and did something to the ground beneath.
"Finished. But we ought to try another way," she said.
The stone walls wound yet further underground. The air was foul to Ajantis' nose; naturally as foul as this place. Any deeper and they... Ajantis fortified his resolve; it would not be long. He did not know how great a time he had already been promising himself that. Skie's grey cloak had disappeared yet again in the darkness before them.
"I feel we near the unnatural wizard," Faldorn said quietly. "This place presses upon me; we must be close to the source of this foulness."
"It is good that you are with us," Ajantis said. He could distinguish no particular evil amongst the remainder that spread itself within this place. Within this group, he counted only Garrick and Imoen with truly noble intentions, and Imoen committed acts of petty theft; he admired Faldorn's apparent moral clarity. Aquerna, stained with blue, seemed to admire her berries.
"It is Nature's will," Faldorn agreed; and they continued to set themselves to the path.
Skie returned between the dark shadows. Her hood had blown back from her face. "There are five men in that room over there," she said; Ajantis saw her smiling as she did so, and did not like that expression in a place such as this. "With very good armour; standing in front of a wall that only looks like a wall; they've got a black-and-red stripe at their shoulders."
"The remainder of Davaeorn's personal bodyguards," Faldorn said firmly.
"At last," Imoen said. "Then we're gonna get out of here!"
Skie ran a hand through her hair, spreading blood into it; she didn't seem to notice. "Waiting there, because if we don't kill him, it's only a matter of time while we're lost down here. Distracting the guards; that's easy. But being invisible, moving behind them and into the wizard's chamber before he's a chance to start casting his spells, to kill him—"
"Your boyfriend says he knows invisibility spells, I don't," Imoen said. "'S too bad he's not the sharing type."
"Let's find the others," Skie said.
Not far, apparently, from the temple of Cyric. There were more hobgobins than Ajantis had before seen in one place. They swarmed him; any attempt to build a line against them, to give Faldorn and Imoen freedom to cast, was utterly futile. Shar-Teel's battle cries sounded distantly jubilant, but she and Viconia were thoroughly encircled; the accursed Edwin was shielded by some stonelike magic, but seemed nearly overcome. A dwarf Ajantis did not know fought near to them, a battleaxe against hobgoblin knees. The priest of Cyric appeared to direct the foes; he stood upon blue carpet some distance in front of the altar to the evil god, gesturing into the air, and Ajantis began his duties.
Faldorn had barely uttered a syllable when two of the goblins fell upon her; her wolf dived to the attack, but her spell was broken. Ajantis struck against the closest of them, praying she would be spared. The wolf's attack hamstrung the hobgoblin it fought, bringing it fallen to the ground, but there were more and still more. An illusionary Imoen thrust a frantic arm through Ajantis' chest; Skie fought, but she had allowed herself to step away, following the angle of a slice to a hobgoblin's neck, becoming separated from him and surrounded. They stood alone, and though one hobgoblin was no threat to a true knight a great array of them most certainly was—
Faldorn. She screamed when her wolf howled; two hobgoblin blades cut through it. Valiant as its mistress, it tried a final bite; fell to the ground truly dead and shimmered into some oblivion—
The maid herself flung her body upon them in vengeance; her form shifted to that of a young bear, and with claws and teeth she aimed for the flesh of her foes. Ajantis fought to defend her; he shielded against two who attacked his left, striving to reach her. The beasts stood in his path. He saw the bear, too many hobgoblins to quickly count surrounding it, more of them falling upon Ajantis himself— An arrow hit his left side, scraping through his chainmail, the impact almost taking his footing. He stumbled, and a sword opened the mail across his right forearm before he could defend. Skie was backed into the wall, blood spreading across her face, and the images of Imoen died one by one. Aquerna fled to the roof, crouched hidden and able to do nothing.
Three hobgoblins had fallen about the bear; far more opened wounds in its flank. Ajantis shouted his intent to aid Faldorn, fought onward despite his wounds; more arrows flew about him, deflected by his shield. The bear's howl was desperate.
He reached her at the moment the wounded body of a young girl appeared between their swords. Faldorn was smaller than the bear had been, and fell with a space about her; Ajantis flung himself near, defending her.
"My wolf—they..." she breathed; she seemed to try to struggle to her feet, but she was injured badly. The need for a holy vengeance filled his mind; each drop of hobgoblin blood he spilled was necessity, and the will to fight these evil creatures erupted within him. But there were too many. They came; and they came; and they came. Faldorn could not heal herself whilst they attacked her, lying vulnerable on the temple's bloodstained carpeting, and he could not kill them all. There was none he could do but fight whilst breath remained in him. The next arrow struck his thigh.
—