17 Flamerule - Durlag's Tower, Four Guardians
We found another human body in the floor at the end of the stairs: a man not matching Dalton's features with a poisoned dart in his gullet, from a wall trap set off by a pressure plate that reset itself, a complicated arrangement of machinery... I ought to have thought about the death; was he one of Dalton's friends? Maybe he'd human family like Therella who worried about him; like probably every person in the Cloakwood mines. He had not been dead long, but his face was black and his tongue horrifyingly thickened and protruding from his lips. I tried to look away from it.
There were ghouls and ghasts; undead that appeared to materialise out of the very walls. Their flesh sloughed away like melting tallow. There was a room at the end of a winding corridor only wide enough for one human, and too small for Shar-Teel and Ajantis' height. At the end of it unliving jewels were buried in the ground, but no keys. For there was a hidden door beyond the dead man, of the sort of lock no picks can unravel, set to open for one key alone.
Faldorn stepped forward with the piece of stone she had taken from a ghast. It bore a dwarven rune, and without explaining what she was doing, she simply held it up to the secret door; and then it slid quietly aside for us. On the hinges were traces of fresh oil, as if the last here had done something to ensure that it would open again on their return. The lock was on the outside, but the door itself was set slanted to return to its original place. It closed again, when we stepped through; and by Imoen's mage-light we saw a dark banquet-hall decorated with a red-clothed table.
"Faldorn, stop moving!" She'd walked confidently down, as though following something none of us could detect; and glinting in Imoen's pink glow were two silvered jets on either side of her, embedded in the walls.
A fire trap; mageflame. "I think I've directed it so the fire will fizzle out," I said.
"Don't think. Either you're sure or you're not," Shar-Teel said. "Druid, get back from her—"
There was a small explosion—a wave of heat; I flung myself to the ground, and nursed badly singed eyebrows. The jets themselves were far more damaged, blackened and the machinery ruined; it stung, hurting badly. Faldorn healed the worst of it.
She walked onward, into the room's darkness, surefooted. "This is where the real stone begins," she said. "I must reclaim it for the Oak Father; test how far the rock extends."
We caught up to her, and saw her sitting cross-legged where the hall opened still wider. I stopped in shock at the sight of four short figures, standing in the shape of a square; but they did not move. Statues. Faldorn chanted softly for a while; nothing seemed to happen, though her voice continued.
Imoen sent her light directly over the heads of the statues. We stepped forward to examine them. They had the form of dwarves, and seemed to be baked out of some sort of clay. Some of their features were similar, but the four bore very different aspects. One was in black, his face covered by a mask, carrying a sharp and strangely shaped blade that I did not wish to try to take from his hands. A second was strongly armoured in shining plate, bearing an axe slung to his back, standing straight-backed and with a large, bristling beard. The third was much shabbier by comparison: his sculpted robes were a ragged grey, his eyes wide and staring, one hand clasped to an ear. The fourth wore a bright red robe embroidered with deep purple grapes, his face pink-cheeked as a rosy apple. It was detailed work, with the look of enough flexibility that I could imagine them walking from their places, but I could see no switch or control for them to do so. Though the look in their eyes seemed to follow us, they remained still.
"It is not comparable to the art of the Underdark," Viconia said. She flicked her fingers against the cheek of the grey-cloaked one; it made a faint, almost metallic sound, but nothing happened. "My House possessed many fine examples of drow sculpture; mature and sophisticated pieces, such as Ghesifae's The Congress Between The Draegloth, the Three Succubi, the Glabrezu, and the Lowly Male Slave, or DeGavarta's The First Matron In Her Pleasure Chambers, or Zhalin's The Spiders' Slow and Torturous Execution of the Traitor Drizzt, or..."
Ajantis had placed his hands over his ears after the first artistic title.
"Look here," I said. The wide, heavy stone table between the dwarven statues was marked only by a slight hollow in its surface, with a rune engraved below it. The shape reminded me of the wardstone Faldorn had used for the first secret door, but the rune itself was plainly different. "It's another key that lifts the slab. Another door, I think."
We'd have to search for that new stone, with no guarantee that we would find it at all; what if Dalton's group had already found it and taken it with them? Or we could try to pick the lock somehow; but it would be almost impossible to recreate something like that...
The ground trembled, and Shar-Teel swore in Faldorn's direction. Faldorn herself didn't look up, her palms pressed tightly to the stone and her eyes closed, humming some tune in a low voice. It looked as if the rock rippled about her hands, as if she had lowered them lightly into a pond instead of rested them on solid earth; a pattern of force, circled lines of the stone yielding to her...
And the statues were very quiet. I did not see the moment that they first began to move. Then they were walking, in utter silence. Shar-Teel grabbed the shoulder of the armoured one with a gauntleted hand, but he stepped free of her, though doing nothing against her. No sound came from the four, and they walked to surround Faldorn, one in each cardinal direction. They waited mutely. I don't think I had seen anything so creepy as those waiting statues before; I could have drawn blade on them, but they did not move further. The air was chilled and clammy and still, and everything waited. From Shar-Teel's expression, with her hand on her undrawn sword, she felt something similar. Imoen wrapped her arms about her chest and shivered.
Faldorn opened her eyes. She did not seem to react in shock; she watched the statues, and their unmoving eyes watched back. I had the distinct impression she should not have done...whatever she had been doing.
It was the armoured statue who first spoke, if it could be called such, his face moving, his mouth falling open, the movement only a little cruder than a natural dwarf speaking. It was disturbing especially because the artificiality was slight.
"Fuernebol," the word came from its mouth, a rusting and clanking voice of many years' decay; and then, "You are not like him. But like me."
"Please be—clearer, good dwarf," Aquerna spoke, her tail twitching. "If we have disrespected this place, those of us more brutishly inclined will regret it." The statues, and Faldorn, ignored her.
"The others...were not afraid not to heed to find..." the grey-cloaked figure said.
"Yes, I feel what they did," Faldorn said. "It was not enough."
"...You take your power easily..." a hollow voice came from the one in black. Its knife did not move in the darkness.
"Of course. I expect to reclaim this place for the Oak Father."
"...And you are not restrained." The red-robed one might have been expected to have a sweeter voice than the others; but it was a creaking monotone, slow and firm. "Fuernebol...young, but not him..."
"So then you advise us to examine why. Durlag built this unnatural thing and was duly punished, I know that," Faldorn said. I waited, horrified, in case the dwarves took offence to her. Then the armoured one spoke again:
"You will answer me this.
"I am the warrior's fate.
"I raise him above his brethren, I amplify his deeds.
"He becomes scornful, where once he had respect.
"He becomes a giant, where once he was a man.
"Yet I lack the proper honour—
"Raise me up in glory!"
Imoen shook her head. "Riddles!" she said. "I've heard this kind of story before."
"Pride," Shar-Teel said. We looked to Faldorn's haughty glance at the four figures.
Second was the statue in black; Imoen's light moved slightly above the statue as it spoke, glimmering in the surface of its blade.
"I am the warrior's curse.
"I steal his future, I mar his past.
"The more he has, the less it seems.
"He becomes a slave of glittering things.
"Yet I hunger—
"Feed me that which glitters beyond all else."
"It's not love, is it? A good woman, above rubies, y'know, glittering beyond anything else," Imoen quoted, and shrugged. "I like rubies by themselves, though."
"Ssinssrigg is a weakness," Viconia said. "But you of the inferior races lie; I think we must search for something that truly glitters."
The grey-cloaked one spoke third.
"I am the warrior's bane.
"I live in the darkness of his soul.
"I bring him to his knees, trembling and weeping.
"Unable to lift a hand in his own defense.
"Yet still I sleep—
"Awaken me!"
The last line was almost yelled, shockingly loud. Imoen drew in a sharp breath. "Fright," she said; and her face looked pale in the darkness. I remember all the times I have been frozen in place, forced to do nothing while people tried to kill us, and the desperate fear that would have made me unable to do anything even if I could have moved. And I remember Imoen smoke-stained and bleeding, wanting to escape. I can only remember her on the road, miserably fighting off death beside her...
"'Tis a disgraceful flaw we all must seek to rid ourselves of," said Ajantis; and I remember that I have read that paladins are given power to withstand fear.
Then the last, the red-robed statue, spoke, its apple cheeks widening.
"I am the warrior's madness.
"I curse him with trust and respect.
"I slow the battle in its course by stealing his passion for blood,
"And offering a softer emotion in return.
"Yet I thirst for more—
"Give me the drink of sweet crimson."
"Love," I said. Painful memories.
The four statues moved again, as silently as before; and returned to their place about the stone slab. Faldorn raised herself to her feet.
"Care to explain that fooling about, idiot?" Shar-Teel said.
"I found the shape of the stone," Faldorn said. "The heart of this place lies below our feet. The other adventurers reshaped the walls and bypassed all the enemies, because of how many people are dead here."
"Then that would make the previous guests powerful, would it not?" Viconia said. That was good; it must have been Dalton's people.
"There is a deep pit further in the rock." Faldorn frowned, her eyebrows knotted as if over a difficult mathematical problem she could not express in words. "The pit is not right. The stone that Durlag unnaturally carved allowed them so far, but there was a wrongness there that they could not overcome even from behind. I am already behind, but we can learn. It will not allow us through yet. I suppose we must answer the questions."
"Fuernebol," I quoted the word that the statues had said to her. A dwarven word, perhaps a name. "Do you know what that means?"
"No," Faldorn said. "All they told me was that we ought to answer their questions."
"Imoen, could you make your light a bit brighter over here?" I have worn the ring to see in the dark for some time now, but I can't read with it. "It might be important. I'll try..."
"Answer riddles. Typical male puffed-up buffoonery," Shar-Teel said. "Then we'll hunt. Is the word important, Skie?"
I traced through the indexes of dwarven runes in the book. "Fuernebol... In three syllables like that. It's probably a name, some relation to the root word for home. Peace-home-child, if the written runes are shaped that way..."
Faldorn snorted, folding her arms with attempted dignity. "I am sick of these spirits calling me young." She was, probably, younger than Imoen and me...
I swallowed. We'd taken her here. "How old exactly are you, Faldorn?"
She lightly flushed below her tanned skin, and chewed on her bottom lip.
"Sixteen years of life...come Midwinter," she admitted finally. She looked around; Imoen and Ajantis were staring at her. She raised her upturned nose high into the air. "Stop watching me like that, you ignorant defilers of Nature. I will be a woman and a full-fledged druid as soon as I complete my quest."
"Should we have brought you here?" I said. Dragged her, into this tower; against Kirinhale...
"Yes, of course," she said irritably. "I am destined to serve the Oak Father here, and am I incompetent? Am I incapable of using my powers?" Bright red streaked temporarily about her right hand; Viconia muttered that, for an infant, she had some ability from her inferior male god. "I'm no different to squire Ilvastarr trying to prove himself a man."
"I'm twenty," Ajantis volunteered. "And I do not know if ever I will prove my worth once more..."
"You did a fine thing to catch up, though," Faldorn said to him, in a tone I had to assume she meant to be consoling. "You told me you have only studied seven years, so you must have risen above your city family for coddling you in that disgusting blight on the landscape. I trained to be a druid for all my life, so I'm at the same growth of maturity as almost everyone, or even more because I don't care what my hair looks like or giggle over stupid things."
It was Imoen and me at whom she glared superciliously, and Imoen snickered. "We're taking you to the markets when we're back in the city, Faldorn. And a bathhouse and a hairdresser's. No excuses."
"I have passed well over six centuries," Viconia said, smirking.
"The lot of you brats, shut up and follow me and the drow. Pay attention," Shar-Teel said. The ghouls in the walls came for us...
We found ourselves standing in a circular stone chamber; four heavy, pale books sat in four recesses, covered in dwarven writing. The pages were of a thick kind of vellum, heavy and glossy and unblemished white; perhaps there was a minor enchantment to ensure the books lasted across the centuries, or perhaps a quality of the parchment itself: not made from any material I recognised. The gleaming white of the books was much purer than the best of unborn calfhide. Books; "I could try to work out what they say..."
"I don't have a good translation spell," Imoen said. "Does one of 'em have a helpful list of all traps and ways to get down underneath?"
"I only hope! I can try, just to skim them—you be careful." We had to solve the guardians' riddles, apparently, to pass; in stories it was a test of the worthy. And of course these books, so especially displayed in the room, had to be understood. I started to decipher what they were about; dwarven language is related to Old Illuskan, and gradually the accounts became clear. It's better to understand a language by studying it than by any translation spell, because there are so many cultural implications and allusions that one misses by taking the easy way. Faldorn's resummoned wolf crept around my feet, and time seemed to slip away. I should not let myself go.
Like a god of battle, Durlag waded into the drow horde slaying thousands; his warriors dug two tunnels, one to the west and one to the north, far from the notice of the drow, and on two sides the drow armies were attacked. They yet outnumbered the dwarves three to one; but Durlag slew an enemy warrior with each swing of his blade. The strong sorceress Islanne and the servants of Haela Brightaxe were ordered to cast spells of discord, and the vicious drow turned against each other on the very battlefield.
"Skie, hurry—skeleton warriors and flesh golems—" Imoen's transparent image blinked briefly in the air, calling for help. Faldorn's wolf tugged at my trousers to summon me to where they fought. Skeleton warriors are giants, many different skeletons melded together, carrying broadswords heavier than Shar-Teel's. Viconia could not command them, though she attempted. Terrible flesh golems that we tried to use poison upon, wraith spiders with part-translucent bodies and poisonous fangs; and a pile of burned and charred human bodies, in a dreadful hallway with a multitude of cruel, subtle flame jets buried in the walls. One could not know whether all the traps of it had been disarmed. We still hoped that Dalton was able to be found below...
It was Shar-Teel, and the fact that most of the creatures were mindless. We tried to lure them into narrow passageways, only a few at a time, and then she could fight them. Faldorn sent healing spell after healing spell; Ajantis tried to support Shar-Teel with a second blade; the rest of us stood away and aimed from a distance. So many arrows and bolts yet stored in the tower, from people too dead to use them. We used what we could. We dug deep among Durlag's possessions.
"Magic in this thing, too complicated what, but it's not a trap or a confinement." Imoen waved a small metallic circle at us, which had been protected by four skeletal warriors with unsettlingly inhuman bones. "And there's old books in this lot of trash—and a couple of mage scrolls. Wizard stuff's all mine, of course." It seemed to be a bookcase that had been splintered, most of its contents already plundered.
Edwin would have argued with her about the scrolls, and probably would have been fascinated by the succubus. And Garrick, and Eldoth... Far away. "Are you sure you can't guess? It could be part of the riddles."
Imoen struck it an experimental tap with her hand; the sound echoed against the stone walls. "Makes a little bit of noise. And at the end there it's shaped like it's meant to go into something else that wraps around it, like a holder, like it's an ornamental plate. Can't be that, wrong shape. I'd need to make something shaped so the circle slots in—I'm a transmuter, I ought to know—let me at the armoury again, the sort of crafts the dwarves were up to." She stuffed it back in her robes. "Ready to shove open those doors back there?"
A treasure room. Gemstones in a heap as if casually thrown into the small room with the rusted lock behind the bodies of the flesh golems; a glinting rainbow of green and red, blue and gold, tear-cut sapphire and polished opal, dark-coloured rubies, shimmering small diamonds, fine emeralds. Entrapped.
"These are dead things," Faldorn said. She was right, and carrying them would not help us live; but Imoen was smiling at the excitement of a cavern of bright treasures.
"Shiny dead things, Fal." Imoen held up a large, ovoid blue stone; fiery sparks flitted across its surface for brief instants, and the colour was the green-tinted shade of the ocean in late autumn, before the cold of winter. "Isn't it pretty? It's pretty." She would easily and happily pass it on to the next person she saw in need of it.
"Beljuril," I said. "There's a poem about their fireflashils; the glittering call of a fire's blue heart, Malleth called them."
"It is not possible that this great treasure is what is supposed to glitter beyond all else?" Ajantis said.
"Maybe! I'd better hold onto it then, right?" Imoen said, and placed the beljuril carefully in one of her pouches. "Look at this, Skie."
What she held was part of a strange key; and a small drawer turned for it. A bunch of purple grapes, as fresh and ripe as the berries Faldorn could create. The back of the wood of the drawer felt itself strangely warm, touched by a film of oil that smelt like a fruit tree.
"Growth magic clings to that, and it is still bound to this place," Faldorn said. "It must be able to regenerate. I did not expect natural magic here. A precious item, even if it is made from a noble vinewood that was brutally murdered by being cut down." She glared at the chest-of-drawers.
Things long dead attacked as we sought to use the ancient winepress. Wine, in an old and dusty bottle; a scent at first as rich as aged Berduskan dark, and then so melancholy as to bring tears to the eye of lost, sad memories. Better never to touch such things at all, perhaps.
"You bring the gem," said the black-clad guardian. "I am Avarice. I will bring doom upon you in this cursed place."
"Avarice is a great fault indeed," Ajantis said. "If I must fight you, I shall."
"Perhaps you should not be eager to fight," Aquerna said. Her furred face twitched.
The wine, to the red-robed, red-cheeked guardian. "I am Love. I must be murdered in this cursed place."
It was a statue. "Agreed," I said. To kill love is only a murder of a metaphor.
"Pride and fear," Shar-Teel said. "If I'd a blade on that vile dwarven male where we stood—"
"We know, ilharess. Sudden and unimaginative bloodshed." Viconia seated herself next to the wall, not far from a rotting barrel. "Transmuter, discover the nature of that unusual magic. Ligrr, page through the clumsy duergar tongue; I lack patience for it."
"So you know duergar speech, then?" I asked. The duergar are deep dwarves, but the language is supposed to be related to standard dwarven speech.
"I loathe to wrap my tongue about it. In any case it is separate to the language of Durlag, and I have cast several times and ought to rest." There was a large bruise on Viconia's cheek despite Faldorn's healing spells, and her clothing had been torn and stained, whitened by bone-dust. She seemed very tired.
Durlag's books spoke to me once more.
Vissilithysmee was no match for the mighty Durlag. The dragon's spells could not harm him and her breath was as a gentle breeze to Durlag. She was a vicious black dragon who had preyed upon many dwarves, of dimensions larger than a great hall; yet Durlag's armour was a shield against acid, the prayers of his companions a protection against foul magic. Durlag strode into the battle and thrust a sword into Vissilithysmee's wide eye, and beat upon her thick skin with his axe. He took her black scales, and offered them to his people; he took her bones, and used them as foundation within his clanhome...
The next book seemed all upon the adventures of Durlag and an Arlo Stoneblade.
And Durlag moved through the Troll Mountains killing all the foul beasts. The brave Arlo Stoneblade was his man-at-arms, and side by side they fought alone for much of the way. Back to back they cut a path through the trolls, and where Durlag removed one's head, Arlo would set fire to the remnants such that it would be destroyed forever.
The fourth book had a cover streaked in a livid red. The further ventures of Durlag, to places even beyond...
It came to pass that Durlag Trollkiller and Arlo Stoneblade ventured into the bowels of the Great Ryft. They fought the hideous tanar'ri Aec'Letec, and with a single blow of his axe Durlag slew the demon's body and entrapped it in an enchanted dagger.
A tanar'ri. There had to be more detail, for a...a demon from the Nine Hells. At the bottom of a page was listed the names of other heroes, Grael, Hengriffe, Chalmon, Tuorna Brightarm... The demon's gaze was said to be awful, its teeth and claws vile and hungry and cruel, its speed unmatched and its hunger for blood unstoppable.A thing that seemed too dreadful to describe, for the account of it was far shorter than the other tomes of Durlag's great deeds.
I said the final words of the last book: And these are the greatest deeds of Durlag Trollkiller. So ends the saga of his mighty axe and sword. It was all historical information, as far as skimming could tell. A shame that it did not discuss the traps; or where Dalton was likely to be.
There was a sound as if of sparking lightning. I'd adventured long enough that I flung myself to the ground; but nothing hurt me. Then in the passageway I saw the blue glow, and went to it. Raised on an altar was a sword, shining. A monument to Durlag's Pride, a sword fused into the rock, saturated in blue light.
"You have raised my deeds in glory. I am Pride. I am the curse of this place," spoke the armoured guardian.
"There is no doom to be proud of what you have made yourself," Faldorn boasted; and Shar-Teel nodded.
"Don't let the bastards grind you down." Illegitimis non carborundum.
"It's some kind of mallet," Imoen called cheerfully, brandishing the pale circle with a makeshift stick attached to it. "We've got to find a stick that looks like this piece, here—and the signature sort of matches the magic gong! I wrapped the runes in my head, it's sort of like when Edwin used to cast a Horror, but sideways and upside down and like it's trying to feed off itself, and I can't explain it like Mr G. would've, but I'm sure. Scavenge for a stick that matches, and—"
"We'll have all four. After they talked about bringing doom into this place, being the curse of this place, and having to be murdered," I said.
"Yes," Faldorn said. She stared at the statues as if she saw something none other of us could. "I will be ready to fight. Will you, Viconia, Ajantis?"
"Yes," they chorused in unision, and Ajantis scowled in distaste.
We searched methodically; dust-swallowed cupboards, each gap between the flagstones, dilapidated barrels, between overturned furniture and rusting, dismembered armour. In the end Imoen's gong handle was near to the statue that demanded it, the grey-cloaked fear. She marched boldly into the forge, tied back her hair with a leather cord, and lit the coals with her mage's fire. It flickered strong and golden, Imoen's face red-cheeked and sweating, her thickly gloved hands sure while they manipulated the artefact between two pairs of tongs. The forge seared the gong and mallet into one, and they merged so easily and seamlessly that it was plain they had been crafted together. The transmuter showed her triumphant grin.
Durlag's music room held a large golden harp, its frame dented, its strings cut to shreds; broken and trodden fragments of crumhorns; thick rolls of rotting parchment dotted with regular holes; an old harpsichord, on its side and with ivory keys scattered like broken teeth around it. I bent between spiderwebs to press a remaining key, and heard no sound at all. The gong stood alone in its corner, dusty and seemingly intact. No webs were spun across it, no signs of vermin running below it, no crack or signs of displacement; as if anything that neared it had been compelled to leave that particular instrument alone.
"Hold on," Imoen said. "Spells first—I'm gonna make you all a bit faster, a bit luckier—this one's kind of cobbled together from different stuff I've been reading, but it ought to work. I hope. Vic, Faldorn? We have to be ready, in case they go after us..." Faldorn's sword of fire appeared in her hands.
"By Shar," Viconia said, raising her hands, glancing malevolently at Imoen and Ajantis, "I cast the blessing of darkness on us. May we bring loss and suffering this day; may the pain of our own loss be accepted, as all here accept your power, Mistress of the Night—"
Ajantis looked horrified, but something dark appeared to settle upon him, as it did with all of us; and then Imoen's spell finished, giving a feeling of new lightness and energy.
She struck the gong.
Fear. Eldoth dead, his throat slit lengthways, his face bloodless, chained to a dark-stained table—Imoen dead immolated in white fire that consumed her like paper—Stephan Capetri dead—razor teeth in night knives pin back skin show nothingness like butterfly dead glass forever alone never enough—
"Valas—" Viconia called the single word like the cry of a wounded bird. Shar-Teel opened her mouth, but said nothing.
"Oak Father—" Faldorn pleaded.
"Boy, no—" Aquerna said.
"I couldn't do it in time I couldn't do it—" Imoen whispered. The deafening echo of the sound ricocheted from the walls, spread through the stone structure—
"I cannot atone—I can atone—Avarice I can slay—can prove—" Ajantis was gone, running quickly despite his armour; we followed him. Imoen held an arrow in one hand, her bow ready in the other.
"I am Fear. I will destroy you in this cursed place," the words rang.
The four figures we saw, standing about the heavy slab of stone, each come to animated life. Love, glowing warm purple, raising its hands, chanting; Pride, glittering a harsh silver, its axe raised high; Avarice's knife glinting in a golden blur as the statue ran to attack; the ragged Fear weaving shadows about itself—
Imoen's fiery arrow pierced into Fear in the moment before it disappeared into darkness; Ajantis rushed to attack the black-clad figure of Avarice.
"Skie, get the caster—" Imoen called. "I swear I'm not afraid—" She whispered a spell of her own; a pale light gathered about her eyes, and she lunged toward something in the darkness.
I struck at the red-robed caster; Varscona's ice cut into what it possessed instead of flesh. Pale ice formed on the edges of its bright robes. Then a thick blue bubble appeared, and flung me backward with the impact. The statue kept casting, and a lightning bolt sprung from its hands.
I dropped flat on the ground. The bolt whistled above my head, promising that charring pain, and ricocheted off the stone wall.
"Viconia, duck!" She rolled to the ground, nimbly as ever, and the bolt whirled above her. Varscona hit the shield's surface; enough hits and mage shielding wore down, only enough strikes needed—
Avarice was blurred, fighting Ajantis, moving at the unnatural speed of a spell. Ajantis kept his shield raised; but the blows of that knife struck sparks against his armour, his defence difficult. He seemed in trouble; he'd be in more trouble if the statue cast another spell.
Varscona pummelled the shield again. The blue sphere shook, and I thought that at least disrupted the movement of those hands of flexible clay. The speech of the dwarf was deep and gentle in its casting.
Faldorn's fiery sword burned into the armour of the statue she fought, Pride bearing its heavy axe against her. She stepped back; one hit would hurt her badly, and carefully she sought to burn it down. Her wolf's slavering teeth snapped at it. Shar-Teel came behind the statue, cracking open its form piece by piece. There was another chant from the red-robed dwarf—I tried to disrupt it, I did not stop attacking the shield—and both Shar-Teel and the undead wolf stopped, stumbled away from the fight; they'd been hit by a red-shaded spell of some kind— Faldorn was left alone against the dwarven Pride, and she snarled and transformed herself to a young bear.
Killing Love. Varscona whistled coldly against the shield. The surface of it was identical in all parts, and where the blue sphere met the ground there was still no way through it. I could see no weaknesses; I stuck in the same place each time, aiming carefully and hoping that it would bear down. The statue watched with its wide eyes.
Viconia was chanting; something dark flew from her hands, and in the corner of my eye I saw Ajantis' opponent stumble and slow. He fought on, wounded but continuing, calling to Helm that he worked to eradicate the thing.
"I'm not afraid!" Imoen cried again, her eyes white, fighting an unseen shape; and then she raised her hand and sent a row of missiles to Love's shield. Those seemed to blister its blue surface; Varscona pushed through on that exact position, and began to slice into the statue's moving hands. The statue fought back, blocking, calling out for burning fire. I heard Viconia cry out; she was running from the black-clad guardian, her thigh bleeding badly, Ajantis yet fighting.
Couldn't let him have another spell—I wasn't as fast as I'd been before. Not quite putting as much strength to it, not quite as eager to hurt it— Love grew creatures into existence, a flock of large and scaled white birds that descended on Shar-Teel, who wrenched herself from them. Varscona sliced ribbons across the red and purple robes.
Then a—lucky attack. I struck through a weak spot in the statue's joints, deeply scarring its form, cutting off a gesturing hand. The statue fell back; Viconia was near to me, Ajantis holding against the guardian who pursued her.
"Will you slay love?" I heard come from its spell-chanting mouth, a dwarven statue with the fresh scent of wine clinging to it, crimson passion and affection. A severed hand lay on the ground, twitching. For a moment, I stopped, although the statue had begun to call out more spell-words.
To slay love—
Viconia brought her morningstar down upon its head, and splintered the clay to shreds.
"Waelen iblith!" The statue fell for her, and she glared at me, her eyes bright red. I could not have, did not wish to, but for me she'd—
I reached for my bow; shot a strong arrow into the back of Durlag's Pride. It seemed to screech with the poison of acid on its back; the bear atop it bit down harshly, and the claws sent the axe of it flying. Shar-Teel had returned, and aided Faldorn, though it was the druid who'd the final blow, and then she melted back into a human—
Imoen stabbed down and deeply into something unseen. The grey-cloaked form of Fear turned to visibility, ragged and still; and Imoen fell herself atop it, bleeding, some of her wounds tinged with the green of a poisoned blade. But she held a vial of antidote in her hand, forced some of it through her lips; she was not dead of it—
Ajantis fought; the black-clad Avarice was strong and quick. I used the bow, arrows into its back like a pincushion; it fell, when Shar-Teel aided him finally.
The stone hall was quiet and still. Faldorn, on her feet after aiding Imoen, bent down into the red robes of Durlag's statue for his love. She rose from it; bore a second marked wardstone in her hands, and laid it on the central slab. It opened into darkness below, a dark box like a coffin, hung by a heavily wired and strung device.
Shar-Teel brushed at a cut on her temple. "You two," she said, Ajantis targeted by her glare as well as me, "have turned pathetically weak as any male. You'll need to be stronger."
"We have no obligation to rescue the young male—" Viconia said.
"But we will," Imoen said, breathing heavily, resting on her hands and knees, lifting a haggard face. "I learned magic because I was afraid we'd all get killed. I was afraid I'd have to look after everyone. But in the end I—"
"We must enter," Ajantis said. His voice only wavered a little.
—
Waelen iblith — idiotic piece of excrement.
—