The Fallen Fortress

by R. A. Salvatore

  Shayleigh slipped along silently right behind them, her bow ready. Around a bend in the corridor they saw a straight run past two intersections and ending at a set of double doors.

  “Too many!” the elf maiden whispered, slowing her pace. “Too many.”

  Double doors blocked their way—then hung awkwardly on broken hinges. Ivan and Pikel burst in, weapons high.

  “Uh-oh,” muttered the green-bearded dwarf, echoing his brother’s sentiments exactly.

  They had come into a huge hall, a dining room that apparently doubled as a command post, lined with dozens of tables and more than a few enemies. Shayleigh sighed helplessly and rushed to catch up with the furious dwarves, who, in their momentum, had already charged past the first empty tables.

  A group of orcs sitting closest to the door barely had the time to look up from their bowls before the dwarves fell over them, hacking and kicking. Ivan butted with his deer-antlered helmet, and Pikel launched a flurry of flying knees and elbows, a butting forehead, and his tree-trunk club.

  Only one of the six orcs even managed to get out of its chair, but before the startled creature took two steps away, an arrow sliced through the side of its head, dropping it dead to the floor.

  On ran the dwarves and on chased Shayleigh. Convinced that their only hope was to keep moving, the elf maiden rushed through the hall too quickly for the majority of enemies there to organize against them. In full flight, she sent an arrow out to the side, catching a man in the shoulder as he tried to raise a bow of his own.

  Tables overturned and chairs skidded aside as the men and monsters scrambled to get out of harm’s way. One unfortunate goblin got tangled up in its companion’s chair. When the dwarves had passed, both goblin and chair lay flattened on the floor. One ogre didn’t run, but crossed its huge arms over its chest and stood with legs firmly planted, thinking itself an imposing barrier.

  It got wounded in more than its pride when Ivan rushed right through those widespread legs, the dwarf’s axe up high over his head. The ogre lurched, grabbing at its torn loins, and Pikel ran beside it, caving in the side of its knee. The ogre hadn’t even hit the floor yet when Shayleigh sprang up, planting one foot on its face, another on its ribs, as she ran right down the falling creature’s side.

  There seemed to be no method to the dwarves’ mad rush, no aim above the creation of general chaos. Then Pikel spotted the serving area, a long counter running along the back wall.

  “Oooo!” the green-bearded dwarf squeaked, his stubby finger pointing the way.

  One of the three servers lifted a crossbow, but Shayleigh’s arrow took him down. A second lifted a wooden tray before him like a shield, but Ivan’s axe cleaved it, and the man’s face, in two. The third man’s shield, an iron pot, seemed more formidable, but Pikel’s club hit it head on, and the pot snapped back to hit the man head on.

  The three friends were over the counter in a flash, Shayleigh spinning around and setting her bow into frantic motion, for many enemies were in pursuit. She scored hit after hit, but there seemed no way that she could possibly stop the closing horde.

  Ivan and Pikel leaped atop the counter to either side of her, armed with stacks of metal plates. The dwarves opened up a barrage of flying metal. Dishes whizzed through the air, spinning and swerving, battering the approaching enemies.

  Battering them and holding them up long enough for Shayleigh to methodically cut them down.

  “Hee hee hee,” chuckled Pikel, and he hopped down from the counter and grabbed up a pot of thick green soup. Over it went, splashing and spilling, setting up the obstacle of a slippery floor for those enemies that came too near.

  The dwarf also scooped up a huge ladle of boiling water before he climbed back atop the counter.

  An arrow skipped right past Ivan’s ear, driving into the wall behind the dwarf. Shayleigh, intent on the largest approaching monster, another ogre, noted the archer to the side, crouched beside an overturned table.

  “Yerself takes the bowmen!” Ivan cried. “Me and me brother’ll take on them fools that come close!”

  The reasoning seemed sound, and the elf maiden forced herself to hold her nerve, to ignore the closest threats and trust in her companions. She swerved her bow to the side, saw the bowman’s hip foolishly hanging out from the barrier while he reloaded, and promptly stuck an arrow into him.

  The approaching ogre carried four arrows in its chest but still stubbornly came on, right for Pikel and Shayleigh.

  The dwarf’s eyes widened in feigned fear, and Pikel seemed to cower, causing Shayleigh to cry out. Pikel came up straight at the last moment, though, whipping out the ladle, splashing the surprised ogre’s eyes and face with boiling water.

  The ogre lurched, throwing its arms up over its burned eyes. The shift cost the beast its already tentative balance in the green soup, and it skidded in to slam its knees against the sturdy stone counter. Down low, trying to recover its balance and its sight, the ogre felt a burning flash, a club-inspired explosion that caved in the top of its head.

  Pikel laid his brain-stained club aside and took up more plates. He sent them spinning off at enemies who were suddenly more interested in getting out of harm’s way than in getting to the intruders.

  “None better at kitchen fighting than a Boulder-shoulder,” Ivan remarked, and looking at the chaos and carnage, Shayleigh wasn’t about to disagree.

  But the elf knew that more than fury would be needed to win the day. Dozens of enemies remained. More had come into the room, overturning tables in their way, and getting down under cover. She saw another archer peek up over the rim of a table to the side. His bow came up.

  Shayleigh was quicker on the draw, and a better shot. While the man’s arrow flew harmlessly high and wide, Shayleigh’s got him right between the eyes. The elf’s satisfaction was short-lived, though, when she realized she had only five arrows remaining, and exhausted, too, was Ivan and Pikel’s supply of metal plates.

  Cadderly kneeled above what was left of his prisoner, the man’s torn head and shoulders. Black shadows of guilt assaulted the young priest, hovering images judging him, telling him that the helpless man’s death was his fault.

  Danica was beside the young priest, urging him to his feet.

  Cadderly pulled his arm free and stared hard at the gruesome sight. He thought of going into the realm of spirits, to find the dead man and …

  And what? Cadderly realized. Might he bring the spirit back? He looked behind him, to the man’s chewed lower torso. Bring the spirit back to where? Did he possess the magic to mend the torn body?

  “It’s not your fault,” Danica whispered, his thoughts obvious to her. “You gave the man a chance. That’s more than most would have offered in our situation.”

  Cadderly swallowed hard, swallowed Danica’s wise words and let them push away his dark thoughts, his guilt.

  “It could have been any one of us,” Danica reminded him.

  Cadderly nodded and rose from the corpse. The hydra had come at all three of them, could have snapped Danica in half, and would have if she hadn’t been so quick. Even if Cadderly had allowed the prisoner to keep his weapon, it might have offered him little defense against the hydra’s brutal charge.

  “We have to be gone from here,” Danica said, and again Cadderly nodded, turning to face the loose-hanging, scorched, and blasted door.

  He and Danica walked through it together, side by side, coming into a small anteroom. No living enemies immediately presented themselves, but that fact did little to calm the nervous companions, for leering gargoyles stared down at them from a ledge running around the top of the room. They held needle-sharp daggers—Talona’s favored weapon. Demonic bas reliefs covered the stone of supporting pillars, hordes of ghastly things dancing around the deceptively beautiful Lady of Poison. Tapestries surrounded the room, all depicting gory scenes of battle wherein hordes of goblins and orcs, their weapons dripping blood and poison, overran hosts of fleeing humans and elves.

  A
single chair dominated the floor. It sat atop a raised dais and was flanked by tall, iron statues of fierce warriors holding gigantic swords, while their other hands inconspicuously clasped tiny daggers. No other doors were apparent, though a curtain covered the section of wall immediately behind the chair.

  With Danica hovering protectively around him, Cadderly called up the song of Deneir, searched for clues about the nature of the many things around him. He stood easier when he detected no magical influences on the gargoyle sculptures, but nearly retreated when he turned to the iron statues. Parts of them—mouth and arms, mostly—tingled with residual magical energy.

  “Golems?” Danica whispered, seeing the young priest’s eyes open wide.

  Cadderly honestly didn’t know. Golems were wholly magical creatures, animated bodies of iron, stone, or other inanimate materials. They would have seemed appropriate there, for such monsters were usually created by powerful wizards or priests to serve as guardians. Certainly with everything Cadderly had heard about Aballister, the thought of the wizard possessing iron golems, the most powerful of them, was not out of the question. But Cadderly would have expected to detect more magic emanating from such a creature.

  “Where to go?” Danica asked, her tone revealing that she was growing increasingly uneasy standing vulnerable in a wizard’s anteroom.

  Cadderly paused for a long moment. He felt that they should go to the curtain, but if they were iron golems, and he and Danica walked up between them …

  Cadderly shook the unpleasant image from his mind. “The curtain,” he said resolutely.

  Danica started forward, but Cadderly caught her by the arm. If she was to trust him, when he couldn’t be sure that he should trust himself, then he would walk beside her, not behind.

  With his walking stick, Cadderly gingerly pushed the curtain aside, revealing a door. He started to turn to Danica, to smile, but suddenly, before either of the companions could react, the iron statues swung around, swords stopping barely an inch from them, one in front and one in back.

  “Speak the word,” the iron statues demanded in unison.

  Cadderly saw Danica tense. He expected her to go in a rush at her metallic adversary. A few flickering notes slipped past his consciousness, and he saw, too, the building magical energy in the iron statues’ arms, particularly in the less obvious arms holding the daggers. Cadderly didn’t have to use magic to guess that the tips of those sneaky weapons would likely be poisoned.

  “Speak the word,” the statues demanded again. Cadderly focused his senses on the magical energy, saw it rising to a dangerous crescendo.

  “Do not move,” he whispered to Danica, sensing that if she struck out, the two daggers would do their work with deadly efficiency.

  Danica’s hands eased down to her sides, though she hardly seemed to relax. She trusted his judgment, but Cadderly honestly wondered if that was a good thing. The magical energy appeared as if it would soon boil over, and Cadderly still hadn’t figured out how he might begin to counter or dispel it.

  It seemed to the young priest as if the golems were growing impatient.

  “Speak the word!” Their unified chant rang out as a final warning.

  Cadderly wanted to tell Danica to dive away, hoping that she, at least, might get free before the nasty daggers struck, or the swords chopped in.

  “The word is ‘Bonaduce,’” came a call from beyond the door, a female voice the two companions recognized.

  “Dorigen,” Danica breathed, her face scrunched with sudden anger.

  Cadderly agreed, and knew that trusting Dorigen would surely be a move wrought of desperation. But something about the word, “Bonaduce,” struck a note of truth, a note of familiarity, within the young priest.

  “Bonaduce!” Cadderly yelled. “The word is Bonaduce.”

  Danica’s incredulous stare turned even more disbelieving as the golems shifted back to their frozen, impassive stances.

  Cadderly, too, didn’t understand any of it. Why would Dorigen aid them, especially when they were in such dire trouble? He started forward for the door and pulled the curtain fully aside.

  “It must be trapped,” Danica reasoned softly, taking hold of Cadderly’s arm to prevent him from reaching for the pull ring.

  Cadderly shook his head and grabbed the ring. Before Danica could argue, he yanked the door open.

  They came into a comfortably furnished room. Soft, padded chairs were generously placed, quiet tapestries of solid color lined every wall, and a bearskin rug carpeted the floor. The only hard-edged furnishing was a wooden desk, angled in a corner opposite the door. There sat Dorigen, tapping a slender wand against the side of her crooked, oft-broken nose.

  Danica was down in a defensive crouch in an instant, one hand going to her boot to draw a dagger.

  “Have I mentioned before how much you both amaze me?” Dorigen asked them.

  Cadderly sent a silent, magical message into Danica’s thoughts, bidding her to hold easy.

  “Are we any less amazed?” the young priest replied. “You gave us the password.”

  “So she might kill us herself,” Danica added. She flipped the dagger over in her hand, grasping it by the point so that she could flick it out at Dorigen in an instant.

  “That is a possibility,” the wizard admitted. “I have many powers—” she tapped the wand against her cheek—“that I might use against you, and perhaps this time, our battle would have ended differently.”

  “Would have?” Cadderly noted.

  “Would have, if I held any intention of fighting you again,” Dorigen explained.

  Danica shook her head, obviously unconvinced. Cadderly, too, had trouble believing the woman’s sudden change of heart. He fell into the notes of his song, and sought out the aura sight.

  Shadows flickered atop Dorigen’s delicate shoulders, reflections of what was in her heart and thoughts. They were not huddled, evil things, as Cadderly expected, but quiet shadows, sitting in wait.

  Cadderly came back from his spell to stare at Dorigen with heightened curiosity. He noticed Danica slide a step to the side and realized that she was trying to put some ground between them, giving the wizard only a single target.

  “She speaks the truth,” the young priest announced.

  “Why?” Danica replied sharply.

  Cadderly had no answer.

  “Because I grow tired of this war,” Dorigen responded. “And I grow tired of playing Aballister’s lackey.”

  “You believe the horrors of Shilmista will be so easily forgotten?” Danica asked.

  “I have no wish to repeat those horrors,” Dorigen replied. “I’m tired—” she held up her hands, fingers still bent from the beating Cadderly had given them—“and broken.”

  The words stung Cadderly, but Dorigen’s soft, benign tone did not.

  “You could have killed me, young priest,” the wizard went on. “You could now, probably, with my own ring, which you now wear, if with nothing else.”

  Cadderly unconsciously clenched his hand, and felt the onyx-stoned ring with his thumb.

  “And I could have let the golems kill you,” Dorigen went on. “Or I could have assailed you with an assortment of deadly spells as you walked through the door.”

  “Is this … reparation?” Cadderly asked.

  Dorigen shrugged. “Weariness, more than that,” she said, and the woman did indeed sound tired. “I have stood beside Aballister for many years. I watched him assemble a mighty force with promises of glory, and absolute control of all five of Erlkazar’s baronies.” Dorigen laughed at the thought. “Look at us now,” she lamented. “A handful of elves, a pair of silly dwarves, and two children—” she indicated Cadderly and Danica with a wave of her hand, her expression incredulous—“have brought us to our knees.”

  Danica moved again to the side, and Dorigen snapped the wand down in front of her, her face suddenly twisted with a scowl.

  “Do we continue?” she demanded, poking the wand ahead. “Or do we let t
his play out as the gods always intended?”

  Another silent message came into Danica’s thoughts, compelling her to relax.

  “What do you mean?” Cadderly asked.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Dorigen replied. “You against Aballister, that’s what this war is all about.”

  Cadderly and Danica looked at each other, both wondering if Dorigen had gone insane.

  “That was not Aballister’s intent,” Dorigen went on, chuckling between every word. “He didn’t even know you were alive when Barjin began the whole business.”

  The name of the dead priest caused Cadderly to unconsciously flinch.

  “And certainly it was not your intent,” Dorigen continued. “You didn’t—still don’t understand … You didn’t even know that Aballister existed.”

  “You babble,” Cadderly said.

  Dorigen’s laughter heightened. “Perhaps,” she admitted. “And yet I must believe it was more than coincidence that has brought us all to this point. Aballister himself played a part in it, a part he will possibly regret.”

  “By starting the war,” Cadderly reasoned.

  “By saving your life,” Dorigen corrected.

  Cadderly’s face screwed up even tighter.

  “Inadvertently,” the woman quickly added. “His hatred for Barjin, his rival, outweighed his understanding of the insidious thorn you would become.”

  “She lies,” Danica decided, inching a step closer to the desk, apparently preparing to spring out and throttle the cryptic wizard.

  “Do you remember your final encounter with Barjin?” Dorigen asked.

  Cadderly nodded grimly. He would never forget that fateful day, the day he’d first killed a man.

  “The dwarf, the one with the yellow beard, was held fast by Barjin’s magic,” Dorigen prompted, and the image came clearly to the young priest. Ivan had stopped his advance toward the Malagent, had simply frozen in place, leaving Cadderly practically helpless. Cadderly was no powerful cleric back then, could barely win against a simple goblin, and the Talonite would surely have finished him. But Ivan came out from the enchantment at the last moment, allowing Cadderly to slip from Barjin’s deadly clutches.