by Larry Kollar
THE CROSSOVER
by
Larry Kollar
Copyright © 2013 Larry Kollar
All rights reserved.
• • •
For republishing permission, please contact the author at [email protected].
Other Books by Larry Kollar
White Pickups (Book 1 of the Truckalypse)
Xenocide
Accidental Sorcerers (Accidental Sorcerers, Book 1)
Pickups and Pestilence (Book 2 of the Truckalypse) (April 2013)
Water and Chaos (Accidental Sorcerers, Book 2) (Summer 2013)
Contents
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1 – At Tirfa-Wold
Chapter 2 – Far from Home
Chapter 3 – The Plot
Chapter 4 – Bomb Threat
Common Terms and Phrases
Excerpt: Accidental Sorcerers
Excerpt: Heroes and Vallenez, by Angela Kulig
About the Author
Acknowledgements
No author works alone, and I’m no exception.
I learn something new with every new project. This time, the big lesson was that you have to be careful about making the reader feel what the characters are feeling. I blogged the beginning of Chapter 2 as a #FridayFlash (titled “Far from Home”), and got a ton of negative feedback, because the readers were feeling the sensory overload of the characters. Whoops! So if I was wearing a hat, I’d doff it for those of you who commented on that piece.
Closer to home, no pun intended, thanks to my wife Margaret and my grandson Mason for adjusting the work-writing-life balance, even when I really didn’t want it adjusted. Beta readers, Craig W.F. Smith and Angela Kulig, pointed at several things that needed fixing. And once again, Angela found the artwork that became the cover.
And, as always, thank you, the readers, reviewers, and bloggers who help to spread the word!
— “FAR Manor”
January 2013
Chapter 1 – At Tirfa-Wold
If the sun shone anywhere this morning, it was east of the Avenger Flotilla. Clouds overspread the sky above, but the morning sun cut through a line of open sky along the horizon, turning the sails golden. A stiff northwest wind moved the three ships quickly through the choppy water along the northern coast.
At the first glimpse of sunlight, the lookout on the flagship Holy Crusade winded a horn; in response, crew and soldiers filed through the hatches onto the deck of each ship. The soldiers’ uniforms sported the emblem of Ak’koyr: the seven Rounds rising to Heaven, with the sun beneath. But among those on the third ship, Hand of the Divine, were six men wearing no uniform. These were impressees from Roth’s Keep, brought aboard with some cost to the press gang. They milled around the deck, trying to find a place away from the others.
“Close to shore,” one whispered. “Prob’ly due north of Roth’s Keep too. We could jump overboard and swim for it.”
“This wind put us a good ways east by now, Endrik. It would be two weeks’ march at a minimum,” said the tallest one, chewing his long black mustache. “If someone left us a cache of gear and food, we might make it.”
“So you think we ought to just ride along, Lodrán?”
“I don’t have any better ideas at the moment.” Lodrán shrugged. “And neither do you.”
“Face—home!” an officer bellowed. “Salute!”
All on board turned to face the same direction—toward Ak’koyr, as best they knew. They put palms to their heads and bowed, except the impressees. These, after ensuring nobody was watching, chose to tap their foreheads with one finger—a salute to an inferior, and thus a calculated insult. Hundreds of voices sang out, ringing over the waves:
Hail, Ak’koyr, hail!
Lifting Camac’s holy light.
Thy banner shall prevail
Against all forces of the night!
Hail, Ak’koyr, hail!
Far away, yet we hold dear
As evildoers assail
Our home and all that remains pure!
With great glad hearts we sing to thee
We shall return thy victory—
Hail! Ak’koyr, hail!
Endrik, who sang for his supper when no one needed his other talents, had altered the words to the anthem for his friends’ amusement. And so the impressees sang (not loudly):
Fail, Ak’koyr, fail!
On Camac’s shores a great blight.
Poor manners we detail,
Against your arrogance we fight!
Fail, Ak’koyr, fail!
Far away, yet all too near
Your evil has assailed
Our home and all that remains pure!
With angered hearts we sing to thee
For we are but your impressees—
Fail! Ak’koyr, fail!
After the morning devotion, breakfast was served. A light drizzle greeted the impressees as they returned to the deck with their meals. They lifted hoods, or donned broad-brimmed hats, and otherwise ignored it. Dampness on shipboard was nothing new, and the deck offered as much privacy as could be found. Still, they spoke in lowered voices.
“Have you overheard anything, Lodrán?” Endrik asked.
“Only what we hoped to find,” said Lodrán. “We’re bound for Tirfa-Wold.”
“The sea caves?” asked another. “The Wolds only use ‘em during the summer, I’m told. What’s there?”
“Something to do with that raid on Mostil. You heard about that, right?” The others nodded. “The raiders are from Ryddast, using the caves as a base. They’ve mostly harried the Northern Reach, and some of the ship traffic going through the Straits, but nobody expected them to come into the Gulf itself. The Wolds won’t arrive for two months, so the Easterners have plenty of time before they’ll have to scuttle back home.”
“We’ll be there this afternoon, if this wind stays up,” one of the others said. “I hope they don’t intend a frontal attack, I’ve heard it’s a natural fortress.”
“Ak’koyr?” Endrik turned and spat over the railing. “When have their tactics involved anything but brute force?”
• • •
The flotilla rushed east, strong winds pushing the ships through intermittent spits of rain. The line of clear sky to the east grew higher through the day. Lodrán and his fellow impressees kept watch on deck as long as possible, staying out of reach of orders.
“Hoy, look,” said one impressee, pointing up and ahead. “A rainbow.”
“We’ve been chasing it for a hour,” Endrik laughed. “You just now—”
“Fortress ho!” a lookout on the Holy Crusade bawled. Rounding a point, they saw several makeshift docks jutting from a narrow, rocky beach; a half-dozen fastboats floated alongside the docks.
Captains screamed, “Full on! Keep those fastboats in port!” Subordinates bellowed orders to their subordinates. The impressees complied as little as possible without visibly hindering the other crew.
But the docks seemed deserted.
“Look at that!” Endrik gasped, pointing at the hillside. Tirfa-Wold—or loosely, “Wolds’ summer dwelling”—was a high cliff, terraced with switchbacking, climbing pathways and studded with black holes—caves cut into the ancient rock.
“Wolds built that?” a nearby soldier gasped.
“Who knows?” Lodrán shrugged. “It could be natural. Or they might have dug it out over centuries.”
The soldier shook his head. Lodrán tried to gauge the size of the cave mouths. Damned tight, he decided.
Endrik spat. “I thought Easterners liked a bit more comfort—”
“Spears.” Lodrán looked toward the hatches. “We need to get to the weapons cache.”
“Ain’t a problem,” said the soldier. “Not
locked, not guarded. The one thing they do right around here. You never know when we’ll need ‘em.”
“Good. Let’s go, folk. This is important.”
The six impressees slipped through the soldiers and sailors, now massing on deck. No one paid them any mind. Lodrán glanced at the foredeck. Gathered there were the Cream of Ak’koyr, warriors proven in both battle and loyalty. But like their rulers, they valued force far beyond thought. The heavy armor they wore—even some iron!—left Lodrán wondering how well they would fight after climbing those steep switchbacks. As he watched, one unsheathed a gigantic sword, longer than Lodrán was tall, and began limbering up as his fellows gave him plenty of room.
“You could watch that any time,” Endrik whispered, nudging him.
“After today? Not likely.” Lodrán turned and followed.
“What do you mean?”
Lodrán shook his head and held up a raised finger: The Hand That Begs Silence.
The weapons cache was well-stocked. “Perfect,” Lodrán whispered, picking a leather vest with bronze rings sewn over the front. “Spears and crossbows, and light armor, are what we want here.”
“Why?”
“The Cream of Ak’koyr is going in first, of course. In open fields and city streets, they’re near-invincible. But on those switchbacks, in those caves, they’ll be fish in The Godforsaken. No room to swing those huge swords, when the caves are narrower than a reach.” Lodrán looked up through the deck. “Do you think we should warn them?” Derisive snorts. “I thought not.
“You heard the plan: after the Cream beats the Easterners into submission, the common soldiers will be sent in to loot the place and deal with any remaining resistance. We’re to aid the wounded and carry large burdens.” He chuckled. “What will likely happen is that the Cream will find themselves unable to attack and too tired to defend. The secondaries will have a real battle, and we’ll be in the thick of it. Short swords might be of use, especially if those caves open into chambers.” He looked around. “No throwing knives. Pity. We’ll have to make do with crossbows.”
“What if it’s just narrow at the entrance?” one of them asked.
“There will be wide places—even chambers—and even narrower stretches, I’m thinking. The Easterners will try to fight the metal monsters in the tight places.”
Thumping noises echoed through the hold. “They’re dropping anchor,” said Endrik. “Let’s get what we came for and make ourselves visible.”
They came topside, just in time to see the first of the Cream of Ak’koyr depart from the Holy Crusade, on flat-bottomed landing craft. The elite warriors stood on board at parade rest, watching but not seeing the field of battle, ignoring the common soldiers rowing and poling them to shore. Soon, Word of Truth and Hand of the Divine would disgorge their own heavy troops. A little later, nearly fifty of the best soldiers in known civilization would be in deep trouble. None of them seemed to understand that their great strength would be their weakness here.
Lodrán and his friends reported to their Striker. He looked at their armaments, and shrugged. Then he looked at the forbidding cliff, riddled with caves. He looked between the impressees’ kit and the caves several times, then began whispering to his other men. One by one, they went below and returned with their own spears and crossbows. “The Striker thinks you got the right idea,” one of the soldiers whispered to Endrik. “Good thing we’re the last ones ashore, we have time to make some adjustments!”
The Cream stood in formation before Tirfa-Wold. Still no activity from the Easterners. Finally, one wearing the silver-plumed helmet of a Captain shouted an order, and they marched under a leaden sky. No soldiers or arrows poured out of cave mouths. No battle-cries or any other sounds. The Captain stood alone on shore, arms folded. Above, the rainbow seemed to touch down beyond the cliff’s edge.
“Looks like they ran home,” a sailor grinned. “No glory for the Cream this day, I say. Well, that’s all to the good.”
“I’d say you’re right,” Endrik muttered. The impressees, and several others, nodded agreement.
Minutes dragged by. They watched the caves, but saw and heard nothing. Finally, the order was given and the first strike boarded the landing craft and went ashore. They saw the Striker salute the Captain, then point to the caves. After a moment, the Captain nodded and the Striker led five soldiers into one of the caves.
A few minutes later, one soldier pelted down the switchbacks. He rushed to the Captain, saluted, and made wild gestures. The two of them boarded a landing boat, and returned to the Holy Crusade. Soon, the landing craft were busy ferrying soldiers ashore. Rumors spread to the other ships before confirmation was brought: the Cream were taking unexpectedly heavy losses; reinforcements were needed immediately.
“We will enter in an orderly fashion,” said the Captain, “following our original battle plan. The only difference is, you’ll win more of the honor and glory than we’d expected. It’s damned tight in there, and I see some of you are already prepared. You have three objectives: offer aid to our wounded soldiers, kill any man with a beard—no quarter!—and find any and all exits to the plains above. We will wipe this place clean of any Eastern taint this day.”
• • •
Each Striker led his men into Tirfa-Wold. Each strike—a dozen soldiers, give or take—approached quietly, as if respecting the awesome silence. They marched up the switchbacks and filed into their allotted caves. The first strikes entered the lowest caves.
“Figures,” a soldier in Lodrán’s strike grumbled. “We get to march all the way up.”
“At least we’re traveling light,” said another. “We might be the ones to find the exit, too.”
At last, they boarded the landing craft and went ashore. The Striker lined them up and gave the orders—and indeed, they were assigned the topmost caves. They were separated into threes, and Lodrán, Endrik, and a third impressee named Torba were the last of the last.
“Too bad we can’t just march right back down,” Torba grinned, as they mounted the steep switchbacks. “But they’d see it on shipboard, no doubt.”
“Ssh,” said Lodrán. “I think I saw something in our cave.”
“A rat?” Endrik asked.
“A bearded rat.” Lodrán made himself stop chewing his mustache. “I have an idea.”
Lodrán led them along the narrow path to the cave; the others waited as he walked in front of the cave mouth as if passing it. From within, an Easterner howled a war cry and charged, intending to push Lodrán down the cliff. But Lodrán threw himself at his attacker’s feet.
The Easterner thought quickly—too quickly—and jumped. His leap carried him over Lodrán and over the edge of the walkway. He fell, screaming until he struck an outcropping.
Endrik and Torba rushed in. “Are you all right?” Torba asked.
“Better than he is,” said Lodrán, scrambling to his feet. “Look—light-shafts. We won’t need those torches.” He opened his pack and tossed several torches aside.
“He left us some weapons,” said Endrik. “You were wanting some knives?” He offered three to Lodrán.
Lodrán took one in hand. The design was unfamiliar, but the balance was good. He grinned and slipped them into his belt.
Endrik laughed. “Good thing he didn’t just throw his spear. You’d have been dead before you finished falling off the cliff.”
Lodrán nodded. “You two stay here,” he suggested. “I’ll go have a look. You can watch my back.”
“Fair enough!” Torba laughed.
A little farther in, Lodrán heard shouts and sounds of fighting. Still, he felt almost at home here. The rough-hewn walls of Tirfa-Wold were unlike those of Nightwalk, and the light-shafts gave enough light to see by, but such details were slight after four days on shipboard. Hoping for the luck of the Hand, he crept forward. A spear was not his usual weapon, but even a short sword was near-useless in these tight passages. Those who practice the Silent Art learn to adapt.
Thr
eading his way deeper into the caves, chewing his mustache, cat-silent, he picked turns at random. An obstruction up ahead resolved into an Eastern soldier, standing with his back to Lodrán. Closer he came, spear raised and ready to throw, to within six feet before his quarry sensed danger and turned. Lodrán flung his spear, catching the soldier in the throat. The man gurgled and pulled at the spear, falling to his knees and then sideways. Blood pooled around him.
Lodrán felt his stomach lurch, but forced it quiet. While he did not make a habit of killing, this kill was not his first. He would likely have to kill again this day, unless he wanted to rejoin Endrik and Torba. But if the raiders had not already sent their plunder back East, he intended to have fair pay for his forced servitude. It would be easier to collect, though, before it was loaded on the warships and guarded all the way home.
The soldier gave a final twitch and lay still. Lodrán looked him over, and noticed the shield. It was obviously designed for spear-fighting in narrow places, less than a foot wide and a little longer than his forearm. Strapped to the forearm, it left the wrist free to wield a spear two-handed.
“Sorry, friend,” Lodrán muttered, “but I think I’ll need this more than you do.” He took the shield, the unbloodied spear, and two more throwing-knives.
Not much farther down, Lodrán came upon one of the Cream of Ak’koyr. He was alive, but a broken spear jutted from a bloody left leg. Another dead Easterner lay nearby, and pieces of a huge sword were scattered around both living and dead. Seeing Lodrán, he raised his broken sword, then lowered it. “How did you get past the other?” he demanded.
“I caught him from behind. Can you move?”
“With that in my leg? I can’t even crawl. Damn this place and those who built it.”
Lodrán slipped his pack to the floor and tossed a few bandages to the wounded warrior. “Should I pull it out?”
“Just do it and shut up!”
Lodrán jerked the spear out, trying not to think about it, before the warrior could brace himself. The big man gasped and pressed the rags to the gushing wound, then allowed Lodrán to bind the wound with more rags. Lodrán cut a length of rope, filched from the ship, and tied it above the wound. He slipped the broken spear under it. “If it bleeds too much, twist it,” he said. “Wait here.”
He trotted back to the dead Easterner and returned with the bloody spear. He helped the injured warrior stand, then gave him the spear. “Make your way back out.”
The spear bowed a little under the weight of the warrior. “What do I fight with?” he snarled. “Damned sword broke—”
“With any luck, you don’t fight. I left two men at the cave we entered. They can help you back down and get you to the landing craft. Make a report to Captain—the Captain—”
“Captain Shalor.”
Lodrán shrugged. “Right. Make your report. Maybe they can heal you.”
“What if I’m attacked?”
“With any luck, you won’t be. If you try to play hero right now, you’re done.” Lodrán thought a moment, then gave him his short sword. “This is the best I have. Unless you’d rather use that spear.”
The Cream of Ak’koyr hefted the sword. “What am I supposed to do with this toothpick?”
“Survive,” said Lodrán. “If you don’t want it, I might be able to use it.”
The warrior glared at him, then limped away, carrying the sword.
• • •
To Lodrán, it seemed like hours before he found anyone else. Then, in a rough chamber, he nearly stumbled upon them before he realized it. A dead Cream warrior lay atop two dead Easterners. A third Easterner, wounded, leaned against a wall. A second glance at the Cream warrior suggested that he also had considered the narrow confines of Tirfa-Wold: his shield was chopped down and he clutched a short sword. Too bad it didn’t help, Lodrán thought.
He returned his attention to the lone survivor. He bled from several gashes in his arm, leg, and side. His spear was intact and bloody. Lodrán and the Easterner watched each other, looking for an opening. At last, the Easterner raised his spear for a throw. Lodrán whipped his shield arm down and back; a knife leaped for the Easterner. Encumbered by the shield, his knife went wide of the Easterner’s chest. But the hilt struck the spear and knocked it out of his hand. Lodrán advanced.
“Quarter!” the Easterner cried, raising his hands.
Lodrán stopped, but held his spear at the ready. “Where is the plunder your people took?”
The Easterner looked confused, and Lodrán repeated the question as best he could in the Eastern tongue.
“That way.” The man pointed down a hallway. “You will find a room with a stairway. Go up. But it’s guarded.”
“Keep your life, then,” said Lodrán. “I will take these weapons, though.” He took the spear and the Ak’koyr short sword. “Play dead. We have orders to give no quarter.”
“Then—then why—” the Easterner waved his hands.
“I am here against my will, so I do not follow all orders.” He grinned. The Easterner smirked, gave him the head-nod bow, then sank to the floor.
Tunnels and hallways branched away, and Lodrán considered each one carefully before continuing on. He came upon another dead Cream warrior. Either no Easterners went down with this one, or they were carried away. The hallway appeared to widen just ahead. Lodrán stepped over the dead man and gasped.
He stood just inside another chamber, hewn out of the cliffside rock. One of the Cream of Ak’koyr stood, back to the far wall, facing four Easterners. Oddly enough, he did not wear the uniform of Ak’koyr’s elite warriors. There was blood on him, but the way he hefted his sword suggested it might not be his own. Three more spearmen lay dead, and one of the living was wounded. In truth, Lodrán had forgotten how well the Cream of Ak’koyr could fight in an open space, and the Easterners had paid a high price for forgetting as well. But for now, they stood out of reach, unable to use their numbers to advantage while their foe kept to the wall. The metal monster snarled fluent taunts in the Eastern tongue, to Lodrán’s surprise, as he brandished his sword.
Lodrán threw his spear; the wounded Easterner fell and the others turned to face the new threat. Seizing the opportunity, the warrior lunged forward and cut down another spearman. One of the remaining two charged Lodrán, leaving the other to his fate.
Lodrán had just enough time to draw his short sword, and the spearman hesitated. He glared at Lodrán, and raised his spear for a thrust or throw. Lodrán made ready to dodge, focusing on the spear head—
Suddenly, the Easterner grunted and fell. Behind him stood the big swordsman. “Thanks for the help, sold— Lodrán? What in the dung-choked streets of the Seventh Round are you doing here?”
Lodrán gasped as he recognized the stranger, then grinned. “I was dragged here by Ak’koyr’s press gang. And you, Chelinn?”
Chelinn chuckled. “On rare occasions, Ak’koyr and I have similar ends. But they need not know that, so I stowed away on their flagship. Listening to what one might call their battle plans, I rather expected this. The Easterners have skimmed the Cream, but they’re outnumbered and the common soldiers will give them more of a fight. I intended to find what I wanted and begone before either side knew I was here.”
“What do you want, then?”
Lodrán’s old friend looked beyond the walls. “Did you ever consider that the raiders have had a great deal of luck?”
“Raiding Mostil was daring, certainly.”
“They attacked when they knew it was safe. The Northern Reach is ready for them, now. Ak’koyr itself is lousy with warships and trained warriors. Roth’s Keep would take too long to plunder. Mostil was likely their last success, and I expect them to depart back East soon.”
“All right.” Lodrán shrugged. “So they can tell when when a prize is left unguarded? They have an Oracle?”
“Perhaps.” Chelinn shook his head. “But more likely, a scrying-stone.”
“Any decent sorcerer can scry,” s
aid Lodrán.
“But not safely over great distances, and not into the future. Oracles are often unreliable. Thus, reason suggests they have one of the Eyes of Byula.”
Lodrán’s eyes went wide. “And Ak’koyr is unaware?”
Chelinn laughed. “No, they came to the same conclusion as I. Thus, the raid. The Cream was to have dealt with the resistance. The common soldiers would then go to work searching this complex for what the raiders have looted, and carry it on board. Captain Shalor would locate the Eye and bring it back to the Council. They, in due course, would have turned it over to Protector Dian.”
“And you were going to relieve them of the burden?” Lodrán smirked.
“Indeed. But I haven’t had much luck finding it. I know it’s nearby, is all.”
“That way.” Lodrán pointed. “We need to find a room with stairs.”
The big warrior-mage cocked his head. “How do you know that?”
“I offered a spearman his life in exchange for the information. He did say the place was well-guarded.”
“We’ll see just how well-guarded.” Chelinn grinned. “Shall I lead?”
“Certainly.”
• • •
Beyond the chamber, the hallway widened. Lodrán brought out his crossbow and checked his throwing knives. They made brief plans, then moved out. Lodrán was in his element: dark corridors to conceal him, and a trusted friend like Chelinn out front. At the moment, success seemed all but certain.
After a few minutes, they found the staircase and began a wary climb. They were seen before they reached the top, and three Eastern spearmen clattered down to face them. Lodrán loosed his crossbow, and the quarrel stuck in the spearman’s shield. But it distracted the spearman long enough for Chelinn to finish the job.
Another Easterner threw his spear, but Chelinn’s armor turned it and the assailant ran back upstairs faster than he’d come down. That left only one opponent for Chelinn, and it was over before Lodrán had his crossbow cocked again.
“Well, now they’re warned,” said Chelinn. “Onward, but be ready to retreat.”
“No sense in using Ak’koyr’s tactics, eh?”
Chelinn snorted. “Indeed. No treasure is worth dying for.”
They moved with caution, reaching the top of the stairs to find an empty room.
“Must be a hidden door, then,” said Lodrán, looking around.
“Not hidden. It’s in the ceiling.” Chelinn pointed up at a trap door near one corner of the ceiling. “He scuttled up a ladder and pulled it up behind him, I suppose. I could Lift you up there, but I couldn’t back you up.”
Lodrán looked at the walls. Like all chambers in Tirfa-Wold, the walls were rough-cut—plenty of knobs and nooks, and the ceiling was only ten feet high. He dropped his pack and crossbow and scuttled up the wall. A gentle press, and the door moved.
“It’s open,” Lodrán whispered. “I can’t say what’s waiting for us behind it, though.”
“Back away,” Chelinn whispered back, rising to float alongside him. Wind rushed into the room, gathered below, and slammed into the trapdoor with all the subtlety of the Cream of Ak’koyr. The trap door burst open, and Chelinn was up and through with Lodrán close behind.
“Empty again,” Chelinn muttered. “Well, except for the ladder.” He nodded toward the ladder, lying against one wall. “And another door.”
“Let’s lower that ladder,” Lodrán suggested. “If we have to leave in haste…” He shrugged.
Chelinn nodded, and Lodrán slipped the ladder through the rough hole where the trap door once stood. With their retreat made ready, Lodrán inspected the door. “No lock,” he whispered. “After you?”
Chelinn grinned and burst through. Only his armor saved him from being skewered on three spears, held by soldiers on the other side. One spear snapped, the others turned. The soldier with the broken spear drew a short sword. Another soldier faced Lodrán as he slipped in behind Chelinn. Lodrán threw a knife, but the Easterner caught it on his shield and sent it clattering to the floor. Lodrán drew his own short sword and took up another knife in his shield hand. A little clumsy, but much better than a spear.
The spearman hesitated. He had a slight advantage with the reach of his spear, but if Lodrán got inside he would be defenseless. To his right, one of his companions groaned and fell.
“We offer you quarter,” said Lodrán. “Lay down your weapons and go down the ladder.”
The spearman glanced at Chelinn, occupied with his remaining fellow, then threw his spear. It went low, opening a gash in Lodrán’s thigh; Lodrán yowled and the spearman pushed him down running for the ladder.
Chelinn’s strike tore the short sword from his opponent’s hand. “Leave your weapon and follow your friend,” he said, and the soldier scuttled away. He knelt next to Lodrán. “More painful than anything, I suspect.”
“And fish live in water.” Lodrán snarled.
“That they do.” Chelinn produced a small canister. “Rub some of this on it.”
Lodrán opened the canister and smeared the pleasant-smelling goop over the wound. He gasped at the sting. As he watched, the wound closed and scabbed over. The pain ebbed. “Better,” he said.
“And fish live in water,” Chelinn chuckled. “Look, another door. Sooner or later, I expect we’ll find the room that’s well-guarded. Can you walk?”
Lodrán tried his leg. “Not quickly.” He picked up the spear and used it as a walking stick, hobbling to the door. “A lock,” he said. “Looks simple enough.” He went to one knee, took out a pick, and attacked it. He felt it give—
The door flew open from the other side, jerking the pick out of Lodrán’s hand. He looked up into the face of a wild-eyed man, nearly as tall and a little thicker than Lodrán himself. His thin beard straggled past his bare chest, that sported strange symbols of many colors inked into his skin. An Eastern priest—
Their eyes locked for a moment, then the priest raised his hands and began a mighty curse in the Eastern tongue. He felt a wave of heat rush over him, and divine force begin to crush him. He flung what was in his hand as Chelinn bellowed a battle-cry.
