Barely had he done so than the scream had arisen from within.
It had taken all his will not to go rushing inside. Even though Daryus had immediately recognized the voice as male—and probably one of the pitborn—that had not meant that Shiera might not also be in danger. Yet, even now, even with what should have been a safe enough passage of time, Daryus did not enter. He knew he had to avoid confronting the witch directly. A sword was no match against the skilled use of magic—not directly at least. Daryus could name more than half a dozen old comrades who had learned that the hard way.
He started around the right side of the structure, seeking some secondary entrance. A building of this size had to have another way in, even if hidden. Shiera might be the expert, but Daryus had infiltrated his share of ruins and mysterious buildings himself and had picked up a few clues as to what to watch for.
Moving beside the structure, he looked for the minute but telltale signs of a hidden entrance, running his fingers along the wall, seeking even the slightest edge that should not have been there.
The hair on the back of his neck suddenly stiffened. He quickly looked behind him, certain that he was no longer alone.
There was nothing. Yet, Daryus did not consider himself someone to imagine things. He stepped away from the wall just long enough to reassure himself that there was no one else around, not even treacherous Toy, then returned to his efforts.
Only a few breaths later, he found what he was seeking. Daryus ran his fingernail along half the edge just to make certain he was correct. Sure enough, he had found another way inside.
Of course, he still had to figure out how to open it.
He had no sword, that having been taken by Raffan. Nor did he have the dagger he generally wore on his belt. What he did have, however, was a smaller, slimmer, still deadly blade he kept hidden at all times in the side of his left boot.
Drawing the stiletto, Daryus used the point to identify the sides of the hidden doorway. That done, he made an estimate of where the creators would have decided it most useful to place the opening mechanism. He knew that by now a Pathfinder like Shiera would probably not only have located it, but already entered, yet still he felt some satisfaction when he finally opened the way.
Slipping into the ancient edifice, Daryus moved through a darkened chamber. Despite his best efforts, he could make out nothing beyond arm’s reach. He was forced to reach out with the dagger, using the tip to help him locate one wall and then use that wall to guide him to the end.
At first, he found only another wall, but fortunately after a short search, he located a long latch. With gratitude to the builder who had finally decided to give him a normal door, Daryus cautiously opened the way.
A soft, blue glow greeted him, originating from a series of small stones set into the walls every yard or so. Silently stepping out, Daryus found himself in a long corridor decorated by a series of macabre, full-length portraits of mummified people in dark robes. Some had improbable wings, but otherwise they were all of a similar kind.
Despite the unsettling nature of the paintings, even Daryus had to admit the artist had been highly skilled. He—or perhaps they, considering how many individual images there were—had added so much detail that Daryus could almost swear that if he touched the cheek of the nearest one, he would feel the dry flesh.
Returning his focus to Shiera and Grigor, Daryus tried to determine in which direction to proceed. After a short consideration, he chose the left, since it would lead him closer to the main entrance.
The figures continued to line the wall all the way, even when Daryus at last reached a new corridor. A few of the newer figures carried weapons, some of which made Daryus envious. His tiny dagger would not do against Grigor.
Voices echoed from ahead.
Planting himself against the wall, Daryus tried to peer beyond the limited illumination. He heard Shiera’s voice, then that of a male who had to be the witch. The speakers were far enough away that Daryus dared to step away from the wall and head toward them.
A creak behind him made every muscle tense. Daryus whirled, ready to use the dagger to its best potential.
The corridor was empty.
Holding his breath, Daryus listened. The only thing he heard was the distant voices. He started to lower the blade—
Another creak echoed from somewhere close behind him.
Brandishing his weapon, Daryus took a few steps toward where he believed the creaking had arisen. Yet, the only thing he found was more of the painted images.
Daryus approached the nearest and tapped it twice with the dagger, reassuring himself that it was indeed merely paint on stone. Still ill at ease, he slowly turned back toward Shiera.
A scream erupted from that direction, so loud it shook Daryus’s eardrums despite the distance.
Shiera.
He started running.
* * *
Despite the realization that she had led Grigor exactly where he wanted to go, Shiera hadn’t given up just yet. If she could lead him around long enough for him to grow inattentive or call for a rest, then she stood a chance of finding a way to escape through one of the two secret passages she had already noted nearby.
“I think this corridor leads where we want to go,” she had remarked.
“Get on with it,” had been Grigor’s only reply.
Shiera might have said more, but as she had entered that next corridor, she had paused in awe at what the builders of Uhl-Adanar had wrought. Lining both walls were intricate paintings of robed figures. She realized a moment later these were clearly all priests who had died at some point previous to these works. Every figure looked as if it had been mummified—
She halted, recalling what had happened at the fountain. Despite the briefness of that incident, Shiera could still very well picture the gaunt, almost fleshless face.
A face much akin to those she now saw.
“What is this?” Grigor muttered impatiently. “Some honoring of dead priests?”
“It … appears so.” Shiera had some other ideas.
A creaking sound made her turn, only to find no source. Shiera frowned, hoping she had not just missed some slow-acting trap.
Grigor used his staff to shove her forward. “The tomb.”
“Yes … this way.”
“It had better be. And close at that.”
Shiera said nothing as she strode farther down the corridor. As the stones in the walls lit, she found one more painting after another, each unique and yet disturbingly similar. They were all definitely of individual people. In addition, even though they clearly looked to be priests, many held weapons, including swords, lances, and maces.
More intriguing yet, some had wings. Shiera tried to understand what that meant. Perhaps these had been very senior or very respected priests. Perhaps they had been part demon, the taint of the Abyss seeping through as a precursor to the madness to come. Or—
There was another, much more audible creak. She paused again. Despite her circumstances, she dared ask, “Did you just hear something?”
“The settling of an ancient place.” Grigor brought the point of the staff to her throat. “I’m growing impatient. If you—”
To their side, the pitborn let out a strange, grunting sound. As one, Shiera and the witch looked to see why.
Blood dripped out of the pitborn’s mouth as he gaped at them. More spilled from the wound in the middle of his chest, the hole imperfectly sealed by a long lance ending in a barbed point.
Behind him, the mummified figure holding the lance stepped out of the wall and into the corridor behind his victim.
Shiera screamed and reached for her crossbow, only to recall that both it and her sword still lay on the other side of the temple-city.
The monstrous priest easily held up the impaled pitborn. Empty eye sockets turning Shiera’s way, it twisted the lance slightly. There was a clicking sound and the barbs slipped inside the lance’s head.
With ease, the undead shook
the quivering form of the pitborn off the weapon. The dying demonspawn collapsed on the floor. He twitched once, then lay still.
Shiera’s mind raced. The nearest weapon was the sword dropped by the dead pitborn … which unfortunately meant coming within range of the mummy’s lance.
“I don’t have time for you,” Grigor Dolch commented bluntly. “Begone.”
Grigor pointed the staff at the mummified priest. He twisted his wrist, turning the staff.
A fireball struck the undead in the midsection, blasting it to ashes.
“That’s that, then.” With some satisfaction, Grigor lowered the staff.
“I don’t think so,” muttered Shiera as she looked around.
Six more of the paintings had begun separating themselves from the walls, becoming desiccated priests wielding a variety of weapons.
Even as Grigor raised his staff again, Shiera lunged forward to retrieve the pitborn’s sword. However, as she grabbed for the heavy blade, the clawed hand of a priest grabbed her arm. She kicked at its nearly fleshless knee, trying to knock it off balance, but the mummy was surprisingly solid.
Struggling, Shiera reached the sword. Despite the awkward angle, she managed to turn the blade around and cut the dry hand from the arm. To her relief, the hand ceased moving. Shiera knocked the appendage away, then rose up to her knees. With all the force she could muster, she jammed the point of the sword into the skull.
The priest stilled. Unfortunately, as she stood, she saw there were now as many as ten undead figures crawling out of the walls.
Grigor had not remained still while this happened. He used the spell that had destroyed the first undead on several more. However, this time, the fiery attack faltered abruptly, leaving the mummies virtually untouched.
Whatever spell animates them is also designed to adapt to magical attacks! Shiera realized. All Grigor did was waste precious time and energy that neither had.
“Don’t use the same spell!” Shiera called to him.
“Yes, I’m quite aware of that now, thank you!” Grigor muttered something under his breath and twisted a ring.
A small bolt of lightning struck his target. The ghoulish figure attempted to continue toward the witch, but the magical current was so intense the dry flesh and bone of the priest burned to ash in seconds. The remaining fragments collapsed in a heap.
But in that short time, the other undead had nearly closed on the pair. Grigor used the staff as a physical weapon now, knocking off the head of one creature and then thrusting the staff through the chest of another.
Yet still that was not enough. Shiera brought the sword up in an attempt to fend off another undead, all too aware that she could not wield the heavy blade sufficiently to defend herself for very long—
“Best give me that one.”
Shiera spun to find herself staring at Daryus.
“That one’s more suited for me,” he rumbled, extending a hand. “Let me try to get you something better.”
Not knowing what else to do, Shiera handed over the sword. With that, Daryus charged into the fray. He brought the great sword around, cutting through a mummy’s throat so deeply that the head fell backward. Not stopping there, Daryus grabbed the lance the creature held and pulled it forward, chopping both hands off the lance.
He shook the severed appendages off the weapon, then tossed it back to Shiera. “Try this!”
She seized up the lance and saw immediately that it was akin to the one that had slain the pitborn, albeit smaller. Another of the undead closed on her just as she gripped the weapon, and without hesitation, she thrust the head into the gaping mouth of the mummy, then manipulated the lance as she had seen the first fiend do.
The barbs burst out, ripping apart the face. Shiera tugged hard, pulling free the skull.
Meanwhile, Daryus lunged under one rusty but still deadly blade, then ripped through the dry flesh and moldering cloth. He seized the damaged undead and hurled it at one of its comrades. As both mummies sought to untangle from one another, he speared both heads on the end of the sword.
Without warning, the rest of the mummies began retreating. Faces emotionless, they stepped backward without error to their original locations. Shiera spun in a circle, certain this was some trick.
Only then did she see Grigor uttering some incantation as he held the staff before him. The witch slowly walked toward the receding fiends, his muttering increasing in intensity with each passing second.
Yet, as Shiera watched, she wondered at this astounding power the witch suddenly wielded. She could not believe that after what had happened Grigor could so readily dismiss the threat … but here he was, doing just that.
One by one, the undead stepped up into their slots. As they did, their bodies reverted to flat designs of paint.
Grigor turned the staff toward the last. He now all but shouted the incantation.
Catching her breath, Shiera turned to Daryus.
Sword raised, Daryus charged the witch from his blind side.
But although Daryus moved in silence, somehow Grigor turned at just the right moment and gestured at his new attacker.
Daryus bounced back as if just having collided with a wall. The fighter landed in a heap, sword slipping from his hand. Despite the harshness of the strange collision, Daryus was back on his feet in the blink of an eye.
Yet not quickly enough. Looking more akin to one of the undead than anything living, the witch turned the staff vertical.
With a pained grunt, Daryus dropped down on one knee. A faint sphere formed around him. He tried to rise, but it was as if he were momentarily frozen in place.
Shiera did not wait. Bracing the lance, she went for the witch.
Grigor turned and expertly brushed aside her weapon, then brought up the staff and caught her in the throat.
Choking, Shiera dropped the lance.
Grigor returned his attention to Daryus. Striding over to the frozen crusader, the witch struck him hard on the jaw.
With a groan, Daryus fell to all fours. Grigor took the staff and touched it to Daryus’s neck. There was a shimmer, followed by a groan from Daryus.
“I have placed a ward upon you. Do as I say and all will go well. Disobey, and your fate will be far worse than what you’re both currently suffering.” He looked to Shiera. “Stand up, Pathfinder.”
She managed to obey.
“We are close,” Grigor announced to both of them. “My congratulations on that, Pathfinder. You’re earning your life.” To Daryus, he added, “As for you, my friend, I venture to say that damnable Toy is nearby, isn’t he?”“
“I’ve … no idea where … he is,” Daryus rasped. “Hopefully about to rip out your throat.”
Grigor frowned. “You are strong. Small wonder Toy thought you might be sufficient. No matter. He can’t stop me at this point, even if he had both of you at his command. We are within reach of the tomb. You can earn your life by helping with any more physical requirements that might arise. Do so, and I’ll let you two go as soon as I’ve got what I want.”
Grigor gestured, and Shiera watched as Daryus slowly rose to his feet.
“I’ll need a sword at least,” the mercenary said.
“Yes, that is fair. Take that one you wanted to cleave me with.”
Doing as commanded, Daryus gripped the weapon and waited.
“Now, let us conclude this, Pathfinder.”
Shiera had no choice but to take the lead again. However, as she passed Daryus, she managed a glance his way. Not at all to her surprise, he was already looking her direction. His gaze reassured her, even under the circumstances.
Then, once more in front of the witch, Shiera head down the corridor. In the process, she could not help eyeing the painted figures she passed, those of more and more cadaverous priests …
Could not help eyeing them and wondering if Grigor had actually so easily cast them back.
* * *
Daryus watched as Shiera and the witch moved past him. He had seen eno
ugh to know that Grigor did have significant power. However, much of his strength, including what he used to keep both of his companions captive, actually seemed to reside in the staff. Given the opportunity, Daryus swore he would rip it from Grigor’s grip and snap it in two.
For the moment, however, he had to accede to Grigor’s commands. That actually suited Daryus for the time being. Grigor needed both of them, and so long as that was the case, the pair would be all right. Daryus would use every second to analyze the witch’s other weaknesses and how to exploit them.
He would also watch for Toy. The familiar had to be very near. Toy and Raffan. Somehow, he felt each and every one of them had a part to play in how this game finished out.
And most of all, Daryus could not help thinking there might still be one more player in this game. The most powerful player of all …
25
TOY
Although Grigor spoke often about the tomb itself, Shiera was well aware that what he truly wanted was a single item, something she no longer thought of as Tzadn’s Eye, but rather its other name—Reaper’s Eye. The events that had played out had made that second meaning of the ancient script seem more appropriate.
Grigor clearly expected the artifact would be found at the center of the tomb, a notion with which Shiera had to agree. Beyond that, she did not know what to expect, although clearly Grigor had more ideas concerning that than she did. She expected either a ceremonial tomb or, if a real one, the resting place of some ancient ruler or high priest of the same name, transformed by time and tradition into a supposed god.
Shiera almost smiled. Even though she and Daryus were prisoners of a mad spellcaster, she couldn’t help thinking like a Pathfinder. Everything she did was in some manner bound to her chosen path in life.
And so, despite her predicament, Shiera had to admit she was growing more and more excited at the prospect of locating the tomb.
She paused. Instinct made her turn to one of the paintings to her right.
“What is it?” the witch demanded. “Another unwanted guest?”
Pathfinder Tales--Reaper's Eye Page 23
