by AC Cobble
“Your bow,” requested Rew, and when she handed it to him, he added, “and that last arrow.”
He nocked it and pulled the arrow back to his cheek and then released it, sending the shaft streaking a pace above the entrance to the crypt. There was a startled squawk, and the small imp that Calb had been using as a familiar fell off the wall where it’d been lurking, covered by a glamour.
“I wonder if he felt that?” Rew said, handing the bow back to Zaine, who looked at it askance as she no longer had any arrows. Rew told the others, “When Calb gets here, he’s going to come with a lot of soldiers at his back. We’ve got to draw him inside then fight our way through those doors. After we’re outside, we’ve got to close the doors on him. The sacrifice is locking Calb inside of this place. Only when those doors are sealed can we have Cinda release her binding on all of the corpses.”
“King’s Sake, Rew,” muttered Anne.
He grinned at her and adjusted his grip on his longsword.
“Is Prince Calb much of a fighter?” wondered the nameless woman, peering at the doorway, waiting restlessly.
“He’s not,” assured Rew, “but I imagine his elite guard is reasonably skilled.”
“Of course.”
“Then there are the imps.”
The nameless woman scowled at him.
“He won’t be able to summon more of them once inside the crypt. I don’t think he’ll be able to issue new commands, either, but he likely can instruct them outside and then send them in.”
“Why come himself, then?” demanded Zaine. “Did we just trap ourselves inside of here?”
Rew shook his head. “Remember, all he knows of Cinda is that Heindaw believes she can overthrow the king. He has no idea what she’s capable of. For all he knows, we will continue marching these things into his city at her direction. He has no idea we’re also in danger from the corpses. He’s got to come himself and finish it quickly.”
“I can’t hold much longer,” grunted Ambrose. “A minute, maybe less.”
“When this begins, watch out for the undead,” warned Rew. “They won’t like us any more than they do Calb’s men.”
“I’m not sure if you need me to tell you this, Rew,” complained Anne, “but this is the worst plan you’ve ever had.”
“Ready…”
Outside of the crypt, they heard the angry sounds of fighting and the bestial roars of summoned imps tearing their way through ranks of the undead.
“Ah, you know,” said Rew, rubbing his hand rapidly on top of his head, “I hadn’t really considered what might happen if those imps are killed and then get animated. That one in the courtyard was a terror. Maybe we should just… wound them.”
He thought he could hear Anne rolling her eyes.
The light from outside the crypt was blocked by a giant, hulking creature that rose twice Rew’s height and stretched four times his width. It had to duck and turn to wedge itself inside of the doorway to the crypt, but it did so without pause. All around it, the undead swarmed, hacking and stabbing with their crude weapons.
This imp, though, was covered in glimmering, gold-colored scales. They reflected the light of the torches in the crypt and made the thing seem as if it were on fire. On its head, two massive horns curved back behind it, twisting into sharp points. Its hands were capped with heavy claws, its feet with talons like a bird, and on its heels a single spike which looked as stout as a ballistae bolt.
The attacks by the undead bounced off its scales harmlessly, and the imp ignored them except to casually brush a handful of undead aside as it rose to its full height. The skeletons it struck went flying across the room as if they’d been launched by a trebuchet and burst against the stone wall in a shower of bone fragments.
“R-ranger…” stammered Zaine.
“Leave that to me. The rest of you… just try to stay alive.” He stepped around Ambrose and put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Well done.”
Then, he ran toward the copper altar, jumped up on it, and launched himself toward the giant imp.
Chapter Five
The creature looked as it’d been fashioned from metal. It was like a living statue, but it moved as if it was fashioned of lightning. As Rew soared though the dim air of the crypt’s antechamber, his longsword raised above his head to strike, the imp swept an arm at him.
It caught the ranger dead center, the width of the imp’s forearm the length of his torso. Rew went flying back, and only a wrenching twist in the air allowed him to land feet first instead of on his head. He collapsed into a roll, tumbling into the skeletal remains of several of the undead, their bones splitting and clattering around him like lawn bowling pins.
It hurt a great deal, but Rew sprang to his feet and drew a hesitant breath, hoping his ribs weren’t broken. He’d underestimated the speed of the imp, and if he did it again, he wouldn’t survive.
Before any of the undead standing around him had time to start toward him, the giant imp was on him again, and Rew darted to the side, narrowly avoiding a massive clawed hand that slapped down on the stone right where he’d been standing.
He flicked his longsword at it as he ran away, and the tip of the steel parted the imp’s sturdy, scaly hide. The creature bellowed, the sound of its cry ricocheting around the stone room, threatening to deafen them all. The enchanted steel of Rew’s blade had done what the lesser weapons of the undead could not.
The imp’s cry rolled around the room and down the passages that led deeper into the crypt before echoing back, sounding worse than it had the first time. Rew wondered if the creature had ever been wounded before. He spun his longsword, preparing to charge in again while the imp was still in shock over the injury, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of movement and ducked.
A man, clad in tight-fitting leather armor, went soaring over Rew’s head, a short spear in his hands thrusting right where Rew had been standing. The man landed lightly and spun, prepared to come at Rew again, but one of the undead shambled up behind him and buried a hatchet in the back of the man’s head. The man had a thick thatch of hair standing up in a narrow shock with crawling blue tattoos inscribed on the sides of his head.
He looked like Mistress Clae. King’s Sake, had Calb hired the entire clan? Did they know Rew had thrown one of their own off a ledge to fall ten stories where she splattered like a rotten apple below?
Another of the spear-wielders darted in, and Rew turned to face him. Then, he ducked and was nearly knocked over by the wind of the imp’s giant arm passing overhead. The spearman wasn’t as quick and was blasted away and out of sight.
So far, none of the foreigners were faring much better than Mistress Clae had, though Rew had to credit their bravery and willingness to fight through the horde of undead and attack him so close to the massive, golden-scaled imp. Calb must have been paying them a fortune.
The first warrior, a hatchet still embedded in the back of its skull, rose tottering to its feet. Its eyes glowed with ethereal green, and its teeth clacked as the animated warrior snapped its jaws shut. Perhaps bravery wasn’t the right word.
More of the spearmen were pouring into the room and instantly becoming embroiled with a surge of undead trekking up from the bowels of the crypt. Blood and bones flew, and in the center of it, the huge, golden-scaled imp spun in confusion, looking for Rew. The ranger, for his part, attempted to duck around behind it, keeping from the horrible creature’s view and out of the way as men and undead fought ferociously around him.
The nameless woman darted in, swinging a vicious strike at the back of the imp’s leg, trying to hobble it. Her scimitar carved into the imp’s flesh, but the tough scales prevented the blow from doing more than irritating the creature.
“How…”
“Stay back!” shouted Rew. Then, he lunged in and thrust upward, stabbing his enchanted longsword shallowly into the imp’s thigh.
If its first cry had been terrific, then Rew didn’t have words for the onslaught of sound that bur
st from the imp now. He wondered if outside the stone chamber of the crypt, the entire palace would be shaken down by the incredible roar.
Rew was deafened by it and didn’t hear a man approach him from behind. He didn’t sense the man at all until the sharp point of a spear plunged into his shoulder. His right hand twitched as the spear pierced his skin near where he’d dislocated his arm. He dropped his longsword and fell to his knees.
His hearing gradually returning, Rew heard a man laugh. “That was easier than I’d expected.”
Rew turned and looked back to see Prince Calb standing there, raising one of his men’s spears, preparing for a killing thrust. Spinning on his knee, Rew kicked out with his other leg, connecting with the prince’s knee, and sweeping Calb’s feet out from under him. The prince yelped in surprise and tumbled down beside the ranger.
Rew snatched the spear from his brother’s hands and slammed the butt of it into Calb’s stomach. He used the weapon to push himself to his feet. He spun the shaft and bashed an approaching skeleton over the head with it as well then tossed the spear aside and stooped to collect his longsword.
Calb spluttered and gasped on the floor behind him. Inside of the copper-lined crypt, the spellcaster wouldn’t be able to use his magic. Only necromancy, borrowing from the power entombed within the space, would work, but King’s Sake, Calb’s attempt with the spear had nearly ended it.
Staggering away, Rew caught Zaine’s eye and pointed toward the exit with his longsword. Then, he scrambled away as the massive imp finally found him in the confusion and came rushing closer, crushing undead beneath its clawed feet with each step. Rew gave up any pretense of grace or professionalism and ran, scampering around the edge of the room like a frightened child.
He shouted toward Ambrose, “The lights, can you put out the torches? Give us that, and then it’s almost over.”
The necromancer, cowering beside Anne and Cinda, nodded curtly and closed his eyes. The light of the torches flickered out, the living flame drawn into a spectral, white-green funeral fire that burned atop the copper altar and then that went out as well, casting the room into darkness, only the light from the entrance illuminating the battle between Calb’s men, the undead, Rew’s party, and the huge, hulking imp that dominated it all.
Unable to wield his longword in his right hand, Rew turned and darted back toward the imp, hoping to the Blessed Mother what he’d heard was true and imps couldn’t see well in the dark. He stabbed his longsword down with his left hand, impaling the imp’s foot.
It howled at him, and Rew ran, pelting toward the exit, smashing through undead and spearman alike. He shouldered into a smaller, softer form and grabbed it, guessing correctly it was Zaine. He hauled the thief to the doorway and flung her through, glancing around wildly to see who else made it.
Raif lumbered out of the darkness a breath after Rew, Cinda clutched in his arms, Anne grasping the back of his steel backplate. The nameless woman was already outside, facing off against several dozen of Prince Calb’s men, who looked as if they had no idea what was going on, so they were making the assumption that anything that moved was an enemy. Several skeletons teetered about as well, lurching toward Calb’s men who surrounded them and hacked at them relentlessly.
“Ambrose?” called Rew.
Anne gestured behind them, back inside the crypt.
“King’s Sake, we don’t have time for this,” muttered Rew.
He turned and went back in.
The imp, as blind as anyone, laid about in frustrated anger, smashing and killing anything it could reach. The men, while impressively loyal to Prince Calb, had evidently decided enough was enough, and were fighting and forcing their way toward the exit. The undead, seeing quite well in the darkness, had no trouble chopping them down.
Rew, with a ranger’s senses, could not see, but he could feel. He darted amongst the fighting men and the undead, staying well clear of the rampaging imp. He headed toward where he’d last seen Ambrose and was startled when the prone form he thought was the necromancer lashed out with a foot, kicking him squarely in the groin.
Crippling pain pulsing from between his legs, Rew slumped over. The form rose, raising a femur it must have stolen off one of the undead. Prince Calb. The prince limped forward and began raining blows with the bone club down on Rew, who in the darkness and without the use of his right arm, was having a terrifically difficult time defending himself.
One strike caught him on his injured shoulder, freezing him with pain. The next blow struck his head, splitting his scalp and sending a stream of blood trickling down his face. The next swing missed, and Calb stumbled off balance on his injured knee. Fighting the pain from the stab wound in his shoulder and the throbbing agony in his head, Rew grasped the prince’s tunic and yanked him down to the floor.
They fought, rolling and kicking. Rew smashed his forehead on Calb’s nose, shattering it. Calb lunged as if to bite Rew, and the ranger gripped his brother’s head and conked it against the stone floor. The prince, apparently feeling the blood on Rew’s shoulder and remembering what it was from, battered his fist like a hammer, sending spasms of pain through Rew’s entire right side. Rew wrapped his left hand about his brother’s throat, but his palm was slick with blood, and as they flailed on the floor, he lost his grip.
The undead lurched after them, stabbing and slashing, catching them with glancing cuts, unable to land one of their clumsy blows with accuracy because the two men fought and thrashed so violently.
Then, Calb dug a finger into the spear wound on Rew’s back and tore at the injured flesh like a beast. Ripples of pain from the damage coursed through the ranger, and he arched his back and twisted madly, trying to wriggle away from his brother.
Calb staggered to his feet and slammed one foot down on Rew’s longsword, pinning it to the ground. He stomped on Rew’s injured shoulder with his other boot. Rew’s breath caught, and he quaked with pain. In the dim light from the doorway, the prince raised his bone club, prepared to bring it down in a final blow on top of Rew’s skull.
“Father always wanted you to be a part of this, Rew,” snarled the prince, his giant, golden imp suddenly looming behind him, brushing half a dozen undead away from them, protecting its master. Calb glanced over his shoulder then turned back, the dim light in the room barely illuminating his predatory smile. “He wanted you to accept the mantle instead of Heindaw. It was your right, as the eldest, but ever since you were a child, you turned your back on what you were, what you could be. We never understood. He never understood. I think he wanted to hate you for it, Rew, but Vaisius saw something in you. I didn’t know what. I still don’t. Was it a plot for us to weaken each other and then you’d strike? The old man would appreciate that. Were you in the Investiture all along, hiding and biding your time out in the wilderness? Whatever your plan, it failed.”
“I wanted nothing to do with the family, and I still don’t. This is about stopping you, not being one of you,” growled Rew, lying still beneath his brother.
Calb had slowed, confident with his imp at his back. He slapped the femur in his hand then raised it above his head. “I’m glad I’m the one who gets to do this. I’m glad it’s your heart that will be the first to stop beating. I can’t wait to walk out of here and announce that it was I, Calb, who killed the first son of Vaisius Morden. I’m glad it’s like this—personal—instead of by one of my imps. Goodbye, Rew.”
Fighting an ocean of agony, Rew lurched off his back and swung as hard as he could, catching Calb on the side of the knee with a balled fist. Bone cracked, and Calb shrieked. He fell beside Rew.
“Try walking out of here now, Bastard.”
Rew staggered to his feet, longsword in hand, and looked up at the imp looming above him. It had a huge fist raised to smite him, but he was standing atop its master. If it struck him, it would injure Calb as well.
Rew kicked Calb’s broken leg for good measure then sprinted beneath the imp’s wide legs.
The gargantuan cre
ature wailed and tried to bend down to grab him, but it had expected him to run the other way, and he was a step too fast for it. He darted out of the shaft of light bleeding in from the doorway, dodging between undead that were a thinner crowd now, thanks to the imp. Then, he almost tripped over Ambrose.
“You came back?” whispered the necromancer as Rew tucked his longsword beneath his bad arm and reached down to grasp the back of the man’s crimson robes.
Rew started dragging the necromancer toward the door, shushing him as the imp spun, unable to see them in the dark with its poor eyesight, but it could hear them. Undead began to shuffle after them as well, and Rew hurried.
“You should have left me,” lamented Ambrose. “Don’t you understand, you fool? You should have left me. I’ve been seen in Valchon’s court and now Calb’s. If I walk out of here with you, the king will know. He’ll take me. Don’t you understand what he can do? Death is not the end, Ranger.”
“Shut up!”
“Don’t you understand?”
“I do,” growled Rew, steering the man around a pack of slow-moving undead. “I do, which is why I don’t plan to die in here.”
“Leave me,” snarled Ambrose, suddenly finding some energy and beginning to struggle to get himself free of the ranger’s grip.
Rew smacked him and then kept dragging the hapless man to the door.
Half a dozen steps from the opening, the nameless woman and Raif appeared, and the big fighter sent the undead scattering. Rew made it to the doorway of the crypt and stumbled, cursing. For the first time, he was looking closely at the incredible copper doors. They opened inside. They had no handles. There was no way to pull them shut.
“Oh no,” hissed the nameless woman, seeing Rew’s look. “I… Those have to be shut. I can’t seal the crypt unless they’re shut. I forgot—”
“Someone has to shut it from the inside,” said Rew, his spirits falling.
“Me,” said Raif, swinging his greatsword and crashing it through a pair of undead who shambled out from the crypt. “I’ll do it.”
