by Wilson Harp
Martel figured they could be there in five hours, but they would be exhausted, and he had no delusions that the way would be unhindered.
“Why did he start the ritual, Donal?” Martel asked the woodsman as they fell into the measured marching pace that all adventurers seemed to acquire.
“He has everything he needs now. He can perform the ritual and free Cathos.”
“But I thought he needed you and Calaran dead, or to have captured Lendin or the elf in the woods.”
Donal shook his head. “He doesn’t need them; he has the blood he needs to counter the magic in his own blood.”
Martel looked at Donal and blinked. “What does that mean?”
“He is the illegitimate son of King Patrus. So the blood that binds Cathos to his prison will be able to willingly free Cathos again. At least that’s what Calaran and the elves of Kol Lyter think.”
“Delacour must think so as well, or he would never have started this ritual,” Martel agreed.
Silence descended on the big men as they brought up the tail end of a stretched out band of adventurers seeking to prevent the release of a terrible necromancer from his imprisoned state. Martel had barely been old enough to strap on a sword when the threat of Cathos had been ended all of those years ago. The Council of Ravens, seven powerful wizards, had been the group that was responsible for his imprisonment, but there were others who were involved as well. King Grallus and his son, Prince Patrus. Lord Marshal Noem. There were a few others without grand titles who were there and were brought into the ritual as well. Martel actually hadn’t ever known about Donal and Calaran’s roles until just recently. But having them on this expedition was at least a little reassuring.
“Have you heard from Orias?” Donal said as they started heading into the lines of marshy reeds that would take them to the swamp itself.
“No, I am hoping he can extricate himself from the siege at Black Oak. He has to be able to see the pillar of dark magic. He will know what that means.”
Ermine and Mirari had reached the edge of the swamp. Ermine was bouncing on the balls of her feet like she did when she was anxious to get going, and Mirari was cutting away large sections of her dress. Horas and Baldric would reach them in a couple of minutes and that would give them a breather for a few seconds before Martel and Donal caught up.
“What do you expect we will face?” Martel asked.
“Have you been in these swamps before?”
“A few times, but not very often.”
“Lizardmen will be the most common foe, and Delacour has certainly roused them. I expect that there will be a good number of cultists in our way as well,” Donal said. “There is a hill ringed with trees that we will head toward. It overlooks the ruins. I’m hoping that Calaran catches up to us by then. He will know the way into the ancient city.”
The others were ready to continue into the swamp by the time Martel and Donal reached them. The oncoming winter had allowed much of the water to recede, making the travel much easier than Martel had feared.
Donal took the point position, leading them easily from one ridge or hillock to another without wasted backtracking or examination. Martel took the rear guard. He didn’t expect any attack from the back, but with Ermine injured, he was the most experienced warrior among the others. Strangely, Mirari moved more easily through the swamp than any save Donal. Even in her soft leather boots and cut up dress, she moved like a dancer around any tanglebranches and lightly stepped over any sunken holes.
Martel cursed himself when he was caught off-guard by the chattering hiss of lizardmen rising up from in front of him. Donal was already moving, sword like a serpent’s tongue, deadly as it flashed quicker than the eye could follow. Mirari stood over the body of one lizardman as her knife slashed at another who stood too close to her.
Martel drew his sword as he rushed toward Ermine. She was engaged with four lizardmen, and it was clear that her injuries and exhaustion had slowed her. The first lizardman went down beneath his blade, but an arrow sprouted from the next before he could reverse his grip and stab at it. He shifted to his right, picked a new target and felt his blade sink deep. Ermine dispatched the fourth lizardman at the same time, and the sounds of battle silenced as all of the party looked around.
Martel looked back to where the arrow he had seen must have originated. He was glad, but surprised, to see Lendin standing on a ridge about fifty yards away with an arrow nocked as he scanned the swamp.
“Lendin,” Horas shouted to his friend as he waved his axe. Baldric and the young man had dispatched around eight or nine of the lizardmen from what Martel could see. He was quickly becoming impressed with Horas’ instincts in battle.
The group waited and rested as Lendin hurried over to them.
“What happened, Lendin,” Donal asked his nephew.
“I just couldn’t do it,” Lendin answered. “I couldn’t watch you all go off and risk your lives while I stayed behind. Cassie asked me to stay, but I just couldn’t.”
“Women like a man who will do what he needs to, even if she is mad at you for doing so,” Mirari said to him. “Assuming you survive, I think Cassie will think of you quite fondly.”
“She had to throw in that ‘assuming you survive’ line, didn’t she?” Lendin asked Horas as he walked over to his friend.
“Don’t worry, Lendin. We’ll get you home alive.” Horas slapped his friend on his back.
Donal caught Martel’s eye and sighed.
“All right, let’s move on. I’d like to get to the ruins before noon. From there we still have to get into the ancient city, find the chamber of Kerin Kor, and stop the ritual,” the veteran woodsman said. He took point again as Martel took his position as the rear guard.
Ermine dropped back to speak with Martel after a few minutes of the march.
“What happened back there?” she asked quietly.
“What do you mean?”
“You seemed lost for a few seconds. If any of those creatures had focused on you first, you wouldn’t have had your sword cleared of leather before you were gutted.”
“I got distracted,” Martel admitted.
“What? The girl’s butt? It’s cute, but I’ve never seen a woman distract you like that before,” Ermine laughed at him.
“No, I was thinking about… Fine. I was watching her move, but I wasn’t staring at her butt. I was just amazed at how fluid her movements are.”
“Sure, I believe you. You do realize where we have seen someone move like that before, don’t you?”
Delacour. That’s who had moved so effortlessly. Martel shook his head.
“Do you think they were trained by the same people?”
Ermine shrugged. “Possible. But I would suspect that they were both simply trained as assassins.”
“Should we tell Donal? He seems to have taken her under his wing?”
“I think Donal can take care of himself. You just keep your eyes on the swamp and off of her rear.” Ermine cocked her head at Martel and hurried to catch up to some of the others.
Martel was embarrassed. He had been caught flat-footed, but not because he was distracted by a pretty girl. He was just admiring… a pretty girl and how she moved. He went back to watching the swamp closely.
The rest of the trek through the swamp went quickly. Donal led them around several large groups of lizardmen, and soon they saw the heavily wooded hill that he had described. The sun was still well short of noon as they approached the final stretch. If there was a likely place for an ambush, this would be it.
A sudden flash of fire appeared among the trees. A bolt of lightning followed and then all was still. Donal motioned the others to crouch in the high reeds that dotted the terrain, and he slipped up the side of the hill.
Martel drew his sword and heard the rest of the party ready their weapons as well. A few seconds later, Donal appeared near the top of the hill and waved them forward. Martel kept his sword out. The black pillar hadn’t grown as they traveled towa
rd it, but it was so close now he could feel its shadow. Being this close to the pillar unnerved him more than anything else he had experienced in the last day, including almost being burned alive in the inn last night.
When the party reached the top, they saw the remains of close to twenty lizardmen, including a couple of shamans, in the small clearing under the trees. The wizard Orias and his apprentice Medrick stood talking with Donal. Martel could not help but smile as he saw the wizard. He had hoped that Orias would lend his considerable magic to this effort.
“Looks like there was some company waiting for you,” Martel said as he sheathed his sword.
Orias motioned to the dead lizardmen with a dismissive wave. “Nothing of importance.”
The wizard pointed to the south of the hill and grimaced. “But at the ruins, that is something to consider.”
Martel and the others moved closer to the trees and looked out at the ruins. Hundreds of men, some helmeted in armor and others with shaved heads and red or black robes, stood in the ruins of an ancient temple. There were so many moving and milling about that Martel couldn’t get a good count at that distance.
“There must be fifteen, maybe twenty wizards down there,” Donal muttered, obviously trying to get a count as well.
“A few Padashite diviners as well,” Orias added.
“The diviners are the most dangerous opponents in that group,” Calaran said.
Everyone on the hill turned as one to look at the elven bard.
“When did you get here?” Donal asked.
“Just now,” Calaran answered still peering down at the ruins in the distance.
Martel looked around for the elf that Calaran was supposed to bring with him.
“Where is the other elf, Calaran?” Martel asked after scanning the hill, including looking up in the trees.
“He’s down there.” Calaran pointed to the mass of cultists. “I told him to be especially careful of the knives the diviners use; they are imbued with the evil spirits the diviners consult with and will kill even an elf with the slightest touch.”
Martel looked down at the assembled group in the distance and shook his head. That was a small army, on alert for any attack, and backed up by magic users. No one, not even the fabled wild elves, could survive going into a killing field like that.
“There he starts,” Mirari said. She pointed to the far end of the temple ruins. A man in a black robe suddenly just disappeared from sight.
“Three wizards in a few seconds,” muttered Donal.
“I don’t even see him,” Horas said.
Martel was having problems seeing as well. And then it happened. A man in a red robe was lifted straight into the air and out of sight.
“How is he doing that?” Martel asked as he looked at Calaran.
“He has a small loop on a rope. He is lowering it over their necks and pulling them up into the ceiling. With the dark pillar above them, the shadows would be deep in the ceiling. He grabs them by the throat, jerks them up, breaks their necks, stashes their bodies, and lowers the rope for another target.”
The others all looked at Calaran in disbelief.
“Looks like he is moving on to the diviners,” Calaran said as he pointed toward the ruins.
Martel turned and spotted three Reytrus diviners gathered by one of the temple pillars. A black image of a man dropped into their midst and darted to the side. All three of the diviners fell. Soon a ripple, like a sudden river of movement, ran through the crowded temple.
Men around the temple looked around in alarm as Martel imagined that the screams of the dying were erupting from around them. Soon, dozens of groups of men lay dead, and those that were on their feet had drawn their weapons and were searching back and forth looking for whatever was causing such a panic. One by one, small groups of men would collapse in a flurry of wild thrashing.
A few diviners were still alive and on their feet, but the elf had killed all of the other magic users. Where there had been hundreds of cultists just minutes before, now there were a few scattered groups, no more than a dozen men in each, circling back to back. The fear from them was easy to read even at a distance.
“It’s like watching an invisible army destroy its enemies,” Horas muttered under his breath.
Martel saw several of the others nod in agreement. Orias and Donal, though, prepared to head down the hill.
“We’re heading down into that?” Lendin asked.
“It will be a good twenty minutes before we get there. By then, the dying will be over,” Mirari said. She was bouncing on her feet a little. Martel was positive that she was looking forward to taking revenge against Delacour just as much as Baldric was. He hoped she didn’t forget that keeping Cathos trapped was the primary concern of the day.
Martel readjusted his pack, set his shield straps tighter and started down the hill after Donal, Orias, Mirari and Calaran. He heard Baldric and Ermine right behind him, and a few seconds later Horas and Lendin followed.
When they were a few minutes down the hill, Orias lifted his hand and a ball of flame raced toward one of the remaining groups of men. It exploded in their midst and all of the other cultists turned to see the party coming down from the hill. They broke apart and started running into the swamp.
Martel kept a close watch on the edges of the ruins. He hoped that the way was clear but did not trust that the cultists wouldn’t have an ambush ready for them. Soon the party had approached the temple, but Calaran led them along the side of the massive structure. A narrow path wound through the ruins, but no ambush came. The black column of cloud above them flashed with the unnatural purple lightning, but Donal and Calaran seemed to ignore it which helped keep everyone else calm.
They reached the back of the temple, and Calaran went straight over to a large opening that headed down at a steep angle. Perfectly fitted stones made up the floor, walls and ceiling of the tunnel.
“Dwarven work,” Baldric muttered.
“Indeed, Baldric. Dwarven work that is thousands of years old,” Calaran said.
Donal lit a torch and looked at the disturbed dust on the flooring.
“Hundreds of men,” he said. “This is the right place.”
Calaran nodded at him. “You take the rest to the chamber; we will meet you there.”
The elven bard turned to Baldric. “Come, Baldric. My fellow elf and I need a dwarven guide through this city. There is a powerful magical item that he can sense, and we could use your expertise in helping us find it. We will meet up with the others when we have acquired it.”
Baldric shrugged. Martel knew he didn’t trust elves or like the idea of splitting up in a strange place.
“Lead on,” the dwarf said at last. The elves and Baldric went down the long ramp and headed down the right hand tunnel.
Donal held a map in his hand as Mirari held the torch he had lit.
“Our path is to the left. Let’s move,” he said.
Martel pulled his sword and followed the woodsman into the underground city of Kol Edroth.
The Scepter of Alamalis
Baldric sniffed at the air of the tunnel. Smelled good to him. Solid stone work, hundreds if not thousands of years old, tucked neatly into a leveled off and secure tunnel system. The dwarf looked uncomfortably at the two elves following him and nodded.
“This way is secure,” he said to Calaran. “Are you sure he can find it?”
“He has a name, you know,” Calaran said as he started forward down the corridor.
“Yeah? What is it?”
“Ask him yourself.”
Baldric rolled his eyes at the elven bard’s joke. Calaran had said that the elf only spoke ancient Elvish, and Baldric was hesitant to even look the young woodland killer in the eye. Less than an hour before, over two hundred cultists had died on the edge of the two long knives that the black leather clad elf carried at his waist. The horrifying thing wasn’t that it seemed physically effortless but that it seemed emotionally effortless. Dwarves generally
show a lot of emotion in battle. Granted, the idea of remorse for your fallen enemy was ludicrous no matter how many times he heard humans lament about it. But there were anger, fear, excitement, terror and thrills to be found in combat. The elf looked like he had just gathered a couple of bushels of apples for all of the emotion he had.
Baldric was uncomfortable around elves in any situation, most dwarves were, but Calaran set his skin to itching more than most. Probably because Calaran knew the Dwarvish language fairly well and Baldric didn’t feel comfortable muttering when he knew he could be understood. As much as Calaran bugged him, though, it was nothing compared to being looked at by the other elf. Coal black eyes set like sharp stones in his too perfect face seemed to look right through the first few layers of whatever you were wearing. He seemed to be looking for the points on your body where his knives could cause the most pain.
“Are you sure the others can find the chamber that the cult is at?” Baldric asked.
“Yes, I’m sure,” Calaran said. “I gave them the map. They will be able to find it with no problem. Donal will lead them and they should be there before we arrive.”
“If they have the map, how are we going to find it?” Baldric sputtered.
“That’s why I asked for you, Baldric. Dwarves can find any place underground, can’t they?”
Baldric felt the need to mutter again. It was one thing to tell gullible humans about the prowess of your race. He himself had told stories of how dwarves could smell gold and iron underground, of how they could live on hard bread and beer for months on end, and how they could speak to the stones to find their way underground. All of it designed to intimidate humans and all patently untrue. He did, however, want to try the hard bread and beer diet one day.
“I assume then that you memorized the map before you gave it to Donal?” Baldric asked.
