Two hours ago he had struggled to manage the alien attachment tied to his amputated stump. Now he wielded a pair of swords with the artistry of a master, both his arms—one of warm flesh, the other of cold metal—acting in perfect unison.
It had taken Corin almost an hour just to achieve a level of basic proficiency with his new limb. Since that time his skill had progressed in phenomenal leaps and bounds. Further evidence of Fendel’s talent as both an inventor and a spellcaster. In one short evening the gnome’s creation had allowed Corin’s ability as a warrior to far surpass the level it had taken him years to achieve on his own. The fury of the dual weapons magnified his assaults exponentially, making him a match for any warrior on the Dragon Coast—possibly even the mighty orog Graal.
Corin was so intent on his exercises that he hadn’t even heard Fendel return. He reacted to the unexpected sound of the gnome’s greeting behind him by spinning around and dropping into a defensive fighting crouch, the right sword poised to launch a quick thrust, the left ready to deflect an incoming blade. He relaxed when he realized it was only his host.
“I see you’ve gotten the hang of your new arm,” Fendel said, a hint of pride in his voice as he laughed at his own bad pun. “And I see you found yourself another weapon, too.”
“I noticed it on one of the benches. I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“Of course not, of course not. I used to carry that blade by my side whenever I went out on a job,” the gnome said wistfully. “It’s got some minor magic forged into its design. It glows whenever an enemy’s nearby.”
Corin flipped the sword in the air and caught it by the blade, offering the hilt to Fendel. “I was just practicing. You can have it back.”
The gnome shook his head. “No, it’s probably better if you keep it. It’ll be far more useful in your hand than in my clumsy grasp. I’m not much good with a blade, to be honest.”
A curt nod of acknowledgment was Corin’s only reply. This was not the time for gushing speeches of thanks or rambling monologues of gratitude, though Fendel deserved both in great measure—for the sword, for the arm, for everything. Words could come later; right now only actions mattered. Corin was hungry for battle. His warrior’s mind was focused solely on the task at hand: rescuing Lhasha at any cost and mercilessly hewing down any who would stand in his way.
“I’ve got a few things together already,” the gnome explained, seeming to completely understand Corin’s understated reaction. “Come into the back, and I’ll show you.”
They passed through the rear door of the large workroom and into the small, cluttered storeroom built onto the back of Fendel’s workshop home. Corin wasn’t surprised to see a small workbench in the center of the room, covered with a variety of items.
“I think I’ve got everything we might need,” the gnome said by way of explanation. “Just a few last minute items to load up, and we’re off.”
Gods, Corin thought, surveying the array of equipment and items covering nearly every square inch of the table, we’ll need an army to carry everything! But he knew Fendel was full of surprises, so he kept his reservations to himself.
“Rope,” the gnome said. “Fifty feet. You can never have too much rope.” He stuffed the coil of thickly braided hemp into a small bag on the table.
Corin suspected he was checking each item off on his own personal mental list, rather than speaking for the benefit of his larger companion.
“Stakes,” Fendel continued. “Good for propping open doors or wedging them shut. Very handy.” A half dozen six-inch metal spikes were added into the bag.
“A couple lanterns. I can see in the dark, but you can’t.” To Corin’s amazement, the two large, hooded oil lamps were jammed into the bag as well. The rope alone should have bulged out the sides of the sack, but it still looked empty. Magical containers of almost limitless capacity were not unheard of, but Corin had never actually seen one before.
“A few flasks of oil, a couple spare wicks, my lucky tinderbox.” As he named each item, Fendel dumped them all into the wondrous bag. If the situation wasn’t so serious, Corin would have chuckled at the ludicrous sight of Fendel jamming item after item into the bag that couldn’t possibly hold more.
“A couple sledge hammers, a ladder, a crowbar, a couple lock picks, a grappling hook. A couple walking sticks for probing the walls and floor ahead, in case there’s traps.” The gnome held up a pair of oversized spectacles. “My special goggles, just in case we run into that snakey-haired friend of yours.”
Corin realized his mouth was hanging open. He snapped it shut and wondered what they would do with all of this stuff.
“What do they do?” Corin asked curiously as the glasses disappeared into the bag.
“Very handy,” Fendel assured him. “I wish I had a pair for each of us, but one set will have to suffice. It’s a little something I whipped up while you were sleeping. The lenses will protect against the power of the medusa’s gaze, I hope. Can you think of anything else we might need?”
“The potion. The one to restore Lhasha.”
The gnome patted a hard leather case at his hip. “Safe and sound right here. You could hit this with a mace and the bottle inside wouldn’t break.
“Anything else, my heavily muscled friend? Do you need some armor? I might have a few bits and pieces lying around that would fit.”
Corin shook his head, remembering how easily and fluid his movements had been during his recent training session—and recalling his last encounter with Graal. Armor would only slow him down and limit his ability to attack quickly and evade the blows of an opponent. It would also make it almost impossible to sneak silently past any guards if the opportunity arose.
Corin now trusted more in his ability to avoid an enemy’s eyes and blades, than in the protection offered by a suit of armor.
Taking a deep breath, Fendel muttered, “Then it’s time to go.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Only a few blocks away from the House of Hands, just at the base of the bare, windswept tor that dominated Elversult’s skyline, sat a small inn. The Pilgrims’ Progress was a popular resting spot and one-night stopover for those who had business with either of the temples at the summit of Temple Hill.
Fendel led Corin around to the stables at the back. While the warrior kept his rather intimidating form concealed in the nearby shadows, the gnome approached the stable doors. He spoke a few whispered words to the groomsman charged with the care of the mounts housed in the building, and Corin heard the faint clink of coins changing hands. Fendel motioned for Corin to follow him inside.
The gnome took him to an empty stall at the back and brushed away the hay with his boot to reveal a small trapdoor in the floor. A heavy padlock kept the door secured in place. Corin watched with admiration as Fendel worked the lock with his nimble fingers, and a few seconds later the way was open.
From the magical bag at his side, Fendel produced the two lanterns Corin had seen earlier. “Close the door,” he whispered to the warrior, igniting the lamps.
Corin’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness, so the blazing illumination caused him to wince in pain and surprise.
“Sorry,” Fendel apologized as he reduced the light source to a faint sliver by turning the heavy metal shield that covered the lamp.
“I used to traverse this section of the smugglers’ tunnels quite frequently in my working days,” the gnome said as he handed one of the lamps to Corin. He adjusted the second one before lighting it.
“We have a ways to go to reach the entrance to the sub-tunnel system, but this passage is empty. Or, at least, it was the last time I was down here.”
A nod from Corin showed he understood, and Fendel set off. The warrior followed close behind, his left hand holding up the lamp so that its beam lit the way ahead. He couldn’t feel Fendel’s sword in the grasp of his metallic right hand, but he knew it was there, drawn and ready.
The air inside the tunnel was stale and frigid, only a few degrees a
bove freezing—noticeably cooler than the mild Elversult nights in the first tenday of the Sunsets. Guided only by Fendel’s sense of direction and his memory of his old haunts, the pair wound their way through the twisting tunnels. Fendel’s map was stashed safely in his magical pack, but the absence of any kind of landmark or reference points in the tunnels would have made it all but useless, Corin realized.
They passed by countless archways and branching passages, but Fendel never hesitated. Sometimes he veered left, sometimes right. For the most part, he continued on straight ahead. It didn’t take long before Corin was completely lost. If the gnome was off course, they might never find their way back.
After nearly twenty minutes, the gnome pulled up short. Corin, who had been trailing a few steps behind, tensed himself and began to scan the gloom beyond the range of his lantern’s glow for signs of trouble. He saw nothing but half-imagined specters conjured by the play of light and shadow over the rough-hewn surface of the tunnel walls.
“This is it,” Fendel announced, setting his lantern on the damp floor. He began to run his fingers lightly over the irregular rock face of the right wall.
Corin’s eyes scanned the stone facade, but he couldn’t make out any visible signs of a door. He briefly wondered not only how Fendel had been able to find the door tonight, but how he had ever located it in the first place.
“I don’t see any traps,” Fendel said after several long moments of careful inspection. “Let’s see if I can find the trigger.”
Corin set down his lantern and drew his second sword. Until this point they had been in an unclaimed, unused section of the Elversult tunnels. Beyond the secret door was a route leading to the heart of Xiliath’s lair. If Lhasha’s mysterious captor knew about the sub-tunnel leading to his treasure cavern, the least they could expect would be a few guards along the way.
The gnome’s hand came to rest on a small, unremarkable outcropping of rock.
“Ready?” he whispered. Corin nodded, and Fendel pulled down on the trigger.
Soundlessly, the door swung in toward them. A dark, open mouth loomed before the two. Even the light from their torches couldn’t pierce the wall of blackness that blocked the tunnel’s entrance.
“Someone cast a spell here. This darkness wasn’t here last time I used this tunnel. Of course, that was a long, long time ago. I think I can counteract the spell, at least temporarily.” He didn’t need to say what they were both thinking. Someone had cast a darkness spell, that meant someone knew about the tunnel.
Taking a step forward to shield Fendel while he prepared his incantation, Corin braced himself for an attack. By itself, the murkiness—magical though it was—wasn’t an effective deterrent to thieves or invaders. It was a mere diversion, masking a more sinister threat. Corin was ready for whatever would confront them when the gnome dispelled the shadows.
He could hear the mumbled words of Fendel’s incantation and the rustle of his clothing as the gnome performed the complicated gestures and intricate actions required to weave his magic. Suddenly, the darkness was gone. The entrance to the secret passage was bathed in light. Not the feeble light from their shielded lamps, but the bright glow of a clear afternoon.
With the entrance clearly visible, the reason for the magical darkness became evident as well. A step beyond the archway was a yawning pit. Corpses and skeletons were impaled on enormous spikes lining the bottom.
“Looks like nobody’s used this passage for a while,” he concluded, sheathing the sword in his left hand and picking up his lantern.
“Or maybe something just comes along and cleans the bodies up,” Fendel countered, “bones and all.”
From his magical sack, Fendel pulled out the long ladder he had somehow stuffed inside earlier that evening. The pit was only a standing leap across, but the deadly spikes below made the prospect of jumping unappealing.
Fortunately, the ladder was long enough to easily reach the other side. Without looking down, Corin slowly made his way across the makeshift bridge spanning the small pit. He moved from rung to rung with agonizing precision, keeping his mind focused on the far side and the potential for an ambush as he crossed.
He reached the opposite edge without incident. Nothing rushed out at him, no creatures or guards waylaid his progress. A second later, Fendel skipped casually across the ladder, moving with the same unconscious grace and carefree ease Corin had earlier admired in the gnome’s half-elf protégé during their assault on the cult warehouse.
“Traps, but no guards,” Fendel said once he had stuffed the ladder back into his enchanted sack. “It’s possible Xiliath knows about this tunnel but hasn’t shared his secret with anyone else. If he’s ever cornered, or betrayed by his own people, he’ll always have one last escape route he knows won’t be blocked.”
Again, Corin agreed with Fendel’s assessment. Maybe luck was with them. If Xiliath hadn’t even told his guards about the passage, it might be possible to sneak in and out without ever being noticed.
“Here,” Fendel said, producing one of the walking sticks from his bag and handing it to Corin. The sturdy staff was about four feet long, several inches around, and made of a light, gnarled wood. Sturdy, yet fairly light. Many of the older citizens of Elversult used such things, leaning on them to help support their feeble joints as they wandered the streets of the fair.
“Don’t take a step until you’ve used this to prod the way ahead of you for danger. Like this.” The gnome removed a second staff from his bag and gave a visual demonstration, striking the end firmly against the ground before advancing cautiously forward.
Corin nodded and sheathed his sword. He now clasped the wooden pole in his left hand, and the lantern in his right. Fendel’s spell had illuminated the first few yards of the secret tunnel, but the rest of the way was still unlit. However, the magical darkness that had blocked even the beams of their lanterns had been centered over the deadly trap and didn’t extend the entire length of the passage.
Their progress was slow and tedious, the methodical search for traps a frustrating but necessary activity as they crept along the gradually sloping passage. After ten minutes they had made little headway—at this point the passage had leveled out, leaving them well below the network of the original smugglers’ tunnels. Already, Corin could feel his impatience and frustration mounting.
Half an hour later, the necessity of their tedious pace was suddenly and graphically demonstrated. The pressure of the end of the gnome’s staff on the floor unleashed a volley of darts from hidden slits in the walls. The projectiles fired from either side and embedded themselves in the opposite wall only an arm’s length ahead of Corin and Fendel.
Neither said a word, but they exchanged a quick glance to assure each other they were both unharmed. Fendel thumped the end of his staff on the floor again, but yielded no effect this time. The trap had been loaded only for a single round.
One look at the corroding, crumbling wall around the protruding darts and Corin understood why a second wave of missiles would have seemed unnecessary to the trap’s architect. The darts had been dipped in acid.
The sub-tunnel narrowed, forcing them to walk single file. Corin took the lead—despite the traps, he was still worried about running into a guard, and he wanted to be between the gnome and any potential foes. Passing his lantern to Fendel, he drew his sword with his metal arm. His other hand was wrapped firmly around the wooden staff.
Corin pressed the pace, driven by a growing sense of urgency. At the rate they were going, it would be dawn before they ever got close to Xiliath’s trophy room. He rapped his staff in quick, staccato bursts against the floor, occasionally giving a few raps to the roof above or the walls on the side. Fendel trailed a step behind, a lantern in each hand to light the way, his own staff stashed safely in the bag.
The faint whiff of sulfur brought Corin up short. The warrior heard the clatter of Fendel dropping the lamps, then the gnome yanked Corin backward by his belt, pulling him off balance. As Corin toppl
ed back the staff fell from his hand. His metallic limb kept a firm grasp on his sword, however.
The floor erupted in a wall of fire where Corin had been standing a moment before, incinerating the wooden pole and igniting the oil spilling out from the lanterns. Scrambling back from the heat, Corin and Fendel could only watch as the hall ahead of them flared up in a roaring inferno.
The flames lasted for less than a minute before sputtering out, casting the tunnel into utter darkness. Corin heard Fendel’s chant, and a second later the way before them was lit by the now glowing end of Fendel’s pole. In the magical light, Corin could see the melted metal casings of their lanterns.
“Sorry,” Corin said, his voice loud in the cramped passage, “I should have been more careful.”
“Maybe,” Fendel answered slowly, “but I think that was no ordinary trap. Probably a warding glyph.”
Corin nodded. Any guilt he felt about the near disaster he had caused quickly vanished. Warding glyphs were powerful magic. Fendel surely didn’t expect a simple soldier to avoid them. Corin suppressed a shudder as he realized how close he had come to a grisly death.
“I better take the lead,” the gnome advised. “If there are any more wards I might be able to spot them.”
They continued on. With the gnome in the lead the pace was much slower than the one Corin had set. Fendel held the glowing end of his staff out far in front of him, still using it to tap and prod the way ahead while his keen eyes sought out the telltale signs of magical protections.
Despite his best efforts they stumbled right into the heart of the third trap. Neither Corin nor his gnome guide noticed the tiny symbols engraved on the rock wall as they passed, but they both heard the whoosh of air as the enchantment was sprung.
A cloud of billowing, noxious vapors materialized around them, its appearance so sudden they didn’t even have time to hold their breath. Corin dropped to his knees. He could feel the fumes burning his eyes and exposed skin. In the corner of his tear-filled vision he saw that Fendel had collapsed unconscious, succumbing to the poisonous fog almost immediately.
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